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The locker room was no longer a sanctuary of focus, stress; it had transformed into a beautiful, chaotic temple of victory. The air hung impossibly thick with the sweet, sharp sting of champagne, spilled beer, and the raw, electric scent of sweat and triumph. Every surface was soaked, the tiled floor dangerously slick under the weight of history.
In the center of the madness, the golden World Cup trophy gleamed under the harsh lights.
The bass from a massive portable speaker was deafening, vibrating right through the cinderblock walls, but it still wasn't loud enough to drown out Marc Cucurella. He was standing triumphantly on a slick bench, his soaked curls plastered to his face, belting out his signature song at the top of his lungs with a half-empty bottle raised like a microphone.
A chorus of hoarse, off-key voices roared right back at him.
Just a few feet away, entirely oblivious to the shouting, Lamine Yamal and Nico Williams had claimed their own corner of the room. With a phone propped precariously against a discarded, mud-stained boot, they were completely lost in their own orbit, grinning from ear to ear as they synced up the fast, fluid steps of a TikTok dance.
Their laughter was bright, breathless, and infectious, a pure flash of youth cutting through the heavy bass.
Everywhere you looked, the room was alive with motion. Soaked jerseys clung to exhausted bodies crashing together in tight, crushing embraces. Grown men were weeping, shouting, and singing with the unburdened souls of children. The suffocating pressure of the past month had finally shattered, leaving behind nothing but the golden, dizzying ecstasy of champions.
And then there was Barcelona’s Golden Boy.
Usually quiet, usually composed, Pedri was completely spoiled today. Riding a tidal wave of adrenaline, history-making victory, and an unapologetic amount of alcohol, he had absolutely lost his mind to the celebration.
The champagne flowing through his veins had stripped away every ounce of his usual shy restraint, revealing something entirely unexpected.
The heavy, infectious beat of Mi gente Gasolina remix” suddenly ripped through the massive speakers—a spicy, unapologetic track that demanded motion.
Without missing a beat, Pedri slid right into the dead center of the locker room. His soaked jersey clung to his ribs, and his tight uniform shorts sat dangerously low, clinging to his hips as he caught the rhythm of the music.
When he started to dance, the room shifted. It wasn’t the sloppy, uncoordinated flailing of a player who had downed too many drinks. It was shockingly smooth. It was fluid. It looked entirely professional.
Pedri dropped into the heavy reggaeton bass, swaying his hips with a hypnotic, rolling rhythm that defied all logic. He threw his head back, flashing a devastatingly sassy, zesty smirk—a provocative expression that absolutely nobody in that camp had ever seen him make. He was entirely in his element, teasing the beat with every dip and sway of his hips.
The TikTok dance in the corner came to a dead, abrupt halt. Lamine Yamal blinked, completely taken aback, his eyes wide as he stared at his teammate. You could practically see the young forward mind short-circuiting as he tried to figure out when, exactly, Pedri had secretly learned to move like that.
A few feet away, Unai Simón froze mid-celebration. The goalkeeper’s jaw genuinely dropped open, his drink forgotten in his hand as he stared at the spectacle unfolding on the slick locker room tiles.
Within seconds, the chaotic, deafening noise of the room pivoted. Half of the Spanish squad had entirely abandoned their own shouting and drinking. They formed a loose circle, completely captivated, howling, clapping, and hyping him up as their usually reserved midfielder shamelessly stole the entire show with a wicked smile and a flawless roll of his hips.
Gavi was practically on the floor, clutching his stomach with both hands and laughing hard. He was bent completely double, his face turning beet red as he watched his usually mild-mannered, quiet Barca brother turn the World Cup locker room into a full-blown club.
Over on the bench, Joan had already whipped out his phone, hoisting it high above the crowd to capture the whole scandal in crisp 4K. He was wheezing with laughter behind the screen, panning the camera back and forth to immortalize every single hip-sway,
His mind-
“Who unlocked him??? 👁️👄👁️”
Then came Marcos.
Never one to back down from a moment of pure chaos, Marcos slid right into the center of the circle alongside Pedri. Without a shred of hesitation, Marcos dropped into the heavy beat of “X remix” matching Pedri’s fluid, spicy moves step-for-step with a wild, infectious grin. The two of them together instantly doubled the heat in the room, hips rolling perfectly in sync while the surrounding squad lost their collective minds.
Standing just on the edge of the roaring circle was their captain.
Holding a half-empty champagne bottle, he stood rooted to the spot, giving the two of them the ultimate, legendary side-eye. His eyes were narrowed in a hilarious mix of sheer bewilderment, mild judgment, and utter exasperation, taking a slow sip as he watched his star midfielder lose his mind. It was the look of a captain deeply questioning every life choice that had brought him to this exact moment
But the thing was-
The man
The legend
The shark
Who has included the name in the history
Missing
Due to interviews and photoshoots.
Poor ferran.
Madrid was a sea of red and gold, an ocean of millions of roaring voices vibrating beneath an endless summer sky. The open-top bus crawled through the packed avenues, bathed in brilliant sunshine and showered in a constant, floating rain of golden confetti.
Ferran stood near the railing of the upper deck, a glass of wine held loosely in his hand, soaking in the dizzying euphoria of the parade. He had earned every bit of this moment. Right after the final whistle back in the locker room, he had been pulled away into a endless whirlwind of media obligations—glued to endless photoshoots with the heavy golden trophy, blinded by flashbulbs, answering the same breathless questions from journalists over and over again.
Now, surrounded by the deafening roar of the fans, his mind was finally settling into the joy—until a familiar name cut straight through his ear.
A few feet away, leaning against the bus seats, the team's goalies were huddled together, practically wheezing into their drinks as they gossiped. Unai was shaking his head in absolute disbelief, his hands gesturing animatedly as he re-enacted some wild, fluid movement.
Over the heavy bass of the parade music and the screams of the crowd, one word caught in the wind and landed sharp against Ferran’s ear:
Pedri.
Ferran’s fingers tightened around the stem of his wine glass, his focus shifting in a fraction of a second.
"I'm telling you, I still can't unsee it," Unai was laughing, clapping a hand over his face in fake trauma. "The hips... I didn't even know he had hips like that. The whole room just stopped..."
Ferran pushed off from the railing, taking two slow, deliberate steps toward the goalies. His eyes narrowed, a sharp spike of intense curiosity—and something dangerously close to possessive intrigue—flaring behind his ribs.
"What did he do?" Ferran asked, his voice cutting smoothly through their laughter, demanding every single detail of the story he had been left out of.
“Dude, you missed it—” Unai said, shooting a wicked, knowing smirk across to Joan.
“C’mon, what happened? Tell me,” Ferran pressed, taking a step closer. The noise of the parade seemed to fade into a blur behind him. There was a sudden, restless edge to his voice—a sharp, burning need to know what secret version of his best friend had unlocked while he was away.
“You wouldn’t believe it even if we swore on the trophy,” Joan chuckled, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Just look.”
He tapped the screen and held it out.
The video was short, chaotic, and completely hypnotic. The camera shook slightly in Joan's hand as the heavy reggaeton beat of "Bizcochito" blasted through the speaker, but the focus never strayed from the center of the room.
There was Pedri.
His damp hair was pushed back, cheeks flushed deep pink from champagne and heat. He moved with a devastating, fluid confidence that felt almost dangerous—shorts low on his hips, body rolling perfectly in time with the bass.
Every sway of his waist was smooth, shameless, and intoxicatingly zesty, punctuated by a teasing, wicked little smirk thrown directly at the camera.
Ferran’s throat went dry. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. He had known Pedri for years, had seen him in every state of exhaustion, joy, and frustration—but he had never seen him like this. Magnetic. Wild. Completely undoing the room with a tilt of his head and the roll of his hips.
"I swear, I was practically having a boner right then and there," Joan joked with a wheezing laugh, leaning his head back against the bus railing.
"Man, I can't even deny it..." Unai grinned, shaking his head as he rewatched the loop over Ferran's shoulder. "He was way too hot for his own good."
Ferran didn't join in on the laughter. His thumb stayed hovering over the screen, watching the clip restart, his heart hammering a heavy, confused rhythm against his ribs as the image of Pedri’s hips burned itself permanently behind his eyelids.
"He's got a really nice ass, believe me," Unai added shamelessly, taking a swig from his bottle and shaking his head. "Like, seriously."
"Bro, you won't stop yapping about it," Joan wheezed, shoving Unai's shoulder with a laugh. "You're actually into him."
"Watch me," Unai joked, flashing a wicked grin. "Keep your eyes on me—I'm gonna ask him out."
Ferran completely froze.
The blunt, casual comments threw him into a sudden standstill. A hot, prickly wave of blood rushed straight up his neck, making his ears burn bright, stinging red. Hearing them talk about Pedri so shamelessly—objectifying him, tossing his name around like a prize—sent a sharp, possessive burn straight through Ferran's chest.
His gaze flickered back down to the tiny, glowing screen, unable to look away as the video looped again.
When did Pedri learn those moves?
Pedri didn't dance. Pedri was the guy who stood awkwardly on the edge of every party, swaying stiffly with a soft, embarrassed smile whenever a camera pointed his way. He wasn't this. He wasn't dropping into a heavy bass, rolling his hips with smooth, liquid precision, tossing teasing glances over his shoulder like he owned the entire room.
Where had that sudden, intoxicating confidence even come from?
And beneath the shock, a bitter, heavy knot pulled tight in Ferran's gut.
Why did I have to miss it?
Why was he stuck answering dull questions for reporters and posing for endless camera flashes, while Pedri was letting go like this—giving a show to everyone in that locker room except the one person who mattered most?
The dizzying whirlwind of celebrations finally flickered out, giving way to the familiar, humid calm of Barcelona. But peace was a illusion—pre-season training was looming just days away, and the relentless machinery of their schedules pulled them in opposite directions before either of them could properly catch their breath.
For Ferran, those few days were agonizing. Between medical check-ups, sponsor shoots, and lingering jetlag, he barely had time to sleep, let alone sit Pedri down. But that short, shaky video from the Madrid bus had taken up permanent residence in his head. It replayed every time he closed his eyes—the fluid roll of Pedri's hips, the low-slung shorts, that impossibly wicked smirk.
He couldn't wait any longer.
Impulsive and driven by a sharp, unspoken need to reclaim his space in Pedri's life, Ferran drove straight to Pedri's place. No text, no warning, no phone call. Just raw intent burning behind his ribs.
When the front door swung open, the contrast hit Ferran instantly.
Gone was the intoxicating, sharp-edged party animal from the locker room. Standing in the doorway was just his Pedri—wearing a baggy grey tee that hung loose off his collarbone, soft shorts, and messy, uncombed hair. His wide, doe-like eyes blinked at Ferran in genuine shock, before his lips curled into a warm, helpless smile.
"You didn't tell me you were coming—" Pedri started, his voice soft with sleepiness.
Ferran didn't even let him finish.
A slow, playful grin spread across Ferran's face. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped right into Pedri's personal space, teasingly shoving him aside with a shoulder as he breezed past him into the entryway.
"Since when do I need permission to visit my best friend?" Ferran tossed back over his shoulder, his voice dropping into that easy, possessive rhythm they always shared.
He kicked off his sneakers at the door and walked straight into the living room like he owned the place, tossing himself heavily onto the plush leather couch. He stretched his arms across the backrest, slumping back with an air of complete authority.
Pedri closed the front door, shaking his head with a soft chuckle as he turned around. But as he walked into the living room, he caught the way Ferran was looking at him—sharp, intense.
"So," Ferran murmured, his eyes tracking Pedri's every movement as his best friend came to stand near the couch. "Are you going to offer me a drink, or do I have to ask why you’ve been keeping secrets from me?"
“K... keeping secrets?” Pedri stammered, his soft voice faltering slightly as he shifted uncomfortably under Ferran’s heavy, unblinking gaze.
“What do you mean, Ferran?”
Ferran tilted his head, a smug, dangerous little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He leaned back deeper into the cushions, crossing his legs as if he had all the time in the world.
“Since when do you move like that, Pedri?” Ferran asked, his voice dropping an octave, layered with rich, teasing authority.
“Did you practice those hip-rolls in secret after training, or have you just been holding out on me this whole time?”
Pedri’s eyebrows knitted together, a faint, flustered crease forming on his forehead. “What are you even talk—”
Before he could finish, Ferran reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and unlocked the screen. With a quick tap, he flipped the glowing display directly toward Pedri’s face.
The muffled, heavy bass of gasolina-mi gente remix immediately began to play.
On screen, the video loop started. There was Pedri—flushed, wild, and utterly intoxicating, dropping his hips to the beat and flashing that wicked, teasing smirk straight at Joan’s camera.
The color drained from Pedri’s face for a fraction of a second before a furious wave of crimson flooded his cheeks, rushing straight up to the tips of his ears. His mouth opened in sheer, horrific realization. He looked like he had just been caught red-handed committing a crime.
“Where—where did you get that?!” Pedri gasped, his voice cracking as his brain short-circuited.
Before the video could even reach its second loop, Pedri lunged forward, his hand shooting out in a frantic, desperate attempt to snatch the phone right out of Ferran’s grip.
“Give me that!” Pedri demanded, scrambling onto the couch.
But Ferran was ready. With a dark, booming laugh, he snatched his arm back, lifting the phone high above his head out of Pedri's reach.
“No way,” Ferran chuckled, his other arm coming up to block Pedri’s chest as the younger midfielder practically threw his entire weight over him to get the device.
“Unai and Joan spent the whole parade talking about how hot you looked. I had to see it for myself.”
“Ferran, I swear to God, delete it!” Pedri pleaded, his chest pressing against Ferran’s arm, his face glowing bright red as he tried to pin Ferran’s wrist down.
"No way, I've been replaying this clip before going to sleep"
“I was drunk! I don't even remember doing that! Give it to me!”
“You don’t remember?” Ferran murmured, his smile softening into something far more intense as he looked up at Pedri hovering directly over him, flushed, breathless, and entirely at his mercy.
“Because from where I’m sitting, you looked like you knew exactly what you were doing.”
Pedri’s movement faltered.
Standing poised over Ferran on the soft leather cushions, the physical proximity suddenly crashed down on him. His heart hammered uselessly against his ribs as he met Ferran’s eyes—dark, sparkling with mischief, and entirely too intense.
A hot, embarrassing wave of shyness rushed through Pedri, far sharper than the embarrassment of the video itself. It made no sense, and he knew it. He had danced in front of sixteen grown men—swaying his hips, laughing, letting every eye in that chaotic room feast on his moment of drunken freedom.
Yet now, under the laser-focused stare of just one person, his throat felt completely dry.
Pedri slowly pulled his weight back, sitting back on his heels on the edge of the couch, his eyes dropping to his own hands as he nervously tugged at the hem of his baggy t-shirt.
"It... it was just a joke," Pedri muttered, his voice dropping into a quiet, hesitant murmur.
He couldn't bring himself to look directly at Ferran's face. "Everyone was shouting, music was playing... I wasn't thinking."
Ferran let out a low, amused hum, slowly sitting up on the sofa until he was sitting mere inches from Pedri. He didn't put the phone away; instead, he leaned in, his shoulder brushing against Pedri’s.
"A joke, huh?" Ferran teased, his voice smooth, laced with a velvet raspy edge. "You looked pretty serious on camera, Pepi. The way you were dropping down? Rolling your hips like you owned the room?" He leaned a little closer, tilting his head until his breath fanned warm against the shell of Pedri’s burning ear. "
You had no problem giving Unai, Joan, Marcos, and half the squad a front-row seat..."
Pedri shrank back slightly, his collarbone flushing deep pink as he buried his face in his shoulder.
"Stop it, Ferran..."
"No, I’m serious,"
Ferran continued, a playful grin dancing on his lips, though his eyes were fixed entirely on the flush spreading across Pedri’s skin. "You turn into a full reggaeton star for a room full of guys, but the second it’s just me, you can’t even look me in the eye? Where did all that dangerous confidence go?"
"I'm shy, okay?!" Pedri blurted out, finally snapping his gaze up, his doe eyes wide, glossy, and mortified.
"It's different with you!"
"I Don't care pedri..."
The admission hung between them, delicate and heavy.
Ferran’s smile softened, but the dark, possessive gleam in his eyes only sharpened. He slid off the back of the couch, shift-moving until he was sitting right in front of Pedri, blocking out the rest of the living room. He set his phone facedown on the coffee table and rested his elbows on his knees, looking up at Pedri.
"Different, is it?" Ferran asked softly, his tone shifting from teasing to something far more commanding. "Well, that doesn't seem very fair to me."
"What isn't fair?" Pedri asked, his breath catching in his throat.
"I was stuck in press rooms while you were turning the locker room upside down," Ferran said, reaching out to lightly tap the side of Pedri's knee. "And let's not forget—who scored that crucial goal that kept us alive in the tournament? Who bled on the pitch so we could even have a trophy to celebrate?"
Pedri opened his mouth, a small, weak protest forming, but Ferran cut him off with a slow raise of his eyebrow.
"I carried that weight, Pepi," Ferran murmured, his voice dropping low, demanding and velvet-soft all at once. "So if anyone in this entire country deserves a private concert... it's me."
Pedri’s breath hitched completely. The air in the quiet living room felt instantly too thick to breathe.
"You... you can't be serious."
"I am completely serious," Ferran replied,
his hand sliding smoothly from Pedri’s knee to rest gently on his hip, fingers pressing subtly into the fabric of his shorts. "I don't want a low-quality video on Joan's phone. I want the real thing. Right here. Just for my eyes."
Ferran’s fingers were warm where they circled Pedri’s wrist—gentle, but firm enough to keep him anchored right where he was.
He reached for the half-empty bottle of red wine sitting on the coffee table, pouring a deep, ruby-hued glass and pressing it into Pedri’s palm.
As Ferran shifted closer, the distance between them evaporated entirely. Their thighs pressed together through their soft clothes, a steady, electric current of heat bleeding from Ferran's skin straight into Pedri’s side.
"Drink," Ferran murmured softly, his thumb lightly stroking the inside of Pedri’s wrist before letting go.
Pedri didn't hesitate. He raised the glass to his lips, taking a long, slow sip. The dark wine tasted of rich fruit and velvet, sliding down his throat and blooming into a sudden, golden bloom of heat in the pit of his stomach. He took another, letting the quiet buzz work its magic, melting away the sharp edges of his residual shyness.
The heavy, racing pulse in his chest began to smooth out into something far more dangerous: confidence.
Ferran leaned in close, his shadow enveloping Pedri completely. His lips brushed against the shell of Pedri’s ear, his voice dropping into a gravelly, irresistible whisper that sent a shiver straight down Pedri’s spine:
"That's my boy. Now show me the moves you got."
Pedri’s breath caught, but this time, he didn't pull away. A slow, mischievous spark lit up in his doe eyes. The heat of the wine was coursing through his veins now, turning his limbs loose, fluid, and warm.
"You think you can handle it?" Pedri murmured, his voice softer now, laced with a quiet, daring edge that Ferran had never heard from him before.
"Try me," Ferran challenged, leaning back against the couch cushions, his dark eyes burning into Pedri's with undivided, intense focus.
Ferran’s breath hitched in his throat. His hands tightened into fists against his knees as he watched Pedri move. In the soft light of the room, Pedri was magnetic—baggy shirt shifting off one shoulder, shorts low on his hips, a wicked, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he dropped into the bass.
It wasn't a joke anymore. It was a secret performance, forged in heat and liquid courage, meant for only one audience in the world.
p align="left">He stood up slowly. Gone was the hesitant, flustered boy of five minutes ago. Standing in the center of his dimly lit living room, Pedri reached for his phone, tapped the screen, and let the familiar, heavy reggaeton bass of "hips dont lie" fill the quiet space.
Pedri stepped into the exact center of the room, bathed in the soft, golden glow of the lamp. The fabric of his athletic shorts was pulled up higher along his thighs, sitting tight against his hips. Under the warm light, his smooth, shaved legs glowed, every taut muscle in his thighs defined as he shifted his weight.
Before he even moved to the beat, Pedri locked his doe eyes directly onto Ferran's. There was no hesitation left in his gaze—only a dangerous, playful spark of pure challenge.
He didn't look away. He kept his eyes locked directly onto Ferran's as his hips began to sway—slow, deliberate, and impossibly smooth. Without the locker room full of shouting players, without cameras or flashing lights, the movement felt infinitely more intense. Every drop of his waist, every fluid roll of his hips was precise, intoxicating, and completely focused on the man sitting on his couch.
“And I'm starting to feel it's right / All the attraction, the tension / Don't you see baby, this is perfection~?”
Then the heavy bass dropped, and Pedri began to move.
It was hypnotic. Pedri’s hips rolled in a smooth, fluid figure-eight, catching the rhythm with an intoxicating grace that felt completely effortless. He didn't break eye contact for a single second as his waist swayed, pulling Ferran deeper into his spell.
Then, following the exact swell of the music, Pedri turned his back.
"Oh Baby, when you talk like that/ You make a woman go mad/so be wise and keep on/
Reading the signs of my body ~/
He dipped low into the beat, his back arching slightly as his hips rolled to the rhythm.
I'm on tonight, you know My hips Don't Lie/And I'm starting to feel you, Boy/Come on,Let's Go,Real slow~/
With tantalizing precision, he bounced his ass right on the heavy thud of the drum, keeping exact time with Shakira’s voice before fluidly spinning back around. He flashed Ferran a teasing, wicked smile, his hips still swaying in a steady, hypnotic roll.
On the couch, Ferran’s breath caught—a sharp, ragged gasp that pulled tight in his lungs.
His mouth parted slightly, completely incapable of forming a word. His hands gripped the edge of the leather cushion so tightly his knuckles turned white. He couldn't look away. He couldn't move.
A hot, prickling wave of red flushed straight up Ferran's neck, painting his cheeks and ears in deep crimson. Deep behind his ribs, a thick, suffocating warmth bloomed and spread through his entire chest, making his heart hammer wildly against his sternum. Watching Pedri move like that—so confident, so intoxicating, glowing under the light and doing it all entirely for him—sent an overwhelming heat straight through Ferran's veins, leaving him completely helpless to the show unfolding inches away.
The last lingering notes of the trumpet faded into the warm air of the living room, but the electrifying tension stayed locked in the space between them.
Every single drop of Pedri’s hips, every fluid roll and arch of his spine had been a deliberate display of control. In the soft light, the usual shy midfielder was completely gone, replaced by someone intoxicatingly magnetic who knew the exact, dangerous power he held over the man sitting on the couch.
Ferran was utterly undone. His throat felt like sand, his chest heaving with sharp, shallow breaths as his face burned crimson. Panicked by the sudden, undeniable heat pooling low in his stomach, Ferran frantically reached to his side, snatched a plush throw pillow from the sofa, and pressed it firmly against his lap—desperately trying to hide the heavy, unmistakable bulge straining against his sweatpants.
In the center of the room, the performance came to a slow halt.
Pedri stood there breathless, his chest rising and falling heavily under his loose shirt. His cheeks were flushed a deep, beautiful pink, a few stray dark curls clinging to his damp forehead. But as his breathing gradually evened out, his doe eyes flickered down to the couch—and caught the exact moment Ferran hurriedly adjusted the pillow over his lap.
A slow, wicked grin spread across Pedri’s lips.
He didn't pull away. Instead, fueled by the wine and the lingering rush of adrenaline, Pedri wiped a bead of sweat from his temple and slowly strolled toward the couch. Every step was smooth, deliberate, and full of newfound confidence.
He came to a stop right between Ferran's open knees, standing directly over him so his shadow completely enveloped his best friend.
"So," Pedri purred softly, leaning down slightly and resting his hands on his own knees, his flushed face mere inches from Ferran's flustered one. "How was the private concert, Fer?"
Ferran swallowed hard, his knuckles white where he was gripping the edges of the pillow. He tried to scowl, tried to project his usual authority, but his voice cracked when he spoke. "You're... you're a menace, Pepi."
Pedri tilted his head, his eyes dropping down to the pillow pressed tightly against Ferran's hips, before flashing back up with a mischievous spark.
"Is the room too cold?" Pedri asked innocently, a teasing lilt in his voice as he nudged the corner of the pillow with his knee. "Or are you just getting comfortable?"
"Pedri, I swear to God, shut up," Ferran rasped, his face flushing an even deeper, furious shade of red as he leaned back against the cushions, completely at the mercy of the boy he had tried to tease just moments before.
"Make me," Pedri whispered softly, taking one small, daring step closer until the bare, glowing skin of his thigh brushed right against the edge of Ferran's hands. "You're the one who said I owed you. Was that enough for you... or do you still think Unai got the better view?"
"Don't talk about him-"
That was the final straw.
All of Ferran’s remaining restraint shattered in a single, breath-stealing second.
His hand shot forward, big, warm fingers tangling firmly into the soft, damp curls at the nape of Pedri’s neck. Without giving him even a fraction of a second to pull back, Ferran pulled him down into a hard, demanding kiss.
Pedri let out a soft, muffled gasp against Ferran’s lips—a sound instantly swallowed by the sheer urgency of the mouth over his. Already breathless from the dance, the sudden, overwhelming heat of Ferran’s kiss stole whatever little air Pedri had left in his lungs. His hands instinctively scrambled for support, gripping tightly onto the fabric of Ferran’s t-shirt as the room spun around him.
Ferran’s kiss wasn’t gentle, nor was it tentative. It was possessive, fierce, and intoxicatingly deep, tasting lingeringly of red wine and months of unspoken, simmering tension. His grip on Pedri’s nape tightened just enough to anchor him, tilting Pedri’s head to devour him completely, leaving no space for teasing, no space for distance, and certainly no room for anyone else.
For a heartbeat, Pedri’s mind went entirely blank under the sudden onslaught.
Then, the shock melted away.
A quiet, helpless sigh escaped Pedri’s chest directly into Ferran’s mouth. His fingers slid up from Ferran’s shoulders to wrap around his neck, pulling himself even closer until he was practically collapsing into Ferran’s lap. Pedri parted his lips and kissed back—soft at first, then matching Ferran’s wild, demanding rhythm with an ardent, breathless heat of his own.
The power shift in the room dissolved into the quiet rustle of clothes and heavy, ragged breaths.
Ferran's breath hitched, a heavy, ragged sound that filled the narrow space between them. His fingers tightened around Pedri's waist, pulling him flush against his chest as he shifted his weight.
"On the bed," he murmured, the words more of a command than a request, his voice dropping an octave into something raw and demanding.
Without breaking eye contact, Ferran swept Pedri up into his arms. The sudden change in elevation caught the light, casting shadows across the sharp angles of Ferran's face—the tension in his jaw, the hunger burning behind his eyes. He carried him down the short hallway, his footsteps heavy and deliberate on the floorboards.
When they reached the bedroom, Ferran didn't gently lower him. He dropped him onto the mattress with a clumsy, desperate lack of grace, the sheets bunching beneath Pedri's weight.
Ferran stood over him for a heartbeat, chest heaving.
He yanked his sweatshirt over his head in one fluid, impatient motion, the fabric snagging briefly against his skin before he tossed it somewhere toward the floor. His bare chest rose and fell with each heavy breath, the muscles of his torso taut with anticipation.
He moved closer, straddling Pedri's hips and pinning him to the mattress. The weight of him was solid, warm, pressing Pedri down into the soft dip of the bed. Ferran leaned forward, his hands sliding from the bed to frame Pedri's face, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones with a tenderness that contrasted the intensity in his gaze.
"You have no idea," Ferran whispered, his voice scraping low against the quiet of the room. He tilted his head, his nose brushing against Pedri's, the heat radiating off his skin like a fever. "No idea what you do to me."
Ferran's hands were restless, driven by a sudden, sharp urgency. He gripped the hem of Pedri's t-shirt and pulled it upward, the fabric sliding quickly over skin until it was discarded beside them. Next came the shorts, yanked down with a blunt, impatient tug that left Pedri completely exposed beneath him.
"Mmph fer-"
The air in the room felt thicker now, charged with the heat rolling off their bodies. Ferran didn't wait. He lowered his head, his lips finding the sharp line of Pedri's jaw first. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss there, then another along the sensitive column of his throat.
His mouth trailed downward, tracing the hollow of his collarbone with deliberate, hungry pressure. Each kiss was heavy, leaving a trail of warmth across Pedri's skin as he worked his way lower.
His tongue flicked against the pulse point in Pedri's neck, tasting the salt and heat of his skin before his lips found the small, dark circle of his nipple. He swirled around it, teasing the sensitive peak with the tip of his tongue, his breath hot and uneven against Pedri's chest.
Ferran let out a low, guttural sound—half-groan, half-growl—as he nipped at the flesh, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the sting with another long, wet lick. His hands moved from the bed to Pedri's waist, fingers digging into the soft skin there, anchoring him.
The friction of their bodies was becoming unbearable. Ferran shifted his weight, his thighs pressing firmly against Pedri's, and he could feel the hard line of his own arousal straining against the thin fabric of his remaining clothes.
Ferran's hand shifted, his palm flattening against the soft curve of Pedri's rear. He began to rub in slow, heavy circles, his fingers kneading the flesh with a pressure that was both firm and strangely tender. The friction of his hand against the thin fabric sent a visible shiver through Pedri's frame.
"You're so soft right here," Ferran muttered, his voice thick. He kneaded the muscle, feeling the way it yielded under his touch. "No wonder you're always so worked up."
He leaned in closer, pressing his chest against Pedri's back, making sure the younger man could feel every inch of him. The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing
Ferran's fingers dug into Pedri's cheeks, pulling his jaw open with a firm, unyielding grip. He didn't ask permission; he just took it, his eyes locked onto Pedri's wide, dark ones.
"Open wide for me," Ferran muttered, his voice rough and commanding.
He guided himself toward Pedri's mouth, the tip of his length brushing against Pedri's lips.
"Take it," Ferran ordered, his thumb pressing against Pedri's chin to keep him steady. "Show me how good of a little bitch you can be."
Ferran's hand clamped firmly onto the back of Pedri's head, his fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck. He didn't hesitate, pushing downward with a steady, relentless force that left Pedri no choice but to accommodate him.
"That's it," Ferran growled, his hips twitching forward as he felt the warmth of Pedri's mouth closing around him. "Take every bit of it."
He watched with dark, hooded eyes as Pedri's eyes watered, his cheeks flushed deep red. The sight of the team's star midfielder struggling to swallow, his small hands clutching at Ferran's thighs for balance, sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through Ferran's veins.
"Good boy," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He began to move his hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm, guiding the pace. "Just like that. Don't you dare stop."
Ferran's body stiffened, his fingers tightening in Pedri's hair as a low, guttural groan tore from his throat. He pushed deep, his hips jerking forward one last time as he finally broke, his release hitting the back of Pedri's throat in hot, heavy waves.
"Fuck—" Ferran gasped, his eyes squeezed shut, his whole body trembling with the intensity of it. He held Pedri there for a few extra seconds, refusing to let go until the last of it was gone.
When he finally pulled away, his breathing was heavy and uneven. He looked down at Pedri—red-faced, eyes watering, a thin trail of white running down the corner of his mouth. Ferran reached out, his thumb catching the drop and wiping it away with surprising tenderness before his smirk returned.
"Look at you," Ferran breathed, his voice rough. "Absolutely ruined."
"By me"
"Unai wouldn’t dare to touch you, You're mine"
Then
The flash went off, bright and sudden in the dim room. Ferran pulled his hand back from Pedri's hair, stepping away just enough to frame the shot.
On the screen, it was perfect. Pedri kneeling on the floor, hair messy, lips swollen and wet, his t-shirt slipping off one shoulder,showing collarbone—he looked exactly like what Ferran had called him. Devastated and beautiful.
"Why did you take photos-"
"Don't look so surprised," Ferran said, his thumb scrolling through the photo, zooming in on the way Pedri's eyes were still glassy and unfocused. "I need proof that my best friend is actually a little slut."
"For me, not for Unai..not for joan"
"I'll show them-"
"No way- Fer You're not doing that..i swear-"
He tucked the phone into his pocket, but the smirk remained, wider than before. Looking down at him with an expression that was half-predatory and half-possessive.
"Now," Ferran said, his voice dropping back into that commanding register.
"On your stomach," Ferran demanded, the command sharp and edged with a growing hunger.
Pedri's eyes were heavy, half-lidded and hazy, his senses clouded by the heat pooling in his gut. He didn't respond immediately, his mind caught in the slow, sweet haze of desire.
Ferran's hands clamped onto Pedri's waist, his fingers digging into the skin with bruising intent. With one powerful, decisive heave, he flipped him over. Pedri let out a startled yelp as the world tilted, his body landing face-down against the mattress with a soft thud.
Before he could even catch his breath, Ferran was there, pressing down. Pedri's back arched instinctively as he felt something hot and blunt brush against his entrance—a teasing, agonizingly slow contact that made his breath hitch.
Pedri whines.
"Mmph slow"
"Fer-"
Ferran didn't even entered the tip.
Ferran's jaw tightened at the plea. He stayed right there, hovering at the threshold, the tip of his length pressing against Pedri's heat without giving an inch more. He could feel the tremor running through Pedri's body, the way his fingers curled into the sheets beneath him.
He shifted his weight, pressing down just enough to make Pedri gasp, then pulling back just as quickly. The friction alone was enough to make Pedri's hips lift off the bed in a desperate search for more.
"I won't do any slow ,pepi"
"Now take me like a good little slut"
Ferran's hand slid down Pedri's spine, his palm hot and heavy, until he gripped the curve of his hip. He pulled him back against himself, closing the gap until there was no space left between them. The contact was sudden and jarring, a blunt pressure that forced a choked sound from Pedri's throat.
"Ahh-"
"I said take it," Ferran growled, his voice vibrating against Pedri's back. He wasn't asking anymore. His fingers tightened on Pedri's hip, bruising the skin as he guided him, forcing him to accommodate the intrusion.
He pushed forward—not a slow slide, but a deliberate, heavy thrust that claimed the space entirely. The sensation was overwhelming, a sudden fullness that made Pedri's head fall back against the pillow, his eyes rolling shut as a broken moan tore from his lips.
Ferran didn't stop there.
He drove in again, deeper this time, his hips slamming against Pedri's with a rhythmic, punishing force. Making pedri yelp and gasped.
The bedframe groaned under the sudden weight and motion, a dull creak that underscored every heavy thrust. Ferran's hand moved from Pedri's hip to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as he pulled his head back, exposing the long line of his neck.
"Look at me," Ferran commanded, his voice thick and ragged.
He didn't wait for compliance. He leaned down, biting at the junction where Pedri's shoulder met his neck, his teeth grazing the skin hard enough to leave a mark. Pedri's body was a map of reactions—a sharp intake of breath, the way his fingers clawed at the sheets, the frantic, shallow rise and fall of his chest.
Ferran's movements were relentless, driven by a primal urgency that left no room for gentleness.
Pedri’s head fell back, his neck arching into a long, vulnerable line that caught the dim light. His mouth parted, a broken sound catching in his throat as the pleasure turned sharp and demanding.
Ferran’s fingers found purchase in Pedri’s hair, pulling back with a firm, controlling grip that wasn't meant to hurt, but to ground him—to force him to feel every single inch of what was happening. His other hand slid up, palm flat against Pedri’s chest before curling around the column of his throat. He didn't squeeze, but the pressure was there—a heavy, possessive weight that pulled Pedri’s torso backward, pinning him closer to the heat of Ferran's body. Pedri's head rested on ferran's shoulder. His eyes closed
"That's it," Ferran muttered against the shell of Pedri's ear, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle deep in Pedri's bones. "Just like that."
"Mmphh ferri, gonna..ah-"
Ferran’s eyes darkened at the sound of his name, the desperate plea catching in his throat like a physical weight. He heard the tremor in Pedri's voice, the way it cracked on the last word, and something inside him snapped.
He released his grip on Pedri's throat only to wrap both hands around his hips, his knuckles white from the force of his hold. He abandoned any pretense of rhythm, driving into him with a raw, unbridled intensity. Each thrust was hard and punishing, his hips slamming against Pedri's with a dull, heavy thud that echoed in the quiet room.
The bed groaned under them, a rhythmic protest to the violence of their movement. Ferran leaned forward, his chest pressing into Pedri's back, his sweat-slicked skin sliding against him with every frantic motion.
"Go on, come for me pepi"
The sound tore from Pedri's throat—raw, unfiltered, and completely unashamed. His entire body seized, muscles locking tight beneath Ferran's hands as the waves of pleasure crashed through him. His spine arched violently, his head snapping back against the pillow, eyes blown wide and unfocused as the world dissolved into pure sensation.
Ferran felt it immediately—the frantic pulsing of Pedri's walls around him, the way his body shuddered with the force of it. The sensation was electric, a jolt that raced straight up Ferran's spine and settled deep in his gut.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he gripped Pedri's hips even tighter, anchoring him through the tremors. A low, guttural groan escaped Ferran's lips, his teeth grinding together as he fought for control.
The frantic pulsing inside him was the final breaking point. Ferran's composure shattered along with it. A harsh, ragged sound tore from his throat—something between a growl and a sob—as his muscles locked tight.
He drove into Pedri one last time, deep and desperate, his entire body shuddering with the force of his own release. His fingers dug into Pedri's hips so hard he knew there would be marks tomorrow, his knuckles white and trembling. He buried his face against the back of Pedri's neck, teeth grazing skin as he came apart, every nerve ending on fire.
The world narrowed down to nothing but heat and the heavy, synchronised rhythm of their hearts hammering against each other.