Work Text:
𑣲⋆ January 2025
Nudes Ი𐑼
Ferran rarely went out without Pedri.
Not when he had dinner with Eric or Dani, not when he visited his mom’s house. Not even when he had a…certain exam at the doctor’s. Pedri was always there, trailing behind him or sitting next to him or smirking while Ferran was bent over in a doctor’s office.
So tonight it was a bit jarring not having the Pedri sized body shuffling besides him in this bar.
He’d gone out with Dani, Eric, and Joan. A planned night drinking as their Domino Group. Except there was a member missing.
“Pepi, baby,” Ferran had huffed, wiping a hand down his face, “It’s one night. We’ve spent every single minute together for the past few days.”
Pedri was on their bed, curled up in a layer of blankets and holding a tissue box to his chest. His eyes, red and watery, glared up at Ferran. A quiet frown accented by his flushed cheeks. Sniffling and coughing and still pretty as ever.
And petty.
“No,” Pedri waved a hand, “It’s fine. Go to the bar. Have fun. While I’m sick.”
Pedri was the most mature and old man-adjacent twenty three year old Ferran knows. Calls his mom after every game, likes to wear old wool socks to bed, parents Lamine and Cuba and Tommy like they’re his sons. It’s why everyone calls him wise beyond his years and a good boy.
Well all those reporters that butter Pedri up and smile at his “good ways” have never seen him when he’s in a bad mood like this.
“Don’t be like that,” Ferran moved over and crouched beside the bed, right where his boyfriend was sitting, “Fer will be here in half an hour and I’ll be home before twelve. You might even still be awake by the time I get home.”
Pedri didn't respond, just sighed and looked down on his phone. Idly scrolling as if Ferran wasn't standing right there.
“Alright,” Ferran sighed, standing up and brushing dust off his knees, “Well, I’m going to head out. I’ll tell the boys you said hi and aren’t being a total brat right now.”
He didn’t wait for his boyfriend to respond, just shuffled over to grab his jacket draped across the chair and gave one last wave before he walked out the doorway and down the hall.
The bar was loud for a weekday evening. Thirty past nine and there were already rows of people surrounding the bar edge, packs of girls in string thin tops and boys with backward caps. All tipsy from pre-gaming and flirting within their own groups. And despite that meaning annoying young people crowded close to them, it also meant they were too drunk to recognize them.
They were tucked away in the far corner, standing around a small circle table each with a beer in hand.
“Poor thing,” Joan cooed, leaning half his giant frame on the table, “And you left him all home alone and sick?”
“He’s been sick for days,” Ferran deadpanned, “He’s getting better, plus I didn’t leave him home alone. His brother came over.”
“I’d never leave Laura if she was sick…” Dani muttered, shaking his beer glass.
“What is it again? In sickness and in health?”
“Stop making me feel worse,” The striker sighed, “I was that close,” He pinched his index and thumb together, “That close to just wiping his face and dragging him over here with me.”
“Or you could just, you know. Stay home with him?” Eric suggested.
“True,” Ferran tilted his head, “But I needed to get out of the house. I hadn’t left in days unless it was down the street to get him nasal spray or pain killers or a slushie.”
“And imagine how he feels…all home alone without his precious Ferri to baby him,” Joan smirked.
“Watch it,” Ferran warned with a pointed finger.
“Fiesty,” The goalie sipped his drink, “Your boyfriend is rubbing off on you.”
“No he’s not,” Dani laughed, “Can’t you tell, our boy here is sexually frustrated."
Ferran set his glass down with a thud.
“True,” Eric nodded, “It’s a known fact that sharks can’t go two days without sex before their testosterone levels go crazy.”
“You literally just made that up,” Ferran pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Yeah but my point stands,” the defender patted his back, “When was the last time you two got it on?”
One week ago.
When Pedri had insisted on giving him a ‘quick blowie’ before training that ended up with the midfielder near tears bouncing on his dick. At that time, Ferran didn’t even realize how he should savor that moment, savor each recoil, each drive up and back down his shaft.
And then they had a match day and Pedri forbids sex before match days. Which is fair, Ferran can understand that. He still remembers the first and only time he fucked Pedri the night before an afternoon game. When the midfielder limped his way through a rough forty five minutes. So yeah, no pre-game quickies. But then Pedri had his parents over so no trying to even initiate sex considering his father was in a room over and already spent the entire dinner glaring at Ferran. And then the cold struck Pedri with force and he was down and out within hours. A rag on his forehead and an itch in his throat.
So for the past couple days he’s been jerking off in the shower like a teenage boy again.
“Hah,” Joan laughed, “What? Two, three weeks?”
“None of your business,” the striker quipped, taking a long sip of his drink.
“He’s right,” Dani interrupted, “Let’s let him be, this guy has been jerking off into his own socks, he’s got enough to deal with.”
His friends all cackled, a loud wave of barks that just burned Ferran’s simmering irritation that much hotter. A bubbling close to boiling.
The conversation eventually shifted, the focus moving from Ferran and onto whatever Joan was complaining about with his overgrown goalie hands up and waving around the air. But Ferran never left that initial conversation, never shook the ringing of his friend’s words out of his head.
He is a shark. He’s the shark. And he’s starting to believe Eric’s made-up fact about sharks needing sex is not so made-up.
Eric and Joan were in the middle of arguing about the Michael Jordan Lebron goat debate when Ferran’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled his gaze off his bickering teammates, his phone against his thigh as he glanced down at it.
A whiney text from Pedri, a complaint from Fer, even a message from his Mom denouncing whichever Spanish newspaper was slandering him now. He was expecting anything.
Just certainly not what was there, opened bright and big on his screen.
Pedri’s ass, pulled up as an image text. It was from the side, a three second looping video that began on the dark of his shadowed face and ended on the deep crest of his cheeks. He winked, his index finger between his lips before he brought the camera down and past his waist to the beautiful tan skin of his bum.
Ferran’s heart, in the quick moments before it dropped down to his balls, froze in the high of his chest. He could feel himself salivating, could feel the way his hips almost stuttered and bucked into the air like the ass on his screen was actually right there in front of him.
And then he remembered he’s in public. With his friends. Developing a semi.
He cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth, shoving his phone into his pocket.
“You good, Tiburon?” Dani raised a brow, his eyes glancing down at where Ferran’s phone was still looping the video in his coat pocket.
“Yeah,” Ferran breathed, flushed and smiling, “Just…the drink’s hitting me.”
“You’ve had one beer,” Eric squinted his eyes and pressed his lips together.
“Did Pepi get you sick?” Joan hummed.
“Maybe,” he shrugged, resisting the urge to pull at his shirt collar.
“Well you better not get me sick,” Eric pointed, “Flick already chewed me out for being late to training yesterday.”
“Yeah, sure,” Ferran nodded, gulping, “No problem.”
“Nah, bro,” Dani laughed, “You’re totally out of it, you look like shit.”
“Fuck off,” the striker chuckled, shaking his head like it could also shake off the heat, “I’m fine.”
“Someone misses Pepi,” Joan hummed in a childish tune.
“My boyfriend?” Ferran raised a brow, “Of course I do. You miss your girlfriend?”
“Oh be nice to him,” Eric wrapped an arm around the goalie’s shoulder, “They broke up a month ago, the wound is still fresh.”
Ferran shrugged, his body going rigid as another buzz traveled up and out of his pocket.
“Ferri,” Joan put a hand to his chest, mock wounded, “You’re too cruel.”
Dani said something else, Eric a second later. But Ferran couldn’t hear them. His body tuned them out, mind long prioritizing whatever was there in his pocket, waiting for him. His hand itched by his side begging to reach in and eat up whatever had to be.
But instead of pulling his phone out and bringing the screen inches from his face with a douche ass smile on his face, his shaking hand reached out and brought his beer glass to his lips, a longer sip than necessary.
He made it to the bathroom in record time.
The line was only one guy in front of him, one who kept trying to make small talk about the blonde on the other side of the bar. Ferran barely even responded, a wordless nod of his head or press of his lips.
He pushed himself into the only open stall, slamming it shut behind him and slipping his phone out with a nimbleness he did not know he had.
It was another video, much to Ferran’s delight. An entire fifteen seconds with the most tempting thumbnail. His boyfriend on all fours and peaking his head over his shoulder.
“Fuck,” Ferran breathed, his free hand already palming his crotch.
The video was as dark as the first. The only light came from the room’s bathroom, a streak of light across the low of Pedri’s back. His hips were high in the air, his thighs and ass crowding the camera as his top half pressed close to the mattress. His head flopped from over his shoulder down against the sheets with a small keen.
“Ferri,” His boyfriend moaned, his throat still so obviously scratchy, “I’m horny.”
Ferran gulped.
“Need you,” He wiggled his ass, “Need you to fill me up.”
He arched his back a bit higher, ground his knees into the bed and shook his tailbone until the soft and plush flesh of his thighs jiggled with the motion.
Ferran almost came in his pants.
His breath came out so slow yet so fast he thought his lungs would implode. The blood of his heart, which was still down in his balls, traveled through his body until his underwear did get that much tighter, when the tent did start to form.
He typed back quickly, a barely legible string of words that asked Pedri if he needed Ferran that badly, if he should abandon their friends and give him the company he’s so obviously begging for.
Pedri didn’t reply, at least not a text. Instead he sent a voice message, one that Ferran anticipated so highly his hands shook when he brought his phone close to his ear.
“M’ so horny,” The striker could hear the lewd squelch of Pedri’s fist up and down his own shaft, the quiet huffs of his breath with the effort, “...So empty.”
Ferran shuddered, licking a tongue over his bottom lip as he muttered, “Don’t worry baby,” and “I’ll help you,” like Pedri could hear him from all the miles away.
He didn’t even hear what the rest of the guys had to say by the time he gave his farewell after leaving that bathroom stall. Just mumbled a couple goodbyes and waved before he walked out to his car.
Pedri was curled up in the same blankets he was in when Ferran had first left. He glanced up at the striker over his shoulder and smirked, croaking a quiet, “Why are you home so early?”
Ferran fucked him stupid that night, covered his mouth when his moans got too loud. Locked the door when Fer’s footsteps got too close. And then did it three more times because he’s been pent up and Pedri’s a dirty fucking tease.
𑣲⋆ June 2026
Feet Ი𐑼
Ferran has a boner.
Pedri can see it clear as day, the tent bulging out of his training shorts.
He was lying on the cot in the physio room, De La Fuente had insisted he go after getting his knock from earlier in the match against Saudi. So now he’s here, arms crossed on his chest as he watched Ferran idly play some game on his phone and adjust his crotch.
Llorente and Pubil were across the room, lightly kicking each other as they also tapped away on their phones. Oblivious to the semi developing just feet away.
Pedri pursed his lips, an idea, a stupid stupid little idea sprouting in the dirtiest parts of his mind.
Ferran always insisted on coming with his boyfriend on these physio trips. Always pulls up the doctor’s chair and mock examines him until the actual physio comes in and he has to act like he wasn’t just squinting at the flesh between Pedri’s toes with a muttered, “Surgery will be needed.”
And the midfielder always would roll his eyes and try to tell Ferran to go wait in the locker room like a normal teammate. And then his boyfriend would ignore him and bend down and try to carry him to the physio room.
It was their routine, a cute little cycle that actually calmed Pedri’s nerves more than he’d like to admit. And today wasn’t any different besides their two teammates who tagged along so they could avoid De La Fuente’s bitching.
“Ferri,” Llorente groaned from his spot sprawled on another cot, “Stop cheating.”
“I’m not cheating,” Ferran smirked, eyes glued to his phone.
They offered Pedri a spot in their team, Ferran even tried to teach him how the game works before Pedri wriggled out of his hold and told them to just play without him.
But now he’s bored and glancing between Ferran’s stupidly handsome face and his stupidly big bulge.
He was leaning against the cot slightly, facing Pedri with his legs pressed against the thin mattress. So, inches from his legs and crotch were Pedri’s socked feet, legs spread across the cot.
He absentmindedly wiggled his toes, watching them move in the air in front of Ferran.
Pedri hasn’t gotten off since two nights ago. And his sexy boyfriend was standing there practically showing off his boner. Of course Pedri’s going to do something about it.
He yawned, stretching his arms up above his head and legs out until his foot just brushed his boyfriend’s crotch.
Ferran glanced up from his phone once, furrowing his brows in question down at Pedri. The midfielder just smirked and pointed his feet forward until his toes grazed the bulge in a slow circle.
“Fuck!” Pubil yelled and Pedri instinctively pulled his foot back, bending at the knee and holding his leg up to his chest.
Their teammate was still looking down at his phone, head in hand before he quickly tapped away at something.
Ferran smiled, chuckling at his boyfriend’s curled up form.
And instead of looking back down at his phone, instead of shaking his head and going back to leaving Pedri to mess about on his own, Ferran dropped a hand down. Lower and lower until it found the warm skin of Pedri’s ankle.
His big hand wrapped all the way around until his index finger met thumb, gently pulling so Pedri’s leg went straight again.
“Marcos,” Ferran shouted, “Stop shooting when your man’s half dead,” he dragged his boyfriend’s foot closer, “You’re going to die and then we’re going to lose because of you.”
Pedri frowned, glancing once over at their teammates. They were still sharing a cot, Llorente was facing the window while Pubil laid against his thigh. Neither looking up.
“Or maybe you could try defending me,” Llorente hummed, his grip tightening around Pedri.
“Ferri…” Pedri mumbled, practically a whisper. He tried tugging his ankle back once, a test to see how committed Ferran was to whatever this was.
Ferran held on. He did more than hold on, he pulled him closer until Pedri’s body was dragged with the movement and his foot was flush against Ferran’s bulge.
Pedri flushed, looking back at Pubil and Llorente once more before he found Ferran’s gaze again.
“Fuck,” his boyfriend groaned with a smile, rubbing Pedri’s foot across his boner, “This game is so hard.”
Pedri gulped, his entire face flushing with the heat that’s been burning between his legs since he first saw Ferran this morning. He tried another weak attempt to pull back, just for Ferran to readjust his hold even firmer and for easier use.
He rolled his hips up once, a grind so slow Pedri felt the hardness drag against every inch of his foot.
One hand flew to his mouth, covering whatever noise his body was threatening to make. The other slapped over his crotch, over his own growing hardness down there.
Ferran grinded again, this time using Pedri’s foot as leverage, idly humping against it while he stared down at his phone. Like nothing was happening.
Pedri was suddenly ahead of himself, the dirty idea he originally had screwing him all the way over to this position. Lying and letting his boyfriend use him in front of their teammates.
A shudder ran over him, down his spine and to his toe where they curled around Ferran’s clothed cock.
The striker shivered, a noise dragged out of him as he almost fumbled the phone out of his hands.
“Oi,” Pubil waved a hand, eyes still glued to his screen, “Pay attention, would you?”
“Yeah,” Ferran nodded his head, his fingers digging into Pedri’s foot, moving up and down against his semi, “My bad…just a tough round.”
Pedri’s hand tightened around his own crotch, he could feel his hardness grow by the second. He was stuck in a space between wanting Ferran more than anything, wanting to feel that cock deep inside and filling him up after an agonizing couple days without it. Wanted to kick his foot and whine that it’s almost cruel leaving his only touch to the dick he’s been drooling over through his goddamn foot.
But on the other side, on the side that was flushed and shaking, he was hyper aware of their two teammates just feet out (no pun intended) from them. Pubil and Llorente sharing a cot and one glance away from the near indecent scene of the couple. For his teammates to see him being used like this? See the way Ferran rubbed Pedri’s foot against him so mindlessly while Pedri could do nothing but try not to moan?
Pedri almost came from that thought alone.
“Marcos,” Ferran groaned, rubbing the underside of his clothed shaft against Pedri’s heel, “Come on man, do better.”
Pedri turned his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut.
Ferran was fully hard now, all inches erect and desperately rutting on Pedri’s helpless foot. He had to wipe the drool from his lips, had to stop himself before he started humping against his own hand at the mere contact with his boyfriend’s dick.
It was exhilarating, leaving everything in Ferri’s control.
The guys exchanged a few more comments, spent a couple more minutes fumbling around on whatever game they’re playing on their phone before the match seemingly ended. And Ferran was seemingly done.
He let go of Pedri’s ankle, the skin that was being gripped now cool without the warm and hard touch of his boyfriend.
Ferran adjusted his pants before turning to their teammates, stepping toward them and patting them on the back talking about bullshit that happened during their match.
Pedri flushed, eyes still wide as he cleared his throat and pushed himself up on shaky hands. There, in between his legs, was a pitiful boner.
He immediately sat up, swinging his legs to the side as he tugged his shirt over his crotch desperately.
“Where’re you going, Pedri?” Llorente hummed, “The physio hasn’t checked on you yet.”
Pedri flushed, his back to the teammates as he shrugged and tried to find a good excuse.
But Ferran beat him to it with a relaxed, “Pepi’s gotta take a call from his mom. She phones him at the same time every day.”
“Aw,” Pubil cooed, “He’s a mama’s boy.”
Pedri nodded, turning to the side enough that he could give them a quick parting smile before he headed toward the door.
He wasn’t a foot away when Ferran added, “Nah, he’s a daddy’s boy.”
Pedri froze for a moment, his legs stuttering before he regained his senses and pulled the door open.
“Right Pedri?” Ferran asked, “You love your daddy?”
His heart dropped, the burning of embarrassment and lust developing into a simmering irritation low in his gut.
“...I’ll see you guys at dinner.”
Pedri jerked off in the bathroom, a quick couple tugs on his dick until a shiver ran up his spine and he spurted down into the toilet. Ferran didn’t bother asking him about it later in their hotel room, they actually didn’t even discuss a single word about the whole thing. Just fucked like rabbits.
𑣲⋆ October 2024
Panties Ი𐑼
Ferran was never a pervert before Pedri.
He was a vanilla man. As vanilla as it gets. Just liked you know, the normal sex. The dick in pussy, the occasional blowjob and doggy style. Sometimes a girl, sometimes a guy, just always getting his dick wet.
And then he met Pepi.
And Pepi’s perversion.
“Can you maybe tie me up next time?”
“I want to try roleplay, you’re my owner.”
“You can hit me…just a little.”
Imagine Ferran’s surprise the second time they hooked up (because the first was a mess during the Euro’s that neither of them really remember) and Pedri asked him to spit on him and call him an assortment of things he would never call someone as precious as Pedri.
But he’d also do whatever Pedri asked him to do.
So that meant ropes and pet names and the occasional spanking.
And at first it was just with Pedri, whenever Pedri would whine and bounce and drool. In the privacy and confines of either one of their apartments.
But then when it was just Ferran in the late of the night when Pedri was across the city and dead asleep in his own bed, when Ferran’s mind wandered and he suddenly longed for the way Pedri felt around his cock, the sick little midfielder’s perversions creeping in.
Last week he didn’t let Pedri talk the entire time they fucked. Made him bark if he wanted something, made him crawl if he didn’t want something. It was fucking hot.
So now, semi in hand, all he can think about is how Pedri lolled his tongue out and whined for his dick like a cute little puppy just a few nights ago.
He was wearing the smallest pair of underwear. Tiny peach panties decorated with a lacey ruffle that practically made it a mini-mini skirt. Made Pedri’s ass look pink and perky.
Ferran tilted his head back against the couch cushion, letting himself remember what it felt like hearing Pedri cry against his neck while he bounced on his cock. How flushed he looked when he accidentally used a human word, how hard he squeezed his eyes and braced for impact when Ferran slapped his cheek.
He thought about texting him but thought it better not to. It’d be cruel and being a bad boyfriend to wake him just cause his dick is hard.
So instead he just palmed himself and groaned, letting his memory do the work.
Pedri licking his cock tip under the dinner table two months ago, Pedri waking up Ferran by rubbing his little dick against Ferran’s lips. That time Pedri came so hard he pissed.
He rubbed a big hand flat against his pant seam, finding the beautiful friction that made his hips stutter just that much.
How flushed Pedri’s nape gets.
He pressed harder.
How breathless Pedri is when he’s close.
He undid his pants button.
The way his thighs shake whenever Ferran goes balls deep.
He pulled the waist of his jeans off in one swift motion, just enough so he could get easier access to his dick covered only in the thin fabric of his underwear.
“Fuck,” he breathed, a groan so low it was a testament to his arousal. He laid his head back again and lazily ran a hand up and down his clothed shaft. Through lust-clouded vision, he stared ahead.
His apartment was still messy from when Pedri had slept over last night. The blankets thrown strewn, the chairs pulled out from his dining table, and there, peeking right around the corner on his kitchen counter was Pedri’s overnight bag.
Pedri always overpacked even though half his stuff already lived here. He could practically hear his little nasally voice, ‘better safe than sorry!’
Better safe than sorry meant Ferran always had Pedri’s stuff laid about his apartment.
Including that navy blue bag spilling out piles of clothes across his counter.
Ferran sighed, more annoyance than lust now. It’s not like he fully committed to jerking off anyways. It was probably better to do something productive. He pressed a palm against himself one last time before he stood and walked in the kitchen.
Pedri’s hairbrush, ipad charger, and a day's worth of clothes messed about in there.
He picked up the brush, running his hands through the bristles. Pedri didn’t shed enough hair to require a brush, but he likes to groom himself in front of the mirror sometimes, says it’s part of his morning routine.
And he’s probably going to bitch about his ipad charger tomorrow morning on the ride to training, claim Ferran stole it from him despite the striker not even owning an ipad himself.
And the clothes.
The ones Pedri had worn when he showed up yesterday morning. The same yellow shirt, the same black shorts.
The same pale blue panties.
Ferran gulped, his hand immediately and instinctively dropping to pick up the thin fabric.
Pedri’s worn panties.
In his palm
While he’s already half hard.
It was like a gift from God, like one of his ancestors decided to send him down the most precious and delicious treasure he could ever ask for.
They were the frilly pair, the one that had a little bow right on the ass. An innocent mock tramp-stamp.
Ferran breathed, an exhale of total and complete gratitude. He turned, leaning against the counter as he spread the fabric out between hands.
It was so, so obviously worn. The light fabric was stretched where Pedro’s micro had laid. The color distorted in the center of the stretch with discoloration. The sweet liquid that had at one point or another leaked from his boyfriend’s cock.
Ferran bit his lip in effort not to drool.
His dick was alive again, hard and aching in the confines of his own underwear. It was crazy how fast a thin piece of fabric with a bow on the back could stir him awake. Make the low of his gut catch fire and his mind go hazy with the urge to rut against it.
Pedri had been here, just twenty four hours ago, back in the other room on his couch. Watching a stupid movie and laying against Ferran. Sweet blue pair of panties tight and clinging to his sweet form.
The musk of his dick flush against the fabric, the way he had probably gone piss a couple times while there. Ferran rubbed his neck, imagining the way the panties probably soaked up the droplets Pepi had failed to shake off.
His eyes fluttered shut, the hand not clutching the underwear falling back down to his crotch and rubbing the shaft.
He moved to the ass of the panties, pulled just as much as the front. Pedri’s sweet bum stretching it, each curve of either cheek pressed against the blue fabric while the bow tickled the tip of his crack.
Ferran lost all control.
He brought the panties to his face right under his nose and breathed long and hard.
The sweet musky smell of his Pepi.
He groaned, a guttural sound as the pressure against his cock grew more frantic. He switched sides of the panties, the front pressed so close to his nose he could almost feel the moisture Pedri had left.
He brought the fabric lower, running his tongue flat against it as he savored each taste of his boyfriend. A tangy mixture of Pedri and the fabric’s artificial cloth.
He moaned, loud and high and desperate.
Pedri, Pedri, Pedri.
He rutted against his hand, fucking into his fist fast as he practically gnawed on the panties. Pedri filled his mind, images of his ass, his cock, his beautiful face. Ferran rubbed his tongue against the underside of the fabric, sucking long and hard.
For a long couple pathetic minutes, the striker was standing there in his kitchen with his boyfriend’s underwear in hand. It took him record time to come, the strings spurting in the confines of his boxers as he pulled his hand back.
His fridge hummed somewhere behind him, a constant mock to the post nut clarity and shame that washed over his body.
He was standing there in the dark of his empty kitchen, Pedri’s goddamn ipad charger a witness to his deep depravity.
He slowly lowered the panties from his face, taking a deep breath of the non-Pepi air before he stuffed them in his pocket. With shaking hands he shoved the rest of his boyfriend’s things back in his bag and sat it back on the counter with a carefulness that didn’t reflect the mood of his body.
He shuffled down the hall back and through the living room into his room.
There, in the dark and solitude of his bedroom Ferran flopped down onto the bed with the thud of a shameful man. He sighed, tossing an arm over his head before he reached down and pulled the panties back out, lying them out on his nightstand like a soldier would with his country’s flag.
Pepi truly has made him a pervert.
𑣲⋆ May 2026
Exhibitionism Ი𐑼
Pedri visited Tenerife every summer.
Ferran complained every time he did.
“You never invite me, Pedro. I have to survive an entire two weeks without my Pepi. Imagine how lonely I get every year.”
“You go to Ibiza with Eric whenever I leave, stop acting like a victim.”
“Ibizia,” Ferran pointed a finger, “That is a sad trip, we mourn your absence on that trip.”
“Oh sure,” Pedri rolled his eyes, “You seemed so sad last year when you sent me all those videos at three in the morning saying how bad you wanted to fuck me.”
“I missed you!”
Somehow Ferran squeezed his way onto the trip this year. A shorter one in the week between club football ending and the Spanish National team camp opening again before the world cup.
His Mom was the only one happy to see him.
“Ferran!” she smiled, extending her arms and taking the shark in her embrace, “We’ve missed you so much. It’s been way too long. How are you?”
“Great,” Ferran smiled, an awkward baring of his teeth that was unnatural and so Ferran.
He always got tense around Pedri’s family, not because he disliked them or anything. Rosy is the sweetest woman and always makes sure to pamper Ferran more than his grown self needs. It was the other two that made him feel so out of place.
Or maybe hated. Not wanted. Despised. Better words to describe how hard Fer and Pedri’s father would glare at him.
It’s not like they verbally made it known. Well, at least not Pedri’s father. The extent of his disapproval would just be a simple glare or a shake of Ferran's hand a squeeze too hard.
Fer, on the other hand, would shit talk Ferran to Pedri while Pedri was sitting on Ferran’s lap.
They had just finished dinner, Pedri and Fer’s parents retiring to their bedroom upstairs while the younger three moved to the living room for some fifa.
Pedri had lied across Ferran’s lap, his butt plopping down on the high of his boyfriend’s left thigh as Fer turned the tv on.
Ferran startled, his hands in the air above Pedri’s hip, totally awkward and aware of Pedri’s fiercely protective older brother just one turn away from seeing.
“Pepi,” he whispered, his hands finally finding stability right on his boyfriend’s sides, in the space between rib and hip.
Pedri didn’t reply, just hummed and pressed his forehead against Ferran’s jaw.
Ferran gulped, bracing for an impact.
“Disgusting,” Fer groaned, flopping down next to them, “You guys don’t have to be on top of each other every second of the day.”
“Yes we do,” Pedri mumbled, wrapping his arms around Ferran’s neck and smacking a quick kiss to his jaw.
Ferran stayed motionless, upright and rigid while Pedri practically melted in his hold. His legs had swung up so they rested on Ferran’s other thigh. He was basically in a bridal pose, his bum lying between his boyfriend’s legs while he rubbed his forehead against his chest like some sort of kitten.
And Fer sat a foot away, glaring daggers at Ferran like any of this was his choosing.
“Pepi…” Ferran tried to sit up, tried to readjust so Pedri’s ass wasn’t rubbing against Ferran’s own high thigh, “You brother’s right there.”
Pedri glanced up, his brows furrowing as he pressed his lips together, “It’s not like I’m sucking you off.”
“What was that?” Fer tilted his head, suddenly leaning up.
“Nothing..!” Ferran put his hands up, “Pedri’s just being silly.”
“I mean Fer knows we have sex,” Pedri shrugged, crossing his arms, “We’re literally dating so I don’t know why he’s being so protective.”
Ferran flushed, his hands high and uncomfortable in the air.
He didn’t dare to even turn in Fer’s direction.
“You think I want to hear about that?” Pedri’s brother asked, his tone rising by the word.
“I mean, I don’t know,” the midfielder shrugged, “You and papa act like Ferran is just some creep that follows me around and not actually my boyfriend.”
Ferran stared ahead, a man caught between a war among brothers.
“So you go around talking about sucking dick, sucking his dick?” Fer motioned at Ferran.
“He’s my freaking boyfriend, Fernando, I suck his dick.”
“You…you’re…” Ferran could hear his in-law sputter, “Don’t you speak like that around me.”
“Shut up, Fer. You were just telling me about the girl you were hooking up with yesterday,” Pedri countered, his arms wrapping around Ferran’s neck again. In a sickly sweet motion he propped himself up, subsequently rubbing his ass dangerously close to Ferran’s crotch, and pecked a little kiss to his boyfriend's jaw.
Ferran let himself be moved, an object in Pedri’s efforts to piss off his brother.
The midfielder was extremely successful.
“Get off his lap,” Fer stood, “I don’t want to see you in a man’s lap talking like some fucking hooker.”
“You’re being annoying, Fer,” Pedri hummed almost blissfully, his arms wrapping tighter around the striker’s neck until his chest was almost flush with Ferran’s, “We’re just cuddling. Mama and Papa do it all the time.”
“Don’t play innocent,” Fer reached down and pried a hand at Pedri’s arm, “Stop trying to act out. You’re too grown for that.”
“Stop..! I’m not acting out,” Pedri whined, high and childish despite his words, “I’m literally just cuddling my boyfriend,” he wrapped tighter around Ferran.
“And you’re just letting him act like this?” Fer squinted, almost disgusted. And for the first time in this entire conversation, he wasn’t looking at Pedri. Instead, his gaze found Ferran, his revulsion directed straight at the striker.
Ferran gulped, using everything within his system not to look away. Or shout back. Or pull Pedri even further up his lap and watch the way Fer’s face turns red with anger.
Instead his jaw just fell agape, a wordless stutter as he found himself caught between appeasing his future in law and appeasing his future husband.
“He’s not my dad,” Pedri answered for him, “I guess you’re just not used to a man not acting like my babysitter like you and papa do.”
“Fucking brat,” Fer hissed, “I’m done.”
“Oh no,” Pedri whined, all high pitched and mocking, “Fernando is pissed, we have to alert the whole town.”
“Watch your mouth,” his brother spat, turning towards the kitchen, “Maybe Ferri here will take all your bitching but I won’t.”
“Big tough Fer,” Pedri hummed, “So scary.”
“Spoiled little bitch,” Fer said over his shoulder, walking into the other room, “God bless Ferran for having the patience for you.”
“Oh so now you like Ferran?” Pedri sat up, a stupid little smile as he watched his brother leave.
Ferran didn’t even have a moment after Fer left before Pedri held his jaw in one hand, soft skin meeting the striker’s stubble when he pulled him in for a kiss.
Pedri’s tongue was in his mouth before he could even say a word.
“You’re so fucking hot,” the midfielder whispered when he finally pulled back, plunging back in, “I need your dick, need it.”
Ferran flushed, his hands light and a bit confused on whether they should pull Pedri all the way into his lap or push him off and make sure Fer isn’t standing in the doorway with a kitchen knife.
Pedri pulled off again, his mouth latching onto Ferran’s neck, sucking with so much effort he hummed with it. Looked like a cute little baby bat trying to suck blood for the first time.
“Pepi,” Ferran chuckled, awkward but understanding. Because this is how Pedri gets when he’s trying to prove a point. Tries so hard he tires himself out.
“You’re so handsome,” Pedri purred, one hand sprawling out across Ferran’s chest, “Fer doesn’t understand. I need your dick or else I’ll die.”
“You’ll die?” Ferran repeated with raised brows.
“Mhm,” Pedri murmured, “Do you understand what it feels like to be so empty when your dick is so close?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You should’ve fucked me right there,” Pedri whispered, “I should’ve been cock warming you right in front of him.”
Ferran bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut with a strained, “Pepi, Fernando would decapitate me if I even kissed you in front of him.”
“Mm?” Pedri hummed around his boyfriend’s throat, “Guess I’d have to do all the work then.”
“No. No, no, no,” Ferran pulled back, a big palm to Pedri’s head, “You’re trying to start something, aren’t you?”
“Start…something?” Pedri smiled, sickly sweet and innocent with fluttering eyes and a blush too pretty for his naughty thoughts.
“I am not,” Ferran pointed a finger with the hand that wasn’t holding Pedri away, “Not by any means, fucking you with you’re brother a room over.”
“You don’t have to fuck me,” Pedri frowned, “I just want it inside.”
“Pepi,” Ferran deadpanned.
“I need it,” the midfielder pulled Ferran’s hand off him, pulling it to his chest, “You don’t understand, Ferri. I need your cock.”
Don’t get him wrong. There’s nothing more tempting than the Pedro Gonzalez Lopez sitting in your lap whining for your cock. Big eyes gone even bigger with the way his pupils are blown. Blissed out and horny, pretty pink flush and a tempting little smile. All shy despite his lewd words.
Pedri is a little slut. And Ferran would love to fold him half until his ankles met his shoulders, until he was giggling. And then shutting him up, making that little mouth spouting big words snap close with one swift shove inside. Fuck him stupid until he can’t remember how to speak. Until the only word he can say is Ferran’s name.
But he’d also love to continue living.
And Fer being one loud sneeze away from storming back in didn’t exactly make Ferran comfortable enough to go ahead and dick down Pedri.
“What you need is a cold glass of water,” Ferran finally spoke.
His boyfriend frowned, glaring up at him through lashes, “Ferri. I’m so fucking horny.”
“Well, go jerk off in the bathroom or something,” Ferran weakly suggested.
Pedri rolled his eyes, letting his head lol back when he huffed, “I at least need a dildo and I don’t have any here. Besides you.”
“Hah,” Ferran shook his head, “You’re unbelievable.”
His boyfriend didn’t respond. Just stared up at him wordlessly with a jut of his bottom lip before he pulled the hand he’s been holding lower.
And lower.
Low enough to meet crotch.
Pepi’s got a boner.
“Fuck,” Ferran hissed, his hand instinctively palming it.
Pedri was offering himself and he has to say no.
Has to.
“Fuck me, Ferri. I need your cock.”
Ferran lost all composure.
He let go of Pedri’s crotch, the warm little treasure he’s grown to dream of. Instead he shot up to hold the flesh of his cheeks, squishing them and shoving his head down against the couch cushion. He got off his ass, moving so one foot found the ground and the other bent so his knee was pressed between his boyfriend’s legs.
“Ferri..!” Pedri yelped, his eyes gone wide.
“Shut up,” Ferran pressed his palm over the midfielder’s mouth, “Be quiet.”
He ground his knee against Pedri’s boner, watching the way he squirmed at the press. His hands were holding onto Ferran’s forearm like a lifeline. The once lustful eyes were big with shock.
“Fer’s right,” Ferran leaned down, “You’re a fucking brat.”
Pedri shook his head at that, heels digging into the couch.
“Huh?” he pressed his knee down harder, “Now you don’t want it? What happened to all that whining? Oh please Ferri,” he mimicked Pedri’s high pitched voice, “I need your dick. Need it.”
Pedri’s brows furrowed, a muffled whine escaping the confines of Ferran’s palm.
“Shh,” Ferran purred, glancing over his shoulder once, “Don’t let big brother hear.”
Pedri kicked a leg up, a desperate attempt at regaining control. He only met air and tossed his own body farther down the couch until his crotch (and balls) hit the bone of Ferran’s knee.
“Eep!” he squeaked from behind Ferran’s palm, hands flying off his boyfriend’s forearm to pull his body back up.
A floorboard squeaked in the room over, the quiet shuffling of feet crossing one side of the room to another followed by the fridge popping open.
Pedri’s eyes went impossibly wider, his head shaking in Ferran’s hold as he pressed a small hand to Ferran’s leg.
“What, baby?” Ferran whispered, “I thought you were horny.”
He pulled his hand off Pedri’s mouth, letting him get a few frantic huffs of air down.
“Ferri..!” the midfielder hissed, slapping his boyfriend’s arm, “You’re going to get us killed.”
“I thought you wanted it,” Ferran hummed, leaning down to peck a kiss on Pedri’s soft neck.
“And I thought you were terrified of Fer!” He glanced around the room, “Or my dad..! Jesus, Ferri, anyone could just walk in.”
Ferran looked up. The living room was dark besides the glow of the tv adjacent to them. The kitchen, a room away, was only lit with the glow of Fer’s phone humming somewhere deep in the room. To the other side was the stairway that led right up to Pedri’s sleeping parents.
“My sweet boy,” Ferrann cooed, “Are you scared?”
“Yes..!”
“Okay,” the striker nodded, pulling back, “No more. We’ll just watch a movie.”
He started to stand back up, his knee just lifting off Pedri when the midfielder’s hand suddenly wrapped around the joint.
“Wait,” he whispered, “Just…wait.”
Ferran smiled, slowly setting his leg back down.
Pedri, his head turned to the side with an evident lack of eye contact, pulled Ferran’s knee closer and closer until it met his boner again.
And there, in the quiet of his childhood home, Pedri rubbed his boyfriend’s knee against his cock.
He whined, his shoulders rising with pleasure as he humped. Ferran could feel it, all of it, even the tiny ridge of where Pedri’s tip turned to shaft. He was rock hard, probably red and leaking. Horny since dinner. Since Ferran’s hand found his thigh and squeezed a little too high.
The floorboard creaked again, scaring the midfielder into pulling away and weakly attempting to cover up his pitched tent.
“Shh, Pepi,” Ferran gave a glance around the room, “Keep going.”
Pedri, his blissed out eyes gone watery with pleasure, found Ferran’s.
He kept going, grinding against Ferran’s knee, occasionally lifting his hips or turning his head to the side to stifle a moan.
It only was another few minutes of this until he came fast and in his pants. Ferran could see the spot on his shorts dampen with the spurts.
He was still shuddering on the couch when Fer walked back in carrying a sandwich, motioning for the two to sit up for some fifa.
Pedri lost all three rounds.
𑣲⋆ June 2021
69 Ი𐑼
Pedri and Ferran met in March of 2021.
It was Pedri’s first time ever being called up for the national team. When he was 18 with a buzzcut and a year at Barca under his professional football belt.
Ferran had been called up once before, the last time Spain played in December of 2020. He was playing at Man City, excelling enough for Enrique to call him up for a first and then second time.
Ferran had saved Pedri when Carvajal and Koke had tried to haze Pedri into his way to stripping in front of the entire team.
“Hey,” the striker shouted from his spot near a locker, genuine confusion, “You never made me do that?”
They only exchanged a couple conversations after that. Pedri was a very shy boy.
They saw each other again months later during the first week after club football had ended. Pedri was coming off a horrid season with a recovering Barca, Ferran a league win with City.
There, in Pedri’s first return to the Spanish Camp, he was roomed with a certain Valencian striker.
“Pedro,” Ferran greeted with a salute, “How’s life treating you?”
Pedri, a bag half his size slung over his shoulder, startled at the sudden greeting. They were standing outside their room, the midfielder struggling with his key card.
“Eh,” Pedri stuttered, “Fine. I mean good.”
“Fine and good?” Ferran tilted his head, “I’m glad things have been so good for you.”
“Thanks,” Pedri nodded, looking up at the striker in one quick glance.
Ferran had a buzzcut like Pedri, short and cropped and made both of them look even younger than they were. Except Ferran looked a bit more mature with his height and lean muscle. He was definitely at least two inches taller than Pedri and had twenty pounds on him. He could see it in the way his shirt went taut around his bicep.
And his smile, a small grin that flashed white teeth from the corner of his mouth. He was looking down at Pedri, not in a bad way, no. Just naturally. The taller, stronger, handsome boy looks down at him.
Pedri gulped.
“As for me,” Ferran’s hand dipped down, gently taking Pedri’s key card and inserting it in for him, “I’m doing alright. Pretty pumped to be playing for Spain again.”
“Yeah,” Pedri mumbled, letting Ferran open the door for him, “Me too.”
They didn’t talk much that first night. Pedri had called his mama for an entire hour, twirling his hoodie string as he lay on his bed and assured her everyone is nice to him here. Ferran had left around that time, a quiet wave to the midfielder with a whispered, “Tell Mrs. Gonzalez, I say hello!”
He had returned some time in the night, Pedri found him still in his jeans and over his comforter when he woke that next morning.
Pedri ended up pairing with Unai in the training session that morning, stretching and drilling.
Unai was the most handsome man at the camp. Pedri had thought since his first day there back in March. So tall and manly with his beard and big hands. He always got especially shy around him, always felt himself flush and forget how to speak.
Today was not any different. Unai kept asking him questions about Barca and Messi and his life and Pedri just…forgot. Stuttered his way through weak sentences and forced laughs. But Unai seemed to be forgiving, didn’t judge Pedri too much. Just did the talking when the midfielder couldn’t.
Embarrassing himself in front of Unai was enough, Ferran bringing it up in their room that night was the kill.
“Hey,” the striker hummed. He was sitting on his own bed, adjacent from Pedri’s in their small room, “I was wondering something.”
Pedri looked up from his phone. Ferran was sprawled out across his bed, legs spread and hands resting on his stomach. He was staring at the ceiling.
“Yeah?”
“Do you not like Unai? Or like, did he do something to you? You looked so uncomfortable talking to him today.”
Pedri flushed, almost dropping his phone when he asked, “What?”
Ferran sat up, scooting himself back so he could look at Pedri, “I mean, you were all red and, I don’t know, you just looked like a school girl talking to her crush.”
“School…school girl?” Pedri repeated, his hand instinctively rising up and over his face in a weak attempt to hide his embarrassment, “Unai is fine, I’ve…we don’t even know each other.”
Ferran raised a brow, a small press of his lips, “Do you have a crush on him?”
Pedri coughed, loud and unnecessary, “No!”
Ferran nodded, a slow wordless acknowledgement before, “You know, I’m not homophobic. It’s okay. I really don’t care.”
Pedri stared down at his bed, his head pulsing when he mumbled, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“...Thanks.”
Ferran ended up caring a lot about Pedri’s homosexuality. Not in a bad way. Just had so many questions.
“How does it work?”
“Does your family know?”
“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”
“Have you ever had sex?”
It came to a head on the third night. Pedri had just finished calling his mom when Ferran approached him.
For the first time Pedri’s known him, Ferran looked shy. Or maybe apprehensive is a better word. A bit scared.
“How’d you know you like guys?”
Pedri didn’t really give him a complete answer, just a story about his life growing up and then other factors and then brought up the actor in the telenovela his mom watched when he was growing up.
“I just…” Ferran rubbed the back of his neck, “I think I could do it with a guy.”
Pedri’s body cooled, a wave of nerves before a low heat set fire in his belly, “Could?”
They had sex for the first time that night. Pedri’s first time. Ferran’s first time with a guy.
And that’s when the snowball fell down the hill.
At least three times a day for the rest of that week that they spent together being bunkmates. A symbiotic relationship. Two young men with high libidos discovering the pleasure they could give each other.
Wake up, shower together and jerk each other off. Morning training ended with the two running back to their hotel room for a quickie. Dinner was followed by the same. Ferran jack rabbiting Pedri into the bed sheets while Pedri just took it all with a moan. Pedri always came first, Ferran would come because he came.
The first night, they fucked an entire four times. Accidentally stayed up until three in the morning with each round taking more and more energy.
Pedri discovered how good riding felt by the third day. They’d be in their hotel room, Ferran sitting in the desk’s chair scrolling on his phone when the midfielder would tap his knee and whisper, “Sex.”
He’d ride for hours. Even after he came, just would cock warm Ferran because his body had never felt anything as amazing as his dick for Pedri’s entire eighteen years of living and wanted to savor every second of it.
The fourth night was when Ferran suggested it.
“It’s called six-nining.”
Pedri nodded, his hips shaking with his eagerness.
They’d gotten tired over the past few days. Who knew hours of training on top of hours of sex would take a lot out of them? Well, it’s not like their horniness went away. Pedri still whined in the dark of the night, crawling on top of Ferran and asking if they could have sex again. Ferran had to find a good middle ground.
“We give each other oral,” the striker clarified, “I lie down and you put your ass on my face,” he motioned with his fingers, “And then while I’m sucking you off, you suck me off.”
Pedri nodded, his hips stuttering, “I’ve never sucked anyone off.”
“Me either,” Ferran admitted.
They sat in silence for a moment, two naked boys trying to figure out the best way to get off.
“I want to though,” Pedri clarified, looking down at Ferran’s dick, “It’s so big, though. I won’t…will I be able to breathe?”
“Yeah,” Ferran nodded, “I’ve had a girl suck my dick before, she breathed through her nose. Just do that.”
“Right…” Pedri murmured.
Pedri never put his butt that close to someone’s face before that moment. He was on all fours over Ferran, the striker’s hands hovering in the air by his thighs when he said, “I could suck your dick or lick your asshole.”
Pedri’s brows raised, “Lick it? Really?”
“It’s whatever you prefer.”
Pedri looked over his shoulder, just finding the top of Ferran’s face, wide eyes and furrowed brows.
“I want…can you lick it?”
“Yeah,” Ferran gulped, his hands finding Pedri’s hips, “Just, put your hips down so you’re sitting on my face.”
“Sitting?” Pedri looked back again, “You won’t be able to breathe.”
“Yes I will,” Ferran pulled at his thighs, “I can lift you off it’s too much anyways, you’re like…tiny.”
Pedri flushed, facing forward again.
Forward was Ferran’s dick. Hard and leaking and delicious.
In the same motion the midfielder dropped his hips down slowly, he also dove down, his lips kissing the tip.
Ferran’s tongue found Pedri’s hole before he could even think to brace himself.
“Ah..! Ah!” He pulled off the dick, his hips grinding down on the striker’s face for more, “Wow, wowwowwow.”
Ferran, seemingly encouraged by Pedri’s moans, let his tongue swipe on his hole again, lapping at the (not so) tight muscle.
Pedri’s head dipped down, his ass smushing further down as the pleasure took over his mind. He squeezed Ferran’s thighs, his head shaking with pleasure.
He’s gone raw with sensitivity over the past few days. At first it hurt, hurt to take, hurt to sit, hurt. And then it stopped, and everything just became pure pleasure.
“Ferran..!” Pedri cried, “Deeper! Deeper, put it inside!”
The striker pushed at his hips, a tap at his thigh as Pedri reluctantly pulled himself up.
And like that, the tongue was gone, the pleasure was swiped out from under him. Only a heaving striker with a croaking voice, “You gotta suck my dick too.”
“Oh,” Pedri breathed, his attention going back down to the twitching dick in front of him. Red and angry, “Sorry.”
He lowered his hips again, trying to focus through the pleasure as he lied down to take the cock. Hesitantly, he kissed it again, letting his lips smush against the tip until the pre-come made it inside his mouth and he could taste Ferran for the first time.
The striker was still lapping at his hole, occasionally prodding at it.
Pedri moaned, high and dragged out of him, a full body shiver as he tried to take the tip in his mouth. That, itself, was impossibly big.
He swiped a tongue at it, a bit dazed with the dual stimulation, licking at the underside like a lollipop.
They went at it for minutes, Ferran’s tongue working at Pedri’s overused hole with effort. He hummed occasionally, even pulled back to kiss it at one point.
Pedri didn’t make it far down Ferran’s cock. One, maybe two inches before he gagged and pulled off to spit and choke. He used his hands, diving down as far as he could with his tight throat and hole being prodded.
He came when Ferran snaked a finger in, the digit wet with the striker’s spit.
Ferran came when Pedri squeezed the base of his shaft and tip of his finger.
The next day they went back to regular sex, some doggy followed by some missionary. And after that Euro’s tournament they lost touch again until Ferran joined Barca. And even then they were slow to regain their connection.
But that week when they were 18 and 21 and fucking like animals, was the very start of their relationship.