Archive of Our Own

Pedri was never that close with Joan.

They’ve spent their first season on the same team, maybe talking one-on-one once, twice if you count that time at Araujo’s party when Joan knocked on the bathroom door while Pedri was peeing. But that’s it. Teammates, coworkers, acquaintances. Nothing more, not that Pedri ever expected anything.

And it’s not like he had anything against the guy, he really didn’t. Joan was chill. At least chill in comparison to the likes of Gavi and Lamine. Never yelled at the linesmen, never blasted music on the bus ride home, never even would insult Pedri when everyone else would.

Joan’s a nice guy, just not Pedri’s friend.

So that’s why it was so confusing Ferran was insisting on having the keeper over, along with Gavi.

“Ferri,” Pedri huffed, scrunching his nose, “We barely know him.”

“Pedri,” Ferran smiled, “He’s our teammate, I’m pretty sure we know him.”

They were playing FIFA at Ferran’s house, Pedri had actually slept over the night before because the striker fucked him limp and didn’t want his ‘precious Pepi driving home in that state.’

“But not like that,” Pedri stretched out on his boyfriend’s couch, “And I don’t feel like interacting with anybody right now.”

“You’re interacting with me,” Ferran quirked a brow.

“That’s different,” Pedri hummed, “Even if Dani or Eric came over, you’d know how I’d be.”

“What?” Ferran smirked, sitting down next to the midfielder, “Grumpy and annoying and snapping at Eric for eating chips too loudly?”

“Exactly,” Pedri smiled.

The striker didn’t reply for a moment, just stayed quiet and staring so hard in the way that Pedri knew he was planning something. Or planned something.

“But why not Gavi and Joan?” Ferran finally asked, his arms slipping around Pedri’s middle, pulling the midfielder up into his lap, “They’re nice guys.”

“Ferri,” Pedri breathed, “You’re joking, right? Yesterday Gavi elbowed me in the face during rondo’s and then called me enano when I bruised.”

“Because you are enano,” The striker pulled Pedri flush against his body, the midfielder’s back to Ferran’s chest. Like Pedri was a stuffed animal in his hold.

“You’re not funny, and they’re not coming over,” Pedri crossed his arms, “I forbid it.”

“I forbid it,” His boyfriend mimicked in a high pitch mock, “You’re so cute, you know that?”

“Stop deflecting, jackass,” Pedri shoved an elbow into Ferran’s ribs, “I’m leaving if they come over.”

The striker didn’t reply, just did that stupid pouting puppy eyes look (Pedri didn’t have to be facing him to know he was pulling that face).

“No, Ferran,” The midfielder sighed one last time, “I really don’t feel like having two high energy children in my house.”

“One,” Ferran pecked a kiss against Pedri’s nape, “This isn’t your house, and two. They’re your age. Stop acting like an old man.”

“I have to act like an old man because you act like a child,” Pedri countered, prying at the arms wrapped around him, “Don’t tell me you already invited them over…”

“...Surprise..?”

“Ferri,” Pedri whined, exasperated, finally plucking himself out of his boyfriend’s hold, “Are you serious?”

“Don’t be mad,” Ferran put his hands out, like that could stop the growing storm of his boyfriend’s wrath, “Gavi had a rough night, he just wanted to hang out with some old friends, okay?”

“Tell him to hang out with Fermin or Lamine then!” Pedri waved a hand, “And why is Joan coming too then? Why doesn’t Gavi just hang out with Joan and leave me alone.”

Ferran smiled, that humiliating smile he got whenever he thought Pedri was overreacting, “Babe, take a deep breath, the neighbors can hear you.”

“I hate you,” Pedri pointed a finger at Ferran, stepping off the couch, “You always do this. You just suddenly plan something without telling me, and when I get mad you act like I’m throwing a tantrum.”

“You kind of are throwing a tantrum.”

“I’ll throw you across the room.”

“Alright,” The striker raised his brows, slowly standing like you would with a volatile animal. Deliberate and non-threatening, “Let’s just get ready first, and then we’ll decide if they can come over, how about that?”

“You just want me to clean up the house for you,” Pedri squinted his eyes.

“Okay, I’ll clean, you go take a nap and sleep off all those big grumpy feelings.”

“Stop babying me!”

“Never,” Ferran stuck out his tongue.

Pedri did end up ‘sleeping off all those big grumpy feelings.’ He flopped back on the couch, pulling the blanket up and over his head, trying to mentally prepare himself to socialize for at least a couple hours.

Ferran cleaned up, at least cleaned up the best he could. Threw out the trash, fluffed the pillows, tickled Pedri’s foot and then skipped away when the midfielder shot up and cursed him out.

Maybe ten minutes after Pedri had laid back down, Ferran announced the house was ready for company.

Which also confirmed to Pedri, he didn’t have a say in whether company was coming over or not.

“What are we even going to do with them?” Pedri whined, resting his head on the edge of the couch.

“What we always do with our friends,” Ferran chuckled, flicking his boyfriend’s forehead, “Hang out.”

“We hang out with Eric and Dani,” Pedri complained, “I haven’t hung out with Gavi in years and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Joan not wearing his goalie kit.”

“Good start then, yeah?” Ferran smiled.

“You owe me a good fuck,” Pedri pointed a finger.

“...Aren’t all my fucks good?” His boyfriend asked, dejected and quiet like a wounded puppy.

“Shut up,” Pedri flushed, “You do all the talking.”

“Yes ma’am.” Ferran nodded.

“And you won’t make me the butt of the joke,” Pedri continued, “You won’t let Gavi make fun of me or tackle me.”

His boyfriend bobbed his head.

“And you’ll kick them out when I say so.”

“Whatever you say, enano,” Ferran rubbed a warm hand on the midfielder’s head, “You know what they say?”

“They say Ferran Torres need to shut the fuck up.”

“...I was going to say, happy wife, happy life. But that too.” Ferran nodded.

Joan and Gavi showed up together. Pedri didn’t even have to turn and see who was at the door to know it was them. He could already hear Gavi whining about some slow driver on the way there.

“I get it if you’re old and want to drive carefully,” Gavi practically yelled from the doorway, “But for fuck’s sake, don’t go 15 under.”

“He wasn’t going 15 under, you were going 15 over,” Another voice, Joan’s, corrected.

“No one asked for your opinion,” he could hear Gavi deadpan, before a rumbling and warning, “Anyways, where’s my Pedrito?”

Pedri squeezed his eyes shut, shrinking even smaller in his spot on the couch. This was already too much socialization for him, and he hasn’t even said a word yet.

“Couch,” his boyfriend said.

It was almost like being a kid again, playing hide and seek with the older kids. You know they’re going to find you, they always find you, but you still bite your lip in anticipation.

“Pepi,” Gavi smiled.

They were close before, sure. When Pedri was still in his early twenties and getting used to Barca. Gavi was fun, loud, that extroverted personality that Pedri never had. It might be douchey to say, but he akins his friendship to Gavi like a free trial to that lifestyle. Parties and girls and just loudness. It didn’t take long for Pedri to realize he wasn’t for that way of living, that he prefers walking his dog after training, not drinking at a club while some guy is squeezing his ass. He also credits some of this epiphany to Ferran entering his life, sometime into the 23/24 season when they got especially close and he got especially far from Gavi. And then the Euros happened and all that stuff, so it’s not like Pedri can even go clubbing anymore. He has a boyfriend to tend to.

But yeah, old friends.

“Hey, Gavi,” Pedri waved an awkward hand, twisting around until he faced the other guest still standing in the hallway, “And hey Joan, too.”

“Not going to get up and greet me with a hug?” Gavi tilted his head, arms spread wide.

“Leave him alone,” Joan chuckled, lightly bumping Gavi’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Ferran added, joining Pedri on the couch, “The kitty’s in a bad mood, right now.”

“Aw,” Gavi coo’d flopping down on a chair, trying to drag Joan down with him to no avail, “What happened, kitty?”

Pedri’s nose flared, turning until he faced his boyfriend, glaring up through his lashes.

Don’t make me the butt of the joke.

“Well,” Ferran clapped his hands, flushed in that way that he did when he’d bump Pedri with the cart at the grocery store. He knows he’s in trouble but he still wants to push the cart, “What’re you two feeling like doing?”

“Hm,” Joan hummed, settled down on the seat next to Gavi’s, “Dunno, I’m up for whatever.”

“Me too,” Gavi agreed, his hands looped around his knees, smiling like a child, “What’cha want to do, kitty?”

“Gavi…Stop calling me that,” Pedri mumbled, wrapping his arms around himself, “I don’t want to do anything.”

“Huh,” The goalie chuckled, “You weren’t lying about the whole ‘bad mood’ thing,” He looked at Ferran.

“Don’t say that,” The striker smiled, pulling Pedri up into his arms, “He just had a long night…hanging out with me.”

“Ferri..!” The flushed and scandalized midfielder shrieked, glancing at their teammates in horrifying embarrassment.

“Oh,” Gavi’s lips formed an O, “Pepi, what were you doing last night? Nothing dirty, hopefully. You’re still our innocent boy.”

“Look at him,” The goalie waved a hand at the midfielder in question, “Lamine invited him to the after-party last weekend after the Clasico and he said no, said he was tired. This guy’s probably never seen coochie in the wild.”

“Coochie,” Ferran repeated, breathless and amused, “His balls would shrivel up inside of him if he saw a coochie.”

In that moment, Pedri wanted to kill Ferran. There have been times before where the striker ran Pedri through, mentally, physically, emotionally, figuratively, literally, whatever. Pissed him off enough to snap at him and curse him out and lock himself in the bathroom until Ferran begged for his forgiveness.

Right now, Pedri wanted to do more than kill Ferran.

“Kitty’s mad,” Gavi coo’d with a wide smile, “Look at him! He’s so pissed!”

“Did you two come over just to insult me?” Pedri finally muttered, his voice shaky despite the fury.

“No,” Gavi denied, dragging the word out with a smile, “We came over to spend some time with our teammates, right Joanito?”

“Sure,” The goalie nodded, ever so nonchalant. The same plain face he has whenever he saves an especially easy shot.

“FIFA?” Ferran suggested, his face tucked in the space between Pedri’s shoulder and neck. The midfielder shook him off immediately.

“I call being on Pepi’s team!” Gavi shot up.

“No,” Pedri crossed his arms, “I don’t want to play.”

“You gotta play,” Ferran whined, snaking his arms all the way around Pedri’s middle before slowly standing, midfielder in hold, “No escaping this, kitty.”

“Ferri!” Pedri yelped, his legs kicking as Ferran carried him to the floor, “Put me down!” He glanced back, only catching a glimpse at the smiles plastered on his teammates faces.

“C’mon, Pedri,” Joan groaned, following the couple, “Lighten up, stop clenching your ass cheeks for once.”

“Yeah,” Gavi hummed, “Your asshole must be tighter than those skinny jeans you used to wear.”

“Stop,” Pedri whined, squirming in Ferran’s hold, “Seriously..!”

“Just one round,” His boyfriend promised, settling down with Pedri still in his lap, “One round and then you can go back to sulking on the couch.”

“I wasn’t sulking,” Pedri protested, “I was relaxing in my own home!”

“Not your home,” Ferran hummed, turning on the tv.

“Yeah,” Gavi nodded, “And stop acting like you hate us so much. It hurts,” He placed a hand on his chest, mock-wounded.

“I do hate you,” Pedri pointed a finger at the other midfielder.

“Wow,” He nodded, “And what about Joan, you hate him too?”

Pedri looked up at the goalie in question. He was sitting down on the edge of the couch closest to the tv, his long legs reaching all the way over. Pedri could touch his foot if he put a hand out. He was looking directly at him too, his dark eyes meeting Pedri’s in lazy amusement. He tilted his head when the midfielder made eye contact, a slow smirk growing.

“No,” Pedri gulped, “Of course not. He’s…he’s a teammate.”

“And I’m not?” Ferran asked.

“No,” Pedri huffed, “You’re my boyfriend, it’s different.”

“Boyfriend gets special treatment?” Joan wondered aloud with a knowing smile.

“Uh yeah,” Ferran answered, “I’m his freaking boyfriend, of course I get the best treatment,” His hands unwrapped from around Pedri’s middle, traveling up to squeeze his chest.

“Ferri!” The midfielder yelped, pulling his boyfriend’s hands off him.

“Wow,” Gavi laughed, “You’re just going to let him do that?”

“Ferran, I swear to God,” He pulled at the striker’s wrists, “Get off me before I kill you.”

“You two just gonna start fucking in front of us or what?” Joan asked from his lean backed spot, amused and sleazy.

“Yeah, and how does that work?” Gavi hummed along, “I mean, between two guys. Who does what?”

“Between two guys,” Ferran chuckled, finally dropping his hands from Pedri’s chest, “I think you can guess how it works.”

“Yeah duh,” Gavi laughed, “Asshole and stuff, yeah whatever, I’m asking between you two. Who does which role?”

Pedri’s brain stuttered, his hands still clawing at his boyfriend’s forearm as he pursed his lips. Two guys he didn’t even want to come over, a boyfriend he wanted to kill, and a boner poking between his cheeks.

“That’s not something you really ask…” Ferran answered first, his head innocently falling in the space between Pedri’s shoulder and neck.

“You let Pepi put his dick in you?” The midfielder assumed with a cackle.

“What?” Ferran’s voice rang through the room, loud and offended at the mere idea of receiving, “Fuck no, he takes it obviously.”

Pedri’s head was on fire.

“Haha,” Gavi hooted, “We all assumed that anyway.”

“Who’s we?” Joan asked from his spot on the couch, “I didn’t even know they were dating until like last month.”

“How did younot know?”

“I don’t fucking know, it’s not like I’m psychoanalyzing the entire team from the net.”

“You don’t have to psychoanalyze them to see how on top of each other they always are,” Gavi waved a hand towards the couple, “Do you know how many times I’ve walked in on them humping each other like rabbits in heat. In the locker room!”

“Pablo..! That never happened!” Pedri sputtered fast and with a glance at Joan, “We don’t even kiss there.”

“Yeah,” Ferran agreed, “We kiss here,” He smacked a wet and overly lewd kiss to the side of Pedri’s neck.

“Ew,” Joan smiled, crossing one ankle over the other, “You two might as well just be fucking in front of us with this amount of pda.”

Pedri wanted to curl up and die. Wanted to pull his knees to his chest and hide his flushed face deep between them until everybody else got bored with him being boring and turned to play fifa or something.

But Ferran was still holding him in his lap, still had his boner nestled against the low of Pedri’s back and was smiling cruelly against his neck, “Hear that, Pepi? Wanna show these two how we do it?”

“That has to be some sort of team violation, right?” Gavi hummed from his spot on the couch, “A part in our contracts that forbids us from watching two other teammates going at it.”

“What the hell kind of contract did you sign?” Ferran laughed.

“I don’t know,” Gavi put his arms up, “Just feels weird seeing you two act so…affectionate with each other.”

“Affectionate,” Ferran repeated with a roll of his hips, so subtle only Pedri noticed it. Felt it.

“Let’s just play fifa or whatever,” He weakly tried, pressing a palm to his boyfriend’s thigh in an attempt to settle his growing appetite.

“Pedri,” The other midfielder sang songed, “You were just bitching about not wanting to play fifa literally two minutes ago.”

“Yeah well,” Pedri muttered, “I changed my mind.”

Joan and Pedri versus Ferran and Gavi. The match started poorly for their side. Gavi scored first, jumping up and cheering as Joan groaned and Ferran laughed. It only took another couple minutes before Joan had equalized and Pedri had somehow scored by half time.

“When did the kitty get good at fifa,” Gavi whined, waiting for the match to start.

“He’s just getting carried by Joan,” Ferran answered, shaking his head at the keeper’s second goal, “This isn’t even fun.”

“Yeah,” Gavi agreed, flopping dramatically across the couch, “It’s boring when Joan tries so hard like this. He just wants to impress Pepi.”

Pedri perked up at that, twisting around to face the other midfielder before he glanced back at Ferran.

He doesn’t know exactly how he expected Ferran to react, maybe a frown, maybe a glare, anything in that regard of disdain and disapproval. Not a smile.

The flash of white teeth as Ferran grinned and shook his head with a chuckled, “Not that easy to impress the kitty.”

His boyfriend has a jealous streak, a darker, less typically Ferran-goofy-esque side that only showed itself whenever the striker felt particularly bothered by something or someone around his Pedri. Flick patting his ass, Rashford teaching him English words, even when the physio would massage his thighs. It was impossible for Ferran to mask his contempt for whoever dared to touch his Pepi and equally impossible to ignore. A furrowed brow, a glare, a sudden and intruding step into whatever space Pedri found himself in.

But not today, not now when Gavi smirked and Joan smiled. Ferran just joined them, seemingly amused by the idea of Joan wanting to look cool for his boyfriend.

“We should make the game more interesting,” Gavi had suggested, “Add some stakes, you know?”

“What stakes?” Ferran squinted, “I’m not about to bet on a fifa match when someone as stupid as Pedri is playing.”

“Stupid?” Pedri repeated, his voice way higher than he intended, “Can you not talk about me like that?”

“Aw,” Gavi stretched over, rubbing Pedri’s head like he was a kid, “You’re not stupid, kitty. Just a little bit slower than the rest of us.”

“Except in the real life version of fifa, then he runs circles around you,” Joan quipped.

“Hah,” Ferran barked, “He’s got a point, Pablo.”

“Like that doesn’t include you,” Gavi waved a hand, “You score once like, every seven matches. And you start!”

Pedri wanted to bang his head against the wall.

“So you just didn’t see my brace against Betis last weekend or did you block that out cause that’s your childhood club?”

“Where was that brace when we were drawn against Celta two matchdays ago?”

“Boys, boys,” Joan interrupted with that smirk Pedri had grown to recognize as his default face, “Stop bickering, you’re startling the kitty.”

“Stop calling me a kitty!”

“Okay, whatever,” Ferran shook his head, “We all agree Pedri is much better than the rest of us at real life football.”

“Yeah,” Gavi leaned back, “But he sucks at fifa.”

“Agreed.”

“Yup.”

“I hate you all,” Pedri mumbled.

He wasn’t exactly lying. He hadn’t woken up that morning and hoped that two teammates he barely talked to would come over and join his boyfriend in assaulting him in a barrage of insults.

And Ferran had promised to not make him the butt of the joke, promised him he only needed to play one round of fifa, promised him he’d do all the talking.

Pedri’s blood got hotter by the second.

“Don’t be so grumpy,” Gavi whined, “Cheer up, Pepi, you look prettier when you smile.”

“Yeah, we want to see that cute smile,” Joan added.

If Pedri had only been slightly confused about the lack of jealousy from Ferran earlier, he was puzzled now. Because Ferran wasn’t reacting, in fact, he was kind of encouraging it.

A stupid smile and little nod like he wanted them to say more, to ogle Pedri more.

“You know, Ferran is my boyfriend,” Pedri crossed his arms, “It’s kinda weird you’re calling me pretty right in front of him.”

The striker’s brows rose in amusement, an approving slow nod of his head as he smiled.

“Don’t be like that,” Gavi groaned, “We’re all teammates, we don’t mean anything by it.”

“Yeah,” The goalie agreed, “It’s like when I slap Eric’s ass in the locker room, you know, light hearted squad bonding stuff.”

“Bonding stuff,” Ferran repeated, pinching Pedri’s side, “So stop being such a tight ass. It’s lame.”

“Yeah, we’re all comfortable with each other,” Gavi smiled, “That’s why we should make the next fifa round a win or strip match.”

Joan whistled, stretching his arms across the back of the couch.

“Strip…match?” Pedri’s brain stuttered.

“Whoever scores the least has to strip at least one piece of clothing with each half,” the other midfielder explained.

“Sounds fun,” Ferran nodded his head, “I’m in.”

“Me too.”

All three men turned towards Pedri, their gazes burning into his already flushed face.

“Wha…what?”

“It’ll be chill,” Gavi insisted, “Just outscore whoever you’re playing against or take off your sock or something. Nothing like, dirty or anything.”

“Yeah,” Ferran scooted over until he was pressed against Pedri, “The loser can jump in the pool or run down the street.”

“I’m not running down the street with my dick out,” Joan added.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Gavi clapped his hands, “Let’s start. First, me versus Pedri.”

Pedri didn’t even have a chance to say no before a controller was shoved into his hands and the match was already loading.

“Wait,” He turned toward Ferran, “But I’m not good at this game, this isn’t fair.”

“Shh,” His boyfriend hushed, “You’ll do fine. Just outscore him.”

“I know how a football match works,” he whined, “Just…coach me?”

“Sure,” Ferran smiled.

The match started faster than Pedri could keep up with. Even with his boyfriend’s instructions he didn’t last more than two minutes before Gavi’s striker ran through Pedri’s defense and sent the ball in the corner.

“Gavi, slow down!” He squealed, fumbling with his controller as Ferran and Joan laughed.

He managed to score a goal right before the game’s half time.

“Oh Gavi,” Joan hummed, “The kitty’s better than we thought. Get ready to take that shirt off.”

“Hah,” The midfielder barked, “Sure.”

Gavi scored thirty seconds into the second half, then again a minute later, and then finally in the dying moments of the match.

Ferran and Joan were folded in half with laughter by the time the screen had loaded the final score.

“Kitty cat,” Gavi turned toward him, “Watcha gonna take off?”

Pedri frowned, the flush of his cheeks so warm he could feel how pink they were. The controller had gone slippery with his palm sweat, a slow dread building low in his gut as he shook his head, “You can’t be serious.”

“Uh,” Gavi stuttered, shaking his head once, “I’m serious.”

“Yeah,” Ferran pouted, “Come on, Pepi. We all agreed.”

“I didn’t..!” he shrugged.

“Come on,” Gavi groaned, tipping his head back and dragging the word out, “It’s literally just your shirt, we’ve all seen you butt ass naked in the locker room before.”

“Yeah,” Joan smirked, “Plus, Ferran’s seen like, your everything.”

“Joan!” Pedri’s brows shot up.

“Just a sock,” Ferran spoke up, a compromise, “I’ll even take it off for you.”

“No,” Pedri shook his head, “Nope, no. I can do it.”

“Atta boy!” Gavi smiled.

“Just one…” Pedri mumbled.

His hands moved in slow motion, a testament to how little he wanted to do this. All three pairs of eyes were on him and his extended leg, an agonizing quiet hum in the house that was just loud with laughter and fifa commentary.

He peeled the sock off in one swift motion, tossing it aside and immediately going to pick it up because he doesn’t want to lose it.

“Pretty foot,” Joan was the first to comment, a hand on his chin like he was for real analyzing the limb.

“Do you get pedicures or something?” Gavi leaned closer.

“No,” Pedri pulled back, “And stop staring. I did your stupid game, so,” he motioned at all three of them, “You guys do whatever jackass fifa shit you want and I’m going to go.”

“Come on, Pepi,” Gavi smiled, “Don’t be like that, have some fun with us.”

“We’ll go easy on you, next round.”

“I don’t want to play a next round,” Pedri stood on one socked foot, one bare foot, “I’m going to my room so have…”

His sentence died in his throat, his gaze dropping to the hand on the back of his thigh.

Ferran was holding him, gripping him, nails digging almost too hard into his skin as he mumbled low and quiet, “Sit down. You’re embarrassing me.”

Pedri, despite himself, flopped back down on the cushion adjacent to his boyfriend, a mumbled apology dying in his throat and their two guests smiled. Ferran just smiled and squeezed his shoulder.

Because the loser stayed on, Pedri went on to lose another four matches in a row. Joan, Ferran, and then Gavi and Joan again.

He was already stripped of his other sock, his sweatshirt, and his watch.

“It’s the shirt or the shorts, kitty.”

“Guys,” Pedri whined, “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Did what?” Joan tossed his controller between hands.

“This isn’t fair,” His bottom lip jutted, “Can we just end the game here?”

“Rules are rules,” Ferran sighed.

Pedri had ended up being the only one sitting on the floor still, knees drawn up close to his chest while his teammates sprawled across the couch.

It’s not like he was entirely opposed to stripping in front of them. Joan had said it earlier, they all have seen him naked, he’s seen them naked. It’s nothing crazy. Hell, he strips down to just his shorts every time he swaps jersey with some post a match.

But this is different, this entire situation was different. He was the only one who’s bad at fifa, he was the only one who didn’t want to hang out, and now he’s the only one who’s taken off any piece of clothing.

He felt vulnerable in a way he hasn’t felt in years. Since that one time he was hazed at Las Palmas. When he was young and stripped and tossed into the club’s pool by the older players. When he had to emerge from the near freezing water while the entire team cackled at his shaking body.

“I don’t want to,” he mumbled, crossing his arms like it’d make him invisible to the men.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Gavi rested his head on his hands, “Take your shirt off and show us your tits.”

Tits.

Pedri’s face flushed impossibly hotter, his arms hugging tighter around himself as he glared up at the other midfielder.

“Yeah,” Joan joined in, “Show us those A cups.”

“They’re not tits,” Pedri mumbled, a bit breathless as the pulse in his head became obvious, “You guys are being weird.”

“Oh come on,” Ferran sighed, leaning down so he was still lying on the couch but about eye level with his boyfriend, “Rules are rules, Pepi.”

Pedri’s heart fluttered.

All he had to do was take his shirt off, the shirt Ferran had bought him back in Tokyo during Barca’s pre-season tour in East Asia. The one he had held up against Pedri and coo’d saying he had to get it for him.

With slow, shaking hands, Pedri peeled the clothing off, his skin prickling at the cold of the air as he bunched the fabric in his lap.

For a long few seconds, all three men staring down at Pedri said nothing. Their eyes just passed over him, his sternum, navel, sides. Eating him up.

Then, “Holy shit, your boobs are so fucking tiny, Pepi.”

“Gavi..!” Pedri hissed, his arms immediately re-wrapping around himself, “I don’t have boobs!”

“Yeah,” Joan chuckled, “We can see that.”

“What, Ferran,” the other midfielder turned towards the striker, “Your boyfriend’s got double A cups? Negative A cups?”

“They’re small, yeah,” Ferran smiled, white teeth flashing, “But it’s what makes him cute.”

Pedri’s fingers crept further around himself, gripping his sides so hard he’ll probably wake up with bruises on his ribs the next morning.

Ferran has never been like this. He’s jealous, yeah, but it’s not just that he’s letting their two teammates ogle him but it’s also the look in his eye. The dark part of his pupil that sent a shiver down Pedri’s spine.

He’s seen it before. That look Ferran used to get whenever Xavi would sub him off too early or he’d misplace a pass during training after an especially rough morning. That part of him that craved control where he couldn’t find it, that wanted to squeeze and squeeze until it finally came to him.

He got better over the seasons, gained confidence as a sub and under Flick. But he had his dip in form, Gavi wasn’t exaggerating earlier. He hasn’t been as good as people expected him to be, as he expected himself to be.

Pedri noticed a bit of a change lately. A slammed car door after a goalless match or an extra hour or two in the gym, but he chose not to think of it much. Ferran went to therapy before, he knows how to deal with his emotions.

Pedri knows that.

“Why don’t you just take off the shorts too, give us the full show?”

“Ferri…”

“Yeah,” Gavi hollered, clapping his hands, “Let’s see what little Pepi is hiding, got any cute underwear on?”

“Guys…” Pedri pulled his rumpled shirt up to his chest, “Please…”

“Just one look,” Ferran smiled, his hand finding the top of his boyfriend’s head, petting the hair down, “Just let them see your underwear. For me.”

Pedri stared back at Ferran, his gaze switching behind eyes like maybe he’d find light in either. He glanced back at Joan and Gavi, finding the two sitting up now. The goalie had his legs spread, a hand over his crotch with a slow upturn of his lips. Gavi was not that different, sitting closer to Pedri with one elbow on his knee, the other between his legs. Totally encapsulated.

“...Ferri…” He finally mumbled, his eyes finally returning to his boyfriend, “I…it’s embarrassing.”

“Just one look,” Gavi put his pointer finger out, “We won’t touch.”

“Already showed us your tits,” Joan hummed almost in a sing-song voice.

“You guys are so weird,” Pedri barked, or at least tried to. His voice came out too weak and wobbly for any of them to take him seriously.

“Don’t make me come down there and pants you,” Ferran rolled his eyes.

“I’m being serious,” Pedri frowned, “Why do you guys want to see so bad?”

“Cause, kitty, we just do,” his boyfriend smiled.

“I…I don’t know,” he shook his head, “It’s like you guys are making fun of me, are you making fun of me?”

“Hah,” Joan barked, “I’m half hard in my shorts right now and you think we’re making fun of you?”

Pedri’s eyes widened, immediately turning towards Ferran, expecting some kind of reaction despite everything this day has taught him.

“You can’t be serious,” Pedri sputtered, shaking his head, “You guys are acting so weird right now.”

“Pepi,” Ferran cooed, “Calm down, you’re throwing another tantrum.”

“I…” He shook out of Ferran’s hand, “You, you guys are so fucking strange,” he tried to laugh, tried to join whatever type of twisted joke this is.

Nobody else laughed.

“Ferran,” Gavi sighed, “You said he wouldn’t bitch, I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I knew he’d be so resistant.”

“Agree..?” Pedri repeated.

“Nah,” Joan turned towards the other midfielder, “It’s nicer he’s resistant. This is payback for all those times he nutmegged you, now you’re in control Pablo.”

“I’d be in control if I was inside him.”

Pedri’s mind was on another planet.

He desperately looked back up at Ferran, wordless in his confusion and fear. Fear of them being serious, fear of something being planned behind his back. Fear of Ferran.

“What’s going on?” He finally asked, voice shaking as he looked at each three of them.

“I won’t let them touch you,” Ferran smiled, “They just wanted to see how pretty you are. I’m just sharing what’s mine.”

“You…” Pedri gulped, heart beating nearly out of his chest, “You guys planned this, didn’t you?”

Gavi shrugged, barely trying to contain his laugh before he folded over. Joan was in a similar state, a hand over his mouth like it’d hide his smirk.

The realization hit Pedri like a truck.

At some point, Ferran was asked about him. Asked to see him, to have him, to have that private part of their life. And he had said yes. Had gone and planned this whole day, had woke Pedri up with a kiss and made up that whole thing about Gavi and Joan wanting to come over. Made up that entire stupid fifa game.

A part of Pedri wanted to scream because he should have known. Should have suspected something from the moment Ferran asked if Gavi and Joan could hang out there. The moment they started calling him names and treated him like some amusing character they could spend their afternoon playing with.

All the kitty’s and Pepi’s and bullshit.

“You…” he pointed at Ferran, “What the fuck? I…I’m leaving. I’m going to Fer’s. You guys are fucking weird.”

“Pedri…” Ferran warned, “Sit back down. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

“You want me to whore myself out to our…” he motioned towards the two on the couch, “Our fucking teammates?”

“Don’t say whore,” Ferran complained, waving his hand like Pedri was being unreasonable, “It’s ugly when you use words like that.”

“I…” Pedri shook his head, the words leaving him. He didn’t even know what to say. He was trying to both process the situation and get himself out of the situation at the same time.

Joan’s hand was now on his crotch, rubbing slow circles as he stared down at Pedri. Gavi was still beside him, eyebrows high as he glanced between the couple like they were a live action telenova.

“I’ll come back once you guys start acting normal again,” Pedri finally stood, his knees shaking as he turned towards the kitchen, rumpled shirt still clutched to his chest.

That damn shirt Ferran bought him.

“Pedri, seriously,” Gavi cleared his throat, “We’re just playing around.”

“Yes so,” Ferran put both hands on his knees, “Can you please just calm down and not be such a tight ass for once? We’re just playing the game.”

“Well,” Pedri looked at Joan, a quick glance, “I don’t want to play anymore.”

“Come on,” The goalie drawled, “It’s just the shorts. You lost, that’s what we agreed to do.”

“Just the shorts,” Gavi repeated, darting a hand out to just tug on the hem. Pedri immediately backed away, his ankle catching on the coffee table and sending his ass to the floor with a thud.

The pain shot up his back loud and immediate, a sharp blow to his already wounded dignity.

He couldn’t hear their reactions, couldn’t even see it through his blurry vision and forming tears.

There, in front of his boyfriend and teammates, he was half naked and crying.

“Shit,” Gavi hissed, rising to his feet, “Kitty’s hurt.”

“Pepi,” Ferran reached him first, crouched down and with extended arms, “That was a hard fall, are you okay?”

Pedri rubbed a hand over the low of his back, the other going to wipe his tears, “I’m…” he hiccuped, “I’m going to go to Fer’s.”

He could hear Gavi chuckle once or twice, a murmured, “Still a cry baby.”

“Hey,” Ferran whispered, bringing his face close to his boyfriend’s, eyes level when he said, “Let’s get you out of these shorts.”

Before he could react, his boyfriend’s hands slipped down and inside his shorts, catching the hem as he slid them down in one motion.

The hairs of his thighs rose at the cold air he was suddenly exposed to, his knees clamping together as his hands flew to cover his crotch over the fabric of his underwear.

The cute pair Ferran had insisted he put on last night.

The one that was a little cheeky and had lace and bows.

“Ferri!” Pedri squealed, looking up at the other two, a desperate part of him hoping they hadn’t seen.

Gavi’s jaw was agape, a hand on his chin like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Joan looked equally shocked, for once his nonchalant expression was replaced. Brows to his hairline and eyes wide.

Pedri wanted to shrink up and die.

“Holy shit…” Gavi spoke first, a low husk of his typically loud voice.

“That’s so fucking hot,” Joan droned, “Is that girl underwear?”

Pedri dipped his head down, the flush burning hot and heavy. He sobbed, a quiet relief of embarrassment. Ferran was still crouched in front of him, but had leaned to the side slightly to give their teammates a perfect view of Pedri.

Curled up, knees to his chest, pretty pink panties clinging to his ass.

“It’s a nice sight, isn’t it?” Ferran murmured, his gaze still on Pedri as he spoke, as if Pedri was some creature, some thing they didn’t understand. Just looked at and ogled like a sexy mystery.

“Hah,” Gavi breathed humorlessly, “Imagine, having a shit match, shit training session, haven’t scored in weeks and you still get to come home to this.”

“You’re fucking greedy,” Joan pointed a finger, “One greedy bastard.”

Pedri’s entire body burned despite being almost completely nude. His shoulders rose with each word, the humiliation sinking deep passed his skin combining with the stirring betrayal low in his stomach.

To be anywhere but there would be better.

“Spread your legs, babe, show them what they want to see.”

Pedri didn’t look up, didn’t bother trying to see if they were still staring, if they were still there. He just shot a hand out, blindly reaching to slap wherever his boyfriend was, “Stop!”

“He’s so mad,” he could hear Gavi giggle, a sound of genuine delight and amusement and excitement.

“Holy shit,” was all the goalie said, “...Holy shit.”

“Pedri,” Ferran whispered, his hand snaking closer until it found Pedri’s chin, “I won’t let them touch you, I promise.”

He finally looked up, his tears becoming obvious to himself and everyone else as he mumbled, “I don’t care, Ferran. I don’t fucking care. You still let them look. I didn’t want that, I didn’t want any of this.”

Ferran swiped a thumb under his eye, wiping a tear, “Baby, don’t be like that. We’re just having fun. I’m showing you off, showing my prize off.”

“I don’t want to be shown off!” Pedri whined, his voice strained, “I want to leave, I’m…I…fuck, I just want to go to Fer’s.”

“What,” Gavi hummed from the couch, “So you can go snitch to your big brother?”

“That’s who Fer is?” Joan asked, “I thought that was just some other guy he was seeing.”

Pedri ignored them, his heart beating and head pulsing too loud for him to even hear their words. Instead he just focused on Ferran in front of him, on getting Ferran to snap back into reality and realize what the hell he’s doing.

“Ferri…” He mumbled, “Please, I want them to leave. Now.”

His boyfriend stared back at him, emotionless. Cold, almost. And for an entirety of five seconds at most, Pedri waited with his heart hung high in his chest.

Then Ferran smiled.

Not the warm smile Pedri had learned to love. The one he’d try and draw out of him with teasing and tickling and stupid tik toks. The one that only flashed when pure genuine joy washed over his boyfriend’s body. When he was happy.

This smile was cold, failed to meet his eyes.

“Try touching yourself.”

“Oh,” Gavi cheered, “A real show!”

“You’re treating us, Ferri.”

“Don’t call me Ferri,” Ferran stood, “Only he calls me Ferri.”

“Yessir,” the goalie put his hands up.

Pedri shook his head, pulling his knees even closer to his chest so he was practically folded in half. Ferran was holding his shorts and shirt now, both pieces of clothing that far away.

“I want to see him play with his tits,” Joan waved an arm, “Try and smush them up and stuff.”

“Yeah, kitty,” Gavi sang, “Stop being so shy, we just want to look. Ferran would kill us if we touched.”

Pedri glanced up, red eyes glaring at the two men across from him.

“Shut up.”

“Pedri,” Ferran cleared his throat, “Touch yourself or I’ll do it for you.”

“Ferri…” he sobbed, “Please.”

“Finger that little clit, let your teammates see,” his boyfriend instructed, kicking him lightly, “Go on.”

Pedri shook his head, the images of the coming days flashing in his mind. Facing these two in training, during matches, in the locker room. Knowing they’ve seen him in his panties, seen him curled up and crying. Called his chest tits.

Joan’s fucking jerking off.

Reluctantly, Pedri slowly uncurled, his legs spreading as he stared down at the floor between them.

“So fucking hot,” the keeper drawled, “God, I could just fuck him.”

“I told you, Joan, I told you he’s sexy,” Gavi added, “In that innocent way. But I knew he was a slut like this.”

Pedri shook his head, the tears falling between his thighs as he mumbled a slurred flurry of denials.

“And you should see his dick,” Ferran laughed from above, “It’s like, God, maybe an inch? Two? Fucking tiny as hell, my thumb is bigger than it.”

Pedri’s mind was beyond numb, he was no longer here. Separated from his body somewhere he didn’t feel the betrayal and humiliation and intrusion so deeply.

“Well, show us then,” one of them had suggested.

Ferran bent down, his hand catching the waistband of Pedri’s panties and slowly slid them off, seemingly delighted with his compliance.

He was naked, completely bare. His ass cheeks were pressed against the cold flooring, his legs shaking as he pressed the palms of his hands deep into his eyes like if he pushed hard enough, he could disappear.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, the pounding in his head blocking everything out. He just rocked slightly, hands to his eyes as he prayed this was all just a bad dream.

He only returned to reality when the hands returned, his ankle caught by one.

“Pepi, baby,” his boyfriend smiled, “Give them a show.”

Pedri sobbed, shaking his leg out of Ferran’s hold and scrambling to cover himself up again.

“We should all just fuck him,” Gavi suggested, fast, like he said the thought before he could even process what he was saying, “Like, he’s got enough holes. And a hand.”

Pedri didn’t even have a moment to cry out and shake his head no before Ferran deadpanned, “You’re not touching him, how many times did I tell you that?”

He didn’t hear either of their teammates reply. His entire focus had turned to Ferran, watching Ferran step in front of him, letting him spread his legs and wipe his tears and whisper him instructions.

Pedri still shook his head no, still cried and shoved until Ferran grabbed one wrist in one hand and the other in his opposite. He dragged one of Pedri’s own palms lower and lower until it was rubbing against the sensitive skin of his cock.

Pedri sobbed, his hand falling into the motion of jerking off. He formed a fist, letting Ferran spit on it before he wrapped it around his soft cock, hips jerking up into it as he cried.

It was extremely lewd, this position. He was still on his ass, legs spread wide and giving his teammates a direct view of his everything.

The smooth skin of his inner thigh, the hair soft and untouched there. The very low of his tummy, bloated and decorating the thin trail leading down to his pelvis bone. He was mostly shaved bar the landing strip he knew Ferran loves that was now embarrassing in the light of his teammate’s gaze.

Joan was jerking off too. He had long unzipped his pants, cock peaked out through the fabric of his boxers. Pedri could sort of see it through his tearful vision.

Gavi was rubbing a hand across his crotch, slowly, his eyesight never leaving Pedri.

Pedri cried, biting his lip. He looked down immediately, his gaze caught on the flooring near his left thigh. Where it was darker than the rest, an imperfection to focus on and forget about everything else.

He was rutting into his own hand, hips lifting off the floor as he grew hard and pre-come lubed his fist up.

“He’s getting into,” Gavi murmured, “God, that’s fucking hot.”

Pedri squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore them, to ignore everything.

“Such a slut,” Joan muttered.

“Yeah,” Ferran agreed, “You should see what he’s like on actual cock.”

“No,” Pedri whispered, “Please no, I’m done, I’m done.”

He unwrapped his fist from his dick, all two inches hard in the air as he turned towards his boyfriend, “That was enough, I, I want…I want my clothes back.”

“That can’t be it,” Joan sighed, his hand lazily drawing up and down his own shaft, “He didn’t even come.”

“I’m done,” the midfielder shook his head, “No more, no.”

“Come on,” Gavi groaned, the hand not rubbing himself waving at Pedri. The same way he waved at the tv whenever the ref made a shit decision, “Ferran, for real?”

Pedri didn’t even have a moment to push himself up on shaking legs before his boyfriend pushed him back down again.

“Wha…what’re you doing?” he asked, balancing himself on his hands as he was maneuvered across Ferran’s lap. He faced away from Gavi and Joan, his bum to them. His head was pressed against the contradicting warmth of Ferran’s thigh and coldness of the flooring. His boyfriend was holding him down by the back of the neck with one hand while the other grazed his bum.

“Showing off my prize,” Ferran answered, his fingers forcing their way between his cheeks.

Pedri jolted, his palms pressing against the floor as he desperately tried to push himself up to no avail. Ferran’s grip on his nape was strong, smushing his cheek against the floor.

The cold air of the house’s ac hit his ass, the sensitive skin deep between his cheeks and the tight muscle of his hole.

“Ferri..!” he yelped, the harsh air bringing the fight back into him, dragging him back down to earth, to face humiliation and betrayal.

“Shh, baby,” Ferran ran a finger over his hole, “Just relax.”

His finger sunk in, just past the first knuckle, dry and fast. Pedri squirmed, his legs kicking. It burned, stretched hot and too quickly. It had only been a couple nights since they had last had sex, since Ferran had last fucked Pedri, since Pedri came at the feeling of being stretched open.

Right now was completely different.

His feet stomped against the ground, fists weakly pounding as he could do nothing but take. Take Ferran’s finger and his teammate’s gazes.

His boyfriend added a second finger after a couple minutes, spitting on it before he slipped it inside beside the first, stretching Pedri just that more.

He cried, his dick leaking and pressed against his tummy. He could feel himself pulsing around Ferran, could feel the way Ferran moved from stretching him open to fucking him open. He pressed his fingers in deeper, dragging them against the sensitive walls before pulling out right to the tip, letting Gavi and Joan say whatever they had to say before he slammed back in, grazing Pedri’s prostate.

It was agonizing, how amazing it felt to be finger fucked in front of his teammates.

The heat of embarrassment low in his gut slowly morphed into the other type of heat in his stomach, the one that made his toes curl and eyes squeeze shut.

Ferran continued pounding into him, his grip on Pedri’s nape pushing him harder against the ground with each thrust.

Pedri wanted to die, wanted the ground to open up and drag him down until he forgot about this day, forgot about Joan and Gavi and that look in Ferran’s eyes.

But instead of that happening, instead of the ground swallowing him whole, he came.

A sudden orgasm that washed over him as Ferran finger fucked him through it. Pedri’s legs were shaking, his entire body going limp, the spurts of come shooting in the little space between Ferran’s leg and his own stomach.

He could feel his hole clenching around Ferran’s fingers, trying to open and close desperatlye.

There was a time early on in their relationship, maybe a month or two after they got together. Ferran had used a dildo on him for the first time, an extra large one, an inch thicker than his dick, maybe two inches longer. Pedri had been hesitant but Ferran made him feel safe, made him feel good. And after he fucked him with it, after he pulled it out, he said Pedri’s hole was trying to wink at him.

“He’s so tight,” Gavi pointed out, “Did he come already? I didn’t even see it.”

“He comes easily,” Ferran pulled his fingers out fast, Pedri’s legs shook with the drag, “He’s sensitive everywhere.”

“That’s it, though?” the goalie sighed, “That was like, two minutes at best.”

“Yeah,” Gavi complained, “I mean, you’re still hard, we’re still hard,” he waved at Ferran’s crotch, an evident bulge, and then their own. Joan still had his cock in hand, the base in his fist while Gavi had only unzipped his pants.

Pedri was still recovering, his body twitching the occasional aftershock of his orgasm. His legs were pressed together, but he could feel the cool air still on the most sensitive parts of his body. Ferran was idly playing with his cheeks, kneading and squishing them, occasionally exposing his hole again. His balls were also exposed, nestled between his thighs while his cock went limp.

He didn’t really hear what they were saying, didn’t pay attention. His head was still pressed against the floor, his boyfriend’s grip on his nape unmoving.

“Well,” Ferran drawled, “You could see what he looks like on real cock.”

“No way,” Joan laughed, “We’re about to be some cucks.”

“It’d be cuck if I was letting you fuck him,” Ferran replied, “I’m being generous enough showing him off to you guys like this.”

“What, so you’re saying you’ll fuck him? Right now?”

Ferran chuckled, the hand on Pedri’s neck finally unclamping when he said, “I was going to anyways.”

He pulled Pedri up in one swift motion so he was sitting up right in his lap. The same position they were in just an hour ago.

“What do you guys want to see? Missionary? Doggy? He can ride pretty good too.”

“Fuck,” Gavi laughed, “This totally feels like I’m a cuck.”

“I’m not complaining,” Joan breathed, “I just wanna see him out of it. He should ride you. That’s hot as fuck.”

“Hear that, kitty?” Ferran rested his head in the space between Pedri’s shoulder and neck, “You’re going to ride me. Just like last night.”

“No,” Pedri mumbled, heels pushing against the ground, “I’m…I’m done.”

“Shh,” Ferran adjusted so Pedri’s hips were just off him enough he could pull out his own cock, “Just bounce, you’re good at that.”

Pedri felt ten times more exposed. Ferran was holding him by the hips, one big hand on either side with his cock sliding between Pedri’s cheeks.

It was similar to the position they were in last night, painfully similar. When Pedri had climbed on top of him and demanded to ride him. When he had said he’ll make Ferran forget his own name with how good he’ll do it.

Now Pedri was sobbing, quiet hiccups that shook his shoulders.

Ferran pulled him up in the air for a moment, just high enough so he could slide his cock in. It was already wet with pre and spit, Pedri was already stretched from earlier, but it still hurt.

Pedri moaned, high and loud, his body folding over and hands gripping Ferran’s knees like it’d make the pain ease. The burn was immediate and made his legs shake, mumbling a mantra of ‘no’ and ‘Ferri.’

He could feel his cock inch its way further and further inside. Each second was another drag deeper, another jolt of electricity that teetered between absolute pain and that feeling of complete and utter fullness.

“Fuck,” Ferran breathed from behind him, settling Pedri all the way down, “You’re so fucking tight when you’re nervous.”

Pedri’s head fell back, resting on Ferran’s shoulder as he whined. It hurt, but the pain was morphing. He could feel everything. His boyfriend’s cock balls deep in him, the way it felt like it was pressed up against the walls of his tummy, the way Joan shook with how fast he was fisting his cock. How Gavi had one hand over his mouth to cover his quiet breaths.

Pedri’s skin tacked with sweat and humiliation. Everything was on fire, so hot he couldn’t focus on anything. All he could do was cry and hold onto his boyfriend.

At some point Ferran started bouncing him, manually doing the whole riding part of Pedri riding him. One hand on Pedri’s hip, forcing him up and down while he also fucked his hips up into him. The other hand was on Pedri’s stomach, rubbing slow circles around the navel as he grunted in his ear.

Pedri came a second time, a wordless gurgle as he shook his head no like it would stop it. He spurted once, maybe twice. A thin clear stream that leaked out the tip of cock pathetically.

“He came again,” Gavi grunted, “Fuck, that’s so hot, he’s so fucking hot.”

“Mhm,” Ferran muttered, his arm locking around Pedri’s middle. His thrusts lost their rhythm as the minutes passed, turning into a desperate rutting that knocked the air out of Pedri with each fuck up into him.

It only took another couple minutes before Ferran flipped them over, pressing Pedri hard against the ground as both hands held his hips high in the air and flush against his dick. He was still balls deep, snapping into his boyfriend with force. Pedri just took it, his dick dripping his little remaining come and piss on the floor.

It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like anything. Pedri was gone.

Ferran came soon after that. One last especially harsh thrust before he came deep inside. Lines and lines of come that filled Pedri’s insides before he pulled out with a lewd pop.

He was still face down and ass up when somebody finally spoke.

“I,” Joan breathed, “I want to come on him, I want to come on his face.”

Ferran chuckled, patting Pedri on the hip when he shrugged, “Sure.”

“Me too,” Gavi blurted.

“Then come over here,” Ferran pulled Pedri up.

His limp body was once again maneuvered so he was sitting in Ferran’s lap. His back was to his boyfriend’s chest, Ferran’s hand gripping his face so it was up and facing their two teammates.

Meaning Pedri had no choice but to see them.

“No,” he tried to pull away, “No, no, stop.”

His hands pried at Ferran’s forearm, desperate. But his arms felt like they were full of lead, heavy and limp. He could do nothing but cry as the two approached.

He couldn’t even see their faces, just their cocks inches from him. He squeezed his eyes shut, the only thing he could do. It took just a minute before their grunting and the lewd slick sound of their fists grew faster and more frantic.

Pedri made the mistake of opening his eyes for a moment, just his instinct.

Joan came at that moment, his come thick lines on Pedri’s face as he flinched and tried to pull back. Ferran just held him in place, chuckling as Pedri whined with a closed mouth. Gavi was just a second later, another layer of come painting the midfielder’s face as he did everything he could to avoid it. Which was nothing.

For a few moments, everything was quiet.

No more grunting, no more chuckling, Pedri wasn’t even crying anymore. Just the low hum of the ac and the men’s breathing.

Then a murmured, “...Fuck.”

Pedri was stuck between wanting to wipe the come off his face and not wanting to touch it all.

Ferran’s hand let go of his boyfriend’s chin, instead snaking its way around his middle. He leaned in, his chest flush against Pedri’s chest as he kissed up his neck, sweet and gentle.

Like the past hour never happened.

Joan and Gavi left a couple minutes later. Clapped Ferran’s hand at the door, the goalie even whispered something to the striker, earning a loud laugh from him.

Pedri took a shower with Ferran afterwards, let him rub his sides and spout sweet apologies. He carried him to the bed afterwards, massaging the high parts of his thighs all the way down to each individual toe. Pedri didn’t cry, didn’t try and pull away. He just let himself be comforted. Because it was easier than confronting whatever had just happened.

All he knows is Ferran lied and he’ll never forget it.