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The night in New Jersey was stifling, the humid summer heat of America seeping into the hotel rooms, but not as much as the blood pulsing through Pablo Gavi's veins. The echo of victory still vibrated through the walls of MetLife Stadium, a collective roar slowly dissipating, giving way to the hum of alcohol and the emotional hangover of a historic achievement. Spain were world champions. And Gavi had been part of it. But at that moment, sitting in the corner of the suite's sofa, watching Ferran Torres laugh loudly with Pedri, the trophy felt lighter than the knot in his stomach.
Gavi couldn't tear his eyes away from Ferran.
It was an old problem, a wound he'd carried for months, perhaps since they'd first met in Barcelona training. Ferran was everything Gavi admired and desired — the confidence, the easy smile, the way he filled any room with his presence. But Ferran never looked at Gavi the same way. To Ferran, Gavi was just the youngest kid, the teammate, the friend of a friend. Never enough. Never quite.
And now, Ferran was radiant. His eyes, brown and liquid, shone toward Pedri with an adoration Gavi knew well — because it was the same one he held for Ferran. Every laugh from Ferran, every casual touch on Pedri's shoulder, every glance he cast toward the canary was a knife in Gavi's chest.
But Pedri, the center of attention, had his phone in hand, typing to Alejandra, his girlfriend, a silly smile on his face. Gavi saw the exact moment Ferran noticed it, the instant the light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a wound he quickly hid behind a gulp of whiskey.
It's always the same story, Gavi thought, his fingers gripping his own champagne flute hard enough to almost crack the crystal. Ferran chases Pedri, Pedri chases Alejandra, and I... I'm here, watching. Always watching.
Ferran was drinking too much. Gavi noticed every sip, the way he sank into the glass as if searching for oblivion. Ferran's desire for Pedri was an open secret, but Gavi knew that Ferran, in his stubbornness, still believed Pedri felt something for him — or maybe for Gavi, in a confusion of egos and jealousy that only alcohol could unravel.
But Gavi knew the truth: Pedri only had eyes for Alejandra. And Ferran, drunk and desperate not to let the happiest night of his life end in suffering, was looking for any body to drown his sorrows in.
And Gavi, the youngest, the shortest, the quietest, was the most accessible.
Is that what I am to him? The thought burned like acid. An accessible body. An easy comfort.
But something inside Gavi refused to accept that. If Ferran was going to use him, if he was going to treat him like a cheap substitute for his unrequited love for Pedri, then Gavi would make sure Ferran never forgot that night. He would make sure to mark Ferran in a way that neither Pedri, nor Sira, nor anyone else could erase.
When the party began to disperse, the other players retreated to their rooms, leaving just the two of them in the suite illuminated by low lights and the glow of the moon through the window. Ferran stumbled to the sofa, collapsing next to Gavi. His breath smelled of whiskey and mint.
— Pablo... — Ferran murmured, his hand landing clumsily on the younger man's thigh. — You were so quiet tonight.
Gavi felt the touch like a spark, but kept his face impassive. He knew what Ferran wanted — or rather, he knew Ferran wanted someone, and he was the only one there. It wasn't love. It wasn't genuine desire. It was an anchor to sink the pain.
— You're drunk, Fer — Gavi replied, his voice calm, almost a whisper.
— I'm not that drunk — Ferran insisted, leaning in closer, his nose brushing against Gavi's jaw. — I need you.
Gavi closed his eyes for a second. He could have given in to that illusion, let himself be carried away by the caress and the warmth, allowed Ferran to use his body to forget Pedri. But a spark of pride, of contained anger, ignited inside him. If Ferran wanted to use him, then he would be used — but on his own terms.
'You want to use me to forget him?' The voice in Gavi's mind was cold, calculating. 'Then you'll remember me. You'll never forget me.'
— Lie down — Gavi ordered, his voice firm, pushing Ferran against the sofa cushions.
Ferran obeyed, stunned, his dark eyes fixed on Gavi, who now moved over him with feline agility. The younger one ruffled his brown hair, leaned in, and captured Ferran's lips in a kiss that wasn't a kiss — it was a bite, a sharp canine tearing the other's lower lip, the taste of metallic blood mixing with whiskey. Ferran moaned, surprised, but Gavi gave no quarter.
With precise movements, Gavi undressed Ferran, not gently, but with an almost cruel urgency. He tore the shirt, ripped off the belt, leaving the older Spaniard naked and exposed under the silvery light. Every touch from Gavi was a provocation: his mouth slid down Ferran's neck, sucking the skin hard, leaving purple marks that would be visible for days. He bit his shoulders, his pectorals, and when Ferran tried to touch him, Gavi grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head.
— No — Gavi whispered, with a cruel smile. — Tonight, I'm in charge.
Gavi pulled away for a moment, reaching for the small bottle of lubricant he'd hidden in his pocket — not by accident, but because a part of him, the most honest and desperate part, had hoped that tonight could happen. He poured a generous amount onto his own fingers, his eyes fixed on Ferran's as he prepared himself right there in front of the Valencian, without shame, without hesitation.
Ferran watched, hypnotized, as Gavi slid his fingers between his own thighs, the movement slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving the Valencian's dark ones. The wet sound of Gavi's fingers moving inside himself filled the room, and Ferran felt his mouth go dry.
— Pablo... — Ferran murmured, his voice hoarse, his body tense. — Are you...
— Quiet — Gavi cut him off, his voice a low growl. — You're going to stay quiet and watch. You wanted to use me, didn't you? So now you're going to watch while I prepare myself for you. And you're not going to touch yourself until I allow it.
Gavi's fingers moved inside himself with a precision that was almost a caress — slow, deliberate, each movement a choice he made with his eyes fixed on Ferran's. He saw the way the muscles in Ferran's abdomen contracted, the way his fingers clenched against the sheets, the Valencian's struggle to maintain control.
When Gavi finally felt ready, he moved closer to Ferran, their bodies pressed together, heat radiating from both. The younger one slid down, his lips finding Ferran's torso, kissing and biting his way down until his mouth was aligned with the forward's erection.
Gavi took Ferran into his mouth without hesitation, his hot and wet lips meeting the sensitive skin. He heard the hoarse moan that escaped Ferran's lips, felt his fingers bury themselves in his hair with a force that was both possessive and desperate. Gavi moved his head up and down, his tongue tracing the pulsing vein, and each movement was an assertion of control.
Ferran gripped his hair tightly, pulling him closer, and a muffled moan escaped Gavi against the Valencian's skin. The younger one quickened the pace, his mouth working on Ferran with an intensity that was almost brutal, and he felt the Valencian's erection swell, the harbinger of orgasm.
But Gavi stopped. Suddenly. Cruelly.
He pulled away, his mouth glistening, and his eyes met Ferran's, which were dark with desire and frustration.
— No — Gavi said, his voice a hoarse whisper. — You're not coming yet. Not until I allow it.
Ferran groaned, his whole body tense, gasping. — Pablo... please...
— Please what? — Gavi leaned in, his mouth close to Ferran's ear, and then bit his earlobe hard, pulling a stifled cry from him. — You wanted to use me to forget Pedri, didn't you? Then take it.
Gavi pushed Ferran back, forcing the Valencian to sit against the sofa cushions. Ferran's body was tense, muscles contracted under the skin, and his eyes were fixed on Gavi with an intensity that was both desire and worship.
And then Gavi sat down on Ferran.
The sensation of Ferran's penis penetrating him was a shock — a stretch that Gavi felt in every centimeter of his body. But he didn't moan. Didn't make any sound of pain or pleasure. Instead, Gavi laughed softly, a sound that was more of a promise than an expression of joy.
— You want to use me? — Gavi whispered, his eyes fixed on Ferran's. — Then take it.
And Gavi began to move.
The rhythm was brutal, broken, as if Ferran were merely an object, a toy for his pleasure. Each bounce was a punishment, each movement an assertion of control. Gavi rose and fell over Ferran with an energy that seemed to come from somewhere deep, from all the pain he'd swallowed in silence, from all the looks Ferran had never returned.
Ferran gasped, trying to keep up, but Gavi accelerated and slowed the pace at his whim, denying him climax, keeping him on the edge of an abyss of pleasure and frustration. Gavi's hand found Ferran's neck, squeezing firmly, his fingers pressing against the jugular with a pressure that was both possessive and dangerous.
— Pablo... — Ferran gasped, his voice hoarse, his whole body tense. — Please...
— Please what? — Gavi leaned in, his mouth close to Ferran's ear. His hips continued to move, the rhythm now slower, deeper, each movement a deliberate torture. — You want to come? You want me to let you come?
— Yes — Ferran moaned, the word coming out like a plea. — Please, Pablo... let me come...
Gavi laughed again, a sound that was both sweet and cruel. — No. Not yet. You're going to wait. You're going to wait until I decide.
Ferran felt tears of frustration burning in his eyes, but also something else — a devotion he'd never felt before. To be treated like this, with such brutality, by a 1.73-meter, 68-kilo kid who looked like an angel, awakened something primal in him. Pain mixed with pleasure, humiliation transformed into worship. He no longer thought about Pedri. There was no room for anything beyond Gavi's hot, relentless body bouncing over him, the younger one's hand gripping his neck firmly, fingers pressing against his jugular, the sensation of suffocation that made him see stars.
— You're so hard — Gavi murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper against Ferran's ear. — So hard for me. Can you feel it? Can you feel what you do to me?
Ferran felt it. Felt every contraction of Gavi around him, the tight heat that enveloped him, the way the younger one's body moved in a rhythm that was both a dance and a war.
Gavi continued, relentless, until his own body trembled under the weight of orgasm — a violent spasm that made him arch his back, letting out a hoarse moan as he spilled over Ferran's abdomen. But he didn't stop. Even after coming, he still moved, torturing Ferran with post-climax sensitivity, each movement an echo of the pleasure he'd felt.
— Do you want to come? — Gavi asked, his voice broken but still firm. — Do you want to come inside me?
— Yes — Ferran moaned, the word coming out like a prayer. — Yes, Pablo... please...
— Then come — Gavi whispered. — Come for me.
And Ferran exploded. The orgasm came like a wave that shook his entire body, his hips rising to meet Gavi as he spilled inside the younger one in hot, spaced jets. The cry that escaped his lips was muffled by Gavi's hand, which covered his mouth with a pressure that was both possessive and protective.
For a moment, they stayed there, gasping, their bodies still pressed together. Gavi felt the warmth of Ferran's semen inside him, the pulsing that still echoed through the internal walls that enveloped him. But before Ferran could recover, the younger one felt the shift.
— Now it's my turn — Ferran murmured, his voice hoarse, but he was no longer the same drunk, needy man. His eyes were clear, focused, and there was a reverence in them that Gavi hadn't expected.
Ferran spun Gavi's body in his arms, moving him in his lap with a mastery that surprised the younger one. Before Gavi could protest, he was lying on the bed that stood nearby, Ferran's body over his, the Valencian's weight a comforting anchor.
— What are you doing? — Gavi asked, his voice rough, his eyes meeting Ferran's dark ones.
— You — Ferran replied, his voice low, sincere. — I'm taking care of you.
With a tenderness that contrasted with the earlier savagery, Ferran traced Gavi's body with slow kisses — the marked neck, the nipples he sucked with devotion, the skin he kissed as if asking for forgiveness. Each touch was a caress, each slide of tongue a promise.
— Why are you doing this? — Gavi asked, his voice breaking. The resistance in his body was beginning to crumble under Ferran's attention.
— Because you deserve it — Ferran whispered against Gavi's skin. — You deserve to be treated like something precious. You deserve to be cared for.
Ferran's fingers found Gavi's entrance, still wet with semen, and he touched it with a softness that was almost a reverence. The Valencian's hand slid over the younger one's body, tracing every curve, every muscle, as if learning a new language.
— Ferran... — Gavi moaned, his voice failing. — What are you doing to me?
— I'm showing you — Ferran replied, his voice a whisper against Gavi's ear. — I'm showing you what you mean to me.
Ferran entered Gavi slowly, every centimeter of penetration an offering, every movement a confession. The rhythm was sweet, deep, as if Ferran were making love, not fucking. His hand found Gavi's, their fingers interlaced, and he didn't look away from the younger one's eyes.
— Look at me — Ferran whispered. — Look at me, Pablo. I want to see you.
Gavi felt Ferran's voice penetrate deeper than any touch. There was an honesty there he'd never seen, a vulnerability that broke down his defenses.
— Ferran... — Gavi moaned, the name coming out like a plea. — Why now? Why after everything?
— Because I was blind — Ferran replied, his voice breaking. — I was so focused on Pedri that I didn't see what was right in front of me. I didn't see you.
Ferran's words were both a balm and a knife. Gavi felt tears burning in his eyes, but he didn't let them fall. Instead, he pulled Ferran down, his lips meeting the Valencian's in a kiss that was both a question and an answer.
Ferran's rhythm became deeper, slower, each thrust an exercise in devotion. His hand found Gavi's erection, moving in sync with his thrusts, and Gavi felt the tension rise like a tide.
— Come — Ferran whispered against Gavi's mouth. — Come with me, Pablo. Let go.
And Gavi exploded. The orgasm came like a wave that started in his toes, rose up through his legs, and exploded through his sex in hot jets between their bodies. At the same time, he felt Ferran pulse inside him, the warmth of the Valencian's semen filling his interior.
Ferran collapsed over him, the forward's weight a comforting anchor. His lips found Gavi's forehead in a kiss that was both possessive and tender, and Gavi felt Ferran's hands trace his face with a lightness that contradicted all the intensity that had occurred.
Afterward, exhausted, they slept in each other's arms. Ferran's arms wrapped around Gavi as if he were the only treasure in the world, and Gavi, for the first time that night, felt safe.
Dawn arrived gray, with the cell phone alarm cutting through the air. The flight to Madrid was leaving in a few hours, the official celebration awaited them. Ferran woke first, observed the small, naked body nestled against his chest, and felt a wave of something he couldn't name — not love, not passion, but a deep mark on his soul.
Silently, he put on his own shirt and picked up one of his hoodies — wide, huge for Gavi's body — and placed it over the younger one's shoulder. Gavi woke at the touch, confused, until he felt the soft fabric and Ferran's scent enveloping him.
— Put it on — Ferran said, handing him a pair of sweatpants as well. — And here, coffee.
Gavi put on the oversized clothes, the hoodie covering his hands, the pants folded at his ankles. He took the warm cup and drank in silence, while Ferran packed his suitcase.
No promises were made. No words about what had happened. But when they left the room, Ferran placed his hand on Gavi's back, a light touch, guiding him to the car that would take them to the airport.
In the backseat, Ferran looked out the window, his thoughts on the purple mark Gavi had left on his neck, on the memory of those dark eyes demanding control, and on how, for the first time, he'd felt completely dominated — and completely alive.
Gavi, beside him, felt the weight of the hoodie, the warmth of the coffee, and knew that even without promises, that night had broken something inside Ferran. And perhaps, just perhaps, had broken something inside him too.
The car sped toward the airport, and the New Jersey sun was beginning to warm their skin, but for them, the night still seemed to hang in the air, like a secret they would both carry — one on marked skin, the other in a tightened chest.
And, for the first time, Gavi felt he was no longer the only one carrying that burden.