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Chapter Text

“You’ve got some balls.” Lewa commented, pulling his shirt on.

Together, the duo cleaned up after the incredible win against their rivals. The atmosphere had been one of pure joy and excitement, the players (specifically Cubarsí and Lamine) had been replacing all sounds of the locker room with their cheers and many, many loud “vamos!”. After the team had taken showers and calmed down for the most part, Marc was finally able to have some time to think clearly, and remember something important.

Earlier, before the game, he had been at his family’s hotel, spending time with them before he had to meet up with the rest of the squad at Bernabéu. On the bed, he laid with his younger brother, mindlessly watching the show playing on the tv when his brother spoke up.

“Marc?”

“What’s up?”

“Do you think…that maybe…after your game today…you could swap jerseys with Jude Bellingham?” His brother asked, scrambling out the later words.

Marc immediately thought of the player. Madrid’s midfielder, a direct rival of not only his team, but his position as well. An, although he would never admit it out loud, great player. He’s one of the real threats for the game that night.

“Sure.” Marc smiled, rubbing his brother’s head, who pushed away his hand, laughing.

“Thank you!”

-

“So do you think that it’s fine if I just walk over to their locker room?” Marc asked, ignoring Lewa’s last comment. He knows they’re not going to appreciate his presence. He just doesn’t care.

“Well, they’re definitely not going to want to see you, but I don’t think security will mind, since you are a player.” The taller answered, shoving his dirty kit into his bag. Casadó had yet to even gather all his belongings, which were spread out on the bench. “You’re probably going to want to hurry up, though. The bus is going to leave soon.”

“Okay.” Marc quickly shoved on his slides and grabbed his jersey, running towards the exit of the locker room, turning around and yelling, “I’ll be right back!” before swiftly making his way into the tunnel leading to the other side of the stadium.

“Be fast!” Lewandowski waved back.

He’ll just get the jersey for his brother real quick and then go.

Yeah.

-

“Fuck!” Vini yelled, for what Bellingham was able to keep track of, the sixth time.

“Fuck fuck, fuck!” The brazilian shouted again, slamming his hand into the locker beside him.

The team has gotten used to this, his outbursts. Every loss the team suffered had ended with this tense atmosphere in the locker room, mostly accredited to Vini, who really knows how to be upset.

“God…” Mbappé muttered next to Jude, running his hands across his own face. He seemed to be upset in his own way as well. “My fucking god…”

Most of the team had already started taking their showers, leaving only a few left in the locker room.

“Why is everybody just fine with this?” Vini yelled, “Why did you all let this happen?” His eyes moved across each of the remaining players, eventually making their way to Mbappé, who’s head still lay in his own hands.

“You! Do you know what the fuck offside is?” He stepped towards the two, “I mean, you probably had like ten different offsides in just the first half!”

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” Mbappé asked through his hands, not moving at all.

“What the hell did you just say?” Vini, for what seems like the first time this night, whispered.

“Do. You. Ever.” Mbappé lifted his head and stood, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up?”

“Guys,” Bellingham could hear Camavinga say from the other side of the locker room.

“No, no no no.” Vini interrupted. “I want to hear what this guy has to say.”

“You cry so much on and off the pitch, it’s irritating as fuck.” Mbappé spat, taking a step
closer.

“What?” Vini yelled, “What do you know…”

He had started to say more, but Bellingham started to tune the other two out. He had his own problems to take care of. Specifically the one pitching a tent in his pants. He doesn’t know if it’s because he hasn’t fucked in a while, or maybe if all this adrenaline has made his body react in a weird way, but he needs to release this one. He doesn’t think he has any girls available to meet up tonight, and frankly, he doesn’t feel like going all out of his way to meet up with some girl who thinks she has some sort of a chance with him. And he’s also not tugging it out in the locker room. That’s just pathetic.

He just wants to fuck someone. Anyone.

“What the fuck do you want?” Vini yelled (shocker), finally getting Jude’s attention back. The two who were just fighting were now facing the entrance of the locker room, blocking Jude’s vision of whoever was bothering them.

“Is Jude Bellingham here?“ The person, a male, had asked.

“Why-,” Vini started, but Jude quickly shut him up by pushing the brazilian out of the way, making his presence known to-

Casadó.

The midfielder for Barça. The one that had assisted the first goal of the game. Honestly, it was a great assist, flying across almost half of the field, making its way to an open Lewandowski, something Jude wouldn’t have been able to seen. Though, he’ll never admit that. He’s got too much pride.

“Yes?” He smiled down at the younger player. His hair was a little wet, and he was in a completely mismatched outfit, obviously rushing over after taking his shower. His t-shirt had been tucked under itself, revealing a small part of his lean stomach, and his shorts were a little too low, showing off his boxer briefs. And his face, his cheeks were a light shade of pink, presumably from running over, and his eyebrows were scrunched, giving him such a serious look on such a cute face, it was funny.

Hm.

“I-,” Casadó started, but then stopped himself, breaking eye contact with Jude and taking a step back.

Oh?

“Well, what do you want?” Vini stepped towards the Barça player, poking his shoulder. “Or do you want La Liga to know that some Barça player broke into the Madrid locker room?”

“I’m not even talking to you.” Casadó, much to Jude’s surprise, pushed back, spitting his words in Vini’s shocked face. “Do you always got a stick up your butt or something?”

“You fucking bitch..!” Vini yelled back, this time fully pushing the Spaniard onto the ground, “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“You’ve got some fucking mouth for a dwarf.” Jude could hear Mbappé laugh, taking a step towards their rival player.

“Who does he think he is?” Vini asked, kicking Casadó, who’s expression Jude couldn’t see.

Bellingham was just about to intervene when suddenly both Vini and Mbappé were on the ground, their legs having been swiped by Casadó who was already on his feet, looking down at the two.

“The player who just beat the both of you.” He spat at the two, who were whining in pain.

Jude probably looked stupid, shocked at the sight in front of himself. He had never expected the midfielder to be this…assertive. He was fearless and confident, way too confident. He didn’t even notice Camavinga come up from behind and pick him up by the armpits like he was some little kid.

He’s so aggressive and fearless, but so easy to overpower. He looked like a little kid in Camavinga’s hold, immediately kicking his legs out trying to break free. It was cute.

There it was, the solution to Jude’s problem.

“What the fuck?” Casadó tried to look at whoever was holding him, but was thrown to the ground before he could even turn around.

“You need to watch your mouth.” Camavinga stepped closer to the Barça player, who was now also on the ground, attempting to recover.

“Wait,” Jude placed his hand on Camavinga’s chest, stepping in front of Casadó. “He wanted to see me, I’ll deal with him.”

“No!” Vini yelled from behind Camavinga. “He just attacked me and Mbappé!“

Jude is getting real sick of this guy.

“Vini. I’ll deal with him for you okay?”

“Fine.” The Brazilian huffed, walking towards the exit of the locker room, “Next time I see him, he better have some respect for a player like me.” Mbappé followed, smacking the back of his head and starting another argument between the two.

They are such bitches.

-

“Okay, what did you want?” Jude questioned the shorter man, watching him rub his back. In the tussle, his shorts had been pulled down even more. Jude could now recognize the design of his underwear.

Little Barça crests. How fucking cute.

“Oh- yeah uhm…” Casadó lifted his shirt to wipe his face, revealing the entirety of his lean torso to Jude, like he was asking for it.

“I brought my jersey. I was wondering if you…if you like were okay with exchanging jerseys?” He continued, stopping Jude’s mind from going further. His cock still ached, though.

He could have him, right here. He could pick him up, savor the confusion and fear on the Spaniard’s face as he pushed him against the lockers, tearing those skimpy shorts off. He would probably try to fight back, but Jude could handle it, forcing his legs open and shoving himself in, thrusting until he’s satisfied and then throwing the used boy to the ground, leaving him for the janitors to find, leaking out of his hole.

“Please?” The all-tough Marc Casadó, who had just leg-swiped two of his teammates and fearlessly yelled back at them, was now refusing eye contact. Hah. “It’s for my younger brother.”

-

Marc didn’t want to be here any longer. After that interaction with Vini and Mbappé, he should’ve just left after that. He should’ve listened to Lewa. He should’ve known it’s stupid to be here. But now, he’s stuck standing in front of Jude Bellingham who is cockily smiling at him.

This is for you brother.

“You were pretty good on the pitch earlier.” Jude commented, changing the subject. Marc isn’t here for small talk, he needs to hurry up.

“Thanks,” His response is curt, “if you really don’t want to swap jerseys, I’ll pay you for yours.” He shifted his weight between each leg, staring at the ground in front of him. He probably looks pathetic.

“Why’re you so nervous?” Jude questioned, “Here, sit next to me.” He patted the space on the bench beside him.

Marc doesn’t know why, but he has a really bad feeling. Something in his mind is screaming at him to get out of there. It’s probably because he’s in his rival's locker room, but the hair on the back of his neck is starting to rise.

“Look, I really need to get out of here, so if you’re not going to switch jerseys with me, then just tell me.” The shorter snapped, starting to turn around, but suddenly realized the only way to the exit was being blocked by Camavinga, who was just staring back at him.

Marc really needs to get the fuck out of here.

“Okay,” Marc could hear Jude say. “If you want me to tell you, I'll just tell you. I don’t give a fuck about swapping jerseys with some Barcelona player, alright?” Marc turned back around by now, facing Jude, watching as he stood and stepped closer. His tone was different from before. Earlier, it was annoyingly playful, now it’s loud and irritated.

“Okay, then you could’ve told me that from the start.” Marc muttered, not being able to control his mouth even though he knows right now, he really should.

“Do you realize how fucking stupid you’re acting right now?” Jude stepped even closer, their bodies so close, too close. Marc wanted so badly to take a step back, but his pride wasn’t letting him. He can’t lose to them.

“Do you realize how bad I could fuck you up?” Jude lowered his head so he was almost at Marc’s level. Marc turned his head away, like a guilty child. He felt embarrassed, but didn’t want to step down, he can’t now.

“I could really fuck you up.” This time, Jude really did make contact with Marc, his finger touching the exposed part of his stomach where his shirt was folded, making its way up, lifting the cloth.

“Get the fuck off me.” Marc yelled at the contact, pushing Jude backwards, hard enough where he had to take a few steps back. He can hear some shuffling behind him. His mind is screaming for him to turn around, but he doesn’t want to expose himself to Jude like that.

This is really, really bad.

“Look away.” Jude said to whoever was behind Marc.

What the fuck? He needs to get back to the locker room, he needs to get on the bus. He shouldn’t be here any longer. Lewa and everybody else is probably worrying about him. They have cameras right? He needs to go.

“What? What the fuck, I mean, what? I really need to go now.” He pulled his shirt back down.

Jude only took a few steps towards him, and Marc’s whole body tensed, ready to fight. Instead Jude only wrapped an arm around Marc’s nape, holding him in place and continued talking to whoever was behind them, not even bothering to look the shorter man in the eye. “Bro, go somewhere else while I deal with him. Maybe I’ll let you have the leftovers.” Jude laughed.

Leftovers? Is he going to take him to dinner?

“Get off me man.” Marc pushed at Jude’s body, but he didn’t even budge.

What the fuck is going on? Marc could hear his own heart beating in his chest, fear slowly taking over.

What did he get himself into?

“I’ve already had a bad night, okay?” Jude snapped at the shorter man. “I don’t appreciate some little midget from Barça yelling at me.” He grabbed Marc’s nape, forcing his knees to buckle and fall to the ground.

Marc tried to push himself up, but was kicked back down by Jude’s foot.

“You walk in here with your clothes barely covering yourself and expect to just be able to walk out?” He placed his foot on top of Marc’s head, lightly enough so that he wouldn’t get hurt, but hard enough that he couldn’t move.

Embarrassingly, tears had already started forming in his eyes. He was so fucking scared, but so angry at the same time. What would his teammates say if they saw him like this? What would the media say? Everybody seeing him tossed around like a child.

“I really want to fuck you.” Jude stated so shamelessly.

“What?” Marc couldn’t stop himself from asking, his mind scrambling at this confession.

Is this some sort of prank? There’s no way he’s being serious. What kind of fucked up joke is this? Or is he trying to scare him? He wouldn’t actually do it. He’s a guy for fuck’s sake!

To be humiliated in such a way, he couldn’t handle it.

“Could you take it?” Jude asked, taking his foot off Marc’s head, quickly replacing it with his hand. “Do they take turns with you over in the Barça locker room?” He chuckled, intertwining his fingers in Marc’s hair and tugging it slightly. “What, Lewandowski? Raphinha? Maybe even that new guy, what’s his name? Dani Olmo?” He lowered himself down. “Or maybe…you’re still a virgin..?” He lightly grazed Marc’s vulnerable ass with the back of his fingers, who flinched at the touch.

“G-get off me.” He muttered, still trying anything to regain any sort of power in this situation.

“You still don’t get it?” Jude asked, his expression suddenly dead.

The entire locker room was now quiet, the only sound Marc could hear was his heartbeat, which was going faster than it does on the pitch.

“Please…” The Spaniard could hear the fear in his own voice. “I need to go.” He sounds so fucking pathetic.

Suddenly Marc’s body was dragged backwards as his shorts were roughly pulled down to his thighs, the hand on his head smushing his face into the ground as he maneuvered Marc around.

Immediately Marc pushed against the ground, kicking his legs up, desperate to make damage.

This can’t be happening.

“God could you stop fucking moving?” Marc could hear Jude mutter. “Look, if you don’t stop struggling, I'm going to bash your head into the ground and make sure you’ll be out for the entire season. You don’t want that do you?”

Marc could tell Jude was waiting for an answer.

No fucking way he’s going to give him what he wants.

“Do you?” He roughly grabbed Marc’s ankle, twisting it into an uncomfortable position.

Tears were steadily flowing down the Spaniard's cheek by now. He wants to cry out for help, for Lewa, Raphinha, Flick, anyone.

“You really want to get raped, huh?”

Marc let out a sob at this. There is nothing he can do but cry.

With his free hand, Jude grabbed his cleats off the bench and quickly pulled out the laces.

“If you move at all, I’m going to actually kill you.”

Slowly the hand holding his head was removed.

Marc didn’t even think twice. Quickly, the Spaniard started to push himself up, only rising a few feet before he was pushed into the lockers beside him. That familiar hand grabbed Marc’s face, squishing his cheeks so hard he was forced to pucker his lips.

“Don’t.” His head was pulled forwards and then backwards, smashing into the lockers. “Fucking.” Another loud smash. “Move.” Again, and then a few more times.

Marc was desperately clinging to the hand holding him, a dull pain forming in the back of his head. He pulled his legs to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Okay…” He cried through his smushed face, the tears never ending and embarrassing. “I won’t m-move.”

Jude didn’t say anything for a moment, just staring at Marc, who was still clinging onto his wrist, his whole body just available for Jude to toss around.

“I like guys like you.” Jude finally said, loosening his grip on Marc’s face, but still keeping it there. “You act so tough and fearless, but the second you’re actually confronted, you start crying.” He shook the Spaniard around a little bit.

“I wish so fucking bad I could just take a picture of you right now and send it to every single football media page. What would everybody say?”

Marc couldn’t catch his breath, let alone listen to what Jude was saying.

Is he going to put his dick in my mouth?

Marc’s straight, he doesn’t know how gay sex works. He just wants to go. He should’ve gone when Vini started fighting him. He shouldn’t have come in the first place. None of this should’ve happened.

“What would everybody say!” This time Jude yelled, smashing Marc’s head into the lockers again.

“I don’t know!” Marc yelled back, desperate to not make Jude any more upset.

“God you’re really fucking stupid.” Jude let go of Marc’s face, slamming his head back one more time. “I just want to get started now, I'm done wasting time.” He pulled the Spaniard’s shorts all the way down this time.

“Wha- wait- wait! Wait!” Marc scrambled forward, reaching for his shorts and ignoring the pounding in his head. “Don’t, please don’t!”

Jude pulled his shorts off from around his ankles with a force so hard, it dragged Marc onto his back. Jude immediately placed himself between the Spaniard’s legs, settling himself between his muscular thighs. He then grabbed his arms, making sure he wouldn’t leave a bruise, but also that the shorter one wouldn't be able to get away.

“What are you going to do?” Marc asked, desperately trying to break the hold Jude had on him. “I’m not gay.”

“Neither am I.” Jude grunted from on top of Marc. “But a hole is a hole.” He laughed, having to free one of Marc’s arms to pull down his Barça-crest underwear.

No- no, no no no.

“But my mouth though!” Marc grabbed on to his underwear, trying to pull it back up. “Why are you pulling my underwear down?” He tried to close his legs around Jude, putting his knees together to cover up as much as he could.

For a moment, Jude was quiet, only staring at Marc’s frightened expression until he suddenly burst into laughter.

“Are you still a little kid? Did you not learn about this shit with your mates when you were younger?” Jude used his free hand to slap Marc’s head lightly. “Okay, listen, I’ll explain it in a way you’ll understand. I am going to put my dick into your asshole, I’m going to fuck your asshole and I’m going to come in your asshole. Okay?”

He can’t put it in there. It won’t work.

“But stuff doesn’t go in the butthole.” Marc said, mostly for himself.

“Okay well, I’m still going to fuck you either way.” Jude said, this time with less humor.

“Is it going to hurt?” Marc whimpered, ashamed by his own voice. He just doesn’t know what else he can do. All he can hope for is that someone finds them.

“Yeah.”

He sobbed, again. It’s surprising he still has tears left to cry.

“Please don’t.” He tried to push Jude off with his free arm, little strength remaining in him. “I’m sorry, please don’t. I’m scared.”

Jude ignored him, roughly ripping off the rest of Marc’s underwear, leaving him naked from the waist down.

“Stop!” Marc kicked his legs around, hitting Jude a few times.

“Oh my fucking god would you stop moving already?” Jude grabbed Marc’s flailing legs and pushed them in towards the Spaniard’s shoulders, pressing him into what Jude wanted.

Marc could feel the air of the locker room on his asshole, it being exposed once he was put into this position.

Suddenly the sound of Jude grunting and Marc’s heartbeat weren’t the only noise in the locker room as a pair of footsteps approached the entrance.

“Lewa? Lewa!” Marc yelled before his mouth was roughly covered by Jude’s palm.

That had to be Lewa. Lewa knows Marc would be in here, he knows that Marc still hasn’t joined the others on the bus. It has to be him.

Marc could see the doors of the entrance swing open, hope filling up in him.

“You’re still at it man?”

Camavinga.

All strength in Marc was killed at the sound of this voice. Any thoughts of escape left him and was starting to accept that he was about to be assaulted.

“We haven’t even started.” Jude replied, “I’m about to take my dick out by the way.”

“I don’t mind, I want a go afterwards though.”

“We’ll see.” Marc could hear Jude say. He stopped really listening after realizing who had arrived.

Though, his attention was brought back when his legs were again pressed to his torso, his feet by Jude’s shoulders. One of the Madrid players hands was still holding his arm down, but the other reached down to his own shorts, pulling them down enough so that he was able to take out his very hard dick.

That’s not going to fit.

Marc started to cry again.

This can’t be happening. How did this happen?

He started to try and cover himself up with his free hand, anything to stop what was about to happen.

“Hah, watch this.” Jude said to Camavinga, who had sat down to watch.

Suddenly Bellingham let go of Marc’s arm, grabbing both his ankles and pulling him up so his bare ass was pressed up against Jude’s crotch.

Marc tried to use his arms to push himself up, but was dragged back down when Jude grabbed his hips, forcing them back onto the ground.

“He’s still trying to get away?” Camavinga asked.

“Every few minutes he’ll think he has a shot at escape and he’ll try to run away, and then start crying when he can’t.” Jude replied, keeping his eyes on Marc the whole time, grinding his dick between the Spaniard’s cheeks, who whined in return.

“Bro just fuck him already.” Camavinga said. Marc could see him start to palm himself.

“Shut up.” Jude replied, taking hold of his dick and starting to line it up with Marc’s hole.

”Don’t! Please- please!” Marc cried. He knew his words fell on deaf ears, he just didn’t know what else to do. “Stop…please.”

He could feel the tip at his hole, trying to penetrate him. He wanted to die. He wished to be anywhere else but here.

“It’s not going to fit.” Jude said from above.

A sudden wave of hope washed through Marc.

“Maybe your tiny cock will loosen him enough for me.” Jude mocked Camavinga, who only laughed back.

“I’m bigger than you.”

“Sure you are.”

Something had suddenly returned to his hole, this time making entrance. Marc cried, craning his head up to see Jude’s hand between his legs, a finger now inside Marc.

“That’s…ugh.” Marc whined through gritted teeth, his fists clenching. “It…It hurts.” Tears slipped down his cheeks. He wishes he was just back in the bus right now, talking to Pedri and Gavi about his assist, or with Lamin and Cubarsí, talking about how Lamine did Vini’s dance in his own stadium. But most likely, he would probably be talking with Lewa about his family, or maybe even how proud Lewa is of Marc.

Lewa would hate to see Marc right now.

That familiar rush of fear returned when Jude pulled his fingers out, quickly placing his dick back by Marc’s entrance. Slowly, the Madrid player entered the Spaniard, who sobbed loudly, covering his face.

No one can see him like this.

“Hurts..!” Marc cried, “It hurts so much.” He weakly tried to push Jude’s hips away from his own. “I c-can’t.”

“You’d think I shoved my whole fist up him with the way he’s crying.” Jude laughed, “That’s just my tip.” He lightly slapped Marc’s cheek.

“Hnngh” Marc whined, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Just shove it all in.” Camavinga said, clearly impatient.

“Do you ever stop talking?” Jude replied. “Bro, he’s so tight it hurts.”

“Man, I think he’s passed out.”

“Shit.” Jude muttered, reaching over to Marc’s face, slapping it. “Wake up Casadó, we still need you. I’m all the way in.”

Marc is sure he’ll die. He’s never felt pain like before, his whole body is on fire. Jude is saying something to him but he can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears.

He wishes he was dead.

“…Damn…he’s bleeding...” Marc could hear Jude say.

“He…going to…keep going.” Camavinga?

“…Tight…” Jude said something again.

Marc’s body was rocked back and forth as he was thrusted into. It makes him think of when he was a kid and used to go to the beach with his brothers, watching the waves. Oh yeah, he’s here for his brother. For that stupid fucking jersey. Such a stupid fucking jersey.

Marc sobbed, covering his face again.

“Hey, Casadó, look.” Jude pulled his hands off his face, pointing to his stomach, where a bulge would poke out, and then disappear with each thrust. “Isn’t that funny?”

Marc shook his head, turning it to the side to avoid Jude’s gaze, only to meet Camavinga’s, who was now fully jerking off to the sight in front of him.

“His blood made it so much easier to fuck him.” Jude grunted, grabbing onto Marc’s hips painfully tight. Marc’s cries were only muffled by the explicit squelching noise of Jude painfully fucking into him.

Marc shut his eyes again, trying to think of anything else but what is happening to him. He wonders what the rest of the team is doing right now. The bus definitely left by now. Flick probably left him a few missed calls, Lewa too. They’re probably getting back to the hotel right now, Szczęsny was probably having a smoke right now. Lamine and Cubarsí were probably fighting over the T.V. remote of their shared room. Raphinha is probably on call with his wife and son, asking about their day.

What’s Marc doing?

“Mate, don’t take a video.” Jude said, still assaulting Marc’s hole. “This can’t get leaked.”

“Nah, I won’t show anybody else.” Camavinga replied, keeping his phone camera on Marc’s tired body, the bulge in his stomach, the tears leaking down his cheeks, the noise his hole makes.

Marc turned away, his mind working just enough to tell him he doesn’t want to be on video.

“Fuckkk.” Jude groaned, thrusting into Marc a few more times before pressing his hips flush against Marc’s as deep as he could be, releasing himself inside. After a few seconds, he pulled himself out, shaking the rest of his cum on Marc’s body.

“I didn’t think I would get to fuck anyone tonight, I’m glad you came in here.” Jude said, tucking himself back into his shorts.

“Shit. Ancelotti just said everybody is waiting for us on the bus.” Camavinga stood up.

Marc could hear them say something, and could see Jude gather all his stuff. He thought they had finally left until something was thrown onto him.

A jersey.

Bellingham #5.

-

Lewa told the rest of the team to go without him and Marc, that he would find the midfielder himself and that the rest of the team should get some rest. It had already been 30 minutes and Marc still wasn’t back.

Immediately he checked the Barça locker room, noting that the boy’s stuff was still waiting for him on the bench.

God, what has he gotten himself into?

Worry started to build up in the Polish man, and he knew he had to get to the Madrid locker room as soon as possible. Immediately he started to make his way through the tunnel connecting the two rooms.

After a few feet, he could hear a voice.

Bellingham.

“Delete the fucking video you freak.” He could hear Jude say to whoever he was with.

“I’m not the one who-,” Camavinga stopped talking, the two Madrid players eyes widening at the sight of Lewandowski.

“Have you two seen Marc Casadó?” Lewa asked, his suspicion clear in his voice.

For a few seconds, the two only looked back at the Polish man, their minds obviously racing.

“Who?” Jude finally asked.

“You know who.” Lewa replied, his anger evident.

“Was he the ball boy?” Camavinga asked with a slight chuckle to his voice.

“Where is he?” Lewa spat, his anger rising at their attitudes. He so badly wanted to teach these two respect, but he knew that he had to get to Marc first.

What have they done to you?

“Go back to the nursing home, Gramps.” Jude laughed, side checking Lewa as he passed him, leaving him alone in the tunnel, fuming.

Marc.

Lewa continued forward towards the Madrid locker room, this time even faster. Eventually he reached the entrance, stepping inside, his eyes scanning for the Spaniard’s body, expecting to see him with a black eye or bloody nose.

What he didn’t expect to see was Marc, naked from the waist down, trying to pull on his ripped underwear.

Oh my god.

“Marc!” Lewa yelled, not even meaning to, his shock reaching him before his mind did. Immediately Marc flinched, turning towards the entrance and gaining sight of his teammate.

A quiet sob left the boy as he turned back around in obvious pain.

“What- what the fuck happened?” Lewa walked closer, understanding the situation even more. Marc’s shorts were thrown far from his body, a Madrid jersey near by it.
And his body, God. There were bruises on his forearms, like fingerprints. And Lewa could see similar bruises around Marc’s backside, where there was also blood-

“I want to go.” His voice was scratchy. How much was he screaming for help?

“Marc…”

The Spaniard only let out a sob in response, his body crumpling into itself. Lewa instinctively stepped towards him, ready to comfort the boy, but stopped when he saw how hard he flinched at Lewa’s step.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Lewandowski wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to kill those boys, to make sure everybody knows what they did, but he can’t right now. Right now, he has to help Marc.

Slowly, he took a step towards the boy, watching for any indication that he should back off, before asking “Can I pick you up?”

Marc shook his head no, but then said with a tired voice, “Can you take me home?”

“Of course, my boy.”

-

Marc begged Lewa to never speak a word of what happened to anybody. He told him how they recorded it, how he couldn’t live if that was leaked, how nobody can know. He didn’t even want Lewa to confront the two. He wanted to pretend it never happened.

But Lewa knows it happened.

He knows how scared Marc is of the other players when they have matches, never making eye contact with them, even hesitating to shake their hands. He sees the way Marc flinches whenever Hector jumps onto him, or when Lamine shakes his shoulders in celebration, even when Lewa pats his back. Marc used to have so much energy being the loudest, “vamos” after every goal during training sessions, running around everybody else even when they didn’t care. He would talk to everyone during lunch, always trying to say all his thoughts at once.

Lewa is not going to let this go.