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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.

Chapter Text

At first, Marc was ecstatic that he was called up for Spain. Representing his country was a part of his dream.

But then he realized playing for Spain also meant he would be playing with new people, that he would have to sleep in a bed that isn’t his own, and get used to a routine he doesn’t know.

And worst of all, he would have to use the locker room. The unfamiliar Spanish locker room, with other unfamiliar Spanish players. Sure, he knows Pedri, Dani, even Nico Williams, but the rest of the team? Even in the Barça locker room, Lewa would wait with him until everybody left, making excuses for why they weren’t changing with everybody else, and then give Marc some privacy. Here, he had no choice but to join the others, the majority of whom he didn’t know.

Marc had traveled with his Barcelona teammates to the Spanish training grounds, spending the whole bus ride thinking, well more like worrying.

He hasn’t directly thought of what happened, he couldn’t. Every time his mind would wander back to the memories of that night, his body would reject it, whether it be he starts crying, gagging, or the worst (which has only happened once) a panic attack. He doesn’t even want to think about it. He wants to pretend it never happened. But every time one of his teammates gives him a certain look, or when Flick comments on the bruises on his arms, or even he meets fans, it all feels like everybody knows what happened.

It makes Marc want to peel his skin off, like he’s the most disgusting thing to exist. And at some point, it started to become obvious to the Spaniard that really, he is the most disgusting thing to exist.

He hadn’t wanted to return to his family's hotel room the night it happened, so Lewa took him to his own. Lewa’s family stayed in Barcelona so it was just the two of them. Marc immediately took a shower, spending almost an hour scrubbing his skin raw, watching the blood wash down the drain. When he finally got out, he still felt dirty, but was too exhausted to continue. Lewa was standing by a makeshift bed he had set up next to the actual bed.

“I’m done…” Marc muttered, scrunching his face in embarrassment, “If you want to shower.” He walked towards the bedsheets on the ground, ready to sleep.

“I’ll sleep there, you can sleep on the bed.” Lewa said, that already familiar look of concern in his eyes.

God that pissed him off.

“I’m not a child.” Marc muttered with what little energy he had left.

“You’re not.” Lewa replied, but he still had that stupid concerned look.

“You don’t have to treat me like one.”

“I know that.” Lewa took a step closer.

“But you…you still are.” Marc said, his voice cracking.

“I’m not.” Lewa looked down at the Spaniard in front of him.

“Y-you are.”

“It’s okay.” Lewa pulled the boy forward, allowing him to sob quietly into his chest.

Marc doesn’t know how long they stood like that, he just knows starting that night, Lewa has been doing everything he can to protect him.

But right now, Marc is on his own.

-

Luckily Marc was able to get a hotel room to himself. Immediately he flopped onto his bed, closing his eyes out of exhaustion. Trying to avoid the press, and even his own teammates, was tiring.

It’s felt like years since he was first attacked but also like it just happened. He doesn’t know how he was able to keep going on with his life in the immediate days following it. He doesn’t even really remember them. All he can remember is that terrible feeling he would have when he came home from training, knowing he had spent the whole day just as fucked up as the last. He didn’t even notice he was crying, again. He’s surprised he still has tears left to cry. He’s so sick of this.

Maybe it wasn’t a good thing that he got a single hotel room, because he’s never felt more alone.

-

“Do you want to record a second part?” Bellingham asked the trembling Spaniard, who’s vision became blurred with leaking tears.

“No!” Marc yelled, trying to pry the strong grip Jude had off his wrist. “No, no no no!” He pulled his arm back as hard as he could, desperate to get away.

It’s happening again.

“Look at him crying!” Jude laughed, turning towards Camavinga who was holding up a phone at the struggling Spaniard.

“Stop, please.” Marc cried as he was picked up by Jude, who threw him onto a bed. Immediately Marc had tried to scramble away, only having his ankles grabbed and dragged back towards the taller man. His grip jumped from Marc’s ankles to his hips, as he pulled them up, grinding his crotch against his ass.

It already hurt so much.

“Please don’t do it again.” Marc cried, desperately trying to pull himself out of Jude’s hands. “It’s going to hurt..!” He whined.

“Why not do it again?” Bellingham asked, starting to pull his shorts down. “It’s not like it’s a secret that you already were fucked in the ass and cried like a little bitch.”

“Wha-what?” Marc stuttered, his thoughts racing.

“Everybody knows, I mean, do you see how they look at you? You’re absolutely disgusting.”

Jude pushed himself all the way inside.

Marc shot up, his hotel room dark and quiet.

That stupid fucking dream again.

Marc sat up, rubbing his face, noting how clammy his hands are. He accidentally slept in his clothes.

Suddenly, he started dry heaving, his throat gagging until the little amount he ate that day made its way onto the bedding besides him.

“I’m so fucking pathetic.” He cried to himself, rubbing his eyes. He just wanted to lay back down, to ignore the vomit, to ignore everything.

The quietness of his hotel room was loudly interrupted by the ringtone of his phone, which laid on his bed next to him. It was Lewa.

Of course it was.

“Hello?” Marc croaked out, his throat irritated by the acid that had come up just a few minutes ago.

“Hello my boy.” The familiar voice of the Polish man had answered him. He sounded happy. “How are you doing on your first international break?”

Marc silently thought for a moment, staring into the darkness in front of him.

Terrible, bad, I feel like shit, I want to go.

“Okay.” His voice cracked. He raised his fist to his face, rubbing his forehead.

“How have the others been treating you?”

Marc knows he’s not just making small talk. Lewa has been taking care of him for the past two weeks, he wouldn’t just let Marc go off on his own. To him, Marc is some little kid.

“I haven’t talked to any of them.” Marc answered curtly.

“Do you know any of them?”

“Of course!” Marc snapped, yelling into the phone as much as his voice would let him (which wasn’t a lot).

“I’m glad.” Lewa hummed, seemingly not phased by Marc’s outburst.

“You’re treating me like some kid again.” The Spaniard spoke into the phone, frustrated with his teammate’s repose.

“I’m not trying to make you feel that way.” Lewa responded, “I just want to make sure you’re okay-,”

“Well I'm not okay!” Marc cried, “I’m not fucking okay…” He wept, crumbling into himself, struggling to catch his breath. “I’m alone, and I- I just vomited, and everybody knows I’m disgusting and I just can’t stop thinking and I don’t know what to do.”

“Marc…”

“I try to sleep, I try to forget about it, but it’s in my dreams too!” He knows he sounds so pathetic right now, “It won’t leave me alone!” His breathing was rapid at this point, it felt almost like he was going to die.

“Shh, calm down.” Lewa said back to the phone.

“I-I cant!” Marc placed his hand back on his chest, desperately grabbing onto the fabric of his shirt.

“Marc, tell me what do you smell right now?” Lewa asked, his tone much more serious.

“W-what?” Marc stuttered out, his short breaths making it hard to talk. “I sm-smell the b-bed she-ets.”

“What do you see?”

“I- I can see- see the desk.”

“What do you hear?”

“Y-you.”

His breathing had steadied, and eventually the quietness of his room returned as his heartbeat slowed and the pounding in his head stopped.

“How many of those have you had?” Lewa’s voice came back after giving him a moment.

“Panic attacks?” Marc asked, limping over to his suitcase and pulling out his sleeping clothes.

“Yeah.”

“Two.” Marc answered, shaking off the pants he had been wearing all day, and quickly pulling on the fresh ones.

“I’ve been thinking…” Lewa started, his voice unsure for the first time in this whole conversation, “I think it’d be good if you saw a therapist.”

“No.” Marc replied, his answer clear.

“I’m very close with someone that could help-,”

“I said no.” Marc said curtly.

“It’s not good for you to deal with your trauma the way you have-,”

Marc hung up. He’s too tired to deal with any more of this.

Lewa was being annoying again. He already has a way to make himself feel better. Every time the ball is at his feet, he can run with it, shoot it far into the air to one of his teammates, watch it land and produce a goal. This time is when he is free, when no one can touch him, when he has the most control.

He just needs to get to tomorrow.

-

“Hey, how are you man?” A hand suddenly patted Marc’s shoulder, who’s breath got caught in his throat. He hates that he’s so on edge. He shouldn’t be like this. He really is just overreacting.

“Casadó?” Nico Williams, the one whose hand was on his shoulder asked.

“Yeah, I’m- I’m good.” Marc replied, pretending to have to grab something from his locker as an excuse to break the physical contact between the two.

“You seem nervous.” Nico laughed, turning back towards his own locker. “Don’t worry, I get it.” He winked at Marc, who only nodded his head in reply.

Marc watched as Nico walked out to the training field, along with the majority of the team.

The pre-game training was okay. Marc didn’t know what to say to the other players, choosing to just follow Pedri around, who didn’t seem to mind his company.

Marc knew he would start on the bench, he didn’t mind so much. He can’t be asking for a lot when this is his first time playing for country. He quietly sat on the bench, focusing on the game he would soon join.

And that time eventually came. Marc stood at the call of his name, the substitution board being lifted. He quickly sped walk over, preparing his mind.

Games were easy to think about.

He could hear flashes of camera shutters behind him, taking him out of his thoughts. The idea of his photo being taken by people he doesn’t know, that so many people will see it, that they’ll see him.

“Go!” The coach yelled, and Marc immediately ran onto the pitch, joining his teammates.

Marc quickly ignored his previous thoughts, focusing on the game. The rush of adrenaline quickly hit him, and he felt free once again. The game went on, and Marc continued, enjoying the time when the ball was at his feet, quickly passing it whenever a Danish player would approach.

Around the end of the game the ball returned to Marc again, who began running with it until he was tackled by one of the Danish players. Marc stayed on the ground, landing on his side uncomfortably.

He could hear yelling around him, but only started paying attention when his arm was yanked up by an unfamiliar set of hands, sending Marc into a panic. Those hands were gone as quickly as they came, but Marc’s heart didn’t stop beating. He continued laying on the ground, trying to catch his breath as panic filled him. He knows he has no reason to be scared like this, that this is stupid, that he’s being a baby, but he still feels himself struggling to breathe.

He can also see Pedri staring at him, a confused look on his face.

-

“Casa.” Marc could hear a voice come from behind him, Pedri’s. He hadn’t realized anyone was still in the locker room, having waited for everybody to shower first. He flinched at the sudden noise. Marc could tell Pedri noticed, even if his back was against him. He eventually turned around, facing his teammate, whose expression was one of obvious concern.

“How have you been doing?” His tone was laced with the same amount of worry as his face.

Marc knows he’s seen how different he is, how much more tired he is, how jumpy he’s gotten, how much less he talks. He knows that it’s clear to everybody that Marc is no longer the same, but he’s not going to let them know why. It’s become a routine to deal with these types of questions anyways.

“Good,” He smiled, “uh…I’m really excited to be here.”

“Has something happened?” Pedri asked, ignoring Marc’s answer. “I mean, are you sick or something? I’ve never seen you like this.”

Marc’s mind raced, trying to conjure up any excuse, any of the reasons that he has practiced in his head countless times.

What do you mean?

I’ve always been like this.

I’m just tired.

Before the shorter could even answer he continued, “And, and not even just here, at Barça too. You don’t act the same. You don’t celebrate anymore, you don’t talk anymore, hell, you don’t even smile anymore.” Pedri’s voice grew slightly louder with each sentence. “Cubarsí tackled you the other day, just like that Denmark player, and you started hyperventilating!”

“I…” Marc stuttered.

“Casa…” Pedri mumbled, stepping closer to his frightened teammate, who’s shoulders had unconsciously gone up as a way to protect himself. “I need you to tell me if anything has happened to you. I…I need you to be okay.”

Marc turned away after Pedri’s last sentence, not being able to contain the emotions he'd been holding back all night as tears blurred his vision. Every ounce of anxiety and fear and anger all began to show its ugly self right in front of his concerned teammate.

“Marc…”

“I-,” Marc tried to compose himself, “I…I can’t t-tell you.”

“Why?”

“I just c-can’t.”

“Did someone assault you?” Pedri had stood directly in front of the shorter now, gently grabbing his hands.

Marc immediately pulled his hands back, his eyes widening at the question.

“No-,”

“I knew it. Was it someone else in Barça?”

Marc shook his head, burying his face in his hands, a disgusting mixture of shame and embarrassment consuming his body.

“A staff member?”

Marc shook his head again, refusing eye contact.

“A fan?”

The shorter continued his denial.

“A player from another team?”

Marc’s breath hitched, but he tried to pretend like it didn’t happen, continuing to shake his head in his hands.

“Which player?” Pedri asked, his voice stern and thinly veiled with a growing rage.

“No one.” Marc replied, turning to walk away before his teammate blocked his path.

“Marc,” Pedri said, his gaze making relentless attempts to catch the others, “I need you to tell me.”

“I-I can’t…” Marc took a step back.

“Which team? Real Sociedad? Belgrade, Espanyol?”

“I don’t know.” Marc could feel his legs grow weaker, forcing him to sit on the bench and listen as his teammate listed off more teams, waiting for a reaction.

“…Madrid?”

Marc didn’t say anything, keeping his head buried in his hands.

“Is that why you were so late to the bus that night?” Pedri said, slowly connecting the dots. “God what?” Marc could see Pedri’s feet move, hear him start to pace around. “Who- No, what did they do to you?”

Tears slipped through Marc’s fingers.

“You…did they..?”

“No!” Marc finally stood, making eye contact with his shocked teammate. Pedri’s eyes were wide, and his lips parted as if he was about to speak again, but nothing came out as Marc waited.

“No…no, I didn’t want to.” He broke down after a long moment of silence, sitting back down onto the bench, “I-I tried to get away.” He sobbed, his breathing quickening rapidly.

It’s happening again. What did Lewa say to do when he has another panic attack?

“You don’t have to tell me what happened.” Pedri crouched down in front of Marc, slowly placing his hand on the other's knee. “Just…just tell me who it was.”

For a few moments, the only sound of the locker room was Marc’s quick breaths, which slowed down as he did what Lewa had taught him to do.

“You-you can’t tell an-anybody,” Marc eventually muttered out, staring at Pedri’s hand on his knee, “th-they recorded it.”

Pedri stared back into his teammates eyes, no matter how many times they shifted. “I won’t.”

“It…” Marc took a deep breath in, trying to ignore all the thoughts telling him to run away, the ones telling him he’s an embarrassment, that Pedri is disgusted with him, that he deserved it. “Uhmm,” He gulped, tilting his head up, trying to regain any composure. “T-two of them.” He stuttered, putting two of his fingers out.

“Do you want me to list players?” Pedri asked.

“No.” Marc replied. He’s already been babied enough, he can get through this. “It…they w-were…” The shorter took as deep of a breath he could, “B-bell…” His throat closed, not letting him finish speaking. “B-belling-,” He sobbed, his emotions taking over.

“Bellingham?” Pedri asked, and Marc weakly nodded.

“A-and,” Another deep breath, “Cama…Camavinga.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Pedri stood, rubbing his head. “Who else knows?”

Marc wiped his face with the back of his hand, muttering “Lewa.” He didn’t want to tell anybody else. He didn’t want to have to think about it this much. He didn’t want anybody else to think about it this much.

Pedri turned towards the other “Nobody else? Not even Flick? He needs to know.”

“Nobody can know..!” Marc looked up at his teammate. “I’m- they have a video,” He cringed at himself, “No one can know…especially not at Barça.”

“So you haven’t reported what happened?”

“I can’t.”

“God…” Pedri rubbed his face, “Was- was it bad?”

Marc didn’t know what to say to that. He’s only been attacked like that once. He doesn’t know if he got off easy. Maybe they didn’t even do anything that bad. Maybe he’s just been a bitch about this whole thing. It hurt a lot, and he’s not felt one ounce of the happiness he used to feel, he can’t go a night without nightmares plaguing him, he can’t even be touched without flinching, but he doesn’t know if it was that bad.

“Mmmm.” Marc tried to hum, his lips snarling up and he tried to hold back his tears.

A loud bang echoed through the empty locker room, the entrance door slamming open as someone walked in. Immediately Pedri stepped in front of Marc, facing whoever had come in.

“What’re you two still doing in here-,” It was Dani, who’s gaze made its way to Marc, who, like always, avoided it. “Holy shit!”

“We’re just talking, we’ll be out in a minute.” Pedri answered curtly.

“Are you okay?” Dani ignored the other, walking towards Casadó. “Did something happen? Is it because of that Danish player today?”

“He’s fine,” Pedri said, “He just twisted his ankle.”

“Are you good?” Dani asked, “Flick is not going to be happy.”

“Dani…go.”

“What’s up with this atmosphere? You guys are so tense.”

“It’s nothing.”

Marc could hear Dani say something else, but his mind tuned out the voices around him. He doesn’t know what to think of himself. With Lewa he never had to explain what happened, the older man did everything himself. Marc never had to be confronted with the reality of his situation like this. It feels so real. It’s like the touch that has lingered on his skin was being revealed to not only himself, but to everyone else. It was disgusting.

Marc could feel the food in his stomach rising, that terribly familiar burning feeling in his throat as he gagged, trying to stop it. Though, he couldn’t take it much longer before his body forced him to allow it, his vomit falling onto the ground in front of him.

“Casa!” Dani jumped, stepping towards his teammate.

“C-can we just go.” Marc whispered, his exhaustion catching up with him.

“Yeah.” Pedri answered first, stepping to avoid the vomit, and slowly raising Marc up, supporting him so they could walk out.

“Jesus, what happened?” Dani asked, following the two out.

“I told you, he doesn’t feel well.” Pedri answered, pushing the exit door open.

He really doesn’t feel well.

-

Pedri slept in Marc’s room that night. Dani eventually left them alone after Pedri told him to ‘leave it’, and once the taller had brought Marc to his empty hotel room, he realized he didn’t want to be by himself anymore. He doesn’t know if he can handle another night of dreams tormenting him, only to wake up to an empty and hauntingly quiet room. He didn’t want to feel that feeling of puke rising as he scrambles to the toilet, the sound of his retching being the only noise in the room. He didn’t want to know that he had nothing to come back to.

Pedri had been obviously waiting for Marc to walk in and say goodnight, staring at his teammate as he stood motionless.

“I…could you…” Marc muttered.

“What?” Pedri asked, his eyebrows narrowing.

“I don’t want to vomit anymore.”

“Uhm…do you want me to get you some medicine?”

“No…” Marc answered, embarrassment slowly consuming him. “Like, I don’t know…I get nervous when…I’m alone.”

Pedri stood for a moment, only staring at his teammate until he finally spoke again. “Ah…do you want me to stay in your room for a bit?”

Marc scrunched his face, nodding his head.

“That’s fine.”

Together they walked in the hotel room. Pedri ignored the mess of the room, including the obvious stain where he had previously thrown up, instead he dropped his bag on the floor, flopping down onto the bed and reaching for the tv remote.

Marc was surprised with his sudden ease, though he wasn’t upset. He was glad he wasn’t still being treated like he was made of glass. The atmosphere almost felt like it used to be. When he would spend time with his teammates, when he could joke and smile with them, when he could act like himself.

They spent a bit talking. Not about Marc, or what happened to Marc, but joking and laughing and just being in each other’s presence. Marc had realized something about Pedri that night. He has a keen ability to know how to act and when. Marc didn’t need to think about what happened anymore, he needed some time to act like how he used to, and Pedri had given that to him.

That night he didn’t wake up in a cold sweat, vomit didn’t land on the floor beside him, that night he didn’t even dream.

-

Marc was told the next day that he would be starting for the game against Switzerland. It was the first thing in a while to make him excited.

Pedri patted him on the back, smiling at his teammate. Marc actually smiled back. It wasn’t one of his fake smiles, meant to reassure everyone that he’s fine, no, this one was real. Genuine joy was plastered on his face, and he probably looked stupid, but he didn’t care. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was happy.

He called Lewa, who was equally as happy as the Spaniard. Marc could tell Lewa was relieved by the sound of his voice. He seemed reassured. He had to tell the older man he would call him later, as he was being rushed to practice.

Eagerly he spent the day training. Of course he still didn’t really interact with the other players, trailing behind Pedri, but it was a little better that day.

Eventually the night came, and Pedri stayed with Marc again. He didn’t even have to ask this time. They talked more, but Marc fell asleep early, his exhaustion reaching him.

The next day was slow, as Marc waited for his first time walking out of the tunnel to come. He did have a moment that morning when Grimaldo had tackled him, landing on top of Marc, his hand pinning his shoulder down. Marc quickly pushed him off and walked away, his breathing speeding up. Pedri followed him and silently kept him company as he calmed down from his panic attack.

Eventually, the time to get ready came, and Marc was filled with that pre-game adrenaline. He pulled on his kit, his mind focused on the match ahead of him. Following Pedri, Marc walked out onto the field, his excitement running throughout his veins as he took a deep breath in. He took the pre-match photo with the rest of the team, noticing how his hair rose when Yéremi Pino placed his hand close to Marc’s nape. He also noticed how Pedri noticed that, putting his own hand on Marc’s back, reassuring his teammate.

And finally, the game started, and Marc’s happiness reached its peak. It was a great game, at least he thought so. It really was amazing to have the ball at his feet, kicking it far to whoever he thought suited.

Though, he was knocked over many times. It seemed non-stop, and at one point, after one of the Swiss players knocked him down, another came from behind and picked him up. Marc scrambled up, quickly walking away like he had done earlier, ignoring the beating his chest. He instead focused on the ball, getting back into the game.

He found out later that he was the most fouled player that game. Pedri told him as they walked through the tunnel together after a successful match. He wasn’t surprised, he wasn’t upset either. He felt good, it was a good game.

-

The two had developed a routine in the locker room. Pedri would wait for Marc to shower after the rest of the team had already left, talking to him about whatever as to not let the locker room go silent. Marc liked it. He didn’t have to ask Pedri to do any of this, he just knew to.

Though, this time it was different. Pedri had been asked by staff to go to the medic, something about post-game stretching. He had first denied, noticeably concerned with leaving Marc behind, who also didn’t want him to go. But he had been told he was mandatory and was left with no choice but to tell Marc that he’ll meet him at the other’s hotel room later, squeezing his shoulder and turning away.

Marc nodded, putting on a strong face, but inside he was panicking, not knowing what he would do without his teammate. He didn’t want such a great night end with another freak out.

He tried remembering how he went about locker rooms before what happened. He realized he should probably shower now, but he can’t. He can’t be like that with everybody else, he doesn’t know any of them. Instead, he sat on the bench, pretending to scroll through his phone as he waited for everybody to finish, slowly leaving the locker room empty.

At one point he received a text.

Robert Lewandowski: I saw the game, you played amazingly!

Marc smiled, quickly texting back.

Marc Casadó: Thank you. I had a great time.

Robert Lewandowski: I could tell. How has the Spanish team been treating you?

Marc knew what he was asking.

Marc Casadó: I’ve been doing better.

Marc Casadó: Pedri has been helping me.

Robert Lewandowski: I’m glad to hear that, my boy. I’m excited to see you at training soon.

Marc Casadó: Thank you, Lewa

Marc was grateful for the older man, who was there to protect him when he most needed it. He understands Marc’s situation and how to handle it, even when Marc doesn’t. Without Lewa, Marc probably wouldn’t have been able to-

“I saw the video, you know.” A voice had said from above Marc, who was too invested in his conversation to notice there was someone there.

“What?” Marc instinctively asked, the words slowly making their way into his mind.

I saw the video, you know.

The video.

“The one of you in the locker room,” Marc realized it was Lucas Vazquez, a player from Real Madrid, talking to him. “The one with…Jude.” He smirked.

Marc immediately stood up, his heart already beating rapidly.

There’s no way. This can’t be happening.

“Most of the Madrid team knows about it.” Vazquez said, stepping closer to Marc, who leaned back into the lockers, falling onto the bench as he legs gave out. He was barely listening to the taller, his mind still focused on his first sentence. “They were saying something about you in the locker room, how tight you were.”

Marc couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They all know? Did they all see the video? How many people have? He needs to get out of here. He can shower in his room.

“I tried asking Jude what happened, but he just told me to fuck off.” Vazquez continued, not making note of Marc’s unresponsive state, “Then I asked Cama, and he showed me the video. You cried a lot, huh? I kinda felt bad for you. It looked like it hurt.” He laughed. “But, I don’t know, it was kinda hot too.”

Marc stilled, that familiar feeling of danger seeping back into his skin. The urgency to get out was blaring in his mind.

“Cama told me that you kept trying to get away, which is pretty sad.” Vazquez took another step closer to his trembling teammate. “He also said it didn’t take much to overpower you.” Marc jolted up to his feet, making a break for the door, only to get knocked down by the taller, who pushed him to the ground, landing on top of the shorter.

“No!” Marc yelled, tears already flowing down his cheeks, “Stop stop stop stop stop..!” He desperately punched at the body above him, landing a few good hits before his wrists were grabbed and pinned to the floor of the disgusting locker room.

“I’m not going-,” Vazquez grunted, trying to keep his hold on Marc, who was now desperately squirming around. He tried breaking his arms free, tried kicking his legs out, or pushing himself out from underneath the man, to no success. With each passing second, more and more panic consumed Marc, and tears were steadily flowing down his face.

“I haven’t even done anything yet.” Vazquez said from on top of the boy, settling himself on Marc’s chest, straddling him. “Are you that scared?” He stared down the boy, whose face was wet with tears and snot.

“What’re you going to do?” Marc asked, his voice no louder than a mumble. Vazquez heard him though, smirking and thinking for a moment.

“Do you want to take it up the butt again?” The taller asked, chuckling a bit.

Marc froze, his mind not being able to accept what was happening, again. He can’t believe it, he had gone through all that, trying to get better, trying to be normal again, just for it to happen again. Will this always happen from now on? Will everybody know him as the player you can just…use?

Vazquez removed one of his hands off Marc’s wrist, who immediately tried to push the other off of him. The Madrid player ignored this, holding Marc’s face, like how Jude had done, manhandling him like some doll.

“Or do you want to use your mouth..?” He pressed his fingers to Marc’s lips, forcing them past. The disgusting taste of Vazquez’s dirty fingers flooded Marc’s mouth, and he turned his head away, his legs trying to push his body up, no matter how useless it was to even try.

Vazquez didn’t even react, starting to pull down his shorts and underwear enough so his dick, which was semi-hard, would be out, dangerously close to Marc’s face.

“Nnnnh” Marc whined, pulling his head as far away as he could, stretching it painfully.

“I’m going easy on you,” Vazquez tapped his tip on Marc’s chin, “Do you want me to do what Jude did?”

Marc squeezed his eyes shut, covering his mouth with his free hand and pressing his lips tightly together.

Desperately he prayed that this would all stop. He can’t go through this again. He can’t deal with all this another time.

“You’re acting like a child.” Vazquez laughed, prying off Marc’s hand from his face, leaving his mouth exposed. Quickly, Marc took advantage of this moment.

“Pedri..!” He pushed away the taller’s hand, “Pedri!”

Vazquez quickly overpowered Marc, covering his mouth with his own hand this time.

Marc began to give up the reality of his situation setting in. It’s really going to happen again.

Fingers roughly intertwined with his hair, forcing his neck to crane up and his cheek make contact with the hard member in front of him. Marc pushed against his legs, but it was all useless.

Vazquez tapped his dick on Marc’s lips, which were still tightly shut.

“Open.” He grunted, his growing frustration evident to Marc, who began trembling, “And if you use any teeth, I’ll make sure everybody sees the video of you getting raped.”

Marc scrunched his face needing to hold back his sob as to not give Vazquez a chance.

“Open your fucking-,” The Madrid player started saying, interrupted by the sound of the locker room entrance opening. Marc turned his face away by instinct, not wanting anyone to see him like that.

“What the hell..?” The voice, Dani’s voice said. Marc turned towards his teammate, whose expression was a combination of confusion and anger.

Vazquez stood, pulling his shorts up, ignoring Marc as he walked towards the exit.

“Were you…” Dani started asking, watching as the Madrid player started to walk out. “What the fuck?” Dani followed the taller out. “What were you doing to him?”

Marc stopped listening, slowly sitting up, his eyes wide.

Dani walked back in, approaching his teammate. “What did he do to you?”

Marc shook his head, standing with shaking legs and walking to the bench, where the rest of his stuff was waiting.

“Casa, you have to report him.” Dani took another step closer, “He assaulted you.”

“I know.” Marc mumbled, tears slipping past his eyes. He’s so tired of this cycle.

“I’m going to go find security.” Dani turned to the exit.

“No..!” Marc quickly grabbed his teammate’s arm, “You…you can’t.”

“Casa…” Dani stared into the shorter’s eyes, his gaze like everybody else’s, “I have to.” He shook off his grip, continuing towards the doors.

Marc scrambled behind him, his tears flowing freely now.

“No, you don’t get it.” He sobbed, “Please don’t.”

Dani stood for a moment, reading Marc’s face before finally speaking again.

“Has…has he been doing this to you?” Dani questioned, his eyebrows furrowing. “Is that why you’ve been so off, why you threw up the other night, why you’re always scared?”

Marc turned away, the confrontation of his problems too strong to bear. “No.”

“Casa, what has been happening to you?”

“Nothing…just promise me you won’t tell anybody about what happened?”

“No!” Dani yelled suddenly, making the shorter flinch. “I mean, no, not until you tell me what’s been happening.”

“Dani…please.”

Dani took a moment before speaking again, “Okay…” He rubbed his head, “I just…are you like, okay?”

Marc turned away, that familiar feeling of shame filling his body.

“Where’s Pedri?” Dani questioned after his teammate didn’t reply, his voice shook like he didn’t know if he could ask that.

Marc’s mind was numb, and he replied without thinking.

“Med.”

All he could think about was how dirty he will always feel.

-

Pedri had knocked at Marc’s door, like he had promised. Marc had been waiting for him, not wanting to shower until he was there. He acknowledges that it’s stupid, but at this point, his mind couldn’t put enough energy into caring that that’s pathetic of him, he just wants to feel safe.

Though, he did still scrub his lips, even though he knew the feeling would never go away.

Marc stood up, the knocking breaking his train of thought. He opened the door, slowly revealing the worried expression on his teammate’s face, who immediately spoke.

“Marc…”

Marc just looked down, his face scrunching as he cried, leaning into Pedri’s chest, who embraced him quickly.

Together they stood in the doorway, Marc in Pedri’s arms until the shorter eventually took a step away, allowing room for his teammate to enter. They were quiet as Pedri watched Marc, who started walking into the bathroom to finally shower.

“Once you’re done,” Pedri spoke up, his eyes analyzing Marc’s emotionless face, “could we talk?”

“I’m tired.” Marc muttered.

“I just want to know-,”

“No.” Marc cut Pedri off, his voice suddenly loud in the quiet room.

He could tell Pedri was taken aback by Marc’s sudden aggression, and felt bad, but he just couldn’t do it anymore.

“I’m sorry.” Pedri said, his voice laced in guilt. He even turned away, breaking eye contact first.

Sorry for what? Sorry for leaving Marc alone? Marc isn’t a child who always needs to be watched. He’s a grown man. He can protect himself. He should be able to.

So why can’t he? Why is he so fragile? Why does it have to be like this?

“Marc…” Pedri spoke up again, looking back at the shorter.

“Why’d you leave me?” Marc whimpered, trying to keep his voice steady and failing.

“I-,”

“They all know!” Marc cried. “Everybody knows!”

Pedri stared back at Marc, lips parted but silent.

“I’m scared all the time,” Marc clenched his fist, putting it up to his mouth. “An-and you know that! And you still left me alone!”

“I…” Pedri remained wordless.

“I don’t want to be alone.” Marc whispered, clenching the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m sorry.” Pedri said, slowly taking his teammate into his arms. “I’m so, so sorry.” He whispered into Marc’s neck.

-

Marc fell asleep in Pedri’s arms that night. After his shower, he had laid down next to his teammate, no words spoken between the two. Pedri had made the bed, preparing Marc’s pillows how he likes it. The tv was playing some show, one that Marc’s mom likes, replacing the silence of the room.

Marc was under the warmth of the comforter, but still felt so…cold. Slowly, he sat up, making eye contact with Pedri when he looked over to see what was bothering Marc.

“I’m- it’s cold.” The shorter complained.

“Do you want another blanket?” Pedri asked.

“Uhm…” He rubbed his head, “No it’s okay.” He started to turn away before the other spoke up again.

“Do you want to lay closer to me?”

Marc turned back over, looking into Pedri’s eyes, so grateful for his teammate. He moved over to his teammate, laying his head on his shoulder. Pedri then moved his arm around Marc’s back, moving his head to his chest.

Marc knows that this wasn’t something you typically don’t do with a teammate. He knows that any football media page would be drooling over this as a story. He is too tired to care. He’s tired of being afraid.

He wants a touch of comfort, one that won’t hurt him, but keep him safe.

Marc didn’t even notice he was crying until he felt his teare roll down his cheek, landing on his teammate’s shirt.

“I’m sorry.” Marc could hear Pedri whisper with that same guilty tone.

Marc couldn’t even hear the tv show anymore, just the sound of his own thoughts.

“It’s not your fault.”

Chapter Text

Jude thought about it more than he thought he would. Often during the time he should be resting after long days of training he would instead be up, thinking of that night in the locker room.

It wasn’t guilt keeping him up either, no. The thought that he should feel bad for what he’s done has come to mind many times, but he just doesn’t. Sure, he didn’t deserve what happened to him, but he should’ve known better than to go to his rival team’s locker room. It was just unfortunate for him.

So, no, it wasn’t any remorse that was the problem. It was how much he wanted to do it again. His cock ached each night, wanting to feel him. Honestly, he’s grown to obsess over that night. He’s had sex since then, but none of the random girls are anything like he was.

Maybe it was something about how much he fought back, despite being so fucking terrified. Jude doesn’t want to admit it, but the Spaniard got some good hits in. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but it still did hurt. He even left scratches running down Jude’s arms, which he had to explain as coming from a bush he fell in when his mom asked him about. It was all nothing compared to the memory of his face when Jude first entered his virgin hole. He’ll never forget it. He was so erotic, like he was doing everything on purpose. Well, he did approach Jude in the laziest excuse of an outfit, just asking for him to rip it off his small body. And maybe that was it, how small he is. Of course all the girls he’s fucked are small, but there was something different about it on him. When he’s on the pitch, he’s acting like he’s unstoppable, tackling like he’s some 6’4 defender. But then, you see him, like fully see him when he’s still, and realize this is some little midget that you could just pick up and drill into until he bleeds.

Jude stopped having girls over at one point, the sex being useless to him.

The night they were supposed to play Valencia, about a week after El Clasicó, Barça had been brought up in the partly-empty Madrid locker room, composed of Jude, Vini, Mbappé, Camavinga, and Vazquez. Vini, of course, started angrily expressing his detest for the team.

“Don’t even talk about that circus!” He spat towards Vazquez, who first mentioned the subject. “God, that stupid fucking team, made up of a bunch of high schoolers.”

“Only like two of them are in high school.” Mbappé laughed from beside the Brazilian.

“They’re still ass.” Vini replied, his disdain evident. Jude hadn’t even really been listening to the conversation until it turned toward him.

“Whatever happened with that Barcelona player that attacked me in the locker room?” Vini asked Jude, who only stared back at his teammate for a few moments.

Frankly, It’s really none of his business. Also Jude doesn’t want anyone else to know, especially not Vini, who would probably get upset he wasn’t the one able to fuck him.

“Do you want to see?” Camavinga asked from behind the two. Vini quickly turned around, approaching their teammate, who was pulling out his phone, before Jude grabbed it.

“No.” His voice came out louder than he expected, a faint feeling of anger starting to run through his veins.

“Bro, they’re not going to tell anybody.” Camavinga complained.

“What are you talking about?” Mbappé asked, stepping towards his teammates.

“I don’t care.” Jude spat back, his decision clear. He could tell this upset Camavinga, who bit his lips in frustration, standing up.

“What’d you say about him? That ‘he’s so tight it hurts’?” Camavinga asked, stepping closer to Jude, who was now inches from his face.

“What?” Vini questioned, his voice echoing through the locker room.

“Fuck this.”, Jude threw his teammates phone on the ground, grabbing his stuff and quickly making his way out.

He could hear them continue to talk, ignoring it until sudden footsteps came up behind him, a hand landing on his shoulder.

“Did- did you fuck him?” Vazquez asked, and as Jude looked back at his teammate, it became clear to him why he was so interested. A disgusting expression of excitement was plastered on the older’s face, who eagerly waited for Jude to reply.

“Mind your business.” Jude shook his hand off his shoulder.

“That Casadó guy?” Vazquez asked, ignoring Jude.

“Fuck off.” Jude replied, walking away before his teammate could continue.

Jude performed during international break, getting two assists against Ireland, and playing well against Greece. He barely had time to watch the Spanish games going on at the same time.

He still did, though. The first one, the one against Denmark, he just got out of the shower, sitting on his hotel bed, watching as the team took their pre-game photo. Jude’s interest in the game dwindled when he realized Casadó was still on the bench.

Eventually his attention was brought back when the commentators announced a substitution around the 70th minute. Jude watched as the Spaniard ran onto the pitch, moving quickly into his spot.

Everything he did was fascinating to the Englishman, who was now sat up, fully paying attention to the game that barely even matters to him. His eyes followed the Spaniard, number 15, watching as he began to play.

The way his body moved, how he ran, how he fell, it all got Jude…so worked up. At one point, towards the end of the game, Casadó was knocked down, and as he laid on the ground, a Danish player grabbed him by the arm, pulling him up, only to get yelled at by the ref.

Something stirred in Jude at that moment. He doesn’t know if it was the way his body was being tossed around, or how scared he looked, or even that someone else was grabbing him like that, but Jude’s pants started to become tighter.

-

Pedri warned Marc that he would have to have a medical exam after the international break, how it’s required and that it’ll be quick. At the time Marc had only nodded his head, too tired to really think about what his teammate was saying.

But now, the morning after returning to Barcelona, Marc anxiously waited for the doctor to call his name, familiar fear clouding his mind. Pedri, who already took his, sat next to his teammate, placing his hand on his shaking knee.

“He won’t touch you,” Marc could hear Pedri say, “He just makes you run on a treadmill and examines your body.”

Anxiety flushed Marc’s mind, who quickly turned towards his teammate.

“I mean- he just looks at your torso, you don’t even take your pants off.” Pedri immediately reassured him, his own worried expression plastered on his face.

Marc took a deep breath in, shutting his eyes and straightening his back. It’s just a medical exam, he’s done one before. He has nothing to worry about. Pedri will be just one room away. He’ll be there.

“Casadó?” The doctor called out from the now open door, his eyes landing on Marc, who’s confidence had depleted.

“I’ll be right here.” Pedri whispered, and Marc stood, following the doctor.

He’ll be there.

“So, Marc,” The doctor spoke once the door was shut, the Spaniard waiting for instruction, “You already know what these exams consist of, so I’ll just run through the basics we’ll do today.” Marc played with the hem of his shorts. “Since you just had the main exam in August, you’ll just be doing pretty much a check-up today, making sure you’re still intact after the international break.” Marc nodded, but wasn’t really paying attention, all he could think about was how dry his mouth was. “First, I’ll have you run for 3 minutes on the treadmill, increasing the pace as you run.”

Marc stepped onto the treadmill behind him, ready to get the exam done.

“Aren’t you eager?” The doctor joked, smiling and grabbing a paper before turning the machine on for Marc.

“…Yes.” Marc smiled, keeping pace with the machine. It grew faster as the minutes passed, but he didn’t really notice. All he wanted was for this to be over, so he could be back there, with Pedri and Lewa. He wants to be in the field, with the ball at his feet and his worries gone.

“Okay, you can stop.” The doctor said, his expression one of confusion, or maybe concern, Marc couldn’t tell. “You’re still in perfect shape regarding your stamina.” He wrote on his paper as he spoke, worries blooming in Marc’s mind.

“Now we can move on to the physical examination.” Marc took a deep breath. “I just need you to take your shirt off and wait for further instruction.”

Quietly, Marc gripped the hem of his shirt in his hands, feeling the stitching in between his fingers. He’ll be there. In one movement, he pulled the shirt over his head, leaving his torso exposed.

The doctor was quiet as he stared at Marc’s chest, his gaze following down his body and lingering at his hips.

“Doctor?-,” Marc started to ask before the doctor spoke up again.

“Alright, you can put your shirt back on.” He said, writing even more on his paper.

Marc immediately started to pull his shirt back on, fumbling with it and barely getting it over his back.

Fears started to invade his mind, one’s saying that he’s not safe, that it’s going to happen again, that he won’t be able to get away this time. He knows Pedri is right there, but what if the doctor locked the door, what if Pedri can’t get in, what if-

“Marc…” The doctor finally spoke up after a minute of writing down on his paper. “I am legally required to ask you this based on what I’ve seen from your physical exam.”

His mouth went dry again.

“Have you been sexually assaulted in the past six weeks?”

Marc only stared back at his doctor, his words barely registered in his mind.

“You’ve got bruises indicating so, and I’ve gotten reports of a concerning mood change.”

What? Mood change? He’s still the same.

“I’m not saying anything about you, or your personality, but this is serious, and I need you to tell me the truth.”

Marc could feel his lips start to raise as he held back tears, because of course he’s already started crying.

“Marc…have you been raped?”

“No.” He answered immediately, his voice coming out much louder than he expected, echoing through the quiet room.

“I-,”

Suddenly the door flew open, Pedri at the entrance, scanning the room. “Is everything okay?” He asked, his concern evident.

“Pedri, this is a private exam.”

“Are you okay?” He asked Marc, ignoring the doctor.

“You need to leave.”

“No, I need to know he’s okay.” Pedri sternly replied, unmoving.

Marc didn’t know what to say, what to do. He didn’t want to tell Pedri he wasn’t not okay, but also didn’t want to say anything else to the doctor.

“I don’t want to have you escorted out.” The doctor stood.

“I’m fine.” Marc spoke up, making eye contact with Pedri, who stared back before nodding.

“Okay, I’ll be out here.” He gave his teammate one last look before shutting the door, leaving the room silent.

“Marc.” The doctor started again, “If you don’t tell me the truth, I will have to get more people involved.”

Marc stared at the ground in front of him, trying to shut out the situation he’s in. Why can’t he just be at training with everybody else? Lewa is probably already on the field talking with Flick. Lamine and Cubarsi are probably in the locker room, filming stupid videos of each other that they’ll post to their stories later. Marc could be with Pedri, getting ready to go out on the training field, talking about the next game.

“It’ll just be on your records.” The doctor continued, “The medical team will make sure nobody knows or finds out.” He reassured Marc, who continued staring at his feet.

Weakly, with tears blurring his vision, Marc nodded his head, not even looking up at the older man. He could hear him make a sound of notice, writing more on his paper.

“Please…Please don’t tell anybody.” Marc whispered.

“The only person I have to tell is Hansi.” The doctor replied, standing up and placing the paper at his desk.

“No..!” Marc cried.

“It is private information on your record.” The doctor turned back towards Marc, “He is not legally allowed to tell anybody else. I am required to inform him as he is your coach.”

Marc’s eyes squeezed shut, accepting what was going to happen.

“Wh-when?” He asked, trying to calm himself down.

“As soon as possible.”

More tears left fell down Marc’s cheeks, who couldn’t even control his emotions. With every passing day it felt like more and more people found out. It’s so embarrassing seeing the way people look at him change, all because they know he was forced apart, damaged, used. Is Flick going to have him benched more? Is he going to tell the rest of the team, who will look at him with disgust? Should Marc just leave and never come back?

The doctor opened the door for him, and with his head down, Marc walked out, stumbling into Pedri’s arms, who squeezed him tightly.

“What happened?” Pedri whispered by Marc’s neck, the two still hugging.

Marc took a deep breath, thinking about how long the doctor stared at him and his bruises. Is he that damaged? Marc didn’t even know he had bruises. Any time he was in front of a mirror, he would look away out of disgust. Just thinking about it makes him want to vomit.

“I…I’m…He found out.” Marc whispered, his arms wrapped around Pedri, who slowly pulled away from his teammate. He moved his face in front of Marc’s trying to make eye contact.

“No, that’s okay.” Pedri reassured, “Listen, it’s good he knows, he’s your doctor, so it’s best he is aware.”

“No…no because…” Marc squeezed his eyes shut, covering his face, “he’s going to tell Flick.”

“…No, that’s fine Marc.” Pedri replied after a moment of silence, “Flick isn’t going to treat you any differently, he’s just…he’ll just be aware of it.”

Marc nodded, not wanting to talk about it anymore, he just wanted to go.

-

Jude sat in a quiet part of the Madrid training grounds, having a moment to breathe. Camavinga sat down with him, the two sitting in silence together. It was hot for a November day, but maybe Jude just wasn’t used to this Spanish weather.

He and Camavinga didn’t really talk about what happened a week ago. Jude just knows that his teammate’s phone is cracked now. Jude could tell Camavinga wasn’t going to complain, and some suspicion arose at that. He knew that at least Vazquez had some idea of what happened, but he doesn’t know if he saw the video.

Honestly, he doesn’t even really know why he cares so much. Obviously he doesn’t want it to get leaked, but that’s not even his main worry. The idea that someone else got off to the image of Marc just kinda pissed him off.

“Yo.” Vazquez greeted, who Jude didn’t even see. His mood immediately soured.

“Yeah?” Jude asked, taking a sip of water from his bottle. He didn’t want him to feel like his presence was wanted.

“I…” The Spaniard started saying, a smirk growing on his face. “ I got a taste of that Barça player.”

Jude paused, his attention turning towards his teammate, who was just smiling.

“Well, more like he got a taste of me.” He laughed, sitting down next to Camavinga, who had sat up curiously.

“What?” Jude asked, a feeling of anger slowly consuming his body as his teammate’s words settled in. A taste of Marc. Marc who he fucked, Marc who took what Jude gave him. Vazquez got to him?

“I fucked his mouth.” He casually said, “We were alone in the Spanish locker room, and I just pushed him over and put it in.”

“What did you say?” Jude looked at Vazquez, who only smiled, seemingly encouraged by his reaction.

“Yeah, I mean he didn’t even fight back that hard, he just laid there, almost like he wanted it.”

Jude stood up, his anger getting the better of him. He grabbed his teammate by the shoulders and tossed him to the ground. He could hear Camavinga say something but ignored it, this anger controlling him.

“What the fuck?” Vazquez muttered, started to push himself up before Jude pushed him back down.

“Don’t ever fucking say anything like that infront of me again.” Jude spat. His teammate only stared up at him, confused.

Before anyone could even ask anything, Jude walked away.

He’s too tired to deal with this shit.

-

“Vamos Marc!” Araujo yelled, their team having won the game during training. It had been tense, a close match. Marc’s team, made up of Araujo, De Jong, Pau Victor, Szczęsny, and himself, had spent close to thirty minutes competing with Pedri, Cubarsí, Peña, Lewa, and Gavi. Marc had made the winning assist to Pau, the small team immediately cheering over the victory, no matter how trivial it was.

Marc smiled, his happiness matching those of his teammates for once, who ran over to him. It was one of those goals where the assist was better than the shot, so most of the attention was on him.

Araujo quickly made his way to the Spaniard, his pace not slowing as he bent down and lifted the shorter up, holding him up by his legs and carrying him around the field. Immediately Marc tightly grabbed onto Araujo’s shoulders, his eyes widening as he lost control of feet. He could see everybody laughing, and was prepared to ignore the anxiety building up in him until he saw Pedri look at the two with that stupid concerned expression.

“Put him down.” Pedri loudly said, quickly making his way over to the two.

“Don’t be a sore loser.” Araujo laughed, lifting Marc up even higher, grabbing onto a part of his butt in the process. Marc could tell he wasn’t masking his fear well, Pedri’s worry becoming even more apparent,

“Put him down.” Pedri repeated, his tone widely different from everybody else’s. The mood of the pitch suddenly soured as Araujo set down Marc with a confused look on his face.

Marc could feel his cheeks heat up as everybody stared at him. He wanted to curse out Pedri for being so serious, that he’s being annoying and not helping him at all, but instead he just walked away, going to the bench his water bottle sat on.

It’s not like he was scared of Araujo. He’s not, he’s not even scared. He doesn’t know why he feels like that. And he doesn’t know why Pedri is responding like that. He’s gotten so overprotective after that game against Switzerland, it pisses Marc off. It’s so embarrassing when he acts like that in front of everybody. Marc’s not a baby. He can handle himself. Pedri isn’t his mom.

“Hey.” A voice, Lewa’s, said from above him, a soft smile on the older’s face. “That was a great pass.” He sat next to Marc on the bench.

“Thanks.” Marc muttered, still simmering with annoyance.

Lewa didn’t reply, the two sitting in silence as they watched their teammates continue celebrating, though Pedri was by himself, staring into the ground.

“Are…are you starting for tomorrow’s game?” Marc asked after a minute of silence between the two, the quietness almost killing him.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Lewa asked back, turning towards Marc, who suddenly felt stupid.

“I don’t know…Flick said something about resting players.” Marc answered, scrunching his face.

“Is Flick going to rest you?” Lewa questioned, leaning back.

“Mmm…I don’t know.” Marc replied, his mind numb. Something about this meaningless conversation helped him calm down and forget about his embarrassment.

A warm hand rested on his knee, Lewa’s touch being the only communication between the two as they sat silently. They stayed like this until one of the assistant coaches approached them. Marc swallowed, his mouth suddenly going dry as he realized what was about to happen.

“Yes?” Lewa asked first before the assistant could even speak. Marc appreciated it.

“Hansi wants to speak with Marc.” The assistant answered, not even looking at Marc. He understands it’s probably because Lewa was the first to speak up, but it still feels like one of those moments when he’s being treated like a child.

“Okay.” Marc stood, the assistant looking at him for the first time. He probably knows. He can see that disgusted look in his face, like he can see right through Marc’s feeble attempt at being tough.

“You can follow me.” The assistant turned around, walking towards the group of staff surrounding Flick towards the entrance of the training field. Marc nodded, not turning back to Lewa as he trailed behind the assistant. He could hear his teammates collectively notice, all of them mocking him like he was in trouble. All but Pedri and Dani, who just stared.

Once they reached Flick, the rest of the staff walked away, including the assistant, who Flick thanked. Right now, it was just Marc, Flick and what had happened to Marc.

“I was met by your doctor earlier this morning.” Flick started, and Marc was already fidgeting, “He explained to me what happened to you.”

Marc nodded, staring at the ground in front of him the whole time. He knows he probably looks pathetic, but he just can’t face Flick right now. The humiliation of this whole situation is too overwhelming.

“I just want you to know that if you ever feel uncomfortable around the other players, Barça or any other team, let me know.”

Marc clenched his fists, still refusing eye contact with his coach. He’s still being treated like this, like he is different from how he was before, like he is weak. He wants to scream that he can protect himself, that he’s not some child. He’s still the same player who yells the loudest and jumps the highest. He still has that energy inside him. He wants to celebrate with his teammates, to jump on their backs, and have them jump on his. He’s not anybody different just because of something that happened to him. He is still the same person.

“Listen,” Flick continued, “I am not going to start treating you any differently, but you’re a very important player, not only for your ability on the pitch, but how you affect the team. I have noticed that your spirit has been down, and I want to make sure that you’re okay.”

Marc nodded, his words echoing through his mind. His affect on the team?

“You’re stronger than you think, Marc.” Flick said, patting the player on the shoulder. For the first time in this conversation, Marc looked up at his coach.

“Okay…thank you.” Marc said, words not coming to mind as he was distracted by Flick’s message.

“You’re starting against Celta Vigo, by the way.” The coach said as he started walking away.

“Okay.” Marc said, a small smile on his face. He wasn’t necessarily happy, more like a feeling of relief. Something changed that morning, Marc just couldn’t tell what.

-

The idea first came to Jude the night Barça drew against Celta Vigo. He watched the game alone in his apartment, barely paying attention to anything else but him. It had become a habit, to follow each and everything Marc did. And not just on the pitch either, no. He went out of his way just to make a fake account to view all his Instagram posts and stories, desperate for any sign of Jude’s presence remaining in the boy.

Jude wants to know that he made an impact on him. He’s already seen it, whenever he’s tossed around by other players on the field, he can see that familiar flash of fear in his eyes. It was so gratifying to the English player, but it wasn’t enough. He needs to see how much different he is in normal life. If he is scared to be alone, or if he covers more skin, if he thinks about that night, anything that indicated Jude had an affect on his life. At one point, he started watching the Barcelona training videos, just to see how his teammates would pick him up, pat his head, or push him down. He’s spent more time than he would like to admit just looking at videos off the Barcelona instagram page, just for a glimpse of the boy he broke. It was this sick part inside of him that wanted ownership over the boy that had first given him the idea to go after him again.

He knew for a while he wouldn’t really have a chance, or reasonable excuse, to see him in person again, so the next best option was to message him. They don’t follow each other on Instagram, obviously, so for the moment, he decided to just wait. Though, he didn’t exactly know what he was waiting for. It made him want to laugh sometimes. He’s so obsessive, but doesn’t even have the balls to go after him for a second time. Maybe he was just waiting for when he lost all sense, which didn’t seem too far away.

He didn’t make note of Barca scoring two goals, it didn’t matter to him, as much as Ancelotti would disagree. All that he focused on was Marc. Marc running, Marc passing, Marc tackling, Marc, Marc, Marc. Jude knows that something in him is fucked up, he knows that Marc does not want to ever see him again, but that’s exactly what is encouraging him. He wants this sense of control to never die out. He wants him again, he wants to feel him again, he wants to do so much to him again. The feeling almost ached throughout his whole body, like he could taste it. He’s never desired someone this much, and he knew it should probably scare him, how much he obsesses over the boy, but it just doesn’t.

What does scare him is the thought that he’ll never get to fulfill this sick desire, that Marc will slip through his fingers. The idea riles up something similar to that need for the boy. If he had him in front of him, nothing would stop him, he could take him immediately. But that is the problem, he is not in front of him. He is away, in Barcelona, with the rest of his teammates, who could know about what happened, Lewandowski definitely does.

He’s thought of it before, wondered how Lewandowski reacted when he found Marc half naked and leaking Jude’s cum. It made him want to laugh at first, but as this desire for Marc grew, the threat of those around him did as well. How will he ever reach the boy if he’s always being protected? That’s another reason why he wants to get to him this way, online, where Marc has no one to run to. Jude just needs a sign, one last push, something that will tell him this is what he needs to do.

So, when Marc got his second yellow card, leading to a red and pleading with the ref, Jude finally decided to go through with it. He pulled out his phone and typed the boy's name into Instagram, pulling up his account and tapping the blue follow button. Some part of him was telling him he’s stupid for following him on his public account, that he shouldn’t do that, that he shouldn’t even do any of this. But he really doesn’t care. All he can think about is how Marc is feeling right now, alone in the locker room, with the threat of Jude lurking over him.

-

Marc shrugged his shoulders, asking the ref why he was getting his first yellow over a legal tackle. The ref just told him the decision was final, and turned back to the Celta Vigo player who was asking for a free kick. Marc just huffed, turning to walk away before Pedri ran up behind him.

“Marc, you need to be more careful.” He said between breaths, placing his hand on his teammate’s shoulder.

Marc turned around, facing his teammate who stared at him with that stupid concerned expression he’s so fucking tired of.

“I didn’t mean to.” Marc said, trying to shake of Pedri’s hand.

“No, I mean like, they- the other players could get mad.”

Marc’s annoyance from the yellow card was already building up, and Pedri’s comment did not make it any better.

“Stop treating me like this.” He pulled his shoulder away, out of Pedri’s hold.

“What-,” His teammate started before Marc interrupted.

“You- you’re treating me differently, like everybody else. Before you would act like, like nothing happened to me, but now, I don’t know why, but you’re acting like I’m some fucking baby.” Marc snapped, trying to keep his voice down.

“What?” Pedri asked, his eyebrows furrowed as he scanned his teammate’s face.

“Just stop.” Marc turned around, getting back into form as the game started up again. It wasn’t long after that, that he had another yellow card, leading to a red. He tried talking to the ref, but it was useless. He was so frustrated with everything that he didn’t even bother talking to any of his teammates, he just went straight to the tunnel.

He knows that his tackle was rough, but it didn’t deserve a second yellow card. It was strikingly quieter in the tunnel, the lack of cheering fans leaving alone with his own thoughts.

He sat on the bench, his head in his own hands, reviewing the entire game. God, Flick was going to be mad at him. He’s going to miss out on the next La Liga game. This is so fucking stupid.

Loud cheers echoed into the locker room, a goal for Celta Vigo.

Marc’s fingers curled around his own face as the weight of his mistake started to weigh on him. And before he could even accept his own situation, more cheers filled the sound of the locker room, a second goal for Celta Vigo, making the score 2-2.

“God…” Marc muttered, tears threatening to fall down his face. A mixture of anger, guilt, and sadness started to fill up his mind as he sat alone. It was only a matter of minutes until the rest of the team would join him, probably with looks of anger, and Marc didn’t blame them. He’s the reason they lost. He’s so fucking stupid.

He could hear his phone go off, but didn’t even bother picking it up. It was probably his family trying to comfort him, trying to justify his tackles, criticizing the ref. Marc just stayed in the same position, his head in his hands, waiting for the game to end.

As the minutes passed, and the players all walked in, no one was really mad at him. There was a lot of guilt going around the entire locker room, Koundé blaming himself as well. Marc still apologized to everybody, only getting understanding nods back.

He went home that night, ignoring all notifications and rushing to make a post on Instagram, expressing his guilt for his mistake, and how he takes responsibility for the loss. Immediately his comments filled up with blue and red hearts, and Marc’s tight chest started to ease. He finally took a second to breathe, and opened his notifications to see if any of his teammates saw the post yet.

What he wasn’t expecting to see was a disgustingly familiar name.

Marc threw his phone on impulse, like it was suddenly burning hot. Did he read it wrong? Was it a fake account? He picked up the phone, slowly opening notifications again, clicking onto the account, a familiar feeling of nausea started to form.

Jude followed him.

-

Marc laid in bed with a deep pit in his stomach, anxiety fluttering through his chest with each and every thought he had. A growing feeling of being trapped started to consume him as he tried to fall asleep. It almost ran through his veins, making him want to clench his fists around his pillow, to throw it with all his strength and cry loudly. But, instead he just laid in his bed, a puddle of fear starting to surround him and soak into his clothes.

Would he ever leave Jude’s hold? Would the bruises on his hips ever fade? Would the anger ever go away? He’s so tired but he can’t sleep.

A passing thought of telling Lewa came by every once in a while, but Marc knew he shouldn’t. He would just try and get other people involved, more people that would look at Marc with disgust and pity. And telling Pedri wouldn’t work either. Ever since Marc was attacked a second time, Pedri has been different. It’s like he wants to protect Marc all the time. Like Marc was a child and everybody who interacted with him wanted to hurt him. He can see the way Pedri’s eyes widen whenever Marc talks to literally anybody else.

So no, telling Pedri wasn’t an option either. The more he thought about it, the idea of telling anybody just seemed less and less smart. He can handle this himself, Jude only followed him. He can just block him, he doesn’t need to worry this much. It’s not like Jude is here, in Marc’s empty apartment.

So, with the only sound being a clock ticking in his living room, Marc pulled out his phone and opened Instagram. A breath of air he didn’t know he had been holding in had left him when he opened the app and only saw notifications from likes and comments. No one else on the team followed him…not Camavinga or Vazquez. Slowly Marc swiped to the left, opening up his messages, only for his heart to sink.

A message from Jude.

And with no one else in the apartment, Marc cried, his confidence crumbling as he realized he would never escape.

It was pathetic, how loudly he sobbed. It wasn’t just because he was scared. A deep sense of hopelessness had started to wash through him. His life would never be the same, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it. A sense of anger flickered in the back of his mind, the question of what he did to deserve this being asked. He just wants to be normal, to play for Barça, to live his life. Why does he have to have the constant memory of what happened loom over him? Does Jude feel anything? Marc hasn’t felt anything of what he used to. He used to wake up excited to go to training, ready to see his teammates, who look back at him like he’s normal. Not like he’s defiled and disgusting. Marc used to confront other players, he used to be fearless in front of those he shouldn’t be. He even used to want a girlfriend, someone to spend his time with. But now, he can’t even imagine wanting anybody to see him in that way. He is disgusting all because Jude wanted him that night.

After a few minutes of tears, Marc gathered all the mind he had left, and opened the message.

3 hours ago

Jude Bellingham: Nice game you had just now.

1 hour ago

Jude Bellingham: If you’re planning on just ignoring me, remember I have a video that could ruin your entire career, so be a good boy and make the right decision.

The words were like a weight crushing him. His legs shook, and if he hadn’t already been sitting, he definitely would be by now. He knew beforehand that Jude wouldn’t be messaging him for any good reason, but a small part of him hoped that maybe, just maybe, it would be for something else. Something like Jude telling him he’ll leave him alone, or that the video was deleted, or that he’s sorry and Marc didn’t deserve it.

But no, no it’s not that. It’s just another confirmation to Marc that this will never end.

A thought, a terrible, terrible thought had briefly come to Marc’s mind. One that he never thought he would have. Weeks of constant anxiety and anger were already enough to push Marc close to the edge, and with this, it just seemed like he couldn't do it any longer. The idea went as fast as it came, but its root has already formed in his mind, lingering in the back. Immediately he shook his head, ridding himself of the idea of harming himself, and instead focused on the problem in front of him.

He needs to reply to Jude, right now.

Marc Casadó: I’m not ignoring you.

He sat for a moment before typing some more.

Marc Casadó: I was asleep.

He somehow feared that Jude would know he was lying, that he was kept up with anxiety from his terrible day, but ignored it. Instead, he just stared into his phone, which was the only light in his quiet apartment.

To his dismay, Jude replied quickly.

Jude Bellingham: Tired after your game today?

It was such a casual question, like they were friends. It was almost a spit in the face of Marc, who shook in fear. How could he be so casual when he’s holding Marc’s whole life in his hands?

Marc Casadó: Yes.

Jude Bellingham: Cute.

Jude Bellingham: Bet everybody was mad at you. Did your little boyfriend Pedri protect you?

Marc Casadó: He’s not my boyfriend. Nobody was mad.

Jude Bellingham: Who is your boyfriend then?

Marc Casadó: I’m straight.

Marc anxiously fidgeted as Jude took a few minutes to reply, the pit in his stomach growing deeper.

Jude Bellingham: Do straight guys get fucked in the ass?

Marc didn’t know what to say to that, but he could imagine Jude, smirking and waiting for Marc’s reply. And before he even could, Jude started typing again.

Jude Bellingham: And do straight guys suck dick too?

Marc’s mind went numb by this point, the message barely registering in his mind. All he could think were the words, no no no. Vazquez must have told him. Why? Can’t Marc be saved from humiliation just once? A familiar feeling of nausea started form in his chest.

Marc Casadó: I didn’t want to

Marc Casadó: He just pressed it on my lips

Marc Casadó: It didn’t even go in

Jude Bellingham: That’s not what I heard.

Marc’s fingers shook as he typed desperately, to appease the man as fear of him leaking the video bloomed in his mind.

Marc Casadó: I covered my mouth i really didn’t let him

Jude Bellingham: So are you just whoring yourself around now, after you liked it from me so much? How many of the Barça players have fucked you already?

Marc Casadó: None i swear to god

Jude Bellingham: So you’ll only ever take it from me?

Marc’s heart dropped, the message sending him into a spiral. Is Jude implying it’ll happen again? Is he going to blackmail him and force this whole thing to become a regular thing, to happen forever?

Marc Casadó: Please not again

For once, he didn’t care how pathetic his words sounded, he was just desperate for it to end.

Jude Bellingham: What again? Me fucking you? Are you scared?

Marc’s body was begging for sleep at this point, his anxiety being the only thing keeping him awake.

Marc Casadó: Please stop

Jude Bellingham: If you were with me right now, what would we do?

Marc waited for Jude to continue, but realized it wasn’t a rhetorical question. Just how sadistic is he?

Marc Casadó: I don’t know

Jude Bellingham: Would you suck my dick this time?

That feeling of wanting to clean himself started to return, joining the anxiety that’s been clinging onto him for the past few hours. He wanted to scrub his body, to reach far enough where he’ll find untouched skin.

Marc Casadó: You would make me

-

Guilt gnawed at Pedri. Guilt has been gnawing at Pedri. It has been eating his brain, consuming his thoughts. He used to be so composed, so ready when problems faced him.

When Marc first told him about what happened, he was shocked, of course. He knew something was wrong with his teammate, but to be confronted with the reality of it was much more intense. Though, in that moment, he felt like he knew what to do, how to treat Marc, how to handle the situation.

Marc wanted normalcy. He wanted it to be how it used to be, and Pedri could read that, he could do that, he did do that. In the days following when the taller first found out, Marc was doing better. He finally had started to go back to the loud, energetic, and fun person he used to be. Pedri had felt proud of his teammate, and was happy with himself for finding the solution with no issue.

Until Pedri left him, left him alone, left him by himself, left him vulnerable.

Thinking of what happened to Marc, all because he had been stupid enough to think it was okay to leave, made him want to cry. When Dani had approached him in med, telling Pedri that something happened and that Marc needs him, his heart dropped. Quickly, he stood from where he was stretching, apologizing to the doctor, and making his way to the locker room. Dani’s explanation didn’t become any less vague as Pedri further questioned his teammate, the taller only telling him that something happened and that he walked Marc to his hotel room.

Something died in Pedri that night. Probably his rationality, because after that, every bone in his body only wanted to protect Marc. The idea of Marc being attacked again, even when he is supposed to be there to protect him, weighed on him more than anything else has. He never wanted to see his teammate how he did the night after the Switzerland game, the night after Pedri left him alone. Seeing tears flow down his face, how his body shook, how tired he was, all because of Pedri’s stupidity.

So, when one of their teammates touches Marc in a way he knows he doesn’t like, he’s going interfere, even if Marc gets mad at him. He’s not going to just stand there and let him suffer when he can stop it.

Pedri tried talking to Marc after the game. He wanted to explain why he has been the way he has been. He’s not trying to be annoying or make Marc feel like a child, he just wants to make sure he’s okay. Though, when he tried to approach him in the locker room, Marc just ignored him, quickly leaving before the taller could follow.

Even when he went back to his apartment, the unsettled feeling he had didn’t leave him. He tried falling asleep, but all he could think about was everything that had happened the past month that led up to this day. So, in a moment of impulsion that he wouldn’t have had two months ago, Pedri stood, leaving his apartment and driving to Marc’s, his brain focused on one thing.

He needs to help his teammate.

Quickly, Pedri made it to Marc’s apartment, finding his door and knocking without hesitation. He could hear some movement from the other side, even heard a muffled yelp of surprise. He felt bad if he woke the shorter up, but his feeling of urgency kept him from dwelling on it.

“Marc, it’s me.” Pedri said, waiting for the door to open.

For a few seconds, the only sound Pedri could hear was the dull noise of his own heartbeat, the door yet to open, Marc yet to let Pedri in.

“What- what are you doing here?” Marc finally asked. His voice was scratchy, and Pedri could tell he had been crying.

“I want to talk.” He replied, and suddenly, all the reasoning he had to get up so late in the night and drive over here seemed to disappear. He felt stupid, waiting for his teammate’s reply.

“I can’t right now.” The muffled voice from the other side said. He could practically hear the lies coming from his mouth.

“No, it’s important Marc, I-, could you just let me in?” Pedri said, his brows starting to furrow as he grew frustrated with his teammate’s stubbornness.

“I can’t.” Marc practically whined.

“Marc, let me in.” Pedri said, his hand hitting the door subconsciously. He can’t leave now, not when he can hear how anxious Marc is.

Slowly, the door opened, revealing the figure of Marc, who’s gaze avoided Pedri’s. The apartment was dark, and Pedri had to find the light switch before closing the door behind him.

The sight in front of him was one he was used to. Marc, with puffy eyes, red cheeks, and staring at the ground in front of him. Immediately, he could tell something was bothering him. And before Pedri could even start talking, the shorter turned away, walking to his bed before he was stopped.

“Can we talk?” He asked, his head tilting like he was desperate for an answer. His hand was on his shoulder, forcing him to turn and face him.

“About what?” Marc asked, finally looking at his teammate.

“I…” Pedri stuttered at the sudden gaze, “About today.”

Marc cynically chuckled, shaking Pedri’s hand off his shoulder.

“What, so you can get pissed at me? I’m sorry about the red card. I know it’s my fault. I know the loss is my fault, okay? You want to rub it in?”

“No,” Pedri rubbed his head, “Not about that, about what I said, like, on the field.”

Marc turned back around, glancing at his teammate before continuing towards his bed. Though, Pedri saw how he looked at him, how scared his face looked.

“Can’t you just forget about it.” Marc hissed. Pedri trailed behind him, annoying the shorter.

“Are you serious?” Pedri asked, growing more frustrated with how Marc has been acting. He understands he wants to not think about it anymore, but they can’t just act like it didn’t happen.

“Yes, i’m fucking serious.”

“Can’t you just let me help you?” Pedri said, exasperated, “I mean, why’d you even let me in if you’re just going to act like this. I said I wanted to talk, so can we fucking talk?” Marc’s back was still to him at this point, but the shorter had stopped moving, unresponsive to his teammate’s words.

Until Marc suddenly turned around, facing his teammate. With tears about to spill out of his eyes, he spoke up.

“I don’t know why I let you in, okay? I’m just stupid i’m so fucking stupid. I replied to Jude, I shouldn’t have but I did. I don’t want to talk, I don’t know what to do anymore. Everything is so messed up because i’m so fucking stupid.”

Everything came out so quickly, the shorter’s words starting to slur as he cried. Pedri stared at him, trying to comprehend all he heard.

“You…replied to Jude.” Pedri asked, concern and confusion starting to replace his frustration.

“I…” Marc started, but couldn’t seem to find the words, just looking away with shame.

“What do you mean you replied to Jude?” Pedri asked again, his voice growing louder as he became more aware of what Marc was trying to tell him.

“He…” Marc started before wiping his hands down his face and taking a deep breath, “He dm’d me…” He looked back down, letting tears slip down his cheeks before continuing, “And I- I didn’t know what to do.” His breathing was rapidly quickening, and Pedri immediately put his hand on his shoulder, calming down his teammate.

“What…what did he say?” Pedri asked after Marc finally caught his breath.

“He- he fucking threatened me…said that he’ll release the video if I didn’t reply.” He wiped his face, still refusing eye contact.

“Has he been messaging you for a while?”

“No…” Marc muttered, “He-,” And before he could finish the sentence, a sudden ringing echoed throughout the apartment catching the attention of both men.

There on Marc’s bed, his phone rang.

A call from Jude.

Chapter Text

Jude wiped his nose, anxiously waiting for Marc’s response. Though, the fluttering in his stomach only added to the warmth already there, the hardness between his legs growing with the uncertainty of this whole situation. He knew when he first followed and texted Marc, that he was risking his whole career, hell, his whole life. But that was just more reason to do it, because he also knew that Marc would do everything he could to appease to Jude. He knew that the vulnerability that was this situation was plaguing Marc, while it was just adding to Jude’s pleasure.

When the Spaniard failed to reply after five minutes, Jude decided to take a step further. He tapped Marc’s profile, staring at it for a second before tapping the call button. For a few moments the call just rang, and Jude was starting to think the Spaniard fell asleep or was ignoring him. Until the boy finally answered, silence coming from the other end.

“Hey Casadó, why're you ignoring my texts now? Did you finally grow a pair or are you just too busy crying?” Jude took the initiative to start the conversation.

“I’ll fucking kill you.” A voice that wasn’t Marc’s came from the other end and Jude’s smile slowly faded as he realized who it was.

“Is that Pedri, Marc?” Jude asked, trying to single out Marc, and subsequently ignoring Pedri.

“What the fuck do you want from him?” Pedri started to ask, before Jude interrupted.

“I’m talking to Marc.”

“No, you’re not.” Pedri practically spat back. “Don’t contact him again, don’t message him, don’t call him, do not interact with him, or else I’ll make sure the whole world knows that Jude Bellingham is a rapist.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jude asked, his mind scrambling as he questioned the situation. How much did Pedri know? Who told him? Was Marc still even there?

“I know everything.” Pedri answered, the venom of his tone almost stung Jude. “You belong in hell, and if I ever see you around him again, I’ll make sure you end up there.”

-

The season continued, and their routine developed. Marc would go to training like normal, spending the day with his teammates. Then Pedri would go back to Marc’s apartment with him after training. They would eat dinner, talk about whichever stupid thing one of their teammates (specifically Lamine or Balde) did that day, and then went to sleep, their bodies pressed together, nothing between them except quiet air and pure platonic affection.

Marc’s struggles were starting to get better with time, as well.

The team, for the most part, treated him like normal. Lamine still insulted his hairline, Szczęsny still teasingly called him “short” or “pitbull”, Araujo even started playfully lifting him up again. And even though his heart would race with panic, he was still glad to be normal again. Yes, he felt anxious whenever he was alone in the locker room, scared when an opponent pushed him down too hard during a corner, and annoyed when Pedri started treating him like a baby again, but it was all starting to get better, slowly.

Jude’s shadow looming over him started to go away with time as well. He hasn’t heard from him at all since that night in his apartment. No one’s even spoken of him, at least around Marc. He has wondered if that’s because they were told not to by Pedri or even Flick, or if it was just a coincidence. He didn’t necessarily mind either way. Yeah, he hated the idea of them knowing, even accommodating for him, but he also hated thinking about what happened. He didn’t want any more panic attacks than he already was having.

Flick occasionally spoke with him, one time advising him about the team’s psychologist, and the other warning about how they could face Madrid in the Supercopa. It was still early December when he informed him about the possibility of seeing their rivals again, seeing him again, but Marc knew why Flick thought he should know so early. He tried to play off how his breath hitched, nodding his head as he stared at his feet, bad habits returning. The manager noticed, though, glancing at the player before continuing.

“I know you’re close with Pedri.” Flick spoke, his voice as emotionless as usual, “I’m assuming he knows?” Marc nodded, fidgeting with his shirt. “Well, I think it’d be good for both of you if you talked about it,” He hesitated, which was uncharacteristic of the coach, “…talked about what happened.”

It didn’t matter though, Jude hasn’t communicated with him in months, the whole situation was getting farther and farther away.

-

Typically, Marc and Pedri drove back to Marc’s apartment together, carpooling in the morning. But, Pedri had to get something from his own place after training, and the two separated for a bit, planning to meet back up at Marc’s. It was kinda silly that it was this big of a deal that they’ll be separated for thirty minutes at most, but Marc chose to ignore the beating in his chest as he drove home alone.

He had just got out of the shower when it happened. He was in his room, drying his hair off when he heard a noise come from the living room. Instinctively, he whipped around, looking out of his open bedroom door and seeing a figure in the corner of his eye. Just someone standing there-

And there he was again, on the disgusting floor of the Madrid locker room, Jude leaning over him, between his legs, grunting and thrusting. He couldn’t move, his breath leaving his throat as he fell to the floor, clutching his chest. He wanted to cover himself, wanted to run to the corner of the room and make himself as small as possible, but he couldn’t move. His brain was scrambling a mile a minute, but his body refused to cooperate. All he could think was he’s coming back.

“Marc, Marc what’s wrong?” The figure, Pedri, asked.

“I-I don’t…” His voice came out quiet as his breath was stuck in his throat.

“It’s fine, you’re fine.” Pedri said, almost frantically, his eyes wide as he bent down to Marc’s level.

“I’m…ah…I'm fine.” Marc muttered after finally catching his breath. It didn’t take long for him to realize how stupid he is for thinking Pedri was going to hurt him, to think that Pedri was Jude. He could feel his face become warm, despite having breakdowns in front of his teammate numerous times.

“Are you really fine, though?” Pedri asked, his eyes full of worry.

Marc thought about it, thought about how many panic attacks he’s had, thought about how much he hates it, how tired he is. Then, he remembered what Flick said.

“I think it’d be good for both of you if you talked about it, talked about what happened.”

“Can I tell you what happened?” He blurted out, not thinking before speaking.

The words seemed to hang in the air before Pedri nodded his head, almost enthusiastically.

“Yeah- yes, of course you can.” The older said, his brows furrowing and gaze unwavering.

Marc took a deep breath in, the air shaky in his chest as he gathered the courage to speak.

“My…” His breath caught in his throat, “My brother wanted a Bell-Bellingham jersey.” He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of the memory. “He had asked me to- to swap jerseys with him.” His voice turned high pitched as he tried to contain his tears. He felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest, all just in a few seconds.

“It’s okay.” He could hear Pedri whisper, and felt a hand land on his knee and squeeze it.

“I- I love my brother.” Marc finally cried, tears slipping down his cheeks and he kept his head down, refusing eye contact with his teammate.

“Of course you do.” Pedri reassured, continuing to rub Marc’s knee.

“I went to th-their locker room…I- ah, I don’t know what I was thinking.” Marc cried, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, his heart beating rapidly as the memories of that night started to flood back.

“You don’t have to…you don’t have to tell me, Marc.” He heard his teammate say over the sound of his own breathing. He didn’t even notice he was hyperventilating until now.

For the first time in a while, Marc looked up to Pedri, making eye contact with the older man. He had a look of complete concern and worry he’s never seen from his teammate, not even when they’re on the pitch losing has he seen Pedri like this. It hurt him to see him so drained, knowing that guilt has been plaguing him. It almost made Marc laugh because of how stupid it is.

“We- we were alone.” He continued after a few moments of hyperventilation. “H-He pushed me…he said he’d end my season if I- I didn’t stop fucking moving.” Marc squeezed his fist. “It really hurt, it really fucking hurt.” Some more tears blurred his vision. “He…he grabbed my hair…and- and he banged my…my head against the…” His words trailed as his throat started to close.

“I heard someone coming in.” His voice was high pitched again, he practically whined. “I thought it was Lewa.”

“Marc…” Pedri whispered with utter sadness.

“Camavinga recorded it…he- he was,” Marc took a deep breath, “He was fucking jerking off.” He said with so much repulsion he almost sounded disgusted with himself.

Pedri remained silent, his expression unreadable as his gaze stayed on his teammate.

“Jude…ah…it didn’t work- like I- I was too tight…so he put his- put his fucking fingers inside me.” Marc admitted, his gaze returning to Pedri’s hand. “It hurt, it hurt…but then he actually did it.” Marc gulped, leaning his head back as he tried to ignore the nausea growing in his stomach. “He fucked me.”

He could hear Pedri’s breath hitch, and it didn’t make anything better.

“It hurt, it hurt so fucking bad.” He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the tears drip out, “I thought- I thought I was going to die.”

“I…”

“He was laughing, they both were.” He pressed his face into his hands. “I didn’t know what was funny. They kept saying stuff but I couldn’t really hear-,” He shook his head, “They left me there.”

“It’s ok.”

“No, it’s not. Do you know how embarrassing it is-,” His throat cut off his words again, his breathing becoming rapid again. “I was bleeding…I- it hurt to move!”

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t say that! Don’t fucking say that!“

“Marc-” Pedri’s eyes widened at Marc’s sudden aggression.

“What do you have to be sorry for? You didn’t fucking rape me!”

For once Marc wasn’t afraid to look his teammate in the eyes. Wide eyes started back at him as Pedri processed Marc’s words. It didn’t make sense to him, why Pedri was so guilty, why he was so protective, why he thought it was his fault. He wanted it all past him, he’s so fucking sick of it, but Pedri never lets him forget about it. And then he has the audacity to feel guilty? To feel like he should have done something?

“I don’t-,”

“It’s not your fault, Pedri! Why would it ever be your fault?” He yelled, weeks of unresolved tension finally bursting inside the Spaniard.

The older man only stared back, tears of his own pooled in his eyes, and his nostrils started to flare as he remained silent.

“It’s not your fault.” Marc whispered as his own tears leaked out. “Stop acting like it’s your fault.”

And for a few seconds that felt like minutes, the two remained quiet, the only noise of the apartment being Marc’s silent cries. He was sick of it all, some days it felt like maybe, just maybe, things will get better. Life looked like it could be enjoyable again, like he wouldn’t be plagued with it. But other days, it felt sickening to even think. Anything would trigger him, and all those thoughts flood back. It was so off and on it drove him crazy. It just feels like truly nothing will help him, and it’s so, so exhausting.

“I know it’s not.” Pedri finally replied, his voice uncertain. “I just can’t stand seeing you in pain.”

“Pedri…” Marc sighed, exhaustion suddenly washing over him. “You- you don’t get it.”

“No, Marc, there was- there was so much I could have done.” He whispered.

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, you know, I should have been there with you in the locker room…when Vazquez attacked you.” Pedri explained, covering his face as he spoke, hiding his guilty expression. “I should have been there when you didn’t show up to the bus too. I- I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Marc pursed his lips, looking back at his teammate through blurry vision.

“You couldn’t have known.” The younger croaked.

“But I could have, though.” Pedri replied exasperated. “I could have. I really could have. I mean, why wouldn’t you be on the bus? Lewa was so nervous, I should have realized something was wrong. Fuck, and I can’t stop thinking about how we were still there, still in the bus, while you were being attacked. I- we could have stopped it. I can’t stop thinking about it, and with Vazquez, I mean, you know that’s my fault. It’s my fault and you can’t say it’s not, don’t try and be nice, I know it’s my fault. It’s all my fucking fault.” He said, the words spilling out of him as he got louder.

“What-,”

“I want to kill him, Marc, I want to fucking kill him.” Pedri spat. “I want to do everything I can, because I didn’t before. I want everything to be better for you, I want it to be all better.” He continued, his hands jumping to Casado’s, squeezing them tighter and tighter as he talked.

“You didn’t deserve it, Marc, you didn’t deserve anything that happened.” His own tears were leaking down his face now, and his hands moved up to the shorter’s face, grabbing his cheeks gently.

Marc continued to cry, leaning into his teammate’s touch and absorbing all his words. It was a side of Pedri he’s never seen, something so raw and emotional. It made the tears seem never ending, hearing all this come from the taller.

“It’s not your fault.”

Pedri quickly pulled his teammate in, their bodies pressing together in a hug so tight he fell forward a bit, leaning into the older’s chest before quickly embracing him back.

There, they stayed together, in each other’s arms for what seemed like forever. It was a quiet night in Marc’s apartment, though, the air seemed so much more breathable.

-

Jude knew since early December that it was a possibility they would face Barca again, and the realization made him almost giddy with excitement. Like a fourteen year old girl who just got her first ever boyfriend.

Jude imagined seeing him in the tunnel before the game, talking with the rest of the squad until he made eye contact with the Englishman. The fear that would wash over his face makes Jude’s dick ache. He’d probably try to hide behind one of his teammates, Araujo or Cubarsi most likely. Pretend Jude wasn’t there, maybe even start crying from pure fear, piss his fucking shorts.

He’d brush past him during the game, hands grazing his body, words unspoken between the two on the pitch. Maybe Jude would even tackle the Spaniard a few times, their bodies bumping together as the line between football and whatever their relationship was blurs. Madrid would win, obviously, not letting Barca defeat them twice in a row after their original lucky win in October.

Jude would find him after the game, tired and defeated. He would drag him away from his teammates, no one noticing Marc disappearing as Jude forces him into the closest empty room. The Englishman would probably be uncontrollable once they were alone. He’d lick down his neck, breathing in his fear as Marc struggles back. Tired arms would fight as much as they could, pushing at Jude’s unmoving body. The taller would let him fight back, let him struggle and cry and realize that he’s not getting away.

He’d pick him up eventually, pushing him into the wall and bruising him with a violence that only Marc pulls out of him. Jude’s hands wouldn’t stop, groping, pinching, pulling whatever, feeling all of him after months of none of him. The Spaniard would probably try and call out for help, cries for Pedri and Lewa would echo through the room before Jude wraps his hand around Marc’s mouth. The sheer size of his hand would fit around most of his jaw emphasizing their size difference and making his dick throb.

He’d drop him to the ground, crawling on top of him and quickly stripping off his clothes. Marc wouldn’t even be able to fight back before his jersey was pulled up to his collarbones. Jude would dart down to his nipples, sucking on one and pinching the other between his fingers. Marc would whine from the sensitivity, arching his back and pushing Jude’s head off, crawling away to the corner of the room.

“Get the fuck away from me…” He’d quietly mutter, curling into himself trying to get as small as possible. Terrified eyes would peer up at him, eyebrows furrowed and tears threatening to spill out. The Englishman would let him sit in fear for a moment, letting his shadow loom over him as he almost pisses himself. It’d be a beautiful sight really. Marc was always cute to him, but when he’s scared and crying is when Jude gets the most turned on.

He imagined getting angry at Marc, upset with him for refusing to speak with him for so long. Wondered how many times Pedri got to fuck him while Jude didn’t get anything. He would hit him, let him cry out and try to cover his face. He would toss him around, knocking over whatever was around them in the process. He would pull his hair, the pure anger of being ignored clouding his mind.

He would tear his shorts off, ignoring Marc’s pleas of forgiveness. He’d press him into two, again, pushing his legs to his torso uncomfortably. He would have to restrain Marc, probably, who would still fight back.

He’d palm himself, eager to split the Spaniard into two. Maybe he’d even take more photos, reveling in how they’re only his to see. A photo of the Spaniard's exposed ass, another of his crying face, maybe one more of his dick lined up with his hole.

He’d push in, no stretching, no lube, no spit. It’d probably hurt Jude with how tight it was, but not that badly since Marc probably has been taking it from Pedri daily. And the shorter would cry, scream, maybe even pass out. He’d wake him up, fuck him dry and hard, pushing him into the ground as he chases his own orgasm, like a dog. And he’d come inside Marc, again.

He’d do it so many times. He’d flip him over, coaxing another boner out himself before ruthlessly pushing in again. The blood would make it easier, better to fuck him. The Spaniard would probably still be crying, sobbing even, the pain becoming too much to fight against. Jude’s thighs slapping against Marc’s ass and the crude squelching noise would become the only sounds of the room.

Jude didn’t think much about what he would do after. He couldn’t imagine leaving him again, letting him get away. He can’t even imagine pulling out of him. He’d stay inside for a while, wanting to keep his cum inside the Spaniard, wanting to keep himself inside him forever.

It was pure filth, but Jude didn’t care anymore, he hasn’t cared in a while.

-

Marc saw him first. They were in the tunnel, waiting for the signal to walk out. Marc was talking with Pedri and Dani, though he was more zoning out rather than listening to the soft mumbles between the two.

Jude was talking with Rudiger, something in English. He had his back towards the Spaniard, but Marc still wanted to vomit.

He spent the past week mentally preparing himself for the fact he’ll see him in person again. Though, maybe it was more like he was thinking about every single outcome an interaction with him could have. What if he found him in the locker room again? What if he dragged him away when nobody was looking? What if he just pushed him down on the pitch, attacking him in front of everybody as they all realize how disgusting and weak Marc is?

A hand landed on his shoulder, and the Spaniard instinctively shook it off, whipping his head around and ignoring the shiver that ran through him. Pedri and Dani were now looking at him, evident concern plastered on their faces.

“He won’t come near you, we’ll make sure of it.” Dani whispered with a weak smile of support.

Marc nodded, trying to shake away the thoughts telling him he needs to leave, that he needs to run away as far as he can.

-

They were down one, Mbappé scoring in the 5th minute after Lamine and Raphinha had a couple big chances in the first few minutes. The Frenchman was now down on the pitch, claiming Kounde fouled him. Marc walked up to the player, where the rest of the team was, trying to get a view as best as he could when everybody was standing in the way.

While standing on his toes, peaking around Gavi to get a view of Mbappé, a hand suddenly landed on his shoulder, squeezing it. Immediately, like earlier in the tunnel, Marc tried to shake off whoever was touching him and turned around to see.

He doesn’t know who he expected to be there, to be touching him- practically grabbing him, right in the middle of a game. Behind him, was Jude, leaning over Marc and staring at the scene in front of the both of them. Any other person seeing this would probably think it’s totally normal. Just Jude using Marc to stabilize himself a bit trying to see what’s going on. No one knew how terrifying that single touch was. They both knew, though. Even if Jude wasn’t looking at him, what he was trying to say was loud enough for Marc to flinch. His grip on the Spaniard’s shoulder was so tight he could tell it was going to bruise. Another disgusting mark from him that would linger on his body.

Marc froze, his body refusing to cooperate with his mind. He was in the middle of trying to not hyperventilate when another body blurred into his vision, stepping in between him and Jude.

Dani pulled the Madrid player’s hand off Marc, discreetly pushing him away without saying a word. Marc didn’t have time to process the situation before play started up again.

-

They won, another brutal defeat for the “mighty” Madrid. Marc even assisted with the last goal for Barca, helping Raphinha find his way to the back of the net. He was so happy, so excited, adrenaline consuming his body as he danced with the other players in the locker room. Lamine and Balde were playing music, going live on Instagram and singing.

It was fun, the most carefree he’s been in a long time. He was dancing with a Barca flag, laughing and singing with the rest of his teammates. His cheeks started to hurt from smiling so much. All he thought about was how happy he was at that moment.

Eventually, the team settled down. Balde ended his live and Lamine turned down the music (though he and Balde still seemed as energetic as ever, joking and laughing at something in the back of the locker room). Most of the team had left, leaving the room almost empty apart from Marc, Pedri, Lewa, Dani, Raphinha, and of course Lamine and Balde.

Marc stayed on one of the benches, the one closest to the door, deciding to wait until everybody was gone until he showered. He could hear Dani and Pedri talk as he typed on his phone, replying to all the congratulation texts. Raphinha was talking with Balde, the captain's voice quiet and tired as he spoke. Lewa was by himself, on his phone similarly to Marc.

He was texting his mom back when he could hear the locker room door open from a few feet away. At first, it was just another distant noise, like the sound of Lamine’s constant laughter. He continued to stare down at his phone until the peaceful quietness of the locker room was interrupted by noises coming from the hallway. It sounded like a fight.

The Spaniard barely listened to any of that, his mind going numb as he started to accept what was going to happen. All he could do was stare up at the Madrid player in front of him, curling his body away instinctively. It was crazy how fast he went from overwhelmingly happy to terrified, in just seconds.

But before anyone said anything else, somebody's body blurred into vision, pushing Jude so hard he nearly fell to the floor.

“What the hell?” He mumbled before being pushed into the lockers adjacent to Marc, the loud bang echoing through the locker room and making everybody flinch.

It was Lewa.

“What the fuck do you want?” The older man asked, practically spitting. Marc has never seen him so mad, couldn’t even imagine him showing this much anger.

And for a strange moment, the locker room was completely silent, all attention on the scene right in front of Marc.

“Get the fuck off me,” Jude pushed Lewa, getting the man to wobble a few steps back, “You’ve got no sportsmanship man, I just want to talk to him.”

Jude then turned to Marc, making eye contact with him and smirking down at him like they were friends. The Spaniard didn’t even want to imagine what his face looked like. His back was completely against the wall, his hands shaking as they gripped his phone tightly, fear keeping him unmoving.

“Hold on, we all should calm-,” Raphinha started saying, walking towards the scene before he was interrupted by Pedri.

Pedri who punched Jude before any of them could realize what happened.

The Englishman fell to the ground this time, his head to the side as he started to get up.

Pedri kicked him once, twice, three times before Raphinha was on him, pulling him away.

“Get the fuck out of here.” He spat, struggling to get out of Raphinha’s hold and just staring down at the Englishman, complete hate plastered on his face.

“Are you insane?” Jude yelled, starting to stand back up before the Brazilian stood between the two, trying his best to deescalate the situation as everybody else stayed frozen.

“I’ll fucking kill you if you even get close to him again.” Pedri yelled, his hand waving widely in the air as Raphinha turned back around to Bellingham with a confused expression.

“I think it’d be best for you to go.” Dani said, stepping into the situation.

Jude was back on his feet now, rubbing his jaw.

“Get the fuck out of here.” Pedri snarled, his anger evident. And if anybody walked into this room now, without a clue as to all that has happened before, they would absolutely think Pedri was the victim. His brows were furrowed deeply and tears threatened to leave his eyes as he bit his lips, trying to contain himself. “If you ever try to get to him again I will kill you.” He spoke again, with the most anger Marc’s seen from the boy, just like with Lewa.

“Is everything alright?” A different voice, Flick’s, asked, the older man walking into the locker room.

Jude shook off Raphinha, who stood as a block between him and Pedri, huffing in anger, “Your team is fucking insane.”

“Jude, go.” Raphinha warned.

“No, no, I came in here to talk, and this old man and little fucking Spanish guy want to attack me? Fuck this.” Jude waved his arms dramatically.

“It would be best if you left right now.” Flick said, calm.

“This is why your players spread their legs for anyone, huh?” And this time, the Englishman finally acknowledged Marc, motioning his hands towards him, “For half the Madrid squad.”

And before Flick could say anything, Marc got up and left.

He didn’t know what happened after that. Just left.

-

Jude didn’t try anymore. Pedri had mentioned Flick threatening Jude, legally, refusing to acknowledge the thrown fists and tears that followed. Marc wanted to punch him for being so damn humble.

Everything changed, again.

It didn’t feel like closure, or like any stupid kind of justice. It just ended like that. Abrupt and scary.

Pedri didn’t say anything during the drive back to the hotel, didn’t try to make a joke or change the subject. Marc didn’t want him to. He didn’t need to be distracted anymore.

Lewa was back to his usual self, quiet and annoyingly wise. Dani never spoke about it. Raphinha the same. And Pedri, he was still there, occasionally sleeping over at Marc’s, burning dinner. They stayed close, but Pedri changed that night, like everything else did, in his own way.

Frowned less when Araujo would lift Marc up, cared less about how long the physio treated Marc, started driving to training by himself.

Marc missed parts of it, honestly, but he knew it was better for both of them.

As for himself, sometimes it was hard to tell if he changed at all.

He still woke up from nightmares, clawing at his chest and drenched his sweat. Still shook in Pedri’s hands when Cubarsi grabbed his hip during a tackle, hating how easy it was to be reminded he’s so fragile. Still cried to himself when he felt dirty, silent and so real.

But Jude wasn’t there anymore, he wasn’t leaning over him, his hand wasn’t threatening to graze the back of his neck. He was gone, the bruises lingering but fading.

Now, he could breathe, even just for a second

And maybe that was enough.