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Pedri looked up as the fourth official raised the substitution board.
His number.
Beside it—Ferran’s.
Together.Again.
They stood at the touchline shoulder to shoulder while Luis de la Fuente gave his final instructions. Around them, the noise inside the stadium was deafening, but neither of them heard a word.
Ferran held out his hand Pedri clasped it immediately, one squeeze a habit they’d never talked about.A promise they never needed to say aloud.
Ferran leaned in as though to repeat the manager’s instructions.Instead, hidden by the cluster of coaches and substitutes, he pressed the quickest kiss against the crown of Pedri’s hair.Barely there.Gone before anyone could notice. Pedri breath hitched.
“You got this,” Ferran murmured.
Pedri smiled, unable to stop himself.
“So do you Ferri.”
The assistant referee waved them forward.
Their hands slipped apart.
Side by side, the alpha and omega crossed the touchline and ran onto the pitch together.Neither of them knew that less than half an hour later, Ferran Torres would score the goal that made Spain world champions
The roar of Eighty thousand voices became one thunderous wave as Ferran Torres wheeled away after his 106th-minute strike, the ball still rippling in the net behind Emiliano Martínez. Spain 1, Argentina 0. World Cup champions once more.
Ferran was buried under a pile of red shirts instantly Lamine, Nico, Cucurella, everyone. But through the chaos, one scent cut straight through the sweat, grass, and adrenaline like a blade. Sweet citrus and warm vanilla. Pedri.
The omega midfielder arrived last, smiling so wide his dimples could have lit the stadium. He crashed into the group hug anyway, arms wrapping around Ferran’s shoulders. Their bodies pressed flush, alpha against omega, and Pedri’s instincts screamed. Ferran’s post-goal scent was pure victory: dark,raw, strong and powerful. It flooded Pedri’s senses and made his knees weak. He pushed it down. Tonight wasn’t about him. It was about them. About Spain.
Medals hung heavy around their necks. The trophy gleamed under the floodlights as Ferran, the match hero, was hoisted onto shoulders. Confetti exploded in red and gold. He lifted the World Cup high, screaming with the rest of La Roja. From a few meters away, Pedri watched with pure pride shining in his eyes. His alpha looked every inch the conqueror broad shoulders, flushed cheeks, that cocky grin that made Pedri’s stomach flip even on normal days. Ferran proved everyone wrong that he is indeed worthy player.
Their families flooded the pitch. Pedri posed with his parents and brother, laughing as they fussed over him. Ferran was swallowed by media, endless photos. Their eyes kept finding each other across the chaos. A shared glance.
Pedri laughed under his breath as he finally escaped his family, the World Cup cradled carefully in his hands. Gold confetti still clung stubbornly to his curls
“Just one by yourself,” one of the photographers called. “Kiss the trophy.”
Pedri smiled, fingertips brushing over the cool gold.
He leaned forward slowly.The metal was cold against his lips.The camera shutters erupted.Then another pair of boots stepped into his line of sight.
Pedri blinked.Someone else bent down at the exact same moment, lips meeting the opposite side of the trophy.For a split second, all Pedri could see was the blur of white socks and blue shorts.
Who…?
Then the person looked up.Warm brown eyes.That familiar crooked smile.
Ferran. His Ferri.
Pedri’s surprise melted instantly into something impossibly softer.
“You couldn’t let me have one picture alone?” he murmured, unable to stop smiling.
Ferran chuckled, resting one hand lightly against the side of the trophy with a World Cup medal bouncing against his chest. “Come on. One picture. Just us.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, the golden trophy between them. Cameras flashed like fireworks.
Pedri’s gaze dropped, just for an instant, to Ferran’s mouth before flickering back to his eyes.Ferran noticed and his smile softened.
“So close,” he whispered, too quietly for anyone else to hear.
Pedri let out a quiet laugh.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was.”
“So was I.”
Neither dared kiss not here, not with the world watching but they both leaned down at the same moment and pressed their lips to the cool metal of the cup. The cameras ate it up. It would become one of the defining images of the night. Only they knew they had wanted to kiss each other instead.
In the dressing room the chaos was immediate shouts, screams, bodies crashing together in sweaty hugs. The trophy was passed around like a sacred relic, everyone kissing it, crying on it, lifting it high.
And Ferran was mobbed the second he stepped inside. Teammates piled on him from every direction, jumping on his back, ruffling his hair, slapping his ass, wrapping arms around his waist, chanting his name like he was a god.
Pedri stood a few feet away, forcing a smile while something ugly twisted in his chest. Every touch on Ferran’s body felt like a personal challenge. That was his alpha. His. Yet here they were, hands all over the man who belonged to him Lamine hanging off one shoulder, Gavi trying to climb him like a tree, even the staff clapping him on the chest and back. Ferran laughed through it all, that bright, victorious grin on his face, but Pedri’s omega instincts were snarling.
Mine. He’s mine.
Ferran’s eyes finally cut through the crowd and locked on Pedri. He must have smelled the shift in his scent immediately, because his grin turned sharper, more knowing.
Pedri couldn’t wait anymore. The second there was a tiny opening he pushed through the bodies, grabbed Ferran by the front of his soaked jersey and yanked him in for a tight hug. To everyone else it looked like normal celebration. Only Ferran felt the way Pedri’s nails dug into his back and the way he pressed his face hard into his neck, breathing him in possessively.
“Everyone’s hands are all over you,” Pedri muttered against his skin, low and edged with jealousy. “They need to fucking stop touching what’s mine, alpha.”
Ferran’s hand slid down to squeeze Pedri’s hip, hidden by the chaos. “Easy, mi omega. You know who I belong to.”
The showers were even worse.
Steam filled the tiled room as the squad stripped and stepped under the spray, still singing and shouting. Pedri’s blood was still boiling and when Ferran stepped under the same showerhead, water cascading over his muscular frame, cock already thickening just from being close.
Before Ferran could say a word, Pedri shoved him hard, back against the tiled wall with both hands on his chest. The wet slap of skin on tile echoed under the running water. Ferran’s eyes widened in surprise for half a second, then darkened with heat as Pedri pressed their bodies flush together.
“You’re mine,” Pedri growled, voice rough and shaky with need. He grabbed Ferran’s jaw and kissed him fiercely, tongue pushing inside, claiming. “My alpha. My winner. Stop letting them put their hands all over you or I swear I’ll drag you out of here and ride you in front of everyone just to remind them.”
Ferran groaned into the kiss, hands gripping Pedri’s wet hips. “Fuck, baby… say it again.”
“You’re mine,” Pedri repeated against his mouth, biting his bottom lip. One hand slid down Ferran’s abs and wrapped around his now fully hard cock, stroking possessively under the spray. “This cock? This knot? All mine. Say it.”
Ferran’s head tipped back against the tile, a low alpha rumble vibrating in his chest. “Yours, Pedri. Only yours. Fuck—your scent is driving me crazy.”
Pedri kissed him again, hungrier this time, grinding their slick, wet bodies together while his hand kept working Ferran’s thick length. Water poured over their joined mouths.
Around them the rest of the team kept celebrating, half-drunk and loud, but a few amused glances were definitely being thrown their way.
Gavi’s voice rang out from nearby, half-laughing. “Oi, save some for the hotel, you two!”
Pedri didn’t care. He sucked a mark onto Ferran’s neck, right where his scent gland was strongest. “Let them look. Let them smell. I want them to know who you come home to.”
Ferran’s hand fisted in Pedri’s wet hair, pulling him back into another deep kiss. “Jealous little omega… I love it. Tonight I’m going to knot you so deep you’ll still feel me on that fucking bus tomorrow.”
They stayed tangled under the water a little longer hands roaming, teeth grazing, whispered filthy promises until the jealousy in Pedri’s chest finally settled into warm, possessive satisfaction.
When they finally stepped out, towels slung low on their hips, Ferran’s hand brushed the small of Pedri’s back.
The dressing room was still loud with celebration. Phones were already blowing up clips of Ferran’s winner’s celebration, the trophy lift and zoomed-in shots of him were flooding social media.
Pedri sat on the bench beside Ferran, thigh pressed tight against his, scrolling through the comments with a growing scowl.
“Look at this shit,” he muttered, voice low so only Ferran could hear. “Whole world is thirsting over you. ‘Ferran Torres is my new husband’, ‘That celebration goal run has me on my knees’, ‘Alpha of the century, come knot me Ferran’…” Pedri’s grip tightened on his phone. “They’re all imagining you claiming them. Makes me want to bite every single one of them.”
Ferran chuckled, but his hand slid possessively onto Pedri’s bare thigh under the towel. “Jealous again, mi omega?”
“Not jealous,” Pedri lied, then immediately admitted, “Fine. Very jealous. I need your mark on me. Right now. I want everyone to smell it on me during the bus parade. I want your knot so deep I feel it for days.” His voice dropped to a desperate whisper, scent blooming sweet and needy despite the suppressants. “Please, Ferri. I don’t care if it’s quick. I need you inside me. I need to be claimed.”
Ferran’s eyes darkened instantly. He glanced around the team was still half-dressed, half of them still in showers, others distracted by champagne and phones so grabbed Pedri’s wrist.
“Come with me.”
They slipped out of the dressing room like ghosts, still damp from the showers, wearing only training shorts and medals. Ferran led them down a quiet service corridor deep in the stadium until he pushed open the door to a small, dimly lit storage unit. The second the door clicked shut behind them,Ferran shoved Pedri against the wall exactly like he had in the shower.
“Mark me,” Pedri demanded, already yanking Ferran’s shorts down. “Bite me while you knot me. Make it hurt so good.”
“Fuck, Pedri…” Ferran growled. Their mouths crashed together, hungry and messy. Hands shoved shorts the rest of the way off. Pedri was already dripping slick down his thighs, cock hard and leaking.
Pedri dropped to his knees for barely ten seconds, sucking Ferran deep just to taste him, lubing him up before standing up and gets spinned around by his alpha and bending him. He slicked his thick cock with Pedri’s wetness and pushed in with one relentless thrust.
“Shit—yes—” Pedri moaned, pushing back to take every inch.
Ferran fucked him hard and fast, one hand fisted in Pedri’s hair, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise. The storage room filled with the wet sounds of skin slapping and Pedri’s broken whimpers. Outside there were people at a distant. They didn’t care. They are the world champions, they are high on everything. Ferran and pedri are in sync. Moaning into each others mouth.
“You want my mark?” Ferran panted against his neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot where shoulder met neck. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine?”
“Yes—please, alpha—mark me, knot me, fill me up—”
Ferran snarled and sank his teeth into Pedri’s neck at the same moment his knot swelled and locked deep inside. Pedri cried out, coming untouched as the bite sent white-hot pleasure crashing through him. Ferran kept grinding through the lock, pumping rope after rope of hot cum into him until it was leaking out around the thick knot.
They stayed locked together, panting. Ferran licked gently over the fresh mating bite, soothing it while rumbling soft praises against Pedri’s skin.
“Mine now. Officially. No one else gets to even dream about you.”
Pedri smiled breathlessly, reaching back to thread his fingers through Ferran’s hair. “Good. Let them thirst. They’ll smell you on me for weeks.”