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OH FERRAN !!

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𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ferran couldn't wait to get his hands on you after all of the world cup celebrations but he forgets that hotel walls tend to be very, very thin.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 nsfw content below cut. smut with very, very little plot, rough sex, drunk sex (consensual obv), oral sex (f & m receiving), unprotected sex + creampie, praise, exhibitionism (if you squint), overstimulation

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 2.7k

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | we're taking a break from our normal programming for a ferran fic because i couldn't get him out of my head since that goal on sunday. finally, argentina has lost, peace in the soccer world is restored. this is my first smut i've written in probably over a year so please be kind... LOL.

in other news, colston fic will def NOT be posted this week and i'm so sorry for lying to you... but i hope this makes it up????

The hallway is too bright.

That's the first thing you notice when the elevator doors slide open - the horrible, fluorescent quiet of a hotel at 4am, every light still on like it doesn't know the world just ended and began again. Ferran notices too, squinting against it, and you have to clap a hand over your mouth to stop from laughing at the face he makes.

"Shh," you whisper, which sets him off, shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping it in.

He's drunk. You're drunk. The whole night had been like that - champagne that tasted like winning, music that rattled through your chest, Ferran's arm around your waist every time you tried to wander more than two feet away from him. Possessive in that certain way he gets, his thumb drawing slow circles against your hip through the fabric of your dress while he talked to his teammates, like he wasn't even thinking about it. Like you were just his, and that was that.

You'd pretended not to notice. He'd pretended he wasn't doing it.

"Third door on the left," he murmurs now, close to your ear, and the warmth of it does something stupid to your stomach. He's got your hand in his, fingers laced together, pulling you down the corridor with this urgency that keeps threatening to tip over into something reckless.

"You're going to wake everyone up, Pedri and Gavi are next door," you hiss.

"I'm not doing anything." He stops at his door and turns to face you, and even now - rumpled, champagne-flushed, eyes gone soft with exhaustion and something else entirely, he looks like the man who scored the only goal in a World Cup final. Like someone who got exactly what he wanted and is already thinking about the next thing.

He fumbles with the keycard.

It doesn't work.

You bite down on a smile. "Ferran."

"I know, I know-"

He tries it again, the little light flashing red, and he exhales through his nose and presses his forehead briefly against the door like it's personally betrayed him. You're going to laugh, you can feel it building.

"Flip it the other way," you whisper.

He does. The light blinks green.

He turns back to you with an expression that can only be described as triumphant, like he's scored again. The lock clicked loudly in the silent hallway and you both froze, wide-eyed and drunk, before dissolving into hushed laughter.

"Shh, shh," he grinned, the smile boyish and wicked all at once as he pushed the door open. His hand slid lower on your body, squeezing your hip, then your ass as he guided you inside. "I'll be quiet, baby. I promise."

The door had barely clicked shut before Ferran's mouth was on yours again, hot and desperate. His hands framed your face at first, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks, but that restraint lasted all of three seconds. One of his big palms slid down to grip the back of your neck, tilting your head exactly how he wanted as his tongue pushed past your lips.

He pressed you harder against the door, his body flush with yours. You could feel every inch of him - his chest, his abs still tight from the adrenaline of the match, and the hard outline of his cock grinding slowly, deliberately against your thigh. He rolled his hips in filthy little circles, letting you feel how badly he needed you.

"Been so hard for hours," he breathed against your mouth between kisses, voice wrecked and quiet. "Every time I looked at you tonight… fuck, I just wanted to drag you somewhere and bury myself in you."

Your hands fisted in his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer. The friction of his clothed cock rubbing against you had heat pooling low in your belly, your panties already soaked. He kissed you like he was drowning, messy and urgent, teeth tugging at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Your hands slid down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, until you dropped to your knees right there against the door. Ferran's eyes widened, dark with lust, as you quickly worked his belt and zipper open.

"Baby - fuck," he hissed as you freed his cock. It sprang out, heavy and flushed, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. He was rock hard, veins prominent under your gaze.

You didn't tease, just took him into your mouth in one smooth motion, as deep as you could. Ferran's head thunked back against the door with a muffled thud, his hand flying to your hair, fingers tightening almost painfully.

"Shit - yes, just like that," he whispered, voice strained as he fought to stay quiet. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing deeper into the wet heat of your throat.

You sucked him eagerly, hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling around the head every time you pulled back. The taste of him, salty and warm, made you moan around his length.

He was breathing hard through his nose, chest heaving, trying so hard not to make noise. But you could tell he was already close as his thighs trembled, his grip in your hair grew tighter, and his cock throbbed heavily on your tongue.

After only a minute, he cursed under his breath and pulled you off with a wet pop, breathing ragged.

"Not yet," he growled, voice low as he hauled you back up, kissing you fiercely so he could taste himself on your tongue. "Want to finish inside you, I need to feel you come around me first."

Before you could respond, he scooped you up, hands gripping the back of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you across the dark hotel room toward the king-sized bed. His mouth never left your skin - kissing, licking, sucking marks along your neck and collarbone.

He dropped you onto the mattress, the bounce making you both grin drunkenly for a second. His hands were everywhere at once, ripping at your clothes with zero patience. The expensive dress you'd worn to the celebrations was yanked up and over your head, your bra was quickly unclasped and tossed aside as he peeled your soaked panties down your legs and threw them somewhere into the darkness.

You were completely bare in front of him, and Ferran stared like he'd just won another trophy.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured reverently, running his hands up your thighs, spreading them wide.

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragged you to the very edge, and buried his face between your legs without warning.

The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit made your back arch off the bed. He groaned loudly into your pussy at how wet you were, the vibration shooting pleasure through you, then he stopped holding back. Ferran ate you out like a man starved - messy, ravenous as two thick fingers plunging deep inside you and curling instantly against that spot that made you cry out.

"Oh my god - Ferran," you cried out, trying desperately to stay quiet. You bit your lip hard, one hand flying to your mouth while the other tangled in his hair.

He didn't let up. He kept devouring you, licking and sucking with obscene wet sounds that filled the room. His fingers pumped steadily, faster and faster, while his tongue worked your clit in tight circles. Every moan he made vibrated against your most sensitive parts, the knot in your stomach getting tighter and tighter.

You were failing miserably at being quiet.

Soft, broken whimpers and gasps kept slipping out despite your efforts. "Ferran - fuck, please- I can’t - ah!"

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny with your arousal, eyes blazing with lust. "Shhh, baby," he whispered, voice husky, before diving back in even harder.

The pressure built unbearably fast as your thighs started shaking around his head, hips grinding desperately against his mouth. He was relentless - groaning, licking, sucking, fucking you with his fingers like he needed you to come more than he needed air.

You came hard, back bowing off the bed, a choked cry tearing from your throat before you could muffle it with your hand. "Oh, Ferran!"

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers as he kept licking you through it, drawing out every last pulse of ecstasy.

Ferran didn't stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, kissing your inner thighs softly as you came down.

He rose up over you, cock rock hard and leaking, eyes dark with pure need as he climbed onto the bed, crawling over you with a hunger that still somehow looked reverent. His body hovered above yours, skin hot and flushed from the long night.

For a moment, everything slowed. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheekbones as he looked straight into your eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, voice thick with emotion and lust.

Then he kissed you - soft at first, almost sweet. His lips moved gently against yours, savoring the taste of your shared desire. You melted into it, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers threading through his messy hair as the kiss deepened. Tongues slid lazily together, like he was pouring every ounce of love and triumph into you.

You could feel his cock, heavy and burning hot, resting against your soaked entrance, twitching with need. But he didn't rush, just kept kissing you, breathing you in, forehead pressed to yours between kisses, eyes half-lidded and locked on yours.

With a low, broken groan, Ferran gripped your hips hard and thrust into you in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden stretch and fullness ripped a loud cry from your throat. He didn't give you time to adjust as he pulled back and slammed in again, setting a relentless pace right away.

"Fuck - yes," he growled, eyes burning into yours. He refused to look away, staring straight at you as he fucked you senseless.

The headboard started slamming against the wall with every hard thrust. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound echoed through the quiet hotel room, but Ferran didn't seem to care anymore. He'd completely forgotten about his teammates sleeping next door. All that mattered was you.

He was rough and fast, hips snapping forward with powerful strokes that drove the air from your lungs. Every thrust was deep, almost punishing in its intensity. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your chest as he pounded into you, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with your uncontrollable moans and his deep, guttural groans.

You cried out sharply with every thrust, unable to hold back. "Oh, Ferran - oh god, slow down, they'll hear-"

But he just fucked you harder, eyes still locked on yours, pupils blown wide with raw lust. "Let them," he rasped, voice wrecked. "I don't care. Need you, need this."

He was fighting so hard not to cum. You could see it in his face - the clenched jaw, the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the desperate groans that slipped out every time your walls fluttered around him. His fingers dug bruisingly into your hips as he held you in place, driving into you again and again.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned loudly, never breaking eye contact. "So tight… so wet for me. Look at me, baby. Don't look away."

You couldn't have looked away even if you wanted to. His gaze pinned you intensely as he fucked you into the mattress. Tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes, every thrust hit that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of ecstasy shooting through your body.

Ferran suddenly grabbed your legs, pushing your ankles up onto his shoulders. The new angle folded you in half, letting him sink even deeper. He groaned loudly at the sensation, burying himself as far as physically possible.

"Oh Ferran, oh my fucking god-" you sobbed, the pleasure overstimulating since you were still sensitive from your previous orgasm.

"Gonna cum inside you," he panted, voice hoarse, thrusts growing somehow even deeper. "Fuck, look at me when you cum again."

His words, combined with the relentless drag of his cock against that sensitive spot and the overwhelming eye contact, sent you spiraling. You came hard around him, crying out his name loud enough that half the floor probably heard.

Ferran's rhythm finally broke. With a deep, guttural moan that echoed through the room, he slammed into you one last time and stayed buried deep, hips pressed flush against you. His cock pulsed hard as he came, flooding you with thick, hot spurts. He kept his eyes on yours the entire time, watching every second of your shared climax, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a prayer.

For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant thump of your racing hearts. Ferran stayed inside you, gently lowering your legs as he collapsed on top of you, still pressing soft kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your neck.

"Best night of my life," he whispered against your skin, voice soft again.

The next morning, the parade bus is a disaster.

It starts before Ferran even makes it up the steps. Lamine is already there, sunglasses on despite the fact that it's overcast, grinning at him with the specific energy of someone who has been waiting all morning to say something.

"There he is," Lamine announces to no one in particular. "The hero of Spain."

"Don't," Ferran says.

"I'm just saying. Two goals last night."

Ferran stops walking. "I scored one goal."

"That's not what it sounded like from room 804."

The back of the bus erupts. Gavi nearly chokes on whatever he's drinking, Pedri has his face buried in his hands already, and Cucurella is outright cackling, leaning across the seat to slap Lamine on the arm like he's just said the funniest thing anyone has ever said in the history of professional football.

Ferran keeps walking and finds a seat, jaw tight, staring straight ahead.

It lasts about thirty seconds.

"Oh, Ferraaaaaan-"

He turns around. It's Gavi, voice pitched high, hand clutched dramatically to his chest, and now the whole section of the bus is losing it, a full chorus of his name in varying degrees of falsetto, and Ferran closes his eyes slowly like a man searching for patience he does not have.

"You're all children," he says. "We won the World Cup yesterday."

"We know," Pedri says, completely composed except for the way his mouth is twitching. "We were there. We heard."

"Shut up, Pedri."

"I'm just saying - thin walls."

"Incredibly thin," Cucurella agrees solemnly. "Paper, basically paper."

"I had to put headphones in," Lamine adds, shaking his head like he's recounting a trauma. "At four in the morning. On the night we won the World Cup because of you."

Ferran turns back to face the front of the bus. Outside the window, the streets are already lined with people, red and yellow everywhere, flags and scarves and thousands of faces blurring together. The noise of it filters through the glass, and it's enormous, the kind of sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs.

He'd scored the only goal in a World Cup final - he should be allowed to have this.

"She was really that loud?" someone asks from the back, one of the defenders, he doesn't even turn to look.

"Louder," Gavi and Pedri say at the exact same time.

The bus absolutely loses it again.

Ferran tips his head back against the seat and stares at the roof and thinks about how he is going to have to live with this for the rest of his career. Every dressing room, every camp, every time one of them wants a cheap laugh. He's going to be sixty years old and Lamine Yamal is still going to be doing that voice.

But then the bus turns the corner and the crowd comes into full view - hundreds of thousands of them, screaming, crying, holding up his name on banners and someone presses a medal into his hand, while Gavi drops into the seat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and says quietly, genuinely, "You were unbelievable yesterday. You know that, right?"

Ferran looks at him.

Gavi grins. "The goal, I mean. Obviously."

"I hate you," Ferran says.

"No you don't."

He doesn't.

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