klara

He craved the silence of before. When the only people that criticized him were his friends. When the only pair of watchful eyes he had to be cautious of were his mother’s.

Now, it seemed like the whole world was watching him closely, scrutinizing him, waiting for the slightest slip up. That way they could get their headlines, their talking points for their under-watched shows that somehow managed to garner thousands of views whenever he was mentioned.

It was infuriating, but he kept his mouth clamped shut. Besides, it wasn’t all that bad. Kicking a ball around for a living gave him benefits others could only ever dream of, and he was beloved by many.

Not for him, though, no. Just for the simple fact that he managed to score goals and win games for their favorite team.

At first, the love was overwhelming. Thousands of strangers exclaiming their love for you when they didn’t even know you was hard to get used to at nineteen, but as time passed, he’d grown accustomed to it. Numb, even.

Love was no longer something he had to fight for. A few passes here and there and the fans would give it up like it was nothing. And that was exactly what it had become.

Nothing.

Love had become an empty word.

Even more so when Kylian realized they could take back their love in seconds and replace it with hate on his bad days.

They didn’t really love him.

Even the women he’d sleep with didn’t love him. He knew they just loved the idea of getting to sleep with a famous footballer, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was getting a good fuck.

He’d always imagined himself getting married in the future. Finding a nice woman to get settled down with, and maybe having a kid.

He used to criticize the men that would sleep around because why would you want that when you could have one good girl for the rest of your life whom you shared a real connection with?

Sex was a sacred thing. It was special. Not something to just give out—but he was a hypocrite.

Marriage was the last thing on his mind now, and he didn’t care to form a connection with every single girl he fucked.

He tried giving relationships a chance, but the voice in the back of his head always told him to stop. They don’t want you. They just want your money. They just want to use you.

It was a horrible way of thinking, and it left him feeling so empty after he’d come. He’d mentally curse himself for doing it again, having sex with a woman and leaving her in the dust afterwards. But surely they’d understand. They knew who he was. Kylian Mbappé didn’t have time to entertain relationships.

In the end, it was just sex, it wasn’t a commitment.

The only commitment he had was to his curse.

He was a footballer first, and maybe that was all he’d ever be to anyone.

Kylian's move to Real Madrid came as a shock to many, but for him, he knew it was inevitable.

Sure, he loved PSG (to an extent), but with the way things were playing out, he knew that it'd never be the club he'd end his career with. 

He loved Real Madrid as a child. He dreamt of playing for them, of representing the white and gold anyone could recognize with just a single glance, even from all the way up in the stands. Not to mention how good of a team they were. He'd be an idiot to pass on the opportunity of a lifetime.

Some criticized. Others gloated. Kylian just prepared himself for the barrage of eyes that were going to be watching him now more than ever.

The expectations were weighing on him heavier than before. He had to succeed with Real Madrid. He might've scored hundreds of goals already, but what did that matter if he never had anything to show for it? No UCL. No Ballon D'or. It just proved what everybody said about him. Overrated. 

He hated that word. Despised it. It made him want to punch something every time someone echoed the word. It replayed itself in his head, spun around in circles, gathered in clusters so he wouldn't be able to get it out. It haunted him from Paris to Madrid, followed him everywhere he went, and he was sick of it. So he knew what he had to do. 

Kylian was going to win this time. He had to.

Kylian kept a smile on his face as he was shown around Real Madrid's facility. It wasn't fake, but it was definitely a little exaggerated because he had a tendency to play it up for the cameras. Years of media training and the fact that people over-analyzed everything he did were a part of the reason why. Just imagine the outrage if he didn't look content enough—he'd rather not.

They eventually brought Kylian over to the medical wing to meet some of the staff.

"Kylian, these are our physios. Lara, Raúl, Santiago, and Y/N."

His tour guide, who he had already forgotten the name of, pointed at each person. Kylian scanned over each of their faces, and then paused at you because yours just stood out more. When he remembered the cameras were still rolling, he cleared his throat and darted his eyes back over to the first woman, Lara.

He stepped forward with a charming smile and started to shake the hand's of the physios, going down the line until he stood directly in front of you.

"Y/N, right?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. You just nodded, which caught him off guard, but he didn't let it show as his hand finally fell back down to his side. "Nice to meet you. I'm glad to be working with you."

"Yeah, me too."

That was it?

He didn't mean to sound like an asshole, but he expected a bit more… excitement? Awe? Enthusiasm, even. He'd gotten a little bit of that from your coworkers, but you… you looked like you were ready for the interaction to be over.

Kylian stepped back, ignoring the burn he felt in his chest from the way you unintentionally bruised his ego. "I look forward to working with all of you," he called out, voice tighter than before, before him and his guide were exiting from the room, cameras following close behind.

He thought about that interaction for the rest of the day. That thirty second interaction managed to stir something in him, annoyance and intrigue all at once. He wasn't used to being brushed off, he was used to people gawking over him, stumbling over their words and practically tripping over their feet when they spoke to him—but not you.

But he knew he could change that. He would. 

Kylian had been through it hundreds of times in his career. Evaluations. Stretching. Taping. It wasn't anything new. The only change that came from that was the person helping him do it.

Lucky for him, he got stuck with you.

Chatter from the other players floated around the treatment room as you settled him onto a table. 

While you were busy prepping the athletic tape and looking over your notes, Kylian sat quietly, eyeing you. He watched as a strand of hair loosened and fell over your eye so, gently, you placed it behind your ear. He was shocked at how you seemed completely clueless to the obvious way his gaze was burning into you. It was irritating, even.

He was bored out of his mind, and you weren't exactly giving him anything to work with. It made him wish he'd gotten stuck with one of the other physios.

Obviously, it wasn't expected of you to give him anything other than your help. You were doing exactly what you were supposed to do—your job—but that didn't mean that you couldn't do the bare minimum and talk to him. 

Kylian let a few more beats of silence between the two of you pass by before he finally asked, "So… how long have you been working with Real Madrid?"

You stopped whatever you were doing, putting your notes down to look at him. "Uh, not long. A little over a year now, I'd say."

"Oh, that's cool." He nodded, pretending to be interested even though the answer was one he honestly didn't care about. He paused, as though he were thinking, before adding, "do you recognize me?"

You gave him a slight once over like the question was supposed to be a joke, but it was far from it, and when you realized he was being serious, you let out a snort. "Of course, I do. You're Kylian Mbappé."

"Well, yeah, I just meant…" he trailed off, realizing that it was a stupid thing to ask. Everyone knew who he was. He could feel the heat lick up his nape, so he brought his hand up to cup it, cool palm rubbing softly against his skin. "You don't seem all that surprised to see me."

And he didn't blame you. The world didn't revolve around him, but for some strange reason, all he wanted was to see just the subtlest sign that you cared to be talking to someone as big as him. Or just that you cared about him in general.

Your face stayed the same, but he managed to spot something before it disappeared into oblivion: the way your eye twitched in a fleet. It went as quickly as it came, but it let Kylian know one thing—he had annoyed you with his words.

He'd wanted to see a reaction from you, just not that kind of reaction.

"Are you always this full of yourself?"

It was those words that had his brows shooting up. "Excuse me?"

"It's just…" you bit your lip, like you were holding something back, and Kylian waited. Waited for your words to spill over, anticipated it even, like he wanted to hear whatever you had to say about him, but in the end, nothing ever came. "Never mind. I shouldn't have said that. I'll tape you up, now."

Somehow, that stung more than whatever reality check you were going to give him.

Madrid's sun beamed down on Kylian, ultra-hot and unforgiving. He never minded the heat. It was a feeling he enjoyed, like whenever he went on vacation—not when it licked up his skin and left him dripping in so much sweat, he had to use a towel to dry himself off. He could feel his breath come out sharper with each drill he had to run, and the only motivation he had to keep going was the fact that inside, there'd be cool air blasting from the AC whenever the team was through with practice.

Kylian was jogging down the line when he swore he could feel the prickle of something against his skin. It wasn't from the heat, it was something else, something different. It made him shudder. The feeling burned against his skin hotter than the heat of the damned sun—and it was coming from one place.

Kylian swerved his head around to the sideline where the coaching staff stood. 

You stood there too, but your gaze wasn't on him, it was focused on watching the other guys. But, coincidentally enough, just as his eyes flicked over there, the sensation faded as well.

When he found no plausible answer to the feeling, he huffed and switched his focus back to whatever he was doing before. He chose to blame it on the heat and how it was probably messing with his head and making him imagine things.

Yet when the feeling came again without warning, he felt a frustration bubble up inside him and found himself craning his head again. That was when he caught something, just for a split second. How you turned your head away just as his eyes peeked over at the sideline.

The knowledge that you were likely staring at him made his mouth go dry. It wasn't like getting stared at was uncommon. It was the way it left him feeling afterwards that was uncommon. He didn't like it, nor the fact that it'd made him physically shudder. He shouldn't be losing his cool over something so trivial, yet he felt himself slipping. 

He stood still, eyes trained in on your shoes like they were the most interesting things in the world, not quite ready to look away yet because he knew the second he did, you'd look at him again and he'd lose his cool.

How were you making me feel like this?

It wasn't until he heard the manager yell out his name that he finally snapped out of his daze. The heat of embarrassment rose in him next as he went back to jogging like nothing ever happened. And the feeling never came again after that.

The AC felt like a blessing when Kylian finally stepped inside the building, his body absorbing the much-needed coolness of the air.

The rest of the team headed to the locker room to change, but a pair of footsteps approaching behind him made him stop. He turned his head, hoping his expression didn't give away to how his stomach had suddenly tightened.

"Are you okay?"

Kylian heard the question loud and clear, yet he didn't answer, like his mind was suddenly running on empty, and it couldn't have chosen a better occasion than this one.

"What?" he breathed out after a beat of silence.

"I asked if you're okay," you repeated, even though he definitely heard you the first time. He swore that looked like concern on your face. Not the fake shit everyone always gave him. Genuine concern. "I saw you running out there and you looked pretty out of it. I understand, it's really hot today."

Kylian almost couldn't believe it. You were asking if he was okay? Maybe he was really out of it. Here you were, doing your job, and here he was, doing what he hated most when it was done to him—over analyzing.

"Yeah," he nodded hastily. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Okay, good," you said, lips pursed into a tight smile. "Uh, well, if you feel any different, you know where to find me."

You turned, ready to walk down the hall. That was when Kylian felt something creep up his throat, the word "wait" now on the tip of his tongue, but it never came. He let the moment pass until you were out of sight and he was left standing alone in the hallway with nothing but his thoughts and the cool breeze of the AC cooling his skin.

Maybe you actually cared about him. 

Maybe.

Kylian couldn't sleep that night. He didn't even try. It was pointless because his mind was plagued with images of you. A woman he barely knew. He didn't even know your last name or how old you were. All he had was your first name. Y/N.

He found himself repeating it under his breath, enunciating each letter, as if he were preparing for the day he'd have to call out your name.

Y/N. Y/N.

The name was perfect for you. It just made sense. You looked like a Y/N in the best way possible.

You were just a woman, he had to remind himself because he suddenly realized he was going off the deep end. He tried distracting himself by going on Instagram and looking at different women. His eyes flickered over at each post, rubbing himself just to get himself going, but his attempts at raising his libido fell short.

Kylian cursed, head falling back against the pillow in defeat. In a last ditch attempt to elicit some sort of pleasure from himself, he opened up an adult website. 

Instead of clicking on the first video he saw, he went into the search bar, fingers hesitating over the keyboard, like they knew what he was about to do was shameful and had given him a chance to back out, before he was typing in a description of you.

The girl in the video didn't exactly look like you, but it was good enough for him. He pulled down his boxers, freeing his aching cock from its confinement and fisting the length.

He pressed his thumb against the slit of his cock and let out a hiss, smearing the precum over his tip as the video started. He usually loathed the lengthy dialogue of pornography, but especially now more than ever.

He skipped ahead until the girl was finally on her knees in front of the male actor. She unzipped his pants and stuck his cock inside her mouth, sucking him off until saliva dripped down her chin.

All the while, Kylian gripped his cock harder, palm gliding easily along his length. He'd never felt this desperate for an orgasm before, but with you in the back of his mind, that was all he wanted.

He imagined it was really you, not sucking off some actor, but him instead. 

He imagined how warm your mouth would feel, how you probably couldn't take him all the way in without your throat constricting around his cock like all the other girls, but he imagined you trying anyway, just to show him you cared.

His vision blurred out, video long forgotten as he finally came, crashing back against his pillow with ragged breaths. On the tip of his tongue laid one word—a name—and this time, he didn't hesitate.

"Y/N."

Kylian was fine. He was just fine. He'd been through plenty of step backs before to let them deter him, now.

Still, it felt like he'd been going crazy for weeks, and for more than one reason.

You hadn't talked much since that day beyond whatever was necessary. It was also partly due to the shame he felt whenever he looked at you. It was like he had developed an itch he couldn't get rid of, even after all of the scratching he did. It was probably going to take more than meaningless small talk for his itch to finally disappear.

He wanted you to show some sort of interest in him beyond the job or football. So many girls would give up anything just to have him for a night, but you were so chill about him. Did you really not care? Had he gotten it all wrong?

Whenever his thoughts got too rowdy, he reminded himself that he barely knew you and there was no point in acting like a mad-man over an ordinary woman when his life was already so chaotic. Still, he found himself growing antsy as the days passed by. 

He should've been focused on improving whatever he was lacking which—according to the internet—was everything. The weight on his shoulders was unbearable and it was only his first month with Madrid. The only thing missing was an injury.

He felt the burn in his thigh by the 70th minute against Alaves, but he pushed through it because it wasn't the first time he'd felt something like that. To his disappointment, the strain didn't fade, but rather, it increased to the point where it was obvious to Ancelotti that Kylian had to come out of the game.

Kylian was frustrated, to say the least, as he stepped off the pitch and over to the bench, a huff blowing past his lips as he plopped down onto a seat. As irritated as he was, he felt relieved as well when the sharp pain in his thigh began to ebb slightly. 

The game continued without him.

You were the first person to come to him, sinking down onto the empty chair beside him. You angled your body toward him, unintentionally bumping your knee against his. The contact was subtle, meaningless, but it made him tear his gaze away from the game in an instant to look at you instead. His eyes found yours and, like before, he felt a warmth spread across his nape, shame bubbling up inside him.

"It's something in your left leg, right?" You asked, but Kylian knew it was more of a rhetorical question. "I saw when you started limping a little. And how you started favoring your right leg as well."

Kylian couldn't help but be impressed at how easily you'd read him—and hoped that was the farthest your reading of him could go.

"Uh, yeah. I think I strained my thigh a bit, but it's nothing major," Kylian explained, tone laden with the familiar sound of dismissal. It had become a habit for him to downplay his injuries whether they were serious or not. He'd always push himself until his legs gave out because he despised missing games. Despised sitting on the sidelines and missing out on the opportunity to play because his body wasn't cooperating. "I'm sure it's nothing."

A small, almost sympathetic smile played on your lips. "Doesn't matter. I wasn't really asking. I'll check you out properly when the game's over." 

You had already decided for him. Kylian realized that you'd likely decided it before walking over to him. That realistically, there was no need for you to come over and talk to him. No one else had—which was what usually happened when he got injured in a game—just you. 

You were the only one that really noticed.

The whistle eventually blew into the air, but Kylian had forgotten the game a long time ago, eyes focusing on the details of your face, your lips, the slope of your nose, while your eyes watched the other guys.

They always watched the other guys.

Kylian expected there to be someone else in the room during his check up, but no. It was just you and him, and the obnoxious sound of the AC blasting.

He noticed pretty early on that you weren't one to talk when you worked, opting for silence instead. You hadn't told him much of what exactly you were going to do. Just that you needed to check how tight his muscles were, meaning you'd be feeling up his thigh. He didn't mean to be that kind of man, but he was almost a little eager to have your hands on his thigh after he spent so long fantasizing about you.

When your hands finally connected with his thigh, it was as if his whole body had burst into flames. His heart had begun to beat faster and faster until he felt it thump rapidly against his chest, and as you prodded at his thigh, fingers pressing into the tight muscle, he prayed to god you couldn't see how badly your touch had affected him. 

Kylian had always been confident, had always been in control, had rarely been shaken by anything, but now, with your hand fondling his thigh, he felt himself unraveling.

"Stop," he choked out, voice tight, breathless, and your fingers stilled the second you heard him, but they didn't pull away yet.

"Is it too much?" You asked, the same concern from before evident in your voice, and it only made him feel guiltier for stopping you because he couldn't control himself. "I can do it softer, I just need to—"

"No." His voice was strained, more than it had ever been in his life. He felt the panic bubble up in his throat because he had no logical way to explain why he just needed you to stop. 

You'd find out the reason. 

You'd find out the reason and be mortified and never look his way again.

His hands almost shot out to grab your face the second you turned your head back down, in hopes that he could stop you from seeing just how much you'd affected him, except he didn't, and now it was too late.

He watched as your eyes widened, a flustered look spreading across your features when you caught sight of the obvious hard-on growing in his shorts. Your hands ripped themselves from his thigh in an instant like it was venom, and he found himself missing the feeling already.

"Oh." 

He saw the way your body stiffened, like you didn't know what to do with the knowledge that you got him hard. He made you uncomfortable and it was his fault. All his fault for not being able to control himself when you were just doing your job.

"Shit, I'm sorry." The words spilled out of his mouth, a hand moving to hide himself in shame. "I—it wasn't your fault, or well it—it's just—it's always like this for me."

"It's okay, Kylian." But the hitch in your voice told him otherwise.

"It's not. I made you uncomfortable. I'm an idiot."

"We're all human. It's a normal, human reaction. It's fine, really."

For some reason, your words did little to comfort him. He found himself growing irritated instead. You were being nice—way too nice to him—like you were trying not to hurt his feelings, just like everyone else. He didn't understand you. He didn't understand you at all.

Kylian didn't reply after that, figuring it was better to leave it at that rather than arguing back and forth about who was right.

You stood there awkwardly, swaying from heel to heel, until you turned and walked over to your bag, digging inside until you found what you were looking for. You returned to him, clutching the object in your hand, a flash of red catching Kylian's eye.

"You know, I always bring a pomegranate with me on game days." Kylian's gaze flickered to the fruit as you rolled it between your palms. "Weird, right?"

If only you knew how weird he was. "Not at all." 

You smiled wryly. "It's my favorite fruit, if you couldn't already tell. You should have it."

It took a moment for Kylian to register that you had your hand out, ready to give him the fruit. He expected a lot of things, just not this. He hesitated before reaching out to grab the pomegranate, all the while ignoring the delicate way your fingers grazed his.

He clutched the fruit in his hand before looking back over at you. "Thank you," he finally said, his voice carrying an edge.

"Yeah, no problem." You nodded before something else flickered in your eyes. "But, now you owe me."

Kylian had the feeling you were only joking, but he knew he'd be more than willing to pay you back.

"Okay. I owe you, now."

For the first time since stepping into the room, Kylian felt his body ease.

And when he got home, he held the pomegranate between his palms, thumbing over the skin. Both of his thumbs dug in suddenly until the fruit broke open, juice squirting out and spilling down his arms. Yet he paid it no mind.

He brought the pomegranate up to his mouth, lips wrapping around the seeds, a moan of content leaving his mouth as a combination of sweetness and tartness spread across his tongue.

He wasn't the biggest fan of pomegranates, but you'd given it to him and that was enough for him to keep going, eating with the greed of an animal, like he'd been starving for years, until there wasn't anything left. Only the skin in his hands, the juice that spilled down his chin, and a hunger that hadn't quite been satiated.

Things had gotten a little better for Kylian. At least in terms of you, not in football. People were still claiming he wasn't doing enough. He'd heard it time and time again, yet it still bugged him. 

He tried to push down all the hurt he felt inside and shift his focus to the next match, the next interview, to whatever was important. But at night, instead of being asleep, getting the rest he needed, he stayed up to scroll on his phone, heavy-lidded eyes scanning through articles and articles of criticism until the tightness in his chest became too much to bear.

You'd become a good distraction for him—not that that was all that you were. You were more than that to him, expect, he could never say it out loud because one: you technically worked for him, and two: you'd made it clear you weren't friends. Just coworkers in a way.

Another thing that bothered him, but Kylian wouldn't push his luck. Not yet, anyway. He was content with how things were, the casual conversation, how you actually seemed like you were interested in hearing what he had to say. He didn't want to blow it up like he almost did last time.

On the day of his first Clásico, he felt like he'd gone back in time to when he was younger. Sweaty palms, heavy breaths, racing heart. Nervous. Kylian was nervous, which was the last thing he needed.

He couldn't stand still for the life of him. He swayed from heel to heel, picked and bit at his nails, darted his eyes from object to object, all in hopes of distracting himself.

Kylian gave up hope by the time he was getting ready to line up with the team by the tunnel, but before he could go far, he felt a hand touch his arm. He spun around, only to find you. You hadn't said a word yet, but your presence alone, and the way your hand lingered on his arm, was enough to ebb his nerves.

"Are you nervous?"

You reading him had become a common occurrence, a thing Kylian hadn't grown accustomed to just yet. He hated it, but liked it because he never had to admit how he felt. Somehow, you always knew.

"Crazy, right?" Kylian said, shaking his head like he couldn't believe it. "I mean, I've played football for over ten years, now."

"This is different, though," you replied, looking around the tunnel before your eyes settled on him. "Don't let their words get to you. You're better than what they say. And… I know you'll be great."

Something in Kylian shifted then. All of the noise in the tunnel drowned out. His surroundings blurred, and the only thing that was clear to him in that moment was you. It was a strange feeling. One he hadn't experienced before. It hit him harder than anything else ever had.

He'd heard the words so many times before, but none of it compared to the way it made him feel when he heard you say it.

Grounded. Warm. Calm.

He thought he was crazy for feeling that way. He spent so many years numb to the way people cared about him. Their words of love and praise always seemed forced, only spoken to make him happy, which he rarely ever felt.

But something about your words felt real. And what he felt was real.

"Thank you," he finally replied—and he meant it.

Kylian expected a couple different outcomes. Losing 0-4 in his first Clásico wasn't one of them.

The frustration grew in heaps with each step he took to the locker room. He sat and listened to whatever critiques the manager had to say. How the team needed to improve. How they were better than that.

It didn't soothe his frustration. In fact, it only flared up at the speech.

Kylian was collecting his things so he could go take a shower, to hopefully cool off and wash off all of the disgusting grime that clung to his skin, when he felt the same touch from earlier on his arm. But instead of turning around like he knew he wanted to, he shrugged it off like it meant nothing to him. "Not now."

"Kylian—"

"What part of not now don't you understand?" He hadn't meant to be so cruel. He couldn't help it. All he wanted was to be alone and wallow in self-pity. He couldn't handle being around other people in his current state.

No other words came out of you after that, but Kylian could sense the way you deflated. Your footsteps rang in his ears as you walked away, and he had to stop himself from turning around to beg for you to come back.

Fuck. He needed something strong. He needed a drink.

By 12AM, he was slumped over a bar, eleventh drink of the night resting beside him, half-empty. The bartender insisted that he should stop by the 7th drink, but he couldn't really deny Kylian Mbappé service—not with the generous tips he was receiving.

It was only when he noticed that Kylian was completely out of it that he realized he should probably do something. He was hesitant, but eventually reached for Kylian's phone. Coincidentally enough, the phone was unlocked, and on the screen read a message Kylian thought about sending—I didn't mean to snap. I can apologize properly over drinks—before he grew too wasted to do so.

The bartender fought back a laugh and called you.

You arrived twenty minutes later, completely unbeknownst to Kylian. He was too preoccupied with trying to down the rest of his drink, and failing miserably because he had the urge to vomit it all out.

He thought he was hallucinating when he heard the familiar lilt of your voice. He turned his head towards that direction, catching a flash of your figure. It must've been the world taunting him for what he had said to you earlier because there was no way you were actually here. Not after he had been such an asshole. 

Maybe he really had sent you that message.

"I got it from here, thanks."

He heard your footsteps approaching, but made no effort to move. He was quite comfortable where he was. Drowning in alcohol and not worrying about whatever was going on in his life.

"Kylian," you called out, and he noted the obvious concern in your voice. "Are you okay? Come on, get up. You need to get home."

You placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and that was enough for him to finally turn his head all the way up. 

You really were here. Here for him.

Out of all the people he wanted to see in that moment, you were the last one. It was humiliating, after all. He was supposed to be a professional, stable, but he wasn't. Not now. Instead, he felt heavy. Light-headed. Despite all the drinks, they weren't enough to mend the hurt of that loss—and the thought that you may hate him after what he had said.

"Why're you here?" 

"Because. The bartender said you were drinking yourself to death." You sighed, eyes darting around the place. "What are you doing here with no security? You know that's dangerous."

He scoffed, like the words were ridiculous. He was a goddamn adult, not a child. "I don't need security to get a drink."

You let out a humorless laugh, your fingers flexing around his bicep. "You and I both know that's not true. Not for you. Now, get up, seriously. It's late."

Kylian wanted to argue, but he was far too drunk to bother, and his head was beginning to ache. He supposed you were right, anyway.

You helped him get up, but not without him staggering out of his seat and right into your body because the world felt like it was spinning. His hands instinctively shot out, fingers wrapping around your biceps until he stopped swaying from side to side.

He could've let go the second he gained his footing, but he didn't want to. Being in your vicinity was nice. He could look at you, at all the details he missed before. How nice your eyebrows looked. The zits along your cheek. Things he'd remember after tonight even though he wasn't sober. That was how easy it was for you to get into his head without even meaning to.

"Come on, my car's just outside," you said, nodding toward the exit. There was a subtle tightness in your voice that wasn't there before, and Kylian had the feeling that, maybe, you didn't mind being that close, either.

Each step he took was slow and steady, your warmth seeping into his side as you walked with him, and whenever he was close to stumbling forward, you were there, like a pillar, holding him up with your hand pressed against his back. He let himself lean into you, pressing his weight against you, and he could do it without looking crazy because he was drunk. 

You didn't seem to mind, and he was thankful for that.

The ride back to his place was primarily silent, save for the sound of the radio playing on low. He pressed his forehead against the glass, watching as the colors blurred together. So much so, he thought he might get sick as the urge to vomit rose up his throat. He shut his eyes, hoping it was enough to stop the nausea.

"We're almost there," he heard you say, like you knew how he felt. 

Kylian held on, just until the car came to a stop. He wanted to get out, but his body wasn't cooperating. He sat still, eyes still drooped shut. His mouth twitched, ready to ask you for help before remembering how badly he despised the idea of asking anyone for help.

His silence must've been enough of an answer for you because you were getting out of your seat and walking over to the passenger side.

"I got you," you said when you opened the passenger door. Kylian believed you without thinking twice.

You led him to the front door, where he sloppily entered the code twice before stepping inside.

"Bathroom," he slurred, pointing down the hall, and you wordlessly steered him in that direction.

The second he entered the bathroom, he let himself drop down onto his knees in front of the toilet.

"Damn," he muttered, angry at himself for getting so wasted. The constant throbbing in his head wouldn't go away, no matter how much he willed it to. He was on the verge of exploding from stress, from anger, from all of it. "Damn it all."

Kylian gripped the seat so hard, his knuckles turned white, forcing himself to gag so he could yack all of the alcohol out of his system.

He emptied himself into the toilet with so much force that his ribs ached, his throat burned, leaving behind a gross aftertaste Kylian no longer wanted in his mouth. 

It wasn't the first time he had gotten so drunk, he could barely stand, but it was the first time tears glossed over his eyes. 

Loser.

His head fell against the toilet seat, shoulders shaking as he let out a choked sob. 

He was a loser.

He'd already humiliated himself so much so why bother hiding it, now?

When he felt your hand on his back, he had the urge to cry harder.

"What's wrong?" you asked, worried—always worried. "Kylian, why are you crying?"

You just wanted to help him and he didn't like it. He couldn't understand why you hadn't just left after helping him inside. Why you even bothered showing up to the bar. Why you were still here.

He shook his head rapidly, wiping away the snot from his face. With a heavy chest, he managed to say, "you can go. You've helped me enough."

But that was beyond the truth. 

The truth was that he wanted you to stay—he needed you to stay—and he didn't know why. And that hurt. More than losing a game or hearing strangers curse his name.

"Kylian," you repeated, as if his name were something fragile. As if he were something delicate. "I can't leave you like this."

He finally plucked up the courage to look at you, eyes all red and puffy. "Why?"

"Because…" you paused, unsure of what to say. "Do I need a reason?"

Yes. He wanted to say. What's your motive here?

Instead—"Even after what I said?" He stuttered. "Even after I was an asshole?"

You let out a sigh, kneeling next to him, your velvety voice right next to his ear. "You weren't an asshole. You were just upset. I should've listened the first time you told me you weren't in the mood."

Kylian shook his head again. "No, I was," he insisted. "I can't help it sometimes, it's just… it's just that I… we lost so badly and I got angry. I always get angry and I just push people away."

His head bowed in shame. "I could've done more. I should've done more. All I've done is prove people right. I'm not even that good."

Kylian felt more vulnerable in that moment than he'd ever felt in his entire life. He felt like shit, felt heavier than he'd ever felt before. He had no reason to tell you anything because you weren't close. Weren't friends. But he couldn't control his mouth around you.

He just needed to tell someone, and he wanted to tell you.

Something cracked in your expression then. The room may have been dark, but he saw it. The way you looked at him with pity, none of which he believed he deserved.

"You're wrong," were the words that broke the heavy silence of the room. Kylian let out a dry laugh, but you continued, "the loss isn't all on you. You did what you could."

"It wasn't enough."

"Are you listening to me?" Your voice came out firmer, desperate to make him listen. "Kylian, you did what you could. This is a team sport. And—and I don't know why you bother listening to anyone else. I've never seen anyone play the way you do. You're special, and you're crazy if you think otherwise."

He opened his eyes, really opened his eyes, and in that moment, he could tell that you were serious. No faux concern. No overdoing it. Just you sat next to him, looking at him, waiting. And he felt your words like a physical thing, hitting him in ways he never thought he'd feel.

You cared.

Kylian was left defenseless under your gaze. He couldn't open his mouth. Couldn't tear his gaze away from yours. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay like that. He wanted time to slow so he could stare into your eyes longer. He wanted you to stay because for the first time in years, he felt something. Something that didn't leave him feeling hollow inside.

He didn't speak. He let his head fall forward until it landed on your shoulder. "Are you gonna leave?"

Your body stiffened, and knowing him, he'd probably spoiled the moment like he did every other one, but he didn't care. There wasn't an ounce of shame left in his body. 

"Don't." His voice was quiet, on the verge of breaking. "I can't stand being alone anymore."

It was an invitation. One he hoped you would take because watching you walk away again would hurt more than you'd ever know.

"Stay."

The room filled with a heavy silence. Kylian's throat suddenly grew tight with regret, and he held his breath, awaiting your inevitable rejection, until you said, "Okay."

It was a single word. Two syllables. Okay. Oh-kay. But it was enough for Kylian, air filling his lungs once again.

You led him to his bedroom where he flopped down onto his bed with an exhausted huff.

"Are you okay like this?"

Kylian shook his head no. "It's hot."

His fingers went to his zipper, pulling it down roughly. He got annoyed when it stopped half-way down, muttering, "stupid zipper," and realizing how childish he probably sounded. He gave up after a few more attempts, throwing his head back against the pillow in defeat.

You cleared your throat, lingering near the bed. "Do you want me to help you?"

The thought of your fingers that close shook him to his core. Considering what happened the last time you touched him like that, he was hesitant to accept. But realizing he was in no position to do it himself, he eventually nodded.

He ignored the shiver that ran down his spine as your fingers reached for his zipper, pulling it down with a calmness he hadn't, until it came all the way down.

"Lift your hips," you said, and he obeyed without hesitation.

Slowly, you tugged down his jeans, freeing him from the suffocating confines of the denim, and leaving him in nothing but his boxers. The air bit against his skin, cooling his warm legs.

"Is that okay?" 

He nodded, his body lighter than it was before.

You stood there, glancing around the room, as if you were trying to find the will to lie down next to him. Kylian noticed.

"It's okay." He shifted, scooting over and making sure to leave you enough room on the other side of the bed. "…you don't have to if you really don't want to."

Please stay.

The smile that you gave him was small, noting the nervousness that bubbled up on your features. "No, no, it's fine. It's just… I haven't slept next to anyone in a long time."

Your body finally moved forward, knees pressing into the mattress as you positioned yourself on the empty side of the bed, leaving space between you. You were far enough to where he could turn to his side, shift over, and he wouldn't touch you.

It was perfect, safe, and despite it, in his own strange way, he could still feel you. It was as if something were drawing you to him. 

Now, he wished you were closer. 

He longed to know what your weight would feel like on top of him, especially after an exhausting match. After he was left spent and boneless, body sore. You pressing down on his chest, sinking into him, and he would let you. He'd welcome your warmth seeping into his worn out body and let it bring the life back into him.

Soon, his racing heart eased into a steady pace. From the corner of his eye, he watched as your body relaxed, shoulders sagging down, chest rising slower. Your scent infiltrated his nostrils, and he inhaled the sweet smell of you.

It all brought him comfort. The way neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved. Like there was a silent understanding between the two of you—there was no need to do anything. Laying side by side was enough to satiate his need for company.

There was so much he was warring with. He spent so many nights awake, unable to fall asleep, and only when his body gave into the exhaustion did he rest.

Expect now, Kylian's eyelids drooped down. His breathing slowed, evening out, and he let it happen. Let his body relax, and for once, he could pretend that everything was okay.

As his vision blurred, and the room faded into darkness, with one final effort, he breathed out, "Goodnight, Y/N."

And he'd never get to see the crack of a smile on your face as you replied, "Goodnight, Kylian." 

There was a thumping in his head when he woke up the next morning—right next to the looming sense of shame.

The sun peaked out from beneath the cracks in Kylian's blinds, shining right into his room and hitting him in the face, prompting him groan in annoyance. He almost snuggled himself deeper into his sheets to get more sleep before the memories of last night flickered through his mind, a sick taunt of sorts.

He turned over to his stomach, his face planted in the pillow so when he screamed, it would come out muffled. Something he needed to get out of his system before he was forced to get up and face you again.

He eventually found the courage to push himself out of bed, ignoring the lingering smell of you in the air, but then paused once his eyes landed on his nightstand.

A bottle of ibuprofen. And a note.

Had to leave early for work, but I'll see you there. Make sure you take one or two before you leave. -Y/N

Of course. Last night hadn't been enough for you. You had to finish pushing the dagger into his heart.

Kylian got looks from his teammates as practice went on—his passes, his shots all sloppier than they'd normally be—looks of which he pretended were nonexistent. If he pretended everything was fine, then surely it had to be true.

Nothing had went on last night. Nothing that anyone needed to know of. 

He silently prayed that you wouldn't tell of his antics, leak information that he was drinking after a big loss to the press, or even gossip with the other staff about how pathetic he had been.

It would shatter the illusion of who he was to the public. A strong, confident leader who always knew what to say, and who was always so sure of himself. But as he passed by you in practice, and could barely look at you for a few seconds before having to look away, he wasn't so sure that was who he really was.

His confidence had wavered, leaving him vulnerable under your gaze. You could see right through all his bravado, and it shook Kylian. It made him want to run away to where you could no longer see him.

Eventually practice wrapped up and Kylian found himself running inside the building. He didn't bothering sparing anyone a glance as he changed into his normal clothes. All the while, the word coward circled in his head.

Kylian didn't want to believe he was a coward. He was just giving you some much needed space. After all, he'd bombarded you with his actions far too many times, with most of them teetering between the edge of professional and inappropriate.

As he strode to the parking lot—ready to rot in bed, probably think of you as well—his pace slowed when his ears caught the sound of laughter.

Kylian realized that he was approaching your office, and that the sound was coming from inside.

He found himself stopping a few feet away from the door, despite knowing that he should do himself a favor and pretend he hadn't heard anything. Yet that sound—it ticked something in him because it wasn't just anyone's laugh. It was yours.

The sound replayed itself in his head over and over again, that sweet, sweet sound. He hadn't heard it before, but hearing it now made a part of him feel like he was going insane.

He got closer, peering through the door's window, only to still once he caught sight of who was inside. You were there, smiling, laughing, not with a coworker like he'd originally thought, but with Jude Bellingham.

Something twisted in his stomach then, an ugly green feeling of envy spreading through his body, making him tense up. He had no right to feel this way, yet he felt it anyway.

You never laughed like that around him, you rarely ever spared him a smile.

What had Jude done to deserve you beaming up at him like that? Laughing so carefree, like you two were the only people in the world?

The longer Kylian stared, the dizzier he grew. He needed to go, needed to leave before he did something reckless, like storm inside and tell Jude to back off.

Kylian hadn't done anything to deserve that right.

He wanted to hear you laugh, but not with Jude. He wanted you to laugh with him. Now, your laugh was the sweetest torture, fading away as he walked to his ride.

In typical Kylian fashion, he chose to avoid you for the next few weeks because what better way to solve your problems than to avoid them?

Not that you were the problem. It was definitely him and his treacherous mind that seemed to think of you whenever it could. But he knew he couldn't avoid you forever, and eventually, the world would force him to face you again.

The moment came too soon for him to be prepared for it. After the game against Leganés, he received an invite from his teammates to go to dinner to celebrate the win.

He almost rejected the offer, too eager to go back to his hotel room and sleep off the aches deep in his bones. Then he heard you were coming, and now the offer sounded far too tempting for him to say no to.

He'd never seen you all dressed up before. The dress was nice—you looked nice—simple, but enough to make his breath catch in his throat. He pulled his gaze away, going back to a conversation he wasn't really listening to.

It had been an hour since the dinner had started, which meant an hour of him pretending he actually wanted to be there had passed, and the only reason he came had yet to talk to him. Not even so much as a glance his way. 

It was like Kylian was invisible, and the feeling made him uncomfortable because it was something he wasn't used to feeling.

No. You'd rather spend most of your time with Jude, laughing at his awful jokes.

Kylian wasn't jealous. He didn't get jealous. He had everything he wanted, but for some strange reason that he refused to acknowledge, he wanted you to come over to him.

He watched you from the corner of his eye, and when you placed a hand on Jude's bicep, that was all Kylian could take. He excused himself from the conversation—they barely noticed—to walk out of the room, finding a secluded area, a small balcony, just to breathe properly.

What would your father say? Kylian thought. Seeing his son so unraveled over a woman?

He was so in his head, he hadn't registered the click of heels approaching.

"Kylian."

It was enough to break his trance and throw him off all over again. The world was against him. There was no other reason for you to be here, calling his name, unless it was to torture him further.

Kylian reeled his head over to look at you in your nice dress. You were a few feet away, gazing up at him.

"Hey," he said. It was all he could bring himself to say. He looked away again, at the scenery before him. He was afraid that, if he looked at you for too long, his memory would wander in places he didn't want to be in.

"Did you need some air, too?" Your tone was casual, the opposite of how Kylian felt. He wished he could be as casual as you.

"Yeah," he murmured. "What did you need air for? You looked like you were having a good time in there."

There was probably a bitter edge to his words, one he couldn't help.

You laughed, not like the ones you let out with Jude. This time, it was amused.

"I guess I was." You hummed, your hands perching upon the balcony's railing. You were closer to him that way, and he could already feel your heat radiating off of you. "But honestly, after a while, Jude's jokes start to get annoying."

Was it bad that hearing you say that made Kylian feel a little better?

His lips twitched a little, but he fought back against letting himself chuckle. Instead, Kylian pulled back enough to look at you. His heart jumped against his chest when he found you already looking at him.

"He's not even that funny." His voice betrayed him. He tried to appear as cool as you, only to sound like a bitter boyfriend.

You smiled, wider that time. "I know. But I'd feel bad leaving the kid hanging."

Kid. Kid. Kid?

Still, he refused to get his hopes up.

"He's 21. Not exactly a kid."

"He just reminds me of having a little brother. Having to fake being entertained by his jokes." You paused. "You know what that's like, don't you? You have a younger brother."

By now, Kylian should be happy with the victory—you just called Jude a little brother. The mention of his own caught him off guard instead.

"I… do." He had no reason to be so cautious. It was public knowledge that he had a younger brother. That didn't mean you mentioning it so suddenly hadn't caught him off guard.

He supposed it had something to do with the fact that you showed no interest in him beyond the job. Or at least, it was what he chose to believe. Believing anything else would only fuel his crazy delusions.

"…but, he doesn't joke around me much anymore," he suddenly revealed, the words feeling so achingly honest, too honest for the moment, that he almost regretted speaking entirely. "I try doing it with him, but I guess he's too cool for that."

"Seeing him grow up must be hard," you remarked, somehow knowing what to say, like it came naturally to you. "But I think it's sweet. The fact that he treats you like an older brother. He might pretend to not like joking around with you, but I know deep down he enjoys your nagging."

If your plan was to cheer him up and make his heart rate quicken simultaneously, you had succeeded. Kylian couldn't help the way a smile curved up onto his lips.

"Nagging?" He asked, the word choice almost enough to elicit a chuckle from him.

He watched you falter for a split second, a first from you—which made him celebrate internally—before you grinned. "Well, I'm sure that's how your brother would describe it." Another pause from you. "And I see the way you are in practice. You like to joke around."

Maybe it was silly considering you were a physio, but even then, knowing that you had watched him, noticed his personality—remembered it—made him a little hotter, despite the cool wind blowing past him.

"I'm glad you keep tabs on me." 

"You're Kylian Mbappé. I'm sure I'm not the first lady to keep tabs on you."

"No. But you are the first one to do it like this."

It was meant to be teasing, another thing to keep the banter going because he loved it. His voice, however, came out raspier, lower, strained, as if he were fighting something back.

That desire to just touch you.

Your body tensed. Kylian saw it because he was watching you so intensely. He hadn't been able keep his eyes on you before, but now, he couldn't seem to look away.

You swallowed, tongue swiping out to lick your dried lips. The ones his gaze kept flicking to. "I'm not sure what that means."

"I'm not sure, either."

Kylian should just leave it at that. He should say his goodbyes and walk away, but that would mean another night plagued with the image of you burned into his mind—him reaching out, only to be left depleted because you weren't really there.

And Kylian, he was done restricting himself from what he really wanted. What he really needed. It was you.

"Are you doing something later?"

You shook your head. "Past 8PM? Probably not. Why—"

"Do you want to come with me?" For all Kylian had done in his career, his life, he felt as if this was by far the hardest thing he'd ever done. "I mean… I owe you still, don't I? There's a spare pomegranate in my hotel room."

He stayed calm, prepared for the worst, the inevitable no, yet it never came. What did come was your lips twitching into a smile—a real one.

"Everyone says you're so cool. So fearless. A maverick. I guess you can say that about how you play." You tilted your head, eyes gleaming up at him. "But, I think you're the strangest man I've ever met."

The smile never left your face as you backed away from the balcony's railing, slowly heading toward the exit, like you were waiting for him to follow in suit.

"How can I say no to a pomegranate from you, Kylian?"

And Kylian—he didn't hesitate to follow.

There was an incessant buzzing thrumming throughout his body on the ride back to his hotel room.

Was this really happening? He couldn't believe it. Surely he'd blink and you'd fade away from his gaze in seconds, but that hadn't happened yet.

Each step to his room felt heavier than the last, giving him one last chance to turn back before he made a mistake, but then you grinned at him, and that was all the reassurance he needed to push his door open, inviting you into his space.

It was tidy, just the way he liked it, but he could excuse your clothing being littered around his carpet this once.

Kylian reached into his bag, digging around the insides before his fingers glided along the familiar skin of a pomegranate. 

He pulled it out, turning back to you, only to catch you snickering at him. "What?"

"You actually have a pomegranate?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I?" 

Kylian hadn't meant to be funny. He was being serious about that part. He'd been saving it for when he finally got the courage to talk to you.

"No, you're right. My bad." Your fingers traced his bedsheets as you took a step closer. "You don't happen to have a knife somewhere?"

He didn't. He hadn't planned that far ahead. So he shook his head and took the fruit between his two palms. "It's okay. I can open it like this."

"But the juice will—"

Your words fell onto death ears as Kylian's thumbs dug into the pomegranate, cutting open its skin, and with enough force as he could, cracked the fruit open.

"Get everywhere…" You looked both perplexed and amused.

Kylian held out the fruit to you, the seeds glimmering underneath the lights, red, as if he were holding out his heart—offering it to you.

Take it. He thought. Take all of me.

You padded over to him, eyes flickering between his face and the pomegranate. You took it eventually with subtle hesitance. When your fingers grazed over his skin, he shivered.

"Your hands are all sticky," you said, pressing your lips together.

"It's fine, I can just wash them," he assured you, but it wasn't good enough for you. Your smile turned nervous as you set down the fruit on the nearby table.

Wordlessly, you reached for his hand, and he let you take it, feeling buzzier now more than ever before. You inspected it, watched the juice roll down his fingers, and then brought his hand closer, up to your mouth.

You paused there, his fingers barely grazing your lips just to look him in the eye. An unsure flicker passed through them, but Kylian wasn't complaining. He wasn't moving. He was barely even breathing.

He didn't know what to say to you, if he should even ask, so he kept his mouth shut and waited with baited breath.

Kylian's eyes never wandered away from you. He watched as you opened your mouth, pulling his pointer and middle fingers inside, wrapping your lips around them. All the while, your eyes never wandered from his.

"Y/n," Kylian breathed, his body trembling with the force of trying to stay still when what he truly wanted to do was take you in his arms, pull you into his bed, and love you how he wanted to be loved.

Just as quickly as you put them inside, you pulled them out. "I'm sorry."

You were so flushed now, chest heaving up and down, your expression swollen with fear, with regret, with everything akin to the way he'd felt the night you helped him.

Instead of saying anything, he slowly brought his hand up to your cheek, his palm heavy, sticky, against your skin. You both stood there for a few seconds, and the distance suddenly felt insufferable.

His thumb traced the curve of your lips, tugging your bottom lip down gently. "You don't have to say sorry to me," he whispered so softly, it almost hurt to hear.

You didn't know it, but Kylian did. He had surrendered to you a long time ago. He had surrendered for the first time in his life, and he didn't care about coming off as weak.

He was weak for you.

He always was.

He refused to lose his chance, so he surged forward, lips pressing against yours, so unlike the kisses he'd given before. There was no finesse, no stability in it. It was desperate, messy, uncoordinated, everything he tried not to be. 

He breathed in the unmistakable scent of you, sweet and entirely you, and knew he wouldn't be able to ever get it out of his head.

"Don't ever be sorry," he rasped against yours lips, voice cracking with desire.

Kylian's other hand grasped at the back of your head, fingers digging into your scalp, pushing you closer—as close as he could get you because anything less would kill him.

Your lips parted, letting out a sigh of pleasure that he swallowed. He took the opportunity to slip his tongue between your lips, gliding his over yours. It made his body tremble, and his heart raced. He felt yours too, pressed up against his chest, thumping rapidly, just like his, like your hearts were synchronized, fighting to keep themselves contained and failing miserably.

He used to body to nudge you forward, practically refusing to pull his lips away from yours, and yanked you down with him, your back hitting the bed, making sure to land over you softly.

"Can I touch you?" he asked, the words coming out as more of a plead. "Please, let me touch you."

You nodded your head the second he stopped talking. "Yes. Yes, Kylian, please, touch me."

Kylian nodded feverishly, planting kisses upon your cheek, your jawline, down your neck, over the fabric of your dress, feeling your body react to all of it.

His hands were practically shaking as they snaked underneath your dress, grazing your panties, but he didn't take them off yet. He let his fingers graze over your clothed slit, the fabric already dampened, a groan ripping itself from his throat at the feeling.

He would've loved to bury himself inside you in that very moment. However, the urge to satisfy you, to make you feel good, was stronger.

Kylian lifted your dress just enough to reveal your panties—pink, lace, beautiful.

He hooked his fingers underneath the fabric, sliding it down with anticipation, revealing everything to him. Everything he'd dreamed of was on full display, right in front of him.

His cock twitched, strained against the denim he was wearing. "You're so beautiful," he said in awe. 

Kylian leaned down, leaning in closer, parting your legs further to give him enough space, hooking a leg around his shoulder, your dress riding up further. Centimeters away, he inhaled your scent, his breath fanning over your bare pussy.

He glanced up at you one last time, making note of your appearance—mouth open, already disheveled, despite barely touching you.

Then, he was moving, mouth attaching itself to your cunt, licking a stripe up your slit before flattening his tongue against your clit, wrapping his lips around it, sucking like his life depended on it.

Each moan that fell from your open mouth only egged him on, made him more desperate to push you over the edge, to see how you looked when you came.

He lapped up your arousal, letting out a pathetic moan as if he were the one being touched. On instinct, his hips twitched, grinding down against the bed, chasing the sweet sensation of friction.

He brought a hand up to grip your plush thigh, spreading you open further, eating you up like he had been starving for years.

You let out a gasp, head falling back against his bed. God, did he love that sound.

With his other hand, he dragged it up, using two fingers to spread your folds apart, spitting inside your cunt—hot, messy—before slipping those two fingers inside.

"You taste so good." His voice is absolutely wrecked, taking in the glorious sight of you flushed, your eyes glazed over with pleasure. "Can't get enough of you, chérie."

The name slipped out on accident, but you didn't seem to mind considering the way your pussy had just spasmed around his fingers, clenching down harder on them.

He dragged them out before pushing them back inside, eliciting a cracked moan from you. "Oh, fuck, Kylian."

"I know," he heaved out, lips reattaching themselves around your clit, fingers moving in tandem. He was chasing your high just as much as you were. "I'll help you come, baby."

He was relentless with only one goal in mind—making you come. And he could tell it was working, could sense the way you had become overstimulated, your senses overwhelmed with pleasure.

"Kylian, I can't—"

Your vision blurred, head thrown back, mouth open, crying out against the bed as your orgasm ripped through you. Kylian didn't move. He stayed right where he was, his fingers slowing, helping you ride through your high until your body relaxed.

Kylian was breathing as heavily as you, and though he loathed the idea of pulling away from you, preferring to stay right where he was, inhaling you, he chose to sit up on his knees, getting a good look at you.

Your chest raised slowly, up and down, reminding him that this was real. It was real. You were real. So fucking real.

"Are you okay?"

"More than okay," you breathed out, your eyes finally fluttering open to look at him, then down at the way his cock was straining against his pants. "I don't think you are, though."

He followed your eyes, but he didn't feel any shame. Not like the last time you had seen him like that where he wanted to die.

Now if he died, it wouldn't be out of embarrassment. He would die happily if it meant having you wrapped around him.

"I don't have a condom." Not that he actually cared. He was just being considerate.

"That's fine."

God. If he hadn't been hard already, he definitely would be after hearing you say that.

He freed himself from his jeans in seconds, his cock already leaking, heavy, unraveled, maneuvering himself until his thighs were touching yours. He almost wanted to say I love you then and there, but it was far too soon.

That could wait. Kylian couldn't.

He pushed his hips forward, his cock nudging your entrance, both of you twitching. He kept his eyes on yours, and yours on his. A thing he would've considered meaningless now meant everything to him.

He managed to push past your folds, splitting you open, and his eyes grow wider with each nudge forward until he was fully cocooned inside you.

Your pussy spasmed around him, at the wide stretch, and he grew dizzier from how hard you were squeezing him. It almost brought a tear to his eye.

"Putain," he cursed, his voice cracking. "Don't squeeze me like that—I'll come."

He wasn't ashamed to admit it. He was far past having shame around you. 

Kylian forced himself to pause for a few seconds, watching you intently, making sure you were comfortable enough to move on. Then, he shifted backward, his mouth falling open as he pushed inside you again, watching as your tits bounced with the force of his thrust.

"Keep going," you whined.

With each thrust, Kylian moved faster and faster until his pace grew ragged, desperate, keeping an eye on your expression. You wouldn't fade away this time. You wouldn't because this was real.

Being inside you was intoxicating, your cunt warm, your walls turning gummy around him as he stretched you further. He pulled back all the way, his tip still nudged between your folds before slamming back inside.

"You feel so good," he grunted, his hands gripping your hips, pushing you down against him. "So good—oh god—this pussy's so good."

He was mindlessly blabbering, unable to concentrate on anything but the feeling of your walls wrapped around his dick. There was nothing more he wanted than to stay inside you. He would die content if it was with him inside of you.

Kylian leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his chest pressing down onto you. "'m gonna come." He sounded like he was on the verge of breaking. "Gonna come inside you, need to come inside you, please, please—"

Your pussy pulsed around him, sucking him in deeper, involuntary answering him. You nodded hastily, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Please, Kylian."

"Come on my dick," he begged until his body was convulsing, his dick twitching, making sure to bury himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, white-hot, giving you everything, all of him.

His mouth stayed open, feeling your back arch against him with the force of your own orgasm until your body fell limp.

In the aftermath, you were both left slick with sweat, chests heaving against each others, skin to skin.

Kylian's muscles ached, the good kind. It took a while for either one of you to move. Kylian didn't want to because he was selfish. He wanted to stay there, keep you plugged up with his come. But when he managed to come to his senses, with visible reluctance, he forced himself to pull out, a hiss spilling from between his clench teeth.

His dick glistened with your arousal. It wasn't obscene to him. In fact, he thought it was beautiful.

He hovered over you for a few more seconds, basking in the afterglow, and then asked, "are you okay?"

Your lips twitched up. "You're so sweet."

Kylian actually blushed at that. "I just want to make sure… it wasn't too much, was it?"

You brought your lips up to his, planting a soft kiss over them, the kind that couples would give each other. Kylian's breath hitched because even after having sex with you, you still had that affect on him.

"Best I ever had."

Kylian smiled too, dimples appearing. "Are you just saying that?"

"Wish I was," you admitted, eyelids growing heavy. "I guess Kylian Mbappé is good at everything."

He paused at that, blinking down at you before rolling over to lie next to you. "That's what everyone thinks, but I don't think it's very true."

Was he souring the moment? He hoped not. He was just in the mood to be strangely honest. He never had the chance to in his previous sexual encounters. It had always been just sex. But he didn't want it to be justsex with you.

He wanted more.

Kylian could feel your gaze on him, heavy, curious, not pitying like he expected it to be.

"To think I thought you were another self-righteous footballer." You sighed, thinking over your words carefully. "And maybe you are a little, but I see past it. You're just a man. I saw it in all of our interactions, and I can admit that I never let any of them go. You're just a man and that's a good thing. I'm… grateful that you let yourself be vulnerable with me. But I'm not sure why me."

His heart jumped. He thought his body would tense up, and that his first instinct would be to put his walls up. Instead, he let himself relax.

"I'm not sure why either, but…" He opened his arms a bit wider. An invitation. "I like talking to you. And I think I'd like if you stayed. Only if you want to."

He never asked anyone that sober before.

Kylian couldn't find the strength to look over at you, the fear of rejection overcoming him once again.

He heard the rustle of his bed sheets, and the weight of you piling on top of him, grounding him, reminding him that it wasn't his imagination playing tricks on him.

Your chest rested upon his chest, your ear pressed right where his heart lay, beating for you.

"I do want to."

His arms wrapped around you, holding you closer, encouraging you to put all your weight on him. Put everything on him. He would carry it, just as you had carried his previous burdens.

An unspoken form of love—it was all he longed for.

He knew then that he didn't have to admit it out loud, and neither did you.

It came in the way his eyes grew heavy with exhaustion. He wasn't afraid to fall asleep first. He let sleep take over his body, carrying him away until he was drifting asleep.

In his final moments before losing consciousness, he held you close, smiling because he knew what you had said. 

"Goodnight, Kylian."

"Goodnight, Y/n."

He craved the silence of before. When the only people that criticized him were his friends. When the only pair of watchful eyes he had to be cautious of were his mother’s.

Now, it seemed like the whole world was watching him closely, scrutinizing him, waiting for the slightest slip up. That way they could get their headlines, their talking points for their under-watched shows that somehow managed to garner thousands of views whenever he was mentioned.

It was infuriating, but he kept his mouth clamped shut. Besides, it wasn’t all that bad. Kicking a ball around for a living gave him benefits others could only ever dream of, and he was beloved by many.

Not for him, though, no. Just for the simple fact that he managed to score goals and win games for their favorite team.

At first, the love was overwhelming. Thousands of strangers exclaiming their love for you when they didn’t even know you was hard to get used to at nineteen, but as time passed, he’d grown accustomed to it. Numb, even.

Love was no longer something he had to fight for. A few passes here and there and the fans would give it up like it was nothing. And that was exactly what it had become.

Nothing.

Love had become an empty word.

Even more so when Kylian realized they could take back their love in seconds and replace it with hate on his bad days.

They didn’t really love him.

Even the women he’d sleep with didn’t love him. He knew they just loved the idea of getting to sleep with a famous footballer, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was getting a good fuck.

He’d always imagined himself getting married in the future. Finding a nice woman to get settled down with, and maybe having a kid.

He used to criticize the men that would sleep around because why would you want that when you could have one good girl for the rest of your life whom you shared a real connection with?

Sex was a sacred thing. It was special. Not something to just give out—but he was a hypocrite.

Marriage was the last thing on his mind now, and he didn’t care to form a connection with every single girl he fucked.

He tried giving relationships a chance, but the voice in the back of his head always told him to stop. They don’t want you. They just want your money. They just want to use you.

It was a horrible way of thinking, and it left him feeling so empty after he’d come. He’d mentally curse himself for doing it again, having sex with a woman and leaving her in the dust afterwards. But surely they’d understand. They knew who he was. Kylian Mbappé didn’t have time to entertain relationships.

In the end, it was just sex, it wasn’t a commitment.

The only commitment he had was to his curse.

He was a footballer first, and maybe that was all he’d ever be to anyone.

Kylian's move to Real Madrid came as a shock to many, but for him, he knew it was inevitable.

Sure, he loved PSG (to an extent), but with the way things were playing out, he knew that it'd never be the club he'd end his career with. 

He loved Real Madrid as a child. He dreamt of playing for them, of representing the white and gold anyone could recognize with just a single glance, even from all the way up in the stands. Not to mention how good of a team they were. He'd be an idiot to pass on the opportunity of a lifetime.

Some criticized. Others gloated. Kylian just prepared himself for the barrage of eyes that were going to be watching him now more than ever.

The expectations were weighing on him heavier than before. He had to succeed with Real Madrid. He might've scored hundreds of goals already, but what did that matter if he never had anything to show for it? No UCL. No Ballon D'or. It just proved what everybody said about him. Overrated. 

He hated that word. Despised it. It made him want to punch something every time someone echoed the word. It replayed itself in his head, spun around in circles, gathered in clusters so he wouldn't be able to get it out. It haunted him from Paris to Madrid, followed him everywhere he went, and he was sick of it. So he knew what he had to do. 

Kylian was going to win this time. He had to.

Kylian kept a smile on his face as he was shown around Real Madrid's facility. It wasn't fake, but it was definitely a little exaggerated because he had a tendency to play it up for the cameras. Years of media training and the fact that people over-analyzed everything he did were a part of the reason why. Just imagine the outrage if he didn't look content enough—he'd rather not.

They eventually brought Kylian over to the medical wing to meet some of the staff.

"Kylian, these are our physios. Lara, Raúl, Santiago, and Y/N."

His tour guide, who he had already forgotten the name of, pointed at each person. Kylian scanned over each of their faces, and then paused at you because yours just stood out more. When he remembered the cameras were still rolling, he cleared his throat and darted his eyes back over to the first woman, Lara.

He stepped forward with a charming smile and started to shake the hand's of the physios, going down the line until he stood directly in front of you.

"Y/N, right?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. You just nodded, which caught him off guard, but he didn't let it show as his hand finally fell back down to his side. "Nice to meet you. I'm glad to be working with you."

"Yeah, me too."

That was it?

He didn't mean to sound like an asshole, but he expected a bit more… excitement? Awe? Enthusiasm, even. He'd gotten a little bit of that from your coworkers, but you… you looked like you were ready for the interaction to be over.

Kylian stepped back, ignoring the burn he felt in his chest from the way you unintentionally bruised his ego. "I look forward to working with all of you," he called out, voice tighter than before, before him and his guide were exiting from the room, cameras following close behind.

He thought about that interaction for the rest of the day. That thirty second interaction managed to stir something in him, annoyance and intrigue all at once. He wasn't used to being brushed off, he was used to people gawking over him, stumbling over their words and practically tripping over their feet when they spoke to him—but not you.

But he knew he could change that. He would. 

Kylian had been through it hundreds of times in his career. Evaluations. Stretching. Taping. It wasn't anything new. The only change that came from that was the person helping him do it.

Lucky for him, he got stuck with you.

Chatter from the other players floated around the treatment room as you settled him onto a table. 

While you were busy prepping the athletic tape and looking over your notes, Kylian sat quietly, eyeing you. He watched as a strand of hair loosened and fell over your eye so, gently, you placed it behind your ear. He was shocked at how you seemed completely clueless to the obvious way his gaze was burning into you. It was irritating, even.

He was bored out of his mind, and you weren't exactly giving him anything to work with. It made him wish he'd gotten stuck with one of the other physios.

Obviously, it wasn't expected of you to give him anything other than your help. You were doing exactly what you were supposed to do—your job—but that didn't mean that you couldn't do the bare minimum and talk to him. 

Kylian let a few more beats of silence between the two of you pass by before he finally asked, "So… how long have you been working with Real Madrid?"

You stopped whatever you were doing, putting your notes down to look at him. "Uh, not long. A little over a year now, I'd say."

"Oh, that's cool." He nodded, pretending to be interested even though the answer was one he honestly didn't care about. He paused, as though he were thinking, before adding, "do you recognize me?"

You gave him a slight once over like the question was supposed to be a joke, but it was far from it, and when you realized he was being serious, you let out a snort. "Of course, I do. You're Kylian Mbappé."

"Well, yeah, I just meant…" he trailed off, realizing that it was a stupid thing to ask. Everyone knew who he was. He could feel the heat lick up his nape, so he brought his hand up to cup it, cool palm rubbing softly against his skin. "You don't seem all that surprised to see me."

And he didn't blame you. The world didn't revolve around him, but for some strange reason, all he wanted was to see just the subtlest sign that you cared to be talking to someone as big as him. Or just that you cared about him in general.

Your face stayed the same, but he managed to spot something before it disappeared into oblivion: the way your eye twitched in a fleet. It went as quickly as it came, but it let Kylian know one thing—he had annoyed you with his words.

He'd wanted to see a reaction from you, just not that kind of reaction.

"Are you always this full of yourself?"

It was those words that had his brows shooting up. "Excuse me?"

"It's just…" you bit your lip, like you were holding something back, and Kylian waited. Waited for your words to spill over, anticipated it even, like he wanted to hear whatever you had to say about him, but in the end, nothing ever came. "Never mind. I shouldn't have said that. I'll tape you up, now."

Somehow, that stung more than whatever reality check you were going to give him.

Madrid's sun beamed down on Kylian, ultra-hot and unforgiving. He never minded the heat. It was a feeling he enjoyed, like whenever he went on vacation—not when it licked up his skin and left him dripping in so much sweat, he had to use a towel to dry himself off. He could feel his breath come out sharper with each drill he had to run, and the only motivation he had to keep going was the fact that inside, there'd be cool air blasting from the AC whenever the team was through with practice.

Kylian was jogging down the line when he swore he could feel the prickle of something against his skin. It wasn't from the heat, it was something else, something different. It made him shudder. The feeling burned against his skin hotter than the heat of the damned sun—and it was coming from one place.

Kylian swerved his head around to the sideline where the coaching staff stood. 

You stood there too, but your gaze wasn't on him, it was focused on watching the other guys. But, coincidentally enough, just as his eyes flicked over there, the sensation faded as well.

When he found no plausible answer to the feeling, he huffed and switched his focus back to whatever he was doing before. He chose to blame it on the heat and how it was probably messing with his head and making him imagine things.

Yet when the feeling came again without warning, he felt a frustration bubble up inside him and found himself craning his head again. That was when he caught something, just for a split second. How you turned your head away just as his eyes peeked over at the sideline.

The knowledge that you were likely staring at him made his mouth go dry. It wasn't like getting stared at was uncommon. It was the way it left him feeling afterwards that was uncommon. He didn't like it, nor the fact that it'd made him physically shudder. He shouldn't be losing his cool over something so trivial, yet he felt himself slipping. 

He stood still, eyes trained in on your shoes like they were the most interesting things in the world, not quite ready to look away yet because he knew the second he did, you'd look at him again and he'd lose his cool.

How were you making me feel like this?

It wasn't until he heard the manager yell out his name that he finally snapped out of his daze. The heat of embarrassment rose in him next as he went back to jogging like nothing ever happened. And the feeling never came again after that.

The AC felt like a blessing when Kylian finally stepped inside the building, his body absorbing the much-needed coolness of the air.

The rest of the team headed to the locker room to change, but a pair of footsteps approaching behind him made him stop. He turned his head, hoping his expression didn't give away to how his stomach had suddenly tightened.

"Are you okay?"

Kylian heard the question loud and clear, yet he didn't answer, like his mind was suddenly running on empty, and it couldn't have chosen a better occasion than this one.

"What?" he breathed out after a beat of silence.

"I asked if you're okay," you repeated, even though he definitely heard you the first time. He swore that looked like concern on your face. Not the fake shit everyone always gave him. Genuine concern. "I saw you running out there and you looked pretty out of it. I understand, it's really hot today."

Kylian almost couldn't believe it. You were asking if he was okay? Maybe he was really out of it. Here you were, doing your job, and here he was, doing what he hated most when it was done to him—over analyzing.

"Yeah," he nodded hastily. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Okay, good," you said, lips pursed into a tight smile. "Uh, well, if you feel any different, you know where to find me."

You turned, ready to walk down the hall. That was when Kylian felt something creep up his throat, the word "wait" now on the tip of his tongue, but it never came. He let the moment pass until you were out of sight and he was left standing alone in the hallway with nothing but his thoughts and the cool breeze of the AC cooling his skin.

Maybe you actually cared about him. 

Maybe.

Kylian couldn't sleep that night. He didn't even try. It was pointless because his mind was plagued with images of you. A woman he barely knew. He didn't even know your last name or how old you were. All he had was your first name. Y/N.

He found himself repeating it under his breath, enunciating each letter, as if he were preparing for the day he'd have to call out your name.

Y/N. Y/N.

The name was perfect for you. It just made sense. You looked like a Y/N in the best way possible.

You were just a woman, he had to remind himself because he suddenly realized he was going off the deep end. He tried distracting himself by going on Instagram and looking at different women. His eyes flickered over at each post, rubbing himself just to get himself going, but his attempts at raising his libido fell short.

Kylian cursed, head falling back against the pillow in defeat. In a last ditch attempt to elicit some sort of pleasure from himself, he opened up an adult website. 

Instead of clicking on the first video he saw, he went into the search bar, fingers hesitating over the keyboard, like they knew what he was about to do was shameful and had given him a chance to back out, before he was typing in a description of you.

The girl in the video didn't exactly look like you, but it was good enough for him. He pulled down his boxers, freeing his aching cock from its confinement and fisting the length.

He pressed his thumb against the slit of his cock and let out a hiss, smearing the precum over his tip as the video started. He usually loathed the lengthy dialogue of pornography, but especially now more than ever.

He skipped ahead until the girl was finally on her knees in front of the male actor. She unzipped his pants and stuck his cock inside her mouth, sucking him off until saliva dripped down her chin.

All the while, Kylian gripped his cock harder, palm gliding easily along his length. He'd never felt this desperate for an orgasm before, but with you in the back of his mind, that was all he wanted.

He imagined it was really you, not sucking off some actor, but him instead. 

He imagined how warm your mouth would feel, how you probably couldn't take him all the way in without your throat constricting around his cock like all the other girls, but he imagined you trying anyway, just to show him you cared.

His vision blurred out, video long forgotten as he finally came, crashing back against his pillow with ragged breaths. On the tip of his tongue laid one word—a name—and this time, he didn't hesitate.

"Y/N."

Kylian was fine. He was just fine. He'd been through plenty of step backs before to let them deter him, now.

Still, it felt like he'd been going crazy for weeks, and for more than one reason.

You hadn't talked much since that day beyond whatever was necessary. It was also partly due to the shame he felt whenever he looked at you. It was like he had developed an itch he couldn't get rid of, even after all of the scratching he did. It was probably going to take more than meaningless small talk for his itch to finally disappear.

He wanted you to show some sort of interest in him beyond the job or football. So many girls would give up anything just to have him for a night, but you were so chill about him. Did you really not care? Had he gotten it all wrong?

Whenever his thoughts got too rowdy, he reminded himself that he barely knew you and there was no point in acting like a mad-man over an ordinary woman when his life was already so chaotic. Still, he found himself growing antsy as the days passed by. 

He should've been focused on improving whatever he was lacking which—according to the internet—was everything. The weight on his shoulders was unbearable and it was only his first month with Madrid. The only thing missing was an injury.

He felt the burn in his thigh by the 70th minute against Alaves, but he pushed through it because it wasn't the first time he'd felt something like that. To his disappointment, the strain didn't fade, but rather, it increased to the point where it was obvious to Ancelotti that Kylian had to come out of the game.

Kylian was frustrated, to say the least, as he stepped off the pitch and over to the bench, a huff blowing past his lips as he plopped down onto a seat. As irritated as he was, he felt relieved as well when the sharp pain in his thigh began to ebb slightly. 

The game continued without him.

You were the first person to come to him, sinking down onto the empty chair beside him. You angled your body toward him, unintentionally bumping your knee against his. The contact was subtle, meaningless, but it made him tear his gaze away from the game in an instant to look at you instead. His eyes found yours and, like before, he felt a warmth spread across his nape, shame bubbling up inside him.

"It's something in your left leg, right?" You asked, but Kylian knew it was more of a rhetorical question. "I saw when you started limping a little. And how you started favoring your right leg as well."

Kylian couldn't help but be impressed at how easily you'd read him—and hoped that was the farthest your reading of him could go.

"Uh, yeah. I think I strained my thigh a bit, but it's nothing major," Kylian explained, tone laden with the familiar sound of dismissal. It had become a habit for him to downplay his injuries whether they were serious or not. He'd always push himself until his legs gave out because he despised missing games. Despised sitting on the sidelines and missing out on the opportunity to play because his body wasn't cooperating. "I'm sure it's nothing."

A small, almost sympathetic smile played on your lips. "Doesn't matter. I wasn't really asking. I'll check you out properly when the game's over." 

You had already decided for him. Kylian realized that you'd likely decided it before walking over to him. That realistically, there was no need for you to come over and talk to him. No one else had—which was what usually happened when he got injured in a game—just you. 

You were the only one that really noticed.

The whistle eventually blew into the air, but Kylian had forgotten the game a long time ago, eyes focusing on the details of your face, your lips, the slope of your nose, while your eyes watched the other guys.

They always watched the other guys.

Kylian expected there to be someone else in the room during his check up, but no. It was just you and him, and the obnoxious sound of the AC blasting.

He noticed pretty early on that you weren't one to talk when you worked, opting for silence instead. You hadn't told him much of what exactly you were going to do. Just that you needed to check how tight his muscles were, meaning you'd be feeling up his thigh. He didn't mean to be that kind of man, but he was almost a little eager to have your hands on his thigh after he spent so long fantasizing about you.

When your hands finally connected with his thigh, it was as if his whole body had burst into flames. His heart had begun to beat faster and faster until he felt it thump rapidly against his chest, and as you prodded at his thigh, fingers pressing into the tight muscle, he prayed to god you couldn't see how badly your touch had affected him. 

Kylian had always been confident, had always been in control, had rarely been shaken by anything, but now, with your hand fondling his thigh, he felt himself unraveling.

"Stop," he choked out, voice tight, breathless, and your fingers stilled the second you heard him, but they didn't pull away yet.

"Is it too much?" You asked, the same concern from before evident in your voice, and it only made him feel guiltier for stopping you because he couldn't control himself. "I can do it softer, I just need to—"

"No." His voice was strained, more than it had ever been in his life. He felt the panic bubble up in his throat because he had no logical way to explain why he just needed you to stop. 

You'd find out the reason. 

You'd find out the reason and be mortified and never look his way again.

His hands almost shot out to grab your face the second you turned your head back down, in hopes that he could stop you from seeing just how much you'd affected him, except he didn't, and now it was too late.

He watched as your eyes widened, a flustered look spreading across your features when you caught sight of the obvious hard-on growing in his shorts. Your hands ripped themselves from his thigh in an instant like it was venom, and he found himself missing the feeling already.

"Oh." 

He saw the way your body stiffened, like you didn't know what to do with the knowledge that you got him hard. He made you uncomfortable and it was his fault. All his fault for not being able to control himself when you were just doing your job.

"Shit, I'm sorry." The words spilled out of his mouth, a hand moving to hide himself in shame. "I—it wasn't your fault, or well it—it's just—it's always like this for me."

"It's okay, Kylian." But the hitch in your voice told him otherwise.

"It's not. I made you uncomfortable. I'm an idiot."

"We're all human. It's a normal, human reaction. It's fine, really."

For some reason, your words did little to comfort him. He found himself growing irritated instead. You were being nice—way too nice to him—like you were trying not to hurt his feelings, just like everyone else. He didn't understand you. He didn't understand you at all.

Kylian didn't reply after that, figuring it was better to leave it at that rather than arguing back and forth about who was right.

You stood there awkwardly, swaying from heel to heel, until you turned and walked over to your bag, digging inside until you found what you were looking for. You returned to him, clutching the object in your hand, a flash of red catching Kylian's eye.

"You know, I always bring a pomegranate with me on game days." Kylian's gaze flickered to the fruit as you rolled it between your palms. "Weird, right?"

If only you knew how weird he was. "Not at all." 

You smiled wryly. "It's my favorite fruit, if you couldn't already tell. You should have it."

It took a moment for Kylian to register that you had your hand out, ready to give him the fruit. He expected a lot of things, just not this. He hesitated before reaching out to grab the pomegranate, all the while ignoring the delicate way your fingers grazed his.

He clutched the fruit in his hand before looking back over at you. "Thank you," he finally said, his voice carrying an edge.

"Yeah, no problem." You nodded before something else flickered in your eyes. "But, now you owe me."

Kylian had the feeling you were only joking, but he knew he'd be more than willing to pay you back.

"Okay. I owe you, now."

For the first time since stepping into the room, Kylian felt his body ease.

And when he got home, he held the pomegranate between his palms, thumbing over the skin. Both of his thumbs dug in suddenly until the fruit broke open, juice squirting out and spilling down his arms. Yet he paid it no mind.

He brought the pomegranate up to his mouth, lips wrapping around the seeds, a moan of content leaving his mouth as a combination of sweetness and tartness spread across his tongue.

He wasn't the biggest fan of pomegranates, but you'd given it to him and that was enough for him to keep going, eating with the greed of an animal, like he'd been starving for years, until there wasn't anything left. Only the skin in his hands, the juice that spilled down his chin, and a hunger that hadn't quite been satiated.

Things had gotten a little better for Kylian. At least in terms of you, not in football. People were still claiming he wasn't doing enough. He'd heard it time and time again, yet it still bugged him. 

He tried to push down all the hurt he felt inside and shift his focus to the next match, the next interview, to whatever was important. But at night, instead of being asleep, getting the rest he needed, he stayed up to scroll on his phone, heavy-lidded eyes scanning through articles and articles of criticism until the tightness in his chest became too much to bear.

You'd become a good distraction for him—not that that was all that you were. You were more than that to him, expect, he could never say it out loud because one: you technically worked for him, and two: you'd made it clear you weren't friends. Just coworkers in a way.

Another thing that bothered him, but Kylian wouldn't push his luck. Not yet, anyway. He was content with how things were, the casual conversation, how you actually seemed like you were interested in hearing what he had to say. He didn't want to blow it up like he almost did last time.

On the day of his first Clásico, he felt like he'd gone back in time to when he was younger. Sweaty palms, heavy breaths, racing heart. Nervous. Kylian was nervous, which was the last thing he needed.

He couldn't stand still for the life of him. He swayed from heel to heel, picked and bit at his nails, darted his eyes from object to object, all in hopes of distracting himself.

Kylian gave up hope by the time he was getting ready to line up with the team by the tunnel, but before he could go far, he felt a hand touch his arm. He spun around, only to find you. You hadn't said a word yet, but your presence alone, and the way your hand lingered on his arm, was enough to ebb his nerves.

"Are you nervous?"

You reading him had become a common occurrence, a thing Kylian hadn't grown accustomed to just yet. He hated it, but liked it because he never had to admit how he felt. Somehow, you always knew.

"Crazy, right?" Kylian said, shaking his head like he couldn't believe it. "I mean, I've played football for over ten years, now."

"This is different, though," you replied, looking around the tunnel before your eyes settled on him. "Don't let their words get to you. You're better than what they say. And… I know you'll be great."

Something in Kylian shifted then. All of the noise in the tunnel drowned out. His surroundings blurred, and the only thing that was clear to him in that moment was you. It was a strange feeling. One he hadn't experienced before. It hit him harder than anything else ever had.

He'd heard the words so many times before, but none of it compared to the way it made him feel when he heard you say it.

Grounded. Warm. Calm.

He thought he was crazy for feeling that way. He spent so many years numb to the way people cared about him. Their words of love and praise always seemed forced, only spoken to make him happy, which he rarely ever felt.

But something about your words felt real. And what he felt was real.

"Thank you," he finally replied—and he meant it.

Kylian expected a couple different outcomes. Losing 0-4 in his first Clásico wasn't one of them.

The frustration grew in heaps with each step he took to the locker room. He sat and listened to whatever critiques the manager had to say. How the team needed to improve. How they were better than that.

It didn't soothe his frustration. In fact, it only flared up at the speech.

Kylian was collecting his things so he could go take a shower, to hopefully cool off and wash off all of the disgusting grime that clung to his skin, when he felt the same touch from earlier on his arm. But instead of turning around like he knew he wanted to, he shrugged it off like it meant nothing to him. "Not now."

"Kylian—"

"What part of not now don't you understand?" He hadn't meant to be so cruel. He couldn't help it. All he wanted was to be alone and wallow in self-pity. He couldn't handle being around other people in his current state.

No other words came out of you after that, but Kylian could sense the way you deflated. Your footsteps rang in his ears as you walked away, and he had to stop himself from turning around to beg for you to come back.

Fuck. He needed something strong. He needed a drink.

By 12AM, he was slumped over a bar, eleventh drink of the night resting beside him, half-empty. The bartender insisted that he should stop by the 7th drink, but he couldn't really deny Kylian Mbappé service—not with the generous tips he was receiving.

It was only when he noticed that Kylian was completely out of it that he realized he should probably do something. He was hesitant, but eventually reached for Kylian's phone. Coincidentally enough, the phone was unlocked, and on the screen read a message Kylian thought about sending—I didn't mean to snap. I can apologize properly over drinks—before he grew too wasted to do so.

The bartender fought back a laugh and called you.

You arrived twenty minutes later, completely unbeknownst to Kylian. He was too preoccupied with trying to down the rest of his drink, and failing miserably because he had the urge to vomit it all out.

He thought he was hallucinating when he heard the familiar lilt of your voice. He turned his head towards that direction, catching a flash of your figure. It must've been the world taunting him for what he had said to you earlier because there was no way you were actually here. Not after he had been such an asshole. 

Maybe he really had sent you that message.

"I got it from here, thanks."

He heard your footsteps approaching, but made no effort to move. He was quite comfortable where he was. Drowning in alcohol and not worrying about whatever was going on in his life.

"Kylian," you called out, and he noted the obvious concern in your voice. "Are you okay? Come on, get up. You need to get home."

You placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and that was enough for him to finally turn his head all the way up. 

You really were here. Here for him.

Out of all the people he wanted to see in that moment, you were the last one. It was humiliating, after all. He was supposed to be a professional, stable, but he wasn't. Not now. Instead, he felt heavy. Light-headed. Despite all the drinks, they weren't enough to mend the hurt of that loss—and the thought that you may hate him after what he had said.

"Why're you here?" 

"Because. The bartender said you were drinking yourself to death." You sighed, eyes darting around the place. "What are you doing here with no security? You know that's dangerous."

He scoffed, like the words were ridiculous. He was a goddamn adult, not a child. "I don't need security to get a drink."

You let out a humorless laugh, your fingers flexing around his bicep. "You and I both know that's not true. Not for you. Now, get up, seriously. It's late."

Kylian wanted to argue, but he was far too drunk to bother, and his head was beginning to ache. He supposed you were right, anyway.

You helped him get up, but not without him staggering out of his seat and right into your body because the world felt like it was spinning. His hands instinctively shot out, fingers wrapping around your biceps until he stopped swaying from side to side.

He could've let go the second he gained his footing, but he didn't want to. Being in your vicinity was nice. He could look at you, at all the details he missed before. How nice your eyebrows looked. The zits along your cheek. Things he'd remember after tonight even though he wasn't sober. That was how easy it was for you to get into his head without even meaning to.

"Come on, my car's just outside," you said, nodding toward the exit. There was a subtle tightness in your voice that wasn't there before, and Kylian had the feeling that, maybe, you didn't mind being that close, either.

Each step he took was slow and steady, your warmth seeping into his side as you walked with him, and whenever he was close to stumbling forward, you were there, like a pillar, holding him up with your hand pressed against his back. He let himself lean into you, pressing his weight against you, and he could do it without looking crazy because he was drunk. 

You didn't seem to mind, and he was thankful for that.

The ride back to his place was primarily silent, save for the sound of the radio playing on low. He pressed his forehead against the glass, watching as the colors blurred together. So much so, he thought he might get sick as the urge to vomit rose up his throat. He shut his eyes, hoping it was enough to stop the nausea.

"We're almost there," he heard you say, like you knew how he felt. 

Kylian held on, just until the car came to a stop. He wanted to get out, but his body wasn't cooperating. He sat still, eyes still drooped shut. His mouth twitched, ready to ask you for help before remembering how badly he despised the idea of asking anyone for help.

His silence must've been enough of an answer for you because you were getting out of your seat and walking over to the passenger side.

"I got you," you said when you opened the passenger door. Kylian believed you without thinking twice.

You led him to the front door, where he sloppily entered the code twice before stepping inside.

"Bathroom," he slurred, pointing down the hall, and you wordlessly steered him in that direction.

The second he entered the bathroom, he let himself drop down onto his knees in front of the toilet.

"Damn," he muttered, angry at himself for getting so wasted. The constant throbbing in his head wouldn't go away, no matter how much he willed it to. He was on the verge of exploding from stress, from anger, from all of it. "Damn it all."

Kylian gripped the seat so hard, his knuckles turned white, forcing himself to gag so he could yack all of the alcohol out of his system.

He emptied himself into the toilet with so much force that his ribs ached, his throat burned, leaving behind a gross aftertaste Kylian no longer wanted in his mouth. 

It wasn't the first time he had gotten so drunk, he could barely stand, but it was the first time tears glossed over his eyes. 

Loser.

His head fell against the toilet seat, shoulders shaking as he let out a choked sob. 

He was a loser.

He'd already humiliated himself so much so why bother hiding it, now?

When he felt your hand on his back, he had the urge to cry harder.

"What's wrong?" you asked, worried—always worried. "Kylian, why are you crying?"

You just wanted to help him and he didn't like it. He couldn't understand why you hadn't just left after helping him inside. Why you even bothered showing up to the bar. Why you were still here.

He shook his head rapidly, wiping away the snot from his face. With a heavy chest, he managed to say, "you can go. You've helped me enough."

But that was beyond the truth. 

The truth was that he wanted you to stay—he needed you to stay—and he didn't know why. And that hurt. More than losing a game or hearing strangers curse his name.

"Kylian," you repeated, as if his name were something fragile. As if he were something delicate. "I can't leave you like this."

He finally plucked up the courage to look at you, eyes all red and puffy. "Why?"

"Because…" you paused, unsure of what to say. "Do I need a reason?"

Yes. He wanted to say. What's your motive here?

Instead—"Even after what I said?" He stuttered. "Even after I was an asshole?"

You let out a sigh, kneeling next to him, your velvety voice right next to his ear. "You weren't an asshole. You were just upset. I should've listened the first time you told me you weren't in the mood."

Kylian shook his head again. "No, I was," he insisted. "I can't help it sometimes, it's just… it's just that I… we lost so badly and I got angry. I always get angry and I just push people away."

His head bowed in shame. "I could've done more. I should've done more. All I've done is prove people right. I'm not even that good."

Kylian felt more vulnerable in that moment than he'd ever felt in his entire life. He felt like shit, felt heavier than he'd ever felt before. He had no reason to tell you anything because you weren't close. Weren't friends. But he couldn't control his mouth around you.

He just needed to tell someone, and he wanted to tell you.

Something cracked in your expression then. The room may have been dark, but he saw it. The way you looked at him with pity, none of which he believed he deserved.

"You're wrong," were the words that broke the heavy silence of the room. Kylian let out a dry laugh, but you continued, "the loss isn't all on you. You did what you could."

"It wasn't enough."

"Are you listening to me?" Your voice came out firmer, desperate to make him listen. "Kylian, you did what you could. This is a team sport. And—and I don't know why you bother listening to anyone else. I've never seen anyone play the way you do. You're special, and you're crazy if you think otherwise."

He opened his eyes, really opened his eyes, and in that moment, he could tell that you were serious. No faux concern. No overdoing it. Just you sat next to him, looking at him, waiting. And he felt your words like a physical thing, hitting him in ways he never thought he'd feel.

You cared.

Kylian was left defenseless under your gaze. He couldn't open his mouth. Couldn't tear his gaze away from yours. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay like that. He wanted time to slow so he could stare into your eyes longer. He wanted you to stay because for the first time in years, he felt something. Something that didn't leave him feeling hollow inside.

He didn't speak. He let his head fall forward until it landed on your shoulder. "Are you gonna leave?"

Your body stiffened, and knowing him, he'd probably spoiled the moment like he did every other one, but he didn't care. There wasn't an ounce of shame left in his body. 

"Don't." His voice was quiet, on the verge of breaking. "I can't stand being alone anymore."

It was an invitation. One he hoped you would take because watching you walk away again would hurt more than you'd ever know.

"Stay."

The room filled with a heavy silence. Kylian's throat suddenly grew tight with regret, and he held his breath, awaiting your inevitable rejection, until you said, "Okay."

It was a single word. Two syllables. Okay. Oh-kay. But it was enough for Kylian, air filling his lungs once again.

You led him to his bedroom where he flopped down onto his bed with an exhausted huff.

"Are you okay like this?"

Kylian shook his head no. "It's hot."

His fingers went to his zipper, pulling it down roughly. He got annoyed when it stopped half-way down, muttering, "stupid zipper," and realizing how childish he probably sounded. He gave up after a few more attempts, throwing his head back against the pillow in defeat.

You cleared your throat, lingering near the bed. "Do you want me to help you?"

The thought of your fingers that close shook him to his core. Considering what happened the last time you touched him like that, he was hesitant to accept. But realizing he was in no position to do it himself, he eventually nodded.

He ignored the shiver that ran down his spine as your fingers reached for his zipper, pulling it down with a calmness he hadn't, until it came all the way down.

"Lift your hips," you said, and he obeyed without hesitation.

Slowly, you tugged down his jeans, freeing him from the suffocating confines of the denim, and leaving him in nothing but his boxers. The air bit against his skin, cooling his warm legs.

"Is that okay?" 

He nodded, his body lighter than it was before.

You stood there, glancing around the room, as if you were trying to find the will to lie down next to him. Kylian noticed.

"It's okay." He shifted, scooting over and making sure to leave you enough room on the other side of the bed. "…you don't have to if you really don't want to."

Please stay.

The smile that you gave him was small, noting the nervousness that bubbled up on your features. "No, no, it's fine. It's just… I haven't slept next to anyone in a long time."

Your body finally moved forward, knees pressing into the mattress as you positioned yourself on the empty side of the bed, leaving space between you. You were far enough to where he could turn to his side, shift over, and he wouldn't touch you.

It was perfect, safe, and despite it, in his own strange way, he could still feel you. It was as if something were drawing you to him. 

Now, he wished you were closer. 

He longed to know what your weight would feel like on top of him, especially after an exhausting match. After he was left spent and boneless, body sore. You pressing down on his chest, sinking into him, and he would let you. He'd welcome your warmth seeping into his worn out body and let it bring the life back into him.

Soon, his racing heart eased into a steady pace. From the corner of his eye, he watched as your body relaxed, shoulders sagging down, chest rising slower. Your scent infiltrated his nostrils, and he inhaled the sweet smell of you.

It all brought him comfort. The way neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved. Like there was a silent understanding between the two of you—there was no need to do anything. Laying side by side was enough to satiate his need for company.

There was so much he was warring with. He spent so many nights awake, unable to fall asleep, and only when his body gave into the exhaustion did he rest.

Expect now, Kylian's eyelids drooped down. His breathing slowed, evening out, and he let it happen. Let his body relax, and for once, he could pretend that everything was okay.

As his vision blurred, and the room faded into darkness, with one final effort, he breathed out, "Goodnight, Y/N."

And he'd never get to see the crack of a smile on your face as you replied, "Goodnight, Kylian." 

There was a thumping in his head when he woke up the next morning—right next to the looming sense of shame.

The sun peaked out from beneath the cracks in Kylian's blinds, shining right into his room and hitting him in the face, prompting him groan in annoyance. He almost snuggled himself deeper into his sheets to get more sleep before the memories of last night flickered through his mind, a sick taunt of sorts.

He turned over to his stomach, his face planted in the pillow so when he screamed, it would come out muffled. Something he needed to get out of his system before he was forced to get up and face you again.

He eventually found the courage to push himself out of bed, ignoring the lingering smell of you in the air, but then paused once his eyes landed on his nightstand.

A bottle of ibuprofen. And a note.

Had to leave early for work, but I'll see you there. Make sure you take one or two before you leave. -Y/N

Of course. Last night hadn't been enough for you. You had to finish pushing the dagger into his heart.

Kylian got looks from his teammates as practice went on—his passes, his shots all sloppier than they'd normally be—looks of which he pretended were nonexistent. If he pretended everything was fine, then surely it had to be true.

Nothing had went on last night. Nothing that anyone needed to know of. 

He silently prayed that you wouldn't tell of his antics, leak information that he was drinking after a big loss to the press, or even gossip with the other staff about how pathetic he had been.

It would shatter the illusion of who he was to the public. A strong, confident leader who always knew what to say, and who was always so sure of himself. But as he passed by you in practice, and could barely look at you for a few seconds before having to look away, he wasn't so sure that was who he really was.

His confidence had wavered, leaving him vulnerable under your gaze. You could see right through all his bravado, and it shook Kylian. It made him want to run away to where you could no longer see him.

Eventually practice wrapped up and Kylian found himself running inside the building. He didn't bothering sparing anyone a glance as he changed into his normal clothes. All the while, the word coward circled in his head.

Kylian didn't want to believe he was a coward. He was just giving you some much needed space. After all, he'd bombarded you with his actions far too many times, with most of them teetering between the edge of professional and inappropriate.

As he strode to the parking lot—ready to rot in bed, probably think of you as well—his pace slowed when his ears caught the sound of laughter.

Kylian realized that he was approaching your office, and that the sound was coming from inside.

He found himself stopping a few feet away from the door, despite knowing that he should do himself a favor and pretend he hadn't heard anything. Yet that sound—it ticked something in him because it wasn't just anyone's laugh. It was yours.

The sound replayed itself in his head over and over again, that sweet, sweet sound. He hadn't heard it before, but hearing it now made a part of him feel like he was going insane.

He got closer, peering through the door's window, only to still once he caught sight of who was inside. You were there, smiling, laughing, not with a coworker like he'd originally thought, but with Jude Bellingham.

Something twisted in his stomach then, an ugly green feeling of envy spreading through his body, making him tense up. He had no right to feel this way, yet he felt it anyway.

You never laughed like that around him, you rarely ever spared him a smile.

What had Jude done to deserve you beaming up at him like that? Laughing so carefree, like you two were the only people in the world?

The longer Kylian stared, the dizzier he grew. He needed to go, needed to leave before he did something reckless, like storm inside and tell Jude to back off.

Kylian hadn't done anything to deserve that right.

He wanted to hear you laugh, but not with Jude. He wanted you to laugh with him. Now, your laugh was the sweetest torture, fading away as he walked to his ride.

In typical Kylian fashion, he chose to avoid you for the next few weeks because what better way to solve your problems than to avoid them?

Not that you were the problem. It was definitely him and his treacherous mind that seemed to think of you whenever it could. But he knew he couldn't avoid you forever, and eventually, the world would force him to face you again.

The moment came too soon for him to be prepared for it. After the game against Leganés, he received an invite from his teammates to go to dinner to celebrate the win.

He almost rejected the offer, too eager to go back to his hotel room and sleep off the aches deep in his bones. Then he heard you were coming, and now the offer sounded far too tempting for him to say no to.

He'd never seen you all dressed up before. The dress was nice—you looked nice—simple, but enough to make his breath catch in his throat. He pulled his gaze away, going back to a conversation he wasn't really listening to.

It had been an hour since the dinner had started, which meant an hour of him pretending he actually wanted to be there had passed, and the only reason he came had yet to talk to him. Not even so much as a glance his way. 

It was like Kylian was invisible, and the feeling made him uncomfortable because it was something he wasn't used to feeling.

No. You'd rather spend most of your time with Jude, laughing at his awful jokes.

Kylian wasn't jealous. He didn't get jealous. He had everything he wanted, but for some strange reason that he refused to acknowledge, he wanted you to come over to him.

He watched you from the corner of his eye, and when you placed a hand on Jude's bicep, that was all Kylian could take. He excused himself from the conversation—they barely noticed—to walk out of the room, finding a secluded area, a small balcony, just to breathe properly.

What would your father say? Kylian thought. Seeing his son so unraveled over a woman?

He was so in his head, he hadn't registered the click of heels approaching.

"Kylian."

It was enough to break his trance and throw him off all over again. The world was against him. There was no other reason for you to be here, calling his name, unless it was to torture him further.

Kylian reeled his head over to look at you in your nice dress. You were a few feet away, gazing up at him.

"Hey," he said. It was all he could bring himself to say. He looked away again, at the scenery before him. He was afraid that, if he looked at you for too long, his memory would wander in places he didn't want to be in.

"Did you need some air, too?" Your tone was casual, the opposite of how Kylian felt. He wished he could be as casual as you.

"Yeah," he murmured. "What did you need air for? You looked like you were having a good time in there."

There was probably a bitter edge to his words, one he couldn't help.

You laughed, not like the ones you let out with Jude. This time, it was amused.

"I guess I was." You hummed, your hands perching upon the balcony's railing. You were closer to him that way, and he could already feel your heat radiating off of you. "But honestly, after a while, Jude's jokes start to get annoying."

Was it bad that hearing you say that made Kylian feel a little better?

His lips twitched a little, but he fought back against letting himself chuckle. Instead, Kylian pulled back enough to look at you. His heart jumped against his chest when he found you already looking at him.

"He's not even that funny." His voice betrayed him. He tried to appear as cool as you, only to sound like a bitter boyfriend.

You smiled, wider that time. "I know. But I'd feel bad leaving the kid hanging."

Kid. Kid. Kid?

Still, he refused to get his hopes up.

"He's 21. Not exactly a kid."

"He just reminds me of having a little brother. Having to fake being entertained by his jokes." You paused. "You know what that's like, don't you? You have a younger brother."

By now, Kylian should be happy with the victory—you just called Jude a little brother. The mention of his own caught him off guard instead.

"I… do." He had no reason to be so cautious. It was public knowledge that he had a younger brother. That didn't mean you mentioning it so suddenly hadn't caught him off guard.

He supposed it had something to do with the fact that you showed no interest in him beyond the job. Or at least, it was what he chose to believe. Believing anything else would only fuel his crazy delusions.

"…but, he doesn't joke around me much anymore," he suddenly revealed, the words feeling so achingly honest, too honest for the moment, that he almost regretted speaking entirely. "I try doing it with him, but I guess he's too cool for that."

"Seeing him grow up must be hard," you remarked, somehow knowing what to say, like it came naturally to you. "But I think it's sweet. The fact that he treats you like an older brother. He might pretend to not like joking around with you, but I know deep down he enjoys your nagging."

If your plan was to cheer him up and make his heart rate quicken simultaneously, you had succeeded. Kylian couldn't help the way a smile curved up onto his lips.

"Nagging?" He asked, the word choice almost enough to elicit a chuckle from him.

He watched you falter for a split second, a first from you—which made him celebrate internally—before you grinned. "Well, I'm sure that's how your brother would describe it." Another pause from you. "And I see the way you are in practice. You like to joke around."

Maybe it was silly considering you were a physio, but even then, knowing that you had watched him, noticed his personality—remembered it—made him a little hotter, despite the cool wind blowing past him.

"I'm glad you keep tabs on me." 

"You're Kylian Mbappé. I'm sure I'm not the first lady to keep tabs on you."

"No. But you are the first one to do it like this."

It was meant to be teasing, another thing to keep the banter going because he loved it. His voice, however, came out raspier, lower, strained, as if he were fighting something back.

That desire to just touch you.

Your body tensed. Kylian saw it because he was watching you so intensely. He hadn't been able keep his eyes on you before, but now, he couldn't seem to look away.

You swallowed, tongue swiping out to lick your dried lips. The ones his gaze kept flicking to. "I'm not sure what that means."

"I'm not sure, either."

Kylian should just leave it at that. He should say his goodbyes and walk away, but that would mean another night plagued with the image of you burned into his mind—him reaching out, only to be left depleted because you weren't really there.

And Kylian, he was done restricting himself from what he really wanted. What he really needed. It was you.

"Are you doing something later?"

You shook your head. "Past 8PM? Probably not. Why—"

"Do you want to come with me?" For all Kylian had done in his career, his life, he felt as if this was by far the hardest thing he'd ever done. "I mean… I owe you still, don't I? There's a spare pomegranate in my hotel room."

He stayed calm, prepared for the worst, the inevitable no, yet it never came. What did come was your lips twitching into a smile—a real one.

"Everyone says you're so cool. So fearless. A maverick. I guess you can say that about how you play." You tilted your head, eyes gleaming up at him. "But, I think you're the strangest man I've ever met."

The smile never left your face as you backed away from the balcony's railing, slowly heading toward the exit, like you were waiting for him to follow in suit.

"How can I say no to a pomegranate from you, Kylian?"

And Kylian—he didn't hesitate to follow.

There was an incessant buzzing thrumming throughout his body on the ride back to his hotel room.

Was this really happening? He couldn't believe it. Surely he'd blink and you'd fade away from his gaze in seconds, but that hadn't happened yet.

Each step to his room felt heavier than the last, giving him one last chance to turn back before he made a mistake, but then you grinned at him, and that was all the reassurance he needed to push his door open, inviting you into his space.

It was tidy, just the way he liked it, but he could excuse your clothing being littered around his carpet this once.

Kylian reached into his bag, digging around the insides before his fingers glided along the familiar skin of a pomegranate. 

He pulled it out, turning back to you, only to catch you snickering at him. "What?"

"You actually have a pomegranate?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I?" 

Kylian hadn't meant to be funny. He was being serious about that part. He'd been saving it for when he finally got the courage to talk to you.

"No, you're right. My bad." Your fingers traced his bedsheets as you took a step closer. "You don't happen to have a knife somewhere?"

He didn't. He hadn't planned that far ahead. So he shook his head and took the fruit between his two palms. "It's okay. I can open it like this."

"But the juice will—"

Your words fell onto death ears as Kylian's thumbs dug into the pomegranate, cutting open its skin, and with enough force as he could, cracked the fruit open.

"Get everywhere…" You looked both perplexed and amused.

Kylian held out the fruit to you, the seeds glimmering underneath the lights, red, as if he were holding out his heart—offering it to you.

Take it. He thought. Take all of me.

You padded over to him, eyes flickering between his face and the pomegranate. You took it eventually with subtle hesitance. When your fingers grazed over his skin, he shivered.

"Your hands are all sticky," you said, pressing your lips together.

"It's fine, I can just wash them," he assured you, but it wasn't good enough for you. Your smile turned nervous as you set down the fruit on the nearby table.

Wordlessly, you reached for his hand, and he let you take it, feeling buzzier now more than ever before. You inspected it, watched the juice roll down his fingers, and then brought his hand closer, up to your mouth.

You paused there, his fingers barely grazing your lips just to look him in the eye. An unsure flicker passed through them, but Kylian wasn't complaining. He wasn't moving. He was barely even breathing.

He didn't know what to say to you, if he should even ask, so he kept his mouth shut and waited with baited breath.

Kylian's eyes never wandered away from you. He watched as you opened your mouth, pulling his pointer and middle fingers inside, wrapping your lips around them. All the while, your eyes never wandered from his.

"Y/n," Kylian breathed, his body trembling with the force of trying to stay still when what he truly wanted to do was take you in his arms, pull you into his bed, and love you how he wanted to be loved.

Just as quickly as you put them inside, you pulled them out. "I'm sorry."

You were so flushed now, chest heaving up and down, your expression swollen with fear, with regret, with everything akin to the way he'd felt the night you helped him.

Instead of saying anything, he slowly brought his hand up to your cheek, his palm heavy, sticky, against your skin. You both stood there for a few seconds, and the distance suddenly felt insufferable.

His thumb traced the curve of your lips, tugging your bottom lip down gently. "You don't have to say sorry to me," he whispered so softly, it almost hurt to hear.

You didn't know it, but Kylian did. He had surrendered to you a long time ago. He had surrendered for the first time in his life, and he didn't care about coming off as weak.

He was weak for you.

He always was.

He refused to lose his chance, so he surged forward, lips pressing against yours, so unlike the kisses he'd given before. There was no finesse, no stability in it. It was desperate, messy, uncoordinated, everything he tried not to be. 

He breathed in the unmistakable scent of you, sweet and entirely you, and knew he wouldn't be able to ever get it out of his head.

"Don't ever be sorry," he rasped against yours lips, voice cracking with desire.

Kylian's other hand grasped at the back of your head, fingers digging into your scalp, pushing you closer—as close as he could get you because anything less would kill him.

Your lips parted, letting out a sigh of pleasure that he swallowed. He took the opportunity to slip his tongue between your lips, gliding his over yours. It made his body tremble, and his heart raced. He felt yours too, pressed up against his chest, thumping rapidly, just like his, like your hearts were synchronized, fighting to keep themselves contained and failing miserably.

He used to body to nudge you forward, practically refusing to pull his lips away from yours, and yanked you down with him, your back hitting the bed, making sure to land over you softly.

"Can I touch you?" he asked, the words coming out as more of a plead. "Please, let me touch you."

You nodded your head the second he stopped talking. "Yes. Yes, Kylian, please, touch me."

Kylian nodded feverishly, planting kisses upon your cheek, your jawline, down your neck, over the fabric of your dress, feeling your body react to all of it.

His hands were practically shaking as they snaked underneath your dress, grazing your panties, but he didn't take them off yet. He let his fingers graze over your clothed slit, the fabric already dampened, a groan ripping itself from his throat at the feeling.

He would've loved to bury himself inside you in that very moment. However, the urge to satisfy you, to make you feel good, was stronger.

Kylian lifted your dress just enough to reveal your panties—pink, lace, beautiful.

He hooked his fingers underneath the fabric, sliding it down with anticipation, revealing everything to him. Everything he'd dreamed of was on full display, right in front of him.

His cock twitched, strained against the denim he was wearing. "You're so beautiful," he said in awe. 

Kylian leaned down, leaning in closer, parting your legs further to give him enough space, hooking a leg around his shoulder, your dress riding up further. Centimeters away, he inhaled your scent, his breath fanning over your bare pussy.

He glanced up at you one last time, making note of your appearance—mouth open, already disheveled, despite barely touching you.

Then, he was moving, mouth attaching itself to your cunt, licking a stripe up your slit before flattening his tongue against your clit, wrapping his lips around it, sucking like his life depended on it.

Each moan that fell from your open mouth only egged him on, made him more desperate to push you over the edge, to see how you looked when you came.

He lapped up your arousal, letting out a pathetic moan as if he were the one being touched. On instinct, his hips twitched, grinding down against the bed, chasing the sweet sensation of friction.

He brought a hand up to grip your plush thigh, spreading you open further, eating you up like he had been starving for years.

You let out a gasp, head falling back against his bed. God, did he love that sound.

With his other hand, he dragged it up, using two fingers to spread your folds apart, spitting inside your cunt—hot, messy—before slipping those two fingers inside.

"You taste so good." His voice is absolutely wrecked, taking in the glorious sight of you flushed, your eyes glazed over with pleasure. "Can't get enough of you, chérie."

The name slipped out on accident, but you didn't seem to mind considering the way your pussy had just spasmed around his fingers, clenching down harder on them.

He dragged them out before pushing them back inside, eliciting a cracked moan from you. "Oh, fuck, Kylian."

"I know," he heaved out, lips reattaching themselves around your clit, fingers moving in tandem. He was chasing your high just as much as you were. "I'll help you come, baby."

He was relentless with only one goal in mind—making you come. And he could tell it was working, could sense the way you had become overstimulated, your senses overwhelmed with pleasure.

"Kylian, I can't—"

Your vision blurred, head thrown back, mouth open, crying out against the bed as your orgasm ripped through you. Kylian didn't move. He stayed right where he was, his fingers slowing, helping you ride through your high until your body relaxed.

Kylian was breathing as heavily as you, and though he loathed the idea of pulling away from you, preferring to stay right where he was, inhaling you, he chose to sit up on his knees, getting a good look at you.

Your chest raised slowly, up and down, reminding him that this was real. It was real. You were real. So fucking real.

"Are you okay?"

"More than okay," you breathed out, your eyes finally fluttering open to look at him, then down at the way his cock was straining against his pants. "I don't think you are, though."

He followed your eyes, but he didn't feel any shame. Not like the last time you had seen him like that where he wanted to die.

Now if he died, it wouldn't be out of embarrassment. He would die happily if it meant having you wrapped around him.

"I don't have a condom." Not that he actually cared. He was just being considerate.

"That's fine."

God. If he hadn't been hard already, he definitely would be after hearing you say that.

He freed himself from his jeans in seconds, his cock already leaking, heavy, unraveled, maneuvering himself until his thighs were touching yours. He almost wanted to say I love you then and there, but it was far too soon.

That could wait. Kylian couldn't.

He pushed his hips forward, his cock nudging your entrance, both of you twitching. He kept his eyes on yours, and yours on his. A thing he would've considered meaningless now meant everything to him.

He managed to push past your folds, splitting you open, and his eyes grow wider with each nudge forward until he was fully cocooned inside you.

Your pussy spasmed around him, at the wide stretch, and he grew dizzier from how hard you were squeezing him. It almost brought a tear to his eye.

"Putain," he cursed, his voice cracking. "Don't squeeze me like that—I'll come."

He wasn't ashamed to admit it. He was far past having shame around you. 

Kylian forced himself to pause for a few seconds, watching you intently, making sure you were comfortable enough to move on. Then, he shifted backward, his mouth falling open as he pushed inside you again, watching as your tits bounced with the force of his thrust.

"Keep going," you whined.

With each thrust, Kylian moved faster and faster until his pace grew ragged, desperate, keeping an eye on your expression. You wouldn't fade away this time. You wouldn't because this was real.

Being inside you was intoxicating, your cunt warm, your walls turning gummy around him as he stretched you further. He pulled back all the way, his tip still nudged between your folds before slamming back inside.

"You feel so good," he grunted, his hands gripping your hips, pushing you down against him. "So good—oh god—this pussy's so good."

He was mindlessly blabbering, unable to concentrate on anything but the feeling of your walls wrapped around his dick. There was nothing more he wanted than to stay inside you. He would die content if it was with him inside of you.

Kylian leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his chest pressing down onto you. "'m gonna come." He sounded like he was on the verge of breaking. "Gonna come inside you, need to come inside you, please, please—"

Your pussy pulsed around him, sucking him in deeper, involuntary answering him. You nodded hastily, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Please, Kylian."

"Come on my dick," he begged until his body was convulsing, his dick twitching, making sure to bury himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, white-hot, giving you everything, all of him.

His mouth stayed open, feeling your back arch against him with the force of your own orgasm until your body fell limp.

In the aftermath, you were both left slick with sweat, chests heaving against each others, skin to skin.

Kylian's muscles ached, the good kind. It took a while for either one of you to move. Kylian didn't want to because he was selfish. He wanted to stay there, keep you plugged up with his come. But when he managed to come to his senses, with visible reluctance, he forced himself to pull out, a hiss spilling from between his clench teeth.

His dick glistened with your arousal. It wasn't obscene to him. In fact, he thought it was beautiful.

He hovered over you for a few more seconds, basking in the afterglow, and then asked, "are you okay?"

Your lips twitched up. "You're so sweet."

Kylian actually blushed at that. "I just want to make sure… it wasn't too much, was it?"

You brought your lips up to his, planting a soft kiss over them, the kind that couples would give each other. Kylian's breath hitched because even after having sex with you, you still had that affect on him.

"Best I ever had."

Kylian smiled too, dimples appearing. "Are you just saying that?"

"Wish I was," you admitted, eyelids growing heavy. "I guess Kylian Mbappé is good at everything."

He paused at that, blinking down at you before rolling over to lie next to you. "That's what everyone thinks, but I don't think it's very true."

Was he souring the moment? He hoped not. He was just in the mood to be strangely honest. He never had the chance to in his previous sexual encounters. It had always been just sex. But he didn't want it to be justsex with you.

He wanted more.

Kylian could feel your gaze on him, heavy, curious, not pitying like he expected it to be.

"To think I thought you were another self-righteous footballer." You sighed, thinking over your words carefully. "And maybe you are a little, but I see past it. You're just a man. I saw it in all of our interactions, and I can admit that I never let any of them go. You're just a man and that's a good thing. I'm… grateful that you let yourself be vulnerable with me. But I'm not sure why me."

His heart jumped. He thought his body would tense up, and that his first instinct would be to put his walls up. Instead, he let himself relax.

"I'm not sure why either, but…" He opened his arms a bit wider. An invitation. "I like talking to you. And I think I'd like if you stayed. Only if you want to."

He never asked anyone that sober before.

Kylian couldn't find the strength to look over at you, the fear of rejection overcoming him once again.

He heard the rustle of his bed sheets, and the weight of you piling on top of him, grounding him, reminding him that it wasn't his imagination playing tricks on him.

Your chest rested upon his chest, your ear pressed right where his heart lay, beating for you.

"I do want to."

His arms wrapped around you, holding you closer, encouraging you to put all your weight on him. Put everything on him. He would carry it, just as you had carried his previous burdens.

An unspoken form of love—it was all he longed for.

He knew then that he didn't have to admit it out loud, and neither did you.

It came in the way his eyes grew heavy with exhaustion. He wasn't afraid to fall asleep first. He let sleep take over his body, carrying him away until he was drifting asleep.

In his final moments before losing consciousness, he held you close, smiling because he knew what you had said. 

"Goodnight, Kylian."

"Goodnight, Y/n."

line cook!abby has two different modes during a lunch or dinner rush: weirdly calm and terrifyingly competent or one minor inconvenience away from burning the entire restaurant down.

line cook!abby works the grill and flat-top primarily, usually alongside her roommate (and best friend) manny. the two of them argue like an old married couple most of the time, which you find hilarious.

line cook!abby has a personal beef with ticket machine. she had broken at least 5 in the entire time she’s worked there, and marlene tells her that the next one is coming out of her paycheck. but it never actually does.

line cook!abby who says things like, “behind”, “move”, “corner” like a drill sergeant.

line cook!abby’s work uniform consists of an array of oversized band tees or cut off tees, cargo shorts or sweatpants and a bleach stained apron. she wears her hair in a neat braid down the middle of her back, or in a messy bun. but if her hair is pissing her off that day she’ll throw it into a low ponytail, put on a backwards dad hat and call it good enough.

line cook!abby apparently “has a thing for pretty waitresses” according to manny. but the only waitress she’s ever been soft on is you.

line cook!abby is addicted to caffeine. she cannot go a whole shift without pounding at least two energy drinks or an extra large iced coffee.

line cook!abby constantly checks to make sure you’ve eaten during your shift. and if you try to tell her you’re too busy or you forgot? suddenly a basket of fries or a grilled cheese will appear next to you while you’re ringing in an order at the kiosk. and she’ll mumble a stern, “go eat. now.” before disappearing back behind the line like it’s no big deal.

line cook!abby who runs extremely hot. if she’s not on the line you can usually find her in the walk-in trying to cool herself off and grumbling about how, “marlene needs to fix the damn air conditioner already.”

line cook!abby is always in control of the aux in the kitchen when she’s working and is not afraid to smack anyone who tries to change the music. you and manny can usually tell what kind of mood she’s in by what genre of music she’s playing. so if creed, matchbox twenty or theory of a deadman is blaring when you clock in, you already know she’s been having a rough afternoon.

line cook!abby wears her irritation and annoyance plainly on her face. she’s snarky and short with almost everyone, but the minute you ask for something? she visibly softens, and does whatever you asked for without question.

“abs, can I get another basket of fries, please?” and with a soft flutter of your lashes or a warm smile, she’s folding immediately—dumping a fresh batch of fries into a basket and sliding them into the expo window without uttering a single complaint.

“christ, you are so fucking whipped, cariño.”

line cook!abby keeps a bandana in her back pocket or a clean towel draped over her shoulder to be able to wipe the sweat from her face throughout her shift. the one time she didn’t seem to have one and had to use the hem of her t-shirt, you nearly dropped an entire tray of food.

line cook!abby has the biggest praise kink. you tell her something she made was delicious? instantly bashful, ears turning pink as she ducks her head and tries to pretend you didn’t just turn her insides to mush. and you’re absolutely tucking that information away for later.

line cook!abby gets weirdly possessive over kitchen tools. she once threatened manny that she’d scrub their toilet with his toothbrush if he ever touched her knives again.

line cook!abby absolutely cannot flirt like a normal person. so she shows her affection in subtle ways like: not complaining or giving you shit when you mess up an order, carrying the ice bucket up to the bar for you because it’s “painful to watch you struggle”, staying late to help you roll silverware after she finishes her own closing duties, playing paramore’s entire discography during a shift that you’re both working together just because she heard you tell leah that they’re one of your favorite bands.

line cook!abby always walks you to your car if the two of you are scheduled to close together. even if she finishes her closing duties faster than you.

line cook!abby absolutely despises remakes or substitutions on orders, and she’s not afraid to let someone know just how much it annoys her.

“the menu says no substitutions, can’t people fucking read?”

“abby, they’re literally allergic to onions.”

“sounds like a personal problem.”

line cook!abby always has a toothpick or pen shoved behind her ear, or stuck in between her teeth. she’s also constantly chewing gum—mostly because she knows it annoys the hell out of manny but baby girl has a oral fixation. she just doesn’t want to admit it.

line cook!abby will absolutely complain about having to close, but it’s secretly her favorite shift to work. especially if you’re on the schedule.

line cook!abby takes a lot of pride in her work, even when she’s slammed and is glaring at every new ticket that comes through like they personally insulted her. but even then she never lets a plate go out on the floor looking like a damn mess.

the one exception she ever made was the time your ex came in and made it their personal mission to make your night a living hell. so when she found you crying in the walk-in not long after, she ‘accidentally’ let that burger burn to a crisp before sending it out with a satisfied smirk.

line cook!abby who always seems to smell like a combination of fresh citrus, old spice and smoke from the grill, no matter how often she washes her clothes.

line cook!abby is constantly burning her hands on something. half the time she doesn’t really react anymore besides cursing under her breath or mumbling a barely audible, “yeah that was fucking dumb, abigail.” to herself.

but if you are in the back when it happens? you’ll insist on helping her bandage it until she finally relents with the most adorable scowl.

line cook!abby is terrible at hiding her jealousy. while she doesn’t cause a scene, or become overly possessive—if she sees a customer flirting with you, she absolutely makes it everyone else’s problem.

she’s slamming pans harder than necessary, muttering constant curses under her breath at the grill, shouting for “someone to run this fucking food already!” the second it appears in the expo window. lev finds it a little too hilarious and is always roasting her when he’s bringing clean dishes up from the pit.

line cook!abby is extremely sentimental. you wrote her a little thank you note on the back of a discarded receipt once before you two started dating and she still has it taped to the inside of her locker.

line cook!abby isn’t big on pda, but when she realizes how much her touch seems to affect you, she makes any and every excuse to get her hands on you when you’re working together. whether it’s a hand against the small of your back as she passes behind you in the kitchen, curling a finger into the loop of your jeans to pull you out of the way when another staff member is dashing around the corner, sneaking up behind you to rest her chin on your shoulder when you’re ringing an order in.

she thinks she’s being subtle most of the time, but abby is about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.

The exhausted expression your face wore was enough news for her. She extended one arm, then curled her fingers in a “come here” motion.

Wordlessly.

You didn’t need telling twice. You crossed the massive length of the bedroom and collapsed there at her feet with your knees on the floor and head buried in her lap as if you were trying to disappear. Her thick legs weren’t uncomfortable, they were soft considering how much muscle there was in her body.

“I miss you.”

“I missed you too, dear.”

You felt her fingers gently playing with your hair, slow at first as if she was asking for permission. You didn’t move.

That told her enough.

She scratched your scalp gently, the feeling was soothing. Your eyes closed, your eyelids stung with sleep. You wanted nothing more than to have a full meal and cuddle in bed with her for the rest of eternity.

But to be realistic, what you needed right now was a bath.

You felt Ambessa’s big hands wrapping around your sides as she helped you up and sat you down on her lap, sideways, so your legs dangled on her side.

“Oh, how do you keep overworking yourself, my sweet girl?” She asked, voice soft and a little reprimanding as she ran her fingers through your hair.

“I dunno…”

You buried your face in her neck, her warm skin making you want to cling onto her and savour her presence forever.

“Stay with me for a while, then you can bathe.”

“Won’t you bathe with me?”

She had a smile on her face that told the world she was in love with you, that nothing could bring her down as long as she was with you.

But things changed, people changed.

it was no longer your job to carry the weight of Abby's sins on your shoulders.

Now it was Owen's job, who would be assisted by the white slippers that Abby had found in her late mother's closet.

And all you could do was watch.

Watch as Abby became the wife of some man she had promised to never marry in a field full of daisys.

Watch as Abby smiled through the ceremony and kissed Owen like you had never existed in her life—like you hadn't promised your heart to her.

Watch through the eyes of somebody else as she found yours through a sea of people and her smile warped into one of guilt.

—You smiled and nodded every time someone asked you, "aren't they perfect?"

But you could barely stand to look at them, or else, the makeup on your face would end up in ruins—just like your relationship with Abby had.

"Y/n-"No. No, no, no, not Abby's father.."- Look at you! The last time I saw you, Abby and you were graduating college!" Jerry smiled and pulled you into a tight hug, as if he was trying to squeeze all the sadness out of you with it.

"How are you doing?" He asked, patting your back.

You put on your best fake smile, finding the courage to make it seem believable. "Okay, I guess. What about you?"

Jerry replied. "I'm glad to hear you're doing okay, I'm fine, as well-Physically, of course. On the outside, I'm an emotional wreck-"

Me too, Jerry.

"—I can't believe my little girl is married."

And there was your reminder, that Abby Anderson was no longer yours to keep.

No longer allowed to be the one star that shined too bright in your eyes as you stared up at the sky.

You frowned, looking back at the sweetheart table that obnoxiously featured Owen handfeeding Abby cake from his plate.

Your shoulders shrugged without your consent. "Yeah, I...I never pictured her getting married, Y'know?"

"I'm surprised that Abby chose Nora as her best woman—Abby and you were so close...she talked about you all the time, over the phone, and when she came home to visit too."

Your eyebrows furrowed, your 11's becoming noticeable as you stared at Jerry.

"She did?"

He watched Abby take the dance floor with Owen as Sleeping At Last's Turning Page played; The bride & Groom's first dance.

"Abby talked about you for hours over the phone, it was like you had hung the moon for her—It's funny, The way Owen looks at her, was the way Abby looked, when talking about you, y/n."

The back of your throat burned—You couldn't process the remainder of Jerry's words as the sight of Owen and Abby dancing blurred beyond the point of recognition.

Abby had talked about you? To Jerry?

Even after everything?

Your hands felt cold as you touched your face, wiping away the tears that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Every moment from that last summer replayed in your head—it weakened your knees and the wall behind you was barely enough to keep you from falling.

You swallowed the hurt that was rising from your chest, again and again, like your mind was supposed to magically get rid of it.

But like everything else in your life, it won and forced you to excuse yourself to the bathroom.

You barely made it, collapsing in the private bathroom as the hurt finally came out of your mouth, barely reaching the toilet in milliseconds.

The sobs left your throat in awkward pauses between the bile, the sage green dress you wore was only a dark reminder of the hell you were stuck in.

The matching initial hand towels were worse.

You vomited thrice.

One for the regret of that last summer.

one for the special occasion.

And one from the mere fantasy you had conjured up in your head, that included you replacing Owen on the dance floor for Abby's first dance.

Your heels had been kicked off long ago, spread out across the white tile like a mockery of your mental state, a quid pro quo that added to the oh so romantic thoughts in your head.

"y/n...are you in there?" You shivered over the toilet, goosebumps appearing on your

"It's a—it's me."

b's note: #baby's first abby fic!! with # slight (big) comphet! abby... anyways I'm surprised at how good this turned out, especially since I wrote this on a WHIM while listening to music at 1 am😭so that's why it's more in reader's perspective than anything else, and just mentionsbof abby's behavior! please do tell me what you think about this, even if i say it's a whim, cause I love hearing feedback! I am EXTREMELY sick tho so it will take me a hot minute to read thru all asks😭

Abby hums, chuckling slightly just as she looks up and opens her mouth to make a joke. As her eyes set on your face, she forgets what she was about to say.

The afternoon sunlight catches the edges of your hair, and your wrists are covered in so many bracelets Abby isn’t sure how you manage to move your hands. A rainbow lanyard hangs around your neck, and she notices you’re smiling at her. God, you have the prettiest smile she has ever seen.

“Hi,” you say, waving at her with joy before looking down at the sticker in her hands. “It’s cool, right?”

Abby’s brain immediately abandons her. She’s suddenly very aware of the weight of the tote bag hanging from her shoulder and the way her fingers seem to burn right where they’re holding the sticker, which seems to be for far too long now.

Flush creeps up the back of her neck. “Uh… yeah, it’s— it’s cool, yeah.”

“Thanks,” you chuckle lightly, your smile growing bigger. “I worked on these all week.”

For some reason, Abby finds herself smiling back as soon as your laugh hits her ears. Soon, smiling turns into staring, and this quickly turns into her realizing that she’s staring. She looks away so fast she nearly gives herself whiplash.

What the hell is wrong with her?

Thankfully, Lev chooses that exact moment to step forward.

“No way. Did you make all of them?”

“A couple,” you nod. “My friends helped, too.”

And just like that, the conversation takes off. Lev asks more about the fundraiser, while Yara compliments the bracelets. You’re telling them all about your friend, who’s standing right next to you and shoots them a shy smile every now and then.

Every few seconds, Abby’s eyes drift back to you. She can’t help but notice the way your hands move when you talk, gesturing passionately; the way your face lights up whenever you bring up the fundraiser into the conversation, the way you laugh—

God, your laugh. It’s so warm and contagious, it makes Abby want to keep hearing it over and over again.

She doesn’t realize she’s staring again until Yara elbows her. Abby furrows her brows slightly, while Yara’s expression makes it clear she’s having far too much fun now.

Across the table, you glance at her again and shoot her a smile. Her stomach immediately twists, and she manages to smile back while making eye contact… that lasts only two seconds, because she can’t fight the urge to look away almost immediately. Her cheeks are burning red, heart stammering against her chest.

What. The. Hell.

Abby has talked to plenty of attractive people before, but she’s never spent an entire conversation wondering if she’s making too much eye contact only to immediately panic and stop making it altogether.

“So, are you guys enjoying the parade?”

Your gaze lands on her. God, you have to keep looking at her cause she’s clearly making it all weird, right? That has to be the reason why.

“It’s awesome,” Lev answers after a few seconds, giving Abby a sideways glance.

“It is,” you agree, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It’s a simple gesture, but it makes Abby’s stomach flip. “This is absolutely my favorite holiday.”

The conversation continues for a few more minutes before Lev ends up buying three stickers, Yara picks out a bracelet, and Abby leaves with the scissors sticker because she was far too embarrassed to put it down.

The second they’re out of earshot, the siblings look at her with narrowed eyes.

“What?”

Yara’s smirk widens. “Nothing.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Lev rolls his eyes at her words, but opts for letting it go just this time. A few minutes later, he gets distracted by a food stand while Yara disappears toward a display of handmade earrings.

Abby shoves her hands into her pockets and glances around, her eyes drifting back toward your booth. By accident, obviously. She notices a bracelet hanging on the rack that she hadn’t seen before— pink, purple and blue beads woven together.

Before she can think too hard about it, her feet are already moving. A minute later, she’s standing in front of your table again.

Your face brightens immediately. “Hey! Back already?”

“Um, I—” Why is this so difficult? She points at the small piece of jewelry. “I like that bracelet.”

You glance toward the display, humming before you hand it over for her to inspect. Your fingers brush for less than a second, but it sends a shiver down her spine nonetheless.

“The colors of the bi flag are so pretty,” you lean your elbows against the table.

Abby nods. Yes, the colors are pretty. A second thought follows— you are pretty. She shakes her head to try and focus, looking down at the bracelet resting in her palm.

“They are.”

Really? Is that all she can come up with?

You tilt your head slightly, a soft smile lingering on your lips. “Hey, I didn’t catch your name before.”

“Oh,” she nearly drops the bracelet. “I’m Abby.”

“Abby,” hearing her name in your voice sends an inexplicable flutter in her chest. “I like it. That’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks.”

“Is this your first Pride?”

Heat immediately crawls up her neck. “Is it that obvious?”

The sight of her blushing right in front of your table makes you chuckle. God, she is so cute.

“A little.”

“I’m here for Lev,” she admits, glancing over her shoulder and spotting him a few booths down, excitedly waving a handful of stickers at Yara. “He’s had a rough couple of years, so when he asked me to come…”

You nod before she can even finish.

“You said yes,” your expression immediately softens, following her gaze. A smile tugs at your lips at the sight of the kid with the shaved head. “He seems so sweet.”

“He is.”

“That’s so nice of you,” you glance back at her, noticing she put the bracelet down on the table. “Y’know what? Since you’re so supportive, I’m giving you a little gift.”

Abby’s eyebrows knit together. “What?”

“This is on the house,” you gently push the bracelet toward her.

Oh God. There goes her heart again.

“No,” she shakes her head, already reaching for her wallet. “I can pay for it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Your smile softens. “Why?”

Abby opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She can’t exactly say what she’s thinking: because I want an excuse to stand here longer. Instead, she says:

“It’s for a good cause.”

For a second, you simply stare at her. She’s about to mutter something else, when your expression brightens.

“Okay, but—” you reach beneath the table and pull out a small sticker. “Let’s compromise. This one is free.”

It’s a tiny cartoon house outlined in rainbow colors with the words Safe Space underneath. You slide it across the table toward her, and warmth settles inside her chest. When Abby glances back up, you’re smiling at her again.

“Thanks for supporting the fundraiser.”

The sincerity in your voice catches her off guard.

Abby leaves a minute later, deciding to get out of there before she embarrasses herself any further.

Unfortunately, she does come back a second time. She spots a pin she’d missed earlier, making her return easy enough to justify. The third time is a little bit harder, because she apparently needs another sticker.

The fourth time she returns, she doesn’t even pretend to be looking at the merchandise anymore. She just finds herself drifting back toward your booth. Every conversation feels easier than the last— you tell her about your friend and how much the fundraiser means to them, Abby tells you about Lev. You make fun of the scissors sticker and Abby threatens to throw it away, but you both know she won’t.

By the time the afternoon starts slipping into evening, Abby’s accumulated enough bracelets, pins, and stickers to open her own booth. As the crowds begin thinning and vendors start packing up for the day, Yara volunteers to go get the car.

Abby barely hears her, too busy staring across the street. Your booth is nearly empty now, a few boxes sitting on the table while you carefully take down decorations. The sight settles strangely in her chest, like something is ending before she’s ready for it to do so.

“You should go talk to her.”

Lev’s voice startles her. Abby tears her eyes away from your booth long enough to glare at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Abby”

The look Lev gives her is so unimpressed that she almost laughs. Almost. Instead, she groans and drags a hand down her face.

“I don’t.”

She glances back across the street. You’re standing on the tips of your toes trying to unhook a pride flag from the side of the canopy. A second later, your friend reaches up to help, and the two of you nearly bump heads.

Your laughter carries faintly across the distance, and Abby’s stomach immediately does that weird thing again. There it is, that feeling has been following around all afternoon and she can’t seem to make sense of it.

“I’ve never…” she trails off.

The words feel strange in her mouth. It’s all new and confusing, a little terrifying even.

“I’ve never felt like this before.”

She expects teasing or at least some sort of dramatic reaction. Lev will never let her live this down and—

“Okay.”

Abby blinks. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Lev shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

Abby opens her mouth, then closes it almost immediately. Because she doesn’t actually know.

Her gaze drifts back to you. You’re carefully stacking the few remaining bracelets into a small box now, chatting with your friend as the two of you pack everything away. The golden light of the setting sun catches against the colorful beads wrapped around your wrist.

The sight makes her chest ache, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make her realize she doesn’t want the day to end.

“What if I don’t know what this means?” she asks quietly.

Lev follows her gaze. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, waiting patiently as they both watch you pack your stuff. Then, he nudges her shoulder.

“Then you don’t know.”

Abby snorts. “That’s not helpful.

“Sure it is,” he smiles softly. “You don’t have to figure everything out today, Abs.”

The words settle deep inside her chest. It’s so simple, but they carry so much weight. She’s spent the entire afternoon trying to understand what’s happening inside her head instead of letting herself just feel it.

And maybe that’s all she needs right now. Not to figure out what it means or how to label it, but just allow herself to feel.

Lev watches her for a second before a knowing grin spreads across his face. “You should probably go get her number.”

Abby wants to groan and tease him back, but she notices you just finished packing away another box. The sight sparks a sudden burst of panic, because in a few minutes you’ll be gone. If she leaves now, she’ll probably never see you again.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she starts walking toward your booth once again. Behind her, Lev pumps a fist into the air as he watches her make her way to you.

By the time she reaches your booth, you’re folding the last tablecloth. The second you look up and spot her, your entire face brightens.

“Hey! My favorite customer’s back.”

Abby laughs despite the heat crawling up her neck. “Favorite?”

“You put the fund in fundraiser,” you pint at the collection of bracelets, pins, and stickers peeking out of her tote bag. “I’m pretty sure you’ve personally financed at least one post-op appointment.”

Abby can feel her pulse in her throat. “I— Glad I could help.”

“You definitely did,” the smile you give her is so warm it makes her heart skip a bit. “Thank you, Abby. Really.”

God, the way you say her name should not have such a huge effect on her, but it does.

Around you, the festival is winding down. All the other vendors are packing away decorations and their merchandise, and people are filtering out into the streets. Still, all Abby can focus on is the softness in your expression as you look at her.

This is ridiculous. She’s asked people far scarier questions before, yet somehow this feels impossible.

After a few seconds of silence, you tilt your head slightly. “Everything okay?”

Abby exhales slowly. Okay. It’s now or never.

“Actually,” her hand finds the strap of the tote bag, fingers tightening around it. “I was wondering…”

“Yeah?” you prompt, the encouragement in your voice making her heart stumble.

She glances down for a second before forcing herself to meet your eyes again.

“Would you maybe want to—”

The words catch in her throat, and she can practically hear Lev laughing from across the street. Still, you wait patiently, a gentle smile on your lips.

Okay, Abby, get it together.

“Could I get your number?”

Your eyes widen slightly, and a grin spreads across your face. Oh no. Was that bad? Too forward? Too weird?

Before panic can properly settle in, you say:

“I was starting to think you’d never ask.”

She looks taken aback. “Huh?”

“Well,” you blush, and Abby can’t help but notice how cute and pretty you look all flustered. “I was hoping you’d come back one more time.”

“You were?”

The smile that spreads across your face is answer enough.

Without thinking too hard about it, she’s already pulling out her phone and unlocking it to hand it over to you.

“Good thing I did, then.”

“Good thing you did,” you agree, fingers brushing hers as you take the phone.

She watches as you type your name into her contacts, a small smile tugging at your lips the entire time.

“See you around?” you ask hopefully, handing the phone back to her.

Abby glances down at the number in her phone, then back at you.

“Yeah,” this time, she doesn’t have to force the words out. “See you around.”

For the first time all day, Abby’s confusion doesn’t feel so overwhelming. Whatever this is, she’ll figure it out.

˙⋆𖹭 Boss!Ambessa x Housekeeper!Reader

The minute you sat Ambessa down, claiming that you needed to talk to her about something important, her immediate thought was that you were going to quit your job as a housekeeper of her estate.

Sat opposite her in her office, it's uncomfortably silent, the only sound breaking the silence is the ticking clock on the wall, taunting you to just blurt it out already- though Ambessa senses your nerves and breaks the silence for you. "I will give you a pay rise, dear. You're not quitting, you're my best worker here."

As your already frazzled brain catches up your brows furrow before they shoot up. "No I'm- I'm not quitting! I uhm... I juat wanted to tell you something... personal."

Despite your nerves, you can't help but let your eyes linger on her forearms as she leans forward, fully captivated and interested in what you coukd possibly tell her. "Go on, dear. I have paperwork to get to."

With a deep breath, you prepare to possibly lose everything, expecting complete rejection as the words spurt from your lips so quickly you're not sure she fully catches them- "I'm a lesbian and I have a crush on you and I don't know what to do about it-"

The tension in the room was so thick, and the uncomfortable silence returned once again. Tick. Tick. Tick...

"You want to be my housewife. Not housekeeper. Interesting."

That was easily the last thing you expected her to say. In fact you were certain she would brush if off and not give it a single thought...

From that day forward, your duties were changed- more personal, less demanding. And a new housekeeper was hired. When you asked about the paycheck you still received, she simply shrug it off, calling it your 'wife's allowance'.

That was a lot easier than you thought.

˙⋆𖹭 Co-worker!Sevika x Co-worker!Reader

It was cold tonight, far too cold. Sevika walked ahead as she usually did, refusing to slow down her steps just because Silco's new hire was a short stack. "Hurry up, ain't got all night shortcake."

Shortcake.

That nickname was what had woken up your inner sexuality. Up until you met Sevika you were certain you were straight, there was no doubt. Sevika completely dismantled that thought process simply by existing.

All evening you'd been having a war against yourself within your own mind. Tell her. Don't tell her. Tell her? No. Don't tell her.

"Shortcake. Move it, come on." Her sharp command, spoken in that low, unintentional velvety tone had your knees shaking, thighs clamping and brain completely scattering. "What's up with you tonigh huh? Silco said you could handle the job. So handle your shit."

At her indirect insult you mumble something that sounds a lot like 'easy for you to say', catching Sevika's attention. As she abruptly stops you walk straight into her back, a solid wall of warm, defined muscle. "Shit- sorry."

"Spill it. I ain't got time for you to be distracted."

"You uhm... I... are you gay?" Fuck. Out of everything you could've said, you asked if she was gay?? This woman was really getting to you and she didn't even know it.

"Is the sky blue?"

"I mean technically not-"

"Oh for fuck sake shortcake..." she rubs her forehead, staring down at you. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

Silence. Followed by even more silence. What were you supposed to say to that? You hadn't meant to say that at all. Sevika however, could see straight through you, reading your mind solely through your eyes. "You got a crush on me, don't ya shortcake?"

You don't dare look up as you nod- not until a loud bark of laughter fills the alleyway. "Coulda just said that, jesus christ."

That's when you look up, and in your haze of nerves and embassment she'd backed you up against the wall, leaning over you with her flesh hand just above your head. "I don't understand what you're doing to me... I'm not even gay!" The little huff that escapes you is honestly adorable.

"You're bisexual, that's fine. What's not fine is you losing your goddamn mind on the job. So, we're gonna take a break, I'm gonna eat you out right here, then you're going to be a good girl and finish this shift with me, yeah?"

There was no way you could say no, and you didn't. Your shifts that day were... different. Full of teasing, stolen kisses and a lot of sex. Too much... almost.

˙⋆𖹭 Popular!Vi x Nerd!Reader

"Come on cupcake, pleaseeee? I promise it's just one kiss, that's all." At this point, you'd lost count on how many times Vi had pleaded with you to kiss her. It's not that you didn't want too- god you did. That was why you wouldn't.

"Vi, I'm not helping you make another girl jealous just so you can get into her pants." She was your best friend, an unlikely pair considering Vi was the captain of the rugby team and you were the 'nerdy type', but you'd been best friends since forever- your popularity status's never changed that.

"Cupcake. I am begging you, I'll get on my knees-" before she can fully sink to the floor you grab her arm and drag her back up so that she's standing.

"No. I'm not doing it."

"Why? You're not even lesbian cupcake it's not like...." then she went quiet, studying your face as if that would give her all of the answers. "Wait, cupcake... are you lesbian?"

The silence that follows answers her question perfectly. Vi knew, but she didn't. Of course over the years she'd had her suspicions, but she never thought too hard about it. Not about how supportive you were of her when she came out, how you always have a lesbian pride flag badge on your bag which you'd disguised as support for her...

How didn't she see it before?

"Yeah... I guess I am." You refuse to look at Vi but she won't let you hide. Not from her, never from her.

"And you don't want to kiss me because? What? You gettin' picky cupcake? Am I not your type?" She loves watching you roll your eyes like you did just now, loves rilling you up. Though her grip on your chin forces you to look ather- smug smirk and all.

"You are... that's the problem."

Suddenly it all made sense, why you didn't want to help her get another girl... because you didn't want to see her with somebody else. You wanted her all for yourself...

Her selfish little cupcake.

˙⋆𖹭 Best-friend!Ellie x Best-friend!Reader

Ellie had been off all day, quieter than usual. The little habit she had of playing with her fingers when she was nervous was almost constant today and you hated it. Though you knew better than to push, if you kept asking her what was wrong she would only shut down and that was the last thing you wanted.

So instead of pushing, you decided to invite her over for a movie night. Something simple, somefhing she wouldn't have to put any thought into.

Yet she was still off.

"Els are you okay? Your poor fingers have been absolutely abused today." The two of you were lay on your bed, side by side, with Ellie practically pressed up against your side as if she was seeking comfort from you without actually asking. Your arm was around her shoulders, tracing patterns over her shirt.

"If I tell you promise me you won't... you won't see me any differently?" As you look down to reassure her, she's already looking up atypu, with glassy, teary eyes and it breaks your heart.

"I would never, talk to me els."

Ellie gives it away before she says a word, with her eyes darting from your own to your lips, then back up, over and over as if she were trying to decide. Your lips twitch as you hold back a smirk, giving her the opportunity to do it if she wants too.

Then she does.

Natrually your sink into it, your hand sliding up her shoulder to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair as your lips move with hers in sync. Ellie lets out a half whimper, half sigh into your mouth. You feel her shoulders physically sag as her whole body relaxes, knowing you aren't pushing her away, that you don't hate her. In fact you were actively reciprocating.

Before you deepen the kiss- despite wanting to so, so bad you pull back. Ellie's eyes are fluttering open as she meets yours, looking up at you with what could only be described as relief and maybe a little, tiny hint of arousal. "Such a good girl... that's what you've been wanting to tell me all day hm? That you like me?"

She nods, blushing furiously and to hide it burying her faceinto your chest. You barely catch her mumbled words, but you can just about make them out. "Didn't want you to hate me..." and your heart breaks just a little. At the thought that you could possibly hate her for something so sweet.

That whole night, movies play as you both make up for a lot of months of not kissing each other when you wanted too.

˙⋆𖹭 Outbreak!Abby x Outbreak!Reader

"Why can't relationships just be easy? I swear to you, every single girl I flirt with is either straight, thinks I'm straight, has a girlfriend, or isn't into me." Abby hadn't even said 'hello' when she entered your room in the base, far to riled up to give pleasantries.

Natrually you shift over on your bed to make room for her, considering she needed a lot of it with her height and strong, broad shoulders. "Maybe it's a sign. If these girls seriously believe you're straight... they don't deserve you."

For a moment Abby just stares at you, brows furrowed and mouth agape. "What- what the fuck is that supposed to mean?!"

Her outrage only grows when you let out an uncontrollable giggle, biting you lip to try and stifle it. "Abs... I love you, but it's clear you're Lesbian from a mile away. From ten miles away."

Most people would take that whole sentence with stride, accept that maybe you're right, she is always eyeing up the girls -only the girls- and hasn't had a boyfriend since Owen. That relationship didn't last long either...

But Abby? She only heard the 'I love you'. In real time her eyes softened in a way she would absolutely hate if you pointed it out, she looked like a puppy being offered a treat. If she had a tail it would be wagging, her backside shaking along with it in happiness. "Y-you mean that in like... a friend way r-right?"

Instead of telling her no. Instead of telling her that you've had a crush on her for months, you take the situation into your own hands and kiss her. The both of you melt into it with ease, Abby hauling you onto her lap, arms wrapped around your waist like steel bands, unwilling to let you go now she has you in her hold...

The other girls didn't matter. Not anymore.

Vi slides the door shut behind her, and you turn back to the sky.

“Do you want to go home?” she asks. Her voice is soft and warm, and you want to wrap yourself up in it, in her. Which is the problem.

When she offered to be your date to your ex’s wedding, you had turned her down. You weren’t even planning on going. You deleted the invitation as soon as you got it.

But Vi had been persistent, had hatched a plan between shifts. She would pretend to be your girlfriend to show everyone you had moved on, that what Bianca did hadn’t broken you. And eventually you agreed. A few strategically posted Instagram stories later, and she showed up at your front door, dressed to kill (or at least break some hearts), and ready to take you to the wedding of the woman who had shattered you.

Vi ambles closer to you and wraps one arm around your waist. The door behind you is glass, and you can practically feel the gaze of curious wedding-goers burning hot against your back. They’d been gawking all night. Because of that, and only because of that, you nestle in closer. She’s warm and solid against you, finally some relief from the bitter chill.

“No,” you answer her question finally. “I’m fine.”

She laughs. “That’s why you’ve been hiding?”

You bristle at that. “I’m not hiding. I’m taking a smoke break.”

There was no cigarette in sight. That was a joke between the two of you. Vi was quitting, but still insisted on taking her smoke break every hour. “It gives me time to think,” she would say.

“Ah, I see.” Vi nods sagely. “Well, I think it might be time to go back into the party.”

You groan and bury your face in her shoulder. “Don’t say that.”

“Another hour and we can leave,” she promises. She tilts your face up to look at her. “You look beautiful.”

Your face burns hot despite the cold. “You said that already.”

“And it’s still true.” She grabs the door for you, and you murmur a thanks as you step through. Things like that come easy for Vi. Holding open doors, compliments, tender embraces. You know life has never been kind to her, but somehow some part of her has managed to stay soft. It makes you feel better about your own mushy center.

Stepping back in from the balcony feels like being transported into another world. The city outside is grey, painted blue by the moonlight. Everything inside is white, beige, cream, accented by the gold of dangling chandeliers. You always knew Bianca’s family had money, one of the many points of conflict between the two of you, but not like this.

“It’s too much, right?” Vi whispers next to you, close enough you feel the words more than hear them. “The decorations? It’s tacky.”

You smile and nod, but there’s a pit in your stomach. Eight months ago, you would have killed for this to be your tacky wedding. Instead, you found your girlfriend, the love of your life, tangled up with her coworker in your bed. And so, you had to completely restart your life. Everything was tainted with traces of her. Your apartment, your shared friends.

The only thing that’s stayed the same since then was Vi, your coworker at The Last Drop. Nothing had changed between the two of you. Until now.  

Vi takes your hand in hers brings it up to her lips. The gesture shocks and thrills you. It’s too much, too over the top in its affection. You should tell her to dial it back, tell her that she’s overdoing it. Bianca never did things like that. But you can’t quite bring yourself to stop her.

“Let’s dance,” she says.

It’s not a request. She drags you after her onto the floor. The song is slow, so she pulls you in close, positioning you like a rag doll. She sways the two of you to the beat; she’s got an alright sense of rhythm. The music is gentle and hypnotic. You want to rest your head on her shoulder, to melt into her. You stay upright though, and smile when her eyes meet yours. You feel lighter.

Vi has that effect on you. That’s why you were hiding. Not Bianca.

Because you told yourself were done with all of this – with dating, with relationships. But when Vi smiled at you, or held you in her arms, it was too easy to forget why that was the case. Vi seemed different, but you never guessed Bianca would have done what she did. It wasn’t worth the heartache.

And that’s your mantra as Vi pulls you in closer. What you tell yourself as you succumb to her gravitational pull and bury your face in the crook of her neck. The song ends, and you pull back. The spell isn’t broken. You still feel warm and gooey, melted through.

You don’t go back to your seats. You dance through three more songs, one slow and two more up tempo. During the last song, Vi spins you so fast you the room blurs, and you can’t help but laugh. You know people are staring, that the two of you are making a scene. You can’t help it.  

Then it’s time to say goodbyes. This is the moment you had been dreading. “We can just leave,” Vi suggests, face close to yours. The whole dinner she had been in your space. Hand on yours. Arm wrapped around you. Anchoring you.

“We have to,” you say, stomach tight. It was why you came.

You wait in line, Vi’s hand in yours. She squeezes, once, and shoots you a tight nod. “Moment of truth,” she whispers. You smile back with a confidence you don’t feel.

When you finally reach Bianca, you almost bolt. The last time you saw her you were telling her to rot in hell.

She smiles when she sees you, but you’re not sure it reaches her eyes.

She hugs you, and your skin burns where she touches you.

“I didn’t think you would show,” she says, when she finally pulls away. Her hands stay on you, rubbing wide circles on your upper arms.

“Then why send the invite?” Vi asks. Her tone is clipped.

Bianca doesn’t answer, and instead asks you, “And who is this?” Like she didn’t already know.

Moment of truth, like Vi said. “This is Vi. My girlfriend.”

Bianca’s eyebrows twitch, slightly. Her hands fall to her side. Then she schools her expression. “Am I allowed to say you moved on fast?”

Vi answers for you. “No.”

Bianca laughs amicably. “I guess that’s fair.”

It’s so warm in here. You miss the cool night air.

“But it seems you were wrong,” she continues. “Jess and I are the real deal.” A petty reference to one of the many things you had screamed at her that night - that she and Jess would never make it because Bianca was a heartless monster.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Vi asks, hand on the small of your waist.

“Nothing,” you say.

“Inside joke,” Bianca says, with a wink. Your face heats hotter still. You wonder if everyone else can hear your conversation, if they’re silently judging you. Pitying you. You wonder whose side everyone is on. Is it even possible that it’s yours? After all, they showed up tonight.

“We should go,” Vi says, looking at you, concern clear on your face. You can’t bring yourself to wish that she was better at hiding her emotions. You like that it’s all out there, that she’s an open book.

“Yeah,” you reply, voice small. You turn to Bianca. “It was good to see you.”

Bianca smiles, eyes crinkling this time. You wonder if that means you lost. “You too.”

She looks like she wants another hug, but you turn before she can reach for you. Vi’s hand is firm on your back, guiding you to the door.

Before you leave, she stops you. “She’s watching,” she says. You know who she’s talking about. “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

You nod, palms wet. Vi leans in, and suddenly it’s all too real. And you consider stopping her, just for a second. It’s too late though. If you do, everyone will catch on that it’s fake. Or they’ll think you’re fighting because of her. So, you let Vi’s kiss you.

She’s a good kisser. Lips soft, with a firm hand on your jaw guiding you. If you weren’t floating in outer space, looking down at your own body, you probably would enjoy it. When she pulls away, she rests her forehead on yours. “I think she saw that.”

That jars you back to reality. You remember where you are, that people were watching at all. It had just been so long since you had been kissed, you tell yourself. It was confusing you.

“Let’s go,” you beg.

She rubs her thumb over the apple of your cheek. “Sure thing. Walk slow”

In the car, it takes everything in you not to cry. “She was such a bitch,” Vi says.

She was. And the crazy thing was, until you had to talk to her you were actually having a good night. The best.

“You hungry?” Vi asks. You hadn’t touched your food all night – you hadn’t thought she noticed, though. Before you can answer, she’s punching the address to the closest fast-food place into her beat up android.

You both order way too much food, and Vi pulls into the closest parking spot so you can feast.

Your stomach is getting dangerously close to eating itself, but instead of unwrapping your sandwich you look at Vi, who experiences no such hesitation.

“Why’d you do this?” you ask.

Vi looks bewildered. “You seemed hungry.”

“Not the food.” You shift in your seat. “Why’d you come with me tonight.”

She pauses before answering. The part of you that’s stuck in that bedroom with Bianca tells you it’s because she’s concocting some lie. A more generous part, the one that’s taken with the sharp tailoring of her suit jacket and the tussle of her hair, wants to believe she’s shoring up courage to confess. That this was where she would tell you that it was because she wants you, because she’s always wanted you –

“I thought you needed closure,” she answers, finally.

Oh. “You were being a good friend.” You offer a tight smile. It’s a good reason, even if it’s not the one you were hoping for in your heart of hearts.

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess we are friends, huh?”

You nudge her. “Of course we are. What else would we be?” But your heart is blistering in your chest.

She doesn’t hesitate this time. “Coworkers, obviously.” She grins at the way you roll your eyes and snatches one of your fries out of the bag.

“Hey!” You try to snatch it back, but it’s in her mouth in a blink.

“Too slow,” she says, mouth full. You wrinkle your nose, and she laughs, head thrown back.

You play with your fingers, giving them something to do, so you don’t do something stupid, like reach out for her.

It’s two AM when you leave the parking lot. You don’t want the night to end. You want to invite her up, but you can’t think of an excuse that wouldn’t make your desperation for her obvious.

She walks you to the door, tie loosened, suit jacket abandoned.

You turn back to say something, maybe just goodnight, but Vi beats you to it.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks. Her gaze is piercing, and the focused beam of her attention makes you want to squirm.

Instead, you raise a brow. “Can I stop you?”

“I like you. I think I’ve always had a thing for you. Ever since you started working at the bar.” The words knock the air out of you. You would accuse her of lying, of playing some kind of cruel trick, but she’s so solemn you know she’s telling the truth. “That’s why I wanted you to come to this. I thought maybe it would give you some closure, help you move one. I wasn’t lying” Her eyes go wide, and the earnestness in her gaze makes you want to gobble her up. “But, or also, I guess, I wanted to be there when it happened. Because maybe you would be ready.”

“Ready for what?” you ask, breathless. It’s funny how getting what you want feels a lot like having the wind knocked out of you. Like standing at the edge of a steep cliff, too scared to look down.

She doesn’t answer immediately, instead takes a half step closer to you. You stand your ground. So, she moves closer still. One rough hand curls delicately around the back of your neck. “For this,” she whispers, and her lips are on yours again.

You had thought she was good at this before. It turns out, Vi was better when it the real deal.

She starts to pull away, and you fist your hands into her shirt to keep her where she is. She doesn’t protest, just wraps her other arm around you and pulls you in closer.

Kissing her is a revelation. You can’t for the life of you understand why you had never done it sooner. You would kick yourself, but you’re too thrilled.

You pull away, just a hair, to whisper, “Do you want to come inside?”

Her fingers skim along the edge of your face, kissing your cheeks. “Not tonight, princess.” Your stomach flips at the nickname even as it sinks in disappointment. “Have to take you on a real date first.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, maybe too fast from the way that Vi laughs. There’s nothing mean spirited about it, though. She kisses your cheek. You close your eyes and will time to slow down. It doesn’t.

“Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Another brush of your cheek. And then, just like that, she’s headed down the stairs. She throws another look at you before turning the corner, grin rakish and entirely self-satisfied. You can’t bring yourself to be irritated. Your whole body is vibrating with excitement.

Maybe you’ll regret this. Maybe you’ll look back on this night and curse yourself for ever letting someone else in, for letting yourself get hurt all over again.

But for now, you let yourself hope.

Doctor!Sevika who expects you to answer her questions no matter what you’re doing.

You’re surveying the severity of a life-threatening situation, walking around the gurney with practiced ease as Sevika strides in, watching like an overseeing hawk.

“What med do we give them?” She questions you directly, pulling on a pair of gloves and letting them snap against her thick, bruising fingers as she walks over.

“Epinephrine 1:10,000, one milligram for cardiac arrest.” You didn’t look up at her.

“Correct.”

Doctor!Sevika who smokes outside of the hospital by the ambulances at bay. She liked the nicotine rush. Liked the feeling of the smoke grazing her lungs despite knowing in depth what it did. Or maybe—just maybe, she liked when you would come out for a break, panting as if you were on the midst of a breakdown, and immediately straighten up when you see her, aiming to make a dry joke about her addiction to smoking beneath it all.

“Smoking, doctor?” You managed to catch your breath, making the words come out slippery and airless. “Thought you’d know better…” you shot her a sheepish smile—one that was supposed to be teasing, but your face was too exhausted in pouting lines to move sharply into real amusement.

“None of us know better in reality, we chose to work here, after all.” Sevika scoffed, though you saw—or hoped, and begged, that your words landed right as you saw her upper lip twitching north momentarily.

Doctor!Sevika who never lets you break news to a patient’s loved one’s alone. She can see the hollowness prolonging your face after losing a patient. One as young as a teenager—she sees the familiar blame, the guilt—the nauseating shame of needing to do something more than you could have done. It was a baggage she had learnt to leave at doors.

Doctor!Sevika who takes up a lot of space in the ER, bouncing between rooms like she was made to save lives. Despite the scrubs she wears, hiding any trace of body underneath, stethoscope loose around the neck, she never fails to be everywhere all at once, even if you told yourself that wasn’t possible.

Doctor!Sevika who never lets you overwork yourself.

Your arms ache, pain springing through it like stabbing needles from the chest compressions that never seemed to bring back even a faint pulse. Sweat created a sheen like layer over your skin, reflecting fluorescent light like a beam of a flashlight. The patient’s face becomes blurry in front of you, chapped lips—blood stained across their face. You couldn’t lose another one. Couldn’t afford anymore blood on your hands for the sake of your sanity.

Your fingers trembled, echoed voices directing information before a familiar one cut through.

“Switch. Now.”

You looked up swiftly. Your breathe staggered, head shaking.

“I’m fine.” You retorted back sharply, letting out a pant.

“This isn’t about you this is about the patient. You’re losing quality. Laura, switch with her now.” She waved her hand dismissively towards you, another doctor moving past you as you stumbled back. Her words were harsh and cold, but nothing could match her eyes landing onto yours amongst the storm.

“Take ten.”

“I’m fine.” You repeated, stepping closer to the end of the patient as your eyes scanned over them again.

Whatever Sevika was thinking behind her grey eyes; it was clear she wasn’t having your refusal. She stepped closer—dangerously close, intimately close, brushing a hand against your arm.

“I said take. Ten.”

Doctor!Sevika who started driving you home after your shifts has finished. You were waiting for another nurse to sign off for the day, leaning against the car-park as the weariness of the day that had burrowed itself deep within you starting to slither out.

You let out a tired sigh, the loneliness of the shifts always felt daunting after losing a patient. But it was inevitable. You heard the same lines everyday.

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘Don’t let it get to you.’

‘Leave the baggage when you come through the door.’

‘You did all you could. There’s nothing more you could’ve done.”

But that gnawing hollowness inside of you was interrupted by a flash of head-lights. You looked up, seeing that familiar stature with gripped fingers against the steering wheel.

Sevika.

She didn’t speak—didn’t bother to roll down her windows against the soft patter of the rain, only nodded her chin towards the passenger seat, unlocking the car with a subtle click.

Doctor!Sevika who , very dangerously, lets the line slip between professional and unprofessional. One too many times she’s dropped you off now, and each time she does she keeps getting closer and closer to your apartment, walking you in—taking a coffee for herself, smoking outside despite the winds disallowing the lighter to work for several minutes. It becomes to a point where you just invite her in. You were exhausted. Drained. Witnessed two deaths while the other three became your own. A busy day for the ED meant your barriers lowered, seeking out a warmth you thought you’d never get—which was undeniably Sevika. And after long, lilting glances, an emergency room made up of your equally as short glances and awaiting praise from Sevika, the tension became a presence the whole department could feel.

Doctor!Sevika who had to have you. Little visits became more profound. Her keys sometimes left on the side of your nightstand—her bag left at the front of the house, and her strap she purposely left at home for you to use left tangled on the bed.

Ever since things got serious—and you were occasionally switched out for night shifts, Sevika became almost snappy with the rest of the staff when she couldn’t order her favourite little thing around. Instead, during breaks—she’d FaceTime you, already expecting you to be up, and coerce you into angling the phone just right where she could see you bouncing on her strap, whining like a pathetic mess for her.

“Sevvy…come home,” you whimpered out, squishing your own breast as you heard her suck up a deep breath on the other side. But you were meant with a perilous coldness that felt too personal just for you.

“Tch. You have a lot of audacity, love.” She drawled, watching the phone. “Be a good girl and fuck yourself f’me. yeah baby?”

Doctor!Sevika who insists on doing ‘pelvic exams’ on you.

You know you’re soaking. She knows it as well. And yet you still drag your soddened panties down, wiggling off your trousers to kick them to the side.

“Part your legs.” Sevika hummed, letting her fingers skim over your upper-thigh, trailing further inwards towards the heat radiating off of you.

“Your pussy has no self control, does it?” Her steel eyes snapped to your face, her fingers sliding through your folds, collecting the slick there. “Not around me, anyways.” She smirked crookedly, letting her thumb rub slow circles on your clit.

You breathe hitched, hips pistoning forward against her fingers. So cold. Always so rigid like frost over your usually-warm body. “Sev..” you whined—a sound that reverberated from wall to wall.

“Tender, sweetheart?” She moved forward, easing two fingers into your weeping hole as they stuffed your cunt until they were full with her fingers. She knew exactly where to hit—how to hit, how to push and pull her fingers inside of you, watching you leak deliciously around her. “So sensitive for me…you have a thing for your attending, darling?” She shook her head, smirking to herself, before she wiped it off her face completely.

“How unprofessional.” She tutted, smacking your pussy as quick as her fingers had just entered you. “I’m just doing an exam, love.”

Doctor!Sevika who is always moaning at you to do your charting. You always want to skim around the generic work—but being more hands on meant recording everything else much frequently in bigger chunks. And you hated it…occasionally. The only reason you wouldn’t hate it was because it got Sevika’s attention. She turned to behind you, giving you an expecting look that meant trouble for later if you didn’t do as she said.

Doctor!Sevika who lets you break down in her arms after you’ve suppressed everything all day. She’s warm—feels like home beneath muscles you rarely got to see.

“Sh sweet thing, you did well f’me today.” She mumbled into your neck, her breathe warm against it as your frame trembled against her.

“I did well? I-I lost…I-“ you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Words that felt too heavy even grief couldn’t compete in that moment. A feeling of utter despair.

“Who you lost doesn’t equal to your performance. Even then, you were excellent.”

Doctor!Sevika who occasionally breaks down with you. Sevika is a tough women who prides herself on staying composed no matter the situation, but whenever kids and children where involved, and loss followed, it always seemed to be the burrow of her day.

“I…” the warm lighting of your apartment lamp glowed directly onto Sevika’s face, smoothing away the prominent lines that would usually be there. And even then, the melancholy engulfing her features was hard to miss. “I had two patients. One six. One ten years older,” she swiped the edge of her nose with her thumb, leaning forward, elbows planted atop her knees. “Sisters, in a bad car crash.”

You stayed silent in these moments. It was rare an attending would break like this, especially someone like Sevika. Her voice was hoarse, unmistakable shakiness erasing the roughness of it.

“Couldn’t save them.” She finished—grey eyes like dull clouds hugging the floor ground, the tilt of her head avoiding the chase of light, bringing back those harsh lines that was like a remnant of the ED taken home with her.

You watched her hunched figure, eyes passing between the side of her face glowing in the light, and the other side shielded by the past.

“Sev,” you whispered—a nickname you gave her, even at work where other med students teased you about it, slipping from your tongue as you moved from the opposing sofa to sit next to her. But now the nickname felt more intimate. Felt more reserved for you and her only. “I know…” you let out a little empty laugh, faking flat in the air around. “I know you’ve heard this…so many times but..” you gulped, looking towards her. “I mean..I know I have but…it’s not your fault. You did everything you could’ve possibly done.”

You expected her to scoff. Expected her to roll out a cigarette that would burn her lungs into numbing her emotionally—but it didn’t come. Nothing came. Except for one sentence.

“You know, I only believe it when you say it.”

Doctor!Sevika who makes you exam her body late after shifts—night hitting the bar when you’re both alone in the apartment. You’re stripped of your clothes, wanting to writhe and moan atop of her as she lays before you, in the same state of undress.

You started at her neck—going into the anatomy, the potential problems—the way it works, all the while she kept a vibrating buzzing against your pussy

“Focus.” She’d snap, watching you try to grind down against her. “How are you going to be a doctor if you can’t focus under pressure?”

Doctor!Sevika who notices your self-destructive behaviour after a particular gruelling day. You don’t know how many patients you’ve lost across an almost fifteen hour-shift, but the day came together into one solid thing; pure turmoil. Drinking. Self harming. Pushing and pulling against her. No matter what though, Sevika will always be there for you.

“I’m not going anywhere.” She’d stand firmly in your apartment, watching tears travel down your face as if racing against each other. “If you think this will make me leave, you obviously believe I’m in the wrong profession.”

Doctor!Sevika who loves washing the grime off of your body after a long day. You’re half asleep, eyes half-lidded as she kneads your breast beneath her palm.

And you just let her. You let this older woman—with more experience than you and others combined, wash away the troubles on your body. It’s only when she trails her kisses down your body, ending up at your clit where she eagerly makes out with it, so you fully wake up.

“Mm…sweet girl.” She’d groan against you. “Sweetest thing i’ve had all day.”

Doctor!Sevika who rarely teases you when you’re both working. She’s focused—the same stern doctor who you had a crush on before all the confrontation, and it’s only occasionally where her warnings come off as a promise for what she’ll do to you later.

Doctor!Sevika who never lets any other attending or patient doubt you.

“Are you sure she should be doing this-“

Sevika cuts them off without so much as acknowledging them, scrubs heavy on her skin. “Do it.” She nods towards you, before leaving the room to supervise elsewhere.

Doctor!Sevika who loves the late-nights of eating takeaway and binge-watching a tv show when you both can’t sleep. You both know the reason why. In and out of shifts without a wink of sleep would do that to you sometimes—and the trauma of the hospital sometimes haunted your home.

Doctor!Sevika who will finger you to sleep, mumbling about some, ‘I can’t have my favourite resident lacking sleep. Rest, sweetheart.’ All while her fingers gently coerce you to sleep, cooing against that sweet spot inside of you that made you melt to mush.

Doctor!Sevika who knows when you’re trying to deflect the pain after a shift. You both ended up at your apartment again, the door slamming shut as a thickening silence comes through the home.

“Sev?” You looked up, pulling the bag of your back as you grasped onto her wrist, pulling her into a kiss that felt too demanding, even for you.

She raised an eyebrow for a moment, sliding her lips over your own before she pulled back—the taste of coffee and a shared cigarettes lingering on your tongues.

“Not now, sweetheart. Let’s get some food in you, yeah?” She sees your fingers trembling, but you reluctantly let go of her, eyes watering as she leads you through your own home with practised ease. “I want to, trust me I do. But you need to process this.”

Doctor!Sevika who never lets you out of her sight during work after hearing about you losing another patient. She’s like a constant camera tracking you, telling you to ‘take ten’, ‘take five’, to ‘go home’ when it got too much. She cared too much, and it ended up being the thing that softened her fully.

Doctor!Sevika who ends up loving you unconditionally.

Taglist