h

masterlist

kylian mbappe:

deftones

michael olise:

same old wait here heart necklace sweet loss champion fourth place beach day me and michael sore loser

trent alexander-arnold:

princess

SORE LOSER

summary: a FIFA match, a shared hoodie, and one two impulsive kisses.

warnings: michael olise x reader, established relationship, comfort.

wc: 1.6k

The apartment had gone quiet except for the low hum of the console and the occasional burst of crowd noise from the TV. You were curled into the corner of Michael's couch, sleeves of his hoodie swallowing your hands, the hem bunched somewhere around your thighs, controller balanced on your knees. Outside the window the evening had gone properly dark, the only other light in the room the soft blue flicker from the screen.

"You're cheating," Michael said, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Literally how?"

"You're winning."

"I'm just good."

"You didn't know what a through ball was three weeks ago."

"I'm a fast learner."

He didn't answer that, just adjusted his grip on the controller, jaw set in the particular way it always got when a match wasn't going his way. On screen, your player slipped past his defense, and you let out a delighted little gasp as the ball rolled in.

"No. No, that's offside."

"It's really not."

"It felt offside."

"That's not how VAR works, Michael."

"I know exactly how VAR works, and that was offside in spirit."

"Offside in spirit isn't a rule."

"It should be."

You laughed, tucking your legs further under you, and he glanced over just long enough to catch the sight of you swimming in his hoodie, sleeves hanging well past your fingertips, hair falling loose over one shoulder. Something in his expression softened before he caught himself and dragged his focus back to the game, ears going faintly pink for reasons that had nothing to do with the score.

The next match, you noticed he picked his squad slower than usual, scrolling through options like he couldn't quite decide, before landing on Real Madrid.

You raised an eyebrow. "Interesting choice."

"It's a good team."

"Is it, though?"

"It has nothing to do with anything."

"You've never picked them before. Not once. In three weeks."

"Coincidence."

He said it with far too much confidence for someone whose ears were doing that thing again. You let it go, mostly because you liked watching him get flustered too much to end it early, and settled deeper into the couch cushions with a satisfied little smile.

Twenty minutes in, the room had gone warm and close in the particular way it always did on nights like this, blankets pulled half over both your legs, the couch dipping toward the middle so you kept sliding closer to him without either of you doing anything about it. His arm found its way along the back of the cushions behind you at some point, not quite around you, just close enough that you could feel the warmth of it.

Somewhere around the second match, without a word, Michael set his controller down for a second, reached over, and pulled you into his lap. It wasn't clumsy or hesitant, just deliberate, like he'd been thinking about doing it for the better part of the last twenty minutes and had finally given up on pretending otherwise. His hands settled at your waist, steadying you as you got comfortable, back against his chest.

"Michael—"

"You keep sliding over here anyway." His chin dropped to your shoulder, voice pitched low near your ear.

You huffed something that wasn't quite a protest, controller held out in front of you, and felt him exhale slowly against your neck, arms settling loose but sure around your middle. His chin stayed exactly where it was, his breath warm against your ear every time he muttered instructions at his own defenders, like they had any hope of hearing him from there.

Halfway through the match, without any warning at all, he tilted his head and kissed just below your ear instead.

It was quick, barely more than a press of his lips against your skin, and by the time you'd processed what had happened he'd already gone back to watching the screen like nothing at all had occurred, jaw set, entirely too pleased with himself.

"What," you said, "was that."

"Nothing."

"You kissed my neck."

"Did I? Don't remember that."

"Michael."

"I was focused on the match." He said it with a shrug you could feel against your back, but the corner of his mouth was doing something suspiciously smug.

Two could play that game.

You waited until he had the ball, until he was three steps into a run he actually cared about, and then reached back and kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and deliberate. He made a small strangled sound against your ear, all the earlier confidence dissolving in an instant, arms tightening slightly around your waist without him seeming to notice he'd done it.

On screen, his player lost the ball completely, and your striker sauntered in for an easy tap-in.

"That's cheating again," he muttered against your shoulder, voice rougher than it had been a minute ago.

"You started it."

He didn't answer right away. You felt him go a little still behind you, breath catching, and when you shifted slightly to get more comfortable against him, the sound he made was quieter, more involuntary, and it was very clear the game had stopped being the main thing occupying his attention.

"You alright back there?" you asked, biting back a grin.

"Fine."

"You sound a bit... distracted."

"I'm concentrating."

"On the match."

"Obviously."

You settled back against him a little more deliberately this time, and felt his hold on your waist tighten, his chin pressing more firmly into your shoulder like he was trying to hide exactly how not-fine he currently was.

"Michael."

"Don't," he said, quiet, almost pleading, and you took mercy on him, letting the moment settle rather than teasing it further, content instead to feel the way his breathing gradually evened out again, one hand splaying warm over your stomach as the match wound down around you both, neither of you paying it much attention anymore.

The match ended eventually. You'd won again, though neither of you had really been keeping score for the last few minutes of it.

"Unlucky," you said anyway, just to hear him groan.

"You weaponized affection."

"So you like me?"

He huffed out a laugh despite himself, setting the controller down to tug the too-long sleeve of his hoodie back over your hand where it had slipped, fingers lingering there a moment longer than necessary. "You're basically wearing a tent."

"It's comfortable."

"It's mine."

"That's the appeal."

Neither of you bothered starting another match. The TV stayed on some forgotten menu screen, casting its soft glow across the room while the two of you sat there instead, still tangled together on the couch. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns against your stomach through the hoodie fabric, unhurried, like he had nowhere else in the world he needed to be. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the low warmth of him seeping into you until the whole room seemed to soften around the edges.

Neither of you spoke for a long while. You didn't need to.

"You're falling asleep," he murmured eventually, voice low, close to your ear.

"I'm resting my eyes."

"You're drooling slightly."

"That's a lie and you know it."

He laughed quietly, the sound rumbling pleasantly against your back, and you felt yourself drifting further, the warmth of him and the too-big hoodie and the soft hum of the television all blending together into something impossible to fight. You barely registered the controller being set aside, barely registered him shifting beneath you, until you were being lifted properly, one arm under your knees, the other braced behind your back, careful and unhurried like he had all the time in the world.

"I can walk," you mumbled, not opening your eyes.

"You can. You're choosing not to."

"That's fair."

He carried you through the quiet flat, past the kitchen where the coffee mugs from earlier still sat unwashed, into his room where the sheets were cool against your skin when he laid you down. He tucked the covers up over you before you could even properly protest, and you felt the mattress dip as he settled in beside you a moment later, pulling you into his side like it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world, like your body had always belonged tucked against his.

His lips brushed against your temple, soft and lingering, and you felt him breathe you in for a moment before he pulled back just slightly.

"You're ridiculous, you know that?" he whispered, more to himself than to you. "Made me concede two goals over one kiss."

"Two kisses."

"Two kisses," he agreed quietly, smiling against your hair.

You hummed something soft against his chest, already half asleep, and felt him press one more kiss to the crown of your head, arm tightening around you like he had no intention of letting go.

"Sleep well," he murmured. "I do like you by the way. A lot, actually."

You were too far gone to answer properly, just a small, sleepy shift closer against him, your hand finding a loose fistful of his shirt like you meant to hold onto that sentence even in your sleep.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

He stayed there a while longer anyway, watching the rise and fall of your breathing even out, the tension of the whole day finally leaving your shoulders, and thought, not for the first time, that he could get used to this: evenings that ended exactly like this one. Quiet. Easy. Nothing to prove.

This is amazing omg we need more WE NEED TO KNOW more about this couple pls make it a series 😭🙏🙏🙏

summary: what starts as an ordinary morning at home turns into an unexpected discovery when, the two of you accidentally stumble across the soundtrack to your relationship.

wc: 2.3k

The windows were open, late morning light spilling warm across the floorboards. Michael was in the kitchen, half watching the water boil for his tea while you flipped through a small stack of records on the shelf: a few of your own, one or two of his, and the one your friend had given you months ago that neither of you had ever actually played.

You slid it onto the player, mostly out of curiosity, and let it run in the background while you pottered around the flat. The first few tracks passed without much notice; you were only half listening, more focused on the state of the kitchen counter than on the music.

It was a few songs in when a line caught you off guard.

You went completely still, halfway through wiping down the counter.

Your head turned slowly toward the kitchen doorway.

Michael was already looking back at you, mug halfway to his mouth.

"Did they just..."

"They said your name."

"That's... a coincidence."

"It's not a coincidence, Michael. There's a whole song."

He set the mug down and came to stand beside you, arms crossed, waiting for you to be wrong.

You weren't.

The chorus came around again.

The second you heard "Me and Michael," you jabbed a finger dramatically in his direction, barely containing your grin.

"There!"

"Stop that. Put on Playboi Carti."

"I can't."

"You absolutely can."

"I physically can't."

"You are impossible."

"I'm literally being presented with this opportunity."

"It's one line."

"It's your line."

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I knew I shouldn't have walked over here."

You laughed so hard you almost missed it the next time.

Again, the chorus arrived.

Again, you pointed.

"Me and Michael."

"I know my name."

"I just thought you might've forgotten."

"I've somehow managed to remember it."

He shook his head, but you caught the small, helpless smile before he managed to smother it, and that was enough to know you'd already won.

The rest of the afternoon turned into a joke neither of you dropped.

Every time the chorus looped back around, you sang those three words a little louder than before, turning dramatically towards him as though the song had been written exclusively for the two of you.

By the third chorus, you weren't even singing anymore.

You simply stopped whatever you were doing, pointed at him with exaggerated seriousness and mouthed, "Me and Michael, solid as they come."

He always saw it coming.

He smiled every time anyway.

Later, cleaning up in the kitchen, you started humming without really meaning to. You got as far as,

"Me and..."

Then let the silence hang.

Michael, drying a plate at the counter, didn't even look up.

"...Michael," he muttered quietly.

You spun around so quickly he immediately regretted it.

"There he is!"

"I knew that was a trap."

"It absolutely was."

"You only wanted me to say my own name."

"And yet you still fell for it."

"I've made a terrible mistake."

"You've made several."

By early evening the record had looped back to that same track twice more, and you'd stopped asking him to dance; you knew better by now.

Instead you danced by yourself, barefoot on the living room floor, spinning loosely around the coffee table while he sat on the couch pretending to be very interested in his phone.

He wasn't, really.

You could feel him watching the whole time.

The chorus started again.

You pointed at him without missing a beat.

"Me and Michael."

He sighed.

"Again?"

"Always."

"I should've hidden this record."

"You would've deprived us of our song."

"It is not our song."

"It literally says your name."

"It says a Michael."

You stopped dancing altogether.

"There are other Michaels?"

"I'm sure there are."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't?"

"I think you're the original."

He laughed quietly through his nose.

"You are ridiculous."

"And yet you still like me."

"I tolerate you."

"You've been saying that for years."

"It keeps proving true."

You held a hand out anyway, just to see.

"No."

"Come on."

"I don't dance."

"You've never tried."

"I've tried. It went badly. I stopped."

The chorus drifted through the flat again.

You sang the three familiar words with a smile before walking over and taking both his hands.

"You don't have to dance."

"I don't?"

"You just have to stand there while I dance around you."

"That sounds worse."

"It's much more fun."

You pulled until he gave in with the longest, most put-upon sigh you'd ever heard out of him.

He was stiff at first. Awkward, barely moving, clearly counting the seconds until this could reasonably end.

"I'm terrible at this."

"I know."

"Thanks."

"It's charming."

"That's not what I'm going for."

"That's exactly why it's charming."

Little by little, though, some of the stiffness eased out of his shoulders, not because he'd suddenly figured out what to do with his feet, but because he'd stopped thinking about his feet at all.

He was just looking at you instead, and that seemed to be enough.

By the time the track looped back around once more, you were both swaying slowly in the middle of the room, no real rhythm to speak of, his hands settled loosely at your waist, your head tucked under his chin.

Softly, almost absent-mindedly, you murmured against his shoulder,

"Me and Michael."

He let out the smallest laugh.

"I had a feeling that was coming."

"I've been waiting all day."

"I noticed."

The song ended.

Neither of you noticed right away.

"So," he said eventually, voice low.

"So."

"Your friend gave you this months ago and neither of us ever played it."

"I know."

"You waited this long to find a song with my name in it."

You smiled against his chest.

"Felt like I'd been waiting a while, honestly."

He let out that quiet laugh he only ever seemed to have around you, resting his chin on top of your head.

"You're unbearably cheesy."

"I know."

A pause.

"...It's a good song, though."

You tipped your head back to look at him.

"Our song?"

He considered it, entirely too seriously for how simple the question was.

BEACH DAY

summary: a quiet afternoon on a beach turns into stolen moments beneath the sun.

warnings: established relationship, fluff, kissing, sexual content, public intimacy, suggestive dialogue, explicit smut.

wc: 1.8k

author’s note: listen to nights by frank ocean while reading this… especially the second part.

The beach had been Michael's idea.

Not because he particularly liked the sea. Not because he wanted hours in the sun. Simply because beaches asked nothing of him, no interviews, no cameras, no training schedule. Just the rhythmic crash of waves folding into the shore, gulls circling lazily overhead, and the occasional breeze carrying the scent of salt across the sand.

By the time you'd found a quiet stretch of coastline, far enough from the families and volleyball courts that only the sound of the tide reached you, the afternoon had already settled into something wonderfully slow.

Somehow, your towel had migrated until it was almost touching his. Neither of you had noticed exactly when it happened. Or maybe you had, and neither of you had cared enough to move.

Michael lay on his back with one arm tucked behind his head, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. A book rested on his chest, forgotten somewhere around the same page he'd been on for the last twenty minutes.

You smiled to yourself.

"You've stopped reading."

"I haven't."

"You've been on that page since I asked you to put on sunscreen."

He lowered the book just enough to look at you over the top of it.

"I'm taking my time."

"You're watching me."

"I'm reading."

"Liar."

The corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.

You rolled onto your side, resting your head against your hand before letting your fingers wander to his forearm. They traced the familiar black lines absent-mindedly, following the ink as though you'd never seen it before.

He didn't stop you.

He never did.

Your fingertips slowed over the pawn.

"I've always liked this one."

He glanced down briefly before looking back towards the sea.

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Why?"

You shrugged.

"It looks like you."

He laughed quietly through his nose.

"A chess piece looks like me?"

"The least flashy one on the board."

"That's harsh."

"But important."

He didn't answer straight away.

His eyes drifted towards the waves instead, sunlight reflecting across the water in uneven ribbons of gold.

"I like that they're underestimated," he admitted eventually.

"They quietly end up changing everything."

You smiled, as though that answer hadn't surprised you in the slightest.

Your fingers continued their slow journey across his arm before stopping over the pair of eyes inked a little higher.

"And these?"

He looked down for barely a second.

"My mum's."

That was all he said.

It was all he needed to.

You leaned over without thinking and pressed a soft kiss just beneath his wrist before settling back against your towel.

Silence settled between you again.

The comfortable kind.

Waves rolled lazily onto the shore. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull cried overhead before disappearing further along the coastline. The warm breeze carried the scent of sunscreen and salt, lifting a few strands of your hair across your face.

Michael reached over almost absent-mindedly and tucked them behind your ear before letting his hand linger for a second against your cheek.

You looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You smiled."

"Did I?"

"Twice."

"You're counting?"

"Always."

He rolled his eyes, though the tiny smile never really disappeared.

You shuffled closer until your shoulder rested against his.

He didn't acknowledge it.

He simply shifted the book onto the towel beside him and rested his arm loosely around your waist, almost as if it had found its place there without either of you thinking about it.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You watched the waves and he watched you.

By midafternoon the stretch of sand you'd claimed had almost emptied out. Just the two of you, beachgoers, the tide, and the heat.

"You're doing that thing," he murmured, eyes closed behind his sunglasses.

"What thing?"

"Getting bored."

"I'm not bored."

"You're vibrating."

You laughed, and he cracked one eye open, and whatever he saw on your face made his hand tighten at your hip.

"Come here."

"I am here."

"Closer."

You went, and what started as a lazy kiss to your shoulder turned into your mouth finding his, slow at first, then not. His hand slid up your back, fingers pressing into skin still warm from the sun, and you felt the exact moment his attention narrowed to only you.

"There are people not far," you murmured against his mouth.

"I noticed."

"You've been noticing for a while, haven't you."

"Since you sat down." His mouth dragged along your jaw, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. "I've been very patient."

"You have not."

"I have. Ask anyone." His hand slid down over your hip, gripping hard enough to pull a small sound out of you. "I've been a saint."

"A saint who's currently got his hand up my bikini top."

"Extenuating circumstances."

You laughed, and he used the moment to pull you fully over him, knees braced either side of his hips, nothing between you and him but two thin layers of fabric already doing very little to hide anything. He looked up at you, sunglasses shoved up into his hair, pupils blown wide.

"You're doing this on purpose," you said, feeling exactly how hard he already was.

"You sat down like you wanted something."

"I sat down normally."

"You sat down like trouble." His hands found your hips, guiding you into a slow grind that wiped out whatever argument you'd been building.

You rolled your hips, and the groan that dragged out of him went straight through you. "Fuck," he muttered, head tipping back. "Again."

You did, slower this time, deliberate, feeling him twitch beneath you with every pass. His grip went bruising-tight on your hips as he started matching your pace, his own hips grinding up in slow, filthy circles that had his breath shredding fast.

"You're soaked," he rasped against your ear. "I can feel it right through your bikini."

"Shut up."

"It's a compliment."

"Michael..."

"I could just pull this to the side," he murmured, fingers already toying with the fabric at your hip, tugging it a fraction. "No one would even see."

"You're insane."

"You're not stopping me."

You weren't. He worked the fabric aside just enough, and the drag of skin against skin where there'd only been fabric before punched a broken sound out of both of you at once. He didn't push inside, not yet, just let himself slide slow and slick against you, coating himself in how wet you already were, the head of him catching against you with every roll of your hips that had you biting down on a moan.

"Michael, we can't..."

"We're not." His voice had gone wrecked, barely holding together. "Not here. Just... fuck... just this."

"That's not making it better."

"Didn't say it would."

You ground down harder, chasing the drag of him against you, and he cursed low and guttural, hips snapping up to meet you with a rhythm that had gone completely unsteady. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling your mouth down to his to swallow the noise before it could get too loud, tongue sliding against yours in time with the filthy rhythm your hips had found.

"I'm not going to last," he groaned into your mouth. "You're going to make me finish just from this."

"That's embarrassing for you."

"Say that again when you're not shaking."

You were shaking. His fingers had found their way between you, pressing hard exactly where you needed, and between that and the slick drag of him against you, you were already gone, hips stuttering out of rhythm.

"There," he breathed, watching your face with a kind of wrecked focus. "Right there. Come on."

You broke first, a gasp punched out of you that he swallowed with his mouth, hips jerking against his through it. The sight and feel of you falling apart on top of him dragged him over half a second later, a broken curse muffled into your shoulder as he spilled hot and messy between you both, hips stuttering through the last of it.

For a long moment neither of you moved, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together.

"We just did that on a beach," you said finally.

"We did."

"That's... we need to actually get in the water now."

"Give me a minute."

"You have approximately none. I'm not laying back on my towel like this," you said, pointing to his cum dripping on your inner thighs.

You were already on your feet before he'd even started to answer, brushing the sand from your shaking legs with an unnecessarily triumphant smile. The laugh that escaped him was quiet, almost lost beneath the sound of the waves, as he watched you take a few backwards steps towards the shoreline.

"Come on," you called, holding a hand out towards him. "You didn't drag me all the way out here just to watch the sea."

"I'm fairly certain that's exactly what I intended to do."

"You're unbelievable."

"I've been told."

You rolled your eyes dramatically before jogging the last few metres into the water, squealing the moment it reached your ankles.

"It's freezing!"

Michael, who had only just reached the shoreline, folded his arms across his chest.

"Five seconds ago you couldn't wait to get in."

"I've changed my mind."

"Yeah?"

"No." You looked back over your shoulder, a grin spreading across your face. "I just wanted you to come and save me from how cold it is."

He shook his head, smiling to himself as he finally followed you into the sea.

By the time you'd wandered back to your towels, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, painting the water in streaks of gold and amber. Your hair was damp, your skin still warm despite the swim, and neither of you seemed in any hurry to leave.

Michael dropped back onto the towel with a quiet sigh, stretching out beneath the late afternoon sun. You settled beside him without thinking, close enough that your shoulders brushed, then your legs, until there was barely any space left between you.

He glanced at you. "Comfortable?"

"Very."

"You're stealing my towel."

"Our towel."

A soft huff of laughter escaped him as he reached over to brush a stray strand of damp hair behind your ear again.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The only sounds were the waves rolling lazily onto the shore. The beach had emptied even further while you'd been in the water. It felt like the world had quietly drifted away, leaving only the two of you and the endless stretch of sea before you.

You turned your head to look at him.

He was already looking at you.

Neither of you smiled at first.

You simply held each other's gaze, the silence saying everything neither of you ever seemed very good at putting into words.

Slowly, almost absent-mindedly, you shifted closer.

His hand found your waist as naturally as breathing.

Your forehead brushed his for the briefest moment before your lips met in an unhurried kiss, warm from the afternoon sun and tasting faintly of salt.

When you finally pulled away, neither of you moved very far. You simply put your head on his shoulder.

The beach remained quiet.

The waves continued their steady rhythm.

And for a little while longer, the rest of the world could wait.

FOURTH PLACE

synopsis: after france's world cup game, michael finally escapes the cameras only to find you waiting for him. one empty office, one stolen moment, and a reminder that he'll always be more than football to you.

warnings: established relationship, hurt/comfort, fluff, teasing, kissing, explicit.

wc: 1.6k

"Mikey?"

The nickname reached him before you did.

He'd barely escaped the last television interview when your voice echoed through the tunnel, loud enough to make him stop despite the dozens of people still moving around him. Staff hurried past with equipment cases, players drifted between conversations in small groups, quietly replaying moments from the match as they made their way toward the buses.

He wasn't listening to any of them.

His eyes found you almost immediately, and something in his shoulders eased just slightly, even before he reached you.

You'd been waiting against the wall for nearly half an hour, arms crossed, watching every player before him get pulled into interviews, phone calls, hugs from family. You knew Michael would be one of the last out. He always was. He hated leaving while cameras were still around, hated the idea that someone might catch him slipping off without doing his part.

The corners of his mouth lifted the second he recognised you. Not a full smile but just enough for you to know he'd been trying to hold one back all evening, saving it for you specifically.

"Baby." He said it like a question and a relief at once, closing the last few steps between you. "We finished fourth."

"I know. But you still won tonight."

His eyebrows knitted together, the smile threatening to slip. "I don't think that's how football works, baby."

"It is." You tilted your chin up at him, daring him to argue. "I don't make the rules. I just enforce them."

"Since when do you enforce football rules?"

"Since tonight. New position. Very demanding."

That pulled the sigh-laugh out of him you'd been waiting for. "I had a feeling you were going to say something like that."

"I've had time to prepare. I've been standing here for twenty-seven minutes."

"Twenty-seven?"

"I counted."

"You counted."

"I also watched three interviews, two security guards argue over whose shift had ended, and your goalkeeper nearly walk face-first into a camera because he wouldn't get off his phone."

That finally cracked him: a real smile, brief but unguarded. "There he is," you murmured, mostly to yourself.

"What?"

"My boyfriend."

He frowned, faint and genuine. "I've been here the whole time."

"No." You shook your head slowly. "The footballer got here first. Took him a minute to remember the rest of it."

The smile faltered, and you hadn't meant to do that, hadn't meant to say something true enough to land wrong. Before you could take it back, someone shouted his name further down the tunnel. He lifted a hand in a distracted wave without looking away from you, and for a second neither of you said anything.

Then his fingers closed around your wrist. "Wait."

"Wait?"

He was already moving, tugging you along past the last of the equipment crates and into an empty office tucked beside the locker room. The door clicked shut, and you heard the lock turn before you'd even taken in the room properly. A wooden desk buried under paperwork, one chair pushed askew, blinds drawn tight over the single window.

"Michael, what are we doing in here?"

He didn't answer straightaway. He just looked at you the way he'd been trying not to all night, like the tunnel had been thirty seconds too public and he'd finally run out of patience for waiting.

"Michael."

"Give me a second." His voice had dropped, quieter now, rougher around the edges. He crossed the room slowly, and you found yourself backing into the desk without quite deciding to.

"You're being weird."

"I'm being efficient." He reached for your waist, lifting you onto the desk like you weighed nothing, stepping between your knees before you could protest. His hands slid up into your hair. "You drove me insane out there. You know that?"

"I stood against a wall for twenty-seven minutes."

"You stood against a wall looking like that for twenty-seven minutes." His thumb traced along your jaw. "There's a difference."

"That's a very smooth thing to say for someone who just missed two chances."

His jaw tightened, just for a second, and you almost regretted it, until you saw the way his eyes darkened instead, something competitive flaring under the sting. "You want to talk about the match right now?"

"I want to talk about whatever you want to talk about."

"I don't want to talk." He leaned in until his mouth hovered just over yours, waiting, always waiting for you to close the last inch yourself. You did.

The kiss started slow and didn't stay that way. His hands cupped your jaw, tilting your head to deepen it, and you fisted a hand in the front of his hoodie to keep him from pulling back. When you tugged at the hem of his shirt he broke away just long enough to let you pull it over his head, breathing harder than the kiss alone should've earned.

"They're going to wonder where you went," you mumbled against his mouth, even as your hands mapped down his chest without any real intention of stopping him.

"Let them." He said it like it cost him nothing, mouth already dragging along your jaw toward your ear. "I've done my interviews. I've done my hugging. I'm allowed thirty minutes."

"Very generous of the team, letting you have thirty minutes with your girlfriend in the admin office."

"They don't have to know what the thirty minutes are for."

You laughed, breathless, and the sound seemed to undo something in him. His mouth found your neck properly then, teeth grazing over the sensitive skin there until a soft moan slipped out before you could stop it.

"Michael..."

"Yeah, baby?"

"I need you." The word came out more of a whimper than you meant it to, and it stilled him for exactly half a second before his hands moved faster, tugging your top over your head, careful in a way that didn't match the urgency in his hands.

You reached for his waistband, working it open, freeing him in one motion. Your fingers wrapped around him slow and deliberate, drawing a rough, strangled sound from his throat that he tried and failed to keep quiet.

"You're killing me."

"You started it."

He lined himself up, hands steadying your hips at the edge of the desk, and pushed in with a slow roll that built quickly into something faster, harder, the desk creaking in protest beneath you both. One of his hands slid down to draw slow circles against you while the other held you in place, and your back arched off the wood.

Neither of you cared anymore who could hear through the door. His moans grew quieter, more strained as he neared the edge, and when he came it was with a low groan into your shoulder, his whole body curling over yours like he needed somewhere to land.

For a moment neither of you moved. Then his lips found your ear, still catching his breath.

"Next time," he murmured, "I want you in my jersey when I fuck you.”

You laughed, low and breathless, and felt him smile against your skin before he finally pulled back to help you gather your clothes, unhurried, his fingers lingering wherever they touched.

But the ease didn't last. By the time you'd both slipped back into the corridor, his shoulders had drawn in again, jaw set, the softness from a few minutes ago already gone somewhere he couldn't reach.

"You still haven't looked at tonight."

"I know exactly what happened tonight." His voice was clipped now. "Two clear-cut chances in the second half. Should've buried both."

"I'm not talking about the match."

His gaze cut to yours, sharp. "Then what."

"You haven't looked at yourself. Not properly. Not since the final whistle."

He didn't answer. That silence told you everything.

You reached up and straightened the collar of his tracksuit where it had folded under the zip, letting your fingers linger there, smoothing fabric that didn't need smoothing.

"You've replayed it already."

"...Maybe."

"Every pass."

He didn't deny it.

"Every run."

"Every chance I wasted." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, and he looked almost annoyed at himself for it.

"You always think you could've done things differently."

"I usually can."

"You watched back a league match once because you thought one first touch was heavy."

"It was heavy."

"It was raining."

"It was still heavy."

You laughed quietly despite yourself, shaking your head, and reached out to take one of his hands in both of yours. His fingers were cold despite the warm night air, and you rubbed your thumb slowly across his knuckles until some of the tension in his hand eased.

"I think you're being unfair to yourself."

"I'm being realistic. I missed twice. It cost us the finish we wanted."

"You missed twice." You stepped closer, until there was barely any distance left between you. "That doesn't get to be the whole story of tonight."

He looked at you for a long moment, something loosening slightly behind his eyes. "You always know what to say."

"I really don't."

"You do."

"I mostly just talk until you stop frowning at me."

The corner of his mouth twitched, finally, against his own will. "There."

"What?"

"My boyfriend."

"I've heard that one already tonight."

"I know. I'm workshopping it."

You smiled, warm and a little smug. "I like him. Keep him around."

Colour crept faintly into his cheeks, the same way it always did whenever you caught him saying something unintentionally soft. He hated that you always noticed.

Without another word, you reached for his hand.

CHAMPION

summary: childhood best friends reunite at the paris olympics after years apart. one quiet evening, one basketball court, one chess game... and one thing they've both waited far too long for.

warnings: childhood friends to lovers, olympic!reader, gymnast!reader, pure fluff, michael olise being quietly in love, teasing.

wc: 1.6k

can be read in link with this

The basketball had barely left your fingertips when two arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you backwards against a familiar chest and forcing the most embarrassing squeal out of you.

“Michael!”

Your accusation echoed through the quiet court, startling a few pigeons near the wired fence and earning a low laugh from the person behind you. The sound brushed against your ear before his chin settled comfortably over your shoulder, his grip remaining firm despite the way your hands immediately fell over his forearms.

“You didn’t hear me come,” he eventually murmured, his words carrying far too much satisfaction for somebody who had nearly given you a heart attack.

“You didn’t say anything.” You pinched the skin beneath the sleeve of his France tracksuit, though the gesture only made his arms tighten around your waist. “Normal people announce themselves before attacking Olympic champions.”

Michael’s head tilted slightly beside yours, allowing you to catch the small smile he was attempting to hide. His eyes briefly followed the basketball rolling towards the edge of the court before dropping to the gold medal resting against your Algerian jacket.

“Attacking?” His quiet disbelief came after several seconds of pretending to consider your complaint. “I hugged you.”

“From behind.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I won gold today. I’m allowed to be dramatic.”

That finally drew a proper laugh from him, warm and breathy against the side of your face. He loosened his hold just enough to allow you to turn around, though one of his hands remained resting against your waist as though neither of you had noticed it was still there.

The setting sun had turned the edges of his locs a soft shade of brown, the orange light settling over the tiredness beneath his eyes and the faint flush covering his cheeks. He had clearly come straight from training, his accreditation pushed carelessly into his pocket and the sleeves of his tracksuit pulled halfway over his hands.

His gaze remained fixed on the medal.

You had received hundreds of congratulations since leaving the arena. Your teammates had screamed them. Journalists had repeated them into microphones. Your entire family in Kabylie had filled your phone with voice notes loud enough to make you cry all over again.

Michael simply lifted the medal into his palm, turning it carefully beneath the sunset before looking back at you.

“You actually did it.”

The softness of his voice made your smile falter.

Years earlier, behind the small non-profit where his mother worked whenever she visited Algeria, you had announced the same dream whilst attempting a handstand against the wall. Michael had been sitting beneath a tree with a chessboard balanced over his knees, barely looking impressed when you fell into the grass.

“I’m going to win at the Olympics one day,” you had insisted, your pride wounded more than your elbow.

He had only moved a pawn forward.

“I know.”

Standing in front of him now, with the proof of that childish promise hanging between you, made the noise of Paris suddenly feel very far away.

“You watched?” you asked, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the ribbon.

Michael released the medal and shoved one hand into his pocket, his expression settling into the same false indifference he had used since childhood whenever something mattered more than he wanted to admit.

“Most of it.”

“Most?”

“All of it.”

A pleased smile immediately pulled at your lips. “You cried.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely cried.”

“I blinked.”

“For three minutes?”

His eyes narrowed, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Are we playing chess or are you going to keep talking?”

You glanced towards the stone table a few metres away, where the pieces had been arranged beside the court. “You’re only changing the subject because I’m right.”

Michael walked past you without responding, retrieving the abandoned basketball before it could reach the fence. Instead of returning it, he tucked it beneath his arm and continued towards the chessboard.

“Give me my ball.”

“You missed.”

“You grabbed me.”

“You’d already thrown it.”

“You distracted me with your presence.”

He stopped beside the table, looking over his shoulder with a smugness made worse by how little effort he put into showing it. “That sounds like your problem.”

You hurried after him, attempting to take the ball from beneath his arm, but Michael lifted it above your reach and used his free hand to hold you back by the waist. Your fingers caught the front of his tracksuit instead, leaving you pressed against him while he silently enjoyed your struggle.

“You used to be shorter than me,” you complained.

“I’m not anymore.”

“You had a massive head as a child.”

His composure broke immediately. Michael bowed his head, laughing into your shoulder while you finally stole the ball from him. The chess pieces remained untouched beside you, the game already forgotten as the sun disappeared slowly behind the buildings.

Still smiling to yourself, you stepped backwards with the basketball tucked beneath your arm before bouncing it once against the concrete. The sound echoed softly through the empty court as you glanced towards the hoop.

“One last shot,” you declared, spinning the ball between your palms. “Then I promise we'll play.”

Michael didn't answer straight away.

You only realised he'd started walking towards you when his trainers stopped a few inches from yours.

“What?” you asked, lifting the ball slightly.

His eyes dropped towards it before returning to your face. There was something unusually thoughtful in the way he looked at you, as though he'd momentarily forgotten about the game entirely.

“You've been saying 'one last shot' for the past ten minutes.”

“So?”

“So I don't believe you.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head before turning back towards the basket. “Then you'll just have to trust me.”

The medal brushed against your chest as you bent your knees slightly, raising the basketball above your head.

You never got the chance to throw it.

Michael's hand closed gently around your wrist.

Not enough to stop you by force.

Just enough for you to pause.

You turned your head, your brows drawing together in confusion.

“What?”

“I've been waiting too.”

“For what?”

His gaze lingered on yours for a heartbeat.

Then another.

The faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth softened into something far gentler than the teasing expression he'd worn all evening.

Instead of answering, he carefully took the basketball from your hands and let it fall beside your feet.

It bounced once.

Twice.

Neither of you looked at it.

His hand found your waist again, instinctive now, settling there with a familiarity that made your heartbeat stumble.

“You're making me miss,” you murmured, though your voice had already betrayed the smile threatening to appear.

“I know.”

Before you could ask another question, he leaned down the last few inches separating you.

The kiss was impossibly soft.

So brief you almost wondered whether you'd imagined it.

His lips barely brushed yours before he smiled against them, lingering only long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath before slowly pulling away.

He didn't move far.

His forehead rested lightly against yours, your noses almost touching as the evening breeze stirred the loose locs over his forehead.

For several quiet seconds, neither of you spoke.

The basketball rolled lazily across the court behind you.

The sunset continued painting the sky in shades of gold and pink.

Paris carried on without noticing that your entire world had somehow narrowed to the space between the two of you.

“You made me miss,” you whispered eventually.

Michael's smile widened ever so slightly.

“I know.”

“You interrupted my winning shot.”

“I know.”

“You kissed me.”

“I know.”

The quiet certainty in his voice drew the smallest laugh from you. You reached up without thinking, smoothing one unruly loc away from his forehead before gently nudging his shoulder.

“You're lucky you're cute.”

“So I've been told.”

“By me.”

“Mostly by you.”

Only then did he bend to pick up the forgotten basketball, placing it back into your hands as though nothing extraordinary had happened.

“Now,” he said, nodding towards the stone chess table. “Chess.”

There was no clever answer to that.

Not when he had always come.

To Algeria. To your earliest competitions. To video calls made after losses you refused to discuss. And now, to a quiet court near the Olympic residences, on the most important evening of your life, carrying no flowers and offering no rehearsed speech.

Just himself.

You placed the basketball down and sat across from him at the stone table, arranging the white pieces while he took the black ones. Before making his first move, Michael reached across the board and turned your medal so it lay properly against your chest.

“My sweet champion,” he murmured, repeating the nickname you had used for him countless times before.

Your fingers froze around a pawn.

The pleased smile he gave you made it obvious he had been saving the words all evening.

“You’re still losing,” you warned, hiding your embarrassment behind the chessboard.

Michael moved his knight and leaned back beneath the fading pink sky, his knee pressing lightly against yours beneath the table.

“You’ve never beaten me.”

You smiled, nudging his leg without moving away.

SWEET LOSS

summary: michael comes home after france's world cup exit carrying a secret he's finally ready to confess.

warnings: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, oblivious idiots, unrequited love (not really), comfort, domestic fluff.

wc: 1.8k

"My sweet champion.” Your words were uttered as soon as Michael stepped foot in your apartment and rang like the sweetest chant to his ears.

“Champion, yeah? How so?” His retort came with a poor attempt to hide his saddened smile. He removed his puffer to place it on your coat hanger, careful to subsequently shake the rain off his locs and his shoes.

His routine consisted of exactly that. Not needing to type your house address on his car’s GPS, the streets leading him from training imprinted in his brain, and his after-match routine implying seeing the only thing that mattered in his life aside from football. But today was not like any other day and the small pink bag he had hid in your entryway for later a testament to that very fact.

“Cocky much?” Your shout resonated in your small apartment, too engrossed in your chores in the kitchen to look back at your michael. He didn’t waste time making his presence especially known to you by creeping behind your back and laying his head on your shoulder, attentive to the task at hand.

“What are you making?” You slightly jump at his words, your hold on the spatula faltering. You slightly tilted your head to take a good look at him, the cheeky smile on his face a sight you had dearly missed these past few months. His face was flushed, his cheeks adorned with a light pink shade and his eyes hooded. The effect of the loss at the world cup still blatant on his expressions.

“Spaghetti bolognese. Are you drunk?” He laughs at that, stepping back to sit on the central counter and staring back at your questioning eyes.

“M'not. Can’t a man be happy for once in days?” You smile at his answer, shaking vigorously your head in disapproval whilst resuming your preparation of the sauce. He imitates your shaking head at the same time as you do it and drops a hand to his hip, mocking your judging stance.

“Dramatic and cocky, you’ve got it all Michael Olise.” Your tuts come in a rhythmic phrase, pointing your spatula in his direction instead of your finger. He raises his arms in false defeat, a grin growing further.

“I’ve been winning all of my matches before the semis and I’ve got you; I do have it all.” His tease was received with a loud laugh from your end while he continued sipping his water, still observing your frantic movements at the counter.

“You’re an arsehole. The guy hitting on me at the bar last week could’ve come up with a better line.” You scowl and turn around to whip his arm with your towel before tucking back into your apron. The silence that ensued was only punctuated by your hitched breath, moving from one end of the counter to the other to pick up ingredients in what looked like a seasoned ballet choreography.

“Bar, huh? I see you’re having fun when I’m not in the country.” His rushed attempt at hiding his bitterness completely failed, his scoff overpowering his lighthearted joke. He nonetheless gets up to help you reach the plates at the top of the cabinet when he sees you struggle to reach them while balancing the two drinking glasses and cutlery.

“Proper fun.” Your answer came out in a lower breath than intended, still reaching his ears as you see him slightly tense at the notion and not picking up the irony. You set down the glasses and cutlery on your coffee table, facing your usual spot with Michael on the sofa. You came back to the kitchen to take the cooking pot off the induction hobs and started humming the melody of the song playing on your record player in the living room, unbeknownst to what your revelation had caused.

The remote to your TV was sitting in Michael’s palm, his digits fidgeting with the buttons and mindlessly flicking through the dozens of insignificant shows on Netflix. He turns his head to look at you giving him the most genuine smile he had ever seen anyone wear, still ignorant to the way the sole sight of you made his heart pick up.

You got down on your knees, holding the bowl of spaghetti in one hand, manoeuvring a spoon, and your most loyal guest’s plate in the other. “More?” You ask and hold your head up, catching his eyes scrutinising your every move. He, ever-so-silently, nods and mumbles a quiet “thank you” when you hand him his meal.

The rest of your evening was, as it always was, spent in a comfortable silence. The candles and the incenses burning in the corner, Twilight playing on the TV and the soft tub of the rain making your cuddled-up forms bathe in the coziest set-up you could’ve hoped for.

Michael turns his attention from the movie when he hears your quiet snores. He would’ve given all he owned and more to be able to paint the sight of you right at that moment. Your head had lolled back on his shoulder, your hands unintentionally grabbing the front of his cotton sweatshirt in your sleep and your chest slowly falling up and down. He picks you up bridal style, careful to not startle your peaceful state, and heads to your bedroom to set you down on your bed.

After prudently tucking you in, turning off your TV, and blowing out the dozen candles you had lit up for the occasion, the footballer had finally found it fitting to put on his branded puffer and shoes, leaving your house with a growing ache and a forgotten light pink shopping bag.

It was only after two dawns that you discovered the source of your love’s secret anguish, sitting behind the door of your entryway console. That secret had been made to be discovered that faithful night in the form of a small stuffed teddy bear wearing a familiar red jersey and a card attached to a bouquet of now wilted flowers.

HEART NECKLACE

summary: when a keepsake becomes a quiet reminder of how a childhood friendship slowly grew into something far deeper for him than either of you ever realized.

warnings: michael olise x reader, best friends to lovers, childhood friends, mutual pining.

wc: ≈790 words

“Keep your eyes closed.” His faint words resonated from behind you. It was a late evening, the pink sky facing you through the kitchen window dusted with white flecks of clouds and the rain pattering on your garden. You lightly laugh at his request, but close your eyes shut still. From the minute he had come to your apartment agitated and sheepishly smirking, you knew something was up.

“Michael, you already said that 5 minutes ago.” Your whine fell on deaf ears, your best friend still deep in concentration on the task at hand with his tongue unwittingly sticking out. He opens the tiny box he had kept secret from you these past few weeks leading up to your birthday and shuffles your figure closer to the living room, right in front of the body-length mirror.

Michael retrieves the dainty necklace from its sky-blue box and delicately places the object around your neck, careful not to startle you. He slowly picks your hair up and fists it into a makeshift ponytail to clasp the necklace band with his other hand, feeling shivers run through your collarbone.

“Open them now.” Your eyes meet Michael’s sparkling ones in the mirror’s reflection as soon as they flutter open. You don’t even notice his token of deep adoration adorning your flesh at first, too entranced in the way he’s staring at you in expectancy; in expectancy of way more than simply expressing your gratitude for the physical object.

You finally look down at the silver necklace, noticing a heart-shaped charm attached in the middle. Your fingertips graze the surface of the textured heart and you stupidly smile at the ’M’ and the first letter of your initials he had gotten engraved on the back of the charm. “It opens.” You heard him breathe into your ear, a sense of pride laced with his soft words. You could see him in the reflection, biting and chewing on his lower lip, a habit he had picked up from when you were only kids.

Your fingertips come back to their spots on the charm, lightly pulling on the tiny latch and opening the heart-shaped silver charm. Your breath seems to be cut from you the second you slightly turn it around and find an old picture of you and Michael’s glued inside.

The image staring back at you was one of you and Michael in red jerseys, aged 9, grinning at the camera as if you had just won the lottery; and in a way, Michael could’ve sworn on a thousand bibles that he did.

You didn’t want to take the picture for the academy’s trophy room that day and for some strange reason that he was eternally grateful for, you had trusted that stranger, scrawny kid next to you enough to confess that it was because of your crooked teeth.

He had stayed quiet the whole time, nodding in intervals, only pulling you at the last minute by the sleeve to be next to him. He had pointed at his wide smile, an indication for you to mimic him in front of the camera. You childishly laughed at his antics, the camera’s shutter blinking right at that moment, capturing your first-ever interaction.

The picture of Michael and you, a testament to your first bliss was now cemented right above your heart, trapped in silver metal and cheap hot glue.

“Do you like it?” His voice comes out more hoarse than intended, waiting for you to break the elongated silence. “If not, I can go to the store right now and pick up something else.” He quickly rambles upon seeing your tear-stained cheek and your chest slightly heaving.

“No, Michael. I love it.” You admitted matter-of-factly, finally lifting your head to reveal puffy pink cheeks and glassy eyes to the mirror facing you. “This is probably the best birthday gift I have ever received.” You confessed again to the man looming over your shoulder, not so scrawny and far from being a stranger now.

"Please my love, stop moving". Your Polaroid camera was pointed at Michael, desperately trying to capture at least one picture of him from the position you were in. It was late in the afternoon when you came over to his apartment after training to help him set up the gift he received from a teammate. A gift you desperately wanted to show him the benefits of at the moment.

"I'm not moving, you are!" You were perched on his laying body on the bed, straddling his waist in an attempt to stop his contention. He argued that the picture would not look good seeing as he was still in his training jersey, only his pants quickly traded for grey joggers.

"I'm not. Please stay still. Just one picture." You playfully pouted at him and quickly batted your eyelashes in an attempt to weaken his argument. He smiled at your poor efforts, finally admitting defeat.

"Alright, just one." He conceded and held his hands up to the sides of your waist to stabilise both of your bodies.

As soon as he stopped moving around, you pointed the camera at him again, your finger grazing the button and ready to snap the picture. He took the opportunity to flip your over, his knee now resting between your legs and his embrace caging you in.

Your attempt to free yourself was to no avail as he took the camera from you and closed one eye behind the lens to shoot a picture of you. You put up your hands in front of your face, not wanting to give him the one-sided satisfaction of taking a picture of one of you.

"Don't do that, baby." His left hand was quick to hold your wrists to uncover your face. You shook your head in a left and right movement, mimicking his previous behavior to show him how infuriating the whole ordeal had been.

When he brought his face closer to your hands-clad face, awaiting the moment you'd move so he could snap the photo, your fingers moved to shield yourself. In a hurried movement and unaware of the distance separating you two, your long nails accidentally scratched the surface of his cheek.

The camera fell in between your two bodies, your hand coming up to cradle his wounded cheek and your eyes watching him in horror as red liquid started forming atop the scratch. "Michael, I'm so sorry." Your apology came in the form of a babble as he winced at the deep cut your nails had left on his face.

He definitely played up the pain the scratch had caused him but he'd be lying if he said that seeing you hurry to take care of him didn't please him. You took it upon yourself to jump up from the bed you two were bickering on for hours to run to the bathroom in search of a disinfectant.

He hid his grin, faking discomfort as he followed your hurried footsteps. "Please sit here." He sat on the lid of the toilet as commanded and he intently set his eyes on your movements. You opened the cabinet sitting on top of the sink and rummaged through the dozens of skincare products you had left at his apartment.

"Got ya." You set the first-aid kit on the vanity and pulled out a piece of cotton to soak it with rubbing alcohol. You turned around, catching Michael's smile for a fraction of a second before his expression quickly turned to one of pain. You dropped your head and shook your head in despair, partially happy that he was in no actual discomfort.

You started working at disinfecting the small wound, the initial scarlet-colored scrape starting to slowly bruise. When the cut stopped bleeding altogether, you opened the bottom cabinet of the vanity in search of band-aids.

Michael was still eyeing your every movement in silence, relishing in the domesticity of it all and accepting whatever you'd come to do to his face. His brown doe-eyes looked up at you from his seat as you stood before him with a tin box in hand.

"I think I only have this box of band-aids left." You held up the box to him in apprehension as he carefully opened it.

"Hello Kitty band-aids?" He questioned with a raised brow, battling the dimpled smile that was starting to etch on his face. You nodded as you showed him the different options the box offered, holding up the one fitted for the size of his cut.

"They didn't have anything else at the pharmacy the last time I went there." You impishly defended as you took the box back from his prying hands and put it aside on the edge of the vanity. He happily complied as you stretched the pink band-aid on the disinfected area and softly placed a kiss on his cheek. "Wait here, there's something else I need to do to heal the cut."

He silently sat as he saw you rush out of the bathroom and come back with your arms crossed behind your back. Before he could have time to react, you brought the Polaroid camera up to his stunned face.

"Smile!" Taken by surprise, your lover's expression was quick to naturally match your excitement and give the camera the brightest beam you could've asked for.

"Jude, definitely Jude." As soon as the words left your mouth, your eyes instinctively turned to meet Michael's eyes. You were both seated across from each other at the diner table; a table you only found yourself eating at after reluctantly accepting one of your mutual friends' invitations.

"Oh no, he's definitely not the hottest in this world cup." Your friend chimed in in disapproval whilst picking at the last remaining bits of her plate. Your eyes were still transfixed on the man in front of you, raising your brow when you saw a faux innocent smile tugging on his face.

"Yeah? Who you'd say is the hottest ?" Whilst his question was meant to be answered by your friend, his curious eyes kept the same direction they have had the entire evening. Yours.

He leaned down in the cushion of his seat, crossed his arms in front of his upper body, and eventually nodded in her direction in pure bemusement.

"You." Your friend answered matter-of-factly, not even taking the time to contemplate another fitting answer. Your other friends joined in their little interaction and laughed at her bluntness, his closest friends all nodding in agreement for his own sake.

Your head automatically whipped in the opposite direction, unwarrantably getting a rise on your cheeks and in what felt like your entire body. Your earlier transfixion on the footballer had now been replaced by a sudden interest in the shape of the beet on your plate.

Ignoring the flirtatious comment he voluntarily gleaned, he tilted his head once again in his favorite direction, trying to make out your facial expression. To get the reaction he so desperately craved out of you, his foot came out kicking yours underneath the table, the rest of the table unsuspecting of your secret jabs.

You jolted in reaction, immediately kicking his foot in return and eyeing him in contempt. "I'll bring the dessert." Your words addressed to the five people seated at the table only came out mumbled in a whiff as you got up from your seat in urgency. The rest of the guests were conveniently too deep in the new debate they had started to care about your sudden absence from the table.

Your hands were now resting on the kitchen island, your arms stretched before you to relieve some tension from your body. Your breathing came out in short hectic puffs as you tried to steady it, eventually failing.

"I'd definitely go for a tiramisu right now." You didn't even need to turn your head to figure out that the source of your panting was standing right behind you. You closed your eyes in apprehension and in the sole attempt to prepare yourself for your upcoming conservation with him.

"What do you want?" Your body decided of its own accord to turn around to face him, dwarfed by his presence rather than his physical looming figure.

"A tiramisu." His claim came adorned with a smile anyone would have painted as sweet in any other given circumstances. For now, you could see clearly in his games and his poor attempts to further agonize you.

"You don't get to do that, Michael." You tutted in response, backing off to eventually find yourself caged against the cold surface of the counter. Your side step to avoid him was infructuous as it was followed by his own step towards your teetering form.

"Do what?" He once again tilted his head feigning innocence and willingly making you feel stupid in the process.

"Fuck you."

You ultimately freed yourself from his invisible grip, crossing the kitchen and raising the balls of your feet to reach the dessert plates in the kitchen cabinets.

"Apparently you'd rather do that with Jude, no?"

"The nerve you have." You shook your head with a bitter smile. "You'd fuck the three girls in the living room right now if it meant you could get at me." Your spat only seemed to feed and grow his callous antics, his eyes almost twinkling in excitement.

"I already did." His smile was nothing more than genuine when he saw your face fall at the revelation. He revelled in your reaction, his body crashing down on the side of the doorframe while eyeing your halted movements.

"I can't do this anymore, Michael. I really can't." Your back was facing him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing the tears threatening to leave the safe confines of your eyes. "I'm so tired."

The plate you were holding abruptly fell to the ground with a loud thud, wreathing the floor with chunks of porcelain. You cursed frantically as you bent down to pick up the pieces with your bare hands.

At the impact, your friends were finally snapped out of their conservation at the table to run towards the source of the noise.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" One of them said, coming towards you and pushing your hands aside to pick up the pieces with a broom and a shovel. You slightly nodded, glancing down to notice the tips of your fingers bloodied in some parts.

Michael felt his back bumped as they all got in to figure out what was happening, but he stood tall at the doorframe, looking down at your agitated state with an unnerving beam.

"Thank you." You thanked your friend when she lent you a piece of paper to get rid of the crimson on your digits. "I'm so sorry." You repeated the words at the owner of the house and Michael stayed a mere background observant of the interaction. He secretly knew that you were already planning to buy your friend a new identical plate to apologise, although the whole ordeal was insignificant.

Your friends stuck around for a little while, resuming their previous lively exchanges, unassuming of the stolen glances between you and your torment.

They eventually took out the desserts for themselves, nodding when you claimed you'd come back there in a second. Your last friend's hand lingered on Michael's forearm before finally leaving the room in a haste.

"I've waited for you, made my love clear from you from the beginning and that was still not good enough for you." You resumed your previous conservation, ignoring what you just saw. When his silence became too lengthy, you dared to look at him in a weak accusatory. "I don't know why you keep using me as your own little entertainment."

He shook his head in condescension, chuckling at your languid efforts to reason with him. It was the first tear that come out of your eye that made him decide to grant you his last playing card. "You know I love you, right?"

His repeated shushes oddly struck you as a comforting lullaby as he stepped forward to stroke your back up and down. Your sobs of pure and total defeat were muffled by the sudden contact and your hands were held in a fist around the material of his cotton sweater, surrendering yourself entirely to him.

The ride home was silent, your chests heaving in a sort of sacred synchronization. The occasional tapping of his foot to the tune on the radio was the only sound to be heard in the small space.

The roof of his convertible was slid off, allowing your hair to flow freely when you rested your chin on the surface of your passenger door.

Your glistening eyes were empty as they dazed off to the streets passing by. The image of your face crowned with the mascara crusting on the surface of your cheeks was almost cinematic, poetic even if not for the events leading up to that moment.

Picking your bags up to get out of the car also came in a natural sequence of movements, a testament to what he would probably credit to your undying loyalty to him.

You laugh at his sheepishness and shrug your shoulders. "Your problem, not mine." You took a last bite from the meat on the skewer you were holding before getting up to help your mother clean up. "I'll be back soon, don't accidentally kill the child."

"No, no, no. Don't leave me here with her."

"She's not going to bite you, Trent." He turned his head to find the little girl giving him a toothy smile, albeit missing a few teeth. "She's allowed to though." You smile at him before leaving him with the tiny terror in a pink dress.

The little girl, that was around the size of the chair Trent was sitting on, started tugging lightly on his shirt. "Can you play with me, Uncle Trent?" She pouted, her small plastic tiara slightly falling off the top of her head.

"What do you want to play?" He asked and brought his fingers up to place the crown back on top. Her eyes resembled yours a lot, he thought. They were twinkling with a sort of mischievousness and purely melted his heart at the instant. The child could ask him to go to war right now and he'd probably gear himself up for it.

"Football!" She got up from his lap to show him the wee lilac ball she had brought up with her. He got up from his seat, eager to witness the little princess' skill at his sport.

"Princesses play football?"

"Better than you."

"Ah, I see." He grinned at her insolence as she held her head up in pride. "Show me what you got, then." At his words, she put the ball down on the grass and positioned herself behind it.

Her first kick led to the ball hitting him surprisingly hard on his chest. "Alright, let us do some passes to each other first?" When he saw her frown, he doubled down on his offer "Or you can kick the ball in any way you want it and I'll make sure to catch it."

Gathering that she preferred the latter, he held his hands up as soon as the child kicked the ball again. Her bubblegum pink attire and the glittery sneakers she was wearing formed an odd contrast with the force she was displaying playing the ball.

He appreciated her resilience through all the small games and skills she was learning from him. He wouldn't admit to you that he had accidentally hit her head several times whilst trying to teach her to juggle with the ball.

After going at it for a couple of minutes, Trent decided to switch it up and teach her some of his personal skills. "So I'm going to throw the ball and you're just going to stop it with the tip of your foot, okay?"

"Uncle Trent, I'm getting tired." She yawned at his plan, tiredness seeping through her tiny body. He nodded at her complaint and scooped her up to avoid letting her tire herself further.

Her figure was laying atop his upper body, his strong arms rounding her legs to secure her position. He would occasionally bounce her up and down, hearing that it caused her laughter to loudly erupt in his ear.

He didn't notice that you had been back from cleaning for the past fifteen minutes and fell spectator to his attachment to the small human. You didn't want to disrupt them at first, too entranced in his tremendous efforts to put away his shyness to make your niece happy in any capacity.

"Hey, she's not Robbo, you know?" You peeped from your concealed spot under the gazebo. He turned his head in surprise, your eyes matching the twinkle he had noticed in the child he was holding. "Training her to exhaustion at five years old and that."

His laugh reverberated in the small space you were standing on and you stuck your arms out to take her back from him. He reluctantly gave her back to you, waving her goodbye when she frowned at the separation.

You brought your niece up in your arms to cradle her and slightly rocked her, careful not to startle her. Your paramour stood next to you, an arm snaked around your waist, wearing a pensive expression. At that moment, your niece chose to tear him out of his thoughts by holding her hand up, waiting for him to match her action and high-five her. "Thank you for playing with me, Uncle Trent."

Her hand looked ridiculously small next to his, and she missed his high-five the first time before he finally clapped her hand back. His face was curiously intentive at the whole interaction, your heart swelling at the sight of him holding up her hand to kiss her knuckles.

"C'mon my love, we're leaving, yeah?" You heard your sibling scream to the kid in your arms. You walked out of the gazebo to join the rest of the guests, eventually spotting them in the bunch. After dropping your niece in their hands, and chatting out with the rest of the leaving invites, you went back to your beloved.

"You're not so bad with kids, you know." You beamed at him and he mimicked your earlier shrug to argue back in false modesty. Though, other words were put on his lips to mutter when he lowered his head to your ear.

"Deftones." You had finally convinced your boyfriend to come with you to a concert and the moment you saw your favorite band playing in Paris, you couldn't have passed the occasion. Aware of his status and busy schedule, you knew you had to make the most out of all the hours you could spend with him during the week, and surprising him with a new experience seemed fitting.

"And remind me what kind of music do they play?" You cozy up next to him on the seat, linking your arm with his and dropping your head on his upper arm.

"Oh, just R&B. You'll love them I promise." You tilt your head with the most innocent smile you could muster up and squeeze his hand on your lap, leading him on. With the hand holding yours, his thumb sticks out to trace meaningless patterns on your skin.

"I trust your taste." If it wasn't for the absurdity of the situation, you could've melted at his words and the preciosity of his naivety. Despite everything, you knew telling him you were going to see a metal band would've sprung an immediate reluctance and you had to use a bit of ingenuity to make him get rid of his bias.

For now, the aux you had politely asked the driver to plug was playing a Brent Faiyaz song, Kylian's light foot-tapping to the rhythm almost as melodious as his voice. You spent the entire ride bickering over who got to pick the next song, ultimately letting him win the fight each time, scared that he'll hate the music later anyways.

"We've arrived." At the driver's announcement, Kylian whips out a beanie and some sunglasses he had stolen from you, his usual attire to hide away from the public. What made you smile at the whole ordeal each time was that he didn't know that those two accessories did not conceal his identity but made him all the more attractive to your eyes.

As soon as you step out of the taxi, a man you assume to be a tour manager greets you both and leads you to the back entrance of the relatively big concert venue. Kylian puts a hand on the small of your back to guide you through the lengthy alleyways and your cheeks redden, not at the gesture, but in anticipation of what was he was about to discover.

The manager's small talk abruptly ends as soon as he opens the door to a secretive area of the arena and lets you both in. You take a few seconds to take in the grandeur of the place, your eyes sparkling with pure exhilaration and joy. Kylian uncharacteristically ignores the man's request to take a picture with him and his ramble about the world cup final. He was too enthralled in the way your eyes were flicking from one spot to the other, taking in the energy that reverberated throughout the room and your beam making his heart swell at the sole look at it.

The young footballer was snapped out of his trance when you turned to look at him over your shoulder and mouthed to take the picture with the poor man, which he did in a hurry to get back to your date. "Excited?" He asked when he came back to you and finally removed his beanie and shades in the secluded area. He was still oblivious to who was about to perform in a few minutes, despite his attire so obviously clashing with hundreds of fans clad in black jeans and black eyeliners.

In that sense, you were glad you had taken him to a Deftones concert, almost certain that their audience was probably not one to freak out upon seeing him. You selfishly gloated at the fact that it'd humble him just the slightest. "Beyond." Your nod came with yet another squeeze of his hand and the brightest grin adorning your features.

As soon as the lights turned off, your heart dropped and Kylian laughed upon seeing you excitingly tapping your feet up and down on the floor like a child. When the band members started coming out, he started suspecting you had not brought him to an R&B concert but he'd have even attended a country music concert if it meant seeing you as happy as you were in that moment.

Once the band had started playing their first song, 'Change' which coincidentally was your favorite, you turned around in the confined space that was your private spot on the balcony to look at him. To your surprise and much to your despair, his eyes were fixated on your frame rather than the stage.

"Look at them, not me!" You scowl at him, to which he only slowly shook his head, a smile slowly creeping on his face.

"Why? It's a better view." His arms were crossed across your chest, his head laying on top of yours while he swayed you both lightly at the music. You rolled your eyes at his corny retort, content nonetheless that he seemed to appreciate the music.

"It's like you never had wings." Your mutter of the song's lyrics came in a slow breath before whipping your head back up to your date "Now, you feel so alive." In the same cadence as the main singer, you dramatically resume your theatrics and hold his cheek in your palm "I've watched you change."

"Media says it a lot but I wouldn't say I've changed that much." Kylian says matter-of-factly, earning a slap on his chest from you and a dirty look. His apology could not even be heard when the crowd started screaming the chorus and banging their heads in what looked like perfect unison. This was definitely not his crowd nor his typical Sunday night but oddly enough, he felt a deep sense of gratitude that you had put up a plan to bring him to your favorite band's concert. You were aware that he would have rented out an entire arena for them to only perform for you if you had told him the truth initially.

"And when he smashed his guitar, that was so cool, right?" Your face was painted with elation, your lips slightly parted and your eyes wild. Kylian mindlessly nodded, too absorbed by your frantic rant to be able to answer with a coherent thought. You were both now walking around Paris, experiencing a dreadful post-concert high and gushing back and forth about your favorite parts of the show.

Your lover's impression of the concert was only amplified by how happy just two hours of music had made you. His heart swelled more and more, each minute you both passed strutting down the streets of the city, now in a comfortable silence. His infliction had come to an end upon arriving on your apartment's doorstep in Montmartre, the sun just now rising and leaving a pink hue on your face in the process.