Julia

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note: i absolutely loved writing this omg. idk what is about and wilo and dreams lately…? maybe it’s because he’s the man of my dreams…..😃 okay bad joke. anyway. a little fluff in here :)) i added the song after editing the final draft because i realized the storyline was similar to the song. or maybe beyonce has just completely brainwashed me idk. fine with both options tbh. next up is alejandro, levi and then noni. as always, enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been twenty-seven hours since you last slept.

Not that light, accidental dozing-off kind of rest either — you hadn’t laid your head down on anything softer than a stack of textbooks or a stiff kitchen chair. Your body ached in places you didn’t even know could hurt. Knees tight, hips creaking like old floorboards, and fingers swollen from gripping highlighters and scribbling notes with desperation. You had been clinging to consciousness the way a tired swimmer clings to a lifeboat. This test—your final one before graduation—felt like a doorway, the last heavy door between you and the version of yourself you’d fought so hard to become.

And you were going to walk through it. Even if your body had to fall apart right after.

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the ticking clock on the wall, its minute hand crawling closer to midnight. You sat on the floor of the bedroom you shared with William, cross-legged in a halo of study materials. Sticky notes with scribbled formulas, coffee-stained notebooks, highlighted printouts. Your laptop screen had long gone dim, but the words you’d read all day still buzzed behind your eyes. Concepts and theories swirled with a dizzying rhythm. But none of it, none of it, could compete with him.

You hadn’t seen William in days.

He’d left for an away match three mornings ago, just before the sun blinked awake. He kissed your temple and whispered “good luck, mon ange” before slipping out the door with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You were barely awake when he left, and maybe that’s why you hadn’t told him about the dream. The one that kept replaying in your mind like a song you couldn’t skip.

It had hit you out of nowhere in the middle of the night, a vivid, visceral dream that felt less like imagination and more like memory—like something your body remembered before your mind caught up. The weight of him on top of you. His heat sinking into your skin like molten gold. The way his hands gripped you—one on your thigh, spreading you wide, the other braced in the sheets near your head, muscles tight, veins raised. His breath had ghosted your lips, hot and ragged, and in your sleep you swore you could feel him dragging inside you, deep and deliberate, the stretch of him making your toes curl beneath the covers. He moaned your name against your mouth, low and reverent, saying filthy, beautiful things in French you couldn’t translate but understood perfectly.

That dream had been haunting you ever since.

It followed you into the daylight, lingered in your bloodstream, made your cheeks burn and your thighs press together under your desk. It whispered through your lectures, tangled itself in your textbooks. When you’d leaned over your notes earlier that afternoon, you caught yourself staring blankly at the page, breath uneven, remembering the press of his chest against yours and the scent of sweat and skin and sex. It was maddening. He wasn’t just under your skin—he was in your head.

And the worst part? You couldn’t even touch yourself. You were too exhausted to chase release, too focused to let yourself fall apart. You needed to pass this test. You needed a future. But the wanting didn’t go away—it just simmered under the surface, curling low in your belly, waiting.

At 11:48 PM, you gave in. Not to the ache between your legs—but to the one in your joints, your back, your mind. The kind of ache that begged for mercy, for softness. You sighed, long and weary, and began gathering your materials with slow, stiff movements. Every muscle protested. When you stood, it felt like you were peeling yourself off the floor one tired limb at a time. You winced at the sharp pull in your hips and the dull throb in your knees. Your hands trembled slightly as you stacked your books on the desk, palms heavy with fatigue.

You shuffled to the bathroom like an old woman, aching and bent. When the hot water hit your skin, it nearly brought tears to your eyes. Steam curled around your tired body, loosening the knots in your shoulders, sliding down the sore curves of your back, pooling at your feet. For the first time all day, you sighed in relief. You let your head fall forward under the stream and allowed yourself one moment to feel clean and held.

But then… there he was again.

William.

He wasn’t in the room, but he was there—in your mind, in your memory, in your body. You closed your eyes and instantly saw the dream: his broad chest above yours, the sweat dripping from his brow, the shadows of his abs contracting with every deep thrust. Your lips parted. Your breath caught. The water became white noise as your thoughts twisted hot and fast. His voice was in your ear, rough and low, groaning praises in that thick accent that always made your thighs twitch. You could feel him—your body remembered.

You clutched the shower wall, eyes shut tight, breath coming in short, needy bursts. The heat between your legs was unbearable, an ache that no amount of rinsing could soothe. But still, you didn’t let yourself give in. Not now. Not when you were this close to rest. This close to peace.

You rinsed quickly, rubbed lotion into your tired limbs, wrapped your satin scarf carefully around your edges. Your bonnet followed. You moved with slow, intentional movements, like you were putting yourself back together. Piece by piece.

When you finally collapsed into bed, it felt like the softest thing you’d ever touched. The cool sheets kissed your skin. The pillow cradled your head like a lover’s hand. You exhaled, deeply, audibly. You let your bones melt into the mattress.

And this time, you didn’t fight the dream.

You let yourself drift, the echo of him waiting in the corners of your mind. His hands. His voice. The way he moaned your name. You sighed once more, heavy and full of want, and closed your eyes.

Finally, sleep took you.

You were deep in sleep — not just resting, but completely tucked beneath its weight. Buried in blankets pulled up to your chin, your face pressed into the pillow, breath steady and slow. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you like a lullaby. You didn’t hear the keys in the door. You didn’t hear the soft click of it closing. You didn’t hear the sound of a duffel bag settling by the wall or the even softer footsteps that padded down the hall.

William stood in the doorway of your bedroom, his shoulders finally relaxing as his eyes landed on you. A slow, almost shy smile curled on his face. His chest lifted with a quiet sigh, the kind that came from arriving somewhere sacred.

Home.

Not just the apartment. You.

The weight of being away, of hotel rooms and locker rooms and noise, fell from his body all at once. You were here. Sleeping soundly. Safe. Still wrapped in that navy-blue throw blanket he always teased you about — the one that barely covered your legs but that you insisted on using anyway.

He stepped forward quietly, careful with each footfall. But when he caught sight of something on the floor, he paused and looked down. Your glasses. Just sitting there at the edge of the rug, slightly askew. He bent down to pick them up, brushing his thumb over the arm of the frame with a soft exhale.

You only ever left them like that when you’d been up studying for hours. He hated when you pushed yourself that hard. Always said, “My beautiful girl needs her beauty rest,” in that quiet, scolding way he saved just for you — all wrapped in love and worry. It always made you roll your eyes and smile. But he meant it. Every time.

He placed the glasses gently on the nightstand next to your side of the bed, next to the lamp you’d probably forgotten to turn off before you passed out. His eyes drifted back to you, to the curve of your cheek half-buried in the pillow. Your skin glowed in the low light. Your lips were parted just slightly. He crouched beside the bed, leaned in slowly, and kissed your forehead so gently he barely touched you at all. You didn’t stir. Didn’t even twitch. Just kept sleeping — warm and safe and deep.

God, he missed you.

Quietly, he made his way into the bathroom, pulling his clothes off as he went. The sound of the water echoed softly behind the door as he stepped into the shower. It was his ritual — he always washed the day off of him before climbing into bed with you. He couldn’t rest unless you were the last thing his skin touched.

The hot stream hit his back and shoulders, and he let his head fall forward with a low groan. He was sore — not just from the match but from sleeping without you, being without you. He reached for the bottle of your soap, the one with the soft lavender and almond scent you always used when you needed to feel calm. He popped the cap open and brought it to his nose, eyes fluttering shut.

God, you.

Even your soap made his chest ache with longing.

He took his time rinsing, running his hands over his face, his chest, his arms, letting every thought of the outside world fade. When he stepped out, he towel-dried quietly and rubbed lotion into his skin, moving slower than usual. He was tired. But nothing — nothing — could keep him from sliding into bed with you.

He lifted the sheets and slipped beneath them carefully, his body molding instinctively to yours. He reached for you like muscle memory, like gravity pulling him in. His arm curved around your waist, pulling you just slightly back into his chest. His hand splayed gently across your stomach, his fingers brushing soft, absentminded circles into your skin.

He tried to be careful. Tried not to wake you.

He failed.

Your body tensed in the slightest way, then melted as your senses caught up to his scent. You inhaled softly, deeply. That smell — clean, warm skin and fresh soap, the edge of cologne still clinging faintly to him. You didn’t even have to open your eyes.

“Will…?” you murmured, voice soft and warm with sleep. “Hi, baby.”

You shifted onto your other side so you could see him, still half-asleep, still fuzzy around the edges. Your leg slid between his, finding that familiar groove. Your hand came up to rest gently on his face, thumb brushing his cheek.

He smiled down at you, touching your face in return. “Sleep, mon cœur. We’ll talk in the morning. I make you breakfast, okay?”

You pressed your face into his chest, breathing him in like he was oxygen. “I missed you,” you whispered.

His arm tightened around you slightly, his fingers slipping into your hair. “I miss you too, bébé. So much.”

And just like that, you were sinking into him, into the safety of his bare chest, his warmth wrapping around you. His heart beat slow and steady beneath your ear. But the comfort was quickly accompanied by something else. Something hotter. Heavier.

The dream.

That dream — the one that had haunted your body since the moment he left — came rushing back, fast and vivid. The feel of him above you. Inside you. The stretch. The moans. The French.

Your hips moved before you realized what you were doing. The tiniest grind against the muscle of his thigh. Slow. Barely-there. Just enough to soothe the ache blooming low in your belly. You didn’t think he’d feel it.

But he did.

“Y/N?” His voice was quiet, curious. “You okay?”

You stilled. Caught. You chuckled softly into his chest, your cheeks warm.

“Yeah… I’m just— I, um. I had a dream.”

You felt his fingers pause in your hair. Then lift your chin gently so your eyes could meet his.

“I didn’t get to tell you because you left so early,” you murmured, your voice barely above the hush of breath between you. “I’ve been thinking about it…” The words trailed off, floating somewhere between hesitation and need.

You weren’t ashamed — not even a little. But you could feel the weight of his body beside yours, the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was tired. You knew that. You knew his schedule, the way his body gave everything to the pitch. You also knew how he loved — fully, without complaint — and you didn’t want to take advantage of that love. Not now. Not just because you were aching.

But he was right here. Finally. Right under you, right within reach, and your body was already humming, remembering.

“You can tell me,” William said softly, his voice threaded with quiet certainty. “I will do it.”

He was always like that. Always ready to give — not out of obligation, but because it brought him joy to please you. No matter how long the day had been, how sore his legs were, how heavy his spirit felt. Tired, hurt, sad, happy, anxious — it didn’t matter. Your feelings always came first. If you needed him, he was yours. Entirely. Every time.

He would do anything for you.

“I know, Wilo. But it’s okay, baby,” you said gently, pressing your hand to his chest as if to ground yourself. “We’re both so tired. I can wait until the morning. Really, it’s okay.”

You meant it, even as your voice cracked just a little. You hated the idea of asking for too much. You loved him too much to let your need come at his expense. You wanted him, yes — God, you wanted him — but you didn’t want him sleep-deprived, worn down, trying to pour from a cup you wouldn’t let refill.

But his response was immediate.

“Non” he whispered, shaking his head. “Bébé, Ça va. I do it for you. Anything. I will do it.”

Before you could reply, before you could stop him, he moved — gently, reverently — and flipped you onto your back. His body slid over yours, settling against you like he’d done this in his own dreams too. One hand found your waist, grounding you. The other pressed into the mattress beside your head, holding his weight like it had in your vision.

Just like the dream.

He looked down at you, eyes locked on yours. Deep. Intentional. Like nothing else in the world existed but this.

You swallowed hard, heartbeat pounding beneath your ribs.

And he didn’t say another word.

He didn’t need to.

Your heart swelled at his words, at the reverence in his touch. At the way he held you like you were precious. Like this moment was sacred. You couldn’t ask for anything more—nothing better than a man who met your desire with tenderness and a promise, every time.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your voice a sigh wrapped in awe, “I love you.”

Your hands cradled his face as you pulled him into a kiss—sleepy and slow, warm as dawn creeping through closed blinds. He melted into it, his lips pressing to yours with that same drowsy devotion, one hand sweeping down to cradle your hip as if to say, I’m here. I’m yours.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered against your lips, his voice like velvet. Like breath in your lungs. Like the dream.

You exhaled shakily, eyelids fluttering. “Just—” you inhaled again, trying to center yourself in the thick, molten gravity of it all. “Just like this. Mmmm…”

You were already gone.

And soaking.

You’d been wet since the shower. Since the steam and heat and your own thoughts betrayed you. Since his scent curled through the sheets the moment he stepped into the room. Every part of you ached for him—your body, your mind, and most of all, your heart. You didn’t want to just feel him. You wanted to be with him. Skin to skin. Soul to soul. You wanted to be heart to heart while he made love to you.

His lips found your neck then, soft and wet, trailing kisses down the side until he reached that tender space under your chin. He licked slow circles there, kissed around it like you were sugar under his tongue, and then dipped back to your collarbone.

You whimpered.

Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, anchoring him there, where you needed him most. He adjusted to you in the dark, lining your bodies up until the thick ridge of his clothed length pressed flush against your bare center.

You gasped.

A low, drawn-out moan left both your mouths at once. That simple grind—him in boxers, you in nothing but one of his oversized tees—was enough to make you shiver. Your hands slid into his curls and pulled gently. Your hips rolled up to meet his, desperate for friction, for him. He pressed down harder. Slower. The tension coiled.

This—this was what your dreams were made of. Literally.

He reached down between you and slipped his fingers through your folds, slow and slick. He moaned, audibly, like it was him being touched.

He muttered, reverent. “So wet. So ready for me.”

You shook your head. Yes. You were. You had been. Since the night the dream burned itself into your brain like a brand. Every beat of your heart since then had whispered I need him. I need him now.

He sat back just enough to tug his boxers down, freeing himself with a quiet urgency. The heat of him met the wet of you in one slow, teasing drag—his tip sliding through your slick folds, parting you, nudging your clit before gliding lower again.

“Ugh,” you moaned, spine arching.

“Mmmm,” he groaned in unison, both of you trembling at the sound of how wet you were—obscene, like a mop dropped on a tile floor, soaked to the edge.

“Please,” you whispered, grabbing his face, pulling his gaze to yours. Your voice shook, threaded with need. “Please, Will.”

He melted. Every time you begged—even softly, even sweetly—he unraveled. Not because you needed to beg. Never that. But because it meant you wanted him. Really wanted him. And there was no greater honor than that.

He lined himself up.

And pushed the tip in—slow.

Then pulled out.

Then in again, deeper. The middle of him now. Still slow. Still deliberate.

Then out.

Then three-quarters of the way in.

Then out.

Until finally—finally—he sank into you fully, hips flush against yours, his breath caught in his throat.

You clung to him. Back arching. Lips parting.

Everything about it was slow. And soft. And so unbearably good.

And in that moment, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

He began to move inside you slow and sweet, like he had all the time in the world to love you properly. Each stroke was languid, his hips rolling in a rhythm that felt more like music than motion—low, sensual, deliberate, as if your bodies were swaying together underwater. He kept his forehead pressed gently to yours, your skin dewy from the heat rising between you, both your eyes shut like it was too sacred a moment to look at directly. Like you had to feel it all to truly believe it was real.

His breath slipped across your lips, warm and uneven. His moans didn’t come from his throat—they came from deep inside his chest, soft and broken like prayers. You could feel them tremble in your own body. And you caught them in your mouth, kissing him with the same fragile energy, like if either of you moved too quickly, the moment might evaporate.

Just like the dream. But better—because he was here, real and warm and holding you like he never wanted to stop.

Your fingers curled around his face, thumbs brushing softly along the curve of his jaw. You wanted to keep him close, to ground yourself in the reality of him—his weight above you, his scent of soap and warmth, the slight dampness of his curls brushing your forehead. Your back arched naturally, body seeking more of him, and his chest slid over yours with perfect, tender pressure. Every part of you was touching—skin to skin, heart to heart.

And the way he moved…

His hips rolled slow and deep, like the tide. He wasn’t just thrusting—he was grinding, dragging himself against every aching inch inside you with such delicious, devastating care. It was intimate. It was consuming. It was love made into movement.

You could feel everything—every twitch of his body, every stretch of your own, every little shift of heat and slickness between you. It was so different from how you usually fucked. Usually there was more grit. More grip. Hands on your throat, filth in your ear, his pace fast and hard like he wanted to fuck you into the mattress.

But this…

Sensual. Soft. Sweet. Yearning.

This was soft rain drizzling into a calm river lined with willow trees. This was silk slipping across warm skin. This was a whisper in the dark.

“Does this feel good, mon cœur?” he asked, voice ragged, nearly inaudible, his lips brushing yours with every word. His hand tightened around your thigh like he was holding on for dear life.

Your answer was breathless, almost desperate. “Ugh—yes, baby. Yes…yes…”

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was tasting every part of your mouth. His hand slid up to your breast, fingers spreading softly before he gave it a gentle squeeze, and your whole body clenched around him in response. The feeling of his thumb brushing your nipple, the stretch of him deep inside you, the sheer intimacy of it all—it was overwhelming. You moaned, soft and broken.

And he felt it. “Putain… Y/N…” he groaned, voice breaking as his own pleasure deepened. His thrusts slowed even more, hips rocking into you with aching precision. He wasn’t chasing an orgasm—he was worshipping you. Feeling every flutter, every squeeze, every pulse of your body welcoming him in.

Your legs began to tremble. The heat coiled low in your stomach, tighter and tighter with each slow stroke. You could barely keep still—your hips rose to meet his, the wet slap of skin against skin growing louder with every motion. You were soaked, more than you’d ever been. You could hear how wet you were—your arousal squelching obscenely with every slow grind of his hips. You whimpered into his mouth.

“I’m so close,” you whispered. “Please, baby—don’t stop. Just like that…”

You clung to him, your thighs locking around his waist as your orgasm approached. Your nails dragged softly down his back, and he groaned at the sensation. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. His body answered for him. His pace stayed steady, that same sensual rhythm, even as his own breath hitched and stuttered.

Your release hit hard.

It rolled through you like a wave crashing against rock, tearing a cry from your throat as your body shook beneath him. You clenched around him hard, again and again, and he moaned raggedly into your mouth. You could feel his rhythm falter just barely, his hips grinding deeper.

And then he was there with you.

You felt his whole body tense above you—his arms trembling, his stomach flexing against yours, his legs beginning to shake. He let out a long, low groan and you could feel him pulse inside you, the warmth of his release flooding you in slow spurts. Your name left his mouth like a confession, broken and reverent.

The world went quiet after that.

Your bodies stilled, locked together, breath slowing in perfect sync. He collapsed into you carefully, pressing soft kisses to your cheek, your collarbone, the corner of your mouth. You could feel his heart beating against yours, fast and unsteady, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

And he stayed inside you.

Neither of you moved. He just held you there, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other brushing his fingertips gently along your spine. He whispered something in French against your hair, something tender and quiet that only the two of you were meant to understand.

Your eyelids fluttered closed again, exhaustion pulling you under. His warmth, his weight, the soft stickiness between your thighs—it was all so comforting. You felt full. Safe. Loved.

And he stayed awake just a little longer, holding you like a promise.

He needed to feel you this close. Needed to stay connected in every possible way. He didn’t want to let you go. Not now. Not ever.

He looked down at your sleeping face, kissed the tip of your nose, and whispered, “Je t’aime.”

His precious girl. His angel. His home.

His moon, his stars, his sun.

“why are you looking at me like that?”

you leaned a little closer. “you’re pretty.”

“thank you.”

“very pretty.”

“thank you.”

“especially your nose.”

“again?” he sighed.

“it’s adorable.”

“it’s just a nose.”

“no.”

you gently cupped his face and softly brushed your thumb over the bridge of his nose as he rolled his eyes.

“you’re weird.”

“and proud to be.”

without another word, you leaned forward and placed the gentlest kiss right on the tip of his nose.

it lasted barely a second, but it was enough for his nose to turn pink.

“oh my god,” you giggled. “already?”

“yeah.”

“that’s the cutest thing i’ve ever seen.”

“you’re staring.”

“because you’re adorable.”

“this is embarrassing,” he laughed under his breath.

“for you.”

“yes.”

“for me it’s the best day of my life,” you smiled even wider.

“you’re exaggerating,” he groaned.

“am i?”

“yes.”

“look at it,” you laughed softly, a little mocking.

“it's my nose, i can't.”

“but it’s so cute, even if it disappears quickly.”

he shook his head. “it’s because you kissed it.”

“exactly.”

“my nose always does that.”

“i know,” you leaned closer again. “and that’s why i keep kissing it.”

his eyes widened. “don’t you dare.”

but it was too late, you kissed the tip of his nose once more. you waited and slowly, the pink color deepened again.

“it happened again,” you smiled.

“you’re evil.”

“i’m just very attached to your nose,” you gently bumped your nose against his as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer while you stole one last kiss.

“honey...”

“yeah?”

he sighed, his nose turning pink again and that only made you love it even more.