▄▀▄▀▄ lily ▄▀▄▀▄

Isack Hadjar has grown used to many bizarre things. Being recognized on the street, waking up and appearing in Twitter controversies, having childhood friends sending him thirst trap edits of himself. Ever since he started out on Twitch in the early months of the pandemic, it’s become his new reality. A steady drumbeat of everyday existence.

He didn’t expect that the one thing to catch him off-guard would be meeting with his online friends in real life.

“I think Isack should take us on a tour of Paris after TwitchCon,” Franco says, stretching his arms over his head with a quiet groan.

The five of you sit on whatever chairs and chaises you’ve managed to scrounge together from the Airbnb you’ve rented together. The second monitor of the stream scrolls by with a flurry of rapid-fire messages from the chat.

Isack isn’t exactly sure what time it is—all he knows is that it’s late, and timezones apparently don’t mean shit, because he’s still staying up and awake at some ungodly hours even when they’re all in France.

Arvid, Doriane and Kimi have each long since left to sleep in their bedrooms—a smarter choice. Though from the way Ollie’s eyes are starting to droop, Isack would be willing to bet that he’ll be the next one to duck out of the stream.

 “I’d be down for that,” you say, sitting next to Isack on the chaise lounge. “We could make a whole video out of it.” You lean closer to the second monitor, trying to catch any half-legible sentence from the chat. “A lot of people are here ‘cause of TwitchCon though,” you hum, thinking out loud. “Maybe it’s not the best idea—reckon we’d get recognized at every other place we visit.”

“Ellaaaa, la famosa,” Franco teases. It sparks a few responses in Spanish from the chat.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Gabi replies easily.

You roll your eyes, throwing a can you believe this guy? look at the camera. Isack matches your expression, leaning his head back. “Of course you wouldn’t,” he says.

“Olha só quem fala!” Gabriel exclaims, leaning up from his slouched position on his chair. At Isack’s raised brow, he repeats, “Look who’s talking, Mr. I’ve-done-like-ten-shirtless-streams.”

Isack’s cheeks turn pink. He hopes it’s at least somewhat hidden by the shitty illumination of the room. “It wasn’t ten times! It was, like, barely twice,” he defends, voice cracking at the end, which promptly earns a laugh from Franco. “And it was a subgoal, asshole.”

“I’ve had subgoals,” Gabriel deadpans, though the amused curl of his lip gives him away easily. “I’ve never been shirtless on stream.”

“Fuck you,” Isack says, with no real bite.

“Fuck me yourself, coward,” Gabi shoots back.

“Get a room you two, jeez,” you call out, holding back a laugh as you bite down the inside of your cheek. “And no one in chat’s complaining about Isack’s shirtless streams, by the way.” You tilt your head, typing something down that is obscured to the rest. “Maybe we should make it this stream’s subgoal.”

“If you want him to get naked just say so,” Franco quips, which earns him a swift smack with one of the cushions. Gabi watches Franco topple back from his chair and cackles loudly—which quickly pries the attention away from you.

“É, você devia ter previsto isso,” Gabi tells Franco in a mocking tone. Franco flips him off from his spot sprawled against the floor.

Isack glances at the chat, unsurprised by the comments he manages to catch. 

hadjarfan theyre both blushing AGAIN fork found in kitchen francosqt he should invite her to the next subgoal stream  ynlove francosqt lmao they are not surviving that bearmanfan pool stream w all of them WHO SAID THAT borboletobortoleto franco said CLOCK ITT idestroyedzecar HES SOOO BLUSHING 

He averts his eyes just as quickly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he clenches and unclenches his hands uneasily. His face still feels embarrassingly hot.

Ollie yawns, unusually quiet for a group stream. “I reckon if we’re gonna be taking a tour around Paris we should know at least a little French.” He shrugs, ignoring Franco and Gabi bickering off by his side. “We can’t rely on Isack and Dori for everything.”

“Fair,” you say, nudging your knee against Isack’s. You tilt your head towards him, lips curved up into a smile. “Are you up to teaching us a little French?”

Isack feels keenly aware of your knee against his—frustratingly so. Still, he can feel his lips mirroring your smile before he can help himself. 

He hums, a low sound at the back of his throat. “I would consider it.”

“Yeah, teach us French, Hadjar,” Franco says, straightening his chair and taking a seat. There’s something about his tone that feels pointedly dragged, like he’s making fun of him. He rolls his eyes.

“C’mon. Say something in French,” Gabriel adds.

Isack scoffs. “That is such a bad—like, what would I even say?”

You nudge his leg again, and his eyes are already on you before he can help it. “Say something to me,” you say, and he wonders whether the microphone even manages to pick it up. “I like hearing you speaking it.”

Well. He’s definitely blushing now.

“Ah, I…” He clears his throat. Considers it for a beat, then shakes his head before he can convince himself otherwise. “Je passe un moment vraiment incroyable depuis que vous êtes arrivés,” he starts, words smooth and well-rounded, “C’était trop beau de t’avoir—de vous avoir ici.” As soon as he stumbles, Isack bites down his tongue and cuts himself off before he can ramble and give himself away.

He looks back to find all four of you staring at him. Blinking slowly. 

“Was that attractive or what?” Franco asks. Isack’s eyes widen unexpectedly. “Decímelo al oído y soy todo tuyo,” he says, earning a laugh and a shove from Gabriel.

You tilt your head at the boy sitting alongside you. “What did you say?”

Ollie shrugs with another yawn, ready to end the stream. He sighs tiredly. “He said he wants to eat your face.”

“I did not!” Isack sputters. “I did not say that,” he says, his voice bleeding with more panic than he would’ve liked. “I didn’t,” he repeats helplessly.

But Franco and Gabi are cackling like hyenas now, the former nearly slipping from his chair again. 

His ears feel burning hot now, and in an effort to avoid your gaze, he catches a glimpse of the chat once again.

kimitagliatelle CRYING isacklewisfan as a french person i can confirm isack wants to eat her face yep arvidlawson i was gonna go to sleep but my show is on!!!!!! gabibubbles isackyn? in this economy???? francopintacola ollie is their number shipper istg  doripocketrocket u dont have to be french to know that he wants her BADDD unfortunatelyyn not to be parasocial but the way she looks at him thoughhhhh

He should’ve gone to sleep and avoided all this. ‘All this’ of course, being his supposed friends.

“You can find your way around Paris yourselves,” Isack says, earning a combination of amused looks and pouts from the room. “I’m not showing you shit.”

It’s still late at night—or early in the morning, depending on who you’re asking—when the group decides to end the stream and get some rest. Ollie disappears at some point before the stream truly devolves into chaos, leaving just you, Gabriel, Franco, and Isack.

It’s around four in the morning when Franco suggests doing a drinking game before going to bed, though the cabinet filled to the brim with beer, wine, gin and vodka seems far too convenient to be a spur of the moment idea.

“Verdad o reto. What is that in English? Truth or… challenge. Or something,” Franco says distractedly, trying to open the bottle of gin with a bit of a struggle.

“Truth or dare?” you supply.

“Yeah. But you drink instead. So, y’know. Truth or drink.”

It’s how the four of you wind up inside Gabi’s room, sprawled between the floor and the foot of his king-sized bed.

You spin one of the empty gin bottles. It lands squarely on Franco, who gives you a sideways grin from his spot on Gabriel’s bed. 

You drum your fingers against your knees, thinking. Franco rolls his eyes, curls muzzed against the navy bedspread. “Okay—Have you ever found another streamer from our circle attractive?” 

Franco huffs disappointedly. “That is so… like a livestream question. It’s late enough that you could ask me anything.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling. “So boring.”

“Answer the question, coward.”

“Easy.” Franco shrugs. “Antonelli.”

“Kimi?” Isack repeats, brows raised.

Franco twists his body around to look at Isack. “Don’t act so surprised. Es re lindo, boludo.” He waves his hand, like the choice is obvious. “We all know he is pretty. And Italian.” 

“I’m telling him you said that.”

Franco rolls his eyes again, unbothered by the thought. “Is it my turn now?” At the groups’ nods, Franco reaches out for the gin bottle and spins it. As soon as it lands back on you, his amused smile stretches into a grin. “Oh, finally.”

The Argentinian shares a brief look with Gabriel, and something uneasy curls in Isack’s gut. Because he’s grown all too familiar with those dumb-shit expressions on their faces.

Ever so casually, Franco props his chin against his open palm. “Be honest. Did you watch one of Isack’s shirtless streams?”

Isack watches as your face heats up, the tips of your ears reddened as your jaw goes completely slack. You reach across from you to slap Franco’s arm, who starts laughing. “Fuck you, I told you that in confidence!” 

“You should be glad I didn’t expose you on stream,” Franco says, finally capturing your wrist. “Thought about it, too.” 

“Asshole.”

Gabriel glances at Isack, amused smile spreading across his lips. Knowing.  “You have to answer or drink. Rules are rules,” Gabi says solemnly. “Though you’ve basically given it away, so…”

You hit Franco’s forearm one last time for good measure. Begrudgingly, you settle back into your spot, and this time Isack doesn’t miss you averting his eyes. He perks up at that, heart beating unsteadily inside his ribcage. 

“Yeah, fine, sue me,” you mutter, hiding your face behind your palm. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about!”

He blinks once. Twice. Watches as you stammer your way out of this hole you’ve dug for yourself. His throat feels dry when he swallows. “You—what?”

Because Isack is many things—a little loud, a little short-tempered, but he’s not an idiot. He did two shirtless streams—technically three if you count that pool one he was invited on. 

(They were all for charity, by the way! Not that anyone ever seems to remember that.)

He’s read the comments. Seen the edits. Scrolled through posts of him until late at night from his private spam account. He’s not been shy about doing sports. He’s mentioned it offhandedly during different streams; enjoying boxing, being a brown belt in judo. Then again, people in his line of work are not exactly known for being physically fit. 

It wasn’t a secret that he worked out. It still took his fans by surprise that he was quote, ‘reaaally fucking ripped’. And it’s not like he’s not aware of it—he knows he’s fit. He’s even been cocky about it in the locker rooms after last year’s Twitch charity football match. 

He just hadn’t considered the possibility that you’d been paying attention. That maybe you enjoyed watching.

You finally meet his gaze, and his heart flips and jumps inside his chest. 

Gabriel leans in. “Did you like what you saw?”

You stammer, shaking your head. “That’s two questions, Bortoleto.”

“Fine,” the Brazilian shrugs. He reaches for the bottle and, without spinning it, points it at you. “Did you like watching our dear, innocent friend Isack here get naked for money?”

“You’re making him sound like a whore, dumb shit.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Isack nudges the bottle away with his knee, shooting a glare at the two of them. “Stop it,” he says, accent thicker now with a combination of lack of sleep, alcohol and whatever the hell these two idiots think they’re pulling. “You’re being pushy.”

Franco groans. “No puede ser. Have you ever heard of wingmanning?”

But Isack simply glares at him, eyes narrowed. “Ça suffit. Enough.” Franco arches a brow in response, but raises his hands innocently.

“You’re no fun.”

There’s a loud knock at the door followed by Doriane opening the door with squinted eyes. All four of you peer at her as she rubs her hand over her face. “Si j’entends encore un seul cri dans cette pièce, je commets un crime,” she says, voice rough with sleep. “Allez au pieu, bordel.”

She closes the door behind her with an annoyed yawn. Franco tilts his head at the rest of you.

“Did you guys catch any of that?”

“Yeah,” Isack says, already on his feet. “Bedtime.”

It’s eleven in the morning when you wake up. Unsurprisingly, for a house full of streamers, you’re the only one awake—other than Arvid and Doriane, who have apparently gone out early.

Your head feels like lead—a French hangover, if you try to find the nonexistent silverlining. It gets worse when last night’s game debacle finally resurfaces in your head.

Fucking Colapinto. Fucking Bortoleto. You’re not trusting either of them ever again.

It was ages ago—a year, maybe more, when you went to Argentina for a week with Franco. It was a slip of tongue, a mistake. A horribly-timed edit of your mutual friend on your For You page, followed by a clumsy explanation from you. The jig was up, and Franco was endlessly amused.

“So, you think he’s hot,” he’d told you, and you hadn’t admitted it. Not verbally, but in every other way that mattered.

And here’s the thing: Isack is attractive. Objectively speaking. That’s a fact that sort of sneaked up on you somewhere along the line. You can’t pinpoint when, exactly—not when you’ve known him for over six years. Six years where, at some point, he went from an awkward teenager to… well.

You’ve seen the videos of him— or more like they’ve found you. Slow-motion frames that repeat over and over as you sink deeper into the covers of your bed, unable to look away. And when your job consists of being in front of a camera, none of your fans ever make it easier.

Somedays, it feels like Isack Hadjar is trying to ruin your life.

A door by the end of the hall creaks open, and the devil himself steps out. Curls mussed, eyes blinking slowly as he stretches his arms over his head.

His shirt rides up. Your hand gets burnt by your coffee mug.

“Shit!” you exclaim, yanking your hand away and accidentally spilling hot coffee over the counter. 

Isack’s still-sleepy eyes flit over to you with a start, straightening. He blinks once, twice, before he makes his way over to the counter.

“Sorry,” you say, embarrassed. Isack simply reaches for a dishcloth and wipes down the stain. “Did I startle you?”

He dodges your question with pinched brows. “Did you burn yourself?”

“No, I—” you trail off, clearing your throat. “I was just… I wasn’t paying attention. It’s fine.”

He nods, and you can already feel an awkward tension seeping in through the cracks. Wordlessly, Isack gently reaches for your wrist, and guides it under the steady stream of cold water.

He doesn’t let go. Not immediately, anyway. Not until you meet his gaze. You watch Isack’s throat bob before releasing your wrist. 

He clears his throat, folds his arms over his chest. “They were way out of—”

“So, about last night—”

The two of you stop at the same time, words catching in your throat. The corner of your lips pull up into a half-smile that Isack mirrors.

“Sorry. You go,” you say apologetically.

“They were out of line last night,” he starts. You turn off the tap and dry your hand with a washcloth. Something else to focus on. “Franco and Gabi, I mean. I am sorry if they made you feel...” he inhales, exhales, as if bracing for a crash. “You know. Awkward.”

You furrow your brows. “You are apologizing… for making me feel awkward?”

“Yes?” he says, hesitation dripping from his voice. “I know it was mostly them leading the charge and all but… I know it was about me. And it kinda feels like my fault that you got dragged into it.”

You blink at Isack. Frown. “What are you talking about?”

Isack swallows, staring back at you like he’s dreading spelling it out for you. “You know.”

“I really, really don’t,” you respond slowly. “I was gonna apologize to you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” you say, and you can feel warmth climbing up your face. “Because I told Franco something and he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”

Isack tilts his head, heart skipping a beat. “What did you tell him?”

You’re closer now than you were before. His knuckles nudge against your fingers on the counter. His breath catches in his throat.

A yawn comes from behind you. “That she thinks you’re hot.”

The two of you jolt apart, faces blushing furiously. Behind the counter in his pajamas is none other than Franco Colapinto. You throw the dirty washcloth at his face with murderous intent. 

“What is wrong with you?” you demand, your frustration a poor attempt at hiding your flustered state.

“You were talking in circles,” Franco says with a tired shrug. “Someone had to say something.”

“I despise you.”

“Whatever,” he yawns again. “You owe me.”

“I owe you?”

Franco arches a brow. Pointedly glances at Isack before turning back to you. Nudges his head towards him. “Yeah. Obviously.”

You stare at him, your disbelief momentarily outweighing your embarrassment as he takes his leave. You turn back to Isack, who is already looking at you with slightly parted lips and a pink blush on his cheeks. 

You suppose there’s no use denying it now.

“You think I’m—”

“Yeah,” you say, heart thudding in your ears like a drum. The corner of his lips curve upward. Your face feels unbearably hot. “Maybe. On occasion—”

The way Isack kisses you is quick—lasts a second, maybe less, but you feel it. The warmth of his mouth on yours. The electricity it shoots through your body.

“Sorry.” His pupils are blown wide, his lips slightly parted. You can’t help yourself. “I couldn’t—”

You tug him closer by his hand, swallowing his words as your lips meet his again. This time, it lasts longer. He can feel you smiling against him—you’re sure. His hand settles around your waist, unwilling to let you go now. 

Isack licks into your mouth, and the thought crosses your mind that he’s been doing this on purpose—driving you insane and pretending otherwise.

When you finally pull away, you do so reluctantly.

“So,” Isack starts, breathless.

“So,” you repeat, face flushed.

His palm settles along the side of your waist. He still looks flustered—the cocky smile playing on his lips does nothing to hide that. “So, you did like watching me shirtless, huh?” Isack hums, leaning closer to the shell of your ear. “Petite voyeuse.” 

Your words dry in your throat as you blink at him owlishly. A grin tugs at his mouth, amused. You’ve seen Isack being confident—at times overconfident—before. But something about the way he’s looking at you now makes your brain short-circuit.

You lean into him again, bringing his mouth to yours. You drag your teeth over his bottom lip before pulling away. Isack still chases your mouth, ever the overachiever. 

“Eager,” you murmur, and you can feel his heart pounding in his chest. It shoots a light, giddy feeling in your gut.

“Yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Very.”

You bury your face into his shoulder, biting down your smile. You don’t think then—not really. You reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

“C’mon,” you hum, and lead him down the hall to your room.

hadjarfan has gifted you 20 subs! where are y/n and isack?? feels like we haven’t seen them :(((

Kimi watches as the donation is read out loud on the stream, ignoring Ollie and Franco bickering behind him. The chat scrolls by with variations of the same question. He tilts his head.

“I… don’t know, actually,” he responds, apparently the only one paying attention to the stream anymore. He nudges Doriane. “Where are they?”

Gabriel snorts. “Oh, don’t worry about them, chat,” he says with a casual shrug and a devious smile. “They’re both right where they wanna be.”

oscar's nose nudged the inside of your thigh, his hot breath fanning across you as he took in the sight before him. this, right here, sprawled between your legs, was his favourite place to be. the feeling of your fingers lacing through his hair and giving it just enough of a tug to get him closer to you. which was nearly impossible.

his tongue was flat against you before you could say or do anything. a gargled moan later and he was kitten licking your exposed heat, the tip of his tongue dipping between the crevices as he stroked over your clit ever-so slightly. not enough for you to start shaking but enough for you to push his head further against you until the boy struggled to breathe.

and as soon as he heard the whines that fell from your lips he continued, faster this time, more fervently.

his mouth consumed every inch of you as spit started to dribble from the corner of his lips. the image of his face all fucked out, cheeks red and burning, was one you'd remember for the nights he was away. oscar could go to town on you if you'd let him, but right now he wanted to take his time. to taste you properly. to let you reach the heights of pleasure that you had been aching for all day because fucking hell he made you go crazy.

"you taste so good baby," his voice would be muffled against you, one hand prying your legs open a little further whilst the other dipped between his chin, his forefinger dangerously close to entering you as you arched your back off the sofa. his hair was a mess, your fingers pulling at every strand you could because your whole body pulsated with pleasure, "so so so good for me."