#aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

You’ve known Paddy Pimblett since before the Octagon, back in year 10 when he was just a lanky kid kicking rocks on the way to school, shaved head and braces on his teeth. Back then, he was all elbows and untied trainers, more noise than boy and wide smile. He got detention for swearing in the halls at school and made you laugh until your ribs locked up in the back of science class. He passed you notes that said stupid things like “wanna skip?” with a crudely drawn smiley face, and you always wrote back “obviously.”

He’s still just Paddy to you. Even when the fights started — the real ones in cages instead of behind the school bleachers — you were there. You watched the school boy you knew become someone people chanted for. Tall and glorious, brights lights glittering in his eyes, blood on his gloves, and victory in his teeth.

But with you, he never changed. When he sang songs and danced playful in the ring, you still saw that boy you watched climb trees and fail history tests and sneak snacks into the library.

He still called you after big wins, breathless and buzzing, like you were the only person who mattered. You’d say something simple and safe, full of pride — “Proud of you, you absolute legend!” — and when he’d reply, you could always hear the smile in his voice.

You never told him that your heart jumped every time he called. You certainly never asked if his did too. And you definitely don’t talk about the nights you stay up scrolling through clips of his post-fight interviews, or how you hold your breath when he takes a hit, or how your lips tremble until the referee lifts his arm high and mighty. You never ask him what he thinks of you, and he never asks if you’re watching.

You both know the answer.

You've never admitted you love and care for each other. Not in those words, anyway. You say it in other ways. In takeaway dinners dropped off after training. In voice notes sent at 2 a.m. when you’re both delirious, brains racing. In the way he touches you without thinking — your knee, your shoulder, a strand of your hair flicked gently aside.

But then he always pulls back.

And when he’s gone, Liverpool gets smaller.

You notice it on the days he’s training elsewhere or off doing media rounds. He still sends you pictures of his dinner and memes, and you send back long voice notes about how shit British weather is to make him feel more at home. Even then, the city feels quieter, and you stay in more than you should. You become reclusive, and yet, you never really said it aloud. How much you miss him.

You’ve thought more than once that maybe you’d both be happier if you just left and found somewhere quieter, smaller. Somewhere no one expects Paddy to be. Somewhere he doesn’t have to smile when he’s tired, or talk when he wants silence.

You imagine a flat with two mugs in the sink and your jackets tangled on the same hook. Your shoes piled at the doorway together, your pillows next to each other. You imagine waking up late, grocery shopping together on a Sunday, watching old movies with the curtains drawn.

“I ever tell you I hate how everyone stares?” he says once, while you’re both sitting on the steps outside his mum’s house, sharing a bag of crisps. It’s a cool autumn day, and you’re both sat watching the sunset bleed into darkness.

“Only about twenty times,” you reply, passing him the bag. You shiver and rub your arms a bit before pulling your knees to your chest.

He looks at you then — soft, quiet. “D’you ever think about leaving?”

You lean against your knees, and from this angle, the milky reds and pinks of the sunset set his blue eyes ablaze. Your heart stutters.

“All the time,” you say. And after a pause, you nudge him with your shoe, “But I think I’d be real sad without you.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just nods and hands you the last crisp.

And that’s really what it’s about.

It’s about the way he leans into you when he’s laughing, the way his fingers unconsciously tap against your thigh when he’s driving you around places. The way he lets his head drop on your shoulder when he’s exhausted, the way he always gives you the last bite of a snack.

You’ve shared beds before — when traveling, when drinking, when you’ve stayed up so late talking there’s no ride shares. Always under the guise of friendship. Always, it’s too dark, it’s not safe to go home.

You remember one night in particular.

The press was loud with opinions after a match. They reported that Paddy’s fights were rigged, and he wasn’t as good as he was being made out to be. He wasn’t talking much, and you knew it had gotten under his skin.

You stayed with him in his hotel. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t push.

That night, you laid side by side on top of the covers, his arm brushing up against yours, the room wrapped in darkness and silence. You whispered something about hating fanboys. He laughed once, tired.

“I don’t care what they think,” he murmured, shuffling to turn on his side.

“Well, I care.” You crossed your arms and huffed, “I think they’re all braindead losers.”

He didn’t respond, but you could feel his gaze in the darkness. You had rolled over to face him, barely able to make out the outline of his face in the dark. Gently, you placed a hand in between the two you, “You’re the strongest person I know.”

And he reached for your hand, linking your fingers without thinking. You stayed like that until the sun crept through the curtains.

When you both woke in tangled limbs, neither of you mentioned it in the morning.

But you think about it all the time.

Especially nights like tonight.

He’s finally home from Miami. He’s a bit bruised and jet-lagged, but he’s buzzing and burning with leftover adrenaline. He is still insistent on celebrating when he lands. At some point, you drift away from each other. You’re dancing with your friends, swaying to the rhythm, the air hot and thick with perfume and sweat and alcohol.

Your eyes keep drifting back to him.

You hadn’t really had the opportunity to talk to each other. You both shared a large group of friends, and they had his attention first. You knew your turn would come, though.

Paddy stood near the bar, one arm resting on the counter, drink in hand, eyes steady with yours. His jaw was tight. Even from across the room, you could tell he was trying to look casual and cool, but the set of his broad shoulders told you everything. He was watching you like he couldn’t help it.

And maybe that was the reason your smile lingered longer than it should’ve. Maybe it was why you swayed your hips just a little more deliberately.

You were barely a few beats into the next song when a guy you didn’t recognize slid up beside you. Tall, with a backwards cap and a cologne that felt like lit napalm in your nose.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in. “You here alone?”

You gave him a polite smile, pushing your body closer to your oblivious friends. “Nah, I’m with friends!”

His eyes dipped lower than they should’ve. “That so? Didn’t see anyone next to you.”

You shifted away, but not too suddenly. No need to be rude. Still, your gaze flicked up, over the guy’s shoulder, and straight to Paddy.

He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t blinked.

You held his stare.

Even from across the club, you could feel it. Something that had been growing for too long fizzled in the air. You hadn’t seen him look at you like that before. It was hot and heavy, and it had you bothered.

His mouth was set in a firm line, eyes darker than usual.

The guy kept talking, but his voice faded beneath the beat. Something about grabbing a drink, or maybe heading outside. You barely heard it. You didn’t care.

“I’m good, thanks,” you said firmly, offering a quick smile before pushing through the crowd, leaving him behind. You headed straight over to Paddy.

He didn’t say anything when you reached him, just raised an eyebrow.

“Why’re you standing over here like you’re guarding something?” you teased, chest rising and falling from dancing. You grab him by the arms and shake him gently, “We’re supposed to be celebrating!”

Paddy smiled crooked at you. “Guardin’? You mean keepin’ an eye on you before one of them idiots tries anything stupid.”

It was probably the alcohol that made you bold enough to slide closer and say, “You’ve been watching me all night. Are you jealous?”

He didn’t answer — just let his eyes wander a little too long over your lips, your neck, the way your chest rose and fell from dancing. The weight of it made your stomach flip. You reach for him, fingers brushing his wrist. He flinches. You’re suddenly nervous.

“Have I done something?” you ask quietly.

“No,” he says too quickly. “You’ve never done anything wrong.”

Later, when the group spills out into the street, a brisk downfall of rain starts, sharp and sudden. You yelp and throw your arms over your head, laughing giddy at the cool relief. Paddy shrugs off his jacket before you can even complain, swinging it over your head. It’s warm from his body, and it smells like him. He pulls you forward, clasping you in the jacket with his hands. You blink up at him in surprise.

He’s grinning, a little smug. “Didn’t want you soaked to the bone.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are hot.

By the time you get back to his flat, your legs are soaked and you’re shivering. He disappears for a second and comes back with a hoodie — oversized and soft.

“Here,” he says, avoiding your gaze, tossing it at you gently. “Get warm.”

You change in the spare bathroom, trying not to overthink it, stay casual and calm. When you finally step into his bedroom, barefoot and swallowed by his hoodie, he’s already in the main bathroom.

You crawl onto his bed. It smells like him too. You curl into the pillows, scrolling your phone, waiting for him so you can pick a movie like you always do. But this night doesn’t feel like always. Your skin is still buzzing from the way he looked at you earlier. From the heat of his hands brushing your waist when he gave you the jacket. From the way his eyes dropped to your lips and —

Paddy walks out of the bathroom in low-slung joggers, a towel around his neck, hair wet and curling. His eyes find you and suddenly you’re embarrassed at how you’re a little too comfortable in his bed and his clothes.

He freezes for a second, like he’s seeing you for the first time and all at once. It’s never been like this before.

You tuck your knees into his hoodie. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares for another beat.

“Patrick,” and you never use his full name, “what is wrong? You’ve been all weird and distant, and I don’t know if I’ve done something or —”

But then he walks toward you slowly, towel dropping from his neck to the floor, hands dragging through his hair like he’s trying to shake something off. He stops at the edge of the bed.

“I’ve been trying to ignore this,” he starts, quiet and keeping his distance.

You crawl closer to the edge of the bed. You feel like a child, desperate for his attention and guidance. “Ignore what?”

“You.” His voice is hoarse.

You blink, heart hammering. You open your mouth, but he’s already leaning in, eyes locked on yours, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

He reaches out and grips your hoodie, lifting you up to your knees. He presses his forehead into yours, and you sit there briefly, just staring at each other. Neither of you say anything for a beat, content to listen to your breathing sync. And then, “You can touch me, Paddy. I don’t bite.”

He smothers his lips along your neck, down to your shoulder, teeth nipping against the skin. He’s quiet for a moment as his hands slide under your thighs. Then he says, “Don’t go back home.”

You pull him down to the bed so that he’s hovering above you. “I’d never leave you.”

He breathes through his nose and grips the nape of your neck closer, licking into your mouth, hand sweeping against your ribcage, pushing the hoodie up and over. It sparks a hot feeling down in you, quick and liquid fire.

You don’t have the chance to be timid when you’re both undressed because he is crashing his lips back to yours. He is not careful or slow. It’s years of longing and frustration and everything unspoken burning hot to the surface. He kisses like he fights — fierce and focused.

He settles himself over you, pinning you down with his weight and trapping you against the bed. Your kisses become more urgent, and you wrap your legs and arms around him. You hope you never get over the feeling of skin against skin, because it feels so good every time he touches you. You just want to be consumed by the heat of your bodies pressed tight together. You fit so well into him, and it spreads that molten heat further into your body.

Eventually, his hand finds its way between the warmth of your thighs, fingers lightly dancing around your clit and entrance. A shockwave of pleasure rolls through you as he thumbs at your clit. His rough fingers spread your folds and dip to press in without warning. He slips two fingers into the knuckle, slowly pulling out to push back in, rhythmic and playful. Your breathing is shallow already, but when you look down at his fingers slowly pumping in and out of you, a broken sound escapes your throat.

When he presses his erection hard against your thigh, you can feel how heavy and thick it is. You throw your head back, bucking into his hand, eager and hungry.

“I’m going to fuck you tonight,” he promises, whispering huskily against your throat.

You shudder at the words, sharply breathing in.

He quickens his pace, fucking his fingers into you. His other hand rests on the trembling plane of your stomach, pushing down as his fingers hook up and glide roughly. A bundle of nerves tightens and flexes in your stomach. You’re near-sobbing, writhing and whimpering and drawn tight. You bury your hands into his hair, huffing shakily into the air between the two of you. His fingers curl against that bundle of nerves again, shooting electricity up your spine. You hold your breath, stars dancing underneath your eyelids. You instinctively spread your legs wider, trying to take his fingers in deeper.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Spread your legs for me, just like that, pretty girl.” 

You grip at his shoulders, squirming, “Paddy, please.”

He kisses a trail up your neck, “Please what?”

You writhe under him, needy and dripping into the sheets, “Please, Paddy, please fuck me!”

Before you can process what’s happening, he’s pushing his cock inside, slow and steady, inch by inch, and god, he fills you just right. He praises you with his lips, pressing kisses against your face as he forces you open, stretching you open. You screw your eyes shut, gasping out as the air is pushed out of you. You pull him down by his hair, curling your body up and off the mattress into his chest. His body covers yours so easily, and it feels so right to be there. 

“Open your eyes,” he demands, “I want to watch you.”

He wants you to see him, to know who was fucking you and claiming you. When he shifts his hands to your hips to yank you down into the thrusts, you roll your hips down with a needy whimper. He thrusts hard right up into you, and you cry out, digging your fingers into his shoulders.

“Baby,” he says, body covering yours again, pressing sloppy kisses on your collarbone, “so good for me.”

He grabs you by the chin, kissing you forcefully. He raises your hips up off the bed, tilting them so that he’s deep inside of you, right where you want him to be. Where you’ve wanted him for so long.

You clench and quiver around him, and his thrusts speed up, brutal and punishing. He fucks you into the mattress, hammering into the spot that makes you feel ready to fall apart with pleasure.

You shudder and shake against him, clinging onto his back for stability as you finish hard with a bright, keening sound. The bundle of nerves in your core unravels and explodes, igniting your nerves. You feel him everywhere, shaking numb with pleasure. You clench hard around him in waves of sensation, milking his cock. He goes to pull out, but you lock your ankles around him.

“Cum in me,” you beg between kisses, “I want you to fuck it into me.”

Paddy groans low in his throat as his body shudders, and he’s coming with a growl, spilling his seed deep inside, pushing it deep into you with solid, sure thrusts. He collapses on top of you, blanketing you with his body. You close your eyes, trying to catch your breath. You can feel him twitch inside of you, his forehead pressed to your cheek, both of you slick with sweat.

“Hey,” he pulls you closer to him. You turn your cheek against his arm, peering up at him through wet eyelashes. “Are you - are you okay?”

You realize you’re shaking, skin vibrating and flush. You have no idea what to say, except, “I’m pretty sure I love you.”

He blinks, slowly, shocked. “Do you?”

You feel vulnerable and soft and small. “It scares me. Saying that.”