#mbappe x reader

lamine yamal (birthday boy!)

you had taken lamine and his immediate family out to dinner for his birthday. lamine was always the sweetest and most loving boyfriend to you, you had zero complaints other than the amount of time he’d spend on football.

you surprised him with a fancy restaurant that he’d been wanting to try for at least a year now, but never did because he said it was too much money. kenye was ecstatic and his parents were surprised, but not too surprised since they know how much you love him.

the waiter came by to ask for drinks, you made sure to give lamine a certain look when you told the waiter you wanted water. you noticed his mother looked over and squinted her eyes slightly, but didn’t say anything just yet.

“so, how have you two been, with the whole moving in situation?” lamine’s mother asked as the waiter made his way out.

you look over to lamine, pretending you need his permission to speak, he gives you a confused nod and you take that as a green light, “it’s been good, still needs decorating though.”

she nods suspiciously and his dad steps in, “and with his football schedule?” he asks.

lamine talks this time, “she’s been enjoying it, more time to herself with me annoying her,” he jokes, winking at you, you give a short laugh and nod.

the waiter finally made his way back and asked for our orders, you waited until everyone took theirs to do your prank. you bit your lip and looked over to lamine nervously.

“am i allowed to get the pasta this time?” you ask with pleading eyes.

lamine’s face immediately dropped and turned white, the waiter paused, and his mother immediately spoke, “lamine yamal nasraoui ebana.” she said in a stern voice.

“get whatever you want honey,” she smiled at you, “get her the pasta, thank you.” she told the waiter as he nodded and left again.

“lamine what is wrong with you?” she said, furrowing her eyebrows.

his dad spoke up, “that is not the way you treat your woman, son.” he shook his head no, disappointed.

“what!? i don’t know what she’s talking about!” he defended himself, looking at you in shock.

“you told me to lay off a few pounds the other week.” you mumbled.

he almost laughed, “what? you’re out of your mind.”

lamine’s father stood up and started to walk towards the other side where you two were sitting, you immediately waved your hands close to your chest.

“no, no, it’s just a prank!” you said nervously, “i’m sorry.”

his mom let out a grateful sigh, “you scared me!” she said, putting her hand on her chest.

lamine put his hand on your thigh, “i’m eating half of your pasta.” he whispered.

-

kylian mbappe

kylian had invited you to have lunch with his team before he went off to training in madrid for a while, you obviously accepted, but you weren’t letting him go without pulling a prank on him.

your salad had arrived first, before everyone else’s meal and you poked at it for a few seconds. then, you quietly looked over at kylian.

“can i ask you something?” you spoke just loud enough for him to hear.

he looked up from his pasta that had just arrived, “yeah?”

you lowered your voice, “i don’t really want the salad anymore.”

he shrugged, “that’s okay.”

you looked toward the waiter walking past, “i kind of want the truffle pasta instead.”

he smiled, rubbing your lower back, “then order it.” he nodded towards the waiter.

you hesitated, “are you sure you’re okay with that?”

he instantly frowned, giving you a confused look, “why wouldn’t i be?”

you shifted in your seat, “because it’s a lot heavier than this.”

“and?” he said, this time patting your thigh, looking at his teammates, scared.

you looked down at your salad, “i know you’ve been trying to get me to eat a little cleaner.” you said, making sure it was loud enough for everyone to hear.

then, conversation around the table stopped, and vinícius slowly lowered his fork.

rodrygo looked directly at kylian. “bro?”

kylian looked around the table, and back at you, betrayed, “i have been trying to what!?”

you held in your laugh, “i just didn’t want you thinking i wasn’t listening.”

vinícius leaned back in his chair, “kylian.” he said, while giving him a dirty look, “she eats ‘clean’ enough, look at her.”

jude smiles at you, “why are you controlling what your girl eats, mate?”

“no, i’m not controlling what she eats!” kylian raised his voice slightly, pleading.

camavinga stared at him, “oh, so you’re just one of those ‘just have a salad’ guys?” he asked.

“absolutely not!” he said, laughing out of disbelief, “she’s lying to you all!”

rodrygo shook his head, “that’s awful, kylian.”

jude couldn’t stop smiling, sensing it wasn’t true, “mate, if this is true, you’re finished.”

“i promise on everything, i have never once told her what to eat.” he laughs, throwing up his hands.

you looked up at him, “so i can order the pasta?” you ask, finally laughing into his shoulder, lifting up your phone to show you were recording.

“now, i don’t know if you can.” he rolls his eyes and pats your head.

-

jude bellingham

the waiter smiled politely as he finished taking everyone’s food order. he looked around the table one last time before writing down the last few drinks.

“anything else?” he asked, tapping his pen on the notepad.

you looked at the menu again. your finger grazed absentmindedly against the list of drinks before you turned toward jude.

“i was thinking about getting one of those strawberry refreshers.” you spoke quietly.

he nodded without even looking up, “okay love.”

you hesitated, trying to make it believable, “are you sure?” you asked softly, “that it’s okay i mean.”

jude looked over at you, “yeah?” he answered, confused.

you glanced back at the waiter, “it’s got like sixty grams of sugar.” you pause for a second, and now his whole family is looking at you, “i know you’ve been telling me i should probably cut back a little.”

jude’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline, “i’ve been telling you what?” he asked.

you nod, closing your lips together, “i just wanted to check first.”

the waiter awkwardly lowered his pen, looking between you two.

denise slowly turned toward her son, “jude victor william.”

then this father closed the menu in his hands shut, “is there something you’d like to tell us?” he asked calmly.

“what!?” jude said, his eyes widening.

joke smirked, definitely aware of the prank you were pulling on him, “hold on, he leaned forward, “are you rationing her drinks?” he asked.

“no!” jude answered immediately, nodding his head left and right.

you bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling as you watched denise cross her arms.

“because i raised you to mind your own plate.” she said, raising her eyebrows and giving him a look.

mark nodded in agreement, “your mother doesn’t even tell me what i can order, let alone me telling her!”

jude looked between all three of them, “i have literally never told her she can’t drink anything!”

you looked down at the menu again, “so, the refresher’s okay then?” you asked quietly.

he stared at you, “baby, you can order whatever you want, whenever.” he laughs, “hell, you could order four of them.”

jobe couldn’t help but laugh, but he tried to play it off by looking away and wiping his face.

jude pointed at his younger brother, “he’s cracking,” he said, squinting his eyes at you.

“you’re supposed to be helping me!” you said in between your teeth while giving him a light kick under the table.

“i couldn’t help it! you should’ve seen his face.” jobe grinned, “best laugh i’ve had in a while.”

you finally picked up your phone from against your glass, “thank you.” you laughed.

jude saw the recording and closed his eyes shut, “i cannot believe my entire family thought i was policing your sugar intake.”

mark reached over and patted him on the shoulder, “i’ll be honest,” he said clearing his throat, “i was about thirty seconds away from having a private father-son conversation.”

jude’s face dropped and the whole table laughed, you clung onto his arm, giving him a couple pecks to make him feel better before whispering in his ear, “i’m sorry.”

-

l. yamal taglist: @massivepainterfan , @oharella , @piecredheart , @brune77e , @soobieewoobiee , @httpjoints , @cnrdfisher , @deadpool15 , @night-fury-kamila , @frvrisa , @ceziaa , @secretkittydreamland , @shakerhalfling8 , @rockurwurld , @oliseamorr , @amelieezx , @ni-k1ttie , @5ilentss <3

k. mbappe taglist: @dearshoyo , @deieia , @ni-k1ttie <3

ju. bellingham taglist: @luvrgrl-222 , @laneyrainy0 , @mmonkeh3000 , @mariaaaalm , @dianazyb , @strwayberrymilktea , @secretstvrn , @sourcandyfish , @rosyyyrube , @auroraeanne , @frankoceanistz , @norripley , @fr0ggieth1nk , @tangylemonade , @torturedshowgirldpt , @djovulating @musernameunicorn , @lanthem <3

he understands, in fact, he agrees wholeheartedly.

you're still in the middle of building the career you've worked so hard for. and kylian? every single moment is dedicated to football, the world cup especially. he holds the weight of finishing what he started in 2022— to finally bring the cup home.

so as much as kylian longs for one, love alone isn't enough to take care of a child. love isn't presence. that doesn't stop him from letting the thought settle in the back of his mind, a dream he knows will come true someday.

gently pinning your wrists above your head as he hovers over you, kylian decides to believe today is someday. the bedroom is filled with want, the adrenaline from scoring not one, but two goals, escapes his body in waves. you can feel it in the way his heart beats rapidly against you, fingers trembling as they rest on your hips.

"please, ky." you whisper, breathlessly. "c'mon, don't tease." he only nods. any other time, he'd have chuckled, dragging out the anticipation just to watch you get impatient. this time though, he can't wait either. the tip of his cock says it for him, twitching against your wet hole, fully hard and ready.

he lowers himself a little further, burying his face in the crook of your neck. a lingering kiss brushes against your jaw before he slowly sinks in. the sharp hitch in your breath doesn't escape him, and your warmth draws a quiet hiss from his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut for a fleeting moment.

he imagines a world where you aren’t on any birth control. the same situation, but charged with a important objective, keeping you full of his cum. oh, to be under the welcomed risk of a baby girl or boy— a girl, he hopes— where kylian can rock into you with no worries, slamming over and over until you cum around him, whimpering out praises as he fills you up.

it drives him insane.

"putain," he grits out. "i missed this— missed you, i always do." his hips move in and out, slow and tender, cock already stretching you out. it’s been too long. well, it's only been a week. "did you miss me too, bébé?" he murmurs. "dit moi."

"i missed you too, baby." your sweet words light something up in him instantly. you gasp out, wrapping your arms around his neck, kylian's restraint lost as the slow pace turns intense, rougher. every slam grows more urgent than the last, leaving you shaking beneath him as he ruins you.

"i'm close, mon amour," he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. he needs to know you're certain, that this is what you want too. it's never been about his child or your child. it's always been ours. to hear that you're ready, that you want this just as much as he does, is enough to make his heart race all over again.

"where do you want me—"

"don’t be ridiculous," you scoff, then crying out when the tip of his dick brushes against your cervix. "i—i want it inside, kylian. don’t— shit, pull out."

he groans so pathetically, it's embarrassing.

and god, he’d give you everything. he's always been wrapped around your finger after all. losing control right then and there, not wasting a second to let out every single drop for your greedy pussy to swallow. he pulls you in for a kiss as his cum spurts out, your lips moving against his as you clench around him, feeling the shocks from your orgasm.

"je t'aime," he whispers, like it came from the depths of his heart. "je t'aime," one kiss, "je t'aime," another kiss. he repeats himself between kisses, scattering them across your beautiful face before trailing down to your neck, collarbone, and the center of your chest.

your scrunched smile grows with each declaration of love. he can be so cheesy. "you're so silly," you giggle. he pulls back enough for your eyes to meet, a grin spreading effortlessly across his face.

"only for you."

kylian doesn't pull out, opting to stay inside of you, fucking his cum in deeper as his eyes soften. he'd rather let every responsibility outside the luxurious hotel room fade into nothing, happy to be wrapped around your walls and love.

once his head finally comes to rest against your chest, he lets out a quiet thank you to whatever scientist invented birth control... and another to you, for convincing him to stop wearing condoms.

it might not stick, but he can pretend.

just for now.

translated from french mon acour—my love tu m'as tellement manqué—i missed you so much alors… comment s'est passé le congrès—how did the conference go ma chérie, c'est si bon de te voir—my dear, is so good to see you et ta mère, elle va bien—and your mother, is she doing well?

The front door swung open.

You had heard the commotion in the hallway a few moments earlier, low voices, the shuffle of shoes on the tiled floor, the faint metallic clink of something heavy being shifted. Kylian’s schedule was etched in your mind after so many overlapping seasons: he should still be at Valdebebas for at least another hour, maybe longer if they were doing extras. The surprise dinner you’d planned, pasta slowly simmering, parmesan freshly grated, the kitchen warm and lived-in, had been timed with care. You weren’t here to disrupt his rhythm, this was simply a quiet gesture, the kind real couples carved out when lives pulled them in different directions.

“I swear, it’s just a tiny—”

His voice carried through the doorway first, familiar and laced with that trademark mix of exasperation and charm, mid-sentence as if continuing an argument that had started in the car or the elevator. Then the door swung fully open, and everything paused.

Kylian stood frozen just inside the apartment, one hand still on the door handle, training bag slung loosely over his shoulder. Behind him, Marc, the club physiotherapist, carried a hard black medical case, while Isabelle, his long-time player liaison who had been with him since the Saint-Germain days, hovered with her iPad and that perpetually composed expression. She was older, elegant, unfazed by football drama but deeply attuned to Kylian’s rhythms.

Your boyfriend blinked, surprise washing over his face so genuinely that your stomach did a small flip despite the immediate knot of worry forming.

“…Mon cœur?”

The words came out softer than the hallway debate, laced with disbelief and a spark of delight that cut through the fatigue etched beneath his eyes. His mouth curved into that boyish smile you knew so well, the one that reached all the way despite the subtle tension in his posture. You could already see it, the way he favored his right side ever so slightly even while standing still, the minor hitch that most people would miss but that sent a quiet thread of worry through your chest.

He wasn’t supposed to be home this early, not with company, not unless something had pulled him off the pitch.

A slow smile tugged at your lips despite the knot forming in your stomach. “Surprise,” you said lightly, setting the spoon down. “I got back this afternoon.”

Kylian’s whole face transformed. The corner of his mouth lifted into that trademark grin, the one that lit up stadiums and press conferences alike, before he let out a low, delighted laugh.

"Give me a second," Kylian said over his shoulder, he shrugged his windbreaker off as he stepped inside, tossing it onto the console table with the kind of accuracy that came from doing it every day, before giving Marc a small nod toward the apartment. "Close the door, will you?" Only then did he make his way toward the kitchen. His gait was almost normal, enough that most people wouldn't have thought twice about it, but every few steps his right leg hesitated just enough to betray him.

It wasn't dramatic, just a careful shift of weight, a fraction less push-off than usual, but you caught it immediately, long before he reached you.

“You made dinner?” His gaze flicked to the stove, then back to you, softening with something deeper than hunger. Without missing a beat, he glanced over his shoulder at Marc and Isabelle, voice dripping with playful theatrics. “Well… you two can leave now,” he announced, gesturing loosely with his free hand, the charm turned up to full Mbappé levels. “Clearly I’ve recovered. Private recovery session incoming.”

The line landed perfectly. Marc snorted, and Isabelle’s lips curved into a knowing smile, but she shook her head with fond exasperation. Your boyfriend caught your eye again, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, conspiratorial smile before giving you a quick wink as if the conversation behind him no longer mattered.

That single quip, tired as he was, mildly annoyed at the injury, yet instantly prioritizing you, felt exactly like the boy Isabelle used to taking care of in early Paris games: cheeky, affectionate, and completely unafraid to tease the people tasked with keeping him in one piece.

Isabelle sighed with the weary fondness of someone who had spent years losing the same argument. "One day," she said, "you're going to discover we're usually right." Kylian let out an incredulous laugh, looking to Marc for support only to find the physiotherapist already nodding in agreement. "Unbelievable," he muttered, earning another laugh from the pair. The easy banter gave you just enough time to step around the counter and greet them properly with a warm smile and a small wave. It wasn't until your attention returned to Kylian that the warmth in your expression quietly faltered.

You noticed the limp the moment he took those first careful steps forward. Subtle, but there, his right leg never quite accepting full weight, a minor hesitation that most fans scrolling highlight reels would never catch. Usually he’d push straight through something like this. The fact that he was home early, escorted by staff, sent a quiet ripple of worry through your chest.

“Kyky…”

He reached you in the kitchen, one hand finding your waist with easy familiarity while the other brushed dampness from the shower from his own forehead. The touch grounded everything, the faint scent of his shower gel mixing with garlic and tomatoes, the warm ambient light spilling across the countertops. His shoulders were still tight with the residue of training, but they eased a fraction as he drew you closer.

“I’m okay,” he murmured, forehead dipping toward yours. “Precautionary. Just a little adductor pull during acceleration work. Planted awkwardly, nothing dramatic.” The humor lingered in his voice, that signature lightness cutting through the fatigue. “I feel fantastic now, honestly, bebé.”

Isabelle draped her blazer over a nearby chair with efficient grace, the two staff inside the star's apartment slowly walking towards you and Mbappé, the familiriaty of colleagues being thrown in the Madrid night air as they got closer to where you both stood.

“We’ll give you two a proper hello,” she said, her tone carrying that maternal steadiness. “Treatment table’s still in the car. Ten minutes.” She shot Kylian a pointed look, no stairs, no heroic, but there was affection beneath it. Marc set the case down with a soft click, exchanging a quick glance with her before they slipped back out.

The door clicked shut.

The apartment felt smaller, softer, the professional “game face” melting away as Kylian’s shoulders dropped fully. He let out a slow breath against your hair, both arms wrapping around you now, holding you close in the quiet hum of the kitchen.

« Tu m’as tellement manqué, mon cœur… » The words were a low murmur against your skin, rich with quiet longing. His voice carried that familiar warmth, the one reserved only for these stolen pockets of normalcy.

You smiled, unable to help it, your hands sliding up his chest. “I’ve only been gone four days, Kyky.”

“I know.” A soft chuckle rumbled through him. “Still a tragedy.”

You laughed quietly, the sound mingling with the gentle simmer of the sauce on the stove and the distant hum of Madrid traffic filtering through the tall windows.

He leaned in then, kissing you slowly, unhurried, lingering just a second longer than usual, as though savoring the taste of home after days apart. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. One hand traced higher along your back while the other rubbed slow, absentminded circles against your waist, his touch warm and grounding amid the savory scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the kitchen.

« Alors… » he murmured, studying your face with that intent gaze, like he needed to memorize every detail to make up for lost time. « How was the congress? »

The question came so naturally it almost made you forget the subtle hitch in his step when he’d crossed the room. You told him about the long days, the endless speeches, the half the room pretending to follow the keynote graphs, and your own presentation that had gone better than expected. He listened with genuine interest, chuckling at the familiar absurdity of it all, his thumb still tracing gentle patterns on your hip.

“And you?” you asked gently, searching his expression.

Kylian's smile settled, the playfulness easing into something more honest. He shrugged one shoulder, still holding you close. “Normal session, acceleration work... The staff stopped me before I could push through.” He paused, reading the concern in your eyes. “I argued, of course, but they won this time.”

Your fingers drifted from his hair to the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the kitchen felt smaller, warmer, the golden light from the overhead fixtures casting soft shadows across the countertops, the faint steam rising from the pan behind you. “You came home early,” you said softly. “You never do that.”

“I know.” His voice was quieter now. Silence stretched comfortably between you, thick with years of learning each other’s truths beneath the public answers.

You searched his eyes carefully, the kind of attentive look that came from loving someone whose body was both his greatest gift and occasional adversary. He didn’t look away. He simply let you study him, tired, mildly annoyed at the interruption to his flow, frustrated with the minor betrayal of his adductor, but not scared, no hidden tension, no minimization that didn’t hold up.

Eventually, a small, amused smile tugged at his lips. « Bébé… » He brushed his thumb across your hip again, voice dropping softer. "Look at me."

“I am looking.”

“No. Look at me, not the injury.” His smile deepened, gentle and reassuring. “I’m okay. If I’d been stubborn and stayed on the pitch, Marc would’ve reminded me how stupid I was for the next month. I’d rather miss three days than three weeks.”

You held his gaze a moment longer, testing for any flicker. You found none, only the honest exhaustion of a man who had learned the hard way when to listen. Your shoulders relaxed, and he sensed it immediately, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead with quiet triumph. "See?"

“I hate when you’re reasonable,” you murmured, a smile playing on your lips.

“I know.” His eyes sparkled with that boyish mischief. “It’s very inconvenient. I can be unreasonable tomorrow if it helps.”

“You probably will.”

“Oh, definitely.”

The easy rhythm wrapped around you both like a blanket, the kind of domestic exchange that grounded everything beyond the headlines and stadium lights. For a moment, it was simply the two of you, your independent lives intersecting here in his kitchen, pasta sauce bubbling softly, his arms still around you as if he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

The apartment door opened again before the moment could stretch further. Marc stepped inside backwards, carrying the folded treatment table over one shoulder, while Isabelle followed with the portable ultrasound unit tucked neatly beneath her arm.

“There he is,” Marc announced dryly. “Patient of the year.”

“I’m literally standing,” Kylian replied, though he didn’t pull away from you, only loosening one arm while keeping the other securely at your waist.

“Exactly,” Isabelle said without missing a beat, her tone warm but firm. “And we’d like to keep it that way.” She set the ultrasound down with practiced efficiency, already glancing toward the living area as if mentally mapping the best spot for the table.

Kylian sighed dramatically, pressing one last quick kiss to your temple before glancing at you with a conspiratorial glint. “See?” he muttered under his breath. “Five minutes together and they’re already interrupting.”

“They’re keeping you employed,” you whispered back, lips twitching.

“I preferred your first answer,” he teased softly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that signature way that made the whole room feel lighter.

Isabelle’s gaze shifted to you, and her expression softened instantly into something genuinely maternal and affectionate. She crossed the kitchen with a few graceful steps, pulling you into a quick, warm hug that smelled faintly of her signature light perfume. “Ma chérie, it’s so good to see you,” she said in French, her voice rich with that familiar Parisian warmth. “You look lovely. The congress went well, I hope? What about your mother, is she alright?”

You returned the hug easily, smiling. The two of you had always gotten along, Isabelle had known Kylian long enough to treat you like family rather than just “the girlfriend,” offering quiet advice and gentle teasing in equal measure.

“It was productive. Long, but good to be back. Mom's doing great as well. Just complaining that I've been coming to Madrid more than Paris for the last few months.”

Marc offered a polite nod and a quick “Hello” from the edge of the kitchen, keeping a respectful distance. Kylian caught his eye and gave a small, approving nod, silently granting permission for him to move deeper into the apartment. Marc headed off toward the small gym room down the hall, the treatment table balanced easily on his shoulder, his footsteps fading against the hardwood.

Kylian stayed right where he was, one arm still looped around your waist, listening with quiet contentment as you and Isabelle exchanged a few more pleasantries, light updates about travel and how the apartment had felt too quiet without you. His thumb continued its slow, soothing rhythm against your side, a subtle anchor amid the conversation.

After a moment, Isabelle glanced toward the hallway with a knowing smile. “I’ll go help Marc set up. We won’t be long.” She gave your arm a gentle squeeze, her eyes sparkling with understanding. “Enjoy your hello. Properly this time.”

As soon as she disappeared down the hall, Kylian turned his full attention back to you. He studied your face carefully, the playful glint in his eyes giving way to something warmer, almost protective.

He glanced over at the simmering pan, and his eyes lit up with genuine excitement.

“Pasta,” he said, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “You have no idea how good that smells right now, bebé.”

He studied your face for another quiet moment, taking in details he hadn't seen over video calls, the faint traces of makeup you'd never quite managed to wash off after traveling, the way a loose strand of hair had escaped behind your ear, the familiar expression that only ever belonged to home.

"Have you eaten properly today, mon cœur?" The question came softly, almost as an afterthought. Before you could answer, he continued. "With the flight... and the congress..." He shook his head a little. "You always forget when things get busy."

He searched your eyes for a second, his expression gentling even further.

"You're okay?" he asked quietly. "Not too tired?"

You couldn't help smiling. It wasn't unusual for him to check in like this after you'd been away, especially knowing how easily you'd get caught up in work when you were excited about it.

Leaning into him, you rested one hand lightly against the front of his training top, the lingering scent of shower gel mixing with your body wash.

"I'm okay, Kyky," you assured him. "I ate on the flight."

His eyebrows lifted just enough to say really?

"Promise," you added, already smiling because you'd recognized the look.

Only then did his shoulders loosen. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before leaning down to brush another unhurried kiss against your forehead. His nose lingered briefly against your hair afterwards, taking a slow breath that sounded suspiciously like relief.

"Good," he murmured, one arm tightening around your waist for just a moment.

Before you could reply, Marc’s voice drifted in from the living room, patient but insistent. “Kylian.”

Your boyfriend closed his eyes, pressing his face into your hair with a quiet groan. “Ignore him,” he muttered, the words half-muffled and entirely unserious.

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Kyky.”

“Five more minutes.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. He sighed with dramatic reluctance, stealing one last quick kiss, easy and familiar, before his forehead rested against yours for a beat longer. “This is harassment,” he declared under his breath, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away.

“It’s your medical team.”

“Same thing.” He squeezed your hand once, light and instinctive, before finally pulling away with the exaggerated resignation of a man being sent to his doom. “You’re taking their side, I don't like it.”

“I’m taking the side of your adductor,” you replied lightly.

“Traitor.” The word carried no heat, only that playful spark that always surfaced when he was caught between what he wanted and what his body needed.

With one final glance over his shoulder, he headed toward the living room. Marc had already unfolded the treatment table near the sofa, the portable ultrasound ready on the coffee table. Isabelle stood nearby, tapping notes into her iPad without looking up. Kylian dropped onto the edge of the table with a theatrical sigh.

“Miraculously recovered?” Marc asked dryly.

“Apparently not.”

You turned back to the stove, lifting the lid to let another wave of fragrant steam rise. The sauce was still perfect, the pasta nearly ready. Behind you, the familiar rhythm of low questions, answers, and the rustle of medical tape blended into the quiet sounds of home. It wasn’t the quiet evening either of you had pictured when you’d planned the surprise, but as Kylian glanced back and caught your eye across the room, the small, tired smile he gave you said he didn’t really mind. Not one bit.

author's note — hello ballblr my name is zerocoded. ig i overdid the french sentences for the non-french speakers like me, 'm sorry 😔. pretend i'm not spamming football content in my kpop dominant account pls. you'll see a lot of me here for the next couple of days pls don't hate me.

They loved you for it.

They called you la cabeza fría, the cool head.

Because you never raised your voice.

Never took sides. Never let your emotions show.

Even when you cared.

Even when you admired someone more than you should.

Especially him.

Kylian.

He was the one you treated most professionally.

Not because you disliked him, because you liked him too much.

You laughed with the others. You bullied Valverde.

You teased Vini. You dragged Camavinga to therapy appointments he forgot on purpose.

But with Kylian?

You were polite. Warm.

But always… contained.

You didn’t let him see you get nervous around him.

Didn’t let him guess how your stomach tightened whenever he walked into your office.

Didn’t let him know how your pulse jumped when he said your name like it was a secret.

He was friendly with you, warm, even protective sometimes, but you never stepped into dangerous territory.

You refused to be another girl with a crush on the star.

So you stayed “the responsible one.” His equal. Never flustered. Never obvious.

Until Greece.

Real Madrid had taken a short off-season retreat to Mykonos a “Madrid family” trip, all booked in a luxury seaside villa resort.

White stone, blue shutters, sun-soaked terraces,and far too many opportunities for lines to blur.

The days were calm.

The nights… less so.

Tonight was the last night.

Everyone had dressed up, loud with energy and alcohol, heading to a cliffside restaurant for a big celebratory dinner.

You wore a black backless dress, modest in cut, dangerous in detail.

Your black waves were pinned loosely, your heels clicking softly against marble floors.

You caught Kylian’s eyes once across the lobby.

He looked… then looked again.

But you pretended not to see.

Hours later, laughter spilled into the courtyard outside the restaurant, drinking, toasting, everyone taking photos in the warm Greek night.

Only three vans waited outside.

And everyone rushed toward them like children on a school trip.

You had stepped away to the bathroom for a moment.

And by the time you returned, the vans were almost full.

You walked toward the last van, heart already sinking.

You could see the last row of seats… occupied.

Every spot taken.

Except his. That he was about to sit in

Kylian sat near the back, legs spread just enough for comfort, his shirt stretching over his chest, his cargos loose but low on his hips.

He looked up at you,slow, taking you in from your hair to your heels.

And then…

he patted his thigh.

“You can sit on me,” he said casually, as if offering a seatbelt, not his lap.

Your mouth parted. “What?”

He shrugged, smirking.

“There’s no room, chérie.”

He tilted his head, tone teasing.

“Unless you want to walk back to the hotel barefoot.”

A few teammates laughed drunkenly, completely unaware of the tension.

Your heart hammered.

But your expression stayed neutral, controlled,

the “responsible you.”

“Fine,” you muttered.

You climbed into the van, trying to angle yourself sideways…but the van lurched forward before you fully settled, forcing you to drop right onto his lap.

You felt him.

All of him.

Solid. Warm. Too warm.

Your hand braced on the van door.

Your other hand landed,unintentionally,on his thigh for support.

He breathed in sharply.

“You okay?” he murmured near your ear, voice low.

“Yeah,” you answered too fast. You were already toxicated by his strong, manly cologne.

Another bump.

And you felt it,the subtle, undeniable hardness beneath you. Heat shot straight through your stomach.

You froze.

He froze.

Then his hand settled on your waist.

Just… rested there.

Firm.

Warm.

Claiming without squeezing.

Your breath shivered.

“You’re not making this any easier,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.

“I’m just sitting.”

“That’s the problem.”

The van turned sharply.

You slid back from momentum,pressing against his chest, your weight sinking onto his lap even more intimately.

He inhaled sharply, his fingers flexing on your hip.

Your pulse thundered.

You kept your gaze forward, refusing to look at him.

He looked at you.

His thumb brushed the exposed skin of your lower back from your backless dress, where it dipped dangerously low.

You tightened your grip on his thigh. He felt it.

His breath hitched.

The teammates in front seats giggled, talking about the sea breeze, about dessert, oblivious to the heat roaring silently behind them. In the last seat of the van.

Finally, the van rolled to a stop outside the hotel.

Teammates filed out, stumbling and laughing.

You tried to stand. But his hand tightened.

“Not yet,” he murmured.

Your voice came out tiny.

“Why?”

He pulled you back down gently, breath hot against your ear.

“Not until you look at me.”

Heart pounding, you whispered, “Kylian, they’ll suspect—”

“Let them.”

His smirk softened into something darker.

“I don’t care.”

“We need to go,” you breathed.

His fingers lifted your chin to turn your head and look at him, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“In a minute.”

Your lips parted. “What…?”

He leaned in, lips grazing your neck.

“Close your eyes.”

“Kylian, what are you—”

“Close. Your. Eyes.”

You did. He hummed approvingly.

His hand slid into your hair, drawing you fully against him.

He kissed the place just under your ear,slow, lingering, devastating.

“Good girl.”

Your breath trembled.

His lips skimmed your cheek, then hovered near your lips, barely not touching.

“Do you know how often I thought about this?” he whispered.

“You. On me. Like this.”

Your eyes fluttered open.

He caught the movement and smirked faintly.

“You’re not very good at following instructions,” he murmured, thumb dragging across your swollen lip.

His other hand grabbed your hip, pulling you down harder on his lap.

“Ah—” you gasped in a soft whimper, feeling him under where you need him the most.

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw clenched.

“Don’t make that sound again,” he whispered.

“Or I’ll take you right here.”

You finally climbed off him.

Barely.

Your legs shook.

He followed you out of the van, close behind.

Too close.

Inside the lobby, voices echoed, people drifting toward elevators.

You tried to walk with the group, but his hand caught your wrist.

“You’re coming with me.”

“Kylian—”

“No.”

His voice was low, steady.

“I’m done pretending, I’m done watching you pretend.”

“If people see—”

“I don’t care right now.”

The elevator dinged open. He stopped you. Everyone piled in. Oops no space, you waited for the next one. Master Plan.

He nodded for you to enter. And he did too.

Your heartbeat was chaos.

The doors closed.

Silence swallowed the space.

His chest rose and fell once,deep, controlled, like he was fighting himself.

“You don’t know,” he whispered in your ear quietly,

“what you did to me tonight.”

Your back met the elevator wall.

He stepped closer.

“I tried to be respectful,” he whispered, “for months. But when you sat on me…”

He shook his head, voice rough.

“I lost it.”

Your breathing faltered.

“Kylian… what do you want?”

“Tonight?”

His forehead touched yours.

“I want you with me.”

“Just tonight ?”

His eyes softened, just a flash.

Then hardened with hunger again.

“If I am finally having you tonight then you are finally mine…”

His hand slid along your waist.

“I’m not pretending anymore Y/N”

Ding.

His floor.

He didn’t move.

“This is your last chance,” he whispered.

“If you don’t want to come with me now, we forget this ever happened, and I would have my answer.”

Your breath wavered.

Then you stepped out.

He exhaled sharply,relief, desire, something darker.

He took your hand,not rushing, not pulling,and guided you down the hall.

At his door, he stopped, keycard in hand.

He turned to you, eyes burning.

“You’re sure?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

He unlocked the door.

Pushed it open.

Let you walk in first.

The door clicked shut behind him.

He turned slowly…his gaze sweeping over your body like he’d been starving for years.

“Now,” he murmured, voice low, deliberate.

His steps were slow, predatory, unhurried.

“Where were we?”

Kylian stood there for a moment, still, quiet, watching you like he was memorizing the sight of you in his room.

Your backless dress.

Your hair slipping over your shoulders.

Your breath catching a little faster than normal.

Your hands trembling ever so slightly.

His eyes tracked every detail.

Then he locked the door behind him while still looking at you.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The soft click echoed through the dim room, louder than it should’ve been.

You swallowed.

He didn’t rush to you, not immediately.

He took one slow step, then another, closing the small distance between you like it was a decision, not an impulse.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t touch you right away.

He lifted a hand, hesitating for a second, like he was giving you a final chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers brushed the side of your jaw, light, warm, testing.

His thumb stroked the soft skin beneath your lower lip.

“You’re nervous,” he whispered.

“I’m not.”

He smiled, slow, devastating.

“Chérie… your heart is beating through your dress.”

His hand slid down the side of your neck, tracing the slope of your shoulder before following the open line of your back.

Your skin prickled under his touch.

“You let yourself sit on me like that,” he murmured, leaning in, “and you think I’m going to just drop it now?”

He dipped his head, lips brushing your cheek, barely avoiding your mouth.

Your breath hitched.

“Maybe you should.”

His eyes flicked down to your lips, hungry and amused all at once.

“Too late for that.”

With a gentle but firm grip, he guided your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze fully.

Then, without warning, he kissed you.

Not hard.

Not wild.

Just… slow.

Deep.

Intentional.

Like he’d been holding that kiss back for months and finally let it free.

His hand cradled your jaw as his lips pressed to yours, warm and sure, molding perfectly into yours.

Your breath shook, then gave out entirely as he tilted your head, deepening the kiss just enough to drag a soft moan from your throat.

“Mm,” he murmured against your mouth, smiling slightly, “there it is again.”

His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer, your body flush against his.

The warmth of him surrounded you, his chest firm, his skin hot through his shirt, his breath thick with desire.

You grabbed the front of his shirt without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric.

He chuckled softly.

“Always so composed,” he whispered.

“Look at you now.”

His lips moved down to your jaw, your neck, tracing slow, deliberate paths that made your knees weaken.

You gasped when he found a sensitive spot, he noticed immediately.

“There?” he whispered, voice lowering.

He kissed it again.

Softer.

Then again, this time with a slow drag of his lips that made your stomach twist and a whimper escaped your lips.

Your hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, clasping behind his neck for balance.

He exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on your waist.

“Do you know,” he murmured, lips at your throat, “how many times I watched you since I joined Real Madrid and wondered what it would feel like to have you like this?”

His breath burned down your skin.

Your head tipped back.

Your dress shifted slightly, exposing more of your shoulder.

His hand was there instantly, sliding up the bare skin.

“This dress…”

He pressed a kiss to your collarbone.

“…is driving me insane.”

You breathed his name, soft, unsteady. “Kylian…”

He lifted his head, eyes dark, focused, pupils blown wide.

“Say it again.”

“Kylian.”

He pulled you against him, lips hovering just above yours.

“Encore.”

“Kylian…”

He kissed you again, this time deeper, slower, fuller.

One hand cupped your face.

The other gripped your hip, guiding you against him in a way that made your breath dissolve.

He pressed you gently against the wall beside the door, the cool surface contrasting the heat of his body.

Your hands slid into his hair.

He groaned, quiet, low, involuntary.

That sound set something off inside him.

He pulled back just an inch, eyes locked to yours, breathing ragged.

“Do you want this?” he asked.

Not teasing.

Not smug.

Just raw.

You nodded.

His thumb stroked your jawline, softening for a moment.

“Then tell me,” he whispered.

“I need to hear you say it.”

Your breath trembled.

“I want you.”

His eyes closed for half a second, a surrender.

A release.

Then they opened, darker than before.

“Come here.”

He lifted your chin, leaned in, and that’s when someone knocked on his door.

A loud, insistent, unmistakable knock.

You froze.

Kylian’s jaw clenched, fury flashing through his eyes as he whispered,

“…you’re kidding me.”

He stepped back half a pace, chest rising with annoyance and restraint.

Another knock.

Harder.

“Kyyyylian!”

A teammate’s voice echoed through the door, unmistakably drunk.

“Bro, you up?? We’re doing shots in the courtyard!”

Kylian closed his eyes like he was praying for strength.

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing.

He opened his eyes, stared at you, and murmured,

“I’m not opening that door.”

Another knock.

“KYLIAN! OPEN! WE HEARD YOU COME UP!”

His jaw flexed.

“How loud was the room door…” he muttered.

You stepped closer, whispering, “Maybe you should answer?”

He looked at you.

Looked at the door.

Looked back at you.

He leaned in again, lips brushing yours-

BANG BANG BANG.

“KY!! BRO COME ON!”

Kylian groaned in pure despair. He pulled back from your lips, eyes dark with frustration. You could feel the tension vibrating in his arms.

He rested his forehead against yours, whispering, “I swear, if they don’t stop—”

Another bang.

That was it.

He let out a low growl, slid off you, and stalked toward the door with the kind of calm that was more dangerous than shouting.

His back muscles flexed under his shirt, his fists clenching and unclenching as he unlocked the door.

You went and sat on the bed, it was on the other side, hidden, breath shaky, heart racing,not from fear, but from how much energy was rolling off him.

He ripped the door open.

Three teammates stood there,Jude at the front, Vini and Cama behind him, all of them freezing mid-laugh the moment they saw Kylian’s face.

His voice was low.

Dead calm.

Teeth gritted.

“What.”

The hallway went silent instantly.

Jude blinked. “Uh… yo? We were just checking—”

“Gone,” Kylian interrupted, jaw tight.“Now.”

The boys exchanged looks.

And then, they all sensed it.

The flushed cheeks.

The messy shirt.

The way he was breathing.

The fact he’d never opened the door this fast, this irritated, this… disrupted.

Jude’s eyes widened.

His mouth fell open.And then he said it.

Loudly.

Too loudly.

“OH MY GOD YOU FINALLY CONFESSED TO Y/N?!”

Your whole body jolted.

Your heart slammed so hard against your ribs it almost hurt. Confessed? He been discussing it with him? Omg He actually likes you? Oh my god?

Heat rushed up your neck, exploding across your cheeks.

You felt dizzy as if you were daydreaming.

Kylian whipped his head around, eyes wide.

“JUDE.”

His voice cracked.

“SHUT. UP.”

“Ohhhh he’s blushing!” Vini whispered.

“He SO did!” Cama added.

Before they could say anything else, before Jude could grin any wider, Kylian slammed the door shut with a force that shook the frame.

CLICK.

Silence.

Then he turned.

Slowly.

All the confidence, all the fire,gone.

His face was red.

Actually red.

He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

His eyes were fixed on the floor, lashes low, the tips of his ears burning.

He looked…shy. Almost boyish.

One hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing it awkwardly.

“I… uh…”

He swallowed, still staring down.

“It’s um . Not like that.”

His voice was soft, embarrassed. “I just was like you know talking and—and—”

He finally dared to glance up at you.

You were still flushed.

Still breathless.

Still stunned.

Seeing you like that made him even redder.

He looked down again instantly.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath, half to himself.

“Now you probably think I’m a complete idiot.”

“Sorry,” he whispered.“For… all of that.”

Kylian was still staring at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks red, mumbling something that sounded like self-insult.

“You probably think I’m an idiot…”

“I didn’t want you to find out like—”

“Kylian.” Your voice came out soft. Shy. But certain.

He froze.

You stood up slowly from the edge of the bed, your heartbeat fluttering so hard you felt it in your throat. Your palms were warm, your face hot, your whole body buzzing.

You took one tiny breath.

And then, while blushing so deeply it almost hurt, you said it.

“It’s not only you who has feelings.”

He snapped his head up so fast it almost startled you.

His eyes widened.

His lips parted.

He stopped breathing.

For a full second, he didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t exist anywhere except that one sentence.

“What…?” he whispered.

You swallowed, your voice trembling but firm.

“I said… it’s not only you.”

That was all it took.

All the restraint he was clutching onto, gone.

He crossed the space between you in two steps and kissed you immediately.

No warning.

No hesitation.

Just a raw, overwhelming rush of everything he’d been holding in for months.

His hands slid to your jaw, tilting your face up with a need that felt almost desperate.

His lips pressed against yours like he’d been starving for it.

Your hands flew up to his shirt, clutching it instinctively as he pulled you closer, deeper, tighter, but this time, the kiss wasn’t wild.

It wasn’t hurried.It was full.

Full of relief.

He kissed you like someone who couldn’t believe you actually wanted him back.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, both of you smiling, both flushed and a little dizzy.

“You…” he whispered, eyes half-closed, “you have feelings for me?”

His fingers slid down to your waist, holding you softly, almost protectively.

You nodded, your voice shaking with the truth you had pushed away for so long.

“I thought I was the only one,” you whispered.

He exhaled. A quiet, shaky breath that told you more than words.

Then he cupped your cheek gently, brushing his thumb along your skin.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

Your breath caught.

He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that leaves your knees weak, and as it lingered, his hand slipped around your back, pulling you to his chest.

When he broke it, his voice was low, rough, and warm against your lips.

“Come here.”

He guided you backward until you reached the bed, kissing you between each step like he couldn’t stop even if he tried. His hands moved with purpose this time, less nervous, more sure, resting on your hips, sliding up your waist, memorizing you.

You fell onto the sheets together, his body hovering over yours, but his forehead still resting on yours, his lips brushing yours with barely any distance.

“Kylian…” you whispered.

He smiled softly against your mouth.

“I’m done pretending,” he murmured.

“Done fighting it. Done holding back.”

He kissed the corner of your lips.

“And done letting anyone interrupt us again.”

You laughed softly and the sound made his eyes warm instantly.

He kissed you again, deeper, his hand sliding up your side, hungry now, no hesitation, no careful restraint. His hand slid from your waist to your lower back, pressing you up into him, fitting your body against his like he’d spent months imagining the exact shape of you.

A soft sound escaped your throat, not even a moan, just a breath he stole right out of your lungs.

He groaned at that.

A low, rough sound you felt all the way down your spine.

“God… you’re going to kill me,” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and uneven.

His hands moved with purpose now, tracing down your sides, your hips, squeezing softly like he was learning you by touch alone.

His fingers dug in, not hard, but with a kind of desperation that made heat coil deep inside you.

You arched into him without meaning to.

He bit back another groan.

“Don’t do that,” he breathed into your neck.

His lips brushed your skin, slow, burning.

“You don’t know what that does to me.”

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers sinking into his curls.

He froze, just for a heartbeat, like the feeling punched the air out of him.

Then he moved.

He kissed down your neck, your shoulder, tracing the line where your dress strap rested, lips hot and trailing slowly toward it. He paused at the thin strap, breathing against it.

“Can I?” he whispered.

His voice was low, dark, and trembling at the edges with how badly he wanted you.

You nodded, breathless.

He didn’t slip the strap down yet.

He kissed it first.

Soft.

Lingering.

Almost reverent.

Then he dragged it down your shoulder with his lips alone.

Your breath caught.

Kylian exhaled sharply, his hand gripping your hip like he needed the hold to stay grounded.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, the words raw and unfiltered as he kissed the newly exposed skin.

“I’ve imagined this too many times.”

Your fingers slid along his jaw, feeling the tension there , the heat, the restraint he was rapidly losing.

“Kylian…”

You barely recognized your own voice.

He lifted his head.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown, desire written all over him.

“You say my name like that again,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your swollen bottom lip, “and I swear I’ll lose my mind.”

Your lips parted around a shaky breath.

“Kylian…”

He inhaled sharply, a deep, broken sound, and then he kissed you again, harder, his hand moving to your thigh, pulling it up around him with a slow, deliberate drag that sent heat rushing through your whole body.

He pressed into you, letting you feel exactly how hard he was against your core.

You gasped.

He groaned, loud this time, unrestrained.

“Dieu—” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, voice shaking. Your hand slid down his back, gripping the muscles under his shirt.

He shuddered.

His lips found your throat again, kissing deeper this time, open-mouthed, warm, dragging heat across your skin. Each kiss got lower, slower, hungrier.

One hand slid under your thigh again, lifting your hips into his as he whispered against your collarbone:

His hand slid back up your dress, fingers tracing the inside of your thigh this time, deliberate and unbearably slow, sending sparks shooting through your entire body.

You gasped, your body arching, and he pulled your thigh higher around his waist, grinding against you.

Your breath hitched

“I didn’t even start yet bébé .” He whispered in your ear.

He kissed down your neck again, his hand inching higher, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make your entire body tense. A soft, involuntary moan escaped you.

And Kylian groaned. He claimed your mouth.

And his hand slowly slid up the inside of your thigh and put ur panties aside making your breath hitch, when his fingers found the edge of your underwear, your whole body went still.

The small, careful movement of him pushing the delicate fabric aside felt more intimate, more devastating, than anything else he could’ve done.

Kylian didn’t rush. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and weighted with desire, watching your face for every tiny tremor. He was giving you power even as he was taking it all away.

His thumb brushed over your clit, just a feather-light sweep, and a shiver tore through you.

“Ah Ky..” your body melted into the sheets, your fingers gripping his shirt, dragging him closer without even realizing it.

“You feel that, chérie?” he murmured, his voice a low, rough vibration against your lips. “You feel how wet you are for me?”

He dipped his head, kissing you, deep, sudden, consuming. His fingers were no longer gentle. It was going into fast circles, purposeful, then finally pushing his two fingers in.

You gasped into his mouth, a sound halfway between a cry and a moan, and his tongue met yours instantly, mirroring the overwhelming sensation he was creating below.

He pulled back just enough for his lips to brush your jaw, his breath uneven.

“I need you to tell me,” he whispered against your ear, each word thudding in sync with your heartbeat. “Tell me what you want.”

Your entire body was trembling. You tried to speak, but the only thing that escaped was his name.

“Kylian… I—”

His fingers worked fast, gentle, deliberate, and your breath simply broke. A moan slipped out of you, raw and louder than you intended.

He swallowed it with a hungry kiss.

“That’s what I want to hear,” he breathed, resting his forehead against yours, both of you sharing the same hot, frantic air. “I want to hear you lose control for me.”

He shifted, pressing his thigh between yours, solid and exactly where you needed him.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

You did. You couldn’t not. Your eyes met his, wide, glazed, betraying everything.

He smiled, slow, triumphant, tender.

“This is what you did to me in the van,” he whispered. “This exact feeling.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, his hand keeping a steady rhythm that made your body arc off the mattress.

A shudder tore through you, starting deep and rolling your climax outward. You cried out softly, the sound muffled into his mouth. Kylian groaned low in his chest, pulling you closer, holding you through the your release.

He didn’t stop kissing you.

When your tremors softened, he eased his hand but didn’t pull away, keeping it resting possessively against your pussy.

He looked down at you, eyes heavy with desire and something dangerously close to adoration.

“Mine,” he whispered.

His shirt was still on. Your dress was still mostly on. Nothing had been taken off, yet everything had changed

“It’s time we get rid of this, ma belle.”

He pulled the fabric up your body with reverent slowness, peeling it away like he was unveiling something sacred. Cool air hit your skin, chased instantly by the warmth of his hands exploring every new inch revealed.

When the dress gathered at your neck, he paused, breath catching.

You were left in nearly nothing, skin flushed, chest rising unevenly.

“Magnifique,” he breathed.

He pulled the dress over your head and tossed it aside without looking.

His attention returned immediately to you.

Then, slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt. Each button undone felt like a countdown. When the shirt fell open, revealing his chest, something inside you tightened.

Your hand lifted, almost on its own, pressing against his chest, his abs , his beautiful dark honey skin.

Kylian inhaled sharply. The moment your palm touched him, something in him shifted, gone was the hesitant boy. What hovered over you was the man from the van.

He pressed your hand to his heart.

“Feel that?” he whispered. “That’s you. Only you.”

He kissed down your throat, your other hand slid over his torso, tracing firm lines of muscle. His groan was thick and unrestrained.

His fingers slipped to the waistband of his cargos. He undid them slowly, eyes locked on yours, savoring your reaction.

“Stay right there,” he ordered. “And watch.”

The sound of his zipper cutting through the silence made heat pulse low in your stomach. He pushed the fabric down, leaving him in black boxer briefs that did nothing to hide how big, hard, he is.

He moved over you, careful but overwhelming. Your hands gripped his back, feeling hard muscle tense beneath your fingers

He kissed you, deep, consuming, and his fingers returned to stroke you with precise, devastating strokes.

You gasped, head thrown back, breath breaking apart. He watched you, jaw tight, eyes dark.

He lowered his hips against yours, letting you feel him fully.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he breathed, voice ragged.

He kissed your throat again, teeth grazing, then pulled back just enough to slide off his boxers, then took off- tore- your panties.

He took your hips in his hands, firm, warm,and held your gaze, asking a silent question.

“Yes,” you whispered before he could even ask.

He pushed into you slowly, deeply, a groan ripping from his chest as he sank in. Your breath shattered, your body arching into his, your legs wrapping around him instinctively.

“God…” he exhaled. “Parfait.”

He stayed still, letting you adjust, feel every inch, letting the moment settle like gravity.

Then the moment you nodded, he moved, slow, deep thrusts that stole your breath. His eyes fixed on your face, watching every reaction.

He moved harder, deeper, pulling a cry straight from your throat.

“Kylian!”

His control snapped. His rhythm turned urgent, powerful, overwhelming as he kissed every inch of your skin, your shoulder, your neck, your mouth, muttering possessive French against you.

The pleasure built fast, sharp, consuming.

You tightened around him, moaning his name again. He groaned, loud, raw, and thrusted into you one last time, his body tensing as he fell apart with you.

He collapsed over you, breath ragged, body warm and heavy.

For a long moment, there was nothing but two hearts pounding in sync

He didn’t roll off.

“You’re mine , you are not going anywhere,” he murmured against your hair.

“I know,” you whispered.

Kylian was pressed against you, chest rising and falling in uneven waves against your skin, his breath warm at your throat.

You thought he was coming down.

You thought he was done.

But then, You felt him move.

Just the smallest twitch of his hips. But unmistakable. Your breath caught.

He let out a low, almost disbelieving groan against your neck. His hand on your thigh tightened, hard. His fingers dug in like he was fighting something inside himself.

“K-Kylian…?” you whispered, dazed.

He didn’t lift his head.

He just breathed against your skin, voice low, wrecked, almost angry with himself:

“Putain… I’m already hard again.”

Your pulse stuttered.

Slowly, he pushed his hips forward, just a slight grind, and the sensation ripped a sharp, involuntary gasp from your throat.

You were still sensitive, still trembling from the first time, and the feeling was nearly too much.

He heard it.

And it snapped something in him.

His head rose sharply, eyes dark, blacker than before, no softness left, only hunger.

“Don’t,” he warned softly, but the warning was for himself, not you. “Don’t make that sound unless you want me to take you again.”

You swallowed.

Your body answered for you before your mouth could.

Your hips lifted toward him.

It was over.

Kylian grabbed both your thighs and shoved them apart with a force that made heat shoot through your body.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re begging for it.”

He didn’t pull out.

He didn’t reposition gently.

He didn’t ease back in like before.

He took.

One harsh, deep thrust that made your back arch off the bed and your hands fly to his shoulders.

The sound you made, raw, breathless, sent him spiraling.

“That’s it,” he snarled softly, thrusting harder. “Give me that.”

You clutched at his back, nails dragging. He hissed, then grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, his grip unforgiving.

“You’re not running from this,” he growled. “You’re staying right here. You’re going to feel everything.”

He pulled almost fully out, and slammed back into you, harder, deeper, a sharp cry ripping from your throat.

He watched your face.

Watched your mouth fall open. Watched your body shake.

His breath broke.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned. “Encore… give me that reaction again.”

He set a brutal rhythm, hips hitting yours with full intent, no hesitation, no restraint left. Every thrust was deep, precise, claiming.

Your legs wrapped around him automatically, trying to pull him closer. He responded instantly, lifting your hips higher, angling you exactly where he wanted you.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Your eyes fluttered open.

The second your gazes met, something wild flashed across his face.

“Beautiful,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

He kissed you then, not soft, not sweet.

A messy, hungry kiss that matched his rhythm, teeth, tongue, breath all tangled with yours.

His pace increased, sharper, faster, the sound of skin and breath filling the room. Your voice broke on his name, your pussy clenching helplessly around him.

And that was it.

“Don’t—” he gasped, slamming into you, “—don’t do that. Don’t—”

You involuntarily clenched again.

He choked on a groan, head dropping to your shoulder as he thrust with desperate, uncontrollable force.

“Fuck—Y/N—again,” he begged. “Do it again—”

You did.

And he lost it.

“Kylian!” you cried, your voice cracking.

He growled, a low, feral sound, and drove into you hard enough to shake the bed, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t let go.

Your climax hit first, violent, overwhelming, your entire body tightening around him. You shook under him, breath shattering, eyes squeezing shut.

He didn’t stop.

If anything, the feeling of you falling apart sent him straight over the edge.

“Kylian—” you gasped, but he cut you off with a broken moan, thrusting deep one last time as his body seized above you, reaching his own climax too with a loud manly grunt.

He collapsed onto you again, breath crushed against your throat, chest heaving with every ragged inhale. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you impossibly close, like he needed your body to breathe.

This time, he couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

Couldn’t do anything but hold you, both of you trembling through the aftershocks.

Minutes passed.

Only then did he lift his head, eyes dazed, voice hoarse:

“…that was not supposed to happen.”

A slow smile tugged at your lips.

You whispered, pulling his curls out of his forehead softly, breathless:

“Do you regret it?”

His expression darkened, dangerously.

“Regret?” he repeated.

He rolled his hips deliberately, still deep inside you.

You gasped.

He smirked.

“Chérie… I’m wondering how long until I can do it again.”

"We've been together for a year, and this isn't the first time we've gone on vacation together. Have I ever taken you to a hotel before, mon amour?"

You shrugged in response to his logical explanation.

"It can be like this for now, my love. It’s not a problem for me. I don’t want you wearing yourself out over it."

Kylian furrowed his brows slightly, tossed the t-shirt he was holding onto the suitcase, and stepped toward you.

He knelt beside the bed and took hold of your foot, which was dangling from the bed.

You flinched when you felt his cold hand against your warm foot.

Kylian noticed this instantly; he cradled your foot between his large hands and bowed his head.

He tried to warm your foot by running his lips over it and blowing his warm breath onto it.

This gesture of his warmed not only your feet but also your heart.

"Doing something for you wouldn't tire me out."

As your heart raced, you involuntarily raised your hand and placed it on his curly hair, which was starting to grow longer.

Kylian lifted his head and looked into your eyes.

"It would be a pleasure for me."

Your eyes welled up slightly as you looked at the man you were madly in love with.

"You shouldn't be this cute."

You lowered the hand with which you had been stroking his hair to his cheek and gave it a gentle tug.

You looked upward and turned your head to hold back your tears.

Kylian smiled, rose up onto his knees, and leaned toward you.

He planted a deep kiss on your cheek and whispered into your ear.

"That's how my mom raised me, bébé."

Unable to stop himself, he planted a few more kisses on your cheek and temple.

You giggled, placed your hands on his cheeks, and planted a kiss on his lips.

With his eyes closed and lost in the moment, he rested his head on your shoulder and murmured.

"So.. Shall we pack your suitcase together?"

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