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Alpha!Clark who presented as an Alpha and literally couldn't stop thinkin' about you. During his entire first rut, his brain was consumed with thoughts of you. Thoughts of you being such a good omega and helping him with school work, thoughts of him scaring off your bullies who thought you were too flamboyant, thoughts of you beneath him, thoughts of you purring Clark's name into his ear... It really affected Clark. He felt so full of shame once he'd come to after his rut had ended; he literally couldn't look you in the eye for a week!

Alpha!Clark who had discovered a new side of himself, a side he tried so hard to shove down and keep hidden. A side which would keep Clark up at night unless he jerked off to the thought of you, his innocent, perfect, sexy childhood best friend, in compromising positions and situations with the Alpha. A side to himself which made it so difficult for Clark to concentrate on what you were saying when you're eyes looked so pretty looking up at him, when your scent was making his brain feel fuzzy and his dick ache, oh and especially when your voice saying his name to get his attention sounded so sweet. But the superhuman kept this perverted side of himself bottled up. That was until he received a gift.

Alpha!Clark who couldn't turn down a gift from the Omega he'd been desperate to court since childhood. So, when you presented him with a silver band-like ring, how could he resist putting it on? Though both of you were unaware that the minuscule red gem encrusted into the ring, the one you thought was a plastic rhinestone, was actually one of the last tiny pieces of red kryptonite left on earth (excuse the lack of series knowledge). And you wouldn't find out for a while. After all, it was such a tiny piece that it affected Clark very minutely. Though it slowly but surely picked up speed.

Alpha!Clark who thought he just felt a bit braver recently. Maybe his brain had fully developed. Or perhaps he just stopped thinking about consequences or morals as much, but he was definitely acting differently... Again, it started off slow and small. An out-of-pocket kinda sexual comment about you that you'd laugh off: "Your lips look good around that popsicle". Then it turned into more open courting; yeah, you and Clark had kind of been courting each other since childhood, but now the Alpha was carrying your bag around all day and giving you gifts every morning. Then came the jealousy; an alpha couldn't get a word in if Clark was around, whether the said alpha be a friend of yours or even sometimes a teacher, Clark would be on them like white on rice; holding back snarls as his arm snakes around your waist, baring his teeth, and making passive-aggressive comments.

Alpha!Clark who was still managing to put up a 'good Alpha' front despite the influence of the kryptonite. But behind closed doors, it was a very different story. The laundry basket in your room had tempted Clark many times, to the point it became routine for him to sneak a pair of your underwear and take it home with him, replacing it with a pair he'd stolen a couple of weeks past, which had lost your scent. Oh, and not to mention the way that any time you would sleep over at his house, share a bed with him, Clark would make sure you were asleep and jerk off until his dick felt like it would fall off. You just looked so fucking perfect and blissful next to (below) him, how could he resist? How could he stop?

Alpha!Clark who had reached his boiling point. It was a hot summer day, and Clark was being made to help out on his parents' farm while school was out. Of course you offered to help him out, and how could he say no? It was getting to a point that Clark could barely go a whole day without seeing you. But you were really doing the opposite of helping him. Sure, you were getting the jobs around the farm done, no complaints there. But you were rendering the young alpha practically inept with the way your skimpy summer clothes were showing off your skin, the way your body was shiny and sweaty from the hot summer air, and holy shit, the way your face was flushed along with your cute pants of exhaustion? Clark could feel the boner in his pants almost tear the seams of his briefs.

Alpha!Clark who finally submitted to the influence of the red kryptonite in his ring, meaning he finally gave into his desires, his basic Alphan needs. You don't even know how it happened, but one second you were moving around some haybales in the Kent's barn, and the next you were sitting atop said haybales with Clark standing between your legs, kissing you feverishly. His scent of mineral musk and small notes of grapefruit was all you could smell, making your head feel fuzzy as you reciprocated the kiss, the kiss from your childhood best friend. Clark, on the other hand, was greedily inhaling the sweet smell of vanilla bean and sandalwood that was leaking from your scent gland; the alpha literally huffing through his nose whilst moulding his lips against yours, you'd think Clark was addicted to your scent.

Alpha!Clark who had his (temporary) fix of your lips and started kissing down your neck, stopping to give your scent gland some attention, and all the way down to the waistline of your shorts. Before it even registered to you, mainly due to the Alpha pheremones weakening your frontal cortex to increase the chance of reproduction, Clark was on his knees below you; his strong, muscular arms holding your thighs up and his chiselled face between your asscheeks. Loud moans and desperate whines echoed throughout the barn and only worked to egg Clark on as he worked his warm, wet tongue into your hole; your gushing slick and his own spit literally flowing down his chin and perfect jawline like some lewd waterfall. Your fingers gripped the Alpha's brown locks with a force that to you felt like a lot, but to the absolute hunk of an Alpha beneath you felt like an adorable attempt. Your toes curled in the air above Clark's head as your thighs shook from the intense pleasure of an Alpha eating you out like he was starved, because after pinning for you for so many years, Clark may as well have been.

Alpha!Clark who felt his heart skip a beat and his inner alpha scream in pleasure when you came on his tongue as you moaned out Clark's name. But the Alpha fell in love with you even more (though that would be literally impossible) when, after basking in the afterglow of your earthshattering orgasm, you offered Clark the same treatment, explaining with an embarrassed blush that you didn't want him to feel left out. That's how you both ended up lying hayloft of Clark's barn; you on top of the muscular alpha in a sixty-nine position, his dick in your mouth and vice versa. To say that Clark had never felt so much pleasure before would be an understatement, 'cause the way you started to gently lap at the Alpha's musky, inhumanely large dick and then transitioned into head sloppier than Clark had seen in porno's? That shit made Clark wanna cum then and there. But don't think that just 'cause the brunnette was almost drunk on pleasure that he wasn't focusing on your pleasure too! No, no, Clark was having to wrap his muscular arms around your hips to keep them still; the top he was giving you was making you leak slick and pre like a tap left runnin'! Seriously though, Clark could fit your entire omegan prick inside his mouth with ease, and the way his tongue would rub your tip whilst his cheeks would hollow was making you see stars.

Alpha!Clark who held off his orgasm, perks of being Kryptonian, unlike you, who shot another load down the Alpha's throat and leaked so much slick that Clark could have drowned. Though Clark was more than happy to hold off his orgasm if it meant he could knot his Omega; yes, his Omega, 'cause at this point, marking and knotting you were formalities to claiming you. By the time the aftershocks of your second orgasm had quietened down, Clark already had you in another position; kneeling behind you as your chest lay flat on the hayloft, your hips on the other hand, propped up and presenting for your Alpha. Clark gave you the grace of entering you slowly and giving you time to adjust to his ten-inch monster; though from the mewls and moans of pain and pleasure you were letting out, his soft approach barely helped.

Alpha!Clark who rocked your world the moment you gave him the green light. We're talking backshots that could be heard all the way in England; Clark's huge, masculine hands gripping your hips tight enough to move you on and off his cock but gently enough to let you know he cares. Your breathy moans loudly reverberated throughout the barn as Clark knocked the wind out of you with every thrust, and the Alpha's own groans and moans harmonised with yours so nicely. Your scents mixed in the air along with the smell of slick, spit, and sweat; the hot, humid summer air making even the open-plan barn stink of raw sex. The scene looked like it belonged in a VHR porno, and both of you couldn't get enough of it; your Omega keening and purring at the physical and emotional feeling of having an Alpha like Clark want you in this way, and Clark's alpha roaring in pleasure and pride from having his Omega beneath him and drunk on pleasure from his doing.

Alpha!Clark who checked in on you one last time before letting himself go, leaning down, his muscular chest to your arching back, and whispering in your ear 'you doin' good? Mind if I knot you, darling?'. Ugh and when you give the man a forced nod and moan out a 'yes please'? How could Clark help himself? He'd wrapping and arm around your waist and another around head, letting your head rest against his huge bicep as his hips start moving at a speed your body could barely register or handle. All you could remember other than your own lewd sounds and moans was Clark's groaned-out string of perverted, raw, Alphan comments as he knotted you. "Fuck you're so tight" "So fuckin' good for me- the- NGH- perfect fucking Omega" "AH- Shit-! so wet and warm just for your- your alpha" "Fuck 'm gonna knot you 'n fill you with my pups, darlin' You want that, don't ya?" That dirty talk, along with the feeling of Clark's thick knot pushing against your rim, was what sent you over the edge for a third time. You saw white, then black, then stars of white again as your vision came back in small spots. Your dick soaked the wood and hay below you with infertile Omegan cum, your breathy moans and whiny pants mixed with Clark's moans and croons as his knot kept him locked inside of you; his thick, warm, scarily fertile cum filling you to the brim. Every unconscious pulse of your walls coaxed and forced another shot of seed out of Clark; a natural push and pull from your inner Omega and Alpha. At the end of the day, no matter how much pleasure you get out of this, the end goal, whether you want it or not, is pups.

"It is insane— you are insane…!" You whisper-yell to your younger brother, though the word 'insane' feels far too generous for the logic he is employing. Viserys’ nose scrunches up in anger, his fingers just itching to wrap around your neck as he insists that this is the only way to secure an army to take back the Targaryen honour.

You are both huddled in the shadow of a heavy tapestry, your voices barely rising above a hiss, yet the intensity of the argument makes the air between you feel electric.

Viserys is vibrating with a desperate, frantic energy, his eyes wide as he paints a picture of a golden throne and a city reclaimed, all bought with the currency of your sister’s hand. You argue that a Dothraki alliance is a gamble built on sand, that Daenerys is a girl, not a political chip to be tossed into a nomadic gamble. But Viserys doesn't hear the word risk; he only hears the word crown, and his voice reaches a fever pitch of indignation.

"The great horse-lord has arrived," a small, breathless voice interrupted. You pivoted, the tension in your shoulders vanishing the moment your eyes landed on Daenerys.

She stood in the doorway, looking smaller than her years in the oversized silks, her violet eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. She looked like a fragile piece of Valyrian glass, and the sudden shift in your chest was visceral; the anger you had felt toward Viserys evaporated, replaced by a protective warmth that always seemed to bloom whenever she entered the room.

You stepped away from the shadows of the tapestry, offering her a soft, reassuring smile that reached your eyes, consciously softening your posture so she wouldn't feel the lingering electricity of the fight.

"You're trembling, Dany," you murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of silver-gold hair behind her ear. The gesture was instinctive, a quiet anchor in a world that had spent years trying to drift them all apart. Looking at her was like looking at a reflection of everything the Targaryen name was supposed to be, not the frantic, jagged greed that drove Viserys, but a sort of innate, quiet dignity.

She was the only thing in this gods-forsaken city that felt untainted, and the thought of her being traded like a piece of livestock to a man who spoke a tongue of screams and wind made your stomach coil.

"He is waiting," Daenerys whispered, her voice barely a ripple in the silence of the room.

You didn't let her take the first step. Instead, you slid your hand down from her cheek to grasp hers, your fingers locking firmly around hers. The contrast was weird, your hand, calloused and steady, against her small, porcelain palm.

You liked to think you weren't escorting her; you were anchoring her. As you led her toward the threshold, you felt the fragile tremor in her frame, a rhythmic shaking that spoke of a terror she was trying desperately to suppress for the sake of the family name.

"Keep your eyes on me, Dany. Just for a moment longer," you murmured, your pace slow. "When we walk out there, you aren't walking into a void. You're walking with me. I will be the shadow at your shoulder, and if the air becomes too heavy to breathe, you only have to squeeze my hand, yeah?"

The sunlight of Pentos was blinding as you stepped into the courtyard, the heat hitting you like a physical weight. The Dothraki were a sea of leather, bronze, and muscle, their horses shifting restlessly, hooves drumming a nervous rhythm into the packed earth. At the centre of the swarm sat Khal Drogo, perched upon his stallion with a languid, predatory grace.

He was draped in furs and silks that clashed with the arid air, his long braid swinging against his thigh as he surveyed the three of you. You didn't feel the intimidation Viserys felt— the kind of fear that masqueraded as reverence. Instead, you felt a prickle of irritation. To you, Drogo looked less like a conqueror and more like a peacock in leather, his chest puffed out with a confidence that felt unearned in the face of your own blood.

You tightened your grip on Daenerys’s hand, your gaze narrowing as you took him in. He was certainly a specimen of a man— broad-shouldered and bronze-skinned— but the bells in his hair jingled with every slight movement, a noisy ornament that seemed absurdly ostentatious.

The bells in Drogo’s hair gave a final, sharp chime as he shifted his weight, his onyx eyes scanning the three of you. You didn't see a warlord; you saw a man who spent far too much time grooming his facial hair and smelling of horse sweat and expensive oils. The idea that this man, this loud, braided peacock, was the pinnacle of power, and the price for which your sister was being bartered, felt like a personal insult to the blood of Old Valyria.

Drogo’s gaze slid from Viserys to the wide-eyed Daenerys, and finally, it settled on you. He didn't look away. He lingered on the set of your jaw, the steady way you held your ground, and the protective grip you maintained on Dany’s hand.

There was a shift in his expression, a flicker of genuine curiosity that smoothed the hard lines of his face. He didn't see a displaced prince or a frightened refugee; he saw a predator masquerading as a bodyguard, a man whose stillness was more dangerous than Viserys’s frantic energy.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of the Khal's mouth. He spoke a few words in his tongue to his bloodriders, his voice a low rumble that sounded like stones grinding together in a riverbed. The bloodriders shifted, their eyes narrowing as they looked at you, but Drogo raised a hand to silence them. He dismounted his stallion in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the dirt with a heavy thud.

You didn't move an inch, your boots rooted in the Pentos dust as if you were a statue carved from stone. As Drogo approached, the air around him seemed to ripple with the heat of the afternoon, but your focus remained narrow and sharp.

You didn't offer a bow; you didn't offer a smile. Instead, you let your gaze harden, your brows knitting together into a deep, visceral scowl that spoke of a territorial instinct older than the cities surrounding you. It was the look of a wolf guarding a cub, a silent declaration that while Viserys might be selling the girl, you were the one who decided if she was delivered.

Drogo stopped a mere pace away, the scent of leather and crushed grass clinging to him. He was a tiny bit taller than you, but you refused to tilt your head back in a way that conceded the height. You simply stared, your eyes tracking the rhythmic jingle of the bells in his braid.

To the bloodriders circling behind him, this was a breathtaking breach of etiquette— to scowl at a Khal was to invite a blade to the throat. Yet, Drogo didn't reach for any type of blade. He tilted his head, his onyx eyes dancing with an amusement that suggested he had found something far more interesting than a bride.

"He is very rude," Viserys hissed, stepping forward with a frantic, placating smile. "Khal Drogo, please excuse my brother. He has always been… overly protective of our sister. A trait of the blood, you understand? A passion for the family legacy."

Iksan se rude mēre? (I am the rude one?) You think, but you didn't look at Viserys. To acknowledge his stuttering apologies would be to acknowledge the desperation that fueled them, and you had no appetite for his cowardice. Instead, you maintained your gaze, your eyes locking onto Drogo.

When you shifted your gaze to your little sister, you didn't see the "Silver Princess" Viserys imagined or the political pawn the Magisters of Pentos envisioned. You saw a child who was vibrating with a terror so profound it seemed to hollow her out from the inside. Her violet eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears, and they searched yours for a way out. In that gaze, there was a silent, desperate plea: don't let them take me.

Fuck.

You looked at Daenerys— really looked at her— and saw the way her small fingers were clutching your hand, not as a gesture of affection, but as a lifeline. She wasn't a princess in this moment; she was a frightened girl being led to a slaughterhouse draped in silk. Viserys saw a crown, and Drogo saw a prize, all you saw was your baby sister.

The thought of her waking up in a yurt, surrounded by a language she didn't understand and a man who viewed women as possessions, made a roar of protective fury rise in your throat. You knew, with a sudden and absolute certainty, that you could not let her go. Not to this man, not to this life, not even if it meant burning every bridge in Pentos to the ground.

You didn't let go of her hand. Instead, you stepped slightly in front of her, shifting your center of gravity to shield her body with your own. Was it a risky move? Yes. Was it a reckless one? Almost certainly. But as you felt Dany’s small hand tighten around yours, the risk felt insignificant compared to the visceral need to stand between her and the trade.

"The girl is not for sale," you said. You felt Dany’s breath hitch against your shoulder, her small frame trembling, but you didn't budge. You tightened your grip on her hand, shifting your stance to lock your boots into the dust, creating a living wall of Valyrian stubbornness. "Find another bride, find another alliance, or find another way to get your army. But you will not take her."

Viserys made a sound like a strangled hen, his face draining of colour. "Brother! You cannot—"

"Be silent, Viserys!" you snapped. You shifted your weight, feeling the heat of the Pentoshi sun baking the earth beneath your boots."You may play the merchant, but I am the wall. If you want a horse-lord’s favour, find a different coin to spend."

Turning your gaze back to Drogo, you offered a smile that didn't reach your eyes, a sharp, cold thing. "My sister is not a trade. Now, unless you intend to drag her away in chains, I suggest you take your horses and your bells and find another path. Fuck off, Khal."

The bloodriders surged forward, their hands flying to the hilt of their arakhs, a collective snarl ripping from their throats. They looked at you as if you were a ghost or a madman, their eyes wide with the shock of seeing a man speak to the Sun and Stars of the plains as if he were a common stable boy. Viserys had actually stopped breathing, his mouth hanging open, certain that the next sound he would hear would be the wet thud of your head hitting the dirt.

Drogo didn't move. He stood perfectly still, his onyx eyes scanning your face, searching for the flicker of fear that always accompanied such defiance. He found none. Instead, he saw a man who was entirely willing to bleed to keep his sister's hand in his own.

He stepped closer, invading your personal space until the scent of musk and leather overwhelmed the salt air of the coast. You didn't flinch, though your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

Drogo’s gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth, then swept down the length of your frame, lingering on the strength in your shoulders and the unwavering set of your jaw. A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest, not a growl, but a chuckle of genuine appreciation.

"The little dragon has a sting," Drogo murmured in the Common Tongue, his voice a rough velvet that seemed to vibrate in the air between you. He ignored Viserys entirely, treating the exiled king as if he were nothing more than a buzzing fly. His eyes returned to yours, flashing with a sudden, predatory hunger that had nothing to do with political alliances or the promise of a throne.

He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing yours, the heat radiating off him in waves. Slowly, with a lack of urgency, Drogo reached out and ran a calloused thumb along the line of your jaw. It wasn't a gesture of aggression, but one of appraisal, as if he were measuring the quality of a stallion's spirit. "The girl is a flower," he said, his gaze dropping to the small, trembling hand you still held firmly in your own. "But the brother… the brother is a blade."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across the Khal's face, his onyx eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "You tell me to fuck off," he said, the words rolling out in a low, rhythmic rumble. "I will. I will take my horses, my bells, and my bloodriders, and I will leave this courtyard to the dust."

He paused, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw once more, a touch that was possessive and challenging all at once. "But the price has changed. I do not want the flower. I want the blade."

Viserys looked as though he had been struck by lightning, his mouth opening and closing without a single sound escaping.

You felt Dany’s grip on your hand loosen slightly, her violet eyes darting between you and the Khal. The terror was still there, but it was now tempered by a flicker of bewildered hope. You shifted your stance, stepping back just an inch to create a sliver of space between you and the bronze-skinned warrior. Your voice was low, stripped of the aggression from moments before, replacing it with a cold, transactional precision.

"If I go with you," you began, your gaze locking onto Drogo’s onyx eyes with an intensity that demanded a binding oath, "You leave her alone. No claims, no contracts, no 'favours' called upon her in the future. She remains free of your shadow and the shadows of your bloodriders. Do you agree?"

Drogo’s expression didn't waver, though his gaze dipped once more to the silver-gold hair of your sister, then snapped back to yours. A slow nod followed, the bells in his braid chiming a soft, final chord. "The flower remains in the garden," he replied, his voice a rough rumble of certainty. "The blade comes to the plains."

"Alright then," you replied, the words sounding like the snap of a closing trap. You only looked at Drogo, matching the heat of his onyx gaze with the cold fire of your own. You had just traded your freedom for her safety, and as the reality of the bargain settled in, you felt a strange, electric thrill shoot down your spine.

The release of Daenerys’s hand was the hardest part. You did it slowly, as if breaking a spell, ensuring she was standing on her own two feet before you stepped away. You reached up, cupping her small face in your palms for one last fleeting second, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead. With a playful, sudden movement, you reached out and ruffled her silver-gold hair, messing up the precise braids Viserys had insisted upon. It was a childish gesture, a reminder that she was still just a girl, and for a moment, the ghost of a smile touched her lips.

"Stay in the garden, little dragon," you whispered, your voice thick with a tenderness you refused to show the men watching you. "Grow strong. Be the light in this family, because the rest of us are far too fond of the dark."

You turned back to Drogo, the warmth vanishing from your face like a cloud covering the sun. The Khal was watching you, his posture relaxed yet poised, like a leopard observing a creature that had just walked willingly into its territory. He didn't offer a hand to lead you; he simply turned on his heel, expecting you to follow in the wake of his horse.

As you stepped toward him, you caught the look of absolute horror on Viserys’s face. You ignored him, stepping closer to the Khal until you were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

"One thing, Khal Drogo," you murmured. "Do not expect my personality and my self to die like a dog for you."

— A few weeks later.

The stars over the Great Grass Sea were a cold, shimmering audience, watching from a ceiling of velvet indigo as the festivities of the wedding feast wound down. The air was thick with the scent of roasting horseflesh and the lingering echo of screams— some of joy, some of agony— as the ritual combats had claimed their customary quota of lives. You had spent the day as a curiosity, a silver-haired anomaly amidst a sea of bronze, refusing to be cowed by the bloodriders who viewed your presence as a riddle they couldn't solve.

Then came the gift.

Drogo had led you away from the flickering campfires, his hand a heavy, warm weight between your shoulder blades, guiding you toward a tethering post where a creature of fire and muscle waited. It was a stallion, lean and leggy and young, with a coat the colour of charcoal.

"He is a bastard," Drogo murmured, his voice vibrating with a low, appreciative hum. He didn't mean the horse's lineage, but rather its temperament. The stallion tossed its head, eyes rolling with a wild, untamed energy that mirrored the restlessness currently clawing at your own gut. "He has a heart of fire and a head of stone. He has killed five men who tried to ride him already. He will try to throw you."

You looked at the charcoal beast, then back at the Khal. Drogo was leaning in, his onyx eyes searching yours, a challenging smirk playing on his lips. He seemed to be enjoying the moment, treating the presentation of the animal not as a gesture of generosity, but as a test of your mettle. He shifted his weight, his own mount, a lean, red stallion that looked more like a creature of myth than flesh, snorting in agreement beside him.

"Do you know how to ride?" Drogo asked. You let out a short, sharp laugh. "Do I know how to ride?" you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I was born in the saddle of a palfrey before I could walk, Drogo. I’ve ridden through the mud of the Free Cities," you countered, your voice a sharp, confident edge. "A charcoal 'bastard' with a grudge is hardly a challenge."

You didn't wait for him to offer a hand or a lesson. You stepped into the stallion's space, your movements fluid and devoid of the hesitation the horse expected. The beast let out a piercing shriek, rearing back and snapping its teeth toward your shoulder, but you didn't flinch. You stepped inward, closing the gap and planting a firm, grounding hand against its muscular neck.

With a sudden, explosive surge of motion, you vaulted onto its back. Your body snapped upward in a single, blurred motion of strength and timing. The stallion bucked once, a violent, jarring heave that would have sent a lesser rider sprawling into the dirt, but you absorbed the shock in your hips, gripping the creature's flanks with a strength that bordered on desperation.

For a second, you were suspended in the air, the world tilting on its axis, and then you slammed back down into the saddle with a heavy, satisfying thud.

You sat there, breathless, your hair wind-whipped and your eyes blazing. The horse was trembling beneath you, his sides heaving, but he wasn't trying to throw you anymore. He was waiting. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his warm neck, feeling the thrum of his heart beating in sync with your own.

You looked over at Drogo, who was still standing by his red stallion, his expression one of genuine, startled curiosity. He had expected a struggle; he had expected the 'blade' to be chipped by the horse's fury. He hadn't expected you to mould yourself to the beast's chaos in a matter of seconds.

"Race ya," you challenged, your voice a playful rasp.

Drogo paused, his brow furrowing. You were a prize, a guest-slave, a curiosity, you were not someone who challenged a Khal to a contest of speed on the open plains. He looked at you, then at the charcoal stallion, then back to your smug, silver-gold reflection of defiance. He seemed genuinely perplexed that you would dare to suggest a competition where he could possibly lose.

With a sharp command and a sudden snap of the reins, you drove the stallion forward. The horse practically launched himself like a stone from a sling. The wind whipped past your ears, a roaring torrent that drowned out everything but the rhythmic, thunderous drumming of hooves against the earth. You leaned low over the horse's neck, becoming a single, streamlined extension of muscle and will, cutting through the twilight air with a predatory grace that mirrored the Khal's own.

Behind you, a roar of laughter erupted, a deep, booming sound that shook the air. Drogo had found the joke. He vaulted onto his red stallion with a fluid motion, his bells jingling in a frantic, melodic crescendo as he spurred his mount into a gallop.

The race was a blur of charcoal and crimson against the deepening violet of the horizon. Every time you glanced to your side, Drogo was there, his onyx eyes flashing with an adrenaline-fueled hunger.

The world became nothing but the smell of hot dust and the rhythmic, violent drumming of a thousand heartbeats between the horse’s hooves and your own. You pushed the charcoal stallion until his lungs sounded like bellows, the wind tearing at your clothes and whipping your silver hair into a frantic halo.

Beside you, Drogo was a silhouette of crimson and bronze, his laughter lost to the roar of the gale, yet his gaze remained locked onto yours, a silent, competitive fire that burned hotter than the midday sun. You didn't know where the finish line was, and neither did he; there was only the horizon, the bruising speed, and the intoxicating sense of being entirely, dangerously alive.

When the distance between you and the camp had stretched into a mile of shimmering void, you gave a sharp, commanding whistle. You didn't slow down gradually; you leaned back, digging your heels in for one final, explosive burst of speed that put you a fractional length ahead of the red stallion.

Then, with a sudden, jarring pull of the reins, you brought the charcoal beast to a sliding, spraying halt. The horse screamed, his hooves carving deep trenches into the earth, and you vaulted off his back before he had even fully stopped. You hit the dirt in a controlled roll and sprang upward, your chest heaving, your lungs burning with the sweet, sharp taste of dust.

Drogo pulled up a second later, his red stallion foaming at the bit. The Khal sat motionless for a moment, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, rhythmic cadence. He didn't look at the finish line, there had never been one, he looked at you.

A slow, predatory grin spread across Drogo’s face. "You ride like a demon," Drogo murmured. "A reckless, stubborn demon."

You didn't answer him immediately. Instead, you let your legs give way, sinking into the tall grass of the plains until you were sitting flat against the earth. The adrenaline that had powered your ride was receding, leaving behind a heavy exhaustion that felt like lead in your veins. With a slow exhale, you tipped backward, your spine meeting the soil with a soft thud. You lay there, staring up at the canopy of the Great Grass Sea's night sky, your long, silver-gold hair spilling across your face like a frayed silk curtain, blurring the constellations into shimmering, distorted smudges of light.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic, wet huffing of the horses and the distant, muffled cheers of the camp. You felt the earth beneath you, still holding the ghost of the day's heat, and for the first time in years, the crushing weight of the Targaryen legacy felt distant.

A shadow fell over you, blotting out the stars. Drogo had dismounted and approached, his presence a warm, imposing pressure. He didn't speak; he simply stood there for a moment, looking down at the silver-haired creature sprawled in his wake. Then, with a low grunt, he sank to the grass beside you. He didn't lie down, but he leaned back on his elbows, his bronze skin glowing in the fading twilight, the bells in his braid giving a final, soft chime as he settled.

"The others," Drogo began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the ground and into your ribs, "They would say you are mad to challenge a Khal. They would say the blade has a flaw in its tempering." He turned his head, those onyx eyes searching yours through the veil of your hair. "But madness is often the only way to survive the world. Your brother… he is a man of shadows and whispers. You are a man of fire."

"Fire can burn," you replied, your voice a low rasp, "or it can be harnessed. Depends on who holds the torch."

You shifted on the grass, your shoulder brushing against the rough leather of his leggings. You had expected this transition to be a collision, a brutal claim of ownership. You were a prize won by a bargain, a captive in all but name, and you had spent the journey across the plains preparing yourself for the moment Drogo would simply take what he believed was his.

You had braced your spirit for the storm, imagining a night of forced submission where your only weapon would be the silent, cold endurance of your ancestors.

Drogo turned his head fully toward you, his gaze dropping from the stars to your heart hammering in the hollow of your throat. He didn't reach for you with the suddenness of a predator. Instead, he leaned in closer, the scent of horse-sweat and warm musk enveloping you like a shroud.

"The sun has set," Drogo murmured, his voice a velvet rumble that vibrated in the small space between your lips. "The race is over. The moon claims the plains now." He paused, his onyx eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt almost invasive, yet lacked any hint of cruelty. "Do you wish for this, [Y/N]? Do you want to be with me?"

You blinked. For a moment, your mind raced back to the stories of the Dothraki— the tales of raiding parties, the screams of captured women, the brutal, unilateral way the warlords of the plains claimed what they desired. You had spent the last few weeks constructing a mental fortress, bracing yourself for a night where your consent would be treated as an irrelevant formality.

You had expected a conquest, a forced surrender of your body to match the bargain of your freedom. The shock of his hesitation was more jarring than the bucking of the charcoal stallion. He was a man who could command a thousand blades with a single word, yet he was waiting. He wasn't hovering with the predatory intent of a man about to strike; he was simply there, his gaze steady and patient, offering you a choice that you hadn't known existed in this world of leather and blood.

A strange, tight knot of tension, one you hadn't even realised you were carrying in your shoulders, finally snapped. You looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the way the moonlight softened the harsh angles of his face. There was a raw honesty in his onyx eyes, a curiosity that mirrored your own.

He didn't want a broken thing; he wanted the blade, and a blade, you realised, had to choose to unsheathe itself. You shifted, rolling onto your side so you were propped up on one elbow, facing him. The distance between you was now a sliver of moonlight and warm air.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, a living furnace in the cooling night. Slowly, tentatively, you reached out. Your fingers brushed the gold rings binding his moustache, then slid lower, tracing the line of his collarbone where the bronze skin was slick with the remnants of the day's exertion.

The silk was a burden, a shimmering cage of weaving that felt suffocatingly heavy against your skin. You didn't look away from Drogo as you reached for the fastenings of your tunic, your movements slow. With a soft, sliding hiss, the fabric began to slip, sliding over your shoulders like a falling curtain. You let the garment pool around your hips, exposing the pale, lean muscle of your chest and the sharp line of your ribs.

You didn't stop there. With a quiet, focused intensity, you worked the remaining ties, shedding the layers of opulent finery until the wedding silks lay in a discarded heap of silver and cream upon the dirt. You stepped out of the fabric entirely, standing before the Khal in the raw, unfiltered moonlight. You were practically a map of Valyrian legacies— pale skin that seemed to glow against the indigo night, muscles honed by survival and a stubborn refusal to break.

You stood before him, stripped of every pretense and piece of silk, feeling the cool night air prickle against your skin. There was no instinct to cover yourself, no flicker of modesty to make you shrink beneath his appraisal. You were a creature of the dragon's line, and in your mind, there was nothing to be ashamed of in the architecture of your own body.

You stood tall, your posture open and challenging, offering him a view of a form that was lean and disciplined. Your skin was as smooth as polished marble, devoid of the coarse hair that plagued the men of the Free Cities, save for the white, masculine line of a happy trail that dipped from your navel toward your hips, and the thick curls of your pubic hair.

You didn't move, remaining as still as a statue carved from moonlight. You had laid your cards on the table, stripped of the finery. Now, the air felt electric, charged with a tension that made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. You watched him, your violet eyes tracking the way his chest rose and fell in a heavy, rhythmic thrum.

The Khal remained seated for a secomd longer than necessary, his gaze travelling over you with a slow but steady hunger. He looked at you not as a possession, but as a peer— a challenge to be met. You felt a sudden, sharp spike of impatience.

You had bared yourself to the wind and the stars; it seemed only fair that the Great Khal should do the same. You didn't ask, and you certainly didn't plead. Instead, you arched a silver brow, a ghost of a smirk playing on your lips.

"What is the matter, Drogo?" you challenged, your voice a low, daring rasp that cut through the stillness of the plains. "Does the Great Khal find himself suddenly paralysed by a bit of moonlight?"

You shifted your weight, leaning forward just enough to let the moonlight catch the curve of your hip. The smirk on your lips deepened into something truly predatory. "I had heard the Dothraki were made of iron and storm, but looking at you now, I suspect you might just be a very loud man with a very fancy braid and a very small…"

The laugh that ripped from Drogo’s throat was less of a chuckle and more of a roar, a sound of genuine delight that seemed to vibrate the very earth beneath your bare heels. He didn't answer with words; he answered with action. In one fluid, explosive motion, his hand shot out, gripping your waist with a strength that felt like a brand of hot iron. He yanked you forward, the momentum sending you tumbling across his broad chest and landing squarely in his lap.

You let out a sharp, surprised huff as you hit the hard muscle of his thighs, your legs splaying across his lap to maintain your balance. You didn't struggle; instead, you leaned back, propping yourself up on his shoulders, your violet eyes dancing with a mischievous light.

"Small?" Drogo murmured, the word a low vibration against your skin. "You wish to test the measurements of the Khal?"

He dismantled himself with a efficiency that felt like a siege. The leather fastenings of his breeches gave way with a series of sharp, rhythmic snaps, and as the heavy fabric fell away, you felt the air leave your lungs. The moonlight, which had been your only companion in your nakedness, now seemed to pale in comparison to the sheer, imposing physicality of the man beneath you.

He was built like the earth itself, vast, hard, and unyielding. His cock was a heavy, twitching weight of bronze skin, thick and formidable, coupled with a raw, predatory heat that radiated against your thighs. It was a weapon of a different sort than a blade, though it looked just as capable of carving a path through anything in its way.

A slow, triumphant smile curled your lips as you looked down at him. "Well," you whispered, your voice a playful, breathless rasp. "Perhaps the rumours were underselling you."

Drogo’s hand, large and calloused, slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The contact was electric, a collision of pale marble and sun-baked bronze.

You didn’t leave the final move to him. You were not a creature that waited to be claimed, and the heat radiating between your thighs had reached a fever pitch that demanded resolution. Reaching down, your fingers curled around the heavy, pulsing length of him.

His skin was hot, the texture of polished stone and velvet, and you felt the sudden, sharp intake of his breath as you tightened your grip. You began to stroke him, a slow, rhythmic motion that drew a low, guttural groan from deep within his chest. You watched his face, the way his onyx eyes hooded with a mixture of surprise and raw desire, the way his jaw tightened as you played with the weapon he had offered.

Satisfied with the tremor that ran through his massive frame, you shifted your weight, lifting yourself just enough to align the searing heat of his head with your hole. You didn't rush the descent. Instead, you hovered there for a second, the tip of him teasing the entrance of your heat, creating a friction that made your toes curl into the grass. Then, with a press of your hips, you began to sink.

The first inch was a shock of fullness that threatened to overwhelm you, a stretching sensation that felt like being split open by a warm, living blade. You gasped, your head falling back as you felt the sheer mass of him begin to fill the void.

The sensation was an intrusion of the most exquisite kind, a sudden, heavy expansion that seemed to rewrite the geography of your body. You let out a long, shuddering breath, your eyes fluttering shut as the pressure mounted, pushing against the very limits of your endurance. Instinctively, you leaned back on both of your hands, your arms locking to support your weight, creating a bridge of trembling muscle between your shoulders and the earth. You were a taut string of a bow, vibrating with the effort of absorbing him, your chest heaving as you fought to maintain the rhythm of your own breathing.

Drogo’s hands, wide and calloused, didn't just hold you; they claimed you. He felt the slight tremor in your arms, the way your breath hitched in a ragged, uneven cadence. With a low, predatory hum of approval, he shifted his weight. In one fluid motion, he gripped your waist and pivoted, rolling you off his lap and flat onto your back. The transition was seamless, the grass cushioning your spine as the world tilted and settled. Before you could even gasp at the change in position, he moved with the precision of a warrior, lifting your legs high and hooking them firmly over his broad shoulders.

The shift in angle was devastating. Now, with your hips tilted upward and your legs pinned, there was no room for hesitation or retreat. You were completely open, your vulnerability laid bare under the indigo sky, while Drogo loomed over you like a mountain of bronze and muscle. He looked down at you, his onyx eyes burning with a mixture of possessiveness and admiration. He didn't just want to take you; he wanted to see the exact moment the 'blade' finally surrendered to the fire.

"Now," he murmured, the word less a request and more a command.

He didn’t glide into you with the tentative caution of a man fearing he might break a fragile thing. Instead, Drogo drove forward with the sudden, violent precision of a cavalry charge, a single, powerful surge that slammed into you with the force of a landslide.

The air vanished from your lungs in a sharp, strangled gasp as you were pinned deep into the loam, the sheer mass of him filling every available space, stretching you to a limit that felt almost agonising and utterly transcendent.

Then, he began to move. He didn't establish a rhythm; he ignited one. Drogo thrust with a blistering, frantic speed, his hips snapping forward in a blur of bronze muscle and raw power. Each strike was a percussion of flesh against flesh, a rhythmic thundering that echoed the gallop of the charcoal stallion.

It was an assault of sensation, a relentless barrage that left you breathless, your head tossing from side to side against the grass as you struggled to keep pace with the sudden, exhilarating violence of his pace.

You felt the world dissolve into a series of fragmented images: the silver blur of your own hair whipping across your cheeks, the oppressive heat of his chest crushing yours, and the endless, velvet indigo of the sky spinning above you.

The speed was dizzying, a blurring velocity that turned the pleasure into something sharper, more desperate, like the feeling of falling from a great height and realising you loved the wind in your face. Your fingers clawed at the earth, digging into the soil and grass as you fought to anchor yourself against the storm of his body.

Drogo’s breathing had become a series of guttural, rhythmic snarls, his teeth grazing the sensitive curve of your shoulder. He wasn't the patient observer anymore; he was the storm itself. He gripped your thighs with a strength that would leave bruises, his fingers sinking into your pale skin as he drove himself deeper, faster, chasing a peak that felt like a cliff edge. The friction was a searing current of electricity, a white-hot spark that ignited in the pit of your stomach and radiated outward to your fingertips.

The sensation was too much, a tidal wave of heat that threatened to drown your senses, and the sudden urge for a different kind of collision flared in your chest. You weren't content to be the shore that the storm simply broke upon. With a sharp, feline hiss of breath, you reached up and wound your fingers deep into the thick, black mass of his hair, gripping the coarse strands with a firmness that brooked no argument. You jerked his head downward, a sudden, commanding snap that forced the great warlord to buckle and lean into your space.

He let out a startled, low grunt, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he met the collision. You didn't wait for him to find his balance; you surged upward, meeting him halfway in a kiss that tasted of salt, adrenaline, and the wild, untamed heat of the plains.

It wasn't a gentle union; it was a clash of wills, a desperate, hungry exchange of breath and tongue that mirrored the violence of the rhythm below. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, a sharp spark of aggression that seemed to ignite something primal in him, causing his hips to snap forward with renewed, bruising force.

The angle of the impact shifted, a sudden, precise adjustment of leverage that drove him deeper than he had ever reached, bypassing the surface friction to strike a singular, hidden nerve.

The sensation was a bolt of white light, an electric shock that bypassed your mind and detonated directly in your core. He hit your prostate with the precision of a master swordsman finding the gap in a breastplate, and the air you had been holding in your lungs escaped in a raw, unrestrained sound. You moaned loudly into Drogo’s mouth, the noise muffled by his lips but vibrating through your entire frame, a admission of complete and utter defeat.

The world narrowed down to a single, white-hot point of convergence. As you felt the sudden, rhythmic contraction of your own body, Drogo gave one final, devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt. In that instant, the tension that had been building like a summer storm over the plains finally broke.

You woke up like any other day, nothing felt out of the ordinary. If anything, you felt extra energetic today. That was until you went out of the house to meet your boyfriend to walk to uni together.

He was saying random stuff that didn’t make sense; when you asked about it, he just looked at you confused, like he didn’t just say out loud how horny he was.

You must be hearing things; that has to be it. But it just continued on till you both reached your shared class. He sat so far away, yet you could still hear it clearly, more than hear it, you could see it.

You saw a disturbingly clear image of yourself being very passionately fucked stupid in an empty lecture hall. Leaning sideways against the professor's desk, your leg pressed against your side with flexibility you never had, clinging to the desk and begging him for more. Just what in God's name was going on?

He’d pound you so hard the desk itself will be shaking, he’ll have you just at the edge of cumming from having your guts rearranged just to pull out. Then he’ll ram back in, he’ll keep doing this over and over, allowing himself to fill up your tummy as much he wants without allowing you to cum even once.

And when its time for the lecture to start he’d stop before the class starts, and dress you back up like nothing happened. You’d have to sit in class all hot and bothered, pants absolutely ruined with copious amount cum dripping down your thighs making them sticky and uncomfortable, all the while your cock red and angry in your boxers.

Maybe just maybe, if he’s feeling nice he’d bring something to plug you up to save you the embarrassment to have to explain why the seat under you had some liquid left behind when you got up.

Back to reality, your professor's rambling seems to just fade into the background. You can already feel your body heating up, thighs pressing close together, hole twitching in anticipation, and a blush making its way to your face as the images shifted and turned.

It shifts again, and you see yourself hidden away under his desk, mouth pressed against his pubes, eyes all rolled back and watery while you take his cock fully down your throat, like your gag reflex was nonexistent. You were hidden away, and when the professor asked where you were, your boyfriend bullshitted his way out of it, but not before resting a hand on the back of your head, making you take him even further.

He’d press his foot down on your obviously hard cock in your pants, rub it up and down as you try to silence your noise from being heard by everyone in the class.

'No more,' you got up violently with your hand slamming down on the desk. All eyes are on you, you haven’t a clue of what’s going on, but you need to get away.

You walked out of the lecture room and into the bathroom. You noticed him tailing behind you, but you kept going.

“Hey, woah, hold up, dude. What’s going on? Why leave so suddenly?” He looked at you with concern, but you could see where his mind was wandering off to.

He was thinking of how attractive you looked right now: ‘Jeez, how can you walk around like this, all sweaty with a red face that makes it seem like you ran a marathon?’.

‘Honestly, did you have any idea how fuckable you looked right now?’ Following the thought with you being pressed against the bathroom door, people outside knocking, trying to get inside but wondering what's blocking it, not knowing it's just you being held up and fucked against it.

Your hand would be covering your mouth, so as to not let any noise slip out while he drove into you in a painfully slow motion. Too slow, you would feel every single inch going in and out, too slow, you would feel it drag and pass against your prostate, enough for you to feel it but never enough for you to be satisfied. You’d crave more but be unable to ask for it.

Now after the breakup? Nothing. No calls. No texts. Not even a “come over” after practice like before.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he did—but Lamine had always been bad with feelings, especially when things got messy or people expected too much from him… And dating another guy? That had already been complicated enough—the whispers in group chats, teammates giving side-eye during team dinners…

Lamine watched you from across the cafeteria—how you sat alone, picking at the food with tired eyes. He remembered how you used to bring him extra fruit during morning training, always smiling even when Lamine comes by. And now? He’d been the one who walked away—little explanation, just silence after breaking up. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the whispers or what people thought… but it wasn't just that either. The pressure—the coach’s side glances when they saw you two holding hands, teammates avoiding him in showers—it weighed on him more than he admitted. And instead of talking… Lamine ran.

The coach clapped his hands, signaling the start of drills—you stood out immediately. Precise passes. Sharp footwork. Calm under pressure, like nothing ever bothered you. When it did. Lamine watched from the sideline during individual skill practice—the way you controlled your pace and moved like silk. No wonder their transfer value had stayed high despite everything.

Even after being dumped by Lamine… you hadn’t cracked on the field. Not one bad performance, not one missed penalty kick in training matches. Meanwhile? Lamine’s form had dipped slightly—not badly enough to get benched—but there was a stiffness in him now: hesitation before shots, slower reactions than usual…The coach noticed it too—the side-eyes were getting heavier again…his voice cut through the training ground like a whistle.

"Lamine! Focus! You're spacing out again—get your head in the game!" Right there. In front of everyone. Right as you were adjusting your shoes, calm and collected after nailing a perfect pass drill.

Lamine flinched—his jaw tightening instantly. It wasn’t just the criticism, it was where it happened—the public humiliation stung worse because you had heard every word. And now? Lots of players were staring: some sympathetic, others smirking behind their water bottles. His pride took a direct hit. He'd always been proud—not arrogant, but confident—and being called out so harshly in front of…you? He gritted his teeth and forced himself back into position… but something inside him cracked quietly that day

The locker room buzzed with quiet gossip—teammates exchanging glances whenever you walked by. Even the toughest player remembered how, during your dating days, your entire face lit up whenever Lamine entered the room. That soft smile that never showed on camera—the one reserved only for him. Once after a match win, they’d seen you sprint across the field to hug Lamine mid-celebration—ignoring reporters and cameras—and kiss him right in front of thousands.

It made people say things like:

"Bro loves hard."

"That guy? 100% committed."

Now? Seeing how quiet and composed you were—still performing flawlessly despite being dumped so coldly—the contrast hit everyone harder than expected…

"I saw Y/N in the bath… he was crying. Didn’t even make a sound."

The rumor spread fast—whispered in the hallway, muttered during lunch. Silence under shower spray? No sobbing, no dramatic breakdown—just quiet tears falling like rain while water drowned out everything else. The older players froze when they heard it. You? Crying? The guy who never complained about injuries, who took extra training sessions without flinching? You’d always seemed unbreakable—mentally strong, focused only on football and Lamine…Now this?

Lamine’s sandwich turned to ash in his mouth mid-bite. His stomach twisted—not with guilt exactly, but something close: regret wrapped tight around anger at himself for not seeing it coming…

That one minute—that stupid, reckless thought: "What if people see me as weak? What if being with another guy makes them think I'm not tough enough?"

It wasn't even about you. It was fear. Pride. The pressure to be perfect—not just as a player, but as someone who fits neatly into football’s world of straight male culture. So he panicked. And he dumped you like it meant nothing—like seven months of love and quiet affection were just… disposable.

Now look at him: team dynamic strained because everyone knew what happened, performance slipping slightly—and worst of all? You weren't angry or loud about it—you’d silently cried under shower water like a man who loved too hard for someone who didn’t deserve it.

On the pitch, Lamine and you used to communicate without words—just a glance, a nod. During attacks, Lamine would instinctively run toward where you were passing. They’d sync up perfectly: one-twos that flowed like music.

But now? Miscommunication everywhere. You would sprint into space expecting a pass—only for Lamine to hesitate or send it elsewhere. Sometimes you two collided during overlaps because neither adjusted their timing anymore—you both weren’t in tune like before. It wasn’t bad enough to get benched yet… but teammates noticed. The chemistry that once made them unstoppable as a duo had cracked under personal tension no one could fix with drills alone.

Before, whenever their eyes met across the field during breaks or water sessions, there’d be a small smile. Maybe Lamine would toss you back your water bottle after stealing it with that playful smirk he only ever used for you.

Now? Just side glances—brief, tense. No warmth. No inside jokes passed through looks. If one messed up on the pitch and looked at the other… it wasn’t concern in their eyes anymore—it was judgment. Frustration simmering beneath silence. And when teammates tried to lighten things by joking around them together? The awkward pause afterward was louder than any argument

The tension wasn’t just between Lamine and Y/N anymore—it was infecting the whole team. You two broke up and made it everyone’s problem. Practices that used to be high-energy became stiff, quiet. Passes weren't as crisp. Even the coach noticed morale dropping. The locker room jokes died down. It all came down to pride: two young rising stars who couldn’t swallow their egos long enough to sit down and talk. Not argue—just speak honestly for once… but neither wanted to be the first one who looked weak by reaching out.

The captain slammed his water bottle on the floor—thud. Silence crashed over the locker room. Even Lamine and you turned to look. They’d just lost a crucial match, 3-1—and it wasn’t because of tactics or luck. It was sloppy passes, missed connections… and two key players not syncing like they used to. The captain stood up slowly, face serious—the kind that meant business. Then came the words everyone knew were coming:

"We’re not playing like a team anymore." No names were called yet—but every player in that room knew exactly who he was talking about: Lamine Yamal… and you. He started to explain the issues to everyone in order to bring the team back together again.

Then the captain stepped right into the center of the locker room. All eyes turned. You sat quietly in the corner, towel draped over your shoulders, still damp from a cold shower. Lamine was on the opposite bench as far away as possible—knees pulled up slightly like he could disappear if he stayed small enough. The captain didn’t yell. His voice was calm—but firm, heavy with disappointment after explaining details of the match.

"Lamine."

A pause. The whole room held its breath.

Then:

"Y/N." No explanation needed—everyone knew what this was about now: their breakup… and how it had poisoned team chemistry worse than any injury or off-field scandal ever could. And then came those quiet but powerful words:

"You two need to fix this."

The club was loud—bass thumping, lights flashing—but conversation stayed low at their table. After the team dinner, a few of them ended up here: some defenders joking around, one midfielder dancing badly near the dance floor. You sat quietly with his drink in hand… and across from you? Lamine. You hadn’t spoken since the captain’s intervention. No texts. No accidental brushes in hallways or locker rooms—you’d been avoiding each other like landmines. Now you were stuck together at a shared booth under neon blue lights… tension thick enough to cut with a knife

One teammate encourages you to drink more and you do. Lamine’s eyes flicked toward the bar the second he saw some random guy—tall, blond, wearing a tight black shirt—leaning over to you with a smirk while you ordered.

It wasn’t jealousy—not really—but something. A twitch of annoyance. This dude didn't even know you? Why was he crowding you like that?

The whisper and whistle started low—barely audible over the music.

"Is Y/N… smiling?" One of the defenders nudged his teammate, eyes wide. That rare, bright smile—the one they hadn’t seen since before the breakup—was back on your face as you laughed at something that random guy said. It was a real smile—not forced or polite. The kind that crinkled your eyes and made you look younger, happier. Lamine saw it too—and for some reason, it hit harder than any insult could’ve. He kept staring at the bar section while nursing his drink in the booth with the gossip guys.

He used to be the only one who got those smiles after games or quiet moments alone… and now some stranger had just walked in and done what he hadn't been able to in weeks: make you genuinely smile again.

The curly-haired blond guy leaned in closer, his voice smooth—practiced, charming.

"You play for Barcelona right?" he asked you with a confident grin. "I saw your last match—you’re really good."

You blinked—surprised but not disinterested. The alcohol had loosened you up, that smile still lingered as you nodded slowly.

Then the guy did something bold:

He gently touched your forearm while talking—a light brush of fingers—and asked about you more.

Meanwhile… across the table…Lamine stopped sipping his drink midway. His brown eyes locked onto that touch like a predator zeroing in on movement.

“That was anything but good. We lost, remember?” You huffed. The guy saw the opening—your playful huff, that slightly dazed look from drinking and losing a tough match—and he pounced. He smiled wider, undeterred. "Come on," he said softly, voice like honey over ice. "One dance? You’ll feel better."

And you… vulnerable after the breakup and a crushing defeat… hesitated for only half a second before nodding. Without another word, the blond took your hand gently—but firmly—and led you toward the dance floor where bodies swayed to slow R&B beats under pulsing lights.

The guy leaned in, his lips almost brushing your ear as the music pulsed around them. And then—he said something low, just loud enough for nearby people to catch fragments.

"Lamine? Seriously? That quiet kid with the curls?" A snort. A dismissive wave of his hand. "He’s not even that good on the field… and he dumped you like trash." It was petty. Jealous sabotage—trying to tear down Lamine while winning over someone who clearly still mattered emotionally.

You froze mid-dance step, eyes widening slightly at the words.

The blond guy’s smirk faltered. You—the usually calm, quiet you—had just snapped. Loud enough that people nearby turned their heads. The music still thumped, but the energy shifted.

"You don’t talk about him like that," you said firmly, voice sharper than anyone had ever heard it before. Your face wasn't angry—it was protective. Defensive in a way that shocked everyone who knew you as reserved and composed. The guy blinked, caught off guard—he thought he’d be pushing an easy button: "Oh yeah? Your ex?" He scoffed again and leaned closer to throw another jab…

The punch came fast. One second, the blond was sneering—still talking trash about Lamine—and the next, you swung. A clean right hook landed square on his jaw. The guy staggered back with a shocked grunt, nearly crashing into someone behind him. Gasps rippled through their group of teammates. No one expected this—not from you, who never fought or caused scenes. But that insult? That mocking tone about Lamine after everything they’d been through? It crossed a line even drunken or heartbroken logic couldn’t ignore. Music still blared—but now all eyes were locked on them: you standing firm with clenched fists… And the stunned curly-haired stranger clutching his face.

Your breath hitched. Your heart pounded—not from the hit, not from anger—but because your eyes suddenly locked onto Lamine’s across the room. The noise faded. The music, the whispers of teammates… everything blurred except that gaze between them.

Lamine wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even surprised at you punching someone—no judgment in his expression at all. Just… something raw and deep flickering behind those brown eyes: recognition. Because he saw it—the vulnerability underneath that punch—the quiet plea hidden in your wide stare: I defended you. Even after you left me. I still care. And for a split second? They just stared—two young boys who used to love each other without words—communicating everything through silence.

Lamine’s chest tightened. The guilt hit him like a wave—sudden and suffocating. He’d left you because he was scared. Scared of whispers, of judgment from teammates, from fans… scared that being with another guy would make people think he wasn't strong or "normal" enough for the football world.

And yet here were you—drunk, emotionally wrecked after losing a match and their relationship—but still standing up for him. Still punching someone who talked trash about Lamine’s name.

It made him feel small. Stupid. Cowardly in the worst way possible—because while Lamine had run to avoid shame…you stayed loyal without even meaning to. Without saying anything.

The curly-haired teammate—always the loudest joker—sprinted back to their booth, grinning like a madman. He slid into his seat with dramatic flair and slapped both hands on the table. He has sneaked off the booth to go eardropping you.

"Oh my god," he whispered-yelled, eyes sparkling with gossip-fueled joy. "You guys did NOT just hear that."

All heads turned toward him instantly. Before anyone could stop him or shush him, he blurted:

"The dude was flirting hard! He was all over your sweetheart, Lamine—and then Y/N told him off for talking crap about Lamine!"

A pause. Then louder:

"Like… full-on protective mode! He punched the dude because of YOU, Lamine!"

Lamine’s frown deepened—not out of anger, but something far worse: weakness. Not emotional weakness like crying—no. It was the quiet, crushing kind—the realization that he’d messed up in a way that might not be fixable. You still loved him. Enough to flirt with someone else just to move on… Enough to punch a guy for disrespecting his name… And yet here Lamine was—guilty, frozen, unable to do anything about it because he had been the one who walked away. He stared at his untouched drink as the team buzzed around him laughing at their friend's gossip dump—but inside?

He felt small. Regretful. Stuck between wanting you back and being terrified of what that would mean—for himself... for football... for everything.

It was 11PM. Lamine stood outside your hotel room he somehow remembered—hallway lights dim, silence everywhere except the faint hum of the air conditioning. He didn’t text. Didn’t knock gently or hesitate. No—he banged on the door like an idiot with too much pride and not enough courage to use his words properly. Like a cop raid or someone who forgot their key in panic—not romantic at all, but classic Lamine: impulsive, loud when nervous… doing something stupid because he had no idea how to fix this quietly. He did it scared. Did it embarrassed and desperate.

The door swung open with a creak. You stood there—still in that casual shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly messy, eyes tired and annoyed. You hadn’t even changed yet. Clearly been waiting up… or maybe not sleeping. You looked at Lamine—really looked—and didn’t say anything at first.

Just that deep frown. That quiet disappointment mixed with exhaustion from the day: losing the match, punching someone for him… then running out alone like you always did when hurt.

“Why are you here…?” You asked. Trying to mask the annoyance in your tone after he bangs on the door like a maniac. Lamine flinched—just slightly—at the sharp tone. You weren't yelling, but that cold scold hit harder than any scream. The disappointment in your voice cut through Lamine’s bravado like a knife. For once, he didn’t have a slick comeback or an excuse ready. Instead of answering right away, Lamine just stood there—shoulders tense, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets—and stared at you like he was trying to memorize every detail: the tired eyes… the frown lines from stress… how beautiful and angry you looked even now. Finally… softly…

"I had to see you.”

Lamine’s throat tightened. You weren't looking at him. That was worse than anger—avoiding his eyes like you couldn’t bear to see Lamine’s face, like you were the one who hurt him.

"Make it quick," you said quietly, arms crossing over your chest—a shield against whatever Lamine came here to say. The hallway felt too narrow suddenly. The silence between them heavy with everything unsaid: the breakup, the fight, how you had defended him… and how badly Lamine had messed up by leaving in the first place. Leaving the internet sucks up all the gossip about you two.

Lamine swallowed hard—his usual confidence gone—and blurted out:

"I miss you.”

"You don't get to say that—you left” you weren't yelling, but the pain in your voice was worse. Quiet, broken… not angry so much as hurt. Like Lamine had ripped something precious out of your chest and walked away without looking back. And you were right. He had left a few months ago. Lamine opened his mouth to argue… but nothing came out at first because what could he even say? That it wasn’t personal? That he panicked over stupid things? So instead—with shaky hands and eyes suddenly glassy—he whispered:

"I know... I messed up.”

Your glare wavered. You wanted to stay mad. Wanted to keep that cold mask up—because if you let it crack, everything would come pouring out: the hurt, the loneliness after Lamine left, how much you still cared even though you shouldn’t…

But seeing Lamine like this—so vulnerable for once, voice soft and shaky with real regret—not smirking or cocky like usual… it made your chest ache. Your arms uncrossed slowly. Just slightly. The anger drained from your face—not completely gone—but replaced by something quieter… sadder. Like all that frustration was just a shield hiding how much you had missed him too…

“Go to sleep. You’re too drunk” you said dismissively as your hand pushed the door to shut it. Lamine braced his arm against the door—firm but not rough—stopping it from closing. You tried to push it shut, dismissive and tired, wanting Lamine to leave… but no. Not this time. Lamine didn’t say anything at first. Just held his ground with quiet stubbornness—the kind that said…I’m not leaving until we fix this.

His eyes were intense now: brown and dark under the hallway light, pleading without words. He wasn’t drunk—not even close—but he was desperate in a way only someone who’d messed up badly could be. He leaned slightly forward into your space—not threateningly… just refusing to let you shut him out again.

Lamine took a breath—deep, shaky—and then spoke. In Spanish—his native language, soft and sincere, the way he only ever talked when his heart was truly open.

"Lo siento mucho…" (I'm so sorry...)

His voice was quiet but raw with emotion. He didn’t try to hug you or kiss you—he just stood there in the doorway and poured everything out:

"Fui un cobarde… tenía miedo de lo que pensarán los demás… pero te extrañé cada día." (I was a coward... I feared what others would think... but I missed you every day.) Each word trembled slightly—not rehearsed. Just honesty.

Lamine’s voice grew more urgent—each word tumbling out faster now, like he was afraid you would slam the door if he paused.

"No fue por ti… nunca fue por ti,"

(It wasn’t about you… it never was about you.) His hands twitched at his sides—wanting to reach for you but not daring to. So instead, he kept talking:

"Tuve miedo de que me vieran diferente si salía contigo… pensé que sería débil... pero soy débil ahora sin ti."

(I was scared people would see me differently if I dated you... I thought that'd make me weak... but right now? I'm weak without you.)

A beat of silence followed. Then softly:

"¿Me das otra oportunidad?" (Will you give me another chance?)

Your eyes softened—finally, finally—the cold wall around your heart cracking. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn't dramatic forgiveness with tears and hugs right away… but the hardness in your gaze melted into something fragile: hope, maybe. Or at least the quiet realization that Lamine meant every word. That raw confession—the way he admitted being scared, being weak without him—it hit you deep where it mattered most. Because all those months of love? They weren’t fake to you either.

For a second… Neither moved. Then slowly—so slowly—you reached out first.

The kiss was sudden—your lips meeting Lamine’s first—soft at first, hesitant, like a question. And Lamine answered instantly. He surged forward, cupping your face with both hands and deepening the kiss—hungry, desperate after weeks of silence and distance. In one swift motion, he pushed the door shut behind them with his foot before spinning you around to press you gently against it. His hands slid into your hair as their mouths moved together—the kind of kiss that said everything they couldn’t say aloud: I missed you… I’m sorry… please forgive me.

Lamine kissed like he was starving. Every second of separation—the weeks without your lips, his warmth, the way you always tasted faintly sweet—crashed into him at once. He didn’t pull back for air. Didn’t even remember how to breathe properly. Just kept pressing closer—lips soft but urgent against yours, hands gripping gently at your shoulders like anchoring himself after drifting too long.

The kiss deepened naturally: slow then hungry again as Lamine leaned into it fully, pouring every regret and longing and “I love you” that words couldn't describe fully… right there in that messy hallway embrace.

The pressure was gentle but firm—Lamine’s knee slid slightly between your legs as he leaned into you, keeping you pinned against the door without being rough. It wasn’t dominant or forceful… just close. Intimate. A way of saying I’m not letting go again without words. You could feel the warmth of Lamine’s body—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft brush of their noses between kisses that never truly ended. Every breath they took mixed together in small puffs against each other's lips.

No space left for doubt now. Just two boys who loved each other—messy past be damned—and finally kissing like they meant it.

You broke the kiss—your hands sliding up to gently grip the back of Lamine’s neck, fingers tangling in those soft curls. You pulled him just an inch away, both of them breathing hard—chests rising fast, lips slightly swollen from kissing. Your eyes searched Lamine’s face: his flushed cheeks, those wide brown eyes full of emotion… and suddenly all that built-up anger felt far away.

Still holding his nape like if you let go, Lamine would make you stop breathing by his neediness.

“Are you fucking nuts?” You huffed.

Lamine blinked—still dazed from the kiss—but a tiny, breathless smile tugged at his lips. You were scolding him. Calling him nuts with that familiar tone—half annoyed, half fond—the one you used when Lamine did something recklessly sweet without thinking. And okay… yeah. He’d kissed like an idiot. All teeth and no rhythm earlier because he was too overwhelmed to be careful.

But hearing you say it like that—voice rough but not really mad? It made warmth bloom in his chest. Without answering back yet, Lamine just leaned forward again… slower this time—and pressed their lips together properly: soft, sweet… giving you space to breathe between kisses.

The kiss never really broke. One second they were by the door—lips locked, hands in hair—and the next, clothing started falling: jackets slipping off shoulders, shirts unbuttoned improperly. Shoes kicked off haphazardly near the entrance. Lamine wasn’t patient enough to undo them neatly. No romance or slow undressing here… just urgent need—the kind that comes from weeks of missing each other so much it hurt.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft bounce, boxers low on your hips. Lamine climbed over you instantly. He crashed his mouth onto your neck—kissing, biting gently—not hard enough to hurt but enough to mark—and started rolling his hips down against you in slow, teasing dry humps. A quiet rhythm: fabric-on-fabric friction that made both of them breathe heavier. Warm palms pressing against bare skin as Lamine savours every inch.

Lamine’s lips trailed down—soft, open-mouthed kisses that started at your collarbone and traveled lower. Every inch of skin he touched responded: the way you arched slightly under him, how your breath hitched when Lamine reached the dip between your collarbones… it sent a thrill through Lamine. He smiled faintly against warm skin—God, he needed this—before pressing another kiss right over your heartbeat. One your chest… where he could feel every quick pulse beneath. His hands gently squeezed at your sides as he kissed onward.

Lamine’s hips moved on their own—hungry, seeking friction. The thin fabric of his boxers did nothing to hide the growing bulge pressing against you. Each slow grind down sent a jolt through him—heat building low in his stomach—and he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. He kissed deeper now, more desperate: mouth hot and open as it slid from your chest up to reclaim your lips again. At the same time, one hand crept lower—fingers skimming over toned abs before brushing just above the waistband of those boxers…Testing… wanting more. Lamine hovered over you—propped on his forearms now, eyes dark with desire but still searching for consent.

"¿Tienes condón… y lubricante?" (Do you have a condom… and lube?) His voice was low—gentle but urgent. No pressure, just checking before going any further. He knew this wasn't just about lust, it was about trust... intimacy they hadn't shared in weeks.

“Yeah…in my travel bag…where it always stays” you muttered.

Lamine’s lips curved into a small, smug smile. You have been ready. Prepared. That could really mean… you’d expected this. Maybe even hoped for it—maybe thought about it too when they were apart. And Lamine couldn’t resist teasing you just a little—playfully, affectionately:

"¿Me extrañaste tanto que guardaste condón por si volvía?" (Did you miss me so much you kept a condom just in case I came back?) He said it with that soft smirk—the one you knew all too well—the playful glint in his brown eyes as he brushed a curl from your forehead before leaning down to kiss you again.

“No, you jerk” you said.

Lamine chuckled—actually laughed—a rare, light sound that escaped him when you swatted his hand away. He didn’t even flinch. Just grinned wider at the scold—jerk, huh? That was new. He usually got called “asshole” or “bastard” by you when he teased too much. But this time, Lamine leaned right back in and kissed the corner of your mouth—a quick peck—before murmuring against your lips.

"Estás lindo cuando te enojas." (You’re cute when you’re mad) Then, without missing a beat… he reached toward your travel bag where condoms and lube were kept.

Lamine ignored the "fuck off"—he knew you didn’t mean it. That grumpy tone just made him smile more. With careful hands, he tugged down your boxers, tossing them. The cool air hit their skin for a second before warmth took over again as Lamine reached for the lube. He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers and rubbed slowly to spread the heat around your sensitive hole. Then he leaned down… kissed you deeply once more… before letting one finger trail further.

You gasped—sharp and quiet—as Lamine’s finger slipped in, slow but firm, with that patient persistence only someone who’d done this before could have. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t gentle either—just steady: knowing exactly how to stretch, how much pressure to apply… like his body remembered you perfectly.

Lamine watched every micro-expression on your face—the slight parting of lips, the way your chest rose faster—and without a word, he added another finger carefully. His other hand braced beside your head while he leaned down… kissing you deeply again as if sharing breaths could soften what came next.

The sound—your soft moan—sent a shiver straight through Lamine. It wasn’t loud, just a quiet, breathy "Lamine…", but it hit him like electricity. That voice—tender and vulnerable in that moment—was one of his favorites. He kissed you deeper in response, swallowing the next whimper as he curled his fingers slightly inside you—not rushing yet, still preparing gently despite the growing heat between them. His lips moved to your jaw… then down to your neck where he left open-mouthed kisses along warm skin. Every touch was deliberate now: slow and thorough because this mattered.

Lamine lowered his lips to the shell of your ear—warm breath ghosting over sensitive skin—and whispered a soft praise:

"Eres perfecto…" (You’re perfect…) The words were quiet, tender—meant only for you. Right after, he dragged his tongue gently over the fresh hickey on your neck—the one he’d just marked with a kiss and slight suck—a slow lick that soothed the sting slightly while sending another wave of warmth through them.

Lamine slowly pulled his fingers free—watching your face for any sign of discomfort, but seeing only that quiet shiver instead—and then he straightened up slightly. In one smooth motion, he yanked down his own boxers, letting them drop to the floor. His cock sprang free—hard and heavy with need—and there was no hiding how much he wanted this. He grabbed the condom from where it waited on the nightstand… tore it open with his teeth… and rolled it on without breaking eye contact.

His breath caught. You—so beautiful like this—lying back with legs slightly parted, lips caught between your teeth in that nervous-biting way you did when you were excited or liking what you were seeing. Your eyes were locked on Lamine, full of quiet admiration and something warmer… softer. And it made Lamine feel seen. Cherished. Like the most important person in the world right now. Without a word, he climbed over you again—his body hovering above yours—and leaned down to kiss you deeply: slow at first… then hungrier as his hand framed your cheek gently.

The contact was light—just the very tip of Lamine’s cock brushing against your hole. No pressure yet. No rush to enter. Just slow, teasing friction—Lamine rolling his hips gently in a shallow grind, testing… feeling the heat and softness there. It drove them both crazy—the delay. The anticipation building is like static before lightning strikes.

“Don’t fucking tease me…” you huffed.

Lamine smirked—just a tiny one, the corner of his mouth quirking up at your scold.

"I'm not teasing," he murmured, voice low and rough with want—but even as he said it, he did exactly that: another slow grind of his hips against your entrance… no push to go in yet. His arms braced on either side of your head as their bodies pressed closer. The warmth between them built—the shared breathless tension—but Lamine kept holding back just enough to drive you mad. Then finally… gently… he started pushing forward.

Lamine exhaled sharply—a soft curse “fuckk…”—as he finally, finally, sank into you. The tight heat wrapped around him instantly—the familiar warmth and pressure that made his whole body tense with pleasure. It had been weeks since they’d done this… too long. His eyes fluttered shut for a second as the sensation overwhelmed him: the snugness, how perfectly your body took him in… even after everything. He didn’t rush. Just stayed there for a breath—forehead resting against your shoulder—as his hips adjusted to being inside again.

Lamine started moving almost instantly. His hips rolled in a steady rhythm, deep and eager, each thrust smooth but firm. There was no teasing left—just pure need to feel you again like this: close, connected, skin on skin like it meant to be. The bed creaked softly beneath them as Lamine found his pace—gentle at first but gaining confidence with every motion. Each time he pushed in fully and pulled back slowly before diving forward again.

Your legs stayed locked around Lamine—tight, like you never wanted to let go—and with each eager thrust, their bodies pressed even closer. Their kiss deepened: tongues meeting hungrily, messy and breathless. Lamine kissed back just as desperately—one hand tangled in your hair, pressing you deeper into the pillow while the other gripped your hip to pull you into every movement. The rhythm grew slightly faster now… deeper…No space between them. Just heat, skin on skin—and that quiet moan you couldn’t quite hold back anymore.

Lamine’s breath hitched at the sensation—you clenching around him, body tightening in that quiet, instinctive way that made Lamine’s pulse spike.

It felt so good—too good—and instead of rushing or chasing his own pleasure right away, he slowed slightly. His hand slid from your hip up to your side… warm palm soothing over soft skin with gentle circles. He kissed the corner of your mouth—briefly tender—before murmuring against it:

"Relájate… estoy aquí." (Relax… I’m right here.) Then resumed thrusting deeper but smoother now.

The rhythm turned relentless. Lamine pulled almost all the way out—just enough to tease the edge of separation—before slamming back in with a controlled but powerful thrust that made your body sink deeper into the mattress. Your legs lifted higher, pinned slightly by Lamine's strength as each impact drove them both further into pleasure. No softness now—just raw, urgent pounding: skin meeting skin, breathless moans escaping between gasps. Lamine wasn’t gentle anymore—not because he didn’t care about you—but because this was what they needed right now: intensity… closeness… proof there is still “us” in this relationship.

The sound of his name—Lamine—whispered, moaned, pleaded in that soft, breathless voice of yours… it unraveled him completely.

His hips stuttered for a second—thrust losing its perfect rhythm because hearing you say his name like that? So sweetly? Like you worshipped him? It undid everything. Without thinking, Lamine leaned down and kissed you fiercely—a messy collision of lips—as if trying to swallow every future moan too.

The kiss broke—Lamine’s lips parted from yours—and instantly, the rough pounding returned. Harder. Deeper. Each thrust driving you into the mattress with enough force to make your toes curl in the air in pleasure, muscles tightening as pleasure surged through you.

You gasped—breath ragged and open-mouthed this time—not even trying to hold back sounds anymore. The sensation was overwhelming: fullness, heat—all of it crashing together. And Lamine loved it—the way you looked right now: flushed face… trembling legs… completely lost in feeling.

Lamine’s voice dropped to a husky whisper—low, rough with lust—as he leaned close to your ear.

"Dios… te ves tan bien así," (God… you look so good like this.) Then filthier, more intense:

“Tan perfecto, apoderándose de cada centímetro de mí” (so perfect…taking every inch of me” His words were dirty but tender—full of praise and admiration for how you looked right now: wrecked by pleasure, body arching subtly with each thrust.

You gasped—sharp and startled—as the wave of pleasure crashed through you. It hit fast, intense, because Lamine had found that spot—the one that always unraveled you completely. And now he was hitting it over and over on purpose.

For a second, you felt shy—embarrassed at how easily your body responded to Lamine’s rhythm… how quickly you were falling apart beneath those strong hips. Your cheeks flushed even deeper. You couldn’t control the little whimpers escaping or the way your legs trembled around Lamine anymore.

Lamine kept your leg pinned—firm but not harsh—using the leverage to angle deeper with every rough thrust. He wasn’t trying to be cruel… just relentless. Dragging out pleasure like he was stripping it from you layer by layer, each motion deliberate and intense. And between heavy breaths, he teased again—voice thick with amusement and lust:

"¿Ya? ¿Tan rápido?" (Already? That fast?) A smirk played on his lips as he watched you squirm—the way your body tensed too soon because Lamine had hit that sweet spot over and over without mercy.

The bed creaked in protest—each thrust making the frame groan under their weight. And between that: skin clapping—soft but rhythmic, a steady slap of hips meeting hips, loud enough to fill the quiet room. Your moans came out breathy and uneven now—no control left. Every time Lamine drove into you just right, another sound escaped: gasps, whimpers… little cries you couldn’t swallow down. Lamine wasn’t slowing. Wasn’t being gentle. Just focused on wrecking you completely—the way your body arched with every impact proving how much it was working.

Lamine’s body tensed—every muscle locking up—as the wave of pleasure crashed over him. A low, soft groan escaped his lips, muffled slightly against your shoulder where he’d instinctively buried his face. His hips stuttered—then pushed forward one last time, burying himself as deep as possible while he came. It was intense—the heat and pressure building for weeks now finally releasing in that single moment. No rush… just slow pulses of bliss rolling through him. For a few seconds, Lamine stayed there: breathless… quiet… still inside you but motionless.

The words were quiet—barely a whisper—and half-muffled into the curve of your neck. But they were there. Soft, sincere… in Spanish:

"Te amo…" Just Lamine, still breathless from coming, pressing his lips gently to your skin and murmuring it like a secret—like something too precious to say out loud where anyone else could hear. Then he didn’t pull away right after either. Just stayed curled against him, breathing slowly as if memorizing this closeness

“I love you too…” your voice, lazy and satisfied, curling like smoke around Lamine. That smirk was audible. Lamine didn’t need to see your face to know you were smiling—that soft, smug little grin that always showed up after they’d just made love. And hearing “I love you too” in that tone? It made warmth bloom in Lamine's chest all over again.