yvetté

The final whistle blew—Dortmund won 2-1. Jobe didn’t hesitate, he has only one thing in mind. The second the score was confirmed, he sprinted across the pitch toward you, adrenaline still pumping from their last-minute goal that sealed victory…But halfway there—mid-field—he turned his head. A group of opponents’ fans had started chanting loudly from their section: "You’re nothing like your brother!" Harsh. Personal. A direct jab at Jobe’s identity—the shadow of his famous older sibling looming over him every game… For a split second, his steps faltered slightly…

He had heard it before—hundreds of times. But that didn’t make it sting any less. It always did. Every single time. No matter how many goals he scored or how well he played—the comparison never stopped. And now? Right after their big win? The joy drained from his face instantly—replaced by that familiar hollow ache in his chest. You saw him slow down, noticing the change on his face.

Jobe didn’t celebrate with the team. Didn’t join the huddle. Didn’t pounce on you or run toward the coach. Instead, he bolted—straight off the field and entered the changing room where it was quiet. Empty changing stalls and lockers, shower sprays… no one around after a match like this…

He needed space. Now. The weight of that chant crushed him more than any loss ever could—and suddenly winning didn't feel good anymore. It felt hollow because all he heard in his head was: "You're nothing like your brother." And Jobe just... walked fast until there were no sounds left but his own breathing…

Jobe leaned against the cold wall in the changing room, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He told himself it would only take a few minutes—just enough to reset. Clear his head. Breathe. The usual way he always handled things when emotions got messy…The distant roar of fans celebrating Dortmund’s win echoed faintly around the corner, but here? Silence. Just him and that stupid chant looping in his mind like a broken record… He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose—counting seconds until he could go back out without looking shaken…

“Bellingham?” Your voice was quiet—calm, not demanding—as you stepped into the dim room. You spotted Jobe instantly: shoulders tense, arms crossed, staring at nothing. The victory celebration still raged on the other side of the stadium… but here? It felt distant. Like a different world. Without saying anything else at first, you walked over slowly and stopped a few feet away from him…

Jobe turned—slowly—and faced you. He forced his expression to be neutral. Calm. Like nothing was wrong, even though his jaw was still a little tight and his eyes weren’t as bright as they’d been right after scoring the winning goal…

"Hey." he said simply, voice steady but quieter than usual.

You studied Jobe’s face for a second: the tension in his brow, the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes fully… and it clicked. The fans. The chant about his brother. All of the things you heard as well from the other side of the stadium.

So you sighed—not dramatically, just a tired exhale—and took one small step closer.

"You're letting them get into your head again... aren't you?" Your observation—like someone who knew exactly what those words did to Jobe every single time they were thrown at him…

Jobe’s shoulders slumped slightly at your words—guilty, almost sheepish. He didn’t want to ruin your night. The win had been their moment—the whole team celebrated together—but those anti fans screaming about his brother? That noise cut through everything like a blade. And he couldn't control how loud they were. How personal their insults felt. No matter how much he tried not to care, it always got under his skin.

Now being there with you looking at him so softly—like you understood the weight of that comparison better than anyone else probably did—Jobe felt stupid for letting it bother him this much...but he just couldn’t help it…

You crouched down in front of Jobe, who was slumped tiredly against the wall. Without hesitation, you cupped his cheek, warm palm cradling the side of Jobe’s face—and turned him gently to meet your eyes.

Your voice was low. Soft. "What can I do to make this all go away?"

A kiss? A hug? Words? Something stronger? He didn’t know—but he wanted something…

The locker room was quiet—empty except for the two of them. Jobe looked up at you. No words this time. Just need in his eyes—raw and unguarded. That same ache from earlier hadn’t faded completely… but now it twisted into something else under the dim glow of the bulbs above. He wanted comfort that wasn't just talking anymore. Wanted closeness—not romantic or soft necessarily—but intense. Something to drown out everything bad.

“Use your words, Bellingham” you were smirking—that same confident, knowing look that always made Jobe’s pulse jump. So instead of staying silent or letting the moment stretch awkwardly, Jobe swallowed hard… and finally spoke.

His voice came out quieter than usual—not shy exactly, but cautious: "I… I want you."

The changing stall was tiny—barely room for two people but enough. Jobe nudged you inside first, then followed quickly before locking the door with a soft click. The sound sealed them in—a private pocket within the locker room. Dim light seeped through the narrow gap at the top…

“Just a quick one okay? Then you will have to come back outside” you smirked as Jobe pushed you back against the wall, but there wasn’t time to play around. Like a parent promising if the kid eats their dinner properly, they will get toys.

The kiss deepened—hot and hungry. You uncap the small bottle of lube you fetched from your duffle bag before Jobe drags you into the stall, squeezed a decent amount onto your finger without looking away from Jobe’s face. Then you were back on him—kissing again, but now one hand slid down to Jobe’s entrance while the other stayed busy keeping Jobe in place from squirming, prepping discreetly in the cramped space.

Your finger pumped in and out of Jobe quickly, getting him ready without wasting time or making it overly sensual. It was quick—practical intimacy for two guys who knew exactly what they wanted right now: a fast release to clear the tension. The cramped stall didn’t help either, every movement was tight and limited by space… but you adjusted anyway, focused only on preparing Jobe as swiftly as possible before moving to the next step.

Jobe muffled his moan into your shoulder—trying to stay quiet, even in this cramped space where every sound echoed slightly off the metal stall. But he didn’t waste time either. His hands scrambled down your hips, pushing your shorts and boxers just past your thighs with quick tugs—And there it was: your cock sprang free instantly, already half-hard from all the kissing and closeness. Jobe wrapped a hand around you without hesitation—firmly stroked downward.

A thin sheen of sweat formed on Jobe’s forehead—tiny droplets glistening under the dim light filtering through the stall. He gasped quietly when your finger curled just right—hitting that spot inside him with perfect precision. The sensation shot through his nerves like a spark, making his thighs tense and breath hitch. Still trying to stay quiet for once, but it was hard—especially in this tight space where every little movement makes his body feel like it was on fire. You could feel how ready Jobe was—the heat, the subtle clench around your fingers.

In one smooth motion after slipping your fingers out, you lifted Jobe—strong arms easily scooping him up—and pinned him against the stall wall. Their bodies pressed flush together in the cramped area. Then your cock nudged forward—already lined up—and without a warning, you pushed inside. A firm, decisive slide into heat that welcomed you instantly after prep, both of them gasping quietly at the sudden damp fullness.

Jobe bit his lip hard—teeth pressing into soft skin—to keep any sound from escaping.

The volume of your cock filled him completely, stretching him in the best way possible. It might have knocked out every negative thought, no room for that stupid chant about his brother or comparisons to anyone else. Just this: heat, pressure, and the overwhelming presence of your thick length inside him—blocking out everything else. His hands gripped your shoulders tightly—not pushing away but anchoring himself as their bodies moved together in tight, heated sync.

You set a fast, hard pace right from the start: sharp thrusts in that tiny stall. It wasn’t romantic or slow—they both knew this was just about release—but you gave it everything: hips snapping forward relentlessly, chasing that finish because they had to wrap this up before someone checked on them.

Jobe’s moans were muffled—pressed into your neck—but they came anyway, breathless and quiet. Every ruthless thrust drove him harder against the stall wall—the metal clinking faintly with each impact, small thump thump noises echoing in the changing room. The tightness around you was intense, overwhelming in the best way. The thick length pumping into him without mercy. He clung tighter, legs instinctively locking around your waist tighter for better leverage.

You panted the words between thrusts—your breath heavy, voice strained with pleasure.

"Eres muy travieso–" (you’re so naughty) Even after playing a full football match—exhausting your body on the field for ninety minutes—you still had this energy. This stamina. And now you used it all right here, pounding into Jobe like a machine: relentless, rhythmic, needy. The force of it made Jobe’s toes curl inside his socks—the sensation overwhelming—and turned him into a moaning mess against that cold metal wall.

Jobe blinked—surprised for a second that you had switched to Spanish. That playful, teasing tone wrapped around your words:

"¿Crees que follar en público es una buena idea?" (Do you think fucking in public is a good idea?) It was filthy. Lighthearted. And honestly? Kinda hot—you rarely spoke much during intimate moments like this, but when you did? It always came out low and smooth.

Even though Jobe didn’t understand the Spanish words, he got the vibe. The tone—low, rough, playful with an edge of heat—told him everything. You were definitely saying something filthy… maybe teasing him about how wild this was or how reckless they were being. And yeah—Jobe liked it. A lot. He wasn’t a Spanish speaker but damn if that accent and that voice didn't do things to him. The way you said those foreign words sent a thrill down his spine, adding to the intensity of their already heated moment. So he just smiled slightly—turned on by whatever dirty thing you had whispered to him.

You huffed—half annoyed, half amused at Jobe’s sheepish smile. But you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down either. Even though Jobe was taller than you by a few inches, you had no trouble holding his weight. Your strong biceps flexed with every thrust—the muscles taut and powerful as you keep Jobe pressed against the stall wall to keep them both steady. Skin slapped softly in the tight space, their bodies moving together in heated sync despite being in such a risky place.

Jobe’s hand slid down to his own cock, stroking fast, urgently as he chased his climax right alongside your relentless pounding. Every movement sent sparks through him, the pleasure building quickly in that tight space with their bodies pressed so close.

A soft groan escaped him as he tipped over the edge—coming into his palm, careful not to make a mess on their football jersey. His thighs tensed around you for a second before relaxing slightly, riding out of the high.

That sight made your breath hitched—your thrusts turning sharper, more desperate as you chased your own climax. You drink in the view: Jobe coming in your caging arms—flushed face, half-lidded eyes, the way his body trembled slightly from release—was hot. Really damn hot. And it pushed you over the edge fast. Your hips snapped steadily against Jobe’s as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. Jobe winced slightly—not from pain, but because your pace had turned feral now. Desperate. Wild. And that? It turned him on more than anything—knowing how badly you wanted this, wanted him.

He didn’t want to admit that your cock was driving him crazy—but his body did: leaning in closer, tightening around you instinctively like he was trying to pull every last drop of pleasure from this moment.

Your groan was quiet—low and thick with release—as you came, your body tensing for a split second before the waves of pleasure rolled through you. Your hand clenched hard on Jobe’s glute—fingers pressing into warm skin, holding tight as you rode out your climax in the changing stall.

Jobe groaned at the strange feeling of you spilling inside him. No protection nor pulling out. Just pure, unfiltered warmth spreading deep within, a sensation that should’ve been concerning but instead felt weirdly good. It was intimate in a way neither had planned—the heat of it sent another small shiver through Jobe’s body. His muscles clenched slightly around you instinctively—not to push away, but almost like his body was savoring the closeness for just a second longer.

He wasn’t the type to gush or say sweet things out loud, but even he had to admit it felt really good. The warmth spreading inside him after you came—so unplanned, so messy—that closeness did something weirdly comforting to his chest. So quietly, without looking directly into your eyes yet, Jobe muttered: "...That felt kinda nice." —the first time admitting anything like that since they’d started doing this.

“What?” You turned your head slightly—still catching your breath—and looked directly at Jobe. Your eyes were soft now, the post-orgasm haze making them hazy and warm. You studied him: flushed cheeks, messy clothes from being pressed against the wall and that rare moment of vulnerability after something so intimate.

Jobe hated talking about this stuff—especially right after something so intimate. Vulnerability wasn’t his strong suit, especially when it came to feelings during or after sex. But he knew you deserved an answer. And if there was even a chance this would happen again—maybe on purpose next time?—then Jobe should say it properly. So clearing his throat quietly, still avoiding eye contact for a second, he finally spoke up:

"...It just… felt good," he admitted again but clearer now. "Being filled like that."

Your smirk returned—wide and shameless. The second Jobe admitted how good it felt, you knew you had leverage. And of course? You weren't about to waste it. So without missing a beat, you pushed Jobe’s button:

"Ohhh… you're naughty." Your tone was playful but deliberately teasing—like calling him out for enjoying something so intimate, filthy that most guys would never say aloud.

Jobe’s nose scrunched instantly—annoyed. One second he was being honest, and the next? You turned it into a joke. Called him naughty like some kind of flirty insult. And now that smirk? That stupid, teasing look? It pissed him off. So Jobe didn’t hesitate—he snapped back with a curse under his breath:

"Shut up, asshole."

You grinned—fully aware you were poking the bear now—and deliberately shifted your voice into a mocking British accent. It wasn’t even close to accurate. Overly posh, exaggerated vowels, and a fake upper-crust tone:

"That's not very well mannered init?" You mimicked Jobe’s accent horribly—on purpose—and said it with playful sarcasm, just to annoy him further.

Jobe groaned—deeply annoyed—and tried to turn his head away, like he was ready to storm off if you would just move. But he couldn’t. They were still pressed up in that changing stall. Jobe was pinned against the wall, and your cock? Still inside him. Not fully soft yet—just barely relaxed after coming.

Jobe rolled his eyes hard—like so done with your stupid accent and relentless teasing. Instead of biting back with another curse, he just gave a flat, deadpan response:

"Really mature."

“I’m just kidding…you feel better?” You tilted your head slightly—like a massive cheetah observing its mate—your dark eyes soft but curious. You studied Jobe’s face, searching for any sign that the mood had improved after their earlier banter and irritation. The kiss on his neck had been sweet… So maybe things were okay again?

Jobe hummed—low and content—a soft, wordless answer. Yeah. He felt better.

The intense lovemaking had done what it always did: undone him completely. Not in a messy emotional way, but in the best sense possible—the kind of release that reset everything: stress, anger, even those stupid fan chants about his brother and him. Now? Just calm warmth. The afterglow settled over him like a blanket. So he didn’t say much—just leaned slightly into your touch without thinking. Letting you handle him with care because in your eyes, he might be glass.

The team dinner had been long—celebrations after the big win, speeches from coaches, teammates laughing and toasting… it was fun but draining.

By the time Jobe and Y/N got back to their hotel room, both were exhausted. Tired muscles from football + a packed night of celebration = pure fatigue.

Jobe kicked off his shoes first, then collapsed face-first onto the bed without even changing clothes. A quiet groan escaped him as he melted into the mattress. You followed behind—shutting the door softly and started unbuttoning your shirt slowly.

You snorted softly at the sight of Jobe—completely limp, face smushed into the pillow like a dead weight. The guy had gotten everything tonight: an incredible fuck in that cramped locker room stall, an amazing team win dinner with plenty of food and drinks… honestly? Life couldn’t get much better for Jobe right now. So you didn’t tease. Didn’t wake him up or make fun of his dramatic collapse.

Instead, you just smiled to yourself—quietly satisfied and started undressing before climbing onto the bed beside Jobe. Jobe groaned, half-annoyed, half-amused—as you suddenly flopped down on top of him, crushing his limp body into the mattress. It wasn’t heavy enough to hurt… but it was there, all that solid warmth pinning Jobe beneath you. And then you spoke—probably something teasing or stupidly sweet—and Jobe just grumbled in response.

He didn’t push you off, just laid there like a flattened pancake, perfectly content. Didn’t bother addressing their relationship after literally letting you come inside of him. That’s for tomorrow when he has the strength for.

The off-season break was Jobe’s favorite time of year—no tense training schedules, no matches, just pure freedom. And this summer? He’d invited you back to his place—a cozy penthouse with a pool and his own sauna. It was quiet, private… perfect for relaxing together without any distractions.

The days at Jobe’s place were lazy and perfect. One evening, he lounged at the dining table—barefoot, shirtless, sipping cold lemonade you hand-squeezed for him—just watching you move around the kitchen. The sight of your broad back flexing as you cooked something was oddly comforting.

Earlier? They’d had a great fuck in the hot tub—the water steaming around them and later soaked in the sauna while chatting about nothing important: stupid jokes, football gossip that didn’t matter now, fashion, brand deals…

Jobe had been savoring every second with S

You—each lazy morning, each shared meal, each steamy moment in the gym or outside exploring Germany.

But now? Tonight felt different. He’d made up his mind. After months of sneaking around and quiet intimacy… he wanted more. He wanted this to be official. So while you stood shirtless at the stove—focused on grilling perfect steaks, muscles glistening slightly from earlier time outside—Jobe silently prepared.

You raised a brow, amused at his reaction to you…your arrival had shifted the team pretty much and he hated you—your arrogant attitude, big ego, typical rising star handsome footballer. Jobe doesn’t even know where the coach gets you from…probably a random field in Brasil—ridiculous. “Nope. Just better than you.”

Jobe stepped closer, frowned “You’re not.” You stood still, back straight like bracing yourself for whatever impulsive Jobe was about to do.

“Your eyes have been glued to me since I arrived,” you said quietly. “Say what you came to say, Bellingham.” challenging. Provocative.

Jobe’s breath caught. He grabbed you by the neck and shoulder, quickly shoved you back against the lockers. Their mouths crashed. You kissed like how you played—controlled, dominating, overwhelming. You didn’t think about football. Or fame. Or women. He thought about you all the time since your arrival. And how he never wanted anyone else again. Like a wild beast he was intimidated by but also can’t help but step closer—hard to resist.

“You’re not the chill…smiley guy they made you out to be” you broke the kiss, giving Jobe space to breathe because boy, he almost forgot oxygen existed. Jobe's breath hitched as your hand slid along his waist—warm, deliberate, infuriating. The smirk on those lips—the one that had haunted him through every post-match interview—was doing things to him. Dangerous things. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"Shut up," Jobe growled, voice low and rough—but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t push back like he should’ve. Instead, he leaned into the touch like some starved fool.

"You’re not half as untouchable as you pretend." He added. It pissed Jobe off beyond belief…and turned his blood into fire.

Said the one who got handsy first, it made you chuckle. His frowning face, too cute to be true, you can’t help but poking your fingers into his wound—“at least I’m not insecure”

Jobe’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. That word hit harder than any tackle on the pitch. He hated that you noticed. Hated that anyone noticed how he stiffened when fans, interviewers compared him to Jude in interviews or social media threads. Or that chant “You’re nothing like your brother” loud and clear from the stadium above. And you? Of course you’d see it—the way Jobe scowled during post-match chats when someone brought up Jude again... how fast he changed topics…Now here this cold-eyed Spaniard was throwing it right back in his face like an insult wrapped in truth.

"Fuck you," Jobe muttered—but there was no heat behind it now. Or maybe, there is.

“Sure, go ahead. If that gives you a source of confidence”

Jobe’s face burned. The guy who barely spoke unless it was a tactical command on the field or a sarcastic remark that cut like glass. And now—now he was smirking, leaning into Jobe like this, saying things that made his stomach flip and his throat go dry all at once? His heart hammered so loud he swore you could hear it over the distant drip of shower water.

"Shut up," Jobe said again—but softer this time. Weakly. He didn’t want confidence boosts from sex—he never cared about those meaningless flings anyway, not really. But if this—if you touching him and talking to him in that low voice meant something… then yeah…Maybe it would mean everything. And God help him—that scared the hell out of Jobe more than any press conference ever had.

“You look like you need it. A nice date and good sex” you smirked. Just a way to refresh for the upcoming season.

Jobe’s breath caught again and his brain short-circuited like he forgot to use it for years.

You were chuckling. Actually laughing. That rare, quiet sound that only came out when you found something genuinely amusing—and right now, Jobe was the joke.

A nice date. A good fuck. For the season ahead. Like it was a strategy. Like this wasn’t about feelings or hearts or any of that soft crap people wrote in novels.

And you—the guy who never showed interest in anyone on or off the pitch—was suggesting him for it? Jobe swallowed hard. His throat felt dry as sandpaper.

"Y-you're not serious," he stammered—not cool at all—but what else could he say?

You shrugged. “I just came to the city anyway. You can be my tour guide” like you’re using Jobe as a source of fun for the night.

Jobe blinked. And suddenly, Jobe realized—he didn’t know anything about being normal with someone. He hadn’t taken anyone out in years—just shows up wherever they’re already waiting, all dressed up like it's an obligation. But this… this felt different. You wanted him to show you around? Germany? The thought lit something warm in Jobe’s chest—something hopeful and stupidly excited that made his fingers twitch at his sides. God help him, he felt special. For once.

"Yeah," he said quickly before overthinking it. "I can do that." Then added quietly: "...When?”

You weren't gonna make it easy for him, were you? No clear plan, no time given—just that lazy teasing tone and those raised brows.

“Don’t bore me with that question” like he should figure it out himself. Be the man. Lead.

If you wanted Jobe to pick… then Jobe would pick something good. He cleared his throat, trying—and failing—to sound casual. "Tomorrow night." Not too soon—he could still panic-shop for a decent outfit later. Not too far ahead—the anticipation might kill him before then.

"Seven?" he added quickly. "There's this little German place...quiet but really good food." And private enough that they wouldn't be mobbed by fans or paparazzi if someone recognized them.

Jobe’s stomach flipped at the sound of you laughing—actually laughing, that soft, rare huff like you’d just found something secretly funny. And then those words: “You’re the boss.” Playful. Sarcastic. Submitting without really submitting—because you would never fully submit to anyone. That was a joke… but also kind of hot? He tried not to grin too wide. Failed. Always had a problem with smiling too wide and getting that tingling in his stomach.

Yeah—he loved trouble. Always had. The reckless part of him—who flirted with danger more than people—loved this exact kind of chaos: a sharp-faced guy with attitude, dark humor, and zero fear of challenging him straight on. And now here he was… going on a date with said trouble incarnate tomorrow night.

"Don't make me regret it," Jobe shot back lightly—but there wasn’t an ounce of regret in his voice.

You walk away—shoulders relaxed, that quiet confidence in every step—you hear the footsteps coming close and yeah…not the best idea to be seen tangled up to your teammate after just arriving for a few weeks.

The locker room door clicked open down the hall. Voices approached. The team was coming back from dinner.

Instinct kicked in: Jobe straightened up fast, shoving his hands into his pockets like he hadn’t just been kissing someone seconds ago. Like nothing happened at all.

He pulled out his phone, pretending to be busy on it while he literally was fiddling with the weather app—anything to look busy and not suspicious.

You moved efficiently—grabbing your duffel bag from a lower bench where it had been sitting since the match earlier that day. No lingering glances between them now, they were both professionals even if Jobe’s heart wasn't cooperating. But beneath it all… yeah… there was still that feeling.

Jobe exhaled slowly, tying his second shoelace with more focus than necessary.

Football was supposed to be simple. Train hard. Score goals. Win trophies. Build his name—not Jude’s shadow, not the Bellingham legacy handed down like a title he had to earn every damn day just to keep up in people’s eyes. He’d worked so hard for what he had today.

But then you showed up…and completely threw Jobe off the orbit. Quiet transfer from a Spain club who didn’t care about headlines or fame—or maybe you just didn't need them like Jobe did. The type to play out of the love for the game.

And suddenly everything felt… complicated. The way you looked at him during practice wasn't admiration—it was challenge

The way other players whispered when they walked past each other? Envy mixed with curiosity. And now this... whatever this was between them after tonight.

Jobe spent an unusual amount of time getting ready.

He showered properly—not just a quick rinse—and used that fancy sandalwood body wash his stylist had given him months ago still sealed because he would rather use that mint bar soap. Shaved carefully, both his jaw and below the hips with different razors. just in case the date went...well, there.

His outfit: black Lucky You jeans and a big Ralph Lauren gray sweater over an unbuttoned white shirt—the kind Jude had once said looked "cool as hell" on him. Classic. Just... Jobe trying to look like someone you would actually want to spend time with.

He checked himself in the mirror three times before grabbing keys and walking out.

The night air cooled as you turned to face Jobe who just arrived in a fancy electric car. Jobe stepped out of his car slowly, door clicking shut behind him. He’d dressed to impress, but now faced with you in full effect… he felt a little overdressed.

Baggy jeans—long enough to pool slightly on the pavement like liquid shadow. A black F1 graphic tee that rode up just above your hipbones when you moved, showing off those Calvin Klein waistbands without even trying. Silver belt glinting under lamplight. Gold chains around your neck and both wrists catching every flicker of light. And that leather jacket slung over one arm.

You popped a mint into your mouth—masking the cigarette scent—and chewed once before looking at Jobe properly.

Jobe cleared his throat—suddenly aware of how dry it felt.

"Hey."

You stood there like a damn 2000s movie scene—tall, effortlessly cool in that chaotic way trouble had when it looked good on someone. And Jobe? Jobe was staring again. He forced himself to blink, then took a small step forward, hands tucked into his jeans pockets for something to do with them. Such an awkward handsome.

“You came on time” Yeah… Jobe was on time. Right at seven. Not a minute late. He shifted slightly under that quiet scrutiny—the way you glanced at your golden wristwatch before meeting his eyes again, assessing him silently. That subtle smirk though? It did things to Jobe’s stomach—a slow twist of warmth and something dangerously close to pride because he impressed you. Even if it's just a little.

“Yeah.” he said simply, voice steadier now than it had been all night.

Jobe opened the passenger door for you—not out of chivalry, but habit—the kind of thing he’d done a million times for his mom or even Jude. But this time felt different. Bigger somehow. The car smelled faintly like sandalwood from Jobe’s cologne. As Jobe circled around to the driver's side and got in, he started the engine and glanced at you beside him.

“There’s this German restaurant,” Jobe said after buckling up. “Authentic food… not tourist trap stuff.” He’d thought about it all day: where to take someone who had never been here before. You only hummed in return, observing details in the car.

Jobe’s hands tightened on the steering wheel just slightly as he pulled onto the main road. Nervous. Actually nervous. Not about a match, not about press scrutiny—but this. A date with you, of all people. He hadn’t been on one in… what? Two years? Maybe longer. Since his last fling—some influencer who ghosted him after three dates because “football life was too chaotic” And now here he was, trying to impress someone who didn't care about fame or any of that crap Jobe usually used to get attention. What if you thought he was boring? What if they sat through dinner and realized they had nothing in common? Worse—what if Jobe said something stupid and ruined everything before it even started? The silence between them stretched—not tense yet, but fragile.

What if you compared him? Not just as players—but as people? Did he talk enough? Was he too serious? Too focused on football while Jude could laugh and joke with everyone? Jobe wasn’t insecure about most things… but this? This scared him more than any high-pressure match ever had.

“What's it like when you first move to Germany?” you broke the silence first.

Jobe took a slow breath. Just be yourself. He repeated it in his head like a mantra—because for once, he wasn’t trying to perform. Not the confident football star, not the charming face on magazine covers… just Jobe.

“It was… weird,” he admitted quietly, finally setting his menu down. “I mean—It’s not so different from what it is like back in England.

A small pause.

“But when you move up? When people start watching everything you do…” He shrugged one shoulder. “It got lonely sometimes.”

Jobe tilted his head slightly—mirroring your earlier gesture without realizing it.

“What about you?” Jobe asked quietly. “How’s it been since… moving here?” The question wasn’t just polite—he genuinely wanted to know. You had come from Spain originally, but Jobe remembered reading somewhere that you were actually born in Brazil—a tiny detail buried in a club profile no one really paid attention to. Leaving home… especially for football? That couldn't be easy. And why Dortmund? You can thrive just fine in your homeland.

“It has been strangely smooth…or I’m just ignoring the bad details” He could relate. Sometimes, ignoring the bad stuff worked… until it didn’t.

“You don’t miss home?” Jobe asked, prodding gently. Not prying—just genuinely curious now that they were actually talking like normal people. Brazil must’ve been so different from cold German winters and quiet football towns compared to whatever vibrant life you had left behind.

“I do. Germany is far different. They dance to boring techno music and get fresher beers” Funk is more of your cup of tea, yeah.

Jobe grinned, leaning back in his chair.

“Wild and crazy,” he admits, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Yeah… Germany’s not exactly rich in loud, expressive cultural festivals, party animals unless you count Oktoberfest” Which was one massive exception—where everyone drank like there was no tomorrow.

Jobe watched you take that first bite—chewing slowly, expression thoughtful but not disgusted. Just… neutral. Not like Brazilian food, probably. He’d read somewhere that their dishes were packed with flavor—spicy meats, garlic-heavy sauces, vibrant colors. This German stew? Simple. Clean flavors from fresh ingredients and slow cooking—not explosive or exotic. You didn’t complain though. And then Jobe noticed something else: the napkin with the waitress’s number just sat there on the table edge—untouched—and you hadn’t even glanced at it since she left.

Your attention was fully on your food… and occasionally flickering up to Jobe. That weird feeling in Jobe’s chest intensified.

Jobe had always told himself the same thing—football first. Always football. No distractions. No messy feelings that could ruin his focus, his discipline. But sitting here with you—the way you tossed away that number without a second thought, how you actually listened when Jobe talked about being lonely… it made something in him crack. He didn’t just want attention. He wanted this. Someone who saw him—not Jude’s shadow or anything—but just Jobe. And put him first anyway. And God… if you ever looked at him like that? Like Jobe was the most important person in the room?

That would wreck every rule he'd set for himself.

The night air was cool, but the car felt warm—filled with easy conversation and soft laughter. Jobe drove slowly through the city streets, not taking any shortcuts. He wanted you to see everything: the glowing lights of downtown, quiet residential roads lined with trees, even passing by his favorite training ground. They talked about football—of course—but also other stuff. Music, you mentioned Brazilian funk, food, Jobe promised to take you to a proper German bakery next time, their childhoods.

No tension. No rivalry talk. Just two guys… getting along better than either would’ve expected weeks ago.

This was different. You were here. Present. Listening when Jobe talked, laughing at things that mattered, showing interest in small details—like how much you missed home cooking or why German rave sucked.

And right now? With you sitting beside him, window down slightly so cool night air brushed their faces… Jobe realized: He’s not just important here…He’s wanted.

Jobe took a deep breath, hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. For the first time in years—maybe ever—he let something raw slip out.

“I… I’ve always felt like I’m not good enough,” he admitted quietly, voice softer than usual. “Not just as a player. As… me.” He kept his eyes on the road, but everything inside him was exposed.

“People compare me to Jude all the time. Like my worth is only how close I am to being as good as him.”

A pause.

“And yeah—I love my brother—but sometimes it feels like no matter what I do… people still don’t see me.” Jobe exhaled slowly, the weight still pressing on his chest.

Your words helped—”You’re kidding” “…I see you”—but old thoughts don’t vanish that easily. They’re like scars: they fade, but they never disappear completely

“I know I’m good,” he said after a beat. “I mean… statistically? Yeah. Goals per game, assists—everything checks out.”

He turned onto a quieter road now—residential streets with dim streetlights

“But sometimes I wonder if people only cheer for me because of my last name… or because I play for Dortmund.”

“You're really letting your insecurity take over you. You need to get rid of it in order to see yourself too”

Jobe blinked at your bluntness. You need to get rid of it. Easy to say. Not easy to do

He didn’t even know how. He’d spent years building walls—telling himself he had to be perfect, relentless, always the best because anything less would mean people stop believing in him.

And now you were sitting here like it was that simple? Just… toss out insecurity and see yourself clearly?

“It’s not like I can just turn it off,” Jobe said softly—not defensive, but honest. “I don’t even know who I am without all that noise.”

The car stopped quietly on an empty street.

“I can show you. Get in the back, Bellingham”

Jobe’s heart jumped. That smirk—that damn smirk—was doing things to him again. The kind that said I’ve got a plan and you’re gonna like it.

You weren't just talking about therapy or self-help books. You meant something else entirely. And the way you looked at Jobe now? Not with pity, not with criticism—but like… an invitation.

“Am I intimidating or are you always that damn nervous?”

Jobe swallowed hard, getting into the backseat after you. The space was cramped—car seats always were—but it felt electric anyway. And no, you weren't scary—not at all. If anything, you looked unfairly calm for someone about to kiss Jobe Bellingham.

“Neither,” Jobe finally admitted quietly as he settled beside you. “Just… not used to this.” Not used to anyone wanting him like this—no football involved.

“No?” You raised an eyebrow. Skeptical.

Jobe let out a soft, breathy laugh—nervous but sincere.

“No,” he repeated firmly, shaking his head. “I’ve never… y’know. Fancied anyone like that.”

“I’ll show you what it is like then”

Jobe’s breath hitched as you leaned in—slow, deliberate, giving him every chance to pull away. But Jobe didn’t move. He stayed perfectly still, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. The air between them thickened with tension and something new… electric And then—you closed the gap.

Your lips met Jobe’s gently at first—a soft press of warmth that wasn't rushed or demanding. It wasn't their first kiss—but this one felt different.

Jobe melted. The kiss started soft—just lips touching—but then you deepened it, slow and deliberate. Patient in a way that made Jobe’s head spin. Your hand slid to the back of his neck—warm, calloused from training—and gently tilted Jobe’s head just slightly to get better access. Then came the tongue: teasing at first, brushing against Jobe’s bottom lip before softly pressing inside.

You kiss him like you got all night to yourself.

Every move—the tilt of your head, the gentle pressure of your lips, how your tongue danced with Jobe’s without rushing or dominating—it was smooth. Confidence. Like kissing came naturally to you. And Jobe? He let himself be led—following your rhythm instinctively, responding slowly at first but growing bolder as the kiss deepened.

Jobe blinked—half dazed from the kiss, half flustered by that tone.

“Not bad.” Coming from you? It sounded like both praise and a degradation. Like you did okay… but you can do better.

And damn if that didn’t light something competitive in Jobe. Was he supposed to prove himself now? Kiss you again—better this time? Or maybe… not say anything at all and just go for it?

Jobe’s hands slid carefully down your back—fingers tracing the defined muscles beneath your shirt. He’d never touched someone like this before. Not really. Always too shy, or distracted by football, or just… not interested. But now? Now he wanted to feel everything.

His palms mapped every ridge of your shoulders, spine, lower back—strong from training and built differently than Jobe, who was leaner. The warmth through the fabric was intoxicating. And as their kiss deepened again—slower this time but hungrier—the contact felt electric.

“Sweater and buttoned shirt…really?” You chuckled as you finally commented on his outfit.

“Too clothed?” Jobe echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not out here trying to look like a model” But yeah… he was over-dressed compared to how you probably dated in Brazil.

“Okay fine,” he muttered with mock annoyance before pulling off the sweater in one smooth motion.

Jobe shivered the second your lips left his mouth. That single stolen kiss was soft—but then you went lower, pressing warm kisses down Jobe’s neck. And oh—it felt different. Softer than anything he’d experienced before. More intimate.

You took your time—gentle nibbles here and there, no teeth yet just warmth and breath against sensitive skin—and Jobe tilted his head slightly to give you better access without even thinking.

Jobe bit his lip—hard—to keep from making a sound. You weren't rushing. Weren’t tearing clothes off like some desperate scene from a movie.

No—you were teasing. Just pulling the collar of Jobe’s shirt aside with careful fingers, exposing more skin inch by inch… then kissing, licking, grazing teeth over that sensitive spot on his collarbone. And it drove him crazy. The slow reveal. The warmth of your mouth only where skin showed. That deliberate avoidance of undressing properly—like you enjoyed watching Jobe squirm in half-dressed frustration. It wasn't torture exactly... but damn if it didn't feel like one.

Jobe didn’t even realize how fast things were moving—his belt unclipped with quiet efficiency, the zipper of his jeans sliding down in one smooth motion.

Your eyes flicked to the brand name on the zipper line: Lucky You.

And you smirked.

“Yeah…lucky me” you amused dryly—low voice teasing but not mean—and then his fingers hooked into the fabric at Jobe’s hips.

The sudden exposure hit him like a shockwave. The cool night air from the cracked window kissed his bare skin for just a second before your warm hand followed

No stripping off shirts. No kicking pants away. Just… pulling—careful fingers hooking into the waistband of Jobe’s boxers, tugging them down just enough to free his aching cock.

And suddenly he was completely vulnerable—half-undressed in this cramped car backseat, heart racing faster than ever. And you hadn’t even taken your own clothes off yet.

Jobe’s back pressed against the car door, a soft thud echoing as his body tensed. Your hand—warm and slick with saliva—wrapped around him slowly, stroking with deliberate patience. No rush. Just smooth, even glides that made Jobe bite down hard on his lower lip. Then came the tongue. A single slow lick up the tip—wet heat where it was most sensitive—and Jobe jolted. His fingers curled into your shoulder through your shirt, not pushing or pulling… just holding on like he needed something to anchor himself.

He let out a quiet, broken sound—half gasp, half whimper. You weren't taking him all the way in yet. Just teasing with soft bites and gentle suction at the tip—the most sensitive spot—sucking lightly like you were savoring it.

Every nerve lit up. Jobe’s hips twitched instinctively—not pushing forward, but reacting to the pleasure building. His breathing turned shallow. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form words even if he wanted to. Just sensation: warm mouth, careful pressure… you playing with him like this was their own private world.

His eyes flicked between your face and the car mirror—watching himself from different angles, seeing his own flushed cheeks, slightly parted lips. And then you took him in. No warning. No slow build-up—just warm mouth closing over him fully and bobbing with eager rhythm right away. A deep shiver ran down Jobe’s spine. His head tipped back against the seat with a soft thud as pleasure surged through every nerve. You weren't gentle anymore—you were hungry now. Sucking firmly, hollowing your cheeks just right—and Jobe couldn't stop the quiet moan that escaped.

The car was silent except for the soft, wet sounds—your mouth working steadily despite occasional gagging. And Jobe? His head spun. Every time you took him deeper—the tight heat of your throat squeezing around the tip—it sent electric pulses straight to his core. He’d never felt anything like this before. Not just physical pleasure… but how intimate it felt in this small space, under dim streetlights where anyone could pass by and see them…

Jobe couldn’t control it. No matter how uncomfortable it feels knowing the risks. His hips jerked up instinctively—small, desperate thrusts—as you took him deeper. The sensation of your nose brushing against Jobe’s skin sent a jolt through him. A low moan slipped out—unfiltered. Every movement was pure instinct now: the heat of your mouth, the wet tightness around him… and those little gasps when you gagged but kept going.

Jobe didn’t push your head too hard—he wasn't trying to choke you—but every bob forward made stars flash behind his eyelids.

Jobe’s fingers tangled in your soft curls—slightly messy hair that felt incredible between his fingertips. The grip was tight—desperate—like he needed something to hold onto as pleasure overwhelmed him. Every moan spilled out now, uncontrolled and loud in the quiet car. You could feel Jobe trembling under his touch—the way his breath hitched every time those fingers teased a nipple again… how close he clearly was.

Your fingers found his nipple through the thin fabric of Jobe's shirt and rolled it gently between them. A simple motion… but shockingly sensitive. Jobe had never known that spot was this reactive. He didn’t even think about his chest much—most guys don’t—but now? Every little pinch sent sparks straight down to where you still worked him with your mouth. His back arched slightly off the seat, hips twitching up again without meaning to.

Jobe panted, voice shaky and breathless.

“F-Fuck… Y/N—” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. He wasn’t usually vocal during moments like this—never had moments like this—but the pleasure was too intense to keep quiet

“I’m—I’m gonna…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn't. Instead, his hips gave a small involuntary twitch upward again—a silent plea without touching or forcing anything.

Jobe came hard—wave after wave crashing through him like a freight train. His back arched, toes curling inside his shoes. A loud, unfiltered moan tore from his throat as pleasure exploded through every nerve. And you didn’t stop—not immediately. You kept going, riding it out with soft sucks and gentle pressure—even as Jobe’s body became too sensitive all at once. Jobe squirmed under the hand still pinned on his chest and tugged lightly on your hair.

Jobe’s voice cracked—soft, breathless, almost pleading.

“Please… stop—…” The words came out strained—not angry or pushy—but genuinely overwhelmed. The aftershocks were too strong now, every nerve still buzzing from the climax

And you? You finally listened. You eased off slowly—lifting your mouth with a quiet pop, lips glistening—and looked up at Jobe. No teasing smirk this time.

You took in the sight of Jobe—completely wrecked. Blushing furiously, sweat glistened at his temples and neck. A few buttons on his shirt were undone, revealing faint hickeys blooming on his collarbone. His lips were slightly parted, breathing still uneven. Eyes glassy and dazed—like he’d just woken up from a dream. And that needy look? Beautiful. The kind of beauty that comes from someone being completely vulnerable after pleasure.

Jobe swallowed hard—still catching his breath—and finally found his voice.

It came out quiet, almost shy: “Did… did you just…?” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The question hung there awkwardly. Because you hadn’t spit anything out. Hadn’t pulled away or made a face like some people might in that moment. No—you’d taken it all without hesitation, swallowing like it was nothing. And that small act of intimacy somehow embarrassed Jobe more than anything else they’d done.

“What?” you gently tugged Jobe’s cock back into his boxers—no lingering touch, no teasing squeeze—and zipped his jeans up like nothing had just happened. The contrast was funny: one second they were in the middle of that, and now you were all calm and nonchalant.

“Nothing,” Jobe said simply—voice low but light—as if you hadn’t just rocked Jobe Bellingham to his core. His breath hitched as you leaned in again—closing the small space between them. The car door pressed against his back, trapped gently by your arms caging him in

“Does that help? Feel more confident now for the upcoming match?” You asked. Amused by his reaction.

“Yeah,” Jobe admitted quietly, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “I feel… really good.”

Not just confident—different. Like something had shifted inside him. The weight of insecurity felt lighter after what they’d just shared. And now? Seeing that smirk up close again made his heart skip—not from nerves this time, but anticipation.

Jobe closed his eyes as you kissed him—softly, right where the jaw met the neck. It wasn’t a passionate kiss. Not deep or lingering. Just gentle—a quiet press of lips against warm skin. But it meant something Jobe swears.

“I’ll have high expectations then” And Jobe liked that you had expectations—not pressure in a bad way, but belief. He tilted his head slightly into the touch of your warm palm, nuzzling his cheek before opening his eyes again, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

“Can you drive?” Reality snapped back again.

He looked down at his hands—still slightly shaky. His heart rate had calmed but not completely settled. And yeah… he was still a little dazed.

“Uh…” He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal.

“I mean… yeah.” But even as he said it, he knew the truth: right now? Probably not the safest driver on the road.

Jobe collapsed onto his bed—still fully dressed, shoes still on—and stared at the ceiling. He got home and had one thing in mind. His lips kept twitching into a smile. Then a full grin. Then… giggles. Actual giggles.

He covered his face with one hand, shoulders shaking silently as he replayed everything in his head: your handsome face, that first kiss in the car, how gentle yet confident you were…And then later—the things they did.

slowly, he slips out of bed. the tile flooring is cold beneath his bare feet. you barely stir. joão tugs the blankets up ever so slightly until they cover your shoulders. 

he wanders down the hall, pacing almost aimlessly through the kitchen to grab some water before he finally settles onto your couch. joão folds over, resting his elbows against his knees. his fingertips press against his temples, willing his budding headache to disappear. willing his mind to stop racing for just a second. 

joão sits there for so long chills run down his spine. goosebumps arise against his bare biceps. his back aches and his feet go numb. he simply closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as tight as he can. 

“joão?” he startles at the sound of your quiet voice cutting through the silence. it breaks him from his trance, forcing him back to reality. 

light from your phone filters through the hallway. your feet drag along the floor slightly, stumbling the way you only do when you drag yourself out of bed too early for work in the mornings. he squints at your figure in the darkness. you’re wearing one of his t-shirts — he can tell by how it drapes across your frame. your phone is angled at the floor, using its low light to illuminate the pathway ahead. it’s a photo of the two of you: joão’s arm draped across your waist as you leaned against his chest, both of you basking in the miami sunshine during a rare day off. 

joão reaches out to grab your wrist, gingerly guiding you around the coffee table until you drop on the cushions beside him with a low huff. he chuckles softly to himself. you let your eyes close once again, eagerly leaning your head against his shoulder. he welcomes you eagerly, pulling you in until your head is pressed against his chest, just over his heartbeat.

“what are you doing out of bed?” he whispers. 

“woke up ‘n you were gone,” you mumble back. the words slur together at the ends, syllables mashing into each other. joão’s smile falters ever so slightly. he brushes a hand against your back in apology, curling around your side. you nuzzle yourself even closer to him in return. “i was worried. you have training early tomorrow.” 

joão smiles softly, if not a little sad. you had his schedule memorized almost better than your own. games were saved onto a shared calendar, practice regimes were followed almost religiously, you even had alarms set so you could watch the matches no matter the time. it was just like you to be so selfless. 

“sorry,” joão finally says. he had interrupted your sleep, after all. “i couldn’t sleep.”

you shift at that. you push your head up slightly, blinking at him in the darkness. joão isn’t sure if you can make him out or not but he holds your gaze all the same. “do you wanna talk about it?” 

joão lets a deep sigh escape him. his eyes flutter shut for a few seconds as he leans his head against the back of the couch. his shoulders are stiff, carrying the weight of his team — his country. his head was starting to hurt from how fast his thoughts were racing. 

finally, he shakes his head softly. “no,” he says. “not really.” 

“okay,” you nod. your eyes must have adjusted, joão thinks. you raise a hand to gingerly cup his face, brushing your thumb against his cheek. your fingertips trace against the edge of his cheekbone, trailing along the features you loved so dearly. joão lets his eyes flutter shut. he leans against your hand, letting the warmth settle over him. “we don’t have to talk. but will you come back to bed, at least?” 

it shouldn’t feel as daunting as it does, but the prospect of reliving his failures in his dreams makes joão tense slightly. you notice immediately. you reach over to take his hand into your own. he takes a deep breath when your fingers trace over his knuckles. your movements settle after a moment, giving him space to feel the warmth of your skin against his own. 

joão nods. he interlaces your fingers together, offering your hand a gentle squeeze. this time, he’s the one who uses your phone to guide you away from the couch and down the hallway to your bedroom. 

you settle into bed almost immediately with joão following quickly. he plugs your phone into its charger and sets it on your bedside table before crawling in beside you. you make quick work of intertwining your bodies together. your legs tangle beneath the sheets. joão’s hand slips beneath the hem of your stolen t-shirt to trace miscellaneous shapes against your bare skin. 

the weight is still there. pressure still claws at him from all sides. their expectations don’t disappear. 

but you shuffle closer to him across the mattress, closing the distance between your bodies. you wrap him into your hold like it’s second nature. like he belongs. you rake your fingers through his hair when joão hides his face into the crook of your neck. you lean in, pressing a feather-light kiss against his forehead as he settles, finally relaxed enough to drift off into a peaceful sleep. 

and for once, the noise in joão’s head quiets. 

notes: please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! disclaimer that i know next to nothing about football but i've been keeping up with the world cup (and joão) so here we are, inspired by an interview i saw where he talked about not being able to sleep well, lmk if you guys want to see more of him or if i should stick to f1

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.

lamineyamal 6am bali, las dos personas más lindas @yourusername81

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User54: Keyne's chillin

User12: finally a sneak peek at bro's personal life Y/N is winning frfr

User49: Y/N be chillin with his wc champion bf after losing the wc himself😭✌️

yourusername: Lamineeeee

—lamineyamal: 😘

—user43: bros kinda hooked😮‍💨

...

Lamine emerged from the waves like a gleaming sea god—water dripping off his curly hair, muscles glistening under the Bali sun. He shook his head dramatically, sending droplets flying everywhere.

"Ooh! Cold!" he laughed in that bright, carefree way of his—arms spread wide as if embracing the entire ocean. His eyes were locked on you—sunbathing peacefully with your shades on and that cute little smile playing on your lips.

Without hesitation, he jogged over soaked through… then dropped down right beside you and kissed your cheek. Salty water included.

The sound of your hum—soft, content, like a lazy melody. He loved that you were so calm under his affection.

His little brother squealed again from across the sand, clapping tiny hands and pointing. “Again! Lamiiii again!”

He leaned down over you now, propping himself on one elbow while water still dripped from his curls onto your sun-warmed back. Without asking again, he pressed another kiss—this time to your bare shoulder—and whispered playfully:

“You’re getting really tan.”

You only snort and ask playfully “toasted just right or burnt?”

Lamine’s cheeks flushed—just a little—as you took off your shades, those eyes locking onto him with that warm, amused gaze. He bit his lip for half a second—nervous? Flustered? No one ever saw Lamine Yamal flustered. Except maybe you.

"Burnt," he teased back instantly, voice dropping into that playful-flirty tone. "Like my heart after you kissed me last night."

One of the friends nearby gagged dramatically. "Ugh, not this again!"

The toddler brother just laughed harder at the word grump attitude, clapping like it was the funniest thing ever said in human history.

Lamine ignored them all—too busy memorizing how beautiful you looked right now: sun-kissed skin, messy hair from lying on the towel... perfect.

“You’re getting good at being corny” you smirked lazily.

Lamine pouted—full-on, exaggerated puppy eyes—and flopped dramatically onto his back beside you, sending a little puff of sand up.

"Corny? Me? Never," he said, handing over heart like he was offended. "I'm romantic. There's a difference."

One of their friends snorted from the shade: "Bro says 'cornball' every day and thinks it's poetry."

The toddler brother mimicked him then—tiny arms spread wide—and yelled: “Cornballll"

Lamine sat bolt upright at that, pointing accusingly. "You! You’re supposed to be on my side!"

But when you laughed again—low and rich in that way Lamine loved—the football star melted all over again. He rolled sideways… and kissed you right on the lips. Quick but sweet.

Keyne waddled through the sand like a tiny, determined explorer—bare feet kicking up little clouds.

"Beach! Ball!" he chanted over and over in his baby voice, arms flailing as he tried to grab the ball mid-air during their game.

The friends were used to him now—this sweet chaos gremlin who showed up everywhere. One of them gently tossed him an underhand pass… which Keyne immediately dropped on his face with a giggle.

Lamine burst out laughing from where he was sitting beside you. "Oh my god," he wheezed. "He’s such a pro" he glazed out loud.

A soft breeze rolled in, waves crashed gently; someone blasted music from a speaker nearby... perfect Bali vibes.

Dinner was set up under string lights near the beach—wooden tables, soft music, and the smell of grilled fish and shrimp pasta in the air.

Lamine’s friends had taken full responsibility for Keyne. They were now a team—passing him snacks between bites of their own food, one even played peek-a-boo to keep him entertained. Keyne wasn’t fussy at all—happy as can be with all this attention.

At their table by the ocean’s edge… Lamine finally got to focus on you. He poured you some wine without asking, then leaned back with that easy smile—the one you adore. The world champion footballer looked completely relaxed: barefoot in flip-flops, hair still slightly damp from earlier showers after swimming.

The food was perfect—fresh fish seasoned with lime and chili, rice that melted in your mouth, grilled veggies dripping with garlic butter. But Lamine wasn’t really tasting it. Not fully. Because every time he lifted his gaze from his plate? He’d catch you—the way the soft golden light caught your profile, how you held your fork… even the tiny smile forming after a bite of mango salsa. He swears he’s not glazing you, mentally. He didn’t say anything. Just looked. Admired quietly like this moment was something sacred—his boyfriend glowing under Bali stars while waves hummed behind them.

One of their friends glanced over and smirked. “You’re staring.” Lamine blinked… then shrugged shamelessly without denying it.

The thing made this whole relationship even more surreal: Lamine Yamal—Barcelona’s starboy—dating one of the most handsome players in world football… from Real Madrid. Most fans would lose their minds over it and they did. But right now? None of that mattered. Because here they were—in Bali—under twinkling lights and salty air… two superstars acting like regular guys in love while eating grilled fish like normal people.

Lamine watched with quiet delight as you finished the last bite of your fish—chewing slowly, savoring it like it was a five-star meal which, honestly, in Bali? It kind of was.

He reached over without thinking and gently wiped a tiny smudge of sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb—then brought that same thumb to his lips and licked it clean like nothing weird about that.

His friends would’ve lost their minds if they saw him doing something this soft in public. But right now? He didn’t care who saw.

The second the hotel room door clicked shut, Lamine spun—fast—and pulled you into a kiss that had been building all night. His hands found your face instantly, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he tilted his head to deepen it. The salty ocean scent still clung to both of you…

Lamine walked you backward gently until your knees hit the edge of the bed—and then he broke away just long enough to whisper against your mouth:

“Missed you.”

Even though they’d been together all day… even though they practically glued together during the world cup seasonl…This? This was different.

“You talk like we didn’t just fuck last monday”

Lamine let out a breathy laugh against your lips—half embarrassed, half turned on by how blunt you were. He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Okay… rude" he teased, voice low and playful. "But true."

Last Monday? Yeah. Wild night in their homeland before the flight to Bali—hot sheets, tangled limbs under city lights filtering through the curtains…And yet here they were again—the tension between them flaring up like it hadn’t been sated at all.

Instead of answering with words this time? Lamine kissed you again—deeper now—and his hands slid down from your face to grip your shoulders firmly before gently pushing you backward onto the bed.

The hotel room was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the entire wall—crystal clear glass offering an uninterrupted view of the moonlit beach and ocean beyond. The waves glowed softly under moonlight, gentle and rhythmic, like a slow lullaby.

Lamine paused for just a second as he undid another button on your shirt… his eyes flicking toward that panoramic view. And then—a thought sparked. A very sexy idea.

Lamine took his time—like a chef savoring each course. His fingers brushing against warm skin beneath. He wasn’t rushing. This was gourmet—every inch revealed like an unveiling. The soft glow from the soft dim light lit up your torso—the defined muscles, the smooth chest dusted with faint body hair… and Lamine drank it all in silently before leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss just above their collarbone. lips tracing every newly exposed area as more fabric slipped away onto the floor beside them…

The power shift was sudden—and perfect. One second, Lamine was in control—kissing and undressing you like he owned the moment—the next? He got flipped onto his back with a soft thud against the mattress. You hovered over him now, all playful dominance—eyes glinting with mischief under that moonlit glow from the windows. And when they grinned? Lamine couldn’t help it. A burst of giggles escaped him—bright, boyish laughter that rarely came out unless he was truly happy… or caught off guard by someone taking charge so sweetly.

“Hey!—” He tried to push up playfully—to wrestle control back—but you pinned his wrists gently above his head before diving down to kiss him again: deep and teasing at once.

Lamine arched his back instinctively, hips rolling up against yours—searching for that sweet pressure, that delicious friction. Being dominated like this? It wrecked him in the best way. Normally he was the one flirting first, teasing relentlessly… but when you took over—confident and playful—the effect was electric. His breath hitched every time their bodies pressed together through layers of fabric still half-on. A soft groan slipped out as Lamine bit his lip to muffle it… but then gave up trying to stay quiet entirely. He loved how strong you felt above him—not rough or demanding in a harsh way—but just in control, making all the moves while Lamine melted beneath them like warm honey.

You moved with slow, deliberate care—peeling Lamine’s shirt up and off like unwrapping something precious. Each inch of skin revealed was kissed or gently nipped—collarbone, shoulder, chest… you savored every patch like it was the first time you’d touched him. Lamine shivered under the attention—not from cool, but from sensation. The softness of lips here… a teasing bite there… his breath came quicker now, fingers curling into the sheets beneath him.

Lamine’s fingers slid gently into your hair—soft curls between his fingertips—as the kisses traveled lower… down his toned stomach, each one making him tense with anticipation. His breath came in shallow little puffs now. The touch was electric—so light yet so intense—especially when you paused to press an open-mouthed kiss right above the waistband of his pants.

A quiet whimper escaped Lamine this time.

He didn’t push or beg aloud… just tightened his grip slightly in that beautiful hair, silently begging for more.

Lamine’s breath hitched as his boxers were tugged down and off—cool air brushing against warm skin for just a second before you shifted away. He lay there in the unbuttoned shirt, completely exposed—heart pounding, cheeks flushed. When he saw you pull out the condom and lube from their travel bag—the quiet crinkle of packaging—a jolt ran through him. Not nervous… not hesitation… just want. So much want.

He bit his lip again, watching every movement: how you prepared calmly like this was something natural between them, how careful they always were together…And then those eyes met Lamine’s again—dark with affection and desire.

Lamine’s entire body tensed—then melted—the second that first lubed finger pressed gently against him. It was so soft. So careful. You weren't rushing, weren’t rough—just slow circles around his entrance, warm and patient like they had all the time in the world. And then those thigh kisses… soft lips trailing up his inner leg between each teasing touch…The contrast drove Lamine wild—the sheer size of you hovering over him, yet touching him with such tenderness it made his chest ache. He exhaled shakily, hands gripping the sheets again—not from discomfort but from overwhelming sensation: pleasure building low in his belly with every gentle press… every tender kiss along sensitive skin…

Lamine relaxed into the first finger—his body warming up, trusting your touch completely. And then… another. You added the second with that same quiet precision—stretching slowly, patiently, giving Lamine time to adjust. No pressure. Just smooth movement and careful attention to every micro-expression on his face.

It was amazing how good you were at this—not just physically skilled, which you obviously were, but emotionally present too—their eyes never leaving Lamine’s as if checking: You okay? You good?

The dual sensation of two fingers working gently inside him while lips continued trailing soft kisses along his thighs made heat pool in Lamine's belly... a warm, throbbing kind of pleasure that made him sigh deeply.

Your lips traveled upward—slow, warm kisses along Lamine’s stomach, tracing the soft curve of his abs and that delicate happy trail of hair leading up to his navel.

Each kiss sent little tingles through Lamine—not ticklish exactly, but sensitive in the sweetest way. He squirmed slightly beneath you, not to escape… just reacting—to every touch feeling a thousand times more intense now with your fingers inside him like this. The combination was intoxicating: two fingers moving gently in rhythm while those tender mouth kisses mapped higher… higher…

And when you finally reached Lamine’s lower chest—your breath ghosted over bare flesh before you pressed another soft kiss there. Your tongue swirled slowly around Lamine’s nipple—teasing, warm, slightly wet from the kiss that followed. The mouthing was soft at first… then firmer—a gentle suckling. A damp spot formed where you kissed him again and again, lips glistening with a sheen of saliva. Lamine arched subtly into it—a breathy little sound escaping him as sensation sparked through his chest. He loved how you worshipped every part of him—even small details like this—and now he could feel that attention radiating straight to his core…

You carefully withdrew your fingers, then stood up—slow and deliberate. Boxers shoved down over your hips… until they pooled at the floor. Your cock sprang free—half-hard but thickening fast in Lamine’s palm when he stands up. Their eyes meeting again—and for a second? Just looked. Taking him in. All warmth and want building between them without words.

Lamine grabbed a condom from the nightstand—smooth motion, confident now—and slipped it into his palm like he’d done this before because he had. Then, with that sly smirk playing on his lips—he gently nudged you backward… toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall.

The ocean stretched endlessly beyond—waves shimmering under moonlight—but inside? All attention was on each other. The view didn’t matter anymore. Not when they were about to be close in every way possible.

Lamine tore the condom wrapper with his teeth—quick, smooth, a little messy—but he didn’t care. Then he took the condom in hand and slowly rolled it down your length with gentle precision. His fingers brushed over warm skin as he worked—deliberate touches that weren’t just about getting ready… but savoring this moment.

Once finished? Lamine looked up into your eyes… no smirk this time. Just soft hunger—and then leaned in to kiss you deeply again.

The kiss broke with a soft pop—a thin string of saliva connecting their lips for half a second before snapping. Then you moved fast. Like you already read Lamine’s mind and knew what he wanted.

In one fluid motion, you turned Lamine around and gently pressed him against the glass wall—his palms flattening against the cool surface to brace himself. The ocean stretched endlessly beyond, shimmering like scattered stars on water.

Lamine’s back arched instinctively as you lined up behind him—the heat between them now electric. Every breath fogged slightly on the glass in front of Lamine’s face while his heart hammered… waiting… anticipating…

Lamine’s lips parted—he bit down on them the second he felt the first press of you against him.

The sensation was electric. The risk? Even more so. Anyone looking up from the beach—from a passing boat, or another hotel window—they could’ve seen him like this: pressed to glass, shirt hanging open, palms flat as his body arched into you… completely exposed under moonlight and ocean air.

It turned Lamine on so much. Being this vulnerable in such a public-yet-private moment. And that soft gasp? It slipped out before he could stop it when you pushed just the tip inside—slow… teasing…His breath fogged up a tiny spot on the glass right in front of his face.

His fingers curled against the glass—knuckles whitening slightly—as you began to move. He tried to relax. Tried so hard. Breathed deep, loosened his shoulders… but the steady rhythm of your thrusts? Too much. Too good.

Each smooth push unraveled him further—his body tensing not from discomfort, but from overwhelming pleasure crashing through every nerve. A shaky breath escaped him in little puffs that fogged up the window again and again. His hips rocked back instinctively—not pulling away, just meeting each motion halfway… chasing more without even meaning to.

Your movements grew more eager—less controlled, more feeling. Your hands gripped Lamine’s hips firmly—thumb digging into soft skin just above the bone—and each thrust became a little deeper, a little harder. Not violent or harsh… but passionate. Urgent. The sound of skin meeting echoed quietly in the room, mixed with their breathing and the distant lap of waves against shore. You weren't trying to be rough… it just happened—the heat between them was too intense to stay gentle forever. Lamine gasped again at one particularly strong push—the glass wall cool against his chest while his body burned from within. Every nerve lit up, every breath came quicker than before…

Lamine had dreamed about this—exactly like this. After winning the World Cup, after all the pressure and spotlight…He wanted this: salt in his hair, sand on their feet earlier that day, music humming faintly from a distant hotel party down the beach… and you—his boyfriend—giving him pleasure in the most thrilling way possible. Against glass. Fully exposed to anyone who might look up. Heart pounding not just from sex—but from adrenaline. The risk of being seen? It made every second hotter.

This was his victory: wild love under moonlight with someone who adored him exactly as he was.

The sharp smack of your hand against Lamine’s ass echoed softly in the room. Lamine gasped—more from surprise than pain—and immediately bit down on his lip to stifle any louder sound “mphm—agh!-” . The sting bloomed into a warm tingle, spreading across his skin where the impact landed.

It wasn’t rough… but it was surprising. And sexy as hell. His body tensed for a split second before melting again, hips pushing back slightly like he wanted more without saying it. His palms stayed pressed to the glass—breathing shallow now—as you continued moving behind him with that same eager rhythm… and maybe even adding another playful swat soon.

Lamine’s body reacted instinctively—the spank sending a jolt through him that made his muscles clench around you.

It was involuntary, but so good. The tightness pulled pleasure sharper, deeper—like every nerve lit up at once. He didn’t mean to do it… but his body was singing now, craving more friction after that sweet sting. His breath came in soft hitches—still biting his lip—but the way he subtly rocked back against you showed everything: he loved this. Loved how bold and close they were right now. Just heat… rhythm… and Lamine silently milking every drop of sensation from each movement behind him.

Lamine’s breath came fast and uneven—each exhale fogging the glass right in front of his lips. A quiet curse slipped through—something soft like “Yes right there—!” or “fuck!”—mumbled against the window, barely audible. Not from pain or frustration… but from how intense it all felt.

The pleasure coiled low in his stomach—a hot, tight spiral building with every thrust behind him. His body trembled slightly with restraint, he didn’t want to moan too loud—but god… it was getting hard not to. His fingers curled again on the cool surface as he braced himself—not pulling away, just riding this wave of sensation that kept growing stronger…

Lamine was talking now—soft, breathy Spanish slipping out between gasps.

"Ni se te ocurra parar—!" he murmured against the glass—the words half plea, half demand. Meaning Don’t you dare stop.

And then your hand slid up his side… warm and sure… until it curled gently around Lamine’s neck—not squeezing tight, just a firm hold. A light pressure meant to tease.

It messed with him in the best way—having that strong grip there while everything else felt so intense below. His pulse jumped under your palm, his breathing hitched even more. It was possessive in that quiet, affectionate way only they knew how to do.

Lamine’s whole body locked—A ragged gasp tore from his lips as pleasure crashed over him like a wave—his orgasm hitting hard and sudden, knees buckling for just a second. He had to press harder against the glass to stay upright, arms trembling slightly.

But you didn’t stop. Not even close. Still moving behind him—steady, relentless—the rhythm continued without pause. The sensation was overwhelming now: oversensitivity mixing with the aftershocks of release… every nerve buzzing wildly. Lamine panted heavily through it all—cheek still resting near the window—as tears pricked his eyes from how intense it felt… but he wasn't pulling away. Not at all.

The sound of skin and their shared breathing filled the quiet room now… only broken by Lamine’s soft whimpers each time a particularly deep thrust hit just right. He could do nothing but take it—the pleasure long gone into something more electric and fragile.

You adjusted—your hand slid down from Lamine’s neck to rest firmly on his stomach, warm and grounding. The other stayed at his hip, anchoring him in place with gentle pressure.

It wasn’t restraint like holding someone down… it was caging—soft but possessive.

And then you hit that spot again—that sweet spot—over and over. Each thrust deliberate now, zeroing in on the exact angle that made Lamine’s breath catch even through oversensitivity.

You leaned in—your pace still steady but gentler now—and pressed your lips to Lamine’s shoulder from behind. The kiss was soft at first… then came the gentle scrape of teeth—a teasing bite that didn’t hurt, just marked. A faint hickey began forming on warm skin. You kissed and nibbled along Lamine’s shoulder from behind, each touch leaving a small claim—subtle proof of their intimacy. Quiet affection wrapped around pleasure as you kept moving inside him with slow, deep rolls of your hips.

Your body tensed—breath catching in a low, shuddering groan as the climax crashed over you. Buried completely inside Lamine. Your hips pressed flush against him, muscles tightening with the intensity of it.

The room went quiet except for their breathing—the waves outside continuing their endless rhythm like nothing had changed… even though everything had just shifted between them. You didn’t pull out immediately. Just stay there—forehead resting gently on Lamine’s shoulder—for a few long seconds while your heart pounded and reality slowly crept back in…

You kissed down Lamine’s back—soft, lingering pecks along his spine and over the warm skin where sweat had begun to glisten. Each kiss was small. Gentle. Almost innocent in how tender they were after what just happened.

And oh—Lamine loved this. More than anything right now: the quiet affection, the way you showed care through touch instead of words… these little kisses that felt like a secret language only they understood.

He didn’t say anything—just melted into them, shoulders relaxing completely for the first time since everything started. His breathing slowed… calm now… content…

You carefully slid out—slow and gentle to avoid any discomfort—and Lamine, still catching his breath, reached for you. Without a word, he nudged you backward onto the bed. Not rough—just needing that softness now: lying down together after all that heat.

The moment their bodies touched the mattress again—Lamine curling right into your side—the exhaustion from pleasure hit them both at once. The adrenaline faded, muscles went loose.

Then Lamine sprawled out like a starfish—limbs loose, chest rising and falling steadily as he caught his breath.

A lazy smile curled on his lips before he turned his head toward you. His voice came out soft, slightly hoarse from everything—the Spanish rolling off in that sweet, affectionate tone only he used when completely relaxed.

“Eres tan jodidamente sexy…” just stating something beautiful about you that made him feel dizzy with love and lingering pleasure.

“You remind me that everyday, pulpo” you chuckled softly.

Lamine laughed—a quiet, warm sound—and reached over to pinch your cheek playfully.

“Pulpo…” he repeated with a grin, loving that silly nickname. It had started weeks ago when Lamine admitted—that octopus was his favorite. And right now? The smirk on your face made Lamine feel stupidly adored.

Morning light filtered softly through the glass walls, painting golden streaks across the room. Lamine stirred—groggy and heavy-eyed—as a tiny weight pressed onto his back. He blinked slowly… then realized Keyne was sitting right on him, little hands tugging at his messy curls.

“Lamine… wake up! Wakeup!” Keyne chanted—excited and loud like only a three-year-old could be. Lamine grumbled sleepily into the pillow but didn’t push him off. Instead, he nuzzled deeper for half a second before attempting to roll over—and immediately squished Keyne with an accidental hug that made them both giggle.

You sat quietly beside them against the headboard, phone raised. A quiet smile played on your lips as you snapped photos of this sweet chaos: Lamine half-asleep being attacked by baby brother energy while sunlight spilled over them all…

Lamine turned his head, still half-buried in the pillow, and gave you a sleepy smirk.

“Buenos días, osito…” he mumbled—voice thick with morning warmth. The nickname slipped out naturally: osito— little bear—a term of endearment only for you because you were always so big and soft at the same time.

His curls were a wild mess from Keyne’s playing—and there was probably drool on his cheek too—but Lamine didn’t care. He reached one arm out lazily toward you while keeping Keyne tucked against him with the other. Keyne giggled again and started poking Lamine’s nose like it was a game now.

The little group walked into a cozy beachside restaurant, where the scent of grilled fish and spicy sambal hung in the air. You carried Keyne effortlessly—one strong arm supporting his tiny body while the other held Lamine's hand. The three-year-old wasn’t heavy at all, and you treated him like your own family—no hesitation. You smiled down at every giggle or random comment Keyne made in broken Spanish. Lamine watched them from across their table as they were seated… heart swelling quietly.

Here were you—big football star, man who could’ve demanded peace during meals—but instead? Holding a squirming toddler on his lap like it was nothing. Asking for milk for Keyne before ordering anything else himself.