in which désiré tries his hardest to make you wear his club colors.
a/n : this was an amazing request that i loved so idc if you’re not a marseille fan, im not either just use your imagination idk i just though this would be a fun little thing.
NOT PROOFREAD
You’d dedicated your whole life to l’olympique de Marseille. Proudly wearing their colors, attending their games, celebrating their victories. You were a true fan.
The first time Désiré gave you a PSG shirt, he was so confident that you’ll love it.
He walked into the room, proudly holding a bag from the club shop. He grinned as he got closer to you, hugging you from behind. “Close your eyes.”
You laughed. “Is this another one of your terrible surprises?”
”Just trust me.”
So you do.
He places the soft material in your hands, smiling from ear to ear as he did so.
”Okay.”
You slowly opened your eyes, adjusting to the light as you glanced down at your hands.
A brand new PSG home shirt. His name stretched proudly on the back
DOUÉ
You smiled immediately. “Aww”
He thought he had won, until.
”It’s really pretty..”
He sighed. “But..?”
”I’m not wearing it.”
His smile drops. “Excuse me?”
You held the shirt tightly to your chest. Smirking. “I love that you got me one.”
”So wear it.”
”I can’t”
He groaned, accepting defeat. For this time at least.
So he slowly made it his mission. Getting you to wear a psg shirt.
Every couple weeks he tried again. He was nothing if not persistent. But you rejected his offer every single time, the shirts piling in a corner of your dresser. Slowly collecting dust.
One morning, you were making breakfast in an old blue and white Marseille shirt. You wore it proudly, it was your grandpa’s first football jersey, and he’d passed it on to your dad, and later on to you.
But when Des walked into the kitchen. He immediately stopped. Sighing dramatically. “Again?”
You dont even look up, eyes fixated on the eggs you were currently trying not to burn. “Good morning to you too.”
”I bought you four PSG shirts.”
”And that’s lovely really.”
”So..”
you frowned “So what?”
”Why are you wearing… That?” emphasis on the that, he looked down at your shirt in disgust.
You glanced down, smiling to yourself. “Because this one’s lucky.”
He rolled his eyes. “You don’t even believe in lucky shirts.”
”I do when it annoys you.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbelievable.”
You smiled sweetly, knowing all of this was just a silly game, and you were clearly winning. His annoyance clearly making you laugh.
”Yet here you are.”
Désiré had even convinced you to come watch one of his trainings. So you showed up to the training ground. Wearing jeans, trainers, and an Olympique de Marseille hoodie.
You’d honestly forgotten you had it on. But it only fueled your desire to mess with him even more.
As soon as you walked to the pitch, the players noticed. All heads turned to you as you walked proudly onto the pitch.
One of them pointed. “Is that…”
another squinted. “No way.”
Warren started laughing before anyone had the courage to. “Désiré”
He turned around, eyes instantly landing on you, and going wide as soon as they did.
The giant OM crest across her chest.
He froze. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He quickly walked over to you. “What are you wearing.”
You look down at your hoodie, acting surprised. “Oops.”
The boys were absolutely losing it, watching the pair, one shouted. “Your own girl supports l’OM?”
He shook his head in disapproval. “Here? To PSG training?”
”i also noticed that.”
the entire team is trying not to laugh, watching the scene.
Someone finally asked. “Does she at least own a PSG shirt?”
Désiré answered quickly before you got to. “Four.”
You nod in agreement. “He’s right.”
Everyone goes silent, listening.
”They’re all folded neatly in my wardrobe.”
More hope. “Next to my Marseille shirts.”
The laughter is almost deafening.
Des actually walks away whispering, “i dont know her.”
We were one day away from le classique.
PSG vs OM.
All week the internet had gone absolutely crazy, joking about where you would sit. Tagging you in edits.
People just couldn’t stop asking. “What side are you on.”
Even journalists were asking Désiré during media day. “Will your girlfriend finally wear psg colors this weekend?”
He smiled awkwardly. “I dont think so.”
And so, the night before the game, you were lying in bed. Curled up against his warm body.
He asked quietly, “Can i ask you something?”
You looked up, smiling. “Always.”
”Does it bother you that i play for PSG?”
You immediately shook your head left to right. “No.”
“Really?”
”I fell in love with you, not your badge.”
He looked honestly a little relieved, and you carried on.
”But Marseille is home to me. My dad raised me like that. I cried when we lost finals, i celebrated titles. I can’t just pretend that never happened,”
He nods slowly, “I know.”
He closed his eyes, sighing softly, “I’d never ask you to.”
So he stopped trying to convince you.
The next morning, it was finally match day.
He told you there was no pressure about you showing up to the game. You both knew it would be awkward. You still told him you’ll think about it.
He assumed you wouldn’t.
He walked out the tunnel.
The stadium was absolutely packed.
The Parc des Princes looked incredible.
The ultras chanted loudly. Music, flags, and noise. It was all so overwhelming, in a good way.
During warm up, he scanned the crowd. Eyes landing towards the family section out of habit.
He stopped.
There you were, standing against the railing.
But not in light blue and white. Not in Marseille colors.
You were wearing his shirt.
His name, his number.
He completely forgets what he’s doing, movements going flimsy. He couldn’t stop smiling.
One of the older players noticed his cheesy smile. “What are you smiling at?”
He didn’t answer, just looked up at the stands.
You caught his eye from across the stadium.
Grinning as you pointed to the name on your back.
He gently shook his head in disbelief.
PSG won.
But he barely celebrated.
First thing he did was lightly jog towards the stands.
You were already waiting for him. The second he got close enough, he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist. Head dipping in your neck, taking in the scent of the brand new jersey mixed with yours. He whispered. “You wore it.”
You laughed into his shoulder. “I did.”
He pulled back lightly, arms still holding your waist tightly.
”I thought you said you never would.”
”I said i’d never wear a psg shirt.”
He frowned, glancing at your shirt once again to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “This.. is a psg shirt.”
You gently ran your fingers over his number, feeling the stickier materiel on your hands. “No.”
He tilted his head, obviously confused. So you continued, “It’s your shirt.”
He smiled.
”I didn’t wear it because of psg. I wore it because your name is on the back.”
He just stared at you for a second, confusion sprawled across his face. Obviously trying to process your words. “So…”
You smile, knowing exactly where this is going. “No, I still support Marseilles.”
He laughed, “Yeah okay figured.”
So you reached forward, placing your hand on his cheek gently. “But for ninety minutes…”
Your other hand reacher for the collar of his shirt, tugging at it lightly.
”…I’ll always support you.”
The words instantly made him melt, leaning instinctively into your lips.
The kiss was sweet and gentle, until his hands started moving all around the material of the shirt. Fingers wondering right underneath it slowly. Fingertips tickling your hips and slowly moving higher towards your waist.
You pushed back gently, looking at him, a smile still sprawled on his face. “I think this is the closest i’m ever getting to converting you.”
𓏲 ࣪ ˖ one – shot. desiré doué x reader. friends to lovers. fluff and slight angst. mention of a breakup. desiré is a flirty. golden retriever boyfriend energy. comfort. ◞ he was just waiting for you to break up with your ex.
the smell of worn leather cleats and cheap cologne will always, always smell like home to you. specifically, it smells like désiré.
you’ve known him since the days when your knees were perpetually scraped and his jersey was always two sizes too big, trailing behind him like a cape. you two are a package deal—the kind of friends who have seen each other through every agonizing evolution. you’ve watched him transform from a gangly, shy kid into the magnetic athlete he is today, and he’s watched you do the same.
you remember the nights spent in your bedroom, the floor littered with discarded clothes and half-eaten snacks, where you’d spill every secret. you remember the first time you brought home a boyfriend—that boy from school who thought he was so cool with his varsity jacket and his rehearsed lines. you had been so nervous, vibrating with a mix of excitement and insecurity, but the only opinion that had actually mattered was désiré’s.
he hadn't said much that night. he’d just sat on the edge of your bed, leaning back on his palms, watching the interaction with an intensity that made the air in the room feel heavy. his eyes, usually full of a playful, easy-going warmth, had narrowed just a fraction as he tracked the way your boyfriend talked to you.
even back then, he was always a little bit flirty—a grazing hand against your shoulder, a comment about how much better you looked in his oversized hoodies than in the clothes you picked out, the way he’d drop his voice to a low, intimate murmur that made your heart stutter. but you always brushed it off. it was just désiré. it was just how he was. he was the constant, the tether, the person who would drive across the city at 3:00 am just because you had a bad dream or a broken heart. he was the one who held the pieces together whenever you fell apart, no questions asked.
you never dared to look closer at the way he looked at you, because the thought of losing your best friend—the one person who knew exactly which side of your face you preferred in photos and exactly how you liked your coffee—was too terrifying to entertain.
but tonight, the stadium lights are blindingly bright, and he’s standing right in front of you after the match, his chest heaving, sweat glistening on his skin. he wipes his face with the back of his hand, his eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, predatory-yet-tender glint. he leans in close, invading your space just enough to make your pulse pick up, his voice dropping to a whisper that hits your ear like a secret.
"you still look at me like that, don't you?" he murmurs, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "like i'm the only thing in the room."
you freeze, the realization hitting you that the line between 'best friend' and 'everything else' has been blurring for a lot longer than you were willing to admit.
you let out a breathy, slightly incredulous laugh, shaking your head as you reach out to shove his shoulder—even if your hand lingers there just a second too long, feeling the heat radiating through his damp jersey. "you’re such an idiot, désiré," you tease, trying to keep your voice light, trying to push down the sudden, frantic thumping of your heart against your ribs. "seriously, you’re exhausted and you smell like a locker room. let’s get you home. i told you, i’m making dinner, so stop being a flirt and start being a teammate for once."
he chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates right through you, and he doesn't pull away. instead, he hooks an arm around your neck, pulling you into his side as you start the walk to your car. it’s a rhythm you’ve known for years, a dance you could perform in your sleep.
the drive to your place is filled with his usual chatter about the match, but as the evening progresses in your apartment, something shifts. the air feels different—charged and heavy. you’re moving through the kitchen, grabbing plates and glasses, but your movements are jagged, distracted. you find yourself dropping a fork, staring blankly at the wall, and forgetting the simple steps of a recipe you’ve cooked a dozen times.
désiré, who is lounging on your sofa with his legs stretched out and his shirt discarded, goes quiet. his gaze is sharp, tracking your every flinch.
"hey," he says, his voice suddenly stripped of the teasing edge. he stands up, walking over to the counter where you’re leaning, bracing your palms against the marble to steady yourself. "you’ve been acting like you’re trying to solve a complex equation in your head all night. what’s going on? you’re not yourself."
you chew your lip, avoiding his eyes. "it’s nothing, really. just... a long day. don't worry about it, it's not even worth talking about."
he doesn't buy it. he never does. he steps closer, crowding your space, his presence an immovable force. he reaches out, gently taking your wrists and pulling your hands away from the counter so he can see your face. "look at me," he commands softly. "you’re the worst liar i know. tell me."
you look up, meeting his intense, dark eyes, and the dam finally breaks. your throat tightens. "i broke up with him, désiré," you whisper, the words feeling heavy and hollow as they leave your lips. "it’s over. i just... i couldn't do it anymore."
désiré doesn't let go. instead, his grip on your wrists shifts, his thumbs tracing soothing, rhythmic circles against your skin. the frustration in his eyes vanishes instantly, replaced by a raw, unfiltered softness that makes your breath hitch.
"why didn't you tell me?" he asks, his voice barely a murmur, laced with a kind of ache that surprises you. "you think my job matters more than you? you think a game is more important than you falling apart?"
you look down, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "i don't know," you mumble, your voice cracking. "i just... i had so much shame, désiré. i felt stupid for letting it last so long, and i didn't want to be a distraction. you have so much pressure on you, so much focus required for the season... i didn't want to be the reason you missed a play or lost your head because you were worried about my stupid relationship drama."
he lets out a sharp, incredulous huff, pulling you into his chest. his arms wrap around you, anchoring you, and his chin rests on the top of your head. "you could never be a distraction," he says firmly. "you’re the only thing that actually keeps me grounded. don't ever, ever think you're bothering me. you’re the priority, always."
the dam breaks completely then. you bury your face against his bare, warm skin, the scent of him grounding you as the tears finally fall. he doesn't try to stop you or fix it with empty platitudes; he just holds you, his hand rubbing slow, steady circles on your back, his presence a constant, steady hum against your ear.
after a while, the sobbing subsides into small, hitching breaths. you’ve migrated to the sofa, your head resting heavily on his bare chest, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your ear serving as a lifeline. you pull your phone out, your thumb hovering over your gallery, and you start scrolling.
you pull up an old photo—one of you and your ex at a party, both of you smiling, but he looks away, his hand tense on your waist. "look," you whisper, gesturing to the screen. "i miss the idea of it, you know? i miss having someone. but then i look at this, and i remember how exhausted i was trying to keep the peace. or this one," you swipe to another, "he was always so moody if i spent too much time with my friends... specifically you."
désiré watches the screen over your shoulder, his arm draped possessively over your waist. every time you point out a flaw or a moment of tension, he doesn't tell you you’re crazy. he validates you.
"yeah, i see it," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "he never looked at you right. he never knew how to hold you." he kisses the top of your head, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that used to just be for flirting but now feels like a promise. "let him go, baby. you’re here now. and you’re not going to be sad for much longer, i promise you that."
the air in the room feels thick, saturated with the quiet intensity of his focus. as you continue to spill the contents of your heart—the small betrayals you had swallowed to keep the peace, the lonely nights spent waiting for a text that never came, the way you had slowly shrunk yourself to fit into the margins of your ex’s ego—désiré doesn't fidget. he doesn't check his phone. he doesn't look away.
he listens with a hunger that you haven't quite processed yet.
every word you exhale is a weight lifted off your chest, and he is the one catching it, absorbing your frustration as if it were his own. he realizes then, with a sharp, terrifying clarity, that the shield he had kept around his heart all these years—the 'best friend' act—was the only thing standing between you and the reality of what he could offer.
he watches your trembling hands as you describe a particularly painful argument, and his jaw tightens. he feels a surge of something molten and possessive rush through his veins. he had spent so long watching from the sidelines, playing the supportive brother, the shoulder to cry on, the guy who made you laugh when your heart was breaking. but now? now the space is clear. and he is done being a spectator.
"i hated seeing you like that," he says, his voice low, vibrating against the side of your face where it’s still pressed to his chest. "i hated that you felt like you had to shrink yourself just to keep him happy. you’re so much bigger than that, so much brighter. i don't think you ever realized how much power you actually have."
you tilt your head back to look at him, surprised by the sudden edge of steel in his tone. his eyes are dark, locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
"keep going," he whispers, his thumb tracing the path of a stray tear on your cheek, his touch feather-light but searing. "get it all out. every bit of frustration, every bit of hurt. i’m not going anywhere. i want to hear every single detail so i can make sure you never, ever feel that way again."
he pulls you tighter, his scent—that mix of cedar, sweat, and something uniquely désiré—surrounding you. he isn't just listening to fix your problems anymore; he’s taking mental notes. he’s learning exactly where you were neglected, exactly where your soft spots are, and exactly how he is going to fill those gaps. he is positioning himself, claiming the space that was always meant to be his.
as you talk, the room feels like a sanctuary, a small, enclosed world where only you and he exist. you can see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand keeps rhythm against your back—he’s not just your best friend holding you together. he’s a man who has finally decided to claim what he’s wanted all along.
"you're done with him," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that intimate, low register that makes your stomach flip. "you’re completely done. and from here on out, you don't have to carry any of that. you have me. and i’m going to make sure you never forget exactly what you’re worth."
you took his words as the ultimate proof of friendship. in your mind, it was just classic désiré—the guy who would move mountains and fight dragons just to see you smile again. you felt a profound sense of gratitude, thinking about how lucky you were to have such an incredible, rock-solid human being in your corner. it never crossed your mind that his devotion was fueled by anything other than the purest, deepest platonic love. you were just relieved to have your anchor back.
the weeks that followed became a blur of quiet healing. he became a permanent fixture in your daily life, refusing to let you retreat into your own head.
if you had a gap in your schedule, he was there. if there was a new exhibit, a late-night food spot, or just a drive you both loved, he was at your door before you could even suggest it. he started showing up with your favorite snacks, or just sitting in silence with you while you both scrolled through your phones, the comfortable weight of his presence acting like a balm over your frayed nerves.
it was the little things that mattered most. the way he’d steer you away from crowds when he saw you feeling overwhelmed, or the way he’d talk about the most random topics—football tactics, the ridiculous things his teammates said, or stories from his childhood—just to keep your mind occupied.
and then there were the nights. when the silence of your apartment started to feel too big and too hollow, he’d just stay. he’d take the couch, or sometimes, he’d just crawl into your bed, pulling you against his chest, his presence acting as a physical barrier against the ghosts of your past relationship. there was no pressure, no awkwardness—just the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your back and the feeling of safety that had been missing for so long.
it was working. you felt the fog lifting, day by day. you were laughing more, you were sleeping through the night, and the sharp, jagged edges of your heartbreak were starting to smooth out. you looked at him across the table as he helped you with something mundane, a soft smile playing on his lips, and you just thought, god, i would be absolutely lost without him.
you were so busy soaking up the warmth of his 'best friend' care that you completely missed the way his eyes would linger on your face when you weren't looking. you missed the way he’d tighten his grip on your hand just a little too long when he helped you up, or how he’d instinctively shift to stand between you and the rest of the world, marking his territory in a way that felt like protection, but looked a lot like hunger.
you were blooming under his attention, finally feeling like yourself again, completely oblivious to the fact that you were just ripening into the version of yourself that he had been waiting for all along.
the champions league anthem started playing on the tv, that iconic, soaring melody that usually signaled the start of a war for him, but here, in the comfort of your living room, it just sounded like background noise. it was the most intense part of the season. the pressure on him and the club was suffocating; they were chasing that elusive first title, and the stakes meant every training session was grueling, every match a mental and physical marathon.
yet, despite the cameras constantly in his face and the crushing weight of expectation, he was here. again.
he’d just gotten back from a flight, his bag still by the door, and he looked exhausted. the dark circles under his eyes were faint, and there was a heavy, sluggish quality to his movements that you usually only saw after the most brutal games. you felt a twinge of guilt, watching him drop his keys on the counter and walk straight toward you, his eyes softening the second they landed on you.
"you didn't have to come over," you whispered, standing up from the sofa as he reached you. "you’re probably exhausted, and you have that press conference tomorrow morning. don't you have a team meeting?"
désiré just shrugged, his shoulders rolling back as he let out a long, slow breath. he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your jawline for just a beat too long. "i told you, i’m not staying in that hotel alone. it’s too quiet. and besides," he added, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register, "i need the reset. being here with you? it’s the only time my head actually stops spinning."
it was the same routine. he’d order food, change into his sweats, and sink into your sofa like it was the only place in the world where he was allowed to be anything other than a professional athlete.
sometimes, he’d fall asleep while you were talking, his head heavy on your lap, his hand reflexively clutching your wrist as if to make sure you didn't leave while he was under. other times, he’d spend the entire night with his laptop open, analyzing game footage, but he’d do it right next to you, his leg pressed firmly against yours the entire time.
you watched him tonight, biting into a slice of pizza, eyes glued to the tactical diagrams on his screen, yet his free hand was absentmindedly playing with the hem of your shirt. it was a strange, beautiful balance. he was chasing the biggest trophy of his career, carrying the hopes of an entire city, but he was still showing up for you with a consistency that left you breathless.
you didn't realize that for him, your presence had become his own personal sanctuary. he was playing for the championship, but he was resting for you. and as he finally closed his laptop and pulled you down to lean against his chest, the stadium lights and the roar of the crowd felt a million miles away. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a sharp, content sigh.
"you’re my good luck charm, you know that?" he murmured against your skin, his arms winding around your waist to pull you flush against him. "don't ever stop being here. i don't think i could do any of this without you."
you just hummed, resting your head back against his, totally unaware of the way his hold on you tightened—like he was holding onto his most precious prize, the one thing he refused to let slip away, no matter how many trophies were on the line.
you tap his shoulder, a little harder than you intended, trying to mask the way your pulse is racing like a frantic drum. "stop it, désiré," you laugh, though the sound comes out a bit breathless and shaky. "you’re being ridiculous. honestly, you're the worst. stop messing with me, i’m already completely destabilized."
he doesn't pull away, though. he just watches you, that small, knowing smirk still playing on his lips, enjoying the fact that he’s the one who finally managed to rattle you.
to break the tension—or maybe because you’re suddenly terrified of what happens if you stay quiet—you let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle and decide to lean into his joke. you pull back just enough to create a little bit of space, tossing your hair back with a playful, dramatic flourish.
"fine," you announce, your voice dripping with mock-seriousness as you stand up and gesture to the imaginary crowd in your living room. "if i’m going to be a 'wag,' i have to practice my reactions. i can’t just be a normal fan, can i? i need to be the perfect one."
désiré watches you, clearly amused, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back against the sofa, his eyes tracking every move you make.
"alright then," he says, his voice thick with challenge. "show me. the trophy is in my hands, the final whistle just blew. what do you do?"
you take a deep breath, putting on a dramatic, over-the-top face. you clutch your chest, eyes wide and watery, and throw your head back as if you’re suddenly overcome with emotion. "oh my god!" you gasp, reaching out toward him as if he were miles away on a pitch. "oh, my hero! he did it! i knew he could do it!"
you start jumping up and down, putting on an exaggerated performance of a woman who just watched her husband win the world. you even throw in a dramatic, air-kiss directed straight at him, your laughter bubbling over as you play the part. "look at him! he’s mine, did you see that?! he’s the best in the world!"
désiré is losing it. he’s doubled over, his chest shaking with laughter, and he reaches out to grab your wrist, pulling you back down onto the couch right next to him. he’s breathless, looking at you with a kind of adoration that makes your heart skip a beat, even through all the acting.
"you’re a terrible actress," he wheezes, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "but god, you’re cute when you do that. keep going. i need to know if you can handle the paparazzi if we actually win."
you’re both laughing so hard that your sides ache, the heaviness of the past few weeks completely forgotten. for a moment, it feels like the world is nothing but the two of you, the flickering lights of the tv, and the infectious, easy warmth of a future that doesn't feel quite as hypothetical as it did a few minutes ago.
the training center is a different world—a sprawling complex of pristine turf, the sharp whistle of the coach cutting through the morning air, and the palpable energy of men who live and breathe for the game. when you walked in, keeping your gaze low and your hands tucked into the pockets of the hoodie you borrowed from désiré, you felt eyes on you. the gossip in football locker rooms is faster than a counter-attack, and you were sure they’d all heard about the 'special guest' he’d been bringing everywhere lately.
désiré never let you wander. his hand was a constant, solid weight against the small of your back, steering you through the corridors and onto the sidelines. he introduced you to his teammates with a pride that made your chest ache, his hand tightening whenever one of them lingered a second too long in their greetings.
you were surprisingly comfortable, though. you found yourself laughing at their jokes and bantering with the ones who came over to say hi, but you always found your way back to désiré’s orbit. like a planet caught in his gravity, you were constantly drifting back to his side, hovering right at his shoulder while he did his stretches or spoke to his coaches.
he noticed it immediately. of course he did. he noticed everything about you.
later, while the team was finishing up a series of drills and the sun was dipping lower, casting long shadows across the pitch, he jogged over to you, wiping sweat from his forehead with his shirt. he didn't head for the water station; he came straight to you, invading your space as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
he leaned down, his voice dropping to a low murmur that only you could hear, the sound of his heavy breathing still audible. "you’re glued to my side today," he noted, a smirk tugging at his lips. he reached out, adjusting your hair, his fingers lingering on your neck, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line against your skin.
"you were doing great on your own with the guys," he continued, his eyes darkening. "but i don't mind you sticking close. honestly, i prefer it. it’s nice knowing exactly where you are every time i turn around."
he leaned in even closer, his scent—fresh grass, deep heat, and that intoxicating, clean smell of him—overwhelming your senses. he wasn't just being a protective best friend anymore, and the way he was looking at you—with that possessive, steady intensity—made it clear that he was perfectly happy to keep you right where you were: tucked safely away in his world, and firmly under his wing.
you feel a sudden swell of genuine, quiet pride in your chest. looking at him—covered in sweat, chest still heaving from the intensity of the drill, yet focused entirely on you—it hits you just how much he’s sacrificed to get to this point. he’s not just a player; he’s an athlete who gives everything, every single day.
you reach out, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his training kit, needing to anchor yourself to the moment. "you know," you start, your voice soft but clear, cutting through the ambient noise of the pitch. "i’ve watched you work for years, but this? seeing it from the inside, seeing how much heart you put into every single sprint... i’m so incredibly proud of you, désiré."
his playful smirk softens, his gaze dropping to your face with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. you don't stop there. "and i really can't wait to see how much further this team goes," you continue, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "you’re so close to that final. it’s right there, almost in your hands. watching you guys get this far... it makes me want to scream from the stands."
the effect on him is immediate. the cocky, flirtatious mask slips, revealing a look of raw, unguarded vulnerability. he’s not used to people seeing past the 'star player' persona, but you? you’ve always seen the man beneath the jersey.
he reaches out, his hand sliding behind your neck to pull you just an inch closer, his thumb stroking your skin in a way that feels like a silent promise. he doesn't look away from your eyes. "it’s a lot of pressure," he admits, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum. "some days it feels like the whole world is watching, waiting for me to slip up. but knowing you’re in the stands... knowing you’re the one watching me reach for that trophy? it changes everything."
he leans down, his forehead coming to rest against yours, his breath warm against your lips. he’s grounding himself, using you as his touchstone in the middle of a chaotic, high-stakes season.
"we’re going to get there," he murmurs, his eyes dark and burning with a quiet, fierce determination. "and when we do, i want you to be the first person i look for. i want you there, right by my side, when we finally bring it home. you have no idea how much your belief in me... how much you... mean to this whole process."
the way he says it—the possessiveness, the reliance, the sheer gravity of his words—it leaves you reeling. he’s not just talking about the game anymore. he’s talking about a future that he’s already building with you at the center of it.
the air in the city is thick with anticipation, vibrating with the electric hum of an entire fan base waiting for the champions league final. for désiré, the pressure has reached a boiling point. the media is relentless, the coaching staff is hovering, and every single second of his day is supposed to be dictated by tactical meetings, recovery protocols, and iron-clad focus.
yet, here he is. at your place again, three nights before the biggest game of his life.
earlier that day, you had heard him arguing—softly, but firmly—over the phone with his manager. you caught snippets of it: “it’s not a distraction,” he’d snapped, his voice tight, “it’s the only reason i’m playing the way i am. leave it alone.” he didn't explain it to you, but you knew. you knew he was fighting to keep his time with you, even when the world was telling him to lock himself away in a hotel room.
he’s sitting on your floor now, leaning his back against the sofa, his laptop discarded on the coffee table. he looks drained, the exhaustion of the season finally etching lines of fatigue around his eyes, but his focus is laser-sharp on you. you’re sitting beside him, your hand absentmindedly twisting the fabric of his sweatpants, and he’s watching you with an intensity that makes your skin flush.
"the coach thinks i’m losing my mind," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. he reaches out, his fingers hooking under your chin to tilt your face up to his. "he thinks i should be staring at game footage until my eyes bleed, or sleeping in a pressurized chamber. he doesn't get it."
"maybe he’s right, désiré," you whisper, though your heart isn't in the argument. "maybe you should be resting."
he shakes his head, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch electric. "no. you’re my concentration. you’re the only thing that actually keeps me centered. when i’m with you, everything else—the noise, the expectations, the terror of losing—it all just goes quiet."
your breath hitches. the weight of his words settles deep in your chest, and suddenly, the air in the room feels different. it’s not just the safety of your friendship anymore. it’s something else—something heavier, more frantic, and entirely consuming.
you look at him, really look at him, and you realize the shift has already happened. you’re not just relying on him to get you through your heartbreak; you’re craving him. your heart isn't just fluttering because he’s a good friend; it’s racing because you’re terrified of the way you want him to pull you closer, the way you want his lips on yours, the way you want to be the reason his heart beats as fast as yours does right now.
the realization hits you like a tidal wave: you’re falling. not just a little, but completely and devastatingly. you’re not his 'best friend' who got her heart broken anymore. you’re a woman sitting on her floor, aching for the man who has spent every spare second of his most important season tethering himself to you.
you swallow hard, his gaze tracking the movement of your throat with predatory precision. he senses the shift in you—he feels the change in your posture, the way your heartbeat has picked up beneath your skin. his eyes darken, a knowing, triumphant shadow crossing his face.
"you're thinking about it, aren't you?" he murmurs, his voice a dangerous, velvet invitation. he leans in closer, his lips hovering just inches from yours, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. "you're finally starting to feel it too."
your silence is louder than any words you could have spoken, but désiré doesn't need to hear a sound. he sees the way your breath hitches, the way your eyes soften and finally drop the walls you’ve spent months building. he sees the truth written in the way you lean into his space, and his expression turns triumphant, a dark, hungry spark igniting in his eyes. he presses his forehead to yours, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, his grip firm and anchoring.
"i'm not letting you watch this from a screen," he had told you two days ago, his voice firm as he handed you the ticket. "i need you there. i need to know you're in the stands, right where i can find you when the final whistle blows. i’m not going through the biggest night of my life without my good luck charm within reach."
the stadium lights are blinding, a harsh, electric glare that seems to reflect the nervous energy vibrating through your entire body. you are perched at the very edge of the VIP row, close enough to the pitch that you can practically feel the heat radiating off the manicured grass. the roar of the crowd is a physical weight, a wall of sound that makes your skin prickle, but your focus is entirely on the man warming up just a few dozen yards away.
désiré is a study in controlled intensity. he moves with that familiar, predatory grace, but you notice the difference in his posture tonight—the set of his jaw, the way he doesn’t glance up at the cheering stands like the others. he’s dialed in. he is a coiled spring, and you know exactly why. the weight of this trophy, the years of grueling work, and the silent, heavy promise he made to you three days ago are all converging in this single match.
you can feel his pressure as if it were your own. it’s a tight, hot knot in your stomach. you aren't just here to support him; you are here to be his witness, his motivation, and, if he manages to pull off the impossible, the person he comes to claim. the thought makes your heart hammer against your ribs so hard it hurts. you want this for him more than you’ve ever wanted anything, because you finally understand that his victory is the key to the door you’ve been terrified to open.
he pauses his drills for a second, his chest heaving under his jersey, and turns. he scans the front row of the stands, his eyes moving with a laser-like focus until they latch onto you. the moment he sees you, the intensity in his gaze doesn't soften—it deepens. he holds your stare for a heartbeat, his eyes dark and burning with an unspoken message that sets your blood on fire. he gives a single, sharp nod, his hand momentarily brushing his chest over his heart, before he turns back to the pitch, his focus absolute once more.
the referee’s whistle echoes through the stadium, sharp and piercing, signaling the start of the match. the world around you seems to blur into a kaleidoscope of motion and noise. you grip your seat, your nails digging into the velvet, your breath shallow.
every time he touches the ball, the air in your lungs vanishes. you aren't just watching a match anymore; you’re watching the man you’re desperately falling for fight for the right to call you his. you realize that you aren't just rooting for a club or a trophy; you’re rooting for the start of your life with him. you’re rooting for the moment he finally walks off that pitch, crosses the barrier, and makes that promise real.
as he maneuvers past a defender, moving with a speed that makes you gasp, you whisper his name under your breath, a silent plea that feels like a prayer. win it, désiré. win it all, and come find me.
the stadium is no longer just a venue; it’s a crucible, and you are burning right along with it. when the ball leaves his foot for the second time, arching perfectly past the keeper’s desperate reach into the top corner, your entire world tilts on its axis.
a double. he’s done it.
you’re not even human in this moment; you’re pure, unfiltered sound. you’re jumping on your seat, hands pressed to your cheeks, screaming until your throat burns, completely oblivious to the thousands of people surrounding you. the sheer dominance he’s displaying on the pitch is dizzying. he’s not just playing; he’s performing a symphony of power, and you are the only one who knows exactly what he’s fighting for.
then, he does the one thing that makes your heart stop dead in your chest.
as he turns, that signature smirk—sharp, dangerous, and utterly possessive—spreads across his face. he doesn't run to the bench. he doesn't embrace his teammates. he grabs the hem of his jersey, yanks it over his head, and tosses it aside, leaving him standing there in the middle of the pitch, chest heaving, skin glistening under the floodlights.
he starts walking. not toward the fans, not toward the cameras. he walks straight toward your corner, his stride heavy with a lethal, focused confidence. he’s looking right at you, his eyes locked onto yours with such intense, singular purpose that the stadium around you seems to dissolve into gray static.
the air in your lungs vanishes as the reality crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave. this isn't the guy who used to drive you home at 3:00 am just to listen to you cry. this isn't just your best friend.
as he stops just a few feet away from the barrier, holding your gaze, it hits you with the clarity of a lightning strike: he is the love of your life.
every suppressed feeling, every moment of 'just friends' banter, every night you spent in his arms—it all makes sense now. you’ve been chasing this, and he’s been waiting for you to catch up. your hands are shaking, not from the cold, but from the sudden, terrifying realization that you are standing on the edge of everything.
the final whistle is minutes away. the trophy is practically in his grip. and you? you are fully, completely, and irrevocably his. you aren't just ready for the end of the match anymore—you are ready for the rest of your life to begin the moment he walks off that pitch and into your arms.
the final whistle pierces the air, sharp and final, a sound that instantly transforms the stadium into a riot of noise, confetti, and pure euphoria. it’s official. the psg have done it—the dream you’ve heard him whisper about for years is now reality. the trophy is theirs.
the dam inside you finally breaks. you don’t just cry; you sob, your shoulders shaking as tears stream down your face, hot and fast. it’s an overwhelming cocktail of relief, pride, and the sheer magnitude of seeing him achieve everything he ever fought for. your vision is blurred, the pitch below turning into a hazy, vibrant sea of blue and red, and your legs feel like they’ve completely forgotten how to hold your weight.
you want to move. you want to run—to sprint past the security, to scramble over the barrier, to reach him before anyone else can touch him. you want to be the first one to feel the heat radiating off his skin and to tell him that he did it. but you’re paralyzed. you’re absolutely, completely captivated, your heart hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated awe against your ribs. you are frozen in the middle of the most beautiful, chaotic moment of your life, watching the confetti rain down on the man who owns your heart.
down on the pitch, he doesn’t wait. he’s already scanning the crowd, his eyes wild, frantic, and filled with a desperate intensity that matches your own. he ignores the cameras, ignores the teammates trying to hoist him onto their shoulders, and ignores the massive trophy waiting for him. his focus is singular. he’s searching for you.
and then, his eyes lock onto yours.
his face, already radiant with the glow of victory, transforms into something even more raw. he doesn’t stop to celebrate with the others. he starts pushing through the throng of people, his movements purposeful and urgent. he’s coming for you. he’s coming to claim the promise.
you stand there, chest heaving, tears still track-marking your face, your hands gripping the cold metal of the barrier until your knuckles ache. you can see him getting closer, his gaze never once wavering from your face, and the realization hits you with the force of a physical blow: he’s not coming for the trophy, and he’s not coming for the cameras.
he’s coming for his girl.
and as he reaches the front row, his chest heaving from the adrenaline of the final minutes, he doesn't even pause. he reaches out his hand toward you, his expression softening into a look of such intense, hungry adoration that your breath hitches in your throat.
"i told you," he says, his voice barely audible over the roaring crowd, but you hear every syllable as if he were whispering right against your ear. "i told you i’d win it all. and now i’m coming to collect my prize."
he isn't asking anymore. he’s waiting for you to take his hand.
you don't need words. the air in your lungs is gone, replaced by the crushing weight of relief and the sheer, overwhelming intensity of the moment. you don't even think—you just move, vaulting over the barrier and letting your momentum carry you straight into him.
you collide with him, your arms wrapping around his neck as hard as you can, burying your face into the curve of his shoulder. he catches you instantly, his arms winding around your waist with a strength that pins you against him, lifting you off your feet as if you weigh nothing at all. he’s solid, he’s hot, and he’s shaking—a raw, rhythmic tremor that you can feel through the thin fabric of his jersey.
he buries his face in your hair, his breath hitching in his own throat. he’s not shouting, he’s not celebrating with the team; he’s just holding onto you, his grip so tight it’s almost painful, as if he’s trying to fuse the two of you together right there in front of everyone.
"i have you," he murmurs, his voice thick, rough, and vibrating against your ear. "i finally have you."
you sob harder, your tears soaking into his skin, your entire body trembling. you feel his heart hammering against your chest, a wild, frantic bird of a heartbeat that matches your own perfectly. in this chaos, amidst the fireworks, the screaming fans, and the deafening victory music, the world has narrowed down to just this—the scent of him, the strength of his arms, and the absolute, terrifying realization that there is no more 'best friend' and no more running.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his face flushed, eyes bright with a mixture of sweat, joy, and a hunger that is entirely, undeniably yours. he doesn't let go of your waist, his hands roaming over your back, keeping you flush against him, making sure there is no space left between you.
he leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his nose brushing yours, and he closes his eyes for a second, just breathing you in. he doesn't need to hear a confession. he feels the way you’ve surrendered to him, the way you’re clutching his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.
"you're mine," he says again, not as a question this time, but as a vow. "you're finally mine. and i am never, ever letting go."
he kisses you then—a messy, desperate, tear-stained kiss that tastes like everything you’ve been afraid to admit for years. and as the stadium cheers around you, you realize that the trophy, the fame, the victory—none of it compares to the feeling of being held by him, knowing that the only thing he wanted to win tonight was you.
you try to speak, a jumble of syllables and shaky, breathless gasps, but it’s completely unintelligible—a messy, emotional confession that gets lost in the sheer overwhelming surge of your own heart. you feel foolish, but then his laugh breaks through the roar of the stadium—a low, genuine sound that vibrates against your own chest.
he doesn't pull away to make you repeat yourself; instead, he cups your face with both hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears still clinging to your cheeks. his eyes are filled with a tender, patient warmth that grounds you instantly. "shhh," he murmurs, his voice a soft anchor amidst the chaos. "i know. you don't have to say a word. i've got you."
before you can even catch your breath, he slips an arm firmly around your waist, pulling you into his side with a proprietary, unbreakable hold. he doesn't just invite you to follow him—he leads you right into the center of the madness.
as he steps back onto the pitch with you tucked securely against him, you feel the reality of it finally sink in. the grass is cool beneath your feet, the air thick with gold confetti and the overwhelming hum of victory. everywhere you look, there is motion, light, and the deafening cheers of a stadium that belongs to him tonight. but he’s not looking at any of it. he’s looking at you, his hand a constant, reassuring weight on your hip, guiding you through the surge of his teammates as they begin their celebration.
you look up at him, and for the first time, you see the full scale of it. he has the trophy of his dreams, the ultimate pinnacle of the life he’s dedicated every heartbeat to. and then you look at yourself—held tight by the man who was always the dream beneath the dream.
it hits you with a clarity that takes your breath away: the stars finally aligned. he fought his war, he secured his crown, and through all of it, he never stopped coming for you. he isn't just the boy you teased or the friend who comforted you; he is your man, the one who was meant for you all along.
he catches you staring, a knowing, radiant grin breaking across his face. he leans down, his lips brushing against your temple, his voice barely audible over the chanting of the fans. "how does it feel?" he asks, his gaze burning into yours, full of a fierce, protective pride. "being right where you belong?"
the realization settles deep in your bones, warm and permanent. you aren't just in the middle of a celebration; you're standing at the starting line of the rest of your lives. you look at him, and this time, you don't stutter. you just smile, tucking your head into his shoulder, and hold on tighter, knowing that wherever he goes from here, you’re finally going with him.
Can you do a desire doue x female football player reader where the reader plays for psg/france and they slowly fall for each other the more they hang around eachother 💗
Closer every time
Desire doue x f!reader
Fluff
You first met Désiré properly during a joint training session between the PSG men’s and women’s squads. He was still relatively new to the club, all long limbs and quiet focus, while you were one of the established midfielders for the women’s team.
After drills, he lingered near the water station, spinning a ball on his finger.
“You’re quicker than half the guys on our team,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “That through ball in the 3v3? Clean.”
You laughed, wiping sweat from your forehead. “Flattery won’t get you a starting spot against us.”
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Noted.”
That was the beginning. Small conversations after shared sessions turned into casual walks back to the training centre. Then coffee runs. Then late-night drives when neither of you could sleep after tough matches.
The first time you really hung out outside of club stuff was at a quiet team barbecue. You were sitting on the grass with a plate of food when Désiré dropped down beside you, two cold drinks in hand.
“You looked like you needed this,” he said, offering one.
“Thanks.” You clinked bottles lightly. “Tough week?”
He shrugged, eyes on the sunset. “New city, new pressure. But it’s good. Especially when the women’s team keeps showing us up in joint sessions.” He glanced at you sideways. “You make it fun, though.”
You felt warmth creep up your neck but played it cool. “Someone has to keep you boys humble.”
From then on, he started texting you more. Not just football talk — memes, funny training stories, asking how your recovery was going after a tough France camp. You found yourself smiling at your phone way too often.
A few weeks later, you were both recovering from minor knocks and ended up doing light gym work together. After, you wandered the nearly empty campus, talking about everything and nothing.
“You ever get scared?” you asked quietly. “Of the expectations? Playing for France, for PSG… it never really stops.”
Désiré nodded slowly, hands in his pockets. “All the time. But then I see how you handle it — calm, focused, still smiling after ninety minutes. Makes me want to be better.” He paused. “Makes me want to be around you more.”
Your heart skipped. You looked at him, really looked. The way the evening light hit his face, the soft sincerity in his eyes.
“I like being around you too,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Neither of you said anything more that night, but the air between you had shifted.
It kept building in small, beautiful moments.
- Late-night calls after international breaks where you’d both be exhausted but unwilling to hang up.
- Him bringing you your favourite post-training snack without asking.
- You cheering extra loud for him during his first big start at the Parc des Princes (he looked straight at you after scoring).
- Sitting together on the team bus during a pre-season tour, shoulders brushing, talking about dreams beyond football.
One rainy afternoon in Paris, you were at his place watching match footage to “study” (a weak excuse). Halfway through, the analysis was forgotten. You were both laughing about a ridiculous tackle when Désiré went quiet.
You turned to him. “What?”
He looked at you for a long second, eyes soft. “I didn’t expect this. Moving here, meeting you… I thought it’d just be football. But now I look forward to seeing you more than anything else.”
Your breath caught. The slow realisation had been creeping up on you for weeks — the butterflies before seeing him, the way your day felt brighter when he was in it.
“I feel the same,” you said, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand. “We don’t have to rush anything. We’ve got time.”
Désiré smiled, the kind that lit up his whole face, and laced his fingers with yours. “Yeah. I like slow with you.”
The rain tapped against the windows as you sat together, closer than before, hearts quietly falling a little more with every shared moment, every lingering look, every quiet “I missed you” after a long week.
No grand confessions yet. Just two players, slowly becoming each other’s favourite part of the game.
note: this chapter feels a bit bad and wattpad-esque but i promise it will get better!
clairefontaine had always felt like a home of sorts, no matter how many clubs you played for, or how many stadiums you stepped into, nothing could replicate the familiar feeling of representing your country. you had been coming back regularly since you were seventeen and every time you came back you were reminded all over again for why you fell in love with football in the first place.
this summer was different though as the women’s squad prepared to leave for brazil for the world cup, whilst at the same time, the men’s squad were gathered at clairefontaine for their own international break before returning to their clubs.
this meant that for a few days, both teams shared the same training base meaning breakfasts became louder gyms busier. there were often footballs flying around every corridor and someone was always trying to start a game of one touch in places they definitely shouldn’t, it was chaos, but it felt like home.
you had just finished up training for the day when you wandered into the recovery room heading towards the fridge, a wet towel slung around your neck as you caught your breath. before you could even reach the fridge, a bottle of water was placed neatly in your hands. you looked up only to come face to face with désiré doué.
“were you standing there waiting for me?” you asked, teasingly.
“i knew you’d forget to grab one,” he shrugged, trying and failing, to look casual.
“i wouldn’t have.”
“you absolutely would have.”
“i remembered my boots this morning.” you smiled as if it proved anything.
“barely, you left them outside your room.”
“and then i came back for them.”
“only after the kit man reminded you.” he pointed out causing you to roll your eyes and sigh dramatically as you leaned against the counter, taking a sip of water.
“you weren’t bad today.” you told him.
“’weren’t bad?’” désiré’s eyebrows raised.
“i’m feeling generous,” you shrugged.
“i scored twice.”
“so did i.”
“you had one goal.”
“it was a very nice goal.” you confessed causing him to laugh.
“you are impossible.”
“oi.”
the two of you looked up to find michael olise walking into the room as he glanced between you and désiré.
“there you are.”
“what?” désiré frowned.
“i’ve been looking for you.”
“oh.”
“you weren’t in the gym, the dining hall, or the lounge.”
“no?”
“so naturally…” michael’s eyes landed on you as he folded his arms, “you were here.”
you tried to hide your smile as désiré scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
“i just came to get water.”
“mhm.” michael nodded slowly, clearly not believing him.
“you know,” he continued casually, “it’s actually quite impressive.”
“what is?” you asked.
“the fact that neither of you ever has to wonder where the other one is.”
“what do you mean?” you frowned.
“i mean…” michael gestured between the two of you looking genuinely confused, “you always find each other.”
silence followed as he took this as a cue to carry on.
“i’ve watched you all week and if one of you disappears, well the other one’s usually gone about thirty seconds later.”
you looked at désiré only to find he was already looking at you as michael smiled to himself.
“i’m just making an observation, it’s actually quite sweet.” he laughed.
“we’re friends,” you replied.
“i know,” michael nodded, “i’m not saying otherwise. i’m just saying that i’ve never seen either of you walk into a room without checking if the other’s already there.”
neither you nor désiré answered, because he wasn’t wrong. you’d never noticed that you did it, but now that he’d said it, it felt impossible to ignore.
“coach is looking for you.” michael clapped désiré on the shoulder.
“coming.” désiré nodded as he began walking away.
“you know…” michael smiled glancing back at you, “you two make saying goodbye tomorrow look like it’s going to be very difficult.”
that evening at dinner, both squads ate together, the atmosphere overflowing with excitement and nerves as didier deschamps stood first, congratulating the women’s squad on qualifying, wished luck and reminded everyone that representing france was a privilege. Then laurent bonadei spoke about responsibility, belief in the self and enjoying the tournament. by the time the speeches ended, the room had erupted into applause.
the corridors of clairefontaine had long fallen quiet with most of the player’s already in bed. sleep should’ve come easy, you had an early flight in the morning but instead you found yourself sitting on the edge of one of the empty training pitches, your legs dangling over the advertising boards as you watched the floodlight illuminate the grass.
“you disappear every time you’re nervous.”
“i was wondering how long it’d take for you to find me.” you smiled before you had even turned around.
“i checked three places.” désiré shrugged as he walked over.
“only three?”
“i knew you’d be here.”
he dropped down beside you, his shoulders brushing yours as neither of you moved away. for a while, you just sat there in silence, not awkward, just comfortable, it had always been like this, sometimes the two of you could spend half an hour together without saying a word.
“you excited?” he asked.
“terrified.” you nodded.
“you’ll be fine.”
“you always say that.”
“because it’s always true.” he states simply, causing you to roll your eyes playfully.
“you know, one day i’m actually going to have a bad game.”
“i doubt it.” he looked at you.
“true, you’ve never seen me have one.”
“i’ve seen you miss open goals.”
“i missed one.” you gasped dramatically.
“it was very funny.”
“it was not funny.”
“i laughed.”
“you laugh at everything.”
at this he laughed quietly, as you tried to engrain the sound into your mind, missing him already and you hadn’t even left yet.
“you’ll call me?” you asked casually, like you always did.
“obviously.” he nodded.
“no disappearing.”
“i won’t disappear.”
“you promise?”
“i promise.”
you looked at him for a second, “you better.”
“i will.” he assured as the conversation drifted into silence again.
your hand found his without thinking as his fingers laced with yours instinctively, neither of you acknowledging it due to the naturalness of the action.
“you know, i’m going to miss this.” you murmured.
“so am i.” he spoke lowly, looking down at your joined hands.
“so come here.” you turned towards him.
“bossy.” an amused grin spread across his face.
“you like it.” you teased, wagging your eyebrows.
“i love it.” he admitted with a laugh before leaning over to close the gap between you.
the kiss was effortless, like all the ones before had been, there was no hesitation as your lips connected, the feeling of his eyelashes fluttering against your cheek whilst your hands made their way to the back of his neck, pulling slightly at his curls. your lips parted naturally as he slipped his tongue into your mouth brushing it against your own causing you to let out a breathy moan as he held onto you tightly like he was scared you might run away. when you finally pulled away, lips swollen, catching your breath, he rested his forehead gently against yours before speaking.
“i’ll miss this.” he repeated as you pecked his lips again causing him to smile against them.
“you’ve got, what like three weeks?” you rationalised.
“three weeks too many.” he complained.
“you’ll survive.” you laughed softly.
“barely.”
“you are so dramatic.” you rolled your eyes.
“i’m in love.”
you heart stuttered as the words hung in the air for a second before he smiled slightly.
“i mean…” he rubbed the back of his neck.
“i know,” you assured.
you both laughed as the moment passed, but neither of you missed it, nor did either of you try to correct what he had said, because the words were always settled in the back of your minds but fear of ruin held you both back.
you leaned over and kissed him again, a little longer this time as if somehow that would make the next few weeks any easier. when you finally stood up, to head back to your room he caught your wrist gently.
“hey.”
you turned back to face him.
“come back to me.”
the smile on your face faltered slightly.
“i always do.”
“i know.” he nodded.
“i’ll call you,” you told him, squeezing his hand once more before letting go.
“i’ll answer.”
“i know.”
“i’ll answer every time.”
you smiled one last time before disappearing back inside as désiré watched until the doors closed behind you, neither of you knowing that the promise made would become the promise that haunted you both for months to come.
the next morning, the entire men’s squad stood outside the training centre as the women’s team boarded the coach, cheering, applauding and shouting words of encouragement. you climbed onto the coach before turning around one last time, your eyes finding désire’s almost immediately as he gave you a small salute.
“go make me proud.” he mouthed causing you to smile and nod.
as the coach pulled away and you watched clairefontaine disappear behind the trees, you had no idea that the next time you saw désiré everything between you would’ve changed.
in which . . . you have to pretend to date désiré to stop the cheating rumors after a one night stand
tw: smut, p in v, quiet sex. mdni.
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your hand flew up instantly to clamp over your mouth, fingers digging into your own lips to trap the moan that threatened to escape.
people were sleeping right next to his bedroom, one wrong sound and everything could've been over.
“god… you're so fucking wet,” he whispered, rolling his hips in a deep grind that buried him even further.
you bit down hard on your fingers, a muffled whimper vibrating against your palm as your eyes fluttered shut.
your walls clenched tight around his cock, pulsing with every thick inch he gave you.
he didn’t stop and pulled back just enough to slide almost all the way out before driving back in, slower and deeper this time, stretching you wider around him.
“shh, baby. quiet,” he murmured against your neck, one hand sliding up to press your own palm firmer over your mouth.
his breath was ragged, voice strained with want as he started a steady rhythm, thrusting deep and deliberate, grinding against that perfect spot inside you with every push.
your free hand clawed desperately at his back, nails dragging down his skin while your legs locked tighter around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.
another broken moan tried to slip out and you pressed your hand harder, teeth sinking into your fingers to stay silent, tears of raw pleasure prickling at the corners of your eyes.
he groaned quietly near your ear, hips snapping a little harder and lifted one of your thighs higher opening you up more, allowing him to sink even further until you felt so full it bordered on too much.
“that’s it...”
you nodded frantically under his hand, body arching off the chair as he kept fucking you slow and relentless, each thrust dragging along every sensitive inch inside you.
your clit ground against him with every deep stroke, sending sparks shooting through your veins.
pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly, making your thighs shake uncontrollably around him.
“you’re doing so good staying quiet for me,” he breathed, lips trailing along your jaw. “but i can feel how bad you want to moan my name so...” he angled his hips, hitting that spot again and again, drawing it out and making the pressure build unbearably.
your hand trembled over your mouth, muffled cries vibrating against your palm as you rocked up to meet every powerful thrust.
he kept going, deep and steady, filling you completely over and over, his body hot and solid against yours while the rest of the villa slept unaware.
the tension wound higher, your walls fluttering wildly around him, every nerve burning as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge, refusing to let up.
“fuck– you’re getting so much tighter,” he whispered. “you close already, baby?”
you nodded desperately under his hand, nails digging harder into his back as your hips jerked up to meet every deep stroke.
he groaned softly, lifting your thigh higher and driving in harder, grinding his pelvis against your clit with each push.
the pressure built fast, coiling tight in your belly until your whole body started to shake.
“don’t stop covering that pretty mouth,” he murmured, breath ragged. “let me feel you come all over my cock.”
his words pushed you over the edge. pleasure crashed through you hard and your walls clenching violently around his thick length as the orgasm ripped through your body.
you bit down hard on your own fingers, a broken, muffled cry vibrating against your palm, loud enough in your head but hopefully swallowed by the night.
your thighs locked around his waist, trembling uncontrollably while wave after wave of intense pleasure flooded you, soaking his cock as you pulsed and fluttered around him.
Heyy could u make one about desire where like the mc is a female footballer and its the ballon d’or and they end up sitting next too eachother and are both kinda intrigued by the other
GOLDEN NIGHT !
desire doue x mc!reader
masterlist
:: she came to celebrate football's biggest stars. he came to support his teammates. neither planned on remembering eachother.
author note :: thanks for the request, also this is my imagination so this might not be describing the real balon dor ceremony.
The Théâtre du Châtelet always looked beautiful on television but tonight, it looked unreal.
Backstage, however it was chaos.
"Five minutes until rehearsal!"
"Can somebody grab cue cards for the stage?"
"Did anyone do the mic checks?"
People rushed past each other with headsets on, clipboards tucked under their arms, coffee cups balanced in one hand. You stood in front of a full-length mirror while your stylist smoothed the last crease from your champagne colored gown.
"You look incredible," she smiled.
"You have to say that."
"I really don't."
You laughed quietly, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.
This wasn't your first time in front of a camera. You'd played in front of sold-out stadiums, done interviews after finals, filmed countless commercials.
Yet somehow hosting the Ballon d'Or felt ten times more nerve-racking. One mistake, one mispronounced name, one awkward pause. Millions of people would notice.
A producer walked over with a headset resting around his neck. "How are you feeling?"
You smiled politely. "Ask me again in an hour."
He laughed. "That's fair." He glanced at the running order in his hands. "We've made one small adjustment."
Immediately, your eyebrows lifted. "Should I be worried?"
"No." He smiled reassuringly. "You won't be on until later."
"Oh."
"You'll be seated in the audience until it's time for your first presentation."
Your shoulders visibly relaxed. "So I get to breathe first?"
"You get to enjoy the ceremony for a little while."
"I like the sound of that."
He handed you a small stack of cue cards. "We'll come and collect you about five minutes before you're needed."
You nodded. "Perfect."
One final glance in the mirror. One deep breath. Then you were walking toward the theatre.
The room was breathtaking. Warm golden lights reflected off crystal chandeliers. Round tables filled the space, each decorated with white roses and flickering candles.
Football's biggest names filled nearly every seat. Some laughed together. Others stopped every few steps to shake another hand.
It was impossible to look anywhere without recognizing someone. You smiled to yourself trying not to act starstruck.
An event coordinator approached. "This way."
You followed her between the tables until she stopped. "Here you are."
You thanked her before glancing at the seating cards.
Your name. Then.. Desire Doue.
"Oh."
You'd watched him play. Ridiculously talented with so much potential. You'd never actually spoken to him. Not that you expected to tonight.
You sat down, carefully placing your cue cards inside your purse before taking a sip of water. One by one, more guests arrived.
The room became louder, a few minutes later..
"Excuse me."
You looked up. A tall figure stood beside the empty chair. Perfectly tailored black tuxedo. One hand adjusting the cuff of his sleeve.
He looked down at the seating card. Then at you.
A small smile appeared. "I think that's me."
You smiled back. "I think you're right."
He pulled the chair out. "I'm Desire."
"I know." The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
You laughed. "That sounded much stranger than I meant it."
He chuckled. "I was going to say that's impressive."
"I meant I know who you are."
"I hoped so, it'd be a little concerning if I didn't." He sat down beside you.
For a brief moment, the two of you simply looked around the room. "So." he said. "First Ballon d'Or?"
You nodded. "Is it that obvious?"
"A little."
"What gave me away?"
"You looked at the trophy three separate times before sitting down."
You blinked. "You noticed that?"
He smiled to himself. "I notice a lot."
He glanced around the theatre. "I've never been either."
"Really?"
He nodded. "I've spent the last ten minutes pretending I know what I'm doing."
"So have I."
"I copied the guy at the next table when he picked up his napkin."
You laughed. "So naturally you picked yours up too?"
"I didn't want to look out of place."
"I appreciate the commitment."
"It felt necessary." He laughed.
A server stopped beside your table, quietly placing two glasses of sparkling water in front of you before disappearing again.
You thanked them before looking back at Desire. "I thought it'd be more serious, but everyone's just talking."
The lights dimmed slightly as guests began taking their seats. Soft music echoed around the room. The ceremony would begin soon.
Desire glanced toward the stage before looking back at you. "So, tell me about yourself."
You laughed. "What do you want to know?"
He thought for a second. "Everything."
Your eyebrows lifted. "Everything?"
He smiled. "Maybe not everything."
He laughed quietly. "Let's start easy."
"So, how does someone end up hosting the Ballon d'Or?"
You smiled. "I honestly ask myself that sometimes."
"I've always loved football. I studied journalism, started doing little interviews whenever I could, and somehow." You looked around the room, still not quite believing it yourself. "It turned into this."
"'Somehow?" He said confused. "I think you're leaving out a few steps."
You grinned. "Maybe a few."
"So you started with interviews?"
"Pretty much. Post-match interviews, football podcasts,media days anything anyone would let me do."
"And now you're here."
"And now I'm here."
He looked around the theatre before looking back at you. "That's actually really cool."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
You smiled, looking down at the table for a moment. "I still get nervous."
"I wouldn't have guessed."
"You walked in looking like you've done this a hundred times."
You laughed. "I walked in hoping nobody noticed I was nervous."
The room around you faded into the background.
"You know," you said, "I always wondered if footballers actually enjoy doing interviews."
He let out a quiet laugh. "Depends who's asking the questions."
"So if I interviewed you"
He grinned "I'd probably enjoy it."
"'Probably?'"
"I can't make promises."
You pretended to look offended. "That's harsh."
"I'm joking."
A comfortable silence settled between you before you smiled again. "I'll remember that."
"So will I."
Just then, the producer appeared beside your chair. "We'll need you backstage in five."
You looked up and nodded.
"Already?"
"I'm afraid so."
As the producer walked away, Desire glanced between you and the stage. "Wait."
You looked back at him.
"You're not just introducing one award, are you?"
You smiled. "No."
"You're hosting the ceremony."
"I am."
He blinked. "That's impressive."
You laughed softly. "Please don't say that."
"Why?"
"Because now I'm thinking about how many people are watching."
He smiled. "I think you're going to be brilliant."
You turned to leave.
"Hey."
You glanced over your shoulder. Desire was already looking at you. "Yeah?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Will I see you after?"
You blinked. "After?"
"The ceremony."
He nodded toward the stage. "Or are you going to disappear the second it's over?"
A soft laugh escaped you. "I've got a few interviews afterwards."
You thought for a second. "But I should be around."
He smiled. "Good, i'd like to see you again."
Your heart skipped and you couldn't help but smile. "I'll try not to keep you waiting, then."
"I'll hold you to that."
A voice called your name from backstage. "We're live in two!"
You laughed quietly. "That's my cue."
He gave you one last smile. "You'll do great."
You held his gaze for just a second longer. "Thank you."
Then you turned and disappeared behind the curtain, leaving him watching after you with a smile he didn't even realize was still on his face.
there was nothing in the whole world you loved more than just lounging by the pool all day, doing practically nothing. simply laying on a sunbed, tanning and reading your latest book, a sweet drink besides you.
but of course you could never truly be at peace with an hyperactive golden retriever for boyfriend.
“come on babe! the water’s warm!” désiré called out for you as he leaned against the side of the pool, looking up eagerly at you while droplets of water fell from his hair onto his face and arms.
he’d been begging you to go into the pool with him for what felt like hours—but was probably only thirty minutes. saying that he ‘missed you’ and ‘wanted to swim with you’.
with a sigh you closed your book and set it down—which made your boyfriend's smile grew even wider—along with your sunglasses and drink, slowly getting up from your well-deserved resting spot as you stepped towards the pool.
as soon as you stepped onto the pool’s steps, the water only reaching your navel, désiré wrapped his arms around your waist from behind you, pressing your back into his torso.
“dez, you’re all wet!” you whined as you tried to get out of his embrace, wiggling between his arms. “yeah, that’s what happens when you get into a pool.”
laughing as you rolled your eyes at his snarky remark, désiré unwrapped his arms to let you go, yet his hand still held onto your wrist, not wanting to let you go too far without him.
after a while of swimming around with your boyfriend, you moved towards the side of the pool, leaning your back against it, the water falling around your collarbone. quickly, désiré swam towards you, pressing his torso against your chest as he grabbed your hips to wrap your legs around his waist.
the two of you stayed there in silence for a bit, just enjoying the cool water around you, the small breeze that passed through the trees’ branches and the singing of birds.
“see? it’s much better when you’re with me.” désiré spoke up after a while, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ears.
‘mhm’ you agreed softly, your hands finding the back of his head and shoulders before dunking his head under the water, laughing at the expression of surprise on his face.
summary: He ended it because he thought love would distract him from football. You let him go because loving someone should never mean begging them to stay. Months of stolen glances, unanswered feelings, and words left unsaid prove one thing: losing each other became the biggest distraction of all.
warnings: friends with benefits to lovers, second chance romance, angst, sports journalism reader, football setting (PSG & France NT), explicit sexual content.
wc: 4.9k
main masterlist | football masterlist
"Yes, just like that," he growled, his voice rough with lust. He gripped your waist tighter, guiding your movements, forcing you deeper. "Take it all. You're doing so well for me, baby. Such a good, greedy little thing."
The praise sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. Arching your back, your nails scratching deep furrows into his shoulders as you picked up the pace. He looked up at you with eyes clouded by raw hunger, his expression one of absolute possession.
"Look at you," he whispered, his voice a dark caress. "Taking everything I have. You're incredible."
The friction built into a blinding white heat. I felt the coil inside me tighten until it snapped, my internal muscles clamping down on him in a series of violent spasms. You cried out, your voice breaking, as a wave of pleasure crashed over you. Seconds later, Désiré let out a strangled shout, his body stiffening as he surged upward one last time, filling you completely.
For a few moments, you stayed like that tangled, sweating, and breathing in unison, the silence heavy with the afterglow of the storm.
But as the adrenaline began to fade, the atmosphere shifted.
You collapsed against his chest, your heart still hammering, seeking the comfort of his embrace. You waited for him to pull you closer, to whisper those same praises into your ear, but the arms that had been bruising your hips moments ago felt suddenly loose.
You shifted, looking up at him, but the hunger in his eyes had vanished...The silence that settled between you felt almost foreign. Only moments ago the room had been filled with breathless laughter and tangled sheets. Now, it felt unbearably heavy.
You stayed where you were, your heartbeat only just beginning to settle into something resembling normal as you watched him from across the room. Your fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of the duvet, the corners of your lips threatening to curl into a smile as you waited for him to say something—anything. Usually, he'd already be making fun of you for stealing half the blankets, throwing one of your shirts in your direction, or asking if you were staying the night despite already knowing the answer.
Instead, he untangled himself from your embrace, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sit quietly.
His elbows rested against his knees, his hands clasped tightly together as he stared at the floor. He hadn't looked back once. It was such a small thing, almost insignificant, but you'd spent enough nights with him to know when something wasn't right. Désiré wasn't quiet. Not after moments like these. He always had something to say.
Tonight, he had nothing.
You frowned, pushing yourself up against the headboard a little more before breaking the silence.
"You're being weird."
No answer.
You waited another second, expecting the sarcastic remark that never came.
"Désiré?"
His shoulders lifted with a slow breath before falling just as carefully. He dragged a hand across his face, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary, almost as though he was trying to gather the courage to say something he'd been rehearsing for days.
"I think..." His voice came out quieter than you'd ever heard it. He swallowed before trying again. "I think we should stop seeing each other."
For a moment, you genuinely thought you'd misheard him.
A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
"What?"
He finally turned to look at you.
Not for long.
Just long enough for you to catch the expression on his face.
There wasn't a trace of humour there.
"I think we should stop seeing each other."
The smile disappeared from your face almost instantly.
"...You're serious."
He gave a single nod.
The kind that made your stomach sink before another word had even been spoken.You slowly sat up, your eyes refusing to leave his as you searched for some sign that this wasn't real, that he'd crack a smile and tell you he was messing with you.
He never did.
"What do you mean?" you asked quietly. "Where is this even coming from?"
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
He kept his eyes fixed on the floor for another second before finally letting out a slow breath.
"I've been thinking about it for a while."
You didn't interrupt.
"There’s the Champions League final coming up." His voice remained quiet, almost frustratingly calm. "Then the World Cup. The season doesn't really stop anymore, and..." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck before looking at you again. "I just can't afford distractions right now."
The words settled over the room like a weight.
You stared at him, waiting for something else.
Some hidden meaning.
Some explanation that would make the knot in your stomach loosen just a little.
Nothing came.
"So that's it?" you asked after a long silence.
His brows knitted together.
"What?"
"I'm just a distraction."
His expression faltered immediately.
"No." He shook his head. "That's not what I—"
"I'm not saying that's all you are."
"You know that's not what I mean."
You held his gaze for another moment, searching for something, anything, that would make this conversation hurt a little less.
Instead, all you found was guilt.
Not regret.
Not uncertainty.
Just guilt.
A small nod was all you managed.
"Okay."
The word barely rose above a whisper.
You pulled the duvet aside and swung your legs over the edge of the bed, your feet meeting the cold wooden floor. Neither of you spoke as you reached for your clothes, quietly collecting each piece from where it had been discarded earlier that night. Your movements were unhurried, almost mechanical, as if getting dressed were no different than it had been every other time you'd stayed over.
Behind you, he watched in complete silence.
The sound of fabric rustling filled the room.
The click of your necklace fastening around your neck.
The soft zip of your bag.
You never rushed.
Never cried.
Never asked him to change his mind.
For some reason...
That was worse.
He finally stood.
"That's it?"
You slipped your jacket over your shoulders without looking at him.
"That's all you're going to say?"
You adjusted the strap of your bag before finally meeting his eyes.
"You already made your decision."
Your voice remained steady.
"I'm not going to disturb you on that."
He took half a step forward before stopping himself.
"I thought you'd at least..."
His sentence died before it had the chance to finish.
You offered the smallest smile imaginable.
Not one of happiness.
The kind people wear when they're trying very hard not to let themselves fall apart.
"I hope everything goes the way you want it to."
Your hand wrapped around the door handle.
You hesitated for only a second.
"Good luck, Désiré."
Then you opened the door.
You never looked back.
The quiet click of it closing behind you echoed through the apartment far louder than either of your voices ever had.
Only then did he realise that ending whatever the two of you had been wasn't nearly as difficult as watching you walk away without asking him to stay.
The first few weeks were the easiest.
Not because they hurt any less.
Because there wasn't time to think.
Every morning began before the sun had fully risen, your calendar filling itself faster than you could keep up with it. Press conferences. Open training sessions. Media obligations. Matchdays. Flights that blurred one city into another until you sometimes forgot where you were waking up.
It was easier that way.
As long as there was another interview to prepare for, another article to finish before the deadline, another camera waiting for you to step in front of it, there wasn't enough room in your head for him.
At least...
That was what you kept telling yourself.
—
"You're working too much."
One of your colleagues leaned against the coffee machine, watching you skim through your notes for the third interview of the day.
"You've barely stopped all week."
You didn't even look up.
"Occupational hazard."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He studied you for another second.
"You okay?"
You finally looked up, offering the same polite smile you'd perfected over the last few months.
"Just stressed."
He didn't look convinced.
Still...
He let it go.
Everyone did.
—
Professional.
That was the promise you'd made him.
You intended to keep it.
If Désiré was standing in the mixed zone, you interviewed him exactly the same way you interviewed everyone else.
You asked your questions.
You thanked him.
You walked away.
No lingering conversations.
No teasing remarks.
No "See you later."
Nothing.
If another journalist hadn't known the two of you once spent entire evenings together, they would've assumed you'd never exchanged more than a handful of words.
Sometimes, that thought almost made you laugh.
—
The Champions League final came and went.
Paris celebrated.
The city barely slept for three days.
You celebrated too.
Camera in one hand.
Microphone in the other.
You interviewed players with champagne dripping from their hair, coaches who'd completely lost their voices, staff members hugging each other with tears in their eyes.
Someone pulled you into a team photo.
Someone else handed you a medal they'd borrowed for a joke.
You laughed.
Smiled.
Stayed until the very last camera packed away.
It looked effortless.
No one noticed your eyes searching for one person you'd promised yourself not to look at.
—
He noticed.
Not because you looked at him.
Because you didn't.
Every time he entered a room, you somehow managed to be looking somewhere else.
If another reporter asked him a question, you were already speaking to someone from the coaching staff.
If he walked past you after training, you simply stepped aside with a quiet,
"Sorry."
As though he were nothing more than another player making his way back to the dressing room.
Exactly what he'd asked for.
Exactly what he couldn't stand.
—
At first, he'd convinced himself he'd done the right thing.
He repeated it often enough that eventually it almost sounded believable.
You're focused.
She's focused.
No distractions.
It's better this way.
Football had always come first.
It had to.
It was supposed to.
Then...
He started looking for you without meaning to.
He noticed when someone else was interviewing him instead of you.
He caught himself wondering where you'd gone whenever he couldn't spot your media pass on the touchline.
Sometimes he'd hear you laughing somewhere behind him.
His head would turn before he even realised he'd done it.
It was becoming a habit.
A dangerous one.
—
One evening, halfway through the World Cup, he caught his own reflection in the hotel room mirror after another match.
He'd scored.
France had won.
His phone wouldn't stop vibrating with messages.
He should've felt relieved.
Instead...
The only thing he could think about was the fact that you'd been standing twenty metres away during the post-match interviews.
You'd smiled at everyone.
You'd congratulated teammates.
You'd looked...
Fine.
Or at least, that's what everyone else would've said.
He knew better.
He knew the smile that never quite reached your eyes.
He knew the way you tucked your hands into your pockets when you were trying to hide that they were shaking.
He knew because he'd once been the only person who noticed those things.
Now...
He wasn't even sure he had the right to.
He sat on the edge of the hotel bed, elbows resting on his knees, letting out a humourless laugh.
"I've become more distracted now than I ever was when she was here."
The room didn't answer.
Neither did the guilt that had quietly followed him from Paris to every stadium, every airport, every hotel room since the night he'd watched you walk out of his apartment.
For the first time, he allowed himself to admit what he'd spent months trying to ignore.
Maybe losing you had never protected his focus.
Maybe it had become the biggest distraction of all.
The stadium was beginning to empty.
The roar that had echoed through the stands only minutes earlier had dissolved into scattered conversations, rolling equipment cases and the distant sound of journalists filing their final reports before heading back to the hotel. You adjusted the strap of your camera bag over your shoulder, thanking one of the cameramen as you walked past him, your accreditation swinging gently against your chest with every step.
Another match finished.
Another deadline met.
Another day closer to the final.
You had almost reached the players' tunnel when you heard it.
"Wait."
You didn't turn around.
Not at first.
Surely he wasn't talking to you.
Then it came again.
"Please... wait."
His voice.
You stopped walking.
For a brief second, you considered pretending you hadn't heard him at all. It would've been easier. Simpler.
Instead, you slowly turned around.
Désiré was jogging towards you, still wearing the France training jacket over his match kit, his breathing uneven from more than just the game he'd played ninety minutes before.
You frowned.
Confusion settled across your face before anything else.
He hadn't tried to speak to you in months.
Not once.
Not outside of an interview.
Not outside of work.
Not since the night he'd watched you walk out of his apartment.
"What?"
Your voice wasn't cold.
It was simply... confused.
He stopped a few feet away from you, clearly rehearsing a sentence that refused to come out.
"I just..."
His eyes searched yours.
"I need to talk to you."
You let out a quiet breath.
"Désiré..."
"No, please."
"I just need five minutes."
You shook your head almost immediately.
"Désiré, please don't do this."
"I have to."
"No."
You took a small step backwards.
"I actually can't."
His face fell.
"You broke me that day."
Silence.
"You probably didn't even realise it."
Your voice remained steady, but every word seemed heavier than the last.
"I had feelings for you."
His lips parted, yet no words came.
"Real feelings."
You laughed softly to yourself, the sound carrying no humour whatsoever.
"And maybe that was stupid of me because we never called whatever we had a relationship..."
You shrugged.
"...but it was real to me."
His eyes never left yours.
"I never saw myself as your distraction."
Your voice cracked for the first time.
"I saw myself as the person who got to be there."
"The person who got to celebrate with you after the wins."
"The person who would've sat beside you after the losses."
"The person who would've reminded you who you were when football became too much."
You swallowed hard.
"That was all I ever wanted."
Another silence.
"So when you looked me in the eyes and told me you couldn't afford distractions..."
You shook your head.
"...all I heard was that you thought I was something standing in the way of your dreams."
A tear slipped down your cheek before you brushed it away almost impatiently.
"I have never—"
"No."
You stopped him gently.
"You don't get to change it now."
Your eyes met his again.
"You made your decision."
"You don't get to come back because it's convenient."
"I spent months convincing myself that I wasn't difficult to leave."
He closed his eyes.
"I know."
"No."
You smiled sadly.
"I don't think you do."
You took one last step backwards.
"I hope France wins."
"Désiré..."
You held his gaze for another second.
"I really do."
Then you turned around.
This time...
He didn't stop you.
The first bouquet arrived the following morning.
White lilies.
Your favourite.
There was no name.
There didn't need to be.
Tucked between the stems was a small folded card.
Reason #1.
Because every room feels quieter after you've left it.
You stared at it for a long time before placing it on the bedside table.
The flowers stayed.
The note stayed too.
The second bouquet arrived the next day.
Then the third.
Then the fourth.
Every morning, another knock at your hotel door.
Every morning, another bouquet.
Every morning, another handwritten note.
Reason #7.
Because you've never asked me to choose between football and you. I was the only one who believed I had to.
Reason #12.
Because every interview I watched you do reminded me that you never stopped believing in my dream—even after I stopped believing you could be part of it.
Reason #19.
Because every version of my future that makes sense has you somewhere in it.
At first, you left them untouched.
Then you started reading them.
Then...
Without ever admitting it to yourself...
You started keeping every single one.
They ended up tucked neatly inside the drawer of your bedside table.
You told yourself you were only keeping them because throwing them away somehow felt cruel.
You never quite believed your own excuse.
The knock at your hotel door came long after you'd convinced yourself no one else would interrupt the night.
You frowned, instinctively glancing towards the digital clock on the bedside table. It was far too late for room service, far too late for one of your colleagues to be discussing tomorrow's schedule, and certainly far too late for anyone to have business with you.
For a brief moment, you considered ignoring it altogether.
Then it came again.
Slower this time.
Almost... hesitant.
You pushed yourself off the bed, crossing the room barefoot before pulling the door open just enough to see who was standing on the other side.
Your entire body froze.
"Désiré?"
His name left your lips almost as a whisper, more out of disbelief than anything else.
He looked exhausted.
Not in the way football exhausted people. Not the kind of tiredness that disappeared after a good night's sleep.
This was different.
The dark circles beneath his eyes hadn't been hidden very well, his curls were still damp from what you assumed had been a late recovery session, and despite wearing nothing more than a France hoodie and grey joggers, he'd never looked less like the confident footballer the entire world had watched train that afternoon.
For a long second, neither of you spoke.
Your eyes instinctively drifted down the empty hallway before returning to him.
"What are you doing here?"
He held your gaze.
"I needed to see you."
A quiet sigh escaped you as you leaned against the doorframe.
"Désiré..." You shook your head gently. "You shouldn't be here."
"I know."
"You have the World Cup final tomorrow."
"I know."
"You should be resting. You should be with your teammates. You should be focused."
Something shifted across his face then.
Almost like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that.
A humourless smile tugged at the corner of his lips before disappearing just as quickly.
"I can't."
Your brows knitted together.
"What?"
"I can't focus."
For a second, you simply stared at him.
The sentence felt almost absurd coming from the same man who had once looked you in the eyes and told you there wasn't room for distractions.
"What are you talking about?"
He lowered his eyes briefly, rubbing a tired hand across his face before looking back at you.
"Months ago..." His voice was quieter than you remembered. "...I told you I couldn't afford distractions."
You felt your chest tighten before he even continued.
"I was wrong."
Silence settled between you.
The hallway suddenly felt impossibly small.
"I've spent every day since that night trying to convince myself I did the right thing." He let out a slow breath, shaking his head almost in disbelief at himself. "I kept waiting for it to get easier."
"It didn't."
"I thought eventually I'd stop looking for you after training."
Another small smile crossed his face, though it carried nothing but regret.
"I thought I'd stop wondering which press conference you'd be covering."
"I thought I'd stop catching myself searching every mixed zone for your media pass before I even realised what I was doing."
His eyes softened as they met yours again.
"I never stopped."
You looked away.
You couldn't bear the way he was looking at you.
"Désiré..."
"No." His voice remained gentle, but there was a quiet desperation behind it now. "Please... just let me finish."
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the door.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
"I've replayed that night a thousand times."
"I remember every word."
"Especially the ones I wish I'd never said."
His jaw tightened.
"When I told you I couldn't have distractions..."
He swallowed hard.
"...I thought I was protecting everything I'd worked for."
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"I didn't realise I was walking away from the person who made all of this easier."
Your eyes slowly found his again.
He wasn't crying.
Not quite.
But he looked close enough that it hurt to look at him.
"You never distracted me."
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
"You were the person I'd look for after every match."
"The first person I wanted to tell whenever something good happened."
"The only person who made hotel rooms in different countries feel a little less empty."
He smiled to himself for a second.
"I just realised it too late."
You felt tears beginning to sting your eyes.
Instinctively, you crossed your arms over your chest, as if somehow holding yourself together physically would stop everything else from falling apart.
"You don't get to do this."
The words came out quieter than you'd intended.
"You don't get to stand here and say all of this now."
He nodded immediately.
"I know."
"You broke me."
Your voice cracked despite every effort to keep it steady.
"You probably never even realised how badly."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
"I know."
"No." You shook your head. "I don't think you do."
A tear escaped before you could stop it.
"You looked at me and told me I was a distraction."
"I never said—"
"You did."
You didn't raise your voice.
You didn't need to.
"You might not have used those exact words..."
Your breathing became uneven as months of carefully buried emotions finally caught up with you.
"...but that's exactly how it felt."
You looked at him through blurred vision.
"I never wanted to pull you away from football."
"I never wanted you to choose me over your career."
"I loved watching you chase your dream."
A sad smile found your lips.
"I would've celebrated every trophy."
"I would've been there after every loss."
"I would've loved you through all of it."
Your voice grew quieter with every sentence.
"I never wanted to be something standing in your way."
The silence that followed felt almost unbearable.
When he finally stepped forward, it was only enough to close a fraction of the distance between you.
Still leaving room for you to move away if you wanted.
"You never were."
His voice was steady now.
Certain.
"I've had months to think about that."
He reached into the pocket of his hoodie before pulling out a folded piece of paper.
You recognised it immediately.
It looked exactly like every note that had arrived with the flowers.
"I stopped writing reasons because I ran out of numbers."
A tiny, almost embarrassed smile appeared.
"There were too many."
Your lips parted slightly.
"I thought maybe one of them would make you believe me."
He looked down at the paper before folding it closed again.
"They weren't enough."
His eyes met yours once more.
"So I'll tell you instead."
He drew in one slow breath.
"I love you."
The words were painfully simple.
No rehearsed speech.
No dramatic declaration.
Just three words spoken with the kind of honesty that made your chest ache.
"I've loved you for longer than I ever admitted to myself."
"I thought walking away would make me a better footballer."
Another quiet laugh escaped him.
"It didn't."
"It made me a worse man."
He took another careful step.
"So let me say the thing I should've said months ago."
His voice trembled for the first time that night.
"You were never my distraction."
"You were my peace."
"When everything around me became louder..."
His eyes never left yours.
"...you were the only place that ever felt quiet."
He smiled through the emotion gathering in his eyes.
"I can play a World Cup final tomorrow."
"I can walk out in front of millions of people."
"But I can't keep pretending I'm okay after losing the best thing that's ever happened to me."
His expression softened completely.
"I don't care if I win another trophy if it means I keep living without you."
He took one final breath.
"So if you'll let me..."
"...I'll spend every day for the rest of my life proving that I was wrong."
The room fell silent.
The silence that followed his confession was suffocating, a fragile bridge between the agony of the past and the possibility of a future. You didn't answer him with words; you couldn't. Instead, your hand reached out, your fingers trembling as they brushed against the fabric of his hoodie.
The moment your skin touched him, the dam broke.
Désiré didn't wait. He surged forward, his arms wrapping around you with a desperation that nearly knocked the wind out of you. He pulled you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a shuddering breath that sounded like a man who had finally found oxygen after drowning for months. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his back, sobbing quietly into his shoulder as the weight of the loneliness and the longing finally collapsed.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice broken, his lips pressing fervent, bruising kisses against your skin. "I'm so sorry. I love you. I love you so much."
He backed you into the room, the door clicking shut behind him, a sound that felt final this time, sealing the rest of the world away. He didn't let go of you for a second, his hands sliding from your waist to your face, cupping your cheeks as if you were something precious and fragile. When he kissed you, it wasn't the gentle reunion of a movie; it was starving. It was a collision of teeth and tongues, a frantic attempt to make up for every second of silence and every night spent in cold hotel beds.
He lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively locking around his waist, and carried you to the bed. You fell back onto the duvet, the air leaving your lungs in a gasp as he hovered over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that bordered on pain.
"I missed you," he groaned, his voice a low, primal vibration against your skin as he tore at your clothes and his own. "God, I missed you so much it felt like I was dying."
When he finally entered you, it wasn't with a slow glide, but with a powerful, desperate thrust that filled the void he had created in your life. You gasped, arching your back, your eyes fluttering shut as the sheer intensity of him flooded your senses. It was a homecoming.
He pinned your wrists above your head, his fingers interlaced with yours, locking you to the bed in a position of total surrender. He stayed in a deep, driving missionary, his chest heaving against yours, his heart hammering like a trapped bird.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice thick with emotion. "Open your eyes. Look at me."
You obeyed, your vision blurred by tears and pleasure. He was watching you with an intensity that felt like it was stripping your soul bare.
"You're mine," he whispered, a low, possessive growl as he drove deeper, his hips hitting yours with a rhythmic, wet slap. "I was so stupid to let you go. I'm never doing it again. Never."
The pace quickened, the friction building into a searing heat. He began to talk to you, his voice a seductive, ragged stream of consciousness, describing exactly how much he'd craved this.
"I used to close my eyes and try to remember the way you feel... how tight you are... how you sound when I hit that spot," he moaned, his head tilting back as he pushed himself to the limit. "I can feel you shaking... you're so perfect for me. Tell me you love me. Please, tell me."
"I love you," you sobbed, your voice breaking. "Désiré, I love you."
The words were the catalyst. He let out a choked sound, a mix of a sob and a moan, his movements becoming frantic and raw. He shifted his weight, angling his hips to drive even deeper, chasing a climax that had been building for months of deprivation.
"I've got you," he gasped, his voice strained. "I've got you now. I'm not going anywhere. I promise... I promise, you're the only thing that matters. Not the trophies, not the game... just you."
As the peak hit, he didn't pull away. He collapsed onto you, his body trembling violently as he poured himself into you, his forehead pressed against yours. He stayed there, anchored, as if he were afraid that if he moved even an inch, you would vanish again.
He didn't move for a long time, his breathing heavy and synchronized with yours. He peppered your face with soft, lingering kisses, your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice now soft and exhausted, the arrogance of the superstar completely gone. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt that again."
the world cup finally brought my motivation back yayyyy <333
would you mind writing a friends to lovers with désiré doué? either a one shot or a series, as you prefer but maybe she could be his brother's best friend (or one of his team mates' really) so she's always been around and they know each other very well but she never thought of him as more than a friend untim smth happens
ty sooooo much, i love your writing you're so good
✮ Doucémente - Désiré Doue
désiré doue x fem!reader
sy: you’ve known désiré for years. he’s your brother’s best friend, your best friend, and someone you’ve never once looked at differently. until suddenly, you do.
a/n: i think i read this completely wrong, i think my english is actually regressing, but i hope this was okay!
warnings: no.
you think you’ll always see désiré as a brother.
i mean, sure, he’s got it all. and everyone around you always ask how you manage to restrain yourself from absolutely drooling over him when he’s near. but, you always have the same answer.
he’s your boy.
not boyfriend.
like everybody seems to assume. especially, your biological brother, bradley. he’s like a self appointed, and unwanted, matchmaker when it comes to désiré and his little sister.
“désiré’s coming over soon,” brad says, hopping across the lounge whilst trying to slide his right sock on. “so, get ready.”
you snort. “excuse me?”
bradley falls back onto the nearest chair, still struggling to slide his sock on. he flits you a look. “i’m sure you’re not deaf amoungst all the other problems you have. get ready.”
that draws you away from the magazine you were once reading. “one, i don’t have any issues—you took one for the team,” you scoff, “and two, what’s wrong with how i look?”
its partially rhetorical. because, genuinely, what is wrong? you’re wearing a light grey shirt with the spiderman promo that compliments your matching joggers and your hair is pulled up into a simple pony.
bradley finally gets his sock on; now he turns to sit upright. “one, you’re wrong… i’m perfectly healthy. and two, you’re dressed like a seven year old boy, who’s just discovered marvel comics, and, when you have your hair like that, it shows your receding hairline.”
you grit your teeth, arm high with the magazine you’re about to waltz at him. “why you little—”
ding dong.
“my boys’ here!”
you freeze your arm mid-air.
as if it had been orchestrated solely to spare his physical battering, your brother finds the doorbell an escape route to flee as he jolts to the front door like his life depends on it.
between one breath and the next, the door flings open with force and hammers the wall behind. and you spot him, a smile blooming your expression.
désiré doue.
he looks just as charming as ever. the kind of facile charm that seems to come naturally to him, probably why everyone always questions how you keep your calm demeanour around him. from the way his hair falls untidily into place to the comfort that never quite leaves his expression. his features are familiar, but it’s almost like the feeling attached to them is unfamiliar. the curve of his smile, the tenderness in his eyes, the infectiousness of his laughs.
“yo!” brad hollers, bumping into his chest—the things guys do that you will never understand.
“i’ve missed you man!”
your brother waddles further into the lounge, welcoming désiré in, causing you rise up from the sofa as he makes his way over to you.
“heeey, you,” désiré offers a hug, and you pat him sweetly back. “how’ve you been?”
“yeah, all good,” you wave a hand, rolling back on the heels of your feet. “apart from y’know.. brad.”
“i am here,” bradley states matter-of-factly, whilst the both of you chuckle quietly together. brad staggers back from whatever he was disturbing with at the tv stand, with three controllers and a cd disk for a game under his armpit.
“i figured we could all play this new game that i bought the other day,” he suggests, shoving a controller into his bestfriends hands and tries to you too. “it’s got really good reviews.”
you recieve it reluctantly. désiré is quick to agree, snatching the cover and scanning the back of it. “i’m not really in a game mood,” you hand the controller back.
“what!” you turn to drift apart but your brother grabs your shoulder and spins you. “it’s a tradition to play a video game when doue comes over!”
its almost as if he’s guilt tripping you.
you sigh, looking between the pair of guys. désiré takes most of your attention, as he stands besides your brother, almost sheepish. his hands are at his sides, his fingers tapping the air rhythmically. your eyes trace along the veins in his arms, then along the width of his shoulders, to his neck, then back to his biceps, in which they were stretching the sleeves of his t-shirt far more than you remember.
since when did he have such nice arms?
“ahem,” your brother clears his throat. “so is that a yes?”
you tear your gaze away from désiré, blinking as you give your head a rough shake. “er—no, no. i’ll just be in my room.”
out of pure abashment, you lower your head when you hasten past them both, beelining your way to your room.
how humiliating was that?
your cheeks feel red hot, and so does the rest of your body. oh my god. when you reach your room, you dive head first for your pillow, resisting the urge to scream.
désiré, he’s nothing but a second brother to you. why the heck did he not feel like one just now?
had he grown the last time you saw him—two months ago? had he started working out more? had he started looking after his appearance—like using cologne n mints?
your thoughts are intersected when a loud bang hits your door, and both boys come flying into your room. “hey, sis, c’mon now, we know you really wanna play.”
“no, i do not,” you twist away from your brother whose now perched right next to you. “i’m busy.”
he snickers. “doing what?”
your back is to them both, and you twindle a loose string from your pillowcase through your fingers. “i—taking a nap.”
“a nap my ass,” bradley squeezes your leg, and to that you merely sit upright. “c’mon, wakey, wakey.”
“no.. look i, really, don’t wanna play—”
“check out this new game doue bought!”
there’s no fight in you left when troy pushes a cd into your console (that you thought you’d hidden away pretty nicely, to prevent, things like this occurring) and the tv illuminates with said game.
its different to the one he suggested prior.
before you could utter a word, brad throws a controller that hits you square in the stomach. he equally shuffles over into the middle of the bed, almost pushing you off and désiré slides in last.
a sigh that leaves your lips keeps your shoulders rumbling. you comply anyway, but not with much effort. after you suggested playing roblox to the pair of them a hangout ago, brad had been hell bent on playing a video game everytime désiré came back over.
the game pings to life. all three controllers illuminate, and another sigh slips past your lips as your fingers drift over the joysticks with little more than absent-minded ease.
bradley and désiré end up facing each other after eliminating you, and the pair go at it like starving wolves fighting over the same kill. their joysticks click and clatter with every movement, and the pair have completely abandoned their relaxed posture in favour of sitting upright, in contrast to you, who’s reclined contently against the headboard.
“dont run, brad,” doue calls out, amusement clawing at his tone as he hunts him down. you almost laugh, wondering if your dumb brother is unaware that the split screen has made hiding from désiré completely pointless.
“im plotting,” he defends. “not running.”
“sure,” désiré teases, his tone suddenly dipping into a lower register that catches you slightly off guard. you peek over your brother’s head, only to find yourself caught on désiré’s smile.
it’s ridiculous, really, because he’s always looked like that—yet anywise, right now, something about him keeps your attention on him.
his cheekbones sit high enough that when he smiles, it consumes his whole face. it’s perspicuous, almost unfairly so, and somehow futile not to mirror. there’s the small smirk he wears so naturally; the subtle movement of his adam’s apple when he swallows—and when his eyes crease at the corners when victory over your brother brings out a genuine smile—you’re noticing things you’ve never bothered to notice before.
bradley’s arms fly up in annoyance beside you, but even that fails to break your subconscious stare at doue.
since when did he get so attractive?
why has these thoughts only occurred now?
you’re hauled from your fantasy when your brother twists his head back to you and suggests, “round two?”
“er,” you blink hard. “yeah, why not.”
désiré also looks back at you, offering a gentle smile that causes warmth to rise to your cheeks, where you press the controller to hide it. why did that make you blush? he’s done that plenty of times before and never provoked a reaction.
you’re about to press start again, when your brothers phone vibrates between his legs. it’s a call.
“they always call at the wrong time.”
he exhales agitated, shuffling off the bed with his phone in his right hand, points and says “hold i gotta take this.” before he darts off and shuts the door behind him. when he exits, you wait until his voice falters as he walks further and further away, leaving only you and doue, before you break the silence.
“do you hate him as much as i do?”
“i—what?” desire tilts his head, a grin curling at the corner of his mouth.
you nod towards the door that bradley just left through, mirroring the same smirk. “brad. we have a mutual hatred for him, don’t we?”
“sometimes,” desire now laughs. he pushes himself back against the headboard to your bed, adopting your position and crosses his ankles over one another. he also shuffles a little closer to you, which intentional or not, makes your palms a little clammy.
“i think we should play without him,” you elbow his arm impishly. it’s only afterwards do you realise how close you both are. normally, you wouldn’t give it a second thought. normally, sitting this close would feel like second nature.
but for an unknown reason, there’s a small swoon of butterflies in the pit of your stomach this time.
“i think we should too,” doue says, “it’ll be better without him as he’s clearly,” he gestures to the tv where it shows a cross next to your brothers name tag, “pretty shit at this.”
a laugh rumbles from your throat, almost spilling into a full belly laugh. that’s bradley. the one and only.
shit at all the games he’s so arrogant that he’s the best at.
the game continues, and you fail at it just like you did previously. eliminated, eliminated, eliminated. except, your patience was wearing thin when doue had completely cheated when he coaxed you to trap you inside an inescapable room.
“that was not fair!” you exclaim, jolting your back up and your knee clashes with his. your ears borderline pink.
“it so was!”
“it so wasn’t!” you protest, turning to face him entirely. “you completely cheated! cheater!”
“i’m a cheater?” doue bites back playfully, “you were camping the entire game. you have cheater written all over you!”
you swat his chest playfully, and what starts as a simple tease quickly evolves into a soft playfight. the footballer catches your wrist before you can land another shove, laughing as you immediately try to pull free. “i am not—!” your sentence stops abruptly, when désiré hurdles for you and sends your body smacking the plump mattress, though it had a slight sting to it. giggles erupt from the both of you, as you attempt to wiggle out from beneath him, although it’s no good.
“you know you’re not getting out of this,” désiré croons, poking the sides of your stomach as you immediately try to force him off. “tell me i’m not a cheater.”
“but you are a—” he tickles you again, sending desperate giggles into the air, as you pant for air. “désiré, stop that!”
“make me.” his smile is ear wide, a mute, salmon blush creeping up to his cheeks. the gold chain he wears around his neck swirls over you.
“désiré…”
“i said,” he taunts. “make. me.”
theres a sudden resilience that pulsates through you, and you flip doue over as you now hover above. you go to flaunt, and for whatever reason, you blink and you’re laying back down with him ontop again.
“hm,” he grins, teasing. “didn’t last long did it?”
this time, he doesn’t poke you. he doesn’t pinch or provoke you. he just stares down at your face, slightly squinting his eyes as his hands brace at the sides of your head, one pining your wrist above your head. his words don’t register in your brain, because all that you can focus on is the curve of his lips.
désiré takes his tongue along his bottom lip, probably absentmindedly but it sends a shiver through your lower belly. a silence sediments between you before his gaze dips to your lips for a brief moment.
soft, breathless pants are the only sound audible. the laughs stop.
then, they explore back over your eyes, and every blink he takes seems to drag. there’s a faint smell of his cologne lining your nostrils, as he’s merely inches away from your face. his breath fans softly against your skin, warm, and you can only hope and pray that you don’t look as crimson red as you feel.
his eyes drop down to your lips for a half a second more. they don’t dart away this time. they linger, almost as though he’s trying to work out whether he’s imagined whatever’s suddenly settled between the two of you. your heartbeat pounds so loudly you’re convinced he can hear it. neither of you utters a word. neither of you moves.
he’s désiré.
your brother’s best friend.
your best friend.
your…
before you can convince yourself otherwise, you’re leaning forward, lips parted as you reach for his own. your lips brush his for barely a second, hesitant enough to give him every opportunity to pull away. however, he doesn’t.
instead, his hand slips from your wrist to cup the side of your face as he kisses you back, gentle at first, then with enough certainty to make your stomach completely forget how to function. your mind goes completely blank, caught somewhere between disbelief and the overwhelming realisation that this is actually happening. because this isn’t some stranger, some passing crush you can easily brush away—it’s him.
someone you never thought of as nothing more than a second brother.
as if he’s testing how far he can go, his lips connect to the curve of your neck, teeth nipping at the supple skin that borders your jaw. they glide across your flustered skin, reaching your lips once again, pushing them open to suck at your top lip.
something about this feels so wrong but also so right.
“well—”
the bedroom door swings open.
in the scramble to untangle yourselves as bradley stands frozen, blinking between the two of you, you end up kicking him against the bed frame, one of your knees trapped between his, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand.
“…do you guys want me to leave or?”
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