If someone asked you to describe Kylian Mbappé in one word, touchy would probably come before footballer. Somewhere between a luxury ballroom in Dubai and one too many stolen kisses, you remember exactly why.
WARNINGS ◦ short but made with love trust me ◦ tipsy & clingy mbappé on the dancefloor hell yeah ◦ established relationship ◦ suggestive content, mdni ◦ detailed description of making out / kissing ◦ nothing really developed this time my bad :( ◦ pda!!!
1,38O ━━━━━ drabble kylian mbappé x reader
۶ৎ 𝓩 , when i tell you i'm having a FIELD day seeing kylian and ester together making out and dancing and living their best lives all over miami BELIEVE ME. i love seeing my boy happy, PERIOD. now let's get into kyky being your dada boyfriend bye 😝
━━━━━ read on ao3
translated from french tu es trop belle ce soir, mon cœur—you're too beautiful tonight, my love mon cœur—my love mon bebé—my baby.
If someone asked you to describe Kylian Mbappé in one word, touchy would probably come before footballer.
It wasn't even romantic half the time, he simply... liked knowing where you were. One hand at the small of your back while walking through hotel corridors, fingers absentmindedly hooked around your wrist while waiting for elevators, his chin appearing on your shoulder whenever you stood still for longer than thirty seconds.
Somewhere over the past two years you'd stopped questioning it.
Being with Kylian meant existing within arm's reach of him almost constantly.
The relationship had stayed private for most of that time, rumors and blurry sightings, but nothing confirmed, until a few weeks ago when he casually posted a story of you wearing his full Real Madrid kit, then deleted it minutes later. The screenshot had spread like wildfire, turning your quiet life into something more public overnight. Neither of you had made any formal announcement, you simply continued as you always had, and people had started getting used to seeing you together.
This trip to Dubai for his sponsor commitment felt like a stolen pocket of summer freedom before preseason. Three days of obligations, but tonight’s invitation-only event inside the ultra-luxury hotel was relaxed despite the opulent ballroom, the crystal chandeliers, and the skyline views.
No paparazzi, no frenzy. Just athletes, artists, executives, and their partners moving between the elegant ballroom and the connected nightclub spaces with the easy confidence of people who valued discretion.
Kylian stayed close all evening, as always. His hand rested at the small of your back as you wove through the crowd, thumb occasionally tracing a slow circle against the fabric of your dress.
While talking to a sponsor executive, he reached up without breaking eye contact with the man and adjusted the delicate necklace at your collarbone, fingers warm and precise. Later, near the bar, he smoothed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, then let his fingertips linger along your jaw for a second before turning to order drinks. He played idly with the rings on your fingers while you waited, twisting them gently, his touch absent and familiar.
He stole kisses whenever the moment allowed, quick presses to your temple, the corner of your mouth, the side of your neck when he leaned in to whisper something dry and teasing in French.
“Tu es trop belle ce soir, mon cœur." He'd play with you in his native language. "Everyone keeps looking, but you’re stuck with me.” His voice was low, playful, that effortless charm wrapped in boyish mischief.
You rolled your eyes and he laughed softly against your skin, the sound vibrating through you.
At one point, a fellow athlete joked that you were basically Kylian’s emotional support person at this point, given how he kept gravitating back to you every few minutes. Kylian just grinned, unapologetic, hooking a finger through one of your belt loops to tug you closer when someone moved past.
“Guilty,” he said with a shrug, pressing another light kiss to your shoulder before pulling you toward the dance floor for a few songs.
His body moved against yours with the same easy confidence he showed on the pitch, playful, rhythmic, hands never far from your waist or hips.
Eventually the noise and crowd grew heavier. Kylian had a few drinks in him by then, nothing heavy, just enough to loosen the perpetual tension he carried through the season, and it showed in the way he moved.
Tipsy Kylian was the most dangerous version: clingier than usual, his touches lingering longer, his smiles easier and brighter. You loved it, this rare glimpse of him unwinding fully before preseason pulled him back into discipline. He caught your eye across the room, tilting his head toward the quieter terraces with a small, knowing smile that carried a little more heat than usual.
You slipped out together through a side door, the cool night air of Dubai washing over you as the city lights sparkled below. The terrace was nearly empty, a private corner overlooking the glittering skyline, the distant hum of the event fading behind heavy glass doors.
The moment you were alone, Kylian turned to you fully, hands sliding to your waist as he backed you gently against the smooth stone railing. His grip was firmer than usual, a little unsteady in that endearing, tipsy way. “Mon bébé,” he murmured, voice lower and rougher around the edges, breath warm against your skin. His forehead rested against yours for a breath, dark eyes half-lidded and soft with drink and want, before he closed the distance.
The kiss started slow but deep, his mouth warm and insistent against yours, tasting faintly of whiskey and the sweetness of whatever cocktail he’d been nursing earlier. One hand cupped the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a gentle tug, while the other gripped your hip, pulling your body flush against his.
You tasted the faint haze of alcohol on his tongue as it slipped past your lips, exploring with unhurried, hungry strokes.
A soft sound escaped you, and he smiled into the kiss, the curve of his mouth playful even now, though looser and more unrestrained. He tilted his head, deepening it further, tongue stroking yours in slow, deliberate motions that sent heat pooling low in your belly.
Kylian pressed closer, his tall frame enveloping you, the hard lines of his chest and thighs evident through his tailored shirt and trousers.
His hand slid down to grip your ass, squeezing firmly as he rocked his hips against you once, letting you feel exactly how affected he already was—half-hard and insistent. “Mon cœur,” he whispered against your lips, breath hot and a little ragged, the French endearment slurred just enough to make you smile.
He dove back in, the kiss turning messier, more urgent, tongues tangling wetly, teeth grazing your lower lip, soft gasps shared between you. He sucked gently on your tongue, then your bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth with a low groan that vibrated through his chest.
You clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric as he trailed open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just below your ear with more enthusiasm than precision.
His free hand roamed, tracing the curve of your waist, slipping under the hem of your dress to stroke the bare skin of your thigh, gripping possessively. Every touch was electric, familiar yet charged with the privacy of the moment and the pleasant haze of his drinks. He returned to your mouth, kissing you harder, slower this time, savoring, long, languid strokes of his tongue, his hand sliding up to cradle your face while the other kept you anchored against him.
Laughter bubbled up between kisses when he nipped at your lip a little too eagerly and you tugged his hair in retaliation. “Easy, Kyky,” you teased breathlessly, loving the loose, happy looseness in him. He grinned, bright and boyish even in the heat of it, eyes dark with want and the pleasant blur of alcohol.
“Can’t help it,” he murmured, voice husky and warm. “Missed having you like this. Just us.” He captured your mouth again, slower and deeper, tongues sliding wetly as his hips pressed forward again, grinding with more intent.
The kisses lingered, consuming and unhurried, broken only by soft sighs, quiet laughs. His body was warm and solid against yours, heart pounding, hands never still as they mapped every curve within reach, the cool night air doing nothing to temper the heat building between you.
Time stretched on the quiet terrace, the Dubai skyline a distant shimmer. Kylian kept pulling you back in whenever the kiss threatened to slow, stealing one more, then another, unwilling to let the moment end. His touches grew bolder in his tipsy state, fingers slipping higher under your dress, palm pressing firmly against your ass as he held you against him, but always wrapped in that deep, affectionate need. In the end, it wasn’t the glamour of the night that mattered.
It was this—two people completely obsessed with each other, his touch as constant and necessary as breathing, especially when he finally let himself relax.
You loved this version of him.
author's note — i hope all of my kyky girlies enjoyed!! to see more of my football works, just click here <3 i'm not ashamed to admit i wrote all of this while listening to 'all mine' by brent faiyaz the entire time... sorry for not creating much of an atmosphere this time, just had an urge to write pda mbappé! xo <3
you'll like me eventually (oscar piastri x reader)
🏁 pairing: oscar piastri x f!reader.
🏁 word count: 11.3k
🏁 genres/warnings: alternative universe: university. frenemies (??) to lovers. oscar is the uk equivalent to a frat boy and reader thinks hes the most annoying person in the world. they're both down bad for each other. he fell first, she realised second type vibe. mild swearing and false rumours of a hookup. mentions of alcohol, being drunk and throwing up so warning. reader insert but no use of y/n.
🏁summary: you've spent two years calling it hatred. oscar has spent those same two years calling it flirting.
🏁 author notes: the idea of oscar in a backwards cap is the main reason for this fic so please excuse. super geeked to say this is in the same universe as my dearest @verstarris 's fic 'dirty little secret', please check it out bara is a phenomenal writer !!!!! hope you enjoy <3
“I mean, just look at him,” you muttered, your nose wrinkling as you looked across the makeshift dancefloor. “Who does he think he is?”
Your eyes found him with embarrassing ease, cutting through the blur of moving bodies, sticky floors and the cloud of cherry-scented vape smoke hanging over the living room.
Oscar Piastri. Of course it was Oscar Piastri.
He was leaning against the wall like he hadn't a care in the world, one hand wrapped loosely around a red cup filled with something that almost definitely tasted horrific. His other hand rested against his hip as he laughed at something the girl in front of him had said, his head tipping back ever so slightly.
God, he looked pleased with himself.
She was twirling a strand of hair around her finger, smiling up at him through fluttering eyelashes and leaning in far closer than was remotely necessary.
It wasn't even that loud in here.
“Yeah,” Alex replied dryly from beside you, following your line of sight before looking back at you. “Absolutely criminal. He's talking to a pretty girl who's giving him attention. Someone should call the police.”
You tore your eyes away from Oscar long enough to shoot her a glare.
“Stop trying to make it something it isn't,” you lifted your drink to your lips, taking another sip as the alcohol settled warmly in your chest. It softened the edges of the room, blurred the music into a pleasant hum.
Yet somehow Oscar remained in perfect focus. “I just mean,” you continued, waving your cup vaguely in his direction, “he walks around like he's God's gift to humanity,” Alex raised an eyebrow. “Which is annoying.”
“Mm,” she nodded thoughtfully, though the smile threatening at the corners of her mouth suggested she wasn't taking you remotely seriously.
You huffed. “He's just... so...” you searched for the right word before settling on the only one that really fit. “Oscar.”
Alex barked out a laugh. “You need another shot if you're going to spend the whole night giving us an Oscar report.”
Before you could argue, she'd caught hold of your wrist and started weaving the two of you through the crowd towards the kitchen. “Alex,” you complained, stumbling after her. “I'm not giving anyone an Oscar report.”
“No?” She glanced over her shoulder with a grin. “You've only been staring at him for the last ten minutes.”
“I have not.”
“You've looked at him more than you've looked at me.”
You scoffed, taking another sip of your drink. “I was people watching.”
“Interesting,” Alex hummed. “Considering the only person you've watched all evening has been him.”
Your mouth opened to argue, but the words dissolved the second the two of you passed him.
You felt it before you even looked. His attention shifting. Like he'd sensed you nearby.
Against your better judgement, your eyes flicked towards him. He wasn't looking at the girl anymore. Somewhere between one step and the next, she'd become background noise. His eyes had found yours instead.
His smile widened the second they did. Not smug. Not victorious. Just pleased. Like seeing you was somehow the best thing that had happened to him all evening.
You looked away first. Of course you did.
“See?” Alex murmured quietly as she nudged your shoulder. “He literally stops talking to anyone every time you walk into a room.”
You rolled your eyes so hard they almost hurt. “He's insufferable.”
Alex snorted. “Sure.”
The kitchen island was already crowded by the time Alex pulled you over, littered with abandoned cups, half-empty bottles of pop and enough questionable alcohol to make tomorrow morning thoroughly unpleasant.
The rest of your friends all stood around it in various stages of conversation, none of them paying much attention until Alex announced your arrival.
"Someone get her another shot," she sighed dramatically, dropping her head onto Lily's shoulder. "I'm so bored of hearing about Oscar."
You froze. "I do not talk about him that much."
Seven pairs of eyes landed on you. Then, almost in perfect sync, every single one of them rolled their eyes.
"See?" George said, gesturing lazily towards you. "That's exactly what someone who talks about Oscar too much would say."
"Honestly," Max muttered, taking another sip of his drink, "I don't even think he needs to be here anymore. You'd still find a way to mention him."
"That's not true."
"You mentioned him before you'd even said hello," Charles pointed out with a grin.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
Lando laughed under his breath as he reached for the bottle of tequila sitting on the counter. He held an empty cup up to the light, inspected it briefly before deciding it was clean enough, then filled it with a generous amount. "Here," he said, passing it over. "Drink this before you embarrass yourself any further."
You accepted it with a dramatic sigh. "I'm not obsessed with him."
"Didn't say you were," Lando replied innocently.
You narrowed your eyes. "You literally did last week."
He shrugged. "Yeah, maybe I was right."
George snorted into his drink. "The sooner you admit it, the sooner we can all move on with our lives."
"Move on?" you echoed. "You lot are the ones obsessed with this narrative."
"Narrative?" Lily laughed. "It's been two years."
Alex nodded solemnly. "We've accepted you're going to end up together. We're just getting bored waiting."
Laughter erupted around the kitchen. You tipped the tequila back in one go, grimacing as it burned all the way down. "You're all unbelievable."
Lando reached over immediately, replacing your empty shot cup with a fresh drink before you'd even asked.
"Shouldn't you be celebrating anyway?" George asked. "Didn't you absolutely smash your psychology exam?"
You wrapped your fingers around the new cup, grateful for the change in subject.
"Exactly," Alex agreed. "I thought tonight was supposed to be about you."
"It is."
"Yet somehow we've spent ten minutes discussing Oscar."
You looked around the circle in disbelief. "Because you lot keep bringing him up!"
Max blinked. "I literally opened the door to you moaning about him."
Silence. You pointed accusingly around the kitchen. "You're all incredibly annoying."
George grinned. "And yet somehow not as annoying as Oscar."
"Exactly," you exclaimed, grateful that someone had finally made sense.
George's grin widened. "Which is impressive, considering you've spent two years giving him your undivided attention."
You groaned loudly enough that a couple of people turned to look.
They had no idea what they were talking about. Oscar Piastri had simply mastered the art of being irritating.
You'd met him during your third week at university after Lando had dragged you along to one of the cricket team's sports socials, proudly insisting you "needed to meet the idiots I spent all my time with."
He hadn't been exaggerating.
Somewhere in amongst all of that chaos, Lando had introduced you to Oscar.
You'd expected someone easy-going. Humble, maybe. Instead, Oscar had smiled at you like he'd known you forever before announcing, with complete confidence, that you'd definitely like him eventually.
You'd decided almost instantly that he was insufferable.
Unfortunately, he'd never stopped proving you right.
Every conversation ended with him grinning while you rolled your eyes. Every party somehow ended with the two of you arguing about something completely pointless. He'd steal chips off your plate. Sit in your seat whenever you got up. Lean on your shoulder simply because he knew it annoyed you.
You'd even met his sister somewhere along the way, usually whenever she wandered onto campus looking for Oscar or Lando, somehow fitting into the group as naturally as everyone else. It wasn't unusual. Half the time it felt like Oscar and Lando shared a family anyway.
The worst part wasn't even that he was cocky.
It was that he somehow got away with it.
Everyone adored him. He was captain of the cricket team. Clever. Funny. Ridiculously handsome, which was deeply unfortunate.
You hated that you'd noticed the way he'd grown his hair out over the last year. Hated that you'd realised he smiled differently when he was genuinely laughing. Hated that you knew exactly what colour his eyes looked in the sun. Hated that, once, you'd caught yourself wondering what his hair might feel like threaded through your fingers.
You hated all of it.
Obviously.
You felt him before you saw him, as though he'd heard you thinking about him. A familiar warmth settled at your back. Broad shoulders. A chest brushing lightly against you. Then two arms draped comfortably over yours, his forearms resting across your collarbones like they belonged there.
Finally, a firm chin came to rest on the top of your head. "Talking about me again?" Oscar's voice rumbled beside your ear, amusement woven through every word.
A shiver darted down your spine before you could stop it. You blamed the tequila. "You're delirious," you muttered, driving your elbow backwards into his ribs.
It connected with solid muscle. Oscar barely reacted. If anything, he laughed. "That's not a no."
You wriggled free with an exaggerated sigh, smoothing your dress down as though he'd somehow managed to wrinkle your entire evening. "Do you ever get bored of winding me up?"
"Not once."
The answer came so quickly it almost caught you off guard.
You finally looked up at him. Big mistake. He was smiling. Not the cocky grin he flashed at everyone else. Something quieter. Warmer. Like he'd been waiting for you to notice him all evening.
It was deeply irritating.
"You need a new hobby."
Oscar shrugged, slipping one hand into the pocket of his jeans. "I've got one."
You frowned. "Annoying me isn't a hobby."
"Sure it is."
Lando wandered over, reaching straight past Oscar to steal the bottle he'd only just opened. "We've been trying to tell her that for two years," he said before taking a sip.
Oscar frowned. "You know that's mine."
"Our drink," Lando corrected without missing a beat.
"You bought one crate."
"We,” Lando grinned. “Bought one crate."
Oscar barked out a laugh. "That was because you forgot your wallet."
Lando shoved Oscar's shoulder as the two of them laughed, the exchange so practised it felt less like an argument and more like muscle memory.
George watched them with a sigh. "You two are actually exhausting."
"We've heard that before," Lando replied cheerfully.
Oscar finally looked back at you. "It's still my favourite hobby."
Heat climbed stubbornly into your cheeks. "You're unbelievable."
"I've been called worse."
George pinched the bridge of his nose dramatically. "Can one of you just kiss the other so the rest of us can move on?"
Alex nodded immediately. "Please. I'm actually begging."
You looked between your friends in complete disbelief. "You all need psychiatric evaluations."
"You're literally the psychology student," Charles pointed out.
"Great," Max lifted his bottle towards you. "Diagnose yourself."
Laughter rippled around the kitchen. You rolled your eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. "You're all idiots."
Oscar's grin only widened. "You forgot devastatingly handsome."
You groaned loudly. "See?" You gestured wildly in his direction. "This. This is exactly what I mean."
"What?"
"You just..." You waved your hands helplessly. "You think you're God's gift."
Oscar tilted his head thoughtfully, pretending to consider it. "I don't think that."
You folded your arms. "No?"
"No." His smile grew. "But my mum does."
The kitchen erupted into groans.
Lando physically turned away. "For God's sake." George muttered something remarkably similar.
Before you could stop yourself, a laugh escaped your lips.
Oscar's eyes found yours instantly. Like he'd been waiting for it. His smile softened almost imperceptibly.
You stopped laughing immediately. Absolutely not. "You're still annoying."
"Yeah?" Oscar asked, completely unfazed.
"Mm."
"See you on the dancefloor in five?"
You stared at him. "I'd rather walk home barefoot."
"So..." Oscar nodded thoughtfully. "Ten minutes then?"
You threw your hands into the air. "You're impossible."
Without waiting for another response, you grabbed Alex and Lily by their wrists, ignoring both of their protests as you dragged them back towards the living room. "Come on."
Lily barely managed to keep hold of her drink as she stumbled after you. "You know," she called over the music, "for someone who can't stand him, you two have remarkably good chemistry."
"Lily."
"I'm just saying."
"Don't."
She only smiled to herself.
You disappeared back into the crowd, determined to lose yourself amongst the music, flashing lights and bodies packed shoulder to shoulder across the dancefloor.
Determined not to think about Oscar Piastri for the rest of the evening.
Behind you, back in the kitchen, Oscar's eyes followed you until you vanished into the crowd.
Lando caught him watching and let out a long, tired sigh, bumping his shoulder against Oscar's. "Mate," he muttered, "you're never beating the allegations."
Oscar didn't even pretend to deny it. He simply smiled into his drink. "I know.”
By the time you finally let Alex and Lily convince you to take a break from dancing, the alcohol had settled deep into your bloodstream, leaving your limbs pleasantly heavy and your thoughts wrapped in a warm haze.
You stumbled as the three of you pushed through the crowd, laughing as Alex caught you under one arm while Lily steadied you on the other side.
"Careful," Lily laughed, tightening her grip around your waist. "I'd rather not explain to A&E that you broke your ankle attempting to dance to Pitbull."
A giggle bubbled out of you before you could stop it. Somewhere between the dancefloor and your fourth, maybe fifth shot, you'd completely lost count. Your arms had spent most of the evening waving through the air, your voice disappearing into whatever song happened to be playing, and despite every promise you'd made to yourself—
You'd still caught yourself looking for Oscar. Constantly. You knew, without even turning around, that if you looked now, he'd probably be looking straight back.
He always was. It didn't matter how many people packed into a room or how chaotic a party became. Somehow, Oscar always found you.
His eyes would catch yours across the room as though there wasn't another person there. It was infuriating.
Mostly because you could never seem to stop looking back.
You blamed curiosity. Everyone else seemed convinced it was something else entirely.
A groan escaped your lips. You came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the hallway, forcing both Alex and Lily to stop with you.
"What's wrong?" Alex asked, turning towards you with a crease between her brows.
You sighed dramatically. "Did I ever tell you about the time Oscar..." a hiccup interrupted your sentence, making you screw your face up. "...Oscar..."
Lily let out the biggest sigh of the evening. "For the love of God," she groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. "If you're still refusing to admit you fancy him, could you at least stop bringing him up every ten minutes?"
Alex dissolved into laughter beside you, the force of it making her stumble into your shoulder. "Congratulations," she managed between giggles. "You nearly made it an hour this time."
You frowned. "I don't bring him up that much."
Lily simply stared at you. "You literally started this conversation."
You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it again. "...That doesn't count."
Neither of them even bothered responding. They just exchanged a look over your head. The traitors.
You couldn't help laughing anyway.
The movement, unfortunately, made the room tilt. Your stomach lurched violently. The smile vanished from your face. "Oh no."
Both girls recognised the look immediately.
"Oh no," Alex echoed, grabbing your arm.
You slapped a hand over your mouth. "Bathroom," you mumbled through your fingers before wrenching yourself free and stumbling through the house.
Thankfully, this wasn't your first party here. You knew exactly where you were going. You shoved the bathroom door open with far more force than necessary, relief washing over you when you found it empty.
Barely making it to the toilet in time, you dropped to your knees. The evening made a swift and rather unpleasant reappearance.
The door burst open moments later. "She's in here," Alex called over the music as she hurried inside.
Lily wasn't far behind. Without a word, she gathered your hair away from your face while Alex crouched beside you, rubbing slow circles across your back.
Neither of them said, I told you so. Which, honestly, felt like real friendship.
By the time the nausea finally eased, every muscle in your body felt heavy. You leaned back against the wall with a tired groan, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth before immediately regretting how disgusting that felt.
"I think," Alex started carefully, glancing towards Lily before looking back at you, "We should probably get you home."
You squeezed your eyes shut. Home sounded incredible. Your own bed sounded even better.
The bass from the living room vibrated through the wall beside you while one of them took your hand, their thumb absently stroking across your knuckles.
For a few minutes, nobody spoke.
You just sat there, letting the room slowly stop spinning.
"I'm blaming Lando," you mumbled eventually, raking a hand through your hair. "And his stupid tequila."
Lily smiled softly before reaching for a glass waiting beside the sink. "Here," she said, holding it towards you. "Just water. I promise."
You accepted it gratefully, taking careful sips. The room still tilted every now and then. But at least your throat no longer felt like sandpaper.
The bathroom door creaked open again. Footsteps crossed the tiled floor.
"How's she doing?" came a familiar voice. You recognised it immediately. Even through the alcohol. Even with your eyes closed.
"She's exhausted," Alex whispered quietly. "I think she just needs to sleep but apparently Liam’s forgotten his promise."
There was a brief silence. Then—
"I'll sort it."
Oscar.
You frowned faintly but couldn't quite summon the energy to open your eyes.
You felt Alex's arm tighten around your shoulders. "Babe listen, the thing is," she said gently, smoothing your hair back from your forehead, "I've completely lost our designated driver, and an Uber's showing nearly an hour."
You let out a pitiful groan, dropping your forehead against her shoulder. Home suddenly felt impossibly far away.
"But," Lily added quickly, exchanging a glance you couldn’t see with Oscar, "There's a spare bed upstairs. Someone's said you're more than welcome to use it."
If you'd been even remotely sober, alarm bells would've started ringing. Whose bed? Since when? Why?
Instead, your brain simply accepted the information with a sleepy hum. "...Kay."
The glass slipped gently from your fingers before someone carefully took it from you.
A moment later, another pair of hands slid beneath your knees and around your back.
You barely had time to register what was happening before your feet left the floor.
Instinctively, you curled towards the warmth. Your cheek settled against a broad chest.
Bergamot. Mint. The familiar scent wrapped around you as securely as the arms holding you.
A soft sigh escaped before you could stop it.
Whoever was carrying you adjusted their grip ever so slightly, one hand pressing a little more firmly against the small of your back as though terrified you might slip.
It wasn't possessive. It was careful.
You'd never realised how different those two things could feel.
The music swelled around you as you were carried back through the party before fading again with every step upstairs. Your fingers curled lazily into the soft cotton beneath your palm.
Beneath your cheek, a steady heartbeat pulsed against your skin. Slow. Unhurried. Without even thinking about it, your own breathing seemed to fall into rhythm with it.
You felt a rough thumb brush absentmindedly across the bare skin of your knee, barely more than a reassuring sweep to steady you, yet the touch lingered long after it had gone.
The other hand remained splayed securely across your back. Strong enough that you knew they wouldn't let you fall. Gentle enough that, before you realised what you were doing, you'd tucked your face a little deeper into the warmth of their neck.
The thought should have embarrassed you. Instead, it simply felt safe.
By the time you were lowered onto something soft, the room had stopped spinning quite so violently.
A mattress dipped beneath your weight. A lamp clicked on somewhere nearby, bathing the room in a warm amber glow.
You blinked slowly. Everything remained slightly blurry.
Except… Baby blue. The cotton shirt stretched comfortably across broad shoulders as someone leaned over the bedside table, rummaging through a drawer.
Oscar.
Of course it was Oscar.
"What," you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep. "are you doing here?"
Oscar glanced over his shoulder before letting out a quiet laugh. "Funny," he said, pulling a maroon T-shirt from the drawer. "I was about to ask you the same thing."
You frowned at him. "Not funny."
"Little bit funny," he crossed the room, stopping beside the bed before holding the shirt out towards you. "Here," he said softly. "You'll be more comfortable in this."
You took it obediently, pushing yourself upright. Then immediately reached for the straps of your dress.
Oscar's eyes widened. "Whoa," he spun around so quickly you almost laughed. "Wait until I've turned around first."
You blinked slowly at his back. It was… Very broad. Very, very broad. Drunk-you found this incredibly fascinating.
With an absent-minded shrug, you let your dress slide to the floor before tugging the oversized T-shirt over your head.
The soft cotton settled around your thighs. It smelled exactly like him. Bergamot. Mint. Clean washing powder. Home.
You frowned slightly. Since when had Oscar smelled like home?
"Done," you announced proudly.
Oscar stayed facing the wall for another second. "Promise?"
A giggle escaped you. "Promise."
Only then did he turn back around.
Even now, his eyes only flicked towards you for the briefest second before politely settling somewhere around your shoulder instead. Like he was making a conscious effort not to look.
You weren't entirely sure why that made your chest feel strangely warm.
He crossed the room slowly. Gentle fingers wrapped around the tops of your arms as he guided you back down onto the mattress, careful not to jostle you more than necessary.
"There we go," he murmured.
You let him. Far too willingly, really.
His hands slipped away almost as quickly as they'd arrived before moving to your ankles, lifting your feet one at a time onto the bed.
The duvet had twisted beneath you in your determined effort to get changed. Oscar shook his head with the ghost of a smile before pulling it free and tucking it carefully around your legs, smoothing it over you with absent-minded precision.
Like he'd done this a hundred times before.
You watched him through heavy eyelids. Every brush of his fingertips left warmth lingering beneath your skin long after he'd pulled away.
It was ridiculous. You'd spent two years insisting Oscar was the most infuriating man you'd ever met. So why… Why did every touch feel so gentle?
Your thoughts felt thick. Slow. Something sat stubbornly on the tip of your tongue, battering against the inside of your skull, desperate to be let out.
You couldn't quite catch it.
Not until Oscar looked back up at you.
"Am I..." you asked quietly, tilting your head as you studied him, "not good enough for you to look at naked?"
Oscar blinked. Then laughed. A proper laugh. Not at you. Just surprised.
He crouched beside the bed instead of towering over you, one forearm resting lightly against the mattress as he looked at you with unmistakable fondness. "It's not that."
You waited. So did he. His fingers lingered on the edge of the duvet, absent-mindedly smoothing a crease from the fabric before his eyes dropped to his hands.
"I'd just..." he cleared his throat softly. "I'd always want your permission first."
The room fell strangely quiet. Even in your drunken haze, something about the way he'd said it settled heavily inside your chest. Not rehearsed. Not flirtatious. Just true.
You stared at him. Really stared. His hair had curled slightly from the heat downstairs, brushing softly against the nape of his neck.
You'd wondered before what it might feel like beneath your fingers. You'd always dismissed it as idle curiosity. Looking at him now you weren't quite so sure.
The lamplight caught the sharp line of his jaw. It looked tense. Held carefully in place, as though he was trying very hard not to say something he couldn't take back.
Tiny moles freckled across pale skin. Without meaning to, your eyes traced each one. Like they were a map you'd somehow already memorised.
And then… His eyes. They'd always been brown. You'd never realised how many shades of brown there actually were. Amber where the lamplight caught them. Honey around the edges. Warm enough that looking away suddenly felt impossible.
They weren't teasing you. They weren't laughing at you. They were simply looking. Like you were something precious. Something worth being careful with.
Your chest tightened.
"You know..." you murmured eventually, burrowing a little deeper beneath the duvet. "You've got a serious problem."
One corner of Oscar's mouth twitched. "Do I?"
You nodded solemnly. "You're,” you squinted at him as though trying to solve the world's greatest mystery. "Too handsome," Oscar blinked. You lifted a finger vaguely in his direction. "It's really annoying."
For a second, he simply stared. Then he laughed again. The sound filled the room, rich and warm and completely unguarded. "That's my biggest character flaw?" he asked, shaking his head.
"Yep."
"I'll have to work on that."
You hummed approvingly. "Please do."
"I'll see what I can manage."
Satisfied with that answer, you sank a little further beneath the duvet, your eyes already beginning to drift closed.
Oscar smiled to himself before reaching across to place a bottle of water and two paracetamol carefully on the bedside table. He tapped the wood lightly beside them. "Take those when you wake up."
You answered with something that sounded vaguely like agreement. Whether it actually was, neither of you could really tell.
Your eyelids grew heavier. The room softened around the edges. Just before sleep claimed you completely, you thought you felt gentle fingers brush a loose strand of hair away from your face.
The touch was so light you almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it.
Then, almost too quietly to hear, "Goodnight.”
The bedroom door clicked softly shut. For a moment, Oscar didn't move. He stood with one hand still resting on the handle, listening.
Silence.
Then, your breathing settled into a slow, even rhythm. Only then did he finally let out the breath he'd been holding. He leaned back against the closed door, rubbing both hands over his face before letting his head fall gently against the wood.
A helpless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Too handsome," he muttered to himself, a quiet laugh escaping before he could stop it. "I'll take that."
He stayed there for another second. Just one. As though committing the moment to memory.
Not even a minute later, hurried footsteps echoed up the staircase. Oscar looked up just as a mop of curly hair appeared over the top step. "Cap," the younger boy called, slightly out of breath. "George said you were looking for me?"
Oscar pushed himself away from the door. "Kimi," the first-year student straightened instinctively. "Got a job for you."
Kimi's face lit up immediately. "Is this like my final initiation thing?"
Oscar nodded once. "Something like that."
"I knew it," Kimi grinned. "George said it'd be important."
"It is," Oscar reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet before counting out a few notes. "There'll be fifty quid in it for you as well."
Kimi's eyes widened. "Fifty?" Oscar held the money out. Kimi took it slowly, turning the notes over in his hands like they might disappear. "So," he said carefully. "What's the job?"
Oscar tipped his head towards the closed bedroom door. "No one goes in there, all night."
Kimi looked at the door. Then back at Oscar. "Right."
"No one."
"Okay?"
Oscar pointed downstairs. "Unless it's Alex or Lily, you know them right?"
Kimi frowned. "So," he glanced between Oscar and the bedroom again. "You want me to be a bouncer?"
Oscar ignored him. "If she wakes up, come and find me," Kimi blinked. "If she needs water, there's some on the bedside table," Another blink. "If anyone else tries to go in..."
"They don't."
"Exactly."
A long silence settled between them. Finally, Kimi tucked the money into his pocket. "Cap?"
"Yeah?"
"Is that it?"
Oscar looked at him as though the answer was painfully obvious. "That's it."
Kimi looked at the bedroom door again. Then at the staircase leading back down to the party. "Where do I sleep?"
Oscar had already started walking away. "Here."
Kimi stared after him. "What? On the floor?"
Oscar kept walking. "You wanted to join the team."
"I did."
"You still do?"
"Yes?"
"Good," Oscar reached the top of the stairs before pausing. "Oh," he glanced back over his shoulder. "And Kimi?"
"Yeah?"
"The floor's surprisingly comfortable, don’t worry."
With that, he disappeared downstairs, the music swallowing him almost instantly.
Kimi stood alone in the hallway. He looked at the closed bedroom door. Looked at the fifty pounds in his hand. Looked down at the wooden floor.
"This," he sighed to himself as he slowly lowered himself to sit against the wall, "is the weirdest initiation ever."
He pulled out his phone, made sure the money was tucked safely into his pocket and settled in for the night.
From somewhere downstairs came the roar of another drinking game. Kimi glanced once more at the bedroom door. "Hope you're worth fifty quid."
The hallway fell quiet.
The first thing you became aware of as your eyes reluctantly fluttered open was the dryness coating your mouth.
The second was that your head was pounding so violently you briefly considered closing your eyes again and pretending consciousness had been a terrible mistake.
A groan escaped your lips as you burrowed deeper beneath the duvet, pressing your face into the pillow beneath you.
It smelled… Familiar. Not your washing powder. Not your room. Something cleaner.
Bergamot. Mint.
You frowned. Slowly, painfully, you cracked one eye open. The room that greeted you definitely wasn't yours. "Oh no."
You squeezed your eyes shut again, rubbing both hands over your face as though sheer determination might erase the hangover currently drilling into your skull.
It didn't.
After another minute spent feeling deeply sorry for yourself, you finally forced yourself upright, wincing as the room swayed slightly.
Your gaze drifted slowly around the bedroom.
It was tidy. Suspiciously tidy for a university student.
A cricket bat rested neatly against the wall beside the wardrobe, a couple of medals hanging from one of the bedposts. Textbooks sat in surprisingly organised piles across the desk beside a laptop and a stack of neatly annotated lecture notes. A pale blue hoodie had been tossed over the back of the desk chair, the only real sign that someone actually lived here.
A framed photograph sat tucked into the corner of the desk. You recognised them all immediately.
Oscar stood in the middle, one arm slung around Lando's shoulders, the other wrapped around his sister as all three of them laughed at something just beyond the camera. You'd met her more times than you could count over the years. The resemblance between the siblings had always been obvious whenever they smiled.
Your lips twitched before you could stop them. It looked comfortably him.
You weren't entirely sure what you'd expected Oscar's room to look like. Clothes strewn across the floor, maybe. Empty bottles shoved under the bed. Some sort of organised chaos.
Instead, it was warm. Orderly. Comfortable. It suited him far more than you wanted to admit.
"Brilliant," you muttered to yourself, although there wasn't nearly as much conviction behind the word as there should have been.
Your phone rested on the bedside table beside a half-empty bottle of water and two untouched paracetamol.
A hazy memory drifted to the surface. Take those when you wake up. His voice. Gentle.
The memory came with flashes rather than anything whole. Strong arms carrying you upstairs. The steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath your cheek. Warm hands tucking the duvet around you. Him turning his back the second you'd reached for the straps of your dress.
Before you realised what you were doing, a small smile had begun to curl at your lips. You caught it almost immediately. Absolutely not.
The smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
You swallowed, dragging your eyes away from the bedside table. No. You weren't thinking about that yet.
Instead, you grabbed your phone and unlocked it, squinting against the brightness.
The group chat had several unread messages.
[from: Alex] Let us know when you're alive xx
[from: Lily] Drink water before coffee.
[from: Alex] Actually drink water before anything.
A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.
You quickly replied that you were awake before locking your phone again.
Your eyes drifted to the maroon T-shirt you'd slept in. Oscar's. You reached down, catching the soft fabric between your fingers. For just a second, you stared at it.
Then, before your brain could wander somewhere thoroughly unhelpful, you peeled it over your head and carefully folded it.
Only after placing it neatly on the pillow did you realise what you'd done. "Whatever."
You grabbed your dress from the floor instead, pulling it back on before slipping your shoes over aching feet.
Coffee. You needed coffee. And preferably an explanation.
Taking one last look around the room, you quietly opened the bedroom door. You barely managed half a step before nearly tripping over the body stretched across the hallway carpet.
"What the—" A startled yelp escaped you. The mop of curly hair immediately shot upright.
Kimi blinked at you blearily, his face creased from where he'd apparently been sleeping on the floor. "Morning," he mumbled.
You stared. He stared back. "Kimi," your voice cracked painfully, sounding more like sandpaper than words. You cleared your throat before trying again. "What the fuck are you doing?"
He rubbed both hands over his face with an enormous yawn. "Oh," he looked suddenly very awake. "You're up."
"I gathered."
He nodded seriously. "I've got to tell Oscar."
You frowned. "Why?"
"He told me to," Kimi shrugged as though that explained absolutely everything. "If you woke up, I was supposed to find him."
You blinked. "You slept out here all night?"
Another shrug. "Apparently."
Silence. You looked at him. He looked back at you. Neither of you seemed entirely convinced this had been a sensible plan.
"Please don't go and get him," you said eventually, rubbing at your temple.
Kimi hesitated. "He did say—"
"I'm leaving."
"Oh,” he looked genuinely conflicted. “Do you think he’ll still let me keep the fifty quid?"
You stared at him. "The what?"
Kimi's eyes widened. "Nothing."
He very deliberately looked away. Your head hurt far too much to investigate whatever on earth that meant. Instead, you simply stepped over him. "You're all weird."
"I've been told that before," Kimi called after you as you wandered down the hallway.
The house was unusually quiet.
Gone was the music that had rattled the walls only a few hours earlier, replaced instead by the occasional creak of floorboards and the distant hum of someone snoring somewhere upstairs.
Alex and George's bedroom doors remained firmly shut as you padded down the hallway. Still asleep. Charles was probably back at yours by now. Lucky bastard.
The only bedroom door sitting slightly ajar belonged to Lando. You paused outside it. Maybe he was awake. Maybe he had coffee.
You nudged the door open with two fingers. "...Lando?" No answer. Only a loud snore.
Your eyes adjusted to the dim room. Lando was starfished across the mattress, still wearing yesterday's clothes, one arm hanging dramatically off the side of the bed while he'd somehow managed to steal almost the entire duvet.
A smile tugged at your lips. Typical. Then your eyes drifted to the sliver of mattress Lando had graciously left behind.
Oscar was somehow balancing on the very edge of the mattress.
One leg hung halfway off the side, one arm trapped awkwardly beneath his head while Lando monopolised not only the duvet but what appeared to be three quarters of the bed.
He looked uncomfortable.
Your brow furrowed.
The memories returned slowly now, no longer scattered fragments but moments beginning to stitch themselves together. Oscar carrying you upstairs. Oscar turning around the second you'd reached for the straps of your dress. Oscar giving you his shirt.
The water. The paracetamol. The duvet tucked carefully beneath your chin. Kimi. Sleeping outside the bedroom door.
Your gaze flicked between the room behind you and the bed in front of you. He'd given you his room.
The realisation settled quietly somewhere beneath your ribs. Warm. Confusing. Entirely unwelcome.
You'd expected him to tease you relentlessly afterwards. To hold it over your head for the next six months. Instead, he'd quietly slept half off Lando's bed so you could have somewhere comfortable to sleep.
Your eyes lingered on him for another second. It was annoyingly easy to forget, looking at him like this, that he was supposed to be infuriating.
He wasn't smirking. Wasn't making some smart remark that would have you rolling your eyes.
He was just asleep. The morning light spilled through the gap in the curtains, catching the unruly strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead.
He looked younger somehow. Softer.
You thought, fleetingly, about waking him. Just to… You weren't entirely sure. To say thank you. To see if he'd smile like he had the night before. To have a moment that belonged only to the two of you before everyone else woke up.
The thought hit you like a bucket of cold water. Absolutely not.
You frowned at yourself. God, this was exactly why you didn't let yourself think about Oscar for too long. Because every now and then your brain came up with something utterly ridiculous.
Like wanting to watch him wake up.
Gross.
Your phone buzzed against your palm, pulling you sharply back to reality.
[From: Alex] Outside x
You glanced back towards Oscar one last time. He hadn't moved.
One arm was still tucked awkwardly beneath his head, his face half-hidden by the pillow as Lando continued to wage war against the duvet beside him.
For the first time since you'd met him, he didn't look like the confident captain of the cricket team. Or the cocky idiot who somehow always knew exactly which buttons to press.
He just looked peaceful. And, irritatingly kind.
Your chest tightened.
You remembered, suddenly, the first time you'd completely bombed a pop quiz in first year. You'd been convinced nobody had noticed until Oscar had quietly appeared beside you after the seminar, slid a chocolate bar onto your notebook and told you, with the same stupid grin he always wore, that statistically someone had to finish below average and at least you'd increased everyone else's chances.
You'd rolled your eyes so hard they'd nearly fallen out of your head. Then you'd eaten the chocolate anyway.
Maybe… Maybe there had always been moments like that. You'd just never let yourself keep hold of them.
With a quiet shake of your head, you pulled the bedroom door almost closed again. "Thanks," you murmured, the word slipping out before you could stop it.
You weren't entirely sure who you were saying it to.
Oscar. Lando. Kimi. The universe.
Whoever had stopped you spending the night wrapped around a toilet bowl.
It didn't matter.
By the time you reached the front door, you'd already convinced yourself you hadn't meant it at all.
Monday arrived far too quickly.
Thankfully, your hangover had disappeared sometime between Sunday afternoon and collapsing into bed that evening, leaving behind nothing more than a lingering embarrassment every time you remembered whose room you'd woken up in.
Which, annoyingly, was more often than you'd have liked.
By lunchtime, you, Alex and Lily had claimed your usual table outside, half-heartedly picking at your food while Lily filled you in on the lecture she’d thankfully managed not to miss.
You were only half listening.
All morning you'd been catching people looking at you. Every time you glanced up, someone else's head seemed to snap away. Whispers drifted across lecture theatres. People smiled when they walked past. One group by the library had actually laughed before quickly pretending they hadn't.
It was beginning to drive you mad.
You caught another pair of students staring from two tables away. The second they realised you'd noticed, they immediately looked back down at their lunches.
You let your fork clatter onto your tray. "Right."
Alex looked up. "What?"
"What," you repeated, gesturing vaguely around the courtyard, "is everyone's problem?"
Lily frowned. "What do you mean?"
"They keep looking at me."
You leaned back in your chair with a groan. "Have I got something on my face? Did I make a complete idiot of myself on Saturday? Did I throw up on someone?"
Alex and Lily exchanged a glance. It lasted barely a second. Long enough.
"What?" you asked, pointing accusingly between them. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" Alex replied a little too innocently.
"The look."
"What look?"
"The one you just did."
Neither of them answered. Instead, Alex stabbed absentmindedly at her chips before speaking. "Have you not heard?"
Your stomach sank. "Heard what?"
Another look. This time Lily sighed. "There's... kind of a rumour."
"A rumour?" you repeated slowly. "About me?"
Lily nodded. "About you and Oscar."
Your fork slipped from your fingers. "What?"
Alex rushed in before your brain could completely short-circuit. "People saw him carrying you upstairs."
"And into his room," Lily added gently.
"And..." Alex winced, "People have sort of filled in the blanks."
You stared at them. "You're joking," neither of them smiled. "I was wasted."
"I know."
"I could barely stand."
"I know."
"So why would anyone—" you stopped yourself. Actually, university students. Of course they would. Heat rushed into your cheeks anyway.
For one utterly traitorous second, your imagination supplied an image entirely uninvited.
Oscar. Close enough to touch. One hand resting against your waist. His mouth brushing your neck.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Absolutely not. "What the fuck?" you muttered, although at this point you weren't entirely sure whether you were talking about the rumour or your own brain.
"It's alright," Alex said quickly, reaching across the table to squeeze your wrist. "It's already starting to die down."
You looked up. "Why?"
This time it was Lily who answered. "Because Oscar's been shutting it down."
You blinked. "What?"
"He hasn't let anyone get away with it," she explained. "Someone made a joke after training this morning."
Alex nodded. "George said Oscar shut it down immediately."
"What did he say?"
The two girls exchanged another glance. Lily shrugged. "He told them," she paused, trying to remember the exact words. "'You were drunk. And to leave you alone.'"
Alex picked up where she left off. "And when someone kept laughing, he basically told him to shut his mouth before he said something he'd regret."
"He nearly swung for one of the second years," Lily added. "Apparently George had to drag him away."
Silence settled over the table. You looked down at your lunch, suddenly finding it very difficult to concentrate on anything Alex was saying. He'd done all that? For you?
The thought settled somewhere quietly inside your chest. Warm. Confusing. Entirely unhelpful.
"Why?" you heard yourself ask.
Neither Alex nor Lily answered.
Across the courtyard, laughter carried through the afternoon air. Almost instinctively, your head turned towards the sound.
Oscar. Walking beside Lando, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie as he laughed at something Lando had said.
He looked exactly like he always did. Easy-going. Confident. Completely unaware that your entire opinion of him seemed to be quietly rearranging itself.
As though sensing your eyes on him, his head turned. Of course it did.
Somehow… He always found you.
His gaze met yours across the courtyard. The grin he'd worn a second ago softened. It wasn't the cocky smile he usually flashed after winding you up. Nor the smug one he wore whenever he won an argument.
This one was smaller. Quieter. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Then he gave the slightest nod before turning back to Lando, the two of them disappearing towards their afternoon lecture.
You watched him go.
"He's still annoying," you muttered eventually.
Alex smiled into her drink. "Course he is."
Neither of you sounded particularly convinced.
The rest of the week passed in a strange blur.
Oscar hadn't changed. Not really. He was still cocky. Still appeared beside you whenever you least expected him. Still somehow managed to wind you up within thirty seconds of every conversation.
The only difference was… You couldn't quite convince yourself you hated it anymore.
Ever since Saturday, little things kept catching your attention. The way his eyes lit up whenever someone made him laugh. The way he always turned fully towards whoever was speaking, listening as though they were the only person in the room. The way he somehow remembered everyone's deadlines, training schedules and birthdays without anyone ever asking him to.
It was irritating. Deeply irritating. Because it didn't fit the version of Oscar Piastri you'd spent two years building inside your head.
You tried not to think about Saturday. About the water on the bedside table. About the paracetamol. About the fact he'd slept squeezed onto the edge of Lando's bed without mentioning it once.
Most of all, you tried not to think about the rumours.
You'd expected him to tease you relentlessly. Instead, he'd barely mentioned them. He’d barely mentioned anything from that night. If anything, he'd been softer. The usual teasing never quite disappeared, but there was something gentler beneath it now. Every time he nudged your shoulder or stole food from your plate, it almost felt careful.
Which was deeply inconvenient.
Because pretending to hate him had suddenly become much harder.
By Friday evening, your entire group had migrated to the local student bar.
The boys had disappeared almost immediately, lured away by a dartboard and what sounded suspiciously like a tournament none of them had been invited to.
You, Alex and Lily claimed a corner near the bar instead, drinks in hand while the conversation drifted between coursework, weekend plans and George's truly horrific fashion choices.
Charles appeared halfway through, flashing Alex a grin before stealing her away for a game of pool.
"Wish me luck," Alex sighed dramatically as she was dragged backwards across the room.
"You'll need it," you called after her.
She responded by sticking her tongue out. Typical.
You smiled into your drink before turning back towards Lily. Except, your attention never quite made it back to the conversation. Instead, it snagged somewhere across the room.
Oscar. Of course. He was leaning against the old jukebox, a bottle dangling loosely from his fingers while a girl stood beside him.
She was pretty. Very pretty. She laughed at something he'd said, resting a hand lightly against his arm.
The room suddenly felt far too warm. You took a long sip of your vodka, hoping it might somehow wash away the uncomfortable knot tightening beneath your ribs.
It didn't.
Beside you, Lily quietly followed your line of sight. Then she smiled. "You know," she said, nudging your elbow gently with hers, "if you keep glaring at them like that, one of them might actually burst into flames."
You looked away far too quickly. "I wasn't glaring."
"No?"
"No."
Lily took a thoughtful sip of her drink. "Could've fooled me."
You sighed. "I just don't get him."
She raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"This whole week," you shook your head, searching for the words. "He's been different."
"Different how?"
"I don't know,” you frowned into your drink. "He hasn't been…” you paused. "As annoying."
Lily actually laughed. "That's your compliment?"
"It's not a compliment."
She smiled into her glass. "Sure."
You groaned. "You know what I mean."
"I do,” Lily looked back towards Oscar. "I just don't think you do."
Your eyes followed hers despite yourself. The girl was saying something now, smiling up at him. Oscar smiled politely. But then, almost automatically, his eyes lifted.
Straight to you.
Your stomach flipped. He held your gaze for barely a second before glancing back towards the girl. She was still talking. He wasn't really listening anymore.
"You know what's funny?" Lily asked quietly.
"What?"
"I don't think I've ever seen you jealous before."
You almost choked on your drink. "I'm not jealous," Lily looked at you. Didn't say a word. Just looked. "I'm not."
She laughed softly. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
You opened your mouth to argue again. Nothing came out.
Because the truth had finally forced its way to the surface, lodging itself stubbornly somewhere beneath your ribs.
You weren't angry because Oscar flirted. Oscar flirted with everyone. You were angry because, for the first time in two years, it wasn't with you.
The realisation stole the air from your lungs.
Saturday had cracked something open. Whatever you'd spent the last two years calling annoyance, irritation, hatred… It had never been any of those things.
You'd simply given it a safer name. Something easier to carry. Something that didn't require you to admit why your eyes always found him first in a crowded room. Why every joke he made landed differently when it was aimed at you. Why every party somehow ended with the two of you orbiting each other, pulled together by something neither of you seemed willing to acknowledge.
The box you'd shoved those feelings into had finally split open. Now they were spilling out faster than you could force them back in.
Across the room, the girl stepped closer. Her hand slid easily from Oscar's forearm to his bicep as she leaned up to whisper something into his ear.
Your grip tightened around your glass until your knuckles ached.
Oscar didn't move. He didn't smile. He didn't lean in. Instead his eyes found yours.
Not for a passing glance. Not accidentally. He held your gaze. One eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. Almost expectantly. Like he was waiting.
The room seemed to disappear. The music. The conversations. The clatter of glasses behind the bar.
None of it reached you anymore. There was only him. Watching. Waiting.
The girl's lips curved into a smile before she hooked her thumb towards the corridor leading to the toilets. Oscar's eyes flicked in that direction for barely a heartbeat.
Then they were back on you.
Still waiting. Still asking.
Your pulse thudded painfully against your ribs.
Say something. Walk over. Tell him to stop looking at her. Tell him to come back. Tell him anything.
Instead, you stood rooted to the spot. Pride held your feet where your heart desperately wanted to move.
If he wanted you, he could come to you.
Across the room, Oscar's jaw shifted. Almost imperceptibly. Like he was reaching the exact same conclusion.
His shoulders rose with a slow breath before he gave the faintest nod to himself. A decision. He said something quietly to the girl that you couldn't hear.
She smiled and started towards the corridor. Oscar followed a couple of paces behind.
Once. Just once. He looked back.
Not at the room. Not at the bar. At you. His eyes lingered for the briefest second. Questioning. Almost pleading.
Like he was giving you one last chance to stop him.
You didn't. You couldn't.
"What the fuck..." you whispered, the words barely audible beneath the music. Something inside your chest twisted so sharply it almost hurt. He was really going.
Just walking away. With someone else.
You'd spent two years pretending you wanted Oscar Piastri as far away from you as possible. Now, as you watched him disappear down the corridor, all you wanted was for him to turn around.
To walk back. To look at you the way he always did. Like you were the only person in the room.
And he didn't.
Before you could lose your composure in the middle of a bar full of your peers, you set your glass down on the counter with a little more force than necessary.
"I'll see you later," you muttered.
Whether Lily heard you over the music, you had no idea. Your jacket was already over your shoulders before you'd consciously decided to leave.
Then you walked. Out through the front doors. Away from the music. Away from your friends. Away from him.
The cool night air wrapped around your flushed skin as you stepped outside, filling your lungs with a sharp breath that should have settled the storm inside your chest.
It didn't. If anything, it made everything louder. Your heart. Your thoughts. The ache spreading relentlessly beneath your ribs.
You knew exactly what this feeling was now. You just refused to give it a name. Because the second you admitted it, everything else would unravel with it.
Every eye roll. Every sarcastic comment. Every excuse. Every time you'd told yourself you hated Oscar because it was easier than admitting you wanted every bit of attention he threw your way.
You'd spent two years pretending you wanted him to leave you alone. Now, all you could think about was the fact he'd looked at someone else.
You shoved your hands deep into your jacket pockets and kept walking. The pavement was quiet this far from the bar, broken only by distant laughter spilling through the open doors behind you.
You'd almost reached the narrow alley beside the building when a familiar voice drifted through the darkness. "And where exactly do you think you're going?"
You stopped walking.
Of course.
Slowly, you turned around. Oscar was leaning casually against the brick wall at the mouth of the alley, hands tucked into the pockets of his denim jacket.
Like he'd known you'd come this way. Like he'd been waiting. The sight of him sent your pulse skittering wildly before you ruthlessly shoved it back down.
"I'm going home." You hated how flat your voice sounded.
Oscar tilted his head. "So early?"
"You'll survive without me."
"I wasn't worried about me," he pushed himself away from the wall. One slow step. "I was asking about you."
Your eyes dropped instinctively to the pavement. "I'm just tired."
Another step. "Is that really why you're leaving?"
You let out a slow, frustrated breath. "Oscar..."
"I'm asking."
"I know."
You rubbed a hand over your forehead before finally looking back at him. "I'm really not in the mood tonight."
Something softened across his face. The teasing smile eased into something quieter. "Okay," the single word caught you off guard. He watched you for another moment. Then spoke again, his voice noticeably gentler. "So tell me."
"What?"
"Why are you leaving?"
You laughed once. Short. Humourless. "I don't owe you an explanation."
"No," he nodded immediately. "You don't." Silence settled between you. Somewhere behind you, the bar doors opened and closed again before the sounds disappeared into the night.
Oscar broke the quiet first. "I just don't like seeing you upset."
Your heart stumbled painfully. "I'm not upset."
"You left without saying goodbye."
You blinked. The audacity. You actually laughed. "Are you joking? You've spent the last two years deliberately winding me up every chance you've had," you shook your head, disbelief bubbling beneath every word. "You flirt with me until I don't know whether I want to kiss you or throttle you..." your voice caught. "Then disappear after another girl and you’re saying I didn't say goodbye?."
The words slipped out before you could stop them. Silence. Your eyes widened.
Oh. God. You hadn't meant to say that part.
Oscar stared at you. Not smug. Not victorious. Just looking at you like you'd handed him the final piece of a puzzle he'd been trying to solve for years.
Heat rushed violently into your cheeks. "I..." you looked away immediately. "Forget I said anything," you turned sharply, already starting to walk again. "I just want to go home."
You'd barely made it three steps before his voice reached you once more. "This was about that girl?"
You stopped. Very slowly, you looked back over your shoulder. "What girl?"
Oscar couldn't quite hide the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. "Don’t act dumb, the one you just mentioned, the one you've been trying to set on fire with your eyes for the last twenty minutes."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"No?" He folded his arms. "I think your face might disagree."
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"You are unbelievable."
"You looked like you were mentally planning her funeral."
Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped. It disappeared almost immediately. You sighed, looking away again. "Just go back inside."
Oscar frowned. "Why?"
You swallowed. "She's probably wondering where you've gone."
"Who?"
You hated how quiet your voice became. "Your girl," Oscar blinked. "The one you were about to disappear into the bathroom with."
For a heartbeat he simply stared. Then, very slowly, a smile spread across his face. Not cocky. Not triumphant. Almost wonderstruck. "My girl?" he repeated softly.
Your eyes squeezed shut. "Oh God."
"So you were jealous."
"I wasn't jealous."
"You called her my girl."
You buried your face in your hands. "I know, alright?"
Oscar actually laughed. Not at you. Just with complete, unfiltered delight. Like this was the best thing he'd heard all week. "I don't even know her," he said, still smiling.
You frowned. "What?"
"I asked her where the toilets were."
You blinked. "What?"
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, another quiet laugh escaping him. "She'd only been in the bar about five minutes," he shook his head, almost in disbelief. "But you thought..." his smile softened. "You thought I was leaving with her."
You folded your arms tightly across your chest, trying desperately to gather what little dignity you still had. "I didn't think anything."
"You stormed out. And you've never voluntarily left before midnight."
"I've matured."
Oscar snorted. "Today?"
You glared at him. "You're still unbelievably annoying."
"There she is,” his smile was impossibly soft now. "I've missed her."
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. You looked anywhere but at him. The pavement. The cracked kerb. The sleeve of your jacket. Anywhere except those stupid brown eyes that always seemed to know exactly what you were thinking.
Oscar didn't fill the silence. Didn't tease you. Didn't chase another joke. He simply waited. Patiently. Like he already knew you weren't walking away again.
Your thoughts were a mess. Part of you still wanted to protect yourself. The other part, the louder part, needed to know. Needed him to say it. Needed all of this to mean something.
Oscar took another slow step towards you. Close enough now that you could see the tiny scar beside his eyebrow. Close enough to smell the familiar scent that had lingered in his T-shirt all week. "Do you not want to know why I was out here?" he asked quietly.
Your eyes lifted before you could stop them. "What?"
"I left," he shrugged one shoulder. "The second you did."
Your brow furrowed. "But…” you gestured helplessly back towards the bar. "The girl..."
"What about her?"
"You followed her."
Oscar laughed again. Warm. Disbelieving. "I followed her because she was showing me where the toilets were," he smiled. "I never actually made it to the toilets," your heart skipped. "I saw you leave," his smile faded into something quieter. "So I came after you."
No dramatic declaration. No grand gesture. Just the truth. Like there had never been another option.
You stared at him. "Why?"
Oscar blinked. "Seriously?"
"I'm asking."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then let out a slow breath. "I don't really know how else to say this anymore," another pause. "I've spent two years flirting with you."
You gave a quiet scoff. "You flirt with everyone."
"I do," he nodded easily. "I've only ever meant it with you."
Silence.
The sounds of the town disappeared completely. Your heartbeat seemed impossibly loud.
"Oscar..."
"No," he smiled faintly. "Let me finish."
For the first time since you'd known him, he looked nervous. Not because he doubted himself. Because he cared what your answer would be.
"I'm tired," he laughed quietly at himself. "I'm tired of pretending I'm joking," his eyes never left yours. "I ask where you are before I even say hello to anyone else. I steal chips off your plate because I know you'll tell me off. I sit next to you whenever I get the chance. I know your coffee order. I know Tuesdays are your least favourite day because your timetable's awful. I know you always say you don't want the last chip," a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "You always eat it anyway."
Despite yourself, you smiled.
"I gave you my room," his voice softened. "I paid Kimi fifty quid to sit outside my bedroom all night because I didn't want anyone bothering you. I nearly punched someone because they were talking about you."
He took another step closer. Only one. "But none of that seems to matter,” his voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Because every time I think I've made it obvious..." he gave a tiny shake of his head. "You look at me like you still think I'm joking."
You swallowed hard.
Oscar smiled sadly. "And you're studying psychology," a tiny laugh escaped him. "So," he looked at you with so much fondness it almost hurt. "Either I'm the worst flirt in human history or you're absolutely terrible at reading me."
A watery laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Oscar's entire face lit up. "There she is."
You looked down at your shoes. "I..." the words tangled somewhere behind your ribs. "I thought..." you took a shaky breath. "I thought you were just..." you laughed quietly at yourself. “Like that."
"Like what?"
"Confident. Cocky. The sort of guy who makes everyone feel special," your voice cracked slightly. "I never thought..." your eyes finally met his again. "That maybe you were only making me feel special."
Oscar didn't hesitate. "I was," the words landed with startling simplicity. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just certainty. "It was always you."
Your eyes burned. You laughed once, covering your face with your hand. "...God. I've been such an idiot."
"I wasn't going to say it."
"You were thinking it."
"I've been thinking it for about two years."
You groaned. "I've spent all this time convincing myself I hated you."
Oscar tilted his head. "Did it work?"
You looked at him properly. Really looked at him. The answer had been there all along. Slowly, you shook your head. "No."
Oscar smiled. Not the cocky grin you'd spent years pretending to hate. Not the teasing smile he'd thrown across crowded rooms. Just Oscar. "I didn't think so.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you had never felt so impossibly small. You could hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating from him.
One more step and your chest would brush his. One more step and… Neither of you seemed brave enough to take it.
Your eyes caught on his. For the first time in two years, there was nowhere left to hide. No jokes. No sarcasm. No pretending. Just the truth.
You let out a shaky breath. "You're still," you laughed quietly, shaking your head. "The most infuriating person I've ever met."
Oscar's smile widened. "I know."
"And I still want to throttle you most days."
"I'd be worried if you didn't."
You laughed again. It came easier now. "I really hate how right you were."
His eyebrows lifted. "About what?"
You looked at him for a long moment before giving in. "That I'd like you eventually."
Oscar's grin faltered. Not because he was disappointed. Because he suddenly realised you were serious.
You swallowed. "I don't think,” your voice softened. "I don't think I ever hated you."
Something flickered across his face. Disbelief. Relief. Hope. All at once.
"I just,” you laughed at yourself, eyes dropping briefly to the pavement. "I didn't know what else to call it."
Oscar didn't say anything. He simply looked at you. Like he'd waited two years to hear those words.
You looked back up at him. "You are so unbelievably annoying. But..." you stepped towards him. Just one step. "God, I like you."
The grin that broke across Oscar's face was unlike anything you'd ever seen. Bright. Unrestrained. Almost boyish. "Yeah?" he breathed. "No bullshit?"
You smiled. "No bullshit."
That was all it took.
You both moved at exactly the same time. You reached for the front of his denim jacket just as his hands found your waist. The last inch disappeared in a heartbeat.
Your mouths collided more than they met. Messy. Desperate. Two years of almosts crashing together all at once. You kissed him like you'd been trying not to for twenty-four months. He kissed you back with equal desperation, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other tightened instinctively around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
You could feel him smiling. Actually smiling. Into the kiss. The feeling made you laugh against his mouth before he kissed you again, softer this time, smiling so much neither of you seemed capable of kissing properly.
Your fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck. Soft. You'd known it would be.
Oscar let out the smallest, happiest sound you'd ever heard, his forehead dropping gently against yours as the two of you caught your breath. "I cannot believe," he laughed quietly, "That it took you two years."
You nudged his shoulder. "I hate you."
He raised an eyebrow. "No, you don't."
"No," you smiled. "I really don't."
He looked at you for another second. Like he still wasn't entirely convinced this was real. Then he leaned in again.
The second kiss was completely different. Slower. Gentler. No desperation. No proving anything. Just the quiet certainty of finally being exactly where you were supposed to be.
When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you had managed to let go of the other.
"So..." Oscar murmured. "Want to go back inside?"
You snorted. "They've probably started a search party for you."
Oscar held out his hand. "Come on."
You looked down at it. Then back up at him. Without another word, you slipped your fingers through his. They fit surprisingly easily. Like they'd been waiting to do that, too.
The music grew louder as you stepped back inside together.
It took approximately three seconds. George looked up from his drink. Saw your joined hands. Then looked across the table.
"About fucking time."
Lando didn't even look surprised. Instead, he held his hand out towards Max. Max sighed dramatically before fishing a twenty-pound note from his wallet and slapping it into Lando's palm.
"You two were betting on us?" you asked, horrified.
"No," Alex said far too quickly. A beat. "...Well."
Lily burst out laughing. "We were betting on which one of you would crack first."
You looked around the table in complete disbelief before you turned slowly towards Oscar. "You know, I still might change my mind."
Oscar leaned down just enough for only you to hear. "You won't because I know you."
Your eyes rolled instinctively. "You are impossible."
"I know."
You reached up anyway, fisting your hand in the front of his jacket before pulling him down into another kiss.
Around you, the entire table erupted. Someone wolf-whistled. George groaned theatrically. Lando covered his eyes. "Right," he announced to absolutely nobody. "They're unbearable."
You laughed into the kiss. And somewhere between the cheers, the teasing and Oscar smiling so hard his cheeks must have hurt, you realised something.
You hadn't just fallen for Oscar tonight. Or that night. You'd been falling for him all along.
Tonight was simply the first time you'd finally let yourself land.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you don't like the way he kisses you when he comes home.
you hear the front door open slowly, the click echoing through your apartment. michael steps inside, his footsteps lazy and heavy like he’s barely bothering to lift his feet.
he drops his kit bag right there in the hallway not even caring where it lands. the match had been long and you can see it.
he walks into the bedroom like he has all the time in the world, even though it’s past midnight. his eyes find you lying in bed wearing nothing but one of his oversized training shirts.
a small, tired smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“hey you,” he says as he leans down, cups your cheek with one hand and gives you a quick, light peck on the lips, then he straightens up again like that’s enough.
before he can turn away, you reach out and grab the front of his hoodie, pulling him back toward you.
“kiss me better,” you whisper, eyes locked on his.
“you’re serious?” he asks.
you nod. “very.”
he exhales softly, like you just asked him for more than he thought he had left but he doesn’t refuse.
one of his knee sinks into the mattress, then the other, until he’s hovering over you. his hand slides up your thigh under the shirt.
he lowers himself gradually, letting you feel his weight settle on you bit by bit.
this time when his mouth meets yours, it’s deeper. his lips part yours slowly, tongue sliding in like he’s savoring every second. he tastes like mint and that faint sweetness he always has after matches.
he pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips, forehead resting lightly on yours, then he kisses you again.
“you know i’m exhausted, right?” he whispers against your mouth between kisses, but there’s no complaint in his tone. “yet here you are making me put in extra work with that ‘kiss me better’ shit.” he murmurs, calm.
✦ genre: fluff, established relationship, domestic
✦ warnings: suggestive themes, soft smut (ish), no actual smut
✦ wc: ~2.4k+
a/n: must be one of the most cliches oscar fic but i can’t help but write about his freckles/moles too 🤧😭
Mapping out every single freckle and mole on Oscar's skin, completely unravelling him in the process.
You press another kiss lower, trailing down his ribs, your tongue tracing the edge of a dark mole near his waist. You feel his hips twitch slightly beneath you, a restless, involuntary movement.
"Keep doing that," he groans, his voice rough around the edges, his hands sliding up your back to pull you flush against him.
Your phone is still buzzing somewhere under a pile of clothes on the floor, but neither of you cares enough to check it. You are dead set on staying right here, draped across Oscar like a weighted blanket on a Sunday that refuses to end.
His chest rises and falls with a steady, grounding rhythm right underneath your cheek. He's talking on the phone with someone from the team, his voice a low, raspy morning murmur that vibrates straight through your ribs. One of his hands is pinned flat against your shoulder blade, his thumb absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your skin. The other hand is holding the phone to his ear, his fingers occasionally tapping against his own collarbone as he listens to whatever schedule updates or media brief they’re throwing his way.
You blink heavy eyes and shift slightly, propping your chin up on his chest just to look at him.
God, his face.
You’ve memorized every single inch of it by now, but you still find yourself getting lost. People talk about his eyes, or his jawline, or that quiet, deadpan wit he drops when nobody is expecting it. But you? You are entirely, hopelessly stuck on the sheer constellation of freckles and moles scattered across his skin.
They are everywhere. They dust the bridge of his nose like spilled cinnamon, cluster by the corner of his left eye, and dot his cheekbones in patterns you’ve tried to connect in your head a thousand times over. There’s a tiny, perfectly round mole right below his lip that catches your attention every single time he speaks. It’s wild how many he has. If you started counting them, you’d probably lose track before you even made it past his jaw.
It has honestly become one of your absolute favorite things about him. It feels like a private map of him that only you get to study this closely. You think it’s breathtaking. Every little brown speck, every shift in pigmentation against his pale skin—it’s just art, casually walking around in an oversized t-shirt and messy bedhead.
You remember hearing somewhere, in some silly late-night internet rabbit hole, that moles are places where a past lover kissed you the most in a previous life.
You stare at the dark little speck near his jaw, a soft, fond smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. If that old wives' tale is true, whoever loved him in a past life must have been completely, utterly obsessed with him. They must have adored him with a fierce, burning kind of devotion, lingering over every inch of his body because they simply couldn't get enough. And honestly? You completely understand. How could you not? He must have been an incredible soul even back then, wrapped up in a different time, drawing that kind of endless affection out of someone.
Oscar lets out a soft sigh into the receiver, mumbling a quick "Yeah, sounds good, cheers" before dropping his phone onto the mattress beside his hip. The call is over, and the sudden quiet in the room feels heavy and golden.
Before he can even register that you've moved, you shift up, pressing a feather-light kiss directly onto the freckle sitting high on his cheekbone.
Oscar stops talking. His breath hitches just a fraction, the lazy circles on your back freezing mid-motion.
You don't say anything. You just lean in again, pressing your lips to the tiny cluster of freckles beneath his right eye. Then another one on the bridge of his nose. You treat every single mark like it’s a tiny shrine, pressing soft, lingering kisses to each spot you can find. You trace a path along his jawline, peppering his skin with gentle, worshipful presses of your mouth.
He deserves this. He spends his entire life under a microscope, constantly scrutinized, dissected, analyzed, and praised or criticized by millions of people who don't actually know him. But here, away from the paddock noise and the flashing cameras, he deserves to be utterly, mindlessly adored. He deserves to be cherished down to the microscopic details of his skin.
You kiss the little mole right beside his mouth, and you feel him swallow hard beneath you.
"What are you doing?" he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, thick with sudden sleepiness and something else entirely—something warm and sharp that flickers to life behind his brown eyes.
"Nothing," you whisper against his skin, your breath ghosting over his throat. "Just saying hello."
You start tracing kisses down his neck, your lips finding the dark little moles tucked into the hollow of his throat and right above his collarbone. You can feel his pulse jumping hard and fast beneath your mouth, a sudden, frantic rhythm that contrasts sharply with how relaxed he was ten seconds ago.
His hand shifts from your back, his fingers tangling firmly into your hair, gripping just enough to keep you close as you linger over a dark spot near his shoulder. You can feel the sudden tension rippling through his frame, the easygoing boy completely evaporating into someone entirely hyper-aware of every single place your lips touch him.
You need a closer look.
With a soft hum, you push yourself up to your side, straddling his waist so you have full access. Oscar’s hands immediately find your hips, his palms warm and heavy against your waist, anchoring you in place. His gaze darkens, tracking your movement with a sudden intensity that makes your stomach flip.
"You're a menace," he whispers, though there’s no heat in it—only a breathless kind of awe as he looks up at you.
"Shut up," you tease quietly, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt and bunching the fabric up in your fists.
You pull it up, dragging the cotton over his head and tossing it carelessly to the side.
And there they are.
His chest and stomach are a whole new landscape. Constellations of light brown freckles and deeper, darker moles scatter across his collarbones, dot his chest, and trail in a faint, tantalizing line down the center of his stomach toward the waistband of his sweatpants. It’s practically unfair how good-looking he is, but right now, you aren't even thinking about the broad expanse of his shoulders or the lean muscle of his torso. You are fixated entirely on the spots.
You lean down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss right over the center of his chest, right where a small cluster of freckles sits above his heart.
Oscar lets out a low, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillows. His fingers tighten hard on your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin as a shiver rolls visibly through his shoulders. The casual, sleepy vibe from earlier is completely gone, replaced by a thick, heavy heat that fills the space between you.
You press another kiss lower, trailing down his ribs, your tongue tracing the edge of a dark mole near his waist. You feel his hips twitch slightly beneath you, a restless, involuntary movement.
"Keep doing that," he groans, his voice rough around the edges, his hands sliding up your back to pull you flush against him.
You smile against his skin, completely delighted by the way you can unravel him with something as simple as attention. You move back up, kissing every single spot you encounter on your way, turning his quiet, lazy morning upside down one freckle at a time.
You lean back in, your lips hovering just over his jaw before you zero in on your absolute favorite spot. It is that one single mole sitting right beneath the curve of his left jaw, slightly bigger and darker than all the rest, stubbornly holding its ground like a little punctuation mark on his face.
You press your mouth directly against it, letting out a soft sigh as you give it a little suction, just enough to make him gasp and arch his back off the mattress.
Oscar’s hands grip tighter at your waist, his fingers digging into your skin with a sudden, needy urgency. "Fuck," he breathes out, the word rough and breathless against your ear as his head lolls to the side to give you better access.
You pull back just an inch, grinning down at him with pure mischief in your eyes while you trace the edge of that same mole with the tip of your thumb.
"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a teasing, conspiratorial purr, "I heard somewhere that moles are actually just spots where a past lover kissed you the most in a previous life."
Oscar blinks up at you, his brown eyes hazy and dilated, entirely derailed by the sudden shift in topic. A slow, lopsided smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, though his chest is still heaving beneath you. "Is that so?" he rasps, his thumbs tracing lazy, frantic semicircles along your hips. "So I was popular in past lives, huh?"
"Apparently," you say, narrowing your eyes playfully at him. "Which honestly makes me ridiculously competitive."
He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrates right through you, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones. "Competitive over ghosts, are we?"
"Damn right," you tell him, entirely serious. "Whoever loved you back then clearly didn't finish the job, because I am officially making it my life mission to adore and kiss every single square inch of your body from now on. Starting right now."
Before he can come up with some smartass remark to tease you back, you dive back down.
Since every pre-existing spot on his chest and stomach has already been thoroughly claimed, you decide to blaze new trails. You start pressing soft, lingering kisses onto the completely empty patches of skin right beside them, mapping out your own territory in between his freckles. You trail your lips down his ribs, across his flat stomach, and back up again, intentionally inventing new constellations where his past lovers never even bothered to look.
Oscar is completely undone. Every time your lips brush against untouched skin, his hips hitch upward, seeking more friction, more of you, his hands tangling in your hair and pulling you flush against his chest.
"You're ridiculous," he groans softly against your hair, but his voice is entirely ruined, thick with want and a helpless kind of adoration as he finally flips you over, pinning you beneath him to steal your breath back.
Flipping you onto your back takes zero effort on his part, but you don't even try to fight him off. You just wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him right back down with a triumphant laugh as he hovers over you.
Oscar catches your wrists, pinning them loosely to the mattress on either side of your head while his eyes search yours, dark and heavy with a quiet kind of hunger. But you aren't done yet. You twist your hands free, sliding your palms right back up to cup his face, your thumbs tracing those same constellations of freckles that started this whole thing.
"You're gorgeous," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose. "Did you know that? Absolutely breathtaking."
A faint, pink flush creeps up the back of his neck, though he tries to mask it with a lopsided, self-deprecating smirk. "You're biased," he mutters, leaning his cheek further into your palm like a cat looking for attention.
"I am aggressively, unapologetically biased," you tell him, your voice softening as you trace a slow path down his jaw. "And I love you so much. God, Oscar, I love you."
The playful teasing completely melts out of his expression at that, replaced by something so raw and open it makes your chest ache. He dips his head, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to your lips before trailing his mouth down your jawline, making you gasp.
"I love you more," he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and steady all at once.
"Not possible," you breathe out, arching up just a fraction as he shifts his weight, pressing kisses along your collarbone. You thread your fingers back through his messy hair, tugging gently to keep him close as you continue your chant, pouring every ounce of adoration you have into the empty air between you. "I love every single inch of you. Your brain, your weird little habits, your stupid racing schedule, and especially every single freckle on your skin. All of you. Forever."
Oscar pauses, lifting his head to look down at you, his brown eyes shining with a fierce, quiet devotion that hits you harder than any podium finish ever could.
"Keep talking like that," he breathes, a slow, wicked smile breaking across his face as he settles back down over you, "and you're never getting out of this bed."
"Promise?" you tease back, pulling him down for another kiss.
You pull back from the kiss just enough to catch your breath, your eyes dropping down to his hands braced on either side of your head. Without a word, you reach up and grab his right hand, turning it over to inspect the terrain you haven't conquered yet. There are spots right on his knuckle and another one sitting pretty on his ring finger. You press a soft, lingering kiss to the knuckle, then slide down to kiss the one right by the corner of his thumbnail.
Oscar watches you the entire time, his chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven bursts. His gaze is heavy, dark, and practically burning holes through you, completely undone by the absolute reverence of it all.
"You're driving me insane here, baby," he groans, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
You flash him a wicked, triumphant grin against his skin, right before you press one last deliberate kiss directly onto the tiny mole on the corner of his thumb.
That completely breaks whatever fragile restraint he has left.
Before you can even blink, he pushes his thumb right between your lips, guiding you with a sudden, commanding urgency that makes you gasp. Your eyes flutter shut on instinct, your mouth parting for him as you instinctively start to suck on his thumb, tasting the faint trace of salt and skin against your tongue.
A low, guttural sound tears out of his throat, his hips pressing down heavily against yours as the friction sends a blinding jolt straight through your core.
"God, you look so good right now," he breathes out, his thumb moving deliberately inside your mouth, tracking every lazy swirl of your tongue while his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise. "Do it again."
hii babes you should do michael olise headcanons!!
HABITS
a michael olise headcanon ✦ masterlist
synopsis michael has little habits with you. he’s right where he wants to be.
warnings no nonchalant bullshit over here, black!fem!reader, micheal is sweetttt and nasty, smutttttttt
wordcount don’t ask me i still don’t know
a/n je voulais garder le headcanon fluff mais je suis partie en couilles vers la fin 😭 pardonnez. hope you’ll like it.
bf!michael likes to have something from you on him at all times. whether it be your scrunchie, a photo of you in the back of his phone case. something that reminds him of you.
speaking of phone, bf!michael has you as a wallpaper on both of his phones.
obviously they’re mostly pics of your back or ones where your face is hidden but that’s his way of letting people know he has someone in his life.
bf!michael has a habit of buying everything in twos. especially jewellery.
if he likes a necklace, you’ll end up with the matching one. if he buys a new bracelet, somehow, there’s another little box waiting for you at home.
bf!michael gives deep hugs. the kind of hugs that make you stop thinking. one arm around the small of your back. the other around your shoulders. your face tucked into his neck.
about that, bf!michael loveeeeeeeees to kiss the little space between your neck and your clavicle. It’s just sooo intimate to him.
bf!michael is the type of boyfriend who isn’t the loudest in showing his love for you to people. like posting lots of pics of you. he might do it sometimes. but he would be soooo proud of being yours.
his goofy ass liking tweets like :
you bitches can’t fuck with what i got at home. fck is u talkin ab.
best believe bf!michael sends you the same text 10 minutes before a match. He doesn’t care if you’re actually in the stadium or not.
akpo 💞
ik u didn’t forget my lucky charm
you
michael you start in 10 min
u can’t be this greedy
u saw me 5 minutes ago
akpo 💞
idc honestly
send me that pretty face of yours
ik u don’t want me to play badly tonight
so do ur magic
you
[attachment : sent]
[attachment : sent]
akpo 💞
ur soo pretty
thanks baby ily ❤️
bf!michael loves his alone time in the shower. but numerous are the times where he asks you to come in with him, whether it be to just sit on the bathroom counter and yap or actually take the shower with him.
he considers it intimate in a way others can’t understand.
he kinda hates when you shy away when changing. like turning around or asking him to go away. bf!michael does not fuck with this behavior at all.
“i saw you naked an hour ago. stop that.”
“michael just go..do something else, i don’t know.”
“why you’re shying away ? you’re so pretty. come here.”
now. let’s talk about something else.
I think bf!michael would be ass oriented. let me explain. he wouldn’t be loud about it but this part of your body would just get him flustered very easily.
jeans.
skirts.
shorts.
dresses.
even naked. it doesn’t matter. he’ll find a reason to stare.
he just loves the way clothes sit pretty on it. And he’s not too shy about it. he would make you do pretty poses for pics just for him.
that being said, after anything that shows your face bf!michael’s fav position would be backshots. but not the regular one. he hates regular. It’s boring.
he likes circling your waist with his arms and putting your back on his chest, pressing kisses on your shoulders and over your back. hands everywhere.
and you know he’s nasty. nasty nasty type of nasty.
bf!michael loveeeeees to fuck you while you’re wearing bayern’s colors. that shade of red just does it for him. the way it accentuates your skin color, just chef’s kiss.
“you look soo pretty like that. gorgeous girl.”
“why– fuck, michael.” of course you’re moaning. “because i’m wearing red ? you like it ?”
“you know what you’re doing to me.” he pants, his hands going to your hips, taking a second to look at the most precious sight in front of him. “come on. throw it back on me, baby.”
of course you and bf!michael talk each other through it. since y’all freaks or whatever.
✦ genre: fluff, established relationship, domestic
✦ warnings: suggestive themes, soft smut (ish), no actual smut
✦ wc: ~2.4k+
a/n: must be one of the most cliches oscar fic but i can’t help but write about his freckles/moles too 🤧😭
Mapping out every single freckle and mole on Oscar's skin, completely unravelling him in the process.
You press another kiss lower, trailing down his ribs, your tongue tracing the edge of a dark mole near his waist. You feel his hips twitch slightly beneath you, a restless, involuntary movement.
"Keep doing that," he groans, his voice rough around the edges, his hands sliding up your back to pull you flush against him.
Your phone is still buzzing somewhere under a pile of clothes on the floor, but neither of you cares enough to check it. You are dead set on staying right here, draped across Oscar like a weighted blanket on a Sunday that refuses to end.
His chest rises and falls with a steady, grounding rhythm right underneath your cheek. He's talking on the phone with someone from the team, his voice a low, raspy morning murmur that vibrates straight through your ribs. One of his hands is pinned flat against your shoulder blade, his thumb absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your skin. The other hand is holding the phone to his ear, his fingers occasionally tapping against his own collarbone as he listens to whatever schedule updates or media brief they’re throwing his way.
You blink heavy eyes and shift slightly, propping your chin up on his chest just to look at him.
God, his face.
You’ve memorized every single inch of it by now, but you still find yourself getting lost. People talk about his eyes, or his jawline, or that quiet, deadpan wit he drops when nobody is expecting it. But you? You are entirely, hopelessly stuck on the sheer constellation of freckles and moles scattered across his skin.
They are everywhere. They dust the bridge of his nose like spilled cinnamon, cluster by the corner of his left eye, and dot his cheekbones in patterns you’ve tried to connect in your head a thousand times over. There’s a tiny, perfectly round mole right below his lip that catches your attention every single time he speaks. It’s wild how many he has. If you started counting them, you’d probably lose track before you even made it past his jaw.
It has honestly become one of your absolute favorite things about him. It feels like a private map of him that only you get to study this closely. You think it’s breathtaking. Every little brown speck, every shift in pigmentation against his pale skin—it’s just art, casually walking around in an oversized t-shirt and messy bedhead.
You remember hearing somewhere, in some silly late-night internet rabbit hole, that moles are places where a past lover kissed you the most in a previous life.
You stare at the dark little speck near his jaw, a soft, fond smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. If that old wives' tale is true, whoever loved him in a past life must have been completely, utterly obsessed with him. They must have adored him with a fierce, burning kind of devotion, lingering over every inch of his body because they simply couldn't get enough. And honestly? You completely understand. How could you not? He must have been an incredible soul even back then, wrapped up in a different time, drawing that kind of endless affection out of someone.
Oscar lets out a soft sigh into the receiver, mumbling a quick "Yeah, sounds good, cheers" before dropping his phone onto the mattress beside his hip. The call is over, and the sudden quiet in the room feels heavy and golden.
Before he can even register that you've moved, you shift up, pressing a feather-light kiss directly onto the freckle sitting high on his cheekbone.
Oscar stops talking. His breath hitches just a fraction, the lazy circles on your back freezing mid-motion.
You don't say anything. You just lean in again, pressing your lips to the tiny cluster of freckles beneath his right eye. Then another one on the bridge of his nose. You treat every single mark like it’s a tiny shrine, pressing soft, lingering kisses to each spot you can find. You trace a path along his jawline, peppering his skin with gentle, worshipful presses of your mouth.
He deserves this. He spends his entire life under a microscope, constantly scrutinized, dissected, analyzed, and praised or criticized by millions of people who don't actually know him. But here, away from the paddock noise and the flashing cameras, he deserves to be utterly, mindlessly adored. He deserves to be cherished down to the microscopic details of his skin.
You kiss the little mole right beside his mouth, and you feel him swallow hard beneath you.
"What are you doing?" he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, thick with sudden sleepiness and something else entirely—something warm and sharp that flickers to life behind his brown eyes.
"Nothing," you whisper against his skin, your breath ghosting over his throat. "Just saying hello."
You start tracing kisses down his neck, your lips finding the dark little moles tucked into the hollow of his throat and right above his collarbone. You can feel his pulse jumping hard and fast beneath your mouth, a sudden, frantic rhythm that contrasts sharply with how relaxed he was ten seconds ago.
His hand shifts from your back, his fingers tangling firmly into your hair, gripping just enough to keep you close as you linger over a dark spot near his shoulder. You can feel the sudden tension rippling through his frame, the easygoing boy completely evaporating into someone entirely hyper-aware of every single place your lips touch him.
You need a closer look.
With a soft hum, you push yourself up to your side, straddling his waist so you have full access. Oscar’s hands immediately find your hips, his palms warm and heavy against your waist, anchoring you in place. His gaze darkens, tracking your movement with a sudden intensity that makes your stomach flip.
"You're a menace," he whispers, though there’s no heat in it—only a breathless kind of awe as he looks up at you.
"Shut up," you tease quietly, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt and bunching the fabric up in your fists.
You pull it up, dragging the cotton over his head and tossing it carelessly to the side.
And there they are.
His chest and stomach are a whole new landscape. Constellations of light brown freckles and deeper, darker moles scatter across his collarbones, dot his chest, and trail in a faint, tantalizing line down the center of his stomach toward the waistband of his sweatpants. It’s practically unfair how good-looking he is, but right now, you aren't even thinking about the broad expanse of his shoulders or the lean muscle of his torso. You are fixated entirely on the spots.
You lean down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss right over the center of his chest, right where a small cluster of freckles sits above his heart.
Oscar lets out a low, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillows. His fingers tighten hard on your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin as a shiver rolls visibly through his shoulders. The casual, sleepy vibe from earlier is completely gone, replaced by a thick, heavy heat that fills the space between you.
You press another kiss lower, trailing down his ribs, your tongue tracing the edge of a dark mole near his waist. You feel his hips twitch slightly beneath you, a restless, involuntary movement.
"Keep doing that," he groans, his voice rough around the edges, his hands sliding up your back to pull you flush against him.
You smile against his skin, completely delighted by the way you can unravel him with something as simple as attention. You move back up, kissing every single spot you encounter on your way, turning his quiet, lazy morning upside down one freckle at a time.
You lean back in, your lips hovering just over his jaw before you zero in on your absolute favorite spot. It is that one single mole sitting right beneath the curve of his left jaw, slightly bigger and darker than all the rest, stubbornly holding its ground like a little punctuation mark on his face.
You press your mouth directly against it, letting out a soft sigh as you give it a little suction, just enough to make him gasp and arch his back off the mattress.
Oscar’s hands grip tighter at your waist, his fingers digging into your skin with a sudden, needy urgency. "Fuck," he breathes out, the word rough and breathless against your ear as his head lolls to the side to give you better access.
You pull back just an inch, grinning down at him with pure mischief in your eyes while you trace the edge of that same mole with the tip of your thumb.
"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a teasing, conspiratorial purr, "I heard somewhere that moles are actually just spots where a past lover kissed you the most in a previous life."
Oscar blinks up at you, his brown eyes hazy and dilated, entirely derailed by the sudden shift in topic. A slow, lopsided smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, though his chest is still heaving beneath you. "Is that so?" he rasps, his thumbs tracing lazy, frantic semicircles along your hips. "So I was popular in past lives, huh?"
"Apparently," you say, narrowing your eyes playfully at him. "Which honestly makes me ridiculously competitive."
He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrates right through you, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones. "Competitive over ghosts, are we?"
"Damn right," you tell him, entirely serious. "Whoever loved you back then clearly didn't finish the job, because I am officially making it my life mission to adore and kiss every single square inch of your body from now on. Starting right now."
Before he can come up with some smartass remark to tease you back, you dive back down.
Since every pre-existing spot on his chest and stomach has already been thoroughly claimed, you decide to blaze new trails. You start pressing soft, lingering kisses onto the completely empty patches of skin right beside them, mapping out your own territory in between his freckles. You trail your lips down his ribs, across his flat stomach, and back up again, intentionally inventing new constellations where his past lovers never even bothered to look.
Oscar is completely undone. Every time your lips brush against untouched skin, his hips hitch upward, seeking more friction, more of you, his hands tangling in your hair and pulling you flush against his chest.
"You're ridiculous," he groans softly against your hair, but his voice is entirely ruined, thick with want and a helpless kind of adoration as he finally flips you over, pinning you beneath him to steal your breath back.
Flipping you onto your back takes zero effort on his part, but you don't even try to fight him off. You just wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him right back down with a triumphant laugh as he hovers over you.
Oscar catches your wrists, pinning them loosely to the mattress on either side of your head while his eyes search yours, dark and heavy with a quiet kind of hunger. But you aren't done yet. You twist your hands free, sliding your palms right back up to cup his face, your thumbs tracing those same constellations of freckles that started this whole thing.
"You're gorgeous," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose. "Did you know that? Absolutely breathtaking."
A faint, pink flush creeps up the back of his neck, though he tries to mask it with a lopsided, self-deprecating smirk. "You're biased," he mutters, leaning his cheek further into your palm like a cat looking for attention.
"I am aggressively, unapologetically biased," you tell him, your voice softening as you trace a slow path down his jaw. "And I love you so much. God, Oscar, I love you."
The playful teasing completely melts out of his expression at that, replaced by something so raw and open it makes your chest ache. He dips his head, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to your lips before trailing his mouth down your jawline, making you gasp.
"I love you more," he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and steady all at once.
"Not possible," you breathe out, arching up just a fraction as he shifts his weight, pressing kisses along your collarbone. You thread your fingers back through his messy hair, tugging gently to keep him close as you continue your chant, pouring every ounce of adoration you have into the empty air between you. "I love every single inch of you. Your brain, your weird little habits, your stupid racing schedule, and especially every single freckle on your skin. All of you. Forever."
Oscar pauses, lifting his head to look down at you, his brown eyes shining with a fierce, quiet devotion that hits you harder than any podium finish ever could.
"Keep talking like that," he breathes, a slow, wicked smile breaking across his face as he settles back down over you, "and you're never getting out of this bed."
"Promise?" you tease back, pulling him down for another kiss.
You pull back from the kiss just enough to catch your breath, your eyes dropping down to his hands braced on either side of your head. Without a word, you reach up and grab his right hand, turning it over to inspect the terrain you haven't conquered yet. There are spots right on his knuckle and another one sitting pretty on his ring finger. You press a soft, lingering kiss to the knuckle, then slide down to kiss the one right by the corner of his thumbnail.
Oscar watches you the entire time, his chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven bursts. His gaze is heavy, dark, and practically burning holes through you, completely undone by the absolute reverence of it all.
"You're driving me insane here, baby," he groans, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
You flash him a wicked, triumphant grin against his skin, right before you press one last deliberate kiss directly onto the tiny mole on the corner of his thumb.
That completely breaks whatever fragile restraint he has left.
Before you can even blink, he pushes his thumb right between your lips, guiding you with a sudden, commanding urgency that makes you gasp. Your eyes flutter shut on instinct, your mouth parting for him as you instinctively start to suck on his thumb, tasting the faint trace of salt and skin against your tongue.
A low, guttural sound tears out of his throat, his hips pressing down heavily against yours as the friction sends a blinding jolt straight through your core.
"God, you look so good right now," he breathes out, his thumb moving deliberately inside your mouth, tracking every lazy swirl of your tongue while his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise. "Do it again."
I’m only here for one thing: to get myself off. I make my blog for me, myself, and I. But if you happen to get turned on too, than thank me. If you want to talk to me, dirty talk is the way to my pussy. If your going to send a pic of your dick, at least include your balls to make it interesting for this ball obsessed whore. A little sweet talk is fine, but I’d rather you talk to me like I’m your property. Send me your fantasies, your harassment, and your filth. It really is the luck of the draw if I respond, I get overwhelmed, anxious and depressed sometimes so be nice or be blocked.
I will not send pics
If you want a pic, the best way you get it is by not asking. Wild concept but that is how a handful of men have become so lucky.
Loves ❤️ 😍
Anal
Bukkake
Balls
Cnc
Degradation
Facials
Freeuse
Gangbang
Humiliation
Piss play
Public
Misogyny and patriarchy(for funsies)
Hard Limits:
Puke
Shit
Blood
Major bodily harm
Real misogyny and patriarchy BS
Oh and lastly because for some reason this has to be said. No Pedophiles!!!
Hiii love ur ficss!!! Cld u pls do headcoach’s daughter! Reader x michael olise smut/ flufff thankss
Off Limits - Michael Olise
summary: Michael Olise has spent years pretending the head coach's daughter is just another familiar face around camp. The problem is... she's not a little girl anymore, and pretending gets a lot harder when the flirting finally starts getting dangerous.
warnings: head coach's daughter!reader, forbidden romance, explicit sexual content.
wc: 4.9k
main masterlist | football masterlist
The first time Michael Olise joined the French senior national team, you were nineteen.
Not a child, despite what everyone seemed to think.
Old enough to have finished your first year at university, old enough to know the offside rule better than half the journalists who asked questions in press conferences, old enough to spend your weekends editing highlight packages simply because you loved football far more than anyone expected the head coach's daughter to.
But when you walked through Clairefontaine carrying another box of training schedules your father had forgotten in the meeting room, nobody saw any of that.
They saw coach's daughter.
The title seemed to arrive before your name ever did.
Staff smiled politely.
Players greeted you respectfully.
Media officers pinched your cheek during your first few visits until you eventually started glaring at them hard enough that they stopped.
It wasn't malicious.
It was simply...
Habit.
You'd grown up around football dressing rooms.
Around tactical boards covered in magnets.
Around boots drying outside hotel rooms during tournaments.
Around players who had watched you grow from the little girl colouring on the physio room floor into someone who suddenly stood eye-to-eye with most of them.
For them...
The transition had happened too quickly to notice.
To you...
It had taken years.
Michael had been different.
Not because he paid special attention to you.
Actually...
Because he barely paid any attention at all.
He was polite.
Always.
A quiet "morning."
A nod whenever your paths crossed.
The occasional "thank you" whenever you handed him something your father had forgotten to distribute before training.
He wasn't cold.
Just...
Reserved.
You remembered watching him during his first camp, sitting in one corner of the dining hall while everyone else talked over each other. He listened far more than he spoke, smiling occasionally whenever someone dragged him into the conversation before retreating back into comfortable silence.
You'd found it strangely comforting.
There was something almost peaceful about him.
Even surrounded by some of the biggest personalities in French football, he never seemed interested in competing for attention.
Your father liked that.
"He listens," he'd said one evening while reviewing tactical footage.
"That's rarer than people think."
You'd pretended not to care.
"...Seems quiet."
"He is."
"Too quiet."
Your father had laughed.
"Not everyone has to be the loudest person in the room."
After that first camp, life carried on.
University.
Assignments.
Internships.
Your own ambitions.
Whenever France played during international breaks, though, you inevitably found yourself back at Clairefontaine or travelling with the federation for major tournaments whenever your schedule allowed.
Football had always been home.
It wasn't something you had to force.
You simply belonged there.
The first thing you noticed over the next two years wasn't that Michael talked more.
It was that he started smiling more.
Not for cameras.
Never for cameras.
But around the team.
Theo had a way of dragging reactions out of everyone.
Ousmane could make an entire table laugh with one sentence.
Little by little...
Michael stopped sitting quite so far away from everyone else.
He still wasn't loud.
He never would be.
But the walls around him seemed lower now.
One afternoon, after training had finished, you were helping one of the analysts organise equipment when you heard footsteps behind you.
"You missed one."
You turned.
Michael stood there holding a single GPS vest.
You looked down.
Sure enough...
One player tracker had somehow escaped the pile.
"Oh."
You laughed softly.
"I would've been looking for that for twenty minutes."
He handed it over.
"There you go."
"Thanks."
"No problem."
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then...
"You still studying?"
The question surprised you enough that you blinked.
"...Yeah."
He nodded.
"What?"
"I just..."
You smiled.
"I didn't know you knew that."
"I hear your dad talking."
You groaned dramatically.
"Oh God."
"He talks about you a lot."
Your face warmed immediately.
"I hope only good things."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"He says you argue with him."
"I debate."
"You definitely argue."
"I learned from him."
That earned you a quiet laugh.
The sound caught you completely off guard.
It was warmer than you expected.
Less restrained.
For the first time, it felt like you weren't talking to one of the France players.
You were just talking to Michael.
Someone called his name from across the training ground.
He glanced over his shoulder.
"I should go."
"Yeah."
He started walking away before stopping after only a couple of steps.
"You'll win those debates eventually."
You folded your arms.
"I already do."
He looked back.
One eyebrow lifting.
"...Sure."
Then he walked away.
You watched him disappear toward the dressing room before shaking your head to yourself.
For someone who barely spoke...
He was surprisingly good at getting the last word.
The following season arrived almost without you noticing.
Life had a habit of measuring itself in international breaks now. Every few months, Clairefontaine filled with familiar faces before emptying again, players scattering back across Europe until the next call-up brought them together once more.
Some things never changed.
Your father still spent the evening before every camp insisting he wasn't stressed while simultaneously rewriting tactical notes for the fourth time.
And Michael...
Michael was still Michael.
Quiet.
Observant.
But no longer invisible.
The longer he stayed with the national team, the more comfortable he became within it. He laughed more freely now, joined conversations instead of simply listening to them, occasionally threw sarcastic remarks across the dining table that caught everyone off guard precisely because they came from him.
You found yourself looking for those moments.
Not intentionally.
At least...
That's what you kept telling yourself.
"You know he's looking over here."
Your head snapped towards your best friend, Élodie, who had been helping the communications team for the last year.
"What?"
She didn't even bother looking up from the laptop balanced on her knees.
"The number eleven."
You frowned.
"He isn't."
"He is."
"I think you're hallucinating."
"I've worked in media for four years." She finally looked at you. "Reading where people are looking is literally part of my job."
You laughed.
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're avoiding looking because you're scared I'm right."
"I'm avoiding looking because you're wrong."
"...Then look."
You sighed dramatically before glancing towards the opposite side of the training pitch.
Michael happened to be standing beside Jules while one of the coaches explained the afternoon's session.
Almost as though he felt your eyes...
He looked up.
For barely a second.
Then looked away again.
Your stomach performed the most irritating little flip.
"...Coincidence."
"Mhm."
"Élodie."
"Mhm."
"It was."
She smiled far too knowingly.
"If you say so."
You spent the rest of the afternoon trying very hard not to think about it.
It didn't work.
By the following camp, your internship had officially become a full-time role within the federation's communications department.
You were no longer simply tagging along because your father happened to be the head coach.
You had meetings.
Responsibilities.
Deadlines.
Your own accreditation.
People asked you questions now.
The change felt subtle to everyone else.
To you...
It felt enormous.
One morning, while reviewing social media schedules with the content team, one of the photographers poked his head through the office door.
"We need someone for media day."
Your colleague looked up.
"I can't."
"I'm editing."
Another shook her head.
"Press conference."
The photographer's eyes landed on you.
"You free?"
You nodded.
"For what?"
"Behind-the-scenes content."
"Easy enough."
He smiled.
"Perfect."
Media day was always controlled chaos.
Lights.
Cameras.
Branding.
Players moving between interview stations with military precision while someone shouted names every thirty seconds.
You had done it dozens of times.
Still...
It was impossible not to laugh.
Theo had somehow convinced half the squad to recreate a goal celebration.
Someone kept stealing the match balls.
One of the younger players walked into the wrong backdrop three separate times.
Complete madness.
You were crouched near one of the camera rigs, reviewing footage on a monitor, when a familiar voice spoke behind you.
"You've been promoted."
You looked over your shoulder.
Michael.
Dressed in the training kit, sleeves pushed casually to his forearms, waiting for his next interview slot.
"I have."
He nodded towards the headset resting around your neck.
"You look important."
"I've always been important."
"I'll have to ask your dad."
You gasped dramatically.
"That's cheating."
"It feels reliable."
"I can't believe you'd undermine my authority like that."
"What authority?"
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then...
The corner of his mouth twitched.
You burst into laughter first.
"You've gotten funnier."
He tilted his head.
"I've always been funny."
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"What changed?"
"You actually speak now."
That made him laugh.
A proper laugh.
One that reached his eyes.
"I suppose that's true."
A production assistant appeared beside him.
"Michael, you're next."
He nodded before looking back at you.
"I'll see you later."
"You say that like it's guaranteed."
"It usually is."
You watched him disappear toward the interview set.
The words echoed in your head longer than they probably should have.
I'll see you later.
As though somewhere along the way, seeing each other had quietly become part of both your routines.
The teasing became almost effortless after that.
Small things.
The kind nobody else noticed.
He'd deliberately steal the chair you'd been about to sit in during team dinners, only to stand again with an innocent smile the second you glared at him.
You'd "accidentally" hide the protein bars he always grabbed after training.
He'd complain dramatically.
You'd refuse to tell him where they'd gone.
Five minutes later, he'd discover them sitting neatly inside his own backpack.
"You did this."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"You smiled."
"I smile all the time."
"Not like that."
"Oh?"
"That was a guilty smile."
"I think you're imagining things."
"I think you're a terrible liar."
"You've got no evidence."
He reached into the bag, holding up the protein bar.
"I literally do."
You couldn't stop laughing.
Across the dining room, Theo glanced between the two of you before nudging Ousmane.
"Have I missed something?"
Ousmane followed his gaze.
"...Yeah."
"The quiet one's flirting."
Theo looked genuinely impressed.
"I didn't even know he knew how."
Neither of them noticed Michael's ears turning faintly pink.
You did.
And somehow...
That only made smiling even harder.
By the time the Nations League arrived, the line between coincidence and habit had become impossible to distinguish.
Nobody could have pointed to the exact moment it happened.
Nobody could have said, this was when Michael started looking for you the second he walked into a room.
Or when you started unconsciously checking the team hotel lobby every morning before heading to breakfast, expecting to find him somewhere with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
It simply...
Happened.
Like most important things did.
Quietly.
Without asking permission.
The hotel overlooked the sea, the kind of place reserved for international tournaments where everything felt polished enough to belong in a magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the lobby, letting the morning sun spill over marble floors while staff hurried between guests balancing trays of coffee and fresh pastries.
You'd always loved tournament hotels.
There was something comforting about them.
The routine.
Breakfast at eight.
Training at ten.
Meetings.
Recovery.
Media.
Dinner.
Repeat.
For the players, it could become monotonous.
For you...
It felt strangely nostalgic.
Like returning to a place you'd somehow missed before you'd even left it.
You stepped out of the lift balancing your laptop, notebook and phone, mentally running through the media schedule you'd spent most of the previous night finalising.
Three interviews.
One sponsor appearance.
Training content.
Post-session photography.
Nothing unusual.
You barely made it three steps before someone spoke behind you.
"You know..."
You turned.
Michael.
Fresh from breakfast by the look of the coffee cup in his hand.
"...you're carrying enough things that dropping at least one of them is statistically inevitable."
You looked down at the mountain of belongings balanced against your chest.
"I've got this."
"You definitely don't."
"I absolutely do."
The words had barely left your mouth before your notebook slipped.
Then your phone.
"...Oh."
Michael caught the notebook before it hit the floor.
You managed the phone.
He looked at you.
One eyebrow raised.
You sighed dramatically.
"I hate when you're right."
"I know."
"You didn't have to enjoy it so much."
"I did, actually."
You reached for the notebook.
"Thank you."
"Our first victory of the day."
"It wasn't a competition."
"It became one."
"You made it one."
"I usually do."
You laughed, shaking your head before continuing towards the conference rooms.
Halfway there...
You realised he was still walking beside you.
"Weren't you going somewhere?"
"I am."
"Which is?"
He nodded ahead.
"The same place."
Of course it was.
Later that afternoon, the communications team gathered beside one of the training pitches while photographers prepared content for the federation's social media channels.
The atmosphere was lighter than usual.
Training had gone well.
Music drifted from portable speakers someone had smuggled outside.
Theo had already started kicking footballs towards anyone unfortunate enough to make eye contact.
The photographers loved days like this.
Natural smiles always performed better than staged ones.
You were reviewing a shot list when someone called your name.
One of the younger content creators hurried over.
"Quick question."
You looked up.
"What's up?"
"We're filming one of those reaction videos."
"Oh no."
He laughed.
"Exactly."
"We need someone to ask the players random questions."
"...Why me?"
"Because they like you."
You blinked.
"They tolerate me."
"They definitely like you."
"I'm not convinced."
Before you could protest any further...
A camera was already pointed in your direction.
Too late now.
The first few players answered exactly as expected.
Theo turned every question into a joke.
Jules somehow spent two minutes talking without answering anything.
Ousmane laughed so much halfway through that filming had to stop.
Then...
Michael walked over.
He glanced between you and the camera.
"What am I doing?"
The cameraman smiled.
"Just answer honestly."
Michael nodded.
"That's dangerous."
"It usually is."
You smiled despite yourself.
The cameraman read from his notes.
"Who's the most organised person in the squad?"
Michael answered immediately.
"Probably Adrien."
"Messiest?"
"Theo."
Theo protested loudly from somewhere behind the cameras.
"Lies!"
Nobody listened.
The next question came.
"Who's always late?"
"Ousmane."
"I heard that!"
Again...
Ignored.
Then the cameraman smiled.
"Last one."
He looked down at the card.
"Who's the most likely to survive being stranded on a deserted island?"
Michael didn't answer straight away.
Instead...
His eyes drifted towards you.
"You."
The cameraman frowned.
"She's not in the squad."
"I know."
"You have to pick a player."
"I'd still pick her."
You laughed.
"I appreciate the confidence."
He shrugged.
"You'd have a plan."
"I would."
"You always do."
The cameraman looked between the two of you before slowly lowering the cards.
"...Interesting answer."
Only then did Michael seem to realise what he'd said.
A faint flush crept across his face.
"...Next question?"
"There aren't any."
"Oh."
The silence lasted barely two seconds before everyone moved on.
But you noticed.
And judging by the grin spreading across Theo's face...
So had somebody else.
Dinner that evening stretched longer than usual.
Tournament meals always did.
Nobody seemed particularly eager to return to their rooms.
Players drifted between tables long after they'd finished eating, conversations flowing easily beneath the soft buzz of the restaurant.
You'd just stood to refill your water when someone gently bumped your shoulder.
"You free tomorrow morning?"
You turned.
Michael.
"Depends."
"On?"
"My schedule."
"I was thinking..."
He hesitated for only a moment.
"...there's a coffee place about ten minutes from the hotel."
You looked at him carefully.
"Before training?"
He nodded.
"If you've got time."
There it was.
Not hidden behind jokes.
Not disguised as coincidence.
An invitation.
Simple.
Quiet.
But unmistakably intentional.
For reasons you couldn't quite explain...
Your heart started beating just a little faster.
"I finish with media planning at eight-thirty."
He smiled.
"I'll meet you in the lobby at eight-thirty-five."
"You sound very confident."
"I've learned something over the last few years."
"Oh?"
"You always say yes to coffee."
You laughed.
"...You might be right."
"I know."
As he walked back toward his teammates, you watched him go for a second longer than you probably should have.
Because somewhere between playful arguments, shared routines and conversations that now came as naturally as breathing...
Something had shifted.
This wasn't simply friendship anymore.
Neither of you had said it aloud.
Neither of you would have known how.
But every glance lasted a fraction too long.
Every smile arrived a little too easily.
Every goodbye quietly carried the expectation of seeing each other again.
The tension wasn't loud.
It wasn't dramatic.
It lived in the spaces between words.
In lingering eye contact.
In hands brushing when neither of you made any effort to move away first.
And perhaps the most dangerous part of all...
Neither of you seemed interested in stopping it.
The hotel rooftop had become something of an unofficial sanctuary during international breaks.
Most people never bothered climbing the final flight of stairs after the restaurant closed. The players usually disappeared to recovery sessions or their rooms, staff buried themselves in tomorrow's schedules, and the constant noise that followed the national team everywhere finally settled into silence.
You found yourself there almost by accident.
At least...
That was what you told yourself.
The evening air carried just enough warmth to soften the breeze rolling in from the coastline below. Somewhere beyond the hotel grounds, waves broke rhythmically against the shore, their sound just loud enough to drown out the distant traffic without ever demanding attention.
You rested your forearms against the glass railing.
The city glittered beneath you.
Streetlights stretched towards the horizon like tiny constellations, restaurants still alive with conversation long after sunset, music drifting faintly from somewhere several streets away.
It was peaceful.
Exactly what you needed after another endless day of interviews, meetings and media obligations.
"You always disappear."
His voice came quietly behind you.
You smiled before turning around.
"I could say the same thing."
Michael stepped out onto the rooftop, letting the heavy door fall shut behind him.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
Silence had never been uncomfortable between the two of you.
"I was looking for you," he admitted.
"You found me."
"I usually do."
You laughed softly.
"You're starting to sound very confident."
"I've been told confidence suits me."
"Oh?"
"By someone who used to think I never talked."
"I was right."
"You were."
"And now?"
He looked at you for a long moment.
"Now I talk."
"A lot more."
"Mostly to you."
The words settled gently between you.
Simple.
Matter-of-fact.
But they carried enough weight that your heartbeat stumbled all the same.
You looked away first.
Towards the city.
"I still remember the first conversation we had."
"The corridor?"
"You got lost."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I was... taking an alternative route."
He laughed.
"I remember you trying to convince security you knew where the garage was."
"I did know."
"Eventually."
"You've become very annoying."
"I've always been annoying."
"No."
You smiled.
"You've become comfortable enough to admit it."
His eyes never really left your face.
"I suppose I have."
The breeze lifted a loose strand of your hair across your cheek.
Without thinking...
He reached up.
His fingers brushed it gently behind your ear.
The gesture was so natural that neither of you reacted immediately.
Only afterwards did the silence change.
It deepened.
Your breath caught somewhere in your throat.
His hand lingered for the briefest second before dropping again.
Neither of you stepped back.
You became acutely aware of how little space existed between you.
Close enough to notice the tiny crease that appeared beside his eyes whenever he smiled.
Close enough to see the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
Close enough that if either of you moved even slightly...
Everything would change.
"You've changed."
The words escaped quietly.
He smiled.
"So have you."
"I know."
"I don't think you do."
You frowned slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"When I first met you..."
He looked down for a second before meeting your eyes again.
"You were always apologising."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I..."
You stopped.
Because he wasn't wrong.
"You'd apologise before asking a question."
He smiled faintly.
"You'd apologise if someone bumped into you."
"I was nineteen."
"I know."
"And now?"
His expression softened.
"Now you walk into rooms like you belong there."
You laughed quietly.
"I spent years trying to."
"It worked."
The compliment settled somewhere far deeper than you expected.
"Thank you."
"You don't need my approval."
"I know."
"But it's nice to hear."
"It is."
Another silence.
This one heavier than the last.
Your eyes found each other's almost instinctively.
Neither of you seemed capable of looking away.
Your conversation slowed until it disappeared altogether.
Neither of you noticed.
There simply...
Stopped being anything worth saying.
His gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, towards your mouth before returning to your eyes.
You noticed.
Judging by the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly...
He realised you'd noticed.
"I probably shouldn't have done that."
His voice was quieter now.
You blinked.
"What?"
"The hair."
"Oh."
Your lips curved into the smallest smile.
"I didn't mind."
"No?"
You shook your head once.
"Not even a little."
Something shifted across his face.
For the first time since you'd known him, his usual composure seemed to falter.
He took a slow breath.
"You make this very difficult."
"What?"
"Remembering we're supposed to behave."
A nervous laugh escaped you.
"Were we ever particularly good at that?"
He smiled.
"...Not really."
The distance between you disappeared so gradually neither of you could have said who moved first.
One tiny step.
Then another.
Until your shoulders were almost touching.
His eyes searched yours once, quietly asking the question neither of you seemed capable of putting into words.
You answered by closing the last few inches yourself.
The kiss was brief.
Gentle.
Almost hesitant.
Like neither of you quite believed you were finally crossing a line that had existed for months.
When you pulled back, you stayed close enough that your foreheads almost touched.
For a long second, neither of you moved.
Neither of you spoke.
You could still feel the warmth of his hand where it had brushed your face.
"I probably shouldn't have done that," he murmured again, though there wasn't much conviction behind the words.
You searched his expression.
"Are you sorry?"
His eyes met yours immediately.
There was no hesitation this time.
"No."
The single word came out almost as a breath.
Honest.
Certain.
The air on the rooftop suddenly felt too thin, too electric. That first kiss had been a tentative question, but the answer the way your body hummed in response and the way Michael’s breath hitched was a definitive yes.
The reserve he had carried for years, that quiet, observant shell, didn't just crack; it shattered. As he pulled back just an inch, his eyes weren't shy anymore. They were dark, hooded with a hunger that had been simmering under the surface of every "morning" and every stolen glance for two years.
"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against your lips, "how many times I’ve imagined this while you were standing across the pitch."
He didn't wait for a response. He claimed your mouth again, but this time there was nothing hesitant about it. It was a collision. His tongue swept inside, demanding and possessive, tasting of the coffee he’d had earlier and a raw, desperate need. His hands, usually so careful, slid down your back with a sudden, gripping intensity, hauling you flush against him. You could feel the hard, heavy ridge of his erection pressing through his training kit, a blunt reminder that the "quiet" Michael Olise was gone.
He backed you away from the railing, his movements urgent, until you hit the plush, oversized outdoor sofa cushions tucked into a private, recessed alcove of the rooftop. The high walls shielded you from the view of the city, creating a sanctuary of shadows and moonlight.
He pushed you back onto the cushions, his body following yours, pinning you down. The weight of him was intoxicating.
"Michael," you gasped, your head hitting the fabric as he tore his lips from yours to attack your neck. He sucked a bruising mark into the sensitive skin just below your jaw, his teeth grazing you.
"Shh," he groaned, his hand sliding under the hem of your shirt. "Just breathe for me."
His palm was hot against your skin, sliding up your ribs until his thumb brushed the underside of your breast. You arched your back, a soft moan escaping you that seemed to snap something inside him. He gripped your hip, his fingers digging in, and in one fluid motion, he reached down and hooked his fingers into the lace of your panties.
He didn't take them off immediately. Instead, he slid two fingers under the fabric, finding you already drenched. As he slid a finger inside you, you let out a loud, guttural cry, your hips bucking instinctively.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low, dirty rasp in your ear. "So wet for me. Does your dad know his little girl is this desperate for one of his players?"
The mention of your father sent a jolt of taboo electricity straight to your core. You gripped his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. "Shut up... just... please."
"Please what, sweetheart? Tell me exactly what you want," he commanded, his fingers starting to move in a rhythmic, punishing pace. He found the spot, clicking against your G-spot with a precision that had you sobbing his name. "Say it. I want to hear it."
"I want you... Michael, please, I want you inside me!"
He chuckled, a dark, predatory sound. He stripped out of his clothes with a frantic energy, his lean, athletic build glistening under the moonlight. When he pushed your clothes away, he paused for a second, his gaze roaming over you with a possessive hunger.
"You're fucking perfect," he praised, his voice thick. "So beautiful. I've wanted to ruin you since the day I saw you in that corridor."
He didn't ease in. He gripped your thighs, hoisting your legs up over his shoulders, exposing you completely to the cool night air and his burning gaze. He lined himself up and drove home in one powerful, deep thrust.
"Ah! Olise!" you screamed, the sound echoing off the rooftop walls.
He groaned, his face contorting in pleasure as he buried himself to the hilt. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him, his forehead pressed against yours.
"God, you're so tight," he hissed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I'm going to wreck you. I'm going to make sure you can't even think about football tomorrow."
Then, he began to move. He wasn't gentle. He matched the intensity of a championship match, each thrust deep and violent, slamming your back into the cushions. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the private alcove. He was a different man, the reserved, quiet boy was gone, replaced by a man who knew exactly how to manipulate your body to the point of madness.
He shifted his weight, flipping you over mid-stroke. He pushed you onto your hands and knees, gripping your waist with bruising strength to hold you steady. From behind, the angle was even deeper. He entered you again with a guttural growl, his chest heaving against your back.
"Tell me you're mine," he whispered, his voice raw, biting into your shoulder. "Tell me who's taking you right here on the roof."
"You... it's you... Michael!" you wailed, your voice breaking as he hit your cervix over and over.
"That's right. I've got you," he praised, his voice dripping with a dark, dominant satisfaction. "Such a good girl for me. Just take it. Take every inch of it."
He reached around, his hand finding your clit, rubbing it ruthlessly while he hammered into you from behind. The double stimulation was too much. You felt the orgasm building, a tidal wave of heat that crashed over you. You screamed his name, your internal muscles clamping down on him in tight, rhythmic waves.
The feeling of you squeezing him was the final straw. Michael let out a low, animalistic sound, his grip on your hips tightening until he left marks. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as possible, and let out a long, shaking breath as he came, filling you with a warmth that felt like it was searing you from the inside out.
He collapsed onto you, his heart hammering against your spine, both of you shivering in the sudden cooling breeze.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the distant ocean and your synchronized, heavy breathing.
Finally, Michael shifted, kissing the back of your neck softly, the shy, sweet version of him returning, though the smirk in his voice remained.
"So," he whispered. "I think we're definitely going to win that debate tonight."
this is so random but you should write a olise fic on him proposing to his gf who is well known actress and paparazzi catch him out and he starts cheesing and smiling when they call him her husband and couldnt stop until he drove off
Captured
Michael Olise x Reader
Michael Olise Masterlist
·༻𐫱༺·
·༻𐫱༺·
Michael had been trying to keep the engagement a secret. Or at least… that was the plan anyways.
You had spent the entire morning watching him act suspiciously strange. You noticed he kept checking his phone more often and taking an unnecessarily long time choosing what to wear and for some reason he had been even quieter than usual. You knew that was his personality though, everyone deemed him as the reserved shy guy, but with you he was always chill and comfortable, apart from tonight, you could sense that something was off, perhaps he was… nervous?
You eventually looked over at him. “You’re acting weird.”
Michael glanced up from his phone. “Hm?”
“You’re acting weird.” You repeated.
“I’m not.”
You stared at him. “You are.”
He started back. “I’m not.” He blinked slowly. “I’m normal.”
You laughed. “You’re never normal.”
He smiled slightly but said nothing, and that was the problem. Michael was terrible at hiding things from you but somehow this time he finally managed it… managed to able to keep it for months, 3 months to be exact.
The ring had been hidden somewhere in your shared home although you had no idea where. Michael had moved it around more times than he could count, terrified that you would somehow find it. It was actually in a place you would never suspect it, in his toiletries pouch, there were times he even mistakenly brought it to training, and even one time he showed it to Jamal.
“Oh bro she’s gonna love it.” Jamal said.
“You think so.”
Jamal gives Michael a pat on the back. “I know so.” He smiled.
He’d thought about proposing to you at least a hundred different times making a new scenario each time. Deciding whether to do it at home, on holiday, coming back form a match? But none of those settings seemed to fit perfectly in his mind.
Tonight was supposed to be simple, just a private dinner by the beach. Private meaning no cameras, red carpeted, interveners being present in the moment. Just the two of you and that is exactly how he wanted it.
·༻𐫱༺·
The proposal itself was perfect. He didn’t go all the way out of his way to make it look completely extravagant or staged, he just wanted to be normal al and calm, just Michael. And God knows the amount of times he pictured this scenario in his head or the way he would always practice to himself and keep thinking about the reaction you’ll have, each reaction being different from the previous scenario he’d make in his head.
The two of you were standing just above the shoreline where the waves would come softly crashing in, the scent of salt and the feel of the cold gentle breeze grazing against your skin and waving through your hair.
He held your hand into yours, a little tighter but not too tight as his thumbs gently caressed your soft skin. You looked at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Michael.”
He smiled and then he reached into his pocket.
You froze. Is that what you think it is?
“Michael…” Your hands immediately flew to your mouth. “Oh my gosh.” You whispered to yourself in disbelief, tears almost threatening to spill and he handing even asked the question yet.
He got down on one knee. You’ve seen Michael being nervous from time to time like for example at big matches, or even your first date, but the state he was in right now you hadn’t seen him this nervous before.
He looked up at you. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” Your eyes immediately filled with tears. “And I know it may seem like I don’t say it enough…” He paused and smiled softly. “But I don’t want to do this life with anyone else.”
You were already crying and Michael’s smile widened. “Will you marry me?”
You said yes before he could even finish properly. He immediately stood up and pulled you into his arms as you cried into his shoulder. Then he slipped the ring onto your finger and you kissed him.
And for tonight this whole evening belong to both of you, just the two of you.
·༻𐫱༺·
The next morning it seemed like Michael was caught. Neither of you had announced anything on social media, you didn’t even post your ring and nobody apart from close friends and family knew, but as soon as you and Michael left the restaurant with his hand on yours, the same hand that your ring was on, people instantly clicked.
All of a sudden Michael Olise had apparently forgotten how to act normal and just as you two were leaving the restaurant , interviewers and cameramen were crowded outside capturing the moment.
“Michael!”
He looked over.
“Congratulations!”
“Y/N! How do you feel?!”
Michael stopped, his hand still holding yours and his eyes widened slightly.
“Are you both engaged?”
He smiled as he looked at you. His smile was tiny at first because he couldn’t help but stare at you.
Then another photographer shouted:
“How does it feel to be the future husband of one of Hollywood’s biggest actresses?”
Michael immediately lost all control of his face, he literally grinned. It was a huge unmistakable grin, a grin that could only be created by being in the presence of someone he loved: you. The kind of smile that made it very obvious that they had absolutely hit the nail on the head.
“Michael! Are you getting married?”
He just kept smiling.
“Y/N is he your fiancé?”
“Future husband!”
Michael looked down trying to hide his face bit it didn’t work because he was still smiling and so were you, neither of you letting go of each others hands.
“Michael are you going to confirm the engagement?”
He opened your car door as you comfortably slid in the passengers seat as he made his way to the drivers seat, still smiling to himself and you.
“Congratulations!”
Michael paused before getting inside. He looked back at them and smiled again.
The paparazzi erupted. “He’s not denying it!”
“He is smiling!”
He finally got into the car and shut the door and even through the window the paparazzi could still see him smiling, he shook his head and then started the engine and drove off and he didn’t stop grinning until he was completely out of sight.
·༻𐫱༺·
By the time you and Michael made it back to the hotel the entire internet already knew. Or well… they didn’t officially know because neither you or Michael had made any sort of public announcement but Michael had apparently forgotten one very important thing… How to be nonchalant.
You were sitting beside him in the passengers seat scrolling through your phone as the pictures from earlier continued to appear online, crazy how it only happened about 20 minutes ago and images were already published, these photographers were like the flash. Michael was paying attention to the road completely silent, suspiciously silent
You glanced over at him. “Mikey.”
“Hm?”
“You’re trending.”
He didn’t even turn around. “Why?”
“Umm hello? Did you not click on to what happened 20 mins ago?” You held your phone up.“Because you got called my husband and started cheesing.”
Michael made a quick side eye to you before paying attention back to the road. “I did not.”
You turned your phone towards him. The first picture showed him standing outside the restaurant looking completely composed. The second showed a tiny smile beginning to form. The third showed him looking down at the floor, visibly trying not to grin. And the fourth? Oh the fourth was absolutely hopeless. Michael was standing beside his car with the biggest smile on his face.
As the car stopped to a traffic light, Michael took this opportunity to look at the pictures you were showing him on your phone. He stared at the picture. “I was happy.”
You burst out laughing. “Happy?”
“Yes.”
“You were supposed to be mysterious.”
“I was.”
“You were literally cheesing at the paparazzi.”
“What? No I wasn’t.” He said knowingly he definitely couldn’t hold back his smile when the paparazzi were asking him all sorts of questions.
You zoomed into the picture. “Mikey look.”
He looked at it again. “Okay fine…maybe a little.”
You laughed even harder. “A little? Baby you look like someone just told you that training has been permanently cancelled.”
Michael looked away. “Okay nah you’re exaggerating.”
“No I’m not.” You scrolled to another picture. “Look at this one.”
He refused to look. “Mikey.”
“No.”
“You’re literally smiling at the camera.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I was just-”
“Happy?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
You grinned. “Oh my gosh.”
“What?”
“There’s no such thing as Mr Nonchalant anymore.”
Michael looked at you. “Why?”
“Because you exposed yourself.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.” You waved your phone around.“They asked you one question.”
Michael’s eyebrows furrowed. “What question?”
You put on your best paparazzi voice. “‘How does it feel to be the future husband of one of Hollywood’s biggest actresses?’”
Michael immediately looked away back into the road as he continued to drive off, this time he was smiling.
You gasped. “There!”
“What?”
“You’re doing it again!”
“I’m not.”
“You just smiled!”
“I didn’t.”
“You did!”
He shook his hea but the corners of his mouth were already lifting again.
You stared at him. “Oh my gosh!”
“What?”
“You really like being called my husband! Oh babe you are so adorable, I like it.”
Michael’s eyes were still glued to the road.“Maybe…”
Your expression softened. “Maybe?”
He took a small glance at you before turning to the road. “I liked it.”
You smiled. “Why?” Wanting to hear the truth from his own words.
He shrugged suddenly looking almost embarrassed. “I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
“I don’t.”
“Mikey.”
He glanced at you and you smiled. “Because you want to be my husband.”
He immediately looked away.
You gasped.“That’s exactly why!”
“Stop.”
“You want to be my husband!”
“You’re annoying.”
“You want to be my husband so badly.”
“Y/N.”
“You were cheesing until you drove off.”
Michael shook his head trying desperately to look unimpressed but the smile was still there.
You leaned closer to him teasing by his ear. “Mr Nonchalan!”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“Mr Nonchalant Olise.”
“I’m going to leave you at the hotel.”
“You can’t.”
“Why?”
You held up your hand and ring caught the sunlight. “Because I’m your fiancée! You’re stuck with me forever now baby you won’t be able to escape me.”
Michael looked down at the ring and there it was again, that smile. You immediately noticed the smile on his face and pointed at him. “THERE!”
He started laughing. “You’re obsessed.”
“You’re the one who can’t stop smiling.”
“I can stop.”
“Then stop.”
Michael looked at you from the side of his face He tried he really did try to keep a straight face…for approximately three seconds. Then he smiled again and you burst out laughing. “You’re so embarrassing.”
“You’re the one making me smile.”
“Oh so it’s my fault?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You’re my fiancée.”
You immediately covered your face and Michael laughed.
“You were literally just bullying me!” He said.
“I can do both.”
He leaned closer pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Future wife.”
You pushed his shoulder. “Stop.”
He grinned. “Why?”
“Because you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Smiling.”
Michael looked at you with an expression that was somehow still trying to be nonchalant and he failed miserably.
You shook your head. “Mr Nonchalant is officially dead.”
Michael smiled. “Good.”
You looked at him and with his free hand he grabbed yours intertwining both your fingers, his fingers slowly brushing your knuckles.
Michael looked at you. “What?”
You smiled. “Nothing.”
“What?”
“You’re cute.”
He immediately looked away.
You gasped. “Oh my gosh!”
“How many times are you gonna say that today?”
“Now you’re blushing too.”
“Shut up.”
You laughed as his hand never left yours and he finally pulled up to the hotel, Michael looked down at your joined hands, then at the ring and then back at you and smiled again.
You sighed. “Honestly you really are never beating the allegations.”
“What allegations?”
“That you are completely obsessed with your fiancée.”
Michael looked at you and this time he didn’t even try to deny it. “Maybe I am.”
“Good.” You smiled. “Because you’re stuck with me forever and I’m not going anywhere.”
And even when the two of you finally got out of the car Michael was still smiling.
can you write a fluff about jobe bellingham? i was thinking about him coming home to f!reader after a not so good practice session
BAD TRAINING;
⤷ ゛masterlist ˎˊ˗
jobe bellingham x f!reader.
dating.
note: thanks for ur req!!
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: he has a bad training session and you console him.
usually, even when he’s tired, he’ll come in talking immediately, about teammates or pulling you into a hug just because.
but tonight he shuts the front door harder than intended before tossing his bag onto the floor.
you glance up from the couch carefully.
“bad day?”
“mhm.”
that’s all you get. you watch him drag both hands over his face before disappearing into the kitchen silently.
you get up a few seconds later and find him standing in front of the fridge just staring into it blankly.
“you okay?”
“yeah.”
“what happened?” you walk closer slowly.
jobe sighs heavily before leaning back against the counter.
“nothing,” he mutters. “just shit training.”
you raise an eyebrow.
shit training from jobe usually means that he played badly, someone annoyed him or he’s overthinking everything
probably all three tonight.
“coach got onto me all session,” he says finally. “couldn’t do anything right.”
your expression softens immediately.
“aw.”
“don’t aw me.”
“too late.”
he rolls his eyes slightly, but the tension eases just a little.
you step between his legs where he’s leaning against the counter now, hands resting lightly on his waist.
“one bad session doesn’t make you terrible.”
“felt terrible.”
“yeah well,” you mumble, “you’re always dramatic after training.”
that gets the tiniest smile out of him, barely there but still.
you reach up and smooth your fingers through the curls near the back of his neck softly.
his eyes close almost instantly.
“tired?” you ask quietly.
he nods once and without even speaking, his arms slide around your waist and pull you fully against him.
very clingy, which means he definitely had a rough day.
you smile softly against his chest.
“you wanna talk about it more?”
he shakes his head again, cheek resting against the top of your head now.
“just wanna stay here.”
underneath all the frustration and moodiness, jobe always gets softer with you when he’s upset.
needier too, he just hides it badly.
you rub slow circles against his back while standing there together in the kitchen silence.
“felt like i couldn’t do anything right today.”
“you know that’s not true.”
“still annoying.”
“you’re allowed bad days, baby.”
his eyes stay on yours for a few seconds before his expression softens completely. you lift a hand and gently squish his cheek.
“my grumpy boy.”
“don’t call me that.”
“but you are grumpy.”
“because training was shit.”
“see? grumpy.”
he rolls his eyes again, but this time there’s no frustration behind it anymore.
suddenly he bends down slightly, burying his face into your neck while holding you tighter.
you smile instantly, fingers brushing through the hair at the back of his head.
“aw,” you whisper teasingly. “someone needs cuddles.”
“shut up.”
“that’s a yes.”
he mumbles something against your skin that sounds like maybe.
“come on then.”
you take his hand, leading him back toward the couch and less than ten minutes later, jobe is stretched out half on top of you under a blanket, face tucked against your chest while you play with his curls.
completely different from the irritated boy who walked through the door earlier.
his eyes drift shut slowly as your fingers scratch lightly against his scalp.
synopsis after a controversy threatens to overshadow the biggest moment of his career, Michael's team hires you to manage the fallout. there's only one problem though: your new client refuses to talk. somewhere between bad press, missed meetings and everything said off the record, keeping things professional becomes a crisis of its own.
warnings black!fem!reader, no use of y/n, publicist! reader, michael talks y’all, they’re cute of whatever
wordcount I still dk 5k ? Idkkkkk
a/n they’re getting close or whatever. I don’t know if I like this chapter or not :(
JULY 27TH, 2026 — 9 : 50 AM
michael 🙄
can’t make it today
early training in 2hs
MICHAEL DIDN’T USUALLY ASK PEOPLE TO COME TO HIM. If anything, it had always been the opposite. He went to people. Meetings happened at the agency. Press conferences happened in stadiums. Interviews happened in television studios.
His job was to show up.
Yours was to tell him where.
And today, for the first time the roles had quietly reversed. You were coming to him.
It felt strange.
Not necessarily bad.
Just different.
For the past week, every conversation between y’all had happened on your terms. In your office. In your conference room. It was your questions. Your rules. Your world.
This morning, however, you were stepping into his.
bossy lady
send me your pin
Somewhere between sending that pin and slipping his phone back into his pocket, he’d started noticing things he normally never paid attention to.
The hallway outside the changing rooms was louder than usual.
Someone laughed across the corridor.
A physio wheeled a cart full of medical supplies past him.
A pair of boots hit the tiled floor with a dull thud.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the building from somewhere downstairs.
He checked the time.
9:53.
It was still early.
He leaned against the wall.
Checked the time again.
9:54.
Yeah, he was nervous.
This media training thing was the problem. Sure, he still wasn’t entirely sure what that actually involved.
Talking, presumably.
Far too much talking.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that, in less than ten minutes, you would be walking into his world. Not yours. His. The one place where he never had to think. Where everyone already knew him. Where he knew exactly where everything was. Where he didn’t have to explain himself because he just belonged there.
And somehow that made him more nervous than walking into your office ever had.
It wasn’t the media training.
It wasn’t even the idea of spending the next hour answering your questions.
It was everyone else.
Teammates.
Coaches.
Staff.
People who were about to meet the woman who somehow managed to order him around without ever raising her voice.
He sighed. The automatic doors slid open. His head lifted almost instinctively. And there you were.
Laptop bag hanging from one shoulder.
Coffee balanced carefully in one hand.
Phone in the other.
No blazer.
No heels.
Just trainers, loose trousers, an white oversized button-up with the sleeves rolled up to your elbows and a visitor’s badge hanging around your neck.
You looked professional. Comfortable even. Somehow less intimidating than usual.
Until you spotted him. Your expression immediately shifted into the same annoyingly confident smile he’d grown far too familiar with over the last week.
“There you are.”
“You found it.”
You looked around the training centre before looking back at him. “You sent me your pin.”
“…Right.”
A brief silence settled between you.
Not awkward.
Just new.
“You actually came,” he heard himself say.
One of your eyebrows lifted. “You thought I wouldn’t ?”
“No.”
“Then why do you sound surprised ?”
He looked away for half a second.
“I was hoping.”
You blinked.
Then laughed.
Not loudly.
Just enough to make the corners of your eyes crinkle.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t one.”
“No ?”
“No.”
“You smile exactly as much over text.”
He stayed silent when realizing.
“See ?”
That’s when he felt it : he was smiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, making his smile disappear.
“You smiled.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Let’s go.” He turned before you could say anything else, already heading further into the training centre.
You couldn’t help but grin as you fell into step beside him. For a moment, neither of you said anything.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It simply existed. People greeted Michael as you walked through the corridors.
“Morning, mike.”
“Morning.”
A coach gave him a nod on his way past. A physio waved from the opposite end of the hallway. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going.
You, on the other hand, were relying entirely on Michael not to lose you. Your visitor’s badge bounced lightly against your shirt with every step.
You lowered your voice.
“Do they all know who I am ?”
Michael thought about it for a second.
“Probably.”
You groaned. “Great.”
He glanced sideways.
“Why ?”
“They’re going to think I bully you.”
“I mean, you do.”
You let out a small offended gasp. “I do not bully you.”
“You threatened me last Saturday. Over text.”
“I motivated you. That’s not the same thing.”
“You threatened to make my attendance involuntary.”
“You’re looking too much into it.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
It was small and quiet. But unmistakably there. You looked at him for a second longer than necessary. “There it is again. What is wrong with you today ?”
He looked away.
“You’re imagining things.”
You were not.
YOU PUSHED OPEN THE MEETING ROOM DOOR. It was almost painfully ordinary. Four walls. A television. A round table. Two chairs.
You barely glanced around before getting to work. Tour bag landed on the table. And so did your laptop and notebook.
Michael stayed by the door, watching. Without a word, you crossed the room and opened the blinds.
Sunlight flooded inside.
You frowned.
Walked back.
Moved one chair.
Then the other.
Michael watched for another few seconds.
“What are you doing ?”
“I’m optimizing the space.”
He looked at the two chairs. “you simply moved chairs.”
“They were facing the screen at the wrong angle.” You said, as if it was obvious. “They’re better now.”
Only then did you finally look up.
“Sit.”
He didn’t move.
“Michael.”
“Okay.”
He pulled out the chair.
You nodded once.
“Good.”
Less than two seconds later, the television came to life. A white slide filled the screen.
Michael looked at the screen.
Then at you.
Then at the screen again.
MEDIA TRAINING 101
Today’s lesson : convince people you’re capable of answering more than three words.
Michael only stared.
“You made slides.”
“I did.”
“I didn’t think people actually enjoyed making PowerPoints.”
“I don’t.”
“But you made one.”
“I enjoy being prepared.”
“That’s even worse.”
The next slide appeared.
Today’s objective
— Answer the question that was asked.
— Use complete sentences.
— Stop making your publicist’s life unnecessarily difficult.
Michael looked at you.
“That last one’s personal.”
“It absolutely is.”
You leaned back against the table. “ I got ground rules.”
Michael nodded.
“No journalists.”
“No cameras.”
“No headlines.”
“No one is going to see what happens in here.”
You paused. “So if you mess up,”
“You mess up.”
He waited.
“I don’t care.”
Another pause. His eyebrows lifted.
“This room is where you’re allowed to get things wrong.”
For the first time since arriving, some of the tension left his shoulders.
IT’S WHEN YOU CLICKED TO THE NEXT SLIDE THAT MICHAEL FROWNED. Across the table, the glow of your laptop reflected faintly in his eyes as the presentation changed.
The title sat in bold letters in the middle of the screen.
WARM UP SESSION.
He stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the screen. “A warm-up ?”
You didn’t even look up. Your fingers kept moving across the keyboard as you adjusted something on the slide.
“You don’t stretch before training ?”
“I do.”
“Same principle.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “We’re stretching my tongue ?”
The corner of your mouth twitched. “Essentially.”
“What the hell.”
“Exactly.” A quiet sigh escaped him as he leaned further back into his chair. “I already hate this.”
“I know.”
You reached for your notebook, flipping it open to a fresh page. The familiar sound of paper filled the room.
Click.
Your pen followed.
“Quick answers. Don’t overthink them.”
You uncapped it.
“I don’t usually do.” This time, you finally looked up.
Just looked at him.
“Michael.”
He stayed silent, looking back at you.
“Michael.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“Fine.”
You smiled to yourself before glancing back down at the page. “Ready ?”
After rolling one of his shoulders, he gave a small nod.
“Favourite colour.”
The answer came before you’d even finished writing the question. “Red.”
Good.
Your pen moved.
Quick.
“Favourite meal ?” This one took longer. Not because he didn’t know. His eyes drifted somewhere past you for barely a second, as though he’d left the conference room entirely.
“Anything my mum cooks.”
Your pen paused for half a second before continuing. “Sweet or savoury ?”
“Savoury.”
“Favourite season ?”
“Summer.”
“Coffee or tea ?”
“Tea.”
The rhythm settled almost naturally. Question. Answer. Question. Answer.
Fast enough that he couldn’t prepare. Fast enough that instinct answered before caution could.
“Early flights or late flights ?”
“Late.”
“Window seat or aisle ?”
“Window.”
“Beach or mountains ?”
“Beach.”
“Books or films ?”
He frowned again. “…Neither.”
“You don’t watch films ?”
“I do.”
“You don’t read ?”
“I do.”
“So…”
“I just wouldn’t choose either.”
“That’s a very Michael answer.”
He blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means I asked you to choose.”
“I did.”
“You created a third option.”
“I solved the problem.” He sounded genuinely pleased with himself.
A smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t argue. You simply kept writing. “Sunrise or sunset ?”
“Sunset.”
“Music before a match ?”
“Sometimes.”
“‘Sometimes’ isn’t one of the options.”
He looked at you.
“Yes.”
You made another note. “Favorite day of the week ?”
For the first time since the exercise had begun, he actually thought. Not for long. But enough.
“Friday.”
You looked up.
“Why Friday ?”
“You said quick answers.”
“Fair.”
Before the silence could settle, you fired the next one. “Cooking or ordering food ?”
“Ordering.”
“Pancakes or waffles ?”
“Waffles.”
“Penalty or free kick ?”
“Free kick.”
You finally lowered your pen.
“Done.”
Michael blinked. “That’s it ?”
“For now.”
He frowned as you continued writing. You tapped your pen against the notebook once. He frowned as you continued writing anyway.
No more questions.
Just notes.
Lines.
Underlines.
Circles.
He leaned forward a fraction, trying to read the page upside down. “You’re actually taking notes.”
“I’m supposed to take notes on everything.”
“You wrote ‘beach.’”
“I did.”
“You underlined ‘Friday.’”
“Mhm.”
“And,”
He squinted.
“‘Anything his mum cooks.’”
“I wrote that too.”
“Why ?”
Without answering, you tapped the end of your pen thoughtfully against the notebook.
Once.
Twice.
“I’ll explain later.”
“I don’t think there is a later explanation.”
“There is.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I know.”
You closed the notebook halfway. “Okay.”
Michael’s shoulders loosened almost immediately. He genuinely thought the exercise was over. You watched him relax.
Then smiled to yourself.
“Who’s the funniest person in the France squad?”
Silence.
Michael stared at you. “I’m not answering that kind of question.”
“It was a simple question.”
He looked at the ceiling as if the answer might be written somewhere above him
“Next.”
Your pen moved across the page. He immediately noticed. “What ?”
“You hesitated.”
His eyes immediately dropped to the notebook. “I was thinking.”
“Exactly.”
“I was choosing.”
“You were avoiding.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
He sighed. He rubbed a hand down his face before letting it fall back onto the table.
“I don’t like this exercise.”
Your smile softened.
“I know.”
YOU LET THE SILENCE SETTLE FOR A SECOND BEFORE CAPPING YOUR PEN. You were thinking of the next exercise you’d do with him.
“Alright.”
Michael eyed you suspiciously. “We’re done with the questions.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“For now.”
He sighed quietly. “I knew there was a catch.”
“There usually is.”
You pushed your notebook aside and stood, walking around the table. The movement immediately caught his attention. His eyes followed you without moving the rest of his body.
“Stand up for me.”
He blinked.
“Why ?”
“Because journalists don’t only listen to what you say.” You stopped in front of him. “They look at everything else.”
He got to his feet, hands automatically disappearing into the pockets of his training shorts.
You pointed at him.
“Out.”
“What ?”
“Your hands.”
He looked down. “What about them ?”
“Journalists notice what you’re hiding before they hear what you’re saying.”
“I don’t hide.”
“You do.”
“I’m just standing.”
“Exactly.” You circled him once, more like a coach than a publicist. “Look at me.”
He did.
“Not like that.”
“What ?”
“You’re looking at my forehead.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
His eyes flickered down.
Then back up.
“There.”
“Better ?”
“Much.” He held it for another couple of seconds before looking away again.
“See ? You’re avoiding eye contact again.”
“I literally blinked.”
“You escaped.”
“I blinked.”
“Mhm.” You scribbled something in your notebook. He looked around the room.
“That’s media training ?”
“No.”
A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Now comes the fun part.”
His expression flattened. “I don’t think there’s anything fun about this.”
“That’s not the point.”
You picked up your pen again, holding it out like a microphone.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
You straightened in front of him, your smile turning effortlessly professional. “Good evening, Michael. Congratulations on tonight’s result. How are you feeling ?”
“I’m happy with the win.”
A small nod.
“Good.”
You made a quick note.
He noticed.
“Already ?”
“You answered before I had to pull the words out of you.”
“Lucky guess.”
You smiled. “Again.”
Without missing a beat, you continued.
“What changed in the second half ?”
“We moved the ball quicker.”
A brief pause.
“We were more patient. We stopped forcing things.”
Your pen hovered above the page. No prompting. No waiting.
You wrote anyway.
Michael frowned.
“What ?”
“You didn’t need me.”
“What do you mean ?”
“You answered.”
“I’ve been answering all morning.”
“No.”
You looked up from your notebook. “You’ve been responding.”
A beat.
“That was an answer.”
Silence settled between you. He looked at you, waiting. You closed the notebook.
“Football.”
“What about it ?”
“You don’t struggle when it’s about football.”
His brows drew together. “You don’t stop to think about how you sound.”
You tapped the cover of the notebook lightly.
“You just talk.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You know your subject.”
“So ?”
“So,” You shrugged. “Maybe interviews aren’t actually your problem.”
He folded his arms.
“What is, then ?”
You held his gaze for a second longer. “I don’t know yet.”
Another pause. “But I’m starting to think it’s not the questions.”
His expression shifted, only slightly. Enough for you to notice. You uncapped your pen again.
“Let’s find out.”
This time, there was no exaggerated smile. No playful tone. No pretending to be a reporter. You simply looked at him.
“One last exercise.”
His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. He looked at you warily.
“You don’t sound convincing sometimes.”
“I don’t need to.”
You rested your elbows on the table.
“About the rumours—”
His expression hardened. “We’re not doing that.”
“We are.”
He didn’t move.
“You’ll be asked about them.”
“I know.”
“And if you sit there answering every question with one word,” You held his gaze. “people will think you’re hiding something.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m not though.”
“I know that.”
“Then why does it matter ?”
“Because perception matters.”
He stayed silent.
“You don’t get to control what people think.” You leaned forward. “But you do get to control what you give them.”
He looked away.
“I’ll tell them it’s not true.”
“That’s not enough, Michael.”
His eyes snapped back to yours. “It is.”
“It isn’t.”
Another silence. “You think one ‘no’ ends the story ?”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
He exhaled through his nose. “I’m not explaining my private life to strangers.”
“There it is.”
He frowned. “What ?”
“The real problem.”
“I’ve just told you the problem.”
“No.” You shook your head. “The problem isn’t the question.”
His gaze went from your hands to your eyes. “It’s the fact that you resent having to answer it at all.”
He didn’t answer.
You continued anyway. “You walk into every interview expecting a fight.”
“And ?”
“And people can see that.”
His expression remained unreadable.
“So what ?”
“So they stop listening to your words.”
You tapped the table once. “and start reading your attitude.”
He stared at you.
“I don’t owe them anything.”
“Yeah.” Your voice stayed calm. “You don’t.”
A beat.
“But if you want them to believe you,” You held his gaze. “you have to actually give them something to believe.”
Michael held your gaze for another second before looking away.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
You frowned.
“Why ?”
“When an interview ends, you go home. I don’t.”
He paused, searching for the words. The room felt quieter than it had all morning.
“You write your notes.”
His voice remained calm.
“I wake up to headlines.”
Your hand loosened around the pen.
“They’ll replay every answer.” He shrugged. “They’ll slow down every clip.”
Another pause.
“If I look away for a second,” He glanced toward the conference room window. “people think I’m lying.”
You didn’t interrupt.
“If I smile,”
“They’ll say I don’t take it seriously.”
He let out a quiet breath.
“If I don’t smile, they’ll say I’m cold.”
Silence settled between you. For the first time that morning, you had nothing to correct. Nothing to teach. You slowly lowered your pen.
“Is that why you hate interviews ?”
Michael was quiet for so long you wondered if he’d answer at all.
“I don’t hate interviews.”
He looked back at you. “I hate what they become.”
You stayed silent.
“They’re never conversations.”
“They’re performances.”
His fingers traced the edge of the table absentmindedly. “They already know what they want.”
“And if I don’t give it to them,”
A humourless smile crossed his face. “they’ll just write it anyway.”
You felt your shoulders sink slightly. Because he wasn’t entirely wrong. You’d seen it happen. You’d worked with journalists who wanted the truth. You’d also worked with journalists who only wanted a headline. You closed your notebook.
The sound echoed softly in the room.
“I owe you an apology.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“For what ?”
“I spent the last two hours trying to teach you how to answer questions.”
You shook your head. “That was the wrong lesson.”
Michael watched you carefully. “You don’t have a communication problem.”
A beat.
“You have a trust problem.”
He didn’t respond. But he didn’t look away either. You continued, quieter now. “And to be honest,”
“I’m not sure I’d trust them either.”
Something shifted in his expression. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t surprise. It was smaller than that. Recognition. As though, for the first time since you’d met him, smeone had understood what he’d been trying to say without him having to explain it.
You leaned back in your chair.
“So,”
A faint smile returned. “I’ve got some homework to do.”
He frowned. “You ?”
“I need to rethink this.”
He looked genuinely puzzled.
“I thought you were the expert.”
“I am.”
You smiled.
“But good strategies change when the person in front of you does.”
A silence settled between you. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just comfortable. You looked at him for a long moment.
Then, quietly, you closed your notebook.
The soft clap echoed through the room.
Michael glanced down at it.
“We’re done ?”
You shook your head.
“No.”
A beat.
“We’re done with media training.”
He stayed silent. You leaned back in your chair again.
“Can I ask you something ?”
He looked at you.
“Not as your publicist.”
Another pause.
“As me.”
He studied you for a second.
“Okay.”
You smiled faintly.
“What do you love about football ?”
He frowned.
It clearly wasn’t the question he’d been expecting.
“Football ?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not asking about tactics, or trophies” You rested your forearms on the table. “I’m asking, what keeps you coming back ?”
“I like that it’s quiet.”
You blinked. “Quiet ?”
He nodded.
“The ball doesn’t talk.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“It does exactly what you tell it to.”
He looked down at his hands.
“You know what you’re supposed to do.”
“No guessing.”
“No headlines.”
“No opinions.”
“Just,” He searched for the word. “football.”
You didn’t interrupt.
“It’s simple.”
“The pitch makes sense.”
Another pause.
“I’ve always liked that.”
You smiled to yourself. “I think I’ve got enough for today.”
He glanced at the black screen of the projector.
“That’s it ?”
You nodded.
“That’s it.”
He stood, pushing his chair back. You did the same, slipping your notebook into your bag. As you zipped it shut, Michael spoke again.
“So,”
You looked over.
“What happens now ?”
You smiled.
“Now ? I go back and rewrite the plan.”
His eyebrows lifted. A corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
“But I learned something useful today.”
“What ?”
You slung your bag over your shoulder.
“About you.”
He looked at you for a moment, as if trying to work out whether you were joking. You weren’t.
You reached the door first. Your hand rested on the handle.
“Same time next week ?”
He let out a long breath.
“Do I have a choice ?”
You smiled over your shoulder.
“No.”
He nodded once. “I’ll be here.”
You opened the door. The sounds of the training ground filtered back into the corridor.
Voices.
Whistles.
Football.
You stepped out first. Michael followed a second later.
Neither of you said goodbye.
Somehow it didn’t feel necessary.
Media training still wasn’t his favourite part of the week. It just wasn’t the part he dreaded anymore.
synopsis after a controversy threatens to overshadow the biggest moment of his career, Michael’s team hires you to manage the fallout. there’s only one problem though : your new client refuses to talk. somewhere between bad press, missed meetings and everything said off the record, keeping things professional becomes a crisis of its own.
warnings black!fem!reader, no use of y/n, publicist!reader, reader is NOSY, Michael is mad annoying, enemies-ish to lovers, mentions of paternity allegations, online harassment & media scrutiny.
wordcount honestly idk
a/n they both will get on your nerves tbh. But they’re funny i swear. Anyway, hope you’ll like it 🤍
JULY 22ND, 2026 — 9 : 17 AM
8 : 55
9 : 00
9 : 10
9 : 17
SEVENTEEN MINUTES. Seventeen minutes was all it took for Michael to make the worst first impression possible. He was late. Of course he was, who wouldn’t be late for an important meeting that could potentially change their life ?
Not that you were counting, anyway.
You were.
Which was particularly irritating considering you had made a point of arriving five minutes early, determined to avoid any delay and remain professional.
Clearly, that was one-sided.
You had known your client for exactly zero minutes, and somehow, he was already getting on your nerves. Still, his absence wasn’t entirely a bad thing. It gave you time to review the case. Again.
As if you hadn’t already done so a hundred times.
The case seemed simple enough : a woman was accusing a footballer of being the father of her child.
It could’ve been it.
Apparently, it wasn’t.
Because said footballer was now being accused of abandoning a child he claimed wasn’t his.
And that was a problem.
From what you had gathered during your late-night deep dive into the case, this wasn’t the first time this woman had tried to claim Michael was the father of her child. The timeline, however, was messy and desperately needed clearing up.
As you were playing with your pen, your eyes eventually wandered from the documents spread across the table to Michael’s manager. Calling her stressed would have been the biggest understatement of all times.
She hadn’t said a word to you yet but had check her phone four times in the last ten minutes.
You knew because, well, unfortunately, you were counting that too.
AT 9:19, the conference room door finally opened. Naturally, every head in the room turned toward the door. There he was.
A pink and brown cap pulled low over his head, like he had every intention of disappearing underneath it. His expression gave nothing away. There wasn’t no panic on his face, no visible frustration. Nothing that suggested his name had been dragged across the internet for the past twenty-four hours.
He looked entirely too calm for someone currently sitting at the centre of a public relations disaster.
And he wasn’t alone.
A man you assumed to be his lawyer followed closely behind him, already apologizing to the room before the door was even closed.
Michael, however, said nothing.
You eyes dropped to your watch.
Then back to him.
Nineteen minutes.
Great start.
His eyes eventually found yours from across the room.
You held his gaze. He held yours.
Neither of you smiled. Because, what was there to smile about ? First meeting and you’re late ?
“Nice of you to join us.”
The room went quiet.
His manager shifted uncomfortably in her seat. His lawyer glanced in your direction, and for half a second, you could practically hear your boss telling you to behave.
Fortunately for you, your boss wasn’t here.
Michael looked at you for another second before pulling out the chair opposite yours.
“Hello.”
You blinked. Was he crazy ? You watched him sit down.
“You’re late.”
His eyes lifted back to yours.
“By nineteen minutes.”
A beat of silence.
“The meeting was at nine o’clock.”
“I know.”
Oh. Great great great.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, smiling only a bit.
“Do you ?”
His manager closed her eyes for half a second. What a great start. Michael’s expression barely changed, but something shifted in his eyes. He was looking at you properly now.
“I was caught in traffic. Sorry.”
“Right.”
“There was traffic.”
“In this city ?” You nodded slowly. “At nine in the morning ? Sure.”
He stared at you. You stared back. Again. “Who could have possibly predicted that ?”
His lawyer cleared his throat. Loudly. If he wanted to be funny, you’d be hilarious.
“Perhaps we should start.”
You kept your eyes on Michael for another second before looking down at the file in front of you.
“Yeah.”
You opened it. And that’s when you were glad your boss wasn’t here.
“We only lost nineteen minutes, after all.”
You could tell this was going to be difficult.
THE NEXT TWENTY MINUTES did very little to change your mind.
“The priority is getting ahead of this before it develops any further,” his manager explained. “We’ve already had several calls this morning.”
“How many ?” You asked, letting your pen repeatedly tap onto the table.
She hesitated.
You looked up from your notes. “How many ? You can tell me.”
“Seven.”
“From who ?” You asked again.
“Two indirect sponsors. The club. His agent. A journalist. And—”
“Three journalists actually,” the lawyer corrected.
You stopped writing.
Three ?
That was worse than you had expected.
“Have any of them been given a comment ?”
“No.”
“Good. That’s good.” There wasn’t any worse felling than to begin to work with badly written comments.
Michael sat across from you, one arm resting against the table, his expression unreadable. You had been in the room with him for nearly half an hour now.
So far, you had heard him say approximately twelve words.
His manager continued.
“The club wants this handled quickly. They don’t want the story gaining any more traction, especially with everything coming up.”
Of course they didn’t. Who would want their club to be tied to any of this nonsense ?
You glanced at the documents in front of you. The timing of the allegations was almost impressively inconvenient.
“What about the indirect sponsors ? Don’t you have direct sponsors ?” You turned to Michael, waiting for him to answer.
“I’m not directly tied to a brand.”
“They want reassurance.” His lawyer added, sensing you’d need a bit more.
“Which we can’t give them yet.”
Another silence.
You looked around the table. His manager looked worried. His lawyer looked cautious.
The other members of his team looked like they would rather be anywhere else.
And Michael ?
You looked at him once again.
Michael looked bored.
Or tired.
You couldn’t quite tell which.
“We were thinking of releasing a statement today,” his manager said.
“No.” The answer left your mouth immediately.
Everyone looked at you.
Everyone except Michael. His gaze was already on you.
“Well, we’ll need to respond eventually,”
“I know.”
“The longer we wait—”
“The longer we wait, the more people speculate. I understand that.” You closed the file. “But see, releasing a statement before I know exactly what we’re responding to would be stupid.”
His lawyer shifted in his chair.
“We know what we’re responding to.” He says, repositioning his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“No, you know what she’s accusing him of. Big difference.”
You nodded toward Michael.
“I don’t know what actually happened.”
That finally earned you something. A slight movement of his head. It was barely noticeable. But you noticed.
You always did.
“Until I have a complete timeline, I’m not putting his name under anything. One inconsistency between what we say today and what comes out tomorrow, and suddenly we’re not managing one story anymore. We’re explaining why we lied.”
Nobody answered.
Good.
“So.”
You placed your pen down. “Has anyone in this room actually spoken to Michael about what happened?”
His manager looked at his lawyer.
His lawyer looked at Michael.
Michael looked at you.
You waited.
Nobody said anything.
Unbelievable.
You had spent almost thirty minutes listening to people discuss Michael’s reputation, his career, his sponsors and his alleged child. And somehow, nobody seemed particularly interested in hearing from Michael.
Except you.
Everyone in the room seemed perfectly capable of speaking for Michael. The problem was that eventually, Michael would have to speak for Michael.
“Right.”
You leaned back in your chair. You gestured the door to both his lawyer and his manager.
“I need the room. Please.”
His manager frowned. “What ?”
“I need to speak to him alone.”
The lawyer immediately straightened. “I don’t think—”
“You can stay outside.”
His eyebrows rose.
You smiled politely.
“I won’t be long. I promise.”
Michael’s eyes remained on you. For the first time since he had arrived, there was something almost amused in them.
Great.
At least one of you was enjoying this.
The door clicked shut behind the last person.
SILENCE SETTLED over the conference room. It was not necessary a heavy one. It was the type of silence that only occurred when people were searching where to begin.
You looked at Michael.
Michael looked at you.
For the hundredth time today.
Neither of you spoke.
Ten seconds passed. Then fifteen.
Most people would have looked away by now. Reached for their phone. Shifted in their seat. Done something to fill the silence.
Michael did none of those things.
He simply sat there, one arm resting against the chair, his eyes fixed on you with the same unreadable calm he had worn since walking into the room.
You reached for your pen. “Do you know the woman who made the allegations ?”
“Yes.”
“How ?”
“We met before I got transferred.”
You waited.
He didn’t continue.
“Michael.” His eyes lifted fully to yours.
“That generally means I’m waiting for the rest of the sentence.”
“There isn’t one.”
You stared at him.
He stared back. Not defensively. Not uncomfortably. If anything, he looked entirely too comfortable with silence.
Again, you had dealt with difficult clients before.
Actors who thought every question was a trap. CEOs who suddenly developed selective amnesia the second lawyers entered the room. Influencers who believed deleting a post also deleted the screenshots.
You could handle quiet. But this ? This was new.
“Fine. When did you meet her ?”
“A few years ago.”
“When ?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember the year ?”
A pause.
“2023.”
You wrote it down. “Where ?”
“At a party.”
“What kind of party ?”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Does that matter ?”
“It does.”
“Why ?”
You stopped writing. “Because if twenty people saw you leave together, that’s different from nobody knowing you were ever in the same room.”
For the first time, something shifted in his expression. It was small. A slight easing around his eyes. The faintest tilt of his head as he looked at you.
Not surprise.
More like reassessment.
As though, until now, he hadn’t quite understood what you were doing.
You held his gaze. “What kind of party ?”
“A private one.”
“Where ?”
“In London.”
“Whose ?”
His expression changed again.
You waited. Nothing.
Of course.
Instead of insisting, you made a small question mark beside de question. “I’ll come back to that later.”
Something almost amused flickered across his face.
Almost.
You continued. “Were you in a relationship ? I’m talking about dating.”
“No.”
“Did you sleep together ?”
His jaw tightened.
There.
Your first real reaction. You waited.
“That necessary ?”
“Very.”
He looked away from you for the first time. His gaze moved somewhere past your shoulder before coming back to you, his expression already composed again.
But you had seen it.
“Michael.”
“Yes.”
Your pen touched the paper.
“How many times ?”
His eyes came back to yours. You could almost see the calculation happening behind them.
“What ?”
“You heard me.”
“Once.”
You wrote it down.
Then stopped.
“Are you sure ?”
“Yes.”
That was fast.
Too fast ? You slowly looked up to him.
You had learned a long time ago that people were rarely most revealing when they lied. They were most revealing when they wanted you to stop asking.
Michael didn’t seem to be lying. That didn’t mean he was telling you everything.
You underlined the word once.
“Why does she have messages from you ?”
“We spoke.” His tone supplied the rest.
Obviously.
“Before or after ?”
“Both.”
“For how long ?” He shrugged.
You stared at him for two seconds.
He stared back at you for two more.
Your pen landed on the table.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“I’m going to ask you questions. You’re going to answer them. Preferably using more than three words at a time. I hope I was clear.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
Was he smiling ? No.
Absolutely not.
“Something funny ?”
“No.”
“Good. How long did you stay in contact ?”
“A few months.”
“Romantically ?”
“No.”
“Sexually ?”
“No.”
“Did you meet again ?”
“Yes.”
Your fingers tightened around your pen.
“How many times ?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just told me you slept together once.”
“I did.”
“But you met multiple times.”
“Yes.”
You studied him. There was a distinction there. And he wanted you to notice it.
“What was the nature of those meetings ?”
For once, he didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped on your hand. More specifically to the pen between your fingers. Then back to your face.
“We met a few times after that night. Sometimes alone, sometimes with other people. We talked. Nothing happened again.”
An actual answer, a complete one. You almost wanted to congratulate him.
Instead, you wrote it down.
“Why did you keep seeing her ?”
And just like that, whatever small opening had appeared disappeared.
“I don’t know.”
There he was. You resisted the urge to sigh.
“So you weren’t dating.”
“No.”
“You weren’t sleeping together.”
“Not after that night.”
“You weren’t friends.”
“No.”
“But you continued seeing each other.”
“Yes.”
You slowly lowered your pen. Michael watched you do it. “Do you enjoy making simple things unnecessarily complicated?”
This time, you saw it.
Definitely.
The smallest hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“Sometimes.”
Oh. So he could speak.
Good to know.
You ignored it. “Have you ever met the child ?”
The trace of amusement disappeared.
“No.”
“Has she contacted you privately about the child ?”
“Yes.”
“When ?”
“Last year.”
“And ?”
“I told her it wasn’t mine.”
“You told her.”
“Yes.”
“Was a paternity test done ?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not the father.”
Your pen stopped. The certainty in his voice was different this time.
No hesitation.
No careful selection of words.
Nothing.
You watched him. He watched you back.
But there was no challenge in his expression now.
Only certainty.
“How do you know ?”
His expression closed again.
“I just know.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is. It’s mine.”
“Not one I can use.”
“You’re not supposed to use any of this.”
You went still. There it was. The test.
So that was what this had been.
You slowly leaned back in your chair.
“No. I’m supposed to use it to make sure that when someone shoves a microphone in your face and asks you a question you weren’t expecting, I already know the answer.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
You continued.
“And if you lie to me now, I can’t protect you from the truth later.”
Silence.
Neither of you moved. For the first time, Michael wasn’t looking at you like someone he had been forced into a room with. He was actually looking at you.
Assessing.
Reconsidering.
And you let him.
Something shifted in his expression. It was barely there.
But enough.
That landed.
You picked your pen back up.
“So I’ll ask you once.”
His posture changed almost imperceptibly.
You noticed.
Of course you did.
You held his gaze.
“Is there any possibility that child is yours ?”
For the second time since the meeting started, he didn’t answer immediately.
One second.
His eyes remained on yours.
Two.
Nothing in his expression changed.
Three.
But there was something about the way he was looking at you now.
Not uncertainty.
Not quite.
You had spent the entire conversation trying to read him. And suddenly, you had the distinct impression that he was doing the exact same thing to you.
“No.”
You didn’t move.
Neither did he.
The silence stretched between you again, except this time it felt different. At the beginning of the meeting, Michael’s silence had been a wall. Now it felt deliberate. A conversation neither of you was willing to have out loud.
You watched him.
He watched you right back.
And there it was.
Your first problem.
Because you believed that he believed what he was saying.
You just weren’t convinced you had the whole story.
summary after a controversy threatens to overshadow the biggest moment of his career, michael’s team hires you to manage the fallout. there’s only one problem though : your new client refuses to talk. somewhere between bad press, missed meetings and everything said off the record, keeping things professional becomes a crisis of its own.
warnings black!fem!reader, she/her pronouns used, no use of y/n, client/publicist relationship, enemies-ish to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut (18+), sexual content, angst, strong language, mentions of paternity allegations, online harassment & media scrutiny.
a/n got inspired by recent events (obviously), but please take everything written here lightly. i don’t know the truth about any of this, i’m not taking sides, and this is ultimately just fiction.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: he's not very clingy but when he is, it's exhausting because he keeps kissing you too much until you have swollen lips.
michael had a problem that only exists whenever you were around.
according to him, your lips were his favorite thing in the world. it would’ve been sweet if he had any self-control whatsoever but unfortunately he didn’t.
that was how you found yourself standing in front of the bathroom mirror on a random morning staring at your reflection in disbelief.
“michael.”
from the bedroom came an innocent hum, that immediately told you he was guilty.
“michael!”
you walked out of the bathroom and see him sitting on the edge of the bed scrolling through his phone completely unbothered.
you pointed accusingly at your face.
“look.”
he looked up then immediately smiled, it proved he already knew.
“what?”
you stared. “what do you mean what?”
his smile got bigger, now he was actively trying not to laugh.
“look at my lips!”
he did, far more attentively than necessary and it only made him smile more.
“they look nice.”
“they’re swollen.”
he tilted his head studying them. “yeah, slightly.”
“slightly?”
“okay maybe a little,” he shrugged.
“a little?” you sounded offended. “this is your fault!”
he put his phone down.
“come here.”
“no.”
“why?”
“because i know you.”
“wow.”
“don’t wow me.”
“i wasn’t going to do anything.”
the problem was that michael couldn’t help himself.
he would see you then immediately want a kiss, then another, and another, again and again.
thirty minutes would pass and he’d still be kissing you completely unaware of the passage of time like a man with absolutely no limits.
you sat beside him on the bed still annoyed or at least pretending to be because deep down you knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose.
he was simply absurdly affectionate, sometimes to a ridiculous degree.
“you’re smiling,” he pointed at you.
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
“prove it.”
“i can see it.”
“that’s not proof,” he moved closer and you narrowed your eyes immediately.
“don’t.”
“don’t what?”
“whatever you’re planning.”
“i’m planning nothing.”
it was possibly the worst lie he’d ever told, he was already looking at you with the look that usually ended with him forgetting how personal space worked.
“michael, behave.”
“i always behave.”
a few seconds later he rested his head on your shoulder completely casually.
“you know,” he sounded thoughtful. “i don’t think they’re that swollen.”
“get out.”
he immediately smiled, burying his face against your shoulder before you could push him away.
michael looked up and you remembered why you never stayed annoyed at him for very long, whenever he looked at you like that it became painfully obvious just how much he adored you.
he reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
“you’re cute.”
you rolled your eyes immediately. “don’t try to distract me.”
“it’s working.”
“it’s not.”
unfortunately, it probably was. he leaned forward very slowly giving you more than enough time to stop him.
“if you kiss me again i’m leaving.”
he considered that seriously for approximately two seconds then smiled. “worth the risk.”
before you could finish threatening him, he pressed just a quick kiss against your lips, immediately pulling back afterward.
even if it wasn't the kiss he wanted, he was looking too proud of himself while you sat there staring at him.
