summary ౨ৎ thinking about kylian mbappe’s not-so-secret breeding kink 🫣
content ⟢ fem!black!reader, smut smut smut!!— it's in the summary lol but beware, breeding kink!! creampie, unprotected sex (stay strapped w them condoms y'all)
serenity says ໒꒱ to the anon who sent me the breeding kink blurb req w/ kylian, this is for you bb 💋💋 the way it’s been catching dusttt in my drafts and i just now found the inspiration to finish editing it… #sorryigotsmshittodo
see, there's never been a doubt in kylian's mind that he wants children someday— especially with you.
he can't picture building a life with anyone else, watching a baby who holds a piece of you of both grow into their own person. to him, a child born from the love you share feels less like a burden and more like a dream.
but every conversation, no matter how hopeful it is, always ends the same way: not right now.
he understands, in fact, he agrees wholeheartedly.
you're still in the middle of building the career you've worked so hard for. and kylian? every single moment is dedicated to football, the world cup especially. he holds the weight of finishing what he started in 2022— to finally bring the cup home.
so as much as kylian longs for one, love alone isn't enough to take care of a child. love isn't presence. that doesn't stop him from letting the thought settle in the back of his mind, a dream he knows will come true someday.
gently pinning your wrists above your head as he hovers over you, kylian decides to believe today is someday. the bedroom is filled with want, the adrenaline from scoring not one, but two goals, escapes his body in waves. you can feel it in the way his heart beats rapidly against you, fingers trembling as they rest on your hips.
"please, ky." you whisper, breathlessly. "c'mon, don't tease." he only nods. any other time, he'd have chuckled, dragging out the anticipation just to watch you get impatient. this time though, he can't wait either. the tip of his cock says it for him, twitching against your wet hole, fully hard and ready.
he lowers himself a little further, burying his face in the crook of your neck. a lingering kiss brushes against your jaw before he slowly sinks in. the sharp hitch in your breath doesn't escape him, and your warmth draws a quiet hiss from his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut for a fleeting moment.
he imagines a world where you aren’t on any birth control. the same situation, but charged with a important objective, keeping you full of his cum. oh, to be under the welcomed risk of a baby girl or boy— a girl, he hopes— where kylian can rock into you with no worries, slamming over and over until you cum around him, whimpering out praises as he fills you up.
it drives him insane.
"putain," he grits out. "i missed this— missed you, i always do." his hips move in and out, slow and tender, cock already stretching you out. it’s been too long. well, it's only been a week. "did you miss me too, bébé?" he murmurs. "dit moi."
"i missed you too, baby." your sweet words light something up in him instantly. you gasp out, wrapping your arms around his neck, kylian's restraint lost as the slow pace turns intense, rougher. every slam grows more urgent than the last, leaving you shaking beneath him as he ruins you.
"i'm close, mon amour," he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. he needs to know you're certain, that this is what you want too. it's never been about his child or your child. it's always been ours. to hear that you're ready, that you want this just as much as he does, is enough to make his heart race all over again.
"where do you want me—"
"don’t be ridiculous," you scoff, then crying out when the tip of his dick brushes against your cervix. "i—i want it inside, kylian. don’t— shit, pull out."
he groans so pathetically, it's embarrassing.
and god, he’d give you everything. he's always been wrapped around your finger after all. losing control right then and there, not wasting a second to let out every single drop for your greedy pussy to swallow. he pulls you in for a kiss as his cum spurts out, your lips moving against his as you clench around him, feeling the shocks from your orgasm.
"je t'aime," he whispers, like it came from the depths of his heart. "je t'aime," one kiss, "je t'aime," another kiss. he repeats himself between kisses, scattering them across your beautiful face before trailing down to your neck, collarbone, and the center of your chest.
your scrunched smile grows with each declaration of love. he can be so cheesy. "you're so silly," you giggle. he pulls back enough for your eyes to meet, a grin spreading effortlessly across his face.
"only for you."
kylian doesn't pull out, opting to stay inside of you, fucking his cum in deeper as his eyes soften. he'd rather let every responsibility outside the luxurious hotel room fade into nothing, happy to be wrapped around your walls and love.
once his head finally comes to rest against your chest, he lets out a quiet thank you to whatever scientist invented birth control... and another to you, for convincing him to stop wearing condoms.
it might not stick, but he can pretend.
just for now.
౨ৎ kylian mbappe's taglist ꒰ @purplesectorlew ┊͙ @goldenflowergirlyy ┊͙ @mariaaaalm ┊͙ @dayan23jb ┊͙ @sativadivastuff ꒱ ‧₊˚
⤷ want to be added to the taglist? read this!
彡CONTAINS ; kylian mbappé, désiré doué, michael olise, rayan cherki
彡WARNINGS ; fluff
彡SUMMARY ; their habits in your relationship
彡WORDS ; 550
彡DISCLAIMER ; !Everything written here is FICTITIOUS, english isn't my first language!
彡AUTHOR'S NOTE ; enjoy!
⤷ Kylian Mbappé
Kylian has a habit of always keeping a hand on your back whenever you're out together.
Being as famous as he is, crowded events can get chaotic quickly, and after losing you once in a crowd early in your relationship, he unconsciously developed this habit.
His hand naturally settles on the small of your back as he guides you through people, keeping you close without even thinking about it.
Sometimes, while talking to someone, his thumb absentmindedly traces small circles against your back. Other times, he'll gently pull you a little closer to his side whenever the crowd becomes too overwhelming.
It's such a natural gesture for him now that he rarely notices he's doing it.
⤷ Désiré Doué
Désiré has a habit of always placing his hand on your thigh whenever he can.
It’s automatic.
Like In the car especially, the second you’re both settled in, his hand finds its place like it belongs there. Whether he’s driving or just sitting beside you, it always ends up resting on your thigh, fingers loose, completely relaxed.
Most of the time, he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.
When he’s focused on the road, his thumb will absentmindedly shift slightly, a slow, calming touch as if he’s grounding himself without thinking.
If you shift in your seat or adjust your position, his hand just follows naturally, keeping contact like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And if you ever tease him about it, he just glances at you for a second, smiles a little, and keeps his hand exactly where it is.
⤷ Michael Olise
Michael has a habit of always reaching for your hand, or gently brushing his fingers over yours when you're together.
He’s not very expressive, not in the obvious way, and he doesn’t really say much about how he feels either. It just… happens quietly.
Sometimes he’ll take your hand without looking at you, his grip soft, almost shy, like he’s still getting used to the idea that he can. Other times, his thumb will absentmindedly trace over your knuckles while you’re talking, like he’s listening with his hands as much as with his ears.
It’s subtle. Easy to miss if you don’t know him well.
But for you, it’s more than enough.
⤷ Rayan Cherki
Rayan has a habit of always finding a way to have a physical contact with you.
It’s never serious or planned, more like instinct.
He’ll lean into your space just to get your attention, bumping his shoulder against yours or lightly nudging your arm when you ignore him on purpose, or scrunch your hair. And when he laughs really laughs, his hand always ends up on you, like he needs you close in that exact moment.
If you’re sitting next to him, he’ll steal your hand just to mess with you, turning it over in his own before pretending it’s nothing and continuing the conversation.
But he never lets go for long.
Even when he’s teasing, even when he’s acting unserious, his fingers are always finding their way back to yours, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
✿彡did you enjoy this? comments, likes, and reblogs are immensely appreciatedミ✿
Summary: You decided to prank your boyfriend and see how he would react to you leaving late at night.
A/N: Prank inspired by @chriskeverian on TikTok. My Request Are Open. Please Follow, Like, And Reblog.
Lamine Yamal -
Lamine was half asleep on the couch when he heard your bedroom door open. At first he didn’t pay attention but then he looked up. And immediately sat straight up. You were fully dressed with your hair and makeup done. And in a cute outfit with a matching purse. You looked like a goddess but then he checked the time seeing it just struck midnight.
“…Amor where are you going?” You looked at your phone casually. “Oh, I’m going out.” “Out?” “Yeah.” Lamine checked the clock again and seeing its 12:03 AM. His brain visibly stopped working.
“OUT WHERE?” You shrugged. “Just meeting someone.” The silence was deafening. “Someone?”“Yeah.” Lamine immediately stood up. “Who is this someone?” You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing.
His eyes narrowed then he spotted your phone recording. “…You’re annoying sometimes.” You burst out laughing hugging Lamine as he wrapped his arms around you. “I almost had a heart attack.”
Pedri -
You called out to Pedri from the bathroom saying you were about to head out. Pedri looked up from his book then looked at you. And he looked at the clock and back at you.
“Why are you dressed like that?” You smiled innocently.“I told you I’m going out.” “Now?” “Yep.” Pedri blinked.“It’s midnight.” “I know.” “Well are you meeting anyone or are you going to be alone?” You pretended to think. “Hm.” Pedri immediately closed his book.
“Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Don’t ‘hm’ me.” You laughed and his suspicion grew. “You’re filming this.”You failed to hide your smile and Pedri sighed.
“I knew it.” Then he grabbed your hand and pulled you onto the couch. “Sit down.”
Gavi -
The moment Gavi saw you he froze. You looked absolutely amazing which was the problem because it was midnight.
“Where are you going?” “Out.” “No.” “No?” “No.” You stared and stared right back at you. Which was hard because you tried not to laugh.
Gavi pointed toward the window. “Do you not see how dark it is outside?” “Yes.” “Then why are you dressed like that?” You immediately lost it and Gavi groaned.
“You’re pranking me.” “Maybe.” “I knew it.” He absolutely did not.
Joao Félix -
Joao was scrolling through his phone when you walked into the room. His jaw dropped as you stood infront of looking gorgeous. Then his brain processed the time and he saw it was 12:01 AM.
“Meu bem?” “Yeah?” “Where are you going?” You picked up your purse. “Out.” Joao frowned.
“With who?” “A friend.” “A friend?” “Yes.” He just stared at you while you put on your heels. Then João stood up.
“No.” You laughed. “What do you mean no?” “I mean no.” “You can’t tell me no.” “I can when it’s midnight and you’re looking like that.”
You couldn’t even finish the prank because you were laughing too hard. Let’s just say Joao just dragged you into bed with him.
Richard Ríos -
Richard looked genuinely confused. He wasn’t angry or jealous just simply confused.
“Did I forget something?” “What?” “A party?” “No.” “A birthday?” “No mi amor.” You laughed a bit. He looked at your outfit then at the clock.
“Then why are you dressed like that?” “I’m going out.”“Oh.” A pause. “Wait.” You started laughing. “You’re setting me up.” “How?” “There’s no way this is real.”And he was absolutely correct.
Kylian Mbappe -
Kylian immediately noticed the second you walked downstairs. “Princesse.” You smiled. “What?” “You look beautiful.” “Awe thank you.”
Then he looked at the clock. And he could see it was 12:07 AM. The compliments now disappearing from his mind.
“Where are you going?” “Out.” His eyes narrowed.“Out?.” “Yes.” “At midnight?” “Yes.” “Without me?”
You nodded and Kylian stood up. “No.” You burst out laughing. “No because now I know this is a prank.”“How?” “Because if you were actually going somewhere, I’d already know.”
And is Kylian wrong here? No, no he is not.
Virgil van Dijk -
Virgil was too calm it was suspicious. He was lying down on the bed as you walked onto the room. You were fully dressed and ready to go.
“Hey.” Virgil looked up. “Hi.” “I’m heading out.” “Okay.”You froze. “Okay?” “Yeah.” You blinked. “You’re not gonna ask where?” “No.” “What if it’s dangerous?”“You’ll tell me if it’s dangerous.”
You just stared at him laying down eyes still on the tv. The prank was failing miserably then Virgil smiled. “You’ve been standing there waiting for me to react for thirty seconds.” He laughed at your surprised reaction.
“I got you.” As he laughed pulling you into bed with him.
Memo Ochoa -
Memo looked up from the kitchen with his coffee nearly hitting the floor.
“Wow.” You smiled. “Wow?” “You look beautiful.” You grinned as you picked up your purse.
“I’m heading out.” Memo checked the clock then checked it again. Because he was believing you were leaving at 12:04 AM.
“…No you’re not.” You almost laughed. “Yes I am.” “No.”“Why not?” “Because it’s midnight.” “So?” Memo crossed his arms. “So where are you going?”
“Out.” “With who?” “A friend.” Memo immediately looked offended. “A friend gets to see you looking like that at midnight and I don’t?” You burst out laughing and the realization hit him.
His eyes narrowed. “You really scared me.” “Got you.”Memo shook his head while laughing. Then pulled you into a hug.
“For the record, you do look very cute.” “Thank you.” “But if you ever do that again, I’m checking your purse first.” You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your phone.
Summary: France win the 2026 World Cup. But this isn’t really about the match. It’s about the moment after — when Kylian decides he’s done being careful with the thing that matters most.
Author’s Note: The 2026 World Cup is here, girls. Call up the Etsy witches. It’s hexxing season.
I was rewatching season 2 of Bridgerton, specifically that moment when Anthony and Kate finally say fuck it and dance together, knowing everyone is watching and choosing each other anyway. I love that so much.
So, I really wanted to explore the idea of Kylian reaching a point where he’s no longer scared to be in love, publicly.
In this fic, it’s implied that they’d already discussed it. That there was an agreement sitting between them for weeks: if France win, we go public. Which is why the win feels heavier, sweeter, more intimate. He did it for them.
Enjoyyyyyyy. 💕💕💕💕💕💕
————————————————————————
Breath caught, hearts stalled — and then France detonates into sound.
Blue. White. Red. Streamers fall like confetti snowfall, curling through the air as if the sky itself has chosen a side. The stadium erupts, a living thing screaming “Allez les Bleus” into the night. Somewhere, Peter Drury’s voice rises above it all, lyrical and reverent, speaking of redemption, of time bending back on itself, of a boy who refuses to accept endings. Of two goals in ten minutes. Of history dragged back from the brink by refusal alone.
Kylian barely hears it.
He is already gone. sprinting, shouting, swallowed by teammates who crash into him from every angle. He laughs, then screams, then laughs again, overcome, unguarded. He drops to his knees once, fists pressed into the grass, forehead tipped back to the sky as if he might actually touch it.
“We did it,” he gasps, half-laughing, half-disbelieving. “We actually did it.”
On the other side of the pitch, Argentina collapses inward in quiet devastation. Hands on heads. Shirts pulled over faces. Grief moves quieter, but it moves just as deep all the same.
And you watch.
You stand where you always do — just beyond the edge of the moment, close enough to feel its heat, distant enough to let it belong to him. Because it belongs to him. All of it. The world. The cup. You have learned this discipline by loving someone whose life is conducted in public: to exist just outside the frame, to be present without imprint, to remain steady when the world tilts toward him and threatens to collapse under its own attention.
You watch him move through the chaos with an ease that still astonishes you. Oh, how deeply he loves this sport. With all its trophies, but more so the labour. The repetition. The hours. The self-correction. The fatigue. The sacrifice. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. The obedience to routine until nights like this look effortless. You think how few people understand this about him. How fervently he loves this silly sport and this team. He belongs to this team utterly, even as it takes from him without ever quite naming the cost. He gives anyway. Again. Always.
And then… there is the madness.
The cameras. The noise. The weight of being looked at from every direction at once. You cannot quite understand how he enjoys it, how he turns toward the chaos. How he smiles into the lens. How he can be playful and luminous, offering himself willingly to the spectacle. It should consume him. It should hollow him out. But it doesn’t. Instead, it seems to animate him.
He looks perfectly himself in the middle of it all, radiant and unguarded, loving the impossible theatre of it, and somehow still remaining whole. My sweet, joyful boy. As though the disorder has been waiting for his calm. As though this moment, loud and unruly and impossibly bright, has always belonged to him. Your eyes well up.
He has won. He is happy. My golden boy.
The chaos softens into celebration. Family members begin to appear, laughter mixing with tears. Cameras flash. The trophy gleams under the stadium lights, passed from hand to hand, kissed, lifted. You’re watching him joke with someone when he turns his head.
You are smiling when you feel it. That unmistakable shift. His eyes find yours across the barrier, bright, disbelieving, still vibrating with adrenaline. And then his expression changes. He smiles, small at first, then wider.
“There you are,” he murmurs to himself.
And then he begins to walk.
You feel the eyes before you hear the reaction — a ripple through the crowd as they clock his direction. Your heartbeat picks up, traitorous. You keep your shoulders relaxed, your face neutral, even as he closes the distance and stops in front of the barrier, looking up at you.
“Hi,” he says, breathless.
“Hi,” you reply, softer than intended.
He studies you for a second, then holds out his hand.
“Come,” he says quietly.
You hesitate. He notices. Of course he does.
“It’s okay,” he adds immediately, voice gentle. “With me.”
You take his hand. His grip is firm, reassuring, his thumb pressing lightly into your skin as he guides you around the barrier and onto the pitch. The crowd reacts with cheers, applause, approval washing over you both. It startles you, how kind it sounds.
And once you’re beside him, the enormity of it hits. The lights. The noise. 73 cameras possibly. The history beneath your feet. You’re on the pitch. France has won the World Cup. Your relationship is now public. Your breath goes a little shallow. He notices instantly.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
You nod. “I think so.”
He studies your face with his usual intensity. “You’re shaking.”
“So are you,” you say.
“Butterflies,” he replies lightly. “I’m here with a girl I have a crush on. She’s somewhere around here. I’ll introduce you.”
You laugh and give him a gentle push. “You’re an idiot,” you say coyly. He hums, amused.
Up close, he looks unreal — grass stains on his knees, sweat cooling on his skin, eyes still bright, as if the moment hasn’t finished moving through him yet. The noise presses in again and you feel suddenly, acutely aware of where you are.
He senses it again.
“Hey,” he says, stepping just a fraction closer. His thumb brushes against your knuckles, subtle, instinctive. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Forget them for a second,” he murmurs. “Talk to me like we always do.”
You swallow. “About the match?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah. About the match.”
You exhale, the tension easing. “You scared me,” you admit. “For most of it.”
He laughs quietly. “Only most?”
“Eighty minutes,” you say. “To be exact.”
He tilts his head, mock-offended. “I had a plan.”
“You always say that.”
“And I’m usually right.”
You smile, small. “You were extraordinary. Simply extraordinary.”
Something soft flickers across his expression.
The noise seeps back in. A chant rolls through the stands, swelling, rhythmic, alive. Somewhere a camera whirs closer. A voice calls his name. Another laughs. Reality, impatient, taps him on the shoulder. He exhales and eases back half a step, though his hand still lingers at yours, reluctant.
That’s when the streamers fall again.
They drift slowly this time, unhurried, ribbons of white, blue and red catching in the air before settling around you. One brushes your cheek. Another tangles briefly in your hair before slipping free. Under the unforgiving stadium cold, sharp stadium light, your skin glows anyway, warm as burnished gold.
He forgets to move. For a heartbeat too long, he just looks.
“How did I get this too?” he murmurs, barely.
“Ky,” you whisper, half-laughing, noticing.
“Mmm,” a hum more than anything.
“You’re staring.”
His eyes flick to the falling colours and then back to you. “I know,” he says, unapologetically.
“This is… a lot,” you say, shaking your head, amused, self-aware.
He steps closer, lowering his voice again. “Breathe,” he says gently. “You’re doing great.”
Before you can retort, a photographer calls out, gesturing animatedly.
“Over here! Just one together!”
Kylian groans softly. “Ah.”
He squeezes your hand once — a silent question.
“Okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Okay.”
They guide you into position. The cameras flash immediately, a soft staccato of light. Someone off-frame laughs and calls, “Relax! It’s a celebration!”
Kylian tilts his head toward you. “See? They like you.”
“I think they like you,” you whisper back.
He grins, crooked and boyish. “That’s not what they’re shouting.”
Another camera clicks.
“Closer!” a voice insists.
Kylian complies easily, his arm settling at your back respectful, careful, but unmistakably there. You feel the warmth of him even through the layers of fabric, grounding you again.
“You good?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” you say.
A producer waves frantically, pointing upward. Kylian follows the gesture, then looks back at you with sudden delight.
“Look,” he says, lifting his free hand. “The screen.”
You glance up just as the Jumbotron fills with the two of you — streamers drifting, lights flaring, the moment impossibly cinematic.
“Oh,” you laugh, embarrassed. “Omg, no—”
“Yes,” he insists, already waving. “You have to wave.”
“Could I rather not—”
He nudges you gently. “Come on. They’re watching.”
You relent, lifting your hand in a small, shy wave. The crowd responds with louder cheers, warmer somehow. Kylian laughs again, triumphant.
He nods once, satisfied, then straightens as someone calls his name again, louder, insistent. Teammates. Officials. The trophy waiting.
He looks at you, regretful.
You squeeze his fingers and give him a sheepish smile. “Go.”
He hesitates just a second too long for a man who lives in motion. Then he leans in, his forehead nearly touching yours.
Content : Your Kylian dropped a poker tonight, four goals for you. So… ready to pay what you owe?
No hints just pure established relationship , motivation and PURE smut .
Kylian had always been intensity wrapped in a human body, sharp steps, sharp focus, sharp passion.
But lately, something had dulled.
Two matches for Real Madrid, and his fire looked… smothered.
From the quiet corner of the training stands, Y/N watched him with a mix of worry and helplessness.
He wasn’t bad, he could never be,but he was playing like someone fighting shadows no one else could see.
Every sprint was a little slower. Every shot a little hesitant. Every celebration, nonexistent.
The sun was dipping low when someone approached. The footsteps were careful, almost reluctant.
Xabi Alonso.
She straightened instinctively. He rarely spoke during training.
He sat down beside her, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving the field.
“Is everything okay at home?” His voice was low, almost gentle.
Y/N frowned. “Yes… why?”
“Kylian hasn’t been himself,” Xabi said, watching the forward miss a shot he should’ve buried with closed eyes. “Two matches now. I’m trying to understand why.”
She followed his gaze, Kylian’s jog back to the line, the little shake of his head, the frustration he couldn’t hide anymore.
Her chest tightened.
“He just needs time,” she murmured. “And less pressure.”
“We don’t have time,” Xabi replied quietly. “We need to win the next match.”
That stung more than she expected.
She turned to him. “I’m sorry, but why are you telling me this?”
For the first time, he looked away from the pitch and directly at her.
“Because you’re the only person he listens to when football stops.”
A beat.
“And sometimes motivation… comes from home.”
She blinked, stunned.
Then — dangerously — an idea bloomed in her mind.
A mischievous, shameless, wildly effective idea.
Her lips curved before she could stop them.
Xabi raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably not,” she said sweetly. “But he won’t be.”
Xabi had no idea, and he didn’t ask. He simply stood and nodded once.
“Help him,” he said. “In whatever way you know works.”
Oh, she would.
The apartment was warm when they arrived home. Kylian showered immediately, as usual.
By the time he came into the bedroom, hair damp, wearing only sweatpants, he looked exhausted.
He collapsed onto the bed beside her, head sinking into the pillow.
She rolled onto her side, watching him breathe slowly, eyes closed.
“Amour?” she whispered.
He hummed, a soft, tired sound she adored.
She brushed her fingers through the curls on his forehead. “Can we talk?”
He opened one eye, then the other, giving her a half-smile.
“For you? Always.”
She exhaled softly. “You haven’t looked like yourself on the pitch.”
His smile faded. “I know.”
“Is it something I can help with?”
Silence.
He looked up at the ceiling, jaw clenching. “I’m trying, Y/N. I swear I’m trying.”
“I know you are,” she said, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. “But trying alone is exhausting.”
They were facing each other on bed with their foreheads almost touching. His hand found her back, rubbing slowly.
That’s when her eyes started glimmering with something he immediately recognized, that dangerous spark she only got when she was plotting.
“Kylian,” she said softly, “how about we make a deal?”
His eyebrow rose. “A deal?”
“For every goal you score… you get something.”
A pause.
“A reward.”
His confusion melted into interest.
“What kind of reward?” he asked, his voice dropping a tone.
She leaned close enough for her breath to brush his ear.
“The kind that involves a bedroom… and your favorite kind of round.”
Kylian froze.
Then a slow, stunned smile spread across his face, boyish, cocky, and alive in a way she hadn’t seen in days.
“That’s your idea of motivation?” he whispered.
“It worked before,” she reminded him, nibbling her bottom lip.
He swallowed hard.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow, studying her like she was the only thing in the room.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.
“And you play better when you’re motivated,” she teased.
He laughed , really laughed, the sound deep and warm.
He pulled her into his hug, burying his face in her neck.
“You realize,” he murmured against her skin, “that now I have to score.”
She smiled, hands sliding slowly across his back. “That’s the point.”
Kylian pulled back, eyes darker now, not exhausted, not lost.
Focused.
Hungry.
“I’m going to score a hat-trick,” he said seriously.
“It’s not per match, Kylian,” she warned. “Every goal you get a round.”
He blinked. “Then I’ll score four.”
She laughed, pushing at his shoulder. “Relax! Your coach just wants one good match!”
But he wasn’t listening anymore.
He was already drifting into thoughts of the next match… and everything that would come after it.
For the first time, he wouldn’t have to hold himself back. He wouldn’t be limited to just one release, one moment, one taste of her.
This time he could have her again… and again,without feeling like a beast losing control, but like a man finally allowed to unleash everything with the woman he worships.
A deal. Her deal. Given willingly, teasingly, from the love of his life.He was already imagining the next game, and everything that came after.
For the first time in weeks, Kylian felt something ignite in him again.
Fire.
Purpose.
Want.
Y/N kissed the corner of his lips then his cheek gently.
“There he is,” she whispered. “My Kylian.”
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.
“You’re mine too,” he murmured, a promise in his voice. “And I’m scoring tomorrow.”
And she knew,
not just because of the deal,
not because Xabi asked,
but because for Kylian, she was always the reason he fought his way back.
The next night, in Piraeus-Greece, the Georgios Karaiskakis vibrated.
Real Madrid vs. Olympique, and the stadium felt like it was holding its breath.
The team lined up in the tunnel, the lights bright, the cameras hovering.
Kylian bounced lightly on his toes, jaw set, eyes sharp, almost too sharp.
Like someone who’d swallowed a secret and was now high on it.
Y/N watched from the VIP box, her heart racing.
She could see it already, the change.
The energy rolling off him.
The tension in his shoulders replaced with something electric.
“Someone’s fired up tonight,” a staff member murmured behind her.
Y/N bit back a smile.
If only they knew why.
From the first whistle, Kylian was a storm.
Every touch clean.
Every sprint violent.
Every run a knife slicing through Olympique’s defense, and to make it all worse, Olympique scored their first goal in the 8th minute of the match.
But behind all that intensity, Y/N knew exactly what was fueling him.
Each time he got the ball, his eyes flicked up, like he was imagining a scoreboard only he could see:
Goals: 0
Rounds owed: 0
Not for long.
First Goal — Minute 22
A quick give-and-go.
A burst of acceleration.
A defender left spinning in the grass.
Kylian curved the shot smoothly into the bottom left corner.
The stadium roared.
But Kylian didn’t run to the crowd.
He looked straight up.
At her. His world.
Just a small smirk, sharp, knowing, wicked.
Y/N’s breath hitched.
One.
Somewhere on the pitch, Xabi narrowed his eyes like he suddenly felt suspicious.
Second Goal — Minute 24’
Chaos in the box.
A rebound thrown into the air.
Kylian launched himself upward, kicking the ball past the keeper.
The stadium erupted again.
This time he didn’t smirk,
he winked.
Y/N’s stomach erupted in butterflies,covered her face with both hands, laughing under her breath.
Two.
He jogged back like a man keeping score of something far more personal than goals.
Third Goal — Minute 29’
The Olympiacos defense cracked early.
Kylian sliced between two defenders, controlling a pass on the turn.
One touch.
Two.
Shot.
Top corner.
A hat-trick in under 7 minutes.
The stadium roared so loudly the stands trembled.
Kylian didn’t jump or punch the air.
He just held up three fingers, eyes rising to find hers again.
Y/N mouthed, “You’re crazy.”
He nodded once,like: You have no idea.
Three.
Even from the pitch, you could practically feel his renewed fire.
Halftime
The locker room cameras caught nothing unusual.
But teammates noticed how Kylian sat down, towel around his neck, grinning at his phone.
A message from Mon amour 💋 :
“Slow down. You’re insane 😭”
He typed back smirking:
“You made me.”
Vinicius peeked over Kylian’s shoulder looking at his texts and shook his head.
“Ahhhhh Bro… whatever she said to you… let her say it again next week.”
Kylian just laughed, a dark, proud sound.
Second Half
Fourth Goal - Minute 59’
Kylian wasn’t finished.
Güler fed him a through ball.
He outran his defender,pure lightning.
The keeper stepped out, desperate.
Kylian chipped the ball with his head over him, effortless and disrespectful.
Fourth.
The stadium exploded. Kylian’s header.
Teammates tackled him, yelling, laughing, shoving him around.
But Kylian, flushed and breathless, barely heard them.
He was staring upward again, straight at her, eyes burning.
He mouthed:
“Four.”
Y/N felt her entire body go warm.
Xabi Alonso stood on the sideline smiling, arms crossed, eyebrows raised suspiciously high.
He muttered to his assistant: “We found the lever. Never take that woman away from him.
Full Time — 3 vs 4 Goals, and the 4 goals scored by the one and only Kylian Mbappé.
Kylian walked off the pitch glowing, sweat shining on his skin, heart thundering, adrenaline singing.
The cameras loved it.
His teammates teased him.
Journalists swarmed him.
But his mind?
His mind was already home.
Already imagining Y/N lying down beneath him counting on the rounds on her fingers with that submissive look in her eyes.
Already planning exactly how he was going to cash in .
And God, he couldn’t get home fast enough.
The moment Kylian stepped into the private hallway behind the locker rooms, he was still buzzing — adrenaline still humming in his veins, the echo of the crowd still vibrating in his bones.
But none of that compared to what happened the second he saw her.
Y/N was waiting in the hall, arms crossed, eyes simmering with a mix of pride and something much hotter.
Kylian stopped walking.
Stopped breathing, actually.
“Four,” she said softly, tilting her head. “You really did it.”
His jaw flexed.
“You said I needed motivation.”
“That,” she murmured, stepping closer until he could smell her perfume, “was not a request for you to lose your mind on the pitch.”
He laughed under his breath, a low, dangerous sound.
“I couldn’t help it.”
She placed a hand on his sweaty chest not pushing, not pulling, just touching.
Kylian’s breath hitched instantly.
“You looked alive out there,” she whispered.
“Fast. Sharp. Completely unstoppable.”
“And whose fault is that?” he murmured, leaning in, his forehead almost touching hers.
She didn’t back away. Not even an inch. Didn’t care about how sweaty he was or anything, she was too whipped for him to focus on that.
“Mine,” she admitted softly. “Apparently.”
Kylian swallowed hard.
His hand slid to her waist, not grabbing, just resting, but the contact alone made her pulse jump.
“Y/N,” he said, voice low with warning, “if you touch me like that again, I’m not waiting until we get home.”
Her smile turned slow. Dangerous.
“Who said I want to wait?”
His breath left him in one sharp exhale.
The hallway was too quiet.
Too empty.
Too full of charged air that buzzed between them like electricity.
Kylian’s hand tightened fractionally on her waist.
“You’re playing with fire.”
“And you,” she whispered, eyes dropping to his lips for half a second, “love fire.”
He did.
God, he did.
Before he could respond, footsteps echoed at the far end of the hallway, his
Kylian closed his eyes in frustration, jaw tightening like he was fighting the urge to drag her into the nearest room.
She leaned in, lips brushing the corner of his jaw, barely contact, but enough to make him freeze. “Go take the shower , take pictures with your mates, I ll talk abit with the girls and wait for you in your van”
“But I want you now” he whispered ,
“Good,” she cut in, stepping back just enough to take his hand.
“Then hurry.”
Her fingers slipped from his hand just as another staff member and his team mates approached round the corner.
Kylian straightened, tried to look normal,but his eyes stayed locked on her until the last possible second, like he was physically incapable of looking anywhere else.
She gave him one last look over her shoulder.
A look that said: Run. Don’t walk.
Then she disappeared down the opposite hallway.
Kylian dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard.
“Bro, you good?” Valverde asked as he passed.
Kylian swallowed. “Yeah. Just… thirsty.”
“Take water,” Valverde laughed, slapping his back.
If only that helped.
He showered in what had to be the fastest time of his entire career.
Soap, rinse, towel — done.
The whole time, images flashed in his head in quick, unhelpful succession:
Her whisper at his jaw.
Her hand on his chest.
Her telling him she didn’t want to wait.
By the time he pulled a shirt over his head, he was wound so tight he could barely hear the noise around him.
“Leave him,” Vinicius added knowingly. “He’s got somewhere to be.”
Kylian didn’t even try to deny it.
He grabbed his bag and practically jogged toward the exit.
His black van was parked near the underground ramp, tinted windows reflecting the stadium lights.
And inside the van was the woman he needs so bad.
If anything… she looked even more put-together.
Even more deliberate.
Hair perfect.
Eyes sharp.
Posture confident in a way that hit him straight in the lungs.
She watched him sit beside her, like she was the one in control of the night, and he was just trying to keep up.
“You were fast,” she said softly.
“You told me to hurry,” he replied, voice lower than he intended.
“And you always listen?” she murmured.
“For you?”
His throat tightened.
“Yeah.”
The driver drove off and her hand softly intertwined with his, as she spoke softly.
“Kylian.”
He turned.
She leaned closer, eyes softening just a fraction, enough to break through all the adrenaline flooding his system.
“You looked happy tonight,” she said quietly. “Not just good. Happy.”
He stared at her, stunned for a second.
All the noise he’d been carrying the past weeks… it just fell away.
“Because of you,” he said simply.
Something flickered in her expression, warmth, guilt, love, pride, all tangled at once.
Then she pulled herself together, squared her shoulders, and smirked.
Kylian turned his head toward her slowly, squeezing her hands that was in his.
“Y/N,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes?”
His eyes darkened again.
“Start counting.”
The ride home felt like an eternity.
Kylian didn’t speak, didn’t even look at her again for more than a second, because every time he did, his breath hitched and he felt the restraint in his body stretch dangerously thin.
Y/N kept her hands in his and the other catching her phone, pretending to scroll on tiktok but her leg bounced the entire way.
She felt him beside her like a second heartbeat.
The moment the van rolled to a stop beneath their hotel, Kylian was already reaching for the door.
She followed him out quickly.
The hallway lights were dim, echoing each step they took, but neither of them spoke.
Silence wasn’t empty; it was trembling.
By the time they reached their apartment door, Kylian’s hands were shaking.
He slid the key card against the lock.
Or… tried to.
It scraped against the plate.
Missed.
He tried again, slower ,but his breath stuttered, and the key card slipped again with a metallic click.
Y/N giggled, voice was barely a whisper.
“Kylian…”
He pressed his forehead to the door, exhaling a rough, uneven breath that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite frustration.
“I can’t—”
His voice cracked with a helpless kind of hunger.
“I can’t even think straight.”
She stepped up behind him, one hand on the back of his shirt, gathering the fabric softly.
“I noticed.”
That did it.
He turned so fast she barely had time to breathe before his hands were on her face, warm, firm, pulling her into him.
His mouth met hers like it wasn’t a kiss he’d been holding back all night… but a blackout.
Heat surged between them instantly, all the tension, all the restraint snapping at once.
Y/N’s back hit the door as Kylian kissed her, not soft, not patient, but with every ounce of adrenaline he’d stored since the first goal.
Her fingers curled in his shirt, pulling him even closer.
He broke the kiss for a second,only a second, his forehead resting against hers, breathing hard.
“Open the door,” she whispered, breath brushing his lips.
He shook his head, eyes locked on hers, pupils blown wide.
“No. Not yet.”
And then he kissed her again, deeper, slower this time, a deliberate slide of lips that made her knees weaken.
The key was still in his hand, dangling uselessly against her hip.
“Kylian—” she tried again, breathless.
His hand fumbled blindly behind her, never taking his eyes off her lips.
There was a shaky click, the lock turning at last.
The door pushed inward a few centimeters.
But he didn’t move.
He just stood there, chest rising fast, one hand braced beside her head on the doorframe, the other still gripping the key like he’d forgotten how to let go.
“Kylian,” she whispered, her fingers sliding up the back of his neck, curling into his hair. “Inside.”
He swallowed hard, the kind of swallow that meant he was hanging on by a thread.
Then he nudged the door open with his shoulder.
The hotel they were staying at in Greece was warm, quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting.
He didn’t even flip the lights on.
Instead, with a soft drag of breath, he stepped forward, walking her backward into the entryway, never breaking eye contact, never easing the intensity in his face.
The door clicked shut behind them.
It was only then that he finally spoke, low, rough, barely formed,
“I’ve been thinking about this since the first goal.”
Her lips parted, not from surprise, but from recognition, because she’d seen it in his eyes all night.
“That’s why you kept looking at me,” she murmured.
His hand slid to her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, slow and deliberate.
“I couldn’t stop.”
He leaned in, kissing her again, slower now, deeper, a kiss that wasn’t just adrenaline anymore but something heavier, something that pulled more than just breath from her.
Her back landed against the inside wall, warm from the heating system.
He followed, caging her in without touching anything but her waist.
He broke the kiss by a fraction, lips hovering over hers, breath mingling.
“You didn’t see the way I ran after the second goal,” he murmured, voice low enough to shiver down her spine.
“I was thinking about this moment. Exactly this.”
“And now that you have it?” she whispered.
His mouth curved, not a smile, a confession wearing the shape of one.
“Now I’m not letting you out of this hallway.”
Her fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him closer.
“Then don’t.”
He didn’t.
He didn’t hesitate.
The second those words left her mouth, Kylian’s hands slid to her waist with a slow, deliberate grip, the kind that said he’d been holding back for far too long.
He pressed into her fully now, chest to chest, she could feel his hard cock pressed against where she needs him the most, breath to breath, like the space between them had been offending him all night.
Y/N whimpered as her back hit the wall again, but this time he guided her there gently, like he wanted to feel every inch of the movement.
His forehead dropped to her cheek for a moment, not from hesitation, but from the intensity of having her finally, finally where his mind had been stuck for ninety minutes.
“You don’t know,” he murmured against her skin, voice low and unsteady, “how hard it was to focus out there.”
She tilted her head slightly, giving him more access, her eyes fluttering shut as his breath traced down the line of her jaw, kissing her neck softly.
“Ah Kylian…Looked like you managed just fine,” she whispered trying to stop her moan , trying to sound composed but failing when he brushed a slow kiss just below her ear.
His fingers flexed on her waist.
“No,” he said, lips moving against her skin, “I managed because I knew what I was coming home to.”
That confession hit her harder than any touch.
Her hand slid up his chest, feeling his heartbeat, fast, strong, pounding like he’d sprinted straight from the stadium to her.
He lifted his head then, eyes meeting hers with a look that was nothing short of ravenous.
Not rushed.
Not reckless.
Just absolutely, undeniably sure.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers with a slow firmness that made her breath catch.
Then he guided her hand upward, placing it flat against his racing heartbeat.
“You feel that?” he whispered.
She nodded, barely breathing.
“That’s you,” he said.
“From the first goal to the last whistle… that was all you.”
Her lips parted, a soft inhale escaping, not from surprise, but from the way he said it.
Raw.
Direct.
Unfiltered.
He leaned in, kissing her again,but this time it wasn’t fire.
It was control.
Pressure.
A slow claiming, like he wanted to memorize the shape of her mouth.
Y/N felt her knees weaken.
Kylian noticed, he always did.
His hands slid to her hips, steadying her, then lifting slightly as if testing how easily he could move her if he wanted.
A soft laugh left her throat, breathless and warm.
“Careful,” she whispered. “You’re not as tired as you said.”
He smiled against her lips , a slow, dangerous curve.
“Oh, I’m tired,” he murmured.
“But for this? I’ve got more than enough left.”
Her fingers curled in his shirt again.
“Then don’t stop,” she breathed.
He didn’t.
His hand traced up her side, slow enough to feel every curve of her, his thumb brushing the edge of her ribs before sliding higher, reverent, deliberate, hungry without rushing.
Her breath hitched, just once, and that single sound tore a quiet groan from his throat.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other gripping her waist like he needed her to stay anchored to him.
The hallway felt small now.
Too small.
Too hot.
Too full of two people who had been waiting all night for exactly this kind of moment.
Kylian broke the kiss only long enough to whisper, voice low and ragged:
“Bedroom?”
She nodded instantly.
The word bedroom wasn’t a suggestion.
It was an order, low, rough, and carrying all the promise of the night they’d been holding back.
Kylian didn’t even give her time to take a single step.
His hands slid beneath her, strong and sure, and he lifted her like she weighed nothing, like she was already his to do with as he pleased.
He carried her through the dim hotel suite with a slow, predatory stride, each step deliberate, controlled… deadly focused. A man who finally had what he’d been starving for.
He didn’t pause at the walls he once pushed her against, didn’t even glance at the places their chaos had marked before.
No, tonight he went straight for the bed.
He lowered her onto the cool, soft duvet, the contrast stealing a gasp from her lips.
Moonlight spilled across the room, painting his body in sharp lines of silver and shadow, every muscle tight, every breath steadied, every inch of him pointed at her.
He stood over her like a storm barely contained, eyes locked on hers with a hunger that made her pulse stutter.
“Four,” he murmured, the word landing on her skin like a promise and a warning all at once, deep, rough, and final.
He didn’t wait for permission.
He didn’t need it.
He’d earned every second of what came next.
He was dominant, but not rushed. He stripped them of the last vestiges of clothing with a precision that was terrifyingly attractive, his gaze never leaving her face. The first round was all about taking, a reclaiming of the energy she had ignited.
He knelt above her, placing his hands on either side of her head, caging her in, and simply looked at her,a long, silent moment of appraisal.
"The first goal was mine," he murmured, his voice deep and rough. "It was the start. And I’m starting now."
He lowered himself slowly, his kiss intense and demanding, his large, warm hands cupping her boobs, pulling her toward him with a forceful, heavy claim,grunting as he feels her tongue against his.
This round was a testament to his sheer physical control. He took his time, using his hands and mouth to drive her pleasure to a sharp, He wanted her to be fully aware of every second, every suck, every lick and every kiss to her pussy.
He watched her face intently, a dark amusement flickering in his eyes as her breathing turned ragged and helpless with soft whimpers and moans.
He licked her clit with a maddening, slow depth, drawing out her sighs and gasps, allowing her no control over the pace.
When her entire body finally seized in a shattering climax that left her trembling and weak, he allowed himself a slow, triumphant smile, pecking her sensitive clit softly with a kiss.
"One," he confirmed as he climbed up kissing her cheek, the word muffled against her skin, a heavy, satisfied exhale.
Y/N simply tangled her fingers in his damp hair, kissing the muscle of his shoulder.
She could feel the hard, immediate return of his focus. He was already thinking of the next position.
He positioned his hard rock dick against her core. She whimpers as she felt his tip against her aching hole “Kylian…please”
He couldn’t even handle teasing himself, he thrusted in one movement, the movement was not gentle, but an immediate, forceful declaration, mirroring the acceleration he used in the field.
His thrusts were deep, rapid, and heavy, Y/N’s cry was swallowed by his lips, overwhelming intensity. She could feel his controlled aggression in his thrusts, the clenched lines of his jaw, and the relentless like rhythm that he established instantly.
His breath, and groans, focused inhale-exhale cycle, matching the thrusts and the pace of his body, it sounded less like lovemaking and more like a man pushing his physical limits toward a critical finish line.
His eyes, dark and fixated on hers, held the same tunnel vision he used when approaching the goal, seeing nothing but the target.
He thrusted into her with a final, deep, shuddering plunge, his entire body locking up in a wave of raw relief as he found the explosive release he had been chasing all night.
When he groaned her name in her ear as his climax hit, it was a physical shockwave that shuddered through his entire body, but he was still hard as a rock.
He collapsed onto her, utterly spent for the moment, burying his face in the curve of her neck, as she whimpered breathing hard beneath him, oh god she is all his, just his.
"Two," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You're getting breathless, ma chérie."
She just managed to loop her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their foreheads met. "Don't... talk," she managed, her voice a tired croak.
He laughed softly, his relief profound. The heavy shadow of the last two weeks was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, dark confidence.
He didn't move far. He only helped to turn, until she was sprawled on her fours.
He was breathing normally again, his eyes open, gazing at her perfect ass, his hands were immediately proprietary on her back, stroking a steady, possessive rhythm.
“Kylian," she murmured as she felt him still hard as a rock after two full rounds, turning into the cool pillow, "I'm genuinely done. I have zero left."
He looked down at her, his lips twitching in a playful, superior smirk. He ran a hand down her back, the warm contact sending a shiver through her despite her fatigue.
"Ah, but the contract is the contract," he teased, his voice low and rich. "The hat-trick goal was the best one, the most arrogant. I can't skip it."
He whispered the details of the third goal,the slice between the defenders, the top-corner finish, while rubbing his tip softly against her folds back and forth.
He kept on teasing her by pushing the head of his tip then pulling it out again, until she was whimpering, begging him to stop teasing, and to just thrust into her. “Kylian…please put it in, please”
"You look tired tho" he teased again, pressing a deep, possessive kiss on her lower back that is facing him. "Maybe I should let you rest."
"No," she gasped, her hands clenching tightly on the bed sheets. "Kylian, p-please."
He smiled, a dark, victorious flash of teeth in the moonlight, finally granting her what she craved, entering her with a beautiful, unhurried ease.
He kept the pace slow, deep, and utterly focused, listening to her every moan and every whimper.
Watching his cock as it disappears inside of her fully making him groan, she literally swallows him full with her tight beautiful hole as she engulfed all of him.
He grunted “you are still so tight putain..” , as she started to clench around him, feeling how close she is to a sharp, stunning climax that felt almost too intense for her exhausted body.
He pulled back after she screamed his name in the pillow legs shaking non stop by now, his skin slick with sweat, his eyes fixed on hers.
"Three," he announced, his voice thick with triumph. "Just one left, love."
Y/N closed her eyes, breathlessutterly defeated, but with a wide, weary smile. "You are going to owe me about five days of sleep after this."
He kissed her back and shoulders softly turning her on her back to face him. “I love you.”
He layed down beside her, and didn't let her rest. He simply settled back, pulling her instantly and roughly into his arms, rolling them so she on top of him, and was molded entirely against his chest.
He was still hard, his body still tense, but this time, the urgency was gone, replaced by a quiet, fierce tenderness.
"This one," he murmured, his lips against the shell of her ear, "is the fourth goal. The header."
He shifted, positioning her gently on top of him. This was the slowest round, the most profound. He entered her while holding her tightly against him, his thrust into her with his hips while she is laying on top of him, movements heavy, rhythmic, and intimate, a slow, deep communion rather than an aggressive taking.
It was the closing statement, the final word on the matter of his commitment and his desire. There were no more gasps, no more frantic movements. Only a deep, synchronized rhythm that was entirely unique to them, a low, wordless conversation that settled the storm that had raged through his soul for weeks.
He moved inside her until the tension in his muscles finally, completely dissolved, his breath turning soft and even. “I want to come in your mouth”. She nodded pulling out of him with a whimper and went down to her favorite snack. Fuck, she missed it.
She licked him earning a groan from him which made her smile and took him in her mouth, sucking , slurping on him, on her champion.
As his breath got faster , groaning her name while his hips buckled up in her mouth. “Fuck, bébé am c-close.”
With his final, heavy climax, he whispered with a deep tired voice, hands holding hair “ Swallow it all , no?” .
She smiled as she milked him dry, swallowing it all, then kissed his now soft cock and crawled to lay beside him exhausted as ever.
He pressed his forehead against the side of her neck, letting his weight settle fully beside her, hugging her while his body is finally truly relaxed.
"Done," he breathed, the word an exhausted, satisfied whisper. "Four."
Y/N laid beside him, utterly spent, her fingers tracing the hard muscle of his chest. The hotel was silent again, the moonlight painting stripes across the duvet. All the exhaustion, all the frustration, all the noise of the stadium,it was gone.
She kissed his chin gently. "Welcome back, Kylian."
He didn't reply verbally. He just tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer until no space remained between them.
He slowly and softly settled into the deep immediate sleep, as the love of his life is on his hug.
Immediate sleep of a champion who had fought his way back, finding his peace and his reward in the arms of the only person who truly mattered.
A/N : Idk what possessed me; but I blame it on the last match and his poker.
Plot: A stretch of distance wears at you more than you admit, until the moment he returns and everything unspoken finds its way back into your hands, your breath, and the quiet between you two.
Genre: Fluff, romantic smut
Warnings: It’s smut.... What warnings should I give?
You sat curled up on the bed, phone squeezed in your palm like it was the only thing holding you together. Kylian had left barely a day ago, but the apartment already felt wrong — too quiet, too cold, like it noticed he was gone just as much as you did.
When his name lit up your screen, your heart jumped.
“No, no.. It’s his turn!” he said on the line and you heard someone talking back.
“I just played the reverse card!” He raised his voice, and you smiled. It felt good hearing his voice.
“Naaaah, you have to pay more attention, bro. Tsk.” He laughed. “Wesh wesh (slang for: What the fuck)—You wanna play UNO, you gotta play it right!”
“Whatever man.” He was laughing, pacing the way he always did when he talked to you. “Allô?”
“Hi.” You greeted.
“Hi, love. How are you?”
“I’m good.” You lied.
“Yeah?” he asked mid-laugh. “Missing me?” He teased.
And you…
Something in his happy tone — the one you loved — made the distance hit you like a weight on your chest. You pressed a hand to your lips, trying to keep quiet, but your breath stuttered.
“Y/n?” His voice dropped an octave, soft but worried. “All good?”
You didn’t answer. Your throat closed, the tears finally slipping over.
“.....Y/n?”
You were breaking.
You tried.
You really tried.
But your voice cracked. “…Yeah........”
He stopped immediately. You could hear it — the stillness, the way everything in him froze.
“Yo... Where are you going? It’s your turn.”
A distant voice said through the line.
“Yeah.. Play on.” He said. You heard the ruffle of leather. And you knew he was moving to a quieter, more private place.
“Don’t be a spoilsport!” Another said.
“I’m stepping out.” He exclaimed. “Go on without me.”
His steps seemed rushed. “What is it? Did someone bother you?”
“No.” You mutter.
“What is it, sweetie. Tell me.” He asked in a quiet, calm tone.
You kept quiet for a while.
“Y\N?”
Then he heard it — the smallest, broken sniff.
“…Tssk.” A sharp little click of frustration left him. “No. No, no, no. Don’t do that. Baby…” His voice cracked just a little. “Why are you crying?”
You covered your mouth, embarrassed. “I—I’m sorry. I just… I miss you so much.”
A long breath came through the line — shaky, like he was fighting himself.
“Y/n…” he murmured, and your name sounded like it hurt him to say. “Ma chérie… Don’t do this to me right now.. Please. Please, please. please don’t cry.”
Your heart clenched.
“I know I shouldn’t cry,” you whispered.
“Oh, love” he hissed again, breath trembling. “You think I don’t miss you? You think it’s not killing me that you’re crying and I’m stuck here?”
You could picture him perfectly — jaw clenched, head tilted back, eyes closed like he was trying not to lose it.
“Just, please don’t cry.” he continued softly, “I can’t do anything while I’m here and you’re there.”
His voice thickened. “You… you don’t know how much I want to be home right now. To hold you. To kiss you. To feel you..”
You stayed quiet, listening to his voice.
“Oh, what I would give to feel your skin on my skin right now.” his soft moan escaped his lips, voice breaking. “Do you know what it does to me hearing you like that? I can’t handle it.”
A beat.
Your breath shook.
“I just miss you.”
He exhaled sharply through his teeth. That helpless, frustrated sound he only made when something genuinely hurt him. “I can’t even sleep without you stealing all the covers. I think my body’s confused.”
You laughed wetly.
“Aaah,..” he said warmly. “There it is. My favorite sound.”
You sniffed again. “Just promise you’ll come home as fast as you can.”
“Faster,” he said. “I’ll come home running if I have to.”
“Really?”
“Try me.” He chuckled, then softened. “I love you, Y/n. More than a win, more than anything. So please… no more crying, okay? Just... Two more days, okay?”
And somehow, even from miles away, you felt him closer.
“Okay..” You wiped your hot tears.
The laughter of his friends fading behind him. Your breathing has steadied now—no more trembling, no more sharp hiccups between words. Just the soft, fragile quiet that comes after tears.
“Do you want me to stay on the line till you fall asleep?”
“Aren’t you gonna… play UNO?”
He lets out a slow breath. His voice drops to that tender tone he only ever uses for you.
“UNO can wait,” he said softly, almost like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Tonight I just want to hear you breathe easy again… Stay with you until you fall asleep.”
You’re quiet, maybe unsure, maybe feeling guilty. He heard it in the way you shifted, the soft rustle of your blanket.
“I don’t want to keep you,” you whisperd.
He shakes his head, even though you couldn’t see. His voice lowers, sincere, steady.
“You can be selfish with me. I allow it.”
He walks slowly down the hall, finding a quieter corner, sliding down the wall until he’s sitting with his knees bent.
“Listen,” he murmurs, “I’ll stay. I don’t care if it takes five minutes or an hour. I’ll be right here.”
You sniffled once—but it’s a soft sound now, not broken. “Okay,”
He closes his eyes, letting all the noise of the lobby fade away.
“I’m not going anywhere. Just relax, okay? Breathe. I’m right here with you.”
Your breathing slowed again, steadier now, safer. Warm.
You whisperd, sleepier than before: “Kylian…”
“Hm?”
Your breathing has gone soft again, that fragile calm that comes after a storm. He thinks you’re drifting off when your voice suddenly slips through—quiet, a little drowsy, almost childlike.
“...Can you bring me rabitos when you come back?”
For a moment he just blinks, caught off guard. Then a warm, helpless laugh escapes him—low, breathy, the kind that comes from pure affection. He runs a hand on the top of his head, smiling to himself like you’re the most precious thing in the world.
“Sure.” he said softly, as if savoring the word. He chuckled again, quieter this time, the kind of laugh meant only for you. “I’ll bring you rabitos.”
He feels his chest melt at how sleepy you sound.
Another little hum. Softer. Slower.
He lowered his head, speaking into the quiet like it’s something sacred.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
Your breathing settles into that steady, dream-bound rhythm, and he smiled to himself—alone in the hallway, phone pressed to his ear, listening to the girl he loves fall asleep with a candy on her mind and his name on her comfort.
He smiled, leaning his head back against the wall.
And he stayed there, phone against his ear, listening to your breathing slowly melt into the quiet rhythm of someone finally drifting toward sleep.
The airport doors slid open with a whoosh of cold air, and you stood there, hands twisted together, heart pounding so hard it felt like it echoed in your ribs. People streamed past you — families, businessmen, tourists — but you only looked for one face.
Then you saw him.
Kylian stepped out with the team, iPods in his ears, jacket in his hand, backpack slung over one shoulder. He was half-listening to something Jude was saying, tired but still laughing— Until his eyes found you.
Everything on his face changed in an instant.
The exhaustion melted.
The travel-weariness vanished.
And a slow, uncontrollable grin spread across his lips; bright, boyish, immediate. Like seeing you lit something inside him that he’d been missing for days.
His teammates noticed. They always noticed.
Kylian was already walking faster, steps growing quicker, purposeful, until he suddenly stopped mid-stride.
His grin faded into a soft pout.
Because your eyes were already filling with tears.
He lifted one hand in the air, still walking, and shook his head dramatically.
“Non…” he muttered under his breath, lips forming the word again and again as he gestured at you with both hands like he was scolding a toddler. “No tears. No crying. Non...”
But you couldn’t help it. Seeing him — really seeing him — after missing him so painfully made your chest cave in with relief.
He gave up on pretending to be annoyed. He practically jogged the last few steps, weaving past people with a single-minded purpose.
And then he was in front of you.
Before you could say a word, he slid his arms around your waist and pulled you into him — tight, warm, almost desperate. His face buried instantly in your neck, his breath trembling against your skin.
You clung to him, fingers fisting in the back of his navy blue shirt as if letting go wasn’t an option.
He inhaled deeply, slow, reverent. Pressing his nose into your hair.
“God…” he whispered. “Your smell. I missed this.”
You trembled softly in his arms.
He tightened his hold and murmured, voice low and steady against your ear:
“I’m here.”
Another warm breath.
“I’m here.”
His hand slid up your back, soothing.
“I’m home now. It’s all right.”
Your eyes squeezed shut as he cupped the back of your head, pressing his forehead to yours.
“No more crying,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with his thumb, even though he was secretly just as emotional. “You’re going to make me lose it.”
A tiny smile broke through your tears. “Sorry.”
“Hey,” he muttered, but his grin was soft, affectionate, hopelessly in love. “Come here.”
He kissed the corner of your mouth softly. just enough to calm, to ground, to say everything words couldn’t.
Then he rested his forehead against yours once more.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
The car ride home was quiet in the best way.
Full of breaths you’d held for days.
Full of glances, fingers brushing, little sighs of relief whenever your eyes met.
When you pulled into the parking spot, he didn’t move right away. He just sat there, staring at your intertwined hands like they grounded him.
Then he lifted your hand slowly, pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, and whispered:
“At last.”
You didn’t need to answer. You both felt it.
As soon as the door shut behind you, Kylian dropped his bag with a thud and stepped in close, arms sliding around your waist, body sinking against yours like gravity was pulling him into you.
His forehead brushed your cheek.
His humming came out low, gentle, almost relieved.
You melted into him, fingers slipping into his curls as he pressed kiss after kiss to your jaw, your cheek, your temple — slow, lingering, like he was memorizing your skin all over again.
“Do you know,” he murmured, nudging his nose against your cheek, “how long I’ve been wanting to hold you like this?”
You whispered back, “How long?”
He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Since the second I left.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were warm, heavy, a little glassy — like he was letting himself feel everything he’d been pushing down.
“I hate being away from you,” he admitted. “I hate not being able to touch you, hate hearing you cry on the phone, hate knowing I can’t fix it right then and there.”
His jaw flexed. “It kills me.”
You slid your hands to his cheeks. “You’re here now.”
He leaned into your palms instantly. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
Then, with his gleaming eyes he only had for you: „..and I’m gonna fix it”
He wrapped his arms tighter around your waist and picked you up just slightly — enough to make you gasp — carrying you toward the couch.
He sank down with you on his lap, holding you close, chest pressed to yours, arms wrapped securely around your back.
Your face tucked into his neck.
His hand slipped under the back of your shirt, just to feel your skin.
He breathed you in like he was starving.
His fingers curled possessively at your waist.
He kissed your shoulder.
Your neck.
Your hair.
Then, softer than anything:
“I really love you, you know?”
You were curled on his lap, legs draped around him, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders as if you were afraid he might disappear again.
But Kylian just held you there, one hand stroking your lower back, the other resting warm on your thigh — grounding you both.
„I love you, too.” You whispered and gulped. Heat rising up. „Pull me closer.”
He slid one arm around your waist and pulled you in even tighter, your chests pressed, your breath mingling with his.
He leaned back an inch, eyes soft, teasing. “Is this close enough?”
You shook your head immediately.
His lips twitched.
He sat up, his face close to yours. Breaths mingling. He licked his own lips, while looking at yours.
“Now?” he murmured.
You shook your head again.
He huffed a tiny laugh through his nose — not mocking, just utterly gone for you.
“Not close enough for you, hm?”
Your cheeks warmed. You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to.
Kylian’s gaze deepened, softened — something melting behind his eyes.
Slowly, he reached down and tugged his shirt off, dropping it on the couch beside him with a soft thud.
And then he took your hand gently — so gently — and placed it flat on his bare chest, right over his pounding heart.
The moment your palm touched him, his breath hitched.
His skin was warm and golden beneath your fingers, muscles shifting as he breathed.
“How about now?” he whispered, leaning in, brushing his lips over yours without actually kissing you. The ghost of contact made your whole body tighten.
You shook your head, barely able to speak.
His breath hit your mouth.
He made a low sound, almost a groan, and pulled you in tighter by the waist.
“Now?” His lips brushed yours again — barely, barely — like he was torturing you and himself at the same time.
You hum softly.
His hand slid slowly down your arm, barely grazing you — the lightest, softest touch, sending shivers racing across your skin.
“Did you miss my touch?”
You inhaled sharply.
Your eyes squeezed shut for a moment like you needed to breathe through the feeling. When you opened them again, they burned.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His fingers traced up your arm — slow but sure — leaving goosebumps in their wake.
You shivered, and he watched it happen like it physically pained him in the best way.
“Like this?” he murmured, brushing his fingertips from your wrist to your shoulder, then back down, eyes locked onto yours.
You nodded, but he shook his head, leaning in until his lips were a breath from yours.
“I want to hear you.” he whispered, voice rough.
You exhaled, shaking. “Yes.”
His hand slid to the back of your neck, warm, steady, guiding you in. „Let me touch you properly, then.”
And then he kissed you.
Soft.
Slow.
It was all the days apart, all the longing, all the held-back wanting crashing at once.
His other hand clutched your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips moved with yours — deep, hungry, like he couldn’t get enough, like he’d been starving for you.
Your fingers twisted into his curls, tugging, and he let out a low, throaty sound against your mouth that sent heat flooding through you.
He pulled back just an inch — panting, forehead pressed to yours, breath mixing in short, hot bursts.
“God…” he whispered, eyes burning into yours. “I’ve been going insane without you.”
Then he kissed you again — harder this time, full of fire and need and everything he hadn’t said over the phone.
His fingers traced the length of your arm again, slower this time, deliberate and tender, as if he was relearning every inch of you.
His forehead brushed yours.
“Tell me…” he whispered, breath warm against your lips.
“Tell me how much you missed me.”
Your voice was barely a breath. “More than I could handle.”
Kylian kissed the corner of your mouth — slow, lingering, reverent.
“I have to make up for it, don’t I?” he murmured, hand sliding to your waist to pull you even closer — impossibly closer. Guiding you to grind on him.
Your breath was already uneven, but his was worse — sharp, hot, almost shaky — like he was barely holding himself together with you moving on his lap like this.
Your faces were so close your noses brushed.
So close he could feel every tiny hitch of your breathing.
So close he kept flicking his eyes down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, then down again, like he was losing the battle not to kiss you senseless.
“Kylian…” you whispered.
That was it.
That tiny, trembling way you said his name — it snapped something in him.
He groundsled your waist tighter on his bulge.
His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, and he whispered in a low, breathless voice:
„I love the sound of my name coming from your mouth.”
His forehead pressed to yours, breaths chaotic, lips brushing yours with every inhale.
You barely got time to answer before he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands gripping your waist like he needed you anchored to him.
The kiss turned urgent, hot, almost frantic. The kind of kiss that had been trapped in countless messages and missed calls and nights apart.
In one swift, breathless motion, he tightened his hold on your thighs.
“Hold on to me,” he murmured against your mouth.
Before you could even process it, he lifted you — strong arms scooping you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.
He exhaled, voice breaking between kisses as your lips brushed down his jaw „I’m taking you to bed.”
You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders, but he kept kissing you through it, walking blindly toward the bedroom with you in his arms, barely pulling away for air.
He pressed you against the hallway wall for a second, just long enough to kiss you hard, his body pinning yours gently but firmly.
Your breath left you entirely.
“Kylian, I—”
He kissed the word right off your lips, swallowing the sound.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about this. About you. About your mouth… your hands…” You confessed.
His breath hit your cheek as you whispered, “I needed you.”
Your hands cupped his face, pulling him in again, and he kissed you like he’d been without oxygen and you were the first breath he’d taken in days.
„This night will be worth the wait.”
He carried you the rest of the way, steps hurried, controlled but uneven with how badly he wanted you close.
When he reached the bedroom, he laid you down gently — so gently it contrasted the fire in his eyes — but he didn’t let go of you. Not even for a second.
He came down over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other sliding back to your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip.
Your breaths tangled.
Your noses brushed.
Your lips hovered just a breath apart.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
You did.
Kylian’s eyes were dark, burning, but soft around the edges — full of need, yes, but also relief, and love, and the ache of missing you.
“How deep do you want it?” he murmured, voice barely there.
Your fingers traced his jaw, and he shivered under your touch.
“Deep,” you whispered, breath shaky. “Slow and deep.”
Something in his expression cracked — a mixture of hunger and tenderness and something deeper.
He lowered his forehead to yours, lips brushing, eyes half-closed.
“Fuck,” he breathed, right before he kissed you again — harder, deeper, more passionate than all the ones before.
The moment his lips met yours again, the world shrank to the heat of his breath and the weight of his body hovering over yours.
Kylian kissed you like he couldn’t pace himself, like every second away from you had been stored up in him and was breaking loose all at once. His hand slid to your waist, fingers spreading, gripping you as if he needed proof you were really beneath him.
Your breath hitched when he deepened the kiss, his mouth moving with a hungry, uneven urgency — not rushed, not careless, but desperate.
He wanted you naked, but it’s not your body that he was thinking of. He wanted to undress every fear that you may have.
He wanted to unravel your doubts, and reassure you that you deserve to be loved right.
He wanted you naked, but it’s the beautiful vulnerability that he seeked.
He pulled back just slightly, panting against your lips.
“Y/n…”
Your name came out rough, like he’d dragged it up from somewhere deep in his chest. „Sit up. Let me undress you.”
He tenderly took each piece off,
Layer by layer.
Sweater.
Jeans.
Bra.
Panties.
Leaving you bare.
Watching you unfold.
Like petals of a flower.
He took off his pants as well.
His boxers.
Clothes piled on the floor.
You touched the hot skin of his chest. And he took your hand to guide it down to his abdomen.
He let out a breath — a shaky, needy one — and leaned into your touch like he’d been craving it more than anything.
Something flickered in his eyes — a soft surrender, a wild wanting.
He lowered himself until his body pressed fully against yours, warm skin molding to yours, his weight grounding you and igniting you all at once.
He slipped inside you, slowly, and held there for a moment. Simply gazing into your eyes. Surveying the depths of your soul as he tested the depths of your body.
His forehead dropped to your cheek as he whispered through a breathless laugh:
“Oh, Y/N,..”
His lips dragged slowly along your jaw. A lingering glide of heat that made your back arch toward him.
He felt it.
He groaned, low and unfiltered, and his hand moved up your side, tracing the shape of you like he was relearning every line he’d missed.
Your heart hammered under his touch.
“I missed you, Kylian…”
He lifted his head so your faces were level — eyes burning, breath fanning across your lips.
You cupped his jaw, pulling him in again.
The kiss he gave you wasn’t gentle.
It was raw, consuming, full of need that had been simmering far too long.
It stole your breath.
It stole his next breath too.
His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you up into him in one smooth, instinctive motion. Your bodies meeting halfway with a heat that sent shivers racing through both of you.
He grabbed both of your wrists, pinned your hands above your head.
Thrusting deeper.
S l o w e r.
s
l
o
w
e
r
You wanted to touch him, but his grip didn’t loosen up, just like his desire for you.
Your lips broke apart only because he had to breathe, but he stayed so close your noses brushed, your breaths tangled, your lips ghosted.
„Can you moan for me, y/n?”
He nuzzled his nose on the bottom of your neck. „Bless me with the sound of it.” He muttered.
And you moaned.
From the depth of your soul.
His eyes fluttered shut, like the sounds hit somewhere vulnerable.
He lowered his lips to yours again — slower, deeper, more intimate — and murmured against your mouth:
“Oh, how I’ve missed the feeling of you.”
Your eyes teared up again.
Because you love him.
You love his smile, the way he looks at you, the way he holds you, the way he touches and kisses you.
You love his hands, his arms, his lips, his eyes. You love his body.
You love the way he thinks, the way his mind works. You love that he allows himself to be vulnerable with you and shares his deepest thoughts and knows you will not judge him and knows you will still love him.
You love how he loves. He loves life and he loves others. He loves so much. And you feel so lucky; he is in love with you.
He loves you…
And you love him, mind, body, and soul.
You said his name.
And he tasted it on your tongue. Breathed it into your lungs.
Till it mingled with your blood.
He said your name.
He let it escape with his breath onto your lips and into your ear as you felt him thrusting in and out.
You said each other’s names,
In the cold of the night,
You comforted one another, stroked, touched, and kissed.
He thrusted faster then,
„I’m close. Oh, I’m so close.” He said in a low, shaky tone.
You let him feel the ripples from your tongue, erupting so strong, that he had to hold onto the sheets to survive,
for you had a wild fire burning in your hearts, and only celebrating that fire together could save you both.
Your faces were so close your lips brushed every time either of you breathed.
„Kylian..” You managed to say.
„Mmm, amour?” He kissed your jaw.
„I want you to cum inside me.”
He stopped and stared.
He nudged your cheek with his nose again. Slow.
Deliberate.
Possessive.
His breath hit your skin, warm and ragged.
“Don’t,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked. “Don’t tell me things like that.”
It wasn’t a scold.
It was a warning — the kind that vibrated down your spine.
You swallowed. “I mean it—”
He nudged you again, this time dragging the bridge of his nose up your cheekbone, slow enough to make your pulse stutter.
“You don’t..” he whispered, his voice unsteady, heated. “When you say things like that… I lose every bit of control I have left.”
Your breath hitched. “Please…”
His eyes snapped open — dark and burning and way too close.
“Don’t say please like that.”
It came out as a whisper, but sharp, tight, almost dangerous.
You held his gaze. “Please.”
Something inside him broke.
A low, guttural sound left his throat. A sound you’d never heard from him, a mix of hunger and frustration and need. His grip on your wrists tightened for just a second before he let go completely, almost like he was terrified of what he’d do if he kept holding you.
Your arms fell free.
The moment your hands touched his back, sliding over warm skin and muscle— He inhaled sharply through his teeth, his whole body shuddering like your touch hit him too hard, too deep.
Your hands traveled down to his ass, and you urged him to thrust again.
“Y/n…” he breathed, eyes squeezing shut.
“Don’t do that. Not unless you want me to—”
He cut himself off, forehead dropping to your cheek, breath shaking against your skin.
You digged your nails in his skin.
He groaned — an actual groan — low, rough, involuntary.
His hands came to your cheeks, framing your face, his thumbs trembling just slightly as he tilted your head up to his.
He stared at you like you were breaking him apart.
His voice dropped to something sinful, smoky, a whisper right on your lips:
“Say it again.”
You exhaled shakily. “Please.”
His breath stopped.
His forehead pressed to yours so hard it almost hurt, his lips hovering a hair from yours.
“Again,” he murmured, voice unsteady and heavy with desire.
“Say it until I can’t think straight.”
You lifted your hips as a reminder for him to continue.
“Kylian… please”
He made a low sound, chest vibrating against yours, and whispered:
„Fuck..”
You found your salvation under the weight of his naked body moving again, hand gripped yours as he pushed and pulled you from one side of insanity to the other. there’s no prettier shade of pink than his parted lips glistening with your nectar. The only prayer he had was your name on his lips and a desire to love you.
„Keep your eyes on me.” He managed to say between breaths.
He thrusted deeper, but with more strength.
And you felt yourself tightening around him.
The sheets ruffle.
Your moans got louder.
His breathing more frantic.
The frantic collision of flesh, the sweat the heat, the pleasure is beyond human comprehension.
And then he spills it inside you. And he groans.
You felt his heat splashing inside the deepest part of you.
You stayed in the same position
Your orgasm came like a little death,
Writing each other’s eulogies in bed.
He watched you after;
How your breath fell short of your lips. And how you wiped your sweaty forehead, then laughed as your mood instantly changed. He wanted to see it all, feel all of you until his bones weakened with how heavy this heart was when his body is not next to yours.
Kylian was still catching his breath, chest rising and falling against yours. His forehead rested against your shoulder, warm and damp, like even being this close to you was overwhelming.
You ran your fingers gently through the back of his hair.
He inhaled sharply, then let out a low laugh. The kind that sounded wrecked and happy and exhausted all at once.
“Wait…” he murmured, voice still shaky.
“Hold on a second.”
You frowned softly as he pulled away, breathless and smiling like you’d just ruined him in the best way.
“Kylian…?”
He pressed a quick kiss to your jaw.
“Don’t move,” he whispered, still breathless. “I will be right back.”
He slipped off the bed, disappearing into the hallway.
You could still hear his uneven breathing — the little huffs and murmurs under his breath — as he rustled through his bag.
Then he came back in, triumphant, holding a small wrapped box in his hand.
Your brows furrowed.
He grinned, that boyish grin that made your chest ache.
“You told me to bring them,” he said softly. “And I listen to you, remember?”
He climbed back into bed, immediately pulling the blankets over both of you — cocooning you against his warm, tired body. The moment you were covered, he wrapped an arm around your waist and tugged you into him, like he’d been starving for this closeness.
He opened the box with one hand, still breathless, still looking at you like he wasn’t fully recovered from the moment before.
The rabitos glistened softly in the low light.
He picked one up, brought it to your lips, and whispered:
“Ahh.”
You opened your mouth, and he fed half of it to you gently, watching your mouth with that soft, hungry look you knew too well.
He munched the other half. And looked at you for your reaction.
“Bon? (Good?)” he asked.
You nodded slowly.
You swallowed, breath catching.
“Good.” you licked your lip. „Yum.”
He brushed his thumb over your cheek, slow and tender now, the intensity replaced by quiet warmth.
“Yum indeed,” he whispered, voice low and velvety, and pecked your lips.
He fed you another piece, his hand steadying your jaw, his breath mixing with yours under the warm cocoon of the blanket.
And with the rabitos between you, the blanket wrapped around you both, and his heartbeat pressed against your chest, he pulled you closer — like he was finally, finally home.
All Is Fair: A Trent Alexander-Arnold x Kylian Mbappè x Original Character Erotic Series.
18+ Minors DNI
Chapter 27
While a few of his teammates had taken the little less than 48 hours they'd been given off to leave the bustling city of Madrid on short getaways, or indulge in all the clichés expected of an athlete, Trent was content with the solitude of his home and the woman occupying it.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he drawled, his eyes locked on Rosa’s as she sat between his legs on the living room floor, knees cushioned by a plush, patchwork-style Hermès rug. Each panel was a different shade of cream, ivory, or beige to match the throws and pillows scattered across his sectional sofa.
“Am I?” Rosa smirked, leaning forward. Her perfectly manicured nails dragged teasingly over his thighs beneath a pair of grey sweats that tented as his cock hardened beneath the fabric. He sat in an armchair tucked into the corner of the spacious room.
“You know you are,” he rasped, his eyes tracing over Rosa’s figure. She was barely draped in one of his oversized button-ups, the first four buttons left undone as the cotton teased glimpses of her round, perky breasts.
“Although,” Trent continued, “I can’t decide if I prefer you like this, or nasty and dripping with saliva for me.”
“The latter doesn’t sound beautiful,” Rosa murmured, her voice a sultry purr that sent a shiver racing up Trent’s spine. She shifted closer on her knees, the oversized shirt slipping open farther to reveal the soft swell of her breasts and the faint shadow between them.
“I think it is,” he whispered, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to her mouth before catching her bottom lip between his teeth. “Open your mouth,” he instructed as he pulled away, his tongue flicking out against her lip, tracing the spot where his teeth had been.
Rosa’s lips parted slowly, her breath hitching as she obeyed. Her tongue peeked out just enough to invite him closer. Trent’s hand cupped her chin, thumb brushing over the damp spot he’d bitten as he guided her gaze up to meet his hungry stare. The dim light from the lamp cast golden flecks across her skin, highlighting the faint flush creeping down her neck.
He leaned in again, slower this time, his mouth hovering an inch from hers. Then he spat deliberately, a warm trickle landing on her waiting tongue. Rosa’s eyes fluttered half-shut, the taste of him blooming intimate and real, making her thighs clench against the rug’s soft weave. She didn’t swallow right away, letting it pool in her mouth, savouring the raw claim it represented—their secret game, messy and unfiltered.
Trent watched, transfixed, his free hand tangling in her hair to hold her steady.
“Hold it,” he murmured, his voice gravelly with restraint.
His cock strained harder against the sweats now, the outline visibly throbbing beneath the fabric. Rosa nodded softly, careful not to let anything spill. Her chest rose faster, nipples hard and aching against the loose shirt.
Rosa’s tongue swirled lazily around the warm pool in her mouth, savouring the faint sweetness lingering against her taste buds. Her eyes remained locked on Trent’s, dark and unwavering, as she tilted her head back slightly, letting the saliva coat every inch before gathering it at the front of her mouth. It beaded slowly along her pouted lips before she drew it back in with a soft hum vibrating from her throat. Her fingers dug into his thighs for balance.
Sitting back on her knees to steady herself, Rosa peeled open the shirt to reveal her breasts. A smirk spread across her face before she bowed her head, puckering her lips and allowing the saliva to drip from her mouth onto her chest before lifting her eyes to his again.
“Fuck,” Trent snarled in awe as he rose to his sock-covered feet, his hard cock still confined within his sweats.
Fueled by the thick tension between them, Rosa singled out her perfectly French-tipped pointer finger and teased her nipple with his saliva.
Her breathing hitched as a moan slipped from her lips. Her knees spread a little wider as gravity pulled her lace-covered pussy closer to the luxurious fibres beneath her, her hips rolling involuntarily.
Trent’s breath caught sharply in his throat, eyes glued to the slick trail her finger drew around her nipple. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and shoved them down in one rough motion, letting his cock spring free—heavy, thick, vein-lined, already leaking at the tip. The cool air kissed it teasingly before Rosa’s gaze dragged him back into her orbit.
She leaned forward without a word, her tongue slipping out to lick at the bead of pre-cum slowly and deliberately, savouring the taste of him. Trent groaned low as his fingers tightened in her hair—not tugging, just anchoring himself—as she took him into her mouth, warm and wet, sucking with a rhythm that matched the slow roll of her hips.
Rosa’s free hand slid up his thigh, nails grazing lightly as though urging him to test her limits. The rug bit into her knees, a dull sensation she welcomed, grounding the fire building low in her stomach. She hollowed her cheeks, taking him deeper into her throat, the taste of salt and skin flooding her senses, mingling with his earlier gift that lingered more in her mind than on her tongue.
He rocked forward instinctively, testing her limits as he watched her throat work around him. Her eyes watered but remained fixed on his, a defiant spark shining through her submission. Trent’s control faltered slightly, his hand guiding her head as his shallow thrusts picked up pace.
Rosa’s hips ground harder against nothing, the lace soaked through, the friction teasing but nowhere near enough. She pulled back just enough to gasp, saliva strung between her mouth and his cock. Her lips swollen as she tilted her head back and opened wider, committing herself completely.
“I’ll give you anything you want,” Trent promised, his voice rough with desire as he eased himself back into Rosa’s mouth, the bulbous tip pressing against the back of her throat.
Saliva clung to Rosa's nipples, slowly dripping onto her taut stomach as she lavished Trent with her ministrations; driven by pure, unfiltered desire. Her eyes flicked up to Trent's face as he pulled himself away from her again, a groan ripping from him as his brow furrowed.
“Stand up and turn around,” he commanded, the words barely more than gravel scraping from his chest.
Rosa rose on unsteady legs, her thighs trembling from the kneeling, from want. The lace of her panties clung damp to her swollen folds as she turned, presenting herself exactly as he needed. Spine curving until her ass aligned to the height of his gaze.
His knuckles brushed the lace band on her hip. Then he hooked two fingers beneath the soaked fabric and dragged it sideways, the elastic biting into the flesh of her thigh, the air cool and sudden against her exposed pussy.
Rosa’s breath hitched as she felt Trent pause, his presence heavy at her back, his eyes tracing every detail she offered up without shame. Her flushed lips, the slick gleam of arousal, the way she twitched open for him, clenching around nothing as her body feigned for his.
"Jesus Christ," he murmured, and she felt it in her stomach. His thumb swept down her pussy, spreading her wider, gathering the wetness. The pad of his finger circled her entrance slow, so slow she pushed back against it without meaning to, chasing the friction he withheld purposefully.
"Stay still," he warned, but his voice cracked at the edges, betraying how thin his restraint had worn.
Rosa’s hands balled into fists as Trent stood, his chest grazing her spine, his cock heavy and hot where it rested against the small of her back. He spread her with both hands now, thumbs pulling her open for his inspection, for his pleasure, for whatever he decided came next.
“Do you know how perfect you are?” Trent murmured into the sweat-damp hollow beneath her ear, his stubble scraping her jawline.
Rosa's neck arched involuntarily, giving him more of her throat, more of everything as goosebumps rose on her skin as she shook her head.
“Have you ever seen the look in your eye when you cum really fucking hard?” Trent continued, his fingertips tracing the shape of her hips, exploring her.
Rosa shook her head weakly, her pulse hammering beneath her skin as Trent’s hands continued roaming over her body with possessive reverence. One palm flattened against her stomach while the other remained between her thighs, keeping her open.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he confessed quietly against her neck. “You go completely soft for me. Like your body forgets how to hold itself together.”
The words wrapped around her throat tighter than his touch ever could. A trembling breath escaping her lips as Trent pressed one final kiss beneath her ear before stepping away from her entirely.
The sudden loss of his warmth made Rosa turn instinctively, confused and aching.
“Don’t move,” he ordered softly, watching her for a moment longer than necessary, jaw tight, pupils blown wide with intent. Then he disappeared down the hallway.
Rosa heard movement somewhere deeper inside the house. The scrape of something against the floor, and then footsteps returning.
When Trent reappeared, he carried one of the dining chairs in one hand like it weighed nothing at all.
Her brows knit faintly together as she watched him cross the sprawling living room barefoot, grey sweats hanging dangerously low on his hips, his cock still hard and flushed against his stomach.
“Trent…” she started carefully.
But he ignored the question hidden in his name. Instead, he carried the chair toward the entryway of the house where an floor-length mirror stretched nearly from marble floor to ceiling.
The mirror sat opposite the sweeping staircase that led to the higher levels of the house, impossible to miss, easy to forget until moments like this.
Trent placed the chair directly in front of it with a heavy scrape against the marble, before turning back toward her.
“Come here,” he murmured, the command settled low in Rosa’s stomach.
Slowly, she crossed the floor toward him, bare legs brushing together with every step, her breasts aching and impossible to ignore. The mirror caught her reflection immediately; flushed skin, swollen lips, the dark lace of her panties still pulled to one side exposing the slick inside of her thigh.
Trent’s eyes dragged over her through the reflection before his hand reached for her waist as he sat first, pulling Rosa down into his lap.
“Spread your legs, for me,” he drawled into her ear.
Trent’s hand slid slowly down the inside of Rosa’s thigh as she settled against him, his fingers firm where they gripped her flesh through the mirror’s reflection. The marble entryway glowed beneath the warm lighting, every inch of her exposed to both him and herself now.
Rosa’s pulse fluttered uneasily in her throat as she obeyed, thighs parting gradually over his lap. The ruined lace pulling taut as she spread herself.
Trent’s eyes locked onto the reflection immediately, darkening as he watched her open for him. His hand splaying across her stomach possessively, holding her back flush against his chest while the other stroked lazily between her thighs.
“Look at yourself,” he murmured against her shoulder.
Rosa tried. She really did, but the woman staring back at her looked wrecked already. Hair beginning to curl at the roots, falling messily around her shoulders. Her lips swollen and glossy. Nipples peaked beneath the open cotton shirt hanging halfway off her body.
Trent sat beneath her broad and composed in contrast, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him completely.
“You see what I see?” he asked quietly.
His fingers slid through her slickness again, gathering it deliberately before spreading her open with two fingers. Rosa gasped softly, instinctively trying to close her legs, but Trent’s grip tightened immediately against her thigh.
“No,” he warned gently. “Keep them open.”
Heat flushed violently across her chest, not because of Trent's actions, but the fact that he wanted her to bear witness to it. The sight of his fingers stretching her open inch, by delicious inch.
Trent's thumb settled over her clit with devastating intentions, circling slow and deliberate while his fingers remained buried deep. Rosa's hips jerked involuntarily, seeking more pressure, and he gave it; pressing firmer, rubbing in tight, merciless circles that made her breath catch audibly, echoing off the walls of the entryway.
The mirror captured every helpless twitch, every time her mouth fell open without sound. She gripped his forearm, nails digging into his skin, but he didn't slow. Rosa’s first orgasm built, starting low and spreading until her thighs trembled and she cried out, shuddering against his chest while he worked her through it.
Before she could fully recover, Trent adjusted his angle, curving his fingers against a spot that made her spine arch sharply.
“Again, baby," he commanded, voice rough against her ear before catching it between his teeth. The second orgasm came faster, and harder, ripping a moan from her throat as her vision blurred. She tried to squeeze her legs shut from oversensitivity, but his strong legs wedged between hers, kept her spread and exposed to his touch, as sweat prickled along her hairline.
The third time, Rosa sobbed his name, her body jerking and trembling as the pleasure transformed into something almost punishing. Trent's free hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back against his shoulder so she couldn't look away from the mirror, from herself, flushed and completely at his mercy.
Then his fingers pressed deeper, harder, rubbing feverishly against that swollen spot inside her while his thumb toyed with her clit without rhythm, just pure carnal instinct.
The pressure built differently, a sharp, pleasurable, and urgent ache that felt like a need to release.
"Trent," she gasped, her breaths quickening, but he held her steady, whispering encouragement against her slick temple.
The sensation broke suddenly, violently, a heat rushing through her as she cried out, her body convulsing around his fingers as she squirted onto the floor beneath them.
She collapsed against Trent, shaking uncontrollably, as tears prickled at her eyes from the intensity of it.
When the tremors finally eased, Rosa turned slowly, limbs heavy and uncooperative, as she climbed onto his lap properly. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, and burying her face into the hollow of his throat where his pulse tapped wildly against her lips.
She lingerered there, tasting the salt of him, before drawing back with a deliberate slowness as she slipped from his lap, removing the shirt she wore and tossing it aside simultaneously.
Rosa hooked her fingers into the waistband of his sweats, fabric sliding down easily until they pooled at his ankles. The air shifted, cooler against his exposed skin. Rosa positioned herself between his parted feet, her palms skimming up his shins, past scarred knees, settling on his muscular thighs. His cock rested heavy against his stomach, flushed and straining.
She took him into her mouth in one swift movement, no teasing necessary, wanting the weight of him against her tongue again, the taste flooding her senses.
Trent's breath hissed through his teeth above her, his thighs tensing under her hands. Rosa hollowed her cheeks, drawing back until only the tip remained between her lips, tonguing the sensitive ridge there before sinking down again, deeper this time, until her nose brushed the dark hair at his base of his cock.
His fingers found her hair, not guiding, just gripping, knuckles lightening a shade where they twisted in the dark strands.
She set a rhythm, slow and torturous, letting him feel every inch of wet mouth, the soft purr vibrating from her throat when he swelled thicker against her tongue. The floors bit into her knees, a distant discomfort she dismissed entirely, as she pleasured Trent.
"Rosa," he moaned, raw and broken, and she angled her head, relaxing her jaw, as she took him past the point of comfort.
Her eyes watered, reddening, and still, she didn't pull back.
She swallowed around him, her throat working, milking him through each shudder that moved through him. His grip in her hair loosened, fingers trembling now, and she held him there until the last tremor passed and his breathing steadied.
Only then did she ease back, lips swollen and shining, and rest her forehead against his thigh while his hand drifted down to cradle the back of her head.
“Come here,” Trent breathed out, reaching down to her upward. Rosa rose on unsteady legs, knees slightly numb, and let him guide her back onto his lap, his cock softening against his stomach.
She settled against him carefully this time, her body still trembling in the aftermath, every nerve ending tender and overstimulated. Trent’s arms wrapped around her instinctively, one broad hand sliding up her spine while the other rested heavily against her thigh, thumb tracing slow circles into her skin.
“I want to take you to dinner later,” Trent murmured, his fingertips drifting lazily along the curve of her thigh.
Rosa lifted her head just enough to look at him. The sharpness in his features earlier had eased, leaving him much gentler. His hair damp and slightly dishevelled, jaw shadowed, eyes heavy with exhaustion and satisfaction all at once.
“I’m not sure if my legs are working,” Rosa admitted softly, the echo of a laugh catching in her throat.
Trent’s mouth curved faintly against her temple. “Then we’ll cancel the reservation and order everything to the house.”
“No,” she murmured after a moment, lifting her head fully now. “I want to go.”
His brows raised slightly, surprised by the certainty in her tone.
Rosa shifted carefully from his lap, wincing playfully as her bare feet met the floors beneath them. The mirror still reflecting the aftermath around them; discarded clothing, flushed skin, the sheen of sweat still clinging to both their bodies. For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Rosa bent, gathering the oversized shirt from the floor. She slipped it back over her shoulders loosely without buttoning it, the cotton hanging open against her chest as she pushed tangled hair away from her face.
“What time?” she asked quietly.
Trent leaned back in the chair, watching her with an intensity that felt calmer now. Less ravenous. More dangerous somehow.
“Eight?” he suggested.
Rosa nodded once. “Okay.”
The simplicity of it settled strangely between them after everything else.
She stepped toward him again only long enough to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Trent’s hand instinctively caught her waist, fingertips flexing against her skin like he was considering pulling her back into his lap. But Rosa only smiled against his lips before easing away.
She turned then, moving toward the hallway alone. Her legs still felt weak beneath her, thighs aching pleasantly with every step across the marble. Behind her, the dining chair creaked softly as he leaned back and watched her go in silence.
Trent remained exactly where she’d left him in the entryway, elbows resting against his knees now, grey sweats hanging loosely around his ankles, gaze fixed entirely on her like he couldn’t quite stop himself.
Late afternoon melted slowly into evening inside Trent’s house.
The rain that had threatened Madrid earlier never fully arrived, leaving the city washed instead in humid air and streets gleaming beneath the amber streetlights. Somewhere downstairs, muted hip-hop drifted softly through the sound system while Rosa stood alone in the guest bedroom fastening the clasp of her necklace.
She studied herself one final time in the mirror mounted on the wall. A fitted cream two piece skimmed her body perfectly, elegant and understated despite the way it hugged the curves Trent had left aching hours earlier. Her hair fell in loose waves over one shoulder, makeup soft and luminous against her warm skin.
For the first time all day, she looked composed again.
Almost.
A knock sounded lightly against the open doorway.
Trent leaned against the frame in black fitted fine knit Loewe sweater, that stretched almost teasingly against his muscular frame.
For a second neither of them spoke, and Trent's eyes dragged slowly over her, appreciative and completely unguarded.
“Fuck,” he exhaled quietly. “You look incredible.”
“You already used that line earlier.” Rosa pointed out teasingly, her mouth curving faintly.
“Still applies.”
His gaze lingered another moment before softening altogether. And Rosa could tell instantly that there was something different about him tonight. He was less sharpened at the edges. Softer.
“You ready?” he asked, and Rosa nodded once, reaching for her clutch from the bed, before following him out of the bedroom.
The drive through Madrid felt strangely peaceful.
The city buzzed around them alive with evening energy as rainfall still threatened to spill; friends and lover slipping out of wine bars, glowing terraces crowded beneath hanging lights, bikes and scooters weaving lazily through narrow streets lined with stone buildings older than either of them could comprehend.
Trent drove one-handed through the city while Rosa sat beside him watching the blur of nightlife pass beyond the window.
Every so often she caught him glancing toward her at red lights.
Not lustful, just… looking. As if reassuring himself she was still there.
By the time they arrived at the restaurant, the sky had darkened to black.
The Italian restaurant sat tucked along a quieter street near, intimate and impossibly warm inside. Candlelight flickered against dark wood walls while low conversation and the clink of wine glasses filled the space. The scent of garlic, fresh basil, and expensive red wine lingered richly in the air.
The hostess smiled immediately when Trent entered.
“Good evening, Señor,” she greeted, her eyes mapping him.
Rosa noticed the familiarity instantly.
“One of your favorites?” she asked quietly as they followed the hostess deeper inside.
“My favourite,” Trent glanced back over his shoulder.
Their table sat tucked into the corner beneath a low hanging light, secluded enough to feel private without being hidden entirely. A bottle of wine was already waiting.
Rosa slipped into her seat slowly, smoothing her dress beneath her thighs while Trent took the chair across from her.
“You come here often enough they prepare in advance?” she teased lightly.
“They know what I drink.”
“And what’s that say about you?”
“That I’m predictable.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever accused you of that.” Rosa hummed softly.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
The waiter arrived briefly, filling their glasses before disappearing again, leaving them alone in the warmth of the restaurant.
“It’s almost been a year since we met,” Trent smiled softly, his eyes holding a hint of nostalgia.
“Miami,” Rosa affirmed, her cheeks flushing deeper as she recalled the spontaneous last-minute trip to one of her favorite cities. The last-minute vacation that unfolded into a tangled web of lust and desire beneath the warm Floridian sun.
“In that time I have not been the best to you,” he admitted, his gaze faltering in embarrassment, flicking briefly toward the glow of Madrid’s nightlife beyond the restaurant windows.
“I haven’t been the best to myself,” Rosa admitted quietly, her fingers tightening slightly around the stem of her wine glass. Her reflection shimmering faintly in the restaurant window, softened by the rain beginning to gather against the glass.
Trent’s expression shifted immediately. Not pity, but recognition.
Rosa let out a soft laugh beneath her breath, though there was very little humour in it. “I think that’s part of why this worked for me… this lifestyle,” she confessed. “It kept me distracted.”
“How so?” Trent asked curiously.
“I don’t have to admit that this isn’t the life I planned for myself,” Rosa said softly, her eyes fixed on the rain tracing slow paths down the restaurant window.
Trent stayed quiet, giving her the space to continue.
Rosa swallowed once before letting out another faint laugh. “When people look at me now, they think I have everything figured out.” Her fingertips dragged absently along the base of her wine glass. “Flights whenever I want. Beautiful hotels. Expensive dinners. Men who make me feel wanted.” She glanced up at him briefly. “It all looks so much more glamorous from the outside.”
“But?” Trent prompted gently.
“But it’s very easy to lose yourself in things that feel good temporarily,” she admitted.
The words landed heavier than either of them had expected them to. Outside, Madrid glowed beneath the rain. Vehicles moving through the wet streets below the restaurant balcony while thunder murmured faintly in the distance.
Rosa leaned back slightly in her chair, arms folding loosely across herself now as if she'd caught a chill.
“I thought by this age I’d be different,” she confessed quietly. “I thought I’d have something stable. Something permanent.” Her lips curved faintly, though sadness lingered there. “Instead I became very good at running.”
“Running from what?” Trent asked, his gaze softening.
“Myself,” she answered before he could even finish the question. “Disappointment mostly.”
The candle between them flickered as silence stretched briefly.
Rosa looked down at the tablecloth, smoothing an invisible crease with her fingertips.
“I spent so much time chasing excitement because slowing down meant actually thinking about my life.” Her smile turned smaller. “And when I did think about it, I didn’t always like what I saw.”
Trent watched her carefully, the usual confidence he carried nowhere to be found now.
“You know,” he murmured after a moment, “for someone who claims to be running, you’ve always seemed very composed.”
“That’s because I learned how to look beautiful while falling apart,” Rosa replied honestly.
The confession knocked the breath from him a little.
His thumb rubbed slowly against the side of his glass before he finally reached across the table again, covering her hand with his.
“I want to do the opposite of making you fall apart,” Trent’s gaze never left hers after the words left his mouth.
The restaurant around them continued untouched; glasses clinking softly somewhere near the bar, low Italian music curling through the warm air, rain streaking gold beneath the streetlights outside. But the space between them had shifted into something quieter. More honest.
Rosa’s breath caught faintly in her throat.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone like me,” she murmured after a moment, attempting a smile that didn’t quite hold.
“Why?”
“Because people always think they can save the damsel in distress.”
“I don’t think you need saving.” Trent said, brow furrowed slightly.
