#psg x reader

[dixheuresdix]

https://www.tumblr.com/dixheuresdix/820226585101795328/desire-seems-subkissive-to-me-it-would-be-5050

Omg we need a fic where he has those doe eyes while being submissive and listening to the reader like a little puppy

DOE EYES;

⤷ ゛masterlist ˎˊ˗

désiré doué x f!reader.

dating.

note: YAYYY IT TOOK A WHILE BUT IT'S HERE!!! DEZ IS BACK ON MY ACC 🥳🥳

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: he loves just looking at you when you talk and agreeing with everything you say.

you had asked désiré what he wanted for dinner and again, instead of answering, he had looked up from where he was sitting on the couch and blinked at you with those ridiculous eyes of his. the kind that made him look innocent no matter what he did, soft.

“anything is fine.”

“that wasn’t an answer.”

“yes it was.”

“no. that’s avoiding the question.”

“i don't know too.”

you sighed and started listing every possible option you could think of. “pasta?”

“okay.”

“but we had pasta yesterday.”

he nodded again.

“pizza?”

he nodded.

“chicken?”

nod.

“rice?”

nod.

“are you even listening? you're literally agreeing with everything i’m saying.”

“because i like all of them.”

you stared at him and he stared back, you eventually gave up and took a place on the sofa beside him, rambling about absolutely everything that crossed your mind. désiré listened all you were saying.

sometimes you wondered if he even realized how obvious he was.

he sat there with one arm draped across the back of the couch, his head tilted slightly toward you, his attention never leaving your face.

every time you looked over, those brown eyes were already focused on you.

you talked for nearly twenty minutes straight and he didn’t interrupt or complain, didn’t even check his phone. he simply stayed there, listening like your voice was the most interesting thing in the world.

“are you even listening?”

his eyebrows lifted. “of course.”

“prove it.”

without missing a beat, he repeated almost everything you had just said.

“see?”

“that’s scary.”

“you asked.”

you shook your head exasperated and his smile widened, he looked proud of himself as you tried not to smile back but failed immediately.

“you’re such a puppy.”

“am i?” he smiled.

“yes.”

“why?”

“you listen to everything i say and you follow me around everywhere.”

“the last part is not true!” he said offended.

you raised an eyebrow. “yeah? because you literally came into the kitchen three times this morning just because i was there.”

“i was getting water.”

“three times?”

“yes...” he leaned closer until his shoulder pressed against yours. “but i like being around you.”

the confession almost caught you off guard, you looked at the soft expression on his face, the way he seemed perfectly content just sitting there beside you, being close and he looked exactly like what you had called him.

he was a puppy. a very football player puppy. one with doe eyes and an endless need for affection.

dixheuresdix, like and comment <3

[ytrhbz]

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ────

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ one – shot. desiré doué x reader. friends to lovers. fluff and slight angst. mention of a breakup. desiré is a flirty. golden retriever boyfriend energy. comfort. ◞ he was just waiting for you to break up with your ex.

the smell of worn leather cleats and cheap cologne will always, always smell like home to you. specifically, it smells like désiré.

you’ve known him since the days when your knees were perpetually scraped and his jersey was always two sizes too big, trailing behind him like a cape. you two are a package deal—the kind of friends who have seen each other through every agonizing evolution. you’ve watched him transform from a gangly, shy kid into the magnetic athlete he is today, and he’s watched you do the same.

you remember the nights spent in your bedroom, the floor littered with discarded clothes and half-eaten snacks, where you’d spill every secret. you remember the first time you brought home a boyfriend—that boy from school who thought he was so cool with his varsity jacket and his rehearsed lines. you had been so nervous, vibrating with a mix of excitement and insecurity, but the only opinion that had actually mattered was désiré’s.

he hadn't said much that night. he’d just sat on the edge of your bed, leaning back on his palms, watching the interaction with an intensity that made the air in the room feel heavy. his eyes, usually full of a playful, easy-going warmth, had narrowed just a fraction as he tracked the way your boyfriend talked to you.

even back then, he was always a little bit flirty—a grazing hand against your shoulder, a comment about how much better you looked in his oversized hoodies than in the clothes you picked out, the way he’d drop his voice to a low, intimate murmur that made your heart stutter. but you always brushed it off. it was just désiré. it was just how he was. he was the constant, the tether, the person who would drive across the city at 3:00 am just because you had a bad dream or a broken heart. he was the one who held the pieces together whenever you fell apart, no questions asked.

you never dared to look closer at the way he looked at you, because the thought of losing your best friend—the one person who knew exactly which side of your face you preferred in photos and exactly how you liked your coffee—was too terrifying to entertain.

but tonight, the stadium lights are blindingly bright, and he’s standing right in front of you after the match, his chest heaving, sweat glistening on his skin. he wipes his face with the back of his hand, his eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, predatory-yet-tender glint. he leans in close, invading your space just enough to make your pulse pick up, his voice dropping to a whisper that hits your ear like a secret.

"you still look at me like that, don't you?" he murmurs, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "like i'm the only thing in the room."

you freeze, the realization hitting you that the line between 'best friend' and 'everything else' has been blurring for a lot longer than you were willing to admit.

you let out a breathy, slightly incredulous laugh, shaking your head as you reach out to shove his shoulder—even if your hand lingers there just a second too long, feeling the heat radiating through his damp jersey. "you’re such an idiot, désiré," you tease, trying to keep your voice light, trying to push down the sudden, frantic thumping of your heart against your ribs. "seriously, you’re exhausted and you smell like a locker room. let’s get you home. i told you, i’m making dinner, so stop being a flirt and start being a teammate for once."

he chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates right through you, and he doesn't pull away. instead, he hooks an arm around your neck, pulling you into his side as you start the walk to your car. it’s a rhythm you’ve known for years, a dance you could perform in your sleep.

the drive to your place is filled with his usual chatter about the match, but as the evening progresses in your apartment, something shifts. the air feels different—charged and heavy. you’re moving through the kitchen, grabbing plates and glasses, but your movements are jagged, distracted. you find yourself dropping a fork, staring blankly at the wall, and forgetting the simple steps of a recipe you’ve cooked a dozen times.

désiré, who is lounging on your sofa with his legs stretched out and his shirt discarded, goes quiet. his gaze is sharp, tracking your every flinch.

"hey," he says, his voice suddenly stripped of the teasing edge. he stands up, walking over to the counter where you’re leaning, bracing your palms against the marble to steady yourself. "you’ve been acting like you’re trying to solve a complex equation in your head all night. what’s going on? you’re not yourself."

you chew your lip, avoiding his eyes. "it’s nothing, really. just... a long day. don't worry about it, it's not even worth talking about."

he doesn't buy it. he never does. he steps closer, crowding your space, his presence an immovable force. he reaches out, gently taking your wrists and pulling your hands away from the counter so he can see your face. "look at me," he commands softly. "you’re the worst liar i know. tell me."

you look up, meeting his intense, dark eyes, and the dam finally breaks. your throat tightens. "i broke up with him, désiré," you whisper, the words feeling heavy and hollow as they leave your lips. "it’s over. i just... i couldn't do it anymore."

désiré doesn't let go. instead, his grip on your wrists shifts, his thumbs tracing soothing, rhythmic circles against your skin. the frustration in his eyes vanishes instantly, replaced by a raw, unfiltered softness that makes your breath hitch.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asks, his voice barely a murmur, laced with a kind of ache that surprises you. "you think my job matters more than you? you think a game is more important than you falling apart?"

you look down, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "i don't know," you mumble, your voice cracking. "i just... i had so much shame, désiré. i felt stupid for letting it last so long, and i didn't want to be a distraction. you have so much pressure on you, so much focus required for the season... i didn't want to be the reason you missed a play or lost your head because you were worried about my stupid relationship drama."

he lets out a sharp, incredulous huff, pulling you into his chest. his arms wrap around you, anchoring you, and his chin rests on the top of your head. "you could never be a distraction," he says firmly. "you’re the only thing that actually keeps me grounded. don't ever, ever think you're bothering me. you’re the priority, always."

the dam breaks completely then. you bury your face against his bare, warm skin, the scent of him grounding you as the tears finally fall. he doesn't try to stop you or fix it with empty platitudes; he just holds you, his hand rubbing slow, steady circles on your back, his presence a constant, steady hum against your ear.

after a while, the sobbing subsides into small, hitching breaths. you’ve migrated to the sofa, your head resting heavily on his bare chest, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your ear serving as a lifeline. you pull your phone out, your thumb hovering over your gallery, and you start scrolling.

you pull up an old photo—one of you and your ex at a party, both of you smiling, but he looks away, his hand tense on your waist. "look," you whisper, gesturing to the screen. "i miss the idea of it, you know? i miss having someone. but then i look at this, and i remember how exhausted i was trying to keep the peace. or this one," you swipe to another, "he was always so moody if i spent too much time with my friends... specifically you."

désiré watches the screen over your shoulder, his arm draped possessively over your waist. every time you point out a flaw or a moment of tension, he doesn't tell you you’re crazy. he validates you.

"yeah, i see it," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "he never looked at you right. he never knew how to hold you." he kisses the top of your head, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that used to just be for flirting but now feels like a promise. "let him go, baby. you’re here now. and you’re not going to be sad for much longer, i promise you that."

the air in the room feels thick, saturated with the quiet intensity of his focus. as you continue to spill the contents of your heart—the small betrayals you had swallowed to keep the peace, the lonely nights spent waiting for a text that never came, the way you had slowly shrunk yourself to fit into the margins of your ex’s ego—désiré doesn't fidget. he doesn't check his phone. he doesn't look away.

he listens with a hunger that you haven't quite processed yet.

every word you exhale is a weight lifted off your chest, and he is the one catching it, absorbing your frustration as if it were his own. he realizes then, with a sharp, terrifying clarity, that the shield he had kept around his heart all these years—the 'best friend' act—was the only thing standing between you and the reality of what he could offer.

he watches your trembling hands as you describe a particularly painful argument, and his jaw tightens. he feels a surge of something molten and possessive rush through his veins. he had spent so long watching from the sidelines, playing the supportive brother, the shoulder to cry on, the guy who made you laugh when your heart was breaking. but now? now the space is clear. and he is done being a spectator.

"i hated seeing you like that," he says, his voice low, vibrating against the side of your face where it’s still pressed to his chest. "i hated that you felt like you had to shrink yourself just to keep him happy. you’re so much bigger than that, so much brighter. i don't think you ever realized how much power you actually have."

you tilt your head back to look at him, surprised by the sudden edge of steel in his tone. his eyes are dark, locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"keep going," he whispers, his thumb tracing the path of a stray tear on your cheek, his touch feather-light but searing. "get it all out. every bit of frustration, every bit of hurt. i’m not going anywhere. i want to hear every single detail so i can make sure you never, ever feel that way again."

he pulls you tighter, his scent—that mix of cedar, sweat, and something uniquely désiré—surrounding you. he isn't just listening to fix your problems anymore; he’s taking mental notes. he’s learning exactly where you were neglected, exactly where your soft spots are, and exactly how he is going to fill those gaps. he is positioning himself, claiming the space that was always meant to be his.

as you talk, the room feels like a sanctuary, a small, enclosed world where only you and he exist. you can see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand keeps rhythm against your back—he’s not just your best friend holding you together. he’s a man who has finally decided to claim what he’s wanted all along.

"you're done with him," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that intimate, low register that makes your stomach flip. "you’re completely done. and from here on out, you don't have to carry any of that. you have me. and i’m going to make sure you never forget exactly what you’re worth."

you took his words as the ultimate proof of friendship. in your mind, it was just classic désiré—the guy who would move mountains and fight dragons just to see you smile again. you felt a profound sense of gratitude, thinking about how lucky you were to have such an incredible, rock-solid human being in your corner. it never crossed your mind that his devotion was fueled by anything other than the purest, deepest platonic love. you were just relieved to have your anchor back.

the weeks that followed became a blur of quiet healing. he became a permanent fixture in your daily life, refusing to let you retreat into your own head.

if you had a gap in your schedule, he was there. if there was a new exhibit, a late-night food spot, or just a drive you both loved, he was at your door before you could even suggest it. he started showing up with your favorite snacks, or just sitting in silence with you while you both scrolled through your phones, the comfortable weight of his presence acting like a balm over your frayed nerves.

it was the little things that mattered most. the way he’d steer you away from crowds when he saw you feeling overwhelmed, or the way he’d talk about the most random topics—football tactics, the ridiculous things his teammates said, or stories from his childhood—just to keep your mind occupied.

and then there were the nights. when the silence of your apartment started to feel too big and too hollow, he’d just stay. he’d take the couch, or sometimes, he’d just crawl into your bed, pulling you against his chest, his presence acting as a physical barrier against the ghosts of your past relationship. there was no pressure, no awkwardness—just the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your back and the feeling of safety that had been missing for so long.

it was working. you felt the fog lifting, day by day. you were laughing more, you were sleeping through the night, and the sharp, jagged edges of your heartbreak were starting to smooth out. you looked at him across the table as he helped you with something mundane, a soft smile playing on his lips, and you just thought, god, i would be absolutely lost without him.

you were so busy soaking up the warmth of his 'best friend' care that you completely missed the way his eyes would linger on your face when you weren't looking. you missed the way he’d tighten his grip on your hand just a little too long when he helped you up, or how he’d instinctively shift to stand between you and the rest of the world, marking his territory in a way that felt like protection, but looked a lot like hunger.

you were blooming under his attention, finally feeling like yourself again, completely oblivious to the fact that you were just ripening into the version of yourself that he had been waiting for all along.

the champions league anthem started playing on the tv, that iconic, soaring melody that usually signaled the start of a war for him, but here, in the comfort of your living room, it just sounded like background noise. it was the most intense part of the season. the pressure on him and the club was suffocating; they were chasing that elusive first title, and the stakes meant every training session was grueling, every match a mental and physical marathon.

yet, despite the cameras constantly in his face and the crushing weight of expectation, he was here. again.

he’d just gotten back from a flight, his bag still by the door, and he looked exhausted. the dark circles under his eyes were faint, and there was a heavy, sluggish quality to his movements that you usually only saw after the most brutal games. you felt a twinge of guilt, watching him drop his keys on the counter and walk straight toward you, his eyes softening the second they landed on you.

"you didn't have to come over," you whispered, standing up from the sofa as he reached you. "you’re probably exhausted, and you have that press conference tomorrow morning. don't you have a team meeting?"

désiré just shrugged, his shoulders rolling back as he let out a long, slow breath. he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your jawline for just a beat too long. "i told you, i’m not staying in that hotel alone. it’s too quiet. and besides," he added, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register, "i need the reset. being here with you? it’s the only time my head actually stops spinning."

it was the same routine. he’d order food, change into his sweats, and sink into your sofa like it was the only place in the world where he was allowed to be anything other than a professional athlete.

sometimes, he’d fall asleep while you were talking, his head heavy on your lap, his hand reflexively clutching your wrist as if to make sure you didn't leave while he was under. other times, he’d spend the entire night with his laptop open, analyzing game footage, but he’d do it right next to you, his leg pressed firmly against yours the entire time.

you watched him tonight, biting into a slice of pizza, eyes glued to the tactical diagrams on his screen, yet his free hand was absentmindedly playing with the hem of your shirt. it was a strange, beautiful balance. he was chasing the biggest trophy of his career, carrying the hopes of an entire city, but he was still showing up for you with a consistency that left you breathless.

you didn't realize that for him, your presence had become his own personal sanctuary. he was playing for the championship, but he was resting for you. and as he finally closed his laptop and pulled you down to lean against his chest, the stadium lights and the roar of the crowd felt a million miles away. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a sharp, content sigh.

"you’re my good luck charm, you know that?" he murmured against your skin, his arms winding around your waist to pull you flush against him. "don't ever stop being here. i don't think i could do any of this without you."

you just hummed, resting your head back against his, totally unaware of the way his hold on you tightened—like he was holding onto his most precious prize, the one thing he refused to let slip away, no matter how many trophies were on the line.

you tap his shoulder, a little harder than you intended, trying to mask the way your pulse is racing like a frantic drum. "stop it, désiré," you laugh, though the sound comes out a bit breathless and shaky. "you’re being ridiculous. honestly, you're the worst. stop messing with me, i’m already completely destabilized."

he doesn't pull away, though. he just watches you, that small, knowing smirk still playing on his lips, enjoying the fact that he’s the one who finally managed to rattle you.

to break the tension—or maybe because you’re suddenly terrified of what happens if you stay quiet—you let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle and decide to lean into his joke. you pull back just enough to create a little bit of space, tossing your hair back with a playful, dramatic flourish.

"fine," you announce, your voice dripping with mock-seriousness as you stand up and gesture to the imaginary crowd in your living room. "if i’m going to be a 'wag,' i have to practice my reactions. i can’t just be a normal fan, can i? i need to be the perfect one."

désiré watches you, clearly amused, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back against the sofa, his eyes tracking every move you make.

"alright then," he says, his voice thick with challenge. "show me. the trophy is in my hands, the final whistle just blew. what do you do?"

you take a deep breath, putting on a dramatic, over-the-top face. you clutch your chest, eyes wide and watery, and throw your head back as if you’re suddenly overcome with emotion. "oh my god!" you gasp, reaching out toward him as if he were miles away on a pitch. "oh, my hero! he did it! i knew he could do it!"

you start jumping up and down, putting on an exaggerated performance of a woman who just watched her husband win the world. you even throw in a dramatic, air-kiss directed straight at him, your laughter bubbling over as you play the part. "look at him! he’s mine, did you see that?! he’s the best in the world!"

désiré is losing it. he’s doubled over, his chest shaking with laughter, and he reaches out to grab your wrist, pulling you back down onto the couch right next to him. he’s breathless, looking at you with a kind of adoration that makes your heart skip a beat, even through all the acting.

"you’re a terrible actress," he wheezes, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "but god, you’re cute when you do that. keep going. i need to know if you can handle the paparazzi if we actually win."

you’re both laughing so hard that your sides ache, the heaviness of the past few weeks completely forgotten. for a moment, it feels like the world is nothing but the two of you, the flickering lights of the tv, and the infectious, easy warmth of a future that doesn't feel quite as hypothetical as it did a few minutes ago.

the training center is a different world—a sprawling complex of pristine turf, the sharp whistle of the coach cutting through the morning air, and the palpable energy of men who live and breathe for the game. when you walked in, keeping your gaze low and your hands tucked into the pockets of the hoodie you borrowed from désiré, you felt eyes on you. the gossip in football locker rooms is faster than a counter-attack, and you were sure they’d all heard about the 'special guest' he’d been bringing everywhere lately.

désiré never let you wander. his hand was a constant, solid weight against the small of your back, steering you through the corridors and onto the sidelines. he introduced you to his teammates with a pride that made your chest ache, his hand tightening whenever one of them lingered a second too long in their greetings.

you were surprisingly comfortable, though. you found yourself laughing at their jokes and bantering with the ones who came over to say hi, but you always found your way back to désiré’s orbit. like a planet caught in his gravity, you were constantly drifting back to his side, hovering right at his shoulder while he did his stretches or spoke to his coaches.

he noticed it immediately. of course he did. he noticed everything about you.

later, while the team was finishing up a series of drills and the sun was dipping lower, casting long shadows across the pitch, he jogged over to you, wiping sweat from his forehead with his shirt. he didn't head for the water station; he came straight to you, invading your space as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

he leaned down, his voice dropping to a low murmur that only you could hear, the sound of his heavy breathing still audible. "you’re glued to my side today," he noted, a smirk tugging at his lips. he reached out, adjusting your hair, his fingers lingering on your neck, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line against your skin.

"you were doing great on your own with the guys," he continued, his eyes darkening. "but i don't mind you sticking close. honestly, i prefer it. it’s nice knowing exactly where you are every time i turn around."

he leaned in even closer, his scent—fresh grass, deep heat, and that intoxicating, clean smell of him—overwhelming your senses. he wasn't just being a protective best friend anymore, and the way he was looking at you—with that possessive, steady intensity—made it clear that he was perfectly happy to keep you right where you were: tucked safely away in his world, and firmly under his wing.

you feel a sudden swell of genuine, quiet pride in your chest. looking at him—covered in sweat, chest still heaving from the intensity of the drill, yet focused entirely on you—it hits you just how much he’s sacrificed to get to this point. he’s not just a player; he’s an athlete who gives everything, every single day.

you reach out, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his training kit, needing to anchor yourself to the moment. "you know," you start, your voice soft but clear, cutting through the ambient noise of the pitch. "i’ve watched you work for years, but this? seeing it from the inside, seeing how much heart you put into every single sprint... i’m so incredibly proud of you, désiré."

his playful smirk softens, his gaze dropping to your face with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. you don't stop there. "and i really can't wait to see how much further this team goes," you continue, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "you’re so close to that final. it’s right there, almost in your hands. watching you guys get this far... it makes me want to scream from the stands."

the effect on him is immediate. the cocky, flirtatious mask slips, revealing a look of raw, unguarded vulnerability. he’s not used to people seeing past the 'star player' persona, but you? you’ve always seen the man beneath the jersey.

he reaches out, his hand sliding behind your neck to pull you just an inch closer, his thumb stroking your skin in a way that feels like a silent promise. he doesn't look away from your eyes. "it’s a lot of pressure," he admits, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum. "some days it feels like the whole world is watching, waiting for me to slip up. but knowing you’re in the stands... knowing you’re the one watching me reach for that trophy? it changes everything."

he leans down, his forehead coming to rest against yours, his breath warm against your lips. he’s grounding himself, using you as his touchstone in the middle of a chaotic, high-stakes season.

"we’re going to get there," he murmurs, his eyes dark and burning with a quiet, fierce determination. "and when we do, i want you to be the first person i look for. i want you there, right by my side, when we finally bring it home. you have no idea how much your belief in me... how much you... mean to this whole process."

the way he says it—the possessiveness, the reliance, the sheer gravity of his words—it leaves you reeling. he’s not just talking about the game anymore. he’s talking about a future that he’s already building with you at the center of it.

the air in the city is thick with anticipation, vibrating with the electric hum of an entire fan base waiting for the champions league final. for désiré, the pressure has reached a boiling point. the media is relentless, the coaching staff is hovering, and every single second of his day is supposed to be dictated by tactical meetings, recovery protocols, and iron-clad focus.

yet, here he is. at your place again, three nights before the biggest game of his life.

earlier that day, you had heard him arguing—softly, but firmly—over the phone with his manager. you caught snippets of it: “it’s not a distraction,” he’d snapped, his voice tight, “it’s the only reason i’m playing the way i am. leave it alone.” he didn't explain it to you, but you knew. you knew he was fighting to keep his time with you, even when the world was telling him to lock himself away in a hotel room.

he’s sitting on your floor now, leaning his back against the sofa, his laptop discarded on the coffee table. he looks drained, the exhaustion of the season finally etching lines of fatigue around his eyes, but his focus is laser-sharp on you. you’re sitting beside him, your hand absentmindedly twisting the fabric of his sweatpants, and he’s watching you with an intensity that makes your skin flush.

"the coach thinks i’m losing my mind," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. he reaches out, his fingers hooking under your chin to tilt your face up to his. "he thinks i should be staring at game footage until my eyes bleed, or sleeping in a pressurized chamber. he doesn't get it."

"maybe he’s right, désiré," you whisper, though your heart isn't in the argument. "maybe you should be resting."

he shakes his head, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch electric. "no. you’re my concentration. you’re the only thing that actually keeps me centered. when i’m with you, everything else—the noise, the expectations, the terror of losing—it all just goes quiet."

your breath hitches. the weight of his words settles deep in your chest, and suddenly, the air in the room feels different. it’s not just the safety of your friendship anymore. it’s something else—something heavier, more frantic, and entirely consuming.

you look at him, really look at him, and you realize the shift has already happened. you’re not just relying on him to get you through your heartbreak; you’re craving him. your heart isn't just fluttering because he’s a good friend; it’s racing because you’re terrified of the way you want him to pull you closer, the way you want his lips on yours, the way you want to be the reason his heart beats as fast as yours does right now.

the realization hits you like a tidal wave: you’re falling. not just a little, but completely and devastatingly. you’re not his 'best friend' who got her heart broken anymore. you’re a woman sitting on her floor, aching for the man who has spent every spare second of his most important season tethering himself to you.

you swallow hard, his gaze tracking the movement of your throat with predatory precision. he senses the shift in you—he feels the change in your posture, the way your heartbeat has picked up beneath your skin. his eyes darken, a knowing, triumphant shadow crossing his face.

"you're thinking about it, aren't you?" he murmurs, his voice a dangerous, velvet invitation. he leans in closer, his lips hovering just inches from yours, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. "you're finally starting to feel it too."

your silence is louder than any words you could have spoken, but désiré doesn't need to hear a sound. he sees the way your breath hitches, the way your eyes soften and finally drop the walls you’ve spent months building. he sees the truth written in the way you lean into his space, and his expression turns triumphant, a dark, hungry spark igniting in his eyes. he presses his forehead to yours, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck, his grip firm and anchoring.

"i'm not letting you watch this from a screen," he had told you two days ago, his voice firm as he handed you the ticket. "i need you there. i need to know you're in the stands, right where i can find you when the final whistle blows. i’m not going through the biggest night of my life without my good luck charm within reach."

the stadium lights are blinding, a harsh, electric glare that seems to reflect the nervous energy vibrating through your entire body. you are perched at the very edge of the VIP row, close enough to the pitch that you can practically feel the heat radiating off the manicured grass. the roar of the crowd is a physical weight, a wall of sound that makes your skin prickle, but your focus is entirely on the man warming up just a few dozen yards away.

désiré is a study in controlled intensity. he moves with that familiar, predatory grace, but you notice the difference in his posture tonight—the set of his jaw, the way he doesn’t glance up at the cheering stands like the others. he’s dialed in. he is a coiled spring, and you know exactly why. the weight of this trophy, the years of grueling work, and the silent, heavy promise he made to you three days ago are all converging in this single match.

you can feel his pressure as if it were your own. it’s a tight, hot knot in your stomach. you aren't just here to support him; you are here to be his witness, his motivation, and, if he manages to pull off the impossible, the person he comes to claim. the thought makes your heart hammer against your ribs so hard it hurts. you want this for him more than you’ve ever wanted anything, because you finally understand that his victory is the key to the door you’ve been terrified to open.

he pauses his drills for a second, his chest heaving under his jersey, and turns. he scans the front row of the stands, his eyes moving with a laser-like focus until they latch onto you. the moment he sees you, the intensity in his gaze doesn't soften—it deepens. he holds your stare for a heartbeat, his eyes dark and burning with an unspoken message that sets your blood on fire. he gives a single, sharp nod, his hand momentarily brushing his chest over his heart, before he turns back to the pitch, his focus absolute once more.

the referee’s whistle echoes through the stadium, sharp and piercing, signaling the start of the match. the world around you seems to blur into a kaleidoscope of motion and noise. you grip your seat, your nails digging into the velvet, your breath shallow.

every time he touches the ball, the air in your lungs vanishes. you aren't just watching a match anymore; you’re watching the man you’re desperately falling for fight for the right to call you his. you realize that you aren't just rooting for a club or a trophy; you’re rooting for the start of your life with him. you’re rooting for the moment he finally walks off that pitch, crosses the barrier, and makes that promise real.

as he maneuvers past a defender, moving with a speed that makes you gasp, you whisper his name under your breath, a silent plea that feels like a prayer. win it, désiré. win it all, and come find me.

the stadium is no longer just a venue; it’s a crucible, and you are burning right along with it. when the ball leaves his foot for the second time, arching perfectly past the keeper’s desperate reach into the top corner, your entire world tilts on its axis.

a double. he’s done it.

you’re not even human in this moment; you’re pure, unfiltered sound. you’re jumping on your seat, hands pressed to your cheeks, screaming until your throat burns, completely oblivious to the thousands of people surrounding you. the sheer dominance he’s displaying on the pitch is dizzying. he’s not just playing; he’s performing a symphony of power, and you are the only one who knows exactly what he’s fighting for.

then, he does the one thing that makes your heart stop dead in your chest.

as he turns, that signature smirk—sharp, dangerous, and utterly possessive—spreads across his face. he doesn't run to the bench. he doesn't embrace his teammates. he grabs the hem of his jersey, yanks it over his head, and tosses it aside, leaving him standing there in the middle of the pitch, chest heaving, skin glistening under the floodlights.

he starts walking. not toward the fans, not toward the cameras. he walks straight toward your corner, his stride heavy with a lethal, focused confidence. he’s looking right at you, his eyes locked onto yours with such intense, singular purpose that the stadium around you seems to dissolve into gray static.

the air in your lungs vanishes as the reality crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave. this isn't the guy who used to drive you home at 3:00 am just to listen to you cry. this isn't just your best friend.

as he stops just a few feet away from the barrier, holding your gaze, it hits you with the clarity of a lightning strike: he is the love of your life.

every suppressed feeling, every moment of 'just friends' banter, every night you spent in his arms—it all makes sense now. you’ve been chasing this, and he’s been waiting for you to catch up. your hands are shaking, not from the cold, but from the sudden, terrifying realization that you are standing on the edge of everything.

the final whistle is minutes away. the trophy is practically in his grip. and you? you are fully, completely, and irrevocably his. you aren't just ready for the end of the match anymore—you are ready for the rest of your life to begin the moment he walks off that pitch and into your arms.

the final whistle pierces the air, sharp and final, a sound that instantly transforms the stadium into a riot of noise, confetti, and pure euphoria. it’s official. the psg have done it—the dream you’ve heard him whisper about for years is now reality. the trophy is theirs.

the dam inside you finally breaks. you don’t just cry; you sob, your shoulders shaking as tears stream down your face, hot and fast. it’s an overwhelming cocktail of relief, pride, and the sheer magnitude of seeing him achieve everything he ever fought for. your vision is blurred, the pitch below turning into a hazy, vibrant sea of blue and red, and your legs feel like they’ve completely forgotten how to hold your weight.

you want to move. you want to run—to sprint past the security, to scramble over the barrier, to reach him before anyone else can touch him. you want to be the first one to feel the heat radiating off his skin and to tell him that he did it. but you’re paralyzed. you’re absolutely, completely captivated, your heart hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated awe against your ribs. you are frozen in the middle of the most beautiful, chaotic moment of your life, watching the confetti rain down on the man who owns your heart.

down on the pitch, he doesn’t wait. he’s already scanning the crowd, his eyes wild, frantic, and filled with a desperate intensity that matches your own. he ignores the cameras, ignores the teammates trying to hoist him onto their shoulders, and ignores the massive trophy waiting for him. his focus is singular. he’s searching for you.

and then, his eyes lock onto yours.

his face, already radiant with the glow of victory, transforms into something even more raw. he doesn’t stop to celebrate with the others. he starts pushing through the throng of people, his movements purposeful and urgent. he’s coming for you. he’s coming to claim the promise.

you stand there, chest heaving, tears still track-marking your face, your hands gripping the cold metal of the barrier until your knuckles ache. you can see him getting closer, his gaze never once wavering from your face, and the realization hits you with the force of a physical blow: he’s not coming for the trophy, and he’s not coming for the cameras.

he’s coming for his girl.

and as he reaches the front row, his chest heaving from the adrenaline of the final minutes, he doesn't even pause. he reaches out his hand toward you, his expression softening into a look of such intense, hungry adoration that your breath hitches in your throat.

"i told you," he says, his voice barely audible over the roaring crowd, but you hear every syllable as if he were whispering right against your ear. "i told you i’d win it all. and now i’m coming to collect my prize."

he isn't asking anymore. he’s waiting for you to take his hand.

you don't need words. the air in your lungs is gone, replaced by the crushing weight of relief and the sheer, overwhelming intensity of the moment. you don't even think—you just move, vaulting over the barrier and letting your momentum carry you straight into him.

you collide with him, your arms wrapping around his neck as hard as you can, burying your face into the curve of his shoulder. he catches you instantly, his arms winding around your waist with a strength that pins you against him, lifting you off your feet as if you weigh nothing at all. he’s solid, he’s hot, and he’s shaking—a raw, rhythmic tremor that you can feel through the thin fabric of his jersey.

he buries his face in your hair, his breath hitching in his own throat. he’s not shouting, he’s not celebrating with the team; he’s just holding onto you, his grip so tight it’s almost painful, as if he’s trying to fuse the two of you together right there in front of everyone.

"i have you," he murmurs, his voice thick, rough, and vibrating against your ear. "i finally have you."

you sob harder, your tears soaking into his skin, your entire body trembling. you feel his heart hammering against your chest, a wild, frantic bird of a heartbeat that matches your own perfectly. in this chaos, amidst the fireworks, the screaming fans, and the deafening victory music, the world has narrowed down to just this—the scent of him, the strength of his arms, and the absolute, terrifying realization that there is no more 'best friend' and no more running.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his face flushed, eyes bright with a mixture of sweat, joy, and a hunger that is entirely, undeniably yours. he doesn't let go of your waist, his hands roaming over your back, keeping you flush against him, making sure there is no space left between you.

he leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his nose brushing yours, and he closes his eyes for a second, just breathing you in. he doesn't need to hear a confession. he feels the way you’ve surrendered to him, the way you’re clutching his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

"you're mine," he says again, not as a question this time, but as a vow. "you're finally mine. and i am never, ever letting go."

he kisses you then—a messy, desperate, tear-stained kiss that tastes like everything you’ve been afraid to admit for years. and as the stadium cheers around you, you realize that the trophy, the fame, the victory—none of it compares to the feeling of being held by him, knowing that the only thing he wanted to win tonight was you.

you try to speak, a jumble of syllables and shaky, breathless gasps, but it’s completely unintelligible—a messy, emotional confession that gets lost in the sheer overwhelming surge of your own heart. you feel foolish, but then his laugh breaks through the roar of the stadium—a low, genuine sound that vibrates against your own chest.

he doesn't pull away to make you repeat yourself; instead, he cups your face with both hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears still clinging to your cheeks. his eyes are filled with a tender, patient warmth that grounds you instantly. "shhh," he murmurs, his voice a soft anchor amidst the chaos. "i know. you don't have to say a word. i've got you."

before you can even catch your breath, he slips an arm firmly around your waist, pulling you into his side with a proprietary, unbreakable hold. he doesn't just invite you to follow him—he leads you right into the center of the madness.

as he steps back onto the pitch with you tucked securely against him, you feel the reality of it finally sink in. the grass is cool beneath your feet, the air thick with gold confetti and the overwhelming hum of victory. everywhere you look, there is motion, light, and the deafening cheers of a stadium that belongs to him tonight. but he’s not looking at any of it. he’s looking at you, his hand a constant, reassuring weight on your hip, guiding you through the surge of his teammates as they begin their celebration.

you look up at him, and for the first time, you see the full scale of it. he has the trophy of his dreams, the ultimate pinnacle of the life he’s dedicated every heartbeat to. and then you look at yourself—held tight by the man who was always the dream beneath the dream.

it hits you with a clarity that takes your breath away: the stars finally aligned. he fought his war, he secured his crown, and through all of it, he never stopped coming for you. he isn't just the boy you teased or the friend who comforted you; he is your man, the one who was meant for you all along.

he catches you staring, a knowing, radiant grin breaking across his face. he leans down, his lips brushing against your temple, his voice barely audible over the chanting of the fans. "how does it feel?" he asks, his gaze burning into yours, full of a fierce, protective pride. "being right where you belong?"

the realization settles deep in your bones, warm and permanent. you aren't just in the middle of a celebration; you're standing at the starting line of the rest of your lives. you look at him, and this time, you don't stutter. you just smile, tucking your head into his shoulder, and hold on tighter, knowing that wherever he goes from here, you’re finally going with him.

[amournocturne]

⋆ 𐙚 ❛ 𝗔𝗙𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗠𝗜𝗗𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧.ᐟ ❜ ꕀ 𝒟é𝘀𝗶𝗿é 𝗗𝗼𝘂é x 𝒻!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲r ✴︎

⊹ 𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀. the kind of night you wish would never end. the kind you keep replaying long after it’s gone. the kind that feels like a memory before it even becomes one.

⊹ 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀. soft fluff, emotional comfort, quiet longing, désiré doué feels like he is not enough, late-night drives, stolen moments, désiré doué being a sweetheart, emotional intimacy, mutual pining, gentle teasing, lingering touches, kissing, romance with a hint of steam, bittersweet feelings.

there was something about late-night drives that made everything feel more honest. maybe it was the empty roads. maybe it was the darkness outside the windows, leaving only the two of them inside the quiet warmth of the car.

conversations felt easier after midnight.

silences did, too.

she rested her elbow against the window, watching the city slip by. she glanced at the dashboard clock.

12:43 a.m.

he was supposed to be taking her home. streetlights swept across the windshield in slow intervals, painting brief streaks of gold over désiré’s face before disappearing into the night again. neither of them spoke. it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence.

the windows were cracked just enough for the cool night air to slip inside, carrying the scent of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. the music was low, soft enough that it blended into the background rather than filling the silence. she liked that about him.

he never rushed to fill quiet moments. he let them exist.

she rested her head against the window, watching the city blur past.

“you know…” she murmured, breaking the silence.

désiré hummed in response, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while the other on his thigh.

“i don’t think i’ve ever seen the roads this empty.”

he glanced at her for the briefest second before looking back at the road, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

oh how she loved that smile.

“that’s because you’re usually asleep by now,” he said, the smile in his voice arriving a second before the one on his face. “you never make it this far.”

his fingers drummed lazily against the steering wheel as he considered her comment. a quiet chuckle slipped past his lips.

she scoffed, turning in her seat to look at him.

“you say that like it’s my fault.” one eyebrow raised in mock offense. a smile threatened at the corners of her lips, but she did her best to suppress it.

désiré let out a quiet hum. another stretch of empty road opened up ahead, illuminated only by the occasional streetlight.

“whose fault is it, then?” he asked, flicking his eyes towards her for just a second. he wasn’t expecting to find her already looking at him. he wanted to hold her gaze, but the road demanded his attention.

she held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, as though genuinely weighing her options. then she smiled—a slow, knowing smile.

“yours.” she said, a grin tugged at her lips as she leaned over and gave his shoulder a gentle bump.

the warmth of her shoulder lingered long after she’d pulled away. a soft laugh escaped him. god, she had no idea that even the smallest moments with her meant everything to him.

“mine?” he breathed. his heart stumbled somewhere behind his ribs. he risked another glance at her.

she nodded once, folding one leg beneath her on the seat as she faced him a little more. she watched the way his hands rested on the steering wheel before murmuring. “you’re too good at driving.”

he let out another quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

“that’s a new one,” his smile lingered longer than he intended. he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, though he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at her again. “i’ve never had anyone blame my driving before.”

“i’m not blaming it…” she protested, her voice soft.

she wondered if he knew what he did to her without trying. how every late-night drive seemed to slow the world just enough for her to breathe. how the silence between them never demanded to be filled. how his quiet presence unraveled knots she’d spent all day carrying.

she didn’t have a name for the feeling yet. peace, maybe. comfort. something warmer than either of those. whatever it was, she found herself chasing it every chance she got—finding excuses to linger, to stay in the passenger seat a little longer, to let another song play before either of them mentioned going home.

his voice pulled her gently from her thoughts. she blinked, realizing he'd been waiting for her answer. he scratched lightly at the side of his neck before loosening his grip on the steering wheel, only to tighten it again a moment later, as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded.

he didn't rush her. he never did.

she let out a quiet breath, her gaze drifting back to the windshield.

“it’s just…” she paused, searching for words that never seemed big enough to hold the feeling. “you make everything feel easy.”

he looked at her like she’d just handed him something fragile, something he didn’t want to break. this woman had no idea what she meant to him. she had become his peace. he just let her words sit between them, like he was afraid moving too quickly would break something. the words seemed to catch him off guard—not because he didn’t like them, but because he wasn’t used to hearing them.

then he smiled softly. unable to hide the warmth in his expression. how could he?

“that’s a pretty big thing to say.” his voice was quieter this time, almost like he didn’t want to disturb the feeling settling between them.

she looked down at her hands, suddenly aware of how much she’d revealed. the honesty of it sat between them, warm and unfamiliar.

“is it?” she asked gently, almost afraid of what he might say.

for a moment, he didn’t answer. he just looked at her. not the way people usually looked at her—not searching for something, not expecting something. just taking her in like he was trying to memorize the moment. like she was something worth slowing down for, in a world that never seemed to stop moving.

outside, the city continued moving around them, but inside the car everything felt still. the soft music. the warmth of the seats. the quiet sound of his breathing beside her.

“yeah.” he said softly.

his eyes returned to the road, a small smile tugging at his lips. and somehow, he couldn’t make it go away. every time he thought it had faded, it came back again—a quiet, helpless smile that she had somehow put there without even trying.

“because i don’t think i’ve ever wanted to be that for someone.”

“what?” she turned towards him, her brows pulling together slightly.

his fingers moved slowly over the steering wheel, tracing the same absent rhythm they had been tapping all night. for a moment, he didn’t look at her. like the words were harder to say when he had to see her reaction.

“someone’s peace.”

the sentence was barely above a whisper. she went quiet.

a few cars passed in the distance, streetlights disappeared behind them, the world continued like nothing had changed. but inside the car, something had changed. time seemed to slow, leaving only the quiet between them. the world outside slowly lost its importance.

“someone they don’t have to pretend around,” he continued softly. “someone who makes things feel a little lighter.”

his throat moved as he swallowed, his eyes staying fixed on the road ahead. then, he glanced at her for a second, and there was something almost vulnerable in his expression.

“i don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me and thought…” he paused, searching for the right words. “that i could make their life feel easier.”

her chest tightened. because he said it like it was something he never believed he could be. like being someone’s comfort had always felt impossible to him. she wanted to tell him that he was wrong. that he had no idea how much he changed the atmosphere around him. how his presence alone could quiet every thought that had been overwhelming her all day.

but the words felt too big.

so instead, she reached across the space between them. her fingers found his where his hand rested near the gearshift, hesitant at first, giving him every chance to pull away.

he didn’t.

his fingers curled around hers almost immediately, warm and familiar, like his hand had been waiting for hers to be there. as if the touch had always belonged there. and somehow, that said everything she couldn’t put into words. she knew. she just knew.

she would always choose him.

the road ahead slowly became familiar. she recognized the streets before she even saw the sign. the turn towards her neighborhood was only a few seconds away. and suddenly, the warmth inside the car felt a little more fragile. neither of them said anything. the music continued quietly in the background, filling the space between them as if it knew neither of them wanted to break the moment.

she watched the familiar buildings appear through the windshield. then she noticed. the turn was coming. she looked over at him.

he knew too. she could tell by the way his fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel. the indicator never came on. the car kept moving. past her street. past the turn. she blinked, looking back at the road behind them.

“dés…”

his eyes stayed ahead, but she caught the smallest smile pulling at his lips.

“yeah?” his voice was soft, almost too casual.

“you missed the turn.”

for a second, she expected him to look surprised. to apologize. to make some excuse about not noticing. but he didn’t.

a quiet breath of laughter left him.

“i know.” he said quietly, his voice steady and certain.

she stared at him for a second, her heart warming at the certainty in his voice. she smiled before she even realized she was doing it.

“aren’t you going to turn around?” she asked, but a part of her hoped he wouldn’t.

this time, he didn’t answer immediately. he just looked at the empty road ahead, the city stretching endlessly in front of them. their hands were still intertwined between them, warm and steady. his thumb brushed against hers absentmindedly, like he needed the reminder that she was still there.

when he felt her fingers shift against his, his grip tightened without thinking. just slightly. like letting go was the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to do. a silent answer before he could find the words. then, softly, almost a whisper, but with the weight of a promise—

“not yet.” his voice carrying a weight that made her chest tighten.

not a refusal. not an excuse. a plea. he said it like he needed her to understand. two simple words. but somehow, they meant everything. she understood, because she knew what he was really saying.

stay a little longer.

don’t make me say goodnight yet.

he just wasn’t ready to let the night end. the space between them suddenly felt different. like it wasn’t a space between them anymore, it was the last thing standing between everything they had been afraid to admit and everything they had been hoping for.

he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a quiet kiss against her knuckles, a small gesture that somehow said everything he couldn’t. then, his fingers gently intertwined with hers, slower this time, like he wasn’t afraid of what it meant anymore. like holding her hand wasn’t a risk, but a place to rest.

she watched him, almost afraid to believe it. afraid that if she moved too quickly, if she wanted too much, she would break the quiet little moment they had finally found. she stayed there, holding his hand and letting the silence speak for them. for once, she didn’t need reassurance. she didn’t need promises.

he just kept driving, one hand holding hers, his attention on the road but his heart finally somewhere else. for once, he wasn’t thinking about the exit. he wasn’t looking for the easiest way out, wasn’t counting the seconds until he had to let go.

he was just there.

then, at the next red light, he stopped. the engine hummed softly, and every few seconds another streetlight washed over them, lighting her face just long enough for him to steal another glance before darkness tucked them away again. and for the first time that night, he let himself look at her without searching for a reason to leave. like he was seeing her without all the fear that usually stood between them. like he was finally allowing himself to want this, to want her. his eyes softened, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

a quiet reassurance.

she wondered if he knew how much that tiny gesture meant to her. how something so simple could feel like an answer to all the doubts she’d carried. neither of them moved. they didn’t need to. everything they had been holding back was sitting there between them, every almost, every goodbye that never happened, every feeling they were too afraid to admit.

all the times they stood too close but still found a reason to step away. all the words that stayed stuck in their throats because saying them out loud would make everything too real. and now, there was nowhere left to hide. just the quiet understanding that, somehow, after everything, they had still found their way back to each other.

she looked at him, and he looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time and remembering her all at once. every little thing he had tried not to miss, every feeling he had tried to bury, was suddenly impossible to ignore. the silence wasn’t empty. it was full of everything they had been waiting for.

he leaned closer, slowly, giving her the choice. as their eyes stayed locked, she tugged his head down and their lips met in a featherlight kiss.

the kiss was gentle at first.

careful. desperate.

neither of them rushed. they couldn’t. not after all the time they had spent holding back.

his hand left hers slowly, as he turned towards her in the driver’s seat. his fingers found her cheek, his palm warm against her skin, holding her with a tenderness that made her chest ache. his thumb brushed along her cheekbone, slow and gentle, and the small gesture carried everything he couldn’t say. she leaned into his touch, closing the last bit of distance between them, and something in him finally broke open.

the kiss became deeper, not because they were desperate to take something from each other, but because they had spent so long denying themselves this exact moment. she smiled slightly against his lips, unable to hide how happy she was. her fingers found the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him in a quiet way.

désiré’s mouth crashed over hers again, and there was nothing exploratory about this kiss. she tilted her head slightly, meeting him halfway instead of letting him carry the whole moment. his tongue tickled her bottom lip. his perfect teeth gave it a tiny nip. then he buried his face in her neck and lavished it with soft, open-mouthed kisses that left shivers in their wake.

breathless.

his hand stayed against her face, his fingers brushing gently through her hair, grounding himself in the reality of her being there. of them being here. she gave him another small kiss, softer this time, like reassurance rather than desire.

the traffic light turned green. neither of them moved. the dashboard lights flickered gently across her face, making the whole moment feel unreal. he was memorizing her. the way she looked at him, the warmth of her hand, the quiet between them—he wanted to remember every second of it. every little detail felt like something he wanted to keep, something he could come back to when this moment was no longer theirs.

he should have started the car. he knew that. but his hand stayed where it was. a small smile tugged at his lips, almost like he couldn’t believe he was actually here, that this was real.

“dés.” she whispered softly, almost like a reminder that the traffic light had changed, that they couldn’t stay here forever.

his eyes stayed on hers.

“i know,” he said, barely audible.

he knew he should put his hands back on the wheel and pretend his heart wasn’t fighting against the idea of leaving this moment behind. but he did none of that. he leaned closer, his forehead resting against hers, his voice dropping to a quiet whisper.

“just… stay with me for a second.”

and suddenly, she understood. he wasn’t asking her to stay because he thought she would leave. he was asking because some part of him was still afraid that beautiful things were only meant to be temporary. she wanted him to know. he didn’t have to hold onto this second like it was the last one he would ever get. because she wasn’t just a moment.

she was here.

the light was still green. but right now, all he wanted was one more moment with her.

the night passed slowly. the city kept moving. the lights kept changing. the world carried on like it always did.

but their kisses stayed. the warmth of it stayed. the feeling of it stayed. and even when the night was over, even when the road eventually led them somewhere else, a part of them would always remain there.

in that car. under those lights. in the moment they finally chose each other.

but sitting there, with her beside him, somewhere between the quiet kisses and the moments where neither of them needed to say a word, he had realised something.

he didn’t want to leave. not this time. not her. he wanted this. her laughter in the passenger seat. her hand in his. the quiet. the peace. and he was wondering how to keep it. how to keep her. he didn’t want to find the road home.

he’d already found it.

[clara-a7]

PSG BOYS || 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙞𝙤𝙣

彡CONTIENT ; désiré doué, joâo neves, vitinha, warren zaire-emery, khvicha kvaratskhelia

彡WARNINGS ; fluff

彡SUMMARY ; how they celebrate champions league title with you

彡WORDS ; 2,5k

彡DISCLAIMER ; !Everything written here is FICTITIOUS, english isn't my first language!

彡AUTHOR'S NOTE ; i enjoyed writing this and I hope you'll like it! let me know if you'd like to read more fics about PSG players!

⤷Désiré Doué

When you finally step onto the pitch, the first thing you do is look for Désiré. Among the crowd of players, photographers, journalists, and staff members, it seems almost impossible to find anyone, but it only takes you a few seconds to spot him.

He’s surrounded by cameras trying to capture every possible angle of him with the Champions League trophy, a huge smile spread across his face. He looks completely at ease, completely happy, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, enjoying every second of it because this is his moment.

You stay off to the side for a while, just watching him, even taking a few pictures yourself like the proud girlfriend you are, because it’s not every day that your boyfriend wins the Champions League.

At some point, he notices you. His eyes immediately find yours through the crowd and a smile appears on his lips as he shakes his head in amusement, realizing you’ve been secretly taking photos of him.

He stands up, carefully places the trophy back on the ground, and motions for you to come over.

“Bébé, come here!” he calls, and you don’t hesitate for even a second before joining him.

The moment you reach him, his hand settles naturally on your waist, pulling you against his side like it’s instinct.

For nearly fifteen minutes, the two of you do nothing but take pictures together. Désiré doesn’t even try to hide how much he enjoys it, especially with you there beside him.

You take dozens of photos, laughing the entire time, and in one of them you’re both holding the trophy together, except it’s much heavier than expected and you almost lose your grip.He immediately laughs, sliding his hands over yours and wrapping his fingers around them to steady it.

“Careful, baby,” he says softly, as the trophy ends up resting between both of your hands, his chest lightly pressed against your shoulder while photographers capture the moment.

In another photo, he places his sunglasses on your face before carefully taking off his winner’s medal and hanging it around your neck, his arm never once leaving your waist.

Sometimes his thumb absentmindedly rubs your hip while the cameras keep flashing around you, but he doesn’t care. His smile stays soft and victorious, his eyes filled with a thousand emotions at once, the pride of achieving his dream, of making his family proud, of making his fans proud but most of all, the happiness of sharing it all with you.

Later, once the celebrations have calmed down a bit, Désiré spends a long time scrolling through all the photos of the two of you in the dressing room. Eventually, he finds his favorite: a picture of you both smiling with the trophy between you.

Without overthinking it, he posts it on his Instagram story with the caption “mon cœur,” simple but enough to instantly melt your heart, because it perfectly captures a moment neither of you will ever forget.

⤷Joâo Neves

After the final whistle, while celebrating with his teammates, João has been looking for you the entire time. Even as the stadium shakes under the noise of it all, his eyes keep scanning the crowd, searching for you.

Then it happens when you’re finally allowed onto the pitch, the second you step into view, his gaze locks onto your silhouette and everything else disappears. His smile breaks wider instantly, softer in a way only you ever get to see.

“Princesa!” he calls, his voice cutting effortlessly through the chaos, and before you can even fully react, he’s already running straight toward you.

You barely have time to laugh before he reaches you and crashes into you with full force, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he pulls you against his chest like he never wants to let go. His chin rests on top of your head, and he kisses your hair once, then again, like he’s been waiting the entire match just for this moment. You whisper how proud you are of him, of everything he’s achieved at such a young age, and instead of answering, he simply pulls back just enough to press soft kisses to your cheeks, one after another, unable to hide how overwhelmed and happy he is.

For a moment, it’s just you in his arms while everything continues around you. Even then, he doesn’t let go properly. One arm stays around your shoulders as he keeps you tucked against his side, guiding you through the crowd toward the PSG supporters.

His teammates immediately start teasing him, calling him “loverboy,” which only makes him laugh while he still refuses to let go of you.

And as you walk beside him, you can’t help but look at him more than anything else the soft features that make him look even younger up close, the freckles catching the stadium lights, the tiredness behind his happiness and you feel an overwhelming sense of pride, not just for what he’s won, but for him.

⤷Warren Zaire-Emery

You’re in the stands, surrounded by fans screaming with pure joy as Arsenal miss the penalty that seals PSG’s victory.

The whole stadium erupts. You’re jumping with everyone around you, laughing, shouting, barely able to believe what you’re seeing. Across the pitch, players are running in every direction, some collapsing into teammates’ arms, others disappearing under celebrations, but Warren doesn’t move at first.

For a few seconds, he just stands there, chest rising and falling as he stares around the stadium, trying to process everything the noise, the lights, the supporters, the reality that PSG have actually done it.

Then suddenly he turns and starts running. Not toward the teammates, not toward the cameras, not even toward his fans, but straight toward you.

He sprints across the pitch like pure adrenaline is carrying him forward, weaving through staff, players, and security without slowing down. The moment you realize where he’s going, you push yourself against the barrier as far as you can, squeezed between celebrating supporters and overwhelmed security guards trying to hold everyone back.

“Warren!” you shout, your voice breaking between laughter and tears.

“You did it!”

He hears you instantly. Of course he does. His head snaps up the second your voice reaches him, and within seconds he’s there, reaching the barrier, crashing straight into your arms. His forehead presses against your chest, his arms locking tightly around your waist as he holds onto you like he needs it to understand what’s happening.

For a moment, he doesn’t move or speak, just breathes you in while trying to ground himself after everything. You can feel him shaking slightly, overwhelmed by joy and disbelief all at once.

Behind him, his teammates realize he has completely disappeared, shouting and laughing as they point toward the stands.

You gently brush the damp curls from his forehead, and he finally looks up at you, his expression soft and his eyes are bit red.

“Go celebrate,” you tell him gently, but he immediately shakes his head.

“No.” You laugh.

“Warren.”

“No,” his answer comes just as quickly the second time, earning another laugh from you while the poor security guard beside you looks increasingly stressed by the entire situation.

Reluctantly, he leans forward and presses a quick kiss against your forehead before finally letting go.

And throughout the entire ceremony, he keeps his eyes on you.

Later, once families are finally allowed onto the pitch, Warren finds you almost immediately. Before you can even congratulate him properly, he’s already taking his medal from around his neck and placing it around yours instead. When you try to protest, he simply shakes his head and leaves it there.

From that moment on, he barely leaves your side. One arm stays around your shoulders as he pulls you into photos, celebrations, and conversations with his teammates. Even with the trophy finally in his hands, he keeps looking over at you with the same disbelieving smile, as if he still can’t quite believe any of this is happening.

⤷Vitinha

He should be running around with the others, jumping, singing, celebrating with the fans.

Instead, when you finally step onto the pitch, you notice he’s moving a little slower than everyone else. The season has been long, and you can see it now. In the way he walks, in the tiredness on his face, in the way he pauses between celebrations just to catch his breath.

After everything he gave this season, his body is finally feeling it. But the smile never leaves his face. Every time a teammate hugs him or he looks at the trophy or hears the fans singing, it only gets bigger.

Then his eyes find yours, and his smile softens instantly. Not the one he’s been giving the cameras all night, but the one that’s only for you. Without thinking, you start running toward him.

You don’t care about anything around you, you just want to reach him. The second he sees you coming, his arms open right away.

You reach him and nearly crash into him, and he laughs softly while steadying you, one hand on your back and the other around your waist. “I’m proud of you,” you whisper against his shoulder, holding him tight.

“You were the best player on the pitch.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just holds you closer, like he’s finally letting go of everything he’s been carrying all season.

When he pulls back slightly, his forehead rests against yours and his eyes close for a second.

“I just needed you here, meu amor.” he admits quietly. Your heart melts instantly. One of your hands goes to his cheek, and he leans into it without thinking.

From that moment on, he stays close to you the entire night, never really leaving your side. Every now and then, when everything becomes a little too overwhelming or when the pain and exhaustion catch up with him, he leans into you slightly, using your presence to calm himself and take a moment to breathe, like you're the only stable thing in the chaos around him.

⤷ Khvicha Kvaratskhelia

During the celebrations on the pitch, most of your time is spent trying to find Khvicha, or at least trying to keep track of him.

Every time you spot him, a few seconds later he’s somewhere else; hugging teammates, running toward the fans, taking pictures with the trophy before disappearing again.

He’s everywhere at once, completely carried away by the excitement, and watching him makes you smile because he looks so happy, almost like a child living the best day of his life.

Eventually, you stop trying to follow him, knowing he’ll find you again anyway.

You spend time talking with other families, enjoying the chaos and laughter around you, until suddenly something is placed over your shoulders. You look down and immediately recognize it:

a Georgian flag.

You smile instantly because there is only one person who would do that. Before you can even turn around, two arms wrap around your waist from behind, pulling you back against a familiar chest.

“You were looking for me?” Khvicha teases, his voice close to your ear.

You laugh. “You don’t stay still for one second.”

His arms tighten briefly before he finally lets you turn around, and when you do, you see him slightly out of breath, hair messy, medal hanging crookedly around his neck.

For the first time all evening, he actually looks still. He leans down and presses a long kiss to your temple, and you stay like that for a moment, just enjoying the calm in the middle of everything.

But it doesn’t last long, because this is Khvicha.

A few seconds later he’s already taking your hand and pulling you forward.

“Khvicha, what are you doing?” you laugh.

He grins. “The party just started.”

And before you can protest, he’s already dragging you back into the celebrations, completely full of energy again,

like the night is only getting started.

✿彡did you enjoy this? comments, likes, and reblogs are immensely appreciatedミ✿

© clara-a7 - all rights reserved.

[barcapix]

hii could you do desire doue bf headcanons? 💕

✮ Désiré Doué Boyfriend Headcanons!

désiré doue x fem!reader

sy: just bf headcanons:)

a/n: yesss ofc ! thanks for requesting too💕 (i am actually running out of ideas now god help me).

warnings: nooope

-> Bf!Désiré who.. is the kinda guy who flicks at your forehead when you’re stressing or overthinking (most often than not: followed by a kiss)

-> Bf!Désiré who.. whenever you ask him to do something he says no, then proceeds to do it anyway.

-> Bf!Désiré who.. ALWAYSSS does the ‘hand thing’ whenever you’re walking behind him. even if you become too slow, he’ll match your speed if he needs to.

-> Bf!Désiré who.. oh, for sure, he’ll defend your name with his absolute life when you’re not around. he’d lose friendships for you.

-> Bf!Désiré who.. not a big on expressing his affection for you. but will do subtle things to show it, like mouthing ‘i love you’ across a room, replacing your hair ties if they break + sweeps the hair out of your eyes if your reading, doing dishes etc.

-> Bf!Désiré who.. who looks for you first in any crowd/room.

-> Bf!Désiré who… a night owl, just like you. forget those early morning couple runs, making smoothies and catching the first brims of sunlight—watching the dawn arrive & stargazing is much more to his liking. (you could say he js matches your freak)

-> Bf!Désiré who.. keeps a photo of you in his wallet. it’s the first thing he sees when he opens it, and gosh, does his heart just melt.

-> Bf!Désiré who.. will text you something/send you unfunny insta reels even though you’re right next to him. and his response to that is, “i thought you’d laugh.”

-> Bf!Désiré who.. will silently fix your hair if it becomes messy. (who needs permission?) and will genuinely be dumbfounded on why you become all shy.

-> Bf!Désiré who.. forget being a mamá’s boy, he’s his girlfriends boy.

-> Bf!Désiré who.. loves and always asks for hauls—even as boring as it is, grocery shopping hauls. he just wants to hear his gf yap.

-> Bf!Désiré who.. leaves half-full cups everywhere gf x cleans them up without complaining bf.

-> Bf!Désiré who.. is the typa guy who will hook his index finger in your trousers ‘belt’ loop if he either a) wants your attention. b) trying to lure you closer to him in public or c) he’s just being annoying.

-> Bf!Désiré who.. who when it’s your turn to choose a film, he’ll roll his eyes and explain how it’s ‘boring’ + will even pretend to snooze but ends up sitting on the edge of the couch, invested.

-> Bf!Désiré who… likes taking care of you in thoughtful ways. (e.g. a personal fav is painting your fingernails—he’s horrific at it but the way his eyebrows furrow and his tongue slightly peeks, makes it adorable)

-> Bf!Désiré who.. maybe it’s cringe to all of his mates but inviting you to dance in the kitchen? yup yup yup.

-> Bf!Désiré who… who will randomly scoop you up just cause he can. he’s full of love + has the muscles for it.. so why not?

-> Bf!Désiré who… gives bicep pictures (😛)

-> Bf!Désiré who… he’s not a huge fan of calls, nor texts so if he can, (which tbf 9/10) he would always just come over whenever you say you miss him.

🔖🏷️: @n0vazsq @hearzdiarx @paucubarsisimp @diarieeeelils @joaosnovia @httpsdana @universefcb @madamsoulette @mariejuli (lmk if you wanna be added or removed ◡̈)

[suempu]

i am so freaked out 4 polyester

-> mdni, SPIT PLAYYYYYY, SALIVA FETISH, afab reader, sub! ester, erm degrading language, consensual rough play

“what the fuck, holy shit—“

he has a crazed look in his eye, incredulous laugh muffled by you slotting his head in between your thighs.

you push back polyester’s bangs, forehead glistening in sweat while you thrust against his mouth.

“didn’t know you were—“ he gasps, hands trying to push you back, “so rough!” you pay him no mind, ignoring the desperate gasps he’s trying to take while you rock your hips against his nose, fully smothering him.

you moan, getting off to his pathetic muffling.

“can you, like, let me breathe for a second?—“

polyester groans, half feeling frustrated and half feeling, well, aroused as fuck.

its not everyday he can find someone as brash and domineering in the bedroom. he’s eating it up, literally.

“oh no baby…” you coo. “you’re gonna let me use this mouth of yours, mkay?”

he moans in embarrassment.

“y’gonna let me?” propping your hand on the wall, polyester feels slick drip towards his chest, fingers coming up to spread it all over his chest.

he feels his hair getting pulled back, eyes meeting yours, strings of saliva connecting his jaw and towards your pussy.

“answer.” you enunciate your point with a tug, catching sight of him playing with his slick covered nipples. “bitch, answer.”

you shake his head, and polyester almost feels his dick pop out of his pants.

“ohhhh my fucking god, yes! goddamn, yes, use it!” he whines, feeling his shame mix with his arousal.

grabbing both sides of his head, you push and pull at it while finding your rhythm, relishing in the way his eyes cross.

“fuck, that’s good.” you hum, grinning at his messy hair and disheveled appearance, such a big contrast to the neat and tidy look he usually sports.

gathering spit onto your tongue, you let out a small “fwah..” watching the glob land on his forehead, slowly dripping down onto the eye he usually keeps covered under his bangs, making him close it.

the angel under you lets out a whine thats swallowed into your folds, your clit vibrating against his nose while his tongue goes to town with your hole.

“want another? huh, baby?” you goad, hips rolling. polyester moans, nodding while his eyes begs for you. you smile, “you’re nasty.”

he feels another glob hit the space between his eyebrows, face scrunching at the pure arousal he’s feeling.

“are all angels up there like this?” you whisper in a lust filled daze, looking at the ceiling as if to make a point. “your brother like this too?”

you laugh at his face, watching him try, and fail, to glare at you (not that he can ever look threatening when his jaw is aching from lapping into you anyways.)

“jealous?” you huff out a snort, “—shiit, you’re gonna make me cum.”

polyester has a hand down his pants now, precum dripping like crazy while his nipples glisten, still soaked in your wetness.

you swear, panting and moaning while you chase that relief, taking advantage of the angel’s invulnerability to treat his face like a rocking chair.

polyester was on the same boat, hand pumping his cock in a rushed manner, desperate thrusting into his palm while his face got choked between your legs.

and with what felt like an explosion, you feel your limbs relax as you feel the rush and tingle spread all over you, moaning into the air.

slowly tilting your head down, you lean back to see polyester’s cum dribbling out like lava from a volcano. his head rests against the walls, mouth wide and hanging in gasps and small whines with your juice and saliva still coating the lower half of his face and body.

“holy fuck.” you groan, cupping his cheek. “open.” you whisper, watching proudly when he does so, eyes still unfocused but still conscious enough to be obedient.

you spit onto his tongue, before scooping up some of the sticky lines connecting your thighs to his face and twirling them onto his forehead, circling him like a perverted tiara.

humming, polyester closes his eyes, swallows everything before moaning, dick still twitching against his hands.

“that was…” his voice cracks, hooded eyes gazing up at you with a hazy smile, “like— so fucking hot.”

[elfqueen006]

💜Fudgecake💜Ch.2

Stocking Anarchy x Fat!Fem!Reader

CW: fatphobia, mentions of bullying

~Creme Brulee~

You stared at the girl in front of you, temporarily awestruck by her beauty. Her ivory skin was brought out by her gothic state of dress. It’s very frilly and feminine. Underneath she wears blue striped stockings underneath that contrasts with her dark appearance. Her hair is so long it goes down to her waist.

She clears her throat, bringing you back to reality. She smiles, “Should I pull up a chair or are you fine by yourself today?”

Dumbly, you blink at her. The girls’ smile grows tight the longer you stare. And finally, looking between her and the crowd behind her – their expressions ranging from disgusted to shocked – you realize she's giving you out from the asskicking Tracy was about to unleash on you.

“Yeah.” you blurt out. “Yeah, sit anywhere.” You then pat the chair beside you. “As a matter of fact, sit next to me…if you want!”

“Thanks!” she chirps.

Going around the table, the angelic goth girl sits beside you. You began to eat, or at least try to. Out of the corner of your eye you saw the narrowed gazes of Tracy and pig heads and the tooth picks before they walked away. You let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding and turned to look at the angel girl. You hadn't expected her cheerful demeanor to disappear as soon as you made eye contact. Her bright blue eyes were absolutely haunting when paired with her cold expression.

“Um… thanks for–”

“Don’t mention it. Ever.” She cut you off, taking out what looked to be a lunchbox and taking off the top. Inside was a cup of creme brulee. “I just hate to see good food go to waste. I heard what you did to that jerk off, Chad. You’ve got some guts.” she mused.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, “Thanks–”

She waved a hand, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You felt whatever hopes you had crashed against the table as she spoke. But oddly enough, you felt you needed it. If she hadn’t been so blunt, you might’ve thought you had a chance of making an actual friend.

How corny right?

But if she was being direct on not wanting you to be chummy with her and yet protecting you from Tracy that could only mean one other thing…

Sighing, you pushed your plate aside and placed your elbows on the table, resting your head upon your threaded fingers. “So what do you want?”

Angel girl was in the middle of eating her creme brulee when she paused and looked your way. “Excuse me?”

“What. Do. You. Want?” You repeated, “My lunch money? What?”

She scoffed, “I’m eating creme brulee.”

“And?”

“And. You don’t have anything I want. And if you do, it’s nothing I can’t get myself.” She punctuated this as she stuck her spoon in her mouth, savoring the desserts’ taste with a hum.

Okay, dammit. You actually wanted to pay her back in some way since she had basically rescued you by social intervention. But her supercilious attitude was really starting to get on your nerves.

“Then why did you step in like that?” you asked.

She shrugged, “Like I said, you have guts. Most of the students here would bend over and sharpen a pencil in their ass if I told them to.”

Okaaay?

“But when whatshisface came along you held your own.”

“I wasn’t trying to start anything…”

“You didn’t, but you were aiming to finish it. And sure, you had no chance in hell of fighting that guy alone but you didn’t lose your nerve.”

“So I impressed you?” you snapped. “Is that why you came over, because you wanted to see a good fight?”

The girl blinked at you, a hint of surprise passing across her large eyes. A very small part of you felt guilty and extremely embarrassed of your outburst. This part of you was so embarrassed it wanted to prostrate itself against her and beg for forgiveness. The larger, more stubborn part of you hated that, however, and wanted you to tell her off.

For a moment or so you held each others’ stare before she made a small noise akin to a snicker.

“I don’t need your help and I don’t want your attention. If you want to see a fat bitch fight, put on some sumo wrestling.”

Angel girl then stood, packing her box dessert up as she mused. “Then you won’t have any problems on your own when Chad gets back from suspension.”

Shit. She was right. When it got back to Chad that Tracy couldn’t psyche you out he’d definitely be an issue.

The apparent fear on your face made her smile grow and she turned to walk away. “Have a good rest of your week. You’re gonna need it.”

—

“Really? She blew you off?”

Panty gave her little sister an incredulous look as she recounted the events at lunch period.

“Yeah. Guess that’s what you get for extending sympathy. Everyone’s suddenly so proud.” Stocking said, pulling the tongue from Honekoneko before letting it snap back in its face.

Currently they were riding on the highway with their jeep, See-Through. Panty had not really had a need for hand eye coordination, so only a glance back at the road while she talked with Stocking assured her they wouldn’t crash on their way to the church.

“Sheesh, whatever happened to fat bitches sticking together?” Panty scoffed, “I’m honestly surprised she didn’t jump at the opportunity to make you friendship bracelets and scale each other on your weight loss journey…”

Stocking shrugged, “I don’t really blame her. She didn’t ask for my help.” And I didn’t have to give it to her…

Due to the Anarchy sisters revered beauty, it wasn’t a secret that they were practically worshiped at Daten High School. Everybody wanted them and wanted to be them, even if they hated them. She supposed that with you being new to the scene, you hadn’t gotten the memo that they were many ticks above your social status.

But that was fine… it was almost kind of refreshing.

They soon arrived at the church, hopping out on opposite sides. Panty rested her hands behind her head and looked up at the sky. “How much do you bet she’ll get her ass kicked by the cheerleaders tomorrow morning?”

“The cheerleaders are gonna do that?”

“It’s arranged by that Barbie chick. I can book us some front row seats on the shoulders of jocks and a donut hole for you if you’re down?”

Stocking snorted, “Sure whatever, I could use the entertainment. Maybe this time I can properly get to see a fat bitch fight.”

[maximumdinosaurcherryblossom]

does anyone or will anyone write for desire doue or dean huijsen!?!! i love both of them sm but not a single person writes for them😔😔🙏🙏🙏 help a girl out please yall✊✊ also if you will please add me to ur tag list😛