Could you make an Instagram story between Gavi x Male Reader after for the story I let you choose :)
Rumour Has It
Fake media | bisexual male reader insert | famous reader
plot: rumours are going around about your relationship status since your break up with your ex.
Yourinstagram
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Yourinstagram turning 1 already 🥹
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Billieeilish ur an absolute amazing father
Sza stay strong during, don’t lose yourselfs
Pablogavi
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Pablogavi thinking about improving.
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Yourinstagram
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Yourinstagram let it hurt until it stops hurting
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Philfoden healing takes time
Dojacat first priority is your sanity
pablogavi
Liked by fcbarcelona and others
Pablogavi reinventing yourself takes time, so help someone do it
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User1 thats y/n’s room 👀
Fcbarcelona and that is the truth!!
Yourinstagram
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Yourinstagram new room made possible with help, new room new me
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Sza wonder who helped;)
User2 wait hold up
tmz_tv
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Tmz_tv after recent photo’s people are speculating that the movie star y/n is dating soccer player gavi are in an unexpected controversial romance. With an age gap of over 10 years, the people are talking. Especially after y/n messy divorce with ex wife.
What do you think about this?
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User4 I don’t blame gavi, I would too. That dih must be something out of this world.
User3 damn, drop the tapes.
Pablogavi
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Pablogavi walking to stay fit and ready for next season
i've never wanted anything so bad / i've never wanted anyone so bad
(gn reader / comfort / 1k words) when joão stays up all night overthinking, you're there to drag him back to bed
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ paramore - adore
JOÃO FÉLIX HADN’T MEANT TO LET IT GET THIS BAD. he rolls onto his back, letting out an annoyed sigh as he stares up at the ceiling. moonlight dances across the room almost mockingly. its silver glow is anything but welcome in the dead of night. even against the white paint covering the walls, all he can see is his failure. all he can think about are his mistakes.
joão drags his hands against his face almost agonizingly. sweat has gathered at his temples from the stress. he wants to claw a way out of his own skin. he wants to turn back time and change his mistakes. he wants to forget.
he pushes himself to sit up, tugging his knees to his chest in the process. joão steals a glance at you in the darkness. you’re half-sprawled across the mattress, entirely relaxed. your chest rises and falls in a steady pattern with each breath. you twitch occasionally, jumping or scrunching your nose in your dreams. you look peaceful. despite himself, joão smiles softly.
slowly, he slips out of bed. the tile flooring is cold beneath his bare feet. you barely stir. joão tugs the blankets up ever so slightly until they cover your shoulders.
he wanders down the hall, pacing almost aimlessly through the kitchen to grab some water before he finally settles onto your couch. joão folds over, resting his elbows against his knees. his fingertips press against his temples, willing his budding headache to disappear. willing his mind to stop racing for just a second.
joão sits there for so long chills run down his spine. goosebumps arise against his bare biceps. his back aches and his feet go numb. he simply closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as tight as he can.
“joão?” he startles at the sound of your quiet voice cutting through the silence. it breaks him from his trance, forcing him back to reality.
light from your phone filters through the hallway. your feet drag along the floor slightly, stumbling the way you only do when you drag yourself out of bed too early for work in the mornings. he squints at your figure in the darkness. you’re wearing one of his t-shirts — he can tell by how it drapes across your frame. your phone is angled at the floor, using its low light to illuminate the pathway ahead. it’s a photo of the two of you: joão’s arm draped across your waist as you leaned against his chest, both of you basking in the miami sunshine during a rare day off.
joão reaches out to grab your wrist, gingerly guiding you around the coffee table until you drop on the cushions beside him with a low huff. he chuckles softly to himself. you let your eyes close once again, eagerly leaning your head against his shoulder. he welcomes you eagerly, pulling you in until your head is pressed against his chest, just over his heartbeat.
“what are you doing out of bed?” he whispers.
“woke up ‘n you were gone,” you mumble back. the words slur together at the ends, syllables mashing into each other. joão’s smile falters ever so slightly. he brushes a hand against your back in apology, curling around your side. you nuzzle yourself even closer to him in return. “i was worried. you have training early tomorrow.”
joão smiles softly, if not a little sad. you had his schedule memorized almost better than your own. games were saved onto a shared calendar, practice regimes were followed almost religiously, you even had alarms set so you could watch the matches no matter the time. it was just like you to be so selfless.
“sorry,” joão finally says. he had interrupted your sleep, after all. “i couldn’t sleep.”
you shift at that. you push your head up slightly, blinking at him in the darkness. joão isn’t sure if you can make him out or not but he holds your gaze all the same. “do you wanna talk about it?”
joão lets a deep sigh escape him. his eyes flutter shut for a few seconds as he leans his head against the back of the couch. his shoulders are stiff, carrying the weight of his team — his country. his head was starting to hurt from how fast his thoughts were racing.
finally, he shakes his head softly. “no,” he says. “not really.”
“okay,” you nod. your eyes must have adjusted, joão thinks. you raise a hand to gingerly cup his face, brushing your thumb against his cheek. your fingertips trace against the edge of his cheekbone, trailing along the features you loved so dearly. joão lets his eyes flutter shut. he leans against your hand, letting the warmth settle over him. “we don’t have to talk. but will you come back to bed, at least?”
it shouldn’t feel as daunting as it does, but the prospect of reliving his failures in his dreams makes joão tense slightly. you notice immediately. you reach over to take his hand into your own. he takes a deep breath when your fingers trace over his knuckles. your movements settle after a moment, giving him space to feel the warmth of your skin against his own.
joão nods. he interlaces your fingers together, offering your hand a gentle squeeze. this time, he’s the one who uses your phone to guide you away from the couch and down the hallway to your bedroom.
you settle into bed almost immediately with joão following quickly. he plugs your phone into its charger and sets it on your bedside table before crawling in beside you. you make quick work of intertwining your bodies together. your legs tangle beneath the sheets. joão’s hand slips beneath the hem of your stolen t-shirt to trace miscellaneous shapes against your bare skin.
the weight is still there. pressure still claws at him from all sides. their expectations don’t disappear.
but you shuffle closer to him across the mattress, closing the distance between your bodies. you wrap him into your hold like it’s second nature. like he belongs. you rake your fingers through his hair when joão hides his face into the crook of your neck. you lean in, pressing a feather-light kiss against his forehead as he settles, finally relaxed enough to drift off into a peaceful sleep.
and for once, the noise in joão’s head quiets.
notes: please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! disclaimer that i know next to nothing about football but i've been keeping up with the world cup (and joão) so here we are, inspired by an interview i saw where he talked about not being able to sleep well, lmk if you guys want to see more of him or if i should stick to f1
if you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, or rebloging !! and if you want to support me, consider checking out more fics here <3
● make up sex, protected sex, hurt/comfort, break up, angsty, missionary.
● word count: 6.453
Lamine leaned against the locker room bench, pulling on his jersey. The gym was empty—quiet, except for the hum of fluorescent lights. He avoided looking at your profile on his phone. Seven months ago, they’d kissed after a 3-0 win—passionate and sweet under the stadium floodlights.
Now after the breakup? Nothing. No calls. No texts. Not even a “come over” after practice like before.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he did—but Lamine had always been bad with feelings, especially when things got messy or people expected too much from him… And dating another guy? That had already been complicated enough—the whispers in group chats, teammates giving side-eye during team dinners…
Lamine watched you from across the cafeteria—how you sat alone, picking at the food with tired eyes. He remembered how you used to bring him extra fruit during morning training, always smiling even when Lamine comes by. And now? He’d been the one who walked away—little explanation, just silence after breaking up. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the whispers or what people thought… but it wasn't just that either. The pressure—the coach’s side glances when they saw you two holding hands, teammates avoiding him in showers—it weighed on him more than he admitted. And instead of talking… Lamine ran.
The coach clapped his hands, signaling the start of drills—you stood out immediately. Precise passes. Sharp footwork. Calm under pressure, like nothing ever bothered you. When it did. Lamine watched from the sideline during individual skill practice—the way you controlled your pace and moved like silk. No wonder their transfer value had stayed high despite everything.
Even after being dumped by Lamine… you hadn’t cracked on the field. Not one bad performance, not one missed penalty kick in training matches. Meanwhile? Lamine’s form had dipped slightly—not badly enough to get benched—but there was a stiffness in him now: hesitation before shots, slower reactions than usual…The coach noticed it too—the side-eyes were getting heavier again…his voice cut through the training ground like a whistle.
"Lamine! Focus! You're spacing out again—get your head in the game!" Right there. In front of everyone. Right as you were adjusting your shoes, calm and collected after nailing a perfect pass drill.
Lamine flinched—his jaw tightening instantly. It wasn’t just the criticism, it was where it happened—the public humiliation stung worse because you had heard every word. And now? Lots of players were staring: some sympathetic, others smirking behind their water bottles. His pride took a direct hit. He'd always been proud—not arrogant, but confident—and being called out so harshly in front of…you? He gritted his teeth and forced himself back into position… but something inside him cracked quietly that day
The locker room buzzed with quiet gossip—teammates exchanging glances whenever you walked by. Even the toughest player remembered how, during your dating days, your entire face lit up whenever Lamine entered the room. That soft smile that never showed on camera—the one reserved only for him. Once after a match win, they’d seen you sprint across the field to hug Lamine mid-celebration—ignoring reporters and cameras—and kiss him right in front of thousands.
It made people say things like:
"Bro loves hard."
"That guy? 100% committed."
Now? Seeing how quiet and composed you were—still performing flawlessly despite being dumped so coldly—the contrast hit everyone harder than expected…
"I saw Y/N in the bath… he was crying. Didn’t even make a sound."
The rumor spread fast—whispered in the hallway, muttered during lunch. Silence under shower spray? No sobbing, no dramatic breakdown—just quiet tears falling like rain while water drowned out everything else. The older players froze when they heard it. You? Crying? The guy who never complained about injuries, who took extra training sessions without flinching? You’d always seemed unbreakable—mentally strong, focused only on football and Lamine…Now this?
Lamine’s sandwich turned to ash in his mouth mid-bite. His stomach twisted—not with guilt exactly, but something close: regret wrapped tight around anger at himself for not seeing it coming…
That one minute—that stupid, reckless thought: "What if people see me as weak? What if being with another guy makes them think I'm not tough enough?"
It wasn't even about you. It was fear. Pride. The pressure to be perfect—not just as a player, but as someone who fits neatly into football’s world of straight male culture. So he panicked. And he dumped you like it meant nothing—like seven months of love and quiet affection were just… disposable.
Now look at him: team dynamic strained because everyone knew what happened, performance slipping slightly—and worst of all? You weren't angry or loud about it—you’d silently cried under shower water like a man who loved too hard for someone who didn’t deserve it.
On the pitch, Lamine and you used to communicate without words—just a glance, a nod. During attacks, Lamine would instinctively run toward where you were passing. They’d sync up perfectly: one-twos that flowed like music.
But now? Miscommunication everywhere. You would sprint into space expecting a pass—only for Lamine to hesitate or send it elsewhere. Sometimes you two collided during overlaps because neither adjusted their timing anymore—you both weren’t in tune like before. It wasn’t bad enough to get benched yet… but teammates noticed. The chemistry that once made them unstoppable as a duo had cracked under personal tension no one could fix with drills alone.
Before, whenever their eyes met across the field during breaks or water sessions, there’d be a small smile. Maybe Lamine would toss you back your water bottle after stealing it with that playful smirk he only ever used for you.
Now? Just side glances—brief, tense. No warmth. No inside jokes passed through looks. If one messed up on the pitch and looked at the other… it wasn’t concern in their eyes anymore—it was judgment. Frustration simmering beneath silence. And when teammates tried to lighten things by joking around them together? The awkward pause afterward was louder than any argument
The tension wasn’t just between Lamine and Y/N anymore—it was infecting the whole team. You two broke up and made it everyone’s problem. Practices that used to be high-energy became stiff, quiet. Passes weren't as crisp. Even the coach noticed morale dropping. The locker room jokes died down. It all came down to pride: two young rising stars who couldn’t swallow their egos long enough to sit down and talk. Not argue—just speak honestly for once… but neither wanted to be the first one who looked weak by reaching out.
The captain slammed his water bottle on the floor—thud. Silence crashed over the locker room. Even Lamine and you turned to look. They’d just lost a crucial match, 3-1—and it wasn’t because of tactics or luck. It was sloppy passes, missed connections… and two key players not syncing like they used to. The captain stood up slowly, face serious—the kind that meant business. Then came the words everyone knew were coming:
"We’re not playing like a team anymore." No names were called yet—but every player in that room knew exactly who he was talking about: Lamine Yamal… and you. He started to explain the issues to everyone in order to bring the team back together again.
Then the captain stepped right into the center of the locker room. All eyes turned. You sat quietly in the corner, towel draped over your shoulders, still damp from a cold shower. Lamine was on the opposite bench as far away as possible—knees pulled up slightly like he could disappear if he stayed small enough. The captain didn’t yell. His voice was calm—but firm, heavy with disappointment after explaining details of the match.
"Lamine."
A pause. The whole room held its breath.
Then:
"Y/N." No explanation needed—everyone knew what this was about now: their breakup… and how it had poisoned team chemistry worse than any injury or off-field scandal ever could. And then came those quiet but powerful words:
"You two need to fix this."
The club was loud—bass thumping, lights flashing—but conversation stayed low at their table. After the team dinner, a few of them ended up here: some defenders joking around, one midfielder dancing badly near the dance floor. You sat quietly with his drink in hand… and across from you? Lamine. You hadn’t spoken since the captain’s intervention. No texts. No accidental brushes in hallways or locker rooms—you’d been avoiding each other like landmines. Now you were stuck together at a shared booth under neon blue lights… tension thick enough to cut with a knife
One teammate encourages you to drink more and you do. Lamine’s eyes flicked toward the bar the second he saw some random guy—tall, blond, wearing a tight black shirt—leaning over to you with a smirk while you ordered.
It wasn’t jealousy—not really—but something. A twitch of annoyance. This dude didn't even know you? Why was he crowding you like that?
The whisper and whistle started low—barely audible over the music.
"Is Y/N… smiling?" One of the defenders nudged his teammate, eyes wide. That rare, bright smile—the one they hadn’t seen since before the breakup—was back on your face as you laughed at something that random guy said. It was a real smile—not forced or polite. The kind that crinkled your eyes and made you look younger, happier. Lamine saw it too—and for some reason, it hit harder than any insult could’ve. He kept staring at the bar section while nursing his drink in the booth with the gossip guys.
He used to be the only one who got those smiles after games or quiet moments alone… and now some stranger had just walked in and done what he hadn't been able to in weeks: make you genuinely smile again.
The curly-haired blond guy leaned in closer, his voice smooth—practiced, charming.
"You play for Barcelona right?" he asked you with a confident grin. "I saw your last match—you’re really good."
You blinked—surprised but not disinterested. The alcohol had loosened you up, that smile still lingered as you nodded slowly.
Then the guy did something bold:
He gently touched your forearm while talking—a light brush of fingers—and asked about you more.
Meanwhile… across the table…Lamine stopped sipping his drink midway. His brown eyes locked onto that touch like a predator zeroing in on movement.
“That was anything but good. We lost, remember?” You huffed. The guy saw the opening—your playful huff, that slightly dazed look from drinking and losing a tough match—and he pounced. He smiled wider, undeterred. "Come on," he said softly, voice like honey over ice. "One dance? You’ll feel better."
And you… vulnerable after the breakup and a crushing defeat… hesitated for only half a second before nodding. Without another word, the blond took your hand gently—but firmly—and led you toward the dance floor where bodies swayed to slow R&B beats under pulsing lights.
The guy leaned in, his lips almost brushing your ear as the music pulsed around them. And then—he said something low, just loud enough for nearby people to catch fragments.
"Lamine? Seriously? That quiet kid with the curls?" A snort. A dismissive wave of his hand. "He’s not even that good on the field… and he dumped you like trash." It was petty. Jealous sabotage—trying to tear down Lamine while winning over someone who clearly still mattered emotionally.
You froze mid-dance step, eyes widening slightly at the words.
The blond guy’s smirk faltered. You—the usually calm, quiet you—had just snapped. Loud enough that people nearby turned their heads. The music still thumped, but the energy shifted.
"You don’t talk about him like that," you said firmly, voice sharper than anyone had ever heard it before. Your face wasn't angry—it was protective. Defensive in a way that shocked everyone who knew you as reserved and composed. The guy blinked, caught off guard—he thought he’d be pushing an easy button: "Oh yeah? Your ex?" He scoffed again and leaned closer to throw another jab…
The punch came fast. One second, the blond was sneering—still talking trash about Lamine—and the next, you swung. A clean right hook landed square on his jaw. The guy staggered back with a shocked grunt, nearly crashing into someone behind him. Gasps rippled through their group of teammates. No one expected this—not from you, who never fought or caused scenes. But that insult? That mocking tone about Lamine after everything they’d been through? It crossed a line even drunken or heartbroken logic couldn’t ignore. Music still blared—but now all eyes were locked on them: you standing firm with clenched fists… And the stunned curly-haired stranger clutching his face.
Your breath hitched. Your heart pounded—not from the hit, not from anger—but because your eyes suddenly locked onto Lamine’s across the room. The noise faded. The music, the whispers of teammates… everything blurred except that gaze between them.
Lamine wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even surprised at you punching someone—no judgment in his expression at all. Just… something raw and deep flickering behind those brown eyes: recognition. Because he saw it—the vulnerability underneath that punch—the quiet plea hidden in your wide stare: I defended you. Even after you left me. I still care. And for a split second? They just stared—two young boys who used to love each other without words—communicating everything through silence.
Lamine’s chest tightened. The guilt hit him like a wave—sudden and suffocating. He’d left you because he was scared. Scared of whispers, of judgment from teammates, from fans… scared that being with another guy would make people think he wasn't strong or "normal" enough for the football world.
And yet here were you—drunk, emotionally wrecked after losing a match and their relationship—but still standing up for him. Still punching someone who talked trash about Lamine’s name.
It made him feel small. Stupid. Cowardly in the worst way possible—because while Lamine had run to avoid shame…you stayed loyal without even meaning to. Without saying anything.
The curly-haired teammate—always the loudest joker—sprinted back to their booth, grinning like a madman. He slid into his seat with dramatic flair and slapped both hands on the table. He has sneaked off the booth to go eardropping you.
"Oh my god," he whispered-yelled, eyes sparkling with gossip-fueled joy. "You guys did NOT just hear that."
All heads turned toward him instantly. Before anyone could stop him or shush him, he blurted:
"The dude was flirting hard! He was all over your sweetheart, Lamine—and then Y/N told him off for talking crap about Lamine!"
A pause. Then louder:
"Like… full-on protective mode! He punched the dude because of YOU, Lamine!"
Lamine’s frown deepened—not out of anger, but something far worse: weakness. Not emotional weakness like crying—no. It was the quiet, crushing kind—the realization that he’d messed up in a way that might not be fixable. You still loved him. Enough to flirt with someone else just to move on… Enough to punch a guy for disrespecting his name… And yet here Lamine was—guilty, frozen, unable to do anything about it because he had been the one who walked away. He stared at his untouched drink as the team buzzed around him laughing at their friend's gossip dump—but inside?
He felt small. Regretful. Stuck between wanting you back and being terrified of what that would mean—for himself... for football... for everything.
It was 11PM. Lamine stood outside your hotel room he somehow remembered—hallway lights dim, silence everywhere except the faint hum of the air conditioning. He didn’t text. Didn’t knock gently or hesitate. No—he banged on the door like an idiot with too much pride and not enough courage to use his words properly. Like a cop raid or someone who forgot their key in panic—not romantic at all, but classic Lamine: impulsive, loud when nervous… doing something stupid because he had no idea how to fix this quietly. He did it scared. Did it embarrassed and desperate.
The door swung open with a creak. You stood there—still in that casual shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly messy, eyes tired and annoyed. You hadn’t even changed yet. Clearly been waiting up… or maybe not sleeping. You looked at Lamine—really looked—and didn’t say anything at first.
Just that deep frown. That quiet disappointment mixed with exhaustion from the day: losing the match, punching someone for him… then running out alone like you always did when hurt.
“Why are you here…?” You asked. Trying to mask the annoyance in your tone after he bangs on the door like a maniac. Lamine flinched—just slightly—at the sharp tone. You weren't yelling, but that cold scold hit harder than any scream. The disappointment in your voice cut through Lamine’s bravado like a knife. For once, he didn’t have a slick comeback or an excuse ready. Instead of answering right away, Lamine just stood there—shoulders tense, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets—and stared at you like he was trying to memorize every detail: the tired eyes… the frown lines from stress… how beautiful and angry you looked even now. Finally… softly…
"I had to see you.”
Lamine’s throat tightened. You weren't looking at him. That was worse than anger—avoiding his eyes like you couldn’t bear to see Lamine’s face, like you were the one who hurt him.
"Make it quick," you said quietly, arms crossing over your chest—a shield against whatever Lamine came here to say. The hallway felt too narrow suddenly. The silence between them heavy with everything unsaid: the breakup, the fight, how you had defended him… and how badly Lamine had messed up by leaving in the first place. Leaving the internet sucks up all the gossip about you two.
"You don't get to say that—you left” you weren't yelling, but the pain in your voice was worse. Quiet, broken… not angry so much as hurt. Like Lamine had ripped something precious out of your chest and walked away without looking back. And you were right. He had left a few months ago. Lamine opened his mouth to argue… but nothing came out at first because what could he even say? That it wasn’t personal? That he panicked over stupid things? So instead—with shaky hands and eyes suddenly glassy—he whispered:
"I know... I messed up.”
Your glare wavered. You wanted to stay mad. Wanted to keep that cold mask up—because if you let it crack, everything would come pouring out: the hurt, the loneliness after Lamine left, how much you still cared even though you shouldn’t…
But seeing Lamine like this—so vulnerable for once, voice soft and shaky with real regret—not smirking or cocky like usual… it made your chest ache. Your arms uncrossed slowly. Just slightly. The anger drained from your face—not completely gone—but replaced by something quieter… sadder. Like all that frustration was just a shield hiding how much you had missed him too…
“Go to sleep. You’re too drunk” you said dismissively as your hand pushed the door to shut it. Lamine braced his arm against the door—firm but not rough—stopping it from closing. You tried to push it shut, dismissive and tired, wanting Lamine to leave… but no. Not this time. Lamine didn’t say anything at first. Just held his ground with quiet stubbornness—the kind that said…I’m not leaving until we fix this.
His eyes were intense now: brown and dark under the hallway light, pleading without words. He wasn’t drunk—not even close—but he was desperate in a way only someone who’d messed up badly could be. He leaned slightly forward into your space—not threateningly… just refusing to let you shut him out again.
Lamine took a breath—deep, shaky—and then spoke. In Spanish—his native language, soft and sincere, the way he only ever talked when his heart was truly open.
"Lo siento mucho…" (I'm so sorry...)
His voice was quiet but raw with emotion. He didn’t try to hug you or kiss you—he just stood there in the doorway and poured everything out:
"Fui un cobarde… tenía miedo de lo que pensarán los demás… pero te extrañé cada día." (I was a coward... I feared what others would think... but I missed you every day.) Each word trembled slightly—not rehearsed. Just honesty.
Lamine’s voice grew more urgent—each word tumbling out faster now, like he was afraid you would slam the door if he paused.
"No fue por ti… nunca fue por ti,"
(It wasn’t about you… it never was about you.) His hands twitched at his sides—wanting to reach for you but not daring to. So instead, he kept talking:
"Tuve miedo de que me vieran diferente si salía contigo… pensé que sería débil... pero soy débil ahora sin ti."
(I was scared people would see me differently if I dated you... I thought that'd make me weak... but right now? I'm weak without you.)
A beat of silence followed. Then softly:
"¿Me das otra oportunidad?" (Will you give me another chance?)
Your eyes softened—finally, finally—the cold wall around your heart cracking. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn't dramatic forgiveness with tears and hugs right away… but the hardness in your gaze melted into something fragile: hope, maybe. Or at least the quiet realization that Lamine meant every word. That raw confession—the way he admitted being scared, being weak without him—it hit you deep where it mattered most. Because all those months of love? They weren’t fake to you either.
For a second… Neither moved. Then slowly—so slowly—you reached out first.
The kiss was sudden—your lips meeting Lamine’s first—soft at first, hesitant, like a question. And Lamine answered instantly. He surged forward, cupping your face with both hands and deepening the kiss—hungry, desperate after weeks of silence and distance. In one swift motion, he pushed the door shut behind them with his foot before spinning you around to press you gently against it. His hands slid into your hair as their mouths moved together—the kind of kiss that said everything they couldn’t say aloud: I missed you… I’m sorry… please forgive me.
Lamine kissed like he was starving. Every second of separation—the weeks without your lips, his warmth, the way you always tasted faintly sweet—crashed into him at once. He didn’t pull back for air. Didn’t even remember how to breathe properly. Just kept pressing closer—lips soft but urgent against yours, hands gripping gently at your shoulders like anchoring himself after drifting too long.
The kiss deepened naturally: slow then hungry again as Lamine leaned into it fully, pouring every regret and longing and “I love you” that words couldn't describe fully… right there in that messy hallway embrace.
The pressure was gentle but firm—Lamine’s knee slid slightly between your legs as he leaned into you, keeping you pinned against the door without being rough. It wasn’t dominant or forceful… just close. Intimate. A way of saying I’m not letting go again without words. You could feel the warmth of Lamine’s body—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft brush of their noses between kisses that never truly ended. Every breath they took mixed together in small puffs against each other's lips.
No space left for doubt now. Just two boys who loved each other—messy past be damned—and finally kissing like they meant it.
You broke the kiss—your hands sliding up to gently grip the back of Lamine’s neck, fingers tangling in those soft curls. You pulled him just an inch away, both of them breathing hard—chests rising fast, lips slightly swollen from kissing. Your eyes searched Lamine’s face: his flushed cheeks, those wide brown eyes full of emotion… and suddenly all that built-up anger felt far away.
Still holding his nape like if you let go, Lamine would make you stop breathing by his neediness.
“Are you fucking nuts?” You huffed.
Lamine blinked—still dazed from the kiss—but a tiny, breathless smile tugged at his lips. You were scolding him. Calling him nuts with that familiar tone—half annoyed, half fond—the one you used when Lamine did something recklessly sweet without thinking. And okay… yeah. He’d kissed like an idiot. All teeth and no rhythm earlier because he was too overwhelmed to be careful.
But hearing you say it like that—voice rough but not really mad? It made warmth bloom in his chest. Without answering back yet, Lamine just leaned forward again… slower this time—and pressed their lips together properly: soft, sweet… giving you space to breathe between kisses.
The kiss never really broke. One second they were by the door—lips locked, hands in hair—and the next, clothing started falling: jackets slipping off shoulders, shirts unbuttoned improperly. Shoes kicked off haphazardly near the entrance. Lamine wasn’t patient enough to undo them neatly. No romance or slow undressing here… just urgent need—the kind that comes from weeks of missing each other so much it hurt.
Your back hit the mattress with a soft bounce, boxers low on your hips. Lamine climbed over you instantly. He crashed his mouth onto your neck—kissing, biting gently—not hard enough to hurt but enough to mark—and started rolling his hips down against you in slow, teasing dry humps. A quiet rhythm: fabric-on-fabric friction that made both of them breathe heavier. Warm palms pressing against bare skin as Lamine savours every inch.
Lamine’s lips trailed down—soft, open-mouthed kisses that started at your collarbone and traveled lower. Every inch of skin he touched responded: the way you arched slightly under him, how your breath hitched when Lamine reached the dip between your collarbones… it sent a thrill through Lamine. He smiled faintly against warm skin—God, he needed this—before pressing another kiss right over your heartbeat. One your chest… where he could feel every quick pulse beneath. His hands gently squeezed at your sides as he kissed onward.
Lamine’s hips moved on their own—hungry, seeking friction. The thin fabric of his boxers did nothing to hide the growing bulge pressing against you. Each slow grind down sent a jolt through him—heat building low in his stomach—and he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. He kissed deeper now, more desperate: mouth hot and open as it slid from your chest up to reclaim your lips again. At the same time, one hand crept lower—fingers skimming over toned abs before brushing just above the waistband of those boxers…Testing… wanting more. Lamine hovered over you—propped on his forearms now, eyes dark with desire but still searching for consent.
"¿Tienes condón… y lubricante?" (Do you have a condom… and lube?) His voice was low—gentle but urgent. No pressure, just checking before going any further. He knew this wasn't just about lust, it was about trust... intimacy they hadn't shared in weeks.
“Yeah…in my travel bag…where it always stays” you muttered.
Lamine’s lips curved into a small, smug smile. You have been ready. Prepared. That could really mean… you’d expected this. Maybe even hoped for it—maybe thought about it too when they were apart. And Lamine couldn’t resist teasing you just a little—playfully, affectionately:
"¿Me extrañaste tanto que guardaste condón por si volvía?" (Did you miss me so much you kept a condom just in case I came back?) He said it with that soft smirk—the one you knew all too well—the playful glint in his brown eyes as he brushed a curl from your forehead before leaning down to kiss you again.
“No, you jerk” you said.
Lamine chuckled—actually laughed—a rare, light sound that escaped him when you swatted his hand away. He didn’t even flinch. Just grinned wider at the scold—jerk, huh? That was new. He usually got called “asshole” or “bastard” by you when he teased too much. But this time, Lamine leaned right back in and kissed the corner of your mouth—a quick peck—before murmuring against your lips.
"Estás lindo cuando te enojas." (You’re cute when you’re mad) Then, without missing a beat… he reached toward your travel bag where condoms and lube were kept.
Lamine ignored the "fuck off"—he knew you didn’t mean it. That grumpy tone just made him smile more. With careful hands, he tugged down your boxers, tossing them. The cool air hit their skin for a second before warmth took over again as Lamine reached for the lube. He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers and rubbed slowly to spread the heat around your sensitive hole. Then he leaned down… kissed you deeply once more… before letting one finger trail further.
You gasped—sharp and quiet—as Lamine’s finger slipped in, slow but firm, with that patient persistence only someone who’d done this before could have. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t gentle either—just steady: knowing exactly how to stretch, how much pressure to apply… like his body remembered you perfectly.
Lamine watched every micro-expression on your face—the slight parting of lips, the way your chest rose faster—and without a word, he added another finger carefully. His other hand braced beside your head while he leaned down… kissing you deeply again as if sharing breaths could soften what came next.
The sound—your soft moan—sent a shiver straight through Lamine. It wasn’t loud, just a quiet, breathy "Lamine…", but it hit him like electricity. That voice—tender and vulnerable in that moment—was one of his favorites. He kissed you deeper in response, swallowing the next whimper as he curled his fingers slightly inside you—not rushing yet, still preparing gently despite the growing heat between them. His lips moved to your jaw… then down to your neck where he left open-mouthed kisses along warm skin. Every touch was deliberate now: slow and thorough because this mattered.
Lamine lowered his lips to the shell of your ear—warm breath ghosting over sensitive skin—and whispered a soft praise:
"Eres perfecto…" (You’re perfect…) The words were quiet, tender—meant only for you. Right after, he dragged his tongue gently over the fresh hickey on your neck—the one he’d just marked with a kiss and slight suck—a slow lick that soothed the sting slightly while sending another wave of warmth through them.
Lamine slowly pulled his fingers free—watching your face for any sign of discomfort, but seeing only that quiet shiver instead—and then he straightened up slightly. In one smooth motion, he yanked down his own boxers, letting them drop to the floor. His cock sprang free—hard and heavy with need—and there was no hiding how much he wanted this. He grabbed the condom from where it waited on the nightstand… tore it open with his teeth… and rolled it on without breaking eye contact.
His breath caught. You—so beautiful like this—lying back with legs slightly parted, lips caught between your teeth in that nervous-biting way you did when you were excited or liking what you were seeing. Your eyes were locked on Lamine, full of quiet admiration and something warmer… softer. And it made Lamine feel seen. Cherished. Like the most important person in the world right now. Without a word, he climbed over you again—his body hovering above yours—and leaned down to kiss you deeply: slow at first… then hungrier as his hand framed your cheek gently.
The contact was light—just the very tip of Lamine’s cock brushing against your hole. No pressure yet. No rush to enter. Just slow, teasing friction—Lamine rolling his hips gently in a shallow grind, testing… feeling the heat and softness there. It drove them both crazy—the delay. The anticipation building is like static before lightning strikes.
“Don’t fucking tease me…” you huffed.
Lamine smirked—just a tiny one, the corner of his mouth quirking up at your scold.
"I'm not teasing," he murmured, voice low and rough with want—but even as he said it, he did exactly that: another slow grind of his hips against your entrance… no push to go in yet. His arms braced on either side of your head as their bodies pressed closer. The warmth between them built—the shared breathless tension—but Lamine kept holding back just enough to drive you mad. Then finally… gently… he started pushing forward.
Lamine exhaled sharply—a soft curse “fuckk…”—as he finally, finally, sank into you. The tight heat wrapped around him instantly—the familiar warmth and pressure that made his whole body tense with pleasure. It had been weeks since they’d done this… too long. His eyes fluttered shut for a second as the sensation overwhelmed him: the snugness, how perfectly your body took him in… even after everything. He didn’t rush. Just stayed there for a breath—forehead resting against your shoulder—as his hips adjusted to being inside again.
Lamine started moving almost instantly. His hips rolled in a steady rhythm, deep and eager, each thrust smooth but firm. There was no teasing left—just pure need to feel you again like this: close, connected, skin on skin like it meant to be. The bed creaked softly beneath them as Lamine found his pace—gentle at first but gaining confidence with every motion. Each time he pushed in fully and pulled back slowly before diving forward again.
Your legs stayed locked around Lamine—tight, like you never wanted to let go—and with each eager thrust, their bodies pressed even closer. Their kiss deepened: tongues meeting hungrily, messy and breathless. Lamine kissed back just as desperately—one hand tangled in your hair, pressing you deeper into the pillow while the other gripped your hip to pull you into every movement. The rhythm grew slightly faster now… deeper…No space between them. Just heat, skin on skin—and that quiet moan you couldn’t quite hold back anymore.
Lamine’s breath hitched at the sensation—you clenching around him, body tightening in that quiet, instinctive way that made Lamine’s pulse spike.
It felt so good—too good—and instead of rushing or chasing his own pleasure right away, he slowed slightly. His hand slid from your hip up to your side… warm palm soothing over soft skin with gentle circles. He kissed the corner of your mouth—briefly tender—before murmuring against it:
"Relájate… estoy aquí." (Relax… I’m right here.) Then resumed thrusting deeper but smoother now.
The rhythm turned relentless. Lamine pulled almost all the way out—just enough to tease the edge of separation—before slamming back in with a controlled but powerful thrust that made your body sink deeper into the mattress. Your legs lifted higher, pinned slightly by Lamine's strength as each impact drove them both further into pleasure. No softness now—just raw, urgent pounding: skin meeting skin, breathless moans escaping between gasps. Lamine wasn’t gentle anymore—not because he didn’t care about you—but because this was what they needed right now: intensity… closeness… proof there is still “us” in this relationship.
The sound of his name—Lamine—whispered, moaned, pleaded in that soft, breathless voice of yours… it unraveled him completely.
His hips stuttered for a second—thrust losing its perfect rhythm because hearing you say his name like that? So sweetly? Like you worshipped him? It undid everything. Without thinking, Lamine leaned down and kissed you fiercely—a messy collision of lips—as if trying to swallow every future moan too.
The kiss broke—Lamine’s lips parted from yours—and instantly, the rough pounding returned. Harder. Deeper. Each thrust driving you into the mattress with enough force to make your toes curl in the air in pleasure, muscles tightening as pleasure surged through you.
You gasped—breath ragged and open-mouthed this time—not even trying to hold back sounds anymore. The sensation was overwhelming: fullness, heat—all of it crashing together. And Lamine loved it—the way you looked right now: flushed face… trembling legs… completely lost in feeling.
Lamine’s voice dropped to a husky whisper—low, rough with lust—as he leaned close to your ear.
"Dios… te ves tan bien así," (God… you look so good like this.) Then filthier, more intense:
“Tan perfecto, apoderándose de cada centímetro de mí” (so perfect…taking every inch of me” His words were dirty but tender—full of praise and admiration for how you looked right now: wrecked by pleasure, body arching subtly with each thrust.
You gasped—sharp and startled—as the wave of pleasure crashed through you. It hit fast, intense, because Lamine had found that spot—the one that always unraveled you completely. And now he was hitting it over and over on purpose.
For a second, you felt shy—embarrassed at how easily your body responded to Lamine’s rhythm… how quickly you were falling apart beneath those strong hips. Your cheeks flushed even deeper. You couldn’t control the little whimpers escaping or the way your legs trembled around Lamine anymore.
Lamine kept your leg pinned—firm but not harsh—using the leverage to angle deeper with every rough thrust. He wasn’t trying to be cruel… just relentless. Dragging out pleasure like he was stripping it from you layer by layer, each motion deliberate and intense. And between heavy breaths, he teased again—voice thick with amusement and lust:
"¿Ya? ¿Tan rápido?" (Already? That fast?) A smirk played on his lips as he watched you squirm—the way your body tensed too soon because Lamine had hit that sweet spot over and over without mercy.
The bed creaked in protest—each thrust making the frame groan under their weight. And between that: skin clapping—soft but rhythmic, a steady slap of hips meeting hips, loud enough to fill the quiet room. Your moans came out breathy and uneven now—no control left. Every time Lamine drove into you just right, another sound escaped: gasps, whimpers… little cries you couldn’t swallow down. Lamine wasn’t slowing. Wasn’t being gentle. Just focused on wrecking you completely—the way your body arched with every impact proving how much it was working.
Lamine’s body tensed—every muscle locking up—as the wave of pleasure crashed over him. A low, soft groan escaped his lips, muffled slightly against your shoulder where he’d instinctively buried his face. His hips stuttered—then pushed forward one last time, burying himself as deep as possible while he came. It was intense—the heat and pressure building for weeks now finally releasing in that single moment. No rush… just slow pulses of bliss rolling through him. For a few seconds, Lamine stayed there: breathless… quiet… still inside you but motionless.
The words were quiet—barely a whisper—and half-muffled into the curve of your neck. But they were there. Soft, sincere… in Spanish:
"Te amo…" Just Lamine, still breathless from coming, pressing his lips gently to your skin and murmuring it like a secret—like something too precious to say out loud where anyone else could hear. Then he didn’t pull away right after either. Just stayed curled against him, breathing slowly as if memorizing this closeness
“I love you too…” your voice, lazy and satisfied, curling like smoke around Lamine. That smirk was audible. Lamine didn’t need to see your face to know you were smiling—that soft, smug little grin that always showed up after they’d just made love. And hearing “I love you too” in that tone? It made warmth bloom in Lamine's chest all over again.
Still half-draped over you, Lamine pressed a slow kiss right where his lips had touched earlier—on your neck—and then nuzzled there quietly… content. This feels right.
Liked by hctorforrt_, pablogavi, brianfarinass and 400,543 others
lamineyamal 6am bali, las dos personas más lindas @yourusername81
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User54: Keyne's chillin
User12: finally a sneak peek at bro's personal life Y/N is winning frfr
User49: Y/N be chillin with his wc champion bf after losing the wc himself😭✌️
yourusername: Lamineeeee
—lamineyamal: 😘
—user43: bros kinda hooked😮💨
...
Lamine emerged from the waves like a gleaming sea god—water dripping off his curly hair, muscles glistening under the Bali sun. He shook his head dramatically, sending droplets flying everywhere.
"Ooh! Cold!" he laughed in that bright, carefree way of his—arms spread wide as if embracing the entire ocean. His eyes were locked on you—sunbathing peacefully with your shades on and that cute little smile playing on your lips.
Without hesitation, he jogged over soaked through… then dropped down right beside you and kissed your cheek. Salty water included.
The sound of your hum—soft, content, like a lazy melody. He loved that you were so calm under his affection.
His little brother squealed again from across the sand, clapping tiny hands and pointing. “Again! Lamiiii again!”
He leaned down over you now, propping himself on one elbow while water still dripped from his curls onto your sun-warmed back. Without asking again, he pressed another kiss—this time to your bare shoulder—and whispered playfully:
“You’re getting really tan.”
You only snort and ask playfully “toasted just right or burnt?”
Lamine’s cheeks flushed—just a little—as you took off your shades, those eyes locking onto him with that warm, amused gaze. He bit his lip for half a second—nervous? Flustered? No one ever saw Lamine Yamal flustered. Except maybe you.
"Burnt," he teased back instantly, voice dropping into that playful-flirty tone. "Like my heart after you kissed me last night."
One of the friends nearby gagged dramatically. "Ugh, not this again!"
The toddler brother just laughed harder at the word grump attitude, clapping like it was the funniest thing ever said in human history.
Lamine ignored them all—too busy memorizing how beautiful you looked right now: sun-kissed skin, messy hair from lying on the towel... perfect.
“You’re getting good at being corny” you smirked lazily.
Lamine pouted—full-on, exaggerated puppy eyes—and flopped dramatically onto his back beside you, sending a little puff of sand up.
"Corny? Me? Never," he said, handing over heart like he was offended. "I'm romantic. There's a difference."
One of their friends snorted from the shade: "Bro says 'cornball' every day and thinks it's poetry."
The toddler brother mimicked him then—tiny arms spread wide—and yelled: “Cornballll"
Lamine sat bolt upright at that, pointing accusingly. "You! You’re supposed to be on my side!"
But when you laughed again—low and rich in that way Lamine loved—the football star melted all over again. He rolled sideways… and kissed you right on the lips. Quick but sweet.
Keyne waddled through the sand like a tiny, determined explorer—bare feet kicking up little clouds.
"Beach! Ball!" he chanted over and over in his baby voice, arms flailing as he tried to grab the ball mid-air during their game.
The friends were used to him now—this sweet chaos gremlin who showed up everywhere. One of them gently tossed him an underhand pass… which Keyne immediately dropped on his face with a giggle.
Lamine burst out laughing from where he was sitting beside you. "Oh my god," he wheezed. "He’s such a pro" he glazed out loud.
A soft breeze rolled in, waves crashed gently; someone blasted music from a speaker nearby... perfect Bali vibes.
Dinner was set up under string lights near the beach—wooden tables, soft music, and the smell of grilled fish and shrimp pasta in the air.
Lamine’s friends had taken full responsibility for Keyne. They were now a team—passing him snacks between bites of their own food, one even played peek-a-boo to keep him entertained. Keyne wasn’t fussy at all—happy as can be with all this attention.
At their table by the ocean’s edge… Lamine finally got to focus on you. He poured you some wine without asking, then leaned back with that easy smile—the one you adore. The world champion footballer looked completely relaxed: barefoot in flip-flops, hair still slightly damp from earlier showers after swimming.
The food was perfect—fresh fish seasoned with lime and chili, rice that melted in your mouth, grilled veggies dripping with garlic butter. But Lamine wasn’t really tasting it. Not fully. Because every time he lifted his gaze from his plate? He’d catch you—the way the soft golden light caught your profile, how you held your fork… even the tiny smile forming after a bite of mango salsa. He swears he’s not glazing you, mentally. He didn’t say anything. Just looked. Admired quietly like this moment was something sacred—his boyfriend glowing under Bali stars while waves hummed behind them.
One of their friends glanced over and smirked. “You’re staring.” Lamine blinked… then shrugged shamelessly without denying it.
The thing made this whole relationship even more surreal: Lamine Yamal—Barcelona’s starboy—dating one of the most handsome players in world football… from Real Madrid. Most fans would lose their minds over it and they did. But right now? None of that mattered. Because here they were—in Bali—under twinkling lights and salty air… two superstars acting like regular guys in love while eating grilled fish like normal people.
Lamine watched with quiet delight as you finished the last bite of your fish—chewing slowly, savoring it like it was a five-star meal which, honestly, in Bali? It kind of was.
He reached over without thinking and gently wiped a tiny smudge of sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb—then brought that same thumb to his lips and licked it clean like nothing weird about that.
His friends would’ve lost their minds if they saw him doing something this soft in public. But right now? He didn’t care who saw.
The second the hotel room door clicked shut, Lamine spun—fast—and pulled you into a kiss that had been building all night. His hands found your face instantly, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he tilted his head to deepen it. The salty ocean scent still clung to both of you…
Lamine walked you backward gently until your knees hit the edge of the bed—and then he broke away just long enough to whisper against your mouth:
“Missed you.”
Even though they’d been together all day… even though they practically glued together during the world cup seasonl…This? This was different.
“You talk like we didn’t just fuck last monday”
Lamine let out a breathy laugh against your lips—half embarrassed, half turned on by how blunt you were. He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Okay… rude" he teased, voice low and playful. "But true."
Last Monday? Yeah. Wild night in their homeland before the flight to Bali—hot sheets, tangled limbs under city lights filtering through the curtains…And yet here they were again—the tension between them flaring up like it hadn’t been sated at all.
Instead of answering with words this time? Lamine kissed you again—deeper now—and his hands slid down from your face to grip your shoulders firmly before gently pushing you backward onto the bed.
The hotel room was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the entire wall—crystal clear glass offering an uninterrupted view of the moonlit beach and ocean beyond. The waves glowed softly under moonlight, gentle and rhythmic, like a slow lullaby.
Lamine paused for just a second as he undid another button on your shirt… his eyes flicking toward that panoramic view. And then—a thought sparked. A very sexy idea.
Lamine took his time—like a chef savoring each course. His fingers brushing against warm skin beneath. He wasn’t rushing. This was gourmet—every inch revealed like an unveiling. The soft glow from the soft dim light lit up your torso—the defined muscles, the smooth chest dusted with faint body hair… and Lamine drank it all in silently before leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss just above their collarbone. lips tracing every newly exposed area as more fabric slipped away onto the floor beside them…
The power shift was sudden—and perfect. One second, Lamine was in control—kissing and undressing you like he owned the moment—the next? He got flipped onto his back with a soft thud against the mattress. You hovered over him now, all playful dominance—eyes glinting with mischief under that moonlit glow from the windows. And when they grinned? Lamine couldn’t help it. A burst of giggles escaped him—bright, boyish laughter that rarely came out unless he was truly happy… or caught off guard by someone taking charge so sweetly.
“Hey!—” He tried to push up playfully—to wrestle control back—but you pinned his wrists gently above his head before diving down to kiss him again: deep and teasing at once.
Lamine arched his back instinctively, hips rolling up against yours—searching for that sweet pressure, that delicious friction. Being dominated like this? It wrecked him in the best way. Normally he was the one flirting first, teasing relentlessly… but when you took over—confident and playful—the effect was electric. His breath hitched every time their bodies pressed together through layers of fabric still half-on. A soft groan slipped out as Lamine bit his lip to muffle it… but then gave up trying to stay quiet entirely. He loved how strong you felt above him—not rough or demanding in a harsh way—but just in control, making all the moves while Lamine melted beneath them like warm honey.
You moved with slow, deliberate care—peeling Lamine’s shirt up and off like unwrapping something precious. Each inch of skin revealed was kissed or gently nipped—collarbone, shoulder, chest… you savored every patch like it was the first time you’d touched him. Lamine shivered under the attention—not from cool, but from sensation. The softness of lips here… a teasing bite there… his breath came quicker now, fingers curling into the sheets beneath him.
Lamine’s fingers slid gently into your hair—soft curls between his fingertips—as the kisses traveled lower… down his toned stomach, each one making him tense with anticipation. His breath came in shallow little puffs now. The touch was electric—so light yet so intense—especially when you paused to press an open-mouthed kiss right above the waistband of his pants.
A quiet whimper escaped Lamine this time.
He didn’t push or beg aloud… just tightened his grip slightly in that beautiful hair, silently begging for more.
Lamine’s breath hitched as his boxers were tugged down and off—cool air brushing against warm skin for just a second before you shifted away. He lay there in the unbuttoned shirt, completely exposed—heart pounding, cheeks flushed. When he saw you pull out the condom and lube from their travel bag—the quiet crinkle of packaging—a jolt ran through him. Not nervous… not hesitation… just want. So much want.
He bit his lip again, watching every movement: how you prepared calmly like this was something natural between them, how careful they always were together…And then those eyes met Lamine’s again—dark with affection and desire.
Lamine’s entire body tensed—then melted—the second that first lubed finger pressed gently against him. It was so soft. So careful. You weren't rushing, weren’t rough—just slow circles around his entrance, warm and patient like they had all the time in the world. And then those thigh kisses… soft lips trailing up his inner leg between each teasing touch…The contrast drove Lamine wild—the sheer size of you hovering over him, yet touching him with such tenderness it made his chest ache. He exhaled shakily, hands gripping the sheets again—not from discomfort but from overwhelming sensation: pleasure building low in his belly with every gentle press… every tender kiss along sensitive skin…
Lamine relaxed into the first finger—his body warming up, trusting your touch completely. And then… another. You added the second with that same quiet precision—stretching slowly, patiently, giving Lamine time to adjust. No pressure. Just smooth movement and careful attention to every micro-expression on his face.
It was amazing how good you were at this—not just physically skilled, which you obviously were, but emotionally present too—their eyes never leaving Lamine’s as if checking: You okay? You good?
The dual sensation of two fingers working gently inside him while lips continued trailing soft kisses along his thighs made heat pool in Lamine's belly... a warm, throbbing kind of pleasure that made him sigh deeply.
Your lips traveled upward—slow, warm kisses along Lamine’s stomach, tracing the soft curve of his abs and that delicate happy trail of hair leading up to his navel.
Each kiss sent little tingles through Lamine—not ticklish exactly, but sensitive in the sweetest way. He squirmed slightly beneath you, not to escape… just reacting—to every touch feeling a thousand times more intense now with your fingers inside him like this. The combination was intoxicating: two fingers moving gently in rhythm while those tender mouth kisses mapped higher… higher…
And when you finally reached Lamine’s lower chest—your breath ghosted over bare flesh before you pressed another soft kiss there. Your tongue swirled slowly around Lamine’s nipple—teasing, warm, slightly wet from the kiss that followed. The mouthing was soft at first… then firmer—a gentle suckling. A damp spot formed where you kissed him again and again, lips glistening with a sheen of saliva. Lamine arched subtly into it—a breathy little sound escaping him as sensation sparked through his chest. He loved how you worshipped every part of him—even small details like this—and now he could feel that attention radiating straight to his core…
You carefully withdrew your fingers, then stood up—slow and deliberate. Boxers shoved down over your hips… until they pooled at the floor. Your cock sprang free—half-hard but thickening fast in Lamine’s palm when he stands up. Their eyes meeting again—and for a second? Just looked. Taking him in. All warmth and want building between them without words.
Lamine grabbed a condom from the nightstand—smooth motion, confident now—and slipped it into his palm like he’d done this before because he had. Then, with that sly smirk playing on his lips—he gently nudged you backward… toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall.
The ocean stretched endlessly beyond—waves shimmering under moonlight—but inside? All attention was on each other. The view didn’t matter anymore. Not when they were about to be close in every way possible.
Lamine tore the condom wrapper with his teeth—quick, smooth, a little messy—but he didn’t care. Then he took the condom in hand and slowly rolled it down your length with gentle precision. His fingers brushed over warm skin as he worked—deliberate touches that weren’t just about getting ready… but savoring this moment.
Once finished? Lamine looked up into your eyes… no smirk this time. Just soft hunger—and then leaned in to kiss you deeply again.
The kiss broke with a soft pop—a thin string of saliva connecting their lips for half a second before snapping. Then you moved fast. Like you already read Lamine’s mind and knew what he wanted.
In one fluid motion, you turned Lamine around and gently pressed him against the glass wall—his palms flattening against the cool surface to brace himself. The ocean stretched endlessly beyond, shimmering like scattered stars on water.
Lamine’s back arched instinctively as you lined up behind him—the heat between them now electric. Every breath fogged slightly on the glass in front of Lamine’s face while his heart hammered… waiting… anticipating…
Lamine’s lips parted—he bit down on them the second he felt the first press of you against him.
The sensation was electric. The risk? Even more so. Anyone looking up from the beach—from a passing boat, or another hotel window—they could’ve seen him like this: pressed to glass, shirt hanging open, palms flat as his body arched into you… completely exposed under moonlight and ocean air.
It turned Lamine on so much. Being this vulnerable in such a public-yet-private moment. And that soft gasp? It slipped out before he could stop it when you pushed just the tip inside—slow… teasing…His breath fogged up a tiny spot on the glass right in front of his face.
His fingers curled against the glass—knuckles whitening slightly—as you began to move. He tried to relax. Tried so hard. Breathed deep, loosened his shoulders… but the steady rhythm of your thrusts? Too much. Too good.
Each smooth push unraveled him further—his body tensing not from discomfort, but from overwhelming pleasure crashing through every nerve. A shaky breath escaped him in little puffs that fogged up the window again and again. His hips rocked back instinctively—not pulling away, just meeting each motion halfway… chasing more without even meaning to.
Your movements grew more eager—less controlled, more feeling. Your hands gripped Lamine’s hips firmly—thumb digging into soft skin just above the bone—and each thrust became a little deeper, a little harder. Not violent or harsh… but passionate. Urgent. The sound of skin meeting echoed quietly in the room, mixed with their breathing and the distant lap of waves against shore. You weren't trying to be rough… it just happened—the heat between them was too intense to stay gentle forever. Lamine gasped again at one particularly strong push—the glass wall cool against his chest while his body burned from within. Every nerve lit up, every breath came quicker than before…
Lamine had dreamed about this—exactly like this. After winning the World Cup, after all the pressure and spotlight…He wanted this: salt in his hair, sand on their feet earlier that day, music humming faintly from a distant hotel party down the beach… and you—his boyfriend—giving him pleasure in the most thrilling way possible. Against glass. Fully exposed to anyone who might look up. Heart pounding not just from sex—but from adrenaline. The risk of being seen? It made every second hotter.
This was his victory: wild love under moonlight with someone who adored him exactly as he was.
The sharp smack of your hand against Lamine’s ass echoed softly in the room. Lamine gasped—more from surprise than pain—and immediately bit down on his lip to stifle any louder sound “mphm—agh!-” . The sting bloomed into a warm tingle, spreading across his skin where the impact landed.
It wasn’t rough… but it was surprising. And sexy as hell. His body tensed for a split second before melting again, hips pushing back slightly like he wanted more without saying it. His palms stayed pressed to the glass—breathing shallow now—as you continued moving behind him with that same eager rhythm… and maybe even adding another playful swat soon.
Lamine’s body reacted instinctively—the spank sending a jolt through him that made his muscles clench around you.
It was involuntary, but so good. The tightness pulled pleasure sharper, deeper—like every nerve lit up at once. He didn’t mean to do it… but his body was singing now, craving more friction after that sweet sting. His breath came in soft hitches—still biting his lip—but the way he subtly rocked back against you showed everything: he loved this. Loved how bold and close they were right now. Just heat… rhythm… and Lamine silently milking every drop of sensation from each movement behind him.
Lamine’s breath came fast and uneven—each exhale fogging the glass right in front of his lips. A quiet curse slipped through—something soft like “Yes right there—!” or “fuck!”—mumbled against the window, barely audible. Not from pain or frustration… but from how intense it all felt.
The pleasure coiled low in his stomach—a hot, tight spiral building with every thrust behind him. His body trembled slightly with restraint, he didn’t want to moan too loud—but god… it was getting hard not to. His fingers curled again on the cool surface as he braced himself—not pulling away, just riding this wave of sensation that kept growing stronger…
Lamine was talking now—soft, breathy Spanish slipping out between gasps.
"Ni se te ocurra parar—!" he murmured against the glass—the words half plea, half demand. Meaning Don’t you dare stop.
And then your hand slid up his side… warm and sure… until it curled gently around Lamine’s neck—not squeezing tight, just a firm hold. A light pressure meant to tease.
It messed with him in the best way—having that strong grip there while everything else felt so intense below. His pulse jumped under your palm, his breathing hitched even more. It was possessive in that quiet, affectionate way only they knew how to do.
Lamine’s whole body locked—A ragged gasp tore from his lips as pleasure crashed over him like a wave—his orgasm hitting hard and sudden, knees buckling for just a second. He had to press harder against the glass to stay upright, arms trembling slightly.
But you didn’t stop. Not even close. Still moving behind him—steady, relentless—the rhythm continued without pause. The sensation was overwhelming now: oversensitivity mixing with the aftershocks of release… every nerve buzzing wildly. Lamine panted heavily through it all—cheek still resting near the window—as tears pricked his eyes from how intense it felt… but he wasn't pulling away. Not at all.
The sound of skin and their shared breathing filled the quiet room now… only broken by Lamine’s soft whimpers each time a particularly deep thrust hit just right. He could do nothing but take it—the pleasure long gone into something more electric and fragile.
You adjusted—your hand slid down from Lamine’s neck to rest firmly on his stomach, warm and grounding. The other stayed at his hip, anchoring him in place with gentle pressure.
It wasn’t restraint like holding someone down… it was caging—soft but possessive.
And then you hit that spot again—that sweet spot—over and over. Each thrust deliberate now, zeroing in on the exact angle that made Lamine’s breath catch even through oversensitivity.
You leaned in—your pace still steady but gentler now—and pressed your lips to Lamine’s shoulder from behind. The kiss was soft at first… then came the gentle scrape of teeth—a teasing bite that didn’t hurt, just marked. A faint hickey began forming on warm skin. You kissed and nibbled along Lamine’s shoulder from behind, each touch leaving a small claim—subtle proof of their intimacy. Quiet affection wrapped around pleasure as you kept moving inside him with slow, deep rolls of your hips.
Your body tensed—breath catching in a low, shuddering groan as the climax crashed over you. Buried completely inside Lamine. Your hips pressed flush against him, muscles tightening with the intensity of it.
The room went quiet except for their breathing—the waves outside continuing their endless rhythm like nothing had changed… even though everything had just shifted between them. You didn’t pull out immediately. Just stay there—forehead resting gently on Lamine’s shoulder—for a few long seconds while your heart pounded and reality slowly crept back in…
You kissed down Lamine’s back—soft, lingering pecks along his spine and over the warm skin where sweat had begun to glisten. Each kiss was small. Gentle. Almost innocent in how tender they were after what just happened.
And oh—Lamine loved this. More than anything right now: the quiet affection, the way you showed care through touch instead of words… these little kisses that felt like a secret language only they understood.
He didn’t say anything—just melted into them, shoulders relaxing completely for the first time since everything started. His breathing slowed… calm now… content…
You carefully slid out—slow and gentle to avoid any discomfort—and Lamine, still catching his breath, reached for you. Without a word, he nudged you backward onto the bed. Not rough—just needing that softness now: lying down together after all that heat.
The moment their bodies touched the mattress again—Lamine curling right into your side—the exhaustion from pleasure hit them both at once. The adrenaline faded, muscles went loose.
Then Lamine sprawled out like a starfish—limbs loose, chest rising and falling steadily as he caught his breath.
A lazy smile curled on his lips before he turned his head toward you. His voice came out soft, slightly hoarse from everything—the Spanish rolling off in that sweet, affectionate tone only he used when completely relaxed.
“Eres tan jodidamente sexy…” just stating something beautiful about you that made him feel dizzy with love and lingering pleasure.
“You remind me that everyday, pulpo” you chuckled softly.
Lamine laughed—a quiet, warm sound—and reached over to pinch your cheek playfully.
“Pulpo…” he repeated with a grin, loving that silly nickname. It had started weeks ago when Lamine admitted—that octopus was his favorite. And right now? The smirk on your face made Lamine feel stupidly adored.
Morning light filtered softly through the glass walls, painting golden streaks across the room. Lamine stirred—groggy and heavy-eyed—as a tiny weight pressed onto his back. He blinked slowly… then realized Keyne was sitting right on him, little hands tugging at his messy curls.
“Lamine… wake up! Wakeup!” Keyne chanted—excited and loud like only a three-year-old could be. Lamine grumbled sleepily into the pillow but didn’t push him off. Instead, he nuzzled deeper for half a second before attempting to roll over—and immediately squished Keyne with an accidental hug that made them both giggle.
You sat quietly beside them against the headboard, phone raised. A quiet smile played on your lips as you snapped photos of this sweet chaos: Lamine half-asleep being attacked by baby brother energy while sunlight spilled over them all…
Lamine turned his head, still half-buried in the pillow, and gave you a sleepy smirk.
“Buenos días, osito…” he mumbled—voice thick with morning warmth. The nickname slipped out naturally: osito— little bear—a term of endearment only for you because you were always so big and soft at the same time.
His curls were a wild mess from Keyne’s playing—and there was probably drool on his cheek too—but Lamine didn’t care. He reached one arm out lazily toward you while keeping Keyne tucked against him with the other. Keyne giggled again and started poking Lamine’s nose like it was a game now.
The little group walked into a cozy beachside restaurant, where the scent of grilled fish and spicy sambal hung in the air. You carried Keyne effortlessly—one strong arm supporting his tiny body while the other held Lamine's hand. The three-year-old wasn’t heavy at all, and you treated him like your own family—no hesitation. You smiled down at every giggle or random comment Keyne made in broken Spanish. Lamine watched them from across their table as they were seated… heart swelling quietly.
Here were you—big football star, man who could’ve demanded peace during meals—but instead? Holding a squirming toddler on his lap like it was nothing. Asking for milk for Keyne before ordering anything else himself.
And Lamine? Got to relax… eat his fried rice without interruption… enjoy vacation time because of this kind, loving boyfriend.
What it is like secretly dating Lamine Yamal after years of being childhood best friend...
Boyfriend! Lamine who: confessed to you (after years of being in the denials) at the school dance after you two sneaked out early and sat at the rooftop. Despite being two boys playing for the same club, you agreed and gave him your first kiss, which he claimed it tasted like allat cool aid you drank at the school party (you got nervous because Lamine arrived late and kept drinking so you don't look stupid standing in the corner while all of your friends got a date).
Boyfriend! Lamine who: insisted on going to the gym together. He loves to take mirror pictures and often flexes in front of you—not to show off, but for you to admire and enjoy the daily dose of biceps. He claimed it is healthy. Sometimes when he hits the gym alone, he would send you pictures of himself in the changing room—flexing his back muscles, glistened in a thin layer of sweat (picture taken by his other gym bro) with an absolutely dirty message followed right after.
Boyfriend! Lamine who: jumps on you when a goal is scored. He would sprint half across the field just to jump on you to celebrate it. It must be you first, then the rest of the teammates. Interviewers claimed he got a soft spot for you, often showing recaps of Lamine wrapping his arms around you, nuzzling his face in your back excitedly from behind.
Boyfriend! Lamine who: enjoys study dates! Lamine often finds himself laying on your soft bed with a book in hand, reviewing lessons during the days you two are not burying your bodies in football. Even though you said “lock in, pulpo. Exams in a few weeks”, Lamine still tries to distract you by running a hand under your hoodie…as a joke.
Boyfriend! Lamine who: stops bringing his personal water bottle and starts drinking from yours. He has that wide smirk, knowing when he drinks, you two were like…having indirect kisses. It became a habit rather than just an act to mess with you.
Boyfriend! Lamine who: thinks about quickies a lot but can’t do anything since the locker room is anything but private enough. He gets turned on when you glare at him for stealing your towel…drenched in sweats and flustered cheeks. Same person who promised a shower sex after as an apology.
Boyfriend! Lamine who: sneaks into your hotel room when you two are away from home for football matches. For one moment, he got you rolling your eyes because he dramatically said “the one in my room is freezing my balls, Cariño. We need to share the bed. Now.”.
Boyfriend! Lamine who: brings Keyne along when you two hang out together. He knew you adored the kid. His heart swells when you pick Keyne up in that strong arms of yours and babytalks to the kid. Same person who dazed with that goofy grin when you two were in a restaurant and you asked the waitress nicely for some pudding for Keyne before ordering yourself something.
Boyfriend! Lamine who: loves creampie and cockwarming. Safety is prioritised, but if you allow him to, he would stuff you up without a second thought and watch the cum drip out of your aching hole while his calloused palms hold your legs up in the air for a better view. Your back got pressed deeper into the mattress as you caught your breath, tears threatening in the corner of your eyes—literally seeing stars.
Or during the days when you two feel like cuddling and some intimacy at the same time, he would slip his hardened cock inside of you and spoon you from behind—perfectly content. His warm palm slides up and down your abs, giving your chest a firm squeeze and just staying there, yapping your eyes off about something in Spanish.
Boyfriend! Lamine who: relies on you when interviewers or reporters ask him something in English. You basically become his translator—helping him answer then and there. He knows he can switch back to Spanish and answer them just fine—but he rather learns more from you so he can, one day, speak it fluently. Like you do. Then he showers you with kisses when you two are back in the hotel suite as a form of gratitude.
Boyfriend! Lamine who is absolutely head over heels for you. Only you.
