urfav-tz

[urfav-tz]

I wanna uh him in the back of his dad’s Impala 67⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: mentions of parental death. smut (mdni). fingering. protected piv. loss of virginity. reader used to be religious and has complicated feelings about it. mentions of blood. cannibalism references (again, barely). angst. dean is bad at feelings. john winchester's A+ parenting. 8.3k

More than a year has gone by. 

You kick rocks on your way home from your last day of school—the path quiet and lonely. No more joking. No more rambling about cars. No more pleading to rewatch Tombstone for the millionth time. No more Dean.

It was weird at first. You’d turn your head in philosophy class, only to find the seat next to you empty. You’d search for the taller, broader shadow walking alongside yours, only to be met with nothing more than dust floating in the breeze. You’d be reading on your roof, and your head would shoot up at the sound of tires screeching against pavement—only to find just another modern car passing by.

It hasn’t gotten much better, if you’re being honest.

How fascinating it is to be haunted by someone who’s still alive.

Or you hope he is. Maybe you hope he isn’t. Maybe if he’s dead, his sudden disappearance would hurt less. Maybe it would hurt more. Maybe you hope he’s alive, just so you can give him the black eye you owe him. Maybe you hope he’s dead, just so you’ll know he didn’t abandon you.

Either way, Dean Winchester is gone, and you have to learn how to live with it.

You keep going to school, now in your senior year and ready to run away from that place. You keep reading more books, you go through a grunge rock phase, you get your own pistol. You sleep with the silver dagger under your pillow—you tell yourself it’s for safety, nothing else. You find and articulate a whole deer skeleton you keep in the corner of your room. You name her Marigold, because you found her near a patch of the golden flowers, and she becomes your only friend.

You kiss a guy or two—older, too old. Handsy, white-trash dicks. You let one of them finger you against his motorcycle, his thumb brushing everything but your clit, and you punch him in the face and walk away when he gets mad that you don’t wanna go further. You stay a virgin, and you don’t let yourself think about why you’re so hesitant to just get over it. 

What you’re waiting for. Who.

You turn eighteen. It’s quiet, lonely. Just you and Marigold sharing the cupcake the librarian gifted you as you left the bookstore that evening. No birthday wishes, no gifts, no Dean Winchester smoking in bed.

There is whiskey, though.

You bury your mother. Just you and a priest standing over the freshly covered grave—no one else came, no one else cared. You don’t cry, don’t even flinch when you find her slowly rotting body thrown across the couch, as still as the sun-bleached flies in the windowsill. Bile rises in your throat as the priest talks about heaven, and angels, and God’s will. Still, you mutter an “amen” and walk home in complete silence.

You learn how to live without Dean, but it doesn’t feel like living at all.

It is lonesome, empty, famished.

Your eyes are glued to the dirt road beneath your boots, wrapped up in whatever song is playing from your Walkman. From the corner of your eye, you catch the shape of a dark-colored car, parked right at the intersection that divides the salvage yard from the neighborhood.

Your heart skips a beat, but you’ve been here before. Every black car looked like the one the boys were dropped off in. Every deep laugh in the school hallways sounded like his. Every guy in a camo jacket looked like him. So you don’t even bother turning your head.

But then the song ends, and there’s a brief moment of silence before the next one plays. And then you hear it—muffled, but there:

“You’re not even gonna look at me, sweetheart?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and your head turns just as quickly as it did that first day he walked into the classroom.

Right there—alive and in the flesh—is the boy who’s been eating away at your brain like a parasite.

Dean looks different, and it makes something sick curl deep in your gut.

His hair is way darker now, brown locks no longer glowing like honey under the sun. He’s bigger, his shoulders broader, and there’s a new scar across his right eyebrow. He looks so much older—way older than twenty. The camo jacket is gone, replaced by oversized brown leather. It suits him, but it’s also a vivid reminder of how much he’s changed while you stayed here, waiting like a mourning spirit.

He’s leaning against his dad’s car—a Chevy Impala, if you remember correctly.

(Of course you do. Every word that came out of his mouth is engraved into your soul.)

His arms are crossed in front of his chest. His green eyes have that same spark, but they also hold a lot more shadows than before.

There’s a smirk on his face—playful and careless, a cigarette held between his teeth—like he didn’t touch you like you were something holy, only to disappear that same night. He throws the cig to the ground and steps on it, licking his lips like he’s about to say something else.

Everything in you begs to run toward him. The beast in your chest snarls, claws at your ribcage, and tries to leap into his arms. You want to punch him. You want to cry. You want to kiss him until your lips bleed.

Instead, you turn around and start walking away.

You hear footsteps behind you, so you pick up the pace. The headphones still in your ears rumble with the haunting noise of what sounds like a rotating fan and the increasingly loud beat of drums—none of which helps the rapid pounding of your heart.

A hand wraps around your arm, and the girl in the song screams.

You turn around, yanking your headphones down around your neck, your fist clenched in rage. You’re ready to tear your knuckles velvet on Dean’s teeth, but then you meet his eyes.

It’s the first hint of affection you’ve felt in over a year. His eyes aren’t angry, or pitiful, or indifferent. Dean looks at you with warmth. With something shadowed but strong, tortured but tender.

“You left.”

It’s the only thing you can mutter through the noose slowly tightening around your throat. Dean’s eyes darken with something like sorrow, and he looks away. You can’t handle it. You can’t handle him being sad—not because of you.

Just like that, all your resolve melts away.

“I know,” he rasps, jaw clenched, eyes cast down. “But I’m back.”

That’s it. No apology. No explanation. Nothing.

But then—

“I missed you,” he whispers.

And you know you’ve lost the battle.

The beast inside you mewls and lies down, tummy up. It exposes its neck in offering, waiting for sharp teeth to sink in.

They come in the shape of a hand sliding down to your wrist and pulling you closer. You let yourself be dragged forward, like Icarus flying too close to the sun for just a moment of warmth. Your other hand hits his chest with something akin to anger, but it’s too desperate for it to mean anything.

It burns when your lips meet. It’s like acid washing down your throat and corroding all your insides, leaving you defenseless and weak. You bite his lower lip in retaliation, but it only seems to fuel Dean further.

His hand moves to cup your jaw, holding you firmly, making you his—to do with whatever he wants. His tongue dives into your mouth in the middle of the empty road, his other arm wrapping around your waist, and finally, you feel whole again.

The cold void in your chest fills up, and your limbs no longer feel like they’ll fall apart at any second. Dean tastes like Marlboro Reds and destruction. He tastes like pain and tears and home.

“Let me make it up to you, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your lips, and you find yourself nodding before you can find the strength to tell him to go to hell.

He smirks—victorious and pleased—and takes hold of your hand again, pulling you toward the car you’ve heard about so many times but only seen from the distance of your window.

There’s a voice inside you—one that almost sounds like the voice you had assigned to Marigold—that warns you this is not a good idea. That you should be angrier, that you should demand answers, that you can’t let Dean get away with this.

But the touch of his hand in yours is gentle, and you’ve been deprived of gentleness for so long. It’s been a year of nothing but deep-settled desolation in your bones, and you can’t find it in yourself to fight against the solace of his presence.

Dean opens the passenger door for you, pulling you in for a chaste kiss before letting you slide into the car. Dean had said multiple times that “Baby” is a classic, and you never quite understood what that meant. But now, for the first time in your life, you consider a car pretty. The leather of the bench seat is neatly cleaned, there’s not a speck of dust on the dashboard or a mysterious stain on the rugs. It’s a startling change from Bobby’s beaten-up pickup truck.

Dean sits behind the wheel with a grin, and just like that, he looks young again. That weight on his shoulders that seems to crush him at all times vanishes—just a bit, but enough for you to notice. He starts the engine, and his grin widens at the growl of it.

“See? That’s my Baby.” For the first time since that night when Dean took a piece of you and didn’t look back, you laugh. Low, barely there, but you laugh.

Dean seems to relish it, sending you one last sparkling look before taking off.

You drop your backpack on the car’s floorboard, carefully placing your walkman inside. Dean presses a button, and About A Girl starts playing on the radio. You quickly turn to him, eyebrow raised and a smile growing on your face.

“Sammy’s music,” he huffs, rolling his eyes and trying to change the cassette. You stop him, hand on his wrist.

“Leave it,” you murmur, your fingertips tingling to touch more of his skin. “It’s good.”

Dean scoffs, but he drops his hand. Your fingers stay wrapped around his wrist.

“Of course you would be into it,” he says with a teasing glance before his eyes return to the road. “I can’t believe I’m surrounded by a bunch of grungy kids.”

“Yeah, well…” You shrug, unable to stop yourself from turning to stare out the window. “You at least owe me this.”

There’s a long, thick silence after that. No one talks, no one breathes. You chew on your lower lip, torn between the urge to apologize for ruining the moment and the urge to scream at Dean for an explanation.

And like a dog that nuzzles into your side after being scolded for biting, his hand finds your bare thigh and grips the soft flesh, thumb rubbing slow circles over it.

“I guess I do,” he whispers, and once again, it is not an apology. But you’ll take it as one. “Have you eaten lunch?”

Dean is way too aware of your habit of skipping meals.

“You can’t live off of cigarettes and a dream, sweetheart,” he used to tell you when you once again threw away the school lunch.

Knowing better than to try and lie to him, you shake your head. Dean clicks his tongue but doesn’t say anything else as he drives into town. 

His fingers tap your skin along with the beat of the song, and you want to tease him for it.

Instead, bracing yourself to make conversation for the first time in months, you ask:

“Your dad lets you drive the car now?”

Dean’s face lights up—a boyish smile takes over, his eyes glistening with pride as he turns to you once he stops at the red light.

Just like that, all the anger evaporates from you.

He’s so cute, you lament. Too bad he can be such a bitch.

“He’s thinking about giving her to me, long-term.” His chest puffs out, and it’s equally adorable and heartbreaking to see how such a small sign of validation from his dad can make him so happy. “He’s letting me take her to work on small cases, and then maybe I’ll get her next year.”

He pats the dashboard lovingly with his free hand, but your mind is somewhere else.

“To work on small cases.”

It’s another startling change, hearing Dean talk about a full-time job when the last time you saw him, he hadn’t even graduated yet. Also...

“Work... cases?” You turn to him, head tilting in confusion. You still had no idea what Dean’s dad does for work, but cases sounded more complicated than anything you had imagined.

A hint of panic passes through Dean’s eyes, and he stalls as he starts driving again.

“My dad’s in sales,” he says, voice too controlled to be natural. “Sometimes he sends me to work cases for him. Y’know, talk with clients and stuff.”

You narrow your eyes, studying Dean slowly. You’re not convinced he’s telling you the truth. What kind of salesman teaches his kids how to bow-hunt and knife-throw?

Your mouth parts, about to ask more questions, when Dean suddenly turns the wheel to the right, his grip on your thigh tightening as you almost fall against the car door. He drives into a McDonald’s parking lot, getting in line for the drive-thru.

“Still nuggets and fries?” he asks, turning to you with a tight smile. You nod quietly, impressed he still remembers your order.

You brush your hair back into place, thinking over the recent interaction. Dean is always a little tense when the topic of his father comes up—reluctant to talk about him, and quick to shush Sam whenever he complains. Maybe he doesn’t like working for his dad, but he refuses to bad-mouth his sergeant.

So instead of asking about his job, you ask about Sam. Dean’s face relaxes again as he updates you on the life of his “annoying nerd” of a brother, who apparently is now “tall as fuck” and has entered an emo phase, obsessing over Green Day and true-crime books.

“I mean,” you start after Dean finishes ordering for both of you, “John Wayne-Gacy never did kill while wearing the clown costume, so maybe it helps with Sam’s phobia.”

He throws his head back with a groan, and you can’t help the giggle bubbling out of your mouth.

“Don’t tell me you also like that creepy shit,” he complains, and you just shrug. “I swear, if I have to hear the words ‘modis-operandi’ one more time...”

“Modus, baby.” You correct cheekily, but still with that eerie quietness that always hangs from your words. The nickname rolls off your tongue like it was always meant to be there, and Dean’s breath seems to catch for a moment before he grunts.

“Whatever.”

Dean pays for your food, with a credit card now. At least he’s getting paid for the job, you guess.

He hands you the food—nuggets, fries, and a Coke for you; the biggest meal on the menu for him—and starts driving again.

“Where are we going?” you finally ask, munching on a fry. Dean winks at you but says nothing else. You trust him to take you wherever he wants.

He asks about you as he steers onto a sideroad, where you’re surrounded by trees and a few birds flitting by. You talk about school, how today was your last day, and graduation’s in a few weeks. You don’t mention that no one will be waiting for you in the crowd, no one will cheer louder when your name is called, or take pictures of you with your diploma.

You don’t ask Dean to come, because you know better.

You don’t mention your mother either, figuring you’ll tell him tomorrow. Because you assume there will be a tomorrow.

You’re just telling him about Marigold—your voice rising from a whisper as you recount finding the bones—when Dean stops the car. You look out to find yourself near the edge of a river cliff.

Your jaw drops as you take in the lookout point—the lush greenery surrounding it, the gentle murmur of the river filling your ears as Dean turns off the engine, the crisp breeze drifting through the open window.

“Come on.” Dean undoes his seatbelt and opens his door, then takes the food bag from your hands. “You must be starving.”

You both sit side by side on the hood of the Impala. He devours his burger while you nibble on your nuggets, though you’re barely hungry. Dean shoots you a warning glance, so you eat the whole box anyway.

You close your eyes, savoring the quiet of the wilderness. It’s a different kind of silence than the one in your house—it doesn’t suffocate you or poison your lungs, it isn’t lonely. Instead, this silence is comforting, like an old friend folding you into their arms. Dean’s shoulder brushes yours every now and then as he talks about everything and nothing, and you hum along, nodding just like old times.

The sun sets, just a glow of orange on the horizon as the sky is slowly painted in shades of pink and blue. Your eyes glance down to the grass, and right next to the Impala’s front tire, there’s a small patch of blue.

You gasp softly, and it makes Dean turn to you immediately.

“What is it?” You don’t notice the way his shoulders tense or how he reaches for his jacket’s inside pocket, because you are quickly sliding off the hood and kneeling on the ground. “Don’t tell me it’s another animal corpse.”

It isn’t. It’s a cluster of flowers, sky-blue and tiny.

“Forget-me-nots,” you whisper with a smile as you pluck a handful of them.

“What now?” Dean’s confused voice makes you giggle as you stand, moving to stand in front of him. He stays on the hood, knees on either side of you.

“Forget-me-nots,” you repeat, louder, showing him the flowers with a sweet little grin.

Dean stares at you for a long moment before dropping his head forward, a chuckle slipping from his lips.

“You’re so fuckin’ adorable, goddamn it.”

You freeze, cheeks warming in the slowly cooling evening breeze.

He says it like it’s a con, like it’s inconvenient somehow. But then he looks back up at you, and his eyes are so warm, almost adoring, that you can’t bring yourself to question it. His hands wrap around your waist, right over the silver skin showing between your tank top and denim shorts, pulling you close until your chest flushes against his.

With a shy smile, your hand holding the flowers moves to the side of his hair, tucking the small bundle behind his ear. You giggle at the sight—Dean, with all his scars, leather jacket, and weaponry, wearing delicate blossoms on his face.

He huffs at your actions but doesn’t take them off. Instead, he leans forward gently and traps your lips with a quick peck that sends your heart racing.

Then he leans away, pulling out his box of Reds. You sit back down next to him, taking one when he offers it.

He lights it for you, his big hand hovering around his Zippo, shielding the flame from the evening breeze. You take a long, slow drag of your cigarette once he moves to light his own, admiring how the fire’s glow bathes his features, making him look even prettier. 

Soon, only the moonlight and the cherry-red tips of your cigarettes illuminate the night. Dean’s hand finds its way back to your thigh, and you keep staring at him, almost wishing you had a camera—or your old sketchbook—to immortalize this moment.

Dean leans back on one hand, relaxed, blowing smoke toward the sky without a care. His expression is blissful, like he doesn’t have a worry in the world. The slope of his jaw looks sharper in the dim light, his fingers holding the cigarette look long, and that small grin he wears is stupidly attractive. The fragile flowers still nestle behind his ear, soft in a sea of rough edges.

Damn it, he is so fucking hot.

You put out your cigarette and lean forward, engulfing his lips with yours. Dean lets out a surprised little noise, but quickly wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer.

It starts soft, way slower than the angry kiss you shared on the dirt path that afternoon. Your lips move against each other in a soothing dance, his hands squeezing your waist while yours cup his cheeks.

You don’t feel so lost this time, not so wild or inexperienced. Now you know when to tilt your head, when to part your lips, when to suck his lip into your mouth. You’re nowhere near as confident as Dean, who clearly has more experience, but you try not to think about it as his tongue brushes against yours.

You want more. You want Dean’s hands on you, want him to crawl inside you, make a home in your insides and never leave. You need him—however he’ll have you.

The air turns colder as your movements grow a little more desperate. Goosebumps travel across your skin as the cold wind brushes your hair and Dean’s hand slips under your tank top.

“You’re freezing,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “Why don’t we take this to the backseat, hm?”

You have half a mind to panic, because you know what that means—because you’ve been avoiding this same thing for so long. But you can’t say no to Dean. You don’t want to.

So you nod, swallowing down every trace of fear as you slide off the hood with his help.

First, Dean opens the driver’s door. You watch as he grabs something from the glove box before carefully picking the bouquet of forget-me-nots from his ear and placing it gently on the dashboard. He does it with such devotion, like the flowers mean more than just a silly gift, and something inside you shifts, wrapping around your heart and squeezing.

You still don’t have a name for it, but it’s there.

Then Dean turns to you, eyes dark, smirk a little sharper, and pulls your hand, guiding you to the backseat. You slide onto the leather, yanking off your black boots as Dean shrugs off his jacket, still standing outside.

He looks down at you as you lie back on his dad’s car, tank top riled up, frayed shorts giving way to your smooth thighs—now missing the marks of his fingertips.

You’re just starting to feel a little too vulnerable when he throws his jacket onto the floorboard and lays down on top of you. The door closes behind him, and once again, Dean Winchester pins you against a carseat.

He starts kissing down your neck—just the whisper of his lips against your skin—as his hands slip back under your tank top. His thumbs trace slow circles over your ribcage before hooking at the edge of your bra.

A part of you wants to keep your virginity a secret, scared that Dean won’t want you then, scared that he’ll think it’s too much responsibility, too much work. But a bigger part of you is still a little terrified of losing it, still remembering the multiple Sunday sermons you sat through as a child, even if you now know it’s all bullshit.

“I’m a virgin,” you blurt out, because Dean would find out one way or another.

He pauses, looks up at you with wide eyes, and then his hands threaten to move away.

You grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. Your legs part, giving him space to settle in between them, trapping him, not letting him get away.

“Sweetheart—” he starts, but you cut him off with a kiss. “We don’t have to—”

“I know.” You bite his lip, looking up at him with shining eyes. “But I want to. I want you.”

It can only be you. It’s always been you.

Dean still looks conflicted, his chest rising and falling, eyes carefully searching your face.

He says your name, low and serious. “Are you sure? I—”

You don’t let him finish, tired of waiting. Yes, you’re sure. You’ve been sure for a while. It doesn’t matter if it hurts, if it’s in the back of a car, if it doesn’t mean the same to him as it does to you. It’s always supposed to be Dean.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him down, kissing him again—your tongue tracing behind his teeth before you whisper, “Come on, Dean.” You scratch his scalp gently. “Fuck me.”

That’s all it takes. Dean captures your mouth in a searing kiss, teeth biting your lower lip. His hands grab the hem of your top, and he breaks the kiss to pull it over your head.

You’re left in only your white lacy bra. You can feel his eyes on you, drinking in the sight. Part of you wants to hide, but another part blooms at the thought that he wants you.

Dean leans down, pressing kisses to the soft skin of your stomach, making the heat pooling lower simmer into something almost unbearable. His hands travel up your sides, sliding around to your back. As you arch off the seat slightly, he unclasps your bra in one swift motion.

His kisses trail upward, all the way until he’s sucking gently on a small bruise beneath your left breast. Your breath catches, nipples hard and sensitive from the cool air. Your hand tightens in his hair, and you close your eyes to steady your nerves.

Then Dean wraps his lips around your nipple, and you gasp.

“D-dean—” You can’t help but lean into his touch as his tongue expertly swirls around the areola. You feel him smirk against your skin before he gives your nipple one last tender bite and moves on, giving the same attention to the other.

His hands slide down to the edge of your shorts. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands hovering over your thighs, so close to where you ache. He tugs on the denim, and you lift your hips, letting him slide them off.

You fight the urge to hide again, feeling exposed in just your panties while he’s fully dressed. Your thighs twitch, but Dean quickly wraps his hands around them, holding you still.

He leans down in the tight space of the backseat, placing a gentle kiss on your inner thigh. It’s soft, delicate—almost like he’s trying to comfort you. He keeps peppering kisses all the way up your leg, edging closer to the elastic of your underwear.

You know he can smell your arousal, see in the dim light how much you’re affected, how badly you want him. His warm breath brushes the thin cotton fabric, and you bite back a whimper.

Desperate to reclaim some control, you grab him by the hair and pull him up, stripping him of his shirt. Dean lets you, lifting his arms to help. You’re hit by the sight of lean, smooth muscle. Even in the faint moonlight, his skin glistens like honey. Your mouth waters with the sudden urge to bite, to taste him, to devour him until nothing’s left.

Dean’s lips find your neck, planting kisses everywhere as his body presses into yours—warm skin against your cooler one. Your hands roam over that sun-kissed muscle now exposed. They slide over his shoulders and down his back, feeling every subtle shift, every inch of that golden skin stretching far beyond what you can see.

You feel Dean’s fingers working to unbutton his jeans, but before panic can rise again, you cup his face. You search his eyes—those green, beautiful eyes that have haunted you for years. A sudden wave of emotion crashes over you, and you bite back any words that might shatter the moment.

Instead, you lean forward and place a gentle kiss on the scar on his eyebrow, your lips barely brushing over the raised skin. It isn’t sensual, but it’s intimate. Dean freezes for a moment, and you meet his eyes again.

He looks down at you like you’ve just broken something inside him. His eyes hold a fire that you can’t tell if it’s anger or hunger. His mouth parts, like he’s about to say something, but then his jaw clenches and he looks away.

Dean quickly leans back, pulling down his jeans until they pool around his knees. He drops whatever he took from the glove box next to you—a small silver package. You know what it is, and your throat goes dry at the sight.

Dean seems to notice. Whatever made him pull away so fast melts away as his eyes soften again, his hands landing on your waist, rubbing gentle, soothing circles over your skin.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks again, and you don’t know whether to be thankful or annoyed.

Either way, you nod, and your eyes drop to the hard bulge in Dean’s boxers.

Fuck, you might be inexperienced—but it looks big.

Dean’s hands slide down your body until they reach the edge of your underwear. One of his fingers traces down your slit over the fabric, just like he did back at the drive-in, and your back arches.

“Still so fuckin’ sensitive,” he murmurs, almost fascinated. You flush, but you can’t help the small noise that slips out when he repeats the motion.

No matter how scared you are, you need Dean. You want him to break you, to be the first to ever be inside you. You want him to take you like putty in his hands and mold you however he wants.

“Please,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to brush his hair out of his face. It’s shorter now, no longer falling into his eyes. “Fuck me.”

Dean nods, tries to say something, but all that comes out is a guttural, “Yeah.”

He pulls your panties off, his eyes narrowing at where you’re bare and open for him. This time, your legs try to squeeze together, but Dean’s body between them stops you. Before you can try and hide again, his thumb brushes over your lips, sliding in between them before pulling away.

A single string of slick keeps him connected to your cunt. He laughs—rough and strained.

“You get wet so easily.” Your cheeks burn, almost choking on your own embarrassment. But he keeps looking at you. “You’re so responsive, so… soft.” His jaw clenches as his thumb rubs over your clit, making you gasp. “I wanna devour you.”

You shiver at his words, more slick flowing out of you. Your hips buckle against nothing, eyes glossy as you look at Dean.

“Do it.” You pull his hips closer with your knees. “I want you.”

Dean’s pointer finger circles your entrance, and at least this part isn’t unfamiliar. But this feels a million times different than when that other guy did it—this feels sacred. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for the stretch.

Slowly, the digit slips inside. Your shoulders tense, and you let out a shaky breath once it’s fully in. You can feel Dean’s eyes on you, so you hold back any sign of discomfort. Carefully, he starts moving. His finger slides in and out, stretching you open for him.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Dean mutters, looking down where his finger is breaking you in. “You’re opening up for me so nicely.”

He pulls his finger out, noticing it’s completely drenched in your slick. He then presses his index and middle finger together, coating them well before slowly pushing them inside you.

Your whole body tenses up at the slight ache, but you don’t complain. Your hands grip Dean’s shoulders, nails digging in as his fingers slide in all the way to the knuckles. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, trying to power through the first few uncomfortable moments.

Dean stays still for a second, watching your face as his fingers wiggle inside, pressing against your walls. It’s weird, a little painful—and then he presses his thumb against your swollen clit again. Electricity shoots up your spine, just like the last time he touched you.

More wetness coats his fingers, and your pussy clenches around him, but you feel yourself giving in, making room.

Dean leans down, mouth close to your ear, voice a low whisper: “That’s it, baby, let me in.”

You whimper, turning your face and pressing it against his cheek. “Put another one in,” you beg against his skin, your hips bucking as your body slowly adjusts to the stretch.

Another finger prods at your entrance, and when it pushes in, you wince—but Dean’s eyes are fixed on you, wide with something you’ve never seen in them before. He looks at you like he’s witnessing a miracle. Like he almost can’t believe he gets this. Gets you.

He keeps pumping his fingers, pulling and pressing, stretching you wider, preparing you for his cock.

You can’t talk. You can barely breathe. It’s too much and not enough all at once, so you focus instead on the warmth of his chest under your palms, the press of his thumb on your clit, and the soft, needy sounds leaving your lips.

“You sound so—” he cuts himself off, pace picking up, and then he brushes against something deep inside you. A spongy, blindingly sensitive spot that makes you cry out, the sound echoing in the tight space of the car.

“There it is,” he whispers, voice hoarse, a proud smirk tugging at his lips.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just hold onto his shoulders, reeling, marveling at the sensation of being touched everywhere all at once.

The heat low in your belly turns molten, rushing through you with a force that makes your legs shake. Desperate not to come yet, you wrap your hand around Dean’s wrist and pull him away. His eyes go wide, searching your face like he’s afraid he hurt you.

But you don’t say anything. You shift forward instead, kiss along the curve of his neck, down to where his skin dips into muscle—and bite. Not hard, but enough to mark him. If Dean’s going to leave something permanent on you tonight, you want to leave something on him too, even if it fades by morning.

“I’m ready,” you whisper, lips pressed to the junction of his neck and shoulder. “I need you.”

Dean nods, and he leans in to grab the condom that had fallen down between the seats.

He looks like he knows what he’s doing, and once again, you’re hit with the bitter reminder that he’s done this many times before. You feel inexperienced in comparison, but you force yourself to ignore the ache that rises in your chest.

Instead, you watch closely as Dean pulls his boxers down.

He’s long—longer than you expected. The tip is flushed an almost angry red from how hard he is, and for a moment, you wonder if it’ll even fit.

“You can touch, y’know,” Dean murmurs, one hand sliding up your thigh in a way that’s tender—reassuring.

You slowly wrap your hand around him, noticing how thick and warm he is. Your mouth waters as your thumb brushes over the head, smearing the pre-cum across your skin before you begin to stroke him.

Dean grunts softly, and his cock twitches when you pass over the slit again.

A rush of satisfaction floods through you—you are the one making him feel this way. You are the one making him sound like that.

You squeeze the base gently, licking your lips. “I need you inside.”

Without another word, Dean tears open the condom packet and gently pulls your hand away. You watch in the dim light as he rolls the rubber down over himself, his chest rising and falling as he shifts between your legs, one hand gripping your hip to steady you.

You feel him wrap his hand around himself, and then the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance.

“Can I go in, sweetheart?” His voice is shaky, and it comforts you to know he’s just as affected as you are.

“Yeah.” Your thighs tighten around his waist, and you brace yourself, drawing in a breath.

“Just relax for me, hm?” Dean cups your face, his thumb stroking soft circles along your jaw—and then he pushes in.

There’s some resistance at first, but he keeps easing forward until the tip finally slips inside. It’s only slightly wider than his fingers, but it still knocks the air out of your lungs. Your nails sink into his shoulders, your breath stuttering.

Yes, it hurts—but you want more. You push your hips down, biting back a whimper, urging him in deeper.

“Just a bit more, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You’re doing so good.”

Slowly, inch by inch, he sinks in until he’s fully buried inside your throbbing cunt. It feels like he’s splitting you open, stretching you beyond what you thought you could take—rearranging something fundamental inside you.

You hiss, both from the ache and the sharp realization: Dean is your first. Forever, he will be the first man to ever fuck you. Your body is now marked, shaped by him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean growls, running a hand through your hair. “You feel so perfect around me.”

And it hurts like hell. The stretch burns, and there’s blood between your thighs—thick, warm. But it’s okay. Because it’s Dean. Because you’d lie here and bleed out if it meant he would keep holding you like this, would keep looking at you with that shine in his eyes.

If it meant he wouldn’t leave.

Dean doesn’t move at first, giving you time to adjust. But you want him to feel good. So you part your legs even further, as if that might help make room for his cock, and you pull him in for a kiss.

“You can move,” you whisper against his lips. “You can fuck me.”

But Dean stays still, burying his face in your neck and biting the skin. So you try to move, rocking your hips and clenching around him. It makes him hiss, his hands tightening on your waist with enough force to bruise.

“Wait, wait,” he chokes out—and for a terrifying second, you think you’ve done something wrong. That maybe he doesn’t want you anymore.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight, goddamn it.” His voice is strained, and his cock twitches so hard inside of you it sends another jolt of electricity up your spine.

He’s trying not to come.

“I need—I just need a second.”

So you stay still. The only sound is your ragged breaths and the soft hum of fireflies buzzing outside.

Slowly, the pain dulls. Your body adjusts, molding itself around Dean, making space for him. And you know—you’re ruined for anyone else. No one else will ever fit like this. No one else ever could.

Then Dean starts to move, slow and careful thrusts of his hips. He pulls back until only the head remains, then pushes in again. It still hurts, but the pain tangles with something else—something primal, something possessive.

You almost want to tell him to take the condom off. To feel him bare, to mark him with your slick and your blood. To be claimed completely.

But you don’t, because you know better.

Dean braces himself above you and starts to move faster. His hips piston into you, each thrust a little more desperate than the last. The stretch is still a lot. Your insides feel raw, sore. But then his mouth finds one of your nipples, and his cock twitches inside you, and your body arches on instinct, a moan torn from your throat.

“You feel so good, fuck,” he groans into your skin, glancing up at you with an almost dazed look in his eyes. “You have no idea.”

You open your mouth to respond, to say anything, but then Dean hits that same spongy spot deep inside, and your head falls back, eyes squeezed shut, a sharp cry breaking from your chest.

“There you go. That’s it,” he murmurs, hips rolling into that sweet little spot again and again. It makes you wetter, makes everything smoother, and for the first time, you get it—why people are so obsessed with this. Why they crave it.

You clench around him, nails dragging down his back as your eyes roll back in pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck,” you whimper, mind already slipping. The pleasure comes on too strong, too fast, almost overwhelming after all the pain. You’re not sure you can hold on much longer.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” he breathes, and you nod helplessly, a full-body shiver racking through you when he leans down and bites just behind your ear. “You’re so warm. Fuck, you were made for me.”

Yeah. You are. Only for him.

Dean’s hand moves, and you yelp when his fingers find your clit again.

You try to stop him, clumsily pushing at his wrist. “N-no, no. I’ll come—”

“I want you to come, baby,” he laughs, breathless, pressing harder against you. “I want you to feel good, pretty girl. Just let go.”

Tears prickle at the back of your eyes, but they’re not from pain anymore. Something bigger—greater than pleasure—wraps around you and squeezes so tightly you can’t breathe. You choke on it, let it pour down your throat like light, let it settle somewhere deep inside. You know it’s permanent. A soul mark. A branding.

Dean is impossibly deep inside you, the head of his cock hitting places you didn’t know existed. It’s all so new, so overwhelming, and you find yourself teetering on the edge.

“I—I’m close,” you whimper, your hips twitching helplessly. Dean keeps thrusting with careful precision, pressing into that sweet spot again and again, while his thumb doubles down on your clit.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he pants, voice husky and wrecked. “Let me see you come, sweetheart.”

And it’s like your body obeys him without question. Everything tightens at once, your back arching, your breath catching, and then you’re gone. A desperate, broken whimper tears from your throat as your cunt clenches around him, and you come hard—shaking, crying, unraveling all over his cock.

Your mind blanks for a moment, nothing but static in your ears. But when you come back to yourself, Dean is still moving inside you—desperate now. There’s no rhythm anymore, just frantic, needy thrusts as he chases his release.

Then he stills.

You clench around him instinctively, and it makes him curse under his breath. He falls forward with a broken noise, burying his face in your neck. He comes like that—arms shaking, cock twitching inside of you. You wish you could feel him without the barrier, wish he’d fill you up, mark you from the inside. But you hold onto the moment anyway, let the warmth of it bloom as your fingers thread gently through his hair.

For a while, neither of you move. Dean softens inside you, but he doesn’t pull out. He just kisses your face—your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth—until your blissed-out expression cracks into a small giggle and your hands stop trembling.

Only then does he ease away. He slides out of you, and it feels like being split in half all over again. You brace for the distance—swallow down the needy ache that sparks behind your ribs.

There’s blood smeared across your inner thighs, and Dean grabs tissues from the glove box, cleaning you up with a strange kind of reverence. His face twists a little when he sees the blood, like it hurts him.

You don’t tell him that you fantasize about him making you bleed.

You both get dressed in silence. It follows you to the front seat, heavy and familiar. Dean turns the key in the ignition, the engine rumbles to life, and he pulls away from the lookout and down the highway.

Neither of you says a word.

You get a sense of déjà vu when Dean stops the car in front of your house.

There’s still crimson staining your underwear, and you’ve just left a piece of yourself in the backseat. Your heart feels like it’s being torn out at the thought of getting out of this car and watching Dean drive away with it.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the door handle, already thinking about lying alone in your cold bed, nothing but darkness curling around your bruised body. But then Dean grabs your wrist, stopping you.

“Would your mom care if I… spent the night?”

You close your eyes for a moment, thanking a God you no longer believe in. A choked laugh slips from your lips, and you turn to look at Dean, eyes glassy with something fragile.

“Don’t worry about her,” you whisper, careful not to shatter the moment. “She’s not home.”

Dean nods, and he almost looks as relieved as you. He brings your hand to his face, kissing the knuckles you’d spent a year fantasizing about smashing against his jaw—and then he’s pulling the Impala into your driveway.

You enter the house quietly, somehow still feeling like you’re sneaking around, even though no one ever really cared what you did. It’s the first time Dean’s been inside your home, and you don’t let him look around too much, afraid he’ll notice that every trace of your mother has been erased—and start asking questions.

So you grab his hand and pull him upstairs, dragging him into your room. You both laugh, and in the soft glow of your lamp, you both look like normal kids instead of the baggage-heavy adults you had been forced to be for years. 

You make Dean say hello to Marigold, but you can feel her hollow eyes judging you.

Let me have this, you beg. Just for once, let me be happy.  

You let Dean look over your bookshelf as you slip into the bathroom to change into clean pajamas. You’d tried offering him an oversized shirt and maybe some sweatpants, but he refused.

“I’m used to sleeping in jeans, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

His words spark even more questions in your mind. Why would a salesman’s kid be used to sleeping in his outside clothes?

You brush your teeth, forcing yourself to enjoy the night and push those questions aside for now. You clean yourself as best you can before stepping back into the room, grateful you won’t have to spend the night alone.

You find Dean sitting on your bed, something glinting in his hands, catching the bathroom light.

The silver dagger.

Your throat tightens as you approach until you’re standing right in front of him. His fingers lightly brush the right horn of the goat’s skull on the hilt, and when he looks up, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes you hadn’t seen even when he was inside you.

“You keep this under your pillow.” It is not a question, but you nod.

“I promised I’d stay safe,” you whisper, your voice soft and raw—something that seems to wound Dean more than you expect.

He closes his eyes for a long moment before leaving the dagger on the bedside table and sliding to the side of the bed against the wall, his boots already beneath it. “C’mere, it’s getting cold.”

It’s been cold for a long while, but you slip under the covers without a word, letting Dean pull you close. Your head rests on his chest as you curl into his side.

There’s a pistol in your drawer, a knife in your jacket pocket, and a dagger on your bedside table—but somehow, being in Dean’s arms is the safest you’ve ever felt.

You watch him pull the blanket over both of you, and you bury your face in his shirt, relishing the idea of his scent mingling with yours. His fingers carefully tangle in the soft locks of your hair, and you feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

Your ear rests right over his heart, the steady beat lulling you to sleep. Because you’re not empty anymore—because today you bled for Dean, and now he’s holding you close, keeping you whole in his arms. Because for the first time since you were a child, you feel loved.

“I love you.”

It’s just a whisper in the night, the words slipping out before you can stop them. You don’t know if Dean’s awake to hear them, you don’t know how he reacts—because you let your eyes fall shut, and you drift off to the sound of your old rotating fan and Dean’s heartbeat.

The next morning, the spot next to you is empty.

It surprises you less than it should, but it hurts more than you imagined. Marigold watches you from the corner of the room, as if saying “I told you so.”

Tears roll down your face as you stare out the window, wrapping your arms around yourself. You think about the small bundle of flowers left on the Impala’s dashboard, wondering if they’re still there as Dean drives wherever he’s escaping to.

Forget me not, Dean Winchester.

Somewhere far up west, Dean admits to himself that he fucked up. He panicked, and now he doesn’t know if he can fix it this time. He thinks about driving back, about calling Bobby and asking for your number, about telling you the whole truth.

But he doesn’t, because he knows better.

A week later, John climbs into the driver’s seat of Baby and finds the dried-up flowers sitting on the console. He roughly grabs them and tosses them out the window.

“I won’t let you take the car again if you keep leaving trash behind, Dean.”

Dean quietly watches from the passenger seat, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. Still, he buckles up and lets his dad drive him to the next hunt.

PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART

NOTES: knock knock, anyone still here? oh my god guys, I am so sorry, please lower your pitchforks. I tried to post faster, but finals left my brain turned into mush and I just now got my inspiration back. but I came back with a LONG one, hope you're up for it. the love this series has been getting is overwhelming, and I promise I will try and post at least once a week now that I'm free from academics. anyway, i'll stop yapping. I love you all, hope you like it!!!

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @anxiety-prime-max @southernimpala @ohmykwonsoonyoung @mimiimmii @thanosisadilf @iamaslytherin0 @youroldfashioned @luvrgirls @faeriexxmoon @iluvchr1s @beelzebzb @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @rxouxcesss @yup-its-dez @n0t-vzin1s @tendertulip @halleybagel @melancholysanatomy @dollyfetti @5oftkitty <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[urfav-tz]

darlingmbappe has to acc be one of the best angst writers out there. I love this so much

Of the Unfaithful Kind | Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

Summary: Suspicious circumstances cause your boyfriend to spiral, and in efforts to forget what he witnessed, he seeks retaliation in a malicious way. Based on this request.

Warnings: Slight smut (nothing too graphic), angst, descriptions of cheating, mentions of the death of a parent, cussing, crying, spoiler -> no happy ending. Let me know if I missed anything! There will be no part two – English is not my first language –

Masterlist

There was nowhere left to check. Nowhere left to look for your boyfriend who’s walking around somewhere, probably with visible fumes steaming out of his ears and breathing fire.

From the second he walked in on you in an unfortunate position, his calls were going directly to voicemail. Your texts were going ignored. His location was turned off. You’d be angry at his lack of communication if the situation didn’t look so suspicious, and yes. You totally understand why he stormed out of your office, tires screeching away before you could reach him. You yelled and begged for him to please just let you explain… That it wasn’t what it looked like. It truly wasn’t.

There weren’t many things you and Ky didn’t talk about. Ranging from the size of your poop that morning to deep insecurities you swore to take to the grave. It was a healthy relationship. So, naturally, everything was okay to talk about… everything except for Gordon.

Gordon was your ex boyfriend. You met him when you began working at your current job, but the relationship really only lasted about four months before you called it quits. When you broke it off, you both agreed to be civil, seeing as you’d still be working together. It was obvious he was still into you, and his flirty nature and constant communication with you lit a fiery rage inside of Kylian.

This jealousy wasn’t completely unreasonable, given the fact that his romantic remarks weren’t left unnoticed or subtle. After a handful of fights with your boyfriend of two years, you both decide it’d be best to draw some boundaries with your coworker and to never mention his name in front of him… and so you did. You asked Gordon to only contact you with work related information, and even if Gordon told you the juiciest gossip you’ll ever hear in your entire life, those six letters that made up his name were not to leave your mouth. Not in front of Kylian.

When Kylian made his way up to your office to pick you up, his feet sore and his mind exhausted from training, all he wanted was to get you both back to his house, draw a bath, then fall asleep on your chest. His plans went to hell, of course, as he wasn’t expecting to see what he did.

You stood in front of Gordon, your arms wrapped tightly around him as he swayed you both back and forth. Your hand rubbed his back soothingly, a gesture that was supposed to be reserved for only him. The way Gordon’s face was comfortably placed on top of your head… the way his arms grasped you so tightly… everything about the scene in front of him made him want to throw up. Even when you looked up and met his eyes, your stare frozen as you stepped away from the embrace, he felt nothing. He had gone numb.

You sprinted after him as soon as he took off, leaving Gordon without even a second thought. It was funny to even think that you could possibly catch up to him, his award-winning pace leaving you in the dust, panting, your throat sore from screaming at him to wait. To let you explain.

That was three hours ago.

“Fuck.” You grumbled, leaving the vacant Parc des Princes, no sign of Kylians car. The amount of money you’d wasted on Ubers today didn’t even matter. Not even a little bit. You didn’t know where else to go except back to his home.

He had to be there by now, you thought. He had to.

Alas, it was also empty. You weren’t past waiting for him there, ready to sleep on the ottoman facing the front door until he came home. All you wanted to do was find him and tell him that you would never cheat. You would never do that to him, not in a million years.

Kylian drove around Paris, blasting music with a tense jaw and a racing mind. He couldn’t wash the image of you and Gordon in your office with bleach if he tried. It’s like it had gotten tattooed on the back of his eyelids, haunting him whenever he blinked. He was far from insecure, he knew your relationship was strong. He trusted you. He’s trusted you and you went off and threw it all away for someone you claimed you were never compatible with. How could he have gotten you so wrong? His wondering only added fuel to the fire, gripping the steering wheel so tightly he felt that it might snap in half.

His mind wandered to a couple hours earlier after training, before he saw what he saw…

“Kylian, you up for some clubbing tonight?” Catrina asked from down the trophy hall. She was the friend of Marco Verratti’s wife and a model who loved making sure everyone knew she was hot shit.

Kylian’s seen her around multiple times. Blonde, British, and very forward. She tagged along with his teammate and his wife pretty frequently to keep Laura company while Marco did his thing at dinners and matches. She’s made advanced at him every single time he’s around her, and if he didn’t have you, he would probably flirt back.

But he never did.

“No, no. Not tonight. Thank you, though.” Kylian smiled, going back to scrolling on his phone.

He saw her shadow saunter over through the corner of his eye. “You sure, babe? I’m lot’s of fun.” He looked up, she winked at him. “Especially after you get a few drinks in me. Don’t you want to see?”

She stood so close to his sitting figure. “My girlfriend and I have plans. You remember (Y/N), right?” He reminded, as if to nicely ask her to please back off.

She nods with a sneer on her face, “I remember. She’s a little boring. Bland. Nothing like me.”

Kylian raised his eyebrows at her, expecting a quick ‘I’m sorry’, even if she didn’t mean it. Instead, she just chuckled, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Jeez, I’m only joking, babes.” She wasn’t and they both knew it. He noticed the way she jutted out her lips out at him, raking her eyes over his body, making him feel a little bit gross and jittery. “Well, if you change your mind, we have a section at La Cachette starting at ten. But don’t bring her. We only have room for you, love.”

She turned and strutted away, swaying her hips back and forth. Kylian shook his head in disbelief at that woman, disregarding everything and continued to scroll.

He stopped at a red light, chewing on his raw cheek like he has been all night. He looked at the time displayed in his car. 10:36 pm. Looking left, then right, he made a U turn. The area was familiar, he knew La Cachette was just a few blocks away, and right now all he wanted was to erase the ugly memory from his sober brain.

He didn’t remember parking the car or how he even got up to the private section, surrounded by models from wall to wall. All of them immediately recognizing him, clinging to his arm, handing him shots upon shots. Kylian usually wasn’t much of a partygoer. He enjoyed resting for his responsibilities, staying at home with you was what his Thursday nights usually looked like; cuddled up on the couch, munching on some healthy snack you made from Pinterest because you knew his strict diet plan like the back of your hand.

He shook his head from the thought of you, taking the bottle of top shelf vodka and pouring it freely into his mouth, earning cheers from all the women around him. Slamming the bottle down, he wiped his mouth, recognizing the blonde who watched him with a flirtatious quirk in her smile. He kept his eyes steadily on her, sauntering over like a lion to its prey.

“Let’s get out of here.” He grumbled, grabbing her hand and kept walking without looking back, dragging her away from her friends. She made no effort to stop. In fact, she clung onto his arm like she owned him, looking around to soak in the glory of everyone else gaping at her with the Kylian Mbappé.

Once outside, Kylian attempted to walk her to his car, but she tugged back, nodding her head to the building next door. “I live just up here.” She bit her lip.

Without even thinking about it, he let her lead him up the elevator and into her home. This is when he began realizing where he is, who he was with, and who wasn’t there with him. You.

She locked the door behind her, taking off her heavy coat and threw it on the couch. What she wore wasn’t much, and Kylians overly-tipsy brain couldn’t stop itself from focusing on her cleavage, looking away shamefully after a second or two.

“You can look, babe.” Her voice was sultry and confident. She placed herself only inches away from him, grabbing his hands and settling them on her hips, dragging them up until they rested just under her large breasts. “You can touch, too.”

Kylian sucked on his teeth apprehensively, looking from Catrina to the floor, wishing he’d just taken the bottle of vodka with him for moral support. He couldn’t believe himself or the position he’s found himself in. This was disgusting and so out of his nature.

She did it first. She did it first.

The angel on his shoulder was nowhere to be found, the red devil had taken over his conscience, begging him to just pull the trigger on the whole ordeal. He could almost hear it…

She did it first.

And then, he did it. He kissed her. Roughly. Angrily. His hands roamed up the unfamiliar body now taken in his arms. His eyes were shut tightly, but her small whimpers of satisfaction gave it away that it wasn’t you. He pulled back, wiping his mouth and turning around.

“What, that’s it?” Catrina gawked, slightly out of breath from the passionate kiss.

Kylian said nothing back, facing away from her as his mind recognized that she tasted nothing like you, felt nothing like you. He couldn’t go through with this.

“She cheated on you, didn’t she?” He hears her say, her heels clicking toward his downturned figure. She walked past him to the minibar snuggly placed in the corner, pouring two drinks into crystal glasses. “You know, they say alcohol’s the best medicine for a broken heart. And I agree.” She sticks out the cup and he takes it, swishing it around as his mind continued to contemplate his options, not daring to look up at the strange woman. “Well, that and rebound sex, of course. I’m here to provide you with both.” She swung back her drink in one gulp, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. “It’s not cheating if she did it first.”

She did it first.

Kylian grimaced, gulping down every last drop she gave him before slamming the glass down in a nearby table, closing his eyes once more and kissing her again.

Catrina blindly set her own glass down, walking backward to the couch, ripping off Kylian’s shirt in the process. They found the cushions, continuing to make out and shedding layers until there was nothing left.

He was lost in the heat of the moment, but couldn’t find it in himself to continue kissing this stranger under him. Instead, he flipped her over, taking her from behind right on the couch.

She moaned, she whimpered, but whenever she looked back, Kylian eyes were screwed shut. He didn’t like the way his name sounded coming from her, but focused on the pleasure she was providing for him.

It wasn’t a long fuck, it was foggy and unromantic. When he pulled out of her, he sat on the opposite end of her sofa, panting, only thinking about you. Your face. Your body. The way you make his heart feel. The touch of your lips. The warmth you provide his soul whenever he feels as low as he does right now.

“Putain.” He mumbled to himself.

“I know, right?” Catrina declares, misinterpreting his curses. She shuffled until she rested against his frame, cuddling into his side like he was comfortable with this.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Kylian stood up abruptly, gathering his strewn clothing from the ground.

She furrows her brows, giving him a dirty look before pointing to a door to the left of them. He didn’t waste a second before following her direction, locking himself in there like he’s a wild animal in need of taming.

He looked himself up and down shamefully, washing himself in the sink in an attempt to scrub the crime he just committed against you down the drain.

He fished his phone out of his back pocket of his jeans, turning it back on. Why he didn’t let you explain yourself before jumping to conclusions is a question for a clear minded Kylian… the Kylian who now stood facing himself in front of a dirty mirror inside of the house of a girl he just fucked out of spite. The irony in that isn’t funny to him, it just makes him hate himself for not letting himself think for one goddamn second.

As soon as his screen turned on, the buzzing didn’t stop. Message after message from you flooded his cell.

You: please come back kylian i promise it’s not what it looks like.

You: I swear on everything that it didn’t mean anything.

You: I would never cheat on you. Ever. Please just come back just let me explain.

You: please answer your phone

You: kylian I love you nothing happened. Absolutely NOTHING happened. Nothing would ever happen because you’re the love of my life. Please please PLEASE just answer your phone. Let me explain everything to you please.

You: I know how it looks but will you just talk to me? Where are you?

There were a plethora of simmilar messages he scrolled past, all apologizing and begging for him to listen to you. He ran a cold and shaky hand down his face, contemplating not reading the longer paragraph you sent, timestamped about the same time he got to the club. Surely it was an explanation. He prayed it was a bullshit one, which he acknowledges is a backwards way of thinking, but he couldn’t possibly live with himself if he just cheated on you because he decided to be a big baby and jump to conclusions.

With a big breath, he focused back on the screen.

You: I don’t know if you’re getting my messages but obviously you need some time, so I’m just going to explain myself for whenever you’re ready to talk. Gordon’s mom has been sick for some time now and he got the news she passed away right before you got there. I’d met her because of our past so I guess he just needed someone that knew her to be there for him. All we did was hug, I swear. I was just comforting him, nothing else happened or was ever going to happen. I know how it looks and I’m sorry you had to walk in on that but it absolutely meant nothing. It was just me being there for someone who lost a person who means a lot to them. You have to believe me, please please believe me. I love you with everything in me, ky. Let me know when you’ve calmed down and I’ll explain everything again if you need me to. Please be safe, I’ll be waiting for you at your house, okay? We should talk about this. I love you.

Kylian cringed up his whole face, placing his hand firmly over his eyes as if he didn’t want to read it anymore.

It wasn’t bullshit. Or at least it didn’t sound like it.

He exited his messages and looked up Gordon on Instagram, thankfully his profile is public. He clicked on the last post he made. It was dedicated to his deceased mother. Posted that day. Fuck.

He balanced himself with two hands on either side of the sink, letting his phone drop into the porcelain basin. He looked up at his reflection, feeling like a scumbag. A guilty, dirty, immature, unreasonable, cheating scumbag. He couldn’t believe himself. How dare he do this to you. He couldn’t even cry, he couldn’t face you or Catrina.

His phone buzzed from below him, his background catching his eye. It was a picture of you from this last Christmas in the snow. You were laughing, holding a mug full of tea, snowflakes stuck on your lashes. Your cheeks were pink, your eyes looked past the camera to him, practically saying I love you with just your gaze. He loved that picture.

Reluctantly, he read the notification. A text from you.

You: Are you okay? I’m worried about you

He sighed, taking his phone back in his hands.

Kylian: im okay. im coming home.

He wanted nothing but your tight embrace and a long disinfecting shower in his own home. He quickly finished redressing himself but quickly realized he only grabbed his jeans and one of his socks.

He opened the door again, finding that Catrina is in the kitchen wearing his shirt, drinking some pink wine straight from the bottle.

She grinned at him. “Want some?”

“I need my shirt back.” He walked around with his eyes to the floor until he spotted the missing sock.

She swayed over to where he stood, smirking like a maniac. “But I like you with no shirt on.” Her hands ran down his bare chest, but he quickly swatted her away.

“Seriously. Give me my shirt.” He sternly demanded, shooting daggers at her.

It wasn’t entirely her fault, but Kylian sure did blame her. She knew he was taken and continually tried to get him to cheat. He can’t believe she won. He couldn’t believe he did that to you.

She raised her brow seductively. “Fine.” She lifted it over her head, reveling absolutely nothing but her birthday suit underneath. Kylian looked away instantly, snatching the shirt from her grasp and booking it to the door, taking his shoes in the same hand as his top. Before he slammed the door she heard her yell, “call me!” Are you kidding?

Under any other circumstances, Kylian would not get behind the wheel of a car after having anything to drink, but he doesn’t have the time to come up with any other options, no matter how obvious they may be. He was banking on the fact that he sobered up post-fuck and during his come-to-jesus moment in the bathroom. Either way, he was hyper vigilant.

Eventually after what felt like an eternity, he arrived back at his home, turning off the engine with a big breath of relief. Unfortunately, being so preoccupied with the irresponsibility of drunk driving, all of the anxiety of cheating hit him all at once upon seeing your car.

He peered through the small window next to his door and saw you sitting with your legs curled up on an armchair, seemingly lost in thought, looking out the opposite window as you chewed on your fingernail.

“Dieu, je suis un idiot. Je suis le pire.” He grumbled to himself. God, I’m an idiot. I’m the worst.

The second you heard the door click, you shot up out of your chair, running toward your boyfriend who looked deeply upset. “Oh, Ky.” You whined, wrapping him in a tight hug. “I’m so sorry. Did you get my texts? My voicemails?”

He hugged you back, breathing you in. Something familiar, something he loves. It was sweet and inviting, one of his favorite feelings was just simply being around you. He held you tighter.

“I did. I’m sorry, I should have let you explain. I wish I did.” He whispered the last part into your hair, kissing your head.

Your face was stuffed in his shirt, feeling some of your tension ease. “No, it looked bad. I know it did.” You looked up at him, not letting go of his middle. “You have to believe me. I would never—”

“—I believe you.” He assured, staring into your eyes that he saw switch from anxious to thankful.

You smiled up at him, tears almost threatening to spill from relief. “Thank god. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if…” you stopped, your train of thought halting. “We’re you drinking? You smell like vodka.”

He gulped. “Yeah… I was.”

“And how exactly did you get home?” You loosen you grip on him. He looked away from you. His silence was enough of an answer for you to let go of him. “Oh my god. Seriously, Kylian? Are you stupid?”

“Yes.”

“No, really. That’s so messed up, I never thought you’d do that. Why didn’t you call me? I would have come to wherever you were and picked you up. You have like… like five cars here I could’ve taken. Unbelievable.” You scolded, furious at him for putting his life and others lives in danger.

“I know. I’m sorry, I just…”

“Just what? You reek! If you got pulled over, you’d be absolutely fucked.” You walk up to him and take a big sniff. This time, it turns your stomach. Not because of the pungent smell of liquor, but what was underneath that smell. “Wait.” You grab a handful of the material, really taking in the scent this time. You took a second, not wanting to ask him the question. “Why… why does this smell like perfume?” You smell it again. “It’s definitely not mine.”

The room was completely silent. The air was stale, thick with anticipation. Kylians face screamed guilty, but he couldn’t make himself say any words.

“Kylian.” Your voice was stern, scary. “Where the hell we’re you just now?”

You prayed that he had a clear, logical, perfectly believable explanation, but the longer he stayed silent, the more your optimism diminished.

Kylian looked down, not being able to figure out a way of wording this that made him sound at all reasonable. He took deep intakes of air, letting it sit in his lungs to buy him some more time. You were smart, and he was too ashamed to come up with any form of an excuse. He loved you so much, he couldn’t believe that he had to stand in front of you and explain something he stupidly went through with.

“I was just… angry.” He started, still not meeting your laser stare. “I… um…” I wasn’t thinking? I don’t know what happened? I was so drunk? All those answers were lies. He couldn’t do it to you. “I’m so sorry, (Y/N).”

Your eyes rushed with tears in a split second, your heart dropped down into your stomach, your guts swirled in disgust. “Kylian… no. You’re lying. You wouldn’t do that to me. Right?” The wavering of your voice sent an unexplainable sadness to Kylian who finally met your glossy eyes, but wished he didn’t. “Tell me I’m right, Kylian. Please.”

“I should have let you explain. I don’t know what I was thinking, I’m so sorry.” He stepped toward you, reaching out. You stepped backwards away from his grasp, mouth dropped at the unbelievably hurtful news that you’ve uncovered. “Bébé… please…”

“Don’t. Don’t call me that, Kylian.” The tears fell. You don’t remeber the last time you had such fury toward someone else. “Are you… oh my god. You’re fucking serious, aren’t you? You fucked another girl?”

You waited for his answer. He didn’t want to admit it. “I’m so, so, sorr—”

“Enough. Yes or no.” You demand, trying to hold yourself together enough to get a straight answer. He began to cry silently, his heart breaking for you. “Did you fuck someone else, yes or fucking no.”

His lip quivered, face scrunching together with sadness. He looked you in the eyes, seeing past the rage to the hurt lingering behind it. His voice squeaked out the answer neither of you wanted. “Yes.”

The pain of the truth settled immediately. You wanted to curl up into a ball, scream and cry until you felt nothing at all. To think that this morning started out like any other; eating breakfast together, playing footsies under the table like teenagers in love, kissing him goodbye and telling him you’ll see him later. Who knew that later meant the end of your relationship as you know it… who fucking knew.

He walked toward you again, but you stepped back again, putting a hand out to really get the point across. “Don’t even try.”

“I’m so… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. It will never happen again, i swear.”

“You’re right. It won’t.” You spat, grabbing your purse from the couch. “Because we’re over.”

He followed in front of you like he was playing defense. “No, no. Stop, please, stop.” He cried, your sorrowful eyes never landing on his. You wouldnt let yourself. “Let me explain—”

“Explain?” It made you stop, absolutely enraged. “Let me see if I get the picture. You thought you saw something and got mad. So, you went out, got drunk and met a girl, fucked her out of some sick revenge towards me, realized you were wrong then came here to try and apologize.” Your tone was firm even through the agony coursing through your body.

Kylian fell silent, not knowing what to say. You had about 99% of that right… Fuck.

“Did I miss anything?” You barked, crossing your arms. He gulped, looking down at the floor. Even though your answer was confident, you sensed he was holding something back. The more you racked your muddled mind during his shamed silence, it dawned on you. Painfully, you had to ask. “I know her, don’t I?”

He nods, his crying not stopping. Not for a second. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“Who.”

“Look, I just want you to know I’ve never ever had feelings for her—”

“Who.”

“Merde.” He curses lowly to himself, not finding a way of pulling himself together. “Catrina.”

This tore your heart straight out of his chest. You wanted to feed it to Kylian then make him puke it up so you could feed it to Catrina. “Of fucking course it was.”

“I never meant—”

“—So the second you saw an opportunity to fuck her, you did. I knew you liked her.” You exclaimed, pacing and pointing a finger accusingly at Kylian.

“What? No, it was never like that.” He was quick to defend himself.

“Then tell me. How’d you find her?”

He began to speak, but stuttered once he realized his answer wasn’t going to help him. Lie. Just lie. “She was just… there.”

“That’s bullshit.” You knew him too well.

He hated himself, truly. He couldn’t fathom what short circuited his brain that made him malfunction so severely that he’s now in this position — being broken up with by his one true love. “Earlier today. She told me where she’d be. I wasn’t thinking straight, I just wanted to forget what I saw.”

“What you thought you saw was nothing. I thought we had trust, Kylian. Where did that go? Huh?”

“I messed up. I know how badly I messed up but please, give me another chance.” He pleaded, grabbing your hands and cupping them in his own. “I swear on my life, on my career, on every euro I have that this will never ever happen again. Give me another chance. Please, bébé.” He repeated.

You sobbed, letting your anger come second to the betrayal, feeling as if someone turned off the lights inside your soul. It’s dark and cold. You’re lost, confused, trying to find some hope in the situation you’ve been presented with.

“I don’t think I can…”

“You can, I know you can.” He cried harder, finding himself in his knees in front of you, truly begging. “Please, please, (Y/N). Let me prove to you that tonight meant nothing. I’ll never do this to you ever again, I swear it”

“But it did. It did mean something.” You squeaked, broken. “You can try and make this up to me, Kylian. But I’ll never forget what you did. This isn’t something I can just move on from.”

"Can't we at least try?" His eyes screamed for you to stay, his kneeling figure breaking you down as he clung onto your thighs while he cried, choked sobs escaping his tainted and guilty lips. Kylian felt pathetic, but he didn't care. He'd do whatever you wanted him to do.

"I think..." You stop and weap, the words you wanted to say getting muddled, tangled... "I think this is the end of us, Ky."

"No." He blubbers, holding you a little tighter. He didn't want to let go. "No, we have the rest of our lives together. It's supposed to be you and me."

"Then how were you able to do this to me?"

The room was sour, begging for you to haul ass out the front door, but the whole ordeal has you overtaken with a feeling of anguish. It seeped into your bones, chilling your body until it felt immobilized. All you were able to do was look away from the tragic man who groveled on his knees, listening to the cries that came directly from his chest as they exploded out of him.

You couldn't force yourself to feel bad for him. Something snapped, no longer hidden behind the anger and grief. It took over your limbs as they untangled Kylain's tight grasp on your lower body, holding firmly onto your purse. You looked down at him, he stared up, searching for a glint of hope in your eyes, but failed to see any sign of forgiveness.

You've collected yourself, wiping your face. You were out of tears, out of emotion. "Mail me back my things." You said sternly, and nothing else. Before he could even try to respond, you had left.

Kylian stayed where you left him, fatigued, horrified, and empty. There wasn't a moment he could compare to this one. He literally let you slip out of his arms, helpless as he watched you walk out of his life for good. He didn't deserve you.

There wasn't an ounce of him that didn't regret everything that went down. Even hours later, though he tried, he couldn't pinpoint anyone else that was more at fault than he was. Sure, Catrina was a close second, but she had no loyalties to you. She was a person that took advantage of an opportunity to get her way, and Kylian was just foolish enough to give into her femme fatale nature.

As he sat on the edge of the tub, room filled with steam, he hovered a thumb over the last voicemail you'd sent him. The timestamp showed that he was int he process of fucking another woman when you'd sent it. He didn't want to click it. He'd been staring at it like it was going to run away for the better part of the hour. But, finally, he bit the bullet, quickly pressing the phone to his ear and closing his eyes.

"Hey, Ky. So, you're not home, but I'm just here waiting for you. It's been a long day and I just want to talk through this whole crazy misunderstanding. I know your mad, and I get it. I'd be pretty pissed if it was the other way around, but I know you'd never do that to me... I hope you know that I would never do that to you, either. I love you, and I know you love me. You just need some space to be angry for a while. I promise that I'll tell you anything you want to know when you get here... Okay, then. Uh... I love you, Kylian. with all my heart. Be safe, alright?"

A/N: Sad little one shot... no part two for this one, my friends. I don't fuck with cheaters! Besides, I feel The Loneliest already takes care of the post-breakup madness y'all might be craving. Speaking of, part 4 will be coming out very soon this week! I'm sorry i've taken kinda long to post the next one but I hope this angst keeps yall satisfied until I can finish off this chapter. I wrote this quickly and didn't spell check/ grammar check it very well, so apologies for my mistakes! Huge kiss to every single one of you.

Taglist: @trentione @mentalbaddie @neymarsrealgf @akiraquote @mrswhitethornbelikov @kymb-10 @formula101x @photmath @marcelineslove @tsikik @iheartkyky @freshfraise @jokertbh @germanapples @urfuturesoccerwife @nightlockcornucopia @laylaynaynay130 @starlight8374 @depressoesssspresso @mbappesbae @ maddyperrezz @gigiboss @xanjoy @lovekm @jkkiks @vvbasmavv-blog @suzysface @ lolarmy72 @lizzz2967 @kylians-world @superswaggycooch @shashla @mehrmonga @abayo222 @missmo79 @tties24-7

[urfav-tz]

so true

[urfav-tz]

We need more of this type of imagines where they are doing normal couple stuff with no background story.

FaceTime - Kylian Mbappé

Kylian Mbappé x Reader

Thank you @greykitkepa for being an amazing beta reader!

Warnings: none. just fluff

Word count: 796

Summary:

A FaceTime call with Kylian after a long day

~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘I miss you’

‘I miss you too’

‘Can I call you?’

‘Oui, bébé’

Your heart melts a little. You can almost hear him say it.

You let out a small sigh, sinking into the bath a little more. You make sure the fluffy bubbles are covering your chest before clicking out of the messages app on your phone.

Biting your lip, you open the phone app. Your finger hovers over his name.

‘Kylian 🤍’

Your phone vibrates, letting you know you have a new text message.

‘Do you want me to call you?’

This time, you don’t hesitate to press call.

“Bonjour, Chérie,” Kylian greets you.

He’s sitting in bed, his back against the headboard. He’s shirtless, clearly ready to sleep soon. You can just hear the tv in the background, light gently flickering across his face as the tv plays a show or movie.

Your guess is, Shadow and Bone, his favourite. He always rewatches a few episodes while away. It’s one of the few things that helps him settle into hotel rooms a bit better while away from you.

“Hi.” You mumble, feeling your face heat up. You sink down a little more, the bubbles now reaching just below your chin.

Kylian lets out a soft chuckle, loving the light pink tint on your cheeks.

“How was your day, Mon amour.” He asks, moving in his bed so he’s more comfortable.

“It was okay. I had a few classes and a big lecture. I managed to get most of my notes and activities done. I’ll probably finish the rest tomorrow morning.” You answer while playing with the bubbles in the bathtub with your free hand.

“Ma fille intelligente.” He replies with a large smile.

You’re still learning French but you know enough to translate what your boyfriend said. The words make you softly whine, your face somehow heating up even more than before.

“That’s why you’re in the bath? To relax?” He asks, watching you with a soft smile.

“Mhmmm.” You nod, a few bubbles getting on your chin with the gentle movement.

His smile somehow grows wider.

“I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself and relaxing.” Kylian mumbles.

“You worry too much, bébé.” You playfully roll your eyes, fighting back a smile at his cuteness.

“Can’t help it. Always want my girl to be happy and relaxed.”

You swear your heart grows a few sizes bigger at his sweet words.

Flustered, you change the topic.

“How was your day, handsome?”

You carefully listen to him, taking in every word. He talks about what he had for breakfast and how it was “nowhere as good as your pancakes”. He lists off all the things he did in training and tells you how exhausted he was after. He even tells you how he annoyed Sergio all day.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll have little bruises all over my sides from his pinching.” He exclaims, his eyes wide. You can’t help but laugh at him.

“Did you deserve it?”

He playfully rolls his eyes at your question.

“Probably.” His voice is small, like a child being told off for doing something bad.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll kiss them better when you get home.” You smirk, sending him a wink through the screen.

You can’t but laugh when he ducks his head a little, the small action telling you his face is warm with embarrassment. Kylian lets out a soft whine at the sound.

A small smile on your face, you continue watching your boyfriend through the phone screen.

He lets out a silent and soft yawn, gently blinking and shaking his head after.

“I think its time for bed now.” You mumble.

“I want to keep talking to you though.” Kylian yawns again.

“You’re clearly tired, baby. You can call me again in the morning.” You watch him with soft eyes as he thinks it over.

“You promise?”

“I promise, mon amour.”

He nods his head at your reply, “Okay,” he mumbles to himself.

You wait until he has turned the tv off and tucked himself into bed to say goodnight. He barely mumbles it back before he's out.

“I love you” are the last words you say before hanging up.

You click out of the phone app. You press play on a random song before putting your phone off to the side, away from the bathtub.

Sighing, you fully relax in the still warm and bubbly water. You tilt your head back to rest on the edge of the tub, sinking in further in the process.

Closing your eyes, you listen to the music playing from your phone and relax until the water turns cold and the bubbles are gone. By then, your muscles are fully relaxed and your stress has been washed away.

[urfav-tz]

mini rant

has anyone ever looked forward to something and it just not happening. me and my new school friends were going to go study together and it was my first time going out w/ them. i got ready and i even begged my mom to take me there.i texted them to confirm that we are going and they said yes. i wore the best thing i could find bc i wanted to impress them. i even made sure my laptop and bag were clean. i texted them again they said they are already in the car. so when i got there i went to look for them. but then they textd me and said that they are still on the way. I waited for half an hour. when i texted them again they said they forgot and that they cant make it. since my mom was expecting me to finish after two more hours i cloudnt tell her they stood me up. so i pretended to be with them for 2 hours. that day was one of my worst experinces w/ this shitty school. i hate this school so much, i wanna go back to the old one. i wanna go back to my friends.

all love,

T.Z

[urfav-tz]

one of the best works of art

The Loneliest | Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four]

Summary: Your fiancé missing your birthday is the icing on the cake to a horrible couple of months. Now, you’re left to pick up your broken pieces, ending the chapter in your life that includes Kylian Mbappé.

Warnings: Complete angst all the way through, Kylian being a bad fiancé, fighting, breaking an engagement, lots of crying, cussing, this one’s kind of long so beware. Spoiler: no happy ending. Let me know if I missed anything. — English is not my first language —

Mornings used to be your favorite.

You’d wake up way too early to the sound of Kylian’s alarm for your liking, but it didn’t even matter. The hour or so you got to spend with your fiancé before he left were sacred, it was special. They were filled with easy conversation, tired hugs and sleepy kisses on the shoulder, the occasional quickie, or at least a cheeky squeeze of your ass. It felt like very moment spent together was precious. You felt loved by Kylian so much it made your stomach turn with butterflies just thinking about him.

Now, it felt like those domestic moments were a distant memory. Sure, all couples gradually get less and less lovey-dovey the longer they’re together, but the change was drastic. It was like you barley knew him anymore.

You’ve attempted to start conversations with Kylian about this. Multiple times, in fact. Immediately, he’d get defensive, ending in arguments that kept getting worse and worse. It’s difficult to have to tip toe around your feelings in order to avoid a fight. He stopped making you feel special.

This morning, you woke up knowing it will be a hard day; all alone in your shared king sized bed.

Today is your birthday, and you don’t think Kylian knows this. After many weeks of deep reflection and thought, you know that today might be the last day of your three and a half-year long relationship with Kylian Mbappé — a man who stole your heart and still has it. Once treasured, now barely beating. The diamond sitting on your left ring finger had started feeling like a foreign object, like something your body wanted to reject. It’s lost it’s comfort, now you seemed to lug around old memories you clung onto for dear life.

Kylian didn’t come home last night, though you saw on his private Snapchat story that he was safe, sound, and plastered out of his mind at some club with friends you didn’t even know. He couldn’t find it in him to text you back after 9 o’clock, when that morning he said he would be home no later than 8:30. He found a simple ‘going out, don’t wait up for me’ to be sufficient communication for the night.

You called Kylian, instead it went straight to voicemail. Your texts to him weren’t going through, either. He didn’t have training this morning because the coaches had a conference in London, so you knew he had to be home soon.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you made your way to the kitchen for a bowl of bland cereal and coffee for one.

“Happy birthday to me.” You mumbled, looking down at your sad birthday breakfast. Compared to the last few years where Kylian prepared you a delicious meal, hired a chef, or took you out to the fanciest café in Paris — this meal actually made you lose your appetite.

Across town, Kylian was waking up with a pounding sensation in his head and no recollection of the night before.

“What happened last night?” Kylian grumbled as he woke up to the bright sunlight streaming in from the open shutters. His neck had a kink in it from passing out on his friend Paolo’s Airbnb couch in the early hours of the morning, his voice sounded like he’d swallowed gravel. “Fuck.” He covered his face from the blinding rays and felt around for his phone.

He hasn’t gotten drunk that heavily in so long, but when two of his old friends came to Paris for a few weeks, he couldn’t resist giving into their pleads when they’d asked him to tag along for a fun night on the town.

“Bro, you were so drunk last night.” He heard his other friend Bernardo chuckle, his voice almost gone as well from the festivities of the previous night. Kylian sat up, seeing both men looking half dead and clinging onto coffee mugs like a child would cling onto its mothers leg.

The guys chuckled in the kitchen. He smelled eggs cooking but they just made him nauseous. “What time is it? Where’s my phone?”

“Oh…” Paolo snickered and pointed at the bowl full of rice in the center of his kitchen island. “Yeah, man… I don’t know if the rice did much for it. It’s fucked.”

Kylian shot up toward his cell, not even remembering putting it in the rice last night. He carefully picked it up, the entire screen was shattered.

“Putain…” He attempted to hold down the power button just in case, glancing over to the microwave to see the time. 12:36pm. “Merde!”

He had an important meeting with his PR team about potential sponsorships for next years season at 2 o’clock, and if he showed up sweating whiskey with an obvious hangover, the brand reps might think twice before giving him any deals.

He bid his old friends goodbye but not before promising to go out again soon. A short taxi ride later, he was able to make it back home just a little after 1 o’clock.

Kylian bursts through the front door, booking it toward the shower in your ensuite bathroom, running right past you on the bed without a glance or even a hello.

You’d been trying to decide all day if you were pissed at him or just super sad, but seeing him ignore you that way made you realize that it didn’t matter. He stopped making you happy, making you both pissed and sad — a dangerous combination.

You get up and follow him in there as he hopped around trying to take his skinny jeans off.

“I’m gonna be late.” He panted, sliding inside the shower.

You assumed if he knew he would’ve said something… happy birthday… I love you… I’m sorry…

Curious and resentful, you stand close to the shower door so he could hear you. “Where are you going? I thought we…” You blink tears back, sighing and trying to get control of your wavering voice, “… I thought we could do something tonight.”

This wasn’t even the plan, but you were trying to find anyway for him to redeem himself.

“No, (Y/N). I can’t today, okay?” He snapped. “I’m in a rush. Can you please just pick out a nice outfit for me, quickly.”

You shake your head in disbelief, wiping a stray tear that rolled down your face, sniffling once. Kylian hears this and pokes his head out. “Hey,” his barely softer, “Look, sorry but I’m in a huge rush. It’s been a shit morning.”

“Me too.” You mumble, disappointment laced in your words but Kylian didn’t seem to catch onto it.

“Also, my phone shattered at some point last night, so can you call Thérèse and have her drop me off a new one at the training center?”

You huffed, getting control of your emotions that were simmering into anger. One more chance, you thought as you were about to walk out of the bathroom, you turn. “Do you want to do something when you get home? Maybe even just dinner here, a movie?”

“Maybe.” He said back, turning off the shower. All you could do is roll your eyes and bite your tongue. You were trying to give him every opportunity to come back from this.

You didn’t want to end it, but you promised yourself that if he fucks up today, that was it. You can’t keep hoping he’ll become the person he was before. He won’t listen when you talk anymore or even meet you in the middle. You have too much respect for yourself to settle for someone who can’t appreciate you.

You dry laughed. “Maybe.” You mocked, another angry tear rolling down your face, storming back into the bedroom and getting under the covers, arms crossed.

You wanted to sob, but choked it down when Kylian stormed out of the bathroom, wet and holding his towel up around his waist. “Why are you so moody?” He didn’t even look at you, just shook his head and threw his hand down, exasperated when he realized you weren’t putting an outfit together for him. “I just asked you to help me out.” He tusks. “Are you just going to lay around all day, then?”

You knew this tone. The one where something else was bothering him except he expressed it by nitpicking at anything in front of him. Being with him for so long, you knew how to gently pry out the real reason why he was snappy. Right now, there was no way were you even attempting to help him out in any way.

“Looks like it, huh?” You gritted through your teeth. You could practically feel the eye roll he gave you even though neither of you would look at each other.

He muttered something you couldn’t hear as he walked into the closet, hurriedly throwing on some outfit. “I didn’t feel like fighting today, (Y/N).” He growled and threw on a white hat. “Today has been miserable so far.”

“Miserable for you?” You gaped, face getting angrily red.

“Oh, don’t start.” He spat, grabbing his keys and walking out of the room.

You jumped up and stomped out of the room behind him, seeing him almost at the bottom of the stairs. “Kylian.”

He groaned, continuing to run down the steps. “I don’t have time for a fucking fight right now!”

“Kylian!” You yelled from the railing just as he grabbed the door handle. With an exasperated turn around, he locked eyes with your teary ones. “When you get home… we need to talk.” You didn’t try and hide your sadness this time, knowing how the talk was going to end. The sentence squeaked out, like your forced it.

He paused, taking his hand off the door handle. “Fine.” He said this differently upon seeing your broken demeanor, shuffling in place. Kylian checked his watch, looking back up at you. You stared back, watching him hesitantly leave your shared home.

Kylian knew he’d been fucking up with you lately. Coming home late, forgetting to call or text back, paying less and less attention to you as the season progressed. He knew he was getting too comfortable and at some point stopped putting in any effort. The worst was that he’d been taking his frustrations out on you, shutting you out. He watched as you tried to smile through his snarky and quick comments, feeling bad immediately but he just didn’t know how to deal with that kind of guilty emotion.

Your engagement has been a long one. Nine months in and you guys hadn’t even set a date yet. Time kept slipping through the glass, he wondered when the last time you’d even brought up the wedding was — wondering when the last time he even thought about it directly after.

The whole way to work he watched out the window, lost in thought about how he needs to be better. So much so that his driver had to tell him that they’d arrived. He was actually early. With a big fake smile on his face, he did his best to set it all aside, turning on work-mode.

Meanwhile, you had a really nice cry. The kind where you just let it all out because you knew no one was around to hear or pity you. Once you pulled yourself together, you gathered your suitcases from the attic.

It was obvious you couldn’t take everything that was yours. You’d bought so many things for this place, for your shared home… so you focused on the things you were for sure taking with you. All your clothes, makeup, sentimental items, and the fruit bowl you found in a market in Spain were secured inside your bags. You stopped and cried so many times… over a pair of shoes that he bought for you or a picture that brought back sweet memories… all these momentos felt wasted.

Yesterday, you were certain that he would remember what today was. So certain that you convinced yourself you didn’t need to get a hotel. You wished you did, because doing it today felt so final, so depressing. And, upon looking at your empty side of the closet, vanity, side table, bathroom shelf… you had to pull yourself together and be strong. Remind yourself why you’ve resorted to this.

Back at the training grounds, Kylian snapped his last photo-op with the CEO of some athletic wear company, absolutely drained from having to pretend for hours. He had sent his assistant off for a new phone when he saw her, knowing you didn’t text her about him needing one.

He trudged over to Hakimi now that all of that was over, sitting down with a long huff, placing his head in his hands. He hadn’t talked to him all day, being occupied with offers and whatnot.

“Man, I’ve been texting you all day.” He patted his back once, turning to face him.

Kylian looked up at his friend, shaking his head. “It broke last night. Thérèse is out getting me a new one now.”

Hakimi sensed there was something bothering Kylian, but knew not to approach him too strongly. He nodded at his answer. “So, uh… I bet (Y/N)’s pissed, right?”

Kylian blew a raspberry. “Oh, yeah… so pissed…” He nodded with the most exhausted look on his face. “Wait, how’d you know that?”

“Well, I mean, Hiba would be pissed too.” Kylian raised an eyebrow, still confused on how he knew about your fight. “You know, if I had to work on her birthday like this.” He laughed at the thought. “I’d have a lot of groveling to do. Or, did you guys plan something on a different day?”

Kylian gazed up at Hakimi, eyes widening with the vague memory of todays date. “Wait.” He gulped, hands hovering over his head. “Is today the…” he flipped the calendar in his mind, praying that Achraf was mistaken about that. “Ah… merde! Putain! Shit!” Kylian smacked the table and bounced up out of the chair, heart beating a million miles a minute.

Hakimi stood too, watching Kylian pace with his hands cradling his head. “No… Kylian, you didn’t…”

He nods, panic settling in hardcore. “I yelled at her today. I asked her why she was being moody. I didn’t come home last night— ah baise moi, mec. je suis un putain d'idiot!” He cursed himself. Ah fuck me, man. I’m a goddamn idiot!

Thérèse speed walked over to the man in crisis, holding a brand new phone. “All your data’s transferred and everything!” She cheered. Kylian probably didn’t even thank her, going directly to his messages with you to text you that he’s so sorry and coming home right now. When he clicked on your icon, he saw all of the messages you sent him last night

You: Ky will u please come home — 9:25 pm

You: I know ur friends are in town and all but I seriously need u with me tonight — 10:48 pm

You: hello?? — 11:51 pm

You: are u okay? Do u need a ride? — 1:35 am

You: I’m getting worried. please just reply. I need to know ur okay Kylian — 1:40 am

You: nice Snapchat story. Good to know ur fucking fine. — 2:46 am

He ran a hand over his face, beginning to sweat with guilt. His eyes lowered on the screen, the small grey message by the keyboard truly making his stomach knot up even more.

(Y/N) stopped sharing their location with you.

His heart fell in his chest, churning… he felt like he was going to puke. Suddenly all of the conversations you tried to start with him about his behavior over the last six months came flooding back. The same conversations he moaned and groaned though, always deflecting until it turned into a fight. God, how badly he had been treating you… like you were a menace in his life — when really, without you, he wouldn’t be able to go on the same.

He began trying to call you and gathered his things, but his calls simply rang until it went to voicemail. “I-I have to go.” He stammered, almost tripping over his feet. Hakimi watched, shocked at the state of his best friend, knowing how he could get sometimes.

Kylian jumped in the town car as fast as his world-renowned legs could get him there, giving the driver instructions to get him home, and quick. The whole way he cussed at slow drivers, construction workers, red lights. He checked his new phone for the time; 10:37 pm and still fifteen minutes away from home.

God, please let her still be home.

He won’t know what to do with himself if you just left.

‘We need to talk’ rung over and over again in his head like a jinx. The way your voice cracked, the tears he saw you hold back. She’s so strong, he thought.

I raised my voice at her. I forgot her birthday and then treated her like she was the problem.

He pinched his leg to distract himself from crying. He has to be level headed, calm, logical, loving, and very apologetic— everything he hasn’t been for the last months. He knows he doesn’t deserve you, but can’t imagine what his life, his future will look like if he lets you slip through his fingers.

No girl has ever made him feel like this. Everything he looked for in a woman you embodied tenfold and he fucked it up. He has to fix this.

Kylian didn’t even let the car come to a full stop when he arrived, tripping over his own feet, realizing he left his coat in the back seat but really not caring at all. He just has to know you’re there. He looked toward the driveway, seeing your car still parked in its usual spot.

Thank the lord.

Fumbling with the keys, his shaking hands clicked the door open, seeing only the living room lamp on.

“Bébé?” He called. He saw your figure looking at him from the couch. “Oh, (Y/N)…” he breathed, walking over to get closer. You stoop up, meeting him halfway. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He heaved, breathless from his pounding heart.

The dull yellow light illuminating the side of your face showed him how puffy and red your eyes were, how downturned your usual smile was. He saw what he’d done to you, all the months you’ve had to walk on eggshells, the conversations that he’s turned on you, how he forgot your special day.

You still didnt say anything, keeping your arms crossed, looking him in the eye — the while begging yourself internally not to cave. His sweet eyes knew how to reel you in. You weren’t going to cave. You couldn’t.

“I forgot your birthday…” He whispered sadly, guilt drenched his tone, sending a cold depressing shiver down your spine.

Your eyes brimmed with tears again, but you bit your cheek and shook them away, having to be strong for yourself. “So, you finally remembered.” You sniffled.

“I’m so sorry, bèbè. Time just…” he stopped himself from making anymore excuses, “I’m just a fucking idiot. And I’m going to make it up to you. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.” He stammered, voice shaking from nerves.

“But, it’s not just about the birthday, Kylian. It’s been… it’s..–”

“–I know, bébé. I’ve been horrible to you. Truly horrible. You never deserved any of that.” He cautiously lifted his hand to yours, grabbing your fingers. All the words he was going to say suddenly didn’t feel good enough. No I’m sorry is going to feel sufficient.

You looked at your tangled hands, he played with your fingers anxiously, trying to catch your gaze, but it now stayed glued to the floor.

You took a deep breath and looked up at him with teary eyes — that of a wounded puppy. It broke him. “We need to talk.” Your words were laced in false strength, false confidence.

You didn’t know what the hell you were going to do once you leave him. Flying blind isn’t something you did very often, but you knew it’s what had to be done.

“Yes.” He nodded eagerly, trying to guide your hand toward the couch to sit. “Let’s talk. We can talk this all out, right?”

His hopeful tone made your heart break even more. The guiltiness that radiated off of him made it harder to do what you had to… his face fell when you let your hand slip back into your folded arms, turning away from him, sniffling.

“Kylian, I can’t… I can’t sit down with you and hold your hand and let you apologize to me. It’s not how this is gonna go.” Wiping your cheeks roughly, you turned to see his dropped face. “This talk… it’s going to be really hard. For both of us.”

He approached you, putting his hands on your forearms. “You’re scaring me, bèbè.”

Your lip quivered, not knowing how to tell him. You couldn’t look him in the eyes. “Kylian. I love you.”

“I love you too. I love you so much, (Y/N). I know we can work through this. I know it.” He pleaded, moving his face around to try and get you to look at him.

“No, Kylian. I love you, but…” You finally looked up, noticing he’d started crying as well. Ouch. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He didn’t know what he was expecting. Sure, he was scared and sorry about what he did but the possibility of breaking up seemed impossible. Not like he was immune to repercussions, but you two just made sense. He loves you impossibly too much, but he’s forgotten to show you.

Kylian stood in shock, he felt his heartbeat in his teeth, his throat dry. “Don’t say that.” He whimpered. “Please, don’t say that.”

His hands traveled up to hold your face and he bent down to your level, needing you to look at him, to see how regretful he was, how much harder he will work at this. He touched his forehead to yours, wrestling with the temptation of falling down from anguish.

You shook your head between his palms, letting the tears fall freely, a small sob escaping. He wiped away the tears with his thumbs, attempting to hold you closer, squeaking out the smallest words; “Bèbè.” “No, no.” “Please.” “I’m so sorry.”

You grabbed his wrists, using all your strength to pull them from your face. Immediately, you turned around and grabbed a duffel bag he hadn’t noticed was sitting on the armchair. Your feet took you toward the exit.

“No.” His voice broken, his own face scrunched up and soaked with tears. “No, where are you going?”

It took everything in you not to comfort him, run into his arms, tell him it will be okay.

You pushed your instincts down and turning and shrugged instead, now feet away from the man you love, closing in on the front door. “I’m…” You felt a choking sob threatening to spill out of your mouth and had to look away, silently crying out with your hand covering you mouth. With a deep breath, you continued. “I’m leaving.”

“Well, when will you be back?” In just a few strides, he was back in front of you. He couldn’t help but hold your face again, wiping more tears with a gentle but pleading touch.

You gripped his wrists again, only this time, you weren’t strong enough to pull them away, instead feeling his warm skin one more time.

With a small shake of the head, you responded. “I’m not coming back, Kylian.”

“But… but this is your home. It’s our home.”

“I’m sorry, Kylian.” You finally ripped his hands from your face once more and adjusted the heavy strap on your shoulder. Turning around, your feet drag you to the front door. You reach into your back pocket and take out the house key that’s not longer attatched to your usual tassel keychain and set it down on the table.

He stood there and watched, now feeling helpless in this heart wrenching situation. It doesn’t seem like this is real, he has to be having a nightmare, just watching you leave his life and there’s nothing he can do about it — but it doesn’t stop him from trying, begging. “Amour, no. I can fix this, please just give me a chance to make this right.” He was desperate, once again approaching you.

Kylian sniffled, watching your every reaction, hoping for a glint of anything that would allow him to make it up to you. You looked down at your hands, then your left ring finger… everything in your body was holding you back from taking it off, but you mustered up every ounce of self control.

Kylian looked away as you slid the engagement ring off, hearing the light clink of it being set next to the keys. With his hands at his sides, back slouching, he looked back at your face, nodding in defeat.

“I’m sorry.” You repeated in a squeaky whisper.

“Me too.” He nods, looking down at your empty hand. He couldn’t but reach out, trapping your fingers delicately with his fingers, stepping closer.

His arm snakes around your waist, holding you, shaking with his suppressed cries. You allowed yourself to hug him back, to close the chapter, to feel his warm embrace again before you never would again.

The hug lasted for a while, swaying back and forth and crying into each others shoulders. He smelled like he always did, and you noted how hard it would be if you came across his familiar scent again. He also was getting high on your fumes, indulging in the coconut scented shampoo he had become addicted to. The touch of your hands clasping at his back made him cry harder, squeezing you tighter and lovingly.

You pulled back once your cries calmed, sniffling. He stayed close, lifting his eyes to look into yours. Before he knew how to stop himself, he closed in the space, landing his salty lips on yours, closing his eyes. You kissed him back, hating how much you’d miss him. The way his fingers dug into your hips made you lightheaded.

It’s too hard to stop, but you had to. Pulling away, you turned around quickly and left, sobbing all the way to your packed up car.

Kylian was glued in place. His heart had been put through a blender, his head throbbed, his chest was cold without you with him. He saw the flash of your headlights backing out and leaving the property reflect inside the dark and empty home.

He’s miserable, hollow. He’s angry at himself, maybe at you, even if he knows this was his own doing… the whirling in his brain wasn’t anywhere near as loud as the silence after you left — a deafening silence that followed him up to us bedroom, one he now only shared with his thoughts.

It killed him when he saw there was no longer a charger plugged next to your side of the bed, that your slippers were gone from their usual spot by the corner. None of your favorite books were displayed on the shelves, your skincare products left just a ring of residue on the sink. Stepping into the closet, he noticed it still smelled like you, but everything was gone. Everything but the shirts of his that you had stolen through the years, now neatly folded on top of one of his dressers. He wished you had taken them to remember him. He wished he could turn back time and do everything right.

Above all the sadness and the gaping hole is his heart was determination. He fucked up but he wasn’t about to do it again. You would not be the one that got away. It may be the last thing he ever does, but he’ll make it all up to you. He was prepared to go to the furthest lengths to hold you again. But, for now, he needed to wallow in self pity, feel everything that he needs to feel.

Not even on the chilliest Parisian night had his bed felt as cold as it did that day.

A/N: Okay I feel like I kinda dragged that out but angst! I’m contemplating a part 2 but I also kinda like leaving it at this… would y’all want another part? Also, the title is inspired by the song The Loneliest by Måneskin, listen to it after reading. Their new album is so fucking amazing. — Requests for Kylian Mbappé are open! —

[urfav-tz]

guys we NEED (I need) more kylian imagines