Look at you, nothing without me.

The humidity of the 2026 World Cup in North America was stifling, but inside the stadium corridors, the tension was thick enough to choke on. The air was heavy with the clashing scents of elite athletes—mostly the sharp, ozone-like sting of Alphas and the earthy, grounded musks of Betas. But tucked beneath the smell of grass and sweat was a scent that made Kylian Mbappé’s pupils dilate every single time he caught it: orange blossom and warm sand.

Achraf Hakimi was laughing. It was a bright, melodic sound that echoed off the concrete walls of the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. He was surrounded by his Moroccan teammates, draped in the red and green flag, his skin glowing with the exertion of their recent victory. To anyone else, he was just the world’s best right-back celebrating a hard-fought win. To Kylian, he was a shimmering, soft-hearted Omega who didn’t seem to understand the concept of personal space.

Kylian leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his France jersey. His own scent—charred cedar and expensive cologne—was souring. He watched as Hakim Ziyech slung an arm around Achraf’s neck, pulling him close to whisper something in his ear. Achraf leaned into the touch, his eyes crinkling as he tilted his head back, exposing the pale, unmarked skin of his throat.

He was a people pleaser. It was what made him the heart of PSG, the one who smoothed over egos and kept the peace. But here, in the high-stakes environment of the World Cup, that sweetness felt like an invitation that Kylian didn't want anyone else to accept.

"Achraf," Kylian called out, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with the low rumble of an Alpha’s command.

The group of Moroccan players went quiet. Achraf turned, his expression instantly softening from exuberant joy to that gentle, eager-to-please smile that always made Kylian’s chest tighten.

"Kylian! You saw the match?" Achraf detangled himself from Ziyech and hurried over, his movements fluid and graceful.

"I saw," Kylian said, his eyes flicking briefly to Ziyech, who was watching them with a narrowed, protective gaze. Kylian didn't care. He stepped forward, invading Achraf’s personal space until the smaller man had to look up, his eyelashes fluttering. "You’re making too much noise. You should be recovering, not playing around with them."

Achraf blinked, his scent turning slightly sugary with confusion. "We’re just celebrating, Ky. It’s the World Cup. We’re in the knockout stages!"

Kylian reached out, his fingers gripping Achraf’s chin. It wasn’t a gentle touch. He tilted Achraf’s head from side to side, inspecting him like a prize he was worried had been scuffed. "You smell like him," Kylian hissed, his thumb brushing against Achraf’s lower lip. "Ziyech. His scent is all over your neck."

Achraf’s cheeks flushed a deep rose. "He’s my teammate, Kylian. My brother. It’s normal."

"It’s not normal for an Omega to be handled so freely," Kylian countered, his possessiveness flaring up like a wildfire. He leaned down, his nose pressing into the crook of Achraf’s neck, right over the scent gland. He took a deep, aggressive inhale, replacing the Moroccan Alpha’s scent with his own heavy, territorial mark.

Achraf let out a soft, shaky breath, his knees weakening. He was a world-class athlete, but his biology was wired to respond to the dominant, suffocating presence of an Alpha like Kylian. "People are looking," he whispered, though he didn't pull away. He never pulled away.

"Let them look," Kylian muttered against his skin. "Remind them who you belong to when we get back to Paris."

"I don't belong to anyone yet," Achraf reminded him timidly, his hands coming up to rest on Kylian’s chest, feeling the frantic thrum of the Alpha’s heart.

Kylian pulled back just enough to look into Achraf’s large, brown eyes. "Yet. Don't let them touch you again, Achraf. I mean it. If I see his hands on you on the pitch, I won’t be so polite."

Before Achraf could respond, Kylian turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the Omega trembling in the hallway, his scent a chaotic mix of arousal and anxiety.

The following night, the heat didn't just come from the weather. Kylian had managed to slip away from the French camp, driven by a restless, gnawing hunger that only one person could satiate. He had messaged Achraf, a demand rather than a request, to meet him in the secluded gym of the athletic village after hours.

When Kylian arrived, the lights were dimmed, casting long, dramatic shadows across the weight racks and mats. Achraf was there, sitting on a bench, looking small in his oversized training gear. As soon as he saw Kylian, he stood up, his posture submissive and hovering.

"Kylian, we shouldn't be here. If the coaches find out—"

Kylian didn't let him finish. He crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing Achraf by the waist and hoisting him up onto the high training table. The Omega let out a small gasp of surprise, his legs instinctively wrapping around Kylian’s hips to steady himself.

"You were laughing with the goalkeeper today," Kylian said, his voice a low growl. He pressed himself between Achraf’s thighs, his hands sliding under the hem of Achraf’s shirt to feel the smooth, warm skin of his waist. "I watched the training footage. He had his hand on your waist for five minutes."

"He was helping me stretch, Kylian! You're being impossible," Achraf pleaded, his voice soft and sweet even when he was trying to argue. He reached out, cupping Kylian’s face. "Why are you so angry? You know I only want to make you happy."

"Then stop letting them touch you," Kylian snapped, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of Achraf’s jaw. "Stop being so kind to everyone. It makes them think they have a chance. It makes them think you’re available."

Achraf’s scent spiked—rich, floral, and heavy with the musk of an Omega in distress, wanting to soothe his Alpha. "I’m yours," he whispered, the words a confession he hadn't dared to say so plainly before. "You know I’m yours."

The admission broke the last thread of Kylian’s restraint. He groaned, his mouth crashing onto Achraf’s in a bruising, desperate kiss. It wasn't the kind of kiss they shared in the quiet moments in Paris; it was a claim. It was a battle.

Achraf whimpered into the kiss, his fingers tangling in Kylian’s short hair. He was a people pleaser to his core, and right now, the only person he wanted to please was the dominant man currently overwhelming his senses. He arched his back, offering himself up, his body humming with a need that had been building since the tournament began.

Kylian pulled back, his eyes dark and blown out. "I want to mark you," he rasped, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of Achraf’s thigh. "I want every single person on that pitch tomorrow to smell me on you. I want them to know that if they touch you, they’re answering to me."

Achraf shivered, the thought of being so publicly claimed sending a thrill of heat straight to his core. "Kylian... the cameras... the fans..."

"Smuh," Kylian whispered, his voice thick with desire as he moved his mouth down to the juncture of Achraf’s neck and shoulder. He didn't use his teeth to bond—not yet—but he used his lips and tongue to leave a dark, unmistakable bruise.

"Ah... Kylian," Achraf gasped, his head falling back as the Alpha’s hands became more insistent.

Kylian’s touch was possessive, his palms sliding over Achraf’s chest, feeling the frantic heartbeat of the Omega. He needed to feel every inch of him, to erase the lingering ghosts of other teammates' touches. He began to pull at Achraf’s shorts, his movements hurried and rough.

"Please," Achraf breathed, his voice a broken melody. "Please, Ky."

Kylian didn't need to be told twice. He turned Achraf around, pressing him face-down against the cool surface of the training table. The contrast of the cold leather against his skin made Achraf gasp, his fingers clutching at the edges of the table.

"Look at me," Kylian commanded.

Achraf turned his head, his eyes misty and unfocused. Kylian leaned over him, his heavy weight pinning the Omega down. He entered him with a sharp, possessive thrust that made Achraf’s back arch and a loud, shattered cry escape his lips.

The rhythm was punishing, fueled by the weeks of jealousy and the high-octane pressure of the tournament. Kylian was relentless, his hands gripping Achraf’s hips so hard that there would surely be fingerprints tomorrow. He wanted Achraf to feel him in every fiber of his being. He wanted the Omega to be so saturated with his scent that he couldn't even think of another Alpha for a year.

"Whose are you?" Kylian demanded, his breath hot against Achraf’s ear as he hit a particularly sensitive spot.

"Yours... I'm yours," Achraf sobbed out, his body shaking with the force of his climax. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave that drowned out the world, the World Cup, and the rivalry. In this dark gym, there were no nations, only the primal bond between them.

Kylian followed soon after, a low, guttural roar echoing in the empty room as he collapsed against Achraf’s back, his heart hammering against the Omega’s spine. He stayed there for a long time, his face buried in the crook of Achraf’s neck, breathing in the scent of his victory.

Later, as they dressed in the shadows, the silence was heavy but no longer tense. Achraf was shaky, his movements slow as he pulled his jersey back on. He looked at Kylian, who was adjusting his jacket, his expression once again unreadable and arrogant.

"You have a mark," Achraf said quietly, pointing to the dark smudge on his own neck in the mirror. "Everyone will see it during the match tomorrow."

Kylian walked over, standing behind him. He wrapped his arms around Achraf’s waist, resting his chin on the Omega’s shoulder. He looked at the mark in the reflection with a smirk of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.

"Good," Kylian said. "That’s the point."

Achraf sighed, leaning back into the Alpha’s warmth. He knew he should be worried about the scandal, about what his teammates would say, about the pressure of the Moroccan fans. But as Kylian’s scent wrapped around him like a protective cloak, he felt a sense of peace he only ever found in the Alpha’s shadow.

"You're so toxic," Achraf teased gently, though his eyes were full of affection.

Kylian squeezed his waist, his grip firm. "And you're too nice. You need someone to keep the wolves away, Achraf. And I’m the biggest wolf there is."

Achraf turned in his arms, standing on his tiptoes to press a soft, lingering kiss to Kylian’s cheek. "Just promise me you won't get a red card if someone tackles me tomorrow."

Kylian’s eyes darkened again, a flash of that possessive fire returning. "I can't promise that. But I can promise that by the end of the night, you’ll be back in my bed, smelling only of me."

As they slipped out of the gym separately, heading back to their respective worlds, the mark on Achraf’s neck hummed with the lingering heat of Kylian’s claim. The World Cup was a game of nations, of glory, and of history. But for them, it was merely the backdrop to a much older, much more territorial conquest. And Kylian Mbappé had no intention of losing.