Look at you, nothing without me.
The Altar of Red and Gold
The quarterfinals were a pressure cooker that threatened to shatter every nerve in the Moroccan camp. For Achraf Hakimi, the weight of a continent's expectations was heavy, but the weight of Kylian Mbappé’s obsession was suffocating. Since the night in the hotel suite, Achraf had been careful. He kept his head down, he limited his smiles, and he stayed close to the older, more protective members of his team who didn't carry the scent of predatory Alphas. He was trying to be the "good Omega," the one who didn't trigger the monster lurking behind Kylian’s blue-and-white jersey.
But Achraf was inherently kind. It was in his DNA to soothe, to comfort, and to please.
In the tunnel of the MetLife Stadium, minutes after Morocco had secured a historic win to advance to the semi-finals, the air was electric. Achraf was vibrating with adrenaline, his jersey soaked with sweat, his neck still sporting the faint, yellowish-purple remnants of Kylian’s last claim. He was trying to push through the crowd to find his family in the stands when he was intercepted.
It wasn't a teammate. It was a young stadium steward, an Alpha barely out of his teens, who looked like he was about to faint from the sheer proximity of his idols. The boy was holding a program, his hands shaking.
"Mr. Hakimi, please," the boy stammered in broken Spanish. "My sister... she’s your biggest fan. She’s in the hospital. Could you just... a signature?"
Achraf’s heart melted. This was the part of the job he loved—the connection, the ability to bring a flicker of joy to someone’s life. "Of course, of course," Achraf said, his voice honey-sweet. He took the pen, but the boy was so nervous he dropped the program.
As they both leaned down to retrieve it, the boy’s hand brushed against Achraf’s. Then, in a moment of overwhelmed emotion, the boy grabbed Achraf’s forearm, his scent—a sharp, nervous pine—spiking as he thanked him profusely.
"Thank you, thank you, you are a saint," the boy cried, his grip tightening for a second too long in his excitement.
Achraf smiled, patting the boy’s hand gently. "It’s okay. I hope she gets better soon."
He didn't see the shadow in the doorway. He didn't see the way the air in the tunnel suddenly turned cold, the scent of charred cedar and ozone becoming so thick it felt like physical ash falling from the ceiling.
Kylian had been waiting. He had bypassed his own team’s recovery session, driven by a gnawing, territorial hunger that had only grown since he’d seen Achraf on the pitch, being tackled, being touched, being *looked at* by millions. He had seen the steward grab Achraf. He had seen Achraf pat the boy’s hand.
To Kylian, it wasn't a gesture of kindness. It was a betrayal. It was an Omega allowing a strange Alpha to mark him with his scent in a public space. It was a violation of the sanctity of what belonged to him.
Kylian didn't step forward to intervene. Not yet. He watched as the boy walked away, clutching the signed program like a holy relic. He watched Achraf turn, a lingering smile on his face, only for it to die the moment he saw Kylian standing there.
Achraf’s scent immediately turned to sour milk and wilted flowers—fear. "Kylian. I... I was just—"
"I saw what you were doing," Kylian said. His voice was devoid of the usual growls. It was flat, clinical, and utterly terrifying. He walked toward Achraf, his boots clicking rhythmically on the concrete. "I told you, Achraf. I told you what would happen if you let them touch you."
"He was just a kid, Ky! His sister is sick!" Achraf backed away, his hands up in a placating gesture. "I wasn't flirting. I was being nice. Please, don't do this here."
Kylian reached out, his fingers wrapping around Achraf’s throat with a terrifyingly gentle precision. He forced the Omega’s back against the cold, damp wall of the tunnel. "You think because he’s a 'kid' it doesn't matter? He’s an Alpha. He put his hands on you. He left his pathetic, cheap scent on your skin."
Kylian leaned in, his nose brushing against the spot on Achraf’s arm where the boy had touched him. He let out a low, vibrating hiss of disgust. "It smells like rot. I have to clean it off you, Achraf. I have to make sure you remember the price of being 'nice'."
"Kylian, you're hurting me," Achraf whimpered, the "t" softening into a breathy "h" as his lungs struggled for air. "Please, let's go back to the hotel. We can talk there."
"No more talking," Kylian whispered. He let go of Achraf’s throat, but before the Omega could bolt, Kylian’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him toward a heavy steel door marked *Maintenance - Authorized Personnel Only*.
Achraf struggled, his heels dragging on the floor, but against an Alpha in a state of hyper-fixated rage, he was powerless. Kylian threw him into the room—a dark, cramped space filled with pipes, cleaning chemicals, and the hum of a generator.
Kylian locked the door. The click of the bolt sounded like a guillotine.
"Kylian, stop! This isn't you!" Achraf sobbed, huddled on the floor amidst the mops and buckets.
"This is exactly who I am," Kylian replied, his eyes glowing in the dim light. He began to strip off his training jacket, his muscles coiling like a predator’s. "I am the one who protects you. I am the one who owns you. And if I have to destroy everything around you to make you understand that, I will."
He didn't go for Achraf first. He went for the wall. He punched the concrete beside Achraf’s head with such force the Omega shrieked, covering his ears.
"You think you’re so sweet," Kylian spat, his voice rising. "You think the world deserves your kindness. But they don't. They just want to take from you. They want to use you. Only I know how to keep you pure."
Kylian grabbed a heavy, metal pipe-wrench from a nearby workbench. He weighed it in his hand, his knuckles bleeding from the punch. He looked at the door. He could hear footsteps in the hallway—the steward, perhaps, coming back to fetch something he’d forgotten.
The knob rattled.
"Hello? Is someone in there?" It was the boy’s voice. The "kid."
Achraf’s eyes widened. "No," he breathed. "Kylian, don't. He’s just a boy."
Kylian’s face transformed into something demonic. The jealousy that had been simmering for weeks, the toxic possessiveness that had turned his love into a cage, finally snapped. He didn't see a boy. He saw a rival. He saw a thief.
Kylian moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible. He unlocked the door and ripped it open just as the steward was leaning in. Before the boy could even scream, Kylian’s hand was around his throat, dragging him into the darkness of the maintenance room.
"Kylian, no!" Achraf shrieked, scrambling to his feet, but he was too late.
Kylian slammed the boy against the generator. The sound of metal meeting bone was sickening. The Alpha’s scent exploded—not just jealousy now, but the copper, sharp tang of bloodlust.
"You touched him," Kylian hissed, his face inches from the terrified boy’s. "You put your filthy Alpha hands on my Omega."
"I... I didn't... please..." the boy gasped, blood beginning to trickle from his nose.
Kylian didn't listen. He didn't care about the boy’s life, his sister, or the consequences. In this moment, he was the apex predator, and he was performing a ritual. He raised the wrench.
*Thwack.*
The sound was wet. Achraf fell to his knees, vomiting. He couldn't look, but he could hear. He heard the boy’s muffled groans, the sound of Kylian’s heavy breathing, and the rhythmic, brutal impact of metal on flesh.
"Kylian, stop! You're killing him! Smuh, please!" Achraf’s voice was a broken, high-pitched wail.
Kylian didn't stop until the boy stopped moving. He didn't stop until the scent of pine was completely erased by the overwhelming, metallic stench of death.
Silence fell over the room, broken only by the hum of the generator and Achraf’s jagged, hysterical sobbing.
Kylian stood over the body, his jersey splattered with red. He looked down at his hands, then at the wrench, before dropping it. It clattered to the floor, echoing like thunder. He turned to Achraf, his expression eerily calm, his eyes finally losing that frenzied glow.
He walked over to the Omega, who was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. Kylian knelt in the blood, oblivious to the ruin of his clothes, and gathered Achraf into his arms.
"Shh," Kylian whispered, his voice as tender as a lullaby. He tucked Achraf’s head under his chin, ignoring the way the Omega flinched and tried to pull away. "It’s okay now, Achraf. He’s gone. He can’t touch you anymore. No one can."
"You killed him," Achraf gasped into Kylian’s chest, his fingers clutching the Alpha’s shirt in a mix of horror and a desperate, broken need for safety. "Kylian, you killed him."
"I did it for us," Kylian murmured, rubbing soothing circles into Achraf’s back. "I told you I would keep the wolves away. I’m the only one who can love you this much. Do you see now? Do you see how much you mean to me?"
Achraf looked up, his face pale and tear-streaked. He looked at the man he loved—the man who was a hero to millions, the man who was currently covered in the blood of an innocent boy. He saw the madness in Kylian’s eyes, but he also saw the absolute, unwavering devotion.
Achraf was a people pleaser. He was an Omega wired to seek the protection of his Alpha, no matter the cost. And in this dark, blood-stained room, his mind finally broke under the weight of the trauma. The horror began to recede, replaced by a terrifying, Stockholm-like clarity.
If Kylian would kill for him, then he was truly safe. No one would ever hurt him again. No one would ever take him away.
"You... you did it for me?" Achraf whispered, his voice trembling.
Kylian leaned down, pressing a bloody kiss to Achraf’s forehead. "Always for you. You’re my desert rose. I’ll burn the whole world down to keep you in my garden."
Achraf let out a long, shuddering breath and slumped against Kylian, his body finally going limp. He didn't look at the body in the corner. He didn't think about the police or the scandal or the end of their careers. He only smelled the cedar and the blood, and for the first time, he felt a twisted sense of peace.
"I'm yours," Achraf whispered, the words a final surrender. "I'm only yours, Ky."
Kylian gripped him tighter, his fingers digging into Achraf’s waist. "That’s my good boy. Now, let’s get you cleaned up. We have a semi-final to win."
Kylian stood up, effortlessly lifting Achraf into his arms. He walked to the back of the room, finding a service exit that led to the private parking lot. He moved with the confidence of a man who knew he was untouchable—the golden boy of football, the king of Paris, the Alpha who had finally claimed his prize in the most permanent way possible.
As they stepped out into the cool night air, the stadium lights behind them looked like a halo. Achraf buried his face in Kylian’s neck, hiding from the world. He knew he was entering a new kind of darkness, a life where his every move would be watched by a man who had crossed the ultimate line.
But as Kylian’s scent wrapped around him, heavy and protective, Achraf didn't try to run. He was a people pleaser, after all. And he had finally found the one person he would spend the rest of his life trying to satisfy.
The World Cup would go on. The goals would be scored, the trophies would be lifted. But in the shadows of the 2026 tournament, a much darker victory had been achieved. Kylian Mbappé had his first kill, and with it, he had finally, truly, broken the spirit of the only person he had ever wanted to own.
"I love you, Achraf," Kylian whispered as he placed him in the back of a blacked-out SUV.
"I love you too, Ky," Achraf replied, his voice small and hollow, the sound of a bird finally accepting its cage.
The car sped away into the night, leaving the blood and the pine scent behind, heading toward a future where there were no more rivals—only the Alpha and his marked, broken rose.