okay I have an idea for jobe, Jude, or kylian Mbappe or all three where you do the prank where you ask them if they are allowed to get dessert or like a pasta instead of a salad or something like that I think that would be really fun! And maybe it be in front of their team or parents or something! Thanks
ALLOWED w/ l. yamal, k. mbappe, & ju. bellingham
inwhich! you pull the “am i allowed to have __” prank on your boyfriend his front of his closest people.
frannytalks! HAPPY BIRTHDAY LA NIÑA MALA!! i was supposed to upload two things for him today, but i got so caught up, i apologize. :’) (also i replaced jobe with lamine since its his bday, but more jobe content coming soon!) don’t forget to join my taglist(s) here!
lamine yamal (birthday boy!)
you had taken lamine and his immediate family out to dinner for his birthday. lamine was always the sweetest and most loving boyfriend to you, you had zero complaints other than the amount of time he’d spend on football.
you surprised him with a fancy restaurant that he’d been wanting to try for at least a year now, but never did because he said it was too much money. kenye was ecstatic and his parents were surprised, but not too surprised since they know how much you love him.
the waiter came by to ask for drinks, you made sure to give lamine a certain look when you told the waiter you wanted water. you noticed his mother looked over and squinted her eyes slightly, but didn’t say anything just yet.
“so, how have you two been, with the whole moving in situation?” lamine’s mother asked as the waiter made his way out.
you look over to lamine, pretending you need his permission to speak, he gives you a confused nod and you take that as a green light, “it’s been good, still needs decorating though.”
she nods suspiciously and his dad steps in, “and with his football schedule?” he asks.
lamine talks this time, “she’s been enjoying it, more time to herself with me annoying her,” he jokes, winking at you, you give a short laugh and nod.
the waiter finally made his way back and asked for our orders, you waited until everyone took theirs to do your prank. you bit your lip and looked over to lamine nervously.
“am i allowed to get the pasta this time?” you ask with pleading eyes.
lamine’s face immediately dropped and turned white, the waiter paused, and his mother immediately spoke, “lamine yamal nasraoui ebana.” she said in a stern voice.
“get whatever you want honey,” she smiled at you, “get her the pasta, thank you.” she told the waiter as he nodded and left again.
“lamine what is wrong with you?” she said, furrowing her eyebrows.
his dad spoke up, “that is not the way you treat your woman, son.” he shook his head no, disappointed.
“what!? i don’t know what she’s talking about!” he defended himself, looking at you in shock.
“you told me to lay off a few pounds the other week.” you mumbled.
he almost laughed, “what? you’re out of your mind.”
lamine’s father stood up and started to walk towards the other side where you two were sitting, you immediately waved your hands close to your chest.
“no, no, it’s just a prank!” you said nervously, “i’m sorry.”
his mom let out a grateful sigh, “you scared me!” she said, putting her hand on her chest.
lamine put his hand on your thigh, “i’m eating half of your pasta.” he whispered.
-
kylian mbappe
kylian had invited you to have lunch with his team before he went off to training in madrid for a while, you obviously accepted, but you weren’t letting him go without pulling a prank on him.
your salad had arrived first, before everyone else’s meal and you poked at it for a few seconds. then, you quietly looked over at kylian.
“can i ask you something?” you spoke just loud enough for him to hear.
he looked up from his pasta that had just arrived, “yeah?”
you lowered your voice, “i don’t really want the salad anymore.”
he shrugged, “that’s okay.”
you looked toward the waiter walking past, “i kind of want the truffle pasta instead.”
he smiled, rubbing your lower back, “then order it.” he nodded towards the waiter.
you hesitated, “are you sure you’re okay with that?”
he instantly frowned, giving you a confused look, “why wouldn’t i be?”
you shifted in your seat, “because it’s a lot heavier than this.”
“and?” he said, this time patting your thigh, looking at his teammates, scared.
you looked down at your salad, “i know you’ve been trying to get me to eat a little cleaner.” you said, making sure it was loud enough for everyone to hear.
then, conversation around the table stopped, and vinícius slowly lowered his fork.
rodrygo looked directly at kylian. “bro?”
kylian looked around the table, and back at you, betrayed, “i have been trying to what!?”
you held in your laugh, “i just didn’t want you thinking i wasn’t listening.”
vinícius leaned back in his chair, “kylian.” he said, while giving him a dirty look, “she eats ‘clean’ enough, look at her.”
jude smiles at you, “why are you controlling what your girl eats, mate?”
“no, i’m not controlling what she eats!” kylian raised his voice slightly, pleading.
camavinga stared at him, “oh, so you’re just one of those ‘just have a salad’ guys?” he asked.
“absolutely not!” he said, laughing out of disbelief, “she’s lying to you all!”
rodrygo shook his head, “that’s awful, kylian.”
jude couldn’t stop smiling, sensing it wasn’t true, “mate, if this is true, you’re finished.”
“i promise on everything, i have never once told her what to eat.” he laughs, throwing up his hands.
you looked up at him, “so i can order the pasta?” you ask, finally laughing into his shoulder, lifting up your phone to show you were recording.
“now, i don’t know if you can.” he rolls his eyes and pats your head.
-
jude bellingham
the waiter smiled politely as he finished taking everyone’s food order. he looked around the table one last time before writing down the last few drinks.
“anything else?” he asked, tapping his pen on the notepad.
you looked at the menu again. your finger grazed absentmindedly against the list of drinks before you turned toward jude.
“i was thinking about getting one of those strawberry refreshers.” you spoke quietly.
he nodded without even looking up, “okay love.”
you hesitated, trying to make it believable, “are you sure?” you asked softly, “that it’s okay i mean.”
jude looked over at you, “yeah?” he answered, confused.
you glanced back at the waiter, “it’s got like sixty grams of sugar.” you pause for a second, and now his whole family is looking at you, “i know you’ve been telling me i should probably cut back a little.”
jude’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline, “i’ve been telling you what?” he asked.
you nod, closing your lips together, “i just wanted to check first.”
the waiter awkwardly lowered his pen, looking between you two.
denise slowly turned toward her son, “jude victor william.”
then this father closed the menu in his hands shut, “is there something you’d like to tell us?” he asked calmly.
“what!?” jude said, his eyes widening.
joke smirked, definitely aware of the prank you were pulling on him, “hold on, he leaned forward, “are you rationing her drinks?” he asked.
“no!” jude answered immediately, nodding his head left and right.
you bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling as you watched denise cross her arms.
“because i raised you to mind your own plate.” she said, raising her eyebrows and giving him a look.
mark nodded in agreement, “your mother doesn’t even tell me what i can order, let alone me telling her!”
jude looked between all three of them, “i have literally never told her she can’t drink anything!”
you looked down at the menu again, “so, the refresher’s okay then?” you asked quietly.
he stared at you, “baby, you can order whatever you want, whenever.” he laughs, “hell, you could order four of them.”
jobe couldn’t help but laugh, but he tried to play it off by looking away and wiping his face.
jude pointed at his younger brother, “he’s cracking,” he said, squinting his eyes at you.
“you’re supposed to be helping me!” you said in between your teeth while giving him a light kick under the table.
“i couldn’t help it! you should’ve seen his face.” jobe grinned, “best laugh i’ve had in a while.”
you finally picked up your phone from against your glass, “thank you.” you laughed.
jude saw the recording and closed his eyes shut, “i cannot believe my entire family thought i was policing your sugar intake.”
mark reached over and patted him on the shoulder, “i’ll be honest,” he said clearing his throat, “i was about thirty seconds away from having a private father-son conversation.”
jude’s face dropped and the whole table laughed, you clung onto his arm, giving him a couple pecks to make him feel better before whispering in his ear, “i’m sorry.”
my friend — World Cup players summary: in which you attempt to prank them by calling them “my friend”. pairing: wc players x reader (jude bellingham, erling haaland, john stones, lamine yamal, & kylian mbappe) warnings: fluff + one minor hint of consensual activities but nothing in detail a/n: saw this trend on tik tok xx luv u all
ERLING HAALAND
his face slackens. did you just call him friend? he couldn’t believe it. moving his eyes off the camera, he looks at you. you continued on like nothing happened, smiling happily into the camera while you showed off the new clothing items you bought.
“friend?” he says with evident disgust that makes your stomach drop. “I’m not your fucking friend.” he glares at you, heat spreading up and down your body under his glare.
“it’s just a prank, baby.”
“better fucking be.” he snaps, his thumb pressing the button to stop recording, “I’m about to show you how unfriendly I am. get on your knees.”
KYLIAN MBAPPE
“who?” he turns in both directions searching for this “friend” who was going to help you unbox your pr. coming up empty, he looks back at the phone camera, and points at his chest, “I’m the friend?” he asks, alarmed.
“well yeah we’re friends.” you say, turning your back to the camera and looking up at him. he’s seated on the couch behind you. his eyes are piercing into yours with anger and confusion.
“I’m your boyfriend, I’m not some casual friend.”
“babe, it’s just a prank.”
“redo the video, I’m not letting anyone see you call me friend.”
JUDE BELLINGHAM
“huh?!” he nearly jumps out of his own skin at the word. he could’ve sworn years ago he asked you to be his girlfriend, but now standing beside you in a video, he can’t help but wonder if it was all in his head.
“you know I’m your boyfriend.” jude whispered, just loud enough for the camera to pick up the words, but soft enough for you to stop what you were doing.
“but we are friends?”
scoffing at your innocence, he shakes his head, “I don’t think friends do what we do in bed—“
“jude!” you smack him with your hand, face turning bright red.
“yeah,” he points his index finger at the camera, slightly shoving you out of view, “that’s my girlfriend, we are not friends.”
JOHN STONES
looking down at the expensive silver medal wrapped around his finger, he looks up into the camera with confusion. sure, you vowed to be friends and more intimately, life partners, but there was no way in hell you were just friends.
“rewind for a sec,” he puts his hand out as a gesture of pausing, “aren’t we married?” he looks down at the gigantic diamond resting on your finger that nearly blinds him every morning in the sunrise. he sure as shit didn’t cry to you in a white dress just to be friends.
“yeah?” you ask, playing confused.
“so why the fuck am I your friend?”
laughing, you shake your head, “it’s just a prank, John.”
relief washes over him as he presses his hand to his pounding heart, “thank fuck.”
LAMINE YAMAL
he instantly picks his head up from his phone. friend? he was the only person in the room, there was no one else here beside your boyfriend.
“what did you just call me?” he asks. you were out of view from the camera, changing into one of your outfits that was an option you’d show the camera to wear to his upcoming match.
“my friend. you’re going to help me decide what to wear.”
shaking his head, he threw down his phone in frustration, “is this because I wouldn’t massage your feet?” he asks, thinking this was such a weird way to get back at him but he wouldn’t be surprised if so.
“what? no, it’s just a prank.” you laugh. walking over to him, you sit down on his lap, “though now come to think of it, you should massage my feet or else I’m posting the video.” you point to the phone that’s been recording the entire conversation.
synopsis. kylian stopped believing in true love when he became famous because everybody loved him. but when he met you, he didn’t know how to cope with the fact that you didn’t love him like everyone else did.
warnings. kylian pov, really delusional!kylian, imposter syndrome, self-deprecation, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (fem receiving), masturbation, intoxication, vomiting, slow burn, emotional dependency, kylian’s a yearner, angst, hurt/comfort, poorly written smut, inspired by 2 become 1 by the spice girls, claire de lune and my love for kylian, somewhat proofread
word count. 12.9k
note. the timeline is a bit of a mess so bear with me, but this takes place during kylian’s first season with madrid. this is also my first work i’ve published, and i hold it close to my heart for that reason. please don’t be afraid to comment or send a message to my inbox if you enjoy. all love is appreciated!
Kylian had a curse.
It wasn’t the kind of dreadful thing you’d think it’d be when you'd hear the word curse. In fact, many would be grateful to have his “curse.”
He was cursed with the ability to be good at football.
That wasn’t a real curse, some would argue, but they had no idea of the baggage that came with being so good at a sport. How you’d be forced to abandon the life you knew before, and be thrust right into the spotlight without so much as a warning.
When he was younger, all Kylian wanted was to be a star. Now that he was, all that he wished for was nothing.
He craved the silence of before. When the only people that criticized him were his friends. When the only pair of watchful eyes he had to be cautious of were his mother’s.
Now, it seemed like the whole world was watching him closely, scrutinizing him, waiting for the slightest slip up. That way they could get their headlines, their talking points for their under-watched shows that somehow managed to garner thousands of views whenever he was mentioned.
It was infuriating, but he kept his mouth clamped shut. Besides, it wasn’t all that bad. Kicking a ball around for a living gave him benefits others could only ever dream of, and he was beloved by many.
Not for him, though, no. Just for the simple fact that he managed to score goals and win games for their favorite team.
At first, the love was overwhelming. Thousands of strangers exclaiming their love for you when they didn’t even know you was hard to get used to at nineteen, but as time passed, he’d grown accustomed to it. Numb, even.
Love was no longer something he had to fight for. A few passes here and there and the fans would give it up like it was nothing. And that was exactly what it had become.
Nothing.
Love had become an empty word.
Even more so when Kylian realized they could take back their love in seconds and replace it with hate on his bad days.
They didn’t really love him.
Even the women he’d sleep with didn’t love him. He knew they just loved the idea of getting to sleep with a famous footballer, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was getting a good fuck.
He’d always imagined himself getting married in the future. Finding a nice woman to get settled down with, and maybe having a kid.
He used to criticize the men that would sleep around because why would you want that when you could have one good girl for the rest of your life whom you shared a real connection with?
Sex was a sacred thing. It was special. Not something to just give out—but he was a hypocrite.
Marriage was the last thing on his mind now, and he didn’t care to form a connection with every single girl he fucked.
He tried giving relationships a chance, but the voice in the back of his head always told him to stop. They don’t want you. They just want your money. They just want to use you.
It was a horrible way of thinking, and it left him feeling so empty after he’d come. He’d mentally curse himself for doing it again, having sex with a woman and leaving her in the dust afterwards. But surely they’d understand. They knew who he was. Kylian Mbappé didn’t have time to entertain relationships.
In the end, it was just sex, it wasn’t a commitment.
The only commitment he had was to his curse.
He was a footballer first, and maybe that was all he’d ever be to anyone.
Kylian's move to Real Madrid came as a shock to many, but for him, he knew it was inevitable.
Sure, he loved PSG (to an extent), but with the way things were playing out, he knew that it'd never be the club he'd end his career with.
He loved Real Madrid as a child. He dreamt of playing for them, of representing the white and gold anyone could recognize with just a single glance, even from all the way up in the stands. Not to mention how good of a team they were. He'd be an idiot to pass on the opportunity of a lifetime.
Some criticized. Others gloated. Kylian just prepared himself for the barrage of eyes that were going to be watching him now more than ever.
The expectations were weighing on him heavier than before. He had to succeed with Real Madrid. He might've scored hundreds of goals already, but what did that matter if he never had anything to show for it? No UCL. No Ballon D'or. It just proved what everybody said about him. Overrated.
He hated that word. Despised it. It made him want to punch something every time someone echoed the word. It replayed itself in his head, spun around in circles, gathered in clusters so he wouldn't be able to get it out. It haunted him from Paris to Madrid, followed him everywhere he went, and he was sick of it. So he knew what he had to do.
Kylian was going to win this time. He had to.
Kylian kept a smile on his face as he was shown around Real Madrid's facility. It wasn't fake, but it was definitely a little exaggerated because he had a tendency to play it up for the cameras. Years of media training and the fact that people over-analyzed everything he did were a part of the reason why. Just imagine the outrage if he didn't look content enough—he'd rather not.
They eventually brought Kylian over to the medical wing to meet some of the staff.
"Kylian, these are our physios. Lara, Raúl, Santiago, and Y/N."
His tour guide, who he had already forgotten the name of, pointed at each person. Kylian scanned over each of their faces, and then paused at you because yours just stood out more. When he remembered the cameras were still rolling, he cleared his throat and darted his eyes back over to the first woman, Lara.
He stepped forward with a charming smile and started to shake the hand's of the physios, going down the line until he stood directly in front of you.
"Y/N, right?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. You just nodded, which caught him off guard, but he didn't let it show as his hand finally fell back down to his side. "Nice to meet you. I'm glad to be working with you."
"Yeah, me too."
That was it?
He didn't mean to sound like an asshole, but he expected a bit more… excitement? Awe? Enthusiasm, even. He'd gotten a little bit of that from your coworkers, but you… you looked like you were ready for the interaction to be over.
Kylian stepped back, ignoring the burn he felt in his chest from the way you unintentionally bruised his ego. "I look forward to working with all of you," he called out, voice tighter than before, before him and his guide were exiting from the room, cameras following close behind.
He thought about that interaction for the rest of the day. That thirty second interaction managed to stir something in him, annoyance and intrigue all at once. He wasn't used to being brushed off, he was used to people gawking over him, stumbling over their words and practically tripping over their feet when they spoke to him—but not you.
But he knew he could change that. He would.
Kylian had been through it hundreds of times in his career. Evaluations. Stretching. Taping. It wasn't anything new. The only change that came from that was the person helping him do it.
Lucky for him, he got stuck with you.
Chatter from the other players floated around the treatment room as you settled him onto a table.
While you were busy prepping the athletic tape and looking over your notes, Kylian sat quietly, eyeing you. He watched as a strand of hair loosened and fell over your eye so, gently, you placed it behind your ear. He was shocked at how you seemed completely clueless to the obvious way his gaze was burning into you. It was irritating, even.
He was bored out of his mind, and you weren't exactly giving him anything to work with. It made him wish he'd gotten stuck with one of the other physios.
Obviously, it wasn't expected of you to give him anything other than your help. You were doing exactly what you were supposed to do—your job—but that didn't mean that you couldn't do the bare minimum and talk to him.
Kylian let a few more beats of silence between the two of you pass by before he finally asked, "So… how long have you been working with Real Madrid?"
You stopped whatever you were doing, putting your notes down to look at him. "Uh, not long. A little over a year now, I'd say."
"Oh, that's cool." He nodded, pretending to be interested even though the answer was one he honestly didn't care about. He paused, as though he were thinking, before adding, "do you recognize me?"
You gave him a slight once over like the question was supposed to be a joke, but it was far from it, and when you realized he was being serious, you let out a snort. "Of course, I do. You're Kylian Mbappé."
"Well, yeah, I just meant…" he trailed off, realizing that it was a stupid thing to ask. Everyone knew who he was. He could feel the heat lick up his nape, so he brought his hand up to cup it, cool palm rubbing softly against his skin. "You don't seem all that surprised to see me."
And he didn't blame you. The world didn't revolve around him, but for some strange reason, all he wanted was to see just the subtlest sign that you cared to be talking to someone as big as him. Or just that you cared about him in general.
Your face stayed the same, but he managed to spot something before it disappeared into oblivion: the way your eye twitched in a fleet. It went as quickly as it came, but it let Kylian know one thing—he had annoyed you with his words.
He'd wanted to see a reaction from you, just not that kind of reaction.
"Are you always this full of yourself?"
It was those words that had his brows shooting up. "Excuse me?"
"It's just…" you bit your lip, like you were holding something back, and Kylian waited. Waited for your words to spill over, anticipated it even, like he wanted to hear whatever you had to say about him, but in the end, nothing ever came. "Never mind. I shouldn't have said that. I'll tape you up, now."
Somehow, that stung more than whatever reality check you were going to give him.
Madrid's sun beamed down on Kylian, ultra-hot and unforgiving. He never minded the heat. It was a feeling he enjoyed, like whenever he went on vacation—not when it licked up his skin and left him dripping in so much sweat, he had to use a towel to dry himself off. He could feel his breath come out sharper with each drill he had to run, and the only motivation he had to keep going was the fact that inside, there'd be cool air blasting from the AC whenever the team was through with practice.
Kylian was jogging down the line when he swore he could feel the prickle of something against his skin. It wasn't from the heat, it was something else, something different. It made him shudder. The feeling burned against his skin hotter than the heat of the damned sun—and it was coming from one place.
Kylian swerved his head around to the sideline where the coaching staff stood.
You stood there too, but your gaze wasn't on him, it was focused on watching the other guys. But, coincidentally enough, just as his eyes flicked over there, the sensation faded as well.
When he found no plausible answer to the feeling, he huffed and switched his focus back to whatever he was doing before. He chose to blame it on the heat and how it was probably messing with his head and making him imagine things.
Yet when the feeling came again without warning, he felt a frustration bubble up inside him and found himself craning his head again. That was when he caught something, just for a split second. How you turned your head away just as his eyes peeked over at the sideline.
The knowledge that you were likely staring at him made his mouth go dry. It wasn't like getting stared at was uncommon. It was the way it left him feeling afterwards that was uncommon. He didn't like it, nor the fact that it'd made him physically shudder. He shouldn't be losing his cool over something so trivial, yet he felt himself slipping.
He stood still, eyes trained in on your shoes like they were the most interesting things in the world, not quite ready to look away yet because he knew the second he did, you'd look at him again and he'd lose his cool.
How were you making me feel like this?
It wasn't until he heard the manager yell out his name that he finally snapped out of his daze. The heat of embarrassment rose in him next as he went back to jogging like nothing ever happened. And the feeling never came again after that.
The AC felt like a blessing when Kylian finally stepped inside the building, his body absorbing the much-needed coolness of the air.
The rest of the team headed to the locker room to change, but a pair of footsteps approaching behind him made him stop. He turned his head, hoping his expression didn't give away to how his stomach had suddenly tightened.
"Are you okay?"
Kylian heard the question loud and clear, yet he didn't answer, like his mind was suddenly running on empty, and it couldn't have chosen a better occasion than this one.
"What?" he breathed out after a beat of silence.
"I asked if you're okay," you repeated, even though he definitely heard you the first time. He swore that looked like concern on your face. Not the fake shit everyone always gave him. Genuine concern. "I saw you running out there and you looked pretty out of it. I understand, it's really hot today."
Kylian almost couldn't believe it. You were asking if he was okay? Maybe he was really out of it. Here you were, doing your job, and here he was, doing what he hated most when it was done to him—over analyzing.
"Yeah," he nodded hastily. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Okay, good," you said, lips pursed into a tight smile. "Uh, well, if you feel any different, you know where to find me."
You turned, ready to walk down the hall. That was when Kylian felt something creep up his throat, the word "wait" now on the tip of his tongue, but it never came. He let the moment pass until you were out of sight and he was left standing alone in the hallway with nothing but his thoughts and the cool breeze of the AC cooling his skin.
Maybe you actually cared about him.
Maybe.
Kylian couldn't sleep that night. He didn't even try. It was pointless because his mind was plagued with images of you. A woman he barely knew. He didn't even know your last name or how old you were. All he had was your first name. Y/N.
He found himself repeating it under his breath, enunciating each letter, as if he were preparing for the day he'd have to call out your name.
Y/N. Y/N.
The name was perfect for you. It just made sense. You looked like a Y/N in the best way possible.
You were just a woman, he had to remind himself because he suddenly realized he was going off the deep end. He tried distracting himself by going on Instagram and looking at different women. His eyes flickered over at each post, rubbing himself just to get himself going, but his attempts at raising his libido fell short.
Kylian cursed, head falling back against the pillow in defeat. In a last ditch attempt to elicit some sort of pleasure from himself, he opened up an adult website.
Instead of clicking on the first video he saw, he went into the search bar, fingers hesitating over the keyboard, like they knew what he was about to do was shameful and had given him a chance to back out, before he was typing in a description of you.
The girl in the video didn't exactly look like you, but it was good enough for him. He pulled down his boxers, freeing his aching cock from its confinement and fisting the length.
He pressed his thumb against the slit of his cock and let out a hiss, smearing the precum over his tip as the video started. He usually loathed the lengthy dialogue of pornography, but especially now more than ever.
He skipped ahead until the girl was finally on her knees in front of the male actor. She unzipped his pants and stuck his cock inside her mouth, sucking him off until saliva dripped down her chin.
All the while, Kylian gripped his cock harder, palm gliding easily along his length. He'd never felt this desperate for an orgasm before, but with you in the back of his mind, that was all he wanted.
He imagined it was really you, not sucking off some actor, but him instead.
He imagined how warm your mouth would feel, how you probably couldn't take him all the way in without your throat constricting around his cock like all the other girls, but he imagined you trying anyway, just to show him you cared.
His vision blurred out, video long forgotten as he finally came, crashing back against his pillow with ragged breaths. On the tip of his tongue laid one word—a name—and this time, he didn't hesitate.
"Y/N."
Kylian was fine. He was just fine. He'd been through plenty of step backs before to let them deter him, now.
Still, it felt like he'd been going crazy for weeks, and for more than one reason.
You hadn't talked much since that day beyond whatever was necessary. It was also partly due to the shame he felt whenever he looked at you. It was like he had developed an itch he couldn't get rid of, even after all of the scratching he did. It was probably going to take more than meaningless small talk for his itch to finally disappear.
He wanted you to show some sort of interest in him beyond the job or football. So many girls would give up anything just to have him for a night, but you were so chill about him. Did you really not care? Had he gotten it all wrong?
Whenever his thoughts got too rowdy, he reminded himself that he barely knew you and there was no point in acting like a mad-man over an ordinary woman when his life was already so chaotic. Still, he found himself growing antsy as the days passed by.
He should've been focused on improving whatever he was lacking which—according to the internet—was everything. The weight on his shoulders was unbearable and it was only his first month with Madrid. The only thing missing was an injury.
He felt the burn in his thigh by the 70th minute against Alaves, but he pushed through it because it wasn't the first time he'd felt something like that. To his disappointment, the strain didn't fade, but rather, it increased to the point where it was obvious to Ancelotti that Kylian had to come out of the game.
Kylian was frustrated, to say the least, as he stepped off the pitch and over to the bench, a huff blowing past his lips as he plopped down onto a seat. As irritated as he was, he felt relieved as well when the sharp pain in his thigh began to ebb slightly.
The game continued without him.
You were the first person to come to him, sinking down onto the empty chair beside him. You angled your body toward him, unintentionally bumping your knee against his. The contact was subtle, meaningless, but it made him tear his gaze away from the game in an instant to look at you instead. His eyes found yours and, like before, he felt a warmth spread across his nape, shame bubbling up inside him.
"It's something in your left leg, right?" You asked, but Kylian knew it was more of a rhetorical question. "I saw when you started limping a little. And how you started favoring your right leg as well."
Kylian couldn't help but be impressed at how easily you'd read him—and hoped that was the farthest your reading of him could go.
"Uh, yeah. I think I strained my thigh a bit, but it's nothing major," Kylian explained, tone laden with the familiar sound of dismissal. It had become a habit for him to downplay his injuries whether they were serious or not. He'd always push himself until his legs gave out because he despised missing games. Despised sitting on the sidelines and missing out on the opportunity to play because his body wasn't cooperating. "I'm sure it's nothing."
A small, almost sympathetic smile played on your lips. "Doesn't matter. I wasn't really asking. I'll check you out properly when the game's over."
You had already decided for him. Kylian realized that you'd likely decided it before walking over to him. That realistically, there was no need for you to come over and talk to him. No one else had—which was what usually happened when he got injured in a game—just you.
You were the only one that really noticed.
The whistle eventually blew into the air, but Kylian had forgotten the game a long time ago, eyes focusing on the details of your face, your lips, the slope of your nose, while your eyes watched the other guys.
They always watched the other guys.
Kylian expected there to be someone else in the room during his check up, but no. It was just you and him, and the obnoxious sound of the AC blasting.
He noticed pretty early on that you weren't one to talk when you worked, opting for silence instead. You hadn't told him much of what exactly you were going to do. Just that you needed to check how tight his muscles were, meaning you'd be feeling up his thigh. He didn't mean to be that kind of man, but he was almost a little eager to have your hands on his thigh after he spent so long fantasizing about you.
When your hands finally connected with his thigh, it was as if his whole body had burst into flames. His heart had begun to beat faster and faster until he felt it thump rapidly against his chest, and as you prodded at his thigh, fingers pressing into the tight muscle, he prayed to god you couldn't see how badly your touch had affected him.
Kylian had always been confident, had always been in control, had rarely been shaken by anything, but now, with your hand fondling his thigh, he felt himself unraveling.
"Stop," he choked out, voice tight, breathless, and your fingers stilled the second you heard him, but they didn't pull away yet.
"Is it too much?" You asked, the same concern from before evident in your voice, and it only made him feel guiltier for stopping you because he couldn't control himself. "I can do it softer, I just need to—"
"No." His voice was strained, more than it had ever been in his life. He felt the panic bubble up in his throat because he had no logical way to explain why he just needed you to stop.
You'd find out the reason.
You'd find out the reason and be mortified and never look his way again.
His hands almost shot out to grab your face the second you turned your head back down, in hopes that he could stop you from seeing just how much you'd affected him, except he didn't, and now it was too late.
He watched as your eyes widened, a flustered look spreading across your features when you caught sight of the obvious hard-on growing in his shorts. Your hands ripped themselves from his thigh in an instant like it was venom, and he found himself missing the feeling already.
"Oh."
He saw the way your body stiffened, like you didn't know what to do with the knowledge that you got him hard. He made you uncomfortable and it was his fault. All his fault for not being able to control himself when you were just doing your job.
"Shit, I'm sorry." The words spilled out of his mouth, a hand moving to hide himself in shame. "I—it wasn't your fault, or well it—it's just—it's always like this for me."
"It's okay, Kylian." But the hitch in your voice told him otherwise.
"It's not. I made you uncomfortable. I'm an idiot."
"We're all human. It's a normal, human reaction. It's fine, really."
For some reason, your words did little to comfort him. He found himself growing irritated instead. You were being nice—way too nice to him—like you were trying not to hurt his feelings, just like everyone else. He didn't understand you. He didn't understand you at all.
Kylian didn't reply after that, figuring it was better to leave it at that rather than arguing back and forth about who was right.
You stood there awkwardly, swaying from heel to heel, until you turned and walked over to your bag, digging inside until you found what you were looking for. You returned to him, clutching the object in your hand, a flash of red catching Kylian's eye.
"You know, I always bring a pomegranate with me on game days." Kylian's gaze flickered to the fruit as you rolled it between your palms. "Weird, right?"
If only you knew how weird he was. "Not at all."
You smiled wryly. "It's my favorite fruit, if you couldn't already tell. You should have it."
It took a moment for Kylian to register that you had your hand out, ready to give him the fruit. He expected a lot of things, just not this. He hesitated before reaching out to grab the pomegranate, all the while ignoring the delicate way your fingers grazed his.
He clutched the fruit in his hand before looking back over at you. "Thank you," he finally said, his voice carrying an edge.
"Yeah, no problem." You nodded before something else flickered in your eyes. "But, now you owe me."
Kylian had the feeling you were only joking, but he knew he'd be more than willing to pay you back.
"Okay. I owe you, now."
For the first time since stepping into the room, Kylian felt his body ease.
And when he got home, he held the pomegranate between his palms, thumbing over the skin. Both of his thumbs dug in suddenly until the fruit broke open, juice squirting out and spilling down his arms. Yet he paid it no mind.
He brought the pomegranate up to his mouth, lips wrapping around the seeds, a moan of content leaving his mouth as a combination of sweetness and tartness spread across his tongue.
He wasn't the biggest fan of pomegranates, but you'd given it to him and that was enough for him to keep going, eating with the greed of an animal, like he'd been starving for years, until there wasn't anything left. Only the skin in his hands, the juice that spilled down his chin, and a hunger that hadn't quite been satiated.
Things had gotten a little better for Kylian. At least in terms of you, not in football. People were still claiming he wasn't doing enough. He'd heard it time and time again, yet it still bugged him.
He tried to push down all the hurt he felt inside and shift his focus to the next match, the next interview, to whatever was important. But at night, instead of being asleep, getting the rest he needed, he stayed up to scroll on his phone, heavy-lidded eyes scanning through articles and articles of criticism until the tightness in his chest became too much to bear.
You'd become a good distraction for him—not that that was all that you were. You were more than that to him, expect, he could never say it out loud because one: you technically worked for him, and two: you'd made it clear you weren't friends. Just coworkers in a way.
Another thing that bothered him, but Kylian wouldn't push his luck. Not yet, anyway. He was content with how things were, the casual conversation, how you actually seemed like you were interested in hearing what he had to say. He didn't want to blow it up like he almost did last time.
On the day of his first Clásico, he felt like he'd gone back in time to when he was younger. Sweaty palms, heavy breaths, racing heart. Nervous. Kylian was nervous, which was the last thing he needed.
He couldn't stand still for the life of him. He swayed from heel to heel, picked and bit at his nails, darted his eyes from object to object, all in hopes of distracting himself.
Kylian gave up hope by the time he was getting ready to line up with the team by the tunnel, but before he could go far, he felt a hand touch his arm. He spun around, only to find you. You hadn't said a word yet, but your presence alone, and the way your hand lingered on his arm, was enough to ebb his nerves.
"Are you nervous?"
You reading him had become a common occurrence, a thing Kylian hadn't grown accustomed to just yet. He hated it, but liked it because he never had to admit how he felt. Somehow, you always knew.
"Crazy, right?" Kylian said, shaking his head like he couldn't believe it. "I mean, I've played football for over ten years, now."
"This is different, though," you replied, looking around the tunnel before your eyes settled on him. "Don't let their words get to you. You're better than what they say. And… I know you'll be great."
Something in Kylian shifted then. All of the noise in the tunnel drowned out. His surroundings blurred, and the only thing that was clear to him in that moment was you. It was a strange feeling. One he hadn't experienced before. It hit him harder than anything else ever had.
He'd heard the words so many times before, but none of it compared to the way it made him feel when he heard you say it.
Grounded. Warm. Calm.
He thought he was crazy for feeling that way. He spent so many years numb to the way people cared about him. Their words of love and praise always seemed forced, only spoken to make him happy, which he rarely ever felt.
But something about your words felt real. And what he felt was real.
"Thank you," he finally replied—and he meant it.
Kylian expected a couple different outcomes. Losing 0-4 in his first Clásico wasn't one of them.
The frustration grew in heaps with each step he took to the locker room. He sat and listened to whatever critiques the manager had to say. How the team needed to improve. How they were better than that.
It didn't soothe his frustration. In fact, it only flared up at the speech.
Kylian was collecting his things so he could go take a shower, to hopefully cool off and wash off all of the disgusting grime that clung to his skin, when he felt the same touch from earlier on his arm. But instead of turning around like he knew he wanted to, he shrugged it off like it meant nothing to him. "Not now."
"Kylian—"
"What part of not now don't you understand?" He hadn't meant to be so cruel. He couldn't help it. All he wanted was to be alone and wallow in self-pity. He couldn't handle being around other people in his current state.
No other words came out of you after that, but Kylian could sense the way you deflated. Your footsteps rang in his ears as you walked away, and he had to stop himself from turning around to beg for you to come back.
Fuck. He needed something strong. He needed a drink.
By 12AM, he was slumped over a bar, eleventh drink of the night resting beside him, half-empty. The bartender insisted that he should stop by the 7th drink, but he couldn't really deny Kylian Mbappé service—not with the generous tips he was receiving.
It was only when he noticed that Kylian was completely out of it that he realized he should probably do something. He was hesitant, but eventually reached for Kylian's phone. Coincidentally enough, the phone was unlocked, and on the screen read a message Kylian thought about sending—I didn't mean to snap. I can apologize properly over drinks—before he grew too wasted to do so.
The bartender fought back a laugh and called you.
You arrived twenty minutes later, completely unbeknownst to Kylian. He was too preoccupied with trying to down the rest of his drink, and failing miserably because he had the urge to vomit it all out.
He thought he was hallucinating when he heard the familiar lilt of your voice. He turned his head towards that direction, catching a flash of your figure. It must've been the world taunting him for what he had said to you earlier because there was no way you were actually here. Not after he had been such an asshole.
Maybe he really had sent you that message.
"I got it from here, thanks."
He heard your footsteps approaching, but made no effort to move. He was quite comfortable where he was. Drowning in alcohol and not worrying about whatever was going on in his life.
"Kylian," you called out, and he noted the obvious concern in your voice. "Are you okay? Come on, get up. You need to get home."
You placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and that was enough for him to finally turn his head all the way up.
You really were here. Here for him.
Out of all the people he wanted to see in that moment, you were the last one. It was humiliating, after all. He was supposed to be a professional, stable, but he wasn't. Not now. Instead, he felt heavy. Light-headed. Despite all the drinks, they weren't enough to mend the hurt of that loss—and the thought that you may hate him after what he had said.
"Why're you here?"
"Because. The bartender said you were drinking yourself to death." You sighed, eyes darting around the place. "What are you doing here with no security? You know that's dangerous."
He scoffed, like the words were ridiculous. He was a goddamn adult, not a child. "I don't need security to get a drink."
You let out a humorless laugh, your fingers flexing around his bicep. "You and I both know that's not true. Not for you. Now, get up, seriously. It's late."
Kylian wanted to argue, but he was far too drunk to bother, and his head was beginning to ache. He supposed you were right, anyway.
You helped him get up, but not without him staggering out of his seat and right into your body because the world felt like it was spinning. His hands instinctively shot out, fingers wrapping around your biceps until he stopped swaying from side to side.
He could've let go the second he gained his footing, but he didn't want to. Being in your vicinity was nice. He could look at you, at all the details he missed before. How nice your eyebrows looked. The zits along your cheek. Things he'd remember after tonight even though he wasn't sober. That was how easy it was for you to get into his head without even meaning to.
"Come on, my car's just outside," you said, nodding toward the exit. There was a subtle tightness in your voice that wasn't there before, and Kylian had the feeling that, maybe, you didn't mind being that close, either.
Each step he took was slow and steady, your warmth seeping into his side as you walked with him, and whenever he was close to stumbling forward, you were there, like a pillar, holding him up with your hand pressed against his back. He let himself lean into you, pressing his weight against you, and he could do it without looking crazy because he was drunk.
You didn't seem to mind, and he was thankful for that.
The ride back to his place was primarily silent, save for the sound of the radio playing on low. He pressed his forehead against the glass, watching as the colors blurred together. So much so, he thought he might get sick as the urge to vomit rose up his throat. He shut his eyes, hoping it was enough to stop the nausea.
"We're almost there," he heard you say, like you knew how he felt.
Kylian held on, just until the car came to a stop. He wanted to get out, but his body wasn't cooperating. He sat still, eyes still drooped shut. His mouth twitched, ready to ask you for help before remembering how badly he despised the idea of asking anyone for help.
His silence must've been enough of an answer for you because you were getting out of your seat and walking over to the passenger side.
"I got you," you said when you opened the passenger door. Kylian believed you without thinking twice.
You led him to the front door, where he sloppily entered the code twice before stepping inside.
"Bathroom," he slurred, pointing down the hall, and you wordlessly steered him in that direction.
The second he entered the bathroom, he let himself drop down onto his knees in front of the toilet.
"Damn," he muttered, angry at himself for getting so wasted. The constant throbbing in his head wouldn't go away, no matter how much he willed it to. He was on the verge of exploding from stress, from anger, from all of it. "Damn it all."
Kylian gripped the seat so hard, his knuckles turned white, forcing himself to gag so he could yack all of the alcohol out of his system.
He emptied himself into the toilet with so much force that his ribs ached, his throat burned, leaving behind a gross aftertaste Kylian no longer wanted in his mouth.
It wasn't the first time he had gotten so drunk, he could barely stand, but it was the first time tears glossed over his eyes.
Loser.
His head fell against the toilet seat, shoulders shaking as he let out a choked sob.
He was a loser.
He'd already humiliated himself so much so why bother hiding it, now?
When he felt your hand on his back, he had the urge to cry harder.
"What's wrong?" you asked, worried—always worried. "Kylian, why are you crying?"
You just wanted to help him and he didn't like it. He couldn't understand why you hadn't just left after helping him inside. Why you even bothered showing up to the bar. Why you were still here.
He shook his head rapidly, wiping away the snot from his face. With a heavy chest, he managed to say, "you can go. You've helped me enough."
But that was beyond the truth.
The truth was that he wanted you to stay—he needed you to stay—and he didn't know why. And that hurt. More than losing a game or hearing strangers curse his name.
"Kylian," you repeated, as if his name were something fragile. As if he were something delicate. "I can't leave you like this."
He finally plucked up the courage to look at you, eyes all red and puffy. "Why?"
"Because…" you paused, unsure of what to say. "Do I need a reason?"
Yes. He wanted to say. What's your motive here?
Instead—"Even after what I said?" He stuttered. "Even after I was an asshole?"
You let out a sigh, kneeling next to him, your velvety voice right next to his ear. "You weren't an asshole. You were just upset. I should've listened the first time you told me you weren't in the mood."
Kylian shook his head again. "No, I was," he insisted. "I can't help it sometimes, it's just… it's just that I… we lost so badly and I got angry. I always get angry and I just push people away."
His head bowed in shame. "I could've done more. I should've done more. All I've done is prove people right. I'm not even that good."
Kylian felt more vulnerable in that moment than he'd ever felt in his entire life. He felt like shit, felt heavier than he'd ever felt before. He had no reason to tell you anything because you weren't close. Weren't friends. But he couldn't control his mouth around you.
He just needed to tell someone, and he wanted to tell you.
Something cracked in your expression then. The room may have been dark, but he saw it. The way you looked at him with pity, none of which he believed he deserved.
"You're wrong," were the words that broke the heavy silence of the room. Kylian let out a dry laugh, but you continued, "the loss isn't all on you. You did what you could."
"It wasn't enough."
"Are you listening to me?" Your voice came out firmer, desperate to make him listen. "Kylian, you did what you could. This is a team sport. And—and I don't know why you bother listening to anyone else. I've never seen anyone play the way you do. You're special, and you're crazy if you think otherwise."
He opened his eyes, really opened his eyes, and in that moment, he could tell that you were serious. No faux concern. No overdoing it. Just you sat next to him, looking at him, waiting. And he felt your words like a physical thing, hitting him in ways he never thought he'd feel.
You cared.
Kylian was left defenseless under your gaze. He couldn't open his mouth. Couldn't tear his gaze away from yours. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay like that. He wanted time to slow so he could stare into your eyes longer. He wanted you to stay because for the first time in years, he felt something. Something that didn't leave him feeling hollow inside.
He didn't speak. He let his head fall forward until it landed on your shoulder. "Are you gonna leave?"
Your body stiffened, and knowing him, he'd probably spoiled the moment like he did every other one, but he didn't care. There wasn't an ounce of shame left in his body.
"Don't." His voice was quiet, on the verge of breaking. "I can't stand being alone anymore."
It was an invitation. One he hoped you would take because watching you walk away again would hurt more than you'd ever know.
"Stay."
The room filled with a heavy silence. Kylian's throat suddenly grew tight with regret, and he held his breath, awaiting your inevitable rejection, until you said, "Okay."
It was a single word. Two syllables. Okay. Oh-kay. But it was enough for Kylian, air filling his lungs once again.
You led him to his bedroom where he flopped down onto his bed with an exhausted huff.
"Are you okay like this?"
Kylian shook his head no. "It's hot."
His fingers went to his zipper, pulling it down roughly. He got annoyed when it stopped half-way down, muttering, "stupid zipper," and realizing how childish he probably sounded. He gave up after a few more attempts, throwing his head back against the pillow in defeat.
You cleared your throat, lingering near the bed. "Do you want me to help you?"
The thought of your fingers that close shook him to his core. Considering what happened the last time you touched him like that, he was hesitant to accept. But realizing he was in no position to do it himself, he eventually nodded.
He ignored the shiver that ran down his spine as your fingers reached for his zipper, pulling it down with a calmness he hadn't, until it came all the way down.
"Lift your hips," you said, and he obeyed without hesitation.
Slowly, you tugged down his jeans, freeing him from the suffocating confines of the denim, and leaving him in nothing but his boxers. The air bit against his skin, cooling his warm legs.
"Is that okay?"
He nodded, his body lighter than it was before.
You stood there, glancing around the room, as if you were trying to find the will to lie down next to him. Kylian noticed.
"It's okay." He shifted, scooting over and making sure to leave you enough room on the other side of the bed. "…you don't have to if you really don't want to."
Please stay.
The smile that you gave him was small, noting the nervousness that bubbled up on your features. "No, no, it's fine. It's just… I haven't slept next to anyone in a long time."
Your body finally moved forward, knees pressing into the mattress as you positioned yourself on the empty side of the bed, leaving space between you. You were far enough to where he could turn to his side, shift over, and he wouldn't touch you.
It was perfect, safe, and despite it, in his own strange way, he could still feel you. It was as if something were drawing you to him.
Now, he wished you were closer.
He longed to know what your weight would feel like on top of him, especially after an exhausting match. After he was left spent and boneless, body sore. You pressing down on his chest, sinking into him, and he would let you. He'd welcome your warmth seeping into his worn out body and let it bring the life back into him.
Soon, his racing heart eased into a steady pace. From the corner of his eye, he watched as your body relaxed, shoulders sagging down, chest rising slower. Your scent infiltrated his nostrils, and he inhaled the sweet smell of you.
It all brought him comfort. The way neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved. Like there was a silent understanding between the two of you—there was no need to do anything. Laying side by side was enough to satiate his need for company.
There was so much he was warring with. He spent so many nights awake, unable to fall asleep, and only when his body gave into the exhaustion did he rest.
Expect now, Kylian's eyelids drooped down. His breathing slowed, evening out, and he let it happen. Let his body relax, and for once, he could pretend that everything was okay.
As his vision blurred, and the room faded into darkness, with one final effort, he breathed out, "Goodnight, Y/N."
And he'd never get to see the crack of a smile on your face as you replied, "Goodnight, Kylian."
There was a thumping in his head when he woke up the next morning—right next to the looming sense of shame.
The sun peaked out from beneath the cracks in Kylian's blinds, shining right into his room and hitting him in the face, prompting him groan in annoyance. He almost snuggled himself deeper into his sheets to get more sleep before the memories of last night flickered through his mind, a sick taunt of sorts.
He turned over to his stomach, his face planted in the pillow so when he screamed, it would come out muffled. Something he needed to get out of his system before he was forced to get up and face you again.
He eventually found the courage to push himself out of bed, ignoring the lingering smell of you in the air, but then paused once his eyes landed on his nightstand.
A bottle of ibuprofen. And a note.
Had to leave early for work, but I'll see you there. Make sure you take one or two before you leave. -Y/N
Of course. Last night hadn't been enough for you. You had to finish pushing the dagger into his heart.
Kylian got looks from his teammates as practice went on—his passes, his shots all sloppier than they'd normally be—looks of which he pretended were nonexistent. If he pretended everything was fine, then surely it had to be true.
Nothing had went on last night. Nothing that anyone needed to know of.
He silently prayed that you wouldn't tell of his antics, leak information that he was drinking after a big loss to the press, or even gossip with the other staff about how pathetic he had been.
It would shatter the illusion of who he was to the public. A strong, confident leader who always knew what to say, and who was always so sure of himself. But as he passed by you in practice, and could barely look at you for a few seconds before having to look away, he wasn't so sure that was who he really was.
His confidence had wavered, leaving him vulnerable under your gaze. You could see right through all his bravado, and it shook Kylian. It made him want to run away to where you could no longer see him.
Eventually practice wrapped up and Kylian found himself running inside the building. He didn't bothering sparing anyone a glance as he changed into his normal clothes. All the while, the word coward circled in his head.
Kylian didn't want to believe he was a coward. He was just giving you some much needed space. After all, he'd bombarded you with his actions far too many times, with most of them teetering between the edge of professional and inappropriate.
As he strode to the parking lot—ready to rot in bed, probably think of you as well—his pace slowed when his ears caught the sound of laughter.
Kylian realized that he was approaching your office, and that the sound was coming from inside.
He found himself stopping a few feet away from the door, despite knowing that he should do himself a favor and pretend he hadn't heard anything. Yet that sound—it ticked something in him because it wasn't just anyone's laugh. It was yours.
The sound replayed itself in his head over and over again, that sweet, sweet sound. He hadn't heard it before, but hearing it now made a part of him feel like he was going insane.
He got closer, peering through the door's window, only to still once he caught sight of who was inside. You were there, smiling, laughing, not with a coworker like he'd originally thought, but with Jude Bellingham.
Something twisted in his stomach then, an ugly green feeling of envy spreading through his body, making him tense up. He had no right to feel this way, yet he felt it anyway.
You never laughed like that around him, you rarely ever spared him a smile.
What had Jude done to deserve you beaming up at him like that? Laughing so carefree, like you two were the only people in the world?
The longer Kylian stared, the dizzier he grew. He needed to go, needed to leave before he did something reckless, like storm inside and tell Jude to back off.
Kylian hadn't done anything to deserve that right.
He wanted to hear you laugh, but not with Jude. He wanted you to laugh with him. Now, your laugh was the sweetest torture, fading away as he walked to his ride.
In typical Kylian fashion, he chose to avoid you for the next few weeks because what better way to solve your problems than to avoid them?
Not that you were the problem. It was definitely him and his treacherous mind that seemed to think of you whenever it could. But he knew he couldn't avoid you forever, and eventually, the world would force him to face you again.
The moment came too soon for him to be prepared for it. After the game against Leganés, he received an invite from his teammates to go to dinner to celebrate the win.
He almost rejected the offer, too eager to go back to his hotel room and sleep off the aches deep in his bones. Then he heard you were coming, and now the offer sounded far too tempting for him to say no to.
He'd never seen you all dressed up before. The dress was nice—you looked nice—simple, but enough to make his breath catch in his throat. He pulled his gaze away, going back to a conversation he wasn't really listening to.
It had been an hour since the dinner had started, which meant an hour of him pretending he actually wanted to be there had passed, and the only reason he came had yet to talk to him. Not even so much as a glance his way.
It was like Kylian was invisible, and the feeling made him uncomfortable because it was something he wasn't used to feeling.
No. You'd rather spend most of your time with Jude, laughing at his awful jokes.
Kylian wasn't jealous. He didn't get jealous. He had everything he wanted, but for some strange reason that he refused to acknowledge, he wanted you to come over to him.
He watched you from the corner of his eye, and when you placed a hand on Jude's bicep, that was all Kylian could take. He excused himself from the conversation—they barely noticed—to walk out of the room, finding a secluded area, a small balcony, just to breathe properly.
What would your father say? Kylian thought. Seeing his son so unraveled over a woman?
He was so in his head, he hadn't registered the click of heels approaching.
"Kylian."
It was enough to break his trance and throw him off all over again. The world was against him. There was no other reason for you to be here, calling his name, unless it was to torture him further.
Kylian reeled his head over to look at you in your nice dress. You were a few feet away, gazing up at him.
"Hey," he said. It was all he could bring himself to say. He looked away again, at the scenery before him. He was afraid that, if he looked at you for too long, his memory would wander in places he didn't want to be in.
"Did you need some air, too?" Your tone was casual, the opposite of how Kylian felt. He wished he could be as casual as you.
"Yeah," he murmured. "What did you need air for? You looked like you were having a good time in there."
There was probably a bitter edge to his words, one he couldn't help.
You laughed, not like the ones you let out with Jude. This time, it was amused.
"I guess I was." You hummed, your hands perching upon the balcony's railing. You were closer to him that way, and he could already feel your heat radiating off of you. "But honestly, after a while, Jude's jokes start to get annoying."
Was it bad that hearing you say that made Kylian feel a little better?
His lips twitched a little, but he fought back against letting himself chuckle. Instead, Kylian pulled back enough to look at you. His heart jumped against his chest when he found you already looking at him.
"He's not even that funny." His voice betrayed him. He tried to appear as cool as you, only to sound like a bitter boyfriend.
You smiled, wider that time. "I know. But I'd feel bad leaving the kid hanging."
Kid. Kid. Kid?
Still, he refused to get his hopes up.
"He's 21. Not exactly a kid."
"He just reminds me of having a little brother. Having to fake being entertained by his jokes." You paused. "You know what that's like, don't you? You have a younger brother."
By now, Kylian should be happy with the victory—you just called Jude a little brother. The mention of his own caught him off guard instead.
"I… do." He had no reason to be so cautious. It was public knowledge that he had a younger brother. That didn't mean you mentioning it so suddenly hadn't caught him off guard.
He supposed it had something to do with the fact that you showed no interest in him beyond the job. Or at least, it was what he chose to believe. Believing anything else would only fuel his crazy delusions.
"…but, he doesn't joke around me much anymore," he suddenly revealed, the words feeling so achingly honest, too honest for the moment, that he almost regretted speaking entirely. "I try doing it with him, but I guess he's too cool for that."
"Seeing him grow up must be hard," you remarked, somehow knowing what to say, like it came naturally to you. "But I think it's sweet. The fact that he treats you like an older brother. He might pretend to not like joking around with you, but I know deep down he enjoys your nagging."
If your plan was to cheer him up and make his heart rate quicken simultaneously, you had succeeded. Kylian couldn't help the way a smile curved up onto his lips.
"Nagging?" He asked, the word choice almost enough to elicit a chuckle from him.
He watched you falter for a split second, a first from you—which made him celebrate internally—before you grinned. "Well, I'm sure that's how your brother would describe it." Another pause from you. "And I see the way you are in practice. You like to joke around."
Maybe it was silly considering you were a physio, but even then, knowing that you had watched him, noticed his personality—remembered it—made him a little hotter, despite the cool wind blowing past him.
"I'm glad you keep tabs on me."
"You're Kylian Mbappé. I'm sure I'm not the first lady to keep tabs on you."
"No. But you are the first one to do it like this."
It was meant to be teasing, another thing to keep the banter going because he loved it. His voice, however, came out raspier, lower, strained, as if he were fighting something back.
That desire to just touch you.
Your body tensed. Kylian saw it because he was watching you so intensely. He hadn't been able keep his eyes on you before, but now, he couldn't seem to look away.
You swallowed, tongue swiping out to lick your dried lips. The ones his gaze kept flicking to. "I'm not sure what that means."
"I'm not sure, either."
Kylian should just leave it at that. He should say his goodbyes and walk away, but that would mean another night plagued with the image of you burned into his mind—him reaching out, only to be left depleted because you weren't really there.
And Kylian, he was done restricting himself from what he really wanted. What he really needed. It was you.
"Are you doing something later?"
You shook your head. "Past 8PM? Probably not. Why—"
"Do you want to come with me?" For all Kylian had done in his career, his life, he felt as if this was by far the hardest thing he'd ever done. "I mean… I owe you still, don't I? There's a spare pomegranate in my hotel room."
He stayed calm, prepared for the worst, the inevitable no, yet it never came. What did come was your lips twitching into a smile—a real one.
"Everyone says you're so cool. So fearless. A maverick. I guess you can say that about how you play." You tilted your head, eyes gleaming up at him. "But, I think you're the strangest man I've ever met."
The smile never left your face as you backed away from the balcony's railing, slowly heading toward the exit, like you were waiting for him to follow in suit.
"How can I say no to a pomegranate from you, Kylian?"
And Kylian—he didn't hesitate to follow.
There was an incessant buzzing thrumming throughout his body on the ride back to his hotel room.
Was this really happening? He couldn't believe it. Surely he'd blink and you'd fade away from his gaze in seconds, but that hadn't happened yet.
Each step to his room felt heavier than the last, giving him one last chance to turn back before he made a mistake, but then you grinned at him, and that was all the reassurance he needed to push his door open, inviting you into his space.
It was tidy, just the way he liked it, but he could excuse your clothing being littered around his carpet this once.
Kylian reached into his bag, digging around the insides before his fingers glided along the familiar skin of a pomegranate.
He pulled it out, turning back to you, only to catch you snickering at him. "What?"
"You actually have a pomegranate?"
"Yeah, why wouldn't I?"
Kylian hadn't meant to be funny. He was being serious about that part. He'd been saving it for when he finally got the courage to talk to you.
"No, you're right. My bad." Your fingers traced his bedsheets as you took a step closer. "You don't happen to have a knife somewhere?"
He didn't. He hadn't planned that far ahead. So he shook his head and took the fruit between his two palms. "It's okay. I can open it like this."
"But the juice will—"
Your words fell onto death ears as Kylian's thumbs dug into the pomegranate, cutting open its skin, and with enough force as he could, cracked the fruit open.
"Get everywhere…" You looked both perplexed and amused.
Kylian held out the fruit to you, the seeds glimmering underneath the lights, red, as if he were holding out his heart—offering it to you.
Take it. He thought. Take all of me.
You padded over to him, eyes flickering between his face and the pomegranate. You took it eventually with subtle hesitance. When your fingers grazed over his skin, he shivered.
"Your hands are all sticky," you said, pressing your lips together.
"It's fine, I can just wash them," he assured you, but it wasn't good enough for you. Your smile turned nervous as you set down the fruit on the nearby table.
Wordlessly, you reached for his hand, and he let you take it, feeling buzzier now more than ever before. You inspected it, watched the juice roll down his fingers, and then brought his hand closer, up to your mouth.
You paused there, his fingers barely grazing your lips just to look him in the eye. An unsure flicker passed through them, but Kylian wasn't complaining. He wasn't moving. He was barely even breathing.
He didn't know what to say to you, if he should even ask, so he kept his mouth shut and waited with baited breath.
Kylian's eyes never wandered away from you. He watched as you opened your mouth, pulling his pointer and middle fingers inside, wrapping your lips around them. All the while, your eyes never wandered from his.
"Y/n," Kylian breathed, his body trembling with the force of trying to stay still when what he truly wanted to do was take you in his arms, pull you into his bed, and love you how he wanted to be loved.
Just as quickly as you put them inside, you pulled them out. "I'm sorry."
You were so flushed now, chest heaving up and down, your expression swollen with fear, with regret, with everything akin to the way he'd felt the night you helped him.
Instead of saying anything, he slowly brought his hand up to your cheek, his palm heavy, sticky, against your skin. You both stood there for a few seconds, and the distance suddenly felt insufferable.
His thumb traced the curve of your lips, tugging your bottom lip down gently. "You don't have to say sorry to me," he whispered so softly, it almost hurt to hear.
You didn't know it, but Kylian did. He had surrendered to you a long time ago. He had surrendered for the first time in his life, and he didn't care about coming off as weak.
He was weak for you.
He always was.
He refused to lose his chance, so he surged forward, lips pressing against yours, so unlike the kisses he'd given before. There was no finesse, no stability in it. It was desperate, messy, uncoordinated, everything he tried not to be.
He breathed in the unmistakable scent of you, sweet and entirely you, and knew he wouldn't be able to ever get it out of his head.
"Don't ever be sorry," he rasped against yours lips, voice cracking with desire.
Kylian's other hand grasped at the back of your head, fingers digging into your scalp, pushing you closer—as close as he could get you because anything less would kill him.
Your lips parted, letting out a sigh of pleasure that he swallowed. He took the opportunity to slip his tongue between your lips, gliding his over yours. It made his body tremble, and his heart raced. He felt yours too, pressed up against his chest, thumping rapidly, just like his, like your hearts were synchronized, fighting to keep themselves contained and failing miserably.
He used to body to nudge you forward, practically refusing to pull his lips away from yours, and yanked you down with him, your back hitting the bed, making sure to land over you softly.
"Can I touch you?" he asked, the words coming out as more of a plead. "Please, let me touch you."
You nodded your head the second he stopped talking. "Yes. Yes, Kylian, please, touch me."
Kylian nodded feverishly, planting kisses upon your cheek, your jawline, down your neck, over the fabric of your dress, feeling your body react to all of it.
His hands were practically shaking as they snaked underneath your dress, grazing your panties, but he didn't take them off yet. He let his fingers graze over your clothed slit, the fabric already dampened, a groan ripping itself from his throat at the feeling.
He would've loved to bury himself inside you in that very moment. However, the urge to satisfy you, to make you feel good, was stronger.
Kylian lifted your dress just enough to reveal your panties—pink, lace, beautiful.
He hooked his fingers underneath the fabric, sliding it down with anticipation, revealing everything to him. Everything he'd dreamed of was on full display, right in front of him.
His cock twitched, strained against the denim he was wearing. "You're so beautiful," he said in awe.
Kylian leaned down, leaning in closer, parting your legs further to give him enough space, hooking a leg around his shoulder, your dress riding up further. Centimeters away, he inhaled your scent, his breath fanning over your bare pussy.
He glanced up at you one last time, making note of your appearance—mouth open, already disheveled, despite barely touching you.
Then, he was moving, mouth attaching itself to your cunt, licking a stripe up your slit before flattening his tongue against your clit, wrapping his lips around it, sucking like his life depended on it.
Each moan that fell from your open mouth only egged him on, made him more desperate to push you over the edge, to see how you looked when you came.
He lapped up your arousal, letting out a pathetic moan as if he were the one being touched. On instinct, his hips twitched, grinding down against the bed, chasing the sweet sensation of friction.
He brought a hand up to grip your plush thigh, spreading you open further, eating you up like he had been starving for years.
You let out a gasp, head falling back against his bed. God, did he love that sound.
With his other hand, he dragged it up, using two fingers to spread your folds apart, spitting inside your cunt—hot, messy—before slipping those two fingers inside.
"You taste so good." His voice is absolutely wrecked, taking in the glorious sight of you flushed, your eyes glazed over with pleasure. "Can't get enough of you, chérie."
The name slipped out on accident, but you didn't seem to mind considering the way your pussy had just spasmed around his fingers, clenching down harder on them.
He dragged them out before pushing them back inside, eliciting a cracked moan from you. "Oh, fuck, Kylian."
"I know," he heaved out, lips reattaching themselves around your clit, fingers moving in tandem. He was chasing your high just as much as you were. "I'll help you come, baby."
He was relentless with only one goal in mind—making you come. And he could tell it was working, could sense the way you had become overstimulated, your senses overwhelmed with pleasure.
"Kylian, I can't—"
Your vision blurred, head thrown back, mouth open, crying out against the bed as your orgasm ripped through you. Kylian didn't move. He stayed right where he was, his fingers slowing, helping you ride through your high until your body relaxed.
Kylian was breathing as heavily as you, and though he loathed the idea of pulling away from you, preferring to stay right where he was, inhaling you, he chose to sit up on his knees, getting a good look at you.
Your chest raised slowly, up and down, reminding him that this was real. It was real. You were real. So fucking real.
"Are you okay?"
"More than okay," you breathed out, your eyes finally fluttering open to look at him, then down at the way his cock was straining against his pants. "I don't think you are, though."
He followed your eyes, but he didn't feel any shame. Not like the last time you had seen him like that where he wanted to die.
Now if he died, it wouldn't be out of embarrassment. He would die happily if it meant having you wrapped around him.
"I don't have a condom." Not that he actually cared. He was just being considerate.
"That's fine."
God. If he hadn't been hard already, he definitely would be after hearing you say that.
He freed himself from his jeans in seconds, his cock already leaking, heavy, unraveled, maneuvering himself until his thighs were touching yours. He almost wanted to say I love you then and there, but it was far too soon.
That could wait. Kylian couldn't.
He pushed his hips forward, his cock nudging your entrance, both of you twitching. He kept his eyes on yours, and yours on his. A thing he would've considered meaningless now meant everything to him.
He managed to push past your folds, splitting you open, and his eyes grow wider with each nudge forward until he was fully cocooned inside you.
Your pussy spasmed around him, at the wide stretch, and he grew dizzier from how hard you were squeezing him. It almost brought a tear to his eye.
"Putain," he cursed, his voice cracking. "Don't squeeze me like that—I'll come."
He wasn't ashamed to admit it. He was far past having shame around you.
Kylian forced himself to pause for a few seconds, watching you intently, making sure you were comfortable enough to move on. Then, he shifted backward, his mouth falling open as he pushed inside you again, watching as your tits bounced with the force of his thrust.
"Keep going," you whined.
With each thrust, Kylian moved faster and faster until his pace grew ragged, desperate, keeping an eye on your expression. You wouldn't fade away this time. You wouldn't because this was real.
Being inside you was intoxicating, your cunt warm, your walls turning gummy around him as he stretched you further. He pulled back all the way, his tip still nudged between your folds before slamming back inside.
"You feel so good," he grunted, his hands gripping your hips, pushing you down against him. "So good—oh god—this pussy's so good."
He was mindlessly blabbering, unable to concentrate on anything but the feeling of your walls wrapped around his dick. There was nothing more he wanted than to stay inside you. He would die content if it was with him inside of you.
Kylian leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his chest pressing down onto you. "'m gonna come." He sounded like he was on the verge of breaking. "Gonna come inside you, need to come inside you, please, please—"
Your pussy pulsed around him, sucking him in deeper, involuntary answering him. You nodded hastily, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Please, Kylian."
"Come on my dick," he begged until his body was convulsing, his dick twitching, making sure to bury himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, white-hot, giving you everything, all of him.
His mouth stayed open, feeling your back arch against him with the force of your own orgasm until your body fell limp.
In the aftermath, you were both left slick with sweat, chests heaving against each others, skin to skin.
Kylian's muscles ached, the good kind. It took a while for either one of you to move. Kylian didn't want to because he was selfish. He wanted to stay there, keep you plugged up with his come. But when he managed to come to his senses, with visible reluctance, he forced himself to pull out, a hiss spilling from between his clench teeth.
His dick glistened with your arousal. It wasn't obscene to him. In fact, he thought it was beautiful.
He hovered over you for a few more seconds, basking in the afterglow, and then asked, "are you okay?"
Your lips twitched up. "You're so sweet."
Kylian actually blushed at that. "I just want to make sure… it wasn't too much, was it?"
You brought your lips up to his, planting a soft kiss over them, the kind that couples would give each other. Kylian's breath hitched because even after having sex with you, you still had that affect on him.
"Best I ever had."
Kylian smiled too, dimples appearing. "Are you just saying that?"
"Wish I was," you admitted, eyelids growing heavy. "I guess Kylian Mbappé is good at everything."
He paused at that, blinking down at you before rolling over to lie next to you. "That's what everyone thinks, but I don't think it's very true."
Was he souring the moment? He hoped not. He was just in the mood to be strangely honest. He never had the chance to in his previous sexual encounters. It had always been just sex. But he didn't want it to be justsex with you.
He wanted more.
Kylian could feel your gaze on him, heavy, curious, not pitying like he expected it to be.
"To think I thought you were another self-righteous footballer." You sighed, thinking over your words carefully. "And maybe you are a little, but I see past it. You're just a man. I saw it in all of our interactions, and I can admit that I never let any of them go. You're just a man and that's a good thing. I'm… grateful that you let yourself be vulnerable with me. But I'm not sure why me."
His heart jumped. He thought his body would tense up, and that his first instinct would be to put his walls up. Instead, he let himself relax.
"I'm not sure why either, but…" He opened his arms a bit wider. An invitation. "I like talking to you. And I think I'd like if you stayed. Only if you want to."
He never asked anyone that sober before.
Kylian couldn't find the strength to look over at you, the fear of rejection overcoming him once again.
He heard the rustle of his bed sheets, and the weight of you piling on top of him, grounding him, reminding him that it wasn't his imagination playing tricks on him.
Your chest rested upon his chest, your ear pressed right where his heart lay, beating for you.
"I do want to."
His arms wrapped around you, holding you closer, encouraging you to put all your weight on him. Put everything on him. He would carry it, just as you had carried his previous burdens.
An unspoken form of love—it was all he longed for.
He knew then that he didn't have to admit it out loud, and neither did you.
It came in the way his eyes grew heavy with exhaustion. He wasn't afraid to fall asleep first. He let sleep take over his body, carrying him away until he was drifting asleep.
In his final moments before losing consciousness, he held you close, smiling because he knew what you had said.
summary ౨ৎ thinking about kylian mbappe’s not-so-secret breeding kink 🫣
content ⟢ fem!black!reader, smut smut smut!!— it's in the summary lol but beware, breeding kink!! creampie, unprotected sex (stay strapped w them condoms y'all)
serenity says ໒꒱ to the anon who sent me the breeding kink blurb req w/ kylian, this is for you bb 💋💋 the way it’s been catching dusttt in my drafts and i just now found the inspiration to finish editing it… #sorryigotsmshittodo
see, there's never been a doubt in kylian's mind that he wants children someday— especially with you.
he can't picture building a life with anyone else, watching a baby who holds a piece of you of both grow into their own person. to him, a child born from the love you share feels less like a burden and more like a dream.
but every conversation, no matter how hopeful it is, always ends the same way: not right now.
he understands, in fact, he agrees wholeheartedly.
you're still in the middle of building the career you've worked so hard for. and kylian? every single moment is dedicated to football, the world cup especially. he holds the weight of finishing what he started in 2022— to finally bring the cup home.
so as much as kylian longs for one, love alone isn't enough to take care of a child. love isn't presence. that doesn't stop him from letting the thought settle in the back of his mind, a dream he knows will come true someday.
gently pinning your wrists above your head as he hovers over you, kylian decides to believe today is someday. the bedroom is filled with want, the adrenaline from scoring not one, but two goals, escapes his body in waves. you can feel it in the way his heart beats rapidly against you, fingers trembling as they rest on your hips.
"please, ky." you whisper, breathlessly. "c'mon, don't tease." he only nods. any other time, he'd have chuckled, dragging out the anticipation just to watch you get impatient. this time though, he can't wait either. the tip of his cock says it for him, twitching against your wet hole, fully hard and ready.
he lowers himself a little further, burying his face in the crook of your neck. a lingering kiss brushes against your jaw before he slowly sinks in. the sharp hitch in your breath doesn't escape him, and your warmth draws a quiet hiss from his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut for a fleeting moment.
he imagines a world where you aren’t on any birth control. the same situation, but charged with a important objective, keeping you full of his cum. oh, to be under the welcomed risk of a baby girl or boy— a girl, he hopes— where kylian can rock into you with no worries, slamming over and over until you cum around him, whimpering out praises as he fills you up.
it drives him insane.
"putain," he grits out. "i missed this— missed you, i always do." his hips move in and out, slow and tender, cock already stretching you out. it’s been too long. well, it's only been a week. "did you miss me too, bébé?" he murmurs. "dit moi."
"i missed you too, baby." your sweet words light something up in him instantly. you gasp out, wrapping your arms around his neck, kylian's restraint lost as the slow pace turns intense, rougher. every slam grows more urgent than the last, leaving you shaking beneath him as he ruins you.
"i'm close, mon amour," he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. he needs to know you're certain, that this is what you want too. it's never been about his child or your child. it's always been ours. to hear that you're ready, that you want this just as much as he does, is enough to make his heart race all over again.
"where do you want me—"
"don’t be ridiculous," you scoff, then crying out when the tip of his dick brushes against your cervix. "i—i want it inside, kylian. don’t— shit, pull out."
he groans so pathetically, it's embarrassing.
and god, he’d give you everything. he's always been wrapped around your finger after all. losing control right then and there, not wasting a second to let out every single drop for your greedy pussy to swallow. he pulls you in for a kiss as his cum spurts out, your lips moving against his as you clench around him, feeling the shocks from your orgasm.
"je t'aime," he whispers, like it came from the depths of his heart. "je t'aime," one kiss, "je t'aime," another kiss. he repeats himself between kisses, scattering them across your beautiful face before trailing down to your neck, collarbone, and the center of your chest.
your scrunched smile grows with each declaration of love. he can be so cheesy. "you're so silly," you giggle. he pulls back enough for your eyes to meet, a grin spreading effortlessly across his face.
"only for you."
kylian doesn't pull out, opting to stay inside of you, fucking his cum in deeper as his eyes soften. he'd rather let every responsibility outside the luxurious hotel room fade into nothing, happy to be wrapped around your walls and love.
once his head finally comes to rest against your chest, he lets out a quiet thank you to whatever scientist invented birth control... and another to you, for convincing him to stop wearing condoms.
it might not stick, but he can pretend.
just for now.
౨ৎ kylian mbappe's taglist ꒰ @purplesectorlew ┊͙ @goldenflowergirlyy ┊͙ @mariaaaalm ┊͙ @dayan23jb ┊͙ @sativadivastuff ꒱ ‧₊˚
⤷ want to be added to the taglist? read this!
is this a safe space to admit that when theres no new fics for me to read i have nothing else to do with my life.. at all
i’m manifesting everyone with writers block to be able to snap out of it and feed the people,, you guys are the backbone of tumblr we can’t do this without you 😞
Synopsis .☘︎ ݁˖-you just wanted one picture with Jobe Bellingham during your family vacation. No big deal. Just a cute memory to look back on. One viral post later, and your life is turned upside down you definitely didn't expect the entire internet to think you're a couple. Now the picture is everywhere,and a certain Birmingham boy found it and from that moment led to another unforgettable memory.
Genre .☘︎ ݁˖- Fluff/ family fluff, and a bit of rom com vibes, Fem!reader
Warnings .☘︎ ݁˖- none..at-least not yet
Wc.☘︎ ݁˖- 7.6k
.
.
.
.
.
.
Twenty-four hours. That's how long it had been since you were officially sure that Jobe had found your account. That he'd most likely even gone through your highlights. That he'd most likely even seen your cringe pictures from two years ago, the ones with the dodgy filters to be exact, and the embarrassing captions that made you physically recoil now. If you'd only known this was going to happen, you would've redone your whole account and make it more professional. More alluring. Giving him a first impression that screamed "mysterious and cool" instead of "average girl who went through a phase in 2024." But maybe the unexpected authenticity made this whole story even better between you both. Maybe the fact that he'd seen the real you—unfiltered, unpolished, just existing was what made this feel so different. So genuine.
You were scrolling through your own account, trying to imagine what his perspective would've been like viewing you. What did he see? What did he think? Was he laughing at your old posts? Did he find them endearing? You were so deep in your own head that you almost missed it. A message popped up over your screen.
"I'm seeing this picture everywhere, even mom sent it lol"
You rubbed your eyes, assuming you were seeing things. You blinked hard, then blinked again. You spelled out the letters of the username slowly, your lips moving silently as you read them.
J... O... B... E.
"This has to be a joke," you whispered, your voice barely audible. You stared at the screen, your heart starting doing that stupid thing again when you saw him at the beach. And then you saw it.
The blue verification sign next to his username.
"THIS IS NO WAY THIS IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING TO ME," you shrieked, your voice pitching into a register you didn't even know you could reach. "THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO WAY." Your hands started to tremble immediately. Your phone almost slipped from your grip as you scrambled to sit up straighter, your eyes glued to the message.
He messaged me. JOBE BELLINGHAM messaged ME??.
You spent the first five minutes before answering his message hyperventilating, your thoughts spiralling into an absolute frenzy:
" Wait, I can't mess this up.""Absolutely nobody can know about him messaging me.""Is this a test?""I wonder if he's testing me to see if I'll screenshot and post that he DM'd me?""What if this is some elaborate prank?""What if he's just being polite?""What if—"
Your head was basically spinning with too many thoughts. It could explode any moment now.
ANSWER HIM!
You shouted at yourself internally, pausing mid-pace around your room. You'd been pacing back and forth like a caged animal, your carpet probably worn down from the sheer nervous energy radiating off you. "Okay, okay, I will," you replied to yourself, almost as if someone else was in the room. Anyone who'd overheard your little crash-out session would've thought you'd lost your mind completely. You sat down on the edge of your bed, phone clutched in both hands, staring at his message like it held the secrets to the universe. What do I even say to that? you wondered, your brain scrambling for options.
"Haha yes, the internet is so obsessed with us!"
Ew. That sounds too fame-crazy. Like you're desperate for attention.
"What did your mom say?"
Uhh, maybe that's a bit too soon? But you actually would love to know though. The curiosity was eating you alive.
"I know right? I'm still trying to process everything."
That one felt right. Honest. Relatable.
You pressed send immediately before your brain had the chance to overanalyse it for another five minutes.
There. You did it. You replied back to him.
You flopped yourself backward onto your bed, letting out a long, shaky sigh. Your phone lay on your chest, screen facing up, just waiting to see what he would say. Would he even reply? a nagging voice whispered. What if that's it? What if that's all he wanted to say and now he's done? You pushed the thought away, refusing to let it dampen your mood.
"It would be so cool if this ends up being the start of us becoming friends," you said aloud, your voice honest and soft. "At least."
You meant it. You'd settle for anything between you and Jobe, knowing deep down your heart obviously desired more. You'd always had a lot of interest in him, not just as a footballer, but as a person. You admired his profession, sure, but it was him that drew you in. The way he carried himself with such quiet confidence. The way he handled being in the shadow of his older brother, knowing the strain it could cause on his mental health. The way he had the courage to pursue the same career as Jude, even knowing he'd constantly be compared. Even knowing the media would have a field day with it. Yet he was always so positive. So bubbly. So unfazed by all the noise. You admired that the most about him. That resilience. That refusal to let anyone dim his light.
*Ding*.
Your phone went off. You snatched it up so fast you almost dropped it again.
It was him.
"it came out really nicely, I liked how I looked in it" he said. Definitely trying to be cocky.
You couldn't help the playful grin that spread across your face. You typed back quickly, your fingers flying across the screen:
"You weren't the only one in the picture though"
You watched the screen, your heart pounding. Three dots appeared. Then it disappeared. Then it appeared again.
He was typing. Then stopping. Then typing again.
Almost like he was contemplating something. Almost like he was choosing his words carefully.
Then the message came through.
"ain't say you didn't look good too, y/n"
You read it once. Twice. Three times.
"He said MY name," you squeaked, your voice cracking. "AND HE BASICALLY SAID I LOOKED GOOD."
"IS THIS FLIRTING?!" you screamed into your pillow, your legs kicking wildly beneath you. You were blushing like crazy, your cheeks flaming red, your heart doing backflips in your chest. Even if this was just a one-time thing, you were making sure to enjoy every moment of it. Every second. Every word.
"Much better 😌" you replied back, trying to play it cool despite the fact that you were literally kicking your feet like a lovesick teenager.
Shortly after, you added, "oh also did Momma Bellingham say anything about it? I'm curious "
You held your breath, waiting for his response. The three dots appeared again, and you felt your heart skip a beat.
The three dots disappeared. Then it appeared again. Then disappeared once more.
It took nearly two minutes for his reply to come through, and you spent every second of it chewing on your bottom lip, your nerves stretched thin. Finally, a message arrived.
It was an attachment. A screenshot, at that.
You tapped on it, your heart in your throat. The image loaded slowly, and then you found yourself staring at a conversation between Jobe and Denise. It felt so surreal and personal that this whole moment was even happening. You were casually about to read a conversation between Jobe and his mum as you texted. No big deal. Just something casual, right? Two days ago, you wouldn't even believe yourself if you'd heard this had happened to you.
Reading the messages, you saw Denise had sent him the picture of you and Jobe. Right below it, she'd written:
"I had a feeling this was going to happen with this picture "
Below that, Jobe had replied:
"yeah I saw it""but I don't think it's a big deal""as long as people aren't saying bad things about it, it's fine"
Then Denise's final message:
"She seems nice from what I remembered. But you know how I feel about these things being attached to your name in the media.""Just be careful, Jobe."
You came out of the screenshot. Your smile faltered slightly after reading that last line.
"Just be careful, Jobe."
You had a moment of silence with yourself but not for a bad reason. It was more like reality crashing down on you. It was only right that Denise was very protective. Of course she was cautious. Jobe wasn't just some random footballer; he was her son. And with fame came vultures. People who wanted his money. Girls who wanted to be attached to his name. Girls who wanted to use him for clout.
You could see it clearly now. The wall he probably had built around himself. The constant questioning of people's true intentions towards him. The wariness that came with being in the public eye. You weren't offended. If anything, you respected it. Denise was looking out for her boy, and that was exactly what a good mother should do.You typed out your response carefully, trying to acknowledge what you'd seen without making it weird:
"I saw what your mom said at the end there 😅 She's just looking out for you though. That's really sweet."
His reply came faster than you expected:
"yeah she's proper strict about that kinda stuff tbh"
You could almost hear the hesitation in his typed words. Like he was testing you. Seeing how you'd react.
"I get it honestly, you know. You can't be too careful with all the attention you get. It must be exhausting having to second-guess everyone's intentions."
You sent it before you could overthink it because you knew you'd spend ten minutes pacing around your room before you'd reply otherwise. Your response was honest and genuine. It was exactly how you felt.
The three dots appeared. Then:
"you get it?" he replied.
"Yeah... well, I mean I'm not famous or anything lol, but I get that people probably approach you for all the wrong reasons at times. So it must make it hard to trust anyone new."
A long pause. Then he finally responded:
"it does actually"
It was very few words, but you could feel the weight behind it. How many times had he been let down? How many times had someone pretended to care just to get close to his lifestyle?
You responded:
"Well, for what it's worth... I just think you're a cool person. The footballer thing is a bonus 😌"
You sent it, then immediately felt your cheeks heating up. The conversation was flowing so effortlessly that it almost slipped your mind that it was Jobe you were talking to.
"proper buzzing now innit" he replied, and you could practically hear the smile in his voice.
You laughed out loud. Buzzing? He said buzzing. Gosh, you loved the way he typed.
"So you're out here just normally sharing screenshots of your mum's messages with strangers?"you teased, just wanting to be playful.
"Nah, just the ones who watch all my games apparently" he replied.
Your heart did a flip. He remembered you saying that on the beach.
"Look who's got a good memory" you teased back.
"I can't forget that day" he said.
And it genuinely felt serious. Like he meant what he said, and he wasn't just trying to be nice.
.
.
.
.
.
After spending almost the whole night texting one another, the conversation eventually came to an end naturally. He hearted your last message, saying nothing else after, and you immediately knew it was best to end here.
Tonight was already enough. Already special.
Getting to talk to him like a friend felt amazing. It felt great going to sleep knowing that you'd made him laugh a couple of times. That you'd been genuine. That you hadn't messed it up.
You placed your phone on your nightstand, a soft smile lingering on your face as you drifted off.
Back at Jobe's place, he was in his kitchen alone this whole time texting you. He'd originally come downstairs to grab a snack and had somehow ended up spending a whole two hours leaning against the kitchen counter, entertained through every moment, not wanting it to end.
"Been a while since I've had such a fun conversation like this," he thought to himself. "Much less meeting someone new that felt so genuine."
He'd had to cut the conversation short with you because he knew he'd spend the whole night texting you, and he couldn't afford to mess up his perfect routine—the one he'd gotten so used to.
He sat for a moment in silence, eating at the kitchen table. Soaking in everything about his current life.
Mum's back with Jude away in Spain. Dad's gone for yet another "business-related trip." And I'm just here in Germany. All alone. As usual.
Jobe thought about it more. The only time he really met new people was at work. On the field. He didn't party, spend his money badly, or hang out every weekend with random girls. He was just either home or on the field.
It felt kinda isolated now that he thought about it.
He thought back on your words again: "Must be exhausting having to second-guess everyone's intentions."
He laughed at himself in pity.
"Huh. If that wasn't the case, maybe I wouldn't be all alone right about now."
"I'd probably be out, innit."
"Enjoying my youth."
The atmosphere shifted. This wasn't the first time Jobe had a moment like this with himself while all of his family was away. It tended to hit him harder. But he always woke up the next day trying to be the best version of himself. "I'm not even hungry anymore," Jobe said aloud to the empty kitchen, getting up from the kitchen chair to head to bed.
Ending the night quietly, but with a lot of thoughts on his mind.
.
.
.
.
.
It had been a while since you'd last talked to Jobe. The conversation you'd shared that night was potentially the first and last. Sure, you wanted more from this. You'd thought it was going to lead to something more. But you had to remember after all, you were still just a stranger to him. And he kinda was to you too. Even though you knew a lot about him, it was just what the media shared. Not personally him.
Not really.
But something kept you curious.
He never seemed to stop viewing your stories. Ever since you'd both texted each other, he always watched whatever you would post. He didn't follow you back,obviously, to not cause any more controversy or dating rumours, especially since that picture had stirred up enough already. But he was always stalking. Always the first name to pop up in your views.
Every. Single. Time.
You'd test it sometimes. Post something random at odd hours like a picture of your breakfast, a mirror selfie, a snippet of a song you were listening to. And without fail, within minutes, his name would appear in the views.
Jobe Bellingham viewed your story.
He didn't even try to hide it anymore.
There was no reason for him to do such a thing. Yet he always did. You weren't sure if it was supposed to be a signal of some sort. A way of saying "I'm still thinking about you." Or maybe it meant nothing at all. Maybe he just scrolled through his feed mindlessly like everyone else, and your stories happened to pop up. But every time you saw his name, your heart would do that stupid little flip. And you'd spend the next ten minutes overanalysing what it could possibly mean. Whatever it was, it was confusing.
And what was even more nerve-wracking? The game.
The match was coming up in just a week from now.
You'd started worrying about everything. Getting your hair done. Finding the perfect outfit. Getting a jersey with Jobe's name and player number on it, literally anything to go all out. After all, it was your first football match in person. And your second time getting to see Jobe again. And to be honest? You kinda cared about that more than the match itself.
You'd spent the last few days obsessing over the smallest details. What if he saw you in the crowd? What if he waved? What if he didn't even notice you were there? What if you embarrassed yourself somehow?
Your cousins had been no help at all.
"You're going to look so cute, he won't be able to keep his eyes off you," Mia had said, practically shaking with excitement.
"Just don't trip walking up the stairs to your seat, and you'll be fine," Leah had added with a wicked grin.
"Very helpful, thank you... Leah," you'd replied dryly, shooting her a look.
But the truth was, you were terrified. And excited. And nervous. And hopeful. All at once.
You'd even bought the jersey online, specifically with his name and number on the back. When it arrived, you'd held it up, staring at the letters printed across the fabric.
JOBE. 7.
It felt so real now You were really going to see him again.
.
.
.
.
.
Back in Germany, Jobe was trying his hardest not to think about you.
Emphasis on trying.
He'd found himself checking your story more times than he'd like to admit. It had become a habit at this point,one he wasn't sure how to break. Or if he even wanted to break it. You posted something? He watched it. You posted nothing? He checked anyway, just in case. It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous. He was a professional footballer with a rigorous training schedule, and here he was, refreshing your profile like a yearning boy.
But he couldn't help it.
There was something about you that he couldn't quite forget. The way you'd spoken to him on the beach. The way you'd said you watched all his games like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way you'd understood—like genuinely understood—why he was so cautious with people. he'd even thought you were going to post your conversation with him everywhere. That's what most people would've done, right? Screenshot the messages, post them online, brag about getting his attention. But you hadn't pushed. You hadn't asked for anything. You'd done nothing after.
And he hadn't stopped thinking about you since. You treated him like a normal person.
While Jobe was hanging out with his friends playing FIFA at home, his phone was beside him on the sofa. It buzzed, and he glanced at it instinctively. A notification. You'd just added a story to your account.
He stared at the screen for a moment, not wanting to put down the controller so suddenly in the middle of the game.
Don't watch it. Don't be weird. Give it a rest.
But not too long after, he placed the controller aside, picked his phone up, turned the brightness down, and watched it.
It was a picture of you holding up a jersey. His jersey. With his name and number on the back. Your face was partially hidden behind the fabric, but he could see your smile just from your eyes. That bright, pretty smile that had been burned into his memory since the
day at the beach. His heart did something strange. A feeling he almost rarely got. You were coming to his game. And it finally clicked to him again. You were going to be in the crowd. Wearing his name. He quickly exited the app, locking his phone and side-eyeing his surroundings immediately. His ears were red. And of course, Carney caught it once again.
"You aite?" Carney asked, one eyebrow raised in suspicion.
"Fine," Jobe said quickly. "Just fine."
Carney didn't look convinced this time. "You did that same thing before, man."
"What thing?" Jobe scoffed, but the heat in his ears only intensified.
"Is there something you're not telling me, mate?" Carney said, grinning now. "You've been on your phone so much recently. It's weird... like you barely use that thing."
Jobe's body language shifted to an awkward, tense position. He tried laughing it off. "You taking a piss? Bro, I always use my phone. What you mean?"
Carney just looked at him for a while and shook his head with a little sigh. "Hiding things from me now?"
Jobe sucked his teeth before picking up his controller. "I swear, I swear I'm really not."
He then added once again, trying to redirect the conversation. "The game's been passed for too long now."
A while after, Jobe went upstairs to use the bathroom.
He washed his face and stared at himself in the mirror for a while, running his hand through his curls, letting out a frustrated sigh.
"What is wrong with me?"
He'd met hundreds of people outside his close friends and family. Thousands, probably. Fans, teammates, acquaintances. But yet, none of them had made him feel this way. None of them made him overthink this much. Why were you making him feel nervous all of a sudden, knowing that you were coming to his game? Wearing his name on your back as well. And why was a part of him so excited to finally see you again
.
.
.
.
.
The day before the match, you took your flight, leaving your hometown to fly to Germany to meet with your aunt. You'd be staying at her place for one week before heading back home after the match to spend time with her as well. Her house was twenty minutes away from where the game would be played and about a good ten minutes from Borussia Dortmund's training ground. Everything was pretty convenient.
Arriving at your Aunt Ida's place at the late hours of the night from the airport, you settled in quickly and caught up with her, reminiscing about all the old memories you'd shared with each other. She’s Mia's mother, but Mia had moved out last year to attend one of her dream colleges away from home. Since then, Aunt Ida had been in this house here alone. After chatting, she showed you to Mia's old room—the one you'd be staying in for the next week.
"I haven't came in here since Mia left," Aunt Ida admitted when you both walked in with your suitcases.
"I can tell. It feels untouched," you said softly, looking around at the room frozen in time.
Aunt Ida watched around for a moment, like she was reliving all her moments in here with Mia. You could tell she missed Mia's company around a lot. That's probably why she'd rarely ever been at home, to avoid herself from thinking about her.
"Well... here it is!" she said, her voice brightening again. "I hope you make yourself comfy. I'll be upstairs if you need anything."
"Thanks, Aunty," you said, giving her a warm hug.
After she departed, you finished unpacking, showered, and put on your comfy sleeping clothes. Standing in front of Mia's full-body length mirror, you snapped a picture to share on your social media. You added a simple caption—just a little heart—and tagged the location.
You weren't really thinking much of it. Just wanted to document your arrival.
But after that picture with Jobe, you'd gained a lot of followers that were fans of his. Some followed because of how pretty you were. And some followed because they were convinced you were his secret girlfriend. What you didn't realise was that you were just so happened to be close to the alleged residential area Jobe was speculated to have an apartment at. Everything was starting to feel like it was written in the stars at this point. You didn't even know you were adding more fuel to the dating theories between you both. Much less known about him living so close.
That night, alone in his apartment, Jobe like always, once again found himself scrolling through your profile. He'd basically memorised it by now. He memorized that outfit you wore at that one family gathering you had. He knew your favourite aesthetic. He had a solid idea of what your humour was now. And he still didn't know you. Not really.
But he wanted to.
He viewed your story. First, admiring the picture of you—your figure, your smile, the way you looked so comfortable and at ease. You were so effortlessly pretty, and it made his chest tighten in a way he wasn't used to. And then he saw the location tag in the corner.
His eyes widened. His stomach dropped.
She's literally five minutes away from me right now.
It hit him again, but harder this time. He was seeing you tomorrow.
His nerves got the best of him. He opened the chat. The last message was from that night—the one he'd hearted, the one he'd left on read because he knew if he kept talking, he would never stop. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
"Maybe I should just..."
"No. Don't be a prat."
He closed the app, tossing his phone onto the bed.
He smiled despite himself. A soft, genuine smile that he couldn't quite hide.
"It’s getting serious now," he whispered to the empty room.
"I gotta give it my all tomorrow."
It was match day.
And you felt constant butterflies in your stomach as you thought about seeing Jobe in person again. You stood in front of the mirror, the jersey perfectly fitted, your hair exactly how you wanted it, and your nerves absolutely through the roof. You looked good. You knew you looked good.
You took a deep breath, grabbing your bag as you headed out the door, your aunt being the driver. The car ride was a blur of nervous chatter and Aunty Ida's reassuring smiles. She'd been to plenty of matches before—she knew the drill. "You'll have a wonderful time, schatz," she said in her soft German-accented English. "Just enjoy the moment."
Easier said than done, you thought, your leg bouncing with nervous energy.
Arriving at the stadium, you found your assigned seat and walked through the crowd. The stadium was electric and loud today for the match against Borussia Dortmund and FC Bayern. You saw the banners and the big gathering of fans in red and yellow in front of your eyes and not over a screen this time. Everything felt so surreal. You couldn't believe you were actually here, witnessing your first match.
Your seat was about four rows behind the front row seats. Not too bad—the view was still pretty nice. But oh, how you wished you were in the front so maybe, just maybe, he would look in your section and see you cheering him on. You weren't sure how he was going to see you, but you hoped maybe he would.
It was still special to see him play, at least.
You recorded moments on your phone to send to your friends and family back home before the match started. The atmosphere was building, the chants growing louder, the anticipation palpable in the air. Finally, the stadium commentator announced that the match was about to start.
"Get ready for your players!"
They all came out one by one, holding the hands of the children alongside them. Your eyes scanned the line, searching for that familiar face. And then—
There he was.
Jobe walked out with a young boy holding his hand, his expression focused but soft. He looked so different from the guy you'd met on the beach. Here, he was in his element. Professional. Commanding. handsome.
The camera panned to each player, and you tried to hide your smile as you watched Jobe on the big screen.
"Ugh, I missed that face," you admitted under your breath, trying not to let the couple beside you hear your words.
And then, kick off.
The match started, and the crowd which was already cheering prior to that—got louder now. Your eyes were all over the pitch, tracking the ball. You shouted along with others:
"How is that not a foul?" you yelled, pulling onto the shirts of random strangers beside you who did the same. "Did you see that? He's trying to get a free kick!"
"Yess, that little—"
The atmosphere was like no other. You could get used to this, you thought to yourself as you watched along, completely immersed in the action. There was a moment when the camera that showed fans on the big screen panned to you. It stayed for a while. Your visuals were pretty and distracting, the jersey, your hair, the way your eyes were fixed on the pitch with such intensity.
You were too busy looking at the players on the field—that being Jobe—that you missed it entirely.
A guy beside you tapped your shoulder right as the camera went off you. "YOU'RE ON THE SCREEN!" he shouted over the noise. You leaned into him, frowning. "Huh?". "You missed it already! But I said the camera was on you!" he shouted down your ear once more.
"Oh? What the heck, really?" It caught you by complete surprise.
Your cheeks flushed as you realised thousands of people had just seen your face on that massive screen. You glanced around self-consciously, but the crowd was already moving on, their attention back on the pitch. While being on the pitch, waiting for the ball to come his way, Jobe looked up momentarily. And he caught it.
Your face. Just as it left the screen.
His adrenaline grew even more. Just by seeing your pretty face for a second made him look down on the grass, swishing it with his shoes all of a sudden. No way he got nervous from just that.
He saw where the cameraman had panned to, so now he had an idea of the section you were at. Even if he didn't see your face himself anymore, he knew you were there. Watching him. The ball got passed to him, and he was back in focus mode.
.
.
.
.
.
Running to the penalty area, about to take the ball from his opponent, Jobe got smacked by a foot, causing him to fall. The referee blew his whistle immediately.
The crowd went wild. If they potentially got this penalty, the score would be 2-1 and they could potentially win. The referee viewed the VAR and came back onto the field. "After review, number 12 tripped number 7. The final decision is a penalty."
The Borussia Dortmund fans cheered in excitement including you.
And to your surprise, Jobe was taking the penalty. At that time, a photographer was passing around, taking shots of fans in the crowd. Once again, you weren't really paying him much mind since it looked like he was just passing by. You held your hands together against your face, creating a praying sign with watery eyes as you looked on.like that one Bella Hadid picture.
"Please make this shot. Please make it," you pleaded, your voice barely a whisper. It caught the photographer's attention. It looked so captivating, so cinematic to him. He stood up, angling his lens to focus on you solely.
Click.
He took the shot and passed along, saying under his breath: "Beautiful." Jobe took a deep breath and prepared himself to strike, analysing the goalkeeper's movements, hoping his prediction would be right.
"One... two... three," he mentally counted.
And struck.
The stadium went dead silent for a moment. All watching, some hoping for it to go in. Some hoped for it to not.
He scored. He actually did it.
You screamed and cheered, hugging those close by you. The energy was infectious, the joy overwhelming. Your eyes were watery for a completely different reason now. Jobe ran off from the area where he'd scored his goal and towards the section he'd seen the camera man pan to earlier—where your face had appeared on the big screen.
He did a heart shape sign with his fingers as he watched the fans. Your view was being blocked by the people in front of you. You were sure he probably didn't see you. That heart was probably for those girls in the front. You frowned at the thought. "This was the perfect moment for him to see me, and he didn't," you muttered. "Why did I have to be so far behind?" Jobe went back to the field, celebrating with his teammates before going back to play again.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Then, soon after, before you knew it, the final whistle blew. The match was up. Borussia Dortmund vs FC Bayern: 2-1. The stadium slowly started to empty while the players and players soon left. Some stars were doing interviews, others were in the locker room packing things up and celebrating. You lingered around, walking slower than usual as you left the stadium, hoping that you would somehow see him somewhere. Probably interacting with fans. But nothing. Not a single sight of him anywhere. Your heart sank a little. Maybe this was it. Maybe that was all it was ever going to be. As you were about to make a call for your aunt to come get you, your phone buzzed.
A message came in.
And finally, after all this time, it was him:
"Are you still here?"
You'd never answered a message so quickly in your life.
"Yes I am, I was just planning to leave."
He responded back even faster:
"you got 5 minutes to spare, yeah?"
You smiled at the message like it was a dream come through. At last, you were finally getting to see him up close before you headed home.
"Where the interviews are taking place, can you walk there? And keep going straight down the corridor. I'm outside standing."
Your heart beating fast in your chest as you read his next message:
"I've got something for ya ;)"
You frowned your face in suspicion. Part of you was excited right now, and part of you was curious.
"I'm walking right now," you typed, moving on over to the area he'd directed you towards.
You walked slowly, passing players doing interviews that also watched you with wandering eyes as you made your way through the corridor. Some security even watched you with suspicion but didn't approach you or say anything. You clearly looked like you weren't supposed to be there, yet they let you pass by. You weren't sure why, though. As you kept walking, you saw him.
That familiar build. That height. That face.
He was standing near a door, wearing a black long-sleeved compressed shirt, shorts, slides, and his jersey,the one he'd played with today,in his hand. His hair was slightly damp from the match, a few curls falling across his forehead.
He looked beyond handsome.
You tried your best to hold back your smile.
And he wasn't afraid of hiding his, in that moment. It was bright and charming, reaching his eyes in a way that made your stomach flip completely.
"Y/N!!" he dragged in an excited tone. Your name sounded quite familiar to his tongue. "Jobeee," you did in return, your voice coming out softer than you'd intended. And for a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stood there, looking at each other, both smiling like idiots. The tension was thick. Electric. Perfect. He handed you his shirt before he could even say anything.
"Since it's your first match, I wanted to make it special."
You took it, your hands shaking a little as you held it up, watching it from side to side. And then you noticed his signature on it as well—scrawled across the fabric in permanent marker. "I hate to be cheesy, but..." you admitted, looking up at him. "I don't think I'll ever forget this moment." Your genuine smile made him smile even more. His eyes crinkled at the corners in that way you'd memorised from the beach.
"Glad you liked it."
It was pure silence for a moment, mostly of him admiring you admiring his shirt. You finally broke it.
"How'd you feel scoring that goal out there?" Your tone was soft as you asked.
He chuckled first before he answered. "Don't even get me started, mate. I think that might've been my favourite goal this season. It's a miracle how that went in, honestly—"
He started going on and on, just like that moment at the beach. You watched his whole outburst in amazement, even laughing at some moments. And just like that, the 'just a fan and celebrity' status started to drift away between you both. You had him laughing, and he had you laughing. You both leaned against the wall, talking about everything that took place on the field today. He even admitted:
"You know I did my little victory dance by your section because I saw that you were there. Well... not saw you exactly, but the camera man that put you on the big screen—I watched the section he did it at."
You pushed his shoulder with a little teasing smile. "Bro, some guy told me about that big screen thing. I can't believe I missed that!" You sighed dramatically. "I was too busy worrying about you, mate."
He laughed. "Me? What did I do?"
This. A moment like this was something Jobe had always been longing for. And him finally experiencing it had his emotions all over the place.
"I don't want this moment to come to an end," he thought, his smile soft as he looked down at you ranting away. "When will I see her again?" "How long will I have to wait for something like this again?" Thoughts flooded through his mind as he watched you, completely captivated. Your phone rang off.
"Oop, sorry—um my aunt's calling," you said, stepping aside to take it.
He listened silently as you spoke back to her.
"Mhmm, yep, okay... yeah, I'll be out there... yes, I swear I'm on my way."
He knew you were about to leave. And he didn't want to admit it, neither to you nor to himself that he didn't want you to go. You pushed your phone back into your pocket slowly.
"Well..." you said, your tone nervous and sad all at once. "I've got to go now."
He knew it.
"What a bummer," he said, stretching his arms out to pull you in for a hug. You went in for it before your brain could even analyse what was happening fully."Yeah….I know," you sighed, sinking into his buff arms. His biceps covered half your face. Mid-way into the hug, it clicked to you. Your eyes widened, and you naturally gripped onto him tighter.
"Holy crap, I'm hugging him," your brain malfunctioned at that moment.
But you didn't let go. Neither did he. And it was like he didn't want to. Your body heat against his was warm. You felt so soft around him he thought. It was only silence for a moment between you both just savouring the last few seconds. Your phone dinged off, ruining the moment.
"That's probably my aunt again," you said, your mouth slightly muffled by his arms covering you. He laughed before hesitantly pulling away. "Let's not get you in any more trouble now." You let go, holding his shirt close as you waved him goodbye before walking off.He watched you all the way until you weren't in sight anymore.
.
.
.
.
.
.
On your way back home, you ranted to your aunt about everything that happened today and the game...well almost everything. You made sure not to mention going to meet him. She was fully convinced you got the shirt from him by throwing it into the crowd. It would've been harder to explain how you got it the real way anyway—since you didn't want anyone to know he'd texted you.You got back home in Mia's room, telling your cousins about the game today and sending them the pictures and videos you took.
It was getting late.
And Jobe was getting frustrated.
He was so eager to see you again that he thought of the most dumbest idea he could possibly think of. One where if his parents only found out about even the thought of this—it would be 100% be over for him. He needed to not get caught at all if this plan was to unfold.
That plan was bringing you over to his place.
No secret cameras. No people around. Just you two.
It was dumb, and he knew it. Not dumb because of you, but because he barely knew you truly and it was such a risky move to make. This was one thing his parents, his mother especially, would be against. But his feelings—he wasn't even sure what to call this feeling whatever it was, it was getting the best of him. All he knew was that he wanted to see you again. Even for just five minutes.
In the middle of an ongoing call with your cousins as you brushed your teeth, a message came in.
It was Jobe. In the middle of you explaining how the penalty goal went down, you went dead silent.
"Y/N?"
"The call is breaking up, girl."
"I didn't hear the last part," said Leah. Mia agreed: "Yeah, it went silent."
You stared at the screen.
"Y/N, are you awake?"
You didn't know what to say at that moment because you wanted to scream in excitement and tell them Jobe had just asked if you were awake. But they didn't even know you guys had continued to talk after the picture with him to begin with, and you usually told each other everything.
"Guys..." you started. "I'll have to call you back. Uh... mum's trying to get onto me. Hold on."
You hung up before they could respond. You were fully convinced Jobe was about to ask to call you, so you did up your hair quickly and put on cuter sleeping wear than usual. Sitting on the chair at Mia's study table near her lamp, you responded:
"Hey, yeah I am. What's up?"
"Can I ask you something stupid?"
You laughed at yourself. "Ha, I was right—he is about to call me."
"Can you leave your house?"
The air went thin. Your face felt hollow.
"What?" you responded back, extremely confused.
He turned disappearing messages on, saying:
"I want to see you. But you've got to promise you won't try to record or take pictures of anything. You can't... like seriously."
"I'll come get you."
"I believe you're staying 5 minutes away from where I stay."
"All I need to know is if you can leave your house this late?"
He said one after the other.
You read everything with fear and excitement building up in your system. It was 10:45pm. Aunt Ida was in bed, but you needed to leave the house quietly and most definitely be back before sunrise heck, before 12 if you were being honest. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The minute you got back home, this wasn't going to happen again. And his next game wouldn't be in Germany.
"Do it.""No, don't do it."
Your mind was spiralling.
You sent him your location not giving it a second thought.
"Tell me when you're close, and please be quiet when you're pulling up."
He hearted your message immediately. You could tell he was just as nervous as you were, waiting for the final message:
"I'm coming."
"And here I thought him giving me his shirt today couldn't be topped," you whispered to yourself, scrambling around your room. "What did I do in my past to be this lucky?" "What do you mean I'm now about to HANGOUT with JOBE?" You scrambled around your room, looking for the perfect outfit. Tonight had to be a special one. You threw open Mia's wardrobe, pulling out options. Too fancy? Too casual? What do you even wear when a footballer is picking you up in the middle of the night?
.
.
.
.
Finally you found the perfect outfit after rambling through anything you could wear. You checked your reflection in the mirror, heart pounding.
Your phone buzzed.
"I'm outside."
Your stomach dropped. Your hands trembled as you grabbed the house keys, your phone, and your jacket. You tiptoed through the dark house, every creak of the floorboards making you freeze. The front door clicked open, and you slipped out into the cool night air.
And there he was.
Jobe was leaning against a sleek black luxurious car, his hands in his pockets, a nervous but excited smile on his face. He'd changed into something more casual, a full all black hoodie and sweats combo with his hood over his head yet he still looked like he'd just stepped off a magazine cover.
"You actually came outside," he said, his voice soft with disbelief.
"You actually asked to see me," you replied, equally in disbelief.
He opened the passenger door for you, and you slid in, the leather seat cool against your skin. He got in on the driver's side, turning to look at you with those dark eyes that made your heart flutter.
"So..." he started, his accent thick with nerves. "What do you wanna do?"
You laughed, the tension breaking. "You're the one who asked me to come out here. You tell me." He grinned, that charming, boyish grin that gave you instant butterflies. "Alright then. Let's just... drive for a bit? Talk?"
"Perfect," you said softly.
And as the car pulled away from the curb, you couldn't help but think that this right here, right now was the beginning of something you never saw coming.
What have I gotten myself into?
But for the first time, you didn't care. You were just excited to find out
Author note.☘︎ ݁˖- thank you so much for the overwhelming support and love i’ve received for my first ever fanfic on here it still feels surreal to me, I hope you enjoyed this one just as much as the first and I’m planning on making this story a series🤍
summary: Everyone in the France dressing room knows Michael Olise as the quiet one. Until one post-match phone call reveals there's exactly one person who can get him talking, and smiling, without even trying.
warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, post-match celebrations.
wc: 1.2k
main masterlist | football masterlist
The final whistle had barely finished echoing around the stadium before the atmosphere inside France's dressing room dissolved into organised chaos.
Somewhere near the showers, Ousmane was already arguing, far louder than necessary, that the referee had ignored at least three fouls on him. Theo had disappeared with a towel thrown over his shoulders, still shaking his head at whatever story Jules was dramatically reenacting to anyone willing to listen. Empty water bottles rolled lazily across the tiled floor every time someone accidentally kicked one, boots were abandoned wherever players had decided to take them off, and the sharp smell of fresh grass mixed with deep heat, muscle spray and shampoo drifted through the room.
Music blasted from a speaker someone had connected to without asking, loud enough that nobody could quite agree on what song was actually playing.
France had qualified top of the group.
Nobody was in any rush to leave.
Laughter bounced off every wall, cameras from the team's media crew occasionally slipping inside to capture little moments for social media before being politely ushered back out again.
Michael sat quietly at his locker.
Exactly where he always did.
His jersey clung to his skin, still damp from ninety minutes of football as he slowly unlaced one boot after the other. The noise around him barely registered anymore. After years in football, dressing rooms had become white noise, loud enough that they somehow felt peaceful.
He reached for his phone almost automatically.
His thumb hovered over your name for barely a second before pressing call.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
By the third ring, his shoulders had begun to sink ever so slightly, the smallest hint of disappointment creeping in.
Then—
Your face appeared.
The picture shook slightly as you adjusted your phone, clearly walking somewhere before finally settling down.
"There he is."
You smiled the second you saw him.
Not the polite smile you gave players during interviews.
Not the one cameras usually caught.
This one was different.
Your eyes softened almost immediately, the corners crinkling just enough to make that tiny dimple appear in your left cheek, the one he always insisted was his favourite thing about your smile, even though you rolled your eyes every single time he mentioned it.
"There he is," you repeated, tilting your head. "Look at you."
Michael couldn't help it.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
Then the other.
"Hi."
"Hi?" You laughed. "That's all I get after you disappear for two hours?"
"We were playing."
"I know."
"I was busy."
"Oh really? I had no idea."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"I watched the match, by the way."
"I assumed."
"You looked good."
"I looked tired."
"You looked good and tired."
He shook his head.
"You always have something to say."
"I literally get paid to."
That earned another laugh.
A real one.
One that made him lean back against the locker with a hand covering his mouth for a second.
"No." Kylian pointed across the room without taking his eyes off Michael. "Not him."
Almost on cue, another laugh escaped Michael as you said something else.
Then another.
His shoulders relaxed completely, his posture losing the stiffness it carried during every interview. One elbow rested lazily against his knee as he listened to you ramble about a questionable refereeing decision, nodding every few seconds despite the fact you couldn't even see half of it through the screen.
"So..." you continued, narrowing your eyes playfully. "Explain something to me."
He smiled.
"What?"
"What exactly was that shot in the sixty-third minute?"
"My shot?"
"Was that your attempt at football?"
"It was blocked."
"It was going wide."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely—"
"You're impossible."
"I prefer observant."
"You prefer annoying."
"I can be both."
His laugh came quicker this time.
Louder.
Enough that almost the entire dressing room turned.
Silence spread in waves.
One by one.
Theo looked over.
Then Jules.
Then Warren.
Then Désiré.
Even Didier Deschamps, halfway through congratulating one of the staff members, paused for the briefest moment, his eyes drifting toward the corner of the room.
Michael Olise...
...was talking.
Not answering questions.
Talking.
Properly.
Sentence after sentence.
His hands even moved while he spoke.
Kylian slowly folded his arms.
"I genuinely didn't know he could form paragraphs."
Ousmane blinked.
"Forget paragraphs..."
He pointed dramatically across the room.
"...He's smiling."
Every head turned again.
Sure enough...
Michael hadn't noticed a single pair of eyes on him.
His entire attention remained fixed on the tiny rectangle in his hand.
"So..." he said, a grin still tugging at his lips. "You weren't even there and somehow you've still got opinions about everything."
"I always have opinions."
"I noticed."
"You should've squared the ball to Kylian."
"He told me the same thing."
"See?"
"I think you're conspiring."
"Obviously."
He shook his head, smiling to himself.
"I miss you."
The words slipped out so naturally he didn't even realise he'd said them.
Your expression softened instantly.
The teasing disappeared.
"I know."
Your voice was quieter now.
"I missed being there today too."
"I kept looking for you."
"You did?"
He nodded without thinking.
"Every time we scored."
The smile on your face grew impossibly softer.
"I'll be there next match."
"I know."
"You'll probably tell me everything I did wrong again."
"Every single thing."
"I thought so."
Another laugh.
Kylian looked genuinely offended.
He glanced around the room before dramatically throwing both hands into the air.
"Who is this man?"
The entire dressing room burst into laughter.
Michael finally looked up.
Only then did he realise every single one of his teammates had completely abandoned whatever they were doing to stare at him.
"What?"
Ousmane stepped forward first.
"No, no, no."
He pointed at the phone.
"Put her on speaker."
Michael frowned.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because."
Kylian was already laughing.
"We've just witnessed you speak more in the last five minutes than you've spoken all training camp."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
Michael sighed.
"You lot are unbelievable."
Before anyone could reply, your voice drifted clearly through the phone.
"Leave my boyfriend alone."
The room froze for exactly one second.
Then Désiré clutched his chest dramatically.
"Oh, she's defending him!"
Theo started laughing so hard he nearly dropped the bottle in his hand.
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the warmth creeping up his neck.
"They're never going to let this go."
"No," you laughed, the sound filling his ear through the speaker. "They're absolutely going to bully you for the rest of the tournament."
He looked around at twenty-something grown men grinning at him like children who'd just discovered the world's biggest secret.
Then he looked back at your face on the screen.
For maybe the first time all evening, the noise of the dressing room faded into the background again.
