kyliansbff
kyky de bondy
'98 was a great year for french football, kylian mbappé was born.
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i adore him so much. my talented boy
Kylian Mbappé, 2017.
translated by me
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marco verratti is genuinely the funniest lil man ever like he’s just some guy with a short man’s temper that somehow pulled the baddest bitch and always always talks himself into a red card. my fave ever moment in psg history is when he was complaining to the ref and thiago came over and literally slapped his hand over his mouth, grabbed his lips and told him to just shut. up. right in front of the ref. marco is chaos. marco is grace. marco is genuinely all over the fucking place.
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plot: it's neymar's birthday and he introduces kylian mbappé to one of his friends.
enséñame | kylian mbappé
"kyky! that's y/n!" neymar spoke sounding a little more groggy than usual due to drinking
"nice to meet you..." she said reluctantly, a little more shy as she started a clumsy hug and placed a kiss on each of the brunette's cheeks
kylian liked feeling in control, feeling like he caused some kind of shyness, not realizing that he was motionless after the hug, completely still. the girl smelled like some floral perfume, which normally isn't one of his favorites, but somehow it calmed him down.
"cat got your tongue, kyky?" neymar said laughing too loud that was when kylian realized that he was standing still and silently watching the girl. the suit felt a thousand times tighter and warmer now.
"i'm kylian. kylian mbappé" he said it as if he were a soldier reporting to his superior she lets out a weak laugh, still looking into his eyes.
kylian mbappe was one of the most confident men she had ever heard of, according to ney. but now he looked cute. in the back of the party marquinhos called neymar for a photo, shouting loudly and laughing with other friends from brazil.
"do you speak french?" kylian said in broken english
"i can say a few words...i think i can at least order coffee if you drop me off on some street in paris" she says with a joking tone. "we can speak spanish if it's more comfortable than english" silent, as if he was studying the option. neymar had certainly already mentioned that he did know how to speak spanish, in fact very well by the way.
"i can talk a little, you know?" he said putting his hand behind his head
"ney told me you were fluent, kyky!" she said as she settled into the nearest small table. the nickname.
"i'm doubting a lot of things right now, s/h. especially if i'm really a social person, i swear i'm more talkative than that."
"you're not feeling comfortable, is that it?" she said a little more apprehensively as she arranged the small bottle of water on the table
"actually, i am. i'm feeling fine, i just don't want to talk nonsense! you know how it is, right? when a man sees a beautiful woman, sometimes he ends up talking more than he should..."
"and now you're flirting? i understand you, kyky. i'm also doing everything not to say what i shouldn't, you know how it is, right? a woman when she sees a handsome man..."
they both let out a chuckle.
for some strange reason, but not so strange, since it was neymar's birthday, enséñame started playing.
es dolor el saber que lo nuestro se puede terminar
porque, simple y sencillamente, nunca he sabido actuar
"i love this song! this is literally my childhood!" she said with the biggest smile of all night. she got up, straightening the hem of her dress, straightening some of the dark hair that was falling in her face, placed the small bag on the table.
"señor, ¿bailarías conmigo?" (sir, would you dance with me?) she said with one hand behind her body and the other outstretched.
"sí. mi señora, con mucho gusto!" (yes, my lady, with pleasure) he said with the biggest smile of the night, the biggest smile in days actually.
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here in brazil, neymar's political position is a mess tbh. he advocated most of his career to defend black people, poor people, people from the favela lol out of nowhere he appeared supporting the piece of shit that is bolsonaro... men are very scaryyyyyy
RANT (HOT TAKE??)
so ik i make my lil jokey jokes here about footballers but sometimes they say things and i remember "yup that's a rich man who votes..."
for example neymar was asked about the footballer jakub jankto who recently came out as gay (good for him!) and neymar talked about free love and freedom of choice. but neymar seems to forget he votes and advocates for bolsonaro. uk the covid denying homophobic racist anti-choice zionist? yah, that bolsonaro.
so that statement coming out of his mouth seemed so disingenuous to me. very much a side-eye moment. as if the brazil nt isn't fighting tooth and nail for the kit to be seperated from right wing nationalists. and u can say, "but swaggypsyduck, what did u want him to do? be homophobic on camera?" no, of course not. i'm very happy he made that statement i just wish his voting and advocacy reflects that statement too.
anyways remember yall when we eat the rich that includes all our babygirls (actors/athletes). we shall do it w tears but it must be done.
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this is so him :( pretty
“Don’t you think it’s so sad?” It’s the first time you’ve spoken in nearly an hour, your voice slightly hoarse to prove it. The colours on the screen are all melting together and casting light onto your face.
Truthfully, Kylian hadn’t been paying much attention up until now. It might be an unpopular opinion, but old Hollywood films were like his equivalent of those sleep sound machines that make rainforest noises. He got all sleepy and floppy as soon as the opening credits rang out. “What is?
“That no one really writes letters anymore.” You look down at where he’s asleep by your side, eyebrows furrowed together in sadness. His forehead resting against the outside of your thigh. “I’d love to get a love letter.”
“You’ve never been given one?” He had assumed you would’ve at some point in your life. That if anyone warrants an old-school declaration of love, it’s you. If ever given the opportunity, he’s sure he could write a whole cheesy book about all the little mundane things you do. The way your tongue always pokes out your mouth when you paint your nails. How when you cook anything you always add a tiny bit more for ‘good luck’. That you still tie your shoelaces using the bunny method.
“Of course not!” You reply as if the answer was already so plainly obvious, something that wasn’t worth questioning. Kylian’s heart does a funny lurch in his chest. For a moment he stays quiet, the transatlantic accents on the television filling up the silence. Wishing it was all very simple, and you could step in his shoes and see how you make his insides feel all warm and fuzzy.
“I’ll write you one.” Although he was good at it, he never particularly enjoyed all the reading and writing in school. Though for you he’ll sit down and read a whole dictionary to find the perfect words. He’ll go out and search for those old wax stamps they used to seal envelopes with. He’ll write in cursive for the first time since he was twelve.
“Will you?” Your voice now a whisper. Like you’re both suddenly two kids sharing secrets under a blanket tent.
“A really good one.” He clarifies, looking up at you through his eyelashes. Watching the way your head tilts cutely to the side, the collar of your pajama shirt all crumpled from the way you sleep with your cheek squished against the pillow. It defies human logic that no one has ever written a love letter to you. “All the old stuffy poets will be very jealous.”
You let out a little snort of laughter, using the ends of your fingers to push his head away jokingly. “Corny.”
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you're my best friend | kylian mbappé
bestfriend to lovers, inspired by the song you are in love by taylor swift.
one look, dark room meant just for you.
when you met kylian it honestly wasn't love at first sight. admiration at first sight. it seemed that all eyes were focused on him. lucky would be the one who left this party with him.
time moved too fast, you play it back. buttons on a coat, light-hearted joke. no proof, not much... but you saw enough.
small talk, he drives. coffee at midnight. the light reflects, the chain on your neck...
you don't notice the moment a hello turns into a cute joke with his french accent or how different the shape of his mouth is when he speaks spanish. the way the loud laugh echoed when he said he'd be able to drive you home and you said "driving? i doubt it..." when you shared the first coffee at midnight. latte.
he says, "look up" and your shoulders brush. no proof, one touch but you felt enough.
when you sat side by side on the stairs and he showed you the sky. asked if you thought you'd end up leaving the party for coffee at midnight. the goofy smile when you say partying isn't your strong point, the shoulders touch.
the months passed. there was no way not to look at him and see comfort. kylian was no longer the guy who took you out for coffee at your first fundraiser, he was the guy you called when things didn't go well at work. the guy you sent huge paragraphs to about how your favorite singer released a new album. the guy who listened to hours and hours of theory about taylor swift songs.
you can hear it in the silence.
you can feel it on the way home.
you can see it with the lights out, lights out.
morning, his place. burnt toast, sunday.
you keep his shirt...he keeps his word.
mornings at his house became routine. go there after work and find him on the couch playing fifa. going to the bedroom and picking up any shirt that was on the bed with his scent on it and sitting in the living room to play with him was also routine. waking up in the morning with the smell of burnt toast, watching him try at all costs to do something in the kitchen other than the food already prepared by the nutritionist.
one day he was napping on the couch, a routine moment. he wakes...strange look on his face, pauses, then says:
you're my best friend
and you knew what it was he is in love. and so are you a thousand times more. in the silence of the living room, in the warmth of the sofa. in one of his psg sweatshirts. with the smell of home.
and for once, you let go of your fears and your ghosts... one step, not much but it said enough.
the first kiss didn't happen on the couch, it happened in the middle of the street. close to the 24-hour coffee shop that was routine when the two couldn't sleep.
you kiss on sidewalks. you fight and you talk.
it happened in the middle of one of the stupid, pointless fights. talking about him and his interest in any blonde that is minimally functional.
"you speak without understanding" he says
"kyky, even a blind man knows your type! skinny blonde french girls! i don't understand why you keep denying it all the time, denying is worse!"
"do you just like to pretend you can't see?" he says, taking another sip of the latte, which in the cold of Paris, felt warm in his hands.
"here it comes..." you say holding your own cup
"my type is very specific. likes to play fifa, loves bronwie, horror movies every tuesday. is in love with lilac, but always tells me that i look great in blue. my type actually has brown hair. cuts bangs whenever she's having an existential crisis, she looks great in them. my type, have the most beautiful eyes i've ever seen. you know it's you."
and you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars.
#kylian mbappe#mbappe x reader#kylian#psg#mbappe psg#kylian imagines#kylian x reader#mbappe#mbappé#imagines#football#soccer
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the sluttiest thing a man can do is wear clear frame glasses
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KYLIAN MBAPPÉ
Montpellier - PSG | Ligue 1 (February 1st, 2023)
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