#km7
Text
Thawed
Kimi Räikkönen x sunshine!Reader
Summary: the many times throughout the years that only the warmth of his wife could thaw the Iceman
“He’s just so … cold,” your aunt comments, wrinkling her nose at Kimi’s back as he heads to the bar. It’s the first time you’ve brought him to a family event.
You bristle, prepared to defend your new boyfriend. “He’s not cold once you get to know him. He’s just a private person.”
Your aunt sniffs. “Still, he barely said two words all night. And that nickname — the Iceman! I don’t like it.”
You straighten your spine. “Well I do. His thoughtfulness and loyalty outweigh any lack of words.”
As you speak, you feel your doubts about mismatched personalities fade. Opposites attract for a reason.
Your aunt looks unconvinced, but you pay her no mind. You’re falling for the quiet Finn with a heart of gold. And you won’t let anyone’s disapproval chill that flame.
When Kimi returns, you lean up and kiss his cheek fondly. He looks pleasantly surprised. Let them judge. You see the real man inside.
***
“Smash it! Smash it!” The rowdy groomsman chants as you and Kimi cut into your wedding cake.
Other guests take up the chant, clamoring for Kimi to shove cake in your face per tradition. But you had quietly asked him not to — you don’t want frosting up your nose and ruining your makeup on your wedding day.
Kimi’s eyes meet yours, a silent question. You give a slight shake of your head. His expression hardens with resolve.
In one smooth motion, he whirls and smashes the slice of cake directly into the rowdy groomsman’s face. Icing splatters everywhere. The room goes silent.
“Here you go, since you seem to want the cake smashed so bad,” Kimi says coldly.
The groomsman splutters in shock. You have to hide your smile behind your hand.
Kimi winks at you as he licks icing off his fingers. “Now, where were we?”
Heart swelling, you lean in to kiss your wonderful, cake-covered husband. No one gets in the way of your wishes on your wedding day.
***
The paddock is bustling with activity as you make your way through the crowds, weaving between mechanics and engineers going about their race day routines. The smells of rubber and gasoline hang thick in the air. You smile and nod at familiar faces, receiving knowing looks in return.
Everyone here knows who you are — the bubbly, outgoing wife of the Iceman himself. The unlikely pairing has been the talk of Formula 1 ever since you started dating a few years ago. You’re warm and chatty. He’s cool and laconic. But somehow, it works.
You find Kimi in the Ferrari motorhome, sipping an energy drink, game face on. His brows are furrowed in concentration, icy grey eyes focused straight ahead. You know not to disturb him right now. This is business time.
Slipping into the seat beside him, you pull out your phone and scroll aimlessly, letting the comfortable silence stretch between you. The hustle and noise of the paddock fades into the background.
Finally, Kimi drains the last drops from his can and crushes it in his hand. He turns to you, the stern expression melting away. His eyes soften and the corners of his mouth tick upward ever so slightly.
“Morning,” he says quietly, voice gravelly.
You beam at him. “Good morning, love. Ready to go racing today?”
He nods, the hint of a smile still playing on his lips. “Did you sleep okay?”
“I did, thanks to my very comfy race driver pillow.” You wink.
Kimi snorts, the creases around his eyes deepening. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your temple.
Around you, mechanics and team members try and fail to pretend they aren’t glancing your way, still not used to seeing the Iceman so openly affectionate. But Kimi doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“I’ll see you after,” he says, standing up and giving your hand a squeeze. His face settles back into cool concentration as he strides out to prepare for the race.
You settle in to watch qualifying, heart swelling with pride and love for your Finnish fireball.
***
“Kimi, the stewards want to speak with you about the incident with Perez on lap 37.”
Kimi’s jaw clenches, eyes flashing. “Typical,” he mutters.
You touch his arm reassuringly. “Go on, I’ll wait here for you.”
He nods, striding off to the steward’s office, race suit half unzipped and hair disheveled. You know he’ll be lucky to escape without a penalty. Kimi has never been one to mince words or hide his displeasure with other drivers. You can only imagine the icy staredown happening behind those closed doors right now.
Twenty minutes later, he emerges looking ready to smash a table. You jump up and hurry over.
“Well? What did they say?”
Kimi’s scowl deepens, if that’s even possible. “Ten second penalty. Ridiculous.” He spits out something in Finnish you’re glad you don’t understand.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. You drove brilliantly today.”
He shakes his head and stalks down the hall towards the paddock. You scurry after him, nearly jogging to match his long angry strides.
“Forget it. Not your fault the stewards are blind.”
You slip your hand into his, lacing your fingers together. Immediately you feel some of the tension leave his body. He glances down at you, the hint of a smile breaking through the thunderclouds.
“Let’s get out of here,” you say gently. “I’ll make you your favorite dinner, open a nice bottle of wine ...”
He nods, expression softening. “Okay. Sounds good.”
You smile up at him, giving his hand a squeeze. The stormy Finn may have a heart of ice on the track, but you know better. He just needs a little sunshine sometimes.
***
You pause in the kitchen doorway, heart melting at the scene before you. Kimi sits on the living room floor, your baby niece perched happily in his lap. He bounces her gently on his knee as she squeals with delight, the hint of a smile on his usually stoic face.
“Faster Unca Kimi, faster!” She cries, unruly curls flying.
He chuckles and picks up the pace, eliciting delighted giggles from her. Your sister watches nearby, still looking a bit bemused at seeing the Iceman so good natured and playful.
Finally Kimi stops, feigning exhaustion. “Whew, that’s enough for Uncle Kimi,” he says, lifting her up and pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. “You’re too fast!”
She dissolves into giggles and wraps her tiny arms around his neck in a hug. He hugs her back, looking more content than you’ve ever seen him. Your heart feels fit to burst.
“Who wants ice cream?” You announce, carrying in two bowls.
“Me, me!” Your niece starts to squirm in Kimi’s lap, reaching eagerly for her treat.
He stands, swinging her up easily onto his shoulders. “Let’s go have ice cream on the porch, give your mama a break,” he says. She kicks her little legs gleefully.
Your sister shoots you a grateful smile as Kimi carries her outside. You grin and wink. Who would believe it — the Iceman, a big softie for kids. But you know better. Under that cool exterior beats a heart of gold.
***
The crowds pressing around the circuit are suffocating today. Fans shove programs and merch at you for Kimi to sign. One overzealous teenage boy tries to wrap you in an uninvited hug.
Suddenly Kimi is there, gently but firmly detaching the boy’s hands from your arms. His face is thunderous.
“Back. Off.” The boy stumbles away wide-eyed.
Kimi keeps a protective grip on your shoulder as he marches you briskly from the paddock. Once inside the privacy of the motorhome, he cups your face in his hands.
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His tone is urgent.
You shake your head, still a bit shaken. “Just got grabby. Thank you for the rescue.”
Kimi exhales, pressing his forehead to yours. “I don’t like you getting swarmed out there.”
You smile wryly. “Hazards of being Mrs. Iceman.”
He brushes his thumb over your cheek. “I just want to keep you safe. Those crowds make me nervous.”
You kiss him softly. “I’ll be okay.”
His eyes bore into yours, icy blue melting into tenderness. “Still. Stay close to me out there from now on. So I can protect what’s most precious.”
Your heart flutters under his intent gaze. You lace your fingers through his, feeling infinitely cherished.
“Always.”
***
“Kimi, your phone is ringing again,” you call from the couch.
He doesn’t respond, gaze fixed intently on the TV as he navigates a difficult turn in his racing video game. The phone buzzes angrily on the coffee table.
With a sigh, you reach for it. The caller ID says “Bane of My Existence.” You frown. That’s the third call from her this week that he’s ignored.
“Kimi ...”
“Hmm?” He pauses the game and glances at you, eyebrows raised.
You hold up the phone. “It’s your PR officer again. Don’t you think you should answer and see what she wants?”
His expression clouds over. “No. Told her not to call me anymore.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” You keep your tone light and curious.
He shrugs. “Kept trying to get me to do stuff. Go to parties and all that.”
You bite back a smile, warmth flooding your chest. Your shy homebody of a husband, sought after on the celebrity circuit but wanting none of it.
“Well, I’m glad she hasn’t lured you away yet,” you tease gently.
The corners of his mouth quirk up as he takes the phone from you and sets it aside before pulling you into his lap.
“Don’t worry,” he rumbles, nudging your nose with his. “You’re the only party I need.”
You kiss him softly, heart overflowing. The glitz and glam means nothing to your Kimi. Home is where his heart is.
***
You awake to whispered voices and the smell of something burning. Bleary-eyed, you shuffle to the kitchen doorway.
Kimi stands at the stove, hair endearingly mussed from sleep. He’s scowling down at a frying pan, clutching a spatula like a weapon. Your brother leans against the counter, trying and failing to stifle laughter.
“What’s going on?” You ask through a yawn.
Kimi’s scowl deepens. “Trying to make you breakfast. Not going well.” He prods the blackened lump in the pan disdainfully.
Your brother snorts. “He nearly set off the fire alarm. I got here just in time.”
“I told you I don’t cook,” Kimi mutters, avoiding your gaze.
You pad over and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “It’s the thought that counts. Thank you, love.”
He relaxes back into your embrace. Your brother mimes gagging behind his back. You stick out your tongue at him.
“Here, I’ll show you,” you say, gently prying the spatula from Kimi’s hand. “Just go slow ...”
Soon, the three of you are gathered around the table, eating the pancakes you made together. Kimi’s are a bit misshapen, but edible.
He looks inordinately pleased as you sample his. “Good?”
You beam at him and squeeze his hand. “The very best.”
His rare unguarded smile warms you more deeply than any breakfast ever could.
***
You awaken to the dipping of the mattress as Kimi slips under the covers. The red glow of his bedside clock reads 3:48 AM.
“Everything okay?” You murmur, rolling over to face him.
He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close against his chest. You feel the steady thump of his heart under your palm.
“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.” His voice rumbles low near your ear.
You nuzzle into him, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. “Worrying about the race this weekend?”
He exhales, his breath stirring your hair. “No. Just thinking.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, you lift your head to study his face in the dimness. His eyes shine in the faint light, gazing at you with an intensity that makes your own heart skip.
“What is it?” You whisper.
He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his callused fingers infinitely tender. “Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re here. That you’re mine.”
Emotion swells in your chest, words escaping you. You cup his stubbled face and guide his lips down to yours in a soft, lingering kiss.
When you finally draw apart, he pulls you close again, tucking your head under his chin. No more words are needed. You understand each other perfectly in the quiet spaces between heartbeats. Soon his breathing evens out in sleep, and you follow him down, still nestled safe in the circle of his arms.
***
You’re just drizzling the last of the chocolate over the molten lava cakes when you hear Kimi’s keys in the front door. A smile spreads across your face. Perfect timing.
He wanders in a few moments later, hair adorably rumpled, eyes lighting up when he sees you.
“Mmm, something smells good,” he says, crossing the kitchen to wrap you in a hug.
You kiss his scratchy cheek. “Made your favorite for dessert. Now go get cleaned up while I finish.”
He squeezes you tighter, stubble tickling your neck as he nuzzles into it. “Can’t I have you for dessert instead?”
You swat his shoulder playfully. “Go on, you. Plenty of time for that later.”
He steals one more kiss before sauntering off, a grin playing about his lips. You shake your head, unable to stop smiling. After all these years, he still makes your heart race as if you’re teenagers again.
When he returns, you’ve set out the seared salmon, roasted vegetables, and the two perfect chocolate lava cakes. His eyes light up.
“Have I told you lately that you’re the best wife ever?” He asks, pulling out your chair.
“Hmm, I think you could stand to mention it more,” you tease.
He takes your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. His eyes pierce yours. “You’re the best wife ever,” he says solemnly.
You lean in and kiss him, happiness bubbling up inside you. However many times he says it, you’ll never get tired of hearing it.
***
“So, what’s it like being married to the grumpiest driver on the grid?” The reporter shoves a microphone in your face, invasive and smug.
You recoil, blindsided. “Excuse me?”
“Come on, he’s not exactly Mr. Personality.” The reporter leans closer. “Does the Iceman thaw out at home or just freeze you out?”
Humiliation burns through you. Before you can respond, Kimi is there, gently moving you aside. His eyes are blazing.
“Don’t you dare talk about my wife like that,” he growls at the reporter. “You know nothing about our life.”
The reporter withers under Kimi’s icy glare. You feel a rush of gratitude for your protective husband.
Kimi turns to you, face softening. “Let’s get out of here.”
Once you’re alone, he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Sorry you had to deal with that. He had no right to badger you about our marriage.”
You lean into him, safe in the circle of his arms. “It’s okay. You came to my rescue like a knight in shining racing gear.”
He snorts. “Hardly a knight. But for you, always.” He kisses you tenderly.
No matter what the media says, your life together is not theirs to define. Your love writes its own quiet story each day.
***
You awake in the dark to a loud crash from downstairs. Heart pounding, you shake Kimi’s shoulder.
“Kimi, wake up! I think someone’s broken in.”
He’s up in an instant, alert and poised to strike. You hear footsteps creeping up the stairs. Kimi pushes you behind him and grabs the baseball bat by the bed.
The footsteps reach the landing and a shadowy figure appears in the doorway. Kimi flicks on the light, bat raised menacingly. You both freeze.
It’s Sebastian Vettel, eyes wide, hands raised in surrender. “Whoa whoa, it’s just me!”
Kimi’s shoulders slump as he lowers the bat. “Seb? What the hell are you doing here?”
Seb runs a hand through his messy hair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was in town and my rental car broke down outside. I was hoping I could crash here tonight.”
Kimi sighs, shaking his head. “You couldn’t call first?”
Seb grins sheepishly. “Forgot to charge my phone.”
You step out from behind Kimi, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s fine, love. Let’s get some fresh sheets for the guest room.” You turn to Seb. “We’ll figure out your car in the morning.”
Seb’s shoulders sag in relief. “Thanks, I really owe you guys.”
As you make up the bed, you share an amused look with Kimi. Only Seb could turn up unannounced in the middle of the night and get away with it. But then again, that’s why you love him.
***
You’re waiting at the finish line, heart in your throat as the cars scream past for the final lap. Kimi is battling for a podium finish, but has fallen back after a poorly timed pit stop. He’s gaining ground fast, but is he out of time?
The crowd roars as the frontrunners cross the line. P2 … P3 … waiting for P4. Come on, Kimi.
Then you see it, the red and white Alfa Romeo flashing past the checkered flag, narrowly clinching third. You leap in the air, cheering loudly. Kimi did it!
You rush down towards the pits, arriving just as Kimi climbs from his car. His race suit is drenched, hair plastered to his forehead, but his eyes are bright. When he spots you, a grin breaks across his face.
You throw your arms around him, heedless of how sweaty he is. “You were amazing! I’m so proud of you.”
He lifts you off your feet in a bear hug, laughing breathlessly in your ear. The sound sends joy bursting through your veins.
As he sets you down, you cradle his stubbled face in your hands. “I love you,” you say fiercely.
His grin softens to something more tender. He tilts his forehead against yours, heedless of the crowds milling nearby.
“Love you too,” he murmurs.
The cameras flash around you, eager to capture this rare unguarded moment. But Kimi only has eyes for you. Third place has never felt so golden.
***
“Ugh, your wife is so annoyingly positive all the time. It’s nauseating,” the other driver’s girlfriend gripes to Kimi at a race afterparty.
You freeze mid-laugh, stung by her disdainful tone. Kimi’s eyes narrow dangerously.
“I would rather have a positive wife than a miserable cow like you,” he says coldly. “Come on, let’s go.”
He takes your arm and steers you firmly away. You blink back tears, embarrassed.
“Hey,” Kimi says softly, tilting your chin up. “Don’t listen to her. I love how positive you are. Don’t let anyone make you feel bad for spreading joy.”
You give a watery chuckle. “Really? You don’t find it annoying?”
“Are you kidding? Your light balances out my darkness perfectly.” He punctuates this with a swift kiss. “You keep me from being a constant grump.”
You laugh and swat his chest. “Impossible. No one can tame the Iceman’s grumpiness.”
He smiles tenderly and pulls you close. “You do. Don’t change for anyone else.”
***
You pace the bathroom floor, heart racing. The little white stick sits innocently on the counter, but its result will change everything. One blue line for negative, two for positive.
Three minutes have never felt so long.
When the timer finally beeps, you take a deep breath and turn it over with a shaky hand. Two blue lines stare back at you.
Positive.
Emotions swell within you — joy, nervousness, excitement. You and Kimi have been trying for a baby, but it still feels so surreal now that it’s actually happening.
You hear the front door open and Kimi call out your name. It’s time. Clutching the test behind your back, you go to him.
He must read something in your face, because his brows furrow in concern. “Everything okay?”
Your face splits into a teary grin. “Everything’s perfect.” You bring the test out from behind you and hold it up wordlessly.
Kimi’s eyes widen. For once, the unflappable Finn seems utterly flapped. “You … we ...” He stares at the two little lines, then back at you. “We’re having a baby?”
You nod, vision blurring with happy tears. With a joyful shout, Kimi sweeps you up in his arms and spins you around. His excitement is boyish and uncontained.
When he sets you down, he cradles your face in both hands. “I’m going to be a father,” he whispers in awe.
You put your hand over his, overjoyed tears spilling down your cheeks. “You’re going to be the best father.”
***
You fidget impatiently on the exam table, Kimi’s hand clutched in yours. After months of waiting, today is your first ultrasound. If all looks well, you’ll get to see your baby for the very first time.
“What’s taking so long?” You huff. Kimi smiles and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Relax, they’ll be here soon.” His calm steadies you, as it always does.
Finally the technician arrives and asks you to lift up your shirt. She squeezes cool gel over your swelling belly and begins moving the ultrasound wand through it.
The screen comes to life, showing grainy black and white images you can’t decipher. The technician frowns, adjusting some dials. Your heart leaps into your throat.
Sensing your distress, Kimi gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. Just be patient,” he murmurs.
After a few tense moments, the technician’s face clears. She turns the screen towards you with a smile. “There we are. There’s your baby.”
You gaze in wonder at the little shape filling the screen, tiny arms and legs visibly squirming. Your vision blurs with tears. That’s your child, your little miracle.
Beside you Kimi is utterly transfixed, eyes shining. “That’s our baby,” he whispers reverently.
He lifts your intertwined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles. “Thank you,” he says, voice husky with emotion. “For this gift.”
You have no words. You simply lean into him, his solid warmth anchoring you as joy washes over you both.
***
You stare glumly at your reflection in the mirror. At eight months pregnant, you feel like a beluga whale. Your ankles are swollen, your back aches constantly, and none of your clothes fit over your enormous bump anymore.
Voices sound from downstairs as Kimi arrives home. You feel tears prick your eyes. You don’t want him to see you like this, a beached whale in sweatpants.
Sniffling, you ease onto the bed and bury your face in a pillow. Kimi finds you there a few minutes later. The mattress dips as he sits down and rubs your back.
“What’s wrong, love?”
You shake your head, embarrassed. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Gently he turns you over, brushing the hair from your damp cheeks. “Talk to me,” he says softly.
A sob escapes you. “I’m hideous like this! I’ve gotten so huge. You must be disgusted looking at me.”
Kimi’s brow furrows. He takes your chin in his hand, forcing you to meet his earnest gaze. “Is that what you think? That I find you disgusting?”
Ashamed, you drop your eyes, fresh tears spilling over.
“Look at me,” he says gently. You do. His ice blue eyes pierce yours. “You’ve never been more beautiful to me than you are right now, carrying our child.”
He places a reverent hand on your belly. “You are giving us the most precious gift in the world. How could I not find you beautiful?”
His words pierce your heart. You cover his hand with yours. “I love you,” you whisper.
He gathers you close, dropping feather-light kisses over your face. “And I love you. Always.”
You cling to him, feeling foolish and so very loved.
***
A contraction rips through you, more intense than any before. You cry out, squeezing Kimi’s hand desperately.
“Breathe, love, breathe,” he coaches, face taut.
You gasp air into your lungs as the vice grip on your insides finally releases. Kimi dabs the sweat from your brow with a cool cloth.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “Our little one will be here soon.”
Even through the haze of pain, his voice anchors you. Your Kimi, always steady as a rock.
Too soon, another contraction wrings a ragged shout from you. Kimi never leaves your side, letting you nearly crush his hand as you ride out the agony.
“I can’t … I can’t do this ...” you sob.
Kimi presses his lips to your temple. “You can. You’re the strongest person I know. I’m right here with you.”
His faith buoys you, even as your body is wracked with wave after wave of excruciating spasms. Your world narrows to the circle of his arms.
Then finally, miraculously, comes the thin, piercing cry of your child. Your exhausted tears mingle with joyful laughter.
Kimi cuts the cord with shaky hands, eyes shining brighter than you’ve ever seen. When they lay the squalling, pink bundle on your chest, the universe crystallizes to this one perfect point.
Your family, whole at last.
***
You awake in the small hours before dawn, reaching across the cool sheets only to find Kimi’s side of the bed empty. Padding down the hallway on silent feet, you peer into the nursery.
Your breath catches in your throat. Kimi stands over the crib, your tiny daughter cradled against his chest. One large hand gently supports her downy head.
He’s speaking softly to her in Finnish, too low for you to understand. But the love shining through his voice brings tears to your eyes. Your tough, taciturn Finn transformed into a doting father.
As he lays her tenderly back in the crib, you hear him murmur in a whisper, “Don’t worry little one, your isä will always protect you. I promise you that.”
He tucks the blanket snugly around her and brushes a feather-light kiss over her forehead. The tenderness of it makes your heart ache.
You slip silently back to bed before he notices you, not wanting to intrude on this private moment between father and daughter. But the image stays seared in your mind.
When Kimi joins you a few minutes later, you turn and press your face into his chest so he won’t see your tears of joy. His arms come around you reflexively.
“You okay?” He rumbles.
You nod, a lump in your throat. Your family is so very blessed.
***
The paddock is bustling with activity as you push your daughter’s stroller through the chaotic maze of the paddock. She’s only six months old, wide-eyed at all the commotion.
Mechanics pause to coo over her, their grease-smudged fingers surprisingly gentle. PR people stop to fuss and take photos. Word has spread — the Iceman’s baby girl is here.
Kimi strides over, stooping to drop a kiss on your head and tickle his daughter’s tummy. His race suit is on, grey eyes intense and focused.
“Sure you don’t want me to take her while you concentrate?” You ask.
He shakes his head, a corner of his mouth quirked up. “I need to see my two favorite girls before I drive.”
Your heart melts. Kimi scoops her up, and she clutches at his nose and gurgles. Nearby, you hear shutters clicking madly. The Iceman undone by a baby — it’ll be all over the press tonight.
But Kimi only has eyes for his daughter, face soft in a way it never is before a race. With a deep breath, he cuddles her close and murmurs something in Finnish before handing her back to you.
You kiss his cheek. “Go show them how it’s done, Daddy.”
He winks and strides off towards the pit lane, determination in his stride. Your daughter waves a chubby fist as he disappears from view.
No matter how many races he wins, now his best trophy waits for him at the finish line. His family.
***
“Must be lonely married to a man called the Iceman,” the reporter says slyly. “He’s not known for being warm and affectionate.”
Anger flashes through you. How dare this stranger imply your marriage is lacking.
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” you reply sharply. “Kimi is very attentive and loving in private.”
The reporter raises her eyebrows. “But his public image ...”
You cut her off. “That’s all it is — an image. Kimi deserves more respect than tired old stereotypes.”
Your voice softens as you glance to where Kimi is chatting with fans, his body angled protectively towards you.
“There is no one kinder or more loyal than my husband. He cherishes our family greatly, he just doesn’t flaunt it to the world.”
The reporter looks taken aback by your fervent defense. You almost feel sorry for her. She’ll never truly know the man behind the Iceman legend. But you do and you won’t tolerate anyone maligning him.
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#kimi raikkonen#km7#kimi raikkonen imagine#kimi raikkonen x reader#kimi raikkonen x you#kimi raikkonen fic#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#f1 x female reader#kimi raikkonen x y/n#kimi raikkonen one shot#formula 1#kimi räikkönen#opposites attract#iceman#scuderia ferrari#alfa romeo
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Good Days | Kylian Mbappé x Reader
Summary: You and Kylian have been in a relationship for years now, and it’s nothing if not comfortable -- but there’s nothing like a pregnancy to switch things up.
Word Count: approx. 5.7k
Warnings/tags: pregnancy, toxic/unsupportive family dynamics, baby fever (I guess?), fluff, lots of fluff
A/N: this has been sat waiting to be edited for like 2 weeks lmao but I've been rly busy w exams -- ill probably start posting more writing next week when they’re done. in the mean time, if ur willing to wait a few days my requests r still open <3
masterlist!
You stop for painkillers on the way home, unhappy with Paris' January rain and the biting wind that continued to torment your walk from the metro station to your apartment, missing Kylian's offers of picking you up from work so you could sit in his warm, dry car and complain about your boss – coming back from the away game had changed his training schedule, so he wouldn't get back until after you did.
At home, after taking the medication and making yourself some tea, you start on dinner, pushing through the cramps and headache that are currently plaguing you – a sign your period is around the corner, you guess, given that you're a few days late.
Kylian announces his arrival with a groan, dumping his bag in the hallway and making a beeline for you in the kitchen, stopping briefly to stroke the cat before wrapping his arms tight around you, face buried in the crook of your neck as he breathes you in for a minute, attached to your back while you try to keep chopping vegetables. "Y'alright, sweetheart? What's up?" You ask.
"Just missed you." he says, the sensation of him talking into your skin tickling you.
"Mm, even after a few hours?"
"Eight hours is more than a few." he insists.
You smile to yourself. "I love you."
"And I love you." he says, "How was your day?"
"Boring," you sigh, filling him in on your cramps, work drama and how your work friend had had another awful date the night before. He gives you more attention than your stories justify, shooing you away from the cooking the moment he hears about your headache, insisting you should just rest, reminding you that the two of you are meant to be babysitting tomorrow night. You sit on one of the stools, watching him cook with pure fondness, and laughing when he insists on eating in front of the TV.
With your plates left on the coffee table, he lies between your legs, absentmindedly stroking the cat while he lays his head on your chest as you watch a new Netflix film that neither of you are particularly interested in; he keeps trying to guess what will happen, and blushing when you tease him for his hilariously inaccurate predictions.
-
The nausea doesn't subside the next morning – not that you tell Kylian that – but it's relatively low-key, so you go to work anyway, smiling every time Kylian sends you an update on his day – a selfie of him and Hakimi, a photo of his lunch, a little rant about a pop song he can't seem to escape. You send him some of your own updates, despite the teasing you get from your friend when you send him a picture of you at lunch with her.
Amélie offers her sympathies over your apparent illness, agreeing that it's probably some combination of your period and a mild bug, though not without a throwaway joke about you being pregnant – "You and Kylian have been wrapping it before tapping it, right?" she had teased.
Leaving the café after parting ways with your friend, you began to wonder – you and Kylian had stopped using condoms pretty quickly after you got together, opting to rely on your birth control pill and his pullout game, but you found yourself wondering if you had forgotten any lately, or if it simply hadn't worked. But no, you weren't pregnant.
Nevertheless, you stop by the pharmacy on the way back to the office, buying a pack of two tests to take later.
You were jittery all afternoon, googling pregnancy symptoms on the toilet and asking your older colleague about her pregnancies, careful not to raise any suspicions.
When Kylian texted you to say he'd pick you up in five minutes, you put the tests at the bottom of your bag, not wanting to have that conversation with him until you'd confirmed that you weren't, in fact, pregnant. It would be a good way to bring the conversation about kids back up – just to check he still wanted them, and that you were still on the same page about leaving it for a couple of years.
He kisses you as you get in the passenger seat, leaving his hand on your lower thighs as he navigates the city, the conversation light.
Your brother drops your nieces off at your flat not long after you get home, the two girls are more than pleased to be spending time with their aunt and uncle. You love how much they love him, how they seem unable to stop laughing when he's near, or the fact that he let's them drag him into all kinds of silliness – tonight, they insist on giving him a makeover, asking you for nail polish and makeup while he sits in the living room, looking more than a little apprehensive. You give them some pink nail polish and some of your older, cheaper makeup, having learnt your lesson from the time the elder of the two, Rosie, bit through your favourite lipstick.
Rosie decides to start with eyeliner, while Poppy starts to cover Kylian's fingers with hot pink polish, getting as much of the stuff on his skin as on his nails, while he sits there and takes it, pouting when you giggle or take photos to send to your brother. The girls are having the time of their lives however, putting enough blush on his cheeks to turn him as red as their namesakes, highlight streaking over his cheekbones and lipstick getting almost to his chin with the messy application. His nails are all pink, as he obediently waits for them to dry while your nieces giggle and start trying to put it on each other – you only intervene when Poppy tries to use the nail polish as lipstick, opting to take it off them and let Kylian entertain them with something more suited to him – a game of hallway football – a favourite of everyone but the cat, who's hiding from the grabby hands of your nieces in your bedroom.
You persuade him to let you take a picture of his fully made up face, unable to stop laughing at the sight of him. If you are pregnant, you hope every evening is like this. You sit in the kitchen, listening to the loud smacks of the football against the wall as the two girls try to get the ball to hit the bedroom door behind him, Kylian doing his best to act as a goalkeeper. The shouts and gleeful cackles from the hallway make you smile – your brother has done so much to give his kids a better childhood than the one you shared, and suddenly you can't wait to do the same with Kylian. You sink down into the sofa, thinking of the pregnancy tests at the bottom of your handbag; you can already imagine the family Christmases, Kylian splurging on their birthdays and getting protective the moment their old enough to think about relationships; the kids' football games that they'll inevitably play in, the other mums being taken with him while you stand there, knowing he's yours.
You pull yourself from the thought, reminding yourself that you wanted to wait a couple of years and that the test was most likely going to be negative and your cramps were probably just your period.
"Auntie Y/N?" Poppy asked, apparently having left her sister and Kylian to the hallway football. You pick her up and change the TV from an adult comedy to a kids’ channel.
"Yeah, sweetie?"
She cuddles up to you, "Rosie says Uncle Kyky's famous."
You smile at her, nodding. “Yeah, he’s a pretty big deal.”
The toddler frowns, "Why?"
"Uncle Kyky plays football in big stadiums." you say, not entirely sure how to explain to a barely-three-year-old that her ‘Uncle Kyky’ is a world famous footballer when she barely knows what football is.
She frowns. "Can I be famous?"
"If you want to." you say.
"Are you famous?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"I don't really want to be." you say, "Uncle Kyky gets enough attention for the two of us."
She thinks about it for a long moment. "I think I pooped."
You're too busy laughing at the sudden switch up to be concerned with the fact that she's sat in your lap and may well have gotten poo all over your new jeans, your roaring laughter confusing her as it gets Rosie and Kylian's attention, the two of them appearing from the hallway, frowning at you as you lift Poppy off your lap, glad to see there aren't any stains on your clothes or the sofa. "God, that's stinky." you tell her, still laughing.
After getting her changed out of her poopy clothes and into her pyjamas, you start to wind down for the evening, trying to bore the two girls out so they'll go to bed; they do so eventually, Poppy snoring away on Kylian's shoulder as you watch some comedy, Rosie bright and attentive as Kylian takes her little sister to the spare room to go to bed. Rosie goes not long after, and you make sure to keep her as quiet as possible when you tuck her into bed beside her sister, the two girls curling up in the bed, a much too big king sized bed, and all those thoughts of parenthood come right back. This could be you and Kylian's life, everyday, poo and all.
In the living room, you lie with your head in his lap as he plays Fifa with the volume right down. He absentmindedly strokes your hair between games, sensing you getting more tired by the minute; eventually, he suggests you go to bed, making sure to leave the door to the spare room ajar in case the girls wake up, and joining you in the ensuite bathroom so you can brush your teeth together. You reflect, while listening to Kylian change in your room, that the night has been incredibly domestic, though in a way so different to your usual routines. You join your boyfriend in the bedroom and change into one of his tops.
"I'm gonna leave the door open in case one of them needs us." you say, conscious that they still wake up in the night fairly often, and Kylian beckons you to join him in bed, the two of you settling so that his bare chest is pressed into the cotton of your shirt, drifting off with his body heat encapsulating you, glad you don't have work in the morning.
-
When you wake up, Kylian's gone, a dent left in the mattress from where he had been; the clock says it's past ten, so you drag yourself out of bed and pull on some of his joggers, brushing your teeth while you check your texts, confirming that your sister-in-law would pick up the kids in forty-five minutes and seeing the results of one of the Premier League matches on your feed – your algorithm clearly aware of your vested interest in football. In the kitchen, your nieces are giggling their socks off at Kylian's poor attempts at flipping pancakes, each equally covered in Nutella from pancakes they had, apparently, already had.
"What's this?" You ask, alerting them of your presence.
"Pancake Saturday!" the three of them say in unison, as though it's completely obvious.
"Pancake Saturday?" You repeat.
"Papa always makes us pancakes on Saturdays." Rosie tells you.
"Does he?" You murmur, knowing that Kylian had been taken for a fool – your brother couldn't make a pancake if his life depended on it.
You move to the coffee machine, brushing sleep from your eyes, but Kylian stops you, pressing his lips to your forehead. "Your coffee's on the counter."
You smile, sipping it as Kylian successfully slips the pancake, eliciting a cheer from his audience. He gives it to you, so you join your nieces at the table and cover it in Nutella, rolling it and taking a bite, the chocolate spread sticky and runny from the warmth of the pancake.
When you've all stuffed yourselves with pancakes, you go to get the girls changed while Kylian washes up the mess he made, your nieces reeking havoc as you sort out their belongings, Kylian answering the door to their mum just as Rosie finishes ‘plaiting’ Poppy's hair, completely tangling it and nearly giving you an aneurism when you see the state of her hair.
Helene finds you brushing out the knot in her daughter's hair, Rosie watching curiously as though she's never seen a hairbrush before.
When they're gone, the flat feels utterly silent. Kylian cuddles up to you on the sofa, a residual smile still on his face from your babysitting fiascos. "Mm, I love you." he says, his hands flat on your back under your shirt, cold on your skin.
"I love you too. I love seeing you with them."
"One day our kids will be having sleepovers with them so we can have date nights like your brother." he tells you, making you smile.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I can't wait to have kids with you, but I'd need you all to myself sometimes."
You mull his words over. You'll need to take the pregnancy tests eventually, to find out whether there's any point to your theorising. "What do you want for lunch?" You ask, afraid to stay on the subject.
"I was thinking pasta." he says, words humming through your ribs.
-
You take the test that evening, while Kylian's on the phone to his nutritionist, already dressed for the dinner you're having with Achraf and Hiba, and nearly cry when it comes back positive. You're not sure how to feel, just that the two lines fill you with anxiety, and that you’re glad that, on some level, all the thoughts you’d been having about starting a family with Kylian weren’t for nothing. You stash the test at the bottom of your makeup bag, checking your lipstick as Kylian comes back into the bedroom, complimenting your dress, hands finding your hips as he kisses you.
"We need to go," you say, "The taxi's waiting."
He follows you out, letting you pull him out the flat and onto the street, but insists on opening the car door for you, always a gentleman.
The traffic is mild for a Saturday night, so you manage to get to the restaurant before your friends, though you're drastically slowed by a bunch of football fans who ask for Kylian's photo or signature, because Kylian doesn't have it in him to refuse. In the end, you're only waiting for Achraf and Hiba for a couple of minutes before they arrive, immediately diving into a story about their sons reeking more havoc – as always.
The waiter appears, asking for orders, taking everyone's food and drinks, and Hiba sends you a quizzical look when you order mocktail rather than your usual wine – you don't respond, just turning the conversation to an upcoming PSG dinner you're all meant to be attending. You can tell she's waiting to ask though, watching you like a hawk all night, right up until you head to the bathroom.
When you leave your cubicle to wash your hands, she's leaning on the edge of the sink. "Y'know, people pee a lot at the start of pregnancies, because your kidneys start producing way more liquids."
You start to wash your hands, "I knew you'd figured it out immediately."
"Does Kylian know?"
You dry your hands. "I've known for barely two hours, so, uh, no."
She smiles at you. "This is exciting – the boys will be so happy to have a new playmate."
"Hold your horses, I don't know what he's gonna say yet."
"He wants kids though, right?"
You shrug. "Yeah, we've talked about it, but we were – or are? I don't know – planning to wait a couple of years."
She nods. "You'll do what's best for you, you're sensible like that. Only you can tell you what to do with your body."
You think about it for a few long seconds. "Yeah. Yeah, I hope so."
"C'mon, they'll start thinking we've left if we don't go back."
The rest of the meal goes smoothly, with Hiba sending you subtle looks every time her sons are mentioned, making you all the more anxious to go home and talk this whole thing out with your boyfriend, whose hand seems to be permanently attached to your thigh.
Eventually, after splitting the bill and bidding farewells, you find yourself pressed into Kylian's side in the back of a taxi, internally cursing the horrid January cold, and after what feels like forever, you're changing out of your dress while Kylian is in the loo, talking to you while he washes his hands.
You come into the bathroom while he's drying them, smiling when he greets you with a peck to your cheek, preemptively handing you your makeup wipes: always knowing your next move.
Bored, he starts to inspect the products in the bathroom cabinet, picking them up to read the labels while you exfoliate, watching him out the corner of your eye, seeing him get slowly closer to the makeup bag where the positive test is stashed, unsure whether or not to stop him before he discovers it.
"What's retinol?" he asks, picking up a small bottle.
"It keeps your skin clear." you say, not sure how to explain it because you're not really sure yourself.
"Doesn't, like, everything in this cabinet do that?"
"No." you say weakly, making him chuckle.
You hear the clatter of your makeup bag being picked up, and the sound of different objects knocking together. "What's – oh."
You turn around; he's staring at the test, apparently dumbfounded. You feel yourself blushing, unsure how to navigate the moment. "Yeah. I took it just before we left earlier."
He looks up at you, still in shock, yet to say anything. "That's why you ordered the mocktail."
You giggle. "It's also why Hiba took me hostage in the bathroom."
"We were wondering where you'd gone," he admits. "What are you going to do?"
You stare at him for a few seconds before correcting him. "What are we going to do?"
He holds your gaze. "It's your body, not mine. You know I'd love to have this child, but that's not my decision to make."
You can feel the tears threatening to spill – why do you have to decide? He wraps his arms around you, encasing you in his scent, overwhelming you. Tentatively, you wrap your arms around his waist. "You don't have to decide now," he reminds you, "You have time."
You nod, inhaling deeply. "Do you want this? Like, really truly want this?"
He pulls back so he can look at you properly. "I love you, and I would be happy either way, but I'd love to have this child with you – I'd love to."
You nod. "I can't believe I'm gonna be a mum."
His face breaks into a smile, "Yeah?"
"Yeah, fuck yeah."
He kisses you, keeping you close. "God, I'm so excited."
You can't help but smile at the thought of him, a dad.
"Can we go to my parents' house tomorrow? To tell them?"
You nod, still crying.
-
Fayza is delighted to have you both over again, asking about your siblings and nieces, apparently forgetting that her son is standing beside you, sulking about not being the centre of attention. She offers you wine, and frowns but doesn't push when you refuse, then cooks the best meal you've had in months. Ethan greets you when he gets back from seeing his friends, taking the first opportunity to take the piss out of his older brother. You're happy to watch the family be amongst themselves, wondering about what they'll be like with the baby, how they'll react, what they'll say and ask.
You're sort of waiting for Kylian to bring it up – it's his family, after all, but it's starting to feel like it'll never happen. As always, he senses your anxiety, squeezing your hand under the table while you all eat, earning a shy smile. Ethan raises an eyebrow at the interaction, pausing his eating. "Okay, seriously – what's going on?"
Kylian clears his throat. "Uh, well, Y/N and I are expecting."
"'Expecting'?" Ethan repeats. "What are you, fifty?"
"Oh piss off," Kylian groans, rolling his eyes, "There go your chances of being the godfather."
Fayza is staring at you. "You're serious? You're pregnant?"
You nod slowly, relief washing over you as she smiles, getting up from her seat to hug you, congratulating you as she does so.
Later, as you're sitting watching the news, Kylian's dad clears his throat. "You'll need to announce it at some point."
Kylian glances sideways at him, his arm over your shoulders. "We have time – I don't want to rush into any announcements. It needs to be as smooth as possible, right?"
"Stress is bad for the baby!" Fayza chides, appearing from the kitchen with a cup of herbal tea for you.
"Stress is bad for the baby." Kylian repeats, making his dad chuckle.
"Of course, take your time, talk to the media team at PSG and all of that, but I'm just reminding you."
You sip the tea, holding the mug in one hand while you google how far into pregnancy you're meant to stop having caffeine and finding out you're now limited to only two cups a day – less than 24 hours into getting the positive test, and you've already had to say goodbye to smoking, drinking, sushi and salami, and – less reluctantly – cleaning out the cat's litter box, and finding out you'll have to get a handle on your caffeine addiction is only more upsetting. Kylian kisses your hairline, "Thoughts?"
"About announcing?"
He hums.
"I don't know. We've always been private, and I don't think I want the world to know about this just yet."
"We'll wait as long as you like, chérie."
You press closer into his body. "That doesn't mean you can't tell your mates though, you know."
He makes another noise of agreement. "Are you tired?"
You nod, thankful that he noticed your fatigue.
"We'll go soon."
-
You’re sitting in the office, scrolling through a webpage about the first trimester of pregnancy, looking up every few seconds in case one of your colleagues walks past, curiosity overcoming your concerns about having your pregnancy discovered prematurely. You’re still fatigued, and the morning sickness is starting to ramp up, but it’s not too bad – not bad enough that you feel like you can’t go to work, anyway. The time in the corner of your screen reads at quarter past five, so you decide to call it a day – you’re going to your brother’s house to announce the pregnancy, and the traffic will make it a forty minute drive.
“Where are you off to?” asks your older colleague from two desks away, Cynthia.
“My brother’s,” you say, “I’m getting picked up in a minute.”
She leans back in her chair as you shrug on your coat. “Ah, the footballer.”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, Cynthia, the footballer.”
“Hmm, I don’t know why you’re still working when your man’s on a €90 million salary.” she muses.
“Believe it or not, I quite like working here.” you say teasingly.
She frowns. “The boss isn’t here, there’s no need to lie.”
You laugh, gathering up the last of your belongings and checking you’ve got your phone and keys. “See you tomorrow, Cynthia.”
She salutes you as you head to the list, checking your notifications – Kylian’s outside, and your parents have announced on the family group chat that they are coming to dinner with your brother after all.
Kylian kisses you as you get in the car, smiling as you settle into the passenger seat beside him and reminding you to do your seatbelt.
“So, my parents are coming after all.” you say, earning a badly stifled groan. “I know, I know. They want to see the girls before they go to Rome.”
You divert the conversation from your parents to ask him about his day, listening to his stories about tripping Hakimi up in a drill and the conversation he had with Marquinhos after training. “Oh, and my mum dropped by this afternoon,” he says, “she had a load of pregnancy books from the 90s, and one of those name dictionaries.”
You smile at the thought. “I’ll ask my brother if he has any more modern books.”
He squeezes your knee, “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
You nod, “Jesus, I know. I can barely look after myself – I have no clue how I’m going to look after a whole other human as well.”
“We’ll figure it out, chérie.” he assures you, pulling into your brother’s neighbourhood and finding a parking space a few houses down.
“My parent’s car’s already outside.” you say, trying to hide the frustration in your voice. It was fair to say your relationship with your parents hadn’t always been smooth sailing – moving out at eighteen had made your life a thousand times easier – it was easier to love them from a distance. Sure, they were still fairly local, but their decision to move 90 minutes from Paris at least put some distance between you.
“I wonder if they’re staying over?” Kylian asked as you approached the driveway, walking between the two parked cars and ringing the doorbell. You could hear the distinctive peals of laughter from your nieces as the heavier footfall of your brother sounded through the house as he came to open the door, greeting you both and putting your coats on hooks. You pushed your shoes off and made it into the living room, where your nieces were running circles around your mother, who went to hug you immediately, kissing you on each cheek and leaning back to look at you, her hands on your arms. “Is that how you wear your hair these days?”
You can practically feel Kylian tense beside you. Your father interrupts the tension completely obliviously, barreling in from the kitchen to greet you both, distracting your mum from her nitpicking by not-so-subtly sneaking his granddaughters some sweets as you ask them about their weekends. She starts to fuss, allowing you a moment to breathe as your dad traps Kylian into a conversation about football.
In the kitchen, Helene looks just about ready to pull her hair out as she fusses over timings, your brother dressing a salad beside her; she kisses you on each cheek and rejects your offer of help, insisting she’s got it all covered.
“Y/N, ma chére, doesn’t Kylian have a match tomorrow?” your mum asks, an unsubtle way of asking if he has to be here.
“Well that doesn’t mean he can’t eat dinner.” you say, turning to your brother, “Did I see what I sent you about his nutritionist’s instructions?”
“Yeah, and I told you not to worry about it,” he says, “We’re perfectly capable, you know.”
“I know Helene’s capable, the verdict’s still out on you.”
He makes a face at you, rolling his eyes as he looks away. Your mum sips her wine, “Y/N, how’s Kylian been since, you know, the World Cup?”
You make eye contact with your brother. “Why don’t you ask him, Mum?” he asks.
“I don’t want to overstep. Y/N?”
“Well, we have been together for nearly-”
“I meant about the World Cup. How is he?” she asks.
“Oh, yeah, no, it’s been tough, but he’s alright. Been spending lots of time with Achraf.”
“Ah, the other footballer.” your mum says, sipping her wine again.
Your dad comes in from the living room. “Y/N, Kylian is so good with the girls.”
“Yeah, Dad, I know.” you say, “What drinks do you have?”
“Alcohol or not?” Helene asks you, reaching for the bottle of wine.
“Uh, non-alcoholic, I’ll probably be driving.”
She nods, “There’s some coke in the fridge, or juice, or water?”
You get yourself some water, peeking through the door at Kylian, who’s being wrestled by Rosie and Poppy, apparently taken aback by their strength-to-size ratio. You lean in the doorway, watching them for a moment before your mum distracts you, instructing you to lay the table while your brother gets out the glasses. In your typical fashion, the two of you bicker through the whole process, the kitchen becoming more crowded when Kylian brings in your nieces, who insist on the attention of their grandparents and keep trying to sneak food.
Once you’re sat at the table, sandwiched between Kylian and Rosie, you start thinking about how to go about announcing it; how do you segue into the topic? How do you do it without inviting criticism about the timing or the fact it’s unplanned.
You can feel Kylian’s nerves beside you, now in the exact position you were in only days ago. Rosie takes a potato off your plate, biting into it before you’ve realised she’d grabbed it. Helene starts to laugh, gently scolding her daughter through the table’s laughter. “God, one of the hardest things about having kids was learning to share food, you know.” your mum muses, “Your brother was such a little thief.”
He looks over at her, “Maybe I was hungry?”
“I don’t know, you were always more interested in eating from anyone’s plate but your own.”
“I wonder where Rosie gets it from.” Helene jokes.
You look over at your mother, sitting at the head of the table. “So, Y/N, how’s work? Any promotions we should know about?”
“Uh, no, it’s the same as ever.” you say, sensing the beginning of an interrogation.
“Well there must be something.” she says, continuing even when you shake your head. “D’you know, I worry that all of that academic talent just went nowhere after you graduated.”
“Mum, it’s not like my job isn't challenging.” You defend.
She hums, “Well, I just think if you’re waiting a few years to have kids –” she sends a pointed look at Helene – “you might as well push in your career.”
“Well, Mum, actually-”
“After all, we can’t all be lawyers,” a pointed look at your brother, “or footballers.”
You swallow, listening as she keeps pressing on about your lack of ambition, feeling Kylian’s hand find yours under the table. “Mum, I’m pregnant.”
The table ruminates in your outburst for a long few seconds. She stares at you, trying to compute your statement; your dad is the first to move.
He stands up, coming around the table and beckoning for a hug; you push the chair out and accept his embrace, appreciating his congratulations. By the time he’s stopped hugging you, Helene and Y/B/N are kissing your cheeks and asking questions – how far along are you? How long have you known? How did you find out?
Your mum is the last to congratulate you, pressing her hand to your stomach. "I'm telling you now, it's a boy."
"Mum, it's like the size of a sesame seed." you groan as you all sit back down.
She shrugs. "You know, I thought you'd gained weight."
"Jesus, Mum, give her a break!" your brother groans, earning an appreciative smile from Kylian – who you think must have had enough of your family's shit to last him for the next year.
“So you’re getting married now, right?”
“Mum!”
In the car on the way home, he turns to you. "God, they’re a lot.”
“My mum’s a lot.” you correct. “It’s not the worst it could have gone.”
He sends you a pointed look – you know how he feels about your parents, but you’ll always maintain your line; it’s easier to love them from a distance.
-
At lunch with Amélie the next day, after you tell her the excitement of the week and mention that you're four weeks pregnant, she sets her gin and tonic on the table, one brow raised. "Wait, that means this kid was conceived while you guys were in Qatar."
You do the mental maths. "No, wait, holy shit."
She smirks, raising her gin and tonic as toast. "This kid's so fucking lucky already, man. Imagine being able to say you were conceived at a World Cup."
“Imagine being able to say your dad is the Kylian Mbappé.”
She shrugs, “Hey, you can literally tell people he’s your baby daddy, I don’t want to hear it.”
You smile at the thought. “I can’t believe I’m pregnant. There’s literally a foetus inside me right now.”
She glances down at your stomach. “I can’t believe you're pregnant. I swear we were like eighteen living off pot noodles like a week ago.”
You smile at the thought of your university days – pre-Kylian, independent for the first time, figuring out how to function independently. “Don’t make me feel old.”
She grins, “In a year, when you’ve given birth and recovered and everything, we’ll go clubbing.”
“I don’t think I’ll be up for clubbing when I’ve got a three-month-old or whatever, but we’ll make our own fun.” you point out. “I hope it’s a cute baby.”
She frowns, “Fuck that, I hope they’re a funny kid. I would not want to carry a child for nine months, push it out of my vagina and then look after it for years only for them to be a boring twat.”
You return her frown. “I’m glad you’re not the pregnant one.”
She raises her glass again, “Preach.”
-
“How was lunch with Amélie?” Kylian asks midway through an episode of Love is Blind.
“Good, she’s well. D’you know what she pointed out?”
“Hm, what?”
“The baby must’ve been conceived in Qatar.”
He looks over at you, also doing the maths. “After the England game?”
“That’s what I thought.” you said, “Funny, huh?”
“He’s a winner, at least.” Kylian says. “Gonna be a footballer.”
“‘He’?”
Kylian shrugs. “I think so.”
“Well at least you and Mum agree on something.” you tease.
Somehow, he’s always right.
867 notes
·
View notes
Text
Kylian on his birthday scored 2 goals and played with his younger brother, Ethan’s official PSG debut🥺♥️
Happy Birthday bébé♥️20-12-23
#CUTEST#I ENJOYED EVERY SEC OF THIS MATCH#jkkyks#kylian mbappe#TWO GOALS#mbappé#kyky#kyks#france#psg#mbappe icons#kylian mbappe lottin#ethan mbappe#mbappe#kylian#his birthday#match#football#ethan#km7#kylian mbappe fluff
147 notes
·
View notes
Text
His voice????? His accent?????? I'm on the floor?????
37 notes
·
View notes
Text
Kylian and his niece Lana🥰
Via K.mbappe Instagram stories
110 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Summer We Were Young | Kylian Mbappé
Chapter One. Ridin' in the drop-top with the top down
Summary: Naaz loses her shit and books a one-way flight to Nice. Maybe she should’ve thought this through a bit more?
PSG wins the Ligue 1 title but Kylian can’t seem to muster up the strength to join in the festivities. So, without telling anyone, he leaves for the South. Maybe he should’ve told his mom?
SATURDAY, JUNE 3 2023
Naaz Ahmed
Naaz paced back and forth in her childhood bedroom in Toronto, her mind racing with anger and frustration. She had just had yet another argument with her parents, and this time, she had truly lost her shit. Why couldn’t they just understand that she didn't want to live her life following the same rigid structure as them? After all, she only had this one life and she would be damned if she wasted it by marrying some random man, who ticked all the ‘appropriate’ boxes of an ideal son-in-law created a million years ago by miserable people who had nothing better to do, followed by popping out some babies and restarting the same mind-numbing, soul-crushing cycle once again.
Naaz could feel tears welling up in her eyes as these dark thoughts consumed her mind. She felt trapped in this golden cage. While she appreciated all that her parents had done for her but she couldn't help but feel bitter about the fact that they seemed so entitled to her happiness and her future.
Enough, she thought, I can’t stay here a second longer. One thing about Naaz is that she was the type of person who liked to do things without clearly thinking them through which has often led her into a few spots of trouble.
This time was no different, the young woman quickly opened her laptop
Without thinking things through, she had booked a one-way flight to Nice through one of those cheap flight websites. She didn't care about the cost or the fact that she had no plan, she just needed to escape.
As Naaz stared at the confirmation email on her screen, a rush of emotions flooded her mind. She felt a mixture of excitement, fear, and uncertainty that left her feeling both exhilarated and anxious at the same time. The spontaneity of her decision to book a one-way flight to Nice was both liberating and terrifying, as she had no idea what awaited her in this unfamiliar destination.
As Naaz's excitement about her impulsive decision to escape to Nice intensified, she felt a knot of anxiety form in her stomach at the thought of her parents' reaction. She knew all too well how overprotective and traditional they were, and the mere thought of their reaction sent shivers down her spine.
She imagined their faces contorted in anger, and the thought made her heart clench with anxiety and guilt. God, the guilt was the worse. Indian parents had a way of instilling guilt in you from the womb. She would have to brace herself for the storm of emotions that was sure to follow, but she was ready to weather it with the knowledge that, in the end, this would be worth it. Naaz shook her head, taking a deep breath and getting rid of these thoughts.
“You deserve this, girl. No one can change your destiny except. Okay? Okay, We got this.” Giving herself a quick pep talk, she felt a sense of determination to stand firm in her decision.
She turned her attention back to the task at hand - packing her bags with utmost care and precision so as not to raise any suspicion. As she meticulously folded her clothes and packed her essentials, she couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement building within her, knowing that she was taking the first step towards her dreams.
However, the fear of getting caught by her parents loomed over her like a dark cloud. Naaz knew that she had to be careful not to leave any clues behind that would give her secret away. She made sure to pack quietly and efficiently, triple-checking to ensure that she hadn't forgotten anything important.
The sound of the clock ticking away added to her nerves, reminding her that time was running out. She knew that her parents would be asleep by now, and that she had to make her escape before they could catch her. With a final glance around her room, Naaz hefted her bags over her shoulders and made her way to the door, tiptoeing as silently as possible.
As she stepped out into the cool night air, she felt a rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She knew that this was the moment she had been waiting for - the moment when she could finally break free and forge her own path in life. With a deep breath, she called for an Uber and climbed into the car, feeling the wind in her hair and the thrill of adventure in her heart.
As the Uber sped away from her home, Naaz's heart pounded with excitement and apprehension. The driver kept glancing at her through the rearview mirror, probably wondering why she was out so late with such heavy bags. Naaz tried to keep a low profile, avoiding eye contact and staying quiet.
As the car made its way through the empty streets, Naaz's mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead. She thought of the new people she would meet, the places she would explore, and the experiences she would have. It was like a whole new world was opening up before her, and she was determined to make the most of it.
As the car pulled up to the airport, Naaz took a deep breath and stepped out, feeling a sense of exhilaration wash over her. With bated breath, she stepped out of the car and made her way to the check-in counter. She could feel the eyes of the other passengers on her, and she wondered if they could sense her nervousness.
She stood in line, clutching her passport and boarding pass in her hand, trying to keep her composure. The airport was bustling with activity, with people hurrying to and fro, carrying bags and luggage. Naaz was feeling almost high from excitement and the adrenaline of going to the beautiful French coast.
As she approached the Air France counter, Naaz felt incredibly lucky to have found such last-minute tickets on Air France, and couldn't help but think that perhaps God really was on her side.
The airline attendant greeted her with a smile, and Naaz felt a sense of relief wash over her. She handed over her passport and boarding pass, feeling a sense of pride and excitement as she did so.
The attendant checked her documents and then looked up at her with a smile. "Have a safe and enjoyable flight," she said.
Naaz grinned - she was really doing this, she was really going to fucking Nice! Walking towards the duty-free zone, she browsed through the shelves of snacks.
The flight was scheduled for 6AM, but Naaz didn't care about spending six hours in the airport. She was too excited for what lay ahead. By the time her parents woke up and realized she was gone, she would be long gone, tanning on a sandy beach and sipping delicious virgin margaritas.
Kylian Mbappé
Meanwhile, in Paris, Kylian's mind was clouded with disappointment and frustration, knowing that this season had been a disaster. Despite winning the title, he couldn't help but feel that it was a hollow victory. The team had underperformed throughout the season, with injuries and inconsistent performances plaguing their efforts.
Kylian's heart felt heavy as he looked around at his teammates, who were cheering and hugging each other. He knew that they had worked hard to earn this title, but it still felt like a consolation prize for a season that had fallen short of their expectations.
He couldn't help but wonder what the point of it all was. Was winning the title worth it if it came at the cost of their dignity and reputation?
Kylian shook his head, he couldn't stay here any longer. He had to leave, he had to escape the hollow feeling inside him. Grabbing his stuff, he walked out of the locker telling everyone he was just going to shower. He found the door that used to lead to the old trash bins but was now mostly used by members of the PSG staff and the players to sneak out for a short break.
He reached for his phone and dialled his assistant, "Karl, I need my private jet ready in the next hour. I'm heading to the south of France, preferably Nice."
As he spoke, Kylian's voice was low and urgent, betraying the turmoil that raged inside him. He knew that this impromptu escape would be seen as irresponsible and selfish, but he couldn't ignore the yearning in his heart. The pressure and expectation that came with being a football superstar had taken its toll on him, leaving him feeling empty and unfulfilled. He needed a break, a chance to find himself again.
Karl, who had been Kylian's assistant for years, was used to his boss's sudden whims and demands. He quickly replied, "Sure thing, Kylian. I'll have the jet ready for you in an hour. Do you need anything else?"
"No, just make sure everything is in order," Kylian replied before hanging up.
As he walked through the door that led to the staff parking lot, he felt a sense of relief wash over him. He was finally doing something for himself, something that wasn't dictated by the expectations of others. They already thought he was a selfish, arrogant prick, might as well act like one now. The warm evening breeze of Paris felt refreshing against his face as he loaded his luggage into the waiting car.
"Where to, sir?" the driver asked.
"The airport. I have a private jet waiting," Kylian replied, settling into the back seat.
The driver nodded, and the car pulled out onto the busy streets of Paris. As they drove, Kylian's mind wandered, thinking of the unknown adventures that awaited him in the south of France. He felt a sense of anticipation and excitement, but also a lingering sense of guilt for leaving his teammates and coach behind.
"This is madness. I’ve gone crazy," he muttered to himself.
He wondered if he should have confided in his mother before leaving, but he pushed the thought away, telling himself that he needed this break.
Kylian closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing mind, the sounds of the city outside the car a distant hum. He needed to relax, to clear his mind and figure out what was bothering him. The pressure of being a football superstar was starting to take its toll on him, and he knew he needed to find a way to recharge.
"Maybe I'll find some peace in Nice," he murmured to himself, the idea of lounging on a beach and soaking up the Mediterranean sun sounding like heaven.
The car pulled up to the airport, and Kylian stepped out, ready to leave his worries behind and embrace the unknown.
A/N: Hello, lovelies! Here's chapter one of the summer fic. It's quite short but i just wanted to set the mood about the emotional state of Naaz and Kylian before arriving in Nice. The story pics up next chapter, pinky promise 💞😅
#kylian mbappe#kylian imagines#kylian mbappe smut#kylian mbappe fanfic#kylian mbappé#psg#kylian mbappe imagine#kylian x reader#summer#summer romance#romance#strangers to lovers#footballer blurb#kylian x you#kylian x oc#kylian fanfic#mbappe#paris saint germain#km7#kylian smut#footballer imagine#footballer fanfiction#football#funny#comedy#writing community
75 notes
·
View notes
Text
"And here is Kylian Mbappé, goal scorer 10 minutes after his entrance ! The King, the Hero is back."
Kylian Mbappé scores a penalty against Toulouse, making it his and PSG's first goal of the season. (19.08.2023)
The striker had been isolated from the first team since the beginning of the season and had only trained with them the week before the game, after being included back in.
Kylian Mbappé proves once again that he remains Paris Saint Germain's pillar. ❤💙
47 notes
·
View notes
Note
Poor boo had to tweet out defending the rumors of him staying this last season , his letter was fkn obvious on how 2024 was his fkn last season and he would be a free player.
YET AGAIN they will come at him saying he rejected madrid when there wasn’t an offer in the first fkn place.
FACTSSS
His letter was enough,clearing out his decision….. yet , they were able to fkn manipulate his words ugh.
He just went and said no renewal, thats fkn it oml-
Everyone wants him so bad lmao
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
hiii im new here!! my name is louise, im 25y/o and im looking for mutuals who like football and football players too… specially kylian mbappe and achraf hakimi
4 notes
·
View notes
Note
Heyy, welcome to the club (I’m a red too),
I wanted to request some Kylian fluff, where there at a party or a wedding and their relationship is accidentally exposed because in a story, they’re caught dancing together, and it’s all cute and always and maybe at first reader is scared of her relationship being public but Kylian calms her down — idk I just got inspired from the song bébé by dadju, so if you could include it in some way, ☺️🥹 thx again
hehe I love wedding fics lmao, this got a bit longer than I thought it was gonna be but anyway!! I'd literally never heard the song before but I listened to it while I wrote the dance bit <3
also I just used a random photo of him I found on Pinterest lol
-
"Kylian, we're late, and we need to leave time to check in!" you called, struggling to pull your heels on as you checked the time, groaning at the thought of him turning up late to a wedding where he was literally the best man.
"Bébé, it's fine!" he says, coming out of the bathroom, fully dressed up in a suit and smart shoes, looking handsome as ever. You pause slightly when you see him -- him in suits would well and truly be the death of you, you thought, fixing the buckle of your heel. He winks when he sees your eyes follow him across the room as he gets the car keys and wedding present.
You get one of your smarter coats -- it might be a wedding, but it was also the middle of the winter, and you weren't prepared to die of hypothermia. He takes your bag for you, sticking it in the boot as you get in the passenger seat, texting the groom's sister to tell her you were on the way.
"I love weddings." you confess on the motorway, seeing the photos your friends are sending you from the venue.
Kylian hums, "I love the free alcohol."
Frowning, you close your phone. "There's more to weddings than free alcohol, love, we're seeing all our school friends and the food sounds like it's gonna be great, plus two of our best friends are getting married."
He chuckles, "And that's all good, but they take forever."
"You're infuriating, y'know?" you tease, letting him know he had to take the next exit. The venue isn't far from Paris, but you'd agreed that rather than getting a taxi back to your place in the middle of the night, you'd rather just stay the night at the hotel, an old Chateaux overlooking the Seine that had been renovated in the past few years to be the perfect wedding venue; picturesque and charming.
The closer you get, the smaller the roads are, but you spot the venue long before you find the adjacent street, excited at the majestic architecture and the rows of cars already parked outside; he finds a space in the carpark and you check in, splitting ways so you he can catch up with the groom and you can go to find your friends before heading to the chapel.
As it turns out, the ceremony is delayed anyway, and you end up sitting on the bride's side of the audience with an old school friend, Amélie, even though you're technically here with the groom. Kylian's stood at the front with the groom, smiling and laughing at something he's saying, pausing his conversation to wave when you sit down.
"God, you guys are cute." Amélie mutters she settles beside you. "How much d'you wanna bet you guys'll be the next to get married?"
You roll your eyes. "We haven't even gone public yet, Ams."
"It's a matter of time, trust me." she chides, shushing you as the ceremony starts.
Hours later, after a prolonged meal and, eventually, the first dance, you're laughing with Amélie about the time you got suspended for smoking in the field during school, having lost track of Kylian a long while ago. Just when you're starting to get concerned about his whereabouts, you feel his arms around your waist, pulling you into him and kissing you on the temple. "Dance with me, please?"
You sigh, "Only because you asked so nicely." you tease, letting him pull you into the dance floor as the song starts up, a poppy ballad that you've danced with him to a thousand times before. Teasingly, as he spins you round, he sings the lyrics to you, laughing as you get flustered. pulling you close during the bridge, hands on your waist, your arms around his neck as you kiss him, smiling into it, happy to feel so relaxed about being with him in public, knowing it's only really family and friends seeing it.
He kisses you again, peppering you nose and cheeks as you giggle, squirming from the ticklish contact. You dance for another couple of songs before he goes to get you another cocktail, leaving you to check your Instagram. There are a few stories about the wedding -- photos from the ceremony and meal, but the one that catches your attention was posted by Marc, one of Kylian's friends; the photo is of him and his girlfriend, but you can see yourself in the background, laughing as Kylian spins you around, his face also clearly visible. Telling yourself that fans are hardly going to notice him in that background of the story -- especially since it would take some really deep digging to even know he's friends with Marc -- you put your phone away, seeing Kylian returning, Mojito in hand.
You sip the drink, sticking to his side as another guest, the bride's aunt, comes to greet him, denying you the opportunity to tell him about the photo, even though you know he'd just remind you of what you already know -- fans don't even know who Marc is, they're not going to see the photo.
It's only as people are starting to head home or up to their hotel rooms that you see all the notifications; within a matter of hours, your Instagram followers have shot up by nearly ten thousand people, and your DMs are full of people asking about Kylian; confused and more than a little panicked, you check Twitter, only to see your concerns are correct. Kylian's name is trending, with 90% of the tweets featuring various screenshots from different photos from the wedding, different angles of your little dance with him and his hands on your waist as you stand at the bar. You look across the room at where he's telling a story to the bride's parents, Amélie catching your attention as she rushes across the room to you. "
"Oh my God, have you seen the photos?" she asks, a little too tipsy to be genuinely concerned.
"Yeah, just now -- I'm totally freaking out." you admit, fighting the urge to bite your nails. "This is awful -- I'm getting absolutely spammed on all my socials."
She sighs, offering you a sympathetic look. "Talk to him. Oh, and if you're public now, that means there's nothing stopping him from proposing."
You roll your eyes, bidding her good night as she goes to leave -- seemingly in tandem with one of the bride's cousins, not that you say anything. Instead, you make a beeline for Kylian, hesitantly pulling him away from his conversation and saying your goodbyes to the other guests.
"What's wrong?" he asks, immediately catching onto how fidgety you're acting and how quickly you're ushering him to your room.
"'What's wrong?' Kylian, your entire fanbase has just found out about us!" you practically squeak, thrusting your phone in his face. "I am being bombarded with shit and I'm freaking the fuck out!"
He takes your phone from you, seeing the mass of notifications and frowning deeply. "Shit."
"Yeah, 'Shit', Ky." you groan, sitting down on the bed.
"Are you okay?" he asks, sitting beside you.
"No." you say, blunt as ever. "This is crazy."
He takes your hand. "We'll make it work -- there's nothing we can do about hiding it now, but we can control the narrative at least."
You look at him, at his worry-stricken face, at the cogs turning in his mind. "How?" you sniff. God, this was so embarrassing -- you were crying now too?"
"Cherie, don't cry, okay? We can post some photos from tonight and announce are relationship but leave it at that, okay? Confirm the rumours so that there's nothing more for them to say. Like, yeah, I have the most stunning, beautiful girlfriend ever, so what?"
You giggle. "Okay. yeah, okay."
-
k.mbappe
k.mbappe l'amour de ma vie
view all 54,895 comments
yourusername mon amour <3
k.mbappe je t'aime
achrafhakimi It was about time
psg 👀
214 notes
·
View notes
Text
I just know if I was the interviewer, I would have been choosing my wedding dress🗿👍🏼
#kylian mbappe#mbappé#jkkyks#mbappe icons#psg#kyky#kyks#france#kylian mbappe lottin#kylian#mbappe#kylian mbappe gifs#kylian mbappe videos#km7#kylian mbappe x female reader#kylian mbappe one shots#kylian mbappe imagines
134 notes
·
View notes
Text
How do I explain the impact of the post wc era where tumblr was overflowing with kylian mbappe fanfics after he tragically became the people's princess
21 notes
·
View notes
Text
More of Kylian’s adventures in Miami🤭
109 notes
·
View notes
Text
Cliché? Most definitely. | Kylian Mbappé
Chapitre Un. Rien autour n'a de sens
February 1, 2023
Aamira Majid
“This is the final boarding call for Aamira Majid booked on flight AF323 to Paris. Please proceed to gate 4 immediately. The final checks are being completed and the captain will order the doors of the aircraft to close in approximately five minutes' time. I repeat. This is the final boarding call for Aamira Majid. Thank you.”
Shit. She was going to miss her flight. Aamira knew she shouldn't have packed her bags the night before she had to leave for Paris. Unfortunately for her, she didn't really have a choice as a high-profile case had been assigned to her team a few weeks prior causing numerous sleepless nights and coffee runs. To add insult to injury, the trial was held two days before her departure to Paris.
If her mother and father were here, she wouldn't have been in such a predicament. Sorrow pierced her heart as she thought about her deceased parents. The young woman swallowed the lump forming in her throat as her eyes moistened. It had been two years since her parents passed away in a car crash but the pain of their loss was still fresh. Aamira wished she had a time-turner so she could apologize one last time, hug them tight one last time, and kiss them tenderly one last time. A single tear slid down her cheek as she ran to gate 4.
Aamira saw the lady at the counter looking impatiently around for her. The gate was empty as everyone had already boarded the flight.
“I’m here! Don’t close the gate, please!”, Aamira wheezed as she reached the counter. The woman was dressed in the classic Air France uniform with a black blazer emblazoned with the logo and matching trousers. She had a badge around her neck with her name written on it, Aurélie Picard.
“You are very late, mademoiselle. We were just about to close the gate,” said Aurélie sternly. “Your boarding pass and passport, s’il-vous-plaît.”
Handing the disgruntled agent her ticket and passport, Aamira profusely apologized while trying to catch her breath. She could feel the frustration and exhaustion of the past week slowly creeping up on her as she felt her watering. Life hadn’t been very kind to the aspiring law student.
Aurélie inspected Aamira’s documents before handing them back. “Please hurry, mademoiselle. You have less than a minute to board the flight.”
Aamira grabbed her bags and sprinted towards the gate. She could see the aeroplane’s door closing and the flight attendants looking at her with a mix of annoyance and pity. She was so close. Just a few more steps and she’d make it.
As Aamira approached the gate, she could see the flight attendants standing at the door, waiting for her. They watched her run towards them with a mixture of annoyance and pity. She knew she was cutting it close, but she had to make this flight. She had a job to do, and she couldn't afford to miss it.
One of the flight attendants, a young woman with a warm smile, reached out to Aamira as she got closer. "You made it just in time," she said, taking Aamira's boarding pass and passport. "Let me show you to your seat."
Aamira followed the flight attendant down the aisle, feeling the eyes of the other passengers on her. She could hear the murmurs and whispers as she walked by, wondering why she had been so late.
As she settled into her seat, Aamira couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. She had made it on the flight, and she could finally relax. But the memories of her parents lingered in her mind, and she couldn't shake off the feeling of regret for not spending more time with them before they died. She wished she had told them how much she loved them, and how grateful she was for their guidance and support.
As the plane took off and rose higher into the sky, Aamira felt a sense of detachment from the world around her. She was going to Paris to work on a case that didn't really matter to her. It was just another job, another way to distract herself from the pain of her loss. But deep down, she knew that nothing could ever fill the void left by her parents' absence.
Aamira closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. She knew that the road ahead was going to be long and challenging, but she was determined to keep going. For her parents, for herself, and for the future that lay ahead.
Just then, the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, announcing their imminent arrival. “Mesdames et Messieurs, ici votre capitaine qui vous parle. Nous allons atterrir sous peu à l'aéroport Charles de Gaulle. Veuillez attacher vos ceintures de sécurité et vous assurer que vos plateaux de repas sont rangés et que vos sièges sont en position verticale. Nous vous remercions d'avoir voyagé avec nous et espérons que vous apprécierez votre séjour à Paris."
(Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will be landing shortly at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Please fasten your seatbelts and make sure your tray tables are stowed and your seatbacks are in the upright position. Thank you for flying with us, and we hope you enjoy your stay in Paris.)
Aamira's heart raced with anticipation as the plane taxied to the gate. She couldn't wait to immerse herself in the culture, try the food, and explore the city. She took a deep breath, letting go of all her worries, mentally reciting the goals she had set for herself.
Finish your thesis.
Get your master’s degree.
Find a better job.
Build your life.
Stop wallowing in grief.
As soon as the plane came to a stop, she grabbed her carry-on bag and made her way towards customs. The lines at customs were long, but Aamira tried to stay patient. She had heard horror stories of people getting stuck in customs for hours, but luckily, she made it through in a reasonable amount of time.
Aamira handed over her passport and documents to the customs officer, a young man with a charming smile. The young customs officer had a confident and self-assured demeanour, with piercing hazel eyes that seemed to sparkle in the bright lights of the customs hall. His chiselled jawline was framed by a well-groomed beard, giving him a rugged, yet refined appearance. He had a lean and muscular physique, which was accentuated by his perfectly tailored uniform. With a flick of his wrist, he glanced over her visa and work permit, and then he looked up at her with a flirty expression. His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, his lips curving into a smirk as if he knew the effect he was having on her.
"Bonjour mademoiselle, vous êtes ici pour étudier et travailler à Paris?" he asked in a friendly tone, his voice low and smooth. (Good morning miss, are you here to study and work in Paris?)
"Oui," replied Aamira, feeling her cheeks flush as she tried to maintain eye contact with the handsome officer. "J'ai un visa étudiant et un permis de travail."
(I have a student visa and a work permit.)
"Très bien, everything is in order," he said, nodding as he stamped her passport. "Where are you studying?"
“At Panthéon-Assas," Aamira replied, trying to sound confident despite her flustered state.
"Impressive, you must be very intelligent," he said with a flirtatious smile. Handing back your passport, he grins, "Bienvenue à Paris, mademoiselle."
"Merci beaucoup," Aamira replied, returning his smile as she gathered her documents and hurriedly made her way towards the exit, her heart still racing from the encounter.
Aamira was relieved to see the carousel already spinning as she made her way to the baggage claim area. She looked around, trying to spot her luggage among the sea of suitcases, bags, and boxes. After a few anxious moments, she finally saw her two black suitcases come into view, and she quickly grabbed them, feeling a sense of relief that her belongings had arrived safely.
With her luggage in tow, Aamira made her way towards the airport's exit. She was eager to start her new life in Paris, but also a bit apprehensive about what lay ahead. She hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of her apartment in the 5th arrondissement, near the Panthéon-Assas University where she would be studying. She hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of her apartment. The driver, an older man with a thick French accent.
Settling down into the back seat of the taxi, she gazed out the window, taking in the bustling streets of Paris. The driver, whose name was Henri, started up a conversation.
"So, where are you from?" Henri asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.
"Oh, I’m from Canada, monsieur," Aamira replied, grateful for the chance to practice her French.
"Ah, call me Henri, mademoiselle. Now, Canada you say? I’ve always wanted to visit. What’s it like over there?" Henri inquired.
Aamira smiled. "It’s very nice, we have a lot of greenery and everyone there is really nice."
Henri nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I believe Canadians are very nice. But you know, us Parisians have our own charm!" he said with a laugh.
Aamira laughed along with him, feeling her anxiety begin to dissipate. Henri continued to point out landmarks and share interesting tidbits about Paris as they made their way through the city.
"Voilà, we’re here!" Henri announced as they pulled up to Aamira's apartment building.
"Merci beaucoup, Henri," Aamira said, reaching for her wallet.
"De rien, mademoiselle. Good luck with your studies!" Henri replied with a smile, before driving off into the busy Parisian streets.
Aamira watched the taxi disappear around the corner before turning to face her new home in Paris. She felt a sense of excitement and anticipation for the adventures that lay ahead but the twinge of sadness at the thought of her parents would never leave her. God, her heart ached every time their memories fluttered around her mind leaving behind a hole that would never be filled.
Finish your thesis.
Get your master’s degree.
Find a better job.
Build your life.
Stop wallowing in grief.
The mantra playing in her head, she took a step towards her new home for the next two years. Aamira saw a figure up ahead. Approaching closer, she recognized the kind elderly landlady she had corresponded with over email. She was dressed in a colourful floral blouse and a long, flowing skirt that swayed gently in the breeze. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and her eyes sparkled with a twinkle of kindness and warmth. As Aamira approached her, she noticed the gentle lines on the woman's face, a testament to a life well lived. She exuded a sense of maternal care that made Aamira feel instantly at ease.
"Bonjour, miss," the landlady greeted her warmly. "I'm Madame Dubois, the owner of the apartment. Bienvenue à Paris!" She offered the basket to Aamira. "I brought some fresh bread and cheese for you."
Aamira was touched by the gesture. "Thank you very much, Madame Dubois," she replied gratefully, taking the basket. "That's very kind of you."
"You're welcome, ma chère. I hope you feel at home here," Madame Dubois said, her voice filled with sincerity.
Aamira felt a sense of comfort in the woman's presence. She was reminded of her own grandmother, who was equally kind and loving. It made her feel less alone in this new city.
"Thank you, Madame Dubois. I'm sure I'll love it here," Aamira said with a smile.
Madame Dubois returned the smile, revealing a set of kind eyes that crinkled at the corners. "I hope so, my dear," she said, before gesturing for Aamira to follow her inside. "Come on, let me give you a little tour."
The apartment wasn't anything fancy, but it was cosy and clean. The walls of the apartment were painted in soft shades of beige, creating a calming atmosphere. The hardwood floors were polished to a high shine, reflecting the warm glow of the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. The living area was furnished with a comfortable couch and a small coffee table, perfect for relaxing after a long day of exploring the city. The kitchenette was compact but efficient, with a small refrigerator, a stove, and a microwave. Aamira noticed that there were some basic utensils and cookware in the cabinets, which she was glad to see. The bedroom, while small, was tastefully decorated with a cosy comforter and fluffy pillows. Overall, while it wasn't the most luxurious space, Aamira felt that it was perfect for her needs, and she was excited to make it her own.
"Ahh, c'est parfait," Aamira said, taking in the simplicity of the space. "It's exactly what I was hoping for."
"I'm glad to hear that," Madame Dubois replied with a chuckle. "I always worry that my apartments won't be good enough for my tenants."
"Oh no, it's perfect," Aamira said with a smile. "And the location is great too. I can't wait to explore the neighbourhood."
"Yes, it's a lovely area," Madame Dubois agreed. "There are many cafes and shops nearby. And don't forget to visit the park down the street. It's beautiful in the spring."
"I will definitely check it out," Aamira said, feeling grateful for the kind landlady's advice.
"And if you need anything, ma puce, just let me know. You have my phone number," Madame Dubois said, patting Aamira's hand reassuringly. Aamira felt a sense of comfort knowing that Madame Dubois was nearby. “Allez, je te laisse. Repose-toi.”
Aamira thanked the woman again before escorting her to the door, feeling grateful and fortunate to have such a kind landlady. Locking the door, she faceplanted on the soft and inviting couch, its warm embrace enveloping her as she closed her eyes, letting out a contented sigh. She took in the quietness of the apartment, the only sound being her own breathing, and she savoured the moment of solitude.
The past month had been long and eventful, she allowed herself a moment of respite, letting the fatigue melt away as she sank deeper into the cushions. As she lay there, the weight of her parents' absence pressed down on her, and a wave of sadness washed over her, the pain still lingered like a persistent ache. Aamira let out a deep sigh, trying to push away the melancholy thoughts and focus on the new chapter of her life in Paris.
◇─◇──◇─◇◇─◇──◇─◇◇─◇──◇─◇◇─◇──◇─◇◇─◇──◇
Kylian Mbappé
Rage. Anger. Frustration. Pain.
Kylian's heart pounded relentlessly in his chest, matching the pulsating ache in his injured thigh as he limped off the pitch. His mind was racing with a barrage of thoughts, each one more harrowing than the last. The weight of disappointment and self-doubt bore down on him like a suffocating blanket, crushing his spirit and leaving him feeling utterly powerless. Kylian feels like he’s about to lose control, already envisioning the headlines and the tweets on social media describing his disaster match today.
“Kylian Mbappe misses two penalties, an open goal, is the PSG star still suffering from World Cup?”
“Shameless fraud should’ve let Messi take them”
“He probably faked his injury cuz he was embarrassed about missing two pens. What an overrated loser!”
As Kylian trudged through the tunnel, the muffled sounds of the stadium echoed around him, a constant reminder of the thousands of disappointed fans and the scathing comments that would soon flood social media. The once-familiar sounds of the cheering crowds now felt like a mocking chorus of disapproval, adding to the weight of his already heavy heart.
“Arrogant piece of shit, he needs to leave PSG”
“Haaland is miles ahead of that egotistical bastard”
The silence was only a façade, for underneath it all, the muffled sound of the stadium buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. The distant roars of the crowd, the clashing of feet and the hum of the speakers blended together to create a disorienting cacophony of sound.
“Overrated fraud in a farmers league!”
“Someone needs to get rid of Mpaypal.”
Kylian couldn't help but feel as if he was walking through a nightmare, a hellish landscape of his own making. The thudding of his footsteps echoed like a drumbeat, a march towards his inevitable downfall as his mind plummeted into an endless downward spiral of self-hatred. The weight of his disappointment seemed to grow with each passing moment, crushing him under the weight of his own failure.
Despite the noise that surrounded him, Kylian felt a crushing sense of loneliness. The only company he had was his own thoughts, and they were rapidly becoming a harsh and unforgiving critic of his own performance. He knew that he couldn't avoid the inevitable, but the thought of facing public humiliation was almost too much to bear.
"I can't believe PSG paid that much for Mbappe. He's a complete flop."
"What a pathetic performance by Mbappe. He's clearly not worth the hype."
Gulping down the rising panic, Kylian makes his way to the locker room as his mind clouds with dark thoughts. God, he was so tired of everything. Sitting down on the examination table, his heart’s pounding as Dr Duprès, the team’s physician, starts to examine his injury. The room feels suffocating, and he struggles to calm down as he feels his breathing getting heavier.
“Arrogant piece of shit, he needs to leave PSG”
“Haaland is miles ahead of that egotistical bastard”
He can feel the tension building in his muscles as Duprès continues to press and prod at his injured hamstring. His head feels heavy, the locker room starts to blur as his eyes start watering. Everything feels far away and too close at the same time.
“Kylian, are you okay?”, says the physician looking worriedly at the footballer who seems to have gone two shades paler. But, all he can think about is how insignificant he feels and for fuck’s sake, why does his chest feel so tight?
“Kylian, I need you to breathe for me, okay? ”
Kylian struggled to take a deep breath, feeling a tightness in his chest that made it difficult to draw in air. His heart pounded erratically, like a wild animal trying to escape its cage. The physician's words were distant, barely registering in his mind as he tried to focus on calming his racing thoughts.
But the more he tried to control his breathing, the more his body seemed to rebel against him. His lungs felt like they were being squeezed by an invisible hand, and every breath was a struggle.
"What a pathetic fucking performance by Mbappe. He's clearly not worth the hype."
“Fuck Mpaypal, he ruined the club.”
As the panic rose within him, Kylian's thoughts became a deadly cyclone, shredding and destroying him until he felt like he was going to die. Doubts and insecurities flooded his mind, eroding his confidence and leaving him feeling helpless and alone. He couldn't understand why he was here, in this moment, struggling to breathe and feeling like a failure. Maybe he wasn't meant to be a footballer? Maybe he wasn't good enough?
But just as he was about to succumb to his fears, the physician's voice broke through his racing thoughts like a beacon of hope. "Kylian!" The urgency in the physician's voice was a jolt to his system, bringing him back to the present. "Kylian! Please. Focus on my voice. You're going to be okay, just keep breathing."
Duprès’ words were a lifeline, pulling Kylian back from the brink of despair. He focused on the sound of the physician's voice, willing himself to calm down and control his breathing. Dr Duprès’ hands were a calming presence on his shoulders. As the minutes ticked by, Kylian slowly began to regain control of his breathing. The tightness in his chest began to ease, and his heart rate began to slow down. The doctor continued to monitor him, checking his pulse and blood pressure to ensure that he was stable.
Kylian felt drained and weak like all the energy had been drained from his body. His body had reached its limits as exhaustion overtook him, and he collapsed onto the examination table, His vision blurred, and the sounds around him became muffled as he slipped into unconsciousness.
When he finally came to, he found himself in his hotel room, with his mother hovering anxiously near his bed. The room was quiet and dimly lit, with the only source of light coming from a small lamp on the bedside table. Kylian's head throbbed with pain, and his body ached from the physical and emotional strain of the day.
He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness washed over him, and he slumped back onto the bed. His mother rushed to his side, her eyes filled with worry and concern. "Oh, Kylian, thank God you're awake," she said, her voice laced with relief.
Kylian could see the anxiety etched on his mother's face, and it pained him to know that his struggles had affected her so deeply. "I'm sorry, maman," he whispered, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. "I don't know what happened."
His mother shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. "Don't be sorry, my son. You don't have anything to apologize for. You just need to rest now. Everything else can wait."
Kylian nodded weakly, but his curiosity got the better of him. "Did PSG win?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kylian's father, Wilfrid, walked into the room, followed by his younger brother, Ethan. Wilfrid's expression was stern and serious, but there was a hint of tenderness in his eyes as he looked at his son. "PSG won, Kylian," he said, his voice steady and calm. "But that's not what's important right now. What's important is that you get better. You need to take care of yourself, and we'll take care of everything else."
Kylian felt a sense of gratitude wash over him, knowing that his family was there for him, no matter what. He could feel his body relaxing, finally able to let go of the tension and anxiety that had been building up inside him. His brother Ethan came over to the bed and squeezed his hand, offering him a reassuring smile.
"You scared us there, frérot," Ethan said, his voice filled with concern. "But you're going to be okay. We're all here for you."
Kylian managed a weak smile in return, grateful for the support of his younger brother. Kylian's mother leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Just rest now, mon amour," she murmured softly. "We'll be here when you wake up." As she pulled away, Kylian closed his eyes and let himself drift off into a peaceful slumber, comforted by the love and support of his family.
As the young prodigy drifted off to sleep, his family gathered around his bed, their faces etched with concern. His father, Wilfrid, paced back and forth across the room, his anger simmering just below the surface.
"We should have never extended with PSG," he said, his voice thick with frustration. "Look at the state of our son. This isn't healthy for him, He's barely holding it together"
Fayza's eyes filled with tears, and she placed a hand on her husband's arm. "Don't say that, Wilfrid," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "We had no way of knowing this would happen. And Kylian loves playing for PSG."
"But at what cost?" Wilfrid countered, his frustration mounting. "We've seen the toll this lifestyle has taken on him. The promises they made about getting him a player to support him as a number 9 were all broken. Maybe it's time to reconsider our priorities."
Fayza nodded, her expression grave. "I know," she said softly. "But we need to be careful. Kylian's happiness is important, but so is his career. We don't want to make any rash decisions."
Ethan, always the optimist, spoke up, his voice filled with determination. "We just need to support him, no matter what," he said, his eyes locked on Kylian's sleeping form. "He's going to get through this. We'll make sure of it."
The family fell into a sombre silence, each lost in their own thoughts and worries. The weight of their son's struggles hung heavy in the air, threatening to suffocate them all. As they watched him sleep, they couldn't help but wonder what the future held for him, and for their family.
°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。
A/N: Hey, lovelies! I accidentally uploaded this first chapter without adding Kylian's entire pov in this lmao. I just wanted to add that this story is quite heavy and it comes from a personal space in the sense that it reflects some of my emotions. My stories are like an extension of myself, I convey my thoughts and feelings through these characters. It's a first for me, so I would appreciate constructive criticism. Anyways, as usual, please enjoy and let me know your thoughts, feelings and opinions 💞
#kylian mbappe#kylian mbappe fanfic#psg#kylian imagines#kylian mbappe smut#kylian mbappe imagine#kylian x reader#kylian mbappé#kylian smut#footballer blurb#kylian fanfic#kylian x you#footballer fanfiction#kylian x oc#mbappe#paris saint germain#km7#mbappe psg#romance#romantic#strangers to lovers#angst#new fanfic#fanfic
84 notes
·
View notes
Text
La spéciale !
16 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
a-fuked-up-mess
ocassus
oharabunny
ᓚᘏᗢ...( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)
huzurbulmak
İsimsiz
sokka-with-his-hair-down
Semi-Active
iotiamo
Senza titolo