d.

None of his teammates seem to have noticed just how bad he has it for you. After practice, he takes the liberty of staying behind to help you clean up. Your coworkers tend to throw glances his way—how strange is it seeing Kylian Mbappé help you?—but they never ask questions.

You don't seem to mind, either. You're constantly giving him smiles, make jokes when no one's paying attention—you've even become his primary physio.

You're practically attached to the hip, birds of a feather. But not dating—not yet, Kylian hopes, because he still hasn't plucked up the courage to ask you out on a date.

Him. Kylian Mbappé. 

He may appear brave to the world, but when it comes to you, it's like his brain turns off. Under your gaze, he's less than the standards he holds himself to—he's vulnerable.

So, he'll settle for a close friendship. 

The last thing he wants is to ruin the relationship he has with you. At least by being just friends, he has you close, yet at the same time, you're still so far away, just out of reach. He has to pretend it doesn't bruise his heart.

Something changes in the routine he's grown so used to. He realizes it when he walks into the treatment room early one morning, eyes gazing around the room until they catch a glimpse of you. Not alone. Setting up with Jude.

You never work with Jude. You haven't for the last few weeks. It's a warning sign he chooses to ignore because he knows you're just doing your job.

Instead, Kylian decides to stroll over to where you are, an easy grin on his face. 

"Good morning," he says, which is mainly meant for you, but Jude sends him a quick good morning back. Kylian nods at him to be nice.

"Morning," he hears you murmur. If he wasn't so attentive to you, he probably wouldn't have heard it. You're looking down at your notes, clearly distracted. That's perfectly fine.

"What are we doing today?" Kylian asks, noticing that you have yet to look at him, and it makes him feel uncomfortable. When he talks to you, you always look at him. Always.

It's not a big deal.

You pause whatever you're doing. He can see the tensing in your shoulders, like you're annoyed. Annoyed? He can't be reading you correctly.

"Uh, you're not on my schedule today. Raul has you." Your tone is different, flatter, rougher. And the combination of it and the words coming from your mouth are enough to make him feel like something is suddenly weighing down on his chest, making him ache.

Why not? He wants to ask, but to him, that sounds far too desperate.

"Oh." He can't bring himself to say much else, and you're clearly preoccupied enough, so instead of questioning you, he just steps away.

Kylian's probably being ridiculous. You don't need to help him everyday. It probably wasn't your decision anyway. 

It's fine.

It's what he repeats to himself for the rest of the week.

What he thinks is a one-time thing goes on for seven days. He keeps count because each passing day, you unknowingly push a dagger deeper into his chest when you don't talk to him.

He's handled distance before, but it's different when you're the one pulling away, like having his air supply cut off.

It makes him feel like he's dying further when you don't treat everyone the same way you treat him. It's like you're doing it on purpose, messing with his head, leaving him grasping for even a second of your attention.

He can't tear his eyes away from you. They follow your hands, the way they massage Jude's hamstrings. He doesn't bother making you an excuse—he could care less if it's your job—the sight alone is enough to make Kylian's blood boil.

Seven days. Seven days. Eight now, counting today.

When they get onto the field, Kylian's impulse gets the better of him. A pass to Jude and suddenly Kylian finds himself running over to intercept it like he's in a real match.

He doesn't find the ball. It's because he isn't seeking it out. The bottom of his cleats find Jude's calf instead as he tackles him to the ground. He hears Jude let out a curse, holding onto his calf and writhing on the grass.

"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry." He's really not. 

He knows Jude will be fine. If anything, he'll be left with a bruise. Nothing more. Though he wishes he could've done a better job of thinking ahead cause now he's forced to watch you attend to Jude.

It's the consequences of his own actions. It doesn't mean he has to like it. He has to grit his teeth to stop himself from calling Jude a crybaby.

Even as you walk away, you still don't look at him. Kylian doesn't think he'll be able to handle another day of this cruel silence. He tries to recall past events—maybe he upset you—but nothing comes to mind. Nothing.

Whatever game you're playing—Kylian's over it. You win. You won a long time ago.

He heads to your office when practice is over, not bothering to knock, opening the door and closing it behind him once he's inside. You're alone and evidently startled to see him.

"You didn't—"

"You're ignoring me." He doesn't sugarcoat it. He doesn't want to.

You take in his words for a few seconds, looking around the room, at anything but him, and it makes Kylian feel queasy. "Ignoring you? I don't think I have. It's just been a busy week."

"Too busy for me, but not for everyone else, right?" Kylian says, his voice filled to the brim with a bitterness he can no longer contain. "Not for Jude?"

That seems to hit a nerve for you. He can see it on your face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything. I'm just pointing out an observation." But oh, does it mean everything.

You finally fix your gaze on him—he's already had his on you so intensely for the last few minutes. "Are you jealous or something?"

"What am I, a teenager?" Kylian hates how you're absolutely right. It bruises his ego to hear you say it so easily. 

"That's why you tackled him in practice."

Kylian shook his head. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"You're such a liar."

"I'm a liar?"

"Yes, you are. I saw it. You weren't going for the ball at all."

"Well, I'm glad you'll look at me, but not talk to me." Kylian lets out an exhale, exhausted. The last thing he wants is to argue with you. He likes you too much, which is why he refuses to leave without knowing if you're upset with him.

Your face falls subtly, a sigh leaving your mouth a few seconds later. "It's not like I'm doing it on purpose."

Kylian notices how you look away again, as though a wave of embarrassment has suddenly passed through you.

"It's just..." You let out a breath, shaking your head, biting your tongue. "Nevermind, it's stupid."

"Don't start with that," Kylian says, taking on a softer tone. It's so easy to do when it comes to you. "If it's something personal, you can tell me."

He watches your chest rise and fall with an inhale and exhale, and when your eyes meet his again, he feels his pulse thrum a little faster. "I'm not sure how to feel about our relationship. I mean, we're friends, and that's fine, but… after spending a night together, I thought that we would at least… go on a date?"

Oh.

Oh shit.

Kylian's such an idiot. The one thing he's been holding himself back from asking you is the one thing you want.

"I didn't avoid you on purpose—or well, maybe a little bit—I just thought giving us some space would be for the best."

The statement is so ridiculous Kylian can't help the laugh that jumps out of him, but he regrets it once he notices your shoulders sagging.

"No!" Kylian quickly lets out, louder than he needs to, stepping closer to you for emphasis. "I mean, no, I'm not laughing at you, I'm just… no. Space wasn't for the best."

He takes slow steps towards you until he's right in front of you, sparing you a smile that's probably on par with his nerves. "I wasn't sure if you wanted more with me."

He lifts up a hand, tenderly cupping your cheek, your skin warm underneath his palm, bringing him an odd sense of comfort. "I guess I was scared to ask you. Now I just feel like an idiot."

"I should've just told you like a normal person," you say, making him shake his head.

"I should've asked you a long time ago. Like a normal person." He pauses, building up the courage to finally ask, "will you go on a date with me?"

The sight before him—your smile unfolding at his question—somehow makes the wait worth the while. "Of course, I will."

Kylian can't help himself. He swiftly leans down, pressing his lips against yours, savoring the sweet taste of you, the one that makes his head go hazy. He doesn't pull away, not even for air as he presses you up against your desk, your back hitting the edge.

He's desperate for your touch, and now that he has it, he'll be damned to let it go away again.

His hand snakes down your body, latching onto the buttons on your trousers, your hips jerking forward at the touch. "I missed you," he murmurs against your lips, not giving you a chance to respond, before he's pushing past your underwear, sliding his fingers through your sopping folds. "You missed me too, didn't you?"

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as a whine escapes you, a sight so beautiful that Kylian's already hard, aching in his shorts, pressing into your thigh.

However, he doesn't get to savor the feel because there's suddenly a knock on your door.

"Y/n?"

Jude's voice.

As if that little shit hasn't caused him enough problems, he goes and cock-blocks. The frustration with Jude from before now suddenly comes crashing back into him. Yet Kylian doesn't pull away. Instead, he stares into your eyes so intensely, you can't help but shiver.

"Just answer him." Kylian keeps his voice low. You try to pull away from him, but he doesn't let you. His fingers sink into your waist, keeping you in place. "Don't move."

Your eyes go wide, and you almost look like you want to protest before Jude's calling out to you again. "Y/n?"

"Yeah—yeah, I'm here. What do you need?" Your voice is choked up.

"Oh, I was just going to see if you could look at my calf again."

Kylian shakes his head, taking his pointer and middle fingers and pushing them inside you. You let out a choked moan, your thighs clenching around his hand, shocked at the sudden entry.

Kylian should probably stop. He knows better than to do anything when Jude's right outside your door, listening intently. But he can't help himself around you. The risk of getting caught by Jude excites him more than it should.

Maybe then he'll get the hint.

"Oh, I, uh, can't right now," you reply, words quivering with the effort of trying to sound normal. "I'm b—busy. Maybe tomorrow?"

Kylian smirks at your trembling voice. His fingers are practically drenched, feeling you clench so tightly around them, sucking them in deeper, like you don't want them to leave despite the circumstances.

He's getting off on it, on the sight of you alone, flush, driving you crazy with each stroke of his fingers. It's so delicious.

"Are you okay?" Jude asks. Your doorknob turns, and Kylian's grateful that he remembered to lock the door. "You sound… weird?"

"Weird?" You breathe out, biting back a moan when Kylian's thumb circles your clit softly, your body tingling with pleasure. "I'm just—really busy."

Busy's right.

Your thighs tremble against Kylian's hand, breaths coming out in sharp little gasps. "Tomorrow, Jude, okay?"

"But—"

"Tomorrow!" You squeak out, and it's so endearing seeing you like this. Frustrated because Jude won't leave.

Luckily for you, Jude eventually understands, sparing you a quick, "I'll see you tomorrow," before his footsteps are fading down the hallway.

Finally.

"You're so pretty like this," Kylian croons, his voice right against your ear, his fingers rubbing so perfectly against your walls, in the spots where you need him most. "Don't worry, I got you."

Your voice goes up a pitch when he speeds up his pace, desperately grasping onto his fingers. "Kylian—"

"You can come, no one's listening."

A ragged moan tears itself from your throat, your back arching off the desk, falling right into his arms, and he holds you so closely as your body's overcome with pleasure, his fingers slowing, coaxing each drop from you until you're left boneless.

Your chest heaves against his own. Kylian's free hand comes up to rest on the back of your head, pulling you closer, letting you lay on him until the throbbing in you ebbs away.

Slowly, he pulls his fingers free, glistening with your come. It makes his mouth water, and before he can help himself, he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean. A groan spills from his mouth at the taste. "You're so sweet."

Though he can't see your face, he hears the dry laugh you let out. "And you're… definitely something."

Kylian presses a kiss to your sweat-damp forehead, leaving his lips pressed against your skin, smiling like a lovesick teenager. "I can't wait for our date."

You wrap your arms around Kylian, enveloping him in a hug that he can't help but melt into. "Me too, Kylian."

note. i know it’s been a while since i last posted a fic so i wanted to get this out for you. i feel like it’s not my best work but i hope you enjoyed it while i work on longer stories. please don't be afraid to comment or send a message to my inbox if you enjoy. all love is appreciated!

Kylian slips his shirt off with ease, handing it to the player and watching him nod in thanks.

He walks off with his back still exposed, heading down the tunnel, oblivious to the glances thrown his way, the lingering looks glued to his back.

When he reaches the locker room, he heads to his area, throwing down the shirt, picking up his things, and that's when he hears Ousmane, the genuine concern in his voice.

"Holy shit, what happened to your back?"

Kylian's brows furrow, turning over to face his friend. "What's wrong with my back?"

"It's all… scratched up."

Oh.

Well. Now, Kylian definitely remembers.

The memories of last night come to him at once.

"Kylian—"

You had whined into his ear. He groaned when your nails, like claws, had dug into his skin, running them down his back in a futile-like attempt to steady yourself.

It had burned, but it had burned so good that he couldn't help but fuck into you harder, the table shaking from the force of his thrusts as you coated his dick in your slick.

"You love this, don't you?" Your cunt convulsed around him as you nodded hastily. Your nails dug in deeper, and the thought that you'd be leaving those marks on him—a reminder of how good he'd made you feel, a show that he was yours—made him feel dizzy. "Shit—I'm gonna come."

His hips ground against you one, two, three more times before he felt himself break, emptying himself inside you until you had wrung every single last drop from his body. 

You had left him with a nice souvenir—beautiful, jagged lines running down his back like he had been attacked by some clawed beast. But that didn't come close to the truth. It had been your doing. Every single line.

"I didn't even notice." The lie falls from his mouth so easily.

"Really? It looks like it hurts. Are you okay?"

Kylian holds back a laugh, amused at Ousmane's genuine concern for his well being. It makes Kylian wonder if he's purposely acting clueless to save him the embarrassment. But embarrassment is far from what Kylian feels.

"More than okay."

He throws on a shirt, lips curving into a smile when he spots you nearby, waiting for him outside of the locker room. He turns back to Ousmane, shooting him a grin. "I'll see you later." Without saying anything else, he makes his way over to you.

Ousmane, however, can't seem to tear his gaze away from Kylian. It stays attached to his back, and although it's covered now, he finds himself squinting his eyes like he's trying to see through the fabric.

He stops when he feels a light smack to the back of his head, whipping it around in an instant. "What was that for?"

"You seriously can't be that stupid," Aurelien chides.

"What?"

Aurelien just tuts in disappointment, shaking his head. "Don't worry about it, Ous."

Later that evening, when you realize the fuss the scratches are making on the internet, the jokes flooding your timeline, shame barrels into your body. "You couldn't have at least tried to hide them?"

Kylian simply shakes his head no, planting a reassuring kiss to your cheek. "Why would I?"

Kylian bears the marks with pride. Let them see, he thinks. Let them all see who he belongs to.

note. i’m proud of myself for writing this in one day lmao. kylian scored twice today also so i just had to. i hope you this is what you wanted! please don't be afraid to comment or send a message to my inbox if you enjoy. all love is appreciated!

He craved the silence of before. When the only people that criticized him were his friends. When the only pair of watchful eyes he had to be cautious of were his mother’s.

Now, it seemed like the whole world was watching him closely, scrutinizing him, waiting for the slightest slip up. That way they could get their headlines, their talking points for their under-watched shows that somehow managed to garner thousands of views whenever he was mentioned.

It was infuriating, but he kept his mouth clamped shut. Besides, it wasn’t all that bad. Kicking a ball around for a living gave him benefits others could only ever dream of, and he was beloved by many.

Not for him, though, no. Just for the simple fact that he managed to score goals and win games for their favorite team.

At first, the love was overwhelming. Thousands of strangers exclaiming their love for you when they didn’t even know you was hard to get used to at nineteen, but as time passed, he’d grown accustomed to it. Numb, even.

Love was no longer something he had to fight for. A few passes here and there and the fans would give it up like it was nothing. And that was exactly what it had become.

Nothing.

Love had become an empty word.

Even more so when Kylian realized they could take back their love in seconds and replace it with hate on his bad days.

They didn’t really love him.

Even the women he’d sleep with didn’t love him. He knew they just loved the idea of getting to sleep with a famous footballer, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was getting a good fuck.

He’d always imagined himself getting married in the future. Finding a nice woman to get settled down with, and maybe having a kid.

He used to criticize the men that would sleep around because why would you want that when you could have one good girl for the rest of your life whom you shared a real connection with?

Sex was a sacred thing. It was special. Not something to just give out—but he was a hypocrite.

Marriage was the last thing on his mind now, and he didn’t care to form a connection with every single girl he fucked.

He tried giving relationships a chance, but the voice in the back of his head always told him to stop. They don’t want you. They just want your money. They just want to use you.

It was a horrible way of thinking, and it left him feeling so empty after he’d come. He’d mentally curse himself for doing it again, having sex with a woman and leaving her in the dust afterwards. But surely they’d understand. They knew who he was. Kylian Mbappé didn’t have time to entertain relationships.

In the end, it was just sex, it wasn’t a commitment.

The only commitment he had was to his curse.

He was a footballer first, and maybe that was all he’d ever be to anyone.

Kylian's move to Real Madrid came as a shock to many, but for him, he knew it was inevitable.

Sure, he loved PSG (to an extent), but with the way things were playing out, he knew that it'd never be the club he'd end his career with. 

He loved Real Madrid as a child. He dreamt of playing for them, of representing the white and gold anyone could recognize with just a single glance, even from all the way up in the stands. Not to mention how good of a team they were. He'd be an idiot to pass on the opportunity of a lifetime.

Some criticized. Others gloated. Kylian just prepared himself for the barrage of eyes that were going to be watching him now more than ever.

The expectations were weighing on him heavier than before. He had to succeed with Real Madrid. He might've scored hundreds of goals already, but what did that matter if he never had anything to show for it? No UCL. No Ballon D'or. It just proved what everybody said about him. Overrated. 

He hated that word. Despised it. It made him want to punch something every time someone echoed the word. It replayed itself in his head, spun around in circles, gathered in clusters so he wouldn't be able to get it out. It haunted him from Paris to Madrid, followed him everywhere he went, and he was sick of it. So he knew what he had to do. 

Kylian was going to win this time. He had to.

Kylian kept a smile on his face as he was shown around Real Madrid's facility. It wasn't fake, but it was definitely a little exaggerated because he had a tendency to play it up for the cameras. Years of media training and the fact that people over-analyzed everything he did were a part of the reason why. Just imagine the outrage if he didn't look content enough—he'd rather not.

They eventually brought Kylian over to the medical wing to meet some of the staff.

"Kylian, these are our physios. Lara, Raúl, Santiago, and Y/N."

His tour guide, who he had already forgotten the name of, pointed at each person. Kylian scanned over each of their faces, and then paused at you because yours just stood out more. When he remembered the cameras were still rolling, he cleared his throat and darted his eyes back over to the first woman, Lara.

He stepped forward with a charming smile and started to shake the hand's of the physios, going down the line until he stood directly in front of you.

"Y/N, right?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. You just nodded, which caught him off guard, but he didn't let it show as his hand finally fell back down to his side. "Nice to meet you. I'm glad to be working with you."

"Yeah, me too."

That was it?

He didn't mean to sound like an asshole, but he expected a bit more… excitement? Awe? Enthusiasm, even. He'd gotten a little bit of that from your coworkers, but you… you looked like you were ready for the interaction to be over.

Kylian stepped back, ignoring the burn he felt in his chest from the way you unintentionally bruised his ego. "I look forward to working with all of you," he called out, voice tighter than before, before him and his guide were exiting from the room, cameras following close behind.

He thought about that interaction for the rest of the day. That thirty second interaction managed to stir something in him, annoyance and intrigue all at once. He wasn't used to being brushed off, he was used to people gawking over him, stumbling over their words and practically tripping over their feet when they spoke to him—but not you.

But he knew he could change that. He would. 

Kylian had been through it hundreds of times in his career. Evaluations. Stretching. Taping. It wasn't anything new. The only change that came from that was the person helping him do it.

Lucky for him, he got stuck with you.

Chatter from the other players floated around the treatment room as you settled him onto a table. 

While you were busy prepping the athletic tape and looking over your notes, Kylian sat quietly, eyeing you. He watched as a strand of hair loosened and fell over your eye so, gently, you placed it behind your ear. He was shocked at how you seemed completely clueless to the obvious way his gaze was burning into you. It was irritating, even.

He was bored out of his mind, and you weren't exactly giving him anything to work with. It made him wish he'd gotten stuck with one of the other physios.

Obviously, it wasn't expected of you to give him anything other than your help. You were doing exactly what you were supposed to do—your job—but that didn't mean that you couldn't do the bare minimum and talk to him. 

Kylian let a few more beats of silence between the two of you pass by before he finally asked, "So… how long have you been working with Real Madrid?"

You stopped whatever you were doing, putting your notes down to look at him. "Uh, not long. A little over a year now, I'd say."

"Oh, that's cool." He nodded, pretending to be interested even though the answer was one he honestly didn't care about. He paused, as though he were thinking, before adding, "do you recognize me?"

You gave him a slight once over like the question was supposed to be a joke, but it was far from it, and when you realized he was being serious, you let out a snort. "Of course, I do. You're Kylian Mbappé."

"Well, yeah, I just meant…" he trailed off, realizing that it was a stupid thing to ask. Everyone knew who he was. He could feel the heat lick up his nape, so he brought his hand up to cup it, cool palm rubbing softly against his skin. "You don't seem all that surprised to see me."

And he didn't blame you. The world didn't revolve around him, but for some strange reason, all he wanted was to see just the subtlest sign that you cared to be talking to someone as big as him. Or just that you cared about him in general.

Your face stayed the same, but he managed to spot something before it disappeared into oblivion: the way your eye twitched in a fleet. It went as quickly as it came, but it let Kylian know one thing—he had annoyed you with his words.

He'd wanted to see a reaction from you, just not that kind of reaction.

"Are you always this full of yourself?"

It was those words that had his brows shooting up. "Excuse me?"

"It's just…" you bit your lip, like you were holding something back, and Kylian waited. Waited for your words to spill over, anticipated it even, like he wanted to hear whatever you had to say about him, but in the end, nothing ever came. "Never mind. I shouldn't have said that. I'll tape you up, now."

Somehow, that stung more than whatever reality check you were going to give him.

Madrid's sun beamed down on Kylian, ultra-hot and unforgiving. He never minded the heat. It was a feeling he enjoyed, like whenever he went on vacation—not when it licked up his skin and left him dripping in so much sweat, he had to use a towel to dry himself off. He could feel his breath come out sharper with each drill he had to run, and the only motivation he had to keep going was the fact that inside, there'd be cool air blasting from the AC whenever the team was through with practice.

Kylian was jogging down the line when he swore he could feel the prickle of something against his skin. It wasn't from the heat, it was something else, something different. It made him shudder. The feeling burned against his skin hotter than the heat of the damned sun—and it was coming from one place.

Kylian swerved his head around to the sideline where the coaching staff stood. 

You stood there too, but your gaze wasn't on him, it was focused on watching the other guys. But, coincidentally enough, just as his eyes flicked over there, the sensation faded as well.

When he found no plausible answer to the feeling, he huffed and switched his focus back to whatever he was doing before. He chose to blame it on the heat and how it was probably messing with his head and making him imagine things.

Yet when the feeling came again without warning, he felt a frustration bubble up inside him and found himself craning his head again. That was when he caught something, just for a split second. How you turned your head away just as his eyes peeked over at the sideline.

The knowledge that you were likely staring at him made his mouth go dry. It wasn't like getting stared at was uncommon. It was the way it left him feeling afterwards that was uncommon. He didn't like it, nor the fact that it'd made him physically shudder. He shouldn't be losing his cool over something so trivial, yet he felt himself slipping. 

He stood still, eyes trained in on your shoes like they were the most interesting things in the world, not quite ready to look away yet because he knew the second he did, you'd look at him again and he'd lose his cool.

How were you making me feel like this?

It wasn't until he heard the manager yell out his name that he finally snapped out of his daze. The heat of embarrassment rose in him next as he went back to jogging like nothing ever happened. And the feeling never came again after that.

The AC felt like a blessing when Kylian finally stepped inside the building, his body absorbing the much-needed coolness of the air.

The rest of the team headed to the locker room to change, but a pair of footsteps approaching behind him made him stop. He turned his head, hoping his expression didn't give away to how his stomach had suddenly tightened.

"Are you okay?"

Kylian heard the question loud and clear, yet he didn't answer, like his mind was suddenly running on empty, and it couldn't have chosen a better occasion than this one.

"What?" he breathed out after a beat of silence.

"I asked if you're okay," you repeated, even though he definitely heard you the first time. He swore that looked like concern on your face. Not the fake shit everyone always gave him. Genuine concern. "I saw you running out there and you looked pretty out of it. I understand, it's really hot today."

Kylian almost couldn't believe it. You were asking if he was okay? Maybe he was really out of it. Here you were, doing your job, and here he was, doing what he hated most when it was done to him—over analyzing.

"Yeah," he nodded hastily. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Okay, good," you said, lips pursed into a tight smile. "Uh, well, if you feel any different, you know where to find me."

You turned, ready to walk down the hall. That was when Kylian felt something creep up his throat, the word "wait" now on the tip of his tongue, but it never came. He let the moment pass until you were out of sight and he was left standing alone in the hallway with nothing but his thoughts and the cool breeze of the AC cooling his skin.

Maybe you actually cared about him. 

Maybe.

Kylian couldn't sleep that night. He didn't even try. It was pointless because his mind was plagued with images of you. A woman he barely knew. He didn't even know your last name or how old you were. All he had was your first name. Y/N.

He found himself repeating it under his breath, enunciating each letter, as if he were preparing for the day he'd have to call out your name.

Y/N. Y/N.

The name was perfect for you. It just made sense. You looked like a Y/N in the best way possible.

You were just a woman, he had to remind himself because he suddenly realized he was going off the deep end. He tried distracting himself by going on Instagram and looking at different women. His eyes flickered over at each post, rubbing himself just to get himself going, but his attempts at raising his libido fell short.

Kylian cursed, head falling back against the pillow in defeat. In a last ditch attempt to elicit some sort of pleasure from himself, he opened up an adult website. 

Instead of clicking on the first video he saw, he went into the search bar, fingers hesitating over the keyboard, like they knew what he was about to do was shameful and had given him a chance to back out, before he was typing in a description of you.

The girl in the video didn't exactly look like you, but it was good enough for him. He pulled down his boxers, freeing his aching cock from its confinement and fisting the length.

He pressed his thumb against the slit of his cock and let out a hiss, smearing the precum over his tip as the video started. He usually loathed the lengthy dialogue of pornography, but especially now more than ever.

He skipped ahead until the girl was finally on her knees in front of the male actor. She unzipped his pants and stuck his cock inside her mouth, sucking him off until saliva dripped down her chin.

All the while, Kylian gripped his cock harder, palm gliding easily along his length. He'd never felt this desperate for an orgasm before, but with you in the back of his mind, that was all he wanted.

He imagined it was really you, not sucking off some actor, but him instead. 

He imagined how warm your mouth would feel, how you probably couldn't take him all the way in without your throat constricting around his cock like all the other girls, but he imagined you trying anyway, just to show him you cared.

His vision blurred out, video long forgotten as he finally came, crashing back against his pillow with ragged breaths. On the tip of his tongue laid one word—a name—and this time, he didn't hesitate.

"Y/N."

Kylian was fine. He was just fine. He'd been through plenty of step backs before to let them deter him, now.

Still, it felt like he'd been going crazy for weeks, and for more than one reason.

You hadn't talked much since that day beyond whatever was necessary. It was also partly due to the shame he felt whenever he looked at you. It was like he had developed an itch he couldn't get rid of, even after all of the scratching he did. It was probably going to take more than meaningless small talk for his itch to finally disappear.

He wanted you to show some sort of interest in him beyond the job or football. So many girls would give up anything just to have him for a night, but you were so chill about him. Did you really not care? Had he gotten it all wrong?

Whenever his thoughts got too rowdy, he reminded himself that he barely knew you and there was no point in acting like a mad-man over an ordinary woman when his life was already so chaotic. Still, he found himself growing antsy as the days passed by. 

He should've been focused on improving whatever he was lacking which—according to the internet—was everything. The weight on his shoulders was unbearable and it was only his first month with Madrid. The only thing missing was an injury.

He felt the burn in his thigh by the 70th minute against Alaves, but he pushed through it because it wasn't the first time he'd felt something like that. To his disappointment, the strain didn't fade, but rather, it increased to the point where it was obvious to Ancelotti that Kylian had to come out of the game.

Kylian was frustrated, to say the least, as he stepped off the pitch and over to the bench, a huff blowing past his lips as he plopped down onto a seat. As irritated as he was, he felt relieved as well when the sharp pain in his thigh began to ebb slightly. 

The game continued without him.

You were the first person to come to him, sinking down onto the empty chair beside him. You angled your body toward him, unintentionally bumping your knee against his. The contact was subtle, meaningless, but it made him tear his gaze away from the game in an instant to look at you instead. His eyes found yours and, like before, he felt a warmth spread across his nape, shame bubbling up inside him.

"It's something in your left leg, right?" You asked, but Kylian knew it was more of a rhetorical question. "I saw when you started limping a little. And how you started favoring your right leg as well."

Kylian couldn't help but be impressed at how easily you'd read him—and hoped that was the farthest your reading of him could go.

"Uh, yeah. I think I strained my thigh a bit, but it's nothing major," Kylian explained, tone laden with the familiar sound of dismissal. It had become a habit for him to downplay his injuries whether they were serious or not. He'd always push himself until his legs gave out because he despised missing games. Despised sitting on the sidelines and missing out on the opportunity to play because his body wasn't cooperating. "I'm sure it's nothing."

A small, almost sympathetic smile played on your lips. "Doesn't matter. I wasn't really asking. I'll check you out properly when the game's over." 

You had already decided for him. Kylian realized that you'd likely decided it before walking over to him. That realistically, there was no need for you to come over and talk to him. No one else had—which was what usually happened when he got injured in a game—just you. 

You were the only one that really noticed.

The whistle eventually blew into the air, but Kylian had forgotten the game a long time ago, eyes focusing on the details of your face, your lips, the slope of your nose, while your eyes watched the other guys.

They always watched the other guys.

Kylian expected there to be someone else in the room during his check up, but no. It was just you and him, and the obnoxious sound of the AC blasting.

He noticed pretty early on that you weren't one to talk when you worked, opting for silence instead. You hadn't told him much of what exactly you were going to do. Just that you needed to check how tight his muscles were, meaning you'd be feeling up his thigh. He didn't mean to be that kind of man, but he was almost a little eager to have your hands on his thigh after he spent so long fantasizing about you.

When your hands finally connected with his thigh, it was as if his whole body had burst into flames. His heart had begun to beat faster and faster until he felt it thump rapidly against his chest, and as you prodded at his thigh, fingers pressing into the tight muscle, he prayed to god you couldn't see how badly your touch had affected him. 

Kylian had always been confident, had always been in control, had rarely been shaken by anything, but now, with your hand fondling his thigh, he felt himself unraveling.

"Stop," he choked out, voice tight, breathless, and your fingers stilled the second you heard him, but they didn't pull away yet.

"Is it too much?" You asked, the same concern from before evident in your voice, and it only made him feel guiltier for stopping you because he couldn't control himself. "I can do it softer, I just need to—"

"No." His voice was strained, more than it had ever been in his life. He felt the panic bubble up in his throat because he had no logical way to explain why he just needed you to stop. 

You'd find out the reason. 

You'd find out the reason and be mortified and never look his way again.

His hands almost shot out to grab your face the second you turned your head back down, in hopes that he could stop you from seeing just how much you'd affected him, except he didn't, and now it was too late.

He watched as your eyes widened, a flustered look spreading across your features when you caught sight of the obvious hard-on growing in his shorts. Your hands ripped themselves from his thigh in an instant like it was venom, and he found himself missing the feeling already.

"Oh." 

He saw the way your body stiffened, like you didn't know what to do with the knowledge that you got him hard. He made you uncomfortable and it was his fault. All his fault for not being able to control himself when you were just doing your job.

"Shit, I'm sorry." The words spilled out of his mouth, a hand moving to hide himself in shame. "I—it wasn't your fault, or well it—it's just—it's always like this for me."

"It's okay, Kylian." But the hitch in your voice told him otherwise.

"It's not. I made you uncomfortable. I'm an idiot."

"We're all human. It's a normal, human reaction. It's fine, really."

For some reason, your words did little to comfort him. He found himself growing irritated instead. You were being nice—way too nice to him—like you were trying not to hurt his feelings, just like everyone else. He didn't understand you. He didn't understand you at all.

Kylian didn't reply after that, figuring it was better to leave it at that rather than arguing back and forth about who was right.

You stood there awkwardly, swaying from heel to heel, until you turned and walked over to your bag, digging inside until you found what you were looking for. You returned to him, clutching the object in your hand, a flash of red catching Kylian's eye.

"You know, I always bring a pomegranate with me on game days." Kylian's gaze flickered to the fruit as you rolled it between your palms. "Weird, right?"

If only you knew how weird he was. "Not at all." 

You smiled wryly. "It's my favorite fruit, if you couldn't already tell. You should have it."

It took a moment for Kylian to register that you had your hand out, ready to give him the fruit. He expected a lot of things, just not this. He hesitated before reaching out to grab the pomegranate, all the while ignoring the delicate way your fingers grazed his.

He clutched the fruit in his hand before looking back over at you. "Thank you," he finally said, his voice carrying an edge.

"Yeah, no problem." You nodded before something else flickered in your eyes. "But, now you owe me."

Kylian had the feeling you were only joking, but he knew he'd be more than willing to pay you back.

"Okay. I owe you, now."

For the first time since stepping into the room, Kylian felt his body ease.

And when he got home, he held the pomegranate between his palms, thumbing over the skin. Both of his thumbs dug in suddenly until the fruit broke open, juice squirting out and spilling down his arms. Yet he paid it no mind.

He brought the pomegranate up to his mouth, lips wrapping around the seeds, a moan of content leaving his mouth as a combination of sweetness and tartness spread across his tongue.

He wasn't the biggest fan of pomegranates, but you'd given it to him and that was enough for him to keep going, eating with the greed of an animal, like he'd been starving for years, until there wasn't anything left. Only the skin in his hands, the juice that spilled down his chin, and a hunger that hadn't quite been satiated.

Things had gotten a little better for Kylian. At least in terms of you, not in football. People were still claiming he wasn't doing enough. He'd heard it time and time again, yet it still bugged him. 

He tried to push down all the hurt he felt inside and shift his focus to the next match, the next interview, to whatever was important. But at night, instead of being asleep, getting the rest he needed, he stayed up to scroll on his phone, heavy-lidded eyes scanning through articles and articles of criticism until the tightness in his chest became too much to bear.

You'd become a good distraction for him—not that that was all that you were. You were more than that to him, expect, he could never say it out loud because one: you technically worked for him, and two: you'd made it clear you weren't friends. Just coworkers in a way.

Another thing that bothered him, but Kylian wouldn't push his luck. Not yet, anyway. He was content with how things were, the casual conversation, how you actually seemed like you were interested in hearing what he had to say. He didn't want to blow it up like he almost did last time.

On the day of his first Clásico, he felt like he'd gone back in time to when he was younger. Sweaty palms, heavy breaths, racing heart. Nervous. Kylian was nervous, which was the last thing he needed.

He couldn't stand still for the life of him. He swayed from heel to heel, picked and bit at his nails, darted his eyes from object to object, all in hopes of distracting himself.

Kylian gave up hope by the time he was getting ready to line up with the team by the tunnel, but before he could go far, he felt a hand touch his arm. He spun around, only to find you. You hadn't said a word yet, but your presence alone, and the way your hand lingered on his arm, was enough to ebb his nerves.

"Are you nervous?"

You reading him had become a common occurrence, a thing Kylian hadn't grown accustomed to just yet. He hated it, but liked it because he never had to admit how he felt. Somehow, you always knew.

"Crazy, right?" Kylian said, shaking his head like he couldn't believe it. "I mean, I've played football for over ten years, now."

"This is different, though," you replied, looking around the tunnel before your eyes settled on him. "Don't let their words get to you. You're better than what they say. And… I know you'll be great."

Something in Kylian shifted then. All of the noise in the tunnel drowned out. His surroundings blurred, and the only thing that was clear to him in that moment was you. It was a strange feeling. One he hadn't experienced before. It hit him harder than anything else ever had.

He'd heard the words so many times before, but none of it compared to the way it made him feel when he heard you say it.

Grounded. Warm. Calm.

He thought he was crazy for feeling that way. He spent so many years numb to the way people cared about him. Their words of love and praise always seemed forced, only spoken to make him happy, which he rarely ever felt.

But something about your words felt real. And what he felt was real.

"Thank you," he finally replied—and he meant it.

Kylian expected a couple different outcomes. Losing 0-4 in his first Clásico wasn't one of them.

The frustration grew in heaps with each step he took to the locker room. He sat and listened to whatever critiques the manager had to say. How the team needed to improve. How they were better than that.

It didn't soothe his frustration. In fact, it only flared up at the speech.

Kylian was collecting his things so he could go take a shower, to hopefully cool off and wash off all of the disgusting grime that clung to his skin, when he felt the same touch from earlier on his arm. But instead of turning around like he knew he wanted to, he shrugged it off like it meant nothing to him. "Not now."

"Kylian—"

"What part of not now don't you understand?" He hadn't meant to be so cruel. He couldn't help it. All he wanted was to be alone and wallow in self-pity. He couldn't handle being around other people in his current state.

No other words came out of you after that, but Kylian could sense the way you deflated. Your footsteps rang in his ears as you walked away, and he had to stop himself from turning around to beg for you to come back.

Fuck. He needed something strong. He needed a drink.

By 12AM, he was slumped over a bar, eleventh drink of the night resting beside him, half-empty. The bartender insisted that he should stop by the 7th drink, but he couldn't really deny Kylian Mbappé service—not with the generous tips he was receiving.

It was only when he noticed that Kylian was completely out of it that he realized he should probably do something. He was hesitant, but eventually reached for Kylian's phone. Coincidentally enough, the phone was unlocked, and on the screen read a message Kylian thought about sending—I didn't mean to snap. I can apologize properly over drinks—before he grew too wasted to do so.

The bartender fought back a laugh and called you.

You arrived twenty minutes later, completely unbeknownst to Kylian. He was too preoccupied with trying to down the rest of his drink, and failing miserably because he had the urge to vomit it all out.

He thought he was hallucinating when he heard the familiar lilt of your voice. He turned his head towards that direction, catching a flash of your figure. It must've been the world taunting him for what he had said to you earlier because there was no way you were actually here. Not after he had been such an asshole. 

Maybe he really had sent you that message.

"I got it from here, thanks."

He heard your footsteps approaching, but made no effort to move. He was quite comfortable where he was. Drowning in alcohol and not worrying about whatever was going on in his life.

"Kylian," you called out, and he noted the obvious concern in your voice. "Are you okay? Come on, get up. You need to get home."

You placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and that was enough for him to finally turn his head all the way up. 

You really were here. Here for him.

Out of all the people he wanted to see in that moment, you were the last one. It was humiliating, after all. He was supposed to be a professional, stable, but he wasn't. Not now. Instead, he felt heavy. Light-headed. Despite all the drinks, they weren't enough to mend the hurt of that loss—and the thought that you may hate him after what he had said.

"Why're you here?" 

"Because. The bartender said you were drinking yourself to death." You sighed, eyes darting around the place. "What are you doing here with no security? You know that's dangerous."

He scoffed, like the words were ridiculous. He was a goddamn adult, not a child. "I don't need security to get a drink."

You let out a humorless laugh, your fingers flexing around his bicep. "You and I both know that's not true. Not for you. Now, get up, seriously. It's late."

Kylian wanted to argue, but he was far too drunk to bother, and his head was beginning to ache. He supposed you were right, anyway.

You helped him get up, but not without him staggering out of his seat and right into your body because the world felt like it was spinning. His hands instinctively shot out, fingers wrapping around your biceps until he stopped swaying from side to side.

He could've let go the second he gained his footing, but he didn't want to. Being in your vicinity was nice. He could look at you, at all the details he missed before. How nice your eyebrows looked. The zits along your cheek. Things he'd remember after tonight even though he wasn't sober. That was how easy it was for you to get into his head without even meaning to.

"Come on, my car's just outside," you said, nodding toward the exit. There was a subtle tightness in your voice that wasn't there before, and Kylian had the feeling that, maybe, you didn't mind being that close, either.

Each step he took was slow and steady, your warmth seeping into his side as you walked with him, and whenever he was close to stumbling forward, you were there, like a pillar, holding him up with your hand pressed against his back. He let himself lean into you, pressing his weight against you, and he could do it without looking crazy because he was drunk. 

You didn't seem to mind, and he was thankful for that.

The ride back to his place was primarily silent, save for the sound of the radio playing on low. He pressed his forehead against the glass, watching as the colors blurred together. So much so, he thought he might get sick as the urge to vomit rose up his throat. He shut his eyes, hoping it was enough to stop the nausea.

"We're almost there," he heard you say, like you knew how he felt. 

Kylian held on, just until the car came to a stop. He wanted to get out, but his body wasn't cooperating. He sat still, eyes still drooped shut. His mouth twitched, ready to ask you for help before remembering how badly he despised the idea of asking anyone for help.

His silence must've been enough of an answer for you because you were getting out of your seat and walking over to the passenger side.

"I got you," you said when you opened the passenger door. Kylian believed you without thinking twice.

You led him to the front door, where he sloppily entered the code twice before stepping inside.

"Bathroom," he slurred, pointing down the hall, and you wordlessly steered him in that direction.

The second he entered the bathroom, he let himself drop down onto his knees in front of the toilet.

"Damn," he muttered, angry at himself for getting so wasted. The constant throbbing in his head wouldn't go away, no matter how much he willed it to. He was on the verge of exploding from stress, from anger, from all of it. "Damn it all."

Kylian gripped the seat so hard, his knuckles turned white, forcing himself to gag so he could yack all of the alcohol out of his system.

He emptied himself into the toilet with so much force that his ribs ached, his throat burned, leaving behind a gross aftertaste Kylian no longer wanted in his mouth. 

It wasn't the first time he had gotten so drunk, he could barely stand, but it was the first time tears glossed over his eyes. 

Loser.

His head fell against the toilet seat, shoulders shaking as he let out a choked sob. 

He was a loser.

He'd already humiliated himself so much so why bother hiding it, now?

When he felt your hand on his back, he had the urge to cry harder.

"What's wrong?" you asked, worried—always worried. "Kylian, why are you crying?"

You just wanted to help him and he didn't like it. He couldn't understand why you hadn't just left after helping him inside. Why you even bothered showing up to the bar. Why you were still here.

He shook his head rapidly, wiping away the snot from his face. With a heavy chest, he managed to say, "you can go. You've helped me enough."

But that was beyond the truth. 

The truth was that he wanted you to stay—he needed you to stay—and he didn't know why. And that hurt. More than losing a game or hearing strangers curse his name.

"Kylian," you repeated, as if his name were something fragile. As if he were something delicate. "I can't leave you like this."

He finally plucked up the courage to look at you, eyes all red and puffy. "Why?"

"Because…" you paused, unsure of what to say. "Do I need a reason?"

Yes. He wanted to say. What's your motive here?

Instead—"Even after what I said?" He stuttered. "Even after I was an asshole?"

You let out a sigh, kneeling next to him, your velvety voice right next to his ear. "You weren't an asshole. You were just upset. I should've listened the first time you told me you weren't in the mood."

Kylian shook his head again. "No, I was," he insisted. "I can't help it sometimes, it's just… it's just that I… we lost so badly and I got angry. I always get angry and I just push people away."

His head bowed in shame. "I could've done more. I should've done more. All I've done is prove people right. I'm not even that good."

Kylian felt more vulnerable in that moment than he'd ever felt in his entire life. He felt like shit, felt heavier than he'd ever felt before. He had no reason to tell you anything because you weren't close. Weren't friends. But he couldn't control his mouth around you.

He just needed to tell someone, and he wanted to tell you.

Something cracked in your expression then. The room may have been dark, but he saw it. The way you looked at him with pity, none of which he believed he deserved.

"You're wrong," were the words that broke the heavy silence of the room. Kylian let out a dry laugh, but you continued, "the loss isn't all on you. You did what you could."

"It wasn't enough."

"Are you listening to me?" Your voice came out firmer, desperate to make him listen. "Kylian, you did what you could. This is a team sport. And—and I don't know why you bother listening to anyone else. I've never seen anyone play the way you do. You're special, and you're crazy if you think otherwise."

He opened his eyes, really opened his eyes, and in that moment, he could tell that you were serious. No faux concern. No overdoing it. Just you sat next to him, looking at him, waiting. And he felt your words like a physical thing, hitting him in ways he never thought he'd feel.

You cared.

Kylian was left defenseless under your gaze. He couldn't open his mouth. Couldn't tear his gaze away from yours. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay like that. He wanted time to slow so he could stare into your eyes longer. He wanted you to stay because for the first time in years, he felt something. Something that didn't leave him feeling hollow inside.

He didn't speak. He let his head fall forward until it landed on your shoulder. "Are you gonna leave?"

Your body stiffened, and knowing him, he'd probably spoiled the moment like he did every other one, but he didn't care. There wasn't an ounce of shame left in his body. 

"Don't." His voice was quiet, on the verge of breaking. "I can't stand being alone anymore."

It was an invitation. One he hoped you would take because watching you walk away again would hurt more than you'd ever know.

"Stay."

The room filled with a heavy silence. Kylian's throat suddenly grew tight with regret, and he held his breath, awaiting your inevitable rejection, until you said, "Okay."

It was a single word. Two syllables. Okay. Oh-kay. But it was enough for Kylian, air filling his lungs once again.

You led him to his bedroom where he flopped down onto his bed with an exhausted huff.

"Are you okay like this?"

Kylian shook his head no. "It's hot."

His fingers went to his zipper, pulling it down roughly. He got annoyed when it stopped half-way down, muttering, "stupid zipper," and realizing how childish he probably sounded. He gave up after a few more attempts, throwing his head back against the pillow in defeat.

You cleared your throat, lingering near the bed. "Do you want me to help you?"

The thought of your fingers that close shook him to his core. Considering what happened the last time you touched him like that, he was hesitant to accept. But realizing he was in no position to do it himself, he eventually nodded.

He ignored the shiver that ran down his spine as your fingers reached for his zipper, pulling it down with a calmness he hadn't, until it came all the way down.

"Lift your hips," you said, and he obeyed without hesitation.

Slowly, you tugged down his jeans, freeing him from the suffocating confines of the denim, and leaving him in nothing but his boxers. The air bit against his skin, cooling his warm legs.

"Is that okay?" 

He nodded, his body lighter than it was before.

You stood there, glancing around the room, as if you were trying to find the will to lie down next to him. Kylian noticed.

"It's okay." He shifted, scooting over and making sure to leave you enough room on the other side of the bed. "…you don't have to if you really don't want to."

Please stay.

The smile that you gave him was small, noting the nervousness that bubbled up on your features. "No, no, it's fine. It's just… I haven't slept next to anyone in a long time."

Your body finally moved forward, knees pressing into the mattress as you positioned yourself on the empty side of the bed, leaving space between you. You were far enough to where he could turn to his side, shift over, and he wouldn't touch you.

It was perfect, safe, and despite it, in his own strange way, he could still feel you. It was as if something were drawing you to him. 

Now, he wished you were closer. 

He longed to know what your weight would feel like on top of him, especially after an exhausting match. After he was left spent and boneless, body sore. You pressing down on his chest, sinking into him, and he would let you. He'd welcome your warmth seeping into his worn out body and let it bring the life back into him.

Soon, his racing heart eased into a steady pace. From the corner of his eye, he watched as your body relaxed, shoulders sagging down, chest rising slower. Your scent infiltrated his nostrils, and he inhaled the sweet smell of you.

It all brought him comfort. The way neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved. Like there was a silent understanding between the two of you—there was no need to do anything. Laying side by side was enough to satiate his need for company.

There was so much he was warring with. He spent so many nights awake, unable to fall asleep, and only when his body gave into the exhaustion did he rest.

Expect now, Kylian's eyelids drooped down. His breathing slowed, evening out, and he let it happen. Let his body relax, and for once, he could pretend that everything was okay.

As his vision blurred, and the room faded into darkness, with one final effort, he breathed out, "Goodnight, Y/N."

And he'd never get to see the crack of a smile on your face as you replied, "Goodnight, Kylian." 

There was a thumping in his head when he woke up the next morning—right next to the looming sense of shame.

The sun peaked out from beneath the cracks in Kylian's blinds, shining right into his room and hitting him in the face, prompting him groan in annoyance. He almost snuggled himself deeper into his sheets to get more sleep before the memories of last night flickered through his mind, a sick taunt of sorts.

He turned over to his stomach, his face planted in the pillow so when he screamed, it would come out muffled. Something he needed to get out of his system before he was forced to get up and face you again.

He eventually found the courage to push himself out of bed, ignoring the lingering smell of you in the air, but then paused once his eyes landed on his nightstand.

A bottle of ibuprofen. And a note.

Had to leave early for work, but I'll see you there. Make sure you take one or two before you leave. -Y/N

Of course. Last night hadn't been enough for you. You had to finish pushing the dagger into his heart.

Kylian got looks from his teammates as practice went on—his passes, his shots all sloppier than they'd normally be—looks of which he pretended were nonexistent. If he pretended everything was fine, then surely it had to be true.

Nothing had went on last night. Nothing that anyone needed to know of. 

He silently prayed that you wouldn't tell of his antics, leak information that he was drinking after a big loss to the press, or even gossip with the other staff about how pathetic he had been.

It would shatter the illusion of who he was to the public. A strong, confident leader who always knew what to say, and who was always so sure of himself. But as he passed by you in practice, and could barely look at you for a few seconds before having to look away, he wasn't so sure that was who he really was.

His confidence had wavered, leaving him vulnerable under your gaze. You could see right through all his bravado, and it shook Kylian. It made him want to run away to where you could no longer see him.

Eventually practice wrapped up and Kylian found himself running inside the building. He didn't bothering sparing anyone a glance as he changed into his normal clothes. All the while, the word coward circled in his head.

Kylian didn't want to believe he was a coward. He was just giving you some much needed space. After all, he'd bombarded you with his actions far too many times, with most of them teetering between the edge of professional and inappropriate.

As he strode to the parking lot—ready to rot in bed, probably think of you as well—his pace slowed when his ears caught the sound of laughter.

Kylian realized that he was approaching your office, and that the sound was coming from inside.

He found himself stopping a few feet away from the door, despite knowing that he should do himself a favor and pretend he hadn't heard anything. Yet that sound—it ticked something in him because it wasn't just anyone's laugh. It was yours.

The sound replayed itself in his head over and over again, that sweet, sweet sound. He hadn't heard it before, but hearing it now made a part of him feel like he was going insane.

He got closer, peering through the door's window, only to still once he caught sight of who was inside. You were there, smiling, laughing, not with a coworker like he'd originally thought, but with Jude Bellingham.

Something twisted in his stomach then, an ugly green feeling of envy spreading through his body, making him tense up. He had no right to feel this way, yet he felt it anyway.

You never laughed like that around him, you rarely ever spared him a smile.

What had Jude done to deserve you beaming up at him like that? Laughing so carefree, like you two were the only people in the world?

The longer Kylian stared, the dizzier he grew. He needed to go, needed to leave before he did something reckless, like storm inside and tell Jude to back off.

Kylian hadn't done anything to deserve that right.

He wanted to hear you laugh, but not with Jude. He wanted you to laugh with him. Now, your laugh was the sweetest torture, fading away as he walked to his ride.

In typical Kylian fashion, he chose to avoid you for the next few weeks because what better way to solve your problems than to avoid them?

Not that you were the problem. It was definitely him and his treacherous mind that seemed to think of you whenever it could. But he knew he couldn't avoid you forever, and eventually, the world would force him to face you again.

The moment came too soon for him to be prepared for it. After the game against Leganés, he received an invite from his teammates to go to dinner to celebrate the win.

He almost rejected the offer, too eager to go back to his hotel room and sleep off the aches deep in his bones. Then he heard you were coming, and now the offer sounded far too tempting for him to say no to.

He'd never seen you all dressed up before. The dress was nice—you looked nice—simple, but enough to make his breath catch in his throat. He pulled his gaze away, going back to a conversation he wasn't really listening to.

It had been an hour since the dinner had started, which meant an hour of him pretending he actually wanted to be there had passed, and the only reason he came had yet to talk to him. Not even so much as a glance his way. 

It was like Kylian was invisible, and the feeling made him uncomfortable because it was something he wasn't used to feeling.

No. You'd rather spend most of your time with Jude, laughing at his awful jokes.

Kylian wasn't jealous. He didn't get jealous. He had everything he wanted, but for some strange reason that he refused to acknowledge, he wanted you to come over to him.

He watched you from the corner of his eye, and when you placed a hand on Jude's bicep, that was all Kylian could take. He excused himself from the conversation—they barely noticed—to walk out of the room, finding a secluded area, a small balcony, just to breathe properly.

What would your father say? Kylian thought. Seeing his son so unraveled over a woman?

He was so in his head, he hadn't registered the click of heels approaching.

"Kylian."

It was enough to break his trance and throw him off all over again. The world was against him. There was no other reason for you to be here, calling his name, unless it was to torture him further.

Kylian reeled his head over to look at you in your nice dress. You were a few feet away, gazing up at him.

"Hey," he said. It was all he could bring himself to say. He looked away again, at the scenery before him. He was afraid that, if he looked at you for too long, his memory would wander in places he didn't want to be in.

"Did you need some air, too?" Your tone was casual, the opposite of how Kylian felt. He wished he could be as casual as you.

"Yeah," he murmured. "What did you need air for? You looked like you were having a good time in there."

There was probably a bitter edge to his words, one he couldn't help.

You laughed, not like the ones you let out with Jude. This time, it was amused.

"I guess I was." You hummed, your hands perching upon the balcony's railing. You were closer to him that way, and he could already feel your heat radiating off of you. "But honestly, after a while, Jude's jokes start to get annoying."

Was it bad that hearing you say that made Kylian feel a little better?

His lips twitched a little, but he fought back against letting himself chuckle. Instead, Kylian pulled back enough to look at you. His heart jumped against his chest when he found you already looking at him.

"He's not even that funny." His voice betrayed him. He tried to appear as cool as you, only to sound like a bitter boyfriend.

You smiled, wider that time. "I know. But I'd feel bad leaving the kid hanging."

Kid. Kid. Kid?

Still, he refused to get his hopes up.

"He's 21. Not exactly a kid."

"He just reminds me of having a little brother. Having to fake being entertained by his jokes." You paused. "You know what that's like, don't you? You have a younger brother."

By now, Kylian should be happy with the victory—you just called Jude a little brother. The mention of his own caught him off guard instead.

"I… do." He had no reason to be so cautious. It was public knowledge that he had a younger brother. That didn't mean you mentioning it so suddenly hadn't caught him off guard.

He supposed it had something to do with the fact that you showed no interest in him beyond the job. Or at least, it was what he chose to believe. Believing anything else would only fuel his crazy delusions.

"…but, he doesn't joke around me much anymore," he suddenly revealed, the words feeling so achingly honest, too honest for the moment, that he almost regretted speaking entirely. "I try doing it with him, but I guess he's too cool for that."

"Seeing him grow up must be hard," you remarked, somehow knowing what to say, like it came naturally to you. "But I think it's sweet. The fact that he treats you like an older brother. He might pretend to not like joking around with you, but I know deep down he enjoys your nagging."

If your plan was to cheer him up and make his heart rate quicken simultaneously, you had succeeded. Kylian couldn't help the way a smile curved up onto his lips.

"Nagging?" He asked, the word choice almost enough to elicit a chuckle from him.

He watched you falter for a split second, a first from you—which made him celebrate internally—before you grinned. "Well, I'm sure that's how your brother would describe it." Another pause from you. "And I see the way you are in practice. You like to joke around."

Maybe it was silly considering you were a physio, but even then, knowing that you had watched him, noticed his personality—remembered it—made him a little hotter, despite the cool wind blowing past him.

"I'm glad you keep tabs on me." 

"You're Kylian Mbappé. I'm sure I'm not the first lady to keep tabs on you."

"No. But you are the first one to do it like this."

It was meant to be teasing, another thing to keep the banter going because he loved it. His voice, however, came out raspier, lower, strained, as if he were fighting something back.

That desire to just touch you.

Your body tensed. Kylian saw it because he was watching you so intensely. He hadn't been able keep his eyes on you before, but now, he couldn't seem to look away.

You swallowed, tongue swiping out to lick your dried lips. The ones his gaze kept flicking to. "I'm not sure what that means."

"I'm not sure, either."

Kylian should just leave it at that. He should say his goodbyes and walk away, but that would mean another night plagued with the image of you burned into his mind—him reaching out, only to be left depleted because you weren't really there.

And Kylian, he was done restricting himself from what he really wanted. What he really needed. It was you.

"Are you doing something later?"

You shook your head. "Past 8PM? Probably not. Why—"

"Do you want to come with me?" For all Kylian had done in his career, his life, he felt as if this was by far the hardest thing he'd ever done. "I mean… I owe you still, don't I? There's a spare pomegranate in my hotel room."

He stayed calm, prepared for the worst, the inevitable no, yet it never came. What did come was your lips twitching into a smile—a real one.

"Everyone says you're so cool. So fearless. A maverick. I guess you can say that about how you play." You tilted your head, eyes gleaming up at him. "But, I think you're the strangest man I've ever met."

The smile never left your face as you backed away from the balcony's railing, slowly heading toward the exit, like you were waiting for him to follow in suit.

"How can I say no to a pomegranate from you, Kylian?"

And Kylian—he didn't hesitate to follow.

There was an incessant buzzing thrumming throughout his body on the ride back to his hotel room.

Was this really happening? He couldn't believe it. Surely he'd blink and you'd fade away from his gaze in seconds, but that hadn't happened yet.

Each step to his room felt heavier than the last, giving him one last chance to turn back before he made a mistake, but then you grinned at him, and that was all the reassurance he needed to push his door open, inviting you into his space.

It was tidy, just the way he liked it, but he could excuse your clothing being littered around his carpet this once.

Kylian reached into his bag, digging around the insides before his fingers glided along the familiar skin of a pomegranate. 

He pulled it out, turning back to you, only to catch you snickering at him. "What?"

"You actually have a pomegranate?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I?" 

Kylian hadn't meant to be funny. He was being serious about that part. He'd been saving it for when he finally got the courage to talk to you.

"No, you're right. My bad." Your fingers traced his bedsheets as you took a step closer. "You don't happen to have a knife somewhere?"

He didn't. He hadn't planned that far ahead. So he shook his head and took the fruit between his two palms. "It's okay. I can open it like this."

"But the juice will—"

Your words fell onto death ears as Kylian's thumbs dug into the pomegranate, cutting open its skin, and with enough force as he could, cracked the fruit open.

"Get everywhere…" You looked both perplexed and amused.

Kylian held out the fruit to you, the seeds glimmering underneath the lights, red, as if he were holding out his heart—offering it to you.

Take it. He thought. Take all of me.

You padded over to him, eyes flickering between his face and the pomegranate. You took it eventually with subtle hesitance. When your fingers grazed over his skin, he shivered.

"Your hands are all sticky," you said, pressing your lips together.

"It's fine, I can just wash them," he assured you, but it wasn't good enough for you. Your smile turned nervous as you set down the fruit on the nearby table.

Wordlessly, you reached for his hand, and he let you take it, feeling buzzier now more than ever before. You inspected it, watched the juice roll down his fingers, and then brought his hand closer, up to your mouth.

You paused there, his fingers barely grazing your lips just to look him in the eye. An unsure flicker passed through them, but Kylian wasn't complaining. He wasn't moving. He was barely even breathing.

He didn't know what to say to you, if he should even ask, so he kept his mouth shut and waited with baited breath.

Kylian's eyes never wandered away from you. He watched as you opened your mouth, pulling his pointer and middle fingers inside, wrapping your lips around them. All the while, your eyes never wandered from his.

"Y/n," Kylian breathed, his body trembling with the force of trying to stay still when what he truly wanted to do was take you in his arms, pull you into his bed, and love you how he wanted to be loved.

Just as quickly as you put them inside, you pulled them out. "I'm sorry."

You were so flushed now, chest heaving up and down, your expression swollen with fear, with regret, with everything akin to the way he'd felt the night you helped him.

Instead of saying anything, he slowly brought his hand up to your cheek, his palm heavy, sticky, against your skin. You both stood there for a few seconds, and the distance suddenly felt insufferable.

His thumb traced the curve of your lips, tugging your bottom lip down gently. "You don't have to say sorry to me," he whispered so softly, it almost hurt to hear.

You didn't know it, but Kylian did. He had surrendered to you a long time ago. He had surrendered for the first time in his life, and he didn't care about coming off as weak.

He was weak for you.

He always was.

He refused to lose his chance, so he surged forward, lips pressing against yours, so unlike the kisses he'd given before. There was no finesse, no stability in it. It was desperate, messy, uncoordinated, everything he tried not to be. 

He breathed in the unmistakable scent of you, sweet and entirely you, and knew he wouldn't be able to ever get it out of his head.

"Don't ever be sorry," he rasped against yours lips, voice cracking with desire.

Kylian's other hand grasped at the back of your head, fingers digging into your scalp, pushing you closer—as close as he could get you because anything less would kill him.

Your lips parted, letting out a sigh of pleasure that he swallowed. He took the opportunity to slip his tongue between your lips, gliding his over yours. It made his body tremble, and his heart raced. He felt yours too, pressed up against his chest, thumping rapidly, just like his, like your hearts were synchronized, fighting to keep themselves contained and failing miserably.

He used to body to nudge you forward, practically refusing to pull his lips away from yours, and yanked you down with him, your back hitting the bed, making sure to land over you softly.

"Can I touch you?" he asked, the words coming out as more of a plead. "Please, let me touch you."

You nodded your head the second he stopped talking. "Yes. Yes, Kylian, please, touch me."

Kylian nodded feverishly, planting kisses upon your cheek, your jawline, down your neck, over the fabric of your dress, feeling your body react to all of it.

His hands were practically shaking as they snaked underneath your dress, grazing your panties, but he didn't take them off yet. He let his fingers graze over your clothed slit, the fabric already dampened, a groan ripping itself from his throat at the feeling.

He would've loved to bury himself inside you in that very moment. However, the urge to satisfy you, to make you feel good, was stronger.

Kylian lifted your dress just enough to reveal your panties—pink, lace, beautiful.

He hooked his fingers underneath the fabric, sliding it down with anticipation, revealing everything to him. Everything he'd dreamed of was on full display, right in front of him.

His cock twitched, strained against the denim he was wearing. "You're so beautiful," he said in awe. 

Kylian leaned down, leaning in closer, parting your legs further to give him enough space, hooking a leg around his shoulder, your dress riding up further. Centimeters away, he inhaled your scent, his breath fanning over your bare pussy.

He glanced up at you one last time, making note of your appearance—mouth open, already disheveled, despite barely touching you.

Then, he was moving, mouth attaching itself to your cunt, licking a stripe up your slit before flattening his tongue against your clit, wrapping his lips around it, sucking like his life depended on it.

Each moan that fell from your open mouth only egged him on, made him more desperate to push you over the edge, to see how you looked when you came.

He lapped up your arousal, letting out a pathetic moan as if he were the one being touched. On instinct, his hips twitched, grinding down against the bed, chasing the sweet sensation of friction.

He brought a hand up to grip your plush thigh, spreading you open further, eating you up like he had been starving for years.

You let out a gasp, head falling back against his bed. God, did he love that sound.

With his other hand, he dragged it up, using two fingers to spread your folds apart, spitting inside your cunt—hot, messy—before slipping those two fingers inside.

"You taste so good." His voice is absolutely wrecked, taking in the glorious sight of you flushed, your eyes glazed over with pleasure. "Can't get enough of you, chérie."

The name slipped out on accident, but you didn't seem to mind considering the way your pussy had just spasmed around his fingers, clenching down harder on them.

He dragged them out before pushing them back inside, eliciting a cracked moan from you. "Oh, fuck, Kylian."

"I know," he heaved out, lips reattaching themselves around your clit, fingers moving in tandem. He was chasing your high just as much as you were. "I'll help you come, baby."

He was relentless with only one goal in mind—making you come. And he could tell it was working, could sense the way you had become overstimulated, your senses overwhelmed with pleasure.

"Kylian, I can't—"

Your vision blurred, head thrown back, mouth open, crying out against the bed as your orgasm ripped through you. Kylian didn't move. He stayed right where he was, his fingers slowing, helping you ride through your high until your body relaxed.

Kylian was breathing as heavily as you, and though he loathed the idea of pulling away from you, preferring to stay right where he was, inhaling you, he chose to sit up on his knees, getting a good look at you.

Your chest raised slowly, up and down, reminding him that this was real. It was real. You were real. So fucking real.

"Are you okay?"

"More than okay," you breathed out, your eyes finally fluttering open to look at him, then down at the way his cock was straining against his pants. "I don't think you are, though."

He followed your eyes, but he didn't feel any shame. Not like the last time you had seen him like that where he wanted to die.

Now if he died, it wouldn't be out of embarrassment. He would die happily if it meant having you wrapped around him.

"I don't have a condom." Not that he actually cared. He was just being considerate.

"That's fine."

God. If he hadn't been hard already, he definitely would be after hearing you say that.

He freed himself from his jeans in seconds, his cock already leaking, heavy, unraveled, maneuvering himself until his thighs were touching yours. He almost wanted to say I love you then and there, but it was far too soon.

That could wait. Kylian couldn't.

He pushed his hips forward, his cock nudging your entrance, both of you twitching. He kept his eyes on yours, and yours on his. A thing he would've considered meaningless now meant everything to him.

He managed to push past your folds, splitting you open, and his eyes grow wider with each nudge forward until he was fully cocooned inside you.

Your pussy spasmed around him, at the wide stretch, and he grew dizzier from how hard you were squeezing him. It almost brought a tear to his eye.

"Putain," he cursed, his voice cracking. "Don't squeeze me like that—I'll come."

He wasn't ashamed to admit it. He was far past having shame around you. 

Kylian forced himself to pause for a few seconds, watching you intently, making sure you were comfortable enough to move on. Then, he shifted backward, his mouth falling open as he pushed inside you again, watching as your tits bounced with the force of his thrust.

"Keep going," you whined.

With each thrust, Kylian moved faster and faster until his pace grew ragged, desperate, keeping an eye on your expression. You wouldn't fade away this time. You wouldn't because this was real.

Being inside you was intoxicating, your cunt warm, your walls turning gummy around him as he stretched you further. He pulled back all the way, his tip still nudged between your folds before slamming back inside.

"You feel so good," he grunted, his hands gripping your hips, pushing you down against him. "So good—oh god—this pussy's so good."

He was mindlessly blabbering, unable to concentrate on anything but the feeling of your walls wrapped around his dick. There was nothing more he wanted than to stay inside you. He would die content if it was with him inside of you.

Kylian leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his chest pressing down onto you. "'m gonna come." He sounded like he was on the verge of breaking. "Gonna come inside you, need to come inside you, please, please—"

Your pussy pulsed around him, sucking him in deeper, involuntary answering him. You nodded hastily, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Please, Kylian."

"Come on my dick," he begged until his body was convulsing, his dick twitching, making sure to bury himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, white-hot, giving you everything, all of him.

His mouth stayed open, feeling your back arch against him with the force of your own orgasm until your body fell limp.

In the aftermath, you were both left slick with sweat, chests heaving against each others, skin to skin.

Kylian's muscles ached, the good kind. It took a while for either one of you to move. Kylian didn't want to because he was selfish. He wanted to stay there, keep you plugged up with his come. But when he managed to come to his senses, with visible reluctance, he forced himself to pull out, a hiss spilling from between his clench teeth.

His dick glistened with your arousal. It wasn't obscene to him. In fact, he thought it was beautiful.

He hovered over you for a few more seconds, basking in the afterglow, and then asked, "are you okay?"

Your lips twitched up. "You're so sweet."

Kylian actually blushed at that. "I just want to make sure… it wasn't too much, was it?"

You brought your lips up to his, planting a soft kiss over them, the kind that couples would give each other. Kylian's breath hitched because even after having sex with you, you still had that affect on him.

"Best I ever had."

Kylian smiled too, dimples appearing. "Are you just saying that?"

"Wish I was," you admitted, eyelids growing heavy. "I guess Kylian Mbappé is good at everything."

He paused at that, blinking down at you before rolling over to lie next to you. "That's what everyone thinks, but I don't think it's very true."

Was he souring the moment? He hoped not. He was just in the mood to be strangely honest. He never had the chance to in his previous sexual encounters. It had always been just sex. But he didn't want it to be justsex with you.

He wanted more.

Kylian could feel your gaze on him, heavy, curious, not pitying like he expected it to be.

"To think I thought you were another self-righteous footballer." You sighed, thinking over your words carefully. "And maybe you are a little, but I see past it. You're just a man. I saw it in all of our interactions, and I can admit that I never let any of them go. You're just a man and that's a good thing. I'm… grateful that you let yourself be vulnerable with me. But I'm not sure why me."

His heart jumped. He thought his body would tense up, and that his first instinct would be to put his walls up. Instead, he let himself relax.

"I'm not sure why either, but…" He opened his arms a bit wider. An invitation. "I like talking to you. And I think I'd like if you stayed. Only if you want to."

He never asked anyone that sober before.

Kylian couldn't find the strength to look over at you, the fear of rejection overcoming him once again.

He heard the rustle of his bed sheets, and the weight of you piling on top of him, grounding him, reminding him that it wasn't his imagination playing tricks on him.

Your chest rested upon his chest, your ear pressed right where his heart lay, beating for you.

"I do want to."

His arms wrapped around you, holding you closer, encouraging you to put all your weight on him. Put everything on him. He would carry it, just as you had carried his previous burdens.

An unspoken form of love—it was all he longed for.

He knew then that he didn't have to admit it out loud, and neither did you.

It came in the way his eyes grew heavy with exhaustion. He wasn't afraid to fall asleep first. He let sleep take over his body, carrying him away until he was drifting asleep.

In his final moments before losing consciousness, he held you close, smiling because he knew what you had said. 

"Goodnight, Kylian."

"Goodnight, Y/n."

football

#10 — kylian mbappe, real madrid

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kylian stopped believing in true love when he became famous because everybody loved him. but when he met you, he didn’t know how to cope with the fact that you didn’t love him like everyone else did.

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more coming soon…