Pairing: Kylian Mbappe x Reader

Genre: fluff. fluff and more fluff.

Summary: France win the 2026 World Cup. But this isn’t really about the match. It’s about the moment after — when Kylian decides he’s done being careful with the thing that matters most.

Author’s Note: The 2026 World Cup is here, girls. Call up the Etsy witches. It’s hexxing season.

I was rewatching season 2 of Bridgerton, specifically that moment when Anthony and Kate finally say fuck it and dance together, knowing everyone is watching and choosing each other anyway. I love that so much.

So, I really wanted to explore the idea of Kylian reaching a point where he’s no longer scared to be in love, publicly.

In this fic, it’s implied that they’d already discussed it. That there was an agreement sitting between them for weeks: if France win, we go public. Which is why the win feels heavier, sweeter, more intimate. He did it for them.

Enjoyyyyyyy. 💕💕💕💕💕💕

————————————————————————

Breath caught, hearts stalled — and then France detonates into sound.

Blue. White. Red. Streamers fall like confetti snowfall, curling through the air as if the sky itself has chosen a side. The stadium erupts, a living thing screaming “Allez les Bleus” into the night. Somewhere, Peter Drury’s voice rises above it all, lyrical and reverent, speaking of redemption, of time bending back on itself, of a boy who refuses to accept endings. Of two goals in ten minutes. Of history dragged back from the brink by refusal alone.

Kylian barely hears it.

He is already gone. sprinting, shouting, swallowed by teammates who crash into him from every angle. He laughs, then screams, then laughs again, overcome, unguarded. He drops to his knees once, fists pressed into the grass, forehead tipped back to the sky as if he might actually touch it.

“We did it,” he gasps, half-laughing, half-disbelieving. “We actually did it.”

On the other side of the pitch, Argentina collapses inward in quiet devastation. Hands on heads. Shirts pulled over faces. Grief moves quieter, but it moves just as deep all the same.

And you watch.

You stand where you always do — just beyond the edge of the moment, close enough to feel its heat, distant enough to let it belong to him. Because it belongs to him. All of it. The world. The cup. You have learned this discipline by loving someone whose life is conducted in public: to exist just outside the frame, to be present without imprint, to remain steady when the world tilts toward him and threatens to collapse under its own attention.

You watch him move through the chaos with an ease that still astonishes you. Oh, how deeply he loves this sport. With all its trophies, but more so the labour. The repetition. The hours. The self-correction. The fatigue. The sacrifice. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. The obedience to routine until nights like this look effortless. You think how few people understand this about him. How fervently he loves this silly sport and this team. He belongs to this team utterly, even as it takes from him without ever quite naming the cost. He gives anyway. Again. Always.

And then… there is the madness.

The cameras. The noise. The weight of being looked at from every direction at once. You cannot quite understand how he enjoys it, how he turns toward the chaos. How he smiles into the lens. How he can be playful and luminous, offering himself willingly to the spectacle. It should consume him. It should hollow him out. But it doesn’t. Instead, it seems to animate him.

He looks perfectly himself in the middle of it all, radiant and unguarded, loving the impossible theatre of it, and somehow still remaining whole. My sweet, joyful boy. As though the disorder has been waiting for his calm. As though this moment, loud and unruly and impossibly bright, has always belonged to him. Your eyes well up.

He has won. He is happy. My golden boy.

The chaos softens into celebration. Family members begin to appear, laughter mixing with tears. Cameras flash. The trophy gleams under the stadium lights, passed from hand to hand, kissed, lifted. You’re watching him joke with someone when he turns his head.

You are smiling when you feel it. That unmistakable shift. His eyes find yours across the barrier, bright, disbelieving, still vibrating with adrenaline. And then his expression changes. He smiles, small at first, then wider.

“There you are,” he murmurs to himself.

And then he begins to walk.

You feel the eyes before you hear the reaction — a ripple through the crowd as they clock his direction. Your heartbeat picks up, traitorous. You keep your shoulders relaxed, your face neutral, even as he closes the distance and stops in front of the barrier, looking up at you.

“Hi,” he says, breathless.

“Hi,” you reply, softer than intended.

He studies you for a second, then holds out his hand.

“Come,” he says quietly.

You hesitate. He notices. Of course he does.

“It’s okay,” he adds immediately, voice gentle. “With me.”

You take his hand. His grip is firm, reassuring, his thumb pressing lightly into your skin as he guides you around the barrier and onto the pitch. The crowd reacts with cheers, applause, approval washing over you both. It startles you, how kind it sounds.

And once you’re beside him, the enormity of it hits. The lights. The noise. 73 cameras possibly. The history beneath your feet. You’re on the pitch. France has won the World Cup. Your relationship is now public. Your breath goes a little shallow. He notices instantly.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “I think so.”

He studies your face with his usual intensity. “You’re shaking.”

“So are you,” you say.

“Butterflies,” he replies lightly. “I’m here with a girl I have a crush on. She’s somewhere around here. I’ll introduce you.”

You laugh and give him a gentle push. “You’re an idiot,” you say coyly. He hums, amused.

Up close, he looks unreal — grass stains on his knees, sweat cooling on his skin, eyes still bright, as if the moment hasn’t finished moving through him yet. The noise presses in again and you feel suddenly, acutely aware of where you are.

He senses it again.

“Hey,” he says, stepping just a fraction closer. His thumb brushes against your knuckles, subtle, instinctive. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Forget them for a second,” he murmurs. “Talk to me like we always do.”

You swallow. “About the match?”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah. About the match.”

You exhale, the tension easing. “You scared me,” you admit. “For most of it.”

He laughs quietly. “Only most?”

“Eighty minutes,” you say. “To be exact.”

He tilts his head, mock-offended. “I had a plan.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

You smile, small. “You were extraordinary. Simply extraordinary.”

Something soft flickers across his expression.

The noise seeps back in. A chant rolls through the stands, swelling, rhythmic, alive. Somewhere a camera whirs closer. A voice calls his name. Another laughs. Reality, impatient, taps him on the shoulder. He exhales and eases back half a step, though his hand still lingers at yours, reluctant.

That’s when the streamers fall again.

They drift slowly this time, unhurried, ribbons of white, blue and red catching in the air before settling around you. One brushes your cheek. Another tangles briefly in your hair before slipping free. Under the unforgiving stadium cold, sharp stadium light, your skin glows anyway, warm as burnished gold.

He forgets to move. For a heartbeat too long, he just looks.

“How did I get this too?” he murmurs, barely.

“Ky,” you whisper, half-laughing, noticing.

“Mmm,” a hum more than anything.

“You’re staring.”

His eyes flick to the falling colours and then back to you. “I know,” he says, unapologetically.

“This is… a lot,” you say, shaking your head, amused, self-aware.

He steps closer, lowering his voice again. “Breathe,” he says gently. “You’re doing great.”

Before you can retort, a photographer calls out, gesturing animatedly.

“Over here! Just one together!”

Kylian groans softly. “Ah.”

He squeezes your hand once — a silent question.

“Okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Okay.”

They guide you into position. The cameras flash immediately, a soft staccato of light. Someone off-frame laughs and calls, “Relax! It’s a celebration!”

Kylian tilts his head toward you. “See? They like you.”

“I think they like you,” you whisper back.

He grins, crooked and boyish. “That’s not what they’re shouting.”

Another camera clicks.

“Closer!” a voice insists.

Kylian complies easily, his arm settling at your back respectful, careful, but unmistakably there. You feel the warmth of him even through the layers of fabric, grounding you again.

“You good?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you say.

A producer waves frantically, pointing upward. Kylian follows the gesture, then looks back at you with sudden delight.

“Look,” he says, lifting his free hand. “The screen.”

You glance up just as the Jumbotron fills with the two of you — streamers drifting, lights flaring, the moment impossibly cinematic.

“Oh,” you laugh, embarrassed. “Omg, no—”

“Yes,” he insists, already waving. “You have to wave.”

“Could I rather not—”

He nudges you gently. “Come on. They’re watching.”

You relent, lifting your hand in a small, shy wave. The crowd responds with louder cheers, warmer somehow. Kylian laughs again, triumphant.

He nods once, satisfied, then straightens as someone calls his name again, louder, insistent. Teammates. Officials. The trophy waiting.

He looks at you, regretful.

You squeeze his fingers and give him a sheepish smile. “Go.”

He hesitates just a second too long for a man who lives in motion. Then he leans in, his forehead nearly touching yours.

“Stay,” he murmurs.