#ibou konate x saniya konate

[emjayewrites]

royalty • ibou konaté oneshot

SYNOPSIS: Ibou loves his wife — period, point blank. Part 2 to A King & His Queen

WARNINGS: cursing, mentons of religion, rude/judgmental parents - 18+

TAGLIST: @kj77, @ibouchouchou, @saturnville, @lev-1-1, @irishmanwhore, @certifiedlesbianbaddie, @f1-football-fiend @peyiswriting @tsukishimawhore @themaster-2007blog @sucredreamer @muglermami @rougereds

The notifications wouldn't stop buzzing. Ibou turned his phone face-down on the kitchen counter, but he could still see the ghost of those tweets behind his eyelids.

"Konate disasterclass today" "Man's head's not in the game" "25M down the drain"

He pressed his palms against the cool marble, letting out a slow breath. The match replayed in his mind – that missed clearance, the penalty, the whispers in the tunnel after. Everyone had off days, but this felt different. Heavier.

Upstairs, he could hear Saniya throwing up again. Fifth time today. She'd insisted it was just a stomach bug, but watching her get progressively worse over the past week had him worried sick. Add that to her mother's daily calls…

"Have you taken her to a proper doctor?" Mrs. Okafor had demanded yesterday, her voice sharp through the speaker. "Not those English ones. She needs traditional medicine. This wouldn't happen if she kept a cleaner house. I told her, working so much with those athletes isn't good for a wife—"

Ibou had bit his tongue. Hard. For Saniya's sake, always for Saniya's sake. But seeing his wife cry after every call, watching her try to balance her thriving sports psychology practice with her mother's endless expectations of what a "proper wife" should be – it was eating at him.

The sound of retching had stopped. He filled a glass with water and headed upstairs, finding Saniya curled up on their bathroom floor. Her curls were a mess, skin clammy, but she still tried to smile when she saw him.

"Don't even start," she warned weakly. "I know that face. I'm fine."

"You're not fine." He sat beside her, pulling her into his lap. "And I'm not fine watching you suffer."

"Rough day?"

Classic Saniya, deflecting to worry about him instead. "Don't change the subject."

She leaned her head against his chest, and he could feel the slight tremor in her body. "Mum called again."

"I bet."

"Says I'm making myself sick working too much. That if I was a proper wife, I'd…"

"Stop." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "You're burning up, mon cœur."

"It's nothing."

His phone buzzed again in his pocket. More notifications probably, more criticism, more noise. But right now, none of that mattered.

"We're seeing a doctor tomorrow," he said firmly. "No arguments."

"The team needs you for training—"

"You need me more."

She was quiet for a moment, playing with the hem of his shirt. "I saw what they're saying. On Twitter."

"Twitter's not real life."

"But it affects you. I see it in your eyes, in how you carry yourself lately." She looked up at him. "You're trying to shoulder everything alone. The match, my health, my mother…"

"Stop," Ibou's voice was gentle but firm as he held Saniya's hair back. "Whatever you're thinking about not taking care of me, stop it right now."

She slumped against him, exhausted from another round of sickness. The cool bathroom tiles beneath them were a stark contrast to the warmth of his chest against her back. "But the match—"

"The match was one match." He reached for the glass of water he'd prepared earlier, already knowing her routine. "Here, small sips."

"Your performance—"

"—is not your responsibility." He pressed a kiss to her temple, ignoring her weak protests. "And your mother," Ibou interrupted, choosing his words carefully, "is not in this marriage. This is about us. Right now, us means you resting."

"But—"

"No buts." He shifted them slightly so he could see her face. "You want to know what I need from my wife? I need her healthy. I need her safe. I need her to stop listening to voices that make her doubt herself."

A weak smile touched her lips. "Even when those voices are in my head?"

"Especially then." He brushed a curl from her forehead, checking her forehead once more. Still a bit warm. "Now, here's what's going to happen. We're going to get you back to bed. I'm going to call the doctor to schedule an appointment—"

"Ibou—"

"The gaffer already knows. Family first, always."

"The press will talk."

"Let them." He helped her up slowly, keeping one arm secure around her waist. "They don't know that every match I play well is because of you. Because you give me peace here," he touched his heart, "so I can focus out there."

They made it back to their bedroom, where he'd already propped up extra pillows and laid out her favorite blanket – the soft one she claimed helped with nausea.

"I love you," she murmured as he tucked her in. "Even when I'm rubbish at showing it."

"You show it every day." He knelt beside the bed, taking her hand. "Every time you watch my matches even though football bores you. Every time you listen to me overthink a play. Every time you just... see me. Not the footballer. Just me."

______________________________________________

"Lūk," her mother's voice crackled through the phone the next morning, the Thai term for daughter carrying waves of disapproval. "This is what happens when you don't listen to your mother. Working all day instead of taking care of your home..."

Saniya caught Ibou's eye across their bedroom as she sat propped against the headboard. He was laying out her clothes for the doctor's appointment, pretending not to listen but she could see the tension in his shoulders.

"Mae, please," Saniya sighed. "My house is clean. My work is important. And Ibou—"

"Ah, your footballer. He played badly the other day, no? I saw on the news. Maybe if you were home more—"

"Phɔ̄ mai?" Saniya interrupted, asking about her father, desperate to change the subject.

But her mother wasn't finished. "You know in Thailand, young wives know their place. Not running around and neglecting their duties. Now you're sick because—"

He gently took the phone from Saniya's trembling hand. "Mama," he said respectfully, though it cost him. "Saniya needs to rest now. We're seeing the doctor soon. We'll call you after."

Ibou ended the call before his mother-in-law could protest. Saniya's eyes were wet.

"Hey," he murmured, sitting beside her. "None of that."

"She's right about one thing," Saniya whispered. "I haven't been taking care of you properly. Your match—"

"Stop." His voice was firm but gentle. "None of this is on you."

She leaned into him, and he could feel her slight fever through his shirt. "I just wish... I wish I could be what she wants without losing who I am."

"Who you are," Ibou said carefully, "is exactly who you're meant to be. My wife. Dr. Konaté. The woman who helps athletes find their strength again." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Your mae just needs to understand that."

Another wave of nausea hit her then, and Ibou held her hair back as she heaved into the bathroom basin. His phone lit up with another notification – the gaffer wanting to discuss his performance – but it could wait.

Liverpool's spring was more like winter's stubborn little sister, refusing to let go. Rain peppered their Range Rover's windshield as Ibou navigated through morning traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Saniya's. She'd barely managed breakfast – just a few sips of tea and a nibble of toast.

"Bismillah," he whispered, stealing glances at his wife's pale face. The weather had been brutal lately, nothing like the gentle warmth they'd left behind in Dubai months ago. Maybe that's what she needed – another escape to the sun, away from Liverpool's relentless grey and her mother's equally relentless calls.

Saniya dozed against the window, wrapped in one of his hoodies despite the car's heating being on full blast. Ibou's mind wandered as he drove, prayers falling from his lips without thought. "Ya Allah, keep her safe. Keep her healthy." The morning light caught her wedding ring, and his heart squeezed. She was everything – his heart, his home, his peace.

At the private clinic, Ibou didn't let Saniya lift a finger. He helped her from the car, one arm secure around her waist, shielding her from the drizzle with his body. Inside, he handled all the paperwork, rattling off her symptoms to the receptionist while Saniya leaned against him.

"Started about a few weeks ago," he explained, rubbing slow circles on her back. "The vomiting's getting worse, especially in the morning. Fever, fatigue…"

In the exam room, he helped her change into the paper gown, his large hands unusually gentle with the ties. "Your hands are freezing, bébé," he murmured, catching them in his. "We need to get you somewhere warm. Dubai was good for you—"

A knock interrupted his planning, and a nurse entered with a friendly smile and a small plastic cup.

"What's this for?" Ibou asked, even as Saniya took it with knowing eyes.

"Just routine," the nurse explained. "We always do pregnancy checks with these symptoms, especially in young married couples."

Ibou's eyes widened. The cup nearly slipped from Saniya's fingers, but he caught it automatically, his mind racing. Morning sickness. Fatigue. The weird crying jag over a puppy commercial last week. They'd been letting nature take its course, trusting in Allah's timing, but somehow he hadn't connected the dots…

"Oh," he said softly, looking at his wife. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, a mix of fear and something else – hope, maybe?

"I'll give you a moment," the nurse said kindly, closing the door behind her.

Saniya's hands were trembling. "Ibou…"

"Hey." He knelt in front of her, taking her face in his hands. "Whatever this test says, we're in it together. Allah's timing is perfect, remember?"

She nodded, tears spilling over. "Help me up? I'm still a bit wobbly."

"Always."

The minutes crawled by like hours. Ibou paced the small exam room, stealing glances at Saniya who sat perched on the exam table, fingers twisted in the paper gown. When the doctor finally returned, her smile told them everything before she even spoke.

"Congratulations," she said warmly. "The test is positive."

Ibou's legs went weak. He gripped the edge of the exam table, his other hand finding Saniya's automatically.

"How... how far along?" Saniya's voice was barely a whisper.

"Based on your symptoms and timeline, I'd estimate about six weeks. We'll do some blood work to confirm everything, and then schedule an ultrasound for next week."

Ibou couldn't stop staring at Saniya's still-flat stomach. Subhanallah. Their baby was in there. Their miracle.

"I should mention," Saniya spoke up, "I've had some spotting..."

The doctor nodded reassuringly. "That can be completely normal in early pregnancy. However," she turned to include Ibou in her explanation, clearly recognizing the worried crease between his brows, "we'll want to monitor it. Any heavy bleeding or severe cramps, you come straight to hospital."

"What about nausea medication?" Ibou asked, already mentally cataloging everything Saniya had eaten in the past week. "She can barely keep water down sometimes."

"We'll prescribe something safe for pregnancy. And I'm giving you a list of recommended supplements." The doctor smiled at Ibou's intense focus. "I can see she's in good hands."

"The best hands," Saniya agreed, squeezing Ibou's fingers. She knew that look in his eyes – he was already planning, protecting, providing.

After the doctor left them to get dressed, Ibou helped Saniya down from the table, pulling her into his arms. For a long moment, they just stood there, holding each other.

"We're having a baby," he whispered against her hair, voice thick with emotion.

"You're going to be impossible now, aren't you?" But her eyes were sparkling when she looked up at him. "Even more protective than usual?"

"You have no idea." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Allah has blessed us with the most precious gift. You're carrying our little miracle."

"Speaking of carrying..." She raised an eyebrow. "I can still walk, you know."

"Debatable." His hands spanned her waist reverently. "Doctor said rest. And fluids. And—"

"Ibou."

"Hmm?"

"Kiss me first. Then you can start your master plan of wrapping me in cotton wool."

He laughed softly, bending to comply. When their lips met, he could taste both their tears of joy.

"Your mother's going to flip," he murmured against her mouth.

Saniya groaned. "Can we not? Just for today? Let's keep this just for us right now."

"Whatever you want, ma belle." His hand drifted to her stomach. "Both of you."

The rain had stopped when they left the clinic, weak sunshine breaking through Liverpool's clouds like a blessing. Ibou helped Saniya into the car with exaggerated care, ignoring her amused eye-roll.

"We need to stock up on ginger tea," he said as he pulled out of the parking lot. "And crackers. And maybe we should get one of those pregnancy pillows? I saw them online—"

"Habibi," Saniya interrupted fondly. "We have time."

"I know, I know." But his mind was already racing ahead – baby-proofing the house, converting the spare room into a nursery, making sure Saniya had everything she needed to be comfortable.

At a red light, he caught her watching him with that soft look she got sometimes, like she could see right through to his soul.

"What?"

"Nothing." She smiled. "Just thinking about how lucky this baby is, having you for their baba."

His heart did a funny flip at the word. Baba. He was going to be a father.

"Ya Allah," he breathed, overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all.

"We're going to be okay," Saniya assured him, reading his mind as usual. "All three of us."

_______________________________________________

Three weeks had passed in a blur of morning sickness and secret smiles. The match against Arsenal was electric – Ibou playing like a man possessed, each tackle precise, every clearance perfect. The roar of Anfield was deafening. Ninety-third minute, and Ibou had just made a goal-saving tackle that had the Kop singing his name. When the final whistle blew – Liverpool 2, Arsenal 0 – he dropped to his knees, pointing skyward. "Alhamdulillah," he whispered.

Saniya watched from the family section, her aunt's hand tight in hers. "Your husband," Aunt Malai said proudly, "plays like a tiger."

After showering, Ibou found Mo in the tunnel. "Mashallah, brother," Mo grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Whatever's got you flying today, keep it up."

Ibou just smiled, ducking his head. "Allah is good."

"Alhamdulillah, all the time."

Once the aftermatch rituals were over — handshakes, quick interviews in which he credited the team and Allah's blessing — Ibou found them waiting by the family entrance. Saniya's eyes were bright with pride and something else, that secret joy they'd been carrying these past weeks.

"Good performance today," Aunt Malai beamed. She reached up to pat his cheek, and Ibou bent down obligingly, earning a laugh from Saniya.

The drive home was full of Aunt Malai's chatter – about the match, about how handsome Ibou looked in his kit ("But too thin! We must feed him more!"), about how lovely Saniya's new coat was. It was so different from her sister's critical commentary, like night and day.

Their kitchen soon filled with the aromas of Thailand – lemongrass, galangal, coconut milk. Aunt Malai had insisted on cooking, shooing them both to the breakfast bar while she worked her magic.

"Noo chai," she called Saniya by her Thai pet name, meaning little mouse. "Taste this tom yum goong. I made it mild for your stomach."

The fragrant soup steamed in a bowl, alongside green curry chicken made with halal meat and a mountain of jasmine rice.

"Ibou, sit, sit!" Aunt Malai urged, pushing a bowl toward him. "You played like a warrior today. You need to eat!"

Under the table, Saniya squeezed his hand. Their eyes met, and she raised an eyebrow in question. He nodded, heart swelling.

"Khun Pa," Saniya addressed her aunt softly. "We have something to tell you."

Aunt Malai set down her spoon, eyes sharp. "Yes, lūk wăan?"

"I'm pregnant."

The spoon clattered. "Jing jing? Really?" Tears sprang to Aunt Malai's eyes instantly. "Oh, my sweet ones!" She was up and around the table in a flash, pulling them both into a fierce hug.

"The baby will be so beautiful," she sniffled, patting Saniya's still-flat stomach. "Those curls with these cheekbones!" She pinched Ibou's cheek lovingly. "Have you told your mae?"

Saniya shook her head.

"Good." Aunt Malai's face turned serious. "Don't tell her until you're ready. That sister of mine…" She clicked her tongue. "Don't worry, I will speak to her about how she treats you both. She forgets what it means to have a kind heart."

"Khun Pa, you don't have to—"

"Nonsense. Someone must remind her that love is not about control." She cupped Saniya's face in her hands. "You are perfect exactly as you are, noo chai. Both of you."

Ibou pulled Saniya closer, dropping a kiss on her temple. She'd been so much more relaxed with her aunt here, laughing more freely, the shadow of her mother's disapproval temporarily lifted. Allah forgive him, but sometimes he couldn't help thinking Aunt Malai should have been Saniya's mother. The woman had never married, choosing instead to pour her love into her nieces and nephews. But Saniya – creative, stubborn, beautiful Saniya – held a special place in her heart.

"You know," Aunt Malai continued, laying out steaming dishes on their kitchen island, "when you were little, noo chai, you used to say you'd marry a prince."

Saniya groaned. "Khun Pa..."

"Well," her aunt gestured to Ibou with her serving spoon, "you did better. You married a king."

"Now you're just trying to make him blush," Saniya laughed.

The revelation about the baby turned dinner into a celebration. Aunt Malai insisted on calling her favorite Thai restaurant in Liverpool to order mango sticky rice – "for dessert, for the baby!" She peppered them with questions about symptoms, about doctor's visits, about their plans.

Later, after Aunt Malai had retired to the guest room, Ibou held Saniya close on their sofa. "Your aunt," he murmured into her hair, "is a gift from Allah."

"She's what mothers should be," Saniya agreed quietly. Her hand drifted to her stomach, where their miracle was growing. "Our baby is going to have the best Khun Ya."

The Thai word for grandmother sounded like a promise. A reminder that family wasn't always about blood – sometimes it was about who chose to love you, wholly and without conditions.

Gender reveals weren't traditionally Muslim, but like many things in their interfaith marriage, they found their own way to celebrate while respecting both cultures. The gathering at their home was a beautiful blend – Islamic prayers for the baby's health mixed with Thai customs and modern celebrations.

Their spacious living room buzzed with voices in French, English, Thai, and Arabic. Trent was trying to convince Mo that his gift was the best ("It's a custom Liverpool kit!"), while Virgil's wife helped arrange platters of mixed halal and Thai dishes that Aunt Malai had supervised.

Saniya couldn't keep still, moving from group to group, her hands constantly in motion as she talked – a stim that helped her ADHD brain process all the excitement. Her baby bump, now prominent at six months, was draped in a flowing sage green dress that made her skin glow.

"Lūk!" Her mother's sharp voice cut through the chatter. "Sit down! This is too much walking."

Ibou watched his wife's shoulders tense. Just last week, Mrs. Okafor had been berating Saniya for being "lazy" during her sabbatical from her practice. The time in hospital from stress had scared them all, but her mother's reaction – showing up unannounced in Liverpool, armed with criticism – had only made things worse.

"Mae," Saniya started, but her father stepped in.

"Enough," Mr. Okafor said quietly. His voice carried the weight of last week's stern conversation with his wife. "Let her be happy."

The tension broke as Ibou's little sister squealed, "Time for the reveal!"

They'd kept it simple – a large black balloon filled with either pink or blue confetti. Ibou's parents stood close by, his mother already wiping tears. His teammates had their phones ready, though they'd promised not to post until after. Even Didier had flown in, standing proud like an uncle.

"Together?" Ibou asked softly, pulling Saniya close.

She nodded, her free hand still moving in excited patterns against her bump. "Together."

The pop seemed to echo. Pink confetti rained down.

A girl.

The room erupted. Ibou's mother burst into proper tears, his father immediately starting prayers of gratitude. Aunt Malai called out Thai blessings, her voice carrying over the cheers of his teammates.

"Une petite princesse," Ibou's sister squealed, already planning shopping trips.

But Ibou watched Saniya's face – pure joy, pure peace. This was how she should always look, not stressed in a hospital bed, not tense from her mother's words.

"A girl," Saniya whispered against his chest.

"Our girl," he corrected, kissing her there in front of everyone.

Later, after Cama and Trent had argued over who'd be the better "uncle", after Mo had blessed them three times, after Mrs. Okafor had been quietly but firmly led away by her husband (following critiques of everything from the "wasteful" pink decorations to how Saniya "shouldn't mix religions like this"), they curled up on their bed.

Virgil's wife had organized the cleanup, understanding new parent exhaustion. Pink confetti still sparkled in odd corners, Thai garlands draped over prayer beads, different worlds meeting just like them.

"She's going to be perfect," Saniya murmured, both hands cradling their bump. "Strong like her baba."

"Kind like her mama," Ibou added. "Free like her mama too."

Because that was their silent promise to their daughter – she would be free to be herself, to move how she needed, to love what she loved. No criticism would dim her light.

Their princess kicked, strong and sure, as if agreeing.

Amira Malai Konaté arrived on Christmas morning, just as the first snow of winter dusted Liverpool's streets. She came into the world strong and loud, just like her mother, with a head full of dark curls and her father's eyes. The delivery room had been peaceful – Ibou reciting quiet prayers while Saniya brought their miracle into the world, Aunt Malai waiting just outside with excitement and love.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. Liverpool had just secured the Carabao Cup in a thrilling final against Manchester City, Ibou playing the full ninety minutes with a newfound calm. That calm, he'd later tell his teammates, came from knowing Saniya was safe at home with Aunt Malai, their little one choosing to stay put until after baba had brought home some silverware.

"Mini Konaté knows how to make an entrance," Mo had joked.

Now, three weeks into parenthood, Ibou found himself discovering a whole new kind of joy in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn. Like tonight, pacing their bedroom at 3 AM, Amira snuggled against his chest in her tiny Liverpool sleeper – a gift from "Uncle Trent" who'd had it specially made.

"She has your temper," he whispered to Saniya, who watched them from their bed with tired eyes and a soft smile. Amira had been crying for an hour, but each tear was precious to him. Every midnight feeding, every tiny grip of her finger around his, every perfect yawn – it was all miracle.

"She has your lungs," Saniya countered, reaching for the water bottle Ibou had started keeping on her nightstand. "And your determination. When she wants something, she wants it now."

"Allah's perfect timing," he murmured, swaying gently as Amira finally settled. "Just like her mama – knows exactly what she wants."

The ban on Mrs. Okafor had come two days after the birth. She'd arrived unannounced at the hospital, somehow slipping past the security measures Ibou had arranged. Within minutes, she'd started: the "Muslim name" they'd chosen was too foreign, Saniya wasn't holding the baby correctly, their house wasn't properly prepared according to Thai traditions.

It was Mr. Okafor, usually so diplomatic, who finally snapped. "Juling," he'd said, his quiet voice carrying years of built-up frustration. "You will not poison this joy like you've tried to poison everything else. Until you can speak with love, you will not speak to them at all."

The silence that followed was deafening. Mrs. Okafor had left in tears, but for once, they weren't the manipulative kind. Something in her husband's words had finally reached her.

Now, Aunt Malai ran their household with gentle efficiency, showing them how love should flow. She cooked Thai soups for Saniya's recovery, teaching Ibou the exact temperature for testing bath water, singing Thai lullabies about brave warriors and kind hearts to Amira.

"In Thailand," she'd explain, preparing another batch of khao tom mat for Saniya's midnight cravings, "we believe babies choose their parents. Amira chose well."

The team's response to their Christmas miracle had been overwhelming in the best way. The WhatsApp group was now basically Amira's fan club. Virgil, usually so stoic, turned to absolute mush around her. Mo brought prayers and blessings, along with his wife's homemade Egyptian dishes. Even Cama had FaceTimed from Madrid, demanding to see his "petite nièce."

"Your teammates are something else," Saniya laughed one evening, showing Ibou the latest delivery – a custom-made baby bouncer with "Future Captain" embroidered on it, courtesy of Henderson.

"They're family," Ibou said simply, watching Amira sleep in her bassinet. "Just like she's already got the whole squad wrapped around her finger."

Amira's name held all their hopes – Amira, Arabic for "princess," chosen by Ibou during one of their late-night talks about dreams and futures. Malai, after the aunt who showed them what motherly love should look like, who stepped in when they needed her most. And finally Konaté, binding all their cultures together in this tiny, perfect package.

Winter stretched ahead of them; Liverpool sat top of the table, but for once, football wasn't Ibou's primary focus. These precious weeks were for learning every perfect detail of their daughter – the way she scrunched her nose just like Saniya when she was about to cry, how she already reached for her father's voice, the peaceful sighs she made when finally drifting off to sleep.

"Remember our first night in Dubai?" Ibou asked one morning. "When you said something about feeling complete?"

"Mhm," Saniya hummed, watching them from their bed. "Little did we know…"

"Allah's plan is always perfect." He settled into the rocking chair Aunt Malai had insisted they needed, Amira quiet and content in his arms. Outside, Liverpool's endless snow was cold, but inside their home, it was nothing but warmth.

Their little miracle had her mother's strength, her father's gentle heart, and the love of two cultures flowing through her veins. In her perfect face, they saw everything they'd built together – every prayer answered, every struggle overcome, every moment of faith rewarded.

"Je t'aime, ma princesse," Ibou whispered, watching the sun rise over another perfect morning with his girls. Saniya had drifted back to sleep, one hand still reaching for them even in dreams. Amira blinked up at him with those eyes that mirrored his own, and his heart expanded impossibly further.

This was what they'd been waiting for, he realized. Not just a baby, but this complete circle of love. Their daughter would grow up knowing only acceptance, only joy, only the kind of love that bridges continents and cultures. She would have her mother's fire, her father's faith, and the unshakeable knowledge that she was wanted, cherished, chosen.

Football would continue, life would get busy again. But these moments – these quiet, perfect moments with his miracle and her mother – these would sustain him through everything. Because now they were complete. Now they were home.