#jules kounde fic

[mauvecherie-writes]

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐨𝐟 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲

𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 😈

𝘋𝘐𝘚𝘊𝘓𝘈𝘐𝘔𝘌𝘙 !! : 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵 - 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘦𝘢, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 🤭.

INTERACT OR ASK TO BE TAGGED - even if you are a permanent reader, this collection will have its own reading list.

𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓:

01: Lewis

02: Jules

03: Armando

04: Terry

05: Jacob

06: Jules

07: Terry

[iamquiantrelle]

PLAYING FOR KEEPS ────── iamquaintrelle (✨💕)

⌗ pairing : jules koundé x black oc

⌗ tags : @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @greedyjudge2 @f1-football-fiend @2serenity0 @peyiswriting @coffeevacation

⌗ summary : jules is focused on himself — no girlfriend, no drama — but now he seems to have both after pictures of him having fun at a friend's house party shows up in tabloids, and now fashion houses are calling for him? and his agent wants him to keep up this charade? ♡ masterlist.

Jules was all about the grind lately. Training, press, brand meetings, repeat. No time for relationship drama or late nights that didn't involve reviewing game footage. His DMs were constantly filled with heart emojis and "my friend thinks ur cute" messages that he left on read. The tabloids called him cold, but he called it focused.

That's why he was surprised to find himself at Antoine's 90s/00s-themed house party in Le Marais after a crazy few days of attending Fashion Week shows. The apartment was a vibe — exposed brick and big windows with vintage MTV music videos projected on one wall. Someone had hung those metallic dangly curtains everywhere, and the whole place was tinted in purple and blue LED lights that made everyone look like they were in an old-school music video.

The crowd was a mix of football players, fashion week leftovers, and local party regulars. Girls in low-rise jeans and crop tops were everywhere, and more than a few guys had committed to FUBU jerseys and backward caps. Jules had kept it simple - white tank, vintage Prada sport pants, and a gold chain.

"Get Low" started blasting through the speakers and suddenly everyone was dropping it like it was 2003. Jules nursed his drink by the window, watching the chaos. The bass was so heavy he could feel it in his chest, mixing with the persistent buzz of his phone. Probably his agent wondering why he'd been tagged at a party instead of resting before tomorrow's training.

He was about to leave — this wasn't really his scene anymore — when he spotted her across the room. The girl who regularly roasted his outfit choices at Louis Vuitton, looking completely different outside the store. She was wearing what looked like a reconstructed Dapper Dan-inspired vintage LV monogram dress that definitely wasn't official merchandise, her hair up in two buns Princess Leia would envy. And she was absolutely destroying everyone in a dance battle to "The Whisper Song."

Jules couldn't help but smile. Who knew the girl who told him his €500 sweater made him look like a sad corporate mascot could move like that?

He didn't realize he was staring until she caught his eye mid-body roll and smirked. The same smirk she gave him last week before telling him his new Balenciaga sneakers looked like "orthopedic shoes for a cyberpunk grandpa."

Maybe he'd stay for one more song.

The dance battle ended with her throwing up peace signs and disappearing into the kitchen. Jules found himself following, weaving through a crowd of people that was tonguing each other down. The kitchen was quieter, if you could call anything quiet when Lil Jon was screaming "YEAH!" through the speakers next door.

She was perched on the counter, drinking water from a wine glass like it was champagne. Up close, he could see her dress was definitely handmade - a masterpiece of Louis Vuitton shopping bags.

"Your Air Force Ones are actually clean for once," she said instead of hello, looking him up and down. "Did you finally learn how to use a magic eraser, or did you just buy new ones?"

"Do you ever get tired of roasting people's outfits?" Jules leaned against the fridge, trying to look unbothered, but she always had a way to get under his skin.

"Do you ever get tired of giving me material to work with?" She grinned, taking another sip of water. "What's a football boy doing at a fashion week afterparty anyway? Shouldn't you be in bed watching game clips or whatever it is you do?"

"Shouldn't you be at Louis folding scarves or whatever it is you do?"

"Bold of you to assume I fold anything. I'm strictly there to judge people's choices and occasionally sell bags to WAGs who pretend not to know who you are."

The music changed to "Say My Name" and a chorus of drunk screaming erupted from the living room. Jules found himself laughing — actually laughing — for the first time in what felt like months.

"I'm Mila, by the way," she said, extending her hand like a queen waiting for someone to kiss it. "In case you were wondering who's been destroying your fashion confidence for the past three months."

"Jules," he replied, even though they both knew she definitely knew who he was. "In case you were wondering who's been ignoring your styling advice for the past three months."

"Well, Jules, now that we're introduced, want to tell me why you keep coming into my store just to ignore my professional opinion?" She hopped off the counter, landing gracefully despite her platform boots. "Because either you secretly love being told your taste is questionable, or you're really bad at shopping anywhere else."

He was saved from answering by a girl bursting into the kitchen, her Y2K butterfly top slightly askew. "Mila! Dom's about to play your song but he's also about to pass out so if you want to—"

"That messy bitch," Mila muttered, already heading for the door. She turned back to Jules. "Don't leave yet. I still need to tell you how that chain is giving wannabe 2003 Justin Timberlake."

Jules watched her disappear into the crowd, presumably to save her DJ friend from face-planting onto his equipment. The kitchen felt weirdly empty now, even as drunk partygoers stumbled in and out looking for mixers.

He should leave. He had early training tomorrow, and his teammate was definitely going to snitch to their coach about him being out late. But then Nelly's "Hot In Herre" started playing, and he could see Mila through the doorway, dramatically lip-syncing every word while trying to prop up a swaying DJ.

Maybe he'd stay until the end of this song too.

Three songs later, he was still there, watching Mila and her friends absolutely destroy the choreography to "Dilemma." She kept catching his eye and grinning, like they were sharing some private joke about everyone else at the party.

By the time two in the morning rolled around, the crowd had thinned out, the playlist had switched to slow R&B, and Jules found himself back in the kitchen with Mila, both of them picking at the sad remains of the snack table.

"I'm starving," she announced, examining a stale chip like it had personally offended her. "And not in a 'these sweaty pretzels will do' kind of way. In a 'I need real food immediately' way."

"There's a McDonald's around the corner," Jules heard himself say, even though he hadn't had McDonald's since his academy days. "If you want actual food."

Mila's eyes lit up. "McFlurry run? In this economy? In these outfits?" She grabbed her tiny matching shoulder bag. "Absolutely yes."

The McDonald's was exactly what you'd expect at two-thirty in Paris — a mix of drunk tourists, exhausted delivery drivers, and a few fashion week zombies still in full runway looks. Jules and Mila probably should've looked out of place, but somehow they fit right into the beautiful mess.

"If you tell anyone at Louis that I'm eating McDonald's in this dress, I'll have to kill you," Mila said, stealing one of his fries. They'd grabbed a corner table, their knees bumping underneath because the space was tiny. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"What, the reputation of being fashion's most brutal critic? Pretty sure that's safe." Jules pushed the fries between them to share properly. "Yesterday you told a guy his Gucci loafers looked like something a divorced dad would wear to a casino."

"First of all, they did. Second of all—" She paused mid-fry theft, eyes narrowing at something over his shoulder. "Don't react, but there are definitely people taking pictures of us right now."

Jules started to turn but Mila kicked him under the table. "I said don't react! God, you're bad at this. Just act natural." She took a dramatic bite of her Big Mac. "Though I guess the tabloids catching you eating McDonald's is better than them catching you at that party."

"My agent's going to kill me," Jules groaned, but he couldn't bring himself to care that much. He was having too much fun watching Mila attempt to eat a burger while maintaining her cool fashion girl image.

"Please, this is probably good for you. Hot football player eating late night McDonald's with a mystery girl? Looking like a whole vibe in vintage Prada? The internet's going to eat this up." She dipped a fry in her McFlurry with zero shame. "No offense but you could use some spice in your public persona. You're getting a reputation for being boring."

"I'm not boring, I'm focused," he protested, but even he didn't fully believe it anymore. Not when he was sitting in McDonald's at almost three in the morning, watching one of Paris's most exclusive luxury store employees demolish fast food like it was her last meal.

"Sure, focused," Mila smirked. "That's why you keep coming into my store just to get roasted. Because you're so focused."

Before Jules could defend himself, Mila's phone buzzed. She glanced at it and nearly choked on her McFlurry.

"Oh my god," she turned the phone to show him. "We're already on Twitter."

The photo was actually good — like, annoyingly good. Someone had caught them mid-laugh, fries scattered between them. The harsh McDonald's lighting somehow glowed against the gold hardware of Mila's reconstructed dress and the vintage Prada track jacket Jules had thrown on before leaving the party. They looked like an editorial trying to be casual, except their laughter was too real.

"Look at the quotes," Mila scrolled, her platforms kicked up on his side of the booth now. "'Who is she?' 'The way they're matching without matching?' 'That LV reconstruction is everything!' At least they appreciate art." She gestured to her dress with a fry.

Jules leaned back, taking in the situation. He'd spent years cultivating his image - the serious athlete who just happened to have top-tier taste. The guy who could mix high fashion with streetwear so well that GQ had done a spread on his game day arrival fits. But he'd never looked this… effortless. Something about sitting across from Mila, who treated Balenciaga sneakers and McDonald's fries with the same level of critical analysis, made everything feel less curated.

"Your agent's definitely awake by now," Mila said, still scrolling. "The fashion girlies are going crazy trying to figure out who I am. Ooh, someone recognized me from Louis! Watch this turn into 'Football Star and LV Girl' by the afternoon."

His phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.

"That's probably my team's PR group chat exploding," he groaned, but couldn't help smiling. "Think Louis Vuitton will fire you for eating McDonald's in a dress made from their shopping bags?"

"Are you kidding? This is the most interesting thing that's happened to their brand this week. Fashion week's been boring." She stole his phone, adding her number. "You're going to need my contact info when this blows up anyway. Can't have you telling reporters the wrong designer credits for my outfits."

The notification previews were already wild — his agent, his teammates, fashion blogs, sports accounts. But watching Mila save herself as "LV's Meanest Stylist 👑" while demolishing what was left of their fries, Jules found himself caring less about damage control and more about when he'd see her again.

Even if it meant getting roasted for his next outfit choice.

It wasn't as brutal as Jules expected. Well, physically at least - he'd stuck to Gatorade at the party and he snuck in a power nap on the plane ride back to Barcelona. But his phone? Complete disaster zone.

217 unread messages. 68 missed calls. His agent had sent a voice note that was just straight screaming. Even his mom texted, asking who "that girl with the beautiful dress" was.

Jules scrolled through his notifications while his coffee brewed, still in his designer silk pajamas (that Mila would probably roast him for if she knew about them). Twitter had done its thing with someone had already made a thread analyzing their "couple aesthetic" and how it was "shifting the paradigm of sports-fashion crossover." Whatever that meant.

His phone buzzed again. Mila.

LV's Meanest Stylist: your form for running away from paparazzi outside my store is terrible btw. someone just showed me old pics. we need to work on that along with your sweater choices 💅🏾

He caught himself grinning at his phone like an idiot. Before he could reply, another text came through:

LV's Meanest Stylist: also check vogue's instagram story. we're about to have an interesting day at work bestie 🥰

The Vogue story was… a lot. They'd picked up the McDonald's photo, paired it with his past fashion week appearances and what they could find of Mila's work fits. The caption was killing him: "Football's New Fashion Power Couple? Jules Kounde spotted with mysterious Louis Vuitton stylist - serving looks and McFlurries 👀"

His agent was calling. Again.

Jules finally picked up his agent Bruno's call, putting it on speaker while he got dressed for training.

"Have you seen what's happening? This is Cristiano and Georgina levels of potential. She was at Gucci, he was just shopping, now look at them!" Bruno was in full spiral mode. "And yours is even better - you're both already in fashion, both have the aesthetic, and that McDonald's photo? You couldn't plan this kind of organic viral moment."

Jules tugged on a vintage Helmut Lang sweater (that Mila had actually approved of last time, even if she said it made him look like "an art curator having a midlife crisis, but in a hot way"). He thought about how he'd started finding excuses to visit Galeries Lafayette whenever he was in Paris, always timing it when he knew she'd be working. How she'd clock him the moment he walked in, already preparing her roast for whatever he was wearing.

"Bruno, it's not like that—" he started, but his agent was on a roll.

"The internet loves her already. She's got that whole 'devil in Prada' thing going but make it Gen Z. Plus she works at Louis! Do you know how perfect this is for your image? You're already getting more luxury house follows—"

Jules thought about Mila's unfiltered commentary on everything - not just clothes. How she'd rate people's outfits out loud in public like she was doing director's commentary. Everyone assumed it was an American thing, that typical no-filter attitude, but Mila took it to an art form. She'd call out fashion week scammers and hypebeasts with the same energy she used to debate whether Jules' latest Bottega purchase made him look like "money or new money."

"—are you even listening? This could change everything. The serious athlete image was working but this? This is—"

"Bruno," Jules interrupted, "I actually need to get to training. Can we talk strategy later?"

After hanging up, he stared at Mila's last text. She'd sent a photo of the crowd outside Galeries Lafayette:

LV's Meanest Stylist: these vultures really think i'm gonna serve them looks at 8am? bestie we need to coordinate our chaos because your fans are UNHINGED

He smiled, typing back: wear something worth getting photographed in, LV's meanest stylist 👑

Her response was instant: bold words from someone who owned those tragic Balenciaga crocs

His Urus purred through Barcelona traffic, Kendrick's "N95" drowning out his thoughts about the chaos waiting at training. The teasing was going to be relentless - his teammates lived for any crack in his usually composed life, yet his mind kept drifting back to Mila instead of dreading the locker room jokes.

Jules parked at the training facility, but didn't get out immediately. Against his better judgment, he pulled up Twitter.

"Fuck…" he muttered, running a hand through his locs when he saw he was still trending. The newest viral photo wasn't even from McDonald's - someone had snapped Mila at work in Galeries Lafayette, probably from earlier this morning.

She looked exactly like herself - unbothered and effortlessly cool in a blazer from Pharrell's men's line, paired with cigarette pants and what looked like an LV open-back crop top. Her brown skin glowed under the store lighting, her straight dark hair falling perfectly with curls at the ends, even as she seemed to be mid-roast of whatever poor soul was in front of her.

The comments were wild: "THE MATERIAL GIRL AND FOOTBALL BOY WE DESERVE 😭" "nah her style is actually insane?? that blazer with those pants??" "when is she coming to watch him play in barcelona tho 👀" "they literally match without trying, your fave couples could never" "LV girl has more sauce than half these football wives I'm crying"

Jules caught himself smiling at his phone. The internet was doing that thing where it turned real people into characters, spinning narratives from two photos. But they weren't completely wrong about Mila's style - she didn't just talk the talk. Even in the leaked store photo, she looked like she'd walked off a runway but make it corporate chaos.

His phone buzzed with another text from her: "your fans found my old fashion blog. it's giving parasocial relationship but make it haute couture"

The Barcelona training ground was already buzzing when Jules walked in. He'd tried to time it perfectly - not too early, not too late - but it didn't matter. He could feel the eyes on him before the comments even started, everyone had definitely seen the photos. His attempt to slip quietly into the locker room failed spectacularly when Marc, their goalkeeper, slow clapped his entrance.

"Damas y caballeros, nuestro propio personaje principal ha llegado (Ladies and gentlemen, our own main character has arrived)," Marc announced, grinning like he'd been waiting all morning for this moment. "El hombre que rompió Fashion Twitter con McDonald’s. El rey de las colaboraciones inesperadas. El..." (The man who broke Fashion Twitter with McDonald's. The king of unexpected collabs. The—)

"Cállate," Jules threw his bag at Marc, but he was fighting a smile.

"No sabía que lo tenías en ti (Didn't know you had it in you)," Pedri chimed in, not looking up from his phone where he was definitely scrolling through the trending topics. "Todo este tiempo actuando demasiado centrado en el drama, luego te vuelves viral con la reina de la mala de Louis Vuitton." (All this time acting too focused for drama, then you go viral with Louis Vuitton's queen of mean)

Jules started unpacking his bag, trying to maintain his usual unbothered expression. The kit designers had actually consulted him on this season's away colors - not that he'd tell his teammates that. They already thought he was too into fashion. "Todos ustedes necesitan mejores pasatiempos."

"¿Mejor que verte tendencia en todo el mundo? Nunca." Marc was scrolling through his phone now, perched on the bench like he was about to give a presentation. "Dios mío, ya hay cuentas de fans dedicadas a ti: ‘Jules and Mila Fashion Archive’ ya tiene 5 mil seguidores. Espera hasta que descubran que realmente vas a su tienda solo para que te asen—"

"¿Cuánto tiempo has estado tramando esto?" Pedri interrupted, finally looking up. "Porque mi chica sigue su blog de moda y aparentemente has estado en el fondo de las fotos de su tienda durante meses."

Jules paused midway through lacing up his boots. He hadn't known about any store pictures. The thought of him showing up in the background of Mila's content while she probably roasted his outfits to her followers was… actually exactly her style.

"Recuerda cuando firmó por primera vez y usó esos crocs de diseñador para entrenar?" Marc was on a roll now. "Apuesto a que ella tendría un día de campo con esas fotos—"

"Esas eran ediciones limitadas," Jules defended.

His phone buzzed in his locker. Speaking of the devil: your team's social media manager just followed me. should i be worried or flattered?

"Ooh, está sonriendo a su teléfono!" Lamine, one of the younger players, called out. "¡Julio en realidad está emocionando! ¡Rápido, que alguien tome una foto antes de que vuelva a su cara de modelo en reposo!" (Ooh, he's smiling at his phone. Jules is actually emoting! Quick, someone take a picture before he goes back to his resting model face!)

"¿Qué está diciendo?" Marc tried to peek at his phone. "¿Está asando tus opciones de atuendo a larga distancia? Porque esos pantalones de chándal que usaste la semana pasada..."

"Focus up!" Flick's voice cut through the locker room. "Save the gossip for after training. Jules, we'll be discussing social media strategy with PR later. Apparently, you're bringing in a new demographic we need to 'strategically leverage' or whatever they're calling it."

Jules grabbed his water bottle, already dreading the PR meeting. He could just imagine the PowerPoint presentation they'd prepared. As if his relationship with Mila - whatever it was - could be turned into a marketing strategy.

Another text came through as they headed out to the pitch:

LV's Meanest Stylist: some fashion blog found pics of you actually wearing the pieces i suggested. they're calling it a 'slow burn fashion romance' i'm screaming 💀 there's a whole timeline of your store visits matched with your match day fits. these people are UNHINGED. anyway good luck at training bestie, try not to get distracted thinking about my incredible style 😘"

"Julio!" Marc waved a hand in front of his face. "Deja de enviar mensajes de texto a tu gurú de la moda y concéntrate. A menos que quieras que el entrenador te haga hacer sprints adicionales."

He was definitely going to get megged at training for not focusing. His mind kept drifting to Mila's text about his match day fits - had she really been paying that much attention? The tabloids were about to lose their minds when they figured out he'd been lowkey getting styled by her through carefully timed "roasts" for months.

"Jules! Less smiling, more running!" Flick yelled.

Worth it though.

Mila's apartment looked like a crime scene of designer pieces she'd tried on and discarded. Her phone had been blowing up since that McDonald's photo dropped - fashion blogs, sports pages, and now Jules' agent calling for the fifth time.

She scrolled through her messages while heating up leftovers, pausing on one from her boss: "The engagement on our posts is up 200% today. Whatever this is, keep it professional." As if she hadn't kept it professional these past few months, roasting Jules' questionable fashion choices within the walls of Galeries Lafayette.

He'd shown up last fall during her shift, and when she'd told him his designer sweater was giving "tech startup CEO at a midlife crisis festival," he'd actually laughed. Started coming in several times a month, sometimes just to debate the merits of vintage versus new season pieces while she restocked displays.

Her phone lit up. Jules' agent again.

"Might as well," she muttered, picking up. "Hello?"

"Mila! Finally! Let's talk about this organic marketing goldmine you two have created—"

She moved the phone away from her ear, letting the agent ramble about engagement metrics and brand synergy. Her DMs were flooded with fashion houses wanting to "collaborate." Three months ago, they wouldn't even respond to her portfolio.

Her work phone buzzed with a store notification. Someone had requested her specifically for a styling appointment. Probably another footballer looking to recreate whatever was happening with her and Jules.

Mila put her phone on speaker, letting the agent's voice fill her kitchen while she made tea. He was going on about metrics and demographics, something about Jules' engagement being up 300% since the McDonald's photo.

"—and the fashion houses are loving this organic crossover moment. Your reconstructed piece was genius, by the way. Very editorial. Which is why we think—"

A text from Jules cut through the noise: "my PR team found your tweet about my 'tragic but endearing' yeezy phase. they're using it in the presentation. traitors."

Mila smiled despite the chaos. At least he was still giving her material to work with: "you wore those shoes to a MUSEUM opening. i was professionally obligated to drag you."

She hadn't meant to be at that party last night. Wasn't planning on going viral at McDonald's in a dress she'd reconstructed from LV shopping bags, yet here she was, accidentally becoming part of a narrative she hadn't signed up for.

Mila rolled her eyes, adding honey to her tea. She had three unfinished designs due next week and a client waiting on a custom piece. Whatever this was about could wait.

"—you two should continue dating. Or at least appear to be dating."

Her spoon clattered against the counter. "We should what now?"

"The optics are perfect!" The agent was on a roll. "The brutally honest stylist and the fashion-forward footballer? It's a narrative goldmine. Louis Vuitton's numbers are up, Jules' brand deals are through the roof, and you're already getting offers from—"

"We're not dating," Mila cut in, even though that was obvious. She'd just roasted his outfit choices for months and accidentally gone viral. That wasn't dating.

"Exactly! But imagine if you were. Or if people thought you were. The fashion week appearances, the match day fits, the social media moments..."

Her phone buzzed with a text from Jules: "my agent's crazy right? please tell me you're not actually listening to this facetime dating pitch"

"Listen," Mila pinched the bridge of her nose. "I style people. I critique awful fashion choices. I'm not about to play girlfriend for your marketing strategy."

"But you're already styling Jules. Already critiquing his choices. Already going viral together. Why not make it official? Think of the opportunities. The connections. The—"

Mila looked at her tea, then at her phone, then at the pile of design work waiting for her. This was ridiculous. She had deadlines. Real work. Actual goals that didn't involve pretending to date a footballer with occasionally questionable taste in sneakers.

But...

Mila glanced at her reflection in a mirror, mentally calculating. Jules wasn't completely lost when it came to fashion - boy actually had some drip. And unlike half the footballers who came through her store, he had his natural teeth - not a veneer in sight. The fact that he was fine as hell was just a bonus to his actually decent taste level.

Plus, this job was starting to drain her. The endless hours at Galeries Lafayette, the entitled clients who thought money could buy style, the corporate bullshit of it all. Last week some wannabe influencer had thrown a fit over a bag that wasn't even in production yet.

She could use this. Use him.

"What's in it for me?" Mila interrupted the agent's monologue.

The typing bubble appeared from Jules: "did you just ask about benefits? mila please don't encourage him-"

But she was already running the numbers. Fashion houses were watching. Her reconstructed pieces were getting attention. And Jules... well, having a footballer with actual potential to not dress like a fashion disaster wouldn't be the worst thing for her portfolio.

"Access to special archives for your reconstruction pieces," the agent started, like he'd been waiting for her to ask. "Front row at fashion week - not just Paris, we're talking Milan, New York. Creative control over Jules' match day fits, which means direct lines to any fashion house you want. Plus, Vogue wants to do a feature on your work - the pieces you've been creating, your styling philosophy, all of it."

A text from Jules popped up: "he's offering you the archives?? even I can't get in there 👀"

"And?" Mila took a sip of her tea, playing it cool even though her mind was already racing with designs she could create with archive access.

"And your reconstructed pieces get official LV backing. No more 'unofficial' collections. They're interested in a limited capsule release - young, edgy, sustainable. Everything you've been pushing for."

She set down her cup. Hard.

Another text from Jules: "take the deal before he offers to throw in his firstborn child 💀"

"Timeline?" Mila asked, already thinking about the archive pieces she could remix, the connections she could build, the doors this could open. "And I maintain creative control? Over everything?"

"Six months minimum. And yes - you've already proven you know what you're doing with his image. The McDonald's photo's got more engagement than his last three brand deals combined."

She glanced at her mood board, covered in designs she couldn't legally produce. Yet.

"Fine. But I have conditions."

Twenty minutes and several non-negotiables later, Mila's phone lit up with Jules' incoming call. She barely said hello before he started.

"So you like me that much, huh? Agreeing to be my girlfriend and everything?" His voice was annoyingly smug.

"Please. I like archive access and creative control. You're just the pretty package deal." She flopped onto her couch, kicking off her slippers. "How are you feeling about all this anyway?"

His laugh was unfairly sexy through the phone. "You're not exactly bad to look at yourself. Could be worse ways to boost my image than having fashion's meanest critic on my arm."

Mila rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling. "Careful, I can still roast your outfit choices to my followers."

"You'll have to do that in person. Come to Barcelona - we need to get our stories straight anyway."

"I'll see what I can do." She examined her nails, trying to sound casual even though her mind was already picking out outfits.

"Mhmm," he hummed, voice dropping lower. "Bonne nuit, chérie."

"Sweetheart? Really getting a head start on the pet names?"

"Gotta save face, right?" She could hear his grin. "Sweet dreams."

The call ended and Mila's face broke into a wide smile, staring at her ceiling.

Oh, this was going to be interesting.

.................tbd

[saleeba]

heat ; ronald araújo & jules koundé

summary ♡ upon hearing a request of yours, your boyfriend is quick to make the wish come true.

pairing ♡ ronald araújo x fem!reader x jules koundé / ronald araújo x fem!reader, jules koundé x fem!reader

content ♡ 18+, smut, reader is in an established relationship with araújo, threesome, p in v, blowjob, double penetration (is that the phrase…? both ends are involved is what i’m trying to say 😭), protected sex (we stan responsibility!), mentions of alcohol consumption, y/n calls the shots around here but also sub!reader / dom!footballers, teeny belly bulging, open relationship vibes ??, no aftercare sowwyyy

a/n ♡ merry euros final day, ya filthy animals !! :D this was requested by a lovely anon who’s been waiting for my slow ass to upload so i hope they enjoy it !! 🥰💙 i haven’t written in quite a while so pls excuse me if this is rusty and stiff… kept it quite short to get me back into the swing of things <33

fumes of filthy musk and heady leather, countless articles of clothing strewn about the place, the temperature unnatural for the amount of work the air conditioning was doing; that was the state of the hotel room where you had ended up with your boyfriend and, what can only be called, your newly-appointed lover. a night of stolen glances and sly touches led the three of you here, scheming whispers from your dark-painted lips into your boyfriend’s burning ears—hot from the pounding music and the ghosting softness of your mouth—spilling the desires that you’d tried so hard to keep to yourself for months on end now. at first, ronald believed it was the talk of the tequila causing you to say all this, for you to be so forward and shameless in what you’d let him and his teammate do to you could be nothing else but liquid courage, but a look into your eyes told a different story. they were clear and determined, not at all teary and pinkish around the edges like ronald had become accustomed to when you would go overboard with the alcohol. no, not like that at all. 

your boyfriend would be a fool to even act surprised at your feelings towards his french friend. compliments to, and away from, jules’ face got bolder and bolder as you spent more time with the team’s defender, and ronald didn’t miss the way your fingers would always find some way to land themselves on jules’ bicep. you made no effort to hide the way you enjoyed the bulging muscle under your tight grasp in front of either man and your man certainly made no effort to stop your actions, the heat under his collar and tightness of his trousers confirming his true feelings.

at the end-of-season party, you told your boyfriend of your master plan — how you intended your night to end with the company of two men in your bed, pulses set alit by previous activities and the question of how far the three of you could take this new relation a quietly thumping matter in the backdrop of it all. you would have ronald claim to be exhausted from the night’s shenanigans, fall prey to the jeers and jabs from the younger boys over how he can’t handle this much excitement and slip away to the hotel room the two of you had booked just in case. ronald doesn’t forget to take a swig of, what’s to him, liquid audacity to set him up for the night. from there, you’d stay, under the pretence that you wanted to hang with the girls a bit more, and work the same charm on the french boy, hushed promises of what the night could look like for him if he gave in to his yearnings spilling from your lips. tall tales from jules that he had to be home early in order to be on the first flight back to france to see friends the next morning plus a perfectly acted-out scene from you asking him to drop you off helped seal your exits, scrambling into jules’ car where you sit in the back seat, fearful of what accident you may cause if you were any closer to him.

the same rushed manner can’t help but be continued out of the car, into the hotel lift and past the door to your shared room, lips pressed hungrily against each other in such a blur that you had no recollection of where or when the two of you had begun to do so. urgent kisses turned to needy tugs of jules’ shirt and your black minidress as the commotion of your heels and jules’ heavy feet caused your boyfriend to appear from the ensuite.

“not starting without me, are you?”

*** 

you had no idea when the hour turned from eleven to three but there was no way you were ready to bid the night adieu. not when the pressing of the two cocks in front of and behind you electrified the very veins under your skin, the prickling anticipation nearly leaving you quivering on your hands and knees, despite having gone multiple rounds since the three of you bundled in on that bed.

“tired yet, baby?” in front of you, your boyfriend’s voice came hoarse but assured; a little taunt to it to test your daring. you shook your head in a determined fashion but the rapidness of it came across as the tiniest bit desperate, both men laughing in response at how far you could go without faltering.

behind you stood the object of your desires for the night, skin sweat-drenched and glowing under the warm lighting of the hotel room, chest still slightly heaving from all the action prior to this tiny break — if that was what you could call the intermission in which your boyfriend and his friend manhandled you into this position, ready for the taking by the both of them. 

a sudden small chorus of huffs started behind you, your ears pricking up as you diverted your eyes to where ronald towered above you, grinning ever so slightly at the scene behind you and directly in front of him. you didn’t need to look back to see what was going on, it was that obvious. jules, in perhaps an act of impatience or sheer lust from the sight of you below him, had a wrist wrapped around his hardened length, the push and pull of it up and down giving centre stage to the squelching noises left over from when he had his digits enveloped inside the wetness of you – when he was only allowed his digits inside of you. the sound of your juices on his cock and his small moans had you clenching around air, an involuntary–no, reflexive–wiggle of your ass letting the men know how you felt about it.

a comment from ronald telling jules that they’d better get on with it had you both wanting to scream ‘just do it already!’ and licking your swollen lips in anticipatory delight. no other words were exchanged before you felt the push of jules’ cock past your sopping folds, a guttural sound bubbling from your lungs at this new angle, one that felt infinitely deeper as he slid in, seeming so endless in length. the arching of your back mimicked the depth of his cock rocking in and out of you, a near-perfect u-shape for jules to run his hands over.

“good girl.” your boyfriend praised, a gentle rubbing of your cheek to complement. “so good for us, isn’t she, jules?”

your french lover failed to respond in any other way than groaning incoherently, the tightness of your pussy around him restricting his words all the same, trying to concentrate on setting a pace that allowed for your enjoyment and relied on him not getting too excited.

his uruguayan counterpart decided to step in, a tap of his dick on the same cheek he was so romantically caressing to signal ‘open.’ you obliged with the same energy; no words, just a loll of your tongue past your lips as an invitation for ronald to sink himself into your mouth and soothe the throbbing that was getting thunderous with yourself as aid.

to say you felt full was an understatement. it was in the bulge of your throat and your lower belly, the pressure from both ends so delicious it had you leaking with arousal around jules who had finally found a pace that suited all three of you, pounding relentlessly in and out of your wetness, grip on your hips only tightening with every movement so as not to slip out of you — especially with how rough your boyfriend was being tonight.

it wasn’t a rare sight for ronald to be this… hungry but you could tell it was something about the circumstances of tonight, the fact that he got to share you with someone else fueled his fire and led to his hips pistoning against the skin of your chin and nose, his cock gliding easily down the column of your throat due to how much you were salivating around it. once he relented in his rapidness, you took your time to give special attention to where he liked it the most; right at the tip, where it was red and agitated. you smoothed it over with your tongue, the drenched muscle working like a hypnotic thing, pulling wanton moans from your uruguayan lover, his head thrown back from the red-hot pleasure.

you loved this feeling of being stuffed, of having your every sense attacked and stimulated, and you were getting oh-so-close to cumming over jules’ cock, your voice getting slightly higher-pitched around ronald’s length to warn him of your impending climax. jules noticed it first, the way your pussy clenched around him like a firm fist being a dead giveaway and he took the chance to slither an arm around to your front, finger and thumb coming in to rub at your clit. the shocks you felt from it nearly had you shrieking.

a cacophony of moans,‘come on, baby, that’s it’s in a uruguayan accent, and groans rang in your ears before you saw stars — burning white and nearly blinding you. your orgasm hit you so head-on that there was no time to warn either of them, a lewd scream and snappy clenching of your walls pulling you all to the other side. jules managed to empty himself in the condom, still snug inside your warmth; ronald pumping his milky release just above the valley of your breasts. the feeling is filthy and you can’t help but giggle.

minimal words were exchanged whilst jules slipped out of you, purposefully but reluctantly all the same, and ronald laid you down on the bed, still a little giggly from the euphoric high of your orgasm. there was nothing but the warmth of both boys and the tangle of twelve limbs that could tame you to sleep now.

[eu-nicola]

what would it be like to date jules kondé 🍀

Jules Koundé x Reader

sorry english isn’t my first language

Your crush on Jules Koundé was not a secret, everyone knew it so when they started dating no one was surprised

He was a good boyfriend from the beginning

He would always make sure you were comfortable

He liked that you were at each of the Barça games even if he didn’t play

He had the fixed idea that you brought luck to the club

He loved to see you every morning when you woke up

But he hated to see you sad

It bothered him how you always wanted to be right but after a while you both got better

When he met you he knew from the first moment that he wanted to have you

And the first time you saw him you also wanted the same

Both wasted no time and started to get to know each other

Soon you and him were together and happy

Both got to know each other more and more and both really get along

You and him were opposites that attracted

You were his in a good way

He was yours

And both intended to continue like this

[mauvecherie-writes]

tell me what you want: j.koundé

pairing: jules koundé x black!fem reader.

warning: 18+ heavy touching and kissing, suggestive language, no distinctive descriptors for reader but they are BLACK.

summary: your birthday is quickly approaching and jules just wants you to tell him what you want.

w.c: 717.

notes: i saw this tiktok and i thought it was the cutest thing ever and i thought why not make it into a scenario with one of my fav footie boys. so this is something short and sweet to get those juices flowing! much love! This is not edited.

tags: @queenshikongo3 @hopefulromantic1 @dhlfastestlap @saintslewis @hersinsarescarlet @felicity-x0 @serpenttines-library [ask to be tagged for jules]

Driving through the streets of your hometown has never felt so good.

The sun high in the sky, a soft breeze in the air coming through your open windows as your boyfriend drove.

Nothing was better than this.

“Bébé.” The French twang in his raspy voice had your thighs clenching. From the moment you met, his voice was your weakness and that will forever be the same.

“Yes baby.” You say as you turn to look at him. His hair in its usual thick twists, moustache and goatee trimmed perfectly. The sun hitting his skin, making it look perfectly golden. Your boyfriend was beautiful and you appreciated that beauty with every glance.

“Tell me what you want for your birthday.” He asked with a slight smirk playing on his lips. Those perfect lips, soft and plump lightly moving as he chewed on his gum.

But the question had your eyes widening a bit. You’ve only been together for a few years and with each passing birthday, that question always seems to bewilder you. The type of person that you are was one to never ask for anything, most of the time Jules would have to ask your closest friends or sneak into your online shopping baskets to gift you something worth while.

This time, he wasn’t going to a take a simple “I don’t know” from you.

“What?”

“C’mon. Tell me what you want for your birthday.” The smirk was still on his face as he quickly turned his head to look at you.

You could feel your cheeks warming from the way that he was staring at you.

“What’s my budget?” You jokingly quirked.

“Unlimited. Now, tell me.”

“What if I said I wanted a house?”

“Then I’d get you a house.” His matter-of-factly tone caused to giggle.

“You’re actually serious about this?” You asked as the car came to a slow stop.

“Just rub on my thigh, like the magic genie, I’ll grant you anything mon cœur.” You giggled as you leaned across the console and with one hand on the inner of his thigh and the other to pull his face towards yours by his chin.

He licked his lips as he quickly glanced down at yours before meeting your eyes.

“Since you want to know so much let me tell you.”

“Mhm, tell me bébé.” He nodded with his head still in your palm. You leaned forwards and traced your lips with his.

“I want you.” You whispered before placing a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Mhm.”

“With me.” Another kiss on the other side of his mouth.

“Just the two of us on a yacht.” You pick his bottom lip which causes him to groan. “With all my favourite things.”

“Which are?”

“I’ll send you the list.”

“And then what will we do on this yacht?”

“And then you fuck me until I can’t breathe and walk.” You breathed those last words into his mouth before he groaned once more and took a hold of the back of your neck and pulled you close.

“Genie grants your wish.” He murmured before you watched his eyes go dark. You let go of his chin the minute his other hand comes to the front of your neck.

You whimpered softly as he kissed you slowly and deep. He swallowed every sound that you made as he pressed his lips harder into yours. Shifting out of your seat, you had to restrain yourself as you could feel your body wanting to lunge into his lap. Losing yourself, your hands cupped his dick through his shorts and began to rub.

Jules slid his fingers through your braids and pulled at the roots. He pulled your head away causing you to gasp. He was always in command and you loved it that way. Jules trailed his lips down the valley of your neck until he reached the hemline of your dress.

“Let’s get this food so we can go back to your place and we can start practising what I’ll do to you on boat.” He whispered into your skin as his teeth softly grazed your skin.

You squealed as your thighs squeezed together. “Are you gonna give me anything that I want?”

“As long as you tell me what you want mon cœur.”

[iamquiantrelle]

PLAYING FOR KEEPS (chapter 2)──────iamquaintrelle

⌗ pairing : jules koundé x black oc (fc: mimajhn)

⌗ tags : @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @greedyjudge2 @f1-football-fiend @2serenity0 @peyiswriting @coffeevacation @sunfairyy @bbgkoo @127hydrangeas @kj77

⌗ summary : jules is focused on himself — no girlfriend, no drama — but now he seems to have both after pictures of him having fun at a friend's house party shows up in tabloids, and now fashion houses are calling for him? and his agent wants him to keep up this charade? ♡ masterlist. (✨💕)

Mila's first PTO request in eight months had her manager looking at her like she'd lost it. But after that McDonald's photo turned their store into a tourist attraction for football fans, no one argued when she said she needed a few days off.

The first-class seat to Barcelona was courtesy of Jules' management team - apparently fake girlfriends don't fly economy. She'd packed light: two archive-worthy reconstructed LV pieces (that may or may not have been strictly approved), a few vintage finds, and her iPad full of design sketches she could actually produce now that she had official backing.

Her phone hadn't stopped since she posted a cryptic airport story. The comments were wild: "BARCELONA?? 👀" "omg she's going to see him" "peep the LV luggage, she stays on brand"

A text from Jules broke through the notification chaos: "sent a car for you. driver's got strict instructions not to let any paparazzi follow you to the hotel"

Of course there were paparazzi. Three days ago she was just the mean stylist at Galeries Lafayette who kept going viral for roasting rich people's fashion choices. Now she was getting papped at Charles de Gaulle at seven in the morning on a Tuesday.

"your fans are insane," she texted back. "someone already found my flight number"

Jules (Da Boo): welcome to the circus 😮‍💨 see you in an hour? we've got a strategy meeting with PR at 11

Mila leaned back in her seat, watching Paris disappear beneath the clouds. A week ago she was dealing with entitled clients and corporate bureaucracy. Now she was flying to Barcelona to plan a fake relationship with a footballer who actually had decent taste in vintage Prada.

Her life was starting to sound like one of those Wattpad stories her sister was always reading.

The car Jules sent was waiting as promised. The driver held up a sign with "M. Paris" instead of her real name, which was probably smart given the number of phones already pointing her way.

Her hotel room was bigger than her Paris apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Barcelona, and someone (definitely Jules) had filled the closet with fresh flowers and a handwritten note: "in case you need more material to roast my fashion choices - see you at 11."

Mila took a quick shower, changing into one of her reconstructed pieces - a vintage LV blazer she'd transformed into a dress that corporate would definitely not approve of. Her phone buzzed with another text from Jules: "paparazzi already outside the hotel. ready to start the show?"

She checked her reflection one last time. The Barcelona sun made her brown skin glow. She'd let her hair stay straight but added some extra curl to the ends, the way she wore it when she first met Jules at the store. Her makeup was editorial but not trying too hard - she had a reputation to maintain after all.

"let's give them something to talk about" she texted back, grabbing her bag.

The hotel lobby was suspicious - too many people pretending to read newspapers while holding phones at weird angles. The PR team had suggested they get photographed "accidentally" meeting for breakfast before the strategy session. Make it look natural, they said. As if anything about this situation was natural.

She spotted Jules immediately. He was failing to look casual in the hotel's cafe, wearing a vintage YSL sweater she'd actually complimented once (not that she'd remind him). The whispers and phone cameras followed her path to his table.

"That dress is definitely not LV approved," he said instead of hello, standing to kiss her cheek for the cameras. His cologne was unfairly good.

"Neither is this fake dating scenario but here we are." She sat down, noting how he pulled her chair out just enough to make it look practiced. "Nice sweater. Finally learning how to dress yourself?"

"You literally picked this out."

"Did I? Must not have been one of your tragic days then."

The cameras were definitely getting all this. She could already see the headlines: "Fashion's New It Couple Share Intimate Breakfast." At least Jules knew how to sit for good angles - some of her clients at the store could never.

"You good?" he asked, sliding a coffee her way. Oat milk latte, exactly how she took it. He'd been paying attention during their store conversations.

"Yeah, though I have questions about this PR team of yours. Their PowerPoint had more transitions than a 2005 presentation."

Jules laughed, and Mila caught herself thinking it sounded even better in person than over the phone. The cameras definitely caught that too - her genuine smile, the way he leaned in closer.

"They have a whole mood board for us," he said, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. "Apparently we need to 'cultivate an aesthetic of playful antagonism with underlying romantic tension.'"

"So just keep doing what we've been doing, but add hand-holding?"

"And maybe fewer public roasts about my shoe choices."

"No promises on that one, babe." The pet name rolled off her tongue easily, perfectly timed as someone definitely not-subtle-enough took a photo.

Her phone was already blowing up. Her sister had sent approximately 47 messages in all caps. The LV corporate account had gained 10k followers in an hour.

Jules' hand found hers across the table, a practiced move that looked natural enough to fuel a week's worth of Twitter theories. "Having second thoughts?"

Mila thought about her design sketches upstairs, the archive access waiting in Paris, the way her follower count had tripled since that McDonald's photo. Then she looked at Jules - annoying, handsome, surprisingly fashion-competent Jules - and the way he was trying not to smile too wide for the cameras.

"Please," she squeezed his hand just enough to make it look real. "I'm just getting started."

Breakfast wrapped with enough staged candid moments to keep social media fed for days. Outside, Jules' Lamborghini Urus was waiting, because of course it was.

"Really? A Urus?" Mila raised an eyebrow. "How very new money footballer of you."

"Wow, okay," Jules shot back, "you're standing there in your bougie little sunglasses and Capucine bag judging my car choices?"

Mila pulled down her sunglasses, looking at him over the rim. "Not our first lovers' spat..."Jules opened his mouth - to retort or apologize, she couldn't tell - but she cut him off. "I'm fucking with you. Chill." She pulled the door open and slid inside, immediately hit by the clean leather smell and pristine peanut butter colored seats. "Cute."

Jules got in the driver's seat, starting the car with a rev that was absolutely unnecessary but admittedly hot. He pulled out into Barcelona traffic with one hand on the wheel, all casual confidence and big dick energy that she refused to be affected by. His full lips were pursed in concentration, focused on the road ahead.

"Why are you single?" The question left her mouth before she could stop it.

He cut his eyes at her briefly, shooting her a 'what the fuck' look. "What?"

"Why. Are. You. Single?" She repeated slowly, deliberately sarcastic. "Or should I speak French instead?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Parlez-vous bien le français?" The words rolled off his tongue smoothly, his native accent making something flutter in her stomach that she immediately shut down.

Oh hell no, her thoughts protested.

"Je parle bien," she responded coolly. "So the reason you're single?"

Jules took a smooth turn before answering. "Focused on my career. Not trying to be another footballer stereotype." He glanced at her. "Why are you?"

"Too busy roasting rich people's fashion choices to date." Mila adjusted her sunglasses. "Plus the people at Galeries Lafayette are either trust fund babies or married to trust fund babies."

"And footballers?"

"Are you fishing for compliments right now?"

The Urus purred as Jules accelerated, weaving through traffic with irritating skill. "Just trying to figure out if my fake girlfriend actually likes me or just my access to the archives."

"The archives are definitely in my top three reasons," Mila smirked. "Your natural teeth are up there too."

"My what?"

"Do you know how rare it is to find a footballer with his original teeth? No veneers, no ultra-white chiclet smile. It's refreshing."

Jules' laugh filled the car. "You've really thought about this."

"I work in luxury fashion. Footballers and their WAGs are half my client base. Trust me, I've seen every variation of the Instagram Face possible."

They pulled up to a sleek building that screamed 'expensive PR firm.' Through the glass doors, Mila could see Bruno, Jules' agent, pacing in the lobby. He was exactly what she'd expected from their phone calls - tall, perpetually stressed-looking Italian man in his forties, wearing a suit that she could tell at a glance needed better tailoring. His Rolex was real though, and his shoes were Berluti - at least he had some taste.

"Ready to plan our love story?" Jules killed the engine but didn't move to get out.

"Ready to convince your agent I'm not going to ruin your pristine image with my brutal honesty?" Mila countered.

"Bruno's already convinced you're the best thing to happen to my brand since I signed with Barcelona." Jules reached over, adjusting her blazer slightly. The gesture felt weirdly intimate. "Apparently my engagement is up 400% since McDonald's."

"What can I say? People love a good roast."

"Is that what we're calling this?"

Mila caught his eye, noticed how the Spanish sun through the windshield made his skin glow. "We're calling this a mutually beneficial business arrangement. With occasional hand-holding."

"And French pet names?"

"Don't push it, chéri." She grabbed her bag, ignoring how his smile widened at the nickname. "Let's go plan our fake romance before Bruno has an aneurysm."

Through the glass, they could see Bruno now gesturing wildly at a presentation screen. Several PR people were nodding along, one frantically taking notes.

"Ten euros says there's a slide about our 'coupled aesthetic journey,'" Jules said as they got out of the car.

"Twenty says they've already planned our Paris Fashion Week debut."

"You're on." He offered his hand to help her up the steps. "After you, chérie."

"Such a gentleman," Mila rolled her eyes but took his hand anyway. "Almost makes up for the Urus."

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Are you ever going to admit it's a basic choice?"

Bruno spotted them through the glass, his face lighting up like they were his winning lottery ticket. Which, given the media frenzy around them, they kind of were.

"The PR team made a mood board," Jules murmured as they reached the door. "Try not to roast it too hard."

"No promises." Mila straightened her shoulders, sliding seamlessly into the role of fashion's favorite mean girl who'd somehow fallen for football's best-dressed player.

The conference room had modern art pieces that Mila could tell were bought to impress rather than for actual appreciation. Bruno practically bounced as they entered, his Berluti shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

"The power couple has arrived!" He gestured to two seats at the head of the table. "Please, sit. We have so much to discuss."

Mila caught Jules suppressing an eye roll as they sat. The PR team - three women and two men all wearing variations of the same sleek business casual outfit - were staring at them like they were rare specimens in a zoo.

"First," Bruno clicked to his first slide, "let me present 'The Evolution of Fashion's Favorite Romance.'"

"You owe me ten euros," Jules whispered. The slide literally had "Coupled Aesthetic Journey" as a subtitle.

"Now," Bruno continued, "we've mapped out your relationship timeline. The McDonald's photo? Perfect organic start. But we need to build on that authenticity."

The next slide showed a calendar that made Mila's eyebrows shoot up. Paris Fashion Week appearances, "candid" shopping trips, carefully planned coffee dates, match day arrivals coordinated down to their accessories.

"You owe me twenty," Mila muttered. Fashion Week in January was highlighted in bright red.

One of the PR women - Mila clocked her Chanel brooch as last season - leaned forward. "We're thinking of playing up the 'fashion critic meets football star' angle. The public loves your dynamic."

"The witty banter on social media," another PR person chimed in, pulling up screenshots of their past interactions. "The style evolution documented on Mila's blog. It's perfect enemies-to-lovers material."

Jules choked on his water.

"Speaking of social media," Bruno clicked to another slide titled 'Strategic Digital Romance,' "we need to discuss your posting schedule. Nothing too obvious, but we want to maintain consistent couple content."

"Couple content?" Mila raised an eyebrow.

"You know, morning coffee photos, subtle background appearances in each other's stories, maybe some playful commentary on Jules' match day fits…"

"So exactly what we've been doing, but now with a relationship tag?" Jules asked, looking amused.

"Precisely! But with more…" Bruno waved his hands expressively, his Rolex catching the light, "romantic undertones."

The presentation continued - slides about "leveraging their fashion influence," "maintaining authentic interactions," and a whole section about their supposed meet-cute story at Louis Vuitton.

"We need to workshop the details," one PR guy said earnestly. "When exactly did you first feel the attraction? Was it during a particular styling session? The public wants these intimate moments."

Mila caught Jules' eye. He looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"What about the McDonald's night?" The Chanel brooch woman asked. "How did that spontaneous moment happen? We should align our narratives."

"Oh, I can answer that," Mila smiled sweetly. "I was hungry, Jules was there, and someone had a camera. Very romantic."

Bruno's face fell slightly. "Maybe we can embellish that a bit…"

"The truth isn't Instagram enough?" Jules asked innocently.

"We just want to ensure the story resonates," Bruno recovered quickly. "Now, about your first official appearance together - we're thinking the charity gala next week. Mila, we'll need you to coordinate your outfit with Jules' team colors…"

Mila's phone buzzed. A text from Jules: "they planned our entire relationship down to our instagram filters 💀"

She typed back: "bold of them to assume I'm wearing team colors"

"Now," Bruno clicked to yet another slide, this one titled 'Public Displays of Affection Guidelines,' "let's discuss appropriate couple behaviors…"

Jules' next text: "20 euros says you roast their suggested pose chart"

Mila bit back a smile: "40 says Bruno has a powerpoint about our future breakup too"

"And lastly," Bruno clasped his hands together, looking oddly pleased with himself, "we've arranged for your belongings to be moved from the hotel to Jules' house—"

"Excuse me?" Mila straightened in her chair.

"It's a bit strange for you to be at a hotel when your boyfriend has a perfectly good home," Bruno explained. "The guest room is lovely, I'm not suggesting you need to sleep together… unless of course you want to." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I'm all for a little kiss here and there but I'm drawing the line at snu snu."

"Snu snu?" Jules doubled over laughing, actually laughing, and Mila shot him a death glare.

"I mean it is a better name for it obviously. Should I just say fuck then?"

"Now, let's not use that word—" Chanel brooch woman began, clutching her outdated accessory.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" Mila counted off on her fingers. "We're all adults here. I'm sure everyone got fucked at least once in their lives, but yeah, no deal."

Bruno looked like he was getting an ulcer. The PR team was frantically scribbling notes, probably adding 'manages crude language' to their strategy deck.

"Besides," Mila added sweetly, "what would the internet think? Moving in together after one viral McDonald's photo? That's giving desperate."

"But if we established a timeline of when you two began dating, isn't it normal to spend a weekend at your boyfriend's?" one of the PR guys leaned forward.

"He has a point," Jules concurred.

Mila's head snapped toward him so fast that her sunglasses nearly flew off. Benedict Arnold has entered the chat, apparently. They were supposed to be on the same page - at least that's what she assumed.

Guess the fuck not, she thought.

She inhaled a deep, steady breath and looked Jules right in the eye. When she spoke, it was in perfect French, her voice deadly calm:

"��coute-moi bien. Je ne suis pas du tout à l'aise de rester chez toi. On se connaît à peine, et je suis ça proche," she held up her thumb and forefinger with barely a millimeter between them, "de tout laisser tomber. Je pensais qu'on était d'accord sur les limites, mais apparemment, tu as d'autres idées." (Listen carefully. I am not at all comfortable staying at your place. We barely know each other, and I am this close to dropping everything. I thought we agreed on boundaries, but apparently, you have other ideas.)

The PR team watched their exchange like a tennis match, even though none of them seemed to understand French. Bruno was the only one nodding along, probably mentally calculating how to spin this tension for the media.

Jules let out a groan and his eyes twinkled with something she couldn't place. Her gaze watched intently as he licked his lips - wow, not sexy at all - and he placed both hands on the table. "Mila, s'il vous plaît." She shook her head stubbornly, crossing her arms over her chest. Then Jules did the one thing that made every fashion girlie perk up almost instantaneously. "I'll take you shopping."

Because yeah, she was a slut for shopping. I mean what girl wasn't? And besides, she had her eye on this new Fendi bag she spotted last week, and part of her new 'duties' as a fake girlfriend was making his pockets hurt, wasn't it?

"Budget?" she asked stoically.

"What budget?" he retorted with a grin showing all of his thirty-two natural teeth.

Good answer.

"Deal," she said, uncrossing her arms. "But if you do anything weird—"

"I know, I know. You're done."

"Wonderful, wonderful!" Bruno clapped his hands together. "Now that's settled, let's discuss your first shopping appearance. We need to capitalize on this organic moment—"

"No." Mila and Jules said simultaneously.

"The shopping stays off social," Mila added. "I'm not having my Fendi moment ruined by paparazzi."

"But think of the engagement—" Chanel brooch started.

"You'll get plenty of engagement from whatever we decide to buy," Jules cut in smoothly. "But the actual shopping? That's private."

Mila shot him a surprised look. Maybe Benedict Arnold had some redeeming qualities after all.

"Fine, fine," Bruno conceded, though he was already typing something in his phone. "Let's wrap up with the charity gala details next week. Mila, we'll need you to—"

"I'll handle our looks," she interrupted. "That's non-negotiable."

"But the team colors—"

"Will be incorporated tastefully," she assured him with zero intention of doing so. "Now, if we're done here, I believe I was promised some retail therapy?"

Jules checked his watch - Audemars Piguet, she noted approvingly. "Stores close in three hours."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Mila stood, gathering her Capucine. "Bruno, send me the presentation. I'll review the PDA guidelines while Jules tries to talk me out of bankrupting him."

"Bankrupt?" Jules raised an eyebrow, already standing.

"Oh honey," she patted his chest as she walked past, making sure the PR team caught the casual intimacy, "that was before I remembered how you insulted my bougie sunglasses earlier."

She heard him groan behind her. "So everything I say comes with a price?"

"Now you're getting it." She pushed the conference room door open. "Coming?"

Bruno was practically vibrating with joy as they left, probably already drafting tweets about their playful banter. The PR team had their heads together, no doubt planning how to spin their shopping trip even without photos.

In the hallway, Jules caught up to her in two long strides. "You're really going to make me pay for that comment?"

"Obviously." She adjusted her sunglasses. "But if you're lucky, I might let you hold the shopping bags."

His laugh echoed through the lobby. "You're evil."

"And yet you just gave me unlimited shopping access." She headed for the Urus, already mentally cataloging which stores to hit first. "Who's really the evil one here?"

The Urus weaved through Barcelona's streets, probably attracting more attention than either of them needed right now. Jules kept stealing glances at Mila while she pretended to be fascinated by the passing scenery.

"Your French is really good," he said finally, breaking their comfortable silence.

Mila didn't look away from the window. "Should be. Spent enough time perfecting it to sound like a national." A pause, then, "Fashion people respect you more when you sound French. They're not exactly known for their warmth toward foreigners."

"When did you move to Paris?"

"Four years ago." Her reflection in the window looked distant for a moment. "Left everything behind."

"Your parents were okay with that?"

"Don't have parents." Her voice was matter-of-fact, like she was discussing the weather. Before Jules could stumble through an apology, she added, "I mean, they're physically still on this earth. Just dead to me. Lots of trauma, more therapy bills than I care to count."

"Then we won't talk about it."

"Ever," she said firmly.

"Ever," he agreed, then switched lanes and subjects. "When's your birthday?"

The corner of her mouth quirked up. "Yours but backwards."

"Been googling me?"

"Please. Only the basics." She finally turned from the window. "Apparently we're cosmically compatible. Just FYI."

"Don't tell me you believe in that astrology bullshit."

She clutched her chest in mock horror, and Jules couldn't tell if she was serious or not. "Of course I do." He glanced at her, trying to read her expression. "Jesus, Jules, I'm fucking with you." She laughed, and it echoed off the Urus's pristine interior. "Always so serious."

"Full name?" He tried to sound casual, like he hadn't been wondering since that first roasting session at Louis Vuitton.

"Want my social security number too?"

"You're impossible."

"Part of my charm." She adjusted her sunglasses. "Ja'Mila Desirée Lawrence."

"Desirée?"

"Yes, very stripper chic, I know."

"What? No. It suits you."

"You know what else would suit me?" Her tone was dangerous in the best way.

He took the bait. "What?"

"My new Fendi bag."

"You're going to be dangerous for my bank account, aren't you?"

"Consider it payment for making me stay at your place tonight."

Jules caught himself smiling despite the impending damage to his credit card. She was trouble, and he was starting to think Bruno's fake dating scheme might not be the worst idea after all.

The Barcelona luxury shopping district was exactly what you'd expect mid-afternoon - full of influencers pretending not to take photos of themselves and tourists clutching shopping bags like trophies. Jules pulled into a private parking spot that probably cost more than most people's rent.

The Fendi staff recognized them immediately - though Jules wasn't sure if it was from football or their viral moment. Probably both. A sales associate materialized instantly, all practiced smiles and careful enthusiasm.

"The new collection just arrived," she said, leading them to a private viewing room. "Though I'm sure Mademoiselle Lawrence has already seen it at Galeries Lafayette?"

"Different stock in Paris," Mila replied smoothly, already eyeing a bag displayed in the corner. "Plus, I'm not exactly here in a professional capacity."

The bag in question was exactly as expensive as Jules expected. He watched Mila examine it with the same critical eye she used to roast his outfit choices, turning it over in her hands like she was memorizing every detail.

"Your thoughts?" he asked, genuinely curious about what made this bag different from the fifty others in the room.

"The craftsmanship is decent, the leather quality is excellent, and it'll definitely make your ex-girlfriends angry on Instagram." She shot him a wicked smile. "Plus, it matches that Saint Laurent jacket you pretended not to buy after I suggested it last month."

"How did you—"

"I have my sources." She handed the bag to the hovering sales associate. "We'll take it. And maybe show us the ready-to-wear?"

Two hours and several eye-watering price tags later, they emerged with enough bags to keep social media busy for weeks. Jules had to admit, Mila had an eye for more than just roasting his choices. Every piece she'd picked for him was perfect - subtle enough for his taste but interesting enough to keep the fashion blogs talking.

"You know," Jules said as they loaded the bags into the Urus, "you're actually pretty good at this when you're not just criticizing my choices."

"Please. I've been styling people for years. The roasting is just a bonus service." She carefully arranged her new Fendi bag in the back seat like it was precious cargo. "Besides, someone needs to save you from your occasional hypebeast tendencies."

"Says the girl who just made me buy a logo-covered jacket."

"It's vintage. Completely different." She settled into the passenger seat. "Now, about this charity gala next week…"

**************************************

"By the way," Jules said as they pulled up to a gate, punching in a code. "Bruno sent an NDA to your email. Pretty standard stuff - don't leak personal details, no tell-all books, no secret TikToks about my morning routine."

"How will I ever survive not sharing your coffee preferences with the world?" Mila perused through her phone, skimming the document. "Wait, there's a whole section about social media guidelines."

"Welcome to footballer life."

"'All posts must be approved by management prior to publishing,'" she read out loud. "'No sharing of private residence details.' Damn, there goes my house tour vlog series."

The house appeared as the gates opened - all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows, like a minimalist magazine spread come to life. The kind of place that screamed 'my interior designer has good taste.'

"Your room's upstairs," he said, leading her through the house. The home was pristine, probably thanks to whatever cleaning service rich footballers used these days. Her room was airy, with a view overlooking the city.

Mila dropped her bags by the door, eyeing the king-sized bed. "Please tell me the sheets are clean. And should I be worried about any hoes coming around stuck in their feelings?"

"Hoes?"

"You know, hoes? The ones you stick your dick in sometimes? They love ballers a lot? Groupies?"

Jules leaned against the doorframe, amused. "No hoes will be coming around."

"Good." She tested the mattress with one hand. "You can still get your dick wet though. Just be discrete about it." The look on his face made her pause. "You're not seriously thinking of fucking me, are you?"

Jules crossed his arms over his chest. "Wasn't it you that mentioned we were cosmically compatible?"

"What the fuck—"

"Chill," he said, nudging her arm. "I'm fucking with you."

"Just remember, this is strictly business."

"Says the girl who just made me buy half of Fendi."

"That's revenge shopping for making me stay here."

Jules pushed off the doorframe. "Dinner's coming soon. Try not to reorganize my entire closet before then."

"No promises," Mila called after him. "Someone needs to deal with your sneaker situation."

There was something else lingering in the air between them. Something that had been there since that McDonald's night, maybe even before that. Chemistry wasn't even the right word for it - it was more like recognition. The way they both moved through their worlds, focused and unbothered until something caught their attention. The way they both used humor to deflect, sarcasm as a shield.

Jules knew better than to push it. He'd watched her enough in the store, seen how she operated. Mila was like him - she'd make a move if and when she wanted to. She didn't need games or pressure. She'd either want it or she wouldn't, and she'd be direct about it either way.

*****************************************

Jules ordered pizza because anything fancier felt like trying too hard. He could hear Mila upstairs, probably judging his closet organization system - or lack thereof. His phone hadn't stopped buzzing since they left the shops. Bruno had sent approximately fifty texts about their "organic shopping moment" and how the internet was eating it up.

The doorbell rang just as Mila came downstairs, now wearing what looked like designer sweats.

"Really? Pizza?" She perched on one of his kitchen stools, watching him set down the box. "Very bachelor of you."

"Would you prefer I pretended to cook?"

"God no. I've seen enough footballer food porn on Instagram." She grabbed a slice. "Let me guess - your nutritionist is going to kill you?"

"Already got three texts about my macro count." He pulled up UberEats on his phone. "Pretty sure they track my orders."

"Tragic." She was eating pizza like someone who'd mastered the art of not messing up their lipstick. "Though not as tragic as your sneaker collection. We need to talk about your storage situation."

"Did you actually reorganize my closet?"

"Someone had to. You had Yeezys next to Louboutins. It's basically a hate crime."

His phone buzzed again - another text from Bruno with a screenshot of their shopping photos already making rounds on the gossip blogs. Mila leaned over to look, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something expensive, obviously.

"Your ex liked the post," she noted, tapping the screen. "Interesting."

"You're tracking my ex's likes?"

"Please. I'm tracking everyone's engagement. It's called market research." She stole another slice of pizza. "Also your teammates are flooding my DMs."

"They're worse than Bruno."

"Why didn't you ever try to run game on me at LV?" Mila asked out of the blue, wiping her hands on a napkin.

Jules raised an eyebrow. "You wanted me to run game?"

"No, just shocked you didn't." She reached for another slice. "TAA did a few times - always in DMs, posting thirst traps. Too light skin for me though."

"I'm light skin."

Mila gave him a thorough once-over, the kind she usually reserved for questionable outfit choices. "You are, but not really."

The look of confused amusement on his face only made her grin wider. But instead of explaining, she switched topics entirely. "This pizza's actually decent. Thought you'd be one of those guys who orders from tourist trap spots."

"You never really answered my question though," Jules said, reaching for another slice. "Why'd you think I'd run game on you?"

"Because footballers always do. But you didn't even try."

He watched her for a beat before explaining. "I'm shy, actually."

Mila nearly choked on her pizza. "You are not shy."

"Just ask my teammates - it takes me a bit to warm up to new people."

"But you were talking to me."

"Because you're cool."

"I'm cool?"

Their eyes connected across the kitchen island.

"Yeah, you're cool," he replied, and for a moment neither of them moved. Jules cleared his throat first. "Any exes I should worry about?"

"I don't date men."

His ears perked up. "Are you on a different team?"

"Men are complicated." She twisted the cap off her water bottle. "They do too much. Not to mention the fragile ego. I just do what I want when I want—"

"With who you want?" He finished.

She nodded. "You're getting it now."

"So you don't have someone taking care of needs?"

"Speak plainly, chéri."

That made him chuckle. "Okay well you don't have a person... to... uh... make you cum? Non petit mort?"

"I have a couple people in mind, but if they're busy, a vibrator can—"

"A vibrator can't do what a dick can." He was trying to lean against his counter like this was a normal dinner conversation.

"Oh, so you think you know?"

Jules grabbed his water bottle, taking an unnecessarily long sip. Mila's eyes tracked the movement, watching his Adam's apple bob as he drank. The kitchen suddenly felt warmer than it had any right to be. Finally, he set the bottle down. "I know that I know."

"Talking with too much BDE. Hopefully, you have it."

"Huge BDE," was his response.

His phone started buzzing - once, twice, three times. Probably Bruno having a meltdown.

"Are you gonna answer?" She asked, watching him over the rim of her bottle.

Jules picked up without breaking eye contact, watching her demolish another slice of pizza like they hadn't just been discussing his dick capabilities. "Yeah, Bruno?"

"Tell me you've seen the engagement numbers!" Bruno's voice was way too excited for ten-thirty at night. "The shopping photos are trending—"

Jules watched Mila scroll through her phone, probably finding more of his fashion disasters to roast. "Bruno, it's late."

"Late? It's prime social media hours! Listen, we need to discuss tomorrow's strategy. The team wants you both at training—"

"Both?" That got Mila's attention. She looked up from her phone, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, yes! Very organic. Mila comes to watch practice, maybe posts some stories—"

"I have a job," Mila said loud enough for Bruno to hear. "A real one. With actual responsibilities."

"But think of the narrative! The supportive girlfriend who still roasts his training kit choices—"

Jules pinched the bridge of his nose. "Bruno."

"Fine, fine. But at least post something tonight. The internet needs content!"

"Goodbye, Bruno." Jules hung up before his agent could launch into another strategy pitch.

"He's exhausting," Mila said, but she was already typing something on her phone. "Though he might be right about your training kit. That shade of blue does nothing for your complexion."

"Are you actually critiquing my uniform?"

"Someone has to." She showed him her screen - a story draft of their pizza box with the caption 'making sure he eats real food' and a blurry outline of his body the background. "Think this'll give Bruno his content fix?"

Jules had to admit - she knew exactly what she was doing. "You're good at this."

"Please. I've been studying WAG behavior for years." She posted the story with a few quick taps. "Though most of them wouldn't be caught dead eating pizza on main."

His phone immediately buzzed with Bruno's approval messages. Mila's notification count was already climbing.

"Your ex viewed it first," she noted, not looking up. "Interesting."

"You're really tracking her, huh?"

"Market research." Mila pulled up his ex's profile like she'd been studying it. "She's pretty though. I see your type."

Jules raised an eyebrow. "My type?"

"Brown skin pretty girls." She zoomed in on a photo. "She kind of looks like me, but not really. Better makeup routine though."

"You've put thought into this."

"Please. First thing I did when Bruno mentioned this fake dating thing was scope out the competition." She was scrolling through more photos now. "How long were you together?"

"Year and a half."

"Decent run for a footballer." She set her phone down. "Why'd it end?"

"The usual. Career, distance."

"Boring answer. Give me the real tea."

Jules couldn't help but laugh. Most people tiptoed around his relationship history like it was radioactive. But here was Mila, demanding gossip over pizza in his kitchen.

"She wanted the footballer lifestyle more than the actual relationship," he said finally. "You know the type - endless Instagram posts, club appearances, WAG brunches."

"Basic." Mila was back to scrolling through her phone. "Oh wow, she really did post every breathing moment. Three different angles of the same Birkin?"

"That was the start of the end, actually. She posted my house location in one of her bag collection videos."

"Amateur move." Mila shook her head like this was the gravest fashion crime possible. "Even I know better than that, and I'm not even your real girlfriend."

"Real enough to reorganize my closet."

"Speaking of which..." She stood up, stretching. "I need to finish dealing with your sneaker situation. The way you've stacked the boxes is giving me anxiety."

"It's almost midnight."

"Time means nothing when fashion crimes are being committed." She was already heading for the stairs. "Also, your ex just posted a thirst trap. Coincidence? I think not."

Jules watched her disappear upstairs, probably to terrorize his shoe collection. His phone buzzed with another notification - Bruno sending screenshots of their pizza story going viral.

"Your Dior highs are not gym shoes!" Mila's voice carried down the stairs. "Why are they with your training gear?"

He grabbed another slice of pizza. This fake relationship was either going to fix his closet organization or drive him insane. Probably both.

Jules was used to having his home gym to himself at five in the morning. It was his thing - pushing his body before most people even thought about waking up. The discipline that kept him focused, kept the headlines about him professional instead of personal.

That's why finding Mila already there threw him. She was in the middle of a stretch sequence, compression shorts hugging curves that her Louis Vuitton uniform usually kept professional. The sports bra was obviously designer, but he was more distracted by the abs he didn't know she had. Her hair was thrown up in a bun, stray pieces falling around her face, held back by a headband that somehow made the whole look intentional.

"You're staring," she said without looking up from her stretch. "It's creepy."

"Didn't expect anyone else to be up."

"Please. You think this body maintains itself?" She switched positions with practiced ease. "Besides, early mornings are the only quiet time I get."

He watched her move through another stretch. "So this is a regular thing for you?"

"What, you thought I just stood around at Louis Vuitton looking pretty?" She finally looked up. "Those bags are heavy as shit. Requires maintenance."

Jules thought about their conversation from yesterday, her joke about cosmic compatibility. Turned out they had more in common than sharp tongues and an eye for fashion. Not that he'd give her the satisfaction of pointing that out.

"Well, don't let me interrupt your routine," he said, heading for the treadmill.

"Don't worry about me." She was already putting in her airpods.

Jules tried to focus on his treadmill stats, but his eyes kept drifting to Mila at the squat rack. The compression shorts weren't helping his concentration. Neither was her form.

He pulled out his phone, angling it for his usual morning workout story.

"Oh, we're doing thirst traps at five a.m.?" Mila's voice carried across the gym.

"Social media never sleeps." He checked the shot. "Don't worry, I won't post you. Unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Unless you want to be posted."

She switched to deadlifts, and Jules suddenly found his playlist extremely interesting. Needed something with a stronger beat. Definitely not because he was trying not to stare at her ass.

"Your playlist must be fascinating," she called out, clearly enjoying his obvious distraction. "You've been scrolling for two minutes."

He cranked up his treadmill speed instead of answering. Some battles weren't worth fighting this early in the morning.

"By the way," Mila said between sets, "your ex unfollowed me."

"Already?" His feet kept steady on the treadmill. "That was fast."

"Right? She lasted longer than I expected." Mila moved to the pull-up bar, and Jules nearly tripped. "Careful there, chéri. Can't have you injured before training."

"Just adjusting my speed."

"Mhmm." She knocked out pull-ups like it was nothing. "Oh, and Bruno texted. Apparently we're trending again."

"It's five in the morning."

"Time zones exist, babe." She dropped from the bar, checking her phone. "Ooh, someone found videos of me dancing at that party. Your fans are real thorough."

Jules made the mistake of looking over. She was stretched out on the floor now, scrolling through her phone, all long legs and curves. The treadmill beeped a warning about his elevated heart rate.

"Focus on your cardio," she said without looking up. "Though I guess watching me is cardio adjacent."

You have no idea, Jules thought, watching her transition into stretches that were definitely more flexible than necessary. The way she bent over to touch her toes was practically a personal attack at this point.

That flexibility though... he could think of a few positions—

Nah. Don't.

He had to remind himself this was fake. Pretend. She'd made it pretty clear last night she wasn't down to fuck. Which was a shame because if her smart mouth was any indication—

Yeah. He definitely needed a shower.

"I'm done here," he announced abruptly, probably too abruptly, already heading for the door. "Training starts at 9."

"Running away already?" Her voice followed him out, amused.

Running was definitely one word for it.

************************************

Jules did some quick mental math about his morning schedule. Flick wanted them on the pitch by 9, and it was barely 6. That left him plenty of time to deal with the mess Mila had unknowingly left him in. Her compression shorts were burned into his brain, and the way they hugged her curves made it impossible to focus on anything else. His body had betrayed him the second she walked in, and ignoring it had only made things worse.

By the time he stepped into the shower, Jules was hard as a rock, the tension unbearable. Resigned, he leaned into the inevitable. Water cascaded down his locs, hot and relentless, as his hand found relief in the only way it could. He closed his eyes, letting the vivid mental image of Mila’s toned legs and the sway of her hips take over. It was quick and when he finally finished, his body shuddered, releasing what felt like weeks of pent-up frustration. His breathing was heavy, his muscles taut, and though his hand wasn’t a perfect substitute for the real thing, it would have to do.

For now.

It was nearly 7 by the time he wrapped a towel around his waist, feeling marginally lighter. His locs dripped water onto his bare shoulders as he stood before the bathroom mirror, wiping away the steam with the side of his hand. His reflection stared back at him, a mixture of relief and lingering frustration. He exhaled deeply, trying to shake off the memory of Mila and focus on something — anything— else.

Jules turned away from the mirror, already planning his match day fit. Distraction was the goal. He’d keep his mind on training, on what Flick expected of him, and not on the fact that Mila was probably still stretching downstairs. He ran a hand over his damp locs, forcing a neutral expression onto his face.

Mila waited until Jules' Urus was definitely gone before starting her post-workout exploration. The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the ridiculous coffee machine he probably didn't know how to use properly.

The living room caught her off guard. Family photos mixed with art pieces that actually meant something - not the generic rich athlete collection she'd expected. A Basquiat print that was definitely authentic. Some local artists she recognized from galleries in Paris.

But it was the vinyl collection behind his TV that made her pause. Old school hip hop, French classics, rare pressings she'd only seen behind glass cases.

"Okay, actually impressed," she muttered, flipping through the collection. The organization was methodical, almost obsessive - probably the only thing in his house that was, besides the section of his closet she'd fixed. Each record sleeve is pristine, cataloged by genre and year.

Her phone lit up with a text from her coworker at Louis: "Girl, the store is CHAOS without you. When are you coming back???"

Mila caught her reflection in one of Jules' stupid expensive windows, still in her workout gear, hair a mess from that morning's session. This whole fake relationship thing was either going to make her career or destroy it. No in-between.

"Back Tuesday," Mila texted back to her coworker. "Try not to let anyone buy those ugly seasonal pieces."

Three dots appeared immediately: "The new collection is selling out because of YOU."

Of course, it was. She'd barely had time to process how that one McDonald's photo had blown up her entire aesthetic. Her Instagram followers had tripled. Fashion houses that had ignored her portfolio were suddenly sliding into her DMs.

She wandered upstairs, pausing at Jules' open door. His room looked like a fashion week aftermath - pieces thrown across the bed in his rush to training. Her eyes caught on his nightstand, then his dresser. Before she could stop herself, she was inside, fingers trailing over the surfaces, picking up bottles, checking drawers.

The ensuite bathroom drew her attention next. Row after row of skincare products lined up with military precision. She caught herself cataloging all the luxury skincare products lined up perfectly - at least he took care of his face and that explained the forty-minute shower she'd heard earlier. Mila picked up a face oil, checking the label.

La Mer, someone's real bougie.

"What are you? Interpol?" she muttered to herself as she set the bottle down exactly where she found it, getting the ick from her own snooping.

Back in her own room, she scrolled through notifications while waiting for the shower to heat up. Someone had already tracked down her old design school projects. Fan accounts were analyzing every interaction she'd ever had with Jules at Louis Vuitton. The internet was weird.

A text from Jules popped up: "my teammates found your finsta."

"which one?" she replied, because obviously she had several.

"the one where you rate footballer's fashion choices. they're feeling very attacked right now."

She grinned. That account had been her guilty pleasure - roasting millionaire athletes who couldn't dress themselves, even with a stylist. "tell pedri his latest gucci fit was a 3/10 at best."

"he's demanding a reconsideration."

"he can demand all he wants. those pants were criminal."

Her work phone lit up with another message from her manager at Louis. Something about influencer collaborations and social media reach. They'd been trying to get her to do official content for months, but she'd always refused.

Now here she was, accidentally becoming the kind of influencer she used to roast.

Mila secured her hair in a silk scarf then a shower cap before stepping in the shower. The water cascaded over her shoulders, rinsing away the morning’s workout and the lingering memory of Jules' too-long stare at her compression shorts. She smirked to herself, scrubbing her skin with the sandalwood-scented body wash she’d packed, a scent that clung subtly to her ever since she started using it.

After rinsing the soap off her skin, Mila took a moment to lean her forehead against the cool tile. The last twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind — this fake relationship with Jules wasn’t supposed to feel this real, and yet it did. The way he teased her, the way his gaze lingered a beat too long…

Shaking the thought away, she wrapped herself in a towel. Back in her room, she grabbed a neatly folded set from the corner of her carry-on: a sage green Alo Yoga set, the fabric buttery soft against her skin. It was a far cry from the designer looks she’d wear later, but for now, it was perfect.

The urge to finish what she’d started the night before was impossible to ignore. She glanced back at Jules' messy room down the hall, rolling her eyes at the thought of leaving a job half-done. Her fingers itched at the memory of the chaos she’d left behind. Mila had spent years cultivating an eye for detail — OCD or not, she couldn’t leave her work half-assed.

Once dressed, she tightened her ponytail and grabbed her phone off the nightstand, headed straight for Jules’ room. The mess wouldn’t fix itself, and besides, she wasn’t doing it for him. This was for her peace of mind.

The sage Alo set moved with her as she crouched by his bed, neatly folding the pile of clothes. By the time she moved to his closet, Mila was in full organizer mode. She sifted through rows of designer suits, jerseys, and Gucci loafers.

"Three pairs of the same damn shoe," she muttered, shaking her head. "Who hurt you?"

His followers would probably appreciate knowing their fave had three pairs of the same Gucci loafers in slightly different shades of brown.

She was halfway through color-coding his shirts when her phone buzzed. Jules.

Jules (Da Boo): what are you up to?

She hesitated for a second, thumb hovering over the keyboard, before deciding on honesty.

LV's Meanest Stylist: fixing your closet. you're welcome.

Jules (Da Boo): you better not touch my trainers again.

LV's Meanest Stylist: too late. i’m cataloging them by how ugly they are.

A few seconds later, another text came through: "you’re unbelievable."

LV's Meanest Stylist: and you’re unorganized. it’s a miracle you make it out of the house dressed.

His reply was almost instant: "don’t forget who taught you how to tie a tie, cherie."

She snorted. "Touché."

But even his teasing couldn’t stop her from finishing the job. When she was done, his closet looked like a minimalist’s dream—clean lines, coordinated colors, and a clear division between casual wear and training gear. She snapped a quick photo, not for Instagram but for herself, a little reminder that even chaos could be tamed with enough patience.

Mila flopped back onto his bed, scrolling through her phone again. The internet was still buzzing about them, dissecting every detail of their "relationship." Part of her hated it, but part of her couldn’t help but feel a little thrill at the attention.

Another text came in from Jules: "i’m starving. what’s for lunch?"

She smirked, already typing back: "whatever you’re buying."

Jules (Da Boo): you organize my closet and want me to feed you?

LV's Meanest Stylist: yes. you’re welcome.

Mila could almost hear his laugh through the screen.

Jules (Da Boo): fine. 2pm. don’t make me wait, cherie.

By the time she hit send on her "see you then" reply, she was already planning what she’d wear. Jules might have gotten her hot and bothered without even trying this morning, but she’d make sure she turned the tables when he saw her later.

............tbd

[footballerimaginess]

If you vote other, please comment who you want it to be. Not sure when this fic is coming out yet

[anaitm0]

requesting rules

as of right now request are open

i write for:

ruben dias

trent alexander arnold

jules kounde

i write longer fics and blurbs which can include either fluff or angst.

please be patient if requesting, as i am a busy person and writing can take time

things i will NOT write:

anything containing abuse

anything to do with pregnancy/children

non consensual situations

weird kinks

anything i might feel uncomfortable with

smut

[mauvecherie-writes]

GORRRRLLLLL 😭😭😭 I HAD TO SIT DOWN JUST TO READ THIS 🤭🤭🤭

Short, nice and sweet with the perfect balance of tantalising! Just what I love to see

say it

pairing: jules kounde x black fem oc (she). warning: 18+ minors dni. summary: he asks her to say it, she gives an answer. author's note: inspired by @mauvecherie-writes + @emjayewrites who often mention how jules folds when his girl speaks French. tags: @mauvecherie-writes @emjayewrites @neewrites @saintslewis @boujiestpoet @vile-harlot @greedyjudge2 @cocobutterqwueen

“Say it,” he grunted in her neck. His teeth grazed her slick skin and captured it with a fierceness that made her yelp. 

She whimpered in response. Her words left her like a thief in the night. Her tongue betrayed her. There was nothing she felt she could say.  The sentiment she fought to say was stuck in her throat, lodged between a moan and a cry for release. So good. 

“Come on, chérie. Let me hear you…” His calloused hand cupped the back of her knee, pushing her leg closer to her head. The new angle pulled a delirious sound from her inner being. A deep moan and rugged groan that he deciphered with ease.  So deep. 

“Je suis…” I am. His insides stirred. She stammered over her words, continually cutting herself off. As a result, his movements slowed, and her eyes popped open. 

“Keep going. Say it.” 

Her tongue darted out to dampen her cracked lips. Once again, she said started, “Je suis…” Damn it. “Je suis à toi.” I’m yours. Oh, how he loved to hear her say it, no matter what language it came out in. He resumed his pace and smiled against the shell of her ear, singing his praises as his fingers slithered between their bodies to caress the pearl between the apex of her thighs. She squeaked out a cry. He welcomed it like a sweet melody. 

“Good girl.”