#jules kounde fic

[amirawrah]

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 🥐☕️

⭐︎𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐡: 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐜 , 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 . 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!.

Paris was different with Jules.

The city was always buzzing, filled with tourists snapping pictures and couples taking romantic strolls along the Seine. But today, for once, you and Jules had managed to escape the chaos. No cameras, no stress, no schedules—just the two of you tucked into the corner of a tiny café, away from the world. It was drizzling outside, the kind of soft rain that made the cobblestone streets glisten. The café windows were fogged up from the warmth inside, shielding you both from the outside world.

Jules sat across from you, his hoodie pulled over his head, dark locs slipping free from the fabric, framing his sharp features. You were wrapped in his jacket, the scent of him clinging to the fabric like a second skin. A half-eaten croissant sat on a delicate white plate in front of you, next to a café au lait that had long since cooled. But none of it mattered—not the food, not the coffee, not even the quiet hum of conversation around you. The only thing you were aware of was Jules.

His fingers rested against the rim of his cup, tapping idly as he studied you. There was something different about him here, something softer. He wasn’t Jules Koundé, the public figure. He was just Jules—your Jules—the one who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“You look so at home here,” he murmured, his voice low, smooth, like honey melting into tea. “Like you belong in Paris.”

You smiled, tilting your head. “I think I belong anywhere with you.”

Jules exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with that small, knowing smirk of his. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that.”

You took a slow sip of your coffee, the warmth of it spreading through your chest. “Oh?”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table, fingers brushing against yours. “Yeah. Makes me want to keep you here forever.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but before you could respond, you felt it—his hand, slipping under the table, warm fingers ghosting over your knee before trailing higher.

You stiffened slightly, shooting him a sharp look, but Jules only smirked, his expression the picture of innocence.

“What?” he murmured, voice laced with amusement. “I’m not doing anything.”

His fingers drew lazy circles on your thigh, light enough to make your skin tingle. You swallowed, trying to focus on the conversation, on anything other than the way his touch was making your breath hitch. The café was too quiet, too intimate, the walls too close. If you moved too suddenly, if you reacted the way you wanted to, everyone would notice.

“Jules,” you warned, keeping your voice steady.

“Yes, mon amour?” he said, feigning innocence. But his fingers kept moving, inching just a little higher, teasing.

Your eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and you knew he was enjoying this far too much. You exhaled slowly, reaching for your coffee as if that would steady you. It didn’t.

He leaned in slightly, tilting his head, voice a whisper against the shell of your ear. “You can tell me to stop.”

The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. Not because you wanted him to stop—but because you knew you wouldn’t.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath.

Jules chuckled, finally retreating his hand—only to lace his fingers through yours on top of the table instead. “I know,” he said, bringing your hand to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against your knuckles. “But you love me for it.”

And damn it, you really did.

As the rain outside picked up, pattering against the café windows, you let yourself sink into the moment. Jules was still watching you, his dark eyes burning with something unspoken. You knew that when you left this café, when you stepped back into the world, he’d go back to being Jules Koundé—the one everyone wanted a piece of. But here? Right now? He was just yours.

And under the table, his fingers found your thigh.

again.

[snowseasonmademe]

La terre a besoin de l’océan (chapter 1)

word count: 1,341

pairing: Jules Koundé x Imani Taylor

summary: Poet and new mother Imani is navigating life after birth, co-parenting her daughter with the man she once thought she’d marry—Barcelona footballer Jules Koundé. Though their relationship ended, the love between them never truly disappeared, simmering beneath shared responsibilities and lingering touches. As they rebuild trust and reimagine their future, Imani must decide if the life she walked away from is the one she’s meant to return to.

fc: @/ tatyanaalii_

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

note: i will make this quick :) the recurring dream i’ve been having made me write this and there’s so much to the story it couldn’t just be a one time fic! as always, enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The scent of jasmine tea drifted through the apartment, curling into corners and settling in the silence of the early morning. It was quiet in a way that only homes with babies could be—calm, delicate, filled with the weight of knowing at any moment that stillness could be interrupted by a single cry.

Imani stood in the kitchen wrapped in a soft robe, a warm mug cupped between her palms. Her braids were pulled into a loose ponytail at the back her head, a few baby hairs framing her face. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes, not quite from exhaustion, but from thought. Her days always started like this now—quiet reflection before the real world called.

She sipped slowly, eyes flickering toward the hallway, just in time to hear the low creak of the floorboards. Jules appeared a moment later, barefoot with black sweats and a block top, Danielle nestled sleepily against his shoulder. The baby’s tiny hand clutched at the fabric of his tank top, her cheek pressed against his warm skin.

His voice, low and rough with sleep, filled the kitchen like a melody she hadn’t heard in a while.

“Morning.”

Imani glanced up at him, a tired smile tugging at the edge of her lips. “Morning.”

Danielle made a small sound in her sleep, a soft exhale, and Imani reached for her automatically. But Jules hesitated, just for a second, arms tightening around their daughter. He pressed a kiss to her curly head, eyes soft before he passed her into her mother’s arms.

“You should still be in bed,” Imani said, cradling Danielle against her chest. “Didn’t you get in late last night?”

“Had to hold her,” he murmured with a shrug, running a hand over his face. “She was crying, and I think she wanted her papa.”

Imani’s gaze lingered on him longer than she meant to. His locs were still damp from a shower, and his skin glowed from sleep. Fatherhood looked good on Jules. It always had. Even when things between them shifted, that part never changed.

She turned away.

Jules moved to the counter, pouring coffee with familiar ease. His body was cut in soft, defined lines—his back, his chest, the thick strength of his legs. Imani had spent so many mornings tracing them with her fingertips, back when their love was still brand new and electric. Back when everything had moved faster than they expected.

Six months into their relationship, she found out she was pregnant.

The news hit her like a wave—gentle but overwhelming. She’d been in Paris for a poetry event, heart still humming from the high of another sold-out reading when she took the test. She was six weeks along. The call to Jules was quiet, breathy. Her voice trembled.

He didn’t panic. He didn’t even sound shocked. “Okay” he said after a pause. “Let’s figure it out.”

Two weeks later, he helped her move into his apartment in Barcelona. Her 24 and him 25. No idea what they were doing, but determined to do it together.

Their relationship hadn’t always made sense on paper. She was a poet with three globally acclaimed books, her words dissected in academic circles and Instagram captions alike. He was a world-class athlete, intense and private, but wildly devoted. Somehow, it worked. She’d be in the front row at his matches, sunglasses on, not always knowing what was going on but always clapping the loudest. He’d be backstage at her events, leaning against the wall in all black, smiling quietly every time someone asked him, “Are you the Jules she writes about?”

They laughed easily. Fought rarely. Cried when they needed to—once about a major mistake he made, once about her father’s absence, once about nothing at all. He had a way of peeling her open without trying. And god, the sex. She used to joke that his Scorpio placements should be studied. But it wasn’t a joke. He was intense. Focused. Tender in the way his mouth moved against her skin, feral in the way his hands gripped her waist.

That last time they were together like that—intimate, raw—Imani was 26 weeks pregnant.

It had been a long night. They’d just set up the nursery. She was tired, but he was looking at her like she was magic. It was slow. Reverent. Her body swollen, but beautiful in a way neither of them fully understood yet. Afterward, they lay there in silence, her hand resting on her belly, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

Neither of them said it, but they both knew it would be the last time.

They hadn’t touched like that since.

Their breakup wasn’t a rupture—it was a decision. A quiet one. They both agreed before the baby was born that they didn’t see forever in each other, not in that way. But they loved each other deeply. And that mattered. They’d remain close. Best friends. Parents. Partners in a different kind of way.

Now, they lived together still. For Danielle. For her stability. Imani had suggested it when she was eight weeks pregnant. Jules didn’t hesitate.

They planned to stay under the same roof until Danielle started elementary school—at least. Imani adored living in Spain, but she often thought about moving back to New York when Danielle was a little older. She wanted her daughter to know the rhythm of the city that raised her. To walk the same Brooklyn streets, to feel that pulse beneath her feet. But not yet.

Not yet.

Jules leaned against the counter now, watching her move across the kitchen with their daughter in her arms.

“You’ve been working out again” he said, voice casual, but laced with something warmer.

Imani raised an eyebrow. “Why? You checking me out?”

He didn’t even blink. “Always”

That was the thing with Jules. He never pretended. He still thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her body had changed. Softened. Filled out in places she hadn’t expected. She was self-conscious about it sometimes, but Jules? He loved it. He hadn’t seen all of it—just glimpses. The curve of her hips under a towel, the way her thighs pressed together when she lounged in one of his t-shirts, the occasional flash of cleavage when she dressed up for a book signing.

He saw her. And he noticed everything.

Her face had matured too. Her eyes carried more weight now, her cheekbones a little sharper. He adored it more than he admitted.

And him?

Somehow, he’d gotten finer. His arms had grown thicker, veiny and strong from training, the kind that made Danielle look even smaller in his grasp. His legs—she noticed them too. And his face—clean-shaven or scruffy—was almost unfair. That sharp jaw, those deep-set eyes. Even more beautiful now than when they’d first met.

But neither of them did anything about it.

Because co-parenting came first. Always.

“She looks more like you every day,” Imani said suddenly, gaze soft as she looked down at their daughter. “It’s kind of unfair.”

Jules tilted his head, eyes never leaving her. “I think she’s got your spirit though. The fire. That soft heart underneath. She’s gonna be a poet too.”

Imani laughed, rich and full, the kind that came from the belly. The kind that made Jules smile before he could stop himself.

“You really think that?” she asked.

“Yeah, I do.”

There was a pause. A silence that felt like something sacred. A breath of all the things they didn’t say. The past. The love. The not-quite-gone desire.

They lived in that in-between now. No longer lovers. Not quite just friends. Co-parents, yes. But so much more than that. The way he noticed when her tea was almost out. The way she remembered his favorite post-match meal. The way they spoke without speaking. The way their lives were still wrapped around each other, just a little looser than before.

Maybe it wasn’t forever. Maybe it wasn’t love in the way it used to be.

But it was real. And for now, it was enough.

[amirawrah]

amazing!!!!!, i love this, we need more jules writers here

Yellow to his Grey.

Summary: In which therapy brings two people together.

Warnings: mentions of sex (mild smut)

Word count: 6.3k

A/n: I’ve been wanting to give posting on tumblr a test run and I’ve recently become a Jules girlie so I thought why not?😅 Enjoy?

The tick of the clock on the wall above her head seems to echo around the small space. She desperately wants to twist her neck at an awkward angle to peer up at it; what time is it? How much longer does she have to sit listening to the sound of her own heartbeat and feel the sweat beading above her brow? But she can’t, that would be really rude- not that she thinks that would matter to him. Hell, he might not even notice because he has kept his eyes on his clenched fists in his lap ever since she came crashing through the door, spilling her keys and the contents of confidential files all over her office floor forty minutes ago. That’s the only time he had deemed her worthy of his steely, brown eyes as he watched- no, glared at her as she scrambled on her hands and knees to retrieve the items. He, of course, offered no help. Siobhan, flustered, had leaped from the floor like it was lava and offered an outstretched hand in his direction. He only glanced at it briefly before casting his eyes downward to stare at his tightly clenched fists again. Siobhan was thoroughly embarrassed and offended but did a quick pat down of her fresh box braids and pulled her dark green pencil skirt down before taking her seat. She couldn’t get confrontational with a client. Maybe it was good she was running a bit late and tripped at the entrance of the door because that’s the only eventful thing that has happened. In fact, it’s the only thing that has happened; all her attempts to kickstart the session have fallen flat on the modern wooden table between them as the man refuses to open his mouth. She fights the urge to reach for her phone on the desk to check the time; it’s very unprofessional and she can’t risk any complaints or bad reviews when she’s fresh in the game. Instead, she surveys her small space for the umpteenth time in the past ten minutes. The walls of her office are painted in a calming shade of white, there are two tempered glass windows- one to her left and the other behind the man seated in front of her. They’re both slid shut to keep the space cool from the air conditioner quietly whirring in the background. There are a few potted plants in the corners of the room and a single, small painting of an evergreen landscape on the wall by the door along with the table and two chairs. That was it. She was intentional in keeping the space clutter free as it helps with putting clients more at ease.

“Look, I uh- I understand that it’s not easy to open up, but in order for these sessions to be effective you have to, Jules.” Siobhan tries in a gentle tone. She tries to plead with her eyes above the rim of her glasses but the man makes no move to look up from his hands that now physically shake with how tightly he’s squeezing them.

He shifts slightly, his right hand reaches up to twirl one of his locs that hang free in his face. The rays of the sun kiss his well moisturized, brown skin through the glass windows. Siobhan knows it’s unprofessional to admire her clients, but this one is a looker. His features are small, almost dainty on his face; his shoulders broad, body muscular and he smells divine. He smells like something spicy layered with tones of vanilla.

“I told them, I don’t need this.” He grumbles as he re-adjusts his posture in the chair. His voice is mellow and heavy with his French accent.

“Well, you do. According to your coach, you’ve been in your head so much that it’s affecting the way you play.” She whispers gently.

“It’s football. People miss penalties all the time. It’s fine, I’m fine.” He huffs but Siobhan notes the underlying melancholy in his tone.

“It was an important penalty though. Your country was one game away from winning the entire competition. Tell me how you really feel, Jules.” She gently pries.

“I… fucking awful.” The words seem to bring some sort of relief as he breathes them into the quiet space.

Siobhan subtly opens her flipbook and uncaps her pen.

“Go on…” she encourages him softly.

“I… there was so much pressure and I’m usually good at handling pressure but that was… it was too much. I felt like I had the entire country on my back, literally…” he stops to suck in a greedy breath. “I can still hear that dreaded whistle, I sometimes dream of it you know…and sometimes even in other games when they go off I-”

Siobhan pauses her writing to look up at him from under her glasses. They make eye contact. His brown eyes are piercing. She’s just about to persuade him to continue when the sound of the timer on her phone goes off. The session is up, just as he began talking.

“I… you can continue, I won’t charge-”

“The hour is up. I’ll see you in two days.” The man rises from the seat and almost runs for the door.

Siobhan slumps into her cushioned chair with a heavy sigh. She knew that choosing to go into sports psychology would be hard, especially since most of her clientele are men. The clinic usually assigns younger players or ones that aren’t very popular. Siobhan chalked it off to her lack of experience seeing as she only started her practice barely over a year now. Hell, she was surprised that the prominent place even hired her; from time to time her lack of experience shows, just like it did earlier. But Siobhan was so flustered when she found out who her next client was. Football is the national sport of Spain; everyone who lives here consumes the sport in some way or another, whether casually or almost obsessively. So when Siobhan was told her next client would be Jules Kounde, she almost thought it was a mistake.

“It’s no mistake, I assure you. Your qualifications are one of the best we’ve ever seen and you’ve helped improve a lot of young minds since you’ve been here. You’re also introverted, so I trust these visits will remain private just as he wishes.”

Dr. Martinez had left her with a gentle pat on the shoulder and her mouth agape.

“It’s no wonder you tripped over yourself coming in here. He might request another therapist.” She groans the words to herself. But she’s really hoping he doesn’t.

******

Siobhan makes it her duty to arrive earlier than him for their next session. Jules reluctantly strolls through the door five minutes later than his appointment. She allows the silence to stretch until he perches himself on the chair.

“Hi.” He begins unsurely.

“Um, good morning. How are you feeling today?” Siobhan crosses her legs to quell her anxiety.

“Uh… okay I guess. Look… je suis désolé… for how I acted the other day. You even fell and I didn’t offer to help and that’s not me at all. I was sulking and it made me an asshole.”

“It’s okay. I uh…I understand that opening up is not easy for some people.” She says truthfully.

Jules finally treats the chair like it’s lined with a cushion instead of shards of glass. He physically melts against the piece of furniture.

“Do you want to pick up where we left off?” She makes herself busy with reaching for her notebook.

“What’s your name?” The man reclines further in his seat, scratching at his neatly trimmed goatee.

“Uh… Ms. Young.” Siobhan tries not to fidget under his gaze.

“I meant your first name. Ms. S. Young is written on the door… and the plaque above your head and the one on your desk.” The man smirks slightly.

Siobhan would be bright pink if her skin wasn’t cocoa brown. She licks at her cupid bow above her glossy top lip.

“Uh, Siobhan (Shih-vahn)- it’s Irish.”

“Irish? Are you from Ireland?”

Siobhan eyes him curiously. It takes a second before she realizes what he’s doing.

“I know what you’re trying to do; so I’ll answer your questions if you also answer mine.” She mirrors his posture by reclining in her chair as well.

Jules sighs heavily; “Fine, you caught me. I thought this was a nicer way to waste time than brooding in silence. Ask away.”

“In our last session, you mentioned dreaming about hearing the whistle. Is it a case where you’re always seeing yourself in the final? Or are you doing mundane things in these dreams when you hear the whistle?”

Jules grimaces before scratching at the hairs on his chin.

“I… both. They started off as just seeing myself in that moment but recently that changed.” He admits.

“Do these dreams feel like nightmares? Do they disrupt your sleep or cause any anxiety?”

“Yes. My turn, I’ve been trying to place your accent. Where are you from?”

Siobhan rolls her eyes. “The Caribbean, my mom just heard the name from a show and liked it a lot I think. Moving on, how often do you get these dreams?”

“Like three times a week. Why did you move to Spain?” He instantly fires the question at her.

“This is not how therapy usually works, but for this specific job. Let’s just say it’s the… Barcelona football club of clinics.” Siobhan cringes but it felt easier to explain in that way. The man chuckles, amusement lighting up his brown eyes.

“I see. Why this career?”

“Aht aht. My turn. What are your dreams like on other nights?”

He shrugs. “I don’t sleep the other nights.” He says it nonchalantly.

“Jules… what…” Siobhan sneaks her fingers underneath the frame of her glasses to rub at her temples.

“I just… I know it may not seem as serious because it’s just a sport but I hate… remembering. I hate feeling like a failure in the thing I’m supposed to be good at. The thing I’m most passionate about.” His mouth twists in a frown.

“It’s not unserious at all-” the timer goes off on her phone. However, this time, Jules remains seated.

Siobhan fights the smile that wants to creep onto her face.

“Okay, I want you to try something tonight. Watch a movie or a few episodes of your favorite show, then take a nice long shower; have some tea, preferably camomile, then you’re going to write down everything you felt in that moment; just as you remember it. It’s going to be hard but do it. After that I want you to think about your happiest memories, you’re going to turn to a fresh page and write them all down as well. Do everything in that exact order before going to bed.”

The man sighs but nods his head in agreement.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Siobhan.” He gives her a small smile that makes something in her belly flutter.

Fuck.

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

Siobhan’s steps falter in her closed- toe nude heels when she sees him by her door. She’s ten minutes early and yet, he’s already here. Clearing her throat, she runs a sweaty palm along the length of her fitted brown pants before continuing down the hallway. The click clack of her heels makes him look in her direction. A giddy smile spreads on his face when he sees her coming.

“Good morning, Mr. Koundé, you’re early.” She greets him with a small smile.

“Good morning, Ms. Young. I am.”

Siobhan’s breath stutters at his smile. How much of a cliche are you to be crushing on your first famous client? Her hands fumble with her keys before she finally gets the door open. The man follows her inside, closing the door silently behind him. He sits while Siobhan busies herself with turning the air conditioner on and putting away files in the drawer of her desk.

She clears her throat loudly, readjusting her black frames that slipped down her small button nose.

“Alright, how are you feeling today?” She reaches for her stationery as he gets comfortable. Now that the initial anger and reluctance are gone, she notices he has a kind of confidence that is attractive. It’s in the way he dresses: loose fitting pants that he knows he’s one of the few that can pull them off, a graphic, black muscle t-shirt and a few carefully selected and well placed jewelry that ties the look together. It’s in the way he sits, reclined with his legs slightly spread; it’s in the way that he looks at her- piercing, unabashedly.

“Great. I did what you recommended last night and I actually managed to get more than seven hours of sleep for the first time in almost two months.” Appreciation shines in his eyes that rove over every inch of her face.

“I’m happy to hear that, Jules.”

“Yeah. It’s like… putain… I don’t even know how to describe it; but writing it down felt like I was unloading my brain, literally. Then with the happy memories they just seemed to stay with me until I fell asleep. I didn’t even dream. It was just peaceful, well needed rest.”

“See what happens when you open up? I get to help. I’m proud of you for doing what you can to improve your mental health.” She says sincerely.

His eyes widen before getting teary. He clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably in the chair.

“I haven’t heard those words in a long time…”

“What? I’m proud of you?” She inquires in a whisper.

He nods but remains quiet; eyes darting all over the room.

“Well I am. I am proud of you. You should be proud too. You’ve achieved so much from working so hard. You didn’t just make the national team or get signed to a huge club by accident. That’s your talent on display, despite the mistakes, despite the losses, you’re an amazing athlete and an amazing person too I bet.”

“How do you know I’m an amazing person?” He asks with a small smirk full of faux confidence.

“Well, for one, you care deeply about things. Your reaction to that game shows that you’re someone who likely runs yourself into the ground to make the people you love or respect proud. Maybe it’s coming from your childhood, whatever it is, you want to be someone that people can be proud of. That speaks volumes.”

Jules exhales a shuddering breath. “Thank you.” He whispers to her.

“Um… what do you usually do to unwind? Or relieve stress?” She tries not to fidget as she asks the question.

“I watch anime, or listen to music…” he trails off, eyeing her intently.

Siobhan clears her throat loudly; “Erm… what about- do you have a partner?”

The man rubs at his chin, eyeing her contemplatively. “Why are you asking?”

The woman shifts around in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “It’s just that… um… sex helps. It could provide a distraction and it would help with sleep.”

“I see. I don’t have a partner. I guess I’ll have to find one. It’s been a while.” Her skin scorches with his gaze.

“Um yeah. You coul- you should do that, maybe.”

“More sex. Great advice, Ms. Young. Thank you.” He mutters with a wicked smirk.

“No need to thank me. It’s the truth.” Siobhan cringes heavily at her reply. “But, it’s about to get really uncomfortable again, just bear with me okay?”

He straightens his spine, the mood immediately becomes somber but offers a nod.

“Okay take a deep breath and close your eyes. I want you to remember that day again. Imagine the sounds in the stadium, imagine walking up to that penalty spot.” Siobhan frowns watching the way he immediately stiffens, hands clenching into tight fists.

“Continue to breathe, but what colour do you associate the experience with? What colour do you see when you remember that moment?”

“Grey. A dull, dark grey.” He answers with a tight furrow between his brow.

“Okay, open your eyes.” She states as she makes quick scribbles in her book.

“Take a deep breath. Return to the present, yea?”

His facial muscles gradually relax.

“Good. Now, let’s talk about the reactions… It's heavy, I know but you need to unpack everything to heal. Did you see any of the… criticism you received?”

The man scoffs. “Criticism? Is that what you want to call it? Criticism?!”

“Jules, I just meant-”

“The amount of racial abuse that was hurled at me; I had to turn off my comments for weeks. They harassed me in ways that I didn’t even think they were capable of. I couldn’t visit my favourite café in France while I was there. In fact, I couldn’t go anywhere! And then I even found out some people I considered friends were saying some nasty things about me too-”

Siobhan is on the edge of panic as the man continues his rant in French. She recognizes a few of the words as curses.

“Jules-” she tries softly, turning her palms up in his direction in a feeble attempt to placate him.

“No! I think I’m done for the day.” Jules stands, shoving the chair back with force before storming toward the door.

“Wait! Please just wait.” She calls desperately.

He pauses by the door but doesn’t turn around to face her.

“Just, I need you to do two things for me okay. Tomorrow is Friday. I want you to go out and have fun, but I want you dressed in grey. The other thing is, if you get too lost in the memory again, I want you to try and picture that day yellow. Imagine the sun was bright or whatever way you can, just try it. And I hope to see you on Monday.”

The man doesn’t respond but he closes the door gently behind his retreating form.

***********

“Gosh I thought we were making good progress then he just… flipped. Is it because of my word choice? Did me calling it criticism seem to belittle what he went through? Because that wasn’t my intention at all. I thought if I called it harassment it would make him spiral.” She tries to yell over the deafening music.

“Did you invite me to the club to talk about work? Because this is not a convenient place for it if you haven’t noticed!” Kimberly yells back with an unimpressed look on her face. Kimberly lives in the same apartment complex as Siobhan. The fair skinned woman stands at 6”0, five inches taller than her, with a slender frame. Kimberly is the type of woman you’d see on runways; Siobhan would more likely be in a fitness magazine. Years of pilates and weight training has made her body lithe and her glutes pumped. Kimberly had shown up to her front door a week after she moved to Spain with a box of cookies and introduced herself as her neighbour who moved there from England. Siobhan returned the favor a few days later with homemade brownies. Then one Saturday evening, Kimberly showed up with pizza and candy and asked if she had Netflix. It was easy to bond as two foreigners who barely spoke a word of Spanish. The rest is history.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Siobhan knows she’s sulking but she can’t help it. She really hopes she didn’t scare him off.

“Look, you say it all the time. Sometimes the sessions can be tense. Men are not easy to work with.” Kimberly pauses to take a sip of her martini.

“Besides, why do you care so much about this particular person? You’ve come with stories about people lashing out before but you brushed them off easily.” Kimberly narrows her eyes in her direction.

“I… uh… no reason. It’s just that we were actually making progress. He was so excited to tell me about how my recommendations helped him and then I just… I’m also just scared it might be my fault with how I worded it.”

“Get out of your head, Siobhan. You’re great at what you do or you wouldn’t have been hired there in the first place. I’m sure he’ll blow off some steam over the weekend and it’ll be better on Monday.” Kimberly gives her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Okay.” She gives her friend an unsure smile.

“For now, let’s drink and dance the night away. Actually, let’s dance until 2 am. I have a hair appointment early in the morning.”

Siobhan giggles and downs the rest of her amaretto sour leaving the glass on the bar before her friend drags her off.

********

The club starts becoming packed at about midnight. Siobhan is three drinks in, dancing with Kimberly under the dim, blue lights when her bladder starts protesting.

“Bathroom.” She whispers in her friend’s ear.

“Want me to come?”

Siobhan quickly shakes her head; “Nah, could you get me a bottle of water though. I’m toeing the line of being a bit too tipsy.” She confesses with a giggle. No matter how much fun she intends to have, Siobhan will never allow herself to get drunk in public.

“Copy. Meet me by the bar when you’re done.”

Both women maneuver their way through the crowd of bodies. They separate as Kimberly heads towards the bar while Siobhan goes further right to enter the hallway that leads to the restrooms. It’s just as dimly lit as the rest of the club but a lot less crowded. She breathes a sigh of relief as she ambles down the hallway and into the bathroom. Siobhan is absentmindedly rubbing lotion onto her cleaned and dried hands while she exits the restroom when her feet stumble. Hide! Instead, her brain short circuits and her feet remain frozen. He looks up from his phone before she’s able to backpedal and re-enter the bathroom. His steps slow until he’s standing in the middle of the hallway. They stare. Siobhan subconsciously reaches to pull at the hem of the backless, mini mustard-yellow dress. She’s outside of work but it still feels a bit unprofessional for a client to see her dressed like this. She awkwardly fingers her braids piled in a bun on top of her head. Siobhan doesn’t know what else to do, so she steels her spine and prepares to walk past him. Thinking of their last encounter, maybe he doesn’t want to speak to her right now, especially on his night out. She notes with a hint of joy that his outfit of the night consists of a dark grey top that shows a bit of his v-line, with a pair of dark wash jeans. He looks good and he took her advice.

“Ms. Young.”

His voice is almost lost in the music that’s still a bit loud in the hallway. But Siobhan was listening intently. Hoping. She turns around to face him again.

“Hi Jules.”

The man slowly drifts into her space.

“You actually did it.” She whispers the words between them. His fingers brush against the back of her hand subtly and her breath hitches.

“Yes. I… I never really had an aversion to the colour grey despite the memory. In fact, I barely paid attention to the colour I’d see until you asked me to; so it wasn’t exactly hard to get dressed in it. But I think I understand why you wanted me to wear it, you want me to associate better memories with the colour right?”

She gulps because he’s whispering the words directly onto the shell of her ear. She manages a nod.

“Well, we went bowling earlier and I beat them all, they’re really bad.” He pauses for her to giggle.

“They even placed bets on their watches. Safe to say I got two new rolexes tonight. Then we went to get the best pizzas in town and now we’re here. I think this is the most fun I’ve had in a while. You give such great advice and I… I’m sorry for the way I reacted yesterday.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry for reducing everything you faced as criticism. I didn’t mean to-”

“I know that. You have nothing to apologize for, Siobhan.” He lightly brushes the tips of her fingers with his own.

“Come upstairs to the VIP section with me. I owe you a drink at least.”

Siobhan knows it’s not a good idea. She should say no and go back to dancing with Kimberly.

“Um, I came with a friend.”

She feels him stiffen at the mention of a friend.

“Her name’s Kimberly.” She quickly tacks on.

He relaxes; “She can join us. It’s no problem at all.”

*********

She recognizes some of Jules’ friends as his teammates. They are extremely welcoming and one with an armful of tattoos greets Kimberly a little too eagerly. Jules rolls his eyes though a smile pulls at his lips.

“I promised you a drink. What are you in the mood for?” He gestures to the bottle girl while he asks the question.

“Actually, I think I’m done drinking for the night.” She confesses.

“Are you driving?” He gives a subtle shake of his head to the woman he signaled over earlier. She gets the message and returns to his friends seated behind them.

Siobhan snorts. “I don’t even have my license. I just… I don’t like being drunk; I don’t like the thought of not being in control.” She yells directly on the shell of his ear.

He nods his head in understanding but brings a glass of some dark brown liquid to his lips. Siobhan turns to stare forward so she doesn’t have to watch the way his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. Siobhan thought she was imagining the tension between them since their second session, but as they stand, with barely any space between their bodies, she knows that she hasn’t been. As the night progresses with their trivial conversations, the music gets sultrier. The DJ switches from upbeat pop and hip hop to slower r&b. The sensual bass of Skin by Rihanna reverberates through the club. Siobhan’s breathing grows heavier as she feels the whisper of his touch against her waist. She steps back against him. He grows more confident and properly grips at her waist. Siobhan begins a slow grind against him; his breath, hot and heavy in her ear, stutters. His hand spans the width of her lower belly; her stomach flips, the muscles there spasming. He overwhelms her senses in the best way possible. His scent, the feel of his hard body against her back, his fleeting touches along her thighs, lower back, her hips and his heavy panting in her ear. Siobhan skin tightens in response. She’s not sure how long they stay like that; all she knows is by the time Kimberly approaches to whisper in her ear that she wants to leave, she can feel her panties sticking to her skin and she’s panting like she ran a mile.

“Um, we should um… Kimberly has some appointments in the morning.” Her voice cracks as she reluctantly whispers the words in his ear.

“I’ll take you guys home.” His voice is huskier than usual. His accent thicker.

“Oh, um… if it’s no trouble…”

“Not at all.” He assures.

Siobhan turns to Kimberly shyly.

“Um, he wants to give us a ride. Do you mind?”

Kimberly smirks. “You seem to know him really well. If you trust him I’m cool.”

Siobhan avoids her friend’s amused eyes and nods in Jules’ direction.

*******

The air inside the elevator is suffocating. Jules insisted on walking them to their doors. Siobhan pretends not to see her friend’s smirking reflection on the shiny surface of the elevator doors. Siobhan breathes a sigh of relief when the doors open.

“Well, this is me. I’ll see you tomorrow, Siobhan and it was nice to meet you, Jules.” Kimberly shoves her key inside her door and gives them a final wave before disappearing inside not before flashing Siobhan a Cheshire like grin.

“Um, I’m just two doors down.” Siobhan points to her apartment door a bit further down the hall. Jules doesn’t respond as he follows her silently. Siobhan fumbles with her keys before finally getting the door open. She steps inside and turns to face him from her dimly lit living room.

“So… um…”

Jules’ eyes scan the inside of her apartment. From the crème couch, the small, glass coffee table, the potted plants placed carefully around the room and the t.v. mounted on the white wall.

“Thank you for the-” the words wither in her throat as he slowly steps forward. Siobhan is frozen for a few seconds. She sucks in a deep breath but moves to step back, inviting him further into her home. He obliges, reaching behind him to slam the door shut. They stand. They stare. Her chest rises and falls at a rapid pace.

“So… would you like something to drink? I’ve got water and s-some juice.”

Jules shakes his head firmly but closes the distance between them.

Siobhan whimpers when he reaches for her waist and pulls her into his body.

“Fuck, Jules, we shouldn’t.”

His breath tickles her lips.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Siobhan swallows, eyes darting from his eyes to his lips. She subtly shakes her head.

“No.” She chokes out.

Their lips meet in a heated, sensual kiss.

**********

The first rays of sunlight peeks through the window above her bed. Siobhan has been awake for almost thirty minutes now, but she refuses to move a muscle. The arm around her waist tightens and Siobhan wants to scream. She has crossed the very bold professional line. There’s no other way around this, if they find out about this she’s getting fired. “ I hope the sex was worth it,” the voice in her head sneers. Siobhan wants to yell yes! She thought it couldn’t have gotten any better when he ate her out until her legs shook, but it did. She can still feel the ache between her legs from how beautifully he stretched her last night. He stole her breath with every angle, every new position. Every whisper of French in her ear. When he had folded her legs by her ears and used his hips to make tight little circles deep inside her, she could only sob out loud while she spasmed around him. She felt like she was on the verge of passing out many times. She’s almost mad that he had to be so fucking good in bed. How is she going to look him in his face on Monday with this replaying in her mind?

Soft lips press against her shoulder as his body stretches lazily behind her.

“Good morning. I might be late for practice.” Jules says nonchalantly with a yawn.

“How did you know I was awake?” She squeaks.

“I can feel your heart racing like you’re being chased by a bear, Siobhan. Relax.” He encourages softly.

“I can’t. Fuck, do you know how unprofessional this is? I’ve just broken an ethical code, Jules.” She whispers sadly.

“You know I won’t tell. We’re both adults. You didn’t use my situation to take advantage of me. Relax.”

She nods reluctantly even though it doesn’t make her feel better. Siobhan doesn’t resist as he turns her face in his direction. The sunlight kisses her brown skin so beautifully that his breath hitches.

“You’re so beautiful in yellow.” He says sincerely.

“Only in yellow?” She teases softly with a small smile.

“Yeah.” He laughs as he dodges the slaps she rains down on him.

“Do you want breakfast?” She scratches lightly at the hairs on his chin. He closes his eyes, body melting against hers.

“I can’t stay. I’m already late for training and we have a game tomorrow. I’m getting a fine for sure.” He grumbles even as he leans further into her touch.

“Okay, you should get going.”

He huffs but nods in agreement. He pecks her lips softly before standing to get dressed. Siobhan watches him shamelessly. His naked back is broad, his glutes and thighs muscular. Mouthwatering. He slips his shirt over his head, grumbling about not being able to shower until after training. Siobhan shuffles across the bed to head to her en-suite bathroom where she grabs her robe to slip on and hands him a spare toothbrush. She slips back into the room, sitting on her bed stuck in her thoughts while Jules is busy in her bathroom. She tries to fight the anxiety that threatens to bubble up in her already tight chest. Fuck, this definitely changes everything. The man steps out of her bathroom and she quickly stands to lead him into her living room.

“See you Monday?” She asks timidly by her door.

He embraces her, kissing her forehead softly.

“Of course.” He promises.

She smiles shyly up at him before opening the door for him.

“See you around, Jules.”

“See you around Ms. Young.” He gives her a small smile and then he’s gone.

*********

Siobhan watches the game on Sunday with her heart in her throat. It’s his first start in weeks and she’s so anxious for him. He plays well but they still need a goal. The game is end to end until his team is awarded a penalty. Siobhan almost passes out when she sees him stepping up to take it.

“Please please please please.” She whispers anxiously. She watches him place the ball on the spot and take a few steps back. He takes a deep breath as the stadium breaks out in whistles from the other team’s fans. The referee blows his whistle and Siobhan’s heart dances irregularly in her chest as he takes a short run up and…

“Fuck yes!” She yells in relief and glee.

The keeper dived the wrong way but even if he did, the pace and power on the ball would’ve been too much. That’s the kick of a man who has found his confidence on the pitch again. Siobhan smiles proudly, ignoring the warmth that’s slowly spreading through her chest.

*********

“Good morning, Ms. Young. A word in my office please.” Dr. Martinez greets her as soon as she steps foot in the building.

Siobhan gulps nervously but offers a nod as she follows him inside his office.

“So, Mr. Koundé has requested a new therapist. He says it’s nothing against you. You’ve been very helpful but your last session was a bit intense and he was rude. He offers his apologies but insists he thinks it’s better for both of you if he saw someone else. I’m assigning another young talent to you. He’s 20 and his coach is worried he might be displaying signs of imposter syndrome.” Dr. Martinez hands over a thin file. She flips it open to keep her mind and hands busy. She doesn’t want to cry. There’s not much, just his picture of wide-eyed innocence and a little personal information.

“I understand. Um, what time is he scheduled to see me?” She tries to hide the shaking in her voice.

“1 pm. Remember you also have Mr. Dixon at 3.”

“Okay, thank you.”

*******

Exhaustion bleeds from her very bones as she locks up her office. Holding back tears and trying to remain level headed while listening to other people’s problems takes its toll. Sighing, Siobhan rolls her shoulders but stumbles over her shoes when she looks up and sees him in the hallway.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing here, Jules?” She asks with a scowl.

“I wanted to ask you out. Maybe we could have dinner. You look nice by the way.” He tries to act suave but she notices the slight tremors in his fingers that he keeps clenching and unclenching.

“Seriously? Are you going to explain why you went to Dr. Martinez and asked to be assigned to someone else? Because I know that excuse you pulled was pure bullshit.” She crosses her arms over her chest with a defiant tilt to her chin.

“You said it yourself, it’s against your ethical code to have romantic relationships with your clients. So I fixed it. I’ll still get the help I need without the chaos our relationship would create.” He shrugs.

Siobhan’s heart flutters and she bites her lower lip to contain the smile that wants to stretch her lips so wide that her cheeks hurt.

“Relationship? We had sex once.” She cocks her brow.

“And we both know that won’t be enough. You felt it as much as I did.” He invades her personal space, gently holding onto her waist.

Siobhan reaches to wipe at the bead of sweat that collected over his brow in lieu of responding.

“I know that I want more. You’re the… yellow to my grey.”

She giggles at the sour expression on his face.

“That was corny.”

“I know. But coming from the woman who said she works at the Barcelona of clinics?”

They both chuckle together.

“Well, fair. At least yours was cute. I like that I’m the yellow to your grey.” She mutters softly.

“So, is that a yes to dinner? I already made the reservation, please don't make me show up alone.” He pleads with a small smile.

Siobhan’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Jules interlocks their fingers as he leads them to the underground garage.

“By the way, I watched the game yesterday. I’m so proud of you.” She reaches their interlocked hands towards her mouth to press a gentle kiss to the back of his hand.

His gaze softens as he looks at her.

“I’ll never get tired of hearing you say that.”

“Then I’ll tell you every day.” She says sincerely.

“Damn. I know I’m sexy but planning on forever?” He jokes.

“You’re such a damn fool, Jules.” She laughs as she slaps at his back.

“Only for you.”

[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

[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

[amirawrah]

⭐︎after the rain, us

with JULES KOUNDE⭐︎

Rain had been tapping softly at the windows since the early hours of the morning, a steady rhythm that made the world outside blur into misty grays and blues. The streets of Barcelona were soaked and sleepy, but inside your apartment? Warmth. Stillness. Jules.

You were both curled up on the couch, matching gray sweatpants, oversized hoodies—his, of course, swallowing your frame in the most delicious way. The smell of buttery croissants still lingered in the air from breakfast, the remnants of flaky crumbs on the coffee table beside two half-drunk mugs of hot chocolate. No rush to clean them up. No rush to do anything at all.

A Studio Ghibli movie played quietly on the TV—Howl’s Moving Castle—casting soft light across the living room. You had your head nestled against Jules’ thigh, legs folded beneath you, his fingers moving gently through your hair.

He hadn’t said much in the last half hour, just hummed occasionally or sighed in contentment. You turned your head slightly, catching the way his locs fell forward as he concentrated, gently sectioning off strands of your hair.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you teased, voice soft and playful.

“I take everything involving you seriously mon amour,” he said without missing a beat, his lips curling into a small smile.

You laughed, heart fluttering a little at the ease of his affection. He'd gotten good at braiding your hair—not perfectly, but with enough care and intention that it always made you melt. Sometimes he’d google different styles. Sometimes he’d call your sister or your best friend and ask for tips. Today, he didn’t bother with all that. He just moved gently, slowly, letting the rhythm of the rain and the movie guide him.

“You’re gonna fall asleep on me again,” he murmured, gently smoothing down the part he just finished.

“No, I won’t,” you lied, already half-lidded.

He chuckled, low and soft, one hand resting on your back. “Liar. You always do after pastries and warm socks.”

You hummed in agreement, not even pretending to deny it. His voice was so soothing, and the atmosphere—the quiet rain, the gentle film score, the warmth of his body—was enough to lull you into near-dreamland.

As he started another braid, you reached up and lazily wrapped your fingers around his ankle, just to feel him close. Jules glanced down at you, a softness in his eyes that made your chest tighten.

“You know,” he said after a pause, voice low, “this is my favorite version of us.”

You blinked slowly, lifting your head a little. “What do you mean?”

“This. No games. No cameras. Just us. Rain outside, you in my clothes, your hair in my hands.” He smiled to himself. “I think I could do this every day and never get bored.”

Your throat tightened. Not from sadness—but from the kind of overwhelming peace that came when someone saw you exactly as you were, and loved it.

You shifted to sit up, turning to face him fully, legs crossed beneath you. The movie played on, unnoticed. Jules looked at you, his hands resting on your knees now, his touch always gentle, always steady.

“Then let’s keep doing it,” you whispered. “Let’s have a million Sundays like this.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “A million still wouldn’t be enough.”

You kissed him—slow, quiet, like the moment itself—and he kissed you back with that same patience. Like there was no place in the world he’d rather be than right here, with rain on the window and your lips on his.

When you pulled away, he tucked one final braid behind your ear and whispered, “I should braid your hair more often. Makes you soft on me.”

You smiled, already melting back into his side, pulling the blanket over both of you as he kissed your temple and wrapped an arm around your waist.

And so the afternoon passed—just Jules, your half-braided hair, a sleepy movie, and a love so warm it made even the rain feel like sunshine.

By late afternoon, the rain had picked up—no longer a gentle tap, but a steady pour against the windows. The sky outside had deepened into a moody charcoal gray, thunder rumbling softly in the distance like a sleepy lion stirring in its den.

You were now lying on the couch, stretched out with your head in Jules’ lap, one of his hands resting lazily on your waist, the other scrolling half-heartedly through a cooking video on his phone. Howls moving castle had ended hours ago, replaced by a calm playlist humming through the speakers—Snoh Aalegra, Brent Faiyaz, a bit of Daniel Caesar.

Your half-finished braids were tied loosely into a bun, just the way Jules had left them when you'd both decided to just “pause” and cuddle instead.

When the first sharp crack of thunder broke through the low hum of music, you flinched just a little, the kind of instinctive jump that came from growing up with a healthy respect for storms. Jules noticed immediately.

“You okay?” he asked, voice already softer, fingers curling tighter around your waist.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Just wasn’t expecting it to be that loud.”

Jules didn’t reply right away. Instead, he set his phone down and used both hands to pull you up slightly, guiding you so you were now fully curled into his chest, legs tangled with his. You melted against him without a word, the two of you swaddled in warmth and quiet.

“Better?” he whispered, his lips brushing your forehead.

“Mmhmm.”

You stayed like that, watching the rain race down the windows. The apartment was quiet except for the distant thunder and the soft breaths you shared in sync.

“Storms used to scare me when I was younger,” you admitted, voice low, cheek pressed against his chest.

Jules traced lazy shapes on your back, anchoring you. “You scared now?”

You shook your head. “Not really. Not with you.”

He smiled against your temple. “Good.”

There was a pause, then Jules shifted, reaching behind the couch for a throw blanket. He wrapped it around both of you with a kind of reverence, tucking it under your chin and pulling you impossibly closer. “This is a perfect day,” he murmured.

“You’re such a softie when it rains,” you teased, grinning into his hoodie.

Jules chuckled, low and warm. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, eyes locking with his. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He kissed you then—slow and grounding. The kind of kiss that didn’t lead anywhere, didn’t have to. It just said I’m here. I love you. We’re safe.

As the thunder rolled again and rain continued to dance on the roof, Jules rested his chin on your head, exhaling deeply like this—this moment—was everything he ever needed.

“Next storm,” he said quietly, “we’re building a blanket fort.”

You laughed softly. “With fairy lights?”

“Obviously,” he replied.

Wrapped in each other and the sound of the storm, you both drifted. No need for plans. No need for anything but this slow, sacred kind of love—the kind that held steady, even through the loudest thunder.

The storm finally tapered off around 6 PM, leaving behind glistening pavement, dew-speckled windows, and that rich, earthy scent that only came after a downpour. A sliver of orange-pink sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling across the floor like a spotlight meant just for the two of you.

You stretched, still wrapped in Jules’ hoodie, and padded into the kitchen barefoot while he lingered on the couch, watching you with the laziest, most smug smile.

“We should make dinner,” you called out over your shoulder, already rummaging in the fridge.

Jules sat up slowly, eyes never leaving you. “We could,” he replied, “or…”

You narrowed your eyes, turning to look at him. “Or?”

A beat. A flash of mischief in his eyes.

He stood up. Quiet. Deliberate.

Then—

“You cook, I clean?” he offered innocently.

“No, what was the ‘or’ about?” you asked, stepping back as he walked toward you, that smug grin spreading even more.

Suddenly, Jules lunged forward and scooped you up around the waist with a playful growl, spinning you in a circle. You let out a squeal-laugh, smacking his shoulder as your feet left the floor.

“Jules!” you shouted, giggling.

“I’m just saying,” he said between kisses to your cheek, “there are better uses of our energy right now than cooking.”

You were set down onto the counter, breathless from laughter. Jules caged you in with both hands on either side of your thighs, looking at you like you were his favorite thing in the world—and you were.

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “You’re smiling. So I know you agree.”

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Maybe. But I still want food.”

He pulled back slightly, hands sliding to your hips. “Fine. Deal. You sit there and look cute, and I’ll make us something. But only if you promise to kiss the chef.”

“Every time you stir the pot,” you bargained.

“Every time,” he echoed, already tying an apron around his waist dramatically.

You couldn’t help but laugh as he opened the fridge with a flourish, acting like he was hosting MasterChef while tossing you glances over his shoulder. His locs had gotten a little frizzy from all the lounging earlier, and he hadn’t even noticed. He was so comfortably himself in your shared little bubble.

As he fumbled with a tomato and nearly dropped it, you whistled. “Chef of the year.”

He turned, placing a hand dramatically on his chest. “I cook with love, not coordination.”

“You cook with chaos.”

“And charm.”

You blew him a kiss. “That too.”

Eventually, dinner was half-decent—Jules burnt the garlic bread but nailed the pasta—and the two of you ended up sitting on the kitchen floor, eating straight from the pan with forks and wine glasses filled halfway.

There was something sacred in how ordinary it all was—your knees bumping, your hoodie now splattered with tomato sauce, his hand constantly drifting to your thigh just to feel your warmth. It wasn’t grand or performative. It was soft. Solid. Yours.

After dinner, you turned the Bluetooth speaker back on, and when the first notes of a soft R&B song started playing, Jules reached out a hand to you.

“Come dance with me,” he whispered.

“In the kitchen?”

“In our kitchen.”

And so, barefoot on tile, still tasting of wine and laughter, you danced with him slowly, lazily, like you had all the time in the world.

And you did.

Because the storm had passed, and love—your love—was the only thing left lingering in the air.

[snowseasonmademe]

La terre a besoin de l’océan (chapter 3)

word count: 3,125

pairing: Jules Koundé x Imani Taylor

summary: Poet and new mother Imani is navigating life after birth, co-parenting her daughter with the man she once thought she’d marry—Barcelona footballer Jules Koundé. Though their relationship ended, the love between them never truly disappeared, simmering beneath shared responsibilities and lingering touches. With the help of Sofia—Jules’s warm-hearted family friend turned Imani’s bestie, who cares for Danielle like a second grandmother—their unconventional home begins to feel whole again. As they rebuild trust and reimagine their future, Imani must decide if the life she walked away from is the one she’s meant to return to.

fc: @/ tatyanaalii_

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

February 22nd. It had been ten and a half months since Danielle was born.

Some days, Imani still couldn’t believe it. That this tiny, brilliant, babbling creature had come from her body. From her love. From her life.

Danielle was her everything. A living poem, a bright little sun orbiting her heart.

No matter what time it was, or how exhausted Imani felt from working late into the night, the sight of her daughter waking up always made the world stand still. Every morning, Danielle would blink her big, brown eyes open and scan the room, her lashes fluttering until—

“Mama.”

That whisper was always soft. Always like a secret.

Then came the smile. Big. Gummy. Full of wonder and love, with those three tiny teeth sitting like pearls in her mouth. Her legs would kick under the soft lavender blanket she refused to sleep without, arms flapping with excitement as though her joy couldn’t be contained inside her small frame.

Imani’s heart would break open every time.

She bent over the crib and scooped her up, pressing Danielle close to her chest. She needed her to feel it. The love. The safety. The knowing. That she was held. That she was wanted. That every inch of her was adored.

She swayed back and forth, humming something low and soft under her breath. Something she remembered her own mother humming to Kaya when she thought Imani wasn’t listening.

“You had good dreams, huh?” Imani whispered, kissing the soft fuzz of Danielle’s curls. “I can tell.”

Danielle let out a string of babbled nonsense in response, smacking her lips dramatically like she had so much to say and not enough time to say it. Imani smiled.

“Oh, you did fly? Through the clouds? What else, baby?”

More babble. More soft coos. Her chubby fingers tugged gently at the ends of Imani’s locs, one fist clumsily wrapping around a strand like she needed to anchor herself to the world.

Imani let her. She remembered that feeling, too. The need to hold on to something.

She was so lost in their rhythm—her voice, Danielle’s little replies, the weight of motherhood wrapped in this cozy moment—that she didn’t even hear the footsteps.

But Danielle did.

“Papa… papa…”

It wasn’t a yell, just a whisper, but her feet started kicking again with a whole new excitement. Imani turned her head and there he was.

Jules.

In his training clothes—navy blue joggers that hung low on his hips, a navy blue and red long-sleeve thermal pushed up to his elbows, revealing the veins that always made Imani stare a beat too long. His locs were slightly pushed back with a headband, a sheen of oil on his skin from the morning shower. He looked like he’d just stepped off a magazine cover.

But it wasn’t just how he looked. It was the way he looked at them.

Like they were his sunrise. Like there was no place else in the world he’d rather be.

He crossed the room quietly, a soft smile blooming on his face. The kind that only appeared when he was around Danielle. Or Imani. Or both.

His arms slid around Imani’s waist from behind, pulling her gently against him. His hands were warm. Familiar. Steady.

He kissed Danielle’s forehead first—always. Then leaned down, brushing his lips softly against the curve of Imani’s neck.

“Bonjour, mes chéris” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Hi Jules,” Imani replied, and it was almost a sigh. The heat of his body pressed against her back made her want to fold into him, crawl back into bed, pretend they were still together.

They weren’t, not really. But sometimes—like right now—it was hard to remember that.

There was a pause. Heavy and charged.

She could feel him watching her. Not just admiring—watching. Studying her like he used to, back when they were still sharing everything. The look that always meant he was thinking about the way she tasted, the sounds she made when she was close, the way her body always folded into his so perfectly.

He stepped closer, gently boxing her in between his chest and the crib.

“I miss you in my bed” he whispered, low and deliberate.

Imani’s pulse skipped.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she leaned forward to gently lay Danielle back down, but in doing so, her hips brushed against his in just the right way—too intentional to ignore, too soft to pretend she didn’t mean it a little.

She got immediate flashbacks of how his bare hips used to feel against hers.

Jules exhaled through his nose, sharp and quiet.

“Oh… looks like you miss me too” he murmured, a slow smirk forming on his lips.

Imani rolled her eyes as she turned to face him. But she didn’t step back.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

His smirk deepened.

“I don’t care about that right now Mani.”

His hands gripped her hips again. Not hard, but with enough intention to make her remember what his grip felt like on bare skin. What his hands did when they weren’t just holding her.

She poked his chest, trying to pull herself back into reality.

“Jules. Your team got whooped 3–1. You think your coach wants to hear you were too busy trying to get laid this morning?”

He laughed then. Deep, unbothered, warm.

“Touché” he said, slowly letting go of her, like he was savoring the final touch. “But I know you miss me too, Imani. Don’t act like you don’t”

And with that, he bent down to kiss Danielle goodbye again, whispered something to her in French that made the baby giggle, and disappeared down the hallway.

Imani just stood there.

Her body was hot. Her breath short. Skin tingling.

Why did he do this? Come in, love on her with his eyes, touch her like no time had passed, then leave her gasping for air like nothing had happened?

She was still trying to recover when the door creaked open again.

Sofia stepped in like a breeze. Sandals already halfway off, curls tied up in a low bun, her long maxi skirt swaying as she walked across the nursery.

“Buenos días, mija” she said in that familiar calming tone, like nothing could ever go wrong when she was around.

Sofia, the nanny, was 41 but had the soul of a 64-year-old retired school teacher. Calm. Gentle. Always smelling like vanilla and lemongrass. She moved like she had nowhere to be and everything to offer. And Danielle adored her.

Sofia was in the nersury with Danielle in her lap, bouncing her gently while humming something soft in Spanish. She had this warm, steady energy that babies seemed to melt into—Danielle especially. From the moment she was born, Danielle had been attached to her.

Sofia had become Imani’s bestie. She would take Danielle out when Imani was writing, help take care of her when she was too sore to walk after giving birth. And Danielle had a big habit of only being able to fall asleep outside for the first 6 months of her life, but because of your pollen allergy, you couldn’t sit with her in the spring—and Sofia gladly did it for you, every time, without complaint. She was like another grandma to Danielle. Sweet and firm, a constant, loving presence in your life when everything else was unraveling.

“Morning” Imani said, voice still raspy from sleep—and maybe from Jules.

Sofia arched a brow. “You look flushed.”

“I’m fine” Imani muttered. “Just got ambushed by a certain someone.”

Sofia chuckled. “Mmm. I heard the front door. You know that man gets on your nerves and under your skin.”

Imani exhaled slowly. “That’s the problem”

Sofia bent over the crib to pick up Danielle, who instantly started playing with her glasses.

“You waking up sassy today, mi amor?” she cooed to the baby. “You got your mama’s attitude already.”

“She woke up gossiping” Imani joked. “Telling me all about her dreams.”

“Oh, I’m sure she did” Sofia said. “Probably told you all about how her papa was the star of your dreams, too.”

Imani blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sofia smiled, unbothered. “I said what I said. Go write. Drink some water. And stop acting like you don’t still want that man.”

Imani didn’t respond.

She watched Sofia gather the baby bag and kiss Danielle’s cheek before heading out for their morning walk.

When the door shut again, Imani leaned back against the crib and stared at the ceiling.

Yeah. She was still his favorite place.

And some part of her knew… he was still hers too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today marked a quiet milestone in Imani’s life—the first time in nearly a year she was stepping back into her work as a poet. No interviews, no readings, no panels or pop ups. For nearly ten and a half months, the only thing she’d written consistently were late-night journal entries and soft lullabies for Danielle when teething made sleep impossible. And before that, during her first trimester, Imani had intentionally chosen to disappear from social media. To retreat from her world of words and the endless noise of social media. She owed that much to her baby—her body, her peace, her energy. And she had no regrets about doing it.

But now, the fog had cleared a little.

Danielle was in a more predictable rhythm. Imani’s body was slowly, steadily becoming hers again. Her mind, too. And she missed her fans. Her supporters. Her day-ones who had stuck with her through three bestselling collections and the long silence that followed. They were hilarious, loyal, and wildly creative. They made memes from her readings, sent her playlists inspired by her stanzas, and always had something to say about Jules.

And she missed the inside jokes.

God, they were funny.

Especially the ones about Jules. Or more specifically… “Golden Dick.”

It started as a joke after her last book, La terre a besoin de l’océan, dropped. One of the most talked-about poems in the collection had been a sensual, open-palmed love letter to a very specific part of him. Of course, she didn’t name him in it. She never did. But the people knew. They always knew.

And ever since, the name stuck.

Every time Jules accidentally appeared in the background of a selfie or was spotted pushing Danielle’s stroller during one of Sofia’s morning walks, someone would comment: GOLDEN DICK SIGHTING!! or She miss him, y’all. You see her skin? That’s glow right from the source.

And okay, yeah. It was funny.

But it was also true. And she had never written about anyone like him before.

Even now, she could still remember the way the words flowed the morning she wrote that poem. Her hips had still been sore. Her throat hoarse from the night before. But her mind? Her heart? Wide open.

She hadn’t planned on including it in the book. But one of her writer friends insisted. Said it felt like a revelation. Said it was art to make desire feel that soft, that holy.

So she kept it in. And just like that, the myth of Golden Dick was born.

The Muse with the Golden Hips – from La terre a besoin de l’océan

he didn’t fuck me,

he rewrote me.

redrafted the softest parts in his language—

his breath stuttering at my navel,

his tongue dragging verses across my thighs.

i called him god with a lowercase g—

because heaven came when he said so,

because the gospel was in his hips,

because the way he held my ankles apart

felt like scripture.

i bled time for him.

spilled stars on the sheets.

lost track of every name but his.

and when i came—

i did it like a woman who had

lived a thousand lives before

but never this one.

⸻

Imani hadn’t realized how much she missed the chaos of being known until she posted her photo dump that morning. Soft candles. A sweet picture of Danielle. A behind-the-scenes pic from her last book signing pre-pregnancy. A moody shot of the Ocean at sunrise. And one selfie, simple and striking, wearing her “Author Off Duty” white shirt and her signature silver hoops.

The comments poured in like wildfire.

“SHE’S ALIVE!!”

“Don’t play with us like that, Imani. We were in mourning.”

“Golden Dick let her rest, huh?”

“She probably still limping lowkey but God is good.”

Imani cackled. Full-on stomach laugh.

She had missed this.

The jokes, the love, the absurdly creative fan interpretations of her poems… and even the thirst comments about Jules. It was all part of the magic. All part of the odd little world she had built from words, womb, and willpower.

She liked where this new chapter was going.

Her tea sat cooling beside her laptop, Danielle babbling softly to herself from her play mat, Sofia humming a lullaby in the kitchen while prepping a bottle. The light in their Barcelona apartment spilled in golden and warm. And for the first time in a long time, Imani didn’t feel overwhelmed by what was next.

She felt ready.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jules missed her.

He missed her, and he wasn’t ashamed of it.

There was no point pretending. No point trying to distract himself with noise or other people or whatever shallow comfort might come from moving on. He hadn’t even wanted to touch anyone else since the last time they made love—if you could even call what they had that night just sex. That was months ago, somewhere near the end of her second trimester, and still, the memory of her body under his lingered like a song he couldn’t stop humming.

He hadn’t gone looking for anything else. Couldn’t, even if he tried. Because for him, sex wasn’t just physical—it never had been. It was about trust

Because for him, sex wasn’t just physical—it never had been. It was about trust. About closeness. About being known in ways that felt holy.

And Imani knew him. All of him. She always had.

He remembered the way her hands moved across his chest like they were sketching a map. The way she’d kiss the part of his shoulder he never realized held tension until she eased it with her lips. The soft way she said his name when she wanted him to know it was okay to let go.

That kind of connection? You don’t just find that again. You don’t want to.

So yeah, he missed her. Not just the sex. Not just the intimacy. He missed them.

He missed the way she used to read her poems to him in bed before the world ever saw them. The way she’d instinctively place her hand on his chest during the night, right over his heart, like she was grounding both of them. He missed how she made the apartment feel alive with her soft humming in the kitchen, or her dramatic readings of whatever book she was currently obsessed with.

Even the quiet between them had been beautiful.

Now it felt… hollow. Like something unfinished.

As he drove to training, those thoughts swirled in his head—thick and sticky and endless. He barely remembered the route. Barely noticed the lights. Before he knew it, he was pulling into the lot, heart still heavy with everything unsaid.

He parked, sat for a second, then sighed.

He knew what kind of practice it was going to be today. Punishment practice. They’d lost 3-1 last game, and Coach Flick was not the type to let that slide. He shook it off, rolled his shoulders, and headed inside.

The session was brutal. Fast-paced. Ruthless. His legs burned. His lungs ached. But he stayed focused—gritting his teeth through sprints, locking in during drills. He had to. Because if he didn’t focus, his mind would go back there—back to the curve of Imani’s lips, or the sound of Danielle’s laugh, or the way her eyes sparkled when she was about to make fun of him.

Still, Coach must’ve noticed.

As everyone was filing out after cool-down, still panting and slick with sweat, Coach Flick’s voice rang across the field.

“JULES. En mi oficina. Ahora.”

(JULES. In my office. Now.)

The team didn’t miss a beat.

“Ouuuuuu,” someone called out, laughing.

“A la vergaaa,” another one added, pointing and teasing as Jules reluctantly jogged toward the building.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, took a breath, and stepped into Coach Flick’s office.

“¿Hay algún problema, señor?” Jules asked politely, standing in front of the desk.

(Is there a problem, sir?)

Coach raised an eyebrow. His expression wasn’t angry—just concerned.

“No has hecho nada malo, pero parecías un poco perdido hoy. ¿Está todo bien?”

(You haven’t done anything wrong, but you looked a little lost today. Is everything okay?)

Jules nodded slowly, standing tall even though his body ached.

“Soy un buen entrenador. Mi mente está ocupada hoy. Pero todavía estoy concentrado. Estoy listo para el próximo partido, señor.”

(I’m good, Coach. My mind’s just busy today. But I’m still focused. I’m ready for the next match, sir.)

Coach gave him a long look, then leaned back in his chair with a knowing smile.

“Ahh, vale, vale. ¿Cómo están el bebé y la esposa? ¿Están bien? No he visto a Imani en mucho tiempo. ¿La mantienes sana?”

(Ahh, okay, okay. How’s the baby and the wife? They’re doing alright? I haven’t seen Imani in a while. You keeping her healthy?)

The word wife hit Jules like a punch to the chest.

He blinked, then quickly covered it with a soft chuckle.

“Sí, señor. Están muy bien. Imani también está bien. Últimamente se ha centrado en escribir, y el bebé nos mantiene muy ocupados.”

(Yes, sir. They’re doing very well. Imani’s been focusing on her writing lately, and the baby’s keeping us very busy.)

Coach Flick grinned.

“De acuerdo, chico. Vete a casa con la familia y descansa un poco. Se acerca una semana importante. Te veré mañana. Adiós.”

(Alright, my boy. Go home to the family and get some rest. We’ve got an important week coming up. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.)

Jules nodded, thanked him, and made his way out of the office.

La familia. The wife.

Those words echoed in his chest. It wasn’t just Coach making assumptions. People had always assumed they were married. The way they moved, the way they cared for each other, the way Jules looked at her—it felt permanent. Even to strangers.

And at one point, he and Imani had both agreed marriage wasn’t necessary. They didn’t need a ring to define their love.

But now?

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Maybe things could change.

Maybe she could change her mind.

Because he still had hope. And every time he looked at her—really looked—he swore she had hope too.

[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.”

[808heartz]

☆*:.｡808HEARTZ PRESENTS:

Brighter Days Ahead: The Series..｡.:*☆

Songfics inspired by “Eternal Sunshine: Brighter Days Ahead” by Ariana Grande.

This songfic series will mostly entail angsty fics, given the nature and vibe of the album. Depending on the song, some may be social media aus. Fluff and smut aren’t entirely promised, but as always, I’ll try my best. Fics more than likely won’t be posted in order either.

Underneath the cut, you’ll find the tracks and the corresponding person for the fics. I hope you enjoy. :)

1. intro (end of the world), “how can i tell if i’m in the right relationship? aren’t you supposed to know that shit?” — erling haaland x reader

2. bye, “at least i know how hard we tried, both you and me. didn’t we? didn’t we?” — omar marmoush x reader

3. don’t wanna break up again, “hope you won’t, won’t regret me. hope you still think fondly of our little life” — martin odegaard x reader

4. saturn returns interlude, “it’s time for you to get real about life and sort out who you really are” — ruben dias x reader

5. eternal sunshine, “you’re just my eternal sunshine, sunshine” — social media au, phil foden x famous!reader

6. supernatural, “this love’s possessing me, but i don’t mind at all. it’s like supernatural” — florian wirtz x reader

7. true story, “i’ll play the villain if you need me to, i know how this goes” — dominik szboszlai x reader

8. the boy is mine, “and god knows i’m trying but there’s no denying, the boy is mine, i can’t wait to try him” — jules kounde x reader

9. yes, and?, “why do you care whose — i ride? why? yes, and?” — social media au, william saliba x famous!reader

10. we can’t be friends (wait for your love), “wait until you like me again, wait for your love” — fermin lopez x gavira!reader

11. i wish i hated you, “i wish you were worse to me, yeah, i wish i hated you” — jude bellingham x reader

12. imperfect for you, “messy, completely distressed, but i’m not like that since i met you. imperfect for you” — leandro trossard x reader

13. ordinary things, “there’s never gonna be an ordinary thing as long as i’m with you” — pablo gavi x reader

14. twilight zone, “not that i miss you, i don’t. sometimes, i just can’t believe you happened” — social media au, kylian mbappe x famous!reader

15. warm, “never thought i’d find another could fly at my pace, if you dare, meet me there” — pedri gonzalez x reader

16. dandelion, “if i’m being honest, you can get anything you’d like. can’t you see i bloom at night? boy, just don’t blow this” — gabriel martinelli x reader

17. past life, “i used to think you were the medicine, but you were just code blue” — riccardo calafiori x reader

18. hampstead, “i can’t imagine wanting so badly to be right, guess i’m forever on your mind, i wonder why” — social media au, trent alexander arnold x famous!reader

[amirawrah]

Lowkey in love... two ☀️🐚

☀️ summary: Saryn Hamisi Henry lives a beautifully curated life—Thierry Henry’s adopted daughter, a rising star in London’s fashion scene, and always in control of her image. But her heart? That’s another story.

For four months, she’s been quietly falling for Jules Koundé, Barcelona’s smooth, sharp-witted defender. Their romance has been private, passionate, and perfect—until a single photo from a secret getaway in Monaco leaks online, and the world suddenly knows her truth.

Now trending worldwide, Saryn is spiraling. The press is in a frenzy, the fans are dissecting every detail—and the one person who doesn’t know? Her dad.

As Saryn and Jules navigate the chaos of going public, she’s forced to face what she’s been avoiding: love this real can’t stay hidden forever.

☀️ amirah: happy lowkey in love part 2 day( i mean finally its here right) hope you like this part also by the way this is a short series so like there's only going to be like 5 parts or 6 maybe. anyways enjoy!!!!

☀️masterlist ☀️partone

The sunlight pouring into the room wasn’t the golden glow of Monaco, but it was warm enough to make the day feel full of possibility. The soft hum of the city outside was distant—just another normal day for Barcelona. But for Saryn, it felt like anything but ordinary.

She woke up, tucked into Jules’ side, the smell of his cologne still lingering on his shirt that she wore as a pj's. It felt like a soft cocoon, and for a moment, she wanted to stay wrapped in it forever.

Jules’ arm was draped lazily over her waist, his steady breath against the back of her neck. His hand, which had wandered a little too low last night, was now resting comfortably just above her hip. She felt the warmth of his touch, his fingers slightly twitching as if he didn’t want to let go just yet.

Saryn slowly turned in his arms, facing him. His face was relaxed, the faintest trace of a smile curling on his lips as he slept, and she couldn't help but smile too. A soft kiss on his cheek woke him up just enough to groggily open his eyes.

“Morning,” she whispered, her voice still thick with sleep.

Jules squinted, clearly still in the aftermath of a satisfying sleep. “Morning, baby,” he mumbled, then pulled her in closer, wrapping both arms around her like a safe haven.

Saryn snuggled into his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns along his ribs. “You sleep well?” she asked softly.

He hummed in response, his lips brushing against her hair. “Best sleep I’ve had in a while. You?”

“Definitely,” she replied, then smirked as she glanced up at him. “Although, I’m pretty sure you kept me up more than the game did.”

Jules laughed quietly, his chest vibrating against her ear. “I can't help it if I’m irresistible,” he teased.

“Sure,” she replied, smirking before pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “That’s definitely your version of the story.”

Jules grinned, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. “So, today’s the big day?”

Saryn blinked. “Big day?”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “You know... the game, the media, the stuff we’ve been avoiding.”

Saryn took a deep breath, her mood shifting slightly. The media buzz had already started picking up. Twitter was still on fire from their public outing in Monaco. Fans had been relentless, but now it was a whole new level since the Barcelona game. Being seen together, holding hands, their chemistry undeniable—people weren’t letting it go.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” she admitted, looking up at him. “But it’s not just the fans… it’s my dad too.”

Jules smiled softly, tucking a stray braid behind her ear. “hum?”

She nodded, her fingers grazing his skin. “Yeah. I told you before, I wasn’t ready for him to find out about us.”

He kissed her forehead, the weight of the words sinking in. “And I respect that. But you know, things move fast, and now it’s out. We’ll deal with it together.”

“I know. But he’s—” She paused, trying to find the right words. “He’s you know him, Jules. I don’t want him thinking I’m rushing into something just because it’s you.”

Jules chuckled, a glint of humor in his eyes. “You really think your dad’s gonna mind if we’re happy?”

Saryn let out a breath, leaning into him. “I’m not worried about him disapproving. I just… I’m not sure how he’ll react if he sees me, you know?”

“I get it.” He smiled, brushing his lips over her temple. “But we’ll make it work. It’s just about timing.”

The conversation drifted, and for a while, they stayed wrapped in each other’s warmth, savouring the intimacy of the moment. But reality always had a way of creeping back in.

Eventually, Jules stood up, stretching and moving to the window. “I need to get ready for the match. You up for coming to watch right?”

Saryn hesitated, sitting up in bed. “To the match?”

He turned back to her with a mischievous grin. “I mean, you’ve already survived the Monaco paparazzi, so Barcelona should be a breeze.”

She laughed softly, pushing her hair out of her face. “Fine, fine. I’ll come. But you better not get distracted by me.”

Jules raised an eyebrow. “Distracted? I’ll be too busy impressing you.”

She shook her head, but there was a smile playing at her lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible and irresistible mon ange,” he replied with a wink.

itsmesaryn posted on her story

[ caption: ✨ ]

The energy outside the stadium was electric—Barcelona fans singing, cameras flashing, flags waving. Inside the private box, Saryn sat quietly near the tinted glass, legs crossed, hands tucked around her barca scarf. Her outfit- a Barca jersey that had KOUNDE 23 at the back, jeans then paired with white nikes and tiny gold hoops. Casual, but Saryn casual—effortlessly editorial.

She held her scarf next to her face as if it would hide her nerves. She had never been alone in a stadium this big before, let alone one where her boyfriend—her very public, very trending boyfriend—was about to play. A few others milled around the VIP suite, and though they offered polite smiles, she was too shy to really engage.

Until—

“Saryn?” a familiar voice called, warm and a little amused.

She turned to see Wisdom Kaye, dressed in a slouchy, layered designer look that somehow made him look like he just rolled off a Vogue set. Her face lit up.

“Wis!” she stood to hug him. “Oh my God, what are you doing here? Aren’t you all Hala Madrid?”

He laughed, pulling his shades down. “Guilty. I'm just here to scope the scene.” Then, teasingly, “Also... I’ve been seeing things, Saryn. Especially on Twitter.”

Saryn groaned, covering her face. “Please don’t start.”

“I'm not starting! I’m observing,” Wisdom said, grinning. “It’s giving main character energy. You two are on everyone’s FYP right now.”

She shook her head, cheeks warm. “I swear it wasn’t supposed to come out like that. One blurry beach pic and the whole internet turned into detectives.”

They chatted and laughed until the stadium roared with pre-match hype. Players were already on the pitch, warming up. Saryn leaned forward, scanning until she saw that familiar posture—Jules, sharp in his kit, stretching next to Balde.

Suddenly, Jules turned. He glanced up, spotted her instantly, and lifted a hand in a soft wave. Saryn’s heart thumped. She smiled and waved back, shy but glowing.

Of course, Wisdom was waving like a maniac next to her.

Saryn burst out laughing just as the camera panned to the VIP box. That sweet little exchange? Caught. Streamed. Viral.

@BarcaQueen14: "Did Jules Koundé just wave at his GIRL in the stands?? This is not a drill. We have visuals." @FootyDetective: "So the rumors are TRUE. And the way she’s in his shirt?? That’s not just a friend." @wisdomstanclub: "Wisdom waving like it’s his man on the pitch got me SCREAMING 😭" @fshnisgrl22: "Jules x Thierry Henry’s daughter was NOT on my 2025 bingo card but I support them like rent."

Back on the pitch, kickoff had begun. The match started rough—Barcelona wasn’t connecting well, and tension buzzed through the crowd. But in the 46th minute, just seconds into the second half, Jules made a clean, razor-sharp pass to Lamine Yamal, who finessed it into the net with ease.

The stadium exploded.

Saryn leapt to her feet as the roar hit, clapping wildly as she watched Jules and Lamine celebrate with a hug, before Lamine and Balde ran to the corner flag to do their signature dance in front of the camera.

“Let them serve, then!” Wisdom whooped beside her, nearly knocking over his drink.

Saryn couldn’t stop smiling—her heart full, proud, and beaming.

Jules had made magic happen. And now it was halftime.

As the players jogged off the pitch for halftime, the stadium buzzed with excitement. Saryn leaned back in her seat, heart still thumping from the adrenaline of Lamine’s goal. Her smile lingered as she scrolled through a few messages—her group chat with Jamie and James was blowing up with screenshots of her and Jules’ wave.

“Alright, I gotta pee,” Wisdom said, standing and stretching like a fashion giraffe. “Don’t make any headlines while I’m gone.”

Saryn laughed. “No promises.”

She watched him walk off, then turned her attention back to the pitch. Her eyes trailed to the tunnels where the players disappeared. Just then, a gentle tap on her shoulder made her turn.

A woman with bright, curly blonde hair and a beaming smile stood next to her. She looked effortlessly chic in an oversized denim jacket, gold hoops, and red-tinted sunglasses pushed to the top of her head.

“Hi!” the woman said cheerfully. “You are… Jules girlfriend, yes?”

“Oh!” Saryn blinked in surprise, then stood with a smile. “Yes… I am. I’m Saryn.”

“Ahhh, nice to meet you!” she grinned, her accent warm and distinct. “I’m Natalia. Raphinha’s wife.”

Saryn’s face lit up. “Oh, wow! It’s so nice to meet you too.”

“I saw you here and—eh—I just wanted to say hello. You are very beautiful!” Natalia said, her English sweet and a little broken. “You are doing okay? I know it is crazy now. Online and everything.”

Saryn chuckled shyly, brushing her braids over her shoulder. “It’s been… a lot. But I’m okay, thank you.”

Natalia placed a gentle hand over Saryn’s. “It is always crazy at first. But you get used. Just remember to protect your heart, but enjoy it too. They are good men—but football is… big life,” she said with a little shrug. “And now people want to see all of it.”

Saryn nodded, taking that in. Natalia reminded her of the older cousin you didn’t know you needed.

“You’re very sweet. Thanks for this.”

Natalia reached into her tiny Dior crossbody and pulled out her phone. “I give you my number, okay? You need anything—you text me.”

Saryn entered her number and saved it with a heart emoji.

“Obrigada,” Saryn said with a wink, and Natalia’s eyes lit up.

“You speak Portuguese?”

“Just a little,” Saryn laughed.

“I like you! Okay, bye bye! I go find my baby girl,” she said, waving as she turned to leave.

A second later, Saryn’s phone buzzed.

Jules👜 : You look so beautiful.

Her heart flipped.

Focus 23.

Jules👜 : I am. on you. 😏

I’m proud of you for that assist. That was magic.

Jules👜 : Only for you❤️.

Jules is typing… Then nothing. He was gone.

Back on the field.

Wisdom returned moments later, shaking his hands dry and plopping into the seat beside her.

“What did I miss?” he asked, adjusting his rings.

“Nothing,” she said with a secret smile. “Shhh. The show’s starting again.”

And what a show it was.

Barcelona came back into the second half with fire. The tempo was faster, the passes sharper. Saryn sat forward, eyes scanning for Jules. He moved like liquid steel—confident and focused.

It was in the 69th minute when it happened.

A perfectly timed intercept by Jules had him surging down the right flank. The crowd was roaring, everyone rising to their feet as he launched a laser pass straight to Lewandowski, who didn’t hesitate for a second. One touch, one turn, one shot—

GOAL.

The stadium erupted. Horns, drums, screaming fans—it was a sensory explosion.

Saryn jumped to her feet, arms flung around Wisdom in pure celebration. “HE DID IT AGAIN!” she shouted over the noise, her voice nearly drowned out by the storm of joy around them.

Wisdom was yelling too, both arms in the air. “Two assists! Your man is cooking out there!”

They laughed, hugged again, and looked down at the field just in time to see Jules high-fiving Lewandowski, the entire team buzzing with renewed energy.

And then the cameras panned—again—to the box, to you.

Saryn was caught mid-laugh, arms still loosely around Wisdom, pure joy on her face. Within seconds, social media had grabbed it.

@FootyFashionFiles: "Jules Koundé having a soft girlfriend who looks like THAT and assists like THAT… unfair." @champagne4thepain: "She hugged Wisdom like he was the one who scored, I love her 😭" @sarynxjulesdaily: "Our girl Saryn cheering her man like she raised him herself. ICONIC." @FCB_inside: "Koundé x Lewandowski = elite linkup. And yes, his girl is in the building."

As the match continued, Saryn couldn’t stop smiling. Every time Jules touched the ball, her heart beat just a little faster. This wasn’t just about football anymore—it was them, slowly stepping into the light, unafraid.

And as much as the world was watching… she didn’t really mind anymore.

Because now, it finally felt real.

The final whistle blew, and the stadium exploded in sound. Barcelona had clinched the win, still holding their place at the top of the La Liga table. The fans were chanting names, flags waving like a sea of red and blue, and the energy buzzed all around Saryn like electricity.

She leaned forward slightly, hands clasped under her chin as she watched Jules on the pitch. His curls were slightly damp with sweat, shirt clinging to him until he peeled it off in one smooth motion—revealing a body that made a few fans near her actually gasp.

Saryn just smiled.

Jules jogged toward the edge of the pitch and spotted a young boy near the front row—jersey too big, cheeks painted in the Barça colors. Without a second thought, he handed the boy his shirt, ruffling his hair in the process. The kid’s face lit up like Christmas morning, and the crowd around him went wild.

Then Jules looked up, past the fans, straight at her.

Their eyes met. And even from a distance, even with thousands of people around them, it felt like they were the only two in the stadium. He gave her that soft, slow smile—the one reserved only for her—and she instinctively pulled out her phone, catching him mid-look.

The photo was golden. Hair tousled, eyes glinting, half a smile, the stadium lights painting him in magic. She opened Instagram, heart fluttering, and posted it to her story with a simple caption: 💙❤️

Beside her, Wisdom was clapping and grabbing his things.

“Well, it’s official,” he said, glancing at her. “I like him.”

She laughed, still watching Jules disappear into the tunnel. “Took you long enough hater.”

“You know I had to vet first. Make sure the energy’s right.”

“It is,” she said quietly, almost more to herself than to him.

They turned to each other, a comfortable familiarity between them. “Let’s catch up properly soon, yeah? Brunch or something.”

“Definitely. You better not ghost me.”

“Me? Never,” he said, pulling her in for a hug. “Proud of you. This whole thing—you’re glowing.”

“Stop,” she grinned, swatting his arm. “Go before you make me cry.”

Wisdom gave her one last smile and disappeared down the steps.

And just like that, she was alone again. The stadium had started to clear out, the music playing through the speakers now a soft celebratory rhythm. She stayed seated, eyes on the tunnel.

She knew it might take a while—Jules always took his sweet time post-match. Between the ice baths, media obligations, and the twenty-minute process he called “grooming,” she figured she had at least a half hour to kill.

But she didn’t mind waiting.

Because she knew that in a few minutes, he’d walk out freshly showered, cologne clinging to his skin and he’d be hers to hold again.

And now, finally, they didn’t have to hide anymore.

As the last of the fans exited the stadium, Saryn’s phone buzzed.

Jules👜 : “Come down, mon cœur. Use your pass. I’m almost done.”

She glanced down at the lanyard around her neck. With a soft smile, she got up, smoothed out her shirt that carried his number, and made her way through the maze of exclusive corridors, guided by staff who knew exactly who she was now—even if they were too polite to say anything.

The hallway opened into a quieter section of the stadium reserved for post-match press and broadcast interviews. There, under the harsh lights and front of the familiar CBS backdrop, she spotted him.

Jules.

Hair still damp, eyes focused, speaking effortlessly in French and English. He was poised and calm, charm wrapped in confidence. One of the reporters he was speaking to—Saryn knew him vaguely from her time at a CBS event in London—nodded along, holding out the mic while Jules gestured casually.

But then her eyes shifted to the screen set up across the room.

There it was—the CBS Sports studio feed live on the monitor. Hosting the post-match discussion from their sleek New York office, seated comfortably alongside Kate Abdo, Micah Richards, and Jamie Carragher… was her father.

Thierry Henry.

Saryn blinked.

He wasn’t here, thank God. But he was still watching—analyzing, hosting, and breaking down the game, which meant… he’d definitely seen Jules play. Obviously noticed the assist. Probably saw that moment caught on camera—Jules turning and waving at her, the smile, her in the box, the chaos trending online.

She could almost hear Micah's voice now, teasing in that quiet, knowing way.

“Looks like Koundé’s putting in work on and off the pitch, huh?”

She shook her head, trying not to laugh.

Then she looked back at Jules.

He must’ve noticed her because he paused for a split second in his response, and his eyes slid toward her like a quiet secret. His lips twitched into a small, crooked smile before he turned back to the mic and finished his answer, calm as ever.

Classic Koundé.

A few more questions, a couple laughs. He thanked the reporters and nodded toward the screen, likely knowing exactly who was watching on the other side. Then, finally, he turned and walked over to her, eyes warm, arms already reaching.

His arms wrapped around her like second nature, pulling her in. The cameras weren’t there anymore, but people were. Staff, team personnel, other WAGs in the distance. She felt their eyes.

Still, Jules leaned down, whispered low in French against her ear, “Ne t'inquiète pas, viens avec moi.” Don’t worry. Come with me.

She nodded silently, letting him guide her through another door, down a quieter hallway that opened into a sleek private lounge tucked behind tinted glass and velvet ropes.

It was softly lit with gold fixtures and velvet seating. The energy was calmer now, champagne in flutes and a few familiar faces scattered about.

One of them was Natalia. She lit up instantly when she saw them, waving Saryn over. Jules turned to her and said, “I’m going to change,” and before he could step away, she teased him gently.

“You’re going to take forever, aren’t you?” she said, narrowing her eyes with a smile.

He smirked, stepping closer. “Don’t start.”

“You’re the one who needs twenty-five minutes to do your hair Jules, you have locs,” she grinned.

His lips caught hers in a quick kiss before she could laugh again. She pulled back instinctively, remembering the eyes around them.

“People are watching,” she whispered.

“Let them,” he said under his breath, before stealing another kiss.

She placed her hand on his chest and nudged him toward the hallway. “Go. You’re going to make me miss you less if you take too long.”

He chuckled and finally walked off, glancing back once like he always did.

She turned to find a seat, and Natalia patted the spot beside her. “You two are so cute,” she beamed in accented English.

Saryn smiled shyly. “He’s alright,” she joked, still feeling the heat in her cheeks.

Natalia laughed and leaned closer, her arm looping around Saryn’s. “Come, I introduce you.”

She introduced her to a few of the other women seated nearby. Berta, the girlfriend of another Barca player, and a few other WAGs whose names she couldn’t quite catch but who were warm, easygoing, and instantly welcoming.

They chatted about everything—what it was like being in the spotlight, how chaotic match days could get, the constant travel, and what outfits held up best in stadium wind. Saryn even found herself laughing a bit too loud at a story Berta told about sneaking snacks into the box once.

She didn’t realize how much time had passed until she heard the familiar sound of heavy footsteps.

She turned—and nearly forgot how to breathe.

Jules walked in wearing an oversized white button-up shirt, the collar open just enough, paired with dark fitted pants that made his long legs look even longer. His signature curls were more relaxed now, and somehow, the indoor sunglasses worked.

Saryn tilted her head. “Sunglasses?” she mouthed, confused.

He shrugged, smirking from across the room.

She rolled her eyes playfully and stood up, saying goodbye to the ladies, who all waved her off with knowing looks.

Jules met her halfway, leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. The fabric of his shirt brushed against her skin, and he smelled of clean cologne and aftershave.

“tu es prêt ?” he murmured. You ready?

“Let’s go.”

And together, hand in hand, they slipped out of the lounge and into the quiet night, the world outside buzzing, but their world—just the two of them—perfectly still.

The drive back was quiet, but it wasn’t silence—it was the kind of calm that hums with warmth and afterglow. Monaco’s city lights cast a golden sheen through the windows, and Jules drove with one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh, fingers brushing lazy circles over her skin.

“I hope you had fun,” he said softly, glancing at her with a half-smile.

Saryn smirked, eyes flicking to him playfully. “Yeah, I had so much fun watching you kick a ball—or is it throw a ball in?—for 90 plus minutes. Which, by the way, you do look really sexy doing.”

She winked. He chuckled, the corner of his mouth tugging up with amusement and something darker, something that burned beneath the surface.

“I know you had fun. Saw you and Wisdom messing around,” he added, eyes on the road but teasing.

“I know,” she laughed. “He wanted to see you too, but he had to leave early. We’ll just text him after.”

“After?” Jules said, tone dipping low, curious. “After what?”

Saryn only hummed and gave a casual shrug, like she hadn’t just lit a fire in the space between them.

His fingers tightened slightly on her thigh, and he glanced at her again, eyes lingering this time before he refocused on the road, jaw ticking.

When they reached his place, he parked the car, grabbed his training bag from the backseat, and tossed it on the floor near the entryway. Still flushed from the match and the media frenzy, he moved into the kitchen, tugged open the fridge, and pulled out a cold bottle of water.

He leaned back against the counter as he took a long drink.

Saryn walked over, slow and sweet, until she was standing right in front of him. Her arms looped around his neck and her fingertips brushed along his nape.

He barely had time to put the bottle down before she leaned in and kissed the corner of his jaw.

With a quiet grunt, his hands slid down to her waist, gripping her tightly before moving to her ass, lifting her with ease and settling her on the counter. The cool marble met the back of her thighs, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his mouth when he leaned in close.

“Est-ce que c'est ce que tu veux dire par après?” he murmured, voice rough, eyes dark. 'Is this what you ment by after?'

“Oui,” she whispered, breath catching.

He kissed her deeply, hungrily, like he’d been waiting all night for this.

Her hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt while he tugged hers over her head. The soft fabric of his crisp white button-up slid down his arms, and she ran her hands over his chest, nails tracing lightly across his skin. He groaned into her mouth and pressed her back against the counter, lips dragging down her neck as his hands gripped her thighs and pulled her closer.

The world outside disappeared, again.

And in the soft glow of the kitchen lights, between whispered French and gasped breaths, he made her feel like the only thing that existed.

Saryn stirred under the soft sheets, golden light spilling in from the balcony windows of Jules’ Barcelona apartment. Her arm instinctively reached across the bed — but it met nothing but cool linen. She blinked, stretching out slowly before sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

No Jules.

A small smile tugged at her lips. He’s probably working out, she thought, already picturing him in his usual morning grind—shirtless, determined, music low but vibey, probably mouthing lyrics to a French rap track or meek mill while doing push-ups. She shook her head and laughed softly to herself, grabbing her phone off the nightstand.

Curiosity got the best of her. She’d promised herself she’d watch the CBS interview from yesterday’s match. She opened YouTube, typed in “Jules Koundé post-match CBS interview”, and there it was — the thumbnail of him smiling, the caption: “Koundé on assisting Barça’s win”

She clicked play.

CBS SPORTS LIVE - KOUNDE POST MATCH INTERVIEW

Kate Abdo: “Well, Jules Koundé, you certainly put on a show today. Two brilliant assists. How’re you feeling?”

Jules: (charming smile, brushing hair back) “Yeah, I’m feeling good. It was a tough match but I’m happy with the result, happy to contribute.”

Jamie Carragher: “We’ve been talking about that second assist—absolute beauty. What was going through your mind?”

Jules: (laughs) “Honestly? Just get the ball to Lewy. He finishes everything.”

Micah Richards: (smiles and looks towards Thierry Henry) “And it worked! Now, we can’t ignore this, mate. The camera caught you waving at someone during warm-up.”

Kate Abdo: (smiling knowingly) “That someone looked very familiar.”

Jules: (a little shy, smirking) “I guess the camera sees everything.”

Thierry Henry: “So, we’re confirming this? Or are we leaving it to fan fiction?”

Jules: (chuckles) “Let’s just say I’m very happy.”

Jamie (smiling): “Well clearly a good luck charm—keep going!”

The video ended and Saryn tilted her head back on the pillow, a big grin plastered across her face. Very happy, huh? She opened the comment section.

BarcaQueen32: “This man is so in love it’s crazy 😭😭😭” FootyFanx: “THE WAY HE LOOKED AT THE CAMERA WHEN THIERRY SAID THAT??? I’m screaming.” Welovethefrench08: “Even Thierry smiling like a proud dad lmaooo” LaLigaGossip: “I want someone to talk about me like Jules talks about his girl 🥹”

She laughed, softly clutching her phone to her chest, cheeks warm with amusement and affection. This was real. This was happening.

Sliding out of bed, she grabbed one of Jules’ oversized tees, pulling it over her frame, and padded barefoot toward the door.

Time to go find her man.

Saryn padded softly down the hallway, the hum of bass-heavy music growing louder with each step. The scent of clean sweat and Jules’ cologne still lingering from last night filled the air as she pushed open the sleek glass door to the in-home gym.

There he was.

Shirtless. Glowing. Absolutely in his zone.

Running on the treadmill like it owed him money, head bobbing to Meek Mill’s Dreams and Nightmares. His lips moved along with every lyric, eyes laser-focused on the nothingness ahead, rhythm in sync with the beat and his stride.

She stood there for a second, arms folded, a slow smile playing on her lips as she watched him—so effortlessly in his element.

He didn’t even notice her until she stepped directly in front of the treadmill, arms still crossed.

He startled just a little, then grinned. “Merde, you scared me”.

“You need to fix your sleeping schedule,” she teased, tilting her head. “You were up before the sun.”

He slowed the treadmill down, hopping off gracefully with that same cocky confidence he carried onto the pitch. “I did sleep. I just… woke up and had energy.” He leaned down, hands on his hips, catching his breath. “What can I say? I’m productive.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she laughed.

“I’m effective,” he countered, standing up tall now, still glistening. “And motivated.”

Saryn rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “You and this Meek Mill guy. I swear.”

He pulled a towel from the bench, patting his face as he walked over to her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “When are you heading back to London?”

She blinked. “For work?”

He nodded, draping the towel over his shoulders.

“I was thinking Sunday night. The Atiba charity event’s next week, and Jamie wants me back early so we could co prep.”

“Ah, right,” Jules said, nodding slowly. “You do the event every year non?”

“Yup,” she confirmed, brushing invisible lint off his chest. “It’s our third one. There’s going to be a runway, some performances… I could put you in a tux if you wanna show up and break the internet again.”

He smirked. “Your inviting me?”

She looked up at him, eyes soft. “I am.”

“Then I’ll be there.”

She beamed. “Good. Because I want you there.”

He leaned down, his forehead resting lightly against hers. “You’re always the prettiest thing in any room. But I’ll come anyway.”

She let out a laugh, swatting his towel. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you love it.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, grinning up at him.

After their little moment in the gym, Saryn sat on the yoga mat, pretending to stretch but mostly just watching Jules finish up his last set of crunches. He caught her staring and threw her a wink before grabbing his water bottle.

“Stop staring at me like that,” he said, towel slung over his shoulder.

“Like what?” she replied innocently.

“Like I’m the dessert you didn’t order but now you want to finish the whole plate.”

Saryn burst out laughing. “Wow. That’s the line you’re going with today?”

He grinned, taking a long sip from his bottle.

She stood, brushing her palms on her thighs. “Alright. Shower and breakfast?”

“Deal,” he said, grabbing her hand as they walked out of the gym together.

After a very good shower and change, Jules made omelettes while Saryn sat at the kitchen island, phone in hand, reading through texts from Jamie about the charity event.

“Are you really putting me in a tux?” he asked over his shoulder.

“If I have to be back in stylist mode, I’m not doing it halfway,” she said, grinning. “Also, you’d look ridiculously good in a classic black Valentino.”

He smiles as he slid a plate in front of her and sat across from her with his own. They ate in a cozy silence, feet brushing under the table, and Jules would occasionally nudge her ankle just to make her look up so he could smile at her like a fool.

“So,” he said between bites, “after the charity event, what then? Are you staying in London for a while?”

She shrugged. “I’ll need to. Big issue coming out, and the team wants me more involved with some editorials. We’ve got some international covers lined up.”

Jules nodded, chewing thoughtfully.

“You?” she asked. “Back to training and prep?”

“Yeah, we’ve got La Liga matches lined up, plus Champions League is coming. Intense schedule.”

She bit her lip. “So… lots of time apart.”

His eyes softened. “Yeah. But we’ve handled it before.”

She nodded, then smiled. “Long distance has nothing on us.”

He reached across the table, taking her hand. “Exactly.”

They finished breakfast slow, lost in that quiet peace couples share when they know time’s ticking but are still soaking in the now.

Then Jules stood, stretched, and pulled her up with him.

“Come amour,” he said. “We’ve got a lazy day to enjoy before reality comes knocking again.”

[snowseasonmademe]

La terre a besoin de l’océan (chapter 2)

word count: 1,572

pairing: Jules Koundé x Imani Taylor

summary: Poet and new mother Imani is navigating life after birth, co-parenting her daughter with the man she once thought she’d marry—Barcelona footballer Jules Koundé. Though their relationship ended, the love between them never truly disappeared, simmering beneath shared responsibilities and lingering touches. As they rebuild trust and reimagine their future, Imani must decide if the life she walked away from is the one she’s meant to return to.

fc: @/ tatyanaalii_

tag list: @sucredreamer@irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Imani had always been scared of motherhood. Not in an abstract, distant kind of way—but in a visceral, bone-deep way that gripped her as early as age eight, when she first understood how hard it had been for her own mother.

She remembered hearing her mother cry through the thin walls of their Brooklyn apartment. The quiet kind of crying, the kind that you muffle into your pillow because your baby is sleeping, and no one else is coming to help. Her mother, Inez, had been sixteen. Her father, Keith, was the same. Two kids clinging to a dream they didn’t have the tools to build.

Imani watched her mother work double shifts, walk home in the rain with groceries that barely filled a bag, fall asleep with her arm wrapped protectively over Imani’s body like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.

She grew up watching the fatigue. And even when love was there—strong, stubborn, messy love—it was never enough to silence the exhaustion.

So, by the time Imani was old enough to carve out a path of her own, she promised herself one thing: she’d never bring a child into the world unless she knew she was ready.

And yet—life has a way of showing you that love doesn’t wait for your timing.

Now, decades later, watching her mother glow with a new husband and a new toddler Kaya, Imani knew the truth she had always suspected but never said aloud: her mother hadn’t been meant to be a mother then. Not that young. Not in that way. Imani could see it so clearly now—in the lightness of Inez’s laugh, the softness in her voice when she cradled her new baby, Kaya. This was how her mother was always supposed to a mother. Whole. Healed. Loved.

And she was happy. Radiant, even.

Imani had never envied her mother’s struggles. But she respected the hell out of her. And she loved her more than life.

They were best friends. No competition. No jealousy. Just real, raw closeness. Imani wanted nothing more than to see her mother thrive—and now, she was. With a toddler running around her feet, and a husband who kissed her like she was still his crush from homeroom. Imani was endlessly grateful for that. But it also made her fears louder when she found herself pregnant.

She’d had a little practice with babies, thanks to Kaya. Late-night FaceTime calls, visits to New York, helping with feedings and lullabies when she could. But being a big sister was nothing like being a mother. Because now, there was no handing the baby back when she got fussy or when Imani felt overwhelmed.

There was no “I’m tired” out. No off switch.

But that was where Jules came in.

She got pregnant with Danielle six months into her relationship with Jules. Six months into that overwhelming, sensual, soul-stirring thing they had going. He was fire and safety at the same time. The kind of man who could whisper affirmations in your ear while blowing your back out. The kind of man who made you feel like being vulnerable wasn’t a risk—it was a relief.

Imani had always been cautious with her heart. She shared her poems more easily than her secrets. But Jules? Jules earned the full story. He never asked her to be softer than she was. He just held her as she unfolded.

So when the pregnancy test came back positive, she wasn’t scared of him. She was scared of herself—of becoming her mother. Of giving her child a tired version of her spirit. Of losing the part of herself that had just started to bloom.

Still, she told him.

Six weeks pregnant, curled up in an oversized tee on the edge of his bed, eyes brimming but voice steady. He had been quiet at first. Not in a distant way, but in that Jules kind of way—like he was running the entire future through his head before saying a word.

Then, he reached for her hand and said, “It’s Okay. We’re gonna do this together.”

And they did.

By eight weeks, he had moved her into his home in Spain. The first night in their new apartment, they slept in the same bed, but with the quiet between them filled with a million emotions. He placed a hand on her belly before she drifted off and whispered, “Hey, little one… I’m your papa” Imani had turned away, pressing her face into the pillow so he wouldn’t see her cry.

He took care of her like she was made of glass, but not in a way that stripped her of her strength. No—he still believed in her independence. He just stepped in when he saw she needed a break before she admitted it.

She had every pregnancy complication in the book. Fatigue. Spiking migraines. Her lower back throbbed so often she swore she could feel her bones shifting. Her eyesight worsened so badly she had to dig out the thick black glasses she used to wear while pulling all-nighters in college. They made her feel frumpy—like an academic trying too hard.

But Jules looked at her like she was a goddess every time.

He’d kiss the corners of her eyes and tell her, “You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Glasses, sweatpants, baby bump and all.”

And he meant it.

He memorized every symptom. Peppermint tea when he saw her rubbing her temples. Cold compresses. Soothing playlists. His fingertips knew every pressure point in her lower back and hips. He even skipped training one day—not publicly, but quietly—just to stay home and hold her through a particularly brutal migraine.

It scared her, how easy he made it feel. How kind he was without expecting praise. And it terrified her that even with all of that, she still didn’t want to be with him.

They’d talked about it—soft, honest conversations under dim lights while her belly grew and she had to shift sideways to get comfortable on the couch. She loved him. Of course she did. But she didn’t see him as her husband. And he didn’t see her as his wife. At least not at that time. They were best friends who had fallen into something big, something permanent, something sacred. And they both knew what they had was better as a bond than a romance.

The last time they had sex, she was 26 weeks along. It was slow, almost reverent. Like a goodbye without saying the word. Afterward, he kissed her stomach, whispered, “Thank you for letting me love you like this.”

And that was it.

When Danielle finally came—after twelve hours of labor and a scream that nearly split her throat—he was perfect. No fear. No complaints. Just Jules.

He held Imani’s hand as she pushed. Rubbed her back when she wept. Fed her Jell-O in between contractions. She swore she saw tears fall from his lashes the moment Danielle’s tiny body slid into the world. He kissed her forehead, not even realizing his hands were still shaking.

He took Danielle in his arms like she was made of bubbles and holy water. Whispered her name a hundred times. Memorized her face within minutes.

For the first two months, he barely let Imani lift a finger. He bathed Danielle. Changed her. Fed her. Rocked her for hours while Imani slept. He took her recovery more seriously than she did—cutting off visits, canceling invites, drawing the blinds when he saw she was overstimulated.

She tried to fight it. To go back to being Imani the poet, not just Imani the mother. But Jules held the line. “You gave life, baby. You get to rest.”

And God… she loved him for it.

Not in the romantic, let’s-run-away-and-get-married way. But in the eternal way. It was an “I will always have your back”.

Inez saw it too.

At first, she was skeptical. She kept Jules at arm’s length for weeks—maybe months. The situation felt too familiar. A quick pregnancy, a too-young couple, a baby on the way. It was déjà vu. She saw herself in Imani and hated it. Feared it. But eventually, that changed.

She watched the way he rubbed Imani’s belly with warm oil, his voice low and tender.

She watched how he woke up first for every night feeding.

She saw him holding Danielle like she was his whole universe and realized: this wasn’t history repeating itself. This was redemption.

Eventually, she started calling him “son-in-law,” even though no rings had ever been exchanged.

When Imani told her she was pregnant, Inez had cried. She was only one year postpartum with Kaya and couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that her daughter and grandaughter would be just two years apart in age.

“I got babies raisin’ babies,” she said through her tears, laughing softly. “That’s what I get for being fast in high school.”

But now? Now, she couldn’t get enough of Danielle.

That little girl was obsessed with her Grandmama. Every time they visited Brooklyn, Danielle clung to Inez like a shadow. Refused to let go. Wouldn’t even look at Jules or Imani when she was nestled under Inez’s arm. She wanted stories and songs and snacks and snuggles—all from her grandma.

She never once asked for her grandfather.

Maybe she could sense he wasn’t part of the picture.

Maybe she just knew who had shown up—and who hadn’t.

[footballerimaginess]

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

[mauvecherie-writes]

Sneak Peek: FIC TBC

Note: This fic will a two parter. This peek is from the first part. Coming when? We shall see 😂. Enjoy! Speculate in the comments and inbox. Love you ❤️‍🔥.

————

Title: When We …

Pairing: Jules Koundé x Fem!Black Reader.

Rating: 18+ NSFW.

“Why did you leave hmm?” He asked, the accent of his voice washing over you as he held your face in his hands. You let out a shaky breath as he held onto his arms for stability.

“It was too much Jules. I- I- was feeling overwhelmed and I just needed to leave.” You tried to explain.

“But we would have talked about it no? We would have figured it out.” He rebutted which caused you to sigh.

“I still would have needed my space. I needed time to think. Being around you would have clouded my judgment.” You clarified before you moved his hands away from your face but kept your fingers intertwined. Your body swayed, affected by his presence. Being so close to him was already mistifying your mind and you hated that all rationale seemed to leave you as he looked down at you with eyes full of beseech.

You hadn’t seen him in the physical for over four months and now that you were in arm’s reach, you knew it would be hard to escape.

“What do you need to figure out?” He stressed in a low but affirmative tone. Jules closed his eyes, his jaw tensing under clenched teeth as he tried to gather his thoughts. “Together we were magic. What we had was beautiful.”

“What we had was destroying me Jules.” You whispered finally pulling yourself away. However, before you could completely move, Jules pulled you back into his chest. You gasped as his hand came to the back of your neck and titled your head upwards until you met his eyes.

“And it would have restored you, piece by piece. Inch by inch. You just have to let it be …”

———————

@queenshikongo3 @hopefulromantic1 @serpenttines-library @saintslewis

[new-berry]

Fic premise: it is the international break and some combination of Tchouameni/Mbappe/Mendy/Camavinga (RM) are seducing? or erotically bullying? Jules Kounde. One or more of them may also be some kind of bloodthirsty vampiric creature

Look I saw this and immediately my brain went “the RM French contingent ‘teasing’ Jules and then it going too far?”

This is very on brand I cannot lie.

Ahhh this got immediately NSFW and a touch dead dove-y heads up!

It would start as banter. They wouldn’t exclude Jules they would relentlessly include him. He can’t move for having at least two RM French players bracketing him at all times. Their arms brushing at meals, thighs against his on the bus, arm around his neck leaning some weight on him in training.

Shirts moved around inntrainging so they are next to each other in the locker room. Circled by three of them in drills. Aurelian stands behind him and grabs his locs to pull Jules head back on his shoulder. To compliment him on a pass. A touch and then let go. For the rest of the afternoon Jules throat feels stretched, bared and held to the light.

Edu’s the gentle one, a hand on his cheek, snuggling up against him, teasing him about playing too much saying he need to be spoiled. Warm baths and massages and comfortable beds. Wrapping his arms around Jules chest from behind. Nuzzling into his back, sighing happily saying Jules is the perfect warm temperature after cold weather training. Saying it’s like geting a hot water bottle with legs that smells so good. Jules slightly awkwardly pats his hand resting over his heart while Edu rubs his cheeks across his neck like he’s scent marking him.

Kylian is more intense, checking in very few minutes picking through his clothes telling Jules he should gave private fashion shows. Refusing to leave the room when he gets changed, complimenting him, just the wrong side of too intent, too descriptive, his voice like its own touch. Standing too close behind him. Insisting on tying his necklace. Hands lingering across his shoulders, looking at Jules body over his shoulder in the mirror but not his face, breath on his skin for too many heartbeats.

Aurelian is the heavy. Literally a heavy hand on his thigh, sitting between Jules and everyone else. Isolating him at the end of the line of chairs. Palm flat on his skin, fingers on his inner thigh his shorts shoved up or his hand held under them. An arm firm over his shoulder, keeping him in place during briefings.

Jules skin is crawling, touched out, craving privacy, locking the door was pointless Kylian has the master key. It’s easier to just give in, get stripped, pushed down on his knees. Easier to just endure while they complement him over and over. Whisper praise as hands strokes his arms and across his back. Take on their weight and too hard hands shoving his legs open. Easier to tell himself he feels perfect not pain

[tuxedo-lef]

Get so excited any time you mention a fabinelli fic idea! I'm really loving the current one your working on - 💙🤍

I'm for sure not getting into it beyond notes and small draft pieces until I finish the current wip and the diogo/fabio one shot i want to write (for you <3).

Basically the idea is inspired by two fics that I read on ao3 (i never know if authors like links to their fics being shared, but both works are in my recommended bookmarks on ao3 if you want to find them - both fics are in mandarin chinese). One is a fabinelli fic where fabio is a vampire who survives on sweets, and the other one is a jules kounde/aurelien tchouameni fic where jules is a succubus who is starving and eventually caves in and gets his "food" from his roommate.

So now my head is full of succubus (or incubus - whatever, gender is a construct and these are fictional creatures anyway) Fabio, and Gabi feeling guilty because Fabio always appears in his wet dreams. Maybe Fabio starves himself when he realizes Gabi is growing uncomfortable with him since he started visiting his dreams. ANYWAYS! I'm picturing Fabio with his little tail (with a heart shape at the end) and tiny horns that appear on his head when he feeds or when he gets really hungry.