#jules kounde x you

[mauvecherie-writes]

FREAKTOBER 02 | jules koundé.

Rating: 18+ NSFW mature.

🎀 FREAKTOBER MASTERLIST 🎀

Jules was a man of routine.

Every morning, he woke up, went for a run, came back to his home gym and did his daily session before truly beginning his day.

However, when you were around - all of that was thrown out of the window. You typically spent your morning lounging waiting for him to come home after his meetings.

This time around, you were sleeping on your back. Completely nude with your hair perfectly secured in a pink, silk bonnet. He had made love to you the previous night but waking up to your voluptuous body in his arms had made him hard.

Jules laid kisses on your shoulder as his hand caressed your curves. He rose to his knees beside you and took in your form. He marvelled at the crease between your thighs glistening with your arousal mixed with the remnants of the night before. Dark red at your centre, inviting him, calling to him. His dick twitched as he knelt at the bottom of your feet and his hands pushed your legs apart, your legs parting, opening to reveal your womanhood in all its glory.

Jules inhaled.

Oh, your aroma was as heady and intoxicating as ever. Your valley glistened and shone as it looked to welcome him, making his mouth water for a taste.

You stirred awake at his touch. Once your eyes opened and you peered down at him in between your legs. You smiled as you greeted him.

“It’s barely 7 in the morning and you’re already craving for a taste.” You giggled.

“I’m always craving you, mon amour.” Jules whispered into your skin as he widened your pussy with his fingers, easing your labia apart and touching your opening gently with his tongue. You gasped, twitching as your desire overcame your ability to maintain composure through your daze sleep. His tongue ramped up your arousal, the pressure in the pit of your stomach was building up already.

It had been too long since you last saw him and your body was begging for him.

Jules ran the tip of his tongue along your slit before dipping it into your entrance and then pulling it back out to press at your mound of pleasure. As he sucked on your bud, your head tipped back and your mouth fell open in a silent scream of absolute pleasure.

Your fingers scrunched into the softness of the blankets beneath you and your body tensed. Jules slithered his tongue up, down and repeat. This time, the smooth side of his tongue lapped at your clit before he brought the tip of his tongue dipping past your entrance, tasting your nectar and honey. So sweet, so salty, as if you were the best caramel in existence.

“Oh my god! Baby!” You whined as you pushed your hips into his face. Jules growled against your cunt as he held your cheeks apart as he devoured you.

Jules continued paying attention on your nub and sucked it within his mouth as two fingers probed your opening and pushed beyond that into the heat of your cunt. It did not take long for him to feel for your G-spot his fingers encountered the bumps and ripples of your walls.

“Baby, please let me cum. Please, baby.” Your mouth opened as your moans rang out. You fucked his fingers and rubbed your clit on his tongue until the waves of pleasure washed through you.

“Oh my gaaa—.” You cried as you erupted all over his mouth, chin and fingers. Jules hummed as he held onto you as your body shook. You stayed in that position for a moment before Jules laid beside you.

You rolled to face him and threw a leg over his waist to straddle him. You leaned down, placing the softest kiss on his lips as you grasped his dick into your warm palm. Jules groaned into your mouth as you rubbed his tip against your opening.

“Asseyez-vous dessus.” [sit on it] Jules whispered against your lips which caused you to smirk. “Don’t play with me right now, sweetheart.”

You didn’t waste any more time. You guided him into you and then sank down. You took him inch by inch until he completely disappeared within your core. Both of your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he nudged at all of your spots. You pressed your hands into your chest to stabilise yourself.

“I’ll never get used to that.” Jules breathlessly said which caused you to smile.

“I’m one of a kind, baby.” You winked at him.

You rocked back a little, the shaft of his dick appearing between the folds of your sex and then you rolled forward until his dick was hidden once more.

The base of his dick pressing against the depths of your cunt, the trickle of your pleasure holding his thrall. You moved again, rocking back, then rolling forward, faster and faster until your walls were squeezing him as you moved.

Nothing compared to you. After being together for so long - the joys of being inside of you did not compare to anyone in his past. You were the one for him. Rejuvenating his lust for you over and over again with roll of your hips.

“I’m not going to last mon amour. Fuck, you feel so good around me.” Jules moaned as his fingers dug into the sides of your hips as you rutted against him.

You could feel the pressure mounting within you as you rocked faster and faster. You fell into his chest as you slammed down onto him as he thrusted up into you. With his feet planted on the bed, he held you as you worked towards your release. Your fingers grasped the bottom of his jaw and pulled him for a kiss.

“Cum in this pussy baby. It’s yours.” You mumbled into his jawline before placing a kiss against it. Jules wrapped his arms around your waist as you clamped down on him.

One

Two

Three

He erupted inside of you which caused you clamp down even harder as you reached climax, together with him. All of her limbs collapsed and Jules held her until her body stopped trembling.

“Good morning.” He whispered as he placed kisses along her cheek which caused you to giggle as sleep began to wash over you once more.

“Good morning.”

If you’re in orange, I cannot tag you 🩷

reading list: @queenshikongo3 @hopefulromantic1 @melodicheauxxlovesfood @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @blowmymbackout @mochachocolatteyaya @weetjy @greedyjudge2 @melaninpov @pickingupmymercedes @lewisroscoelove @kindan3rdy951 @elyseesarchive @sl33p-deprived-princess @soiguessimtheshit @acidlv @takeoffz-tookoff9876 @kriegertops @ermlolol @theogbadbitch @trinitoldyouso @ethereal555 @xoxoxoxo9988000 @crispyengineersalad @lovelyluna-s-blog @astrorainbow @marybabysworld @jazziejax @silia1raf @cippy @unabashedbelieverbanana @justkhloe2000 @laylaynaynay130 @khalaaylah @ojijhij @plan666 @crissrou @amyhennessyhouse @bebesobrielo @pandababy23 @cookiecutterzers56 @cameroncrazie13 @shescatrinaxo @efefrf @lovedlover @laulaleinchen @ceeverse @gangstressesss @wvvkndvibez @minibosslele @st4rgirliesstuff @gwenda-fav

[iamquiantrelle]

PLAYING FOR KEEPS (chapter 3)──────iamquaintrelle

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

⌗ tags : @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @greedyjudge2 @f1-football-fiend @2serenity0 @peyiswriting @coffeevacation @sunfairyy @muglermami @bbgkoo @127hydrangeas @enretrogue @cranberryjulce @julescpu @kj77 @hopefulromantic1

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

The Louis Vuitton store at Galeries Lafayette felt different after Barcelona. Mila adjusted her outfit - a reconstructed piece from the latest collection that she'd modified into something actually wearable, turning the denim monogram print jacket into a crop with strategic cutouts and pairing it with the matching denim pants. Let the brand try to complain now that she was trending.

The weekend had been surreal. Jules was different behind closed doors - quieter, funnier, weirdly good at card games. They'd fallen into an easy rhythm of morning workouts and late-night conversations. Their "couple content" had been effortless - coffee runs, lunches, and one particularly viral video of them arguing about his sneaker collection that had their comments flooded with heart eyes.

Less than a day back in Paris and the gossip blogs were wild. The "blind items" about her were getting ridiculous - she was a secret heiress, an undercover model, a plant from a rival team to distract Jules before his big match this weekend. Everyone was speculating if she'd show up to support him. His ex was still watching every single story despite unfollowing her, which was giving obsessed ex-girlfriend energy. Even Jules had noticed.

The ex situation was getting weirder by the hour, however. Not only was she watching stories, but her friends were now popping up in Mila's DMs trying to be subtle about fishing for information. Some fashion blogs had done a whole comparison post of their styles, trying to find similarities in what Jules was "attracted" to. The internet really had too much time on their hands.

"they're saying you're an heiress now?" his text lit up her phone.

"apparently I'm rich and mysterious," she replied. "try to keep up with your fake girlfriend's backstory."

Jules (Da Boo): guess that explains the expensive taste.

LV’s Meanest Stylist: please, you like that I'm high maintenance.

"Mila, your one o'clock is here," her coworker called out.

She looked up to find Levi Colwill already reaching for the monogram duffle that every footballer seemed to own. Even Jules had one, though she'd bullied him into the limited edition version. Levi was exactly what you'd expect from a young defender - tall, built like a Greek god, designer sweatsuit. His style was still in that new-money footballer phase, like he was buying everything with a visible logo just because he could.

"Is it true you're dating Koundé?"

"That's what the internet says." She moved to help him, already pulling better options. These boys were too predictable.

"Jules' girl, huh?" He was examining a wallet now. "Man's been different lately. Actually smiling at training."

"Are you here to shop or gossip?" She texted Jules while Levi glanced at various pieces: "your boy Colwill is fishing for tea."

"Both, actually," he said, his hands landing back to that Godforsaken duffle.

Jules replied instantly: "tell him to focus on his own love life."

"Not falling for it," she told Levi, who was definitely trying to get more details. "But you are falling for that basic duffle, which is honestly worse."

Her phone buzzed again. Jules: "he's probably gonna pull game on you 😂"

LV’s Meanest Stylist: oh? interesting. and look who’s texting me a lot. missing me already?

Jules (Da Boo): whatever. 🙄 i’m just making sure you hadn't exposed my skincare routine to your followers.

Levi pulled on a jacket that actually worked. "So about Jules..."

"So about this jacket," she countered, adjusting the sleeve. "Much better than that duffle you were eyeing. Unless you want to twin with every other footballer in Paris?"

"Including Jules?"

"You're really committed to this gossip mission, huh?" She pulled out a few more pieces for him to try on. "Did your teammates send you to investigate?"

"Maybe." Levi grinned, caught out. "They've got a betting pool going about whether you'll show up to his match this weekend."

Another text from Jules: "please tell me you didn't let him buy that basic duffle."

"give me some credit," she typed back. "already got him into the new collection. Chelsea boys are nosy af btw."

"What's the betting pool up to?" she asked Levi, who was now actually paying attention to the pieces she'd selected.

"Enough to make it worth telling me if you're coming to the match."

"Nice try." She started ringing up his purchases - none of which included that tragic duffle. "But I don't leak information to the opposition."

Her phone lit up again.

Jules (Da Boo): "they're really out here trying to spy on my love life through luxury shopping."

LV’s Meanest Stylist: don't worry babe, your secrets are safe with your fake girlfriend 😘

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

Lunch had been a sad salad affair while catching up on a week's worth of client emails. Her coworkers kept "casually" dropping by her station, fishing for details about Barcelona. The store's security had to turn away three different paparazzi trying to get shots of "Jules Koundé's girlfriend at work."

"Mila. Office. Now."

Her manager, Philippe, was wearing his serious face - the one he usually saved for customers who tried to return obviously fake bags. She followed him in, already counting the sales numbers in her head from the past week.

He stared at her reconstructed jacket first, mouth twitching like he wanted to start there. But apparently bigger issues were on his mind.

"Corporate called about your situation with Koundé."

"Is there a problem?"

"They're thrilled actually." He sounded like this physically pained him. "Sales are up. Social media engagement is through the roof."

"That's good, right?"

"It's..." he shuffled some papers on his desk, "unexpected. But I need you to remember this is still Louis Vuitton. We have standards to maintain."

Mila bit back a smile. "Of course."

"Just because corporate is excited about your... personal life going viral—"

"Our numbers have doubled since last week."

"Still." He straightened his tie. "Try to keep some separation between work and your... relationship."

She thought about the five influencers yesterday who'd bought everything she'd worn in stories with Jules. About the waitlist growing for pieces she'd reconstructed. "Absolutely. Totally separate."

The Metro was packed on her way home to the 11th. Her head stylist salary meant she could afford a decent spot near Bastille, even if it came with a third-floor walk-up. Two people definitely recognized her - she caught them trying to sneak photos.

Another buzz of her phone - a text from Jules: "eaten yet?"

LV’s Meanest Stylist: had a little something, but i had a fun meeting with philippe today.

Jules (Da Boo): your manager still mad about the sales boost?

LV’s Meanest Stylist: more like mad that corporate loves it. he had to pretend to be happy while telling me to keep things professional.

Jules (Da Boo): he’s a big hater 😆

She started the climb up to her apartment, cursing Paris's hatred of elevators. At least her place was still normal. Small, full of fabric scraps and design sketches, absolutely nothing like Jules' minimalist palace in Barcelona. The couch was covered in reconstructed pieces she'd been working on before this whole fake dating circus started.

Now, sprawled on her couch in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, Mila scrolled through an endless stream of notifications. Her tiny apartment was her sanctuary - the view wasn't much, just a typical Parisian courtyard, but it was still decent.

Her phone rung with a FaceTime request from Jules.

He was stretched out on his couch too, locs falling perfectly around his face like he was in some kind of high fashion editorial. The golden hour light in Barcelona hitting all his facial features just right.

"You look comfortable," he said, taking in her current state.

"You look like you're posing for Vogue." She propped her phone against a pile of sketches. "Bruno's influence?"

"Please. This is natural talent." He shifted, and she caught glimpse of his own off-duty fit - simple white tank that showed off exactly why footballers could charge so much for sponsored posts. "Bruno's been blowing up my phone about the Young Boys match."

"Here we go."

"The whole internet's speculating if you'll be there."

"The whole internet still needs to mind their business."

"It's an easy game," he pressed. "Perfect timing too, right after the gala."

"Watching you play against Swiss teams wasn't part of the deal."

"No, but making our fake relationship look real was." His smile was unfair through the phone screen. "What's more real than supporting your man at work?"

"My man?" She raised an eyebrow. "Getting extremely comfortable with the role, aren't you?"

"Method acting. Very serious about my craft." He sat up slightly, tank shifting in ways she refused to notice. "Come on. I'll even let you roast my warm-up kit."

"Let me? Like you could stop me." But she was smiling now. "I'll think about it."

"That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either." Mila shifted through her sketches. "Some of us have actual work to do, unlike certain footballers who just kick balls for a living."

"Says the girl who spends her day telling rich people their bags are fake."

"Someone has to maintain standards." She held up a sketch to the camera. "Like these gala fits I'm working on. Your usual style choices can't be trusted for our first official appearance."

"My style choices brought you into my life, didn't they?"

"Your tragic style choices gave me content for my blog." But she was grinning. "Now they're giving me gray hairs."

Jules adjusted his position. "The internet thinks you're my personal stylist now."

"The internet thinks I'm everything from an heiress to a spy." She started pinning fabric samples to her sketches. "Your ex's friends are still in my DMs by the way."

"Still?"

"Mhmm. Very interested in our weekend activities." She glanced at him through the screen. "Your ex must be devastated that you upgraded."

"Upgraded to someone who bullies me about my shoes?"

"Upgraded to someone who saves you from yourself." She paused. "Also your ex's style is basic. All Gucci everything? In 2024?"

Jules laughed, the sound doing things to her stomach. "You really have opinions about everyone's fashion choices."

"Only the bad ones." She switched cameras to show him her work table. "These are coming together though. The gala won't know what hit them."

"Bruno's going to have opinions."

"Bruno's going to deal with it. I'm not showing up in straight-off-the-rack anything." She flipped the camera back. "Plus, you like when I reconstruct pieces."

"I like when you're not roasting me."

"Lies. You live for my commentary." She caught his smile through the screen. "Your teammates confirmed it."

"My teammates need to mind their business too." He ran a hand through his locs. "Though if you came to the match, you could tell them yourself."

"Smooth transition back to that topic."

"I'm persistent." His eyes caught hers through the screen. "Come watch me play. I'll score for you."

"Bold promise for someone who plays defense."

"You've been studying football?"

"I've been studying you." The words slipped out before she could catch them.

The silence held for a beat too long, charged with something neither of them was ready to name.

"More market research for your role?" His voice was lower now.

"Method acting. Very serious about my craft." She threw his words back at him.

Another silence, heavy with possibilities they weren't supposed to be considering.

"Your ex is really getting on my nerves though," she said finally, breaking whatever moment was building.

"You're obsessed with my ex."

"Your ex is obsessed with me. I'm just taking notes." She shifted some fabric around. "Did she always watch this many stories?"

"Never dated anyone who posted enough to find out."

"So I'm special?"

"You're something." His smile was soft now. Different from his Instagram version.

Mila's phone buzzed with another notification. Probably Bruno with more gala details. Or another gossip blog with theories about their relationship. Or Philippe with more concerns about professionalism.

"You should sleep," she said, noting the darkening sky in Barcelona. "Early training tomorrow."

"You should say yes to the match."

"You should stop pushing your luck."

"Never." He adjusted his position again, all casual grace. "Think about it though? For real?"

"Go to sleep, Jules."

"That's still not a no."

She ended the call before he could see her smile. Her phone immediately lit up with a text from him: "sweet dreams, fake girlfriend 😘"

"don't make me block you," she sent back.

"you'd miss my tragic style choices."

She looked at her sketches for their gala outfits, then at the pile of notifications about the upcoming match. This fake relationship was getting dangerously comfortable.

Her phone buzzed one more time: "also I'm wearing those Balenciagas you hate tomorrow just to spite you"

Maybe comfortable wasn't the right word.

Mila ignored how her cheeks hurt from smiling too much. Her phone kept lighting up with his texts, each one more deliberately annoying than the last. She'd created a monster with all this fashion commentary.

The Barcelona charity gala proved exactly why she was right about their outfits. Her reconstructed LV pieces turned heads the moment they walked in - Jules in a sleek black suit with monogram details that only showed when he moved, her in a dress that made Vogue write a whole article about "the future of luxury reconstruction." The venue was stunning, all high ceilings and modern art, filled with football royalty trying their best at black tie fashion.

Bruno nearly had an aneurysm when they first arrived, but even he had to admit they'd stolen the show. Jules kept his hand on her lower back all night, leaning in to whisper commentary about his teammates' attempts at formal wear. They played their roles perfectly - the fashion-forward power couple, the defender and his brutally honest stylist. Every fashion house in attendance had someone slip her a business card. By the end of the night, no one remembered it was supposed to be fake.

Which is probably how she ended up here the very next day, at the Camp Nou, wearing a vintage Barcelona jersey Jules had "casually" sent her along with a limited edition LV bag she definitely wasn't supposed to have access to yet. She'd paired it with an LV skort and burgundy leather trench, because if she had to do team colors, she'd do them her way. The bag was just gilding the lily, but it worked. Of course it worked.

The stadium was massive, nothing like watching matches on TV. Her seat was in the VIP section, surrounded by other WAGs who definitely hadn't expected Louis Vuitton's meanest stylist to show up in team merch and thigh-high boots. But Jules had texted her that morning: "wear the jersey. it'll drive everyone crazy."

He wasn't wrong.

The WAG section was full of whispers and not-so-subtle photos of her outfit. Jules hadn't seen her yet - they were warming up on the pitch, all focus and match-day energy.

The match kicked off and suddenly Mila understood why people lost their minds over this sport. On TV, she could barely track Jules. Here, she couldn't take her eyes off him. The way he read the game, anticipated plays, and moved with precision reminded her of the careful way she arranged his closet after reorganizing it.

Young Boys scored first - some lucky break that had the crowd holding its breath. But then Barcelona's attack kicked in, and suddenly it was raining goals. 5-2 didn't even tell the whole story. Jules had been everywhere, breaking up plays, starting counterattacks.

"Your boy's having a game," some WAG next to her said after Jules made a particularly clean tackle. Mila just smiled, and then noticed that his socks were slightly different lengths.

The final whistle brought chaos - good chaos, victory chaos. The kind that had everyone in the VIP section heading for the family area, designer bags swinging. Mila followed the crowd, her new LV bag probably the only one that wasn't actually out yet.

She spotted him before he saw her. Fresh from the showers, locs still damp, wearing the team's post-match tracksuit that somehow didn't look tragic on him. He was talking to someone with a camera - probably post-match interviews.

Then he caught sight of her.

The way his face lit up wasn't for the cameras. Neither was the way he broke off mid-sentence to walk toward her, but the way he pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her cheek? That was definitely for show.

Except his lips lingered a beat too long, and his hand on her waist felt a little too natural, and maybe some of this wasn't entirely for the cameras anymore.

"You came," he murmured against her ear.

"You bribed me with unreleased merchandise." She kept her smile camera-ready. "Very unethical of you."

"Says the girl wearing my jersey."

"Your vintage jersey. There's a difference."

His laugh was genuine, even if their pose was practiced. Cameras clicked around them, probably catching what looked like an intimate moment between Barcelona's star defender and his fashion-forward girlfriend.

"The socks were uneven," she told him, just to maintain their dynamic.

"You actually watched my feet?"

"Of course I did."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, that smile that wasn't for Instagram making her stomach do things it definitely shouldn't. "Dinner? Team's celebrating but we could—"

"Go with your team." She adjusted his hoodie, knowing the cameras would eat it up. "I have an early flight anyway."

"Stay." His voice was low, just for her. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Another bag?"

"Better." His grin was dangerous. "I'll let you plan my outfits for the week."

She laughed despite herself. "Tempting, but I have a job to get back to."

More players were filing into the family area now, some with kids, others with WAGs who definitely noticed Mila's not-yet-released bag. Jules kept his hand on her waist, thumb tracing small circles that the cameras couldn't see.

"You're coming to the next one, right?" he asked as they posed for another photo.

"Don't push your luck."

But they both knew she would. Just like they both knew this was slowly starting to feel less and less fake with every camera flash, every casual touch, every smile that wasn't quite acting anymore.

"Your car's here," he said, checking his phone. "I had Bruno arrange it."

"Always taking care of your fake girlfriend."

"Only the best for Louis Vuitton's meanest stylist."

She reached up to fix his hair, a gesture that looked intimate to observers but was really just her being annoyed at how it was falling. "Go celebrate with your team. Try not to let them dress you for the club."

"You could come make sure they don't."

"Goodnight, Jules."

His kiss on her cheek this time wasn't for the cameras at all. "Text me when you land?"

She waved him off, already planning what she'd say about his uneven socks in their next FaceTime call. The cameras followed her exit, catching what probably looked like a perfect football couple moment.

Her phone buzzed before she even reached the car: "the socks were uneven on purpose. knew you'd notice."

She smiled despite herself. This fake relationship was slowly getting dangerous.

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

Mila's post from the match had over 100K likes by the time she got to work the next morning. The comments were a mess: "THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER 😭" "notice how she styled the jersey tho? queen behavior" "that bag isn't even out yet omg the power" "they're actually perfect???"

Jules hadn't helped, reposting her story at the stadium with "merci d'être venue, chérie 🖤❤️" Like he hadn't basically bribed her with that unreleased bag. His teammates had jumped in too, commenting about how he couldn't stop smiling at training.

"Your match photos are trending," Philippe said instead of good morning. "Corporate wants to discuss your social media strategy."

"Corporate loves my social media strategy." She hung her trench on her office door. "The waiting list for my section is three months long now."

Her phone buzzed - Jules had posted a picture from the gala. She looked good, obviously, but it was the way he was looking at her in the photo that had her mentions exploding. The internet was having a field day analyzing their "couple style."

Another text from Jules: "bruno says we're doing too well. wants us to have a public fight to seem more realistic."

LV's Meanest Stylist: your sock choices are horrible.

Jules (Da Boo): that's not the kind of fight he meant

She bit back a smile. Her coworkers were already too invested in their "relationship" - no need to feed the gossip by grinning at her phone all day.

The store was chaos. After her appearance at the Barcelona match, suddenly everyone wanted Mila's opinion on everything. Three influencers tried to book private shopping sessions. Two footballers' wives came in specifically asking for "something like what Jules' girlfriend wears."

"Miss Lawrence, your two o'clock is here," her assistant called out. She'd never had an assistant before the McDonald's photo and now apparently she was hired a couple days ago.

Jules texted between her appointments: "training done. thinking about that kiss" LV's Meanest Stylist: it was on the cheek Jules (Da Boo): still thinking about it

She didn't have time to analyze that. A Saudi princess wanted her entire collection reconstructed. Two fashion houses had left messages about collaboration opportunities. Her phone wouldn't stop buzzing with notifications about her latest photos with Jules.

"hungry? we can facetime..." his text came through around four.

LV's Meanest Stylist: too busy. some of us work for a living. Jules (Da Boo): kicking balls is work 😤 LV's Meanest Stylist: sure it is, babe.

By closing, she was dead on her feet. The rain had started, turning Paris into a blur of lights and wet streets. She dug her umbrella out of her bag, checking her notifications one last time before heading towards the Metro.

That's when she saw it. A DM notification from Siobhan. Jules' ex.

What the fuck is this?

The Metro was packed with the usual post-work crowd, everyone dripping from the rain. Mila tapped her card at the turnstile, eyes fixed on her screen. After two weeks of watching her stories, viewing her posts, having her friends fish for information, Siobhan had finally made a direct move.

The message sat there, deceptively casual: "We should talk. Girl to girl."

Mila's thumb hovered over it as she descended to the platform. She'd seen enough photos of Siobhan to get why people made the comparisons - they had similar features, both brown-skinned beauties with good style, though Siobhan's aesthetic leaned more luxury influencer than fashion critic. The kind of girl who watched her ex's new girlfriend's every move.

Like the fucking weirdo she was...

Her phone buzzed with a text from Jules: "you've gone quiet. tired from all that actual work? 😏"

The unread DM from Siobhan sat there like a challenge. There were a hundred ways this could go wrong. A hundred reasons to ignore it. But Mila hadn't gotten where she was by playing it safe.

She clicked on the message, marking it as read. Time to see what Jules' ex really wanted.

Mila leaned against a pillar on the platform, watching her train's arrival time tick down. No point rushing to respond. Let Jules' ex sit with that read receipt for a minute.

Three dots appeared. Another message: "I know you saw this."

"did you need something?" Mila typed back, channeling her best 'dealing with difficult customers' energy.

@/siobhan_rchm: Just wanted to chat about Jules. Girl to girl.

"Mm." Mila grumbled, watching the dots appear and disappear for a beat before responding. "about what specifically? his uneven socks at the match? the way he organizes his sneakers? his skincare routine?"

A pause. Then: "You think you're cute."

"i know i am. was there something else?"

The train rumbled into the station. Mila stepped on, finding a spot to stand near the door. Her phone buzzed again.

@/siobhan_rchm: Just wanted to warn you about him.

"warn me that he has terrible taste in exes? already figured that out."

More angry dots. Mila smiled to herself. She could do this all day.

@/siobhan_rchm: You don't know him like I do."

"you're right. I actually let him dress himself occasionally."

The train lurched between stations. Siobhan was typing again.

@/siobhan_rchm: He's not as perfect as you think.

"never said he was perfect. his sock choices prove that."

@/siobhan_rchm: I'm trying to be serious.

"and I'm trying to commute. is there a point to this?"

Three dots. Delete. Three dots again. Mila switched to her chat with Jules: "your ex is sliding into my DMs"

His response was instant: "siobhan??"

"unless you have another ex I should know about?"

Back to Siobhan's message: "You think this is all a game but he'll do the same thing to you. Get bored. Move on."

"like posting thirst traps and watching my stories obsessively? that kind of bored?"

@/siobhan_rchm: You don't know what you're talking about.

"and you don't know when to move on. sad either way."

@/siobhan_rchm: Just remember I warned you. When he—"

Mila hit the block button before reading the rest. Some entertainment wasn't worth the effort.

Jules (Da Boo): what's she saying?

LV's Meanest Stylist: nothing worth repeating. your taste before me was questionable.

Jules (Da Boo): says the girl who dragged my sock choices at the match 😒

LV's Meanest Stylist: someone had to. even siobhan agreed about the socks

Jules (Da Boo): you did NOT talk about my socks with my ex

LV's Meanest Stylist: what can I say? it's the only thing we have in common.

The train ride felt longer than usual, Mila's mind stuck on Siobhan's messages. The night crowd was starting to fill the Metro - tourists heading to dinner, students with their backpacks, the usual mix of Paris after dark. She got off at her stop, umbrella ready for the rain that was still coming down.

The walk from the station to her building was quick but just long enough to get properly soaked despite the umbrella. Water dripped from the edges of her trench as she dug out her keys. At least her new LV bag was water resistant - perks of having the unreleased collection.

"I'm sorry about her," Jules texted as Mila climbed the stairs to her apartment. "Let me make it up to you?"

LV's Meanest Stylist: with another unreleased bag?

Jules (Da Boo): better. dinner in barcelona this weekend?

Mila paused on the second floor landing. "you want me to fly out for dinner?"

Jules (Da Boo): i know this place you'd love. very exclusive, very—

LV's Meanest Stylist: very in Barcelona when you could just come to Paris.

Jules (Da Boo): I have training...

LV's Meanest Stylist: and I have a job. a real one. none of that kick the ball bs.

Jules (Da Boo): next weekend then? I'll book Le Jules Verne.

LV's Meanest Stylist: now you're just showing off.

Jules (Da Boo): is it working?

She pushed open her apartment door, dropping her umbrella in the stand. "maybe. but you're still coming to Paris."

Jules (Da Boo): high maintenance.

LV's Meanest Stylist: you knew that when you fake chose me.

A pause, then: "about that..."

Her phone lit up with Jules' incoming call. Not a text this time. That was different.

"Calling to apologize properly?" she answered, kicking off her shoes.

"About what Siobhan said—"

"Already forgotten. Like I just did with her on Instagram."

"You blocked her?"

"Should've done it two weeks ago when she first started creeping." Mila dropped onto her couch. "Why? Want me to unblock your ex?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, it's just... look, about this whole fake thing—"

"Don't tell me you're catching feelings," she kept her voice light, teasing. "All it took was one match attendance?"

But Jules was quiet for a moment too long. The kind of quiet that made her stomach do things it shouldn't.

"Nah..." He scoffed, but something in his voice wasn't quite right. "Never that."

"Good. Wouldn't want this arrangement getting messy."

"Please. I have standards."

"You have those ugly ass Balenciaga crocs."

"We agreed never to speak of those again." The weird tension dissipated, back to their usual rhythm. "So about Paris next weekend..."

"You're really trying to get out of coming here, huh?"

"I just think Barcelona has better restaurants."

"Barcelona has you wrapped around Bruno's PR finger."

His laugh echoed through the phone. "You're actually impossible."

"Part of my charm."

"Besides," Jules said after a moment, "if I come to Paris, you'll make me carry your shopping bags again."

"That's literally what fake boyfriends are for."

"Thought it was for the Instagram engagement."

"That too." She kicked off her heels, settling deeper into her couch. "Though your ex might have opinions about that."

"Can we not talk about Siobhan?"

"Why? Worried she'll tell me all your secrets?"

"You already know all my secrets. You reorganized my closet."

"True. The real skeleton was that sneaker collection and those goddamn socks."

He made a noise of protest. "You're really never going to let that go?"

"Never."

"The socks were a choice."

"A bad one." She paused, then: "Like dating Siobhan?"

"Low blow."

"Someone had to say it."

Another silence, but different this time. She could almost see him running his hand through his locs, the way he did when he was thinking too hard.

"You really blocked her?" he asked finally.

"Should I not have?"

"No, it's... good. It's good."

More weight in those words than there should have been. This conversation was veering too close to something neither of them was ready to name.

"You really have these girls losing their minds," Mila said. "Between Siobhan and your fan pages..."

"Too much BDE. They can't handle it."

She rolled her eyes so hard it probably translated through the phone. "It's not that big," she muttered, mostly to herself.

But of course he caught it. "You can always find out."

"Never."

"Never say never." His voice was all smugness and suggestion.

Mila ignored the way her stomach flipped at his tone. This was exactly the kind of territory they didn't need to explore. Even if his voice was doing things to her that it absolutely shouldn't.

"I'll make a reservation for our dinner next weekend." Back to that practiced confidence.

"Whatever. Bye." She hung up before he could say anything else dangerous.

Her phone lit up immediately with his text: "bonne nuit, chérie ❤️"

She stared at that heart emoji longer than she'd ever admit to anyone.

A week later, Mila's Uber pulled up to the Eiffel Tower. She'd gone with a Dior slip dress because why not, paired with Aquazzura white slingbacks and a beige trench. The kind of outfit that said 'yes, I'm dating a footballer, but I dressed like this before him.'

Le Jules Verne was exactly what you'd expect from a Michelin-starred restaurant in the Eiffel Tower - all understated luxury and views that made even Paris locals pause. The kind of place where no one cared who you were because everyone was someone.

Jules was already at their table, standing as she approached. The bouquet in his hands was ridiculous - white roses and peonies, probably cost more than the dinner would.

"Ah, you shouldn't have," she said, accepting his hug.

"What kind of fake boyfriend would I be?" he murmured against her ear.

"But you really shouldn't have." She pulled back, taking off her trench coat. "They're gonna die in like two days. I have a brown thumb."

Jules pulled out her chair - unnecessarily gallant for a fake date. "You look nice."

"Just nice?" Mila arranged her dress. "You flew to Paris for 'nice'?"

"Beautiful. Stunning. Better?"

"Now you're trying too hard." But she was smiling. "Speaking of trying too hard, that fit is actually decent. Did you dress yourself?"

"Funny." He settled across from her. "But no. Someone reorganized my closet with very specific instructions."

The sommelier appeared with champagne they hadn't ordered. "Compliments of the house."

"The perks of dating a footballer." Mila raised her glass. "Even if it's fake."

"About that…" Jules started, but their server arrived with menus and a long explanation about the night's specials.

"The chef has prepared something special," the server finished.

"Of course he has." Mila caught Jules' eye over her glass. "More perks?"

"Bruno's influence, actually. He has opinions about our first Paris date."

"Opinions about everything except your sock choices."

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Never." She studied the menu. "Like I'll never let go of those Balenciaga crocs."

"I told Siobhan to leave us alone," Jules said between sips of champagne. "Well, technically I told her to leave you alone."

Mila shook her head, more intrigued than annoyed. "Your dick must cure diseases."

Jules choked on his champagne, actually coughed.

"You keep talking about my dick like you want to try it." He settled back in his chair, legs spreading, all casual like he'd practiced this move. "Just say the word and we can—"

"I'm gonna stop you there, buddy." She held up her hand. "I'm just saying these girls are acting like your dick cures diseases, is all. No one is thinking about taking a ride on that thing." She said 'thing' like it personally offended her.

Jules just watched her, that smile that said he saw right through her act. "Mmhm."

Their waiter appeared once more, ready to take their order, saving them both from whatever was about to happen next.

"The lamb," Jules told the waiter. "And she'll have—"

"I can order for myself," Mila cut in. "The fish, please."

The waiter disappeared with their menus and Jules' amused smirk. The restaurant buzzed around them, that particular energy of expensive meals and important conversations.

"So," Mila swirled her champagne. "How's training?"

"How's telling rich people how to dress?"

"Deflecting already? Did Siobhan shake you that bad?"

Jules leaned back in his chair. "Just looking out for my fake girlfriend."

"By making your ex block me on everything?" She raised an eyebrow. "I saw her Instagram's gone private too."

"Had to maintain our image."

"Our image needs that much maintenance?"

"Bruno's words, not mine." He took another sip of champagne. "Though the flowers were my idea."

"Ah yes, the dying flowers. Very thoughtful."

The first course arrived - something fancy with foam. Jules watched her taste it, that same look he had when she'd criticized his sneaker collection.

"You're staring."

"You have…" He gestured to her lip.

She wiped at nothing, knowing he was just messing with her. "Very mature." Mila sampled more of whatever was on her plate. "This is actually good."

"Better than McDonald's at two in the morning?"

"Nothing's better than that." She caught his smile. "Though this view comes close."

"Paris showing off for us."

"For you, maybe. I live here."

"And yet you've never been to Jules Verne before."

"Some of us don't make footballer money." She set down her fork. "Speaking of money, how much did you have to pay Siobhan to back off?"

"Just my eternal soul and first-born child."

"Reasonable price."

The main course appeared - her fish arranged like art, his lamb perfectly cooked. The waiter poured wine that definitely wasn't on the regular menu.

"Bruno's going to love the bill from this," Mila noted.

"Worth it for the content." Jules cut into his lamb. "Though we could give him better content."

"If you're about to suggest something inappropriate—"

"Just saying, the whole 'will they, won't they' thing is working for our engagement numbers."

Mila pointed her fork at him. "No one is engaging with your numbers."

"That's not what you said about my BDE earlier."

"I take it back. All of it." But she was fighting a smile. "Your ego needs no encouragement."

"Too late." He was doing that thing with his eyes again, the one that probably worked on everyone else. "You're already on record about my—"

"If you say dick energy one more time at this nice establishment, I'm leaving."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Their eyes locked across the table. A challenge, maybe. Or something else neither of them was ready to name.

The waiter appeared with dessert menus, breaking whatever moment was building. Jules took his with a smile that was almost too casual.

"Should we share?" he asked.

"In your dreams."

"Often."

Mila kicked him under the table, right as the waiter returned. "He'll have the chocolate thing. I want the one with strawberries."

"Separate desserts?" The waiter looked between them. "Most couples share—"

"We're not most couples." Mila's smile was sweet but final.

Jules watched the waiter leave, that smirk back on his face. "No, we're definitely not."

The desserts arrived looking more like art installations than food. Mila caught Jules' eyes drifting to her neckline again - the third time since their main course.

"Stare harder why don't you?"

"I'm trying." He didn't even pretend to look away.

"Horndog." But she adjusted the strap of her dress anyway, watching his eyes track the movement.

"Can't help it. The dress is…"

"Expensive? Designer?"

"Both." He sampled his chocolate dessert, still watching her. "Though I was going to say dangerous."

"Please. This is modest for me." She tasted her strawberry creation. "You should see what I wear when I'm actually trying."

"Is that an invitation?"

"It's a warning." She pointed her spoon at him. "Your game's weak if you think this neckline is dangerous."

"My game's never weak."

"But you needed a McDonald's photo to go viral before making a move."

"I didn't make a move." He leaned back, all casual confidence again. "Bruno did."

"Tragic." She stole a bite of his dessert just to prove she could. "Using your agent as an excuse."

"Using my agent for business." His eyes dropped to her lips as she licked chocolate from her spoon. "This is pleasure."

"This is a fake date."

"With real dessert." He pushed his plate closer to her. "Want more?"

"Trying to sweeten me up?"

"Is it working?"

She took another bite of his dessert, maintaining eye contact just to watch him squirm. "You wish."

The waiter appeared with their bill - or rather, with no bill at all because apparently Jules had handled that hours ago. Of course he had.

"Very presumptuous," Mila noted as they stood. "What if I hated dinner?"

"You loved it." He helped her with her coat, fingers brushing her bare shoulders. "Even if you won't admit it."

"I admit nothing."

"Your empty plates admit plenty."

Outside, Paris was still showing off - all lights and early autumn beauty. Jules' hand found her lower back as they waited for their cars.

"This was nice," he said, too close to her ear.

"Just nice?"

"Beautiful. Stunning. Better?"

"Now you're recycling lines." But she didn't move away.

His car arrived first - some sleek thing that probably cost more than her annual salary. He opened the door but paused before getting in.

"Next time dinner's in Barcelona."

"Next time?"

"Can't let my fake girlfriend think I'm cheap."

"Too late for that. Your sock choices gave you away."

His laugh echoed even after his car pulled away. Her phone lit up immediately with his text:

Jules (Da Boo): already planning your outfit for barcelona?

LV's Meanest Stylist: planning how to roast whatever you wear.

Jules (Da Boo): worth it

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

"The cheek kisses aren't cutting it anymore," Bruno's voice crackled through Mila's phone. "We need to up the ante."

"Up the ante?" Mila was packing for Barcelona, phone balanced between ear and shoulder. "What exactly do you want us to do, stick our tongues down each other's throats?"

"If that's what it takes—"

"The audacity." She dropped a reconstructed LV piece into her suitcase. "Who are you, our relationship choreographer?"

"The internet's getting restless. They want more."

"The internet needs therapy." But she knew what he meant. The comments were getting wild - theories about their relationship, demands for more content, the kind of attention that made her DMs look like a thirst trap comment section.

Three days later, she was walking through Barcelona's airport arrivals, spotting Jules before he saw her. He was trying to be incognito in a baseball cap and sunglasses, looking exactly like every footballer trying not to be recognized.

"Subtle," she said, reaching him.

"Says the girl in that dress." His eyes tracked over her travel fit - another slip dress because why not torture him a little.

"This old thing?" She let him take her bag. "Just something I threw on."

The Urus was parked illegally because of course it was. Jules loaded her suitcase while she settled into the passenger seat, already plotting how to reorganize his closet again.

"How was the flight?"

"Better than this car choice."

"Still judging my Urus?"

"Always." She pulled out her phone. "Though apparently I need new material. Bruno's orders."

"Heard about that call." He navigated through Barcelona traffic with one hand on the wheel. "No more roasting my fashion choices?"

"Or your ex."

"Tragic. Those were your best bits."

"Please. Everything I do is a best bit."

His laugh filled the car. Match 100 was tomorrow, and here they were, playing house again. At least this time she knew what she was getting into.

"So about Bruno's demands," Jules said, turning onto his street. "Think we should practice?"

"Practice what? Swapping spit for the cameras?" Mila fake gagged, but her heart wasn't in it.

"Could be worse assignments."

"Could be better ones too."

"You wound me." He pulled into his driveway. "Little birdie told me that Chanel's trying to steal you."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure is, and LV can suck my dick and jiggle my left testicle."

Jules let out a chuckle. "Damn, remind me to never get on your bad side. What happened at work?" She just stared at him blankly. "Philippe again?" His jaw tightened. "Should I give him a visit?"

"And do what exactly?"

Jules shrugged, but his grip on the steering wheel said otherwise. "I don't know. Tell him to leave my woman alone. Threaten him?"

"Whatever, Jules."

"I'm serious."

"Be so fucking for real right now."

"I'm so serious, Mila. He got the wrong one." His knuckles went white on the wheel.

Mila caught herself watching those hands, that tension in his jaw. Something about his willingness to protect her - fake relationship or not - was doing things to her pussy she refused to acknowledge.

The opportunities were piling up lately. Fashion houses sliding into her DMs. Offers to branch out on her own. She could do it - build her own brand, be an independent designer like she'd dreamed. Or worse… become an influencer. The thought alone made her want to gag. Though being a freelance stylist had potential.

"Mila." Jules was watching her, that look that saw too much. "You good?"

"Just plotting my escape from corporate hell."

"To Chanel?"

"Maybe." She stretched, knowing exactly what that did to her dress. "Or maybe I'll just become your full-time fake girlfriend. Seems less stressful."

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

"Your closet better be exactly how I left it," Mila said as they entered his house. "I'm not doing another intervention with your sneakers."

"Haven't touched anything." Jules carried her bag upstairs. "Too scared of your wrath."

"Smart man." She followed him to the guest room - her room now, basically. Her reconstructed pieces from last time still hung in the closet. "Though we need to talk about that jacket you wore to training yesterday."

"Thought you needed new material?"

"Some crimes can't be ignored."

He dropped her bag by the bed, lingering in the doorway. "Hungry?"

"Depends. Are you cooking?"

"God no. Ordered from that place you liked last time."

"The one with the pasta?"

"The one where you stole half my dinner, yes."

She kicked off her shoes, making herself at home. "It's not stealing if you let me."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"That's what I'm calling it." She started unpacking, aware of him watching. "Don't you have a big match to rest for?"

"Don't you have a closet to reorganize?"

"Your closet can wait until tomorrow." She pulled out her outfit for the match. "This, however, needs steaming."

"Another reconstruction?"

"What else would I wear to your hundredth match?" She held up the piece - another LV remix that would probably give Philippe an aneurysm. "Think Bruno will approve?"

"Bruno would approve if you wore a trash bag at this point." Jules pushed off the doorframe. "He's desperate for content."

"Hence the kissing demands?"

"Hence everything." He watched her hang up the outfit. "Though the kissing thing…"

"Don't."

"Just saying, might need practice."

"In your dreams."

"Often." He ducked the shoe she threw at him. "Dinner's in twenty."

She waited until his footsteps faded before pulling out her phone. Three texts from Siobhan's friends, still trying to get intel. Two emails from Chanel about possible collaborations.

A new text from Jules: "brought you wine from that vineyard you pretended not to like"

Interesting...

Mila came downstairs to H.E.R. playing softly in the background. Jules was at the kitchen island, uncorking wine like this was totally normal.

"Are you trying to get at something?" She took in the dim lighting, the music, the actual fucking candles. What was this man up to?

"Just trying to relax," he said simply, holding out a glass of wine.

"Mmhm." She accepted the glass, watching him plate their food with way too much care before sliding it in front of her.

"Bonne appétit." He settled next to her at the island.

They ate in silence for a few beats before Mila couldn't take it anymore. "Seriously, what're you doing Jules?"

He had the nerve to shrug. "I told you I'm just trying to relax. Big match tomorrow, remember?"

"You're giving out too much game right now. You think I'm dumb?"

"No, Mila, you're far from dumb."

"So what's the play?" She set her napkin down, fixing him with that look she usually reserved for customers trying to play in her face. "What's going on because since when do we have this setup if we're fake—"

Her words cut off as Jules leaned over, pressing his lips to hers. He tasted like eggplant parmesan and wine, and despite herself, she sighed into it. His hands came up to cup her face, lips moving against hers with a precision that shouldn't have surprised her but did. Boy knew what he was doing with that mouth - the same confidence he had on the pitch but softer, more deliberate.

When he pulled back, Mila's brain took a second to come back online.

"What the hell?" she mumbled.

"Practice, right?" His voice was too casual for someone who just kissed her like that.

She blinked, tilting her head. "Bruno wanted us to have more PDA…"

"Oh, yeah." His thumb brushed her cheek where his hand still lingered.

"Was it good?"

Was it? Her mind screamed. But what came out was: "It was alright."

"Alright? Shit, Mila maybe I have to convince you again."

"Please don't." But her eyes dropped to his lips.

"Just a quick one." He leaned closer. "For research."

"No." She didn't move away.

"It's quick…" His mouth was already brushing hers. "For research."

This kiss wasn't quick at all. His hand slid into her hair, angling her head just right. She might have made a sound - something embarrassing she'd deny later - when his tongue traced her bottom lip. This wasn't practice anymore. This wasn't fake anything.

When they finally broke apart, the food was definitely cold.

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

The absolute audacity of this man.

Mila spent the entire match trying not to think about that kiss. Those kisses. Multiple kisses that definitely weren't just "practice." She'd even texted Leon - her most reliable situation-handler - but he was "busy." All her usual distractions were unavailable, leaving her stuck with the memory of Jules' mouth and what his hands had felt like in her hair.

Barcelona was destroying Sevilla, which wasn't helping. Every time Jules made a play, the crowd lost it. Five goals, and he'd been involved in three of them. Show-off.

Then came the post-match ceremony. His hundredth game plaque, the crowd chanting his name, cameras everywhere. And this man - this absolute menace - had the nerve to call her down to the pitch.

"Come here, chérie," he said into the mic, and what was she supposed to do? Say no in front of 90,000 people?

She made her way down, reconstructed LV dress definitely not made for stadium stairs. The cameras were already going crazy, probably catching her "supportive girlfriend" moment.

Then this fucker kissed her. Not a peck, not a casual press of lips. A proper kiss, right there on the pitch, his plaque in one hand while the other pulled her close. The crowd absolutely lost it.

When he finally let her go, she was too disoriented to even pretend to be mad. The cameras caught everything - her slightly dazed expression, his satisfied smirk, the way she had to steady herself on his arm.

"For the cameras," he murmured in her ear as they posed with his plaque.

"I hate you," she whispered back, perfect smile in place.

"No you don't."

The worst part? He was right.

Her phone was already blowing up. The notifications would be insane - fashion blogs, football accounts, probably Bruno having a meltdown about their "organic PDA moment." But all she could think about was how she needed to call every single one of her rotation guys because this tension? Unacceptable.

"Dinner?" Jules asked as they left the pitch, still riding his match high.

"I have plans."

"No you don't."

"I could have plans."

His smile was dangerous. "But you don't."

The cameras were still catching everything - her pretend annoyance, his hand on her lower back, the way they moved together like this wasn't all for show.

"One dinner," he said.

"You already got your kiss for the cameras."

"Maybe I want another one."

She really needed to call Leon. Or Jean. Or both.

The family area was chaos. Mila scrolled through Twitter while waiting for Jules, watching their kiss go viral in real time.

"THE WAY SHE HAD TO STEADY HERSELF 😭" "that man must kiss like he plays football - elite" "did y'all see her face after??? HELLO???" "mila lawrence found SHOOK" "the way he just grabbed her like that i'm—"

Someone had already made an edit set to "Kiss Me More" - her dazed expression on loop, Jules looking too pleased with himself. The engagement numbers were insane. Bruno was probably having heart palpitations of joy.

More tweets kept coming: "jules koundé said watch me score off the pitch too" "miss mila really won" "the grip he has on her waist i'm studying it respectfully"

Her phone buzzed with texts from every single one of her situationship guys.

"You're trending," Jules' voice came from behind her. Fresh from the shower, hair still damp, wearing that post-match designer fit that actually worked for once. "Something about being 'dicked down by Barcelona's finest defender'?"

"That's disgusting." She kept scrolling. "Also inaccurate."

"Could be accurate."

"In your dreams."

"Maybe it can be reality?" He leaned over her shoulder, reading more tweets. "They're really analyzing your face in 4K."

"Your fans are unhinged."

"Our fans now."

Their eyes met in the reflection of her phone screen. That tension from last night was still there, crackling between them like static electricity.

"Dinner?" he asked again.

"I really do have plans."

"With who? Leon?" His smile was knowing. "Already saw his stories. He's in London."

"I have other options." Like Jean, like Gabriel, like Muhammad...

"But you're here with me and you're gonna stay."

The worst part was he was right. Again. Motherfucker.

"Fine." She locked her phone, ignoring another wave of notifications. "But no more surprise kisses."

"No promises."

Bruno was going to lose his mind over their engagement numbers. Their fake relationship was trending worldwide. The internet was already writing their love story.

But watching Jules guide her through the stadium with that hand on her lower back, Mila had to wonder how much of this was still fake.

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

[saleeba]

comforting jules in these hard times :(( (with a bj ;))

summary ♡ what the request says! 

pairing ♡ jules koundé x gn!reader

content ♡ 18+, smut, blowjob, (untranslated) french terms of endearment, religious undertones for some reason, not proofread, hopefully quite lovey-dovey idek this was so rushed 😭

a/n ♡ hiiii my first little snippet!! these are generally going to be short ask-based fics that are one scene/one action + i hope to share more with u guys! :D tysmmm anon for this request i hope it lives up to ur expectations!!

the copious amount of condescending headlines about his football club was creating a frenzied commotion in the world of spanish sports media and jules found it difficult to dull the noise. add on top the emotional stress of his manager’s departure from the club and it was enough to make a boy like him break into a million pieces. 

yet you were like his superglue. you held him together with the mere thought of your presence in his mind and the nights spent tangled between the sheets and gasping promises of forever grounded jules to the best version of reality for him.

this night was no different, you trying your best to make it all about him (not that it was hard — you were practically devoted to the boy) after he came home close to tears, the burdensome weight of work troubles proving heavy on his shoulders. he was never one to let his professional life trespass into his personal one but you made it clear from day one that you were both a team and that yes, it may be “his problem”  but you were both going to jump over those hurdles hand-in-hand.

and the first approach in which you consoled him was with the help of your lips on his bare, sweaty skin, not sure if the subtle dampness was from a session in training or the way his skin always warmed up to the feeling of your mouth; the feeling of familiarity and of what just felt right. 

“please don't tease tonight, baby,” jules whispered in a tone close to begging, body writhing on the couch, his voice desperate for that same familiarity to save him from losing himself in the uncertainty that had tainted the past few days.

“not even thinking about it, jules,” you tongued at his abdomen on your way down to the waist of his shorts, fingers running inside the elastic band and skimming the part where he needed you the most. “wanna take good care of you tonight.”

a blissful sigh escaped from the parting of jules’ lips as you peeled the material off of him and cast it aside, the only thing left between you and his pure form being the pesky boxers that constrained his cock. not wanting to rush the events of the night, you go to mouth kisses on the imprint and the damn thing twitches, tip jerking ever so slightly as it leaks pre-cum onto the black cotton softness. 

“what was that about not even thinking about teasing, chérie?” he whined, hips raising in demand for you to do both of you a favour and free him from the restriction.

“i’m sorry, baby… can’t help myself, it looks so pretty like that,” you put on your best, prettiest pout and ran your fingertips down his length. “promise i’ll be good for you now.”

you finally granted him freedom and the way you quickly pulled down the set of underwear had the two of you so eager, your lips immediately came to wrap around half of his cock, the engulfing feeling sending jules’ mind into what he considered a premature frenzy. 

“s-slow down, baby,” he stuttered, hands gripping onto the sides of your head to pull you back to his tip where you suckled like a woman parched, unable to allow yourself to let him go completely. jules was addictive in every sense and the way his dick slid down your throat was even more so. you’d burned every part of him into your mind, making sure it was all unforgettable, all something you could never tire of.

“mm-hmm.” your response was muffled as you effectively ignored your boyfriend’s pleas, mouth taking more of him in, back and forth on repeat as the stiffness slid down your throat. it wasn’t an easy feat since the thickness of jules’ cock was siding on the extraordinary but your mouth was drenched, spit running down your chin and over the skin of your chest as the movement of your head over him became much more rapid.

jules was near to bursting, fingers gripping onto the leather of the sofa as he couldn't help but push his hips further towards you which only brought his dick further into your mouth, the weeping head barging at the opening of your throat. he wanted to grip your head in his hands – as leverage, as control, as a means to get as close to you as possible – but was scared to do so due of his iron-strong hold and the way your tongue traced that one vein on the underside of his dick, oh god, it was heaven—no, it was beyond that. you were his salvation, his saving grace, his angel come to earth; you were so, so good to him and he didn’t think he deserved you. but you were always there to shoot that idea down; it was always a collaboration with the two of you, you were always equals and you were always going to be. 

“i‘m gonna cum, mon ange,” your raven-haired lover whined, back arching as you continued your assault on his sensitive dick, lips reaching all the way to his pubic bone as his balls slapped against your chin with force, head motioning up and down, down and up, any which way to make jules flood your throat with that subtly-salty fluid. “oh my god, baby, please, please.” 

there was no way you were relenting now, the sounds coming from jules only giving you the motivation to bring your hands to his thighs and push your tongue out, his cock still in your mouth, aiming to caress it with the wet muscle and rip his orgasm from him in a matter of milliseconds. 

and that’s exactly what you achieved; a myriad of sweet moans from your boyfriend as he came down your throat, the mixture of clear spittle and milky-white cum threatening to spill out from your filled mouth but you drank it all up with his dick still between your lips, even managing to swallow as you moved back so that only the tip remained wrapped with the swollenness of them. 

“was that good?” you asked sincerely once you had pulled off of his softening length and stood up before pressing the most tender of kisses to his lips which parted in sheer satisfied exhaustion. 

“good? it was more than that, baby, fuck,” he let out a breathless laugh, grabbing your face to pull your mouth to his once again, the motion more hungry than before. “you make me forget about all that’s wrong, my love, thank you, thank you…” 

you couldn’t help but let out a giggle and an aww, a promise of always being there to take care of him on your lips and he was more than appreciative.

“let me take care of you now, bébé. my girl deserves it. please?”

[allgoodnamesrgoneee]

hiya !!! first i want to say i absolutely adoreeee your writing and your work!! i was wondering whether you would consider writing for jamal musiala :))

Hey!! Thank you so much for the kind words. I’m really happy you enjoy my writing! 💖 And yes, absolutely! I’d love to write for Jamal Musiala or anyone else, even if it's not footballers. Feel free to share any ideas or requests you have, and we can work something out! 😊 But I'm really busy with school right now, and it might take some time to answer. BUT, I'm free this summer, so I'm planning a bunch of uploads then.

[pavardscherie]

Can you write for Jules kounde where y/n is on the girls Real Madrid team and they get into a argument because he wants to support barca female team since it’s his team as well so she tells him just to not go at all and he ends up going and he’s wearing her jersey and she dedicates a goal to him? (This is weirdly specific💀)

Anyways stay safe <3

switching jersey, jules kounde

⤷ pairing: jules kounde x female reader ⤷ summary: you have an important match against the female barca team, and jules is completely on the wrong side. after an argument, you don't expect him to even come to your match and support you, but things change quickly.

⤷ izzy's talk: come in and be as specific as possible haha. it only takes longer for me to write because i try to make it as close as possible so it's not the open-minded writing haha. hope you like it!

⤷ requests are open.

hate was such a strong word, and it combined the entirety of bad feelings for someone. but you didn't hate jules for the decision and statements he made. you just could not understand how easy it was to decline you the support you needed. barcelona was his team, no matter if female or male. and it was somewhere understandable that he chose them over your team if he would not be in a relationship with you.

you went to his games, wearing his jersey, and letting the fans in the stands see to whom you belonged. yet, he refused to do the exact same thing for you. it made you furious, the anger bubbled in the pit of your stomach. for merely a second, you even regretted how often you bought a ticket to a game, and surprised him. hidden between the fans, wearing his jersey and waving wildly when he came close enough.

but there was no time left to think about what happened, the referee already walked onto the pitch, accompanied by his three assistants for the important match. it pained you deeply, the misunderstanding between jules and you, and the lack of support, you were allowed to feel. but as the most important striker on the team, you couldn't lose your head. you had to focus on the enemy team, on scoring a goal, and winning the fifth game in a row.

the private life, your relationship, it had to vanish for at least ninety minutes. unnecessary problems had to disappear to assure your excellence was on the pitch. but the first half passed way too quickly. mostly tackled by the enemies, the last chance to keep you away from scoring a goal.

barcelona was the greatest enemy of real madrid. they occupied the first place in the chart currently, and you desperately wanted to change the spots with them. second was good, but not the perfect place. the team you were surrounded with found a better way into the second half. as soon as the referee blew the whistle, the midfielders captured the ball and pushed the barcelona females back into the defense line. to win the game ultimately, you needed at least one goal. two would make it a clear statement. anything above that would be hilarious but also, closed the gap between the first and second place quicker.

twenty minutes into the second half, the right defense players kicked the ball across the midfield, and it fell perfectly into your run. outplaying one, and then a second defensive player, it was you against the goalkeeper. close to the right post, you decided to try for the far post and kicked the ball with the inner surface of your shoe.

the ball flew through the air, bouncing once before the goalline, and jumping straight into the net. the lead goal was scored in the seventy-first minute by you, closing the gap between the two spots in the chart and only being one point behind Barcelona. running towards the corner where the fans already waved their flags, jumped up and down and shouted your name, you raised your arms in the air.

with a wide smile spread across your face, your eyes still skimmed the stands filled with fans in real madrid jersey's for the one familiar face. the features, you could remember with your eyes closed, and the curve of the lips, you loved so dearly.

disappointed filled your empty stomach, the familiar face didn't appear in the crowds. you knew, jules said he wouldn't attend the game because it would be against part of his. it felt like a betrayal to him, but in the end, he chose to betray you. letting your arms fall to the sides, your teammates reached your spot in the corners and jumped on your back. engulfed in a tight hug, you forced yourself to keep the smile on your lips while your squinted gaze hasn't given up on jules yet.

and how lucky you were that your orbs decided against the sadness, and never stop searching. a plastic cup in one of his hands, jules jogged down the stairs in a hurry. the goal happened exactly in the moment when he decided to get a drink. the tightened throat felt dry after shouting your name multiple times, and singing the songs with the real madrid fans. the circle around you dissolved, the team scattered across the field and onto their positions once again to play out the rest of the second half.

yet, you stay for a couple of seconds longer, the corners of your mouth curled further upwards. a smile that glistened with satisfaction and happiness at the sight of him, wearing the all-too-familiar colors of real madrid. turning on the staircase, your name was written in capital letters on his back, and you couldn't help yourself but giggle about it.

slowly talking backward after the barcelona fans already started shouting for you to stop wasting time, you raised your arms and created a heart with your hands towards jules. the goal, you scored a minute ago, was for him. it has always been for him, even if he would have decided against coming to the match.

fortunately, jules changed his mind. decided against being for Barcelona because he played at the same club. nothing mattered more than the kind of bond, he shared with you. and his attendance increased your will to reach the top of the table, just like he and his teammates currently did.

the eagerness of your movements, the gestures of your arms and hands, infected your teammates and the ball came flying forward much more often than attempting to dribble against one of the barcelona females. the clock hit the eighty-eight minute, almost reaching the final whistle of the game, when another perfect ball was played towards you.

running with the ball attached to your foot, you dribbled against the same two defensive players, you outplayed for the first goal. and it happened for a second time. they could not stop you, and neither could the goalkeeper when the ball hit the bar on the inside and flew into the goal. a second time.

immediately, you ran towards the corners, searching for the familiar face of jules, and finding him within seconds. he fought his way towards the front of the crowd, the plastic cup still in his hand but other liquids poured across the jersey from the celebrating people behind him. leaving the pitch, which would result in a booking, you jumped to at least give your boyfriend a successful high-five for the perfect goal scored.

"this one was for you, only you!" you shouted over the loud music, and the screams of the fans. pointing the fingers of your left hand at him, you used your other to send a kiss straight his way. jules watched it in the middle of the air, holding his hand close to his heart. the little gesture meant more than the loud shouts of the fans, celebrating their striker and the win of their team against such a strong enemy.

when you returned to the pitch, you received the booking for leaving the pitch without allowance but shrugged off the yellow card. glancing over your shoulder towards the crowd, jules had the plastic cup between his lips, holding it tightly with his teeth and using his hands to show you a heart. just like you did, when the first goal was scored and his attendance caught you by surprise.

[swayziiwriter]

Team gala | Jules Koundé

summary: you and Jules attend a France team gala together, in a night that was supposed to be of small talk Jules has other plans that don’t involve much talking.

WARNING: 18+, sexual content

Fuck. That's the only word that could explain the state you were currently in. Bent over in front of Jules, your hands gripping the counter of the dining hall bathroom fo dear life.

You accompanied him too the France team dinner, expecting a night of dinner, dancing, and small talk. Jules had other plans.

He couldn't keep his hands to himself as dirty thoughts clouded his mind.

You're long black dress accumulated every one of your curves that he loved to touch so much. He had managed to restrain himself for the majority the night, until you had asked him if your tits were sitting right in the dress as you sat.

He lost it.

Bringing you to now, you dress had been fully unzipped taking placement on the floor as Jules's pants laid discarded beside it.

Leaving you in your undergarments, while he was only missing his dress pants and boxers. You didn't care about that given that you were bent over in front of him.

Jules ran his hands up your sides, before sliding your panties down your legs. He then removed him boxers wasting no time to slip on a condom that was hidden in your purse he positioned himself to be lining up with your dripping cunt.

Your folds were slick, inviting almost as the sight was enough for him to cum all over your ass right then and there. He slowly bottomed out into you, gasps leaving both your mouths as he brought his hands to grip your hips bringing your hips into his to match his deep, hard thrusts.

"Jules, oh my-f-f-fuck" you whimpered, trying to keep as quiet as possible not wanting anyone to suspect what you and your boyfriend were doing.

"Shh, you gotta be quiet for me baby. Don't want anyone else but me to see you like this." He replied making sure that every thrust he gave was deep than the last. "So good for me, my pretty girl" he praised.

You clenched around his cock, motioning for him to go faster. That he did. "JULES" you shrieked, crying out as he assaulted your core with merciless thrusts. He quickly brought a hand to your mouth, muffling your moans as he lowly groaned.

"I'm so close" you whispered, drunk on his cock as Jules shuffled behind you, positioning his legs to be straight before he pounded harder than before. Hitting your g-spot relentlessly it wasn't long until you came undone, moaning his name into his hand as your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

Your knuckles beginning to turn white as your grip on the sink intensified with each thrust to your over stimulated pussy. Your body began to shudder as you felt Jules's thrust become sloppy.

"Let go for me baby, fill me up so good" you whispered, just enough for Jules to hear your request. He moaned, thrusting into you another time before spilling into the condom still inside of you, you felt a warm sensation as Jules muttered curse words lightly.

"Merde" he groaned, pulling out of you slowly Jules made sure to keep his grip on your tight. "We gotta get cleaned up baby" you said staring at him through the mirror. He smirked, walking to be wrapped around your body looking at you through the mirror.

"Mhm, and then when we get home-“ he grabbed your ass, squeezing it harshly. "I'm going to fuck you so hard that you won't be able to walk straight when i'm done."

"N'importe quoi pour to mon amour" you replied breathless.

[mauvecherie-writes]

FREAKTOBER 06 | jules koundé.

RATING: 18+ NSFW mature. Google translated French.

🎀 FREAKTOBER MASTERLIST 🎀

The cool night air hit your skin, but the heat between you and Jules was more than enough to set the whole city on fire.

You barely had time to think before you were pushed up against the railing of the balcony of the hotel room, Jules’s rough hands were already pulling at your dress, his hums of satisfaction rumbling through the darkness of the night

“Jules baby, we’re—” you started say, glancing down at the street below, the lights of the city glowing, people walking by completely unaware of what was about to happen. You had drunkly mentioned how much you would love to have sex on a balcony spontaneously. He thought that now, after a beautiful date night as people rushed through the streets of Barcelona would be a good time as ever.

But Jules didn’t care. Because of his fame, you had been skeptical about someone possibly catching you in the act but the thought of it seemed to turn him on more.

“You worried about a little audience, sweetheart?” He rasped into your ear, his voice dripping with that familiar roughness that always sent a shiver down your spine. His hands gripped your waist, spinning you around until your chest was pressed against the cold metal railing.

The city was spread out below you alive and rushing with life, and here you were, at the mercy of this feral man you loved so much.

Before you could say anything, Jules’s hands were on you again, tugging at your underwear, rough and impatient, and you couldn’t help but moan as he peeled them down. The cool night air hit your exposed skin, the coldness nipping at your nipples and pruning them tight.

A stark contrast to the heat burning inside you, but you didn’t care. Not when Jules was behind you, his body pressed so close, his breath hot against your neck.

“You’re soaked already,” he growled, his hand running over your bare ass, squeezing possessively. “Trying to act all coy but you love this huh? Knowing anyone could look up and see you get fucked by me.”

You could barely respond; your mind was spinning from the intensity of the moment, but your body gave him all the answers he needed. You pushed back against him, craving more, craving everything.

Jules’s low, dirty chuckle told you that he knew exactly what you wanted.

“That’s my girl,” he muttered, and before you could catch your breath, he slammed his dick into you, hard and deep. The force of it made you gasp, your hands gripping the railing for dear life as Jules started moving, not caring at all who might be watching.

The way he fucked you was wild, reckless, like he couldn’t hold back anymore, and the thought of people walking below, just a glance up and they’d see you like this, only made it hotter.

“Ohhh fuuckkk!” You moaned as Jules’s hands gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, and the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air. You could barely think, barely breathe, the only thing you could focus on was the way he felt inside you, the way he owned every inch of your body.

“Bon sang, tu es parfait. Parfait pour moi.” [Goddamn you’re perfect. Perfect for me] Jules growled; his voice rough with lust. His hands slid up your back, rounded your chest and pulled you to his chest which caused you to arch even more so he could bury himself deeper, harder.

“You love this, don’t you? Letting everyone see how good you take it.” He mumbled in your ear, his words slurred.

“Yes, only for you baby.” You moaned, your body shaking with the intensity of it all, and Jules’s pace only quickened, his dick slamming into you over and over, making sure you felt every inch of him.

The thrill of being so exposed, knowing anyone could see, made it impossible to hold back, and you could feel your orgasm building fast, your body tightening around him, squeezing him so hard, his thrusts falter at the tension.

“Fuck! Jules!” you gasped, barely able to form words, just his name.

He wasn’t slowing down, he was relentless. The grip his hands had on your body would surely leave bruises on your skin but that was the last thing on your mind now. You just needed everything that Jules was giving you.

“I can feel you hot and throbbing. Come for me my darling.” With those words, the tension in your body snapped, and you came hard. Your legs were trembling so much as waves of pleasure crashed over you, Jules had to hold you down.

Jules growled in satisfaction, his hips slamming into you one last time as he chased his own release.

“Please, baby. Cum for me.” You whispered into his ear. You could feel him throbbing inside you, and then, with a deep, primal grunt, he came, filling you up as he held you tight against the railing as he stumbled forward due to the intensity of his orgasm.

For a moment, neither of you moved, just standing there as your bodies were pressed together as you tried to catch your breath.

The sounds of the city below seemed distant, almost unreal, as you slowly came down from the high of it all. Jules leaned into the side of your head, moving your tight curls of his was as his lips brushed against your ear. hefhechuckled softly.

“Do you think anyone saw us?” His question caused you to giggle as you rolled your eyes. It wouldn’t matter anyway.

reading list: @queenshikongo3 @hopefulromantic1 @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @blowmymbackout @mochachocolatteyaya @greedyjudge2 @melaninpov @pickingupmymercedes @lewisroscoelove @kindan3rdy951 @elyseesarchive @sl33p-deprived-princess @soiguessimtheshit @acidlv @kriegertops @ermlolol @theogbadbitch @trinitoldyouso @ethereal555 @astrorainbow @jazziejax @laylaynaynay130 @khalaaylah @plan666 @crissrou @cookiecutterzers56 @cameroncrazie13 @shescatrinaxo @efefrf @wvvkndvibez @st4rgirliesstuff @gwenda-fav @fineanddandy @planetblaque @deja-r @kiraonthegooo @apimp-named-slickback @playgurlxoxo @gojosbabyma @heytaewrites @leilaxaliel @dyttomori @tasteofmyrainboe @livvy-lovess @violetmuses @jeanellepatrice @kaisage45 @planetnique

[iamquiantrelle]

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

⌗ pairing : jules koundé x black oc

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he'd stay for one more song.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His phone buzzed again. Mila.

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

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

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

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

His agent was calling. Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Esas eran ediciones limitadas," Jules defended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worth it though.

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

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

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

Her phone lit up. Jules' agent again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But...

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

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

She could use this. Use him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She set down her cup. Hard.

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

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

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

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

"Fine. But I have conditions."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, this was going to be interesting.

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

[lilirari]

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⊹ ( ⚽ ) . . . FAKE TEXTS ³ !

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ ꩜⋆ barça version bc it's barça day today + we won against porto !! happy barça day <33 also guys, i think ter stegen's bringing the chilli.. not too sure though.

© LILIRARI, 2023 ★

[sinflowersugar]

Black reader here looking to read all the fics.

black writers who write for footballers check in 🫶🏾🖤

[saturnville]

say it

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep going. Say it.” 

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

“Good girl.”

[didishawn]

plss kounde smut with size kink

Pretty little thing (Jules Koundé x Reader) smut

Warnings: size kink, smut, mentions of anal sex, mentions of reader being on birth control, mentions of sex toys

Masterlist

He won't ever say it, but you know.

You knew since back then, when you were only friends and he was asking you to compare hand sizes, his enveloping yours, much smaller than his.

You see it in his eyes, when he innocently proposes you to wear his clothes, eyes shining as he sees how everyone of his shirts look like dresses on you, long sleeves moving dumbly around as you move you arms, everything so big on your small figure.

There is this specific glint on his eye whenever he fucks you, when he sees your hand struggles to wrap around his large cock, how he can move you however he wants, how your figure completely disappears from the view of the mirror just above your bed, his own body the one thing that shows.

You look so adorable when his cock is in your mouth, barely fitting at all, and so pretty when you have that whiny voice of yours telling him:

"I can take it, I promise I can!" whenever you want him to just pound into you, something you both know it's not possible as it would hurt you too much.

There is a special box hidden from curious eyes under your bed, it contains go from dildos -all sizes, a mighty purchase you did back then when you became focused on wanting to do anal- lube, vibrators, abandoned flavored condoms you used back then when you weren't on birth control.

It's a ritual really before you have sex, he might like it a bit to see how you struggle taking his cock, but he loves you too much to have you be in actual pain.

He lubes his fingers, then uses them to stretch you out a bit, open you up for the bigger thing, that is your favorite dildo, a blue plastic thing whose size cannot compare to his own.

He loves see is you ride that thing, fucking you with it, seeing how cute you look as he teases your clit, the pace is never too hard, just enough to have you whining, eyes shut closed, cheeks red.

He covers his cock from head to bottom in lube, when he enters it's slowly, a cute pink vibrator on your little clit to have you wetter.

It takes a while for him to bottom up, it always makes him groan and almost cum when he sees the bulge on your stomach, pushing on it as he fucks into you slowly then roughly.

He takes what he wants from you, always being careful though, as he knows one wrong move can have you in pain, yet he enjoys your teary eyes, you small hands pushing on his chest, whining about how big he is, how deep he is, mumbling about him breeding you, you are so fucking full, stretched out to your limit.

When you ride him his heart bursts with love at how cute you look, so small and trying to take on a man so big, it's slower, he knows you need your time.

He feels smug, cheeky, at how your eyes snap open when his hips start fucking up into you in a way that has you almost jumping on him, a harsh slam, boobs dancing freely, nails digging into his skin.

Jules adores it all, loves his pretty girlfriend, how tiny she is, how good she takes him, he couldn't imagine anything better.

[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

[footballerimaginess]

For your Olympics fic, I'd like to suggest Jules Kounde, Trent Alexander Arnold and Ferran Torres 👀

Thank you! I’ll add them to the poll x

[iamquiantrelle]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You literally picked this out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh hell no, her thoughts protested.

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

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

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

"And footballers?"

"Are you fishing for compliments right now?"

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

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

"My what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that what we're calling this?"

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

"And French pet names?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jules choked on his water.

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

"Couple content?" Mila raised an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?" Mila straightened in her chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He has a point," Jules concurred.

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

Guess the fuck not, she thought.

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

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

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

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

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

"Budget?" she asked stoically.

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

Good answer.

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

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

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

"No." Mila and Jules said simultaneously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But the team colors—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When did you move to Paris?"

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

"Your parents were okay with that?"

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

"Then we won't talk about it."

"Ever," she said firmly.

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

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

"Been googling me?"

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

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

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

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

"Want my social security number too?"

"You're impossible."

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

"Desirée?"

"Yes, very stripper chic, I know."

"What? No. It suits you."

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

He took the bait. "What?"

"My new Fendi bag."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How did you—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Welcome to footballer life."

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

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

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

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

"Hoes?"

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

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

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

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

"What the fuck—"

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

"Just remember, this is strictly business."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would you prefer I pretended to cook?"

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

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

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

"Did you actually reorganize my closet?"

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

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

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

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

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

"They're worse than Bruno."

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

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

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

"I'm light skin."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you were talking to me."

"Because you're cool."

"I'm cool?"

Their eyes connected across the kitchen island.

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

"I don't date men."

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

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

"With who you want?" He finished.

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

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

"Speak plainly, chéri."

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

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

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

"Oh, so you think you know?"

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

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

"Huge BDE," was his response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you actually critiquing my uniform?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You're really tracking her, huh?"

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

Jules raised an eyebrow. "My type?"

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

"You've put thought into this."

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

"Year and a half."

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

"The usual. Career, distance."

"Boring answer. Give me the real tea."

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

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

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

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

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

"Real enough to reorganize my closet."

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

"It's almost midnight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Unless what?"

"Unless you want to be posted."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just adjusting my speed."

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

"It's five in the morning."

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

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

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

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

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

Nah. Don't.

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

Yeah. He definitely needed a shower.

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

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

Running was definitely one word for it.

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

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

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

For now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

La Mer, someone's real bougie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"he's demanding a reconsideration."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She snorted. "Touché."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mila could almost hear his laugh through the screen.

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

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

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