#jules kounde x you

[iamquiantrelle]

SEEK & DESTROY (part one) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: jules koundé x black!tennis player (fem)

# tags: @irishmanwhore, @sucredreamer @peyiswriting @greedyjudge2 @simplyyalika @julescpu @hopefulromantic1, @a-moment-captured @jessnotwiththemess @enretrogue @yeea-nah @127hydrangeas @sunfairyy @pinkcatcus @muglermami @bbgkoo @sinflowersugar @cranberryjulce @lev-1-1 @snowseasonmademe, @lostennyc, @perfecttrashface @queenshikongo3 @hotfudgeslug @greyishbach @certifiedlesbianbaddie @invertedempress @kjlovesbigwilo @mauvecherie-writes @carmilladias @sweetcherryanointing @literallysza

# summary: When a rising tennis star spots her ex-fling Jules Koundé in the Barcelona Open crowd, memories of heated nights and unresolved feelings come rushing back. After two months of silence, he's giving her one chance to choose: meet him in Sevilla or it's over for good. Sometimes what happens off the court burns hotter than victory itself.

# author’s note: I saw Challengers and then Jules was at a tennis match and I just had too!

The Barcelona Open finals. The culmination of ten days of sweat, strain, and the satisfying thwock of perfectly struck balls. The clay still smelled fresh despite being pounded by countless players throughout the tournament. The stadium hummed with the kind of electric anticipation reserved for moments when history might be written.

And all she could think about was how fucking much her right shoulder hurt.

"Fifteen seconds, Miss," the umpire called.

She bounced the ball once, twice, three times against the rust-colored clay. Her opponent, Svetlana Kuznova, stood across the court, racket twirling impatiently in her hand. The Russian had already been warned twice for time violations, yet somehow she was the one getting the passive-aggressive countdown.

She tossed the ball skyward, arched her back, and drove her racket through with the kind of fluid power that had drawn comparisons to her idol since she was sixteen. The serve sliced through the air, painting the T-line perfectly.

"Ace. 30-15," the umpire announced.

A pocket of American fans erupted, waving their little stars and stripes like she was out here fighting for democracy instead of just trying to win her first major on clay. Her eyes flicked to them, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth, when she saw him.

Fuck.

Those shoulders. That jawline. The green and white checkered knit polo tucked neatly into black slacks like he was attending a damn garden party instead of a tennis final. Even with the black sunglasses masking half his face, she'd recognize Jules Koundé anywhere.

"Miss Y/L/N, please serve."

Right. Tennis. The final. Focus.

She bounced the ball again, trying to push away memories of his hands gripping her waist, holding her against the wall of his Barcelona apartment, his lips at her neck whispering things in French she couldn't understand but somehow made her whole body flush hot anyway.

Her serve caught the net.

"Fault."

From the commentary box high above, two voices dissected her mistake for millions of viewers.

"Y/L/N seems to have lost focus momentarily. That's not like her, Patrick. She's been laser-sharp all tournament."

"Sometimes in these big moments, the pressure can get to even the most composed players, John. Let's see if she can reset."

She took a deep breath. She had two months of not answering his texts under her belt. Two months of pretending the best sex of her life hadn't happened. Two months of focusing solely on her game, her career, her goals.

And now he was here, on the one day she couldn't afford distractions.

Her second serve landed safely, starting a rally that stretched her side to side across the baseline. Kuznova hit a cross-court backhand that she had to full-stretch for, her grunt echoing around the stadium as she somehow redirected it down the line for a winner.

"40-15."

"Magnificent from Y/L/N!" the commentator exclaimed. "That's the kind of shot Serena would be proud of!"

But she was already thinking about the next point, and definitely not about how Jules had shifted forward in his seat, clapping with that infuriating little half-smile that always made her feel like he knew something she didn't.

By the time she'd taken the first set 6-4, she had managed to mostly forget Jules was there. Tennis had always been her salvation, the place where nothing else mattered. Not her mother's sacrifices to afford coaching. Not the racist comments on social media. Not the memory of Jules' fingers twisted in her hair, tugging just hard enough to make her gasp.

Damn it.

"Challenge!"

She snapped back to reality as Kuznova pointed angrily at a ball mark near the sideline. The Russian was already walking to her chair, certain the call would be overturned.

The Hawk-Eye replay showed the ball catching the tiniest sliver of the line.

"Ball was good. Point to Y/L/N. Game, first set, Y/L/N."

The Russian slammed her racket against her chair, launching into a tirade at the umpire that would definitely cost her a code violation.

From the commentary box: "Kuznova clearly frustrated with that call, though the technology doesn't lie, John."

"It doesn't, but when you're out there in the heat of battle, sometimes you see what you want to see. Y/L/N looks composed despite the drama. She's been unflappable."

If only they knew how flapped she actually felt.

During the changeover, she closed her eyes, towel draped over her head. Her coach's voice echoed in her mind: Control what you can control. The rest is just noise.

Jules Koundé was definitely noise. Exceptionally attractive, French-accented noise who had once made her come three times in a single night.

Focus. Focus.

By the third set, her legs burned with fatigue. She'd dropped the second set in a tiebreak after Kuznova started employing every trick in the book – medical timeouts when she had momentum, tying her shoes during her service rhythm, even subtly moving the ball marks with her feet when the umpire wasn't looking.

But she had been dealing with gamesmanship since junior tennis. This was just higher stakes.

She painted the line with a forehand winner to go up 4-2 with a break. As she walked to the chair for the changeover, she allowed herself a quick scan of the stands. Jules was leaning forward, elbows on knees, sunglasses now perched on top of his head. She recognized Pedri and Gavi sitting beside him, Barcelona teammates who seemed fully invested in the match.

No women with them, she noted, then immediately scolded herself for caring.

Two games later, Kuznova hit a return long on match point. The stadium erupted.

"Game, set, match, Y/L/N! She is your Barcelona Open champion!"

She dropped to her knees, racket falling beside her, hands covering her face as the reality washed over her. Her first clay court title. Her name on the trophy alongside legends.

After shaking Kuznova's hand (a frigid exchange that lasted milliseconds), she looked up to her box where her coach and physio were jumping around like lottery winners. She'd done it. Despite the shoulder pain. Despite Kuznova's tactics.

Despite Jules fucking Koundé and his ability to make her body remember things it had no business remembering during a final.

The press conference was the usual barrage of questions – about her game plan, about adjusting to clay, about what this meant for the French Open next month. She handled them with the poise that had earned her the nickname "Ice Queen" from the tennis media, a label she found both reductive and vaguely racist, but had learned to live with.

"And finally, we noticed some famous faces in the crowd today. The Barcelona football players seemed quite supportive. Any connections there?"

Her stomach tightened. "I don't really follow football much," she lied smoothly. "But it's always nice to have support from fellow athletes."

Technically not a lie. She didn't follow football. She had, however, followed Jules Koundé straight to his bed last time she was in Barcelona.

The locker room was blissfully empty when she finally returned, trophy ceremony complete, drug test finished, media obligations fulfilled. Her shoulder screamed as she gingerly changed out of her sweat-soaked match clothes. Tomorrow would be recovery – ice, massage, maybe some light movement. Tonight was for celebration.

Alone, preferably.

She checked her phone. Sixteen texts from friends and family. Hundreds of notifications. And one message from a number she'd been ignoring for two months.

Jules: Magnifique, chérie. Your backhand is still as good as I remember. Dinner to celebrate?

She closed her eyes. How did he still affect her like this? It had been an incredible few months, not a lifetime. Just some phenomenal sex and surprisingly deep late-night conversations in broken English and her high-school French. Nothing worth risking her focus for.

She typed out Not interested and deleted it. Typed I'm busy and deleted that too.

A knock at the locker room door saved her from herself.

"Ms. Y/L/N? Your car is ready whenever you are."

"Thanks, I'll be right out."

She slung her bag over her good shoulder and pushed through the door, only to walk straight into a solid chest in a green and white checkered polo.

"Congratulations, champion," came that accented voice, smooth like expensive bourbon and just as intoxicating.

She took a step back, forcing herself to look up into those dark eyes that somehow always seemed to be laughing at a private joke.

"Jules. What are you doing here? This area is for players and staff."

He gestured vaguely with his hand. "When you wear this—" he pointed to his face with a smile that was equal parts confidence and charm, "—people let you go places you shouldn't."

Despite herself, she felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "Humble as always."

"You ignored my texts," he said, stepping closer, his cologne bringing back memories that made her grip her bag tighter.

"I've been busy. Training. Winning tournaments. You know, my job."

"And I have been busy winning matches. My job also." He shrugged those shoulders she remembered digging her nails into. "But I still find time to reply to messages."

She glanced around the hallway, acutely aware that at any moment, a reporter or tournament official could round the corner.

"I need to go."

"To celebrate your win, yes? Perfect. I know a place."

"Jules—"

"Your coach, your team, they can come too." He stepped back, giving her space, but his eyes never left hers. "Unless you are afraid to be near me?"

There it was. The challenge. The slightly cocky edge that had drawn her to him in the first place.

"I'm not afraid of anything," she said, chin lifting.

His smile widened. "This I know. I watched you today. Fighting like a lion."

"Lioness."

"Oui, of course. The more dangerous of the two." He checked his watch, an elegant timepiece that probably cost more than most people's cars. "My teammates, they are waiting with their girlfriends. We have a reservation at Disfrutar in one hour. Best restaurant in Barcelona. You deserve the best today, no?"

She knew she should say no. Knew that getting entangled with Jules again would only complicate her life right when things were falling into place professionally.

But standing there, riding the high of victory, with his dark eyes filled with something that looked dangerously like admiration mixed with desire, she found herself nodding.

"Fine. But I need to shower and change first."

"Of course. I will wait."

As she turned to head back into the locker room, his voice stopped her.

"Hey."

She looked back over her shoulder.

"You cannot say no to me, chérie. We both know this."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face.

"Watch me," she said, letting the door swing shut behind her.

But they both knew she didn't mean it.

________________________________________________

The restaurant was nothing like she had expected. No teammates. No coaches. No buffer between her and the man currently pulling out her chair like they were on some kind of goddamn date.

This dreadlocked-ass nigga is trying to be slick.

And he was. A bouquet of white lilies and pink roses waited on the table—her favorites, which she'd mentioned exactly once during a 3 AM conversation months ago. The private corner table screamed premeditation, tucked away with a view of the Barcelona skyline lighting up against the deepening twilight.

"You said your teammates would be here," she said, settling into her seat, already mapping an exit strategy.

Jules slid into his chair, close enough that his knee brushed against hers under the table. "They were busy." His accent made every lie sound smooth as cognac. "Such a shame."

"Yeah. A real tragedy."

He smiled, not even bothering to hide his deception. His locs were pulled back loosely, a few escaping to frame his face in a way that was entirely too appealing for her sanity. She tried to focus on the menu instead of how the restaurant lighting caught the angles of his jawline.

"You played incredible today," he said, his voice dropping to that lower register that always did things to her body. "That backhand down the line in the third set? Magnifique."

"Thanks."

The waiter approached with a bottle of champagne she definitely hadn't seen Jules order. Another part of his master plan, obviously.

As the bubbling liquid filled her glass, Jules leaned closer. "To the champion," he said, clinking his glass against hers. "And to reunions."

"I didn't agree to a reunion," she muttered, but took a sip anyway. The champagne was excellent, obviously. Nothing but the best for Jules fucking Koundé.

"Yet here you are."

"Under false pretenses."

"Details." He waved his hand dismissively, eyes never leaving hers.

The first course arrived—some delicate arrangement of seafood that probably cost more than most people spent on groceries for a week. Jules watched her take her first bite, his gaze so intent it made her skin warm.

"Stop staring at me while I eat."

"I like watching your mouth," he replied without a hint of shame. "It reminds me of things."

She nearly choked on her food. "You're being inappropriate."

"And you're being stubborn." He shifted closer, the heat of his thigh pressing against hers. "Two months, chérie. No reply to my texts. No call. Nothing. As if what we had was nothing."

"It was just—"

"If you say 'just sex' I'm going to lose my mind." His hand found her knee under the table. "We both know it was more."

His fingers traced small circles on her exposed skin where her dress had ridden up, the touch sending unwelcome electricity up her thigh. She shifted away, but the small booth didn't give her much retreat.

"The press will have a field day if they see us," she tried, changing tactics.

"Let them." Jules shrugged, taking a sip of his champagne. "I'm not ashamed of being seen with you."

The conversation momentarily paused as their main courses arrived. She used the interruption to collect her thoughts, to remind herself why she'd stopped answering his texts in the first place.

Focus. Career. No distractions.

But Jules had always been the ultimate distraction. Even now, as she tried to concentrate on her food, she could feel his eyes watching her every move.

Halfway through the meal, he leaned over and pressed his lips against her exposed shoulder, the contact brief but burning.

"I missed you," he murmured against her skin. "Missed the sounds you make when I touch you."

She cleared her throat, hyper-aware of the restaurant staff moving around them. "Jules, we're in public."

"Mmm." He pulled back, but only slightly. "Then perhaps we should go somewhere private."

"We're eating dinner."

"I'm hungry for something else."

She rolled her eyes, though the heat spreading through her body betrayed her true reaction. "Does that line actually work on women?"

"I don't use it on women. Only you." His smile was slow, deliberate. "And judging by how your pulse just jumped, it's working just fine."

Throughout the meal, Jules maintained his assault on her senses. A hand on the small of her back. His thumb brushing over her wrist. Eyes that tracked every movement of her lips. She was holding strong, though—keeping the conversation light, deflecting his more suggestive comments, ignoring the way his cologne made her want to lean closer.

Until dessert arrived.

One plate. One spoon. One knowing smirk from Jules.

"I ordered for us to share," he said innocently, though nothing about the heat in his eyes was innocent.

She eyed the decadent chocolate creation between them. "I can ask for another spoon."

"Where's the fun in that?" He scooped up a bite, holding it toward her lips. "Open."

Against her better judgment, she leaned forward and accepted the offering. The rich chocolate melted on her tongue, embarrassingly good. She licked her lips to catch a stray bit of sauce, only realizing her mistake when she saw Jules' eyes darken.

"You don't know how much I've dreamt of your lips and tongue," he said, voice so low it was almost a growl. "The things they do to me."

She inhaled sharply and started coughing, chocolate going down the wrong way. Jules patted her back, his touch firm but caring, while passing her water with his other hand.

"You good?" he asked, concern briefly replacing the desire in his eyes.

She nodded, taking a sip of water. "You can't just say shit like that in public, Jules."

Instead of backing off, he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "We should leave."

"No."

His eyes widened, a flash of surprise quickly melting into something darker, more primal. The brown of his irises deepened to molten pools that rivaled the chocolate on the table.

"Why not?" His head tilted to the side, studying her with newfound interest. Then he leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You always playing around like you don't want this dick. I know you do, chérie. You know why?"

She gasped, partly at his words, partly at the feeling of his hand sliding higher on her thigh.

"Because I know how much you been wanting to taste me, to fuck me just like I've been wanting you. You know how much your pussy been aching for me to—"

Someone cleared their throat nearby. The waiter stood there, check in hand, expression carefully neutral. She wanted to sink through the floor.

Jules switched effortlessly to Spanish, exchanging pleasantries with the waiter as if he hadn't just been whispering filth into her ear. He pulled out his black American Express card and handed it over without even glancing at the bill.

As the waiter walked away, Jules turned his attention back to her. He leaned back in his seat, legs spread wide in classic manspread, arm draped casually across the back of her chair. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare shoulder as he picked up his dessert wine with his free hand.

He sipped slowly, eyes never leaving hers over the rim of the glass. The intensity of his gaze made her shift in her seat, heat pooling between her thighs despite her determination not to react to him.

After finishing his wine, he set the glass down with deliberate care. The silence between them stretched, charged with everything unsaid.

Finally, Jules sighed, his expression shifting to something more serious, more vulnerable than she was prepared for.

"I missed you."

She rolled her eyes, unable to handle this sudden sincerity. "This fucking man," she thought.

Jules saw the incredulous look on her features. "I do, besides all the sex. I miss you."

"Lies."

"Never," he scoffed, shaking his locs in denial. The motion caused several to fall forward, framing his face in a way that made her heart stutter. He rubbed his goatee thoughtfully, a smirk playing on his lips though his eyes remained fond. "Remember the summer, after the Olympics? When we stayed almost two full days in our hotel in Lisbon? How we didn't want to leave each other's sides at all?"

She did remember. That stolen weekend had been a little piece of respite before they both had to return to training for their respective careers and their schedules became increasingly hectic.

"I do," she admitted softly.

"Remember what I told you that night when we went to NOBU? How I wanted you to be my—"

"I'mma stop you there, Jules, because you're pushing it."

A low chuckle escaped his lips, rich and velvety. "Chérie, don't act like I won't pull you into a bathroom and bend you over the counter and..."

With each word, he moved closer, until she found herself backed into the corner of their booth. Their faces were mere inches apart, his words trailing off into charged silence.

"You make me feral," he admitted, his voice rough with honesty. "You make me wild and I don't know why. I'm addicted to you, chérie. I'm addicted to your smell, your taste, your presence, and I don't know why. You didn't have to ghost me, you know? You didn't have to leave me like you did knowing that all I wanted was to be yours."

"Jules, we are both—"

"Busy," he finished, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's always been your excuse."

He made a soft tsk sound against his teeth, the sharp click somehow both dismissive and intimate. Then he pulled back slightly, giving her room to breathe.

"I know we're busy, but we could've given it a chance. At least tried instead of not even making an attempt."

"Jules, you don't know what you're talking about. We had a fling and it was getting very hot and..."

"And what?" he wondered, eyebrows furrowing in frustration. "We both caught feelings. Admit to that at least."

"Jules..."

"Admit to it," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for evasion.

She exhaled slowly. "Maybe we both caught feelings, but as I was saying—"

"Oh là là," he scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically, and she knew Jules' petty side was about to make an appearance.

Before she could tell him off, the waiter returned with his card. Jules tucked it back into his wallet after signing his name, then turned his attention back to her.

"You're so annoying at times," he said, but there was no real heat behind his words.

She parted her lips to retort, but he held up his hand, stopping her.

"I'm tired of playing these games, really. I know I should move on, but you know me—you know how stubborn I am and how I always fight for things I want. And you're the only person I want." He exhaled deeply, his intense stare sending a shiver down her spine. "So I'm going to give you a choice, and whatever you do tells me how you really feel."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Copa del Rey is next week in Sevilla." His eyes narrowed slightly. "You remember Sevilla too, right? When I fucked you on our hotel balcony?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jules," she gasped, glancing around to make sure no one had heard him.

"I knew you remembered," he smiled widely. "That was the first time I made you squirt."

"Oh my god, Jules, please!" she hissed, urging him to get to the point.

"Okay, okay," he chuckled. "Copa del Rey is next week. Your coach told me that you're free then and will be in Paris to prepare for the French Open. I booked you a flight." His expression sobered. "The choice is whether you take that flight from Paris to Sevilla and watch me at my match. If you do, then I know you feel the same as I do but were just being your normal stubborn self. And if you don't..."

"If I don't?" she prompted when he trailed off.

Jules answered with a shrug. "You just don't. But to be clear, I will never try to link up with you anymore, and you can't come running back on some 'I made a mistake' bullshit. You will be blocked."

"Petty much?" she teased, giving him a look of distaste.

"I'm protecting my peace, chérie. Don't shit on my methods." The impasse between them stretched for several seconds before he broke it. "Deal?"

After another pause, weighing the implications, she finally nodded. "Deal."

With that, he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek before standing. "Your driver should be here by now."

Sure enough, her phone buzzed with a text from her driver saying he was waiting outside.

"I'll walk you out," Jules said, his hand finding the small of her back as they moved through the restaurant.

The Barcelona night was warm, stars barely visible against the city lights. A gentle breeze carried the scent of the Mediterranean, mixing with the lingering notes of Jules' cologne as he walked her to the car.

He opened the door for her, his hand lingering on hers as she slid into the backseat.

"See you soon, I guess," he said, the uncertainty in his voice a rare crack in his confident façade.

She nodded, still stunned by the evening's turn of events. As the car pulled away from the curb, she watched him through the window, standing tall and impossibly handsome in the soft glow of the restaurant lights.

What the fuck had just happened? And more importantly, what was she going to do about that flight to Sevilla?

......tbd

[amirawrah]

⭐︎Laid bare in love

with JULES KOUNDE⭐︎

synopsis: Your husband is obsessed with you.

In a breezy, curtainless villa by the sea, your husband Jules can’t keep his hands—or heart—off you. Sun, skin, and love without limits.

The villa was tucked away in the cliffs of Santorini, hidden like a secret only the two of you knew. White-washed walls, infinity pool spilling over into the Aegean Sea, and wide, open windows that invited the ocean breeze in like an old friend. There were no curtains—none. Just golden sunlight, blue water, and the sound of waves echoing like a heartbeat through the house.

Jules had chosen this place himself.

“You said you wanted somewhere quiet,” he murmured earlier as you explored the space, barefoot and glowing from the flight. “Just us.”

It was just you two. No paparazzi. No friends. No stylists. No trainers or agents or post-match debriefs. Just your husband, his locs falling, a soft white tee clinging to his chest, and the wedding band glinting on his hand like a promise.

By the time the second day rolled in, the villa had become its own kind of paradise. Your luggage was barely touched. Jules had been living in swim shorts and nothing else. You, in one of his button-downs and bikini bottoms, walking around with salty skin and sun-kissed legs, his eyes always following.

That morning, you’d made the mistake of walking in front of the giant window facing the sea. The breeze kissed your thighs. Jules’s gaze darkened immediately.

“Baby,” he warned gently, voice thick and low from the lounge chair, “you keep walking around like that, and I’m gonna forget this is a peaceful trip.”

You’d just smiled, lips glossy from fresh mango juice.

Now it’s late afternoon. The sun is beginning to sink into gold and fire, lighting up the whole villa. You’re standing in front of the open window again, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really waiting—because you know exactly what’s coming.

And there it is.

Jules’s bare chest brushes up behind you, warm and solid, and then his hands are on your waist. Not urgent. Not hurried. Just... possessive. Confident. Like he’s done this a thousand times, and will do it a thousand more.

His fingers trace under the hem of your shirt—his shirt—and he groans softly when he realizes you aren’t wearing a bra.

“Really” he says into the shell of your ear, pressing his mouth there.

You smile, tilting your head to the side, granting him more access as he drags his lips down your neck. “I’m just existing.”

“No,” he growls, low and hoarse. “You’re teasing.”

He turns you around, eyes darker now, the gold flecks glowing in the late light. His hands roam, slow but assured, dragging over your thighs, squeezing the softness there like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. He leans in to kiss you—deep, hungry, the kind of kiss that steals your breath and replaces it with heat.

“You know,” you murmur between kisses, “the neighbors might see.”

“There are no neighbors,” he says, voice rough with desire. “That’s the point of the villa. No curtains, no rules.”

His hands lift you easily—he’s done it a thousand times, but each time makes your stomach flutter. He sets you down on the wide windowsill, your back against the open breeze, his lips moving from your mouth to your collarbone, down to where the shirt barely hangs on your body.

The wind rushes in, salty and cool against your feverish skin, but you barely notice. Not when his hands are under your shirt. Not when his tongue traces lazy patterns along your chest. Not when he bites gently and whispers your mine but you already know.

The ocean roars below like applause.

Later, when the sun is nearly gone, you’re both tangled on the couch, bare legs draped over his lap, a bottle of white wine open beside you.

Jules is drawing circles on your inner thigh, wedding band catching the last rays of light. You’re glowing. Loved.

“You realize we haven’t left the villa in two days,” you say softly.

He grins, locs messy now, eyes still heavy with love. “Why would I? Everything I need is right here.” He kisses you again—slow and deep, like there’s no world outside this view, this breeze, this love.

Because really, for Jules Koundé, there isn’t.

[emjayewrites]

The Year I Turned 25 • JK + AT (3/10)

SYNOPSIS: Grammy-winning R&B artist Y/N Y/LN, 25, is closing out the North American leg of her tour, riding high on the success of her sophomore album "The Year I Turned 24" - a raw, emotional project born from her public breakup with an NFL player. As she prepares for six weeks in Europe before the international leg of her tour, she's determined to have her own "hot girl summer," yet she’s unaware that she's about to get entangled with not one but two professional footballers - Jules Koundé and Aurélien Tchouaméni - sparking new public interest in her love life and forcing her to confront her fears about dating athletes again.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

PAIRINGS: Jules Koundé x Y/N Y/LN (fc: Ayra Starr) x Aurélien Tchouaméni

WARNINGS: cursing, football b.s., not so glamorous life of a celebrity, mentions of mental illness/misogyny/slut shaming/cheating, drug use (marijuana), drinking, rotational dating, eventual smut, paragon partners/polyamory — 18+ only

TAGLIST: @irishmanwhore, @sucredreamer, @judesvirtual, @saturnville, @peyiswriting, @greedyjudge2, @pepfectionary, @alika-4466, @julescpu, @lettersofgold, @hopefulromantic1, @a-moment-captured, @serpenttines-library, @f1-football-fiend, @purplelewlew, @enretrogue, @judesprxncess, @yeea-nah @127hydrangeas, @sunfairyy, @pinkcatcus, @muglermami, @bbgkoo, @greyishbach @sinflowersugar @cranberryjulce

CHAPTER 3: Another One, Thank You!

Hamburg greeted YN with unexpected sunshine and a hotel room with a view of the harbor. She'd barely finished unpacking when her phone buzzed:

Aurélien 🌹 Settled in? I'm taking you somewhere nice tonight

YN Define 'nice' 🤔

Aurélien You'll see. Wear something that shows off what you want me to touch later 😏

YN's mouth went dry. The man did not believe in subtle flirting.

YN And if I want you to touch everything?

Aurélien Then why did you wanna get dinner? We could've just chilled in my room

"Touché," she muttered.

Her phone buzzed again, this time the group chat:

Jules 🇫🇷 You good YN?

Aurélien 🌹 Taking YN to Heimat tonight

Jules 🇫🇷 Good choice. Those views 👌🏾 Treat her well but not too well, I need her tomorrow 😌

YN I'm right here! 🙄

Aurélien 🌹 We know 😈

These men are going to be the death of me. She was about to respond when an Instagram notification caught her eye:

deuxmoi: SPOTTED: Grammy winner YN_YLN with French football star Jules Koundé at froyo spot in Düsseldorf! A source says they looked "very cozy" 👀 [Fan photo attached]

view all comments...

popculture_daily: The way he's looking at her though! 🔥 ynglobaldom: MY QUEEN WINNING chartdata: Her power>>> gossipgirl2024: Wait didn't you say you saw her with TWO French players? Drop the tea sis

Shit. I have to keep this lowkey.

For what? her intrusive thoughts challenged. Men get seen with different women all the time. Did Damari hide his fun?

That makes you no better than him! her rational side countered. Keep it under wraps.

She had to agree — the potential scandal of being seen with both of them...

Though part of her wanted to say fuck it. Why should she hide?

"Because being famous is annoying sometimes," she muttered, unpacking her suitcase and arranging her outfits in the closet. She plugged in her essential oil diffuser — lavender to calm her nerves — and lined up her skincare on the marble bathroom counter.

The challenge: what to wear for dinner with Aurélien? Something that said "I'm sexy but not desperate for dick" even though she was, in fact, kind of desperate for his. After twenty minutes of trying on different options, she settled on a black silk slip dress that hit mid-thigh – classy but with enough potential to make his eyes darken.

A quick shower to freshen up, then she wrapped herself in the hotel's fluffy robe and started her getting-ready playlist. Her favorite songs filled the room as she did her makeup, singing along while blending her eyeshadow:

"I might kill my ex, not the best idea… His new girlfriend's next, how'd I get here?"

She switched to Beyoncé as she curled her hair: "I'm warning who I bring to this dinner…"

How appropriate, she thought, pinning half her curls up to show off her neck.

By 8PM, she was applying a final coat of lipgloss when a knock echoed through the suite. Her heart, and pussy, jumped.

She opened the door to find Aurélien looking edible in a fitted black button-down and slacks. His eyes did that slow drag over her body that made her feel like prey - in the best way.

"Beautiful," he said, his signature smirk appearing. "Ready?"

"Let me grab my bag."

His hand found the small of her back as they walked to the elevator - always touching, always claiming space.

Heimat had good lighting and harbor views, and their corner table was intimate without trying too hard. Aurélien pulled out her chair, then sat close enough that his knee pressed against hers.

"So," he reached for the wine list, "besides being an incredible singer and looking gorgeous, what else should I know about YN?"

"You tell me what you want to know."

"Everything." No hesitation. His directness made her flush.

Over wine and appetizers, she learned he was obsessed with basketball ("Knicks till I die, but Lakers when they're good"), played the piano, and had strong opinions about American culture.

His hand had migrated to her thigh, but his touch wasn't purely sexual – he squeezed gently when she talked about her music, traced patterns when she mentioned her mom, and pulled back when she tensed discussing her past.

"That's why the Browns are gonna have a trash season," he said when Damari came up.

"You follow American football?"

"Enough to know your ex is gonna be riding the bench," Aurélien said simply. "But his loss is my gain."

"Our gain," she corrected.

"Ah yes, can't forget Jules." He grinned.

The conversation flowed easily - from childhood dreams to current goals, favorite books to worst dates. He was surprisingly funny, dropping deadpan jokes that had her snorting into her wine.

"Did you know," he said seriously, "that Jules sleepwalks?"

"No way."

"Once found him trying to make a sandwich in his sleep. Completely naked."

By dessert, she'd learned more about him than she expected - how his eyes crinkled when he really smiled, how he gestured with his hands when excited about a topic, how his thumb would stroke her skin absently while he listened.

"Want to take a walk?" he suggested after paying. "The harbor's pretty at night."

"You just want to get handsy."

"Always." That smirk again. "But I also want to explore with you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Explore what exactly?"

His hand found her lower back again. "Whatever you want, ma belle."

The harbor lights danced on the water as they walked, Aurélien's hand never leaving her waist. He stopped at a quieter spot, turning her to face him.

"Been wanting to do this properly," he murmured, cradling her face. His kiss was different from the hungry ones he usually gave - slow, deliberate, commanding in its patience. He took his time exploring her mouth until her knees went weak.

When he pulled back, she couldn't help the foolish grin spreading across her face.

"Look at that smile," he teased, thumb brushing her bottom lip. "Cute."

"Shut up," she rolled her eyes, still grinning.

"Would it be crazy if I asked you to spend the night?"

Her first instinct was yes, but then memories of Jules from last night flooded back. Did this make her… a whore? Going from one man's dick to potentially another's?

Girl, who cares? her intrusive thoughts chimed in. It's YOUR hot girl summer.

"I should be honest," she started. "Jules and I…"

"I know," he said softly. "Saw you both in the elevator, remember? Look, this is a lot - physically, emotionally. We go at your pace."

She nodded slowly. "Then… yes. I'd like to stay."

They swung by her hotel for essentials - bonnet, skincare, tomorrow's clothes (and maybe some sexy underwear, just in case).

The Westin Elbphilharmonie towered over the other side of the harbor, all glass and waves meant to mirror the water below. Aurélien's suite was minimalist luxury - cream furnishings, huge windows, and a balcony that made the city look like scattered stars.

"Make yourself at home," he said, taking her overnight bag.

Her heart raced. No turning back now.

Aurélien set her overnight bag on the chaise while YN slipped off her sandals, placing her purse on the bedside table.

"Ever seen Pineapple Express?" he asked, scrolling through the hotel's movie selection.

"Obviously. I'm not uncultured."

His laugh echoed off the suite's walls. "Good. Because I quote this movie way too much."

He turned the movie on and then made his way to the kitchenette - his gait full of unwavering swagger - to place a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

They settled into comfortable silence on the bed, sharing buttery popcorn while Seth Rogen descended into drug dealer chaos. Around the time James Franco started saying "Thug Life," YN decided to start her nighttime routine.

Opening her overnight bag, she grabbed her essentials: makeup wipes, CeraVe cleanser, toner, essence, vitamin C serum, moisturizer, and face oil. But as she started removing her makeup in the bathroom, the anxiety hit like a wave.

Whore. Slut. Can't even wait a day between men.

Her hands trembled as she tried to remove her lashes. The DeuxMoi post kept flashing in her mind - what if people found out about both of them? She wasn't really a whore, was she? Just... exploring. Finding herself. Why did that make her bad?

"YN?" Aurélien's soft knock startled her. "You good? Been in there a while."

"Yes," she squeaked, but her reflection showed panic in her eyes. She gripped the counter, trying to count breaths like her therapist taught her.

The door opened. Aurélien took one look at her and his whole demeanor shifted - the cocky swagger replaced by gentle concern.

"Panic attack?" He stepped closer, fingers finding her pulse point. His protector mode was sweet, though she wished she wasn't seeing it like this.

No shit, she thought, but couldn't speak.

Without a word, he reached for a shower cap, carefully removing each bobby pin from her curls. "Sit," he guided her to the toilet seat.

The shower started running, steam slowly filling the room. He disappeared, returning with her bonnet.

First the shower cap, then the satin bonnet, his movements impossibly gentle for such large hands as he placed them on her head, ensuring each tendril of hair was securely covered.

His eyes met hers. "Can I take off your clothes?" She gave him a look. "It's for the shower," he explained. "Warm showers will help."

She nodded, letting him care for her in this unexpected way.

Aurélien's hands reached for the zipper of her dress. His usual intensity was replaced by something softer - each movement careful, protective.

"Arms up," he murmured, and she complied, letting him pull the silk over her head. Instead of his usual hungry gaze, his eyes held only concern.

This man who looks like he could break hearts for sport, her rational thoughts marveled, is treating me like I'm made of glass.

He unhooked her bra with practiced ease, but there was nothing sexual in the way he helped her step out of her underwear. His touch remained clinical, respectful.

"Temperature good?" he asked, guiding her toward the steam.

She nodded, watching as he rolled up his sleeves to test the water himself. This was a different Aurélien from the one who smirked and made suggestive comments, who exuded raw sexuality. This was the big brother who protected his siblings, the friend who looked out for Jules.

"You don't have to stay," she managed.

"I know." He helped her into the shower. "But I want to."

Maybe, her rational thoughts whispered, we've underestimated him. Maybe there's more here than just physical attraction.

The warm water began to calm her racing heart, and with it came a new understanding: Aurélien Tchouaméni was full of surprises.

"Can I join you?" he asked softly.

She bit her bottom lip, nodding. Her eyes couldn't help but follow as he undressed, appreciating how the muscles in his chest flexed, how his dark skin seemed to glow in the bathroom's soft light, and how gorgeous his penis and testicles were when his boxers fell to the floor. But where normally he'd smirk at her obvious appreciation, now he remained focused on her well-being.

He stepped into the shower, reaching for the hotel's body wash. The scent of lavender filled the steam as he worked the soap between his palms, then started with her shoulders. His strong fingers found knots she didn't even know she had, drawing a contented sigh from her lips.

Working down her arms, then her hips, his touch remained therapeutic rather than teasing. He squatted to massage her thighs and calves, his hands firm but gentle on her tired muscles.

"Better?" he asked, looking up at her through wet lashes.

The anxiety was melting away under his careful attention, replaced by something warmer, deeper than just attraction.

Oh, she thought. This could be dangerous in a whole different way.

YN woke to Aurélien's soft snores in her ear, his arm heavy around her waist. His t-shirt swallowed her whole, smelling like his cologne. Last night after the shower, she'd barely managed to pull it on before passing out, emotionally drained.

At least I didn't drool, she thought, becoming very aware of his morning wood pressing against her ass. She stretched - trying to reach her phone on the nightstand.

His arm tightened, grinding closer. "Ne bouge pas, ma belle," (Don't move, beautiful) he muttered, voice impossibly deeper and raspier in the morning. His stubble scratched her cheek as he nuzzled closer.

Even sleeping he's cute as fuck, both her thoughts agreed.

She rolled her eyes despite smiling. Being little spoon was nice, but she needed her phone. One more stretch and - success!

7:30 AM. Notifications lit up her screen:

Mama 💕 Baby girl your crystals told me you had anxiety last night. Did you use that lavender oil I packed? Mercury isn't even in retrograde so this is weird. Light some sage when you can 🌟✨ Also use protection! 😘

Big Kyle You good? Haven't heard from you. These European men treating you right or do I need to catch a flight? 🤨 Send me your location just in case. Love you kid

LewLew Bean Hope Hamburg's treating you well. Saw that DeuxMoi post, don't stress about it. People always talk, let them. Roscoe says hi! [photo of his dog attached]

She smiled at their different approaches - her mom's spiritual advice, Big Kyle's protectiveness, and Lewis just being... Lewis.

Last night's panic attack embarrassed her; breaking down in front of Aurélien wasn't exactly hot girl summer behavior. But seeing his gentler side, how naturally he switched from sexy to protective…

His snoring hitched, arm pulling her closer. "Dors, bébé." (Sleep, baby)

Man has a point, she thought, putting it back on the charger.

YN snuggled deeper into Aurélien's embrace, letting his snores lull her into that peaceful space between sleep and wakefulness. It reminded her of how Damari used to—

No.

No more thoughts about that untalented bench warmer. Her summer was for better things now. Like the way Aurélien's arm tightened around her whenever she moved. Or how Jules' kisses made her dizzy. Or whatever other adventures Europe had in store.

Four weeks left. The thought nagged at her. Maybe she should make the most of it - take a little detour before the semi-finals? Visit Lewis early, see what Silverstone was about? Or maybe hit up another city first, then see Lewis?

What about our French boys? her intrusive thoughts demanded. Can't just leave them hanging!

But she wouldn't be leaving, not really. Just… expanding her horizons. She'd be back for the semis, back to see which of them could make her toes curl faster. Besides, wasn't that the whole point of hot girl summer? Freedom to do whatever - and whoever - she wanted?

I'll tell them later, she decided. After I figure out where I want to go.

Aurélien mumbled something in French against her neck, pulling her closer.

But right now, she thought, closing her eyes, right now I'm exactly where I want to be.

______________________________________________

The Hamburg Arena hummed with pre-match energy as YN made her way through the VIP corridors. She spotted Aurélien talking to Cama, catching his wink when she waved.

Then she saw Jules - or rather, felt him before she saw him. He rounded the corner in his pre-match warmup gear, dreads pulled back, all focused energy until his eyes landed on her. That intense game face melted into a smile that made her legs wobble.

"There's my girl," he said, closing the distance between them. His hand found her waist immediately, guiding her toward a private alcove. There was something different about match-day Jules — a coiled energy that made him seem even more dangerous than usual.

"Are you doing okay?" His eyebrows creased with worry. "Auré told me you had an anxiety attack last night."

"Wow, you guys run your mouth too much," she snapped without thinking.

Jules let out a dark chuckle that made her stomach flip. "What part of 'our girl' don't you realize, YN? Of course, we're gonna talk about things regarding your well-being. Now, answer the question: are you good now?" His hands rubbed up and down her arms. YN nodded. "Open that pretty mouth of yours and use your words," Jules said, voice dropping into an authoritative tone that made her swoon.

Okay Daddy Jules, her intrusive thoughts purred. Oui, oui...

"Yes."

His grin was wicked. "I missed you. Did you miss me or did you have too much fun with Auré?"

"Yes, only a little bit though."

"Only a little bit?" His eyebrows rose. "Well, I guess I have to change your mind then." His lips captured hers again, one hand cradling her face. "You. Should. Spend. The. Night. With. Me." Each word punctuated with a kiss.

"I like that but..." she managed as his lips found her collarbone.

"But?" Those brown eyes looked up at her.

"I'm catching a flight... to London."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Want to visit your other man?"

"Nah, nah. Lewis is a friend. Yes he's fine as fuck but I don't do older guys. Not my type."

Jules chuckled. "Yeah, that's cool. Are you leaving me and Auré?"

"No, never, at least not right now. Four weeks from now, yes." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "But it'll be two days max. Hell, I don't think I'll even be there for the race. Just wanted to drop in and catch up and see his dog. Have you seen pictures of Roscoe? He's a cutie."

"I follow Lewis on Instagram. He's the GOAT."

Of course he does, she thought.

"But I'm happy you're coming back. It's good to explore different cities. Broaden your horizons." He waggled his eyebrows before kissing her again. "You told Auré?"

"No, not yet, but instead of one-on-one dinner... maybe something for the... uh... three of us?" His look said we're doing this? "No, not like that...." His eyes widened. "Maybe. We'll see. Just figured it'd be great to talk and chill before I'm off to London."

"Sounds good to me. Let's go before Coach has a conniption wondering where I am."

They walked back toward the locker room. Players and staff bustled around them, some nodding at Jules, others pretending not to notice how close he stayed to her. Outside the locker room doors, he turned to face her. The intensity in his eyes was different now - part pre-match focus, part something else entirely.

"See you after the match?"

"Of course."

He leaned down for one more kiss, this one slower, like he was trying to memorize the feel of her lips. Then he pulled back, that game-face sliding back into place as he disappeared into the locker room.

YN headed toward her seat, trying to focus on the match ahead and not on how dinner with both of them would go.

Focus on football, she told herself. But even she knew that was a lost cause.

______________________________________________

The match ended in a 0-0 draw against Portugal, and YN's two baguettes were visibly frustrated, discussing the game in rapid-fire French across the restaurant table.

"L'attaque était horrible!" (The attack was horrible!) Jules complained, stabbing at his salmon.

"On aurait dû gagner," (We should have won) Aurélien added, gesturing with his fork. "Ces putains d'arbitres..." (These fucking referees...)

They caught themselves, noticing YN quietly eating her steak.

"Sorry, belle," Aurélien switched to English. "How's your food?"

"Really good," she cut another piece of her medium-rare steak. "Though y'all are scary when you're mad."

"Not mad," Jules corrected. "Frustrated. Big difference."

"Speaking of differences," she started, "I'm heading to London tomorrow."

Aurélien took a sip of Coca-Cola. "To visit your man Lewis?"

Jules giggled - he'd made the same assumption earlier.

"He's just a friend," YN snapped. "And if he wasn't, I thought you didn't care anyway."

Aurélien glanced at Jules. "Son attitude? Elle est sérieuse?" (Her attitude? Is she serious?)

"Elle fait sa bratty," (She's being bratty) Jules replied as he spread his legs wider.

Their gazes cut to YN.

"My bad, belle," Aurélien said, making her smile. "You coming back?"

"To y'all - yes."

Aurélien's signature smirk appeared. "I like the sound of that."

They continued eating, YN appreciating the space across the table, though their long legs sandwiched hers underneath. When dessert came around, they split a chef sampler that included the best cheesecake YN ever had in her life - sorry mama!

As usual, the boys paid the bill and the walk back to her hotel was comfortable, both men flanking her sides as they strolled through Hamburg's evening streets. In the elevator, Jules pressed her floor while Aurélien's hand found its usual spot on her lower back.

They walked her to her door and YN reached up on her tip-toes to kiss Aurélien goodbye, but he gently pushed her back down.

"Aren't you gonna invite us in?" The hell?

"Yeah, we have to discuss something," Jules added.

YN glanced between them. "About? I have to pack, boys."

"We know and we'll even help." Aurélien said.

"Just five minutes," Jules promised.

"Max," added Aurélien.

YN muttered "okay" and let them in, Jules closing the door behind them.

"Your attitude's been trash lately," Aurélien started.

"What the hell?"

"If we're gonna be doing this, we shouldn't get snappy with each other. That only makes things worse. We know that seeing all the shit on the blogs is tough but there's a better way to voice your frustration," Jules said.

"Especially since it deals with all three of us," Aurélien added.

Uhn-uhn, not them giving you an intervention! her intrusive thoughts said.

Yeah, who do they think they are - you don't pay them to read you to filth like this, her rational thoughts agreed.

"Now hold on a second–"

"Let us finish, chérie," Jules held up a hand. "This is why you had that panic attack? The bullshit on the blogs?" Both sets of eyes bore into her until she nodded. "'Member what we said about using your words?"

I know this nigga is not...

"Yes - I had a panic attack because of that. Because of what may happen if they found out that I'm also hanging out with Aurélien."

The boys exchanged words in French. She really needed to get on her Zoom on Duolingo...

"Maybe you should hang out with one of us then? If you're scared of–" Jules started.

"No!" she surprised even herself. "We're not - I don't want to do that. I like Aurélien."

"Oh, belle," he said cockily, then sobered. "If it worries you though, it might be best. I don't want you to have another panic attack."

"We just have to be careful, okay?" she suggested. "Just be mindful of our surroundings. I don't want to stop hanging out with you, Aurélien. Really."

More French consultation, then Jules: "Okay, if you think that's best. We just be careful then."

"So maybe no more matches?" Aurélien said. Before YN could protest, he continued, "because they will keep trying to figure out who you're with, so no more matches and we hang out in each other's rooms. Sounds good?"

"Good," Jules said.

"Fine," YN replied defiantly, folding her arms.

Aurélien kissed his teeth. "Your fucking attitude."

"I swear," Jules shook his head. "We may have to do something about it."

"We might," Aurélien agreed, their gazes turning hungry. YN gulped.

"Take a seat on the bed, chérie," Jules commanded. YN remained frozen. "What did I say?" The bass in his voice made her sit immediately on the edge.

"Take off your shoes then scoot up to the headboard," Aurélien said. Again she froze until his arched eyebrow basically said I know you heard me loud and clear.

She did as told, removing her mules and scooting back against the headboard. Jules and Aurélien toed off their sneakers, the soft thuds against the floor echoing in the room. She couldn't quite believe what was happening. The way they moved — their confidence, the unspoken understanding between them — made her breath catch in her throat.

Jules was the first to climb onto the bed, taking his place on her left. Aurélien followed, settling on her right. They were close enough that their warmth seeped into her skin, their combined presence intoxicating.

"You can back out at any time," Jules murmured, his voice low and soothing as his hand rested lightly on her knee. "We won’t push you to do anything you don’t want."

"Whatever you want," Aurélien added.

YN swallowed, trying to calm the swirl of emotions in her chest. She didn’t feel pressured — just overwhelmed in the best way possible. "Just kissing…for right now," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Because anything besides that, I think I might combust...

Both men nodded, their acceptance of her boundaries making her exhale in relief.

Jules leaned in first, tilting her chin gently with his fingers. His lips brushed against hers, warm and soft, the kiss starting slow. YN sighed into him, her hands hesitantly resting on his chest. Jules then deepened the kiss, his thumb caressing her cheek, coaxing small, breathy moans from her lips.

Aurélien’s hand slid up her thigh, staying over her clothes but sending sparks through her body. She broke the kiss with Jules, turning toward Aurélien, who was already leaning in. His kiss was firmer, more demanding, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her neck as he took control. YN moaned into his mouth, her body tingling as his thumb traced slow circles against her nape.

The feel of both their hands on her, their energy so different yet equally electrifying, had her melting. Jules pressed a kiss to the side of her neck while Aurélien nibbled gently on her lower lip, pulling away just enough to murmur against her mouth, "You know I should spank you for talking to me like that at the restaurant, don’t you?"

YN’s eyes widened. His tone was teasing, but the heat in his gaze said he meant every word.

Aurélien smirked as he kissed her again, this time slower, savoring the moment. "But I’ll save that for another time," he added, his words a rumble against her lips.

That sounds like a promise, sir! her intrusive thoughts chimed in, but she pushed it aside.

Even though she had a really nice — and it was really nice — time with Enzo and Carina, doing two guys at once was too much for her at the moment, yet that didn't go without saying that she hadn't dreamt about it, dreamt about them.

For now, this was enough. This was perfect.

Jules' hands slipped up to cup her breasts over her blouse, his touch confident but not demanding. Aurélien followed suit, his large hand settling on her waist, his thumb brushing the edge of her rib cage.

YN let herself get lost in the sensations — their mouths on hers, their hands exploring. Her moans filled the space between kisses, soft gasps escaping as they found ways to make her tremble under their attention.

Aurélien broke the kiss, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "You’re incredible, belle. Perfect."

Jules hummed his agreement, pressing a lingering kiss to her jawline. "Just say the word, and we’ll stop," he reminded her.

YN shook her head, her voice breathy as she replied, "Don’t stop. Not yet."

And with that, she gave herself over to the moment, letting their kisses and touches drown out every doubt. For now, she didn’t have to think about anything else — just the feeling of being cherished by both of them, right here and now.

The heat in the room thickened as their hands and lips explored, each movement a blend of curiosity and simmering passion. YN found herself caught between their bodies, Jules’ lips brushing against her neck while Aurélien captured her mouth in a kiss that left her breathless. Her hands, trembling with a mix of nervousness and desire, wandered over Jules’ toned chest. Her fingertips skimmed over his defined muscles before dipping lower, where she felt his erection straining against her touch.

Jules let out a low groan, his lips momentarily pausing on her neck. His eyes fluttered shut as her hand pressed more firmly. "Should I stop?" she asked, her hand stilling.

Jules shook his head, his voice rough with desire. "You’re good," he assured her. His words sent a thrill through her, and she bit her lower lip, the action catching Aurélien’s attention.

Aurélien pulled back slightly, his dark eyes searching her face. "You good?" he asked, his voice soft yet firm.

"No sex tonight," YN declared, her voice steady despite the warmth pooling in her stomach.

Both men nodded immediately, their agreement firm. "No sex," Aurélien echoed, his lips brushing her cheek.

"But…" she started, her voice trailing off. Jules raised a curious brow, silently encouraging her to continue. "I wouldn’t mind more kissing… and touching. If you’re okay with that."

Aurélien smirked, his hand cupping her face. "You should already know that I’m down," he teased, causing her and Jules to chuckle softly.

Jules grinned, his hand brushing lightly over her waist. "That’s fine. This is all about you, chérie."

"Exactly," Aurélien agreed, his warm gaze settling on her.

YN’s lips curved into a half-nervous, half-excited smile as she let their words sink in. "Good," she said, feeling a surge of boldness. Her eyes flicked between them before she clapped her hands playfully. "So… take off your pants. And those drawers."

Aurélien let out a laugh, his brow arching in mock indignation. "Damn, not you treating us like your little sluts," he joked, but he slid off the bed nonetheless. Jules followed, both of them making quick work of their clothing.

Aurélien unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, letting them drop to the floor. His shirt followed next, revealing his broad shoulders and toned chest, and then his boxers, leaving him gloriously bare. Jules mirrored his actions, peeling away his shirt, then his jeans and briefs in one fluid motion.

Both men stood before her, naked and unapologetically confident, their skin glistening under the dim lighting. The way their muscles flexed as they moved, the unapologetic confidence in their stances.

Bless you, Lord…

Bless Him indeed, praised her intrusive thoughts.

YN couldn’t stop her appreciative gaze from lingering. She exhaled deeply, her hands trembling slightly as she began to undress herself. First, her pants slid off, pooling around her ankles. Then came her halterneck top, revealing her bare shoulders and curves. Her panties were next, followed by the pasties she had carefully applied earlier. By the time she was finished, both men were back on the bed, flanking her sides as before.

"Okay, don’t make this awkward," she muttered, her cheeks warming at the vulnerable position she was in.

Aurélien chuckled, leaning in close to brush his lips against hers. "You’re the one making it awkward," he teased before capturing her mouth in a deep kiss.

"Very awkward," Jules added with a grin, his lips finding her neck again, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down her spine.

Her hands moved on instinct, exploring them both — Aurélien’s firm chest and the ripple of Jules’ abs. Their touches grew bolder as well, Jules’ hands cupping her breast firmly while Aurélien’s lips wandered to her collarbone. YN’s head fell back against the headboard, a soft moan escaping her lips as their attention left her dizzy.

Jules gripped her jaw gently, tilting her face toward him so he could claim her lips. His kiss was deep, deliberate, his lips moving against hers with intoxicating intensity. Meanwhile, Aurélien scooted lower on the bed, his mouth latching onto her breast. The warmth of his tongue flicking over her nipple sent jolts of pleasure coursing through her, and she arched into his touch, her body responding instinctively to the sensations.

Jules’ free hand wandered downward, his fingers skimming the curve of her thigh before massaging the soft flesh with firm, slow circles. His touch was unhurried, as though he was savoring every second. With a gentle nudge, he pushed her thighs apart wider, creating more space for him to explore. His fingers grazed the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, his knuckles brushing against her clit in the faintest tease that made her gasp against his mouth.

"Can I touch you here?" Jules asked, his lips brushing against hers as his hand hovered at her center, waiting for her permission.

"Yes…" YN breathed, her voice trembling with need as her hips arched slightly, granting him better access. At the same moment, Aurélien’s mouth moved to her other breast, his teeth grazing her nipple before his tongue soothed the sting. The combined sensations left her head spinning, her body aflame with desire.

Jules’ fingers pressed against her folds, sliding through her wetness. He hissed softly, his reaction sending a thrill through her. "You’re so wet," he murmured, his lips barely moving from hers.

"How wet is she?" Aurélien asked, pulling back from her breasts, his voice rich with curiosity and amusement.

Jules didn’t hesitate, his hand moving briefly from her body. "Soaked," he replied, holding up his fingers, which glistened with her arousal. Without thinking, he brought them to her lips. YN didn’t need instruction — she opened her mouth, her tongue flicking over his fingers before she sucked them clean, her gaze locked with his.

"Putain," Jules muttered, his brown eyes darkened with lust as he stared at her. There was a raw hunger in his gaze, an intensity that made her shiver under his scrutiny. She moaned softly when his fingers slipped from her mouth, her body still tingling from the taste of herself on his skin.

"You sure this isn’t weird?" she managed to say, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Foot, meet mouth, yet again.

Aurélien chuckled lowly, his large hands sliding up to cup her waist. "Yes. Now be quiet and enjoy it," he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The logical part of her brain — the one still vaguely aware of social norms — tried to remind her of the surreal nature of the situation, how the two of them had undoubtedly seen each other naked countless times before, not to mention this clearly wasn’t their rodeo. But that thought quickly dissolved when Jules silenced her with another kiss, this one gentler, almost reassuring, yet no less passionate.

Aurélien’s fingers joined the mix, his touch grazing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh before moving to where Jules had left off. Jules’ hand slid downward again, his touch more assertive now, parting her folds with practiced ease. His fingers stroked her clit in small, deliberate circles while Aurélien’s fingers plunged into her slowly, stretching her.

The two worked in sync, their movements seamless and perfectly timed, as though they’d rehearsed this. Jules’ fingers teased her clit with increasing pressure while Aurélien’s plunged deeper, curling slightly to hit just the right spot that made her cry out, her hips rolling to meet their touch as the pleasure built to a near-overwhelming peak.

Aurélien’s lips found her neck again, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below her ear. "You feel so good," he murmured, his voice low and reverent. His fingers quickened their pace, his thumb brushing against her clit in time with Jules’ movements.

Jules watched her intently, his free hand tracing lazy patterns over her thigh while his other continued its rhythm. "This is all for you, chérie," he whispered, his voice laced with heat. "Just cum."

YN’s breaths came out in ragged pants, her body trembling as the sensations threatened to consume her. She was lost to the pleasure, her mind a haze of touch and desire and soft, murmured words. "I can’t…" she gasped, her back arching off the bed.

"You can," Aurélien assured her, his lips brushing against her jaw as his fingers hit that spot again. "And you will."

With a strangled cry, YN finally gave in, her body shuddering violently as waves of pleasure washed over her. Jules and Aurélien didn’t let up, their hands guiding her through the high until her body relaxed, boneless and sated between them. Both of them leaned down to kiss her softly — Aurélien on her cheek, Jules on her lips.

YN slowly came down from her orgasmic high, her body resettling after the aftershocks had dissipated. Letting out a sigh, she glanced down and spotted their erections – both of them still hard beyond measure, desperate for release.

"Should I suck–"

"No," Aurélien said whilst Jules simultaneously shook his head.

"I’m fine," added Jules. "We’re good."

Her eyes traveled back onto their penises. Don’t look fine to me… "You sure?"

"Positive," they said in unison.

"There’s always next time," said Aurélien as he slipped off the bed, grabbing his phone before making his way to the bathroom. "I’ll be back."

And with that, he closed the door behind him and YN was briefly consumed with her thoughts.

Kinda mean to have him rub one out when you have perfectly capable mouth and hands. Shameful, her intrusive thoughts chided.

No - you stood your ground on your boundaries. This is a win-win situation, countered her rational thoughts.

"If you keep staring at it, you’ll just make it harder," Jules’ voice pulled her out of her reverie and her gaze connected with his. As usual, Jules was cool and collected – relaxing comfortably in bed with his arms tucked behind his head.

"What?"

"My dick," he explained. "Keep staring at it like that and it’ll just get harder. Come ‘ere and cuddle."

Ooh, yes!

YN smiled brightly at his words and scooted beside him, snuggling deep into his side and hummed when he wrapped his arms around her.

"Are you doing okay?" he wondered after a few silent moments of her lying on his chest. "I know that this is a lot for you, but I want to make sure you’re good with…everything….Auré and I at the same time."

"I’m good, Jules."

"Seriously?"

YN lifted her head up from his chest to stare at him. "Yeah…just getting used to it. The possibility of–"

"Fucking us both?"

Even though that was exactly what she thinking, it still made her cheeks warm upon hearing it aloud. This time that they’ve spent together was nice and it did make her curious about how she could handle being so…full. Unlike her disastrous – and perhaps questionable – porn choices, no one has had the pleasure of being inside her other hole. Not like there hasn’t been any instances on trying; it just never panned out correctly. Perhaps she wasn’t doing it the right way (as if one needed extra instruction on anal sex) or maybe it wasn’t with the right partner (which seemed like the case). Either way, she never given it much thought besides now, that is.

"How did you guys do it before? With that girl from Bordeaux?"she wondered and Jules’ eyebrows furrowed. "I just want to know the positions–"

"We Eiffel Tower’d her." Direct. To the point. No hesitation.

YN tried to suppress a giggle at the double entendre, but failed miserably and a small chortle managed to escape. "Two French guys Eiffel Towering a girl?"

Jules dawned onto the gist of what she was saying and he even let out a chuckle himself. "I know, the joke writes itself." Then, he cleared his throat and exhaled a breath. "I mean….shit…we were so young. No anal sex though, just her mouth and pussy. We can just do that if it makes you more comfortable."

Interesting. "Have you tried it before?"

"Once," he said, the edges of his mouth curving upwards into a mischievous grin as he reminisced. "Not a personal fave, but lots of lube can help with that."

Then, they heard the toilet flush followed by the sounds of running water. Seconds later, Aurélien made his way out of the bathroom and sauntered over to the bed, sliding back onto his side as if he never left.

"You good, bébé?" Her overly caring — lover? situationship? — asked as one of his hands trailed down her spine.

"Yes," YN said, doing her darnedest to not moan as he caressed her soft skin, yet she did allow a shiver to go down her body upon feeling his slightly damp fingers.

"YN's curious about anal sex," said Jules, and she shot him a warning look, which caused him to laugh.

"You’re a freaky girl," was all Aurélien said as his hand continued its route downwards, moving from her back to the top of her ass. "I don’t think you’re ready for all of that yet."

"How do you know if I’m ready for all of that?" she retorted, accusingly, turning over to the other side to give him her full attention.

Instead of answering verbally, Aurélien’s hand skimmed lightly over her ass cheeks and then gently coaxed them apart until he came in contact with her virgin anus. She flinched at the feeling, and Aurélien scoffed.

"You’re not ready for all of that," he repeated then moved his hand to her lower back. YN rolled her eyes despite herself and a grin appeared on his annoyingly handsome face.

"Anyways," she started, turning around once more to Jules. "what time is it? I should get some things packed."

Jules removed one hand from behind his head to grab his phone from the other bedside table, tapping the screen to check the time. "Almost midnight."

Shit. She had six hours before she had to be up and ready to head to the airport.

With a groan, YN carefully slipped out of bed, scooting all the way down to the bottom edge and then walking over to the closet to take out her carry-on. Meanwhile, the boys didn’t move an inch – just lounged there like the sexy predators they embodied, naked as the day they were born.

"I’m surprised that you guys didn’t put on clothes or boxers…something," she muttered as she began to rifle through the closet for clothes to wear in England.

"We saw each other naked too many times to count," Aurélien said as he picked up his phone to scroll mindlessly through it. "Why? Should we put on some clothes?"

"I think she might be kicking us out," proclaimed Jules as he watched her pack then unpack her clothing selection from his side of the bed. "Pack a jacket, chérie. It’s supposed to be fourteen degrees Celsius in London tomorrow."

Celsius? What? "Huh?" That definitely made her halt her movements.

"Ah, you gotta say it in American, JK," explained Aurélien with an amused chuckle.

Jules muttered a curse under his breath. "Fifty-seven degrees your temperature."

Then why don’t they just say that? "Oh, thanks." YN scanned her closet for that jean jacket her mama packed, found it, and then place it inside the carry-on – along with another coord set, a maxi dress, two linen shirts, a pair of jeans, her mules, and some underwear. Doing the most for two days, of course. Always. But she needed options. "And for the record, I’m not kicking y’all out. Just…noticing."

"Noticing bad or noticing good?" This came from Aurélien, who finally shifted his gaze away from whatever he was watching on his phone to her.

YN shrugged nonchalantly. "Just noticing." Both of them let out a barely audible utterance. Hmm… "Sleepover?"

"Always."

"Of course."

Satisfied with both her clothing choices and their answers, YN decided to leave packing her skincare and makeup until tomorrow morning then grabbed her bonnet from the dresser and place it over her head before padding inside the bathroom to do her nightly routine.

She cleaned her face quickly, removing her makeup and then brushing her teeth. YN pulled on an oversized t-shirt and panties after she left the bathroom, climbing back into bed and in her designated spot in the middle.

They popped on her like grease out of a pan – arms wrapping around her (they definitely rehearsed that move), lips on either side of her neck, phones forgotten. The urban nightlife filtered through the windows, its sounds and lights scattered across the room to create the perfect ambiance as YN basked in being sandwiched between the two of them, enjoying the way both of their bodies molded next to hers, their scent wafting through her nostrils.

I could get used to this.

"Night, boys."

"Night, chérie." A little grumble from Jules, cuddling close.

"Bonne nuit, bébé." A low, yet deep murmur from Aurélien.

Her boys. YN flashed a wide grin in the dark, feeling cozy and relaxed. With the warmth surrounding her, she let sleep take over, happily drifting into dreamland.

______________________________________________

The alarm blaring jolted YN awake. She found herself sandwiched between Jules and Aurélien, both still deep in sleep.

"Turn it off," Aurélien groaned.

"Working on it," she sassed back, looking around the room. "If I could find it…"

Her phone had somehow ended up in her purse near the armchair. Among her notifications:

LewLew Bean: Text when you land tomorrow x. Roscoe's excited to see you!

BallerAlert: YN_YLN's ex-boyfriend spotted with Victoria's Secret model at LA hotspot

She chuckled at how they didn't even use Damari's name anymore.

"Where you going?" Aurélien's hand caught her wrist as she headed to the bathroom.

"Getting ready for my flight or did you forget?"

He kissed his teeth, muttering something before rolling over. Jules continued snoring, pillow still covering his head.

They're annoying, she thought, watching them sleep, but damn if they aren't cute. After last night, everything felt… different. Maybe juggling two French best friends wasn't as complicated as she'd thought.

After showering and packing her toiletries, she pulled on her airport fit - half-zip pullover, cropped tee, wide-leg sweats. She was lacing up her Nikes when they finally stirred.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauties."

"Morning."

"Mmmhmm."

"We can order breakfast before I go."

"Boo," Aurélien pouted.

Jules giggled, licking his lips. "Sounds like a plan."

While Aurélien used one of the hotel toothbrushes, Jules beckoned YN over with a crooked finger. Like a good girl, she sashayed to his side of the bed, letting him guide her down until they were eye-level.

His lips met hers softly - the kind of kiss that said don't forget us. All gentle pressure and sweet promise.

"Be safe over there," he murmured, fingers trailing from her shoulders to her neck, thumb stroking her cheek. "I don't know if I like your hair better up or down." He studied her low-maintenance bun.

"I prefer it down," Aurélien said as he returned to his side of the bed.

"Yeah, might be my favorite too," Jules agreed before heading to brush his teeth.

They shared breakfast - eggs, pastries, fruit - stealing bites from each other's plates like they'd done this a hundred times.

After getting dressed, they followed her as she got on the elevator, their hands filled with her bags. Both men hugged her goodbye in the lobby - Jules kissed her forehead while Aurélien squeezed her waist.

"See you Sunday," she promised.

"See you, cherie." Jules' response was sweet as usual, his eyes filled with longing.

"Don't have too much fun with Lewis," Aurélien said with a wink - ever the jokester but YN could tell that he was going to miss her too.

She gathered her carry-on and tote, handing them off to the driver before slipping inside the back seat, watching them wave as her Uber then pulled away.

Different, she thought again. But good different.

______________________________________________

"You really didn't have to pick me up," YN said as Lewis loaded her carry-on into his Mercedes SUV.

"Please, what kind of host would I be?"

A fine as hell one, her intrusive thoughts noted, appreciating how his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders. But for once, the attraction stayed purely aesthetic - like admiring art in a museum. No urge to touch, just respect for the craftsmanship.

A happy bark interrupted her thoughts. Roscoe's wrinkled face appeared between the front seats, tongue lolling out.

"Oh my god, he's even cuter in person!" She reached back to scratch behind his ears. The bulldog immediately flopped into her touch, making Lewis laugh.

"He's usually shy with new people." Lewis glanced over as he pulled onto the motorway. "You must be special."

"Nah, animals just know good people. Right, Roscoe?"

Another enthusiastic bark.

"So," Lewis's gap-toothed smile flashed, "tell me about these French boys of yours."

YN groaned, but found herself smiling. There was something comfortable about Lewis - like talking to a friend who'd seen it all and judged none of it.

"Well," she settled in for the drive, Roscoe's head now resting on her arm. "Last night was... interesting."

"Oh?"

"Let's just say there was some three-way kissing involved..."

"Holy shit!" Lewis nearly swerved. "You really out here living your best life!"

"The French are wild though."

"And you're just now figuring this out?"

Frank Ocean's "Pink + White" played softly as they drove through London's posh neighborhoods. Finally, they pulled up to a stunning Georgian house, complete with climbing vines and white gravel drive.

"This is so British," YN marveled, following Roscoe up the path.

The door opened to reveal a petite white woman with cropped hair. "This must be YN!"

"This is my mum, Carmen," Lewis said casually, slipping inside with her bags in tow.

First I'm staying here, now I'm meeting his mother? Does she think we're—

GURRRRLLLL! her intrusive thoughts screeched.

"Hi Miss Carmen," YN opened her arms for a hug, breathing in cookies and peonies - the most British smell ever.

"Come in! How was your flight?" Carmen ushered her inside. The house was gorgeous - checkerboard foyer tiles, winding staircase, wainscoting, and family photos everywhere. The kitchen was all navy cabinets, marble counters, and brass fixtures. "I've made some lunch. Would you like fish and chips?"

"I love fish and chips!" YN burst out enthusiastically, making Carmen's eyebrows shoot up. "Sorry, I tend to get—"

"Don't apologize. I love the enthusiasm. It's cod, okay?"

"Sounds good." Carmen plated the food and set it before YN. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Oh, you're so polite. And pretty."

Lewis finally appeared, leaning against the counter. "I'll show you your bedroom in a second. How is it?"

"She didn't try it yet, love." Carmen urged YN to take a bite. The fish was perfectly seasoned. Carmen beamed at her reaction. "It's my famous seasoning blend. Bit different than what you'd expect from a pub, but it's good right?"

"So good," YN agreed, trying the fries. Then YN's foot-in-mouth disease struck: "So… who do you think I am to Lewis?"

"I know you two are good friends," Carmen smiled. "Besides, this one is making me wait to become a grandmother unfortunately."

"You have Roscoe, Mum," Lewis said with a small smile playing on his lips.

"A human grandchild would be nice."

"You have those too. Four of them to be exact," Lewis pointed out.

"I want more!"

"And you will. When I retire."

"In three years!" Carmen harrumphed.

YN shrugged, taking another fry. "I mean, you are forty with no kids. Seems sus."

Lewis's jaw dropped while Carmen cheered. "Thank you!"

"He needs a nice woman to date. None of those model types. We've been there, done that too many times over," his mother continued.

"Maybe a businesswoman?" YN suggested.

"Ooh yes! Do you know any single women, preferably ages thirty-two to thirty-seven?"

"Okay, mum, that's enough. YN's not here to play matchmaker."

"I do, actually," YN said, making them both exclaim: "Really?!"

"I mean, she's divorced and has two kids - six-year-old twins but they're so cute and well-behaved."

"I don't know about becoming a stepdad," Lewis said apprehensively. "I don't want to overstep."

"Lewis, love, you're so great with kids!" Carmen insisted.

I think she's just willing to take on anyone at this moment.

"What she look like?" Lewis asked.

"Oh? You're taking it seriously?"

He shrugged. "Just curious, is all."

"Mmhmm," YN took out her phone, opened Instagram, and typed in 'Sabine Wurley', her label's A&R exec - a gorgeous Trini-Canadian with toffee skin, doe eyes, and all the Caribbean curves to match.

"Holy shit she's gorgeous," Carmen gasped.

"She's nice looking," Lewis said flatly. YN stared at him like he had three heads. "Give me her number."

"If I'm going to throw the alley-oop, don't fuck up her heart. I love Sab a lot."

"I won't."

"Promise me," YN pressed. "I'm deadass."

"Fine, fine, I promise. Dang."

YN forwarded the contact with a smirk. Sabine and Lewis? She could work with that.

🌹🇫🇷 Group Chat:

Aurélien 🌹 Miss you already 😘 These hotel beds are too big without you

Jules 🇫🇷 Speak for yourself. I'm spread out like a starfish

YN Y'all are so dramatic 🙄

Aurélien 🌹 Says the one who needed us both to sleep last night

Jules 🇫🇷 Exactly. Training bout to start. Talk soon.

YN Have fun! Be careful...

Jules 🇫🇷 You worried about us? Cute.

Aurélien 🌹 Very cute. Tell Lewis we said hi but not too enthusiastically 😏

YN smiled at her phone, scrolling through the group chat with her French baguettes. Twenty-four hours felt longer than it should.

Girl, you're down BAD, her intrusive thoughts teased as she pocketed her phone, letting Roscoe lead her around Silverstone's paddock. The bulldog stopped to sniff literally everything before finally choosing the perfect patch of grass.

"Is that YN?"

"Who's she?"

"The singer!"

"Why does she have Roscoe?"

The paddock photographers weren't confused at all - their cameras clicked away while she tried to wrangle an overexcited bulldog who'd spotted another driver's water bottle.

"Roscoe, no — that's not yours!" She tugged gently at his leash.

Too busy texting Jules back ("Show them what that ass do 😏"), she crashed right into someone in an orange racing suit - McLaren? "Oh shit, sorry!"

"No worries!" Blue eyes crinkled as he smiled. "I'm Lando."

She introduced herself politely, taking in his cute boyish features. Her horn-o-meter, usually quick to jump for any attractive man with an accent, stayed firmly at 0. Maybe she was catching feelings for her French boys if this British cutie wasn't doing it for her.

Or maybe, her intrusive thoughts suggested, you just have a type now: tall, dark, and speaks French.

Back at the Mercedes garage, Lewis scooped her into a hug. "Thanks for dog duty."

Rosa, his comms personnel, led Roscoe to his bed in the corner while Lewis started suiting up for qualifying.

"Good energy today," he said, zipping up his race suit. "I can feel it."

"You sound just like my mama with all this energy talk."

"Your mama knows what's up then."

YN rolled her eyes, checking her phone again.

"Missing the French boys already?"

"Mind your business!"

"Not very hot girl summer of you," he teased, pulling on his gloves. "Thought you weren't catching feelings?"

"I'm not!" But even she heard the uncertainty in her voice. A little 'missing you' doesn't mean anything, right?

Whatever you say, both her intrusive and rational thoughts weren't too convinced.

"Mhmm. Sure." He grinned. "Keep telling yourself that while you check your phone every two minutes."

"Shouldn't you be focusing on qualifying?"

"I am. And you're focusing on your messages from Jules and Aurélien."

She watched him qualify - still clueless about what was happening but proud of his P4 position based on everyone's reactions. But even as the garage celebrated, her mind wandered to Hamburg, wondering if her French boys were doing well at practice.

After qualifying, YN and Lewis walked arm in arm through the paddock, Roscoe trotting beside them. She pretended not to notice the cameras clicking or hear the whispers.

"They'd really lose it if they knew about your French situation," Lewis murmured.

"Don't you dare—"

"I would never. But it's funny watching them try to figure out who you're with."

Back at his place, they ordered Indian takeout and sprawled on his massive couch, Roscoe snoring between them.

"You're leaving early tomorrow?"

"Miss my boys," she admitted, shoving another piece of naan in her mouth.

"Oh, really?" he teased, but his smile was kind. "Though I once drove six hours just to see this model for like... two hours max."

"Lewis Hamilton, you dog!"

"I heard women do crazy things when they're dickmatized."

"I am NOT dickmatized!" She threw a pillow at him. "I just... miss them."

"Mhmm." His knowing look said everything. "It's cool though. Young, free, exploring. Just be careful with those feelings."

"I know." She got up to hug him, ready to head to her room to tuck in for the night. "Good luck tomorrow. Show these young boys how it's done."

"Always do." But she could tell he was a bit sad she'd miss the race. "Text me when you land?"

"Of course. And thanks for... everything."

"Anytime, Lil' Bit."

She pretended not to notice how soft his smile was. Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion, was a whole teddy bear underneath all that swagger.

_______________________________________________

The next morning, scrolling through her phone in the airport lounge, she saw:

PopCultureDaily: YN's European Tour continues! From Monaco clubs to Silverstone with Lewis Hamilton - sis is LIVING 🔥 [Photos: YN dancing in Monaco, walking with Lewis at Silverstone]

view all comments.... celebtea: Hot Girl Summer: Achievement Unlocked ↳ ynglobal: First French footballers now F1? We stan a versatile queen ↳ tsrfans: Better than that NFL bench warmer mayegurl: Still waiting for tea about those TWO French players 👀 ↳ maggiegerty: Wait what? TWO?? sportsgossip: Lewis Hamilton and YN dating? ↳ f1insider: They're just friends y'all ↳ fanpage: The way he looks at her though!

"Now boarding flight 2847 to Hamburg…"

She made he way to board her plane and settled into her aisle seat, already thinking about seeing Jules and Aurélien, when a deep voice interrupted:

"Excuse me, that's my window seat."

YN looked up - and up - into warm brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. The stranger was gorgeous in that intellectual way - tall and lean but solid, perfect fade, skin like dark honey, full lips curled in a gentle smile. His navy Tom Ford suit and Cartier watch screamed tenured professor with family money.

Her horn-o-meter jumped to 9.

Another one for the roster? her intrusive thoughts suggested.

Finally, not an athlete, her rational side approved.

"Javaughn Taylor," he introduced himself as he settled in, his Northeast accent surprising her. "Heading to Hamburg for work."

"YN," she replied. "What kind of work?"

"A conference. Economics at Hamburg University. I teach at Columbia."

They talked the whole flight - about music (he played jazz piano), books (they both loved Octavia Butler), travel (he'd just been to Cape Town). His laugh was rich, his intelligence obvious but not showy. He really reminded her of that hot professor everyone had a crush on in college but never dared to approach.

When they landed, she had his number and a flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with turbulence.

The universe really testing my French situation, she thought, watching him stride away in those perfectly tailored trousers.

TO BE CONTINUED......

[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

[kyoshithewriter]

✨Masterlist.✨

Welcome. I’m a black woman in her 20s who loves to write. I love football, especially black players. Open to requests as I learn to navigate this app lol.

Jules Koundé:

Yellow to his Grey. (One shot)

Made for You. (One shot)

Water from the Moon. (one), Water from the Moon. (two), Water from the Moon. ( three)

Love in Every Form (part one).

Aurélien Tchouameni:

Sweetest Temptation (part one)

Sweetest Temptation (part two)

Virgil van Dijk:

Bambi (part one), Bambi (part two), Bambi (part three), Bambi (part four)

The Missing Piece. (Series).

Part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine (final).

Erotic Series (18+)

William Saliba. Kylian Mbappe. Virgil van Dijk

Jude Bellingham- Millennium.

Summary: In which he would trade a thousand years to be with her.

Medina , Meet the Millennial ,Wild Cherries and Pomegranates, Cherry Pie, Suits, Interrogations, Christian, Shh.. , New Friends, Confessions, Hope.

Jude Bellingham- Level the Playing Field.

Leverage, Closed Doors, Awkward, Kickoff, Rivals, Slipping, Rather Go Blind, Divulgence, New Rules, Screwed, Distance, The Shift, Bright Eyes, Show you Off, Fix It, Happy Endings.

After (part one)

[vicolette]

Looking Good !

– A/N : I NEED to upload more omg

– Warnings : English isn’t my first language, mentions of y/n & pet names, not proofread

"That doesn't really suit you."

At your boyfriend's words, you turned around to face him instead of the mirror, seeing how Jules' eyes were focused on you with precise attention.

"What doesn't suit?" Kounde pointed towards the red top, which you had bought just the previous day with your friends on a girl's night out. Its fabric wasn't the best and it also wasn't your personal favorite, yet your friends had persuaded you into buying it.

Nonetheless, as you took it off of you, Kounde was quick to lower his head as to avert getting you embarrassed. Mindlessly playing with his fingers, he was oblivious to the stunt that you would pull up after that.

"And this?" Once Jules looked up, just to be greeted by the sight of you in a Madrid Jersey, herausreden an eyebrow at your silly tactics and met your eyes. Meanwhile, you were completely innocently looking, having to contain your laughter.

After a few moments of pure silence, he stood up and slowly approached you, although he hesitated to come any closer when he was at arm length. The scowl on his face only made it harder for you to keep quiet and soon enough, laughter filled the room with tears of joy filling your eyes.

"Y-Your expression, oh my god-" Before you could say anything else, he sighed softly while coming closer, his hands on your hips before he reluctantly touched the jersey.

As he pulled it over your head and looked at the price tag, Kounde found out that it was on sale, which was why you must have bought it willingly.

"Darling, you know that I love you very much, right?" While you were nearly dying due to getting no air inside your lungs, Jules checked the shopping bags and decided that none of the items were worth it, even if you had great style and knew how to dress – after all, he was your boyfriend.

He would never ever in his life let you go outside without looking good.

When he saw how you merely cackled straight to his face instead of changing into something else, he searched for one of his FC Barcelona jerseys and threw it over your head.

After a few long, long moments of you trying to catch your breath, you waved your hand at him in an attempt to motion him to approach, which he did as he also wrapped an arm around your waist in addition.

"You look better like this." Jules said in a quiet murmur, planting a soft kiss near your neck as his arms secured you in a firm embrace. Your cheeks slightly heated up in embarrassment, but you were quick to ruin the moment. As always.

"Yeah, but have you seen-"

"Shut up."

– A/N : my man my man my man my ma

[allgoodnamesrgoneee]

✨ New Patreon Upload! ✨

Hey everyone! I’ve just uploaded my first Jules fic on my Patreon, and you definitely don’t want to miss it!

Head over now to check it out and show some love! 🙌

📖 Link in bio! ✨ Let me know your thoughts after reading! 💬

Don't forget my fics now available for ONLY $3 ($4.50 on iOS) each on my patreon shop if you're looking for something specific; don't miss your chance to catch up on all the exclusive content!

Next Door Neighbor

Masterlist

𝒔���𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Your next door neighbor might just be the hottest human to walk this earth. What's a girl to do?

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Jules Koundé x black!reader

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 13.4k

Warnings! FLUFF!! you guys are down bad for each other, mutual pining but no one acts on it, NSFW! SMUT (18+), protected vaginal sex, oral sex (f & m receiving), cowgirl, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dom!Jules, sub!reader,

Preview

**********

Some days, you wake up and just know it’s going to be a good day.

Today is not one of those days.

It starts with your alarm not going off. One second, you’re deep in a dream where everything is warm and peaceful—and the next, you’re sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding like it’s trying to break free from your chest. You snatch your phone off the nightstand, and when your eyes finally focus on the screen, you see the time.

You’ve overslept after promising to wake up early to work on your presentation, and now you’re running ridiculously behind schedule.

“Shit,” you hiss, flinging the covers off. Your feet hit the cold floor, and you stumble toward the bathroom. On the way, you misjudge the edge of your bed frame and stub your pinky toe so hard you see stars.

It’s all downhill from there.

The water pressure in your shower is barely a drizzle, more of a suggestion than a stream. You finally manage to get dressed—if a rumpled pair of sweats and an oversized t-shirt count as “dressed"—and head to the kitchen.

But the universe isn’t done with you yet.

The coffee machine sputters its last, tragic breath halfway through brewing, leaving you with the saddest half-cup of lukewarm coffee known to mankind. You stand there, cradling the mug in both hands like it’s the only thing tethering you to sanity.

“It’s fine,” you mutter to yourself. “It’s going to be okay.”

The universe disagrees.

At this point, you figure the day’s already a disaster—you might as well embrace it. You grab your favorite pajamas, the soft, worn-out set that’s absolutely not fit for public viewing, and settle on the couch with your laptop. Things start looking up. You’re even starting to feel a little human again.

Then your laptop flashes that dreaded low battery warning.

The charger’s in your car.

It’s fine. This is a simple task. Just grab the charger and come right back. No big deal.

Except when you step back inside, the door clicks shut behind you.

And your keys are still inside.

You stand in front of your door, staring at the doorknob. “Come on," you whine. "Seriously?"

You jangle your empty pockets, as if a spare key might magically appear. A part of you wonders if you could pick the lock—how hard can it be? But the only locks you’ve ever seen anyone pick are on TV, and there’s probably a reason for that.

For a long moment, you just stand there in the hallway, staring at your locked apartment door, like maybe—just maybe—it'll change its mind and let you back in. But no. The cold air from the drafty corridor nips at your bare legs—because, of course you’re wearing shorts—and the oversized t-shirt and bonnet don’t offer much protection.

You’re pretty sure you’re not even wearing a bra.

“Great,” you mumble, rubbing your arms and glancing down the hallway. Maybe you can call the building manager and wait somewhere discreet, like the stairwell—where no one will see you in all your... un-bra-ness.

But then the door across from yours swings open.

And out steps your new neighbor.

You freeze.

He’s tall. That’s the first thing you notice.

Broad shoulders fill out a fitted hoodie, and his sweats hang just right on his frame. His locs are tied back, a few strands falling loose around his face. And, of course, because the universe is determined to humiliate you today, he’s fine. Not regular fine—distractingly, unfairly, you-can’t-look-directly-at-him fine.

You tug at the hem of your shirt, suddenly hyper-aware of your lack of proper clothing. Maybe if you stay really still, he won’t see you.

No such luck.

“Morning,” he says, his voice deep and warm, with the kind of calm that makes you even more flustered.

“Uh. Morning,” you manage, trying and failing to sound casual.

He glances at you—at your bare legs, your slippers, your bonnet—and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Locked out?”

Your face burns. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little.” He leans against his doorframe, arms crossed. “You need to call the building manager?”

You nod, pulling your phone out—and of course, your battery chooses this moment to play hide-and-seek since you took the liberty to forget to charge it last night.

“No bars,” you mutter.

He watches you struggle for a second before pushing off the doorframe. “Here,” he says, holding out his own phone. “You can use mine.”

"Oh, thank you.” Your fingers brush his as you take the phone, and even though it’s just a split second, your skin tingles.

You step back, trying to focus on calling the building manager and not the fact that your incredibly good-looking neighbor is standing there watching you. When the call connects, you explain the situation, only for them to tell you it’ll be at least an hour before someone can come let you in.

“An hour?” you repeat, dismayed. “You don’t have an emergency key?”

“I’m afraid not,” the manager says apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

You hang up the phone and look at your neighbor. An hour might as well be a decade. And you are standing in front of this man, braless, and in your pajamas.

The universe hates you.

But he’s still smiling, one brow raised. “No spare key?”

“Apparently not.” You sigh, handing his phone back. “Thanks. Sorry for bothering you.”

“You’re not bothering me.” He hesitates, then nods toward his apartment. “You wanna wait inside? It’s warmer.” For a second, you think you misheard him. But his face is open and kind, his head tilting a little like he’s genuinely concerned.

“I—” You hesitate, looking down at yourself. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You won’t be,” he assures you, voice soft, but there’s something steady in his tone. “It’s too cold out here. You’re shivering.”

You glance down at your bare legs and admit he has a point. You really shouldn’t. But the alternative is standing in the hallway half-dressed and slowly dying of embarrassment.

“Okay,” you say finally. “Thank you."

He smiles, and you realize you’ve been avoiding his eyes this whole time. “I’m Jules,” he offers.

You smile back. “I’m—” What was your name again? You don’t remember for a second. “Y/N?” you say, and it sounds like a question.

“Y/N.” He says the name gently, like he’s testing its texture. Then he steps back and motions for you to enter.

It’s a simple gesture, but you feel it all the way down to your toes.

His place is beautiful—sleek and modern but warm, with huge windows that flood the space with soft, golden light. The walls are painted in calming neutral tones—warm beiges and soft grays—and the furniture looks like it was picked right out of some design magazine.

There’s a quiet kind of elegance here, a lived-in comfort mixed with sophistication. And then there’s his scent—that faint trace of cologne, something woodsy and clean—that lingers in the air and makes you catch yourself breathing just a little deeper.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, his voice low and easy as he heads toward the kitchen. “Want some tea or coffee?”

“Tea’s fine, thanks.”

You perch on the edge of his couch, trying not to feel awkward. The cushions are soft beneath you, and you smooth a hand over your thighs, willing yourself to relax.

He moves around his space with an effortless kind of ease, like he knows exactly where everything is without even thinking about it. The quiet sounds of him moving in the kitchen—the clink of a mug, the rush of water—fill the air, and there’s something surprisingly intimate about it.

When he comes back a few minutes later, he hands you a warm mug. You smile up at him, your fingers brushing his for the briefest second. His hands are warm and strong, and the simple touch sends an unexpected shiver up your spine.

“Thank you, seriously,” you say, your voice softer than you intend. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugs, settling into the armchair across from you. “It’s nothing. Besides, we’re neighbors. I couldn’t just leave you stranded.”

You nod, taking a slow sip of your tea. The warmth spreads through you, easing some of your nerves. “I’m sorry we haven’t met before. I’ve seen you around, but..."

“I keep odd hours,” he finishes for you, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Training and travel.”

“Right,” you say, watching him. He’s even more gorgeous up close—those sharp cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the soft fullness of his lips. But it’s his eyes that really get you—dark and steady, watching you with a quiet attentiveness that makes your pulse flutter.

“I’m—” you start, but there’s a sudden knock on the door.

He stands, moving with that same easy grace, and when he opens the door, the maintenance guy steps in. You rise too, suddenly unsure of what to do with yourself. You hadn’t expected the awkwardness to be worse when your neighbor did a kind deed for you.

“Looks like you’re all set,” Jules says a few minutes later, holding up your keys with a little flourish. The maintenance guy gives a quick nod and heads out, leaving the two of you alone again.

You take the keys with a grateful smile. “Thank you, really. I owe you one.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “That you do.”

A flush spreads through your cheeks as you head toward the door. You stop at the threshold, looking back at him. “Well, thank you again. I’m going to go... put on some clothes.”

“Probably a good idea.” He leans against the doorframe and gives you a little wave. “See you around.”

You pause for a moment, watching him, that soft smile and his steady gaze. And then you step into your apartment and shut the door behind you, exhaling a slow breath as you lean against the frame. You can’t help the little thrill that goes through you as you remember the way his muscles bulged through the fabric of his shirt.

You wonder how long you’ve been missing out on him. You take a deep breath and step away from the doorframe. And you’re pretty sure your day just got a whole lot better.

**********

-Bianca🌻

[szariahwroteit]

During this little mini break I have been semi-plotting a single mother x Jules Kounde erotic series… 😫😍

[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?”

[iamquiantrelle]

GOLDEN CONFESSIONS •────── iamquaintrelle

# summary: Southern Spain glows in warm hues, the golden sun casting long shadows over Sevilla’s winding streets. Jules had planned this getaway after international break to relax, to be with her, to soak in the moment—but there’s something else pressing on his heart. He wants to say it. He needs to say it. But the words stick to his throat, tangled in nerves. With every golden sunset and soft touch, he inches closer to the confession that’s burning inside him.

# pairings: jules koundé x black reader oneshot (spring series)

# tags: @lostennyc @carmilladias @snowseasonmademe @sailurmewn @invertedempress @vintagesoul-01 @muglermami @beauty-gurl @queenshikongo3 @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @oceanfanatic06 @dima-lfc @peyiswriting @thepointlessideas @kj77 @mauvecherie-writes @hopefulromantic1 @jessnotwiththemess @sinflowersugar @simplyyalika

The train rattled through the Spanish countryside, cutting a path from Barcelona to Andalusia as spring sunshine filtered through the windows. Jules's playlist had been running for almost an hour – his carefully curated Kendrick selection that he'd been obsessed with for weeks.

"Luther," the opening notes are recognizable immediately. Jules's eyes lit up, that boyish excitement he could never quite contain when it came to music he loved.

"This one," he said, offering you one of his earbuds. "You have to listen."

You accepted it with a smile, your shoulders pressed together in the narrow train seats. Outside, Spain unfolded in shades of gold – fields stretching toward distant mountains, bathed in afternoon light.

Jules hummed along, his head nodding slightly to the rhythm, locs swinging gently with the movement. He'd recently added gold cuffs to a few of them – small, tasteful accents that caught the light when he moved. Everything about Jules had this effortless attention to detail, from his perfectly maintained locs to his meticulously selected outfits.

"What do you think?" he asked when the song ended, voice carrying that hint of French accent that never quite disappeared, no matter how fluent his Spanish or English became.

"Beautiful," you said honestly. "I see why you've been obsessed."

His smile widened. "Not obsessed."

"Jules, you've played nothing else for two weeks straight."

"Appreciation," he corrected, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. "There's a difference."

"Mmhmm. Just like there's a difference between 'a few shoes' and the sneaker collection taking over your apartment?"

"Why you coming for me like this?" He laughed, fingers instinctively reaching to twirl one of his locs – another habit you'd grown to adore.

His hand found yours on the armrest between you, thumb tracing absent patterns across your skin. This casual touch was new – part of the subtle shift in your relationship over the past few months. From friends to... something more, something neither of you had put into words yet.

"Tell me about Sevilla," you said, secretly enjoying the way his whole face lit up at the question. "What's your favorite part?"

"The light," he answered without hesitation. "Especially in spring." His fingers kept moving against yours, gentle circles that sent warmth up your arm. "It's like... everything gets touched by gold. Makes the whole city feel like magic or something."

Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded corny. But Jules talked about beautiful things with such genuine enthusiasm that it was impossible not to believe him.

"Like your game against Madrid?" you teased. "When you dribbled past four defenders?"

He groaned, dropping his head dramatically onto your shoulder. "You promised never to mention that again."

"I promised no such thing. That was a straight-up magic moment."

"I got lucky."

"Four defenders, Jules."

He laughed against your shoulder, the vibration of it traveling through you. "Okay, maybe a little magic."

The countryside gradually gave way to the outskirts of Sevilla, ancient buildings rising up to meet you. Jules grew more animated with each passing landmark, straightening up to point out places tied to his memories from playing here.

"That's where they have the best churros in Spain. Over there? First place I tried real flamenco. That building? Where I got lost my first week and had to call the team manager to rescue me."

His stories painted Sevilla not as a postcard destination but as a living city full of personal history. By the time you arrived at the small apartment he'd arranged in the Santa Cruz district, the sun was beginning its descent, casting long shadows across cobblestone streets.

"Perfect timing," Jules said, setting down your bags and shaking his locs out of his face. "We can catch the sunset from the rooftop."

"Let me freshen up first?"

"Take your time." His hand brushed yours again, seemingly unable to resist the contact. "We've got all weekend."

All weekend. Three days stretched before you, full of possibility. Three days in a city bathed in golden light, with a man who kept finding excuses to touch you but couldn't quite say what you both already knew.

Jules was right about the light.

Sevilla in spring was wrapped in a golden glow that transformed everything it touched. From the rooftop terrace of the apartment, you watched as sunset painted the city in impossible warmth, turning ancient buildings into something from a dream.

"See?" Jules said softly, coming to stand beside you. "Golden."

He'd changed – a fresh white linen shirt and jeans that somehow looked both casual and perfectly thought-out. His locs were pulled back now, a few escaping to frame his face, gold cuffs catching the evening light.

"It's gorgeous," you admitted.

"Right?" His shoulder pressed against yours as you both leaned on the terrace railing. "This city looks good on you."

"I've barely seen any of it yet."

"Doesn't matter." His fingers reached out to brush your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Some people just belong in certain places. You belong in this light."

The compliment warmed you more than the evening sun. Jules had always been free with his words, his observations usually wrapped in playful teasing. But lately, there'd been this new directness, this sincerity that caught you off guard in the best way.

"I've got plans for us tomorrow," he said, his shoulder still pressed to yours. "If you're down."

"What kind of plans?"

"It's a surprise." His smile turned mischievous. "Trust me?"

"Always."

The word slipped out easily, naturally, but its weight wasn't lost on either of you. Trust had built slowly between you – through late-night conversations, through vulnerability shared in quiet moments, through the gradual understanding that whatever was growing between you mattered.

Jules's expression softened, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart beat faster. For a moment, you thought he might finally say what had been hovering unspoken between you for months. But instead, he simply handed you a glass of local wine, his fingers lingering against yours in the exchange.

"To Sevilla," he said. "And to us."

"To us," you echoed, watching golden light reflect in his eyes.

Whatever words remained unsaid, they could wait. For now, this – wine on a rooftop, a city painted gold, the warmth of his shoulder against yours – was enough.

Jules Koundé's "surprise plans" turned out to involve the kind of insider knowledge only someone who'd truly lived in a place could provide.

"Everyone sees the tourist stuff," he explained as he led you through morning streets already warming in the Spanish sun, his hand clasped firmly in yours. "I want to show you my Sevilla."

His Sevilla included a tiny café hidden behind an unmarked door, where the owner greeted Jules with enthusiastic embraces and rapid-fire Spanish. The churros were the best you'd ever tasted, the coffee rich and perfect.

"Found this place after we lost 3-0 to Madrid," Jules admitted, watching you enjoy the food. "Came here to sulk and ended up laughing with the owner instead."

As you walked the city, Jules's hand rarely left yours – fingers intertwined, thumb occasionally stroking your skin, the contact both casual and deliberate. When he spoke about something particularly exciting, his free hand would gesture animatedly, locs dancing with his movements.

"This is where I realized I needed to change my style," he said, pointing to a small boutique. "Owner straight-up told me my shoes were trash."

"Your shoes? Never."

"I was young! Still learning!" He laughed, squeezing your hand. "Now look at me."

"Mmm, I am looking," you replied, enjoying the slight flush that rose on his cheeks.

Throughout the day, Jules showed you a series of personal landmarks – the street corner where he'd first felt like Sevilla was home, the hidden garden where he'd made important decisions, the barber who'd first helped him style his locs the way he wore them now.

"There's someone else I want you to meet," he said as afternoon approached, leading you toward a small, colorful shop tucked between larger buildings.

Inside, surrounded by fabrics in riotous color, an elderly woman worked with quick, precise movements. She looked up as the bell announced your entrance, her face transforming with recognition and delight.

"¡Julio!" she exclaimed, setting aside her work to embrace him. "¡Mi niño!"

"Carmen," Jules responded warmly, bending down to accept her hug, his locs falling forward around them both.

She held him at arm's length, assessing him with critical eyes. "Still too skinny," she declared in accented English, clearly for your benefit. "Barcelona no good for appetite."

"I eat plenty," he laughed. "You're just used to feeding me for three."

Her attention turned to you, clever eyes taking in everything with a single glance. "Ah," she said, satisfaction evident. "This is her."

Heat rose in your cheeks. "Her?"

"The girl he talks about." Carmen's smile was knowing. "The one who makes him play with his hair when he speaks of her."

Jules's hand immediately dropped from where it had indeed been fidgeting with one of his locs. "Carmen," he protested, embarrassment clear on his face.

"He talks about me?" You couldn't help asking, enjoying his discomfort.

"All the time," Carmen confirmed with a wink. "Jules, Jules, always Jules and his girl."

Jules cleared his throat, a rare moment of flustered embarrassment. "Carmen makes the best flamenco dresses in Andalusia," he said quickly. "She's been teaching me about proper fabric and construction."

"He has good eye," Carmen confirmed. "For fashion. For women." She winked at you. "For beauty."

As Jules explained Carmen's significance – a surrogate grandmother figure during his years in Sevilla, a woman who'd taught him about the city's traditions and history – you watched the easy affection between them. This was Jules at his most authentic: forming deep connections, nurturing them over time, valuing the wisdom and experience of others.

"She's been asking to meet you," he admitted as you eventually left the shop, Carmen sending you off with small packages of homemade sweets. "For months now."

"I can't believe you talk about me to Carmen." You couldn't keep the pleased surprise from your voice.

Jules looked almost shy, fingers automatically reaching for yours again. "I talk about you to anyone who'll listen."

The confession hung between you, golden in the afternoon light. Again, that moment where something more might be said – but a passing group of tourists broke the spell, and Jules was pulling you along, your fingers intertwined with his.

Later, as evening approached, you found yourselves in a small, hidden courtyard where local musicians were gathering. Without explanation, Jules had brought blankets, a bottle of wine, a selection of local delicacies arranged with his characteristic attention to detail.

"Private concert?" you guessed as he arranged everything, his movements quick and precise.

"Something like that." He settled beside you, close enough that his leg pressed against yours, his shoulder a warm weight. "Carmen told me about this years ago. Local flamenco artists who play for themselves, not for tourists."

The music, when it began, was unlike anything you'd heard before – raw and emotional, complex rhythms and haunting vocals filling the small space. Jules was watching your reaction more than the performers, his arm slipping around your shoulders as the music intensified.

"This is how Sevilla feels to me," he said quietly, his lips close to your ear. "All passion and heart, but with structure underneath."

As the courtyard filled with sound, with the golden light of approaching sunset, Jules's fingers traced patterns on your shoulder, his touch both casual and intentional. His locs had fallen forward again, framing his face in the warm glow, gold cuffs catching the light each time he moved.

This wasn't just Jules showing you his favorite city – he was showing you himself. His passions, his connections, the things that mattered to him beyond football and fashion.

When his eyes met yours during a particularly moving piece of music, the unspoken thing between you felt almost tangible, golden and warm in the evening air.

The final day in Sevilla dawned clear and perfect, the spring sun promising another golden afternoon. Jules had been quieter than usual at breakfast, his typical animated energy replaced by something more thoughtful. His hands kept reaching for his locs, twisting one absentmindedly – a nervous habit you'd observed before important matches.

"Everything good?" you asked as you walked together toward the Guadalquivir River, where Jules had promised a surprise for your last day.

"Yeah, yeah," he assured you, but his fingers kept fidgeting – first with his locs, then with the sleeve of his shirt, then seeking out your hand as if the contact might steady him.

Jules Koundé was nervous. The realization made your heart beat faster.

The riverside was busy with Sunday strollers enjoying the beautiful weather, but Jules led you to a small dock where a single boat waited, a man standing beside it with expectant posture.

"Private tour," Jules explained, his hand still firmly clasping yours. "To see Sevilla from the water."

The boat captain greeted you both warmly, helping you aboard before discreetly positioning himself at the helm, giving you space on the small craft.

As you drifted along the river, Sevilla revealed itself from a new perspective. Ancient buildings reflected in the water, bridges arched gracefully overhead, and the golden light that Jules loved so much painted everything in warm abundance.

"Beautiful," you murmured, trailing your fingers in the water.

"Yeah," Jules agreed, but when you looked up, he was watching you, not the scenery.

He was sitting close, one arm stretched behind you along the edge of the boat, his body angled toward yours. The breeze played with his locs, sending them dancing around his face. He'd dressed simply today – white tee, jeans, those perfectly selected sneakers – but somehow looked more striking than ever in the golden light.

"What?" you asked, catching the intensity of his gaze.

Jules took a deep breath, his usual easy confidence momentarily absent. "Been trying to find the right words," he admitted. "For days now. Maybe longer."

"Words for what?"

"For this." His free hand gestured between you. "For us."

The boat drifted gently, carrying you both beneath a bridge where the light filtered through in golden patterns. Jules's fingers found yours again, the touch grounding, connecting.

"I planned this whole trip," he continued, "thinking I'd find the perfect moment, you know? Like in the movies." He laughed softly, shaking his head. "But every time I try, I get in my own head."

"Jules Koundé, overthinking?" You squeezed his hand. "That's new."

"Only with important stuff." His eyes met yours, open and vulnerable. "Only with you."

The world seemed to slow, the gentle rocking of the boat, the distant sounds of the city, everything secondary to this moment, this confession.

"I love you," he said finally, simple and direct. "Not just as my friend. Not just as someone I care about. I'm in love with you."

The words hung in the golden light, perfect and true and worth every moment of waiting.

"I love you too," you replied, your heart full. "I have for a long time."

His smile then – relieved, joyful, radiant – was more beautiful than any view Sevilla could offer. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb gently tracing your skin.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, eyes searching yours.

"Please."

When his lips met yours, it felt like a conversation you'd been having all along – through shared music and inside jokes, through subtle touches and lingering glances, through a language of understanding that had been building between you for months.

The boat drifted beneath another patch of golden light, and Jules pulled back slightly, his smile soft and wondering.

"See?" he murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Golden. Just like I told you."

"You were right," you admitted, reaching up to gently touch one of the gold cuffs in his locs. "About everything."

"Not everything." His forehead pressed against yours. "Should've told you sooner."

"You did tell me. Just not with words."

And it was true. He'd been saying it for months – in the way his hand always found yours, in how he remembered your coffee order, in midnight calls after away games just to hear your voice.

Some confessions don't need words to be understood. Some loves are spoken in touches, in music, in shared moments that build something real long before language catches up.

But now that the words had been said, they created their own kind of magic – golden and warm like Sevilla's light, wrapping around you both as the boat drifted along the river, carrying you together into whatever came next.

[amirawrah]

⭐︎Just us

with JULES KOUNDE⭐︎ REQUESTED BY ANON!

synopsis: A night of celebration turns quietly unforgettable.

You’d been in stadiums before. You’d heard crowds lose their minds before. But this? This was chaos wrapped in glory, the kind of moment that made your heart rattle in your chest and your palms sweat despite the cool spring breeze sweeping through Barcelona.=

The roar of the crowd in the stadium thundered through your chest, the kind of sound that made your skin buzz with excitement. You were there—draped in Barcelona colors, heart pounding, eyes fixed on the pitch—watching Jules Koundé move with sharp, fluid precision. The Clásico. Barcelona vs Real Madrid. A night that always promised chaos, intensity, and if you were lucky, celebration.

Jules had been laser-focused since kick-off. You recognized his body language—the way he paced defensively, stayed tight to his man, and shouted instructions to his teammates. You knew his game. But what he didn’t know was how hard your heart was beating, not just because of the match, but because you were watching your man in his element.

You stood with some of the other WAGs, arms crossed against the early spring chill. The stadium lights painted everyone in a golden wash, and when Barça scored the first goal, you screamed, jumping and laughing with the rest of the crowd. You caught a glimpse of Jules glancing toward the stands as if he knew exactly where you were. He did.

Barca had kept the pressure. You couldn't take your eyes off him. Every tackle he made, every interception—your chest swelled with pride. But then, in the 68th minute, Real Madrid won a corner.

And in one perfect leap, Aurélien rose above the chaos and headed it into the back of the net.

The stadium groaned in unison, and despite the sea of culés around you, you instinctively clapped your hands, a proud, almost apologetic smile on your lips.

Aurel had just made things harder for Jules.

The game dragged on toward the final minutes. Barca equalized just after the 80th with a gorgeous curler from Ferran Torres. The energy in the stadium surged again, and by the time the 90th minute passed, it felt like anything could happen.

And then, in the 117th minute, just before the match would be decided by penalties—it happened.

Jules moved like he had been waiting for this moment his whole life.

You stood, breath caught in your throat, as the ball flew through the air—and there he was, rising above everyone, muscles coiled, head perfectly angled. The connection was crisp, clean. The net rippled.

GOAL.

The stadium exploded.

Your hands flew to your face as people screamed around you, hugging strangers, jumping up and down. But your eyes stayed locked on one person—Jules, who didn’t even celebrate right away. He just stood there, chest heaving, eyes scanning the crowd until he found you.

And when he did

He grinned—no, beamed—pointing right at you before being mobbed by his teammates.

Tears blurred your vision as you shouted, laughed, screamed all at once. You’d seen Jules do incredible things, but that? That was something different. That was his moment.

Then the final whistle blew and Barcelona sealed a victory over their eternal rivals. Flags waved, chants rang out, and players flooded the pitch in a wave of relief and exhilaration.

You made your way down toward the field, your heart leaping with every step. Security parted easily as staff and family were allowed closer. Jules was already shaking hands, hugging teammates, sweat glistening on his forehead. When he saw you, something in his expression softened—his smile widened, his shoulders dropped slightly.

He jogged over, arms open, and you didn’t hesitate. You ran into him, arms wrapping around his neck as he lifted you off the ground.

“We did it!” he laughed, voice breathless.

“You did it,” you whispered back, kissing his cheek.

His locs were slightly damp, sticking to his forehead, but he didn’t care. He just held you there, both of you swaying slightly as the noise of celebration surrounded you. He set you down gently but kept you close, arm around your waist like he didn’t want to let go.

Photographers nearby snapped shots of the moment, and you could already imagine the headlines. But for now, you didn’t care.

He leaned in, kissing you again—not rushed or showy, just real. Soft. A moment he was claiming for himself amidst the chaos.

After a while, he pulled back, a playful smirk spreading across his face. “You want to take the victory lap with me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like… on the pitch?”

“Why not?”

Before you could answer, he took your hand and started leading you across the field. Fans were still cheering, waving from the stands, and as Jules held your hand up triumphantly, a new cheer erupted. You laughed, cheeks burning, but it was electric.

Jules eventually pulled you aside near the sideline, slightly out of view. He leaned into you, forehead resting against yours.

“Thank you for being here,” he said quietly.

“Always,” you said. “Wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

The celebration continued well into the night, but for you, the best part was already over: that quiet, perfect moment in the middle of chaos, wrapped up in Jules' arms, right where you belonged.

The streets had emptied by the time you and Jules finally made it back to the hotel. It was well past midnight, and the adrenaline that had been buzzing through your veins since his winning goal had finally started to fade—leaving behind nothing but a warm, sleepy glow.

Jules opened the door to the suite with one arm still slung around your waist, his grip never loosening since you both left the stadium. He hadn’t wanted to let go—not during the ride, not during the trophy lifting, not even during media rounds.

Now, as the door clicked shut behind you, a gentle silence wrapped around the room.

You slipped off your shoes and stretched, letting out a quiet sigh. “My feet are killing me.”

Jules chuckled lowly, walking past you to toss his phone and keys onto the table. “I scored a game-winner and played 120 minutes,” he said, turning to face you with a lazy smile. “But sure, let’s focus on your feet.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, and he caught it with a grin, tugging you toward the bed. “C’mere.”

You both collapsed on the crisp hotel duvet, still in your matchday clothes now a little wrinkled and smelling faintly of smoke and champagne.

You laid your head on his chest, his heartbeat still a little quick under your ear.

“That was…” you began softly.

“Insane?” he finished.

You nodded. Your voice caught a little. “I’ve never been so proud.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just pressed a kiss to the top of your head and wrapped his arm tighter around you.

He leaned in, kissing your forehead, then your nose, then finally your lips—soft and slow, as if he had all the time in the world.

And tonight, he did.

You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, the glow of the stadium still lingering on your skin, his heartbeat steady against your back.

Barca had won the night.

But you? You’d won the heart of the man who made it all unforgettable.

The next morning, sunlight filtered softly through the tall hotel windows, casting golden lines across the white sheets. You stirred first, blinking against the light, and instinctively reached for the other side of the bed.

Empty.

But not for long.

A moment later, the bathroom door creaked open and Jules stepped out—barefoot, towel slung low on his hips, locs still damp and clinging to his forehead. He caught your sleepy gaze immediately and smiled, soft and slow.

“Morning.” you teased, voice raspy with sleep.

Jules chuckled, padding over to your side. “I was trying not to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you lied. “But you can come back and help me recover emotionally from the screaming last night.”

He laughed and dipped down to press a kiss to your shoulder, his hand warm against your waist. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’re the one who scored a winning goal in a Clásico final,” you shot back, fingers finding his and lacing them together. “Let me have my moment.”

Jules grinned and slipped into bed beside you again, this time shirtless only in boxers, pulling you onto his chest like it was second nature. You laid there in peaceful silence for a few minutes, just listening to the hum of distant traffic and the rhythmic thump of his heart.

“You think they’ll replay the match today?” you asked idly.

He hummed. “Probably. Might be on all week.”

You looked up at him. “You gonna watch yourself score on repeat?”

“Maybe,” he said with a smile.

He leaned down, brushing his nose against yours, his breath hot on your lips.

Then he kissed you.

Soft at first. Reverent. A thank-you wrapped in warmth. But that tenderness gave way to something heavier, a kiss that deepened with every passing second—his hands slipping lower, your fingers tugging at his damp locs.

You didn’t even realize when he carried you toward the bathroom until your back hit the cool tiled wall. The sound of the shower starting again filled the space as Jules reached for the shirt’s hem, his touch featherlight.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured, his forehead against yours. “Let me show you what it means to come home to you.”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat, and let the shirt fall away.

He lifted you easily—like you weighed nothing—and carried you under the falling water, where steam wrapped around your bodies like the day never had to end.

[emjayewrites]

The Year I Turned 25 • JK + AT (4/10)

SYNOPSIS: Grammy-winning R&B artist Y/N Y/LN, 25, is closing out the North American leg of her tour, riding high on the success of her sophomore album "The Year I Turned 24" - a raw, emotional project born from her public breakup with an NFL player. As she prepares for six weeks in Europe before the international leg of her tour, she's determined to have her own "hot girl summer," yet she’s unaware that she's about to get entangled with not one but two professional footballers - Jules Koundé and Aurélien Tchouaméni - sparking new public interest in her love life and forcing her to confront her fears about dating athletes again.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

PAIRINGS: Jules Koundé x Y/N Y/LN (fc: Ayra Starr) x Aurélien Tchouaméni

WARNINGS: cursing, football b.s., not so glamorous life of a celebrity, mentions of mental illness/misogyny/slut shaming/cheating, drug use (marijuana), drinking, rotational dating, eventual smut, paragon partners/polyamory — 18+ only

TAGLIST: @irishmanwhore, @sucredreamer, @whoevenisthiz, @saturnville, @peyiswriting, @greedyjudge2, @pepfectionary, @cocobutterqwueen, @alika-4466, @julescpu, @lettersofgold, @hopefulromantic1, @a-moment-captured, @serpenttines-library, @f1-football-fiend, @purplelewlew, @elyseesarchive, @enretrogue, @2serenity0, @yeea-nah, @127hydrangeas, @sunfairyy, @pinkcatcus, @muglermami, @shelovesfootie, @bbgkoo, @greyishbach @sinflowersugar @cranberryjulce

CHAPTER 4: X Marks The Spot...

YN was curled up in her hotel bed, scrolling through her phone with a smile playing on her lips as she sent a 'congrats' text to Lewis for winning his race in Silverstone before replying to Javaughn.

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫: Made it to my conference. Already bored. Rather be back on that plane talking to you

YN: Aww poor baby. Give a lecture about Keynes to wake yourself up

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫: A sense of humor AND knowledge of economic theory? Dangerous combination

Shit the only thing I even remembered from ECON 101…

He's cute, her thoughts mused, but not French-boys cute.

Her phone buzzed again:

Jules 🇫🇷: Can I stop by? Miss your face x

YN: Yeah sure

She barely put her phone down when there was a knock. Opening the door revealed Jules with shopping bags, looking good enough to eat in shorts and a fitted tee.

"How did you know I would say yes?"

Jules set the bags on her hotel room's small dining table. "I figured you missed me as much as I missed you."

"Aw, you're so cute." She peered into the bags. "What's in there?"

"Board games and food. Wanted to make the best out of being confined to each other's rooms."

She pulled out Monopoly, UNO, and Operation, grabbing the UNO deck with a grin. "Are you good at UNO?"

"Hell yeah."

"Well I'm the best so prepare to get your ass handed to you." She climbed onto the bed, patting the space next to her.

Jules kicked off his Sambas and settled beside her while she shuffled, their shoulders brushing.

Between rounds of "Draw Four" cards and playful trash talk, Jules asked, "Do you miss home?"

"Yeah, especially my mama's cooking. No offense but German food ain't hitting like her fried chicken and mac and cheese." She detailed Sunday suppers - collard greens, cornbread, sweet potato pie.

"She cooks like this every Sunday?"

"Pssh," YN trilled her lips. "Every day. She lives with me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, we've got this house in the Valley. Made it our own - got a garden with herbs and vegetables, renovated the garage into a gym. We do yoga together in the mornings. She's my best friend."

Jules' smile was soft. "That's sweet. You're really close."

"What about you and your mom?"

His eyes grew distant, fingers fidgeting with his cards. "I was an asshole growing up," he admitted, a shadow crossing his features. "But we got closer, especially since... well, I don't really know my dad." His jaw tightened slightly. "His brother reached out when I was sixteen. Met my half-siblings, but only saw my dad once or twice. He's all over the place. Most of my family - grandmother, cousins - they're in Benin."

"I feel you on the dad thing," YN said. "My sperm donor bounced when I was three. Just walked out on mama and me one day. No explanation, no nothing." She laid down a red seven. "Sometimes I wonder if he sees me on TV or hears my music and thinks 'damn, that's my kid.' But fuck him though. Mama did just fine on her own."

Jules' expression softened with understanding. "Fuck him," he agreed quietly.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ "My mom did everything too. Made sure I knew my heritage, my roots in Benin. Never really struggled with the racial identity stuff like some biracial people do."

"You're mixed?" YN feigned shock. He shot her a look before his mouth quirked into a grin, realizing she was joking. "I googled you after the photo op."

"Oh really? So you knew all of this?"

"Nah," she laid down another card, now only holding two. "Just skimmed Wikipedia. Did stalk your IG though. Feel like you can really get a vibe of someone from their social media."

"Huh," he played his hand. "And what does my IG say about me?"

"That you're a fashion girlie who takes himself way too seriously in photo shoots." His laugh filled the room just as she slapped down her card. "UNO!"

Jules looked discombobulated. "How did you–"

She batted her eyelashes adorably. "Told you to prepare to have your ass handed to you."

He muttered a curse, played his card, and watched her win. "You're cheating or something?"

"Sore loser much?" She clutched invisible pearls. "You should see me play Spades - mama made sure to teach me how to run that game."

"What is Spades?"

Her jaw dropped in shock. "What? How do you not know Spades? Have you not been to any cookouts–"

His wide, toothy grin gave him away.

"Your face!" he pointed, laughing uncontrollably.

YN squinted mock-angrily. "You almost had me, Jules Olivier."

That sobered him slightly. "Ooh middle name? Let me guess, you read that on Wikipedia?"

"Among other things. Like how they say you're 5'11" but you're more like 5'10"."

"5'10" and a half," he corrected.

"Oh wow," she deadpanned.

"Yeah, that half-inch makes a difference," he grinned​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​, adding a wink.

YN smiled at him, letting out a soft sigh. "Nothing like trauma bonding over daddy issues".

"My therapist would call this a breakthrough moment," Jules quipped back perfectly.

A freak AND gets dark humor? her thoughts swooned. The perfect man doesn't exi–

They then moved to the table for ramen, Jules telling her about his post-Euros plans.

"Going to Japan for two weeks. Need to decompress after the tournament."

"That sounds dope."

His eyes sparkled mischievously. "You should slide through."

"To Japan?" She nearly choked on her noodles. "Nigga what?"

"It's still your Hot Girl Summer," he shrugged. "Why not?"

"You want me to stay the whole two weeks?"

"If you can. But a week is fine. I know Auré probably wants to spend time with you after the Euros too."

"Yeah, I'll think about it."

"Alright, chérie."

This man really just invited you to Japan! her intrusive thoughts screamed.

A whole international vacation, her rational side considered. That's... serious.

But watching Jules slurp his ramen, looking soft and domestic in her hotel room, she couldn't find it in herself to panic about what it meant.

All YN wanted was to rot in bed, wrapped in the hotel's fluffy duvet while binging every rom-com Netflix had to offer. She was three UberEats orders deep - having demolished a burger, then Thai food, and now picking at some döner kebab as Brown Sugar played in the background. Damari's interview on "Real Bros Talk" podcast had dropped late last night, and social media hadn't shut up since.

Her group chat with Jazmine and Dominique was blowing up with reactions, and Jermaine had already called four times about possibly releasing a statement. Even her label wanted to know if she was going to channel this into another album.

As if he deserves any more of my creative energy, she thought bitterly, shoving another fry in her mouth.

TheShadeRoom: #DamariRush opens up about his relationship with Grammy winner (you know who 👀), says he "wasn't sexually satisfied" and needed someone to "match his freak" 🤔 [Video clip attached]

view all comments...

ynglobaldom: Not him trying to shame her for being inexperienced when he got caught cheating??? ↳ popculture_tea: The projection is REAL ↳ teamdamari: Maybe if she wasn't so boring… chartdata: Her album about him went #1 though 🤷🏾‍♀️ IDC IDC minaroe: Sir you averaged 3 yards per carry AND 3 pumps max ↳ tsrfans: SCREAMING 💀 deuxmoi: Meanwhile she's living her best life in Europe…

Three-pump chump at best, her intrusive thoughts scoffed. All that gym time for what?

Exactly, her rational side agreed. What's the point of working out if you can't even use that stamina?

Her phone buzzed non-stop:

Mama 💕 Baby girl call me

Big Kyle I'm booking a flight to Cleveland rn. Just say the word

LewLew Bean Ignore that 🤡 You're thriving without him

Jules 🇫🇷 Thinking of you x. Let me know if you need anything

Aurélien 🌹 He's not worth your energy, belle. But I'll beat his ass if you want

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫 How are you doing? I would love to have dinner with you soon...

Enzo 🇮🇹 Bella, don't let him dim your light. You're magnificent x

Carina 💋 These men are trash. Come back to Florence, I'll treat you right 😘

She ignored them all, which wasn't fair to her French boys especially, but she needed peace. This summer had been transformative - teaching her about being open, exploratory, less stuck in her head (because a girl really gets in her head). She'd discovered parts of herself she never knew existed, found strength in vulnerability.

Her therapist's words echoed: "Give yourself grace. You're allowed to feel hurt, but don't let it stop your growth."

So she deleted the Instagram app, cutting off the negativity. She'd found something real in Europe - perhaps not with Jules and Aurélien, but definitely with herself.

After another hour of self-loathing and mindless Netflix, YN dragged herself up. The French national team was already on their way to Munich to prepare for their semis against Spain, and she had a six-hour private coach ride ahead of her.

Get it together, she told herself, cleaning up the UberEats carnage and shoving clothes into her suitcase.

She chose comfort for the journey - matching grey sweatsuit and slides, hair wrapped, not a stitch of makeup. The coach was basically a fancy van, but she wasn't trying to impress anyone today. Just R&R and her thoughts.

Somewhere around hour four, her phone buzzed:

🌹🇫🇷 Group Chat:

Jules 🇫🇷 Made it to Munich x. Miss your face

Aurélien 🌹 Can we see you tonight?

YN Not really in the mood boys

Jules 🇫🇷 We'll cheer you up! Got something fun planned

Aurélien 🌹 Not what you're thinking 😈

YN scoffed out loud.

Jules 🇫🇷 Be ready by 9! Wear something comfortable

She typed out another "no" but deleted it. Maybe distraction was exactly what she needed.

YN Fine. But no funny business

Aurélien 🌹 Us? Never 😏

These boys, she thought, but found herself smiling for the first time all day.

______________________________________________

YN stepped out of the Uber, pulling at her biker shorts as she stared up at the JUMP House Munich sign in confusion. She glanced between Jules and Aurélien, who both looked way too pleased with themselves.

Jules chuckled. "You told us you liked bouncy castles."

"And we even had the employees sign NDAs," Aurélien added casually.

Her eyes bugged out. What the hell? "You rented it out?" YN asked incredulously, tugging her oversized t-shirt back into place.

"Yeah, surprisingly it didn't cost that much," Aurélien shrugged, looking fine as ever even in athletic wear.

They rented it out AND made sure it wouldn't leak to social media? her rational thoughts swooned.

The bar is in HEAVEN, her intrusive thoughts agreed.

"We wanted to hang out with you and figured this would be a nice place outside of our rooms," Jules explained.

Inside was a playground of interconnected trampolines, foam pits, and obstacle courses. They headed straight for the massive free-jumping area, armed with foam balls for an every-man-for-themselves dodgeball battle.

"This is so unfair!" YN shrieked, bouncing and falling as foam balls flew at her from both directions. "Y'all are literal athletes!"

"All's fair in love and dodgeball," Jules called out, launching another attack.

"What he said," Aurélien agreed, showing absolutely no mercy.

The soccer trampoline section brought out their competitive sides. Both men started showing off, doing elaborate mid-air tricks before their kicks.

"Real humble, guys," YN rolled her eyes.

"Your turn," Jules challenged.

To everyone's surprise - including her own - YN managed to score several goals.

"Yo!" Jules' eyes widened. "Coach needs to sign her up!"

"For real," Aurélien nodded appreciatively. "Got that natural talent."

"Les Bleus could use you," Jules added. "I know people—"

"Boy, stop," YN laughed. "Singing is my gift to the world. Besides, y'all just impressed 'cause your standards are low."

"Our standards?" Aurélien raised an eyebrow. "You just scored on a goalkeeper."

"A robotic goalkeeper on a trampoline," she corrected. "Don't get excited."

But watching them bounce around like overgrown kids, demonstrating increasingly ridiculous tricks, she felt the weight of Damari's interview lifting. Sometimes healing looked like getting pelted with foam balls by two French footballers who'd rented out a trampoline park just to make her smile.

And what a smile it is, both her thoughts agreed.

"I need a break!" YN called out, bouncing off the trampoline. Her thighs were burning, but it was worth it.

The workers huddled in the corner, speaking rapid German and sneaking glances their way. She caught phrases like "Koundé" and "Nationalmannschaft." Normally it would stress her out, but those NDAs were ironclad.

Jules and Aurélien followed her to the café area, looking unfairly fresh while she was dripping sweat in very unsexy ways.

Now THIS is how you use stamina, her intrusive thoughts purred, eyeing how neither man seemed winded.

She chugged half her water bottle before speaking. "Y'all are machines or something?"

"Professional athletes, remember?" Jules grinned.

"Belle," Aurélien's eyes lit up as he spotted something across the room. "Want to try the battle box? Like American Gladiators."

YN looked at the elevated platform with foam sticks. "You want me to get up there and fight y'all? Two whole professional athletes?"

"We'll go easy–"

"Absolutely not. My ego can only take so many hits in one night."

"Your loss," he shrugged, already getting up to grab one of the foam battling sticks. "Jules?"

"Oh, you're going down," Jules jumped up, grabbing one for himself.

YN settled onto a bench, phone ready to record this foolishness. The boys squared off on the platform, circling each other like they were in an actual arena.

"Your defense is trash!" Aurélien taunted, taking a swipe that Jules barely dodged.

"Better than your aim!" Jules shot back, feinting left before striking right.

They traded French insults she couldn't understand, but their laughter echoed through the space. Watching them play-fight, seeing this unguarded side of them, YN felt a pang in her chest. Three weeks and four days left of her summer vacation. She'd miss this - miss them. The way Jules' eyes crinkled when he really laughed. How Aurélien's smirk softened when he thought no one was looking.

Maybe they'll let you spin the block when the mood hits, her intrusive thoughts suggested.

"Ha!" Aurélien knocked Jules off balance. "That's what happens when you talk too much shit!"

"Oh, fuck you! Rematch!" Jules demanded, already climbing back up.

For once, both her rational and intrusive thoughts agreed: these French boys were worth keeping around. Even after summer ended, even after she went back to reality.

"YN!" Jules called out. "Come referee!"

"No way! Y'all are too competitive–"

"Please?" They both turned those eyes on her.

Definitely worth keeping, she thought, getting up to play referee despite her better judgment.

_______________________________________________

YN found herself in Aurélien's hotel suite. She couldn't believe what was happening - another date night (hangout?) with her two French baguettes, but this felt different than all the others.

The night started off normal - JUMP house, coming back and ordering room service, chatting the shit, laughing, watching movies.

However, as usual, whenever they were together, things got heated and she now was standing in her bra and panties in front of them.

"You're thinking too hard again," Jules noticed, his hand caressing her shoulder.

"Just processing," she admitted. "Two weeks ago I was overthinking every little thing. Now it feels..."

"Natural," Aurélien finished, his smile softer than usual.

Girl, you know exactly where this is heading, her intrusive thoughts purred.

And for once, we're not overthinking it, her rational side agreed.

They'd never made her feel pressured or insecure. If anything, she'd never felt more desired, more understood. The connection between them flowed like lava - intense but not consuming. The way they looked at her - like she was precious but powerful - made her feel invincible. Made her feel brave enough to want more.

Something that Damari never did...

"We take care of what's ours," Jules said simply.

And that's what she was, wasn't she? Theirs. At least for now, at least for this perfect summer moment.

Her knees hit the carpet as their eyes darkened with promise. They kissed and fooled around already but YN's nerves were now electric, her body humming with anticipation. She watched as Jules slowly removed his shirt, his muscular chest on display, while Aurélien pulled his t-shirt over his head, revealing a glimpse of his toned torso.

"Relax, ma belle," Aurélien whispered, his voice like velvet. "We have all night."

YN took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for Jules's belt first. His warm fingers covered hers, stilling her movements.

"Easy, cherie," he murmured. "Take your time."

She inhaled, the scent of his cologne filling her senses, and exhaled slowly, steeling herself. With a nod, she tried again, her fingers deftly unbuckling his belt and sliding it free from the loops. The rasp of the zipper followed, and she gently tugged his shorts down, revealing his black boxer briefs.

Jules's erection strained against the fabric, and YN's mouth went dry. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the bulge, feeling the heat radiating from him. With a gentle pull, she freed him from his underwear, his thick shaft springing free. She inhaled his musky scent, her body responding with a rush of heat.

Leaning forward, she took the tip of his dick into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head. Jules's hands found her hair, his grip firm but gentle as he guided her, encouraging her to take more. She relaxed her jaw, taking him deeper, her lips sliding down his length.

"Fuck, yes," Jules groaned, his hips thrusting forward in rhythm with her bobbing head. "That's it, baby, take it all."

YN's eyes fluttered closed, her jaw aching slightly as she accommodated his size. She reveled in the sounds of his pleasure, his praises fueling her desire. Then, she heard Aurélien’s voice, a soft murmur in French.

YN's free hand reached out, pulling Aurélien closer by the waistband of his sweat shorts. He chuckled, his warm breath tickling her ear as he whispered, "Impatient, aren't you?"

With Aurélien’s help, she untied his shorts, sliding them down his lean hips. He stepped out of them, his boxer briefs already tented with his erection.

Aurélien guided her hand to his dick, his shaft hot and rigid in her grasp. He groaned, his head falling back as she stroked him through the thin fabric, her touch tentative yet eager. "Come 'ere, pretty girl. I want to feel that mouth of yours."

YN released Jules with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening dickhead. She turned her attention to Aurélien, her hand pulling his boxer briefs down before wrapping around his length as she leaned forward, taking him into her mouth.

Aurélien’s hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks as he guided her. "Slowly, ma belle. Breathe through your nose."

She obeyed, her breath coming in shallow pants as she took him deeper, her throat working around his girth. Aurélien’s praise filled her ears, his hands tightening in her hair as he began to thrust gently, his hips moving in a slow, sensual rhythm.

"That's it. Suck me." His voice was hoarse, his accent thick with desire. "Merde, YN."

YN moaned around his length, the vibrations sending him over the edge. He withdrew, his dick glistening with her saliva, then he plunged back into her mouth, his hips snapping forward as he began to fuck her face. YN's hands gripped his thighs, her nails digging into his skin as she took him, her throat working to accommodate his thickness.

Aurélien's thrusts became more urgent, his hands tightening in her hair as he held her in place. "You're so fucking good, bébé. I'm gonna cum."

YN's eyes widened, her body tensing in anticipation. She wanted this, wanted to feel him release, to taste him. Her throat relaxed, and she focused on the sensation, on the pleasure she was giving, her own desire spiking with each of his grunts.

With a final, powerful thrust, Aurélien came, his dick jerking in her mouth as he spilled his seed. YN swallowed, her throat working to take all of him, her eyes never leaving his.

Aurélien withdrew, his breathing ragged, his hands roaming over her neck. "You're incredible, YN."

YN's cheeks flushed, her body buzzing with satisfaction. She turned her gaze to Jules, his erection still hard and ready. "And you?" she asked, her voice husky. "Are you ready for more?"

Jules's eyes darkened. "Fuck yeah. Come 'ere." He positioned himself between YN's legs, his eyes locked onto her as she eagerly drew closer. Her tongue darted out, expertly navigating his length. She sucked and teased, her hands gripping his hips as he groaned in pleasure.

Meanwhile, Aurélien moved behind YN, his fingers deftly unhooking her bra. His hands explored her breasts, kneading and pinching her sensitive nipples, causing her to moan, her mouth full of Jules' dick.

Jules's climax was sudden and intense. He groaned, his body convulsing as he released his seed deep into YN's throat. She swallowed quickly, savoring the taste of him as well.

They then led YN to the bed, where she lay back, her eyes heavy with lust. Jules and Aurélien positioned themselves on either side of her, their lips finding her neck and breasts. Jules’s tongue skirted across YN’s neck, sending shivers down her spine. His touch was gentle, almost reverent. Aurélien, meanwhile, was a different story. His hands were rough, his movements urgent.

Aurélien’s attention soon turned lower, his tongue tracing the curve of her hips and the soft skin of her belly. He reached for her panties, tugging them down to reveal her core.

"I've been waiting to taste you," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire. His tongue delved deep, exploring every inch of her, while his fingers danced over her clitoris.

"Fuck," YN moaned, her voice a mere whisper. Her body throbbed with pleasure, her back arching and her nails digging into the sheets as she cried out. Jules continued to kiss and suck on her neck and then her body shook uncontrollably as her orgasm hit her like a freight train. Aurélien lapped up the sweet nectar happily, his tongue darting in and out of her hole.

He pulled away once he was done, a satisfied smile on his face as he sat on his haunches. "You wanna try the Eiffel Tower?" Aurélien asked, a mischievous glint in his eye. YN hesitated, her cheeks flushing.

"It’s your call, YN," Jules assured her, his voice gentle.

"You won't mind if Aurélien and I..." she trailed. A flutter of nerves danced in her stomach. The idea of taking them both at once was daunting but one at time seemed more plausible. Less scary.

Jules gave a reassuring smile. "Nope," he replied, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I’ve got a thing for watching anyway."

YN rolled her eyes playfully. "Of course you do. Such a freak."

Jules shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. "If you say so." With that, he moved to the far end of the bed, propping himself up on one elbow, a spectator ready for the main event.

YN was nervous, but also excited. She turned to face Aurelien, who was already leaning in, his grip on YN’s hips tightening. A shiver ran down her spine as he captured her nipple with his tongue, swirling it sensually. YN's back arched into a bow, a moan escaping her lips.

"Showtime, ma belle," he said, a cocky grin spreading across his face. He then turned, reaching for his shorts that were still on the floor. He retrieved a condom from his pocket, tearing open the package with his teeth and sheathing himself. The raw, primal gesture sent a wave of desire crashing over her.

Aurelien positioned himself at her entrance, slowly thrusting inch by inch until he was fully seated within her. YN glanced over at Jules, who was watching the scene with a half-lidded gaze. A pleased smile played on his lips.

"She takes dick so well," Jules remarked to Aurélien, his voice low and appreciative. Aurélien groaned in agreement. "You got the man speechless, chérie. Good pussy will do that."

YN moaned, her attention torn between the pleasure from Aurélien and the thrill of being watched by Jules.

As the pace quickened, Jules began to stroke himself, his eyes fixed on the passionate scene before him. Aurélien’s thrusts grew harder, deeper, driving YN to the brink of ecstasy.

"Fuck, baby!" YN whimpered, wrapping her legs tighter around Aurélien’s waist as his pace became erratic. "Fuck…fuck…"

"He’s fucking you good, huh?" came Jules’ soft voice. "Are you gonna cum, chérie?"

"She’s so tight," grunted Aurélien as he gripped her waist tighter, the sound of his balls slapping rhythmically against her reverberating across the room. "Fuck you’re so wet, bébé."

"Oooh…I’m gonna cum. Shit, Auré, just like that."

Since when was she ever this vocal during sex? But then again, sex had never felt this good, this exquisite, to have her teetering off an edge. YN’s head thrashed back and forth on the sheets as Aurélien’s stamina proved to be withstanding and unrelenting, his hips moving in an almost Sonic-like speed.

From his spot on the bed, Jules continued to stroke himself with fervor, his eyes never leaving YN and Aurélien until he too felt those familiar coils within his body.

With a final, explosive thrust, YN’s body trembled as she climaxed. Aurélien’s wasn’t that far behind, with him emptying his pleasure inside the condom and spent but satisfied, collapsed onto her, his weight supported by his elbows.

Both Aurélien and YN were breathing heavily as they heard Jules utter a curse before exhaling a long sigh, signaling his own release. They lay like that for a moment – the murmurs of post-coital bliss echoing the space, their hearts beating like jackhammers within their chests.

"Well," YN started, breaking the silence. "That was fun."

"Incroyable," declared Aurélien just before he planted a tender kiss to her forehead then rolled off of her to dispose the condom.

"Ditto," concurred Jules, and YN felt the bed shift as he got off as well. "Let me clean you up, chérie."

YN simply nodded and remained still, her body continuing to spasm from the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Not us having back to back orgasms! Love that for us! her intrusive thoughts cheered.

A dopey-ass grin etched on her tired face, and footsteps drew closer until she felt a warm towel gently cleaning her inner thighs.

"Are you good, YN?" wondered Aurélien’s deep voice from a couple feet away. "She looks out of it, Jules."

"Nah, she just been fucked really good, is all," Jules said with a low chuckle as he finished cleaning her up. "She’s gonna sleep like a baby tonight."

I really am.

"Come on, ma belle. Let’s tuck you in." This was Aurélien and YN hummed in contentment as she felt his strong arms delicately lift her body and situate her flushed against his on the bed. Another kiss on her forehead then one on her cheek. "Bonne nuit."

Bonne nuit indeed…

The last thing she heard before drifting off to sleep was Jules’ little giggle and then them whispering something to one another in French.

YN's muscles protested every movement - her thighs especially were giving "day after leg day" energy, though the workout had been much more enjoyable. She stepped into what had to be the biggest shower she'd ever seen, and that was saying something considering she'd had a custom rainfall shower built in her Valley house. But Aurélien's suite was ridiculous, all marble and multiple shower heads and enough space for three people to move comfortably.

Jules' playlist filled the steamy air, his voice joining Brent Faiyaz: "You know you're all mine, all mine..."

"Stick to football, my guy," Aurélien chuckled, washing his hair.

"Like you can do better?"

YN leaned against the marble wall, adjusting the shower cap on her head and the silk scarf beneath, which Aurélien mysteriously had in his luggage (she wasn't going to ask questions, just appreciated that her sew-in was protected). The hot water soothed her aching body.

Last night had been... well.

Her thoughts didn't need to finish that sentence.

Worth the soreness, her intrusive thoughts decided.

Definitely worth it, her rational side agreed.

The domesticity of it all should've scared her - three people sharing a shower like it was the most natural thing in the world. Instead, it felt right. Easy.

"Pass the body wash," she called out.

"Ask nicely," Aurélien teased.

"Please pass the body wash before I slip and die in your fancy ass shower?"

Their laughter echoed off the tiles as Jules handed her the bottle.

What amazed her most was how nonchalant they were - not just about sharing a shower, but about last night too. She still couldn't wrap her head around how close they were, how far removed from the toxic masculinity she'd grown accustomed to with Damari.

Her ex would never. He was always spouting some homophobic nonsense, getting weird about showing any affection to his boys. "What I look like hugging some nigga? That's gay as fuck!" he'd say, like basic human touch would somehow compromise his manhood.

Yet here were Jules and Aurélien, having a full-blown conversation about their upcoming match while naked, sharing space like it was nothing. Zero awkwardness, zero fragile masculinity, just pure comfort with themselves and each other.

A mindfuck, her intrusive thoughts noted.

But the best kind, her rational side agreed.

Maybe this was what real security looked like - being so confident in yourself that you didn't need to police every interaction for "sus" behavior.

"What are you thinking about?" Jules asked, noticing her expression.

"Just… appreciating the view," she deflected with a grin.

But really, she was appreciating how much her definition of masculinity had shifted since meeting them.

The playlist shifted to Travis Scott's "R.I.P. Screw" and Jules started dancing, making YN shoot him a weird look. She turned to Aurélien like is he for real?

Aurélien just laughed. "You should see him in the locker room. He screams out Kendrick Lamar songs like a nutcase."

"And like you don't do the same whenever you listen to Meek Mill?" Jules called out while rinsing off.

Aurélien kissed his teeth. "Whatever, bro." He gently nudged YN forward to rinse. "Anyways, Jules said you're going to Japan with him?"

YN shook her head, squinting conspiratorially at Jules' back as he exited the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. "I didn't give him an exact answer yet, but I'm thinking about it."

"That's dope," Aurélien said.

"Where are you going, Auré?" she wondered, letting the water wash away the soap.

"Maybe LA with some friends first then Sicily. Why? You wanna come too?"

YN's smile widened. "I can hang with you in Sicily. My first stop is in Rome, so that's perfect."

"Oh that's cool. Maybe I can see your concert before I head off to Madrid."

"I like that," she said, stepping out as Jules wrapped her in a fluffy towel.

Minutes later, she stood at the counter brushing her teeth next to Jules with Aurelien in the other side, the domesticity of it all making her heart do weird things.

_______________________________________________

Sandwiched between her French boys in Aurélien's massive bed, YN munched on a fruit salad while they watched Challengers. They'd spent the whole day in his suite, the boys returning from practice to find her exactly where they'd left her.

When they got to that scene - Tashi kissing both Patrick and Art - YN's foot-in-mouth disease struck.

"Did you guys just wake up one morning and decide to share that girl in Bordeaux or did you have one of those bro talks?"

Jules burst out laughing while Aurélien shook his head, rolling his eyes. "It was both."

"Both?"

Jules' laughter subsided. "We were young and horny and like I said, Aurélien is my bro, so…"

"That easy?"

"I mean, yeah. And it's every guy's fantasy to have a threesome," Aurélien shrugged.

"Well yeah, but with another guy? I thought it was more so two girls?"

"Yeah, I guess. But there's been conversations in the locker room about running a train on girls and whether people were down—" Jules started.

"Running a train? What?" she screeched. "You guys were like twenty talking about — you know what? Just continue."

Jules scoffed. "It happens a lot honestly. Auré and I aren't into all that. Not with everyone on the team. But he was down and the girl was down… and it was nice."

"So what happened to her?" YN popped a grape in her mouth.

The boys shared a glance before Aurélien answered. "Feelings. We caught feelings and so did she, but for both of us. And we didn't really understand that we could both date her at the same time. Like polyamory wasn't as mainstream as it is now."

"Plus we needed our prefrontal cortex to be fully developed before making choices like that," Jules added.

"And now?" YN pressed, chewing another grape.

They exchanged another look, smirking. "I thought this wasn't a serious thing?" Aurélien quipped.

Touché, she thought.

"Well, I'm just spitting hypotheticals… so hypothetically speaking, if I didn't want to end this and wanted two boyfriends…"

"It'll be hard because you're in the States, but we both live in Spain and spend a lot of time together anyway. It's really nothing but a flight," Jules said.

"What about one-on-one time or is everything just going to be together?"

"We can do both. Jules and I aren't really the jealous types, especially if you're ours."

"And sometimes I just like to watch," Jules winked.

"Your freaky ass," YN sighed, amused and just a pinch irritated.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Jules chuckled.

"It's not–" Her phone buzzed.

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫 In Munich soon. Dinner tomorrow? Would love to see you before heading back to NY

She quickly turned her screen off.

"You don't have to hide who you're talking to, belle," Aurélien said.

Jules gave her a reassuring smile. "Yeah, it's cool."

"I know, but still…"

"Text your other man, YN," Aurélien urged, eyes back on the TV.

After a pause, she replied:

YN Tomorrow after the match? There's this great Italian place near my hotel

Professor Fine 👨🏾‍🏫 Perfect. Looking forward to it 😊

She put her phone on DND and tucked it under her pillow.

"You're so awkward," Jules said.

"Very," Aurélien agreed.

"It's still rude!"

"Are you gonna fuck him?" Jules asked bluntly. She shot him an accusing look. "I'm just looking out for my sexual health, okay?" He held up his hands. "I know about Auré because we did our physicals before Euros and everything's clean with both of us, but adding another partner after Enzo and Carina and now us?"

"I'll take another round of tests just like I did after Carina and Enzo. Safety is my priority too," she said. "But I don't know. He's hot yet I'm not gonna just jump in bed with him. Dinner first."

"Okay," Jules nodded.

"Alright," Aurélien agreed.

"Plus I'm fine with you two," she added with a mischievous grin.

They shot her amused looks as the movie played on.

Who would've thought, her thoughts mused, that summer would turn out like this?

Tomorrow was the semi-final, but right now, curled between them, YN felt like she'd already won.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[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

[kyoshithewriter]

Love in Every Form.

Wc: 8.1k

Warnings: Angst, mature themes (18+)

A/n: And remember how I said I was rewatching Love and Basketball and got an idea? Well, it kinda went off track but it’s something. Also, this is fiction! It’s all made up! Since you have to be reminding people of that nowadays apparently lol. I almost made this is a series but I don’t think I want to do series on here anymore tbh. And we all know I love good cliche! So enjoy?

2005.

“I got an offer from a small club in France, I’m going to take it.”

The loud clatter of cutlery hitting ceramic forces a small huff from her father’s mouth. Aya watches with bated breath, as her mother rubs at her temples with two fingers. Her nails are painted a cherry red that looks great against her brown skin. Her mother is everything Aya wants to be. Feminine, strong and beautiful. Celeste- her mother- keeps her relaxed hair that falls past her shoulders in various updos that shows off her high cheekbones, straight nose and full lips. Her eyes are a shade that reminds Aya of honey. Her body is slim but her frame curvy below and she always keeps up with the fashion trends like Aya sees on tv. Halter tops that show off her belly, low rise jeans or stunning backless dresses. She believes her mom could blend in easily with the pussycat dolls— the group she watches religiously on tv.

“Alexandre, what?”

Aya slowly swallows the bite of chicken she just took. She recognizes that tone; it’s the tone her mother has been using more frequently lately. It means a storm is brewing.

“Celeste, look. You know how I feel about just… sitting around. I thought running businesses would help but I miss being on a pitch, baby. I have years left in the tank, I can feel it.”

Alexandre. Her father. Her hero. Once a football star who was forced into early retirement from an injury. The man is just a shade lighter than her mother’s cocoa brown skin. He stands at around 6 '1 with a cleanly shaven head and a moustache that he likes to tickle Aya with. He was born and raised in France where he got his breakthrough as a star midfielder. Football took him all over the world, including here in America where he met her mother. They had her pretty young— her father was 23 and her mother 21. It was good though, at least the moments she could remember. Their home was filled with smiles, laughter and warm hugs; and even though her father was away from home a lot (her mother refused to move), every time he came home it would be like he was never away. Until he got injured two and a half years ago. Everything went downhill then. While they were very comfortable financially, her father became a shell of himself for months. The man loves football; he often tells the story of how the sport saved his life. He grew up in the shadier parts of France where it was easy to get sucked into a life of crime. Football was his form of art. Expression, distraction, passion. Every pass, every dribble, every interception, every tackle— he loved entertaining thousands with a ball at his feet. And it was all taken from him by one reckless tackle that destroyed his knee. He opened businesses: restaurants, garages and even apartments. They want for nothing. But her dad still feels like he lost everything. His knee improved enough to kick about with some of his friends in the park on Sundays. That soon grew unsatisfactory as his health improved. He started a little community league with the promise of prize money for participants. That scratched the itch for four months. Now they’re realizing that it’s still not enough.

“Why can’t you just accept it? It’s over, Alex. You lived your glory days and they were beautiful. But they’re over.”

Aya pushes the roasted potatoes around on her plate, swinging her legs that still haven’t touched the ground from her seated position on the chair.

“I love football, Celeste. I want to play. I tried some local clubs but… a small league side in Bordeaux appreciates a national legend. They’d love to have me and I want to compete again. I’m going.” He says with a kind of finality that makes even Aya, young as she is, anxious.

“You’re a 31 year old man who wants to run off from his family to play some low league football.” The words are almost hissed from between her mother’s clenched teeth like a snake

“I’m not running off. I want you guys to come with me. We can move to France. Bordeaux is a nice cit-”

Celeste scoffs across the table. “I didn’t want to move away from home when you were in your prime, you think playing on some tiny court surrounded by a chain link fence is what will get me to?!”

Aya eyes the food on her plate intently, stomach feeling queasy as they start going at it. She’s 8. A big girl. She shouldn’t cry because her parents yell at each other; but the tears blur her vision anyway.

“Aya, let’s get you to bed, baby.”

Her father suddenly says to her right. Aya looks up at him, eyes sad but a small smile on his face. Her mother avoids looking in their direction altogether. Aya nods up at him and takes his offered hand. Her dad leads her upstairs and into her bedroom. That night, he read her five bedtime stories instead of two, and stretched his long legs over the length of her double bed where he cuddled her to sleep.

It’s one week after that argument over the dinner table that they drop the bomb on her. The house was tense all week and Aya noticed her parents tried not to linger in the same room for too long. So when she came home from school earlier and they said they wanted to talk to her, she prepared her little heart for the worst.

“Daddy is moving to France, but mommy decided it’s best for her to stay here. We… Mommy and daddy are going to get divorced.”

Aya hates the way they’re both staring at her with something akin to pity. Why are they showing her pity? They’re the ones who are losing each other. And why do they keep referring to themselves as ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy?’ It makes her angry for reasons her brain can’t comprehend.

“Okay.” She whispers.

“Do you understand what that means?” Her mother eyes her in concern.

“It means you don’t love each other anymore, like Jayson’s parents.”

Her parents eye each other skeptically. Her father opens his mouth to say something but Celeste gives a gentle shake of her head and he snaps it shut.

“Something like that… we both love you, Aya. We love you very very much and we wish we could stay together so you could have us both but we can’t. So you’ll have to choose; do you want to stay in America with all your friends, your school and your mommy? Or do you want to move to France with daddy?”

Aya’s eyes bounce between her parents who eye her nervously.

“If I choose… does that mean I’ll never get to see-”

“Oh no! No honey, absolutely not. You’ll spend the holidays with mommy or daddy depending on who you choose to live with.” Her father hurries to reassure.

Aya’s body relaxes onto the couch. That makes it a lot easier. She doesn’t know much about France except that her father is from there and they were weird little hats they call berets according to the shows on tv. But France is where her father will be and she has always been a daddy’s girl.

“I want to go with daddy.”

*******

France is gloomy. The overcast skies throw her brain for a loop; they have been here for three days and she hasn’t seen the sun once. Nothing like California where they left her mother behind. Dad calls their new home an apartment and it’s a lot smaller than the mansion they left behind. It’s okay though, there’s enough space for them both, she still has her own room and she’s with her father. That’s all that matters. Beside their building is another apartment complex. They all look identical: same cool, grey brick walls with an almost gothic architecture. Her father had just told her to go wash up for dinner when there’s a knock on their front door. Aya pauses in the living room to spy instead. There stands a man, brown skin and a few inches shorter than her father and a little boy who looks to be close to her age by his side. They both stare at Alexandre as if awe struck. Aya stands helplessly as both men dissolve into a conversation in full blown French.

“I can’t believe it! A few of the guys told me Alexandre Augustin moved here a few days ago and I called them liars!”

Alexandre chuckles. “It’s me in the flesh.”

“What are you doing back on French soil?”

“I’m here to play for Bordeaux Soccer. I still have some juice in the tank. I miss being on the pitch.”

“No way! My son, Jules.” He gestures toward the little boy by his side. “He plays for their academy.”

Jules looks up at the man shyly. Aya watches as her father reaches a hand in the little boy’s direction and he eagerly grasps at it to shake with all his might. The action causes the men to laugh wholeheartedly.

“Oh, my daughter is also here. Pumpkin!”

Aya almost startles at her father’s yell. The man looks over his shoulder and is surprised to see her.

“Oh, you were in the living room the entire time? Come say hi.”

She tentatively saddles up to her father’s side. There, she stands eye to eye with the boy named Jules. His hair is out in a mini afro; he’s skinny, even skinnier than she is and that says a lot; with big, wide eyes and a small button nose. His mouth is small too but his ears are a little too big for his face. They’re both wearing matching jeans overalls but her long sleeve shirt beneath is pink while his is white.

“Say hi.” Her father softly encourages.

“Hi.” She waves shyly at them both.

Jules’ father responds with a soft ‘hello’ lilted heavily with his accent. Jules returns her shy wave though he doesn’t stop staring at her. Aya instinctively reaches up to toy with the beads on her braids her mother did a few days ago. Her father and the man start talking again, leaving the two to stand awkwardly and stare at each other.

“Comment tu t’appelles?”

It takes Aya a minute to realize the tentative whisper is from Jules. She stares at him and feels embarrassment burn her cheeks.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“What… name?” The words fall unsurely from his lips.

“Oh. I’m Aya. Sorry I don’t speak French.” She drops her eyes to her feet bashfully.

“It’s okay… I teach you.”

Aya looks up at him and returns his small smile.

“Okay.”

“Aya, Charles says there’s a playground nearby where the other children in the community play in the evenings. You could use the summer to make some friends before school reopens in September.”

They thought it best for her to move during the summer to have a few months to adjust to the new country before starting school.

“Okay, dad.”

“Jules will come for you in the evenings and take you there.”

The other man says and even though she doesn’t understand, she smiles up at him because it feels polite.

“I’ll need to start her on some French lessons. This move was not properly planned.” Her father sighs deeply.

“Don’t worry. Start her on the basics and let her socialize with the other kids. She’ll get it in no time. Plus most of the children here are competent in English since it’s a part of the curriculum. She’ll be fine. Oh, by the way-” Charles stretches the little bag he has been holding the entire conversation in her father’s direction. Alexandre accepts, and pulls what appears to be a bottle of red wine from the bag.

“You’re in the wine capital now, expect a lot more gifts like this from neighbours over the next couple of days. Welcome to the neighbourhood. My family and I live in the building across from this one. Apartment number 16. You come to me for anything at all, Alexandre.”

**********

Aya swings her feet impatiently as she eyes the front door. She waits with her heart in her throat, listening intently for the knock to come. After a boring day filled with learning French letters and watching tv programs in a language she doesn’t understand, the clock on the wall now says 4 and that’s the time Charles said Jules would come for her to take her to the park. The timid knock finally comes fifteen minutes after four. Aya is sprinting to the door before her father is able to properly round the wall that separates the kitchen and living room.

“Aya, let me get the door.” He softly chastises.

“But it’s just Jules!”

“You don’t know that. You shouldn’t just open the door before knowing who’s outside.”

Aya pouts but steps away from the door.

“Qui est-ce?” Her father asks sternly.

“Uh… Jules.” His muffled voice calls back weakly.

“See dad?”

Alexandre laughs softly at his daughter’s eye roll. She has her mother’s attitude and it makes his heart ache just a bit. Aya lights up like a Christmas tree when they make eye contact. Jules smiles shyly, scuffing one of his sneakers into the ground.

“Hi Mr. Augustin.”

“Hello, Jules. Take good care of her and bring her back before it’s dark out.”

The boy nods eagerly.

“Later dad!”

Aya hugs one of his legs quickly before dashing out the door. They walk side by side in silence for a few seconds, both exchanging shy glances.

“Quoi- erm— what your name again? Yaya?”

Aya giggles airily.

“It’s Aya, silly! But I like Yaya. You can call me Yaya.”

“Okay.” He says with a small smile.

Jules startles briefly feeling her tiny hand slip in his but he doesn’t question it. He just interlocks their fingers as they skip together down the hallway, leaving a trail of laughter behind them.

********

2010.

It’s been almost five years since moving to France and it only took two of those years for the country to start feeling like home. It was a struggle at first, especially with the language and attending school. But true to his word, Jules helped. Aya was so happy when she learned they would be attending the same school, same as most of the other kids he had introduced her to on the playground that day years ago. It took her months to nail the basics of the language, and even now, while being conversationally competent, she still struggles with pronunciation. Her father or Jules is always there to softly correct or fill in vocabulary blanks when she comes up short though. She’s so grateful for Jules and his family. She spends a lot of her time by their apartment since Jules’ mother, a nice Caucasian woman, offered to babysit her when her father has games. She would find herself by his house almost every evening after school where his parents would feed her, help her with homework then allow them to play outside for hours. Aya returns to France two weeks before school reopens after the summer break. Jules is at her front door an hour after she messaged him on Facebook that she was back. Jules is a sweaty mess, still in jersey and shorts she has to come to be familiar with after years of seeing him wearing it for training.

“Your hair.”

Are the first words that he greets her with. Aya reaches to finger at it self consciously. During her stay in America, she mentioned her dilemma with her hair to her mother. As hard as he tried, her father was unable to style her thick, dark curls properly. She would always go to school with pigtails that stood in the air or ponytails that were too puffy. She tried to ignore the subtle teasing giggles, but it was really hard to. So her mother decided it was time for relaxer. Her black hair is now straight and hangs just a bit past her shoulders.

“You don’t like it? My mom said it was best because my dad can’t get my hair right and she said it would be easier to handle this way.”

He frowns. “I don’t hate it. I just… I prefer it in braids.”

Hanging around each other not only helped her learn French, but it also improved Jules’ English as well.

“My dad doesn’t always have the time to take me by Ms. Gumede and he’s too prideful to ask your mom to comb my hair.” She says with a shrug. Jules’ mom learned how to do cornrows because the little boy refused to get his haircut.

“Oh. I see. Well you’re still pretty. It’s just… different.”

Aya smiles at him bashfully.

“Thank you.”

“Want to come over and listen to music? Plus my dad is making yovo doko.” He says with a sly smirk. He knows how much Aya loves the Beninois dessert.

“Dad! I’m going over to Jules!”

She doesn’t wait for his reply before she’s out the door.

“What are you in the mood for today?”

“Hmm, can we do Lauryn Hill and Erykah? I miss my mom a little.” She admits. This has become something that they started bonding over for the past two years— music. Her mother is a music lover through and through and Aya can’t recall a quiet day in their house while she was growing up. Even during her holiday visits the woman would be blasting some music. Her grandfather was Jamaican so Celeste is a lover of reggae, r&b, soul and jazz. So much so, that at only 12 years old, Aya has grown to be a lover of the same genres. Recently, she has found herself analyzing the lyrics as best as she’s able to, overly fascinated by their ability to manipulate words to tell stories over soothing tracks. As with everything, she and Jules shared their worlds. He introduced her to French rap and she shared the music she grew up loving. He quickly became a fan of her music as well.

“Okay. But then I get to play a few new songs that came out over the summer while you were away.”

“Deal.” They both share a small smile, walking side by side in comfortable silence as the sun begins to dip over the horizon.

*********

That semester, Aya started high school and her world was flipped upside down. She doesn’t get to hang out with her father as much she would like, but when they do, they bond over what he knows best: football. He’d take her to the playground and play a few rounds of football with her and sometimes Jules. Aya doesn’t care for the sport truthfully, but she pretends to love it because it’s an easy way to bond with her father and Jules. So when her father told her a few days ago that he would be enrolling her in an academy, she wanted to fall to her knees and beg him not to; instead, she swallowed around the lump in her throat and pumped her voice full of faux excitement to shout in agreement. And sometimes, Aya wonders if maybe her father wanted a son instead of her. It’s in the way he dresses her; tomboyish with baggy jeans and unflattering long sleeve shirts. Or in the way he never attempts to find out about her other interests— he just assumed she loves football. Whatever the case, she was okay with pretending to be happy. But then she started high school and the curriculum features literature. Aya is introduced to not only poetry, but to Maya Angelou and she instantly falls in love. She knows immediately this is what she wants to do. Poetry reminds her of music. There’s rhythm, there’s rhyme, there’s freedom. Aya thinks back to how her father describes what football is to him: expression, distraction, passion. This is what poetry feels like to her. Her obsession grows tenfold when she discovers dub poetry. Originating from her mother’s ethnic background, it calls to her; not a gentle whisper she can ignore, a firm beckoning that burns her skin. So she begins writing. Every thought, every emotion, every wish, no matter how big or small— gets written down into free flowing words. Words that make music even without a beat.

“You’re improving, if you keep playing like this then you’ll play professional football like me.”

Jules’ voice brings her back to the playground. Aya focuses on the ball that she somehow managed to put in the past the posts they call the goal.

“You think so?”

“Uh-huh. I hope so.”

The boy moves to retrieve the ball from the makeshift goal before ambling toward her again.

“Why?”

Aya wipes at the sweat gathering around her hairline. Her roots are overgrown and she’s overdue for another round of relaxer soon.

“Because it will make you travel a lot like me. I don’t want to leave you behind in Bordeaux, you’re my girlfriend.” He says without stuttering. They’re alone on the playground and the sky burns a light orange.

“I’m your girlfriend?” She eyes the lanky boy. His cornrows make his forehead more prominent and his eyes even bigger.

“Yes, I think? You’re a girl who’s my friend, no?”

“Oh.. but so is Yasmine. Is she your girlfriend too?” She asks curiously.

“No. You’re different from Yasmine. Yasmine doesn’t share my music, or knows that I’m scared of clowns or stays at my house and holds my hand. Yasmine is a friend but you… you’re my best friend who’s a girl. So girlfriend. Is that not what it means?”

Aya doesn’t understand why her cheeks feel warm but she likes it.

“I guess so.” She shrugs shyly.

“Okay. You said you wanted to show me something before we go home.”

Aya eyes her backpack, thinking of her notebook full of sloppily written poetry inside. She contemplates. ’Jules wants you to play football so she can travel with him.’

“Uh… never mind. Let’s go before it gets dark.”

“Okay.”

And on instinct, they drift into each other’s space to join hands as they leave the playground.

*********

2014

Aya doesn’t know how it happened. She left France for the summer like she usually does. She left Jules behind, a bit more lithe than he was at 12 but still a little lanky and just maybe an inch taller than her 5’5 frame. When she returns to France; Jules shows up at her door and she almost gasps out loud. His shoulders are broad and his muscles very defined. He seems to have grown another two inches taller as well. He’s still Jules but different. So so different it makes something in her belly flutter.

“Did you.,, are you on steroids?” Her tone is accusatory as she eyes him.

He cocks his head innocently. “Steroids? What’s steroids?”

“You know… drugs to make your muscles bigger.”

Jules laughs from the pit of his belly before pulling her into a hug. It throws her brain for a loop.

“My mom said I hit a growth spurt.”

And it’s not lost on Aya how his voice rumbles against her chest. Deeper.

Her father clears his throat loudly behind them. Jules releases her like her body burns.

“Hi Mr. Augustin.”

“Hi Jules. Make sure you’re ready for training tomorrow.”

Her father has finally accepted that his body cannot handle the intensity of football. However, for the few years he got to return, he helped the football club get promoted to a higher division; still nothing too fancy but they’re in a better place than he found them. To honour him, they had given him a place on their coaching staff. Jules has been playing for the senior team since he turned 15 last November.

“Of course.” He says with a smile while eyeing Aya.

“Go home, Jules. Rest up for tomorrow.” Her father says in a tone that leaves little room for argument.

“Oh, but I was hoping we could hang o-”

“Go to your room, Aya. You have school in a few days. Your math grades could use some improvement.”

Aya’s brows furrow in confusion. Her father has never been the strict type so this comes as a surprise.

“He’s right, Aya. I’ll see you on Monday.” Jules bids them a quiet farewell before leaving.

“Dad… what’s going on? You never cared that I hung out with Jules before.”

“Yes, but…” the man scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re both older now and… teens with… uh…”

It takes a while for it to click. Aya’s mother has given her the talk the summer she visited and got her first period. Her nose scrunches in distress.

“Dad… ew. No! We’re just friends.”

Sure when they were younger Jules had called her his girlfriend. Back then, they didn’t understand the full weight of the word and they even laughed at the memory just recently. Besides, she’s sure that Jules has an actual girlfriend now… and that’s fine. Yes, it’s fine. She totally doesn’t get tight in the throat when Yasmine comes around to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“I understand that, but this period of your life is unpredictable. It’s best if you two give each other some distance.”

Aya just rolls her eyes and stomps to her room. There, she eyes herself in the mirror. A lot more intently than she did before. She’s starting to look more and more like her mother as the years go by. The same shade of brown skin, just a little riddled with pimples, the same shade of honey- brown eyes, nose straight and limps plump. She also notes the way her body has changed. Her hips are curvier, her chest not so flat as it once was. Just like Jules, she’s changing and she wonders if he notices too.

*****

She finally gets the courage to share her poems with Jules a few months later on his 16th birthday. She almost shared them two weeks prior on her own birthday, but her father was hovering a lot after the little surprise party they threw for her. Jules chose to celebrate at a small arcade in town.

“Want to hang out at my house a bit before I walk you home?”

She gives a quick nod of her head. Jules has become somewhat a bit popular among the student population at their local high school. He’s playing well and word is going around of multiple scouts from different clubs coming to see him in action. So what was supposed to be a small gathering at the arcade, turned out to be more than thirty people. She didn’t have a chance to get him to herself after she gave him his gift— vinyls of his favourite albums.

“I don’t think Yasmine appreciates how close we are.” She says, eyeing him cautiously. Yasmine has been not so subtle in the way she has been glaring at her recently and hugging Jules closer whenever she’s around.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “You’re my best friend, she knows this. I spoke to her the other day and if she continues being hostile then I’m breaking up with her.”

Her heart flutters in her chest at the way he defends her.

“Thanks for the gifts by the way. You get me in a way no one else does, don’t you?”

He throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer to his side.

“I’m your best friend, of course I do.”

Jules’ parents are not home when they get to the apartment. He flicks the lights on and leads her to his room. His bed is unmade but the rest of his room is clean and organized. Jules throws his coat on a rack by his door and she follows suit.

“I’ve been meaning to show you something.”

She reaches into her bag to pull her notebook out before sitting gingerly on his bed.

“Yeah?”

He moves to join her on his bed, barely a few feet between them. She brandishes the notebook like a sword and playfully swipes at him. They both share a little laugh; then the nerves set in.

“Jules I… I don’t want to play football. I don’t care much about it but I— I’ve been pretending to because I want to be closer to you and my dad.”

Jules eyes her like she offended him.

“Yaya, why would you think that would matter to me?”

“I know, I know.” She sighs and reluctantly stretches the book in his direction.

“I love writing, Jules. Poetry. It speaks to me. It has been something I’ve been doing for yea- don’t read the earlier ones!”

She launches herself at him before he gets the chance to open the book. Jules laughs as he reaches down to tickle her sides.

“Jules, stop! The first ones are really bad.” She manages to say through her giggles.

“Hm, you decided I get the privilege to see your work so I want to see them all.”

Aya throws herself face-first on his bed, cheeks burning from embarrassment. But he takes his time to read without judgment. It feels like forever before he finally speaks.

“I think this one is already my favourite.” He whispers to her. Aya sits up to eye the poem he’s reading over his shoulder. She gulps when she notices.

First Love:

Just the thought of you makes my heart race,

When you’re around

I don’t know which way is up or down

A permanent smile etched onto my face

But you’re not mine,

How unfair,

So close all the time

I have no right to be possessive, but I don’t want to share

But I’ll stay by your side

Waiting for you to notice

Or maybe I’ll someday swallow my pride

Just to finally tell you.

“Oh. That little thing.” She tries to sound nonchalant, but her heart beat turns erratic in her chest.

“It’s beautiful. How… when did you write this one?”

He tries to make eye contact but she keeps her eyes on the bracelet of beads that decorate his wrist. The same one she made for him three years ago. She has a matching one on as well.

“Last year. Just after your fifteenth birthday.” She whispers.

“Oh.”

She looks up at him from beneath her lashes shyly. The room suddenly feels warmer. His big, dark brown eyes hold her captive. The distance between their faces begins to lessen and her breathing picks up. Aya is almost hyperventilating by the time he tentatively touches his lips to hers. Soft, warm. Her skin feels it suddenly comes in contact with thousands of bolts of electricity. Jules hums softly and presses his lips against hers harder. The sound of the front door opening makes Aya pull away from him like his lips burn.

“Jules?! I’m home!” His mother’s voice drifts down the hall.

The pair stare at each other in wide-eyed surprise. What have they just done?

Jules clears his throat loudly.

“We shouldn’t have done that… we shouldn’t do that again. I have a girlfriend.”

“You’re right. We’re friends; just friends.” He doesn’t have to know how far in her stomach her heart plummets.

“Yea… um… but you should talk to your father. I’m sure you’re about to get offered a contract soon. Tell him you don’t like playing football.” Jules says solemnly.

“You think I should?”

“You definitely should, Yaya. You’re so talented, and you deserve to be happy.”

Aya tells her father two weeks later. She shows him her awards she has been receiving from winning poetry competitions at her school.

“This is what I love to do, dad. I don’t like playing football. I only pretended to because I know you wanted me to.” She rubs along the length of her arms waiting for his reaction. Instead of disappointment or even anger like she expected, her father smiles at her softly.

“Okay, Aya. I’m glad you found something you’re passionate about and I’m happy you decided to speak up. I’m proud of you.”

Aya falls into her father’s open arms easily with tears falling down her cheeks.

“Thank you, papa.”

**********

2017.

Aya eyes herself in the mirror. It’s officially the last summer of her being a high schooler and tonight is their school dance. Her mother had gotten her this dress from her visit in December when she told her about her school dance in July. The floor length dress hugs her frame well before flowing off at her knees. It’s dark red- almost burgundy and dips at the front just to show off the tiniest bit of cleavage. Her hair is an intricate pinup look with a few jet black bundles. Dainty gold earrings dangle from her ears and they match her necklace and her purse as well as the sandals on her feet. Aya only started experimenting with makeup in January after her mother gifted her some as a late eighteenth birthday present in December. She was too afraid to go overboard, so she just stuck with some power, mascara and tinted lip gloss. She’s going with Jules but not as a date— they’re just showing up together because they have no one else to go with since he broke up with Yasmine almost two years ago.

“Aya? Are you ready?” Her father calls from outside her room.

“Coming!”

She sucks in a deep breath and swings her door open.

“Dad, look at you!” Her father is going on a date for the first time since her parents’ divorce and he looks good. He got rid of that horrid moustache and he’s dressed in a brown dress shirt with black slacks.

“I clean up alright?” He asks timidly, eyeing his shoes.

“Better than alright!” She reassures him.

“And you look beautiful, Aya. How are you almost nineteen already? It feels like just yesterday we moved here and you were eight.”

“Ugh, dad, please don’t cry.” She tries to sound exasperated even though she feels like tearing up herself.

“M not.” He hastily wipes at his eyes.

“It’s okay, papa.”

She envelops him into a hug. They stay just like that for a few minutes.

“Let’s go, you shouldn’t keep your date waiting and you’re dropping me off first.” She reminds him.

“Okay, let’s go.”

*********

Jules is waiting for her outside the school yard when her dad drops her off.

“Damn, Yaya. You look beautiful.”

Aya’s skin tingles from her head to her feet. If she thought he had hit his final growth spurt before his 16th birthday, the last few years have proved her wrong. He’s now taller, 5’10 to be exact. His shoulders are even broader, his muscles more prominent from intensive training. Gosh she loves watching him play, the way he easily shoulders attackers off the ball. So strong. Aya has been going through it secretly since that night they kissed in his room. True to their words, they never did it again and kept their relationship strictly platonic. Friends. Nothing more. Even if their touches linger a little sometimes. Even though he sometimes eyes her like he wants to devour her, like he’s doing now. Even though most of the time when they’re left alone there’s this weird, thick tension between them.

“You clean up nicely, yourself.” She mutters shyly. Aya notices that he started experimenting a lot with fashion recently. Tonight he’s wearing a black, long sleeved dress shirt made from the softest satin fabric. It’s tucked into black slacks with a few scattered pieces of gold jewelry on his fingers, his wrists and hanging around his neck. His hair is in medium sized twists that frame his face nicely.

“I still prefer you with braids though.” He says cheekily. Aya rolls her eyes but she smiles at him.

“Shall we?” He offers her the crook of his elbow with an exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrows just to make her laugh.

“Let’s have all the fun right now because I’ll need you to read that email I received from the University of Bordeaux when we get home later. I was too anxious to open it.”

He laughs airily as they near the noisy auditorium.

“No problem, Yaya.”

********

The night passes by in a blur of laughter, dancing to upbeat music and stuffing their faces with finger foods. There was not an air of awkwardness amongst the friend group even with Yasmine present; she seems to have already moved on with a caramel skinned boy from her physics class named Antoine. It’s going well, until the music changes from upbeat pop and hip hop to slow r&b. It’s almost immediate how everyone else around them breaks off into couples to start dancing together. Aya clears her throat in an exaggerated manner as she stands off by the table of drinks. Jules stands just to her left, staring at her in a way that makes her skin tight. She sees him open his mouth in her peripheral vision and her heart races in anticipation. ‘Please ask for a dance, please ask for a danc-’

“Hey, Aya.”

Both of them turn to stare at Théo. Aya with a flustered, wide- eyed look and Jules with a glare. She recognizes him from math class.

“Oh, hey Théo.”

“Would you um… would you like to dance?”

For some strange reason, she turns to face Jules. Almost as if she’s seeking his permission. He gives her a subtle nod and her heart breaks a little.

“Sure, Théo.” She smiles weakly, taking his offered hand and follows him to the middle of the room.

All throughout their dance, her eyes stay on Jules over his shoulder longingly. He doesn’t stop staring at her either. He stands with his fists clenched for three songs before he barges through the crowd and stops beside them.

“Hey, it’s my turn.” Jules says harshly.

Théo eyes him warily before stepping away from her. Aya’s heart races in excitement as they stand face to face.

“Dance with me, Yaya.”

She immediately walks into his embrace— her face falls into the crook of his neck and she relaxes at his familiar scent of sandalwood and Jules. She hugs around his shoulders as his hands fall to her waist as Keyshia Cole’s ‘Heaven Sent’ floats through the room.

**********

“Wait! Not yet.” Aya says with an edge of panic as she paces a hole in her carpet.

Jules rolls his eyes and clicks the email anyway. Aya shrieks and launches herself on her bed, covering her ears as anxiety takes a hold of her entire body.

“Yaya, you got in.”

She bolts upright in her bed. “I did?!”

“I don’t even know what you were worried about. Your grades were excellent.”

He chuckles as she leaps from her bed and into his arms.

“I just… I was really hoping to go to school nearby so I wouldn’t have to leave home.” Her eyes glitter as she stares up at him.

“Hm, didn’t want to leave your dad behind, huh? Daddy’s girl.” He teases softly.

“Yea but not just him…” she mutters shyly.

“Who else?”

She shrugs, looking away from him. But he brings his thumb under her chin to tilt her face in his direction.

“Who else, Yaya?”

“You, Jules.” She breathes timidly. Jules dips his head to peck at her lips softly; he pulls back, gauging her reaction. He must find what he’s looking for in her gaze because he dives right in for another. This time his movements are a lot more sure. He bites at her bottom lip softly to slip his tongue into her mouth. Aya whimpers softly. She has never kissed anyone else and she had no idea it could feel like this. He backs her up until her legs come in contact with her soft mattress. He pulls away but keeps their faces close. Aya breathes in his every exhale almost greedily.

“Have you ever…?” He trails off. She knows immediately what he’s asking.

“You know I haven’t… have you?”

“Yea. Once with Yasmine.”

He immediately dips his head again to kiss away the small pout on her lips.

“It’s me and you now, Aya. I promise. I don’t know why I was being so stubborn before; I’ve always loved you. More than a friend, I just thought it would ruin our friendship.”

“Me too, Jules. That poem you read that day. It was about you.” She admits meekly.

“Do you want to?”

Aya bites her lip and nods immediately. Countless nights of imagining what it would be like with him; it’s now a reality— it’s daunting but she buzzes with anticipation. He kisses her again like he wants to consume her. She’s so warm she fears she might actually combust. Her dress is left in a heap— his clothes follow. They’re both a fumbling mess; full of nerves and doubt. It hurts a lot. But he kisses away the tears on her cheeks and always gives her the option of backing out. But she always says no. She likes the way their bodies are joined. She likes the way he moves above her—inside her, with something so beautiful shining from his eyes that are the most open windows to his soul. She likes the way he gasps her name helplessly as he shakes above her, crushing her body to his as he quivers and moans softly in her ear. Then he kisses her like he’ll never get the chance to ever again. And that night, Aya learns why people call it ‘making love,’ because that’s exactly what they did.

**********

2021.

Aya is a nervous wreck. She shouldn’t feel like this. They have been together for almost four years now and she doesn’t doubt his love for her one bit. Even after he moved to Spain two years ago after finally agreeing to an offer he received from a Spanish club—Sevilla. He keeps in touch, always. And visits his hometown as often as he can. She was distraught when he first broke the news but he reassured her in many ways that the distance wouldn’t mean anything. She’s in her final year of school and he has been subtly hinting at her moving to Spain with him; but Aya can’t, at least not right now. She hasn’t told him, but her father’s mental health has been in the gutter lately. Aya stumbled upon a note he had written and confronted him with sobs wracking her frame. That’s when he also broke down and admitted he has been on the ropes. He’s embarrassed by it, he has always been a prideful man. But he agreed to secretly see a professional and he has kept his promise. However, she’s still afraid to leave him behind. She hasn’t even gone to visit her mother in almost two years because of it. She plans to speak to Jules about it when he lands in a few hours as well as another pressing matter that came about after his last visit three months ago. But when she picked him up from the airport and his hug wasn’t as enthusiastic as they always were, she knew something was wrong. The car ride was also silent after her many attempts to start a conversation fell flat. Aya wrings her hands together as she watches him greet his parents. She waits patiently as they chatter for a while and almost leaps off the couch when he finally moves toward his room.

“Jules, I need to ta-”

“We should break up.”

She feels like she has been doused with a bucket of ice cold water.

“What?”

“Look, another club in Spain approached me. Barcelona? You know football, you know why this is a big deal. They want to sign me in the summer, so I’ll be in Spain for a while. You don’t want to move, and that’s okay, Yaya. I’ll never force you, but we know that years of this won’t be sustainable.”

“But Jules…” she chokes up. She so desperately wishes the words she wants to say would come pouring out of her mouth instead of being a jumbled mess in her scattered brain.

“It’s for the best, Yaya.” He says with a soft kind of finality. He keeps his eyes away from her, not wanting to bear witness to her tears.

Aya almost heaves on the spot. She’s not sure what hurts more; his words or him not even having the balls to look her in the face. She spins on her heels and storms out his home, uncaring of his parents’ concerned calls of her name.

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

2025.

Jules’ favourite parts of the city are the quiet, barely explored streets and shops where people go to share their art. He discovered this black owned café nestled in the middle of an alleyway where people come to share their creations. Whether it be in the form of music, paintings or his favourite, poetry. It reminds him of her. It reminds him of what he lost. It’s been four years and he still beats himself up for it everyday. He hasn’t returned to Bordeaux since then because he’s a fucking coward. He flies his parents to Spain when he’s missing them. He tried to subtly ask his father about how she was doing but the man informed him that her and her father had packed up a few months after their breakup and left the small town. She blocked him on everything too. He was really a fool to think she’d still allow him to have access to her anyway. In his mind, he was doing what was best for them both. She clearly didn’t want to move to Spain and it felt like they would just waste years of each other’s lives dancing around the inevitable. But he regrets it. He now knows that he would’ve rather spent years with only some of her than without her at all. The owner of the café urges the patrons to sit quickly and get settled.

“This afternoon, we have a special guest. She’s on tour promoting her poetry collection and I was lucky enough to get her here while she’s in Spain.”

The small crowd gathered in the café cheers. Seems like everyone is in the loop except him.

“That’s right. If you’re a fan of modern poetry then you’re no doubt a fan of Ms. Aya Augustin.”

Jules almost chokes on his sip of coffee. He feels like time moves in slow motion as the woman walks up on the little makeshift stage. Fuck. She’s everything he imagined her to be. Her hair is in long, jumbo twists that fall to her waist. She wears a long, brown skirt with gold and beaded chains layered over it at her waist. A black flowy sleeveless top that shows a sliver of her belly. She’s a lot more curvy, her chest more ample. A woman. Earthy. So beautiful. And just how he’d picture her when he plays Erykah Badu on repeat when he especially misses her. She’s found her style and he feels like he’s going feral. She smiles at the crowd sofly, a beam of light from the setting sun illuminating her well moisturized face and honey brown eyes. Jules’ heart squeezes in his chest with longing. With love. He’s hypnotized as she recites a few poems from her apparent collection. And when she’s done, she bows gracefully to the roaring audience; but through all the commotion he hears a tiny voice.

“Go mommy!”

Jules stands as if in a trance watching as a little girl, who looks to be about three years old, runs up to the stage and Aya immediately picks her up. Second nature. Routine.

“And this is my little morning star, Danica. Who has been an inspiration for a few of the poems in my collection.”

Jules’ heart stops, then skips several beats as the little girl looks out into the crowd and he sees her face. It’s an odd thing, seeing your exact features on the face of someone else. Those eyes on her little face, they’re exactly his. Jules watches as Aya slowly looks away from the beautiful girl in her arms and into the crowd. It’s no surprise her eyes immediately find him. He’s the only one standing in the café. Her smile slowly melts off her face and her pleasant expression transforms to something akin to horror. The world melts away as Jules comes face to face with the love of his life again. And she’s holding their child. A child he had no idea existed.

[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.

[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.