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cwc is literally happening this month, and the ice raids have gotten more violent by the day. this country isn’t fit to host anything. f1 should go ahead and cancel the cota and vegas races. and fifa needs to reconsider letting the us host the world cup. this is fucking inhumane and disgusting.

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his full name is désiré nonka-maho doué, which i guess leads to the "nonka" tattoo. so someone in his family ig

OHHHHH lmao I forgot I looked up his name before but didn't notice the nonka-maho part my bad

but yeah nonka is proly someone in his family. they all have same or similar names right coz I remember he said his uncle's name was desire too and he was a referee at the world cup 2010 i think.

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what does the tattoo on désiré's thigh say?

apparently it says 'nonka'

when I googled it an actor popped out although I doubt its that person he's referring to

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desire is so jacked man...and there's mikey(petite princess)

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PUT THIS IN THE LOUVRES !!!

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DESIREEEEEEEEE

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tchouameni hard launching at an nba game lmaooo

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has anybody watched the 'a day in life of loic bade' from sevilla yt channel?? pls go watch it yall he's literally so cute in it I dont even speak spanish but whatever you say handsome 🙂‍↕️

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i live for the day when people write for loic bade

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⭐︎My Grad Girl

with MICHAEL OLISE⭐︎REQUESTED BY ANON!

⭐︎synopsis: Your graduation marks more than just the end of university. You celebrate with your family and Michael is there for you but it slowly unfolds into a unforgettable night as well.

The May heat sat like a soft blanket over the university quad, the air buzzing with camera clicks, laughter, and the rustle of graduation gowns. Your cap tilted slightly to one side, but you were too busy scanning the crowd to fix it. You’d just crossed the stage, diploma folder in hand, and your heart was still racing—not from nerves, but from anticipation.

You spotted him before he saw you. Michael was sitting next to your brother, tucked in with your family in the neat rows of white folding chairs. Sunglasses perched on his nose, but the second you saw the crinkle near his eyes, you knew he was smiling.

Your brother nudged him. Michael looked up. And then that smile spread wide across his face, his head tipping slightly like he couldn’t believe you were real. The moment you walked across the stage, your brother let out a loud, celebratory whistle, and Michael?

He stood.

Actually stood.

He clapped — once, slow and deliberate, like he was trying not to be the centre of attention. But his smile stretched wide and full and proud. His eyes didn’t leave you for a second you could tell he wanted to run up and spin you in a circle.

When the ceremony ended, it was chaos. Everyone spilling onto the grass, hugging, posing for photos. You made your way through the crowd, ignoring a classmate calling your name.

He got to you first.

"There she is," Michael said, arms wide.

You melted into him, the noise of the crowd fading like background static. His arms wrapped around your waist, grounding you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

"You’re gonna crush my cap," you mumbled into his chest.

He pulled back just enough to lift it off gently. "There. Better?"

You nodded, beaming up at him. "You made it."

"Course I did. Couldn’t miss this."

Your brother wandered over with your parents in tow, and Michael straightened up, sliding an arm around your back like second nature.

“Graduate!” your brother shouted, pulling you into a hug.

Photos happened next. So many. Your mom made you stand with every aunt and cousin. Your brother kept taking out of proportion pictures, sticking his tongue out behind you. And Michael?

He never left your side.

He didn’t hog the camera or make it about him — he just blended in, slipping an arm around your waist here, passing you a water bottle there. Every so often, he leaned in to say something that only you could hear, and every time, you laughed.

“Man,” your brother muttered at one point. “Look at you all smiley.”

Michael looked over. “She’s got a degree now. I’m trying to keep up.”

“You're in deep,” your brother said, grinning.

Michael didn’t even flinch. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I am.”

You almost dropped your phone.

Later, when the crowd thinned and the sun dipped lower, you sat on a patch of grass with Michael, your shoes kicked off beside you.

He laid back on one elbow, watching you sip water like he wasn’t slowly losing his mind over how good you looked in that gown.

“So, now that you’re officially smarter than me, what’s next?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” you said honestly. “Rest. Think. Maybe sleep for a week.”

“Deserved.”

You looked at him. “Thanks for coming. Seriously.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

You felt it again — the quiet weight of his words. The way he looked at you when no one else was around.

You leaned over, kissing his cheek. “You’re the best.”

He caught your chin gently before you could pull away, eyes searching yours. “Not even close.”

And then he kissed you. Soft, steady, unhurried. Like you had all the time in the world.

When he pulled back, he murmured against your lips, “Wanna come back to mine?”

You smiled. “Yeah, lets go.”

The car ride to the hotel was quiet in the sweetest way. Your graduation gown sat bunched beneath you, heels off, your head resting on Michael's shoulder as the streetlights of the city flickered through the windows. His fingers were gently tracing circles on your thigh, and every now and then, you felt the press of his lips against your temple. He didn’t speak much, but his presence filled every space—every heartbeat, every breath.

"You good?" he murmured.

You nodded. "Best day of my life."

"Good."

He kissed your cheek as the car pulled up to the hotel. The driver came around to open your door, and Michael slipped out first, offering you his hand like it was second nature. The front desk greeted him like they knew him—which they probably did, given the way he slipped the concierge a tip and murmured something that made the man nod with a smile.

The elevator ride to the top floor was silent again, but charged. Your fingers laced with his. You were tired, but your skin buzzed with anticipation. Something about the way he kept glancing down at you, lips twitching like he was hiding something, told you he had a surprise.

He unlocked the suite and held the door open. "Go on."

You stepped in and gasped.

The entire suite was covered in soft gold and white balloons, a bouquet of red roses and roses sitting on the marble counter. A bottle of champagne rested in a silver chiller. There was a red velvet cake on the table with a gold script that read, "My Grad Girl." Gifts stacked in the corner. The skyline of the city glittered outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You turned back to him, mouth open.

Michael shrugged like it was nothing. "Thought you deserved a little extra."

"Michael."

"You like it?"

"Like it? I love it," you breathed.

You threw your arms around his neck, and he caught you with ease, laughing quietly as you buried your face into his shoulder.

"You're unreal."

"You did the hard part. I just showed up."

"You booked a penthouse suite, you got balloons, you got me a whole cake—"

"Which I plan on eating half of."

You smacked his chest and pulled back, eyes soft. He looked at you like he was memorising you, like every moment was a photo he was trying to keep.

"Come on," he said, leading you to the couch. "Sit down, open stuff."

You went through the gifts—a dainty gold bracelet with a tiny book charm for your love of writing, a pair of heels you’d been eyeing for months, and a framed photo of the two of you when you were just awkward teens.

"This is so embarrassing," you laughed.

"Nah. Look how I was already looking at you back then."

Your breath caught a little. He smiled, clearly proud of himself, and leaned in to kiss your forehead. You relaxed into him, curling into his side as you took another bite of cake.

"I can't believe you were sitting next to my brother today. You two were like best friends."

"He's alright. Protective as hell, though."

"Of course he is."

"He told me if I ever mess this up, he'd fly to Germany and break my legs."

You burst out laughing. "Sounds like him."

"I'm not planning to mess it up."

The room got quieter. Not in a heavy way, but in that way where the truth sits between two people, and neither of them runs from it.

You turned to face him. "I love you."

Michael blinked once, twice. Then his hand came up to cup your face.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

He kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, or overly sweet. It was deep, like he needed to feel it all to believe it. Your fingers found their way to the back of his neck, his locs soft against your skin. He pulled you into his lap without a word, his hands resting on your waist, firm but reverent.

The cake sat forgotten. The skyline blurred. The only thing real was the heat building between you.

You broke the kiss first, only to look at him. His lips were already a little swollen, his eyes darker than before.

He kissed your collarbone, then lower, hands sliding up under the hem of your dress. You exhaled sharply, and he looked up at you, expression serious.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"Don’t. Please. Don’t stop."

His lips curved into the faintest smirk, and then he lifted you effortlessly, walking you both toward the bedroom without missing a beat.

The room was lit only by the city lights and the soft flicker of candles on the table. He set you down gently, like you were precious, and then leaned down, kissing you again—slow, thorough, like he had all the time in the world.

His hands slid beneath the zipper of your dress, and he paused when it pooled around your waist.

"You’re beautiful," he whispered.

You reached for him, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head, and your eyes traced every familiar line, every muscle you used to see under jerseys and shirts. But here? It was just for you.

You lay back against the pillows as he kissed down your stomach, his hands gripping your thighs.

"Michael..."

He hummed against your skin.

"You’re taking your time."

"You deserve that."

Every touch was slow, every glance filled with something heavy, something real. And when he finally pressed into you, it wasn’t rushed. It was reverent.

You held on to him like he was the anchor and the wave all at once, both of you moving in perfect rhythm. Moans filled the space between kisses, your nails dragging down his back as his name slipped from your lips again and again.

He whispered things against your skin—how proud he was, how much he wanted you, how he’d never looked at anyone the way he looked at you.

It built slowly. It always did with Michael. And when the wave finally crashed, you clung to him, breathless, spent, full of him in every possible way.

After, he didn’t move far. Just enough to tuck you into his side, the sheet pulled lazily over both of you. He kissed your temple.

"Love you too," he murmured.

And then, even softer:

"Proud of you. Always."

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loic got called up for france 😝😝😝 can't wait to see him in future edf vids hehehehe

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this is the anon who asked u to write smtg abt désiré doué

i hv an idea now so basically i was listening to better by khalid and the song is really resonating with me especially the line "they say we're just friends but i swear when nobody's around" maybe the reader is a psg medical staff and she and désiré have very good chemistry

i also noticed u write smut so can u add smut here too 😬🤸🕳️

ok bye thank you hv a good day

What we don’t tell them — Désiré Doué

synopsis: you’re a PSG medical staff member, and for months, you and Désiré Doué have shared something unspoken — lingering glances, late-night visits, quiet chemistry. it’s secret, forbidden, impossible. But when desire eclipses restraint, you cross the line, and nothing feels the same after.

cw: explicit (oral f. receiving, unprotected sex, praise, desperation, soft dominance), workplace romance, secret relationship, emotional tension, minor angst, professional stakes

I. UNDER STADIUM LIGHTS

The stadium didn’t sleep.

Even when the stands emptied and the roar faded into the bones of the building, something remained — an electricity humming just beneath the walls. You’d grown to love those late hours, when the halls were quieter and the only sounds were distant showers, trainers murmuring, the squeak of tape pulling free.

It was in this silence that he always found you.

And tonight, like clockwork, he did.

You heard him before you saw him — the soft brush of soles against the tile, the subtle clearing of a throat that pretended not to want your attention, even though he always did.

You didn’t look up right away. You were organizing a tray of rolled bandages with deliberate care, pretending your heart hadn’t skipped.

“How’s your night, Doc?”

That voice. Low. Velvet threaded with mischief. You turned, slowly.

Désiré stood in the doorway of the medical bay, damp curls pressed to his temple, PSG warm-up jacket unzipped. He looked tired. And unfairly beautiful.

“Quiet” you said, letting the word stretch between you.

He smiled with the corner of his mouth. “You always stay this late?”

“You always show up when I do.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Coincidence.”

“No such thing” you replied, but it came out softer than you intended. Like a truth wrapped in velvet.

He stepped inside.

Not close. Not yet.

But close enough that you felt him — like gravity.

And this had been the rhythm for months now. Lingering moments under fluorescent lights. Brush of his shoulder when he sat on the edge of the exam table. Silent acknowledgments between routines. All of it unspoken.

Unallowed.

You were staff. He was a player. That line wasn’t supposed to blur.

But desire had a way of ignoring boundaries.

He watched you now like he was daring you to break first.

“You’re not injured” you said.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

He didn’t answer. He just took a step closer. Then another.

And suddenly it felt like breathing too deeply might give the entire game away.

“I was hoping,” he said finally, voice low, “you might check on me anyway.”

His gaze dropped — to your mouth, to your hands, to the space between your bodies that was disappearing one breath at a time.

And still… you didn’t move.

So he whispered, “You’re not going to stop me, are you?”

Your answer was a sigh.

Then a kiss.

II. THE SPACE BETWEEN

It was never loud, what you had with him.

It existed in corners.

In glances that lasted too long. In the way he touched your shoulder when he passed you in a hallway, like an excuse to feel your presence. In the two-second pause before you spoke his name during treatments, his gaze fixed on your lips instead of your hands.

And outside the stadium, it existed in shadows.

Late-night messages.

Stolen hours in unfamiliar apartments.

Sometimes he’d call you just to hear you breathe. No words. No promises.

And yet there was something whole in it. Something real in a world built to hide everything soft and breakable.

But the longer it went on, the harder it became to keep it quiet.

There were whispers.

From the physio team. From players who watched too closely.

And then — there was a call from management.

You left the meeting with a thundering heart and trembling hands. No accusations. Just a reminder.

Boundaries. Ethics. Professional image.

You didn’t see him for days after that.

You needed space.

And he… he didn’t push.

III. THE FAULT LINE

The next time you saw him was match day.

He was on the bench, sharp in his warm-up gear, eyes scanning the field. But every so often, they drifted to the sidelines. To where you stood. Taping ankles. Pretending.

At halftime, he came to you.

A mild strain in his thigh — easily manageable. Another excuse.

You met him in the treatment room. Closed the door. And when you turned, he was already standing too close.

“You disappeared” he said.

“I had to.”

His brow furrowed.

You didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to say it aloud — that your job was on the line, your reputation, your future.

So instead, you asked, “Was this a mistake?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Nearly unbearable.

But then — he shook his head. Firm. Certain.

“No,” he said. “It was the first thing in months that’s made me feel real.”

Your throat closed. You didn’t know how to hold that kind of vulnerability.

So you kissed him instead.

IV. THE LINE CROSSED

You didn’t mean to take him back to your place that night.

But you couldn’t let go.

And when the door shut behind you, and he pressed you against it — lips on your neck, hands tugging at the hem of your top — it felt less like surrender and more like gravity.

Clothes came off in pieces.

Your shirt dropped to the floor. His hoodie, inside-out beside it.

He touched you like he had memorized you already — hands reverent and hungry, mouth trailing down your chest with a worship that made your knees tremble.

When he dropped to his knees, he looked up first.

Eyes dark. Needy. Asking without words.

You nodded.

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue sliding over your folds, fingers parting you gently, tasting you like he needed to know everything that made you fall apart.

You gasped his name — once, then again.

He didn’t stop.

He pressed a hand to your stomach, steadying you, while he fucked you with his tongue until your back arched off the door and your moan shattered the silence.

When he rose, his lips were slick with you. He kissed you deep — shared it with you.

And then — he slid into you.

Slow. Devastating.

You cried out, arms tight around his shoulders as he rocked into you, every thrust dragging across that perfect, aching spot. His name spilled from your lips like prayer.

“You feel like heaven” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours.

And for once — you believed it.

You came with your name on his tongue and his hands locked around your hips like he’d never let go.

V. WHAT COMES AFTER

In the quiet that followed, he didn’t move away.

He stayed. Head on your chest. Breathing slow. Content.

You stroked your fingers through his curls and said, softly, “This can’t be forever.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want it to stop.”

He lifted his head. Met your gaze.

“Then don’t let it.”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence said everything.

VI. THEY SAY WE’RE JUST FRIENDS

To the world, you’re nothing.

Just a staff member.

Just a player.

Just colleagues.

But in the quiet — when the cameras are off, when the hallways are empty — he touches your fingers in passing. Brushes your waist with a whispered look. Sits on the treatment table and lets his thigh rest against yours for one extra heartbeat.

To them, it’s nothing.

But to you? It’s everything.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.

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saw thunderbolts a second time this weekend 😀

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TRAVIS IN THE STANDS 💔💔💔💔

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