Hi Bianca, I'm a big fan of your work! I'm so happy you writing for Aurélien Tchouameni. I know your busy but when you get time can you do something really smutty maybe a little focus on fingering for me please I think you write smut so well <3 xxx
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𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Aurélien gives you your first orgasm.
𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Aurélien Tchouameni x reader
Warnings! NSFW / SMUT (18+), explicit sexual content, fingering, praise kink, gentle dom!Aurélien, established relationship,
That's the first coherent thought that manages to break through the haze in your mind, surprising you with its simplicity.
The lights in the bedroom are dimmed to a warm, amber glow, casting long shadows across the duvet, but right now, your world has narrowed down entirely to the weight of Aurélien’s body behind you and the gentle, persistent pressure of his lips against your neck.
You are hyper-aware of everything—the rough friction of his palms sliding up your thighs, the scent of his cologne mixing with the clean smell of laundry detergent, and the rapid thud of your own heart against your ribs.
"You're shaking, bébé," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your back.
"I'm not," you lie, your breath hitching as his teeth graze your earlobe.
He chuckles, a low, warm sound that you feel more than you hear, and presses a lingering kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear.
"It's okay," he whispers, turning your face toward his. His movements are slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to stop him, but the last thing you want is for this to stop.
He looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. In the dim light, his dark eyes are soft, searching yours for any sign of hesitation. When he finds none, his gaze drops to your lips, then lower, to where your hands are clutching the fabric of his t-shirt.
"It’s okay to be nervous," he says softly, his hand squeezing your waist. "I’ve got you. We go at your pace."
The reassurance washes over you, warming your blood even as your stomach flutters with a mix of anxiety and anticipation. You trust him implicitly. You know that if you said stop right now, he would pull away and hold you until your breathing slowed without a second of hesitation. But you don't want to stop. You want to cross this line with him, to let him see parts of you no one else has touched.
He doesn't make you ask twice. He shifts his weight, tilting his head down until his mouth covers yours in a slow, devastating kiss. It's a little awkward at the angle, but it's soft, delicate as his lips moving against yours with a tender pressure that makes your toes curl.
His hand, which had been resting on your hip, begins to move again. His fingers trace the waistband of your sleep shorts, dancing along the elastic, a silent question. You arch your back slightly, an involuntary movement, a silent permission.
His lips never leave yours as his hand slides beneath the fabric of your shorts. The contrast is shocking—the heat of the fabric and the coolness of his palm, the rough callus on his fingertips from years of football against the impossibly soft skin of your inner thigh.
You gasp into his mouth, your body instinctively tensing at the foreign sensation of someone else touching you there.
"Shhh," he breathes against your lips, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. His forehead rests against your shoulder. "Relax for me, yeah? Just breathe."
You force yourself to exhale, trying to unknot the tension in your stomach. You follow his lead, feeling the way his eyelashes flutter against your skin as he presses a soft kiss to your jaw.
"Good," he whispers. "Just like that."
His hand moves again, sliding deeper. You instinctively squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment, the feeling of being so completely exposed to him. But when you feel his fingers brush against the damp cotton of your underwear, your eyes fly open.
The air leaves your lungs in a sharp rush, a sound halfway between a gasp and a whimper caught in your throat. Your body reacts before your mind can process it—your hips bucking slightly, seeking more of that contact even as a flush of embarrassment heats your body.
"Hey," Aurélien breathes, his voice dropping an octave, rougher now. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he presses his palm flat against the fabric, applying a slow, deliberate pressure that makes your vision blur. "Look at me."
It takes a monumental effort to drag your gaze away from where his hand disappears beneath the waistband of your shorts and up to his face. His eyes are dark, nearly black in this light, fixed on you with an intensity that is terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
"I don't want you hiding from me," he murmurs, his gaze locked on yours, refusing to let you look away. "I want to see you." You swallow hard, your throat dry, and nod shakily.
"I'm going to take off your panties," he says, the words dripping with honey-flavored affection. He pauses, his fingers toying with the elastic band. "Is that okay?"
"Yes," you whisper, the word barely audible. "okay, yes."
His lips curve into a soft smile, though his eyes remain heated. He shifts slightly, getting better leverage. His fingers slip under the cotton, removing the barriers. Then his hand is back on you, large palm cupping your pussy and the sensation of his skin directly against yours is electric.
The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt—shockingly intimate and overwhelmingly warm. You inhale sharply, your fingers digging into the firm muscle of his bicep as he explores for the first time. He's mapping the terrain, learning what makes your breath hitch and what makes your toes curl.
"You're so soft," he murmurs, the words rumbling deep in his chest. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. "And you're so wet for me, mon cœur."
The heat that creeps up your neck is unstoppable, but the sheer admiration in his voice grounds you. He sounds amazed, not just lustful, and that difference is what allows you to melt back into him.
The realization that he’s enjoying this just as much as you are—that your reaction is something he craves—helps the last of the tension drain from your muscles. You stop holding your breath, letting the air out in a long, shuddering exhale, and when your body finally unclenches, his fingers fixate on your clit.
The noise you let out is completely involuntary.
He starts with slow, gentle circles. He seems content to spend the rest of the night right here, figuring out exactly how much pressure you like, exactly the rhythm that makes your breath hitch in your throat.
"Aurélien…" You breathe his name like a prayer, your head falling back against his shoulder.
"You like it?" he asks, his voice tight with desire.
You nod frantically. He increases the pressure slightly, just enough to make you see sparks behind your closed eyes, and your hips move instinctively against his hand, chasing the friction he provides.
He groans low in his throat. "Putain, you're beautiful like this," he mutters, his accent thickening the words. "Watching you fall apart… I've thought about this so much."
The confession shoots a bolt of heat through you. The idea of him, the composed and disciplined footballer, lying alone thinking about this exact moment makes you feel powerful.
"Okay, it's time," he murmurs against your skin, his voice vibrating through your chest. He pulls his hand away just slightly, and the sudden loss of contact makes you whimper, a needy sound you didn't know you could make.
He hushes you softly, his hand shifting. You feel the roughness of his palm against your inner thigh again, but this time he’s pulling your leg to the side, widening your stance. The movement leaves you feeling utterly exposed, the cool air of the room brushing against places that have never felt it before. Your instinct is to close your legs, to hide, but his grip is firm, anchoring you.
"I'm going to use my fingers now," he says, the statement is so sensual that it sends a fresh wave of heat through your veins. "Just to get you used to the feeling. Okay?"
"Okay," you whisper, the word trembling in the air between you.
He captures your lips in a kiss, deeper and wetter than before, distracting you as his hand shifts again. You feel the tip of one finger—not his thumb this time, but his index finger—press against your entrance. The pressure is unfamiliar, a blunt stretching sensation that borders on overwhelming.
"Just breathe," he reminds you softly, his other hand coming up to cup your hip, his thumb stroking the skin there. "Relax into it."
You force yourself to listen to him, inhaling a shaky breath through your nose and letting it out slowly through parted lips. It feels counterintuitive to relax when every nerve ending is screaming for attention, but as you exhale, you feel your body soften, the tight knot of anxiety loosening just enough.
He takes the opening immediately. With a slow, deliberate patience that makes your heart ache, he presses forward. The sensation is strange—a fullness that borders on uncomfortable, a stretching pressure that demands your entire focus. Your eyes squeeze shut, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his forearm as he works his way inside, millimeter by millimeter.
"Breathe, bébé," he murmurs against your cheek, his voice steady, anchoring you. "You're doing so well. Does it hurt?" he asks, his voice tight with restraint. He’s barely moved, waiting for your body to adjust to the intrusion, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your clit.
"A little," you admit honestly, your voice barely a whisper. "It’s just… a lot."
"I know," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "But you’re doing so good. Talk to me," he says softly. "Tell me what you're feeling."
It’s hard to find the words when your entire body feels like it’s been plugged into an electrical socket, but you try. You focus on the anchor of his hand against your hip, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours.
"It’s full," you manage to whisper, your voice trembling. "And… tight. But I like it. I like that it’s you."
A soft groan rumbles in his chest, and he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, rewarding you for your honesty. "Yeah? I'm glad it's me, too," he whispers, the honesty in his voice stripping away any last remnants of embarrassment. "I wanted to be the one to make you feel this way."
You exhale shakily, consciously willing the tightness in your muscles to uncoil. As you do, you feel him sink deeper, the intrusion burning. The sensation is startling—a sudden, sharp stretch that makes you gasp, your eyes widening as you instinctively try to shift away.
"Wait," you breathe out, your hand flying down to grip his wrist, just a reflex, a need to pause and process the intrusion.
The movement is so abrupt, so absolute, that it sends a clear message: nothing is more important to him in this moment than your comfort. He doesn't pull out, which you appreciate—the sudden emptiness might be worse—but he goes completely still, his hand heavy and grounding on your skin.
"Okay, okay" he breathes against your temple, his voice low and steady.
"It’s not bad," you whisper hurriedly, not wanting him to think he did anything wrong. The stretch is intense, a sharp, burning pressure that is impossible to ignore, but beneath it is that same curling heat that has been building all night. "I just… I need a second."
"Take all the time you need," he murmurs, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear. "I'm not going anywhere."
Slowly, the sharp edge of the stretch begins to dull, replaced by a dull, throbbing pressure that is heavy and strange, but not painful. You let out a shaky breath, your grip on his wrist loosening slightly.
He seems to sense the subtle shift in your body, the way your fingers uncurl from their white-knuckled grip on his forearm. Slowly, cautiously, he starts to move. It’s not the deep, punishing thrusts you’ve read about or seen in porn; it’s a slow, shallow rocking motion, a gentle in and out that lets your body adjust to the intrusion.
"How does that feel?" he asks, his voice a low rumble against your skin.
"Good," you whisper, and the realization surprises you. It’s true—the burn has faded, replaced by a strange, heavy friction that is sending shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. "It feels… good."
The rhythm he sets is hypnotic, a slow drag that makes your toes curl against the sheets. You feel him everywhere—the warmth of his chest against your back, the rough friction of his fingers, the sticky, wet sound of his finger moving in your pussy. It’s lewd and explicit in a way that makes your face burn, but it’s also the most intimate thing you’ve ever experienced.
He’s so patient, so attentive. Every time your breath hitches or your body tenses, he slows down, murmuring soft reassurances in French against your skin until you relax again. And then, once you’re used to the sensation of one finger, he adds the second.
This time, the stretch is sharper, more demanding, and you bite your lip against a hiss of pain. But the rhythm is already established, the friction already familiar, and your body remembers what to do. You breathe through the discomfort, focusing on the way his other hand is still stroking your hip.
"Doing so good for me, taking it so well," he praises, his voice strained, thick with an emotion that hovers right on the edge of his control. "You have no idea how crazy you make me, just feeling you like this…"
He crooks his finger inside you, a slow, deliberate drag against your inner walls, and the sensation changes instantly. The dull pressure evaporates, replaced by a sharp, blinding spark of pleasure that makes your back arch off the mattress.
"Aurélien," you gasp, your head falling back against his shoulder, your eyes squeezing shut as the sensation overwhelms you. "Oh god, do that again."
"Like this?" he asks, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sounds like pure sin. He repeats the motion, a slow, deliberate curl of his finger that drags against a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed until this very second. The friction sends a jolt of electricity racing up your spine, so sharp and unexpected that your entire body jerks in his arms.
A broken moan tears from your throat, raw and unfiltered. "Yes. Oh my god, yes."
The sound of your own moan hangs in the air, shocking and loud in the quiet room. Usually, you’d be embarrassed, desperate to cover your mouth or hide your face in a pillow, but the way Aurélien reacts steals that shame right out of your veins.
He groans, a raw, fractured sound against your shoulder, and presses his hips forward against your backside. You can feel him, hard and insistent through the fabric of his sweatpants, a physical testament to how much he’s holding back just to take care of you. The realization that he is just as affected, just as desperate, sends a fresh surge of liquid heat pooling between your thighs.
"Wait," you breathe out, the word barely a gasp as he hits that spot again, speeding his thrusts just slightly. "Wait, I—I can't…"
"Shhh, I know," he coos, his breath hot against your ear, damp with the exertion of holding himself back. The slick sound of his fingers stirring you up speeds up with each pump, squelching through your wetness. "You're close, aren't you?"
You nod frantically, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his forearm as he picks up the pace. The pleasure is building, a tight coil low in your belly that pulls tighter and tighter with every curl of his fingers. It’s overwhelming, a tidal wave that is threatening to pull you under, and the only thing keeping you anchored is the weight of his body against yours and the sound of his voice in your ear.
"Come on, mon amour," he encourages, his words broken up by the hot, open-mouthed kisses he’s pressing to your jaw, your neck, the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Let go. I've got you."
Your body is no longer your own; it is a vessel for the pleasure he is drawing out of you, a live wire conducting electricity that arcs from the center of your chest all the way down to your toes. The coil in your belly winds tighter, impossibly tight, aching for release.
"Look at me," he commands gently, his voice rough with exertion.
It takes every ounce of willpower you possess to force your eyes up. The room seems blurry, hazy at the edges, but his face is clear—so close you can see the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his jaw is clenched in concentration, the pure, unadulterated hunger darkening his gaze.
His gaze pins you in place, stripping away every defense you have left. There is nowhere to hide, and somehow, that is exactly what undoes you. The coil in your stomach snaps, sudden and violent, sending a shockwave of pleasure ripping through your nervous system.
Your back bows off of him, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. It’s blinding, a white-out sensation that wipes every thought from your mind, leaving nothing but the rhythmic pulse of your muscles around his fingers and the sound of your own ragged breathing.
The world doesn't come back into focus all at once; it returns in slow, blurry snapshots. Your body is still trembling, little aftershocks rippling through your muscles as the intense high begins to ebb into a warm, heavy lassitude. You feel boneless, liquid, melted completely into his arms.
Behind you, Aurélien is whispering to you in French, the words low and unintelligible but soothing in their cadence. His lips press soft, reverent kisses to your shoulder, the back of your neck, any bit of skin he can reach without pulling away.
It takes a long moment for the room to stop spinning, for the rushing sound in your ears to fade back into the quiet hum of the apartment.
Aurélien keeps his hand resting against you, his fingers still inside you, letting you ride out the last tremors, holding you together while you feel like you might drift apart.
"Hey," he whispers eventually, pressing a soft kiss to the damp skin of your neck. He sounds a little breathless himself, his voice deeper than usual. "Come back to me, bébé."
"Hi," you manage to whisper back, your voice wrecked. A hazy smile curves your lips, your eyes still closed as you lean back into his warmth. You feel floaty, untethered, safer than you have ever felt in your entire life.
Aurélien lets out a soft chuckle, carefully, slowly withdrawing his fingers. The loss is a strange, hollow ache, but the tenderness with which he moves makes up for it.
"So?" he asks softly, shifting so he can see your face. He pushes a stray strand of hair out of your eyes, his hand lingering on your cheek. He's looking at you with an expression of open adoration that makes your heart stutter in your chest. "How was that?"
You let out a breathless laugh, "Better than good," you murmur, reaching up to wrap your hand around his wrist, pressing his palm against your cheek. "It was perfect."
