when the author starts describing some fuck ass outfit that i’m supposedly wearing
Xuebing Du
One Nice Bug Per Day
Sweet Seals For You, Always

tannertan36
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

Kaledo Art
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Andulka
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
trying on a metaphor
Jules of Nature

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Show & Tell
YOU ARE THE REASON
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
occasionally subtle

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

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todays bird

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@bellinghmslut
when the author starts describing some fuck ass outfit that i’m supposedly wearing
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♥️ or reblog if you like/use/save follow me for more see the pinned
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TAYLOOOOOORRRR !!!!! ❤️🔥
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⭐︎ coachella heat
with JUDE BELLINGHAM ⭐︎ THIS WAS A REQUEST BY AN ANON, HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!
The sun filtered through the hotel suite in soft gold streaks, casting warm light across the white sheets as you blinked awake. Coachella morning had finally arrived. The playlist was already buzzing low from your speaker—Frank Ocean humming softly in the background—while Jude, shirtless and fresh from the shower, stood at the sink carefully brushing his teeth.
You sat up, braids a little messy, cheeks warm, watching him like you hadn't seen him a hundred times before. Jude caught your eyes in the mirror and smirked, foam still in his mouth.
“Don’t stare,” he mumbled around the toothbrush, “you’re gonna make me nervous.”
You snorted. “You? Nervous? You’re Jude Bellingham.”
He rinsed and wiped his face, then walked over to press a kiss to your forehead, damp curls brushing your skin. “Still get nervous when you look at me like that,” he said, voice low, sweet.
You hummed, leaning into him. “Help me pick my outfit?”
He gave you a mock-serious nod. “Only if you help me with my jewelry. You know I can’t layer necklaces like you do.”
Thirty minutes later, the room was an explosion of fringe, glitter, sunglasses, and soft laughter. You stood in front of the full-length mirror, holding up two options and Jude lounged on the bed behind you, chin propped on his hand, watching like you were the entire festival.
“Left one,” he said, pointing and smirking. “The skirt. Its hot.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re a pervert now?”
He shrugged and laughed. “You bring it out of me.”
You turned back around, slipping into the outfit, feeling his eyes on you the whole time. When you turned back for approval, Jude just whistled low. “Yeah. We’re about to shut Coachella down.”
You laughed, walking over to fix the chain around his neck. “We? I don’t know, Mr. ‘Black Tank and Nike Cortez.’”
“I’m accessorising!” he protested, pointing to his rings and gold chain. “And my sunglasses are Dior, okay?”
“Okay, fashion king.”
He leaned in and kissed you, slow and sweet, then rested his forehead against yours. “Let’s go show the desert what love looks like.”
The shuttle dropped you off right outside the artist entry, security guiding your small group through the crowd as the buzz of Coachella washed over you like heat from the sun. Music thumped in the distance—bass vibrating through the soles of your boots—and the scent of sunscreen, warm air, and sweet food trucks wrapped around everything like a veil.
Jude held your hand tightly, fingers locked, not just protectively but like he couldn’t believe this was real—just the two of you, off-duty, no stadiums, no post-match interviews. Just sunglasses, and love under a desert sky.
“Remind me again why we don’t do this every year?” he said in your ear, lips brushing your temple.
“Because someone’s usually too busy saving Real Madrid's ass,” you teased, swinging his hand.
He chuckled, then perked up when he saw a familiar figure waving from behind a velvet rope. David Alaba, effortlessly cool in a vintage tee and a black durag, stood with his wife Shalimar, who looked like she stepped straight out of a Vogue desert editorial—flowy pastel set, gold bangles, and baby braids.
“Ayyy, finally!” David grinned, pulling Jude into a hug before turning to you. “You’re glowing honestly”
Shalimar hugged you tightly. “I was wondering what took y’all so long. We already saw Camavinga take, like, fifteen mirror selfies.”
And there he was—Eduardo, in bright printed pants and tinted pink shades, adjusting his phone in the reflection of a chrome Airstream trailer. Vini was leaned against it, nodding along to a beat with his arm slung around a girl you’d met a few times, who gave you a sweet wave. Aurélien strolled up with an iced drink in each hand, offering you one.
“Hydration,” he winked. “Mandatory.”
You all found a quiet backstage lounging spot—a shaded area filled with huge cushions, string lights overhead, low tables with fruit trays and drinks. Everyone kicked back, shoes off, laughing, vibing. Jude was tucked into your side, arm lazily around your waist, your head resting on his shoulder as you sipped from his coconut water.
Someone had a Polaroid camera—probably Vini—and soon there were little film shots lying around like confetti. Jude and you posed in one: you on his lap, sunglasses low on your nose, your arm thrown around his shoulders, his cheek pressed to yours with that soft, smirky grin he always saved just for you.
Another photo: Shalimar pulling you into a laughing hug. Then one of Jude trying (and failing) to copy Eduardo’s dance moves, everyone howling in the background.
It wasn’t long before a few fans spotted the group, phones quietly snapping photos. A young girl approached shyly, clutching a mini instant cam.
“Excuse me,” she said nervously, “could I maybe get a picture with you, Jude?”
Jude smiled warmly, standing and crouching next to her. “Of course, sweetheart.”
Then her eyes darted to you, recognition dawning slowly. “Wait… you’re his girlfriend, right? Can I—could I get one with both of you? You’re so pretty. I love your style.”
Your cheeks burned, but Jude beamed, proud. He pulled you in gently. “She is pretty, isn’t she?” he said, low enough that only the three of you could hear. “Prettiest girl here.”
The sun had dipped behind the palm trees hours ago, leaving a streak of lavender and burnt orange in its wake. Neon lights shimmered across the festival grounds as the crowd buzzed in anticipation. Everyone knew what time it was—Travis Scott was about to hit the stage.
Jude’s hand never left yours as you both made your way through the thickening crowd. You were tucked under his arm, his palm spread firm and protective over the small of your back. You could hear girls whispering, phones snapping, but none of it mattered—not when he was this close, not when the bass was already vibrating through your chest and his lips were grazing your ear.
“Good view?” he asked as you reached the sweet spot—far enough not to get crushed, close enough to feel the heat of the lights.
You smiled, pulling your phone out for a quick story. “The best.”
And then the beat dropped. The crowd erupted. Goosebumps blared through the night air, and the world exploded into bass, strobe lights, and the wild kind of freedom that only a music festival at midnight can bring.
Jude moved behind you, pulling you flush against him, arms wrapping around your waist. His locs brushed the side of your face as he leaned in, voice low, half-singing, half-laughing into your ear.
“I get those goosebumps every time…”
You threw your head back, laughing as he sang the line dramatically, rocking the two of you side to side with the rhythm.
“Don’t make me rap it all,” he said, teasing, mouthing the next line in sync with Travis. “I could do the whole thing right now.”
You turned slightly, one hand reaching up to run along his jaw. “I dare you.”
Jude took the challenge way too seriously. For the next song, he rapped every word, hype and smooth, into your ear—his chest pressed to your back, voice low and warm as his hands slid around your waist, gripping your hips in time with the beat.
Your head rested against his shoulder, swaying together, your bodies moving in sync under the stars. The lights flashed red and gold and violet across his face, and every time you looked up at him, he was already watching you.
“You’re unreal,” he muttered into your hair, pulling you closer. “Like—look at you. At Coachella. With me. I’m never getting over this.”
You laughed, throwing your arms over his shoulders. “You’re acting like this isn’t your everyday life.”
“It’s not,” he said, serious now. “This? You? You’re the best part.”
A beat later, he was singing with you again, his voice right in your ear as your fingers laced behind his neck. It was loud, chaotic, magical—but none of it could touch the little world you and Jude had built within that crowd. You were his calm in the middle of the storm, his favourite melody even louder than the music.
And as the chorus hit again, Jude spun you gently in his arms, catching you under the lights with that look—like you were it. The moment. The feeling. The song.
And honestly?
You were.
The crowd had just come down from Travis’s set, sweat-slick and starstruck, but the second Bad Bunny stepped on stage, the energy shifted. The lights went low, the air thick with heat and anticipation, and the beat dropped into something darker—something slow, pulsing, undeniably sensual.
Jude’s arms were still wrapped around your waist from behind, but now, his grip tightened.
The bass vibrated straight through your chest as Bad Bunny launched into 'Titi Me Preguntó', and then slid effortlessly into something smoother, more explicit. You couldn’t understand every word, but the tone said enough. Heavy. Tempting. Dripping with want.
And Jude? He was gone.
You felt it the second the tempo slowed and his hips pressed flush against yours, one hand splayed low on your stomach, the other inching down to your hip. His lips brushed your ear, breath hot.
“You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured, voice low and rough, like the song was getting to him more than he wanted to admit. “The way you move…”
You rolled your hips back just slightly—just enough to feel the tension in his body spike.
“Fucking hell,” he hissed, fingers digging into your waist.
The beat slowed into something dirtily hypnotic, and you started to move in time with it, grinding back into him, the way you knew would make his knees weak. Jude’s hands roamed now—hungry, possessive. He pressed in closer, chest to your back, lips trailing along your neck.
You could feel just how turned on he was, and it made your breath hitch.
“This is torture,” he growled, voice raw and desperate now. “You in this outfit, dancing on me like this… in front of everyone.”
You smirked, looking over your shoulder at him. “Then take me home.”
He let out a low laugh, almost dangerous, eyes dark. “If you keep this up, I won’t make it home.”
His hands slid down your sides, pulling you even tighter against him, hips moving with yours to the rhythm as Bad Bunny’s voice poured through the speakers like smoke. Your bodies moved like one—synchronised, slick with sweat, caught in a loop of teasing touches and grinding tension.
Around you, the crowd faded into neon blur. It was just you and Jude, dancing like no one else existed, like the heat between your bodies could start a fire in the desert night.
When the next track started, just as hot and heavy, Jude leaned in, voice full of gravel and need. “I swear, the second this set ends, I’m getting you out of here.”
And the way he said it? You didn’t doubt him for a second. as the heated glances traded between you as the pounding bass vibrated through the air, feeding the electric charge building between your bodies. Jude's fingers traced up your spine, sending shivers down your skin, as his other hand gripped your hip, pulling you harder against his straining erection.
You couldn't help but roll your hips in response, grinding against him with a moan that was lost in the music. The crowd around you throbbed and pulsed, but all you saw was Jude's intense gaze, all you felt was his body moving in perfect harmony with yours.
Bad Bunny's seductive lyrics painted a vivid picture in your mind, each word echoing the primal desire coursing through your veins. When the song reached its climax, Jude captured your lips in a searing kiss, tongues tangling in a frenzied dance that left you breathless and craving more.
The music transitioned into a slower, more sensual track, but the heat between you only intensified and honestly you were fine with that.
kenan yildiz It's my new obsession
Hi I saw you’re Arda angst ff and I fucking loved it!! I wanted to request a Kenan Yildiz angst fanfic where the reader and Kenan had to get arrange married. But he hated her. He always brought other woman home and she really got sad because she never had the chance to experience real love. Not even from her parents.
He always kept her hidden from social media because he was embarrassed of her. She always went alone and done things alone. The reader is a quite person she an introvert she doesn’t really talk that much or express feelings so she always stays quiet. And she had a really bad childhood, got be@ten up and ignored. She never had a normal childhood. By the time Kenan never knew he starts to see her alone at restaurant or pic nics alone and started to feel guilty but never brought it up.
So one day the reader thought she’s alone at home and Kenan told her that he’ll be away.
So she wanted to sleep without a shirt. And that night Kenan appears there because the game got cancelled and when he approached her he saw her scars on her back that were caused by her parents. He starts to regret treating you like that and starts treating you better and spends time with you.
You can make a fluff or bad ending doesn’t really matter but I always prefer bad endings hehe I would really love for you to make this a story !!
💓💓💓
SAD GIRL • KENAN YILDIZ
( pairing ) kenan yıldız x reader
warnings - trigger warning, violence and abuse, a lot of angst. I tried my best and i hope this meets your expectations 💞
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Hey, loves! My asks are available and if you want to see any specific or famous model on the page, send recommendations and include @ from insta! That would help me a lot! Xoxo
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hey could you make morgan cohen icons? her insta is morganbcohen thx
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