venus

⊹ . ۟ . ꒰ meow!!꒱ . ۟ . ⊹

[fromv3nus]

let's go lil kitty kat!!

💿 : kitty kat by beyonce

✮ hi, you can call me venus. i'm 21, black, sapphic, a multi-stan. this is a smut blog, so mdni plz.

✮ here's my masterlist. lowercase intended, im lazy.

✮ this is all silly, fun fiction. i don’t know the people/characters i’m writing about personally. don’t be a jerk.

✮ no posting schedule, just manifest i’ll post hard enough and i probably will hear you…

gifs by @/pixopix

[wlwsource]

JAZ SINCLAIR as MARIE MOREAU GEN V: S02E03, "H is for Human"

[fromv3nus]

morning dew

jude bellingham x fem!reader

content warning: dry humping, p in v, established relationship, jude's a lil ass in this but hes sexy so it cancels out #pemdas, sir kink debut, creampie, big dick!jude, tit slapping, mdom/fsub, and cockwarminggggg.

author's note: i may not know a lot about futbol BUT!!! i do know about beyonce and the painful urge of wanting to ride a handsome man. so heres this! also, my asks are open so if you have any requests or words to share please feel free to do so :). as always reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy.

thinking about sensual morning sex with jude. him catching you stare at the side of his face one warm summer morning. an airy huff leaves his mouth, “i can feel you staring a hole into my face.” he complains with a slight crack in his voice before he opens one eye to peek at you, then burying his face into the pillow. for a man so sweet and gentle during the day, he can be a bit of an asshole for the first 10 minutes of waking up. but fortunately, that just turns you on even more. a smile creeps onto your face as slick warmth pools in between your thighs, lifting a finger and tracing over the muscle of his bicep. "but you're so cute, jude."

“let me sleep.” he grumbles through the pillow, his coily dark brown hair slightly smushed from his slumber.

"i am!” you whisper with a whine, toying with his hair gently, brushing your hand up and down his back with a soft scratch of your nails. "...then can i ride you when you wake up?"

jude's breathing pauses for a second before he hums with approval, rolling onto his back with his eyes still closed. he pats his thighs signaling you to get on. you smile to yourself and proceed to throw a leg over his thighs, pressing your heated core onto his half hard dick. your hips roll lazy circles on his lap almost instantly; a soft moan leaves your lips and onto the skin of his naked shoulder. you bury your face into his neck and leave kisses, nose poking at his jawline and taking a deep inhale of his scent.

his large hands grab at your ass, eyes shutting tighter as he takes control and guides your hips up and down, side to side, and mimicking the small circles you did before. both of your breathing starts to pick up, the peaks of your nipples hardening through the soft fabric of jude's t-shirt, you finally lift your body up from his and run your fingers down his chest. your eyes travel from his happy trail and up to his face, already looking up at you, his expression warm and dreamy. bottom lip tucked under his perfect top row of teeth as he devours you with his gaze.

"mmm fuck-" you gasp, looking down to your bodies clashing; a patch of arousal starts seeping through your panties and onto his growing bulge.

"yeahhh get her nice and wet f'me." he snickers confidently, hands pushing your shirt up to your chest and exposing your tits. "making a mess and we've barely started."

a breathy moan falls from your mouth in response to his praise; shaking your head in disagreement as you lift the shirt and throw it over your head in a swift move. "been this wet since i woke up.... last night really."

he groans as you grind on his dick greedily, "fuck- why didn't you tell me."

"i thought you were sleepy." you pout with a fake sincere voice, digging your nails into his abs and pressing your hips down with force.

"not anymore." jude licks his bottom lip, hands leaving your hips and resting behind his head. "pull it out. take what you've been needing."

you nod and begin to pull off your ruined panties.

"ah-" he calls for your attention. you look up at him once more. "where's your manners?"

"sorry-... thank you, sir."

"there's my girl." he finally flashes a smile at you; it reaches his eyes, mahogany brown irises admiring you as his fingertips fluffs his hair. waiting for you to continue what you started.

you smile back at him. body heated with desire. rolling off of him and slipping your panties off slowly; a cloudy string of arousal connects from your clit to the cotton fabric. you look back to see if he's watching. which he is, of course.

a desperate groan leaves his mouth from watching you. his breathing slows as you turn back to him and pull the comforter off to the foot of the bed, his dick bulging through his navy-blue briefs with growing a patch of precum.

you toy with his waistband for a moment before sliding them down, eyes flicking back and forth from his beautiful face to his perfect dick slapping on his thigh; you continue to drag his briefs down his legs and throw them alongside the rest of your discarded clothing on the floor.

crawling back up to him your noses bump together as one of your hands slip in between the two of you, slowly pushing his tip into your dripping entrance.

"slow... you know i'm big." he hisses at the stretch even though he's halfway in. a hand moves from the back of his head and to your cheek, caressing your skin gently as you push down to the hilt, the dark trimmed hair at his base digging into your clit.

"i know-" you moan with a reassuring tone the sound of your body slapping onto his with every bounce.

"i" plap. "know" plap. "oh shit" plap.

you let out a sharp gasp when his tip presses directly onto your cervix. his eyebrows furrow, groaning lightly whilst his hands grab at your body; your thighs, your back, your ass, drawing hearts on your skin as you fuck yourself onto him.

you lift back up with your hands on his chest, knees digging into the mattress, pushing his body into it. rolling your hips in large circles, making his tip brush into that sensitive spongy spot inside you.

he nods mindlessly, watching your facial expressions fall into a range of desperation to sensitivity. studying how your head falls forward, pretty eyes flutter shut, how you bite your lip in pleasure.

“juuuuuude.” you moan, ass smacking onto his thighs. “hahhh, i love your dick so much.”

“yeah? were you dreaming about it last night?” a cocky grin grows on his face, large hands moving up to cup your tits and playing with your sensitive nipples; twisting and pulling them with grip.

"yes, baby! i dream about it every fuckin' night.." your brain turns into mush, voice breaking as you grind your clit onto his pelvis once more. the feeling of your nipples being teased sends sparks through your body. “oh fuck- ah i can feel it in my stomach." the words slurring and combining together towards the end.

"then show me." he grunts, slapping at your tits firmly with one hand, the other gripping at your hip.

"huh?" you ask while grinding onto him chasing your orgasm.

"show me what you were dreaming about." he cups your face to make you look at him, his thumb traces over your bottom lip.

you nod. "okay..-"

he raises a brow, waiting for the sentence to end properly.

"sir." you clarify, rolling your eyes in embarrassment as you swing your feet from under you and place them on the bed. you lift and shift your hips on top of him to get comfortable, scratching at his pecs to brace yourself.

"that's it darling, plant your feet on the bed." his voice eager and dominate, encouraging you with both hands pawing at your ass and spreading you apart. “fuck me like you mean it. c’mon.”

you slowly lift up to the tip and drop down. whimpering as you feel him hit spots you didn't even know existed. "oh my god." falls from your mouth repeatedly, taking your time to find a pace that works.

"just like that. always looking so pretty when you ride this dick." jude pants, fighting between watching how your pussy swallows him with zero struggle or focusing on your tits bouncing in his face. the shine of your arousal covering his length every time you lift and drop yourself on him.

"fuckfuckfuck." you whine, a hand lifting to grab onto the headboard to keep it from slamming against the wall.

jude eyes widen in shock, surrendering himself so you could use him to get off. the coil in his stomach tightens, groans turning to open mouthed "ah's" correspondent to your thrusts, hands tugging you down onto his dick like you were going to disappear right from above him. "take it. take this cock like you fucking own it. baby, holy shit.”

"i own it, sir." you moan, one hand pressed on his abs for leverage as you bounce harder, the other piercing your nails into the headboard. "it's mine." eyes staring into his. "nobody else's."

"it’s mine." you repeat, panting like you ran a marathon as you slam down to the hilt with a full body quiver; your slick walls clenching around his length with no remorse, orgasm hitting you with a broken whine. practically falling apart in his hands.

"give it to me gorgeous, cum for me." his thumb teases your clit with fast flicks, sending you over the edge. your legs shake atop of him, mouth agape as he rubs you into overstimulation.

“sir- i c-can’t.” you plea in a desperate tone, hand grabbing at his wrist in an attempt to pull him away. “too much!”

“almost there sweetheart, you’re doing so good for me.” he groans, thrusting his hips into you to get as deep as possible. you roll your hips to help him get close, he looks up at you with need as he cums, thighs shaking, head falling back into the pillow in bliss. exhaling your name with a shaky moan like he breathed for the first time.

your head lays back into the crook of his neck, chests smushed together with silence filling the room besides the sounds of your heavy breathing.

he clears his throat after a few minutes pass.

“well good mornin’ to you too.”

[alittlepraise]

who wants to take me to an aquarium and spend a whole day there listening to me say “wooowwww” and “they look so cute” at every fish

[dailyflicks]

#we are so back

[fromv3nus]

i’m grieving them BAD

[nycenthingelse]

So Deep

Fictional Character Edition

Cameron Cade

“Mmm fuck ma, you feel so good.” He grunts watching his cock go in and out my wet pussy.

“Fuck Cam you’re so deep.” I cry out griping his back as he pounds into me.

He wraps his hand around my throat fucking me harder and deeper.

“You like when I fuck you this deep don’t you ma.”

Tears of pleasure spill down my cheeks, my mouth falling open from him cutting off my air a little and pounding so deep inside of me.

All I can do is let out moans and cries, clenching around his thick cock. He grunts pulling me close to his face by my throat.

“Speak, tell me how much you love how I fuck this pussy.” He demands.

He slides his hand in between us and starts rubbing my clit and pounding into me at the same time.

“Fuckkkk camm.” I scream out gripping his wrist from too much pleasure.

“Move your fucking hand and answer me.” He rubs my clit faster making me see stars.

He pounds into me deeper making me cry out his name.

“Fuck cam I do, I love when you fuck my pussy so fucking deep!”

“That’s it, good girl. This pussy is all fucking mine.”

He lets go of my throat making me gasp for air and before I can even breathe properly he puts my legs over his shoulder angling himself deep pounding deep and slow.

My mouth falls open again and my eyes slowly roll back.

“Shit cam just like that please don’t fucking stop.” I grab his face kissing him hungrily and he starts speeding up.

I moan loudly into his mouth gripping his back making him groan into my mouth.

I whimper when he starts hitting my g-spot over and over. Getting closer to my orgasm and he knows it.

He breaks the kiss looking me in the eyes.

“I feel that pretty pussy clenching around me, cum for me ma.” He praises going deeper making my back arch.

“Fuck I’m cumming, I’m cumming.” I squirt all over his cock making him groan.

“Yes ma, cum all over this cock.” He continues to fuck me through my orgasm getting closer to his release.”

I grip the sheets from the overwhelming pleasure and sensitivity after my orgasm.

“You got this, you’re taking my cock so well. You want me to cum inside of you hm.” He grabs my face making me look at him, pounding into me faster. His thrusts get messy and sloppy.

“Please cam give me your seed.” I let out a begging moan looking him deep in the eyes.

He groans louder his breathing getting heavier, putting his palm on my lower stomach making me feel everything.

“Shit ma I’m cumming.” He thrusts at least three more times before releasing his seeds deep inside of me.

“I love when you take me so deep.” He praises against my lips.

~

Don’t you just love it deep

(I had to make a tyriq withers smut, been craving it)

[whasabi]

── loving you ( awkwardly ) ! ⌗ 7️⃣

headcannons & habits of awkward bf!jobe !

content warnings: none. gn!reader.

── ( j.b. ) jobe is still figuring out how to be someone's boyfriend.

he overthinks almost everything at first. after every date, he'll replay the entire day in his head wondering if he talked too much, if he should've held your hand sooner, or if that joke actually landed. meanwhile, you're already planning the next time you'll see him, completely unaware that he's been analyzing every interaction for the last three hours.

── ( j.b. ) compliments genuinely catch him off guard.

he can take praise on the pitch just fine, but the second you tell him he's handsome or that you missed him, it's like his brain short-circuits. he'll duck his head with a quiet laugh, rub the back of his neck, and mumble something like, "you're just saying that."

he never quite knows what to do with the butterflies you give him.

── ( j.b. ) he always ducks down without realizing it.

whether he's hugging you, listening to you talk in a crowded room, or posing for a picture together, he'll instinctively lower himself so you don't have to strain to reach him. it's become such an unconscious habit that he doesn't even notice anymore until you laugh and tell him he looks like he's folding himself in half just to hear what you're saying.

── ( j.b. ) he accidentally stares at you.

not in an intense way.

more like he'll be listening to you talk, completely invested in whatever story you're telling, only to realize halfway through that he hasn't responded in thirty seconds because he got distracted watching you smile.

when you ask, "why are you looking at me like that?"

he'll blink.

"...sorry."

he doesn't even know he was doing it.

── ( j.b. ) he's awkward whenever he wants a kiss.

instead of just asking, he'll suddenly hover closer than usual. he'll stand beside you in the kitchen for absolutely no reason. sit shoulder-to-shoulder on a couch that definitely has enough space.

look at you.

look away.

look back again.

eventually you sigh, cup his face, and kiss him first. he smiles so hard afterward that you wonder why he didn't just ask.

── ( j.b. ) he's terrified of accidentally hurting you.

he'll hesitate before pulling you into a hug or playfully nudging your shoulder, always second-guessing how much strength he's using. if the two of you are messing around and you dramatically go, "ow," even as a joke, he'll freeze immediately.

"...did i actually hurt you?"

the panic on his face is so genuine that you end up laughing and reassuring him for the next five minutes.

── ( j.b. ) he's constantly reaching for your hand... then second-guesses himself.

his fingers will brush yours while you're walking.

he'll almost intertwine them.

then he'll hesitate for a split second, wondering if now's the right time. you always notice. so you slip your hand into his first. the relieved smile he gives you afterward is so small that anyone else would've missed it.

── ( j.b. ) physical affection becomes easier once he's comfortable.

the awkwardness never really disappears.

it just changes.

he still blushes sometimes, but now he'll absentmindedly lean against you while watching a movie or rest his head on your shoulder without thinking. months into the relationship, he'll catch himself doing it and quietly laugh because there was a time when simply holding your hand felt like the bravest thing he'd ever done.

── ( j.b. ) he gets embarrassed when people point out how obvious he is around you.

his teammates don't even have to say anything.

one raised eyebrow after they catch him smiling at his phone is enough.

he immediately flips his screen over.

"what?"

"nothing."

"...why are you lot looking at me like that?"

he already knows. his ears are red before they even answer.

── ( j.b. ) he's terrible at flirting on purpose.

he'll think of something smooth to say. rehearse it in his head. walk over confidently...

and somehow end up asking if you've eaten today. you laugh every single time. he pretends he meant to say that. even though he absolutely didn't.

── ( j.b. ) he remembers tiny details because paying attention comes naturally to him.

you'll mention your favorite snack once, and two weeks later he'll show up with it without making a big deal out of it. he'll notice when you've changed your perfume, when you've cut half an inch off your hair, or when you're quieter than usual. he isn't always the best at finding the perfect words, but he's incredibly observant, and his way of loving often shows up in the little things he notices before anyone else does.

── ( j.b. ) he never stops getting a little nervous around you.

even after months together, there are moments where he'll look at you and have the same butterflies he had on your first date. you'll catch him smiling to himself after you've looked away or hear him laugh quietly when he realizes he's still getting flustered over someone who already calls him theirs. he secretly hopes that feeling never goes away, because to him, it means he'll never stop choosing you.

[yoyokslut]

spicy thoughts about jude bellingham giving head 😮‍💨🫦 MDNI +18

I feel like he likes to take his time, he wants to pleasure you so he always starts slowly, even before taking off your panties.

He’s in between your legs showering your skin with kisses, starting from your knee moving down to your inner thighs where he leaves wet kisses, nibbles on them before his tongue soothes it.

He also licks from your thighs to your knees, switching between biting, licking and sucking, why? because he’s a pro at teasing.

Jude’s favorite taunt? To taste you through your panties.

You’re lying on bed with your (his) t shirt up over your waist, one hand stroking the back of his head while he’s got each hand on your hips, stroking them and his tongue is licking your folds through the fabric. Humming at the faintly wetness that’s seeping out of you.

Your lip caught between your lips and your hips starting to move against his mouth.

“Oh, baby, please,” you moan pushing his head deeper in you.

His chuckle muffled against you.

“I haven’t even started properly yet and you’re already begging, sweet thing?” he teases, backing away from your legs enough to look at you.

“I just wanna- I really want to feel your tongue, Jude,” you lick your lips before laughing softly.

“Alright, alright, you’ll have it,” he mumbles, fingers moving into your lingerie to slide them carefully down your thighs before throwing them somewhere in the room.

His hands spreading your legs further.

“God, look how wet that pretty pussy is, baby,” coos running his nose along it, inhaling strongly.

“I love your scent, I wonder if you taste that good too?” smirks, giving your thigh a small peck.

Before you can answer, he dips his tongue from your hole, pressing firmly and running it nice and slow all the way to your clit.

Your back arches up automatically, hands moving to the sheets to grip them, your eyes rolling back before they shut close while you let out a surprise moan.

“Jude!”

He keeps eating you out without acknowledging your reaction. From time to time you hear some “you taste so good,” “pussy’s so wet, baby,” “mhmmm, I love how that little button throbs for me,”

Sometimes he likes talking to your pussy, cooing at it as if it would listen.

“Yes, beautiful, keep leaking for me, hm” he gives you another deep stroke.

“So pretty all shiny, baby,” “you like my tongue on you? yeah you do, can see that pretty hole winking at me,”

Sometimes he makes you come just by sucking on your clit, he can’t get enough of it and loves how soft and silky it is.

Sometimes he comes too just by sucking on your clit.

“Oh my god, baby, tastes so good,” he moans as he flicks his tongue against you.

His cock getting harder at each flick he gives you he can’t help but grinding against the mattress until he’s spilling in his pants.

Other times he takes turns between fucking you with his tongue and rubbing your clit with his thumb or fucking you with his fingers and licking and sucking on your swollen bundle.

[fromv3nus]

oh my god his lipssssssssss

[flowersinthetrash]

Adrian Chase with a girlfriend who matches his freak a little too hard <3

Paring: Adrian chase x reader

Warnings: very toxic relationship dynamics, he’s right where he wants to be.

None of the team has met you much, except Chris who prefers not to stay in your company too long, the reason for which evades both Adebayo and Emilia, since you seem like a very nice, sane girl.

Sometimes after Adrian gets a bit too drunk at bars, you walk in dressed up like a woman who definitely doesn’t belong in a small town in Washington, and way too polite.

So, when Chris insists that you’re absolutely bat shit insane and your behaviour puts Adrian to shame, they can’t believe any of it, brushing it off as him being the usual asshole because his sidekick has a girlfriend and he does not.

All of those are put to rest when Adrian comes into work late, driving a brand new car into the parking lot. When he’s pressed about it, he gives them a little smile, almost as if he’s remembering a fond moment.

“Y/n lit my car on fire, so I had to buy a new one,” he says, his tone is so joyful that they’re a contrast to his words.

“What?” The whole team looks at him, eyes wide and Chris almost screams out an ‘I told you so’.

“Yeah, she saw me talking to a girl and said I was cheating on her, so she lit my car on fire. Isn’t that cool? I would totally do the same, but I’d probably cry first.” He turns to his table, chuckling to himself about his ‘loving girlfriend,’ who is definitely not crazy.

[onlytakingalook]

Them every morning probably 🤷

[fromv3nus]

rewatching big time rush is curing something in me

[fromv3nus]

licorice stick

cameron cade x fem!reader

content warning: they match each others freak, oral (m receiving and allusion of f receiving), unprotected riding, established relationship, spit play, i know nothing about football so no plot just sex. this is messy but i just need cameron so bad.

authors note: this is based off of stick by banks if you never listened to it she’s basically singing about sucking dick, i love that song. if you love it leave your thoughts as always, plz glaze me i thrive off of it. if you haven’t watched him do ittttt it’ll change your life. this is soo messy and weirdly paced but it’s passionate and nasty so please enjoy!!

you hear the front door of your apartment open and softly close. a handful of keys get hung up on the wall right when he walks in. hard footsteps make their way to your bedroom, you’re not alarmed, it’s only your boyfriend cameron.

it’s a chilly day during the fall which means you’re already bundled up in a fuzzy blanket and warm pajamas by the time cam is done with his day. today was already a rough one for the both of you. constant making small mistakes and having big reactions towards them by your bosses. you took your free time to nap before cam came home so you two could eat dinner and sleep together.

you had been awake for about 7 minutes, staring at the wall that was laminated by the warm light of your bedside lamp. the knob clicks as the door opens making you turn your head to the door watching him walk in.

“hey baby” he almost immediately makes eye contact with you; a deep and genuine smile forming onto his face showing you those dimples you love so much. “hi” you voice croaks with sleepiness. he walks to the side of the bed and sinks onto it, making you roll over to him slightly. “mmm i hope i didn’t wake you” a soft kiss is placed onto the side of your head.

“no i’ve just been staring at the wall” you smile back at him. “oh yeah i forgot you’re weird like that” he kisses down your face and onto your lips. you smile again mid kiss and slap his chest which made no impact on him whatsoever, considering the fact he’s built like a fucking greek god. he just studied your face and combs the fly-aways from your hair with gentle fingers. “i missed you today.” you break the silence. “it was my first bad day in a long time. all i wanted was to come home and be next to you” you look away from him and play with your hands.

“yeah?” he responds softly, his deep voice making you melt like butter. “me too.”

you fall into another silence as your eyes fall on his face. gentle green eyes, light freckles on his cheeks, pouty pink lips on display just waiting to be bitten and licked. you try to hold your words of love in before they fall out of your mouth desperately.

“i wanna feel better… want you to make me cum.”

“anything you want sweetheart. use me.”

you pull the blanket off of your body, lifting yourself up to your knees as your hands run up his body. you kiss him on the lips. he tastes like peppermint, smells like whiskey and vanilla, skin still damp from the shower he took back at the gym.

your hands find their way to the zipper of his jacket, pulling it down and slipping it off of his broad shoulders. he’s left in a white tank top and gray sweatpants. biceps bulging on the side of his body like it’s their job.

you bite your lip before telling him. “i want you to undress for me, cameron.”

“what are you up to?” he chuckles. “just do it! i promise you’ll love it”

“okay” he drags out the word before slipping off his tank top and sweatpants, leaving him in his boxers.

“lay next to me, get comfy.” you move over to your side of the bed, giving the unnecessarily large man the space he needs to lay down.

you take off his sweatshirt, leaving you in a thin black shirt, nipples poking through the fabric leaving your tits on display for him. you crawl to him, kissing him with heat and passion this time, tongue slipping into each other’s mouth. his hands begin to wonder, finding their way to your nipples as his thumbs trace your areolas. you moan his name in his mouth as your hands wrap around his shoulders, nails softly scratching the nape of his neck, grabbing at his arms, traveling down his abs and teasing his happy trail; a pinky dips into his boxers while your other hand grabs at his wrist. you softly pull his hand away without breaking eye contact as you slip the shirt off.

“finally.” he exhales like he was holding it in since you started. you shuffle to pull your shorts and panties off; pulling his boxers off in a swift motion before going down to lay your head on his thick thighs, looking up at him with delicate, seductive eyes. you feel like a fire was lit inside of you. every time you’re around him you just want to give him the pleasure he deserves.

your lips barely graze his dick as you lift up to kiss the tip, with his precum dribbling onto your lips you lick it off and dip your tongue into the slit. “fuck, stop teasing baby.” he caresses your head. you softly giggle “sorry.” you spit on your hand and start pumping him at a steady pace, your mouth suckling onto his tip you look up at him as you take him deeper. bobbing onto him you start to gag and choke, making the dirtiest sounds known to mankind. “ah, don’t hurt yourself.” he coos, one hand gripping a pillow behind his head, the other caressing your face.

you lift yourself off with a gasp. “i’m okay.” you use your neglected hand to grab some mixture of your spit and his precum off of his dick and puts it in between your thighs. rubbing your already wet clit. “shit” you moan while spreading your legs leaving your pussy on display for cam to see. you put him back in your mouth and suck him at the same pace before, a hand stroking and twisting the rest that can’t fit.

it gets sloppier by the second, loud sucking noises and cameron’s groans fill the room. your hand circles your clit a little faster; moaning around his dick you look up at him with teary eyes.

“keep looking up at me like that and imma cum right on your pretty face.” his voice cracks a bit as his hand grabs at your hair making you suck at his desired pace; you shake your head making him go deeper than before, then lifting your head up to take a deep breath. “fuck fuck fuck” you gasp as your fingers hit the spots you love most. hand fully stroking his dick in replacement of your mouth. “play with my pussy cam. please i’m so wet”

a slight growl leaves his mouth as you desperately gesture at his hand that was gripping the pillow behind him, dipping this thick fingers right into your slit gathering all of the arousal that seeps out of you. his fingers slide in and curl directly onto that spot. tiny whimpers fall from your mouth, you hold his dick to the side of your face and rub your cheek on it, looking up at him. “fuck i love you cam. i love your face, your smile, your scent.” you pause to lick up his base to tip with a moan. “mmm your dick. i love all of you”

“is that right baby?” cameron says as he grabs his dick from you and slaps it on your face; “i love you too” his fingers speed up and pull you closer to him with every thrust. your mouth falls open with a nod, grabbing at his wrist. “yes cam, right there.” you look down at his hand and ogle at him fucking you open. you lick your fingers and toy with your clit again, putting him back in your mouth almost instantly.

“almost there baby doll.” he moans as he hits the back of your throat. your eyes roll back as you grind into his hand. soft curse words and groans leave his mouth, you moan around his dick leaving a sloppy mess on it. your orgasm quickly simmering at the bottom of your stomach. you swallow around him a bit more before pulling off of him with a pop. “i’m cumming” you look back at his hand as a string of gasps and moans leave your mouth, tears fall down your face as you watch his fingers disappear inside you.

“that’s it baby, give me that nut.” cameron tilts his head to look at your fucked out face, his other hand softly caressing your back through your orgasm. you continue to stroke him with a tight fist, your thumb paying attention to his tip. you watch him remove his fingers from you, soaked with your cum, he brings them up to his lips and licks them off. his eyes closing as he tastes you on every single spot on his tongue.

a groan leaves your mouth as you crawl back up to him, straddling his hips you kiss up his neck and sink onto him. a sigh of satisfaction fall from both of your lips. “you’re so deep.” cameron’s hands find their way to your ass; lifting you up and dropping you down onto his dick. your hips moving in a small circle as you move down. your hands travel up and down his abs as you ride him.

no words leave your mouths, just soft grunts and gasps. forehead to forehead, you look into his dilated eyes, he looks so good like this. cheeks hot and red, sweat slowly dripping down his face, bottom lip tucked under his perfect teeth. you could fuck him for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. nothing else matters in between you two. just the sound of skin slaps and bed springs, his dick pushing onto that gummy spot inside you, another orgasm creeps up in you again as he makes you bounce faster. good thing he’s doing majority of the work, your body quivers with sensitivity as you cum again. legs shaking around him while his name leaves your mouth.

your jaw drops open without a sound, eyebrows twisted in pleasure as he continues to fuck you dumb. a slight chuckle leaves his lips. “you can take it baby.” he lifts you up and drops you on his dick like a toy. his tongue slides into your open mouth, swirling around your tongue. kissing him like your life depends on it your hands explore his body. his hands grip your ass, your nails scratch at his back trying to claw your way out of overstimulation.

a couple of short bounces onto him and he cums with a groan, lips simply inches from each other he pulls you close to him, your chests pressed together. he licks the sweat off of your neck and leaves little love bites. you giggle and roll off of him, pulling the blanket over your bodies.

“where did that come from” he pants while looking over at you, a hand squeezing at your thigh. “i think i’m ovulating” you trace his face with a smile, “makes me turn into a wolf sometimes.” he nods and smiles back at you. “my favorite time of the month.” he mutters with a nibble to your shoulder.

“mine too… give me like four minutes, we can go again. if you can handle it.”

“if i can handle it? you’re shaking talking about wait four minutes let’s see if you can handle it.” he disappears under the blanket and in between your thighs.

you squeal, laugh, moan, and cum. even if your day was terrible. at least you had cameron to make your night amazing.

[keer-y]

thinking lots.. gator or steve making you cum just from slapping his dick on your clit

man can you imagine

MDNI//SMUT—[unsafe] vaginal sex, teasing, pussy slapping, spit kink, oral sex (f receiving)

steve first, then gator ••• under the cut

&&

steve would have you holding yourself open. he’d guide your hands down behind your knees and gently press your own fingers into your legs, moving your body with you as he let you spread your own legs for him.

he’d lean in close and you’d hold your breath, because his mouth is soclose to you, but he doesn’t do anything other than give a kiss to your thigh and then inhale your scent, mouth open like he wants to try and taste you too from inches away. you make a small noise in your throat and then he turns, shifts a little, sucks in his cheeks and then spits right onto your open core, the glob of saliva dripping down the seam of your lips, rolling over your slit down to your slit, where it settles, shiny, warm; you shudder.

and then he’s up on his knees, hovering above you, his hands exploring your body, caressing your tits and your sides and your stomach, settling in your waist as he leans in, the heavy weight of his cock settling on top of you, nestled against your thigh. he reaches one hand down, correcting the placement—he lets it lay across your quivering folds, and rolls his hips. you feel the pass of his cock lightly, because he’s just laying on you, no pressure, nothing holding him against you—and then he starts in.

he takes hold of his cock and strokes himself, thumb smoothing over the head, focusing on the slit like you do, and you watch transfixed until he slides his hand to the base and holds himself, erect, flushed at the tip, over you. then, with one quick, clean movement—he slaps the head against your clit.

you’re not worked up enough—yet—to have much of a reaction but that doesn’t deter him. he just does it again, every now and then smoothing his palm over your pussy, rubbing at your clit with the pads of his fingers, working you up to it gradually, and every time you get close he just uses his cock on you again, like it’s a toy, not part of him. like it’s only good for looking pretty and giving you something to suck on and bat away at your clit with the spongy head until you come from the play.

you’re so wet from him touching you that you can hear it when he taps the head repeatedly against you, his thumb stretched along the top so you really feel it when he pushes the head into your clit, circling it over you, and when he pulls away there’s an obscene wet, almost sucking sound like your fluids and his precome were keeping you stuck together, like your body and his didn’t want to part but for the force of him pulling away.

you sigh—the one he knows, where you like it but want more, and so he gives you one last flick of his wrist, the head popping against your clit again, before he lowers his mouth to you instead, broad shoulders against the backs of your hands as he licks at you, tonguing your clit and sucking it. and that’s about all it takes—a couple soft pulls with his lips, some long quick strokes with his tongue, and you come apart against his mouth, releasing your knees and curling your hands into his hair instead, holding on for dear life as you ride your orgasm out on his face.

&&

gator would definitely make use of his cuffs and have you laying there with your arms up above your head, not able to move while he has one of your legs up against his front, your calf resting on his shoulder. he’d just gently kiss your ankle which would be such a stark contrast to the way that he’s holding your other leg down flat, palm splayed out against your thigh so you’re spread open. he’d probably have you like that for what feels like hours, playing with your pussy almost idly, like he doesn’t care, like he’s not affected, like his cock isn’t rock hard and dripping precome.

he’d use his other hand to hold onto himself and just bat the head against you, nudging your clit with the tip, curling his hips forward so the underside rubs against your swollen, desperate clit, your lips puffy with all the attention he’s been giving them. he’d swap out and use his hand on you every couple passes of his dick, and you’d watch as he pulls away, not able to touch anything but keeping your fingers tangled together. the bottom of his cock is shiny with you, and he’d slap your pussy and dig his fingers into your cunt, scissoring them apart before pulling them out once you start squirming, enjoying it too much—and then he’d just smear your arousal over himself and take hold of his shaft again.

he’d sidle closer on his knees, looming over you and snap his wrist downward, his cock hitting against your clit and you’d twitch, because you’re so worked up and fucked out and the only part of him that’s been inside you is two of his fingers. you’d push your hips up, try to widen your legs, his fingertips pressing divots into your thigh, and he brings his cock down against you. your whole body jumps, and even he gasps as your pussy spasms. he meets your eyes and you nod, whining, so he does it again, and again, your whimpers turning to mewls turning to simpering moans and then he’s slotting his cock between your lips and fucking through them, between them, the slide slick and easy and the pressure and hard ridge of his cock dragging over your soaking folds, his hand rough on your leg, is what pushes you over.

your cunt clamps down on itself, empty, empty, emp—

gator bullies his cock into you as you come, your orgasm drawn out, lasting forever, and your whole body kicks again, your toes curling as he fucks into you, winding you up again, stomach tensing as you feel him inside you, deep, moving in and letting you milk his come from his cock. he fills you up, his arm tight around your leg, holding it to his chest, flooding you with his release, until you both relax and he pulls out and his spunk dribbles out after him

but he doesn’t relent, even as you tug at the cuffs—he just starts again, slapping the wet head against your clit, so sensitive it’s just on this side of too much. the grin that splits his face doesn’t soften his hard eyes, and you settle yourself down for another go-round.

[fromv3nus]

yes.

[ytrhbz]

𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐀 ────

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ one - shot. jude bellingham x reader. 18+. groupie x celebrity. smut and little angst. cheating (jude is). reader is a playgirl. dry humping. riding. yearner!jude. ◞ seducing men like jude is a part-time job for you

the stadium lights are blinding, a neon haze that turns the pitch into a stage, but you don’t care about the roar of the crowd or the tactical formation. you’re here for one reason: jude.

you’ve spent the last year perfecting the art of the chase—flickering between hotel lobbies and vip lounges, catching the eyes of men who think they hold the world in their boots. for you, these high-profile encounters are just stories waiting to be written in the dark, a collection of fleeting moments with the famous and the untouchable. but jude is different. he isn't just another name on a guest list; he’s the obsession that keeps you up at 3 a.m.

the air is thick with the scent of damp grass and expensive cologne as you lean against the railing of the player’s tunnel. you look impeccable—a calculated, effortless display of allure that usually leaves athletes stumbling over their words. when he finally trots onto the pitch for the warm-up, the sound of thousands of voices vanishes for you. he looks lethal in that england kit, his focus absolute, his movements sharp enough to cut through the tension in your chest.

as he turns toward your side of the pitch, you catch that brief, intense flicker of recognition in his eyes before he turns back to the ball. the game hasn't even started yet, but you can feel it—the thrill of the hunt, the promise of a dangerous night, and the silent realization that tonight, you are the only thing that matters in his peripheral vision.

the game is a blur of motion and color, but for you, the world has narrowed down to a single frame: the way he commands the pitch. every time the ball finds his feet, the stadium seems to hold its breath. you watch the muscles in his legs coil and release, his grace under pressure nothing short of mesmerizing. he isn’t just playing football; he’s performing, every touch calculated, every turn a display of raw, magnetic power.

he is devastatingly beautiful, his presence radiating a confidence that makes the thousands watching feel like he’s playing for them alone. you track the sheen of sweat on his skin, the intense, hooded look in his eyes as he scans the field, and the way he brushes his hair back with a quick, impatient flick of his hand. it’s an effortless kind of attraction—the way he holds himself, the authority in his gestures, the way he celebrates a goal with that familiar, iconic stance that stops your heart in your throat.

you find yourself ignoring the rest of the match entirely. you don’t care about the score or the opposing team; you are feeding on the sight of him. his talent is intoxicating, but it’s his sheer, unapologetic allure that has you completely hooked. he’s lethal, elegant, and impossibly desirable, and with every passing minute of the game, the desire to have that focus—that intensity—turned entirely on you becomes a physical ache. you aren't just watching him; you are studying him, cataloging every detail, waiting for the moment when the final whistle blows and you can finally make your move.

you know the rhythm of this game better than anyone. as the final minutes tick away, you don't stay to watch the celebration on the pitch; you’re already moving, slipping away from your seat before the crowd can even think about surging toward the exits.

your heels click softly against the cold concrete of the stadium’s bowels, a sound drowned out by the muffled roar above. you aren't just another fan; you move with the kind of practiced, unbothered confidence that makes security guards look the other way. a knowing nod, a strategic flash of a pass you didn't technically earn, and you’re weaving through the labyrinthine corridors. you navigate the maze of staff, photographers, and media personnel, your presence so seamless it’s practically invisible.

you find your spot—that golden, restricted passage where the players have to pass before they can retreat to the sanctuary of the dressing room. it’s a tight, industrial space, smelling of stale air and adrenaline. there’s a small group of journalists nearby, clutching their microphones like weapons, but you’re positioned just perfectly, tucked into the shadows of a reinforced door frame.

your heart is drumming a chaotic rhythm against your ribs, not from nerves, but from the thrill of the maneuver. you’ve played this scene out a dozen times before, but this time feels heavy, electric. you adjust your jacket, catching your reflection in a darkened glass panel—you look cool, collected, and entirely intentional. the stadium is echoing with the final whistle now, and the sound of heavy footsteps approaching sends a jolt of static through the air. he’s coming. you lean back, crossing your arms, waiting for the exact moment the tunnel lights reveal him, knowing that when he walks past, you won't be just another face in the crowd. you’ll be the only thing he stops for.

the tunnel erupts in a cacophony of echoes—cheers, footsteps, and the relentless flash of cameras. when he emerges, he’s still buzzing with the adrenaline of the win, his england jersey damp against his skin. he handles the journalists with a practiced, charming ease, answering questions with that low, melodic drawl you’ve replayed in your head a thousand times.

then, the chaos shifts. he starts moving down the line, signing shirts and posing for quick snaps. your pulse is a frantic drumbeat, but your exterior is a masterpiece of cool. as he gets closer, the air around him feels charged, almost heavy.

when he finally reaches you, the world seems to sharpen into high definition. you extend your hand, offering the photo and a pen, your movements slow and deliberate. he stops. his eyes dart from the paper to your face, and then back again—a flicker of genuine, unguarded surprise crossing his features. it’s as if he didn't expect to find someone quite like you tucked away in this sterile, industrial corridor.

you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into his space, and deliver your line with a voice that is honey-smooth and perfectly measured. "you were incredible tonight, jude," you say, your smile soft and knowing. "i’ve been waiting all match for this."

the effect is immediate. the effortless, public-facing composure he’s maintained all night wavers. his eyebrows knit together for a split second, a look of fleeting disorientation, as if he’s trying to place why you feel so familiar, or perhaps, why you don't feel like the rest of the fans at all.

but then, the tension breaks. he lets out a short, surprised laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looks at you properly, really seeing you. he doesn't just scribble his name; he takes a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile turning warm and unmistakably curious.

"thank you," he says, his voice a little lower, a little more intimate than it was for the others. he’s clearly a bit thrown off, off-balance in the best possible way, but he holds your gaze, completely disarmed by your presence. "i appreciate that. truly."

he hands the photo back, his fingers brushing against yours, and for a fleeting, delicious second, he doesn't pull away. the game is over, but the real show is just beginning.

you hold his gaze just a second longer than necessary, your expression shifting from simple admiration to something far more intimate, far more dangerous. you let your eyes trace the line of his jaw before locking back onto his, a slow, deliberate play of power.

"i'm a huge fan," you murmur, your voice dropping into that sweet, velvety register that makes him instinctively lean in, even if just by a fraction of an inch. "but i think we both know that goes without saying, don't we?"

the air between you hums with the unspoken. you watch the flicker of realization cross his face—that you aren't playing by the rules of a normal fan interaction. you aren't asking for a selfie, you aren't begging for attention; you are setting a trap, and he’s realized, a second too late, that he’s already halfway inside it.

"thank you, jude," you say, your voice barely a whisper, soft and lingering.

without waiting for him to find his footing, you pull your hand back and pivot, turning your back to him with the grace of a predator who knows exactly when to walk away. you walk down the concrete corridor with a measured, rhythmic stride, your hips swaying just enough to hold his attention, your posture perfectly arched.

you can feel his eyes on you—heavy, intense, and utterly bewildered. he’s standing there, frozen for a heartbeat, his hand still lingering in the air where he had just signed your photo. he’s not used to being the one left behind, and he’s certainly not used to someone leaving him speechless in a tunnel full of people.

as you reach the turn of the hallway, you pause. you don't stop walking, but you tilt your head back over your shoulder, offering him one final, knowing smile—the kind that promises everything and gives away nothing. you see his lips part, a silent question forming on his tongue, but you’re already rounding the corner, leaving him anchored to the spot, completely unsettled by your sudden, intoxicating disappearance.

the silence in the corridor after you disappear feels heavier than the noise that preceded it. jude stands frozen for a beat too long, his eyes still fixed on the empty space where you just were, his mind rewinding the last thirty seconds.

"who was that?"

the voice of a teammate—sharp, amused, and laced with curiosity—cuts through his daze. jude blinks, his focus snapping back to the reality of the stadium tunnel. he looks toward the other player, a faint, perplexed frown creasing his brow as he shakes his head, his fingers subconsciously rubbing against the spot on his palm where they’d brushed against yours.

"i have absolutely no idea," jude replies, his voice steady but betraying a trace of lingering disbelief. there’s a strange, kinetic energy still prickling his skin, a lingering sense of being completely caught off guard by someone he didn't even know existed a minute ago.

the reality of his situation hits him then. he’s surrounded by a throng of waiting fans, cameras are still clicking, and the line behind him is growing restless. he takes a deep, grounding breath, forcing his composure back into place. he has to finish this—the jerseys, the pens, the relentless parade of faces—but every name he signs and every handshake he offers feels mechanical, forced, and hollow compared to the electricity of that brief, strange encounter.

he keeps glancing toward the corner you rounded, his eyes searching the shadows, his mind busy trying to reconcile the professional footballer he’s expected to be with the man who just had his world momentarily tilted off its axis by a girl who didn't even leave her name.

the satisfaction is a slow burn in your chest as you settle into the designated area near the training pitch. a few days have passed, but the look on his face in that corridor hasn't faded from your mind. you know how this game is played—persistence is just another form of seduction. you’ve secured your spot among the media crew, dressed with an effortless, casual chic that screams 'off-duty' while still demanding every ounce of focus from anyone who happens to look your way.

the air is crisp, filled with the sharp sound of cleats hitting the turf and the rhythmic thud of footballs being kicked across the field. you aren't trying to hide; in fact, you’re positioned exactly where he’s bound to see you.

as the players emerge from the facility, spilling onto the green in a wave of motion and chatter, you don't track them. you don't even scan the group. you just watch the pitch, your posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.

the recognition is instantaneous.

as jude jogs toward the center of the pitch, his conversation with a teammate abruptly dies in his throat. his head snaps toward the sidelines, his stride faltering for a split second before he regains his rhythm. his eyes lock onto yours, and you can practically see the jolt of surprise—and something deeper, something far more intense—hit him. he doesn't break eye contact. even as he starts his light warm-up drills, he’s constantly checking back to your position, his movements suddenly carrying a different kind of energy. he’s not just practicing anymore; he’s performing, and the stage is now small enough that he knows you’re the only audience member that actually counts.

he doesn't wave, and he doesn't smile—not yet. he just stares, his gaze dark and unreadable, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re a hallucination or the most dangerous thing to happen to his training routine. you lean back, enjoying the way his focus has completely shattered, knowing exactly why he can't look away.

the training session is a masterclass in unintentional chaos, and you are the reason for it. it’s amusing—delightfully so—to watch a man who usually operates with such clinical, machine-like focus on the pitch turn into someone who can barely track the ball.

every time the ball rolls near his feet, his eyes flick toward the sidelines, checking to see if you’re still there, if you’re still watching. he’s lost his rhythm, overthinking his touches, and stumbling over his own feet in ways that would usually earn him a stern look from his teammates. his coach is already starting to notice, barking out orders to "stay focused" and "get your head in the game," but jude just wipes the sweat from his forehead with his jersey, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and pure, helpless fascination.

you sit there, perfectly still, enjoying the quiet power of it. you aren't shouting his name or waving like the other fans who are hovering in the distance. you just watch him with that same calm, enigmatic smile you gave him in the tunnel. the more you ignore his attempts to catch your attention, the more desperate his efforts become. he tries to show off, launching a long-range pass that misses its mark because his focus is pinned on you, not the teammate he’s supposed to be hitting.

it’s intoxicating to hold that kind of sway over someone so iconic. he’s essentially fighting a losing battle against his own distraction. he’s clearly agitated, running a hand through his hair, his chest heaving with exertion, and every few minutes, he glances over—searching for a reaction, a sign, anything.

you see the exact moment he gives up on pretending. he stops mid-drill, hands on his hips, his gaze locking onto yours with a intensity that burns through the distance between you. he isn't even trying to hide it anymore. he looks tired, frustrated, and completely under your spell. you tilt your head slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes, letting him know that you see him seeing you. he doesn't look away, and for a moment, the entire training ground seems to fade into nothing but the two of you, leaving him exposed, unraveling, and absolutely hooked.

as you stand up, brushing off your clothes with deliberate, languid movements, you can see the exact moment his composure snaps. he’s supposed to be listening to a tactical instruction, but his eyes track your every movement—the way you stand, the way you adjust your bag, the way you turn to walk away. he doesn't even wait for the whistle.

he mutters something hasty to his teammate, a vague excuse about the facilities, and peels away from the drill. he isn't walking; he’s hunting.

you’ve already calculated your path. you head toward the quiet, sterile hallway that leads back toward the players' lounge, knowing exactly where the acoustics are best for an encounter. you aren't running, but you aren't lingering, either. you want him to have to work for it.

you hear the sharp, rhythmic slap of his boots against the floor behind you—he’s moving fast, his breathing heavy from the training intensity. just as you reach the corner, his hand catches the frame of the door, his frame blocking the path. he’s flushed, his hair damp and chaotic, his chest rising and falling with a tempo that has nothing to do with fitness.

he stops when he sees you, leaning slightly against the wall, trying to catch his breath. his eyes are wide, searching yours, his professional veneer completely stripped away.

"you," he breathes, the word a mix of accusation and awe. he looks back toward the pitch, then back to you, clearly aware of the risk he’s taking by being here. "you were watching. all of it."

you don’t give him the satisfaction of a direct admission. instead, you lean back against the wall, crossing your arms, and let a slow, mischievous smile curl your lips. you look him up and down—the grass stains on his kit, the raw, unpolished energy of a man who just risked his coach’s wrath for a glimpse of you.

"you seem distracted, jude," you say, your voice soft, honeyed, and dripping with playfulness. "if you’re going to be this bad at your job, maybe you should have stayed on the pitch."

he lets out a low, breathless laugh, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. he steps a fraction closer, invading your space, the heat radiating off his body almost overwhelming. "i think we both know that wasn't my choice," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "you’re playing a dangerous game, you know that?"

you tilt your head, feigning innocence. "am i? i was just watching the best player on the field. is that a crime?"

he brushes a hand through his hair, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and hunger. he knows he’s trapped, and the way his pupils dilate tells you he wouldn't have it any other way. he’s completely yours to toy with now.

"what do you want?" he asks, his voice barely a tremor in the quiet hallway.

you take a slow step toward him, closing the remaining distance until you're inches away. "i think you already know the answer to that, don't you?"

a low, raspy chuckle escapes his throat, but it lacks any real conviction. he shifts his weight, leaning one arm against the wall right beside your head, effectively boxing you into the corner. he’s trying to hold onto his defenses, but the way his gaze sweeps over your face—searching for any sign that you’re bluffing—gives him away.

"i have a girlfriend," he says, the words clipped and defensive. he says it like a shield, but his eyes tell a different story.

you don't even flinch. instead, you let out a light, melodic laugh that echoes against the tiled walls, a sound that clearly unmoors him even further. you reach out, your fingers tracing the edge of his training jersey, letting your hand rest lightly on his chest, right over his racing heart. you can feel the frantic rhythm beneath the fabric—it’s the fastest it’s been all day.

you look up at him through your lashes, your expression dripping with amused confidence. "do you really think i’m naive, jude?" you whisper, your voice a soft, challenging taunt. "because if that were true—if you were truly as settled and content as you want me to believe—you wouldn't be standing here in a deserted hallway, hiding from your coaches, completely out of breath, just to find a girl you barely even know."

you take a deliberate step forward, forcing him to lean back further against the wall. you’re so close now that you can smell the faint, clean scent of his shower gel and the musky reality of his sweat.

"men like you don't chase things they aren't hungry for," you continue, your voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous low. "you didn't come here because you're happy. you came here because you were desperate to see if i was as real as you thought i was."

the amusement drains from his face, replaced by a raw, intense focus. he doesn't pull away; he doesn't even try to lie again. he just watches your lips, his own mouth slightly parted, his breathing hitching as the weight of your words settles between you. the air in the narrow space is suffocatingly thick, and for the first time, he looks absolutely terrified of how easily you’ve dismantled him.

the distance between you vanishes until you are merely a heartbeat away. you can see the precise moment his resolve shatters; his eyes drift from yours to your lips, and he leans in, an instinctive, magnetic pull he no longer has the strength to fight. his posture softens, his hand inches toward your waist, and his breath hitches—he is fully prepared to cross that line, to let the world outside this hallway cease to exist for the sake of one kiss.

you let the anticipation stretch, thick and intoxicating. you can see the pulse at the base of his throat thumping in time with your own. he’s leaning into you, his eyes closing, fully surrendered to the inevitable.

and then, you move.

with a fluidity that feels almost cruel, you slide out of his space just as his lips are about to find their target. the air feels suddenly cold where your warmth had been. he stumbles slightly, his hand grasping at empty air, his eyes flying open in a mixture of confusion and raw, electric shock. he’s left leaning against the wall, chest heaving, looking as though he’s just been jolted awake from a dream.

you don't run; you walk away with that same slow, rhythmic elegance that has been haunting him all afternoon. you don’t look back until you’re ten paces down the hall, your footsteps echoing sharply against the concrete.

when you finally pause, you turn just enough to glance over your shoulder. your expression is cool, composed, and utterly triumphant. his eyes are still locked on you, burning with a frantic, desperate intensity that says he’s completely hooked.

you tilt your head, a soft, parting smile touching your lips—the kind that promises you’re both the prize and the problem.

"bye, jude," you murmur, your voice lingering in the quiet corridor, light as a feather but heavy with consequence.

before he can find his voice, before he can move or call out to stop you, you turn the corner and vanish once more, leaving him standing there in the silence, utterly dismantled.

for the next few days, the training ground becomes a theater of his internal war. jude is no longer the clinical, effortless phenom the team relies on; he is erratic, his mind a thousand miles away from the tactical drills and the coach's whistle.

every time a ball rolls out of bounds, his eyes immediately scan the sidelines, searching the crowd for a flash of your silhouette, a familiar tilt of your head, or the memory of your perfume lingering in the air. he is haunted by the phantom of that touch, the way you dismantled his excuses, and that final, lingering "bye" that seems to echo in his ears during the dead silence of his hotel room at night.

he finds himself asking, without really asking, questions that reveal too much to his teammates. he’ll pause mid-pass, frowning at the turf, wondering: who is she? is she just another face that drifts through the VIP lounge, or is she something else, something intentional? he replays every word you said, analyzing your tone, trying to decipher if you were playing a game or if you were testing him—or worse, if you were right about him all along.

the mystery of you has become his newest obsession. he starts to over-analyze his own life, looking at the life he’s built—the media obligations, the relationship, the relentless expectations—and seeing it through the lens of your dismissive, amused smile. he is a man who is used to being the one in control, the one who dictates the pace of the game, but now, he feels like the one being marked, shadowed, and systematically picked apart.

he catches himself staring off into the distance during team meetings, the coach's voice fading into white noise as he tries to piece together the puzzle of you. he isn't just distracted; he is unraveling. he’s burning with a need to find you again, not because he’s looking for a signature or a photo, but because he needs to know if the power you hold over him is real—or if he’s finally lost his grip on the only world he’s ever known.

every time he closes his eyes, he sees that hallway. he feels the phantom heat of your proximity. and as he laces up his boots for the next session, he knows with a sinking, exhilarating certainty that he’s not looking for a ball anymore; he’s looking for the next time you decide to show up and break his composure all over again.

few days after,

the press room is a buzz of low-frequency chatter, the glare of stage lights reflecting off the water bottles on the table. jude is slouched slightly in his chair, his usual professional mask firmly in place, answering standard questions about the team’s form with practiced, mechanical efficiency. he looks tired, the weight of the last few days of internal conflict showing in the slight tension around his eyes.

then, the moderator points to your section. "next question, front row."

you lean into the microphone, the metallic click of the equipment echoing through the room. "jude," you begin, your voice smooth, melodic, and instantly unmistakable. "considering the pressure of this season, how do you manage to keep your focus when the game takes an unexpected turn?"

at the first syllable, jude freezes. the pen he was fidgeting with drops onto the desk with a sharp clack. he goes rigid, his head snapping toward the audience. for a fleeting, desperate second, he convinces himself it’s just a trick of his mind—a cruel auditory hallucination born from days of obsession. he tells himself there are thousands of people in this city, and it’s impossible for you to be sitting in a room full of accredited press.

but then, the cameras shift, and the view clears. he locks eyes with you.

the air leaves his lungs in a sharp, audible exhale. he is visibly rattled, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable crimson. he doesn't just look surprised; he looks completely blindsided, his composure disintegrating in front of a dozen live cameras. he grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white, his gaze locked onto your face as if he’s trying to confirm you’re solid, real, and actually standing there.

the room falls into a sudden, heavy silence, the other journalists glancing between the two of you, sensing the strange, electric shift in the atmosphere. jude’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. he’s struggling to reconcile the professional reality of the press conference with the chaotic, intimate reality you’ve built between you.

he stares at you, paralyzed, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that the entire room—and the thousands watching online—can almost feel. you hold his gaze, unblinking and perfectly serene, while the man who is supposed to be the most composed player on the pitch looks like he’s just seen a ghost—or the one person he’s been terrified to face.

he clears his throat, the sound rough and forced. he forces his shoulders to drop, dragging his eyes away from yours to stare blankly at the microphones, his fingers gripping his water bottle so tightly his knuckles are white.

"it’s... it’s about perspective," he manages to say, his voice a fraction deeper than usual, straining to keep the tremor out of it. "sometimes the things you least expect are the ones that test your discipline the most. you just have to find a way to... to stay grounded."

it’s a generic, safe answer, but his eyes keep darting back to you, betraying every word. he’s sweating now, a thin sheen on his forehead that the stage lights catch. he’s failing, and he knows it.

you offer him one last, slow smile—the one that sits right on the edge of a secret—and then, without waiting for the follow-up, you tuck your notebook under your arm. you rise with that same fluid, predatory grace, your heels clicking against the floor. you turn your back on him, walking toward the exit of the press room with an air of complete indifference, leaving him mid-sentence as he tries to finish a thought that has already completely evaporated from his mind.

he watches you go, his head tracking your movement until you’re forced out of his line of sight by the heavy double doors. the moderator tries to move to the next question, but jude isn't there anymore. he’s staring at the door, his jaw tight, his leg bouncing nervously under the table.

the moment the moderator utters the words, "that concludes the conference," jude doesn't wait for his pr team to gather the equipment. he stands up with a sudden, sharp motion, muttering a frantic apology to his teammates and the staff.

"gotta go," he says, already moving, his strides long and urgent as he pushes past the photographers and security personnel.

he bursts out of the press room, his eyes scanning the corridor, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. he ignores the calls of the staff behind him, his only focus the sound of those retreating heels. he doesn't know what he's going to say when he catches you, he doesn't know why he’s chasing you again, but he knows one thing for certain: he’s done playing the game by your rules. he’s finally going to corner you.

you’re walking down a dimly lit service hallway when the sharp, heavy rhythm of his gait catches up to you. he’s fast, his chest heaving as he rounds the corner, and before you can even register the sound, he’s blocked your path, his hands bracing against the wall on either side of you. he looks frantic—the kind of look he never wears on the pitch.

"what is this?" he demands, his voice low, sharp, and laced with pure, unadulterated confusion. "how are you here? why are you here? why are you... everywhere?"

the questions spill out of him, tumbling over one another. he’s looking at you like you’re a riddle he’s terrified he won't be able to solve, and for the first time, his professional armor is stripped completely bare. he isn't just asking; he’s pleading for an explanation, for some sense of order in the chaos you’ve introduced to his life.

you don't look intimidated. in fact, you look amused. you watch him with an unhurried, languid gaze, leaning back against the cool tiles until your shoulders brush his arms. you let the silence stretch for a moment, enjoying the way his breathing hitches as he waits for an answer you have no intention of giving him—at least, not yet.

you reach up, your fingers grazing the collar of his jacket, and you smooth it down with a slow, deliberate touch. he flinches at the contact, his eyes tracking your hand with hungry, desperate focus.

"jude," you purr, your voice like liquid velvet, cutting through his frantic energy. you look up at him through your lashes, a teasing, lopsided smile playing on your lips. "breathe."

you let your hand trail down to his chest, feeling the wild, irregular thrum of his heart—a rhythmic betrayal of his composure. you run your thumb over the fabric of his shirt, a small, circular motion that seems to snap his focus entirely to your touch.

"you’re spiraling," you whisper, the sweetness of your tone dripping with a mock-sympathy that only pushes him further toward the edge. "why are you so desperate to understand me? maybe you should spend less time asking questions and more time enjoying the view."

you lean in close, just enough for him to smell the scent of you, your breath feathering against his jawline. he’s frozen, trapped between the urge to back away and the impossible gravity that keeps him locked in your orbit. you tilt your head, a glint of triumph dancing in your eyes as you watch him struggle to regain his footing, completely at the mercy of your game.

"you're so tense, darling," you tease, your voice barely a breath. "do you always get this worked up when you don't know the final score?"

he lets out a sharp, incredulous huff, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that’s almost painful. "is this it?" he asks, his voice dropping into a low, strained register. "is this just your thing? you show up, you haunt the corridors, you get into the press rooms... do you do this with everyone? is every athlete, every celebrity just a target for your little games?"

you don't pull away. instead, you let a soft, melodic laugh escape your throat—a sound that is light, dismissive, and utterly infuriating. you reach up and trace the line of his jaw with a single finger, your touch light as a feather but heavy with implication. you feel him shudder under your contact, the rigid line of his shoulders slackening despite himself.

"you're overthinking it again, jude," you murmur, your eyes sparkling with playful mischief. "why does it matter if i've done it before? does it make what's happening between us right now any less real?"

he stiffens, his grip on the wall tightening. you’ve hit a nerve—he hates that he wants to know, hates that he’s jealous of the idea of you playing this game with anyone else, but more than anything, he hates how little he knows about you. he’s completely paralyzed by the desire to keep standing here, to keep hearing your voice, to keep deciphering the mystery that is you.

"you're impossible," he breathes, his gaze dropping to your mouth and staying there, his frustration warring with a magnetic pull he can no longer deny.

you tilt your head, a triumphant, secretive smile playing on your lips. you can see the conflict raging behind his eyes—he wants to walk away, to go back to his life and the safety of his routine, but he’s rooted to the spot, entirely addicted to the chaos you bring.

"i'm not impossible, jude," you whisper, stepping just a hair closer, letting your chest brush against his. "i'm just the first person who hasn't played by your rules. it’s quite a thrill, isn't it?"

he doesn't answer, he can't. he just stares at you, his breathing shallow, looking like a man who knows he’s walking into a fire but has lost the will to turn back.

your hand drifts down, your palm pressing firmly against the center of his chest. you can feel the frantic, irregular thudding of his heart—a physical manifestation of the complete power you hold over him. you lean in, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, and you let your breath hitch as you speak, your voice a low, honeyed secret that sends a visible shiver down his spine.

"next time, jude," you whisper, the words heavy with promise, "i won't be in a crowd. i’ll be waiting. just for you. and if you’re brave enough to come find me, i’ll finally show you exactly who i am."

the air in the hallway seems to vanish. you pull back just enough to catch his gaze, a wicked, knowing smirk playing on your lips. he’s completely paralyzed, his mouth slightly parted, his breathing ragged. the sheer audacity of your invitation, combined with the way you’re dismantling his defenses, leaves him reeling. he’s trapped in a labyrinth of his own desire, and you’ve just handed him the map to the center.

you don't wait for a reply. you give his chest one final, lingering caress before slipping out from beneath his arm. your exit is swift and silent, your heels clicking against the floor with a rhythmic finality that echoes in the cramped space.

you don't look back this time. you round the corner, leaving him alone in the dim light of the corridor.

behind you, jude doesn't move. he stays pressed against the wall, his hands falling to his sides, his chest still heaving with the ghost of your presence. he’s utterly spellbound, a man who knows he has just been marked. the weight of your words hangs in the air, a siren song that has already decided his future. he is standing in the silence, his heart racing, realizing with a terrifying clarity that he isn't just hooked—he is completely and irrevocably yours.

the shift in jude is visceral, and it doesn't go unnoticed by the people around him. his life, once carefully curated and balanced between high-stakes football and his public relationship, has begun to fracture under the weight of the unknown. that anchor he used to hold onto—his girlfriend—has become nothing more than a blurred background noise, a static frequency he’s tuned out entirely. his thoughts are no longer occupied by tactical maneuvers or his future career; they are exclusively yours.

he spends his nights staring at the ceiling of his hotel room, the silence amplified by the maddening loops of your voice in his head. why are you everywhere? who are you really?

the confusion is a physical ache. every time he sees a shadow in a corner, or hears the faint click of heels in a lobby, his entire posture shifts. he’s constantly on edge, his eyes scanning every room he enters with a frantic, desperate intensity. his teammates have stopped joking about his mood; there’s a new, sharp irritability to him that makes even the coaching staff tread carefully. he’s lost his rhythm, and for a player who prides himself on total command, this lack of control is terrifying.

he is obsessed. he finds himself scrolling through social media, searching for any trace of you, any photo that might have caught your face in the background of a stadium event. he’s hunting for a name, a history, a clue—anything to make you tangible instead of this ethereal, dangerous force that has dismantled his reality.

during training, he’s a ghost of his former self. he’ll go for minutes at a time without touching the ball, his focus shattered by the mere possibility that you might be watching from the sidelines again. he’s no longer looking for his teammates’ runs; he’s looking for you.

the realization that he is "condemned" settles into his marrow. he knows he’s setting himself up for disaster, that seeking you out is a path that could jeopardize everything he’s worked for. but the pull is too strong. you’ve become the only thing that makes his pulse race, the only thing that makes the world feel real. he’s not just waiting for the next match; he’s waiting for the next move in a game he knows he’s already lost.

he’s no longer playing football for the fans or the trophies. he’s playing, waiting, and breathing entirely for the moment you decide to reappear and finally unveil the secret you’ve been keeping from him.

the match had been exhilarating, the kind of night where every pass clicked and the stadium’s roar still hummed in his bones. jude slumped into the back of his waiting car, the interior dark and quiet, a sanctuary after the blinding lights of the pitch. he leaned his head back, closing his eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath of pure, adrenaline-fueled relief. he wasn't thinking about you—not for the first time in hours. he was just a man enjoying the aftermath of victory.

"home, please," he murmured to the driver, his voice thick with exhaustion.

the engine purred to life, and as the car began to glide away from the stadium, a subtle shift in the air caught his attention. it wasn't just the scent of leather anymore; there was something else—a faint, intoxicating trace of your perfume that hit him like a physical blow. his eyes snapped open.

he turned his head to the left, his gaze cutting through the dim cabin light.

you were there.

you were draped against the seat with an effortless, feline grace, the shadows playing over the curve of your collarbone and the soft fabric of your dress. you looked even more breathtaking than usual, your makeup flawless, your hair falling in loose, artful waves. you didn't look like a fan, or a journalist, or a stalker; you looked like a predator who had finally cornered her prize.

jude froze, his entire body going rigid. his heart, which had been slowing down to a calm, post-match rhythm, instantly spiked into a violent, erratic thud against his ribs. he couldn't speak; the breath had been stolen from his lungs. he just stared at you, his pupils dilating in the dark, his professional composure shattering into a thousand pieces.

the irony of his thought process—the fact that he’d finally managed to push you out of his mind for just a few hours—vanished as he realized you hadn't been playing a game of hide-and-seek anymore. you were playing for keeps.

"how..." he started, his voice cracking, barely a whisper. he didn't even know what he was asking. he just knew that seeing you there, in the private, confined space of his car, felt more dangerous and more exhilarating than anything he’d ever experienced on a pitch.

you didn't move, you just watched him, that same enigmatic, seductive smile playing on your lips—the one that had haunted his dreams for days. you held his gaze, unblinking, the silence in the car growing heavier and more charged with every passing second. you had found your way into his inner sanctum, and the look in your eyes told him exactly what you intended to do with him.

the darkness inside the car becomes absolute the moment you reach over and hit the switch to raise the privacy partition. the soft hum of the city outside is instantly muffled, replaced by the heavy, suffocating silence of your own private space. jude is trapped, pinned between the back door and the invisible line you’ve drawn in the air.

he’s staring at you, his eyes dark and dilated, reflecting the faint ambient light from the streetlamps passing by. his breath is coming in short, uneven hitches, and his hands are gripping the edges of his seat so hard his knuckles are stark white. he looks completely undone, the man who commands thousands of screaming fans now reduced to a state of absolute, paralyzed anticipation.

you lean into his space, your movements slow, deliberate, and predatory. you lock eyes with him, your gaze no longer playful—it’s fierce, possessive, and daring him to break. you don't say a word. you just hold that look, letting the tension coil between you like a wire pulled to its breaking point.

then, with agonizing slowness, you shift your gaze to his lips, then back up to his eyes, before biting down softly on your own lower lip. you hold it there, a teasing, mocking smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. you aren't just playing with him anymore; you’re dismantling him, piece by piece, savoring the way his jaw tightens and his resolve crumbles.

you lean even closer, until the space between you is electric. you can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his chest rises and falls in rhythm with your own heartbeat. you let out a soft, low chuckle—a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph—and tilt your head to the side, your eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and pure hunger.

"you thought you were done with me after the match, didn't you, jude?" you whisper, your voice a low, raspy challenge. "you really have no idea how this ends, do you?"

you watch him swallow hard, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. he looks like he’s caught in a waking dream, terrified that if he moves, he’ll wake up and find you gone. he’s completely at your mercy, and he knows it—he’s just waiting to see how far you’re going to take this tonight.

he opens his mouth to speak, likely to demand an answer or perhaps to protest—but the words die on his tongue the moment your hand settles against his thigh.

your touch is slow, deliberate, and maddeningly light. you let your fingertips trace the firm muscle beneath his tailored trousers, your hand moving with a possessive, rhythmic heat that sends a visible tremor through his frame. he gasps, his head falling back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief second as his entire body reacts to the sensation.

when he opens his eyes again, the confusion is entirely gone, replaced by a raw, dark hunger that has finally overridden his last shred of hesitation. the professional footballer, the public figure, the man with a girlfriend—they all vanish. in this enclosed, dimly lit space, there is only the man who is becoming utterly, irrevocably addicted to your touch.

he leans into your hand, his own fingers coming up to hover near your waist, trembling as he fights the urge to grab you. he’s completely anchored to you now, his pulse visible in the frantic, rhythmic throb at the base of his throat. he tries to lean away, but the movement only brings him closer to your gravity, and he lets out a broken, ragged sound that’s half-protest, half-surrender.

"you have no idea what you're doing to me," he manages to choke out, his voice thick and strained. he reaches out, his hand hovering uncertainly before he finally grips your wrist, his fingers firm but not pulling you away. instead, he keeps your hand exactly where it is, pressing your palm harder against his leg, grounding himself through you.

he’s breathing so heavily the glass partition is starting to fog. he looks at you not with suspicion, but with a terrifying, desperate need for you to continue. he’s no longer fighting the current; he’s drowning in it, and he’s realized that he doesn't want to be saved—he wants you to keep pushing him further until there’s nothing left of his old life at all.

"you're not just playing anymore, are you?" he whispers, his gaze locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity. "tell me you're not just playing."

you lean into his personal space, the scent of your perfume overwhelming the sterile air of the car. your voice is a low, deliberate purr as you look him dead in the eye and murmur the lines, letting the weight of the words strip away the last of his resistance:

"that’s okay baby…, do what you please. i have the stuff that you want. i am the thing that you need."

the effect is immediate and devastating. as the words leave your lips, jude’s entire posture collapses inward, all remnants of his public life and his existing relationship incinerated by the sheer intensity of the moment. he lets out a ragged, desperate sound, his hand tightening over yours on his thigh as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear the moment he lets go. he’s no longer thinking about consequences, about the paparazzi, or about the life he’s supposed to be returning to; he’s entirely consumed by the intoxicating, dangerous reality you’ve built for him.

he looks at you with a hunger that’s borderline frantic, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips as he leans into your touch. he’s lost—fully, completely, and willingly lost—and he doesn't even try to fight it anymore. he presses your hand further against his skin, his breathing shallow and erratic, clearly signaling that he has abandoned any last-ditch attempt to uphold his moral defenses. you have pushed him over the edge, and he has finally stopped trying to climb back up.

jude freezes, his breath hitching, his eyes snapping shut as the cold realization hits him with brutal clarity: it is already far too late. he is trapped, not by the walls of the car, but by the undeniable fact that he is completely ensnared in your heart, and there is no longer any path back to the man he was before you.

as you lean in, the space between you vanishing, you begin to press slow, searing kisses against the sensitive skin of his neck. the sensation is instant and all-consuming, an electric shock that bypasses his mind and speaks directly to his nerves.

his resolve evaporates completely. he tilts his head back, surrendering to the overwhelming wave of heat, his hands trembling as he grips the leather of the seat to stay tethered to the earth. he is entirely possessed by the feeling of your lips against his skin, utterly powerless to resist, and desperate for nothing more than to lose himself in the beautiful, dangerous trap you have set for him.

he doesn't hesitate; his hands slide to your waist, his grip firm and desperate as he pulls you onto his lap, positioning you squarely over his hips. the power shift is complete. he bows his head, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps against your skin as he pleads with you, his voice barely a whisper against your throat.

"don't stop," he begs, the words muffled and thick with need, his face pressed into the crook of your neck as he urges you to keep going. "please, keep going."

you pull back just enough to look down at him, a soft, mocking laugh escaping your lips as you run your fingers through his hair. you trace the line of his jaw, enjoying the sight of him—so undone, so utterly at your mercy.

"does it feel that good, jude?" you tease, your voice dripping with playful cruelty. you lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "you know, you’re almost a little pathetic like this."

you watch his reaction, seeing the way his eyes darken with a mix of shame and even deeper, more frantic hunger. he doesn't pull away; instead, he clings to you tighter, as if you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.

you continue trailing slow, burning kisses along the column of his throat, feeling the erratic, desperate pulse beneath his skin. as you settle closer against him, the friction of your dress against his trousers shifts, and the lack of a barrier between you becomes instantly, unmistakably clear.

jude freezes, his hands splaying against your back, his eyes widening in the dim light. he lets out a sharp, choked intake of breath, his entire body going rigid as he registers the unfiltered heat radiating from you, pressed directly against him.

"you're not wearing..." he stammers, his voice barely audible, raw with a mix of shock and pure, sensory overload. he looks at you, his gaze searching your face, stunned by the realization that you’ve come to him like this—completely unshielded and ready.

you pull back just a fraction, arching an eyebrow as you meet his blown-out pupils with a look of cool, triumphant amusement. you let a low, throaty laugh escape your chest, the sound vibrating between you.

"is that a problem, darling?" you murmur, your voice dripping with honeyed malice. you lean in closer, pressing yourself fully against him, making the reality of the situation impossible for him to ignore. "does it feel good to feel me, jude? tell me, how does it feel to know exactly what’s waiting for you?"

you begin to move against him, slow, deliberate shifts of your hips that send shockwaves of sensation straight through him. the friction is intense, and as you rock against him, he feels the undeniable, unmistakable heat and dampness of you soaking through the fabric of his trousers. it’s an exquisite, maddening sensation that strips away his final reserves.

jude’s head falls back against the upholstery, a low, guttural moan escaping his throat that he can no longer suppress. his hands grip your waist so tightly his knuckles turn white, his body betraying him as he loses the battle for composure. he can’t hold back the pleasure, the sheer intensity of the contact leaving him breathless, his hips instinctively mirroring your rhythm in a desperate, frantic search for more. he’s completely undone, entirely surrendered to the exquisite torture of feeling you against him, his mind blanking out until there is nothing left but the raw, electric pulse of the moment.

"i need you," he gasps, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate hunger as he pulls you closer, his hands shaking as they move to the waistband of his trousers. "i need to feel you—everything."

you lean back, watching him with a predatory, triumphant smile. you reach down, your movements slow and deliberate, and begin to undo the fastening of his trousers. his breath hitches, his entire body arching as he waits for you to continue. you lean into his ear, your voice a dark, low whisper that pushes him over the edge. you murmur things so illicit, so deliciously wicked, that he loses the last shred of his restraint.

he is completely undone, his eyes unfocused and drowning in want, his body trembling with the intensity of his desire. he is yearning for you with a frantic, uncontainable ache, his pleas becoming incoherent as he realizes there is no version of this night where he doesn't give you exactly what you want. he is utterly subjugated, a captive to your touch, and as you continue, he stops trying to stay anchored to reality—he only wants to sink deeper into the beautiful, dangerous trap you've set for him.

you don't waste another second. you take him, guiding him directly into your heat, the sudden, overwhelming sensation causing him to let out a broken, guttural sound that vibrates through the entire interior of the car. he is completely stunned, his eyes wide and blown-out, paralyzed by the sheer intensity of the friction and the way you’ve claimed him.

he looks down at you, his breathing turning into sharp, desperate gasps, his hands clenching into the leather of your dress as his entire world narrows down to this single point of contact. he looks utterly overwhelmed, his composure completely shredded by the reality of how perfectly he fits.

you hold his gaze, the atmosphere in the car thick and suffocating. you bite your lip, a mocking, triumphant smirk playing on your features as you savor his reaction. you lean in, your voice a low, teasing taunt against his ear.

"you’re so big," you whisper, the words dripping with a mix of cruelty and pleasure. "it feels so good to have all of you, doesn't it?"

the look on his face is one of pure, raw subjugation. he’s completely caught, his hips twitching instinctively, unable to pull away and unwilling to stop. he is utterly at your mercy, yearning for the movement, his entire body trembling under the weight of the sensation you’re forcing him to feel.

the air in the car is heavy, charged with the scent of his arousal and your own. jude is completely shattered, his head thrown back against the headrest, his eyes squeezed shut as he lets out a series of broken, desperate moans. the friction is all-consuming, and he can feel every inch of his length buried deep inside you, the sensation so intense it leaves him shuddering.

"god, it feels so good," he gasps, his voice trembling and raw, his hands clutching your hips to keep you pressed firmly against him. "it’s insane... please, just don't stop."

you maintain the rhythm, slow and torturous, enjoying the way he writhes under your control. you lean down, your voice a dark, velvet whisper against the shell of his ear, punctuating your movements with stinging, suggestive remarks. you tease him about his lack of resistance, about how easily he’s fallen, and about exactly what he’s become since you entered his life.

every word is a lash that drives him further into his own pleasure. he’s completely addicted to the dynamic, his body arching into yours with a frantic, primitive need. he is so far gone that the concept of consequence has been obliterated; there is only the heat, the rhythm, and the terrifying realization that he has become nothing more than a plaything for your amusement. he begs you, over and over, his voice a frantic prayer of desperation and lust, pleading for you to continue until there is nothing left of him but the sensation you’re providing.

the moment you groan his name—a low, melodic sound that vibrates against his chest—the world around him seems to tilt on its axis. hearing his own name on your lips sends a fresh jolt of adrenaline through his system, shattering whatever tiny barrier of restraint he had left. he is no longer just overwhelmed; he is completely and utterly undone.

he feels the absolute, suffocating intensity of you settled on his lap, your weight perfectly distributed, and the sensation of being buried deep within you becomes his entire reality. he looks at you, his eyes dark with an intoxicating blend of worship and ruin, completely captivated by the power you hold over him. he realizes, with a dazed, frantic clarity, that he is completely at your mercy—he is subjugated by the physical friction, by the way you look at him, and by the sheer, electric vulnerability of being this connected to you.

"my god," he breathes, his voice barely a coherent sound as he leans into you, his movements becoming more desperate, more demanding. he is drowning in the sensation of you, his hands trembling as he holds you close, his entire body responding to your rhythm with an almost violent need. he’s lost to the pleasure, fully aware that he has surrendered his control to you, and he is terrified, yet thrilled, by how much he craves the sensation of being trapped in this exact, agonizingly perfect moment with you.

you continue to ride him with a slow, deliberate cadence, the friction between you becoming an agonizingly beautiful torture. you lean down, your hair brushing against his jaw, and as you grind against him, you whisper into his ear with a voice thick with playful, dark intent.

"it’s just so incredibly large, jude," you murmur, your tone dripping with a mixture of praise and mockery, "i can barely take all of you."

hearing you acknowledge his size while you’re this deep inside him is the final catalyst; he gasps, his head falling back as the sensation rips through him. he’s completely subjugated, his muscles locking, his breath hitching in his chest. he feels the tension coiling tight in his core, the pressure mounting with every movement you make. he’s on the very precipice, his body trembling, his hands digging into your skin as he clings to you, desperate to hold onto the sensation even as he feels himself beginning to unravel.

every time you whisper those words, the intensity surges, the friction between you feeling like a live wire. you keep teasing him, trailing your hands over his shoulders and down his chest, your voice a constant, taunting melody in his ear about his size, about his need, and about exactly how good it feels to have him trapped like this.

the constant reinforcement of his own desire, paired with the overwhelming, tight sensation of being inside you, pushes him to the very edge. he’s completely subjugated, his back arching, his breath hitching into jagged, shallow gasps. he’s losing his grip on reality, his internal rhythm spiraling out of control because of how much he wants you.

"you’re killing me," he manages to choke out, his voice thick and desperate, his pupils dilated to the point where his eyes are nothing but black pools. he feels the familiar, building pressure in his core—the unmistakable surge of his release drawing near—and he knows he can’t hold it back much longer. he’s entirely at your mercy, his body betraying every last defensive thought he had left, as he clings to you, waiting for that final, shattering moment of surrender.

jude’s control finally shatters completely. his hips begin to buck against yours in a frantic, losing battle, his face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated pleasure. "i can't... i'm going to—i'm coming," he gasps out, his voice cracking with the strain of holding on for as long as he possibly could.

you don't pull away; instead, you press yourself harder against him, pinning him down and locking your gaze with his. "don't you dare stop," you command, your voice a sharp, commanding whisper against his ear. "do it inside me. i want to feel every bit of it."

the words are the final trigger. he lets out a ragged, desperate cry as he finally surrenders, his body going rigid as he explodes within you. the sensation of his release is electric, and it pushes you over the edge as well; you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you shatter right along with him. you hold onto him tightly, both of you lost in the blinding, heavy heat of the moment, anchored only by the intense, rhythmic pulsing that binds you together. for those few seconds, nothing else exists—no reality, no consequences—only the raw, shared aftermath of what you have just done to him.

you disentangle yourself from his lap in one swift, fluid movement, your dress sliding back into place as if the scene you just created never happened. you reach into the neckline of your dress, pulling out a small, folded scrap of paper. with perfect timing, the car rolls to a smooth stop—you have reached your destination.

you slide out of the car, the cool air hitting your skin, and you turn back to face him through the open door. he is still entirely undone, his hair disheveled, his trousers still unfastened, his chest heaving as he stares at you, completely unable to process the transition from the intensity of the moment back to the quiet of the street.

you lean into the car, your voice cool and sharp, slicing through his daze. "you should leave your girlfriend, jude," you say, a faint, mocking smile touching your lips. "she’s not half the freak i am, and we both know it." you hold his gaze for a second, watching the realization dawn on him, before adding, "if you make the right choice and call me, you’ll know where to find me."

with that, you drop the paper onto his seat and walk away, leaving him behind in the stillness. as he finally manages to lower his gaze, his hands still trembling, he looks down at the scrap of paper. there, written in your handwriting, is your number.

the silence in the car feels deafening as the engine cuts out, leaving him in a state of sensory shock. he stares at the empty space where you were just sitting, the scent of you still clinging to the leather and to his own skin. the gravity of what just happened begins to settle in: he has just betrayed his girlfriend—someone he was supposed to be committed to—with a total stranger. he doesn’t even know your name.

yet, as he looks down at the slip of paper with your number, a cold, startling truth washes over him: he doesn't care.

the guilt that should be crushing him is nowhere to be found, drowned out by the lingering electric pulse of what you did to him. he runs a hand through his messy hair, his heart hammering against his ribs, not with regret, but with a terrifying, addictive longing. he realizes with a jolt of clarity that he hasn't just been physically overwhelmed; he has been completely dismantled. he is entirely under your spell, and the idea of going back to his normal life, to his girlfriend, feels like a pale imitation of the reality he just tasted with you.

he clutches the paper in his fist, his knuckles white, his breath hitching as he stares at the number again. he is no longer just a guy who made a mistake; he is a man who has found something dangerous, something he knows will ruin him, and yet he knows, with absolute, hollowed-out certainty, that he is already entirely yours.

[fromv3nus]

[douceurrrr]

[glueeangel]

ohhhh he swears he swears🤤🤤

[fromv3nus]

handsome man with big brown eyes and full lips plz save me

[theunfortunate-author]

my daily affirmation as an author

[theesoulaaniarchive]

behind closed doors - beyoncé

word count: 1265. cw (content warning): pussy eating, praise kink, top!bey, bottom!reader, blkfem!reader. synopsis: you’re a nanny for the carter family and both bey and jay seemed to have taken interest in you, but only one can have you.

a/n: i feel like this trope is used a lot in the beyhive writer community but ima eat it up regardless 🤭😋 this was a request

enjoy. 💋

you'd been working for the carter family for a few months & you immediately noticed a few things. bey & jay are married, but they’re basically married roommates with kids. they don't even sleep in the same bedroom.

beyoncé's mother, tina told you that it's been this way since he cheated on her. it seems like they’re only still married & somewhat cordial with each other for the public & the kids. her sister, solange doesn't seem to like him either.

one morning, you're standing in the kitchen after you've sent the kids off to school, cleaning the aftermath of breakfast. beyoncé comes down in business attire, sitting at the island.

"good morning, y/n. are the kids already gone?"

"yes, ma'am. can i make you a cup of coffee?" you asked.

"yes, please."

the two of you made small talk as you prepared the coffee. after it was done, jay came down. "morning." you could see bey's entire facial expression change. like she instantly got annoyed.

"hello, mr. carter." you said as you poured them both a cup of coffee. when you gave jay his cup, his fingers brushed against yours in a way that made you kinda uncomfortable but you brushed it off.

you turned around to wash the dishes from breakfast and felt eyes on you, piercing into your backside.

"can you go one day without bein' a damn creep? shit." bey spoke. you fought the urge to giggle as you kept washing the dishes, pretending not to hear.

"excuse me?" jay said. the way he looked at women, especially you, disgusted her. she knew he didn't deserve you because she knew he didn't even see you as a person.

she, on the other hand, took the time to actually get to know you, fitting conversations with you into her day whenever she could, no matter how small. sometimes she'd work from home on purpose just to talk to you. you'd actually grown closer than you realized over the course of just 6 months.

a moment of silence passes before jay speaks again "i'm not about to do this with you, giselle. the day barely started" he said. "my name is beyoncé. you lost the right to call me giselle when you cheated on me with multiple women."

"and you made some beautiful art with it. i truly hope that one day you will let that go." jay said before getting up from his stool, walking toward the door.

"i'll be back later tonight" he said, opening the door before stepping out. you finished washing the dishes and turned around toward bey.

"i'm so sorry, y/n. i can't believe him."

"it's okay."

bey sighs, shaking her head "i gave that mothafucka 20 years of my damn life and 3 kids. and still, he continues to disrespect me time & time again. what did i ever see in him?"

"you can't blame yourself for not seeing through a mask. some people don't show their true colors until they know they have you wrapped around their finger" you said as you grabbed both of the empty mugs and put them in the sink.

you & beyoncé talked for a while. about music, life, anything you could think of, really. even poured yourselves glasses of wine.

"you wanna know the real reason why me & jay always seem to argue every time you're around?" she asked, swirling the wine around in the bowl of the glass.

"tell me."

"it's 'cause we're both interested in you."

you nodded as you took a sip of wine, her words hitting you at a delay. you nearly choked before swallowing.

"what?"

"wasn't it obvious?" she asked casually, chuckling at your shock. "it wasn't obvious if you had to tell me!" you said.

she tilted her head slightly. “you didn’t think it was suspicious at all?”

"i just thought that was normal rich-people marriage stuff. the husband gets interested in the nanny & the wife tries to shut it down. i guess i never really put much thought into it 'cause it wasn't my business & i didn't wanna lose my job."

“i wasn’t trying to shut it down,” she said. “i just didn’t like the way he looked at you & i don't like to share.”

that sentence made your heart beat a little faster. bey got up, walking around the kitchen island to snake her arms around your waist, her head on your shoulder.

"mhm, you smell good. i have to go run a few errands, will you be here when i get back?"

you looked back at her "yeah."

she smiled, kissing you on the cheek "good girl." without another word, she left to run her errands.

butterflies were having a party in your stomach as you stood in the kitchen. while you waited for bey to return, you cleaned up around the house and tried to find ways to distract yourself from the anxiety you were feeling. reading, listening to music, watching your favorite show, all in vain. the butterflies remained.

after what felt like hours, you heard the sound of keys and the doorknob turning, bey stepping back into the house. "i'm back" she said, drawing the word out.

you got up from your seat to walk over to her, kissing her passionately. bey pulled back, smirking "took you long enough." she grabbed your hand and started leading you upstairs to her bedroom.

you closed the door behind you two and bey wasted no time kissing you again, deepening it as you peeled of layer after layer of clothing off each other until you're both in your underwear.

bey pushed you down onto the bed, walking over to her vanity to get a hair tie, making eye contact with you as she pulled her blonde locks into a bun.

she gave you a peck on the lips, moving down your body. she kissed your neck, your chest, taking her time with each area before moving lower.

she pulled your panties off, tossing them to the floor.

she pressed a kiss to your lower abdomen before doing the same to your clit, her tongue replacing her lips.

your fingers instantly grabbed hold of her bun as her tongue lapped at your wetness over and over, "mmm.." you hummed. bey spread your legs wider, giving her better access.

"ugh..." you moaned, your grip on her bun tightening. her tongue traced slow circles around your clit, starting to suck softly.

your head fell back against the covers in pleasure "yes..fuck..."

every flick of her tongue had you whimpering and your toes curling, your other hand clenching the bedsheets. "mmph..right there.." the desperate sound came.

bey flattened her tongue to lap broad stokes against your clit, sucking rhythmically until the feeling bordered on overstimulating. your thighs trembled around her head.

"ahh—oh god.." you choked out in a broken moan, back arching off the bed. she was hitting all the right spots.

your legs shook more as the pleasure became more intense, your hips bucking involuntarily against her face. "oh fuck, bey..yes" you moaned. your insides felt like they were on fire, the heaviness in your stomach building.

your entire body seized up as you came, a desperate cry ripping from your throat, your breathing erratic.

bey came up to lay next to you. "you look so pretty when you cum" she said. you looked over at her, grinning before kissing her.

you both took showers and put your clothes back on. you bid bey farewell and headed home, promising you'd do it again the next time you saw each other.

ribbon divider credit: @uzmacchiato

[blkgworlamplified]

YONCÉ! 😩