rox ❀

i party like i’m 21 🩺⚕️👩🏽‍⚕️ latina

[ilyrox]

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 @ilyrox

🀣 𝐚𝐢𝐛 ᭄᭡ ͏ ͏ ͏

chishiya shuntaro ‧₊˚ ⋅❀

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ (nsfw) chishiya headcanons

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ (nsfw)cat boy chishiya

arisu ryohei ‧₊˚ ⋅❀

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ (nsfw) arisu headcanons/drabble

other characters ‧₊˚ ⋅❀

nothing here yet. awaiting to be written

Requests/Guide Lines!

ask, be specific and please make sure you specify reader. i find it really endearing to check upon my in-progress fics, don’t be shy and flood my inbox. since i’m currently working one one, it may take so time. please be patient.

extremely open-minded, if you want to go above atrocious i absolutely can. but i still have boundaries and morals!

automatic no!- my reader is always afab, gender not always specified. i will not write for amab or anything in relation (ftm, mtf, m! reader, etc.) i’m sorry this is personal preference and what i’m vaguely acknowledged upon. i will not write pedophilia, underage-sex, nor ageplay! I will not write incest in any dynamic form, not including stepcest. i will absolutely not write bestiality, not including petplay.i will not write scat, nor watersports. i will not write oc inserts. i will not write ships.

yes?- i’m comfortable with dark content/dead dove. which may consist of: weapon play! noncon! mental illness/suicide themes! violence/body horror! religious undertones! smut, fluff, angst. i will write: wlw, mlw. degenerate or not everyone is welcome here.

i have some others coming up. i have a multitude of ideas for different medias.🤭

[almightaylor]

haalingham is the best thing that happened this summer <3

[shlette]

Chishiya

[ilyrox]

LETS GO ESPANA 🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸🇪🇸

[noah-wyles]

my wc team in work is spain...

spain i need you to grab guns and kill those men

[ilyrox]

annihilate the whole team, messi first

[ilyrox]

rip england. its time to support more colonizers 🇪🇸 🇪🇸🇪🇸

[bellinghamblues]

Summer nights

Jude Bellingham x Fem! Reader

The one where even after back to back wins for the World Cup, Jude still finds time to play the game with some friends on the beach… and maybe play with one particularly alone after.

Warnings- smut, unprotected sex, blowjob, cum swallowing, riding, Jude is def injured, subby Jude, lmk if I missed any!

Word count- 5.0k

Birds squawk on the beach as the sun setting casts an orange hue around the team playing soccer. You in particular, were pretty much the only girl in the game. Sure, there were girls in the group but most were swimming or tanning. Jude was meant to join the game after the World Cup game, but after reports from how many hits he took in the game, no one got their hopes up. That was, of course, until the familiar face walks onto the beach. “Ah” you say as he approaches, pausing your effort on the game temporarily. your hands go to your hips. “And Paul McCartney arrives” you tease, partially breathless from all the running. He chuckles softly, running his hand against his slightly sweaty hair. "Well well, if it isn't the only girl who can actually keep up with us lot." He smirks, unzipping his hoodie as he approaches you. “I think you might’ve taken too many blows during that match” you tap your temple before tossing him the soccer ball. He catches the ball effortlessly, trapping it against his chest with a practiced ease, though he definitely favors his left side slightly- the evidence of a brutal World Cup final. "Oi, watch the disrespect. I played ninety minutes of hell, I'll have you know." He taps the ball back against his foot, grinning. "Give me some credit." “Oh, you’ve got all the credit, tough guy, c’mon, show us if you have any spark left.” You take a step back.

He drops the hoodie onto the sand, rolling his shoulders back with a dramatic groan before stepping onto the makeshift pitch. "Don't you worry about my spark, love." He flashes that signature competitive grin, eyes locking onto yours. "I've got plenty left in the tank." Without warning, he nutmegs the nearest defender- Trent- and starts dribbling straight toward you. “We need to invest in a whistle” you shake your head at him, but you keep up with him nonetheless. He laughs, immediately dodging around another guy with effortless footwork, clearly enjoying that you’re matching his energy despite him having played a World Cup quarterfinal less than an hour ago. "Behave. You lot already try to boss me around enough." He pulls a quick step-over, purely trying to throw you off balance. "Keep up, love." “God, I hate the British” you tease before managing to steal the ball from him. He lets out a loud, offended laugh, stumbling dramatically as you cleanly nick the ball away. "Oi! That is absolutely disrespectful!" He spins around immediately, chasing you down with that competitive stubbornness, ignoring the ache in his ribs. "I literally just played the biggest match of my career, have some bloody mercy."

“Never, I can’t go easy on a professional. It’s usually supposed to be the pros going easy on the locals” You snicker as kick move the ball down the beach. "You cheeky little brat!" He chases after you, completely abandoning any complaints about his exhaustion. "That logic is absolute rubbish and you know it." He tries to poke the ball away, laughing despite himself. "I am physically wrecked, you are bullying a national hero!" He slides in, trying to tackle you legally. "Show some mercy!" You groan when he steals the ball back. He springs back to his feet, cradling the ball like a precious gem, victory grin spreading across his face. "Now who's laughing, love?" He pulls back, taking a powerful shot straight for the make-shift goal- a bunch of towels. "Goal!" “Lucky goal” you snicker. "Lucky?" He places a hand over his chest, wounded. "I have Ballon d'Or ambitions and you call that lucky?" He starts juggling the ball with casual elegance, spinning it on his fingertip. "That was pure class. Pure artistry." He wiggles his eyebrows at you, completely ignoring the way his ribs protested the sudden movement.

“Yeah, alright, maybe take a break there hotshot” "I am taking a break," he argues immediately, though he leans forward, resting his hands on his knees to finally catch his breath. The adrenaline was clearly wearing off. "This is... recovery. Light cardio." He winces slightly, pressing a hand against his left side. "Alright, maybe a tiny break." He drops onto the sand, grabbing his hoodie. You snicker and sit next to him. He shifts to make room for you on the sand, not looking up from where he's staring at the golden horizon. The cocky bravado fades, replaced by something quieter. His posture relaxes just a fraction. "You're annoyingly competitive, you know that?" A small smirk appears. "I'm supposed to be the one humbling locals." “You usually do” you shrug. "Exactly." He shakes his head, finally looking at you properly. His eyes are warm despite the sweat and sand. "Everywhere I go, people step aside. Bow down to the England boy. The Madrid boy." He shrugs, touching the bruising on his ribs. "And then I come here and get bullied by some girl who thinks she's untouchable." He laughs softly.

“And here you are, getting one goal against me and suddenly you think you’re hot shit.” I nudge him then smile, “seriously though, two goals back to back is crazy in the World Cup, you did good.” The praise catches him off guard, that familiar modesty flickering through. He looks down, rubbing the back of his neck in that way he does when he's genuinely embarrassed. "Yeah, well... it was the moment, wasn't it?" He glances at the water reflecting the twilight. "Still feels mad, to be honest. Everyone back home going absolutely mental." “Don’t get too excited, you still have semi finals and finals.” He drops his head back with a groan, dragging a hand down his face. "Please. Do not remind me. I am physically in shambles and my brain is already frying thinking about Messi." He looks at you sideways. "Way to kill the vibe, love. I was enjoying the praise for five seconds." He kicks at the sand softly. “I think you’ve got a good shot” You sigh and lay back in the sand “I’m rooting for you, at least” He raises an eyebrow, turning his head to look at you lying back in the sand. The twilight makes your face sharp and soft at the same time. "You're actually being nice now?" He looks genuinely bewildered. "The last ten minutes you've been absolutely brutal. I'm getting mixed signals here." He shakes his head, turning back to the horizon.

“Two winning goals in back to back games is insane” I repeat honestly. He finally cracks a genuine smile, leaning back on his hands and looking out at the darkening water. The ego is there, obviously, but it's laced with genuine disbelief at his own reality. "It's completely mental. I keep pinching myself." He glances down at you, watching the waves reflect in your eyes. You smile softly before sitting back up. He watches you sit up, his expression softening as he takes in your profile. The competitive edge from earlier is completely gone, replaced by something more relaxed and almost vulnerable. "You know what's crazy?" He pauses, waiting until you look at him before continuing. “Hm?” I look at him. "Even after scoring two in the World Cup, the only person who's given me a proper run for my money today was you." He bumps his shoulder against yours, a playful nudge. "And I'm literally exhausted, bruised, and probably should be icing my ribs right now." He grins. “Here” You stand and offer your hand to him. He takes your hand immediately, letting you pull him to his feet. He stumbles slightly into you, not because he needs the help- because he's Jude Bellingham, and he could probably do backflips right now if necessary- but because he likes the contact. "What, are you suddenly being nice to me?"

“I have ice packs back at my apartment”His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he lets out a low laugh. "You're inviting me back to your place to ice my ribs?" He steps closer, his hand still in yours. The playful banter is back, but there's an underlying current of something more intense. "Should I be worried?" “Maybe you should be” He grins widely, his teeth white against his chocolate skin. "I like a bit of danger." He squeezes your hand before letting go to bend down and grab his hoodie. When he stands back up, he's pulled it on, the hood up and casting shadows over his face. "Lead the way, love." You lead him to your nearby apartment. He follows easily, his competitive swagger settling down into something more relaxed as you head upstairs. The moment you unlock the door, he steps inside with that effortless familiarity, sliding his hoodie off and tossing it onto your couch. He immediately drops down, looking absolutely wrecked- World Cup quarterfinal exhaustion finally hitting him properly. "I'm officially demanding that ice pack." You go into your freezer. Instead of handing it to him, you push him back on the couch.

He falls back instantly without resistance, trusting you enough to let you manhandle him. He hits the cushions with a soft thump, legs sprawling open comfortably, clearly exhausted. "Oi. Bossy." He looks up at you with lazy amusement, absolutely not fighting it. "This feels dangerously like you're taking advantage of my injured state." “Am not” You shake your head. "Mhm." He watches you wrap the pack with a rag, his eyes tracking your movements with that intensity that makes people talk about him. He winces slightly as he shifts, his left side clearly tender. "You could just hand it to me, you know. Be polite. Be a proper host." “A polite and proper host helps” you say, moving to stand between his legs. He swallows hard as you position yourself between his legs, his eyes darkening slightly. "Right..." He murmurs softly, watching your hands carefully. You press the ice pack gently against his ribs, and he sucks in a sharp breath, more from the cold than any pain. "Jesus..." “Sorry” I whisper, adjusting the touch to be lighter. "Don't be." He exhales slowly, his hands instinctively reaching up to rest on your hips, steadier than they have any right to be given he just played 90 minutes of brutal football. The ice pack presses against his bruised ribs, and his breathing hitches. "You're surprisingly gentle for someone who was nutmegging me ten minutes ago."

“You’re just easy to nutmeg, here, hold it here” You grab his wrist and press it to hold the ice pack. He snorts at that, but his hand obediently presses the ice pack exactly where you guide it- which happens to be right against his left ribs, a particularly nasty bruise forming there from a particularly enthusiastic tackle in the second half. His other hand stays on your hip, thumb making small circles. "Easy to nutmeg?" He echoes incredulously. "I carried England to the semis."“And you got one lucky shot against me, congratulations” He narrows his eyes at you, mouth curving into a grin. "That wasn't lucky." The tone is a little quieter now, more genuine, as he focuses on pressing the ice pack against the bruise you've found. A small wince escapes him when it's particularly cold. "That's... oh shit." His jaw tightens for a split second before he recovers. “You okay?” "Fine. I'm fine." He exhales sharply, trying to sound casual. "Just cold. You'd think you'd notice the ice is cold." His hand on your hip loosens, his body going rigid in a way that screams he's definitely not okay. The banter cuts off, replaced by a strained silence as he watches your expression. “Here” you take the ice pack for him again. He lets you take the ice pack without protest, his hand falling away from his ribs. His eyes follow your movements closely as you press the cold pack against his bruised side more gently this time. A soft hiss escapes him when it touches the tender spot directly. "Fuck..."

“You doing okay?” "I'm good." He lies through his teeth, but his body language tells a different story. His jaw clenches slightly as you press the ice pack harder against his ribs, and he lets out a slow breath. "I just... fuck, that actually hurts." You take the ice pack away “what do you need then, hm?”He exhales, his shoulders finally dropping an inch as the sharp pressure leaves his ribs. He leans his head back against the couch, looking up at you with a mix of exhaustion and genuine defeat. "Honestly?" He pauses, pressing his fingers lightly against his side. "Painkillers. And a nap. Not necessarily in that order." He offers you a tired, crooked grin. “Yeah, I’ve got you” I get up to go to my medicine cabinet, I come back with ibuprofen. He accepts the pills and the glass of water you hand him without complaint, swallowing them dry before actually taking a drink. He sinks deeper into the couch cushions, looking like he's finally letting the adrenaline crash. "You're terrifyingly efficient," he murmurs, watching you set the glass down. "I feel like I should be paying you for this service." “Tempting to accept but no thanks”

He lets out a soft laugh, but it dissolves into a tired sigh. His eyes are already half-closed, body melting into the cushions. "Then what *do* you want?" The question comes out lower, slower, like he's too exhausted to filter it. He shifts, making space on the couch. When he opens his eyes again, he looks at you properly. “Nothing, Jude.” "That's not-“ He pauses, frustrated. His hand lifts from the couch cushion, fingers brushing against your wrist weakly. "That's not how this works. You drag me back here, you're being all nice and... whatever this is." He tugs your wrist gently, not enough to pull you down, just enough to test. "Come here." “What?” "You heard me." He's not looking at you now, eyes fixed on some point past your shoulder, suddenly uncomfortable. "You're hovering. It's annoying." But his hand on your wrist stays firm, contradicting the complaint. The exhaustion has cracked something open in him—the invincible facade slipping. "Just... sit. Please." The last word comes out small. When you hesitate, he tugs you into his lap.

Without warning, he tugs you firmly onto his lap, his strong arms wrapping around your waist instinctively. A sharp intake of breath escapes him as he pulls you down, his ribs protesting the sudden movement. Despite the pain, he doesn't loosen his hold, instead leaning his head against your shoulder. You sigh and wrap your arms around him. His breathing hitches, something shifting in his chest. You feel it- a sharp intake, then a long, controlled exhale. His grip on your waist doesn't loosen, but he doesn't say anything either. His chin rests at your collarbone, his dark hair brushing against your neck. Then he speaks, voice barely audible. "I'm not good at this." “Good at what?” "Being... looked after." He says it quietly, his face buried against your shoulder so you can feel his stubble graze your skin. "Being... vulnerable. I don't do this." His arms tighten around your waist. "On the pitch? I know exactly what to do. Here? With someone actually giving a damn?" He shakes his head slightly. "I’m useless." “No you’re not” you shake your head. He lets out a small huff of breath against your neck, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Yes, I am." He argues softly, though there's no fight in it, just exhaustion. "Five minutes ago I was arguing with you about nutmegging me. Now I'm practically clinging to you because my ribs hurt." “Well, I don’t mind”

He goes completely still against you, burying his face properly into your neck. That simple admission hits harder than any tackle in the final- he's used to people wanting something from him. Goals, fame, performance. Not just... this. "Don't encourage me," he mutters softly against your skin, arms locking tighter around your waist. "I will absolutely abuse this." “Yeah? How?” "By staying right here." He confirms immediately, as if he's worried you'll move away if he doesn't claim the spot quickly enough. His next breath is slower, less tense, like he's actually relaxing into your hug. "I'm supposed to be this big, tough footballer..." His hands creep up your shirt, though, it’s not quite clear if he meant to. His hands are definitely not where they should be. They start at your waist, fingers splayed over your skin, then slowly- so slowly you might not notice if you weren't paying attention- they creep upwards. His thumbs brush the underside of your breasts, a fleeting, accidental touch that makes his breath hitch.

“Jude..” "What?" The question comes out muffled against your neck, but there's a definite smirk in his voice. His thumbs brush against your skin again, this time more intentionally. "I'm just... adjusting." He lies. But his hands don't move back down to your waist. “Liar” He lets out a low chuckle, his warm breath tickling your neck. "Maybe." His thumbs slowly trace small circles on your skin, inching closer to your breasts with each pass. "But you're not stopping me." “I never said I wanted to” He freezes for a second, processing that. Then his hands move higher, cupping your chest through your shirt. "So you're just going to sit here and let me feel you up because my ribs hurt?" He asks incredulously, squeezing gently. "That's ridiculous." “You’re the one who asked how to repay me” "That wasn't-" He starts to argue, but then his thumbs find your nipples through the fabric, and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat. He groans softly, his head tilting back to rest on the couch. "Fuck..." His hands move without his permission, kneading your breasts gently. Your lips capture his.

He melts instantly, abandoning any dignity he had left. His mouth opens against yours, soft and desperate, letting you take complete control. The argument dissolves entirely, replaced by a slow, hungry kiss. His hands stay under your shirt, fingers kneading your breasts with absolute reverence, proving that yes, he absolutely intends to repay you like this. You’re careful not to touch and hurting or tender parts of his body. He whimpers against your mouth as you carefully avoid his bruised ribs, your touch gentle and soothing everywhere else. It only makes him kiss you harder, trying to convey his gratitude and need all at once. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples roughly. He pulls back just long enough to mutter, "Touch me," he demands quietly, nipping at your bottom lip. "Not here." He gestures vaguely at his torso with his chin, indicating his bruises. "Somewhere else. Please." The last word is barely audible, but it's there- proof that under all the bluster, he's begging. “With my hands or mouth?” "Both." He says immediately, then amends, "But mouth first. Please." His face flushes with embarrassment and need. "My ribs are fucking killing me. I can't-“ He cuts himself off, swallows hard. "I can't take any pressure there."

“I’ve got you” you say before dropping to your knees between his legs. He stares down at you, wide-eyed and breathless, watching you settle between his spread legs on the floor. His hands immediately leave your chest to grip the back of the couch, his knuckles turning white as he braces himself. "You don't have to-" he starts, but his voice cracks halfway through. He looks utterly wrecked, torn between his desire and his pain. You begin to untie his sweatpants. His hips buck automatically, a silent plea, as your fingers work the drawstring of his sweatpants. "Fuck," he gasps, head falling back against the couch. His abs clench as you tug the fabric down, his cock springing free- hard, thick, and leaking slightly at the tip. He's already so worked up from just touching your chest. “Adorable” you mutter before wrapping your mouth around him. He nearly jumps out of his skin, a strangled cry escaping him. "Holy-“ The word dies in his throat as your hot mouth engulfs him, his whole body convulsing. His head slams back against the couch cushion, stomach muscles clenching hard. The contrast between his brutal performance on the pitch and this complete submission is staggering.

The sight wrecks him completely. He stares down at you with blown-out pupils, mouth hanging open in a silent gasp as he watches you take him deeper. When your throat tightens around the head of his cock, his hips jerk involuntarily, his hands flying from the couch to thread into your hair- gently, like he's terrified of hurting you. "Holy... fuck..." You work your throat, eager to taste him. He makes a strangled sound that's half pleasure, half panic. "Wait-“ he gasps, trying to pull back, but his hips betray him, pushing forward slightly. "You're going to make me-" He cuts off with a choked moan as your tongue works against the underside of his shaft, your throat clenching perfectly. His fingers tighten gently in your hair. He lasts maybe two more minutes before he's utterly overcome, his body shaking and convulsing as he comes down your throat with a muffled cry. His hands grip your hair tightly as he holds you in place, his cock pulsing as it fills your mouth with his warm release. You sit back on the heels of your feet and peak up at him before sticking your tongue out, proving to have swallowed it all.

He stares at you with absolute disbelief, chest heaving, his softening cock still out and glistening with your spit and his cum. "Fucking hell," he whispers hoarsely, looking completely ruined. "How are you so good at that?" You laugh softly, “I think what you meant to say was ‘thank you’”His ears turn red, a flush spreading across his chest. "I didn't say—" he starts, but stops when he sees your expression. He swallows hard, looking down at your mouth- still glistening, still pink from his cock. "Thank you," he mutters begrudgingly, the words sounding like they physically hurt him to say. You smile softly “do you feel better or worse?”"Better," he admits gruffly, shifting slightly on the couch. He winces as his ribs protest, but the pain is duller now, less sharp. "Definitely better." He meets your gaze, looking a little vulnerable for once. "Can you-" He pauses, swallows. “What do you need, hm?” He looks down at his hands, which are still clenched in his lap. "I can't..." He trails off, frustration crossing his features. "My ribs are still fucking killing me, and I want to—" He gestures vaguely at you with his chin. "...return the favor. But I don't think I can lie down or lean forward without screaming." He looks genuinely bothered by this. “You don’t have to return anything” you shake your head.

"I want to." The protest is immediate, stubborn, and completely Jude. He hates feeling indebted, hates feeling like he's taking without giving. "You literally just made me cum down your throat and I'm lying here useless." He sighs, frustrated by his own body. "It’s not fair." His fingers twitch in his lap, itching to touch you. “What do you wanna do then, hm?” He looks up at you, a slow, dangerous idea forming in his eyes. The pain is still there, but it's being overridden by something else entirely. "Can you—" He winces as he shifts again, trying to think through the fog. "Could you maybe... straddle my lap? Face me." He indicates his seated position. You nod and do as he asked. "Like this," he murmurs, his big hands settling on your hips carefully, like he's worried about jostling his ribs. Once you're settled, he lets out a slow breath, his forehead dropping to rest against your chest. "This is okay," “do you want me to ride you?” He nods against your chest, his voice muffled. "Yeah," he admits softly. "If you're comfortable with that." His hands squeeze your hips gently, encouraging you to move. "I can't really do much else right now, but I want you to feel good too."

“You’re adorable” you peck his lips before standing to tug off your shorts and crawl back into his lap. He watches, rapt, as you stand up and strip off your shorts. The look on his face is pure hunger, his pupils blown wide again as he takes in the sight of you. When you crawl back into his lap, he lets out a low, needy sound, his hands immediately going to your bare hips. "You're so fucking pretty," You smile and press your lips to his before sinking down on him. He groans into your mouth, one hand tangling in your hair while the other grips your hip tightly. The sensation of you sliding down his length makes his eyes roll back in his head. "Fuck," he breathes out, the word stretching into a long moan as you begin to move slowly. “Tell me if it hurts” you place your hands on his shoulders. "Doesn't," he lies immediately, immediately regretting it as your weight shifts slightly, sending a jolt through his bruised ribs. He hisses through clenched teeth, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Doesn't- shit." He swallows hard, trying to adjust without making you stop. His head falls back against the couch, exposing his throat. You still your hips, deciding to press your mouth to his throat instead after noticing his wince. "Mmmph," he groans softly, his hands sliding from your hips to your back as you shift your attention to his neck. He freezes, completely still to avoid causing himself more pain, but the feeling of your mouth on his neck makes up for it. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back.

You attempt to get off of his lap out of the fear of hurting him. He instantly grabs your hips tightly, stopping you. "No," he says firmly, his voice low and urgent. "Don't stop. Please." His thumbs rub small circles on your hips, his grip relaxing slightly but not letting go. "I'll handle the pain. You feel too good to stop." “Are you sure?” "Positive," he breathes, tilting his head back to give you better access to his neck. His jaw is set, bruised ribs definitely aching from holding himself still, but he doesn't care. "Just-“ He guides your hips slowly, one hand still on your lower back, the other bracing against the couch for support. "More gentle. Shorter strokes.""You're not hurting me," he interrupts, but his voice wavers slightly with another small wince. He shifts carefully, angling you both so less weight is on his ribs. "I've played full matches with worse." His hands guide your hips down in a slow roll, letting you feel him inside you without putting pressure on his injury. "See? We're fine." A moan escapes your mouth. That sound breaks him completely. His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding you into a slow, deep rhythm that keeps his ribs from hurting while absolutely wrecking you. "There you go..." he whispers against your mouth, praising you instantly. "Good girl. Just let me handle it." He rolls his hips upward gently, hitting perfectly deep. "Sounds fucking gorgeous."

“S-shit, Jude-“ He smirks against your mouth, clearly satisfied that he's reducing you to a stuttering mess despite being injured. "I've got you," he murmurs, his hands gripping your hips firmly to keep that slow, devastating rhythm. He rolls his hips upward again, hitting that perfect spot deep inside you. "Let go for me, yeah? I want to hear you." Tears prick at your eyes as you near release. Seeing those tears start to form in your eyes is the hottest fucking thing Jude has ever seen. He knows he's found the right spot, the right rhythm, and he's not stopping until you're completely shattered. "Come on, sweetheart," you clench harshly around him as you reach your orgasm. He lets out a strangled, guttural groan as you tighten around him, his body going rigid. The sensation of your release is the final straw; he can't hold back any longer. With one last, powerful surge of his hips- ignoring the sharp flash of pain in his ribs- he comes deep inside you with a muffled cry. You collapse against him, careful to not hurt his side. He catches you instantly, his arms wrapping securely around your waist to support your trembling weight. You bury your face in his neck, being incredibly mindful of his bruised ribs, while his hands stroke your spine soothingly. "I've got you," he murmurs softly, pressing gentle kisses to your temple. "Easy, sweetheart. Breathe."

You sit up slowly to take a good look at him. His hands slide to your hips to help steady you, his touch gentle despite the lingering trembling in his own fingers. He looks completely wrecked-hair messy, lips swollen, sweat glistening on his chest- but his eyes are soft as they scan your face. "You okay?" he asks quietly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against your skin. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" Your eyes go soft and a mellow smile creeps on your lips, “I should be the one asking you that.” He shrugs one shoulder nonchalantly, trying to play it off. "I'm fine," he insists, even though his ribs are still aching sharply from the rougher movements. He forces a small smile, reaching up to cup your cheek gently. "Worth it," he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your lips. It’s an immediate request, delivered with absolutely zero hesitation. Jude looks dead serious, clutching your hand between his. "Official role. Good luck charm. You sit with the families, you wear my jersey, and you watch me play." He presses a kiss to your knuckles. "I need you there. Semi-finals are huge." He squeezes your fingers. "Please?"

“I’ll be there.”

[kewpieheart]

thinking you’ve struck masterlist gold but get routed to p! links instead

[speakeasier]

GOING TO NEED NORWAY TO END ENGLAND OR I WILL DO IT MYSELF 😭😭😭

[ilyrox]

NORWAY AVENGE US

[ilyrox]

so mexico just lost. dtm we were so close ☹️

[themoonsstarmaderoses]

R.I.P Chishiya Shuntarou, you would be very disappointed in your actor

[vanillamaebrunette]

[butter-scout]

PRETTY MIND

yandere! f.reader x Arisu Ryohei

genre: dead dove, maybe dark romance if I write more chapters (should I, folks?)

wc: 2.2k

warnings: captivity, forced feeding, coercion, kidnapping, forced suffocation, implied torture, death threats.

synopsis: As one of the Beach's leaders, you shouldn't be so obsessed with Arisu but you can't help yourself anymore. You have never felt such desire for someone like that before.

a/n: Divider made by @mfrgraphics I didn't know I could write something so dark like that until now but it was actually fun to try something different. I may write this as a series since their dynamics has a lot of potential. I'm not punishing myself anymore in writing everything in one go like before. I just can't do it anymore. I'm sorry for those who don't like it.

You were starting to get used to visiting that room — and as one of the leaders of the Beach, you knew you shouldn't.

By what should have been the third day, your feet already knew which direction to go without consulting your mind. You'd stopped sending subordinates to handle it, taking the task upon yourself despite your public reasoning about efficiency. The truth, tucked away where you didn't examine it too closely, was simpler: your ears longed to hear him. A voice. A mind that attracted you in ways you couldn't quite name — intellectually, addictively.

The doorknob turned with a familiar click, and you breathed something dangerously close to relief when you found him exactly as you'd left him yesterday. And how could he not be? Tied to that chair, wrists raw from testing ropes that wouldn't give, gagged with a black cloth cutting into the corners of his mouth. Arisu's struggles would amount to nothing but wasted energy. He didn't even lift his face at your arrival — probably disappointed that another day had passed without rescue, without escape, without anything but you.

It was wrong to feel this small bloom of happiness when a person was imprisoned against their will. You knew that. But when had the Beach ever felt so alive? It had been so long since anything had pierced through the gray static of your days. You'd chosen to settle here, built something resembling purpose, but living among the others eventually grew uncomfortable. Their noise. Their needs. Their endless, desperate grasping at hope.

But him —

Arisu was different. Arisu was quiet. Arisu didn't ask you for anything except, perhaps, to understand.

You closed the door behind you, sealing the two of you in the room's stale air and muted light. Your footsteps carried you to the immobilized boy, and you knelt before him with a gentleness that would have looked almost tender to anyone who didn't understand what this really was.

Damage control. That's what you'd told yourself at first. He'd stumbled too close to the Beach's secrets, and someone needed to contain the threat until the Hatter decided what to do with him. But somewhere between the first day and the third, the narrative had shifted. Now you came because the hours without him felt thinner. Emptier.

He still hadn't looked up.

You reached into your pocket and took out a small package — snacks one of your subordinates had scavenged from a convenience store during last night's rounds. Cheap things, the kind he'd probably eaten a thousand times in his old life. You held it out to him.

Arisu could refuse. He'd refused before, pride surviving even here. But the boy was surely hungry now. You could almost hear it in the silence between you — the hollow ache beneath his ribs, the body's quiet betrayal of the spirit.

"Ah, right," you murmured, feigning sweetness. He was tied to that chair and gagged. How could he say yes or no? How could he even accept your proposal even if he wanted to? How could he escape the palm of your hand if you didn't give him the opportunity? "I forgot you can't serve yourself." But of course, you hadn't forgotten any of those details.

Your fingers found the knot of the black cloth at the nape of his neck, and you undid it with deliberate, sadistic slowness, feeling the fabric give way, watching his breathing change as the fresh air touched the irritated skin around his mouth, while you felt your heart fill with sick excitement.

The cloth fell into his lap, and Arisu let out a raspy sigh, his jaw trembling from the effort of staying clenched for so long. His struggle just to breathe was something that enchanted you. Simply because of what you had put there and because you could put it back whenever you wanted.

But Arisu didn't speak. He didn't ask for water. He didn't scream for help. He just raised his eyes — and you saw the cold fury there, the calculated contempt of someone who still believed they had some advantage, or at least some kind of unshakable motivation. A motivation you hadn't unraveled. Yet. That was almost electrifying. It fried every neuron in your brain, trying to understand how he still wanted to be in a position to confront you.

Others had given in for so much less, but there, that human being didn't seem to fear you in the slightest. If he did, he was perfectly capable of hiding it. You sometimes wondered if Arisu wasn't a specialist in hearts and not diamonds, as you had associated many times in your head. If that were the case, it would be even more fun, since you were one too.

"Not going to say anything?" You tilted your head, a smug smile on your lips. It was like watching your new favorite toy.

He just held your gaze. His silence was louder than anything that could be said.

"Alright," you sighed, feigning disappointment, but still opening the pack of biscuits. "I'll speak for the both of us."

You opened the wrapper with equal slowness, as if you wanted him to observe the precious meal in front of him — as commercial and cheap as it was, but in a dystopian world like that, the simple was luxury — and took out a biscuit, bringing it to his mouth. The young man turned his face away, his brow furrowed beneath the messy dark strands. Ah, he was still fighting you. How exciting.

"No." Finally, he said something, his voice coming out hoarse, broken, against his own will.

The sound of his voice — that defiant tone even when shattered — made something tighten inside you. A hot excitement that rose from your belly and spread through your arms, your fingers, your eyes, through every small centimeter of your body. It was almost like a kind of mental orgasm.

"Finally," you whispered, and the smile that spread across your face was too wide, too distorted. "I thought you were going to ignore me forever, Arisu."

The cookie was still in your hand, intact, and you stubbornly brought it to his lips again. This time, when he turned away, you were faster and your free hand grabbed his chin with brutality, forcing his face back into place.

"No," he repeated, but the sound came out muffled because your fingers were squeezing his cheeks, pressing them against his teeth. Those cheeks were so soft. You had to be careful, didn't you? You didn't want him to lose the softness of that face from hunger.

"No what?" You tilted your head, studying him the way an entomologist would study a rare insect under a magnifying glass. To you, Arisu was your new favorite specimen. "You don't want to eat? You don't want to live? Why did you come to the Beach if you don't want to live, Arisu?"

Your thumb slid across his lower lip and teeth, forcing an opening for the food to enter whether he wanted it or not. The cookie touched his tongue before he could close his mouth, and you pushed it in without hesitation. Your little insect needed that more than he'd like to admit.

Arisu tried to spit it out. You saw the movement of his jaw, the clear intention to expel it, and your other hand came up to cover his mouth over the cookie, forcing the food to stay inside.

"Chew," you ordered, your voice sweet, even if your actions didn't match it. "Or I'll hold your nose too."

His eyes widened — not in fear, but in indignation. That spark of intelligence you loved so much, now burning in powerless fury. He hated every second of it. And you loved every little millisecond. Every millisecond in which you could provoke a new reaction from him was almost like a gift.

However, when Arisu didn't obey, you did exactly what you had threatened. Your thumb and forefinger slid up to his nose, pinching his nostrils shut with sadistic precision.

"Seven seconds," you murmured, as if counting down for a naughty child. "Six. Five. Can you last four more seconds without air, Arisu? Three."

His breathing stopped. You saw his chest rise, the air trapped in his lungs, the internal struggle between dignity and instinct. And then, when his eyes began to water, when his body gave in to the involuntary, he chewed.

His jaw moved in slow, reluctant motions, as if each bite were an announcement of defeat. Even though they had barely glistened, the tears that had held themselves back from falling quickened your heart. For a moment, you wanted to know if Arisu had ever cried during any of the games. If he had ever been destroyed by something other than you. And that made you bite your lower lip in senseless anger.

You let go of his nose and he gasped, choking on the partially chewed cookie. Hearing him choke was almost exciting. You even felt the heat between your legs.

"Oh no, no," you almost sang. "You ate so nicely. Don't ruin it now. You know how hard it's been to get good food?"

Arisu swallowed. You saw his throat contract, his Adam's apple bobbing in a slow movement, and you felt such pure pleasure that you almost closed your eyes.

"One more," you announced without questioning how the young man trapped before you felt about you, and the second cookie was already between your fingers. Did he even like that flavor? Or did he hate you so much that the flavor didn't even matter anymore?

This time, Arisu didn't turn away. He learned fast — always so fast, you'd give him that. His mouth opened in a mechanical motion, his eyes fixed on some distant point behind you, as if he could disconnect from the experience itself. But you would make sure he was there. That he saw you.

You pushed the cookie in, and before he could chew on his own, your fingers found his jaw again — but this time to guide the movements. He would connect with the situation, whether he wanted to or not. He would see you, whether he wanted to or not.

"Left, right. Again, left, right," you whispered with perverse affection, moving his jaw like a puppet, forcing the rhythm of chewing. "Not so fast, Arisu. Savor it. I got this from a convenience store near Shibuya station, you know? Have you ever eaten one of these? You definitely have, right? You look like the type who'd stuff himself with cheap snacks and eat nothing else locked in his room. You look so much like a loser — but the best kind. My type."

The words flowed like poison you were injecting into his bloodstream while your fingers worked his jaw, his teeth grinding against the cookie in a rhythm you completely controlled, grinding in anguish because he could no longer disconnect from you. Swallowing came after — you pressed his chin upward with your palm, forcing his throat to open.

Arisu swallowed with a wet sound that made your fingers tremble with happiness.

"Perfect," you exhaled, and the word came out almost like a moan. Was it possible to moan just from this? "You're so obedient. So smart to understand how everything works."

You gave a little affectionate pat to one of the immobilized young man's cheeks.

"I want your brain, Arisu." Your voice dropped to a thread, intimate and disturbing. That was a pure, direct, immaculate desire. "Not just the answers you give me. I want to know how you get to them. I want your neural pathways, the synapses, the way dopamine explodes in your brain when you decipher a puzzle. Can you feel it? Can you imagine what it's like, from my perspective?"

You pulled your face away from his cheek and walked to the corner of the room where there was a small set of plastic-wrapped bottles. Tearing the plastic, you grabbed one of the bottles and approached Arisu again, bringing it to his lips. He drank by instinct, knowing you would force him to drink if he refused and it would be worse. Much worse. Water spilled down his chin, soaking his shirt stained with cookie crumbs.

"When your visa is about to expire tomorrow," you continued, your voice now almost casual, as if you were talking about the most mundane thing, "should I take you to the rooftop? Just to see the laser hit the middle of your forehead while the last image you have is me?"

Arisu coughed, water in his lungs, and you stroked his hair with the same hand that had forced him to eat. He was your little dog, your prey, your property.

"And then, maybe, I'd open your head. Just to see. Just to know if it was as beautiful inside as I imagined."

The words hung in the air, heavy and real, and you saw something break inside him. Not the resistance — that would always be there, burning in his eyes. But the hope. The last spark that this was a nightmare from which he would never wake up.

"Or I could maybe take you to a game with me today. What do you think?" You leaned in front of him, your hands on each arm of the chair, resting on top of his, on his wounded wrists that had strained so hard to escape that they had left marks. "Show me your potential, Arisu. And I'll let you live. That will convince the Hatter of your value. To me, you don't really need to prove anything. I already have enough. So? Do you want to live?"

[st4rrysleep]

I’ve recently heard about the Nijiro Murakami situation and I want to make my stance on this situation very clear

He is piece of shit. Genuinely a disgusting human being and I really really hope that his ex and anyone else he may have hurt are all okay.

I love Chishiya’s character and the live action, so while I still will post about those I want it to be said that I do not stand with him. Nijiro is a horrific person and I will never support him.

I wanted to say this just in case my account/posts and frequent mentions of Chishiya leave any impression I like the actor. I do not and I never will

I truly do hope that his ex is okay and healing.

[ilyrox]

stop violence against women. i’m more angry than I am disappointed. 💔

[wildnickk]

[helloitsbees]

imagine going through all that and on top of everything you’re in fucking ohio

[ilyrox]

Which one should I publish/write first?

Chishiya Angst!

Chishiya MedPlay!

PuppyBoy Arisu!

Nerd Arisu!

Voting ended onJun 19