footballer/soccer player x fem!reader. imagine whoever you like ;)
warnings ; reader’s had a few drinks during the match but she’s not drunk, afab & fem pronouns, sub!reader, he has a big dick and he’s condescending (calling u too pretty to think etc), unprotected sex, a few smacks, praise and degradation, cumming inside, manhandling, use of ‘cockwhore’ and so on
no mention of race, hair type etc. no mention of body type other than you being shorter than him and him being able to carry you.
he looks exhausted when he comes off the pitch. he always does, but today he looks especially so. you wonder for a moment if he’s even going to stop to see you as he always does, or if he’ll head straight to the showers; certainly he looks like his legs are ready to give out. you’re tucked into your usual spot, in a corner between the tunnel and the showers, not quite out of the view of everyone else but not quite in it either. it’s a nice little spot, private enough for you to have a moment together, an embrace, to congratulate or commiserate, without going too far out of the way. he can stop, kiss you, then head to the showers.
he pulls you into his chest without a word, without a sound; there’s no greeting as there usually is, no kiss, just one arm around your waist and his other hand on the back of your neck pulling you towards him. his shirt is damp, soaked in sweat, unsurprising after playing the whole 90 minutes plus however much extra time there was, but you hardly notice. to you, he just smells like him, and the soaked polyester rubbing against your face, probably messing up some of your makeup from how tight he’s holding you, doesn’t even register.
“kid from the other team wants my shirt,” he says. his voice is low, hoarse, but decently cheerful, the usual condition after a match like this—not a win but a draw hard fought, no major missteps or feeling that he could have done more. he’s not wholly satisfied, never is, but he’s not angry and upset like he is when they lose or when he feels he’s fallen short. “i’ll go give it to him then shower. you gonna wait here?”
“always,” you murmur. the words are muffled by his chest slightly, but he hears them. his heartbeat is staring to slow down now, not racing as it was when he first pulled you into him, but you know it won’t be fully settled—he won’t be fully settled—until you get him home.
that’s one thing about your boyfriend—he has adrenaline in spades. it’s rare for it to be used up by the end of a match.
he looks calmer when he comes back, changed into comfier clothes and letting his hair dry in the summer heat. this time, when he pulls you into him, he’s slower, more careful, a gentle hand around your waist, a long, indulgent look up and down your body before nudging you towards him. he leans down, pressing his lips into yours, and the kiss is warm and intentional; savouring. “tastes good,” he mumbles into your mouth. “what were you drinking?”
“cosmopolitan,” you whisper back. “a few.”
he clicks his tongue. “naughty girl,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it.
“mm, punish me then.”
he chuckles, almost too quiet to hear, and his arm tightens around your waist slightly, the other coming to cup the back of your head. “nah,” he says. “not in that sort of mood. y’been good, i think.”
“have i?”
“i can always tell when you’ve been bad,” he says. “cause you stare at me like you’ve never done anything wrong in your life.”
“which i haven’t.”
“i’m sure. c’mon.”
he leads you out the back and to the car by the hand; his grip is firm, bordering on iron as though he’s worried you’ll try to slip away, but you both know you won’t. you just like it when he leads you, when he pulls you along like he’s the only one who knows where you’re going and your job is to simply follow. in the car he’s on his phone for the most part, a hand on your thigh, massaging your bare skin absentmindedly while he answers his messages. some of the other players, you see when you take a peek, and one from his manager. when you lean in a little too far, a little too obviously, he turns to you with a raised eyebrow and swats your thigh. you yelp, grinning, and he lands another smack on the other. “nosy,” he chides. “totally mannerless.”
“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you giggle.
“you never do, do you?”
“isn’t that your job?”
he smiles a little, and for a moment you think his eyes flash. you swallow a laugh. too easy. “yeah,” he says. “s’my job. you’re too pretty to think.”
by the time he gets you into the apartment, you think you might be more hopped up than he is. you don’t know why; maybe the way he was touching your absentmindedly in the car, his hand creeping up the inside of your thigh; how he smacked you quickly, efficiently, as though it was nothing; how he spoke to you in that low, soft, condescending tone he only ever uses on you. he probably did it on purpose, you think as he unlocks the door and pulls you inside. got you all needy and desperate so you’ll be exactly as pliant as he likes you.
the moment the door is locked behind you you’re on him, pulling him into you by the neck and smashing your lips against his; he grunts, caught off guard for a moment, then melts into it, straightening up to lean over you properly and wrapping his arms around your torso. taking control. “bedroom,” he gruffs. “right now. not fucking you here.”
“carry me.”
“demanding,” he says, but he picks you up without protest, throwing you over his shoulder and landing one, two, three smacks to your ass. your skirt has ridden up enough that they land on your bare skin, making you shriek. “so dramatic,” he scoffs.
he throws you down onto the bed, and you don’t have a moment to adjust before he’s crawling on top of you and his hands are pressing down on your shoulders to pin you in place. “thought about you during the game,” he says; his lips are brushing across your collarbone, teeth catching now and then on the skin and making your breath hitch. “how you’d look underneath me, all pretty and desperate. you have no idea what you do to me.”
“neither do you,” you say. “you looked so good out there, y’know. all strong and manly and focused, so serious. so cocky. made me hot.”
his brow tilts, a small smile pulling at his lips. “you think i’m cocky?”
“sometimes,” you reply. “but you’ve earned it. and you fuck me better when you feel like you’re the shit.”
“lucky for you, i know i’m the shit.” he doesn’t take your skirt off, just pushes it up so it’s bunched around your hips then pulls your panties to the side. you’re already dripping; you can tell from the way the fabric clings to you as it’s pulled away and the way his expression hardens as he takes it is. “unbelievable,” he mutters. “little cockwhore.” he smacks his palm against it, large enough to hit your clit and your hole in one, then plunges two fingers inside. “you see how easy these go in?” he asks, pumping them in and out; he’s going slowly for now, but you know it won’t last long. “never have to work you open for them, she just lets me right in. like she knows who owns her.”
“you do,” you whisper.
you push your hips up instinctively, trying to pull him deeper, and he moves his other hand from your shoulder to push them down into the bed. “you stay there,” he says. “stay where i put you, good girl.”
“m’sorry,” you whine. “i just— it feels so good, baby, fuck.”
“i know it does, sweet girl.” he’s practically cooing now, pace quickening, tips of his fingers finding your g-spot every time. god, he really knows your body inside out. “you’re being so good taking it, my favourite girl. you’re gonna look so pretty crying on my cock.”
“please.” you’re trying to keep your legs apart, trying not to press your thighs together because you know that’ll only get you punished, but god, the thought of his dick, all thick and hard and leaking, pushing past your folds and into your cunt, is making your stomach twist. you need it so badly, fuck, you can’t take this anymore—
“easy.” he’s laughing quietly, grinning down at you, and you realise after a moment you’d been speaking out loud. how much you said you’re not sure, but certainly he heard the last of it. “don’t worry, baby, no need to beg. i’ll give it to you. i was gonna eat your pussy first but i think you’re too desperate, huh?”
“yeah,” you nod. “n- need—”
“alright, baby.” he pulls his fingers out, his skin glistening and dripping with your slick, then smacks your cunt again. he pulls his shorts and boxers down just far enough to pull out his dick—already rock hard, leaking from the tip, practically pulsing in his hand—then presses it to your pussy. the fingers that had been inside you find your clit, rubbing it in slow firm circles the way he knows drives you crazy, getting you wetter and opening you up enough for him to push inside. “that’s it,” he grunts, pressing himself inside you. “there’s a good girl, you open up for me, that’s right.”
he goes in slowly, carefully; he always does, even when you wish he wouldn’t. he’s just so big, he patiently explains every time you complain about it, and your cunt is so small and tight that he has to be careful not to hurt you. you suppose you understand, as much as you sometimes wish he’d just force himself inside without care.
he groans when he bottoms out, his hips now pressed against yours; he takes a moment to collect himself, exhaling, squeezing his eyes shut, then starts to move. slowly at first, then faster. he’s impatient, as needy as you are, you can tell by the way his thrusts so quickly get harder and faster and deeper. you think your skin will have bruises on it when he’s done by the way he’s gripping your hips, how sharp and loud and stingy the contact of his skin is against yours every time he fucks into you, but you don’t care. you love it, if anything; love carrying his marks on you.
“fuck,” he hisses, pressing down on your hips. “you’re so— jesus, so warm, baby, so wet. she’s clinging to me, fuck, you need it bad huh?”
“need it,” you repeat.
“good girl. put your legs up, come on.” he helps you lift your legs and plant them on his shoulders, wrapped around his neck; like this he can get deeper, more leverage with your hips raised from the bed and held at an angle. his hands are planted on your thighs, holding them in place, and his thrusts are getting stronger and more aggressive with each one. “gonna lose my mind,” he says. “fucking hell, you’re gonna drive me crazy, that what you want? tight fucking pussy.”
he reaches down to smack your ass, his hand landing firm against your cheek where it’s lifted slightly from the bed. “s-sorry!” you squeal, and he slaps you again.
“gonna make you sorry,” he grunts. “gonna fuck you til you’re screaming. gonna fuck you fucking stupid.”
he always does, you’d say if you could, but you’re pretty sure he already has; the words aren’t coming, aren’t forming the way they should, and all you can really do is moan and gasp and cry out his name like a prayer.
the thrusts are getting sloppier now, less precise but just as powerful, maybe more; his control is slipping, you feel it, his resolve starting to break. he’s nearing the edge; you push up into him slightly, just a little, and press your legs ever so slightly against his neck—almost choking, but not quite.
that’s all it takes. he shouts, eyes rolling back, then shoves himself all the way inside you, as deep as he can get, and stays there. his hips buck as he unloads into you, his grip on you bruising; when he’s done he rolls you onto your side to stop himself collapsing on top of you, instead falling beside you, dick still lodged inside, as he catches his breath.
“love you,” he breathes.
“love you too,” you say. “good game today.”
he grins, grabbing a fistful of your ass and squeezing then letting it go. “thanks.”
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