I just discovered your page and it's like finding and ice cream skaftin in the freezer and there's ice cream inside! I'm so happy you've no idea. Eh, and I didn't even greet, sorry. Hiiii Zee how are you?! You've probably been told this many times, but I'll say it again. Thank you for writing for black readers, I get to actually picture myself instead of having to force it. You're the best thing that's happened to me today.
I know writing is not pap and vleis, so whenever you can. More Hugo and Djed Spence (if you do write for djed) please🙏🏾
Thank you so much have a great day!🤍💋
the attached image is sending me, you’re definitely cupcake’s child😭😭😭🇿🇦 oh, i love you! 😂🫂
thank you sm for supporting my work, i appreciate it more than you know.💗
Hi! I just wanted to pop in and say thank you for writing black!reader fics! In the fandom space I feel like we rarely see that
I’m not black but I am a woc with darker skin and so it’s really nice to be able to picture someone like that as I read and not have the illusion broken when I read something like “porcelain skin” or “silky hair”
It makes me feel like I belong yk? In a weird way. Like cathartic almost. Like some part of this fandom space exists for me, I’m not just inserting myself into it
this genuinely means so much to me.🤍 thank you for taking the time to send this. one of the biggest reasons i started writing was because i wanted readers who looked like me and readers who are also woc to have stories where they didn't have to mentally edit every other sentence just to feel included. i know exactly what you mean about the immersion being broken by descriptions that remind you the reader wasn't really written with you in mind.
hearing you say my fics make you feel like you belong is probably one of the biggest compliments i could receive. that's exactly what i hope for whenever i post. everyone deserves to see themselves in stories and feel included in the spaces they love.
thank you for reading, for supporting my work, and for sharing this with me. i hope my little corner of tumblr continues to feel like home for you. 🤍
Stumbled upon your blog and first thought? Transcending the game. What do you mean you’re South African? Write for black girlies and write for my favorite players???? You might just be a blessing in disguise like wow. And if that wasn’t perfect enough, you write soft and hyper feminine black girlies like wow. You just do everything right. And you write so good too, with unique storylines like ughhhh I could kiss you. Your writing is so good you have me reading for players on teams I’m salty about. Umm yea this was me essentially telling you I love whatever you got going on like this blog is my favorite space on tumblr rn. Keep doing this, this is good.🥹
I’m a Madrid fan in a family of BVB fans so naturally I had to read a few of your Mbappe and Bellingham works. Loved them. First time reading a failed threesome didn’t know what to expect, wdym he looked down at her waiting for her to give the other girl a go ahead???? Genius!!! I didn’t even know writing for Jobe was an option??? Wdym he remembers her favorite color and is willing to be permeated by it as long as she desires it???? Ughhhh time he never confessed ughh my Shayla.❤️🩹
So umm yea essentially I love this blog, I love your writing style, plots, voice and storytelling and I love your vibes and inclusivity.
Sorry that this was so long.
Im not one to usually req so i really don’t have anything particular in mind plus your plots are already entertaining enough as it is, only asking if we could please get more Jobe works. Thanks if you do. Still reading for whoever even if you don’t.
Umm again sorry that this was so damn long💕🥹.
stop because this actually made me smile so much. 😭💕
first of all... thank you. genuinely. reading this felt like someone understood exactly what i'm trying to do with this blog, and that's such a nice feeling to have. i never expected so many people to connect with my writing the way they have, so messages like this always hit me a little harder.
i'm so happy this little corner of tumblr has become a space where black girls, woc, and anyone who enjoys my stories can just exist and have fun. that's always been important to me.
and don't even get me started on you remembering specific scenes??? 😭 you have no idea how much it means that those moments stuck with you. as a writer, that's honestly one of the biggest compliments i could receive. and yes!! there will definitely be more jobe, i promise.
thank you for taking the time to send such a thoughtful message. never apologise for making it long. i read every word, and i appreciated every single one of them. i'm really grateful you found my blog, and i hope you keep enjoying whatever i come up with next. 🌸🫂
i have one single think to say. i haven’t read a MASTERPIECE like ur olise fic in a while ISTG. the smut, the slight fluff, the angst? it was SO BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN OH MY GAWDDD. please just write more about him, whatever u write will come out so amazing🫶🏻
thank you so much lovelyy, this means the world! 🥹💕 shout out to the olise girlies for putting me on 😂
babes the olise fic was CHEFS KISS! i don’t know what it’ll be, but PLEASE just write more smut about him😭🩷
thank youu!💕 definitely more fics otw. it’s the fact that i watched olise for crystal palace week in week out and i just wasn’t moved. but i’ve finally seen the light. 😂
summary ➜ you and jude have been fucking for a while. no label, no drama—just easy fun. and that’s what you keep telling yourself, until the idea of a threesome gets thrown out there.
you don’t love him.
that’s the first lie.
the one you’ve told so many times it doesn’t even taste bitter anymore. it slips off your tongue smooth as silk, like gum you’ve been chewing too long. stale but comforting. you say it like it’s scripture. like a prayer you whisper to yourself every time he walks into your place without knocking, kicks his shoes off like he lives there, drops his bag by the door and kisses you like he missed you—really missed you.
you say it while you’re straddling him, legs wide on either side of his hips, palms planted on his chest. he’s looking up at you with that lazy, heavy-lidded smile, the kind that makes your stomach do flips you pretend not to feel. you roll your hips just right and he groans, his hands gripping your waist tighter. you tilt your head back and say it again—i don’t love you—only this time it’s not words. it’s the way you bite your lip, the way you dig your nails into his shoulder like you’re trying to stay grounded, like if you let go you might float away and accidentally say something true.
you say it while choking on him, hands braced on his thighs, eyes watering, spit coating your lips. he’s watching you with this look—soft, adoring, dangerous. like he’d marry you if you asked. like he knows exactly how you feel and doesn’t need you to admit it. and you hate that. hate that you can’t hide from him, not really. but you keep going. because if you stop now, he’ll ask. and you won’t be able to lie if he asks.
he lets you lie.
lets you act like this is nothing. lets you laugh when he calls you “my love” with his face between your thighs. he says it like a joke, all breathy and playful, but his eyes are always on you when he says it. like he’s waiting. like he’s hoping you’ll finally say it back.
he lets you roll your eyes when he lingers too long in your kitchen, shirtless, barefoot, drinking your orange juice and playing with the magnet letters on your fridge. he lets you kiss him quick on the way out, like a casual thing. like he doesn’t already have the code to your building. like you didn’t buy an extra toothbrush and act like it was “for guests.”
he lets you pretend. even though he doesn’t fuck anyone else. not really. not anymore. and you know that. you know it deep in your bones. and that’s what makes this whole thing—this threesome idea—so fucked.
so stupid.
so cruel.
it starts as a joke.
a stupid, tipsy thing thrown out in the middle of one of those nights where everything feels fuzzy and electric. he just got back from an away game. scored. assisted. rode the high all the way to your place. you’re both a little crossfaded. shirtless, legs tangled, laughing about something that doesn’t matter anymore. someone brings up threesomes—maybe the tv, maybe a tweet, you don’t remember—and he looks at you with this crooked little grin.
“you ever had one?”
you raise an eyebrow. smirk. “no.”
“you curious?”
“are you?”
he shrugs. “i mean... if it’s with you.”
and your heart does this weird, traitorous thing. this lurch. like you’re about to say something stupid. but your pride kicks in faster. and you laugh, light and breezy, too much teeth.
“sure,” you say, shrugging like it’s nothing. “why not?”
and that’s the moment. that’s when you seal your own fate.
because now it’s real. now it’s out there. and he doesn’t flinch. just nods like okay. like we’ll do it then. like he’s holding up a mirror and daring you to look.
you even help pick the girl.
scroll through profiles on instagram like you’re choosing a pizza topping. swipe, swipe, scroll. you find someone cute. pretty but not too pretty. soft voice. glossy lips. cute nails. someone who’s never watched him play a full 90 minutes. someone who doesn’t know that his left ankle still aches in the cold. someone who doesn’t wake up to him talking in his sleep or hum songs from his spotify playlist just because it reminds you of him.
she’s not a threat, you think.
she doesn’t know him like you do.
she doesn’t matter.
and that should help. it should make it easier. but it doesn’t.
because as the day creeps closer, your nerves turn to acid. you try to play it cool—teasing texts, light jokes, “should i get my nails done?”—but you feel it. that clawing thing in your chest. the panic. the jealousy. the ache. because this is supposed to be fun. but all you can think is:
what if jude touches her like he touches me?
what if he likes the way she moans?
what if he looks at her like he looks at me?
or worse—
what if he doesn’t?
what if you realise you’re not that special after all?
but you don’t say any of that. you never do. you paint your lips red, shave everything, wear that matching lace set you bought for your birthday but never had the courage to show him. you answer the door like you’re fine. like this is just sex. like you’re not setting your own feelings on fire just to watch him pretend he’s not in love with you either.
and jude plays along. he always does. because you’re both liars. because it’s the only way either of you know how to keep each other.
when the day comes, she arrives right on time.
not too early—she’s not that bold. not late either—she knows better than to make you wait. she knocks like a girl who’s done this before. soft, rehearsed. and when you open the door, you already hate her a little. not because she’s rude. not because she’s prettier than you. she isn’t. she’s just... here.
smiling, glossy, perfectly chill. she smells expensive. looks like she never sweats. like she came out the womb knowing how to take up space. says something flirty to jude when she walks past, all eyes and lashes, and you feel it down your spine like someone poured hot water down your back.
jude gives you a look then. something unreadable. like he’s checking in. like he wants you to say something. but you don’t. you turn, walk to the kitchen, pour yourself a drink and down it like water. you can’t back out now.
you think if you’re the one who starts it, it’ll feel better. so you take her hand. lead her to the bed. act like you’re the one in charge of this whole thing. kiss her first. slow. soft. sweet, even. she tastes like strawberry lip gloss and entitlement. her hands run over your waist, your thighs, your ass—like she’s appreciating you. like she wants you.
you can feel jude watching. behind you. somewhere close.
you break the kiss and look over your shoulder.
he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. lips slightly parted. his jaw clenches when your eyes meet, but he doesn’t say anything. just watches you. like he’s memorising the shape of your mouth. the tilt of your head. the way your body bends for someone that isn’t him.
and something flickers behind his eyes. something sharp.
you crawl toward him. you’re still in control. you need to be. you pull his sweats down, slowly, fingers grazing the line of his thigh. you mouth at the head of his dick, soft and teasing. he groans, head falling back just a little, hand tangling in your hair.
and then she joins you.
kisses your shoulder. presses soft kisses to his stomach. you feel her breath close to your jaw, her hand trailing your spine. she’s good. practiced. and it makes you furious. it makes you want to prove something.
you suck him harder. let him hit the back of your throat. gag just a little on purpose. he twitches in your mouth, lets out this low curse, hand tightening in your hair. she moans next to you like it turns her on too.
and still—still—he’s only watching you.
you feel her shift beside you, hear her whine, “can i ride him?”
you freeze. thrown.
your mouth still wet, lips parted in disbelief, breath caught like it wasn’t supposed to happen. like she broke some rule no one wrote down but you both knew was there. like she dared to speak over the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
she doesn’t touch him when she says it. doesn’t touch you either. just says it, bold, stupid, innocent, all teeth and lipgloss like she doesn’t even know what kind of war she just started in your chest.
and you don’t answer. not right away. your body is still. your throat tight. the air in the room shifts like it knows this is where things stop being fun. stop being just sex.
you blink, slowly. not looking at her.
your eyes go to jude, and he’s already looking at you. not her—not the girl asking to fuck him. not the one pressing her tits against your arm, trying to remind you she exists. just you.
his fingers are still tangled in your hair. his dick’s heavy and waiting in your hand, still glistening from your mouth. his jaw is tense, and there’s something burning behind his eyes that you know. something that makes your stomach turn. because it’s not guilt. not panic. not even lust.
it’s permission.
he’s waiting for you to say it’s okay. like he can’t do it unless you let him. like he already knows you won’t.
your chest rises. you feel that familiar sting behind your eyes and fight it back. you don’t let it show. can’t. not here. not in front of her. not in front of him. you lick your lips, fingers tightening just slightly where they wrap around him.
the silence between you stretches. you could snap it with your teeth.
then you speak. voice quiet. cracked. lower than before.
“no.”
you don’t explain. don’t smile. don’t try to soften it.
just no.
and it cuts the air in half. so clean. so cold. so final.
jude nods once. slow. not confused. not surprised. like he already knew that was coming. like he was waiting for it. like it confirmed something he’d been holding his tongue about this whole time.
and it shouldn’t mean anything. it shouldn’t hold so much weight. you’re not his girl. he’s not yours. but none of that stops him from reaching up and grabbing your chin—gentle. too gentle. soft in a way that’s so out of place for how loud your heart is beating, for how naked you feel in this moment. for how ugly your jealousy is. for how much you want to scream and cry and cum all at once.
he holds your face steady. tilts it so you can’t look away. forces you to meet his eyes. and what you see there... it knocks the wind out of you.
he’s serious.
not lust-drunk. not in some haze. just... clear. focused. unshaking.
“this stops when you say so,” he says. low. calm. but there’s a heat to it. his thumb drags across your cheek like he’s memorising the shape of you all over again. “if you want her gone, she’s gone.”
he says it without breaking eye contact. without hesitation. without guilt. like he means every fucking syllable. like he wouldn’t blink before pulling the plug on this whole thing. like the only reason she’s even here is because you let her be.
and jude couldn’t care less whether she hears him or not. he doesn’t even glance her way. doesn’t stutter. doesn’t soften his voice. because she was never really part of this equation to begin with.
you nod. once. throat tight. jaw clenched. not trusting yourself to speak. and that’s it. that’s the end of that.
no questions. no follow-ups. no “are you sure?”
he just kisses you. soft. slow. with too much tongue and too much care and too much meaning packed between every press of his lips.
the girl is not stupid.
she sees the way he looks at you. hears the words. the weight in them. she doesn’t argue. doesn’t make a scene. doesn’t ask if she did something wrong. maybe she’s been in this position before. maybe she’s been the girl who showed up thinking it was just fun, just bodies, just sex—but ended up feeling like the interruption. like the third wheel to something she didn’t understand. something she wasn’t supposed to witness.
you don’t say anything to her. can’t. your tongue is heavy. your throat thick. shame is already curling in your stomach, bitter and sour.
she sits up slowly. pulls on her dress. smooths it down. glances between the two of you—jude’s hand still holding your jaw, your lips parted like you want to apologise and beg him to keep kissing you all at once. and that’s when she knows.
she tucks her lip gloss back in her bag. says something soft—“thanks, it was fun”—even though you both know it wasn’t. even though she probably feels like she just watched something break in real time.
jude doesn’t even look at her. not out of disrespect. but because he can’t take his eyes off you.
the door clicks closed behind her.
and then it’s quiet. like, really quiet. you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. feel your pulse in your wrists, your neck, between your thighs.
his hand is still on your face. still warm. his thumb swipes across your cheek like he’s wiping something off that isn’t there. maybe a tear. maybe pride. maybe denial.
you should move. say something. lighten the mood. make a joke. pretend it didn’t affect you the way it did.
but you can’t.
your hands are in your lap, fingers twisting into themselves, your thighs sticky, your heart doing too much in too small a space.
you finally whisper, “i thought i could handle it.”
he exhales. long. slow. then tucks a stray braid behind your ear. “i knew you couldn’t.”
you wince. something subtle, but he catches it anyway. not because it hurts. but because it’s true. because he knew you. “then why let me do it?” you ask, voice breaking.
“because you needed to prove something to yourself,” he says. “and i needed you to stop lying.”
you blink fast. try not to cry. you don’t even know why the tears are there. anger? shame? grief? heartbreak over something you don’t even have?
jude slides closer. presses his forehead to yours.
“it’s not just sex for me,” he says. “hasn’t been. for a long time.”
and you hate how much you needed to hear that. how much your body leans into it like it’s instinct. how your fingers finally find his, link between them tight, desperate.
he kisses you again. not hungry. not frantic. just... honest. you whimper into his mouth. he swallows it like it’s precious. his hands slide up your thighs, slow. familiar. he doesn’t ask this time. doesn’t wait for permission. because he already has it. he always did.
he pushes you back into the mattress and settles between your legs like he was born to be there. like he never should’ve left.
this time, it’s just you.
no audience. no pride. no pretending.
just you. and him. and the truth you can’t run from anymore.
he doesn’t rush.
for once, there’s no game. no teasing. no show. just hands that know exactly where you ache, a mouth that presses warmth into all the places you forgot needed softness.
your back sinks into the mattress as he hovers above you, weight resting between your open thighs. his eyes roam your face like he’s seeing you for the first time—even though he’s seen everything. even though he’s had you spread under him more times than you can count.
this is different. you know it. he knows it.
his fingers brush up your ribs, slow, like he’s checking to see if you’ll flinch. and you almost do—not because it hurts, but because it feels too good. too much. you’re too raw now. there’s no ego left to hide behind. no mask.
you’re not just fucking anymore.
he presses a kiss to your cheek. then your temple. then your nose. then your lips, slow and heavy, and you tilt your chin up to meet him fully.
he tastes like something you’ve been craving your whole life.
you feel him shift—his tip nudging at your entrance, and you inhale sharply, hand gripping the back of his neck.
“you okay?” he whispers, voice hoarse.
you nod. fingers tightening. “yeah. just... slow, okay?”
he nods too. kisses your jaw. your collarbone. his hand finds yours and he laces your fingers together right above your head. keeps them there. like he wants to hold all of you at once.
and then he pushes in.
your breath leaves your lungs in a rush. your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, like your body’s just been waiting for this, like all the chaos, all the jealousy, all the pretending didn’t mean a thing because this is where you were always meant to land.
jude sinks in all the way, slow and deep, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath catching in time with yours.
you shudder.
“look at me,” he says, so quiet it’s almost just a breath.
and you do. because how could you not?
his eyes are low and soft and full of something he still hasn’t said yet, but you feel it. every thrust is unhurried, like he’s trying to write it all into your skin, like if he moves too fast he’ll miss a word.
your free hand slides up his back, nails dragging just a little. he groans into your neck, hips stuttering. his rhythm never breaks, just grows deeper. more intentional. every movement says i see you. i want you. i know you.
he kisses your chin. then your chest. then lowers his head and puts his mouth on your tit, hot and wet and open. you moan, legs tightening around him. his hand still grips yours, grounding.
“you feel so good,” he mutters into your skin, words trembling, slurred like he can’t quite hold them steady.
you’re breathless. your other hand cups the side of his face now, thumb brushing the edge of his mouth, his jaw, his cheek. he leans into it like he needs it, like that touch is the only thing keeping him whole.
and when you arch up and whisper, “don’t stop,” he doesn’t.
he fucks you slow, and deep, and close—like he’s not trying to get off, like he’s trying to live here. like he wants to bury himself so far inside you that the world can’t reach him.
you start to cry.
quiet tears. not from pain, not even from sadness. but from the weight of it. the release. the truth of what you’ve both been pretending not to feel for months.
jude notices instantly. his thrusts slow even more, just his hips rolling, grinding so deep you whimper. his thumb brushes your tears away, lips trembling against your cheek.
“i’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking. “i didn’t mean to hurt you.”
you shake your head. “you didn’t. i just… i think i love you.”
and there it is. the silence breaks. everything breaks.
his eyes close. he exhales hard. like he’s been waiting years to hear it. then he opens them again, stares right into you.
“i know,” he says, like it’s always been that simple. “i love you too.”
and then he kisses you.
for real this time.
not out of hunger. not out of habit. not because it’s what always happens in the dark.
but because he means it.
he fucks you through it, hand still in yours, his body curled into yours like he wants to fuse with you completely. and when you cum, it’s not loud or messy—it’s a full-body ache, a soft quake from the inside out. you shudder under him, tears still hot on your cheeks, mouth open in a gasp you can’t find words to finish.
he follows soon after, buried deep, groaning low into your neck as he spills inside you, his whole body shaking.
neither of you speak for a long time. just stay like that. holding. breathing. trying to come down from the kind of high no one ever teaches you how to survive.
eventually, he rolls over, but keeps you pulled to his chest. your head rests over his heart. his fingers trace your back.
you whisper, “she’s never coming back here again.”
jude laughs, soft. “she was never supposed to stay.”
and neither of you say it, but it’s clear—
this was never about her. it never will be.
it’s always been you. and him. and this thing you tried to pretend wasn’t real.
warnings/notes ➜ 18+ minors dni. cheating. angst. morally grey characters.
summary ➜ olise is getting married in a week. you’ve always been the friend, the almost, the what-if. but tonight you tell him the truth — you’re in love with him, you always have been. and no, you’re not asking for forever. just one night.
you weren’t supposed to say anything, you told yourself that. kept it tucked inside like a secret too ugly to name. because he was happy. because he had her. because he was about to marry her.
and you? you were just the friend. the plus-one. the one who helped him shop for rings, who held his phone and recorded the moment when he proposed, who smiled and said “i’m so happy for you” when it felt like your chest was splitting in half.
but now you’re here, in your apartment, five nights before the wedding. your palms are sweating, your throat’s dry, you haven’t even sat down.
and olise is standing there. in front of you. blinking like he can’t believe you’re actually saying this.
“just one night,” you whisper, voice already breaking. “that’s all i’m asking.”
he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. just stares.
eyes darting between your lips, your eyes, your trembling fingers.
you swallow hard.
“i know you love her,” you say. “i know you’re getting married. i know i’m… not the one you want.” your voice cracks. “but michael, i’ve wanted you for so long. and it’s not about trying to change anything, i swear. i’m not delusional. i’m not asking for your heart. i just…” your voice drops lower. “i just want to feel you. just once.”
he still doesn’t say anything. but you see the shift in his jaw. the subtle flex of muscle.
the way his hand curls into a fist by his side.
so you go further, you spill the parts you swore you never would.
“i want to show you,” you murmur, “everything i’ve ever thought about when i look at you. all the things i imagine when you touch my hand. when you call me late. when you tell me secrets. when you tell me i’m beautiful like you don’t know how much that fucks me up.”
he shifts in his seat, jaw tightening, but still doesn’t speak.
your eyes burn, but you keep going. keep spilling.
“i’ve touched myself thinking about you more times than i can count,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “i’ve made myself cum to the thought of your hands. your mouth. your voice. i’ve woken up in the middle of the night, soaked, aching, because you were in my dream. and it felt real.”
his throat bobs. he’s breathing harder now. his knuckles damn near white around the glass of don julio in his hand.
you lean closer.
“i’ve thought about being on my knees for you. about riding you. about choking on you while you hold my hair back and say my name like it’s the only one you know. i’ve imagined you pushing me up against the wall and making me beg for it. i’ve wanted you to bend me over every surface in your apartment. i’ve imagined you so deep inside me i can’t breathe.”
olise closes his eyes. like it hurts to hear. like he’s trying to block it out but can’t.
you reach for his hand.
“i know you’re not mine,” you say, “but i’m yours. and i just want tonight. no strings. no promises. just you. however you’ll give yourself to me.”
he stays still for a second longer. then he opens his eyes, and they’re full of something dark. hungry. pained.
he sets the glass down.
then he stands.
and when he reaches for you, it’s not slow. it’s not gentle. it’s everything at once.
he pulls you up with both hands, your bodies crashing together like something’s breaking. he kisses you hard — messy, urgent, his mouth opening against yours like he’s been dying for it. you whimper into him, hands fisting in his hoodie, and he groans, deep and low, dragging your hips into his.
he walks you backwards. doesn’t stop kissing you. doesn’t breathe. just moves, chest heaving, hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
you end up in your bedroom. the door slams shut behind him, and you’re already pulling your shirt off, already reaching for his pants. you’re shaking. he’s sweating. his hands are on your waist, your ribs, your face, your ass. he’s touching everything at once. kissing you like he’s trying to brand you with it.
“you’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters against your mouth. “you’ve always been so fucking—”
you grab his hand, shove it between your legs. he groans when he feels how wet you are.
“you did that,” you whisper. “you’ve always done that to me.”
he doesn’t answer. just drops to his knees.
his mouth is on you before you can even think. no teasing. no pause. just a raw, hungry dive into everything you’ve ever imagined. he groans the second his tongue hits you — loud, guttural, like the taste of you shocks something alive in him.
he spreads you open with both hands, palms sliding under your thighs, dragging them wide and holding you in place with a grip so firm it leaves dents. his thumbs press into the creases of your hips, and then he licks up, slow and deliberate, from your dripping entrance to your clit, moaning like he’s already addicted.
he eats like a man possessed — messy, sloppy, starved. his tongue circles and flicks, then plunges deep inside you, fucking you open while his nose brushes your clit just right. every sound he makes vibrates through your core. low, feral sounds. moans that don’t belong to someone who’s supposed to be marrying another woman in six days.
your hips jerk, bucking up into his face, and he loves it. groans louder. sinks his hands deeper into your flesh to hold you still.
you fist the back of his head, hair clutched between your fingers, dragging him closer, needier. your thighs tremble around his face. your back arches. your chest heaves.
“olise—fuck—michael,” you cry, voice cracking as your thighs squeeze around his head.
he grunts against your pussy, tongue moving faster now, sloppier, wetter, dirtier. his spit’s all over you. your wetness is all over him. his chin’s soaked, lips shiny, and he doesn’t care. doesn’t pause. doesn’t breathe.
he’s eating you like this is what he came for. like this is the only reason he’s here. like he’s trying to memorise your taste, tattoo it onto his tongue.
“you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs against you, his voice rough and muffled. “been dying to know… fuck, baby, you’re dripping—”
and then he flattens his tongue and drags it over your clit in slow, heavy laps, using the whole of his mouth, and you quite literally scream. loud. uncontrollably. you clutch his head so hard your nails dig into his scalp.
he moans again. louder. grinding his face against you. like he wants to live there.
and maybe he does.
“fuck, olise,” you cry, voice splintering right down the middle. “i’m gonna—”
you barely get the words out. your body’s already betraying you, already seizing up, thighs trembling against the sides of his face. your hips instinctively grind into his mouth, like you need to chase that final stroke of his tongue. you sob when it hits — loud, broken, one hand clawing the headboard, the other fisting his hair like you’re scared he’ll stop before it’s over.
and he doesn’t. not even when your whole body jerks. not even when your voice hits a pitch he’s never heard before. he keeps going, slower now, lips soft around your clit, tongue gentle but greedy. like he’s trying to memorise how you taste when you fall apart for him. like he’s never going to get this again, so he’s committing everything to memory.
he breathes against your cunt like it’s oxygen. face soaked. you can feel him groan into you one last time, and then he finally pulls back, mouth all slick and wet and perfect.
he stands up slow. wipes his face with the back of his hand, eyes half-lidded and wild, like he’s drunk off you.
“you’re gonna take everything,” he says, voice dark, ragged, like he’s still catching his breath. he grabs your thighs and drags you up the bed, your back hitting the pillows, your limbs loose, chest rising and falling fast. “you said you wanted it all. so take it.”
you nod. barely. your lips parted, chest heaving. your body’s still buzzing, but your eyes are locked on him now — dazed, hungry, worshipful. like he’s the only thing in the room.
he pulls his hoodie over his head in one motion, muscles flexing under that soft skin. he drops it somewhere behind him, then tugs the waistband of his sweats down.
your breath catches.
his dick slaps against his stomach, thick and heavy, the tip flushed, glistening with precum. it’s pretty in that filthy, overwhelming kind of way. big enough to make your throat dry and your thighs squeeze together. your mouth goes slack, your whole body leaning forward like it’s out of your control.
“fuck,” you whisper, crawling toward him on all fours, slow and shaky and still dripping. “please let me taste you.”
he looks down at you like you’re something unreal. like you’ve just cracked something open in him.
he doesn’t say yes. doesn’t nod. he just smirks. slow. lazy. mean. grabs you by the jaw and pulls you to the edge of the bed. plants his feet. stands tall in front of you while you kneel.
his voice is low when he says, “open.”
you do. wide and eager. tongue out, eyes on him. like a girl who’s dreamed of this too many times not to know what she wants.
“good girl,” he murmurs, sliding the tip across your tongue. your lips wrap around him instantly, eyes fluttering shut as he sinks in deeper — slow at first, letting you adjust. he hisses through his teeth. “shit. your mouth feels even better than i imagined.”
you moan around him, taking more, letting your lips stretch, your jaw ache. spit pools fast, dripping down your chin. you’re already gagging a little but you don’t stop. don’t want to.
you look up at him through your lashes, mascara smudged, eyes glassy.
he smiles. both hands in your hair now. not forcing, but steady. guiding. like he’s trying not to lose it. like he could, so easily.
“just like that,” he breathes. “that’s it. fuck, look at you…”
he thrusts once, shallow, and you gag again, throat tightening. he groans low, his grip tightening in your hair, hips twitching like he wants to ruin you right then and there. his dick is heavy on your tongue, warm and pulsing, and so fucking deep in your throat when you take more.
your hands are on his thighs, nails digging in, your own pussy clenching like it’s jealous of your mouth. he’s moaning now, talking low and nasty, head thrown back.
“been wanting this since the first time i saw you in that little fucking dress,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “you remember that night?”
how could you forget?
it was a year ago. some packed nightclub in london, all low lights and expensive liquor. you met olise before the engagement. before there was ever another woman standing beside him.
you'd spent half the night orbiting each other. he'd bought your drinks, laughed every time you gave him that look over the rim of your glass.
there'd been dancing, lingering touches, but nothing happened. not really. you flirted until sunrise without crossing a single line. and somehow, that almost made it worse. because you'd walked out of that club convinced it was only a matter of time before you two became something more.
then, barely two months later, there he was. same smile. same eyes. different woman on his arm.
you'd swallowed whatever disappointment settled in your chest, told yourself you'd imagined the chemistry and taught yourself to be happy with being just his friend.
until tonight.
his fingers tighten slightly in your hair.
“you spent half the night sittin' on my lap,” he says, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “all pretty, all sweet... looking at me like that.”
his eyes meet yours, his smile small now, almost disbelieving. “thought about you for weeks after that.”
you whimper, drooling now, spit all over your lips, your chin, down your neck. he groans again and pulls out slowly, dick slick and shiny with your spit, your mouth hollowing around nothing as you chase it.
“fuck,” he mutters. “you’re so desperate for it.”
you nod. chest heaving. mouth open, lips swollen, tongue out like you’re begging. like you’ll cry if he doesn’t give it back.
and he does.
he slaps it gently against your tongue once. then slides back in.
deeper this time.
you moan, choked and messy, as he rocks his hips forward, fucking into your mouth with slow, filthy strokes.
and you? you let him. like it’s all you’ve ever needed. like your whole body was made for this. for him. even if it’s just one night.
you gag around him, eyes burning, spit dripping down your chin. your hands are gripping his thighs for balance, knuckles damn near white, and his skin is warm under your palms — muscles flexing as his hips roll forward, slow and steady and greedy.
he watches you — jaw slack, mouth parted, eyebrows stitched together like it’s taking everything in him not to fuck your throat recklessly. like he’s savouring the feel of you, the heat, the mess, the wet sounds echoing through the room.
"fuck,” he rasps, voice sharp. “you look so pretty like this."
your lashes flutter, tears threatening to spill, and you hum around him in response, vibrating his dick with the sound. that’s what makes him twitch in your mouth. that’s what makes his abs clench beneath your hands.
he pulls out fast, a gasp catching in his throat as your lips chase after him. but he’s already bending down, grabbing your face between his hands, his thumbs swiping messily at the spit smeared down your chin. then he kisses you. hard. filthy. tongue and teeth and a low groan buried in your mouth.
he breaks the kiss, panting.
“get on all fours.”
you obey. there’s no hesitation. you’re dizzy, dripping, spine arching as you crawl across the bed and push your ass up for him. vulnerable. shameless. wanting.
he groans behind you, deep in his chest, and then his palm comes down on your ass — loud, stinging, almost possessive. you jolt forward from the force of it, moaning into the pillow, and you hear the blunt sound of him stroking himself once, twice, then nothing but silence before—
he thrusts in. one long, slow push.
your mouth drops open. your whole body seizes.
"oh my god—” you gasp.
“fuck,” olise groans behind you, like it’s being torn out of him. “so fucking tight.”
he pulls out halfway. slams back in.
your vision blurs.
“this what you wanted, baby?” his voice is all gravel now. “this what you been dreaming about?”
“yes,” you cry out. “yes, michael, yes—just like that—”
he fucks you hard. relentless. filthy. his hips snapping against yours over and over, the sound obscene, echoing through the room like proof. like shame. like satisfaction.
your face is buried in the pillows, hands fisting the sheets, your body rocked forward with every thrust. he’s gripping your hips like he owns them. dragging you back onto his dick like you’re his to use. and you let him. you want it.
you need it.
he leans over you, chest pressed to your back, one hand creeping up until it’s wrapped around your throat. then he pulls you up. your back flush to his chest, your neck curved in his grip.
“look at me,” he breathes, right against your ear. “you get to have this. just once. so fucking look at me.”
your eyes flutter open.
you meet his gaze in the mirror across the bed.
and it’s everything.
his face is wrecked. flushed. eyes wild. sweat beading along his brow. his mouth is kiss-swollen, hanging open like he’s trying to catch his breath — like he’s trying to hold onto this moment before it disappears.
he looks at you like he’s never going to see you again. and maybe he won’t.
your thighs are shaking. your mouth is open. you look like sin in that mirror — cheeks tear-stained, lips bruised, body bouncing on him with every thrust.
he whispers, like a confession: “you feel like heaven.”
you whimper, grinding back into him. and for a second — just one — it almost feels like love.
he reaches between you, fingers slick with how wet you are, rubbing tight circles on your clit. not slow. not gentle. fast and firm like he knows exactly what you need.
you’re already close. have been since he first kissed you. since he told you to take it. and now it’s building fast, sharp heat blooming from the pit of your stomach to the backs of your knees, to your spine, to your scalp. you can’t even think. can’t breathe.
your voice cracks. “i— i’m gonna—”
he grunts, barely holding himself together. thrusts deep, hits that spot inside you that makes your whole body lurch forward.
“go ahead, pretty girl,” he says, low and gritty, right in your ear. “cum all over me. let me feel how bad you needed it. how fucking desperate you’ve been for me.”
and you break.
loud.
you scream for him. choke on his name. your whole body tenses then shudders, waves of pleasure ripping through you, thighs trembling, vision going white around the edges. your walls clench around him so tight he curses into your neck, hips faltering for the first time all night.
but he doesn’t stop.
he fucks you through it. keeps his fingers on your clit, keeps pounding into you like he’s determined to make you cry again. like he wants to ruin your body for anyone else. like he’s trying to burn himself into your nerve endings.
he pulls out for a second just to flip you over like it’s nothing. your legs spread open without thought, aching and spent, but your body is still begging for him. he lines himself back up and slides in deep, one long, hard thrust that knocks the breath out of your chest.
your legs wrap around his waist. your heels dig into his ass. you claw at his back, pulling him closer, needing his whole weight on top of you.
you drag him down by the back of his neck, crash your mouth into his.
the kiss is everything. desperate. messy. your teeth clash. your tongues tangle. it tastes like sweat, tears, sex, everything you’re too scared to say out loud. you moan into his mouth. he swallows it.
his hands are everywhere. one on your jaw, the other on your thigh, spreading you wider, keeping you open so he can stay deep. your bodies slap together with every thrust. you’re soaked and swollen and sensitive, but you need it. you need him.
he’s panting against your lips now. fucking you harder. sloppier. his forehead pressed to yours.
“i’m gonna cum,” he pants, voice shaking. “fuck— where do you want it, baby?”
you don’t hesitate.
you grab his ass, fingers sinking into his flesh, dragging him impossibly deeper.
“inside,” you whisper, eyes wide, wet. “i want all of you. every drop. please, fill me up.”
he groans like you just shattered something inside him. his whole body trembles, he buries his face in your neck, lets out a broken moan.
“mhmm, fuck—”
then he’s gone.
hips jerking, dick pulsing, thick and hot as he spills into you. deep. messy. all of it. he moans your name like it’s a goodbye, like he’ll never get to say it like it again.
his body collapses on top of yours, heavy and shaking. your arms wrap around his back, holding him close. his cum filling you up.
neither of you move for a while. you just lie there. full of him. wrecked by him. knowing this was your only night. and it was everything.
you lie there. tangled. silent. your bodies sticky and sore. the air heavy.
you don’t know how long you lie there like that — your chest under his, your breath catching beneath the weight of it all, your legs still wrapped around him like you’re trying to keep him close. like if you hold him tight enough, he won’t go. that morning won’t come. that he won’t go back to her.
but it will. and he will. and you always knew that.
his body is warm against yours. all muscled and solid and still pulsing inside you. you feel the wet slide of him leaking out of you, sticky and hot between your thighs, and for a moment, you pretend it means something more. pretend like maybe it rewrote what this night was supposed to be.
you shift beneath him. and when he presses a kiss to your collarbone — soft, like an apology — something in your chest breaks. your eyes sting.
then it comes.
quiet at first. not dramatic. just a slow ache of breath shaking loose from your lungs. a crack of a sob slipping out before you can stop it.
he freezes. lifts his head. sees the tears spilling down your temples. the way you try to blink them back. the way you try to hide your face from him, even though it’s too late.
his voice is barely there. “baby…”
you shake your head, lip trembling. try to hold it in. fail. your hand covers your mouth but your chest keeps jerking with every silent sob.
olise props himself up, cupping your face with both hands. he kisses the corners of your eyes, the salt of your cheeks, your jaw, your lips.
“i’m sorry,” you choke, eyes screwed shut. “i didn’t mean to— i didn’t mean to cry.”
“don’t do that,” he whispers. “don’t apologise.”
he leans his forehead into yours, breath warm against your skin. you feel him everywhere. still inside you. still wrapped around you. still the one thing you wanted more than anything.
you whisper, barely audible, “i told myself i could handle this.”
he presses his lips to your nose. your eyelids. your chin.
“you’re handling it,” he says. “i promise you are.”
but he knows you’re not. and so do you.
you sit up slowly, pushing your hair out of your face. the sheets fall from your body, but you don’t care. you’re too raw. too exposed already. you curl into yourself a little, arms wrapping around your knees.
“so what now?” you ask, voice hoarse.
he’s watching you like you might disappear. like he wants to memorise you. every inch. every expression. every shadow of this night.
he breathes in deep, then says it quietly. “i marry her.”
your eyes close. a slow nod.
“and i just… forget this happened?”
“no,” he swallows hard. shifts in place. “i don’t even think i can.”
that makes your heart stutter. that makes the tears come back. because he means it. and somehow that makes this so much worse.
he stands. pulls on his sweats, then his hoodie. his movements are slow. like he doesn’t want to touch anything too roughly. like he’s afraid of breaking something more than he already has.
“i should go before i make this harder than it already is.”
you nod. bite your tongue. your vision is blurred.
he walks to the door, hand on the knob. pauses.
then he turns back around, eyes soft and full of something too heavy to name.
“you were everything,” he says, voice soft. “i wish things were different.”
and then he leaves.
no kiss. no promises. just the door clicking shut. just the echo of him walking away.
you sit there in the stillness, naked, trembling, full of him and yet empty in a way you’ve never known. the sheets smell like him. your body aches for him. and your heart?
your heart never stood a chance.
you gave olise one night. now you’ll live the rest of your life with it.
hiii love your writing! curious what you think Jamal is like in bed👀
—what boyfriend!jamal is like in the bedroom
warnings/notes: 18+ mdni.
jamal’s got this way of looking at you like he’s never seen anything prettier in his life. like he’s still in disbelief that you’re his, that he gets to have you like this, laid out and waiting for him. it’s that kind of stare that makes you nervous, makes your stomach tighten, because it’s not just lust. it’s deeper than that, heavier, like he doesn’t just want your body—he wants your heart, your soul, every single inch of you.
and sex with him? it’s just like him—soft, sweet, full of affection.
at least, most of the time.
because jamal is a giver. it’s in his nature. he wants to make you feel good, wants to hear every little sound you make, wants to know he’s doing it right.
he pays attention, memorises what makes you tick, learns every little thing that makes you squirm under him. and he’s got patience, too—likes to take his time, draw it out, make sure you’re enjoying every second of it. he kisses you slow, touches you like he’s savouring you, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
but that’s not all there is to him.
because jamal might be sweet, but he’s also competitive. he likes winning. and when it comes to you? winning means making you beg. making you come undone just from his mouth, his hands, his words. winning means proving to you that he’s not as soft as you think, that he can handle you however you need him to.
the first time you tease him, tell him he’s too nice to be mean? that’s when you see it.
that little shift in his expression, the way his smile turns into something smug, like you’ve just unlocked a different version of him. he tilts his head, eyes darkening, voice dropping into something low, something new.
“too nice?” he echoes, almost amused. “you think so?”
and then he’s on you, hands gripping your thighs, pinning you down like he’s got something to prove.
he doesn’t just fuck to feel good—he fucks to make a statement. he fucks to remind you who he is, to remind you that sweet doesn’t mean soft, that gentle doesn’t mean weak. he’ll have you gasping, clutching at the sheets, trying to keep up as he takes you apart piece by piece.
and he talks. not the kind of talking that’s meant to be pretty — he’s actually filthier than you expect. the kind of shit that makes your breath hitch, makes heat flood through you, makes you realise just how nasty he can be.
“still think i’m too nice, baby?” he’ll murmur against your skin, all smug as he watches you fall apart beneath him.
but he doesn’t just talk to be dirty—he talks because he likes knowing you’re with him, right there, feeling everything just as deep as he is. “tell me how bad you want it,” he’ll whisper, dragging it out just to make you whimper, just to make you squirm.
and when you finally give in? when you tell him exactly what he wants to hear? that’s when he softens again. when his kisses get sweeter, when his touch turns gentle, like he wants to remind you that he’s still jamal—still your jamal, still the man who loves you, still the man who’d do anything to make you happy.
because at the end of the day, no matter how nasty he gets, no matter how many times he makes you fall apart—he’s still the man who’ll pull you close after, press soft kisses to your forehead, whisper, “you okay, baby?”
and when you hum in response, curling up against his chest, he’ll smile—because he knows he got exactly what he wanted.
jobe takes care of you. in every way, at every moment, no matter how good he just made you feel, no matter how tired he is afterward—his first instinct is always you.
"you okay baby?” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion, but his hands are still moving, still brushing over your bare skin, still soothing. he's barely caught his breath, still stretched out on top of you, body warm and heavy, but he's already pressing slow, lazy kisses along your shoulder, reaching for your waist, shifting his weight like he's ready to move.
"stay," you whisper, arms tightening around him. you like the weight of him, the warmth, the solid press of his body on yours.
"i gotta clean you up," he argues, voice all husky and sweet, lips still trailing over your skin.
"not yet," you say, and he listens. of course he does.
b is for body worship
he swears he could spend the rest of his life just touching you. just admiring you.
it’s not just about the way you look—it’s deeper than that. he loves your body because it’s yours. because you exist in it. because it’s the only place he ever wants to be.
"look at you," he mutters, voice laced with something dark, something thick. his hands are all over you, sliding slow and warm over the curve of your hips, up your waist, down your thighs. he kisses your stomach, your ribcage, your shoulders—everywhere.
"jobe," you whisper, but he’s lost in you, too caught up in how soft you are, how perfect you feel under his hands, how he could spend forever like this and never get tired of it.
"so fuckin' beautiful," he breathes against your skin, and it’s not just words. you feel it in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you, in the way he won’t stop looking at you like you’re something precious.
he takes his time. kisses every inch of you. makes sure you know exactly how much he loves your body—every dip, every curve, every soft, sensitive part of you.
"could do this all night," he mutters, dragging his lips over your stomach, nipping at your skin just enough to make you gasp.
you believe him.
c is for control
jobe likes to be in control. not because he has to be, but because he wants to. because he likes knowing he’s the one making you feel this way, the one pulling those sweet little sounds from your lips, the one pushing you to the edge over and over again.
but it’s not just about control—it’s about taking care of you. making sure you feel good. making sure you know you’re safe, that you can trust him, that you can give in completely and he’ll catch you every time.
"easy, baby," he murmurs when you start squirming, when your body gets too restless under his hands. his grip tightens, just enough to keep you still. "i got you."
and he does. he always does.
d is for dirty talk
jobe talks you through it. always.
"feels good, don’t it?" he mutters, voice all rough and thick. his lips are right by your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "you like that, yeah?"
you nod, breathless, and his grip tightens just enough to make you whimper.
"nah," he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw. "use your words."
"yes," you gasp. "fuck—yes, jobe."
he hums, satisfied. "that’s my girl."
e is for edging
he likes to tease. likes to take you right to the edge, to watch the way your body trembles, to hear the way your voice gets all high and desperate.
likes to make you wait for it.
"not yet," he mutters when you start to beg, when your fingers clutch at his shoulders, when your breath stutters and your thighs shake around him.
"please," you whisper, but he just smirks, drags his lips over your throat, keeps you right there, teetering.
"i’ll let you cum when i’m ready, baby." his voice is soft, almost sweet, but the look in his eyes is anything but.
you whimper, hips twitching against his hold. he just chuckles.
"gonna be good for me?" he asks, slow and teasing, fingers trailing over your skin like he’s in no rush at all.
you nod, glaze-eyed, desperate.
"that’s my girl."
f is for foreplay
jobe takes his time. always.
he doesn’t just rush into it—he builds it up. makes you feel every touch, every kiss, every slow drag of his lips over your skin.
he’s patient. so patient it drives you crazy.
"jobe," you whine, shifting under him, but he just smirks, shakes his head.
"shh," he murmurs, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns over your thighs. "lemme take my time with you, baby."
you want to protest, but then his mouth is on you again, and suddenly, you don’t care how long he takes.
as long as he never stops.
g is for grip
jobe’s hands are big. strong. warm. and he knows exactly how to use them.
they’re always on you—gripping your waist, squeezing your thighs, wrapping around your wrists, pinning you down just enough to make your breath hitch.
he holds you like he owns you. like you belong to him.
and honestly? you do.
h is for hair-pulling
jobe loves your hair. loves the way it frames your face, the way it feels between his fingers, the way it moves when you ride him, the way you grip it when you’re about to fall apart.
but most of all, he loves pulling it.
"fuck," he mutters under his breath, fingers tightening in your hair as you take him deeper, your lips stretched around him, your eyes all dark and teary. his head falls back for a second, his free hand flexing against the bedsheets, but he’s still watching you, still looking down at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.
"look so pretty like this, baby," he breathes, tugging just a little—enough to make your scalp tingle, enough to make you whimper around him.
his jaw clenches. his hips twitch. his breath shudders out of him like he’s trying to hold himself back, like he’s trying not to fuck your mouth the way he really wants to.
but then you moan around him, and he loses it.
his grip tightens, his other hand cupping your jaw, his hips pushing just a little deeper.
"that’s it," he groans, his voice all thick and breathless. "such a good girl for me."
and when you look up at him, eyes glossy, lips wet and swollen—he swears he could cum just from that.
i is for intimacy
it’s not just about sex with jobe. it never is.
he touches you like he’s memorising you. looks at you like you’re something holy. kisses you like he means it, every single time.
even when it’s messy, even when it’s rough, even when he’s got you spread out underneath him, begging—there’s always something deeper in the way he moves, in the way he breathes your name, in the way he presses his forehead against yours when he’s close.
"love you," he whispers, voice all thick and quiet, and you feel it everywhere.
j is for jealousy
jobe doesn’t like to share. at all.
he’s not crazy about it—he trusts you, he knows you love him, knows you’re his. but that doesn’t mean he likes it when other guys look at you for too long, when someone gets too close, when he sees you laughing a little too hard at someone else’s joke.
"who was that?" he asks later, voice all low and tight as he backs you up against the nearest wall.
"just some guy," you tease, tilting your head at him, pushing at his chest just to rile him up.
he exhales through his nose, his jaw clenching.
"you think that’s funny?" he mutters, his hands gripping your hips, pressing into your skin.
you do. until he’s got you on your knees, showing you exactly who you belong to.
k is for kissing
jobe kisses like he needs it to breathe.
sometimes it’s soft, lazy—like when he’s half asleep, lips barely brushing over yours, warm and slow and sweet. sometimes it’s teasing—smirking against your mouth, tilting his head just enough to keep you chasing after him.
but sometimes—sometimes it’s something else.
sometimes he kisses you like he’s trying to ruin you. like he’s trying to make you feel him everywhere. like he wants to pull you apart with just his mouth.
"come here," he mutters, voice rough, fingers gripping your chin as he crashes his lips against yours.
and you do. always.
l is for lingerie
jobe loves you in anything. loves you in his shirts, loves you in sweats, loves you when you’re fresh out the shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around you.
but he really loves you in lace.
"fuckin’ hell," he mutters when you walk into the room, his eyes dragging over you, his fingers twitching at his sides.
you smirk, turning just enough to give him a better view. "like it?"
"come here," he breathes, and that’s all it takes.
m is for marking
jobe likes leaving reminders.
likes the little bruises on your thighs, the faint bite marks on your shoulders, the fingerprints he leaves on your hips.
"mine," he murmurs, his mouth dragging over your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin just enough to make you gasp.
like you’d ever forget.
n is for needy
jobe acts all tough, but he’s needy as fuck.
always pulling you closer, always touching you, always needing to feel your skin against his.
he’s impatient, too.
"babe," he groans, burying his face in your neck, shifting restlessly against you.
you hum, dragging your fingers through his hair. "what?"
"need you," he mumbles, voice all low and thick and desperate.
and when he’s like this, when he’s all whiny and warm and pressed up against you—how could you ever say no?
o is for oral
jobe eats you out like it’s his last meal.
like he lives for it. like he needs it.
"fuck," he mutters against your skin, fingers gripping your thighs, keeping you open for him. "taste so fuckin’ good, baby."
you whimper, back arching, fingers tugging at his hair, but he doesn’t stop.
he never does. not until you’re fully satisfied.
p is for praise
jobe loves hyping you up. loves telling you how good you are, how perfect, how pretty you look when you’re falling apart for him.
"that’s it, baby," he murmurs, voice all thick and sweet. "such a good girl for me."
you whimper, shivering at his words, and he just smiles, dragging his lips over your jaw.
"love you like this," he mutters. "love you always."
q is for quickies
jobe’s impatient. and sometimes, he just can’t wait.
"jobe," you hiss, glancing toward the door, but he doesn’t care.
"be quiet," he murmurs as he presses you up against the nearest surface, fingers slipping under your clothes, already making you gasp.
and yeah, maybe you should stop him because this shit is fucking risky. but when he’s looking at you like that—when he’s already got you shaking for him—how could you?
r is for rough
jobe isn’t always soft.
sometimes he’s all teeth and hands and heavy breathing, all bruising kisses and desperate touches and low, filthy words against your skin.
sometimes he needs you. hard and fast and now.
and you? you absolutely love it.
s is for stamina
jobe could go for hours. and he has.
it’s like he never gets tired. doesn’t matter how many times you’ve cum, doesn’t matter how weak your legs are, doesn’t matter how breathless and spent you are beneath him—he still wants more. still needs more.
"one more," he mutters against your skin, pressing messy kisses down your throat.
"jobe, i can’t," you whimper, body trembling.
he hums, dragging his hand between your legs, touching you so slow, so easy.
"want me to stop?" he murmurs.
and you vehemently shake your head. because absolutely not.
t is for teasing
jobe loves to drag things out. loves to take his time, loves to make you wait, loves to see how long it takes before you break.
"what’s wrong, baby?" he murmurs, his fingers barely grazing over where you need him most.
"jobe, please," you whisper, already shaking.
he just smiles, kisses the corner of your mouth, his hands gripping your thighs.
"not yet."
u is for unexpected
sometimes, jobe surprises you.
like when he wakes you up with his mouth between your thighs.
"jobe," you gasp, your body arching as he hums against your skin.
he looks up at you, his lips already glistening, his eyes dark.
"morning, baby."
v is for vulnerability
jobe isn’t soft with many people. but with you? he lets his guard down.
"stay with me," he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid to let go.
"always," you breathe, and he kisses you like he believes you.
w is for worship
jobe treats you like you’re the best thing in his life. because you are.
"so pretty," he murmurs, his hands tracing over every inch of you.
"so perfect," he breathes, kissing down your stomach.
"so… mine," he mutters against your skin, and you know there’s nothing in the world he means more.
x is for x-rated
jobe loves making videos.
"for me," he murmurs, tilting your chin up so you’re looking into the camera.
"show me, baby."
and you do. because you’d give him anything.
y is for yearning
even when he’s not with you, jobe’s thinking about you.
"miss you," he texts, even though he just saw you.
"need you," he calls, his voice all low and rough through the phone.
OMG THAT LAST OLISE SMUT 😭😭😭 girl, I can’t! That was the BEST THING I’ve ever read! 1000/10! Bravooooo
😂💕 lmao, you’re too kind! i love receiving feedback like this, it’s so encouraging – especially since this was my first olise fic. thank you lovelyyy, i’m glad you enjoyed it!🫰🏽😌
girl, the desire fic was sexyyyyy as hell! loved it
it’s the way he wasn’t even on my radar before the tumblr girlies started requesting him 😭 i mostly stick to writing about my own faves, but i’ve definitely enjoyed writing about some new people. i’m happy you liked it! 🤭
warnings/notes ➜ 18+ minors dni. soft dom virgil x inexperienced reader.
summary ➜ you’ve read everything there is to know about sex—textbooks, research papers, scientific breakdowns of the hormones, the chemistry, the neurotransmitters. but none of that prepared you for the way virgil touches you.
you’re trembling.
again.
your hands are wrapped around virgil’s forearms and your thighs are shaking where they rest over his shoulders, and you don’t even realise how hard you’re holding onto him until he leans forward and kisses your cheek, murmuring something soft against your skin.
“you’re shaking, baby.”
he says it quiet. not worried, not teasing—just checking in. always checking in.
his voice is low, smooth, tender. like he’s trying not to scare you. his thumbs are rubbing slow circles into your hips, and when he pulls back enough to look at your face, he pauses.
your eyes are glossy. your bottom lip is between your teeth. and you’re panting, still trying to catch your breath from the last orgasm he just gave you with his mouth.
“you okay?” he asks gently.
you nod quick. too quick.
“mmhm. i’m okay,” you say, even though your voice is shaky too. “just… the trembling,” you explain, blinking slowly, trying to catch your breath. “it’s just dopamine. and oxytocin. and maybe a little adrenaline. could be norepinephrine too. that’s usually what causes the full-body tremor response, you know? it’s just the combination of neurochemicals being released at once and—“
virgil laughs, low and breathless. not mocking. just in awe. brown eyes all gentle, and a lazy grin tugging at his mouth while he watches you try to regulate your breathing and explain away your trembling.
he genuinely can’t believe how fucking adorable you are.
he kisses your tummy, then your knee, then your thigh.
you whimper when his lips graze the inside of your thigh, the heat of his breath making you squirm. you’re sensitive. soaked. still pulsing from how intensely you came, your thighs sticky from how long he kept his tongue there, refusing to stop until you were arching off the bed and moaning his name over and over.
and he was so gentle with it. so soft. he kept his hand pressed flat against your belly to hold you still, his fingers laced with yours as he whispered filthy sweet nothings to you, letting you know how you were doing so good.
you’d never felt anything like it before. not in real life. only read about it. studied it. understood it. but virgil gave it to you.
and you weren’t ready.
you never are. not with him. not when he’s looking at you like that—like he wants to devour you and protect you at the same time. like he’s obsessed. like he’s honoured.
he leans forward now, hovering over you, eyes moving across your face like he’s trying to memorise every inch. the little crease between your brows, the way your lashes flutter, how your lips part just slightly. he takes his time with it, breathing you in like he doesn’t ever want to forget how you look laid out like this.
“you’re still shaking, love,” he says, voice now laced with slight concern as his hand comes up slow, brushing over your temple before tucking one of your braids behind your ear.
“i’m okay,” you reassure him, smiling gently. “you just activated a lot of receptors at once. it’s not dangerous, it’s actually kinda beautiful when you think about it—like my body’s responding to a release of built-up emotional and physical tension, and now my muscles are relaxing after contracting for so long and—”
he kisses you mid-sentence.
not to shut you up. just because he loves when you do that. ramble. explain. talk yourself into this little tangle of words.
you sigh into it, lips parting, hands sliding up his arms again. your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and you feel him there—hard, hot, pressed right up against your soaked entrance.
“you sure you’re okay?” he murmurs against your lips, “we don’t have to do anything else. we can just lay here.”
you blink up at him, already nodding, already guiding his hips with your legs.
“want you,” you whisper. “please, virgil. i’m okay. i promise.”
he kisses your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose.
“you’re so soft,” he breathes. “my sweet baby.”
you whimper at the name, and he grins.
“you like when i call you that?”
you nod, embarrassed. and he smiles because he knows. he knows you. knows that under all the facts and figures and graphs in your head, there’s still that tender, inexperienced girl inside you—new to this. new to being touched. to being wanted like this.
he moves slow when he finally presses in. inch by inch. because he knows it’s still new. every single time.
you’re tight. warm. wet. and so damn sensitive.
you arch your back a little, gasping when he slides in deeper. your nails press into his biceps, and your lips tremble like you’re about to cry, but not from pain.
from how it burns and stretches and fits.
from how he looks at you.
from how good it feels to finally feel him inside you—bare and deep.
“i know, baby,” he whispers, voice soft as silk. “i know. i got you.”
you cling to him, legs trembling again, and he kisses your shoulder. your collarbone. your neck. everywhere. his hips grind against yours, moving slow, like he’s not trying to fuck you, just feel you.
“you’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “always so perfect for me.”
and you are. every trembling inch of you.
“so pretty,” he mumbles, dragging his thumb over your cheek. “you were made for me, weren’t you?”
you nod helplessly, hips shifting to chase more of him, your brows furrowed in that soft, overwhelmed way that makes him want to kiss you until you cry.
“yes,” you breathe. “i was. i am. i—i only ever want you, virgil.”
his heart aches.
for a second, it just aches.
because you’re so pure. so open. your love for him is so deep and raw and real. and you give it to him every time, so freely, even when you don’t have the words to say what you’re feeling.
“look at me,” he whispers when your eyes flutter closed.
you do—barely. just enough to meet his eyes. and the way he’s looking at you? like you’re holy. like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever had under him. it makes your heart squeeze.
“there she is,” he says softly, smiling as he rocks into you again. “keep talking to me,” he whispers. “tell me what you feel.”
you’re still gasping a little, lips wet, eyes heavy. your body’s trembling so delicately beneath his—like every single movement sends a shockwave through you.
“i feel—hmm. i feel you in my stomach,” you whisper, almost shy. “and my chest is tight. and my legs won’t stop shaking.”
he smiles into your neck, still rocking into you soft and steady.
“why’s that happen again?” he asks, teasing. “something to do with hormones?”
you giggle, biting your lip.
“oxytocin,” you whisper. “and prolactin. probably serotonin too. you’re flooding my whole system.”
“mmm. so i’m like… your own little chemical cocktail?”
“yes,” you breathe, eyes fluttering. “with the most potent, addictive effects. scientifically proven.”
he chuckles, hips picking up just slightly, and you moan.
“my smart girl,” he murmurs, reaching between you to rub your clit. “such a pretty little brain. such a sweet, sweet pussy.”
your body jolts, hips stuttering.
“fuck—virgil—”
he hums, low and approving, eyes locked on your face as he watches you fall apart.
“you close again, baby?” he coos.
you nod frantically, clutching his back. “don’t stop. please, don’t stop—feels so good, virgil, please—”
he keeps kissing you.
keeps holding you.
keeps whispering sweet things in your ear like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.
and when you cum—legs locked around him, mouth wide open, whimpering into his shoulder—he doesn’t stop. not until he’s filled you up, grunting low into your neck, holding you tight as you both shake through it together.
when it’s over, he kisses your forehead.
strokes your cheek.
smiles down at you.
“you okay?” he whispers again.
you smile, tears in your lashes, heart bursting.
“yeah,” you breathe, reaching for him. “more than okay.”
