Mylu

21 || Virgo || Hey there! I'm an avid fanfic reader and sometimes writer.

[k3yfrme]

not even take it out desiré doue x reader smut

Warnings: french stereotypes, clothes-on sex, mentions of oral sex (male receiving), feet on mouth (just kisses), thigh fucking (i love those thighs so much it's not fair)

Author's notes: Ugh, that smile completely melts me, I need to make him suffer.

“You’re just teasing me, you’re not going to suck me off.” He says above you, sprawled out on your bed, looking down just enough to meet your gaze when you look up, smiling.

“I’m not.” You say simply, turning your attention back to his thighs—muscular, ridiculously big, and glossy, which really caught your attention. To tell the truth, you were even jealous; they were much more appetizing to you than his cock, which is why you’d been biting, sucking, and licking them up until now, delighting in running your tongue over the salty skin. Even if there isn't exactly any pleasure in it for him, Desiré still let out small gasps when your teeth grazed the inside of his thighs, showing just how sensitive the skin is there. Again, absurdly delicious.

“It’s cruel.” He limits himself to saying, knowing he shouldn't insist that you suck him; you’d already made it very clear that you aren't a fan of oral sex and that you wouldn't easily change your mind with him. One day, maybe, you’d give him a blowjob, but that would have to wait, and he’d have to behave very well to deserve it.

You take a little longer licking his legs, feeling the muscle against your tongue, the musk getting stronger every time you went dangerously close to the bulge in his underwear. Desiré shows annoyance, running his hands through your hair, massaging it at the same time he pulls; he knows he’s looking down, waiting for you to at least do something for him.

“If you close your eyes, you can imagine that I’m sucking you.”

“I don’t want to imagine.” He makes you laugh and look up once more, seeking his face. It’s arousing, the way he looks at you from below, staring at you.

It’s so arousing, in fact, that you decide to tease him a little.

“I’d take it out with my teeth.” You simulate pulling the waistband of his underwear like that, dragging the fabric between your teeth. “I’d pull it out and start with the head.” You let the elastic snap back against his skin, smiling at his exasperated gasp. “I’d kiss it, look at you.” You move up slowly, staring at him, observing how his mouth is slightly open, almost drooling.

“Fuck. Don’t talk like that.” He says while helping you get settled on his lap, running his hands over your thighs, moving down to squeeze your ass.

“I could, but honestly, I wouldn't even take your cock out.” He furrows his brows, confused by what you said.

You tell him to lie down, settled into your sheets, sprawled out on your bed. Your palm goes firm against his chest to steady yourself as you mount him, making your knees resist a little, leaving your vagina perfectly centered over the head of his cock, which is erect, poking through his underwear. It makes contact with your clitoris and you summon the courage to move, squatting on top of him and rubbing yourself against the front of your panties, right over the head of your clit, savoring the contact it makes with your sensitive spot.

“This is good… I just want you like this.” You say, whispering very close to his face. You smile at his expression—almost one of pain, his eyebrows arched and a hint of a pout on his lips.

“This is cruel. You’re mean, mon cœur..”

You laugh even more at that, letting his hand venture into your hair, interlacing his fingers at the roots and pulling lightly; his hot tongue against the sensitive skin of your neck makes you moan, speeding up the rhythm of your hips.

“I can cum like this, can’t you?” You ask all innocent, pretending to see how Doué’s face fills with disbelief, and even a little panic at the thought that he won't be able to fuck you tonight. Hesitant, he nods negatively, showing he can't cum just from this.

It’s a pity, then.

“You should. You should cum just from me grinding on your lap.” Looking at him, you think a quiet ‘please’ might escape his lips, but you don't give him time to repeat it. “So few can have me like this… and you aren't satisfied with what I give you?”

You move your hand to squeeze his chin, holding his gaze fixed on yours, admiring how it starts to cloud over, accepting your dominance. Stuttering, he begins: “Let me— Please.”

“What?”

Believing it to be almost a permission, he turns you over calmly, climbing on top of you between your legs.

“Desiré…” You warn in a severe tone; he should know well that he shouldn't disobey you, don't try to get on top when you clearly don't want him like that.

“Relax.” He gives you that mischievous smile, the one that brought you both here. “I just want to make you feel good, that’s all I’m here for, right?” The malicious tone doesn't convince you at all, still full of confidence, of arrogance.

“Good thing you know.” You say, going with your hand to his brown nape, scratching and hearing almost a purr from him.

Once positioned above you, he spreads your legs and puts himself between them, with his covered cock right in front of your naked vagina. Imitating what you did before, he starts to rub, taking advantage of the springy waist he has to do a slow and delicious grind.

“It’s good, isn't it?” He speaks, and you don't have the courage to deny it. You prefer to moan sweetly, looking into his brown eyes and giving a closed-mouth smile. His large hand takes your foot, placing it on his shoulder and giving it kisses, scraping his tongue lightly. And you, who were never really interested in that, like it; you like the sight of that beautiful man kissing your feet, making an effort to give you pleasure.

“If you make me cum like this, I’ll let you fuck me afterwards.” It comes out as a whisper from your mouth, like a promise, and you smile once more as his rhythm increases, humping against you even though there’s little pleasure in it for him. The sensitive fabric against your clitoris is divine and enough, his anxiety and determination turn you on too, and soon you cum, moaning loudly and making every face possible, looking to drive him crazy.

As soon as you come down from the high, his anxious hands already go for your panties, looking to remove them before your foot, which was previously being kissed, now pushes his chest away, denying him permission.

“But you said—” Desiré has that abandoned puppy look that just makes you want to mess with his head even more.

“Give me a little time, go take a shower first.” You say, being mean to him once again. You don't need time to recover, no. But just thinking about him perfumed, clean, already makes up for the time you'll have to wait. “It turns me on, a man fresh out of the shower, with a wet back, smelling like soap.”

He laughs, incredulous, not believing it. “Isn't it just because I'm French?”

The joke doesn't go unnoticed; you yourself have made many jokes about him; even though Desiré distances himself quite a bit from that stereotype, it's still fun to see the indignation on his face.

“No… Of course not…” You speak playfully, shaking your head and pushing him even further off the bed.

His head seems to light up with an idea, that same smile spreading across his mouth. “Come with me.”

You pause for a moment, consider the idea, and to convince you, he massages your foot, moving his hand up to your calf where he also gives it a squeeze. He adds: “I’ll behave.”

Alright, you’re easily convinced. A good Frenchman always makes you go weak.

[pinkfortuna]

So sexy

[hanialuna]

FOURTH PLACE

synopsis: after france's world cup game, michael finally escapes the cameras only to find you waiting for him. one empty office, one stolen moment, and a reminder that he'll always be more than football to you.

warnings: established relationship, hurt/comfort, fluff, teasing, kissing, explicit.

wc: 3.8k

"Mikes?"

The nickname reached him before you did.

He'd barely escaped the last television interview when your voice echoed through the tunnel, loud enough to make him stop despite the dozens of people still moving around him. Staff hurried past with equipment cases, players drifted between conversations in small groups, quietly replaying moments from the match as they made their way toward the buses.

He wasn't listening to any of them.

His eyes found you almost immediately, and something in his shoulders eased just slightly, even before he reached you.

You'd been waiting against the wall for nearly half an hour, arms crossed, watching every player before him get pulled into interviews, phone calls, hugs from family. You knew Michael would be one of the last out. He always was. He hated leaving while cameras were still around, hated the idea that someone might catch him slipping off without doing his part.

The corners of his mouth lifted the second he recognised you. Not a full smile but just enough for you to know he'd been trying to hold one back all evening, saving it for you specifically.

"Baby." He said it like a question and a relief at once, closing the last few steps between you. "We finished fourth."

"You still won tonight."

His eyebrows knitted together, the smile threatening to slip. "I don't think that's how football works."

"It is." You tilted your chin up at him, daring him to argue. "I don't make the rules. I just enforce them."

"Since when do you enforce football rules?"

"Since tonight. New position. Very demanding."

That pulled the sigh-laugh out of him you'd been waiting for. "I had a feeling you were going to say something like that."

"I've had time to prepare. I've been standing here for twenty-seven minutes."

"Twenty-seven?"

"I counted."

"You counted."

"I also watched three interviews, two security guards argue over whose shift had ended, and your goalkeeper nearly walk face-first into a camera because he wouldn't get off his phone."

That finally cracked him: a real smile, brief but unguarded. "There he is," you murmured, mostly to yourself.

"What?"

"My boyfriend."

He frowned, faint and genuine. "I've been here the whole time."

"No." You shook your head slowly. "The footballer got here first. Took him a minute to remember the rest of it."

The smile faltered, and you hadn't meant to do that, hadn't meant to say something true enough to land wrong. Before you could take it back, someone shouted his name further down the tunnel. He lifted a hand in a distracted wave without looking away from you, and for a second neither of you said anything.

Then his fingers closed around your wrist. "Wait."

"Wait?"

He was already moving, tugging you along past the last of the equipment crates and into an empty office tucked beside the locker room. The door clicked shut, and you heard the lock turn before you'd even taken in the room properly. A wooden desk buried under paperwork, one chair pushed askew, blinds drawn tight over the single window.

"Michael, what are we doing in here?"

He didn't answer straightaway. He just looked at you the way he'd been trying not to all night, like the tunnel had been thirty seconds too public and he'd finally run out of patience for waiting.

"Michael."

"Give me a second." His voice had dropped, quieter now, rougher around the edges. He crossed the room slowly, and you found yourself backing into the desk without quite deciding to.

"You're being weird."

"I'm being efficient." He reached for your waist, lifting you onto the desk like you weighed nothing, stepping between your knees before you could protest. His hands slid up into your hair. "You drove me insane out there. You know that?"

"I stood against a wall for twenty-seven minutes."

"You stood against a wall looking like that for twenty-seven minutes." His thumb traced along your jaw. "There's a difference."

"That's a very smooth thing to say for someone who just missed two chances."

His jaw tightened, just for a second, and you almost regretted it, until you saw the way his eyes darkened instead, something competitive flaring under the sting. "You want to talk about the match right now?"

"I want to talk about whatever you want to talk about."

"I don't want to talk." He leaned in until his mouth hovered just over yours, waiting, always waiting for you to close the last inch yourself. You did.

The kiss started slow and didn't stay that way. His hands cupped your jaw, tilting your head to deepen it, and you fisted a hand in the front of his hoodie to keep him from pulling back. When you tugged at the hem of his shirt he broke away just long enough to let you pull it over his head, breathing harder than the kiss alone should've earned.

"They're going to wonder where you went," you mumbled against his mouth, even as your hands mapped down his chest without any real intention of stopping him.

"Let them." He said it like it cost him nothing, mouth already dragging along your jaw toward your ear. "I've done my interviews. I've done my hugging. I'm allowed thirty minutes."

"Very generous of the team, letting you have thirty minutes with your girlfriend in the admin office."

"They don't have to know what the thirty minutes are for."

You laughed, breathless, and the sound seemed to undo something in him. His mouth found your neck properly then, teeth grazing over the sensitive skin there until a soft moan slipped out before you could stop it.

"Michael..."

"Yeah, baby?"

"I need you." The word came out more of a whimper than you meant it to, and it stilled him for exactly half a second before his hands moved faster, tugging your top over your head, careful in a way that didn't match the urgency in his hands.

You reached for his waistband, working it open, freeing him in one motion. Your fingers wrapped around him slow and deliberate, drawing a rough, strangled sound from his throat that he tried and failed to keep quiet.

"You're killing me."

"You started it."

He lined himself up, hands steadying your hips at the edge of the desk, and pushed in with a slow roll that built quickly into something faster, harder, the desk creaking in protest beneath you both. One of his hands slid down to draw slow circles against you while the other held you in place, and your back arched off the wood.

Neither of you cared anymore who could hear through the door. His moans grew quieter, more strained as he neared the edge, and when he came it was with a low groan into your shoulder, his whole body curling over yours like he needed somewhere to land.

For a moment neither of you moved. Then his lips found your ear, still catching his breath.

"Next time," he murmured, "I want you in my jersey when I fuck you.”

You laughed, low and breathless, and felt him smile against your skin before he finally pulled back to help you gather your clothes, unhurried, his fingers lingering wherever they touched.

But the ease didn't last. By the time you'd both slipped back into the corridor, his shoulders had drawn in again, jaw set, the softness from a few minutes ago already gone somewhere he couldn't reach.

"You still haven't looked at tonight."

"I know exactly what happened tonight." His voice was clipped now. "Two clear-cut chances in the second half. Should've buried both."

"I'm not talking about the match."

His gaze cut to yours, sharp. "Then what."

"You haven't looked at yourself. Not properly. Not since the final whistle."

He didn't answer. That silence told you everything.

You reached up and straightened the collar of his tracksuit where it had folded under the zip, letting your fingers linger there, smoothing fabric that didn't need smoothing.

"You've replayed it already."

"...Maybe."

"Every pass."

He didn't deny it.

"Every run."

"Every chance I wasted." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, and he looked almost annoyed at himself for it.

"You always think you could've done things differently."

"I usually can."

"You watched back a league match once because you thought one first touch was heavy."

"It was heavy."

"It was raining."

"It was still heavy."

You laughed quietly despite yourself, shaking your head, and reached out to take one of his hands in both of yours. His fingers were cold despite the warm night air, and you rubbed your thumb slowly across his knuckles until some of the tension in his hand eased.

"I think you're being unfair to yourself."

"I'm being realistic. I missed twice. It cost us the finish we wanted."

"You missed twice." You stepped closer, until there was barely any distance left between you. "That doesn't get to be the whole story of tonight."

He looked at you for a long moment, something loosening slightly behind his eyes. "You always know what to say."

"I really don't."

"You do."

"I mostly just talk until you stop frowning at me."

The corner of his mouth twitched, finally, against his own will. "There."

"What?"

"My boyfriend."

"I've heard that one already tonight."

"I know. I'm workshopping it."

You smiled, warm and a little smug. "I like him. Keep him around."

Colour crept faintly into his cheeks, the same way it always did whenever you caught him saying something unintentionally soft. He hated that you always noticed.

Without another word, you reached for his hand.

He let you, lacing his fingers through yours like it was the easiest thing he'd done all night.

[pinkfortuna]

He's such a cutie

[sinfulpetal]

JUDE BELLINGHAM — NEVER CAN SAY GOODBYE.

summary 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶafter everything that happened at the party, you were determined to keep your distance from jude. it was just another impulsive mistake. unfortunately, jude bellingham had other plans.

warnings𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶmore unprotected sex, fem reader, thinly veiled angst, reader tries to stand up for herself, public sex, p in v, more praise, degradation, hair pulling, thigh riding, overstimulation, jude is a little less toxic in this one after he gets a taste of his own medicine, thankfully. (8.5k wc)

note𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶTHIS IS A PART TWO and is not intended to be read individually, although you can. you can read PART ONE here, make sure to heed the warnings in that one as well, thank you! also this is not proof read so if there are errors.. oops. if you enjoy my writing and would like more, please stop by in my inbox.

It had been a little over a week since the party. And it had been long enough for the ringing in your ears from the shitty dance music to fade, for the lovebites Jude had left on you to disappear, and for you to convince yourself you'd finally gotten over whatever wicked spell he seemed to cast over you.

Instead, you’d replayed it so many times that certain moments began to blur together. His laugh. The warmth of his hands around your waist. The way he’d looked at you like the room full of people didn't exist.

How had you done this again?

You'd promised yourself. Seriously, you'd promised yourself!

You were supposed to be done chasing the version of Jude you kept convincing yourself still existed.. how many times now? You were supposed to stop mistaking scraps of affection for something genuine. Supposed to walk away before you found yourself in the exact same position, wondering why he always had this effect on you.

And yet, there you were; a week later, still thinking about the way his thumb had absentmindedly traced your thigh. Still remembering how naturally you'd leaned into him, your body forgetting every promise your mind had made. Remembering how you always believed that real love should be messy and hard,

It was embarrassing. Pathetic, really.

Not to mention you'd spent months telling yourself you were getting better, that you were finally learning to keep your distance. Then one night, a few drinks, one stupid dorky grin from Jude, and every ounce of self-restraint you'd built had come crashing down around you.

Life had settled back into its usual rhythm, unfortunately; nothing ever changed when it came to Jude and his promises. You went to work, answered your friends’ texts hours late, and tried to convince yourself that enough time would eventually dull whatever this feeling in your heart was. Now and then, though, Jude would appear somewhere you couldn't avoid. A photo from training, an interview someone reposted, a clip of him laughing from training that you scroll past far too quickly, only to find yourself swiping up to watch it seconds later. It was exhausting.

So when your friend texted asking if you wanted to accompany her to a charity dinner-gala of sorts she'd been invited to, you accepted without much thought. It sounded harmless enough. A quiet evening filled with footballers, sponsors, and people dressed in clothes worth more than your monthly rent. Free food, free drinks, a reason to wear the dress that had been collecting dust in the back of your wardrobe.

You didn't think to ask who else had been invited. Why would you? You already knew. Maybe that was why you'd said yes so quickly. You could blame it on the free food, the open bar, or your friend's persistence, but the truth sat boldly in the back of your mind. Some part of you had wanted to see Jude again. Not enough to swallow your pride and seek him out yourself, of course not. If you happened to run into Jude, well, then so be it. At least that way you could convince yourself it was fate, not another broken promise of his.

White tablecloths stretched across the room beneath towering chandeliers, candles flickering between extravagant floral arrangements. Waiters zoomed through the crowd balancing trays of champagne while photographers called names from the entrance, flashes bouncing off polished marble floors. Conversations in all kinds of different languages echoed around the huge marble space, every corner occupied by familiar faces from clubs across Europe.

You'd barely accepted a glass of champagne before you saw him.

Jude stood near the front of the room, surrounded by teammates, sponsors, and club officials, dressed in a black tuxedo that fit him so perfectly it may as well have been stitched onto him. His head tipped back as he laughed at something Vinícius had said, one hand tucked casually into his pocket while the other balanced a champagne flute between his fingers. He looked happy, unbothered. Exactly how you’d imagined he'd been all week, and the thought made your stomach churn. How fucking dare he act like you're invisible again? After everything?

You watched him for a moment longer than you cared to admit before forcing yourself to look away. Right. He was just a man. Jude Bellingham was only a man. You repeated it to yourself once, twice. It didn't help. Ah, well. Jude Bellingham was only a man. And at least one day you would definitely die. Lovely, lovely, warm, sweet death. The thought nearly made you laugh to yourself.

Deciding you'd tested your luck long enough, you turned on your heel before he had the chance to notice you. Or so you thought.

"Aye, there you are."

Your shoulders immediately stiffened. That voice.

You screwed your eyes shut for the briefest second before turning around, finding Jude standing beside you with the same infuriating grin he'd worn the night of the celebration, looking entirely too pleased with himself. You hated this game. You hated that Jude always seemed to have the upper hand in this little game of cat and mouse, even when he was supposed to be the one running. Because he knew. He knew you would always come back. He knew, no matter how many times you promised yourself otherwise, you'd always find yourself chasing after him.

"I was wondering how long it'd take before I found you."

"You weren't supposed to find me."

"No?" Jude challenged, amusement flickering across his face. "I was actually counting on it."

You rolled your eyes, taking a slow sip of your champagne to hide the smile threatening to appear. "That's a shame, then."

"Listen, I’ve got a question for you."

You sighed, holding back an eyeroll. "You usually do, Jude."

Something about his expression shifted. Not enough that anyone else would've noticed, but enough for you to catch it. It was gone so quickly you could've convinced yourself you'd imagined it if you didn't know him as well as you did.

Jude was good at hiding things. Everyone saw the confidence, the effortless charm, the way he carried himself like the entire world was already at his feet. But you had always been better at noticing the moments in between.

"I was supposed to bring someone tonight."

Your brows lifted at his words. What is he getting at?

"But she cancelled."

"And?"

"And now everyone keeps asking where my date is."

A quiet chuckle escaped you. "Hm. Sounds like a you problem."

"It is," Jude admitted with an easy nod. "Which is why I'm asking you to fix it."

You stared at him in disbelief. "No."

"You don't even know what I'm asking."

"I have a feeling I do."

Jude’s grin only grew. "Be my date."

Silence settled between the two of you as the sounds of clinking glasses and distant conversation faded into the background. Your first instinct was to laugh in his face. Your second was to remind him that the entire reason you'd spent the last week avoiding him was because this, whatever this was, always ended the same way. Somehow, you always found yourself back here, standing too close, letting him make you forget every reason you had for staying away.

Instead, you simply looked at him blankly. He returned your gaze without a shred of hesitation, as though asking you to spend the evening on his arm was the most natural request in the world. Then, as if he already knew your answer before you'd even given one, Jude stuck his arm slightly between the two of you, offering it out with an almost amused tilt of his head.

"Y’know," he murmured, rubbing his arm before looking back at you, chuckling boyishly, "most people would be honoured."

You scoffed softly. "You're fucking impossible."

"Maybe." His smile widened as he licked his lips. "But you're considering it."

You hated that he was right. You hated that after all the promises, all the distance, all the convincing yourself that you were finally done falling into his orbit, your hand still moved before your brain could stop it.

Your fingers curled around his arm.

Immediately, his expression shifted just enough that you noticed the satisfaction he tried to hide, the small smile tugging at his lips as he had just won something far more important than a football match. And maybe, in a way, he had.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself," you muttered while scrunching your nose up.

"Oi, I didn't say anything!"

"You didn't have to."

Jude’s laugh was quiet, almost smug, as he guided you back toward the crowd. You hated how easy it was. How naturally you fell into step beside Jude, how your body seemed to remember him before your mind could remind you that you were supposed to be careful with the man. How you should be careful with your precious, fragile heart that had been broken so many times into two.

That was always the problem with Jude. Nothing with him ever felt like a decision. It just happened.

One moment you were keeping your distance, reminding yourself that this was exactly what you had promised not to do again. The next, you were standing beside him as though you belonged there at his side, listening to him make effortless conversation with people who wanted his attention while somehow still finding ways to include you.

And maybe that was what made it worse.

If he had ignored you, if he had treated you like everyone else, walking away would've been easier. But Jude never did. Every time you thought you had finally figured out how to let go, he gave you just enough reason to hesitate, enough reason to weasel his way back into the crevices of your deeply complicated heart.

The evening blurred into a series of champagne refills and conversations you only half listened to. Who wants to listen to men talk? You told yourself it was the alcohol making you less guarded, the warmth spreading through your chest, and the music filling the room making everything feel softer than it was.

"You've been quiet."

You glanced over at him. "Have I?"

"Yeah." Jude tilted his head slightly, studying you. "You've usually argued with me by now."

A small smile pulled at your lips. "Maybe I'm tired of arguing with you."

Jude looked unconvinced, narrowing his eyes, amused. "No… you're not. Y’never are."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't stop the laugh that followed.

Hours ago, you'd walked into the room determined to avoid him. Now you were laughing at his jokes, accepting another drink he offered, letting yourself forget why you'd been trying so hard in the first place. Sound familiar?

And when the crowd around you became too much, when the noise and attention started to feel overwhelming, Jude noticed before you even said anything.

"Come on," he murmured.

You looked at him suspiciously. "Where?"

"Somewhere quieter."

You should've said no; you knew that. Every warning bell in your head was going off, reminding you that this was the exact pattern you were trying to break. That this is exactly what happened last time you were together. Friendliness turned flirting, turned into more.

But then Jude smiled, that familiar, impossible smile that always made everything seem less complicated than it was. Thus, somehow, you found yourself following him anyway. Which, really, was the most predictable thing you could've done the whole night.

The hallway was noticeably quieter than the ballroom, the overwhelming noise of conversation and music fading into something softer with every step. For the first time all night, it felt like there wasn't an entire room of people watching. No cameras. No teammates. No strangers trying to figure out why Jude Bellingham had spent the evening keeping you by his side.

Jude leaned back against the wall, looking far too comfortable with the situation. Acting as if he hadn't just dragged you away from a room full of people after you'd spent the past week convincing yourself you were finally done letting him get this close.

"Y’know," he started, peering at you, "you make it very difficult to believe you actually want to stay away from me."

You scoffed, crossing your arms. "That's because I don't make it difficult."

"No?"

"No."

His eyebrows lifted, clearly unconvinced. You hated that he knew you well enough to do that.

"You're very fucking annoying, you know that?"

"I've heard."

"Probably because it's true."

Jude laughed, and for a moment you forgot you were supposed to be guarded. Forgot that you had walked into this evening with rules and boundaries and a very clear idea of how it was supposed to go. Jude had always been good at making you forget.

"You disappeared the other day," he reminded you eventually, his voice sighed.

You looked down at your heels, pursing your lip. "I was busy."

"Busy avoiding me, eh?"

You didn't answer, which was an answer in itself. His eyebrows turned upwards, and he almost pouted; in any other context you would have teased him for looking so exasperated.

"I was worried you were actually done with me this time."

Your eyes moved back to his dark gaze. The honesty surprised you because Jude was always confident and certain. But standing there, away from everyone else, he looked almost unsure. Which made that somehow worse; it would've been easier if he didn't care. It would've been easier if he was just the person you'd convinced yourself he was. Instead, he stood there looking at you like maybe he had been thinking about you too.

And you weren't sure what to do with that, all things considered; this was Jude. The same Jude who could look at you like you were the only person in the room, then remind you that he wasn't looking for anything serious. The same Jude who pulled you closer, who made you feel wanted, who sought you out in crowded rooms, only to leave you questioning what any of it actually meant, if it had meant anything at all.

He was the one who had drawn the line. He was the one who had told you he couldn't give you more, that he wasn't ready for something that required more than late nights, secret moments, and whatever existed between the two of you–or rather–the less romantic way–friends with benefits.

Yet here he was, looking at you like he was the one afraid of losing something. That was the part you couldn't understand. How were you supposed to believe this meant anything when he was the one who had made it clear it couldn't?

Therefore, for once, you didn't rush to fill the silence or reassure Jude. You didn't make some sarcastic comment to hide the fact that his words had affected you. You didn't give him the easy reaction he'd gotten so used to.

Your gaze moved toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror across the room, trying to focus on anything other than the man across from you. You wiped at the slight smudges of mascara beneath your eyes, thankfully nothing noticeable enough to ruin your appearance. Next was the corner of your lips, checking that your lip gloss hadn't wandered anywhere it shouldn't have.

A pointless thing to worry about, but anything was better than looking at Jude and admitting that, despite everything, a small part of you still wanted to hear him admit he was wrong.

Jude watched you quietly with furrowed brows. Through the mirror, you could see the gears in his head turn. Eventually, he cleared his throat and walked towards you, planting his feet right in front of yours, leaning down to your eye level.

“Didn’t you tell me that the next time we won a match I could do whatever I want with you?” Jude was gaining your attention again, reaching his slender finger under your chin and directing your gaze back to him by turning your head slowly.

You giggled, eyebrows raising; not needing much reminder of the words you definitely muttered. Or maybe messaged; maybe both.

“That was because I wasn’t there,” you hummed, head tilting aside. “You don’t invite me to your games, remember?” you sassed, watching as his face faltered. Then, his eyes narrowed into a playful glare; one you returned with a teasing smile, as if to say you weren’t being serious.

You two moved past your comment; you made sure of it, although it would linger on Jude’s mind.

“C’mon, you have people waiting, I’m sure,” your hand pressed against his toned chest, gently patting him as you ushered him backwards toward the noise of the ballroom.

It was almost laughable. You were actually doing it! For once, you were the one walking away.

You were trying to have the upper hand this time, trying to make Jude wonder where you went instead of always being the one left wondering where you stood. Maybe if you pulled back first, he'd finally understand what it felt like. Maybe he'd finally wake up from this comfortable little daze he'd been in, where he could have your attention whenever he wanted without ever having to give you anything in return.

Or maybe you just wanted to prove to yourself that you could. That you weren't as predictable as he thought.

Jude stared at you for a moment, almost like he wasn't used to being dismissed. Like he was waiting for you to change your mind, to laugh it off, to fall back into the familiar rhythm the two of you always found yourselves in.

You didn't. You simply smiled, taking a small step away. You didn't give him the chance to say anything else. Spinning on your heel, you slipped back into the crowd as discreetly as possible, weaving between conversations and groups of people before he could stop you.

The moment you rejoined the crowd, the atmosphere morphed to invite him back in. Jude had barely stepped back into the main room before people noticed him. Cheers erupted almost immediately, voices calling his name as he was pulled into conversations, surrounded by teammates, sponsors, and guests who all wanted a piece of his attention.

Just like that, he was swallowed by the crowd. The sight should've made you feel relieved.

Instead, you found yourself searching for him anyway. A terrible habit though a familiar one. You had just turned away, reaching for another drink, when Jude’s voice caught you before you could get too far.

"Hey, don't you dare go anywhere!" Jude managed to yell out to you before he was dragged off again, leaving you to laugh and only hum.

It was only your friend who met you with suspicious eyes; you found it comical she was the first person you came across, sheepishly smiling.

“Oh, you’re so full of shit!” your friend yelled, your cheeks heating as you shook your head; even pouting as you realised you had no defence. Or shame or regret. yet, at least.

“Stop,” you whined as you hit her lightly, huffing as you grabbed her drink off her–downing it quickly as she giggled. “We didn’t do anything.”

“No judgement; after you told me, I knew you wouldn’t stay away. I can’t say I blame you,” she mused, and your eyes were rolling once more that night, shaking your head as if you had no idea what she was talking about. As if you too shared the same thought process, as much as you’d deny it.

You moved the focus of the pair of you on quickly, returning to dancing and socialising–people coming and going as the hours ticked by into the late evening, crowd thinning but not by much.

Jude’s words were ringing in your head; don’t go anywhere. But when it was almost two you were thinking of leaving, doubting Jude would be making your company once more this night.

Why did you want to keep him company? You wish you knew. If you could figure out why you were unable to avoid the man, your life would be a lot easier. But maybe tonight was different; maybe it was a comfort.

A comfort to know he would spend a memorable night of his life with you. A night he’d never forget; you’d be right there in his mind, when he’s old and grey. It would be nice to know you weren’t the only one clinging onto the idea of the pair of you; that he too would reminisce and think about it.

Your doubt continued to grow, though, alongside the temptation of your comfortable bed.

You were stupid to doubt Jude, however. You spotted him easily, considering the crowd that seemed to follow him everywhere tonight.

You watched as Jude’s big eyes darted around the room, almost urgently, searching out something or someone; searching out you.

When his eyes met yours, you watched as he grinned widely, shoulders relaxing as he suddenly moved with intent; weaving past the people surrounding him towards you. You watched in amusement, almost shock; surprised he’d meant it. Confused if you thought too hard.

“You’re still here,” Jude was grinning ear to ear, hand finding your waist almost immediately when he was in reach.

You mumbled something playfully about how it wasn’t by choice, earning a laugh.

“We’re moving up to a booth, c’mon,” his statement was an invitation, and suddenly plans of going back home were long forgotten.

All it took was a nod before his hand took yours, fingers intertwined, leading the way to a booth that was decorated in more bottles of champagne and a ‘Hala Madrid’ sign; lucky partygoers and friends filling the seats, you shuffling in next to the footballer.

Jude’s iron grip didn’t leave you. Whether it was on your thigh, your hand, your waist, your shoulder; he was always touching you as the conversations flowed.

You failed to notice the little things at first. The way he would subtly pull you closer whenever you laughed a little too hard at one of his friend's jokes, like he wanted to remind himself you were still there. The way his attention always seemed to drift back to you whenever the conversation around him became too loud or too crowded.

But you did know what it looked like, though. The two of you.

You knew your friend would have laughed the second she saw it, probably asking what the fuck you thought you were doing after everything you had promised yourself. Because from the outside, the pair of you looked effortless. Like there wasn't a history of hesitation and almosts and conversations that never quite reached a conclusion and left more questions than answers.

But as the night went on, as the crowd slowly began to thin and the chatter around you faded, you found yourself caring less. The booth had emptied at some point. You weren't sure when. You hadn't noticed the way he had quietly encouraged the last few people lingering nearby to move elsewhere, leaving the two of you with a rare moment where you weren't competing with everyone else for his attention.

Maybe that should've been your hundredth warning. But you stayed.

“Have I told you how good you look tonight?” Jude’s question was accompanied by his hand returning to your thigh, resting higher than it had earlier on–head tilting towards you.

You giggled, leaning back into your seat and shifting to face him, side pressed against the back of the booth as opposed to your back now.

“No,” you told him, eyes flickering over his face, your gaze catching on his eyelashes, the small details you’d noticed too many times whenever you woke up first after a night together. His features always seemed so much harder to ignore up close.

“Look beautiful,” he hummed, and though he sounded incredibly sincere, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“What? You do, you are,” Jude huffed, not amused with your laughter–although the sound of your laugh had his lips naturally curving upwards despite his dismay, hand squeezing the soft plush of your thigh gently. “You always are.”

Your cheeks heated despite you shaking your head, hands moving up in innocence.

“I didn’t say anything,” you defended, not elaborating on what appeared to be doubt. Not at your own expense, rather more his intentions. You didn’t want to hear his compliments that had your heart fluttering. or notice the way he was looking at you with such admiration. You couldn’t afford to let your mind pick at and analyse every word and action with a hope that maybe he too felt the same as you.

Jude hummed aimlessly at your defence, hand dangerously high now on your thigh–but it felt right, as if it belonged there. Regardless, the feeling of it creeping upwards had your senses suddenly on high alert.

“Mmm… I’ve missed you,” Jude’s words left his lips before he could stop them, but he didn’t show any regret or panic, eyes pouring into yours. It’s the second time he’d said such a thing tonight, and you still didn’t want to hear it. Even in your tipsy state, it sent an alarm through your nerves. Don’t believe him, don’t get your hopes up again.

Your eyes were quick to leave his, hand reaching for your champagne glass in front of you; humming to try dismiss his words, missing the way his eyes squinted as he watched on.

“You don’t believe me,” Jude chuckled lowly as you sipped your drink, frame tensing as you prolonged shifting towards him again.

You weren’t given much choice, though; his hand–the one not planted on your thigh–was grasping your chin between his thumb and finger, bringing your attention back to him as you placed your drink back down. His eyebrows raised expectantly, silently telling you to speak, to confirm his suspicions. His thumb absentmindedly wiped a drop of champagne from the corner of your mouth as he waited.

“Jude, you don’t know what you’re saying,” you spoke softly, masking the weight of your words with a soft smile and watched as his face flickered in thought.

“You don’t know that.” Jude was quick, unlike you, tone one of certainty you almost envied; his grasp still set on your chin as if he was scared you’d try to escape his gaze once more. A reasonable fear.

“Yeah… okay,” you admitted defeat, in no way wanting to discuss this right now. Not while you were so close to him, so keen to get under him once more. You couldn’t think straight about him when he was invading your senses.

Jude wasn’t convinced that you suddenly believed him, but he wouldn’t push further; not when you were still in his grasp and glowing in satisfaction.

The footballer went to speak again; but for once you got on the front foot. there wasn’t much distance between the pair of you, so kissing him before he could get any words out was easy.

Perhaps Jude should’ve held his ground, stayed true to his intentions, and reassured you like a proper gentleman. Maybe he should’ve remembered the boundaries he’d set, the words he’d said before, the reasons he’d given you for keeping things the way they were.

But he didn’t; because with you, Jude had always been far better at feeling than thinking. Thus, naturally, Jude began to kiss you back. The light grasp on your chin turned to a firm hold of the side of your head, beckoning you closer as your hand planted on his chest.

You pulled away momentarily, barely; just so your lips left his, feeling his breath fan your face. You felt as if you’d overstepped, knowing he had reservations about PDA in public. You knew people spoke, and you weren’t his—realistically, the outrage would be immense.

Jude’s fingers brushed your hair delicately, as if he knew what thoughts were going through your head; and he didn’t hesitate to guide you back towards him, lips meeting once more. It was more heated this time; nowhere near as messy as the one in the bathroom a week ago, though.

Jude needed you closer, shifting his grip to your hips to pivot you up and onto his lap, your body sliding perfectly between his and the table behind you, straddling his lap with no complaints. It was out of character, knowing someone could walk up into the secluded section and see the pair of you, but if he didn’t care, neither did you.

Your dress rode up your legs from your new position, not enough to expose you, thankfully, but the rough fabric of his pants against your clothed clit had you whimpering against his lips.

The sound rang straight to his cock, which was already straining against his pants. He’d been fighting a semi since you slipped into the booth next to him earlier. Jude had always gotten so desperate and needy and the way you were slowly and not-so subtly grinding your hips against him made it a lot harder to ignore. It also had an idea forming in the wicked mind of his.

You were left to catch your breath as he pulled away this time, hands lifting you momentarily and easily handling you to straddle just one of his thighs now, your cheeks heating as you immediately caught on. It wasn’t the first time you’d been in this position with him, except last time it was in the privacy of his apartment while he was on a work call.

“Anything… I want, right?” Jude breathed slowly out, intense was his stare as his hands spread across your sides, smoothing your dress down despite wanting to rip it off of you.

It was like a trance when he got like this, eyes darker–the way his jaw was clenched shut, his gaze alone having you feel the need to squirm and stutter.

Your head looked over your shoulder, just once, needing the confirmation you were as alone as you could be; music still playing faintly at the gala, voices still heard from the floor down below—but you were alone up here. That’s all you needed to know.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, hands grasping at his suit where they were previously planted on his chest–left to watch as his lips curved upwards into that damn smirk.

“Go on then,” he hummed, adjusting slightly in his seat, getting comfortable as his head tilted back ever so slightly. “Use me to get off,” he sounded so casual, your cheeks roaring in heating as you suddenly wished you’d accepted that last round of shots half an hour ago.

But you didn’t need any more motivation when his hands tightened on your waist and dragged your hips for you—your jaw going slack from the sudden pressure.

His lips twitched upwards cockily once more, watching as it sprung you into action; your hips following his movements and rutting against his thigh, chasing the feeling you knew only he could give you.

The footballer’s hands folded behind his head now, watching intently as your bottom lip ran between your teeth, eyes flickering up and down your frame.

“Atta girl,” Jude praised through a soft hum, and you had to bite down harshly on the inside of your cheek to refrain from moaning.

He looked fucking incredible; and you were missing the feeling of his hands on you. Your hips worked faster as if it’d motivate him to touch you again. Jude had you read; he always did. He knew what you wanted and could tell by the way your eyes were pleading with him. How you were fighting back a pout and whine. Your grip on his button down had tightened, practically tugging at the material.

Jude could be cruel, but he was in no mood to deny himself tonight—considering the last time he got off was the quckie last week—he’d give you something; hand moving to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your soft lips.

You didn’t miss a beat, allowing the digit to enter your mouth without any hesitation; Jude watching the way your eyes almost glistened in submission as he pressed down on your tongue.

You didn’t miss the way his breath hitched, grunting slightly at the mere sight of you—your hips still grinding against him desperately as you treated his thumb as if it were his cock.

He was almost in disbelief, how he had you like this for him, where really anyone could see if they were to walk up the stairs. it was ridiculous actually, and stupid; both of you being incredibly idiotic, but too lust driven to care.

he wasn’t oblivious to the fact you made him think irrationally.

“Fucking look at you,” he muttered under his breath, his Birmingham accent deepening while his head tilted in slight awe. There was always a teasing tone underneath when he spoke like this. “So pretty like this, so needy, hm?”

You whimpered, unable to shut yourself up this time, surprised you’d kept quiet so long. Your thighs twitched a few times, still desperately chasing your high like he’d told you to. It was building, your stomach was tightening and you could feel the way your hips were beginning to move erratically. As could he.

“Come on baby,” he encouraged while sliding his thumb out of your mouth, selfishly wanting to hear you despite your best efforts to stay quiet. “Cum for me, yeah? All for me,” Jude edged you on ever so strategically as he tensed his leg and jolted it upwards once, then twice.

It was all you needed, your first orgasm of the night hitting you as you shook in his lap.

“Oh fuck,” you moaned through gritted teeth, loud enough for him to hear but quiet enough for the music to drown you out. Your body folded over to hide your head in his neck, muffling any other sounds from escaping you.

“There you go,” Jude soothed, hand sliding down your back delicately, his other brushing the hair off your face as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Good girl, so fucking good.”

Even in your slightly dazed state, the affection had your chest tightening, still not used to the soft moments he always found time for between orgasms.

You took a few moments to compose yourself, lifting your head sheepishly as your eyes met his once more.

“Your trousers are gonna be ruined,” you mumbled, pouting up at him in slight embarrassment—watching as he chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“Last thing I care about right now,” Jude snickered, gently adjusting the strap of your dress that had fallen down your arm with his eyes lingering on your chest for a brief moment as he did so.

“Should I call the car?” he asked you, lips pressing a kiss to your forehead now, delicate this time, purely because he knew if he got too handsy now he’d not be able to stop himself.

You nodded, not allowing yourself the time to think too deeply about the prospect of leaving with Jude. Maybe that was easier. If you stopped to consider it, to really acknowledge what you were doing, you might remember every reason you had promised yourself you wouldn’t.

But you shouldn’t have been surprised at this point: you couldn’t resist him. It was a fact you hated admitting, but one you could never seem to deny.

The pair of you got outside relatively smoothly; you let Jude drag you to the exit as he simply waved and dismissed anyone who tried to speak to him, his large hand enveloping yours.

The car was waiting, a bouncer opening the door for the pair of you as you slid into the backseat, not phased by the fact the sun was preparing to rise, painting the sky a soft, deep purple.

The dark privacy partition separating the backseat from the front was all Jude needed to see before he was on you again.

Rushed and messy once more, you hadn’t even got your seatbelt on before his hands cupped his cheeks as he leaned over you, closeness a need as your lips moved against his perfectly.

Your chest was practically pressed to his, but still his hand found your back, attempting to pull you closer, earning a muffled giggle as you threw one of your legs over his.

“Need you so bad,” Jude grumbled against your skin as his lips shifted to your jaw, then down your neck, your head falling back invitingly as you grinned.

His lips moved to your cleavage now, kissing at the skin of your breasts. Jude was about to tug your dress down until you sat up straight and pushed him back towards the seat.

Your hands found the zipper of his pants before Jude could get a word out, the Brit relaxing into his seat, in no way going to protest.

Jude watched through hooded eyes as you made quick work of freeing his cock, which was painfully hard at this point. He hissed through his teeth as your hand wrapped around him, jacking him off once, twice, three times—smearing the precum across his tip and down his length.

His head threw back from the initial relief, and he couldn’t stop the noisy moans that escaped him when he felt your soft lips wrap around him. He peeked down at you quickly, watching as you leant over into his lap, head bobbing up and down now as he gathered your hair into his hand and out of your way.

“Fuck—oh, fuck—just like that baby,” Jude grunted as his hips jerked upwards, smacking the back of your throat momentarily, which made you gag. Yet you didn’t miss a beat in your movements.

Your hand gripped his thigh for stability, tongue swirling around him expertly, keen to get him off as his eyes rolled back from a feeling he could only describe as ecstasy.

Jude could’ve cummed there and then, no shame either; but Madrid felt so small and the car came to a halt much sooner than he’d liked. You reluctantly slid off him, wiping your mouth oh-so innocently as you did so, cheeks flushed and eyes watery. Meanwhile, Jude hissed, trying to stuff his burning hard on back in his trousers.

You giggled slightly, climbing out the car with him not too far behind.

Jude was sure to thank the driver, emptying his wallet of its cash to provide a sufficient tip considering Jude was unsure what the man would’ve heard, but frankly he didn’t care. Not when you were in his sights.

The elevator ride up to his apartment mirrored the first moments in the car, your body pressed between his and the wall of the elevator, lips in sync, make out interrupted by the ding of the doors opening.

You were kicking your heels off before he even got the door to his place open, discarding them the moment you stepped inside. Jude used you to shut the door, pushing you roughly against the surface.

“Nuh uh,” you stopped him as he leant in to kiss you once more; your hands pressing against his chest. “Want to make you feel good,” you spoke softly, hands returning to the zipper of his pants to free his cock once more.

His eyes squinted in thought, keen to be inside of you, keen to be watching you squirm and hear you scream his name was all he could bloody think about.

You recognised that look. “Please,” you added desperately, hands tugging the straps of your dress down, your tits spilling out, which had his eyes shamelessly flickering downwards.

Jude couldn’t say no to you, not when you asked so nicely. He simply stepped back, giving you space to sink to your knees as your hand wrapped around his cock once again.

You licked up the base to the tip, eyes fixated above you, watching him as he did so; noticing the way his adam’s apple bobbed from the single action.

“Tease me baby and I’ll happily play with your pretty pussy til you're crying,” Jude whined out quickly while his hand found its rightful place in your hair, giving it a not-so-delicate tug for good measure.

You moaned at the action, confirming what you both knew was that you got the reaction you wanted; thighs squeezing together at the ‘threat’ but taking him in your mouth fully regardless. quick to mumble a ‘so impatient’ beforehand.

Jude’s actions were identical to before, except his head fell forward this time while his free hand scrambled to grab the door in front of him, your name falling from his lips in a groan like a mantra. It only motivated you, the grunts and small sounds Jude made. You were so eager to draw more out of him. You wanted to hear him praise you like he always does.

His sounds mixed with your own, gagging around his length. No matter how many times you found yourself in this spot he would always be too big, but it didn’t stop or affect your efforts. And it only turned him on more, refraining from squeezing his eyes shut to watch as your eyes watered once more.

“Always—fuck—gagging for it,” Jude spoke cockily, a moan escaping him momentarily before he could continue his taunting. “Bit of a slut for me, no?” he chuckled hazily through gritted teeth. He couldn’t stop the grin for forming as you moaned around him. Jude’s head fell back now, a breath of content falling from his lips as he shut his eyes momentarily. “Too good to me, agh,” he grunted, hips thrusting forward, and you let him. Anything to get him off sooner.

Jude knew he was close, but he couldn’t push the need to be inside of you and while he thought he was out of self restraint for the night, he surprised himself in being able to pull you off of him, using the grip on your hair.

“Gotta get inside you, love,” he explained himself as if it wasn’t obvious, helping you to your feet as you refrained from huffing, wiping your mouth and chin of the saliva that had gathered.

You didn’t need him to lead you to his room, grateful it was the first door on the right otherwise you probably would’ve both ended up on the floor, not that it’d be the first time.

You properly unzipped your dress and stepped out of it, discarding it on his floor before sitting back on his bed. Jude followed suit, shirt discarded before he stepped out of his slacks and boxers.

You crawled back on the bed as he moved to hover over you, pushing you down to lay on your back before his lips were on yours once more.

Kissing Jude Bellingham never got old, your hands tangling in his curls as he used his knee to spread your legs apart. He hooked two fingers around your panties and slid them down your frame, practically ripping them off with aggression.

You had no warning before he slid inside of you, easily doing so due to how wet you were, but the stretch was always a shock. Your jaw agape as you moaned into his mouth while you pull a sharp tug on his coiled hair.

“Fuck, y’always wrap round me so fucking well,” Jude hissed, bottoming out and giving you a moment to adjust to his large length.

“Jude, Jude, please—move,” you whimpered, hands moving to grip at his back, back arching as he began to move; thrusting in and out. He wasn’t slow, but you knew he was holding back.

Your eyes watched his intently, his scanning your features and admiring the way your face contorted in pleasure.

“Jude, please,” you repeated, whimpering as you spread your legs a little more, so frantically desperate to feel all of him.

“What? Need more, huh?” Jude asked, the small gold-chain necklace that decorated his neck dangling from his chest and brushing against your chin with every thrust. “Needy little thing,” he grinned, and you could only whine as your eyes fluttered shut momentarily.

Jude’s hand shifted to your thigh, grabbing one of your legs and moving it upwards, pushing your knee towards your chest. The new angle allowed him to hit deeper, and suddenly his thrusts were harsher and quicker.

Your eyes rolled back instantly, a squeal like moan escaping you before you could even try to suppress it, nails dragging down his back as he pounded into you.

“Yes, fuck, yes,” you practically chanted as he fucked you, hard. Watching your eyes roll back and jaw go slack only had him motivated, enthusiastic to draw out every possible sound from you.

Jude was relentless, you still couldn’t get used to the stamina of a footballer, how there was never a break in the pace or harshness of his thrusts. No moment to breathe or try to compose yourself, choked out moans almost straining your throat from how often he slammed into you.

“Look at me, baby, please,” Jude pleaded with you, wanting your pretty eyes focused on him. He wasn’t surprised you didn’t listen. At this point, you didn’t really make sense of his words. A habit you seemed to have formed. It wasn’t like you could help it, the way your brain seems to shut off the moment Jude hits that special spot inside of you.

His hand around your throat was enough, eyes fluttering open and he squeezed softly, whimpering as you continued to moan and pant, met with his smirk.

“Fucked dumb already,” Jude boasted while he kept his hand around your throat; not applying much pressure but the feeling of it there alone had your hips spasming momentarily. “So easy for me, baby. Could have you like this all the time.”

You moaned at his words, hearing him loud and clear this time, nodding pathetically; you’d agree with anything he says right now. Anything.

“My pretty girl,” Jude was always quick with the praise after his harsh words, the contrast always welcome as your hands shifted from his back to his biceps. “All mine,” he reiterated.

The possessive tone he found would have you falling into wishful thinking if you possessed the ability to think straight, but thankfully you couldn’t; not when your vision was starting to be replaced with stars as he continued to fuck you relentlessly.

His lips caught yours in another kiss, tongues clashing as you moaned into each other's mouths—his turn to falter as your walls clenched around him, a string of curses being grunted against your lips.

You didn’t need to tell him you were close, no, he knew your body too well; he pushed your leg further back, as if it was possible, you in no place to recognise any slight discomfort when all you could feel was him inside of you, stretching you inside out.

You felt the difference in angle again, nonetheless. Your eyes lolled back once more as you came hard and fast, his name falling from your lips as you did so.

“Good girl baby, cum for me,” Jude encouraged, continuing to thrust into you as you rode out your high, back arching and pushing into him.

Your walls clenched around him once more, and he came almost immediately, releasing inside of you with a loud moan, your sounds intertwining and melting into one another.

Your nails were sure to have left marks along his back, body going limp beneath him as his head dropped to your chest briefly, catching his breath as he too came down from his high.

He wasn’t done though, despite it almost being six in the morning. He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline, the alcohol in his veins or you; but sleep was the last thing on his mind and his best guess was because of the latter.

He was moving again before you could fully recover, the sensitivity causing you to whimper immediately, his thrusts only slow now as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“I know you’ve got one more in you,” Jude mumbled, and you wouldn’t ever dare disagree; nodding quickly as he gradually picked up the pace.

Before he got into a rhythm, however, he slid out, sitting back on his knees. You simply looked at him, awaiting his next move.

Jude then manhandled you onto your stomach easily like you were nothing. He tugged your hips up and you followed naturally, back arching as your ass propped in the air, his calloused hands grasping and squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back inside of you.

The way he contorted you into another position had you moaning out loudly, hands gripping the sheets beneath you as Jude found the pace he’d previously possessed.

Your whole body jolted with every thrust, face gradually pushing into the covers, moans muffled as your back arched further.

He didn’t like not hearing you though, obsessed with the way you’d moan and borderline scream his name. He flew into action by grabbing your hair and pulling so your head was lifted, which caused a loud whine to escape you on cue.

“So fucking good, y’take me so well,” Jude grunted his praise. With his hips slamming into yours, you couldn’t form words, only replying in little whines and whimpers, choked out moans as your body became overstimulated.

Jude knew your limits though, and knew how far he could push you. his hand snaking around your waist to find your clit, and rubbing circles on your sensitive bud had your body shaking immediately.

“Fuck! Jude, oh my God,” you practically cried out, unable to do anything but take all he was giving you, hand tangled in your hair still keeping you in place as he pounded in you.

“Take it love, know you can,” he grunted; fingers speeding up. He was obsessed with the way your thighs spasmed, your walls clenched around him and your hand reached back to try to grip his wrist.

You came again, unable to give warning as your eyes watered and vision spotted white from the mere overstimulation.

“Ah, there you go, good girl, so so good, could watch you come undone my cock every day,” Jude talked you through it, hips still moving relentlessly as he let go of your hair, your front half falling back into the mattress. Both of his hands gripped your hips now as he chased his own high.

You whimpered as he fucked you through your high, and when he came inside you again you swear it all became a blur, trying to recover from your back-to-back orgasms.

Jude slid out of you and rolled off of you after he caught his breath, much quicker than you. His hand delicately pushing some of your hair back had your head tilting to face him, a lazy smile grazing your features.

“You're incredible,” Jude mumbled, admiring you quietly; and if you weren’t exhausted you would’ve laughed at him.

“Shut the hell up.” you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut, legs still shaking as Jude rolled his eyes. There was a stupid smile that graced his delicate features still.

“No running out of me again, yeah?” Jude hummed and slithered an arm to wrap around your frame, easily pulling you into his chest. You should’ve been alarmed, gone into self-preservation mode and pushed away. But couldn’t, preferring to simply accept his embrace that you’d always crave, head finding a spot on his toned chest.

“Don’t think I could if I tried,” you chuckled, not sure your legs would hold your weight if you tried to stand, let alone walk.

“Yeah good. That was the whole point,” Jude scoffed playfully, fingers dancing up and down the side of your arm, gaze fixated on you below him. You laughed softly, knowing this conversation needed to be addressed properly. That would wait until the morning, or well, maybe early afternoon in this case—when you wake up, you’ll be met with that sinking feeling again. The one where you’ll feel the need to flee, to escape him and the domesticated side you so badly wanted to yourself.

But you’d settle for this for now, just like Jude would settle for you believing this was the most he could offer. Considering you can never really say goodbye to Jude, huh?

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Soooo toxic!!

[sinfulpetal]

JUDE BELLINGHAM — WHAT KIND OF FUCKERY ARE WE?

summary 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ you tried your hardest to swear off jude bellingham. but you can’t get enough of him, and he can’t get enough of you.

warnings 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ unprotected sex, fem reader, beginning is a flashback, angst???, reader needs to stand up for herself, public sex, p in v, plenty of praise, degradation (maybe), hair pulling, thigh riding. jude is a little toxic and kind of a slut but what’s new?

note 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ hi so… this is my first smut. ALSO NOT PROOF READ LMFAO i hope it’s alright, i’m finishing this at 4AM…. but ִֶTHIS IS PART ONE to a two part series. you can read PART TWO here, make sure to heed the warnings in that one as well. thank you for reading enjoyyy

You swore you’d stay away from Jude Bellingham. God, it made you cringe thinking about it now.

You’d stood in your bathroom one week ago, staring at your own reflection deeply. You were done settling for half-hearted conversations and a version of Jude that barely seemed to have room for you anymore. Granted, he was a high-performance athlete dealing with the pressures that came with the title… But still, that wasn't fair to you!

But… It also wasn’t your fault you were terrible at keeping your word.

“Where are you going?” Jude’s voice pulled you from your drowning thoughts. You glanced over your shoulder, finding him stretched across the bed, watching as you wandered around the room collecting your things.

The wadded sheets that caressed his lower half did little to offer modesty, his taupe skin glistened with sweat across his abdomen, decorated in red lines left moments ago by your nails.

You ignored his words as you shifted your lace underwear up your trembling, tired legs, your eyes scanned the room in search of all of your clothing. Jude had never been too considerate or precise when discarding them across the floor; he was always so needy and desperate with you.

“Oh, come off it,” Jude scoffed jokingly, not understanding why you’d been in such a hurry after fucking. “We are well past this.”

Touché—you raised your eyebrows in agreement. You had always stayed back, cuddled up in Jude’s arms until he checked out of the hotel the next morning. And that was the issue.

“Jude, you know this was a mistake.” You grumbled out, not offering him a second glance. You know if you did, you wouldn’t want to leave. And that made you annoyed. Especially with yourself.

Jude laughed. Laughed! God, you sometimes envied how unbothered he could be. You rolled your eyes, turning away to find your skirt crumpled on the floor. With an irritated sigh, you shimmed it back up your legs while Jude pushed himself off the bed, tugging on his boxers as though nothing had happened.

“Ouch,” his lip came to a pout, acting as if your words had stung him. He didn't believe you, so they didn't affect him. Damnit!

“I told you last time this wasn't happening again.” You volleyed out an explanation, sounding more like you were convincing yourself rather than him. And you were—Jude didn't even ask for an explanation.

“Ah.. And yet, here we are.” Jude exhaled a chuckle through his nose; and your annoyance was beginning to spread due to his inability to take you seriously.

“Well it's not happening again.”—Famous last words. You looked at Jude and hoped your expression was enough to persuade him to believe your words. But he didn't; maybe because you were the one who sought him out tonight. Or maybe because he didn't want to believe you deep down. Regardless.. He’d prefer to avoid such conversations.

You groaned when you couldn't find your shirt while Jude watched in amusement. He didn't bother to help you—why would he cover up the red and purple marks that caressed your skin thanks to himself?

“Have I lost my touch or something?” Jude knew that wasn't the case. Not when you had just cummed around his fingers and cock three times.

You took a sharp inhale and spun on your heels to face him fully, “Listen, I'm no longer fine with just being a fuck of convenience.” You admitted, shoulders shrugging defeatedly. Only then did you capture the falter on Jude’s face—or rather—his deep eyes. Oh, his eyes. You could get lost in his expressive, gorgeous eyes.

His eyebrows pinched together in confusion as his lips tugged into a small frown.

“That's what you think this is?” His question almost sounded accusatory, but you knew better when it came to Jude. He was just so unintentionally animated, that anything he said came out ten times more passionate.

Jude bent over and scooped up your shirt off the floor but refrained from forfeiting it just yet.

Come to think of it, you didn't want to answer his question, even though it had the most obvious answer. You didn't need it rubbed into your face that your needs didn't align. So, instead, you went to grab your shirt from his grip, but he was quick to draw it back; eyebrows curling in question. Jude really wanted an answer.

“How else would you describe it, Jude?” You tilted your head to the side.

Jude faltered once more, his lip trembling. He hadn’t signed up for this. He avoided this question the last time when you had ‘ended’ the arrangement that had been going on for far too many months now.

“Fun,” Jude settled on. And when you let out a dry, disbelieving laugh, he shuddered. “You.. You know what I mean,” he attempted to follow up.

It startled him. Jude was usually good with words. People had always told him he was mature beyond his years, that he always knew the right thing to say. But when it came to you, he felt like the stupidest man alive.

He searched for a better word, but nothing came. Convenience wasn’t right. It made you sound temporary, interchangeable. You were anything but that.

“I know what to expect from you, Jude.” You successfully grabbed your shirt this time and yanked it over your head. “I'm not going to ask for more. But this isn't enough for me anymore.”

Your explanation was fair; he couldn't complain. Jude couldn't throw it in your face, tell you that he already warned you that he didn't want anything serious. Couldn't make it your problem, or tell you that you were wrong, or your expectations were wrong.

Because they weren't wrong. And that was Jude’s problem. You made sense, you were doing what was right by you. So why did it make him feel like shit? He should be grateful you weren't putting him in an awkward position he had been in far too many times, forced to let others down. He really couldn’t find the words to say anything.

“Thanks for the fun night,” you smiled sarcastically, being able to throw his words in his face. Jude had to refrain from scoffing in disbelief.

You knew damn well it wouldn’t be the last time you saw Jude, but you’d hoped it’d be the last time you were that close to the footballer. Given that the last time you melted beneath his touch and came undone from nothing more than a few whispered words and lingering touches.

You prayed that was the case, and it seemed more and more likely that it was as the months flew by.

Jude knew you were in Madrid; he always knew what clubs you were attending despite never telling him. The smarter side of your brain screamed out danger but the impulsive side made you miss the little game you two had.

Honestly, he barely crossed your mind, it wasn't like it was hard to avoid a footballer. Hot property, especially in Madrid. There were fans chomping at the bit to get their hands on any Real Madrid player, thus security crowded around anyone with any sort of status. It was impossible to stumble across the man.

But ignoring his presence was a bigger feat than intended, especially when he scored the winning goal against Barcelona. As if the posters of his face and name everywhere weren't enough!

Suddenly, Jude’s face was plastered everywhere all at once, and only his name dropped from everyone's lips. You'd like to think there was no bad blood; but he was so hard to resist and you resented him for it. Suddenly he was everywhere—yet not in reach. Perhaps it was a good thing.

So you were optimistic. If getting near Jude was hard before, it'd be ten times harder now. Man of the moment; you felt that you'd be in the clear.

So.. How the fuck did you manage to be only five people back in the front of the line for the exclusive after party club? Your VIP pass decorated your neck as Jude walked past the front doors. He was ushered through the crowd, no need to pay or wait like every other eager party-goer, hoping their name made the list with cash in hand to pay for entry.

Jude shouldn't had spotted you, not with the gaggle of paparazzi that snapped enough pictures to blind a person or the slew of people cheering for him for a shred of attention. But, of course, Jude did.

“Hey, hey, they’re with me.” Jude stopped in his tracks; fishing you and your friend out of line towards him. The second your eyes met his, your expression hardened. Jude only snickered, looking far too pleased with himself.

You wanted to stay where you were and tell him you would wait like everyone else and get in yourself. Your pride was too strong to spare yourself ten minutes and a couple of hundred euros. Yet, your best friend, however, was far too pleased to get in for free. She didn't know your guys’ history, and you couldn't blame her for wanting to be a part of the attention. Hell, you knew Jude was hot as much as she did.

Deep down, it almost felt shameful, as if you were just some pretty girl Jude picked out to entertain himself with. But you only viewed it that way because you feared that had been true in the past. And knowing him, it probably was.

“Would you believe me if I said this is almost the highlight of the day?” Jude spoke to you with a wide grin, head ducked down towards you to ensure you heard him over the music growing in volume as you entered the venue.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes even; it appeared opting to be cold was the easiest option. Friendliness never lasted long with you two; being friendly became flirty. Flirting leads to touching and suddenly you'd be trapped beneath the nearest surface and his fiery body.

"No." Your answer was short, 'forgetting' to mumble the obvious, a congratulations, you'd feel bad if he wasn't getting it from every angle, but he was.

Jude’s grin only widened, regardless, bemused at your words. You weren't surprised, you doubted anything would wipe the shit-eating grin off his face right now. A breath of relief escaped you when someone grabbed at his arm and tugged him along, turning his attention elsewhere as you turned to your friend. Drinks were an absolute need tonight.

In hindsight, deciding to stay in the secluded area reserved for the Real Madrid player was definitely a bad idea. But with the rest of the venue packed shoulder to shoulder, you stood by your decision.

The free drinks and friendly faces proved to be enough of a distraction; music and alcohol flowing through your veins, so much so you’d join in on the cheers every time someone toasted to the footballer, or his name popped up on a board with bottles of champagne arriving.

An arm slithering around your waist should’ve been alarming, but shamefully you recognised the muscular grip immediately, your body naturally welcoming such action instead of pulling away.

“You still haven’t congratulated me.” Jude’s voice was low and in your ear, Birmingham accent thick, making you have to take a sharp breath. It was stupid, ridiculous the way such an action could have your mind growing hazy.

“Haven't I?” You posed the question innocently, bringing your drink to your lips as if it would offer you refuge from the temptation behind you.

You’d lost your friend ages ago, and suddenly you couldn’t recognise many people around you. Or maybe you didn’t make an effort to, because the company you quietly craved was the man behind you.

“Nope,” Jude popped the ‘p,’ lips lingering next to your ear momentarily before he pulled away to also bring his drink to his lips, you taking the moment to turn around and face him. “Not very nice of you, you know?”

You’d rolled your eyes again, a small laugh escaping you. Wanting to point out the fact that everyone was dropping to their knees to sing his praise. He didn’t need it from you. Not to mention how pesky his little Britishisms can be.

Did it make your heart skip a beat that he wanted it, though? Of course it did, despite your brain screaming that it shouldn’t. It was far too easy to cling onto anything this man did.

“Well done,” you spoke, voice laced with sarcasm despite there being truth to your words. “I’m so, so, so proud of you!”

Jude chuckled and his face lit up in amusement once more; a vast contrast to every other conversation he had tonight. This very reason he’d sought you out. Jude thought it spoke for something, the fact his mind had been consumed with so many thoughts of you despite the win he’d just accomplished with the team.

“Thank you.” Jude grinned from ear to ear, and it was as if on cue, he was being tugged away once more; and suddenly, you could breathe again.

You took the time to grab some much needed air, a balcony not too far. The next hour or so ended up being a bit of a blur. You ended up back on the dance floor, familiar faces all around, drinks continuously flowing—reunited with your friend whose lipstick was now smudged and hair slightly tangled, your hands quick to fix it up with small giggles.

You were loosening up, so much so that when Jude next appeared with two drinks in hand and daring eyes… You couldn’t help but accept. You were practically dying by your own hand, you knew you should politely decline and slip back into the crowd. But Jude Bellingham was always so hard to ignore, especially in a black button-up and white slacks.

Both of you toasted and raised the glasses to your lips, somehow still moderately sober in comparison to those around you. You knew your limits and you didn't want the night to end prematurely.

“You're not mad at me, are you?” Jude had to shout for you to hear, your eyes narrowing as you shook your head. You were somewhat surprised at his efforts. His ability to seek you in a crowd that was there for him and his team. All for what? To ask you that question?

“Why would I be mad at you?” You deflected, because you knew he had a point. You weren’t mad at him, obviously. He hadn't done anything; you’d been the one to… get attached. But you were quite clearly being distant and cold and you didn’t feel like explaining why.

Jude shrugged his shoulders, face scrunching up like he was thinking momentarily, giving you time to admire how pretty he looked. How his large hand wrapped around the glass, the way his arms looked with his sleeves rolled up.

“You’re avoiding me,” his brow shot up and you were rolling your eyes once more, like a broken record. The grin on his face showed he didn’t care to sound desperate; that he was well aware why you were acting in such a way. He distinctly remembered the last conversation between the pair of you. How you swore off the two of you—much to his dismay.

“I’m not! I’m keeping a friendly distance,” you corrected playfully, eyebrows raising as he nodded unconvincingly, lips parting in fake shock.

It was pathetic, you already could feel it. Your self restraint slipping away. Suddenly, posing yourself the question, would it be that bad if you entertained yourself with the idea of him just one more time? Just once?

“Right,” Jude practically sung, a laugh following suit as he downed the rest of his drink. “There’s no fun in that.”

All you could do was shrug at his words and give no answer because you agreed. This wasn’t fun, it was hard. It would be so much easier to let yourself take the usual reckless route. And why live life the hard way?

So, there, you chose easy, and when someone appeared to place a drink in Jude’s hand and capture a few minutes of his attention, you allowed the footballer to throw his arm over your shoulders; tugging you closer to his body. He didn’t want you slipping away into the crowd again.

You let yourself stay in his grasp, mindlessly swaying to the music and awaiting for him to finish shooting the shit. You should’ve taken this precious time to realise this was what you were meant to avoid. Take this precious time to duck out from his hold and busy yourself with someone else once more.

But instead you found yourself leaning into Jude; admiring the way his calloused yet gentle fingertips danced on your collarbone—oblivious to prying eyes and jealous gazes from those who were hoping to be in your place. His cologne was intoxicating, his touch was familiar and inviting and the way he was keeping you close while still paying you attention despite everyone trying to get their two cents in with him had your stomach flipping and fluttering.

“I really, really missed you,” Jude whispered; your head tilting aside invitingly. Contrast to your initial and intended behaviour. Regardless, the moment his lips met your skin, all rational plans were out the door with a relieved sigh.

“Good.” you answered back, knowing to not grow excited by such a confession. Not needing to say the words back because Jude already knew you missed him. You were always missing him—and he loved that.

Another kiss was pressed to your skin, and another.

“I mean it,” Jude mumbled, your eyes fluttering shut briefly at the feeling of his lips still peppering your skin. Heat spreading across your cheeks, which you later blamed on the temperature inside the venue.

You were glad you’d made your mind up, having come to the conclusion that one more night with him couldn’t be that bad. Your thought process was definitely influenced by your sexual desires rather than rationality or consideration for your aching, breaking heart. But it meant you weren’t dwelling on his words and picking them apart, instead focused on the way his hand was now resting on the side of your leg.

“Is there a bathroom near?” Your question was all Jude needed to hear as the pair of you were not so subtle as you weaved through the crowd.

His lips were on yours the moment you were in the bathroom, your back being pressed against the door to shut it—his fingers fiddling around to find the lock and the moment he heard it click, his hands were all over you.

It was messy, and rushed; adrenaline pumping between the pair of you much like the muffled music seeping through the door. Your hands were pawing at each other, his at your waist, then your hips, then your legs; touching what he could of you over the silk of your dress.

Your hands were gripping the back of Jude’s head, then running down his chest; attempting to pull him closer despite his body pressed tightly against yours. His hands then moved to grab yours, before lifting them up and over your head; pinning them to the door as his lips moved to your jaw, then to your neck.

“Jude,” you breathed in need. Your eyes shut as you attempted to push forward off the door, wanting to touch him in any way. Excitingly, you were no match for his strength.

He tutted and smacked his lips quietly, kissing at your skin with such intent that made you whimper.

“What do you want?” Jude’s question was almost a taunt while his knee was pushing between your thighs. Jude knew exactly what to do to have you squirming. It made you feel helpless, needy and desperate. Nonetheless, not one bit regretful or ashamed you found yourself here again.

“You—fuck—anything,” you breathed, hips rutting against his leg slightly; the action not unnoticed as a cocky smirk grew on Jude’s lips.

Your eyes poured into his, watching as he bathed the sight of you in. You were so flustered and worked up already, and he barely touched you.

“Yeah?” he hummed, releasing your hands now so he could cup your cheek, which made it hard for you to nod but you attempted to regardless.

“Want you to fuck me,” you elaborated; taking the chance to touch him, hand going straight to the huge bulge in his trousers. Jude gritted and hissed through his teeth with a curl of his eyebrows.

You two would often take your time. Jude liked to have you spread open for him, a few orgasms deeply thanks to his fingers or tongue first before fucking you sensually. Taking his time in kissing every inch of your body, exploring your mouth, kissing you and touching you all he could. He loved to memorise your body like a map.

However, the both of you had a sense of urgency tonight. Keen to feel him inside you, aware there were plenty of people awaiting the footballer; that the night had barely begun in the grand scheme of things. The fact you’d avoided him for so long. The fact you promised, but God, it’d been too long. Jude would struggle to draw this out the way he wanted to.

“Barely touched you, baby,” Jude pointed out with a smirk as if he was not feeling the same burning desire to be with you.

You normally would’ve paid more attention to the way your stomach flipped at the casual drop of the nickname, but his actions captured your attention before you could dwell too hard.

It was a relief as he moved you to the sink counter, pressing on your back to bend you over the surface. Behind you, your hands scrambled to grip on the counter as your eyes settled on him in the mirror. A position you’d only be in for him, and Jude knew that.

Spreading your legs was easy as you watched Jude, flipping the skirt of your dress up and merely pushing your panties aside; fingers swiping through your wetness, entering you once, then twice.

“Gotta make sure this isn’t a mistake, hm?” Jude’s inquiry was a taunt, quoting you, hands leaving your figure. He then unzipped his pants and freed his cock, leaving you to whimper and watch in the mirror.

Jude didn’t make the move to touch you, prolonging your torture; hips swaying slightly as you dwelled on his words. His big doe eyes were pouring into yours through the mirror and your cheeks only grew more hotter. His reminder that you had once claimed you didn’t want this anymore had you speechless, not suddenly rational.

“What changed your mind?” His hands moved to squeeze your ass, cock pressing against your entrance which left you with nothing but anticipation and emptiness. “Cause we finally won? Am I good enough for you now?”

You would’ve rolled your eyes if you weren’t in such a compromising position, his wicked grin enough to show his words were simply throw away comments, not an insight into his actual assumptions.

“Jude… please,” you whined, all you could muster. Your hips attempted to push back onto him but his hands on your ass held you directly in place; chest rising at the sight of you so needy for him. A sight he’d never, ever get sick of.

“Your words, not mine, babe,” Jude reminded you; tongue flicking over his bottom lip as he took in the sight of you momentarily, your laboured breathing and inability to keep still due to your need for him always something he loved to be witness to.

He was usually gentle with you at first, would warm you up; start off slow and build up to the pace that would have tears streaming down your pretty face. But he was insanely eager tonight, adrenaline still pumping madly through his veins. And by the way you were looking at him in the mirror told him you reciprocated.

“Gotta fuck some sense into you, yeah?” Jude’s question was matched with his hand tangling in your hair. He grasped a few strands before tugging you up harshly which made your back meet his chest and a gasp escaped you. “Yeah?” Jude repeated when you failed to answer.

You tried to nod quickly, hips pushing back once more to little success with the position he had you in. His lips were next to your ear now and the chuckle he let out had your thighs attempting to squeeze tightly together.

“Please! Please,” you whimpered; desperation growing pathetically quickly. It was almost pathetic, how he could shorten your vocabulary to pleas and curses in such little time.

Jude would like to say he was one of those men who could do this all night, but that would be a lie. He groaned audibly at your whimper; chest now pushed forward towards the mirror beautifully, still with a perfect view of your face.

He gave you no warning as he slid inside of you, your jaw going slack as he bottomed out; letting go of your hair and pushing your back down once more. Your hands flew to the counter again, moaning at the stretch while he groaned at the way your walls hugged him so, so tightly.

He didn’t give you the usual time to adjust, moving immediately and thrusting deeply inside of you, hands using your hips to meet his movements.

“Swear you’re fucking made for me,” Jude groaned as his head fell back, pounding into your tight cunt repetitively, your moans escaping each time as your face contorted in pleasure.

It was too good—he was too good. You weren’t sure how you could ever actually give this up.

You attempted to keep your moans hushed, although with the volume of the music you weren’t at much risk of being heard; which was good, because you were struggling to keep quiet. In fact, failing miserably! Your eyes rolled back when Jude didn’t fail to hit that spot inside of you repetitively, hands still gripping your hips tightly.

His grunts and groans were addictive, so much so you wanted to open your eyes and bask in the sight of him but the pleasure was too much to do so.

Jude, however, wouldn’t settle for such, hand tangling in your hair once more. He tugged once and pulled your head up slightly, with clear intentions behind his actions.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he cooed breathlessly, and you did as he said, being met with his ones through the mirror; a lazy smile gracing his features as you whimpered and gripped the counter tightly.

You never expect to get off so quickly from pure penetration, but you were. Suppose it was made easier with the sight of him and his hands gracing your skin, plus his filthy, loud mouth.

“So good,” you whined out; not that you needed to vocalise such a thing, it was already clear. But Jude loved your praise as much as you loved his. He hummed in agreement, squeezing your ass in appreciation.

Suddenly, his groans began to grow in frequency.

Jude was close, but in no way would he ever cum before you. His hand sneaking around your waist and dipping in between your thighs, finding your clit with ease. Jude’s fingers circled your clit expertly, dancing and sliding around like he knew you like the back of his hand. Because he did.

“Come for me baby, go on,” his words of encouragement were all you needed to hear as he continued to thrust in and out of you. You released on his cock virtually immediately at his demand. Your walls squeezed him so perfectly, Jude’s name so pretty coming from your lips—his own high cascading him as he came inside of you with a loud groan.

It was oddly satisfying, a quick release; a new experience for the pair of you. The both of you panting and coming down as he slid out of you.

Jude was gentle again, a contrast to before, as he turned you round and sat you on the counter. Your breaths were heavy as you observed him and his hands reaching up your thighs and tugging your underwear down your legs before shoving them in his pocket, only then pulling your dress down for you.

“Pervert,” you mocked with a teasing smile, Jude’s own one growing as he rolled his eyes—hands shifting to rest on your thighs.

“Collecting all the wins today,” he shrugged; a boyish chuckle escaping him as your face screwed up—his humour never lost on you as you pushed against his chest.

“I should smack you for that,” you taunted, failing to pretend to be disgusted as you grinned at him. Your entire body flushed and chest still rising and falling as you caught your breath, a small chuckle escaping you.

There were a few moments of silence as Jude adjusted himself, zipping his trousers back up and straightening out his shirt; your own hands moving to flatten your own hair.

“You gonna stay?” Jude’s question fell upon you with his intent gaze, eyes showing genuine interest. Your own eyebrows quirked in interest, unexpectedly. You'd assumed this was it for the night. Jude got his fix, you got yours.

“…Maybe,” you raised your shoulders slightly, not in a teasing way, but genuinely. You weren’t going to overstay your welcome. You were sure the casual party goers would be falling off the next couple of hours, the ones who just wanted to get a glimpse of the footballer.

You were assuming you fell into that category, not his inner circle.

“You should,” Jude hummed; and you couldn’t help the scoff that escaped you and the man almost frowned.

“You need to celebrate out there,” you hummed, patting his chest lightly with a small laugh.

His eye roll was one of sass, like you should’ve expected. What you didn’t expect was for him to insist on you staying.

“Yeah, I did already,” Jude retorted, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, his thumb moving absentmindedly against the warmth of your skin.

And maybe that was the problem. Because somehow, somewhere between every warning you’d given yourself and every promise you’d made, you’d ended up right back here.

Still close enough to him to forget why you were supposed to leave.

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[locsandletters]

ᯓ fall from grace; j.bellingham

──one shot

pairing ➜ jude x preacher’s daughter!reader

word count ➜ 6.7k

warnings/notes ➜ 18+ minors dni. lowkey innocence kink. some slight power imbalance (he’s 2 years older + more experienced). church girl™️, reader having an internal crisis. angst if you squint.

summary ➜ you meet jude on a random saturday night. some might call it serendipity, you just call it the beginning of your downfall.

you don't even like parties like that.

birthday, baby shower, graduation, whatever kind of party it is—you always find yourself standing near the exit, picking at the edge of your cup, smiling when expected, but never really there. even at church gatherings, when aunties are fanning themselves, talking about the goodness of God, and cousins are running around sticky-mouthed from too much cake, you're somewhere on the sidelines, nodding along but never fully melting into the moment.

it's not that you completely hate them. it's just that they've never felt like you.

you don't do the loud music, the heavy bass that rattles your chest. don't like the way people move in dim lighting, hands wandering, voices slurring, bodies pressing too close. don't care much for the mindless small talk, the smell of liquor clinging to the walls, the fake love that seems to ooze from everybody's mouth after their third drink.

it's not you.

and yet, somehow, you're here. at some house party that has absolutely no business being this packed, clutching a red cup full of something you aren't even sipping, standing by the porch like you're waiting on God himself to send you a sign that it's time to leave.

you should've stayed home, but your friend begged and begged, said you needed to get out, live a little, loosen up. said it like you were some wound-up little thing, too afraid to step outside the lines drawn for you.

so you borrowed one of her dresses. it's tight, clings to you in places you don't usually let yourself acknowledge. it's not short, not inappropriate, but it shows off the curve of your thighs, the softness of your waist, enough to make you feel like maybe you should've thrown a sweater over it before leaving. you tug at the hem, shift from foot to foot, take another glance at the gate like maybe—maybe—you should just call it a night.

and then, he walks up.

casual. easy.

he moves like the world bends for him, like he's used to doors opening before he even knocks. like he expects it. welcomes it. like he thrives in it. and maybe he does—because he's jude bellingham, and his name rings bells far beyond this crowded house, far beyond this city.

he's the guy whose face you've seen on billboards, stretched across stadium screens, flashing in sports headlines your daddy flips past in the morning paper. a name your little cousins scream when they're dribbling in the backyard, pretending they're him, tongue poked out, eyes locked on a goal that doesn't even exist.

you know who he is.

he looks like money. like fame. like a world you don't belong to. he looks like the kind of guy your daddy would pray for you to stay away from. there's something about him that screams worldly, that tells you he's seen too much, had too much, lived too much to ever be satisfied with simple things. with quiet things.

he stops in front of you, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne. you can't even name it, but you know it smells expensive, smells rich, like something way above your whole bloodline's tax bracket.

"you alright?"

just that. no introduction. no hey, i’m jude. like he expects you to already know. which you do. but still.

his voice is smooth, thick with that accent that makes his words roll off his tongue just a little different. it makes heat lick up your spine, makes your fingers curl tighter around your untouched drink.

you don't answer right away. you just blink up at him, trying to figure out why. why, in a house full of people who probably came here just for the chance to breathe the same air as him, he's standing in front of you.

you shift, clear your throat. "yeah. just—" you hesitate, then sigh, "—not really a party person."

jude's mouth twitches, just barely.

"yeah?" he lifts a brow. "what, you get dragged out here?"

you give a small, tight-lipped smile. "something like that."

his eyes flick down, taking in the way you tug at your dress again, the way your shoulders are stiff, like you're waiting to be judged. he can easily tell you don't belong here, that you slipped in from a whole other world.

he sees it in the way your nails tap against your cup, like you're trying to distract yourself from how much you don't fit into this picture. in the way your eyes flick toward the exit—again—like you're counting the steps it would take to leave.

he almost smirks, because you look like a lost little lamb, dropped into the middle of something you shouldn't be in.

and he likes that.

too much.

"you wanna go somewhere quieter?" he tilts his head just slightly, smiles so sweetly it almost feels calculated.

and you should say no. you should. it's what's expected of you. the voice of every woman in your life rings in your head, your mama's warnings about boys with hands too quick and smiles too sweet, the voice of your youth pastor reminding you of what happens when you stray too far from the path.

"i—" your voice is softer than you'd like, unsure. "i shouldn't."

his smile doesn't waver. in fact, it deepens, like he expected that. like it only amuses him.

"but do you want to?"

"it's just—" you hesitate, shifting on your feet. "my friend's inside, and i don't wanna leave her alone."

jude doesn't react immediately. he just watches you, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's entertained by the excuse you're trying to convince yourself with.

"that her right there?" he asks, nodding toward the open door, where your friend is laughing, deep in conversation with some guy you don't recognise. her body is angled toward him, her hand resting on his arm, her drink half-forgotten on the table beside her.

your stomach twists, because yeah. that's her. looking very much not alone.

jude chuckles, tongue peeking out to wet his lips before he looks back at you. "yeah, she seems real concerned about where you are."

he's got a point. you know he does. and before you can come up with some half-assed rebuttal, he's already stepping in a little closer. soft eyes, even softer smile, head tilting just enough to make you dizzy.

"i won't steal you away forever," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, so smooth it nearly melts into your skin. "just for a little while. promise."

it's stupid. so, so stupid.

but the way he says it makes it feel like the safest danger you'll ever walk into.

so before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can remind yourself of all the reasons why this is a bad idea, before you can let the guilt take root in your stomach—

you nod.

and jude grins.

like he knew you would.

—

you don't kiss him that first night.

you almost do. his mouth gets close, real close, and your breath hitches when his thumb brushes your jaw. his touch is warm, gentle, not rushed. but you flinch anyway, just a tiny jerk of your chin, a nervous swallow he doesn't miss.

he steps back, slow. like he can see the hesitation all over your face. like he already knows the battle waging inside your head, between what you've been taught and what your body is starting to want.

"don't worry," he says, voice low. steady. like he's used to getting his way but doesn't mind waiting this time. "won't do anything you're not comfortable doing."

you nod, grateful, embarrassed, confused all at once.

grateful because he didn't push, didn't try to take what you weren't ready to give. didn't make you feel stupid for hesitating.

embarrassed because you wanted to. for a second—half a second—you wanted to feel his lips on yours, to know if they were as soft as they looked, to know if he'd kiss you sweet or if he'd take his time, teasing, drawing it out until you had no choice but to pull him closer. and that thought alone makes heat crawl up your neck, because what kind of girl are you to be thinking like that? what kind of girl stands out here in the dark, alone with a boy like him, heart racing, mind spinning, knowing full well she has no business even entertaining the idea?

confused because none of this makes sense. because he's him, jude bellingham, a name bigger than this city, bigger than you. because you're just some girl from a quiet neighbourhood, the preacher's daughter, the one who plays it safe and follows the rules and doesn't end up in situations like this. you don't flirt with boys who have money and a reputation that stretches across continents. you don't hold conversations with them after midnight, hands stuffed in their pockets, smirking when you tell them about how your daddy would lose his mind if he knew you were out here.

but you do.

you let it happen.

you let him happen.

you watch as he knowingly smiles down at you. soft. indulgent. patient. like he already knows how this story ends. like he already knows that this thing between you isn't about if—it's about when.

and the way your stomach tightens, the way your lips tingle from nothing but the ghost of what almost happened? you know it too.

he's what you'll be craving... eventually.

—

ynprivate

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ynprivate life lately.✨

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yourbestfriend: beautiful ass bitch.😍

↳ ynprivate: language☹️

boyfromchurch: you get prettier every time i see you😢 - liked by author

yourfriend: all your angles are good angles😌

↳ ynprivate: 🥹💕

—

ynprivate added to their instagram stories

💬 judebellingham has replied to your story

judebellingham: cheffing up like this and didn’t offer me none? fake.

ynprivate: i don’t share with strangers.

judebellingham: good thing you and i are way past that then.

ynprivate: are we?

judebellingham: if our intimate little interaction from the other night is any indication, yeah.

ynprivate: intimate? you romanticise things. dangerous habit.

judebellingham: no. i remember things how they are. the way you looked at me was anything but casual.🤷🏽‍♂️

ynprivate: you’re delusional.

judebellingham: and you’re deflecting. which is fine. you’ll say what you mean eventually.

ynprivate: and that is?

judebellingham: you want me

ynprivate: hilarious.

judebellingham: you think i’m charming

ynprivate: even more hilarious. i’m busy. stop texting me, before i burn my cookies.

judebellingham: send me one. wanna taste.

ynprivate: go buy your own, i’m sure you have the budget for it big baller.

judebellingham: problem is, i don’t want a cookie. i want your cookie.

ynprivate: …

judebellingham: i meant that in exactly the way you just thought i did

ynprivate: wow. i’ll pray for you

judebellingham: i’d love that.😊

ynprivate: 🤦🏽‍♀️

—

he’s right about one thing.

you do think he’s charming.

weeks pass, and jude keeps randomly popping up.

at the coffee shop where you work—just off campus, tucked into the corner of a busy street, a place that smells like roasted espresso beans and vanilla syrup. you don't even see him at first. too busy at the register, wiping your hands on your apron, trying to keep up with the rush.

but then you hear his voice. low, warm, unmistakable.

"medium caramel latte. extra shot."

you look up, and there he is. leaning against the counter, watching you with this lazy kind of amusement, like he's already in on a joke you don't know yet.

you stammer out a "hi," and he grins.

"hey, pretty girl. you work here?"

you nod, suddenly flustered, suddenly too aware of how you probably smell like milk and coffee grounds, how your braids are tied in a lopsided bun at the top of your head.

"since when?" he asks.

you tell him—a few months now, just something part-time, something to keep busy.

"i like it," he says, tapping his fingers against the counter. "suits you."

it shouldn't make you warm inside, but it does.

after that, he starts showing up more. not every day, not even every week, but enough that you notice.

one time, he pops up at that one spot behind the student centre where you go to read alone.

you found it your first year—a little courtyard, quiet, shaded by trees, tucked away from the main pathways. most people don't even know it's there. you go when you need peace, when the world feels too loud, when you just want to sit with a book and let time slip through your fingers.

so when jude shows up on a random tuesday afternoon, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he belongs anywhere but here, you frown.

"how'd you find this place?"

he shrugs, lazy and unbothered, before dropping onto the bench beside you. "a little birdy told me this is your spot. figured i'd find you here."

your best friend. of course. she's been on one ever since she caught wind of whatever this thing is between you and jude. grinning every time his name comes up, eyes wide with something like glee when she saw him talking to you after church that one time.

she's way too invested. and knowing her? she probably handed him the information on a silver platter. all it would've taken was a quick dm, a little charm, and she would've folded in seconds.

you make a mental note to cuss her out later. in the most christian way, of course.

you turn to jude, lips parted, already halfway to telling him that you don't play about your reading time—but then he stretches out, long legs sprawling, his whole body shifting into something that looks too good to ignore.

his arm drapes over the back of the bench, all casual, his fingers just barely brushing against your back. and he's looking at you with something like amusement in his eyes, like he knows you won't ask him to leave.

and maybe you should. maybe you should roll your eyes, tell him to give you space, bury yourself back in the pages of your book. but the way he's sitting there, looking at you like this is exactly where he's meant to be? yeah. suddenly, the company doesn't feel so bad.

the first time, he talks your ear off.

leans back on the bench, eyes flicking between you and the worn-out pages in your hands. asks you what you're reading, why you picked it, if it's boring, if it's "one of them romance novels with the cringy shit."

"it's a classic," you argue, looking up at him, brow raised.

he snorts, shaking his head. calls you a hopeless romantic.

the second time, he brings food.

"thought you might be hungry," he says, pulling a sandwich and a drink from a brown bag. claims it's the best sandwich you'll ever taste because he made it himself.

you try to act unimpressed, try to keep your face neutral, but your stomach betrays you—growling at the smell of warm bread, fresh and tempting. his lips twitch, like he's fighting a smirk, before he nudges the bag toward you.

"go on, then. take it."

his fingers brush yours when you do. a small thing, a nothing moment. but something flickers in his gaze, quick and unreadable, before he looks away.

and maybe that's the moment something shifts. when you stop seeing him as this footballer who keeps showing up and start seeing him as jude.

jude, who doesn't tease when you say you've never even been on a real date. just nods, like he's storing that information for later. jude, who actually listens when you talk about your family, your plans, your fear of failing—like every word you say matters.

jude, who looks at you like he's figuring out a puzzle he likes being confused by.

jude, who's creeping into your life, slowly, surely, and you don't even realise you're letting him.

—

he doesn't kiss you until the third time he sees you outside church.

you're wearing a long, pink dress. something modest, something pretty. it cinches just enough at the waist to remind you that you have one, but it flows past your ankles, grazing the tops of your shoes with every step. it's the kind of dress your mama approves of. the kind that makes the older women at church nod in quiet approval when you walk past, whispering to their daughters about how this is how a young lady should carry herself.

your daddy's sermon is still ringing in your ears as you step out of the church, voice deep and steady in your mind: temptation comes in many forms, but the Lord will always give you a way out. you had nodded along like you understood, like you believed it was that easy, like you didn't already feel something twisting in your stomach—something you couldn't name, something that lingers even as you take careful steps down those stone steps, hands folded in front of you like a proper girl.

and then you see him.

jude's waiting across the street, leaning against a matte black mercedes. he's parked just far enough to not be obvious, but close enough that you know he's waiting for you.

he's watching you.

not in a way that's obvious to anyone else, but you feel it. the weight of his gaze. the way his eyes drop down the length of your dress before dragging back up. the slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips, like he's already thinking something he shouldn't be.

he doesn't belong here. doesn't belong anywhere near your daddy's church. but neither do you—not if the way your pulse jumps at the sight of him is any indication.

he lifts his hand, two fingers beckoning you over, just once. subtle. casual.

your daddy's voice is still in your head. temptation comes in many forms.

and yet, your feet are already moving.

he doesn't say a word when you stop in front of him. just looks at you, the way he always does—like you're something rare, something to be studied.

"what?" you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

he tilts his head, corners of his mouth curling in a small smile. "nothing," he says, but it's very clearly a lie.

you cross your arms, but it's useless. doesn't do anything to shield you from the way he's looking at you. doesn't stop the heat that creeps up your neck, the way your stomach tightens when he reaches out, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress.

"this new?" he asks, voice low, barely audible over the noise of the street.

you nod, because you don't trust yourself to speak.

he hums, fingertips trailing just slightly before he pulls away. "pretty," he says. simple. like that's that. like it's obvious.

you should leave. should turn around and walk back up those steps, back inside where it's safe, where your mama and daddy are probably still shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. but you don't. you just stand there, rooted to the spot, watching as jude pushes off the car, the heat of his body suddenly much closer than it was a second ago.

he lifts a hand, fingers brushing against the chain resting against your collarbone. it's barely a touch, more like an absentminded gesture, his thumb lingering for a second too long, pressing lightly against the charm hanging there, before he lets it drop.

his tongue swipes across his bottom lip, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is lower than before, softer.

"can i kiss you?"

it's quiet. barely above a whisper. but it hits you hard, like he just knocked the air out of your lungs. because he's asking, asking—so, so sweetly.

your breath catches. your fingers twitch where they rest at your sides.

you should say no.

you should remind him that you just left church, that your daddy is still inside, probably lecturing girls your age about purity and virtue. that you were raised better than this.

but then you look up at him. and suddenly, none of that matters.

"yes," you breathe.

and that's all it takes.

he doesn't waste time. doesn't hesitate. the second the word leaves your lips, he moves—one hand curling around the side of your neck, the other pressing against the small of your back, pulling you in close, closer, until there's nothing between you but heat and the sound of your own breath catching in your throat.

he kisses you like he's been thinking about it for weeks. like he's imagined it a hundred different ways, but none of them compare to this—to the way your lips part under his, to the little sound you make when he tilts his head and deepens it, to the way your fingers clutch at his shirt like you need something to hold onto; because this isn't the kiss of a boy who's unsure. this is possession, plain and simple.

you feel him smile against your lips when you don't pull away. when instead, your hands slide up, fingers brushing at the nape of his neck, holding him there. when you sigh into his mouth like you've been waiting for this just as long as he has.

and when he pulls back, just slightly, just enough to drag his teeth over your bottom lip, just enough to let you breathe—he doesn't go far. his nose brushes yours, his breath is warm against your cheek, and his voice is lower now, thick with something you don't have a name for.

"you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that," he murmurs.

and then he kisses you again.

when he eventually pulls back, he's got that look. like he's tasting something he didn't expect to love so much. like you're some flavour he's never had before, and now that he has, he's wondering how he ever went without it. his fingers twitch where they're still resting on your waist, like he's fighting the urge to grab you, pull you back in, drown himself in you all over again.

and that's what makes you step back.

because the way he's looking at you cracks you wide open. like he's peeling back your layers without even trying, stripping you bare with nothing but his eyes. it's unnerving. intoxicating. makes your fingers twitch at your sides, makes your breath catch in your throat.

"uh," you trail off, voice thin, trying to ignore the way your heart is in such a frenzy against your ribcage, loud enough that you're sure he can hear it in the space between you.

he tilts his head slightly, watching you, watching the way you fidget under his gaze, the way you bite your lip like you're trying to stop yourself from asking him to kiss you again.

"how come you're here?" you ask, because you don't know what else to do with yourself. "aren't you supposed to be in madrid?"

"break between games," he responds mindlessly. his eyes stay locked on you, intense, unreadable. they trace over your face, your lips, the way your chest is rising and falling just a little too fast, like you're struggling to catch your breath. "i come back home sometimes. clears my head."

you feel warm all over. heat rushing up your neck, pooling low in your stomach.

you want to ask why you, then. out of all the girls he could 'come back home' to. out of all the girls he could have. the models, the singers, the girls who got names blue-check-verified. the ones who post thirst traps and don't flinch when someone touches their thigh.

but you don't ask.

because you like how he looks at you.

like you're something precious he wants to keep for himself.

like he's never had anything like you before. and maybe, just maybe, he never wants to go without it again.

—

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judebellopriv 😍😍😍😍😍😭😭😭😭😮‍💨😮‍💨😱

↳ ynprivate relax.

—

judebellopriv

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ynprivate corny.

↳ judebellopriv i’m the love of your life. be nice to me.😔

—

things get... interesting after that.

kisses that grow longer. hands that travel further. his voice in your ear, soft and deep, saying things like, "you can tell me to stop, pretty. i'll stop whenever you say."

and you believe him. you do. but the problem is you never really want him to stop.

he calls you "pretty girl" when you're shy, when your fingers fidget with the hem of your new pastel cardigan, when you tuck your face into his chest after he says something that makes your skin feel too hot to wear. when you sit next to him in his car, trying to ignore the way he looks at you like you're the kind of girl men start wars over.

he calls you "baby" when you're quiet, when you're watching him with those soft, searching eyes like you're trying to understand every little part of him. when you're curled up against his side, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin like he's coaxing you to say something, anything.

"what you thinkin’ about, baby?" he murmurs, voice all gentle, because he genuinely wants to know where your mind goes when you get quiet like this.

you shake your head, because you can't say it. you can't tell him how deep he's gotten into you, how you're always thinking about him now—when you're in class, when you're at work, when you're sitting in the pews listening to your father preach about temptation and sin and how easily the devil slips into the cracks of your foundation.

he calls you "mama" when you're doing things you know you shouldn't be doing. when you're in his bed, back arching, lips parted, fingers grasping at his shoulders like they're the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. when you let him push you past every boundary you swore you'd never cross, when you let him drag you into the kind of pleasure that feels more like salvation than sin.

and it sounds so good in his mouth. so right. like it belongs to you. like he belongs to you. like every time he says it, he's giving you another piece of himself to keep.

and maybe you are keeping him. maybe he's yours in a way he's never been anyone else's before.

maybe you're his in a way that feels deeper than flesh, deeper than anything either of you have ever known.

—

he keeps showing up more.

in your bed, late at night, when your parents are fast asleep two rooms down the hall. you sneak him in, because that's apparently something you do now. feet tiptoeing across the hardwood, heart pounding so loud you're sure it'll wake up the whole house. you don't even turn on the lamp—just fumble for him in the dark, breathless, nervous, excited in a way you can't explain. and he's there, all warmth and muscle and mischief, slipping under the covers like he belongs there.

on your phone, texting things that make your thighs clench under the covers.

"what you wearing?"

it's the first thing he sends, and you already know where this is going. you hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen. but he knows you too well.

"don't get shy on me now, pretty."

you take a breath, then type back.

"my nightgown."

it's a simple answer, nothing suggestive about it—but jude makes it mean something.

"the white one?"

"yeah."

"the one that's real thin?"

you pause. heart hammering.

"yeah."

the typing bubble pops up, disappears, pops up again. then—

"wish i was there."

you exhale sharply. shift under the covers. try to ignore the way your thighs press together on instinct.

"jude..."

"bet you're warm under there."

your breath catches.

"bet you keep rubbing your legs together, trying to make yourself feel good without me."

your fingers shake.

"open your legs for me, baby."

and God forgive you, but you do.

and, of course, he shows up in your mind as well. when you should be studying, praying, thinking about your future.

you sit in the second pew, bible open on your lap, the words on the page nothing but blurred ink. your daddy's voice booms through the church, preaching about temptation — because that's suddenly all he's been preaching about lately.

"flee from sin," he says, voice thick with conviction as he paces back and forth across the pulpit. "do not entertain it. do not welcome it into your home. into your heart. into your bed."

your breath stutters.

you swear your daddy looks at you too long. like he knows something. like he can see the filth on you. your fingers tighten around the edges of your bible, nails pressing half-moon indents into the leather. your mama glances at you, concern in her eyes. you force a smile, nod like everything's fine.

"temptation is a test," he continues. "and the devil is patient. he waits for a moment of weakness. he whispers to you when you're alone."

you suck in a sharp breath, heat crawling up your neck. because he does.

except it isn't the devil whispering to you at night.

it's jude.

"miss me?"

"wish i was there with you, don't you?"

"bet you still feel me, huh?"

you do.

so much so that it's wrong. so much that you feel like the walls of this church are closing in around you.

you shouldn't be here.

but you shouldn't be in jude's bed either. or sneaking him into yours. or texting him back. or letting him touch you like he does.

"resist temptation, and it will flee from you."

your fingers tremble where they rest on the page. because you don't want it to flee.

you want it to stay.

you want him to stay.

—

jude learns your body too quick. too well. too thoroughly.

it should scare you—the way he figures you out like he's done this a hundred times before, like he's studied you in a past life and came back knowing exactly what makes you gasp, what makes your voice shake, what makes you go all pliant and pretty beneath him.

he takes his time with you. always. moves slow, like he's savouring every moment, like he enjoys watching you come undone little by little. because that's the thing about jude—he doesn't just take pleasure from you; he drags it out of you, pulls it from the depths of your belly, coaxes it from between your lips until you're trembling, until you're arching into him, until you can't think straight.

he likes to test your patience, to see how long it takes before you can't handle it anymore. he'll brush his lips against the shell of your ear, mumbling, "look at you. so damn needy." and he'll chuckle when you whine, when you try to pull him closer, when your fingers clutch at his shirt like you're begging.

and your voice—God, your voice.

the way it wobbles when he kisses down your neck. the way it catches when he mouths at your collarbone. the way it pleads before he finally—finally—presses his hips against yours.

you call his name like it's something sacred. like it's something holy.

and maybe it is.

maybe in the heat of this room, in the way he touches you like you're the only girl in the world, in the way he murmurs, "let me hear you, baby. i wanna hear you say my name,"—maybe in all of that, he is holy.

at least, that's what it feels like when he finally gives you what you've been aching for, when he murmurs your name back just as soft, just as breathless, just as wrecked.

and suddenly, the preacher's daughter isn't so pure anymore.

—

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judebellopriv honoured to finally make it to the feed🥹

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yourbestfriend can this lightskin boy fight?

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↳ ynprivate 💀

—

he corrupts you in pieces. not all at once.

one night, he's between your legs, looking up at you like you're the only girl that's ever mattered.

it's the first time. and you're nervous. your thighs tremble, and you keep trying to close them, instinct kicking in. but jude doesn't let you. his hands are firm, spreading you open, settling you against his mouth like he belongs there.

"relax, mama," he murmurs, lips brushing against your sensitive skin. "just let me taste you."

and God, do you let him.

his tongue is slow, dragging over you with a patience that makes your head spin. he groans into you, like he needs this, like this is his salvation. his hands grip your thighs tighter, his tongue flicks, swirls, sucks, and you swear you forget how to breathe.

"fuck—" the curse slips out, unbidden, and you slap a hand over your mouth, eyes going wide.

jude pulls back just enough to grin up at you, chin glistening. "that's a first," he teases, before licking back into you, hungrier this time.

you should feel ashamed, should feel guilty, but all you feel is him. the warmth of his mouth, the desperation in the way he grips you, the heat curling low in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter with every flick of his tongue.

your fingers tangle in his curls, tugging, pulling him closer, closer, closer, and he groans in pleasure against you, like he loves it when you take what you need.

his name spills from your lips, over and over and over, and when you cum, it's with a soft cry and a shudder that rocks you to your core.

he doesn't move for a moment. just presses his lips to your inner thigh, breath warm against your damp skin.

"told you i'd take care of you," he murmurs, voice low, eyes dark as he watches you try to catch your breath.

you don't respond. you can't.

because for the first time in your life, you don't know what comes after.

—

he meets your daddy once.

it's at a football charity event in the neighbourhood. something small, nothing crazy—just a few sponsors, some local businesses, a handful of academy footballers showing up to sign autographs, pose for pictures, and play a friendly game with the kids. you're only there because your mama insisted, said it was a good cause, said it'd "look good" if you showed up because your daddy's church is donating supplies—clothes, food, books for the kids.

you don't ask how jude's dad got involved. maybe he knows somebody who knows somebody. maybe it's just one of those things that happens when your son is famous, and people call in favours like it's nothing.

you also don't know jude himself is going to be there. not until you hear a collective of screams from the little boys and girls, all hyped up and bouncing on their toes like they can't believe their luck.

your stomach instantly drops as you turn to look across the field. to look at your man. the one you could never claim publicly.

he's in his element—long limbs, strong build, the kind of casual confidence that only comes from knowing you're him. he's grinning at the kids, talking to them easy, letting them pass the ball between themselves.

he laughs at something one of the kids says, head tilting back slightly, tongue peeking out between his teeth. your heart stutters. it always does when he looks happy like this—like the weight of the world isn't sitting on his shoulders for once.

his hand ruffles one of the boy's curls before he steps back, rolling the ball under his foot, nodding for them to come take it. and even in something as simple as that, he moves with a smooth athleticism that's almost unfair.

it's mesmerising. it always is.

and then—like he can feel you watching—he glances up. his eyes find yours instantly, like they always do. his grin shifts, turns into something slower, something more knowing. his head tilts slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in those deep brown eyes.

you look away. immediately. pretend to be interested in anything else. the donation table. the banners. the sun, for God's sake. anything but him.

but jude? jude is shameless.

because, before you know it—

"hey, pretty girl."

you freeze for half a second. then slowly, carefully, you turn your head, your heart slamming against your ribs. not because he called you that. he does that all the time, whispers it in the dark when he's got his hands on your waist, when his mouth is on your skin, when you're falling apart beneath him.

but this? this is here. this is now.

you don't even get a chance to say anything before your daddy steps in.

"jude bellingham," he greets, extending a hand, voice firm. "been hearing a lot about you, son."

jude takes it without hesitation, shaking it firm, nodding like he knows how to play the game.

"all good things, i hope."

you side-eye him. but jude just grins, the corner of his mouth lifting, and somehow, it makes him look even cockier.

you want to kill him.

but he plays it cool. stays respectful. makes conversation. even your mama seems to like him, which is ridiculous, because if she had any idea the things he's done to you—

you shake the thought out of your head, forcing yourself to focus.

people come up to him, ask for pictures, autographs. he takes it all in stride. smiles, poses, makes them feel like they matter. it's the first time you really see it—the way he switches it on, the charm, the ease, the star power that makes people want to be near him.

but when the attention dies down and the crowd shifts, he still finds his way back to you.

"nice dress," he murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear, his fingers brushing your wrist for half a second too long.

you step back, shooting him a glare. "stop."

his brows lift, all innocent. "stop what?"

you don't answer.

you can't answer.

because your daddy's watching, your mama's close by, and the last thing you need is for anyone to see the way your breathing falters when he's too close.

jude notices, though. of course he does. his lips twitch. and then—because he's him—he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch.

"see you later, mama."

and with that, he walks off, leaving you there—flustered, irritated, wanting.

you don't even hear the rest of your daddy's speech. don't even remember why you came here in the first place.

all you can think about is later.

when the sun goes down. when the cameras are gone. when it's just you and him.

because he meant it.

and you know—deep in your bones—that tonight, he's going to make you pay for pretending you don't want him.

—

there's a moment—late, after everything, while jude is lying on your chest, tracing lazy circles into your skin as you lay in his california king bed—where he murmurs something that makes your breath catch.

you're still trembling from the weight of what just happened, your body spent, skin dewy, lips tingling from the way he kissed you like he was trying to brand his name into your mouth. the sheets are tangled around your waist, his body warm and lax beside you, his fingers absentmindedly dancing along the curve of your hip like he isn't even aware he's doing it.

the room smells like him—cologne, clean linen, and the faint musk of sex that lingers in the air. the dim glow from the city outside seeps through the cracks in the blackout curtains, casting soft shadows over the luxurious bedroom.

your heart is still beating too fast, your mind caught somewhere between reality and the high of him. you don't even know what time it is. past midnight, probably. maybe later.

then, in that quiet, between the distant hum of cars outside and the slow rhythm of your breathing, he speaks.

"you're the only good thing in my life right now."

his voice is heavy with something you can't quite name. it's almost like a confession, something secret slipping past his lips before he can stop it. it feels unguarded. raw. too honest for a boy like him.

you want to ask what he means. why he said it. if he really believes it.

but you don't.

because you see the way his jaw clenches like he's already regretting saying too much. the way his fingers tighten just slightly on your hip. the way his head stays pressed against your chest, close enough to hear the way your heart stutters at his words.

and maybe you should leave. maybe you should remind yourself that this was supposed to be nothing, that you were never meant to matter to him like this.

but instead, you exhale, slow and careful, and thread your fingers through his curls. soft. comforting.

"i'm not going anywhere," you whisper, and it feels like a promise you shouldn't be making.

but he sighs against your skin, like it's exactly what he needed to hear.

and so you hold him.

because you're not so pure anymore. not after him. not after the way he's touched you, seen you, ruined you in the best and worst ways.

and honestly? you'd let him do it again.

every night.

every sunday morning before church.

every time he whispers your name like he's afraid he's dreaming you.

because even if it's wrong... even if you go to hell for it...

there's nothing holier than the way he makes you feel.

[pinkfortuna]

Masterpiece

[locsandletters]

ᯓ distraction; d.doue

──one shot

pairing ➜ désiré x black!fem!reader

word count ➜ 1.5k

warnings/notes ➜ slight nsfw.

summary ➜ you interrupt désiré’s gaming session… he doesn't seem to mind.

he’s been on that damn game for hours.

first it was fifa. then it was warzone. then it was some other shit that you stopped caring about because all you could think about was how good he looked like this—shoulders all relaxed, arms stretched long, hands on the controller. mouth twitching with his little half-laughs. headset tilted just slightly off his head. chin dipped, focused. a heavily-accented voice echoing in the room, all low and casual and full of that cocky grin he always wears when he’s winning.

you’re laid up on the couch across from him, legs curled under yourself, just watching. scrolling aimlessly, but not really seeing anything. you’ve been sneaking glances at him every few minutes, hoping he’d look over. give you that look. the one that means he’s ready to give you attention. the kind you need.

but it’s been an hour. and then another. and your patience is slipping.

because the thing is—you’ve been like this all day. fidgety. achey. bothered. and it only got worse when désiré got comfortable in that damn chair, legs bent just right, thighs toned under his shorts, bouncing every now and then with the rhythm of the game. it was the way his voice dropped when he got serious. the way he licked his lips when he was focused. the way he smirked when he made a decent play.

it was everything. and it was killing you.

so you shift again, thighs pressed tight, biting your lip. trying to wait. trying to behave.

but then the smallest thing triggers you. he leans back, one leg stretching out, the other staying bent—and that simple movement is quite literally your last straw. his thigh flexes, toned and warm-looking, the kind of comfortable you could sit on for hours. and you’re not even trying to be dramatic about it, but the heat in your body jumps up a few degrees. because you can’t anymore. you don’t even want dick, not yet. not really. you just need to get off. you need to feel something. and he’s right there.

you toss your phone to the side and slide off the couch, padding over slow, bare feet on cold floor, oversized t-shirt brushing against your thighs. désiré glances at you for half a second—quick little up-down scan—but doesn’t say anything. just smirks like he knows something you don’t.

“cover me real quick, i need to reload,” he mutters into the mic.

you walk over to his side, fingers grazing his shoulder lightly, testing the waters. he hums but doesn’t look up.

“baby,” you say softly, leaning down near his ear, letting your lips graze his jaw. “can i ask you something?”

“mmhm.” his voice is distracted, low. he’s still focused on the screen, thumb tapping buttons with ease. “what’s up?”

you glance down at his thigh—that thick, firm stretch of muscle under cotton, tensed and relaxed all at once. your mouth waters. you press your palm to it gently. he twitches, just barely.

“can i please ride your thigh?” you ask. whisper it. sweet and breathy.

his head turns, slow. finally, finally looks at you. eyebrows raised. lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile. that smug, knowing look all over his face.

“say that again?”

you blink at him, trying not to squirm under the weight of his stare. “can i ride your thigh?” a pause. a swallow. “please?”

he sets the controller down—finally—and leans back in the chair, eyes raking down your body in nothing but amusement.

needy you is his favourite you.

“go ahead then,” he murmurs. smiles lazily, because how could he ever refuse you?

you don’t waste time. you climb into his lap, swinging one leg over, straddling the solid length of his thigh. it’s warm, even through the shorts, and your body shudders just from the contact. his hands settle on your waist, casual, letting you get comfortable.

when he feels your panties dragging against him — thin cotton, soaked, he chuckles. “you been sitting over there thinking about this, this whole time?”

you nod, slow, already moving your hips. grinding soft, slow. just enough friction to tease yourself. to make your breath hitch.

“knew you were fidgety for a reason,” he says, his tone all teasing and low. “should’ve said something earlier, baby. i would’ve helped you out.”

his fingers dig into your waist a little, guiding you now, setting the pace. slow at first. torturous. just the right pressure where your clit brushes against the seam of your panties every time you rock forward.

you moan, soft. try to hold it in, but it spills out anyway.

“shh,” he mutters, lifting the headset slightly. “my boys are still on the mic.”

you nod, biting your lip hard, but keep grinding. can’t stop. don’t want to. it feels too good. his thigh flexes under you, muscle tensing every few seconds, giving you just enough to work with. and his hands—gosh, his fucking hands—tight on your hips, fingers pressing into the dip of your lower back, dragging you forward every time you slow down.

he’s watching you now. really watching. eyes heavy, lips parted just a bit. chin tilted up so he can see the way you bite your lip, the way your brows pull together, the way your thighs shake already.

you bury your face in his neck, trying to quiet the sounds leaving your mouth, but he hears them. every breath. every gasp. every muffled whimper.

“you close already?” he asks, voice full of amusement. “haven’t even touched you yet.”

you nod again, but it’s frantic this time. desperate. your hips pick up speed, chasing the feeling, and he lets you. just holds you in place and lets you use him. lets you fuck yourself on his thigh for your own selfish pleasure.

but then you moan. loud this time. too loud, his name slipping carelessly out of your mouth.

“oi, who’s that?” a thick accent says in his headset. olise, surely. you freeze. désiré grins.

“don’t worry about it,” he says into the mic, laughing a little. “mind your business.”

and you continue moving. slower now. dragging your soaked panties against his thigh like you’re trying to hold on, but it’s already too late. you’re shaking. thighs trembling, body tight. and he knows. he feels it.

“gonna cum for me?” he asks, sickly sweet, lips brushing your ear.

“mhm,” you damn near whimper, holding onto him tighter.

“go on then,” he smiles. “do it. make a mess for me, pretty girl.”

and that’s really all it takes. your body tenses, head buried in his neck, and you cum hard—silent and shaking, grinding down like you’re trying to melt into him. your panties stick to your pussy, soaked through. his thigh’s wet now. and his hands are still holding you firm, like letting you go is the last thing on his mind.

he hums as you shake. satisfied. smug as hell.

“i’ll be back,” he says into the mic, and before the guys can ask questions, he yanks the headset off and drops the controller to the floor.

his hands slide up your back, slow. warm.

“was that enough?” he asks, tone completely different now. more suggestive. “or you want more?”

you look up at him, dazed. still catching your breath. lips parted, eyes low. then nod your head. “want more.”

“so needy,” he laughs. kisses your cheek. trails it down to your jaw.

and before you know it, you’re being led to his california king bed, because one thing about désiré — he could never say no to you.

[pinkfortuna]

He's so sexyyyy

[locsandletters]

a blurb about what olise would be like in bed?? 🤲🏽🫠🫠

— all the ways boyfriend!olise devours you.

warnings — 18+ mdni. explicit sexual content.

listen. olise is nasty nasty.

and the thing is? he doesn’t even act like it. you wouldn’t look at him and immediately think it. he carries himself too well for that. all put together, kinda quiet, kinda cocky but not in an annoying way. he looks like the type of guy who’s good in bed, sure. but he doesn’t look like the type of guy who spits in your mouth just to see your lips part for more.

but he is. and you learned that fast.

the first time you fucked, it shocked you a little. not because you thought he’d be bad—please, you knew he wouldn’t be—but because of how good he was. how nasty he was about it. how his mouth was naturally filthy in ways you didn’t expect.

you remember the way he held your jaw, dark eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes before he licked into your mouth like he had something to prove. the way he sucked on your tongue, let out this deep groan when your fingers threaded through his hair. how he was already pressing you down into the bed like he couldn’t get close enough.

and then he went down on you, and it was over after that.

because olise eats pussy like it’s his actual job. like there’s a contract involved and he’ll get punished if he doesn’t do it properly. it’s insane. you didn’t even know guys liked it that much until him. his mouth is hot, greedy, relentless. he’ll go down on you just to go down on you. not because he wants you to return the favour, not even because you asked—he just wants to. you could be laid out next to him watching a show, and if he gets in the mood, he’s tugging your shorts down, slotting himself between your thighs, and licking at your clit slow like he has all the time in the world.

he moans while he does it too. shamelessly. like he’s the one getting something out of it. like he enjoys it just as much as you. probably more.

and don’t even get me started on how he looks up at you while he does it. deep, brown eyes, big hands gripping your thighs to keep you from moving. and when you get loud, when your back arches and your hand tightens in his hair? he’ll just groan into you, slap a palm down on your stomach and hold you in place while he sucks on your clit like he wants to ruin you.

sometimes he talks. sometimes he doesn’t. but you can always feel him. feel the way his mouth works you open, feel how much he loves it, feel his breath fan against your skin when he pulls away just to drag his lips along your inner thighs, teeth grazing you before he’s diving back in.

and he doesn’t stop. even when your thighs shake. even when you try to push him away. even when you cum so hard you’re gasping his name. he eats pussy like it’s his favourite thing in the world. and it probably is.

olise likes control. not in a way that feels overwhelming, but in a way that makes you feel owned. he likes to be the one setting the pace, the one making you lose your mind, the one telling you what to do. he likes when you listen. loves it even more when you don’t. either way, you’re gonna get fucked how he wants.

he’s a body-worshipper too. he likes all of you. every inch. he loves your ass—grips it, smacks it, spreads it apart while he fucks into you deep and slow. loves your tits, too. likes to have a hand around your throat and the other tugging at your nipples, watching your face contort as he buries himself in you.

olise likes to be messy with it, too. he spits in your mouth like it’s second nature. if you let him, he’ll slap his dick against your tongue before easing it past your lips, watching as you take him down slow, groaning when you choke around him. and when you pull off, gasping, saliva glistening on your lips? he kisses you deep, sucks on your tongue because he absolutely does not mind that you just went down on him, the mess just makes it better.

but when he’s soft? that’s when it’s different.

because yeah, he’s nasty. but he’s also sweet. and when he wants to, he takes his time. whispers soft things in your ear. slows it down and makes love to you so good you feel like you could cry. and it’s not like he doesn’t talk dirty then too—he does, always—but there’s a softness to it. an affection that makes your chest ache.

“love the way you take it, baby,” he’ll murmur against your lips, eyes dark but fond.

or, “feels like you were made just for me.”

and he means it. you know he does. because olise isn’t just nasty in bed—he’s intense. he wants to make you feel good. he wants you to know it’s him making you feel like this.

and when it’s all over? he still can’t get enough of you. he still kisses you, presses his lips to your forehead, your jaw, your chest. his hands still hold you tight, fingers smoothing over your skin like he needs to keep touching you.

he’s just like that.

and you absolutely love it.

[locsandletters]

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.

[locsandletters]

ᯓ nothing casual; j.bellingham

──one shot

pairing ➜ jude x black!fem!reader

word count ➜ 3k

warnings/notes ➜ 18+ mdni. situationship. failed threesome.

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.

but it is.

it is.

[writtenbylolo]

⤷ I swear, I swear!

masterlist ᯓ★ lo's commentary: hiiii angels it's @purplesectorlew (Lo)!! here with my addition to the jude hype train because i can't stop thinking about his facial expressions and exhausted but clingy jude so here we are. hope you enjoy the fluff-to-spice pipeline as much as i did writing it <3

pairing: bf!jude bellingham x reader summary: after england’s dramatic quarter-final win over norway, an exhausted Jude just wants his girlfriend close. post-match cuddles (that definitely don’t stay just cuddles) in the team hotel lead to soft, sleepy, and very needy sex. comfort, praise, and tired-boyfriend vibes. warnings: smut MDNI, handjob, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, tired but horny jude, whimpering + whiny jude, lowkey sub!jude, lots of praise and pet names, slight possessive talk wc: 4.5k!

The last notes of Wonderwall had just faded out across the Hard Rock, the lads still buzzing on the pitch with arms slung round each other. Jude was right in the middle of it, singing along like the rest of them, his beautiful smile splitting his face even though you could tell every last inch of him was running on empty.

It had been a grind. The Miami heat and humidity were brutal, thick and sticky, so much so that it had made your lungs burn just watching from the stands. Extra time looked like it nearly broke them, but Jude dragged it through with his second goal in the 93rd minute like something out of a film. Your heart was still hammering, ears ringing, the whole stadium vibrating around you. 

Then the fans started up with “Hey Jude” and you had to look away quickly, blinking hard. The pride you feel swells up so huge it doesn’t fit in your chest, it spills over into these stupid tears every single time you hear the song, no matter how many times you see him do something like this.

“He looks exhausted,” Denise says quietly, her arm still hooked through yours, squeezing a little.

“I know. Bless him. I don’t know how he’s still standing out there. He gave that absolutely everything.”

You take some deep breaths with his parents, gushing over his performance as usual and wait for him to finish with everything else he has to do after the final whistle.

Soon enough, you watch him walk over showered and changed into the usual post-match tracksuits, his hood half up already like he’s already trying to shut the world out. Even from a distance you can see the heaviness in his shoulders, the way he’s moving a bit stiffer than usual, his tall frame carrying the weight of a country for ninety-plus minutes. He looks happy though. So, so happy. His dark eyes scan the stands until they find you three, and you can see the sparkle in them as soon as he spots you. 

He hugs his mum first, extra tight, murmuring something that makes her laugh and pat his back. All week she’d been saying watch your language, watch your tackles, watch your face so he wouldn’t get booked. You could see how proud she was of him, her eyes closing when they hugged. It almost made your heart burst. 

Then his dad, the two of them clapping each other on the shoulder like they always do, that quiet father-son thing that always makes your chest warm. Mark kisses his cheek, and your smile mirrors Jude’s bashful one. Only after that does he turn to you.

“There she is,” he says, voice a little rough from the game, his accent coming through even stronger when he’s tired. He smiles down at you, exhausted but sweet, and you stand up to meet him.

You cup his cheek, thumb brushing his sharp cheekbone, your other arm sliding round his broad back. He’s warm, solid, still carrying the smell of the grass mixed with fresh shower gel. “I’m so proud of you, Jude. That looked so tough out there.”

He leans down and kisses you, soft and quick. He’s never one for big PDA with the cameras hovering, but he never lets you feel unloved. Then his hand comes up, gentle as anything, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear. His eyes go all soft as he looks at you, the intense match-day fire dialled right down just for you. “Thank you, baby. Yeah… it was hard. Proper hard. But we got there. It was rough though, I’m shattered.”

You sit back down and he drops straight onto the seat next to you, no hesitation. His head finds your shoulder immediately, heavy and trusting, like he’s been waiting for this exact spot the whole night. You slide your hand up to scratch lightly at the back of his neck, the way he likes, and feel him let out a long breath, sinking further into you. The relief in his body is so obvious it makes your heart twist.

His mum and dad chat lightly for a minute — something about the referee, how proud they are, the usual post-match debrief — and Jude mumbles along, half in it, half gone. His hand finds yours in your lap, fingers threading together lazily.

After a bit he turns his head, lips brushing your ear as he lowers his voice. “Are you gonna come visit me tonight?”

You snort, playfully nudging his head away. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus, babe.”

He laughs then, loud and bright, teeth flashing, his eyes lighting up with the loving mischief that always gets you. “What? I can’t get cuddles from my girl? After that?”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting your own smile. “Cuddles?”

His lip twitches, smirk spreading slow and dangerous. “Cuddles,” he repeats, all innocent like. “And a couple of kisses. Just three or four…”

You tilt your head, giving him a look. He’s dead on his feet, shoulders slumped, yet still managing to look at you like that. You ignore the heat pooling in your stomach from the way he's looking at you and try to think logically. The semi-finals are midweek. “You’re gonna cramp up at some point and whatever idea you’ve got of cuddles and kisses is gonna be straight out the window.”

“Can I not enjoy my recovery with my girlfriend? Is that against the law now?” He huffs dramatically, but his hands are already stroking up your sides, warm and familiar.

You huff at him, already giving in. “You’re so spoilt.”

He grins wider, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “You can never say no to me.”

And it’s true. You can’t say no to him. Not when he looks at you like that. Cuddles. Right. 

It wasn’t long before you found yourself being led by Jude back to his room in the team hotel in Miami. They’d just had a squad dinner, winding down after the match. As soon as players started to retreat he’d texted you and met you in the lobby. Other England camps weren’t like this in the past, you were so grateful the rules had been changed to let you see him, even if he should be resting.

He’d showered again, you could already tell by the cologne and body wash mix you could smell as you followed him down the quiet corridor. His hand was warm around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles every few steps. He still moved a little stiff from the game, the beautiful body of his carrying the bruises and the exhaustion, but there was this restless energy in him too, the win still buzzing under his skin.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, he didn’t stop talking. He kicked his slides off, flopping back onto the bed as he kept going, voice low and rough but nonstop the way it always gets when he’s over-excited.

“...and then after the equaliser, I swear the pitch felt like it was moving, the humidity was mad out there. But the lads were buzzing, it was so loud on the pitch. Harry pulled me over after and was saying something about the run we’re on now, and I was just thinking the whole time about that last chance, how I nearly messed up the touch but it just fell right. Then extra time, my legs were gone but you just dig deep, don’t you? Mum’s texts were killing me the whole week about watching my face and my language, I nearly got booked just for breathing heavy at the ref at one point—”

He laughed at himself, running a hand over his damp hair, eyes bright even though his shoulders were sinking deeper into the pillows. You perched on the edge of the bed, watching him, the usual warmth spreading in your chest.

He reached out and tugged you closer by the wrist, still mid-story. “—and then I was like, nah, we’re not losing this one. You get me babe? And then I was like—”

“Jude, take a breath, love. I was there and watching the whole thing,” you chuckle, adjusting to lie next to him on the bed. His arm slipped under your head straight away, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb moved slowly across your cheek, warm and a little rough.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he murmured, half-laughing at himself again, voice dropping lower. “I’m just… excited. I don’t know. We left everything out there and…”

He trailed off for a second, eyes half-closed, but his fingers kept moving, tracing your jaw, then down the side of your neck, like he couldn’t quite settle even though his body was heavy with tiredness. Up close like this you could see every little detail: the faint sheen of sweat still at his hairline from how warm it was in Miami, the way his chest rose and fell a bit quicker than normal, a fresh bruise along his jaw starting to darken. You breathed in his warm skin scent that always made your stomach flip.

He shifted closer, leg hooking over yours casually, voice going soft and a little rough with emotion. “It’s mad innit? One minute you’re out there thinking your legs are done, next minute the ball drops and it just… happens. And now we’re in the semis. Semis, babe.”

His grin came back, tired but bright, the one that always made your heart do stupid things. He pressed his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in like he needed it more than air. “Couldn’t have done it without knowing you were up there. Makes it all feel different.”

“I love you,” you whisper softly, thumb brushing his cheek, “and I’m so proud of you.”

“How proud?” he beamed, raising an eyebrow, a playful spark lighting up his exhausted face.

“Very proud. Like… prouder than you can even imagine. I think I’ve cried at nearly every game—”

Jude giggles, almost giddy, the sound low and warm in his chest. He loved praise, especially from you, it always turned him soft and a little cocky at the same time. “I know, my little crybaby,” he cooed, voice teasing and fond as he leaned in, pressing little kisses all over your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Each one gentle and sweet, like he was savouring being close after the chaos of the match.

“Shut up,” you laugh quietly, trying to sound stern but failing completely. “You need to calm down, baby. You have to sleep.”

“My body’s tired,” he mumbles against your skin, kissing your cheek again, then lingering lower near your jaw, “but the adrenaline is just making me wired, man.”

You stroke his side, up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, feeling the solid warmth of him under your palm, the faint tremor of leftover energy in his muscles. His tall frame was heavy against you, one leg tangled with yours, but his hands kept wandering. Sliding under the hem of your top to rest against your lower back, thumb tracing lazy circles there. 

After a moment he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he’s looking down at you properly. The lamp on the bedside table casts a soft glow over his face, his beautiful brown eyes and pink lips slightly parted. He looks unfairly good for someone who just played extra time in a stadium that felt more like a sauna.

“So…” he starts, a smirk creeping back in. “About those kisses I was promised.”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting a smile again. “I don’t remember promising anything.”

“Oi, don’t lie to me..” He leans in closer, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your mouth. “I distinctly remember talking about three or four. Minimum.” His hand slides higher under your top, palm flat and warm against your ribs, thumb stroking just under the curve of your breast. “Come on, baby. I earned them, didn’t I? Scored two, dragged us to the semis… least you can do is give your man some proper kisses.”

He’s grinning again now, all cheeky and tired and completely devastating to your self-control . Before you can answer he dips his head and presses one slow kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another just below your ear, lingering there like he knows exactly what it does to you. 

“You’ve just wasted two kisses…and you look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

He groans in joking frustration, eyebrows furrowing to give you a little puppy dog look that always gets him out of trouble. “I just want cuddles and kisses before i sleep-”

He stops as you tilt your head at him, giving him another look.

“I swear, I swear! Baby, please…”

The pleading look on his face already has your stomach flipping, mouth a little dry. He’s so unfairly gorgeous like this. Tired eyes, messy damp curls,his toned body stretched out next to you, still radiating heat from the match. The way his tracksuit top has ridden up to show a sliver of toned stomach… it’s ridiculous how much you want him even when he’s half-dead on his feet.

“Fine,” you say, trying to sound stern but your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, “but you need to try and sleep too…”

He shifts slightly so you’re fully facing each other, one hand moving to your lower back, his leg still draped heavy over yours. “I can fall asleep kissing you.”

The kisses start off sweet and slow. Gentle presses of his lips against yours, his hand stroking your lower back under your top. His other hand in your hair, fingers loose and tired. Then they deepen.

Jude lets out a quiet, relieved sigh into your mouth as his lips part wider, tongue sliding in slow and warm. The kisses turn sloppy fast. Wet, lazy, unhurried in an exhausted way that somehow makes it hotter. His tongue moves heavy and deep, tangling with yours in long, messy strokes, licking into your mouth like he’s too tired to do anything but feel you. Every so often he sucks softly on your tongue or your bottom lip, pulling it between his before going back in deeper, slower, wetter. You can taste the faint mint from his post-dinner toothpaste mixed with the warm, familiar taste that’s just him. His breaths are heavier now, little groans vibrating against your lips as the kisses grow filthier. Your tongues sliding slow and slick, mouths open and messy, spit-slick lips catching every time you pull apart for air only to dive right back in.

He’s genuinely exhausted, you feel it in the heavy weight of his body against yours, the way his movements stay soft and sleepy even as they get more desperate. His hand in your hair tightens slightly, holding you there as he kisses you like he’s trying to melt into you. Deep, lazy swirls of his tongue, slow sucks, the occasional sleepy grind of his hips against your thigh. He’s half-asleep and completely turned on at the same time, and it’s doing dangerous things to you.

Your hand slides under his top to rest on his ribs, and the soft, needy sound he makes against your tongue makes you shiver hard in his arms.

“M’so hard for you,” he whispers against your lips, breathing heavily. He presses his hips forward, grinding slowly so you can feel exactly how turned on he is, the thick, heavy outline of his cock straining against his joggers.

“You need me to help you, baby?” you murmur, letting your hand trail down his stomach until your palm cups the hard bulge. He’s so warm, so fucking hard already, twitching eagerly under your touch.

Jude’s breath hitches, hips jerking up into your hand as he lets out a soft, desperate whimper. “Please…”

“But you’re so tired, Jude.” You stroke him slowly through the fabric, teasing, because you love when he gets like this…all soft, sleepy, and whiny for you.

“Baby—” he whines, the sound high and needy, forehead pressed to yours. His hand moves down to squeeze your ass, fingers digging in just a little. “M’never too tired for you… fuck, please touch me properly. I need it. Need you so bad..”

You push his joggers down just enough to free him and wrap your fingers around him. Jude’s whole body shudders, a broken moan spilling from his lips as you start stroking him. You start slow, firm pulls from base to tip, thumb swirling over the slick head every time. He’s so thick and hot in your hand, veins pulsing, leaking steadily now. You’re transfixed by the sight of him.

“Fuck… yes, just like that,” he whimpers, voice all sleepy. His head tips back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open as soft, desperate little sounds keep falling out of him. “Your hand feels so good, baby… don’t stop, please. I’ve been thinking about this for hours.”

You twist your wrist on the upstroke and he jolts, hips bucking lazily into your fist, chasing the pleasure even though his body is heavy with exhaustion. Every whimper is quieter, needier. He’s almost submissive in the way he lets you take control, thighs trembling, fingers clutching at your waist like you’re the only thing anchoring him.

You lift his shirt higher so you can see his toned stomach, selfishly maybe, but he looked so pretty. You keep going, stroking him faster, tighter, watching the way his abs clench and his chest rises and falls quicker. “So pretty Jude,” you whisper, and Jude lets out a broken whine, biting his bottom lip.

“Baby… I— fuck, I’m so close already,” he pants, voice cracking. “Your hand is gonna make me come if you keep— ah—”

You slide down his body before he can finish, taking him into your mouth in one slow, wet glide. Jude’s back arches off the bed with a loud, guttural moan, one hand flying to your hair, holding on tight as his fingers tremble.

“Oh my god— your mouth, fuck—” He’s losing it completely now, sleepy whimpers turning into desperate, broken sounds as you bob your head, tongue swirling around him, sucking him deep. “So warm… so fucking good. Baby, please— I can’t— you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep sucking like that.”

His hips twitch up gently, like he’s trying so hard to be good and not fuck your mouth, but his control is slipping. Whiny, breathy moans fill the room as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing along the underside. Jude’s thighs shake, hand tightening in your hair, voice hoarse.

“Baby… slow, please, I’m so sensitive— fuck, I love your mouth so much…”

You slow down and look up, making eye contact with him. His eyes are glassy, half-lidded with exhaustion and pure bliss, lips parted, chest heaving. The sight of you between his legs like this seems to ruin him even more.

“You’re so beautiful,” he moans, voice cracking, thumb stroking your cheek gently. “My beautiful girl.”

He keeps watching you with that dazed, adoring look, hips rocking up in tiny, helpless movements as you suck him slow and deep. You swirl your tongue around the head, then take him all the way again, relaxing your throat until your nose brushes his stomach. Jude’s whole body trembles.

“Fuck— baby, look at you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and reverent. “Taking me so well… even when I’m this tired. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

His praise comes out soft and broken, each word punctuated by a shaky breath or a little whimper. You can feel how close he is, the way his cock throbs heavier on your tongue, the constant little twitches of his thighs, the way his fingers keep flexing in your hair like he’s fighting not to lose it. But he stays so good for you, letting you control everything, just moaning and whining softly every time you swallow around him or suck a little harder.

“Gonna make me come if you keep doing that…” he pants, eyes fluttering. “Your mouth is too good, love. Too warm and wet and— shit—”

You pull off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock as you stroke him slowly with your hand instead. Jude lets out a wrecked, needy sound at the loss, hips chasing your mouth for a second before he catches himself. Before you can say anything, he’s tugging at you weakly, desperate.

“Too far away… come back up here, please.”

You crawl back up his body and he immediately pulls you in, kissing you deep and messy, tasting himself on your tongue with a low groan. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your top, squeezing your waist, your hips, like he needs to feel all of you at the same time. The kiss goes on and on, lazy and filthy, tongues sliding slow while he whimpers softly into your mouth every time you stroke him.

You keep working your hand over his cock, slow and slick, and Jude’s hips rock up to meet every stroke, his breathing getting shakier. He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, panting.

“You don’t want to come yet?” you whisper against his lips, still stroking him lazily.

He shakes his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanna be closer to you baby, wanna make you feel good.. wanna.. wanna— fuck.”

His sentence cuts off into a broken moan. For a long moment he just kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other slides down your body. His palm smooths over your stomach, then lower, teasing along the waistband of your shorts like he’s giving you time to feel the anticipation. His fingers finally slip under the fabric, pushing your shorts and panties down your thighs in one clumsy but eager movement. He helps kick them the rest of the way off, big hands gentle on your skin the whole time.

Once they’re gone he settles between your spread legs, still kissing you slow and deep. His fingers drag through your folds and he curses softly against your mouth.

“You’re so wet for me, fuck…” He circles your clit slowly, almost lazily, but the way his breath catches tells you how much it affects him. “All this for me? After I played like shit for half the game?”

You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips against his hand, and he smiles a tired, crooked grin before leaning in to kiss you again. His fingers keep moving, slow circles on your clit, then dipping inside you just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He’s still so hard against your thigh, twitching every time you moan.

Jude buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking softly while his fingers work you open. “Need to be inside you,” he mumbles against your skin. “Please, baby. Wanna feel you around me. Wanna make you come first… then you can ride me slow while I hold you. I just— I need you close. So fucking close.”

He curls his fingers just right and you arch into him, moaning his name. Jude whimpers in response, pressing his cock against your hip like he can’t help it. 

“Please, baby,” he breathes against your neck, voice hoarse and shaky. “I need to be inside you. Can’t wait anymore.”

You nod, pulling him up for another deep kiss as he lines himself up. “If you get tired just say, Jude,” you whisper against his lips. He looked so exhausted — eyes heavy, shoulders slumped — and part of you still felt a pang of guilt that he was going to be the one putting in all the effort tonight.

“You’re such an angel,” he whispers softly, pecking your forehead with heartbreaking tenderness, then leaning down for another deep kiss. “As if I could ever be too tired to fuck you.”

The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and slick, and you both moan into each other’s mouths as he starts pushing in. He’s so slow and careful, even though you can feel how badly he wants to bury himself.

“Fuck… so tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Inch by inch he sinks into you, stretching you open until he’s fully seated, hips flush against yours. The sound he makes is relief mixed with pleasure, a long, broken moan that vibrates through his chest.

For a moment he just stays there, buried deep, breathing hard against your lips. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, desperate for the full body contact. You can feel how tired he is, the way his muscles are trembling from the long match and the effort it’s taking just to hold himself up. “You feel so good,” he groans. “Just for me, yeah? Tell me this pussy belongs to me. ”

“It belongs to you, baby. Only you,” you moan softly, clenching around him. “I belong to you.”

A shaky breath leaves him. He buries his face in your neck, sucking softly on your skin while he gives one slow, grinding roll of his hips. “Good girl… all mine,” he mumbles, the words slurred with tiredness. “I don’t share you with anyone.”

Then he starts moving with slow, lazy rolls of his hips, grinding deep instead of thrusting hard. Every stroke is deliberate, like he’s savouring every second even though exhaustion is weighing on him. His breaths are heavier, his arms shaking slightly as he holds you, sweat beading on his forehead and sliding down his temple. Still, he doesn’t stop. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, and Jude lets out a soft, whiny sound again that makes you clench harder around him.

“Baby… yeah, just like that,” he pants. “Feels too good. You’re squeezing me so tight— fuck.”

His mouth finds yours again, the kiss sloppy and tired, tongues sliding lazily while he keeps that slow grind going. One hand stays gripping your hip, the other slides up to cup your breast through your t-shirt, thumb brushing your nipple almost absentmindedly, like even his hands are running out of energy but he refuses to stop touching you. He’s so vocal, whimpering your name, telling you how perfect you feel, how much he needs you.

You can feel him getting closer, his thrusts losing their steadiness, becoming a little more desperate. “I’m so close,” he whines against your mouth. “Come with me, baby. Please. Wanna feel you come around me.”

One of his hands slips between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow circles. The combination of his cock dragging deep inside you, his fingers, his soft sleepy moans, pushes you over the edge first. You clench around him hard, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you.

Jude follows right after with a broken groan, burying his face in your neck as he comes deep inside you, hips stuttering. “Fuck— love you, love you so much,” he mumbles against your skin, trembling through it.

Afterwards he collapses on top of you, heavy and warm, still buried inside. His arms wrap around you tightly, face tucked into your neck as he catches his breath. Soft kisses press against your shoulder, lazy and sweet.

“Best recovery ever,” he murmurs with a tired little laugh, voice muffled. “But I’m never moving ever again.”

You run your fingers down the muscles of his back, smiling as both of your breathing starts to even out, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion. You kiss his temple, open your mouth to respond, but he's snoring softly before you can even reply.

tags: @thesizzler @hvnsinureyes

[pinkfortuna]

So sexy. Needy jude is the best!!

[locsandletters]

ᯓ just one night; m.olise

──one shot

pairing ➜ olise x black!fem!reader

word count ➜ 2.1k

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.

[pinkfortuna]

This was so feral and raw and good!!!!!

[amournocturne]

⋆ 𐙚 ❛ 𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗧𝗢 𝗕𝗘 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗖 ❜ — 𝑀𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗢𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗲 x 𝒻!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲r ✴︎

⊹ 𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀. there’s no guide to being romantic. michael olise learns that the hard way when every attempt to impress her somehow turns into another disaster. but maybe he’s been looking at love the wrong way all along.

⊹ 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀. boyfriend!michael olise, established relationship, fluff, comedy, michael olise being hopelessly in love, michael trying his best, failed romantic gestures, michael vs. the universe, he just wants to make her happy, lots of laughter, domestic moments, soft kisses, affectionate touches, physical intimacy, clingy michael, reassurance, acts of love, “it’s the thought that counts”, realizing love doesn’t have to be perfect, comfort, sweet ending.

michael olise had always considered himself a pretty reasonable person.

he knew how to handle pressure. he knew how to keep his head when the noise around him became overwhelming, when thousands of voices turned into one endless wave and every decision had to be made in the space of a few seconds. he knew how to read a game, how to stay patient, how to trust himself even when things didn’t go exactly as planned.

football made sense. there were rules. there were tactics. there were things you could practice until they became instinct.

romance, apparently, did not work the same way.

because somewhere between a late-night scroll through his phone and a dangerously convincing collection of relationship videos, michael had come to the conclusion that he was failing.

not at football.

not at being a boyfriend.

at being a romantic boyfriend.

and somehow, that felt like a much bigger problem. it started with one video. that was all. a couple laughing together while making dinner. a boyfriend surprising his girlfriend with flowers after a long day. a handwritten note left somewhere unexpected that had an entire comment section declaring that real love still existed.

michael had watched it, nodded once, and continued scrolling. then another appeared.

then another.

and somewhere along the way, what was supposed to be five minutes of mindless scrolling turned into michael sitting on his bed at almost midnight, staring at his phone with the same intense focus he usually had while watching match footage.

except this time, he wasn’t analyzing an opponent. he was analyzing romance. and the conclusion he reached was simple.

he needed to do better.

because according to the internet, apparently there were a hundred little things a boyfriend was supposed to do.

flowers.

surprises.

thoughtful gestures.

spontaneous dates.

saying the right things at the right time.

michael looked at the list he had somehow created in his notes app and frowned slightly. it was not a long list. objectively, it was actually quite manageable. which was exactly why he was convinced he could do it. after all, how difficult could it really be?

he had played in front of thousands of people. he had handled pressure most people would never understand. he had scored goals with everyone watching.

surely, making his girlfriend feel loved couldn’t be harder than that.

that was where michael made his second mistake.

his first was watching the videos.

lesson one: flowers.

according to everything michael had seen online, flowers were supposed to be easy. one of the simplest ways to show someone you loved them. a small gesture that didn’t require a special occasion or a complicated explanation. just something beautiful, something thoughtful, something that quietly said i was thinking about you.

which was exactly why michael had decided it would be the perfect place to start.

how hard could flowers be?

that was the thought that followed him into the flower shop, even though the confidence behind it slowly disappeared the second he stepped inside. because michael olise could walk into a stadium filled with thousands of people and somehow look completely unfazed. he could stand under pressure, make decisions in seconds, and trust himself when everyone else was waiting to see what he would do.

but put him in front of a wall of flowers with no idea what half of them were called?

suddenly, he was struggling.

he stood there for a moment, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, eyes moving from one bouquet to another as if one of them was going to reveal the answer he was looking for.

they were all pretty. that was the problem. they were all pretty.

“can i help you?”

the voice behind the counter pulled him from his thoughts. michael turned, offering a small polite smile.

“yeah,” he said. “i need flowers.”

the woman smiled knowingly. “for someone special?”

he nodded without hesitation. “my girlfriend.”

there was something about the way he said it that made it obvious this wasn’t just a quick purchase. he wasn’t someone who had walked in five minutes before closing because he remembered at the last second. he was someone who had clearly thought about this. probably too much.

“do you know what kind she likes?”

and there it was. the one question he had not prepared for.

michael blinked.

because he knew her. he knew the little things most people missed. he knew when she was tired even when she insisted she wasn’t. he knew the exact look she gave him before saying something sarcastic. he knew which side of the bed she always ended up stealing and how she would deny it every single time.

but flowers? apparently, flowers were where his research had failed.

“i should know that,” he murmured.

“you don’t?” the woman tilted her head.

“i know everything else.” he said it so seriously that she couldn’t even tease him for it.

because he wasn’t trying to make an excuse. he was genuinely disappointed that there was something about her he hadn’t learned yet. so he took the decision very seriously.

maybe too seriously.

“okay,” he said, looking back at the flowers. “what says thoughtful?”

“thoughtful?”

“yeah.”

“not romantic?”

he paused. “both.”

the woman laughed softly.

and for the next thirteen minutes, michael olise, professional footballer, stood in a flower shop asking questions like he was preparing for the most important match of his career.

“do these last long?”

“yes.”

“are these too much?”

“no.”

“do these look like i’m trying too hard?”

“you’re buying flowers for your girlfriend. i think trying is the point.”

he considered that. “right.”

eventually, after far more thought than necessary, he chose a bouquet. and the moment it was placed in his hands, his entire expression changed. not dramatically. just a small shift. like he was relieved. like he had finally completed the first step of a plan only he knew existed.

he carried them carefully to his car, placing them on the passenger seat and adjusting them twice before leaving. he even looked back at them before closing the door. which was why it was almost impressive that he managed to forget them completely.

by the time michael got home, he had already replayed the evening in his head at least ten times. he had imagined the way he would walk through the door, the way he would casually hand her the flowers, the way she would smile and maybe tease him for being unexpectedly thoughtful.

it was supposed to be effortless. natural. except nothing about michael felt effortless the second he actually saw her.

because there she was, she was curled up on the sofa, tucked beneath the blanket she always claimed she wasn’t stealing from him, wearing one of his hoodies that hung loosely over her frame. the sleeves covered part of her hands, something she always did without realizing, and the sight alone softened something in his expression.

for a moment, he forgot everything.

the flowers. the plan. the carefully thought-out entrance he had imagined on the drive home.

because somehow, after spending an entire afternoon trying to figure out how to create the perfect romantic moment, the easiest way to make him lose track of every word was still just her looking at him.

michael simply stood there near the doorway, one hand still resting on the handle he had just let go of, watching her without saying anything. and that was probably his first mistake.

because she noticed. she always noticed.

her eyes lifted slowly from her phone, finding him standing there with his jacket still on, keys still in his hand, and an expression that was trying very hard to look normal.

it wasn’t working.

a small smile appeared on her lips. not because she knew what he had done. but because she knew him. she knew the difference between his usual quiet and the kind of quiet that meant his mind was somewhere else.

she placed her phone beside her, turning slightly towards him.

“you’re late.” her voice was soft, almost teasing, carrying none of the accusation the words could have held. there was a warmth behind them, the kind that only existed between two people comfortable enough to miss each other even after only a few hours apart.

michael finally moved from the doorway, setting his keys down on the small table beside him before looking back at her. “i’m not.”

the answer came automatically. too automatically. and the second he said it, he knew he had made himself sound guilty.

“you are.” her eyebrows lifted. not dramatically. just enough. enough to tell him she had caught it.

“by how much?” he let out a quiet breath, walking further into the room as he slipped his jacket off.

“enough.” she watched him carefully, noticing the way he avoided looking directly at her for a second too long.

“that’s not an actual answer.” he looked over.

“it is.” a smile tugged at her mouth.

“how?”

“because you know exactly what i mean.”

and unfortunately, he did. that was the thing about her. she never needed to explain herself too much. she could say something simple, something that barely seemed like anything, and somehow michael always understood the meaning underneath it.

he eventually made his way over to the sofa, dropping down beside her with a quiet exhale, the weight of the day finally leaving his shoulders the moment he was close enough to her. he didn’t even think about it anymore. the way his body naturally leaned toward hers. the way her hand found his arm almost immediately, her fingers brushing over the fabric of his sleeve before settling there, a small gesture that said you’re home without either of them needing to say it.

michael let himself sink into the comfort of it for a moment. this was supposed to be the easy part. this was supposed to be where everything went according to plan.

and for a while, he genuinely believed he had managed it. the warmth of the moment had completely distracted him from the carefully planned evening he had spent so much time creating. because somewhere between taking off his jacket, sitting down beside her, and getting lost in the familiar comfort of having her close, his brain finally caught up with the one very important detail it had somehow forgotten.

the flowers.

the flowers he had bought. the flowers he had carefully chosen. the flowers he had left sitting in his car.

michael’s expression changed so slightly that most people would have missed it. most people. not her. because she felt it before she even saw it. the way his fingers paused against hers. the way his attention suddenly drifted somewhere far away. the way he looked like he had just remembered something incredibly important and incredibly inconvenient at the exact same time.

“what?” she lifted her head from his shoulder, studying his face with quiet amusement.

“what?” michael blinked, looking back at her.

“you just did something.”

he frowned slightly. “i didn’t do anything.”

“you did.”

“no, i didn’t.”

“michael.”

the way she said his name made him immediately know he wasn’t winning this.

he looked down for a second, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he tried to decide whether he should say anything. because maybe he could still save it. maybe he could casually get up, walk to the car, grab them, and pretend nothing happened. except she was looking at him now. and there was no chance he was getting away with suddenly leaving without an explanation.

“the flowers.” the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“the flowers?” she blinked. not because she was surprised. because she genuinely had no idea what he meant.

and the second she repeated it, michael realized how bad that sounded. because from her perspective, he had just randomly announced the flowers like she was supposed to know exactly what he was talking about.

“yeah.” he slowly nodded.

“what flowers?” a small crease appeared between her eyebrows as she tried to understand.

and there it was. the moment. the exact moment michael realized he had somehow managed to create a problem that required explaining.

“the ones i bought.” his lips parted slightly before he looked away, already embarrassed.

“you bought flowers?”

“yes.”

“for me?”

“yes.”

another pause. not a dramatic one. just the kind where she was trying to put the pieces together. “where are they?”

and michael, despite everything, still tried to make it sound less ridiculous than it was.

“in the car.”

“michael.” her face stayed completely blank for a second. then her eyes widened slightly.

“i know.”

“you left them in the car?”

“yes.” he sighed, because hearing it said out loud somehow made it worse.

she looked at him. then toward the front door. then back at him. “you walked all the way inside…”

“yes.”

“sat down…”

“yes.”

“started talking to me…”

“yes.”

“while the flowers were just sitting outside?”

he looked away. “when you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

“because it is bad.” and that was it. she laughed. not a small laugh. the kind that escaped before she could stop it because the image was too perfect.

michael olise, who had apparently spent an entire afternoon trying to become the perfect romantic boyfriend, had completed every single step except the one where he actually delivered the flowers.

“you’re laughing.” he watched her with a look of complete betrayal.

“i’m sorry.”

“you’re not.”

“no, not really.”

“i spent so long choosing them.” he shook his head, but he was fighting a smile now too.

that made her laugh even harder. “how long?”

he hesitated. which was already an answer.

“michael.”

“thirty minutes.”

“thirty?” her laughter immediately stopped.

“maybe forty.”

“you spent forty minutes choosing flowers and then forgot them?” she stared at him.

he looked almost offended. “when you say it like that, it sounds worse.”

“because it is worse.”

and somehow, that made him laugh too. because maybe she was right. maybe only he could turn buying flowers into a carefully planned romantic mission and still somehow fail the final step.

“i can’t believe you.” she covered her smile with her hand, looking away for a second as if she genuinely needed a moment to process the fact that he had somehow managed to create the most michael olise situation possible. her shoulders shook slightly as she tried to hold back her laughter, but the amusement in her eyes gave her away completely.

michael watched her with a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief, his eyebrows lifting as he leaned back against the sofa.

“what?” he asked, his voice carrying a quiet offense, as if he couldn’t understand why she was reacting this way when, in his mind, he had still technically succeeded in buying the flowers.

she turned back towards him, lowering her hand as she looked at him with that familiar expression—the one that told him she was trying very hard not to tease him too much and failing.

“you’re unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head as her thumb brushed over his knuckles. “you actually bought them, you picked them out, you put thought into it… and somehow the one thing you forgot was bringing them inside.”

michael opened his mouth, ready to defend himself, but the second he replayed her words in his head, he realized there was absolutely no way to make himself sound less ridiculous. he looked away with a small sigh, running a hand over his face before letting it fall back into his lap.

“i was trying to be romantic.” he admitted quietly, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.

“i know,” she said, her voice softening just slightly as she squeezed his hand. “that’s why it’s funny.”

“that’s not how that’s supposed to work.” michael looked at her, completely betrayed.

“i’m sorry. i just can’t believe you managed to fail the easiest part.”

and that was it.

lesson one was officially a disaster.

⸻

lesson one: finished.

result: bought the flowers, chose the flowers, planned the moment… forgot the flowers.

lesson two: dinner.

after the flower incident, michael had decided that his next attempt needed to be foolproof.

because flowers, apparently, came with too many risks. there was the choosing. the timing. the possibility of forgetting the entire reason he had bought them. so this time, he needed something different. something that couldn’t be left behind in a car. something that required his full attention. something that would prove he was, in fact, capable of being romantic.

which was how michael ended up standing in his kitchen at seven in the evening, staring at a recipe on his phone like it was a problem he needed to solve rather than a meal he needed to cook. the kitchen around him looked suspiciously like a place where someone had attempted a science experiment rather than dinner. ingredients covered almost every available surface, a wooden spoon rested beside a bowl he was no longer using, and there were three different tabs open on his phone because apparently one recipe was not enough.

he had done his research. that was the thing. he hadn’t just decided to cook and hoped for the best. no. michael had prepared. he had watched tutorials. he had read comments. he had saved a recipe that had thousands of good reviews because, in his mind, that meant it was impossible to fail. the problem was that the recipe had not accounted for one very important factor.

michael.

he looked down at the instructions again, his eyebrows pulling together slightly as he reread the same line for what had to be the fifth time.

“that doesn’t even make sense.” he said it quietly to himself, as if the recipe had personally offended him.

the recipe, unfortunately, did not respond. he glanced at the ingredients lined up in front of him, then back at his phone. everything was where it was supposed to be. mostly. he was almost certain. and that was good enough.

“i can do this.” the words came out with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what was about to happen.

because michael had a very specific problem. when he decided he was going to do something, he committed completely. there was no halfway. he didn’t simply cook dinner. he created a mission. a goal. a challenge he needed to complete.

and maybe that was why he didn’t hear the front door open. didn’t hear her footsteps approaching. didn’t notice her standing in the doorway, watching him carefully measure something while wearing an expression so serious it almost made the entire situation funnier.

because there was michael. standing in the kitchen like he was about to make the most important decision of his life. not because he was cooking. because he genuinely believed cooking was going to fix his previous mistake.

“should i ask?” she leaned against the doorway, folding her arms as she watched him.

michael immediately turned around. and the look on his face was enough. not panic. not exactly. more like someone who had just been caught doing something he was very proud of and wasn’t prepared to explain yet.

“you’re home early.”

“that’s your response?” she smiled slightly.

“yes.”

“not ‘hi’?”

“hi.” he paused, then nodded.

she tried not to laugh. she really did. but the sight in front of her was making it difficult. because he was wearing an apron. michael. an apron. and somehow, he was still looking at her like she was the unusual thing in the room.

“what happened here?” her eyes moved around the kitchen before returning to him.

“nothing.” he looked around. then back at her.

the answer was immediate. too immediate.

“michael.” she raised an eyebrow.

“what?”

“the kitchen looks like it lost a fight.”

“it does not.” he looked offended.

“there’s flour on the floor.” she stepped further inside, glancing at the counter covered with ingredients.

he looked down. there was. “that’s normal.”

“is it?”

“yes.”

“for who?”

he opened his mouth. then closed it. because unfortunately, he didn’t have an answer.

she walked closer, the smile on her face growing as she took in every detail—mostly the focused expression and the determination in his eyes.

“you’re cooking.”

“yes.” he straightened slightly.

“for me?”

“yes.”

there was something so proud about the way he said it that she almost didn’t want to tease him.

“go change, i’ve got this.” michael said proudly, completely convinced he was finally getting the hang of it.

she stared at him for a moment, her eyes drifting past him toward the questionable state of the kitchen. she was far from convinced, but she knew better than to challenge the determination on his face. with a quiet sigh, she went to change.

⸻

she had left him alone for exactly twenty minutes. that was all. twenty minutes. when she had walked away, michael had been standing in the kitchen with complete confidence, insisting that he had everything under control. he had told her to go change, promising that by the time she came back, dinner would be ready. and, admittedly, she had believed him. maybe that had been her first mistake.

because michael was many things. determined, focused, annoyingly stubborn when he wanted something done a certain way. but after the flower incident, she probably should have known better than to trust a romantic plan without supervision.

she walked back into the kitchen expecting to find him proudly waiting with the meal he had spent the entire evening preparing. instead, she found chaos.

the counter was covered with dishes, ingredients were scattered everywhere, a towel had somehow ended up on the floor, and michael stood in the middle of it all looking like he had just lost an argument with the kitchen itself.

she stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene in complete silence. because she genuinely didn’t know what part to look at first. the overflowing sink. the suspicious amount of smoke still lingering in the air. or michael, who was holding a fork in one hand and staring at the pan in front of him like he was trying to understand where his life choices had gone wrong.

slowly, his eyes lifted to meet hers. and the second he saw her expression, he knew there was no hiding it.

“before you say anything,” he started, already sounding defensive. “it was going well.”

“michael.” she looked around the kitchen. then back at him.

“i’m serious.”

“you burned it?” she pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

“that’s a strong word.” he glanced back at the pan, then away.

“the food is black.” she stared at him.

“okay,” he paused. “maybe not that strong.”

and that was when she finally laughed.

because somehow, after everything, he was still standing there trying to defend himself like this was a minor inconvenience and not the complete collapse of his second romantic mission. unfortunately for michael, the evidence was everywhere. the smoke. the dishes. the completely ruined dinner sitting in front of him.

there was no saving this one.

⸻

lesson two: finished.

result: created more dishes than food, a kitchen full of smoke, and somehow still burned dinner.

lesson three: picnic.

after two failed attempts, michael had decided there was one very obvious solution.

stop overcomplicating things.

because apparently, flowers could be forgotten and dinner could somehow become a fire hazard, so maybe the issue was that he had been choosing things with too many opportunities for failure. this time, he was keeping it simple.

a picnic.

that was it. no complicated preparation. no risky cooking. no small object that could accidentally be abandoned in his car. just a blanket, some food, a nice view, and a romantic afternoon with her. finally, something he could not possibly ruin. which was exactly the kind of confidence that usually came right before something went wrong.

but michael was convinced. he had planned everything carefully. he checked the weather. then checked it again. then checked it one more time because apparently trusting a weather app after the flower situation felt like another unnecessary risk.

the forecast was perfect. sunny. clear skies. no rain. no wind. nothing that could possibly interfere.

he had prepared everything with the seriousness of someone preparing for the most important event of the year. and when she saw him waiting with everything ready, she couldn’t help but smile. because there he was.

michael olise.

standing beside a perfectly arranged picnic blanket with the proudest expression she had ever seen on his face.

“you look very pleased with yourself.” she said it with a small smile tugging at her lips, her eyes moving over the little setup he had spent so much time putting together, before returning to him. she didn’t even have to ask how much effort he had put into it because the answer was written all over his face—the quiet pride, the way he stood there waiting for her reaction, pretending he wasn’t waiting for her reaction.

“i’m not.” michael immediately looked away, trying and failing to hide the satisfaction creeping into his expression.

“you are.” she raised an eyebrow, stepping closer as she glanced around once more at the blanket, the food, and all the little details he had clearly thought about.

“okay. maybe a little.” he looked back at her, his lips pressing into a thin line as if he was seriously considering arguing, even though they both knew she was right.

“a little?” she repeated his words with a quiet laugh, tilting her head as she looked at him like she couldn’t believe he was even attempting to downplay it.

“fine,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth lifting as he looked down at everything he had prepared. “maybe a lot.”

she couldn’t help but smile at that. because that was michael. he would never openly admit how much something mattered to him, but he didn’t have to. it was always there in the little things—in the way he remembered details, in the way he tried even when he had no idea what he was doing.

she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him for a moment, and he immediately relaxed into the touch, his hands settling comfortably around her as if this was the part he had been waiting for all along. and for once, everything was perfect. he was beginning to think he had finally defeated the universe. which, unfortunately, was where michael made his mistake. because he started believing it.

the universe heard him. and took it personally.

the first sign was the wind. a small breeze. nothing alarming. until the corner of the blanket lifted.

“it’s fine.” he said it almost immediately, reaching down to hold the corner of the blanket before it could lift any further. his voice was calm, far too calm for someone whose carefully planned picnic was already beginning to fall apart.

“what’s fine?” she asked, watching him with amused disbelief as he tried to stop the blanket from moving while also pretending there was no problem at all.

“this.” he gestured vaguely towards the picnic, as if that explained everything.

she followed his gaze. the blanket moving. the napkins shifting. the plates slowly sliding away. then she looked back at him. “the blanket trying to leave?”

michael immediately looked offended by the accusation.

“it’s not trying to leave.” he said it with so much certainty that she almost believed he actually thought he could negotiate with the weather. almost.

she glanced down again as another napkin escaped, floating across the grass.

“michael.” she said his name slowly, the way she always did when she was trying very hard not to laugh at him.

“it’s just moving.” he looked at her. then at the runaway napkin. then back at her.

“because of the wind.”

“yes.”

“which means it’s trying to leave.”

for a second, he looked like he was genuinely considering arguing. but then another gust came through, and the universe made the decision for him. the stack of paper plates started sliding away. and michael moved instantly. not dramatically. not frantically. just with the serious determination of someone who had decided this was a problem he could solve.

“michael.” she called after him, watching as he walked quickly across the grass to rescue something that, a few seconds ago, had been perfectly fine.

“i’ve got it.” he replied, not even looking back.

“what exactly do you think you’re doing?” she blinked, trying to understand how he could sound so confident while chasing after napkins. “michael?”

“saving the picnic.” he answered immediately. and somehow, that was the funniest part. because he was completely serious.

she looked around at the blanket folding over itself, the food being rearranged by the wind, and michael standing there like he had personally been assigned the mission of defeating nature.

“from what?” she asked, covering her smile as she watched him.

he paused. looked around. then looked back at her. “everything.”

and that was it. that was the moment she lost. she laughed, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth as she watched him stand there holding a napkin like it was a trophy from a battle he had somehow both won and lost.

“you’re laughing.” he turned towards her, immediately noticing.

“i’m sorry.” she tried to compose herself, but the smile on her face gave her away.

“you’re not.”

“no.”

he sighed, looking back at the picnic behind him. the blanket was crooked. the food was scattered. his perfect plan was slowly falling apart. and somehow, he still looked more confused than defeated.

“i checked the weather.” he finally said, like this was the most important piece of evidence in his defense.

“what?” she looked at him, completely caught off guard.

“i checked it.”

“michael, are you blaming the weather because your picnic failed?” she stared for a second before the laughter returned.

“i’m saying i prepared.” he looked genuinely offended.

“you prepared for everything except the weather being the weather.” she stepped closer, shaking her head as she looked at him.

he opened his mouth. then closed it. because unfortunately, she was right. again.

she laughed until her sides hurt, the sound carried away by the same breeze that had spent the last ten minutes ruining michael’s third attempt at being romantic.

“you’re impossible,” she whispered, the smile refusing to leave her face.

“i’ve been told.” he looked at her for a long moment, one hand still holding the corner of the blanket as though he refused to let the weather win completely.

“by me.”

“mostly by you.”

another laugh escaped her as she closed the distance between them, slipping her fingers through his before gently pulling him back down onto the blanket beside her. his shoulders finally relaxed, the determination he’d been carrying all afternoon melting away the second she rested against him.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured, looking around at the half-folded blanket, the scattered food, and the napkins he’d eventually given up chasing. “this wasn’t exactly how i imagined it.”

“i know.” she murmured, her smile softening as she turned towards him.

a few of his locs had fallen across his forehead thanks to the wind, moving every time another breeze swept between them. she reached up without thinking, carefully brushing them away from his eyes, only for them to slip right back into place a second later.

“they’re not listening to me either.” she let out a quiet laugh.

“they never do.” michael’s lips twitched into the smallest smile.

“i noticed.” she tried one more time, slower this time, her fingers gently combing them back before eventually giving up with an exaggerated sigh. instead, her hand drifted down to his face, her palm settling against his cheek as her thumb lazily traced back and forth over his skin.

“there,” she whispered. “much easier.”

he leaned into her touch almost instinctively, his eyes never leaving hers.

“i really thought this one would work.” the quiet disappointment in his voice was so small, so unguarded, that it made her chest ache. he wasn’t laughing anymore, wasn’t trying to make excuses or brush it off with another joke. he simply looked down at his hands, like he couldn’t quite understand how every attempt had managed to fall apart.

“i know.” she shuffled closer until her knees brushed his, closing what little space remained between them before leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss against the corner of his mouth.

his eyes fluttered closed for a brief second, and she felt him exhale softly against her skin.

“i really did.” he murmured again, his voice barely above a whisper.

she smiled, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand as she turned her head to leave another gentle kiss against his cheek, letting it linger there for just a moment longer. “i know.”

his shoulders eased as the last of the stubborn determination left him. maybe it hadn’t gone the way he’d imagined, but sitting here with her beside him somehow made it feel a little less like a failure.

she let her fingertips drift to the nape of his neck, drawing him a fraction closer before her lips found the curve beneath his jaw in a tender kiss.

his hand settled at her waist as naturally as breathing, gently guiding her into his lap until she was curled comfortably against him—while his other hand idly rubbed slow circles against her back. she slipped one arm around his shoulders while the fingers of her other hand absentmindedly toyed with one of the locs at the nape of his neck.

“you know what’s funny?” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the steady patter of rain beyond the shelter.

his brows drew together immediately.

“i’m almost scared to ask.” he admitted, narrowing his eyes at her with exaggerated suspicion, though the corner of his mouth had already begun to twitch.

“every single one of your plans has been a complete disaster.” she couldn’t help smiling.

“wow,” for a second he simply stared at her, looking genuinely betrayed.

she bit the inside of her cheek, already fighting a laugh.

“thank you,” he said, dragging a hand dramatically down his face before letting it fall back around her waist. “that’s very encouraging.”

he shook his head to himself, a quiet sigh escaping him as though she’d just confirmed every fear he’d had since the flowers were forgotten, the dinner had gone up in smoke, and now the rain had claimed the picnic too.

“i’m not finished.” she reached up, brushing a few damp locks away from his forehead before letting her hand settle against the side of his face. her thumb swept lazily across his cheek as she leaned forward until there wasn’t even an inch between them.

instead of answering, she nudged the tip of her nose against his. his nose scrunched instinctively, earning the soft laugh she’d been trying so hard to hold back.

before he could come up with another reply, she leaned in and kissed him again.

this time, she didn’t pull away immediately. her hand stayed against his cheek, her thumb resting softly along his skin as she let the moment linger between them. the kiss was warm and unhurried, carrying every bit of reassurance she hadn’t put into words—the reminder that she wasn’t disappointed by the failed plans or the things that hadn’t gone right.

and when she felt the smallest smile tug against his lips, she smiled too, unable to stop herself. he always tried so hard to get everything perfect, and somehow, he never realized that moments like this were already enough. his hand tightened gently around her waist, keeping her close as she stayed there for another heartbeat before finally pulling back.

“the flowers never made it inside.”

a kiss.

“you nearly declared war on the kitchen.”

another.

“and today…” she stopped herself, letting her eyes wander around their little corner of the world. the blanket beneath them was still slightly twisted from where they had rushed to move everything when the rain started. the carefully arranged food had been pushed around, the drinks were sitting wherever they had managed to save them, and the whole thing looked nothing like the picture he had probably imagined when he first planned it. and yet, somehow, it felt even more like them.

“today you lost a fight against the weather.” she looked back at him, the amusement in her eyes impossible to miss.

he stared at her for a moment, his lips parting like he wanted to defend himself, but the argument never came. instead, he simply looked away with a quiet exhale.

“when you list them all together…” she trailed off, watching the realization slowly cross his face as he replayed every failed attempt in his head.

“mm?” he hummed, looking at her cautiously, already knowing he probably wasn’t going to like where this was going.

“it sounds worse.” a laugh slipped out before she could stop it, and within seconds she was hiding her face against him, her shoulders shaking as she tried to compose herself.

“you’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered, but there was no real complaint in his voice.

because he was laughing too.

his arms wrapped around her more securely, one hand settling at her back while the other rested at the back of her neck, his fingers brushing gently against her hair as the wind carried loose strands between them. keeping her close as she tried to recover. he could feel her smile against him, and despite everything that had gone wrong, despite every moment where he had wondered if the whole idea had been a mistake, he couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it.

after a while, she pulled back just enough to see his face again. there was still that familiar look there—the one she had seen every time he tried something new for her. the quiet expectation. the hope that this time he had finally managed to get everything right.

her expression softened.

“but do you know what all three of them have in common?” her palms settled against his cheeks as she gently guided his attention back to her. her thumbs brushed over his skin, waiting until his eyes met hers.

“they failed?” he studied her for a second, suspicious but curious.

“wrong,” she leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead before staying close, her forehead resting against his. “you were in every single one of them.”

“…i don’t think that’s the point you’re trying to make.” he frowned ever so slightly.

a quiet laugh escaped her.

“it is,” her thumbs continued their slow movements over his skin, her gaze never leaving his. “i didn’t fall in love with perfect plans, michael.”

“you keep looking at everything that went wrong,” she whispered. “the things that didn’t happen the way you pictured them, the moments where you think you should’ve done better.”

she paused, letting him actually hear her.

“but i remember you running back outside because you forgot the flowers. i remember you standing in that kitchen looking completely lost but still trying to make something for me. i remember you looking at the sky today like you could somehow convince the clouds to give you one more chance.”

a small smile touched her lips.

“those are the parts i’m going to remember.” she leaned in again, brushing her lips against his in a slow, gentle kiss. not because she was trying to fix anything, but because she wanted him to understand.

when she pulled back, she stayed close enough that their noses still touched.

“you spend so much time trying to create the perfect moment,” she whispered, “that you never realize you’re the reason the moments matter.”

her hand slipped from his cheek to the back of his neck, her fingers gently threading through the locs gathered there.

“you could’ve planned everything perfectly and i still would’ve wanted this,” her smile grew. “sitting on a half-folded blanket, hiding from the rain, laughing at you because you somehow lost every single battle you started.”

she pressed a kiss beneath his jaw, then another near his ear, just because she knew the small smile it would bring.

“because it was never about what you did perfectly, michael,” her eyes met his again. “it was always about you.”

for a moment, michael just stayed there. completely still. because somehow, after spending the entire day trying to find the right words, the right gesture, the right way to show her how much she meant to him, she had managed to say the one thing he had never thought to consider.

that maybe he had already done enough.

his eyes dropped for a second, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips as he shook his head.

“you really mean that?” the question came out quieter than he intended, like some part of him still couldn’t believe she could look at a day full of failed plans and see something worth keeping.

she only smiled, her fingers still resting against him, completely certain.

and that was what got him. not the teasing. not the laughter. just the way she looked at him like there had never been anything to fix in the first place.

he let out a soft laugh, lowering his gaze to where she was settled against him. his fingers tightened gently around her waist, a small, unconscious gesture that gave away the smile he was trying to hide.

“i spent all day trying to get everything right,” he looked back at her, his expression softer now. “and you’re telling me i didn’t have to.”

“you really didn’t.” a smile played on her lips.

“you know that’s a little unfair, right?” he shook his head, still smiling like he couldn’t quite believe how easily she had undone him.

“what is?” her eyebrows lifted slightly.

“because i spent hours planning all of this…” he gestured around them, the windblown blanket, the scattered remains of his carefully thought-out picnic, “and somehow you’re still the one who made it perfect.”

she laughed softly, and that sound alone made every failed attempt worth it.

he didn’t have anythung else to say—not one that wouldn’t give away just how much her words had gotten to him. instead, he lifted a hand to her face, his thumb brushing gently along her cheek as he looked at her for a moment longer, like he was trying to memorize the way she saw him.

then he leaned in.

the kiss started softly, almost like a quiet thank you, but he didn’t rush to pull away. his hand slipped from her cheek to the back of her neck, holding her close as he smiled against her lips, unable to hide how much lighter he felt.

when he finally pulled back, he stayed close, his forehead resting against hers.

“you really have no idea what you do to me, do you?” he whispered.

maybe he had been looking at everything wrong. maybe romance was never about the perfect flowers, the perfect dinner, or the perfect plan. maybe it was about the person sitting beside him after everything went wrong, still smiling like nothing had ever gone wrong at all.

and with her tucked safely against him, michael finally stopped trying to create the perfect moment.

because somehow, he was already living in one.

⸻

lesson three: finished.

result: lost the picnic. kept the girl.

[pinkfortuna]

This was so cute, and that ending was perfect!!

[lavenderozan]

need obsessed ex!olise x reader fic who fucks her and wants to get back with her

shameless

CONTENT. michael olise x fem!reader , questionable behavior from michael , toxic relationship dynamics , unprotected sex , rough sex , public sex (in bathroom) , creampie , 2.2k words (i got carried away) , not proofread

𝒏. i told myself i was never going to write for olise but this request made me rethink lmao. back to my roots because i love writing morally grey characters. also if you notice that i spelt michael wrong i’m sorry

You'd had a lot of bad days in your lifetime, but none quite like this.

That morning, you had spilled coffee all over yourself, staining your only clean uniform. 

You had tripped in the middle of the street, strangers glancing at you, judging you, and then stepping over you without bothering to offer so much as a hand. 

Your boss had gotten on to you about being late to work—and you had run out of your favorite juice.

By the time you got yourself some free time, you were ready to implode from the frustration accumulated throughout the day. 

Instead of doing that, you took yourself to your favorite bar, having a couple drinks to decompress. You'd snapped a quick picture of your drink, tagging your location before you could help yourself.

You didn't bother thinking twice about it when you posted it on your story—you had done it before.

Except that time, Michael happened to be in the area.

The same Michael who lurked on your socials like some creep. Only he wasn't a creep—he was just your ex-boyfriend. A chapter of your life you decided to close because he wasn't good for you, just as you weren't good for him.

Yet somehow, in one way or another, he always managed to snake his way back into your life, and now wasn't any different. 

Michael may not be obvious with it like others would be, partly due to his ability to appear stoic at all times, but he was stubborn. Unable to let go of things. And he would be damned if he let the opportunity pass by.

He made the trip to the bar, hood over his head, a poor attempt at concealing his identity, but it would have to be enough. Regardless, he didn't plan on staying long.

He pushed the door open, a jingle following, as he lingered near the entrance, scanning the place, searching for a familiar figure until he finally spotted it. Until he finally spotted you, nursing a drink alone.

Michael didn't waste any time. He moved forward, maneuvering over to where you were sitting. He didn't bother introducing himself—he didn't need an introduction.

"Hey," he spoke, his voice low, quiet, in an effort to not draw any attention. You didn't turn around, maybe you didn't hear him, so he said it again, "hey."

You wanted to tell whoever was bothering you to get lost, yet you suddenly became aware of the voice. The oddly familiar timbre.

No way, you thought.

Your suspicions were soon confirmed when you flipped your head around, Michael coming into view.

Your luck today was astonishing.

You resisted the urge to turn back around and pretend you didn't recognize him. But he wouldn't let that happen. Not without a fight.

"How did you find me?"

"You posted your location on your story," he replied casually, eyes scanning down your body before looking you in the eye again. "Wasn't a very smart thing to do."

You scoffed, wrapping your arms around yourself subconsciously, like that would stop him from admiring you. "You're stalking me? I would say I'm surprised, but I know how you are, so I'm really not."

"It's not stalking. Maybe don't publicly post where you're drinking if you don't want people to know."

He knew just what to say to rile you up. Even if he was being somewhat reasonable, you refused to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Why are you here?"

"Because." He paused, mulling over his words. "I just want to talk."

You'd never met a man with so much audacity before Michael stumbled into your life.

"Talk?" Annoyance was laced in your tone. That and disbelief. "Why would I want to talk to you?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

Did he have selective memory? "Maybe because you cheated on me?"

That made the frustration in Michael bubble up. "I never cheated on you. I never slept with anyone else."

"Oh, but you did DM other girls, didn't you?"

You must've stumped him with that one because his mouth opened and then closed, unable to let out a retort, the words stuck in his throat.

Sure, that part was true. But that was before he realized how much you meant to him. And it wasn't like he was serious when it came to other women.

You were the one for him—even if you made it hard to love you at times.

"That doesn't matter anymore."

"Oh, it doesn't, now?"

"We can still be friends."

You were growing tired of the back and forth with him. Yet, you didn't want to leave without feeling like you'd lost the argument. "I don't want to be friends."

"Why not?"

"Because you cheated on me!"

Your voice raised, just loud enough for people nearby to hear. You felt the heat lick up your neck as a few peered over to look at the two of you.

Great.

"I'm not doing this anymore." You shook your head, standing from your seat. You angled your body toward him, a hardened look on your face. "I'm going to the bathroom, and when I come back, you better be gone."

Without letting him get out a reply, you stalked off to the bathroom, your heart beating faster, despite your best efforts to look unaffected. Your body told another story.

However, Michael wouldn't be deterred so easily. Not when it came to you.

He followed after you, and you hadn't even bothered locking the door behind you, so you clearly wanted him to chase after you, like some dog who couldn't stand being away from it's owner—and he couldn't standbeing away from you any longer.

He shut the door behind him as he crowed into the bathroom with you, watching as your eyes got all wide—a reaction so priceless, he wished he could've got it on camera.

"What the hell do you—"

"Don't act surprised," he cut in as he pulled down his hood. "You think you're so slick, but I can see right through you."

You'd reached your wits end with Michael. You were already exhausted from your day, and he only seemed to be piling onto that unbearable weight on your shoulders. "What can you see, Michael?"

"That you still want me."

"So that's what this is about?"

"Yes, and you knew that."

"No. I didn't because I don't want anything to do with you. Not after what you did."

You tried to walk past him, only for Michael to block your only way out. You could only laugh, devoid of any real humor, as Michael said, "You're lying."

"I'm not playing this game with you, Michael."

"I miss you."

When those three words cut through the air, they hit you heavier than you thought they would. You never thought you'd see the day where he was admitting something so… shameless. It was almost involuntary how your body reacted, freezing in place just a step away from him.

"You're just saying that."

"I'm not." He moved closer, and you took a step back on instinct, coming to a stop when your back hit the sink, your heart racing. "Look me in the eye and say that I'm lying."

You tried to. You really did, but his gaze was so intense, pulling you into a trance that prevented you from giving him a real response.

Michael let out a slow breath, and then, roughly said, "you don't have to say anything."

He didn't give you a chance to respond, closing the space between you in an instant as his lips attached to yours with the hunger of an animal.

He never liked talking. He wasn't good with words, which is why he let his actions do the talking, desperately pressing closer to you, the sink digging farther into your skin. You whined in protest, yet you didn't pull away.

Your world was spinning, fighting between what you thought was best for you and what you knew your heart really wanted.

And damn your heart because it wanted him.

You kissed him back, throwing every other thought out of the window. All you could think about was him, invading your senses, pressed up against your chest, his warmth radiating into your body.

"Michael." His name escaped you, muffled, taking on a softer lilt.

He simply hummed in content, coaxing your legs apart with his foot before nudging his knee between your thighs. Your hips twitched forward innately, rubbing your clothed cunt against his jean-clad thigh in a desperate manner.

Michael pulled back, just enough to strain out, "you want me to fuck you, don't you?" 

When you didn't respond, he pushed his thigh harder against you, a whine falling past your lips, encouraging you to speak. "Say it, baby. Or I won't touch you."

It didn't take much for you, nodding the second he finished speaking. "Yes. I want you to fuck me Michael, please."

A cocky grin tugged at his lips, making your stomach turn. You were fully aware of the ego boost you were giving Michael, and how much of a hypocrite you were for giving him what he wanted when just a few minutes ago, you were telling him you wanted nothing to do with him. But when he had you like he did now, putty in his hands, you couldn't help but give in.

"I knew you'd give in." His hand trailed up your thigh tantalizingly, pulling down the waistband of your pants until they pooled around your ankles. His eyes darkened as he caught sight of the wet patch on your panties. "You can try to resist me all you want, but in the end, we both you miss me, too."

You felt your cheeks flush, the ache between your legs flaring hotter. He always knew just the right buttons to push—it irritated you and drawled you in all at once.

Wordlessly, Michael flipped you around, your hands shooting out to steady themselves on the sink. You practically shivered as you listened to him unzip his jeans, watching him from the mirror as he discarded them off to the side.

He pulled your underwear to the side, eyes glazing over with lust, admiring the way your pussy glinted in the light.

You could only swallow in anticipation, resisting the urge to tell him to fuck you already.

He must've read your mind because without warning, he suddenly thrust inside you, a choked moan ripping itself from your throat.

The sudden stretch had your whole body thrumming, nails digging into the ceramic sink, though it barely lent you support as he began to move relentlessly. A cadence that sent sparks up your spine.

"Missed this," he groaned. "Missed my baby and my pussy."

He was far from gentle, each thrust bone-deep, shaking your whole body, pent-up from being apart from you. You were the only girl in the world who could fulfill his animalistic urges.

He gripped your hip with his hand, the other moving up to grab your jaw, fingers digging in hard, knowing that you'd remember the feeling long after he was gone. "Look in the mirror. Look at yourself."

When you did, you saw just how far gone you were for him. Your eyes were half-lidded, hair tousled, and you would've felt shame if not for the feeling of his cock dragging raptly against your walls.

Michael watched you too before his eyes dragged down, fixating between your thighs, right where your bodies were connected. He couldn't tear his eyes away, fascinated in a way that made you burn in humiliation.

Or maybe it was arousal. You didn't know.

All you knew was that you were teetering on the edge, ready to cum, lost in the way Michael was fucking you.

"Say you love me."

"What?" 

Your breath caught in your throat, not expecting him to say that so suddenly. His rhythm faltered for a moment, and you almost wanted to cry because of it.

"Say you love me, or you won't come."

You wanted to argue, but looking him in the eye through the mirror, you could tell that he was serious.

Your stomach churned, pussy clenching desperately around him. He was still moving, yet it wasn't enough to give you what you really wanted.

"I… I love you." Your words were shaky, bearing the truth of your feelings toward him. You thought you would've hated saying it, but now it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders.

Michael thrust into you roughly once, but he wasn't done yet. "Say you want to get together."

He was a sick man, getting off on having you like this. And you were an even sicker woman because you loved it. "I want to get back together," you half-cried.

Michael paused as if he were wrestling with his feelings, before slowly leaning down to press a kiss against your shoulder in a strange show of affection. "I know, baby. I'm all yours."

He rocked into you once again, feral, quick, your vision whiting out as you finally came, drenching his dick in your cum.

"Fuck!" Michael followed in suit, the sink rattling as he thrust into you one last time, pumping your insides full of his cum.

With a groan, he pulled out, entranced by the way his cum leaked down your thigh.

He straightened up, looking more smug than remorseful.

"You'll always be mine," he reminded you.

You didn't protest.

© lavenderozan 2026, all rights reserved.

[pinkfortuna]

Woah, this was so hot! He's such a dick in this!!

[r3dsaucexq]

Prism fanart hell yeah

Please tell me I'm not the only one who likes literally every character just not Invisigal sigh

[pinkfortuna]

Prism is such a great character, she was easily my fave!

[wdclandonorris25]

Winner Takes All | Lando Norris

Pairings: Lando Norris x fem!reader

Summary: Lando loses the poker chips and you both lose the plot

Warnings: smut

Word count: 7.5k

AN: well, I caved… 😔 the idea was grand, but the execution was even poorer. Idk, I just don’t love this very much, but I still hope you enjoy 🤍

He lost the chips last spring, or maybe the spring before, when they’d played drunk blackjack with a spare Williams engineer and some kid from Red Bull who never came back. You only learned this by process of elimination, as Lando, in search of entertainment, tore through the drawers with the coarse enthusiasm of a man who refused to believe adulthood required inventory. The cards he found, but the chips were nowhere.

You slouched on the sofa, toes curling into the loose weave of his carpet, one leg tucked under, the other extended and uncaring. Lando’s apartment had a view of the city, but the blinds were always half-shut. The silvery sprawl of Monaco glimmered out the glass, cold and expensive.

“So we count toothpicks? Or do sums in our heads?” You let the vowels flatten, the way he pretended not to notice he liked.

He pried open a box where he stored cables/chargers/AA, then let it clatter closed. “We do not use toothpicks. That’s an insult to the game. And I’m not doing math, y/n, even for you.”

“You know what’s left?” You flicked a card onto the coffee table, the queen’s face a pixelated blur. “Strip poker, Norris. Old school.”

He stopped, hands spread in the air like a mime and the barest flicker of calculation passed behind his so-called baby blues. You’d learned: mischief was always a step ahead of sense for him. “You’d lose anyway,” he said. “Don’t act like it’s a punishment.”

You shrugged, letting your sweater slip off one shoulder. Oversized, peachy-pink, made to look like it had been dunked in cotton candy. “Afraid?” You said and meant it the way only people who had nothing on the line could.

“Dying to humiliate you,” he replied, grinning with an edge that put a splinter in the evening.

Lando took the deck from your lazy shuffle, squared it with a snap and let the cards bloom between his hands like he’d done it for a living. You sat across from him at his chipped dining table, the air sharp with the metallic tang of energy drinks and last night’s pasta. Overhead, a single bulb attuned the world to sepia, only cards crisp and clean as new money.

“Texas hold’em?” he suggested, voice mockingly formal, like he was dealing at a casino lounge and not in his own mess of a dining room, bone-tired, with mismatched socks and a faint stubble.

“Dealer’s choice,” you said, words coming out a challenge, a push into the place you both liked best—rules being set and promptly broken. “Prizes change per round?”

He considered. “Loser removes one item of choice. Hard mode: accessories count.”

His hands, broad-knuckled and always a bit scarred, fanned the deck with such soft precision you looked anywhere but his face. That off-season, he’d grown into them, the wrists less bony, the veins under the skin like a roadmap of every stupid thing he’d done for fun. Two cards to each. Your hands, smaller by a lot, used to faking expertise, riffled the corners and searched for tells in the way he leaned forward, elbows on table, chin tilted up.

You lost the first three hands in a row. You’d always known you were bad at this but pretended otherwise, because the failure amused you. You let your hair out of its spiral tie, then shed the tie-dye slippers you’d bought for two euros outside the Gare de Nice. Lando watched and did not gloat, which was worse, somehow.

“You’re weirdly calm for someone getting destroyed,” he said, collecting the cards with offensive amounts of confidence.

“Destroyed is a bit dramatic.”

“You’ve lost, like, three times.”

“You’re counting?” You arched a brow at him.

He looked up slowly. “Baby, it’s poker.”

You rolled your eyes like it meant nothing, but your fingers stalled against the edge of the table anyway. “Can you not do that?”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“The—” you gestured vaguely toward him, annoyed already that you sounded annoyed, “the pet name thing.”

A grin threatened at the corner of his mouth. “Baby?”

You hated how easily he said it, casual enough to pretend it meant nothing, specific enough that it never really did.

“See?” you said.

“What?” He leaned back in his chair, smug and all sharp edges. “You get weird every time.”

“I do not get weird.”

“Uh huh.” His gaze flicked over your face, too observant for someone pretending to joke. “You forget how to talk and everything.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered.

“Oh, massively.” He pointed lazily at the pile beside your chair. “Those slippers were tragic, by the way.”

You gasped. “Those are vintage.”

“Those are ugly.”

“They cost two euros.”

“That explains a lot.”

On hand four, he finally misplayed a pair of jacks, limped in then got bluffed off the river by a bet he should never have folded to. As quietly as if it hadn’t mattered, Lando shrugged off the battered hoodie, peeling it over his head in one neat, balletic motion that made a show of his neck and the untidy border of sunburn at the base of his throat. He dumped it onto the back of his chair and, maybe out of habit, combed a palm back through his hair. Static turned it wild. You raised both brows, savoring the equalizing shift in atmosphere.

“What, no victory lap?” he said.

“I’m trying to be gracious,” you said with a satisfaction that suited your mouth.

“You?” He leaned back in the chair, disbelief all over his face. “Never met her.”

“I’m evolving.”

“Into what?”

You tilted your head. “Someone who enjoys watching you lose.”

He grinned slowly, dangerously.

“Careful,” he said. “You sound excited.”

You reached for the cards before he could see your face properly. “Shut up and deal.”

The next deal went fast, a miniature war of attrition, neither of you willing to fold early. Lando began to tap his fingers against the table when the board cards came up bad for him, and the rhythm sent a low, taut hum through the plastic laminate.

“You tap when you’re annoyed,” you said casually.

His eyes flicked up. “No, I don’t.”

“You do.” You pointed at his hand. “Like that.”

“That means nothing.”

“That means your cards suck.”

Lando squinted his eyes and sat back in his chair like he’d suddenly remembered he was being observed. “Okay,” he dragged out. “Didn’t realize we were calling out tells.”

“You have tells?”

“You blink weird when you bluff.”

You stared at him. “I absolutely do not.”

“Mm.” He looked unconvinced. “Also, you keep looking at your good cards twice.”

“That’s just strategy.”

“That’s just cheating adjacent.”

“You don’t even know what cheating adjacent means.”

“It means,” he said, pointing lazily across the table, “you’re suspicious.”

You stalled, feigned focus, but the turn and river were junk and your own bluff collapsed as soon as he raised. You blinked at the cards, at your half-finished hand, dumbly surprised by how fast losing added up.

“No way,” you muttered.

“Oh, babe.” Lando leaned forward with unbearable sympathy. “That was painful to watch.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re bad at poker.”

One sock went next—the left, since it had a pink Sharpie stain across the toe from a night you’d never agree to talk about—and you peeled it off with a theatrical gasp, like a magician revealing the world’s most disappointing trick. You set it beside the slippers, almost proud. Lando grinned more with his eyes than anywhere else, a flicker of something that looked like encouragement, if one was feeling generous.

He swept up the cards and started shuffling again, easy, like dealing wasn’t its own kind of flex. His legs swung under the table, restless as hell, and every now and then he shot you a glance that was half challenge, half something else—maybe checking if you’d bail before the stakes got embarrassing, maybe just making sure you were still all-in.

Within two more hands, the game shifted from symbolic to literal. Lando dropped his final sock like a gauntlet, bare feet splayed pigeon-toed under the table. He’d started leaning after each showdown, reaching one arm across the laminate, making your half-folded hand close in on itself each time—like he was reminding you he could swallow the table, or you, any minute he wanted.

You bled losses and at a certain point, the game was just about what you could get away with calling “an accessory”. Somewhere between hands, you caught him staring and, for once, not pretending otherwise. Not your face—lower, briefly, at the line where the oversized sweater slipped when you leaned for the pot. He looked away too late.

“You know,” you said, stacking cards badly just to watch him squirm, “for someone winning, you seem weirdly distracted.”

“I’m multitasking.”

“At what?”

His jaw shifted like he almost said something honest. “Survival.”

Ultimately, your sweater went next, overhead in a single smooth movement. You wore a bralette top, thin-strapped and gray, the kind meant to be hidden beneath other things, not for display. Lando took in the exposed skin, but only let the corners of his mouth hitch. 

“You can still quit,” he said, shuffling with fake generosity.

“You want me to?”

“No,” he said eventually. “Just checking if you scare easy.”

You leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You first.”

Something sharpened in his expression then, playful tipping into something hungrier. “Careful,” he said. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna misunderstand.”

Before you could respond he returned to shuffling and murmured: “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes instantly. “What does huh mean?”

“Nothing.”

“That sounded like something.”

He tapped the edge of his cards against the table, mouth twitching. “Just didn’t think you were gonna commit to the bit.”

“You thought I’d chicken out?”

“I thought,” he said carefully, eyes dipping and then coming back up, “you’d suddenly remember modesty.”

You snorted. “Please. You’ve seen me in swimsuits.”

“Different setting,” he said. He picked up his cards, looked at them, immediately put them back down.

“Bad hand?” you asked.

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“That bad?”

His eyes flicked over you once, helplessly. “Catastrophic.”

You held his stare for a second too long. The apartment felt strangely small all of a sudden—the bulb overhead buzzing faintly, Monaco glittering uselessly through half-shut blinds, his stupid gold-tipped deck clicking soft against the table.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, trying for teasing and landing somewhere closer to careful.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking too hard.”

His thumb dragged once over the corner of his cards.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’m realizing this might’ve been a bad idea.”

You snorted. “Because you’re losing?”

“No,” he said, eyes dipping briefly before coming back up. “Because you get competitive.”

“You scared?” you asked.

His mouth twitched. “Little bit.”

Something about the way he said it made your pulse stutter. You cleared your throat. “Play your hand, Norris.”

“I am,” he said.

“You literally haven’t looked at your cards.”

“Distracted.”

You narrowed your eyes again. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m literally sitting here.”

“No,” you said, pointing a card at him. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you act all smug when actually you’re nervous.”

He barked a laugh. “Nervous? Of what?”

You opened your mouth, then stopped. Suddenly you weren’t sure.

The game, maybe. Or the fact that somewhere between making fun of him and accusing him of cheating, the air had changed.

“You tell me,” you said quietly.

For once, he didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he watched you—elbows on the table, mouth tipped like he wanted to say something reckless and was deciding whether the fallout would be worth it.

You hated the way your stomach dipped. “You’re trying to psych me out.”

“Working?”

“No.”

“Liar.” His eyes stayed on you a second too long before finally dropping to the table and somehow that felt worse. You dealt the turn too fast.

“There,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“You do it again.”

“Do what?”

“That thing.” He gestured vaguely toward your face. “Inside of your cheek.”

You froze.

“Oh my god,” he grinned. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m not!”

“You literally are.”

“Play the hand!”

“You’re stressed,” he said, delighted now. “Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“Then why are your hands shaking?”

You looked down instinctively.

“Rookie mistake,” Lando tsked, collecting the pot.

The next round, he lost again—let out a hiss between his teeth, accused you of stacking the deck, but did not protest as he peeled his shirt. He wore a gold chain, weirdly elegant, resting against the flat brown of his collarbone. The exposed line of his chest, darker where summer had burned in the edges of the sun, didn’t look real in the dining room’s old bulb, too cinematic, or stupidly lit.

Your hands shook a little as you shuffled, but he didn’t comment on it this time, just watched, waiting for the next opening.

“We’re terrible at normal hobbies,” you said, glancing around the apartment. “Other people bake. Or watch movies.”

“We tried Monopoly once.”

“You threatened to flip the table.”

“You were extorting me.”

“That’s capitalism, babe.”

His laugh came out softer than expected. “God, we’d be unbearable if anyone had to live with us.”

Lando kept losing, but only by enough that the game stayed alive, the slow scrape of cards on plastic a rhythm in itself. Your skirt was next by the rules, but you waited, dealt another hand, and when you lost, you decided to make it a small performance.

You stood, flashed a warning look in case it would embarrass him, but he just spread his hands like an invitation. The skirt undid at the waist with a pop, slid down your legs and you let it catch at mid-thigh, then drift down, a deliberate, silly, careful thing. You expected him to laugh, call you a dork, but Lando sat with his lips parted, eyes fixed, for once not ahead of the moment. The bralette and underwear you’d picked at random that morning were a soft set, one banded in elastic the other a faded gray; the colors clashed in the way only comfort could justify.

You sat back down and flicked a new hand his way. The room didn’t feel cold, but the air moved different without the drag of fabric. You pressed your knees together, then apart, unsure if the move was defense or emphasis. Lando’s gaze raked where it would, intent but not crude, and you caught yourself matching his energy, hungry but controlled.

Lando took his cards and didn’t even look at them.

“You alright?” you asked, because suddenly he was quiet in a way he usually wasn’t.

“Yeah.” he spat out too fast.

You tilted your head. “You look traumatized.”

A breath of laughter left him, thin around the edges. “You’re very committed to winning,” he said.

“That sounded accusatory.”

“It’s admiration.” His thumb dragged absentmindedly over the edge of a card. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

His eyes flicked up. “Still think you’re cheating.”

“I’m literally losing.”

“That’s exactly what someone trying to lower suspicion would say.”

When he lost, he palmed the waistband of his shorts like he might hesitate, then just pulled them off, no hesitation. He had, of course, boxers with tiny racing flags.

“I swear to god,” you snorted, but the sound came out wobbly, nerves and thrill braided through every word.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want this exact aesthetic,” he shot back, and for a second you saw the posture slip, a flicker of something young and hopeful, still trying to impress.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you humiliated in those,” you said, unconvincing as possible, buying time, feigning dominance, but so aware all at once of your own body, the bright band of skin at your ribcage, the prickling heat pooling at the nape of your neck.

The next round was messy, hands dealt amid the static pulse of shared tension. You lost and there was no graceful way to do it: bralette off, shoulders raised a tick with the effort of pretending you didn’t care. Underneath, only your bra, an old, lacey thing with one loose strap, soft-edged but not particularly constructed for support or display. You pulled the top overhead, the fabric catching briefly in your hair, and flicked it at Lando’s chest. He caught it with two fingers, spun it like a lariat, and set it on his growing trophy pile.

“No commentary?” You asked, defiant, proud.

“Was just…unexpectedly decent, honestly.” He gave a lazy arch of brow, gaze flicking downward only for a nanosecond, but the effect was a punch in the belly, no matter how tiny the movement.

“This is the level of trash talk?” You said. “You’ll never make it in Vegas.”

“You wouldn’t make it past TSA.” He dealt the next hand, face stony, but his ears burned in high relief against his skin.

“Do you always get blushy when you’re losing?” You asked, prodding the gap that opened up between his words.

“Only when it’s you,” he shot back, but too quick to be calculated.

But it was you who lost again. This time, you didn’t try to stretch for an accessory. Instead, you reached behind, unhooking the bra with a twist and a practiced catch. For a flash you hesitated; then the straps slipped down, freeing your breasts, which lifted and settled with the inertia of action movie slow-mo.

Lando’s attention snapped to them, then up to your face, then—failing to adapt—lingered at the curve of your chest, as if the rest of you had dissolved into a glowing field of possibility.

“That’s just unsportsmanlike,” he said, but it sounded a lot like awe, mixed with a kind of stunned panic.

“Eyes up,” you said. 

“They—” His jaw caught. “You’re just gonna sit there with them out?”

“Unless you’re forfeiting,” your voice came out playful but tight.

He blinked hard, swallowed, and grinned with a kind of desperate bravado. “You think I can’t handle some nudity? You’ve seen the paddock pranks. I’ve known guys who walked around with less than that.”

“You’re not facing them across a table, Norris.”

“You’re right,” he said, “Much harder to bluff against.” He flicked his cards, trying for casual, but fumbled the fourth one and had to scoop it up quick. It was like the air itself had thickened, charged and sticky, all eyes and adrenaline and the sick, sweet ache of being seen.

He played it off and squared the deck against the table with unnecessary concentration, shoulders pulling taut like composure could be manufactured through posture alone.

From where you sat, the fan of cards conveniently hid half his face. His eyes stayed lowered, expression carefully blank, thumb dragging over the corners like he was deep in strategy. Thinking. Calculating.

Except… The cards weren’t nearly high enough.

You tilted your head, watching the slow flick of his gaze over the rim of the hand he held—up, down, then stubbornly back again, like if he committed hard enough to the performance maybe reality would cooperate. The corners of your mouth twitched.

“You know,” you said lightly, resting your chin in your palm, “usually people look at their cards during poker.”

“I am looking at the cards,” he replied immediately. “Where else would I be looking?”

You raised a brow. “Sure you are.”

His grip tightened around the hand. “I literally am.”

“Mhm.”

He finally looked up, defensive in the way only guilty people ever were. “Why are you acting like I’m not?”

You leaned forward just enough to glance pointedly at the angle of the cards still hovering somewhere south of eye level.

“Because unless the ace of spades suddenly moved locations to my tits,” you said sweetly, “I don’t think that’s what you’re staring at.”

For one suspended second, he looked caught. He huffed a laugh through his nose, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he hated that you’d clocked him.

“In my defense,” he said, voice quieter now, helpless, “this is deeply distracting.”

“Oh, now who’s bad at poker?”

“You weaponized the situation,” he muttered. His eyes dropped again briefly, hopelessly, as if he’d been waiting for the reveal and now struggled to keep his eyes on your face, like the gravity of skin and shadow across your chest had tilted the entire room. You grinned slow and mean, all teeth.

“Keep gawking, Norris. See where it gets you,” you said, wiggling your fingers to prompt the next deal.

He snapped his eyes up, but it didn’t matter; the image of you, tits bare in the slanted light, was burned across his vision. He tried to play it off, making a show of shuffling, but this only highlighted his hands, jittery with, what, adrenaline? Nerves? You watched him and wondered—what did you look like to him right now? Were you even a person or more of a dare, a shape distilled down to the sum of everything forbidden and bright?

The cards fanned out slick between his palms, then splayed across the table, a challenge and a lifeline. You picked up your hand, leaned forward, aware now of every inch of bared skin and the way it caught the warm spill of overhead light. Lando’s gaze dipped again, caught, and you spread your arms over the table like a dealer in a backroom casino, letting your hair slip forward. His breathing got loud, shallow, almost a comic effect, but you didn’t laugh.

“Can’t handle the view?” You teased, bending further to rest your weight on your forearms, milking his hesitation for all it was worth.

He barked a short laugh, but the sound came out tight. “I can handle anything. Just didn’t expect you to go nuclear so fast.”

“Next time, maybe don’t bring a pea shooter to a gunfight.” You straightened, your hair falling down your back, then flung the best of your cards onto the table with practiced indifference. He lost the hand, spectacularly.

“You’re slipping,” you said.

He made a show of groaning. “You’re distracting. Deliberately so.”

“You know the rules, Norris.” You gestured.

Lando pushed his chair back with a scrape against the floor. He stood slowly, the dining room light catching every line of his bare chest and the gold chain that sat low on his collarbone. His racing flag boxers did nothing to hide the thick outline pressing against the fabric, the head of his cock clearly defined, the shaft straining sideways. A damp spot had already formed at the tip.

You leaned back in your seat, eyes dropping straight to it. “Well, well. Someone’s enjoying losing.”

He shifted his weight, one hand hovering near his waistband. The bulge twitched under your stare. “Fuck off,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it, just a shaky laugh.

You tilted your head. “You’re really gonna stand there pretending that’s not because of me?”

Lando swallowed. His fingers hooked the elastic but didn’t pull. “Are you really gonna make me do this?” His voice came out rough, almost pleading, eyes flicking between your face and the cards still scattered on the table. The tent in his boxers gave another visible throb, precum darkening the fabric further.

You let the moment lilt, let your own breath sputter a little with the effort of pretending not to care. The ache between your own legs built, a simmering distraction that made you want to taunt him or maybe just close the space and see how far you could push each other before the game broke.

You squared your chin, met his stare head-on. “Let’s see it, Norris.”

He still hesitated, hand still braced at his waist. You thought he might protest, stall for time, but instead he snapped the elastic down in one practiced jerk. The boxers dropped, revealing all of him—a lad-mag moment, but more honest: his cock sprung out, flushed high and lined rigid, the swells of his balls cinched tight. He was huge—hard enough to look painful—and he let the sight hang there between you, a challenge, almost a dare. You could see his chest lift with each shallow breath.

“Happy?” he said. It was sharp, but the way he said it—voice rough and just a shade tremorous—made it the opposite.

You let your eyes travel the length of him, open and unkind, but the stirring inside you made it harder to fake composure. “I’d give it a solid eight,” you said, and flashed teeth when he bristled. “Maybe nine with a better presentation.”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected the reply to bite. “You’re relentless.”

“You wouldn’t want it any other way.” You tried for a poker face, but the muscles around your mouth had their own ideas. You cracked a knuckle, relishing his discomfort, then swept the deck into a fresh pile. “One more hand. Showdown.”

He was naked, you were nearly; the air between you buzzed like something electrical, dangerous enough that another person would have flinched away.

“Well, Norris,” you said, “what do you want to bet now?”

He laughed and the sound surprised him, bright and a little wild, a laugh that opened him to the room, to you, to what would happen next. “You in for double or nothing?”

You pushed the chair out and stood, so close now the shadows could barely fit between you. “Stakes?”

He tried not to look at your chest but did anyway—how the light caught at the curves, the color play of skin and shadow, the delicate network of lines below your collarbone. “Loser has to—” he started, but came up blank. He wanted to say, loser has to stop pretending, loser has to close the gap, loser has to admit what they’ve been angling at since the beginning, since the queen’s face on the coffee table, since the first time you ever called him afraid.

You grinned, reading his silence, filling it with your own offer. “Loser gives the winner whatever they want,” your voice was husky now, catching in the faintest way on each word.

The room held its breath. He could feel nothing but the orbit of your body, the heat off your skin, the want in the air. For the first time in his life, Lando Norris felt like he was about to crash, and instead of pulling off, he let it ride. He nodded, serious now. “You’re on,” he said, and dealt the cards onto the battered tabletop.

The hand-up was abysmal. No chance, nothing left, just three busted low cards and the knowledge that you were going down swinging. You let the dead hand drop, the cards spat out on the laminate. Lando’s face cracked into a wide, victorious grin, but you could taste the hunger in it, the sharp glint in his eyes that meant this had stopped being a joke somewhere in the last three hands.

“Show them,” he said.

“Hell no,” you said, cheeks hot and reached for the waistband of your underwear. They were nothing fancy, just the last in a string of cheap cotton, navy blue, with a faded logo on the hip—relic from a week you’d spent trying to convince yourself you were organized enough to buy matching sets. You hooked a thumb into the elastic—but before you could slide them down, Lando stood. The chair legs groaned back and he was beside you, close enough to feel the static shudder between your bodies. His hand caught yours lightly, but the grip had no give.

“What—” you looked up, ready for some smartass quip, but the words jammed against the back of your teeth.

His hand drew yours away from your own hip and pressed your palm flat to the rough table. You couldn’t tell if he was smirking or just absolutely focused, but either way he had your attention.

“I won,” he said, his voice rough. “Loser gives the winner whatever they want, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, still hot. “Don’t tell me you’re so predictable you want a striptease—”

“That’s not what I want.” He leaned in so close you could taste the sweet sting of his gum, the faint musk of his skin, sun and vinyl and something underneath. “I want you to let me do it. Unwrap you like a fucking present.”

You tried for a laugh and it cracked, nothing behind it. “You’re full of it.”

His hand was already on your thigh, thumb tracing circles low and slow, just above the line of the cotton. “Maybe. But you’re not stopping me.”

In fact you opened your knees a fraction, letting him slot between, the edge of the table digging a pleasant groove into the backs of your thighs. His other hand slipped behind, bracing at your lower back, and you felt a dizzy, childish urge to dare him to keep going.

The elastic band stretched under his fingers. He pulled it out and away, snapping it against your hip, a little flicker of shock sharp and brilliant. You jolted, laughing, but the shock gave way to a sizzle that ran straight up your spine. You could feel the heat in your face, your neck, all the way between your legs.

“You’re not gentle,” you whispered. You didn’t mean it as an insult.

He grinned, a flash of white. “Never.”

He crouched until he was eye-level with your navel, hands braced at your hips. The slow slide of your underwear was deliberate, like a performance, and for a second you felt on display, stripped to nothing not just of material but of defenses, jokes, everything. The reality of your bare skin—your breasts, your thighs, the prickle at the crest of your pubic bone—made your skin catch fire and ache somewhere you didn’t have words for. You expected nerves, but instead there was just a hungry, animal want: to see if his mouth would follow his hands, to see if he’d fuck with you or just fuck you.

He made it about halfway down before pausing, breath ghosting over every inch he revealed. His lips traced the soft swell of your belly, then a tiny, mocking kiss to the base of your navel. The panties bunched at your knees, caught, and you thought he’d stop, milk the moment, but instead he knelt in front of you.

He didn’t even bother with the old sports commentator routine or some cheesy victory whoop. Instead, he pushed your legs further apart, sliding you toward the edge until the flex of your inner thighs sang a warning. Then he just—stared. You could feel your cunt go hot and wet, obvious even to the air, and the urge to close your knees warred with the sick compulsion to see what he’d do next.

“Damn,” he said, voice gone hoarse. His hands drifted up, fingertips resting feather-light on your knees, denting down, as if he was weighing the muscle beneath the skin. He glanced up, holding you in his crosshairs, and grinned—feral, victorious. “Are you gonna pretend that’s not all because of me?”

You tried to laugh, to downplay, but the sound snagged somewhere behind your teeth. Lando dragged a slow exhale, then thumbed along the crease of your thigh, tracing circles that seemed to pulse with your heartbeat. The muscles of his jaw flexed as he drew himself closer and his breath hit damp and sweet against you, warping the air between you.

There was no warning, not even a smirk. He ducked, lips catching the inside of your knee, teeth a teasing scrape, and you went rigid—not because you were nervous, but because no one had ever made anything so simple feel so obscene. His tongue flicked, heat and salt and the tiny, electric pain of stubble, and you were so aware now, every nerve ending in your groin a live wire.

He worked his way up, slow and methodical, each press of his mouth hotter, hungrier, his hands shifting to keep your legs open, locked wide and helpless. The first brush of his tongue was barely a touch, but it sent a shock so sharp your whole body juddered like a misfiring engine. Lando clocked the reaction and made a private game of torturing you, lapping bold up the seam, then drawing back just when you squirmed against the surface.

“You want me to—?” he started, voice muffled and dark with laughter, but you cut him off with a groan, fisting your hand in his hair and shoving his head back between your legs.

He took the hint, this time going all in—tongue gliding flat, wide, an unhurried circuit that made your hips tip up. He hummed and the sound, vibrating straight through, nearly undid you. He licked and sucked, every trick as precise as when he feathered a car through a high-speed chicane, zero room for error. Each flick and lap built on the last, an incremental drag through madness, and your whole body started to shake, tremors rolling up your spine.

Somewhere in the middle of it, your cards—your pathetic, doomed hand—slid off of the table when you leaned back too hard, skittering across the laminate in a useless scatter.

You barely noticed. The edge of the dining table pressed into the small of your back as you tipped farther against it, chasing breath, chasing balance. Sweat gathered where skin met wood, tacky and warm, and one stupid card—queen of hearts, of course—ended up plastered crooked against your spine, clinging there like the universe was mocking you.

You reached blindly behind yourself, fingertips brushing cardboard stuck to damp skin, but the movement only made the mess worse—more cards dragged along with you, bending at the corners, sticking where sweat had turned the whole night sticky and ridiculous.

The room spun, lit gold by the single bulb, the city a smear of silver across the window, the linoleum tacky beneath your toes. You grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself, nails biting into wood, as Lando’s hands pinned you at the hips and dragged you closer, greedy, like he needed to taste all of you at once.

You were never quiet and he didn’t want you to be; every gasp, every curse, every threat to kill him if he didn’t keep going fed back into the loop. His tongue circled, then pressed; his hands tight at your thighs, bruising, holding you open wider. When you bucked your hips he laughed into you, the vibration electric.

“Jesus, Norris—” you ground the heel of your palm into your mouth, delirious with the pressure, the build building, cresting, unmanageable.

“You still wanna bluff?” he said, barely lifting his head.

“Fuck—fuck you—” you could barely catch your breath.

“Yeah?” Tongue flat, voice muffled, “Tell me you want it.”

You said, “I want it, shut up, keep going,” and he did, relentless, until the line inside you snapped. You came so hard you saw white. There was no time for embarrassment or composure; you jerked, spasmed, rode the aftershocks until your body felt wrung out and boneless.

You blinked, vision coming back, and realized your legs were trembling. Lando was still on his knees, mouth slick with you, watching you with the pride of someone who’d won the only game that mattered.

“Holy shit,” you said or tried to. It came out as a croak.

He stood up smoothly, stared a second, then wiped his mouth, smirk barely controlled. His cock, still hard and heavy, bobbed between you, nudging your thigh.

You stood next and caught his chain as you moved. He was smirking, sure, but you didn’t miss the flex at his jaw, the white-knuckle tension in his fingers where they clamped the tabletop. He’d just reduced you to shreds and expected, what? That he’d stay in control? No fucking chance.

“My turn.” You pressed him down into the chair; he went, not resistant but not relaxed either, muscles twitching under your hands. His cock curved upward, flushed so dark it looked bruised at the tip, so slick you half-wondered if he would’ve finished if you’d taunted him just a few seconds longer. It was unreasonably pretty, like the rest of him, and massive—impossible not to stare. You liked knowing you’d done that.

Lando watched you, half-lidded, head tilted with a look that should’ve been cocky but landed closer to desperate. There was a dare in his eyes, as close to begging as he’d ever let himself get outside of a car. You wrapped your hand around the base, thumb sweeping up with the drag of precum, and the hiss that escaped him was all reward.

Your grip was experimental, not careful—you didn’t want careful, you wanted to see how fast you could turn him inside out. You stroked once, twice, letting the head bump the heel of your palm, then bent at the knees, lined yourself up and took him in. He swore instantly, a noise somewhere between a whimper and a curse. It made you feel like a god.

His hands hovered at your temples, like he meant to guide you and then thought better of it. You bobbed your head, tongue swirling the way you’d always pretended to on fruit flavored popsicles, except now he was the one melting.

“Fuck, you’re—” he said, but no noun followed. You hummed around him, feeling the pulse through every inch, then slid deeper, letting your lips seal at the crown. His legs tensed, knees knocking the wood beneath. He tasted both sharp and faintly sweet, sweat and some chemical edge of energy drink and skin. You kept eye contact because you knew it would wreck him; when you gagged once, soft and unashamed, his jaw clicked shut so hard you heard his teeth grind.

You waited for the pride to come, but instead there was a rush of want, a need to see him undone in a way nothing else could. You went harder, faster. His hips came off the chair, not more than an inch but enough to make the chain at his neck slap against his collarbone. One hand fell to your shoulder, squeezing—testing if you’d slow, if you’d need him to back off. 

You worked him until your jaw ached, spit slicking your chin, your tits brushing his knees as you bobbed. He cursed again, a string of vowels, hands buried in your hair. You pulled off just to catch your breath, flicked your tongue at the slit, and grinned at the way his thighs shuddered. 

“Not so cocky now?” You said and let the edge cut deep. 

He was panting. “You’re—oh, my god. Christ, y/n—”

You cut him off, took him back in, but this time slowed, teasing the head, letting him feel every stutter of your tongue. You felt like you were winning at something that was supposed to have no winners. You wanted to keep going until he lost his mind. He got louder, swearing, then begging—for you to slow, to keep going, then just noises that weren’t words at all. 

The grip on your head was possessive now, anchoring you, and you let him, because giving up control was its own kind of power. You could feel it when he got close; the cock swelled impossibly hard, his stomach quivered, his breath caught in huge, stuttering gasps. You pulled off, hand stroking the length fast and filthy and he came with a full-body jerk, white slashing across your chest, then again, coating your knuckles and wrist. 

Lando’s mouth fell open but no sound came out—just ragged exhale, disbelief. You licked your thumb, tasted him, made sure he noticed. 

“Winner treatment,” you said and wiped your hand on his thigh, as much a trophy as the rest of his pile. He slumped, a wrecked heap, still looking at you like you were a miracle or a monster, maybe both.

You scraped a wrist over your mouth, the aftertaste of sweat and salt a dare you decided to answer. He watched, chest lifting and falling like a guy who’d just run the full length of the grid, and for a flash of a second you saw it: Lando Norris, fast and bewildered, naked in his apartment with his hands full of nothing and his world reduced to the electric inches between your skin.

You got greedy.

Dragged yourself into his lap, straddling him, heat blue-flame sharp at the seam where your thighs met the hollow of his, and felt the hard, slick head of his cock catch at your belly, then lower, cradling between the lips already soaked for him. His hands found your ass, urgent, fingers digging for gravity. You were both still sort of laughing, the way people did when the air got crowded, but the sound died as you lined him up, slow and on purpose, because this was yours now.

You sank down.

It should’ve hurt or at least been a challenge; he was thick, hot, unfamiliar, but the want in you slicked the path so smooth you took all of him, the head breaching, the shaft stretching you wide and sudden. For a second your own body betrayed you, a gasp you tried to swallow surfacing high and raw instead. He hissed, dug nails into your lower back, the noise mostly a plea. When you started to move, his head tipped back and he said your name like an oath, like a winner’s prayer.

Everything blurred. Table edge biting into your knee, chair creaking under the torque, the world spinning down to the grind and pulse and the chase of his cock as you rode him. You wanted to make him lose again, on your terms. He was so deep it made you dizzy; your nerves lit up from tailbone to scalp, every bounce a bolt through cartilage. You set the pace, rolling your hips, riding the friction until you felt yourself about to break again.

He tried to kiss you, but the angle was all wrong and what he actually managed was a drag of teeth at your collarbone, every breath steaming your skin as he muttered, “so fucking good,” and “you’re insane,” and “fuck, don’t stop, don’t ever—”

You weren’t going to.

He slid a hand between you, thumb circling your clit, and you almost slapped it away but instead clawed at his hair, the tug drawing another ragged moan out of his battered voicebox. The flicker of his chain, the way his body trembled under yours, the double rhythm of his fingers and cock—all of it knotted together, shoved you higher, until your pulse stuttered and you came again, so hard your vision pixelated at the edge, the room popping and going silent like you’d blacked out for a millisecond.

When you came back, he was biting your shoulder, one hand locked at your waist to keep you moving, the other digging imprints into the meat of your thigh. You could feel the final tension in him, every muscle clenched, every inch of him hungry for the finish line. You knew he’d wait if you wanted, but that was not what you needed. You wanted to see him lose, hard and all the way down, cock deep and snapped in half with it.

You collapsed forward, braced a hand at the back of his neck, and rode out the aftershocks in shaky, stuttered bounces, the slap of skin loud in the hush. Lando was babbling, nonsense endearments and your name and a random curse in Dutch that sounded like a hail Mary. He went at your clit again, determined, and it was too much, your whole lower half fizzing out.

He held you through it, arms wrapped, neither of you pretending anymore. When he finally came a second time—inside you, sudden and raw, noise wrung from somewhere buried—he shuddered so hard the chair nearly toppled backwards. You clung to his shoulders, laughing breathless, half crying, overwhelmed by the shake in your own limbs.

After, there was nothing, but heat and the burn of skin. Your chest pressed to his, sweat glued you together. His heartbeat thudded rabbit-quick against your sternum. You could smell yourself on his chin and chest, taste the copper bite of your own blood at your lip where you’d bit down a little too hard. It felt elemental, like an accident or a fever. He stroked your hair, heavy and slow, low on words, but pouring everything out in the easy drape of his arms and the simple fact that he didn’t let go.

“You’re a menace,” he managed, voice shredded and childlike.

You made a dismissive noise and nuzzled in, hiding your face against his neck, not sure if you were shielding yourself or just inhaling the ghost of his cologne.

“I mean it,” he said, more quietly now. “Like catastrophic levels. You could start a war.”

Your cheekbone fit the shelf of his shoulder perfectly. “Sorry,” you lied.

“You’re not.”

“Not even a bit.”

He exhaled and you felt the rumble through your whole torso. With his knees parted and you sprawled over him, your bodies lined up so precisely you wondered if chemistry was a joke or just an ugly word for something like this.

[pinkfortuna]

This was pure sexy banter!! Very good and hott!

[not-neverland06]

𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨…

💿 When Did You Get Hot💿

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴: 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘺!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 &𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

My friends walk in your direction / Said "Don't you know [...]?"

Huh / When did you get hot?

Overview: You've been the awkward friend forever. Always lingering in the background of Stu and Billy's lives, never quite fitting in with their other friends. But when their current girlfriends are tired of worrying about your relationship with their boyfriends, they offer you a makeover. You just hadn't thought it would have made Billy and Stu so angry.

Apparently, doing your makeup isn't very final girl behavior. Whatever that means...

a/n: absolutely playing into the “taking down her hair makes her hot” trope rn. Also, the reader has curly hair. For the sake of the plot. (and because I’m tired of not living my curly-haired truth) Also, X2 Sid and Tatum are a bit OOC. I was in love with Tatum when I was younger, but for this, I need her to be a bit of a bitch. It’s for the plot people, I don’t make the rules

wc: 7.2K

more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza

You can already see Stu grinning as he watches you run up to the fountain. Billy's there waiting beside him, flipping through a book you doubt he has any interest in. Your chest heaves as you come to a stop, hands propped on your knees as you try to catch your breath.

Stu snorts, “What’d you run here?” he taunts, with that stupid voice he always uses. 

“Shut up,” you grumble, dropping your bag to the ground and pulling out a folder. “Here,” you toss it at him. It slaps against his chest, and he lets out a little grunt, just barely catching it before it slips to the water. 

He leafs through the papers inside, though you know he never actually bothers to proofread. Bored waiting for him to be done, you hold out your palm. He glances at it with a dumb look, "What?”

“Seriously,” you tilt your head and let out a scoff. “Do you think I’m doing this because I love you?”

Stu rolls his eyes and fishes his wallet from his pocket. You let out a triumphant hum as he slaps the cash in your palm. Trying to step back, you don't get very far before his wrist is snapping out, fingers wrapping around your arm as he tugs you back toward him. You stumble between his spread legs, shooting him an unamused look.

He only grins at your ire. “Come on,” he urges. “You love me, you can say it.”

You roll your eyes, but dip down to meet his stare. “All right. I love you, Stu.” His grin falls as you add, “Thank you for being my benevolent little rich boy.” Billy snorts and Stu shoots him a look. It’s enough of a distraction for you to slip from his hold and pick up your bag. 

Good timing, too, considering Tatum’s walking up with Sid and Randy. Tatum’s certainly chiller compared to his other girlfriends. You get along with her more than you ever did with Casey. But you can’t imagine anyone would be happy to see their boyfriend all handsy with his best friend. Even if handsy seems to be Stu’s default state. 

“Ooh, another illicit deal, I see,” Tatum makes herself cozy, dropping right into Stu’s lap. You force out a stiff laugh and make yourself look away.

You’re just friends with Stu, same as Billy. Have been since you were kids. To them, you’ll always just be the strange neighbor kid who never seemed to get out of that socially awkward phase. 

But how you look in their eyes doesn’t change the fact that puberty hit you first. It doesn’t change that you haven’t been able to look at either of them as just friends since you discovered the difference between boys and girls.

However, based on their caliber of girlfriends, they couldn’t make it any clearer that there isn’t a chance in hell of anything ever happening. 

“That’s seriously pathetic, Stu,” Sid teases. She can't hide the undercurrent of disapproval in her voice. “How long are you going to let her get you through school?”

Stu’s sharp eyes cut to yours and you feel heat bloom under your skin. “Well? How long are you gonna carry me?”

Scoffing, you move to take your place beside Randy. He immediately offers you some of his food, which you take just to have something to do with your hands.

“However long you keep paying, rich boy.”

Tatum and the others laugh a little, but you feel like you got the question wrong from the look Stu’s sending you. You’re not sure what you could have possibly said that he would have approved of. But you don’t think you’ll ever fully understand him or Billy. 

You doubt anyone ever will. 

Tatum turns her attention away from you, instead speaking across her boyfriend to discuss some gossip with Sid. It’s typical that you’re left out of the loop.

Something about you seems to scream that you’re above petty girlhood experiences. Given the chance, you'd have more dirt on the people at this school than they would ever know. People trip up around the quiet kids, always seeming to forget they're there until it's too late.

But, as much as Tatum and Sid are nice to you, you’re still an outlier. Someone they think belongs more to the boys. While the boys seem to think you’d do better with the girls. There’s no safe middle ground for you to stand on. You’re sure that if you didn’t show up for lunch tomorrow, the only thing that would change is who Stu pays for his homework. 

Running a hand over your hair, you let out a tired sigh as you leaf through your book. “You know,” Tatum’s voice startles you from your stupor. You glance up to find her eyes narrowed on your hair. “That puffed-up look has been done to death.” She pops a grape in her mouth with a sharp grin. “It’s not the eighties anymore, sweetie.”

Your eyes widen, hands shooting to your hair. Stu snickers, slapping Tatum’s hip, “That’s catty, even for you, babe.”

“Seriously,” Sid admonishes, shooting you a sorry smile. Billy’s eyes dart between you and her, but he doesn’t say a thing in your defense. Swallowing roughly, your gaze drops to your shoes. Self-consciousness drowns you so quick, you just want to run to the bathroom and hide out the rest of the day.

“What?” Tatum snickers. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant she could use some touch-ups.”

Your throat burns as your eyes flick toward the grassy courtyard. You’d prefer anything to facing them right now. Crying in front of the Stu and Billy is worse than chumming the waters before going diving. 

“Christ, you’re the worst sometimes,” but Sid can’t hide the smile in her voice. She calls your name and you suck in a sharp breath before looking at her. “She’s sleeping over at mine tonight. Why don’t you come?”

“So you can give me some touch-ups?” you snap. Randy snickers at the perceived cat-fight, and you punch him in the arm. 

“Innocent bystander,” he grimaces, shooting you a glare. You give him a sharp smile and shrug. 

“Yeah,” Tatum agrees. “I think it’d do you some good to hang out with someone other than these bozos.” She doesn’t fail to include her boyfriend in the insult. Stu’s face drops behind her as he looks to Billy. 

“Me?” he mouths, and Billy just glares at him. 

“They’re totally holding you back, babe,” she pops another grape in her mouth and shrugs. “Your choice.”

“I can’t believe you let her talk to you like that,” Stu snickers, shoveling popcorn in his mouth as he sprawls across the loveseat. 

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, clutching the throw pillow closer to your chest. “What the hell was I supposed to say?”

Billy glances over his shoulder at you, his legs kicked over the arm of the seat across from Stu. “Maybe don’t roll over and let her treat you like a doormat.”

You roll your eyes and pick up a piece of popcorn. Tossing it, it bounces off of Stu’s nose while you lean back on the couch. “She’s your girlfriend, you could have said something.” Stu watches the popcorn fall to his mom’s new, ridiculously expensive rug and snorts. 

“Yeah right, like I’m gonna get in the middle of a cat-fight.”

“Oh yeah,” Billy rolls his eyes as he flips through the channels. “I’m sure that’s your nightmare.”

Stu laughs and tosses a handful of candy at Billy. Clearly incensed by your idea of trashing his mother’s pristine living room. “Shut up, man.”

You drown out their bickering, more than used to it, as food begins to fly across the room. Reaching up, you fiddle with a strand of combed-out hair. “Do you think she was right?”

They pause, eyes darting back to you. They share a look that you don’t understand and it only worsens your mood. “What? That we’re holding you back?” Billy questions, voice tight with something dangerous. 

“No,” you snip, tossing your pillow at him. He deflects it with an irritated look, narrowed eyes meeting yours. “That I’m a mess.”

“She didn’t say that,” Stu objects, a cruel tilt to his lips. “Just that you need some touch-ups.” Billy chuckles and Stu joins him. The pair turns back to the TV and that’s that. You’re dismissed. 

Frowning, you get to your feet and grab your bag. “Where’re you going?” Billy asks, not even turning around. 

“I’m gonna head home,” you tell them, something souring your stomach the longer you’re in their presence. 

“We haven’t even gotten to the movie, yet,” Stu whines. You ignore him, rushing toward his front door and throwing it open. With your back turned, you miss the harsh look the boys share. The type that would have had you turning around and sitting right back down on the couch. 

Heading through the door, you think over Tatum’s harsh words. Cruel, but maybe necessary. Checking your watch, you figure it’s not midnight yet, surely Sid’s invite must still stand.

Sid’s surprised as she opens her front door. “Oh,” she offers a polite smile as she greets you. 

Tatum pops up behind her, an impressed grin on her face. “Didn’t think you were going to show. Isn’t this your movie night?”

You sigh, fingers flexing around your bag. “Yeah. But you had a point. Your delivery sucked. But you had a point.” Tatum mushes Sid to the side and beckons you into the house. 

“I know I did,” she’s far too proud of herself as she leads you over to the couch. Sid hovers behind you both, clearly not expecting you and unsure what to do with herself.

Tatum seems far more comfortable as she takes your bag from you. “I had hope you’d see sense,” she croons, dropping onto the cushion beside you. 

Your shoulders tense and you try not to grimace at how enthused she is at making you over. You hadn’t thought you were that bad. Clearly, she disagreed. Tatum rifles through some magazines before dropping one in your lap. 

“I have plans for you." It sounds more like a threat as you stare down at the glammed out model in the magazine. 

An hour later, Tatum’s coiling freshly washed strands of your hair around her fingers while Sid sits in front of you, brushing eyeshadow across your lids. “You really don’t look bad,” she reassures. “But, it’s confidence that sells a look.”

“If a little mascara gives you some confidence, who knows?” Tatum shrugs as she spirals more hair around her finger. “Maybe you’ll finally get a boyfriend.”

The longer this little "sleepover" has gone on, the more you’ve felt they had ulterior motives. Sure, slumber parties in chick flicks always look fun. Pillow fights, makeup sessions, and gossiping with one another. But that hasn’t been happening. The girls seem strangely tense. 

You’re pretty sure they’re hoping this makeover session will finally get you your own guy, so they can stop worrying about your relationship with their boyfriends. You hadn’t taken Sid as the insecure type, apparently you were wrong. 

Still, this was nicer than some of the exes Billy and Stu had acquired. At least they were helping you out. Rather than starting rumors that you slept around with the teachers.

Thank you, Casey Becker.

You hadn’t exactly been sorry when you’d heard what the town’s new killer had done to her and her asshole boyfriend. 

Billy and Stu had called you twisted when you’d said that, but you’d seen the way they smiled. You wouldn’t be friends with them if there wasn’t something a little off-kilter about you. 

“Someone should have taught you how to do this a while ago,” Tatum mutters, talking about the hair you’d hardly ever put much thought into. You had been taught how to deal with it, but it was never your top priority. Typically, you braided it and just lived in it for a while. 

Something about the way she says it reminds you of what she’d casually dropped at lunch. “What did you mean when you said Billy and Stu are holding me back?” Sid’s brush pauses on your cheek and Tatum’s hands still. You don’t have to look to know they’re sharing a silent conversation. 

“It’s just something guys do,” Sid dismisses. 

Your eyes narrow and she offers a tense smile. “Tatum?” You prod, knowing she doesn’t care about softening her words. 

She lets out a little sigh and drops your hair. “Guys like having awkward girl friends. When they get dumped or go through a slump, she’s someone they can fall back on.”

“Like,” you pause, heart stuttering. “For sex?” Sid snorts at your blunt delivery and Tatum shrugs. 

“Yeah, pretty much. They think if a girl’s lonely enough, she’ll sleep with anyone. It’s just a good way to keep a backup.”

“And you think that’s what they do with me?”

Sid’s eyes dart up to meet yours and you know she feels bad you’re having this conversation at all. “Sometimes. Sometimes they just like having someone around to make them feel better about themselves.”

Your heart drops to your feet and you don’t want to believe her. But something about what she says makes sense. Every time you complain about your clothes, hair, or anything too shallow or girly, the guys blow you off. They say stuff about not thinking you were into that vapid stuff. 

Any chances you’ve had at a date, they’ll tell you shit about the guy you would never have guessed. Horrible things that make you uncomfortable and sick to your stomach. Half the time, you think they’re making it up, but you choose not to take the risk. 

Every chance they get, they keep you all to themselves. And like an idiot, you’d just always thought that was because they wanted you the way you want them. Of course, Sid and Tatum would know better than you. They’re dating the boys after all. And it’s not so far out of character to assume Stu and Billy would be so malicious. 

“Oh,” your stomach flips on itself and you blink watery eyes down at your hands. “Thanks for telling me,” you whisper. Tatum and Sid share a look over your shoulder. You see the guilt on Sid’s face, but you miss the wink Tatum sends her. 

You follow what Sid and Tatum had taught you the night before, you don’t know which one you mess up worse, your hair or the makeup. You’ve missed first period by the time you finally make it out of the house. Meaning you manage to skirt around Billy and Stu right up until lunch. 

Honestly, after what Sid and Tatum told you, no part of you actually wants to see them. But your boss at the video store is cutting your hours and you really need the cash Stu will give you for writing up his world civ essay. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you give yourself a little pep talk before forcing yourself to walk over to the fountain. Everyone’s there already, Sid and Tatum sprawled across their boyfriends. Meanwhile, Randy’s up and speaking with flailing arms. Like the court jester performing for the popular royals. It’s sickening what a cliche your friends have become when that’s what they’ve always made fun of. 

“Watch the hands, Meeks,” you call out, nearly catching a slap to the face as he rants passionately about some horror flick you’ve never heard of. 

He lets out a huff before turning to face you. Whatever argument he had dies on his tongue as he jerks back. You swallow roughly, hand reaching subconsciously toward your hair as he nearly pushes his nose against yours. 

“Randy,” you whisper, mushing his face away. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

His thumb reaches up, swiping for your cheek, and you just manage to slap his hand back. “Is that glitter?” He questions, positively dumbfounded. 

“It’s blush,” you snap, pushing him back. “Would you get out of here, you weirdo?” Shaking your head, you rifle through your backpack until you find the folder for Stu.

You try not to look at him as you walk up, chest tightening at the dead silence you’re now surrounded by. Stu grabs the folder, but his hand snakes up, grabbing at your wrist before you can back up.

“Huh,” he pulls you down, eyes roaming across your face. You glance at Tatum and she gives you an encouraging smile. “It is glitter.”

“Eyeshadow, doofus,” she swats his arm. “You did a good job,” she reassures you.

“Made me late for school,” you mutter, skin warming the longer Stu stares. 

“Why?” Billy asks, before anyone can say anything else. Stu releases you at the sound of his voice and you stumble back. 

“I don’t know,” forcing yourself to meet his eyes, you startle at the coldness staring back at you. “Maybe I wanted to look pretty.”

Stu snorts and cuts you a sharp look. “You didn’t need to do drag to look pretty,” he mocks. Your hand shoots up to your face. You hadn’t even done close to as much as Sid and Tatum had taught you. 

“Stu,” Tatum snaps, shooting him a harsh look. 

He lets out a chuckle and jerks back, “What?” He glances over at you, but the smile on his face isn’t genuine. “I was joking. It looks fine, dude.”

For some reason, you find yourself looking over at Billy. His jaw is tensed, eyes glaring down at the ground. He seems to feel your stare, gaze snapping up to meet yours. Biting your tongue, you swallow the burn in the back of your throat. “It looks good,” he finally admits, hardly sounding like he wants to compliment you. 

You purse your lips and nod, barely wanting to be around them for another second. Clearly, the girls were right about their theory. “Really good,” Randy adds on, a goofy look on his face. You let out a sharp laugh and roll your eyes at him. 

“I know it’s not your thing,” Tatum starts, sucking on her lollipop with a proud smile. “But you should come to Stu’s party tonight.”

You grimace and begin to shake your head. “Seriously,” Sid encourages. “You’ll have fun, for once.” 

“What are you two planning, you little vixen?” Stu taunts, fingers pinching at Tatum’s sides. Your eyes narrow at the way he speaks through gritted teeth, voice tight. 

Swallowing bile at Billy and Stu’s reactions, you straighten up, forcing your voice to be strong. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.” The girls shoot you odd looks and you shrug as you pluck your bag from the ground. “I’m covering for Randy at the store.”

Randy’s head shoots up, eyes glazed over with confusion. “You are?”

“God,” you roll your eyes. “Remind me how many times they’ve fired your ass.” With a smug grin, he holds up five fingers and winks. 

“What a shame,” Stu clicks his tongue and he doesn’t even bother sounding disappointed. “We’ll miss you reminding everyone of curfew.”

Hurt tightens your chest as you let out a sharp scoff. “Fuck off, Macher.”

His nose wrinkles and he presses his hand to his chest. “Ouch,” he hisses.

Billy reaches over and swats his arm, clearly telling him to knock it off. But you know that look on Stu’s face. He’s pissed, about what, you never have a clue. 

Deciding to spare yourself any more embarrassment, you turn around and head back to the school. You didn’t want to go to his stupid party. But it would’ve been nice if they had wanted you there. If they could have just shown you something, that meant what the girls told you was bullshit. 

“How many times do I have to tell you to alphabetize by genre?” Your boss, Jason, tosses Halloween at you and storms off. The VHS smacks you square in the chest and you let out a sharp scoff. The fuck does that even mean?

“Seriously,” you jump as someone’s pointy chin digs into your shoulder. “How many times does he have to tell you,” Stu bemoans, stealing the tape from your hand. You cast your eyes back and catch his grin as he backs off from you. 

“Don’t you have a party to be planning?” You snap, not bothering to keep the venom from your tone. 

“Someone jealous she didn’t get an invite?” Billy comes up on the other side of you, sharp eyes alight with a rare teasing glint.

It’s like being circled by hyenas with the pair of them. They always corner their prey, backing them up until there’s nowhere to run. Currently, it’s keeping you locked in the horror section as they block both ends. 

“No,” you cut your eyes to Stu, irritation only growing worse at his stupid grin. “But you didn’t have to be such a dick today,” you tell him, snatching the tape back so you can shelf it. 

“Oh,” he croons, catching your wrist and tugging you back into his chest. “I think I hurt her feelings,” he mocks, pouting at Billy. 

Billy raises his brows, leaning on the shelves as he shrugs. “Did he?”

“Is there a particular reason you guys are being such assholes to me, or are you just bored?” Billy’s eyes narrow as he offers a sharp smirk. 

Stu lets his chin rest in the crook of your neck, ignoring how you try to wiggle out of his hold. “Is there a reason you decided to do this?” He asks, tugging at one of your curls. “I liked the whole puffed-out dandelion look.”

“Ugh,” a disgusted groan slips out as you elbow him in the side. His breath whooshes out of him and his arms finally loosen. “Why do you have such a hard-on about whether or not I style my hair?”

“You never cared before.” Billy frowns, eyeing you up and down. “All the best final girls don't give a shit about that stuff.”

Your eyes fall into slits as a bewildered scoff leaves you. “What geeky language are you even speaking?”

Stu barks out a sharp laugh, leaning forward until he's back in your field of view. “Says you,” he taunts. 

Your head falls to the side as you shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Do you guys need something? Jason already hates me. I don’t feel like having you two getting me fired.”

“Jason?” Billy questions. “The asshole that was bitching about genres?”

“That’s the one,” you hum, turning back to your cart and the piles of tapes you have to deal with. 

“Dude seems like he needs to get laid,” Stu points out, eyes tracking Jason as he paces through the store. Yelling at the first person he sees over some made-up bullshit. 

“Yeah, he probably does. But I doubt anyone’s that desperate.”

“No,” he taunts, and your hackles raise at his tone. “Not even you?”

You slam the tape down harder than you mean to. The noise echoes through the store, the shelves rattling beneath Stu and Billy’s careless bodies. Stu’s brows raise with poorly concealed excitement. “Get something or get the fuck out,” you hiss at him. 

Taking hold of your cart, you shove past him before he can think of anything else smart to say. Insulting others seems to be the only time he’s capable of coming up with any wit of his own.

Of course, that means you get to be on the receiving end nine times out of ten. You make a good target for them, apparently. 

Billy swats Stu’s arm, shoving him back and trailing after you. Stu lets out a snotty huff, randomly grabbing one of the tapes from the shelves as Billy falls into your check-out line. 

“He’s a moron,” he excuses. 

“And a jackass,” you snap, barely lifting your gaze to meet his. “Did you pick something?” Billy reaches behind himself, slapping Stu in the chest and making the other boy toss Prom Night on the counter. 

You ignore how Stu’s gaze bores into the side of your head, scanning the VHS and looking over the blocky green letters on your screen. “You owe ten bucks for an overdue movie,” you tell him. 

“Ten bucks?” he scoffs, “What movie?”

Tilting your head, you scoff, he’s such a cliche. “Basic Instinct, got a little crush on Sharon Stone, Stuart?”

Stu’s nose wrinkles as he glares at you. “Stuart?” he huffs, “You sound like my mother.” Pushing Billy out of the way, he props his elbows on the counter, chin resting in his palms. “Can’t you do your best friend a favor?”

You drop down to his level, matching his posture with a saccharine smile. “Why would I do that?” You tease, voice pitched with faux innocence. 

Stu’s got a genuine grin on his face as you play along; it takes everything in you not to return it. “What are you doing?” The moment’s broken as you jump back, Jason’s harsh voice ruining the fun. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you turn back to the monitor and pretend to type some nonsense into the system. “Nothing, just checking them out.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” your head whips up at the insinuation, but he barely spares you any attention. He turns toward the boys with a sneer, “Just because you're friends with her, doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay like everyone else. Have the movie back by tomorrow, or you’re banned.”

“Jason-” you object. 

“You’re already on thin ice,” he snaps, pointing his fat finger in your face. You resist the urge to snap your teeth at him. “Don’t push me,” he warns, as if he were scary at all beyond you not having a paycheck next week. 

Stu watches him walk away with furrowed brows and a sneer. “God, what a prick.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, “you’re telling me.” Feeling ever so slightly vindictive, you clear the charge from Stu’s account and toss him his tape. “Keep the movie, he’s an ass.”

Stu cares little for the other people waiting in line as he reaches across the counter and cups your cheeks. You let out a little squeak as he drags you closer, planting an obnoxiously loud kiss on your cheek.

“What are friends for?” He mocks, pushing back from you. 

“Ugh,” you wipe at your face and glare at him. 

“See you,” Billy says as he shakes his head, yanking up Stu’s sleeve and dragging him away before he can make an even bigger scene. 

You watch them leave with a disbelieving laugh. Stu could be a dick, but at least he was fun. Unlike other people, Jason, who got off on making everyone as miserable as them. Despite your general disinterest in drunk crowds of teenagers, you’d rather be at Stu’s party than deal with him the rest of the night. 

You, however, didn’t receive an invite. So, you turn back to your cart of tapes and force yourself to go back to restocking. 

Around midnight, you finish closing up the registers and pick up a cleaning rag and some spray. You hum to yourself as you move to the windows, beginning to wipe them down. 

Jason is hiding in the back. Shirking all his responsibilities on you as you close up tonight. Meaning you probably won’t be getting home until one at the earliest. 

Muttering to yourself, you work on scrubbing out a particularly tough stain. Whatever it is clings to the fabric of your rag, each wipe seeming to spread it more. With a huff, you lean down to spray some more cleaner when a dark shape moves in the corner of your eye. 

Frowning, you straighten back up. The window before you is fogged with whatever ruined the glass. Tilting your head past it, you find a screaming white mask staring back at you. 

“Fuck,” you jump back with a gasp, rag slipping from your hand. The figure stares, head tilting slowly as he surveys you. You can only stare for a minute, heart trapped in your throat as your chest stutters. Visceral panic fills you, spikes through your blood until you feel lightheaded. 

He takes a step forward and your body jolts back to life. Stumbling over yourself, you rush to the door, flipping the lock before he can get any closer. 

Of course, you knew all about the Woodsboro killer. Casey Becker's murder was worse than even Sid’s mom. But it still seemed so far disconnected from you that you hadn’t really thought about it.

After all, why the hell would anyone want to kill you? You never did anything. 

But he’s staring right at you now. Beneath that ridiculous mask are the eyes of a killer. And they're set on you. 

Too afraid to take your eyes off him, you stumble back until your hip is smashing into the corner of the counter. A pained hiss slips past your lips as your hand gropes blindly for the phone. He almost seems amused as he watches you, relaxed and at ease as his head follows your clumsy movements. 

Finally managing to wrap your hand around the landline, you hastily press it to your ear. The monotonous ringing on the other end is possibly one of the worst sounds you’ve ever heard. 

The phone slips from your hand, cracking against the floor as you stare at him. His head tilts and he shakes it slowly, mocking you. 

“Jason?” You shout, forcing your eyes off the killer in front of you. With a sharp breath, you push off from the counter and run to the back. The door to Jason’s office is cracked, light spilling out from within. 

You shove through, eyes burning as you fight back your panic. “Jason, we have to call-"

Your voice trails off into nothing as you take in the scene before you. His fan buzzes in the corner of the office, a droning noise amongst a scene straight from a crappy slasher movie. 

Blood drips from the open gash of his throat. It trails down his arms, pooling along his fingers until it splashes against the floor. The noise echoes through the quiet space as your breath trembles. You trip over yourself as you back out of the office, stomach clenching painfully the longer you look into the open flesh of his throat. His eyes have rolled back, hidden beneath his eyelids, as his body goes cold. 

“Oh,” you let out a revolted moan. “God,” you clap your hand over your mouth, tripping as you run from the room. 

He had already been in here. Somehow, that psycho killed your boss. Then, for some reason, he decided to wait around for you to notice him outside. He’d been smart enough to cut the phone line. Why is he playing with you now?

Racing back to the front, you find him right where you left him. Just outside the front door, head still tilted with amusement. “What the….”

He taps his knife against the window. Tap, tap, tap, slowly, he lifts his head, straightening up as he nods behind you. Just barely, you managed to turn in time to see the knife slashing toward you. 

With a shrill scream, you dive to the side, terror filling you as you realize there are two of them. They don’t give you long to dwell on that. The second one dives for you while the one outside works on breaking the glass door. 

Kicking your leg out, you manage to catch the one in front of you in the shin.  He lets out a raspy groan, muffled by the mask, as he falls forward. Your hands grope along the floor, desperate for any sort of weapon. The best you have is a VHS. You don’t let that stop you from smacking the sharp corner into the temple of the man next to you. His hand flies up to his head, another pathetic groan leaving him. 

You scramble to your feet just as the sound of glass shattering echoes through the store. A brick skips across the carpet, stopping just before your shoes. With a shaky breath, you look over to find the second man stepping slowly through the empty doorway. 

His gaze flicks to yours and you let out a small whimper as the other one begins getting to his feet. “Shit,” you hiss, not sparing them another glance as you rush to the back. You can hear their footsteps quick behind you, just barely managing to slip into Jason’s office as they catch up.

You slam the door shut, body jolting roughly as they try to barrel through. With a groan, you shove your shoulder forward, shoes squeaking against linoleum as you force the door the rest of the way closed. 

Panic-slick palms slip against the handle until you’re finally turning the lock. The door rattles violently as you step away, their bodies thudding against the wood as they try and batter their way through. 

You don't waste any time, whipping around toward Jason’s computer and dialing into the modem. You work around your boss’s dead body, eyes burning at the smell of death and copper that floods his office. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, quick to connect to emergency services. You just manage to send your address when the door flies open behind you. 

A scream rips from your throat as you jump around the desk. They both stand in the doorway, shoulders heaving as their muffled breaths fill the air. Your hands tremble at your sides as they split away from one another. The tallest lingers by the desk, the shorter one hovers in the doorway. They’ve cornered you, left you nowhere to run.  

You back up as much as you can, wincing as your back connects with Jason’s metal filing cabinets. The shorter one lunges first. Your hand wraps around the handle of one of the cabinets and you wrench it forward, jumping back as it slams into the ground. 

You manage to catch him off guard as he jerks back. You leap over the fallen cabinet and shove past him. A gloved hand wraps around your elbow, roughly shoving you forward. 

Right into the tip of his blade.

A low moan escapes you, heart beating furiously against your chest as blood begins to weep from your stomach. Your eyes flutter shut at the sharp burst of pain. Fire lights up along your nerves. 

When he begins to pull away, trying for another hit, you shove him back with all the strength you have left. He stumbles with a grunt, tripping over the cabinet and crashing into the other one. 

You press your hands against your stomach, running from Jason’s office, and leaping through the shattered front door. You can only hear the crunch of your shoes against the broken glass. You can’t spare any attention to what might be following behind. 

You don’t let yourself stop, pushing forward even as your lungs tighten until it hurts worse to breathe than it did to be stabbed. By the time your legs finally give out, lights are speeding down the road toward you. Doors slam and familiar voices call your name as you crash against the pavement, blood pooling from your hands and onto the asphalt below. 

“I’m not the one who thought we should test her.”

Consciousness is slow to come back to you. Distantly, you can hear familiar hushed voices. “Well, I’m not the one who tried to fucking gut her.”

You hear what sounds like a slap and then a harsh, “Shut the fuck up!” 

Your mind is fuzzy, dulled by the edges of pain and sleeping too long. You can hardly recognize the voices, let alone understand what they’re saying. 

“You’re lucky she’s still alive.”

There’s a brief pause and then a low chuckle that makes shivers run up your spine. “What the hell were you going to do if she wasn’t?”

A strange sound slips from your lips, a groan, maybe. It’s hard to tell as your eyes adjust to the sterile lights of the hospital room.  

Immediately, there’s a weight sat beside you, large hands covering your own. You blink slowly, forcing your eyes to focus as you take in your surroundings. “Stu?” You mutter, voice wrecked as your gaze dips from his concerned face to Billy’s stoic one. 

Your head tilts, nose wrinkling as you notice they’re both wearing hospital gowns. Stu even has an IV hooked to his arm.

“What’s going on?” You try to straighten up, but your arms buckle out from under you. Stu reaches forward, gentle for once, as he helps you sit up. 

Slowly, Billy makes his way to your side, perching just beside you, mirroring Stu. “How do you feel?” He asks, dodging your question. 

You blink, struggling to take inventory of yourself. “Uh,” you shrug, frowning at the pain burning through your stomach. “Weird.”

“That’s the meds. They’ve got us on the same shit.” Stu lets go of your hands to lift his gown, showing a large, red-tinted bandage along his side. 

“Jesus,” you reach out, fingers just brushing the edge. “What the hell happened to you two?”

“Sid’s dad,” Billy cuts in. Your head whips around to him so fast you’re surprised it doesn’t pop off. He offers a sardonic smirk as your jaw drops. 

“Sorry, what?”

“Yeah, apparently the dude lost it,” Stu cuts in, eyes wide with something you don’t like. “Freaked out and just went on a bloody spree. He got us last night.” Billy reaches over and swats Stu’s arm. He lets out a little huff, “He got Tatum, too.”

“Stu-“

“And Sid.” Billy cuts you off before you can even start to console. Your eyes clench shut before shooting back open. This is way too much to be processing when you’ve just woken up from a drug-induced coma. 

Your lips part, condolences ready on your tongue. But neither of them seems especially desperate for that. Stu’s got your hands in his, eyes watching every micro expression of yours like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Billy seems distant. Expected when your girlfriend is murdered by her father. But this is different, somehow.

There’s something he doesn’t want you to see. 

“I,” your mind races with a hundred different thoughts before settling on one. “I don’t get it. Why'd he come after me?”

Stu scoffs, “Why'd he murder his daughter? Nothing about this will ever make sense.”

“Yeah, but-"

“We should let the doctor know you're awake.” Billy gets to his feet, cutting you off again. Stu lingers for a moment before reluctantly releasing your hands. Your eyes dart between them, not eager to just be left on your own again. 

“We’ll stop by later,” Stu promises, the wheels of his IV drip squeaking as they both shuffle from your room. Your hand drifts to your stomach, mind growing consumed with the throbbing pain. Something isn’t right. 

When you’re well enough that your meds can be cut back, you go off on your own to find the boys. You’re sick of being alone in your room. Terrified that every time you look through your window, that screaming mask will be staring back at you. 

Sid’s dad is dead. Dewey and the others had reassured you a hundred times. But that didn't mean that Ghistface was dead. You saw him. 

Saw them. 

It wasn’t just one man behind the slaughter. But you hadn’t told Dewey that. Hadn’t told the sheriff. Not even the nosy ass reporter that kept sneaking her way past security. 

No part of you had been able to reason away why you kept that information to yourself. There was no plausible excuse to protect the men who tried to kill you. Still, you can’t help but feel that if murder really had been their plan, you wouldn’t have gotten away that night. 

Shuffling through the hospital halls, you keep an arm wrapped tight around your wound as you make your way to Stu’s room. 

He seems miserably bored as he flips through channels on his TV. His face lights up when he sees you in the doorway. You chuckle as he tosses his remote away. Beckoning you closer as he pulls back his sheets. 

Carefully, you help yourself into his bed, letting out a pained sigh as you try to get comfortable. “Where’s Billy?”

Stu shrugs, “I don’t know, probably using the bathroom. The meds they’ve got us on have me pissing like crazy.”

You let out a little snort and swat his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

Stu catches your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. His eyes bore into the scratchy hospital blanket, stare pensive. You think about offering to bring him something more comfortable when he speaks. 

“Do you even like horror movies?”

Your brows furrow. Out of anything he could have said, that was probably the last thing you were expecting. “What?” You let out a disbelieving chuckle and he shrugs. 

“We always force you through them on movie night. But I don’t think you’ve ever said you like them.”

You frown, picking at the threads of his fraying blanket. “I don’t know, what’s it matter?”

“Humor me,” he insists, tone unsettling. Looking back up, you nearly pull away. The vacant look in his eyes is disturbing. 

“No,” you whisper, feeling like you’re telling him something you shouldn’t. “I don’t like them.”

“Why do you watch them?” He pushes, sitting up until his nose is nearly brushing yours. You would pull back if it didn’t feel like his stare had frozen you to the spot. 

“I feel like if I don’t, you guys won’t want to hang out with me anymore.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Why are you asking me all this?” You whisper, eyes burning the longer Stu stares into them. He stays still for a moment, gaze running across yours. With a sharp bark of laughter, he falls back onto his pillows. You jump at the sudden movement and finally realize just how hard your heart is pounding against your ribs. His face cringes with pain as he tugs at his stitches. 

“Wanna know my favorite trope?” He brushes past your question, armed with another series of his own. Fingers flexing under his tight grip, you try not to grimace. He doesn’t wait for you to answer. 

“The final girl,” he whispers, waving one hand as if it’s some big reveal. “She never goes out. Never parties. Doesn’t care what she looks like,” his grip tightens infinitesimally around yours.

You want to tell him it hurts, but you can’t force the words from your tightened throat. “Always manages to outsmart the killers. She's always so perfect. Except,” he holds up one scolding finger with a sharp grin. “When she helps assholes like me cheat on his homework.”

You jerk back, flesh stinging like you’ve been burned. Stu lets you go, smile creeping ever wider. “What the hell are you saying?” You demand, voice cracking as you get to your feet. 

“What’s the matter?” He asks, barely concealing his excitement as you back out of the room. “It’s just a joke,” he needles. 

Your back slams into something firm and your breath catches in your throat. “I don’t think we ever asked,” Stu taunts with a chuckle. 

Tilting your face back, you see Billy standing behind you, eyes dark and cold as they bore into yours. 

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” He whispers. 

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘏𝘰𝘵?

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 I saw the vision 💿

a/n: I lost the plot so hard y'all

end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Scream, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[verstappenverse]

The Bare Minimum

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max always thought you never asked for much because you didn’t need much, low-maintenance to a fault, until he finally overhears the truth.

4.4k words / Masterlist

Max had always appreciated how easy you were to love.

You didn’t demand. You didn’t sulk over missed dates. There were no passive-aggressive comments about him not posting you enough or forgetting to text back when a race weekend swallowed him whole. You never made him feel guilty for the parts of his life that were already complicated. When he was travelling or exhausted, you simply kissed his forehead and told him to rest. When his schedule changed last minute, you never got upset, never made him sit through a tense silence or apologise for the same thing five different ways, you just shrugged with that soft little smile of yours and said, “We’ll figure it out.”

You weren’t just low-maintenance, you were selfless, unshakeably chill in a way that made loving you feel almost effortless. You understood the pressure, the travel, the media, the endless demands on his time, and you never tried to add yourself to the list of things he needed to manage.

You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.

It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.

Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.

When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.

He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.

Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.

The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.

You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.

Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.

Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.

“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”

You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.

Max noticed that.

Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.

“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”

Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”

Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.

You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.

You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.

Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.

Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.

The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.

You laughed at the story.

You said, “That’s really sweet.”

Max heard the softness in your voice.

For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”

Then Max looked at you.

You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.

No flowers.

No post.

No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.

No little public signs that he was proud to love you.

No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.

His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.

He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”

Had you?

Had you really?

Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?

He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.

Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”

Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”

You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.

Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.

He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.

For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.

He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.

You liked flowers.

Of course you liked flowers.

Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.

Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.

How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?

How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?

How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?

Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.

Everyone laughed.

His girlfriend cried.

You smiled.

Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.

He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.

On the drive home you were quieter than usual.

Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.

Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.

Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.

You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”

Lovely.

The word sat between you.

Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”

“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”

There it was again. That careful admiration.

Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”

You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”

He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”

You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”

Max’s chest tightened.

That wasn’t what he had asked.

“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”

Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.

“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”

Max nodded once, jaw tense.

Thought.

That was the word that stayed with him.

You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.

Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.

“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.

You went very still.

The car felt smaller suddenly.

“Max…”

“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”

“I know you did.”

“Then why are you bringing it up?”

Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.

But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.

So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”

Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.

You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.

“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.

“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.

You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”

“You are not a thing on the list.”

“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.

Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.

You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.

He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.

Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.

He liked coming home to you.

He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.

The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.

Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.

“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”

There was a pause.

Max’s body went strangely still.

He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.

“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”

The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.

“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”

His throat tightened.

“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”

Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.

He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.

You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.

“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”

Max’s chest ached.

He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.

“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”

Max couldn’t breathe properly.

He hadn’t known.

He really hadn’t known.

He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.

The conversation ended a few minutes later.

He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.

You stopped when you saw him.

For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.

That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.

He kept hearing your voice.

“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”

He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.

God.

How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?

It gutted him.

You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.

You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.

You didn’t expect anything to change.

Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.

So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.

It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.

The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.

Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.

You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”

Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”

You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”

His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.

“I listened,” he said.

You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.

“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”

Your throat tightened.

“Max…”

“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”

You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.

He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.

You stared at it for a second before picking it up.

In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:

I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.

Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”

You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”

Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.

“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.

Then you finally kissed him.

Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.

Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.

You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.

“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”

Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”

“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”

You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”

He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”

“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.

“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”

“Oh, God.”

“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”

You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.

It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.

Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”

Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”

“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”

Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”

For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.

“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.

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