i just saw jude’s photo dump from cannes so my mind immediately went to boat sex with jude. could i request a fic with you both going on vacation and you basically have sex in the boat?💗
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morning tide
Masterlist
Sorry to Anon for taking so long with this. Been dealing with a massive case of writer's block. Kinda short but hope you like it!
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — A quiet anniversary morning aboard a yacht.
𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Jude Bellingham x reader
𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 2.5k
Warnings! NSFW / SMUT (18+), explicit sexual content, gentle dom!Jude, established relationship, anniversary sex, This chapter contains mature themes and explicit content intended for readers 18+.
The Mediterranean sun hasn’t even breached the horizon yet, but the heat radiating from the body pressed against your back is enough to make you forget the early morning chill.
You wake slowly, dragged from the depths of sleep by the sensation of lips tracing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The yacht rocks gently beneath you, a rhythmic, soothing sway that contrasts sharply with the intent in Jude’s hands.
He is spooned behind you, one heavy arm thrown possessively over your waist, tugging you to him until there isn’t a single millimeter of space left between your bodies. You sigh, a soft, contented sound that seems to encourage him, and his hand begins to wander. It starts innocently enough, his fingers splaying wide against your stomach, his thumb stroking lazy circles against your ribs, but you know him better than that. You know the way his breathing hitches just slightly when you arch back into him.
"Happy anniversary," he rasps against your neck, his voice thick with sleep and that deep, gravelly cadence that never fails to pool heat low in your belly.
You turn your head to find him already watching you, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark in the dim light of the cabin. He looks devastating like this, defenses completely down. He leans in to capture your lips, and it’s a slow, lazy burn of a kiss. His hand slips lower, sensually bypassing the curve of your waist.
"Jude," you whine against his mouth, your naked body arching instinctively into his touch.
"Hmm?" he hums, but he doesn't stop. His fingers explore you with a deliberate, languid pace, as if he has nowhere else to be in the world but right here, tangled in these sheets with you.
You wince as his large palm cups you, his fingers pressing through the slick evidence of your arousal, proving he isn’t the only one who woke up ready. He groans low in his throat, a vibration you feel all the way down your spine, and the sound is purely territorial.
"Already so wet for me," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his accent thickening around the syllables.
"I'm sore," you whisper, though your body betrays you, your hips rocking instinctively to meet the rhythm of his hand.
"I know, baby, I know," he coos, pressing a kiss to your temple, but he doesn't let up. Instead, he shifts his weight, maneuvering you until you’re flat on your back and he can hover over you. The sheets pool around your waists, leaving your chest exposed to the cool, conditioned air. His eyes drag over you, dark and hungry, taking in the mark he left on your collarbone last night.
His knee nudges your thighs apart, settling firmly between them. You groan as his weight settles, a deliciously painful pressure that reminds you exactly why your muscles are protesting this morning.
"Sorry, baby," he murmurs, though the curve of his lips suggests he isn't sorry at all. He dips his head, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the stinging mark on your collarbone, his tongue soothing the ache before he bites down gently again. "got a bit carried away last night. Couldn't help myself."
You thread your fingers into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, pulling him closer rather than pushing him away. The truth is, you love seeing him like this—uninhibited, focused entirely on you. The golden boy of football, usually so composed under the stadium lights, is completely unraveled in your arms.
"You're insatiable," you breathe, watching as he begins to trail kisses down the center of your chest, between the valley of your breasts, over your racing heart.
"Only for you," he counters immediately. He doesn't even look up, too intent on his path south, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "Can't help it when you look like this. Woke up hard just looking at you."
The confession sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, banishing the lingering ache in your muscles. Your hands slide from his hair down to his broad shoulders, your fingers tracing the familiar topography of his back. You feel the tightness of the muscles there, the result of endless training sessions, but your thumb catches on something else—smooth, raised skin.
You drag your fingertips over the scar on his left shoulder, a now permanent reminder of the sacrifice he makes for the game he loves.
He tenses for a fraction of a second under your touch, a reflex he can’t quite shake, before melting into your caress. He lifts his head from where he was worshipping the skin of your stomach, and his eyes find yours.
The morning light catches the chocolate of his eyes, turning them molten as he stares down at you, the moment of vulnerability passing as quickly as it came. He captures your hand, bringing your fingers to his lips to press a lingering kiss to the pads, his gaze never leaving yours.
"I love you, baby," he murmurs against your skin, the words slightly muffled against your fingertips before he releases your hand.
The intensity in his gaze shifts, the dark clouds of desire parting to reveal the sheer, unadulterated adoration that always manages to make your breath hitch. He doesn't give you a chance to respond; instead, he slides back down your body, his broad hands gripping your hips to pin you to the mattress.
His mouth finds the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you gasp, your hands flying back to the sheets to fist the expensive cotton.
He takes his time, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin there, teasing you. You can feel the stubble on his jaw scratching against you, a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.
"Stop teasing, Jude," you plead, your voice breathy and thin, desperation clawing at your throat. "Please."
He looks up from between your thighs, his chin resting against your skin, a smirk playing on his lips, equal parts arrogant and affectionate. "Patience," he chides softly, though the way his grip tightens on your hips betrays his own waning control. "It's our anniversary, love. Let me love on you."
With that, he finally grants you what you’ve been begging for.
The first drag of his tongue against your clit is slow and torturous, stealing the air from your lungs. Your back bows off the mattress, a broken cry falling from your lips as your hands automatically clench the sheets.
You crave more, your hips lifting in a silent, desperate plea, so you tell him. "Jude, please… need more."
But he just shakes his head in a smug, predatory kind of way, muttering a "Patience, baby" as he lays gentle, wet kisses against your pussy lips, driving you wild.
You look down the length of your body, meeting his gaze as he watches you with heavy lids. He likes this—likes seeing you come undone for him, likes knowing that he's the only one who can make you feel this way.
"Baby, please," you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair again, tugging sharply to get your point across. "Stop teasing me. I need you inside. Now."
He groans against your skin and pulls back, his face glistening slightly, and the look in his eyes is feral. He knows you’re at your limit.
"Alright, alright," he mutters, pushing himself up the bed. He doesn't bother with gentle finesse now; the need is too urgent. He settles between your thighs, the heavy weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.
He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, and the motion makes you wince, still sensitive from the five-hour sex marathon he had you doing last night.
He notices immediately, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he stills above you. "You okay?" he asks, brows twisting up in concern now, all his playful arrogance from earlier vanishing in an instant.
"Mmhmm," you hum, nodding quickly as you wrap your legs around his waist, hooking your ankles together at the base of his spine to pull him closer. You need him to fill the ache, to occupy every sense you have. "I want you. Don't stop."
He exhales a shaky breath, dipping his head to nuzzle his nose against yours, a gesture so tender it makes you melt. "You sure? I don't want to hurt you."
"I'm sure," you whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Please, Jude."
That’s all the permission he needs. He starts to push forward, the stretch intense and overwhelming in the best way possible.
He takes it agonizingly slow, his jaw clenching with the heavenly sensation of your wetwarm gummy walls sucking him in. He stops every now and again, eyes locked on your face to make sure you're okay, waiting for you to adjust to his sheer size before he inches deeper.
It’s an exquisite kind of torture, the way he fills you so completely, stretching you until the dull ache morphs into a blinding pleasure that whites out your vision.
"Fuck," he grits out, his voice straining as he finally bottoms out, his hips flush against yours. "You feel incredible."
He drops his forehead to yours, his breathing ragged and hot against your skin. For a moment, he just holds himself there, buried deep inside you, letting you both adjust to the overwhelming sensation of becoming one.
The silence stretches, filled only by the ragged sound of your mingled breathing and the distant hum of the ocean against the hull.
He stays perfectly still, but the effort it takes for him to remain motionless is evident in the lines of his shoulders. You feel his cock throb inside you, and your walls clench instinctively around him.
Jude groans low in his throat, the sound muffled as his head drops into your neck. "You keep doing that, and I’m not going to last," he warns, his voice strained.
"Can't help it," you breathe, your voice barely a whisper as you tilt your head to the side, exposing the column of your throat to him. "You feel so good."
He lets out a ragged laugh against your skin, "You're going to be the death of me, woman."
He starts to move then, withdrawing almost entirely before sliding back home in one fluid roll of his hips. It’s a stark contrast to the frantic urgency of last night; this morning, he’s taking his time, savoring you.
The rhythm he sets is a devastating; slow grinds that steals the breath from your lungs. He isn't fucking you so much as he is worshipping the very ground you walk on, pouring every ounce of his affection into the slide of his body against yours. Each stroke is deep and measured, designed to hit that spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him as your hands roam desperately over the sweat-slicked expanse of his back, your fingernails digging into his shoulders, drowning yourself in him as the pleasure builds to a fever pitch.
"Look at me," he commands softly, though the gentleness of his tone betrays the authority in his words. He pulls back slightly, framing your face with one large hand, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "Want to see those eyes when I make love to you."
You force your eyes open, locking onto his getting lost in the gentle pools of his love. The yacht swaying on the water only adds to the romantic bubble you've built. The gentle rocking motions almost lulling you to sleep.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, ducking down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, swallowing the moan that spills from your throat. "Best year of my life, baby. You know that?"
"Knowing you makes it mine," you manage to choke out as the pressure coils low and tight in your belly. "I love you so much."
The confession seems to undo him. His rhythm stutters, that famous composure cracking completely as he buries his face in your neck again. He picks up the pace just enough, the slow, languid strokes turning sharper, more intent on dragging you over the edge with him.
"Come on, baby," he urges, his voice a rough, breathless whisper against your ear. His hand slides down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with ease to circle that bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. "Let me feel you. Give it to me."
The friction is exactly what you need, that tight coil in your belly snapping loose with violence. You cry out his name, your body arching off the mattress as the pleasure washes over you in waves, pulling you under. Your walls flutter around him, dragging a ragged groan from his throat.
"That’s it," he grits out, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own end. "Fuck, I love you."
He buries himself deep one last time, his hips flush against yours as he falls apart. You feel the heat of him spilling inside you, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.
The silence that follows is perfect, filled only with the ragged sounds of your breathing as you both come down from the high. Jude collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, but you don’t mind. In fact, you relish it.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close, your fingers tracing the damp sheen of sweat on his skin. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your throat.
You stay like that for a long time, tangled in the sheets and in each other, neither of you willing to break apart just yet. It’s a quiet moment of pure intimacy, the kind that makes the rest of the world feel miles away—which, technically, it is.
Eventually, reality calls in the form of a grumbling stomach causing Jude to laugh against your neck.
"Quit it," you mumble, though you’re smiling, running a hand through his messy curls, damp at the roots from exertion.
He presses a lingering kiss to your collarbone before pushing himself up, rolling off you with a groan that’s half-pleasure, half-exhaustion. The loss of his warmth is immediate, and you shiver slightly, pulling the duvet up to cover your bare chest. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, scrubbing a hand over his face, looking beautifully debauched.
The morning light is fully spilled into the cabin now, illuminating the golden tone of his dark skin and the defined muscles of his back as he stretches his arms over his head. He looks like a greek statue, except for the lazy, satisfied grin he shoots you over his shoulder.
"Come on then," he says, standing up and unabashedly naked, padding across the room to grab his discarded briefs from the floor. He pulls them on, the fabric sitting low on his hips. "Let's get you fed before you waste away."
You laugh, the sound still raspy from sleep and screaming his name earlier, and force yourself out of the warm cocoon of the bed.
-Bianca🌻
