Bianca🌻

Warning!  Fluff, Angst, Smut (18+).

Note: I decided to make a list for all my writings. Hope you like it. I might add more people as I go.

Yours Truly, Bianca🌻

Concepts & Blurbs

Kylian Mbappé

Trent Alexander-Arnold

Virgil Van Dijk

Jude Bellingham

Aurélien Tchouaméni

Jules Koundé

Series:

Forever my heart (K.M)

*************

✨ Hey everyone! ✨

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Patreon Update!

Thank you🌟

-Bianca🌻

Good luck on your exams❤️

Hey!

1,000 followers.

I genuinely don't know what to say except... thank you. 🤍

When I started sharing my writing, I never imagined that so many people would want to read it, let alone stick around. Every follow, like, reblog, comment, request, and kind message has meant so much to me. You all have made this little corner of the internet feel like such a welcoming place.

Writing has always been something I love, and getting to share these stories with people who laugh, cry, scream, and fall in love with the characters alongside me is honestly such a privilege.

Whether you've been here since the beginning or you just found my page yesterday, thank you for giving my work a chance. Your support motivates me to keep improving and to keep creating stories that make people feel something.

This is only the beginning. I have so many fics, series, and ideas planned, and I can't wait to share them with all of you.

Hey everyone! I’ve just uploaded a new fic on my Patreon, and you definitely don’t want to miss it!

Head over now to check it out and show some love! 🙌

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Baby Making

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Michael can't get the image of you with your nephew out of his head.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Michael Olise x wife!reader

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 8.1k

Warnings! FLUFF! Michael being the best husband, fluffyness, this is a cute one, NSFW / SMUT (18+), explicit sexual content, unresolved sexual tension, dirty talk, praise, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms. soft filth. This chapter contains mature themes and explicit content intended for readers 18+. The full story is available to paid members.

Preview

**********

It comes to a head on a Thursday.

You're in the bedroom, sorting through a mountain of clothes piled on the bed—his training gear, your work blouses, the fitted sheets that you hate but always forget to throw away. It's mundane. Domestic. The kind of ordinary task that used to bore you when you lived alone but now feels almost meditative when he's here doing it with you.

Michael is across from you, folding with the same precise, methodical attention he gives everything. His piles are neat. Square. Edges aligned. Yours are... well, they're folded, and that's what matters.

You're working on a particularly stubborn fitted sheet—trying to tame it into something resembling a rectangle—when Michael's says it. So casual. So quiet. So him.

"I wanna have a baby."

Your hands freeze. The fitted sheet slips from your fingers, tumbling into a shapeless heap on the bed, but you don't reach for it. You just stand there, staring at the wrinkled fabric, because suddenly your brain is full of static and your heart is going erratic behind your ribs.

"I'm sorry," you manage, voice thin. "What?"

Michael doesn't look up from the shirt he's folding. His hands keep moving—left corner, right corner, smooth the fabric, crease the sleeve—but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there a moment ago. He's committed to the bit. To the casualness. Like he's discussing what to have for dinner instead of upending your entire life.

"I said," he repeats, still not looking at you, "I wanna have a baby. With you."

The room is very still.

The late afternoon light slants through the curtains, catching dust motes in the air, and somewhere outside a car passes, and you can hear your own breathing, too quick, too shallow, but Michael just keeps folding. He reaches for another shirt. Smooths the collar. Lines up the seams.

"You can't just—" You press a hand to your chest, as if you can physically slow your heartbeat. "You can't just say things like that, Mike."

Now he looks up. His dark eyes meet yours, and there it is—that flash behind his calm that you've been catching glimpses of all week. The thing he's been carrying alone in the dark. He sets the shirt down, and his hands still.

"Why not?" he asks, and it's so genuine, so completely earnest, that it makes your breath catch.

You stare at him. At this man—this quiet, steady, infuriatingly composed man who just dropped a grenade into the middle of your laundry pile like it was nothing. Looking at you with those calm, dark eyes as he genuinely waits for an answer.

"Because—" You shake your head, pressing your palms flat against the bed to steady yourself. "Because it's huge, Michael. It's— that's not— you don't just say that."

"I don't know how else to say it." He says, tone steady, even as his jaw sets. "I've been thinking about it for days. I'm not saying it to shock you. I just needed to tell you."

You exhale shakily, pressing a hand to your forehead. Your pulse is still racing, heart pounding so hard you're certain he can see it through your shirt. A baby. He wants a baby. With you. The words echo in your head, terrifying and thrilling in equal measure, and you don't know what to do with them.

"Michael, we're...A baby is such a big deal." You swallow, trying to find your footing. "I mean... think about it. The World Cup is literally months away."

There it is. The practical excuse. The safe harbor you can retreat to while your heart figures out what it actually wants.

He tilts his head slightly, watching you with that unnerving patience. "And?"

"And—?" You let out an exasperated breath, gesturing with both hands now, the fitted sheet completely forgotten. "And everything, Michael! You're about to be in the biggest tournament of your career. The scrutiny, the travel, the pressure—you'll be gone for weeks. And I'm up for that promotion at work, which means longer hours, more stress, and…" You trail off, pressing your fingers to your temples. "A baby doesn't exactly fit into that timeline."

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. He just watches you process, his dark eyes steady.

"The World Cup ends in July," he says simply. "Your promotion decision happens in June. If you get pregnant, the baby won't be here for nine months. We'd have more than enough time."

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

He's... not wrong. The logic tracks, and you hate that it does—hate how his quiet, methodical brain has clearly been mapping this out these last few days.

"That's—" You shake your head, letting out a breath that's half laugh, half exasperation. "That's not the point, Michael."

"Do you want to have a baby with me?"

The question steals the breath right from your lungs. It's so blunt, so unexpectedly direct, and it cuts right through the wall of practicalities you've been desperately trying to build.

"I—" You falter, the words tangling on your tongue because he's looking at you like that, seeing right through every defense you have. "'Course I do. You know I do." There it is. The truth you've been sidestepping, laid bare in three small words.

His jaw unclenches. His shoulders drop a fraction, and something in his expression shifts—just barely, barely enough for you to catch—and it hits you that he was actually nervous. Michael. Nervous. This man who has faced down eighty thousand screaming fans, who takes penalties in the ninetieth minute without his heart rate ticking up a single beat, was worried you'd say no.

You push off the bed, closing the distance between you in two steps, and cup his face in your hands. His skin is warm, his facial hair soft beneath your palms, and when you tilt his face up, his dark eyes finally—finally—let you see everything he's been hiding.

"I do," you say again, softer this time, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. "God, Mike, of course I do. How could I not?" Your voice breaks, and you laugh, wet and overwhelmed, pressing your forehead to his. "You're the best man I've ever known. Of course I want that with you."

He exhales—a long, shuddering breath that you feel pass between your lips—and his hands come up to cover yours on his face. He turns his head just slightly, pressing a kiss to your left palm, then your right, and you feel his lashes brush against your skin. He holds you there for a moment, breathing you in.

"After the World Cup," you whisper, deciding on a compromise. "We start trying after the World Cup ends. But only after."

You feel the corner of his mouth curve against your palm. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You pull back just enough to look at him, your thumbs sweeping across his cheekbones. "I'm not doing this unless we're both ready. And right now, with everything going on—"

"I know," he murmurs, and his hands slide from yours to wrap around your wrists. "After. I can wait."

You search his face, looking for any hint of reluctance, any trace of disappointment. But all you find is that same certainty that's been the backbone of your entire relationship. Michael doesn't say things he doesn't mean. If he says he can wait, he will.

"Okay," you breathe.

Then his hands are on your waist, and he's pulling you into him, and his mouth finds yours.

It's a gentle kiss. Though it's not the careful, tender press of lips that you're used to—the kind he gives you in the morning before work, or the soft pecks he drops onto your temple when you're falling asleep. This is different.

This is a promise. A thank you.

The only other kiss you have to compare it to is the the one he gave you at the altar, six months ago. A kiss so full of love it made your knees weak. A kiss where you can feel him break off a little piece of his soul and press it into the very core of your being, so you can keep it safe forever. A kiss where you become his future. This kiss is exactly like that.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands heavy and warm on your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft curve of your ribs. His eyes are dark, liquid, entirely focused on you. "Yeah," he murmurs, "Okay."

**********

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On Deck

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — This is wrong. You know it's wrong. If anyone caught you, you'd be ruined. But, God! It's too good to stop, to care.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Jobe Bellingham x reader, Jude Bellingham x reader

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 13.5k

Warnings! ANGST!! you're a dirty stinkin' cheater, toxic!reader, toxic!jude, FLUFF! Jobe is such a good boyfriend to you NSFW / SMUT (18+), explicit sexual content, dirty talk, praise, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, creampie. soft filth. This chapter contains mature themes and explicit content intended for readers 18+. The full story is available to paid members.

Preview

**********

His hand barely wraps around your wrist before he's pulling you into his room, which you've just noticed you were standing next to.

His cabin is larger than Jobe's—bigger bed, better view, a private bathroom. Birthday boy privileges. The door shuts behind you with a click and the music from the top deck is instantly cut off, courtesy of the soundproof room. But you don't know that yet.

He doesn't waste time.

He's on you before the lock turns.

His mouth crashes into yours, tongue pushing past your teeth, tasting the tequila and salt on your lips, as his hands are everywhere at once: gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, tangling in the hair at the back of your neck and pulling. Hard.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it.

The kiss is violent. Not like Jobe's kisses; always soft, questioning, always leaving you room to pull away. Jude kisses you like he's starving.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling until you whimper, and the sound seems to unravel something in him because his grip on your hair tightens and he walks you backward until your shoulders hit the wall with a thud that rattles the framed photo hanging beside the bed.

"Jude—" you pant against his mouth, hands flat on his chest. You're trying to push him away. You're trying to push him closer. Your fingers curl into the linen of his shirt instead, knuckles aching, and you feel his smirk against your lips.

"There she is," he murmurs, and his voice is so low it's almost a rumble. "There's my girl."

"I'm not your girl," you breathe, but the words dissolve into a whimper when his mouth drops to your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin below your jaw. His tongue follows, hot and wet, soothing the sting before he bites down again—harder this time—until you feel the bruise forming beneath the surface.

"Say that again," he challenges, lips dragging up the column of your throat. "Say it like you mean it."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He laughs against your pulse point and the humiliation of it, the sheer fucking audacity of this man, should make you shove him off. Should make you storm out. Should make you do a lot of things.

It doesn't. It only makes you wet.

His hands find the hem of your cover-up, yanking it over your head in one fluid motion. It lands somewhere on the floor—neither of you looks. You're in your bikini now, the scraps of fabric barely covering anything, and his eyes rake down your body with a hunger that makes your skin prickle head to toe.

He steps back—just half a step—just enough to look at you. His eyes drag from your face to your collarbone, to the swell of your breasts barely contained by the bikini top, down the plane of your stomach, to the thin strings of your bottoms resting on your hips. His tongue drags across his bottom lip.

"Get on your knees."

Your body responds before your brain can catch up. Your knees hit the plush carpet of his cabin floor, the impact softened but undeniable, and you're looking up at him from below—eyes level with the bulge straining his jeans.

He looks down at you, and the expression on his face is something you'll remember later, in the dark, when you're alone: half-lidded eyes, jaw set, mouth curled in a smirk that's equal parts cruel and amused.

His hand comes down, fingers gripping your jaw, tilting your face up.

"Look at you," he says, voice low and mocking. "On your knees for me. Can't wait to choke on this cock, can you?"

Your hands are already at his waistband, trembling as you work open his jeans, the zipper loud in the silence of the cabin. He doesn't help you—he just watches, thumb stroking along your jawline, patient and unhurried. Letting you do all the work.

You pull his jeans down his thighs, then his boxers, and his dick springs free—hard, thick, the tip already glistening. You've seen it before. You've had it inside you before. But the sight of it still makes your mouth water, still has your pussy clenching. Starving for it.

You wrap your hand around the base of him, and his breath hisses through his teeth. He's hot and heavy in your palm, and when you lean forward to drag your tongue across the tip, his hand tightens in your hair.

"Ah ah," he tuts, gripping your hair tighter and pulling you back just enough that your tongue can't reach him. "Look at you. Desperate little slut can't even wait."

Your face burns. "Jude—"

"Shut up." He taps his dick against your bottom lip, twice, the wetness of his precum smearing across it. "Didn't even beg yet. So fucking eager to cheat, aren't you?"

The word should snap you out of it. Should make you get up from this floor and go back to your loving drunk boyfriend upstairs. But you're in too deep.

"Yeah," he breathes, watching your face. "You like that, don't you? Like being reminded what you are." His thumb digs into your cheek, forcing your mouth open. "Dirty little slut. Can't help herself."

He feeds himself into your mouth slowly, inch by inch, watching your lips stretch around him with dark, blown-out eyes. Your tongue flattens against the underside of his shaft as he pushes deeper, and the saltiness of him coats your tastebuds.

He groans from low in his chest, "That's it," he murmurs, fingers tightening in your hair. "Take it. All of it."

You try. You relax your throat and breathe through your nose, hollowing your cheeks, and he pushes deeper until you feel him at the back of your throat. Your eyes water, and you grip his thighs for balance, nails digging into the hard muscle there.

He doesn't let you set the pace.

**********

Hi! First of all, thank you so much for supporting me and for being honest with how you're feeling.

I completely understand where you're coming from, and I don't want anyone to feel like they're paying for a membership without knowing what to expect.

I've been studying for my NCLEX exam these past few weeks, which is next Wednesday, so that's taken up almost all of my time. I probably should have communicated that better, and I apologize for the lack of updates.

The good news is that I'll be starting a consistent posting schedule this weekend so everyone knows exactly when to expect new content. Going forward, I'll be posting:

Sundays: Long fics (around 5k–20k words)

Wednesdays: Shorter fics (around 1k–5k words)

The only exception will be next Wednesday since that's the day I'm writing my NCLEX exam. After that, I'll be back to the regular schedule.

Thank you again for your patience and for supporting my writing. It genuinely means a lot to me, and I'm excited to get back to posting consistently once this exam is behind me. ❤️

Your girl finna be a nurse!!!

hii babes! i hope ure doing great 🫶🏻 im sooo interested in your patreon (especially your virgil one shots 🤭) i clicked the link went to the shop and found a bunch of one shots but I couldn’t figure out which ones are about virgil

would you mind telling me which ones they are ??? im currently hyper fixating on him 😭 and i wanna buy and read them asappp

Hii!

okay... i think it's finally time to address the request inbox 😭

first of all, thank you to everyone who's ever sent me a request. seriously. i read every single one, and it genuinely means a lot that you guys trust me with your ideas.

the bad news? my inbox has become... a little terrifying.

some requests are recent, some have been sitting there for months, and i'm pretty sure i found a few that are over a year old because i either forgot about them or never got around to writing them. that's completely on me, and i'm sorry to everyone who's been waiting so patiently.

so here's the plan:

i'm dedicating the rest of 2026—especially this summer—to finally working through my request list. i can't promise a specific posting schedule because i'm currently juggling work, life, and my Patreon, but my goal is to make a serious dent in the backlog. if you sent me a request, you can expect me to get to it this year. 🤍

as for new requests: yes, i'm still accepting them! just keep in mind that i'm prioritizing the older ones first. unless your request immediately grabs my attention and i get inspired, or it's World Cup-related (because i'm in my football era rn 😭), it probably won't be posted right away.

thank you guys for being so patient and understanding. i appreciate all of you more than you know, and i'm really excited to finally bring a lot of these ideas to life.

let's clear this inbox 🫡

Will you be writing a part 2 for this?

Don't forget my Patreon is now available for $3; don't miss your chance to catch up on all the exclusive content!

mine to have

Masterlist

To celebrate my baby's first scores in this world cup so far

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — I now pronounce you husband and wife.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Kylian Mbappé x reader

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 2.0k

Warnings! NSFW / SMUT (18+), explicit sexual content, softdom!Kylian, established relationship, breeding kink, multiple orgasms, This chapter contains mature themes and explicit content intended for readers 18+.

“Putain,” Kylian growls as he thrusts harder into your pussy.

The slick sounds of him driving into you mix with the breathless whimpers escaping your lips as you clutch the disheveled sheets beneath you.

The gold band on your finger catches the dim lamplight every time your hand twists in the fabric—a reminder that this is forever now, that he's yours and you're his and neither of you can get enough.

"Feel so fucking good, mon amour," he breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice cracking on the endearment. His hips stutter, grinding deep before pulling back and slamming forward again. The wet slap of skin against skin echoes through the honeymoon suite, punctuated by the rhythmic creak of the bed frame. "This pussy was made for me, huh? Say it."

You arch into him, nails raking down the sweat-slicked muscles of his back. "It's yours," you manage, the words dissolving into a moan when he hits that spongy spot inside, "All yours, Ky—"

"That's right," he groans, the sound vibrating against your throat where his lips are pressed, hot and open-mouthed. "All fucking mine. This body, this pussy—all of it."

He shifts his weight, sliding one hand beneath your hips to angle you up, and the new position lets him sink impossibly deeper. A broken cry tears from your throat as your eyes squeeze shut, overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness.

"Look at me," he demands, voice rough and ragged. His free hand comes up to grip your jaw, tilting your face toward his. "Eyes on me, baby." Your lashes flutter open to find his dark gaze burning into you—pupils blown so wide there's barely a ring of brown left. His lips are swollen and parted, jaw slack with pleasure, "Good girl," he murmurs, and the words drip like honey straight down your spine. His thumb traces along your cheekbone, a tender gesture that contradicts the relentless snap of his hips. "My good girl. My wife."

You keen at the word—wife—still so new and sweet on his tongue. It sends tingles down your spine, makes you clench hard around him, and the guttural sound that rips from his chest is almost pained.

"Say it back," he rasps, thumb pressing into the soft skin beneath your jaw. "Tell me what you are."

"Your wife," you whisper, and the admission makes your gummy walls clench around him involuntarily. "I'm your wife."

Kylian's whole body shudders at the words, a harsh breath hissing through his teeth. "Fuck yeah you are," he groans, driving into you with renewed fervor. The headboard slams against the wall with each thrust, and you're distantly grateful this suite is private because the sounds spilling from you both are anything but discreet.

His hand slides from your jaw to the base of your throat, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. "My wife," he repeats unable to stop himself, "Mine to fuck. Mine to fill." His rhythm falters for a heartbeat, control slipping as your bodies rock together. "Gonna put a baby in you."

The words hit. Your whole body seizes around him, a loud moan tearing from your throat as your nails sink deeper into his shoulders.

"Yeah?" His voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper, but there's a predatory edge beneath the raw need. A wicked grin spreads across his sweaty face. "You like that, baby? Hm?" He rolls his hips, slow and deep, letting you feel every inch. "Like thinking about me getting you pregnant?"

You can't form words, can only nod frantically, your head tossing against the pillow as the image floods your mind. Your belly round and swollen with his child. Proof of him, inside you, permanent and undeniable.

"Fuck," he breathes, watching your face twist with pleasure. "I can feel you getting wetter. You want that, don't you? Want me to breed this pretty pussy?"

"Yes," you cry out, the word ripping out of you before you can stop it. "God, Kylian, yes—"

His hand flexes on your throat, squeezing ever so slightly, claiming, keeping you exactly where he wants you. "Gonna look so fucking pretty with my baby in you," he rasps, his rhythm turning savage. Each thrust is aimed deep, bordering on painful. "Walk around with my ring on your finger and my child in your belly. Everyone's gonna know." His hand drops from your throat to splay across your belly, pressing down where he's hitting deep inside, and the pressure makes you see stars. "Gonna be so beautiful, bébé. Already beautiful, but with my baby...putain—"

He cuts himself off with a groan, dropping his forehead to yours. His breath fans across your lips, jaw clenched tight, lashes fluttering as he fights for control. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and drops onto your collarbone.

"Don't stop," you beg, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, heels digging into the firm muscle just above his ass. "Don't stop, don't—"

"Not stopping," he pants against your mouth, the words more vow than reassurance. "Never stopping. Gonna fuck you like this every day. Every fucking day until it takes."

The crude promise sends you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashes through you without warning—a white-hot wave that has you screaming his name, back bowing off the mattress as every muscle in your body locks tight. You clamp around him like a vice, pulsing and desperate, and the sound he makes is almost feral.

"Putain, oui, comme ça." His accent thickens, French spilling from his lips in a broken stream as your walls milk him through every aftershock. "Good girl, good fucking girl, take it."

He doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything, your orgasm makes him hungrier, his hips piston faster, harder.

"Too much," you whimper, trembling hands pressing against his chest. The pleasure borders on agonizing now, every nerve ending fried and raw.

"No," he growls, catching your wrists, pinning them above your head in one large hand. "You can take it. Take it for me. Allez bébé—" His accent is so thick you can barely parse the French from the English. His free hand grips your thigh, shoving it wider, opening you up so he can sink even deeper.

"Kylian," His name breaks apart in your mouth.

"That's it," he rasps, eyes rolling back for a second before snapping to yours again. Wild. Hungry. "Keep squeezing me like that, bébé. Fuck, keep doing that."

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up, clenching around him involuntarily, milking his cock with each overstimulated flutter. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes—the pleasure is too much, too intense, your still-spasming walls screaming with sensation—but you can't stop, don't want to stop.

"Look at you," he breathes, voice shot through with awe. His thumb digs into your thigh, holding you open as he watches himself sink into you over and over. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, jaw tight, brow furrowed in concentration. "So pretty taking me like this. So fucking pretty."

He releases your wrists to brace himself above you, both hands framing your head, forearms flexing as he drives forward with renewed urgency. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down until his chest is flush against yours, until you can feel his heart hammering against your ribs. His sweat dampens your skin, his breath hot and ragged against your slin.

"Need you closer," you sob into his shoulder, fingers clawing at his damp skin. "Need—"

"I know," he gasps, reading your mind, reading your body, reading everything. "I know, bébé, I know."

He folds you nearly in half, hiking your leg higher around his waist, and the angle shifts so he's grinding directly against your clit with every punishing stroke. You scream—actually scream—into the heated air.

The sound is swallowed by his mouth crashing down on yours—teeth and tongue and desperate, messy kisses that taste like salt. You're sobbing against his lips, overwhelmed, overstimulated, another orgasm already building impossibly fast on the heels of the first.

"That's it," he groans into your mouth, swallowing every whimper. "Give me another one. Can you? Can you give me one more?"

"I don't...I can't—"

"You can," he growls, the words more command than encouragement. "You will. For me."

His hand finds the mess of slick between your bodies, fingers sliding through your folds to find your clit. The first touch has you shrieking—too much, everything is too much—but he doesn't pull back. Instead, he works you with the same relentless precision he brings to everything, tight circles that make your vision blur.

"Kyky, please," You don't even know what you're begging for. For him to stop? For him to never stop? Your brain is short-circuiting, thoughts fragmenting like scattered puzzle pieces.

"Please what?" he demands, though his voice breaks on the words, "Tell me what you need, bébé. Use your words."

You can't. You physically cannot form a coherent sentence right now, your entire existence reduced to the place where his body meets yours, the obscene wet sounds, the relentless pressure of his fingers on your swollen clit. All that escapes you is a broken, moaning sound.

"That's what I thought," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even though your eyes are squeezed shut, tears now leaking freely down your temples into your sweat-dampened hair. "You don't know what you want, do you? You just need me to give it to you."

A sob catches in your throat because he's right—he's so right. You don't know anything anymore except his hands, his cock, the way he owns every inch of your body.

"That's okay," he murmurs, and there's tenderness layered beneath the filth, "I know what you need. I always know."

His fingers don't let up on your clit. If anything, they move faster, rougher, slick sliding against swollen flesh while his hips keep that punishing rhythm. The sound is obscene, wet, your bodies speaking a language older than words.

"Going to make you come again," he breathes against your ear, his voice a dark promise. "And then I'm going to fill you up. Every drop. You understand me? Every fucking drop staying inside you."

The words are a trigger—your second orgasm slams into you like a freight train, ripping through your exhausted body with a force that makes the first one seem gentle. You sob his name, your walls clamping down on him so hard he swears aloud.

"Putain de merde," His hips stutter, rhythm finally breaking as your pulsing cunt pushes him right over the edge. His whole body goes rigid above you, muscles locked and trembling, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tendons straining in his neck and cums.

He buries himself as deep as your bodies will allow, one hand slamming flat against the headboard to brace himself as he grinds in with desperate, jerky thrusts, determined to leave every single drop exactly where it belongs.

"Shit." His face contorts, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, lips parted around breaths that sound almost pained. Beautiful. He's so beautiful like this.

You hold him through it, arms wrapped tight around his sweat-slicked shoulders, legs still locked around his waist to keep him close, keep him deep. You feel every tremor that runs through his body, every ragged exhale against the crook of your neck where he's buried his face.

"Yes," you whisper, voice hoarse and wrecked. Your fingers card through his damp coils, nails gently scratching his scalp. "Give me all of it, baby."

He shudders at your words, chest heaving against yours, and you can feel his heartbeat racing so fast it's almost worrying. "Every drop," he mumbles into your neck, the words slurring together like he's drunk. And maybe he is, drunk on you, on this, on the mind-melting fact that you're his wife now. "Gonna… putain… stay inside."

"I've got you," you soothe, fingers continuing their gentle motion at the nape of his neck. You press a soft kiss to his temple, tasting salt. "I've got you, baby."

He stays inside you longer than strictly necessary, neither of you in any rush to break the spell that love has you under. His weight settles more fully onto you, and you welcome it.

"Sorry," he mumbles eventually, words muffled against your skin. "Am I crushing you?"

"Don't care," you say, and you mean it. You'd let him smother you right now if it meant keeping this feeling a little longer. "Stay."

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one-on-one

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Three months of lingering glances, teasing interviews, and relentless flirting finally come to a head when one scheduling mix-up leaves you and Eduardo Camavinga alone with nowhere left to hide.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Eduardo Camavinga x reader

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 11.6k

Warnings! NSFW / SMUT (18+), explicit sexual content, unresolved sexual tension, workplace romance, mutual pining, dirty talk, praise, oral (f & m receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms. Filthy filth. This chapter contains mature themes and explicit content intended for readers 18+. The full story is available to paid members.

Preview

**********

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags them down excruciatingly slowly, letting the fabric drag across your sensitive skin. The cool air of the room hits your bare cunt, and you clench instinctively, the motion making a slick, wet sound.

Eduardo’s breath hitches as he stares, taking in the swollen, glistening flesh "Putain," he whispers, the French slipping out, rough and thick. "Look at this pretty pussy. So fucking wet." He explores as he talks, trailing his fingertips through your slick folds, spreading you open gently, and you both groan—him at the slick heat coating his fingers, you at the agonizingly light touch.

He holds you open, watching your entrance clench around nothing, watching a thick bead of arousal slip out of you and drip onto the table. "Fuck. That's so fucking sexy, bébé."

His hot breath fans over your bare cunt, and you shudder, your hands flying back to grip the edge of the table so hard your knuckles pop. He takes his time, pressing soft, teasing kisses along your inner thighs, letting the scratch of his stubble graze over the hyper-sensitive skin until you're squirming, whimpering, desperate for his mouth where you actually need it.

"please—" You sound absolutely wrecked, and you don't even care. You reach down with one hand, fingers tangling in his locs, trying to guide him to your aching cunt, but he just chuckles and pulls back just out of reach.

"You don't deserve it yet," he murmurs, his lips brushing the crease where your thigh meets your hip. "Been making me wait three months, beautiful. Teasing me with those tight skirts, those looks across the room..."

"Camavinga, I swear to God—"

His palm comes down on your inner thigh—sharp, stinging—and you yelp, the sound echoing off the walls.

"Watch your mouth," he says, but there's a thread of dark amusement winding through the command. His hand soothes over the spot he just slapped, rubbing the warmth into your skin, and the juxtaposition of pain and pleasure makes your head spin. "It's about time I take my revenge. You're gonna lie there and take what I give you. Understood?"

You swallow hard, chest heaving. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes... sir."

The word slips out before you can stop it, and something shifts in his expression—a flash of pure, predatory satisfaction that makes your stomach drop and your cunt throb in equal measure.

"Good girl." He presses a kiss to the spot he just slapped, and the gentleness of it is almost worse than the sting. "See? You can behave when you want to."

Then he stops teasing.

His mouth finally closes over your clit, and the sensation rockets through you so violently that a loud, shattered cry tears from your throat before you can catch it, your hand fisting so tight in his locs that your fingernails scrape against his scalp.

He groans in response and his tongue goes to work.

He's ravenous, sloppy, and absolutely relentless. His tongue drags flat and broad over your clit before flicking in sharp, precise strokes that have your vision blurring at the edges. He eats you out like a starving man at a feast—no finesse, all hunger—moaning against your flesh like he's the one getting off on it.

"Oh my god—" Your head drops back, thudding against the wall behind the table, but you barely register the dull thud of pain. Not when his tongue is doing that.

He really is eating you out with the way he groans and slurps and messily coats his chin in your slick. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth working your cunt echo off the thin walls of the cramped room, and a distant, rational part of your brain thinks that someone simply has to hear this, but then his tongue dips lower, pushing inside your clenching hole, and that rational part dissolves into white noise.

"Fuck, you taste incredible," he rasps against your flesh, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal. He stares at your pussy, watching his thumbs part your slick folds, chest heaving. "So sweet, bébé. Better than I imagined."

His thumb tests the give of your entrance, and he grunts, feeling the resistance against the thick digit. "So tight," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Gonna have to open you up for me." He pushes in slowly, sinking his thumb into the wet, clenching heat up to the knuckle, and your jaw drops, a high, breathy whimper escaping you. The stretch is a dull, sweet ache, your body eagerly swallowing him in.

Then his mouth is back on your clit, and he sucks—hard—while his thumb curls inside you, and the dual sensation makes your eyes roll back. Your spine arches, thighs shaking violently on either side of his head.

"Ed—Eduardo, I'm—" The words fragment in your throat, dissolving into a broken whine as he removes his thumb to sink two long fingers deep inside you with one slick thrust.

The sudden, delicious stretch makes you keen. "Oh, fuck—"

"Yeah, give it to me," he murmurs against your clit, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves straight to your core. He curls his fingers, finding that rough, swollen patch of flesh high inside your cunt, and presses. "Soak my face, bébé. Let me feel you."

His fingers stroke in a relentless, punishing rhythm—curving up on the thrust, dragging against your front wall, pistoning into you so deep that your belly flutters with the sheer force of it. His mouth seals back over your clit, sucking with a desperate, hollow pressure, and that coil in your stomach winds so unbearably tight you feel yourself starting to shatter.

"Oh god—oh god—" You're babbling, gasping, your hand fisting his locs so tight you're probably hurting him, but he doesn't stop. If anything, he gets messier, his tongue swirling over your clit in tight, frantic circles as if he's chasing it as desperately as you are.

Your orgasm slams into you so hard you almost see white.

You come with a shattered, broken cry—his name tearing from your throat in a weak wail. Your thighs clamp vice-tight around his head, your entire body seizing as wave after wave of blinding pleasure crashes through you. Your cunt spasms hard around his fingers, clenching and releasing in frantic pulses, and you feel yourself gush, hot and slick, coating his chin, his lips, his hand.

Eduardo doesn't stop.

He keeps his mouth locked over your clit, sucking you through every aftershock, swallowing every drop you give him. His fingers don't slow down, pushing through the slick clutch of your gummy walls. The overstimulation punches you, and you thrash against the table, a wrecked sob escaping your lips.

"Wait—too much—" You tug weakly at his locs, trying to pull him off, caught between agony and ecstasy.

But he doesn't listen. "Nuh-uh," he mumbles against your flesh, the words vibrating against your swollen clit. "Let me eat, baby. I'm hungry." The rumble of his voice against your hypersensitive flesh makes you lightheaded. Your brain is complete mush, entirely taken over by the agonizing, exquisite pleasure of his mouth.

"I can't—" you sob, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath, but your body betrays you entirely. Your hips are rolling against his face, chasing the friction even as you try to pull away, the sting of overstimulation melting so quickly back into a sick, twisted pleasure. "It's too much—"

He forces your trembling thighs wider, pushing them apart until you're bent in half, and seals his mouth over you again, sucking your throbbing clit between his lips. His fingers twist inside you, pressing hard against that devastating spot, and suddenly, you feel another orgasm rushing up like a freight train—faster, sharper, wetter than the first.

You don't just come this time—you squirt.

**********

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