Hii! I don't know if you write Smut or not but even if you don't, can you write something about Jobe Bellingham?
I was really SO excited to write something about this hot man! I hope you like it, diva. <3
Pairing: Jobe Bellingham x reader. Warning: sexual content, vulgar words and inappropriate language for children under 18 years of age. Author's note: I apologize for any spelling mistakes, English is not my native language.
The final whistle sounded and the stadium exploded in a roar. Jobe, sweaty and with his face illuminated by a smile so big that it seemed impossible to vent, ran to hug his companions in the middle of the field. The confusion of the players in yellow and black celebrating was beautiful, but their eyes instinctively sought a specific point in the stands, near the grid. There they were. Your pillars. Your father, Mark, with a serene pride stamped on his face; your mother, Denise, wiping a tear of happiness; and you. Vibrating, jumping, with her hands on her face, as emotional as he is.
After the official congratulations, the raised trophy, and the group photos, the moment Jobe had most longed for arrived. He dodged the circle of interviews and, still in his cleats and with the medal dangling from his chest, went straight to the edge of the stands. An understanding security guard opened the small gate. He climbed the steps quickly, two at a time, until he reached them.
“Father, Mother…,” he said, wrapping them both in a quick, tight hug. “Thank you for being here.”
“We’re so proud of you, son,” Denise said, squeezing his face.
But then, his eyes met yours. His smile became something more intimate, softer. “And you…”, he whispered, pulling you close, his sweat mingling with your embrace. You smelled the grass and the effort, and it was the best thing in the world. “Did you see?”
“I did. You were amazing,” you managed to say, your voice choked with emotion.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, with a naturalness that made your heart race, he took the heavy, still-warm medal from his own neck. The light reflected off the metal as he carefully and solemnly placed it around yours.
“It’s ours,” he stated simply, his fingers lightly touching the medal now on your chest.
Then, he put his arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his side. Together, you began to descend the steps toward the field, where other families were already walking, sharing that unique moment.
As you two walked slowly, absorbing the atmosphere, Jobe's arm firmly around you, Mark and Denise followed a few steps behind, giving the couple space. Soon they were approached by the coach, who came over with a wide smile, pulling them further away from the couple and giving them their moment.
Jobe's arm, already firm on your shoulders, slid down with clear intention. His large hand found the curve of your waist, and in an instant, he pulled you against his body with a force that took your breath away. You were no longer just walking; now, each step was a deliberate friction. The excitement of the game, of victory, seemed to have been channeled entirely into his touch.
You felt the heat of his body, the sweat that still dampened his shirt, and something more: his firm, unmistakable pressure, already hard and insistent against your side. He leaned in, his lips touching the shell of your ear, and the warm air of his breath made you shudder.
Your face flushed. Your usual shyness surfaced reflexively. You lightly placed your hands on his chest, a gesture more of embarrassment than real resistance. “Jobe…we can’t,” you whispered, turning your face away, but he only squeezed you tighter. “There are photographers everywhere.”
He laughed, a low, lascivious sound that came straight from his chest. His eyes, dark with desire, didn’t even blink. The presence of the cameras, the fans, the family behind him, seemed to have made him even bolder.
Jobe's answer was a simple and hoarse "So what?". He didn't even look to the side. Instead, he tilted his head to lean his forehead lightly on his temple, an absurd gesture of intimacy in the middle of that entire stadium. A carefree and slightly mischievous smile played on his lips.
"Let everyone see. Let everyone know.", he said, his voice a low vibration that only you could hear in the middle of the noise.
You felt a chill in your stomach, mixed with that heat that stubbornly colored your cheeks. It was pure exposure, and your shyest side wanted to shrink and disappear. But there was another part, one that grew with each passing second with him by your side, that found it incredibly daring. And, secretly, a little exciting.
"I knew I would succeed.", he said with a hoarse voice and loaded with an English accent, a whisper just for you. "At each goal, I thought: 'one more reason to have sex with her until she can't take it anymore'."
He didn't care. He was there, with you, period. In the middle of all that chaos, with the photographer probably clicking away nonstop and his medal weighing on your neck. You felt a damp shock between your legs, your own response to his raw, unfiltered desire. He felt your trembling.
"Calm down," he murmured, his warm breath on your ear, completely ignoring your attempt to create an inch of distance. His arm tightened around your waist more possessively.
The hand on your waist slid down, his fingers digging into the curve of your hip, pulling you even closer to the intense erection he made no effort to hide. "Every time I saw you in the stands, standing there, shouting my name… I'd get as hard as a rock in those shorts. It's a miracle I managed to play."
His face was still hot, but a stubborn smile insisted on appearing. His confidence was contagious, even when it came with that petulance that only he knew how to control. While you were trying to get used to the idea of ​​being in the photo, he tilted his head.
Your head turned again, and this time the whisper came laden with a malice that sent a completely different shiver down your spine.
"And speaking of winning titles…," he began, his voice a silky thread of provocation in your ear. "Someone made a promise, didn't they? Something about… a very specific desire of mine."
Your whole body froze for a fraction of a second. You remembered. That tender night, half-joking, half-serious, you let slip, in a shy tone that now sounded like a sentence: "If you win… I'll let you have sex with me in the team's locker room." It was one of those things you say in the heat of the moment, without believing the universe would hold you to it.
Jobe sensed your reaction, the slight freeze. He laughed, low and victorious, as if he had intercepted the most important ball of the game. "Ah, you remembered, didn't you?" he said, and his fingers on your waist made a slow movement, almost drawing circles. "I didn't forget for a second. I spent the whole game thinking about it. Every pass, every run… it had an extra purpose."
He stepped back enough to look into her eyes, and his expression was pure, arrogant, and seductive fury. A look of someone who knows he's won on all fronts.
"EntĂŁo, assim que eu me livrar dos meus pais e da mĂdia", continuou ele, com a voz baixa, mas cada palavra clara e cheia de intenção, "vocĂŞ e eu vamos dar uma volta. E esta medalha...", tocou o metal que pesava em seu pescoço, puxando-a levemente para baixo, "...vai fazer um estrondo ao bater no armário. Promessa Ă© promessa, meu bem. E eu vim buscar."
O The locker room was silent, a stark contrast with the party that was still bubbling outside. The air still carried the smell of sweat, muscle spray and victory. You were kneeling on the cold tiled floor, wearing only his number 7 shirt, sweaty and too wide, which reached your thighs. He was sitting on the wooden bench, with his shoulder blades relaxed, the cold and hard gold medal swaying in his chest with each panting breath.
Your lips were warm and determined around him, your hands firm on his hips. The audacity of what you were doing, there, in that sanctuary of his team, with the roar of the crowd as a soundtrack, filled you with a reckless power. You heard his moans, felt his fingers dig into your hair, but not like a guide – like an anchor, as if he were trying to hold on.
"Stop…", his voice came out hoarse, a plea punctuated by a deeper sigh. "Stop, my love, seriously… I'm going…"
But you didn't stop. Driven by a newly discovered audacity, by the salty taste of his skin and by the promise you yourself had made, you accelerated the pace, determined to take it to the end, to have control of this final part.
That's when he lost his footrests.
With a muffled grunt, his hips got up from the bench in a sudden and irresistible movement, forcing more of himself into his mouth, deeper than you expected. You choked, your eyes filling with water instantly, the hoarse and suffocated sound coming out of your throat. It was fast, brutal, and completely on purpose.
"You don't hear, do you?" he whispered, his voice loaded with an intense and excited fury. "I asked you nicely. I warned you. Now you're going to take it the way I wanted from the beginning."
Without breaking eye contact, he got up. The medal ringed. He took you by the shoulders and guided you, with fierce determination, to the bench where you were sitting.
"On all fours," he ordered, his voice low and rough. "Now."
Hesitant, still trembling from the conflicting fright and excitement, you knelt on the hard wooden bench and leaned forward, supporting your hands. His shirt went up, completely exposing his back and the curve of his buttocks to the cold air of the locker room. You felt his weight lean over you, his hot and sweaty body pressing his back, and the cold of the medal metal falling on the back of your neck, like a seal.
“The promise was that I would fuck you in the locker room," he whispered, his lips in his ear, his voice loaded with a voracious possession. "It wasn't you making me a toy. So shut up and hold on. It's my turn."
The promise was fulfilled with an abrupt and total invasion. Jobe showed no delicacy, no patience. He aligned the swollen, purple head of his cock with your already soaked entrance and, with a single powerful hip thrust, buried himself to the hilt. An animalistic grunt escaped his throat, and a muffled cry, mixed with pleasure and a delicious shock, escaped your mouth as his full length tore you apart inside.
"Fuck… so tight… made for me," he growled, his hands gripping your hips with a force that would leave marks. He didn't start slowly. He began with a fierce, deep rhythm, each thrust a brutal assertion of possession. The head of his cock hit a deep blind spot that made your legs tremble and your vision blur. It seemed he wanted to reach your womb, to mark every inch of your interior as his territory.
On all fours on the cold bench, you tried to support yourself, but each thrust pushed you forward. His oversized shirt, with the name JOBE and the number 7 emblazoned on the back, swayed with movement, and the heavy gold medal jiggled and clinked coldly between her sweaty breasts, a perverse contrast to the infernal heat he stirred within her.
His right hand left your hip and delivered a sharp, open slap to your buttock. The crack echoed in the empty locker room, and a warm, pleasurable sting spread across your skin.
"That ass… every time you jumped in the stands, I looked at it," he confessed, with a hoarse voice and choked by the effort. Another slap, stronger. "And I thought about it."
His left hand moved up your back and tangled in your hair, pulling your head back with a tension bordering on pain, but which arched it perfectly for him. He bent over you, the sweat from his chest soaking the back of his shirt, and found your lips in a deep, devouring kiss. You could taste his saltiness, his panting breath, and the subtle taste of yourself in his mouth.
He broke the kiss, but maintained his grip on your hair. "You're mine, understand?" He thrust with brutal force, making you scream in his ear. "My hottest fan. My little victory slut." Another deep thrust, and his voice came out as a rough, sick whisper of perverse tenderness: "I love you so much, damn it… I love this pussy that only I get to eat."
It was a maddening mix. The brutality with which he fucked her, the slaps that stained her skin, the violent possession. And, interspersed with all that, the hoarse words of adoration, the "my love" whispered between moans, the kisses that tried to be sweet but were consumed by his animal hunger. He possessed her completely—body, with the championship medal dangling between the two of you, and soul, with the dirty, passionate confession that only that moment of pure conquest and lust could extract from him. Each thrust was the final celebration of the title, and you were the trophy he most longed to lift.
