pairing: bf!jobe x black!gf!reader
warnings.notes: 18+ mdni, smut, horny jobe, explicit sexual scenes, teasing
summary: you challenge jobe to successfully complete NNN, and you’re not going to make it easy for him
a.n: this is based on this request x
The bet had been your idea.
It started as a joke one lazy Sunday morning in mid-October.
You and Jobe were tangled together on his couch, your legs draped over his lap while he scrolled through his phone.
A random TikTok about “No Nut November” had come up, and you’d laughed so hard you nearly spilled your coffee.
Jobe had smirked, that cocky little tilt to his mouth that always made your stomach flip.
“Easy. I could do that no problem.”
You’d raised an eyebrow, setting your mug down.
“You? Mr. Handsy? You can’t even go three days without touching me.”
“Watch me,” he’d said, puffing his chest out. “Whole month. Starting November 1st. You don’t think I can handle it?”
That was when you smiled, slow and dangerous.
“Fine. Let’s make it interesting. If you make it all the way to December 1st without cumming once… I’ll do whatever you want for a full week. No limits.”
Jobe’s eyes had darkened instantly.
“Then you’re mine for a week. I get to use you however I want, whenever I want.”
He’d laughed, pulled you into his lap, and sealed the deal with a kiss that felt a lot like surrender already.
Now it was November 9th, and Jobe was starting to realise he had severely underestimated you.
The first week had been relatively innocent.
You’d worn slightly shorter shorts around the house.
You’d “accidentally” brush against him when you walked past.
You’d kiss him a little deeper than necessary before he left for training. Nothing too extreme.
But you were only getting started.
By the second week, the tactics had evolved.
It was a Thursday evening. Jobe had just gotten back from a long day at the training ground.
His muscles were sore, his hair still damp from the shower, and he was trying (and failing) to focus on the football match playing on the TV.
You walked into the living room wearing one of his old Borussia Dortmund training tops…and nothing else.
The hem barely reached the top of your thighs.
Every time you moved, the fabric shifted dangerously high.
Jobe’s eyes snapped to you instantly, jaw tightening.
You pretended not to notice, padding barefoot into the kitchen.
You reached up to grab a glass from the top shelf, going onto your tiptoes.
The shirt rode up completely, revealing the curve of your bare ass and the fact that you weren’t wearing any underwear.
Jobe’s breath left him in a sharp exhale.
“Baby…” His voice was already rough. “That’s not fair.”
You glanced over your shoulder, all wide-eyed innocence.
“What’s not fair? I’m just getting some water. You said you could handle this.”
He shifted on the couch, adjusting himself discreetly in his grey sweatpants.
His eyes stayed glued to you as you bent over to put the glass in the dishwasher, giving him an even better view.
When you straightened and turned around, you caught him staring.
“Something on your mind, Jobe?”
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning.
“I’m just existing in my own home,” you said lightly, walking past him again.
This time you let your fingers trail across his shoulder, then down his chest.
You leaned down so your lips brushed his ear.
“You’re the one who made the bet.”
His hand twitched like he wanted to grab you, but he forced himself to stay still. His breathing had already grown heavier.
That night you slept in his bed wearing nothing but one of his hoodies, the zipper pulled low enough that he could see the swell of your breasts every time you moved.
You made sure to cuddle up against him, pressing your bare thigh between his legs “by accident.”
Jobe spent half the night staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, hands fisted in the sheets.
The real war began when he was away from the house.
On Monday he had a double training session. You waited until you knew he’d be in the gym, then sent the first photo.
It was innocent enough at first glance: you in front of the full-length mirror wearing a tiny black sports bra and matching thong. But you’d arched your back, pushed your chest out, and captioned it:
*Thinking about you 🖤 Miss you training hard…*
Ten minutes later you sent a short video. You were on your knees on the bed, looking up at the camera with big doe eyes while you slowly ran your hands down your body, over your breasts, down your stomach, stopping just above the waistband of the thong.
Your voice was soft and breathy in the audio.
“I’ve been so wet all day, Jobe…but I’m being good and waiting for you. Are you being good too?”
You watched the typing bubble appear and disappear three times before he finally replied.
Jobe: You’re actually trying to kill me.
You: Just supporting my man during NNN ❤️
You: No you don’t. You love me. And you love when I’m like this.
He didn’t reply after that. You knew he was suffering.
The next day you upped the stakes.
While he was in a recovery meeting, you sent a ten-second video of you in the shower. The glass was fogged up, but not enough to hide the way your hands were gliding over your soapy body.
You made sure to moan his name softly at the end, right before the video cut off.
That evening when he got home, Jobe looked wrecked.
His eyes were darker than usual, his jaw tight, shoulders tense. The second he saw you (this time wearing a tiny silk slip that barely covered anything), he backed you up against the wall, hands braced on either side of your head.
“You’re cheating,” he growled, voice low and strained.
You tilted your head, looking up at him with a sweet smile.
“There were no rules against teasing. You said you could hold out. I’m just…helping you prove it.”
His eyes dropped to your lips, then lower, to the way the silk clung to your body.
You could see how hard he was in his training shorts.
For a second you thought he might break right there. His hips twitched forward like he couldn’t help it.
Then he squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and stepped back.
“I’m not losing,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I’ve got this.”
But you both knew he was lying.
Over the next ten days the teasing became relentless.
You wore his favourite lingerie set around the house “to do laundry.”
You bent over slowly to pick things up in front of him, making sure he got a full view.
You “accidentally” sent him voice notes of you touching yourself while moaning his name, then followed up with “Oops, that was meant to be a voice note for my notes app.”
When he was at the training ground you sent increasingly explicit photos and videos.
One was you riding a pillow, another was you using your fingers while whispering how much you needed him inside you. Each time you made sure to remind him:
*Still thinking about you…Only you can make me feel like this.*
Jobe stopped replying to most of them. You knew he was saving them though.
You also knew he was waking up hard every morning, taking cold showers, and spending extra time in the gym just to burn off the frustration.
By November 26th, he was barely holding on.
That night you decided to break him.
You waited until he came home from evening training.
You’d prepared carefully: dim lights, one of his oversized jerseys on your body… and nothing underneath. When he walked through the door, you were bent over the kitchen island, pretending to wipe it down. The jersey had ridden up completely, exposing you to him.
Jobe froze in the doorway.
You glanced back at him over your shoulder, lips parted, eyes heavy with desire.
His bag dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.
His chest was rising and falling fast, eyes locked on the way you were presenting yourself to him. You could see the exact moment his resolve started to crack.
You straightened up slowly and walked toward him, stopping just inches away. You reached up, running one finger down the centre of his chest.
“You’ve been so strong,” you whispered. “But you look exhausted, Jobe. Don’t you want to feel good? Don’t you want to cum for me?”
His hands flexed at his sides. You could see the war happening behind his eyes.
“I… I can’t,” he rasped. “The bet—”
You rose onto your tiptoes and kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then right under his ear.
“Forget the bet,” you breathed. “I miss you. I miss the way you feel when you let go. I want you to fuck me, Jobe. I want you to lose control.”
You slid your hand down his stomach, stopping just above the waistband of his shorts.
He was painfully hard already.
When your fingers brushed over him through the fabric, he let out a broken groan.
That was the moment he broke.
His hands were on you instantly, grabbing your waist and lifting you onto the kitchen counter in one smooth motion.
The kiss was desperate, messy, weeks of pent-up frustration pouring out of him all at once. His hands shoved the jersey up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him.
His mouth was everywhere: your neck, your breasts, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
You moaned his name, wrapping your legs around his waist as he ground against you.
“I tried,” he panted against your skin, voice wrecked. “I really fucking tried, baby. But you…you’re too much.”
You smiled against his lips, triumphant.
“Then stop trying,” you whispered. “Take what you want.”
Jobe didn’t give you time to catch your breath.
The second the words “Take what you want” left your lips, something in him shattered.
His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise as he yanked you off the kitchen counter and into his arms.
Your legs wrapped around him instinctively.
He carried you down the hallway with long, urgent strides, mouth already devouring yours in a kiss that was no longer careful or sweet.
It was weeks of pent-up hunger finally breaking free.
The bedroom door slammed open.
Jobe kicked it shut behind him and dropped you onto the middle of his bed. You barely had time to bounce once before he was on top of you, knees bracketing your hips, hands shoving the oversized jersey up and off your body in one rough motion.
He threw it across the room like it had personally offended him.
“Fuck the bet,” he growled, voice low and ragged. “Fuck all of it. I can’t anymore. I need you.”
His eyes raked over your completely naked body like a man who’d been starving for weeks.
His breathing was already uneven, chest heaving under the tight compression shirt he still wore.
When his gaze landed between your spread thighs, he let out a broken sound and dragged a hand down his face.
“Look at you…” he muttered, almost to himself. “So fucking wet already. All those pictures, all those videos…you’ve been torturing me on purpose.”
You reached for him, sliding your hands under his shirt.
“Then stop holding back. I want you to lose it, Jobe. I want all of it.”
He ripped his compression top off in one swift movement, revealing the sculpted lines of his torso, the faint sheen of sweat already glistening on his skin from how worked up he was.
His shorts and boxers followed quickly, freeing his cock.
He was painfully hard, the tip flushed dark and already leaking.
You could see how long he’d been suffering; he looked almost painfully swollen.
Jobe didn’t waste time with more foreplay. He’d had enough of that in his own head for the past twenty-six days.
He crawled back over you, one hand fisting the sheets beside your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider for him.
His mouth crashed into yours again, deep and messy.
You could feel the thick head of his cock sliding against your soaked folds, teasing both of you as he rocked his hips.
“Tell me you want this,” he panted against your lips, voice strained. “Tell me you want me to fuck you like I’ve been dying to.”
“I want it,” you moaned, nails dragging down his back. “I want you inside me right now. Please, Jobe—”
He pushed in with one long, slow, relentless thrust.
After so many weeks without him, your body had to adjust to his size again.
A choked gasp left you as he sank deeper, inch by thick inch, until his hips were flush against yours and he was buried to the hilt.
Jobe’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, a guttural groan vibrating through his entire body.
“Fuck…fuck, baby,” he breathed, voice shaking. “You feel…so fucking good. So tight. I forgot how perfect you are.”
He stayed still for a long moment, just breathing through the overwhelming sensation of finally being inside you again. His arms trembled where they braced beside your head.
You could feel his cock twitching inside you, fighting the urge to move too soon.
Then he started to thrust.
It began slow and deep, almost torturously so, like he wanted to savour every single second after denying himself for so long.
Each roll of his hips dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, pulling filthy, wet sounds from where your bodies met. Jobe’s head lifted so he could watch your face, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lust.
“That’s it,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Let me hear you. I missed these sounds so much.”
You moaned loudly as he ground against that perfect spot again, your back arching off the bed.
Jobe’s hand slid down to grip your hip, holding you in place as his pace gradually quickened.
The slow, deep strokes turned harder, more desperate.
The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mixing with your moans and his low, broken groans.
He was completely focused on you, even in his desperation.
One hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, perfect circles in time with his thrusts. His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking and biting, then moved to your breasts, tongue flicking over your nipples as he drove into you harder.
“Been thinking about this every single day,” he rasped against your skin.
“Every time you sent me those videos… every time you bent over in front of me… I was losing my mind. I wanted to pin you down and fuck you until you couldn’t walk.”
His words, combined with the relentless drag of his cock and the pressure on your clit, had you spiraling fast.
Your walls clenched around him, drawing a deep moan from his throat.
“That’s it, baby. Squeeze me. Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum so hard after all this time…”
You were close already, the weeks of teasing and denial making everything feel ten times more intense.
He shifted his angle slightly, hitting even deeper, and pressed down firmer on your clit.
“Come on,” he urged, voice rough. “Let go for me. I want to feel you cum all over my cock. Been dreaming about it for weeks.”
The orgasm hit you like a wave.
Your back bowed off the bed, a loud cry of his name tearing from your throat as pleasure crashed through you.
Your walls pulsed and fluttered around him, gripping him so tightly that Jobe’s rhythm faltered.
He fucked you through it, hips snapping harder, chasing the feeling of you coming undone beneath him.
Only when you started to come down did he let himself go.
With a guttural groan, Jobe buried his face in your neck and thrust deep one final time.
His whole body tensed, muscles locking up as weeks of denial finally snapped.
You felt the hot pulse of him spilling inside you, over and over, longer and harder than you’d ever felt before.
His hips jerked with every spurt, a broken moan vibrating against your skin as he came harder than he had in months.
“Fuck, I’m cumming—baby—”
He kept moving through it in shallow, desperate thrusts, like he couldn’t stop even after he’d finished.
When the last aftershock finally faded, he collapsed on top of you, heavy and warm, both of you breathing hard.
For a long minute the only sounds in the room were your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he shifted to wrap his arms around you.
Jobe’s face stayed buried in your neck, lips pressing lazy, exhausted kisses to your damp skin.
“I lost,” he mumbled eventually, voice hoarse and muffled. There was a hint of a smile in it. “I really fucking lost.”
You laughed breathlessly, running your fingers through his sweaty curls.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you.
His eyes were soft now, the desperate hunger replaced by that familiar affectionate warmth, even as he was still buried inside you.
“Worth it,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss you slowly, tenderly. “So fucking worth it.”
He stayed like that for a while, just holding you, kissing you lazily as the afterglow settled over both of you.
Eventually he pulled out carefully and rolled onto his back, tugging you on top of him so your head rested on his chest.
His hand stroked slowly up and down your spine.
“So…” he said after a long, comfortable silence, a playful edge creeping back into his tired voice.
“I’m yours for a whole week now, right? Whatever you want, whenever you want?”
You smiled against his skin, already thinking about all the ways you were going to enjoy your prize.
Jobe let out a soft, defeated chuckle and pressed another kiss to the top of your head.
“I’m in so much trouble.”
