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bellinghmslut · 2 months ago

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⭐︎ coachella heat

with JUDE BELLINGHAM ⭐︎ THIS WAS A REQUEST BY AN ANON, HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!

The sun filtered through the hotel suite in soft gold streaks, casting warm light across the white sheets as you blinked awake. Coachella morning had finally arrived. The playlist was already buzzing low from your speaker—Frank Ocean humming softly in the background—while Jude, shirtless and fresh from the shower, stood at the sink carefully brushing his teeth.

You sat up, braids a little messy, cheeks warm, watching him like you hadn't seen him a hundred times before. Jude caught your eyes in the mirror and smirked, foam still in his mouth.

“Don’t stare,” he mumbled around the toothbrush, “you’re gonna make me nervous.”

You snorted. “You? Nervous? You’re Jude Bellingham.”

He rinsed and wiped his face, then walked over to press a kiss to your forehead, damp curls brushing your skin. “Still get nervous when you look at me like that,” he said, voice low, sweet.

You hummed, leaning into him. “Help me pick my outfit?”

He gave you a mock-serious nod. “Only if you help me with my jewelry. You know I can’t layer necklaces like you do.”

Thirty minutes later, the room was an explosion of fringe, glitter, sunglasses, and soft laughter. You stood in front of the full-length mirror, holding up two options and Jude lounged on the bed behind you, chin propped on his hand, watching like you were the entire festival.

“Left one,” he said, pointing and smirking. “The skirt. Its hot.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re a pervert now?”

He shrugged and laughed. “You bring it out of me.”

You turned back around, slipping into the outfit, feeling his eyes on you the whole time. When you turned back for approval, Jude just whistled low. “Yeah. We’re about to shut Coachella down.”

You laughed, walking over to fix the chain around his neck. “We? I don’t know, Mr. ‘Black Tank and Nike Cortez.’”

“I’m accessorising!” he protested, pointing to his rings and gold chain. “And my sunglasses are Dior, okay?”

“Okay, fashion king.”

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and sweet, then rested his forehead against yours. “Let’s go show the desert what love looks like.”

The shuttle dropped you off right outside the artist entry, security guiding your small group through the crowd as the buzz of Coachella washed over you like heat from the sun. Music thumped in the distance—bass vibrating through the soles of your boots—and the scent of sunscreen, warm air, and sweet food trucks wrapped around everything like a veil.

Jude held your hand tightly, fingers locked, not just protectively but like he couldn’t believe this was real—just the two of you, off-duty, no stadiums, no post-match interviews. Just sunglasses, and love under a desert sky.

“Remind me again why we don’t do this every year?” he said in your ear, lips brushing your temple.

“Because someone’s usually too busy saving Real Madrid's ass,” you teased, swinging his hand.

He chuckled, then perked up when he saw a familiar figure waving from behind a velvet rope. David Alaba, effortlessly cool in a vintage tee and a black durag, stood with his wife Shalimar, who looked like she stepped straight out of a Vogue desert editorial—flowy pastel set, gold bangles, and baby braids.

“Ayyy, finally!” David grinned, pulling Jude into a hug before turning to you. “You’re glowing honestly”

Shalimar hugged you tightly. “I was wondering what took y’all so long. We already saw Camavinga take, like, fifteen mirror selfies.”

And there he was—Eduardo, in bright printed pants and tinted pink shades, adjusting his phone in the reflection of a chrome Airstream trailer. Vini was leaned against it, nodding along to a beat with his arm slung around a girl you’d met a few times, who gave you a sweet wave. Aurélien strolled up with an iced drink in each hand, offering you one.

“Hydration,” he winked. “Mandatory.”

You all found a quiet backstage lounging spot—a shaded area filled with huge cushions, string lights overhead, low tables with fruit trays and drinks. Everyone kicked back, shoes off, laughing, vibing. Jude was tucked into your side, arm lazily around your waist, your head resting on his shoulder as you sipped from his coconut water.

Someone had a Polaroid camera—probably Vini—and soon there were little film shots lying around like confetti. Jude and you posed in one: you on his lap, sunglasses low on your nose, your arm thrown around his shoulders, his cheek pressed to yours with that soft, smirky grin he always saved just for you.

Another photo: Shalimar pulling you into a laughing hug. Then one of Jude trying (and failing) to copy Eduardo’s dance moves, everyone howling in the background.

It wasn’t long before a few fans spotted the group, phones quietly snapping photos. A young girl approached shyly, clutching a mini instant cam.

“Excuse me,” she said nervously, “could I maybe get a picture with you, Jude?”

Jude smiled warmly, standing and crouching next to her. “Of course, sweetheart.”

Then her eyes darted to you, recognition dawning slowly. “Wait… you’re his girlfriend, right? Can I—could I get one with both of you? You’re so pretty. I love your style.”

Your cheeks burned, but Jude beamed, proud. He pulled you in gently. “She is pretty, isn’t she?” he said, low enough that only the three of you could hear. “Prettiest girl here.”

The sun had dipped behind the palm trees hours ago, leaving a streak of lavender and burnt orange in its wake. Neon lights shimmered across the festival grounds as the crowd buzzed in anticipation. Everyone knew what time it was—Travis Scott was about to hit the stage.

Jude’s hand never left yours as you both made your way through the thickening crowd. You were tucked under his arm, his palm spread firm and protective over the small of your back. You could hear girls whispering, phones snapping, but none of it mattered—not when he was this close, not when the bass was already vibrating through your chest and his lips were grazing your ear.

“Good view?” he asked as you reached the sweet spot—far enough not to get crushed, close enough to feel the heat of the lights.

You smiled, pulling your phone out for a quick story. “The best.”

And then the beat dropped. The crowd erupted. Goosebumps blared through the night air, and the world exploded into bass, strobe lights, and the wild kind of freedom that only a music festival at midnight can bring.

Jude moved behind you, pulling you flush against him, arms wrapping around your waist. His locs brushed the side of your face as he leaned in, voice low, half-singing, half-laughing into your ear.

“I get those goosebumps every time…”

You threw your head back, laughing as he sang the line dramatically, rocking the two of you side to side with the rhythm.

“Don’t make me rap it all,” he said, teasing, mouthing the next line in sync with Travis. “I could do the whole thing right now.”

You turned slightly, one hand reaching up to run along his jaw. “I dare you.”

Jude took the challenge way too seriously. For the next song, he rapped every word, hype and smooth, into your ear—his chest pressed to your back, voice low and warm as his hands slid around your waist, gripping your hips in time with the beat.

Your head rested against his shoulder, swaying together, your bodies moving in sync under the stars. The lights flashed red and gold and violet across his face, and every time you looked up at him, he was already watching you.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered into your hair, pulling you closer. “Like—look at you. At Coachella. With me. I’m never getting over this.”

You laughed, throwing your arms over his shoulders. “You’re acting like this isn’t your everyday life.”

“It’s not,” he said, serious now. “This? You? You’re the best part.”

A beat later, he was singing with you again, his voice right in your ear as your fingers laced behind his neck. It was loud, chaotic, magical—but none of it could touch the little world you and Jude had built within that crowd. You were his calm in the middle of the storm, his favourite melody even louder than the music.

And as the chorus hit again, Jude spun you gently in his arms, catching you under the lights with that look—like you were it. The moment. The feeling. The song.

And honestly?

You were.

The crowd had just come down from Travis’s set, sweat-slick and starstruck, but the second Bad Bunny stepped on stage, the energy shifted. The lights went low, the air thick with heat and anticipation, and the beat dropped into something darker—something slow, pulsing, undeniably sensual.

Jude’s arms were still wrapped around your waist from behind, but now, his grip tightened.

The bass vibrated straight through your chest as Bad Bunny launched into 'Titi Me Preguntó', and then slid effortlessly into something smoother, more explicit. You couldn’t understand every word, but the tone said enough. Heavy. Tempting. Dripping with want.

And Jude? He was gone.

You felt it the second the tempo slowed and his hips pressed flush against yours, one hand splayed low on your stomach, the other inching down to your hip. His lips brushed your ear, breath hot.

“You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured, voice low and rough, like the song was getting to him more than he wanted to admit. “The way you move…”

You rolled your hips back just slightly—just enough to feel the tension in his body spike.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed, fingers digging into your waist.

The beat slowed into something dirtily hypnotic, and you started to move in time with it, grinding back into him, the way you knew would make his knees weak. Jude’s hands roamed now—hungry, possessive. He pressed in closer, chest to your back, lips trailing along your neck.

You could feel just how turned on he was, and it made your breath hitch.

“This is torture,” he growled, voice raw and desperate now. “You in this outfit, dancing on me like this… in front of everyone.”

You smirked, looking over your shoulder at him. “Then take me home.”

He let out a low laugh, almost dangerous, eyes dark. “If you keep this up, I won’t make it home.”

His hands slid down your sides, pulling you even tighter against him, hips moving with yours to the rhythm as Bad Bunny’s voice poured through the speakers like smoke. Your bodies moved like one—synchronised, slick with sweat, caught in a loop of teasing touches and grinding tension.

Around you, the crowd faded into neon blur. It was just you and Jude, dancing like no one else existed, like the heat between your bodies could start a fire in the desert night.

When the next track started, just as hot and heavy, Jude leaned in, voice full of gravel and need. “I swear, the second this set ends, I’m getting you out of here.”

And the way he said it? You didn’t doubt him for a second. as the heated glances traded between you as the pounding bass vibrated through the air, feeding the electric charge building between your bodies. Jude's fingers traced up your spine, sending shivers down your skin, as his other hand gripped your hip, pulling you harder against his straining erection.

You couldn't help but roll your hips in response, grinding against him with a moan that was lost in the music. The crowd around you throbbed and pulsed, but all you saw was Jude's intense gaze, all you felt was his body moving in perfect harmony with yours.

Bad Bunny's seductive lyrics painted a vivid picture in your mind, each word echoing the primal desire coursing through your veins. When the song reached its climax, Jude captured your lips in a searing kiss, tongues tangling in a frenzied dance that left you breathless and craving more.

The music transitioned into a slower, more sensual track, but the heat between you only intensified and honestly you were fine with that.

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bellinghmslut · 4 months ago

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Hi I saw you’re Arda angst ff and I fucking loved it!! I wanted to request a Kenan Yildiz angst fanfic where the reader and Kenan had to get arrange married. But he hated her. He always brought other woman home and she really got sad because she never had the chance to experience real love. Not even from her parents.

He always kept her hidden from social media because he was embarrassed of her. She always went alone and done things alone. The reader is a quite person she an introvert she doesn’t really talk that much or express feelings so she always stays quiet. And she had a really bad childhood, got be@ten up and ignored. She never had a normal childhood. By the time Kenan never knew he starts to see her alone at restaurant or pic nics alone and started to feel guilty but never brought it up.

So one day the reader thought she’s alone at home and Kenan told her that he’ll be away.

So she wanted to sleep without a shirt. And that night Kenan appears there because the game got cancelled and when he approached her he saw her scars on her back that were caused by her parents. He starts to regret treating you like that and starts treating you better and spends time with you.

You can make a fluff or bad ending doesn’t really matter but I always prefer bad endings hehe I would really love for you to make this a story !!

💓💓💓

SAD GIRL • KENAN YILDIZ

( pairing ) kenan yıldız x reader

warnings - trigger warning, violence and abuse, a lot of angst. I tried my best and i hope this meets your expectations 💞

In your eyes, the marriage had been perhaps the best thing to have ever happened to you. It provided you with the opportunity to escape the clutches of your dysfunctional family, and finally find some semblance of normalcy in your life.

Knowing that it had been Kenan had made you feel exhilarated, a feeling that you weren’t quite used to.

Kenan had been reputable for being a rather charismatic gentleman, and his polite, sweet demeanour had been all the talk on your wedding day. You hadn’t met him yet, but the idea of him had made you fall in love.

You couldn’t be blamed, because to you this concept of genuity was so foreign to you, that daydreaming about it had made you feel as if you were on cloud nine.

That was until you truly got to know Kenan behind closed doors. Except you never truly got to know him.

Unlike you, Kenan found this marriage an unappealing burden that had chained him down to a person he could not care less for.

He was incredibly indifferent to your presence, and continued on about as if your marriage had never happened. After the ceremony had occurred and you’d been driven off to a fancy villa, Kenan had behaved as if you didn’t exist.

He never acknowledged your presence until absolutely necessary, and it felt as if you were a ghost living inside this empty house, begging, yearning to be noticed, but never spared a single glance.

For you this marriage had ignited a flicker of hope, of learning to love, and for building a meaningful relationship, a turnabout from the life your parents had imposed on you. You hadn’t imagined anything would hurt more than the scathing words and harsh treatment that they had inflicted upon you, until you were faced with the brutal rejection from Kenan. Atleast, at your parents house, you were never ignored, but with Kenan, you didn’t feel like a person, you felt like a soul in purgatory, suffering endlessly and without anyone to turn to.

This marriage with Kenan broke you in ways that you hadn’t thought possible. How could a rejection from the man you had been promised to have hurt so agonisingly when you didn’t even truly know him?

You couldn’t explain the stark difference in his behaviour from what you’d heard to what you’d experienced, and thus, the only person you had to blame was yourself.

Some nights, when the house is quiet and Kenan’s side of the bed is cold and empty, you lie awake and wonder what it is about you that makes you so unlovable. It’s a question that haunts you, clawing at the edges of your mind until it’s the only thing you can hear. You think back to your childhood, to the years spent trying and failing to earn your parents' love. You tried to be good, to be perfect, to be everything they wanted, but nothing was ever enough. Every cruel word, every slap, every moment of their disdain etched itself into your soul, carving out the belief that you were broken, unworthy, fundamentally flawed. You remember having gone through lengths, making sure you were academically on top, and when that wasn’t enough, pushing yourself towards sports to prove that you were capable, but despite these achievements, your parents refused to acknowledge any of it. You remember once, sitting at the edge of your room, if the tiny space could even be called that, your cheeks red from the stinging slaps and your arms littered with bruises, and not a single tear in your eyes. You felt hollow, the one question rotating over in your head, again and again and again.

“What is wrong with me?”

Your marriage with Kenan has only made this thought return full force, from when it just lingered to the back of your mind, to now always on the forefront of your thoughts, on the tip of your tongue, as if any moment you’d ask the question, say it out loud, but no matter.

Kenan never hears you anyway.

You sit in the spacious lounge of this house, Kenan is home, but you are alone. He’s with someone, another girl who doesn’t share the misfortune as you do, who’s laugh echoes around the house and to you, feels like nails on a chalkboard, pinching at your ears and leaving the heart you have in your chest aching worse as the clock ticks by.

Once again, you sit there and contemplate for perhaps the umpteenth time, the same question that oppresses you.

You see the same disappointment in Kenan’s eyes, the same coldness, the same quiet contempt that tells you what you’ve always feared, there’s something wrong with you. You’ve begun to believe it must be true because why else would Kenan treat you this way? Why else would he refuse to look at you, to touch you, to acknowledge that you’re anything more than an inconvenience he’s forced to endure? Why else would he parade other women in front of you, each of them more beautiful, more captivating, more everything than you’ll ever be?

The more Kenan pulls away, the deeper you sink into yourself, convinced that his indifference is a reflection of your worth. You’ve searched for answers in every mirror, scrutinizing your face, your body, every part of yourself that feels inadequate. You pick apart every flaw, every imperfection, as if solving the puzzle of your own ugliness might finally explain why you are so impossible to love. You try to change, to smile more, to be kinder, quieter, less of whatever it is that pushes people away. But no matter how much you give, no matter how much of yourself you twist and bend and break to fit into the shape of someone deserving, it’s never enough.

The rejection feels like a knife to the heart, twisting deeper each time Kenan walks past you as if you’re nothing. You wonder what it would feel like to be touched by him in kindness, to have him hold you like you mattered, just once. You’ve replayed it in your mind a thousand times, trying to imagine the warmth of his hand in yours, the weight of his arm around your shoulders, the sound of your name spoken with something other than disdain. But that warmth never comes. All you get is the chill of his absence, the searing pain of knowing that you are invisible, unwanted, unloved, and that’s all that you’ll ever be.

Despite all this endless questioning, you never get any closer to understanding why you’re in this predicament.

It hurts, like you’re drowning in a sea of sorrow, and every breath is a struggle against the relentless waves of the ruthless ocean. It’s the taste of salt on your lips—the bitter residue of tears that never seem to end—and the weight in your chest that sits like a stone, heavy and immovable, pressing down with a quiet, unyielding ache.

You have long since given up on hope, that maybe one day it will get better, the pain will decrease, but it never does.

Today, you don’t stay inside, the chattering of the girl twists a little deeper into your poor heart than usual, and you decide to step out.

You somehow make it to a cafe and settle down, in a spot. You’re so attuned to the feeling of loneliness that it doesn’t bother you as people glance at you, some with curiosity and most with pity, preoccupied with your heartache.

You realise just how pathetic, pitiful you must appear. Your face permanently stained with tear marks and eyes so red, your figure frail from negligence on everyone you’ve known, including yourself.

You don’t realise however, that it is enough to warrant headlines.

The next morning you’re going viral on the internet,

“Kenan Yildiz’s wife spotted, lonely and sombre. What could be the cause?”

You can’t help yourself as you look through the comments.

“lol how do we even know if she’s his wife, we’ve never seen a single photo of them together”

“oh please, she’s probably a lying attention seeking white trying to get Kenan’s attention, bet she’s never met the guy. Yawn.”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Kenan is not married what in the fake news”

You’re not surprised by it, but still it stings. You knew Kenan never made it known that he had been married, the night of your wedding day had become news to the world, but it had been buried away by Kenan’s refusal to acknowledge it.

It wasn’t as if you ever accompanied Kenan anywhere either, you went out alone, he never invited you to his games or any award ceremonies, he ignored you just as much on the outside as he did at home.

The only people who actually acknowledge this news are your parents, they come knocking on your door while Kenan is out, not at all pleased by your act that had so perfectly tarnished their reputation, and then the very night they make it very abundantly clear to you just how much displeasure you bring to them.

The pain is sharp and jagged, like shards of glass lodged deep inside, cutting with every thought, and every word your mother hisses at you, and every hit your father directs at you tears you down further.

When they leave, you’re all by yourself on the floor, like broken china that no one cares about or ever will bother picking up.

That night you cry yourself to sleep, so incredibly tired, and you think to yourself about how much of an abomination you are, if only you didn’t ever exist at all.

You’re mentally exhausted to the point that you fall asleep right there on the floor in your mess. And for the first time, Kenan takes notice of you.

He has always been aware of your presence, but had blatantly rejected it, even though guilt had begun to seep into this facade of pretending that he was indifferent to you.

He had noticed how you were always alone, no friends to tag along with when you went out to a restaurant, and barely anyone to talk to. He noticed how you tried your very hardest to make yourself as small as you could in the home that was supposed to be both his and yours. You never spared any expense on yourself from his money, to the point that all the groceries in the house went untouched by you, never eating the food that was there, as if you felt unworthy of sharing the same stuff he did.

His conscience had fought with him a lot, but then his pertinacity had won out.

Kenan comes home late that night, the weight of his usual indifference wrapped around him like a heavy coat. The house is quiet, too quiet, but it doesn’t feel unfamiliar, because that is how you are, yet as he steps inside, he feels a strange sense of unease. The lights are dim, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls, and for a moment, he almost calls out for you, but stops himself—old habits of pride and detachment still holding him back. As he walks through the hallway, his footsteps echo softly on the wooden floor, and that’s when he sees you, crumpled in the corner, lying there as if the world itself had thrown you away.

He freezes, staring at the scene that steals the breath from his lungs. You’re curled up on the cold, hard floor, your fragile frame barely shielded by the thin shadow that frames you. The soft glow of the lamplight reveals a tapestry of dark, angry bruises spreading across your arms and face, fresh and vicious, like cruel brushstrokes on pale canvas. Your cheeks are stained with dried tears, and your breaths come in shallow, ragged bursts, as if each inhale is a battle against the pain you carry. The sight of you, so small, so vulnerable, hits him like a punch to the gut, and for the first time in a long time, something shifts in him.

Guilt seeps in, thick and suffocating, wrapping around his heart like a vice. He kneels beside you, his hands trembling as he reaches out, hesitant and unsure. He touches your shoulder, lightly at first, afraid of causing you more pain, and when you stir, blinking up at him through swollen eyes, he feels the weight of his neglect crash down on him. He’s been blind to your suffering, wrapped up in his own resentments, his own desires, never once considering the cost of his actions—or inactions—on the person he promised to protect, however unwillingly.

Your own eyes widen a little, surprised at seeing him so close to you, for the first time since your wedding, and you aim to move away, but an egregious amount of pain has you stopping, and you try to keep the groan from escaping out your mouth.

"Who did this to you?" His voice is low, and there’s a vulnerability there, breaking, a far cry from the coldness you’ve grown accustomed to. You don’t answer, still in shock from seeing him so close. That is when you notice the freckles of golden in his green eyes, or perhaps you have a concussion that’s making you see things.

Kenan’s eyes run over your body, the bruises tell a story he can’t ignore, and for the first time, he sees you—not as the burden he’s resented, but as someone who’s been hurt far too many times, someone he’s failed in the worst possible way.

Kenan helps you up, his touch gentler than it has ever been. He wraps his arms around you, careful not to press against your bruises, and for the first time, you feel his warmth—real, unguarded, like he’s trying to shield you from the world that’s been so unkind. He guides you to the bedroom, the one he’s kept so meticulously separate from you, and tucks you into the bed as if you’re something precious. He sits beside you that night, eyes never leaving your face, and vows silently to himself that he will be different, that he will be better. For you, it all feels as if you’re on an alien planet, an alternative reality where everything feels so foreign, unaccustomed to having anyone, not just Kenan, actually look at you beyond the same gaze of disdain that you’ve known your whole life.

In the days that follow, Kenan is not the man you remember. He wakes early to make you breakfast, though he’s clumsy in the kitchen, burning toast and fumbling with the coffee machine. You watch him from the table, wrapped in a blanket, still wary, but there’s something different in his eyes—softer, almost pleading. He sits with you as you eat, quiet but present, as if his mere company might patch over the wounds he’s spent so long ignoring.

He starts to notice the little things—the way you flinch when someone speaks too loudly, the way you keep your head down as if expecting another blow. He learns how sometimes you don’t answer, assuming that he isn’t speaking to you, and it fills him with regret. He learns to be gentle, careful with his words, speaking to you with a softness that feels foreign on his tongue. He doesn’t bring anyone home anymore; the house is yours, a sanctuary he’s determined to protect. Slowly, he starts to open up, telling you about his own struggles, his own fears, the reasons he’s built walls so high around his heart. It’s not an excuse, but it’s a start, and you find yourself listening, inching closer with each shared truth.

Kenan begins to take you out on walks in the park, away from the stifling walls of the house that holds too many memories. He holds your hand, tentatively at first, but when you don’t pull away, he squeezes a little tighter, as if to say he’s here now, and he’s not going anywhere. He surprises you with small gestures—your favorite flowers on the table, a book you mentioned once, a soft touch on your shoulder when you seem lost in thought. It’s awkward and unsure, but it’s real, and each day, the distance between you shrinks just a little more.

One evening, as the sun sets and paints the room in hues of gold, Kenan sits beside you on the couch, holding your hand. He’s nervous, you can tell, but his eyes are earnest. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he’s kept buried. “For all of it. For not seeing you, for not being what you needed. I know I’ve hurt you, and I can’t take that back, but I want to try. I want to be better—for you.”

For a moment, you say nothing, the words catching in your throat. But when you look at him, really look at him, you see someone trying, someone who’s finally willing to let you in. You nod, squeezing his hand back, and though the road ahead is uncertain, for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to walk together.

fin

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