Made In Japan
● Jude Bellingham x Top! Male! Reader
● protected sex, love confession, fingering, hurt to comfort. Half Japanese reader who plays for Manchester City. Childhood bestfriend to lovers, slowburn? Angst
● word count: 7.997 words
“Jude…I don’t think this is right for me” you confessed. You have been telling him about how unfair you were treated among the team. For god’s sake, the coach benched you most of the time, you don’t think you are allowed to shine on the pitch.
Jude’s expression darkened immediately, his grip tightening around the water bottle. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked onto you with fierce protectiveness.
“Who?” he demanded—not loudly, but with a sharpness that cut through the locker room air. His voice was low and dangerous. “Tell me who’s been treating you like shit.” He didn’t wait for an answer before adding “Because if some coach or teammate is making you feel like this isn’t your place? They’re wrong. You just scored two fucking goals for England.”
“Look—no matter how well I did. They will never let me be on the pitch unless it was you who does the talking. I'm done, Jude”
That made Jude’s jaw clenched. He stood up abruptly, the bench screeching against the locker room floor. Without thinking, he closed the distance between them and grabbed your shoulders—hard—not to shake you, but to make you listen.
“Listen–” he growled “You don’t get to quit after one game. One fucking game where you were incredible.” His voice dropped lower, almost pleading now. “I fought for you today. If Ancelotti only let you in because of me—then I’ll keep talking to him if that’s what it takes.”
“That is not how it should work, Jude” you huffed, frustrated.
Jude exhaled sharply, frustration and worry warring in his expression. He ran a hand through his damp hair before sitting back down right in front of you, closer this time.
“Then tell me how it should work,” he said firmly. “Because I see someone with insane talent who got screwed over by idiots who don’t deserve to coach you.” A beat. His voice softened just a fraction. “You think the game’s fair? It’s not. But walking away now—letting them win—that’s worse than anything they’ve done.”
“Jude…” you let out a long sigh, the one you do when you’re done with it already. Jude reached out, hesitating for half a second before gently squeezing your forearm—a grounding touch. His thumb brushed over the fabric of your jersey, rough from sweat and grass stains.
“Talk to me,” he said quietly “Like actually talk. Not just… giving up.” He tilted his head slightly, studying your face—the exhaustion there wasn’t just physical, it was deeper. And Jude hated seeing it.
Jude’s breath hitched—his chest tightening like someone had just drop-kicked him. The thought of you leaving Madrid, of never lining up beside him again, made his stomach twist violently. His usual confident demeanor shattered in that second. His eyes—wide and desperate—betrayed everything he wasn’t saying out loud: Don’t go. Without thinking again, Jude reached out and grabbed your hand, squeezing it way too tight. His voice came out rougher than intended
“You can't… you can't seriously be considering this.”
“For two years…I tolerated this. Jude–they can’t keep treating me like this” you say as memories of being mistreated flash through your mind, how practices had you coming home drown in annoyance and anger, how you kept quiet because of Jude. You only do this for him and now…you’re done.
Jude’s face fell. Two years. Two fucking years of you enduring this bullshit—just because Jude had begged yoy to stay, just because they were good together on the pitch. A sick guilt gnawed at his stomach. He swallowed hard, his grip on your hand loosening slightly—not letting go, but gentler now. When he spoke again, it wasn’t defensive or angry, it was small and raw:
“…I didn’t know it was that bad.” And for once? He actually looked ashamed. Yeah, because you never told him about the times when the coach says something about your background, forget about you on purpose when it is supposed to be the whole team bonding, ect.
“My contract with Real Madrid ends soon. My manager and I were thinking…Manchester City can be a great start. Fresh.”
Jude’s entire body went rigid. Manchester City. The rival team—his direct competition in the league. For a split second, something ugly flashed across his face: betrayal, rivalry instinct kicking in hard. But then he remembered this wasn’t about football right now—it was about you leaving because of everything else. He exhaled slowly through his nose before speaking again, forcing calm into his voice: “…So that’s it? You’re just gone?” There was no anger there—just quiet disbelief.
“I’m sorry, Jude” you say, voice suddenly sounds quieter. Jude was the first person you tell about your leaving. Not parents, him.
Jude’s chest ached. He hated this—hated how quiet you sounded, like you were already mentally packing his bags for Manchester City. Without a word, Jude suddenly leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug—crushing you against his still-damp jersey. It wasn’t graceful or gentle, it was desperate. His face pressed into your shoulder as he muttered “Don’t be sorry… Just stay.” The words came out muffled but fierce—like if he held on hard enough, reality couldn't take you away.
“You know I can’t do that” you muttered. Throat hurts like it’s painful enough you have to say this to his face. Jude didn’t let go. His arms stayed locked around you, stubborn as hell—like a kid refusing to admit something painful.
“Why?” he pressed, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Give me one good reason that makes sense.” It wasn’t an angry demand—just pleading confusion. Jude had spent two years assuming you were happy here or at least tolerating it for him, and now the rug was being yanked out from under both of them.
“Jude—you will be fine. It won’t make a different” you say dismissively. The tone came out more defensive than you planned. Jude finally pulled back, but only far enough to glare at you—his expression torn between frustration and hurt. His brows furrowed.
“It will make a difference, Y/N” he snapped. “You think I’m just gonna find someone else who plays like you? Who gets me on the pitch like you do?” The second those words left his mouth, Jude realized how selfish they sounded. But he couldn’t take them back—because they were true.
“You will, Jude.” you said firmly. The last thing you wanted was letting Jude successfully convince you to stay. Again.
Jude’s jaw worked silently—chewing on your dismissal like it physically pained him. He wanted to argue, but the finality in your tone made his stomach drop. Instead of fighting more, he deflated slightly, shoulders slumping. His voice came out quieter now—not angry anymore, just resigned: “…When do you leave?” He already hated asking. Hated imagining the locker room without you there.
“December…” you say, the bitterness lingers in your mouth when you say it. You hated seeing Jude so sad. But what’s done is done. Jude nodded slowly, doing the math in his head—December wasn’t tomorrow, but it was close. Too damn close. A heavy silence stretched between them before Jude spoke again, forcing a steadier tone: “…Okay.” He rubbed his neck awkwardly, then suddenly stood up and grabbed his gym bag—avoiding your eyes. He needed to move, to do something with this restless energy building inside him. Because if he continues to look into your eyes, he is afraid something inside of him will snap.
The hotel’s gym was dimly lit, the hum of machines filling the quiet space. Jude pushed open the door, still wearing his sweatpants and a loose black tank top. He hadn’t expected to see you here either. For a second, he just stood there watching: you on one of the stationary bikes, headphones in as you pedaled steadily. The soft glow from overhead lights cast shadows over your focused expression. Jude hesitated before walking over quietly. Jude hopped onto the bike next to you, keeping a careful distance between them. He adjusted the seat quickly before putting his own headphones in—just background music, nothing loud. The two of them rode in silence: you focused ahead, Jude staring straight at the wall across from him. The only sounds were their steady pedaling and soft breath. Neither acknowledged each other’s presence… but neither left either.
Your grip on the handlebars tightened slightly, guilt pooling in your chest. You could feel Jude beside yoy—not just physically, but emotionally. The tension between them was thick even without words. After a few more minutes of silent riding, you finally glanced over at Jude out of the corner of your eye—studying his profile: jaw set, brows slightly furrowed with that familiar intensity. A pang shot through him. This might be one of their last gym sessions together as teammates… and they weren’t even talking.
Jude leaned back against the gym wall, his legs burning from pushing himself harder than necessary. Sweat dampened his hairline, and he dragged a hand down his face before exhaling sharply—part exhaustion, part frustration. The quiet stretched again as he caught his breath. The weight of everything unsaid between them felt heavier than any workout ever could. Without looking at you yet, Jude pulled off one headphone, signaling that maybe… just maybe… they should actually talk now.
“I’m sorry for earlier...I was being understanding toward your feelings” you say, sitting down next to Jude. He finally turned his head to look at you—really look at you—for the first time since they’d been in the gym. The apology caught him off guard, and for a second, he just blinked.
“…I was being an idiot,” he admitted quietly, “Yelling about you leaving like that.” He rubbed his thigh where it still ached from overworking out, then added more softly: “You didn’t do anything wrong. I know you had your reasons.”
Jude never brings water with him because he knows he can just drink from yours. It has been a deep rooted habit he developed over years together. Ever since your parents moved to the UK for work, mostly due to wanting you to gain exposure to good football coaches here. They made it through, all for your football career. There, 5-years old you met Jude and his brother. And y’all became best friends ever since. He always thought of you as a giant foreign kid who loves football. Sometimes he protects you at school when you get teased for having asian features and a heavy accent you were trying to fix. He has met your parents before at a playdate at your house, he admires your dad, who’s an ex-professional football player, super tall and your japanese model mom, who makes incredible meals for your trio.
Jude accepted the water bottle from you without hesitation—like it was second nature by now. He took a long swig, his throat dry from exertion, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture felt stupidly intimate in that moment: sharing a bottle like they always did after training or matches. It was such a small thing, but Jude hated how normal it still felt—when nothing else between them did right now. He handed it back to you wordlessly… then hesitated before speaking again.
Jude stared at the gym floor, suddenly dreading the thought of going back to his empty room. The hotel beds were too big and cold—no one to fill the space beside him, no familiar breathing to lull him asleep. The idea of showering alone, changing into pajamas alone… then lying there staring at the ceiling in silence? It sounded miserable.
Jude swallowed hard, his pulse picking up at the thought. He hadn’t planned on asking—it felt too vulnerable—but suddenly it was all he could focus on. He hops on your bed all the time and you let him, no big deals. So why so nervous now? Without overthinking it because if he did, he’d chicken out? Jude turned to you and blurted: “Do you… wanna come back to my room tonight? Just to sleep.” The words tumbled out in one breathless rush.
“That's weird. You always complain I hog blankets and take up most space" You snorted. Growing up together, they often have playdates and sleepovers. Jude’s lips twitched at the memories—almost a smile at your response. It was true, he always complained about the blanket wars and how you somehow managed to take up the entire bed like a starfish.
“Yeah, well…” he shrugged. “Still better than being alone right now.” The honesty slipped out before he could filter it. He quickly added, voice lighter: “And if you steal all the blankets again, I’ll just shove you onto the floor.” A weak joke—but an invitation anyway.
The suite was quiet except for the soft hum of the TV. Jude had found a bottle of expensive wine in the mini-fridge—probably left there by management for VIP guests—and he’d cracked it open without hesitation, drinking straight from it. You were sprawled on one side of the bed, scrolling through movie options while Jude sat cross-legged beside you, already tipsy after two big gulps. The alcohol burned going down but… he didn’t care tonight. They landed on some action movie—explosions and loud dialogue filling their silence. Then the smooth jazz from the club scene filled the room, low and sultry. Jude tipped the wine bottle back again—this time downing half of it in one go, his throat relaxing to the rich taste. By now, he was definitely buzzed, cheeks slightly flushed, movements looser than usual. He didn’t even care that this was probably stupidly expensive wine—he just liked how it made him feel warm.
“It’s getting late…I’m going to bed” you muttered in exhaustion. The movie really makes you relaxed. Or maybe it was Jude’s comforting presence alone.
Jude’s face fell the second you said that. The movie wasn’t even halfway done, and they’d only been hanging out for… what, an hour? Two? He scowled—childishly—and reached over to poke your arm. “No,” he protested, voice already a little slurred from the wine. “Stay up. It's not that late, Y/N.” The TV screen reflected in his eyes as he glared half-heartedly at you, like this was some huge betrayal.
“Jude…you’re drinking too much, you’re gonna have a horrible hangover tomorrow" you rolled your eyes at his childish tone.
Jude frowns—like a kid being scolded. He held the wine bottle tighter, stubbornly refusing to put it down.
“I don’t care about tomorrow,” he grumbled, “Tomorrow’s gonna suck anyway.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, revealing way more bitterness than he meant to show. But it was true: tomorrow would be another day closer to you leaving… So why not drink?
Eventually, Jude sets the bottle aside and scootches closer to you, straddling your hips as he stares into your eyes. The kiss was sudden—warm and wine-tinged. Jude leaned down, his lips meeting you with a clumsy but desperate intensity. The alcohol had loosened him up, made him bold in a way he normally wouldn’t be. His hands braced on either side of your shoulders as he deepened the kiss slightly—sloppy from drinking but full of pent-up emotion. It wasn’t romantic or smooth, it was messy and impulsive… just like Jude right now.
“What are you doing?” You say, stunned.
Jude didn’t pull away immediately—his lips lingered for a second longer, breath still mingling with yours. When he finally broke the kiss, his face was inches away, cheeks flushed from both alcohol and nerves.
“I dunno,” he admitted quietly, voice rough. Then, after a beat: “I wanted to.” His heart pounded like crazy. He hadn’t planned this at all—just acted on impulse—but now that he had? There was no taking it back.
“Jude…go to sleep, think you had enough?” You nudge him again.
Jude’s expression twisted—annoyance and frustration flashing across his face. He didn’t want to sleep. Sleep meant tomorrow would come faster, meaning you leaving would feel more real. Instead of listening, Jude pressed another kiss to your lips—softer this time but still insistent, lingering just a second too long before pulling back slightly.
“No,” he mumbled against your mouth, “Not tired.” His words were thick with wine and stubbornness.
“What can I do to get you to sleep, hm?” You rolled your eyes at his determined ass. Jude smirked—tipsy and smug—at your complaint. He tilted his head, considering the question like it was a game.
“…Keep kissing me,” he said without hesitation, voice low and teasing. Then, before you could protest or push him off, Jude leaned back in and captured your lips again—this kiss slower but just as determined. If this was the only way to stay awake with you right now? Fine by him.
“No” you scolded and peel Jude off you. He whined, and eventually fell asleep tangled with you on the bed, too tired and drunk to continue reasoning with you.
Jude’s training sessions became intense—almost aggressive. Every drill, every pass, he poured frustration into it. The new guy didn’t sync with him like you did, no instinctive give-and-go, no reading each other’s movements. It showed in matches too: Jude would break away down the wing… only to get a half-assed cross that sailed over the box or got intercepted because his teammate hadn’t followed up. The team noticed—the chemistry was off. And worse? Fans were comparing them to Jude and Y/N constantly… which just made everything sting more.
The loneliness crept in slowly—like a shadow under all the bright stadium lights. Without you beside him, matches felt… hollow. Even when Jude scored, the celebration lacked its usual fire. No jumping on your back because you’re the only one who can handle his aggressiveness. No inside joke glances during time-outs. Just teammates who were decent at best—not his person. The quiet ache of it followed him off the pitch too. Even his own teammates noticed how quieter Jude had gotten—less laughing in group chats, fewer impulsive jokes during downtime.
So the second Jude stepped onto the pitch and saw you in Manchester City blue, something sharp twisted in his gut. The smile on your face—relaxed, even happy—was a punch to the chest. You found the right club that respects you. They hadn’t spoken since you left. Jude forced himself to focus, but every time his eyes flicked toward you during warm-ups… that bitterness flared again: betrayal at no one, longing, frustration that this was their first match as opponents.
Jude was fuming every time the new guy ignored team plays—charging forward like a solo striker, ignoring calls for passes. It backfired constantly, his selfish shots went wide or got blocked. Meanwhile, you effortlessly picked him off—stealing the ball with smooth ease and turning defense into attack for Manchester City. The way he glided past the rookie looked almost playful… mocking even. Jude couldn’t stand it: watching his former teammate dismantle their whole strategy so casually while wearing another club’s colors.
Jude’s face scrunched into a full pout—cheeks flushed with frustration—as he barreled toward you during the next stoppage in play. Ignoring the referee’s glare, Jude got right up in his former teammate's space. The second they were within earshot, Jude jabbed a finger at your chest—not aggressively, but like an indignant kid demanding attention.
“You’re laughing” he accused through gritted teeth, “This isn’t funny.” Clearly you were having fun playing this match. No pressure at all.
“Don’t pout…you can fix this” you snorted again. Your voice was softer than Jude expected—gentle, almost coaxing. The smirk from earlier had faded now that they were face-to-face like this. Jude glared at you, still pouting because yeah, 2-0 sucked, but you weren't gloating anymore. You just looked… concerned? Like you genuinely wanted to fix it. Guess you still care about him and know how Jude’s world can collapse after a defeat.
A beat passed before Jude huffed and muttered, “How?” —defensive but open to whatever you suggested.
“I don’t know? Steal the ball from your own teammate?” You joke. That made Jude’s frown deepen—but then the suggestion hit him. Steal the ball from his own teammate? That rookie who’d been embarrassing them all game? A mischievous glint sparked in Jude’s eyes. It was risky… but if it meant getting back at you and helping his team, hell yeah. The next play, when their teammate got the ball again—Jude lunged with zero hesitation, only one thing in mind.
The ball rocketed off Jude’s boot—blazing past a defender like they were standing still. The strike was perfect: powerful, precise, and utterly ruthless. It slammed into the net before the keeper could even react. 2-1.
Jude didn’t celebrate with his teammates right away—he bolted straight for you instead. Without warning, he launched himself at the bigger man, tackling him into a bear hug mid-stride. The impact nearly knocked them both over—but Jude didn’t care. He buried his face against your shoulder, grinning wildly despite everything: the rivalry, the score… none of that mattered in this second.
The stadium cameras zoomed in immediately—catching the rare, raw moment between Jude and Y/N. The close-up broadcasted their embrace to millions watching live. Jude’s arms were still locked around you like he’d never let go. On screen, you could see every detail: Jude’s sweaty state from running, his wide grin pressed into your jersey… while you—surprised but not pushing him away—just stood there holding him back while the fellows Manchester City stared at you.
The final whistle blew, sealing Manchester City’s victory. Jude kicked the grass in frustration—his goal and lead hadn’t been enough to turn things around. He trudged off the pitch, avoiding eye contact with teammates and reporters alike. The scoreboard mocked him: 2-1. Close… but a loss. As he entered the locker room, his shoulders slumped under the weight of defeat—and worse? You would be celebrating on your side, not his. You promised you would give him whatever he wants if he wins, but guess not.
Jude lingered near the tunnel leading to the Manchester City locker room, spotting you through the half-open door. He hesitated for a second—then walked over. Leaning against the frame, Jude crossed his arms and forced a dry tone: “Guess I won’t get whatever you promised, huh? …You won. Congrats.” The bitterness in his voice was thinly veiled, he’d been looking forward to cashing that bet…
“Pouting still?” You chuckled. Jude’s bottom lip jutted out instinctively—still pouting, yeah. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. The loss stung, you were winning, and now Jude had to face the fact that he’d never get whatever silly "whatever" prize they'd joked about.
“…You’re enjoying this,” he accused flatly, “Aren’t you?”
“I shouldn't.” you smirked. God he hated that. Jude rolled his eyes at your snort—because yeah, you shouldn’t be enjoying it… but of course you were. That stupid little smirk kept creeping back.
“You’re the worst,” Jude grumbled, “Rubbing it in my face like this.” He kicked a bottle on the floor, then peeked up at you through his lashes—half annoyed, half something softer. They hadn't talked properly in months… and now here they were again.
“I won, Jude. I can take whatever I want?” You giggled, poking at his side. Jude’s nose scrunched up at the teasing—you were loving this way too much. He narrowed his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, “Gloat all you want.”
“Room 325. There's more I'd love to take.” you whispered before turning your back and joining your team again.
Jude’s pulse jumped at the implication—Room 325. He watched you walk away—shoulders relaxed, that chuckle still lingering in the air—and suddenly the loss didn’t feel so bad anymore. If this was part of "whatever"… Jude was all for it. He had a crush on you for so long, and he was no longer in the denials, ever since you two first joined Real Madrid. Without lingering, Jude headed straight for Real Madrid's locker room to shower and change fast—already counting down minutes until he could sneak out unnoticed later.
The suite was dimly lit—soft golden light spilling from the lamps. Jude stepped inside quietly, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him just in case. You weren’t immediately visible, maybe in the bathroom? Or on the balcony? The place smelled faintly of your cologne—something woodsy and clean. Jude kicked off his shoes and wandered further in, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it was… and what might happen next.
The bed dipped slightly under Jude’s weight as he stretched out, jacket discarded on a nearby chair. The sheets were cool against his skin—freshly changed, probably. He could hear the shower running in the bathroom, water hitting tile. The sound was rhythmic… relaxing even. Jude laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling, listening. A part of him wondered how long you would take—and if you'd walk out here still toweling off…
Jude propped himself up on his elbows the second he heard the bathroom door open. You stepped out—hair still damp, droplets clinging to your shoulders—and that towel was barely hanging on. The sight made Jude’s breath catch. Water had traced paths down your chest, every defined muscle was on display under the soft lighting.
The distance between them vanished in an instant. Jude surged forward, crashing his lips against yours—hungry and impatient. There was nothing soft about this kiss, it was all heat and months of pent-up longing. Usually he would avoid people after a loss but…he found a way to make it disappear fast. One hand tangled into your damp hair while the other gripped your bare shoulder, pulling you closer as if they couldn’t get enough contact fast enough. His palm felt warm as Jude kneaded your muscles with neediness.
Your strength made it effortless—you lifted Jude up and set him down on the sleek marble table without breaking the kiss. The cold surface contrasted with their burning skin. Jude wrapped his legs around your waist instinctively, arms clinging to your shoulders as they kissed deeper. There was no hesitation now—just hands roaming, lips locked, breaths mingling in messy harmony.
Jude’s fingers traced every ridge of your back—those broad, sculpted muscles that flexed under his touch. He mapped them like he was memorizing—a dip here, a ridge there—letting the pads of his thumbs press into the firmness. It felt incredible… and Jude couldn’t stop exploring. Meanwhile, you kept kissing him deeply, teeth grazing Jude's bottom lip before diving back in with renewed hunger.
Jude’s breath hitched as your lips traveled down—his jaw, his throat—the teasing nibbles on the Adam's apple sending shivers through him. “Still upset?” You muttered against his skin.
“No…” he admitted softly, tilting his head to give you better access. His hands stayed glued to those back muscles… squeezing lightly whenever a particularly good spot got kissed.
The weight of their past—more than 15 years as best friends—hung in the air between them. Jude searched your eyes, suddenly unsure. What were they now? Opponents? Ex-teammates? Just… this? He gently nudged you back to create a sliver of space, his hands still resting on your shoulders but no longer pulling you closer. A quiet question lingered unspoken: Is this just tonight because you won… or something more?
Jude’s heart hammered—loud enough that he was sure you could hear it. He swallowed hard, gathering courage. For the first time in years, maybe ever… Jude wanted to say it out loud. Not as a joke or a tease—just raw honesty. Or else he will never be able to play football with the same intense focus. He needed to get it off his chess.
“I…” His voice came out quieter than expected. He cleared his throat, “I think I’m in love with you.” The words hung there, fragile and huge all at once.
“You made that pretty obvious” you smirked at the confession. Yeah, it took Jude years to say it. Here he goes. And that’s your reaction?
Jude exhaled sharply—half-laugh, half-relief—when you teased him instead of answering properly. The tension in his shoulders eased just a little.
“Oh shut up,” he grumbled, shoving your shoulder lightly before surging forward to kiss you again. This time softer… less frantic, more affectionate. If you weren't going to take this seriously yet… Jude would just show you how he felt through actions instead of words for now.
“Just kidding…I love you too, Jude. Only you”
Jude’s entire face lit up at those words—you finally said it. A grin spread wide across his lips, bright and disbelieving for a second. Then he kissed you again—happy, giddy kisses all over your face: forehead, cheeks, nose… before landing back on your mouth properly. The 17-year best friend who became something more… Jude couldn’t stop smiling against your lips. This was perfect.
Jude deepened the kiss, pouring everything into it—the hope, the longing. When he finally pulled back just an inch, his voice was low and earnest:
“Come back to Real Madrid.”
No teasing this time. Just a direct plea—eyes locked on yours like Jude could make you say yes by staring. The thought of having you as both his teammate and lover again… it felt right in every way.
“You just have to say that every chance you get…” you complained. Jude rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it—because yeah, he would say it again and again if you let him. The guy had no chill when it came to this.
“You love hearing me say it.” he shot back with a smirk, poking your side playfully before kissing your cheek once more—quick and sweet. The banter was light… but beneath the teasing, Jude was radiating pure happiness. This—you loving him back? Best feeling ever.
“No, I don’t” you said firmly. It only made Jude laugh—bright and unguarded—as you rolled your eyes. The denial was weak.
“Liar.” Jude accused, grinning before diving back in to kiss you again. This time slower, lingering… savoring the fact that you were his now. The room felt warmer somehow, like the whole world had narrowed down to just them—no rivalries left between them anymore… just this.
“No. You come to Manchester City with me” you said. There’s no way you would go back to that hell hole unless they change the coach. Jude’s smile faltered for a second—you? suggesting he switch teams? To Manchester City? That was… not what he wanted at all.
“No.” he said immediately, voice firm but not angry. He cupped your face “I’m staying with Madrid. You come back to me.” he demands firmly. No nonsense. And yeah, happy spouse, happy house—or whatever they said.
“I just signed 3 years with Manchester City, Jude” you huffed. Jude’s entire face brightened—relief and excitement mixing together. 3 years wasn’t forever. He could wait.
“3 years?” He repeated, nodding quickly. “Yeah. That’s nothing.” Without hesitation, Jude kissed you again—this time sealing the promise between them. He’d be patient… because after that contract ended? You would be back where you belonged: with Jude at Madrid. It was easy to convince you. Too easy. But you made one thing clear—only Jude gets to do that. Only he gets to mess with you and come out of the room alive.
Jude shifted impatiently, his legs parting wider as you stood between them. The affectionate moment had passed—now Jude wanted action. Something to distract him from the defeat. Without breaking eye contact, he grabbed the hem of his own shirt and tugged it upward—silently demanding you to help him take it off. Then he bit his lip expectantly… waiting for you to close the distance.
You moved fast—no teasing left in you now. In seconds, Jude’s jeans unbuttoned and shoved down his legs. The cool air hit Jude’s skin briefly before you pressed close again. Fabric pooled on the floor around them. The towel finally gave up its fight… slipping to the ground as you kissed Jude hard again.
You raised an eyebrow when Jude grabs the lube and condom in Jude’s discarded jeans—clearly planned ahead. A slow smirk curled at your lips.
“Came prepared, huh?” you teased, voice dropping lower as you twist the cap of the lube. The fact that Jude had thought this far ahead was… kinda hot. Jude only rolls his eyes at your tone “Just in case” he said.
You trailed your lips down Jude’s torso—soft, appreciative kisses over each defined muscle. The ridges of his abs, the curve of his shoulders… every inch was worshipped with quiet admiration. It wasn’t rushed anymore, you took time to explore Jude like this was something sacred. Each kiss lingered—a contrast to their earlier urgency. The warmth of your mouth against bare skin sent little sparks through Jude… intimate in a whole new way.
Jude sank deeper into the cool marble, body pliant under your touch. The lube was cold for a split second before warming—then your finger pressed gently, circling his entrance. Simultaneously, you kissed down Jude’s chest—lips and tongue soothing over every inch of skin while those fingers worked slowly… teasingly… pushing in just the slightest bit more with each pass. The dual sensations were overwhelming: warmth above and careful pressure below.
Your fingers moved with practiced gentleness—stretching Jude slowly, curling just right to send waves of that delicious good pain down his spine. Each motion was deliberate, careful not to hurt. Jude breathed through it, back arching slightly off the table as pleasure mixed with the stretch. You watched his reactions closely—adjusting pressure or angle based on every twitch or gasp Jude made. The lube eased everything, no discomfort… just building heat and anticipation.
Jude arched beautifully against the marble—back curving, skin flushed under your hungry gaze. He felt exposed in the best way… like a meal laid out for you to feast upon. Every glance from you burned hotter than the cold surface beneath Jude. Your fingers kept working on him—slow but purposeful—as your other hand traced Jude’s hipbone, possessive without words… all while drinking in how responsive he was.
You slipped your fingers out carefully, then grabbed the condom—ripping the packet open with your teeth and quickly rolling it on. A few firm strokes helped him get fully hard, there was no rush now. You positioned yourself over Jude again, met Jude’s eyes one last time before leaning down to kiss him deeply—a silent check-in before moving further.
With slow precision, you started pushing in… giving Jude every chance to adjust while you pressed your cock into his clenching hole. The stretch was deliberate, no sudden movements. Each inch forward was careful—controlled by how well Jude handled it. Soon you found a pace to go.
You adjusted Jude’s legs, lifting them gently to rest on your shoulders—exposing him completely. The position was intimate in a new way, Jude squirmed under the vulnerability of it. His cheeks warmed slightly… but there was no hiding now. Every shift or tremble from his body would be visible like this. You kissed Jude’s leg softly—a small comfort—before settling into a slow rhythm, testing the depth and angle with careful thrusts.
You moved with deliberate control—each roll of your hips measured, testing the fit. The stretch was intense for Jude, he hadn’t expected you to feel this big inside him. A sharp inhale escaped Jude’s lips—his breath catching in surprise. It wasn’t painful… just overwhelming in a way that made his pulse spike.
It takes a while. As Jude relaxed into the sensation, you began moving with more rhythm—gentle but steady thrusts now. The initial fullness gave way to something smoother, each glide becoming easier. The table creaked faintly beneath them, but neither cared.
“Is it…supposed to feel this way?” Jude muttered, feeling weird in his stomach. He has never taken a man before.
“It gets better.” you murmured, brushing a thumb over Jude’s thigh reassuringly. Your next thrust was softer, more focused on pleasure than just the physical act. The initial overwhelming stretch would fade soon… replaced by something warmer, easier—if you kept going gently like this.
You discovered that spot almost immediately—some perfect angle where every thrust landed just right that you noticed drawing a small moan out of him. Jude’s breath hitched audibly, his back pressing harder into the table as pleasure spiked. Without hesitation, you kept targeting it—rhythm steady and deliberate now. The precision was addictive, each repetition drew out another soft sound from Jude.
The rhythmic clap of skin on skin filled the room—sloppy, wet sounds with every deep thrust. You loved how Jude squirmed beneath you, the way his body reacted to each rough pull almost all the way out before slamming back in. There was no gentleness now—just raw, heated friction once Jude gets used to the feeling and ease into it. The table rocked slightly from their movements… but neither cared about anything except this moment. Jude’s legs trembled where they rested on your shoulders—the sensation overwhelming but good in a dizzying way.
Jude’s toes curled involuntarily inside his socks—the fabric grounding him, helping the blood flow stay steady despite how intensely he was feeling everything. The pleasure was almost too much, overwhelming in its goodness. He whined under your relentless pace—not to stop you, but because there was nothing solid to grip onto. No nothing on the marble table… just air and sensation.
“Y/N—” he breathed out shakily, “There’s nothing… to hold onto.”
You slowed your movements, shifting effortlessly to scoop Jude up in your arms. The sudden change made Jude instinctively cling to you—arms locking around your neck, legs winding tight around your waist. Their bodies pressed together now as you moved until Jude’s back met the cool wall. Then you resumed rocking into him—steadier this time, deeper—but with just as much heat.
The second Jude’s fingers found your back—those broad, corded muscles flexing with every movement—he couldn’t help himself. His nails dug in lightly, not enough to hurt but just there, clinging. Moans spilled from Jude shamelessly now, the wall supported his weight perfectly, and having your body to grip made everything more intense. Every thrust sent vibrations through them both. You grunted at the sensation of those nails scraping down your skin… it only drove you deeper.
Your strength made carrying Jude effortless—your arms caging him against the wall with zero strain. Every rock of your hips was powerful, deliberate… bullying that tender spot inside Jude in the best way. The roughness wasn’t mean—just dominant. You knew exactly how much pressure to use, turning each movement into a deep, claiming thrust that left Jude breathless. Jude’s back slid slightly against the wall from their momentum… but you adjusted instantly to keep him steady.
Jude’s body instinctively tightened around you—muscles fluttering in waves of pleasure, milking your aching cock with each deliberate clench. It wasn’t on purpose… just his body reacting to the overwhelming sensations.
The sudden pressure drew a ragged groan from you—your rhythm stuttering for half a second before you growled and snapped your hips harder, chasing that feeling. The friction between them skyrocketed, Jude could feel every ridge of you through the thin condom now.
Jude bit down on your shoulder—teeth pressing just enough to leave a mark, not to hurt much. It was instinctive: a way to claim you and anchor himself as pleasure crested violently. The sting made you gasp… but you didn’t pull away. Instead, your arms tightened around Jude possessively, hips never stopping their relentless pace. A muffled sound escaped Jude between clenched teeth—the bite both an act of need and silent praise.
Jude’s nails raked down your back—leaving faint, stinging red lines in their wake. The sharp sensation made the bigger man gasp sharply through his nose. The pain wasn’t unpleasant, it blended with the pleasure, heightening everything. Your breath hitched as you adjusted to it… then responded by thrusting harder, driving Jude deeper into the wall. A low sound rumbled in your chest—not quite a growl but close—as your hips moved with renewed intensity.
Jude’s voice cracked with pleasure as he hurled insults—words like “asshole” and “fucking monster” tumbling out, but there was zero real anger behind them. Just heat. Each name came with a bitten-off moan or a sharp gasp, his body betraying how much he actually loved this rough treatment. You only smirked at the curses—unbothered. You knew Jude wasn’t actually mad… just overwhelmed and expressing it in the only way that made sense to him right now.
Your smirk widened—completely endeared by Jude’s tantrum. The bruising grip, the insults… it was all so him. You loved every second of this unfiltered, fiery passion. Jude kept clenching around your cock and cursing—“You’re such a fucking jerk”—but his hips rolled instinctively against yours with each word, chasing more friction despite himself. The contrast was adorable: rage in words but pure bliss in how their bodies moved together.
You crushed your lips against Jude’s—cutting off the next insult mid-sentence with a searing kiss. Your hips never slowed, pounding into him at that same rough, unforgiving pace. The kiss was messy and hungry—all teeth and tongue as you swallowed every insult Jude made. Then you broke the kiss to trail your lips down Jude’s neck—lingering over your pulse point before latching onto a sensitive spot just above his collarbone. Your mouth worked there hungrily, sucking and biting. A few vivid hickeys bloomed instantly—faint marks against Jude’s skin. Jude only tilted his head instinctively, giving you better access without even thinking.
Jude’s body tensed—pleasure cresting violently as his hips jerked in your grip. He shoved at your shoulders weakly, voice breaking as he cursed again: “Fuck—Y/N!”
The push wasn’t strong enough to actually move you, it was just Jude’s overwhelmed nerves reacting. His fingers trembled against your chest… not wanting space, just unable to handle the intensity. You felt Jude tightening around your cock and knew—they were both right on the edge now.
Jude came hard—body seizing up as pleasure ripped through him, completely unrestrained. The mess between them was undeniable, but you didn’t slow down for a second. Still chasing your own release, you kept thrusting—relentless and deep—as Jude trembled from oversensitivity. The stretch mixed with the aftershocks sent sparks shooting up Jude’s spine.
The hit on your chest from Jude had no real force behind it, just a desperate attempt to signal too much. Jude squirmed slightly, breath coming in short gasps—but you could feel how sensitive every nerve was right now.
Your hips jerked a few last times—sharp, uncontrolled thrusts—before you stilled completely. With a deep groan rumbling from your chest, you buried yourself fully inside Jude… spilling over the edge. The sensation was intense for both of them, you shuddering through it while Jude felt every pulse, even in his oversensitive state.
For a long moment afterward, neither moved—just breathing heavily against each other’s skin. The air between them was thick with the scent of sweat and shared intimacy. Both Jude and you were glistening—skin damp, chests rising and falling in sync as they caught their breath. Jude’s head lolled slightly against your shoulder—too spent to even think about moving yet.
You carefully lifted Jude—still cradled in your arms—and carried him the short distance to the bed. Gently, you lowered him onto the mattress, making sure Jude was comfortable. The sheets were cool against their heated skin. You hovered for a second before lying down beside him, one arm slipping under Jude’s neck like you’re his pillow as they settled together. For a moment, they get to relax.
Jude’s brow furrowed slightly as you sat up—disrupting the cozy position he’d been nestled into. The warmth of your bicep had been a perfect pillow, and now it was gone. He didn’t say anything, just blinked up at you with that small frown… silently asking why you moved without explanation.
You reached for the water bottle on the nightstand, twisting it open before taking a long swig. The cool liquid soothed your dry throat after everything. Without hesitation, you passed the half-full bottle to Jude—holding it out so he could drink too. Your eyes softened slightly as Jude took it, a small act of care after their intensity.
You snatched a nearby towel off the chair, still damp and gently wiping Jude’s skin clean. You started with his face—dabbing away sweat—then moved down to his chest and shoulders then lower.
“Season’s over. Got any plans for summer?” You asked casually. You stretched out beside Jude on the bed, turning your head toward him with a relaxed expression. He pondered for a second before answering.
“Dunno yet. Probably just chill… maybe travel somewhere.”
“Come back to my homeland then. We can hang out” Your voice was soft but hopeful. You suggested Japan—your mother’s homeland. The idea of Jude visiting there, seeing where you were born, living a normal summer together away from football… It excited him. Jude adores your mother, likes it when she tells him about baby Y/N back in Japan before moving to England. You turned onto your side to face Jude fully, waiting for his reaction. The country had beaches, mountains… and endless good food too.
A slow smile spread across Jude’s face as he nodded “Yeah. I’d love that.”
“Can we get in the hot tub now?” Jude groans impatiently. He has been waiting for you to tan since forever. Here you and him in Japan, you bought a penthouse there last year for vacation and family gathering, the bathtub was an addition you don’t really approve of but buying it anyway because your mother loves it. You’re more of an icebath person. You two spent time cooking, playing video games and exploring the cities. And now simply at the pool of your place.
“No…I’m tanning” you muttered.
Jude huffed dramatically, peeling himself off you like a clingy shadow. He padded barefoot to the edge of the pool, toes curling against cold tile.
without warning—splash!—he cannonballed right next to your lounge chair, sending a wave crashing over it and soaking your towel.
water dripped from your black as he surfaced with that stupidly handsome grin—the one that used to make half the team lose their minds during training camp.
“Oops,” he grinned, not sounding sorry at all. then louder: “c’monnn! hot tub’s awesome”
“Fine!” You groaned. Jude’s face lit up like he’d just scored the winning penalty in extra time. he scrambled out of the pool first, water sluicing off his toned frame as he grabbed two fluffy towels from the cabana bench—one tossing at you with a wet smack.
The hot tub starts bubbling softly after you turn the heat on and fill in water, steam curling into the air. without asking because when did Jude ever?, he kicked off his slipper and climbed in, stretching out with a satisfied groan.
“Ahhh… fuck yeah.” he moaned dramatically, sinking low until only his face was above water. then: “You coming or what? I'm not waiting forever.” His brown eyes gleamed playfully under the sun. Even if it’s hot or burning, Jude would still choose a hot tub.
The moment you slid into the hot tub, jude’s smug expression flickered. You took up way too much space—like a goddamn grizzly bear who’d been sculpted by Greek gods. water sloshed dangerously close to spilling over as you sank in.
“It’s hot…I’d choose an ice bath over this anyday” You complained.
Jude blinked at you like you'd just insulted his entire bloodline.
“Ice bath?!” he repeated, nose scrunching in disgust. “Why would you want to freeze your balls off?” that only earns a scold out of you.
The silence between them stretched, warm and heavy like the steam rising off the hot tub.
Another season is coming up soon. Then the World Cup. He’d be locked into that bubble again: Madrid's golden boy under scrutiny 24/7… expected to win… expected to perform flawlessly… The thought made his chest tighten slightly. Without looking up and voice quieter than it had ever been, Jude said:
“I kinda wish this week never ends.”
