#ariel finding eric's telescope after it fell into the ocean #and them being connected before they ever even met #the "invisible string" of it all 😭
THE LITTLE MERMAID (2023) Dir. Rob Marshall
Author’s note: pls listen to fever by lucky daye, i beg you!
Summary: A break somehow turned into a permanent separation. It’s been seven months since he’s been in your presence, but once he’s in your orbit, Trent throws your world off its axis.
Words: 3268
The bass thumped through the floor of the crowded club, the vibrations resonating in your chest as you swayed to the rhythm. Those around you were lost in their own world, arms raised, heads thrown back in laughter and carefree joy. But despite the fun, you were hyper-aware of Trent’s eyes on you, just like they had been all night.
You knew exactly why. The dress you’d chosen was one of his favorites. He’d always said it brought out something in you, made you glow. Maybe that’s why you wore it tonight, why you let your friends drag you to the weekend at the villa, despite knowing he’d be there too.
As you dance, your hips move fluidly to the beat, trying to focus on the music, on the warmth of your friends' energy. Trying to allow it to suppress all the stress from work. You tilted your head back, closing your eyes as you let the rhythm take over, begging the music to drown out the thoughts of him.
To drown out the way his eyes had lingered when he’d opened the door of the Uber to help you out upon your arrival to the club. His gaze first met yours, holding it for a moment that felt both too brief and too long before it dropped to take in the rest of you. He looked at the dress, the way it hugged your curves, the tantalizing cutouts that revealed just enough to keep his imagination running wild. His eyes traced the smooth expanse of your skin, lingering on the delicate straps of your heels that accentuated the length of your legs.
To drown out the way he'd only managed to get out a few words, his voice a little rougher than he’d intended. “You alright?” he asked, the simplicity of the question betraying the hours he'd spent rehearsing what he would say when you finally came face to face again after seven long months. "You alright?" was nowhere on that list, and he silently cursed himself for fumbling in the moment that mattered most.
But then, you’d smiled—just a small, knowing curve of your lips—and that familiar, bashful smile you adored crept onto his face, softening the intensity in his eyes. It was the smile that had always made your heart skip a beat, the one that reminded you that you were the only person in the world to make him feel this way.
To drown out how his touch lingered on your hand longer than necessary as he helped you out of the car, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. It was a simple gesture, but the warmth of his skin against yours sent a ripple of memories through you. Before you could respond, your friend gave you a playful nudge from behind, urging you to move so the rest of the group could file out. You couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder as you moved with the crowd towards the door, catching his eyes still locked on you, following your every step.
To drown out how in that brief moment, it was as if the months apart had dissolved, leaving behind the undeniable connection that had always been there. The weight of his gaze on your back had felt like a tether, begging to pull you into a past you weren’t sure you were ready to let go of, even as you walked further away.
You appeared to be having the time of your life as you danced. But across the room, Trent was struggling. Every time he glanced your way, he felt a tug of something deep in his chest—something he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried. You were captivating, lost in the music, your laughter ringing out as you moved with the girls. His friends kept trying to engage him in conversation, but his attention was always drawn back to you.
It was maddening—how you still had this effect on him, how the sight of you in that dress could unravel him so completely. He took a long sip of his drink, trying desperately to divert his attention, but the shimmering lights had other plans. They cascaded over your skin, highlighting its rich, deep tones and casting an enchanting glow that accentuated every curve as you moved. The play of light and shadow left him mesmerized, utterly dazed by the way you seemed to glow with an almost ethereal beauty, each flicker of light intensifying his longing.
He was yanked headfirst into a memory—the last time he’d danced with you. He could almost feel the tingling at his fingertips, his body aching with the phantom sensation of yours pressed against his, the way your hips had moved perfectly in sync with his, how you grinding against him left his head cloudy-spinning, the heat that built between you as you both surrendered to the moment.
His grip tightened around the glass in his hand as he recalled the way your smile had lit up his world the last time you’d shared a moment like this. The way your eyes had met his with that spark, a silent communication that only the two of you understood. He remembered how he’d pulled you close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered something that made you laugh and press even closer to him.
Now, as he watched you dance, Trent couldn’t help but imagine stepping forward, closing the distance between you, and pulling you into that same embrace. But instead, he stayed rooted to the spot, his chest tightening as he realized that the days of being the one who got to dance with you were over. Trent’s eyes followed your every move, memorizing the way you looked in that dress, the way your hair caught the light, the way your smile hadn’t changed a bit.
As the night began to wind down and the club’s energy slowly ebbed away, exhaustion crept in. Your feet ached from hours of dancing, but your body still buzzed with the lingering thrill of the music—and the heat of his eyes on you all night. When you all returned to the villa, the others started to disperse, seeking the comfort of a hot shower and bed. But you couldn’t shake the restlessness coursing through you, so the kitchen beckoned, offering a moment of solitude. As their laughter and conversations faded into the background, a wave of relief washed over you, the quiet of the villa a soothing contrast to the club’s pounding noise.
You made your way to the kitchen, the dim light of the freezer casting a soft glow as you opened it. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw it—a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, sitting right there on the top shelf. A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you reached for it, the familiar weight of the pint in your hands bringing back memories of all the nights you and Trent had spent just like this. It was a ritual you’d never grown tired of, something simple that had always brought you closer together. The fact that he’d remembered to stock the freezer with it tonight made something warm unfurl in your chest.
Instinctively, you opened the drawer and picked up two spoons, but then you paused. The reality of your current situation hit you, and with a quiet sigh, you put one of the spoons back.
You hopped up onto the kitchen island, the marble cool beneath you as you peeled back the lid of the ice cream. The first bite was pure bliss, the sweetness melting on your tongue. You closed your eyes, savoring the taste.
As you ate, your mind drifted back to the night’s earlier moment, to Trent’s simple question: “You alright?” You’d wanted to tell him the truth—that you weren’t. Seven months later, you still found yourself reaching for him in the middle of the night, still fighting the urge to text him whenever something significant happened. Despite feeling this way, you couldn’t share it because it was you who had suggested the break in the first place
Your job demanded too much of your focus, while he was entrenched in the demands of playing for Liverpool. You’d hit a rough patch, both of you fearing you’d finally lost the three-year “honeymoon phase” all of your girlfriends envied. Asking him for space had seemed like the only solution at the time, but it quickly turned into hardly speaking and not seeing each other at all.
Because for Trent, it was all or nothing. He couldn’t be in the same room without wanting to touch you, without his fingers aching to brush against your skin. He couldn’t talk to you on the phone without slipping into nicknames only he’d ever use for you, names that held more meaning than simple words. He couldn’t follow you on Instagram without liking your photos, leaving comments that made it clear he was still very much invested, that those pictures were posted for him, and him alone.
He couldn’t bear to see other guys looking at you, chatting you up, their interest undeniable. It would be excruciating to hear your laughter directed at another man’s jokes, knowing that the laughter you reserved for him was now shared with others.
He couldn’t bear to call you a friend when the gang got together to hang out, because his own eyes betrayed him every time. They followed you, lingered on you, reflecting the longing and unresolved feelings he couldn’t hide, making it impossible to keep up the pretense of casual friendship. That’s why he took your request for space so literally. He tried his best to keep a clear distance between you two, strategically meeting up with friends when he knew you wouldn’t be tagging along. For Trent, the line between wanting you and being without you was too blurred to navigate, so he chose to keep the space as wide as possible, even if it meant missing out on the simple joy of being around you.
The sound of soft footsteps broke through your thoughts, and when you opened your eyes, Trent was there, leaning casually against the counter across from you. His presence seemed to fill the room, his dark, warm eyes locking onto yours as if no time had passed since you were last this close. He wore a fitted white t-shirt and dark, well-worn jeans—the kind of look that always made your heart skip a beat.
“Thanks for the ice cream, T,” you said softly, your voice carrying a note of something deeper, something unspoken. “You didn’t have to.”
His lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, one that you hadn’t seen in months. “Old habits, I guess.”
You nodded, taking another bite. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy with everything that had gone unsaid for so long. Trent’s eyes followed your movements, the way your lips wrapped around the spoon, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed. There was a hunger in his gaze, a longing that he was barely trying to hide.
For a moment, you allowed yourself to study him, really study him. The sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his stubble framed his face– his hand instinctively reached up to rub at his jaw under your watchful eyes.
“Old habits,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it any louder would shatter the fragile peace between you.
Trent pushed off the counter, closing the distance between you with a few measured steps. His hand found its way to your leg, resting just above your knee. The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. It was a simple gesture, but it carried a heavy weight, a history that lingered between you.
You stayed still, not pulling away, as his fingers began to trace slow, deliberate patterns on your skin, moving from your knee down to your calf. His touch was familiar yet electrifying, sending shivers up your spine and making every nerve in your body come alive with awareness. Your heart raced as he unbuckled and gently slipped off one of your heels, the action tender and almost reverent.
The cool air hit your bare foot, contrasting sharply with the warmth of his hands as he began to massage the arch. His fingers worked into the muscles with practiced ease, and the tension in your body began to melt away. You had to bite back a sigh of contentment; it felt so good, so right, that it was impossible to ignore how your body responded to him, even after all this time.
As you tried to find a distraction from the overwhelming sensation, you sighed, “About the Euros…”
Trent’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, his expression one of genuine surprise. “You watched?”
You rolled your eyes, a soft, playful smile curving your lips. “Of course I watched. I always watch for you.”
His surprise gave way to something warmer, softer, and you saw his eyes soften, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t think you would care.”
“I always care,” you said quietly, the words carrying a weight of truth that neither of you had been willing to confront.
His hands continued their work, kneading the tension away, and you couldn’t help but relax further into his touch. Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring the sensation of his fingers, which seemed to know exactly where to press to make you feel good. Another step in an unspoken routine.
Old habits.
The massage was thorough, gentle yet firm, and as he moved to your other leg, you found yourself completely at his mercy. The tension in your body unraveled with each stroke of his hands. When he finished, his touch lingered, his fingers drifting up your calf, sending a final shiver through your entire body. He watched your reaction intently as he traced the last patterns of his touch.
His thumbs brushed instinctively against your thighs, and you opened your eyes to meet his gaze. He flashed a cheeky smile and teased, “Guess I still have that magic touch.”
You bit back a smile, the warmth of his words and the electricity between you making it difficult to maintain any pretense of nonchalance.
You shifted slightly under his intense gaze, the brushes of his thumbs against your thighs making it hard to focus. “So,” you started, your voice betraying a hint of nerves as you swirled the spoon in the pint, “how was LA?”
Trent’s lips curled into a slow smile, his brow arching as he caught the glint of curiosity in your eyes. “It was fun.”
“That’s good.” You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the memories of the headlines and the pictures that had circulated flashed through your mind. You had known about the trip because of your mutual friends, but it was impossible to avoid the media’s spin on it. The tabloids had been relentless, insinuating that Trent was finally enjoying his newfound freedom, soaking up the sun in LA, surrounded by beautiful women and living the carefree life of a single man in his twenties.
As he stepped closer, settling between your legs, his touch drifted to your hips, creating a new, electric sensation. This close, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes—his skin now a shade darker, the golden tan accentuating the sharp angles of his face, and his hair, slightly longer than usual.
Before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out, your fingers gently threading through Trent's hair. The motion was instinctive, familiar.
Trent's eyes softened as your hand moved through his curls, and he instinctively reached up to brush his fingers against where yours had just been, a small smile playing on his lips. “I need a cut before the season starts,” he remarked, though there was a hint of reluctance in his voice, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go of this moment.
You hummed softly in response, your fingers lingering in his hair a little longer before trailing from his hair to the nape of his neck, where his skin was warm and smooth. The intimacy of the gesture made your heart ache with a mix of nostalgia and longing. His breath hitched, just slightly, at the contact, and you felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch before relaxing again.
“I like it when you grow it out,” you admitted quietly, your thumb grazing the soft skin there.
His eyes locked onto yours, the warmth in them deepening as he leaned in a fraction closer, the space between you shrinking with every passing second. His right hand moved to the small of your back, fingers splayed out pulling you to the edge of the counter, the contact sending a shiver up your spine.
“Do you?” he asked, his voice low, the words carrying more meaning than just a casual question.
You nodded, your gaze never leaving his. Your touch found its way to the front of his shirt, drifting up his chest. As your fingers brushed against the fabric, you felt his heartbeat thrum steadily beneath your palm.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he chuckled softly. The touch of his fingers on your chin was gentle but insistent, guiding your face upward.
His eyes dropped to your lips, and you could see the shift in his expression—his gaze softened, filled with a mix of longing and hesitation. His eyes revealed his desire to kiss you, yet it was clear he wouldn’t be the one to initiate. It was up to you to bridge the gap, to ask him to take back the space he had given you. He needed you to reverse the separation that had grown between you and to reclaim the love he’d declared for you.
He took a soft breath, and you leaned in, closing the remaining distance between you. Your lips met his in a hesitant kiss. It was a fleeting, featherweight touch.
As you pulled back, you saw the look on his face—a mix of relief and something profoundly soft, a vulnerability that spoke volumes. His eyes held a gentle warmth, his touch lingering on your cheeks, thumbs gently grazing your skin as if he wanted to savor every moment of this reconnection. His nose brushed against yours, your eyes drifting shut.
He closed the gap between you again. His lips moved against yours with a gentle urgency, exploring and rediscovering the familiar contours of your mouth. The urgency of his body caused you to tip back towards the kitchen counter, a giggle escaping your lips. His hands quickly gripped your hips, lifting you up and off the counter in a swift motion leaving your head spinning.
He stumbled through the kitchen, lips refusing to leave yours, his steps uneven as he tripped over his own shoes kicking them off, his focus entirely on you. The dim light cast shadows around him, making it difficult for his mind to settle on anything but the pressing need to be close to you. His brain struggled to find a clear path in the darkness, to the sofa, barely registering the familiar layout of the room. All he knew was that there was no way he would make it up the steps, down the hall, and to his room.
author's note: careful kaira, your Lew fantasies are showing. this is not edited, didn't need to chicken out of sharing it.
Summary: Keeping your relationship a secret is tough when Lewis can’t keep his eyes or hands off you.
Words: 2254
On track, Lewis Hamilton is fast, calm, and laser-focused, with an instinct for precision that makes every lap feel effortless. His driving is a masterclass in control, blending speed with a strategic mind that sees opportunities where others see limits. As the adrenaline surges, it sharpens his senses, fueling a relentless drive to push boundaries and seek perfection, making him not just a competitor but a force of nature on the asphalt.
Off track, he's slow and relaxed, with movements that are unhurried and deliberate. He savors each moment, finding joy in the simple pleasures and beauty around him. His demeanor is calm, almost meditative, as he takes the time to appreciate the world outside of racing. When he speaks, his words are thoughtful and measured, often turned to praising others and acknowledging their efforts. His humility shines through, as he effortlessly uplifts those around him, offering encouragement and gratitude with a sincerity that reflects his deep respect for people and life.
These habits carried into the evening, which had stretched far longer than he preferred. The event was a glittering affair, filled with familiar faces and the kind of small talk that came with the territory. It was an opportunity to converse with celebrities from different industries, and networking—a skill he had honed over the years—was second nature to him. He moved effortlessly from one conversation to the next, seamlessly blending charm and intellect. The number of introductions, handshakes, and posed smiles under the barrage of camera flashes blurred together, each interaction a practiced routine.
Yet, despite the buzz and the endless flow of champagne, his attention was elsewhere. His thoughts kept wandering back to you, the one person who stood out in the sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits. Every so often, his eyes would seek you out across the room, lingering on you as you moved through the crowd. He found himself captivated by the way you smiled, the way you laughed at some offhand remark, and the way you carried yourself with effortless grace.
The conversations around him faded into the background as Lewis watched you, his focus narrowing until you were the only person in the room who mattered. Each lingering glance he sent your way was filled with unspoken thoughts, a silent pull that neither of you could ignore. Even as he navigated the demands of the evening, you remained at the forefront of his mind, an irresistible presence that drew him in, no matter how much he tried to stay engaged with everyone else.
A month--that's how long it's been since he's last seen you. Work obligations, on both ends, proving to be an obstacle. It wasn't ideal for your reunion to be at such a public place.
The stunning emerald, green gown that flowed like liquid silk, the color a striking contrast against your deep brown skin, making you look like a jewel amidst the crowd. The gown featured a plunging neckline and a thigh-high slit, adding a hint of allure while maintaining an air of sophistication. The rich green fabric caught the light with every step you took, highlighting the gown’s luxurious texture and making you the center of attention. You stood out so brilliantly that you attracted the gaze of every man in the room.
Most men would scowl at the idea of other men admiring their girlfriend, but their attention didn’t spark jealousy in Lewis. Instead, he admired each detail of your ensemble, knowing that every element was tailored to suit his taste. His eyes were drawn to the plunging neckline of your gown, where a delicate necklace nestled against your skin. The necklace, a gift from him, was a masterpiece of craftsmanship: a simple yet elegant silver chain adorned with a single, brilliant diamond pendant. It shimmered subtly, catching the light with every movement you made. Lewis couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of pride, seeing how the necklace complemented your beauty and how, despite the undercover nature of your relationship, every detail was a reflection of his admiration and love for you.
Tonight, his hello came in the form of his touch, his fingers brushing against yours with a gentle, intimate caress as he removed the empty champagne flute from your hand. You felt a shiver of warmth at his touch, a familiar sensation that sent a flutter through you. He replaced the flute with a glass of wine, his right hand settling possessively on your hip for the briefest of moments. His touch reassuring, grounding, as his thumb dragged along the fabric of your gown resting against the small of your back.
“Stunning as always, Ms. Y/L/N,” he notes, his touch tracing the curve of your hip. Lewis leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he adds, “I was hoping we can find a more private place to talk later.”
You sipped your wine, the cool liquid a sharp contrast to the heat of his touch. With a cheeky smile, you responded, “You expect the man of the hour to disappear unnoticed?”
He nodded towards the bartender, signaling for a refill of his whiskey. As he turned back to you, his eyes held a playful glint. “You’d be surprised what I can do, love,” he said with a grin, his touch leaving a sudden chill as he withdrew his hand. His gaze swept the room, taking in the crowd with a calculated look, as if considering the best way to make his escape without drawing too much attention.
Accepting his glass, Lewis took a leisurely sip, savoring the rich taste of his whiskey. His gaze returned to you, and he shamelessly took in every detail of your appearance. His eyes roamed over the elegant curve of your neckline, the way the gown accentuated your figure, the length of your thigh, down to your ankle. Retracing each feature, the corner of his mouth turning up as his gaze traced the curve of your lips.
Despite the warmth and familiarity of his gaze, you felt a twinge of nervousness. Each time his eyes meet yours, they seemed to pierce through the layers of confidence you typically exude. The intensity of his admiration, though flattering, made your heart race slightly. His gaze lingered with an intensity that was both flattering and unnerving, causing a delicate warmth to creep across your cheeks. The heat spreading from your head to your toes, causing you to find relief in the wine you held. Despite your surroundings, and the respectable distance between your bodies, you could feel the weight of his attention, the way it made you acutely aware of every movement and every expression, as if Lewis could read your thoughts with just a look. It was something you haven't gotten used to and probably never will.
The way his eyes had a way of making you feel like the center of his universe, which was both exhilarating and a little unsettling.
You cleared your throat, shifting your gaze to his emptying glass. “Congratulations on your Grand Prix, Lewis. Looking to unwind tonight?”
“In more ways than one,” he replied with a grin, his eyes twinkling with humor. “Don’t worry, I’m not behind the wheel tonight.”
You giggled, your eyes meeting his with a playful challenge. “Looks like you’re trying to get into trouble.”
His smile widened, and he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Promise, I’ll save the best kind for you.” He winked, a hint of mischief dancing in his gaze. As he turned back to signal the bartender for his refill, his hand lingered on your hip, creating a warm, comforting pressure. Once his drink arrived, he met your gaze. "As always, the pleasure is mine, Ms. Y/L/N," he smiled before returning to his guests.
And believe me, it was.
Tonight, his eyes admired the chestnut lipstick, noting the contrast of its rich hue against the soft, full curve of your lips. His gaze drawn to the way your teeth gently dug into the tender flesh, a gesture of both contemplation and restraint. His thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip, the touch light yet insistent, encouraged you to release the bite and reveal the full, seductive shade of your lipstick. You had spent time perfecting your makeup, after all, and he intended to appreciate every detail.
Tonight, he spoke praise into the warmth of your ear, his voice softening as his lips and tongue traced the delicate curve of your neck. His gruff tone melted into a whisper, and he pressed gentle kisses to your pulse, each touch sent shivers down your spine. The contrast of his rugged voice with the tenderness of his actions creates a captivating intimacy, as if he’s recommitting and savoring each inch of you to memory.
Tonight, his calloused hands traced the curves of your hips, admiring the gentle dips and contours as he gripped and kneaded the soft flesh beneath the fabric of your dress. His fingertips dragged and lingered, moving slowly towards your thighs, igniting a thrilling heat with each deliberate touch. His senses were flooded with your scent, a heady mix of perfume and warmth that fueled him with a high he could only ever capture on the track. The intensity of the moment, the closeness of your bodies, and the undeniable chemistry between you all combine to create a rush unlike any other, driving him to lose himself in the sensation.
It was the feeling of pleasure he felt with you, that was unmatched by any woman before, which fueled the movements of his fingers as they slipped between your legs. The strokes of his thumbs meticulously hitched your breath, fluttering your eyes closed. The heat of his mouth, sucked against your chest, your neck, the weight of his body pressed you against the chilled bathroom door. The pressure he built weakened your knees, your fingers clinging to his shoulders as you struggled to breathe.
"Lew…"
His brow arched, his teeth catching the overhead vanity light in a brief flash of white. "Hmm?"
Your lips parted, but your voice was caged beneath the shaky breath his touch pulled out of you. The tremor in your chest revealing the effect he had on you, making it difficult to form coherent words. His touch, both electrifying and tender, left you breathless and yearning for more.
You should've tried harder, fought against the voice in your head screaming for you to push him for more. More than just kisses and the warmth of his fingers. The voice urged you to regain control of your limbs, unbuckle his pants, and feel the part of him you'd missed the most--but you couldn't.
All you could think of is how much you've missed this—how every touch, every whisper felt like it had been too long in coming.
"It's been too long," he murmured, completing your thought as if reading your mind. His left hand rested on the base of your throat, the metal of his rings cool against your overheated flesh. His thumb pressed gently against your chin, tilting your face upwards, compelling you to meet his gaze. His touch was both commanding and reassuring, reminding you of the depth of your connection and the longing that has only grown in the time apart. "You missed me?"
Your response fell short of what he wants. The soft nod of your head, before it lulled back to rest against the door was not what he wants. He wanted to hear the tremble in your voice, the shift in octaves, that replayed on a loop in his mind when he tried to recreate the warmth of your touch in his bed alone. He wanted to see the clouded mixture of lust and pleading in your eyes as your hooded gaze holds his, but your eyes are gripped shut denying him what he wanted.
Instead, you responded by gripping his wrist, keeping him in place as he attempted to slow his pace. Your hips rolled desperately, attempting to matching the circles he drew against your skin.
His chuckle washed over you. His lips warm against the corner of your mouth. Despite your attempt of control, he easily regained it. His touch drifting from your clit, dragging painstakingly slow along the outside of your folds.
"Seems you've forgotten a few things. Hm?"
His touch is meticulous, never brushing against the spot you need, leaving you yearning for more. He kissed your lips slowly, the tenderness of the gesture both soothing and electrifying. Sucking against your bottom lip, he repeated the action as your hips instinctively jerked seeking the high slowly threatening to slip away.
With a soft, commanding tone, he told you, “Lemme see those pretty eyes.”
As you obey and lift your hooded lids, his smile widened with a mix of satisfaction and adoration. It’s a smile that starts in his eyes, which crinkled slightly at the corners, and spread to his lips, revealing a hint of his teeth. The smile is warm and genuine, a reflection of the affection and pride he feels as he takes in the sight of you. The pride he feels in knowing that no other man had the same effect on you. There’s a touch of playfulness in his expression, as his tongue passed over his lips.
“Attagirl,” he murmurs softly, his touch returning to your clit.
The content giggle that escaped your lips, melted into a breathless moan coaxing his finger between your slick folds. It was a sound he'd chase until the end of time. Once it was unlocked, he knew soon the sound of his name on your lips would follow.
author's note: first story I am sharing. please let me know if you want more for jude.
pairing: jude bellingham x singer!reader
kiss prompt: Staring at each other’s lips for a moment before moving closer, as if drawn together by some unseen force.
summary: After a nasty breakup and a smear campaign by your vengeful ex, your PR team goes into hyperdrive, searching for a way to salvage your reputation as you finalize your sophomore album. To reclaim your title as America's sweetheart, you reluctantly agree to 'date' footballer Jude Bellingham. After a successful and perfectly planned meet-cute, you realize the plan might actually work. To keep the rumor mill spinning, Jude invites you to Madrid to watch him play.
You sit stiffly in the plush leather chair, your gaze fixed on a random spot on the far wall. The spacious office of your record label, with its panoramic view of Los Angeles, feels more like a cage than a refuge. Your fingers toy absentmindedly with a loose thread on your sweater, the silence in the room heavy with unspoken tension. Last night was another sleepless one, your mind spinning with the chaos of the last few months.
The door creaks open, and Lara, your manager, strides in with her usual brisk efficiency. But it’s the man following her who catches you off guard. Tall and athletic, with a calm self-assurance, he immediately seems different from anyone you usually deal with during one of Lara’s many SOS meetings.
Unlike the man next to him, who wears a suit, he’s dressed in a well-fitted navy blackbomber jacket over a crisp white T-shirt, adding a casual yet polished touch. His dark jeans are tailored to fit just right, and his sneakers are sleek and clean, hinting at their designer pedigree without being overtly flashy. A simple silver chain peeks out from beneath his shirt. He wears a black fitted cap that he removes as he scans the room. His dark curls are neatly styled, and his eyes are a striking shade of deep brown—intense and thoughtful.
You turn to Lara, your irritation evident. “You didn’t say we were meeting with another artist. I’m not doing a feature with a random guy.”
Lara, however, ignores your protest, her focus on the two men before her. “Y/N, this is Jude Bellingham,” she introduces the young man with an upbeat, professional tone. She motions for you to stand. Doing so, you quickly shake his hand before sinking back into your chair. “Jude, meet Y/N.”
“Pleasure,” Jude grins, his eyes lingering on you as you lift your phone from the table.
Email Hendrix new song. You ignore the calendar notification before placing your phone back onto the table.
You were supposed to submit the new song last week, but it has been rescheduled for the third time. You pinch the bridge of your nose, forcing yourself to focus on the conversation you had zoned out of.
“Thank you for fitting us in during your vacation,” Lara says with a smile as your gaze drifts across the table.
You stare just long enough to take in the polite smile he offers. He’s handsome, you note distantly. “What’s your name again?” you ask, your voice flat.
“Jude Bellingham,” he repeats, his voice steady, though you can see the hint of surprise in his eyes.
You nod absently, not hiding your lack of interest. “Never heard of you.”
Lara’s eyes widen, and she quickly looks between you and Jude, an apologetic smile on her face. “I’m so sorry, Jude,” she says hastily. “She’s been…out of the loop for a while. She kinda keeps her head in the sand when working on new music.”
Jude’s lips twitch into a small, amused smile as he takes a seat beside his manager, who has been silently observing the exchange. “No worries,” he says, his tone easygoing.
He attempts to hold eye contact, but your gaze drops as Lara passes you an iPad.
Jude, however, can’t help but stare for a moment longer. He knows exactly who you are. He’s seen the headlines, the endless parade of tabloid articles that have taken over his social media feeds in recent months:
*"America’s Sweetheart Caught Cheating?”*
*"Ryan West’s Heartbreak: Y/N’s Betrayal?"*
*"Ryan West: Played a Fool by Y/N? Singer Dumped After He Helps Secure Her First Grammy!"*
*"From Darling to Villain: The Fall of Y/N."*
The headlines were relentless, painting you as the villain in the messy, public breakup with Ryan West, the wild, playboy singer whose antics are as legendary as his music. Jude had seen the pictures throughout your relationship—snaps of a happy couple slowly morphing to you tearful and exhausted outside of clubs and in the passenger seat of Ryan’s car, Ryan’s angry rants during concerts, and the public’s merciless scrutiny of every detail. The narrative turned on you overnight, casting you as the one who shattered the fairytale, though it’s clear to him now, seeing you in person, that there’s much more to the story.
You’re undeniably beautiful, even though your appearance starkly contrasts with the perfectly curated photos on your Instagram. Your skin glows softly in the muted light of the office, and your long dark locks are pulled back into a simple ponytail. Without makeup, your natural beauty is evident, but there’s a guardedness about you, a weariness that clings to you like a shadow. You’re wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, and your lips are set in a firm line. Your dark, eyes remain focused anywhere but on him. You’re present in body but somewhere else in your mind, uninterested in the moment and, by extension, in him.
Lara notices how Jude’s eyes linger on your features, a hint of admiration in his gaze. She gently but firmly pulls your chair closer to hers, her expression shifting to one of urgency. As Jude leans over to better hear his manager speak, Lara shoots you a sharp glare. “Do you really not know who that is?” she hisses quietly. “Didn’t you read the email I sent?”
You shake your head, already annoyed by the direction this conversation is taking.
“He’s one of the biggest footballers in the world right now,” Lara explains. “He’s just finished a fantastic season with Real Madrid and is on vacation after helping his national team reach the finals of the Euros.”
“Throwing out accolades isn’t going to make me suddenly know who this guy is, Lara. I don’t watch soccer—”
“For the love of God, please do not call it that to his face,” Lara winces. “Since you didn’t read my email, here it is. He’s basically a household name for every fan of the sport. This isn’t just some random guy we’re talking about—Jude Bellingham is a huge deal. Kids want to grow up to be him, women want to sleep with him, and men want to be him. This is a massive opportunity, so you need to make this work because, frankly, we don’t have many other options right now. The media has been brutal, and we need to change the narrative.”
Change the narrative–the phrase that has appeared in every text, phone call, email, and conversation with Lara from the past six months.
You take in her words, feeling a mix of irritation and resignation. The last thing you want is to be forced into something like this, but you also know Lara’s right. If this can help you regain some control over the situation, it might be worth it.
“Fine,” you say at last, your voice laced with reluctance. “But let’s keep it simple.”
Lara nods, visibly relieved. Her swift response suggests she’s eager to finalize things before you change your mind. “Thank you. Now, let’s get this started on the right foot.”
You straighten your posture as Lara retrieves a stack of iPads from her purse. Powering the first on, she slides it across the table. Your expression remains guarded as you look at Jude. He seems relaxed, though there’s an air of curiosity about him as he watches you.
Jude clears his throat, attempting to ease the awkwardness. “Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice steady despite your apparent lack of interest. “I’m actually a big fan of your music.”
“Thank you,” you mutter, barely audible. “And thanks for coming.”
“Y/N, Jude’s team approached us with a proposal that could be mutually beneficial,” Lara explains. “We think it’s a great opportunity for both of you to take control of the media narratives for each of your careers.”
As she begins explaining the details of the contract, you lean forward to start reading it, trying to focus on the terms. You attempt to ignore the brown eyes carefully watching you from across the table by zooming in on the document. You skip each page, focusing on the bolded text.
**Duration**: The PR stunt relationship will last for six months, giving both parties a clear timeframe for the arrangement. The time can be adjusted to fit the likings of both parties.
**Public Appearances**: Both parties agree to attend a minimum of five public events together, including concerts, charity functions, and social gatherings, to ensure maximum media coverage.
**Social Media Engagement**: Both will make joint social media posts and coordinate public appearances to generate buzz and maintain public interest.
**Media Interviews**: Both parties will participate in at least three joint interviews or promotional activities, designed to keep the media engaged and the narrative active.
**Behavioral Expectations**: Both parties are expected to maintain a positive public image and avoid any controversial behavior that could negatively impact the arrangement.
**Privacy Clauses**: Provisions are included to protect personal boundaries and ensure that certain aspects of your private lives remain confidential.
**Termination Conditions**: The contract includes terms for early termination, specifying any penalties or requirements for ending the arrangement before the agreed-upon end date.
You bite your lip, unable to hold in a nagging thought. You glance at Jude before looking back at Lara. “I don’t date athletes. My fans know that.”
Jude raises an eyebrow, a cheeky grin forming on his lips. “That’s fair. But, well, we’ve seen how it turned out with musicians. You might need to give an athlete a try.”
His smile spreads as he notes the narrowing of your eyes.
“I mean,” you huff directing your attention to Lara. “Won’t people be suspicious if I suddenly fall head over heels with someone like him? He’s not my type.”
“I can be pretty convincing.”
As you approach the security gate, you are greeted by shocked but excited murmurs. Fans recognize you immediately, their phones out, capturing every moment as you present your ticket. You pose for a few quick pictures, deflecting questions about whether you are here specifically to see Jude play. “Just here to enjoy the game!” you say with a smile, trying to stay composed despite the intense scrutiny.
“Follow me,” Toby Bishay, Jude’s best friend, says with a reassuring smile, breaking through your anxious thoughts. His warm smile brings one to your lips. “I’ll show you to your seat.”
“Just stick with Toby,” Jude assured you through a brief text exchange earlier in the morning. “He'll keep an eye on you. Glad you had a safe flight. See you after the match."
You trail after Toby, trying to shake off the feeling of being under a microscope. The perfectly crafted “meet cute,” which happened shortly after your initial meeting, was captured by paparazzi in LA, not taking long to circulate. The rumors exploded, and the world wondered when you’d be spotted together again. The time finally came nearly three weeks later, and now you find yourself on the biggest stage in the football world, every eye on you.
The electric hum of excitement buzzes through Santiago Bernabéu Stadium as you follow Toby through the corridors, the air thick with anticipation. Thousands of fans are already in their seats.
“Have you ever been to a game before?” Toby asks, glancing back at you.
“No, this is my first time,” you admit, feeling a little self-conscious at the admission.
“Then you picked a great game for your debut,” Toby says, guiding you through the maze of hallways. “The atmosphere here is insane–unlike anything else.”
You study him as he glances at his phone, wondering how much he knew about the relationship between you and his best friend.
“Jude pulled out the stops,” he chuckles, pausing to hold the door for you. “Wanted you to have the best seats in the house. Remind me to have him invite you more often.”
As you emerge into the open, the sheer magnitude of the stadium hits you like a tidal wave. The sea of fans stretches out in every direction, a sea of white Real Madrid jerseys and waving flags. The stands are a swirling mosaic of movement and color, with scarves held high and banners flapping in the breeze. The roar of the crowd is overwhelming, a vibrant, pulsating force that envelops you.
The atmosphere reminds you of your own concerts—the energy, the collective excitement. But it has been a while since you’ve been a member of the crowd instead of the one performing. The memory brings a nostalgic smile to your lips. You hear the crowd chanting in unison, their voices melding together into a powerful wave of sound. “Hala Madrid! Hala Madrid!” The energy is palpable, a living, breathing entity that seems to resonate with every cheer and chant from the stands.
You look over to find Toby watching you with a grin, clearly enjoying your reaction.
“This is nothing,” he assures you over the roar of the crowd. “Wait till the game starts.”
Toby leads you to your seats, which are positioned near the halfway line, offering an excellent view of the field. You can feel the weight of the crowd’s curiosity pressing down on you as you settle in.
A flutter of nerves dances in your stomach as you notice the woman next to you widen her eyes. She quickly turns to her boyfriend, whispering something in his ear.
You adjust the jersey you are wearing. It was delivered to your house merely twenty-four hours ago, as you struggled to finish last-minute packing. It came with a note from Jude that read: Gotta look the part.
You instinctively reach up, adjusting the elastic of your ponytail. You remember leaning over the hotel sink, studying your handiwork. The high ponytail was strategic, making it impossible for anyone to miss Jude Bellingham’s name and number prominently displayed across your back.
You sit forward in your seat, your hands gripping the railing as you scan the warm-ups. Your brow furrows once you realize Jude is nowhere in sight. It is strange not to have seen him in person since your first public appearance. Busy with training, he had flown back to Spain while you attempted to work on your album. But the lack of inspiration meant you hadn’t made any progress. In the three weeks since your last meeting, most of your communication has been through text, with a few phone conversations as you worked out the logistics of your visit. His texts were a consistent flood of humor, cheekiness, and a few tidbits of personal information. He didn't seem to mind that your answers weren't nearly as interesting or long as his. He had expected it to take a bit for you to warm up to him. When you'd expressed the struggle with finding inspiration for your new song, he invited you out to Spain for the week.
“Don’t worry about the attention,” Toby says, sensing your discomfort. “Once the game starts, they’ll be too focused on Jude and the action to pay much attention to anything else.”
You nod, trying to take comfort in his words. You pull out your phone and snap a photo of the field as the players warm up. The view is breathtaking—the vibrant green of the pitch, the players stretching and preparing, the energy of the stadium. You carefully consider what to write before deciding to type “Hala Madrid!” and sharing it to your Instagram story.
You instantly close the app, knowing it will only take a few seconds for the post to confirm what the internet is already wondering. Clicking on your messages, you ignore the waiting message from Lara that reads: Remember to smile and cheer for your man!
Instead of responding, you click on Jude’s name. The last message he sent was a simple, No need to say thank you in response to your gratitude for ensuring Toby would be your guide.
You quickly type, Have a great game! before slipping your phone into your purse.
As the game begins, the referee’s whistle pierces through the air, and the match kicks off with a burst of energy that ripples through the stadium. The crowd's collective roar washes over you. Your heart races with a mix of excitement and trepidation, and you find yourself momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the experience.
As the first half unfolds, Toby leans over, pointing out a few things. “So, Jude’s playing midfield. His job is to control the game—set the pace, connect the defense and attack. Watch how he moves off the ball, too. That’s where he really shines.”
You nod, not entirely sure you understood everything, but appreciating Toby’s effort to make you feel more comfortable.
At first, you find it hard to focus. The crowd is so loud, so passionate, that it is hard to concentrate on anything else. You’d never seen anything like it—the way the fans were completely engrossed in every pass, every tackle, every near miss. But as the minutes ticked by, you found yourself getting swept up in the atmosphere, your eyes increasingly drawn to Jude.
He is everywhere on the pitch, commanding, graceful, yet powerful. The way he moves, the way he controls the ball, it is almost hypnotic. Toby was right—Jude was something special out there.
“See how he’s always looking around?” Toby points out as Jude receives the ball. “He knows where everyone is before he even touches the ball. That’s what makes him so good—he’s always thinking two steps ahead.”
You nod, your focus entirely on Jude. The noise of the crowd fades into the background as you watch him maneuver through opponents with a grace and precision that’s nothing short of extraordinary. The skill and artistry of his play make it clear why he is so adored by fans.
Suddenly, a collective gasp from the stands jolts you from your trance. Your eyes snap to the field just in time to see Jude being tackled hard. He hits the ground with a thud, and for a brief moment, he lies motionless. Panic grips your chest, a cold wave of fear crashing over you.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, clutching the edge of your seat. The stadium seems to hold its breath with you as Jude sits up. Your heart pounds in your chest, your mind racing with worry.
Relief floods over you as Jude grins, pushing himself off the ground. The crowd erupts into cheers, and Jude gives them a reassuring wave. You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your heart still racing.
“Surely that’s a foul,” you glance over to find Toby grinning.
“That happens a lot,” Toby says with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Jude’s used to not getting calls. He’ll be fine.”
You nod, your eyes following Jude as he moves back to position.
The game progresses, the tension building with each passing minute. As the half winds towards halftime, the tension in the stadium is palpable. Jude makes another run down the field, and you can’t help but feel a knot of anxiety in your stomach. Memories of his earlier tackle flash through your mind, making you hold your breath as you watch his every move. You grip the edge of your seat, your heart racing with anticipation.
Jude skillfully navigates past a defender, and you can barely contain your nerves as he lines up for a shot. The entire stadium seems to hold its breath in a collective gasp as the ball sails through the air. Time seems to slow down in that suspended moment, and your eyes follow the ball as it arches toward the goal.
Then, with a powerful strike, the ball whizzes past the outstretched arms of the goalkeeper and smashes into the back of the net. The stadium erupts in a cacophony of deafening cheers. The sound washes over you like a wave, a mix of joy, relief, and exhilaration. You find yourself on your feet, screaming and jumping up and down, completely swept up in the euphoria of the moment.
Toby pulls you into a hug, the thrill of the goal echoing in your cheers. The crowd's energy is infectious, Jude stumbling forward as his teammates crash into him in excitement.
As the crowd’s cheers intensify, Jude escapes the huddle and waves to the stands. Your heart skips a beat as you realize he’s jogging in your direction, his eyes locked on yours.
Without hesitation, Jude leans over the barrier and pulls you into a tight hug, his arms securing around your waist and drawing you close. You giggle, maintaining your balance as you feel the heat and sweat of his jersey against your skin. Jude’s embrace is warm and comforting, his grip tightening as his face buries into your neck, and the crowd’s cheers fade into the background.
As you pull back from Jude’s embrace, still breathless from the moment, you can’t help but exclaim, “That was amazing!” Your hands instinctively rest on his cheeks, feeling the warmth radiating from him. "You were--amazing!"
Jude’s smile broadens, a genuine, radiant expression that lights up his face. His eyes lock onto yours with a softness that surprises you. There’s no trace of the cheekiness you expect from him.
“I had to make your first match memorable,” he breathes.
“You did that.”
Jude’s eyes linger on your grin as if savoring the sight. He registers the way your smile lights up your entire face, making you look even more radiant. The warmth and joy in your expression seem to captivate him, making you appear more beautiful than ever. It’s a sight he, and the world, hasn’t seen from you in months, and the pride he feels at making you smile swells beneath his racing heart.
Your smile softens as his grip drifts to your hips. The warmth of his smile seems to draw you closer as if an invisible force is compelling you to bridge the gap. His eyes hold a gentle intensity, and for a heartbeat, it feels like the entire stadium fades away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of shared understanding and anticipation.
But the spell is broken as his name rings through the intercom system, forcing you to blink. The deafening roar of excitement from the crowd reminds you of the public nature of the moment. Jude’s gaze shifts briefly to the surrounding commotion, and with a playful grin, he pulls back, his smile still warm but tinged with a hint of mischief.
“So, how about a kiss? It’s definitely what they wanna see.”
"And let me guess, you're a man of the people?"
"So I've been told."
Your eyes roll. Lightly pressing against his shoulders, you arch your brow as his grip remains. Your eyes pass over Jude's shoulder to the players returning to their positions.
“Maybe if you get another goal.”
“Deal,” he winks, before pulling back with a smirk and jogging back onto the field.
You watch him go, your heart still racing from the unexpected intimacy of the moment. As you sink back into your seat, a hand resting on your chest to steady your breath, the realization of the stunt hits you with renewed clarity. It’s all part of the carefully orchestrated PR show. But as you look at Jude rejoining his teammates, a small part of you wonders if there’s something more beneath the surface. The match continues, and you find yourself caught between the excitement of the evening and the nagging reminder of the reality you’re playing in. But you can't help but wonder what will happen if he looks at you like that again during your week in Madrid.
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