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[jojojoy1]

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[k1owii]

could you do Jude or jobe or kylian x reader where they flinch in an argument or something like that

pics from pinterest and aren’t mine!

flinching in an argument

1. jude bellingham x reader. 2. jobe bellingham x reader. 3. kylian mbappe x reader

in which you flinch after facing an argument with jude / jobe / kylian.

taglist (tw) : slight angst, ends in fluff, happy ending, past trauma (not dived into),

1. jude belllingham

arguments between you and jude were rare. they were usually little disagreements that happened all the time, usually over something ridiculous. like who forgot to lock the front door. whose turn it was to do the washing. whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

they never lasted long.

but this one did. you’d been busy all day, your phone barely leaving your bag while you rushed between lectures, meetings and the library. by the time you’d noticed the missed calls and messages from jude, your battery had already died.

you knew he’d be worried.

you just hadn’t expected him to be waiting in the kitchen when you got home.

he looked relieved the second you walked through the door. that relief disappeared almost as quickly as he asked. “where’ve you been?”

you slipped your shoes off, the ache from walking so much slightly dulling. “my phone died.”

“i figured that much.”

you looked up at him. his arms were folded, his jaw tight.

“i’ve been trying to call you for three hours.”

“sorry.”

“that’s it?”

you frowned. “what do you want me to say?”

“i don’t know.” he let out a breath. “maybe that next time you’ll borrow someone’s phone or something? you just… disappeared.”

you dropped your bag beside the sofa.“jude, i wasn’t trying to.”

“i know you weren’t.”

“then why are we arguing?”

“because you scared me.” his voice was louder than usual. you could tell he was just frustrated.

you looked away. “i’m here now.”

“that’s not the point.” he rubbed a hand over his face before letting it fall again. “i had no idea where you were.”

you felt yourself getting defensive out of instinct, “i can’t magically charge my phone.”

“i didn’t say you could.”

“you’re acting like i did something horrible.”

“because for three hours i genuinely thought something had happened to you.”

the words came out sharper than he’d meant them to. his hand landed against the kitchen bench with a dull thud as he spoke.

the noise wasn’t even that loud but your body reacted before your mind did. childhood memories rushed in quickly and your shoulders tensed. you took half a step backwards, your hands instinctively came up just a little.

it was only for a second before you realised and your arms dropped straight back to your sides.

the apartment went completely quiet.

jude stared at you. “…did you just flinch?”

you swallowed. “i…” you couldn’t think of anything to say.

his face changed almost instantly. the frustration that had been there moments ago was gone. he looked… confused at first and then guilty. then something that almost looked like heartbreak. “was that because of me?”

“no.” you looked down at the floor. “i didn’t mean to.”

he stayed where he was and spoke quietly.“can i ask you something?”

you nodded.

“has someone shouted at you like that before?”

your throat tightened. you gave the smallest shrug. “it’s… not about you. i promise.”

he let out a slow breath, looking down for a moment before rubbing the back of his neck. when he looked back up, his eyes were softer. “i know.”

another heavy silence settled between you. after a few moments, jude spoke again. “can i hug you?”

you looked up. “you don’t have to ask.”

“i want to.” he waited, not moving an inch until you nodded.

only then did he let his arms wrap around you carefully, almost like he was checking every movement before he made it. one hand rested against your back while the other gently stroked through your hair.

after a minute of him silently holding you, you felt him sigh. “i’m really sorry.”

you frowned against his chest. “why are you apologising?”

“because i hate that your first instinct was to protect yourself.”

you pulled back enough to look at him. “you didn’t do anything.”

“i know.” he gave a small nod. “but i still hate it.”

his thumb brushed under your eye when he noticed a half dry tear sitting there. “i would never hurt you.”

“I know.”

he smiled sadly. “your head knows.”

his hand found yours, gently intertwining your fingers. “your body just hasn’t caught up yet.”

you looked down at your joined hands. “…yeah.”

he squeezed your hand. “we’re probably going to argue again one day.”

you laughed quietly. “probably.”

“but next time…” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “if i get too loud, tell me.”

“jude-”

“no, let me finish.” his smile was small. “i don’t care about winning an argument. i care about you feeling safe with me.” he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “i’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to wonder if you are.”

the quiet between you felt a lot lighter than it had a few minutes ago. you let your head rest on jude’s chest, his familiar heartbeat a comforting sound to your ears before letting out. “i love you”

jude could only smile softly in response. “i love you the most.”

2. jobe bellingham

it was supposed to be a quick trip to the supermarket.

twenty minutes, max.

instead, the two of you had somehow ended up wandering different aisles after disagreeing over something as stupid as whether you actually needed a shopping list.

“i told you we’d forget something.”

“we haven’t forgotten anything.”

“because i’m remembering it.”

“exactly,” you smiled. “so we didn’t need the list.”

jobe looked at you for a second before shaking his head. “you’re impossible.”

you laughed, nudging his arm before walking ahead with the trolley.

by the time you got home, the conversation had moved on until you unpacked the bags.

“…where’s the pasta?”

you stopped. “…”

jobe slowly looked over. “don’t.”

you bit the inside of your cheek. “don’t what?”

“don’t give me that look.”

“what look?”

“the one that says, ‘you were right.’”

you couldn’t help smiling. “i wasn’t going to.”

“yes, you were.”

“…maybe a little.”

he groaned dramatically, dropping the grocery bag onto the counter. “this is exactly why i wanted the list.”

“it’s only pasta.”

“it’s not about the pasta.”

you folded your arms. “then what is it about?”

“it’s about you never listening when i say we should just make things easier.”

“jobe, you’re making this into a bigger deal than it is.”

“because it keeps happening.”

the smile slowly disappeared from your face. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he sighed. “i’m just saying, sometimes it feels like you don’t actually hear me.”

you looked down at the groceries. “that’s not fair.”

“isn’t it?”

“no.”

he let out a breath, clearly trying to calm himself down. “you know what? forget it.”

“don’t say ‘forget it’ if you don’t mean it.”

“because every time i try to explain something” he stopped himself, rubbing a hand over his face.

you waited.

“…every time i try, you laugh it off.”

“i wasn’t laughing at you.”

“but you were.”

“i wasn’t.”

“you smiled.”

“because it was pasta.”

he let out a frustrated huff, turning away before spinning back around.

“that’s not the point!”

the words came out louder than he’d meant.

your shoulders pulled in, your hands twitched at your sides and you took one small step backwards.

it was over almost immediately but jobe saw all of it.

“…” he stared at you.

you realised what you’d done a second later.

your eyes widened. “i…”

he looked completely confused. “did you think i was going to do something?” his voice was so much quieter now.

you shook your head quickly. “no.”

“then…” he looked down for a second before looking back at you. “why’d you move away from me?”

you hadn’t even thought about it. your body had just moved.

jobe’s shoulders slowly dropped. “hey.” he spoke so gently it almost made you cry.“look at me.” he looked worried. “have i ever made you feel like you’d have to do that?”

your heart broke a little. “never.”

he nodded slowly. “okay.” another pause. “can i come closer?”

you nodded and he walked over carefully, stopping just in front of you.

he was close enough to reach you, far enough that you still had room to step away if you wanted. he lifted one hand. “is this okay?”

you nodded again.

his fingers gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “there you are.”

his thumb brushed lightly across your cheek. “i’m sorry i raised my voice.”

“you don’t have to apologise.”

“i know.” he smiled sadly. “i still want to.”

you looked down. “…i don’t know why i did that.”

“you don’t have to.” he reached for your hand instead of pulling you into a hug.

your fingers slipped into his and he gave them a gentle squeeze. “whatever made you react like that…” he glanced down at your joined hands before looking back at you. “i’m going to spend a very long time proving to you that you never have to around me.”

you laughed quietly through the tears gathering in your eyes. “all this over forgotten pasta.”

he smiled. “well…” he intertwined your fingers properly this time. “…i’m still making you come back to the shop with me.”

you let out a laugh, shaking your head. “alright” .

he leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “as you’re with me.”

3. kylian mbappe

you and kylian weren’t really arguing anymore, but the silence between you still felt heavy. the conversation had ended a while ago, yet neither of you had moved from your spots on the couch. the tv was playing quietly in the background, but neither of you were actually watching it. you were both just sitting there, trying to calm down after a disagreement that had started over something small.

it wasn’t even a big problem. it was just one of those moments where both of you had been tired and stressed, and suddenly a simple conversation turned into something more. kylian had been upset that you didn’t tell him you were having a bad day, and you had been upset because you felt like he always tried to fix things instead of just listening.

“i just wish you’d tell me when something’s wrong,” he had said earlier.

“i just wish you’d stop acting like everything needs to be fixed,” you had replied.

neither of you meant to hurt each other. you both knew that. but sometimes even the people you love can say things that hit a little harder than they expect.

you sat curled up on your side of the couch, playing with the sleeve of your hoodie while kylian looked through his phone. after a few minutes, he glanced over at you.

“you know i wasn’t angry at you, right?”

you looked up. “i know.”

“you don’t sound like you know.”

you looked back down at your hands. “i’m just tired.”

he nodded slowly, not pushing you any further.

for a while, the room stayed quiet. then kylian noticed a strand of hair that had fallen across your face. it was something he had done countless times before, something so normal that he didn’t even think about it.

he leaned over slightly and reached out to move it away from your eye. but the second his hand moved towards you, you pulled back without thinking.

it was small. barely noticeable.

but kylian noticed.

his hand stopped halfway, and his expression changed slightly.

you realised what had happened and immediately looked away. “sorry..” you mumbled.

his eyebrows pulled together. “why are you saying sorry?”

you shrugged. “i don’t know.”

he slowly lowered his hand back down. “i was just moving your hair.”

you nodded. “i know.”

there was a quiet pause.

he wasn’t angry. if anything, he looked more confused than anything else. he wasn’t looking at you like you had done something wrong. he was just trying to understand.

“does that happen often?” he asked softly.

you looked over. “what?”

“that. moving away before you even realise you’re doing it.”

you didn’t answer straight away as you didn’t know what to say. all because you hadn’t even noticed you did it until he pointed it out.

kylian looked down for a moment before speaking again. “you don’t have to explain it if you don’t want to.”

you looked at him. “you’re not upset?”

he shook his head. “no. i’m just glad you know you can tell me things.”

you smiled slightly. “you’re not exactly easy to argue with.”

he laughed quietly. “that’s not true.”

“it is.”

“okay, maybe a little.”

you laughed, and the tension that had been sitting between you finally started to disappear.

a few seconds later, he held his hand out between you. he didn’t pull you closer or force you to do anything. he just waited.

you placed your hand in his.

“for the record,” he said, looking at you, “your hair was actually bothering me.”

you raised an eyebrow. “wow. after all that that’s what you say?”

he smiled. “i’m just saying. i was trying to help.”

you shook your head, laughing softly and even though the argument hadn’t been perfect, and neither of you had handled everything perfectly, you both knew one thing.

you were still on the same team.

~~

© laoiwvq’s work is laoiwvq’s work only and is not free to use!

[k1owii]

req

home in you

jobe bellingham x reader

when denise starts worrying that jobe has become distant while living in germany, she asks jude to check on him. expecting to find an overworked footballer, jude instead walks in on an awkward surprise before finally meeting the girl who’s completely changed jobe’s life.

taglist (tw) : jobe bellingham x fem!reader, established relationship, fluff, family fluff, protective brother!jude, ashlyn castro, denise bellingham, implied sex

a.n: starting a f1 series so requests will be closed for now. if you request something now, it’ll be done after a while 😓😓

jude had always thought jobe was the easiest one to worry about.

out of the two of them, jobe had always been the quiet one. the one who never made a fuss, never caused trouble, never needed anyone hovering over him. growing up, he was the kid who would disappear into his room for hours, only emerging when dinner was ready or someone called his name. if something upset him, he kept it to himself. if something made him happy, he’d smile to himself before telling anyone else. he had always carried his emotions like fragile glass.

everyone had assumed that meant he was fine because jobe had always seemed so capable. so mature. so independent.

he was the type of person who insisted he could carry all the shopping bags himself. who’d say, “i’ve got it,” before anyone even offered to help. the type who checked everyone else was okay before even considering how he was feeling.

if anyone could survive living abroad on his own, it was jobe. or at least that’s what jude had always believed. apparently, denise wasn’t so convinced anymore.

“he barely calls,” denise sighed over the phone one evening.

jude leaned back against the sofa, his phone balanced between his shoulder and ear while absentmindedly flicking through channels on the television.

“when he does call, he’s distracted. he sounds tired. i ask him what he’s been doing and all i get is, ‘i’ve just been busy, mum.’”

“mum…” jude chuckled softly. “he’s twenty.”

“i know he’s twenty but he’s still my baby.”

jude smiled despite himself. that sentence had never changed. not when jude moved away. not when he signed his first professional contract. not when either of them became adults. to denise, they’d always be her boys.

he glanced across the living room where ashlyn was curled up in the corner of the sofa, scrolling aimlessly on her phone.

she looked up when she noticed him smiling. “what?”

he mouthed, “my mum.” ashlyn smiled knowingly.

“what do you want me to do?” jude asked into the phone.

“go and see him.”

“…seriously?”

“please.” denise pleaded. “i don’t know why, jude. i just have this feeling.”

he rubbed the back of his neck. “okay.”

“promise?”

“…i promise.”

—

which was exactly how, on his only free day that week, jude found himself standing outside jobe’s apartment building in germany with ashlyn beside him.

she tucked her hands into the pockets of her jacket as they looked up at the building. “your mum’s convinced he’s joined a cult, isn’t she?”

jude laughed. “honestly, i think she’d believe that before she’d believe he’s got a girlfriend.”

ashlyn snorted. “fair.”

they made their way upstairs, jude pulling the spare key from his pocket. their mum had insisted he keep it months ago.

“just in case.”

at the time, he’d rolled his eyes. now, he was quietly grateful she’d been stubborn.

the apartment was still. peaceful. the sort of silence that only existed in homes people genuinely enjoyed being in.

jude stepped inside first. “jobe?”

no answer. he frowned.

then he heard voices, soft and muffled coming from somewhere further down the hallway. he froze instantly. ashlyn nearly walked into his back. “what?”

jude slowly lifted one finger to his lips.

she frowned as he tilted his head ever so slightly towards the hallway. the voices became clearer.

not words. moans.

and then “…oh.” the realisation hit ashlyn all at once. her eyes widened so much they were almost cartoonish. “…oh.”

jude immediately turned around.“absolutely not.”

without another word, he ushered ashlyn straight back towards the front door. they closed it as quietly as they possibly could before practically speed-walking down the corridor outside.

they made it all the way to the lift before ashlyn completely lost it. she burst into laughter, the kind that made tears gather in the corners of her eyes.

“don’t.” jude pointed at her accusingly “don’t even start.”

“he’s never recovering from this.”

“i know.”

“you look traumatised.”

“because i am traumatised.”

she laughed even harder. “jude…”

“that’s my little brother.”

“he’s twenty.”

“i know he’s twenty.”

“then why do you look like you’ve just witnessed a crime?”

he pinched the bridge of his nose. “because in my head he’s still fourteen.”

“well…” she wiped beneath her eyes. “he definitely isn’t fourteen.”

jude groaned. “please stop talking about it.”

“coffee?”

“…please.”

—

they ended up spending almost an hour at a café around the corner.

or rather…

ashlyn spent an hour relentlessly teasing him while jude tried very hard to erase the last thirty seconds of his memory.

by the time they’d finished their drinks, he decided enough time had passed.

hopefully.

when they got back upstairs, he made a point of knocking loudly against the open doorway before unlocking it.

“hello?”

footsteps echoed almost immediately.

“jude?”

jobe rounded the corner, stopping so suddenly he nearly stumbled over his own feet. he was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants, put in a rush most likely as they were the wrong way, and halfway through wearing a black tee.

his eyes widened. “…what are you doing here?”

“checking you haven’t joined a cult.”

“…what?”

“long story.”

before jobe could even begin questioning him, another figure appeared behind him.

you paused beside him almost instinctively. you wore a black top (most likely jobes because it was massive) and checkered pyjama pants. you had a small limp as you walked, barely noticeable but short was the first thing jude noticed. you also looked beautiful in a soft way. you smiled shyly as you looked between the two brothers before extending a hand.

“hi… i’m y/n.”

before you even finished introducing yourself , jobe slipped yourfingers into his. he squeezed your hand automatically like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“it’s really nice to meet you both.” you spoke gently, smiling wider as you saw ashlyn.

you apologised for the apartment being a little messy, thanked them for making the trip over, and immediately asked if they’d like tea or coffee before anyone had even sat down.

and within five minutes, jude already understood why jobe sounded different these days.

there were framed photographs of the two of them decorated the shelves. one from christmas. one taken at the beach. another where you and jobe were laughing so hard the photo had blurred. a half-finished puzzle sat abandoned on the coffee table and two mugs rested beside it. a blanket had been bundled up in one corner of the sofa. there were tiny signs of both of you everywhere.

while y/n disappeared into the kitchen with ashlyn, talking about their lives, as she filled the kettle, jude finally looked at his brother. “mum’s worried sick.”

jobe sighed dramatically, dropping his head back against the sofa. “of course she is.”

“she thinks you’re shutting everyone out.”

he rubbed the back of his neck. “…i’m not.”

“then why haven’t you called?”

jobe stayed quiet for a moment. his eyes drifted towards the kitchen. towards you . “…because i’ve been happy.” his voice got quieter before saying. “i thought being independent meant doing everything alone.” he smiled to himself.“then she came along.” he laughed softly through his nose.“and suddenly i realised life didn’t actually have to feel that hard.”

~~

© laoiwvq’s work is laoiwvq’s work only and is not free to use!

[httpjoints]

✿꫶ABS AND BICEPS ⸝⸝ .   JOBE BELLINGHAM

WOULD YOU EVER let me ride your biceps and abs ?” Jobe immediately removed his eyes off his phone, a almost concerned but curious expression on his face

He raised an eyebrow, slowly a small smirk appearing on his face. “It depends why?”

You shrug nonchalantly, making your way to sit on his lap. “I don’t know was just wonderin’” His hands relaxed in your waist, making its way slowly to your hips.

“Yeah wondering… sure this isn’t something you’ve thought about before”. Now he was smirking, but not that kind, the cocky one. “Forget about it”

Jobe grunts, using both of his hands to position yourself in front of him, your hands on his shoulder to keep balance. His back now against the soft fluffy couch, he was able to see your face perfectly now. “Nah baby, I’d like to hear more of this idea of yours. If not to say I’m a little intrigued by it.” His words muffled at the end as he placed a soft kiss in your cheek

His left hand caressing your thigh while the other lingered slowly up your shirt. “Jobe! Hands off, I know what you’re doing”. You chuckled, pulling yourself more closer to his chest

“What? You brought the idea up, can’t just expect me to not get turned on by that and besides it’s your fault.” He stopped for a moment before his lips were suddenly on your neck

You rolled your eyes, playing with his hair gently. “But you never answered the question though?” Suddenly a harsh smack echoed through the penthouse, Jobe’s large hands squeezing the fat flesh as he groaned

“Ouch!”

Jobe removes his lips from your neck, still smirking. “Did that answer your question?”

“Well a yes would’ve been fine!” You pout, rubbing the left side of your ass. He laughs softly, planting a kiss on your nose. “Then my proper answer would be a yes. But if you wanna find out now..”

“I’m cockblocking you Patrick”

“Hey! That’s not fair”

“Nether was the smack on my ass!!”

a/n ; me making random blurbs bc I’m distracting y’all from the amount of drafts / request I got rn

[zerocoded]

AYO TECHNOLOGY !

In your defence, kissing Jobe Bellingham had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. It's the waking up in his bed with absolutely no recollection afterwards that's proving to be the issue.

WARNINGS ◦ alcohol use ◦ mention of a one night stand ◦ friends to lovers ◦ they all suck at feelings i'm not proud of it lol ◦ a tiny bit of angst ◦ mention of kissing and making out in public spaces ◦ jobe is the only mature one on this lmfao ◦ description of hangovers and overall a pretty light read ◦ consent talks ◦ love confessions!!!

6,141 ━━━━━ oneshot jobe bellingham x reader

۶ৎ 𝓩 , first time writing for my '05 twin, kinda nervous. HOW THE HELL IS THIS MAN SO FINE AND NOT MINE. sorry. anyways, enjoy this jobe drabble whoever finds this <3

━━━━━ read on ao3

You wake to the low, steady hum of the ceiling fan circling overhead, each lazy rotation stirring the air just enough to brush across your skin. This ceiling is smooth and white, unmarked by the faint water stain that greets you most mornings in your own flat. Your mouth feels coated in something stale and bitter, like cheap vodka and broken decisions, your head throbs in time with it, a deep, insistent pulse that radiates from your temples down through your jaw.

For a long moment you lie perfectly still on your back, eyes closed, simply cataloguing the wreckage: the pounding in your skull, the uneasy roll in your stomach, the vague but growing certainty that something has gone very wrong.

You know this room, the realisation settles slowly, like sediment in still water. The faint trace of cedarwood and fresh laundry in the sheets, the old Sunderland poster taped to the far wall, edges curling from years of loyalty he’s never quite outgrown, a pair of grass-stained boots kicked carelessly near the wardrobe door.

Jobe’s room. At his parents’ house.

You keep your eyes shut a little longer, as if that might delay the rest of it, but the bed shifts under you with the smallest movement and the truth presses in anyway.

The mattress dips more than it should on his side. The body next to you takes up space, has always taken up space actually, even before the professional training sculpted him into the tall, broad-shouldered athlete he is now. You can feel the warmth radiating from him without looking, the duvet is pulled low across his body, and when you finally turn your head on the pillow, the sight hits you fully.

Jobe’s lying on his back, one arm flung loosely above his head, snoring lightly in that soft, unconscious way he’s done since you were kids sharing tents on family camping trips. He is only in dark briefs, the fabric clings to the solid lines of his hips and thighs, the kind of quiet power built from endless drills and matches, his chest rises and falls steadily, the muscles there defined but relaxed in sleep, skin still carrying the faint tan of training pitches under brighter skies.

He fills the bed, not just occupies it. One of his long legs has slipped out from under the duvet, foot hanging off the edge, the space between you feels suddenly too small, too intimate, too dangerous.

You glance down at yourself and the world narrows to the soft black fabric pooling across your lap. One of Jobe’s old training shirts, faded from countless washes, the collar stretched just enough to slip off one shoulder, drapes loosely over you, the hem skimming the tops of your thighs.

The material is warm from sleep, carrying the faint, familiar scent of his detergent and something undeniably him. No bra. Just the thin lace of your underwear beneath, a stark reminder that you are wearing almost nothing in a bed that is not your own. Your bare legs rest shyly against the dark sheets. One knee is slightly bent, the other stretched out, toes curled against the cool air.

You take it in slowly, piece by piece, as if cataloguing evidence at a scene you don’t fully remember joining. The shirt is enormous on you, sleeves swallowing your hands when you lift them. It used to hang off him differently—broader shoulders, longer torso—back when he was still growing into the professional frame he carries now. Your dress, the one you’d chosen for the family party yesterday, lies in a pathetic heap near the door. One thin strap is torn or slipped free, the fabric wrinkled and stained with what looks like spilled vodka, a single heel pokes out from underneath it, abandoned.

The details settle heavily, you are in Jobe’s bed, in his shirt, half-dressed. And he is right there beside you, all six-foot-something of him, long limbs and quiet breathing filling the space like he was always meant to take up that much room. The duvet has slipped low on his hips, revealing the defined cut of his abs and the sharp line where his training shorts usually sit.

For several long seconds you simply stare, letting the pieces hover without quite connecting. This is Jobe, the boy who once raced you on bikes down the dead-lock, the teenager who sat beside you at your cousin’s funeral and didn’t try to fill the silence, the young man who sends you memes at odd hours from Germany and asks how your week is going like it still matters. Family, in every way that counts. The thought lingers, warm and familiar at first, before the colder edge creeps in.

Your pulse begins to pick up. You become aware of the faint ache in your muscles, the dryness in your throat, the way your hair is tangled against the pillow. What exactly happened after the walk home? The kiss flickers back, his mouth surprised but yielding, the taste of gin and laughter, but the rest is fog. How did you end up here? How did the clothes come off? Did you…?

The panic arrives then, not all at once but in a slow, cold bloom that spreads outward from your chest.

You’ve known Jobe your entire life, he is safety and history and the kind of uncomplicated love that comes from years of shared Sunday lunches and inside jokes. Ruining that, crossing a line neither of you had ever even glanced at, feels like the worst possible outcome.

You press the heel of your hand hard against your forehead, willing the spinning to stop, but the memories keep flashing anyway.

The family birthday party yesterday afternoon, Denise pulling you into one of her enveloping hugs the moment you walked through the door, hands on your cheeks as she asked, for the third time that month, whether you were eating enough. Mark in the kitchen making terrible dad jokes while flipping burgers. Jude winding Jobe up across the table with stories from Madrid, the two brothers falling into their easy rhythm while you watched with the same fond exasperation you’d felt for years.

Then the club later with the old childhood group. Rounds of drinks, embarrassing stories traded like currency, the walk home under the orange streetlights, just the two of you after the others peeled off. Jobe’s arm slung casually around your shoulders when the pavement felt unsteady. The sudden, surprising press of his mouth to yours—warm, not rushed— and then more kisses after that, your hands in his shirt, his quiet laugh against your lips. Then… nothing.

A blank wall where the rest of the night should be.

You sit there for a long moment, heart hammering against your ribs, the duvet still pooled around your waist. The panic is real now, but you don’t move. You just breathe through it, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your childhoon bestfriend's chest, waiting for the courage, or the disaster, to break.

But the silence stretches too long, and the not-knowing becomes unbearable. Your hand moves before your brain catches up, you reach over and shake his shoulder, gentle at first, then more insistent when he only murmurs something incoherent.

“Jobe,” you whisper. No response. “Sam." Another shake, harder this time. "Sam, wake up.”

He stirs properly this time, a low groan rumbling in his chest as his eyes flutter open. For a second he looks lost, still half-lost in whatever dream he’d been having. Then his gaze lands on you, really lands, and the confusion sharpens.

You shake him one more time for good measure, inconvenient and frantic. “Fucking hell, Jobe, wake up.”

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, voice gravel-rough with sleep. His hand comes up automatically, large and warm, closing gently around your wrist to still your shaking. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, just lets out a low, annoyed groan and turns his face into the pillow for a second, clearly battling his own hangover. “It’s too early for this, princess. My head is killing me.”

You shake his shoulder again anyway, persistent. “Jobe Samuel. I’m serious.”

He cracks one eye open, squinting against the light filtering through the curtains. The annoyance is still there, brow furrowed, mouth turned down in a classic Jobe scowl that you’ve seen a hundred times when he’s tired or hungover or both. He looks properly rumpled: hair messy, a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow, the full athletic frame of him taking up most of the bed like he’d grown into it overnight years ago.

“Christ,” he mutters, pushing himself up onto one elbow with another groan. The duvet slips lower on his hips, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. “You’re relentless even when I’m dying. What’s got you—?”

He finally looks at you properly. The annoyance flickers, then fades as his gaze travels over you: his oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder, the way you’re sitting bolt upright with panic written all over your face, the crumpled dress on the floor.

Realisation clicks in slowly behind his eyes, the memories from last night start filtering back—the club, the walk, your hands on his face, the taxi, the stairs.

He sits up fully now, back against the headboard, and runs a hand over his face, rubbing the sleep and hangover away as best he can.

“Alright, darling,” he says, voice lower and gentler now, the gravel still there but wrapped in warmth. “What’s the rush about? You trying to kick me out of my own bed or something?”

You stare at him, equal parts horrified and irritated that he’s already slipping into banter mode while your entire world feels like it’s tilting sideways.

“This is serious, Jobe,” you snap, voice cracking with frustration. “I’m literally having a breakdown here.”

He pauses, the sleepy smirk fading as he really looks at you. The hangover is still written across his face, the slight wince when he moves his head, the slow way he blinks, but the teasing drains away. He shifts a little closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, and rests his back more firmly against the headboard.

“Alright,” he says quietly, more awake now. “Are you hurt?”

The question hangs there, a beat of heavy, awkward silence stretches between you. Jobe is watching you, waiting, clearly trying to figure out why you look two seconds away from bolting.

You take a shaky breath, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. “Did we sleep together?”

Jobe’s brow furrows. He stares at you for a second like you’ve just spoken another language. “What?” The word comes out half-laugh, half-confused. “Princess, what are you on about?”

You gesture wildly between the two of you, the panic bubbling over into a rushed, embarrassed rant.

“Look at us! I’m in nothing but your shirt and my underwear. You’re practically naked, my dress is on the floor looking like it lost a fight, I woke up in your bed with zero memory after we were kissing on the way home. I’m not crazy, this looks exactly like the morning after something happened!”

Your voice cracks a little on the last part. You feel ridiculous even saying it out loud, but the evidence is right there in front of you, impossible to ignore.

Jobe listens without interrupting, his expression shifting from confusion to quiet understanding as you speak.

Then a quiet, low laugh escapes him, not at you, but the gentle, fond kind he’s always had when you work yourself up over something.

“Darling, relax,” he says, warm and patient. He reaches over and gently tugs the hem of his shirt down a little more on your thigh, a small, thoughtful gesture. “We didn’t sleep together, slow down."

He leans back against the headboard again, rubbing his temple with two fingers like the hangover is still punishing him, but his eyes stay on you.

“You were proper gone last night, we both were. But I got you upstairs, helped you change because your dress was covered in vodka, gave you water, and made sure you didn’t fall down the stairs trying to go back down. That’s it, nothing else happened.”

You narrow your eyes at him, the sharp edge of panic now tangled with pure irritation at the faint trace of laughter still lingering in his voice. The morning light filtering through the curtains casts long, soft shadows across the room, catching on the faded posters on the walls and the scattered clothes on the floor.

“Stop fucking laughing, Jobe. This is serious.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” he says, though the small, amused grin is definitely still tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shifts against the headboard, the mattress creaking softly under his weight. “It’s just… you look proper traumatised and I’m trying not to die from this headache.”

For a moment the two of you just stare at each other. You can see the hangover weighing on him, the slight tightness around his eyes, the way he squints against the light. You shove his shoulder, not hard, but enough to make your point. His skin is warm under your palm.

“We were kissing,” you insist, voice rising. “At the club and on the way home. Don’t act like that’s nothing.”

Jobe winces, a proper grimace this time as he drags a hand slowly down his face. He leans his head back against the headboard with a quiet thud, eyes briefly closing as if the memory itself is painful.

“Well… fuck,” he mutters. “Yeah, we did that.”

“See!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, the oversized shirt slipping further off one shoulder. “You kissed me first, you idiot.”

His head snaps toward you, eyebrows raised. “C'mon, darling, there's no need to lie here.”

“Yes, you did!”

“No, princess,” he says, fighting a smile now, the banter flowing easily even through the hangover haze. “You were all over me, c’mon.” He gestures loosely with one hand. “You kept grabbing my face and telling me my ears were cute. My ears.”

The words hang in the air for half a second. Something inside you snaps, half embarrassment, half fond frustration. You snatch the nearest pillow and swing it at him. Once. Twice. The soft thuds echo lightly in the quiet room, he doesn’t even try to block it properly, just lets out a low, rumbling laugh and takes the hits, shoulders shaking slightly with each one, as if this kind of ridiculous morning scuffle is the most natural thing in the world between you two.

“Promise me nothing happened,” you demand, hitting him again for good measure, the pillow making a muffled whump against his chest. “Promise me, Jobe.”

He’s still letting you whack him, patient and oddly cute about it, one arm resting lazily across his knee, until your voice cracks on the last “Promise me.” The playfulness in the air shifts almost instantly, the laughter fades from his face.

That does it.

He catches both of your wrists gently but firmly with one large hand, stopping the pillow mid-swing. He doesn’t squeeze, his grip is warm and steady, just enough to still you. His expression turns serious as he looks straight at you, hangover or not, the morning light catching the side of his face.

“I wouldn’t do that to you. You know that,” he says, voice low and steady, eyes locked on yours. “I promise. Nothing happened.”

The words came without hesitation. They weren't defensive, they weren't offended, they sounded almost confused that you could even think otherwise.

You stared back at him, your breathing still uneven. "We were drunk."

"I know."

"So how can you be so sure?"

“Because it’s you,” he says finally. “You’re family. Mum trusts me with you, do you think I'd do something like that? Hurting you like that — especially when you’re not even fully there — would never cross my mind. With anyone, really."

Silence settled between you again, broken only by the slow whir of the ceiling fan above. Your eyes drifted down to the shirt hanging off your shoulder, to the rumpled sheets pooled around your legs, before returning to him.

You look away toward the window, throat tight. The panic isn’t just about the possibility of sex anymore, it’s about the fear that you might have destroyed the safest relationship you’ve ever had.

"You don't get it," you murmured, your voice much quieter now. "If we'd actually..." You swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence. "God, Jobe... I'm so sorry."

Something softened across his expression. "Now why are you saying sorry for, princess?" He let go of your wrists then, giving you the space to breathe, but he didn't move away. "Breathe, darling."

He leaned back against the headboard and watched you with that same patient expression he'd worn ever since you were children crying over scraped knees or broken friendships.

"I helped you upstairs," he starts carefully, piecing the night together out loud more for your benefit than his own. "Your dress was soaked in vodka because you'd somehow managed to spill half your drink down yourself." You look up at him through your fingers that were previously hiding the embarrassment in your face. "You kept saying you were fine while tripping over your own feet." The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. "I found one of my old shirts, made you change into it, gave you water, spent ten minutes convincing you not to sleep in your makeup..."

"And then?"

His smile grew a fraction wider. "And then you kept trying to kiss me like when we were in the club."

Heat rushed to your face immediately. "No."

"Mhm."

"Jobe."

"We did kiss," he admitted more quietly, his eyes dropping briefly to the duvet before finding yours again. "A few times."

You felt your stomach sink.

“I kissed you back,” he admits, voice low. “For a bit. I wanted to. But after a while you were barely keeping your eyes open, so I stopped.” He shrugs one shoulder, simple and honest. “That’s the truth.”

The confession hangs between you, understated and raw.

You feel your chest tighten. “Did I… make you uncomfortable? Did I ignore you when you said no? Did I put you in a shitty position?”

Jobe’s expression softens further. He leans forward slightly.

“No, darling, you didn’t. You were just… you. Drunk and affectionate and a little bit chaotic. You kept asking if Germany was really that far away, told me you missed me more than you say when you’re sober. Tried convincing me to stay in England.” A small, fond smile touches his lips. “You also told me my eyelashes were trustworthy. That one’s going in the permanent record.”

You groan and hide your face in the pillow for a second. When you peek out again, he’s watching you with that patient, steady look.

“I was worried about you last night,” he continues more seriously. “You were all over the place. Strangers kept trying to talk to you at the club. It scared me, thinking how easily someone else could’ve taken advantage. So yeah… don’t get that loose when I’m not around. Please, not because I’m trying to control you, because I care what happens to you.”

The silence that follows feels different now, heavier, but warmer. You’re still clutching the pillow. He’s still close, one hand resting near yours on the duvet. Neither of you seems ready to name what shifted last night, but the air between you feels undeniably changed.

Sunlight has crept further across the floor, catching dust motes and the faint scuff marks on the wooden boards, Jobe’s thumb makes one absent pass over the edge of the duvet before stilling. You watch it, hyper-aware of every small movement, every shared breath in the quiet space.

Eventually you find your voice again, small and hesitant. “So the kissing… that part really happened.”

Jobe exhales through his nose, a long, thoughtful sound, he doesn’t look away from the window at first. When he does turn back to you, his expression is calm, almost thoughtful, like he’s turning the night over in his mind piece by piece.

“Yeah,” he says simply. “It did.”

You wait. The silence stretches again, comfortable enough that you don’t feel the need to fill it right away. You pull the duvet a little higher over your legs, fingers tracing the soft edge of the fabric, Jobe shifts his weight against the headboard, the mattress dipping slightly under him, and rubs a hand over his jaw.

“I kept thinking about it on the walk home,” he continues after a moment, voice low. “Watching those lads at the club come up to you. It bothered me more than I expected. Not in some big dramatic way. Just… I didn’t like it.” He lets out a small, self-aware huff, almost surprised at his own admission. “Didn’t realise how much until I said it out loud just now.”

You glance at him. He meets your eyes steadily, no deflection, no attempt to soften it into a joke.

“Why did you kiss me?” The question slips out quieter than you intended, but it feels important.

Jobe doesn’t rush to answer, he looks down at the space between you on the bed for a long beat, then back up. His voice is even, confident in that understated way he has when he’s decided to be honest.

“Because I wanted to,” he says. “The alcohol probably made it easier to stop overthinking it, but it didn’t create something that wasn’t already there, at least not for me.”

The words settle between you like the dust in the sunlight. You feel your chest tighten again, but this time it’s not panic.

“We kissed before I got too far gone,” he adds, as if reading the next question on your face. “On the walk home, a few times. I wanted that part, I don’t regret it.” His gaze holds yours. “I only stopped things later because you weren’t really there anymore. Both of those things can be true at the same time. I wanted to kiss you… but I’d never take advantage of you.”

You let that sit for a while. The fan keeps turning, somewhere downstairs a door opens and closes softly — Mark, probably, moving around the kitchen. The ordinary sounds of the house feel strangely grounding against the weight of the conversation.

“I don’t think they were a mistake,” Jobe says after another long pause, his voice quiet but certain. “The kisses. If you decide you regret them, I’ll respect that completely, but I’m not going to lie and say they meant nothing just because that would be easier.”

You look at him, really look. The boy who grew up beside you, now a man taking up space in his childhood bed, speaking with the kind of steady honesty that makes your throat feel tight. No grand speeches, no sudden declarations, just Jobe, being Jobe.

A small, surprised laugh escapes you, shaky but genuine. He smiles in response, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way.

“I’d quite like to kiss you again,” he says casually, as if commenting on the weather. “When we’re both sober this time.”

The laugh between you feels lighter now, shared and easy. You shake your head, still half-hiding behind the pillow, the fabric soft and familiar against your cheek. Jobe’s smile lingers, small and unhurried, as he watches you from his side of the bed.

The morning light has shifted again, warming the walls and catching on the edges of old trophies lined up on a shelf across the room. Everything in here feels suspended between childhood and adulthood — the Sunderland poster, the boots, the faint scent of grass still clinging to them.

You lower the pillow slowly into your lap, fingers tracing one of its worn seams. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it is full. Ordinary sounds that make the conversation feel strangely intimate, as if the rest of the house is politely pretending not to exist.

“Fuck Jobe,” you say after a while, voice quieter now, almost testing the words. “We really kissed. That part was not just some blurry half-memory.”

Jobe nods once, his gaze drifting briefly to the window before returning to you. He scratches the back of his neck, a small, habitual gesture you’ve seen a thousand times when he’s thinking something through.

“Yeah,” he says again, simpler this time. “We did.”

You let that sit between you. You pull the duvet a little higher over your legs, suddenly aware of how exposed you still feel, even though the worst of the panic has eased. Jobe doesn’t rush to fill the quiet, he simply waits, one hand resting loosely on his knee, the other near yours on the bed, close enough that you can feel the warmth but not quite touching.

He exhales through his nose, a thoughtful sound. His eyes drop to the space between you on the mattress for a long moment, as if he’s replaying pieces of the night in his head, the club lights, the walk home, the way the streetlamps had cast long shadows across the pavement.

When he speaks, his voice is low, almost like he’s surprising himself with the admission.

“I spent most of the night at the club trying to convince myself I was just looking out for you,” he says. “The way I always have. But every time another bloke came over, bought you a drink, tried talking to you… it bothered me. More than it should have.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating huff. “Didn’t realise how much until I was walking you home and suddenly it wasn’t just protectiveness anymore.”

You glance at him. He meets your eyes steadily.

“What happens now?” you ask eventually, voice soft.

Jobe thinks for a moment, then smiles again, small, genuine, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way.

“I’d quite like to do this properly,” he says, casual but certain. “Take you on an actual date. No hangovers. No blurry memories.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound mixing with his own quiet one. The tension in the room eases further, replaced by something warmer, lighter, hopeful in the most ordinary way.

“And yeah,” he adds after a beat, eyes meeting yours with that same quiet confidence, “I’d quite like to kiss you again. This time when we’re both completely sober.”

For a while, neither of you said anything.

The conversation had reached that strange point where silence no longer felt uncomfortable, only necessary. Too much had been said in too short a space of time, each admission quietly rearranging something neither of you had realised was capable of moving. The panic that had seized you when you first opened your eyes had long since dissolved, leaving behind the dull ache of a hangover and an unfamiliar awareness every time your eyes wandered back to him.

Jobe seemed content to let the quiet settle. He rested his forearms across his knees, staring absent-mindedly at the floorboards, his fingers loosely linked together as though he were still replaying pieces of the previous night in his head. The room looked exactly as it always had, childhood trophies gathering dust, old football posters refusing to be taken down, boots abandoned near the wardrobe after yesterday's kickabout with family friends, but somehow none of it felt quite the same anymore.

The spell finally broke with the unmistakable crash of a cupboard downstairs. A second later Mark's voice floated faintly through the floorboards. "How've we managed to lose every bloody mug in this house?!"

Jobe shut his eyes for a second before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose.

"Dad's up."

"So it would seem." You smiled despite yourself.

His eyes met yours.

"I should probably..." you started, gesturing vaguely towards the bedroom door.

"Yeah."

Neither of you moved.

The hesitation almost made you laugh. It wasn't awkwardness exactly, more the quiet reluctance that comes after a conversation neither person had expected to have before breakfast.

Eventually Jobe pushed himself to his feet with a low groan, stretching until something in his back cracked. "Christ..."

"You sound about fifty."

"I feel about eighty."

You watched him shuffle across the room to retrieve yesterday's clothes, scratching lazily at the back of his head before tossing you your handbag from beside the desk. Your dress was another matter entirely.

You picked it up between two fingers, frowning at the dried splash of vodka staining the front. The fabric felt stiff and slightly tacky under your touch, a small, ridiculous reminder of how the night had unravelled. Jobe glanced over from where he stood near the wardrobe, his expression softening with the kind of easy familiarity that had always existed between you, even in the middle of this strange morning.

"It'll wash."

"It absolutely won't."

"It might."

You held it up for him to see more clearly, the morning light catching the faint sheen of the stain. He studied it for a second, the faint crease between his brows deepening before he gave an exaggerated wince that carried no real weight, only the gentle teasing that had always been part of your rhythm.

"...Yeah, alright."

You looked at him expectantly, one eyebrow raised in the quiet challenge that needed no words. He sighed with theatrical resignation, running a hand through his messy hair as he turned back toward the wardrobe.

"I'll replace it."

"Damn right you will."

"There goes next week's wages."

"You play professional football."

"I know."

"So don't act like you're struggling."

He laughed softly, the sound low and warm as he disappeared briefly into the wardrobe, emerging with a clean shirt.

The conversation slipped back into the rhythm it had always known, easy teasing filling the spaces where sharper embarrassment had lived only minutes before. It struck you, somewhere between complaining about your ruined dress and watching him wrestle the T-shirt over his head, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that felt both utterly ordinary and newly aware, that nothing about speaking to Jobe had changed. Everything else had.

You changed in the bathroom while he made the bed, not perfectly, because he had never learned how Denise liked the hospital corners folded, but well enough that nobody would immediately assume two twenty-year-olds had spent the night tangled in it. By the time you wandered downstairs together, still rubbing the last traces of sleep from your eyes, the smell of fresh toast and brewing tea had drifted through the hallway, grounding the morning in something comfortingly familiar.

Mark stood at the kitchen counter with a mug in one hand and the morning paper in the other, the sunlight from the garden window catching the steam rising from his drink.

"There they are."

"Morning," the two of you answered together, voices overlapping in that unconscious way people do when they have shared years of the same spaces.

"Hm."

He folded another page of the paper with a quiet rustle, his gaze lifting only briefly over the rim of his mug. The kitchen felt warm and lived-in around you, the faint clink of dishes in the sink and the low hum of the fridge creating a soft backdrop to the ordinary exchange.

"You alive?"

"Barely," Jobe muttered, already reaching for the coffee pot, his shoulder brushing yours as he moved past.

Mark hummed in response, a dry, knowing sound that carried no judgment, only the quiet amusement of a man who had seen far worse mornings in this house.

"Bin's outside."

Jobe frowned slightly, pouring himself a mug as the rich scent of coffee filled the space between you.

"What for?"

"You'll work it out."

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just long enough for realisation to settle. Your face disappeared into both hands as the memory flickered back, hazy but mortifying.

"Oh, no..."

Jobe looked between the two of you, confusion still clouding his features as he set the pot down with a soft clink. "...What?"

"You threw up in Mum's roses."

His expression froze for a moment, the full weight of it landing as Mark delivered the line with the same understated dryness he always carried. You laughed suddenly, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly and forcing you to lean against the kitchen island for support, the cool surface grounding you. Jobe stared at his father in complete disbelief before groaning into both hands, the sound muffled but genuine.

By the time breakfast was finished, the morning had settled into something comfortably ordinary, the dishwasher humming quietly in the background and the faint scent of toast still lingering in the air.

Mark had disappeared into the garden to inspect the alleged crime scene, muttering something about hopeless youngsters under his breath, while Jobe wandered through the house collecting forgotten glasses from the night before, his movements unhurried and familiar. You found yourself lingering by the front door, bag resting on one shoulder, fingers curling loosely around your car keys as the warmth of the day pressed gently against the windows.

"I should head off."

He looked up from the hallway, the light catching the side of his face and highlighting the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

"Yeah."

Again, neither of you seemed particularly eager to be the first to move. Jobe reached for the front door instead, pulling it open before standing back to let you through. The warmth outside wrapped around you immediately, carrying the familiar smell of freshly cut grass from somewhere further down the road and the distant sound of a neighbour mowing their lawn. He followed you out onto the drive without either of you acknowledging that he was doing it, the gravel shifting softly under your feet.

For a moment you simply stood beside your car, the metal warm from the sun. It wasn't awkward. It just... wasn't familiar yet. You looked at him, studying the face you'd known for almost your entire life, and realised it was somehow both exactly the same and completely different in the bright daylight.

"I suppose," you said eventually, "this is the bit where everything gets weird."

He frowned slightly, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his joggers as he leaned against the side of the car.

"Does it have to?"

"I don't know."

"I'd rather it didn't."

You smiled, the expression coming easily despite the new undercurrent running beneath everything.

"So would I."

A comfortable silence settled again, the kind filled with the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the faint hum of traffic in the distance. He looked down the street for a moment before speaking, his posture relaxed but his gaze steady when it returned to you.

"I meant what I said upstairs."

"I know."

"I'm not expecting an answer today." Your eyes found his again, the connection lingering in the quiet space between you. "Or tomorrow."

Another small smile touched his mouth, softening the lines of his face.

"I just... think we've spent enough years pretending we're only one thing because it's easier."

The sentence landed gently, no pressure behind it, only honesty earned from years of shared history. He shrugged one shoulder, the movement casual yet deliberate.

"So..."

"So?"

"When I get a free weekend..." His expression softened into something almost boyish despite the quiet confidence he'd carried all morning, the sunlight catching in his eyes as he looked at you. "...let me take you out."

Not because last night had forced the question, but because, for the first time, neither of you had any reason left to pretend you didn't want to. You smiled before you even realised you were doing it, the warmth of it spreading through your chest as you unlocked the car door.

"I think," you said, the words feeling right in the ordinary brightness of the driveway, "I'd quite like that."

His own smile answered yours immediately, easy and genuine, the kind shared between two people who already knew each other better than anyone else ever could. No kiss. No dramatic goodbye. Just the quiet understanding that something had shifted, and for now, that was enough.

As you pulled away a minute later, the engine humming softly beneath you, you caught one last glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror, still standing on the drive with one hand shoved into his pocket, the other lifting in an absent wave. For the first time since waking in his bed, you weren't trying to remember what had happened the night before. You already knew. Instead, your mind wandered somewhere much simpler. You found yourself wondering what Jobe Bellingham was actually like on a first date. And somehow, after a lifetime of knowing him, that felt like the newest question of all.

author's note — it's time to admit: i've replayed that video of him running on the treadmill a thousand times since i saw it #respectfully. also, i got major vibes of woman worshipper with this man i swear, A MAN A MAN A MAN-AN-AN.

TAGLIST — @hesperisms @caratchronicles @candidupped @grittysbiggestfan

[luvjellie]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ spending the morning off with jude bellingham ♡ (fluff, slice of life)

rain had settled over the city, leaving the bedroom wrapped in the softness that only came with the rarity of slow mornings. the curtains remained half-open, allowing light to spill across the tangled sheets and the collection of clothes scattered carelessly on the floor from the passionate night before. somewhere outside, tires squeaked over the rain-soaked roads while the drips of water spilled from the roof above, but everything inside the apartment remained wonderfully quiet. it was one of those rare mornings that felt different from the rest of the world, as though time had stopped.

you woke slowly, not because of the terrible alarm that had a habit of dragging you from your sleep, but because of the steady warmth pressed comfortably against your back. jude's arm rested around your waist, holding you close even in sleep, his breathing slow and brushing against your neck. there was something comforting about the weight of him, about the fact that for once, there wasn't an early training session waiting for him or a suitcase already packed by the bedroom door.

days like this hardly existed anymore, his life being measured by flights, recovery sessions, and interviews, each week planned almost to the exact minute. finding an entire morning with nowhere to be felt more impossible than winning the lottery.

you shifted ever so slightly beneath the covers, intending only to stretch your legs after lying still for so long, but the movement earned an immediate response. jude's hand tightened against your waist before he pulled you back against him, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder with a quiet sigh.

"you aren't asleep," you murmured, smiling into your pillow.

your ears are met with a sleeply laugh, one that rumbled against your shoulder before he lifted his just enough to meet your eyes, his curls perfectly taking shape. "course i'm not."

"no?"

"nah." his smile was still heavy with sleep, highlighted by the morning light shining through the gap in the curtains. outside, rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows, the sound quiet enough that it echoed throughout the room. "been awake a while."

you turned a little more toward him, the blankets shifting softly between you, the mattress dipping with each movement. "hm. and you just, what, watched me?"

his eyebrows lifted innocently, that familiar expression on his face mixing between amused and unapologetic. "ya making it sound worse than it was."

"oh, am i?"

a quiet laugh escaped him as his thumb traced absentmindedly against your waist. "i was just admiring ya."

you couldn't help but laugh, the sound disappearing into the quiet room. the way with which he said it made your cheeks warm. there wasn't a pitch of self-consciousness in him, only the honesty that seemed to slip into his voice whenever the cameras weren't around and there wasn't anyone expecting him to be england's midfielder or one of football's brightest starts. beneath the rumpled blankets with rain tapping softly against the window, he was just jude.

your jude.

hi beautifuls! i tried to put more environment into this one, please let me know if you enjoyed it! i'm still trying to figure out how i want to go about writing longer pieces so any feedback or suggestions are always welcome. i also tried to write more in the path of his accent, hopefully it comes across that way! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

[teairo]

silent treatment / bellingham (18+)

title: silent treatment

word count: 2.4k

pairing: bf!jude x gf!reader 

description: jude can’t stand arguing with you because he’s simply too weak to do so, but he can’t stand your attitude either– so he gives you a reason to huff at him. (18+)

content: boyfriend jude, possessive reader, assertive/dominant jude, fluff, reassurance, gentle intimacy, sexual tension, teasing, mention of hickeys, oral sex, non-penetrative sex, begging, faux sympathy, & apology sex. 

author’s note: my heart breaks for silent treatment, but this one was kinda cute even if i did feel a lil sad here n there. he definitely is an acts of service kind of boyfriend.

you sat inside the car, arms folded as you stared out the window, tongue in cheek when you both pulled into the drive way. jude reaches in the back to grab the umbrella, sighing when you took your jacket off and covered the top of your head to walk into your shared flat alone. 

“be mad, but i’m still your boyfriend,” he says, huffing softly as he catches up to you ensuring the umbrella is over your head. you go inside quietly, making sure you beat him to opening your own doors. your bag was slung over his shoulder, so when you made it inside you turn around to face him, gesturing to the bag.

yes, it seemed childish but you were adamant on not speaking until you could find a level head. the attitude was just you being petty and very optional, especially because you refused to admit that you were truly overreacting. he hands you the bag, his eyes searching your face for any sort of softness. you turn abruptly and go to your shared room. 

jude throws his hands up, letting them drop to his sides. while you went to the room to go sulk and shower, he prepared a snack for you. jude started cutting up fruit to place in a bowl and hand to you when you finally settled in bed and on your phone. you were less angry after the shower, your thoughts melting into the water. 

“you’re impossible, you know,” he regrets the words immediately, his approach to your soft demeanor was not the best seeing as you turned sour once again. he sits next to you but on the edge of the bed, holding the bowl for you to pick out of, which you reluctantly take from. the freshly cut kiwi gave him back some credit, your eyes narrowing at him suspiciously when he stood up to place to bowl down on the bedside table. 

you watch as he removes his shirt, pretending to be amused by the reel on your phone. but he notices it replay multiple times and your eyes drag away from his torso immediately. this girl drives me nuts. he thought to himself, flipping the shirt properly to toss into a laundry bin before dropping his pants and tossing over his shoulder. you watched him walk to the bathroom with a towel in hand, biting the inside of your cheek. 

pouting, you sat on the bed, waiting like a sick puppy as if you didn’t ignore jude the entire way home after a simple disagreement based off of a misunderstanding. but to be fair, jude was aware of how easily jealous you got, so you expected him not to speak to other girls who were especially interested in him in public. it sounded immature, but after getting cheated on in a three year long relationship, you realized nothing was impossible. it was slightly immature, and you were aware that this was only a burden for you to bear. 

the guilt stung you slightly, your posture straightening when you heard the shower turn off. eager, your eyes trained on the corner of the room where he entered from. you watch as he dried the back of his neck, seemingly unbothered in your eyes while he simply chose to respect your silence. you were in between having an attitude simply for attention at this point. he walks over, towel hanging low to pick up a kiwi and take a bite himself. 

you just stare at him, lip bitten in uncertainty. “do you want more?” he breaks the silence, lifting up the almost empty bowl. you nod, clearing your throat to finally speak. 

“yeah– yes, please.”

he walks to the kitchen, his back flexed slightly as he walked out the room to bring you back a full bowl.

jude stands in the kitchen, cutting more fruit with his lips firmly pressed, deep in thought. he had a long day, and wanted nothing more than to just kiss and hold you. but this silent treatment was too much for him. he was losing it from not hearing your voice, even if you were both arguing. he returns to the room to see you in his team jacket, knees up to your chest as you continued to scroll about on your phone. 

this was his breaking point. he walks over, placing the bowl down. he waits for his thanks, not expecting one as an opportunity to touch you. you grab a grape. his hand cups your jaw firmly but not harshly enough to hurt. 

“have you forgotten your manners?”

before you can fix your mouth for an apology he grabs the grape, taking it for himself. “oh fuck off,” you say, your mood spoiled once again. 

“be jealous, be mad at me, be pouty– by all means,” your glare remained fix on him as he leaned down, “but don’t be a brat.”

“or what?--”

a scoff slips past your lips. he presses a kiss to your lips, placing a knee on the bed. you retreat, eyes wide open but not in protest. his tongue pushes past your lips, blending your mouths with a hotness that was indescribable in the moment. it was sweet from the fruit, wet and burning with a need to establish dominance. it works. you fold, your stomach twisting as the smell of his dampened skin and body wash intoxicated you in a near instant. he pulls away, hand cupping the side of your face.

“this ends now. you have no reason to be mad at me. but you know this, yeah?”

his eyebrows raise, tilting his head to look for your gaze that you avert out of embarrassment. your head nods in agreement after a pause. he waits for an apology, one you haven’t seemed to consider yet for your behavior the entire night, assuming he would just understand your meekish state was from being flustered. 

you couldn’t think much before, during, or after jude was kissing you. it was kind of impossible. 

“open,” he says, your lips pliant in separation.

your boyfriend places a strawberry in your mouth for you to eat, and you do. but for some reason he was still looking at you for some sort of indication of manners--which you failed to do again-- his brows knitted in thought as he assumed you were still being silent out of pettiness. finally, you get it, starting with an apology but before you could fully form a word he begins tugging at your underwear until it’s down to your knees.

you shift, unable to do much without your underwear completely off. he hovers over you, towel still tightly draped around his waist. you had secretly hoped it would drop soon, but before you could ask him what he was doing, he placed a kiss on your lips before you felt the cool air on your clit become warm with a pressed set of fingers. you were already wet, giving away any sort of modest reservations you had for the night. you gasp, lips parting and closed onto his once more. 

he pulls back, allowing your noses to caress but not fulfilling your desire to kiss again. he speaks low, his eyes hooded but focused. “you misunderstand me, we argue,” jude presses his fingers against your folds before dragging them up to your bud of pleasure. slowly, he rubs circles. he continues, making you gasp softly, breath hitched. “--we fix things, and you ignore me still.”

you apologize under your breath but clearly you were both past apologies at this point. he wanted to make himself clear. 

“you throw a fit even when i bring you fruit,” the feeling of a single digit push past the resistance of your walls, which then allow entrance once your body recognized its purpose. your jaw slacks, breathy sounds exiting.

“and despite being so upset, you check me out.” 

he is knuckle deep now, a second finger joining the first to stretch you open. another earned gasp gets caught in your throat.

“all while wearing my jacket and absolutely nothing else.”

jude was beyond trying to understand you completely. if you weren’t going to speak to him proper, he knew your body would.

“oh, jude..” you softly breathe, eyebrows knitted upwards as opposed to the frown you fixed earlier. 

“i don’t think you’re even mad about her anymore.”

it was always him. you were always thinking about him. your eyes open slightly, looking up at him which reaffirmed exactly what he was saying. he knew you wanted something beyond reassurance from the interaction today. you wanted something physical. a reminder even. your fingers gripped onto his forearm, desperate for more as your hips slowly grind upwards. 

“but still, i’ll remind you. i’m yours.”

he hooks his fingers into you, watching your face contort. his sly grin turned into a shared expression of faux sympathetic regards. you mew with his movements, letting out sounds so lewd and drawn out that he nearly forgot the level of restrain he was capable of. his fingers chased your first orgasm in joint with your hips that bucked against his hand. 

jude admires your frame, holding the small of your back as it arched from the headboard you leaned onto. small chants of his name leave your lips, faint but clear with desperation. 

“please..”

your furrowed brows intensify and you hold onto his arm entirely as he recognizes your body jolt to the spot he found. you refused to look up in this state so you hid your face into his shoulder. the tips of his fingers brush against your bundle of nerves repeatedly, pressing with a sensual pace aided by your hips. you tried to find the words, wanting him to go deeper and faster. but they all sounded like gasps and pleas, fragmented from sentences you wanted to say but couldn’t make out.

“so talkative now, hm?” he smiled, watching you cling to him and rut upwards.

he admires your need, finding it adorable at the very least. his other hand pats your head and brushes through your hair before running his fingertips over your back. he wanted to take you right there, his cold shower was absolutely useless in this moment. all he could think about was how much louder he could force your moans without being completely inside. you were so whiney, incoherent and practically– but only slightly- drooling onto his bicep. 

jude leans in, kissing your temple and hushing you. your frustrated whines came from pride, feeling humiliated that you were chasing an orgasm and melting at the same time, unable to do it all on your own without feeling absolutely weak. 

“you can cum like this. i’m all yours to use, so use me.”

he notices your small huffs of frustration, realizing how you wanted to keep going with extra help. the taller lays you down, lifting your legs over his shoulder with urgency before leaning down to make use of his mouth. his two fingers continue to pump in and out of you, hugged by your aroused walls. jude licks and sucks on the place you need it the most, earning messy, loud moans. 

you sat up on your elbows, looking down at his handsome features half covered as he made himself busy. jude hums, looking up at you with a cocky glint. you pout, jolting when he flicked his tongue over and over. that’s it. you thought, gasping sharply with a hand on his head. your lover takes this as a sign, eagerly adding pressure from his tongue to your clit. 

“oh my god,” this is the most you’ve spoken all night, he thought to himself. this made him grin, holding one of your thighs tightly as you bucked your hips against his mouth. he allowed it, letting out a sound of protest when you apologized and tried to take your hand off. he comes up for a moment, exhaling. 

“don’t stop doing that. use my mouth darling, ‘m yours.”

you nod, biting your lip and taking advantage of his permission instantly. you wildly grind your hips down and against his face, loving the way his tongue and fingers worked in and outside of you. it felt overwhelming to the point that your orgasm threatened you without room to slow down. it came after two beats of a warning before forcing a wave of throbbing joy onto his tongue. 

jude is quick with his fingers, using them urgently to get as much of your juices out onto his hand. he laps it up, your hand over your mouth in horror of the mess made. meanwhile, he smiled as if he’d open a pinata with little to no effort, still kissing and sucking your folds to get every single drop possible. 

“you’re so fucking perfect,” his voice is hydrated, clear and low. 

kisses from your lover plant themselves on your thigh, his tongue running back up to clean up his mess. “jude, that’s enough–” you heaved a sigh, embarrassed by your body’s betrayal but grinning like an idiot. 

“i take it you’re not mad anymore?” you share a sweet kiss, smiling against his lips that taste like you. the tip of his nose is wet and you laugh softly, wiping your own nose after transferring drops of yourself. 

“there’s that beautiful smile i missed so much.” he grinned a smile that you realized you missed just as much. 

after practice you wait for jude, in his usual jersey with sunglasses on from the blaring rays. you saw her again, trying not to visibly frown. she speaks to some of the players momentarily, cheeks flushed when jude shakes her hand to evade another hug in your presence. their conversation continues for a bit and your boyfriend gestures to you before heading over. 

you pretend you weren’t staring, looking around in hopes your shades were cover enough. 

“that’s our new physical therapist, mckayla. she says hi,” he says teasingly.

you look up at him through your shades, crossing your arms. mckayla waves at you, her expression careful from your clear mean mug. jude pulls you in for a kiss on the forehead, speaking between the both of you lowly, “you’ve got a little something here..”

jude pulls back, gesturing discreetly to your neck that was lightly marked from last night. you remember, lightly pushing him back and turning your back quickly after waving to mckayla. 

“aye, don’t be rude, at least smile at her!” his laugh is light despite your obvious aversion to being seen bitten up like this. he kisses the top of your head, smacking your ass before gesturing you both to the car. you flush, leaning your head on him after he takes your bag from your hands to put over his shoulder. 

“idiot,” his fingers lace themselves into yours as you walk flushed next to him.

[loversrashy]

bioluminescence ⚛︎ ⚕

summary: marcus certainly doesn’t mind leaning into your weird little world if it means being close to you.

pairing: marcus rashford x neurodivergent!gf

warnings: none, really, but if you wanna count specific biology as a squeamish warning then have at it. :)

a/n: hello beautiful people!! i will always love writing for rashy. he is such a joy to think and write about, and certainly boyfriend material. i hope you enjoy <3

IT WAS NEARLY 1:30am. marcus had come home from his away match not too long ago, his body aching with that familiar bone-deep exhaustion that only a gruelling ninety minutes on the pitch could bring.

normally, he’d go straight to bed. but he knew you’d still be up.

he walked down the hallway, his socked feet making no sound on the marble tile, and leaned against the kitchen doorframe.

there you were. sitting crisscrossed on the cold kitchen floor in one of his oversized t-shirts you decided to steal from his closet, completely lost in your own world.

spread out around you were three open books on deep sea marine biology, a laptop glowing with a research paper on bioluminescence, and a small plate containing a bizarre concoction.. sliced apples dipped in hot sauce and peanut butter.

marcus stayed quiet for a moment, just watching you. his dark eyes softened, a tiny, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. he shook his head slowly. fucking weird, he thought to himself - not for the first time, but with a warmth in his chest that completely caught him off guard.

“you know there’s a dining room table, yeah?”

his voice was low, deep, and thick with that all too well known smooth, quiet manchester cadence. it carried that gentle, relaxed drawl that always made the room feel a little warmer.

you flinched slightly. not because you were scared, but because you’d been so hyperfocused you’d practically forgotten the rest of the universe existed. you looked up, your eyes wide behind your messy curls.

"the floor has better grounding," you said flatly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "the table has too much wood density. it feels heavy."

marcus let out a soft huff of laughter, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked over to the fridge. "wood density. right. silly me, innit?"

he grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and took a slow drink before turning back to look at you. he didn't tell you to get up. he didn't act like you were crazy. instead, marcus folded his long, athletic frame down onto the floor right across from you, resting his wrists on his knees.

he leaned forward, looking down at your little snack plate with a raised eyebrow.

"what's all this then?" he asked softly, gesturing with his thumb toward the plate. "you're gonna ruin your stomach with that, man. serious." he quipped.

"it's sensory calibration," you explained, your tone completely serious as you nudged the plate toward him. "the hot sauce triggers endomorphins, the peanut butter provides fat for protein absorption, and the apple is crunch. it balances the central nervous system." you explain as if it was common knowledge.

marcus stared at the apple slice, then looked at you. his eyes danced with amusement, a genuine, wide smile spreading across his face, showing off his teeth.

"endomorphins, yeah?" he teased softly, his voice dropping into that quiet, husky voice. "you just make these words up to sound clever, don't you? endorphins, mate. endorphins." he chuckled.

"endorphins," you corrected yourself without a hint of shame, waving a hand dismissively. "same thing. try it."

"i am not eating hot sauce and peanut butter at one in the morning," he chuckled, leaning back against the base of the lower cupboards. "i've got training at ten. boss'd kill me if i turned up with an upset gut because my girl's doing food experiments on the floor."

my girl. the casual way he said it always made a strange, pleasant buzz hum through your chest.

marcus settled in, resting his head back against the cupboard door. he looked exhausted - the faint dark circles under his eyes spoke to the high intensity week he'd had, the pressure of the media, the fans, the constant demand to perform at the highest level.. but sitting here on the kitchen floor with you, all of that armour melted away.

"how was the match?" you asked, leaning your chin on your knee.

marcus let out a quiet sigh, looking at his hands. "tough, you know? they sat deep, made it right difficult for us to find space in behind. had to work for it. got the three points in the end, though. that's all that matters, really." he paused, looking over at you, his gaze gentle. "what were you up to all day? just.. reading about fish?"

"bioluminescent anglerfish," you corrected, immediately shifting into high gear. your posture straightened, your eyes lighting up with that intense, unblinking focus that marcus found equal parts terrifying and fascinating.

"did you know that when the male anglerfish finds a female, he doesn't just mate with her? he physically bites into her skin and releases an enzyme that dissolves his own mouth and body until his vascular system fuses with hers. he literally becomes a permanent parasite attached to her body so he never has to be alone in the pitch black of the deep ocean."

silence filled the kitchen.

marcus just stared at you. his mouth opened slightly, then closed. he blinked once. twice.

"..that's dark, you know," he said finally, a quiet, disbelieving laugh slipping out of his chest. "like... proper weird, man. why are you reading that before bed, love?"

"because it's poetic," you insisted, leaning closer. "it's complete devotion. total physical integration.”

"it's creepy," marcus countered softly, though the corner of his lip was twitching up again. he reached out, his big, warm hand reaching across the space between you to gently tap the tip of your nose. "you're a proper weirdo. absolutely mental."

"you love it."

"do i?" he murmured, his tone shifting into something impossibly tender. he reached out further, grabbing your wrist softly and pulling you closer across the floor. "come ‘ere."

you scrambled forward, crawling into his space. marcus opened his arms and pulled you up into his lap, wrapping his long arms around you securely. he buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, heavy breath of your familiar scent— vanilla and warm cotton. you felt the deep rumble of his chest as he relaxed completely against you, all the physical tension from ninety minutes of elite football finally draining out of his muscles.

"you're warm." he mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled.

"you're cold," you retorted, running your fingers through his short, dark curls. "you need to regulate your body temperature, rashy.”

marcus gave a quiet, breathy laugh against your neck. "always gotta have a reason for everything, don't you? can't just be 'cause i want to hold you?"

"that's a psychological reason," you pointed out softly. "oxytocin release."

marcus lifted his head slightly, looking down into your face. up close, his dark eyes were incredibly gentle, carrying that quiet, humble warmth that made him who he was. he looked at you like you were the most interesting, complex puzzle he'd ever been given to solve. someone completely untouched by the fame, the money, or the noise of his world. you were just you. unfiltered, blunt, chaotic, and entirely his.

"you talk too much." he whispered affectionately, though his eyes were full of devotion.

"you asked me about the fish."

"and you gave me a horror story." he teased, his thumb gently smoothing over your cheekbone.

"next time, just tell me they glow in the dark, yeah? keep it simple for me.

"i don't do simple."

"nah," marcus murmured, his soft lips brushing against yours in a slow, lingering kiss that tasted like mint and pure bliss. "i know you don't. wouldn't want you to, either."

he pulled back just an inch, resting his forehead against yours. his hands rested securely on your waist, anchoring you to him.

"come to bed now, yeah?" he murmured softly, his accent rich and soothing in the quiet of the night. "leave the glowing fish for tomorrow. i'm dead beat, and i need my girl with me."

you looked at the books spread across the floor, then back at marcus - his heavy eyelids, his gentle smile, the quiet, safe space he always built around you no matter how loud the rest of the world got.

"fine," you whispered. "but tomorrow i'm telling you about vampire squids."

marcus let out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head as he helped you stand up, keeping his arm wrapped tightly around your waist.

“can’t wait, love.” he smiled, pulling you close against his side as you both walked toward the stairs.

[impishglee]

something i appreciate about this site is how often i see friends, mutuals and strangers salivating over the most Some Guy looking people i’ve ever seen. i think it’s actually good for your psyche to see people carnally desire people that you would not even think twice about. it’s good for the self esteem, a good reminder that for every random ass person on the world there is a subset of people that wants to do unspeakable things to them

[xoxolovlies]

clay, crowds, and a little trouble

Pairing: Oliver Bearman x Reader

(single part fic)

Summary: At the Monte Carlo Masters, your love for tennis, and one particular Italian player, collides with Ollie Bearman’s growing inability to ignore how much he likes you.

Word Count (roughly): 1,928

all photos from pinterest ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

The first thing Ollie noticed wasn’t the tennis.

It wasn’t the sound of balls striking clay, or the polite applause echoing through the stands of Monte-Carlo Masters, or even the ridiculously nice weather that made the whole place feel unreal.

No, it was you. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.

Because there you were, two rows down, sunglasses perched on your head, completely locked in on the match like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Like he didn’t exist.

Next to him, Gabriel Bortoleto followed his line of sight and snorted. “You’re staring again.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Gabriel cut in, grinning. “It’s actually embarrassing.”

Ollie rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat. “I’m just, observing.”

“Right,” Gabriel said dryly.

On Ollie’s other side, Kimi Antonelli leaned forward slightly, glancing between you and the court. “She hasn’t looked at you once, mate.”

That, that bothered him more than it should. Because normally, when Ollie Bearman showed up somewhere, people noticed. Not in an arrogant way, just, it happened.

But you? You were too busy watching Jannik Sinner like he personally hung the sun.

Ollie clicked his tongue softly. “Bit obsessed, isn’t she?”

Gabriel laughed. “You’re jealous of a tennis player.”

“I’m not jealous,” Ollie shot back. But his eyes flicked to you again, and yeah, maybe he was, just a little.

You knew he was there, of course you did. It was hard not to notice someone like Oliver Bearman, especially when he walked in with that easy confidence and his equally loud friends.

But you had priorities. And right now, those priorities involved Jannik serving at 4–3.

“Come on,” you whispered under your breath, leaning forward slightly.

The serve cracked across the court. Ace. You clapped, smiling to yourself. God, you loved tennis (a quote from myself at the 2026 ao). The rhythm, the tension, the way everything could flip in a second, it was addictive.

“Interesting choice.” You didn’t even need to turn your head. You already knew that voice.

You smiled faintly, eyes still on the court. “If you’re about to say something stupid, Ollie, I’d reconsider.”

He dropped into the seat beside you anyway. “Just saying,” he shrugged, “you flew all the way here to watch him?”

Now you turned, slowly, raising an eyebrow.

“I flew all the way here to watch tennis,” you corrected. “He just happens to be one of the best parts of it.”

Ollie huffed a quiet laugh. “That sounded rehearsed.”

“It’s called having taste.” Gabriel, somewhere behind you, let out a very audible “ooh.”

Ollie shot him a glare before looking back at you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re distracting,” you shot back lightly, turning your attention back to the match, whilst slightly, and subtly leaning into his side.

He didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he leaned back, stretching his legs out slightly. “So what, you’re like, his number one fan or something?”

You shrugged. “Top five, at least.”

“Right,” Ollie muttered. “Good to know where I stand.” That made you smile, just a little.

By the time the match ended, the crowd buzzing with energy, you felt that familiar post-match high, like your veins were still humming with every rally.

You stood, stretching slightly, when Ollie spoke again. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

You glanced at him. “Because I enjoy things?”

“Because you enjoy him.”

You laughed softly. “Oh, you’re definitely jealous.”

“I am not jealous of Jannik Sinner,” he insisted.

You tilted your head, studying him. “Okay,” you said. “Then what are you?”

Ollie opened his mouth, closed it. Then,“Annoyed.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the court, “I’ve been sitting here this whole time and you’ve barely looked at me.”

You blinked, once, then twice. Then you smiled. Slow. Cheeky. “Oh,” you said softly. “Is that what this is about?”

Ollie immediately looked like he regretted saying anything. “Don’t make it weird,” he muttered.

“Too late,” you teased.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you said, stepping a little closer, “you keep following me around.”

“I’m not following you—”

“You sat next to me.”

“Because there were no other seats.”

You glanced at the half-empty row. “Sure.”

Gabriel laughed again behind you. Ollie turned, pointing at him. “You’re not helping.” “Not trying to,” Gabriel grinned.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into something soft and warm. You wandered through the grounds together, somehow. It just happened.

One minute you were leaving the court, the next Ollie was walking beside you, hands in his pockets, bumping your shoulder every now and then like it was accidental.

It wasn’t.

“You’re seriously going to another match?” he asked as you checked the schedule.

“Yes,” you said. “That’s kind of the point of being at a tournament.”

He groaned. “You’re obsessed.”

“You’re here on your break.” you pointed out. “What does that make you?”

“Supportive,” he said immediately.

You laughed. “Of who?”

He hesitated. “You,” he admitted.

That caught you off guard, just for a second.

You recovered quickly, though, smiling as you nudged him lightly. “Careful. You’re getting soft on me.”

“Don’t push it,” he shot back, but there was no bite to it.

Later, as the sun dipped lower, you found yourselves sitting courtside again, this time a little quieter, the crowd more relaxed.

You tucked your legs up slightly, glancing over at him. He was already looking at you.

“You’re not even watching,” you said.

“Neither are you,” he countered.

You paused, he wasn’t wrong, your attention had drifted. From the court, to him.

You huffed softly. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late,” he smirked.

A comfortable silence settled between you. Then,“You’d look good here, you know,” you said casually.

He frowned. “On a tennis court?”

“As a HAB.”

He choked on his own breath. “As a *what*?”

You grinned. “You heard me.”

Ollie stared at you like he couldn’t decide if you were joking. “You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

He leaned back, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re blushing,” you pointed out.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

He groaned, covering his face briefly. “This is a nightmare.”

You laughed softly, nudging his arm. “Relax. I’d be a great WAG.”

“That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

Ollie lowered his hands, looking at you properly now. And suddenly, the teasing edge was gone. “You wouldn’t be watching tennis like that if you were,” he said quietly.

Your smile softened. “Maybe I would,” you replied. “Maybe I’d just like having someone to watch it with.” Something shifted, subtle, but there.

Ollie exhaled slowly. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“Because I never know if you’re joking.”

You smiled. “Maybe I don’t either.”

The sky turned a deeper shade of blue as the evening settled in. Lights flickered on around the courts, the atmosphere turning softer, more intimate. You stood near the railing, watching the last few points of the match below.

Ollie stood beside you. Close. Not touching. But close enough that you were very aware of him.

“You’re going to come back tomorrow, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Obviously.”

He nodded. “Good.”

You glanced at him. “Why?”

He shrugged, but there was something in his expression, something almost shy. “Because,” he said, “I think I like watching you watch tennis.”

Your heart did a small, stupid flip. “That’s very specific.”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

You smiled, softer now. “Maybe I’ll save you a seat,” you said.

He grinned. “I’d like that, even if you’re still obsessed with Jannik Sinner.”

You laughed. “Don’t worry.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re catching up,” you added.

And just like that, the teasing was back. But this time, it felt different. Lighter. Warmer. Like something just beginning.

As you walked out of the grounds together, the night air cool against your skin, Ollie nudged your shoulder gently.

“You’re still insufferable, by the way.”

You grinned. “And you still followed me all day.”

He smiled, but he didn’t deny it. And somehow, that was enough.

⋆˚꩜｡

this was a request

motorsport tag-list: @cem3tarygat3s @rosesanddiaries

[h0e-zi3r]

i don’t trust ai because arthur weasley told me to never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain

[blondykebarbie-deactivated20260]

hii, from your 1k special, could I request

📽️, George Weasley (x female reader), and 41? maybe a happy ending though haha

tysmmmm!

It Was Never Me, Was It?

angst prompt #41

george weasley x fem!reader

wc: 2k

cw: hurt/comfort; references to sex; mentions of drinking; George feeling like the second choice

a/n: thank you for requesting! i totally get not being able to handle straight angst, so i'm happy to do a hurt/comfort fic for ya! they're my personal favorite, so what a joy to write!

*This blurb is a reiteration of Season 7 episode 16 of Friends, because I just watched it and it inspired me, where Chandler learns that when Monica went to his room in London the night they got together, she had originally been looking to hook up with Joey.*

--

It feels good, being surrounded by your friends on a chilly December night while throwing a housewarming party to celebrate you and your boyfriend's new, shared flat. To revel in such warmth in the security of the home you share with the love of your life is a feeling unlike anything else. You're so content that your body is a limp pile of bones tucked into George's side, lips heavy with a smile and eyes alight with merriment. The lighting in your living room is soft, favoring the fireplace and lamps to the overhead lights, and everyone's voices, even their laughter, is muted, as if afraid to disrupt the peace. Your boyfriend presses a tender kiss to your temple as he tugs you impossibly closer, the heat of his palm pressing kindly into your hip.

"You two are so cute it's disgusting sometimes," Angelina murmurs, eyes twinkling over her bottle of fire whiskey, "but I'm, unfortunately, really happy for you."

You laugh softly, "gee, thanks, Ang."

Fred smirks, nudging your feet, "I get what she means, though. Your pda is nausea-inducing, but then I see how happy you make each other that I can't even be mad about it. It's nice, I guess."

George smiles sweetly, nudging his nose against your cheek before giving it a big, wet kiss. You giggle, ignoring the exasperated looks your friends exchange.

"You know, I never really did find out, how did the two of you end up together anyways?" Lee asks from his spot in front of the fire.

Your grin stretches wider in giddy excitement, "Oh, I love this question."

You catch you boyfriend's eyes, silently asking if he wants to tell the story, but he only squeezes your hip, encouraging you to go on.

"So, it was the night of Bill's wedding. While I was, of course, really happy for the couple, I was also feeling extra lonely that night because of all the love in the air. I was keeping to myself, trying to just enjoy my time, when one of Fleur's relatives came up to me and made me feel even worse. After she introduced herself, instead of asking how I was related to the happy couple, she jumped to the conclusion that I was the groom's aunt."

A couple of poorly-disguised chuckles escape Fred's mouth and you glare at him, kicking him lightly with your foot.

"Anyways, when I finally escaped that conversation, I was just hoping to drown in my sorrows, but then George came up to me at the bar and started being all sweet to me when I poured my heart out to him."

You press a quick kiss to his freckled arm, "Still, later, when everyone had settled down for the night, I was still feeling a bit sad, so I slipped out of Ginny's room to go down the hall to Fred and George's. I knocked, and there George was at the door, in the most adorable quidditch pajamas with snitches on them by the way, and he let me in. He told me that Fred wasn't there because he was off spending the night with one of the bridesmaids…”

"Yeah, I was," Fred murmurs cockily.

“And well...you know what comes next."

Lee whistles lowly, causing heat to erupt in your cheeks, "so you're telling me that the way to get into a girl's knickers is to be extra sweet to her? Good to know."

Your boyfriend picks up a pillow and chucks it at his friend's face while still keeping his arm around you, "I wasn't nice to her just so she'd sleep with me, you freak. This is why you're single."

"You being sweet was really sexy though," your murmur, tugging on George's shirt to pull him in for a slow kiss.

Fred groans loudly and makes vomit noises, "I take it back, I take it back!"

You settle back into your boyfriend's side, only a little bit embarrassed by your sudden behavior.

"Oh! Did you ever tell him who you were going to originally hook up with that night?" Angelina asks with a smirk.

Your eyes widen in panic as George stills beside you. His hand loosens around your waist, "what?"

"What?"

Angelina's brows pinch together apologetically, "what?"

"Who were you going to originally hook up with?" your boyfriend asks, pulling away to look at you.

You swallow thickly, eyes darting between the ginger and your best friend, "well, okay, when I originally showed up to your room that night I was planning to hook up with Fred."

"Yeah you were," Fred teases, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

George's face, however, drains of amusement, "what?"

"Baby, listen! That night, when I was feeling lonely and depressed, I just wanted a quick, meaningless hookup. That's why I was going to ask Fred. But then you were there, and you were so sweet, and you made me feel so much happier than a quick shag ever would've."

He shakes his head, pulling away entirely and standing up, "I can't believe this, though I shouldn't be surprised."

Your boyfriend's voice quakes with hurt, "It was never me, was it? I was never the first choice."

The room has gone dead silent, the air thick with tension.

You stand, reaching out to him, "George, please. That's not-"

"No, it's fine. I get it. I just...think I need to be alone."

He discards his empty fire whiskey bottle on the coffee table and disappears down the hallway into your room. You collapse back onto the couch and bury your head in your hands, trying to hide the tears stinging your eyes.

"God, I'm so sorry," Angelina murmurs, her hand finding your shoulder, "I didn't know-"

"I'll go talk to him."

You look up, "Fred, no. Don't. This is my-"

He gives you a look that shuts you up before coming over and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, "he's my twin brother, I know him. I just need to talk some sense into him. It's all going to be alright, okay?"

You nod helplessly and Angelina tugs you into a quick hug, "Lee and I are going to head out, give you some space, but you call if you need anything."

You nod again, returning her hug, before walking the two of them out, leaving Fred to try and salvage the damage you might've caused to your relationship with his brother.

--

When there's a knock at the bedroom door, George sighs, "baby, please go away. I just need a little space right now, okay?"

The door opens anyways, but it's not you who peaks your head through the door but Fred- “hey, babe.”

"I don't really want to see you either."

His twin raises his hand in surrender, “I just wanna talk.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I need space!”

“I hear you, but you at least need to hear me out first before you pout yourself into a funk over something stupid.”

George glares at Fred, “you of all people don’t get to call this stupid.”

His twin takes a seat next to him on the edge of the bed, still leaving plenty of space, “okay, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

George rubs his hand over his face, sighing loudly, “God, I feel like an idiot. Here I am, flaunting my new apartment with my girlfriend, feeling like the luckiest bastard alive, while she’s gone and settled for second best.”

Fred slaps George in the arm so hard he curses.

“What the fuck was that for?”

“You need to quit this pity party of calling yourself second best,” the former scolds, “it’s bullshit and I won’t have it.”

Goerge scoffs, “you heard her, she literally chose you first. She went to our room for you.”

“But that doesn’t matter, Georgie. At the end of the day, she chose you. You’re the guy she chose to date. You’re the guy she chose to love. You’re the guy she chose to move in with, not me.”

“Only because you weren’t there.”

Fred shakes his head and frowns, “you’re not giving your girlfriend enough credit if you really believe that.”

George doesn’t respond.

“Listen, mate, you have a beautiful girl who’s in love with you sitting out there, in your shared living room, crying her eyes out because she’s so scared of losing you. If you can’t see how crazy she is about you, then maybe you are a lost cause.”

Fred claps his hand on George’s shoulder and heads toward the door, “I’ll see you at work tomorrow, when I hope you've come to your senses.”

--

After Fred leaves, your apartment is dead silent and you hate it. Whether it’s because friends are over, or you’re playing music, or you and George are just living loudly, it’s never ever this silent. You’re left to stew in your thoughts, and it just makes you feel worse.

In order to calm your nerves, you get up and begin anxious-cleaning: bottles go in recycling, leftover pizza is packaged and put in the fridge, counters are wiped down, pillows are fluffed, and dishes are washed by hand. It’s when you’re drying the final plate that your bedroom door cracks open and your head perks up. George emerges from your room eyes slightly red and hair tussled. You imagine you look the same.

You don’t say anything, instead giving him the space to speak first.

“Can we talk?”

You nod quickly and put the dish away before finding a seat next to him. Your body aches to scoot closer but you resist, instead opting to dig your nails into your palms.

"George I-"

"Wait," he interrupts, "can you just let me..."

You bite your lip sheepishly, "yes, yes. Sorry."

"Look, I just want to say that I'm sorry for how I acted. Stalking off and throwing a fit instead of having a conversation about it was immature and inappropriate. It's not an excuse, but I think that I've felt second to Fred most of my life, so when you said that you were looking for him that night- the night that means everything to me- I just kind of lost it."

George keeps his gaze trained on the floor shyly, hands twisting together anxiously as he talks. While you were already distraught, seeing your boyfriend so beat down is breaking your heart into a million pieces, especially when you know that you're partly the cause. You reach out tentatively and take one of his hands into yours, sighing in relief when he doesn't pull away. You press a lingering kiss to his knuckles before holding his hazel eyes with yours.

"Baby, you do not need to apologize, at all. I'm the one who needs to be sorry, and I am- very, very sorry. I can't even imagine what it felt like to hear me say that, and I wish I'd never even thought of Fred that night at all. But you have to know, George, you were never and have never been my second choice. I may have gone to your room that night looking for something casual with Fred, but I chose to stay with you. God, baby, the way that you make me feel, the way that you take care of me and love me...the way my heart explodes every time you walk in the room and the way I get the privilege to wake up next to you every morning, that's what I choose."

You take a deep shaky breath, "I may have walked into your room that night looking for something meaningless, but I left desperately wanting something meaningful with you."

Tears glisten on George's waterline and you pull him into an embrace. He wraps his arms around you tightly, burying his head into your neck and inhaling your scent.

"I love you, Georgie, so much. I need you to know that."

"I love you too," he murmurs against your skin, squeezing you tighter.

As you run your fingers through his hair, swaying the two of you back and forth, you add, "and I'll spend every day for the rest of our lives reminding you of that."

[vaporfunk-archive-blog]

no matter how many followers you have the same 10 people will reblog posts from you

[kosmogrl]

2025 went by in the blink of an eye but at the same time if you mention something that happened in january it feels like a lifetime ago

[44prop]

you guys don’t understand just how special yukierre are, the way pierre took rookie yuki under his wing even though yuki was determined to make him lose his mind by constantly asking him if they could sleep together in the middle of interviews, their dinner dates, pierre saying he needed to get yuki closer to milan when he left for alpine and then yuki moving into pierre’s neighbourhood the year after, the way they just clicked so effortlessly and yuki knew that he always had a friend on the grid in pierre. i am going to miss them so incredibly much

[spiderbeam]

someone said that between the 2019 rookies alex was the first to get a podium, george was the first one to get a win, and lando was the first to win a wdc

[dprvb]

hiii! could you make a part 2 of The Golden Retriever and the Rabid Cat? maybe about how the fans and the drivers react to their relationship and how ollie is just so unbothered by what they say because he’s so down bad for his girl, thxx!

WRITTEN + SMAU

forgot Ollie was spelled as Ollie not Olli, Idk how I forgot the spelling when I wrote that one pls ignore those, I'll fix it later😭😭

The Golden Retriver And The Rabid Cat

Haas Masterlist

Ollie Bearman x gf!reader

BONUS PART

__________________

Race day is the worst day to be online mostly because the internet won’t stop talking about you and Ollie. It starts the moment you step into the paddock. You’re walking ahead, annoyed at the sun, the crowds and the fact that someone just bumped your shoulder, while your boyfriend jogs to catch up with you like an eager puppy.

And immediately, of course, the fans go feral, they wouldn't miss something like this infront of them.

Phones up, flashes popping and definitely screaming.

“OLLIEEEE BLINK TWICE IF YOU NEED HELP!”

You don’t even look at him, hearing it from the crowd is enough. “It’s too early for this” you mutter.

Ollie beams at you like you just proposed. “Isn’t she perfect?” he tells a group of teenage fans who giggle uncontrollably.

You stop walking. “Stop flirting.”

“I’m not flirting” he protests, “I’m praising my amazing girlfriend.”

You blink at him. “Gross.”

The fans well.. as expected they ascend.

One girl shrieks “why is she so mean and he’s so happy about it?!”

And another. “he’s like a golden retriever who loves his emotionally unstable owner.”

And another. “free him..he’s too young to be in a toxic romance.”

You glare at them while Ollie waves proudly like they’re complimenting him.

“They get us” he says cheerfully.

“No” you deadpan. “They think I bully you.”

“You do.” You shove him lightly but he just laugh

You reached the garage and you regret to even sit down on the stool because there Lando arriving, stopping by at the Haas garage, sipping something from a tumblr, giving you both that judgmental face.

“You two need therapy” he says casually.

“You need a podium” you shoot back.

Lando nearly drop his drink “I'm leading on the championship battle, thank you very much”

“I'm rooting for Max” you shot back, Ollie is trying not to laugh, shoulders trembling.

“Baby” he murmurs, “be nice.”

“I am being nice. I didn’t mention Mclaren's ugly strategy last race.”

Lando storms off while Ollie kisses your forehead like you just rescued a kitten.

“Yes yes” he whispers. “You’re an angel.”

“My god” Piastri mutters as he passes “he really is blind.”

Then Charles Leclerc strolls by, hearing Oscar and nodding sympathetically.

“Love makes you stupid.” Charles says

You heard it because they made sure you heard it. You then pat Ollie on the shoulder. “Charles gets it.”

“No he doesn’t” Olli hisses. “He thinks I’m stupid, baby.”

“He’s not wrong” you say.

Olli pouts but kinda know it's true because every time you insult him, a flower blossoms in his soul.

user: y/n is so done with him😭😭

user: but they do match each other, they're actually a perfect fit, it's making me jealous😔

user: ikr cause wdym ollie is so down bad and y/n is that kind of girl who only shows her sweetness to her bf

user: me be like: 😭🙏😩👍👍👍

user: their chemistry is insane tbh

user: the only wag we see who doesn't care about public reputation

user: frrr she freaking glared at the fans, man😭

user: she doesn't care but she actually has a soft heart😩

user: I swear if they break up, I'll kms

user: they make the paddock fun fr fr

user: MIND YOU, SHE CALLS HIM STUPID AND HE BLUSHES FFS

user: I’ve never seen a man so down bad in my life💀

user: he worships the ground she stomps on🥀

user: Feral cat energy vs golden retriever behavior🤣

user: they’re the enemies to lovers proof but they stayed enemies😭

“How does this kid drive at 300 km/h but can’t tell when she’s insulting him?”

“He knows. He just likes it.” Haas mechanics whispers as they watch the two of you

Your face heats because you certainly heard them, Ollie on the ither hand smiles smugly.

“You hear them?” he asks. “They understand our dynamic.”

“No” you say, “they’re diagnosing you.”

“With what? love illness?”

You groan and one mechanic mutters under his breath “Someone put him back on the leash.”

In a press conference, you were brought up. The interviewe asks Ollie “How do you feel about some fans calling your girlfriend ‘the meanest WAG in F1?”

Ollie just smiles “Oh, she absolutely is.”

The room laughs while you look at him like you’re about to commit a crime from far away

He continues sweetly, “Meanest, scariest, most drop dead gorgeous woman I’ve ever met.”

You bury your face in your hands because reporters stare, drivers stare and obviously the fans on livestream collectively screams.

“And I love her. Even when she calls me dumb.”

A reporter snorts. “Does she call you dumb often?”

Ollie’s grin gets wider. “Every day.”

“And you don’t mind?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s cute.”

The entire room howls.

“Stop being annoying,” you mouthed because he's looking at you.

He mouthed back. “You like it.”

After the press conference, he went straight to you and you realized things.

People will talk, they will literally call you mean as they call Ollie whipped. That they'll call your relationship weird, chaotic, slightly concerning.

Drivers joke about it especially Lando, fans will make memes about it, teams will definitely gossip but none of it really matters.

Because every time someone makes fun of you two, Ollie just looks at you with that lovesick, puppy-eyed, sunshine grin, the one only you get, the one that certainly says “I don’t care what anyone thinks. You’re my girl.”

And truthfully…you don’t care either.

You squeeze his hand as you walk through the paddock together.

“People think I bully you” you say.

He laughs. “You do, baby”

“It's obvious you like it”

“Obviously” he responded. “I’m obsessed with you.”

“…loser.”

“Your loser” he corrects.

You roll your eyes... but your fingers lace with his anyway.

Who cares what anyone thinks? As long as you and Ollie knows you love each other, that's more than enough.

Fin.

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