+ + content warnings ; absolute filth i’m sorry // mention of established relationship, sub!jude, jude has a big dick, oral (jude receiving)
jude can barely even look at you while you have his dick in your mouth. the warm heat and wet pressure of your lips and tongue wrapping around his girth almost feels too good to combine with the sight. and don’t get him wrong, he’s had his dick in your mouth plenty of times before, but for fuck’s sake, if he looked down for just a moment to see the way your head bobs up and down his length, the way your cheeks hollow, looking so fucking pretty on your knees while you suck the life out of him, he swears he’s gonna burst into your mouth in an instant. too fast, he says. and he simply doesn’t want to cum too fast.
jude blames you constantly for making him so hard. it’s all your fucking fault. and he whines nonstop about how you’re responsible, how he needs you so so bad, how you need to take care of it… only to have him almost on the verge of literal tears with the way you take him deep in your throat. his hips would stutter, his whimpers would get louder and his hands would tremble around that makeshift ponytail he made at the back of your head every time you’d sink further down his dick. you can feel his cock throb against your tongue with the way it slides back into your throat feeling hot, heavy and thick.
he’s always so whiny when you take him like this. every drag of your lips makes him bite his lip hard to muffle another embarrassing sound— but then you’d tease him, swirl your tongue just right around his tip and— fuck—
“p-please, please—just like that… oh— fuck’s sake, love, don’t stop, i—” he begs and whimpers, his accent thicker than usual, with a big hand over his eyes, mouth gaping as he pants and moans, squirming and thrusting his hips up slightly. his other hand presses your head further down his length and holding you there, your nose pressing against the small hairs around the base of his cock, gagging slightly as he pumps his load down your throat, filling your mouth with so much of his cum that you can barely hold it in, letting it dribble past your lips and onto the floor you’re currently kneeling on.
Summary: Some nights are unforgettable—and Anthony makes sure this is one of them.
Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, smut, anthony gordon x fem!reader, alcohol, kissing, oral sex (f! receiving), face riding, explicit sexual content, orgasm, slight teasing
Word count: 2.1k
a/n: I’m in Love with Anthonys nose! He looks like a god damn Greek god with it. And because of that the idea for this story popped up into my head, I hope you enjoy it!
English is not my first language!
18th August-England just won the third-place match against France today; it wasn’t the first place but it was better then nothing, right?
You, on the other hand were invited to a birthday party of one of your friends. She mentioned she wanted to go out to a bar, get drunk and make out with some guys, well it’s her birthday so you and your friends agreed.
You were sitting at a table in the corner, drinking and chatting with your friends - it was a nice evening when suddenly, a large group of men walked into the bar, all very happy and cheerful, you and your friends noticed them just like the whole bar and turned your heads, soon you realized who those men were….
“Holy shit!“ one of your friends said exited “that’s the England national team!“ jup, she was freaking out but to be honest, you also felt a bit nervous, those men were famous and you knew they just won the third-place.
After a while, they had all settled in—some at tables, some standing, and others sitting at the bar.
Around 11pm, you decided to also head over to sit at the bar and drink another mojito, god how you loved those drinks….
You excused yourself from your friends and headed over to the bar, you sat down on a stool and put your arms on the counter. After a few minutes, the bartender came over and you ordered a drink. You looked around and noticed that a few of your friends were flirting with some of the football players. You chuckled to yourself—typical.
The bartender brought you your drink shortly afterward, and you managed to say a quick “Thank you“ before focusing on your drink. Suddenly, before you could even notice, Anthony Gordon, the famous ginger haired football player sat next to you on the other bar stool, glancing over, what did that mean….?
You noticed how Anthony glanced over at you, grinning slightly like he had an idea before he moved a little closer. “Don’t tell me you’re alone here“ he spoke, his blue eyes staring intently at you, waiting for your answer, you tilted your head to look at him when you heard his voice “Alone? No no I’m here with my friends, birthday party“ you talked back, pointing at the few girls who were chatting and laughing.
Anthony followed your gaze, looking at the little group, he nodded slightly, understanding “ah I see, girls night huh?“ he responded, he was clearly slightly tipsy you could tell “looks like you’ve got a big celebration too“ you added referring to the whole England national team in the bar.
Anthony looked around for a moment, you couldn’t help but looked at his side profile, that nose of his… god damn you always found it so damn sexy when you saw him playing on screen, it was even better in real life, he looked like a damn Greek god. He turned his gaze back to you before speaking “oh absolutely, we just won the third-place, not the first but it’s still something right?“ he smiled slightly at you, making your body feel warmer then usual.
“Yeah heard of it, congratulations“ you smiled back at him before taking a sip of your mojito, glass staying in your hand, almost empty, Anthony notices that and asked “you want another one? Since today is a night for celebration isn’t it?“ he had that slight grin on his face again, you thought for a second before nodding “sure, why not“ you also smiled slightly before Anthony waved the bartender over “another one of those for the lady“ he added pointing at your drink, the bartender gave him a quick nod before disappearing again.
And after that, Anthony and you kept talking, about the match, about the party you were invited to, he made you laugh a few time… to sum it up it was a conversation you enjoyed, or maybe it was just because of the three mojitos you already had, you began to feel slightly tipsy.
About an hour later Anthony had his hand placed on your thigh, stroking his thumb slowly over it, it made your feel warm, he notices that, he noticed all of your reactions to his touch the whole time and he loved it.
“You know…the hotel I’m staying in for the few days isn’t far from here…“ he spoke tender, looking seductively into your eyes, oh you knew where this was going….
Your eyes met his, you thought for a second, you looked back over your shoulder to your friends, who were still laughing and chatting with some of the other football player, they wouldn’t even notice if you would be gone… you looked back at Anthony who was still waiting for an answer, you grinned slightly “why? I sure know you don’t just wanna show me your hotel room right?“ you teased ever so slightly, it for sure was the alcohol that made you do it, but you didn’t cared at that point, waiting for his answer.
Anthony smirked at your cocky response, he started to bend over a bit and got close to your ear, you got goosebumps as he started to whisper into your ear “why don’t you just come and find out mhm?“ he teased back.
You looked into his eyes, god you just couldn’t resist… you normally weren’t the kind of person who goes with every guy who just asked but Anthony just had this- oh you couldn’t even describe it but you couldn’t resist him so you stood up and grabbed the tiny clutch you had with you, he took that as a yes and also stood up, guiding you out of the bar…
When you arrived at his hotel room, he unlocked the door right away; the two of you stepped inside, and as soon as the door closed, Anthony didn't waste a single second before kissing you hard and pressing you against the closed door. You gasped a bit at the sudden contact of his lips against yours but it did not take you long to melt into the kiss.
Anthonys hands started to roam over your body while he was kissing you hungrily, gosh that man was needy….
You felt your core pulsing as soon as he started to grab your breasts and started to pinch your nipples through the clothes, you let out a groan into the kiss, he smirked against your lips before you jumped up and wrapped your legs around his waist, he wasn’t wasting any time and carried you over to the huge hotel bed which was standing in the middle of the room.
He threw you onto it before crawling on top of you, he looked at you for a second, his blue eyes glistening with lust, he grinned and slammed his lips hard onto yours again, you let out a soft moan at the feeling of his lips against yours again.
Anthony was hungry, you could tell by the way he threw himself at you to kiss your neck rapidly. As soon as his lips touched your neck your head fell backwards to give him more access to your neck, he smirked to himself when he noticed that.
He then pulled back briefly to look at you, he tucked at your shirt before whispering seductively “how about we take this off?“ your breath hitched slightly at that sentence, before you could even reply he was helping you to pull your shirt over your head and throw it somewhere into a corner of the hotel room but that wasn’t enough for him, he wanted to see you, all of you and the rest of your clothes were definitely in the way.
No sooner said than done—not long after, your clothes were scattered all over the hotel floor, along with his shirt, which you’d been so determined to take off; his body was so sexy…
Shortly after, Anthony laid down next to you, you looked at him confused, why did he do that? He noticed the look on your face and spoke “oh don’t look so surprised now“ he started snickering to himself “I noticed the way you were looking at my nose in that bar… how about, you try it out then?“ he smirked, now you understood and the idea of sitting on his nose, riding his face made your cunt even wetter.
Without any second thought, you got on top of him, straddling him, before you knew it Anthonys hands were sliding to your thighs, helping you guide you into position.
Your thighs burn as they dig into the cushions of the bed, holding yourself up as you start to drip over his face.
You let out a shaky breath as you sink down, his warm, hot mouth enveloping you, sending a shock of heat throughout your body.
You let out a deep moan, unfiltered, unashamed, as his tongue drags through your folds. You grip the soft sheets of the bed, trying to keep yourself from putting too much pressure on his face.
He moans deep with satisfaction as he feasts on you. Your essence dripping down his lips and chin as his nose buries further into your heat.
He doesn't come up for air; he doesn't speak. He just devours you, getting off at your newfound sounds of pleasure.
His tongue slides through your folds to gently circle your clit. You whimper, hips buckling against his face as his tongue slides down to your hole, gently fucking into you with reverence.
It feels good, too good. You start to grind your hips down on his tongue, chasing that same spark of pleasure.
You let out a moan, your hands gently fisting handfuls of his ginger hair as you let yourself shamelessly drop fully onto his face.
You let out a sharp exhale of relief, your thighs burning from the intensity as you slowly roll your hips against him, wetness dripping onto his lips, down his chin and neck.
Anthony groans into your pussy, his tongue picking up intensity as he feels you drop onto his face. His breath comes in short pants as he struggles to lap up all your dripping arousal.
"Fuck Anthony-" You moan, finding your voice as his tongue circles your clit again, giving the sensitive nub extra attention.
He chuckles into your heat as you grind against him, letting his tongue circle your wet, glistening hole as his nose rubs against your clit. God that crooked nose of his didn’t just looked good, it made you feel fucking wonderful….
Your grip on his hair tightens as you grind down on his face, rougher, harder. Anthonys hands slide to your ass, fingertips digging into the skin as he helps you fuck yourself on his tounge and nose.
You feel a knot pulling at your lower stomach, your pussy aching, clenching around his tongue as he struggles to lap up the dripping mess you're shamelessly making.
Anthony moans deeper, rougher as his hands help you ride his face harder and harder. He feels you clenching around his tongue, signaling you're close.
“God Anthony I think i‘m gonna cum-“ you moaned, trembling on top of him, gripping him tight as your orgasm teeters on the edge.
"soak me—" He groans into your pussy, the sound barely audible as he pulls you down into him more.
You rub your clit against his crooked nose one time, then two-it breaks you. You cry out his name, shamelessly letting every curse and moan spill from the back of your throat. Your hands pulling at his messy hair as you fuck yourself through your orgasm.
Anthony lets out a sigh of relief, his tongue spreading your slick all through your folds as you soak his lips and chin, arousal dripping down his neck, pooling on the sheets of the bed.
"God damn it…" he moans as his hands help to guide you off his face to straddle his torso again.
His lips and chin are still glistening with your juices.
You were breathing heavy, still not fully calmed down from your orgasm, god that felt great…
Anthony was looking up at you, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and glistening, hair tossled from your grip. He looked so hot like that.
“You have no idea…“ you sighed smiling, fully pleased. That nose of his wasn’t just good on the eye…
thank you so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated <3
ᝰ contents .ᐟ ⸻ 18+ submissive!anthony gordon headcanons.
ᯓ⚽︎ lee’s commentary box: hihii! sub!anthony has been consuming my entire being for a while now, so i thought i’d dabble in a few headcanons. please remember that this is fiction and just fantasy. thank uuu! <3
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony who’s purely a bottom…. to me, anthony is never on top. at a push, he’s a bottom top, but most of the time you’re calling the shots, commanding him on what to do, and he finds extreme comfort in that.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony who has a praise kink….. this man lovessss being called a “good boy”! in my honest opinion, he’s definitely always craving some sort of approval from you, deeply searching for it when you’re having sex as it makes him crazy when it comes out of your mouth.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony who’s a crier….. i know this man for a fact during sex is a crier. he’s for pouty lips, bright red cheeks, and his gorgeous hair is tousled and messy against the pillow as you’re on top of him. i’m also fond of the idea of him being a bit of a whimperer too, trying to muffle his whines with biting his lips, which ultimately fails every time.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and brat taming….. i know this man has an attitude when he wants to. definitely loves when you slap the brat out of him during sex, calling him all sorts of horrid names as you practically milk his hungry cock dry whilst on top of him.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony who has a spit kink….. i’m thinking like he’s the type to really enjoy being spat on, especially when you smear it around his face after, calling him a “dirty boy” for enjoying it that much. or similarly, you open his mouth wide and just spit in it, making him swallow it.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and deepthroating….. i can see anthony really enjoying you gagging him on your strap, really pushing the plastic length into his mouth until his eyes roll back and he groans. but also when you just use his face as a hole, fucking his throat as if you actually have a cock, watching how his cheeks hollow and his eyes water as you do so.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and slight bdsm….. i really like the idea of tying anthony up with one of his headbands. just the wrists however, before sinking yourself down on his leaking shaft, and loving watching how much he struggles when he can’t reach out and touch you.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and hair pulling….. i definitely think anthony’s scalp is sensitive, so pulling his hair definitely brings out the best of noises in him. combing your hands through his blonde curls, just for you to grip onto them a little tighter and tug, listening to how his noises go a little more high pitched in response.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and face riding. i definitely think anthony is a munch, but he also lovessss when you ride his face. especially when you practically suffocate him with your thighs, your clit bumping against his nose as your juices drip onto his face.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and plapgasms….. lord, anthony is a bit of a pain-whore. he definitely loves when you’re rough with him, slapping his balls until he’s crying, whining and shaking through an orgasm caused just by your hands and not through masturbation.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and strapping….. thinking about pinning anthony face down into the pillow as you pound in and out of him with your strap, muffling his moans as he drools messily over the pillows and sheets.
ᢉ𐭩 boyfriend!anthony and feminisation….. thinking about dressing anthony up in the frilliest of clothing and treating him like a girl during sex. calling him a “good girl”, telling him that you’ll get him pregnant on your strap and that he’d be such a good mother to your children.
𓏲 ࣪ ˖ one - shot. jude bellingham x reader. 18+. groupie x celebrity. smut and little angst. cheating (jude is). reader is a playgirl. dry humping. riding. yearner!jude. ◞ seducing men like jude is a part-time job for you
the stadium lights are blinding, a neon haze that turns the pitch into a stage, but you don’t care about the roar of the crowd or the tactical formation. you’re here for one reason: jude.
you’ve spent the last year perfecting the art of the chase—flickering between hotel lobbies and vip lounges, catching the eyes of men who think they hold the world in their boots. for you, these high-profile encounters are just stories waiting to be written in the dark, a collection of fleeting moments with the famous and the untouchable. but jude is different. he isn't just another name on a guest list; he’s the obsession that keeps you up at 3 a.m.
the air is thick with the scent of damp grass and expensive cologne as you lean against the railing of the player’s tunnel. you look impeccable—a calculated, effortless display of allure that usually leaves athletes stumbling over their words. when he finally trots onto the pitch for the warm-up, the sound of thousands of voices vanishes for you. he looks lethal in that england kit, his focus absolute, his movements sharp enough to cut through the tension in your chest.
as he turns toward your side of the pitch, you catch that brief, intense flicker of recognition in his eyes before he turns back to the ball. the game hasn't even started yet, but you can feel it—the thrill of the hunt, the promise of a dangerous night, and the silent realization that tonight, you are the only thing that matters in his peripheral vision.
the game is a blur of motion and color, but for you, the world has narrowed down to a single frame: the way he commands the pitch. every time the ball finds his feet, the stadium seems to hold its breath. you watch the muscles in his legs coil and release, his grace under pressure nothing short of mesmerizing. he isn’t just playing football; he’s performing, every touch calculated, every turn a display of raw, magnetic power.
he is devastatingly beautiful, his presence radiating a confidence that makes the thousands watching feel like he’s playing for them alone. you track the sheen of sweat on his skin, the intense, hooded look in his eyes as he scans the field, and the way he brushes his hair back with a quick, impatient flick of his hand. it’s an effortless kind of attraction—the way he holds himself, the authority in his gestures, the way he celebrates a goal with that familiar, iconic stance that stops your heart in your throat.
you find yourself ignoring the rest of the match entirely. you don’t care about the score or the opposing team; you are feeding on the sight of him. his talent is intoxicating, but it’s his sheer, unapologetic allure that has you completely hooked. he’s lethal, elegant, and impossibly desirable, and with every passing minute of the game, the desire to have that focus—that intensity—turned entirely on you becomes a physical ache. you aren't just watching him; you are studying him, cataloging every detail, waiting for the moment when the final whistle blows and you can finally make your move.
you know the rhythm of this game better than anyone. as the final minutes tick away, you don't stay to watch the celebration on the pitch; you’re already moving, slipping away from your seat before the crowd can even think about surging toward the exits.
your heels click softly against the cold concrete of the stadium’s bowels, a sound drowned out by the muffled roar above. you aren't just another fan; you move with the kind of practiced, unbothered confidence that makes security guards look the other way. a knowing nod, a strategic flash of a pass you didn't technically earn, and you’re weaving through the labyrinthine corridors. you navigate the maze of staff, photographers, and media personnel, your presence so seamless it’s practically invisible.
you find your spot—that golden, restricted passage where the players have to pass before they can retreat to the sanctuary of the dressing room. it’s a tight, industrial space, smelling of stale air and adrenaline. there’s a small group of journalists nearby, clutching their microphones like weapons, but you’re positioned just perfectly, tucked into the shadows of a reinforced door frame.
your heart is drumming a chaotic rhythm against your ribs, not from nerves, but from the thrill of the maneuver. you’ve played this scene out a dozen times before, but this time feels heavy, electric. you adjust your jacket, catching your reflection in a darkened glass panel—you look cool, collected, and entirely intentional. the stadium is echoing with the final whistle now, and the sound of heavy footsteps approaching sends a jolt of static through the air. he’s coming. you lean back, crossing your arms, waiting for the exact moment the tunnel lights reveal him, knowing that when he walks past, you won't be just another face in the crowd. you’ll be the only thing he stops for.
the tunnel erupts in a cacophony of echoes—cheers, footsteps, and the relentless flash of cameras. when he emerges, he’s still buzzing with the adrenaline of the win, his england jersey damp against his skin. he handles the journalists with a practiced, charming ease, answering questions with that low, melodic drawl you’ve replayed in your head a thousand times.
then, the chaos shifts. he starts moving down the line, signing shirts and posing for quick snaps. your pulse is a frantic drumbeat, but your exterior is a masterpiece of cool. as he gets closer, the air around him feels charged, almost heavy.
when he finally reaches you, the world seems to sharpen into high definition. you extend your hand, offering the photo and a pen, your movements slow and deliberate. he stops. his eyes dart from the paper to your face, and then back again—a flicker of genuine, unguarded surprise crossing his features. it’s as if he didn't expect to find someone quite like you tucked away in this sterile, industrial corridor.
you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into his space, and deliver your line with a voice that is honey-smooth and perfectly measured. "you were incredible tonight, jude," you say, your smile soft and knowing. "i’ve been waiting all match for this."
the effect is immediate. the effortless, public-facing composure he’s maintained all night wavers. his eyebrows knit together for a split second, a look of fleeting disorientation, as if he’s trying to place why you feel so familiar, or perhaps, why you don't feel like the rest of the fans at all.
but then, the tension breaks. he lets out a short, surprised laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looks at you properly, really seeing you. he doesn't just scribble his name; he takes a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile turning warm and unmistakably curious.
"thank you," he says, his voice a little lower, a little more intimate than it was for the others. he’s clearly a bit thrown off, off-balance in the best possible way, but he holds your gaze, completely disarmed by your presence. "i appreciate that. truly."
he hands the photo back, his fingers brushing against yours, and for a fleeting, delicious second, he doesn't pull away. the game is over, but the real show is just beginning.
you hold his gaze just a second longer than necessary, your expression shifting from simple admiration to something far more intimate, far more dangerous. you let your eyes trace the line of his jaw before locking back onto his, a slow, deliberate play of power.
"i'm a huge fan," you murmur, your voice dropping into that sweet, velvety register that makes him instinctively lean in, even if just by a fraction of an inch. "but i think we both know that goes without saying, don't we?"
the air between you hums with the unspoken. you watch the flicker of realization cross his face—that you aren't playing by the rules of a normal fan interaction. you aren't asking for a selfie, you aren't begging for attention; you are setting a trap, and he’s realized, a second too late, that he’s already halfway inside it.
"thank you, jude," you say, your voice barely a whisper, soft and lingering.
without waiting for him to find his footing, you pull your hand back and pivot, turning your back to him with the grace of a predator who knows exactly when to walk away. you walk down the concrete corridor with a measured, rhythmic stride, your hips swaying just enough to hold his attention, your posture perfectly arched.
you can feel his eyes on you—heavy, intense, and utterly bewildered. he’s standing there, frozen for a heartbeat, his hand still lingering in the air where he had just signed your photo. he’s not used to being the one left behind, and he’s certainly not used to someone leaving him speechless in a tunnel full of people.
as you reach the turn of the hallway, you pause. you don't stop walking, but you tilt your head back over your shoulder, offering him one final, knowing smile—the kind that promises everything and gives away nothing. you see his lips part, a silent question forming on his tongue, but you’re already rounding the corner, leaving him anchored to the spot, completely unsettled by your sudden, intoxicating disappearance.
the silence in the corridor after you disappear feels heavier than the noise that preceded it. jude stands frozen for a beat too long, his eyes still fixed on the empty space where you just were, his mind rewinding the last thirty seconds.
"who was that?"
the voice of a teammate—sharp, amused, and laced with curiosity—cuts through his daze. jude blinks, his focus snapping back to the reality of the stadium tunnel. he looks toward the other player, a faint, perplexed frown creasing his brow as he shakes his head, his fingers subconsciously rubbing against the spot on his palm where they’d brushed against yours.
"i have absolutely no idea," jude replies, his voice steady but betraying a trace of lingering disbelief. there’s a strange, kinetic energy still prickling his skin, a lingering sense of being completely caught off guard by someone he didn't even know existed a minute ago.
the reality of his situation hits him then. he’s surrounded by a throng of waiting fans, cameras are still clicking, and the line behind him is growing restless. he takes a deep, grounding breath, forcing his composure back into place. he has to finish this—the jerseys, the pens, the relentless parade of faces—but every name he signs and every handshake he offers feels mechanical, forced, and hollow compared to the electricity of that brief, strange encounter.
he keeps glancing toward the corner you rounded, his eyes searching the shadows, his mind busy trying to reconcile the professional footballer he’s expected to be with the man who just had his world momentarily tilted off its axis by a girl who didn't even leave her name.
the satisfaction is a slow burn in your chest as you settle into the designated area near the training pitch. a few days have passed, but the look on his face in that corridor hasn't faded from your mind. you know how this game is played—persistence is just another form of seduction. you’ve secured your spot among the media crew, dressed with an effortless, casual chic that screams 'off-duty' while still demanding every ounce of focus from anyone who happens to look your way.
the air is crisp, filled with the sharp sound of cleats hitting the turf and the rhythmic thud of footballs being kicked across the field. you aren't trying to hide; in fact, you’re positioned exactly where he’s bound to see you.
as the players emerge from the facility, spilling onto the green in a wave of motion and chatter, you don't track them. you don't even scan the group. you just watch the pitch, your posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.
the recognition is instantaneous.
as jude jogs toward the center of the pitch, his conversation with a teammate abruptly dies in his throat. his head snaps toward the sidelines, his stride faltering for a split second before he regains his rhythm. his eyes lock onto yours, and you can practically see the jolt of surprise—and something deeper, something far more intense—hit him. he doesn't break eye contact. even as he starts his light warm-up drills, he’s constantly checking back to your position, his movements suddenly carrying a different kind of energy. he’s not just practicing anymore; he’s performing, and the stage is now small enough that he knows you’re the only audience member that actually counts.
he doesn't wave, and he doesn't smile—not yet. he just stares, his gaze dark and unreadable, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re a hallucination or the most dangerous thing to happen to his training routine. you lean back, enjoying the way his focus has completely shattered, knowing exactly why he can't look away.
the training session is a masterclass in unintentional chaos, and you are the reason for it. it’s amusing—delightfully so—to watch a man who usually operates with such clinical, machine-like focus on the pitch turn into someone who can barely track the ball.
every time the ball rolls near his feet, his eyes flick toward the sidelines, checking to see if you’re still there, if you’re still watching. he’s lost his rhythm, overthinking his touches, and stumbling over his own feet in ways that would usually earn him a stern look from his teammates. his coach is already starting to notice, barking out orders to "stay focused" and "get your head in the game," but jude just wipes the sweat from his forehead with his jersey, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and pure, helpless fascination.
you sit there, perfectly still, enjoying the quiet power of it. you aren't shouting his name or waving like the other fans who are hovering in the distance. you just watch him with that same calm, enigmatic smile you gave him in the tunnel. the more you ignore his attempts to catch your attention, the more desperate his efforts become. he tries to show off, launching a long-range pass that misses its mark because his focus is pinned on you, not the teammate he’s supposed to be hitting.
it’s intoxicating to hold that kind of sway over someone so iconic. he’s essentially fighting a losing battle against his own distraction. he’s clearly agitated, running a hand through his hair, his chest heaving with exertion, and every few minutes, he glances over—searching for a reaction, a sign, anything.
you see the exact moment he gives up on pretending. he stops mid-drill, hands on his hips, his gaze locking onto yours with a intensity that burns through the distance between you. he isn't even trying to hide it anymore. he looks tired, frustrated, and completely under your spell. you tilt your head slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes, letting him know that you see him seeing you. he doesn't look away, and for a moment, the entire training ground seems to fade into nothing but the two of you, leaving him exposed, unraveling, and absolutely hooked.
as you stand up, brushing off your clothes with deliberate, languid movements, you can see the exact moment his composure snaps. he’s supposed to be listening to a tactical instruction, but his eyes track your every movement—the way you stand, the way you adjust your bag, the way you turn to walk away. he doesn't even wait for the whistle.
he mutters something hasty to his teammate, a vague excuse about the facilities, and peels away from the drill. he isn't walking; he’s hunting.
you’ve already calculated your path. you head toward the quiet, sterile hallway that leads back toward the players' lounge, knowing exactly where the acoustics are best for an encounter. you aren't running, but you aren't lingering, either. you want him to have to work for it.
you hear the sharp, rhythmic slap of his boots against the floor behind you—he’s moving fast, his breathing heavy from the training intensity. just as you reach the corner, his hand catches the frame of the door, his frame blocking the path. he’s flushed, his hair damp and chaotic, his chest rising and falling with a tempo that has nothing to do with fitness.
he stops when he sees you, leaning slightly against the wall, trying to catch his breath. his eyes are wide, searching yours, his professional veneer completely stripped away.
"you," he breathes, the word a mix of accusation and awe. he looks back toward the pitch, then back to you, clearly aware of the risk he’s taking by being here. "you were watching. all of it."
you don’t give him the satisfaction of a direct admission. instead, you lean back against the wall, crossing your arms, and let a slow, mischievous smile curl your lips. you look him up and down—the grass stains on his kit, the raw, unpolished energy of a man who just risked his coach’s wrath for a glimpse of you.
"you seem distracted, jude," you say, your voice soft, honeyed, and dripping with playfulness. "if you’re going to be this bad at your job, maybe you should have stayed on the pitch."
he lets out a low, breathless laugh, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. he steps a fraction closer, invading your space, the heat radiating off his body almost overwhelming. "i think we both know that wasn't my choice," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "you’re playing a dangerous game, you know that?"
you tilt your head, feigning innocence. "am i? i was just watching the best player on the field. is that a crime?"
he brushes a hand through his hair, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and hunger. he knows he’s trapped, and the way his pupils dilate tells you he wouldn't have it any other way. he’s completely yours to toy with now.
"what do you want?" he asks, his voice barely a tremor in the quiet hallway.
you take a slow step toward him, closing the remaining distance until you're inches away. "i think you already know the answer to that, don't you?"
a low, raspy chuckle escapes his throat, but it lacks any real conviction. he shifts his weight, leaning one arm against the wall right beside your head, effectively boxing you into the corner. he’s trying to hold onto his defenses, but the way his gaze sweeps over your face—searching for any sign that you’re bluffing—gives him away.
"i have a girlfriend," he says, the words clipped and defensive. he says it like a shield, but his eyes tell a different story.
you don't even flinch. instead, you let out a light, melodic laugh that echoes against the tiled walls, a sound that clearly unmoors him even further. you reach out, your fingers tracing the edge of his training jersey, letting your hand rest lightly on his chest, right over his racing heart. you can feel the frantic rhythm beneath the fabric—it’s the fastest it’s been all day.
you look up at him through your lashes, your expression dripping with amused confidence. "do you really think i’m naive, jude?" you whisper, your voice a soft, challenging taunt. "because if that were true—if you were truly as settled and content as you want me to believe—you wouldn't be standing here in a deserted hallway, hiding from your coaches, completely out of breath, just to find a girl you barely even know."
you take a deliberate step forward, forcing him to lean back further against the wall. you’re so close now that you can smell the faint, clean scent of his shower gel and the musky reality of his sweat.
"men like you don't chase things they aren't hungry for," you continue, your voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous low. "you didn't come here because you're happy. you came here because you were desperate to see if i was as real as you thought i was."
the amusement drains from his face, replaced by a raw, intense focus. he doesn't pull away; he doesn't even try to lie again. he just watches your lips, his own mouth slightly parted, his breathing hitching as the weight of your words settles between you. the air in the narrow space is suffocatingly thick, and for the first time, he looks absolutely terrified of how easily you’ve dismantled him.
the distance between you vanishes until you are merely a heartbeat away. you can see the precise moment his resolve shatters; his eyes drift from yours to your lips, and he leans in, an instinctive, magnetic pull he no longer has the strength to fight. his posture softens, his hand inches toward your waist, and his breath hitches—he is fully prepared to cross that line, to let the world outside this hallway cease to exist for the sake of one kiss.
you let the anticipation stretch, thick and intoxicating. you can see the pulse at the base of his throat thumping in time with your own. he’s leaning into you, his eyes closing, fully surrendered to the inevitable.
and then, you move.
with a fluidity that feels almost cruel, you slide out of his space just as his lips are about to find their target. the air feels suddenly cold where your warmth had been. he stumbles slightly, his hand grasping at empty air, his eyes flying open in a mixture of confusion and raw, electric shock. he’s left leaning against the wall, chest heaving, looking as though he’s just been jolted awake from a dream.
you don't run; you walk away with that same slow, rhythmic elegance that has been haunting him all afternoon. you don’t look back until you’re ten paces down the hall, your footsteps echoing sharply against the concrete.
when you finally pause, you turn just enough to glance over your shoulder. your expression is cool, composed, and utterly triumphant. his eyes are still locked on you, burning with a frantic, desperate intensity that says he’s completely hooked.
you tilt your head, a soft, parting smile touching your lips—the kind that promises you’re both the prize and the problem.
"bye, jude," you murmur, your voice lingering in the quiet corridor, light as a feather but heavy with consequence.
before he can find his voice, before he can move or call out to stop you, you turn the corner and vanish once more, leaving him standing there in the silence, utterly dismantled.
for the next few days, the training ground becomes a theater of his internal war. jude is no longer the clinical, effortless phenom the team relies on; he is erratic, his mind a thousand miles away from the tactical drills and the coach's whistle.
every time a ball rolls out of bounds, his eyes immediately scan the sidelines, searching the crowd for a flash of your silhouette, a familiar tilt of your head, or the memory of your perfume lingering in the air. he is haunted by the phantom of that touch, the way you dismantled his excuses, and that final, lingering "bye" that seems to echo in his ears during the dead silence of his hotel room at night.
he finds himself asking, without really asking, questions that reveal too much to his teammates. he’ll pause mid-pass, frowning at the turf, wondering: who is she? is she just another face that drifts through the VIP lounge, or is she something else, something intentional? he replays every word you said, analyzing your tone, trying to decipher if you were playing a game or if you were testing him—or worse, if you were right about him all along.
the mystery of you has become his newest obsession. he starts to over-analyze his own life, looking at the life he’s built—the media obligations, the relationship, the relentless expectations—and seeing it through the lens of your dismissive, amused smile. he is a man who is used to being the one in control, the one who dictates the pace of the game, but now, he feels like the one being marked, shadowed, and systematically picked apart.
he catches himself staring off into the distance during team meetings, the coach's voice fading into white noise as he tries to piece together the puzzle of you. he isn't just distracted; he is unraveling. he’s burning with a need to find you again, not because he’s looking for a signature or a photo, but because he needs to know if the power you hold over him is real—or if he’s finally lost his grip on the only world he’s ever known.
every time he closes his eyes, he sees that hallway. he feels the phantom heat of your proximity. and as he laces up his boots for the next session, he knows with a sinking, exhilarating certainty that he’s not looking for a ball anymore; he’s looking for the next time you decide to show up and break his composure all over again.
few days after,
the press room is a buzz of low-frequency chatter, the glare of stage lights reflecting off the water bottles on the table. jude is slouched slightly in his chair, his usual professional mask firmly in place, answering standard questions about the team’s form with practiced, mechanical efficiency. he looks tired, the weight of the last few days of internal conflict showing in the slight tension around his eyes.
then, the moderator points to your section. "next question, front row."
you lean into the microphone, the metallic click of the equipment echoing through the room. "jude," you begin, your voice smooth, melodic, and instantly unmistakable. "considering the pressure of this season, how do you manage to keep your focus when the game takes an unexpected turn?"
at the first syllable, jude freezes. the pen he was fidgeting with drops onto the desk with a sharp clack. he goes rigid, his head snapping toward the audience. for a fleeting, desperate second, he convinces himself it’s just a trick of his mind—a cruel auditory hallucination born from days of obsession. he tells himself there are thousands of people in this city, and it’s impossible for you to be sitting in a room full of accredited press.
but then, the cameras shift, and the view clears. he locks eyes with you.
the air leaves his lungs in a sharp, audible exhale. he is visibly rattled, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable crimson. he doesn't just look surprised; he looks completely blindsided, his composure disintegrating in front of a dozen live cameras. he grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white, his gaze locked onto your face as if he’s trying to confirm you’re solid, real, and actually standing there.
the room falls into a sudden, heavy silence, the other journalists glancing between the two of you, sensing the strange, electric shift in the atmosphere. jude’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. he’s struggling to reconcile the professional reality of the press conference with the chaotic, intimate reality you’ve built between you.
he stares at you, paralyzed, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that the entire room—and the thousands watching online—can almost feel. you hold his gaze, unblinking and perfectly serene, while the man who is supposed to be the most composed player on the pitch looks like he’s just seen a ghost—or the one person he’s been terrified to face.
he clears his throat, the sound rough and forced. he forces his shoulders to drop, dragging his eyes away from yours to stare blankly at the microphones, his fingers gripping his water bottle so tightly his knuckles are white.
"it’s... it’s about perspective," he manages to say, his voice a fraction deeper than usual, straining to keep the tremor out of it. "sometimes the things you least expect are the ones that test your discipline the most. you just have to find a way to... to stay grounded."
it’s a generic, safe answer, but his eyes keep darting back to you, betraying every word. he’s sweating now, a thin sheen on his forehead that the stage lights catch. he’s failing, and he knows it.
you offer him one last, slow smile—the one that sits right on the edge of a secret—and then, without waiting for the follow-up, you tuck your notebook under your arm. you rise with that same fluid, predatory grace, your heels clicking against the floor. you turn your back on him, walking toward the exit of the press room with an air of complete indifference, leaving him mid-sentence as he tries to finish a thought that has already completely evaporated from his mind.
he watches you go, his head tracking your movement until you’re forced out of his line of sight by the heavy double doors. the moderator tries to move to the next question, but jude isn't there anymore. he’s staring at the door, his jaw tight, his leg bouncing nervously under the table.
the moment the moderator utters the words, "that concludes the conference," jude doesn't wait for his pr team to gather the equipment. he stands up with a sudden, sharp motion, muttering a frantic apology to his teammates and the staff.
"gotta go," he says, already moving, his strides long and urgent as he pushes past the photographers and security personnel.
he bursts out of the press room, his eyes scanning the corridor, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. he ignores the calls of the staff behind him, his only focus the sound of those retreating heels. he doesn't know what he's going to say when he catches you, he doesn't know why he’s chasing you again, but he knows one thing for certain: he’s done playing the game by your rules. he’s finally going to corner you.
you’re walking down a dimly lit service hallway when the sharp, heavy rhythm of his gait catches up to you. he’s fast, his chest heaving as he rounds the corner, and before you can even register the sound, he’s blocked your path, his hands bracing against the wall on either side of you. he looks frantic—the kind of look he never wears on the pitch.
"what is this?" he demands, his voice low, sharp, and laced with pure, unadulterated confusion. "how are you here? why are you here? why are you... everywhere?"
the questions spill out of him, tumbling over one another. he’s looking at you like you’re a riddle he’s terrified he won't be able to solve, and for the first time, his professional armor is stripped completely bare. he isn't just asking; he’s pleading for an explanation, for some sense of order in the chaos you’ve introduced to his life.
you don't look intimidated. in fact, you look amused. you watch him with an unhurried, languid gaze, leaning back against the cool tiles until your shoulders brush his arms. you let the silence stretch for a moment, enjoying the way his breathing hitches as he waits for an answer you have no intention of giving him—at least, not yet.
you reach up, your fingers grazing the collar of his jacket, and you smooth it down with a slow, deliberate touch. he flinches at the contact, his eyes tracking your hand with hungry, desperate focus.
"jude," you purr, your voice like liquid velvet, cutting through his frantic energy. you look up at him through your lashes, a teasing, lopsided smile playing on your lips. "breathe."
you let your hand trail down to his chest, feeling the wild, irregular thrum of his heart—a rhythmic betrayal of his composure. you run your thumb over the fabric of his shirt, a small, circular motion that seems to snap his focus entirely to your touch.
"you’re spiraling," you whisper, the sweetness of your tone dripping with a mock-sympathy that only pushes him further toward the edge. "why are you so desperate to understand me? maybe you should spend less time asking questions and more time enjoying the view."
you lean in close, just enough for him to smell the scent of you, your breath feathering against his jawline. he’s frozen, trapped between the urge to back away and the impossible gravity that keeps him locked in your orbit. you tilt your head, a glint of triumph dancing in your eyes as you watch him struggle to regain his footing, completely at the mercy of your game.
"you're so tense, darling," you tease, your voice barely a breath. "do you always get this worked up when you don't know the final score?"
he lets out a sharp, incredulous huff, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that’s almost painful. "is this it?" he asks, his voice dropping into a low, strained register. "is this just your thing? you show up, you haunt the corridors, you get into the press rooms... do you do this with everyone? is every athlete, every celebrity just a target for your little games?"
you don't pull away. instead, you let a soft, melodic laugh escape your throat—a sound that is light, dismissive, and utterly infuriating. you reach up and trace the line of his jaw with a single finger, your touch light as a feather but heavy with implication. you feel him shudder under your contact, the rigid line of his shoulders slackening despite himself.
"you're overthinking it again, jude," you murmur, your eyes sparkling with playful mischief. "why does it matter if i've done it before? does it make what's happening between us right now any less real?"
he stiffens, his grip on the wall tightening. you’ve hit a nerve—he hates that he wants to know, hates that he’s jealous of the idea of you playing this game with anyone else, but more than anything, he hates how little he knows about you. he’s completely paralyzed by the desire to keep standing here, to keep hearing your voice, to keep deciphering the mystery that is you.
"you're impossible," he breathes, his gaze dropping to your mouth and staying there, his frustration warring with a magnetic pull he can no longer deny.
you tilt your head, a triumphant, secretive smile playing on your lips. you can see the conflict raging behind his eyes—he wants to walk away, to go back to his life and the safety of his routine, but he’s rooted to the spot, entirely addicted to the chaos you bring.
"i'm not impossible, jude," you whisper, stepping just a hair closer, letting your chest brush against his. "i'm just the first person who hasn't played by your rules. it’s quite a thrill, isn't it?"
he doesn't answer, he can't. he just stares at you, his breathing shallow, looking like a man who knows he’s walking into a fire but has lost the will to turn back.
your hand drifts down, your palm pressing firmly against the center of his chest. you can feel the frantic, irregular thudding of his heart—a physical manifestation of the complete power you hold over him. you lean in, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, and you let your breath hitch as you speak, your voice a low, honeyed secret that sends a visible shiver down his spine.
"next time, jude," you whisper, the words heavy with promise, "i won't be in a crowd. i’ll be waiting. just for you. and if you’re brave enough to come find me, i’ll finally show you exactly who i am."
the air in the hallway seems to vanish. you pull back just enough to catch his gaze, a wicked, knowing smirk playing on your lips. he’s completely paralyzed, his mouth slightly parted, his breathing ragged. the sheer audacity of your invitation, combined with the way you’re dismantling his defenses, leaves him reeling. he’s trapped in a labyrinth of his own desire, and you’ve just handed him the map to the center.
you don't wait for a reply. you give his chest one final, lingering caress before slipping out from beneath his arm. your exit is swift and silent, your heels clicking against the floor with a rhythmic finality that echoes in the cramped space.
you don't look back this time. you round the corner, leaving him alone in the dim light of the corridor.
behind you, jude doesn't move. he stays pressed against the wall, his hands falling to his sides, his chest still heaving with the ghost of your presence. he’s utterly spellbound, a man who knows he has just been marked. the weight of your words hangs in the air, a siren song that has already decided his future. he is standing in the silence, his heart racing, realizing with a terrifying clarity that he isn't just hooked—he is completely and irrevocably yours.
the shift in jude is visceral, and it doesn't go unnoticed by the people around him. his life, once carefully curated and balanced between high-stakes football and his public relationship, has begun to fracture under the weight of the unknown. that anchor he used to hold onto—his girlfriend—has become nothing more than a blurred background noise, a static frequency he’s tuned out entirely. his thoughts are no longer occupied by tactical maneuvers or his future career; they are exclusively yours.
he spends his nights staring at the ceiling of his hotel room, the silence amplified by the maddening loops of your voice in his head. why are you everywhere? who are you really?
the confusion is a physical ache. every time he sees a shadow in a corner, or hears the faint click of heels in a lobby, his entire posture shifts. he’s constantly on edge, his eyes scanning every room he enters with a frantic, desperate intensity. his teammates have stopped joking about his mood; there’s a new, sharp irritability to him that makes even the coaching staff tread carefully. he’s lost his rhythm, and for a player who prides himself on total command, this lack of control is terrifying.
he is obsessed. he finds himself scrolling through social media, searching for any trace of you, any photo that might have caught your face in the background of a stadium event. he’s hunting for a name, a history, a clue—anything to make you tangible instead of this ethereal, dangerous force that has dismantled his reality.
during training, he’s a ghost of his former self. he’ll go for minutes at a time without touching the ball, his focus shattered by the mere possibility that you might be watching from the sidelines again. he’s no longer looking for his teammates’ runs; he’s looking for you.
the realization that he is "condemned" settles into his marrow. he knows he’s setting himself up for disaster, that seeking you out is a path that could jeopardize everything he’s worked for. but the pull is too strong. you’ve become the only thing that makes his pulse race, the only thing that makes the world feel real. he’s not just waiting for the next match; he’s waiting for the next move in a game he knows he’s already lost.
he’s no longer playing football for the fans or the trophies. he’s playing, waiting, and breathing entirely for the moment you decide to reappear and finally unveil the secret you’ve been keeping from him.
the match had been exhilarating, the kind of night where every pass clicked and the stadium’s roar still hummed in his bones. jude slumped into the back of his waiting car, the interior dark and quiet, a sanctuary after the blinding lights of the pitch. he leaned his head back, closing his eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath of pure, adrenaline-fueled relief. he wasn't thinking about you—not for the first time in hours. he was just a man enjoying the aftermath of victory.
"home, please," he murmured to the driver, his voice thick with exhaustion.
the engine purred to life, and as the car began to glide away from the stadium, a subtle shift in the air caught his attention. it wasn't just the scent of leather anymore; there was something else—a faint, intoxicating trace of your perfume that hit him like a physical blow. his eyes snapped open.
he turned his head to the left, his gaze cutting through the dim cabin light.
you were there.
you were draped against the seat with an effortless, feline grace, the shadows playing over the curve of your collarbone and the soft fabric of your dress. you looked even more breathtaking than usual, your makeup flawless, your hair falling in loose, artful waves. you didn't look like a fan, or a journalist, or a stalker; you looked like a predator who had finally cornered her prize.
jude froze, his entire body going rigid. his heart, which had been slowing down to a calm, post-match rhythm, instantly spiked into a violent, erratic thud against his ribs. he couldn't speak; the breath had been stolen from his lungs. he just stared at you, his pupils dilating in the dark, his professional composure shattering into a thousand pieces.
the irony of his thought process—the fact that he’d finally managed to push you out of his mind for just a few hours—vanished as he realized you hadn't been playing a game of hide-and-seek anymore. you were playing for keeps.
"how..." he started, his voice cracking, barely a whisper. he didn't even know what he was asking. he just knew that seeing you there, in the private, confined space of his car, felt more dangerous and more exhilarating than anything he’d ever experienced on a pitch.
you didn't move, you just watched him, that same enigmatic, seductive smile playing on your lips—the one that had haunted his dreams for days. you held his gaze, unblinking, the silence in the car growing heavier and more charged with every passing second. you had found your way into his inner sanctum, and the look in your eyes told him exactly what you intended to do with him.
the darkness inside the car becomes absolute the moment you reach over and hit the switch to raise the privacy partition. the soft hum of the city outside is instantly muffled, replaced by the heavy, suffocating silence of your own private space. jude is trapped, pinned between the back door and the invisible line you’ve drawn in the air.
he’s staring at you, his eyes dark and dilated, reflecting the faint ambient light from the streetlamps passing by. his breath is coming in short, uneven hitches, and his hands are gripping the edges of his seat so hard his knuckles are stark white. he looks completely undone, the man who commands thousands of screaming fans now reduced to a state of absolute, paralyzed anticipation.
you lean into his space, your movements slow, deliberate, and predatory. you lock eyes with him, your gaze no longer playful—it’s fierce, possessive, and daring him to break. you don't say a word. you just hold that look, letting the tension coil between you like a wire pulled to its breaking point.
then, with agonizing slowness, you shift your gaze to his lips, then back up to his eyes, before biting down softly on your own lower lip. you hold it there, a teasing, mocking smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. you aren't just playing with him anymore; you’re dismantling him, piece by piece, savoring the way his jaw tightens and his resolve crumbles.
you lean even closer, until the space between you is electric. you can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his chest rises and falls in rhythm with your own heartbeat. you let out a soft, low chuckle—a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph—and tilt your head to the side, your eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and pure hunger.
"you thought you were done with me after the match, didn't you, jude?" you whisper, your voice a low, raspy challenge. "you really have no idea how this ends, do you?"
you watch him swallow hard, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. he looks like he’s caught in a waking dream, terrified that if he moves, he’ll wake up and find you gone. he’s completely at your mercy, and he knows it—he’s just waiting to see how far you’re going to take this tonight.
he opens his mouth to speak, likely to demand an answer or perhaps to protest—but the words die on his tongue the moment your hand settles against his thigh.
your touch is slow, deliberate, and maddeningly light. you let your fingertips trace the firm muscle beneath his tailored trousers, your hand moving with a possessive, rhythmic heat that sends a visible tremor through his frame. he gasps, his head falling back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief second as his entire body reacts to the sensation.
when he opens his eyes again, the confusion is entirely gone, replaced by a raw, dark hunger that has finally overridden his last shred of hesitation. the professional footballer, the public figure, the man with a girlfriend—they all vanish. in this enclosed, dimly lit space, there is only the man who is becoming utterly, irrevocably addicted to your touch.
he leans into your hand, his own fingers coming up to hover near your waist, trembling as he fights the urge to grab you. he’s completely anchored to you now, his pulse visible in the frantic, rhythmic throb at the base of his throat. he tries to lean away, but the movement only brings him closer to your gravity, and he lets out a broken, ragged sound that’s half-protest, half-surrender.
"you have no idea what you're doing to me," he manages to choke out, his voice thick and strained. he reaches out, his hand hovering uncertainly before he finally grips your wrist, his fingers firm but not pulling you away. instead, he keeps your hand exactly where it is, pressing your palm harder against his leg, grounding himself through you.
he’s breathing so heavily the glass partition is starting to fog. he looks at you not with suspicion, but with a terrifying, desperate need for you to continue. he’s no longer fighting the current; he’s drowning in it, and he’s realized that he doesn't want to be saved—he wants you to keep pushing him further until there’s nothing left of his old life at all.
"you're not just playing anymore, are you?" he whispers, his gaze locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity. "tell me you're not just playing."
you lean into his personal space, the scent of your perfume overwhelming the sterile air of the car. your voice is a low, deliberate purr as you look him dead in the eye and murmur the lines, letting the weight of the words strip away the last of his resistance:
"that’s okay baby…, do what you please. i have the stuff that you want. i am the thing that you need."
the effect is immediate and devastating. as the words leave your lips, jude’s entire posture collapses inward, all remnants of his public life and his existing relationship incinerated by the sheer intensity of the moment. he lets out a ragged, desperate sound, his hand tightening over yours on his thigh as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear the moment he lets go. he’s no longer thinking about consequences, about the paparazzi, or about the life he’s supposed to be returning to; he’s entirely consumed by the intoxicating, dangerous reality you’ve built for him.
he looks at you with a hunger that’s borderline frantic, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips as he leans into your touch. he’s lost—fully, completely, and willingly lost—and he doesn't even try to fight it anymore. he presses your hand further against his skin, his breathing shallow and erratic, clearly signaling that he has abandoned any last-ditch attempt to uphold his moral defenses. you have pushed him over the edge, and he has finally stopped trying to climb back up.
jude freezes, his breath hitching, his eyes snapping shut as the cold realization hits him with brutal clarity: it is already far too late. he is trapped, not by the walls of the car, but by the undeniable fact that he is completely ensnared in your heart, and there is no longer any path back to the man he was before you.
as you lean in, the space between you vanishing, you begin to press slow, searing kisses against the sensitive skin of his neck. the sensation is instant and all-consuming, an electric shock that bypasses his mind and speaks directly to his nerves.
his resolve evaporates completely. he tilts his head back, surrendering to the overwhelming wave of heat, his hands trembling as he grips the leather of the seat to stay tethered to the earth. he is entirely possessed by the feeling of your lips against his skin, utterly powerless to resist, and desperate for nothing more than to lose himself in the beautiful, dangerous trap you have set for him.
he doesn't hesitate; his hands slide to your waist, his grip firm and desperate as he pulls you onto his lap, positioning you squarely over his hips. the power shift is complete. he bows his head, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps against your skin as he pleads with you, his voice barely a whisper against your throat.
"don't stop," he begs, the words muffled and thick with need, his face pressed into the crook of your neck as he urges you to keep going. "please, keep going."
you pull back just enough to look down at him, a soft, mocking laugh escaping your lips as you run your fingers through his hair. you trace the line of his jaw, enjoying the sight of him—so undone, so utterly at your mercy.
"does it feel that good, jude?" you tease, your voice dripping with playful cruelty. you lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "you know, you’re almost a little pathetic like this."
you watch his reaction, seeing the way his eyes darken with a mix of shame and even deeper, more frantic hunger. he doesn't pull away; instead, he clings to you tighter, as if you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.
you continue trailing slow, burning kisses along the column of his throat, feeling the erratic, desperate pulse beneath his skin. as you settle closer against him, the friction of your dress against his trousers shifts, and the lack of a barrier between you becomes instantly, unmistakably clear.
jude freezes, his hands splaying against your back, his eyes widening in the dim light. he lets out a sharp, choked intake of breath, his entire body going rigid as he registers the unfiltered heat radiating from you, pressed directly against him.
"you're not wearing..." he stammers, his voice barely audible, raw with a mix of shock and pure, sensory overload. he looks at you, his gaze searching your face, stunned by the realization that you’ve come to him like this—completely unshielded and ready.
you pull back just a fraction, arching an eyebrow as you meet his blown-out pupils with a look of cool, triumphant amusement. you let a low, throaty laugh escape your chest, the sound vibrating between you.
"is that a problem, darling?" you murmur, your voice dripping with honeyed malice. you lean in closer, pressing yourself fully against him, making the reality of the situation impossible for him to ignore. "does it feel good to feel me, jude? tell me, how does it feel to know exactly what’s waiting for you?"
you begin to move against him, slow, deliberate shifts of your hips that send shockwaves of sensation straight through him. the friction is intense, and as you rock against him, he feels the undeniable, unmistakable heat and dampness of you soaking through the fabric of his trousers. it’s an exquisite, maddening sensation that strips away his final reserves.
jude’s head falls back against the upholstery, a low, guttural moan escaping his throat that he can no longer suppress. his hands grip your waist so tightly his knuckles turn white, his body betraying him as he loses the battle for composure. he can’t hold back the pleasure, the sheer intensity of the contact leaving him breathless, his hips instinctively mirroring your rhythm in a desperate, frantic search for more. he’s completely undone, entirely surrendered to the exquisite torture of feeling you against him, his mind blanking out until there is nothing left but the raw, electric pulse of the moment.
"i need you," he gasps, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate hunger as he pulls you closer, his hands shaking as they move to the waistband of his trousers. "i need to feel you—everything."
you lean back, watching him with a predatory, triumphant smile. you reach down, your movements slow and deliberate, and begin to undo the fastening of his trousers. his breath hitches, his entire body arching as he waits for you to continue. you lean into his ear, your voice a dark, low whisper that pushes him over the edge. you murmur things so illicit, so deliciously wicked, that he loses the last shred of his restraint.
he is completely undone, his eyes unfocused and drowning in want, his body trembling with the intensity of his desire. he is yearning for you with a frantic, uncontainable ache, his pleas becoming incoherent as he realizes there is no version of this night where he doesn't give you exactly what you want. he is utterly subjugated, a captive to your touch, and as you continue, he stops trying to stay anchored to reality—he only wants to sink deeper into the beautiful, dangerous trap you've set for him.
you don't waste another second. you take him, guiding him directly into your heat, the sudden, overwhelming sensation causing him to let out a broken, guttural sound that vibrates through the entire interior of the car. he is completely stunned, his eyes wide and blown-out, paralyzed by the sheer intensity of the friction and the way you’ve claimed him.
he looks down at you, his breathing turning into sharp, desperate gasps, his hands clenching into the leather of your dress as his entire world narrows down to this single point of contact. he looks utterly overwhelmed, his composure completely shredded by the reality of how perfectly he fits.
you hold his gaze, the atmosphere in the car thick and suffocating. you bite your lip, a mocking, triumphant smirk playing on your features as you savor his reaction. you lean in, your voice a low, teasing taunt against his ear.
"you’re so big," you whisper, the words dripping with a mix of cruelty and pleasure. "it feels so good to have all of you, doesn't it?"
the look on his face is one of pure, raw subjugation. he’s completely caught, his hips twitching instinctively, unable to pull away and unwilling to stop. he is utterly at your mercy, yearning for the movement, his entire body trembling under the weight of the sensation you’re forcing him to feel.
the air in the car is heavy, charged with the scent of his arousal and your own. jude is completely shattered, his head thrown back against the headrest, his eyes squeezed shut as he lets out a series of broken, desperate moans. the friction is all-consuming, and he can feel every inch of his length buried deep inside you, the sensation so intense it leaves him shuddering.
"god, it feels so good," he gasps, his voice trembling and raw, his hands clutching your hips to keep you pressed firmly against him. "it’s insane... please, just don't stop."
you maintain the rhythm, slow and torturous, enjoying the way he writhes under your control. you lean down, your voice a dark, velvet whisper against the shell of his ear, punctuating your movements with stinging, suggestive remarks. you tease him about his lack of resistance, about how easily he’s fallen, and about exactly what he’s become since you entered his life.
every word is a lash that drives him further into his own pleasure. he’s completely addicted to the dynamic, his body arching into yours with a frantic, primitive need. he is so far gone that the concept of consequence has been obliterated; there is only the heat, the rhythm, and the terrifying realization that he has become nothing more than a plaything for your amusement. he begs you, over and over, his voice a frantic prayer of desperation and lust, pleading for you to continue until there is nothing left of him but the sensation you’re providing.
the moment you groan his name—a low, melodic sound that vibrates against his chest—the world around him seems to tilt on its axis. hearing his own name on your lips sends a fresh jolt of adrenaline through his system, shattering whatever tiny barrier of restraint he had left. he is no longer just overwhelmed; he is completely and utterly undone.
he feels the absolute, suffocating intensity of you settled on his lap, your weight perfectly distributed, and the sensation of being buried deep within you becomes his entire reality. he looks at you, his eyes dark with an intoxicating blend of worship and ruin, completely captivated by the power you hold over him. he realizes, with a dazed, frantic clarity, that he is completely at your mercy—he is subjugated by the physical friction, by the way you look at him, and by the sheer, electric vulnerability of being this connected to you.
"my god," he breathes, his voice barely a coherent sound as he leans into you, his movements becoming more desperate, more demanding. he is drowning in the sensation of you, his hands trembling as he holds you close, his entire body responding to your rhythm with an almost violent need. he’s lost to the pleasure, fully aware that he has surrendered his control to you, and he is terrified, yet thrilled, by how much he craves the sensation of being trapped in this exact, agonizingly perfect moment with you.
you continue to ride him with a slow, deliberate cadence, the friction between you becoming an agonizingly beautiful torture. you lean down, your hair brushing against his jaw, and as you grind against him, you whisper into his ear with a voice thick with playful, dark intent.
"it’s just so incredibly large, jude," you murmur, your tone dripping with a mixture of praise and mockery, "i can barely take all of you."
hearing you acknowledge his size while you’re this deep inside him is the final catalyst; he gasps, his head falling back as the sensation rips through him. he’s completely subjugated, his muscles locking, his breath hitching in his chest. he feels the tension coiling tight in his core, the pressure mounting with every movement you make. he’s on the very precipice, his body trembling, his hands digging into your skin as he clings to you, desperate to hold onto the sensation even as he feels himself beginning to unravel.
every time you whisper those words, the intensity surges, the friction between you feeling like a live wire. you keep teasing him, trailing your hands over his shoulders and down his chest, your voice a constant, taunting melody in his ear about his size, about his need, and about exactly how good it feels to have him trapped like this.
the constant reinforcement of his own desire, paired with the overwhelming, tight sensation of being inside you, pushes him to the very edge. he’s completely subjugated, his back arching, his breath hitching into jagged, shallow gasps. he’s losing his grip on reality, his internal rhythm spiraling out of control because of how much he wants you.
"you’re killing me," he manages to choke out, his voice thick and desperate, his pupils dilated to the point where his eyes are nothing but black pools. he feels the familiar, building pressure in his core—the unmistakable surge of his release drawing near—and he knows he can’t hold it back much longer. he’s entirely at your mercy, his body betraying every last defensive thought he had left, as he clings to you, waiting for that final, shattering moment of surrender.
jude’s control finally shatters completely. his hips begin to buck against yours in a frantic, losing battle, his face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated pleasure. "i can't... i'm going to—i'm coming," he gasps out, his voice cracking with the strain of holding on for as long as he possibly could.
you don't pull away; instead, you press yourself harder against him, pinning him down and locking your gaze with his. "don't you dare stop," you command, your voice a sharp, commanding whisper against his ear. "do it inside me. i want to feel every bit of it."
the words are the final trigger. he lets out a ragged, desperate cry as he finally surrenders, his body going rigid as he explodes within you. the sensation of his release is electric, and it pushes you over the edge as well; you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you shatter right along with him. you hold onto him tightly, both of you lost in the blinding, heavy heat of the moment, anchored only by the intense, rhythmic pulsing that binds you together. for those few seconds, nothing else exists—no reality, no consequences—only the raw, shared aftermath of what you have just done to him.
you disentangle yourself from his lap in one swift, fluid movement, your dress sliding back into place as if the scene you just created never happened. you reach into the neckline of your dress, pulling out a small, folded scrap of paper. with perfect timing, the car rolls to a smooth stop—you have reached your destination.
you slide out of the car, the cool air hitting your skin, and you turn back to face him through the open door. he is still entirely undone, his hair disheveled, his trousers still unfastened, his chest heaving as he stares at you, completely unable to process the transition from the intensity of the moment back to the quiet of the street.
you lean into the car, your voice cool and sharp, slicing through his daze. "you should leave your girlfriend, jude," you say, a faint, mocking smile touching your lips. "she’s not half the freak i am, and we both know it." you hold his gaze for a second, watching the realization dawn on him, before adding, "if you make the right choice and call me, you’ll know where to find me."
with that, you drop the paper onto his seat and walk away, leaving him behind in the stillness. as he finally manages to lower his gaze, his hands still trembling, he looks down at the scrap of paper. there, written in your handwriting, is your number.
the silence in the car feels deafening as the engine cuts out, leaving him in a state of sensory shock. he stares at the empty space where you were just sitting, the scent of you still clinging to the leather and to his own skin. the gravity of what just happened begins to settle in: he has just betrayed his girlfriend—someone he was supposed to be committed to—with a total stranger. he doesn’t even know your name.
yet, as he looks down at the slip of paper with your number, a cold, startling truth washes over him: he doesn't care.
the guilt that should be crushing him is nowhere to be found, drowned out by the lingering electric pulse of what you did to him. he runs a hand through his messy hair, his heart hammering against his ribs, not with regret, but with a terrifying, addictive longing. he realizes with a jolt of clarity that he hasn't just been physically overwhelmed; he has been completely dismantled. he is entirely under your spell, and the idea of going back to his normal life, to his girlfriend, feels like a pale imitation of the reality he just tasted with you.
he clutches the paper in his fist, his knuckles white, his breath hitching as he stares at the number again. he is no longer just a guy who made a mistake; he is a man who has found something dangerous, something he knows will ruin him, and yet he knows, with absolute, hollowed-out certainty, that he is already entirely yours.
want it? — anthony gordon summary: he watches you play with his teammates kids and it stirs something in him. pairings: anthony gordon x fem!reader warnings: fluff + kinda sorta breeding kink +consensual activities mentioned!!! a/n: thank u for the req<3 here she is the highly anticipated fic!!!
the giggles from the crowd of england family children are ear piercing. each step he takes the sounds grow louder and louder, until he reaches your seat in the stands. thats where the giggling wriggles deep piercing his ear drums.
“aw no here comes mr anti-fun!” you groan, your fingers instantly tickling the little boys stomach. Anthony watches the little boys body fight you, his giggles intensifying, not dying out until you stop.
“mr anti fun?” Anthony chuckles, he sits down beside you, and he reaches out for the little boy and pulls him into his lap, “your daddy actually finds me quite funny.”
“questionable.” declan interjects, watching his son squirm out of Anthony’s lap and back into yours.
“you trying to steal my wife?”
the little boy nods, proudly, and wraps his arms around your neck. you press your lips to the boys bright pink cheek, and instantly begin tickling his whole body again.
anthony watches you, in complete awe of how much the little boy has begun to trust you in just a few short days. you were good with kids, there was no question about it, but watching you tonight seemed to take his mind to other darker places.
maybe it was the adrenaline and dopamine mixing together after such an intense win, or it was just you and the little boy that made him ache to see you pregnant.
you’ve had the discussion before. it was always not the right time, and he agreed. with his new move to Barcelona, it certainly was not the time to be trying, but damn… the thought of your body nesting his baby. god, he wanted it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow!” the little boy shouted, instantly snapping Anthony out of his little daydream.
“he’s so cute, ant.” you sigh, happily resting your head on your husbands shoulder, you glance up at his side profile, “perfect little mix of her and declan.”
he hums in response, his cock making it hard for words to stumble out of his mouth. his brain couldn’t function, flickers of images of you pregnant and you full of his cock were making it hard to find words.
“imagine ours.” you say, adding fuel to his fire. he can feel the precum thickening around his cock. anthony groans. tossing his head back, he runs a hand down his face, “you kill me, y/n.”
“what?” you say chuckling with confusion. moving off of him, you catch a glimpse of the hard on building up in his pants, “did me with a kid really do this to you?”
his cheeks turn a shade of red that you’ve never seen before from embarrassment. chuckling, you cup his cheeks in your hands and press a kiss to his lips. you pull away, lips inches from his and say, “I’m not on the pill anymore.”
—
he wastes no time pressing your back into the mattress. you land with a soft thump against the white sheets. the hotel bed squeaking beneath you.
pressing open your thighs, he finds that under your oversized t-shirt you had nothing on. the only thing staring at him was clean shaved wet slick folds.
“fuck,” he audibly moans, feeling like he might come in his pants at just the sight of your legs spread wide open and glistening in the the dimly lit room.
anthony’s baby blue cotton shorts are instantly tossed to the side, his boxers gone with them. anthony moved with passion and finality. he needed to scratch this itch and fill you with him.
kneeing you to open wider for him, he yanks your legs around his torso and doesn’t even gently rub his way in. he doesn’t take even a second for you to be used to all of him before he’s fucking you into the plush mattress.
the springs squeak beneath you, hips are buckling against one another, skin grinding on skin. your filthy moans in his ear have him thrusting harder and in short spurts. you could faintly hear the headboard banging against the wall over the rush of pleasure tingling across your body.
“give it to me, ant.” you say with the little bit of air in your lungs that he left in you. your long manicured nails dig deep into his shoulder blades, but he doesn’t feel the pain over the pleasure rippling through him like tidal waves.
“you want my babies?” he asks, the tip of his cock twitching feeling you clamp around him. his once hard and determined thrusts, become gentle and teasing edging you onto the high you were both craving.
nodding was all you could do. you could feel the climax. you could feel your legs ready to give out, you were trying hard to stay wrapped around him. your sensitive clit was throbbing, you could see you weren’t alone in this, anthony was starting to pick up speed again, his stamina was much stronger than yours.
“fuck, I won’t last.” he grunts, feeling the ripple of pleasure that was building up finally release inside you.
you welcomed the warmth filling inside you. he watches you for a beat under his thick red curls. your eyes were locked on his, you gave him a slight nod letting him know you felt good, and in his own rush he didn’t hurt you.
dragging your nails over his biceps, you unwrap your legs around him, they fall heavy against the mattress, and ached for something to support them.
Anthony moves off of you, and slides onto the mattress beside you, “you think it worked?” he nervously asks.
“well it’s not instant, idiot.”
rolling his eyes, he sits up onto his forearm. sincerity is written across his face, it was scary, “want to go again?”
ᥫ᭡ boyfriend jude who figured out that you had a thing for his thighs early in your relationship (not that you ever tried to hide it but let’s say that looking at them while biting your lip wasn’t very subtle)
ᥫ᭡ boyfriend jude who was the one begging so you would ride his thighs
ᥫ᭡ boyfriend jude who helps you climb on his thigh, spreading his and your legs so your sitting completely on it, his hands moving to your hips so he helps you find a rhythm that you like and smiles when you let out the first moan of the night
ᥫ᭡ boyfriend jude who loves to know he’s making you feel good “tell me how’s that, baby,” his hands slowing you down so you’d grind harder on him “god, yes, like that, feels so good,” you whine gripping his shoulders
ᥫ᭡ boyfriend jude who teases you when he feels you wetting his sweats “you’re making a mess on me, baby, you enjoy riding my thigh that much, huh?” and looks at you with a grin
ᥫ᭡ boyfriend jude who starts undressing you so you can feel better, leaving you completely bare and him completely dressed
ᥫ᭡ boyfriend jude who doesn’t miss the chance of eyeing your naked body as he licks his lips and starts feeling his cock getting hard
ᥫ᭡ boyfriend jude who leads his thumb into your mouth so you can suck on it because he finds your muffled whines hot and sweet
ᥫ᭡ boyfriend jude who rubs your clit with the same thumb that was on your mouth and coos you to let go and soak his clothes
ᥫ᭡ boyfriend jude who rubs your back after pulling you closer to him, with your face on his neck and keeps guiding you from your hips to grind on him just to hear your cries from overstimulation
reader doing the “calling my boyfriend my husband“ prank on jude
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGdxL17D8/
(example vid and basically how I imagined the whole thing)
can just picture jude giggling to himself at this for real🐰🐰
◟﹒ʚɞ warnings: none! established relationship; sweetbf!jude cheesin and affectionate; ig implied sex??? ♡
“hello?” you answered convincingly, holding the phone up to your ear whilst jude sat beside you in the driver’s seat, scrolling on his phone absentmindedly. “yes, this is shake shack?”
“i’d like to put in an order for pickup — yeah, two shakeburgers with fries,” you cover the mic with your hand then, turning your head to talk with your boyfriend. “do you want cheesy fries or normal fries, babe?”
“normal — you know i don’t like cheese, love.” jude answered, your lip curling into a smile as you laugh softly. “i know but still, i wanted to ask; just in case.”
“and you want no pickles in your burger; and a chocolate shake with it too, right?” “mhm.” he nods, going back to scroll on his phone as you went back to your call.
“hello?” you speak, twirling your finger around a strand of your hair. “yeah so my husband and i would like to have a shake burger meal for the both of us — but with one of the meals, could you remove the pickles and make the fries normal and with the other, add more cherry peppers and make the fries cheesy?”
you could just about hear jude adjusting in his seat — catching him from the corner of your eye the way he stared at the side of your head, his eyes twinkling with something that looked a lot like mischief as his lips threatened to tug into a smile.
“any drinks? yeah one chocolate shake and then a fanta. and then for sauces — we’ll just have some ketchup and bbq sauce.”
you felt jude’s hand interlink with yours then, his smile still written across his face as you continued with the fake call. “oh okay, that’s fine — do you know what time it’ll be ready? so that my husband can go and pick it up?”
my husband. two simple words jude didn’t think could make him feel the way that he did — a sense of pride washing over him as his smile widened, practically cheesing in his spot in the driver’s seat.
“yeah, i can give you his name.” you nod, resisting the urge to laugh again when you felt him plant featherlight kisses across your shoulder and bringing your hand that were still interlocked with his up to his lips, ghosting across the sensitive skin. “yeah so his first name is jude — and then his last is bellingham.”
“..yes, he’s the footballer.” that made you smile, nodding as your boyfriend continued to plant kisses across the back of your hand and arm, the feeling of his smile against your skin sending shivers down your spine. “and it’ll be ready in 5-10 minutes?”
“yeah, that’s fine — alright thank you, have a nice day!”
“okay babe, i’ve set the order now,” you say once placing your phone back across your lap, turning your head to find jude still smiling hugely — in which you couldn’t help but smile back.
“so.” he acknowledges finally after a few moments of silence, his hand reaching to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “i’m your husband now?”
you bite down on your tongue as a laugh threatened itself out. “babe, what are you talking about?” “nuh uh baby — you know exactly what i’m talking about.”
“you said i’m your husband to the clerk on the phone.” “yeah and?” you shrug casually but the sparkle in your eyes was evident from the way jude’s smile was practically blinding. “i mean, it’s basically true — it’s just not in writing.”
“mhm.” he hums before stealing your lips for a searing kiss, the feeling of his smile against yours making you laugh softly. “judeee..”
“i liked that.” jude confesses, cupping your hand against your cheek, pulling away to plant another kiss against the side of your lips. “when you called me your husband.” another kiss, this time across the curve of your neck. “makes us feel more real — like you’re putting it out in the future for us.”
“mm,” you mumble lowly, taking great joy at your boyfriend before you pushed him subtly, his chin resting against your shoulder. “yeah well, i’ll make it a habit to call you that more often, husband.”
“fuck love..” jude groans into your neck again, electric shocks of pleasure spiking down your spine before it was immediately replaced by the feeling of the car roaring to life.
“we getting the burgers now?” you asked innocently, catching the mischievous glint that shone in your boyfriend’s big, brown eyes before he scoffs out a soft laugh.
“we’ll get the burgers.” he leans over to plant another kiss to your temple before grazing his lips against the shell of your ear, making your breath hitch. “and then once we’re home, i’m gonna make you feel exactly how my future wife should feel.”
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