[locsandletters]

── .✦ LOCSANDLETTERS !

.☘︎ ݁˖ ZEE.

♡⸝⸝ about me ⨾ you can call me zee. i’m twenty-two. she/her. black. south african. football fic writer. all my fics are x black!fem!reader.

MASTERLIST, MOODBOARDS

REQUESTS ARE CURRENTLY ⨾ OPEN !

© everything is written by locsandletters — do not steal or claim any of my works as your own.

[bobskysworld]

Hugo boyfriend texts (selfie edition)

note: 😃i said i wouldn’t fall into this trap now look at me…

[mzthuggr]

[locsandletters]

Loved the Kylian fic so muchhhh, will there be another part?? surely they can't leave it like that <3

thank you bb! part two is very much in the works — i couldn’t leave them like that either, they’re so cute!

[locsandletters]

Just read about Musiala and forehead kisses and I can’t just stop thinking about how he would let you do a whole skincare routine (and even maybe let you practice with your make up on him) if you asked him nicely just to see u happy.

Love ur writing btw ❣️

no because he is so boyfriend. 🥹

like, he’d be standing between your thighs, arms loosely around your waist, while you’re sat on the bathroom counter—legs swinging slightly, fresh out the shower with your bonnet on, wearing one of his shirts and a smug little smile—as you rub some cleanser into his cheeks like you’ve been doing this all your life.

he wouldn’t ask questions when you layer serum after serum, tapping them into his skin like you’re handling gold. he’d even let you use that jade roller he once made fun of—side-eyeing it at first, but tilting his chin up anyway.

but the second you pull your makeup bag into your lap, his eyes would narrow instantly.

he’d pretend to resist. try to look unimpressed. eyes squinting just enough to say, you’re pushing it now. but one look from you—eyebrows raised, head tilted, that slight pout he’s never been able to say no to—and he’d sigh like a man down bad.

“fine. but don’t post nothing.”

“who, me?” you’d say innocently, already dabbing foundation on the back of your hand like you hadn’t just posted that one blurry pic of him in a sheet mask with the cucumber slices on his eyes last week. the one alphonso still brings up in the group chat. “i would never.”

and he’d roll his eyes, but he’d stay right there. quietly. a little amused, a little embarrassed, but mostly just… happy. because you’d be smiling so wide, biting back giggles as you buffed in bronzer and lined his brows, calling him your “pretty boy.”

he’d scrunch his face at the blush. mutter something about how “this better not be red,” when you reach for the lip tint. but his hand’d still be on your thigh. he’d still be standing between your legs, fully yours. and when you leaned in to kiss the tip of his nose—lips pressing gently against the glittery shimmer you just patted in—he’d smile like the absolute fool in love he is.

because yeah, maybe he’d look ridiculous with lip gloss and winged liner. but you’d be happy. and that’d make it worth it. every single time.

(😭 thank you for this brainrot anon)

[locsandletters]

Need more musiala fics 😍

i love writing for him! you can always send me requests on what you’d like me to write about.

[locsandletters]

loved the fic with pedri, would read a million more <3

thank you lovely! this one pedri edit popped up on my fyp and i fear i might be joining #pedrihive 🥴 (he’s my ‘hear me out’😭)

[locsandletters]

could u write a musiala friends to lovers ☺️☺️☺️

i’ve actually had a little idea for that brewing 🫣

[locsandletters]

your leak it fix for jude was amazing!!!

thank you bb!!!

[locsandletters]

i feel like forehead kisses are jamal's thing, nobody can change my mind

— boyfriend!jamal x forehead kisses

notes: oh i can definitely see it anon. in every mood. every room. every situation ;)

[a]. he kisses your forehead when you’re crying so hard you can’t even breathe properly.

your laptop’s half-closed. your textbooks are open in a mess. your eyes are red, your hands are shaking, and you’ve been staring at the same four sentences for over an hour. you’re muttering stuff like “i’m so stupid” and “i’m not gonna finish this” and “i’m gonna fail,” and your chest is rising way too fast, too much air coming in, not enough going out.

and he doesn’t say anything at first. just comes behind you on the couch, pulls your back into his chest, slides a hand over your heart to slow it down. you’re crying into his shirt, getting it all wet and blotchy, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t even breathe weird. just presses his lips to the centre of your forehead—right between your eyebrows, warm and lingering—and lets you sob it out.

“you’re smart, baby. you’re just tired. you’ve got this.”

kiss.

“i’m proud of you.”

kiss.

—

[b]. he kisses your forehead when he’s inside you.

slow strokes. deep ones. the kind that make your eyes roll back, make your toes curl against the sheets, make your brain feel like it’s slipping into a state of delirium. the kind that have you moaning without sound, lips parted but nothing coming out except shaky breaths.

he’s holding your leg up—one arm curled strong and steady beneath the bend of your knee, the other hand pressing into the mattress beside your waist to keep his balance. his hips move in a rhythm so perfect it’s almost cruel, and you can feel him in places you didn’t even know could ache as he whispers things like:

“you feel so good”

“my pretty girl”

“you were made for me”

and when you get close—when your back arches and your fingers dig into his bicep and your mouth drops open—he dips his head down. kisses your forehead as you come undone beneath him. like you’re holy. like you deserve to be worshipped.

—

[c]. he kisses your forehead in a rush out the door when he’s got twenty minutes to catch the team bus.

you’re sleepy, you’ve got your hoodie on, and you’re hugging him like he’s going off to war.

“i’ll be back thursday,” he says.

“play safe,” you mumble.

“you be safe,” he fires back, tugging your chin up, eyes soft.

he kisses you twice on the lips, and the forehead kiss follows. always.

then he’s gone, duffel on his shoulder, hoodie over his head, but your skin’s still warm where he touched it.

—

[d]. he kisses your forehead while you two babysit his baby cousin.

he’s on the floor, letting the baby crawl over his lap. you’re beside him with a bottle in one hand and a pacifier in the other. he’s laughing, glowing. he keeps calling you “mama” like a joke, but it doesn’t feel that funny when he says it with that smile.

he casually gives the baby a quick peck on her tiny nose. “one kiss for the baby…”

and then he leans into you, kisses your forehead. “… and one kiss for my baby.”

and then he turns back to the baby. keeps watching her play.

you go quiet for a second. your heart flutters like mad.

because he does it like he doesn’t even notice anymore. like it’s just something his body is forever programmed to do.

—

[e]. he kisses your forehead in the kitchen while you’re making pasta.

you’re barefoot, stirring sauce. the air smells like tomatoes and garlic and him.

he comes in looking for a water bottle. you hear the fridge open, the click of plastic.

then you feel him behind you.

a hand on your waist. a soft kiss to the top of your forehead.

and then he’s gone.

—

[f]. he kisses your forehead when you’re pissed off at him.

when you’re ranting. pacing. arms crossed. giving him hell for forgetting to text when he got home.

he lets you finish. doesn’t cut you off. just watches you with that look.

and when you finally pause, breathing hard, eyes glossy, he steps forward and holds your face in both hands.

“you’re right,” he says.

kiss.

“i’m sorry.”

kiss.

“it won’t happen again. promise.”

and somehow, the anger fades.

—

[g]. he kisses your forehead when you’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

you’re lying next to each other, scrolling tiktoks, laughing at his overbearing fans.

and mid-laugh—like right as your head falls back and your mouth opens wide—he dips in with a grin and kisses your forehead.

then your nose.

then your cheek.

just little things.

like he can’t help himself.

—

[h]. he kisses your forehead when he’s sleepy.

when he’s got one arm under the pillow, the other wrapped around your waist. you’re half on top of him, arm flung over his chest, your legs tangled.

and just before he dozes off, he tugs you closer and kisses your forehead.

because if that’s the first thing he did when he woke up, then trust that it’ll be the last thing he does before going to sleep.

it’s just… his thing.

forehead kisses: every day. every mood. every version of you.

[locsandletters]

— spending the summer being a globe-trotter with bf!pedri

warnings/notes — oneshot/smau.

pedri

liked by lamineyamal, gavi and 2 467 538 others.

pedri amar y ser amado.☀️🌊❤️

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ynusername

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ynusername happier than ever.💌

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you’ve been on five planes in twelve days.

your suitcase zipper’s about to give out. you’ve slept in four different hotel beds, one airbnb, and once, in the middle of a road trip, on pedri’s shoulder in the back of a cadillac suv while he rubbed your thigh through a fleece blanket. your passport is getting a workout, and your hair hates you. but your heart? it’s full. bursting, even. there’s something about the way he looks at you on these trips—like he’s seeing something new every time. like you’re the main attraction, no matter where you land.

there’s a photo of you that you didn’t know he took.

you find it when he posts it on his story—a shot of you from behind, reaching for a peach at a fruit stand in greece. you’re in denim shorts and an oversized tee that probably used to be his, and the sun is sitting right on your skin like it’s in love with you. your braids are in a bun that’s half fallen out, and your hand’s halfway up, mid-move.

it’s not posed. not perfect. candid. and he’s captioned it: all over the map with you.

you swipe up to text him something flirty, but he beats you to it.

pedri: you’re the most beautiful thing in every city we’ve been to.

you: are you drunk?

pedri: drunk on love maybe

you: pedri…

pedri: what?? you’re my person🥺

you don’t even know how to respond to that, so you just heart it. sit there on the edge of the tub while the water runs, smiling like you’ve never been in love before. like this is your first time. like he’s your first anything. because sometimes, that’s what it feels like. being with him. like a reset. like starting from scratch every day and still being more sure of him than you were yesterday.

—

he’s got this thing he does when you’re on the go. when you’re in the airport and trying to make it to your gate, or squeezing through a crowd to get to the front of a boat, or walking the streets of a new place and you look a little overwhelmed.

he slips his hand into yours, real easy, real subtle. but then he interlocks your fingers and squeezes three times. always three times.

you asked him what that meant, once.

“just checking in,” he said. “wanna make sure you’re still with me.”

“i’m literally holding your hand, pedri.”

he’d just shrugged. “still. just making sure.”

and it’s not something you really think about until you need it. until your nerves are acting up because the plane is shaking, or the tour guide’s accent is too thick and you don’t know what’s going on, or the sun’s too hot and your skin’s sticky and you’re tired and cranky and don’t wanna be touched—and then, there he is. next to you. always. palm in yours. three squeezes.

you squeeze back. always.

—

in morocco, you get into a fight.

not a big one. just one of those disagreements that don’t have a proper start or a real reason. you were hungry, he was hot, you snapped, he got quiet. it lingered for an hour, maybe two, until dinner.

and then you were sitting across from each other, both too stubborn to apologise first, both poking at your food, both trying not to look like you cared as much as you did.

but pedri is soft. and terrible at staying mad at you. so of course, when your drink came and you wrinkled your nose, he was already pushing his glass toward you before you could ask. and you looked up at him, brows slightly raised, like you weren’t expecting that, and he just shrugged.

“yours looks nasty,” he mumbled. “i’ll drink it for you.”

you blinked. nodded once. and that was it.

he reached across the table after that. not to take your hand, but to play with the gold ring you had on your middle finger, spinning it absently like he always does when he’s trying to soothe himself. or maybe you. maybe both.

you didn’t talk about the fight. didn’t have to. you just ate your food, shared the rest of his drink, and went back to the hotel and made up in every other way. quiet apologies tucked into kisses. long hugs in towels. your legs tangled in his under the covers. him tracing lazy shapes into your back until you were fast asleep.

—

when the trip is almost over, you start to feel a little sad.

it creeps in slow. like the way your suitcase starts to bulge more with souvenirs and laundry. like how your sunburn starts to fade and your tan starts to set. like the way pedri gets quieter in the mornings, staring out of windows a little longer than usual, rubbing the back of his neck while he chews on his lip.

you can feel the end coming. and it’s not even about the travel part. you’ll get to do that again one day. it’s about this. this version of the two of you, free and golden and breathing easy. no early alarms. no away games. no facetime calls at midnight. just you. and him. and the whole world in between.

he brings it up before you do. of course he does. pedri’s always reading your mind.

“we’ll do this again,” he says one night, forehead pressed to yours while you lay in a bed that isn’t yours but feels like home anyway. “promise.”

you nod, eyes still closed.

“seriously,” he whispers. “we don’t have to wait ‘til next summer. we’ll make time. even if it’s just a weekend. i’ll take you somewhere.”

you open your eyes and look at him. properly look at him. his face is so close you can see the freckles on his nose. the curve of his lashes. the faint indent of his smile line even though he’s not smiling. not fully.

he kisses you. long and slow. and you kiss him back.

and the next day, when he posts a carousel of all the blurry, beautiful, random shots he took of you this summer—your face in the reflection of a cafe window in paris, your body half buried in sand in the bahamas, your laugh caught mid-head throw in barcelona—he captions it something real simple:

my person.

and your favourite comment, buried somewhere under thousands of likes and blue ticks, is the one he left himself:

still not enough time. never enough time with her.

[locsandletters]

ᯓ all eyes on you; k.mbappe

──one shot

pairing ➜ kylian x journalist!reader

word count ➜ 2k

warnings/notes ➜ none

summary ➜ after real madrid’s comeback win, you’re face-to-face with kylian mbappé for a post-match interview. and for the first time, the man who always knows what to say is caught off guard.

it’s after a win. a big one. the kind that has the stadium still buzzing, the kind that’ll be talked about for weeks, that has fans losing their minds on the internet. real madrid just came back from behind, kylian scoring the equaliser and assisting the winner, and now he’s standing in front of a backdrop littered with sponsor logos, sweat still cooling on his skin, waiting for the interview he doesn’t feel like doing.

it’s not that he hates them. he gets why they’re necessary, understands the whole media circuit, but it’s always the same thing. how did you feel about the game? how does it feel to score? what was going through your mind when—blah, blah, blah. he can do it in his sleep at this point.

so he shifts his weight, bounces on his toes a little, already forming answers in his head before he even knows what he’s about to be asked.

but then you step forward, and he forgets all of it.

he doesn’t know you. not really. but he’s seen you before. clips on tiktok, snippets on twitter, maybe a few interviews on youtube. he knows you’re south african, that you’re one of the few black women doing this in european football, that people talk about you like you’re a breath of fresh air.

he gets it now.

you’re wearing a blazer, fitted perfectly to your frame, with a white top underneath. hair laid, makeup set, eyes lined in a way that makes them sharper than they already are. you don’t look nervous. you don’t look like a woman standing in front of one of the biggest names in world football. you look like you belong here.

and when you smile, lips glossed just right, head tilting slightly to the side as you meet his eyes, kylian swallows, hard.

“kylian,” you start, and he’s never liked his name more than he does in this moment. “hell of a game.”

he blinks. nods. “yeah, uh. yeah, it was a tough one.”

you hum. and it’s the way you do it—the slightest raise of your brow, the amusement in your eyes, the way your lips twitch like you’re fighting a smirk—that tells him you caught it. that split-second delay. the way he had to recalibrate.

he shifts on his feet, clears his throat. he’s being weird. focus.

but it’s hard to focus when you’re looking at him like that. it’s unnerving. because kylian is used to being looked at. watched. analysed. he’s used to cameras, to people picking apart his every move, his every expression, his every word. but this feels different. you’re not just looking at him. you’re seeing him. and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

so he glances away, adjusting the hem of his jersey even though it doesn’t need adjusting. flexes his fingers. shifts his weight from one foot to the other. all of it pointless, because when he finally looks back up, you’re still watching him.

he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. if this is how he’s acting after just thirty-seconds, he’s in trouble.

you hold the mic up, professional as ever. “what was the energy like in the dressing room at halftime? a lot of people thought madrid were out of it, but you came out and turned it around in the second half.”

okay. football. he can talk about football.

he nods, words finding him easier this time. “we knew we weren’t out of it. obviously, going into halftime behind isn’t where you wanna be, but we knew we had the quality to come back. it was just about staying calm, playing our football, and making sure we took our chances.”

you nod like you actually care about the answer. not just in a journalist-getting-paid way, not just in a let me get through this segment and move on way, but in a way that feels… real. invested. like you actually watched the game, analysed it, and have opinions of your own beyond what the stats say. like you understand football.

and kylian knows the difference. he’s done enough of these to tell when someone is just reading from a list of prepped questions, asking what their producer tells them to ask, versus someone who actually gets it. most of the time, the people interviewing him fall into the first category.

it’s different with you.

“and you,” you continue, head tilting again. “a goal and an assist in a comeback win. what does a performance like this mean to you?”

he licks his lips, glances at the camera, then back at you.

bad idea.

because you’re looking at him like you already know what he’s about to say. and he wonders, for the first time, what would happen if he told the truth. if he said, it doesn’t mean much, actually. not compared to the way you’re looking at me right now.

instead, he says, “yeah, uh. obviously, i’m happy to help the team.”

and the second it’s out of his mouth, he regrets it.

because your lips part, just slightly. you inhale, then exhale through your nose. then you blink at him, slow and knowing, and let out a soft chuckle.

you’re laughing at him.

it’s soft but unrestrained, like you’re genuinely amused, like you can’t help yourself.

and it’s not just the sound of it—it’s everything else, too. the way your shoulders move just slightly, the way your lips part before curving up, like you’re fighting it but losing. the way your eyes flicker with something warm, something teasing, something that makes kylian’s stomach clench in a way that has nothing to do with the ninety minutes he just played.

he should be annoyed. or at the very least embarrassed, because you’re literally standing here in front of cameras, making it obvious that you see right through him.

but he isn’t.

instead, he wants to hear your laugh again. he wants to say something else, maybe something even dumber, just to see if you’ll do it again.

you shake your head slightly before adjusting your grip on the mic, your fingers wrapping around it so effortlessly that his eyes flick down, just for a second, just long enough to take in the way your nails are done—short, neat, painted a deep shade of red that catches under the stadium lights.

he flicks his gaze back up just as you part your lips, and he doesn’t know why his heart is beating like this, why his fingers twitch at his sides, why he suddenly feels like he’s sixteen again, trying to act cool in front of a girl he likes.

you tilt your head at him, the corners of your mouth still curled. “that’s your go-to answer, huh?”

his brows lift. “what?”

“come on,” you tease, like you’re speaking to him and not the millions of people who’ll see this later. “i’ve watched your interviews. you say the same thing every time.”

he huffs a laugh, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. his eyes flicker over your face, lingering just a second too long on the curve of your mouth, like he’s trying to gauge how much you’re enjoying this. how much you’re enjoying him.

“so you study me?”

the words come out lower than before, almost teasing, but there’s something else underneath it. something a little smug. a little pleased. like he likes the idea of you paying attention to him. like the thought of you watching his interviews, analysing his performances, knowing his patterns—it does something to him.

you arch a brow. “i do my job.”

a smirk ghosts the corner of his lips, “right.”

a pause.

a charged one.

it lasts all of a second, but it’s enough for kylian to realise two things:

one—he likes you.

two—you know it.

but then you school your expression back into something professional, and he remembers there are people watching. that he can’t just stand here flirting with you in front of a camera.

so you ask your last question, something about the fans and the atmosphere, and he forces himself to answer properly this time. to focus.

you nod along, then thank him for his time, and before he knows it, it’s over.

he should walk away.

he should.

but as you turn to wrap things up with the broadcast, kylian hesitates.

it’s stupid. it’s reckless. but the words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

“so what’d you think?”

you blink at him. “what?”

he lifts his chin, smirking now, the dimple in his cheek appearing just slightly, like he’s fighting the full thing. his eyes, warm and dark beneath the bright stadium lights, flicker between yours, watching—waiting—to see how you react.

“of my performance,” he continues, tilting his head just a little, voice dropping into something smoother, lower. “since you study me and all.”

you blink at him, lips parting just slightly.

you weren’t expecting that.

he can tell.

the slightest shift in your stance, the way your fingers tighten just a little around the mic, the way your brows twitch like you’re trying to fight back a smirk of your own.

he notices all of it.

you exhale through your nose, a short, amused huff, then turn back to the camera. “kylian mbappé, everyone.”

he grins.

it’s not the kind of grin he gives after a goal, the automatic one that comes from the rush of the game. it’s not the smirk he throws at his teammates when they hype him up, the cocky, yeah, i know i’m him kind of look. it’s not even the one he flashes at fans when he stops for pictures, the polite, i appreciate you lot smile.

this one is different. stretches slow and unhurried across his face.

this one is just for you.

the interview ends, the broadcast cuts to the next segment, and kylian should be walking away by now. heading into the tunnel, cooling down, doing whatever it is he usually does after a match. but he’s not.

instead, he’s still standing there, feet planted, watching as you take out your earpiece, adjust your mic pack, and shake out the slight tension in your shoulders.

you haven’t looked at him yet, but you know he’s still here. he can tell by the way your lips twitch, the way you take a deliberately slow breath like you’re deciding whether or not to entertain whatever this is.

he doesn’t even know what this is.

but he likes it.

“you waiting for something?” you ask, finally turning to face him.

he shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “just wondering if you’ll give me a real answer now.”

you stare at him for a moment, then click your tongue, shaking your head with a small smile. “so you’re that guy, huh?”

his brows pull together. “what guy?”

“the one who knows he’s good but still wants to hear it. needs to hear it.”

he licks his lips, tilts his head. “nah, i just like hearing it from the right people.”

the way your smile falters, just slightly. the way your fingers tighten around the strap of the tiny bag slung over your shoulder. the way your throat moves when you swallow.

he sees all of it.

“you played well,” you finally say, voice even, measured. “but you knew that already.”

he hums. “maybe. but still nice to hear you say it.”

you exhale, shaking your head again, but you don’t look annoyed. if anything, you look… entertained. maybe a little intrigued. like you weren’t expecting this from him, like you had an idea of him before tonight and now he’s throwing you off just a bit.

he likes that too.

before he can say something else, one of the media coordinators calls your name, telling you they need to wrap up. you glance in their direction, nod, then look back at kylian.

“well,” you say, adjusting the strap of your bag again, like it’s something to do with your hands. “good luck with the rest of the season, mbappé.”

he smirks. “just mbappé?”

you roll your eyes. “kylian.”

better.

you give him one last look before walking off, back straight, strides even, and he doesn’t move until you disappear down the tunnel.

even then, he still doesn’t feel like leaving.

because something about this—about you—feels different.

he’s had interviews before. he’s been around beautiful women before. been flirted with, been teased, been looked at like he’s something to be admired.

but not like this.

not by you.

and yeah, he might not even realise it, but this might be love at first sight.

[locsandletters]

ᯓ leak it; j.bellingham

──smau/fic

pairing ➜ dad!jude x mom!reader

warnings/notes ➜ none

summary ➜ your instagram account is private, until it suddenly isn't.

ynusername

liked by trentarnold66, jobebellingham and 98 others.

ynusername from mykonos, with love.💌

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denisebellingham: give my angel baby a kiss from grandma!🩷 - liked by author

yourbestfriend: tell that man to put a shirt on, nobody's tryna see his ribs💀

↳ judebellingham: you could never just let me live in peace😒

yourcousin: looking that good is illegal in at least seven countries

↳ ynusername: ik, they almost wouldn't let us through customs🫣

aurelientchm: my goddaughter is growing up too fast!!😤

↳ camavinga: there's only one godfather. stop this.

↳ vinijr: yeah and we all know it's me. y/n's just taking too long to announce it officially

↳ rodrygogoes: 🤨

ynusername

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ynusername find us in a flower field💐🌻🌷🌼🌺

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yourbestfriend: your life is quite literally a pinterest board - liked by author

yourcousin: y/n girl your man's fine af😢

↳ yourcousin2: fr. like, my mouth is watering all of a sudden

↳ ynusername: watch me block both of you😭

tolami_benson: my favourite little family😫💞 - liked by author

yoursister: post some cute shit like this again and i'm reporting your account

↳ ynusername: hating from outside the club is crazy

ynusername

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ynusername la vie est belle. a week in the south of france🌊☀️🐚🌴🫧

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judebellingham: best week with my best girls❤️ - liked by author

jobebellingham: i see a suspicious lack of my niece's face in these photos

↳ ynusername: she's camera shy (like someone i know👀)

yourbrother: pls keep the pda for private viewing only🤢

nonzinoo10: when's the wedding?

↳ ynusername: let's slow down.

yoursister: okay, we get it. y’all have a cute baby. y’all are in love, and y’all went to france. pls give us a break

↳ camavinga: you wish that was you huh?💀

↳ yoursister: more than u know sksjsj😭😭😭

it wasn't like you meant for any of it to happen.

you'd been careful, fiercely careful even, to keep your life tucked away from all that came with dating jude. he'd made his decision to protect his private life, especially when you two found out you were having a baby, and you were more than fine with that. he always said he didn't want to be one of those guys who treated his family like a public exhibit, and you had always appreciated that about him.

you'd watched enough of his life get dissected online—his every game, every interview, every faint slip of emotion. the press and fans, some more intense than others, had opinions on everything about him. and when your daughter was born, the stakes got higher. both of you were clear about it: no one was going to make your baby girl feel like she owed the world anything.

so your instagram account stayed small and anonymous. a little private bubble where you shared pieces of your life that no one outside your tight-knit circle got to see. soft images of her little fingers wrapped around jude's thumb, her cheeks flushed as she ran around in your back yard, her face lighting up at the museum, where every artefact seemed like the most exciting discovery of her three-year-old life. and your people—your families, jude's teammates, your own friends—would find their way into the comments, joking, saying how she looked more and more like her dad every day.

on other platforms, you never hinted at anything. especially not on twitter. no full names, no tags—just the subtle pictures of toys spread across the floor, or a pair of tiny sneakers next to his, just a few sizes too small. to the rest of the world, you were just a proud mom with a little girl who, based on your twitter captions, had an amazing dad who somehow never made it into your feed.

and it had worked.

for three years, you and jude had managed to stay under the radar. no pap shots, no tabloids digging into your lives, just peace. the kind of peace you never realised you'd treasure this much. until it slipped through your fingers.

it was a friday night. jude had a game the next day, so he'd fallen asleep early, his body draped protectively around you, one arm resting over the spot where your daughter would normally wiggle in between you both sometime in the middle of the night. it was your nightly routine to scroll through instagram before bed, replying to the handful of comments on your posts, maybe resharing an old memory for your close friends.

tonight, you were posting a small video you'd taken at the park that day. it was nothing special, just jude holding your daughter's hand as she walked across the grass, her tiny steps wobbly. you didn't write much for the caption, just something simple like, "my favourite view."

then, you logged off, tossed your phone to the side, and nestled into bed.

but by morning, you could tell something was wrong.

your phone was buzzing nonstop, lighting up in rapid flashes that instantly made your stomach drop. instinctively, you reached for it, feeling jude shift beside you as you did. unlocking it, you were met with an avalanche of notifications: messages, follows, likes—all from accounts you didn't recognise. your private account, the one with less than a hundred followers last night, had thousands of notifications.

you sat up, eyes wide as you scrolled through. every photo was filled with comments from strangers, fans, people you'd never seen before.

ynusername

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ynusername two sides of the same coin.🤍

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username: ??

username: i need answers. immediately.

username: a BABY? i'm speechless.

username: who are you and why are there so many photos of jude on your page???

username: i thought i knew everything about him... who is she?? is she HIS??😭

username: this is how i find out he has a family???

username: this feels like a fever dream, no way jude’s been a dad this whole time

it felt like the ground dropped out beneath you.

your fingers shook as you clicked through your account settings, scrambling to make it private again, but it felt pointless—like shutting the door on an already broken window. by the time jude woke up, stretching in that lazy way he did, he glanced over at you with his usual sleepy smile, but the sight of you half in tears froze it on his face.

"hey, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep, but you could see him snap to attention as you tried to explain what happened, words tumbling out so fast you barely made sense.

he listened, brow creased as his hand found yours, steadying it between his palms. "it's okay, baby," he said softly, his voice calm, but you could see the way he swallowed, how he looked down and let out a long breath, processing.

he knew exactly what this meant; you both did. the privacy you'd guarded so fiercely for three years was suddenly slipping away, and it was only a matter of time before the chaos started—the endless questions, the ruthless assumptions.

and sure enough, it began.

you'd gone private again, but it didn't matter; people had reposted screenshots, scrutinising every photo you'd shared. the internet was relentless, obsessed with details you'd never imagined anyone would care about. the comments spilled over with speculation, twitter threads popping up with people wondering who you were, when you and jude had gotten together, if the little girl in your photos was his.

the weight of it was wearing you down, and jude could see it. it was easier for him; he'd grown up under the public eye, knew the feeling of being watched, scrutinised. but for you, it was different—suffocating, heartbreaking, to watch the life you'd built be picked apart and exposed. you felt like you were losing something sacred.

one night, he found you curled up on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your notifications, eyes distant and tired. he settled beside you, quiet at first, just holding you. then, in a soft voice, he broke the silence. "maybe it's time we tell them. officially."

you stared at him, surprised, a bit wary. "are you sure?" you asked, searching his face, because you certainly were not. "i mean, we don't have to, do we? we could just... maybe let it blow over?"

he shook his head slowly, a hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips. "they're already guessing, making up their own stories. and i don't want them turning you or our daughter into some mystery they feel entitled to solve." he paused, his hand gently brushing your cheek before resting on the back of your neck. "they already know pieces, love. if we do it our way, maybe we can control the narrative."

you nodded, because, yeah, he made sense. still, it did little to calm the anxiety swirling in your stomach. the idea of letting the world into this small, perfect life you'd built felt overwhelming. but jude had always been protective, and if he genuinely believed this was the right move, that it was time, maybe he was right.

the next morning, he posted on his own account. just a few pictures of the three of you. he didn't write much, just a simple, "my favourite girls.❤️” and that was it.

it didn't take long for his fans to fill up the comments, reactions as chaotic and intense as you'd expected. but in the middle of it all, there was kindness, too. supportive messages, people cheering on your little family, voices of love rising above the judgment—the love overshadowed the hate.

later that night, jude found you on the couch, your daughter dozing against your shoulder. he sat beside you, his arm curling around you both as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. the world might have been watching now, but here, together, none of that mattered.

all that mattered was the three of you.

──────────────────

judebellingham

liked by virgilvandijk, erling, and 4 275 936 others.

judebellingham my favourite girls.❤️

tagged: ynusername

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username: it should have been me is all i'm saying

username: not the little belligol arms, i CANNOT😭💗

davidbeckham: proper family man now.🤍

username: is anyone else irrationally mad right now or am i just too invested??

↳ username: yeah you definitely need to touch grass

aurelientchm: big love, bro.🤝🏽❤️

username: @ynusername can u fight?

username: everyone is putting in their opinions as if we know this man personally. at the end of the day, we're just fans. he doesn't owe us every detail of his life.🤷🏽‍♀️

username: do we get to know her name at least??

username: i can't even hate on it. she seems like a good mom, and their kid is adorable

camavinga: my people❤️ ──────────────────

[sharmeeyn]

[locsandletters]

⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅

JUDE BELLINGHAM

── THREE OF US (fluff)

wc: 1.1k ⭑ established relationship.

── LEAK IT (fluff)

wc: 1k ⭑ established relationship.

JOBE BELLINGHAM

── THE COLOUR ORANGE (fluff)

wc: 0.9k ⭑ friends to lovers.

── SWEET BOY (smut)

wc: 1.3k ⭑ established relationship.

JAMAL MUSIALA

── WORDS UNSAID (fluff)

wc: 1k ⭑ friends to lovers.

── FIRST OF MANY (fluff)

wc: 1.7k ⭑ established relationship.

── FOREHEAD KISSES (fluff)

wc: 1k ⭑ established relationship.

── PRETTY LITTLE CANVAS (fluff)

wc: 0.3k ⭑ established relationship.

LEVI COLWILL

── PETALS (fluff)

wc: 1.4k ⭑ friends to lovers.

── DRUNK IN LOVE (fluff)

wc: 1.4k ⭑ established relationship.

AURELIEN TCHOUAMENI

── CATCHING FLIGHTS (fluff)

wc: 1k ⭑ established relationship.

PEDRI GONZALEZ

── GLOBE TROTTER (fluff)

wc: 1k ⭑ established relationship.

KYLIAN MBAPPE

── ALL EYES ON YOU (fluff)

wc: 2k ⭑ strangers to lovers.

[pnkpill]

[locsandletters]

ᯓ three of us; j.bellingham

──one shot/smau

pairing ➜ dad!jude x mom!reader

word count ➜ 1.1k

warnings/notes ➜ none

summary ➜ waking up to roses, a penthouse suite, and your baby girl’s sweet giggles—jude has valentine’s day planned to perfection, just like he always does.

valentine’s day has never been small with jude. you know this. he’s never been the type to half-ass anything when it comes to you, and God knows he loves a reason to go all out. so when you wake up to the smell of fresh roses thick in the air, when your sleepy eyes blink open to a room flooded in all shades of pink, you’re not even surprised.

a soft giggle pulls your attention, your heart melting before your eyes even land on her. your daughter. your baby girl. sitting right there on the bed between you and jude, still in her pyjamas, soft curls all over the place, chubby fingers wrapped tight around a plush teddy bear nearly bigger than her. the same bear you watched jude pick out himself a week ago. ‘it’s cute, yeah?’ he’d asked, stuffing it into the shopping cart even when you told him it was way too big.

and now there she is, sitting up straight, the bear nearly swallowing her whole as she grins wide at you.

“mama, wake up!” her voice is all sugar, sticky sweet with that innocence only babies have. “daddy say surprise.”

you shift onto your back, glancing to your right, finding jude already watching you with that lazy, smug smile. leaned up against the headboard, one arm resting behind his head, the other wrapped tight around your daughter’s tummy, like she might just float away if he lets go.

“morning, princess,” he murmurs, voice all soft and sweet.

you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or her. probably both.

the place is quiet except for the sound of the city humming outside the windows. jude always books a hotel for valentine’s day, just to switch things up, just because he can. this time, a penthouse overlooking madrid. a ridiculous suite in a ridiculous hotel, the type of place with staff that knows your name and an elevator that only opens with a special key. the type of place only someone like jude can make feel like home.

“you got my baby waking me up early for a surprise?” you mumble, rubbing your eyes, fighting back a yawn.

jude smiles, eyes gleaming. “she wanted to wake you up an hour ago,” he says, ruffling her curls. “had to bribe her with cartoons.”

your baby giggles, snuggling into jude’s side, tiny hands still gripping that bear for dear life.

“you ready?” jude asks, tilting his head, watching you carefully.

you stretch your arms above your head, the silk sheets slipping down your body, exposing bare skin and the delicate lace of the lingerie jude had peeled off you just hours before. his eyes darken slightly, flickering over your figure, but he keeps himself in check.

barely.

“where we goin’?” you ask, lips curling.

he just smirks. “you’ll see.”

but before that, before the extravagant plans, before jude even lets you leave the bed, there’s the first gift.

the one sitting up on her knees right beside you, her tiny hands behind her back, rocking side to side like she’s holding the best secret in the world.

“mama!”

“yes, baby.”

“close your eyes!”

you do, because what else can you do when she’s so excited, when her little voice is bubbling over with joy? you feel movement, the slight shift of the mattress as she crawls closer, jude’s deep chuckle somewhere to your right. then something soft, pressed into your palm.

“open!”

you blink down. a card, hand-decorated with uneven hearts, stickers, glitter smudged at the edges. in the middle, written with the careful grip of a child still learning her letters, it says:

happy valentines day, mama. love you.

the handwriting wobbly. messy. perfect.

your throat tightens.

you look up at jude. he’s watching you, both hands resting behind his head now, mouth twitching like he’s fighting back a smile.

“she picked it out herself,” he says. “even wrote it too, didn’t you, baby?”

your daughter nods, curls bouncing. “daddy helped me!”

“barely,” jude shrugs. “she’s a little genius, just like her mom.”

you should say something, but your heart is too full, your throat too tight.

“you like it?” your daughter asks, voice small, uncertain.

you shift onto your side, wrapping an arm around her, pulling her into you, kissing the softest part of her cheek until she giggles.

“i love it, baby. it’s perfect.”

she beams. jude leans over, pressing a kiss to your temple, warm and lingering. you turn your face into his, brushing your lips over his jaw.

you could stay like this forever.

but you don’t, can’t, because almost immediately after, jude runs you a bath.

insists, actually.

there’s petals floating in the water when you step into the massive marble tub, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice sitting on the edge, a new chanel robe waiting for you on the vanity. jude is annoyingly good at this.

he’s already dressed when you come out—black trousers, a matching prada button-down, sleeves rolled up, top two buttons undone, the gold chain you bought him for his birthday resting against his collarbones. he looks good, unfairly so.

“you’re staring,” he says, amused, adjusting the tiny bracelet on your baby’s wrist as she sits on the bed.

you roll your eyes. “shut up.”

he just grins.

you finally look around.

boxes stacked neatly on the dresser. dior. prada. fendi. chanel. birkins in every colour you can think of, jewellery in cases so beautiful they could be gifts themselves. an unnecessary amount, but that’s jude.

“jude.” you give him a look.

“what?” he shrugs, feigning innocence, lifting your daughter onto his hip. she immediately buries her face in his chest, tiny arms wrapping around his neck. “you know how this goes, baby.”

he’s right. this isn’t new. but still.

you shake your head, stepping closer, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling his warmth through the fabric. “you didn’t have to do all this,” you murmur, tracing a finger over the chain around his neck.

“i know.” he leans down, lips brushing your temple. “but i wanted to.”

you exhale, eyes closing for a second.

“open your stuff,” he nudges, stepping back, adjusting your baby on his hip. “then we’re going.”

“going where?”

he just smiles.

—

you soon find out.

a private brunch. a rooftop, a view of the whole city. live music, candles, a ridiculous amount of food.

your baby in her own little chair between you and jude, a plate full of mini pancakes, her curls tied up in two tiny puffs.

jude feeding you bites of fruit, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

the sun warm on your skin. the softest breeze. the quietest moment.

and then, jude, watching you, soft eyes, softer smile.

"happy valentine’s day, my love," he murmurs, reaching across the table, fingers sliding through yours.

you squeeze his hand, your baby giggling between you, syrup on her cheeks, happiness in her eyes.

"happy valentine’s day, baby," you whisper back.

money can buy a lot of things. but this? this is priceless.

ynusername

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ynusername just a girl and her gorgeous flowers (bought by her equally gorgeous man).💐

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wag: stunner🫦

username: nah i’m hating

username: jude 🤝🏽 single-handedly keeping florists in business

username: you think you’re better than me?🤨

username: bellingham is such an unbelievably shit footballer but he's dating yn so he just wins even when he loses

ynusername

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ynusername valentines weekend dump (the PG version).💞☺️

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username: OH?!

judebellingham: my favourite girls.🩷

username: oh brother, baby #2 otw

jobebellingham: choosing to ignore what the caption implies. my niece is growing up too fast 🥹

username: bitch– RELEASE THE TAPE!!