and after all [18+]
pairing: elliot anderson x fem!reader
warnings: smut, slight intox, fingering, p in v
words: 3.3k
a/n: for anon. apologies that it took 4ever to write, but in good news i am on the very empty elly hype train now so i will have more elliot fics on the way soon!! :)
this was very bittersweet to write: i tried to recall exactly how id felt after/while i watched the norway vs england match. it wasn’t quite the same knowing the ending
The stadium has been alight the entire match from both sides. You scream your throat hoarse, even into the extra time. Even if it doesn’t help the players, it makes you feel a little better about the chaos unfolding in front of you.
The game is, quite frankly, gruelling. You don’t expect it to be easy, but you barely scrape a win in extra time. You’re on the edge of your seat the whole game, heart in your mouth. You have to believe, and you wholeheartedly do, but the game is too narrow to relax. The whole crowd feels it, the tension is tangible.
You’ve been watching Elliot work himself thin running up and down, playing up to his standards despite the undeniable exhaustion. The air is thick and heavy, something you’ve grown to resent about Florida, and you can see that it’s affecting him. Still, he’s shining on that pitch—like there’s nowhere else on earth he’s meant to be.
When the whistle sounds out, loud and clear, everybody’s shoulders drop. Relief floods through the stands, followed by a wave of ruckus. Beer is sloshed out of glasses haphazardly as people throw their arms up in celebration. England have done it, again. For a moment, you thought they wouldn’t. Then Jude had sent it home and god, you could see it then and there—Elliot holding the best trophy of them all in those same calloused hands that cradled your waist like you are a prize.
His eyes find you immediately, jaw working relentlessly on a piece of gum. He’s beaming, brighter than the sun. The joy around the stadium is palpable—everybody’s looking at each other as though to say it’s really coming home this time. You’ve never believed it more. You want to bottle it up and wear it like perfume. Glory.
It’s different now. You can feel it, everybody can. This time, it’s something special. You’ve never meant that as strongly as you do now. The team shake hands politely with the Norwegians, exchange brief conversations with their club teammates. But you can see that they’re as high off the win as anybody in the crowd is: off of the roar of the fans, off of the promise of a next round, off of all their hard work paying off.
The squad forms a wall, chanting right back at the crowd. Your heart swells with pride. Of course you always had complete belief, but now it feels less like a belief and more like a not-so-distant reality—an idea that isn’t at all unreasonable. They could bring it home. He could bring it home. Your eyes linger on Elliot, chest puffed out with gratification, lips forming the words around a cheesy grin.
I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now.
—
He’s back to the hotel later than usual that evening. Not late, not enough to alarm you, but a little into the night. You listen aptly to the door shutting, and his trainers gently thunking against the wooden floors when he kicks them off. He pads quietly into your room, unsure if you’re awake.
When he sees the bedside lamp on, golden light spilling over your face, your eyes trained on your phone screen, he smiles. A wobbly, tipsy smile. He’s really not allowed to be drinking, not with another match so soon, but what Tuchel doesn’t know can’t hurt him. And he’s more than earned it.
He settles in beside you, hands cold where they find your waist under your shirt—his shirt. Your favourite sleep shirt, his name on the back in big letters just to drive him crazy. And it does.
His fingers dip just into the collar, resting there and making you shiver. When he speaks, his face is closer to yours than you remember it being. You can smell the one-too-many-pints on his breath, see the pores on his face. Yours, you think to yourself, unable to bite back your smile. Nobody else has him like this.
“We done it.” He murmurs, breathy and giddy, accent heavier with drink. He sounds like a kid on Christmas morning confronted with a mountain of toys. Your heart swells.
“You have.” You giggle, gaze softening when he presses your foreheads together. Gently, you caress the nape of his neck, feel the short stubble of his hair under the pads of your fingers. Your words are soft when they fall from your lips. “I’m proud of you, y’know. You were brilliant tonight.”
“It was all for you.” It’s something he wouldn’t admit sober, but you don’t doubt it for a second now that he’s said it. The words are achingly truthful. Your heart squeezes in your chest. “Everythin’ I do out there is. Just.. kept thinkin’ about you. Up in those stands, watching me. Gotta play good for my missus, haven’t I?”
“You’re being an arse.” You huff fondly, hand sliding down to cup his jaw. He melts when you stroke his cheek with your thumb, unconsciously nuzzling into your warm palm.
“Just been thinkin’ about you.” He brushes your hair off of your face, movements clumsy. His eyes scan your face briefly. Bashfully, he admits, "Haven't stopped, to be honest.”
“Twat.” You breathe, your heart suddenly lodged somewhere in your throat. You can see it in his eyes, a fiery glow, how much he wants you. Your stomach twists at the intensity.
“I’m always thinking about you.” He giggles breathily, his smile so big it creases his eyes. You can’t help but smile fondly because you know it’s true.
He dips in slowly to press your lips together. Your stomach erupts with frantic butterflies—god, do they ever go away? You still get them after years together. But not like the first time, it’s different now—worse, maybe.
The kiss is slow, gentle. There’s not much in it, yet, but you can tell that it won’t last for long—that he’s holding back. His hands are big and calloused against your soft skin, body radiating warmth. Beneath the scent of somebody else’s borrowed body wash, he smells of home. You part your lips just enough to allow his tongue in, head spinning as he tangles it with yours. He tastes of beer and faded mint and him. God, you’re ruined already.
The match has thoroughly exhausted him, you can tell that much, but he isn’t letting it affect him. Not when you’re right here, all his.
“Been waiting all day for this.” He sighs out when he pulls away to breathe. Your thumb rubs back and forth on his cheek. He’s barely even trying to pretend it isn’t affecting him. “All that training. Just wanted to be here with you.”
He looks ridiculously handsome: eyes half-lidded and sleepy, lips flushed and slick. You barely give him time to catch his breath before kissing him again, harder this time. He exhales, something akin to a laugh.
His tongue finds yours again, except this time he means it. It’s still slow, but it’s hotter now—with a need that wasn’t there before. A firm determination. Your tongues slide in long, easy strokes, sharing saliva. It’s not a feeling you’ll ever get used to: the warmth of his skin and lips against yours. Your fingers curl around his jaw.
“Need ya.” He sighs into your mouth. It’s hard to catch your breath when he’s looking into your eyes like that.
“Are you not tired?” You huff, brushing the backs of your fingers over his cheek. He looks drained down to his core, and you can feel it in every staggered movement. “Tuchel isn’t gonna be happy if you’re slacking tomorrow.”
“Don’t give a toss about him.” Elliot rolls his eyes, jaw shifting unconsciously—you always tease that it’s because he doesn’t know what to do without a piece of gum—but he doesn’t look mad, only earnest. “Want my girl.”
“El—” You start to protest, and he shushes you with a quick peck. Gives you a look to match it.
“I’ll manage. Don’t matter.” He moves carefully, slowly, to see if you’ll object. You don’t. How could you, when he looks like an angel?
He presses his lips lazily into your jaw, nose clumsily bumping into your skin. One of his hands slowly slips down from your waist, catching in the waistband of your panties. There’s a brief skip before he pulls them down slowly, fingers skidding smoothly along your thighs. You shiver, suddenly exposed.
You tug his shirt messily over his head, tousling his hair in the process, not even bothering to pretend to be graceful. He just smiles like he knows—you don’t doubt that he does.
He drags his fingers slowly, reverently, through your folds. Lets the slick gather on his fingers and has to bite back a groan. When he speaks he sounds both amused and pleased. There’s a laugh somewhere in his words. “Knew you’d be soaked. I fuckin’ knew it.”
You whimper softly, both at his words and touch. You trace your fingers along the muscles of his back, feeling them ripple under his skin as he shifts.
His fingers dip lower, just circling your entrance but not daring to push in. Not yet. Then they glide back up, rubbing neat circles over your clit until you shudder and mewl, legs instinctively pulling up towards your chest. Your nails dig crescents into his back, heart racing harder at the sound of his heavy breathing. He sounds half-way ruined already.
It doesn’t take anything at all, really, to make him cave—you meet his eyes, the prettiest ocean blue and full of hunger, yours no doubt pleading.
Two fingers push into you without warning, so thick you splutter and clench around them. You gasp shakily, hips rocking unconsciously into his hand. You’re almost certain he needs this as much as you do, judging by the way his eyes study your face like you’re fine art.
You can’t even begin to control the moan that’s punched straight from your lungs when he curls his fingers just right, fingertips pressing into that bundle of nerves. He curses softly under his breath, achingly hard in his joggers. You, all spread out pretty, all his—god.
He curls his fingers again, smirking proudly when you cry out. Then he finds a rhythm, simultaneously slow enough to drive you crazy and fast enough to leave you a shaky mess. So much yet not enough.
You know that this isn’t enough, that you need him properly. That you need to feel his cock inside of you, so full you could cry. His big hands bruising your waist as he fucks into you. You’re almost distraught with want until you remember he’s all yours. That you can have him like that.
“Fuck, Elly—need you.” You manage, voice high and breathy. A whine, almost. He pauses, eyes darker.
He watches you in awe for a moment or two: brokenly moaning his name, cheeks flushed pink, pupils dilated in your half-lidded eyes.
Slowly, he pulls his fingers out. You whimper at the emptiness, pussy clenching around nothing. He kisses your cheek in apology, lingering there briefly. He smells so good that you could devour him.
He fumbles one-handed with the strings of his joggers, then clumsily pushes them down. You palm him—once, twice—through the thin cotton of his boxers. He watches through heavy-lidded eyes, lips parted. His shoulders drop, tension abandoned, as his hips grind unconsciously into your palm.
“‘S all I’ve been able to think about, all day.” He admits breathily. You let your hand drop and watch his brows knit as he curses under his breath.
Clearly, he needs you badly, and that’s not something you’d ever turn down.
He tugs his boxers down, fisting himself lazily. Spreading the beads of pre-cum down along his length. You watch hungrily in anticipation, the sight enough to make you salivate. Your eyes drag over the furrow in between his brows, a mixture of restraint and pleasure.
“You alright?” He murmurs, voice full of care, eyes locked on yours. His words jumble clumsily into each other, desperate and just a little tipsy. You nod frantically.
He gives a short nod in acknowledgement, giving himself one last pump of his wrist before shifting to line himself up. You exhale sharply in anticipation.
Slowly, carefully, he pushes in. Your jaw opens, but no sound comes out besides a harsh, quiet breath. It feels as though you’re being split apart at the seams, and you dig your nails into the delicious muscle over his shoulder blades. It’s a sensation you’ll never get used to: how fucking perfect he feels inside of you.
There’s no rush, no impatience in his tired bones. He just languidly buries himself deeper, inch by inch, while mouthing lazily at your throat. You feel like collapsing into tears, a mess of putty in his hands.
“Fucking hell, Elly.” You whimper, every part of you alight with need and love that’s so intertwined you can’t hardly tell the difference. “Fuck.”
He bottoms out with a soft groan, teeth playfully finding your pulse point. You let out a giggly gasp, dragging your fingers lightly over his back while you both adjust. Gently, his fingers knead your thighs. The scent of him fills your nostrils and you suddenly can’t think. All you need is right here.
His hands smooth over your waist with utmost care, eyes locked on your face. Studying, but more so in the way an artist might watch their muse. Like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, like he needs to memorise this moment forever and keep it safe in his heart.
“Fuck. Can I—” You cut him off with a frantic nod, words lost somewhere in your throat. He exhales deeply like he needed just that, then leans in to kiss your jaw.
Despite both of yours’ desperation, he starts slow. Patient, wanting to feel. Wanting to savour you. Just the smooth roll of his hips into yours, foreheads bumping clumsily. Your breathing is ragged and harsh, chest heaving. You need more, all of him, right now. His eyes bore into you, a shock of heated blue.
There’s an essence of relief around the both of you. You’d both needed this more than anything: Elliot’s dick nestled deep inside of you, breaths mingling between saliva-slick lips. His big hands, warm and calloused, seem to envelop you. They’re everywhere at once.
This is where he belongs. You wish you could frame this moment and treasure it forever. Still buzzing off the win, off of the hope, half-drunk and fatigued, yet it only makes him more desperate for you. You moan, hot and high, and he kisses you like it’s inevitable. Like there’s nothing else he knows how to do.
Your tongues meet: hot, messy and half-arsed—more swapping saliva than actual kissing. He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating right through you. Your fingers curl loosely around the nape of his neck, trying to tug him down closer. His hips grind slowly, unhurriedly, into yours. You’re practically shaking from need for more.
And he must understand you without needing to hear any words, because you don’t manage to push your shame aside enough to beg. But nevertheless, he knows. You wouldn’t be surprised if he could read your mind.
One hand grips your hip, bruising yet tender, as he picks up the pace. It’s still clumsier and slower than normal, but there’s a fervency in his movements despite his exhaustion. There’s an aching need when his hips press flush against yours, cock buried deep inside of you. His brows are furrowed like he needs all of the strength in the world not to wear himself out by fucking you into next Tuesday. It irritates you, a little, that he’s still being sensible.
“Fuck, El.” You shudder, voice high and broken. He groans, watching your eyes struggle to stay open, flushes red when you compliment him. “So fucking handsome.”
Your entire body feels alight: flames licking up into every muscle, blood hot. His eyes study your face, and when you meet them he smiles; a proper, big smile. Your fingers dig into his shoulder blades, your internal monologue an insistent mantra of his name. Sweat gathers in his temple and traces delicately down his jaw.
He presses your thigh upwards, every thrust deeper now. You cry out when he hits that bundle of nerves deep inside of you, and he exhales something akin to a prideful laugh.
Every perfect grind of his hips wrecks you more. You can feel his muscles growing weary, the combined strain of 120 minutes on the pitch and fucking you taking a noticeable toll on him. But he can’t stop, not when you’re all splayed out in front of him and you look like a dream. He grunts quietly under his breath, eyes half-lidded. The noise makes your stomach twist violently.
You whimper, clawing at his back as he renders you speechless. His voice is quiet, even more so than usual, and strained when he speaks, “Fuckin’ hell, love. Been wanting you like this for days. Couldn’t keep my hands off much longer. Y’feel so good.”
He watches you with the fondest gaze, like he’s trying his hardest to memorise the way you look: spread out in the sheets, cheeks flushed and lips parted.
“I love you.” You breathe into his lips, watching his face carefully. He smiles unconsciously, groaning all quiet and shaky. “Fuck, Elly, I love you.”
He buries his face right into where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing hot and heavy into your skin. It’s much easier to hear his soft, shy groans like this. You’re so full of love you feel as though your heart could simply explode.
He curses softly under his breath, one hand snaking down between you to swipe neatly over your clit. Your nails claw into him, lips parting around a loud moan. He laughs breathily like he isn’t taking you apart piece by piece, ruining you until you’re nothing but raw sensation. Like this isn’t the closest you can come to heaven on earth. You cry out his name and he quietens, suddenly serious, thrusts becoming less messy and harder.
And when he finally finds that perfect combination between the roll of his hips and the rhythm of his fingers, you just shatter without warning.
You clench down around him with a broken moan, blood pulsing hot in your ears. It’s sudden, hot and desperate and exactly what you need. Elliot moans, low and gutteral, hips pushing hard into yours a few more times until he comes deep inside of you with a choked out whimper, muffled by his teeth digging lightly into your shoulder.
He stays there for a while, weight pressing fully on you, still buried inside of you. Just catching his breath, soaking you up. Like there’s nowhere he’d rather be. Your hands soothe gently along his back where you’ve scratched it up in long red streaks. There’s a small welling of pride in your chest. Yours.
“Fuck.” He manages after a long pause, voice awed and soft. His body is heavy with exhaustion and he’s panting with exertion. “Think I could sleep for a year.”
He pulls out with a wince and tugs you carefully into his chest. You can hear his heart pounding dully against his ribs, skin sticky with sweat under your cheek. There’s a long pause where nobody speaks: your bodies intertwining seamlessly is a language of its own.
You sneak a glance upwards, lips already parted in preparation of murmuring some fond, soppy nonsense, but you realise that he’s already asleep: head twisted to the side against the pillow, lips parted a little. If you really focus, you can hear his soft almost-snores. You can’t help but giggle fondly, quickly settling back into his chest and letting him get some much-needed sleep.
