#jobe x reader

[dixheuresdix]

can you write a jobe bellinham fluff? after dortmund loses a game and needs reader to comfort him. maybe hes like really taking it to heart after people heckle him about his brother

COMFORT;

⤷ ゛masterlist ˎˊ˗

jobe bellingham x f!reader.

dating.

note: thanks for ur req!

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: he had a really bad game and people are mean with him.

usually, even after losses, he’ll send you something. but today, nothing.

when he finally gets home, he doesn’t kiss you or flop onto the couch.

he just drops his bag by the door and stands there for a second. that was when you immediately know something’s wrong.

“hey.”

he looks up and forces a smile. “hey.”

“bad game?”

“guess,” he shrugs.

your heart sinks a little. his voice sounds flat.

it takes almost an hour before he finally talks about it.

the two of you are lying in bed together and you’ve got your head resting against his shoulder while he stares up at the ceiling.

overthinking.

you can practically hear it.

“they were singing about him again.”

you already know who.

jobe’s older brother, jude.

“every away game it’s something. if i make a mistake, i’m the worse bellingham,” he stares at the ceiling. “if i play well, people say i’m only getting attention because of him. so kind of impossible to win.”

“jobe.”

“i know they’re idiots.”

“then why are you listening?”

“because they’re loud.”

you move closer instantly, wrapping an arm around his stomach.

“come here.”

he doesn’t argue or make a joke. he just turns toward you immediately, burying his face against your neck.

your heart absolutely breaks because jobe is usually so good at pretending things don’t get to him.

you run your fingers slowly through his hair.

“you’re sitting here upset because people compare you to jude.”

“yeah.”

“but jude would probably kill someone if they compared him to you after tonight.”

that gets a tiny laugh.

“he would not.”

“he would.”

you continue scratching lightly through his hair.

“do you know what your brother says every interview?”

“don’t,” he groans immediately.

“seriously.”

“please don’t quote jude at me.”

“he literally never shuts up about how proud he is of you.”

“okay.”

“every single chance.”

“okay.”

“it’s actually annoying.”

he smiles, hiding his face deeper into your shoulder immediately afterward.

“there he is.”

“shut up.”

“no.”

his breathing slowly evening out while your hand keeps moving through his hair.

“what if they’re right?”

“about what?”

“what if i’m never as good as him?”

“you are not supposed to be jude, you’re supposed to be you and people who matter already know that.”

you brush your thumb lightly against his cheek.

“and for the record, i like this bellingham better.”

that finally makes him smile. “biased.”

“extremely.”

he leans forward and presses a kiss against your forehead then one against your cheek just because, clingy.

“thank you.”

“for what?”

“for making my head less annoying.”

“that’s my full-time job.”

dixheuresdix, like and comment <3

[zerocoded]

AYO TECHNOLOGY !

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

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

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

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

━━━━━ read on ao3

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

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

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

Jobe’s room. At his parents’ house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, you did!”

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

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

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

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

That does it.

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

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

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

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

"I know."

"So how can you be so sure?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And then?"

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

Heat rushed to your face immediately. "No."

"Mhm."

"Jobe."

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

You felt your stomach sink.

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

The confession hangs between you, understated and raw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he says simply. “It did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at him. He meets your eyes steadily.

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

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

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

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

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

For a while, neither of you said anything.

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

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

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

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

"Dad's up."

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

His eyes met yours.

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

"Yeah."

Neither of you moved.

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

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

"You sound about fifty."

"I feel about eighty."

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

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

"It'll wash."

"It absolutely won't."

"It might."

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

"...Yeah, alright."

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

"I'll replace it."

"Damn right you will."

"There goes next week's wages."

"You play professional football."

"I know."

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

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

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

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

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

"There they are."

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

"Hm."

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

"You alive?"

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

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

"Bin's outside."

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

"What for?"

"You'll work it out."

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

"Oh, no..."

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

"You threw up in Mum's roses."

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

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

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

"I should head off."

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

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

"Does it have to?"

"I don't know."

"I'd rather it didn't."

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

"So would I."

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

"I meant what I said upstairs."

"I know."

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

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

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

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

"So..."

"So?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAGLIST — @hesperisms @caratchronicles @candidupped @grittysbiggestfan

[heartsparasite]

req here

worth it

jobe bellingham x childhoofbsf!reader

jude catches you and jobe being close to intimate, when he tells mark and denise you expect suprise but they all expected it including your family!

taglist (tw) : a bit suggestive, caught, childhood bsfs, established relationship, private relationship

jobe had always been there for you.

when you were six, he was the boy who insisted worms deserved names before they were put back in the garden.

when you were ten, he was the one who pushed you on the swings higher than anyone else dared, promising he wouldn’t let you fall.

when you were fifteen, he was somehow still the first person you called whenever something good or horribly embarrassing happened.

somewhere between those scraped knees, movie nights, and borrowing each other’s hoodies without asking.. being best friends quietly turned into something else.

though neither of you knew exactly when. you just knew that one afternoon, while sitting shoulder-to-shoulder watching some awful rom-com, jobe had reached for popcorn at the same time you did causing your hands to bump into eachother.

he looked at you.

“…what?” you laughed.

“…nothing.”

“…you’re staring.”

“am i?”

“yes.”

“…i think you’re pretty.”

“…”

“…”

“oh.”

that had been almost eight months ago and now, the two of you were somehow dating. secretly though, not because anyone would necessarily care…

okay, maybe because they definitely would. your parents couldn’t keep a secret to save their lives and his family teased him over literally everything. so you both agreed to keep it between yourselves for a while which had worked surprisingly well.

until today.

“they’re all out,” jobe said, dropping onto his bed. “mum said they won’t be back for hours.”

“hours?” you raised an eyebrow.

“hours.”

you smiled. “that’s dangerous information.”

he grinned right back. “i know.”

you sat beside him, knees brushing together. “so…”

“so?”

“what do you want to do?”

he shrugged dramatically. “well, i was thinking we could revise-“

you burst out laughing. “you’re a terrible liar.”

“worth a try.”

you lightly shoved his shoulder but he caught your hand before you could pull it away, pining you down onto the couch in his room.

“…hi,” he said quietly, hovering above you.

“hi.”

“you’re really pretty.”

“you already used that line.”

“still true.”

your cheeks warmed. “you’re so cheesy.”

“and yet you’re smiling.”

“…shut up.”

instead of listening, he leaned closer “make me.”

“jobe-”

he kissed you before you could finish. it was the kind that made both of you smile halfway through because neither of you could take yourselves seriously.

you pulled away just enough to poke his cheek. “you’re insufferable.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

he stole another kiss and when he realised youd given in he starting peppering them all over your face. eventually you were both laughing more than kissing, foreheads resting together.

he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “can i tell you something?”

“depends.”

“i think i’ve liked you since we were twelve.”

“twelve?”

“you beat up that kid who stole my football.”

“i did not beat him up.”

“you threatened him.”

“…”

“…”

“okay, maybe i did.”

“it was very attractive.”

you snorted. “that’s concerning.”

he leaned in again, wrapping an arm around your waist before dipping once again to kiss you. you let out a content sigh before your fingers tugged at his shirt, urging for him to remove it.

he pulled back, discarding the annoying piece of clothing and you took this as your opportunity to straddle his lap.

he let out a soft groan in response, his hand resting gently against your cheek while yours found the back of his neck. the kiss between you two only deepened, the soft moans from you being swallowed by his mouth.

neither of you noticed the bedroom door slowly opening in the heat of the moment.

“well.”

both of you froze. you immediately pulled away from jobe, who only whined in protest. you turned your head so fast your neck nearly cracked and standing in the doorway was his older brother. jude.

his arms were folded. it was obvious he was trying and failing not to laugh. “am i interrupting…?”

you immediately buried your face in jobe’s shoulder.

“i’m moving countries,” you mumbled.

“fair.”

jobe sighed dramatically. “can i help you?”

“actually,” his brother replied, “i came to ask if you’d seen my charger.”

he looked between the two of you. “…i see you’ve both been…busy.”

“leave.” jobe groaned.

“i mean, i found something way more interesting.”

“please.”

“you know,” he continued, completely ignoring him, “mum’s going to find this hilarious.”

your head shot up. “don’t you dare.”

he gasped dramatically, his hands going up. “oh, she’s speaking.”

you pointed accusingly. “if you tell anyone, i’ll-“

“you’ll what?”

“…hide every charger in this house.”

he blinked. “…that’s actually terrifying.”

jobe groaned. “can you please just go?”

his brother grinned. “absolutely. you can have as much smoochy you want” he reached for the doorknob. “after i tell everyone.”

“NO.”

he was already halfway down the hallway.“mum!”

jobe launched himself off the bed, gently pushing you off. “get back here!”

you followed, trying not to laugh despite the embarrassment. “don’t you dare!”

within seconds the entire house was chaos.

“what’s going on?” mark called from downstairs.

“nothing!” you and jobe shouted in perfect unison.

“they’re kissing!” his brother yelled.

there was a brief silence and then:

“…finally!” mark laughed.

denise’s voice chimed in. “i’ve been waiting YEARS.”

“i literally owe your dad twenty pounds,” mark admitted.

“wait you were BETTING? with my dad?!!” you exclaimed.

“of course we were.”

you slowly looked at jobe. “they all knew?”

he rubbed the back of his neck. “…apparently.”

jude walked back into view, smug as ever. “for the record,” he said, “i guessed you two would start dating before christmas.”

“how much did you win?” jobe asked flatly.

“a decent amount.”

you sighed. “this is the worst day of my life.”

jude shrugged. “i don’t know.” he looked between the two of you with the biggest grin imaginable. “looked like it was going pretty well before i walked in.”

you covered your face. “shut up!!!”

jobe groaned so loudly the whole house heard it. “…i’m never recovering from this.”

“we never are..,” you admitted.

he reached over and quietly laced his fingers with yours anyway. “…worth it?”

you smiled despite everything. “yeah.”

“even with him?”

“especially because now he has embarrassing material for the next ten years.”

jude pointed. “correct…i’m making a wedding slideshow.”

“WE’RE EIGHTEEN!”

“never too early to prepare.”

~~

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

[ikiissagirl]

He’s grumpy and she’s sunshine with Jobe. I didn’t have a specific quote I wanted. Thanks :))

you make me happy

pairing: jobe bellingham x f!reader word count: 0,5k summary: jobe gets quite grumpy when he hasn't seen her and when he finaly sees her, he is so happy. warnings: nothing really, just fluff. a/n: getting on with this requests now, thank you so much for requesting and even tho i don't really think i capture the essence of grumpy and sunshine i hope you enjoy.

( MASTERLIST ) ( 200f MASTERLIST )

jobe wasn’t always grumpy, his mood usually depended in a lot of factors, the weather, how much he slept that day, how long ago he ate his last food, and how long he has spent without seeing her. they have been dating for five months and both of them are quite young, so they didn’t live together and work and colleague kept them busy. seeing each other was very unpredictable, they could do it three days in a row and then won’t be able to meet for the next week. 

but this time was different, they have been apart for the longest in those five months. two weeks and a half. she was on her final exams and didn’t have time to even rest, and jobe was pushing himself to the limit to make his best impression when he goes to BvB. they talk every day, facetime in bed time and daily chat at all hours, but the lack of seeing her was evident in jobe. 

he was distant to people and didn’t make conversations if it wasn’t needed, jobe became the type of person that doesn’t even smile with a joke and his dad worried. it didn’t matter that jobe was a timid boy, he was very cheerful so not seeing that smile on his son's face worried him. mark didn’t ask or pushed with any questions, he made jokes on the table when having dinner and when having breakfast, but nothing more than a fake smile appeared on jobe’s face. 

until jobe had enough. one day after training instead of driving to his own house, he drove to hers, it wasn’t far, but it wasn’t close either. it didn’t take him long, his foot pressed on the throttle and he barely lifted it. when he was outside her door he just knocked. and it didn’t matter to him if she didn’t have time, only a hug would put him back on his feet and put a big smile on his lips for the rest of the week. 

she opened seconds later, her hair damp with the water of the shower she just took, her body covered with one of his big hoodies and some shorts that were also covered with the hoodie. “hi, jobe, what are you doing here?” she said and her arms instantly wrapped around his neck. 

jobe’s arms rapidly embraced her, bringing her close to him. he walked with her in her arms and closed the front door behind him, his arms still around her and his face resting comfortably on her shoulder. jobe didn’t spoke and she didn’t pressured him, she enjoyed the feeling of him around her, giving her a warmth she had been craving for the past two weeks. taking in the scent of his perfume and the softness of his clothes. neither of them spoke for a while, they just took in the feeling and after a couple of minutes jobe spoke. 

his voice muffled by her —his— hoodie, “i’ve missed you so much”, short but precise, she didn’t need to know that everyone was joking about him being grumpy or how his heart felt for the past seventeen days. he moved back, just a little bit and kissed her, it was slow and urgent, his hands tightly grabbed her waist like he was afraid this was one more of the dreams he’s been having, “god, you make me so happy” and finally, a big smile appeared on his lips.

[hitdanaynay]

Book Club ✯

Synopsis: An accidental book club with Jobe leads to more...

Pairing: Jobe Bellingham x Black!reader

Word count: 1.2k+ no use of y/n

You and Jobe have been friends for as long as you two can remember. When people asked about how the two of you met both of you can never give a straight answer about it all. 

Throughout it all there was some underlying tension that never strained the relationship but the moments that almost occur is enough to leave you dazed. 

With your birthday coming up Jobe had the bright idea to head into this bookstore that you always yap about, going in confidently after another one of those moments where you talk about all the books you want to buy and read but you simply haven’t had the time to head into the store and buy some. 

Little did he know that you were already in the said section he had plans on going to because he knew your favorite author.

He walked in with a polite smile to the cashier that told him “Welcome in” as he headed straight to the row. Your back was turned towards him, but your curls in that ponytail were easy enough to recognize literally anywhere. It didn’t make it better that your thick black frames that rested on top of your head were so noticeable. 

You turned, sensing the presence of someone else joining you and out of everybody you didn’t expect to see your best friend of all people here.

You knew he didn’t read, but he’s had his moments where he talks about getting into whatever book you’re trying to get into. “Jobe! What are you doing here? I’m surprised” A smile spread across your lips as you brought your iced coffee down to your side and approaching the tall male. 

He chuckled nervously, although you couldn’t tell if you didn’t know the real reason he was here. “You kept talking about this place so much I had to come and visit it for myself y’know?”

He quickly hit the button on his phone to turn it off so that he could hide the list of books you told him about “Awe, how sweet, come” You took his hand as if it was nothing, leading him towards the books you were just having a look at.  

You’d begin talking about the different books despite them all being from the same author and the covers of the books all looking the same, but anything for you, right?

He would love to say he was listening, but he didn’t understand a thing you were saying or how you knew the plot to 90% of the books without reading them. He knew since you spotted him that he would just have to come back another time. For now, he would just have to get you off his back.  

“How about... we start a book club between us? You pick out a book we both read” He suggested. To you, it was as if he just solved gravity as you gasped like you didn’t know he was able to come up with such a good idea. “Smartest thing you’ve said all day Jobe, good job”

You already started out picking out books before eventually choosing one out of process of elimination. 

You knew about the contents inside the book and the intimate scenes that were held inside, but you didn’t think much of it because all you could think about was the plot. You simply didn’t see it as a big deal. 

You grabbed two, handing one to him as you and Jobe began your walk to the front desk to check out. When you two both placed the books on the counter, you were ready to tell the cashier that you guys were paying separately. But Jobe pulled out his card without saying anything, stacking both on top of each other and pushing them towards the lovely lady in front of you guys.  

As you two walked out you looked towards him “I’m surprised you paid without complaining” you said smugly, “It’s the least I could do, you already recommended such a great book”

A small smile plastered on his face but to him, it was a smile of relief that you both walked out of that store without another question. 

Eventually, the pair agreed to stay at your house, lighting candles and grabbing throw blankets to settle on your couch, on opposite sides because Jobe claimed he needs to stretch his legs across the couch for “extra comfort.”

You both read silently or more like you did. Jobe kept looking up at his book and at you. The way the candles reflected just right against your chocolate skin and your glasses that made you look like the sweetest girl in the world.  

Jobe shifted, sitting closer and more next to you instead of letting his legs stretch like he once wanted. You hadn’t noticed. You were too engulfed in your book to care about what he was doing.

He gave you a reason to finally buy it and time to read it, so you weren’t paying attention if he was reading his. As he finally got enough focus on his book, he finally got to that intimate part. You were pages way ahead, already passing by it. 

The guy in the book— or as described, made a move on the girl he wanted, placing a hand on her thigh. Now he is lucky that the feelings were very obviously mutual. Jobe took his chance, placing a tender hand on your thigh, but it went unnoticed. 

Maybe he could get away with more than he thought he could. Not that you didn’t notice; you did; you just didn’t think much about it. Next, he slid his hand higher. It wasn’t hard to notice that clearly. Now considering you passed that part he’s reading you knew exactly what he was referencing. 

“You know this book isn’t a tutorial, right?” You weren’t irritated by his touch whatsoever, but it became more amusing than anything. Like you were daring him to keep going. “I thought it was, you could’ve fooled me” He sarcastically said.

He was well aware of what he was doing, and he seemingly wasn’t backing down on it either. Gosh. The room was getting heated like no other with both of your books now resting on top of your coffee table and his hands beginning to rise higher up to your waist. 

You weren’t stunned that this was happening, but it still felt like a fever dream seeing Jobe starting to hover over you. You laid your hands on top of his white shirt, right at his abs before you let them roam, feeling the print of them right through the shirt. 

He began leaning down towards your lips, but you didn’t waste any time leaning up and meeting him right in the middle. His soft plump lips overtaking yours as the kiss was sensual and slow, both of you being sure to take in the moment. 

The night continued between the both of you, practically recreating the book in perfect detail.  

When finished, both of you panting and Jobe resting in the crook of your neck you mumbled while looking up at the ceiling “There’s a movie to the book we could watch?” 

Here you were suggesting the movie as if the same exact scene won’t make you guys go another round. “I can order pizza?” Jobe suggested.

Don’t forget to like and comment! 🪷

[bobskysworld]

Can you write a Jobe fic or like jobe headcanons

I miss you- Jobe Bellingham

pairing: jobe bellingham x fem!reader

warnings: tiny bit of angst

summary: if BvB was Jobe’s dream… why was he feeling so empty?

note: 🧍🏾‍♀️confession, i’m not so invested in the Bellingham brothers, so i hope i did Jobe some justice here

“yeah yeah i’ll join you guys later” Jobe told his teammates

walking into his empty hotel room, Jobe threw his training bag on the floor and fell on the bed with a sigh, Dortmund had proceeded the the round of 16s of the Club World Cup, spirits were high and the entire team was ready to celebrate.

so why did Jobe feel so empty

he was proud of his achievements so far, happy that the team was able to get this far yet he couldn’t bring himself to celebrate.

in reality Jobe would much rather be with you, back in Sunderland you’d attend matches, congratulate him with a kiss followed by a night of relaxation and pampering curtsy of you. when you couldn’t attend, you’d still be home ready to welcome and congratulate him.

now? the only thing that embraced him were the cold starchy sheets of the hotel bed.

the ring of his phone pulled Jobe out of his thoughts, he fished in his pocket and pulled it out, your name flashing across the screen with a picture of you smiling at him that he’d taken mid tickle fight back home serving as the background

“hi handsome!” you beamed on the other side “thought you’d be celebrating with the team”

“i’d rather be celebrating with you” Jobe answered honestly

“do the dortmund players know their newbie is a simp?” you joked, your laugh quickly dying when Jobe didn’t poke fun back

“hey now” you say softly “what’s wrong?”

Jobe sighed “do you think i made the right decision?”

“in terms of?..” you ask

“signing with Dortmund” Jobe replied “it’s just…”

he sat up “this distance we have now, it’s nothing compared to what we’ll have when we get back to Germany, plus the time zones and the critiques, God the critiques, everyone thinks i’m trying to be like Jude, that i joined Dortmund to be like him, i might as well have stayed at Sutherland or better yet joined Real Madrid-

“hey hey” you softly interrupted Jobe who was now breathing heavily, eyes glistening with tears waiting to fall

“breathe” you say to him “remember when we first announced our relationship?”

“yeah” Jobe said shakily

“and i was hyper fixating on the comments, the comparisons and the criticism about why would you date someone as dull as me” you call “what did you say to me?”

“the opinions of the bastards who wouldn’t be able to repeat what they’re typing to your face shouldn’t matter…”

“they’re just cowards with internet access” you finish off “think about that when you see those trolls, they don’t know you, they don’t know Jude, how the hell would they know if you’re alike or different?”

“you’re Jobe Bellingham okay!” you yell out

“i’m Jobe Bellingham” Jobe repeated

“and the distance thing…. i wanted to keep this a secret, surprise you before the preseason training but, i applied to and got accepted to Technical University of Munich” you smiled

“wait what?” Jobe asked with wide eyes

“yup!” you squealed “just stay in Germany until i complete my degree please”

“oh my God baby” Jobe laughed “you have no idea how happy you have just made me”

“even happier than progressing to the round of the 16s?” you tease

“know your limits now” Jobe jokes back “i don’t know what i would do without you”

“i guess you will never have to find out handsome”

before Jobe could get a word in his door burst open, the loud noise of the BvB players rushing in

“Bellingham, you’re not dressed?”

“we’re leaving in 10!”

“oh my God he’s talking to the missus”

“is that your girl?”

“HELLO MRS BELLINGHAM”

“get dressed oh my God!”

Jobe simply launched a pillow at his teammates before giving you an apologetic look and hanging up. giggling at your phone you typed out a quick goodnight message and warned him not to drink too much

As chaotic as this life was, with Jobe you wouldn’t have it any different.

[mariejuli]

  ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ۪ ݁ 𓈒 ۪ ˳ .⋅ ݁✧　 ॱ 　 ۪  ۪  ⠀ ㅤ. ㅤ ִ ۫ ּ    　  ֗

★ desiré doué

★ ferran torres

★ hugo ekitiké

★ ibou konaté

★ jamal musiala

★ jobe bellingham

★ jude bellingham

★ kenan yıldız

★ kylian mbappé

★ michael olise

★ omar marmoush

★ pedri

★ virgil vandijk

★ william saliba

★ xavi simons

[oluwadaraaa]

Dinner Date.

Pairing: Jobe Bellingham x Reader | wc: 9.7k

Summary: You and Jobe have been dating for some while and you haven't had a proper date due to the paparazzi and all. He asks you out on a dinner date but he doesn't show up after you've waited.

Note: This is my first time posting a fanfic. I'm sorry if it isn't good as the others and sorry if I make mistakes in some parts!

The restaurant hummed with low conversation, silverware clinking gently against porcelain. Soft light glowed from chandeliers above, catching the shimmer of your jewelries each time you shifted in your seat.

You smoothed the fabric of your dress again. You felt sweaty. Nervous. For your date. A dinner date. With Jobe Bellingham. It was felt unreal, it wasn't something that you planned but you were glad that it happened.

Your phone sat down, untouched. Your eyes lingered to the door. Anticipating for your date to enter anytime soon. 'Anytime soon.' You told yourself. He'd walk in any second from now.

You leaned b ack, exhaling slowly. A smile tugged at your lips as you went into memory lane to remember when you first met.

You were in the club with your friends. Bass thumped through the floor, neon lights pulsed around the crowded room. Your friends were deep into their second round of shots but you weren't with. You sat down in the bar dancing in your seat.

That's when a shadow fell over the table.

"Mind if I sit?" A voice asked. Low. Smooth, like he'd been here before.

You looked up expecting a drunk man but you didn't. He didn't look like those club guys. His smile was easy, not pushy, and for some reason you found yourself nodding.

"Sure." You said, motioning on the seat next to you.

He sat down, facing you. His elbows leaned on the table. His eyes flickering on your untouched glass.

"You don't look like you're having much fun." He said.

You shrugged. "Maybe, I'm not just the dancing type."

He chuckled. "Fair enough, not everyone is the dance type."

There was something grounding about him. Despite the flashing lights and the chaos of the club, his attention didn’t waver. He asked you what you liked to drink, if you came here often. Somewhere behind him, a group of guys were laughing, clearly watching the two of you, but you barely noticed.

"You look like someone." You pointed out. His brow raised. Curious.

"Who do I look like?" A subtle smirk. lingered on his face.

"Hmmm." You hummed, tapping your chin and thinking. What celebrity does he look like? You looked at him again, studying his facials.

Then it clicked.

"Wait." You gasped. "You look like Jude! That Bellingham guy that everyone crushes on." Your smile widened.

That earned a quiet laugh from him, low and amused. He leaned forward a little. "Is that so?" His eyes glinting.

"Yeah, your resemblance is uncanny. You could actually pass as his younger brother or something."

The smirk widened, but he didn't correct you. He just titled his head, sipping in his drink. "You think so?"

"I know so." You nodded, certain. "Trust me, I've seen his face everywhere. On interviews, billboards,  Tiktok clips—" You stopped suddenly, realization dawning as you looked at him. Your mouth dropped open.

"Wait." Your hands flying to your lips. "Don't tell me–"

He chuckled, holding out his hand across the table like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Jobe. Nice to meet you.”

You took his hands, shaking it. "Holy shit." You muttered under your breath. "I'm with a Bellingham." You whispered.

"I love how you took your time." He winked.

You laughed. Still in disbelief. "I can't believe it. No wonder, half of the club keeps staring." A smile tugged at your lips.

He glanced over his shoulder where a few of his teammates were clearly watching, trying to hide their grins. When he turned back, his expression softened. "And yet I’m over here, talking to you."

That line pulled a small, unexpected flutter from your chest and you tried to cover it with sarcasm. "Smooth. Do you rehearse that one?"

He laughed again, warm and unbothered. "Not at all, but you're giving me time to rehearse."

And that's when you knew something changed that night. You knew there was something about him. How he talked, how he listened to you– something that made the club chaos fade just for you to feel like you weren't another face in the crowd.

"Miss?" A voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You blinked, realizing you’d been staring a little too long at the flickering candle on your table.

A waiter stood beside you, polite smile in place, tray tucked under his arm. “Would you like me to refresh your water? Or… perhaps order while you wait?” His tone was careful, he didn't know when they weren’t sure if they should feel sorry for you.

Heat crept up your neck. You shook your head quickly. “No, thank you. I’ll… I’ll wait.”

“Of course.” He gave a small nod and slipped away, leaving you with the clinking of cutlery.

And you waited.

And waited.

Waited.

You waited for him just to come into the door. You tapped your phone which was on the table to see any notifications from him but you didn't. That's when you knew that he wasn't coming anytime soon.

Tears began to build up but you couldn't let your emotions get ahead of you. You stood up, paid for whatever you purchased. People gave you the look–looks of pity, curiosity.

You left the restaurant feeling betrayed. Stupid. Gullible. He didn't even text, no calls. Nothing. It made you furious and made you wonder why he did that.

Then headlights cuts across the street, stopping right in front you.

The driver seat opens, and he steps out.

Jobe.

He moves fast, his face all sweaty, his hair not combed, his eyes locks on yours–filled with guilt. You didn't care, you broke the contact and walked past him.

You heard him call out but you didn’t stop. Your legs just kept moving, faster this time, not caring.

"Wait!" He shouted again, calling your name. You shook your head, wiping your cheek quickly with the back of your hand. You couldn’t let him see you like this. Not after you sat there all evening waiting, staring at the door like a fool.

The footsteps came closer, louder, and before you could step off the curb, a hand caught your arm gently. Warm. Firm.

You froze, your back still turned to him.

"Please," his voice was softer now, almost begging. "Just… look at me."

Slowly, you turned around, and there he was—Jobe. Breathless. His eyes searched yours, guilt all over his face.

"I’m sorry," he said quickly. "I swear I was on my way, but Jude—" he rubbed the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you. “He called last minute, wanted me to come over. Said it was important. You know how he gets."

Your jaw tightened. "So you left me for him, you made me sit down for hours waiting for you!"

"It wasn’t like that," he rushed out. "I thought I’d make it on time after, I really did. But then it dragged and—" He sighed, shoulders slumping. "I messed up."

"You did, big time." You stared at him, your arms crossed.

"Jobe, I sat there like an fool waiting for you. People were staring at me like I got stood up." You pointed. "No texts, no calls–nothing."

"I didn’t mean for that to happen." His voice was softer now, like he was trying to shrink the weight of it. "I thought you’d understand. It was Jude, he needed me."

You laughed, but it wasn’t funny. "But I needed you the most! It's always the same excuse–It’s either training, your friends, now Jude. When is it ever me? It was our first date Jobe!" Your voice croaked, tears already starting to build up.

It was your first date together after multiple texting, video calls on phone. You planned it'll go smoothly, you thought it'll be magical but now it's ruined.

That shut him up for a second. He blinked, chest rising and falling like he was searching for words.

"I’m here now,” he said finally. “I came, didn’t I?"

Your heart twisted, but your face stayed cold. “Yeah, you came… after I already knew I didn’t matter enough to be first."

You turned like you were ready to walk away, and his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist gently.

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t go.”

You yanked your hand out of his grip, the sting of disappointment heavier than his touch. "Don’t." Your voice cracked, sharp but shaky. "You don’t get to hold me like that after making me feel like nothing."

His jaw tightened. For a moment, he looked like he didn’t know whether to argue or beg. The silence stretched between you, broken only by the muffled hum of cars passing on the street.

You folded your arms tighter around yourself, "You’re Jobe Bellingham, right? The guy that all the girls are supposed to be lucky to even talk to. Maybe that’s what I should’ve expected."

"That’s not true," he said quickly, eyes narrowing just a little. "You know I don’t think I’m above you."

"Then why did you leave me sitting there alone?" you shot back.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. No excuse this time.

"Why am I even surprised." You scoffed. "And I thought that maybe I've found love somewhere but I was wrong. Maybe being a celebrity girlfriend isn't my thing after all."

"Please don't say that, my love." His voice breaking, he was guilty and he knew. His eyes watery, he didn't know how to react. "Please...." His voice quiet.

"I messed up, big time. I know I did. But don’t let this ruin the night. Please, my love."

You sigh. "Fine but  how exactly do you want to fix this mess?"

"I know a place,” he said quickly, eyes pleading. “Not fancy, not crowded, but good food. Just… somewhere we can actually talk. No waiting, no staring, no nonsense. Just us."

You hesitated, arms still crossed, but something in the way he looked at you—genuine, desperate even—made the edge in your chest soften a little.

"Fine," you said finally, voice tight but giving him a chance. "But if this goes wrong too, I’m walking again."

His face lit up with a small, relieved smile. "Deal. Come on."

He offered his hand, and after a beat, you took it. Warm, solid, and a little comforting. Together, you walked toward the car, the tension between you still there, but slightly eased by the promise of a do-over.

The place he took you to wasn’t fancy at all. Just a small restaurant down a side street, warm lights, a few tables, and the smell of fresh food in the air. It was quiet, not packed like the other place, and for some reason, it made everything feel more better.

Jobe held the door for you, and you walked in, still a little tense, but not as tight as before. He led you to a table in the corner and pulled out a chair for you like a proper gentleman.

"I’m really sorry about before," he said, sliding into the seat across from you. "I should’ve texted. I should’ve—" He shook his head, cutting himself off. "I just… I messed up, okay?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the little smile threatening to break through. "Yeah, you did. Big time."

"I know," he said, grinning sheepishly. "So, can I make it up to you, Love?"

You studied him for a second, then shrugged. "Fine. But if this place sucks, I’m blaming you."

He laughed, the sound soft and easy. "Deal. But trust me, you won’t be disappointed."

The menu smelled amazing, but you barely looked at it. You found yourself watching him instead—how he was relaxed here, how his smile felt real, how his eyes lit up when he talked about stupid things, like the new playlist his teammates were obsessed with or some game he had that week.

For the first time tonight, you felt yourself relax. It wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t perfect. But right now, sitting across from him in this quiet little place, it felt real.

You picked at the edge of your napkin, pretending to be focused on it, but your eyes kept sneaking glances at him. He was scrolling through his phone for a second, then looked up and caught you

With a teasing grin. "You like what you see?"

You rolled your eyes, trying not to laugh. "Please. I’m just… observing."

"Observing, huh?" he raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. "That sounds way too serious for a first date."

You smirked. "Maybe I take my first dates seriously."

He laughed, soft and easy, and it made your chest feel warm. "Good to know. I’ll try to live up to the standard then."

The waiter came by with your food, and as you started to eat, he watched you like you were the only person in the restaurant. Every once in a while, he’d reach across the table, brushing your hand lightly, just enough to make your stomach flutter.

"You’re ridiculous," you said, shaking your head but smiling.

"And you like it," he countered instantly, smirk tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes, but your grin betrayed you. "Maybe I do."

He leaned back, satisfied, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. Just sat there, eating, laughing at small jokes, the awkward tension from earlier slowly melting away.

By the time you left the little restaurant, walking back toward the car, your hand brushed his, and this time, you didn’t pull away. He gave your fingers a soft squeeze, and you couldn’t stop the small smile from spreading across your face.

Tonight didn’t go as planned. But right now, it was perfect enough.

Dinner was over and Jobe offered his arm as you walked toward where his car was parked, and you hesitated for just a second before taking it. The ride back was quiet, comfortable. He didn’t try to fill the car with small talk.

When you reached your street, he pulled up in front of your house. The headlights cast a soft glow on the sidewalk, and he turned to you, a small, nervous smile on his face.

"I’ll walk you to the door," he said.

You nodded, letting him help you out. He stayed close as you walked up the path, your hand brushing his every few steps.

When you reached your front door, he stopped and turned to face you. "I had a really good night," he said softly, eyes searching yours.

"Me too," you admitted, heart fluttering.

He leaned just a little closer, his hand finding yours. "I won't make the same mistake again and I promise that I'll make our date more special each time to amend my mistakes."

You smiled, "Okay, i trust you."

"Thank you," he whispered.

And then, before either of you could think it, he pressed his lips to yours. Just a soft, quick kiss at first, then a little longer as you leaned in, wrapping your free hand around his neck. Your heart raced, and everything from earlier—the waiting, the frustration melted away in that moment.

When you finally pulled back, you were both smiling, a little breathless, but happier than either of you had been all night.

"Goodnight Jobe." you whispered.

"Goodnight, my love." he said, grinning. "See you soon." And he gave you a quick kiss before leaving.

You watched him walk back to the car, the soft glow from the streetlights catching his hair, and you couldn’t stop smiling. Tonight had been a mess, but somehow, it had ended perfectly.