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ᯓ fall from grace; j.bellingham

──one shot

pairing ➜ jude x preacher’s daughter!reader

word count ➜ 6.7k

warnings/notes ➜ 18+ minors dni. lowkey innocence kink. some slight power imbalance (he’s 2 years older + more experienced). church girl™️, reader having an internal crisis. angst if you squint.

summary ➜ you meet jude on a random saturday night. some might call it serendipity, you just call it the beginning of your downfall.

you don't even like parties like that.

birthday, baby shower, graduation, whatever kind of party it is—you always find yourself standing near the exit, picking at the edge of your cup, smiling when expected, but never really there. even at church gatherings, when aunties are fanning themselves, talking about the goodness of God, and cousins are running around sticky-mouthed from too much cake, you're somewhere on the sidelines, nodding along but never fully melting into the moment.

it's not that you completely hate them. it's just that they've never felt like you.

you don't do the loud music, the heavy bass that rattles your chest. don't like the way people move in dim lighting, hands wandering, voices slurring, bodies pressing too close. don't care much for the mindless small talk, the smell of liquor clinging to the walls, the fake love that seems to ooze from everybody's mouth after their third drink.

it's not you.

and yet, somehow, you're here. at some house party that has absolutely no business being this packed, clutching a red cup full of something you aren't even sipping, standing by the porch like you're waiting on God himself to send you a sign that it's time to leave.

you should've stayed home, but your friend begged and begged, said you needed to get out, live a little, loosen up. said it like you were some wound-up little thing, too afraid to step outside the lines drawn for you.

so you borrowed one of her dresses. it's tight, clings to you in places you don't usually let yourself acknowledge. it's not short, not inappropriate, but it shows off the curve of your thighs, the softness of your waist, enough to make you feel like maybe you should've thrown a sweater over it before leaving. you tug at the hem, shift from foot to foot, take another glance at the gate like maybe—maybe—you should just call it a night.

and then, he walks up.

casual. easy.

he moves like the world bends for him, like he's used to doors opening before he even knocks. like he expects it. welcomes it. like he thrives in it. and maybe he does—because he's jude bellingham, and his name rings bells far beyond this crowded house, far beyond this city.

he's the guy whose face you've seen on billboards, stretched across stadium screens, flashing in sports headlines your daddy flips past in the morning paper. a name your little cousins scream when they're dribbling in the backyard, pretending they're him, tongue poked out, eyes locked on a goal that doesn't even exist.

you know who he is.

he looks like money. like fame. like a world you don't belong to. he looks like the kind of guy your daddy would pray for you to stay away from. there's something about him that screams worldly, that tells you he's seen too much, had too much, lived too much to ever be satisfied with simple things. with quiet things.

he stops in front of you, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne. you can't even name it, but you know it smells expensive, smells rich, like something way above your whole bloodline's tax bracket.

"you alright?"

just that. no introduction. no hey, i’m jude. like he expects you to already know. which you do. but still.

his voice is smooth, thick with that accent that makes his words roll off his tongue just a little different. it makes heat lick up your spine, makes your fingers curl tighter around your untouched drink.

you don't answer right away. you just blink up at him, trying to figure out why. why, in a house full of people who probably came here just for the chance to breathe the same air as him, he's standing in front of you.

you shift, clear your throat. "yeah. just—" you hesitate, then sigh, "—not really a party person."

jude's mouth twitches, just barely.

"yeah?" he lifts a brow. "what, you get dragged out here?"

you give a small, tight-lipped smile. "something like that."

his eyes flick down, taking in the way you tug at your dress again, the way your shoulders are stiff, like you're waiting to be judged. he can easily tell you don't belong here, that you slipped in from a whole other world.

he sees it in the way your nails tap against your cup, like you're trying to distract yourself from how much you don't fit into this picture. in the way your eyes flick toward the exit—again—like you're counting the steps it would take to leave.

he almost smirks, because you look like a lost little lamb, dropped into the middle of something you shouldn't be in.

and he likes that.

too much.

"you wanna go somewhere quieter?" he tilts his head just slightly, smiles so sweetly it almost feels calculated.

and you should say no. you should. it's what's expected of you. the voice of every woman in your life rings in your head, your mama's warnings about boys with hands too quick and smiles too sweet, the voice of your youth pastor reminding you of what happens when you stray too far from the path.

"i—" your voice is softer than you'd like, unsure. "i shouldn't."

his smile doesn't waver. in fact, it deepens, like he expected that. like it only amuses him.

"but do you want to?"

"it's just—" you hesitate, shifting on your feet. "my friend's inside, and i don't wanna leave her alone."

jude doesn't react immediately. he just watches you, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's entertained by the excuse you're trying to convince yourself with.

"that her right there?" he asks, nodding toward the open door, where your friend is laughing, deep in conversation with some guy you don't recognise. her body is angled toward him, her hand resting on his arm, her drink half-forgotten on the table beside her.

your stomach twists, because yeah. that's her. looking very much not alone.

jude chuckles, tongue peeking out to wet his lips before he looks back at you. "yeah, she seems real concerned about where you are."

he's got a point. you know he does. and before you can come up with some half-assed rebuttal, he's already stepping in a little closer. soft eyes, even softer smile, head tilting just enough to make you dizzy.

"i won't steal you away forever," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, so smooth it nearly melts into your skin. "just for a little while. promise."

it's stupid. so, so stupid.

but the way he says it makes it feel like the safest danger you'll ever walk into.

so before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can remind yourself of all the reasons why this is a bad idea, before you can let the guilt take root in your stomach—

you nod.

and jude grins.

like he knew you would.

—

you don't kiss him that first night.

you almost do. his mouth gets close, real close, and your breath hitches when his thumb brushes your jaw. his touch is warm, gentle, not rushed. but you flinch anyway, just a tiny jerk of your chin, a nervous swallow he doesn't miss.

he steps back, slow. like he can see the hesitation all over your face. like he already knows the battle waging inside your head, between what you've been taught and what your body is starting to want.

"don't worry," he says, voice low. steady. like he's used to getting his way but doesn't mind waiting this time. "won't do anything you're not comfortable doing."

you nod, grateful, embarrassed, confused all at once.

grateful because he didn't push, didn't try to take what you weren't ready to give. didn't make you feel stupid for hesitating.

embarrassed because you wanted to. for a second—half a second—you wanted to feel his lips on yours, to know if they were as soft as they looked, to know if he'd kiss you sweet or if he'd take his time, teasing, drawing it out until you had no choice but to pull him closer. and that thought alone makes heat crawl up your neck, because what kind of girl are you to be thinking like that? what kind of girl stands out here in the dark, alone with a boy like him, heart racing, mind spinning, knowing full well she has no business even entertaining the idea?

confused because none of this makes sense. because he's him, jude bellingham, a name bigger than this city, bigger than you. because you're just some girl from a quiet neighbourhood, the preacher's daughter, the one who plays it safe and follows the rules and doesn't end up in situations like this. you don't flirt with boys who have money and a reputation that stretches across continents. you don't hold conversations with them after midnight, hands stuffed in their pockets, smirking when you tell them about how your daddy would lose his mind if he knew you were out here.

but you do.

you let it happen.

you let him happen.

you watch as he knowingly smiles down at you. soft. indulgent. patient. like he already knows how this story ends. like he already knows that this thing between you isn't about if—it's about when.

and the way your stomach tightens, the way your lips tingle from nothing but the ghost of what almost happened? you know it too.

he's what you'll be craving... eventually.

—

ynprivate

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ynprivate life lately.✨

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yourbestfriend: beautiful ass bitch.😍

↳ ynprivate: language☹️

boyfromchurch: you get prettier every time i see you😢 - liked by author

yourfriend: all your angles are good angles😌

↳ ynprivate: 🥹💕

—

ynprivate added to their instagram stories

💬 judebellingham has replied to your story

judebellingham: cheffing up like this and didn’t offer me none? fake.

ynprivate: i don’t share with strangers.

judebellingham: good thing you and i are way past that then.

ynprivate: are we?

judebellingham: if our intimate little interaction from the other night is any indication, yeah.

ynprivate: intimate? you romanticise things. dangerous habit.

judebellingham: no. i remember things how they are. the way you looked at me was anything but casual.🤷🏽‍♂️

ynprivate: you’re delusional.

judebellingham: and you’re deflecting. which is fine. you’ll say what you mean eventually.

ynprivate: and that is?

judebellingham: you want me

ynprivate: hilarious.

judebellingham: you think i’m charming

ynprivate: even more hilarious. i’m busy. stop texting me, before i burn my cookies.

judebellingham: send me one. wanna taste.

ynprivate: go buy your own, i’m sure you have the budget for it big baller.

judebellingham: problem is, i don’t want a cookie. i want your cookie.

ynprivate: …

judebellingham: i meant that in exactly the way you just thought i did

ynprivate: wow. i’ll pray for you

judebellingham: i’d love that.😊

ynprivate: 🤦🏽‍♀️

—

he’s right about one thing.

you do think he’s charming.

weeks pass, and jude keeps randomly popping up.

at the coffee shop where you work—just off campus, tucked into the corner of a busy street, a place that smells like roasted espresso beans and vanilla syrup. you don't even see him at first. too busy at the register, wiping your hands on your apron, trying to keep up with the rush.

but then you hear his voice. low, warm, unmistakable.

"medium caramel latte. extra shot."

you look up, and there he is. leaning against the counter, watching you with this lazy kind of amusement, like he's already in on a joke you don't know yet.

you stammer out a "hi," and he grins.

"hey, pretty girl. you work here?"

you nod, suddenly flustered, suddenly too aware of how you probably smell like milk and coffee grounds, how your braids are tied in a lopsided bun at the top of your head.

"since when?" he asks.

you tell him—a few months now, just something part-time, something to keep busy.

"i like it," he says, tapping his fingers against the counter. "suits you."

it shouldn't make you warm inside, but it does.

after that, he starts showing up more. not every day, not even every week, but enough that you notice.

one time, he pops up at that one spot behind the student centre where you go to read alone.

you found it your first year—a little courtyard, quiet, shaded by trees, tucked away from the main pathways. most people don't even know it's there. you go when you need peace, when the world feels too loud, when you just want to sit with a book and let time slip through your fingers.

so when jude shows up on a random tuesday afternoon, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he belongs anywhere but here, you frown.

"how'd you find this place?"

he shrugs, lazy and unbothered, before dropping onto the bench beside you. "a little birdy told me this is your spot. figured i'd find you here."

your best friend. of course. she's been on one ever since she caught wind of whatever this thing is between you and jude. grinning every time his name comes up, eyes wide with something like glee when she saw him talking to you after church that one time.

she's way too invested. and knowing her? she probably handed him the information on a silver platter. all it would've taken was a quick dm, a little charm, and she would've folded in seconds.

you make a mental note to cuss her out later. in the most christian way, of course.

you turn to jude, lips parted, already halfway to telling him that you don't play about your reading time—but then he stretches out, long legs sprawling, his whole body shifting into something that looks too good to ignore.

his arm drapes over the back of the bench, all casual, his fingers just barely brushing against your back. and he's looking at you with something like amusement in his eyes, like he knows you won't ask him to leave.

and maybe you should. maybe you should roll your eyes, tell him to give you space, bury yourself back in the pages of your book. but the way he's sitting there, looking at you like this is exactly where he's meant to be? yeah. suddenly, the company doesn't feel so bad.

the first time, he talks your ear off.

leans back on the bench, eyes flicking between you and the worn-out pages in your hands. asks you what you're reading, why you picked it, if it's boring, if it's "one of them romance novels with the cringy shit."

"it's a classic," you argue, looking up at him, brow raised.

he snorts, shaking his head. calls you a hopeless romantic.

the second time, he brings food.

"thought you might be hungry," he says, pulling a sandwich and a drink from a brown bag. claims it's the best sandwich you'll ever taste because he made it himself.

you try to act unimpressed, try to keep your face neutral, but your stomach betrays you—growling at the smell of warm bread, fresh and tempting. his lips twitch, like he's fighting a smirk, before he nudges the bag toward you.

"go on, then. take it."

his fingers brush yours when you do. a small thing, a nothing moment. but something flickers in his gaze, quick and unreadable, before he looks away.

and maybe that's the moment something shifts. when you stop seeing him as this footballer who keeps showing up and start seeing him as jude.

jude, who doesn't tease when you say you've never even been on a real date. just nods, like he's storing that information for later. jude, who actually listens when you talk about your family, your plans, your fear of failing—like every word you say matters.

jude, who looks at you like he's figuring out a puzzle he likes being confused by.

jude, who's creeping into your life, slowly, surely, and you don't even realise you're letting him.

—

he doesn't kiss you until the third time he sees you outside church.

you're wearing a long, pink dress. something modest, something pretty. it cinches just enough at the waist to remind you that you have one, but it flows past your ankles, grazing the tops of your shoes with every step. it's the kind of dress your mama approves of. the kind that makes the older women at church nod in quiet approval when you walk past, whispering to their daughters about how this is how a young lady should carry herself.

your daddy's sermon is still ringing in your ears as you step out of the church, voice deep and steady in your mind: temptation comes in many forms, but the Lord will always give you a way out. you had nodded along like you understood, like you believed it was that easy, like you didn't already feel something twisting in your stomach—something you couldn't name, something that lingers even as you take careful steps down those stone steps, hands folded in front of you like a proper girl.

and then you see him.

jude's waiting across the street, leaning against a matte black mercedes. he's parked just far enough to not be obvious, but close enough that you know he's waiting for you.

he's watching you.

not in a way that's obvious to anyone else, but you feel it. the weight of his gaze. the way his eyes drop down the length of your dress before dragging back up. the slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips, like he's already thinking something he shouldn't be.

he doesn't belong here. doesn't belong anywhere near your daddy's church. but neither do you—not if the way your pulse jumps at the sight of him is any indication.

he lifts his hand, two fingers beckoning you over, just once. subtle. casual.

your daddy's voice is still in your head. temptation comes in many forms.

and yet, your feet are already moving.

he doesn't say a word when you stop in front of him. just looks at you, the way he always does—like you're something rare, something to be studied.

"what?" you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

he tilts his head, corners of his mouth curling in a small smile. "nothing," he says, but it's very clearly a lie.

you cross your arms, but it's useless. doesn't do anything to shield you from the way he's looking at you. doesn't stop the heat that creeps up your neck, the way your stomach tightens when he reaches out, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress.

"this new?" he asks, voice low, barely audible over the noise of the street.

you nod, because you don't trust yourself to speak.

he hums, fingertips trailing just slightly before he pulls away. "pretty," he says. simple. like that's that. like it's obvious.

you should leave. should turn around and walk back up those steps, back inside where it's safe, where your mama and daddy are probably still shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. but you don't. you just stand there, rooted to the spot, watching as jude pushes off the car, the heat of his body suddenly much closer than it was a second ago.

he lifts a hand, fingers brushing against the chain resting against your collarbone. it's barely a touch, more like an absentminded gesture, his thumb lingering for a second too long, pressing lightly against the charm hanging there, before he lets it drop.

his tongue swipes across his bottom lip, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is lower than before, softer.

"can i kiss you?"

it's quiet. barely above a whisper. but it hits you hard, like he just knocked the air out of your lungs. because he's asking, asking—so, so sweetly.

your breath catches. your fingers twitch where they rest at your sides.

you should say no.

you should remind him that you just left church, that your daddy is still inside, probably lecturing girls your age about purity and virtue. that you were raised better than this.

but then you look up at him. and suddenly, none of that matters.

"yes," you breathe.

and that's all it takes.

he doesn't waste time. doesn't hesitate. the second the word leaves your lips, he moves—one hand curling around the side of your neck, the other pressing against the small of your back, pulling you in close, closer, until there's nothing between you but heat and the sound of your own breath catching in your throat.

he kisses you like he's been thinking about it for weeks. like he's imagined it a hundred different ways, but none of them compare to this—to the way your lips part under his, to the little sound you make when he tilts his head and deepens it, to the way your fingers clutch at his shirt like you need something to hold onto; because this isn't the kiss of a boy who's unsure. this is possession, plain and simple.

you feel him smile against your lips when you don't pull away. when instead, your hands slide up, fingers brushing at the nape of his neck, holding him there. when you sigh into his mouth like you've been waiting for this just as long as he has.

and when he pulls back, just slightly, just enough to drag his teeth over your bottom lip, just enough to let you breathe—he doesn't go far. his nose brushes yours, his breath is warm against your cheek, and his voice is lower now, thick with something you don't have a name for.

"you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that," he murmurs.

and then he kisses you again.

when he eventually pulls back, he's got that look. like he's tasting something he didn't expect to love so much. like you're some flavour he's never had before, and now that he has, he's wondering how he ever went without it. his fingers twitch where they're still resting on your waist, like he's fighting the urge to grab you, pull you back in, drown himself in you all over again.

and that's what makes you step back.

because the way he's looking at you cracks you wide open. like he's peeling back your layers without even trying, stripping you bare with nothing but his eyes. it's unnerving. intoxicating. makes your fingers twitch at your sides, makes your breath catch in your throat.

"uh," you trail off, voice thin, trying to ignore the way your heart is in such a frenzy against your ribcage, loud enough that you're sure he can hear it in the space between you.

he tilts his head slightly, watching you, watching the way you fidget under his gaze, the way you bite your lip like you're trying to stop yourself from asking him to kiss you again.

"how come you're here?" you ask, because you don't know what else to do with yourself. "aren't you supposed to be in madrid?"

"break between games," he responds mindlessly. his eyes stay locked on you, intense, unreadable. they trace over your face, your lips, the way your chest is rising and falling just a little too fast, like you're struggling to catch your breath. "i come back home sometimes. clears my head."

you feel warm all over. heat rushing up your neck, pooling low in your stomach.

you want to ask why you, then. out of all the girls he could 'come back home' to. out of all the girls he could have. the models, the singers, the girls who got names blue-check-verified. the ones who post thirst traps and don't flinch when someone touches their thigh.

but you don't ask.

because you like how he looks at you.

like you're something precious he wants to keep for himself.

like he's never had anything like you before. and maybe, just maybe, he never wants to go without it again.

—

ynprivate

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ynprivate no scrubs.

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judebellopriv 😍😍😍😍😍😭😭😭😭😮‍💨😮‍💨😱

↳ ynprivate relax.

—

judebellopriv

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judebellopriv met a rare jewel (in the words of king george🫡)

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ynprivate corny.

↳ judebellopriv i’m the love of your life. be nice to me.😔

—

things get... interesting after that.

kisses that grow longer. hands that travel further. his voice in your ear, soft and deep, saying things like, "you can tell me to stop, pretty. i'll stop whenever you say."

and you believe him. you do. but the problem is you never really want him to stop.

he calls you "pretty girl" when you're shy, when your fingers fidget with the hem of your new pastel cardigan, when you tuck your face into his chest after he says something that makes your skin feel too hot to wear. when you sit next to him in his car, trying to ignore the way he looks at you like you're the kind of girl men start wars over.

he calls you "baby" when you're quiet, when you're watching him with those soft, searching eyes like you're trying to understand every little part of him. when you're curled up against his side, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin like he's coaxing you to say something, anything.

"what you thinkin’ about, baby?" he murmurs, voice all gentle, because he genuinely wants to know where your mind goes when you get quiet like this.

you shake your head, because you can't say it. you can't tell him how deep he's gotten into you, how you're always thinking about him now—when you're in class, when you're at work, when you're sitting in the pews listening to your father preach about temptation and sin and how easily the devil slips into the cracks of your foundation.

he calls you "mama" when you're doing things you know you shouldn't be doing. when you're in his bed, back arching, lips parted, fingers grasping at his shoulders like they're the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. when you let him push you past every boundary you swore you'd never cross, when you let him drag you into the kind of pleasure that feels more like salvation than sin.

and it sounds so good in his mouth. so right. like it belongs to you. like he belongs to you. like every time he says it, he's giving you another piece of himself to keep.

and maybe you are keeping him. maybe he's yours in a way he's never been anyone else's before.

maybe you're his in a way that feels deeper than flesh, deeper than anything either of you have ever known.

—

he keeps showing up more.

in your bed, late at night, when your parents are fast asleep two rooms down the hall. you sneak him in, because that's apparently something you do now. feet tiptoeing across the hardwood, heart pounding so loud you're sure it'll wake up the whole house. you don't even turn on the lamp—just fumble for him in the dark, breathless, nervous, excited in a way you can't explain. and he's there, all warmth and muscle and mischief, slipping under the covers like he belongs there.

on your phone, texting things that make your thighs clench under the covers.

"what you wearing?"

it's the first thing he sends, and you already know where this is going. you hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen. but he knows you too well.

"don't get shy on me now, pretty."

you take a breath, then type back.

"my nightgown."

it's a simple answer, nothing suggestive about it—but jude makes it mean something.

"the white one?"

"yeah."

"the one that's real thin?"

you pause. heart hammering.

"yeah."

the typing bubble pops up, disappears, pops up again. then—

"wish i was there."

you exhale sharply. shift under the covers. try to ignore the way your thighs press together on instinct.

"jude..."

"bet you're warm under there."

your breath catches.

"bet you keep rubbing your legs together, trying to make yourself feel good without me."

your fingers shake.

"open your legs for me, baby."

and God forgive you, but you do.

and, of course, he shows up in your mind as well. when you should be studying, praying, thinking about your future.

you sit in the second pew, bible open on your lap, the words on the page nothing but blurred ink. your daddy's voice booms through the church, preaching about temptation — because that's suddenly all he's been preaching about lately.

"flee from sin," he says, voice thick with conviction as he paces back and forth across the pulpit. "do not entertain it. do not welcome it into your home. into your heart. into your bed."

your breath stutters.

you swear your daddy looks at you too long. like he knows something. like he can see the filth on you. your fingers tighten around the edges of your bible, nails pressing half-moon indents into the leather. your mama glances at you, concern in her eyes. you force a smile, nod like everything's fine.

"temptation is a test," he continues. "and the devil is patient. he waits for a moment of weakness. he whispers to you when you're alone."

you suck in a sharp breath, heat crawling up your neck. because he does.

except it isn't the devil whispering to you at night.

it's jude.

"miss me?"

"wish i was there with you, don't you?"

"bet you still feel me, huh?"

you do.

so much so that it's wrong. so much that you feel like the walls of this church are closing in around you.

you shouldn't be here.

but you shouldn't be in jude's bed either. or sneaking him into yours. or texting him back. or letting him touch you like he does.

"resist temptation, and it will flee from you."

your fingers tremble where they rest on the page. because you don't want it to flee.

you want it to stay.

you want him to stay.

—

jude learns your body too quick. too well. too thoroughly.

it should scare you—the way he figures you out like he's done this a hundred times before, like he's studied you in a past life and came back knowing exactly what makes you gasp, what makes your voice shake, what makes you go all pliant and pretty beneath him.

he takes his time with you. always. moves slow, like he's savouring every moment, like he enjoys watching you come undone little by little. because that's the thing about jude—he doesn't just take pleasure from you; he drags it out of you, pulls it from the depths of your belly, coaxes it from between your lips until you're trembling, until you're arching into him, until you can't think straight.

he likes to test your patience, to see how long it takes before you can't handle it anymore. he'll brush his lips against the shell of your ear, mumbling, "look at you. so damn needy." and he'll chuckle when you whine, when you try to pull him closer, when your fingers clutch at his shirt like you're begging.

and your voice—God, your voice.

the way it wobbles when he kisses down your neck. the way it catches when he mouths at your collarbone. the way it pleads before he finally—finally—presses his hips against yours.

you call his name like it's something sacred. like it's something holy.

and maybe it is.

maybe in the heat of this room, in the way he touches you like you're the only girl in the world, in the way he murmurs, "let me hear you, baby. i wanna hear you say my name,"—maybe in all of that, he is holy.

at least, that's what it feels like when he finally gives you what you've been aching for, when he murmurs your name back just as soft, just as breathless, just as wrecked.

and suddenly, the preacher's daughter isn't so pure anymore.

—

ynprivate

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judebellopriv honoured to finally make it to the feed🥹

yourcousin ✨glares at this post with the rage of 1000 bulls ✨

yourbestfriend can this lightskin boy fight?

↳ judebellopriv come find out 🤨

↳ ynprivate 💀

—

he corrupts you in pieces. not all at once.

one night, he's between your legs, looking up at you like you're the only girl that's ever mattered.

it's the first time. and you're nervous. your thighs tremble, and you keep trying to close them, instinct kicking in. but jude doesn't let you. his hands are firm, spreading you open, settling you against his mouth like he belongs there.

"relax, mama," he murmurs, lips brushing against your sensitive skin. "just let me taste you."

and God, do you let him.

his tongue is slow, dragging over you with a patience that makes your head spin. he groans into you, like he needs this, like this is his salvation. his hands grip your thighs tighter, his tongue flicks, swirls, sucks, and you swear you forget how to breathe.

"fuck—" the curse slips out, unbidden, and you slap a hand over your mouth, eyes going wide.

jude pulls back just enough to grin up at you, chin glistening. "that's a first," he teases, before licking back into you, hungrier this time.

you should feel ashamed, should feel guilty, but all you feel is him. the warmth of his mouth, the desperation in the way he grips you, the heat curling low in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter with every flick of his tongue.

your fingers tangle in his curls, tugging, pulling him closer, closer, closer, and he groans in pleasure against you, like he loves it when you take what you need.

his name spills from your lips, over and over and over, and when you cum, it's with a soft cry and a shudder that rocks you to your core.

he doesn't move for a moment. just presses his lips to your inner thigh, breath warm against your damp skin.

"told you i'd take care of you," he murmurs, voice low, eyes dark as he watches you try to catch your breath.

you don't respond. you can't.

because for the first time in your life, you don't know what comes after.

—

he meets your daddy once.

it's at a football charity event in the neighbourhood. something small, nothing crazy—just a few sponsors, some local businesses, a handful of academy footballers showing up to sign autographs, pose for pictures, and play a friendly game with the kids. you're only there because your mama insisted, said it was a good cause, said it'd "look good" if you showed up because your daddy's church is donating supplies—clothes, food, books for the kids.

you don't ask how jude's dad got involved. maybe he knows somebody who knows somebody. maybe it's just one of those things that happens when your son is famous, and people call in favours like it's nothing.

you also don't know jude himself is going to be there. not until you hear a collective of screams from the little boys and girls, all hyped up and bouncing on their toes like they can't believe their luck.

your stomach instantly drops as you turn to look across the field. to look at your man. the one you could never claim publicly.

he's in his element—long limbs, strong build, the kind of casual confidence that only comes from knowing you're him. he's grinning at the kids, talking to them easy, letting them pass the ball between themselves.

he laughs at something one of the kids says, head tilting back slightly, tongue peeking out between his teeth. your heart stutters. it always does when he looks happy like this—like the weight of the world isn't sitting on his shoulders for once.

his hand ruffles one of the boy's curls before he steps back, rolling the ball under his foot, nodding for them to come take it. and even in something as simple as that, he moves with a smooth athleticism that's almost unfair.

it's mesmerising. it always is.

and then—like he can feel you watching—he glances up. his eyes find yours instantly, like they always do. his grin shifts, turns into something slower, something more knowing. his head tilts slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in those deep brown eyes.

you look away. immediately. pretend to be interested in anything else. the donation table. the banners. the sun, for God's sake. anything but him.

but jude? jude is shameless.

because, before you know it—

"hey, pretty girl."

you freeze for half a second. then slowly, carefully, you turn your head, your heart slamming against your ribs. not because he called you that. he does that all the time, whispers it in the dark when he's got his hands on your waist, when his mouth is on your skin, when you're falling apart beneath him.

but this? this is here. this is now.

you don't even get a chance to say anything before your daddy steps in.

"jude bellingham," he greets, extending a hand, voice firm. "been hearing a lot about you, son."

jude takes it without hesitation, shaking it firm, nodding like he knows how to play the game.

"all good things, i hope."

you side-eye him. but jude just grins, the corner of his mouth lifting, and somehow, it makes him look even cockier.

you want to kill him.

but he plays it cool. stays respectful. makes conversation. even your mama seems to like him, which is ridiculous, because if she had any idea the things he's done to you—

you shake the thought out of your head, forcing yourself to focus.

people come up to him, ask for pictures, autographs. he takes it all in stride. smiles, poses, makes them feel like they matter. it's the first time you really see it—the way he switches it on, the charm, the ease, the star power that makes people want to be near him.

but when the attention dies down and the crowd shifts, he still finds his way back to you.

"nice dress," he murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear, his fingers brushing your wrist for half a second too long.

you step back, shooting him a glare. "stop."

his brows lift, all innocent. "stop what?"

you don't answer.

you can't answer.

because your daddy's watching, your mama's close by, and the last thing you need is for anyone to see the way your breathing falters when he's too close.

jude notices, though. of course he does. his lips twitch. and then—because he's him—he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch.

"see you later, mama."

and with that, he walks off, leaving you there—flustered, irritated, wanting.

you don't even hear the rest of your daddy's speech. don't even remember why you came here in the first place.

all you can think about is later.

when the sun goes down. when the cameras are gone. when it's just you and him.

because he meant it.

and you know—deep in your bones—that tonight, he's going to make you pay for pretending you don't want him.

—

there's a moment—late, after everything, while jude is lying on your chest, tracing lazy circles into your skin as you lay in his california king bed—where he murmurs something that makes your breath catch.

you're still trembling from the weight of what just happened, your body spent, skin dewy, lips tingling from the way he kissed you like he was trying to brand his name into your mouth. the sheets are tangled around your waist, his body warm and lax beside you, his fingers absentmindedly dancing along the curve of your hip like he isn't even aware he's doing it.

the room smells like him—cologne, clean linen, and the faint musk of sex that lingers in the air. the dim glow from the city outside seeps through the cracks in the blackout curtains, casting soft shadows over the luxurious bedroom.

your heart is still beating too fast, your mind caught somewhere between reality and the high of him. you don't even know what time it is. past midnight, probably. maybe later.

then, in that quiet, between the distant hum of cars outside and the slow rhythm of your breathing, he speaks.

"you're the only good thing in my life right now."

his voice is heavy with something you can't quite name. it's almost like a confession, something secret slipping past his lips before he can stop it. it feels unguarded. raw. too honest for a boy like him.

you want to ask what he means. why he said it. if he really believes it.

but you don't.

because you see the way his jaw clenches like he's already regretting saying too much. the way his fingers tighten just slightly on your hip. the way his head stays pressed against your chest, close enough to hear the way your heart stutters at his words.

and maybe you should leave. maybe you should remind yourself that this was supposed to be nothing, that you were never meant to matter to him like this.

but instead, you exhale, slow and careful, and thread your fingers through his curls. soft. comforting.

"i'm not going anywhere," you whisper, and it feels like a promise you shouldn't be making.

but he sighs against your skin, like it's exactly what he needed to hear.

and so you hold him.

because you're not so pure anymore. not after him. not after the way he's touched you, seen you, ruined you in the best and worst ways.

and honestly? you'd let him do it again.

every night.

every sunday morning before church.

every time he whispers your name like he's afraid he's dreaming you.

because even if it's wrong... even if you go to hell for it...

there's nothing holier than the way he makes you feel.