Coming over after work was supposed to be a quick check-in. Instead, it turns into dinner, two languages, one very clingy footballer fresh out of the shower, and the quiet realization that your boyfriend has absolutely no concept of personal space.
WARNINGS ◦ established relationship ◦ multilingual couple ◦ reader speaks fluent spanish ◦ jude bellingham being your cozy boyfriend on a sunny madrid morning... that's it that's the tweet ◦ reader is a famous event promoter in spain for context purposes lolz ◦ ittiy bitty angst but nothing major ◦ bellingham brothers drama mentioned 👀 ◦ sfw content but we have kisses and a really touch-starved jude ◦ NOT EDITED
5,861 ━━━━━ oneshot jude bellingham x spanish!reader
۶ৎ 𝓩 , i'm afraid my non-spanish-speaking girlies won't enjoy this to the fullest, my bad 😔 i just had this scenario in my head and thought using real spanish would be top top for the immersion and everything bla bla. just noticing this was unnecessarily long rn lolz, sowwy! thanks for enjoying my very small ballblr era btw, you guys are so sweet ><
━━━━━ read on ao3
translated from spanish ¿qué cocinas, bebé?—what are you making, baby? huele bien—it smells good todavía no lo has visto—you haven't even seen it yet no hace falta—i don't have to eso dices ahora—that's what you're saying now ¿ha dicho que primero va la cebolla?—did she say the onion goes in first? has entendido eso—you understood that claro—of course hace unos meses me habrías mirado esperando una traducción—a few months ago you would've looked at me waiting for a translation
The villa was quiet in the late afternoon, the kind of peaceful hush that settled over Jude’s Madrid home after a full day of training. He had been there for well over a year now, long enough for the sleek, modern space with its high ceilings and wide windows to feel less like a temporary base and more like a proper house.
The two of you had been officially together a little more than six months, though the relationship had grown in that easy, gradual way that made weekdays feel negotiable. Surprises like this one, dropping by unannounced, had become possible, even welcome, without needing elaborate plans.
You let yourself in with the code Jude had given you a couple of months earlier. At the time you had refused at first, standing in the doorway with your arms crossed, insisting you wouldn’t need it. “I don’t want to intrude,” you had told him. “Weekdays are for my place anyway. I’ll just text when I’m coming over.”
He had listened, then shaken his head with that stubborn, gentle smile of his. “It’s not intruding if I’m giving it to you. Makes life easier—for both of us. What if you finish late and I’m already asleep? Or what if I want you here and you’re stuck waiting outside?”
In the end you had taken the code, the small act feeling heavier than it should have, like another quiet step deeper into each other’s worlds.
Your laptop bag was still slung over your shoulder from the long workday, back-to-back calls coordinating stadium tours, private concerts for international superstars, and high-profile corporate events as you gradually took the reins of your parents’ renowned event promotion company.
The heels came off by the door with a soft click, a small sigh of relief escaping as your bare feet met the cool tiles.
A couple of hours earlier Jude had sent you a blurry selfie from this same gym: sweat on his forehead, mid-cardio face, the caption complaining about the ninety-minute session his trainers had prescribed. You had giggled in your office and replied with your own equally blurry photo from behind your desk, the exchange light and familiar in the middle of busy afternoons.
Then Denise had called.
Jude’s mum had been distant at first, polite but reserved, the natural caution of a mother watching her young son build a life in a new country with a new relationship. She never interfered, but you felt the careful distance in those early months.
Over time, though, she had begun to warm. Small conversations during family dinners, shared coffees in the kitchen, the way she noticed how you showed up for Jude without making a fuss. Tonight’s call had been straightforward but telling: she mentioned the phone call with Jobe, how Jude had sounded a bit flat afterward, and simply said, “I thought you might want to know, dear.” No pressure, just quiet maternal intuition.
You had thanked her, hung up, and decided to come straight over after wrapping your last meeting.
You headed toward the home gym, following the low, steady whir of the stationary bike. The glass door was closed, keeping the air-conditioned coolness inside, Jude was there, pedalling at a consistent pace in a black compression top and shorts, earbuds in, his expression focused but carrying that subtle tension you recognised from the photo.
You knocked lightly on the glass, then pushed the door open a fraction.
“Jude?” you called softly, not wanting to startle him.
He glanced over, slowing the pedals as recognition hit, a tired but genuine smile broke across his face. He pulled one earbud out and wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Hey, darling. Didn’t expect you tonight.”
You stepped inside, the cooler air raising goosebumps on your arms after the warmer hallway. “Surprise inspection,” you teased lightly, crossing to him. Leaning down, you pressed a quick, familiar peck to his lips, the kind of casual hello that felt married-couple natural even though there were only six months of weaving your lives together yet. “How’s the cardio going?”
“Almost done,” he said, voice a little breathless as he slowed to a complete stop. The compression top clung to his torso, outlining the hard work of a professional footballer in season.
Jude stepped off the bike with another quiet exhale, one hand reaching automatically for the towel draped over the handlebars. He rubbed it through his hair before slinging it loosely around the back of his neck, then closed the small distance between you without thinking twice.
His free hand settled lightly at your waist while he dipped his head, pressing an absent kiss into your hairline before letting his forehead brush yours for the briefest second. "Long day?" he asked.
"Mhm." You let out a soft breath through your nose, shoulders relaxing now that the workday finally felt behind you.
Jude's thumb traced one absent sweep against your side while he watched you. "Bad long or busy long?" He tilted his head just slightly, studying you with that attentive look he had whenever he was trying to gauge whether you were simply tired or quietly overwhelmed.
Your mouth curved faintly despite yourself. It wasn't the first time he'd asked you that. Somewhere along the line, he'd quietly divided difficult days into categories, insisting they weren't all the same.
"The second one." You answered.
"That's alright then."
His thumb gave your side one lazy stroke before dropping away as he reached for the water bottle perched beside the bike.
You looked him over once more, taking in the damp curls pushed back from his forehead and the way his breathing had already begun to settle now that the bike had stopped. "What about you?"
He took a long drink before answering.
"Ninety minutes of cardio." He swallowed, wiped the back of his wrist across his mouth and glanced briefly toward the bike over his shoulder, as though it had personally offended him. "They're trying to kill me."
The words came with just enough dramatic weight to make you smile. They weren't spoken seriously, not really. Jude had a habit of narrating the more miserable parts of training like they were personal attacks, usually with the same level of conviction he'd argue with a referee.
"They've been trying to kill you since you were sixteen." That earned you a small pause from the english. He looked off to the side for a moment, lips pursing thoughtfully as though he were actually giving your statement the consideration it deserved.
"Yeah..." He nodded thoughtfully. "...Still rude though."
The quiet sincerity with which he delivered it caught you off guard. A laugh escaped before you could stop it, filling the cool gym for the first time since you'd walked in.
Jude's mouth tugged into a grin almost immediately, he tried to hide it behind another sip of water, but the corners of his eyes gave him away. He looked entirely too pleased with himself for making you laugh.
"Oh," he said suddenly, something flickering across his face as though he'd just remembered it. His brows lifted a fraction before he reached back towards the bench where he'd left his phone, unlocking it with one practiced swipe of his thumb.
He glanced at the screen, a smile already beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth before he looked back at you.
"Your brother messaged me."
You blinked, surprised enough that it briefly pulled your attention away from the compression top stretched across his shoulders. Jesus Christ, did he look good... "He did?"
"Mhm."
Jude didn't answer with much more than that. Instead, he wandered back over, still scrolling with his thumb until he found the conversation. He stopped close enough that your shoulders brushed naturally, the familiar contact barely registering anymore, before angling the screen so you could both read it.
"Hi Jude!! My sister said you might've scored tonight. Congrats!! Also tell her she's still ignoring my messages."
The second your eyes landed on the last sentence, a groan escaped you. "Oh my God."
Beside you, Jude's laugh was quiet, more amused than triumphant. "He grassed you up, baby."
You reached for the phone instinctively as though you could defend yourself directly through the screen. "I was in meetings. He knows that."
"I'm guessing he doesn't believe you, darling."
"I literally was." Your protest only seemed to amuse him further. The grin lingering on Jude's face widened just enough for the dimple in his cheek to appear before he scrolled lower, entirely unbothered by your attempt at saving face.
"He asked if I thought he'd make a good midfielder one day." You let out a small breath through your nose, already knowing exactly where this conversation had gone. "I told him to keep enjoying football first."
There wasn't a hint of condescension in the way Jude said it. If anything, he sounded oddly earnest, as though he'd given the question proper consideration before answering. You weren't surprised, he'd always had a soft spot for kids who loved the game, especially the ones who still saw football as something fun before it became anything else.
Still smiling, he turned to gather the resistance bands left on the floor, hanging them neatly back onto their hooks with practiced efficiency. You watched him move around the room, the routine clearly ingrained after months of using the same space every day.
Jude laughed again after glancing at your betrayed face, shaking his head as he headed for the door, slipping his phone back into the pocket of his shorts.
The conversation with your brother seemed to have lifted something from him, the earlier heaviness around his eyes softened now into something lighter, more familiar. He stooped briefly to grab your hand lightly before nudging the gym door open with his shoulder.
The air outside felt noticeably warmer after the chilled gym. You followed him into the hallway, falling into step beside him without really thinking about it.
It always seemed to happen that way, neither of you was particularly attached to leading; you simply drifted through the house together, matching each other's pace until one naturally fell half a step behind.
"I've got to take these before I forget," he said, veering toward the kitchen instead of the stairs. His hand found yours almost absentmindedly as he passed, fingers hooking loosely around them with the quiet confidence of someone who no longer thought twice about reaching for you. "Come here for a second, baby."
You let him tug you along, smiling to yourself as you followed him out of the hallway. Jude walked a pace ahead, still warm from training, your joined hands swinging lazily between you as he occasionally glanced back to make sure you were actually following, as though there were anywhere else you'd be going.
The kitchen was flooded with the last of the afternoon sun, light spilling across the pale stone island where a shaker bottle, a bowl of fruit and a couple of unopened parcels had been left from earlier. Jude crossed straight to one of the cupboards, opening it without hesitation.
You'd noticed long ago that everything in his kitchen had found its permanent place, not because he was especially organised, but because routine had a way of arranging itself around him.
He reached for a white plastic tub, then another, reading neither label before unscrewing the lids.
You leaned your hip against the island, watching him move around the kitchen with the ease of someone who'd repeated the same post-training routine hundreds of times. "I've got to go to Amsterdam next week." The words came almost absentmindedly, dropped into the room the same way you'd mention needing to buy milk.
Jude paused halfway through screwing the lid back on. "...Amsterdam?"
"Mhm."
He looked up after your response. "For work?"
"Yeah, baby." You try to take your eyes off him and stare at the counter instead. "It's just three days."
A beat of silence settled between you.
He swallowed the capsules with a mouthful of water before setting the glass down a little more carefully than necessary. "And when," he asked slowly, "were you planning on mentioning that?"
You frowned, already aware of where this was going. "...I just did. I swear I just got the notification, baby."
"No, no." He pointed at you with the bottle still in his hand. "You've been here, what..." He glanced dramatically towards the oven clock. "Nearly ten minutes."
You let out a disbelieving laugh, folding your arms across your chest as you watched him build his own case with alarming confidence. Jude didn't seem remotely interested in dropping it either.
He wandered back toward the island, unscrewing the lid of another supplement tub while talking, the conversation continuing as naturally as his post-training routine. "You let me tell you about cardio."
"Yes, baby, I listened to you."
"You were planning to deceive me."
"C'mon, I wasn't! I was being supportive." You couldn't stop the smile off your lips.
He tipped another two capsules into his palm before looking back at you, his expression suggesting that this only strengthened his argument. "I showed you your brother's messages."
He swallowed the tablets with another mouthful of water, setting the glass down before resting both palms against the edge of the island. Only then did he finally look at you properly again, eyebrows lifting with quiet disbelief.
"And now..." One hand came up in a slow, almost offended gesture. "...Amsterdam."
The dramatic pause was enough to make you smile. "It only got confirmed this afternoon, I swear."
"So?"
"So..." You laughed softly, unable to believe you were actually defending yourself. "I've barely known myself."
"You've had ages."
"I literally haven't."
He frowned as though the timeline genuinely wasn't adding up. Then, with all the seriousness of someone presenting evidence in court, he glanced at an imaginary watch on his wrist. "You've had..." His eyes lifted back to yours. "...At least two hours."
"I was in meetings."
"So text me."
"I am here, Jude."
"I know." The answer came quietly. He nodded once to himself, lips pressing together in exaggerated contemplation before the corners of his mouth twitched. "Which now feels suspicious."
"Suspicious?" You stopped where you were on the other side of the island, one hip settling against the cool stone countertop as you folded your arms across your chest.
He looked at you for a second over the rim of his shaker, taking another slow sip as if he had all the time in the world. The silence wasn't hesitation, it was commitment. Commitment to whatever ridiculous argument he was constructing in his head.
He swallowed, lowered the bottle onto the counter with deliberate care and nodded once. "Mhm." One finger came up between you, not accusingly, but thoughtfully. "I thought..."
His gaze drifted briefly toward the floor, shoulders rising in an almost imperceptible shrug before he looked back at you with that terribly convincing expression of someone processing a deep emotional wound.
"...I thought you just missed me, you know."
"I did miss you, baby." Your eyebrows lifted slowly, lips parting as though you were genuinely trying to understand the conclusion he'd somehow reached.
"I see what's happened." His shoulders slumped with theatrical resignation as he looked mournfully into the shaker, turning it slowly between his hands as though searching for answers somewhere inside the plastic. "I was feeling all special."
You couldn't help smiling. "You were?"
"I was." He sounded almost offended that you'd question it.
"You sent me that tragic selfie."
"It was a vulnerable moment." He lifted his eyes to yours again, giving a tiny shake of his head. "I was even thinking I'd cook tonight."
That was enough to break whatever composure you had left, a laugh escaped before you could stop it. "You were not."
"I was."
"You literally complain every time you have to cook, Jude."
"I would've persevered."
"For me?" You folded your lips together, tryin, and failing, not to smile.
He looked at you as though the answer should have been painfully obvious.
"For us." The sincerity lasted exactly half a second before his expression tipped back into something quietly pleased with itself.
He knew full well how ridiculous he sounded, which somehow only made the act more convincing.
"...Turns out you were buttering me up because you're abandoning me."
"Oh, shut up." You closed the distance between you with an exasperated huff, reaching up to poke him lightly beneath the ribs. He caught your wrist almost on instinct, more amused than triumphant now that he'd managed to get exactly the reaction he'd been fishing for all along.
His grin widened, not because he'd won the argument, but because you'd played along.
You let your wrist remain in his hand for a second longer, his fingers warm despite the lingering chill from the shaker bottle he'd been holding moments earlier. He wasn't gripping you, just absentmindedly keeping you there while he looked at you with that unmistakable expression that always meant he was enjoying himself far too much.
"Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself, William." You laughed quietly, giving his hand a small tug.
"I'm not." He came without resistance, taking the single step that closed the gap between you until there was barely any space left between your bodies.
"You are."
"I've been abandoned, Y/N, have mercy on me."
From this close you could still smell the clean sharpness of his body wash underneath the sweat from training, the compression top clinging stubbornly to his chest where it hadn't quite dried yet.
"It's just three days," you reminded him, your voice softening without you meaning it to. "I fly out Tuesday morning, meetings Wednesday and Thursday..." You counted them off lightly against the back of his hand with your free index finger before looking back up at him. "...and I'm back Friday afternoon."
He listened without interrupting this time. "And?"
"And..." A smile tugged at your lips. "You'll see me at the amistoso."
That finally made something shift behind his eyes. "The friendly?"
"Mhm." You look at him and raise your eyebrows in a provocative smile. "My last meeting finishes around lunchtime, then I'll come straight from the airport."
His mouth pressed into a line that tried very hard not to become a smile. "You've thought this through, eh."
"I even checked your arrival time back from training." That earned you a proper look, not teasing this time, just... one of those quiet glances where he seemed to be taking you in all over again.
"You're like, my favorite person in the world, you know that, right?" You smiled, the warmth of his words settling comfortably in your chest. "I'll even forgive you for abandoning me for three whole days."
"I'm not abandoning you, you drama king." You roll your eyes after taking a step out and loosening your hands from his grip. You see his smirk and give him a last squeeze before continuing your defense. “And I’m going to tell Jobe you said that I'm your favorite now.”
Jude rolled his eyes immediately, the dramatic flair of it exaggerated just enough to make you laugh again. He let you take off your wrist from his grip but didn’t step back, his hand instead finding its way to rest lightly against your lower back as he shook his head.
“Don’t you dare, he’ll never let me live it down. Little shit already thinks he’s got me wrapped around his finger.”
Jude lingered close for another moment, the casual touch at your back familiar and grounding, before he finally moved to put the tubs away. You watched him for a second, his shoulders still carrying a faint tension beneath the compression top, then leaned your hip against the island, arms loosely crossed.
“So… how are things with you two, really?” you asked, voice gentle but direct. You didn’t want to push, but the reason you were here lingered between you. “Your mum mentioned the call to me earlier.”
Jude didn't answer straight away.
He gathered the tubs one by one, screwing the lids back on before sliding them into the cupboard with the same absent-minded precision that seemed to follow every part of his routine. The last one lingered in his hand for a second longer than the others before he set it down and quietly closed the cupboard door.
His shoulders rose with a slow breath. "...Mum called you."
You watched him turn around, the teasing from only moments ago having softened into something quieter. He leaned one hip against the counter opposite you, folding his arms loosely across his chest.
The compression top, still damp from training, pulled taut across his shoulders as he settled there, studying your face with that same attentiveness he'd greeted you with in the gym.
There wasn't any annoyance behind his earlier observation. If anything, it sounded faintly amused.
"That's why you came here, huh."
He watched you for another second before one corner of his mouth lifted.
"And as I expected... All of this surprise inspection excuse wasn't just because I'm devastatingly handsome after ninety minutes on a bike."
You held his gaze for a moment before pushing yourself away from the island, the corners of your mouth already beginning to soften. By the time you reached him, there was barely enough space left between you to call it distance.
"Mm..." you hummed, pretending to give his question some genuine thought.
Your hand found the front of his compression top almost absentmindedly, smoothing a crease across his chest before your fingers drifted to the small zip at the collar, fidgeting with it more than actually fixing anything.
"I'd say that's only..." You paused, finally looking back up at him with the hint of a smile. "...about thirty percent of the reason."
His eyebrow lifted immediately. "Thirty?"
You smiled a little wider. "I missed you," you admitted, your thumb still idly tracing the edge of the zipper. "Today I just... had another reason to come as well."
Jude's expression softened almost immediately.
The teasing disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, his eyes searched yours for a brief second before dropping to where your fingers still toyed absentmindedly with the zip of his compression top.
"...She called you then." It wasn't a question this time, more like an acknowledgment. "Figured she might."
He let out a slow breath through his nose, one corner of his mouth twitching in a smile that carried more appreciation than amusement.
“It was nothing major,” he said, though the slight furrow between his brows suggested otherwise. “Mum had her phone on speaker while I was talking to her earlier. I overheard Jobe in the background going on about his housing situation in Germany—some technical problems with the landlord, stupid policies he couldn't meet or whatever. He was proper stressing her out, venting like she wasn’t already dealing with enough.” Jude shrugged, but there was a protective edge to it. “I called him after. Told him straight—he’s a grown man now, can’t be dumping all that on mom every time something goes sideways. Needs to handle it himself sometimes.”
Jude scratched the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish now that the story was out.
“Might’ve talked his ear off, older brother stuff, you know? He got defensive, I got annoyed, we both said some things.” A small, rueful smile tugged at his mouth. “Whatever, we’ll be fine in a couple of days. As usual.”
You nodded, understanding the complicated balance of love and frustration that came with family. “Your mum worries about both of you, that’s why she called me, I think. She knows you take things like this heavier than you let on.”
Jude met your eyes closely, his expression softening. “Yeah… she’s been warming up to you a lot, notices when you show up like this.” One of his hands came up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, the gesture absentminded and tender. “Didn’t need to come all the way over though, I would’ve been alright.”
“I know,” you said simply. “But I wanted to."
His thumb, still resting against your waist, gave a small, absent stroke through the fabric of your blouse as though he'd forgotten his hand was there in the first place.
The corner of his mouth lifted. "...Thank you, love."
Your own smile answered before you spoke. "You're welcome."
Only then did you gently pat the centre of his chest, the gesture light enough to break whatever seriousness had crept into the kitchen.
"And," you added, glancing toward the grocery bags waiting by the island, "I'm cooking tonight." His eyebrows rose immediately. "So you can stop pretending you were actually going to make that nutritionist recipe."
He let out a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing further. “It really was dead easy. On paper, at least.”
His hand lingered near your jaw for a second before dropping to rest on your waist again.
“But I’m not arguing with you taking over, especially after that bike tried to kill me.”
The corner of your mouth lifted into a small smile. "Good," you said quietly. "Because I'd rather not spend the evening mediating between the Bellingham brothers."
A soft huff of laughter escaped him. "Fair."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, it simply settled around the two of you, filling the kitchen with the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant villa traffic drifting in through the cracked window above the sink. The conversation had done what it needed to do, there wasn't much else to add.
Jude's hand lingered at your waist for another moment before giving it one absent squeeze. "Right," he sighed, glancing down at himself. "I am absolutely grim."
You looked pointedly at the damp compression top still clinging stubbornly to his chest. "I've been trying to tell you that for the last ten minutes."
He looked offended. "I've had a productive workout, okay?"
"You've also been sweating on me." You pretend to roll your eyes just to annoy him.
"Oh, wow. I'm an occupational hazard, got it."
A smile tugged at your lips as you gave the zip of his top one last playful tug before letting go. "Go shower."
He stayed exactly where he was. "You sure you don't need a hand with dinner first?"
You shook your head. "I'm fine. Besides..." Your eyes flicked toward the grocery bags sitting beside the island. "You've got enough in here to make something decent."
He followed your gaze before nodding once, satisfied. "Alright."
Instead of leaving immediately, he leaned down just enough to steal a quick kiss from your lips. It was brief, familiar, almost absent-minded, the sort of kiss exchanged without interrupting the flow of the evening.
His forehead brushed yours for the smallest moment afterwards. "Shout if you can't find anything."
"William..." He smiled.
"Ok, I'm going, damn." You nudged him lightly toward the hallway with the heel of your hand against his side.
This time he obeyed, laughing quietly as he disappeared down the corridor, one hand already reaching for the hem of the compression top as he walked. By the time he reached the bedroom doorway, the black fabric had disappeared over his head in one easy movement before being tossed somewhere inside the room with considerably more optimism than accuracy.
You heard something hit the floor.
Of course.
Shaking your head to yourself, you turned back to the kitchen. The house fell into that comfortable kind of quiet that only ever seemed to exist after training sessions. Water began running somewhere upstairs as you crossed to the refrigerator, pulling open the heavy door and surveying its contents like you always did when you cooked here.
The shelves were predictably stocked: neatly labelled containers from the club chef, fresh vegetables, chicken, yogurt, eggs, berries, enough fruit to feed a small village, and, wedged somewhat carelessly between cartons of juice, a takeaway sauce he'd almost certainly forgotten was there.
A smile crept onto your face. Some habits, you suspected, even elite footballers never quite grew out of.
Without really thinking about it, you crossed to the opposite side of the kitchen and pulled open a drawer, your hand finding the wooden spatula before your eyes did.
The funny thing was, six months ago you would've had to ask where he kept absolutely everything.
Now you reached for the olive oil without looking, you knew the chopping boards lived in the drawer beside the sink, the good knives were hidden behind the cereal boxes because Jude had somehow convinced himself it was a sensible place to keep them, and the spatula he always reached for had a habit of disappearing into the dishwasher instead of the utensil pot.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you really noticing, his kitchen had stopped feeling unfamiliar.
You reached for your phone where you'd left it beside the fruit bowl, waking the screen with the side of your thumb before opening YouTube almost on instinct.
"Tortilla de patatas..." you murmured to yourself, already typing in Spanish without thinking twice.
Your thumb hovered over the search bar for barely a second before you tapped the first recipe that looked promising. You set your phone against the fruit bowl, propping it up with the salt cellar until it stood at just enough of an angle to see the screen from the chopping board.
A cheerful voice immediately filled the kitchen. "Hola, chicos. Hoy vamos a preparar..."
You didn't bother turning the volume up, it didn't need to be loud enough to follow every instruction, it was more company than guidance, something to fill the quiet while your hands got to work.
The knife found its rhythm against the wooden board almost immediately. Potatoes, onions, garlic. Olive oil warming slowly in the pan. The familiar sequence settled over you with the same ease as the workday had finally begun to fall away.
Without really noticing, your attention drifted between the recipe and your own movements. Sometimes you glanced at the screen, other times you were already a step ahead of it, shaking your head faintly when the woman reached for an ingredient later than you would've.
By the time the potatoes had begun to soften around the edges, the video had wandered onto the subject of whether onion belonged in a proper tortilla at all. The woman on-screen argued passionately for it, you quietly agreed. Upstairs, the shower had long since stopped running.
A few minutes later came the familiar sounds that always followed: drawers opening, wardrobe doors sliding, footsteps crossing hardwood before gradually making their way back downstairs.
Out of the corner of your eye you caught the movement of a clean white T-shirt disappearing over your boyfriend's head, the hem settling across his shoulders as he tugged it down the rest of the way. His hair was damp from the shower, darker than before, a few curls refusing to stay where the towel had left them.
Jude didn't announce himself, he simply wandered over until he was standing behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him before he actually touched you.
One arm slipped loosely around your waist. "¿Qué cocinas, bebé?" he murmured, the words soft against your skin.
His chin found the curve between your shoulder and neck almost instinctively. You smiled to yourself without pausing the knife. "La tortilla."
"Mmm..."
He leaned in just enough to press a slow kiss beneath your ear before settling there again, more interested in being close than interrupting whatever you were doing. His nose brushed lightly against your hair as he breathed in.
"Huele bien."
You let out a quiet laugh. "Todavía no lo has visto."
"No hace falta." His voice came lazily, still muffled where his face was half-hidden against your neck.
You smiled, keeping your attention on the potatoes as you nudged them gently through the oil.
"Eso dices ahora."
"I mean it."
His arms tightened around your waist for the briefest moment before relaxing again, his chin still resting comfortably against your shoulder. For a while neither of you said anything else, the only voices in the kitchen came from the woman on your phone passionately defending her preferred ratio of onions to potatoes.
Jude listened for a second. "...¿Ha dicho que primero va la cebolla?"
You turned your head just enough to look at him. "Has entendido eso."
He looked mildly offended. "Claro."
"No, I mean..." You smiled. "Hace unos meses me habrías mirado esperando una traducción."
He let out a quiet hum, considering it. "Sí... probablemente lo habría hecho…"
Your knife slowed against the chopping board as another thought crossed your mind. "You're speaking with a lot more confidence now."
That finally made him lift his head from your shoulder. "You think?"
"Mhm. You don't slow down anymore."
A small grin spread across his face, one that looked equal parts proud and shy. "That's because of you."
You laughed softly. "Don't give me that much credit, sir."
"I'm serious." He shrugged one shoulder. "I hear you every day." His fingers absentmindedly traced a small circle against your waist as he spoke. "After training, at dinner, on the phone with your parents." Another shrug. "Eventually it sticks."
You smiled to yourself, turning the potatoes once more. "Congratulations, baby. I'm proud of you."
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he simply stayed where he was, chin resting lightly against your shoulder as though the conversation had exhausted whatever words he still had left. One hand remained draped lazily around your waist while the other absentmindedly reached across the counter, stealing an olive from the small bowl you'd set aside.
You heard the quiet clink before you saw him. "...William."
"Mhm?"
"That's for dinner."
"It still is."
He popped another into his mouth anyway.
You shook your head, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips as you nudged him lightly backwards with your hip. He yielded exactly half a step before drifting right back into place a moment later, like muscle memory.
The tortilla hissed softly as it met the oil.
On your phone, the woman had moved on to explaining cooking times, speaking just a little faster now. Jude followed enough to nod every so often, occasionally throwing in the odd word or phrase under his breath before looking at you for silent confirmation. Sometimes he was right, sometimes he wasn't.
You corrected him without thinking and he accepted every correction just as easily.
Outside, the last of the afternoon light slipped across the kitchen floor, stretching long rectangles of gold between the island and the windows. Dinner came together slowly. There was no rush.
No television in the background, no phones demanding attention beyond the recipe propped against the fruit bowl, no conversation that needed solving, just the quiet rhythm of a knife against a chopping board. The occasional murmur of a new relationship in two different languages.
And obviously Jude, who never seemed capable of standing more than an arm's length away from you once he was home.
For now, that was enough for you.
author's note — well hello there, how are we doing :D this is my main masterlist btw, more jude works coming for y'all there teehee >< (i'm sorry this was so long lolz, i think i got too excited with my domestic jude agenda)
Jude Bellingham being jealous is almost impossible to catch in the moment, it hides behind slow kisses, careful hands and a smile that never quite disappears. You don't realize something's changed until he's already decided to carry you home with him.
WARNINGS ◦ club scene ◦ alcohol use ◦ protective!jude (let him live) ◦ jealousy themes ◦ drunk!reader ◦ reader cannot hold her liquor to save her life ◦ making out ◦ slight suggestive content ◦ i'm convinced jude deserves financial compensation for this evening
5,473 ━━━━━ oneshot jude bellingham x reader
۶ৎ 𝓩 , this started because someone asked for jealous jude and somehow i managed to make a 5k words fic. to the lovely anon who requested this: i hope you don't mind that i took a few creative liberties. 😭 i just couldn't picture jude as the loud, territorial type, so i tried writing the kind of jealousy i personally think suits him better. thank you for inspiring this one bae xo <3
━━━━━ read on ao3
The private booth in the upscale Madrid club felt like an extension of the celebration itself—velvet seating curved around a low table already scattered with chilled bottles, delicate glasses catching the warm light from overhead fixtures, and a small reserved card that had your name on it.
The first hour unfolded slowly, unhurried. Congratulations blended into easy conversation as fresh drinks replaced empty glasses almost without anyone noticing. Stories from work drifted into football, football into travel plans, someone ordering another round before the waiter had even collected the previous one. Every so often another toast interrupted the conversation, glasses clinking across the table while your friends insisted on celebrating "one more thing."
It wasn't until your glass had been topped up for what must've been the third time that you realised you'd hardly moved from the spot you'd claimed beside Jude all evening.
You sat nestled against your boyfriend's side, his arm draped casually along the back of the booth behind your shoulders. The fabric of his black shirt was smooth under your fingers whenever you reached for your drink, and the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the faint citrus from the cocktails.
Your girlfriends arrived in waves of laughter and hugs, their partners trailing with easy handshakes for Jude. Congratulations came in steady, warm increments, each time someone raised a glass or leaned across the table to toast your new contract, Jude’s hand would find your knee or lower back, giving a gentle squeeze. “Told you she’s brilliant,” he’d say, voice carrying that expressive pride without ever sounding performative.
His eyes would find yours across the small space, holding for a beat longer than necessary, the corner of his mouth lifting into a genuine smile. You felt yourself glowing under the attention, the champagne and cocktails sliding down easily, warming your chest and loosening the long day’s work tension from your shoulders.
Time stretched comfortably, conversations wandered: one of your friends recounting a disastrous event from last month, Jude chiming in with a dry comment about how football dressing rooms had nothing on event logistics chaos.
You laughed, the sound brighter than usual, and reached for another sip. The alcohol settled in gradually, first a pleasant buzz in your limbs, then a softer haze that made the lights seem a touch warmer and the music more inviting. Jude noticed, of course.
His thumb traced slow patterns on your shoulder, and when your laugh turned a little too loose he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Pace yourself, darling. You want to enjoy yourself until later, right?”
The words were affectionate, not scolding, carrying the same quiet reminder he'd given you more than once before.
You smiled into your glass almost immediately.
He wasn't trying to stop you from drinking. If anything, Jude loved seeing you like this—lighter, louder, laughing at things that probably weren't as funny as they seemed after two cocktails. But the two of you knew exactly where your limit lived, mostly because you'd crossed it enough times to recognize the warning signs. You were a spectacular lightweight, and every celebration seemed to end the same way: waking up the next morning trying to piece together the last hour of the evening while Jude filled in the blanks over breakfast.
Somewhere along the line, you'd been the one to ask him to step in before that happened. Not to stop you, just to slow you down enough that you'd still remember the night you'd spent weeks looking forward to.
The club filled slowly around your booth. What started as a refined, spacious atmosphere grew denser with bodies and voices. Jude’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly at first, his arm stayed around you, but his gaze began flicking toward the growing crowd more often, tracking the flow of people near your table.
When someone bumped the edge of the booth reaching for a passing waiter, Jude’s body angled slightly, creating a subtle barrier between you and the movement. He didn’t say anything about it, just continued listening to the conversation, nodding along, fingers still playing idly with the strap of your dress on your shoulder.
You were too pleasantly tipsy to register the full shift, the way his easy usual energy had quietly layered into something more protective.
Eventually the music began to drown out the conversations around the table. One of your friends disappeared toward the dance floor first, dragging her boyfriend after her with surprisingly little resistance, while the second couple followed not long after, laughing as another round of drinks arrived just as everyone seemed to be abandoning the booth.
Jude stayed where he was for another minute, one arm still resting lazily along the back of the seat behind you as he watched the small exodus with quiet amusement. His fingers rolled the condensation around his glass while the conversation naturally dissolved into smaller pockets, people getting to their feet one by one without much urgency.
Clubs like this had their own rhythm. There were no phones held discreetly under tables, no whispered excitement when someone recognisable walked past. Famous footballers, actors, musicians, old-money families and business owners drifted through the room with the same quiet anonymity, everyone seemingly understanding that the point of the place was to leave one another alone. Privacy wasn't advertised; it was simply expected.
It was one of the few places where Jude could disappear into the crowd despite standing well over six feet tall.
He finished the last sip from his glass before setting it down with a soft clink, turning towards you with the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Come on."
His hand found yours before you even had the chance to answer, giving it a gentle squeeze as he stood. You followed with a quiet laugh, letting him pull you effortlessly to your feet, the room tipping ever so slightly from the champagne before his free hand settled instinctively at your waist to steady you.
"Easy," he murmured, smiling to himself.
Together, you slipped away from the booth and into the growing crowd.
His hand remained wrapped around yours as you left the booth, weaving between clusters of people without ever really having to think about it. Every now and then someone stepped into your path—a waiter balancing a tray of drinks, another couple laughing too hard to notice where they were going—and each time Jude adjusted instinctively, his hand slipping from yours to the small of your back for a second before finding it again once there was space.
The dance floor was fuller than it had been earlier, though it still carried the same restrained elegance as the rest of the club. Nobody was trying to outshine anyone else. Groups drifted together and apart beneath the warm lights, expensive dresses catching the glow as conversations dissolved into music.
One of your girlfriends spotted the two of you from somewhere near the middle and lifted her glass in the air with an exaggerated cheer before disappearing back into her own little world.
Jude laughed under his breath. He stopped just before the crowd thickened, turning to face you properly for the first time since leaving the booth. His hands settled naturally on your hips, thumbs resting lightly against the fabric of your dress as though they'd found their usual place without either of you thinking about it.
"There she is," he murmured, the grin on his face widening as you immediately caught the rhythm. "Closing deals by day..." You laughed before he could even finish. "...Owning the floor by night."
"Oh, shut up."
"I'm serious." His answer disappeared into a quiet laugh as you gave your hips an exaggerated sway just to prove a point, he watched you for half a second before shaking his head. "I'm really proud of you, you know that?"
You felt your own smile falter into something smaller, warmer.
"You worked your arse off for this." He gave you the gentlest squeeze before pulling you a fraction closer again, as though the words themselves weren't enough. "You deserve tonight."
Without thinking, your arms slipped up around his neck, fingers lacing loosely together as they rested there. The music carried on around you, people moving past in blurred flashes of light, but for a moment it felt as though the two of you had quietly drifted into your own little pocket of the room.
"Thank you," you said, the words coming quieter this time.
Jude frowned ever so slightly.
"For what?" His smile showed that he had no clue what you were referring to.
"For being here." You leaned in just enough to steal a slow kiss, unhurried and familiar, lingering for a heartbeat before your forehead brushed lightly against his. "I know you've been exhausted."
His expression barely changed, but you saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. Pre-season always asked a little more of him than people realised. New tactical sessions, double training days, fitness testing, constant travelling, the expectation of arriving sharper than he'd left. It wasn't unusual for the two of you to spend most of a week working around one another's schedules rather than with them, stealing dinners together at ten o'clock or settling for a FaceTime call when one of you was still in the office and the other had an early recovery session the next morning.
"You've had a rough couple of weeks," you continued gently. "You could've gone home after training and slept for twelve hours."
A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Could have."
"Instead you're here."
His hands settled a little more securely at your waist.
"Where else was I going to be?" The answer was so matter-of-fact that it made you smile. He shrugged one shoulder, almost as if the decision had never really existed in the first place. "My girl just signed the biggest contract of her career, I'm not missing that for shit."
You smiled and kissed him again, the corners of your mouth lingering there even after you'd pulled apart. Neither of you hurried to say anything else, there wasn't much left to add.
The music carried you forward instead.
Another song bled seamlessly into the next, and the two of you simply kept moving. Sometimes it was little more than an easy sway, your forehead brushing his chin as he absentmindedly traced the curve of your waist beneath his palm. Other times one of your girlfriends would pull you into a small circle, laughing as the group attempted increasingly questionable dance moves after another round of cocktails, each fresh drink arriving before the previous one had quite disappeared.
Somewhere along the way you'd stopped counting.
Jude never protested when you wandered off for a minute or two, he'd simply watch with that small, amused smile of his, occasionally catching the eye of one of the other boyfriends as they exchanged the kind of look only people accompanying very happy women seemed to understand. Every now and then one of them would drift over, the conversation between the four men coming and going naturally while they watched the celebration unfold in front of them.
They laughed amongst themselves, nursed the same drinks for far longer than any of you did, and every so often one of them would peel away when his girlfriend came looking for another dance.
He kept that balance for a long while: hyping you with grins and quiet praise, then instinctively shifting whenever the dance floor grew tighter around you. His body would angle just enough to absorb the occasional bump from passing strangers, one arm finding its way more securely around your waist while the other remained loosely tangled with yours whenever the music slowed again.
None of it felt deliberate, it was simply how Jude moved through crowded spaces.
Your group drifted together, then apart again, your girlfriends pulling you into little circles before someone inevitably reached for another round of drinks. You laughed more easily with each passing daiquiri, the pleasant warmth in your chest settling into your limbs until everything—the music, the lights, the conversations around you—felt softened around the edges.
More than once you caught Jude watching you instead of the room. Every time your eyes met, he'd smile without thinking, as if he still couldn't quite believe the night was real.
At one point he reached for you again, drawing you back against him with an easy familiarity before pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. When he pulled back, his eyes lingered on your face for a second longer than necessary, taking you in beneath the shifting lights before the corner of his mouth lifted.
"I'm gonna grab another round and use the bathroom," he said eventually, leaning close enough that only you could hear him. His hand gave your waist one last reassuring squeeze. "Don't wander off. I'll be quick."
You nodded, smiling up at him before letting yourself be swept back towards your friends as one of them waved you further into the crowd.
The minutes after Jude disappeared into the crowd stretched a little longer than you'd expected. Around you, the dance floor had reached its evening peak, conversations overlapping with the music as people drifted in loose circles beneath the warm lights.
One of your girlfriends was halfway through dramatically reenacting a disaster from a gala the month before when a man in a tailored navy suit wandered over, lifting his glass in greeting.
“Quite the celebration over here,” he said, raising his own glass in a small toast. “Saw the bottle service. Special occasion?”
Your little circle laughed almost in unison.
"She does," one of your friends answered before you had the chance, pointing enthusiastically in your direction. "Biggest contract of her career."
You groaned, already laughing. "Don't make it sound so dramatic."
"It is dramatic," another one insisted, throwing an arm around your shoulders with considerably less balance than she'd intended. "We're celebrating."
"Fair enough," the man smiled, his attention drifting back to you. "Congratulations."
"Thank you." You smiled politely. "It was a good day."
"What do you do?"
You told him the name of your company, explaining in a sentence or two that you worked in event promotion. Recognition flickered across his face almost immediately.
"Right... I know the name."
The conversation wandered naturally from there. He mentioned attending one of your company's events a couple of years earlier, one of your girlfriends interrupted to argue that yours had been better, somebody else burst out laughing because they'd completely forgotten what they were talking about in the first place, and before long all four of you were speaking over one another in the wonderfully chaotic way slightly drunk friends always seemed to.
The man stayed beside the group, chiming in every now and then with a comment or a question that you answered without much thought whenever there was a gap in the conversation.
Most of your attention, though, belonged elsewhere.
Your stomach already hurt from laughing.
At one point another boyfriend appeared beside your friend with the long-suffering expression of someone who'd clearly been sent to collect her before she embarrassed herself any further. She protested dramatically, insisting she was perfectly capable of standing on her own before immediately wobbling into him anyway, sending the rest of you into another fit of laughter.
You doubled over, clutching your friend's arm as tears threatened to gather in the corners of your eyes. "Oh my God..."
"I told you!" your friend managed between laughs.
"I can't breathe."
Somewhere beside you, the conversation with the man continued.
You answered something, you weren't entirely sure what. Whatever it was seemed polite enough.
Across the room, Jude emerged from the bar with two fresh drinks balanced easily in one hand (water for you). His eyes found you almost immediately, more out of habit than anything else. For a second, everything looked exactly as he'd left it, your friends laughing amongst themselves, music carrying through the room, you smiling so hard your shoulders were shaking.
Then he noticed the man.
It wasn't anything obvious. No wandering hands or exaggerated flirting. Just the way he kept subtly angling himself towards you every time the conversation shifted, waiting for your attention to drift back to him. You, meanwhile, seemed entirely oblivious, answering whatever he asked before dissolving back into laughter with your friends a second later.
Jude stood where he was for another beat, watching the interaction settle into place. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he started across the dance floor, weaving through the crowd with the same measured pace he'd had all evening.
By the time he reached the group, the conversation hadn't changed all that much. You were still laughing, one hand resting on your friend's arm while you tried, and failed, to explain whatever story had just sent the three of you into another fit of giggles.
Jude stepped in beside you as though he'd never left. His free hand settled naturally at your waist, fingers spreading lightly against the fabric of your dress as he leaned in just enough to place the fresh glass into your hand.
"There you go, darling." You looked up immediately, your whole face brightening.
"There you are!" The smile that broke across your face was so immediate, so instinctive, that Jude felt something inside him quietly settle.
"Miss me already?" he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"Mm..." you hummed dramatically, already leaning into his side. "You took ages."
"Seven minutes."
"Exactly."
A quiet laugh escaped him. He bent to press an unhurried kiss against your temple, lingering there for a second before straightening again.
Only then did he acknowledge the man standing opposite, his expression never changing.
"Alright, mate." The greeting was polite, almost conversational.
The man returned the nod without hesitation, glanced once between the two of you and smiled politely. "Congratulations on the contract."
"Cheers." A beat passed. "I'm gonna steal her back."
There wasn't a trace of hostility in Jude's voice, he'd said it with the same easy certainty someone might excuse themselves from a conversation at dinner.
The man understood immediately, wished the group a good evening and disappeared back into the crowd without another word.
Jude didn't watch him leave. His attention had already returned to you, his arm still comfortably around your waist as though it had never belonged anywhere else.
The rest of the night unfolded in that same unhurried rhythm. Jude kept his arm around your waist as the stranger melted back into the crowd, his fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your dress in a way that felt more like habit than anything deliberate. You leaned into him without thinking, the pleasant haze of the evening wrapping around you both as the music swelled again.
For a while, nothing seemed different, your girlfriends pulled the group back into a loose circle on the dance floor, laughter rising easily whenever someone missed a step or nearly spilled a drink. Jude moved with you, his hands finding your hips as the beat shifted, pulling you close enough that your back rested against his chest, the warmth of him was steady, familiar.
Another song bled into the next, you turned in his arms, looping yours around his neck as you swayed together. Jude’s forehead brushed yours for a moment, his breath warm against your skin. Then, almost casually, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, he murmured, “Funny guy, eh? What was he saying over there?”
You blinked up at him, the question landing softly through the tipsy glow. A slow smile spread across your face as realisation dawned. “Oh my god,” you laughed, the sound light and affectionate, pressing your cheek against his shoulder for a second. “Were you jealous?”
Jude’s hand tightened slightly at your waist, but his expression stayed easy, almost sheepish. “Not jealous. Just… curious.” He shrugged one shoulder, eyes flicking down to meet yours as you both continued moving to the music. The crowd shifted around you, but the space between your bodies stayed small and warm. “He seemed pretty chatty.”
You grinned, tipping your head back to look at him properly. The alcohol made everything softer, warmer, and his subtle shift in mood only made him look more endearing. “Baby, I barely remember what we were talking about. Something about the club, I think? One of the events we did last year. I was mostly laughing with the girls.” You reached up, fingers brushing along the back of his neck as you pulled him a little closer.
He watched you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You kissed him then, slow and sweet, tasting the faint trace of his drink on his lips. When you pulled back, your smile was teasing but warm. “My big, strong footballer boyrfriend getting a little worked up over some random guy who probably just wanted free bottle service stories.” You laughed again, the sound bubbling up easily, and Jude finally let out a quiet chuckle of his own, shaking his head as he rested his forehead against yours.
“Alright, alright,” he murmured, but his hand stayed firm at your waist, thumb tracing slow circles as the music carried you both.
The conversation didn’t linger, it dissolved the way things often did between you—into another kiss, then another sway of your bodies, your girlfriends pulling you back into the group for a few chaotic minutes of dancing before Jude drew you close again.
The night continued around you, laughter and lights and the steady pulse of the club, but you noticed the tiny shift in him as the hours wore on. He was still there, still affectionate—his hand finding yours, his lips brushing your temple—but he was quieter than usual, more thoughtful.
His smiles came just as readily, but they settled a little deeper, like he was turning something over in his mind without quite saying it aloud. You knew him well enough to see it, even through the pleasant fog of champagne.
Eventually the group decided it was time. Goodbyes stretched out in warm hugs and promises to text tomorrow, the energy winding down naturally as everyone filtered toward the exit. Outside, the Madrid night air was cooler, carrying the faint hum of the city. Jude’s driver was on the way, so the two of you lingered near the discreet side entrance, the doorman giving you both a respectful nod.
You were deep in that sweet, affectionate stage of being tipsy, everything felt softer, warmer, and Jude suddenly seemed like the most solid, wonderful thing in the world. You leaned your full weight against him without warning, arms wrapping around his middle as you pressed your face into his chest.
“Kiss me,” you mumbled against his shirt, the words coming out a little muffled and demanding in the best way.
Jude’s laugh rumbled low, one arm steadying you around the waist while his free hand came up to brush hair from your face. “You’re a handful tonight,” he said softly, but he obliged anyway, tilting your chin up gently and kissing you slow and deep. His other hand slipped your handbag and phone from your shoulder without being asked, tucking them securely under his arm as he kept you close.
You made a contented sound into the kiss, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, growing progressively handsier as the minutes passed and the car still hadn’t arrived. Your hands wandered down his sides, then lower, pressing closer until your bodies were flush.
He indulged for a while, kissing you back with the same lazy heat, one hand sliding up your back while the other kept you steady on your feet. But when your touch grew bolder, he chuckled quietly against your mouth and redirected with effortless care. Instead of pulling away, he tilted his head, kissing slowly along your jaw and down the side of your neck. His lips lingered there, warm and deliberate, before he gave one teasing, gentle bite just below your ear.
You shivered, a soft laugh escaping as you tilted your head to give him better access. Jude’s hand stayed firm at your lower back, guiding you subtly when you wobbled on your heels, his body strong and reliable against yours. He passed you his water bottle between kisses, murmuring, “you better drink this before getting into bed,” without ever making it feel like a correction.
You took the bottle, still grinning against his neck, and tipped it back for a few long gulps. The cool water slid down your throat, cutting through some of the pleasant haze. When you lowered it, you caught him watching you closely, his gaze lingering on the way your throat moved, the faint sheen on your lips. The corner of your mouth curved into something mischievous, the tipsy warmth making you bold.
“You’re so jealous,” you teased, voice low and playful as you pressed closer, one hand sliding up his chest. “Look at you, staring like that while I drink water. What, worried someone else might offer me a sip?”
Jude’s eyebrows lifted, but the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. His hand flexed at your lower back, keeping you anchored against him as the night air brushed past. “Not jealous,” he said, the words carrying that familiar Brummie lilt, warm and slightly defensive in the most endearing way. “Just making sure you stay hydrated.”
You laughed softly, the sound flirtatious and provocative as you tilted your head, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “Mhm. And you’re taking up all of my space and bossing me around.” Your fingers traced lazy patterns on his shirt, pressing just enough to feel the steady beat of his heart. “Very possessive for someone who claims he’s not jealous.”
“I’m not bossing you around,” he countered, voice low, but there was a quiet laugh threaded through it. His free hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he looked down at you. The streetlights caught the subtle tension still lingering in his expression from earlier, but it softened under your teasing.
“Yes you absolutely are,” you shot back, grinning up at him with bright, tipsy eyes. You pushed up onto your toes—wobbling again—and stole another kiss, this one slower, more deliberate, your body leaning fully into his. “Big strong footballer taking care of his girl. Making sure no one else talks to me. Passing me water like it’s an order.” Between kisses you kept the playful pressure on, your voice dropping into something flirtatiously sweet. “Admit it. You hated that guy chatting me up.”
Jude exhaled a quiet laugh against your mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest. He didn’t pull away. Instead he kissed you back, deeper for a moment, then redirected with that same effortless control—lips trailing slowly down the side of your neck again, teeth grazing lightly in a teasing bite that made your breath hitch. “You’re trouble when you’re like this,” he murmured against your skin, hand steady at your waist as he kept you upright. His touch stayed sensual, affectionate, but grounded—never letting the moment tip too far while the car was still minutes away.
You hummed happily, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck as you melted further against him. The teasing hung in the air between kisses, light and warm, the subtle undercurrent of his earlier mood still present but wrapped in the easy intimacy of the night winding down.
The minutes outside the club stretched lazily, the cool Madrid night air doing little to temper the warmth still buzzing under your skin. You stayed wrapped around Jude like that for a good while longer, the teasing flowing as easily as the laughter between you. He kept one arm locked securely around your waist, holding you steady while his other hand occasionally adjusted the strap of your bag on his shoulder or passed the water bottle back to your lips.
You drank when prompted, but mostly you used the moments in between to push your luck, wobbling deliberately on your heels just to feel his grip tighten, pressing closer until your bodies were flush, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone beneath his shirt.
“You’re so jealous,” you murmured again, voice syrupy and provocative as you tilted your head up, lips brushing the underside of his jaw. “Admit it. You wanted to drag me away the second he smiled at me.”
Jude huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm against your hair. “You’re winding me up on purpose now.” His hand slid lower on your back, steadying you as you shifted your weight again, one heel catching awkwardly on the pavement. “Careful.”
You giggled, the sound bright and unfiltered, and did it again—just a little wobble, enough to make him pull you tighter against his chest. “See? Bossing me around." Your hand wandered down his side, playful and bold.
He shook his head, but you could feel the smile in the way his cheek pressed against your temple. “You’re trouble,” he said again, lower this time, the words laced with affection. For several long minutes you stayed like that, talking about nothing, really. Teasing him about the way he’d watched you drink the water, giggling when he tried to defend himself, stealing lazy kisses that tasted like champagne and the night air.
He indulged you, kissing you back whenever you asked, sometimes deepening them until your fingers tightened in his shirt, sometimes redirecting with slow trails down your neck that left you shivering pleasantly. The city hummed softly around you, distant traffic and the occasional passing car, but it all felt far away.
When the black luxury van finally pulled up—sleek, tinted windows, the driver stepping out to open the door with quiet professionalism—Jude’s demeanor shifted. He kept his arm around you, guiding you toward the open door, but his voice dropped into something more serious, steady, and low.
“Alright, that’s enough of that,” he said, the words firm but not harsh, carrying that natural authority he slipped into when he needed to be the grounded one. “You keep pushing and I’ll have to put you in your place when we get home. Behave for five minutes, yeah?”
The warning wasn’t a threat, it was Jude, looking after you in the way he always did, serious enough that you knew he meant it, but wrapped in the same care that had defined the whole night. You pouted dramatically as he helped you into the backseat, but the giggle that followed ruined the effect.
Inside the van the world narrowed to soft leather seats, dim ambient lighting, and the smooth hum of the engine as it pulled away from the curb. Jude settled beside you, immediately pulling you close so your head could rest on his shoulder. He took your heels off without being asked, setting them neatly on the floor, then draped his jacket over your lap when you shivered lightly.
You were still giggling at first, tipsy and affectionate, trying to climb into his lap with clumsy determination, lips seeking his again.
“Baby,” he murmured, catching your hips gently but firmly before you could fully straddle him. “Not here.” He redirected you back down beside him with effortless strength, kissing your forehead instead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth—slow, soothing presses that calmed the restless energy without shutting it down completely. “Settle. You're drunk, baby.”
You pouted again, dramatic and sleepy now, but the fight drained out of you quickly. The gentle motion of the car, the warmth of his body, and the long night finally caught up. You melted against his side, head heavy on his shoulder, fingers loosely tangled in the front of his shirt.
“You’re so sweet,” you mumbled, voice softening into something smaller and more vulnerable. “Taking care of me all night… even when I’m annoying.”
Jude’s arm tightened around you, his free hand coming up to stroke your hair in slow, rhythmic passes. “Not annoying,” he said quietly, lips brushing the top of your head. “Just happy, I like you happy.”
You hummed contentedly, eyes already drifting shut as the city lights continued to streak past the windows. “I love you,” you whispered, the words slurred with sleep and affection, genuine and unguarded. “So much.”
He pressed another kiss to your hair, holding you closer as your breathing evened out. “Love you too, darling. Get some rest. I’ve got you.”
The rest of the ride passed in comfortable silence, just the low hum of the engine and the steady warmth of him beside you, carrying you home.
author's note — don't even know what to comment i'm sleepy as fuck and my back is killing me. if this sucks blame the pre-season because apparently i suffered through it too.
IM NOT ATTRACTED TO YOU LIKE I WAS (BACK AT THE START) !
pairings: jude bellingham x reader.
faceclaims: pinkpantheress
summary: you and jude have been in each other’s circles since you were young, but whenever one of you is ready, the other never seems to be.
warnings: not any really. besides judeyn being dumbasses!!
author’s note: i’m back!!! hi :D also i was so inspired by this edit of the prince and princess of british biracia that i had to make this.
────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────
liked by jobebellingham, judebellingham and 12,827 others.
yourusername: be honest, who outmogged?
view all comments
judebellingham: why are you like this
judebellingham: delete
judebellingham: my lawyers r coming for you
judebellingham: I HATE YOU TIMES INFINITY
judebellingham: WHERE DID U EVEN GET THIS FROM FUCKS SAKE DELETE !!!
-> yourusername: so u want to silence women. wow.
k.mbappe: jude tu t’es fait humilier 😭
-> judebellingham: speak english
-> k.mbappe: you got cooked brother
-> yourusername: merci kylian 😘
jobebellingham: queen outmogged that mouthbreather 😂
-> yourusername: YASSSSS
user1: we all know u mog him babe xxx
user2: yn beefing w/ jude will never not be funny.
-> user3: domestic terrorist 😭
user4: can someone explain this dynamic. who is she?
-> user5: so basically she’s a family friend of the bellinghams. she went to the same school as jude and her mum is besties with denise so she grew up with them. as far as we know, they haven’t publicly dated and seem to be very close friends.
-> user6: they be fuckin
-> user7: i think he’s her beard.
user8: tell jude i can comfort him personally after that england loss.
-> yourusername: comfort ME tf?! who cares about him. i went through a LOT of emotions 💔
user9: one thing about jude he’s gonna like the post while threatening legal action 😭
judebellingham: ur obsessed
-> user10: dude just block her!!!!
-> judebellingham: i’ve tried 💔
-> user11: u have training at 10 stop arguing with women online.
-> judebellingham: MIND UR BUSINESS 🤨‼️
────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────
liked by erling, jobebellingham and 345,628 others.
judebellingham: who outmogs now?
view all comments
user1: her
user2: her
user3: her
user4: her
user5: her
user6: her
user7: her
user8: her
user9: her
user10: her
erling: you bro 👊🏻
-> judebellingham: love you bro 👊🏽
-> user11: now kiss 😍
jobebellingham: this weird foreplay is strange. just kiss and stop dragging us into it!!!!!!!
────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────
────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────
📍 new york city, usa.
liked by jobebellingham, yourbestfriend and 21,938 others.
yourusername: new york i love you, but you’re bringing me down.
view all comments
judebellingham: depressing ass song. don’t see that man again.
-> user1: “don’t see that man again” WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS 😭
-> user2: bro the booty police 😭😭😭
user3: girl stand UP jude is literally trying to save u from evil hell situationships
-> yourusername: he wants me miserable.
-> user3: YOU want you miserable 😭😭😭
user4: the way he always appears under her posts within 3 business minutes 😭
-> user5: notifications ON btw
jobebellingham: not this again.
-> yourusername: HE STARTED IT
-> judebellingham: YOU POSTED IT
user6: jude is that one friend who says “he’s weird” about every guy 😭
*liked by yourusername*
yourbestfriend: this is NOT your business btw judebellingham
-> judebellingham: made it my business
-> yourbestfriend: you literally asked ZERO follow-up questions 😭
→ yourusername: he never does
user7: this is NOT a normal friendship btw
user8: possessive but not enough to ask her out. fascinating.
-> user9: if she blocks every guy because of jude eventually she’ll have to date jude… he’s playing chess we’re playing checkers
user10: somebody explain this situationship in football terms
→ user11: VAR checked it. still confusing.
────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────
author’s note: this got ahead of me. i will post another part later ok bye xoxo
masterlist ᯓ★
lo's commentary: well this was possibly the most hurtful thing i've ever had to write, but thank you for all of the support on my last fic. i appreciate it so much + hope this helps soothe some of the pain from the semi final :(
pairing: bf!jude bellingham x reader
summary: after England’s heartbreaking 1-2 semi-final loss to Argentina, a devastated Jude tries to hold it together in public but completely falls apart once he’s back in the hotel room with you. heavy emotional comfort, soft reassurance, and the quiet kind of love that helps him through the worst nights.
warnings: pain. more pain. more pain. and some sweet loving comfort. heavy angst + emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of jude crying, soft intimacy (nothing explicit), established relationship
wc: 3.1k
It never really gets easier for Jude. Winning is stitched into his bones. He hates losing with a quiet, burning fury most people never see. But nothing cuts quite as deep as the feeling that he’s let an entire country down.
You watched it all with your pulse roaring in your ears. For long stretches England had looked dangerous, unbreakable even. Anthony Gordon’s goal had sent the England end into delirium, and for a little while the dream felt dangerously close again. This time. This year. The whole nation had let itself believe. Then it slipped away in the cruelest way possible. Again.
Two late goals from Argentina, clinical and ruthless, tore the final apart in stoppage time. The final whistle sounded like the end of everything. The stadium erupted in blue and white while the England players stood frozen on the pitch, chests heaving, dreams crumbling in front of their eyes.
Denise had her sunglasses on, but her grip on your arm was tight. Mark looked utterly devastated for his son, jaw clenched, eyes glassy. Your own throat felt raw, too tight. None of you could find words. You could only stare down at the pitch as Argentina celebrated wildly in front of the shell-shocked Three Lions.
Jude was near the centre circle, hands on his hips, head bowed. Even from the stands you could see the devastation carved into him. His broad shoulders rose and fell with each ragged breath, jersey clinging to his sweat-drenched frame. He tried so hard to hold it together, his jaw locked tight, eyes blinking rapidly against the sting, but the mask was cracking. You watched him mouth “fuck… fuck” under his breath, one hand dragging roughly down his face as if he could wipe the reality away. His knees looked like they might buckle for a second.
The worst part was always watching him grieve the dream in real time, watching the reality of what they'd just lost settle in.
He still tried. He always did. You saw him pull a couple of the lads into quick, tight hugs, clap backs, force a few words of encouragement even as his own world felt like it was collapsing around him. But the pain was written so clearly across his face. His eyebrows furrowed deep, lips pressed into a thin line, dark eyes glassy and distant. He looked lost. Gutted. Like the weight of every “what if” and “so close again” was pressing down on his shoulders so much he could barely keep himself upright.
The minute you saw him crying, your heart shattered clean in two.
“God, I just hope they’re easy on him in the interviews,” you whispered, voice tight.
“They never make it easy,” Mark replied quietly, patting your back.
Denise’s voice was barely above a breath, but it was steady. “He knows how to handle it. He just needs to get through the next few hours.”
The time between the final whistle and when the lads finally made their way over to the family and friends section blurred into something heavy and suffocating. You couldn’t bring yourself to check your phone. Couldn’t find any words for Denise or Mark. The hurt sat deep in your chest, sharp and aching, all for him.
You only looked up from the floor when you heard movement around you. Jude was walking over, cap pulled low, head down, shoulders slumped so low that it made him look smaller than his six-foot-one frame ever should. The devastation rolled off him in waves.
He hugged his mum first. She held him tight, whispering things you couldn’t hear, and you watched his broad shoulders tremble under her arms. Then his dad. Mark held him upright, hand rubbing slow circles on his back, murmuring quiet words of pride. That’s when you finally caught a proper look at his face. His breathing was hitched, eyes red-rimmed, one hand covering them as if that could shield him from the cameras that never stopped clicking. The media could be so cruel. They’d been vicious during the Euros, tearing him apart for every mistake, every expression, every “arrogant” celebration that wasn’t a celebration at all. Tonight they weren’t quite as vicious yet, but still… they were there. Waiting for the golden boy to break.
You met his eyes over Mark’s shoulder. His eyebrows knitted together the moment your eyes locked, and you were sure your face mirrored the pain on his. His bottom lip trembled for a split second before he forced it still. He was with his safe people, but the stadium still felt too exposed, too bright, too full of eyes that wanted to watch him fall apart.
Instead of letting himself fall into you – because he knew if he did, the dam would break completely – he dropped into the seat beside you and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, cap pulled even lower to hide his face more. You placed a hand on his back, rubbing slow, soothing lines up and down, offering whatever small comfort you could. It felt like the rest of the stadium had gone quiet. All you could hear was the occasional quiet sniffle he tried to hide.
“I’m so sorry Jude–”
He shook his head quickly, dismissive. Like he wasn’t ready to hear it out loud yet, like mentioning it at all was irritating the wound.
You frowned, heart twisting as you tried to find something else to say. “Did the interviews go okay?”
He nodded, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah… yeah. Just told them I was gutted.” His voice cracked on the last word and he cleared his throat, trying to steady it. “I’m so fucking–” He couldn’t finish, his voice breaking again as he hid his face with his hands. The words were too painful, caught in his throat.
You shuffled closer, your hand never stopping its gentle path along his back. “Alright, baby… I know. I know,” you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder.
He stayed hunched forward, breathing shaky, the weight of another near-miss pressing down on him like it might crush him right there in the stadium’s seat. Eventually the staff started rounding the lads up for the post match briefing before the third place game on Saturday. Jude stood slowly, blinking away fresh tears, trying to pull some composure back together that clearly wasn’t there.
He hugged his mum and dad again, long and tight. In that moment Morgan Rogers wandered over, looking just as drained as the rest of them. He’d become a close friend to Jude during the tournament, always by his side, and by extension he’d grown close with you too.
“Sorry Morgs,” you said quietly as you pulled him into a hug, “I don’t know what to say to you.”
He let out a heavy sigh against your shoulder, a little more composed than Jude but still clearly gutted. “Yeah… I know,” he mumbled, voice quiet. “Doesn’t feel real yet.”
You pulled back and gave his arm a gentle pat, your worried eyes already drifting back to Jude, who was wiping at his face again as he let go of his dad. “Stick close to him tonight, yeah?” you whispered.
Morgan nodded, frowning a little, the concern clear on his face. “I got him. Don’t worry. We’ll see you back at the hotel later.”
Jude eventually turned toward you. He placed a hand on your waist, not a full hug yet, like he still didn’t trust himself not to completely break down in front of everyone. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering there for a second.
“I love you,” you whispered, hand cupping the back of his neck, thumb stroking gently.
His voice came out higher than normal, shaky and cracking under the weight of everything. “I know, baby… I love you more.”
Then they were gone, trailing after the staff with their heads down. All you could do was watch his tall frame disappear, shoulders still carrying far too much, and wait until you could finally have him to yourself at the hotel later.
A few hours later you were lying on his bed in the team hotel. The room was dim, only the bedside lamp on. Jude’s head was buried in your chest, his body curled into you like he was trying to disappear. He’d showered and changed into his favourite black hoodie and joggers, but he was still so withdrawn, so quiet compared to the Jude you knew and loved. All losses affected him. But losses with England broke something deeper inside him every single time.
He loved playing for his country. It wasn’t just football to him; it was legacy, it was family, it was the little boy from Stourbridge who grew up watching the Three Lions and dreaming of being the one to finally bring it home. Every time they got close and fell short, the shame lingered. He carried the weight of a nation’s hope on his shoulders, and when it slipped away again, he internalised it as a personal failure. Like he hadn’t been good enough. Like he’d let every kid back home, every fan who believed, every former player who’d come before him, down.
It wasn’t rational, but it was Jude. He was a winner through and through, and this kind of hurt cut right to the soul of his very being.
You kissed his temple softly, not rushing him. You’d stay here in silence until they forcibly dragged him from your arms if you had to. He wasn’t crying anymore, he was just silent. Both hurt the same.
After a long stretch of quiet, his voice finally cracked the stillness, low and hoarse.
“I… I wanted it so bad.” The words came out raw, almost childlike in their honesty. You felt them land heavy in your chest, a fresh source of sadness pouring over you.
“You all did, Jude. You all fought so, so hard out there.”
“But it wasn’t enough,” he whispered, voice breaking on the last word. “It’s never fucking enough. We got so close again… I really thought it felt different this time. I believed in us. I believed in me.”
He shifted slightly, pressing his face harder into your chest like he could hide from the memory of those late goals. You ran your fingers up and down his neck, slow and soothing.
“Jude… you’re twenty-three. Twenty-three. You just led your country to the semi-finals of a World Cup. Do you know how insane that is? How many players would kill for what you’ve already done at your age?”
He stayed quiet for a moment, breathing against you. When he spoke again his voice was muffled but thick with emotion.
“It just hurts so much. I don’t know what even happened to us. We were winning. We were in control. And then…” His shoulders started to shake. “It felt like we were finally going to do it. Like the whole country was behind us. Like maybe this was our time.”
You tightened your arms around him, heart aching.
“You brought the nation together, Jude. For weeks people have been smiling again, believing again, wearing the shirt with pride because of you and the boys. Kids all over England are kicking a ball around in the park right now pretending to be you. That doesn’t go away just because it didn’t end with the trophy. You gave them hope. You gave them something to dream about. You get to keep doing that for years.”
He let out a shaky breath, almost a sob, and shuffled up so he could bury his face properly in the crook of your neck. His big body curled around yours, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist as he breathed you in like you were the only thing keeping him together.
“I knew if I let you comfort me in the stadium I was gonna sob,” he mumbled against your skin. “And… you know I just don’t want people seeing me like that. Not the cameras. Not the whole world. They already love tearing me down when things go wrong. Especially after the Euros… I couldn't give them that again. But I wanted you to comfort me, I needed it.”
You stroked the back of his neck, pressing soft kisses to his hair.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time, baby. Not with me. Not with your family. You’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to be gutted. You just carried a whole country on your back for weeks. It’s okay if it feels heavy right now.”
He was quiet for a long time, just breathing against you, fingers clutching the back of your top.
“I really thought we had it this time,” he whispered eventually, voice small. “It felt… different. The lads were so together. The belief in the camp was real. And then it just… slipped. Again.”
You held him tighter.
“And it will feel different next time too. Because you’re going to keep growing. You’re going to keep getting better. And one day, whether it’s the next tournament or the one after, you’re going to lift that trophy. I know it. Your mum knows it. Your dad knows it. The whole country knows it, even if they’re hurting tonight. It hurts because you had belief, Jude. But we all still believe in you.”
He let out a wet, broken little sound and pressed even closer, legs tangling with yours.
“I just wanted it for them, you know? For my family. For you. For the fans who travel everywhere. For the kids who look up to me.” His voice cracked again. “I wanted it so fucking bad.”
“I know you did, my love. And you’ll get another chance. You’re only twenty-three. The best years are still ahead of you.”
He stayed buried in your neck for a long time after that, letting the quiet comfort of your arms slowly ease some of the weight. Every now and then his shoulders would shake with another quiet sob, and you’d just hold him closer whispering how proud you were, how much you loved him, how this one loss didn’t define the incredible player and man he was.
You kept stroking his hair, heart still aching for him, but so full of love it almost hurt. This was your Jude. The one the world didn’t always get to see. The one who carried everything so beautifully, even when it broke him.
“I’ll never forget your face when they sang Wonderwall and Hey Jude to you,” you whispered, voice soft. “Never. You’ve made some beautiful memories, baby. Ones that millions of people are going to hold onto for years. That’s not nothing.”
He stayed quiet for a long time, just breathing against your neck, arms locked around you like you were the only solid thing left in the world. When he finally spoke, his voice was small and raw.
“It just… it hurts so much tonight. I know I’m young. I know there’ll be more chances. But right now it feels like we were so fucking close. Like we had it in our hands and it just… slipped away again.”
You pressed a kiss to the top of his head again, hands smoothing down his back
“I know, my love. And it’s okay to feel that. You’re allowed to be devastated. You’re allowed to grieve it. But please don’t let it make you forget how far you’ve already come. Twenty-three years old and you’re one of the best players in the world. You’ve carried this team. You’ve inspired a whole country. Kids are going to grow up wanting to be you because of what you showed them this summer.”
He let out a shaky breath that sounded half like a sob, half like a laugh.
“You always know what to say,” he mumbled, voice higher than usual from crying. “Can’t even cry properly without you making it feel better. Even when I feel like the biggest failure in the world… you make me feel like maybe I’m not.”
“You’re not,” you said firmly, tilting his chin up gently so you could look at him. His eyes were red, lashes wet, but they were still the same beautiful brown eyes you fell in love with. “You’re my favourite person in the whole world. The hardest worker I know. The one who never gives up. The one who makes me proud every single day. This one loss doesn’t change any of that.”
He stared at you for a long moment, something fragile and hopeful flickering across his face. Then he leaned in and kissed you. Gentle and slow, full of everything he couldn’t quite say. It was soft and grateful, his lips moving against yours like he was trying to pour every ounce of love and thanks into it. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered. “Seriously. Tonight would’ve been unbearable if I didn’t have you waiting for me.”
“You’ll always have me,” you promised, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Win, lose, or draw. I’m right here.”
A tiny, tired smile finally cracked across his lips. It was barely there underneath the grief, but you saw it. It was the first one you’d seen since the final whistle, and it made your heart feel a little lighter.
“There he is,” you whispered, smiling back. “My favourite smile in the world.”
He let out a quiet huff of laughter and kissed you again, slower this time, sweeter. When he pulled away he tucked his face back into your neck, arms tightening around you as his body finally started to relax.
“Thank you,” he murmured against your skin, voice sleepy and warm. “For being here with me. Loving all of me. Even the shit parts that make me cry like a baby.”
“Especially the shit parts,” you teased gently, still playing with his curls. “I love every single one of them.”
He didn’t answer with words, he pressed one last soft kiss to your collarbone and let out a long, exhausted breath. Within minutes his breathing evened out, the tension finally draining from his shoulders as a restless sleep took him over.
You kept holding him, hands still moving gently over him to soothe him, heart full even though it still ached. Tomorrow would be hard. The media, the questions, the what-ifs. But tonight he was safe, here with you in your arms.
One day, you truly believed it, he would lift that trophy. You closed your eyes and imagined it. His smile lighting up the whole stadium. The tension finally falling away from his shoulders. The relief he’d feel. Until then, you’d be with him for every high and every heartbreaking low.
when you finally get tired of his bs, how does he react?
tws: mentions of sex and cheating, swearing, angst, suggestivish?
first smau how we feeling it’s lowkey mid im gonna earn and write my way up to babs level fr anyways dont mind the last picture it’s to even out the photos.. also this is my first time using this texting app so don’t mind the hi at the start i was testing it
mid smau maybe will turn this into a fic but wtv i just wanted to post something since i havent posted in like 100 years
If Yuji was asked to describe his girlfriend? There was only one way ⸻ pink, glittery, vanilla scented, pretty.
But don't be fooled. Most men would want a way out. Yuji does not. In fact, if he could be anywhere in the world, he'd choose to be with you.
He is exactly where he wants to be.
"Yuji?" You're sprawled on his bed, watching as he games. It's some dumb fighting game he'd insisted on buying.
"Hm?" He doesn't glance up from the console.
"Do you know where my lipgloss is?"
He immediately abandons his game, clocking into his boyfriend duties. "Which one?"
"The clear gliterry one." You reply, watching as he searches the wrinkles in his duvet, under his pillows, the floor, his desk.
"Have you checked your bag?" He asks as he peers under the bed.
You glance towards your little pink handbag. "No." You frown. Reaching for the bag, you rummage around a bit. "Found it! Thank you, Yuji. You're the best."
He beams at the praise. "Of course, baby." He tosses himself down beside you, watching as you apply the lipgloss.
As the designated taste-tester, once you've coated your soft, juicy lips in shimmering gloss, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours.
You make a small whiney sound in the back of your throat. When he pulls back, your lips are pushed out into a pout.
He licks his lips. Vanilla flavoured. "10/10, baby." He says trying to go in for another taste.
"Stoppp," You giggle, pushing him back. The sound makes him smile.
He is absolutely, undeniably obsessed with you.
"Fine." He relents with a dramatic, mock sigh, rolling over theatrically.
"C'mere." You whine.
The second he rolls to face you, you're on top of him, your thighs on either side of his torso. His hands instinctively find your hips to hold you there. You take his face gently, holding his chin with one hand, as you lean closer, applying the shimmering gloss to his lips. Your breath mingles with his. Yuji stays perfectly still until you're done, then his tongue darts out to lick his glittery lips.
"Yuji!" You huff as he laps up the gloss off his lips. He grins up at you unapologetically.
𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶. ⏤ “your bf catches a fever and won’t stop clinging on to you.”
📽️ ֹ ͏ james x f!reader’ ➜ established rls ⊹ wc . 450+ ⠀⌣⌣⠀fluff contentt<33
The kitchen is warm in that quiet, early-morning way, sunlight slanting across the counter while the pan hisses softly under your hand. You’re barefoot, hair still a little messy, moving on autopilot as you crack eggs and hum something tuneless, already thinking about how good the first bite will be.
Arms slide around your waist from behind, loose and heavy, Jame’s chest pressing into your back as his chin drops onto your shoulder with a soft, satisfied sound. His hair brushes your cheek when he nuzzles closer, like he’s half-asleep and fully determined to stay that way.
“Mmm,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “you smell good.”
You laugh, shifting slightly so you don’t bump the pan. “I’m cooking. That’s the food.”
“Still you,” he insists, tightening his grip just enough to make it hard to move. He sways faintly, dragging you with him, as if standing upright is optional this morning. “You’re warm.”
“That’s because you’re freezing,” you say absently, reaching for the spatula. Then you pause.
Freezing isn’t right.
You turn your head just enough to look at him, and that’s when you notice it. His eyes are glassy, lashes fluttering like it takes effort to keep them open, his cheeks faintly flushed in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him. When you lift your hand to his arm, his skin is hot—too hot—and he makes a small noise at the contact, something between a sigh and a whine.
“You okay?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
James shakes his head immediately, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. “No.”
That one word is dramatic, drawn-out, unmistakably miserable.
You sigh, turning off the stove and setting the spatula down. “How long have you felt like this?”
“Since I woke up,” he mutters. “Which was terrible, by the way. Everything hurts and I couldn’t find you.”
“You were asleep ten minutes ago.”
“I woke up emotionally,” he says, arms tightening again. “And you weren’t there.”
You can’t help it—you smile, even as concern settles in your chest. You press the back of your hand to his forehead, and he leans into it like he’s been waiting for permission.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “You’ve got a fever.”
He exhales, relieved. “Knew it.”
“Come sit down,” you tell him. “You shouldn’t be standing.”
James immediately resists, clinging harder, his weight slumping fully against you now. “But you’re standing.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is to me.”
There it is. The whining. Low, persistent, undeniably pitiful.
You turn in his arms, carefully, wrapping one arm around his back so he doesn’t lose his balance. Up close, he looks even worse—eyes unfocused, lips slightly parted, every expression exaggerated by exhaustion. When you brush his hair back from his forehead, he closes his eyes instantly, melting.
“Oh, you are sick-sick,” you murmur.
He opens one eye. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re going to abandon me.”
You snort. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m going to make you eat and then put you back in bed.”
James groans softly, resting his forehead against yours. “Can’t I just stay here with you?”
“You’re burning up.”
“You’re cold,” he counters weakly. “We’re balanced.”
You kiss his temple, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m ill,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
You guide him toward the table, hands steady on his shoulders, and he goes reluctantly, feet dragging like each step is a personal betrayal. Once he’s seated, he immediately reaches for you again, fingers hooking into the hem of your shirt.
“Don’t leave,” he says, quieter now.
“I’m right here,” you promise, pressing another kiss to his hair. “I just need to grab the thermometer.”
James grip loosens, but only barely. “Bring it back fast.”
You do, and he watches you the entire time like you might vanish if he blinks. When you take his temperature and confirm what you already knew, he makes a small, offended sound.
“That number seems rude.”
“It’s a fever,” you say gently. “We’ll take care of it.”
He nods, then leans forward again, resting his head against your stomach while you stand between his knees. His arms wrap around you, looser now, tired rather than insistent.
“You’re really nice to me when I’m sick,” james mumbles.
“I’m always nice to you.”
He hums, clearly unconvinced but too exhausted to argue. “Promise you’ll stay?”
You run your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, feeling the tension ease out of him little by little. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His shoulders relax, breath evening out as he clings to you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright. Breakfast can wait. The world can wait. For now, there’s just this—your sick, whining boyfriend, warm and needy and safe in your arms, exactly where he wants to be.
blakekathryn
discoholicmusic
germansingergirl
stormborns
