Big Mama

jb5

[transcendingthegame]

about me • names koko, 20 years old, zimbabwean living in south africa, just writing for the love of the game ;) strictly woc fanfics

requests • are completely open, i can write anything you’d like for any woc. currently football obsessed (jb5), but i can write for people outside of that too xx

MASTERLIST ; RULES

[transcendingthegame]

after hours ~ j.bellingham

pairing: footballer!jude x black!reader

word count: 1.7k+

warnings/notes: 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, rough/deep sex, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, praise vignettes, somnophilia elements (implied), softdom!jude

summary: what was supposed to be a girls night out with your friend, turns into a private celebration with jude

a/n: hi lovelies !! as requested here’s the jude smut fic, it is my first time writing this kind of content so bare w me 😅

masterlist

The bass thumped through the VIP section like a second heartbeat, low and insistent, cutting through the haze of expensive cologne, spilled champagne, and victory.

England had done it. Third place at the World Cup, a hard-fought win against France sealing the deal. No final, but a podium finish. The boys were buzzing, shirts half-unbuttoned, ties long discarded, laughter rolling louder than the music in their private corner of the club.

You and your best friend had slipped in thanks to her cousin’s connections - some promoter who owed her a favor. The place was packed with athletes, influencers, and anyone who could afford the velvet ropes.

Your friend had vanished toward the bar while you ducked into the bathroom to fix your makeup and the hem of your short black dress, the one that hugged your curves just right and made you feel dangerous tonight.

By the time you stepped out, smoothing the fabric over your thighs, your phone was already vibrating.

Friend:

Where r u?? Come to the England section!! Djed Spence pulled me over. Hurry babe!!

You laughed under your breath, weaving through the crowd, the alcohol from your pre-game shots already warming your veins.

The VIP area was elevated, guarded by a discreet bouncer who let you through once you dropped your friend’s name. Lights pulsed in deep reds and golds.

There she was, perched on a leather couch, laughing flirtatiously with a guy you recognized immediately, Djed Spence.

And next to them, sprawled like he owned the damn club, was Jude Bellingham.

He was in an off white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top few buttons undone to show the chain glinting against his skin. A half-empty bottle of something dark sat in front of him. His legs were spread wide, relaxed but commanding, that post-match glow still clinging to him - tired eyes, but wired with adrenaline and liquor.

Your friend spotted you first. She jumped up with a squeal, pulling you into a tight hug that smelled like her vanilla perfume and spilled tequila. “Babe! Finally! This is Djed,” she said, gesturing with a grin. Djed gave you a warm nod and a quick “Nice to meet you,” already turning his attention back to her with clear interest.

Before you could even respond properly, you felt it.

That look.

Jude’s eyes dragged up from your heels, slow and deliberate, over the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, the neckline of your dress, until they locked on yours.

Dark, heavy, hungry. Not just drunk but starved. Like the win, the club, the night, and now you were all fuel for whatever fire was burning in him. His lips parted slightly, jaw tight, and the corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest smirk.

You barely had time to breathe before his hand reached out, gentle but sure, fingers wrapping around yours. Warm. Calloused from years of football.

He pulled you lightly, guiding you down onto the couch right beside him instead of the empty spot next to your friend.

“Sit here,” he murmured, voice low and rough, close enough that you felt the heat of his breath against your ear. “Plenty of room.”

Your friend shot you a quick, wide-eyed glance. Half amused, half holy shit. Before Djed pulled her back into conversation, leaving you and Jude in your own little bubble amid the noise.

Up close, he was overwhelming. Broad shoulders, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with whiskey, those famous eyes hooded from drinking but sharp on you.

He leaned in slightly, arm sprawled across the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching but close enough that his presence felt like a claim.

“You here celebrating too?” he asked, voice carrying that Birmingham edge, softened by the alcohol. Fresh drinks appeared in front of him - courtesy of a server who clearly knew the table - and he slid one toward you without asking.

“Something like that,” you replied, taking a sip to steady yourself. The liquor burned sweet down your throat. “Didn’t expect to end up in your section tonight though.”

Jude chuckled, deep and lazy, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a second too long. “Lucky night then. For both of us.” He shifted closer, thigh brushing yours. “So what’s your name love?”

You told him. He repeated it slowly, like he was tasting it, rolling the syllables on his tongue. “Pretty. Suits you.” His fingers tapped the glass in his hand, but his eyes stayed on you, tracing your collarbone, the way your dress rode up just a little when you crossed your legs. “You watch the match?”

“Caught the highlights,” you said, smiling. “You played well. That goal…”

He waved it off, but the smirk deepened, pleased. “Didn’t feel like enough. Wanted more.” The double meaning hung there, thick. He took a long drink, then set the glass down. “But tonight? I’m not thinking about football.”

The conversation flowed easy at first - light teasing about the club, the crowd, how England boys knew how to party. But Jude was relentless in the best way. Every answer you gave, he leaned into it.

“You always look this good when you crash VIP?” he asked after a while, voice dropping lower. His hand had found its way to the back of the couch, fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder now and then. “Or is this just for me?”

You laughed, heat pooling low in your belly. “Bold, Bellingham.”

“Just drunk and honest,” he shot back, eyes glittering.

The way he watched your lips on the rim of your glass, the slow drag of his stare down your body every few minutes, the way his knee pressed firmer against yours.

Like the win had left him wired and the alcohol had stripped away any filter, in a way only a man who knew exactly who he was and what he wanted could be and open about it, pressing just enough without doing too much.

Your friend and Djed were deep in their own world, laughing and flirting, occasionally pulling you both into shots. Tequila. Whiskey. Champagne.

The table filled with bottles. Jude kept refilling yours, clinking glasses with you every time, his hand lingering on yours longer each round. The music swelled - smooth and seductive, and the energy shifted.

“Dance with me,” Jude said suddenly, standing and offering his hand again. No question in it this time. His eyes were darker now, pupils blown, lips wet from his last drink.

You took it.

The dance floor in the VIP area was dimmer, bodies moving close under the lights. Jude pulled you in front of him, chest to your back, hands settling on your waist like they belonged there. Big hands. Strong. Fingers digging in just enough to hold you as the beat dropped.

He moved with you. His surprisingly fluid and athletic hips rolling slow against yours. You pressed back, grinding to the rhythm, feeling the hard line of his body behind you.

Your dress rode higher as his thumbs traced the edge of it, slipping under just barely. His breath was hot on your neck, lips brushing your ear as he murmured along with the lyrics.

“Fuck…you feel good,” he groaned lowly, voice gravelly with want. One hand slid lower, gripping your hip tighter, pulling you flush against him as you moved together.

The grind was deliberate now, slow and dirty, his growing hardness unmistakable against your back. He didn’t hide it, nor did he want to. He just st held you there, dancing like the rest of the club didn’t exist, like he was already imagining peeling that dress off later.

The night stretched on like that; dancing, drinks, his hands never leaving your body for long. Slow, but the fire was already catching.

The club lights blurred into streaks of neon as Jude kept you locked against him through another song, his hips grinding slow and deliberate into the curve of your ass.

“Fuck this,” he finally growled, low and rough. “I need you somewhere I can really touch you. Come back to my hotel with me. It’s not far. Let me take care of you properly tonight, yeah?”

The want in his voice left no room for hesitation.

You nodded, and Jude’s grin was pure hunger as he wrapped a strong arm around your waist, guiding you out.

Your friend caught your eye one last time and mouthed text me later with a wink.

The private car ride was thick with tension.

Jude pulled you onto his lap in the back seat, hands sliding up your thighs under the hem of your dress, teasing the edge of your panties but never quite giving you what you craved.

“You’ve been driving me crazy since I saw you,” he murmured between heated kisses along your jaw. “Looking like that…grinding on me like a good girl. I’ve been half-hard all night thinking about how wet you probably are right now.”

His fingers traced lazy circles on your inner thigh, voice soft but commanding. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

“Jude… please,” you breathed, rocking against the thick bulge in his pants.

He chuckled darkly, nipping at your earlobe.

“That’s my girl. Gonna make you feel so fucking good when we get upstairs. Be patient for me.”

The luxury hotel suite was quiet and dimly lit when the door clicked shut behind you. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a glittering city view, but Jude only had eyes for you.

He kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his shirt slowly, revealing the sculpted torso you’d only glimpsed in the club. Soft, smooth skin, the faint sheen of sweat from dancing.

“C’mere, baby,” he said, voice low and warm, pulling you flush against him.

The kiss was deep and messy from the start. Tongues sliding sloppily, teeth grazing, the taste of whiskey and champagne shared between you.

His big hands roamed your body possessively, squeezing your ass and pulling you tighter so you could feel every inch of how hard he was.

“God, you kiss like you’ve been needing this as bad as I have.”

He walked you backward until your legs hit the massive king bed, then eased you down to sit on the edge.

“Stay right there. Eyes on me.”

Jude stood between your spread thighs, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness.

“Been imagining peeling this dress off you since the moment I saw you. Take it off for me, nice and slow. Want to see everything.”

You obeyed, sliding the fabric up and over your head, letting it pool on the floor. Jude’s eyes darkened, raking over your bra and panties with nothing but desire and hunger.

“Fuck…look at you. You’re perfect, I can see that pretty pussy already soaking through your panties for me. Such a needy girl.”

He dropped to his knees, strong hands spreading your thighs wider.

“Let me taste you first.”

He hooked your panties to the side and licked a long, slow stripe up your folds, moaning loudly against you.

“Mmm, so sweet. This pussy is fucking delicious.”

His tongue circled your clit with expert pressure while he slowly slid two thick fingers inside you, curling immediately to hit that perfect spot.

He was relentless but soft in his dominance, holding your hips down gently but firmly with one hand.

“Jude- oh my god,” you moaned, fingers threading through his thick curls.

“Yeah, say my name louder, baby. I love hearing you fall apart.”

He sucked your clit between his lips, humming vibrations through you as his fingers pumped faster.

“That’s it baby. There you go, grind on my face like you were grinding on my dick. Good fucking girl. You’re already clenching so tight around my fingers. Gonna cum for me already? Do it. Let me hear how pretty you sound when you let go.”

The orgasm crashed over you hard. Your back arched, thighs trembling around his head as you cried out.

Jude didn’t stop, licking you through every wave until you were panting and oversensitive. Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, and stand up with a satisfied smirk.

“One down,” he said, voice husky.

He stripped fully, his thick cock springing free. Hard, heavy, and leaking at the tip.

“Look what you do to me. Been aching for this.”

He climbed onto the bed, pulling you on top of him first.

“Ride my fingers some more while I play with these pretty tits.”

He slid three fingers back inside you this time, stretching you as you rocked against his hand. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking and biting gently while his thumb rubbed your clit.

“Shes so wet for me baby… listen to her make a mess on my hand, baby. I fucking love it.”

When you were whimpering and close again, Jude flipped you onto your back with easy strength, settling between your legs. He rubbed the thick head of his cock up and down your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

“You want it? Tell me.”

“Yes, Jude… please fuck me.”

“That’s my good girl.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, groaning deep in his chest the whole time.

“Fuuuck, you’re so tight. Shes taking me so well. Watch how your pussy stretches around my dick.” He bottomed out with a shared moan, staying buried deep for a moment so you could adjust.

Then he started moving, rocking his hips deep into you.He was incredibly vocal, never silent for long.

“That’s it, baby. Take every inch. You feel so fucking perfect around me.”

One hand pinned your wrist above your head while the other came down to run slow circles on your clit, matching his strokes.

“Louder for me. I want to hear how much you love getting fucked by me.”

He picked up the pace, hips snapping harder against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“Such a good girl, creaming all over my dick. Look at you, taking me so well.”

He leaned down to kiss you messily, then shifted to hit a new angle that made you see stars.

“Right there? Cum on my cock again, baby. C’mon let go.”

You shattered for the second time, crying his name loudly as your walls pulsed around him. Jude fucked you through it with praise pouring from his lips.

“Yes, fuck- that’s my gorgeous girl. So beautiful when you cum. I’m so close… where do you want it?”

“Inside…please- ,” you gasped, nails digging into his back.

He moaned, eyebrows furrowing, long and guttural, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard.

“Fuuuuck- take it all. Perfect little pussy milking me dry.”

His hips stuttered through the aftershocks before he finally stilled, collapsing half on top of you with his face buried in your neck.

For a while, the only sounds were your heavy breathing. Jude eventually pulled out carefully, disappearing to the bathroom and returning with a warm cloth.

He cleaned you both gently, then pulled you into his chest under the soft sheets, big hand stroking up and down your back in soothing circles.

“Stay till morning,” he murmured against your hair, voice sleepy but still laced with that possessive warmth. “Not nearly done with you yet. Gonna wake you up with my mouth again if you let me.”

He kissed your forehead, holding you close as the city lights twinkled outside.

“You were incredible, baby.”

[transcendingthegame]

— HI LOVELIES 🤍

first of all, last nights game? top top performance from both sides. idk about you guys but that was the real final for me 😩

with that being said my requests are split in half for the next fic so imma let you guys pick which one you’d like next xx

(also if you’d like to join my taglist pls comment or lmk through the asks)

edit: you can find the world cup victory fic here xx

…

post match World Cup victory ft jude bellingham (smut)

beautiful mistake ft jude bellingham (part 2)

Voting ended on2h

[transcendingthegame]

i came across your account on accident, while i don't actually know the fandoms you write about but I really appreciate how diverse your writing is for other cultures and your great job at making everyone feel represented, keep the good work

hi love !!

thank you so much for you comment, I’m glad you found me haha. my aim when I decided to start writing was to be as inclusive as possible. as a black woman myself it’s hard to find good fics in the football fandom especially, but I noticed the extreme lack of fics for other minorities across all fandoms and honestly I’m so glad that I’m able to help anyone who’s willing to read them feel included xx no one deserves to feel like they don’t belong

[transcendingthegame]

the way you do the layout for each request are as amazing as your writing💕 always keep on cooking and devouring with the different themes queen🫶

hi love !!

thank you so so much for the kind words, this means a lot more to me than you think xxx

[transcendingthegame]

thick & thin ~ m.olisé

pairing: bf!michael x fem!black!reader

word count: 1.1k+

warnings/notes: world cup loss, heavy emotional angst, breakdown & weeping (comforted), pure comfort/fluff, mutual adoration, soft domestic moments, minor french terms of endearment

summary: you comfort michael after their semi final loss

a/n: hi lovelies !! my heart is still actively breaking for france’s loss, all I wanted was a france and england final. at least we get to see them tonight for the 3rd place match tho :( i hope you guys enjoy xx

masterlist

The final whistle had blown over an hour ago, but the cold, heavy shock of the defeat still hung in the humid air of the stadium.

The scoreboard was a brutal, unblinking reminder of the nightmare that had just unfolded: Spain were champions winning 2-0, and France’s golden run had ended in the most agonizing way possible.

As the stadium slowly emptied, the deafening roars of the Spanish celebrations echoed through the concrete underbelly of the arena, making the narrow corridors feel even more claustrophobic.

You stood just outside the restricted zone near the locker room entrance, bypassed by security because they knew exactly who you were. Your credential hung heavy around your neck, but your chest felt completely hollow.

When the double doors at the end of the corridor finally swung open, the players began to trickle through. They looked like ghosts - shoulders slumped, jerseys stained with grass and sweat, eyes staring blankly at the concrete floor.

Then came Michael.

He was walking slowly, his head bowed, his hands gripping the collar of his jersey as if he was trying to choke back the sheer, overwhelming wave of emotion threatening to break him. He looked so incredibly young in that moment, stripped of the “Mr Nonchalant” persona that social media and the blogs were used to.

"Michael," you called out softly, stepping forward into his path.

He stopped. When he lifted his head, your heart absolutely broke. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed and streaked with tears he had been trying so hard to hide from the broadcast cameras. The second his eyes locked onto yours, the last of his defenses crumbled.

He didn't care about the lingering staff, the security guards, or the teammate walking a few paces behind him. He stumbled forward and collapsed into your arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His athletic frame trembled as he let out a jagged, ragged sob, his hands clutching the back of your jacket so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice thick and broken, his chest heaving against yours. "I'm so sorry. We tried so hard…we just couldn’t get a shot…I-"

"Shh, baby, don't," you whispered, wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders, holding him as close as physically possible.

You gently ran your fingers through his damp hair, kissing the side of his head as he wept. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You gave everything. I am so proud of you. Everyone is so proud of you. One bad match doesn’t erase the hard work you put in."

You held him there in the quiet corridor for what felt like an eternity, letting him pour out all the grief, the exhaustion, and the suffocating pressure of the last few weeks.

Slowly, his breathing began to steady, though he didn't let go of you immediately, keeping his face pressed against your shoulder as if you were the only anchor left in his world.

When he finally pulled back, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, looking pale and thoroughly drained.

"What do you want to do from here?" you asked gently, reaching up to cup his face, brushing a stray tear from his cheek. "Do you want to get out of here? We can go straight back to the hotel."

He swallowed hard, looking down at the concrete floor before looking back at you, a heavy, exhausted sigh escaping his lips. "I... I think I need to chill with the boys for a bit in the dressing room. We need to debrief, have a talk...you know how it is. It might take a while." He offered a weak, apologetic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Go back to the hotel, babe. Get comfortable, get some rest. I'll meet you there as soon as I can, okay?"

"Are you sure?" you murmured, searching his tired eyes. "I don't mind waiting for you."

"Yeah, I'm sure," he said, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Go on. I'll see you in a bit."

With a reluctant nod, you gave his hand one last supportive squeeze before letting him walk back through the double doors.

The ride back to the hotel was quiet.

The city outside the tinted windows of the car was a blur of streetlights and lingering fans. By the time you unlocked the door to your spacious hotel suite, the silence of the room was a welcome relief.

You wanted to make sure he had something comforting waiting for him when he got back.

You knew he wouldn't have eaten, and stadium food was the last thing he’d want after a night like this.

You changed into one of his oversized hoodies, tied your hair up, and went into the suite's small but fully equipped kitchen.

You decided to make his favorite comfort meal - something warm, simple, and homemade.

As the food simmered on the stove, filling the room with a rich, savory aroma, you checked your phone.

Olisé 💓:

I’m on my way back ma chérie, 10 mins out x

You:

Okay baby, see you soon x

You closed your phone as you finished up cooking and prepared to dish, the aromatic spices filled the air and you hoped that this would at least soften the blow of his loss.

Shortly after dishing you heard the hotel door unlock, a tired, red eyed Michael made his way through the door. Hair slightly damp after his post-match shower.

You didn’t say anything, and grabbed his hand guiding him to the table and food you had prepared.

He sat down silently, sighing softly as he dug into the meal, shoulders slightly slumping as he savoured every bite.

You finished your plates in silence, Michael taking your plate to the sink despite your refusal and insistence that he needed to rest.

“No my love, you do so much for me. It’s the least I can do.” He replied gently, taking your plates with him.

He stood at the sink for a moment longer than necessary, his hands resting on the marble edge, his head bowed as the running water filled the silence.

The tough exterior he tried so hard to maintain for the cameras was completely gone, leaving just the quiet weight of his exhaustion hanging in the air.

You walked up behind him, sliding your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek against his back, feeling the solid, comforting rise and fall of his chest.

"Michael," you murmured into the fabric of his shirt. "Drop the plate. Come to bed."

A heavy sigh escaped him, his large hands coming down to cover yours, squeezing them gently. He didn't argue this time. He turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and let you guide him by the hand into the dimly lit bedroom.

The suite was cool, the heavy blackout curtains shutting out the glittering, noisy city below.

You climbed into the plush bed, and Michael followed immediately, sinking into the mattress as if his body had finally realized just how spent it truly was.

He didn't say a word as you pulled him into your chest, his long limbs tangling with yours.

He buried his face right back into the crook of your neck, his fingers hooking securely into the hem of the oversized hoodie you’d borrowed from him.

The scent of his shower gel mixed with the lingering warmth of the room, creating a private little bubble where the World Cup didn't exist.

"Thank you," he whispered against your skin, his voice incredibly low, rough around the edges. "For the food. For... everything."

"Always," you whispered back, gently running your fingers through his damp curls, soothing the lingering tension from his scalp, softly peppering kisses on his forehead. "I've got you."

He let out one final, shaky breath, his grip tightening around you just a fraction more as his eyelids grew heavy, exhaustion finally setting in.

He didn't need to be the main character for the rest of the world tonight; right here, in the quiet dark, he was just yours.

[transcendingthegame]

— HI LOVELIES 🤍

I just wanted to firstly say thank you so much for all the support, I wasn’t expecting you guys to enjoy them so much but I’m happy you are xx

I’ve got a bunch of fics sitting in my drafts so I’m interested to see what you guys would like next xx

(also if these options aren’t what you’d like, please feel free to request anything with any character)

edit: you can find the michael olisé fic here, since we have a clear winner

next post…

beautiful mistake ~ pt 2

maduka okeye x black reader

djed spence x black reader

michael olise x black reader

Voting ended onJul 19

[transcendingthegame]

Hi> Sorry for my English, but can you please write a fanfiction with Jude and a Japanese reader. I've never seen anything like it, and I'd really like to read it ;>

jude bellingham headcanons

pairing: bf!jude x japanese!fem!reader

summary: a glimpse into jude learning and embracing his japanese girlfriends culture <3

a/n: hi, thank you so much for the request !! I couldn’t think of anything for a fic so I hope you enjoy the headcanons xx

masterlist

jude!bf...learning that "comfort" looks a little different for you. With his massive public profile and the constant chaos of football, Jude deeply craves the peaceful, intentional spaces you create. He completely falls in love with the ritual of a proper matcha setup. He buys a high-quality traditional bamboo whisk (chasen) and a beautiful ceramic bowl, demanding that you teach him the exact technique to froth it perfectly. It becomes your weekend morning tradition. The contrast of his towering, athletic body meticulously and gently whisking matcha in the kitchen just to make you smile is pure domestic bliss.

jude!bf...determined to master the basics of the language. Jude’s favorite word quickly becomes "Otsukaresama" (お疲れ様). He learns that it essentially means "thank you for your hard work," and he starts saying it to you every single evening. If you’ve had a long, stressful day, the second you walk through the door, you’re met with a massive, warm hug and a soft, slightly accented "Otsukaresama, beautiful." He loves the quiet intimacy of it, using it as a cue to completely pull you away from your phone and help you unwind.

jude!bf...trying his hand at traditional cooking.After seeing you make beautiful, balanced meals, Jude decides he wants to return the favor and surprise you. He stays up late watching tutorials on how to pack the perfect bento, trying to get the proportions just right. The result is incredibly endearing: the presentation is a little messy because his hands are so big, but he makes sure it’s packed with your favorite foods. When he presents it to you before you head out, he looks incredibly proud but nervous, watching your face intensely for that first bite to make sure he did your culture justice.

jude!bf...begging you to take him to your hometown. He becomes absolutely fixated on the idea of seeing where you grew up. He doesn’t just want the tourist experience; Jude literally begs you to plan a trip so he can get a real-life glimpse of your upbringing. He wants to walk down the streets you walked down, visit your childhood neighborhood, and see the exact spots that shaped you into the person you are. The thought of getting to see you in your element, completely relaxed in your home country, has him practically counting down the days. He’s already promised that his only rule for the trip is that you are the tour guide - he just wants to follow you around, hold your hand, and soak in every single detail of your world.

jude!bf...stealing your peace (and your space).Whenever he goes away for international matches, he always brings something back for you, but his favorite thing is leaving you with his oversized Madrid or England traveling jackets. He loves seeing you completely swallowed up in his clothes, finding it incredibly attractive how small and delicate you look in his gear. He’ll literally pull the hood up over your head, kiss your forehead, and tell you you're the only person who looks good wearing his number.

[transcendingthegame]

— MASTERLIST ᢉ𐭩

welcome to my archive !!

• j.bellingham

one shots

after hours ~ black!reader

every shade of you ~ pakistani!reader

headcanons ~ desi!reader

headcanons ~ japanese!reader

series

beautiful mistake ~ black!reader

part 1 part 2 (coming soon)

• jo.bellingham

coming soon

• m.olisé

one shots

thick & thin ~ black!reader

[transcendingthegame]

beautiful mistake ~ j.bellingham

pairing: footballer!jude x black!fan!fem!reader

word count: 1.1k+

warnings/notes: accidental Injury, instant attraction, fluff

summary: what started as an exciting visit to see your favourite player, turns into an injury that comes with benefits you never expected.

a/n: hi lovelies!! firstly I just want to say thank you sm for the love on my first two fics. I decided that while I wait for more requests I’ll clear out a few fics that I’ve been keeping in my drafts, thinking of making this a series but you guys let me know if you’d like the next part <3

part 2

masterlist

The energy inside the stadium was absolute chaos. It was a Champions League clash, the kind of night where the air felt thick with static and thousands of voices joined together in a deafening, rhythmic roar.

You had lucked out with incredible seats - right in the lower tier, only a few rows back from the pitch. Up close, the speed of the game was almost terrifying. The players looked like giants, moving with a blinding, physical intensity that you couldn't fully appreciate on a television screen.

You were pulled out of your thoughts as the ball went out of play on the far side. You adjusted your glasses and pulled the collar of your oversized shirt up slightly against the evening chill. It was a pristine white Real Madrid kit, sporting a very specific name and number on the back: BELLINGHAM 5. You’d been a fan of his for a long time, but tonight, wearing his name so close to the action made you feel a little self-conscious.

Suddenly, the play shifted with terrifying speed.

A loose touch in the midfield sent the ball bouncing toward the touchline right in front of your section. Jude Bellingham came sprinting across the grass, his long strides eating up the distance as he tried to keep the ball in play. He lunged, his boot connecting with the ball in a desperate, last-ditch clearance.

But his angle was slightly off.

Instead of flying down the pitch, the ball went airborne, hurtling straight into the crowd at a lethal velocity.

Before you could even register the white-and-black blur, let alone duck, the heavy leather ball smacked you squarely in the face.

Smack!

The impact knocked your head back, sending your glasses flying into the row in front of you. A collective gasp rose from the fans sitting around you as you stumbled back into your seat, clutching your nose, your eyes watering instantly from the sheer, burning sting of the blow.

"Oh my god! Are you okay?" a fan next to you cried out.

Through the dizzying, throbbing pain in your face and the watery blur of your vision, you heard the sharp trill of the referee's whistle. But the game didn't just carry on.

Jude, having seen the ball strike a fan directly, didn't even wait for the ball-boy. He vaulted over the low digital advertising boards, his eyes wide with immediate, genuine concern as he jogged straight toward your row.

"Hey, hey - I'm so sorry!" Jude’s deep voice cut through the surrounding chatter. He reached the edge of the stands, leaning over the metal railing, his breathing heavy, sweat dripping down his forehead. "Are you alright? I am so, so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

He stopped mid-sentence.

Now that he was only inches away, his eyes locked onto your face. Even with your eyes watering and your nose turning a deep, angry shade of red, you were breathtaking. And then, his gaze drifted down. He saw the white kit you were wearing. He saw his own name, his own number, stretched across your chest.

A look of pure, agonizing guilt - mixed with an instant, undeniable spark of attraction - flashed across his handsome face.

"Oh, no," he groaned softly, his hand coming up to touch his own chest in disbelief. "You're wearing my shirt. Out of everyone here, I had to hit you. I feel absolutely terrible."

He reached over the railing, his large, warm hand gently cupping your shoulder, his thumb rubbing comforting circles through the fabric of the kit. The touch was incredibly sweet, a little bolder than necessary, but his eyes were so filled with genuine concern you couldn't even complain. "Is anything broken? Is your nose bleeding?"

"I- I think I'm okay," you stammered, your voice sounding a little nasal as you gently touched your nose. Someone in the front row kindly handed your glasses back to you. You slid them onto your face, and Jude's face finally came into sharp, stunning focus. He was even more handsome up close, his dark eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart do a dangerous flip. "Just a bit shocked."

"Listen to me," Jude said, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register as his hand slid down from your shoulder to gently squeeze your forearm. He leaned in a little closer, his gaze lingering on your lips for a split second before meeting your eyes again. "I have to get back on the pitch, but do not leave after the whistle. Stay right in these seats. I’m coming back to find you, and I'm bringing you my match shirt. Promise me you won't leave?"

You could only nod, completely dazed by his proximity. "I promise."

"Good girl," he murmured, giving your arm one last, lingering squeeze before turning and jogging back onto the pitch, throwing an apologetic hand in the air to the referee.

For the rest of the match, your face throbbed, but your mind was completely elsewhere. True to his word, the moment the final whistle blew, Jude didn't head down the tunnel with the rest of the squad.

While the other players clapped the fans, Jude made a straight line for your section. He had already pulled his damp, mud-stained match shirt over his head.

He jogged over to the railing, his bare, athletic chest on full display, glistening slightly under the floodlights. He held the folded white jersey in his hand, a massive, charming smile breaking across his face the moment his eyes found yours in the crowd.

"You stayed," he said, his voice warm as he leaned over the barrier, handing the shirt directly to you. It was still warm, smelling faintly of his expensive cologne and the grass of the pitch. "Here. A peace offering. I hope it makes up for the headache I gave you."

"Thank you," you smiled, clutching the fabric to your chest. "It definitely does."

Jude lingered, his elbows resting on the metal railing. He was being extra touchy now, reaching out to gently adjust the collar of the shirt you were wearing, his warm fingers brushing against the bare skin of your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine. He leaned in close, his dark eyes sparkling with a playful, confident charm.

"Your nose still looks a little red," he murmured, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "I’d feel like a complete monster if I let you walk out of here without making sure you're actually okay. I want to pay for any medical checks you might need. An X-ray, some ice - whatever you need."

"Oh, no, you don't have to do that," you protested softly, blushing furiously. "Really, it's just a little sore."

"I insist," Jude said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument as a slow, smug grin spread across his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, sliding it across the flat top of the barrier toward you. "Put your number in. I'll text you tonight to make sure you got home safe, and you can let me know if we need to get a doctor to look at that pretty face of yours."

He was being incredibly smooth, his intentions written clearly in the intense, sweet gaze he was leveling at you. You took the phone, your fingers brushing against his, and quickly typed in your digits.

Jude took the phone back, his smile widening as he locked his screen. He reached over the barrier one last time, his hand gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb caressing your jawline for a brief, electric second.

"I'll text you in an hour," he promised, his voice low and incredibly sweet. "Get some ice on that nose, yeah? I'll speak to you soon."

With a final, lingering wink, he turned and jogged down the tunnel, leaving you standing in the stands with his match shirt in your hands face burning, not from the ball impact, and your heart racing faster than it had during the entire ninety minutes of the game.

[transcendingthegame]

Heyyyy! I absolutely loved your Indian girl fic and I was wondering if I could request a Jude Bellingham fic with a Pakistani reader who gets a lot of racially motivated hate online and she gets really insecure? Super angsty and draw the angst out, maybe she starts changing parts of her life to remove her culture from them or smth? And then Jude finds out and goes mental? Your writing is so amazing!

every shade of you ~ j.bellingham

pairing: bf!jude x pakistani!fem!reader

word count: 1.4k+

warnings/notes: heavy angst, cyberbullying, racially motivated online harassment, themes of cultural erasure/identity insecurity, featuring a protective Jude and a comforting ending.

summary: going public with jude was supposed to be a dream come true, but the harsh reality of the internet’s judgment leaves you feeling like a ghost in your own life. when the weight of trying to hide your heritage and blend into the background finally breaks you down, jude proves he’ll never let the world make you feel small.

a/n: i’m so happy you enjoyed it and thank you so much x

masterlist

Your relationship with Jude was nothing short of perfect. You’d only been together for a few months but those few months were everything to you.

At the start of your relationship you’d always worried about how you’d navigate your time together, with his busy schedule, but he never failed to make time for you and your relationship. In the beginning it was hard but with the combined effort of the two of you, the life became second nature, and honestly you’d thought that you’d gotten through the worst of it.

That was until you guys decided to go public.

It started with visiting him during training and small coffee dates but quickly transformed into frequent posts about each there. Jude was never one to hide you, he appreciated and loved every aspect of you, and reminded you any chance he could without.

Unfortunately though, the internet didn’t seem to feel the same way. As soon as they got a hold of your social accounts, you were bombarded with comments attacking your skin, your culture, everything that made you, you.

The cultural difference between you and Jude never affected you, in fact, Jude went above and beyond, learning your native tongue, enjoying your cultural dishes and celebrations, immersing himself completely into your world.

As the first few negative comments rolled in, you simply swept them under the rug, Jude loved you, so why should anyone’s else’s opinion matter so much to you…right? Well it wasn’t that easy. As time went on the hateful comments grew into something worse, and you found it harder to ignore them, slowly starting to believe that maybe they were right. And with that, you slowly made changes to fit a narrative that was never yours.

It started small, the playlist of traditional music you used to blast in the kitchen while cooking suddenly went quiet, replaced by whatever was trending on mainstream radio.

Then, it was the jewelry. The vibrant, heavy pieces you used to wear proudly on dates were quietly tucked away at the bottom of her jewelry box. When Jude asked why you weren’t wearing the jhumkas he loved, you’d just offer a tight smile and claim they were "too heavy" or didn't match your outfit anymore, opting for tiny, invisible silver studs instead to blend in.

Eventually it bled into your home. You stopped making the rich, aromatic cultural dishes you both loved because a comment online had called your food "weird," switching instead to bland, safe meals. You even stopped using your favorite hair oils or body lotions, terrified that you carried a scent that made you "too different."

Finally, it was the ultimate retreat - silently archiving photos of yourself on Instagram where you looked "too ethnic," changing your profile pictures to vague aesthetic shots, and slowly untagging yourself from anything public until you felt like a ghost in you own life.

You thought if you just stripped away enough of yourself, you could become invisible enough to escape the hate. You thought you were hiding it well. But you can't hide a breaking heart from Jude…

Which is exactly how you found yourself standing over the bathroom sink at three in the morning.

Jude shifted, his arm instinctively reaching out across the cool sheets, searching for the familiar warmth that usually occupied the space beside him. Finding only empty, rumpled linen, his eyes blinked open into the dim shadows of the bedroom.

He found you in the ensuite bathroom. The door was cracked open, a sliver of harsh, yellow light cutting across the dark hallway. Jude approached silently, his bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floors, but the words he intended to speak, a soft, sleepy request for you to come back to bed, immediately caught in his throat when he saw you.

Standing over the sink, staring into the mirror with an expression that made Jude’s chest tighten painfully. On the counter sat a velvet-lined box, tipped over. Inside were the heavy gold bangles and the delicate jhumkas your mother had passed down to you - pieces you used to adorn yourself with so much pride, pieces Jude loved to watch catch the light whenever you laughed.

But tonight, you weren’t wearing them. You were staring at your reflection, holding a cotton pad soaked in toner, rubbing at your skin as if you could scrub away the very essence of who you were.

"Sweetheart?" Jude’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble, thick with sleep but laced with instant worry.

You flinched, your shoulders jumping as you quickly dropped the cotton pad into the bin, trying to smooth down your hair. "Hi baby. Sorry, did I wake you? I was just...washing my face."

Jude didn't reply right away. He stepped fully into the bathroom, his massive frame immediately closing the distance between you two. He didn’t look at the counter; he looked at your eyes. They were bloodshot, the rims raw and red from crying. On the floor near your bare feet, your phone vibrated face-down on the bathmat - a silent, relentless pulse of notifications.

He knew that pulse. He knew very well what lived inside it.

"What are you doing?" Jude asked softly, his hand reaching out to gently catch your wrist.

"Nothing," you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of the lie. You tried to pull your hand back, tried to turn your face away from him, but Jude wouldn't let you hide, ever. "Just go back to bed, Jude. Seriously. I'll be there in a second."

"Look at me," he murmured, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb wiping away a fresh tear that had just escaped. "Don't do that. Don't lie to me. What's happened?"

"I can't do it anymore," you choked out, the dam finally breaking. You slumped against his chest, your forehead pressing into his collarbone as sob after sob wracked through body. "I can't look at it. I deleted the apps, Jude. I deleted everything, but it's like... it's like I can still hear them. They hate me. They hate everything about me. They keep saying I don't belong next to you, that I look wrong, that I'm too...too much."

Jude’s entire body went rigid. The sleepy haze completely evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard knot of fury in the pit of his stomach. He tightened his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you so fiercely it felt like he was trying to shield you from the words physically.

"They're talking about my culture like it's a disease," you whispered into his skin, your hands gripping the fabric of his t-shirt desperately. "So I thought... if I just stop. If I don't wear the jewelry. If I change how I dress. If I just blend into the background, maybe they'll stop attacking me. Maybe I won't be a liability to you."

A liability.

The word echoed in the quiet bathroom, and something inside Jude absolutely snapped.

He pulled back, just enough to force you to look at him. His grip on your shoulders was firm, unyielding, his dark eyes burning with a fierce, protective rage that you had never seen directed at you before. He wasn't angry at you, far from it. He was furious at the world for forcing you into a corner where you felt you had to mutilate your own identity just to survive.

"Listen to me," Jude said, his voice dropping into a register that was deadly serious, vibrating with pure emotion. "Look at me right now."

You blinked through the tears, trembling.

"Don't you ever say that again," he ordered, his chest heaving. "A liability? You? Every single thing that makes you who you are - your skin, your heritage, the way you look in the things your family gave you - that is the most beautiful thing in my fucking life. Do you understand me? You don't change a single thread of who you are for faceless cowards hiding behind a screen."

"Jude, the press, the comments-"

"I don't give a fuck about the press!" he burst out, his voice echoing off the tile walls, raw and unfiltered. "Let them talk. Let them type until their fingers bleed. If the world has a problem with the woman I love being proudly, beautifully herself, then the world can fuck off. I will burn my own public image to the ground before I ever let you shrink yourself to make them comfortable."

He reached over to the counter, picking up one of the heavy gold bangles. His hands, usually so strong and dominant on the pitch, were incredibly gentle as he slid it over your wrist, the metal clicking softly.

"You wear it," Jude whispered, his forehead coming down to rest against yours, his breath shaky as he reeled in his anger, replacing it with pure devotion. "You wear all of it. You speak your language, you play your music, and you walk beside me with your head held high. Because you are my queen. And tomorrow, I'm handling this. Nobody touches you. Nobody makes my queen feel small."

He picked up your phone from the floor, turned it completely off, and tossed it onto the counter without a second glance. Then, he scooped her up into his arms, carrying you out of the harsh bathroom light and back into the warmth of their bedroom, holding you tight against his chest, softly whispering sweet nothings in your ear until the trembling finally stopped.

[transcendingthegame]

Hello!! Feel free to ignore this request if you aren’t comfortable but can I request jude or jobe with an asian S/O but preferably not from the east part? Maybe headcanons on how they would learn her culture and such!! :)

jude bellingham headcanon

pairings: jude bellingham x desi reader

summary: a little glimpse into the life of jude learning and embracing his desi girlfriends culture <3

a/n: hi thank you so much for requesting, I hope this is similar to what you were looking for xx this is my first time writing so if you have any corrections/critiques they’d be greatly appreciated

masterlist

jude!bf…learning that "medium spicy" at a Desi restaurant hits completely different than his usual medium at Nando's. He completely underestimated the food at first, thinking he could handle it because he’s an elite athlete. The first time your family cooked for him, his eyes were watering, but he refused to stop eating because he didn't want to be disrespectful. Now? He literally craves it and constantly brags to his teammates about his improved spice tolerance.

jude!bf…doing your Sunday night hair oiling rituals. His hands are massive yet incredibly gentle. It didn't take long for him to ask if he could do it for you; now he takes it so seriously, carefully parting your hair and massaging the warm oil into your scalp. He loves the scent because it completely relaxes him after a high-stress match week.

jude!bf…getting his Spotify algorithm completely altered because he asked for a playlist of your favorite childhood tracks to listen to on the drive to training. One he was caught on camera arriving at a stadium humming a familiar tune, and the internet went into an absolute frenzy trying to figure out how he knew it.

jude!bf…being determined to learn terms of endearment in your native tongue. He’ll casually drop a "Meri jaan" or "Jaanu" into a text message or whisper it against your temple when he’s waking you up. If he’s trying to tease you or get your attention when you’re ignoring him, he’ll dramatically say "Acha, fine!" just to see you smile.

jude!bf…wearing a traditional kurta or sherwani to match you for big cultural celebrations. He won't just show up, he stands in front of the mirror for twenty minutes making sure the fit is perfect, completely obsessed with the intricate embroidery. He’ll also subtly flex his shoulders in it because he knows exactly how good he looks (and you do too.)

jude!bf…becoming the absolute enforcer of the "no shoes in the house" rule. Coming from a sports background where people are constantly tracking dirt, he adapted instantly. If his brother Jobe or a teammate comes over and takes one step past the foyer with their sneakers on, Jude is immediately yelling across the house to get them off.

jude!bf…fiercely defending your culture. If he ever hears someone making an ignorant comment about the food, the customs, or the music, he shuts it down instantly with that calm, unbothered leadership voice he uses on the pitch. He protects you and everything that makes you who you are, no exceptions.

[rosees3ray]

reblog if it's okay for your mutuals to message you and create an actual friendship, not just interactions

[allgoodnamesrgoneee]

Would u do one in which her and Jude are doing it in his familly home and the whole family is downstairs but they're not aware of the noise they're making. smth like that. thx you!! :)

Don't forget my Patreon is now available for $3; don't miss your chance to catch up on all the exclusive content!

Shh

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — You really shouldn't have teased Jude earlier. Now you're paying the price—with his family just one floor below.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Jude Bellingham x you

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 1.6k

Warnings! FLUFF! established relationship, NSFW / SMUT (18+), explicit sexual content, dirty talk, praise, possessive Jude, family downstairs, risk of getting caught, This chapter contains mature themes and explicit content intended for readers 18+.

You should have known better than to tease him at dinner.

Because now the joke's on you.

Now you're pinned beneath him on this too-small single bed—the same bed he's had since he was fourteen, apparently, with a mattress that creaks if you so much as breathe wrong—and his hand is over your mouth, his hips pressed tight against your ass, voice a ruined whisper against your ear.

"You think you're funny, don't you?" Jude's breath is hot against the shell of your ear, as his palm presses firmer against your lips. "Running your foot up my leg under the table like that. Hm?"

You whimper against his hand, and he groans low in his throat.

"Sh, baby. They're gonna hear us," he murmurs against your skin, and the bastard sounds amused.

His hand spans your waist, thumb pressing into the soft dip above your hipbone. He's behind you, chest flush to your back, and you can feel the rumble of his laugh trapped in his ribcage where it presses into your spine. The mattress groans beneath your combined weight. They've got the telly on downstairs, but neither of you want to risk. As much as you enjoy the slight danger, it would be too embarrassing for both of you.

He noses along your jaw, and his lips brush the spot just below your ear that he knows makes you crazy.

"Couldn't even wait till we got home," he murmurs, and you can hear the grin in it. "Just had to have my cock in you, huh?"

His hand slides from your mouth to grip your chin instead, tilting your head back against his shoulder. His eyes are dark in the low light of his childhood bedroom, hal-lidded with pleasure. He presses slow, open-mouthed kisses to your neck.

"Answer me," he says, soft and firm, his thumb dragging across your lower lip.

You blink up at him, dazed. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, wanted to get fucked," you manage, voice barely a breath. "Wanted you."

"That's right," he says, and his hand slides from your chin to wrap loosely around the front of your throat, barely adding pressure. "Couldn't even be good for me at dinner, could you? Had me so hard I couldn't think."

His pace quickens, each one punching a soft sound out of you, ones that you can't swallow back no matter how hard you try. The mattress springs groan in time with his movements, and your eyes fly to the door.

"Jude—"

"I know." His forehead drops to the back of your shoulder, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts through his nose. "I know, baby. But you're gonna have to be so quiet for me. Can you do that?"

You nod, but the truth is you're not sure you can. Not when he's fucking you this good.

His hand tightens slightly around your throat—just enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm—and he shifts his weight. The new angle hits that spot deep inside that only he's ever managed to, and the sound that escapes you is embarrassing.

"Shh, shh, shh," he soothes, but his hips don't stop. If anything, he goes deeper, rolling into you with a slow grinds that have your toes curling. "God, you're so tight. Feel that? Feel how deep I am?"

You do. The stretch of him, the heat of him, the way his stomach flexes against your lower back with every thrust. Your hand shoots back to grip his thigh, nails biting into the muscle there as you try to push him away, and he hisses through his teeth.

"Uh uh—" He catches your wrist, pins it behind your back, and his voice drops even lower. "Don't run from it. Take it." Your face presses into the pillow, and you bite down on the fabric to muffle the moan that builds in your chest. He lets out a breathless laugh behind you. "That's it. Bite the pillow if you have to." His free hand smooths down your spine, "Good girl."

The mattress betrays you both again with a sharp creak, and you both freeze. His hips still, buried deep. From downstairs, you can faintly hear chatter.

Jude's mouth finds your ear. "They're right there," he whispers, rolling his hips slow. "And you're soaking my cock like this." You clench around him involuntarily, and his whole body shudders. "Oh, you like that, don't you? Dirty girl. Like knowing they could walk up those stairs any second." You shake your head against the pillow, but your body tells a different story.

"Liar," he murmurs, and you can feel his smile against your neck.

His hand releases your wrist, and immediately his fingers find your hip, gripping tight as he starts moving again. Slow, deep thrusts that make sure you feel every inch of him pulling out before sliding back in.

"Baby, please," you breathe into the pillow, and your voice cracks on it.

"Please what?" Jude's voice is a rasp against the nape of your neck, and you can feel his patience fraying at the edges, the controlled rhythm of his hips stuttering just slightly. "Use your words."

"More," you whimper. "Need more."

Jude makes a sound behind you and his hips snap forward hard enough to shove you up the mattress. Your hand slaps against the headboard, "Gonna be the death of me," he moans into your shoulder, "Want it harder?" he asks, though his gentle tone betrays his intentions. "Tell me. Tell me what you need, sweet girl."

"You. Just—more. Please, Jude."

His hand flexes on your hip. "Since you asked so nicely." Then he gives you what you want.

He doesn't hold back after that.

His grip shifts—both hands now, one on your hip and the other pressing flat between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned to the mattress as he pounds into you. The sound of skin meeting skin is obscene in the quiet of this room. The headboard taps against the wall a little too loudly for comfort, and he slows just enough to slide a hand up, pressing his palm flat against the wall above you to cushion the impact.

"Can't have that," he breathes, more to himself than to you.

But he doesn't slow down. He just adjusts, angling your hips up so he can sink even deeper, and the new position has your face pressing sideways into the pillow, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut. His hand finds your hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the root, and he tugs—gentle but firm—tilting your head back.

"Look at me," he says, and it's not a request. Your eyes open, hazy and unfocused, and you find him above you—this man who commands a stadium of thousands, now reduced to gritted teeth and trembling thighs.

"There she is," he murmurs, and his expression is almost pained. "My good girl. Taking everything I give you." His thumb traces down your cheek, wiping at a tear you didn't realize had slipped free. The tenderness of it hits you harder than anything else tonight, and your bottom lip trembles. "Hey," he whispers, softening for just a moment. His hips slow to a deep, grinding roll that makes your breath catch. "You okay?"

You nod, but your voice comes out wrecked. "Don't stop."

Something shifts in his expression at that. His jaw works, and he presses his forehead to your temple, breath warm and uneven against your neck.

"Never," he promises. "Never gonna stop."

His hips pick up again, and you feel a knot tightening low in your belly, building with every drag of him against that spot. Your hand grips the fitted sheet, twisting the fabric in your fist so you can have something to hold onto.

"Jude—" His name comes out cracked and desperate, swallowed by the pillow.

"I know, baby. I feel you," he rasps against your temple. "Feel you squeezing me. Gonna cum for me?"

You can't answer him. You can't do anything except cling to the sheets and try to remember how to breathe. Your body does the talking for you—clenching around him in fluttering waves that bring him closer to the edge too.

"There it is," he barely holds back his moans now. "There she goes. Give it to me. Let go, baby. I've got you." His hand slides from your hair to wrap around your front, pulling you flush against his chest, changing the angle again. His other hand finds yours, fingers lacing together against the mattress, pinning you there. Your back arches, and the knot snaps.

Your mouth opens against the pillow, but no sound comes out. Just a silent, trembling cry that wracks your whole body as your warmwet walls milk him for all he's got.

Jude's breath breaks apart against your neck. "Oh fuck—oh, fuck—" And he's following behind you, burying himself as deep as he can, his hips stuttering through the last few thrusts as he spills into the condom. His hand squeezes yours so hard his knuckles crack, and his whole body goes rigid against your back, trembling, a choked-off moan swallowed by the skin of your shoulder where he bites down to muffle himself.

The silence that follows is deafening. Jude's weight settles against you, his forehead still pressed to your shoulder. His hand hasn't let go of yours. His fingers are still laced through yours against the pillow.

"I love you," he breathes against your shoulder, and it comes out so quiet you almost miss it.

You squeeze his hand back. "I love you too."

-Bianca🌻

[writtenbylolo]

⤷ I swear, I swear!

masterlist ᯓ★ lo's commentary: hiiii angels it's @purplesectorlew (Lo)!! here with my addition to the jude hype train because i can't stop thinking about his facial expressions and exhausted but clingy jude so here we are. hope you enjoy the fluff-to-spice pipeline as much as i did writing it <3

pairing: bf!jude bellingham x reader summary: after england’s dramatic quarter-final win over norway, an exhausted Jude just wants his girlfriend close. post-match cuddles (that definitely don’t stay just cuddles) in the team hotel lead to soft, sleepy, and very needy sex. comfort, praise, and tired-boyfriend vibes. warnings: smut MDNI, handjob, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, tired but horny jude, whimpering + whiny jude, lowkey sub!jude, lots of praise and pet names, slight possessive talk wc: 4.5k!

The last notes of Wonderwall had just faded out across the Hard Rock, the lads still buzzing on the pitch with arms slung round each other. Jude was right in the middle of it, singing along like the rest of them, his beautiful smile splitting his face even though you could tell every last inch of him was running on empty.

It had been a grind. The Miami heat and humidity were brutal, thick and sticky, so much so that it had made your lungs burn just watching from the stands. Extra time looked like it nearly broke them, but Jude dragged it through with his second goal in the 93rd minute like something out of a film. Your heart was still hammering, ears ringing, the whole stadium vibrating around you. 

Then the fans started up with “Hey Jude” and you had to look away quickly, blinking hard. The pride you feel swells up so huge it doesn’t fit in your chest, it spills over into these stupid tears every single time you hear the song, no matter how many times you see him do something like this.

“He looks exhausted,” Denise says quietly, her arm still hooked through yours, squeezing a little.

“I know. Bless him. I don’t know how he’s still standing out there. He gave that absolutely everything.”

You take some deep breaths with his parents, gushing over his performance as usual and wait for him to finish with everything else he has to do after the final whistle.

Soon enough, you watch him walk over showered and changed into the usual post-match tracksuits, his hood half up already like he’s already trying to shut the world out. Even from a distance you can see the heaviness in his shoulders, the way he’s moving a bit stiffer than usual, his tall frame carrying the weight of a country for ninety-plus minutes. He looks happy though. So, so happy. His dark eyes scan the stands until they find you three, and you can see the sparkle in them as soon as he spots you. 

He hugs his mum first, extra tight, murmuring something that makes her laugh and pat his back. All week she’d been saying watch your language, watch your tackles, watch your face so he wouldn’t get booked. You could see how proud she was of him, her eyes closing when they hugged. It almost made your heart burst. 

Then his dad, the two of them clapping each other on the shoulder like they always do, that quiet father-son thing that always makes your chest warm. Mark kisses his cheek, and your smile mirrors Jude’s bashful one. Only after that does he turn to you.

“There she is,” he says, voice a little rough from the game, his accent coming through even stronger when he’s tired. He smiles down at you, exhausted but sweet, and you stand up to meet him.

You cup his cheek, thumb brushing his sharp cheekbone, your other arm sliding round his broad back. He’s warm, solid, still carrying the smell of the grass mixed with fresh shower gel. “I’m so proud of you, Jude. That looked so tough out there.”

He leans down and kisses you, soft and quick. He’s never one for big PDA with the cameras hovering, but he never lets you feel unloved. Then his hand comes up, gentle as anything, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear. His eyes go all soft as he looks at you, the intense match-day fire dialled right down just for you. “Thank you, baby. Yeah… it was hard. Proper hard. But we got there. It was rough though, I’m shattered.”

You sit back down and he drops straight onto the seat next to you, no hesitation. His head finds your shoulder immediately, heavy and trusting, like he’s been waiting for this exact spot the whole night. You slide your hand up to scratch lightly at the back of his neck, the way he likes, and feel him let out a long breath, sinking further into you. The relief in his body is so obvious it makes your heart twist.

His mum and dad chat lightly for a minute — something about the referee, how proud they are, the usual post-match debrief — and Jude mumbles along, half in it, half gone. His hand finds yours in your lap, fingers threading together lazily.

After a bit he turns his head, lips brushing your ear as he lowers his voice. “Are you gonna come visit me tonight?”

You snort, playfully nudging his head away. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus, babe.”

He laughs then, loud and bright, teeth flashing, his eyes lighting up with the loving mischief that always gets you. “What? I can’t get cuddles from my girl? After that?”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting your own smile. “Cuddles?”

His lip twitches, smirk spreading slow and dangerous. “Cuddles,” he repeats, all innocent like. “And a couple of kisses. Just three or four…”

You tilt your head, giving him a look. He’s dead on his feet, shoulders slumped, yet still managing to look at you like that. You ignore the heat pooling in your stomach from the way he's looking at you and try to think logically. The semi-finals are midweek. “You’re gonna cramp up at some point and whatever idea you’ve got of cuddles and kisses is gonna be straight out the window.”

“Can I not enjoy my recovery with my girlfriend? Is that against the law now?” He huffs dramatically, but his hands are already stroking up your sides, warm and familiar.

You huff at him, already giving in. “You’re so spoilt.”

He grins wider, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “You can never say no to me.”

And it’s true. You can’t say no to him. Not when he looks at you like that. Cuddles. Right. 

It wasn’t long before you found yourself being led by Jude back to his room in the team hotel in Miami. They’d just had a squad dinner, winding down after the match. As soon as players started to retreat he’d texted you and met you in the lobby. Other England camps weren’t like this in the past, you were so grateful the rules had been changed to let you see him, even if he should be resting.

He’d showered again, you could already tell by the cologne and body wash mix you could smell as you followed him down the quiet corridor. His hand was warm around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles every few steps. He still moved a little stiff from the game, the beautiful body of his carrying the bruises and the exhaustion, but there was this restless energy in him too, the win still buzzing under his skin.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, he didn’t stop talking. He kicked his slides off, flopping back onto the bed as he kept going, voice low and rough but nonstop the way it always gets when he’s over-excited.

“...and then after the equaliser, I swear the pitch felt like it was moving, the humidity was mad out there. But the lads were buzzing, it was so loud on the pitch. Harry pulled me over after and was saying something about the run we’re on now, and I was just thinking the whole time about that last chance, how I nearly messed up the touch but it just fell right. Then extra time, my legs were gone but you just dig deep, don’t you? Mum’s texts were killing me the whole week about watching my face and my language, I nearly got booked just for breathing heavy at the ref at one point—”

He laughed at himself, running a hand over his damp hair, eyes bright even though his shoulders were sinking deeper into the pillows. You perched on the edge of the bed, watching him, the usual warmth spreading in your chest.

He reached out and tugged you closer by the wrist, still mid-story. “—and then I was like, nah, we’re not losing this one. You get me babe? And then I was like—”

“Jude, take a breath, love. I was there and watching the whole thing,” you chuckle, adjusting to lie next to him on the bed. His arm slipped under your head straight away, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb moved slowly across your cheek, warm and a little rough.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he murmured, half-laughing at himself again, voice dropping lower. “I’m just… excited. I don’t know. We left everything out there and…”

He trailed off for a second, eyes half-closed, but his fingers kept moving, tracing your jaw, then down the side of your neck, like he couldn’t quite settle even though his body was heavy with tiredness. Up close like this you could see every little detail: the faint sheen of sweat still at his hairline from how warm it was in Miami, the way his chest rose and fell a bit quicker than normal, a fresh bruise along his jaw starting to darken. You breathed in his warm skin scent that always made your stomach flip.

He shifted closer, leg hooking over yours casually, voice going soft and a little rough with emotion. “It’s mad innit? One minute you’re out there thinking your legs are done, next minute the ball drops and it just… happens. And now we’re in the semis. Semis, babe.”

His grin came back, tired but bright, the one that always made your heart do stupid things. He pressed his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in like he needed it more than air. “Couldn’t have done it without knowing you were up there. Makes it all feel different.”

“I love you,” you whisper softly, thumb brushing his cheek, “and I’m so proud of you.”

“How proud?” he beamed, raising an eyebrow, a playful spark lighting up his exhausted face.

“Very proud. Like… prouder than you can even imagine. I think I’ve cried at nearly every game—”

Jude giggles, almost giddy, the sound low and warm in his chest. He loved praise, especially from you, it always turned him soft and a little cocky at the same time. “I know, my little crybaby,” he cooed, voice teasing and fond as he leaned in, pressing little kisses all over your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Each one gentle and sweet, like he was savouring being close after the chaos of the match.

“Shut up,” you laugh quietly, trying to sound stern but failing completely. “You need to calm down, baby. You have to sleep.”

“My body’s tired,” he mumbles against your skin, kissing your cheek again, then lingering lower near your jaw, “but the adrenaline is just making me wired, man.”

You stroke his side, up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, feeling the solid warmth of him under your palm, the faint tremor of leftover energy in his muscles. His tall frame was heavy against you, one leg tangled with yours, but his hands kept wandering. Sliding under the hem of your top to rest against your lower back, thumb tracing lazy circles there. 

After a moment he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he’s looking down at you properly. The lamp on the bedside table casts a soft glow over his face, his beautiful brown eyes and pink lips slightly parted. He looks unfairly good for someone who just played extra time in a stadium that felt more like a sauna.

“So…” he starts, a smirk creeping back in. “About those kisses I was promised.”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting a smile again. “I don’t remember promising anything.”

“Oi, don’t lie to me..” He leans in closer, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your mouth. “I distinctly remember talking about three or four. Minimum.” His hand slides higher under your top, palm flat and warm against your ribs, thumb stroking just under the curve of your breast. “Come on, baby. I earned them, didn’t I? Scored two, dragged us to the semis… least you can do is give your man some proper kisses.”

He’s grinning again now, all cheeky and tired and completely devastating to your self-control . Before you can answer he dips his head and presses one slow kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another just below your ear, lingering there like he knows exactly what it does to you. 

“You’ve just wasted two kisses…and you look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

He groans in joking frustration, eyebrows furrowing to give you a little puppy dog look that always gets him out of trouble. “I just want cuddles and kisses before i sleep-”

He stops as you tilt your head at him, giving him another look.

“I swear, I swear! Baby, please…”

The pleading look on his face already has your stomach flipping, mouth a little dry. He’s so unfairly gorgeous like this. Tired eyes, messy damp curls,his toned body stretched out next to you, still radiating heat from the match. The way his tracksuit top has ridden up to show a sliver of toned stomach… it’s ridiculous how much you want him even when he’s half-dead on his feet.

“Fine,” you say, trying to sound stern but your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, “but you need to try and sleep too…”

He shifts slightly so you’re fully facing each other, one hand moving to your lower back, his leg still draped heavy over yours. “I can fall asleep kissing you.”

The kisses start off sweet and slow. Gentle presses of his lips against yours, his hand stroking your lower back under your top. His other hand in your hair, fingers loose and tired. Then they deepen.

Jude lets out a quiet, relieved sigh into your mouth as his lips part wider, tongue sliding in slow and warm. The kisses turn sloppy fast. Wet, lazy, unhurried in an exhausted way that somehow makes it hotter. His tongue moves heavy and deep, tangling with yours in long, messy strokes, licking into your mouth like he’s too tired to do anything but feel you. Every so often he sucks softly on your tongue or your bottom lip, pulling it between his before going back in deeper, slower, wetter. You can taste the faint mint from his post-dinner toothpaste mixed with the warm, familiar taste that’s just him. His breaths are heavier now, little groans vibrating against your lips as the kisses grow filthier. Your tongues sliding slow and slick, mouths open and messy, spit-slick lips catching every time you pull apart for air only to dive right back in.

He’s genuinely exhausted, you feel it in the heavy weight of his body against yours, the way his movements stay soft and sleepy even as they get more desperate. His hand in your hair tightens slightly, holding you there as he kisses you like he’s trying to melt into you. Deep, lazy swirls of his tongue, slow sucks, the occasional sleepy grind of his hips against your thigh. He’s half-asleep and completely turned on at the same time, and it’s doing dangerous things to you.

Your hand slides under his top to rest on his ribs, and the soft, needy sound he makes against your tongue makes you shiver hard in his arms.

“M’so hard for you,” he whispers against your lips, breathing heavily. He presses his hips forward, grinding slowly so you can feel exactly how turned on he is, the thick, heavy outline of his cock straining against his joggers.

“You need me to help you, baby?” you murmur, letting your hand trail down his stomach until your palm cups the hard bulge. He’s so warm, so fucking hard already, twitching eagerly under your touch.

Jude’s breath hitches, hips jerking up into your hand as he lets out a soft, desperate whimper. “Please…”

“But you’re so tired, Jude.” You stroke him slowly through the fabric, teasing, because you love when he gets like this…all soft, sleepy, and whiny for you.

“Baby—” he whines, the sound high and needy, forehead pressed to yours. His hand moves down to squeeze your ass, fingers digging in just a little. “M’never too tired for you… fuck, please touch me properly. I need it. Need you so bad..”

You push his joggers down just enough to free him and wrap your fingers around him. Jude’s whole body shudders, a broken moan spilling from his lips as you start stroking him. You start slow, firm pulls from base to tip, thumb swirling over the slick head every time. He’s so thick and hot in your hand, veins pulsing, leaking steadily now. You’re transfixed by the sight of him.

“Fuck… yes, just like that,” he whimpers, voice all sleepy. His head tips back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open as soft, desperate little sounds keep falling out of him. “Your hand feels so good, baby… don’t stop, please. I’ve been thinking about this for hours.”

You twist your wrist on the upstroke and he jolts, hips bucking lazily into your fist, chasing the pleasure even though his body is heavy with exhaustion. Every whimper is quieter, needier. He’s almost submissive in the way he lets you take control, thighs trembling, fingers clutching at your waist like you’re the only thing anchoring him.

You lift his shirt higher so you can see his toned stomach, selfishly maybe, but he looked so pretty. You keep going, stroking him faster, tighter, watching the way his abs clench and his chest rises and falls quicker. “So pretty Jude,” you whisper, and Jude lets out a broken whine, biting his bottom lip.

“Baby… I— fuck, I’m so close already,” he pants, voice cracking. “Your hand is gonna make me come if you keep— ah—”

You slide down his body before he can finish, taking him into your mouth in one slow, wet glide. Jude’s back arches off the bed with a loud, guttural moan, one hand flying to your hair, holding on tight as his fingers tremble.

“Oh my god— your mouth, fuck—” He’s losing it completely now, sleepy whimpers turning into desperate, broken sounds as you bob your head, tongue swirling around him, sucking him deep. “So warm… so fucking good. Baby, please— I can’t— you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep sucking like that.”

His hips twitch up gently, like he’s trying so hard to be good and not fuck your mouth, but his control is slipping. Whiny, breathy moans fill the room as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing along the underside. Jude’s thighs shake, hand tightening in your hair, voice hoarse.

“Baby… slow, please, I’m so sensitive— fuck, I love your mouth so much…”

You slow down and look up, making eye contact with him. His eyes are glassy, half-lidded with exhaustion and pure bliss, lips parted, chest heaving. The sight of you between his legs like this seems to ruin him even more.

“You’re so beautiful,” he moans, voice cracking, thumb stroking your cheek gently. “My beautiful girl.”

He keeps watching you with that dazed, adoring look, hips rocking up in tiny, helpless movements as you suck him slow and deep. You swirl your tongue around the head, then take him all the way again, relaxing your throat until your nose brushes his stomach. Jude’s whole body trembles.

“Fuck— baby, look at you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and reverent. “Taking me so well… even when I’m this tired. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

His praise comes out soft and broken, each word punctuated by a shaky breath or a little whimper. You can feel how close he is, the way his cock throbs heavier on your tongue, the constant little twitches of his thighs, the way his fingers keep flexing in your hair like he’s fighting not to lose it. But he stays so good for you, letting you control everything, just moaning and whining softly every time you swallow around him or suck a little harder.

“Gonna make me come if you keep doing that…” he pants, eyes fluttering. “Your mouth is too good, love. Too warm and wet and— shit—”

You pull off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock as you stroke him slowly with your hand instead. Jude lets out a wrecked, needy sound at the loss, hips chasing your mouth for a second before he catches himself. Before you can say anything, he’s tugging at you weakly, desperate.

“Too far away… come back up here, please.”

You crawl back up his body and he immediately pulls you in, kissing you deep and messy, tasting himself on your tongue with a low groan. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your top, squeezing your waist, your hips, like he needs to feel all of you at the same time. The kiss goes on and on, lazy and filthy, tongues sliding slow while he whimpers softly into your mouth every time you stroke him.

You keep working your hand over his cock, slow and slick, and Jude’s hips rock up to meet every stroke, his breathing getting shakier. He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, panting.

“You don’t want to come yet?” you whisper against his lips, still stroking him lazily.

He shakes his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanna be closer to you baby, wanna make you feel good.. wanna.. wanna— fuck.”

His sentence cuts off into a broken moan. For a long moment he just kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other slides down your body. His palm smooths over your stomach, then lower, teasing along the waistband of your shorts like he’s giving you time to feel the anticipation. His fingers finally slip under the fabric, pushing your shorts and panties down your thighs in one clumsy but eager movement. He helps kick them the rest of the way off, big hands gentle on your skin the whole time.

Once they’re gone he settles between your spread legs, still kissing you slow and deep. His fingers drag through your folds and he curses softly against your mouth.

“You’re so wet for me, fuck…” He circles your clit slowly, almost lazily, but the way his breath catches tells you how much it affects him. “All this for me? After I played like shit for half the game?”

You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips against his hand, and he smiles a tired, crooked grin before leaning in to kiss you again. His fingers keep moving, slow circles on your clit, then dipping inside you just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He’s still so hard against your thigh, twitching every time you moan.

Jude buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking softly while his fingers work you open. “Need to be inside you,” he mumbles against your skin. “Please, baby. Wanna feel you around me. Wanna make you come first… then you can ride me slow while I hold you. I just— I need you close. So fucking close.”

He curls his fingers just right and you arch into him, moaning his name. Jude whimpers in response, pressing his cock against your hip like he can’t help it. 

“Please, baby,” he breathes against your neck, voice hoarse and shaky. “I need to be inside you. Can’t wait anymore.”

You nod, pulling him up for another deep kiss as he lines himself up. “If you get tired just say, Jude,” you whisper against his lips. He looked so exhausted — eyes heavy, shoulders slumped — and part of you still felt a pang of guilt that he was going to be the one putting in all the effort tonight.

“You’re such an angel,” he whispers softly, pecking your forehead with heartbreaking tenderness, then leaning down for another deep kiss. “As if I could ever be too tired to fuck you.”

The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and slick, and you both moan into each other’s mouths as he starts pushing in. He’s so slow and careful, even though you can feel how badly he wants to bury himself.

“Fuck… so tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Inch by inch he sinks into you, stretching you open until he’s fully seated, hips flush against yours. The sound he makes is relief mixed with pleasure, a long, broken moan that vibrates through his chest.

For a moment he just stays there, buried deep, breathing hard against your lips. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, desperate for the full body contact. You can feel how tired he is, the way his muscles are trembling from the long match and the effort it’s taking just to hold himself up. “You feel so good,” he groans. “Just for me, yeah? Tell me this pussy belongs to me. ”

“It belongs to you, baby. Only you,” you moan softly, clenching around him. “I belong to you.”

A shaky breath leaves him. He buries his face in your neck, sucking softly on your skin while he gives one slow, grinding roll of his hips. “Good girl… all mine,” he mumbles, the words slurred with tiredness. “I don’t share you with anyone.”

Then he starts moving with slow, lazy rolls of his hips, grinding deep instead of thrusting hard. Every stroke is deliberate, like he’s savouring every second even though exhaustion is weighing on him. His breaths are heavier, his arms shaking slightly as he holds you, sweat beading on his forehead and sliding down his temple. Still, he doesn’t stop. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, and Jude lets out a soft, whiny sound again that makes you clench harder around him.

“Baby… yeah, just like that,” he pants. “Feels too good. You’re squeezing me so tight— fuck.”

His mouth finds yours again, the kiss sloppy and tired, tongues sliding lazily while he keeps that slow grind going. One hand stays gripping your hip, the other slides up to cup your breast through your t-shirt, thumb brushing your nipple almost absentmindedly, like even his hands are running out of energy but he refuses to stop touching you. He’s so vocal, whimpering your name, telling you how perfect you feel, how much he needs you.

You can feel him getting closer, his thrusts losing their steadiness, becoming a little more desperate. “I’m so close,” he whines against your mouth. “Come with me, baby. Please. Wanna feel you come around me.”

One of his hands slips between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow circles. The combination of his cock dragging deep inside you, his fingers, his soft sleepy moans, pushes you over the edge first. You clench around him hard, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you.

Jude follows right after with a broken groan, burying his face in your neck as he comes deep inside you, hips stuttering. “Fuck— love you, love you so much,” he mumbles against your skin, trembling through it.

Afterwards he collapses on top of you, heavy and warm, still buried inside. His arms wrap around you tightly, face tucked into your neck as he catches his breath. Soft kisses press against your shoulder, lazy and sweet.

“Best recovery ever,” he murmurs with a tired little laugh, voice muffled. “But I’m never moving ever again.”

You run your fingers down the muscles of his back, smiling as both of your breathing starts to even out, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion. You kiss his temple, open your mouth to respond, but he's snoring softly before you can even reply.

tags: @thesizzler @hvnsinureyes

[pipaloves]

POST-MATCH PENETRATION

CW: oneshot, Winner!Jude x girlfriend!reader, 18+, quickie, mild language, p in v, dirty talk, mirror sex, public sex (sorry)

Sum: Every winner has a weakness, and fortunately for Jude, that’s his lovely girlfriend.

WN: first post on here! Kinda nervy.. forgive me if it’s terrible I wanted to write a one shot for my first fic instead of straight to a story. Enjoy!

WC: 5678

The bass from the club pulses through the locked bathroom door like a distant heartbeat, the muffled cheers and laughter from the victory party still loud enough to remind you exactly where you are. Jude had barely let the team finish congratulating him before he pulled you through the crowd with that charming, easy smile he gives the cameras, polite, gentlemanly, the perfect England golden boy. But the moment the door clicked shut behind you, the hunger in his eyes shifted everything.

He steps close, tall and broad-shouldered in his crisp black shirt, the Real Madrid crest still on his chest. One hand gently cups your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip with surprising tenderness, while the other rests possessively on your waist.

“Easy now, love,” he murmurs, that smooth British accent warm and velvet-soft, carrying the faintest edge of condescension that makes your thighs press together.

“Look at you already trembling for me. All flushed and needy after watching me play. Such a sweet, desperate girl tonight, aren’t you?”

You swallow, heat flooding your cheeks. He smiles down at you, almost boyish before leaning in to kiss you slowly, deeply, his tongue teasing yours like he has all the time in the world. His hand slides down, bunching the hem of your short dress inch by inch, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of your thighs. When he finally cups you over your lace panties, he hums in approval at how soaked you already are.

“Shh, shh, baby. No rushing,” he whispers against your mouth, even as he presses two fingers against your clit through the fabric, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. “We’re celebrating properly. I scored that winner for you, after all. The least you can do is let me enjoy how wet my good girl gets for me.”

He kisses along your jaw, down your neck, nipping gently while his fingers keep their unhurried rhythm. You whimper, hips rocking into his hand, and he chuckles softly, sweet, condescending.

“That’s it. Go on, love. Beg for me nicely. I want to hear how badly you need my cock stretching you open right here while everyone’s celebrating outside.”

“Please, Jude…” Your voice comes out through pants. “I need you. Please fuck me.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, that perfect smile still playing on his lips. “Mm, much better. Such polite begging from my pretty girl.”

He hooks his fingers into your panties and tugs them down your legs slowly, letting them pool at your ankles before helping you step out. He pockets them with a wink, then turns you gently but firmly toward the marble sink, hands guiding your palms flat on the cool surface.

“Eyes on the mirror. I want you to watch how well you take me.” He stands behind you, tall frame enveloping yours. You hear the slow drag of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he frees his thick, hard cock. Dark at the tip and already leaking pre-cum. He strokes himself a few times, pressing the flushed head against your slick folds, sliding it up and down teasingly without pushing in yet.

“Feel that? So hard for you after the match. And you’re absolutely dripping, love. What a filthy, perfect little cunt.”

He eases the head inside, just enough to stretch you, then stops. One hand covers your mouth gently but securely, polite restraint mixed with dominance. While the other grips your hip.

“Breathe for me. That’s my girl.” Then he sinks in deeper, inch by thick inch, slow and controlled, until his hips are flush against your ass and you’re fully impaled on him. The fullness is overwhelming; you moan loudly into his palm.

“Shh, easy now,” he coos sweetly, voice low and condescending as he holds still inside you, letting you adjust. “Can’t have anyone hearing how desperately my girlfriend is taking my cock in a public bathroom, can we? Such a naughty secret for a man like me.” He starts moving then, long, deep rolls of his hips that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. Not rough, but dominant and relentless in their steady pace, each thrust pushing deeper than the last.

“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours in the mirror. His free hand slides around to rub your clit in perfect time with his strokes. “So pretty when you’re stuffed full of me. Begging so sweetly with those eyes. Go on, love. Tell me how much deeper you need it.”

You mumble desperately against his hand, hips pushing back to meet him. He loosens his fingers just enough for you to speak.

“Please, Jude — deeper, fuck me deeper. I need all of you.”

He rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that makes your toes curl, groaning softly.

“There’s my good girl. So polite even when you’re gagging for it.” His pace stays measured but powerful, pounding into you with controlled dominance, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoing softly in the tiled room. Each stroke fills you completely, his cock dragging along your walls, hitting your g-spot over and over while his fingers circle your clit faster.

“Does my sweet girl love being fucked like this after I win? Used so nicely in a club bathroom where anyone could knock at any moment?” He presses, his own voice on the brink of groaning.

The pressure builds slowly, deliciously. Your legs shake, pleasure coiling tighter with every deep, dominating thrust. Jude keeps you pinned against the sink, hand firm over your mouth to muffle your increasing moans, his hips snapping harder now as he chases both your pleasure and his.

“Cum for me, love,” he whispers hotly against your ear, still so polite even as he pounds deeper. “Let me feel this pretty cunt squeeze my cock. Be a good girl and let go.”

The orgasm crashes over you in waves, intense, drawn-out, your vision blurring as you pulse and flutter around his thick length. Jude groans, burying himself to the hilt and grinding deep as you ride it out, his fingers never stopping on your clit until you’re trembling and oversensitive.

Only then does he let himself go, thrusting a few more deep, claiming strokes before he spills inside you with a low, satisfied moan. Eyebrows pinched and eyelids closed. You feel every hot pulse as you stare at him through the mirror, his cock twitching as he fills you completely. He stays buried deep for long moments afterward, breathing against your neck, pressing soft, gentlemanly kisses to your shoulder.

“Perfect as always, love,” he murmurs sweetly, voice laced with that soft affection. He pulls out slowly, watching with satisfaction as some of his cum leaks down your thigh. He uses his fingers to push a bit back inside you, then helps straighten your dress with surprising gentleness. His own hand going to stuff his now limp cock back inside his jeans.

He kisses your temple, that charming smile returning. “Fix your lipstick, love. We’ve got a party waiting.” He adds with one last possessive squeeze of your hip, he unlocks the door, ever the polite boyfriend once more.

[haalandarchive]

Thigh Riding - Erling Haaland

—

Warnings: MDNI | established relationship | messy thigh riding | size kink | dirty talk.

WC: 650

A/N: that picture that’s going around of Erling man spreading, my lord his thighs look SOOOO GOOD.

The living-room lights were low, the city outside Manchester’s tall windows nothing but a distant hum. Erling was sprawled on the oversized couch like a king on his throne—legs spread wide in those black compression shorts that always drove you insane. The fabric had ridden up high on his massive quads, exposing even more of that thick, sculpted muscle you were obsessed with. Veins stood out under smooth, pale skin. Every twitch of his leg made the muscle flex, and your mouth went dry.

He caught you staring again. A lazy smirk tugged at his lips, blue eyes dark with amusement and heat.

“You’ve been eyeing my thighs since I got home from training, baby.” His voice was a low murmur, Norwegian accent thicker with want. One big hand patted the bare expanse of his right quad, the slap echoing softly. “Go on. Use my thigh. You know I let you ride it whenever that pretty little pussy gets needy.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but the ache between your legs won. You climbed into his lap without another word, straddling the thick pillar of muscle. Erling leaned back against the cushions, arms stretched along the back of the couch, manspreading even wider so you had all the room you wanted. The shorts rode up another inch, the hem now brushing the crease where thigh met groin. You could see the heavy outline of his cock thickening against the fabric, but he made no move to touch it. This was for you.

Your hands braced on his broad chest as you lowered yourself onto his quad. The first drag of your bare, already-soaked pussy along that warm, rock-hard muscle pulled a whimper from your throat. Erling’s eyes flicked down, watching the way your slick immediately glistened on his skin.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, voice rough. “So wet already. My greedy girl. Grind on it. Make a mess of my thigh like you always do.”

You rocked forward, clit catching on the ridges of muscle, then back again, hips rolling in desperate little circles. The size difference made everything filthier—his thigh was thicker than some men’s waists, forcing you to spread wide, every movement smearing your arousal in shiny streaks down the muscle. Erling flexed deliberately under you, the sudden hard swell pressing up against your folds and making you cry out.

“That’s it… ride it harder,” he encouraged, one hand finally dropping to grip your hip, guiding you. “Use me. Take what you need. I love feeling this sloppy cunt dripping all over me while I just sit here and watch.”

Your head fell forward, forehead against his shoulder as you chased the friction. The wet sounds were obscene—your pussy sliding faster, clit throbbing each time it dragged over a vein. Erling’s free hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back so he could watch your face.

“Eyes on me, baby. Let me see how much you love my thighs.” He flexed again, bouncing you slightly, and the added pressure tipped you over. You came with a broken moan, thighs shaking, flooding his muscle with fresh slick that ran down in rivulets toward his knee. Erling groaned low, his own cock now fully hard and leaking against the shorts, but he still didn’t move to touch himself.

“Good girl,” he praised, voice soft and filthy at the same time. “Look at the mess you made… gonna need another shower before bed. Or maybe I’ll just make you lick it clean while I fuck that pretty mouth.”

You slumped against his chest, panting, still lazily grinding through the aftershocks. Erling’s hand stroked down your spine, then gave your ass a possessive squeeze.

“Whenever you want, elskling,” he whispered against your temple, already patting the other thigh like an invitation. “These legs are yours. Now catch your breath… because I’m nowhere near done letting you use them tonight.”