In your defence, kissing Jobe Bellingham had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. It's the waking up in his bed with absolutely no recollection afterwards that's proving to be the issue.
WARNINGS ◦ alcohol use ◦ mention of a one night stand ◦ friends to lovers ◦ they all suck at feelings i'm not proud of it lol ◦ a tiny bit of angst ◦ mention of kissing and making out in public spaces ◦ jobe is the only mature one on this lmfao ◦ description of hangovers and overall a pretty light read ◦ consent talks ◦ love confessions!!!
6,141 ━━━━━ oneshot jobe bellingham x reader
۶ৎ 𝓩 , first time writing for my '05 twin, kinda nervous. HOW THE HELL IS THIS MAN SO FINE AND NOT MINE. sorry. anyways, enjoy this jobe drabble whoever finds this <3
━━━━━ read on ao3
You wake to the low, steady hum of the ceiling fan circling overhead, each lazy rotation stirring the air just enough to brush across your skin. This ceiling is smooth and white, unmarked by the faint water stain that greets you most mornings in your own flat. Your mouth feels coated in something stale and bitter, like cheap vodka and broken decisions, your head throbs in time with it, a deep, insistent pulse that radiates from your temples down through your jaw.
For a long moment you lie perfectly still on your back, eyes closed, simply cataloguing the wreckage: the pounding in your skull, the uneasy roll in your stomach, the vague but growing certainty that something has gone very wrong.
You know this room, the realisation settles slowly, like sediment in still water. The faint trace of cedarwood and fresh laundry in the sheets, the old Sunderland poster taped to the far wall, edges curling from years of loyalty he’s never quite outgrown, a pair of grass-stained boots kicked carelessly near the wardrobe door.
Jobe’s room. At his parents’ house.
You keep your eyes shut a little longer, as if that might delay the rest of it, but the bed shifts under you with the smallest movement and the truth presses in anyway.
The mattress dips more than it should on his side. The body next to you takes up space, has always taken up space actually, even before the professional training sculpted him into the tall, broad-shouldered athlete he is now. You can feel the warmth radiating from him without looking, the duvet is pulled low across his body, and when you finally turn your head on the pillow, the sight hits you fully.
Jobe’s lying on his back, one arm flung loosely above his head, snoring lightly in that soft, unconscious way he’s done since you were kids sharing tents on family camping trips. He is only in dark briefs, the fabric clings to the solid lines of his hips and thighs, the kind of quiet power built from endless drills and matches, his chest rises and falls steadily, the muscles there defined but relaxed in sleep, skin still carrying the faint tan of training pitches under brighter skies.
He fills the bed, not just occupies it. One of his long legs has slipped out from under the duvet, foot hanging off the edge, the space between you feels suddenly too small, too intimate, too dangerous.
You glance down at yourself and the world narrows to the soft black fabric pooling across your lap. One of Jobe’s old training shirts, faded from countless washes, the collar stretched just enough to slip off one shoulder, drapes loosely over you, the hem skimming the tops of your thighs.
The material is warm from sleep, carrying the faint, familiar scent of his detergent and something undeniably him. No bra. Just the thin lace of your underwear beneath, a stark reminder that you are wearing almost nothing in a bed that is not your own. Your bare legs rest shyly against the dark sheets. One knee is slightly bent, the other stretched out, toes curled against the cool air.
You take it in slowly, piece by piece, as if cataloguing evidence at a scene you don’t fully remember joining. The shirt is enormous on you, sleeves swallowing your hands when you lift them. It used to hang off him differently—broader shoulders, longer torso—back when he was still growing into the professional frame he carries now. Your dress, the one you’d chosen for the family party yesterday, lies in a pathetic heap near the door. One thin strap is torn or slipped free, the fabric wrinkled and stained with what looks like spilled vodka, a single heel pokes out from underneath it, abandoned.
The details settle heavily, you are in Jobe’s bed, in his shirt, half-dressed. And he is right there beside you, all six-foot-something of him, long limbs and quiet breathing filling the space like he was always meant to take up that much room. The duvet has slipped low on his hips, revealing the defined cut of his abs and the sharp line where his training shorts usually sit.
For several long seconds you simply stare, letting the pieces hover without quite connecting. This is Jobe, the boy who once raced you on bikes down the dead-lock, the teenager who sat beside you at your cousin’s funeral and didn’t try to fill the silence, the young man who sends you memes at odd hours from Germany and asks how your week is going like it still matters. Family, in every way that counts. The thought lingers, warm and familiar at first, before the colder edge creeps in.
Your pulse begins to pick up. You become aware of the faint ache in your muscles, the dryness in your throat, the way your hair is tangled against the pillow. What exactly happened after the walk home? The kiss flickers back, his mouth surprised but yielding, the taste of gin and laughter, but the rest is fog. How did you end up here? How did the clothes come off? Did you…?
The panic arrives then, not all at once but in a slow, cold bloom that spreads outward from your chest.
You’ve known Jobe your entire life, he is safety and history and the kind of uncomplicated love that comes from years of shared Sunday lunches and inside jokes. Ruining that, crossing a line neither of you had ever even glanced at, feels like the worst possible outcome.
You press the heel of your hand hard against your forehead, willing the spinning to stop, but the memories keep flashing anyway.
The family birthday party yesterday afternoon, Denise pulling you into one of her enveloping hugs the moment you walked through the door, hands on your cheeks as she asked, for the third time that month, whether you were eating enough. Mark in the kitchen making terrible dad jokes while flipping burgers. Jude winding Jobe up across the table with stories from Madrid, the two brothers falling into their easy rhythm while you watched with the same fond exasperation you’d felt for years.
Then the club later with the old childhood group. Rounds of drinks, embarrassing stories traded like currency, the walk home under the orange streetlights, just the two of you after the others peeled off. Jobe’s arm slung casually around your shoulders when the pavement felt unsteady. The sudden, surprising press of his mouth to yours—warm, not rushed— and then more kisses after that, your hands in his shirt, his quiet laugh against your lips. Then… nothing.
A blank wall where the rest of the night should be.
You sit there for a long moment, heart hammering against your ribs, the duvet still pooled around your waist. The panic is real now, but you don’t move. You just breathe through it, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your childhoon bestfriend's chest, waiting for the courage, or the disaster, to break.
But the silence stretches too long, and the not-knowing becomes unbearable. Your hand moves before your brain catches up, you reach over and shake his shoulder, gentle at first, then more insistent when he only murmurs something incoherent.
“Jobe,” you whisper. No response. “Sam." Another shake, harder this time. "Sam, wake up.”
He stirs properly this time, a low groan rumbling in his chest as his eyes flutter open. For a second he looks lost, still half-lost in whatever dream he’d been having. Then his gaze lands on you, really lands, and the confusion sharpens.
You shake him one more time for good measure, inconvenient and frantic. “Fucking hell, Jobe, wake up.”
“Fuck off,” he mumbles, voice gravel-rough with sleep. His hand comes up automatically, large and warm, closing gently around your wrist to still your shaking. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, just lets out a low, annoyed groan and turns his face into the pillow for a second, clearly battling his own hangover. “It’s too early for this, princess. My head is killing me.”
You shake his shoulder again anyway, persistent. “Jobe Samuel. I’m serious.”
He cracks one eye open, squinting against the light filtering through the curtains. The annoyance is still there, brow furrowed, mouth turned down in a classic Jobe scowl that you’ve seen a hundred times when he’s tired or hungover or both. He looks properly rumpled: hair messy, a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow, the full athletic frame of him taking up most of the bed like he’d grown into it overnight years ago.
“Christ,” he mutters, pushing himself up onto one elbow with another groan. The duvet slips lower on his hips, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. “You’re relentless even when I’m dying. What’s got you—?”
He finally looks at you properly. The annoyance flickers, then fades as his gaze travels over you: his oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder, the way you’re sitting bolt upright with panic written all over your face, the crumpled dress on the floor.
Realisation clicks in slowly behind his eyes, the memories from last night start filtering back—the club, the walk, your hands on his face, the taxi, the stairs.
He sits up fully now, back against the headboard, and runs a hand over his face, rubbing the sleep and hangover away as best he can.
“Alright, darling,” he says, voice lower and gentler now, the gravel still there but wrapped in warmth. “What’s the rush about? You trying to kick me out of my own bed or something?”
You stare at him, equal parts horrified and irritated that he’s already slipping into banter mode while your entire world feels like it’s tilting sideways.
“This is serious, Jobe,” you snap, voice cracking with frustration. “I’m literally having a breakdown here.”
He pauses, the sleepy smirk fading as he really looks at you. The hangover is still written across his face, the slight wince when he moves his head, the slow way he blinks, but the teasing drains away. He shifts a little closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, and rests his back more firmly against the headboard.
“Alright,” he says quietly, more awake now. “Are you hurt?”
The question hangs there, a beat of heavy, awkward silence stretches between you. Jobe is watching you, waiting, clearly trying to figure out why you look two seconds away from bolting.
You take a shaky breath, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. “Did we sleep together?”
Jobe’s brow furrows. He stares at you for a second like you’ve just spoken another language. “What?” The word comes out half-laugh, half-confused. “Princess, what are you on about?”
You gesture wildly between the two of you, the panic bubbling over into a rushed, embarrassed rant.
“Look at us! I’m in nothing but your shirt and my underwear. You’re practically naked, my dress is on the floor looking like it lost a fight, I woke up in your bed with zero memory after we were kissing on the way home. I’m not crazy, this looks exactly like the morning after something happened!”
Your voice cracks a little on the last part. You feel ridiculous even saying it out loud, but the evidence is right there in front of you, impossible to ignore.
Jobe listens without interrupting, his expression shifting from confusion to quiet understanding as you speak.
Then a quiet, low laugh escapes him, not at you, but the gentle, fond kind he’s always had when you work yourself up over something.
“Darling, relax,” he says, warm and patient. He reaches over and gently tugs the hem of his shirt down a little more on your thigh, a small, thoughtful gesture. “We didn’t sleep together, slow down."
He leans back against the headboard again, rubbing his temple with two fingers like the hangover is still punishing him, but his eyes stay on you.
“You were proper gone last night, we both were. But I got you upstairs, helped you change because your dress was covered in vodka, gave you water, and made sure you didn’t fall down the stairs trying to go back down. That’s it, nothing else happened.”
You narrow your eyes at him, the sharp edge of panic now tangled with pure irritation at the faint trace of laughter still lingering in his voice. The morning light filtering through the curtains casts long, soft shadows across the room, catching on the faded posters on the walls and the scattered clothes on the floor.
“Stop fucking laughing, Jobe. This is serious.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” he says, though the small, amused grin is definitely still tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shifts against the headboard, the mattress creaking softly under his weight. “It’s just… you look proper traumatised and I’m trying not to die from this headache.”
For a moment the two of you just stare at each other. You can see the hangover weighing on him, the slight tightness around his eyes, the way he squints against the light. You shove his shoulder, not hard, but enough to make your point. His skin is warm under your palm.
“We were kissing,” you insist, voice rising. “At the club and on the way home. Don’t act like that’s nothing.”
Jobe winces, a proper grimace this time as he drags a hand slowly down his face. He leans his head back against the headboard with a quiet thud, eyes briefly closing as if the memory itself is painful.
“Well… fuck,” he mutters. “Yeah, we did that.”
“See!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, the oversized shirt slipping further off one shoulder. “You kissed me first, you idiot.”
His head snaps toward you, eyebrows raised. “C'mon, darling, there's no need to lie here.”
“Yes, you did!”
“No, princess,” he says, fighting a smile now, the banter flowing easily even through the hangover haze. “You were all over me, c’mon.” He gestures loosely with one hand. “You kept grabbing my face and telling me my ears were cute. My ears.”
The words hang in the air for half a second. Something inside you snaps, half embarrassment, half fond frustration. You snatch the nearest pillow and swing it at him. Once. Twice. The soft thuds echo lightly in the quiet room, he doesn’t even try to block it properly, just lets out a low, rumbling laugh and takes the hits, shoulders shaking slightly with each one, as if this kind of ridiculous morning scuffle is the most natural thing in the world between you two.
“Promise me nothing happened,” you demand, hitting him again for good measure, the pillow making a muffled whump against his chest. “Promise me, Jobe.”
He’s still letting you whack him, patient and oddly cute about it, one arm resting lazily across his knee, until your voice cracks on the last “Promise me.” The playfulness in the air shifts almost instantly, the laughter fades from his face.
That does it.
He catches both of your wrists gently but firmly with one large hand, stopping the pillow mid-swing. He doesn’t squeeze, his grip is warm and steady, just enough to still you. His expression turns serious as he looks straight at you, hangover or not, the morning light catching the side of his face.
“I wouldn’t do that to you. You know that,” he says, voice low and steady, eyes locked on yours. “I promise. Nothing happened.”
The words came without hesitation. They weren't defensive, they weren't offended, they sounded almost confused that you could even think otherwise.
You stared back at him, your breathing still uneven. "We were drunk."
"I know."
"So how can you be so sure?"
“Because it’s you,” he says finally. “You’re family. Mum trusts me with you, do you think I'd do something like that? Hurting you like that — especially when you’re not even fully there — would never cross my mind. With anyone, really."
Silence settled between you again, broken only by the slow whir of the ceiling fan above. Your eyes drifted down to the shirt hanging off your shoulder, to the rumpled sheets pooled around your legs, before returning to him.
You look away toward the window, throat tight. The panic isn’t just about the possibility of sex anymore, it’s about the fear that you might have destroyed the safest relationship you’ve ever had.
"You don't get it," you murmured, your voice much quieter now. "If we'd actually..." You swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence. "God, Jobe... I'm so sorry."
Something softened across his expression. "Now why are you saying sorry for, princess?" He let go of your wrists then, giving you the space to breathe, but he didn't move away. "Breathe, darling."
He leaned back against the headboard and watched you with that same patient expression he'd worn ever since you were children crying over scraped knees or broken friendships.
"I helped you upstairs," he starts carefully, piecing the night together out loud more for your benefit than his own. "Your dress was soaked in vodka because you'd somehow managed to spill half your drink down yourself." You look up at him through your fingers that were previously hiding the embarrassment in your face. "You kept saying you were fine while tripping over your own feet." The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. "I found one of my old shirts, made you change into it, gave you water, spent ten minutes convincing you not to sleep in your makeup..."
"And then?"
His smile grew a fraction wider. "And then you kept trying to kiss me like when we were in the club."
Heat rushed to your face immediately. "No."
"Mhm."
"Jobe."
"We did kiss," he admitted more quietly, his eyes dropping briefly to the duvet before finding yours again. "A few times."
You felt your stomach sink.
“I kissed you back,” he admits, voice low. “For a bit. I wanted to. But after a while you were barely keeping your eyes open, so I stopped.” He shrugs one shoulder, simple and honest. “That’s the truth.”
The confession hangs between you, understated and raw.
You feel your chest tighten. “Did I… make you uncomfortable? Did I ignore you when you said no? Did I put you in a shitty position?”
Jobe’s expression softens further. He leans forward slightly.
“No, darling, you didn’t. You were just… you. Drunk and affectionate and a little bit chaotic. You kept asking if Germany was really that far away, told me you missed me more than you say when you’re sober. Tried convincing me to stay in England.” A small, fond smile touches his lips. “You also told me my eyelashes were trustworthy. That one’s going in the permanent record.”
You groan and hide your face in the pillow for a second. When you peek out again, he’s watching you with that patient, steady look.
“I was worried about you last night,” he continues more seriously. “You were all over the place. Strangers kept trying to talk to you at the club. It scared me, thinking how easily someone else could’ve taken advantage. So yeah… don’t get that loose when I’m not around. Please, not because I’m trying to control you, because I care what happens to you.”
The silence that follows feels different now, heavier, but warmer. You’re still clutching the pillow. He’s still close, one hand resting near yours on the duvet. Neither of you seems ready to name what shifted last night, but the air between you feels undeniably changed.
Sunlight has crept further across the floor, catching dust motes and the faint scuff marks on the wooden boards, Jobe’s thumb makes one absent pass over the edge of the duvet before stilling. You watch it, hyper-aware of every small movement, every shared breath in the quiet space.
Eventually you find your voice again, small and hesitant. “So the kissing… that part really happened.”
Jobe exhales through his nose, a long, thoughtful sound, he doesn’t look away from the window at first. When he does turn back to you, his expression is calm, almost thoughtful, like he’s turning the night over in his mind piece by piece.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “It did.”
You wait. The silence stretches again, comfortable enough that you don’t feel the need to fill it right away. You pull the duvet a little higher over your legs, fingers tracing the soft edge of the fabric, Jobe shifts his weight against the headboard, the mattress dipping slightly under him, and rubs a hand over his jaw.
“I kept thinking about it on the walk home,” he continues after a moment, voice low. “Watching those lads at the club come up to you. It bothered me more than I expected. Not in some big dramatic way. Just… I didn’t like it.” He lets out a small, self-aware huff, almost surprised at his own admission. “Didn’t realise how much until I said it out loud just now.”
You glance at him. He meets your eyes steadily, no deflection, no attempt to soften it into a joke.
“Why did you kiss me?” The question slips out quieter than you intended, but it feels important.
Jobe doesn’t rush to answer, he looks down at the space between you on the bed for a long beat, then back up. His voice is even, confident in that understated way he has when he’s decided to be honest.
“Because I wanted to,” he says. “The alcohol probably made it easier to stop overthinking it, but it didn’t create something that wasn’t already there, at least not for me.”
The words settle between you like the dust in the sunlight. You feel your chest tighten again, but this time it’s not panic.
“We kissed before I got too far gone,” he adds, as if reading the next question on your face. “On the walk home, a few times. I wanted that part, I don’t regret it.” His gaze holds yours. “I only stopped things later because you weren’t really there anymore. Both of those things can be true at the same time. I wanted to kiss you… but I’d never take advantage of you.”
You let that sit for a while. The fan keeps turning, somewhere downstairs a door opens and closes softly — Mark, probably, moving around the kitchen. The ordinary sounds of the house feel strangely grounding against the weight of the conversation.
“I don’t think they were a mistake,” Jobe says after another long pause, his voice quiet but certain. “The kisses. If you decide you regret them, I’ll respect that completely, but I’m not going to lie and say they meant nothing just because that would be easier.”
You look at him, really look. The boy who grew up beside you, now a man taking up space in his childhood bed, speaking with the kind of steady honesty that makes your throat feel tight. No grand speeches, no sudden declarations, just Jobe, being Jobe.
A small, surprised laugh escapes you, shaky but genuine. He smiles in response, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way.
“I’d quite like to kiss you again,” he says casually, as if commenting on the weather. “When we’re both sober this time.”
The laugh between you feels lighter now, shared and easy. You shake your head, still half-hiding behind the pillow, the fabric soft and familiar against your cheek. Jobe’s smile lingers, small and unhurried, as he watches you from his side of the bed.
The morning light has shifted again, warming the walls and catching on the edges of old trophies lined up on a shelf across the room. Everything in here feels suspended between childhood and adulthood — the Sunderland poster, the boots, the faint scent of grass still clinging to them.
You lower the pillow slowly into your lap, fingers tracing one of its worn seams. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it is full. Ordinary sounds that make the conversation feel strangely intimate, as if the rest of the house is politely pretending not to exist.
“Fuck Jobe,” you say after a while, voice quieter now, almost testing the words. “We really kissed. That part was not just some blurry half-memory.”
Jobe nods once, his gaze drifting briefly to the window before returning to you. He scratches the back of his neck, a small, habitual gesture you’ve seen a thousand times when he’s thinking something through.
“Yeah,” he says again, simpler this time. “We did.”
You let that sit between you. You pull the duvet a little higher over your legs, suddenly aware of how exposed you still feel, even though the worst of the panic has eased. Jobe doesn’t rush to fill the quiet, he simply waits, one hand resting loosely on his knee, the other near yours on the bed, close enough that you can feel the warmth but not quite touching.
He exhales through his nose, a thoughtful sound. His eyes drop to the space between you on the mattress for a long moment, as if he’s replaying pieces of the night in his head, the club lights, the walk home, the way the streetlamps had cast long shadows across the pavement.
When he speaks, his voice is low, almost like he’s surprising himself with the admission.
“I spent most of the night at the club trying to convince myself I was just looking out for you,” he says. “The way I always have. But every time another bloke came over, bought you a drink, tried talking to you… it bothered me. More than it should have.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating huff. “Didn’t realise how much until I was walking you home and suddenly it wasn’t just protectiveness anymore.”
You glance at him. He meets your eyes steadily.
“What happens now?” you ask eventually, voice soft.
Jobe thinks for a moment, then smiles again, small, genuine, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way.
“I’d quite like to do this properly,” he says, casual but certain. “Take you on an actual date. No hangovers. No blurry memories.”
You let out a soft laugh, the sound mixing with his own quiet one. The tension in the room eases further, replaced by something warmer, lighter, hopeful in the most ordinary way.
“And yeah,” he adds after a beat, eyes meeting yours with that same quiet confidence, “I’d quite like to kiss you again. This time when we’re both completely sober.”
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The conversation had reached that strange point where silence no longer felt uncomfortable, only necessary. Too much had been said in too short a space of time, each admission quietly rearranging something neither of you had realised was capable of moving. The panic that had seized you when you first opened your eyes had long since dissolved, leaving behind the dull ache of a hangover and an unfamiliar awareness every time your eyes wandered back to him.
Jobe seemed content to let the quiet settle. He rested his forearms across his knees, staring absent-mindedly at the floorboards, his fingers loosely linked together as though he were still replaying pieces of the previous night in his head. The room looked exactly as it always had, childhood trophies gathering dust, old football posters refusing to be taken down, boots abandoned near the wardrobe after yesterday's kickabout with family friends, but somehow none of it felt quite the same anymore.
The spell finally broke with the unmistakable crash of a cupboard downstairs. A second later Mark's voice floated faintly through the floorboards. "How've we managed to lose every bloody mug in this house?!"
Jobe shut his eyes for a second before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose.
"Dad's up."
"So it would seem." You smiled despite yourself.
His eyes met yours.
"I should probably..." you started, gesturing vaguely towards the bedroom door.
"Yeah."
Neither of you moved.
The hesitation almost made you laugh. It wasn't awkwardness exactly, more the quiet reluctance that comes after a conversation neither person had expected to have before breakfast.
Eventually Jobe pushed himself to his feet with a low groan, stretching until something in his back cracked. "Christ..."
"You sound about fifty."
"I feel about eighty."
You watched him shuffle across the room to retrieve yesterday's clothes, scratching lazily at the back of his head before tossing you your handbag from beside the desk. Your dress was another matter entirely.
You picked it up between two fingers, frowning at the dried splash of vodka staining the front. The fabric felt stiff and slightly tacky under your touch, a small, ridiculous reminder of how the night had unravelled. Jobe glanced over from where he stood near the wardrobe, his expression softening with the kind of easy familiarity that had always existed between you, even in the middle of this strange morning.
"It'll wash."
"It absolutely won't."
"It might."
You held it up for him to see more clearly, the morning light catching the faint sheen of the stain. He studied it for a second, the faint crease between his brows deepening before he gave an exaggerated wince that carried no real weight, only the gentle teasing that had always been part of your rhythm.
"...Yeah, alright."
You looked at him expectantly, one eyebrow raised in the quiet challenge that needed no words. He sighed with theatrical resignation, running a hand through his messy hair as he turned back toward the wardrobe.
"I'll replace it."
"Damn right you will."
"There goes next week's wages."
"You play professional football."
"I know."
"So don't act like you're struggling."
He laughed softly, the sound low and warm as he disappeared briefly into the wardrobe, emerging with a clean shirt.
The conversation slipped back into the rhythm it had always known, easy teasing filling the spaces where sharper embarrassment had lived only minutes before. It struck you, somewhere between complaining about your ruined dress and watching him wrestle the T-shirt over his head, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that felt both utterly ordinary and newly aware, that nothing about speaking to Jobe had changed. Everything else had.
You changed in the bathroom while he made the bed, not perfectly, because he had never learned how Denise liked the hospital corners folded, but well enough that nobody would immediately assume two twenty-year-olds had spent the night tangled in it. By the time you wandered downstairs together, still rubbing the last traces of sleep from your eyes, the smell of fresh toast and brewing tea had drifted through the hallway, grounding the morning in something comfortingly familiar.
Mark stood at the kitchen counter with a mug in one hand and the morning paper in the other, the sunlight from the garden window catching the steam rising from his drink.
"There they are."
"Morning," the two of you answered together, voices overlapping in that unconscious way people do when they have shared years of the same spaces.
"Hm."
He folded another page of the paper with a quiet rustle, his gaze lifting only briefly over the rim of his mug. The kitchen felt warm and lived-in around you, the faint clink of dishes in the sink and the low hum of the fridge creating a soft backdrop to the ordinary exchange.
"You alive?"
"Barely," Jobe muttered, already reaching for the coffee pot, his shoulder brushing yours as he moved past.
Mark hummed in response, a dry, knowing sound that carried no judgment, only the quiet amusement of a man who had seen far worse mornings in this house.
"Bin's outside."
Jobe frowned slightly, pouring himself a mug as the rich scent of coffee filled the space between you.
"What for?"
"You'll work it out."
There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just long enough for realisation to settle. Your face disappeared into both hands as the memory flickered back, hazy but mortifying.
"Oh, no..."
Jobe looked between the two of you, confusion still clouding his features as he set the pot down with a soft clink. "...What?"
"You threw up in Mum's roses."
His expression froze for a moment, the full weight of it landing as Mark delivered the line with the same understated dryness he always carried. You laughed suddenly, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly and forcing you to lean against the kitchen island for support, the cool surface grounding you. Jobe stared at his father in complete disbelief before groaning into both hands, the sound muffled but genuine.
By the time breakfast was finished, the morning had settled into something comfortably ordinary, the dishwasher humming quietly in the background and the faint scent of toast still lingering in the air.
Mark had disappeared into the garden to inspect the alleged crime scene, muttering something about hopeless youngsters under his breath, while Jobe wandered through the house collecting forgotten glasses from the night before, his movements unhurried and familiar. You found yourself lingering by the front door, bag resting on one shoulder, fingers curling loosely around your car keys as the warmth of the day pressed gently against the windows.
"I should head off."
He looked up from the hallway, the light catching the side of his face and highlighting the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
"Yeah."
Again, neither of you seemed particularly eager to be the first to move. Jobe reached for the front door instead, pulling it open before standing back to let you through. The warmth outside wrapped around you immediately, carrying the familiar smell of freshly cut grass from somewhere further down the road and the distant sound of a neighbour mowing their lawn. He followed you out onto the drive without either of you acknowledging that he was doing it, the gravel shifting softly under your feet.
For a moment you simply stood beside your car, the metal warm from the sun. It wasn't awkward. It just... wasn't familiar yet. You looked at him, studying the face you'd known for almost your entire life, and realised it was somehow both exactly the same and completely different in the bright daylight.
"I suppose," you said eventually, "this is the bit where everything gets weird."
He frowned slightly, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his joggers as he leaned against the side of the car.
"Does it have to?"
"I don't know."
"I'd rather it didn't."
You smiled, the expression coming easily despite the new undercurrent running beneath everything.
"So would I."
A comfortable silence settled again, the kind filled with the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the faint hum of traffic in the distance. He looked down the street for a moment before speaking, his posture relaxed but his gaze steady when it returned to you.
"I meant what I said upstairs."
"I know."
"I'm not expecting an answer today." Your eyes found his again, the connection lingering in the quiet space between you. "Or tomorrow."
Another small smile touched his mouth, softening the lines of his face.
"I just... think we've spent enough years pretending we're only one thing because it's easier."
The sentence landed gently, no pressure behind it, only honesty earned from years of shared history. He shrugged one shoulder, the movement casual yet deliberate.
"So..."
"So?"
"When I get a free weekend..." His expression softened into something almost boyish despite the quiet confidence he'd carried all morning, the sunlight catching in his eyes as he looked at you. "...let me take you out."
Not because last night had forced the question, but because, for the first time, neither of you had any reason left to pretend you didn't want to. You smiled before you even realised you were doing it, the warmth of it spreading through your chest as you unlocked the car door.
"I think," you said, the words feeling right in the ordinary brightness of the driveway, "I'd quite like that."
His own smile answered yours immediately, easy and genuine, the kind shared between two people who already knew each other better than anyone else ever could. No kiss. No dramatic goodbye. Just the quiet understanding that something had shifted, and for now, that was enough.
As you pulled away a minute later, the engine humming softly beneath you, you caught one last glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror, still standing on the drive with one hand shoved into his pocket, the other lifting in an absent wave. For the first time since waking in his bed, you weren't trying to remember what had happened the night before. You already knew. Instead, your mind wandered somewhere much simpler. You found yourself wondering what Jobe Bellingham was actually like on a first date. And somehow, after a lifetime of knowing him, that felt like the newest question of all.
author's note — it's time to admit: i've replayed that video of him running on the treadmill a thousand times since i saw it #respectfully. also, i got major vibes of woman worshipper with this man i swear, A MAN A MAN A MAN-AN-AN.
your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.
✧ WARNINGS AND TAGS
soulmates!au ◦ vampire!au ◦ mentions of sex ◦ dark themes such as depression, melancholy, killing ◦ landlord!sunghoon x fem!reader ◦ vampire!sunghoon x collegestudent!reader ◦ vampire!enhypen ◦ gore, mentions of violence and blood ◦ graphic description of violence ◦ in this au, humans and vampires coexist and vampires are almost extinguished ◦ heavy angst ◦ family drama ◦ mommy issues ◦ reader's dad has cancer ◦ eventual smut ◦ description of blood ◦ HAPPY ENDING ◦ too much angst ◦ pls be mindful of what you're consuming for your mental health.
+2OO,OOO main masterlist STATUS ━━━━━ FINISHED
۶ৎ 𝓜 , live laugh love vamp!hoon >< reposting my favorite piece of creation i've ever done because this was life changing for 20-year-old mari and i owe it all to my enhablr lovely readers. this will eventually have smut, so mdni. layout credits to kiwiatoll, banner credits to hoonstrology and divider credits to uzmacchiato. i love you guys sm thank u for being awesome and talented <3 i lost my old blog and all the tsj posts under it, that's why i'm reposting this. for now, the links will only redirect to ao3 bc your girl doesn't have time yet to repost each chapter here on tumblr but dw because i'll eventually post everything here okie.
read on ao3 spotify playlist main masterlist
THE SEONGHYEON JAEGA ━━━━━ MASTERLIST
PROLOGUE ONE ━━━━━ pink tiles
꒰ 5.8k ꒱you didn’t expect the winter garden, or the hydrangeas blooming out of season. and you definitely didn’t expect sunghoon — quiet, unreadable, and watching you like he already knew how this would end.
PROLOGUE TWO ━━━━━ the seonghyeon jaega
꒰ 10.9k ꒱between printer boys, rooftop gardens, and the neighbor who looks at you like he’s trying not to set the world on fire, this is what happens when loneliness meets curiosity and accidentally kicks off something bigger than you’re ready for.
CHAPTER ONE ━━━━━ hydrangeas & homicide
꒰ 11.2k ꒱ park sunghoon has survived centuries by staying detached — until a new neighbor moves in and quietly unravels everything. caught between instinct and control, he senses a bond he thought was myth, as something human begins to feel dangerously inevitable.
CHAPTER TWO ━━━━━ six-hundred-and-thirty-three
꒰ 16k ꒱ your body thrums with a strange, residual ache — not pain, but presence. like something has settled beneath your skin, quiet and irreversible. you don't have the words for it yet, but whatever passed between you and sunghoon in that moment wasn’t just physical. it’s something older, deeper, and it’s already taken root.
CHAPTER THREE ━━━━━ eletromagnetic emo ghost
꒰ 21.6k ꒱ all day, he feels you — in the air, under his skin, in every pulse that isn't his own. he watches you stumble through the day, dazed and aching, and hates that he caused it. but more than that, he hates how badly he wants more.
CHAPTER FOUR ━━━━━ resist the urge to bite (or kiss)
꒰ 35.2k ꒱ you want answers, but you also don’t want to ask. when you finally see him again, your body reacts before your mind can. and when he speaks — low, careful, restrained — it only confirms what you’ve been afraid to admit.
CHAPTER FIVE ━━━━━ hanil women university
꒰ 18.2k ꒱ the tension between you builds — sharp, close, and unbearably restrained. and when you finally ask if he regrets it, sunghoon doesn’t answer with words. he just looks at you — and it’s enough to know the truth.
CHAPTER SIX ━━━━━ necklines & near-death experiences
꒰ 24.3k ꒱sunghoon is shaken. and now that the bond is forming between you two, it’s not just instinct — it’s blood memory. he’s caught in something ancient and irreversible. and for the first time, you’re not the one in danger — he is.
CHAPTER SEVEN ━━━━━ orange blood
you never knew. and now everything — your instincts, your reactions, the way your body answers sunghoon before you can think — starts to make sense. it’s not legacy. it’s inheritance by accident. buried. hidden. and now, waking up.
EPILOGUE ━━━━━ bad desire (unleash)
it’s not soft. it’s inevitable. after nights of denial and tension so thick it ached, this moment snaps like a pulled thread. it’s teeth, breath, hands, and truth.
PSA: if I suddenly disappear, it’s because Tumblr has beef with me 😭 I can’t access my account from my phone anymore without getting a bunch of weird security pop-ups I’m so tired bro ✌🏻✌🏻✌🏻
your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.
✧ WARNINGS AND TAGS
soulmates!au ◦ vampire!au ◦ mentions of sex ◦ dark themes such as depression, melancholy, killing ◦ landlord!sunghoon x fem!reader ◦ vampire!sunghoon x collegestudent!reader ◦ vampire!enhypen ◦ gore, mentions of violence and blood ◦ graphic description of violence ◦ in this au, humans and vampires coexist and vampires are almost extinguished ◦ heavy angst ◦ family drama ◦ mommy issues ◦ reader's dad has cancer ◦ eventual smut ◦ description of blood ◦ HAPPY ENDING ◦ too much angst ◦ pls be mindful of what you're consuming for your mental health.
+2OO,OOO main masterlist STATUS ━━━━━ FINISHED
۶ৎ 𝓜 , live laugh love vamp!hoon >< reposting my favorite piece of creation i've ever done because this was life changing for 20-year-old mari and i owe it all to my enhablr lovely readers. this will eventually have smut, so mdni. layout credits to kiwiatoll, banner credits to hoonstrology and divider credits to uzmacchiato. i love you guys sm thank u for being awesome and talented <3 i lost my old blog and all the tsj posts under it, that's why i'm reposting this. for now, the links will only redirect to ao3 bc your girl doesn't have time yet to repost each chapter here on tumblr but dw because i'll eventually post everything here okie.
read on ao3 spotify playlist main masterlist
THE SEONGHYEON JAEGA ━━━━━ MASTERLIST
PROLOGUE ONE ━━━━━ pink tiles
꒰ 5.8k ꒱you didn’t expect the winter garden, or the hydrangeas blooming out of season. and you definitely didn’t expect sunghoon — quiet, unreadable, and watching you like he already knew how this would end.
PROLOGUE TWO ━━━━━ the seonghyeon jaega
꒰ 10.9k ꒱between printer boys, rooftop gardens, and the neighbor who looks at you like he’s trying not to set the world on fire, this is what happens when loneliness meets curiosity and accidentally kicks off something bigger than you’re ready for.
CHAPTER ONE ━━━━━ hydrangeas & homicide
꒰ 11.2k ꒱ park sunghoon has survived centuries by staying detached — until a new neighbor moves in and quietly unravels everything. caught between instinct and control, he senses a bond he thought was myth, as something human begins to feel dangerously inevitable.
CHAPTER TWO ━━━━━ six-hundred-and-thirty-three
꒰ 16k ꒱ your body thrums with a strange, residual ache — not pain, but presence. like something has settled beneath your skin, quiet and irreversible. you don't have the words for it yet, but whatever passed between you and sunghoon in that moment wasn’t just physical. it’s something older, deeper, and it’s already taken root.
CHAPTER THREE ━━━━━ eletromagnetic emo ghost
꒰ 21.6k ꒱ all day, he feels you — in the air, under his skin, in every pulse that isn't his own. he watches you stumble through the day, dazed and aching, and hates that he caused it. but more than that, he hates how badly he wants more.
CHAPTER FOUR ━━━━━ resist the urge to bite (or kiss)
꒰ 35.2k ꒱ you want answers, but you also don’t want to ask. when you finally see him again, your body reacts before your mind can. and when he speaks — low, careful, restrained — it only confirms what you’ve been afraid to admit.
CHAPTER FIVE ━━━━━ hanil women university
꒰ 18.2k ꒱ the tension between you builds — sharp, close, and unbearably restrained. and when you finally ask if he regrets it, sunghoon doesn’t answer with words. he just looks at you — and it’s enough to know the truth.
CHAPTER SIX ━━━━━ necklines & near-death experiences
꒰ 24.3k ꒱sunghoon is shaken. and now that the bond is forming between you two, it’s not just instinct — it’s blood memory. he’s caught in something ancient and irreversible. and for the first time, you’re not the one in danger — he is.
CHAPTER SEVEN ━━━━━ orange blood
you never knew. and now everything — your instincts, your reactions, the way your body answers sunghoon before you can think — starts to make sense. it’s not legacy. it’s inheritance by accident. buried. hidden. and now, waking up.
EPILOGUE ━━━━━ bad desire (unleash)
it’s not soft. it’s inevitable. after nights of denial and tension so thick it ached, this moment snaps like a pulled thread. it’s teeth, breath, hands, and truth.
Bae I'm guessing you're a Soobin girlie because of that request you sent me lol. BUT I totally see you biasing Beomgyu. Don't tell me why, is just vibes ig 🫶🏻
ok wow just saw ur footblr debut while scrolling through the Jude tag and you’re amazing !! i love your writing !! can i pls request something like Jude and his gf go out to a club just to have some fun but while Jude’s in the toilet or something his gf is being flirted on but she doesent realize it cause she’s lowk had too much to drink but then Jude steps in and he’s like rlly protective . tyyy
Babe, I just uploaded this request, I hope you don't mind I twisted some little things! Regardless, thank you for the sweet words bby <3 If you are interested in reading, it's here, sweetheart.
Jude Bellingham being jealous is almost impossible to catch in the moment, it hides behind slow kisses, careful hands and a smile that never quite disappears. You don't realize something's changed until he's already decided to carry you home with him.
WARNINGS ◦ club scene ◦ alcohol use ◦ protective!jude (let him live) ◦ jealousy themes ◦ drunk!reader ◦ reader cannot hold her liquor to save her life ◦ making out ◦ slight suggestive content ◦ i'm convinced jude deserves financial compensation for this evening
5,473 ━━━━━ oneshot jude bellingham x reader
۶ৎ 𝓩 , this started because someone asked for jealous jude and somehow i managed to make a 5k words fic. to the lovely anon who requested this: i hope you don't mind that i took a few creative liberties. 😭 i just couldn't picture jude as the loud, territorial type, so i tried writing the kind of jealousy i personally think suits him better. thank you for inspiring this one bae xo <3
━━━━━ read on ao3
The private booth in the upscale Madrid club felt like an extension of the celebration itself—velvet seating curved around a low table already scattered with chilled bottles, delicate glasses catching the warm light from overhead fixtures, and a small reserved card that had your name on it.
The first hour unfolded slowly, unhurried. Congratulations blended into easy conversation as fresh drinks replaced empty glasses almost without anyone noticing. Stories from work drifted into football, football into travel plans, someone ordering another round before the waiter had even collected the previous one. Every so often another toast interrupted the conversation, glasses clinking across the table while your friends insisted on celebrating "one more thing."
It wasn't until your glass had been topped up for what must've been the third time that you realised you'd hardly moved from the spot you'd claimed beside Jude all evening.
You sat nestled against your boyfriend's side, his arm draped casually along the back of the booth behind your shoulders. The fabric of his black shirt was smooth under your fingers whenever you reached for your drink, and the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the faint citrus from the cocktails.
Your girlfriends arrived in waves of laughter and hugs, their partners trailing with easy handshakes for Jude. Congratulations came in steady, warm increments, each time someone raised a glass or leaned across the table to toast your new contract, Jude’s hand would find your knee or lower back, giving a gentle squeeze. “Told you she’s brilliant,” he’d say, voice carrying that expressive pride without ever sounding performative.
His eyes would find yours across the small space, holding for a beat longer than necessary, the corner of his mouth lifting into a genuine smile. You felt yourself glowing under the attention, the champagne and cocktails sliding down easily, warming your chest and loosening the long day’s work tension from your shoulders.
Time stretched comfortably, conversations wandered: one of your friends recounting a disastrous event from last month, Jude chiming in with a dry comment about how football dressing rooms had nothing on event logistics chaos.
You laughed, the sound brighter than usual, and reached for another sip. The alcohol settled in gradually, first a pleasant buzz in your limbs, then a softer haze that made the lights seem a touch warmer and the music more inviting. Jude noticed, of course.
His thumb traced slow patterns on your shoulder, and when your laugh turned a little too loose he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Pace yourself, darling. You want to enjoy yourself until later, right?”
The words were affectionate, not scolding, carrying the same quiet reminder he'd given you more than once before.
You smiled into your glass almost immediately.
He wasn't trying to stop you from drinking. If anything, Jude loved seeing you like this—lighter, louder, laughing at things that probably weren't as funny as they seemed after two cocktails. But the two of you knew exactly where your limit lived, mostly because you'd crossed it enough times to recognize the warning signs. You were a spectacular lightweight, and every celebration seemed to end the same way: waking up the next morning trying to piece together the last hour of the evening while Jude filled in the blanks over breakfast.
Somewhere along the line, you'd been the one to ask him to step in before that happened. Not to stop you, just to slow you down enough that you'd still remember the night you'd spent weeks looking forward to.
The club filled slowly around your booth. What started as a refined, spacious atmosphere grew denser with bodies and voices. Jude’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly at first, his arm stayed around you, but his gaze began flicking toward the growing crowd more often, tracking the flow of people near your table.
When someone bumped the edge of the booth reaching for a passing waiter, Jude’s body angled slightly, creating a subtle barrier between you and the movement. He didn’t say anything about it, just continued listening to the conversation, nodding along, fingers still playing idly with the strap of your dress on your shoulder.
You were too pleasantly tipsy to register the full shift, the way his easy usual energy had quietly layered into something more protective.
Eventually the music began to drown out the conversations around the table. One of your friends disappeared toward the dance floor first, dragging her boyfriend after her with surprisingly little resistance, while the second couple followed not long after, laughing as another round of drinks arrived just as everyone seemed to be abandoning the booth.
Jude stayed where he was for another minute, one arm still resting lazily along the back of the seat behind you as he watched the small exodus with quiet amusement. His fingers rolled the condensation around his glass while the conversation naturally dissolved into smaller pockets, people getting to their feet one by one without much urgency.
Clubs like this had their own rhythm. There were no phones held discreetly under tables, no whispered excitement when someone recognisable walked past. Famous footballers, actors, musicians, old-money families and business owners drifted through the room with the same quiet anonymity, everyone seemingly understanding that the point of the place was to leave one another alone. Privacy wasn't advertised; it was simply expected.
It was one of the few places where Jude could disappear into the crowd despite standing well over six feet tall.
He finished the last sip from his glass before setting it down with a soft clink, turning towards you with the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Come on."
His hand found yours before you even had the chance to answer, giving it a gentle squeeze as he stood. You followed with a quiet laugh, letting him pull you effortlessly to your feet, the room tipping ever so slightly from the champagne before his free hand settled instinctively at your waist to steady you.
"Easy," he murmured, smiling to himself.
Together, you slipped away from the booth and into the growing crowd.
His hand remained wrapped around yours as you left the booth, weaving between clusters of people without ever really having to think about it. Every now and then someone stepped into your path—a waiter balancing a tray of drinks, another couple laughing too hard to notice where they were going—and each time Jude adjusted instinctively, his hand slipping from yours to the small of your back for a second before finding it again once there was space.
The dance floor was fuller than it had been earlier, though it still carried the same restrained elegance as the rest of the club. Nobody was trying to outshine anyone else. Groups drifted together and apart beneath the warm lights, expensive dresses catching the glow as conversations dissolved into music.
One of your girlfriends spotted the two of you from somewhere near the middle and lifted her glass in the air with an exaggerated cheer before disappearing back into her own little world.
Jude laughed under his breath. He stopped just before the crowd thickened, turning to face you properly for the first time since leaving the booth. His hands settled naturally on your hips, thumbs resting lightly against the fabric of your dress as though they'd found their usual place without either of you thinking about it.
"There she is," he murmured, the grin on his face widening as you immediately caught the rhythm. "Closing deals by day..." You laughed before he could even finish. "...Owning the floor by night."
"Oh, shut up."
"I'm serious." His answer disappeared into a quiet laugh as you gave your hips an exaggerated sway just to prove a point, he watched you for half a second before shaking his head. "I'm really proud of you, you know that?"
You felt your own smile falter into something smaller, warmer.
"You worked your arse off for this." He gave you the gentlest squeeze before pulling you a fraction closer again, as though the words themselves weren't enough. "You deserve tonight."
Without thinking, your arms slipped up around his neck, fingers lacing loosely together as they rested there. The music carried on around you, people moving past in blurred flashes of light, but for a moment it felt as though the two of you had quietly drifted into your own little pocket of the room.
"Thank you," you said, the words coming quieter this time.
Jude frowned ever so slightly.
"For what?" His smile showed that he had no clue what you were referring to.
"For being here." You leaned in just enough to steal a slow kiss, unhurried and familiar, lingering for a heartbeat before your forehead brushed lightly against his. "I know you've been exhausted."
His expression barely changed, but you saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. Pre-season always asked a little more of him than people realised. New tactical sessions, double training days, fitness testing, constant travelling, the expectation of arriving sharper than he'd left. It wasn't unusual for the two of you to spend most of a week working around one another's schedules rather than with them, stealing dinners together at ten o'clock or settling for a FaceTime call when one of you was still in the office and the other had an early recovery session the next morning.
"You've had a rough couple of weeks," you continued gently. "You could've gone home after training and slept for twelve hours."
A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Could have."
"Instead you're here."
His hands settled a little more securely at your waist.
"Where else was I going to be?" The answer was so matter-of-fact that it made you smile. He shrugged one shoulder, almost as if the decision had never really existed in the first place. "My girl just signed the biggest contract of her career, I'm not missing that for shit."
You smiled and kissed him again, the corners of your mouth lingering there even after you'd pulled apart. Neither of you hurried to say anything else, there wasn't much left to add.
The music carried you forward instead.
Another song bled seamlessly into the next, and the two of you simply kept moving. Sometimes it was little more than an easy sway, your forehead brushing his chin as he absentmindedly traced the curve of your waist beneath his palm. Other times one of your girlfriends would pull you into a small circle, laughing as the group attempted increasingly questionable dance moves after another round of cocktails, each fresh drink arriving before the previous one had quite disappeared.
Somewhere along the way you'd stopped counting.
Jude never protested when you wandered off for a minute or two, he'd simply watch with that small, amused smile of his, occasionally catching the eye of one of the other boyfriends as they exchanged the kind of look only people accompanying very happy women seemed to understand. Every now and then one of them would drift over, the conversation between the four men coming and going naturally while they watched the celebration unfold in front of them.
They laughed amongst themselves, nursed the same drinks for far longer than any of you did, and every so often one of them would peel away when his girlfriend came looking for another dance.
He kept that balance for a long while: hyping you with grins and quiet praise, then instinctively shifting whenever the dance floor grew tighter around you. His body would angle just enough to absorb the occasional bump from passing strangers, one arm finding its way more securely around your waist while the other remained loosely tangled with yours whenever the music slowed again.
None of it felt deliberate, it was simply how Jude moved through crowded spaces.
Your group drifted together, then apart again, your girlfriends pulling you into little circles before someone inevitably reached for another round of drinks. You laughed more easily with each passing daiquiri, the pleasant warmth in your chest settling into your limbs until everything—the music, the lights, the conversations around you—felt softened around the edges.
More than once you caught Jude watching you instead of the room. Every time your eyes met, he'd smile without thinking, as if he still couldn't quite believe the night was real.
At one point he reached for you again, drawing you back against him with an easy familiarity before pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. When he pulled back, his eyes lingered on your face for a second longer than necessary, taking you in beneath the shifting lights before the corner of his mouth lifted.
"I'm gonna grab another round and use the bathroom," he said eventually, leaning close enough that only you could hear him. His hand gave your waist one last reassuring squeeze. "Don't wander off. I'll be quick."
You nodded, smiling up at him before letting yourself be swept back towards your friends as one of them waved you further into the crowd.
The minutes after Jude disappeared into the crowd stretched a little longer than you'd expected. Around you, the dance floor had reached its evening peak, conversations overlapping with the music as people drifted in loose circles beneath the warm lights.
One of your girlfriends was halfway through dramatically reenacting a disaster from a gala the month before when a man in a tailored navy suit wandered over, lifting his glass in greeting.
“Quite the celebration over here,” he said, raising his own glass in a small toast. “Saw the bottle service. Special occasion?”
Your little circle laughed almost in unison.
"She does," one of your friends answered before you had the chance, pointing enthusiastically in your direction. "Biggest contract of her career."
You groaned, already laughing. "Don't make it sound so dramatic."
"It is dramatic," another one insisted, throwing an arm around your shoulders with considerably less balance than she'd intended. "We're celebrating."
"Fair enough," the man smiled, his attention drifting back to you. "Congratulations."
"Thank you." You smiled politely. "It was a good day."
"What do you do?"
You told him the name of your company, explaining in a sentence or two that you worked in event promotion. Recognition flickered across his face almost immediately.
"Right... I know the name."
The conversation wandered naturally from there. He mentioned attending one of your company's events a couple of years earlier, one of your girlfriends interrupted to argue that yours had been better, somebody else burst out laughing because they'd completely forgotten what they were talking about in the first place, and before long all four of you were speaking over one another in the wonderfully chaotic way slightly drunk friends always seemed to.
The man stayed beside the group, chiming in every now and then with a comment or a question that you answered without much thought whenever there was a gap in the conversation.
Most of your attention, though, belonged elsewhere.
Your stomach already hurt from laughing.
At one point another boyfriend appeared beside your friend with the long-suffering expression of someone who'd clearly been sent to collect her before she embarrassed herself any further. She protested dramatically, insisting she was perfectly capable of standing on her own before immediately wobbling into him anyway, sending the rest of you into another fit of laughter.
You doubled over, clutching your friend's arm as tears threatened to gather in the corners of your eyes. "Oh my God..."
"I told you!" your friend managed between laughs.
"I can't breathe."
Somewhere beside you, the conversation with the man continued.
You answered something, you weren't entirely sure what. Whatever it was seemed polite enough.
Across the room, Jude emerged from the bar with two fresh drinks balanced easily in one hand (water for you). His eyes found you almost immediately, more out of habit than anything else. For a second, everything looked exactly as he'd left it, your friends laughing amongst themselves, music carrying through the room, you smiling so hard your shoulders were shaking.
Then he noticed the man.
It wasn't anything obvious. No wandering hands or exaggerated flirting. Just the way he kept subtly angling himself towards you every time the conversation shifted, waiting for your attention to drift back to him. You, meanwhile, seemed entirely oblivious, answering whatever he asked before dissolving back into laughter with your friends a second later.
Jude stood where he was for another beat, watching the interaction settle into place. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he started across the dance floor, weaving through the crowd with the same measured pace he'd had all evening.
By the time he reached the group, the conversation hadn't changed all that much. You were still laughing, one hand resting on your friend's arm while you tried, and failed, to explain whatever story had just sent the three of you into another fit of giggles.
Jude stepped in beside you as though he'd never left. His free hand settled naturally at your waist, fingers spreading lightly against the fabric of your dress as he leaned in just enough to place the fresh glass into your hand.
"There you go, darling." You looked up immediately, your whole face brightening.
"There you are!" The smile that broke across your face was so immediate, so instinctive, that Jude felt something inside him quietly settle.
"Miss me already?" he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"Mm..." you hummed dramatically, already leaning into his side. "You took ages."
"Seven minutes."
"Exactly."
A quiet laugh escaped him. He bent to press an unhurried kiss against your temple, lingering there for a second before straightening again.
Only then did he acknowledge the man standing opposite, his expression never changing.
"Alright, mate." The greeting was polite, almost conversational.
The man returned the nod without hesitation, glanced once between the two of you and smiled politely. "Congratulations on the contract."
"Cheers." A beat passed. "I'm gonna steal her back."
There wasn't a trace of hostility in Jude's voice, he'd said it with the same easy certainty someone might excuse themselves from a conversation at dinner.
The man understood immediately, wished the group a good evening and disappeared back into the crowd without another word.
Jude didn't watch him leave. His attention had already returned to you, his arm still comfortably around your waist as though it had never belonged anywhere else.
The rest of the night unfolded in that same unhurried rhythm. Jude kept his arm around your waist as the stranger melted back into the crowd, his fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your dress in a way that felt more like habit than anything deliberate. You leaned into him without thinking, the pleasant haze of the evening wrapping around you both as the music swelled again.
For a while, nothing seemed different, your girlfriends pulled the group back into a loose circle on the dance floor, laughter rising easily whenever someone missed a step or nearly spilled a drink. Jude moved with you, his hands finding your hips as the beat shifted, pulling you close enough that your back rested against his chest, the warmth of him was steady, familiar.
Another song bled into the next, you turned in his arms, looping yours around his neck as you swayed together. Jude’s forehead brushed yours for a moment, his breath warm against your skin. Then, almost casually, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, he murmured, “Funny guy, eh? What was he saying over there?”
You blinked up at him, the question landing softly through the tipsy glow. A slow smile spread across your face as realisation dawned. “Oh my god,” you laughed, the sound light and affectionate, pressing your cheek against his shoulder for a second. “Were you jealous?”
Jude’s hand tightened slightly at your waist, but his expression stayed easy, almost sheepish. “Not jealous. Just… curious.” He shrugged one shoulder, eyes flicking down to meet yours as you both continued moving to the music. The crowd shifted around you, but the space between your bodies stayed small and warm. “He seemed pretty chatty.”
You grinned, tipping your head back to look at him properly. The alcohol made everything softer, warmer, and his subtle shift in mood only made him look more endearing. “Baby, I barely remember what we were talking about. Something about the club, I think? One of the events we did last year. I was mostly laughing with the girls.” You reached up, fingers brushing along the back of his neck as you pulled him a little closer.
He watched you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You kissed him then, slow and sweet, tasting the faint trace of his drink on his lips. When you pulled back, your smile was teasing but warm. “My big, strong footballer boyrfriend getting a little worked up over some random guy who probably just wanted free bottle service stories.” You laughed again, the sound bubbling up easily, and Jude finally let out a quiet chuckle of his own, shaking his head as he rested his forehead against yours.
“Alright, alright,” he murmured, but his hand stayed firm at your waist, thumb tracing slow circles as the music carried you both.
The conversation didn’t linger, it dissolved the way things often did between you—into another kiss, then another sway of your bodies, your girlfriends pulling you back into the group for a few chaotic minutes of dancing before Jude drew you close again.
The night continued around you, laughter and lights and the steady pulse of the club, but you noticed the tiny shift in him as the hours wore on. He was still there, still affectionate—his hand finding yours, his lips brushing your temple—but he was quieter than usual, more thoughtful.
His smiles came just as readily, but they settled a little deeper, like he was turning something over in his mind without quite saying it aloud. You knew him well enough to see it, even through the pleasant fog of champagne.
Eventually the group decided it was time. Goodbyes stretched out in warm hugs and promises to text tomorrow, the energy winding down naturally as everyone filtered toward the exit. Outside, the Madrid night air was cooler, carrying the faint hum of the city. Jude’s driver was on the way, so the two of you lingered near the discreet side entrance, the doorman giving you both a respectful nod.
You were deep in that sweet, affectionate stage of being tipsy, everything felt softer, warmer, and Jude suddenly seemed like the most solid, wonderful thing in the world. You leaned your full weight against him without warning, arms wrapping around his middle as you pressed your face into his chest.
“Kiss me,” you mumbled against his shirt, the words coming out a little muffled and demanding in the best way.
Jude’s laugh rumbled low, one arm steadying you around the waist while his free hand came up to brush hair from your face. “You’re a handful tonight,” he said softly, but he obliged anyway, tilting your chin up gently and kissing you slow and deep. His other hand slipped your handbag and phone from your shoulder without being asked, tucking them securely under his arm as he kept you close.
You made a contented sound into the kiss, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, growing progressively handsier as the minutes passed and the car still hadn’t arrived. Your hands wandered down his sides, then lower, pressing closer until your bodies were flush.
He indulged for a while, kissing you back with the same lazy heat, one hand sliding up your back while the other kept you steady on your feet. But when your touch grew bolder, he chuckled quietly against your mouth and redirected with effortless care. Instead of pulling away, he tilted his head, kissing slowly along your jaw and down the side of your neck. His lips lingered there, warm and deliberate, before he gave one teasing, gentle bite just below your ear.
You shivered, a soft laugh escaping as you tilted your head to give him better access. Jude’s hand stayed firm at your lower back, guiding you subtly when you wobbled on your heels, his body strong and reliable against yours. He passed you his water bottle between kisses, murmuring, “you better drink this before getting into bed,” without ever making it feel like a correction.
You took the bottle, still grinning against his neck, and tipped it back for a few long gulps. The cool water slid down your throat, cutting through some of the pleasant haze. When you lowered it, you caught him watching you closely, his gaze lingering on the way your throat moved, the faint sheen on your lips. The corner of your mouth curved into something mischievous, the tipsy warmth making you bold.
“You’re so jealous,” you teased, voice low and playful as you pressed closer, one hand sliding up his chest. “Look at you, staring like that while I drink water. What, worried someone else might offer me a sip?”
Jude’s eyebrows lifted, but the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. His hand flexed at your lower back, keeping you anchored against him as the night air brushed past. “Not jealous,” he said, the words carrying that familiar Brummie lilt, warm and slightly defensive in the most endearing way. “Just making sure you stay hydrated.”
You laughed softly, the sound flirtatious and provocative as you tilted your head, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “Mhm. And you’re taking up all of my space and bossing me around.” Your fingers traced lazy patterns on his shirt, pressing just enough to feel the steady beat of his heart. “Very possessive for someone who claims he’s not jealous.”
“I’m not bossing you around,” he countered, voice low, but there was a quiet laugh threaded through it. His free hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he looked down at you. The streetlights caught the subtle tension still lingering in his expression from earlier, but it softened under your teasing.
“Yes you absolutely are,” you shot back, grinning up at him with bright, tipsy eyes. You pushed up onto your toes—wobbling again—and stole another kiss, this one slower, more deliberate, your body leaning fully into his. “Big strong footballer taking care of his girl. Making sure no one else talks to me. Passing me water like it’s an order.” Between kisses you kept the playful pressure on, your voice dropping into something flirtatiously sweet. “Admit it. You hated that guy chatting me up.”
Jude exhaled a quiet laugh against your mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest. He didn’t pull away. Instead he kissed you back, deeper for a moment, then redirected with that same effortless control—lips trailing slowly down the side of your neck again, teeth grazing lightly in a teasing bite that made your breath hitch. “You’re trouble when you’re like this,” he murmured against your skin, hand steady at your waist as he kept you upright. His touch stayed sensual, affectionate, but grounded—never letting the moment tip too far while the car was still minutes away.
You hummed happily, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck as you melted further against him. The teasing hung in the air between kisses, light and warm, the subtle undercurrent of his earlier mood still present but wrapped in the easy intimacy of the night winding down.
The minutes outside the club stretched lazily, the cool Madrid night air doing little to temper the warmth still buzzing under your skin. You stayed wrapped around Jude like that for a good while longer, the teasing flowing as easily as the laughter between you. He kept one arm locked securely around your waist, holding you steady while his other hand occasionally adjusted the strap of your bag on his shoulder or passed the water bottle back to your lips.
You drank when prompted, but mostly you used the moments in between to push your luck, wobbling deliberately on your heels just to feel his grip tighten, pressing closer until your bodies were flush, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone beneath his shirt.
“You’re so jealous,” you murmured again, voice syrupy and provocative as you tilted your head up, lips brushing the underside of his jaw. “Admit it. You wanted to drag me away the second he smiled at me.”
Jude huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm against your hair. “You’re winding me up on purpose now.” His hand slid lower on your back, steadying you as you shifted your weight again, one heel catching awkwardly on the pavement. “Careful.”
You giggled, the sound bright and unfiltered, and did it again—just a little wobble, enough to make him pull you tighter against his chest. “See? Bossing me around." Your hand wandered down his side, playful and bold.
He shook his head, but you could feel the smile in the way his cheek pressed against your temple. “You’re trouble,” he said again, lower this time, the words laced with affection. For several long minutes you stayed like that, talking about nothing, really. Teasing him about the way he’d watched you drink the water, giggling when he tried to defend himself, stealing lazy kisses that tasted like champagne and the night air.
He indulged you, kissing you back whenever you asked, sometimes deepening them until your fingers tightened in his shirt, sometimes redirecting with slow trails down your neck that left you shivering pleasantly. The city hummed softly around you, distant traffic and the occasional passing car, but it all felt far away.
When the black luxury van finally pulled up—sleek, tinted windows, the driver stepping out to open the door with quiet professionalism—Jude’s demeanor shifted. He kept his arm around you, guiding you toward the open door, but his voice dropped into something more serious, steady, and low.
“Alright, that’s enough of that,” he said, the words firm but not harsh, carrying that natural authority he slipped into when he needed to be the grounded one. “You keep pushing and I’ll have to put you in your place when we get home. Behave for five minutes, yeah?”
The warning wasn’t a threat, it was Jude, looking after you in the way he always did, serious enough that you knew he meant it, but wrapped in the same care that had defined the whole night. You pouted dramatically as he helped you into the backseat, but the giggle that followed ruined the effect.
Inside the van the world narrowed to soft leather seats, dim ambient lighting, and the smooth hum of the engine as it pulled away from the curb. Jude settled beside you, immediately pulling you close so your head could rest on his shoulder. He took your heels off without being asked, setting them neatly on the floor, then draped his jacket over your lap when you shivered lightly.
You were still giggling at first, tipsy and affectionate, trying to climb into his lap with clumsy determination, lips seeking his again.
“Baby,” he murmured, catching your hips gently but firmly before you could fully straddle him. “Not here.” He redirected you back down beside him with effortless strength, kissing your forehead instead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth—slow, soothing presses that calmed the restless energy without shutting it down completely. “Settle. You're drunk, baby.”
You pouted again, dramatic and sleepy now, but the fight drained out of you quickly. The gentle motion of the car, the warmth of his body, and the long night finally caught up. You melted against his side, head heavy on his shoulder, fingers loosely tangled in the front of his shirt.
“You’re so sweet,” you mumbled, voice softening into something smaller and more vulnerable. “Taking care of me all night… even when I’m annoying.”
Jude’s arm tightened around you, his free hand coming up to stroke your hair in slow, rhythmic passes. “Not annoying,” he said quietly, lips brushing the top of your head. “Just happy, I like you happy.”
You hummed contentedly, eyes already drifting shut as the city lights continued to streak past the windows. “I love you,” you whispered, the words slurred with sleep and affection, genuine and unguarded. “So much.”
He pressed another kiss to your hair, holding you closer as your breathing evened out. “Love you too, darling. Get some rest. I’ve got you.”
The rest of the ride passed in comfortable silence, just the low hum of the engine and the steady warmth of him beside you, carrying you home.
author's note — don't even know what to comment i'm sleepy as fuck and my back is killing me. if this sucks blame the pre-season because apparently i suffered through it too.
Dating Kylian Mbappé means slowly realizing you haven't reached for a single door, bill, or shopping bag all afternoon. Not because he expects praise for it, but because taking care of you has become his second nature.
WARNINGS ◦ established relationship ◦ first anniversary ◦ domestic fluff ◦ slice of life ◦ soft kylian mbappé ◦ off-season? (mid-season break) ◦ boyfriend material ◦ no angst bc we got that too much already this week ◦ comfort read ◦ competent man agenda
1,29O ━━━━━ drabble kylian mbappé x reader
۶ৎ 𝓩 , wrote this while listening to confidence by kim because WHY NOT, that's kylian's song idc >< also, i had to write this for my own peace of mind after the semis because i need a time and place where this man is happy, even if it has to be in a fictional world 🙂
━━━━━ read on ao3
The afternoon light in Madrid was soft and winter-pale, the kind that made the city feel smaller and quieter than its usual frantic pulse. Your first anniversary had landed awkwardly in the middle of the season, squeezed between recovery sessions and upcoming match preparations.
You had suggested staying in, letting him rest properly in the few precious hours he had free, and offering to come over instead so he wouldn’t waste energy traveling. Kylian had simply shaken his head, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“We’re going out,” he’d said, casual as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s our anniversary, we should celebrate.”
So here you were, bundled in oversized coats, caps pulled low and sunglasses shielding your faces, wandering through the less tourist-heavy streets of Madrid without any real plan. The air carried a crisp chill, and Kylian walked on the outside of the sidewalk every time, his shoulder brushing close enough that you felt the steady warmth of him. He never announced it or made a show; he simply shifted you gently inward whenever a cyclist or scooter whipped past, his hand light at your back for the briefest second before it returned to his pocket.
You drifted into a tiny bookstore first, the kind with creaky wooden floors and shelves that smelled of old paper and ink. Kylian browsed beside you, occasionally pulling a title down and showing it to you with a raised eyebrow or a quiet comment. When you lingered over a novel, he added it to the small stack without a word, continuing the conversation about the last match as if nothing had happened. At the counter, you reached for your wallet out of habit. His card was already tapping against the reader before your fingers even closed around the leather.
The same thing happened at the neighborhood bakery, the scent of fresh pastries and warm bread wrapped around you like a hug as you stepped inside. You picked out a couple of things you knew he liked, teasing him about his strict diet, and he grinned—boyish and quick—before quietly adding a few more items while you were still talking. By the time you turned back, the bag was in his hand and the transaction was done.
He passed you a warm croissant without ceremony, tearing off a piece of his own as you continued down the street.
A small café came next, tucked into a quiet corner with steamed-up windows and the low hum of conversation. Kylian held the door for you absentmindedly, then pulled your chair out while still mid-sentence about a funny story from training. He ordered for both of you after noticing the way you scanned the menu, remembering exactly how you liked your coffee. When you excused yourself to the restroom, you returned to find the bill already settled and a fresh glass of water waiting at your spot. He had one too, but only after making sure yours was there first.
The afternoon unfolded like that: slow, aimless, perfect in its ordinariness. You wandered into a flower stand where he bought you a small bunch of simple blooms without fanfare, tucking them carefully into the crook of your arm so they wouldn’t get crushed. Later, in a little record store, he flipped through vinyls beside you, occasionally bumping your shoulder with his when he found something he thought you’d like. Every heavier bag somehow ended up in his hand. Every door opened before you reached it.
He adjusted your scarf when the wind picked up, fingers brushing your neck with the casual competence of someone who simply noticed these things before they became problems.
You never asked for any of it, that was the part that settled warm and deep in your chest.
Kylian wasn’t performing. He was just… being Kylian.
Playful when he teased you about your terrible sense of direction, affectionate in the way he slung an arm around your shoulders during a quiet moment on a bench, confident without ever tipping into showiness. His humor stayed dry and light, a quick grin or a muttered joke about how the paparazzi would never find both of you in the ridiculous scarf he was wearing.
As the light began to soften toward evening and you headed back toward the car he’d called while you were still buttoning your coat, the realization crept up on you.
You paused on the sidewalk, turning to him with a small frown. “You’ve paid for everything today.”
Kylian blinked, genuinely confused for a second, as if the observation had come out of nowhere. “...Obviously, bebé.”
You laughed softly. “You’ve never let me pay.”
“I have,” he said, shrugging as he adjusted the flowers in your arm so they sat more securely.
“Name one time.”
He paused, thinking. A slow, boyish grin spread across his face. “You bought popcorn once.”
“After you’d already paid for dinner.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
Another shrug, easy and unconcerned, his hand finding the small of your back as you started walking again. “It just is.”
You glanced up at him, catching the way the late afternoon light caught in the fade out haircut peeking out from under his black cap. A faint smile played on your lips as you shook your head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Mon cœur, I’m just efficient,” he replied, the French endearment slipping out warm and casual, laced with that dry, boyish humor. His eyes crinkled at the corners behind his sunglasses as he grinned down at you.
The city interrupted before you could fire back. A sudden gust of wind whipped down the narrow street, tugging at the edges of your scarf and sending a few stray petals from the small bouquet scattering across the pavement, one stubborn petal landed right in your hair. Kylian noticed immediately, he stopped mid-step, turning toward you with a low chuckle that built into a full, bright laugh, the kind that made his whole face light up and crinkled the bridge of his nose in that boyish way the paparazzi rarely got to see.
“Hold still,” he said, still grinning as he reached up. His fingers were careful, brushing the petal free from where it had tangled in your hair near your temple. “You look like you’ve been rolling around in a flower shop. Very romantic, very Madrid.”
You swatted at his arm lightly, laughing despite yourself, cheeks warming under the cool air. “Thanks for the save. I was going for mysterious stranger, not walking bouquet, but okay.”
“Too late, mysterious walking bouquet suits you.” He tucked the rescued petal into the pocket of his coat with mock seriousness, then offered you his arm so you could loop yours through it. The simple gesture kept you close as you continued down the street, his stride easy and unhurried, always matching yours without effort.
The afternoon stretched like that, unscripted and comfortable, until the sky began to deepen into early evening tones.
Kylian’s steps slowed near the corner where his driver would pick both of you up, his arm still linked with yours. He glanced down at you, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw more noticeable up close.
“You good?” he asked quietly, the question simple but carrying that underlying care. “Not too cold? We can head back whenever you want, mon cœur. No rush, but I know the schedule doesn’t wait.”
You nodded, squeezing his arm lightly. The day had been exactly what you both needed, nothing extravagant, just time woven through ordinary streets and small moments. And as he pulled you a little closer against the chill, his hand warm and steady, it felt like the most natural celebration in the world.
author's note — hope you have enjoyed this tiny drabble lovies!!! kyky deserves the best and his time will come (again) dw <3 (guys i'm actually so heartbroken over his latest appeareances WHY DOES BRO LOOKS SO DEPRESSED NOOOO BBY)
In your defence, kissing Jobe Bellingham had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. It's the waking up in his bed with absolutely no recollection afterwards that's proving to be the issue.
WARNINGS ◦ alcohol use ◦ mention of a one night stand ◦ friends to lovers ◦ they all suck at feelings i'm not proud of it lol ◦ a tiny bit of angst ◦ mention of kissing and making out in public spaces ◦ jobe is the only mature one on this lmfao ◦ description of hangovers and overall a pretty light read ◦ consent talks ◦ love confessions!!!
6,141 ━━━━━ oneshot jobe bellingham x reader
۶ৎ 𝓩 , first time writing for my '05 twin, kinda nervous. HOW THE HELL IS THIS MAN SO FINE AND NOT MINE. sorry. anyways, enjoy this jobe drabble whoever finds this <3
━━━━━ read on ao3
You wake to the low, steady hum of the ceiling fan circling overhead, each lazy rotation stirring the air just enough to brush across your skin. This ceiling is smooth and white, unmarked by the faint water stain that greets you most mornings in your own flat. Your mouth feels coated in something stale and bitter, like cheap vodka and broken decisions, your head throbs in time with it, a deep, insistent pulse that radiates from your temples down through your jaw.
For a long moment you lie perfectly still on your back, eyes closed, simply cataloguing the wreckage: the pounding in your skull, the uneasy roll in your stomach, the vague but growing certainty that something has gone very wrong.
You know this room, the realisation settles slowly, like sediment in still water. The faint trace of cedarwood and fresh laundry in the sheets, the old Sunderland poster taped to the far wall, edges curling from years of loyalty he’s never quite outgrown, a pair of grass-stained boots kicked carelessly near the wardrobe door.
Jobe’s room. At his parents’ house.
You keep your eyes shut a little longer, as if that might delay the rest of it, but the bed shifts under you with the smallest movement and the truth presses in anyway.
The mattress dips more than it should on his side. The body next to you takes up space, has always taken up space actually, even before the professional training sculpted him into the tall, broad-shouldered athlete he is now. You can feel the warmth radiating from him without looking, the duvet is pulled low across his body, and when you finally turn your head on the pillow, the sight hits you fully.
Jobe’s lying on his back, one arm flung loosely above his head, snoring lightly in that soft, unconscious way he’s done since you were kids sharing tents on family camping trips. He is only in dark briefs, the fabric clings to the solid lines of his hips and thighs, the kind of quiet power built from endless drills and matches, his chest rises and falls steadily, the muscles there defined but relaxed in sleep, skin still carrying the faint tan of training pitches under brighter skies.
He fills the bed, not just occupies it. One of his long legs has slipped out from under the duvet, foot hanging off the edge, the space between you feels suddenly too small, too intimate, too dangerous.
You glance down at yourself and the world narrows to the soft black fabric pooling across your lap. One of Jobe’s old training shirts, faded from countless washes, the collar stretched just enough to slip off one shoulder, drapes loosely over you, the hem skimming the tops of your thighs.
The material is warm from sleep, carrying the faint, familiar scent of his detergent and something undeniably him. No bra. Just the thin lace of your underwear beneath, a stark reminder that you are wearing almost nothing in a bed that is not your own. Your bare legs rest shyly against the dark sheets. One knee is slightly bent, the other stretched out, toes curled against the cool air.
You take it in slowly, piece by piece, as if cataloguing evidence at a scene you don’t fully remember joining. The shirt is enormous on you, sleeves swallowing your hands when you lift them. It used to hang off him differently—broader shoulders, longer torso—back when he was still growing into the professional frame he carries now. Your dress, the one you’d chosen for the family party yesterday, lies in a pathetic heap near the door. One thin strap is torn or slipped free, the fabric wrinkled and stained with what looks like spilled vodka, a single heel pokes out from underneath it, abandoned.
The details settle heavily, you are in Jobe’s bed, in his shirt, half-dressed. And he is right there beside you, all six-foot-something of him, long limbs and quiet breathing filling the space like he was always meant to take up that much room. The duvet has slipped low on his hips, revealing the defined cut of his abs and the sharp line where his training shorts usually sit.
For several long seconds you simply stare, letting the pieces hover without quite connecting. This is Jobe, the boy who once raced you on bikes down the dead-lock, the teenager who sat beside you at your cousin’s funeral and didn’t try to fill the silence, the young man who sends you memes at odd hours from Germany and asks how your week is going like it still matters. Family, in every way that counts. The thought lingers, warm and familiar at first, before the colder edge creeps in.
Your pulse begins to pick up. You become aware of the faint ache in your muscles, the dryness in your throat, the way your hair is tangled against the pillow. What exactly happened after the walk home? The kiss flickers back, his mouth surprised but yielding, the taste of gin and laughter, but the rest is fog. How did you end up here? How did the clothes come off? Did you…?
The panic arrives then, not all at once but in a slow, cold bloom that spreads outward from your chest.
You’ve known Jobe your entire life, he is safety and history and the kind of uncomplicated love that comes from years of shared Sunday lunches and inside jokes. Ruining that, crossing a line neither of you had ever even glanced at, feels like the worst possible outcome.
You press the heel of your hand hard against your forehead, willing the spinning to stop, but the memories keep flashing anyway.
The family birthday party yesterday afternoon, Denise pulling you into one of her enveloping hugs the moment you walked through the door, hands on your cheeks as she asked, for the third time that month, whether you were eating enough. Mark in the kitchen making terrible dad jokes while flipping burgers. Jude winding Jobe up across the table with stories from Madrid, the two brothers falling into their easy rhythm while you watched with the same fond exasperation you’d felt for years.
Then the club later with the old childhood group. Rounds of drinks, embarrassing stories traded like currency, the walk home under the orange streetlights, just the two of you after the others peeled off. Jobe’s arm slung casually around your shoulders when the pavement felt unsteady. The sudden, surprising press of his mouth to yours—warm, not rushed— and then more kisses after that, your hands in his shirt, his quiet laugh against your lips. Then… nothing.
A blank wall where the rest of the night should be.
You sit there for a long moment, heart hammering against your ribs, the duvet still pooled around your waist. The panic is real now, but you don’t move. You just breathe through it, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your childhoon bestfriend's chest, waiting for the courage, or the disaster, to break.
But the silence stretches too long, and the not-knowing becomes unbearable. Your hand moves before your brain catches up, you reach over and shake his shoulder, gentle at first, then more insistent when he only murmurs something incoherent.
“Jobe,” you whisper. No response. “Sam." Another shake, harder this time. "Sam, wake up.”
He stirs properly this time, a low groan rumbling in his chest as his eyes flutter open. For a second he looks lost, still half-lost in whatever dream he’d been having. Then his gaze lands on you, really lands, and the confusion sharpens.
You shake him one more time for good measure, inconvenient and frantic. “Fucking hell, Jobe, wake up.”
“Fuck off,” he mumbles, voice gravel-rough with sleep. His hand comes up automatically, large and warm, closing gently around your wrist to still your shaking. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, just lets out a low, annoyed groan and turns his face into the pillow for a second, clearly battling his own hangover. “It’s too early for this, princess. My head is killing me.”
You shake his shoulder again anyway, persistent. “Jobe Samuel. I’m serious.”
He cracks one eye open, squinting against the light filtering through the curtains. The annoyance is still there, brow furrowed, mouth turned down in a classic Jobe scowl that you’ve seen a hundred times when he’s tired or hungover or both. He looks properly rumpled: hair messy, a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow, the full athletic frame of him taking up most of the bed like he’d grown into it overnight years ago.
“Christ,” he mutters, pushing himself up onto one elbow with another groan. The duvet slips lower on his hips, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. “You’re relentless even when I’m dying. What’s got you—?”
He finally looks at you properly. The annoyance flickers, then fades as his gaze travels over you: his oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder, the way you’re sitting bolt upright with panic written all over your face, the crumpled dress on the floor.
Realisation clicks in slowly behind his eyes, the memories from last night start filtering back—the club, the walk, your hands on his face, the taxi, the stairs.
He sits up fully now, back against the headboard, and runs a hand over his face, rubbing the sleep and hangover away as best he can.
“Alright, darling,” he says, voice lower and gentler now, the gravel still there but wrapped in warmth. “What’s the rush about? You trying to kick me out of my own bed or something?”
You stare at him, equal parts horrified and irritated that he’s already slipping into banter mode while your entire world feels like it’s tilting sideways.
“This is serious, Jobe,” you snap, voice cracking with frustration. “I’m literally having a breakdown here.”
He pauses, the sleepy smirk fading as he really looks at you. The hangover is still written across his face, the slight wince when he moves his head, the slow way he blinks, but the teasing drains away. He shifts a little closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, and rests his back more firmly against the headboard.
“Alright,” he says quietly, more awake now. “Are you hurt?”
The question hangs there, a beat of heavy, awkward silence stretches between you. Jobe is watching you, waiting, clearly trying to figure out why you look two seconds away from bolting.
You take a shaky breath, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. “Did we sleep together?”
Jobe’s brow furrows. He stares at you for a second like you’ve just spoken another language. “What?” The word comes out half-laugh, half-confused. “Princess, what are you on about?”
You gesture wildly between the two of you, the panic bubbling over into a rushed, embarrassed rant.
“Look at us! I’m in nothing but your shirt and my underwear. You’re practically naked, my dress is on the floor looking like it lost a fight, I woke up in your bed with zero memory after we were kissing on the way home. I’m not crazy, this looks exactly like the morning after something happened!”
Your voice cracks a little on the last part. You feel ridiculous even saying it out loud, but the evidence is right there in front of you, impossible to ignore.
Jobe listens without interrupting, his expression shifting from confusion to quiet understanding as you speak.
Then a quiet, low laugh escapes him, not at you, but the gentle, fond kind he’s always had when you work yourself up over something.
“Darling, relax,” he says, warm and patient. He reaches over and gently tugs the hem of his shirt down a little more on your thigh, a small, thoughtful gesture. “We didn’t sleep together, slow down."
He leans back against the headboard again, rubbing his temple with two fingers like the hangover is still punishing him, but his eyes stay on you.
“You were proper gone last night, we both were. But I got you upstairs, helped you change because your dress was covered in vodka, gave you water, and made sure you didn’t fall down the stairs trying to go back down. That’s it, nothing else happened.”
You narrow your eyes at him, the sharp edge of panic now tangled with pure irritation at the faint trace of laughter still lingering in his voice. The morning light filtering through the curtains casts long, soft shadows across the room, catching on the faded posters on the walls and the scattered clothes on the floor.
“Stop fucking laughing, Jobe. This is serious.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” he says, though the small, amused grin is definitely still tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shifts against the headboard, the mattress creaking softly under his weight. “It’s just… you look proper traumatised and I’m trying not to die from this headache.”
For a moment the two of you just stare at each other. You can see the hangover weighing on him, the slight tightness around his eyes, the way he squints against the light. You shove his shoulder, not hard, but enough to make your point. His skin is warm under your palm.
“We were kissing,” you insist, voice rising. “At the club and on the way home. Don’t act like that’s nothing.”
Jobe winces, a proper grimace this time as he drags a hand slowly down his face. He leans his head back against the headboard with a quiet thud, eyes briefly closing as if the memory itself is painful.
“Well… fuck,” he mutters. “Yeah, we did that.”
“See!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, the oversized shirt slipping further off one shoulder. “You kissed me first, you idiot.”
His head snaps toward you, eyebrows raised. “C'mon, darling, there's no need to lie here.”
“Yes, you did!”
“No, princess,” he says, fighting a smile now, the banter flowing easily even through the hangover haze. “You were all over me, c’mon.” He gestures loosely with one hand. “You kept grabbing my face and telling me my ears were cute. My ears.”
The words hang in the air for half a second. Something inside you snaps, half embarrassment, half fond frustration. You snatch the nearest pillow and swing it at him. Once. Twice. The soft thuds echo lightly in the quiet room, he doesn’t even try to block it properly, just lets out a low, rumbling laugh and takes the hits, shoulders shaking slightly with each one, as if this kind of ridiculous morning scuffle is the most natural thing in the world between you two.
“Promise me nothing happened,” you demand, hitting him again for good measure, the pillow making a muffled whump against his chest. “Promise me, Jobe.”
He’s still letting you whack him, patient and oddly cute about it, one arm resting lazily across his knee, until your voice cracks on the last “Promise me.” The playfulness in the air shifts almost instantly, the laughter fades from his face.
That does it.
He catches both of your wrists gently but firmly with one large hand, stopping the pillow mid-swing. He doesn’t squeeze, his grip is warm and steady, just enough to still you. His expression turns serious as he looks straight at you, hangover or not, the morning light catching the side of his face.
“I wouldn’t do that to you. You know that,” he says, voice low and steady, eyes locked on yours. “I promise. Nothing happened.”
The words came without hesitation. They weren't defensive, they weren't offended, they sounded almost confused that you could even think otherwise.
You stared back at him, your breathing still uneven. "We were drunk."
"I know."
"So how can you be so sure?"
“Because it’s you,” he says finally. “You’re family. Mum trusts me with you, do you think I'd do something like that? Hurting you like that — especially when you’re not even fully there — would never cross my mind. With anyone, really."
Silence settled between you again, broken only by the slow whir of the ceiling fan above. Your eyes drifted down to the shirt hanging off your shoulder, to the rumpled sheets pooled around your legs, before returning to him.
You look away toward the window, throat tight. The panic isn’t just about the possibility of sex anymore, it’s about the fear that you might have destroyed the safest relationship you’ve ever had.
"You don't get it," you murmured, your voice much quieter now. "If we'd actually..." You swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence. "God, Jobe... I'm so sorry."
Something softened across his expression. "Now why are you saying sorry for, princess?" He let go of your wrists then, giving you the space to breathe, but he didn't move away. "Breathe, darling."
He leaned back against the headboard and watched you with that same patient expression he'd worn ever since you were children crying over scraped knees or broken friendships.
"I helped you upstairs," he starts carefully, piecing the night together out loud more for your benefit than his own. "Your dress was soaked in vodka because you'd somehow managed to spill half your drink down yourself." You look up at him through your fingers that were previously hiding the embarrassment in your face. "You kept saying you were fine while tripping over your own feet." The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. "I found one of my old shirts, made you change into it, gave you water, spent ten minutes convincing you not to sleep in your makeup..."
"And then?"
His smile grew a fraction wider. "And then you kept trying to kiss me like when we were in the club."
Heat rushed to your face immediately. "No."
"Mhm."
"Jobe."
"We did kiss," he admitted more quietly, his eyes dropping briefly to the duvet before finding yours again. "A few times."
You felt your stomach sink.
“I kissed you back,” he admits, voice low. “For a bit. I wanted to. But after a while you were barely keeping your eyes open, so I stopped.” He shrugs one shoulder, simple and honest. “That’s the truth.”
The confession hangs between you, understated and raw.
You feel your chest tighten. “Did I… make you uncomfortable? Did I ignore you when you said no? Did I put you in a shitty position?”
Jobe’s expression softens further. He leans forward slightly.
“No, darling, you didn’t. You were just… you. Drunk and affectionate and a little bit chaotic. You kept asking if Germany was really that far away, told me you missed me more than you say when you’re sober. Tried convincing me to stay in England.” A small, fond smile touches his lips. “You also told me my eyelashes were trustworthy. That one’s going in the permanent record.”
You groan and hide your face in the pillow for a second. When you peek out again, he’s watching you with that patient, steady look.
“I was worried about you last night,” he continues more seriously. “You were all over the place. Strangers kept trying to talk to you at the club. It scared me, thinking how easily someone else could’ve taken advantage. So yeah… don’t get that loose when I’m not around. Please, not because I’m trying to control you, because I care what happens to you.”
The silence that follows feels different now, heavier, but warmer. You’re still clutching the pillow. He’s still close, one hand resting near yours on the duvet. Neither of you seems ready to name what shifted last night, but the air between you feels undeniably changed.
Sunlight has crept further across the floor, catching dust motes and the faint scuff marks on the wooden boards, Jobe’s thumb makes one absent pass over the edge of the duvet before stilling. You watch it, hyper-aware of every small movement, every shared breath in the quiet space.
Eventually you find your voice again, small and hesitant. “So the kissing… that part really happened.”
Jobe exhales through his nose, a long, thoughtful sound, he doesn’t look away from the window at first. When he does turn back to you, his expression is calm, almost thoughtful, like he’s turning the night over in his mind piece by piece.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “It did.”
You wait. The silence stretches again, comfortable enough that you don’t feel the need to fill it right away. You pull the duvet a little higher over your legs, fingers tracing the soft edge of the fabric, Jobe shifts his weight against the headboard, the mattress dipping slightly under him, and rubs a hand over his jaw.
“I kept thinking about it on the walk home,” he continues after a moment, voice low. “Watching those lads at the club come up to you. It bothered me more than I expected. Not in some big dramatic way. Just… I didn’t like it.” He lets out a small, self-aware huff, almost surprised at his own admission. “Didn’t realise how much until I said it out loud just now.”
You glance at him. He meets your eyes steadily, no deflection, no attempt to soften it into a joke.
“Why did you kiss me?” The question slips out quieter than you intended, but it feels important.
Jobe doesn’t rush to answer, he looks down at the space between you on the bed for a long beat, then back up. His voice is even, confident in that understated way he has when he’s decided to be honest.
“Because I wanted to,” he says. “The alcohol probably made it easier to stop overthinking it, but it didn’t create something that wasn’t already there, at least not for me.”
The words settle between you like the dust in the sunlight. You feel your chest tighten again, but this time it’s not panic.
“We kissed before I got too far gone,” he adds, as if reading the next question on your face. “On the walk home, a few times. I wanted that part, I don’t regret it.” His gaze holds yours. “I only stopped things later because you weren’t really there anymore. Both of those things can be true at the same time. I wanted to kiss you… but I’d never take advantage of you.”
You let that sit for a while. The fan keeps turning, somewhere downstairs a door opens and closes softly — Mark, probably, moving around the kitchen. The ordinary sounds of the house feel strangely grounding against the weight of the conversation.
“I don’t think they were a mistake,” Jobe says after another long pause, his voice quiet but certain. “The kisses. If you decide you regret them, I’ll respect that completely, but I’m not going to lie and say they meant nothing just because that would be easier.”
You look at him, really look. The boy who grew up beside you, now a man taking up space in his childhood bed, speaking with the kind of steady honesty that makes your throat feel tight. No grand speeches, no sudden declarations, just Jobe, being Jobe.
A small, surprised laugh escapes you, shaky but genuine. He smiles in response, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way.
“I’d quite like to kiss you again,” he says casually, as if commenting on the weather. “When we’re both sober this time.”
The laugh between you feels lighter now, shared and easy. You shake your head, still half-hiding behind the pillow, the fabric soft and familiar against your cheek. Jobe’s smile lingers, small and unhurried, as he watches you from his side of the bed.
The morning light has shifted again, warming the walls and catching on the edges of old trophies lined up on a shelf across the room. Everything in here feels suspended between childhood and adulthood — the Sunderland poster, the boots, the faint scent of grass still clinging to them.
You lower the pillow slowly into your lap, fingers tracing one of its worn seams. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it is full. Ordinary sounds that make the conversation feel strangely intimate, as if the rest of the house is politely pretending not to exist.
“Fuck Jobe,” you say after a while, voice quieter now, almost testing the words. “We really kissed. That part was not just some blurry half-memory.”
Jobe nods once, his gaze drifting briefly to the window before returning to you. He scratches the back of his neck, a small, habitual gesture you’ve seen a thousand times when he’s thinking something through.
“Yeah,” he says again, simpler this time. “We did.”
You let that sit between you. You pull the duvet a little higher over your legs, suddenly aware of how exposed you still feel, even though the worst of the panic has eased. Jobe doesn’t rush to fill the quiet, he simply waits, one hand resting loosely on his knee, the other near yours on the bed, close enough that you can feel the warmth but not quite touching.
He exhales through his nose, a thoughtful sound. His eyes drop to the space between you on the mattress for a long moment, as if he’s replaying pieces of the night in his head, the club lights, the walk home, the way the streetlamps had cast long shadows across the pavement.
When he speaks, his voice is low, almost like he’s surprising himself with the admission.
“I spent most of the night at the club trying to convince myself I was just looking out for you,” he says. “The way I always have. But every time another bloke came over, bought you a drink, tried talking to you… it bothered me. More than it should have.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating huff. “Didn’t realise how much until I was walking you home and suddenly it wasn’t just protectiveness anymore.”
You glance at him. He meets your eyes steadily.
“What happens now?” you ask eventually, voice soft.
Jobe thinks for a moment, then smiles again, small, genuine, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way.
“I’d quite like to do this properly,” he says, casual but certain. “Take you on an actual date. No hangovers. No blurry memories.”
You let out a soft laugh, the sound mixing with his own quiet one. The tension in the room eases further, replaced by something warmer, lighter, hopeful in the most ordinary way.
“And yeah,” he adds after a beat, eyes meeting yours with that same quiet confidence, “I’d quite like to kiss you again. This time when we’re both completely sober.”
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The conversation had reached that strange point where silence no longer felt uncomfortable, only necessary. Too much had been said in too short a space of time, each admission quietly rearranging something neither of you had realised was capable of moving. The panic that had seized you when you first opened your eyes had long since dissolved, leaving behind the dull ache of a hangover and an unfamiliar awareness every time your eyes wandered back to him.
Jobe seemed content to let the quiet settle. He rested his forearms across his knees, staring absent-mindedly at the floorboards, his fingers loosely linked together as though he were still replaying pieces of the previous night in his head. The room looked exactly as it always had, childhood trophies gathering dust, old football posters refusing to be taken down, boots abandoned near the wardrobe after yesterday's kickabout with family friends, but somehow none of it felt quite the same anymore.
The spell finally broke with the unmistakable crash of a cupboard downstairs. A second later Mark's voice floated faintly through the floorboards. "How've we managed to lose every bloody mug in this house?!"
Jobe shut his eyes for a second before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose.
"Dad's up."
"So it would seem." You smiled despite yourself.
His eyes met yours.
"I should probably..." you started, gesturing vaguely towards the bedroom door.
"Yeah."
Neither of you moved.
The hesitation almost made you laugh. It wasn't awkwardness exactly, more the quiet reluctance that comes after a conversation neither person had expected to have before breakfast.
Eventually Jobe pushed himself to his feet with a low groan, stretching until something in his back cracked. "Christ..."
"You sound about fifty."
"I feel about eighty."
You watched him shuffle across the room to retrieve yesterday's clothes, scratching lazily at the back of his head before tossing you your handbag from beside the desk. Your dress was another matter entirely.
You picked it up between two fingers, frowning at the dried splash of vodka staining the front. The fabric felt stiff and slightly tacky under your touch, a small, ridiculous reminder of how the night had unravelled. Jobe glanced over from where he stood near the wardrobe, his expression softening with the kind of easy familiarity that had always existed between you, even in the middle of this strange morning.
"It'll wash."
"It absolutely won't."
"It might."
You held it up for him to see more clearly, the morning light catching the faint sheen of the stain. He studied it for a second, the faint crease between his brows deepening before he gave an exaggerated wince that carried no real weight, only the gentle teasing that had always been part of your rhythm.
"...Yeah, alright."
You looked at him expectantly, one eyebrow raised in the quiet challenge that needed no words. He sighed with theatrical resignation, running a hand through his messy hair as he turned back toward the wardrobe.
"I'll replace it."
"Damn right you will."
"There goes next week's wages."
"You play professional football."
"I know."
"So don't act like you're struggling."
He laughed softly, the sound low and warm as he disappeared briefly into the wardrobe, emerging with a clean shirt.
The conversation slipped back into the rhythm it had always known, easy teasing filling the spaces where sharper embarrassment had lived only minutes before. It struck you, somewhere between complaining about your ruined dress and watching him wrestle the T-shirt over his head, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that felt both utterly ordinary and newly aware, that nothing about speaking to Jobe had changed. Everything else had.
You changed in the bathroom while he made the bed, not perfectly, because he had never learned how Denise liked the hospital corners folded, but well enough that nobody would immediately assume two twenty-year-olds had spent the night tangled in it. By the time you wandered downstairs together, still rubbing the last traces of sleep from your eyes, the smell of fresh toast and brewing tea had drifted through the hallway, grounding the morning in something comfortingly familiar.
Mark stood at the kitchen counter with a mug in one hand and the morning paper in the other, the sunlight from the garden window catching the steam rising from his drink.
"There they are."
"Morning," the two of you answered together, voices overlapping in that unconscious way people do when they have shared years of the same spaces.
"Hm."
He folded another page of the paper with a quiet rustle, his gaze lifting only briefly over the rim of his mug. The kitchen felt warm and lived-in around you, the faint clink of dishes in the sink and the low hum of the fridge creating a soft backdrop to the ordinary exchange.
"You alive?"
"Barely," Jobe muttered, already reaching for the coffee pot, his shoulder brushing yours as he moved past.
Mark hummed in response, a dry, knowing sound that carried no judgment, only the quiet amusement of a man who had seen far worse mornings in this house.
"Bin's outside."
Jobe frowned slightly, pouring himself a mug as the rich scent of coffee filled the space between you.
"What for?"
"You'll work it out."
There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just long enough for realisation to settle. Your face disappeared into both hands as the memory flickered back, hazy but mortifying.
"Oh, no..."
Jobe looked between the two of you, confusion still clouding his features as he set the pot down with a soft clink. "...What?"
"You threw up in Mum's roses."
His expression froze for a moment, the full weight of it landing as Mark delivered the line with the same understated dryness he always carried. You laughed suddenly, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly and forcing you to lean against the kitchen island for support, the cool surface grounding you. Jobe stared at his father in complete disbelief before groaning into both hands, the sound muffled but genuine.
By the time breakfast was finished, the morning had settled into something comfortably ordinary, the dishwasher humming quietly in the background and the faint scent of toast still lingering in the air.
Mark had disappeared into the garden to inspect the alleged crime scene, muttering something about hopeless youngsters under his breath, while Jobe wandered through the house collecting forgotten glasses from the night before, his movements unhurried and familiar. You found yourself lingering by the front door, bag resting on one shoulder, fingers curling loosely around your car keys as the warmth of the day pressed gently against the windows.
"I should head off."
He looked up from the hallway, the light catching the side of his face and highlighting the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
"Yeah."
Again, neither of you seemed particularly eager to be the first to move. Jobe reached for the front door instead, pulling it open before standing back to let you through. The warmth outside wrapped around you immediately, carrying the familiar smell of freshly cut grass from somewhere further down the road and the distant sound of a neighbour mowing their lawn. He followed you out onto the drive without either of you acknowledging that he was doing it, the gravel shifting softly under your feet.
For a moment you simply stood beside your car, the metal warm from the sun. It wasn't awkward. It just... wasn't familiar yet. You looked at him, studying the face you'd known for almost your entire life, and realised it was somehow both exactly the same and completely different in the bright daylight.
"I suppose," you said eventually, "this is the bit where everything gets weird."
He frowned slightly, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his joggers as he leaned against the side of the car.
"Does it have to?"
"I don't know."
"I'd rather it didn't."
You smiled, the expression coming easily despite the new undercurrent running beneath everything.
"So would I."
A comfortable silence settled again, the kind filled with the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the faint hum of traffic in the distance. He looked down the street for a moment before speaking, his posture relaxed but his gaze steady when it returned to you.
"I meant what I said upstairs."
"I know."
"I'm not expecting an answer today." Your eyes found his again, the connection lingering in the quiet space between you. "Or tomorrow."
Another small smile touched his mouth, softening the lines of his face.
"I just... think we've spent enough years pretending we're only one thing because it's easier."
The sentence landed gently, no pressure behind it, only honesty earned from years of shared history. He shrugged one shoulder, the movement casual yet deliberate.
"So..."
"So?"
"When I get a free weekend..." His expression softened into something almost boyish despite the quiet confidence he'd carried all morning, the sunlight catching in his eyes as he looked at you. "...let me take you out."
Not because last night had forced the question, but because, for the first time, neither of you had any reason left to pretend you didn't want to. You smiled before you even realised you were doing it, the warmth of it spreading through your chest as you unlocked the car door.
"I think," you said, the words feeling right in the ordinary brightness of the driveway, "I'd quite like that."
His own smile answered yours immediately, easy and genuine, the kind shared between two people who already knew each other better than anyone else ever could. No kiss. No dramatic goodbye. Just the quiet understanding that something had shifted, and for now, that was enough.
As you pulled away a minute later, the engine humming softly beneath you, you caught one last glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror, still standing on the drive with one hand shoved into his pocket, the other lifting in an absent wave. For the first time since waking in his bed, you weren't trying to remember what had happened the night before. You already knew. Instead, your mind wandered somewhere much simpler. You found yourself wondering what Jobe Bellingham was actually like on a first date. And somehow, after a lifetime of knowing him, that felt like the newest question of all.
author's note — it's time to admit: i've replayed that video of him running on the treadmill a thousand times since i saw it #respectfully. also, i got major vibes of woman worshipper with this man i swear, A MAN A MAN A MAN-AN-AN.
I don't usually read RPF at all. Like... ever. It's genuinely one of those things I've never been able to get into because most of the time it doesn't feel natural to me. But somehow you completely changed my mind.
Your writing feels so personal and intimate that I stopped thinking "this is a fic about Jude " and just got completely immersed in the story. Your characterization actually feel like people instead of idealized versions of celebrities, and the yns are also so unique
I binged your Jude pieces in one sitting and now I'm genuinely mad there aren't more people talking about them because EVERYONE should be reading these. You deserve so much more recognition in football Tumblr. Best footblr writer on here right now I'd say!
STAWP 😭🤍 This actually means so much to me because I was so hesitant to start posting football works. It’s never really been “my thing” on this blog, and before all this I genuinely didn’t consume football fanfiction at all. So there was always that little voice in my head going, “This is either going to be really good… or these characters are completely out of character and everyone’s going to clock me.” LMAO.
Instead, you guys have shown me nothing but love 🥹 More importantly, I’ve been having SO much fun writing every single piece. I forgot how nice it feels to explore a new little corner of the internet. More Jude is definitely on the way, by the way sooon!!! Thank you for taking your time to send me this, anonie <3
Love your vampire series for enhypen 💗💗 ur an amazing writer. Do u think u will ever write the other boys stories ( about their mates?)
Thank you so much, angel 🥹🤍 At the moment, no! I'm not planning on writing the other mates' stories just yet, but I won't say it's impossible. My plot collection is simply getting out of hand atm 😭🫶🏻
hey idk if you know but i think someone plagiarized your work on ao3, at least partially. I havent really read either work but the description is the exact same. its called “vampire neighbor” by hoibooks on ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/80122881
Oh... wow.
I checked it, and yeah—it's literally a copy and paste of the first chapter of TSJ.
Thank you so much for letting me know, though. I genuinely appreciate it. 🤍
Unfortunately, they have comments disabled and no other works on their profile, so I can't even reach out to ask them to take it down. This was uploaded back in February too... yikes. I've dealt with people reposting my work on Tumblr and Wattpad before, but this is my first time finding one on AO3, so I'm honestly not even sure where to start.
I'm so tired that I don't even have the energy to be angry right now 😭 I'll figure out how to report it and hopefully get it taken down.
Thank you again for looking out for me. It means a lot. 🫶🏻
I reported it already, so now we wait... I still genuinely don't understand what someone gains from copy-pasting another person's work word for word and posting it as their own (not even the full work btw WHY LMFAO).
Thank you again to the anon who let me know. You guys have better surveillance than the FBI. 🤍
Click here to check the original work if you're reading this :D
Girl! how did you learn so many languages, assuming you aren’t a native speaker ofc🩷
Aww, that's so sweet of you to ask 🥹🤍
I was actually really lucky and privileged when it comes to languages. I was born and raised in Brazil, so Portuguese was a given. My family is Italian, and we're still very close to our relatives in Italy, so I grew up hearing (and speaking) a lot of Italian. My dad even banned Portuguese on certain days at home so we'd practice 😭
English came purely out of spite LMAOOO. My two older siblings would talk to each other in English, and little me felt left out, so I was determined to learn it through the internet and the content I consumed.
As for Spanish... I think it's just natural for a lot of Brazilians to pick up some of it because of our geography. It also helps that Portuguese and Italian are Romance languages, so understanding Spanish wasn't too difficult 🤍
You only meant to spend the morning doing absolutely nothing. Your boyfriend, however, has other plans—and apparently no shame whatsoever when it comes to making out with his girlfriend on his parents' sofa.
WARNINGS ◦ sfw content ◦ slow morning makeout with jude there i said it ◦ established relationship bc i'm a lonely bih ◦ detailed descriptions of making out ><
2,892 ━━━━━ drabble jude bellingham x reader
۶ৎ 𝓩 , this is my official ballblr debut... please be kind 😔 i've been spending way too much time on wc twitter lately and those people know how to appreciate fine men, so if this exists... blame them 😝😝
━━━━━ read on ao3
A half-empty mug of coffee sat beside yours, still faintly steaming, while Jude’s was already drained except for the faint ring at the bottom. The blanket you’d pulled over your legs sometime after breakfast had slipped halfway to the floor, one corner pooling near his bare feet. Denise had left earlier for her yoga class; you’d caught her in the kitchen making coffee and the two of you had chatted softly about nothing important while Jude was still half-asleep upstairs. Now the place felt gently emptied out, just the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional distant sound of traffic filtering up from the street below.
You were curled into the corner of the big sectional sofa, legs tucked under you, still in the soft Alo workout set you’d thrown on after your early Pilates class. The fabric was comfortable, slightly sweat-damp from the session, and it smelled faintly of the lavender detergent you used at your own place. Jude lounged at the other end, barefoot in white joggers that rode low on his hips and an oversized black T-shirt that had seen better days. He had one arm stretched along the back of the sofa, the other holding the remote loosely as he scrolled through YouTube with the casual indifference of someone who wasn’t really looking for anything specific.
A football skills compilation started playing, some kid in Brazil doing ridiculous step-overs, and Jude let out a soft huff of amusement, tilting his head. “Look at that touch,” he murmured, more to himself than you, though his gaze flicked your way for half a second. His fingers tapped idly against the cushion near your shoulder, a small unconscious rhythm. You kept scrolling through your phone, smiling faintly at a friend’s story, the comfortable silence stretching between you like it always did on these mornings. No need to fill it.
After a few minutes the video switched to a chaotic British cooking clip, someone attempting to make Sunday roast in what looked like a student kitchen. Jude laughed under his breath, the sound low and easy, and shifted his weight so his leg stretched out, his bare foot nudging gently against your ankle. “You seeing this? Bloke’s about to burn the whole flat down. Reminds me of that time I tried cooking for the lads last year. Disaster.”
You glanced up, lowering your phone a fraction. “You mean the time you set off the smoke alarm making toast?”
“It was fancy toast tho,” he corrected, grinning. His foot stayed resting against yours, warm skin against skin, a casual point of contact that neither of you acknowledged. He reached over without looking away from the screen and stole your phone for a second, tilting it to see what you’d been looking at. “Instagram again? You’re ignoring my superior entertainment over here.”
You snatched it back with a quiet laugh, bumping his knee with yours in retaliation. “Your superior entertainment is a man crying over lumpy gravy. I’m catching up on actual human lives.”
“Harsh,” he said, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. He stretched, the oversized shirt riding up slightly, then settled again, this time scooting a little closer under the pretense of adjusting the blanket. His hand landed lightly on your thigh, just above the knee, thumb brushing once in an absentminded circle before it stilled.
The YouTube algorithm wandered next to a funny animal video, then back to a quick highlight reel of his own goals from last season. Jude watched himself on the screen with a small, self-deprecating shake of his head. “Still can’t believe that one went in. Felt terrible off the boot.”
You set your phone down on the cushion between you, finally giving the screen more attention. The sunlight shifted, warming the side of his face and highlighting the details across his nose that only showed up in certain angle.
Minutes passed like that, easy, unhurried. He commented on the videos occasionally, voice relaxed and expressive, and you offered small replies or teasing jabs that made him chuckle. Jude's hand stayed on your leg, fingers occasionally tapping along to some internal beat only he could hear. At one point he nudged your foot again with his, hooking his ankle loosely behind yours for a moment before letting go, all without taking his eyes off the TV.
Eventually the videos looped into something quieter, a travel vlog through Spanish countryside. Jude’s thumb resumed its slow, unconscious sweep on your thigh. “We should do something like that one off-season,” he said softly. “Just drive somewhere. No schedule.”
You turned your head to look at him properly. He was already watching you instead of the screen, that playful spark still in his eyes but softened around the edges by the lazy morning. “Only if you promise not to turn it into a fitness bootcamp.”
He smiled, slow and genuine, the kind that showed how much he was enjoying his morning off.“No promises. But I’ll let you pick the playlist.” The teasing lilt in his voice lingered, and something in the way you held his gaze made the moment stretch.
You raised an eyebrow. “Let me? Generous of you.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him, warm and close. He leaned in just a fraction, as if to deliver another retort, but the words didn’t come. Instead the look held: comfortable, familiar, the kind built from nights spent side by side and mornings exactly like this. His smile softened further, you smiled back, raising your eyebrows in an attempt to mirror the question in your head: "what's wrong?".
His thumb continued its slow sweep on your thigh, the motion so habitual it seemed he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. The oversized black T-shirt had twisted slightly around his torso from all the shifting, and a faint line from the sofa cushion pressed into his cheek where he’d been leaning earlier.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said after a beat, voice low and a little rough from the quiet morning. The corner of his mouth quirked higher, like he could see the question behind your raised brows. “Just thinking you look comfortable. Proper relaxed. Suits you.” He gave your thigh a light, affectionate squeeze, the kind that said he liked having you here more than any grand statement could. His foot found yours again under the slipped blanket, toes brushing lazily against your ankle before hooking gently behind it, anchoring the contact.
You let out a soft breath of amusement, the kind that wasn’t quite a laugh but carried the same ease. “High praise from someone who just spent twenty minutes watching himself on YouTube.”
Jude chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating faintly where his arm still rested along the back of the sofa near your shoulders.
He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in a fraction more, drawn by the familiar rhythm of your teasing. The travel vlog played on, forgotten now, rolling hills and olive groves flickering across the screen while neither of you glanced at it. His free hand lifted from the remote, landing lightly on the cushion between you before his fingers found the edge of your workout top, tracing the seam near your hip in an absent, exploratory way. Not purposeful. Just the natural drift of touch when words felt secondary.
“Oi, I was scouting technique,” he murmured, eyes still on yours. The Brummie lilt thickened a touch with the lazy drawl of morning. “Important research. You should be impressed.” His thumb brushed higher on your thigh, then stilled as he tilted his head slightly, studying the way the sunlight caught in your hair. The space between your faces had narrowed without either of you deciding to close it, close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath, coffee and the faint mint from his toothpaste earlier.
One of his knees pressed against yours, solid and warm through the thin layers of clothing. His fingers at your hip slipped under the hem of your top by a centimeter, not seeking, just resting skin to skin in that unconscious way he did when the morning felt slow and safe.
Then you said something small, half a tease about his “research methods”, and Jude’s eyes crinkled with another quiet laugh. That laugh brought him the last inch. His lips brushed yours lightly at first, almost an extension of the shared smile, the kind of accidental contact that happens when two people are already leaning into the same small orbit. He exhaled softly against your mouth, the sound carrying a hint of surprise and delight, before pressing in again with more intention. The kiss stayed gentle, exploratory, his lips warm and slightly dry from the morning air. You felt him smile into it, the curve unmistakable, and when your noses bumped he pulled back just enough to let out a low, breathy chuckle that fanned across your cheek.
“Clumsy today,” he whispered, voice laced with amusement, but he didn’t move far. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, palm broad and steady, fingers splaying naturally against the curve there as he drew you a little nearer. The other hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheek in a slow sweep. He leaned back in, the rhythm unhurried, kisses that lingered and shifted, sometimes softer, sometimes a touch deeper, guided by the quiet give and take of breathing together. His fingers threaded lightly into the hair at the nape of your neck, not gripping, just holding with the same casual affection he showed in everything else.
You tasted the lingering coffee on him, felt the faint scratch of stubble against your skin when he tilted his head. Another soft laugh escaped him when your hand found the front of his oversized T-shirt, bunching the fabric slightly. He paused once, forehead resting against yours, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you up close, really looked, the kind of pause that said he was savoring the ordinary miracle of this exact moment.
Then Jude shifted, the sofa creaking faintly under his weight as he rearranged himself. He leaned back more fully into the corner of the sectional, stretching one long leg out along the cushions before patting his thigh in a clear, casual invitation. His gaze stayed on you, playful but soft, the corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar half-smile. “Come here,” he said quietly, voice low and easy, like it was the most natural suggestion in the world.
You hesitated, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes properly. “Really?”
He raised his eyebrows, nodding once with an amused little tilt of his head, as if to say yes, really. “What, you acting shy now?” The teasing lilt crept back into his tone, warm and familiar. “Not like it’s our first kiss or anything.”
Your gaze flicked briefly toward the direction of the front door, the quiet of the apartment suddenly feeling a little more fragile. Denise could walk back in from yoga at any minute. The thought made you pause, even as the warmth of his hand lingered at your waist. Jude seemed to read it on your face immediately. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.
“Oh, c’mon,” he said, patting his thigh again, more insistently this time. “My mum likes you more than me anyway. She knows we sleep together—she’s not blind.” His fingers gave your side a gentle squeeze, reassuring and playful all at once. “She’s probably doing extra sun salutations just to give us time.”
The silence stretched for another beat, your hesitancy still written across your expression. Jude’s eyes softened further, the competitive edge melting into something gentler, more coaxing. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “C’mon baby,” he murmured, the endearments slipping out naturally. “Come here.” He patted his thigh one more time, an open invitation, then added with a low, boyish laugh, “Let your boyfriend have some motivation this morning, yeah? Before I have to go get shouted at on the pitch.”
The words, delivered with that expressive, slightly cheeky grin, finally tipped the balance. You moved, and Jude helped guide you with easy hands on your hips, settling you astride his lap so your knees sank into the cushions on either side of him. The position brought you closer, chests brushing, his oversized T-shirt bunching between you. His hands settled naturally at your waist, thumbs tracing small circles through the soft fabric of your workout set, while he looked up at you with open affection. No rush. Just the same comfortable intimacy that had carried the whole morning, now wrapped a little tighter.
“See? Not bad at all,” he murmured, voice low and warm with that playful lilt, one eyebrow raised like he was proving a point. His hands gave your waist a gentle squeeze, more reassurance than anything else, before one slid slowly up your back, palm broad and steady against the fabric of your top. “Come here,” he added softly, the words almost under his breath as he tilted his chin up.
You leaned down and the kiss picked up where it had left off, slow at first, familiar. Jude smiled against your mouth the moment your lips met, the curve of it impossible to miss. His hand at your waist stayed put, thumb still moving in those absent circles, while the other drifted up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair. The contact was constant but easy, like he simply preferred some part of him touching you at all times. When your noses bumped awkwardly he broke the kiss with a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours for a second as he caught his breath.
“Seriously?” he teased, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Every time.” But he didn’t pull away. He just tilted his head the other direction and leaned back in, the kiss deepening a touch, unhurried. His fingers at the back of your neck rubbed gently, a soothing rhythm, while his other hand slipped lower to rest on your thigh, palm warm through your leggings. You could feel the faint rise and fall of his chest against yours, the steady beat of his heart.
He kept the little comments coming between breaths, nothing elaborate, just the natural flow of his thoughts. “Missed this,” he whispered against your lips at one point, the words slipping out like they were nothing and everything at once. When you smiled into the next kiss he let out another soft laugh, the sound vibrating between you, and paused again, forehead to forehead, eyes half-open as he studied your face up close. “You alright?” he asked quietly, thumb brushing along your jaw now, checking in the way he always did: casual, genuine, never making a big deal of it.
You nodded, and he smiled again—the make-out stayed lazy and affectionate, the kind that ebbed and flowed with the quiet morning rather than racing anywhere. His hand on your thigh gave a light squeeze when you shifted closer, then moved back to your waist, anchoring you gently.
Eventually the kisses slowed of their own accord, not because either of you wanted to stop, but because there was nowhere left to rush. They dissolved into smaller moments instead—his lips lingering once against the corner of yours, another absent kiss to your cheek, the bridge of your nose, your forehead. His breathing gradually evened beneath you, the lazy rhythm matching your own until the room fell quiet again.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
The travel vlog had wandered somewhere along the southern coast now, the narrator enthusiastically explaining a tiny seaside village neither of you had been paying attention to for the last ten minutes. Sunlight had crept further across the living room, warming the edge of the coffee table and catching the forgotten mugs still sitting where you'd left them after breakfast.
Jude's hand never really stopped moving.
It rested against the small of your back now, fingertips tracing slow, thoughtless patterns through the fabric of your top while the other remained comfortably around your waist. It wasn't an attempt to start anything again. It was simply what his hands seemed to do whenever you were close enough to reach.
You let your head settle against his shoulder, your cheek brushing the soft cotton of his T-shirt. From here you could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath it, slower now than it had been only moments before. His chin came to rest lightly against the top of your head.
For someone whose life was measured in fixture lists, departure gates and recovery schedules, Jude had always been unexpectedly good at doing absolutely nothing.
He never seemed to grow restless in moments like these. There was no instinct to reach for his phone, no urge to fill the silence simply because it existed. He was content to let the apartment breathe around the two of you, to let the television chatter unnoticed in the background, to trace absent patterns against your back without any destination in mind. It was one of the first things you'd learned about him, and somehow one of the things you cherished most.
author's note — no one is going to read this so wtv heheheh BALLBLR PLS ACCEPT ME. cozy makeout with jude >>>>>
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