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𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: Babes! Hope you guys are good.. I made this one when Mase was still on Chelsea. Hope you guys like it ♡

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Mason Mount x Reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: a little bit of smut.. enjoy ☆

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You had promised yourself you wouldn’t fall for a footballer. Especially not one like Mason Mount, charming, annoyingly handsome, and with a smile that could ruin lives. But here you were, backstage after Chelsea’s match, his sweaty jersey in your hands and his gaze locked on yours like you were the only person in the world.

“Thought you said you weren’t coming,” he said, stepping closer, his voice low, teasing.

“I wasn’t,” you replied, your fingers curling tighter around the fabric. “Then I changed my mind.”

He smirked. “Good. I like it when you change your mind for me.”

The dressing room was empty now, and the air was thick with adrenaline, his and yours. He stepped in, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“You’re still staring,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“And you’re still here,” he shot back, before reaching out, his hand brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You look good in blue.”

“I’m not wearing blue.”

“You are now.”

You didn’t have time to ask what he meant, because suddenly he was kissing you, hard, like he’d been holding it in for too long. Your back hit the locker, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel the tension running through his whole body.

The kiss deepened, messy and hungry. You tugged at his jersey, and he helped pull it off, heat radiating from his skin. When his lips moved down your neck, you whispered his name, and the way he groaned in response made your knees go weak.

“Mason,” you gasped, feeling his hand sliding up under your shirt. “Someone could come in…”

“Let them,” he murmured, his mouth against your collarbone. “You’re mine tonight.”

And with that, he lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the bench like you were weightless. The world outside didn’t matter anymore, not the fans, not the press, not even the risk.

Just you, him, and the kind of heat that made you forget every rule you swore you’d follow.

Your breath hitched as your back met the cool wooden bench, the contrast against the heat of Mason’s hands sending a shiver through your spine. He looked down at you like you were something he’d craved for too long — eyes dark, jaw tight, chest rising and falling with every second that passed.

"You have no idea," he whispered, lowering himself between your legs, "how many times I’ve thought about this."

You arched your back as his lips trailed down your throat again, slower this time, savoring you. "Mason…"

“Shhh,” he murmured, his hand sliding beneath your shirt again, fingertips grazing the edge of your bra. “Let me have this. Just once… no cameras, no pretending. Just you. Just me.”

His honesty hit harder than expected, and you found yourself clutching his shoulders, nails digging into muscle. He kissed you again, slower now, deeper, like he was trying to memorize the taste of your mouth. You felt the world tilt when his hands roamed lower, pushing your shirt up until it was discarded somewhere behind you.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered, lips brushing against your skin. “And you’re driving me mad.”

You reached down, tugging at the waistband of his shorts, your voice barely a whisper. “Then do something about it.”

That was all he needed.

In one swift motion, he pulled his shorts down, and you gasped when his hand slid between your thighs, over your underwear, teasing, slow. He was watching your face, studying every expression, every reaction, like it was the game-winning goal.

Your head fell back against the locker behind you, and he smiled against your stomach, kissing lower, tasting your skin inch by inch until your breath came in broken gasps.

“Mason—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

And he did.

His mouth replaced his hand, and the sound you made echoed off the walls. You bit your lip to keep quiet, but he only looked up at you with those damn eyes, saying without words: Don’t hide from me.

When you finally came undone, your fingers tangled in his hair, he held you through it, murmuring your name like a prayer, like he was afraid you’d vanish after.

But you didn’t.

Not when he stood, kissed you again with the taste of you still on his lips.

Not when he lifted you into his arms and whispered, “Come home with me.”

And definitely not when you nodded.

Because you had promised yourself you’d never fall for a footballer…

But promises were meant to be broken.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : Hi! This is my first story here. It had been sitting in my drafts for a while and I finally decided to post it. I don’t know if anyone will read it, but I hope you enjoy it. English isn’t my first language, so please be kind! ♡

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ben Chilwell x Reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: None. Enjoy ♡

You had been at the Chelsea training ground for just under a week, working as a freelance photographer for the club’s new campaign. You weren’t new to shooting footballers, but something about this job felt different. Maybe it was the cold London rain. Or maybe it was the way Ben Chilwell kept finding reasons to speak to you.

It was a grey afternoon, mist hovering just above the pitch, and you were crouched on the sidelines, adjusting your lens. The drizzle made everything blurry, but you were determined to get the shot. Focused, quiet, soaked.

“You’re gonna get soaked like that, you know.”

The voice made you flinch slightly. You looked up and there he was—Ben, shirt clinging to his chest, hair sticking to his forehead, and a grin that looked a little too proud of itself.

You squinted up at him. “The photo’s worth it.”

He tilted his head, gave you a longer look than necessary, and shrugged. “Alright then. Just don’t catch a cold, camera girl.”

And then he jogged away again, flashing a wink over his shoulder like it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing. Your fingers stuttered over the shutter button. Your heart did a full somersault.

A few days passed, and it happened again. You were scrolling through photos on your laptop, sitting on the edge of the pitch post-training, when his shadow fell over you. He dropped onto the grass beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You never post your photos,” he said casually, like he hadn't been sweating five minutes ago. “I checked.”

You turned to him slowly. “Did you stalk me?”

He gave you that half-guilty, half-smug smile. “Maybe. But now I want to see them.”

You hesitated, then turned the screen toward him. He leaned in, and suddenly your shoulder was brushing his arm. You tried not to react, but your body betrayed you, stiffening slightly at the closeness. He smelled like grass and warm skin and something faintly sweet.

He pointed to one photo where he was walking off the pitch, head down. “I look like I’m thinking about you.”

You snorted. “Are you?”

He looked up from the screen. “Maybe.”

That night, it started. Messages. First a meme. Then a blurry photo of his dog with the caption “he approves of you btw.” Then a selfie — late at night, tousled hair, bare shoulders, sleepy eyes.

Ben: “Do I look like boyfriend material here? Yes or yes?”

You: “You trying to convince me or yourself?”

Ben: “Both.”

You didn’t reply right away. He didn’t seem to mind. The next morning, he showed up to training and handed you a coffee. Just… handed it to you and said, “For the camera girl. So you don’t freeze out here.”

One day, he asked if you wanted to get hot chocolate after training. Nothing fancy. A small place tucked into Notting Hill, where no one paid him any attention. You sat by the window, watching the rain streak the glass, both of you in hoodies and sneakers, knees touching under the table.

It was easy with him. The jokes, the silences, even the way he listened when you talked about photography like it was poetry. He told you about his favorite pitches, about the playlist he always warmed up to, and how he used to sneak into the kitchen as a kid to eat cereal at midnight.

“I think,” he said, stirring his drink, “you might be trouble.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind I’d like to keep around.”

And then he smiled at you, soft, a little uncertain.

He walked you home after, hood up, hands deep in his pockets. At your doorstep, he didn’t kiss you. He just leaned in, close enough that his breath tickled your cheek, and rested his forehead gently against yours.

“I think you’re gonna be my favorite photo,” he murmured.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.