anora — ⋆.˚𖦹

the energy inside the O2 was electric. london’s biggest arena stretched out before you, brimming with fans dressed in pastels, sequins, and glitter, their voices rising above the music as they sang your own lyrics back to you. the stage shifted with every song, bathed in bright pinks and warm, vivid colours as you initially rushed onto it at the beginning of the show, before sinking into deeper, moodier hues of blues and purples for a handful of b-side tracks that had the crowd screaming in joy-stricken shock. through it all, the flashy smile on your face never faltered. the exhilaration was genuine, the feeling of being onstage still just as overwhelming as it had always been. there was nowhere else you would rather be.

by the time the sun had fallen, washing london in darkness and shadows, the focus of your show had shifted to its next segment. you paced around the mainstage, the backup dancers who felt more like family than colleagues now trailing behind you in a series of rehearsed slides and twirls. one held a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, another twirled a strand of hair around her pointer finger, each of them playing their parts as you fanned yourself dramatically and sashayed towards tonight’s victim of what some called the highlight of the show; the celebrity arrests.

“woah—someone, can we get a spotlight over here?” you gasp into your bejewelled microphone, the trio made up of you and two of your backup dancers making your way down the aisle of the stage as a siren begins to go off and red and blue lights flash around you in imitation of police cars. you come to a stop once you’re right in front of him, jude bellingham, who looks around himself in utter surprise as he stands alone between the barricade and the stage.

the crowd beyond you and him erupts, a roar that only grows louder as the cameras finally pan towards the footballer, a sea of phones rising to capture the moment. you’re bent over giggling by the time you turn your attention back to him, “excuse me, what’s your name?” you ask, tilting the microphone towards him and awaiting his response.

“jude!” he yells, cupping both hands around his mouth and leaning slightly towards you, as if the gesture might somehow help bridge the distance between you, the stage, and the deafening sound of thousands of people shouting over one another.

the flashes of the bright police lights illuminate him in quick bursts, red and blue washing over the sharp, angular lines of his face and the flex of his toned arms. he takes a moment to look around again, eyes still wide as he grins and waves to the mass of fans beyond him, settling into the atmosphere and sudden attention around him.

“jude,” you parrot, dragging each syllable of his name out as though testing it on your tongue. your head tilts, one finger coming to rest against your chin in exaggerated thought, “and where are you from, jude?”

“birmingham!” he replies, gaze fixing back onto you infront of him, prompting another eruption of cheers from the crowd.

suddenly, your expression shifts. the feigned look of question fades into one of recognition, as though a lightbulb has just flickered on above your head, “oh, i know you!” you exclaim, your excitement only further fuelled by the screams around you. “you play football, right?”

jude nods his head sheepishly, one arm extending towards the back of his neck, seeking refuge at the nape of it as warmth pulses across his cheeks, a faint blush appearing over his tawny skin. he continues to beam up at you, pearly white teeth on display.

“yeah…” you hum, the word drawn out thoughtfully as your eyes flicker over the entirety of him. “so, that must mean you’re really good at scoring?”

the rhetoric spills out half-question, half-innuendo, and the crowd is hysterical before the words have even fully tumbled out of your mouth. you bite your lip, returning to fanning yourself as you look around in frantics, leaning into your backup dancers as though the weight of your own joke has suddenly become too much to bear.

jude’s face scrunches up as the meaning behind your joke finally catches up to him, his mouth falling open into a small ‘o’ as he shakes his head in dismay. several angles of the stage cameras catch him mouthing, that’s mad, in reaction, clearly trying to decide whether you really just said that to him in front of an entire sold-out arena full of people. and if they couldn’t see the heat on his face before, they definitely could now.

“oh my god, i just—” you stutter, glancing back at him. “you’re so gorgeous—i’m getting so flustered, overwhelmed—like, um…”

your vision flickers towards the pink handcuffs dangling in hands to the left of you, then back towards a disconcerted jude, “i think i’m going to have to arrest you for being so hot!”

as if on cue, your backup dancers nod their heads in agreement, one of them beginning to clap as the other reaches to hand you the handcuffs. but she barely gets the chance to pass them over before the long, pink skirt draped over your legs suddenly gives away, falling and pooling around the bottom of your custom-made boots and onto the floor that made up the stage. the reveal leaves you in a shorter version of the same skirt, the material now cutting off mid-thigh as the crowd explodes all over again. in all the commotion you finally take hold of the cuffs and step over the fabric at your feet, “okay, mr. handsome football player, here’s my gift for you,” you purr with a wink, “go back to playing with those balls now.”

the cameras project the small hand-off onto the screens for everyone to watch, howls of laughter, whooping, and pleas for the next song to begin cutting through the moment. jude takes the whole thing like a champ, holding his arms up in surrender as a sudden bout of confidence seems to settle into his stature, practically asking to be handcuffed by you.

the two of you dissolve into laughter at his antics, your head tossed back as he takes hold of the iconically scandalous handcuffs with a nod of thanks, lifting them above his head for the cameras and the thousands of fans watching.

“someone’s eager,” you mumble, watching him wave the cuffs around in the air as the crowd explodes all over again.

the chaos of it all reaches its peak as the lighting begins to lift, the stage slowly becoming concealed beneath a wash of light blue as you make your way back into position alongside your backup dancers. the first few chords of juno begin to play, the familiar intro cutting through the noise of the arena as you spin around to face the crowd, to face jude.

“this song is dedicated to jude, everyone,” you announce, the grin still lingering across your face. “here is juno!”