Truthfully, only you know who you truly are beneath the image of a star. You're not so glamorous when you're dragging yourself home after a rigorous match or the fiftieth interview of the night, depleted of your energy, and mentally preparing yourself for the next day as you climb into bed.

Most of the things you find yourself consuming aren't real foods. Caffeine. Energy drinks. Gum. And your stomach rumbles, desperate to be fed, yet whenever you're close to reaching for something, the world throws another obstacle in your way, distracting you, and now the hunger's the last thing on your mind.

It's a routine you've found yourself in now more than ever. The stress of the upcoming Champions League final weighs down on you, pressing against your chest, suffocating you, but you don't let it show. The last thing you want is to show signs of weakness. So you let it consume you instead. 

Take care of yourself, love. I need you to be okay. I can't sleep without knowing you're okay.

Maybe you're a bad girlfriend—no, you are—for making Jobe worry like this. 

You never intended to drag him into your mess. You wanted to keep it to yourself, believing it would pass with time, but Jobe knows you inside out. Knows how your voice sounds or even how you send messages whenever something's wrong.

It's something you can't help but despise, and it makes your skin prickle with unease at how well he means. He has the heart of an angel; he's a sweetheart, the love of your life. The only true love you've ever known.

You've spent years of your life taking care of and fending for one person—yourself. You're used to being in charge, making all the choices, both easy and hard, the ones no one likes to make, bossing others around.

But when it comes to Jobe, it's different.

There's something inside you, an uncontrollable urge to please him. To listen to him. To do whatever he tells you to do.

You've considered bringing it up to him before, to encourage him to do so, only to drop it, shame silencing you instead because you're supposed to be an independent woman, and you hate feeling inferior to anyone. You hate the idea of anyone finding you weak. You don't want to be objectified, but for once, you would like it if someone else took over because you're tired. Exhausted. Hollowed out.

You always bite your tongue, pretending like you're not eager to please Jobe, as you do whatever he asks you to do—to eat, to sleep more, to just take care of yourself.

He never asks anything else of you, nothing selfish. And a part of you wishes he would.

You truly believe that he'd be concerned if he were to ever find out that you think like this. Discourage it, even. You don't need me to tell you what to do.

But you know you do.

He's always the one emphasizing honesty between the two of you. He hates secrets, and only god knows how many you've kept from him.

He hates secrets, so you'll tell him your deepest one.

The tv plays in the background with no real purpose as you sit on your bed, back resting against the headboard. Your eyes linger on Jobe's back, watching him change into something more comfortable. You savor the image of his bare skin before it's hidden away underneath a white shirt, missing it already.

His season ended a few days ago, so he's spending the remainder of yours with you in your apartment.

You're silent. More than usual. Probably too obvious for Jobe to miss. And of course, he doesn't.

He may have his back turned to you, but he can still feel your gaze lingering on him like a caress. His lips curve into a knowing smile, not looking at you yet. He likes whenever you get like this—the silent, sulking kind of needy he always teases you for. The kind of mood that makes him want to mess with you, just to hear you whine.

Intentionally, he takes his sweet time changing, letting you sit there for a while, watching, admiring.

It's only when he turns around and catches a glimpse of your expression, that he pauses instead of telling you the joke in his head.

"Are you okay?"

You must look so obvious if he's asking you that. He must see the way your eyes have glazed over, and the indent on your bottom lip from chewing too hard.

You can hardly focus on the question, and instead, only focus on the sound of his voice. Concerned.

"I'm just tired," you assure him, trying to convince yourself as well. "Just tired."

He nods; hums in acknowledgment, but Jobe is smarter than that. Whenever you're tired, you tend to cling to him like he's your lifeline, touch-starved after a hard day. And he expects you to do just that, only you seem so distant, like your mind is elsewhere.

Jobe's glad he's so observant because if he wasn't, he may have actually believed you.

He takes slow, tentative steps towards the bed, and plants himself right next to you. 

"Just tired?" He repeats. It's not a question. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and he feels you shiver beneath his palm, his thumb lightly tracing your skin. "You know I know when you're lying."

You swallow, like you're trying to push down the words before they can come out.

How are you, a respectable woman, supposed to tell a man that you want to surrender to him? That you want him to make choices for you, to take care of you, to tell you how to please him, to let him push you past your limits?

"It's nothing important."

"If it's affecting you, then it's important to me."

You suddenly realize, as you stare into his eyes, that you can't keep it inside, not unless you want the feeling to kill you.

"Jobe." You can't bring yourself to look at him properly. Your eyes keep flickering between his face and the bed. "I just… don't look at me like I'm crazy for what I'm about to say."

At the sound of your voice, unsure and small, Jobe's gaze softens. "Baby," he murmurs, impossibly tender. "Look at me."

When your eyes finally stop wandering, he leans in to press a gentle kiss against your forehead, letting his lips linger on your skin. "You know you can tell me anything, and I'll never look at you like you're crazy."

He's so understanding it makes your chest ache. You blink rapidly in hopes that your tears will fade, but they only seem to bunch up, and now, you're on the verge of breaking down.

Not so tough when you're in front of him.

"It's… it's just that I… I really want you, Jobe." You pause to collect yourself. "I need you. Whenever you're away, I don't know what to do. I don't know how to take care of myself—I'm not myself."

You probably sound so pathetic, letting your last shred of dignity go, but Jobe doesn't stop you, nor does he let go of your hand.

"I'm supposed to be strong, I know, but whenever I'm with you, I just don't want to be." You're whispering now. "I want you to be the strong one. I want you to make all the choices. I want you to tell me what to do. And for you to do it because you love me. Not because you want to control me."

Oh.

Of all the things Jobe expects to hear, this isn't one of them. Your honesty hurts him in a way he can't explain, and it makes him feel guilty for not noticing sooner. He feels like he's failed you. Failed you miserably.

He should probably be uncomfortable with what you've confessed to him. You basically admitting that, without him, you're weak, and while he knows that's not entirely true, the last thing he wants is to shame you for telling him something so personal.

And who is he to deny you of what you truly want?

"Baby." His voice is rough around the edges. "It's okay. I understand. Don't feel ashamed to say it."

A lump lodges itself in his throat as he says, "come here."

And just like that, you go willingly, without thinking twice, ridding the space between the two of you as you settle yourself onto his lap. Jobe tucks your head into the crook of his neck, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you closer, as close as he can which is, somehow, still not close enough.

He takes a second to inhale your scent, one broad hand rubbing soothing circles into your back. 

"You think you're weak because you need me, baby," Jobe mutters, words gentle on release, gentle in a way only you get to experience. "But you're not. You're not weak for needing me."

Jobe pauses, having to let out a deep, shaky breath before he can continue. "If you're weak, then I'm weak, too. I'm just as weak for needing you. For needing to take care of you just as much as you need me to."

His grip tightens innately, like he's scared you're going to slip from his grasp. He wants you to—needs you to understand that the way you feel isn't weird, nor is it pathetic. He needs you to understand it because god only knows how addicted he is to you. How you live in his bones, in the coils of his mind, in all of him.

"God, baby, I need it so bad. You." Jobe's voice breaks on the last word, raw, like he he's been holding it in for years. And just like you, the dam inside him cracks wide open.

"You—you don't have to be strong." His delivery is messy, just like him. Just like this moment. Just like you. Wrapped around each other in your dimly lit bedroom, shaking because neither of you know how to hold it together when it comes to the other. "Let me take care of you. I will take care of you."

The lump in your throat is so thick that you can't bring yourself to speak. Tears run down your cheeks, but you don't rush to wipe them away. You don't have to.

Jobe's eyes burn into yours, something animalistic consuming him from the inside out at the sight of you teary-eyed, and all he can think is how beautiful you look.

"I love you," you choke out.

Jobe smiles. "I love you, too."

His lips are already attaching themselves to yours, like two magnets, pushing you onto your back, pressing you into the mattress with all his weight, rendering you breathless in a way you secretly enjoy.

His touch is searing on your skin as his teeth catch your bottom lip, giving it a teasing tug before releasing, pushing his tongue into your mouth. When his hips roll against yours, a broken noise rips itself from your throat.

On instinct, your hips buck up in search of friction, only to have one of his hands dig into your hip, keeping you pinned—a silent warning.

Then he pulls away, the suddenness of it making you whine in protest. 

"Can you do something for me?" It's a question he already knows the answer to, but the look in your eyes as you nod without hesitation brings him far too much satisfaction to miss.

"Good." Jobe's lips curl up as he goes to stand next to the bed. "Get on your knees for me, sweet thing."

Your breath catches in your throat, blood rushing to your head, yet, as you climb off the bed, your knees are already buckling beneath you before he can finish speaking.

The carpet presses against your bare knees as you settle at his feet, pulse hammering so loudly a part of you is sure he can hear it.

"You look so pretty like this." Jobe looms over you, his thumb running over your bottom lip. His other hand is already at the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling them down in a deliberate slowness. "Open your mouth for me, baby."

And you do. God, you do.

The sight before him goes straight to his head—your lips parting so obediently for him, eyes dark and hazy and needy, at his mercy.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, tilting your head back at the perfect angle.

He pushes forward, the hot, heavy weight of his dick finally settling against your tongue, mouth already drooling as your lips wrap around him.

Jobe's fingers dig into the back of your scalp, bordering on painful, as he rocks his hips forward in purposely shallow thrusts, taking in every fluttering blink and muffled whimper.

"That's it," he rasps, thumb swiping away the tear threatening to spill from the corner of your eye. "You take it so well for me, love. So fucking—"

The words dissolve into a low groan as your tongue presses up against him, throat fluttering. He uses his free hand to grab your jaw, fingers splaying to feel the obscene bulge of him beneath your skin.

"You want more, don't you?"

Twisting your head back a little further, Jobe suddenly forces you to take him deeper until your nose brushes against his stomach, and he holds you there for a few seconds, relishing in the way your body fights to adjust, before pulling you back to let you gasp out a breath.

Your eyes water, saliva running down your chin, loving the feeling more than you should—the control he has over you—your arousal soaking into your panties. And Jobe doesn't have to ask. Your lips are already parting again, like you miss the feeling of him in your mouth.

Jobe's expression darkens as he slides himself back between your lips, taking on a quicker pace than before, the head of his cock nudging the back of your throat with each thrust forward. "Look at me."

Your fingers dig into your thighs as your gaze trails up his body to find his eyes, and Jobe feels his control slip when he sees the way you look at him—so beautifully broken, like you'll do anything for him.

He wants to take you. He wants to take all of you.

He wants. Wants. Wants.

"Swallow for me, baby, fuck, swallow it all," he stutters out the command because he's a trembling mess, badly needing to cum in your mouth.

He's everywhere in your senses, your bones, and all you want is to give yourself over to him, to this desperate, ache in your chest that only he seems to soothe. It's something about the way he looks at you, even now, that makes you feel safe.

His vision whites out at the edges when he finally cums, letting out a litany of curses as he pulses down your throat, unable to look away as you swallow every last drop, entranced at the sight.

"That's it, love. So good. So perfect for me."

The praises sets your body ablaze, and you finally pull back from his cock to let yourself breathe.

Though, you only get a few seconds to do so.

"Come on, get up," Jobe suddenly ushers, not waiting for you to stand, hauling you up to your feet and carrying you to the bed. "Not done. Not yet."

Your cheek lands on the cool sheets as Jobe settles himself behind you, his breath hot against your skin while his hand eagerly pulls down your shorts and panties in one go, carelessly tossing them to the side.

His fingers slip between your legs where you're swollen and sensitive, sliding them through your wetness, before pushing a single, teasing finger inside.

"Jobe," you whine, but he just shushes you.

"Don't worry," he coos, pumping his finger gently, just to feel you squirm, dick already hard again against your ass. "I'll give you what you want. You just lay there and let me take care of you."

He positions his dick right at your entrance, rubbing his leaky tip against your slick folds and, though trembling, you wait. Wait for him to push inside. You don't ask him to—he'll give you whatever he wants to give you. And somehow, that makes it so much better.

Slowly, he pushes his tip inside and pauses. You want to cry—just do it already—but you keep your mouth shut, clenching around him, trying to suck him in deeper. 

And only after an agonizing minute does he finally sheath himself fully inside your pussy, his mind blanking out at the feeling, as if he's never felt it before.

Jobe pulls out all the way before thrusting back inside, relishing in the way you cry out his name in a whiny tone. He drives himself as deep as he can with each thrust, your walls desperately clamping down around him as he moves faster and faster.

"Look at you," he croons, voice tight, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you back against his dick to meet his every thrust. "You love this—love being stretched on my dick—don't you, baby?"

You can't even think straight, can barely bring yourself to breathe, and every word that falls from your mouth is incoherent, stuck together in clusters—"Yesyesyes."

"I know. Can barely even talk, drooling all over the sheets, dirty girl." His palm smacks your ass sharply, sending a shock through your body. "My dirty girl."

"Yes, yours, all yours," you sob, nails scraping uselessly against the sheets. Your eyes flutter shut, the feeling of his dick hitting just the right spot making it hard for you to keep them open. "Oh god, 'm gonna cum, Jobe, fuck."

His name tumbles from your mouth one last time, breathless, broken, as you cum, giving him everything until can't anymore, vision blurring over with pleasure.

"That's it. Cum all over me. Gonna—" Jobe's voice breaks, fingers tightening almost painfully as his rhythm stutters. "Gonna fill you up. And you're gonna take it all—all—"

His body goes taut, eyes rolling back as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling his cum into the warmth of your pussy. It's so sweet, the way your walls convulse around him, sucking in every drop, and he can't bring himself to pull out just yet.

Your ragged breathing fills the room as you come down from your high. You feel Jobe lower his body just enough to press a kiss against your shoulder, such a tender contrast to what he was doing to you earlier.

"You were so good for me, love."

Jobe shifts you so you're lying on your side, your back pressed firmly against him, his cock still stuck inside you, a perfect fit.

For a long moment, you're both silent, chests rising and falling, slight tremors running through your body. Jobe doesn't miss it. And you don't miss the slight tremor in his. His arms tighten around you, hungry for you, aching to keep you close.

"Thank you," you find yourself saying, voice cracking, and even as you feel Jobe shake his head, you continue. "You always know what to do—how to take me apart and put me back together. I love you so much. Love you more than I probably should."

"I love you more than I probably should, too," Jobe starts, pressing his lips over your pulse, keeping them there. "But don't ever feel ashamed because you need me. Because I need you to need me. And without you, I'm not myself."

You have the urge to cry, but you hold it in. Instead, you let out a shaky breath, relaxing him against him. You don't say anything else, and neither does he. You don't need to.

No one will ever understand who you truly are as a person.

Here, in Jobe's arms, you are your truest self.

masterlist.

Unlike you, he seems to be perfectly fine living out his footballer life. God, you hate how happy he appears on the surface. As bad as it sounds, you can only hope he's suffering as much as you.

You aren't typically a reckless drunk, but with each drink you down, you suddenly become drunk on sentiment.

Your hands reach over for your phone, involuntarily opening up your contacts to find his name. The heart is still next to it, taunting you. You haven't been able to change it since he broke up with you.

He had been respectful the day he left you. He urged you to call him if you ever needed something, and that you being broken up didn't change the fact that he would always care for you. What you would've preferred was him being an asshole, disrespectful, then maybe you wouldn't be on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest, missing him so deeply.

Your thumb hovers over the call button, hesitating. What would be the point? You think. He's a busy man, you doubt he'll drop everything just to answer a call from his ex-girlfriend.

After fighting an internal battle with yourself—pushing and pulling—your inhibitions fade when your thumb presses down on the call button. When the sound of ringing cuts through the air, you realize that you're actually calling your ex.

But you can regret that later.

Kylian is ready to settle into bed for the night when his phone begins to buzz incessantly against his sheets. He takes a quick glance at his alarm clock, noting that it's twelve in the morning.

Who would even call him at this hour?

He doesn't bother grabbing it at first, far too tempted to just ignore it and fall sleep. But, with a sigh, he eventually gives in, taking his phone in his hand. He feels himself still when he reads the name—your name.

For a second, he thinks he's hallucinating. The last time you had spoken was three months ago when you'd broken up. Though he remembers telling you to call him if you ever needed anything.

A part of him grows worried—why else would you call him this late if it isn't something important?

He sits up, answering the call, and brings his phone up to his ear, clearing his throat before saying, "hello?"

The other line is silent for a few seconds, and Kylian almost thinks that you dialed him on accident, until you finally speak up, "Kylian?"

On the other side, you sit up straighter, stunned. "You actually answered?"

Oh. 

Kylian blinks, noticing the slight slur in your voice. He realizes you're drunk, that worry bubbling inside him once again, alongside something else because he's hearing your voice after being deprived of it for so long.

"Yeah, I was just going to bed," Kylian replies, keeping his tone as neutral as he can. "Are… are you okay?"

Your throat tightens, like a fist is clenched around it. "Yeah, I'm fine. Of course, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?" The lie is paper thin, evident by the sudden waver in your voice.

Kylian isn't an idiot. So what if you aren't together anymore? Time may have passed, but knowing when you were lying still came so easily to him. "So, why did you call me, then?"

"I just…" You can't even get the sentence out without your words cracking around the edges. "I just…"

"Mon coeur," Kylian says gently, nickname leaving him with ease. "Are… are you crying?"

His heart shatters hearing your sniffles, trying your best to hold back. It doesn't help that he calls you that, so carefully, as if he's afraid of hurting you.

The tears fall before you can even try to stop them, the ache in your chest suddenly too much to bear.

"I miss you, Kyks," you admit, words wet, letting out another sob. "I'm sorry, I miss you. So much. I tried to move on, but I can't. I can't stop thinking of you. Everything just reminds me of you. It hurts so bad—not having you around—"

"Mon coeur, breathe, just breathe. It's okay. I understand," he cuts in, sitting on the edge of his bed. Without thinking about it too much—because if he does, he probably won't do anything—Kylian gets out of bed, sliding his shoes on. "Where are you? Are you home?"

He knows you're drunk—really drunk—and he'll hate himself if he leaves you alone in this state.

You hiccup, uselessly wiping a hand over your dampened cheek. "Y-yeah."

"Okay," Kylian says firmly as he rushes to his front door. "Just—stay there. Don't do anything. I'm coming over."

He isn't going to make you wait. Not when it sounds this bad.

Even after months apart, Kylian still has your address memorized. 

Your apartment had practically become his second-home. Despite his busy schedule, he would still take time out of his day to come visit you, just to see you, just to talk to you, just to hold you.

But now, the circumstances are different, and the visit isn't going to be for pleasure.

His pride will never let him admit that he actually misses you. He thought he was doing you a favor by breaking up with you. That way, you could live a stress free life, and not have to constantly look over your shoulder in fear that someone would recognize you.

It doesn't take him long to get to your place, rushing up the stairs of your building until he reaches your door, a small plant settled next to it for decoration. It makes him smile reminiscently until he remembers why he's there in the first place.

He let outs a deep breath, chest slowly rising and falling, before knocking three times.

His anxiety spikes when you don't immediately open the door, suddenly thinking the worst. His eyes fall on the plant again. He kneels down, hand digging into the dirt, hoping you'd left a spare key where you used to put it.

Luckily for him, he finds it in no time, shaking off the excess dirt before inserting the key in the lock, twisting the knob, and then pushing the door open.

When he steps inside, a wave of nostalgia hits him, eyes wandering over each piece of furniture and picture. Nothing has changed. It's still the same, still you.

He swallows hard, pushing away those thoughts as he makes his way over to your dimly lit kitchen. "Mon coeur?"

Kylian can't breathe when he finally sees you. Curled up on the kitchen floor like a wounded animal, an empty bottle of wine lying idly next to you. Christ. You drank all of that?

He moves forward, pushing away the bottle to kneel in front of you, hands hovering over your body, unsure if they still have the right to touch you. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here."

Your head twists up slowly, face dampened, eyes red, from how much you've cried. "Kylian?"

He nods reassuringly. "Yeah. It's me."

Your bottom lip quivers, ready to cry again, and instead of saying anything else, Kylian just wraps his arms around you, pulling you close.

Your body shakes with each sob you let out, burying your face into the crook of his neck, every emotion you've felt since breaking up—grief, loneliness, hurt—pouring out of you in one go.

Kylian doesn't speak. He just lets you cry, knowing how badly you probably need it. And in holding you, he realizes how much he's missed you, too. How good it feels to have you in his arms again. So natural, so right.

He has to blink away the tears glossing over his eyes, seeing how broken up you are over him, because he wants to stay strong for you.

His lips find the top of your head, tenderly pressing a kiss there.

"I'm sorry," you choke out between sobs. "I miss you so much. I need you so much, it hurts."

Kylian shushes you softly, not acknowledging the feeling of agony settling deep in his chest. "It's okay, mon coeur. I'm here."

Though he loathes to, Kylian leans back, using his thumb to wipe the tears underneath your eye. "Let's get you to bed, okay?"

When you nod, Kylian stands, taking his hand in yours—shivering at the feeling—as he helps you to your feet.

You wobble forward when you stand, falling right into his chest. He catches you with ease, refusing to let you fall. He knows you're in no state to walk, which is why he wordlessly hooks an arm under your knees, the other resting over your back, before lifting you off the ground bridal-style.

"I got you," he reassures you before heading over to your bedroom, keeping his pace relatively slow so he doesn't jostle you.

He pushes the door to your room open. It's messy, disorganized, and Kylian feels guilty because he knows he's partly to blame.

Delicately, he settles you down on your bed, but before he can pull away, your hand wraps around his wrist, stopping him in place.

"Don't go," you croak, looking up at him through your tear-filled lashes. A plea that you should feel ashamed of, yet you can't because all you ever wanted was to hold him again. "Please, stay, Kyky."

He can't say no to you. He can't even pretend that hearing you ask him to stay doesn't affect him. It does, his heart thrumming faster against his aching chest.

Kylian sighs, kicking off his shoes. He nods as he climbs into your bed, just like he used to, pulling the blanket over the two of you on instinct. There, under the covers, your hand clasps around his, holding on tightly, afraid to let go—afraid that you'll blink and he'll disappear.

You shuffle closer to him, your head settling over his chest, just to hear his heart beat again, knowing it'll lull you to sleep.

And his heart does. It beats for you. 

Even as you manage to fall asleep, content with having him again, even if it's just this once, his heart just keeps on beating for you.

And in the dark, Kylian whispers, "I miss you, too."

The game ended in a draw, and even with everyone on the team saying that, it was okay, it was part of the game, it happens, it still wasn’t enough to get that ugly feeling of shame out of your chest.

You couldn’t even bear to face the media. You finished washing up and headed back to the hotel with the rest of the team, finding it difficult to even talk.

For the first hour alone in your hotel room, you laid idly on your bed, thinking of all the ways that penalty could’ve gone. You could’ve shot left. You should’ve just let Mbappé shoot it.

A soft knock on your door was what finally broke you out of your trance. Reluctantly, you stood, peering through the peep hole, only to see Jude standing on the other side. 

Great. Just what you needed. You contemplated not answering at all, but when he knocked again, you decided it was just best to answer instead of making him worry.

There he stood in all his glory, that look of concern etched onto his face. "You alright?" He asked, eyes flicking over your expression like he was trying to figure you out. "You were quiet on the ride back."

He had to know what that was about, but knowing him, he wanted to hear it come from your mouth. 

"Yeah, I’m fine," you replied casually, even though fine was the last word you would have used to describe how you were truly feeling. "Just tired."

"I know that feeling," he mused and stood at the doorway for a few more seconds in silence. You could see the gears turning in his head. Then, “can I come in?”

It was those words that really threw you off. You hadn’t expected them at all. Somehow, you managed to sputter out, “I, uh, don’t… yeah. Yeah, you can come in.”

Your body moved on its own, out of the doorway to give him space to come inside. You could feel the subtle way his body brushed against yours as he stepped forward, subconsciously gripping the doorknob tighter.

"Thanks. I don’t mean to intrude, just…" he sighed, giving you that same look of concern you wished he wouldn’t because it always made something churn in you. "Worried, is all.”

“About?” Like you didn’t already know.

“You missed the penalty and shut down,” he replied bluntly, not bothering to tap-dance around the real reason he’d visited you so late. “I’m not dumb. I can see it on your face. You’re upset.”

“Of course, I’m upset,” you retorted, yet there was no real bite in your words. Just exhaustion. “We were tied and I… I missed the shot that would’ve won us the game. A shot anyone else would’ve made.”

With the frustration always came the inevitable tears. And, as if on cue, you could feel your throat start to close up. Stupid. You couldn’t even handle yourself so what were you doing on a stage as big as Real Madrid?

You turned away, shame and guilt ebbing at you so harshly you couldn’t even look Jude’s way. You weren’t deserving of being in his presence. You let him and the team down.

"Y/n," Jude called with that stupid soft tone that made your heart flip every time. “Come on, look at me.”

You could never deny him so, despite yourself, you turned to face him, tears glazing over your eyes. You could only keep eye contact for so long before your head dipped down. “I’m sorry,” you croaked. “I didn’t mean to miss.”

Jude let out a sigh, no ounce of hesitation in his body as he moved forward to hold you in his arms. He let your head rest against his chest, cradling the back of your head like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“I know. No one does,” he whispered, fingers brushing against yours scalp. “It’s alright. You did nothing wrong. You hear me?”

You nodded even though you still felt like shit because, somehow, only he could get you to calm down like this. You sniffled, hands fisting his shirt.

“Thank you,” you eventually managed to get out.

“Don’t thank me,” he assured you, just as you pulled your head back enough to look up at him through your tear-filled lashes. “It’s what teammates are for.”

For a few seconds, you stood there, gazing into each other’s eyes like it was a normal thing for teammates to do. What wasn’t normal was how hot it got you. The feeling coiled itself in your stomach, running down your body until it reached the area between your legs.

You swallowed hard, and whether he caught it or not was the least of your concerns right then and there.

“You’re tense,” were finally the words to break the excruciating silence. He looked over you—stop doing that—before placing his hand on your shoulder. “You should sit down.”

You were already moving without so much as a second thought, his hand helping guide you until you were sat on the edge of the bed.

Jude towered over you which wasn’t help your brain. Tormenting thoughts of his hands on you began to infiltrate your mind. Unwanted, but ultimately inevitable.

“You okay?” He asked, so concerned, when it was you that was riling yourself up.

“Fine. I’m… fine,” you murmured, hands placed in your lap, absentmindedly messing with your fingers. How much longer would he be in here?

Jude was many things, but blind wasn’t one of them. The subtle shift in your gaze when he was looking at you. The hitch in your breath. The way you were slightly pressing your thighs together now. He saw it all.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," he said. "You can relax around me."

If only he knew he was the one reason why you couldn't find it in you to relax.

When he placed a tentative hand on your shoulder, you shivered. "Is there something else bothering you?"

Yes. You wanted to say. You.

"It's nothing. It's just…" your voice came out a pitch higher. "I'm really sore, that's all. I can't sleep right now." It was the first thing you thought to say.

"It's not that."

You raised your brows, surprised that he managed to call you out so quickly. "Well, it's obviously the game Jude," you said, voice bubbling up with frustration, scared that he'd figure you out, and internally willing him to leave you alone.

He went quiet, as if stunned—hurt, by your outburst, and you regretted your words entirely. He was only trying to make you feel better.

The guilt surged in you, making your stomach cave in, afraid that you had actually hurt his feelings. "I'm sorry," you strained. "I just… I can't think around you."

It was the most honest you'd ever been with him. You hated how you wanted to cry now, a sob lodging itself in your throat. He probably hated you. You ruined it, just like you do everything else.

Instead of walking out like you expected him to, his face softened, gazing down at you like a delicate thing. "Oh, Y/n… I know."

Your gaze shot up at that, looking him in the eye, searching for any sign that he was messing with you, but he wasn't.

"I never said anything because I didn't want to make you uncomfortable," he explained, moving forward to sit next to you on the bed. "And because we're teammates. That would be inappropriate."

Right. Inappropriate. Your thoughts exactly. You were glad he was shutting you down. Someone had to be the mature one.

Even then, what you knew was right only hurt you further. As Jude settled next to you, his scent wafted over, overwhelming your senses to the point where you had to force yourself to stay still, clutching the fabric of your shorts.

"Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," he scolded softly, no ill intent in his voice. "I see how hard you work—harder than anybody on this team."

He zeroed in on the rise and fall of your chest, finding his own breath quickening. "You deserve a break. Let me lay that stress off of you… just as teammates."

A shaky breath escaped you. You weren't sure what he meant by that—not until he leaned down to gently press his lips against yours.

Your eyes widened in surprise before they fluttered shut, melting against him like you'd dreamed of doing so many times before.

He coaxed you back down against the bed, hovering over your body, licking into your mouth, kissing you in ways you'd never been kissed before. So good it practically turned off your brain.

Jude pulled back, enough to see your face completely. His lips curved up warmly. "Is this okay?"

You nodded, unable to use your words. 

"Okay. Just trust me, and I'll make you forget all about today."

He began to pepper kisses along your cheek, trailing them down your neck. Meanwhile, his hand dragged up along your leg, retreating beneath your shirt to get a feel of your boobs, squeezing one between his fingers, enough to make you whimper.

"I want to make you feel good," he whispered, words velvety as he made his way down your body, spreading your legs open. "You deserve it. You deserve so much, you just don't realize it."

His mouth hovered just over your stomach, eyes peering up at you, searching for even the slightest hint of hesitation, but when he found none, he grabbed the waistband of your shorts, peeling them and your panties down simultaneously.

The sight before him made him groan. "You're gorgeous."

He leaned down, lips pressing against your thigh, feeling you tremble beneath him. Then, he took his slender fingers, running a few over your slit, only to find you completely soaked.

"This all for me?" Jude asked. Rhetorical. "You've been waiting for this, haven't you?" 

He pinched your clit suddenly, and your hips twitched up involuntarily, eyes going wide. "Jude—"

"Don't worry. I'll give you everything you need."

A part of you knew you shouldn't be doing this, letting him touch you like you were anything other than teammates. You could only imagine the outrage if anyone were to catch you—but Jude's touch was dizzying, enough to dim the logic in your head.

He finally nested his head between your thighs, tongue coming out to lap up the sweetness between your folds.

Your hand shot out to the side, fingers digging fruitlessly into the bed sheets, while the other held onto Jude's hair. 

Jude felt you tug at his hair, groaned, yet couldn't be bothered by it as he continued to feast on you, his thumb rubbing over your clit, fucking you with his tongue, before slipping two of his fingers inside you.

You writhed beneath him, trembling with the effort of not cumming because you wanted the moment to last—to have Jude touching you. "Jude, it feels so good."

"Yeah? I know it does sweetheart. Gripping my fingers like this. Need to prepare you before you take my cock."

Your pussy squelched with each stroke he gave it, walls practically refusing to let him go whenever he pulled his fingers out, only to push them right back in a second later.

"Can you cum? I want you to cum all over me, sweetheart."

The combined sensation of his tongue and his fingers, alongside the achingly sweet words falling from his mouth, was enough to break you, body tensing up as you finally came, 

"That's it," Jude crooned, not pulling his fingers out yet. "Give me everything."

You attempted to catch your breath as your body went limp against the bed. You whimpered when Jude finally pulled his fingers out of you, missing the feeling already.

Jude eventually sat back up on his knees, your arousal still on his chin, watching you for a minute.

The sight of you like that, for reasons he couldn't explain, had his chest aching with the sudden urge to protect you. To keep you safe from the world and their disgusting words. You were so perfect, and he wanted you to know that.

He wanted you.

"Turn over for me, sweetheart." Jude didn't wait for you to move, taking it upon himself to grab your hips, turning you over softly until your face was perched against the bed.

His thumbs pressed into the dimples of your lower back, urging you to arch just enough so your ass was in the air, on full display for him.

He wanted to take a bite of that skin, but instead, he pressed his palm against your backside, fingers curling inward just to hear you gasp, before loosening his grip, stroking over the sting.

"I'm not—not used to this," you confessed, more embarrassed now that you had said it out loud.

"That's okay," he murmured, voice rough, and he wouldn't admit that hearing you say that—so bashfully, like that would make him change his mind—went straight to his dick. "It'll feel good for you. I'll make sure of it."

Jude was quick to rid himself of his sweatpants, cock springing out, leaking with pre-cum, practically weeping from being untouched.

He gave himself a quick stroke before coming up behind you, his body hovering over yours, making sure not to press all of his weight into you because god, like this, you seemed so fragile.

"I'll go slow," Jude said, but it wasn't a promise.

You trusted him, didn't doubt him for one second. And after only being able to dream of it for months, he finally inched himself in, so torturously slow.

Tears glazed over your eyes, clearly not prepared for the sudden stretch of him, and your hands went grasping for the sheets. "Oh, Jude—"

"I know," he cooed, words tight, trying to keep some semblance, moving forward until he was fully nudged inside you. "Just relax."

Jude let out ragged breaths, chest heaving as he struggled to control himself when he all wanted to do was fuck you senseless. You had him so hard, twitching inside your cunt, that he couldn't even think straight.

"Move, please, move." It sounded so pathetic leaving your mouth, convulsing around him helplessly. "Jude, please."

His control had frayed, and he didn't need to be told twice, pulling out all the way before thrusting back inside with a moan. 

"You're so good f'me," he blabbered as he set a rough pace, kissing your insides so well that your toes were curling, barely giving you a second to breath. "You deserve this—deserve it all."

Each thrust was deliberate, as if he were desperate to rewrite the doubt instilled in your brain. "I need you, y'hear me? You'd never let me down. Don't ever forget that."

You couldn't even respond, cheek gliding along the bed with every stroke, pushing your body in ways football never had. Your pussy pulsed around him instead as a thank you, and it boosted Jude's ego, seeing you so fucked out because of him.

He managed to push deeper inside you, impossibly so, his name falling from your open mouth like a litany—Jude, Jude, Jude—the only thing on your mind being him and the way his cock hypnotized you.

"Gonna cum—gonna give you all of it, all of me," he moaned, stuck in a daze until the very end when he could no longer hold back, spilling inside you, spurt after spurt, like you were his girl—and you were. You just didn't know it.

Pleasure flooded your features, cumming right with him. You felt him go still, plugging you up with his cum, your insides now warm and content.

Jude went limp above you, his full body weight pressing down on yours, almost suffocatingly—a feeling you found strangely grounding.

His head curled down to your shoulder, burying his face in your neck as he let himself take a proper breather.

He had yet to pull out. Not on purpose. He just didn't want to.

"Mm… y'were so good f'me," he whispered, voice thick with exhaustion. He planted kisses onto your neck, drawing more shivers from you. "Love you."

Maybe he hadn't realized what he just said, but you were certainly aware enough to catch it. "You—what?"

He just smiled against your skin. "Love you," he repeated. "Made me feel so good. Cuddle?"

Jude didn't wait for your response, his arms tightening around your body as he manhandled you over to your side so he was spooning you from behind, his cock still very-much snug inside you.

He pulled you as close to him as he could, and you couldn't find it in you to complain. Relaxing in his warmth, his scent, was easy, and it was all enough to pull you under, the exhaustion weighing heavily on your limbs.

Your head lulled back against his chest, over the soft thumps of his heart. A smile played on his lips as he watched you sleep, a sight he could get used to. 

He sighed, knowing he'd have to settle for calling you his teammate.

For now, anyway.