leehan's big toe ☘️

You heard him shouting from the pitch, emotions raw,  just before he covered his face with both hands and started pacing in tight, frustrated circles. The Argentinians were celebrating wildly right in front of him, cheering, bodies jumping. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, eyes squeezed shut like he was physically willing himself to not explode publicly. Then one of the opposing players said something in Spanish – you couldn’t hear or understand what –and Jude lashed out, slapping the back of the player’s head in a flash of blind frustration.

You and Denise both shot to your feet at the same time. His mum muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like “for fuck’s sake, Jude,” her hand flying to her mouth as you all watched the brief altercation unfold. Luckily the England lads were quick, pulling him away, keeping him wrapped up and shielded from the cameras as best they could.

He finished his post-match interviews and finally made his way over to the family section. You could tell from the way he kept hiding his face under the brim of his cap that he was pissed off he couldn’t stop the tears. Pissed off he couldn’t stop those late goals. Pissed off he couldn’t score more, contribute more, do whatever it took to push England over the line. He would have sacrificed almost anything tonight to get them to the final.

He hugged his parents first. Denise held him tight, rubbing his back in slow circles, whispering things only a mother could say. Mark gripped him hard, proud even in defeat, murmuring quiet words of reassurance. But their comfort seemed to ricochet off Jude’s body. He was vibrating with anger, with frustration, with a deep, burning disappointment that lived in his chest after every loss with England.

When he finally sat down next to you, his hand automatically latched onto your thigh, gripping like you were the only steady thing left in his world. You watched as his knee bounced restlessly, as he ran his hand over his face again and tugged his cap even lower, trying to disappear under it.

“Jude, hey… hey… look at me,” you said softly.

He turned his head slowly, propping his chin on his fist. The muscles in his jaw ticked hard. He was devastated, that much was clear in his red-rimmed eyes. But underneath it you could see the anger simmering; at himself, at the way it had slipped away again, at the fact that no matter how hard he ran, how much he gave, it still wasn’t enough to cross that final line for England.

You reached out and gently wiped under his eye with your thumb. He turned his head and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to your palm, lingering there for a second like he needed the contact to soothe his very soul. Then his eyes drifted away again, distant and unfocused, staring down at the now-empty pitch where the Argentina celebrations had finally started to die down.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and painful. His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth absently, like he needed something to anchor him to reality and not let him get lost inside his head.

“Can you come to my room later?” he muttered eventually, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. “I don’t… I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

You nodded instantly, heart twisting at how small he sounded. “Yes… yeah, of course, baby. Whatever you need. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He let out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. “Don’t wanna keep crying out here,” he admitted quietly, almost embarrassed. “Not with everyone still watching. Just… need it to be you. Need it to be quiet.”

You squeezed his hand, leaning your head against his shoulder for a moment. “I’ve got you. I promise. As soon as you’re back at the hotel, I’ll come straight to you. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

Jude turned his head slightly, pressing another soft kiss to the top of your head. His voice was barely audible when he spoke again.

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you tonight.”

You got to his hotel room just after the sun had set, the sky outside still bleeding orange and pink. He’d texted you very bluntly earlier, the way he got when the pain was still too fresh to soften for anyone, even you.

Consequently, you weren’t expecting him to be in a fantastic mood when you finally knocked on his door. He always came down to the lobby to collect you, no matter how tired he was. Not tonight.

“Who is it?” came his voice, sharp.

You could hear him moving inside, pacing, up and down the room like a caged animal.

“It’s me, bab–”

You hadn’t finished your sentence before the door swung open. He pulled you inside and shut the door behind you before you could even blink. His chest was heaving. The second you were over the threshold he let go of you, stepping back like he needed space but also couldn’t stand being far away from you. There were fresh tear streaks down his face that he was angrily wiping away with the heel of his hand. He was being so hard on himself. It broke your heart all over again.

“Do you think I had a shit game?” he asked bluntly, voice a little cold, eyes burning with more tears.

“What? No, I—”

“Good. Because what more could I have fucking done?” He started pacing again, hands tugging at his hair. “I ran until my legs felt like they were going to snap. I covered every blade of grass. I created chances. I defended when I had to. And it still wasn’t enough.”

You sat on the edge of his bed, watching him, heart aching as the words poured out of him.

“Jude… you gave everything out there. Everyone saw that. I saw that.”

“Yeah?” He stopped pacing for a second, eyes flashing. “Well it wasn’t enough, was it? The second goal was right in the middle of the fucking goal. Right there. We had six defenders on the fucking pitch. Six! I’m not a defender! How did we let that happen? How did I not see it coming? I should’ve been there. Should’ve been closer to the ball. I should’ve done more.”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “You can’t carry the whole team on your back every single—”

“I wasn’t trying to carry the whole team,” he cut in, voice rising. “I was trying to win! And we were winning. We were in control. And then it just… slipped. Again. Like it always fucking does–”

He cut himself off with a bitter laugh, shaking his head. His eyes were glassy again, angry tears threatening to spill over. He wiped them away roughly, like they personally offended him.

“Baby, you’re being too hard on yourself—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, but there was no real anger directed at you, just frustration spilling out of him any way it could. “Don’t tell me I’m being too hard on myself. I know what I saw out there. I know what I felt. We were better than that. I was better than that. I always think I can do more and then it’s the same story. We get so fucking close and then—”

You stood up slowly, reaching for him. “Jude, hey… look at me.”

He shook his head, running a hand over his face, body shaking with the tears he was trying to hold back.

“I’m so fucking tired of this. Tired of getting to the last stages and watching it slip away. Tired of the ‘nearly men’ narrative. Tired of people saying we don’t have the mentality when we just went toe-to-toe with the world champions for ninety minutes. What more do they want from us? From me?”

His voice cracked on the last word. He stopped pacing for a second, chest rising and falling fast, fists clenched at his sides. The room felt too small for all the fury and grief rolling off him.

You reached for him again, and he let you pull him in, but his body stayed rigid, vibrating.

“What can I do to make it better then?” you asked softly, stroking his back. “If you don’t want me to criticise the self-blame, then how can I help?”

“I don’t know!” His voice cracked, frustration and pain mixing together. “You can’t. I’m just– I’m so fucking angry and–and–”

He cut himself off, breathing hard. For a second it looked like he might pull away. His face crumpled, eyebrows knitting together as a choked off sob escaped him.

“Baby…baby it’s okay–”

“It’s not okay. Nothing feels okay,” he sniffled, tucking his head into your neck. You stroked his back, not sure what to do next. He was so fragile but so angry. You’d never seen him like this before.

“I know and I’m so sorry, Jude,” you whispered, kissing the top of his cheek as you held him close. “Tell me how to help you. I’ll do anything to make you feel a little bit better. Just tell me what you need.”

He lifted his head for a second, wet eyes meeting yours. He looked over your face slowly, like he was searching for something, before his gaze lingered on your lips. You wanted to say something else, anything to help pull him out of the spiral, but he was so focused on your mouth that the self-deprecating words had finally stopped pouring out of him.

“Baby?” you breathed softly.

His grip on your waist tightened almost painfully within seconds. He pulled you flush against him, mouth crashing down on yours in a bruising kiss. There was nothing gentle about it. It was desperate, angry, hungry, like he wanted to drown how he was feeling out with how good your lips felt against his.

You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound, walking you backwards until your back hit the wall. One hand slid into your hair, tugging hard enough to tilt your head back as he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against yours with desperate need.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with emotion, almost apologetic even as his body pressed harder against you. “I’m not trying to take it out on you. I just…”

He broke off, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were still glassy with frustration and leftover tears, but there was something else burning in them now – a desperate, almost feral hunger he only had for you.

“I need you,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I need you to remind me who the fuck I am. Need you to make me feel like me again. Strong. In control. Not this… this version that keeps fucking up.”

His hand slid down to grip your thigh, lifting it around his hip as he ground his hardening bulge against you. “Want to fuck you so deep you forget every other name but mine,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping into the filthy, dominant tone he only used when he was desperate. “Want you screaming for me. Want to feel you fall apart on my cock so I can remember who I am. The one who takes what he wants. The one who always wins with you.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, biting your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathed, eyes dark and wild, hips rolling against you in a slow, filthy grind. “Tell me it’s okay to be rough tonight. Tell me you can take it. Because I need to feel like me again, baby. Need to feel like I own something. Like I own you.”

His fingers dug into your thigh, possessive and trembling with the emotions still raging inside him.

“Please,” he whispered, forehead still pressed to yours. “Let me have you like this.”

You hesitated for a second, searching his eyes. You weren’t entirely sure this was the healthiest way for him to process everything he was feeling…the anger, the grief, the powerlessness from the pitch. But this was Jude, and you didn’t think you could ever say no to him when he looked at you like that, desperate and aching and needing to feel something real.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear, and nodded.

“I can take it,” you whispered. “I’ll take anything you give me. You know I will.”

Relief and hunger flashed across his face at the same time. He squeezed your thigh again, leaning down to kiss you slightly softer at first, but quickly turning deeper, tongue sliding against yours with need and dominance.

“That’s because you’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he murmured against your lips, his accent thicker with emotion. “My beautiful baby. Always know what I need. Always let me have you exactly how I want.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were already glazing over, the soft, submissive look he loved so much taking over. It didn’t take much when he spoke to you like that.

“Yeah?” he asked, almost teasing even through the emotions still raging in his chest. “You gonna let me fuck all this frustration out on you, baby? Let me remind myself who the fuck I am?”

You nodded, already a little breathless. “Yes, Jude.”

That was all he needed. In one smooth, powerful movement he spun you around, pressing your front against the wall. Your cheek met the cool surface as he yanked your jeans and panties down your legs in one rough tug, barely giving you time to step out of them. His big hands immediately palmed your ass, squeezing, spreading, smoothing over your hips like he was reclaiming every bit of skin for himself.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, pressing his still-clothed erection against your bare ass from behind, grinding slow and hard. “Perfect arse. So fucking pretty for me. Bet you’re so wet already and I’ve barely touched you.”

You whimpered as his lips attacked your neck, sucking and biting while his hands slid under your t-shirt, pushing it up so he could feel your skin. One hand stayed on your hip, holding you in place, the other moved up to cup your breast. “Tell me you’re my beautiful girl,” he growled against your ear, voice thick. “Tell me this pussy belongs to me. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I-I’m your beautiful girl, Jude,” you moaned, pushing back against him. “Belong to you… only you.”

He let out a low, satisfied sound and bit down on your shoulder, grinding his cock against you harder.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice dropping even lower. “Gonna fuck you right here first. Gonna make you take it so deep. I’m the only one, aren’t I? The only one who makes you scream.”

He shoved his own joggers down just enough to free himself, thick and hot, pulsing with the need to be inside of you. You felt the head of his cock drag through your folds, teasing your entrance.

“Tell me again,” he demanded, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me who you belong to while I fuck you against this wall.”

“I’m yours, Jude,” you gasped, pushing back against him. “Only yours.”

He wanted to tease you for longer, but how could he when you were so good and obedient for him? He thrust into you in one smooth, powerful stroke, burying himself deep. His hands stayed on your hips as he watched himself disappear inside you and groaned. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, and you cried out, hands bracing against the wall. Jude moaned as you clenched around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stayed still for a second, letting you adjust.

“Fuck… always feel so tight,” he moaned lowly. “My pretty girl.”

Then he started moving with deep, rough strokes that pressed you harder into the wall with every thrust. One hand stayed on your hip, gripping tight enough to leave behind red marks, the other slid up to wrap around your throat, a possessive hold that had your eyes rolling back already. “Say it again,” he growled against your ear, hips snapping forward. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Yours,” you moaned, voice breaking on every deep thrust. “It’s yours, Jude. All yours.”

He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest as he fucked you harder, deeper, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the room. His pace was relentless but never cruel.  Every thrust  was purposeful, like he was trying to fuck the frustration and self doubt out of his system and into you.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised, lips brushing your neck between strokes, his voice loving despite his actions being quite the opposite. “Taking my cock so well. Letting me use you like this. Fuck, I needed this. Needed to feel like I can still make you feel good. Still make you mine.”

You whimpered, pushing back to meet his thrusts, and he rewarded you with a particularly deep, grinding stroke that made your knees buckle.

“Tell me you love it,” he breathed hot against your ear. “Tell me you love when I fuck you like this. When I take what’s mine.”

“I love it,” you gasped, cheek pressed to the cool wall. “Love when you fuck me like this, Jude. Love being yours.”

He let out a long moan and wrapped a strong arm around your waist, pulling you back against him so he could thrust even deeper. His free hand slid between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, gentle circles.

The difference between his relentless thrusts, but slow and gentle hands made your vision start to cloud white with stars already. “J-Jude I’m gonna come–”

“No you’re not, baby,” he rasped, slowing his hips enough to tease you. “Not until I tell you to. Hold it for me. Good girl… fuck, you squeeze me so tight when you get close. You’re so fucking wet for me.”

“Please–” you whimpered, thighs trembling.

“Nuh-uh. Not allowed until I get to come with you,” he murmured, sucking on your neck. “You’re gonna hold it for me, aren’t you, angel?”

You nodded frantically, trying desperately to hold off your climax by squeezing your eyes shut. He gave you a small mercy, pulling his fingers away from between your legs and bringing them up to your lips instead.

“Open, baby. Taste yourself for me.”

You obeyed instantly, parting your lips and sucking his fingers into your mouth, moaning around them as his hips sped back up to the punishing pace. The taste of yourself on his skin only made everything feel more intense.

“Fuckin’ hell… just like that, baby,” he moaned, tilting his head to watch your pretty lips envelope his fingers. “Look at you. Sucking my fingers while I fuck you against the wall. My perfect girl.”

The sounds he was making, the low and desperate groans and breathy curses, were not making it any easier to hold back. You whimpered, opening your eyes to give him a pleading look. He exhaled through his nose as he bit his lip, eyes rolling back slightly, the look on your face nearly sending him hurtling towards his own orgasm. He suddenly pulled out, spinning you around to face him. Before you could protest, he kissed you hard, tongue sliding against yours as he lifted you up, pressing your back to the wall again.

“My beautiful girl is gonna make me come too quick,” he murmured against your lips, a dark chuckle vibrating through him. “Especially if you keep looking at me like that. We’re gonna change position so I can hold it a little longer. Yeah, angel?”

He spoke to you slowly like you were stupid, and you were, you suppose considering he’d just fucked you dumb against the wall. Normally you’d fight back, push against the power play because he loved when you were bratty, but that wasn’t what he needed tonight. He wanted complete submission, and you’d give him anything he wanted.

“P-please,” you whined, chasing his mouth when he pulled back slightly, hands clutching at his biceps. “Need you back inside me, Jude…”

“Oh, my needy little baby,” he smirked wickedly, nuzzling his nose against yours, eyes still burning with a mix of frustration and hunger. His hand smoothed up your arm, and wrapped loosely around your throat. “Open your mouth for me,” he whispered. You parted your lips straight away at his command, tongue out, eyes locked on his. His gaze darkened, pupils blown wide as he looked at you, waiting for him. He leaned in closer, hovering above you, and let a slow, thick string of spit fall from his mouth onto your waiting tongue. You moaned softly as it landed and swallowed it down without hesitation, eyes never leaving his.

Jude groaned deeply as his thumb stroked up and down your throat, feeling you swallow.

“Fuck… that’s my good girl,” he praised, voice hoarse. “Swallowing for me so pretty. You’d take anything I give you, wouldn’t you?”

You nodded, lips still parted, breathing a little faster. 

“I want all your clothes off. Get on all fours on the bed. Now.”

You nodded again, still too drunk on submission to speak, stripping off your T-shirt and bra as fast as you could. Jude kicked his joggers and boxers off, throwing his own T-shirt across the room. He was leaking as he stroked himself slowly, watching you climb onto the bed.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his voice softer than it was before. “Can’t believe you’re all mine sometimes. Look at you… arching that pretty back for me already.”

The second you were on all fours, you automatically arched deeper for him, presenting yourself. Jude climbed onto the bed behind you, leaning down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine. His big hands settled on your hips, squeezing gently as he lined himself up. You were trembling with need now, feeling cold and empty without him inside you.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, dragging the thick head of his cock through your soaked, oversensitive heat again. “You love when I use you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, pushing back against him desperately.

He didn’t make you wait this time. In one powerful thrust he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you open again so suddenly you cried out louder than before. Jude moaned loudly, the sound almost animalistic as he bottomed out.

“Fuck– so tight. So fucking good,” he growled, pulling back almost all the way before slamming back in. His pace was brutal from the start – deep, hard thrusts that rocked your entire body forward with every snap of his hips. The sound of the headboard hitting the wall echoed through the room.

He reached forward, fisting your hair and pulling your head back to arch your back more.

“Scream my name, baby,” he demanded. “Want to hear you. Want the whole fucking hotel to know who’s fucking you this good.”

“Jude– oh my god, Jude!” you cried out as he hit the specific spot inside you over and over. He knew your body better than you did. You could’ve sworn you could feel him in your stomach.

“That’s it. Louder. Let me hear how much you love my cock,” he groaned, one hand coming down hard on your ass with a sharp smack. The sting made you clench around him, and he moaned loudly. “Fuck yes. Again.”

He spanked you again, harder this time, the sound echoing as he kept pounding into you relentlessly.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice breaking with pleasure. “Say it. Tell me who this pussy belongs to again while I fuck you stupid.”

“It’s yours!” you sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure spilling down your cheeks. “It’s yours, Jude– only yours– fuck!”

He let out a wrecked moan and leaned over you, chest pressed to your back as he fucked you even deeper, one arm wrapped around your waist to hold you in place while his other hand reached down to rub your clit again in tight, fast circles.

“Come for me,” he ordered, rough and desperate. “Come on my cock like the good little slut you are for me. Let me feel you. Scream my fucking name when you do.”

You shattered hard, screaming his name as your orgasm crashed through you, walls clenching violently around him. Jude fucked you through it, hips never stopping, groaning loudly as your climax milked him.

“Fuck– that’s my girl. So good. So fucking good for me,” he panted, voice breaking with pleasure. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna come so deep inside you. You’re gonna take every drop, yeah?”

“Yes– please, Jude– please come inside me,” you begged weakly, still shaking from your orgasm.

With a final, deep thrust and a loud, broken moan of your name, Jude came hard, burying himself as deep as possible as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering with the force of it. He kept grinding through it, like he couldn’t bear to stop, whispering filthy praise against your ear the whole time.

When he finally stilled, he stayed buried deep inside you, chest heaving against your back, arms wrapped tightly around you as he pressed soft, reverent kisses along your shoulder.

“God… I  fucking love you,” he whispered, his voice shaky. 

“I love you too baby,” you manage to get out, body feeling limp and hazy with the come down. 

The switch happened so quickly you could barely keep up. The anger drained out of him at once, probably with his orgasm, you’d tease him later when you spoke about it. All Jude felt when he heard your soft voice was exhaustion and a sudden wave of nauseating worry. He carefully pulled out, a soft hiss escaping both of you, and immediately turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. His hands were gentle now, too gentle, as he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, voice cracking. His eyes were wide, searching your face desperately. He was so expressive with his face, eyebrows furrowing in the sweetest way. “Baby, tell me the truth. Was I too rough? I didn’t mean to– fuck, I was so angry and I just… I needed you so bad.”

You shook your head, still catching your breath, but he was already looking you over, hands sliding down your body with careful tenderness. He turned you slightly, eyes scanning your hips, your ass, the places he’d gripped hard.

“Shit… there’s marks,” he whispered, sounding devastated as his fingers traced the faint red imprints of his hands on your hips and the light handprint on your ass. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be that rough. This time it wasn’t just…it wasn’t just dominance or playing. I was actually angry and I took it out on you and I–”

“Jude,” you said softly, cupping his face to stop his spiral. He looked up and met your eyes, bottom lip between his teeth with worry. “I’m okay. I wanted it. I wanted you. You didn’t hurt me. You’ve been more rough before, you’ve left marks on me before. Don’t worry. You’re okay…I'm okay..”

He still looked torn, eyes glassy again but this time with guilt instead of rage. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it was almost crushing, burying his face in your neck like he could hide from what he’d just done.

“I know I’ve been rough with you before,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice shaking. “But that’s always been… playing. Power play and acting and shit. This time it was real. I was actually angry and frustrated and I took it out on your body and I– fuck, I’m scared I hurt you because I couldn’t control it. I never want you to feel like you have to take my bad days. I’d never hurt you just because I’m upset or angry. You’re the one person who makes everything better and I just used you like that and I feel sick about it.”

You stroked his back slowly, pressing soft kisses to his temple and the side of his head.

“Jude, listen to me,” you whispered. “I wanted it. I wanted all of you – the anger, the need, everything. You didn’t use me. You let me be there for you in any way I could. And I’m okay. I promise. You know I like it when you act like that.”

He made a small, upset sound and held you even tighter, legs tangling with yours as he pulled you fully on top of him. His hands roamed gently over your body now, soothingly checking every place he’d been rough, pressing soft kisses wherever his fingers found faint marks.

“I’m sorry,” he kept whispering between kisses. “I’m so sorry, baby. I love you. I love you so much. You’re everything to me.”

You kept holding him, fingers running through his hair, letting him cling to you until the guilt slowly started to ease and he could finally breathe again. He eventually settled with his face buried back in your neck, breathing you in like you were oxygen, one hand still gently rubbing your hip where he’d gripped you earlier.

“Stay like this,” he murmured. “Don’t let go. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I love you, you’re okay Jude.” He let out a long, shaky breath, finally relaxing completely in your arms. "I love you more," he whispered, voice slurring with sleep. "M'sorry baby..."

He was still feeling bad about how rough he was. In reality, you think it could've been the best sex you'd ever had. You were going to tell him that, but the change in his breathing told you he'd already fallen asleep. You press one last gentle kiss to his forehead, "there's nothing to be sorry for, my love."

tags: @chabelitalace @thesizzler @hvnsinureyes @harryskissies (let me know if u want to be added/removed from the taglist)

“I’m not shaking” you lied even though your thigh was flexing against his hand. You shifted in your seat, trying closing your legs to avoid the heat pooling from his touch but his leg was in the way. You didn’t want give him the satisfaction of watching you squirm around like that, but when his hand crept up even higher, you bit back a gasp. “I’m g-good,” you repeated with twitching legs from the feathery light feeling of his fingertips.

Jude tilted his head up with a cocky smirk, searching your eyes to catch you in your lie. “Yeah? You sure about that?” He squeezed your thigh and rested his hand right below the spot he wanted to touch the most, making you glare from his confidence.

“What point are you trying to make Jude?”

“My point is…” he began while dragging his hand back down to tease you. “You’re sitting there acting like you don’t want me but we both know you do.”

You were crumbling faster than you wanted to, so you scoffed a laugh to mask wanting to hop on him right then and there. “What???”

“You heard me. Stop pretending and come here.” Jude came in closer and trailed his lips over your neck, making you lean into it while you bit your lip.

“We’re in a car…” you answered just as Jude scraped his teeth over the pulse point on your neck, making you whimper in response. Having decorum was your plan, but something about being drunk after a night of dancing with Jude in the club had you ready to risk it all.

“Never cared” He leaned back just enough to look at you and you swore he was undressing you with his eyes. Once you saw him wet his lips with his tongue and drop his eyes to where your dress rode up, you knew you were done for. In one swift motion, he gripped your hips and pulled you to straddle his lap before you could push back. Your knees hit the plush leather and he smirked at you while trailing his hands down to rest on your ass. “If you don’t want it, tell me. Use your words.”

You definitely wanted it now, so you stayed hush which satisfied Jude but also pushed him to tease you even further. His large palms gripped the cheeks of your ass to pull you against him and your head dipped back in a mix of frustration and arousal. “You’re so cocky.”

“Say that again,” Jude laughed, pressing you tighter against him so you could feel how hard he was for you. The contact made you stifle a moan and clench your thighs against his instinctively. “Say it while you’re grinding on me like this.” He shifted his hips under you to press his cock against your core, making you dig your fingers into his shirt while he guided your movements with his hands. “You thought you had it under control tonight and now look at you.”

“I-” you wanted to fire back, but his hand dipped under your dress to trail the edge of your panties, making you jerk into his hand out of pure desperation.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He gripped the sides of your neck and pulled you into him for a kiss that was all tongue and love bites on the bottom lip. When he finally pulled back to catch your dazed expression, he brushed his thumb over your lips with a sinister grin on his face. “You’re soaking my jeans, angel. You need it that bad?” The cocky lilt in his voice set you on fire and you wrapped your lips around Jude’s thumb to give him a sneak peek of what was to come. He sucked in a breath and took his thumb from your mouth to pull the top of your dress down, making your boobs spring free. 

“Fuck. Such pretty, perfect tits,” he whispered while raking over your chest in appreciation. His mouth latched onto your nipple and you arched toward him, gripping the back of his head. He swirled his tongue around, lightly biting the sensitive bud.

“Shit” you gasped from the sting, clencing your thighs tighter around him to grind down while his other hand squeezed and kneaded your other boob.

“You’re so beautiful” he spoke against your skin, switching to your other nipple with the same greed and tugging it between his teeth just to hear you hiss. “And you’re making the sweetest fucking noises for me.” When Jude finally pulled back to look you in the eye, his pupils were blown with hunger. “We can keep going here,” he muttered, still kneading your chest, “but I’d rather fuck you properly in my bed.”

“You sure you can handle me for that long?” you quipped while grazing your hand over his hard-on.

“Keep chatting shit and I’ll show you how long I can go.”

Jude lifted you off his lap and signalled for the driver to drive faster while you sat back in your seat bewildered. He was acting like he hadn’t just been latched onto you like a starved man while you sat down with Niagra Falls between your legs. The ride back to his place was filled with heavy breathing and teasing touches that had you ready to snap, but when you finally arrived at his house, he seemed to be in more of a rush than you did. Jude barely gave you time to take in the size of his place before he was opening the door and leading you inside with him. The second the front door closed, his hands were back on you. “Let me show you around,” he teased, pretending to be polite when in reality he really wanted to put you through the mattress. He kissed the corner of your jaw and moved his lips to your ear, nibbling. “Or I can show you around after I ruin you?”

You fumbled with the button of his jeans, eventually unzipping them to grab his dick right through his briefs. “I think we both know the answer to that question.”

Jude groaned, forcing himself to step back. His hand wrapped around your wrist as he led you through the house. “Bedroom’s this way,” he said as if you had any fucks to give besides the one he was about to give you. You didn’t care where the bedroom was, you would’ve taken it against the front door or even the stairs but you didn’t want to seem too eager after your hard-to-get performance at the club. When you made it to his room, you were barely holding it together when he pulled his shirt over his head to reveal his muscled, shirtless body. His jeans came off next and he pulled the bottom hem of his briefs up to show off his thighs and massive bulge. It made you shake your head because you saw him do the same thing at some of his matches when he wanted to tease his fans, but this was just for you.

You couldn’t pull your eyes away.

“Like what you see?” Jude smirked. His briefs joined his jeans on the floor and your jaw opened from the shock. You heard he was big but seeing his dick in front of you made you audibly gasp. It was thick, heavy, and had its own gravitational pull. It swung toward you with each step he took forward and you couldn’t stop yourself from squeezing your legs together. Jude caught the shift immediately and reached for you. “What’s wrong, angel? Don’t tell me you’re scared now.”

You swallowed hard, trying to get it together. “Please. I’m not scared.”

“Good.” He grabbed your neck gently and brushed his thumb under your jaw as he tilted your head to look up at him. “Take this dress off.”

“Take it off me.”

You weren’t boldly challenging him in the way you thought you were. Jude didn’t need to be told twice and took the dress off of you in a quickness, leaving you only in your soaked panties. “Look at you,” he muttered in appreciation. “So fucking gorgeous. Let’s see how ready you are for me.” His hand slid up your thighs and he spread them for you, kissing his way to your core. He hummed when he saw the wet patch on your panties and dragged his thumb over it with enough pressure to make you whimper. “You’re so wet” he cooed with awe. Jude had to peel your panties off of you because you were so wet they clung. When his finger slid inside of you, your eyes rolled back from the fullness. If he had you like this from one finger, you had no idea how you were going to react from his dick. Jude smiled as he watched your face contort, then he added another finger in. “You gotta open up more for me baby. I don’t want to hurt you. Relax for me.”

The way he softened his dominance to make sure you were ready somehow made you even hornier, and you grinded against his fingers already a mess from his touch. Jude had you hanging on by a thread from the way he thrusting his fingers inside of you. Every time you clenched around him, your hips bucked in a pathetic attempt to make yourself cum, but everytime you were about to, he’d pull his hand back and leave you gasping for air while kissing the inside of your thigh to soothe the ache.

“Jude” you whined, barely able to breathe from how good it felt.

“Shhh, don’t start begging now. Took you long enough to answer me so I’m gonna take my time with you.” He kept you spread for him and trailed his lips closer to your pussy, yet not close enough for what you wanted. You were a goner and he was loving every second of it.

“Pleaseee,” you begged while squirming around from the heightened sensation of his warm breath between your legs.

Jude tilted his head, smirking against your skin as he kissed higher and skimmed the edge of your folds with his lips. “More?”

You nodded frantically, grabbing at his head to pull him down but he was stronger than you so you had to settle for begging now that he was in control. “Jude please. I need your tongue.” As soon as you said it, he flicked his tongue out with one long stripe between your lips, making you clench your thighs against him. He wrapped his arms on your thighs and slurped between them, teasing your clit with light suction and rhythmic licks while you pushed up against his tongue. He refused to let you cum and pulled away just as your moans pitched higher. “Why are you like this? Just fuck me please.” you begged, gripping his wrist in an effort to pull him back to you to no avail. You fed his ego to fullness with the stark contrast of yourself at the club and between your begging, he grabbed a condom and slid it down his shaft.

“You ready?” he coaxed, spreading your folds with both his thumbs. You moaned a ‘yes’ which made him smirk, lick over his lips, and spit on your clit as a silent way to claim your pussy as his. When he tapped his tip against your clit to mix his saliva with your wetness, you clenched around nothing, fueling you to take matters into your own hands. You reached down to grab his cock while biting your lip, slowly guiding him inside of you. 

But then your phone rang.

“Answer it” he grinned, even as his dick twitched from your touch.

You looked at him dumbfounded. “What?”

“I said answer it. Right now.” Jude leaned down and brushed his lips on yours, but then he pulled back. He was beating you at your own game now and it had you dizzy with lust while he reached over and handed you your phone.

Your hand shook as you swiped the screen. “H-hello?”

“Did you guys fuck yet?” Bri’s voice loudly came in through the phone, making you wince. “On a scale of 1 to 10 how was it? Was it everything you imagined? Does he eat it off the bone?? Is the girth to length ratio good? I need to know everything girl.”

You were barely paying attention to her questions while you watched Jude place your legs on his shoulders. He dragged his dick through your folds and rubbed his tip against your clit, making you open your mouth.

“Well?!” Bri’s impatient voice snapped you back to the phone.

Jude pressed his tip inside of you, stretching you out and making you quietly mouth a ‘oh my god’ at him with creased brows. 

“Y/N?? Hello?”

“Uh–I–yeah it’s good.” you managed in a shaky voice just as Jude pushed in a little more with a smirk. “Sooo good.”

“And?!” Tasha’s voice chimed in way too clear, making you realize you were on speaker.

“And…” Your voice broke into a sharp gasp just as he gave you a teasing thrust to keep you on edge.

“Wait, is he still there?!” Bri gasped. “Because you’re not really giving us a proper dick report. What about aftercare? Is he a cuddle after kind of guy or did he already call your Uber? He seems like the cuddle type honestly.”

Jude leaned in, loud enough for them to hear over the phone. “Tell them you’re busy.”

“Y-yeah,” you stammered as he pulled out slightly, only to slide back in deeper. “I’m–um..really – oh fuck – busy. Very. Busy.”

“Was that him?!”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, looking up at him as he rubbed his thumb against your clit. He was pushing you closer and closer to orgasm, making your vision blur from pleasure. 

“I can’t” you whimpered quietly as he continued to thrust slow enough to keep you hanging on by a thread.. “I-I’ll call back later.”

“Yeah, she’s still working on the report.” Jude called out, even louder this time. He slid out of you and turned you on your knees, making you arch your back before deep stroking back in with a smack to your ass just as he pressed the end call button. You buried your face in a pillow to muffle your moans when he started hitting a spot that had you squelching into a wet mess on your thighs. 

“Jude, Jude, Jude,” you repeated in a chant, grasping at the sheets beneath you. “Deeper.” A dick like his wasn’t something you got to have often, so you were going to indulge, even if it did seem a little greedy to have him fill you completely. He pulled out slowly for you to feel every bit of him, then he gave you deep, calculated strokes with his balls slapping against you for extra sensation. You felt him smack your ass and you arched your back more to throw some back shots of your own.

“That’s it, angel. Keep fucking me back.”

Jude slid his hand between your legs to massage your clit and your legs shook from the feeling. You didn’t know if you wanted to cum, cry, scream, or beg so you gripped his wrist instead, squirming. “I’m..I– oh god.” 

“So fucking good for me. I need to feel you cum on my dick.” The roles flipped. Jude’s arousal was being fueled by your sounds and now he was begging for you; the way he sounded while talking to you spurred you on.

“Don’t stop talking.” you moaned, throwing it back heavier on him. 

“Yeah?” He smacked your ass loudly. “Now you don’t want me to stop talking?” With another deep thrust, he felt you begin to flutter around him and he held your hips down to push you into the mattress. “You gonna cum for me?” You nodded as best as you could with your face pressed against the sheets, strangling out a moan.

“Tell me.” He demanded, feeling your muscles choke his cock with a tight grip.

“I’m gonna cum. Just for you, all for you.” you whined between the sounds of his skin meeting yours. 

“Give it to me then. Let me feel it baby.” In a quick motion, Jude wrapped his arm around your waist to pull you against his chest. He gripped your neck, turning your head toward his lips while peppering kisses on your jawline. “You can’t believe you waited so long for this, huh? Such a good girl now.”

The moan that came out of you after he said that could only be described as pornographic. You clenched around him, flying higher and higher until your body shook against him from the intensity of your orgasm. He held his grip on you, talking you through it while telling you how sexy you sounded coming undone. Once you finally came down to earth again, he released his grip on you, making you fall against the mattress, shaking from orgasm aftershocks.

Jude removed the condom and rubbed your back, laughing at your predicament. “You okay?”

His laugh irritated you so you rolled over and sat up with a nod. “I’m fine. But you didn’t cum?” Your eyes shot down to his dick that was drooling with small beads of precum leaking onto the sheets. You trailed kisses from his thigh vein to the tip of his dick, pampering it with soft, short kisses while he twitched in your hand. 

“I thought I’d give you a break.” Jude saw you look up at him through your lashes and he licked his lips, caressing underneath your chin while you continued to tease him. “You clearly don’t want one though, huh?”

You answered by running your tongue along the vein of his dick, licking from base to tip in one long stroke. Jude’s head tipped back with a groan when you wrapped your lips around him, sucking just enough to make him flex toward you. His fingers tightened on your hair, guiding your movements while you took him deeper, choking a little when his tip grazed the back of your throat.

“Goddamn Y/N” he threw his head back in shock, but then quickly looked back at you because he couldn’t get enough of the sight. “Don’t stop.” Your tongue swirled around the tip as you pulled him out of your mouth enough to twist your hand around the base. Jude groaned, breathing heavily to hold on to the feeling for as long as possible. “Shit... do that again.” His voice was low but needy. You unhinged your jaw and took him deeper, swallowing to tighten your throat around his cock. Jude’s breathing got heavier and his hips thrusted involuntarily into your mouth for more. You started to feel him pulsing against your tongue as he strengthened his grip around the back of your head. “Stay right there and taste it angel.”

You swallowed around him again, milking him for everything he had while you massaged his balls. When you finally pulled off of him, his chest was heaving, he was sweaty and his eyes were half open while looking down at you. “Your head game is mad dangerous…” Jude leaned back to prop himself up on the headboard and pulled you in a straddle on top of him. 

“Is it?” you giggled as he gripped your ass to pull you just above his dick, which was starting to get hard again. When you felt him, you realized you were in for a treat. Jude’s refractory period was damn near nonexistent and the more you kissed, the harder you felt him get beneath you. When he finally pulled back, you were out of breath and riled up all over again. “Round two?” he asked, tapping himself against your folds. You nodded and he grabbed another condom, ready for a long night of ‘meeting your standards’ now that he was outside of your DMs and inside of you.

The next morning, you winced from the sunlight and cracked an eye open – only to be greeted by a room that looked nothing like yours. You shifted around, groaning quietly against the weight of Jude’s arm wrapped around you with his chest pressed against your back.

“Wait. What?”

Scattered condom wrappers were all over the floor. You froze, thinking in a daze while the puzzle pieces of last night came together in your mind. The club, the drinks, an answered DM, and Jude Bellingham. You turned your head to make sure you weren’t imagining things and sure enough, he was laid up next to you with a stupid smug smile on his face even in his sleep.

“Wait..did I– oh my god, I did.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” you muttered, scrambling to grab your phone from somewhere in the tangled sheets. You found it buried under a pillow, unlocked it, and opened Instagram. Your stomach dropped. At the top your feed was a still image of you in the club with Jude.

“It’s been like–what? Six hours? How are these people so fast??” You rubbed your hands over your face but it did nothing to undo the situation. You checked your messages and opened your group chat:

Bri: goooood morninggg to the latest star of Bellingham Baddies! i hope the D was worth it babe. i tried to defend you but they kinda ate me up too!!

Tasha: no bc why’d someone make an entire thread about you following jobe but not jude?? i’m sorry but i laughed

You groaned, wincing from your hangover as the text notifications kept going off.

Bri: she’s 100% regretting her life decisions right now

You glanced at Jude who was stirring awake. He gave you a lazy smile and kissed you. “Why are you up so early? C’mere.” he hummed against your skin, pulling you into him. You wanted to be mad at him but when he kissed your neck, mumbling, “Don’t leave yet. Need you to stay here a little longer with me,” you sunk right back into him like you did the night before, biting back a smile. You texted your group chat while Jude continued to scatter kisses across your skin.

You: No. 100% worth it.

You locked your phone and faced Jude who was grinning wide and had his eyes half closed from hangover grogginess.

the stadium lights are blinding, a neon haze that turns the pitch into a stage, but you don’t care about the roar of the crowd or the tactical formation. you’re here for one reason: jude.

you’ve spent the last year perfecting the art of the chase—flickering between hotel lobbies and vip lounges, catching the eyes of men who think they hold the world in their boots. for you, these high-profile encounters are just stories waiting to be written in the dark, a collection of fleeting moments with the famous and the untouchable. but jude is different. he isn't just another name on a guest list; he’s the obsession that keeps you up at 3 a.m.

the air is thick with the scent of damp grass and expensive cologne as you lean against the railing of the player’s tunnel. you look impeccable—a calculated, effortless display of allure that usually leaves athletes stumbling over their words. when he finally trots onto the pitch for the warm-up, the sound of thousands of voices vanishes for you. he looks lethal in that england kit, his focus absolute, his movements sharp enough to cut through the tension in your chest.

as he turns toward your side of the pitch, you catch that brief, intense flicker of recognition in his eyes before he turns back to the ball. the game hasn't even started yet, but you can feel it—the thrill of the hunt, the promise of a dangerous night, and the silent realization that tonight, you are the only thing that matters in his peripheral vision.

the game is a blur of motion and color, but for you, the world has narrowed down to a single frame: the way he commands the pitch. every time the ball finds his feet, the stadium seems to hold its breath. you watch the muscles in his legs coil and release, his grace under pressure nothing short of mesmerizing. he isn’t just playing football; he’s performing, every touch calculated, every turn a display of raw, magnetic power.

he is devastatingly beautiful, his presence radiating a confidence that makes the thousands watching feel like he’s playing for them alone. you track the sheen of sweat on his skin, the intense, hooded look in his eyes as he scans the field, and the way he brushes his hair back with a quick, impatient flick of his hand. it’s an effortless kind of attraction—the way he holds himself, the authority in his gestures, the way he celebrates a goal with that familiar, iconic stance that stops your heart in your throat.

you find yourself ignoring the rest of the match entirely. you don’t care about the score or the opposing team; you are feeding on the sight of him. his talent is intoxicating, but it’s his sheer, unapologetic allure that has you completely hooked. he’s lethal, elegant, and impossibly desirable, and with every passing minute of the game, the desire to have that focus—that intensity—turned entirely on you becomes a physical ache. you aren't just watching him; you are studying him, cataloging every detail, waiting for the moment when the final whistle blows and you can finally make your move.

you know the rhythm of this game better than anyone. as the final minutes tick away, you don't stay to watch the celebration on the pitch; you’re already moving, slipping away from your seat before the crowd can even think about surging toward the exits.

your heels click softly against the cold concrete of the stadium’s bowels, a sound drowned out by the muffled roar above. you aren't just another fan; you move with the kind of practiced, unbothered confidence that makes security guards look the other way. a knowing nod, a strategic flash of a pass you didn't technically earn, and you’re weaving through the labyrinthine corridors. you navigate the maze of staff, photographers, and media personnel, your presence so seamless it’s practically invisible.

you find your spot—that golden, restricted passage where the players have to pass before they can retreat to the sanctuary of the dressing room. it’s a tight, industrial space, smelling of stale air and adrenaline. there’s a small group of journalists nearby, clutching their microphones like weapons, but you’re positioned just perfectly, tucked into the shadows of a reinforced door frame.

your heart is drumming a chaotic rhythm against your ribs, not from nerves, but from the thrill of the maneuver. you’ve played this scene out a dozen times before, but this time feels heavy, electric. you adjust your jacket, catching your reflection in a darkened glass panel—you look cool, collected, and entirely intentional. the stadium is echoing with the final whistle now, and the sound of heavy footsteps approaching sends a jolt of static through the air. he’s coming. you lean back, crossing your arms, waiting for the exact moment the tunnel lights reveal him, knowing that when he walks past, you won't be just another face in the crowd. you’ll be the only thing he stops for.

the tunnel erupts in a cacophony of echoes—cheers, footsteps, and the relentless flash of cameras. when he emerges, he’s still buzzing with the adrenaline of the win, his england jersey damp against his skin. he handles the journalists with a practiced, charming ease, answering questions with that low, melodic drawl you’ve replayed in your head a thousand times.

then, the chaos shifts. he starts moving down the line, signing shirts and posing for quick snaps. your pulse is a frantic drumbeat, but your exterior is a masterpiece of cool. as he gets closer, the air around him feels charged, almost heavy.

when he finally reaches you, the world seems to sharpen into high definition. you extend your hand, offering the photo and a pen, your movements slow and deliberate. he stops. his eyes dart from the paper to your face, and then back again—a flicker of genuine, unguarded surprise crossing his features. it’s as if he didn't expect to find someone quite like you tucked away in this sterile, industrial corridor.

you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into his space, and deliver your line with a voice that is honey-smooth and perfectly measured. "you were incredible tonight, jude," you say, your smile soft and knowing. "i’ve been waiting all match for this."

the effect is immediate. the effortless, public-facing composure he’s maintained all night wavers. his eyebrows knit together for a split second, a look of fleeting disorientation, as if he’s trying to place why you feel so familiar, or perhaps, why you don't feel like the rest of the fans at all.

but then, the tension breaks. he lets out a short, surprised laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looks at you properly, really seeing you. he doesn't just scribble his name; he takes a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile turning warm and unmistakably curious.

"thank you," he says, his voice a little lower, a little more intimate than it was for the others. he’s clearly a bit thrown off, off-balance in the best possible way, but he holds your gaze, completely disarmed by your presence. "i appreciate that. truly."

he hands the photo back, his fingers brushing against yours, and for a fleeting, delicious second, he doesn't pull away. the game is over, but the real show is just beginning.

you hold his gaze just a second longer than necessary, your expression shifting from simple admiration to something far more intimate, far more dangerous. you let your eyes trace the line of his jaw before locking back onto his, a slow, deliberate play of power.

"i'm a huge fan," you murmur, your voice dropping into that sweet, velvety register that makes him instinctively lean in, even if just by a fraction of an inch. "but i think we both know that goes without saying, don't we?"

the air between you hums with the unspoken. you watch the flicker of realization cross his face—that you aren't playing by the rules of a normal fan interaction. you aren't asking for a selfie, you aren't begging for attention; you are setting a trap, and he’s realized, a second too late, that he’s already halfway inside it.

"thank you, jude," you say, your voice barely a whisper, soft and lingering.

without waiting for him to find his footing, you pull your hand back and pivot, turning your back to him with the grace of a predator who knows exactly when to walk away. you walk down the concrete corridor with a measured, rhythmic stride, your hips swaying just enough to hold his attention, your posture perfectly arched.

you can feel his eyes on you—heavy, intense, and utterly bewildered. he’s standing there, frozen for a heartbeat, his hand still lingering in the air where he had just signed your photo. he’s not used to being the one left behind, and he’s certainly not used to someone leaving him speechless in a tunnel full of people.

as you reach the turn of the hallway, you pause. you don't stop walking, but you tilt your head back over your shoulder, offering him one final, knowing smile—the kind that promises everything and gives away nothing. you see his lips part, a silent question forming on his tongue, but you’re already rounding the corner, leaving him anchored to the spot, completely unsettled by your sudden, intoxicating disappearance.

the silence in the corridor after you disappear feels heavier than the noise that preceded it. jude stands frozen for a beat too long, his eyes still fixed on the empty space where you just were, his mind rewinding the last thirty seconds.

"who was that?"

the voice of a teammate—sharp, amused, and laced with curiosity—cuts through his daze. jude blinks, his focus snapping back to the reality of the stadium tunnel. he looks toward the other player, a faint, perplexed frown creasing his brow as he shakes his head, his fingers subconsciously rubbing against the spot on his palm where they’d brushed against yours.

"i have absolutely no idea," jude replies, his voice steady but betraying a trace of lingering disbelief. there’s a strange, kinetic energy still prickling his skin, a lingering sense of being completely caught off guard by someone he didn't even know existed a minute ago.

the reality of his situation hits him then. he’s surrounded by a throng of waiting fans, cameras are still clicking, and the line behind him is growing restless. he takes a deep, grounding breath, forcing his composure back into place. he has to finish this—the jerseys, the pens, the relentless parade of faces—but every name he signs and every handshake he offers feels mechanical, forced, and hollow compared to the electricity of that brief, strange encounter.

he keeps glancing toward the corner you rounded, his eyes searching the shadows, his mind busy trying to reconcile the professional footballer he’s expected to be with the man who just had his world momentarily tilted off its axis by a girl who didn't even leave her name.

the satisfaction is a slow burn in your chest as you settle into the designated area near the training pitch. a few days have passed, but the look on his face in that corridor hasn't faded from your mind. you know how this game is played—persistence is just another form of seduction. you’ve secured your spot among the media crew, dressed with an effortless, casual chic that screams 'off-duty' while still demanding every ounce of focus from anyone who happens to look your way.

the air is crisp, filled with the sharp sound of cleats hitting the turf and the rhythmic thud of footballs being kicked across the field. you aren't trying to hide; in fact, you’re positioned exactly where he’s bound to see you.

as the players emerge from the facility, spilling onto the green in a wave of motion and chatter, you don't track them. you don't even scan the group. you just watch the pitch, your posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.

the recognition is instantaneous.

as jude jogs toward the center of the pitch, his conversation with a teammate abruptly dies in his throat. his head snaps toward the sidelines, his stride faltering for a split second before he regains his rhythm. his eyes lock onto yours, and you can practically see the jolt of surprise—and something deeper, something far more intense—hit him. he doesn't break eye contact. even as he starts his light warm-up drills, he’s constantly checking back to your position, his movements suddenly carrying a different kind of energy. he’s not just practicing anymore; he’s performing, and the stage is now small enough that he knows you’re the only audience member that actually counts.

he doesn't wave, and he doesn't smile—not yet. he just stares, his gaze dark and unreadable, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re a hallucination or the most dangerous thing to happen to his training routine. you lean back, enjoying the way his focus has completely shattered, knowing exactly why he can't look away.

the training session is a masterclass in unintentional chaos, and you are the reason for it. it’s amusing—delightfully so—to watch a man who usually operates with such clinical, machine-like focus on the pitch turn into someone who can barely track the ball.

every time the ball rolls near his feet, his eyes flick toward the sidelines, checking to see if you’re still there, if you’re still watching. he’s lost his rhythm, overthinking his touches, and stumbling over his own feet in ways that would usually earn him a stern look from his teammates. his coach is already starting to notice, barking out orders to "stay focused" and "get your head in the game," but jude just wipes the sweat from his forehead with his jersey, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and pure, helpless fascination.

you sit there, perfectly still, enjoying the quiet power of it. you aren't shouting his name or waving like the other fans who are hovering in the distance. you just watch him with that same calm, enigmatic smile you gave him in the tunnel. the more you ignore his attempts to catch your attention, the more desperate his efforts become. he tries to show off, launching a long-range pass that misses its mark because his focus is pinned on you, not the teammate he’s supposed to be hitting.

it’s intoxicating to hold that kind of sway over someone so iconic. he’s essentially fighting a losing battle against his own distraction. he’s clearly agitated, running a hand through his hair, his chest heaving with exertion, and every few minutes, he glances over—searching for a reaction, a sign, anything.

you see the exact moment he gives up on pretending. he stops mid-drill, hands on his hips, his gaze locking onto yours with a intensity that burns through the distance between you. he isn't even trying to hide it anymore. he looks tired, frustrated, and completely under your spell. you tilt your head slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes, letting him know that you see him seeing you. he doesn't look away, and for a moment, the entire training ground seems to fade into nothing but the two of you, leaving him exposed, unraveling, and absolutely hooked.

as you stand up, brushing off your clothes with deliberate, languid movements, you can see the exact moment his composure snaps. he’s supposed to be listening to a tactical instruction, but his eyes track your every movement—the way you stand, the way you adjust your bag, the way you turn to walk away. he doesn't even wait for the whistle.

he mutters something hasty to his teammate, a vague excuse about the facilities, and peels away from the drill. he isn't walking; he’s hunting.

you’ve already calculated your path. you head toward the quiet, sterile hallway that leads back toward the players' lounge, knowing exactly where the acoustics are best for an encounter. you aren't running, but you aren't lingering, either. you want him to have to work for it.

you hear the sharp, rhythmic slap of his boots against the floor behind you—he’s moving fast, his breathing heavy from the training intensity. just as you reach the corner, his hand catches the frame of the door, his frame blocking the path. he’s flushed, his hair damp and chaotic, his chest rising and falling with a tempo that has nothing to do with fitness.

he stops when he sees you, leaning slightly against the wall, trying to catch his breath. his eyes are wide, searching yours, his professional veneer completely stripped away.

"you," he breathes, the word a mix of accusation and awe. he looks back toward the pitch, then back to you, clearly aware of the risk he’s taking by being here. "you were watching. all of it."

you don’t give him the satisfaction of a direct admission. instead, you lean back against the wall, crossing your arms, and let a slow, mischievous smile curl your lips. you look him up and down—the grass stains on his kit, the raw, unpolished energy of a man who just risked his coach’s wrath for a glimpse of you.

"you seem distracted, jude," you say, your voice soft, honeyed, and dripping with playfulness. "if you’re going to be this bad at your job, maybe you should have stayed on the pitch."

he lets out a low, breathless laugh, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. he steps a fraction closer, invading your space, the heat radiating off his body almost overwhelming. "i think we both know that wasn't my choice," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "you’re playing a dangerous game, you know that?"

you tilt your head, feigning innocence. "am i? i was just watching the best player on the field. is that a crime?"

he brushes a hand through his hair, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and hunger. he knows he’s trapped, and the way his pupils dilate tells you he wouldn't have it any other way. he’s completely yours to toy with now.

"what do you want?" he asks, his voice barely a tremor in the quiet hallway.

you take a slow step toward him, closing the remaining distance until you're inches away. "i think you already know the answer to that, don't you?"

a low, raspy chuckle escapes his throat, but it lacks any real conviction. he shifts his weight, leaning one arm against the wall right beside your head, effectively boxing you into the corner. he’s trying to hold onto his defenses, but the way his gaze sweeps over your face—searching for any sign that you’re bluffing—gives him away.

"i have a girlfriend," he says, the words clipped and defensive. he says it like a shield, but his eyes tell a different story.

you don't even flinch. instead, you let out a light, melodic laugh that echoes against the tiled walls, a sound that clearly unmoors him even further. you reach out, your fingers tracing the edge of his training jersey, letting your hand rest lightly on his chest, right over his racing heart. you can feel the frantic rhythm beneath the fabric—it’s the fastest it’s been all day.

you look up at him through your lashes, your expression dripping with amused confidence. "do you really think i’m naive, jude?" you whisper, your voice a soft, challenging taunt. "because if that were true—if you were truly as settled and content as you want me to believe—you wouldn't be standing here in a deserted hallway, hiding from your coaches, completely out of breath, just to find a girl you barely even know."

you take a deliberate step forward, forcing him to lean back further against the wall. you’re so close now that you can smell the faint, clean scent of his shower gel and the musky reality of his sweat.

"men like you don't chase things they aren't hungry for," you continue, your voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous low. "you didn't come here because you're happy. you came here because you were desperate to see if i was as real as you thought i was."

the amusement drains from his face, replaced by a raw, intense focus. he doesn't pull away; he doesn't even try to lie again. he just watches your lips, his own mouth slightly parted, his breathing hitching as the weight of your words settles between you. the air in the narrow space is suffocatingly thick, and for the first time, he looks absolutely terrified of how easily you’ve dismantled him.

the distance between you vanishes until you are merely a heartbeat away. you can see the precise moment his resolve shatters; his eyes drift from yours to your lips, and he leans in, an instinctive, magnetic pull he no longer has the strength to fight. his posture softens, his hand inches toward your waist, and his breath hitches—he is fully prepared to cross that line, to let the world outside this hallway cease to exist for the sake of one kiss.

you let the anticipation stretch, thick and intoxicating. you can see the pulse at the base of his throat thumping in time with your own. he’s leaning into you, his eyes closing, fully surrendered to the inevitable.

and then, you move.

with a fluidity that feels almost cruel, you slide out of his space just as his lips are about to find their target. the air feels suddenly cold where your warmth had been. he stumbles slightly, his hand grasping at empty air, his eyes flying open in a mixture of confusion and raw, electric shock. he’s left leaning against the wall, chest heaving, looking as though he’s just been jolted awake from a dream.

you don't run; you walk away with that same slow, rhythmic elegance that has been haunting him all afternoon. you don’t look back until you’re ten paces down the hall, your footsteps echoing sharply against the concrete.

when you finally pause, you turn just enough to glance over your shoulder. your expression is cool, composed, and utterly triumphant. his eyes are still locked on you, burning with a frantic, desperate intensity that says he’s completely hooked.

you tilt your head, a soft, parting smile touching your lips—the kind that promises you’re both the prize and the problem.

"bye, jude," you murmur, your voice lingering in the quiet corridor, light as a feather but heavy with consequence.

before he can find his voice, before he can move or call out to stop you, you turn the corner and vanish once more, leaving him standing there in the silence, utterly dismantled.

for the next few days, the training ground becomes a theater of his internal war. jude is no longer the clinical, effortless phenom the team relies on; he is erratic, his mind a thousand miles away from the tactical drills and the coach's whistle.

every time a ball rolls out of bounds, his eyes immediately scan the sidelines, searching the crowd for a flash of your silhouette, a familiar tilt of your head, or the memory of your perfume lingering in the air. he is haunted by the phantom of that touch, the way you dismantled his excuses, and that final, lingering "bye" that seems to echo in his ears during the dead silence of his hotel room at night.

he finds himself asking, without really asking, questions that reveal too much to his teammates. he’ll pause mid-pass, frowning at the turf, wondering: who is she? is she just another face that drifts through the VIP lounge, or is she something else, something intentional? he replays every word you said, analyzing your tone, trying to decipher if you were playing a game or if you were testing him—or worse, if you were right about him all along.

the mystery of you has become his newest obsession. he starts to over-analyze his own life, looking at the life he’s built—the media obligations, the relationship, the relentless expectations—and seeing it through the lens of your dismissive, amused smile. he is a man who is used to being the one in control, the one who dictates the pace of the game, but now, he feels like the one being marked, shadowed, and systematically picked apart.

he catches himself staring off into the distance during team meetings, the coach's voice fading into white noise as he tries to piece together the puzzle of you. he isn't just distracted; he is unraveling. he’s burning with a need to find you again, not because he’s looking for a signature or a photo, but because he needs to know if the power you hold over him is real—or if he’s finally lost his grip on the only world he’s ever known.

every time he closes his eyes, he sees that hallway. he feels the phantom heat of your proximity. and as he laces up his boots for the next session, he knows with a sinking, exhilarating certainty that he’s not looking for a ball anymore; he’s looking for the next time you decide to show up and break his composure all over again.

few days after,

the press room is a buzz of low-frequency chatter, the glare of stage lights reflecting off the water bottles on the table. jude is slouched slightly in his chair, his usual professional mask firmly in place, answering standard questions about the team’s form with practiced, mechanical efficiency. he looks tired, the weight of the last few days of internal conflict showing in the slight tension around his eyes.

then, the moderator points to your section. "next question, front row."

you lean into the microphone, the metallic click of the equipment echoing through the room. "jude," you begin, your voice smooth, melodic, and instantly unmistakable. "considering the pressure of this season, how do you manage to keep your focus when the game takes an unexpected turn?"

at the first syllable, jude freezes. the pen he was fidgeting with drops onto the desk with a sharp clack. he goes rigid, his head snapping toward the audience. for a fleeting, desperate second, he convinces himself it’s just a trick of his mind—a cruel auditory hallucination born from days of obsession. he tells himself there are thousands of people in this city, and it’s impossible for you to be sitting in a room full of accredited press.

but then, the cameras shift, and the view clears. he locks eyes with you.

the air leaves his lungs in a sharp, audible exhale. he is visibly rattled, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable crimson. he doesn't just look surprised; he looks completely blindsided, his composure disintegrating in front of a dozen live cameras. he grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white, his gaze locked onto your face as if he’s trying to confirm you’re solid, real, and actually standing there.

the room falls into a sudden, heavy silence, the other journalists glancing between the two of you, sensing the strange, electric shift in the atmosphere. jude’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. he’s struggling to reconcile the professional reality of the press conference with the chaotic, intimate reality you’ve built between you.

he stares at you, paralyzed, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that the entire room—and the thousands watching online—can almost feel. you hold his gaze, unblinking and perfectly serene, while the man who is supposed to be the most composed player on the pitch looks like he’s just seen a ghost—or the one person he’s been terrified to face.

he clears his throat, the sound rough and forced. he forces his shoulders to drop, dragging his eyes away from yours to stare blankly at the microphones, his fingers gripping his water bottle so tightly his knuckles are white.

"it’s... it’s about perspective," he manages to say, his voice a fraction deeper than usual, straining to keep the tremor out of it. "sometimes the things you least expect are the ones that test your discipline the most. you just have to find a way to... to stay grounded."

it’s a generic, safe answer, but his eyes keep darting back to you, betraying every word. he’s sweating now, a thin sheen on his forehead that the stage lights catch. he’s failing, and he knows it.

you offer him one last, slow smile—the one that sits right on the edge of a secret—and then, without waiting for the follow-up, you tuck your notebook under your arm. you rise with that same fluid, predatory grace, your heels clicking against the floor. you turn your back on him, walking toward the exit of the press room with an air of complete indifference, leaving him mid-sentence as he tries to finish a thought that has already completely evaporated from his mind.

he watches you go, his head tracking your movement until you’re forced out of his line of sight by the heavy double doors. the moderator tries to move to the next question, but jude isn't there anymore. he’s staring at the door, his jaw tight, his leg bouncing nervously under the table.

the moment the moderator utters the words, "that concludes the conference," jude doesn't wait for his pr team to gather the equipment. he stands up with a sudden, sharp motion, muttering a frantic apology to his teammates and the staff.

"gotta go," he says, already moving, his strides long and urgent as he pushes past the photographers and security personnel.

he bursts out of the press room, his eyes scanning the corridor, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. he ignores the calls of the staff behind him, his only focus the sound of those retreating heels. he doesn't know what he's going to say when he catches you, he doesn't know why he’s chasing you again, but he knows one thing for certain: he’s done playing the game by your rules. he’s finally going to corner you.

you’re walking down a dimly lit service hallway when the sharp, heavy rhythm of his gait catches up to you. he’s fast, his chest heaving as he rounds the corner, and before you can even register the sound, he’s blocked your path, his hands bracing against the wall on either side of you. he looks frantic—the kind of look he never wears on the pitch.

"what is this?" he demands, his voice low, sharp, and laced with pure, unadulterated confusion. "how are you here? why are you here? why are you... everywhere?"

the questions spill out of him, tumbling over one another. he’s looking at you like you’re a riddle he’s terrified he won't be able to solve, and for the first time, his professional armor is stripped completely bare. he isn't just asking; he’s pleading for an explanation, for some sense of order in the chaos you’ve introduced to his life.

you don't look intimidated. in fact, you look amused. you watch him with an unhurried, languid gaze, leaning back against the cool tiles until your shoulders brush his arms. you let the silence stretch for a moment, enjoying the way his breathing hitches as he waits for an answer you have no intention of giving him—at least, not yet.

you reach up, your fingers grazing the collar of his jacket, and you smooth it down with a slow, deliberate touch. he flinches at the contact, his eyes tracking your hand with hungry, desperate focus.

"jude," you purr, your voice like liquid velvet, cutting through his frantic energy. you look up at him through your lashes, a teasing, lopsided smile playing on your lips. "breathe."

you let your hand trail down to his chest, feeling the wild, irregular thrum of his heart—a rhythmic betrayal of his composure. you run your thumb over the fabric of his shirt, a small, circular motion that seems to snap his focus entirely to your touch.

"you’re spiraling," you whisper, the sweetness of your tone dripping with a mock-sympathy that only pushes him further toward the edge. "why are you so desperate to understand me? maybe you should spend less time asking questions and more time enjoying the view."

you lean in close, just enough for him to smell the scent of you, your breath feathering against his jawline. he’s frozen, trapped between the urge to back away and the impossible gravity that keeps him locked in your orbit. you tilt your head, a glint of triumph dancing in your eyes as you watch him struggle to regain his footing, completely at the mercy of your game.

"you're so tense, darling," you tease, your voice barely a breath. "do you always get this worked up when you don't know the final score?"

he lets out a sharp, incredulous huff, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that’s almost painful. "is this it?" he asks, his voice dropping into a low, strained register. "is this just your thing? you show up, you haunt the corridors, you get into the press rooms... do you do this with everyone? is every athlete, every celebrity just a target for your little games?"

you don't pull away. instead, you let a soft, melodic laugh escape your throat—a sound that is light, dismissive, and utterly infuriating. you reach up and trace the line of his jaw with a single finger, your touch light as a feather but heavy with implication. you feel him shudder under your contact, the rigid line of his shoulders slackening despite himself.

"you're overthinking it again, jude," you murmur, your eyes sparkling with playful mischief. "why does it matter if i've done it before? does it make what's happening between us right now any less real?"

he stiffens, his grip on the wall tightening. you’ve hit a nerve—he hates that he wants to know, hates that he’s jealous of the idea of you playing this game with anyone else, but more than anything, he hates how little he knows about you. he’s completely paralyzed by the desire to keep standing here, to keep hearing your voice, to keep deciphering the mystery that is you.

"you're impossible," he breathes, his gaze dropping to your mouth and staying there, his frustration warring with a magnetic pull he can no longer deny.

you tilt your head, a triumphant, secretive smile playing on your lips. you can see the conflict raging behind his eyes—he wants to walk away, to go back to his life and the safety of his routine, but he’s rooted to the spot, entirely addicted to the chaos you bring.

"i'm not impossible, jude," you whisper, stepping just a hair closer, letting your chest brush against his. "i'm just the first person who hasn't played by your rules. it’s quite a thrill, isn't it?"

he doesn't answer, he can't. he just stares at you, his breathing shallow, looking like a man who knows he’s walking into a fire but has lost the will to turn back.

your hand drifts down, your palm pressing firmly against the center of his chest. you can feel the frantic, irregular thudding of his heart—a physical manifestation of the complete power you hold over him. you lean in, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, and you let your breath hitch as you speak, your voice a low, honeyed secret that sends a visible shiver down his spine.

"next time, jude," you whisper, the words heavy with promise, "i won't be in a crowd. i’ll be waiting. just for you. and if you’re brave enough to come find me, i’ll finally show you exactly who i am."

the air in the hallway seems to vanish. you pull back just enough to catch his gaze, a wicked, knowing smirk playing on your lips. he’s completely paralyzed, his mouth slightly parted, his breathing ragged. the sheer audacity of your invitation, combined with the way you’re dismantling his defenses, leaves him reeling. he’s trapped in a labyrinth of his own desire, and you’ve just handed him the map to the center.

you don't wait for a reply. you give his chest one final, lingering caress before slipping out from beneath his arm. your exit is swift and silent, your heels clicking against the floor with a rhythmic finality that echoes in the cramped space.

you don't look back this time. you round the corner, leaving him alone in the dim light of the corridor.

behind you, jude doesn't move. he stays pressed against the wall, his hands falling to his sides, his chest still heaving with the ghost of your presence. he’s utterly spellbound, a man who knows he has just been marked. the weight of your words hangs in the air, a siren song that has already decided his future. he is standing in the silence, his heart racing, realizing with a terrifying clarity that he isn't just hooked—he is completely and irrevocably yours.

the shift in jude is visceral, and it doesn't go unnoticed by the people around him. his life, once carefully curated and balanced between high-stakes football and his public relationship, has begun to fracture under the weight of the unknown. that anchor he used to hold onto—his girlfriend—has become nothing more than a blurred background noise, a static frequency he’s tuned out entirely. his thoughts are no longer occupied by tactical maneuvers or his future career; they are exclusively yours.

he spends his nights staring at the ceiling of his hotel room, the silence amplified by the maddening loops of your voice in his head. why are you everywhere? who are you really?

the confusion is a physical ache. every time he sees a shadow in a corner, or hears the faint click of heels in a lobby, his entire posture shifts. he’s constantly on edge, his eyes scanning every room he enters with a frantic, desperate intensity. his teammates have stopped joking about his mood; there’s a new, sharp irritability to him that makes even the coaching staff tread carefully. he’s lost his rhythm, and for a player who prides himself on total command, this lack of control is terrifying.

he is obsessed. he finds himself scrolling through social media, searching for any trace of you, any photo that might have caught your face in the background of a stadium event. he’s hunting for a name, a history, a clue—anything to make you tangible instead of this ethereal, dangerous force that has dismantled his reality.

during training, he’s a ghost of his former self. he’ll go for minutes at a time without touching the ball, his focus shattered by the mere possibility that you might be watching from the sidelines again. he’s no longer looking for his teammates’ runs; he’s looking for you.

the realization that he is "condemned" settles into his marrow. he knows he’s setting himself up for disaster, that seeking you out is a path that could jeopardize everything he’s worked for. but the pull is too strong. you’ve become the only thing that makes his pulse race, the only thing that makes the world feel real. he’s not just waiting for the next match; he’s waiting for the next move in a game he knows he’s already lost.

he’s no longer playing football for the fans or the trophies. he’s playing, waiting, and breathing entirely for the moment you decide to reappear and finally unveil the secret you’ve been keeping from him.

the match had been exhilarating, the kind of night where every pass clicked and the stadium’s roar still hummed in his bones. jude slumped into the back of his waiting car, the interior dark and quiet, a sanctuary after the blinding lights of the pitch. he leaned his head back, closing his eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath of pure, adrenaline-fueled relief. he wasn't thinking about you—not for the first time in hours. he was just a man enjoying the aftermath of victory.

"home, please," he murmured to the driver, his voice thick with exhaustion.

the engine purred to life, and as the car began to glide away from the stadium, a subtle shift in the air caught his attention. it wasn't just the scent of leather anymore; there was something else—a faint, intoxicating trace of your perfume that hit him like a physical blow. his eyes snapped open.

he turned his head to the left, his gaze cutting through the dim cabin light.

you were there.

you were draped against the seat with an effortless, feline grace, the shadows playing over the curve of your collarbone and the soft fabric of your dress. you looked even more breathtaking than usual, your makeup flawless, your hair falling in loose, artful waves. you didn't look like a fan, or a journalist, or a stalker; you looked like a predator who had finally cornered her prize.

jude froze, his entire body going rigid. his heart, which had been slowing down to a calm, post-match rhythm, instantly spiked into a violent, erratic thud against his ribs. he couldn't speak; the breath had been stolen from his lungs. he just stared at you, his pupils dilating in the dark, his professional composure shattering into a thousand pieces.

the irony of his thought process—the fact that he’d finally managed to push you out of his mind for just a few hours—vanished as he realized you hadn't been playing a game of hide-and-seek anymore. you were playing for keeps.

"how..." he started, his voice cracking, barely a whisper. he didn't even know what he was asking. he just knew that seeing you there, in the private, confined space of his car, felt more dangerous and more exhilarating than anything he’d ever experienced on a pitch.

you didn't move, you just watched him, that same enigmatic, seductive smile playing on your lips—the one that had haunted his dreams for days. you held his gaze, unblinking, the silence in the car growing heavier and more charged with every passing second. you had found your way into his inner sanctum, and the look in your eyes told him exactly what you intended to do with him.

the darkness inside the car becomes absolute the moment you reach over and hit the switch to raise the privacy partition. the soft hum of the city outside is instantly muffled, replaced by the heavy, suffocating silence of your own private space. jude is trapped, pinned between the back door and the invisible line you’ve drawn in the air.

he’s staring at you, his eyes dark and dilated, reflecting the faint ambient light from the streetlamps passing by. his breath is coming in short, uneven hitches, and his hands are gripping the edges of his seat so hard his knuckles are stark white. he looks completely undone, the man who commands thousands of screaming fans now reduced to a state of absolute, paralyzed anticipation.

you lean into his space, your movements slow, deliberate, and predatory. you lock eyes with him, your gaze no longer playful—it’s fierce, possessive, and daring him to break. you don't say a word. you just hold that look, letting the tension coil between you like a wire pulled to its breaking point.

then, with agonizing slowness, you shift your gaze to his lips, then back up to his eyes, before biting down softly on your own lower lip. you hold it there, a teasing, mocking smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. you aren't just playing with him anymore; you’re dismantling him, piece by piece, savoring the way his jaw tightens and his resolve crumbles.

you lean even closer, until the space between you is electric. you can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his chest rises and falls in rhythm with your own heartbeat. you let out a soft, low chuckle—a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph—and tilt your head to the side, your eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and pure hunger.

"you thought you were done with me after the match, didn't you, jude?" you whisper, your voice a low, raspy challenge. "you really have no idea how this ends, do you?"

you watch him swallow hard, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. he looks like he’s caught in a waking dream, terrified that if he moves, he’ll wake up and find you gone. he’s completely at your mercy, and he knows it—he’s just waiting to see how far you’re going to take this tonight.

he opens his mouth to speak, likely to demand an answer or perhaps to protest—but the words die on his tongue the moment your hand settles against his thigh.

your touch is slow, deliberate, and maddeningly light. you let your fingertips trace the firm muscle beneath his tailored trousers, your hand moving with a possessive, rhythmic heat that sends a visible tremor through his frame. he gasps, his head falling back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief second as his entire body reacts to the sensation.

when he opens his eyes again, the confusion is entirely gone, replaced by a raw, dark hunger that has finally overridden his last shred of hesitation. the professional footballer, the public figure, the man with a girlfriend—they all vanish. in this enclosed, dimly lit space, there is only the man who is becoming utterly, irrevocably addicted to your touch.

he leans into your hand, his own fingers coming up to hover near your waist, trembling as he fights the urge to grab you. he’s completely anchored to you now, his pulse visible in the frantic, rhythmic throb at the base of his throat. he tries to lean away, but the movement only brings him closer to your gravity, and he lets out a broken, ragged sound that’s half-protest, half-surrender.

"you have no idea what you're doing to me," he manages to choke out, his voice thick and strained. he reaches out, his hand hovering uncertainly before he finally grips your wrist, his fingers firm but not pulling you away. instead, he keeps your hand exactly where it is, pressing your palm harder against his leg, grounding himself through you.

he’s breathing so heavily the glass partition is starting to fog. he looks at you not with suspicion, but with a terrifying, desperate need for you to continue. he’s no longer fighting the current; he’s drowning in it, and he’s realized that he doesn't want to be saved—he wants you to keep pushing him further until there’s nothing left of his old life at all.

"you're not just playing anymore, are you?" he whispers, his gaze locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity. "tell me you're not just playing."

you lean into his personal space, the scent of your perfume overwhelming the sterile air of the car. your voice is a low, deliberate purr as you look him dead in the eye and murmur the lines, letting the weight of the words strip away the last of his resistance:

"that’s okay baby…, do what you please. i have the stuff that you want. i am the thing that you need."

the effect is immediate and devastating. as the words leave your lips, jude’s entire posture collapses inward, all remnants of his public life and his existing relationship incinerated by the sheer intensity of the moment. he lets out a ragged, desperate sound, his hand tightening over yours on his thigh as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear the moment he lets go. he’s no longer thinking about consequences, about the paparazzi, or about the life he’s supposed to be returning to; he’s entirely consumed by the intoxicating, dangerous reality you’ve built for him.

he looks at you with a hunger that’s borderline frantic, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips as he leans into your touch. he’s lost—fully, completely, and willingly lost—and he doesn't even try to fight it anymore. he presses your hand further against his skin, his breathing shallow and erratic, clearly signaling that he has abandoned any last-ditch attempt to uphold his moral defenses. you have pushed him over the edge, and he has finally stopped trying to climb back up.

jude freezes, his breath hitching, his eyes snapping shut as the cold realization hits him with brutal clarity: it is already far too late. he is trapped, not by the walls of the car, but by the undeniable fact that he is completely ensnared in your heart, and there is no longer any path back to the man he was before you.

as you lean in, the space between you vanishing, you begin to press slow, searing kisses against the sensitive skin of his neck. the sensation is instant and all-consuming, an electric shock that bypasses his mind and speaks directly to his nerves.

his resolve evaporates completely. he tilts his head back, surrendering to the overwhelming wave of heat, his hands trembling as he grips the leather of the seat to stay tethered to the earth. he is entirely possessed by the feeling of your lips against his skin, utterly powerless to resist, and desperate for nothing more than to lose himself in the beautiful, dangerous trap you have set for him.

he doesn't hesitate; his hands slide to your waist, his grip firm and desperate as he pulls you onto his lap, positioning you squarely over his hips. the power shift is complete. he bows his head, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps against your skin as he pleads with you, his voice barely a whisper against your throat.

"don't stop," he begs, the words muffled and thick with need, his face pressed into the crook of your neck as he urges you to keep going. "please, keep going."

you pull back just enough to look down at him, a soft, mocking laugh escaping your lips as you run your fingers through his hair. you trace the line of his jaw, enjoying the sight of him—so undone, so utterly at your mercy.

"does it feel that good, jude?" you tease, your voice dripping with playful cruelty. you lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "you know, you’re almost a little pathetic like this."

you watch his reaction, seeing the way his eyes darken with a mix of shame and even deeper, more frantic hunger. he doesn't pull away; instead, he clings to you tighter, as if you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.

you continue trailing slow, burning kisses along the column of his throat, feeling the erratic, desperate pulse beneath his skin. as you settle closer against him, the friction of your dress against his trousers shifts, and the lack of a barrier between you becomes instantly, unmistakably clear.

jude freezes, his hands splaying against your back, his eyes widening in the dim light. he lets out a sharp, choked intake of breath, his entire body going rigid as he registers the unfiltered heat radiating from you, pressed directly against him.

"you're not wearing..." he stammers, his voice barely audible, raw with a mix of shock and pure, sensory overload. he looks at you, his gaze searching your face, stunned by the realization that you’ve come to him like this—completely unshielded and ready.

you pull back just a fraction, arching an eyebrow as you meet his blown-out pupils with a look of cool, triumphant amusement. you let a low, throaty laugh escape your chest, the sound vibrating between you.

"is that a problem, darling?" you murmur, your voice dripping with honeyed malice. you lean in closer, pressing yourself fully against him, making the reality of the situation impossible for him to ignore. "does it feel good to feel me, jude? tell me, how does it feel to know exactly what’s waiting for you?"

you begin to move against him, slow, deliberate shifts of your hips that send shockwaves of sensation straight through him. the friction is intense, and as you rock against him, he feels the undeniable, unmistakable heat and dampness of you soaking through the fabric of his trousers. it’s an exquisite, maddening sensation that strips away his final reserves.

jude’s head falls back against the upholstery, a low, guttural moan escaping his throat that he can no longer suppress. his hands grip your waist so tightly his knuckles turn white, his body betraying him as he loses the battle for composure. he can’t hold back the pleasure, the sheer intensity of the contact leaving him breathless, his hips instinctively mirroring your rhythm in a desperate, frantic search for more. he’s completely undone, entirely surrendered to the exquisite torture of feeling you against him, his mind blanking out until there is nothing left but the raw, electric pulse of the moment.

"i need you," he gasps, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate hunger as he pulls you closer, his hands shaking as they move to the waistband of his trousers. "i need to feel you—everything."

you lean back, watching him with a predatory, triumphant smile. you reach down, your movements slow and deliberate, and begin to undo the fastening of his trousers. his breath hitches, his entire body arching as he waits for you to continue. you lean into his ear, your voice a dark, low whisper that pushes him over the edge. you murmur things so illicit, so deliciously wicked, that he loses the last shred of his restraint.

he is completely undone, his eyes unfocused and drowning in want, his body trembling with the intensity of his desire. he is yearning for you with a frantic, uncontainable ache, his pleas becoming incoherent as he realizes there is no version of this night where he doesn't give you exactly what you want. he is utterly subjugated, a captive to your touch, and as you continue, he stops trying to stay anchored to reality—he only wants to sink deeper into the beautiful, dangerous trap you've set for him.

you don't waste another second. you take him, guiding him directly into your heat, the sudden, overwhelming sensation causing him to let out a broken, guttural sound that vibrates through the entire interior of the car. he is completely stunned, his eyes wide and blown-out, paralyzed by the sheer intensity of the friction and the way you’ve claimed him.

he looks down at you, his breathing turning into sharp, desperate gasps, his hands clenching into the leather of your dress as his entire world narrows down to this single point of contact. he looks utterly overwhelmed, his composure completely shredded by the reality of how perfectly he fits.

you hold his gaze, the atmosphere in the car thick and suffocating. you bite your lip, a mocking, triumphant smirk playing on your features as you savor his reaction. you lean in, your voice a low, teasing taunt against his ear.

"you’re so big," you whisper, the words dripping with a mix of cruelty and pleasure. "it feels so good to have all of you, doesn't it?"

the look on his face is one of pure, raw subjugation. he’s completely caught, his hips twitching instinctively, unable to pull away and unwilling to stop. he is utterly at your mercy, yearning for the movement, his entire body trembling under the weight of the sensation you’re forcing him to feel.

the air in the car is heavy, charged with the scent of his arousal and your own. jude is completely shattered, his head thrown back against the headrest, his eyes squeezed shut as he lets out a series of broken, desperate moans. the friction is all-consuming, and he can feel every inch of his length buried deep inside you, the sensation so intense it leaves him shuddering.

"god, it feels so good," he gasps, his voice trembling and raw, his hands clutching your hips to keep you pressed firmly against him. "it’s insane... please, just don't stop."

you maintain the rhythm, slow and torturous, enjoying the way he writhes under your control. you lean down, your voice a dark, velvet whisper against the shell of his ear, punctuating your movements with stinging, suggestive remarks. you tease him about his lack of resistance, about how easily he’s fallen, and about exactly what he’s become since you entered his life.

every word is a lash that drives him further into his own pleasure. he’s completely addicted to the dynamic, his body arching into yours with a frantic, primitive need. he is so far gone that the concept of consequence has been obliterated; there is only the heat, the rhythm, and the terrifying realization that he has become nothing more than a plaything for your amusement. he begs you, over and over, his voice a frantic prayer of desperation and lust, pleading for you to continue until there is nothing left of him but the sensation you’re providing.

the moment you groan his name—a low, melodic sound that vibrates against his chest—the world around him seems to tilt on its axis. hearing his own name on your lips sends a fresh jolt of adrenaline through his system, shattering whatever tiny barrier of restraint he had left. he is no longer just overwhelmed; he is completely and utterly undone.

he feels the absolute, suffocating intensity of you settled on his lap, your weight perfectly distributed, and the sensation of being buried deep within you becomes his entire reality. he looks at you, his eyes dark with an intoxicating blend of worship and ruin, completely captivated by the power you hold over him. he realizes, with a dazed, frantic clarity, that he is completely at your mercy—he is subjugated by the physical friction, by the way you look at him, and by the sheer, electric vulnerability of being this connected to you.

"my god," he breathes, his voice barely a coherent sound as he leans into you, his movements becoming more desperate, more demanding. he is drowning in the sensation of you, his hands trembling as he holds you close, his entire body responding to your rhythm with an almost violent need. he’s lost to the pleasure, fully aware that he has surrendered his control to you, and he is terrified, yet thrilled, by how much he craves the sensation of being trapped in this exact, agonizingly perfect moment with you.

you continue to ride him with a slow, deliberate cadence, the friction between you becoming an agonizingly beautiful torture. you lean down, your hair brushing against his jaw, and as you grind against him, you whisper into his ear with a voice thick with playful, dark intent.

"it’s just so incredibly large, jude," you murmur, your tone dripping with a mixture of praise and mockery, "i can barely take all of you."

hearing you acknowledge his size while you’re this deep inside him is the final catalyst; he gasps, his head falling back as the sensation rips through him. he’s completely subjugated, his muscles locking, his breath hitching in his chest. he feels the tension coiling tight in his core, the pressure mounting with every movement you make. he’s on the very precipice, his body trembling, his hands digging into your skin as he clings to you, desperate to hold onto the sensation even as he feels himself beginning to unravel.

every time you whisper those words, the intensity surges, the friction between you feeling like a live wire. you keep teasing him, trailing your hands over his shoulders and down his chest, your voice a constant, taunting melody in his ear about his size, about his need, and about exactly how good it feels to have him trapped like this.

the constant reinforcement of his own desire, paired with the overwhelming, tight sensation of being inside you, pushes him to the very edge. he’s completely subjugated, his back arching, his breath hitching into jagged, shallow gasps. he’s losing his grip on reality, his internal rhythm spiraling out of control because of how much he wants you.

"you’re killing me," he manages to choke out, his voice thick and desperate, his pupils dilated to the point where his eyes are nothing but black pools. he feels the familiar, building pressure in his core—the unmistakable surge of his release drawing near—and he knows he can’t hold it back much longer. he’s entirely at your mercy, his body betraying every last defensive thought he had left, as he clings to you, waiting for that final, shattering moment of surrender.

jude’s control finally shatters completely. his hips begin to buck against yours in a frantic, losing battle, his face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated pleasure. "i can't... i'm going to—i'm coming," he gasps out, his voice cracking with the strain of holding on for as long as he possibly could.

you don't pull away; instead, you press yourself harder against him, pinning him down and locking your gaze with his. "don't you dare stop," you command, your voice a sharp, commanding whisper against his ear. "do it inside me. i want to feel every bit of it."

the words are the final trigger. he lets out a ragged, desperate cry as he finally surrenders, his body going rigid as he explodes within you. the sensation of his release is electric, and it pushes you over the edge as well; you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you shatter right along with him. you hold onto him tightly, both of you lost in the blinding, heavy heat of the moment, anchored only by the intense, rhythmic pulsing that binds you together. for those few seconds, nothing else exists—no reality, no consequences—only the raw, shared aftermath of what you have just done to him.

you disentangle yourself from his lap in one swift, fluid movement, your dress sliding back into place as if the scene you just created never happened. you reach into the neckline of your dress, pulling out a small, folded scrap of paper. with perfect timing, the car rolls to a smooth stop—you have reached your destination.

you slide out of the car, the cool air hitting your skin, and you turn back to face him through the open door. he is still entirely undone, his hair disheveled, his trousers still unfastened, his chest heaving as he stares at you, completely unable to process the transition from the intensity of the moment back to the quiet of the street.

you lean into the car, your voice cool and sharp, slicing through his daze. "you should leave your girlfriend, jude," you say, a faint, mocking smile touching your lips. "she’s not half the freak i am, and we both know it." you hold his gaze for a second, watching the realization dawn on him, before adding, "if you make the right choice and call me, you’ll know where to find me."

with that, you drop the paper onto his seat and walk away, leaving him behind in the stillness. as he finally manages to lower his gaze, his hands still trembling, he looks down at the scrap of paper. there, written in your handwriting, is your number.

the silence in the car feels deafening as the engine cuts out, leaving him in a state of sensory shock. he stares at the empty space where you were just sitting, the scent of you still clinging to the leather and to his own skin. the gravity of what just happened begins to settle in: he has just betrayed his girlfriend—someone he was supposed to be committed to—with a total stranger. he doesn’t even know your name.

yet, as he looks down at the slip of paper with your number, a cold, startling truth washes over him: he doesn't care.

the guilt that should be crushing him is nowhere to be found, drowned out by the lingering electric pulse of what you did to him. he runs a hand through his messy hair, his heart hammering against his ribs, not with regret, but with a terrifying, addictive longing. he realizes with a jolt of clarity that he hasn't just been physically overwhelmed; he has been completely dismantled. he is entirely under your spell, and the idea of going back to his normal life, to his girlfriend, feels like a pale imitation of the reality he just tasted with you.

he clutches the paper in his fist, his knuckles white, his breath hitching as he stares at the number again. he is no longer just a guy who made a mistake; he is a man who has found something dangerous, something he knows will ruin him, and yet he knows, with absolute, hollowed-out certainty, that he is already entirely yours.

You don’t think.

You pounce.

The ice cream hits the floor. The spoon clatters. You’re across the living room in three strides, launching yourself at him so hard he actually stumbles back against the door with a surprised laugh that dies the second your mouth crashes into his.

“Missed you,” you pant between kisses, hands already shoving his hoodie up. “Missed you so fucking much, Jude — weeks, it’s been weeks—”

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, but his hands are already on your ass, squeezing the soft, full curves like he’s trying to memorize them again. “Fuck, you feel good. Look at you—”

You don’t let him finish.

You bite his bottom lip, tug his hoodie off, and push him toward the couch. He lets you. Of course he does. He’s smirking against your mouth but his hands are greedy — sliding under the hem of his shirt on your body, palms dragging up the sides of your waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of your heavy breasts.

The back of his knees hit the couch and he drops down. You follow instantly, straddling him, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. Your panties are already soaked. You can feel it. He can definitely feel it when you grind down against the growing bulge in his sweats.

“Baby—” he tries, voice rough.

“No talking,” you whine, yanking the shirt over your head. Your tits spill free, full and soft and bouncing with the movement. Jude’s eyes drop to them immediately, a low curse leaving him.

“Fuck, I missed these.”

You don’t give him time to worship. You’re too feral.

You shove his sweats down just enough to free his cock — thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. The sight of it after weeks apart makes your mouth water. You don’t even bother with foreplay. You hook your panties to the side and sink down on him in one smooth, greedy motion.

The stretch burns so good.

A broken moan rips from your throat. Jude’s head falls back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they snap open again — locking onto yours.

“Eyes on me,” he orders, voice suddenly deeper. One hand slides up your throat, not squeezing yet, just resting there. A reminder. “That’s it. Look at me while you take this dick, yeah?”

You nod frantically, lips parted, breath already ragged as you start moving. Rolling your hips in messy, desperate circles, riding him like you’ll die if you stop. The wet slap of skin fills the room immediately. Your tits bounce with every movement and Jude’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, guiding you, helping you fuck yourself on him.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice wrecked. “Such a good fucking girl for me. Look how wet you are — all that for me?”

“Yes,” you whimper. “Only you. Missed you so much—”

“I know, baby. I know.” His thumb strokes the side of your neck. “You’re squeezing me so tight. This pussy missed me, huh?”

You moan louder, grinding down harder, taking him deeper. The eye contact is almost too much — his dark eyes boring into yours, watching every flicker of pleasure across your face. He looks like he wants to devour you.

His hand on your throat tightens — just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your walls flutter around him.

“Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” you gasp. “You, Jude — fuck—”

“That’s right.” He thrusts up suddenly, meeting you halfway, and your eyes almost roll back. “Nobody else gets this. Nobody else gets to see you like this — all pretty and feral and creaming on my cock. You hear me?”

You nod, tears pricking your eyes from how deep he is, from how good it feels, from how much you missed him.

He loosens his grip on your throat and slides his hand down to slap your ass — hard. The sting blooms beautifully across your soft skin.

“Ride me properly then. Show me how bad you needed it.”

You do.

You brace your hands on his shoulders and fuck him like you’re trying to break him. The couch creaks underneath you. Your moans mix with his grunts. He keeps praising you the whole time — “That’s it, just like that… fuck, you’re so beautiful… look at those tits bounce for me… good girl, good fucking girl” — until you shatter.

Your orgasm hits you so hard your vision whites out. You cry out his name, thighs shaking, pussy pulsing around him as you soak his lap. Jude doesn’t stop. He grips your hips with both hands and fucks you through it, deep and relentless, eyes never leaving yours.

Only when you start to slump does he slow down, pulling you down for a filthy, open-mouthed kiss.

But you’re not done.

Not even close.

You’re still clenching around him when you whisper against his lips, “Shower. Now.”

He laughs — low, dark, delighted — and stands up with you still impaled on his cock. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically. He carries you like you weigh nothing, mouth still on yours, cock still buried deep as he walks you both to the bathroom.

The shower is barely warm by the time he presses you against the tiles.

He fucks you there too — slower this time, deeper, one of your thick thighs hooked over his arm so he can watch every inch of him disappear inside you. Water cascades over both of you. Your curls are ruined. His are plastered to his forehead. Neither of you cares.

“Look at me,” he demands again, forehead pressed to yours. His hand comes back to your throat — light, possessive. “Eyes on me while I fuck you deep, baby. Want to see you fall apart again.”

You can’t look away even if you wanted to.

He praises you through the entire second orgasm — telling you how perfect you are, how tight, how wet, how no one else will ever make you feel like this. You come with his name on your tongue and his eyes locked on yours, his cock hitting that spot so perfectly you see stars.

He pulls out before he finishes, stroking himself once, twice, and painting your belly and tits with hot stripes of cum. The sight alone almost makes you come again.

You both wash up quickly after that — sort of. There’s a lot of touching, a lot of kissing, his hands soaping up every curve of your body like he’s rediscovering it.

But the second you’re out of the shower?

You don’t even dry off.

Jude throws you onto the bed while you’re both still dripping wet. The sheets soak instantly underneath you. He climbs over you, caging you in, water droplets falling from his curls onto your chest.

“One more,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Need to feel you one more time.”

You nod frantically, legs spreading for him immediately. He slides back inside you in one smooth thrust — so deep your back arches clean off the bed.

“Fuck, Jude—”

“I’ve got you.” He leans down, elbows braced on either side of your head so he can keep that heavy eye contact. “That’s it. Take all of me, such a good fucking girl.”

His hand finds your throat again — firmer this time, thumb pressing just under your jaw so your head tilts back slightly. Not cutting off air, just holding you there. Owning you.

You’re so wet from the shower and from two orgasms already that the sounds are obscene. Every deep stroke makes a filthy wet smack. Your tits jiggle with every thrust. Jude can’t stop looking at you — eyes flicking between your face, your bouncing chest, and where you’re stretched around him.

“Missed this pussy so much,” he groans. “Missed how she grips me. Missed how pretty you look when you cum. Give me one more, baby. Come on. Let me feel it.”

You’re already so close.

The praise, the eye contact, the way he’s fucking you so deep it feels like he’s in your stomach — it’s overwhelming.

His free hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles.

“What did I say baby? Eyes on me,” he reminds you when your lids flutter. “Don’t look away. Want to watch you fall apart while I’m inside you.”

You cum harder than you have all night.

Your whole body locks up, walls spasming around his cock so tightly he curses. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, eyes wide and locked on his the entire time. Jude fucks you through it, hips losing rhythm, praise spilling from his lips like a prayer.

“Fuck — that’s it, baby. So good. So perfect. My girl. My fucking girl—”

He buries himself to the hilt and comes with a broken moan, flooding you deep. You feel every pulse, every spurt, and it makes your orgasm drag on impossibly longer.

For a long moment the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the wet drip of shower water still sliding off your bodies onto the ruined sheets.

Jude collapses half on top of you, careful not to crush you, but close enough that you feel surrounded by him. His hand slides from your throat to cup your face. His thumb strokes your cheek.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, dazed and blissed out, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Missed you.”

He chuckles softly and kisses you — slow, deep, reverent this time.

“Never leaving you that long again,” he promises against your mouth. “Not when you jump me like that. Fuck, I think I’m ruined.”

You laugh, the sound bright and happy, and pull him closer.

The sheets are soaked. Your bodies are sticky. Your thighs ache in the best way.

And you’ve never felt more loved — or more thoroughly fucked — in your life.

PROFILES

Clown house 🤡 | Leehan’s aquarium

TEASER

PART 01: 

PART 02: 

PART 03: 

PART 04: 

PART 05: