I’m Normal.

The final whistle blew—Dortmund won 2-1. Jobe didn’t hesitate, he has only one thing in mind. The second the score was confirmed, he sprinted across the pitch toward you, adrenaline still pumping from their last-minute goal that sealed victory…But halfway there—mid-field—he turned his head. A group of opponents’ fans had started chanting loudly from their section: "You’re nothing like your brother!" Harsh. Personal. A direct jab at Jobe’s identity—the shadow of his famous older sibling looming over him every game… For a split second, his steps faltered slightly…

He had heard it before—hundreds of times. But that didn’t make it sting any less. It always did. Every single time. No matter how many goals he scored or how well he played—the comparison never stopped. And now? Right after their big win? The joy drained from his face instantly—replaced by that familiar hollow ache in his chest. You saw him slow down, noticing the change on his face.

Jobe didn’t celebrate with the team. Didn’t join the huddle. Didn’t pounce on you or run toward the coach. Instead, he bolted—straight off the field and entered the changing room where it was quiet. Empty changing stalls and lockers, shower sprays… no one around after a match like this…

He needed space. Now. The weight of that chant crushed him more than any loss ever could—and suddenly winning didn't feel good anymore. It felt hollow because all he heard in his head was: "You're nothing like your brother." And Jobe just... walked fast until there were no sounds left but his own breathing…

Jobe leaned against the cold wall in the changing room, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He told himself it would only take a few minutes—just enough to reset. Clear his head. Breathe. The usual way he always handled things when emotions got messy…The distant roar of fans celebrating Dortmund’s win echoed faintly around the corner, but here? Silence. Just him and that stupid chant looping in his mind like a broken record… He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose—counting seconds until he could go back out without looking shaken…

“Bellingham?” Your voice was quiet—calm, not demanding—as you stepped into the dim room. You spotted Jobe instantly: shoulders tense, arms crossed, staring at nothing. The victory celebration still raged on the other side of the stadium… but here? It felt distant. Like a different world. Without saying anything else at first, you walked over slowly and stopped a few feet away from him…

Jobe turned—slowly—and faced you. He forced his expression to be neutral. Calm. Like nothing was wrong, even though his jaw was still a little tight and his eyes weren’t as bright as they’d been right after scoring the winning goal…

"Hey." he said simply, voice steady but quieter than usual.

You studied Jobe’s face for a second: the tension in his brow, the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes fully… and it clicked. The fans. The chant about his brother. All of the things you heard as well from the other side of the stadium.

So you sighed—not dramatically, just a tired exhale—and took one small step closer.

"You're letting them get into your head again... aren't you?" Your observation—like someone who knew exactly what those words did to Jobe every single time they were thrown at him…

Jobe’s shoulders slumped slightly at your words—guilty, almost sheepish. He didn’t want to ruin your night. The win had been their moment—the whole team celebrated together—but those anti fans screaming about his brother? That noise cut through everything like a blade. And he couldn't control how loud they were. How personal their insults felt. No matter how much he tried not to care, it always got under his skin.

Now being there with you looking at him so softly—like you understood the weight of that comparison better than anyone else probably did—Jobe felt stupid for letting it bother him this much...but he just couldn’t help it…

You crouched down in front of Jobe, who was slumped tiredly against the wall. Without hesitation, you cupped his cheek, warm palm cradling the side of Jobe’s face—and turned him gently to meet your eyes.

Your voice was low. Soft. "What can I do to make this all go away?"

A kiss? A hug? Words? Something stronger? He didn’t know—but he wanted something…

The locker room was quiet—empty except for the two of them. Jobe looked up at you. No words this time. Just need in his eyes—raw and unguarded. That same ache from earlier hadn’t faded completely… but now it twisted into something else under the dim glow of the bulbs above. He wanted comfort that wasn't just talking anymore. Wanted closeness—not romantic or soft necessarily—but intense. Something to drown out everything bad.

“Use your words, Bellingham” you were smirking—that same confident, knowing look that always made Jobe’s pulse jump. So instead of staying silent or letting the moment stretch awkwardly, Jobe swallowed hard… and finally spoke.

His voice came out quieter than usual—not shy exactly, but cautious: "I… I want you."

The changing stall was tiny—barely room for two people but enough. Jobe nudged you inside first, then followed quickly before locking the door with a soft click. The sound sealed them in—a private pocket within the locker room. Dim light seeped through the narrow gap at the top…

“Just a quick one okay? Then you will have to come back outside” you smirked as Jobe pushed you back against the wall, but there wasn’t time to play around. Like a parent promising if the kid eats their dinner properly, they will get toys.

The kiss deepened—hot and hungry. You uncap the small bottle of lube you fetched from your duffle bag before Jobe drags you into the stall, squeezed a decent amount onto your finger without looking away from Jobe’s face. Then you were back on him—kissing again, but now one hand slid down to Jobe’s entrance while the other stayed busy keeping Jobe in place from squirming, prepping discreetly in the cramped space.

Your finger pumped in and out of Jobe quickly, getting him ready without wasting time or making it overly sensual. It was quick—practical intimacy for two guys who knew exactly what they wanted right now: a fast release to clear the tension. The cramped stall didn’t help either, every movement was tight and limited by space… but you adjusted anyway, focused only on preparing Jobe as swiftly as possible before moving to the next step.

Jobe muffled his moan into your shoulder—trying to stay quiet, even in this cramped space where every sound echoed slightly off the metal stall. But he didn’t waste time either. His hands scrambled down your hips, pushing your shorts and boxers just past your thighs with quick tugs—And there it was: your cock sprang free instantly, already half-hard from all the kissing and closeness. Jobe wrapped a hand around you without hesitation—firmly stroked downward.

A thin sheen of sweat formed on Jobe’s forehead—tiny droplets glistening under the dim light filtering through the stall. He gasped quietly when your finger curled just right—hitting that spot inside him with perfect precision. The sensation shot through his nerves like a spark, making his thighs tense and breath hitch. Still trying to stay quiet for once, but it was hard—especially in this tight space where every little movement makes his body feel like it was on fire. You could feel how ready Jobe was—the heat, the subtle clench around your fingers.

In one smooth motion after slipping your fingers out, you lifted Jobe—strong arms easily scooping him up—and pinned him against the stall wall. Their bodies pressed flush together in the cramped area. Then your cock nudged forward—already lined up—and without a warning, you pushed inside. A firm, decisive slide into heat that welcomed you instantly after prep, both of them gasping quietly at the sudden damp fullness.

Jobe bit his lip hard—teeth pressing into soft skin—to keep any sound from escaping.

The volume of your cock filled him completely, stretching him in the best way possible. It might have knocked out every negative thought, no room for that stupid chant about his brother or comparisons to anyone else. Just this: heat, pressure, and the overwhelming presence of your thick length inside him—blocking out everything else. His hands gripped your shoulders tightly—not pushing away but anchoring himself as their bodies moved together in tight, heated sync.

You set a fast, hard pace right from the start: sharp thrusts in that tiny stall. It wasn’t romantic or slow—they both knew this was just about release—but you gave it everything: hips snapping forward relentlessly, chasing that finish because they had to wrap this up before someone checked on them.

Jobe’s moans were muffled—pressed into your neck—but they came anyway, breathless and quiet. Every ruthless thrust drove him harder against the stall wall—the metal clinking faintly with each impact, small thump thump noises echoing in the changing room. The tightness around you was intense, overwhelming in the best way. The thick length pumping into him without mercy. He clung tighter, legs instinctively locking around your waist tighter for better leverage.

You panted the words between thrusts—your breath heavy, voice strained with pleasure.

"Eres muy travieso–" (you’re so naughty) Even after playing a full football match—exhausting your body on the field for ninety minutes—you still had this energy. This stamina. And now you used it all right here, pounding into Jobe like a machine: relentless, rhythmic, needy. The force of it made Jobe’s toes curl inside his socks—the sensation overwhelming—and turned him into a moaning mess against that cold metal wall.

Jobe blinked—surprised for a second that you had switched to Spanish. That playful, teasing tone wrapped around your words:

"¿Crees que follar en público es una buena idea?" (Do you think fucking in public is a good idea?) It was filthy. Lighthearted. And honestly? Kinda hot—you rarely spoke much during intimate moments like this, but when you did? It always came out low and smooth.

Even though Jobe didn’t understand the Spanish words, he got the vibe. The tone—low, rough, playful with an edge of heat—told him everything. You were definitely saying something filthy… maybe teasing him about how wild this was or how reckless they were being. And yeah—Jobe liked it. A lot. He wasn’t a Spanish speaker but damn if that accent and that voice didn't do things to him. The way you said those foreign words sent a thrill down his spine, adding to the intensity of their already heated moment. So he just smiled slightly—turned on by whatever dirty thing you had whispered to him.

You huffed—half annoyed, half amused at Jobe’s sheepish smile. But you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down either. Even though Jobe was taller than you by a few inches, you had no trouble holding his weight. Your strong biceps flexed with every thrust—the muscles taut and powerful as you keep Jobe pressed against the stall wall to keep them both steady. Skin slapped softly in the tight space, their bodies moving together in heated sync despite being in such a risky place.

Jobe’s hand slid down to his own cock, stroking fast, urgently as he chased his climax right alongside your relentless pounding. Every movement sent sparks through him, the pleasure building quickly in that tight space with their bodies pressed so close.

A soft groan escaped him as he tipped over the edge—coming into his palm, careful not to make a mess on their football jersey. His thighs tensed around you for a second before relaxing slightly, riding out of the high.

That sight made your breath hitched—your thrusts turning sharper, more desperate as you chased your own climax. You drink in the view: Jobe coming in your caging arms—flushed face, half-lidded eyes, the way his body trembled slightly from release—was hot. Really damn hot. And it pushed you over the edge fast. Your hips snapped steadily against Jobe’s as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. Jobe winced slightly—not from pain, but because your pace had turned feral now. Desperate. Wild. And that? It turned him on more than anything—knowing how badly you wanted this, wanted him.

He didn’t want to admit that your cock was driving him crazy—but his body did: leaning in closer, tightening around you instinctively like he was trying to pull every last drop of pleasure from this moment.

Your groan was quiet—low and thick with release—as you came, your body tensing for a split second before the waves of pleasure rolled through you. Your hand clenched hard on Jobe’s glute—fingers pressing into warm skin, holding tight as you rode out your climax in the changing stall.

Jobe groaned at the strange feeling of you spilling inside him. No protection nor pulling out. Just pure, unfiltered warmth spreading deep within, a sensation that should’ve been concerning but instead felt weirdly good. It was intimate in a way neither had planned—the heat of it sent another small shiver through Jobe’s body. His muscles clenched slightly around you instinctively—not to push away, but almost like his body was savoring the closeness for just a second longer.

He wasn’t the type to gush or say sweet things out loud, but even he had to admit it felt really good. The warmth spreading inside him after you came—so unplanned, so messy—that closeness did something weirdly comforting to his chest. So quietly, without looking directly into your eyes yet, Jobe muttered: "...That felt kinda nice." —the first time admitting anything like that since they’d started doing this.

“What?” You turned your head slightly—still catching your breath—and looked directly at Jobe. Your eyes were soft now, the post-orgasm haze making them hazy and warm. You studied him: flushed cheeks, messy clothes from being pressed against the wall and that rare moment of vulnerability after something so intimate.

Jobe hated talking about this stuff—especially right after something so intimate. Vulnerability wasn’t his strong suit, especially when it came to feelings during or after sex. But he knew you deserved an answer. And if there was even a chance this would happen again—maybe on purpose next time?—then Jobe should say it properly. So clearing his throat quietly, still avoiding eye contact for a second, he finally spoke up:

"...It just… felt good," he admitted again but clearer now. "Being filled like that."

Your smirk returned—wide and shameless. The second Jobe admitted how good it felt, you knew you had leverage. And of course? You weren't about to waste it. So without missing a beat, you pushed Jobe’s button:

"Ohhh… you're naughty." Your tone was playful but deliberately teasing—like calling him out for enjoying something so intimate, filthy that most guys would never say aloud.

Jobe’s nose scrunched instantly—annoyed. One second he was being honest, and the next? You turned it into a joke. Called him naughty like some kind of flirty insult. And now that smirk? That stupid, teasing look? It pissed him off. So Jobe didn’t hesitate—he snapped back with a curse under his breath:

"Shut up, asshole."

You grinned—fully aware you were poking the bear now—and deliberately shifted your voice into a mocking British accent. It wasn’t even close to accurate. Overly posh, exaggerated vowels, and a fake upper-crust tone:

"That's not very well mannered init?" You mimicked Jobe’s accent horribly—on purpose—and said it with playful sarcasm, just to annoy him further.

Jobe groaned—deeply annoyed—and tried to turn his head away, like he was ready to storm off if you would just move. But he couldn’t. They were still pressed up in that changing stall. Jobe was pinned against the wall, and your cock? Still inside him. Not fully soft yet—just barely relaxed after coming.

Jobe rolled his eyes hard—like so done with your stupid accent and relentless teasing. Instead of biting back with another curse, he just gave a flat, deadpan response:

"Really mature."

“I’m just kidding…you feel better?” You tilted your head slightly—like a massive cheetah observing its mate—your dark eyes soft but curious. You studied Jobe’s face, searching for any sign that the mood had improved after their earlier banter and irritation. The kiss on his neck had been sweet… So maybe things were okay again?

Jobe hummed—low and content—a soft, wordless answer. Yeah. He felt better.

The intense lovemaking had done what it always did: undone him completely. Not in a messy emotional way, but in the best sense possible—the kind of release that reset everything: stress, anger, even those stupid fan chants about his brother and him. Now? Just calm warmth. The afterglow settled over him like a blanket. So he didn’t say much—just leaned slightly into your touch without thinking. Letting you handle him with care because in your eyes, he might be glass.

The team dinner had been long—celebrations after the big win, speeches from coaches, teammates laughing and toasting… it was fun but draining.

By the time Jobe and Y/N got back to their hotel room, both were exhausted. Tired muscles from football + a packed night of celebration = pure fatigue.

Jobe kicked off his shoes first, then collapsed face-first onto the bed without even changing clothes. A quiet groan escaped him as he melted into the mattress. You followed behind—shutting the door softly and started unbuttoning your shirt slowly.

You snorted softly at the sight of Jobe—completely limp, face smushed into the pillow like a dead weight. The guy had gotten everything tonight: an incredible fuck in that cramped locker room stall, an amazing team win dinner with plenty of food and drinks… honestly? Life couldn’t get much better for Jobe right now. So you didn’t tease. Didn’t wake him up or make fun of his dramatic collapse.

Instead, you just smiled to yourself—quietly satisfied and started undressing before climbing onto the bed beside Jobe. Jobe groaned, half-annoyed, half-amused—as you suddenly flopped down on top of him, crushing his limp body into the mattress. It wasn’t heavy enough to hurt… but it was there, all that solid warmth pinning Jobe beneath you. And then you spoke—probably something teasing or stupidly sweet—and Jobe just grumbled in response.

He didn’t push you off, just laid there like a flattened pancake, perfectly content. Didn’t bother addressing their relationship after literally letting you come inside of him. That’s for tomorrow when he has the strength for.

The off-season break was Jobe’s favorite time of year—no tense training schedules, no matches, just pure freedom. And this summer? He’d invited you back to his place—a cozy penthouse with a pool and his own sauna. It was quiet, private… perfect for relaxing together without any distractions.

The days at Jobe’s place were lazy and perfect. One evening, he lounged at the dining table—barefoot, shirtless, sipping cold lemonade you hand-squeezed for him—just watching you move around the kitchen. The sight of your broad back flexing as you cooked something was oddly comforting.

Earlier? They’d had a great fuck in the hot tub—the water steaming around them and later soaked in the sauna while chatting about nothing important: stupid jokes, football gossip that didn’t matter now, fashion, brand deals…

Jobe had been savoring every second with S

You—each lazy morning, each shared meal, each steamy moment in the gym or outside exploring Germany.

But now? Tonight felt different. He’d made up his mind. After months of sneaking around and quiet intimacy… he wanted more. He wanted this to be official. So while you stood shirtless at the stove—focused on grilling perfect steaks, muscles glistening slightly from earlier time outside—Jobe silently prepared.

You raised a brow, amused at his reaction to you…your arrival had shifted the team pretty much and he hated you—your arrogant attitude, big ego, typical rising star handsome footballer. Jobe doesn’t even know where the coach gets you from…probably a random field in Brasil—ridiculous. “Nope. Just better than you.”

Jobe stepped closer, frowned “You’re not.” You stood still, back straight like bracing yourself for whatever impulsive Jobe was about to do.

“Your eyes have been glued to me since I arrived,” you said quietly. “Say what you came to say, Bellingham.” challenging. Provocative.

Jobe’s breath caught. He grabbed you by the neck and shoulder, quickly shoved you back against the lockers. Their mouths crashed. You kissed like how you played—controlled, dominating, overwhelming. You didn’t think about football. Or fame. Or women. He thought about you all the time since your arrival. And how he never wanted anyone else again. Like a wild beast he was intimidated by but also can’t help but step closer—hard to resist.

“You’re not the chill…smiley guy they made you out to be” you broke the kiss, giving Jobe space to breathe because boy, he almost forgot oxygen existed. Jobe's breath hitched as your hand slid along his waist—warm, deliberate, infuriating. The smirk on those lips—the one that had haunted him through every post-match interview—was doing things to him. Dangerous things. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"Shut up," Jobe growled, voice low and rough—but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t push back like he should’ve. Instead, he leaned into the touch like some starved fool.

"You’re not half as untouchable as you pretend." He added. It pissed Jobe off beyond belief…and turned his blood into fire.

Said the one who got handsy first, it made you chuckle. His frowning face, too cute to be true, you can’t help but poking your fingers into his wound—“at least I’m not insecure”

Jobe’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. That word hit harder than any tackle on the pitch. He hated that you noticed. Hated that anyone noticed how he stiffened when fans, interviewers compared him to Jude in interviews or social media threads. Or that chant “You’re nothing like your brother” loud and clear from the stadium above. And you? Of course you’d see it—the way Jobe scowled during post-match chats when someone brought up Jude again... how fast he changed topics…Now here this cold-eyed Spaniard was throwing it right back in his face like an insult wrapped in truth.

"Fuck you," Jobe muttered—but there was no heat behind it now. Or maybe, there is.

“Sure, go ahead. If that gives you a source of confidence”

Jobe’s face burned. The guy who barely spoke unless it was a tactical command on the field or a sarcastic remark that cut like glass. And now—now he was smirking, leaning into Jobe like this, saying things that made his stomach flip and his throat go dry all at once? His heart hammered so loud he swore you could hear it over the distant drip of shower water.

"Shut up," Jobe said again—but softer this time. Weakly. He didn’t want confidence boosts from sex—he never cared about those meaningless flings anyway, not really. But if this—if you touching him and talking to him in that low voice meant something… then yeah…Maybe it would mean everything. And God help him—that scared the hell out of Jobe more than any press conference ever had.

“You look like you need it. A nice date and good sex” you smirked. Just a way to refresh for the upcoming season.

Jobe’s breath caught again and his brain short-circuited like he forgot to use it for years.

You were chuckling. Actually laughing. That rare, quiet sound that only came out when you found something genuinely amusing—and right now, Jobe was the joke.

A nice date. A good fuck. For the season ahead. Like it was a strategy. Like this wasn’t about feelings or hearts or any of that soft crap people wrote in novels.

And you—the guy who never showed interest in anyone on or off the pitch—was suggesting him for it? Jobe swallowed hard. His throat felt dry as sandpaper.

"Y-you're not serious," he stammered—not cool at all—but what else could he say?

You shrugged. “I just came to the city anyway. You can be my tour guide” like you’re using Jobe as a source of fun for the night.

Jobe blinked. And suddenly, Jobe realized—he didn’t know anything about being normal with someone. He hadn’t taken anyone out in years—just shows up wherever they’re already waiting, all dressed up like it's an obligation. But this… this felt different. You wanted him to show you around? Germany? The thought lit something warm in Jobe’s chest—something hopeful and stupidly excited that made his fingers twitch at his sides. God help him, he felt special. For once.

"Yeah," he said quickly before overthinking it. "I can do that." Then added quietly: "...When?”

You weren't gonna make it easy for him, were you? No clear plan, no time given—just that lazy teasing tone and those raised brows.

“Don’t bore me with that question” like he should figure it out himself. Be the man. Lead.

If you wanted Jobe to pick… then Jobe would pick something good. He cleared his throat, trying—and failing—to sound casual. "Tomorrow night." Not too soon—he could still panic-shop for a decent outfit later. Not too far ahead—the anticipation might kill him before then.

"Seven?" he added quickly. "There's this little German place...quiet but really good food." And private enough that they wouldn't be mobbed by fans or paparazzi if someone recognized them.

Jobe’s stomach flipped at the sound of you laughing—actually laughing, that soft, rare huff like you’d just found something secretly funny. And then those words: “You’re the boss.” Playful. Sarcastic. Submitting without really submitting—because you would never fully submit to anyone. That was a joke… but also kind of hot? He tried not to grin too wide. Failed. Always had a problem with smiling too wide and getting that tingling in his stomach.

Yeah—he loved trouble. Always had. The reckless part of him—who flirted with danger more than people—loved this exact kind of chaos: a sharp-faced guy with attitude, dark humor, and zero fear of challenging him straight on. And now here he was… going on a date with said trouble incarnate tomorrow night.

"Don't make me regret it," Jobe shot back lightly—but there wasn’t an ounce of regret in his voice.

You walk away—shoulders relaxed, that quiet confidence in every step—you hear the footsteps coming close and yeah…not the best idea to be seen tangled up to your teammate after just arriving for a few weeks.

The locker room door clicked open down the hall. Voices approached. The team was coming back from dinner.

Instinct kicked in: Jobe straightened up fast, shoving his hands into his pockets like he hadn’t just been kissing someone seconds ago. Like nothing happened at all.

He pulled out his phone, pretending to be busy on it while he literally was fiddling with the weather app—anything to look busy and not suspicious.

You moved efficiently—grabbing your duffel bag from a lower bench where it had been sitting since the match earlier that day. No lingering glances between them now, they were both professionals even if Jobe’s heart wasn't cooperating. But beneath it all… yeah… there was still that feeling.

Jobe exhaled slowly, tying his second shoelace with more focus than necessary.

Football was supposed to be simple. Train hard. Score goals. Win trophies. Build his name—not Jude’s shadow, not the Bellingham legacy handed down like a title he had to earn every damn day just to keep up in people’s eyes. He’d worked so hard for what he had today.

But then you showed up…and completely threw Jobe off the orbit. Quiet transfer from a Spain club who didn’t care about headlines or fame—or maybe you just didn't need them like Jobe did. The type to play out of the love for the game.

And suddenly everything felt… complicated. The way you looked at him during practice wasn't admiration—it was challenge

The way other players whispered when they walked past each other? Envy mixed with curiosity. And now this... whatever this was between them after tonight.

Jobe spent an unusual amount of time getting ready.

He showered properly—not just a quick rinse—and used that fancy sandalwood body wash his stylist had given him months ago still sealed because he would rather use that mint bar soap. Shaved carefully, both his jaw and below the hips with different razors. just in case the date went...well, there.

His outfit: black Lucky You jeans and a big Ralph Lauren gray sweater over an unbuttoned white shirt—the kind Jude had once said looked "cool as hell" on him. Classic. Just... Jobe trying to look like someone you would actually want to spend time with.

He checked himself in the mirror three times before grabbing keys and walking out.

The night air cooled as you turned to face Jobe who just arrived in a fancy electric car. Jobe stepped out of his car slowly, door clicking shut behind him. He’d dressed to impress, but now faced with you in full effect… he felt a little overdressed.

Baggy jeans—long enough to pool slightly on the pavement like liquid shadow. A black F1 graphic tee that rode up just above your hipbones when you moved, showing off those Calvin Klein waistbands without even trying. Silver belt glinting under lamplight. Gold chains around your neck and both wrists catching every flicker of light. And that leather jacket slung over one arm.

You popped a mint into your mouth—masking the cigarette scent—and chewed once before looking at Jobe properly.

Jobe cleared his throat—suddenly aware of how dry it felt.

"Hey."

You stood there like a damn 2000s movie scene—tall, effortlessly cool in that chaotic way trouble had when it looked good on someone. And Jobe? Jobe was staring again. He forced himself to blink, then took a small step forward, hands tucked into his jeans pockets for something to do with them. Such an awkward handsome.

“You came on time” Yeah… Jobe was on time. Right at seven. Not a minute late. He shifted slightly under that quiet scrutiny—the way you glanced at your golden wristwatch before meeting his eyes again, assessing him silently. That subtle smirk though? It did things to Jobe’s stomach—a slow twist of warmth and something dangerously close to pride because he impressed you. Even if it's just a little.

“Yeah.” he said simply, voice steadier now than it had been all night.

Jobe opened the passenger door for you—not out of chivalry, but habit—the kind of thing he’d done a million times for his mom or even Jude. But this time felt different. Bigger somehow. The car smelled faintly like sandalwood from Jobe’s cologne. As Jobe circled around to the driver's side and got in, he started the engine and glanced at you beside him.

“There’s this German restaurant,” Jobe said after buckling up. “Authentic food… not tourist trap stuff.” He’d thought about it all day: where to take someone who had never been here before. You only hummed in return, observing details in the car.

Jobe’s hands tightened on the steering wheel just slightly as he pulled onto the main road. Nervous. Actually nervous. Not about a match, not about press scrutiny—but this. A date with you, of all people. He hadn’t been on one in… what? Two years? Maybe longer. Since his last fling—some influencer who ghosted him after three dates because “football life was too chaotic” And now here he was, trying to impress someone who didn't care about fame or any of that crap Jobe usually used to get attention. What if you thought he was boring? What if they sat through dinner and realized they had nothing in common? Worse—what if Jobe said something stupid and ruined everything before it even started? The silence between them stretched—not tense yet, but fragile.

What if you compared him? Not just as players—but as people? Did he talk enough? Was he too serious? Too focused on football while Jude could laugh and joke with everyone? Jobe wasn’t insecure about most things… but this? This scared him more than any high-pressure match ever had.

“What's it like when you first move to Germany?” you broke the silence first.

Jobe took a slow breath. Just be yourself. He repeated it in his head like a mantra—because for once, he wasn’t trying to perform. Not the confident football star, not the charming face on magazine covers… just Jobe.

“It was… weird,” he admitted quietly, finally setting his menu down. “I mean—It’s not so different from what it is like back in England.

A small pause.

“But when you move up? When people start watching everything you do…” He shrugged one shoulder. “It got lonely sometimes.”

Jobe tilted his head slightly—mirroring your earlier gesture without realizing it.

“What about you?” Jobe asked quietly. “How’s it been since… moving here?” The question wasn’t just polite—he genuinely wanted to know. You had come from Spain originally, but Jobe remembered reading somewhere that you were actually born in Brazil—a tiny detail buried in a club profile no one really paid attention to. Leaving home… especially for football? That couldn't be easy. And why Dortmund? You can thrive just fine in your homeland.

“It has been strangely smooth…or I’m just ignoring the bad details” He could relate. Sometimes, ignoring the bad stuff worked… until it didn’t.

“You don’t miss home?” Jobe asked, prodding gently. Not prying—just genuinely curious now that they were actually talking like normal people. Brazil must’ve been so different from cold German winters and quiet football towns compared to whatever vibrant life you had left behind.

“I do. Germany is far different. They dance to boring techno music and get fresher beers” Funk is more of your cup of tea, yeah.

Jobe grinned, leaning back in his chair.

“Wild and crazy,” he admits, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Yeah… Germany’s not exactly rich in loud, expressive cultural festivals, party animals unless you count Oktoberfest” Which was one massive exception—where everyone drank like there was no tomorrow.

Jobe watched you take that first bite—chewing slowly, expression thoughtful but not disgusted. Just… neutral. Not like Brazilian food, probably. He’d read somewhere that their dishes were packed with flavor—spicy meats, garlic-heavy sauces, vibrant colors. This German stew? Simple. Clean flavors from fresh ingredients and slow cooking—not explosive or exotic. You didn’t complain though. And then Jobe noticed something else: the napkin with the waitress’s number just sat there on the table edge—untouched—and you hadn’t even glanced at it since she left.

Your attention was fully on your food… and occasionally flickering up to Jobe. That weird feeling in Jobe’s chest intensified.

Jobe had always told himself the same thing—football first. Always football. No distractions. No messy feelings that could ruin his focus, his discipline. But sitting here with you—the way you tossed away that number without a second thought, how you actually listened when Jobe talked about being lonely… it made something in him crack. He didn’t just want attention. He wanted this. Someone who saw him—not Jude’s shadow or anything—but just Jobe. And put him first anyway. And God… if you ever looked at him like that? Like Jobe was the most important person in the room?

That would wreck every rule he'd set for himself.

The night air was cool, but the car felt warm—filled with easy conversation and soft laughter. Jobe drove slowly through the city streets, not taking any shortcuts. He wanted you to see everything: the glowing lights of downtown, quiet residential roads lined with trees, even passing by his favorite training ground. They talked about football—of course—but also other stuff. Music, you mentioned Brazilian funk, food, Jobe promised to take you to a proper German bakery next time, their childhoods.

No tension. No rivalry talk. Just two guys… getting along better than either would’ve expected weeks ago.

This was different. You were here. Present. Listening when Jobe talked, laughing at things that mattered, showing interest in small details—like how much you missed home cooking or why German rave sucked.

And right now? With you sitting beside him, window down slightly so cool night air brushed their faces… Jobe realized: He’s not just important here…He’s wanted.

Jobe took a deep breath, hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. For the first time in years—maybe ever—he let something raw slip out.

“I… I’ve always felt like I’m not good enough,” he admitted quietly, voice softer than usual. “Not just as a player. As… me.” He kept his eyes on the road, but everything inside him was exposed.

“People compare me to Jude all the time. Like my worth is only how close I am to being as good as him.”

A pause.

“And yeah—I love my brother—but sometimes it feels like no matter what I do… people still don’t see me.” Jobe exhaled slowly, the weight still pressing on his chest.

Your words helped—”You’re kidding” “…I see you”—but old thoughts don’t vanish that easily. They’re like scars: they fade, but they never disappear completely

“I know I’m good,” he said after a beat. “I mean… statistically? Yeah. Goals per game, assists—everything checks out.”

He turned onto a quieter road now—residential streets with dim streetlights

“But sometimes I wonder if people only cheer for me because of my last name… or because I play for Dortmund.”

“You're really letting your insecurity take over you. You need to get rid of it in order to see yourself too”

Jobe blinked at your bluntness. You need to get rid of it. Easy to say. Not easy to do

He didn’t even know how. He’d spent years building walls—telling himself he had to be perfect, relentless, always the best because anything less would mean people stop believing in him.

And now you were sitting here like it was that simple? Just… toss out insecurity and see yourself clearly?

“It’s not like I can just turn it off,” Jobe said softly—not defensive, but honest. “I don’t even know who I am without all that noise.”

The car stopped quietly on an empty street.

“I can show you. Get in the back, Bellingham”

Jobe’s heart jumped. That smirk—that damn smirk—was doing things to him again. The kind that said I’ve got a plan and you’re gonna like it.

You weren't just talking about therapy or self-help books. You meant something else entirely. And the way you looked at Jobe now? Not with pity, not with criticism—but like… an invitation.

“Am I intimidating or are you always that damn nervous?”

Jobe swallowed hard, getting into the backseat after you. The space was cramped—car seats always were—but it felt electric anyway. And no, you weren't scary—not at all. If anything, you looked unfairly calm for someone about to kiss Jobe Bellingham.

“Neither,” Jobe finally admitted quietly as he settled beside you. “Just… not used to this.” Not used to anyone wanting him like this—no football involved.

“No?” You raised an eyebrow. Skeptical.

Jobe let out a soft, breathy laugh—nervous but sincere.

“No,” he repeated firmly, shaking his head. “I’ve never… y’know. Fancied anyone like that.”

“I’ll show you what it is like then”

Jobe’s breath hitched as you leaned in—slow, deliberate, giving him every chance to pull away. But Jobe didn’t move. He stayed perfectly still, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. The air between them thickened with tension and something new… electric And then—you closed the gap.

Your lips met Jobe’s gently at first—a soft press of warmth that wasn't rushed or demanding. It wasn't their first kiss—but this one felt different.

Jobe melted. The kiss started soft—just lips touching—but then you deepened it, slow and deliberate. Patient in a way that made Jobe’s head spin. Your hand slid to the back of his neck—warm, calloused from training—and gently tilted Jobe’s head just slightly to get better access. Then came the tongue: teasing at first, brushing against Jobe’s bottom lip before softly pressing inside.

You kiss him like you got all night to yourself.

Every move—the tilt of your head, the gentle pressure of your lips, how your tongue danced with Jobe’s without rushing or dominating—it was smooth. Confidence. Like kissing came naturally to you. And Jobe? He let himself be led—following your rhythm instinctively, responding slowly at first but growing bolder as the kiss deepened.

Jobe blinked—half dazed from the kiss, half flustered by that tone.

“Not bad.” Coming from you? It sounded like both praise and a degradation. Like you did okay… but you can do better.

And damn if that didn’t light something competitive in Jobe. Was he supposed to prove himself now? Kiss you again—better this time? Or maybe… not say anything at all and just go for it?

Jobe’s hands slid carefully down your back—fingers tracing the defined muscles beneath your shirt. He’d never touched someone like this before. Not really. Always too shy, or distracted by football, or just… not interested. But now? Now he wanted to feel everything.

His palms mapped every ridge of your shoulders, spine, lower back—strong from training and built differently than Jobe, who was leaner. The warmth through the fabric was intoxicating. And as their kiss deepened again—slower this time but hungrier—the contact felt electric.

“Sweater and buttoned shirt…really?” You chuckled as you finally commented on his outfit.

“Too clothed?” Jobe echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not out here trying to look like a model” But yeah… he was over-dressed compared to how you probably dated in Brazil.

“Okay fine,” he muttered with mock annoyance before pulling off the sweater in one smooth motion.

Jobe shivered the second your lips left his mouth. That single stolen kiss was soft—but then you went lower, pressing warm kisses down Jobe’s neck. And oh—it felt different. Softer than anything he’d experienced before. More intimate.

You took your time—gentle nibbles here and there, no teeth yet just warmth and breath against sensitive skin—and Jobe tilted his head slightly to give you better access without even thinking.

Jobe bit his lip—hard—to keep from making a sound. You weren't rushing. Weren’t tearing clothes off like some desperate scene from a movie.

No—you were teasing. Just pulling the collar of Jobe’s shirt aside with careful fingers, exposing more skin inch by inch… then kissing, licking, grazing teeth over that sensitive spot on his collarbone. And it drove him crazy. The slow reveal. The warmth of your mouth only where skin showed. That deliberate avoidance of undressing properly—like you enjoyed watching Jobe squirm in half-dressed frustration. It wasn't torture exactly... but damn if it didn't feel like one.

Jobe didn’t even realize how fast things were moving—his belt unclipped with quiet efficiency, the zipper of his jeans sliding down in one smooth motion.

Your eyes flicked to the brand name on the zipper line: Lucky You.

And you smirked.

“Yeah…lucky me” you amused dryly—low voice teasing but not mean—and then his fingers hooked into the fabric at Jobe’s hips.

The sudden exposure hit him like a shockwave. The cool night air from the cracked window kissed his bare skin for just a second before your warm hand followed

No stripping off shirts. No kicking pants away. Just… pulling—careful fingers hooking into the waistband of Jobe’s boxers, tugging them down just enough to free his aching cock.

And suddenly he was completely vulnerable—half-undressed in this cramped car backseat, heart racing faster than ever. And you hadn’t even taken your own clothes off yet.

Jobe’s back pressed against the car door, a soft thud echoing as his body tensed. Your hand—warm and slick with saliva—wrapped around him slowly, stroking with deliberate patience. No rush. Just smooth, even glides that made Jobe bite down hard on his lower lip. Then came the tongue. A single slow lick up the tip—wet heat where it was most sensitive—and Jobe jolted. His fingers curled into your shoulder through your shirt, not pushing or pulling… just holding on like he needed something to anchor himself.

He let out a quiet, broken sound—half gasp, half whimper. You weren't taking him all the way in yet. Just teasing with soft bites and gentle suction at the tip—the most sensitive spot—sucking lightly like you were savoring it.

Every nerve lit up. Jobe’s hips twitched instinctively—not pushing forward, but reacting to the pleasure building. His breathing turned shallow. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form words even if he wanted to. Just sensation: warm mouth, careful pressure… you playing with him like this was their own private world.

His eyes flicked between your face and the car mirror—watching himself from different angles, seeing his own flushed cheeks, slightly parted lips. And then you took him in. No warning. No slow build-up—just warm mouth closing over him fully and bobbing with eager rhythm right away. A deep shiver ran down Jobe’s spine. His head tipped back against the seat with a soft thud as pleasure surged through every nerve. You weren't gentle anymore—you were hungry now. Sucking firmly, hollowing your cheeks just right—and Jobe couldn't stop the quiet moan that escaped.

The car was silent except for the soft, wet sounds—your mouth working steadily despite occasional gagging. And Jobe? His head spun. Every time you took him deeper—the tight heat of your throat squeezing around the tip—it sent electric pulses straight to his core. He’d never felt anything like this before. Not just physical pleasure… but how intimate it felt in this small space, under dim streetlights where anyone could pass by and see them…

Jobe couldn’t control it. No matter how uncomfortable it feels knowing the risks. His hips jerked up instinctively—small, desperate thrusts—as you took him deeper. The sensation of your nose brushing against Jobe’s skin sent a jolt through him. A low moan slipped out—unfiltered. Every movement was pure instinct now: the heat of your mouth, the wet tightness around him… and those little gasps when you gagged but kept going.

Jobe didn’t push your head too hard—he wasn't trying to choke you—but every bob forward made stars flash behind his eyelids.

Jobe’s fingers tangled in your soft curls—slightly messy hair that felt incredible between his fingertips. The grip was tight—desperate—like he needed something to hold onto as pleasure overwhelmed him. Every moan spilled out now, uncontrolled and loud in the quiet car. You could feel Jobe trembling under his touch—the way his breath hitched every time those fingers teased a nipple again… how close he clearly was.

Your fingers found his nipple through the thin fabric of Jobe's shirt and rolled it gently between them. A simple motion… but shockingly sensitive. Jobe had never known that spot was this reactive. He didn’t even think about his chest much—most guys don’t—but now? Every little pinch sent sparks straight down to where you still worked him with your mouth. His back arched slightly off the seat, hips twitching up again without meaning to.

Jobe panted, voice shaky and breathless.

“F-Fuck… Y/N—” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. He wasn’t usually vocal during moments like this—never had moments like this—but the pleasure was too intense to keep quiet

“I’m—I’m gonna…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn't. Instead, his hips gave a small involuntary twitch upward again—a silent plea without touching or forcing anything.

Jobe came hard—wave after wave crashing through him like a freight train. His back arched, toes curling inside his shoes. A loud, unfiltered moan tore from his throat as pleasure exploded through every nerve. And you didn’t stop—not immediately. You kept going, riding it out with soft sucks and gentle pressure—even as Jobe’s body became too sensitive all at once. Jobe squirmed under the hand still pinned on his chest and tugged lightly on your hair.

Jobe’s voice cracked—soft, breathless, almost pleading.

“Please… stop—…” The words came out strained—not angry or pushy—but genuinely overwhelmed. The aftershocks were too strong now, every nerve still buzzing from the climax

And you? You finally listened. You eased off slowly—lifting your mouth with a quiet pop, lips glistening—and looked up at Jobe. No teasing smirk this time.

You took in the sight of Jobe—completely wrecked. Blushing furiously, sweat glistened at his temples and neck. A few buttons on his shirt were undone, revealing faint hickeys blooming on his collarbone. His lips were slightly parted, breathing still uneven. Eyes glassy and dazed—like he’d just woken up from a dream. And that needy look? Beautiful. The kind of beauty that comes from someone being completely vulnerable after pleasure.

Jobe swallowed hard—still catching his breath—and finally found his voice.

It came out quiet, almost shy: “Did… did you just…?” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The question hung there awkwardly. Because you hadn’t spit anything out. Hadn’t pulled away or made a face like some people might in that moment. No—you’d taken it all without hesitation, swallowing like it was nothing. And that small act of intimacy somehow embarrassed Jobe more than anything else they’d done.

“What?” you gently tugged Jobe’s cock back into his boxers—no lingering touch, no teasing squeeze—and zipped his jeans up like nothing had just happened. The contrast was funny: one second they were in the middle of that, and now you were all calm and nonchalant.

“Nothing,” Jobe said simply—voice low but light—as if you hadn’t just rocked Jobe Bellingham to his core. His breath hitched as you leaned in again—closing the small space between them. The car door pressed against his back, trapped gently by your arms caging him in

“Does that help? Feel more confident now for the upcoming match?” You asked. Amused by his reaction.

“Yeah,” Jobe admitted quietly, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “I feel… really good.”

Not just confident—different. Like something had shifted inside him. The weight of insecurity felt lighter after what they’d just shared. And now? Seeing that smirk up close again made his heart skip—not from nerves this time, but anticipation.

Jobe closed his eyes as you kissed him—softly, right where the jaw met the neck. It wasn’t a passionate kiss. Not deep or lingering. Just gentle—a quiet press of lips against warm skin. But it meant something Jobe swears.

“I’ll have high expectations then” And Jobe liked that you had expectations—not pressure in a bad way, but belief. He tilted his head slightly into the touch of your warm palm, nuzzling his cheek before opening his eyes again, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

“Can you drive?” Reality snapped back again.

He looked down at his hands—still slightly shaky. His heart rate had calmed but not completely settled. And yeah… he was still a little dazed.

“Uh…” He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal.

“I mean… yeah.” But even as he said it, he knew the truth: right now? Probably not the safest driver on the road.

Jobe collapsed onto his bed—still fully dressed, shoes still on—and stared at the ceiling. He got home and had one thing in mind. His lips kept twitching into a smile. Then a full grin. Then… giggles. Actual giggles.

He covered his face with one hand, shoulders shaking silently as he replayed everything in his head: your handsome face, that first kiss in the car, how gentle yet confident you were…And then later—the things they did.