Big Mama

about me • koko, 20, zimbabwean living in south africa, just writing for the love of the game ;) strictly woc fanfics

requests • are completely open, i can write anything you’d like for any woc. currently football obsessed (jb5), but i can write for people outside of that too xx

MASTERLIST

so I’ve got a really good fic sitting in my drafts rn, but I’m having a hard time deciding who fits it best. so Imma let you guys pick who based on who I think suits it best. personally I’m leaning a lot more to virgil but it doesn’t seem yall like him on here (which is so sad cause he’s sooo hot imo). it’s 18+ so choose wisely ;)

drunk in love ~ jo.bellingham

pairing: bf!jobe x black!fem!reader

word count: 1.2k+

warnings/notes: 18+ mdni, sub drunk reader, dom horny jobe, fingering, squirting

summary: after a night out drinking, you come home needy and desperate for Jobe, and he’s got the perfect remedy for you

a/n: hi lovelies !! lowkey I’ve been getting a little bit of writers fatigue from writing about jude all the time so I’m going back to my original husband 😆 enjoy xxx

You stumble through the front door of Jobe’s apartment a little after midnight, the city lights still twinkling beyond the windows.

The match you went to watch had ended hours ago, but the after-party with the girls had left you pleasantly buzzed - giggly, warm, and increasingly needy.

The whole night your mind kept drifting back to him: those long, strong hands that had gripped your thigh in the car last week, the way his fingers flexed when he drove.

By the time you kicked off your heels in the entryway, heat was already pooling low in your belly.

You pad down the hallway in your short dress, the fabric brushing your thighs with every step.

His bedroom door is ajar, the low blue glow of the TV flickering across the walls.

Jobe is sprawled on the bed, shirtless, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, one arm tucked behind his head as he watches highlights.

The sight of him hits you hard, his smooth, toned chest, the cut of his abs, those veined forearms and big hands resting casually on his stomach.

Your mouth goes dry.

“Baby,” you breathe, pushing the door open wider.

Jobe’s dark eyes lift to you instantly. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips when he sees the tiny pout on your lips and the way you’re swaying slightly.

“Look at you. Come here, drunk girl.”

You don’t need telling twice.

You climb onto the bed on all fours, crawling straight into his lap and straddling his thighs. Your dress rides up as you settle over the growing bulge in his sweats, hands roaming greedily over his bare chest, tracing every ridge of muscle.

He feels so warm, so solid. You lean down and press open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone, grinding down against him with a needy little whimper.

“Missed you,” you mumble against his skin, fingers sliding down to map the lines of his abs. “Your hands… fuck, Jobe, I kept thinking about your hands all night.”

He lets out a low, breathy chuckle that vibrates through his chest, but his gaze has gone heavy-lidded and hungry, pupils blown wide as he watches you grind on him.

One big hand comes up to grip your hip, steadying you, while the other rests on your thigh, thumb stroking dangerously close to where you’re aching.

“Yeah? That why you’re this fucking needy already?”

You nod frantically, rolling your hips again, chasing friction.

Your hands won’t stop exploring, palming his pecs, dragging nails lightly down his stomach, feeling him twitch beneath you.

Jobe’s jaw flexes, that hungry stare never leaving your face as you whimper and rock against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then his patience snaps in the best way.

With a smooth, powerful movement he flips you onto your back, caging you beneath him for a moment before he sits back on his knees between your spread thighs.

The TV is forgotten. He yanks your dress up to your waist and hooks his fingers into your soaked panties, dragging them down your legs and tossing them away.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, voice low and rough but still soft around the edges. “Already dripping for me.”

You’re panting, drunk and desperate, hips lifting off the bed.

Jobe settles back on his heels, knees spread wide, giving himself the perfect view.

He runs two thick fingers through your folds, coating them in your slick before pressing them deep inside you in one slow, deliberate thrust.

A broken moan tears from your throat.

“That’s it,” he coaches quietly, dominant but velvet-soft. “Relax for me, baby. Let me in.”

He curls his fingers, stroking that spongy spot inside you with devastating precision while his thumb finds your clit and starts slow, firm circles. His free hand presses down gently on your lower belly, holding you open for him.

“Good girl. Feel how deep I am?”

You’re already trembling, the alcohol and overwhelming need making everything sharper.

He pumps his fingers steadily, deep and purposeful, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. His eyes stay locked on your face, drinking in every gasp and whimper.

“Jobe…oh fuck- ”

“C’mon, first one. Give it to me.” His voice drops lower, commanding yet soothing. “Let go. I’ve got you. Cum on my fingers like a good girl.”

The orgasm crashes over you slowly, building from deep inside until it blooms outward in hot, pulsing waves.

Your walls clamp down around his fingers, thighs shaking as you cry out his name.

He doesn’t stop moving them, working you through every aftershock, murmuring praise the whole time.

“There she is… so fucking pretty when you cum for me.”

He slows but doesn’t pull out, letting you catch your breath for only a moment before his fingers start moving again - deeper this time, a little rougher, curling with intent.

The heel of his hand grinds against your clit on every thrust.

“Second one,” he says softly, eyes dark and hungry as he watches your face contort in pleasure. “You’re gonna give me another. Breathe through it, baby. I want to feel you squeeze me again.”

It builds slower this time, a deeper, heavier pressure.

You’re writhing on the bed, hands fisting the sheets, drunk whimpers spilling from your lips.

Jobe leans over you slightly, still on his knees, his free hand stroking your thigh, your hip, grounding you.

“Eyes on me,” he orders gently. “That’s my girl. Feel how wet you are? This pussy was made for my fingers tonight. Come on…cum again. Now.”

The second orgasm rips through you harder, longer, your back arching clean off the mattress as you moan loudly.

Your walls flutter and pulse violently around his thick fingers.

Jobe groans low in his throat, clearly affected, but keeps the steady, rough rhythm going, fucking you through it until you’re gasping and oversensitive.

He eases up for a few seconds, letting you float, pressing soft kisses to your inner thigh while his fingers stay buried deep, giving you the gentlest strokes.

Then that hunger returns.

“One more,” he murmurs, voice low and dominant. “You’re gonna squirt for me this time, baby. I can feel it. Let it happen. Don’t fight it.”

He starts again - fingers plunging deeper, faster, curling hard against that spot while his thumb presses firm circles on your swollen clit.

The pressure builds impossibly high, a different, almost overwhelming sensation flooding your core.

You’re shaking, crying out, trying to close your thighs, but he holds them open with his body.

“Jobe- fuck, it’s too much- ”

“I know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna give it to me anyway. Relax… push into it. Good girl. Just like that.” His voice stays soft, steady, commanding. “Cum. Squirt all over me. Let go.”

The third orgasm explodes through you like a dam breaking.

Your whole body seizes, a raw cry tearing from your throat as you gush around his fingers.

Clear fluid sprays out, soaking his abs and the front of his sweatpants, dripping down his skin.

The sight makes Jobe’s eyes roll back for a second, a deep, guttural groan leaving him as he keeps fingering you through the longest, most intense release yet, drawing it out until you’re a trembling, soaked mess beneath him.

“Fuck…yes,” he breathes, voice thick with raw arousal, staring down at the mess you made on his toned stomach.

His cock strains visibly against his sweats, harder than ever. “That’s my girl. So fucking perfect.”

He finally slows his fingers, easing them out gently, and leans down to kiss you deeply, swallowing your exhausted whimpers.

His body is flushed, abs glistening with your release, and a look in his eyes that promises he’s nowhere near done with you tonight.

wash day ~ j.bellingham

pairing: bf!jude x afrolatina!fem!reader

word count: 1.1k+

summary: a wholesome wash day with jude <3

warnings/notes: none, just light fluff

a/n: hi love, I’m so sorry it took me so long to get to your request, and thank you so much for your kind words 💓 I hope you enjoy this one xxx

You’d been putting it off for days, as usual. Between work, Jude’s training schedule, and trying to keep up with his chaotic life in Madrid, wash day had become a mythical beast you kept postponing. But your curls were screaming for mercy.

Today was the day.

You’d warned him that morning over breakfast: “I’m disappearing into the bathroom for like…four hours. Don’t wait up.”

Jude had only raised an eyebrow, that half-smile playing on his lips.

“Four hours? What are you doing in there, building a spaceship?”

“Wash day,” you’d said simply, like that explained everything. To him, it probably didn’t.

Now the bathroom smelled like coconut, shea butter, and the rosemary-mint shampoo you imported from that little shop back home.

You were in your oldest tank top and shorts, hair parted into four thick sections, clips everywhere, when a soft knock sounded.

“Need backup?” Jude’s voice was muffled through the door.

You laughed.

“You sure you wanna volunteer? This isn’t cute Instagram wash day. This is borderline war.”

The door creaked open.

He leaned against the frame in grey sweats and a black compression shirt, arms crossed, watching you with open curiosity.

His eyes traced the rows of products on the counter - deep conditioner, leave-in, edge control, the wide-tooth comb that had seen battles.

“Looks intense,” he admitted. “Teach me.”

You blinked.

“Jude… you don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him like he was committing to the mission.

“If I’m gonna be around, I should know how to help, yeah?”

Your heart did a small flip. He’d always been attentive like that, quietly learning the things that mattered to you.

But this felt different.

More intimate.

The first thirty minutes were mostly him asking questions.

“What’s this one for?” He held up the detangling brush like it was a delicate artifact.

“Sectioning and gentle detangling. No ripping.”

“And this smells like heaven. Can I…?” He opened the deep conditioner jar and inhaled. You watched his shoulders relax.

You explained the process while he listened with surprising focus.

When you moved to rinse the first section under the shower head, he rolled up his sleeves without being asked.

“Lean back,” he said softly.

You hesitated, then did.

Warm water cascaded over your scalp as his fingers - big, careful, surprisingly gentle - worked through the suds.

He was quiet at first, focused, but then he started humming an old reggaeton song you’d played in the car weeks ago. Badly.

You laughed so hard you got water up your nose.

“Oi, I’m trying,” he grinned, water droplets clinging to his lashes. “Your turn to teach me the words.”

His Spanish was already pretty good after being in Madrid for so long, but he liked learning from you because in his words, it meant he got to spend more time with you. Although his accent was terrible in the most endearing way.

His thumb brushing the nape of your neck while he applied more conditioner. The way he’d lean in close to check a section, his breath warm against your shoulder. You tried to focus on your hair, but your pulse had other ideas.

Halfway through, the music shifted to slower Latin R&B.

You were sitting on the edge of the tub now, one section twisted and clipped, another still wet and heavy in your lap.

Jude had taken over detangling with the wide-tooth comb like you’d shown him, working from the ends up, patient, careful not to tug.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Got a good teacher.” His voice was lower than usual.

“It’s… beautiful, you know. The way it curls and springs back. Like it’s got its own personality.”

Heat rose to your cheeks. You’d had partners before who tolerated wash day. None had ever looked at your hair like it was something sacred.

He caught your eye in the mirror.

“What? Too much?”

“No,” you said softly. “Just… not used to someone wanting to be part of it.”

Jude set the comb down.

For a moment the only sound was the drip of the faucet and the low music.

He reached up, tucking a loose curl behind your ear with careful fingers. The touch sent warmth blooming down your spine.

“I like being part of it,” he said. Simple. Honest. His eyes held yours a beat too long. “All of it.”

You swallowed.

The air felt thicker.

You were suddenly very aware of how close he was, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with your hair products, the way his damp shirt clung to his shoulders from the splash zone

By the time the last section was washed, conditioned, and detangled, the sun had shifted across the apartment.

Your hair was stretched and heavy with product, ready for twisting or braiding later.

You felt lighter. Jude looked proud of himself, little droplets of water on his shirt and a smudge of shea butter on his forearm.

You reached for a towel, but he beat you to it, draping it gently over your head and squeezing just right, no rubbing that would cause frizz.

He’d paid attention to every detail.

“Thanks,” you whispered, voice a little rough. “I don’t usually let people help.”

“I know.” He lowered the towel, hands resting on your shoulders. “Means something that you did.”

His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second before flicking back up.

You could feel the question in the air, the possibility hovering between you.

Instead of kissing you, he pressed his forehead to yours, gentle, warm, giving you an out if you wanted it.

“Next wash day,” he murmured against your skin, “I’m doing the twists too. If you’ll let me.”

You smiled, heart hammering. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He pulled back just enough to grin. Then peppered a few soft kisses in your lips, savouring the taste.

“Good. Now…all that cardio has me starving, how about we order in? First one downstairs gets to pick.” As he ran out the bathroom with comical speed.

You laughed chasing after him, the tension easing into something sweeter, warmer, full of promise. Wash day wasn’t over yet. Neither was whatever this was becoming.

after hours ~ j.bellingham

pairing: footballer!jude x black!reader

word count: 1.7k+

warnings/notes: 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, rough/deep sex, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, praise vignettes, somnophilia elements (implied), softdom!jude

summary: what was supposed to be a girls night out with your friend, turns into a private celebration with jude

a/n: hi lovelies !! as requested here’s the jude smut fic, it is my first time writing this kind of content so bare w me 😅

masterlist

The bass thumped through the VIP section like a second heartbeat, low and insistent, cutting through the haze of expensive cologne, spilled champagne, and victory.

England had done it. Third place at the World Cup, a hard-fought win against France sealing the deal. No final, but a podium finish. The boys were buzzing, shirts half-unbuttoned, ties long discarded, laughter rolling louder than the music in their private corner of the club.

You and your best friend had slipped in thanks to her cousin’s connections - some promoter who owed her a favor. The place was packed with athletes, influencers, and anyone who could afford the velvet ropes.

Your friend had vanished toward the bar while you ducked into the bathroom to fix your makeup and the hem of your short black dress, the one that hugged your curves just right and made you feel dangerous tonight.

By the time you stepped out, smoothing the fabric over your thighs, your phone was already vibrating.

Friend:

Where r u?? Come to the England section!! Djed Spence pulled me over. Hurry babe!!

You laughed under your breath, weaving through the crowd, the alcohol from your pre-game shots already warming your veins.

The VIP area was elevated, guarded by a discreet bouncer who let you through once you dropped your friend’s name. Lights pulsed in deep reds and golds.

There she was, perched on a leather couch, laughing flirtatiously with a guy you recognized immediately, Djed Spence.

And next to them, sprawled like he owned the damn club, was Jude Bellingham.

He was in an off white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top few buttons undone to show the chain glinting against his skin. A half-empty bottle of something dark sat in front of him. His legs were spread wide, relaxed but commanding, that post-match glow still clinging to him - tired eyes, but wired with adrenaline and liquor.

Your friend spotted you first. She jumped up with a squeal, pulling you into a tight hug that smelled like her vanilla perfume and spilled tequila. “Babe! Finally! This is Djed,” she said, gesturing with a grin. Djed gave you a warm nod and a quick “Nice to meet you,” already turning his attention back to her with clear interest.

Before you could even respond properly, you felt it.

That look.

Jude’s eyes dragged up from your heels, slow and deliberate, over the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, the neckline of your dress, until they locked on yours.

Dark, heavy, hungry. Not just drunk but starved. Like the win, the club, the night, and now you were all fuel for whatever fire was burning in him. His lips parted slightly, jaw tight, and the corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest smirk.

You barely had time to breathe before his hand reached out, gentle but sure, fingers wrapping around yours. Warm. Calloused from years of football.

He pulled you lightly, guiding you down onto the couch right beside him instead of the empty spot next to your friend.

“Sit here,” he murmured, voice low and rough, close enough that you felt the heat of his breath against your ear. “Plenty of room.”

Your friend shot you a quick, wide-eyed glance. Half amused, half holy shit. Before Djed pulled her back into conversation, leaving you and Jude in your own little bubble amid the noise.

Up close, he was overwhelming. Broad shoulders, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with whiskey, those famous eyes hooded from drinking but sharp on you.

He leaned in slightly, arm sprawled across the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching but close enough that his presence felt like a claim.

“You here celebrating too?” he asked, voice carrying that Birmingham edge, softened by the alcohol. Fresh drinks appeared in front of him - courtesy of a server who clearly knew the table - and he slid one toward you without asking.

“Something like that,” you replied, taking a sip to steady yourself. The liquor burned sweet down your throat. “Didn’t expect to end up in your section tonight though.”

Jude chuckled, deep and lazy, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a second too long. “Lucky night then. For both of us.” He shifted closer, thigh brushing yours. “So what’s your name love?”

You told him. He repeated it slowly, like he was tasting it, rolling the syllables on his tongue. “Pretty. Suits you.” His fingers tapped the glass in his hand, but his eyes stayed on you, tracing your collarbone, the way your dress rode up just a little when you crossed your legs. “You watch the match?”

“Caught the highlights,” you said, smiling. “You played well. That goal…”

He waved it off, but the smirk deepened, pleased. “Didn’t feel like enough. Wanted more.” The double meaning hung there, thick. He took a long drink, then set the glass down. “But tonight? I’m not thinking about football.”

The conversation flowed easy at first - light teasing about the club, the crowd, how England boys knew how to party. But Jude was relentless in the best way. Every answer you gave, he leaned into it.

“You always look this good when you crash VIP?” he asked after a while, voice dropping lower. His hand had found its way to the back of the couch, fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder now and then. “Or is this just for me?”

You laughed, heat pooling low in your belly. “Bold, Bellingham.”

“Just drunk and honest,” he shot back, eyes glittering.

The way he watched your lips on the rim of your glass, the slow drag of his stare down your body every few minutes, the way his knee pressed firmer against yours.

Like the win had left him wired and the alcohol had stripped away any filter, in a way only a man who knew exactly who he was and what he wanted could be and open about it, pressing just enough without doing too much.

Your friend and Djed were deep in their own world, laughing and flirting, occasionally pulling you both into shots. Tequila. Whiskey. Champagne.

The table filled with bottles. Jude kept refilling yours, clinking glasses with you every time, his hand lingering on yours longer each round. The music swelled - smooth and seductive, and the energy shifted.

“Dance with me,” Jude said suddenly, standing and offering his hand again. No question in it this time. His eyes were darker now, pupils blown, lips wet from his last drink.

You took it.

The dance floor in the VIP area was dimmer, bodies moving close under the lights. Jude pulled you in front of him, chest to your back, hands settling on your waist like they belonged there. Big hands. Strong. Fingers digging in just enough to hold you as the beat dropped.

He moved with you. His surprisingly fluid and athletic hips rolling slow against yours. You pressed back, grinding to the rhythm, feeling the hard line of his body behind you.

Your dress rode higher as his thumbs traced the edge of it, slipping under just barely. His breath was hot on your neck, lips brushing your ear as he murmured along with the lyrics.

“Fuck…you feel good,” he groaned lowly, voice gravelly with want. One hand slid lower, gripping your hip tighter, pulling you flush against him as you moved together.

The grind was deliberate now, slow and dirty, his growing hardness unmistakable against your back. He didn’t hide it, nor did he want to. He just st held you there, dancing like the rest of the club didn’t exist, like he was already imagining peeling that dress off later.

The night stretched on like that; dancing, drinks, his hands never leaving your body for long. Slow, but the fire was already catching.

The club lights blurred into streaks of neon as Jude kept you locked against him through another song, his hips grinding slow and deliberate into the curve of your ass.

“Fuck this,” he finally growled, low and rough. “I need you somewhere I can really touch you. Come back to my hotel with me. It’s not far. Let me take care of you properly tonight, yeah?”

The want in his voice left no room for hesitation.

You nodded, and Jude’s grin was pure hunger as he wrapped a strong arm around your waist, guiding you out.

Your friend caught your eye one last time and mouthed text me later with a wink.

The private car ride was thick with tension.

Jude pulled you onto his lap in the back seat, hands sliding up your thighs under the hem of your dress, teasing the edge of your panties but never quite giving you what you craved.

“You’ve been driving me crazy since I saw you,” he murmured between heated kisses along your jaw. “Looking like that…grinding on me like a good girl. I’ve been half-hard all night thinking about how wet you probably are right now.”

His fingers traced lazy circles on your inner thigh, voice soft but commanding. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

“Jude… please,” you breathed, rocking against the thick bulge in his pants.

He chuckled darkly, nipping at your earlobe.

“That’s my girl. Gonna make you feel so fucking good when we get upstairs. Be patient for me.”

The luxury hotel suite was quiet and dimly lit when the door clicked shut behind you. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a glittering city view, but Jude only had eyes for you.

He kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his shirt slowly, revealing the sculpted torso you’d only glimpsed in the club. Soft, smooth skin, the faint sheen of sweat from dancing.

“C’mere, baby,” he said, voice low and warm, pulling you flush against him.

The kiss was deep and messy from the start. Tongues sliding sloppily, teeth grazing, the taste of whiskey and champagne shared between you.

His big hands roamed your body possessively, squeezing your ass and pulling you tighter so you could feel every inch of how hard he was.

“God, you kiss like you’ve been needing this as bad as I have.”

He walked you backward until your legs hit the massive king bed, then eased you down to sit on the edge.

“Stay right there. Eyes on me.”

Jude stood between your spread thighs, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness.

“Been imagining peeling this dress off you since the moment I saw you. Take it off for me, nice and slow. Want to see everything.”

You obeyed, sliding the fabric up and over your head, letting it pool on the floor. Jude’s eyes darkened, raking over your bra and panties with nothing but desire and hunger.

“Fuck…look at you. You’re perfect, I can see that pretty pussy already soaking through your panties for me. Such a needy girl.”

He dropped to his knees, strong hands spreading your thighs wider.

“Let me taste you first.”

He hooked your panties to the side and licked a long, slow stripe up your folds, moaning loudly against you.

“Mmm, so sweet. This pussy is fucking delicious.”

His tongue circled your clit with expert pressure while he slowly slid two thick fingers inside you, curling immediately to hit that perfect spot.

He was relentless but soft in his dominance, holding your hips down gently but firmly with one hand.

“Jude- oh my god,” you moaned, fingers threading through his thick curls.

“Yeah, say my name louder, baby. I love hearing you fall apart.”

He sucked your clit between his lips, humming vibrations through you as his fingers pumped faster.

“That’s it baby. There you go, grind on my face like you were grinding on my dick. Good fucking girl. You’re already clenching so tight around my fingers. Gonna cum for me already? Do it. Let me hear how pretty you sound when you let go.”

The orgasm crashed over you hard. Your back arched, thighs trembling around his head as you cried out.

Jude didn’t stop, licking you through every wave until you were panting and oversensitive. Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, and stand up with a satisfied smirk.

“One down,” he said, voice husky.

He stripped fully, his thick cock springing free. Hard, heavy, and leaking at the tip.

“Look what you do to me. Been aching for this.”

He climbed onto the bed, pulling you on top of him first.

“Ride my fingers some more while I play with these pretty tits.”

He slid three fingers back inside you this time, stretching you as you rocked against his hand. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking and biting gently while his thumb rubbed your clit.

“Shes so wet for me baby… listen to her make a mess on my hand, baby. I fucking love it.”

When you were whimpering and close again, Jude flipped you onto your back with easy strength, settling between your legs. He rubbed the thick head of his cock up and down your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

“You want it? Tell me.”

“Yes, Jude… please fuck me.”

“That’s my good girl.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, groaning deep in his chest the whole time.

“Fuuuck, you’re so tight. Shes taking me so well. Watch how your pussy stretches around my dick.” He bottomed out with a shared moan, staying buried deep for a moment so you could adjust.

Then he started moving, rocking his hips deep into you.He was incredibly vocal, never silent for long.

“That’s it, baby. Take every inch. You feel so fucking perfect around me.”

One hand pinned your wrist above your head while the other came down to run slow circles on your clit, matching his strokes.

“Louder for me. I want to hear how much you love getting fucked by me.”

He picked up the pace, hips snapping harder against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“Such a good girl, creaming all over my dick. Look at you, taking me so well.”

He leaned down to kiss you messily, then shifted to hit a new angle that made you see stars.

“Right there? Cum on my cock again, baby. C’mon let go.”

You shattered for the second time, crying his name loudly as your walls pulsed around him. Jude fucked you through it with praise pouring from his lips.

“Yes, fuck- that’s my gorgeous girl. So beautiful when you cum. I’m so close… where do you want it?”

“Inside…please- ,” you gasped, nails digging into his back.

He moaned, eyebrows furrowing, long and guttural, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard.

“Fuuuuck- take it all. Perfect little pussy milking me dry.”

His hips stuttered through the aftershocks before he finally stilled, collapsing half on top of you with his face buried in your neck.

For a while, the only sounds were your heavy breathing. Jude eventually pulled out carefully, disappearing to the bathroom and returning with a warm cloth.

He cleaned you both gently, then pulled you into his chest under the soft sheets, big hand stroking up and down your back in soothing circles.

“Stay till morning,” he murmured against your hair, voice sleepy but still laced with that possessive warmth. “Not nearly done with you yet. Gonna wake you up with my mouth again if you let me.”

He kissed your forehead, holding you close as the city lights twinkled outside.

“You were incredible, baby.”

first of all, last nights game? top top performance from both sides. idk about you guys but that was the real final for me 😩

with that being said my requests are split in half for the next fic so imma let you guys pick which one you’d like next xx

(also if you’d like to join my taglist pls comment or lmk through the asks)

edit: you can find the world cup victory fic here xx

hi love !!

hi love !!

thick & thin ~ m.olisé

pairing: bf!michael x fem!black!reader

word count: 1.1k+

warnings/notes: world cup loss, heavy emotional angst, breakdown & weeping (comforted), pure comfort/fluff, mutual adoration, soft domestic moments, minor french terms of endearment

summary: you comfort michael after their semi final loss

a/n: hi lovelies !! my heart is still actively breaking for france’s loss, all I wanted was a france and england final. at least we get to see them tonight for the 3rd place match tho :( i hope you guys enjoy xx

masterlist

The final whistle had blown over an hour ago, but the cold, heavy shock of the defeat still hung in the humid air of the stadium.

The scoreboard was a brutal, unblinking reminder of the nightmare that had just unfolded: Spain were champions winning 2-0, and France’s golden run had ended in the most agonizing way possible.

As the stadium slowly emptied, the deafening roars of the Spanish celebrations echoed through the concrete underbelly of the arena, making the narrow corridors feel even more claustrophobic.

You stood just outside the restricted zone near the locker room entrance, bypassed by security because they knew exactly who you were. Your credential hung heavy around your neck, but your chest felt completely hollow.

When the double doors at the end of the corridor finally swung open, the players began to trickle through. They looked like ghosts - shoulders slumped, jerseys stained with grass and sweat, eyes staring blankly at the concrete floor.

Then came Michael.

He was walking slowly, his head bowed, his hands gripping the collar of his jersey as if he was trying to choke back the sheer, overwhelming wave of emotion threatening to break him. He looked so incredibly young in that moment, stripped of the “Mr Nonchalant” persona that social media and the blogs were used to.

"Michael," you called out softly, stepping forward into his path.

He stopped. When he lifted his head, your heart absolutely broke. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed and streaked with tears he had been trying so hard to hide from the broadcast cameras. The second his eyes locked onto yours, the last of his defenses crumbled.

He didn't care about the lingering staff, the security guards, or the teammate walking a few paces behind him. He stumbled forward and collapsed into your arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His athletic frame trembled as he let out a jagged, ragged sob, his hands clutching the back of your jacket so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice thick and broken, his chest heaving against yours. "I'm so sorry. We tried so hard…we just couldn’t get a shot…I-"

"Shh, baby, don't," you whispered, wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders, holding him as close as physically possible.

You gently ran your fingers through his damp hair, kissing the side of his head as he wept. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You gave everything. I am so proud of you. Everyone is so proud of you. One bad match doesn’t erase the hard work you put in."

You held him there in the quiet corridor for what felt like an eternity, letting him pour out all the grief, the exhaustion, and the suffocating pressure of the last few weeks.

Slowly, his breathing began to steady, though he didn't let go of you immediately, keeping his face pressed against your shoulder as if you were the only anchor left in his world.

When he finally pulled back, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, looking pale and thoroughly drained.

"What do you want to do from here?" you asked gently, reaching up to cup his face, brushing a stray tear from his cheek. "Do you want to get out of here? We can go straight back to the hotel."

He swallowed hard, looking down at the concrete floor before looking back at you, a heavy, exhausted sigh escaping his lips. "I... I think I need to chill with the boys for a bit in the dressing room. We need to debrief, have a talk...you know how it is. It might take a while." He offered a weak, apologetic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Go back to the hotel, babe. Get comfortable, get some rest. I'll meet you there as soon as I can, okay?"

"Are you sure?" you murmured, searching his tired eyes. "I don't mind waiting for you."

"Yeah, I'm sure," he said, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Go on. I'll see you in a bit."

With a reluctant nod, you gave his hand one last supportive squeeze before letting him walk back through the double doors.

The ride back to the hotel was quiet.

The city outside the tinted windows of the car was a blur of streetlights and lingering fans. By the time you unlocked the door to your spacious hotel suite, the silence of the room was a welcome relief.

You wanted to make sure he had something comforting waiting for him when he got back.

You knew he wouldn't have eaten, and stadium food was the last thing he’d want after a night like this.

You changed into one of his oversized hoodies, tied your hair up, and went into the suite's small but fully equipped kitchen.

You decided to make his favorite comfort meal - something warm, simple, and homemade.

As the food simmered on the stove, filling the room with a rich, savory aroma, you checked your phone.

Olisé 💓:

I’m on my way back ma chérie, 10 mins out x

You:

Okay baby, see you soon x

You closed your phone as you finished up cooking and prepared to dish, the aromatic spices filled the air and you hoped that this would at least soften the blow of his loss.

Shortly after dishing you heard the hotel door unlock, a tired, red eyed Michael made his way through the door. Hair slightly damp after his post-match shower.

You didn’t say anything, and grabbed his hand guiding him to the table and food you had prepared.

He sat down silently, sighing softly as he dug into the meal, shoulders slightly slumping as he savoured every bite.

You finished your plates in silence, Michael taking your plate to the sink despite your refusal and insistence that he needed to rest.

“No my love, you do so much for me. It’s the least I can do.” He replied gently, taking your plates with him.

He stood at the sink for a moment longer than necessary, his hands resting on the marble edge, his head bowed as the running water filled the silence.

The tough exterior he tried so hard to maintain for the cameras was completely gone, leaving just the quiet weight of his exhaustion hanging in the air.

You walked up behind him, sliding your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek against his back, feeling the solid, comforting rise and fall of his chest.

"Michael," you murmured into the fabric of his shirt. "Drop the plate. Come to bed."

A heavy sigh escaped him, his large hands coming down to cover yours, squeezing them gently. He didn't argue this time. He turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and let you guide him by the hand into the dimly lit bedroom.

The suite was cool, the heavy blackout curtains shutting out the glittering, noisy city below.

You climbed into the plush bed, and Michael followed immediately, sinking into the mattress as if his body had finally realized just how spent it truly was.

He didn't say a word as you pulled him into your chest, his long limbs tangling with yours.

He buried his face right back into the crook of your neck, his fingers hooking securely into the hem of the oversized hoodie you’d borrowed from him.

The scent of his shower gel mixed with the lingering warmth of the room, creating a private little bubble where the World Cup didn't exist.

"Thank you," he whispered against your skin, his voice incredibly low, rough around the edges. "For the food. For... everything."

"Always," you whispered back, gently running your fingers through his damp curls, soothing the lingering tension from his scalp, softly peppering kisses on his forehead. "I've got you."

He let out one final, shaky breath, his grip tightening around you just a fraction more as his eyelids grew heavy, exhaustion finally setting in.

He didn't need to be the main character for the rest of the world tonight; right here, in the quiet dark, he was just yours.

I just wanted to firstly say thank you so much for all the support, I wasn’t expecting you guys to enjoy them so much but I’m happy you are xx

I’ve got a bunch of fics sitting in my drafts so I’m interested to see what you guys would like next xx

(also if these options aren’t what you’d like, please feel free to request anything with any character)

edit: you can find the michael olisé fic here, since we have a clear winner

jude bellingham headcanons

pairing: bf!jude x japanese!fem!reader

summary: a glimpse into jude learning and embracing his japanese girlfriends culture <3

a/n: hi, thank you so much for the request !! I couldn’t think of anything for a fic so I hope you enjoy the headcanons xx

masterlist

jude!bf...learning that "comfort" looks a little different for you. With his massive public profile and the constant chaos of football, Jude deeply craves the peaceful, intentional spaces you create. He completely falls in love with the ritual of a proper matcha setup. He buys a high-quality traditional bamboo whisk (chasen) and a beautiful ceramic bowl, demanding that you teach him the exact technique to froth it perfectly. It becomes your weekend morning tradition. The contrast of his towering, athletic body meticulously and gently whisking matcha in the kitchen just to make you smile is pure domestic bliss.

jude!bf...determined to master the basics of the language. Jude’s favorite word quickly becomes "Otsukaresama" (お疲れ様). He learns that it essentially means "thank you for your hard work," and he starts saying it to you every single evening. If you’ve had a long, stressful day, the second you walk through the door, you’re met with a massive, warm hug and a soft, slightly accented "Otsukaresama, beautiful." He loves the quiet intimacy of it, using it as a cue to completely pull you away from your phone and help you unwind.

jude!bf...trying his hand at traditional cooking.After seeing you make beautiful, balanced meals, Jude decides he wants to return the favor and surprise you. He stays up late watching tutorials on how to pack the perfect bento, trying to get the proportions just right. The result is incredibly endearing: the presentation is a little messy because his hands are so big, but he makes sure it’s packed with your favorite foods. When he presents it to you before you head out, he looks incredibly proud but nervous, watching your face intensely for that first bite to make sure he did your culture justice.

jude!bf...begging you to take him to your hometown. He becomes absolutely fixated on the idea of seeing where you grew up. He doesn’t just want the tourist experience; Jude literally begs you to plan a trip so he can get a real-life glimpse of your upbringing. He wants to walk down the streets you walked down, visit your childhood neighborhood, and see the exact spots that shaped you into the person you are. The thought of getting to see you in your element, completely relaxed in your home country, has him practically counting down the days. He’s already promised that his only rule for the trip is that you are the tour guide - he just wants to follow you around, hold your hand, and soak in every single detail of your world.

jude!bf...stealing your peace (and your space).Whenever he goes away for international matches, he always brings something back for you, but his favorite thing is leaving you with his oversized Madrid or England traveling jackets. He loves seeing you completely swallowed up in his clothes, finding it incredibly attractive how small and delicate you look in his gear. He’ll literally pull the hood up over your head, kiss your forehead, and tell you you're the only person who looks good wearing his number.

— MASTERLIST ᢉ𐭩

welcome to my archive !!

• j.bellingham

one shots

after hours ~ black!reader

every shade of you ~ pakistani!reader

headcanons ~ desi!reader

headcanons ~ japanese!reader

wash day ~ afrolatina!reader

series

beautiful mistake ~ black!reader

part 1 part 2 (coming soon)

• jo.bellingham

one shots

drunk in love ~ black!reader

• m.olisé

one shots

thick & thin ~ black!reader

beautiful mistake ~ j.bellingham

pairing: footballer!jude x black!fan!fem!reader

word count: 1.1k+

warnings/notes: accidental Injury, instant attraction, fluff

summary: what started as an exciting visit to see your favourite player, turns into an injury that comes with benefits you never expected.

a/n: hi lovelies!! firstly I just want to say thank you sm for the love on my first two fics. I decided that while I wait for more requests I’ll clear out a few fics that I’ve been keeping in my drafts, thinking of making this a series but you guys let me know if you’d like the next part <3

part 2

masterlist

The energy inside the stadium was absolute chaos. It was a Champions League clash, the kind of night where the air felt thick with static and thousands of voices joined together in a deafening, rhythmic roar.

You had lucked out with incredible seats - right in the lower tier, only a few rows back from the pitch. Up close, the speed of the game was almost terrifying. The players looked like giants, moving with a blinding, physical intensity that you couldn't fully appreciate on a television screen.

You were pulled out of your thoughts as the ball went out of play on the far side. You adjusted your glasses and pulled the collar of your oversized shirt up slightly against the evening chill. It was a pristine white Real Madrid kit, sporting a very specific name and number on the back: BELLINGHAM 5. You’d been a fan of his for a long time, but tonight, wearing his name so close to the action made you feel a little self-conscious.

Suddenly, the play shifted with terrifying speed.

A loose touch in the midfield sent the ball bouncing toward the touchline right in front of your section. Jude Bellingham came sprinting across the grass, his long strides eating up the distance as he tried to keep the ball in play. He lunged, his boot connecting with the ball in a desperate, last-ditch clearance.

But his angle was slightly off.

Instead of flying down the pitch, the ball went airborne, hurtling straight into the crowd at a lethal velocity.

Before you could even register the white-and-black blur, let alone duck, the heavy leather ball smacked you squarely in the face.

Smack!

The impact knocked your head back, sending your glasses flying into the row in front of you. A collective gasp rose from the fans sitting around you as you stumbled back into your seat, clutching your nose, your eyes watering instantly from the sheer, burning sting of the blow.

"Oh my god! Are you okay?" a fan next to you cried out.

Through the dizzying, throbbing pain in your face and the watery blur of your vision, you heard the sharp trill of the referee's whistle. But the game didn't just carry on.

Jude, having seen the ball strike a fan directly, didn't even wait for the ball-boy. He vaulted over the low digital advertising boards, his eyes wide with immediate, genuine concern as he jogged straight toward your row.

"Hey, hey - I'm so sorry!" Jude’s deep voice cut through the surrounding chatter. He reached the edge of the stands, leaning over the metal railing, his breathing heavy, sweat dripping down his forehead. "Are you alright? I am so, so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

He stopped mid-sentence.

Now that he was only inches away, his eyes locked onto your face. Even with your eyes watering and your nose turning a deep, angry shade of red, you were breathtaking. And then, his gaze drifted down. He saw the white kit you were wearing. He saw his own name, his own number, stretched across your chest.

A look of pure, agonizing guilt - mixed with an instant, undeniable spark of attraction - flashed across his handsome face.

"Oh, no," he groaned softly, his hand coming up to touch his own chest in disbelief. "You're wearing my shirt. Out of everyone here, I had to hit you. I feel absolutely terrible."

He reached over the railing, his large, warm hand gently cupping your shoulder, his thumb rubbing comforting circles through the fabric of the kit. The touch was incredibly sweet, a little bolder than necessary, but his eyes were so filled with genuine concern you couldn't even complain. "Is anything broken? Is your nose bleeding?"

"I- I think I'm okay," you stammered, your voice sounding a little nasal as you gently touched your nose. Someone in the front row kindly handed your glasses back to you. You slid them onto your face, and Jude's face finally came into sharp, stunning focus. He was even more handsome up close, his dark eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart do a dangerous flip. "Just a bit shocked."

"Listen to me," Jude said, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register as his hand slid down from your shoulder to gently squeeze your forearm. He leaned in a little closer, his gaze lingering on your lips for a split second before meeting your eyes again. "I have to get back on the pitch, but do not leave after the whistle. Stay right in these seats. I’m coming back to find you, and I'm bringing you my match shirt. Promise me you won't leave?"

You could only nod, completely dazed by his proximity. "I promise."

"Good girl," he murmured, giving your arm one last, lingering squeeze before turning and jogging back onto the pitch, throwing an apologetic hand in the air to the referee.

For the rest of the match, your face throbbed, but your mind was completely elsewhere. True to his word, the moment the final whistle blew, Jude didn't head down the tunnel with the rest of the squad.

While the other players clapped the fans, Jude made a straight line for your section. He had already pulled his damp, mud-stained match shirt over his head.

He jogged over to the railing, his bare, athletic chest on full display, glistening slightly under the floodlights. He held the folded white jersey in his hand, a massive, charming smile breaking across his face the moment his eyes found yours in the crowd.

"You stayed," he said, his voice warm as he leaned over the barrier, handing the shirt directly to you. It was still warm, smelling faintly of his expensive cologne and the grass of the pitch. "Here. A peace offering. I hope it makes up for the headache I gave you."

"Thank you," you smiled, clutching the fabric to your chest. "It definitely does."

Jude lingered, his elbows resting on the metal railing. He was being extra touchy now, reaching out to gently adjust the collar of the shirt you were wearing, his warm fingers brushing against the bare skin of your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine. He leaned in close, his dark eyes sparkling with a playful, confident charm.

"Your nose still looks a little red," he murmured, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "I’d feel like a complete monster if I let you walk out of here without making sure you're actually okay. I want to pay for any medical checks you might need. An X-ray, some ice - whatever you need."

"Oh, no, you don't have to do that," you protested softly, blushing furiously. "Really, it's just a little sore."

"I insist," Jude said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument as a slow, smug grin spread across his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, sliding it across the flat top of the barrier toward you. "Put your number in. I'll text you tonight to make sure you got home safe, and you can let me know if we need to get a doctor to look at that pretty face of yours."

He was being incredibly smooth, his intentions written clearly in the intense, sweet gaze he was leveling at you. You took the phone, your fingers brushing against his, and quickly typed in your digits.

Jude took the phone back, his smile widening as he locked his screen. He reached over the barrier one last time, his hand gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb caressing your jawline for a brief, electric second.

"I'll text you in an hour," he promised, his voice low and incredibly sweet. "Get some ice on that nose, yeah? I'll speak to you soon."

With a final, lingering wink, he turned and jogged down the tunnel, leaving you standing in the stands with his match shirt in your hands face burning, not from the ball impact, and your heart racing faster than it had during the entire ninety minutes of the game.

every shade of you ~ j.bellingham

pairing: bf!jude x pakistani!fem!reader

word count: 1.4k+

warnings/notes: heavy angst, cyberbullying, racially motivated online harassment, themes of cultural erasure/identity insecurity, featuring a protective Jude and a comforting ending.

summary: going public with jude was supposed to be a dream come true, but the harsh reality of the internet’s judgment leaves you feeling like a ghost in your own life. when the weight of trying to hide your heritage and blend into the background finally breaks you down, jude proves he’ll never let the world make you feel small.

a/n: i’m so happy you enjoyed it and thank you so much x

masterlist

Your relationship with Jude was nothing short of perfect. You’d only been together for a few months but those few months were everything to you.

At the start of your relationship you’d always worried about how you’d navigate your time together, with his busy schedule, but he never failed to make time for you and your relationship. In the beginning it was hard but with the combined effort of the two of you, the life became second nature, and honestly you’d thought that you’d gotten through the worst of it.

That was until you guys decided to go public.

It started with visiting him during training and small coffee dates but quickly transformed into frequent posts about each there. Jude was never one to hide you, he appreciated and loved every aspect of you, and reminded you any chance he could without.

Unfortunately though, the internet didn’t seem to feel the same way. As soon as they got a hold of your social accounts, you were bombarded with comments attacking your skin, your culture, everything that made you, you.

The cultural difference between you and Jude never affected you, in fact, Jude went above and beyond, learning your native tongue, enjoying your cultural dishes and celebrations, immersing himself completely into your world.

As the first few negative comments rolled in, you simply swept them under the rug, Jude loved you, so why should anyone’s else’s opinion matter so much to you…right? Well it wasn’t that easy. As time went on the hateful comments grew into something worse, and you found it harder to ignore them, slowly starting to believe that maybe they were right. And with that, you slowly made changes to fit a narrative that was never yours.

It started small, the playlist of traditional music you used to blast in the kitchen while cooking suddenly went quiet, replaced by whatever was trending on mainstream radio.

Then, it was the jewelry. The vibrant, heavy pieces you used to wear proudly on dates were quietly tucked away at the bottom of her jewelry box. When Jude asked why you weren’t wearing the jhumkas he loved, you’d just offer a tight smile and claim they were "too heavy" or didn't match your outfit anymore, opting for tiny, invisible silver studs instead to blend in.

Eventually it bled into your home. You stopped making the rich, aromatic cultural dishes you both loved because a comment online had called your food "weird," switching instead to bland, safe meals. You even stopped using your favorite hair oils or body lotions, terrified that you carried a scent that made you "too different."

Finally, it was the ultimate retreat - silently archiving photos of yourself on Instagram where you looked "too ethnic," changing your profile pictures to vague aesthetic shots, and slowly untagging yourself from anything public until you felt like a ghost in you own life.

You thought if you just stripped away enough of yourself, you could become invisible enough to escape the hate. You thought you were hiding it well. But you can't hide a breaking heart from Jude…

Which is exactly how you found yourself standing over the bathroom sink at three in the morning.

Jude shifted, his arm instinctively reaching out across the cool sheets, searching for the familiar warmth that usually occupied the space beside him. Finding only empty, rumpled linen, his eyes blinked open into the dim shadows of the bedroom.

He found you in the ensuite bathroom. The door was cracked open, a sliver of harsh, yellow light cutting across the dark hallway. Jude approached silently, his bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floors, but the words he intended to speak, a soft, sleepy request for you to come back to bed, immediately caught in his throat when he saw you.

Standing over the sink, staring into the mirror with an expression that made Jude’s chest tighten painfully. On the counter sat a velvet-lined box, tipped over. Inside were the heavy gold bangles and the delicate jhumkas your mother had passed down to you - pieces you used to adorn yourself with so much pride, pieces Jude loved to watch catch the light whenever you laughed.

But tonight, you weren’t wearing them. You were staring at your reflection, holding a cotton pad soaked in toner, rubbing at your skin as if you could scrub away the very essence of who you were.

"Sweetheart?" Jude’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble, thick with sleep but laced with instant worry.

You flinched, your shoulders jumping as you quickly dropped the cotton pad into the bin, trying to smooth down your hair. "Hi baby. Sorry, did I wake you? I was just...washing my face."

Jude didn't reply right away. He stepped fully into the bathroom, his massive frame immediately closing the distance between you two. He didn’t look at the counter; he looked at your eyes. They were bloodshot, the rims raw and red from crying. On the floor near your bare feet, your phone vibrated face-down on the bathmat - a silent, relentless pulse of notifications.

He knew that pulse. He knew very well what lived inside it.

"What are you doing?" Jude asked softly, his hand reaching out to gently catch your wrist.

"Nothing," you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of the lie. You tried to pull your hand back, tried to turn your face away from him, but Jude wouldn't let you hide, ever. "Just go back to bed, Jude. Seriously. I'll be there in a second."

"Look at me," he murmured, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb wiping away a fresh tear that had just escaped. "Don't do that. Don't lie to me. What's happened?"

"I can't do it anymore," you choked out, the dam finally breaking. You slumped against his chest, your forehead pressing into his collarbone as sob after sob wracked through body. "I can't look at it. I deleted the apps, Jude. I deleted everything, but it's like... it's like I can still hear them. They hate me. They hate everything about me. They keep saying I don't belong next to you, that I look wrong, that I'm too...too much."

Jude’s entire body went rigid. The sleepy haze completely evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard knot of fury in the pit of his stomach. He tightened his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you so fiercely it felt like he was trying to shield you from the words physically.

"They're talking about my culture like it's a disease," you whispered into his skin, your hands gripping the fabric of his t-shirt desperately. "So I thought... if I just stop. If I don't wear the jewelry. If I change how I dress. If I just blend into the background, maybe they'll stop attacking me. Maybe I won't be a liability to you."

A liability.

The word echoed in the quiet bathroom, and something inside Jude absolutely snapped.

He pulled back, just enough to force you to look at him. His grip on your shoulders was firm, unyielding, his dark eyes burning with a fierce, protective rage that you had never seen directed at you before. He wasn't angry at you, far from it. He was furious at the world for forcing you into a corner where you felt you had to mutilate your own identity just to survive.

"Listen to me," Jude said, his voice dropping into a register that was deadly serious, vibrating with pure emotion. "Look at me right now."

You blinked through the tears, trembling.

"Don't you ever say that again," he ordered, his chest heaving. "A liability? You? Every single thing that makes you who you are - your skin, your heritage, the way you look in the things your family gave you - that is the most beautiful thing in my fucking life. Do you understand me? You don't change a single thread of who you are for faceless cowards hiding behind a screen."

"Jude, the press, the comments-"

"I don't give a fuck about the press!" he burst out, his voice echoing off the tile walls, raw and unfiltered. "Let them talk. Let them type until their fingers bleed. If the world has a problem with the woman I love being proudly, beautifully herself, then the world can fuck off. I will burn my own public image to the ground before I ever let you shrink yourself to make them comfortable."

He reached over to the counter, picking up one of the heavy gold bangles. His hands, usually so strong and dominant on the pitch, were incredibly gentle as he slid it over your wrist, the metal clicking softly.

"You wear it," Jude whispered, his forehead coming down to rest against yours, his breath shaky as he reeled in his anger, replacing it with pure devotion. "You wear all of it. You speak your language, you play your music, and you walk beside me with your head held high. Because you are my queen. And tomorrow, I'm handling this. Nobody touches you. Nobody makes my queen feel small."

He picked up your phone from the floor, turned it completely off, and tossed it onto the counter without a second glance. Then, he scooped her up into his arms, carrying you out of the harsh bathroom light and back into the warmth of their bedroom, holding you tight against his chest, softly whispering sweet nothings in your ear until the trembling finally stopped.

jude bellingham headcanon

pairings: jude bellingham x desi reader

summary: a little glimpse into the life of jude learning and embracing his desi girlfriends culture <3

a/n: hi thank you so much for requesting, I hope this is similar to what you were looking for xx this is my first time writing so if you have any corrections/critiques they’d be greatly appreciated

masterlist

jude!bf…learning that "medium spicy" at a Desi restaurant hits completely different than his usual medium at Nando's. He completely underestimated the food at first, thinking he could handle it because he’s an elite athlete. The first time your family cooked for him, his eyes were watering, but he refused to stop eating because he didn't want to be disrespectful. Now? He literally craves it and constantly brags to his teammates about his improved spice tolerance.

jude!bf…doing your Sunday night hair oiling rituals. His hands are massive yet incredibly gentle. It didn't take long for him to ask if he could do it for you; now he takes it so seriously, carefully parting your hair and massaging the warm oil into your scalp. He loves the scent because it completely relaxes him after a high-stress match week.

jude!bf…getting his Spotify algorithm completely altered because he asked for a playlist of your favorite childhood tracks to listen to on the drive to training. One he was caught on camera arriving at a stadium humming a familiar tune, and the internet went into an absolute frenzy trying to figure out how he knew it.

jude!bf…being determined to learn terms of endearment in your native tongue. He’ll casually drop a "Meri jaan" or "Jaanu" into a text message or whisper it against your temple when he’s waking you up. If he’s trying to tease you or get your attention when you’re ignoring him, he’ll dramatically say "Acha, fine!" just to see you smile.

jude!bf…wearing a traditional kurta or sherwani to match you for big cultural celebrations. He won't just show up, he stands in front of the mirror for twenty minutes making sure the fit is perfect, completely obsessed with the intricate embroidery. He’ll also subtly flex his shoulders in it because he knows exactly how good he looks (and you do too.)

jude!bf…becoming the absolute enforcer of the "no shoes in the house" rule. Coming from a sports background where people are constantly tracking dirt, he adapted instantly. If his brother Jobe or a teammate comes over and takes one step past the foyer with their sneakers on, Jude is immediately yelling across the house to get them off.

jude!bf…fiercely defending your culture. If he ever hears someone making an ignorant comment about the food, the customs, or the music, he shuts it down instantly with that calm, unbothered leadership voice he uses on the pitch. He protects you and everything that makes you who you are, no exceptions.