Layla Juliette

the house feels warmer than usual. not just because your mom's been fussing over the thermostat since jobe walked through the door, claiming the place needed to be cozier, but because his presence fills every corner of it. his soft voice weaves into the walls, polite laughter bouncing off the framed family photos in the hallway.

he's sitting at the dinner table, leaned forward just enough to show he's engaged but not too much to seem overeager. your dad's going on about something—some story he's probably told a dozen times—and jobe listens like it's the first time anyone's ever said anything that mattered. nodding at the right moments, laughing where he should, asking questions that make your mom beam because "oh, look at him, he genuinely cares."

and he does. at least right now.

he's good at this. the perfect boy your parents wanted you to bring home. polite. soft-spoken. a little shy but not awkward. every move of his is intentional, but you know better. know that the hand resting casually on your thigh under the table isn't as innocent as it seems. his thumb draws slow circles over the fabric of your leggings, too subtle for anyone else to notice but burning hot against your skin.

you shoot him a look. one he meets with a slight tilt of his head, all soft eyes and boyish confusion. like he isn't pressing just a little harder, inching his hand higher in the same moment your mom's asking him how he likes the casserole.

"it's amazing, mrs. (y/l/n). i haven't had anything like this in a long time."

voice smooth. effortless. he knows exactly what he's doing. and your mom eats it up, smiling so hard you swear her face might crack.

the evening drags on like this—jobe weaving himself into your family's heart. he's careful with his words, measured in every smile. offers to help clear the table, even though your mom insists he's a guest. your dad brings out an old bottle of wine, one that's been sitting on the rack waiting for a "special occasion," and jobe accepts a glass but sips slow, doesn't let himself get carried away.

and all the while, he touches you. small, unnoticeable things. a hand on your lower back when you stand too close. his knee brushing yours on the couch when your family settles in for a movie.

it's calculated. all of it.

by the time the house starts to wind down, your parents saying their goodnights and the air settling into a soft quiet, you're tense. wound up and strung tight like a wire about to snap. jobe stretches, arms up over his head, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin before he lets them fall back to his sides.

"guess we should head to bed, yeah?"

you should. but you don't trust that he actually wants to go to bed. not with the way his eyes flicker over you, dark and slow.

your childhood bedroom hasn't changed much. same soft-coloured walls, old posters half-peeling from corners, the desk in the corner cluttered with things you should've thrown out years ago.

jobe lets the door click shut behind him, eyes locked on you.

"you were real quiet tonight," he murmurs, voice low.

"had to be," you mutter, tugging your hoodie off and pulling it over your head in one slow motion, but it does nothing to cool the heat creeping up your neck. "couldn't exactly call you out for being sneaky under the table."

he laughs. soft, but it's sharp at the edges. "sneaky?" he echoes, tilting his head slightly. "baby, that was me being good."

your stomach flips.

you roll your eyes, but it's a weak attempt to cover how your body reacts to him. you turn toward your dresser, fingers brushing the handle of the drawer, pretending to search for something to sleep in. but before you can even pull it open, jobe's already behind you.

"you know how hard it was not to touch you more?" his hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping under the hem of your thin top, palms cool against the heat of your skin. he doesn't move them, just rests them there. "sitting there, smiling like an angel... but all i could think about was this."

his lips don't touch you yet, but they hover—close enough that you can feel the ghost of them, and it's enough to drive you insane. you breathe in slow, steady, trying to keep your head clear, but your body betrays you. you lean back into him, just slightly, and that's all he needs.

he presses his lips to your neck, finally. soft. not rushed. like he wants to savour it. "you think your parents would still like me if they knew the things i wanted to do to you right now?"

your eyes flutter shut for a second, chest rising and falling a little too fast. your grip on the dresser tightens because if you don't hold onto something, you might fall apart right there.

"jobe..."

"hmm?" he drags out the sound, teasing.

"my parents are like eight steps down the hall," you say, but it's weak. your hands are already fisting in his shirt, tugging him closer.

the mirror behind him catches how his body crowds yours as he pulls you into him, the solid weight of his body pressing against yours. you can feel him, hard and ready, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

he grins, slow and lazy. "you'll have to be a good girl and be quiet for me then, yeah?"

your knees nearly give out.

whatever hesitation you had is gone, slipping through your fingers like water as you crash into him—lips on his, hands tangled in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. a shameless moan slips out when he presses you back against the dresser, his tongue moving against yours, slow and teasing. you hate how easily you chase after him when he pulls back, just a little.

"quiet, remember?" he murmurs against your lips, smiling.

"yeah, yeah," you mutter impatiently, stealing another kiss, "just," you say in between kisses, breathless, "fuck me already, would you?"

and that's exactly what he wanted to hear.

he fucks you like he's been waiting all night, like every polite smile and soft laugh at dinner was just to pass the time until he could get you alone. rough hands, quiet grunts against your skin, subtle noises of the bed frame knocking softly against the wall.

you can't stop the low, broken sounds slipping past your lips, not when he's fucking you this good. jobe's quick to press his hand over your mouth, palm firm but careful. he loves every pretty sound you make, craves them even—but he knows your parents wouldn't feel the same.

"shh, baby," his breath is hot against your ear, voice low and teasing. "wouldn't want mommy and daddy hearing how their sweet little girl sounds, do we?"

it's so dirty and reckless, you hate how much you like it.

hate how he pulls everything out of you, every sound, every broken breath. how he slows down just to hear you beg, just to smirk and kiss the corner of your mouth when you whine his name.

when it's over, you're a mess. legs too weak, throat raw, body trembling. and jobe? he's fucking glowing. all soft eyes and lazy smiles as he pulls you into his chest, fingers tracing circles into your back like he didn't just ruin you.

"think your parents would still like me if they knew what we just did?" he mumbles against your hair.

you shove him weakly, but he just laughs. soft. boyish. the same laugh he gave your mom when she offered him seconds.

sweet boy...

yeah, right.

The villa buzzed with the kind of easy, familiar warmth that only came when the Bellinghams managed to gather everyone in one place. Post-season in Madrid had been a whirlwind—trophies, travel, endless expectations—but tonight the sprawling garden and open living spaces felt like a proper exhale.

Strings of soft lights hung between trees, casting gentle glows over the stone patio where Mark was manning a makeshift grill with the focus of someone who refused to let anyone else touch the meat. Denise moved between the kitchen and garden like the quiet conductor she always was, refilling glasses and laughing at old stories.

Jobe had actually made it over from Germany, sprawled across one of the oversized outdoor sofas with the kind of dramatic exhaustion only a younger brother could pull off. Morgan Rogers and his partner had driven up too, along with a couple of Jude’s closest teammates who had become more like family over the long campaign.

You were in the middle of it all, a glass of wine in hand, moving between groups as the evening stretched. The successful season had left everyone in high spirits, and the celebration felt intimate rather than performative.

Jude had started the night relatively normal, laughing with his dad by the grill, teasing Jobe about his latest training stories, pulling you close for the occasional kiss or hand on your lower back.

But as drinks flowed and the hours passed, the alcohol slowly stripped away his usual careful filter. The version of him that always kept one eye on the room, aware of everyone watching, simply faded. What remained was pure, unfiltered Jude: touch-oriented to an almost comical degree.

He never strayed far. If you wandered into the kitchen to help Denise with more plates, he appeared a minute later, leaning against the counter beside you, fingers absently tracing the hem of your top while he asked what you were doing. If you stepped out to the garden to chat with Morgan’s partner near the flowers, Jude followed shortly after, sliding an arm around your waist as though he’d been there the whole time.

It was never dramatic, he just... gravitated. Like the planet had shifted slightly and you were the new center.

At one point you ended up standing beside the long outdoor sofa, talking with Denise and Morgan’s partner about some upcoming family trip. The conversation flowed easily, laughter rising when Denise recalled a particularly chaotic holiday from years ago.

Jude had been sitting on the sofa listening, or at least pretending to, for a solid thirty seconds. Then, without a word or change in his expression, he reached over, hand settling firmly at your waist. In one smooth, effortless motion he guided you backward and settled you sideways across his lap, your legs draping over his thigh as if it were the most natural seat in the garden.

His arm looped around your back to keep you steady, chin already resting on your shoulder as he picked up the thread of whatever Jobe was saying across from him.

You blinked, half-annoyed, half-amused, twisting in his hold. “Jude,” you said, voice carrying that familiar mix of exasperation. “I was in the middle of a conversation, you know.”

He hummed, eyes still on the group, fingers absently playing with the ends of your hair. “You can talk from here, darling.” His voice was low, warm, completely convinced he was being reasonable. One hand stayed spread across your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles like it was helping him listen better.

Denise let out a bright laugh from her spot on the arm of the sofa, shaking her head. “He’s been like this since forever, but the drink really brings it out.”

Jobe groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes. “For God’s sake, he’s doing it again. Mate, she’s two feet away. Let her breathe.”

Jude blinked, genuinely puzzled, glancing between you and his brother. “What? She’s right here.” His arm tightened just a fraction around you, as if to prove the point.

You rolled your eyes, trying to push off his lap, but he simply adjusted his grip, pulling you back down with that effortless strength.

“Stop moving. You’re comfy.”

The group dissolved into laughter, the kind that came from watching someone they loved be utterly, shamelessly gone. Morgan exchanged a knowing look with his partner, both of them grinning like they’d seen this coming. One of the teammates muttered something about “post-season Jude” under his breath, earning another round of chuckles.

You swatted at Jude’s chest, fighting a smile. “You’re insufferable when you’re like this.”

He just smiled that slow, dopey smile, chin still on your shoulder as he pressed a lazy kiss to the side of your neck. “M’not insufferable, I’m affectionate.” His fingers hooked loosely through one of your belt loops, holding you in place while someone else picked up a new story.

The conversation moved on around you, plates of food passed, glasses refilled, but Jude remained exactly where he was, playing with your fingers, resting his head against yours, stealing small kisses whenever you paused to sip your drink.

Later, when you stood up to grab another bottle of water from the kitchen, he followed without hesitation. “Where you going?” he asked, voice soft as he caught up, two fingers slipping through your belt loop again to keep you close.

“Water, baby. Three metres away.”

He hummed, unconvinced, trailing after you anyway. Inside the kitchen he leaned against the island while you opened the fridge, then reached out and pulled you back against his chest the second you closed the door.

“Missed you,” he murmured, nuzzling into your hair like you’d been gone for hours.

You turned in his arms, laughing despite yourself. “You are ridiculous tonight, William.”

“Am not.” But there was a spark in his eyes now, that playful edge emerging as he realized how much your annoyance entertained him. He dipped his head, kissing you slow and deliberate, then pulled back just enough to grin. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed with me.”

The teasing only got worse after that. Every time you tried to step away to talk to someone else, he’d find a way to reel you back, sometimes with an arm around your shoulders, sometimes by simply patting the spot beside him until you gave in.

At one point, while you were mid-sentence with Jobe about his season, Jude hooked an arm around your waist and tugged you down onto his lap again, chin on your shoulder, completely ignoring the way you swatted at him.

“Jude, I swear—”

“What?” He looked up at you with wide, innocent eyes, the picture of sincerity. “You were standing, now you’re sitting. Better for everyone.”

Jobe made a gagging noise. “He’s actually lost it. Mum, do something.”

Denise just laughed from across the garden, raising her glass. “Leave him be, it’s been a long season.”

The evening carried on like that, warm, overlapping conversations, music drifting through the open doors, plates slowly emptying. Jude remained glued to you in that absentminded way, convinced the whole time that he was acting completely normal.

Only much later, when Mark finally pointed it out directly—“Son, you’ve had Y/N on your lap for forty minutes straight”—did he pause, look down at where you were comfortably settled against him, and blink slowly.

“…Oh.”

A beat of silence. Then he shrugged, pulled you a little closer, and carried on exactly as he was, pressing another lazy kiss to your temple while the laughter erupted around you. You rolled your eyes again, but you were smiling too hard to truly fight it.

The garden lights had softened into a warmer glow as the evening deepened, the sky above the villa shifting from dusky blue to true night. Music still played low from the speakers, but the conversations had grown mellower, voices overlapping less urgently as plates emptied and drinks slowed. People were scattered more loosely now, some clustered near the grill where Mark was finishing the last rounds, others lounging on the sofas with the kind of comfortable fatigue that came from good food and better company.

Everyone was a little buzzed, the successful season’s weight finally lifting in a haze of laughter and easy silences.

You slipped away quietly after a while, telling Denise you just needed to check on something upstairs in one of the guest rooms, a forgotten charger Gio had mentioned earlier. Nothing urgent, but the kind of small task that felt necessary in the middle of a long night.

The villa’s interior was cooler, quieter, the distant hum of the gathering filtering up the wide staircase like background noise. Your bare feet padded softly on the tiles as you made your way down the hallway toward Jude’s bedroom wing, the familiar scent of the house wrapping around you.

You didn’t hear him at first to be honest, then the soft pad of footsteps followed, unhurried but inevitable.

Jude appeared at the top of the stairs a moment later, silhouetted against the warm light from below, his shirt slightly rumpled from the evening’s lounging. He didn’t say anything right away, just closed the distance with that same absentminded pull that had defined the whole night, one hand already reaching for your waist before he’d fully caught up.

“Thought you were just getting water,” he murmured, voice lower now that it was just the two of you, the alcohol still softening his edges.

His fingers spread wide against the small of your back, pulling you gently but firmly against him as you paused in the hallway outside his bedroom door.

You turned in his hold, half-exasperated, half-smiling. “I told you I’d be quick, you didn’t have to follow me all the way up here.”

He hummed, not really listening, his head already dipping to press a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Missed you,” he said simply, like it explained everything.

His hands were everywhere in that lazy, tipsy way—sliding up your sides, one settling at the nape of your neck while the other traced the curve of your hip, tugging you closer until there was no space left between you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, eyes heavy-lidded but bright, a small, dopey smile playing on his lips as he studied your face in the dim hallway light. “You look pretty like this, baby, all soft from the wine.”

You laughed quietly, the sound muffled against his chest as he leaned in again, but he caught your chin gently, tilting your face up so he could kiss you properly. It started slow, familiar, but the alcohol had loosened something in him.

He smiled into it almost immediately, the curve of his mouth unmistakable as he deepened the kiss, one hand threading into your hair while the other slipped under the hem of your top, palm warm against your skin. He tasted faintly of the drinks he’d had downstairs, and when he pulled back for air he didn’t go far, forehead resting against yours, eyes half-closed as he stared at you.

“Seriously,” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “How do you always look this good, princess? Even when you’re trying to escape me.” The teasing edge was there, playful and affectionate, but his hands kept moving, tracing your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he backed you gently against the wall beside his bedroom door.

Another kiss followed, slower this time, his body pressing into yours with that natural, unselfconscious need. He smiled again when your fingers tightened in his shirt, nipping lightly at your lower lip before soothing it with another kiss.

“Stay here a minute. Don’t need to go back down yet.”

You tried to protest, half-laughing between kisses. “C'mon, everyone’s still outside—”

“They’re fine,” he whispered against your jaw, lips trailing lower to your neck, hands sliding down to grip your hips as he pressed you more firmly against the wall. His touch was handsy but never rushed, exploring in that tipsy, appreciative way, palms mapping the familiar curves of your body like he was rediscovering them. He pulled back once more to look at you, eyes dark and soft, that wide, genuine smile breaking across his face again. “You’re my favorite person in the whole house right now, don’t leave me alone with them.”

The kiss that followed was deeper, lazier, his body molding against yours as one hand slipped further under your top, thumb stroking along your ribs. He made a quiet, contented sound when you arched into him, smiling into the kiss once more, the expression so purely happy it made your chest tighten.

“Love when you do that,” he murmured, barely pulling away, lips brushing yours with every word. “Makes me forget there’s anyone else here.”

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, studying the soft, unfocused warmth in his eyes and the way his smile lingered like he couldn’t help it. A soft laugh bubbled out of you, half-amused, half-disbelieving. “You’re so gone, William,” you teased, fingers tracing the line of his jaw as you took him in, the flushed cheeks, the heavy lids, the complete lack of awareness that he was trailing after you like a shadow. “I mean it. I’ve never seen you this far gone. You’re properly out of it tonight, baby.”

He blinked slowly, still smiling that dopey, content smile, like the observation barely registered.

“M’not gone,” he protested softly, but there was no conviction in it. His hands stayed exactly where they were, one slipping higher under your top while the other squeezed your hip, pulling you flush against him again. “Just… happy. With you.”

He leaned in, capturing your lips once more, the kiss slower and deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours in a way that made your knees feel a little weaker. When he pulled back, forehead still pressed to yours, he was staring at you again, really staring, like he was committing every detail to memory in his hazy state.

Downstairs the laughter rose and fell, distant and warm, but up here in the hallway it was just the two of you, Jude’s hands steady and affectionate, his kisses teasing and thorough, the alcohol stripping away any remaining self-consciousness until all that remained was the simple, overwhelming want to keep you close.

He didn’t rush, he just held you there against the wall, kissing you like the rest of the night could wait a little longer, smiling every time you laughed or tried to remind him there were people downstairs waiting.

For now, in this quiet pocket of the villa, you were exactly where he needed you to be.

author's note — if you enjoyed and would like to see more of my football works, click here :DD if you ever catch me writing a non-affectionate jude bellingham, assume i've been hacked lol. love whoever read till here, byeee <3

you'd felt the cold air of the room against your behind before you could even register that michael had taken your pants off your hips, sliding them down your legs and leaving them at your ankles. the same thing happened with your underwear, although that time you were painfully aware of the article of clothing being tugged down.

now, you're here, stuck in his lap, receiving your punishment.

you'd be less unnerved if he spoke, if he teased or mocked you. instead, he gives you nothing outside of his large hand against your ass, groping, squeezing, and then pulling away to deliver harsh slaps. it's an incredibly grueling pace, so slow, allowing the sting of each smack to linger. just when you think you can grit and bear the pain, he wordlessly delivers a new one to keep you on edge. sometimes, when you're lucky, michael delivers two smacks in a row— sometimes, even three!— quick, successive, just to see your ass jiggle and actively grow warm and raw beneath him. whenever you tense, he just pinches the meat of your butt, a silent instruction to stay nice and relaxed. as relaxed as you can be, anyway...

as your ass undergoes a few more slaps, you start to tear up, unable to stop yourself from succumbing to the pain. it wasn't just the sting of your butt, it was his silence. his refusal to give you anything more than this. "i'm really sorry," you hiccup out, keeping your head hung low, "baby— michael— i'm sorry, i won't do it again. please, i really am."

"you're really sorry?" he asks. you don't have to see him to know his lips are curled in a little smirk; his tone gives away the fact that he has no intentions on making you feel better. "really, really sorry?" michael's palm traces around the curve of your rear, smoothly gliding over all the skin he'd just terrorized.

"i'm really, really, really sorry," you nod through tears, your head flopping almost as desperation takes over, urging you to nod quickly.

he gives a small hum, sliding his hand from your ass cheek towards your cunt. his middle and index slide over soaked lips, spreading for a moment to smear your own wetness around. "you don't seem that sorry," he remarks, "you're completely soaked."

a whimper escapes you, your eyes closing before you let out a yelp— he'd smacked your pussy! the lips of it anyway, letting the new sound, a far damper slap, fill the room.

"look at that," michael murmurs, delivering another slap to your cunt, "i guess you can't see it... just listen, then." another slap, all far gentler than the ones to your ass, but no less stimulating, causing you to twitch along his thighs. it's not like you can move your legs much, especially with your underwear and pants still around your ankles, but your lower half still jerks, unused to the rough feeling in such a sensitive area.

"michael," you mewl, curling in on yourself momentarily before he coaxes you down, finally using a sweeter touch on you. his fingers press lightly, then move in careful circles around your poor pussy, easing your body into a hesitantly relaxed state. "please..."

"are you begging me to stop or begging me to keep going?" he questions, letting his hand pause just for a second. when your body ruts against his still hand, clit dragging against his finger pads, michael seems to finally give in, letting his fingers spread your lips and glide inside. he stretches your insides slowly, feeling your heat flutter and squeeze around his fingers... then, just as slowly, he slides them back out, chuckling and letting his fingers pat lightly against your pussy lips. "i'll stop here," he decides, "but you're still on punishment. you'll have to finish yourself, since you're so independent."

"nooo..." you whine, shaking your head. your gaze lifts, and this time he doesn't stop you, allowing you to see the satisfied look on his face.

"aww, don't look so sad," he coos, "you're a big girl, you've done it before." his head tilts, a new thought coming to mind as he helps you into a new position, now facing him as you sit in his lap, your raw, bare ass cheeks against his thighs as your underwear and pants lay discarded to the side. "look at me while you do it," michael instructs, one hand holding your lower back while the other holds your wrist, guiding your hand down your stomach.

your fingertips trail gently on their way down, manicured-nails trembling against heated skin until you reach your entrance. "michael, i'm sorry," you try one more time, looking up at him with glossy eyes through your lashes.

michael, however, remains unmoved. "go on." it's more a taunt than encouragement, his eyes focused on yours as you swallow and gradually start to touch yourself. "that's it," he whispers, "don't be shy... just like that... make yourself sing for me, baby..."

looking for more?

i'm unfortunately thinking this is going to be the only thing i post today. i got rear ended last night & hit my head against my steering wheel and it still hurts LOL but my car's fine thank god. but as you can imagine it's hard to focus atm. if there's typos, i'm so sorry. ok i hope you all enjoy and umm apologies but expect 2 the rest of the week <3 i used a read more for this just bc he is kind of mean and it is intense(?) and also kind of longer than my usual bs but that means the pics wldnt work... this place is a prison. so sorry for no pics but it had to be done ultimately.

Can’t stop thinking about how riding him would be so hot.

Like, yes, we know he’s fucking attractive but i think sex with him is hotter because he wants you to use him to make yourself feel good and he doesn’t mind one bit.

He keeps himself trimmed instead of waxing or shaving completely because he pays attention when you’re riding him and knows how good you feel when you’re grinding your clit on his pubes and he’s just grinning from ear to ear when he hears your moans.

“Does that feel good, baby?” his hands moving to your ass to help you grind harder and faster.

Your hands are on his chest, legs spread wide on each side on his hips, hips rolling back and forth on him, you can feel his cock stretching you a bit more with every movement, your lips are parted letting out whines and moans and your head is thrown back from how much pleasure he is giving you.

“Mhmmm, you feel so thick and are so big, Jude,” you catch your bottom lip in between your teeth, he’s looking up at you with a smile and his hands start wandering over your body, touching every inch of skin he can reach.

“All for you, baby, just wanna make me girl feel so good, hm? How’s that needy clit? Is it feeling good, darling?” he coos, voice dropping as he makes eye contact with you.

Your brows scrunching in pleasure from his words and his touch.

“Mhmmm, yeah, so, so good. God, you’re so hot,” you sigh, hips now moving in circles, pressing down on him firmer.

Jude’s hands place on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin slowly.

“There you go, baby, use me, make yourself come on me, okay? You deserve it, honey, come for me,”

Oh and he never stops talking. He knows you get off on his voice too so he doesn’t stop, not even when you’re crying out right on the edge of approaching an orgasm. He just loves praising you and mix it with dirty talking.

“Harder, baby, rub that wet pussy on me,”

“Deeper, you can do it, can you? Take that cock deeper, baby, it’ll make you feel even better,”

“You have no idea how beautiful you look up there bouncing on thy dick, does it feel good, angel? I bet it does, you can’t stop moaning,”

“Look how hot these tits are bouncing for me, sweetheart,”

He’d wet his fingers while looking deadly into your soul and then slowly lead them to your clit and draw a slow, gentle motion to help you come faster.

“So, so pretty, there you go, making that pretty clit feel good, yeah?” he says softly.

And after you’re a mess on his chest trying to catch your breath his hands are rubbing your back helping you calm down and he’s whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

“You did so good, baby, such a good girl, I’m so proud of you,”

“I love you, honey, you alright?”

“Do you need water? Are you comfortable like this?”

Always checking up on you, trying to make you feel safe and comfortable around him before, during and after sex.

JULY 11, 2026 ; Miami, Florida...

The Miami sun was beating down on your glowing skin, its light dimmed by the oversized sunglasses you shielded it with as you walked. Later today would be England vs Norway, and your boyfriend was most certainly going to be centre-stage, as usual.

It was the most heartwarming thing to watch him succeed so beautifully and admirably on the biggest platform within the sport, and you felt so privileged to be the woman by his side. The woman of the man who millions of other women yearned for, those who could only dream of being in his arms every night.

The World Cup so far had been incredible—you'd enjoyed every moment, and with the exciting state of Jude's team, there were only positives to be celebrated and praises to be made about this period in his career. Enjoyable so it was, except for one small thing. Ridiculous, really, for it truly was small, but there were certain decisions managers made and rules they put into firm place that you just couldn't get on board with. There were the silly decisions they made regarding the events and players on the pitch, there were the criticisms that you believed were much too harshly declared, and then there was what you believed to be the stupidest of them all.

It had been said before—by Ancelotti, by Alonso, even by Arbeloa earlier this year—and now, Thomas Tuchel had been very serious when he'd declared the same thing.

❛England players may have sex with their partners at any time during the World Cup, except on match days.❜

No, of course you didn't need to be put through the mattress by your man every day of the tournament, but Jude Bellingham never made it easy for a lady to be in his presence without her succumbing to a burning arousal, and even though he was your boyfriend of five years, that arousal somehow burned evermore.

Tuchel had thought the statement quite an obvious and sensible one, a good compromise in comparison to the initially considered approach where the players' partners would be entirely banned from visiting the players' hotel rooms. He realised that approach would be going too far, and that psychologically it would actually affect the men more to be forced away from their women. However, he still believed in sexual abstinence on the day of the game, to preserve energy and focus.

You on the other hand, along with several of the other WAGs, believed that to be a nonsense theory.

These were high-level, elite athletes, with stamina greater than most, and after doing so much exercise, dealing with so much adrenaline, also had sexual needs more than most. It would be cruel to deprive them of such a necessary release—you believed it was almost like a form of therapy, surely? A catharsis drawn from their very bloodstream, bodies needing oxytocin and dopamine to calm their restless and excitable hearts. One round of sex wasn't going to do any harm to their roles on the pitch.

And so, with that strong belief in mind, you found yourself cornering your unassuming boyfriend in the recovery room of England's designated private training base.

Jude took his athleticism very seriously, always adhering to rules in the interest of playing as skilfully and as successfully as possible. It always paid off, so he wasn't about to start messing with what had so far been working in his favour.

But you knew him well enough. You knew that your assumption was correct—that ejaculatory release could only be beneficial, because restriction and pent-up sexual frustration could only ever be a negative thing. You felt that you'd be doing your duties as a devoted, supporting girlfriend, if he'd hear you out and allow you to.

You'd been sitting with the other WAGs, watching your men run up and down, stretching their muscles, groaning with the exertion. Your eyes never left the gorgeous artwork that was Jude's body, and you hadn't realised you were quite literally biting your lip at him in public, sighing with need, pupils dilated though hidden by your sunglasses. You were wearing a tiny white summer dress with white kitten heels—likely a little too overdressed for merely attending training, but most of the other girls were with you on that.

And when a break was finally called—fifteen minutes, to be back there immediately afterward—you didn't wait a moment to pounce on him.

As he skipped over to you, all sweaty and slightly breathless, you did something very uncharacteristic. You hugged him despite the sweat, despite your ivory white mini dress, the one you cherished so dearly. Usually, Jude would shower before touching you after training or after a game, and that wasn't because you cared more about your appearance than your boyfriend—it was because he got so sweaty sometimes that it left wet stains on your summer-coloured clothing, and the paparazzi were always waiting around the corner.

Jude was surprised at the way you wrapped your arms around his neck without restraint, not even hesitating to allow his half-drenched shirt to collide with the pristine quality of your dress.

"Hey, baby, what's this?" he chuckled, holding your waist tight as you clung to him.

"Come with me," you whispered, stood up on your tiptoes to reach his ear. “Inside.”

He furrowed his brows in intrigue, wondering if something was wrong; and then you pulled away, took his hand, and strolled off inside the training complex, en route to your destination.

You entered into the recovery room, its purpose for ice baths and hydrotherapy, therefore of no use to anyone at present. And it was when you shut the door behind you, turning to give him that tell-tale smirk, that Jude realised exactly what you were up to.

"Hi, baby," you grinned, waiting for him to say something as he looked you up and down in amusement. Sure enough, your dress was already stained with patches of his sweat.

"I don't even think I need to ask what you're plannin' here."

"No, you don't, because asking wastes time, and we only have fifteen minutes, so c—" You began to walk into the corner you'd been eyeing as the perfect spot, where a wide couch sat before the wall, but Jude took you by the wrist and guided you back to face him.

"Darlin', we're not doin' that in here," he said plainly. His expression was still amused, but he was being serious, because he was still stuck on his refusal to rule-break.

"Why?" you pouted. "You have to hear me out first."

"Alright, whatever—go on," he smirked.

You interlaced both hands with his, and explained your own theory. "So, it's my personal opinion that Tuchel is viewing sexual intercourse in entirely the wrong way."

Jude raised a brow.

"He's saying it's gonna affect your performance, right? That it'll reduce focus and deplete you of energy, or whatever?"

"Orgasms do suck the life out of me sometimes."

You rolled your eyes. "After the fourth round! Not with a quickie. Nobody said we had to fuck all day and night, but I completely disagree with the statement that sex negatively affects performance." Now you stepped forward, dropping one of his hands to run your digits over his collarbone, a sensual smile on your lips. "I think, that really, it can only make a positive difference."

Jude was grinning wide now, entertained by this display of scientific theory governed by nothing other than the empirical evidence of your hormones.

"Do tell," he joked, provoking you to continue.

You giggled. "Well, we all know how difficult sexual frustration is," you sighed, dropping his other hand now and reaching over the crotch of his shorts, where a growing bulge could be felt beneath. "Surely it's unfair for a manager to force his players to deal with such a thing..." As you spoke, you rubbed and squeezed the weight of him, heart racing as you experienced the familiar feeling of his length hardening further under your touch. "And if you're too frustrated... it might only end up backfiring on the team. Tuchel wouldn't want that, would he?"

Jude shook his head, still smirking, because he refused to visibly fold at the way you spoke and fondled him, even while internally he was going insane.

"And you wanna break that rule in here, yeah?" he asked. "In this room?"

"Mhm. Right now, pretty please..." you sung with faux-innocence into his ear, on your tiptoes again to lean into his chest, still kneading your hand over his shorts.

"Pretty please, hm?" he repeated, with a slight mocking tone that sent a deeper rush of arousal through you. Your panties were clinging tight to your glistening folds—you were surely smothered in arousal beneath that fabric.

"Jude..." you whispered, leaning further forward to brush your lips over his neck, breathing in his scent as your tongue darted out within a kiss to the skin.

You heard him hiss, and he felt your reaction, your widening smile just beside his Adam's apple.

“So," he murmured, "first you’re tryna get me to do somethin’ the boss has made illegal, and now you’re tryna get us caught doin’ it too.”

“J…” you beamed innocently, stepping away now and rocking back and forth on your heels. "We won't get caught..."

He shook his head, rolling his eyes with a smile that expressed just how predictable this was. Never would you play by the rules, no matter how high-stakes the game ahead. And again, you truly were a firm believer in your own opposing theory that pre-match sex could only be beneficial to England’s star player. It would excellently boost morale, and that was the most crucial quality in this stage of the competition, right?

Without needing to give another plea, you twirled 180 degrees, before strutting over to the smallest corner of the room, past a row of red light therapy beds. Jude followed in tow.

And there you stood by the plush grey couch, admiring it as the most ideal, most comfortable piece of furniture to have a quickie on. It was almost like it had been placed there for that very purpose. The universe knew to give you the idea that you should enter this specific room, because the act really was what Jude needed, even if he might have fought it initially. Now, he was coming round.

"Sit down, handsome," you smiled, guiding him to do so, and even despite another amused eye roll, he did. He sat up against the back of the couch, settled into the furniture with a demeanour that gave away what words didn't need to. He was on your side now.

You giggled as you straddled him, legs bracketing his strong, muscular thighs. "’m gonna ride you, baby—'n I'll be quick, I promise."

"Better be, sweetheart," he murmured, smacking your ass harshly. You yelped, arching your back and taking that as an incentive to begin rocking over his clothed dick. As you did, you watched him raise his right wrist slightly, checking the time on his watch. "Just under ten minutes now, c'mon. If y' need it that badly, y' gonna have to start speedin' up."

You were grinding down harder now, his dick straining through his boxers, your pussy perfectly prepped in its drenched arousal. There would be no time for foreplay—although it was true that you pretty much always needed it with Jude.

Wasting no more time, you tugged at his waistband, pulling both layers down just enough to free his achingly hard cock. It stood up with a pop, thick veins running all along from base to tip, precum leaking from the slit and down the underside. You almost physically salivated at the sight, as though a dog in heat had met its human form.

"Can't be starin' too long, baby," Jude smirked, rubbing his thumb over your cheek. You were lost in your own world, always amazed by how lucky you were to have this perfect asset waiting for you every single day.

You chuckled, grinning as you pulled your soaked panties to the side and rubbed the weight of him along your dripping sex. The head of his dick provided the perfect friction, and you spent a few moments too long just gliding it up and down your folds, the anticipation of him filling you almost as satisfying as the fullness itself.

Your eyes were clamped shut, revelling in the feeling, but you had a sharp awakening when you felt Jude's hand suddenly slam down on your asscheek again. He was never intentionally too harsh, but your ass was just too pleasing, too pretty to look at...

"C'mon, princess," he ordered, with a raised brow. "Would've been easier if I'd fucked you against that wall, no?"

"No, baby, shut up, 'm fine, just let me—ohhhhh..." Finally, you eased down onto him, hands immediately gripping his shoulders with the impact of his girth stretching your tight walls.

"Aw, that's it..." he both cooed and groaned, hands settling at the curve of your ass to guide your position.

"J, you're so—oh, mmm, God..." You babbled incoherencies while you slowly took every inch, and of course he talked you through it.

"Yeah, that's it, c'mon now, baby... Nearly there..." "Just a little more... Takin' it so well..." "Pretty pussy, squeezin' me so tight..."

His words only made you even more insatiable, and as you finally sunk down, his girth nestled perfectly in your heat, you began to bounce. There really was no time to waste, and you hadn't planned on going slow.

"Oh, yes, fuck, that's my girl," Jude moaned beneath you, gripping your hips and your ass so tight that you were certain there'd be bruises if he kept it up.

"Yeah, you love how I bounce on you like this, baby? Feels so good, J..." you whined as you lifted your hips up and down, chasing your peak. You raised your hands to meet your clothed breasts, kneading over the tissue, but wishing the style of fabric had instead allowed for your man's easy access, because his hands on your bare skin was nothing short of heavenly.

The feeling of him filling you up was another slice of heaven, and on his dick you moaned like a whore, rocking back and forth, making figure-eights with your hips.

"So fuckin' tight for me, sweetheart," Jude muttered under his breath, looking up into your ever-fluttering eyes. "Y'so needy, always thinkin' about gettin' fucked..."

You giggled through another whine, placing your hands on his chest now to help with balance as you surrendered your body to him completely. You rode him with force, high-pitched sounds spilling out of your throat with each alteration in movement, and now it was even clearer to you: this was certainly what every player in this World Cup needed to proceed successfully. What could be more galvanising, more energy-inducing, than the inspiring motivation of a woman's sex? You knew Jude would be thinking about this throughout the rest of the day—you knew he'd get flashbacks during the game—but never did that mean a disruptive distraction. No—you were essentially his muse, his source of stimulation to drive him to success, that last piece of the puzzle on top of all the hard work he put in. As your pussy squeezed his aching length (for the fourth time in the last twenty-four hours, mind you), you ascended toward climax, riding impossibly faster while the outside world became a blur, nothing existing but the two of you...

"Oh, Jude, 'm gonna cum—" you nearly screamed, rubbing circles over your clit now, desperate to reach your peak. Beneath you, Jude was bucking up his hips with an eagerness mirroring yours, and with it he groaned profanities.

"Yeah, baby, fuck—need you to cum for me..."

"I'm so close, J, oh, yes..."

The couch, as sturdy as it was, creaked beneath you, and you bounced your ass down onto him as hard as possible, moaning without restraint as Jude grabbed and smacked at the flesh, wet snapping noises echoing throughout the room and surely through the hall. You leaned down to kiss him as you finally came, his tongue swallowing the extent of your lewd sounds, although you'd already made enough of a noise in the last few minutes.

He was so close too, and with a few more thrusts upward into your sweet spot, his orgasm crashed through his sensitive body.

"Shit, I'm gonna cum, oh—that's it, take it, baby..."

Hot ropes of cum shot up into your womb, filling you wholly as you sighed breathlessly into his neck, collapsing forward.

"J, oh my..."

Jude caught his breath too, blinking rapidly to bring himself back to earth. He'd obviously be fine to play tonight, but would he definitely be fine to resume training with his teammates in—he checked his watch again—just two minutes time?

"Shit, darlin', you've got me fucked up," he murmured in your ear, and you smiled wide, peppering kisses all over his face. He mirrored your expression, relishing in your facial kisses, but internally cursing the fact that he'd have to pull out in a moment. His cock was softened now, but your wet, cosy heat felt too heavenly enveloping him, and he wished the rest of the day could be called off so that he could spend it with only you and your ethereal body. In that room, so perfectly entwined, it really did feel like you were the only two people inhabiting the earth.

In reality however, you weren’t, and in a moment someone would be reminding you of that. While Jude's mind might have been still half-focused on his responsibilities, neither of you expected what came next.

Suddenly, the door creaked open from the opposite end of the room.

"Oh my God—fuck," you both cursed in unison.

Luckily, whoever it was couldn't see you both from that entrance, so, in your shock and panic, you each managed to detach, jump up from the couch and rush over to another corner just in time, fixing yourselves to look presentable.

But there was cum on the couch, and more dripping down your thighs. You'd clean the couch once the person had left, but what were you to do about the sticky mess on your legs? Jude was trying not to laugh, and you kept nudging him, needing to get him to shut up.

"Stop it, you idiot—they'll hear!" you whisper-shouted.

No use, of course; and now the individual was facing you. While earlier you'd praised the universe for granting you the perfect room for sex, you now cursed those same stars for putting you in this horrifying position. Because indeed, the individual facing you was none other than Thomas Tuchel himself.

As he looked you both up and down, you literally almost fainted and threw up at once. The two of you weren't indecent, thankfully, but it was incredibly obvious what you'd been doing. The flustered look on your faces told of that alone. Jude wasn't laughing anymore.

"Had a nice time?" he asked, with a sincerely raised brow.

You both stuttered, and in the awkwardness you decided it had to be Jude to deal with it, because you weren't the one on personal terms with the England manager. Quickly, you rushed into the bathroom just behind you, knowing that no action you made could be more embarrassing than what had just happened, and in there you leaned against the door, clamping your eyes shut in embarrassment.

After a few moments to collect yourself, you then cleaned Jude's cum from your legs, fixed up your hair and your dress, and once player and manager had left the recovery room together, you finally stepped out.

Attending England's training sessions would go on to feel a lot different from then on, and you only hoped that your reckless morning wouldn't make it past those four walls and into a headline.

JULY 11, 2026 ; Miami, Florida...

The Miami sun was beating down on your glowing skin, its light dimmed by the oversized sunglasses you shielded it with as you walked. Later today would be England vs Norway, and your boyfriend was most certainly going to be centre-stage, as usual.

It was the most heartwarming thing to watch him succeed so beautifully and admirably on the biggest platform within the sport, and you felt so privileged to be the woman by his side. The woman of the man who millions of other women yearned for, those who could only dream of being in his arms every night.

The World Cup so far had been incredible—you'd enjoyed every moment, and with the exciting state of Jude's team, there were only positives to be celebrated and praises to be made about this period in his career. Enjoyable so it was, except for one small thing. Ridiculous, really, for it truly was small, but there were certain decisions managers made and rules they put into firm place that you just couldn't get on board with. There were the silly decisions they made regarding the events and players on the pitch, there were the criticisms that you believed were much too harshly declared, and then there was what you believed to be the stupidest of them all.

It had been said before—by Ancelotti, by Alonso, even by Arbeloa earlier this year—and now, Thomas Tuchel had been very serious when he'd declared the same thing.

❛England players may have sex with their partners at any time during the World Cup, except on match days.❜

No, of course you didn't need to be put through the mattress by your man every day of the tournament, but Jude Bellingham never made it easy for a lady to be in his presence without her succumbing to a burning arousal, and even though he was your boyfriend of five years, that arousal somehow burned evermore.

Tuchel had thought the statement quite an obvious and sensible one, a good compromise in comparison to the initially considered approach where the players' partners would be entirely banned from visiting the players' hotel rooms. He realised that approach would be going too far, and that psychologically it would actually affect the men more to be forced away from their women. However, he still believed in sexual abstinence on the day of the game, to preserve energy and focus.

You on the other hand, along with several of the other WAGs, believed that to be a nonsense theory.

These were high-level, elite athletes, with stamina greater than most, and after doing so much exercise, dealing with so much adrenaline, also had sexual needs more than most. It would be cruel to deprive them of such a necessary release—you believed it was almost like a form of therapy, surely? A catharsis drawn from their very bloodstream, bodies needing oxytocin and dopamine to calm their restless and excitable hearts. One round of sex wasn't going to do any harm to their roles on the pitch.

And so, with that strong belief in mind, you found yourself cornering your unassuming boyfriend in the recovery room of England's designated private training base.

Jude took his athleticism very seriously, always adhering to rules in the interest of playing as skilfully and as successfully as possible. It always paid off, so he wasn't about to start messing with what had so far been working in his favour.

But you knew him well enough. You knew that your assumption was correct—that ejaculatory release could only be beneficial, because restriction and pent-up sexual frustration could only ever be a negative thing. You felt that you'd be doing your duties as a devoted, supporting girlfriend, if he'd hear you out and allow you to.

You'd been sitting with the other WAGs, watching your men run up and down, stretching their muscles, groaning with the exertion. Your eyes never left the gorgeous artwork that was Jude's body, and you hadn't realised you were quite literally biting your lip at him in public, sighing with need, pupils dilated though hidden by your sunglasses. You were wearing a tiny white summer dress with white kitten heels—likely a little too overdressed for merely attending training, but most of the other girls were with you on that.

And when a break was finally called—fifteen minutes, to be back there immediately afterward—you didn't wait a moment to pounce on him.

As he skipped over to you, all sweaty and slightly breathless, you did something very uncharacteristic. You hugged him despite the sweat, despite your ivory white mini dress, the one you cherished so dearly. Usually, Jude would shower before touching you after training or after a game, and that wasn't because you cared more about your appearance than your boyfriend—it was because he got so sweaty sometimes that it left wet stains on your summer-coloured clothing, and the paparazzi were always waiting around the corner.

Jude was surprised at the way you wrapped your arms around his neck without restraint, not even hesitating to allow his half-drenched shirt to collide with the pristine quality of your dress.

"Hey, baby, what's this?" he chuckled, holding your waist tight as you clung to him.

"Come with me," you whispered, stood up on your tiptoes to reach his ear. “Inside.”

He furrowed his brows in intrigue, wondering if something was wrong; and then you pulled away, took his hand, and strolled off inside the training complex, en route to your destination.

You entered into the recovery room, its purpose for ice baths and hydrotherapy, therefore of no use to anyone at present. And it was when you shut the door behind you, turning to give him that tell-tale smirk, that Jude realised exactly what you were up to.

"Hi, baby," you grinned, waiting for him to say something as he looked you up and down in amusement. Sure enough, your dress was already stained with patches of his sweat.

"I don't even think I need to ask what you're plannin' here."

"No, you don't, because asking wastes time, and we only have fifteen minutes, so c—" You began to walk into the corner you'd been eyeing as the perfect spot, where a wide couch sat before the wall, but Jude took you by the wrist and guided you back to face him.

"Darlin', we're not doin' that in here," he said plainly. His expression was still amused, but he was being serious, because he was still stuck on his refusal to rule-break.

"Why?" you pouted. "You have to hear me out first."

"Alright, whatever—go on," he smirked.

You interlaced both hands with his, and explained your own theory. "So, it's my personal opinion that Tuchel is viewing sexual intercourse in entirely the wrong way."

Jude raised a brow.

"He's saying it's gonna affect your performance, right? That it'll reduce focus and deplete you of energy, or whatever?"

"Orgasms do suck the life out of me sometimes."

You rolled your eyes. "After the fourth round! Not with a quickie. Nobody said we had to fuck all day and night, but I completely disagree with the statement that sex negatively affects performance." Now you stepped forward, dropping one of his hands to run your digits over his collarbone, a sensual smile on your lips. "I think, that really, it can only make a positive difference."

Jude was grinning wide now, entertained by this display of scientific theory governed by nothing other than the empirical evidence of your hormones.

"Do tell," he joked, provoking you to continue.

You giggled. "Well, we all know how difficult sexual frustration is," you sighed, dropping his other hand now and reaching over the crotch of his shorts, where a growing bulge could be felt beneath. "Surely it's unfair for a manager to force his players to deal with such a thing..." As you spoke, you rubbed and squeezed the weight of him, heart racing as you experienced the familiar feeling of his length hardening further under your touch. "And if you're too frustrated... it might only end up backfiring on the team. Tuchel wouldn't want that, would he?"

Jude shook his head, still smirking, because he refused to visibly fold at the way you spoke and fondled him, even while internally he was going insane.

"And you wanna break that rule in here, yeah?" he asked. "In this room?"

"Mhm. Right now, pretty please..." you sung with faux-innocence into his ear, on your tiptoes again to lean into his chest, still kneading your hand over his shorts.

"Pretty please, hm?" he repeated, with a slight mocking tone that sent a deeper rush of arousal through you. Your panties were clinging tight to your glistening folds—you were surely smothered in arousal beneath that fabric.

"Jude..." you whispered, leaning further forward to brush your lips over his neck, breathing in his scent as your tongue darted out within a kiss to the skin.

You heard him hiss, and he felt your reaction, your widening smile just beside his Adam's apple.

“So," he murmured, "first you’re tryna get me to do somethin’ the boss has made illegal, and now you’re tryna get us caught doin’ it too.”

“J…” you beamed innocently, stepping away now and rocking back and forth on your heels. "We won't get caught..."

He shook his head, rolling his eyes with a smile that expressed just how predictable this was. Never would you play by the rules, no matter how high-stakes the game ahead. And again, you truly were a firm believer in your own opposing theory that pre-match sex could only be beneficial to England’s star player. It would excellently boost morale, and that was the most crucial quality in this stage of the competition, right?

Without needing to give another plea, you twirled 180 degrees, before strutting over to the smallest corner of the room, past a row of red light therapy beds. Jude followed in tow.

And there you stood by the plush grey couch, admiring it as the most ideal, most comfortable piece of furniture to have a quickie on. It was almost like it had been placed there for that very purpose. The universe knew to give you the idea that you should enter this specific room, because the act really was what Jude needed, even if he might have fought it initially. Now, he was coming round.

"Sit down, handsome," you smiled, guiding him to do so, and even despite another amused eye roll, he did. He sat up against the back of the couch, settled into the furniture with a demeanour that gave away what words didn't need to. He was on your side now.

You giggled as you straddled him, legs bracketing his strong, muscular thighs. "’m gonna ride you, baby—'n I'll be quick, I promise."

"Better be, sweetheart," he murmured, smacking your ass harshly. You yelped, arching your back and taking that as an incentive to begin rocking over his clothed dick. As you did, you watched him raise his right wrist slightly, checking the time on his watch. "Just under ten minutes now, c'mon. If y' need it that badly, y' gonna have to start speedin' up."

You were grinding down harder now, his dick straining through his boxers, your pussy perfectly prepped in its drenched arousal. There would be no time for foreplay—although it was true that you pretty much always needed it with Jude.

Wasting no more time, you tugged at his waistband, pulling both layers down just enough to free his achingly hard cock. It stood up with a pop, thick veins running all along from base to tip, precum leaking from the slit and down the underside. You almost physically salivated at the sight, as though a dog in heat had met its human form.

"Can't be starin' too long, baby," Jude smirked, rubbing his thumb over your cheek. You were lost in your own world, always amazed by how lucky you were to have this perfect asset waiting for you every single day.

You chuckled, grinning as you pulled your soaked panties to the side and rubbed the weight of him along your dripping sex. The head of his dick provided the perfect friction, and you spent a few moments too long just gliding it up and down your folds, the anticipation of him filling you almost as satisfying as the fullness itself.

Your eyes were clamped shut, revelling in the feeling, but you had a sharp awakening when you felt Jude's hand suddenly slam down on your asscheek again. He was never intentionally too harsh, but your ass was just too pleasing, too pretty to look at...

"C'mon, princess," he ordered, with a raised brow. "Would've been easier if I'd fucked you against that wall, no?"

"No, baby, shut up, 'm fine, just let me—ohhhhh..." Finally, you eased down onto him, hands immediately gripping his shoulders with the impact of his girth stretching your tight walls.

"Aw, that's it..." he both cooed and groaned, hands settling at the curve of your ass to guide your position.

"J, you're so—oh, mmm, God..." You babbled incoherencies while you slowly took every inch, and of course he talked you through it.

"Yeah, that's it, c'mon now, baby... Nearly there..." "Just a little more... Takin' it so well..." "Pretty pussy, squeezin' me so tight..."

His words only made you even more insatiable, and as you finally sunk down, his girth nestled perfectly in your heat, you began to bounce. There really was no time to waste, and you hadn't planned on going slow.

"Oh, yes, fuck, that's my girl," Jude moaned beneath you, gripping your hips and your ass so tight that you were certain there'd be bruises if he kept it up.

"Yeah, you love how I bounce on you like this, baby? Feels so good, J..." you whined as you lifted your hips up and down, chasing your peak. You raised your hands to meet your clothed breasts, kneading over the tissue, but wishing the style of fabric had instead allowed for your man's easy access, because his hands on your bare skin was nothing short of heavenly.

The feeling of him filling you up was another slice of heaven, and on his dick you moaned like a whore, rocking back and forth, making figure-eights with your hips.

"So fuckin' tight for me, sweetheart," Jude muttered under his breath, looking up into your ever-fluttering eyes. "Y'so needy, always thinkin' about gettin' fucked..."

You giggled through another whine, placing your hands on his chest now to help with balance as you surrendered your body to him completely. You rode him with force, high-pitched sounds spilling out of your throat with each alteration in movement, and now it was even clearer to you: this was certainly what every player in this World Cup needed to proceed successfully. What could be more galvanising, more energy-inducing, than the inspiring motivation of a woman's sex? You knew Jude would be thinking about this throughout the rest of the day—you knew he'd get flashbacks during the game—but never did that mean a disruptive distraction. No—you were essentially his muse, his source of stimulation to drive him to success, that last piece of the puzzle on top of all the hard work he put in. As your pussy squeezed his aching length (for the fourth time in the last twenty-four hours, mind you), you ascended toward climax, riding impossibly faster while the outside world became a blur, nothing existing but the two of you...

"Oh, Jude, 'm gonna cum—" you nearly screamed, rubbing circles over your clit now, desperate to reach your peak. Beneath you, Jude was bucking up his hips with an eagerness mirroring yours, and with it he groaned profanities.

"Yeah, baby, fuck—need you to cum for me..."

"I'm so close, J, oh, yes..."

The couch, as sturdy as it was, creaked beneath you, and you bounced your ass down onto him as hard as possible, moaning without restraint as Jude grabbed and smacked at the flesh, wet snapping noises echoing throughout the room and surely through the hall. You leaned down to kiss him as you finally came, his tongue swallowing the extent of your lewd sounds, although you'd already made enough of a noise in the last few minutes.

He was so close too, and with a few more thrusts upward into your sweet spot, his orgasm crashed through his sensitive body.

"Shit, I'm gonna cum, oh—that's it, take it, baby..."

Hot ropes of cum shot up into your womb, filling you wholly as you sighed breathlessly into his neck, collapsing forward.

"J, oh my..."

Jude caught his breath too, blinking rapidly to bring himself back to earth. He'd obviously be fine to play tonight, but would he definitely be fine to resume training with his teammates in—he checked his watch again—just two minutes time?

"Shit, darlin', you've got me fucked up," he murmured in your ear, and you smiled wide, peppering kisses all over his face. He mirrored your expression, relishing in your facial kisses, but internally cursing the fact that he'd have to pull out in a moment. His cock was softened now, but your wet, cosy heat felt too heavenly enveloping him, and he wished the rest of the day could be called off so that he could spend it with only you and your ethereal body. In that room, so perfectly entwined, it really did feel like you were the only two people inhabiting the earth.

In reality however, you weren’t, and in a moment someone would be reminding you of that. While Jude's mind might have been still half-focused on his responsibilities, neither of you expected what came next.

Suddenly, the door creaked open from the opposite end of the room.

"Oh my God—fuck," you both cursed in unison.

Luckily, whoever it was couldn't see you both from that entrance, so, in your shock and panic, you each managed to detach, jump up from the couch and rush over to another corner just in time, fixing yourselves to look presentable.

But there was cum on the couch, and more dripping down your thighs. You'd clean the couch once the person had left, but what were you to do about the sticky mess on your legs? Jude was trying not to laugh, and you kept nudging him, needing to get him to shut up.

"Stop it, you idiot—they'll hear!" you whisper-shouted.

No use, of course; and now the individual was facing you. While earlier you'd praised the universe for granting you the perfect room for sex, you now cursed those same stars for putting you in this horrifying position. Because indeed, the individual facing you was none other than Thomas Tuchel himself.

As he looked you both up and down, you literally almost fainted and threw up at once. The two of you weren't indecent, thankfully, but it was incredibly obvious what you'd been doing. The flustered look on your faces told of that alone. Jude wasn't laughing anymore.

"Had a nice time?" he asked, with a sincerely raised brow.

You both stuttered, and in the awkwardness you decided it had to be Jude to deal with it, because you weren't the one on personal terms with the England manager. Quickly, you rushed into the bathroom just behind you, knowing that no action you made could be more embarrassing than what had just happened, and in there you leaned against the door, clamping your eyes shut in embarrassment.

After a few moments to collect yourself, you then cleaned Jude's cum from your legs, fixed up your hair and your dress, and once player and manager had left the recovery room together, you finally stepped out.

Attending England's training sessions would go on to feel a lot different from then on, and you only hoped that your reckless morning wouldn't make it past those four walls and into a headline.

He'd walked into your arms without saying anything, back into the hotel room after reconvening with the team, no doubt heartbroken, no doubt feeling like he just wants to hide away from the world right now, away from all the interviews and the questions, and into your arms.

"You played so well baby," you whisper into his ear, "So good, this whole tournament, you should be so proud of yourself."

And you feel a little triumphant at the way he mewls at your words, rubbing his face further into your chest. It's true, what you said, he always puts his all into everything. But it must be so exhausting to carry that weight, and all you want is for him to let go of that pain.

"Amazing, you were amazing," You don't stop, you kiss all across his face, whisper sweet reassurances, "Top Goal scorer," another kiss, "So strong on the pitch," kiss along the jaw, "Never gave up." You trail your kisses across his cheek, back to his ear to whisper sweet nothings.

"I just..." he says, voice small "I just thought we could go further you know? Like we could really make it this time."

"I know... I know," you whisper, you rub at his chest. Resting your head on top of his and stroking his arms

You're about to close your eyes, let sleep and exhaustion take you both but then you look down and notice the tenting present in his shorts. You wonder if it's all the compliments you've been giving him, he always got a bit going when you praised him in the past, or if it's still the adrenaline of the match, or maybe how his head had been nestled into your breasts for the past hour.

"Ugh forget about that-" he starts, but you shush him. Giving him soft eyes that you know make him all quiet.

"Let me take care of you, baby, okay? Can I do that?"

You'll do anything to make him feel better, and he looks at you with such gratefullness.

"I- yeah, yes, please-" he whines and you're off.

You trail your kisses down his neck, soft and wet, dropping to your knees in front of him while he sits on the edge of the bed. You lay your palm on the buldge of his shorts, rubbing up and down slightly, his hips respond to your touch and he moans from above.

You don't hesitate, pull his shorts and underwear down and almost get slapped in the face with his dick. It's aching, weeping, begging to be touched, to be milked by your mouth, and who are you to deny such a sweet thing?

You look up at him, he looks back perked up but still a bit of lingering sadness from the match- you're determined to get rid of all of that ache, to suck him so thoroughly, make him feel so good, that he won't have space in his brain to think of anything but pure pleasure.

You nuzzle your face at the base of his cock and he keens out- so sensitive. Place wet, sloppy kisses at the base, rub your cheek along the sides of his dick.

"Babe..." he whines, hips jerking up at how you're teasing him.

Good, you're getting him all hot and bothered, let him think of nothing but how badly he wants to come.

"Yeah?" you whisper, licking at the lower part of his shaft.

You suckle at the base again, avoiding his fat tip where you know he loves to be sucked at. You continue your ministrations, teasing and placing slopping kisses, his voice getting more and more desperate.

"Hmmph-" he whines, "Please, babe, I need- need you-"

Yes, you think, this is how desperate you want him.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, "Let me take care of everything, okay?"

He looks thoroughly wrecked, face and chest heaving, but he nods, laying over his control, finally relaxing under the weight of the pressure.

You shift up and finally, finally, take his sobbing head into your mouth.

The effect is instant, his head thrown back, his voice letting out moans and whimpers.

You don't stop, you suck at his tip, run you tongue through his slit and lap up all his sweet, sweet precum. You flatten you tongue underneath the sensitive ridge of his head and he outright shouts, so keen on what you're reducing him to. His cock is so thick, fills you're mouth so utterly, you move you head down further and further, taking in more and more of him and feel yourself getting wetter at the feeling of being completely choked on his cock.

You're slobbering over his dick, sucking hard and lapping it all up, your hand covers the base, jerking him up and up. You twist in time with your sucks and he's moaning out your name in desperation.

You pull off his dick and he whines.

"Babe, what? why-"

"I want to try something, okay?" you saying, using your does eyes again. You must look a sight: lips swollen, wetness all over your chin.

He looks at you like you're beautiful, "What is it?"

You look back at his cock in consideration, You slap it against you cheek a few times to test out your idea.

"Ugh- babe-" he groans, "What're thinking."

It's a big dick, you've always know, takes up almost all your head you notice as you nuzzle your face into it. And you've never done this before, but tonight is all about him, his pleasure, and letting him lose control.

"I want you to fuck my face."

"Huh?" he says, haplessly, still a little lost from all the pleasure, "You sure?"

"Yeah baby," You place a soft kiss at the tip of his dick, "I want to be so good for you, will you let me?"

"It's just... I've never done it before, what if I hurt you?"

"I'll tell you if it is, okay? I promise."

He still looks a bit hesitant, so you bring out the big guns.

"Pleeeease, Jude," you whine, rubbing your face on his dick, "Please, I want you to fuck my face so bad, I need your big cock to stuff my mouth."

"Holy shit- okay, okay," he scrambles up from the bed, and you smile, pleased at your power.

You shuffle into place, kneeling on the floor and wait patiently as Jude gets into place.

He smiles down at you, takes his dick that's already leaking cum and wipes it on your swollen lips like a sticky lip gloss. You lick your lips and gather his cum back into your mouth, eyes closing at how good it tastes.

"Fuck-" he chokes, stroking his dick at the site, "You're gonna be the death of me, 'm so close."

You grin at his words, "That's okay, can't wait to swallow your cum, Jude."

"Jeez, okay, shit-"

He takes both of his hands and gather your hair back, you start opening your jaw as far as you can, you'll need as much space as you can get to fit him all in. You relax your jaw, stick out your tongue expectantly.

He feeds his dick into your mouth, slowly. It stuff you instantly, because not only is he big, he's thick and your lips stretch you take him all in.

"You okay?" he asks.

You groan around him in response and he swears he almost comes then and there.

"Fuck, fucking hell," He's accidently shoved the rest of his cock into you, "Sorry, shit, you good?"

You're full, mouth full, throat full he's all around you and it feels so fucking good. You moan again and he starts moving his hips, starts fucking into your mouth.

He's so loud above you, telling you you look beautiful, you take him so well, that you're mouth is so sinful but all you can think about is his fucking cock, shoving in and out of your throat, swallowing your thoughts whole. You're slobbering all over his dick, eyes watering, you can't do anything but let him take control, let him take whatever he needs to make himself feel better, to gain some control back after the loss.

"Shit, babe, you're a fucking sight to see."

You whimper at his words, it feels so good. His hips find a faster rhythm, shoving deeper in each thrust, his hands threading through your hair.

He snaps his hips harder and harder, getting more confident with each thrust, taking out the anger and frustration into your soft mouth. And you take it all, swallow every gag and let your jaw grow numb at being fucked so ruthlessly. You get wetter at the thought

"So close- 'm so close, your mouth so fucking warm 'n perfect-"

His thrust are stuttering, getting more errattic, and you can't wait to be filled with his semen.

"Okay- fuck, I'm gonna-"

He bullies himself as deep as he can into your mouth, stopping there to finish. You feel his hot spurts of cum coating your throat, he comes so much but you swallow every bit of it. It tastes saltly and exactly like him and you whimper at how stuffed you feel.

He softly leaves your mouth, and you cough slightly as he does. He comes down, kneels with you, strokes your hair and wipes lovingly at the corners of your eyes were tears had formed.

"So good, babe," he murmurs and you catch your breath, "You did so good for me, make me come so hard."

"Yeah?" you say, voice slightly hoarse, smiling at all the praise.

"Are you kidding?" he grins, "You were fucking perfect for me."

You lean your back against the foot of the bed and settle into his shoulder, energy depleting.

"Wasn't it my job to be giving you compliments tonight, not the other way around?" you tease.

"Oh shit," he says, frowning a little, "I forgot about the match."

"Oh... I'm sorry for reminding you."

"No- no, not at all," he whispers, kissing your cheek, "You're the reason I forgot in the first place, remember?"

You hum at his words, feeling sleepier by the second.

"Thank you, by the way," he says after a second, "Not just for... you know but everything. You really helped me, I don't know what I'd be feeling if it wasn't for you."

You open your eyes and see him look at you adoringly, and your insides glow at the feeling.

"It's okay, it's what I'm here for."

"Yeah, just, I love you so much." he whispers against your temple, placing a kiss there.

"I love you too," you say, choking a little.

He laughs, "I'm getting you some water, okay? And ice chips."

He stands to get up but you tug him down.

"Later, okay? Right now just stay with me."

He settles his head above yours, smiling, "Okay."

FIN.