Work Text:
The front door slams shut.
Jude drops his bag. He doesn't even kick it aside. The lock clicks shut behind him, and the sound echoes. His chest rises and falls fast under the England jersey.
Argentina had knocked them out in extra time, 2–1, and he hadn't said a word since the final whistle. You'd texted him "sorry" after the match, half-meaning it, half not. Some traitor part of you had been cheering for your country all night.
His eyes are glassy, and with that tight, angry line of his jaw he looks like he’s still on the pitch, barely holding it together.
Wearing his hoodie, you're on the couch when his gaze lands on you.
He crosses the room in three strides. One of his big hands wraps around your throat and hauls you up. Your back hits the wall, hard.
“Happy now?” His voice is gravel.
Before you can answer he spins you around, yanking the hoodie up your back and shoving your shorts down your thighs. Cool air hits your bare skin. Then, his body presses in, hot and solid and still smelling like sweat and pitch grass.
His hand slides between your legs. His palm rubs over your pussy in rough circles, firm pressure right where you’re already dripping. The friction makes your hips twitch. He feels it and presses harder, smearing your slick around your clit. It’s enough to make your breath hitch.
“Are you this wet just from watching me on TV?” he mutters against your ear. “You’re pathetic.”
He turns you around to face him and you gasp. He pulls his hand back only to push two fingers inside you, deep and rough. He curls them instantly and starts pumping. The wet sound fills the hallway. His knuckles bump against you with every thrust. He twists his wrist, scissoring his fingers, stretching you open while his other hand keeps your throat pinned to the wall.
Your knees shake. Heat floods your belly. Every drag of his fingers hits that spot that makes sparks shoot up your spine. He keeps finger-fucking you harder, as your slick drips down his hand.
“Please—”
He pulls his fingers out suddenly. You clench around nothing. Then the thick head of his cock presses against your entrance. He doesn’t wait. One brutal thrust and he buries himself to the hilt. The stretch burns. Full. So fucking full. Your walls flutter around his length as he groans low in his chest.
“Fuck.”
He starts moving. Hard snaps of his hips slam you into the wall. Every thrust punches the air out of your lungs and drives one of your legs up, until he catches it with his other arm. Skin slaps against skin. His balls smack against you. The wet, filthy sound of him driving into your soaked cunt echoes. His hand leaves your throat and grips your hip instead, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
You push back to meet him. He growls.
“Yeah? Take it. Take every fucking inch.”
He fucks you faster. Deeper. His couch creaks when he bends you over the back of it, a new angle that allows him to hit even deeper now. Your toes barely touch the floor. Every stroke drags against that perfect spot inside you. Sweat slides down your back. His jersey scratches your skin where he leans over you.
He reaches around and two fingers find your clit and rub tight, messy circles. The pressure is perfect. Relentless. Your thighs tremble. The coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter.
“Come on,” he snarls, still pounding into you. “You’re really getting off to this, huh? Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
The combination wrecks you. His thick cock stretching you open, the wet slap of his hips, his fingers rubbing your swollen clit without mercy. You break hard, pleasure slamming through you. Your pussy clenches around him in waves. You cry out, shaking, soaking his cock even more.
Jude groans and his rhythm stutters. A few more brutal thrusts and he buries himself deep, pulsing as he fills you. It’s hot and thick, and he keeps grinding through it, milking every last drop while your orgasm drags on.
He stays inside you after. Chest pressed to your back. Breathing ragged against your neck. His fingers are slow on your clit — soft little strokes now, almost gentle.
His voice drops, hoarse: “You okay?”
You nod, still catching your breath. “Mhm. I’m good.”
He presses a slow kiss to the side of your neck.
“Sorry… I was really pent up.”
You smile.
“You know I would’ve said something if I didn’t like it.”
He lets out a low breath, almost a laugh, against your skin.
“Yeah? So you liked it, huh?”
He stays buried in you a little longer, hips giving one last lazy roll like he can’t quite let go yet. Then he carefully pulls out. You feel the warm trickle of him down your thigh. Jude turns you around gently. His hands are softer now, thumbs brushing over the marks he left on your hips. He looks at you for a second, his eyes still a little red, but the anger is gone.
“C’mere,” he murmurs. He pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. One big hand rubs slow circles on your back under the hoodie. The other cradles the back of your head. You melt into the familiar smell of him. Sweat, grass, and that cologne you picked out for him last month. He kisses your temple. Then your cheek.
“I’ll run us a bath in a minute.”
You hum against his shirt, your eyes already heavy. His heartbeat is steady under your ear now. It’s calm. The TV is still on low in the background, replaying highlights neither of you care about anymore. Jude holds you tighter, fingers threading through your hair.
A quiet minute passes.
“Next World Cup,” he mumbles against your hair, voice lazy but cocky, “we’re beating you.”
You smile into his chest and pinch his side.
“You wish, Bellingham.”
He chuckles softly, holding you closer.