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Singing heart

Part 1

Pairing: Jude Bellingham x Reader

Summary: You work in a club in London, where you meet Jude, who is celebrating a Champions League victory with his teammates. Jude is a true alpha, handsome, rich, famous, living a life of comfort and luxury that others can only dream of. He was a man from head to toe, down to the smallest detail. He towered almost two heads above you, looking down at you from the clouds with his radiant eyes. Every movement of his muscular body, a wry smile flashing at the corner of his mouth, a wink drove his fans and opponents alike crazy. You wanted to touch him, hug him tight. Hearing his voice, tingling with his breath flipping over your skin. You wanted to laugh. To kiss. Lying next to him, waiting for your heartbeat to return to normal. You were happy because he didn't need anyone else. Only you. For a while.

a/n: This is my first time writing about Jude , so hope you’ll like it

( english isn't my first language )

You were cold. You were very cold. But I didn't care, because you loved this cinnamon-scented, waterdrop-freezing, snowman-making season. While in one moment of your life you were stumbling on the street, your thin body in a worn pale green T-shirt, worn jeans, your feet tucked into thin gym shoes and enjoying the cold and hot embrace of the snowflake winter, the next you were already living in another body, standing on the stage in a glittering dress in the sultry heat of a night club you were swimming in the air like a goldfish. Your palm rested familiarly on the microphone, mischief glinting in your eyes. It was a full house again. You knew without asking, most people came to see and hear you, the singing lark, as Théo called you from the beginning.

You closed your eyes and waited a bit. They've always done it that way, and not just for concentration. You wanted everyone to pay attention to you. Only for you, for that wonderfully cooing, bewitching voice that was born in the slender neck at every performance. As soon as the first bar sounded from the piano, your fingers playfully ran across the microphone stand, and you started the song to captivate your audience this evening as well. Your lips, covered with red lipstick, parted, the first sounds floated in the air, while your green eyes spied the tables shrouded in darkness, your round hips rocked to the rhythm of the music, weaving the invisible web waiting for the unsuspecting victim. Your slender figure surrounded by the dull light of the spotlight, your shapely, full breasts that rise when you take a breath, your shoulder-length red hair, your porcelain white skin shining from your dress, all provided a checkmate for the male audience who wanted to have fun. Here, everyone wanted you, but no one could touch you, no one could get you. As if you had the sign: FORBIDDEN!

When the last song was over, when the black and white keys sighed for the last time, your throat fell silent, your raised hand fell. The sudden silence was replaced by a deafening noise. Bending your knees a little, you bowed, stealthily wiping the tears from your eyes, then throwing emotionless kisses, hiding your tiredness from others, you gracefully walked off the stage. At the bottom of the stairs, Théo was waiting for you, who was by your side just like all the previous evenings, watching over you like a bodyguard and escorting you back through the auditorium to the tranquility of your dressing room.

You tried not to take notice of the clammy hands reaching out to you, the greedy glances, nor the look whose owner was sitting at a far table. You didn't see the brown irises flashing curiously, darkening with desire, in which your figure was reflected, nor even the way the man's lips pulled into a predatory smile. Pushing aside his half-empty glass, he rose from his chair and went hunting, following his prey with springy steps. You.