Chapter Text
Within the static, the only thought that is clear to him is that he should not be here.
Through Jude’s eyes, the world is soft, extraterrestrial, and exists at a standstill, which is to say that this cannot be real. None of this—him, here, in this room, with his body pushed up against a cold, hard wall, his mouth cracked open, his eyes heavy-lidded, and his entire being afire with a vague sort of pleasure—can be real.
It is not real. It’s a dream.
The dreamlike sequence is this: he is in a hotel suite, an expensive one, the kind with its own bedroom, with its own kitchen, with its own living room, with a wide, expansive, secluded balcony, with a bathroom with one of those clawfoot, deep bathtubs designed to make a man feel like a king, yet it is not quite right.
It is not quite his.
It’s not his at all.
He’s near the room’s door, only in the doorway really, pressed up against the wall, able to see through his bleary eyes the heavy, closed door, the warm strip of light that sits at the crack of the bottom, reminding him that there’s life outside, some littering bodies moving in the hallway.
The hotel is alive and bustling after all. The night is still young, and even if it weren’t, it’s the city of Miami.
The room is quiet and he supposes that is important. There’s only the buzz of the refrigerator, the whir of the air conditioning, and the schlick, schlick, wet, intimate slide of Erling Haaland’s fingers working Jude open, coaxing his entrance to relaxation so that he’s adequately prepared for what’s to come.
And of course, there are the high-pitched, embarrassing whines that are forced from Jude’s throat.
As it is, one of Erling’s hands rests on his stomach, clutching at the hard, fleshy indents of his muscular abdomen, and the other is behind him, between them, as Erling curls over Jude’s trembling body, his fingers deftly burying themselves over and over inside of him.
Middle, index, out, in, coated with nothing more than Vaseline, Jude’s rim holding on tight to his knuckles, and Jude, pressed against the wall of Erling’s hotel suite, is…in a state of disrepair. Of agonized pleasure.
Here they are, just near the door. They couldn’t even wait. They couldn’t make it past the kitchen, past the small living space, much less to the bedroom.
Jude’s fingers clutch at the wall, his voice catching in his throat, disorganized, and Erling is shushing him, his face pressed into the side of Jude’s head, his mouth at Jude’s ear, because the walls are thin and the rest of Team Norway are situated on the floor, one right after the other, the entire thing booked out just for them.
And if they’re not careful, somebody will hear them. This is so stupid. This is so fucking stupid. This is so fucking dangerous.
Jude knows this.
So then, why is it so hard to stay—
“Quiet,” Erling says.
“Sorry,” Jude manages to respond, his voice still cracking down the middle, still too high, but slow, slow, slow, like molasses.
And this is his fault, isn’t it?
Drinking. He’d been drinking. Celebrating.
The liquor had tasted so good going down. Like victory, like winning, like…
So, he’s drunk.
Jude is drunk, he can admit it.
But he’s not so drunk that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that he doesn’t know where he is, who he’s with, what’s being done to him. No, he knows. He can feel it. Erling’s fingers are so long. They’re so well-practiced. They’re so fucking distinctive, and fuck, even after all these years, still, they remember Jude.
They play him like an instrument.
Good.
Why is it so good?
In his ear, there’s something Norwegian, something he can’t understand, rolling like the warm, summer waves of an open beach. Gritty like the sand. It’s here that Jude feels a bit like he’s floating, splayed out, vulnerable, riding on a high so powerful it shoots through his body like heroin. He smells salt in the air, flora, tastes the vaguely sour aftertaste of Bud Light on the back of his tongue, mint mingling in between, gum—his gum, chewed in a wad, is stuck between his molars and the wet flesh of his cheek.
Erling’s touch is everywhere, all over, spread over his flesh, leaving fire in its wake, his hand snaking under his shirt, his fingers teasing over a pointed nipple, his fingers inside of him, pistoning him slow and measured, like they have all the time in the world.
And they don’t.
“No, no,” Jude murmurs.
“It’s okay,” Erling says.
“No,” Jude sighs into the wall, tightening his grip on reality, yet still remaining at a loss as he tries to piece the evening back together, coming up short.
He remembers the bar, he remembers going, he remembers how good it felt to be there, but he doesn’t remember anything much in between besides…besides walking.
Walking. Exiting the bar and walking, which was stupid, anyone could have seen him, anyone could have come up to him, could have recorded him, and…then, he was back here, at the hotel, having enough sense to approach the building from the side instead of the front, having enough sense to keep his head down, and then.
And then.
He saw Erling first.
He could not miss him.
It was impossible to miss him.
He stood wearing a dark hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head, shorts, socks and slides, hanging a few feet away from the door, staring at his phone. Jude knew him not only by his stature, but also by the way his hair tumbled in waves out from his hood, onto his shoulders, by the shape of his browbone, by the way he leaned into the length of a palm tree.
And also, most embarrassingly, the shape of his quadriceps, the curve of his calves.
He wouldn’t have been able to catch the earthy, floral scent of his cologne from where he stood just yet. He would have to draw closer.
Jude’s feet stuttered, and he felt like running away but he had no time to do so. As if he sensed him there, Erling turned, and then they were looking at each other. It took a moment for Erling’s face to come fully into focus. Jude’s sight was bleary. Life cycled around him like moving pictures, stunted, buffering, yet it was no movie, no TV show, no such dream.
Erling moved from his place on the tree, his face, full of light, full of quiet excitement, settling into something a bit more curious as he approached Jude. With a healthy distance still between them, Erling asked Jude if he was okay.
Jude tried to answer, tried to nod, but his words were jumbled, slurred, his tongue heavy. He was not so inebriated that he could not feel shame for it, for not being able to speak properly or even walk properly when Erling asked him to trek a straight line.
Erling laughing at him, no matter how small, made it no better.
“You’re pouting, Jude, like a child,” Erling had said.
“I’m not a child,” he’d defended himself.
“Oh? You are a big boy now?” Erling’s mouth was curled conspiratorially, and Jude thought he must have imagined the glint in his eye, though he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had not.
Erling had always had this sense of playfulness about him and Jude had always found himself entranced by it, by his easygoing nature, and how quickly that was traded out for precision, focus, and a frightening sense of intelligence when he entered the field.
Jude found it admirable.
He knew that Erling Haaland would be someone great.
He always knew that.
There was no other way it could go.
“I’m…” Jude began but he could not finish. He’d become lost in Erling’s blue eyes. He’d become lost in memories. He wanted to go inside. He wanted to lay down and sleep and wake in the morning to a headache.
“You are drunk,” the deep drag of Erling’s tongue settled in Jude’s core.
It was so hot, but still he wore his hair down, framing his face, and against the backdrop of the night, the half-moon hung in the sky amongst a splattering of dim stars, Erling looked like he could reach up and pull down a constellation for Jude if he so pleased. It was harrowing. “I can smell it from here. Do you want me to help you, uh, walk you up?”
“I think I’m okay,” Jude said, because he didn’t want to be alone with Erling for more than only a few minutes when his brain felt akin to mush and he could only see the world through a slight blur and he could feel his blood, as if it were coming to a boil, stirring in his veins.
The truth was just that Jude did not trust himself.
Within the years between Dortmund, he had seen Erling Haaland only a handful of times, though they’d kept in touch on social media. Occasionally, Haaland would send him funny videos on Instagram, he would like his pictures, he would comment, and on Snapchat, they had a streak going for about seven months before Jude ended it by mistake.
With space and time in between them, it was easier for Jude to forget about him, to forget about the things he did, the things Jude let him do. The things Jude wanted him to do.
It was easier to live his life in the newly found spotlight, to field the flurry of women, of fans, of ever hungry industry giants.
He did not want to think about Erling.
But even so, when he would show up on his Instagram feed or he’d happen upon his story, Jude would stare for a length of time that was shameful to admit.
It was even more humiliating to know that Erling likely did not think of him at all, not in this way.
He had moved on. He was happy. He had other people. Other things. A life, a family, a woman.
Jude was something of fleeting youth, a memory, a moment locked in time, and now they were something adjacent to friends and colleagues and that’s all they ever would be and perhaps that was okay.
Jude said again, gesturing toward the side entrance, “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
“Are you sure?” Erling only looked amused, his head hidden within the depths of his violet-colored hoodie, and Jude thought he looked ridiculous.
He thought it was laughable that a man as large and noticeable as Erling Haaland believed he could slip under the radar with such a flimsy disguise.
Or perhaps it wasn’t a disguise at all.
Erling never carried himself in such a way. He never dodged cameras or hid himself around corners. He embraced all of the things that came with the limelight, because he knew that he could not have football if he did not.
These things were consequential.
They came with the territory.
Meanwhile, Jude still was trying to adjust.
“You can barely keep yourself upright.”
“That’s not—what are you talking…” Jude said, and he realized too late that he had been swaying and catching himself for the duration of their conversation. Beneath his brown skin rose a light cherry blush.
“What did you drink?”
“Stupid American beer, I don’t know, God, stop laughing at me,” Jude said, but it came out high-pitched and whiny and it only made Erling smile wider. “We were celebrating.”
“Nothing is wrong with celebrating.”
“Why aren’t you? Are you not…happy?”
“Than I’ve ever been,” Haaland said. “But I want a clear mind.”
At that, Jude smiled. “You’re so perfect, aren’t you, mate?”
Erling’s eyebrow raised, and he asked out of curiosity, “You think I’m perfect?”
“A bit.”
“You are perfect. Two goals against Mexico, huh? Not an easy feat, Jude.”
Jude froze. Then he smiled, blushed, felt himself become hot under Erling’s praise. “Yeah?”
“You played beautifully which…it was not a surprise to me. I was proud. I tried to call but…”
Jude remembered watching the phone ring.
Uncomfortable, he scratched behind his ear, and in doing so became so unbalanced he nearly fell, Erling’s long arm shooting out to catch him.
“Oh, God, sorry,” Jude muttered as Erling pulled him closer, keeping his hand on his elbow to stabilize him. “This is embarrassing. I’m sorry.”
“You deserve to have fun. This is nothing.”
“I drank too much. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Erling said, and Jude did not feel like he deserved his kindness for some odd reason. He felt silly. “But we should go inside before someone gets a picture.”
Jude couldn’t argue with that could he?
On their way to the elevator through the empty, quiet hall, Jude had managed to cosplay sobriety.
He focused severely on the fact that there were security cameras everywhere and in doing so, he was able to trip only twice. Erling walked close beside him with one of his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and the other free so that he could keep him near whenever he strayed.
Erling called the elevator and they stood in silence, Jude’s eyes on the fabric of the carpet, on how the pattern seemed to swim.
“Come on,” Erling pressed a warm hand to his back, urging him softly inside.
Once the door shut, Jude breathed a sigh of relief, collapsing unto the elevator’s wall, his neck rolling as he did so. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective mirror in front of him, watching himself, worrying his bottom lip. He stuck his hand into the pocket of his sweatpants, feeling around for his last stick of gum, peeling it open, crushing the foil.
“What floor do they have you on?” Erling asked.
“Um,” Jude muttered. “Um.”
Jude shut his eyes as he tried to remember. He chewed and spearmint exploded in his mouth. His eyes fluttered open, and in the mirror, Erling was already looking at him. His head almost swept the roof of the elevator. Jude blinked, and he felt parched.
“Um,” Jude repeated.
“We are on eighth. You guys have got to be, what, seventh? You’re below us.”
“I don’t…”
“We can try seventh first.” Erling hit the button for seventh.
Jude could not tear his eyes away from his hand. He felt hot, though he didn’t have a sweater on.
“Thanks.”
The elevator whirred on its way up and Jude could not stop staring at him.
Erling half-smiled. “Is there something on my face?”
“No,” Jude said. “Sorry.”
“Are you sure you are alright?” He asked, and then he turned around, and Jude felt cornered. Erling reached out, dragging a single knuckle across Jude’s forehead. It came back damp. “You’re sweating.”
Jude could not find his voice. He wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt before he could think better of it, and he found that when he caught Erling’s face again, his eyes were stuck on Jude’s abdomen. Heat began to brew within his gut, erotic and shameless. Jude dropped his shirt, and in doing so, Erling’s eyes came back up to his. Unlike Jude, he did not hold any kind of reservations. Jude was transported back to Dortmund, immediately.
He was transported back to the first time he’d found himself staring at Erling’s body during practice, the first time he’d ogled him in the locker room, the first time he’d been caught and Erling only craned his head, as if he was pleasantly surprised.
There had been rumors about Jude, of course, which, he found to be par for the course.
Jude had grown up with a certain disposition about him—pretty, curious, yet reserved, a bit shy, modest, kind. He was no stranger to rumors, he was even no stranger to bullying, covert or overt, the casual slur said in jest. He had learned to take it on the chin, it came with looking the way he did, carrying himself the way he did, even if it wasn’t true.
And it wasn’t true.
It wasn’t.
None of it was true, Jude would have sworn for such a long time, and he would have been honest.
But Erling Haaland…Erling was different. He was something different. He was something Jude couldn’t understand. He was someone that made Jude feel things he never had before.
“I’m good. I’m good—I’m good, yeah, I just—”
“Yeah?”
“Good. I’m good. I just, I don’t know. I don’t—” Jude murmured, and he had a thought in his mind that was terrible. “I don’t know if I want to go.”
“To bed?”
“To my room.”
Erling looked at him strangely. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t know. I just don’t know. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
“Your team is out, still, no?”
“Most of ‘em. But some are still…I don’t want them to see me. Like this.”
Erling tilted his head and Jude looked away. “Are you asking to come up to our floor?”
“I mean,” Jude said to the floor. “I…”
“I can’t hear you, Jude.”
“I said, I…” Erling stepped closer and Jude grimaced, the proximity making him nervous, “W-wait, don’t.”
Erling’s hand came under Jude’s chin, tilting his head up, his thumb dragging over his goatee, forcing him out of his shell, though Jude still refused to meet his eyes. “Jude.”
“Yes?”
“Jude,” Erling chased his eyes with his own, until Jude looked at him. “You need to be sure of what you are asking me.”
“I want to…can’t we hang out?”
“Hang out. What is hanging out?”
“We haven’t seen each other in a while, I mean. We could just hang out. Like friends.”
“We are friends?”
“I don’t know. Aren’t we?” Jude’s voice was a bit cutting.
“Friends,” Erling smiled. Then he asked, “Were we friends the last time we were alone, too?”
Jude swallowed thickly. “Stop that. Stop. I’m not talking about that.”
“Are you my friend?” He asked, and then his voice fell an octave, his words became a secret, for just the both of them. “I don’t fuck my friends in the ass.”
Jude flushed at the vulgarity. “Don’t. Don’t fucking say that, man, just don’t—"
“Why not? That is what you want. That is what you are asking for.”
“That’s not. It’s not.” But Jude and Erling both knew he was lying.
“You are drunk. You are trying to get me in lots of trouble. Is this your master plan to win the game, Jude?” He tsked playfully, enjoying himself then. “Throw yourself at me then tell people I took advantage of you?”
At the words, Jude found himself aroused. It hadn’t been his plan, of course it hadn’t and they both knew it, Erling was only joking, but it made him feel things. Erling had a way of softly picking him apart, making him desire degradation as if it were praise.
You’re so young, is this even what you want?
You can have any girl you please and you want my cock?
Are you crying because you will miss me or are you crying because there will be no one to fuck you the way you like it?
Okay, okay, I’ll stop. I’ll stop. But you like it when I’m mean to you. Your body tells the truth.
“How am I throwing myself at you? I’m just asking you to—”
The elevator stopped, and Erling stepped away from him casually, sticking his hands back into his pockets. It was only the fifth floor, and it was a child, a little kid who recognized Erling immediately, and almost ran into the elevator to greet him before a loud, screeching feminine voice that cut through the air, yelling for him to return.
The child waved goodbye and booked it, clearly disappointed.
The door shut once more.
Erling did not say anything else as they arrived on the seventh, the door sliding open, and Jude could hear his teammates, even from inside of their rooms, yelling and screaming excitedly.
His eyebrows pinched.
“Why do I have to beg? Okay. I don’t want to go,” Jude said. “You can’t make me. I want to go with you.” He shut his eyes. “Please.”
“You sound like my son,” Erling said, though he still hit the button for eighth. “Spoiled. It’s like pulling teeth getting you to use your words.”
“Shut up,” Jude muttered.
He felt like he was going to be sick.
The thing that counts, Jude would say, is that he had second thoughts on their way to Erling’s room. Compared to England’s floor, it was much quieter, though still, the walls were thin and Jude could hear the chatter behind them.
His mind was focused solely on getting to the room, which was all the way at the end of the hall before anyone could see them, and then he was thinking of what would happen if someone saw them.
Jude knew what they would think. It’s what everyone would think. And it would be terrible because it’s not supposed to be happening. None of it. Jude and Erling were only supposed to be friends and then Jude fucked it up by wanting, by desiring, by…throwing himself at him.
He didn’t even realize when they were there, Erling opening the door with his keycard, pressing the door open for Jude to go inside.
The door shut and they were in darkness. Erling shifted further into the room to turn on a standing lamp, illuminating the space enough for Jude to see him, still drowned in shadow.
Jude did not move from his spot near the door. He felt giddy, and warm, and anxious, and maybe like he should have not come.
When Erling disappeared into the bedroom, then resurfaced to call him, he didn’t move.
“No,” he said.
“What do you mean no?”
“I shouldn’t have…” Jude’s voice slurred, and he watched the muscle in Erling’s legs shift as he began to walk back over to him. Jude looked away, ducking his head.
“You’re shy, now?”
“No. Why are you acting like this? Like you didn’t…”
“What?”
“Like you haven’t missed me?”
“I have definitely missed you. I reach out to you all the time. You don’t reply to me.”
“Because,” Jude said. “Because.”
“Because?”
“You’re married. Or something. And you…you left. You just left. You left me. You left me. So. I don’t know.”
“How could you expect me to stay in one place?”
“I don’t. I didn’t. I just didn’t know what to do. Everyone leaves, I know, but you…I don’t know.”
For a long moment, Erling did not speak. He just reached out, Jude shying away, nearly tripping over, cupping his face, leaning in to kiss him on his temple, on his cheek.
Jude sighed.
Erling said, “I have missed you.”
“Have you, really?” It sounded desperate, even to Jude’s ears and he cringed.
“How could I not?” Erling asked. He pulled backward to look at Jude’s face, his brown eyes full, pleading, his lips parted, everything about him so innocent-looking. He kissed him then, and Jude fell into the hard line of his body, his mouth falling slack, letting Erling do whatever he wanted to.
He felt the familiar press of his lips, then the sensual sweep of his tongue, and then the kiss was so deep it felt like Erling was trying to swallow him. The machinations of his mouth against Jude’s, Jude struggling to follow, like they were in Dortmund again, and it was Jude’s first time kissing another boy again, inexperienced, helpless, afraid yet eager and hungry for it.
The wet clicking of their kiss echoed in the air, so sloppy that Jude began to blush, yet he didn’t move away, not even when Erling stuck his tongue deep inside of his mouth, swirling it around so that Jude knew what he wanted him to do. Jude began to suck on it, like Erling had taught him—back when Jude hadn’t known it was just him laying the groundwork for Jude to learn how to suck him off—and in return, Erling moaned into his mouth.
He walked him into the wall with a thud and his hands found the back of Jude’s thighs, hiking one of them up over his waist, pulsing forward, their dicks meeting each other, hard and ready.
Through the haze, Jude felt it all. He would argue that the drunken haze only made it better. Jude broke away to call his name, and Erling found his neck, sucking into it.
“Haaland,” Jude whimpered. “Wait. No, you’re going to leave a mark. I can’t have a mark.”
But Jude did not push him away and so Erling did not stop. He sucked something dark purple and throbbing into his skin, smack in the middle of the left side of his long neck. He teased it in between his teeth, massaged it on the grooves of his tongue until it hurt.
He ran a succession of kisses over the bulk of his throat, licking the underside of his jaw, but Jude couldn’t ignore the pain that was there, the swelling. He knew that when he woke up in the morning it would still be there. And when he woke up on Saturday, it would still be there. He knew that it would be impossible to hide.
At one of the most highly anticipated games of the World Cup, Jude Bellingham would be on the field with a hickey the size of a golf ball because he let Erling Haaland put it there.
“Hanging out, huh?” Erling asked. “Is this how you hang out with your friends?”
And now.
“Pretty,” Erling says into his ear. “Pretty boy. You’re so pretty, Jude. You’re so good for me. So tight for me.”
Jude whimpers higher than expected, and Haaland laughs, clamping his hand tight over his mouth.
“Shush. You can’t let them hear you. They’ll get jealous. They’ll want a piece too. Unless you want that. I am not sure anymore. I don’t know how many you’ve opened your legs for since me.”
Jude shakes his head, and Erling lightens his grip.
“None,” Jude admits. “None. None. I’ve had none. I mean. Maybe one. Just one. I just wanted to see. I missed you. You weren’t around anymore.”
Erling says, “Oh, you cheated on me?”
“We weren’t together, you made that clear.”
Erling crooks his fingers, and Jude bites his lip. “You are wrong. But maybe it is on me. And maybe now, after I crush you on Saturday, you will understand.”
“In your…dreams.”
“In yours, as well. Wouldn’t you like that? After I win the Cup, I could retire you. Would you like that? Would you like it, Jude, if I retired you?” He kisses his neck. “You could be my wife.”
Jude’s legs shake. He hides his face in his arm. “Stop.”
Erling’s other hand slips down his front, capturing his cock, beginning slow strokes that are electrifying, that feel like pure energy, Jude’s orgasm already building in his core. “Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t you want to be my little wife?”
Yes.
Jude can’t say it. He can’t throw his dignity out of the window. Not fully. Not yet.
“Tell you what, I win the game against you, I bring you back here, and I fuck you until you can’t walk,” Erling says.
“Every time you fuck me, I can’t walk,” Jude says.
Erling laughs. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll be pregnant.”
“You’re so gross, oh my God,” Jude groans, but his dick twitches in Erling’s hand, giving him away, and he has a moment of clarity, rendering him disgusted with himself. He can’t blame this on the beer anymore. He can’t. “Stop. Stop. No. Wait. No—"
Jude twists out of his grip, immediately missing the warm stretch of Erling’s fingers, the grip of his hand on his cock, pulling at the waistband of his sweatpants.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s not right,” Jude murmurs, his voice weighed down with guilt. “I’m…this was a bad decision. No. I can’t. You have a family now. Things are different.”
“Things are the same. I have always had family.”
“Not like this. Not like this, Haaland,” Jude snaps, turning around, his back against the wall, too ashamed to look him in the eye.
“What difference does it make,” Erling looks down at him, and he still feels caged, even without being so, even without Erling’s hands on him. “It’s just me and you here now.”
“I can’t,” Jude says, with as much conviction as he can muster, and still part of him hopes that Erling will ignore him. Part of him hopes he’ll want him so badly that he’ll just ignore him.
Erling sighs, hanging his head. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Jude repeats nervously. “Yeah? Letting me go?”
“You’re free to do whatever you want. I don’t own you. Do I?” He gestures toward the door.
Jude, still holding the waistband of his pants, tying the strings quickly, begins to move, but Erling’s arm blocks him, his hand flattening on the wall beside his head.
Jude inhales swiftly, thinning out his lips.
Erling asks, “No kiss goodbye?”
Jude shakes his head. “No. I’ll just be going.”
“I feel used. You used my fingers and my mouth and now you run off on me.” Erling says. “I don’t understand you. You say you miss me, then you do this.”
“You’re married.”
“And you are jealous and scandalous,” Erling runs the tip of his finger over Jude’s lips. Jude turns away, or tries to, but he doesn’t let him. His index and his middle tease at the seam of Jude’s mouth. “You knew this before you came up to my room. Before you begged me to bring you here. Now, open for me. Be a good boy.”
And so, he does.
With his back against the wall, Erling feeds his fingers to him, developing a sweet, almost romantic rhythm, as he pushes them in and out, running the pads over Jude’s teeth, then shoving them over his tongue. They taste like Vaseline. Like Jude’s insides.
“I miss your mouth. You make me so horny, even now, like no one else I’ve ever met.”
His hand slides off the wall, capturing Jude’s wrist, pulling it until his hand is on Erling’s cock, the thick, long, hefty outline of it pressing into Jude’s palm. Jude moans around Erling’s fingers.
“Mm,” he breathes, pushing his fingers deeper, further, until Jude begins to choke, spit running in rivulets from his mouth, coughing around the intrusion. Erling’s mouth cracks into a grin. “Why are you letting me do this? I’ve missed you so much. You’re so easy. You let me do whatever I want to you. It makes you happy. Take more.”
He stuffs his hand inside further, until it can’t go any deeper. Until Jude is rubbing his thighs together.
“I’ve missed you. You’re such a perfect slut. My little whore. My pretty little whore.”
Then, he takes his fingers out, wet with Jude’s saliva, and he shoves his hand down the front of Jude’s pants, stroking him harshly, burying his face into Jude’s short, coily hair.
Erling says, “You’re going to give me everything you have on Saturday. And I will still win. And when I win, I’m going to find you, and I’m going to give you what you want before you start packing. You’re going to be on your flight home hurting in your seat for hours.”
Jude holds onto his shirt, just to ground himself as he thrusts into Erling’s grip.
“Okay?”
Jude wants to say what about if I win?
But he can’t find the words.
“O-okay,” he breathes. “Shit, ‘m gonna come.”
“Mhm.”
“Ah, shit.”
Jude buries his face into Erling’s hoodie, hiding as he rides out his orgasm, shooting ropes into his underwear. Erling keeps stroking him until he’s shaking, overstimulated, pushing his hand away.
“Come on, please, enough,” Jude murmurs.
The waistband of Jude’s underwear snaps as Erling retrieves his hand.
As Erling steps away, Jude clings to him.
He tells him he’s only going to wash his hands. He’ll be back.
And it’s true. When he comes back, he smells like soap. He’s got a bottle of water in his hand, and he’s pressing it into Jude’s mouth, encouraging him to drink it. Jude downs nearly the entire bottle before he shoves it away.
“I’m good. Thank you.”
“Good.”
Jude feels guilty. He looks at the shape of Erling’s hard on, which has not flagged. “Sorry. Do you…I can still—if you want I can just—”
“You’ll have plenty of time to make it up to me.”
Jude feels so naked, so awkward, so vulnerable. He’s panicking just a tiny bit. “I’m sorry.”
Erling leans in to kiss him. A soft, chaste kiss that makes Jude want more.
“I should walk you. You’re still not completely sober.”
“I don’t know. I probably smell weird.”
“Or you can stay here.”
“I don’t trust myself to stay with you,” Jude admits. “This is bad enough.”
“Let me walk you.”
“We’re going to get caught and I smell like sex, probably. Someone’s going to smell it on me.”
“Then stay.”
“It’s going to look worse if I leave in the morning and you put this thing on me,” Jude feels at the protrusion on his neck, wincing when it’s tender to the touch. “W-why would you do that? Everybody’s going to be looking at me weird.”
“You’re always so worried about other people. No one is going to see and if they do, they’ll think it’s a girl, Jude. They’re going to think you fucked a girl.”
And that makes sense. It makes so much sense, but Jude can’t believe it.
“Bec—because, because,” he manages to say clearly. “This could ruin me. I’m worried because it could ruin me.”
Erling pulls off his hoodie and tosses it at him.
“Pull the hood on, no one will see.”
“Haaland,” Jude begins to argue, but he can’t. He puts the hood on, and Erling helps him find the right holes, and helps him pull the hood over his head. He tightens the neck straps, so his throat isn’t visible.
He’s pouting. He can feel it.
“Cute.”
“Is there…stuff on my pants?”
“No one is going to see.”
“Stop saying that.”
“You’re wasting time. I told you to stay.”
“I can’t,” and he’s whining now, like a child. “I can’t. I fucking can’t.”
Erling rolls his eyes, patting him on the shoulder. “You are dramatic. We are friends. No one is going to know, Jude, unless you can’t take the stick out of your ass. Lighten up.”
And when Erling opens the door, he really has no other choice but to follow him.
However begrudgingly.