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Erling Haaland believes himself to be a grounded person.
It is one of the traits he’s known for, after all - Manchester City's calm and collected striker, recognized for his composure and focused character. If his team wins, he celebrates humbly and professionally, and if he loses, he still keeps himself focused on improving rather than self-deprecation.
It is that simple. It should be that simple.
And yet, he knows his hand is gripping the sheets a tad too strongly, his foot tapping the floor too uncoordinatedly, his posture trembling a little too much for someone who meditates daily. All of the behaviors he usually manages to leave on the field - at least most of them. But not today, it seems. Not after Norway was eliminated in the World Cup quarter-final against England.
Erling still thinks he, somehow, managed to keep his “calm and controlled alpha” image post game, at least in front of the press. He kept his good spirits and stayed on the field to applaud and salute the fans; he gave post-match interviews and he showed the world how proud he is of his team and how confident he is of the future. And the thing is - that is not a lie. Haaland, wholeheartedly, had felt mostly thankful for representing his team on the world’s grandest soccer tournament and proud of how far they managed to reach.
But in the dark of the hotel room, in the bed that feels slightly more uncomfortable than his own and the sheets that smell too strongly of softener, something inside him crumbles. He doesn’t allow himself to come undone, that is not the person he grew up to be, but he can't keep his demure facade from shattering. The corners of his mouth can no longer upturn into the smile he sent the cameras and he feels his own nose flaring at the pungent smell that permeates the room - burnt pine and blackened salt. He could not smell himself during the game due to the scent patch policies, but the moment he removed the small patches on his neck and wrists inside the small four walls room, his aggravated scent engulfed the entire place.
Distressed alpha. It was obvious for Erling - and for anyone who entered the room, really - by smell alone, how much of a negative impact the loss truly had on him. His teammates and everyone around him usually complimented his scent, they said his unusual combination of warm pine and refreshing sea salt seemed to calm everyone around him; even other alphas, who usually harbored distaste for the smells of the same gender, told him his was tolerable and sometimes even comforting. The Norwegian took pride in that, knowing that, contrary to his initial “tough and intimidating alpha” impression, his scent managed to convey his true tranquil and serene self.
But now?
The aroma blanketing the small one person hotel room was heavy, filled with irritated and anxious pheromones. Distraught, really. Alpha, beta or omega - Erling doubts anyone would be able to enjoy being in the same room as him with an atmosphere so dense, so oppressive. For God’s sake, even Haaland himself can barely stand it! Even if he does his best to keep his emotions in check, even if he usually can keep his scent steady when irritated; the smell he is emitting right now hides nothing.
He tries to stabilize himself, he really does. He leans more of his upper body on the bed’s headboard and closes his eyes, slowly reciting to himself every single breathing technique meditation has taught him, in search for one that works:
Inhale slowly through your nose for four seconds. Hold your breath for four seconds. Exhale steadily through your mouth for four seconds. Hold the empty breath for four seconds.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Repeat.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
Hold.
Repeat.
Inhale.
But Erling still sees it.
In the absolute oblivion of his visions, in the middle of the pitch black, it repeats. The entirety of the game, like a broken damn record, and he can maintain none of his learned “calming lessons” when he feels so irritated. He sees his team entering the field, the first kick to the ball, his teammates running and shedding sweat, the ball being passed just a tad too far for him to reach, and dammit, why did he not run just a little bit faster? He could have reached it; he should have reached it. And it rewinds, again and again and again.
And in the center of it all, stealing the spotlight every single time.
Jude Bellingham.
England’s young star player, the newest talent destined for greatness, the nation’s entire hope of a victory on the shoulders of a single brilliant, flawless omega midfielder. The one who scored two goals against Norway. Erling can see it so clearly, his agile body running over the entire field, with what seems to be a never ending energy reserve; dribbling, feinting and threading the ball with such mastery that would be expected of a much older, more experienced player. But no. Bellingham, such a young force of nature. Just like him. Yet, he was the one who, after giving his entire soul for the win, left the game victorious.
Two goals. Both made by Bellingham’s feet. The boy who made the entirety of England chant in wonder. The one who ended Norway’s dream of greatness. The one who sent the entire Norwegian team back home.
And the one who vowed to be eternally with him.
Erling Haaland’s omega.
Erling felt his hands grip the sheets tightly, till his knuckles turned white, teeth grinding against his will. He wasn’t mad with Jude; he could never be. But his feelings were contradictory, his sense of happiness and sadness conflicting in a way the tall striker had never felt before. All his frustration with losing the match and all of his love for his mate clashing loudly into one single individual. The alpha's irritation with losing could not be evaporated so easily; he still felt mad, frustrated, and most of all, wronged. But in the middle of all that, he felt his heart beating loudly with genuine happiness, admiration and love for the one Jude Bellingham.
He had played so beautifully, as gracious and fiercely as ever. Erling loves the beautiful Jude outside the field, but whenever he sees the ravenous beast his omega can turn into… the Norwegian couldn’t possibly take his eyes off him. The pretty, large and oh so dark black eyes, turning from a sparkling beacon of hope into the overwhelming, predatory glare, as if daring anyone to take the ball from him. The sweat running down his entire body, from the top of his head and down the curve of his nape, material proof of the physical exhaustion Jude willingly puts himself into in every single game.
That savage but beautiful beast was the one who eliminated Norway while holding Erling Haaland’s entire heart, brain and lungs between his teeth - canines sinking in so deeply.
He is enamored by that. By him.
But most of it all, he absolutely adores the duality.
How, in the middle of the game, that lethal, fatal midfielder softens his gaze for Haaland. That piercing and subjugating nature ceasing just to have a quick reminder of his mate - from a soft, feather light touch on his fore arm, to a playful, teasing nudge on the back. How he looks at him just for a tad too long and smiles - so adoringly - just to turn his attention back into the game in the blink of an eye. How he comes straight to Erling whenever the game's pause draws out, just time enough to offer him a teasing smirk, or maybe a quick touch of hands. Or just to push him mischievously sometimes - Haaland welcomes this outcome too.
And the worst part - Haaland swears he could smell Jude’s alluring pheromones at those times; straight out of the oven chocolate fudge brownie. So damn warm and comforting, fitting for his sweet tooth. And so fucking conflicting with his aggressive nature of playing, it makes the taller’s head spin. Erling knows it is literally impossible to smell his omega’s scent mid game - there is literally a rule that obliges every single player, alphas, omegas, and even betas to wear scent suppressants for the entirety of the game, using the breaks to replace the used ones for brand news. This prevents anyone from using their pheromones to have some kind of advantage on the opposing team, making every single one of them scentless. The World Cup follows this rule religiously. Everyone was using scent blockers during the Norway and England game. Theoretically, Erling should have not been able to smell anyone.
But he did. Fuck, if he did.
Whenever Jude gave a little wink with a snarky smile on his way he, much more than saw, also smelled it. And Haaland knows that it is, embarrassingly, all on his head. Jude was, just like himself and everyone else, harboring two smaller patches on his wrists and a slightly bigger one on his nape. He isn’t too sure what it was, if it was a physiological olfactory memory response due to the amount of time he spent glued to his mate’s nape, inhaling his pheromones with the same insatiable hunger as a king before a banquet, or a psychological illusion created by his longing to be near his omega's natural scent after, recently, spending so much time being deprived of it because of the matches.
In the end, it is not Jude’s fault Haaland's brain decides to hallucinate his scent, so blaming him does not even cross the striker’s mind for even a second. And even if it was, Erling is confident it would not have been enough to restrain his playing capabilities - as, whenever it happened, the illusion of his pheromones was as quick to disappear as it appeared, with the omega concentrating fully on the game. And Haaland always followed suit, goading himself and his hunger for striking a goal into paying attention to the match.
So that was Erling Haaland’s predicament. Being plagued by a match where he should have played better, could have played better, but also knowing the adversary team’s victory was entirely on the ability and talent of his savage, ferocious force of nature of a mate.
And Haaland should have matched that - should have given him the pressure of playing against a hunter as agile and as thirsty for adrenaline as he was.
But he didn’t, did he?
Haaland finally urged himself to open his eyes, yet his vision was still pitch black - his hands, which were previously grabbing the sheets, were now covering his entire face. He could feel his blunt nails pressing into his skin, not with the intent to hurt, but to put pressure on himself. To make him feel in his own flesh the pressure he should have put into the game - for himself, for Norway, for Jude.
It was… in some sense, pathetic. The way he felt was sad, really. Maybe he would have pitied himself, had he seen things from the eyes of another and not being the one suffering said dilemma. He was usually more capable of maintaining himself level headed - prides himself on it, even. But the rush of such sudden and conflicting feelings - discontentment with himself, irritation with the outcome, pride of Jude, longing for proximity, distress for his lack of self… It was all too much, all too abrupt and all too uncalled for - feelings and urges he did not wish for nor was ready to harbor.
And, embarrassingly so, in the midst of all his mental turmoil, his body had reacted more… physically, to the vivid imagery of England’s midfielder.
That was what made him remove his hands from above his eyes, forcing to face a reality too cruel and too perverse. Looking down on himself, still wearing his Norway National Soccer Team uniform - as he did not have the mental required to care for himself, even if it was only bathing and changing clothes - he could see the faint outline of a bulge starting to form out; not quite there, not motivated enough yet, but promising.
“Faen…” the curse word left his lips without even noticing, now adding a new feeling to his inner misery: shame. He could feel the insides of his eyes stinging with unwanted… sadness? Desire? Mortification? He did not know, nor wanted to name whatever it was, and the only thought on his mind was how that must be some sort of divine retribution to every time he saw a stupid “depressed and horny” comment under his twitter posts and let out a snicker about the misery of others. It was considerably less funny now, he concluded.
Without really moving his head out of position, he lazily glanced on his side, where the hotel’s room alarm clock was. 02:45. He would have been fast asleep at this time had it been any other day, too preoccupied with maintaining a healthy sleep schedule. But today, he was nothing if not glad that, at the very least, he would not have to bear the humiliation of his thoughts at an awake hour. He was about to turn off the small lamp on his right that was providing the only source of faint light, fingers already going under the waistband of his shorts and back relaxing more into the bed, almost lying completely down, when he heard a loud knock on his door.
He froze for a few seconds, quickly straightening his back to sit more appropriately and retrieving his hand for himself. The sudden surprise of being almost caught was quickly exchanged for curiosity and confusion: who the hell was knocking at his door at that hour? Some of the other hotel residents confused the apartments and got the wrong door, maybe? But no, the hotel was privately for the Norwegian team and staff, and this floor in specific was only for his teammates… he doubted any of them would get the wrong door, since they never once did. And someone who got the wrong door would try to open it, not knock. So it was most unlikely. Also, because of their loss, he was pretty sure his other teammates already went to slee-
Ah. It was probably Odegaard, wasn’t it?
Haaland’s brain quickly scanned for an earlier memory of his, where Odegaard came his way three hours after the game, when they all had already arrived at the hotel and were at the reception. He remembered how the team leader pulled him aside and invited Haaland to join him and some of the other players for a drink. Truth is, they had a few plans for celebrating had they been the victorious team, everyone excited to go for an outing and “letting loose” after a hard match. That… was not how things went, though. And no one seemed to enjoy the idea of leaving the hotel no more. Odegaard explained to him how, even after their loss, some of the players still wanted to at least fill their minds with alcohol - not outside, just them, privately, in one of the salon rooms of the hotel. The captain had described it as “drinking the sorrows away and getting wasted as a group” at the time. Erling, as in his more down state, had refused and went alone to his own room. He assumes they have indeed formed a drinking group, though, and are spending their time drowning in ecstasy.
Odegaard must have, probably worried for Haaland being alone, and partially more insistent because of the alcohol, thought it was a good idea to go and try for a second time to retrieve their striker from his room and add him to their fun.
“Sorry, still not in the mood” Haaland answered, just loud enough for him to hear. He could have just stayed quiet and feigned sleep, but it would be cruel to deceive his team’s leader, wouldn’t it? After all, even if Haaland did not wish to join them, he knew Odegaard’s worry came from a caring place and he truly did appreciate knowing he was checking on him. It did not make him any less willing of leaving his confines, though. So he declined the request while making himself more comfortable on the bed.
“Guess I'll just have to go knocking on each door ‘till I find someone in the mood, eh?”
That… that wasn’t Odegaard’s voice.
It wasn’t the throaty Norwegian accent he was used to hearing from his teammates and himself, but the sultry and deep English tone he would recognize anywhere in the whole world.
In the blink of an eye, the blonde was already on his feet. He could feel his head spin from getting up so suddenly; limbs heavy and unprepared, making him almost stumble on his awakening from the bed. Despite all of it, he forced his sluggish legs to take him to the door while a shaking hand reached for the handle. At any other time Erling would probably have second thoughts about opening the door so suddenly in his current appearance - sweat still lingered on his body from the previous match, the hair he treasured so much was a mess, all misaligned with strands falling on the wrong places, still displaying his Norwegian Team uniform, eyes an aggressive and glassy red from unshed tears built upon frustration and for God’s sake, his pheromones smelled as awful as he felt.
He would never, in any other context, present himself in such a pitiful way.
But the door creaked open, and there he was.
Jude Bellingham. In all of his glory.
The younger English man was no longer on his team’s uniform, but displaying a more casual attire - black pants, a simple white tee and a monogrammed jacket hanging low from one of his shoulders. He looked as much as the sin Haaland knew lust was; the warm caramel skin seemed to be shining under a post-match glow, cheeks toned in a deep rose and a single drop of sweat falling temptingly from his forehead till the neck. The corners of his mouth were stretched into a blinding smile, all warmth and teeth, while the doe-like, peerless black eyes crinkled at the corners, as if smiling on their own. His irises were glazed over, peering up at Haaland with such innocent reverence while being curtained by dark, numerous lashes, enticing the Norwegian into counting every single one of them. His right forearm was leaning on the outside wall, which made his posture slightly more hunched back, and on his left he was, surprisingly, gripping firmly on a half empty Fuller’s ESB bottle.
At his door, facing Erling Haaland directly, face flushed and smiling lively, was the owner of all his recent sorrows and never ending joys.
“Wha- I- You-” the words seemed to not come easily to his tongue, slurring on top of each other and resulting in nothing at all. He stayed a minute in silence, just looking wide eyed at his omega’s expectant stare, trying his best to force something - anything - out of his throat. “How… did you get here? I… this floor- the hotel, is for the Norway team only.”
“Good to see you too, Erling. And come on…” It seemed like Haaland wasn’t the only one having trouble with his speech; the shorter man wasn’t stuttering his words yet, but they came out slightly slower and holding the “r” in Erling for a little too long. Jude didn’t falter smiling for even a second, instead, Haaland saw in real time it turn into a playful smirk. “Who would be stupid enough to stop Erling Haaland's omega from entering?”
Fair point.
“Come on mate, let me in already” said the English mid-fielder, not giving Haaland much of a choice when he ducked a little lower and welcomed himself into his mate’s room. It is not like Haaland would have done anything to stop him, anyway.
Jude calmly made his way into the bed set in the farthest corner of the room, putting the bottle in the bedside table, taking his shoes off in the carpet and climbing into Haaland’s messy sheets. He sat himself while observing the room slowly, taking everything in. He didn’t seem to be impressed or interested in anything, though - which was expected. The hotel room was, after all, only temporarily his, so it was mostly empty and lacking any real personality.
It didn’t take too long for those alluring, piercing eyes to settle on Haaland once more who was, quite dumbly, still glued to the door. Hearing Jude slightly snicker was enough to break him out of his trance as he slowly made his way back to his bed - to his omega. Sitting beside him, Haaland couldn’t quite contain himself from gripping his hands into a firm hold, something akin to anxiety rushing through him but that he couldn’t quite name… was it dread, from presenting himself to his mate in such a deplorable state? Shame even? Or something closer to euphoria, giddiness from being reunited with the one his heart longs for?
“Woah, respectfully… it really stinks here.” Jude said sniffing in the air, his nose scrunching a bit before seeming to start accommodating to the smell.
“Y-yeah… I know it.” Haaland could do nothing but look down shamefully without offering any more reasonings, since he knew it was the truth. He also knew Jude said it with no malicious intent, he loved his alpha’s scent, after all. If the way every time they slept together he snuggled himself closer to Erling’s scent glands, greedily taking mouthfuls of the warm pine and sea salt, had anything to say so. It was natural, expected even, for an omega to find his mate’s distressed and aggravated pheromones unpleasant. And with Bellingham it was no different.
“Didn’t really tidy anything as I… did not… expect you. To be here.” he explained truthfully, the last words coming a bit quieter than intended. Bellingham’s presence was, despite how pleased his alpha was with it, still something he had not taken into account, not even for a second.
Jude’s team had won, after all. A brilliant 2 to 1 score above Norway, which guaranteed their presence for the World Cup semifinals. It was a given that the English players would spend the night celebrating their victory as a team, drinking together, joking with each other, dancing the entire night. Just… enjoying and prolonging the rush of euphoria given by their win, really. And it was more than obvious that England’s golden boy, the one who scored the two goals, would be part of it. He knew that, even if they would be celebrating England’s classification as a whole, the commemoration would also be for Jude Bellingham; the star shining bright in the center.
“I thought you would be feasting with your team.” Jude should have been with his teammates, the striker though so. It was within his right, actually. His reward for being the sole predator on the field - a night of letting loose and laughing freely.
His reward for winning. The prize of eliminating Norway. Haaland.
“Oh, I was. We went to a pub. For drinks. The guys ended up going… a little haywire. I didn’t drink much, though.” Jude clarified, his eyes closed and tipping his head back, seeming to be recalling the events inside his mind. And just by looking at him, Erling knew that it was true; Jude was mostly sober. Yes, his cheeks were flushed, his speech was slurring more than usual and his eyes were holding that specific alcohol infused glaze. But Jude, besides having a good tolerance, also wasn’t too keen on drinking. And by how he had acted so far - not tripping on his feet, easily formulating phrases that made sense, moving himself without stumbling or knocking down anything in the room - it would be more right to describe him as tipsy, rather than drunk. Only a little more easy going and giddy than usual.
He was acting very far from what the actual wasted Jude looked like - Haaland would know. They were each other's first full black out drunk experience, after all. Still back in Borussia Dortmund, when they played against the same adversaries on the field - it was an impulsive, dumb decision, really. Haaland still in the earliest of his twenties and Bellingham freshly becoming eighteen, before they were even aware of their own feelings regarding each other. Their shared brain cell decided that having an alcohol taste test all night was a great and totally safe idea. They ended up both having to call in sick for the practices because of the terrible hangover and learning two things from one another: First, that Haaland’s favorite was definitely pinã colada and that his alcohol tolerance was not as high as he thought it was. And second, that Jude’s favorite was pretty much none - but he could make himself enjoy the sweeter drinks - and that his tolerance was better than anyone would have expected. And also that deodorant was not a great substitute for toothpaste. But no one needed to know that one.
"But…” Haaland came back from the awful memory from Jude’s gentle voice; he slowly opened his eyes, took the bottle of beer from the nightstand and rotated his upper body to face Haaland. “I still wanted to take a little bit more. Share another drink. Just, with my alpha.”
Faen i helvete, Jude was so unfair! So fucking unfair. His eyes were looking up at him so adoringly, so much expectation, so much need for company and so wishful for quality time with his mate. How could he ever look at those alluring, dark and round irises filled with stars and reject his request? Haaland had, just earlier this day, declined his team captain's invitation for drinking. But with Jude being the one asking to share? He felt his throat throb with thirst instantly.
“Thought you didn’t like beer.” Erling answered promptly, hand already reaching for the bottle between them, a slight tease in his voice as his lips curled into a side smirk - no real ill intent on his tone, just the light hearted mockery they always shared with each other.
“And I don't. Shit tastes bloody awful.” he grimaced, sticking his tongue out in disgust and squinting his eyes as if remembering the taste. Haaland took the beer from his hands and slowly chugged a gulp directly from the bottleneck, still trying to contain a chuckle from the midfielder’s reaction. “The burning sensation is welcome, though.”
As the alcohol slowly slid down his throat, Erling couldn’t help but agree. The taste wasn’t specifically good. Not great, not bad either, just the familiar bitter running down his throat. The slight stinging he thought he wouldn’t go for this night. But it was helpful; he could already feel the scorching heat distracting his mind from his inner turmoil and focusing on the physical sensation.
The silence stretched between them - not exactly uncomfortable, but not natural either. Haaland's clouded brain kept trying to find the right words to say, anything nice to tell Jude, maybe compliment him? Say how marvelously he has played? Maybe just ask him how his night went? Or even-
“... you shouldn’t be here.” he said absentmindedly after a few quiet minutes went past them. He hadn’t meant to say it, didn’t even register the words before they were already out in the open. He was quick to realize how awful they must have sounded to his mate though, and quickly focused his gaze back to Jude, desperate to mend his misleading phrase “Not that I don't want you! I love having you here, with me, Jude. But you should be out there actually celebrating your victory and not… inside four crappy walls, smelling shitty pheromones and comforting a depressed excuse of an alpha.”
Bellingham went completely quiet with that, not sure on how to answer. He sensed the distressed state of the Norwegian the exact moment the door had been open, it was impossible not to. His alpha was clearly not in his best condition, complexion paler than usual, hair tousled in a way he’d never allow, expressions too rigid and the smile too strained. His pheromones alone, bitter and aggressive, would be enough for anyone to come to this conclusion, but Jude had read it not from the smell, but from every other action his mate did. When they were just leaving the field, with everyone still using scent patches, he had already noticed that Haaland’s composure was a little… worse than normal. He obviously had already seen the Norwegian sad and frustrated from past losses, nothing new, really. But today… he knew something was especially wrong with how aggressively and irritatedly his body language was.
Jude’s own will was to go straight to Haaland and talk to him, understand him, comfort if needed. But he was also conflicted with the need to celebrate, to let go of all his built up adrenaline with his winning teammates. After all, even if they were mates, the reality of the game didn’t change: Haaland lost, Bellingham won. So it was only natural for Erling to be the one in distress while Jude was pulled into a group hug by his team. And his competitive, hungry for the win inner self also complied with the decision to do just that - live into his glory.
And that was what he did. He went out with the ones he shared the win with, laughed, drank and made merry. That satisfied his most driven, ferocious, dog-eat-dog instincts. But after that, what was left of him was the omega who was concerned for his alpha's well-being and longed to tend and care for him - and that single though was what made him abandon all of his peers behind and rush for the Norway’s place with a heart full of worry and a hand holding a half full Fuller’s ESB bottle.
Now, he was more certain than ever that he made the right decision - hearing such self deprecating words that he had never before seen the alpha say; not this harshly, at least, made his hand instinctively search for Haaland’s, slowly encompassing the striker’s larger, trembling knuckles with his palm.
“But I am here. I wanted to be here.” Jude closed his eyes for an instant and let his head fall to the right - falling and falling until it met the comfort of Haaland’s shoulder, leaning for support. “Every single sip i took i thought if you would have liked it or grimaced with me. Every song that the other idiots started singing on the karaoke made me think about how much nicer they would sound in your voice - or worse, and how much I would laugh about it. And every single scent I smelled made me long for the comfort of a forest full of pine and the breeze of the sea.”
As Jude calmly proclaimed and revealed his inner feelings, the less heavy the air became - Erling eventually let his own face rest on the top of Jude’s head, feeling the curly locks, and closing his hand to be fully holding his partner’s in return. “And I also thought about the game. About the win too, sure, but your eyes never left my mind. The feeling of your gaze following me while I ran with the ball, the pressure of clashing with someone as passionate about soccer as me, and the rush of adrenaline on being face to face with the closest to a viking warrior i’d ever be.”
“Knowing how much danger you brought to the field excited me, made me push every single one of my limits. And it made you push yours too, right?” he wasn’t really expecting to get an answer, yet he still felt the taller timid nod above his head. “I saw how much blood you shed on the field, Erling. The world saw it too. You played with the same hunger of winning that a real victor has, and you can be sure of leaving the field holding your head up and proud. You captured everyone’s heart but mine, Erling Haaland.” He tilted his head slightly up, no longer resting on his shoulder but now with his lips planting a small, quick peck on the blonde’s jaw. “As it had already been yours.”
…
..
.
Helvete.
Faen I helvete.
Haaland rephrases himself yet again: Jude Bellingham is so damn unfair. He doesn’t even think when he feels the hand that wasn’t holding Jude’s one let his grip on the bottle go, certainly falling into the bed and staining the sheets with the awful smell of beer, but he didn’t care. Fuck, he didn’t care.
He uses that hand to hold his mate’s head up by the nape and it is pure muscle memory and intense devotion that leads him into kissing his omega’s plump, soft lips passionately. He closes his own eyes and just gently lets his tongue lick Jude’s bottom lip at first - waiting for the permission needed to kiss, to adore, to devour Jude Bellingham.
It does not take longer than seconds for England’s golden star to give his mate open access to his mouth, stating his consent with a teasing bite to the Norwegian's lip. All of Haaland’s gentle and tenderness in asking for access was completely exchanged for unbidden, consuming starvation. Teeth clashing roughly into a battle of dominance neither is quite ready to yield, their tongues caressing each other in a desperate need for contact, hands greedy for latching into any exposed skin they can find. It is messy. Gross. Animalistic. And it feels so, so good.
Haaland allows every single one of his worries, his fears, his desires to drown into Jude’s mouth, pushing his demanding lips even closer to his mate’s own; taking in all of Jude’s space and swallowing every small, involuntary moan that escapes his throat. The hand on Jude's nape doesn’t allow any single inch of distance between them, and the one holding his omega’s hand holds on it so tightly he would be worried about breaking his bones, had neither him nor Jude been so absorbed into their love.
Their kiss, near heavenly, sadly has to be interrupted by the need for air. They unintentionally part their lips from one another, ending the kiss with an equal desire and longing for more. Erling has to take several deep breaths, his open mouth not quite able to close, continuously gulping as much air as he can into his lungs, the sound of his respiration heavy and breathy. Bellingham is greedy, though. Even when feeling the same need for air as the striker, he can’t let himself part with his mate’s mouth so shortly. So, between every breath he takes, he plants smaller, lingering kisses on Haaland’s lips. He misses sometimes, pecking the corner of his mouth, his chin and even the nose, unable to coordinate his movements completely.
They keep themselves that way for a few more minutes, just basking in each other’s love and enjoying the feeling of their breaths caressing the skin, while internally preparing for demanding more and more of their partners. Haaland is the first one to be able to form words again:
“Fuck Jude, what did I ever do to deserve you?” he asks, gazing down at his omega in absolute reverence.
“You stared at me with the same hunger as mine. That was enough” he answers as simply as that, matching Erling’s enamored, devoted, consuming stare with his own. “Ya’ know, Erling… I could help comfort you in a much more effective way than just words.”
So suggestive. The look he gives the Norwegian leaves nothing to imagination, letting his intentions clear even without speaking them out loud. Haaland can’t help but let go of Jude’s hand to grab him by the waist, smiling at him while slowly starting to bring the omega to his lap and deciding to play along with his wicked desires “ You can? What would you even do, hmm?”.
Bellingham willingly allows the large hands to manhandle him into straddling the taller’s lap, letting both of their thighs friction against each other, so dangerously close to their real needs. “I could be your… consolation prize. I noticed this the moment I first entered, so…” his sultry, flirtatious voice said roughly beside Haaland’s ear while his sneaky hand came to rest above his growing erection “why don’t you use your prize to please yourself, hmm?”
“Teasing little minx you are” Haaland whispers roughly beside Jude’s ear, one hand stays glued to his waist, not willing to let go, while the other takes its time wandering with the omega’s rapidly increasing in heat body. The pads of his fingers press into Jude’s ribs, slowly descending into an invisible line through his sides, halting for a few seconds to play with the pant’s waistband, and then concluding its course to fully lay his palm on Jude’s thigh, hovering over it.
Haaland was so focused on exploring Jude’s body he hadn’t even fully processed what his words meant at first - Jude had known he was hard from the very beginning. Truth be told, he had completely forgotten about his lower predicament the moment Jude entered his room, focusing solely on him. He didn’t know what embarrassed him more, though. If it was the fact Jude had noticed his increasing hard-on but kept talking and comforting him with total normalcy; or if it was acknowledging that his omega’s body had such a strong hold on him that kept him turned on the entire time they talked with each other, not losing interest or going limp for a single moment.
Or would have embarrassed him. If he didn’t end up finding the situation so fucking hot.
Without further warning, Haaland clings tightly to Jude while burying his face in the omega’s neck, his nose instinctively searching for the scent gland. He feels the insides of his mouth start filling with saliva, starving for a single whiff of the chocolatey scent.
…
Tea.
Black tea.
The unexpected smell made him untuck his nose from Jude’s nape, wide eyes looking accusingly at Jude’s scent glands. Haaland had not noticed earlier, but Jude was still wearing his scent patches - which would explain why he had not yet been able to smell him. It did not fully explain the unfamiliar aroma, though.
“Why the hell do you smell so…” he started to say, but couldn't quite finalize his question. He took one more whiff out of Jude, trying to find the right words to say.
“British?”
Not the best way to put it.
“I don’t know, might be because I am British?” Bellingham answered his question mid-laugh, hardly containing his chuckles while leaning more of his shaking upper body into his mate’s embrace.
“Okay, that was dumb.” Haaland admitted easily. “Still, you smell different. Bitter tea, I think. Astringent.”
“Ah, Kane’s scent must have lingered.” Jude explained to him readily. “He stayed really close to me, all night. O’Reilly and Anderson too. Some shit about ‘looking out for the youngest and keeping them safe’.”
That was the obvious answer. Had Haaland’s mind not been clogged by a strange mix of lust and confusion he would have come to that conclusion, eventually. He didn’t really know that much about Harry Kane, had never caught a whiff of his scent before, but black tea seemed fitting from the little he knew. And the older alpha's decision of covering the younger players with his scent, working as a protecting blanket, made sense - in line with his fraternal character.
Haaland’s alpha seemed to disagree, though.
Erling had never been the jealous type. Overprotective and defensive, sure. He had been called that numerous times and felt a little proud of it, even - he enjoyed being recognized for always putting himself on guard for his teammates. And that applied for Jude too, even before they were official.
But neither he nor Jude ever felt particularly jealous about each other. Obviously, they felt it in a few specific moments, as any normal couple would, but it was never something grand, never once an actual issue.
So why did he feel so… challenged?
He felt his back straightening, upper muscles going rigid while unconsciously strengthening his grip on Jude. His brows furrowed, nose scrunched, mouth tightened. The same stinging he felt on behind his eyes previously, which he thought had left him, came back ten-fold, almost blinding his vision. He could hear his own teeth grinding into each other, canines sinking shut creating an awful sound, and a low growl forming into his chest and vibrating on his throat until it leaked through his clenched jaw.
Disgusting.
He hated it.
The smell of Kane - anyone - on Jude infuriated him.
The oppressive thoughts kept floating around his head, with such possessiveness he never expected to be the one to harbor, yet he was powerless to stop them. Jude Bellingham was supposed to always smell like him, to be so intertwined with Erling that their scent would merge together with their bodies, to become one single being. That… that had to be enough to keep everyone away, for no one to ever dare steal Jude from him, because he could not bear the outcome of a reality that cruel.
Jude said it himself, didn’t he?
That he was his.
His prize.
He couldn’t lose him.
Haaland had to win. Always win. That was the only way he knew of proving himself, and that meant he had to win over his mate too. To ingrain his claim on Bellingham’s skin so deeply, in such an ugly and aggressive way - animalistic -, and make sure it would scar forever.
In that way, he wouldn’t lose. Not Jude, not his claim, not his victory.
He just had to keep his arms locked around Jude and never let go, he just had to close his jaw around his mate’s scent glands, just had to kiss and bite his omega’s lips for a bit longer, just had to prove himself to be a good enough alpha, just had to be the biggest threat on the field, just had to steal the ball, just had to be the first to reach the goal, just had to score, just had to-
“Quit with the growling, Erling.”
Hearing Jude’s voice was what snapped Haaland back for reality - tone deeper and more affirmative than he had sounded the entire night.
“Come on, no need to see Kane as a threat. Lad’s got a wife, anyway.” he whispered, timbre now sweeter, more sultry, soothing. That was also when Haaland realized the midfielder's hand was on his hair, alternating into stroking his scalp and running his fingers on the golden strands, the pads of his fingers sometimes reaching a bit lower to caress his nape. He had pushed himself a little backwards, still on Erling’s lap, but no longer pressed on his torso. Instead, his huge, starry black eyes were staring directly into his, maintaining the reassuring eye contact while his mouth upturned into the softest smile Haaland’s got that night.
“Shit, Jude, I’m sorry!” he said louder than intended, seeming taken back with his own feelings and actions. He forced his hands that were gripping on Jude’s waist and thigh to soften their hold; no longer clenching his fingers into a harboring painful grip, but not letting go either - he couldn’t let go of him, never. Now just.. hovering. Cradling. “I don’t know what came to me, I shouldn't have, I just-”
Haaland started to explain, the words leaving his tongue too quickly for his mind to keep up with, and it didn’t take long for him to just go quiet. Not because he didn’t have anything to say, because he did, he had so much to tell, to explain, to apologize for - to beg for him to understand. Yet he could not decide on which sentence to mutter, every thought turning into fuzz once he tried to put it into words and dying heavily on his tongue.
The silence stretched for a tad too long, with Haaland having too much to say and not being able to utter anything at all. Jude observed him attentively, taking in every single action of the Norwegian. The way his lips opened, breathing through his mouth for brief seconds, before closing shut once again; his eyes were haywire, thin pupils seeming to try to find a point of focus and failing miserably every single time; the touch of his hands uneven and unpredictable, he felt the fingers on his thigh tightening into a grip while the one on his waist made circular caresses so gently, randomly alternating into tender and harsh.
Bellingham tried to keep the eye contact between them, maintaining his gaze on the one he loved so. But whenever their eyes met Haaland was quick to cut it by either turning his head down or twisting his face in a random direction.
Tired of trying to catch the striker’s eye, Jude decided to change his tactics. He leaned down into the taller’s upper body, burying his knees deeper on the mattress to push his body as close to Haaland’s as possible - only stopping when they were chest to chest and he could feel the rapid, agitated heartbeat of his resonating with his own. He tucked his face into the crook of his alpha’s neck, slotting himself into the perfect position to press a soft, lingering kiss on his jugular vein. The position also forced Erling’s nose to be at the perfect height with Jude’s neck, pressing faintly on his scent gland.
“I didn’t take my scent patches off. I am greedy, Haaland, as much as you, if not more” he whispered quietly, as if talking to a frightened child - sharing a secret between them “ and I wanted my alpha to be the first to take in my scent. The only one. I couldn’t bear the thought of it being anyone but you.”
“So, would you be greedy with me and take them off? ¿Por mí?
Haaland didn’t answer him with words. Didn’t need to, really. Just the feeling of his breathing softening when hitting his nape was enough for Jude to understand. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath once he felt Erling’s fingers prodding with the scent patch on his scent gland, holding it by the ends and slowly peeling it off. The scent of the room, a mix of black tea, alcohol and distressed alpha gradually gained a new integrant: warm, melting, chocolate fudge brownie.
Haaland breathes in and it is a one-hit KO.
Akin to a sedative, he feels his mind finally being cleared of the darker thoughts. The comfort entices him to breathe deeper, to take as many lungfuls as needed to ease the pressure on his chest. He instinctively clings tightly and buries his face on the omega’s neck, humming each time the pheromones hit his nose and silently praying to drown on it. Warm. Sweet. Safe. Everything Jude Bellingham is and means to Erling Haaland.
He feels his mouth salivating, gums ache with the want - no, need, to taste. The animal in him howls once he allows his jaw to open and has Jude’s skin between his teeth, licking the salty sweat off the scent gland in the same way a predator would feast on its prey. Jude whimpers loudly, body falling into a puddle, which only encourages Haaland to run his tongue more and more roughly on the expanse of his caramel skin.
Jude nuzzles into the crook of his neck in return, matching Erling’s desire of devouring, inhaling the alpha’s scent to his heart’s content. The aggressive smell that infested the room, burnt pine and blackened salt, was replaced by the one Jude held so dear and longed for - warm pine and sea salt. The tranquil scent he learned to always associate with his gentle giant of a mate. He runs his tongue flat, licking and nibbling the entire extension of the taller’s neck, humming each time he feels Erling’s jugular vein pulse under his ministrations.
“Good… ‘so good…” Erling murmurs while kissing his throat open mouthed and sucking into his skin, littering Jude’s neck with faint dark red and purple hickeys.
The midfielder’s throat vibrates as an answer, content with being praised by his alpha and longing for more. He untangles one of his hands from the blonde locks and slowly diverges back into Erling’s bulge, sighing in content once feeling his mate is still hard for him and filling up even quicker than before. “Erling…” is all he manages to say as he hardens his hold, still over the clothes, and hears Erling moan roughly into his ear.
Haaland feels Jude rutting against his thigh and decides it would be cruel of him to not return his mate the favor. He starts unbuckling the belt of his omega’s pants at the same time he feels Jude grabs his uniform shorts by the waistband and start pulling down. And Haaland can finally see it, the tent forming on Jude’s briefs, with a small wet spot on the top. The smell Jude gives out from it is so much sweeter too.
Erling’s idea was to undress both of them before initiating anything, but Jude seems to be tired of waiting - instead, the omega arches his back and inches his hips forward, making his hard-on meet with the alpha’s. Erling can’t keep the groans from leaving his mouth, pushing his hips up to keep on grinding against Jude’s clothed cock, seeking to feel the rough friction again and again and again. It scratches him in all of the right places and it hurts, but it hurts so damn good.
Jude keeps humping against the alpha, hungry for the borderline painful attrition, while Erling tries his best to undress the both of them without pulling his crotch away from Jude. It’s awkward, but they make it work. Bellingham’s jacket is the first one to be discarded, falling off his shoulders smoothly, while raising his arms for Haaland to pull his shirt up along with his own. The fabric of Haaland’s shorts is light, simple to take off, but Jude’s pants are the hardest part, seeming to stick to his thighs. They pool around his feet eventually, making it easy to just kick them out into the floor together with his socks.
Jude is still pinning him on the bed by the time they are done, the blonde’s head and shoulders hitting the headboard and legs restrained by Jude’s strong thighs around him. Both of their hands desperately pull down on their underwear, now hungry for skin to skin contact. Their dicks slap against each other once they are free, all messy and wet, and neither can help but moan loudly in unison.
The omega keeps rubbing himself on the Haaland while the alpha's hands start to venture lower; tracing down the length of the pretty, leaking cock with only his finger’s pads, stopping shortly to hold into his balls softly, and then finally reaching Jude’s soaking hole.
“Fuck Jude, so wet already” he murmurs while circling the small hole with the tip of his fingers, gathering the slick coming from it while also teasing the fluttering hole, pressing his thumb firmly on it just to see it open and close out of his own accord.
“St- stop teasing me!” he whines beautifully, tucking his face harder into Haaland’s neck while pushing himself down on the fingers, trying to make them enter.
“So bossy…” he comments, while deciding he himself is tired of waiting. He angles his head up and locks his and Jude’s lips together, distracting him with the pleasurable sensation while he forces two of his fingers inside the dripping hole.
It isn’t too much of a stretch, as Jude was already drenched with slick, working as a lubricant and easing the invasion greatly. Haaland’s fingers are wide, though. Thicker and longer than Jude’s, and it has been so long since they last held each other. Jude breaks the kiss and gasps as he feels the finger go deeper and deeper - Erling not stopping until he feels his knuckles being pressed flush against the omega’s ass.
“Fu- I need more, Erling!” he asks for. No, demands, trying to grind into the taller’s hand.
He stretches his fingers into a V, scissoring the insides of his mate, feeling little resistance of Jude’s walls. The squelching sound tells Haaland he is wet enough to take more of him, so he hooks one more finger inside him and sinks in.
The stretch is considerably harder, Jude’s hole contracting around the fingers as it works on producing more slick, to help the insertion. Jude bites his bottom lip, but it helps little to nothing on containing the lewd moans escaping his mouth. Erling starts thrusting his fingers, in and out, curling until he manages to find Jude’s good spot. His fingertips pressing firmly, harder and meaner, caressing the spot just enough to break through the hypersensitivity and reach a melting, surging pleasure.
“Dou you like that, Jude?” Erling asks while pecking Jude’s lips, again again and again, rubbing his fingers against his firm and smooth prostate “Do you like it when I bully your g-spot?”
Jude chokes back a whine, trying his best to reply “Y-yeah, love it” he says while guiding his unused hand to stroke the alpha’s neglected dick, the head an aggressive red with a bead of cum leaking from the slit. Jude presses his thumb into it, hearing a surprised snarl, and starts moving his hand up and down; his motions in synch as Haaland finger-fucks him. “Love you.”
“Faen altså, you're gonna be the death of me Jude” he mutters, voice heavy with need and desire, thrusting his hips up in search of Jude’s warm hand, taking all he can get from him.
Erling isn’t sure of how much time passed between them, just that the room is now filled with rough whimpering and lewd moans. The squelching sound - so much slick, so damn wet - resounds around his brain and inhibits any coherent thought from forming, the picture of the pretty, sweet Jude being the only thing he can process.
The awful, disgusting smell of distressed alpha is non-existent now, being replaced by steaming and heavy pheromones, the rich chocolate melting together with the earthy pine, overheating into warmth until the fresh salt cools it down. It 's addicting, and it takes Haaland to heaven combined with the soft, careful touch of Jude on his cock. He inhales as much as he possibly could without fainting as his fingers keep pistoning Jude’s prostate, eager to reciprocate the pleasure his omega gives him.
He is close, though. Dangerously close. He feels his dick almost bursting with the need to release, the veins pulsating and pre-cum dribbling down Jude’s hand. And he knows his omega is close too, by the way his walls close tightly around his knuckle-deep fingers and how on edge his whimpering is.
But Haaland’s alpha doesn’t want it to be over. He’s not ready to let go, to put a finish on it, not like this-
“Jude- Kjære , stop p- please” he pleads softly, slowly taking his fingers out of Jude while his other hand, regrettably, pries away the soft palm that was stroking his dick. Jude whines, feeling empty once his mate’s fingers pop out of his hole with a wet “plop” sound. He tries to lower his hips, put the fingers back inside him and seek for pleasure, but Haaland doesn’t relent.
“Sorry, babe, sorry. But I… I want- need to-” he starts saying, getting himself lost into his own words until he manages to look Jude straight into the eyes with what is, probably, the most pathetically miserable expression he has ever worn “Inside, Jude. Let me be inside of you.”
The last part is whispered so lowly, sounding so frightened that Jude almost misses it. His overstimulated mind takes a few seconds to associate what Erling wants, but he feels hot all over once he does. His lips turn into a provoking smirk, hands grabbing into Haaland’s shoulders and thighs clenching.
“I want you to fill me up all night, but…”
Before Haaland could react, he felt the hands on his shoulder pushing him down on the sheets, falling until his back hit the mattress. Now laying completely down, he looks wide-eyed at Jude who just inches himself closer, high enough for his hole to be directly above Haaland’s leaking, eager cock. From this angle, Jude looks absolutely seraphic - straight out of a porn magazine.
“I’ll be the one on top. You lie there, looking all pretty” he mutters while slowly descending down on Haaland, the alpha feeling the head of his dick getting caught on Jude’s dripping hole, slowly trying to force itself in “While I milk you dry.”
And he sinks.
Erling Haaland swears he sees stars.
Jude goes down so suddenly it almost scares Haaland. He can’t take it all in one single thrust, though.
He stops midway from taking the entire length inside, feeling his walls resisting the abrupt intrusion. Haaland’s is just so stupidly big.
Bellingham is big. Way too big for an omega, actually, in every single aspect. Tall enough to tower over most alphas, strong enough to not be messed with and a pride so big it almost reaches the sky - and that applies to his dick, too, his length currently standing proud.
Overall, Jude quite never feels small.
But then there is Haaland.
His big, wide, 6’5 tall alpha who dwarfs everything below him. His sheer size able to overshadow any omega, beta or alpha, wide hands that engulf anything he touches, physically powerful enough to manhandle anyone he would like to. The only person Jude feels small, tiny next to and still likes it. The omega had never once considered himself to have a size kink - not before Halland, at least.
And of course, just as everything else of Haaland is disproportionately big, so is his cock. The 7 inches length never failed to put a toll on Jude, stretching him beyond his limits - and quite the reason why their first time was a disaster, ending in Jude locking himself to cry in the bathroom and leaving Haaland blueballed.
After being an official pair for more than a year, Jude has grown used to it. It is never an easy fit, no matter how much slick he produces or how much lube he pours. Never will be, really, but sex with Haaland no longer terrifies the omega. Quite the contrary, he craves it now, enjoys and longs to be impaled in a borderline painful hold.
He’s still not able to take Haaland in a single trust, though. Too large, too girthy, just… too much - no matter how much he enjoys the hurting stretch now.
And that results in Jude stopping his hips midway, unable to go further down with his walls contracting so staggeringly tight. Jude places his hands on the Alpha’s abdomen for support and shifts his knees, slowly willing his body to sink lower and accommodate inch after inch. It stretches him and goes further and further, splitting Jude open, persisting on its intrusion while bullying his g-spot. “Easy, love.” he hears the raspy murmur and the feeling of two large hands encompassing his hips - not pushing him down, just there. Hovering and caring.
He is only able to let out a breathy sigh of relief when he feels his ass press flush on the alpha’s thighs, feeling himself so beyond fullness, he can swear he feels the tip of Erling’s cock hitting his stomach. They both stay immobile for a few more minutes, panting deeply, just inhaling each other's pheromones while adapting to the physical sensations.
Haaland musters all the strength he can into stopping himself from thrusting into his mate, to hump him like a dog in heat, biting his lower lip so tightly his canine draws blood. It feels so damn good, the heat enveloping him completely and Jude whining so prettily too. The hands on Jude’s hips tremble from restraint, his head tilted back and feet planted deep on the mattress; everything to try and convince his alpha to not start bouncing Jude up and down on his cock. It would be so easy, after all - to grab his omega's small, narrow waist and manhandle him into fucking himself on his mate’s knot.
But his love told him to not move, didn’t he? And Erling is nothing if not an obedient alpha.
With Haaland restraining himself, Jude is the one to make the first move once he feels like the burning is bearable and that he can move his legs without them turning into mush. He props himself up, feeling Haaland’s length dragging against his walls, Jude’s sweet slick dripping down on it, wetting both of their thighs.
He stops pulling out once he feels the bulbous head of Erling’s dick getting stuck, only a quarter of it inside him now. Jude eyes stare straight into Erling’s, taking in the dishevelled state his mate’s already into: eyes wide open, the clear blue of his iris disappearing completely into the pure black of his dilating pupils, the sweat dripping down from his brow until it reaches his neck, his nose flared and taking every lungful possible of the chocolatey scent, the faint smell of blood coming from Haaland holding his lower lip in his teeth too tightly, and the absolutely enamored look he gives Jude - and only Jude.
How could he not love him? Not want to give everything to him?
“F- FUCK! Jude!” is all Erling screams as the omega sinks down completely, now setting the pace of their mating. Haaland feels the way his dick is pulled out almost completely and then being thrusted back into the warm hole. His hands leave Jude’s thighs to grab on his ass, grabbing both the cheeks greedily, needing to touch.
“Erling! Its ah- too good-” he moans loudly, arching his back and intensifying the strength he puts into fucking himself on Haaland’s lenght.
“Just like that- keep going, love” he whispers (or screams? He has no idea any more), telling the love of his life sweet nothings while he fails to restrain himself, can’t stop his hips from thrusting up to meet halfway with Jude’s body.
The dirty, wet sound of their skin slapping fills the room; air heavy and dense, filled to the brim with excited pheromones and the smell of sex, the bed creaking every time one of them thrusts a little deeper. Jude sinks back into Haaland continuously, feeling every single nerve of his constrict at the same time sending him into a spiral of pleasure.
“Need to- need to touch you” Erling mutters through gritted teeth, looking exactly how someone in between from reaching either nirvana or madness would “Breed you-”
Jude decides to relent - he played with Haaland heart strings enough already, it's time to let him actually use his prize in the way he desires to do so.
He allows his legs to give out - leaning the full weight of his body down on Haaland and grinding his leaking for attention dick on the alpha’s lower stomach, painting the pale skin with his pre-cum. His arms encircle around Haaland, his hands gripping tightly on his back, blunt fingernails digging into his shoulder blades. The omega’s labored breath hits Erling’s face as he inches his mouth closer - not to kiss, though. Jude’s tongue leaves his mouth to lick on Haaland’s lower lip, where the blood that came from biting too harshly had already dried. He keeps suckling on it, starving for the strong and metallic taste.
Jude’s sudden display of submission tells Erling enough.
Bracing the sole of his feet on the mattress and angling his lower body upward, Erling finally allows himself to ingrain himself on Jude’s body in the way he needs - hard, brutal, beastly. He forces his own body upward while holding Jude’s down from the waist, gradually fucking Jude rougher, his thrusts getting shorter as he pulls out less and grinds in more.
“Wanted this from the start. Since you got into my room” Erling confesses while splitting his mate open, angling his cock head to rub against that one spongy spot that makes Jude tremble clench harder around him and mewl so prettily “No, wanted to do this since the game. Faen, jeg ville ha knullet deg på banen hvis jeg kunne”
Jude doesn’t really know what Haaland said, probably so deep in the alpha headspace he didn’t even notice he was talking Norwegian to him. He made out the fuck bit, but couldn’t really guess anything else. But the raspy, rough voice whispering right on his ear combined with a thrust that made stars appear behind his eyes resulted in him clenching his thighs and gushing more slick on Erling’s dick.
“ E- Erling” Jude mumbles, not knowing where the strength to do so comes from but wanting to answer to his alpha “¡Joder! Keep hitting there!”
The bed sways even harder on time with them, making Jude light headed and dizzy; he can’t focus on anything that isn’t Erling, Alpha, Knot.
Haaland somehow fucks him even harder, panting right into Jude’s ear and burying himself to the hilt inside his omega, his entire lower half lifting off the bed. “Do you even know the things you do to me, Jude? How much time do I spend thinking about you everyday? How much I wish to keep you full of me every waking hour?”
The dirty talk right on Jude’s ear makes him whimper and overwhelmed tears fall from his blurry eyes; digging his nails deep on Erling’s skin and burying his face on the alpha’s neck, nuzzling on the older alpha’s pulse point. Haaland instinctively bares more of his neck for him and Jude takes the chance to flatten his tongue directly on his scent gland; biting, licking and nibbling into the satisfied alpha scent.
“You look so beautiful when you cry, Jude” he tells Jude when he feels the wetness hitting his neck.
“The prettiest, most feral omega I’ve ever seen” he praises, tucking his own nose on his omega’s scent gland in return.
“I fear someone will steal you away from me” he growls, aiming a rougher thrust right in Jude’s g-spot “Og det skal jeg nok ikke la skje, det kan du være sikker på”.
Haaland angles his head to search for Jude’s mouth, slipping his tongue inside and licking behind his teeth - saliva pooling within and slipping around the corners of their lips.
“Can I knot you, baby?” he asks, begs for it, taking one of his hands to Jude’s pretty cock - the poor thing almost raw from being rubbed against their stomachs and desperate for release. He holds it softly, a stark contrast from the way he violently rams himself on Jude’s tight hole “Need to have my cum inside you.”
Jude’s far too gone to answer verbally, mind too far gone to formulate words. But he knows how much he also wants it, to reassure his alpha that he is real, this is real, so he has to hope the minimal nod he gives Haaland and the way his entrance drenches them both in slick is enough for him to understand.
Erling keeps rubbing the omega’s cock furiously, the friction between his hard, rough palm and the wet skin from his is stomach is too much for Jude-
“-cum, gonna cum!” he barely manages to whisper, gripping into Haaland so strongly he knows he must be leaving numerous, nasty scratch marks on his back.
“Just let it go” is the answer Haaland gives him, his hips barely pulling out of Jude now, focusing on rubbing torturously against his sweet spot and gripping Jude’s lenght tightly by the base “Let it go and I’ll be here to catch you”
Jude chokes on his breath, a whine dying on his throat while he trembles violently, knees digging deeply on Erling’s side and body convulsing. He feels it, feels his orgasm climbing into him, harder and brighter, that triggers with one final deep thrust from his alpha’s cock.
His vision blacks out for several seconds - he cums so hard and fiercely, several ropes of white splattering between his and Erling’s stomach, some of it even reaching his chest. His walls contract harshly, surely crushing the cock inside of him, at the same time slick drips copiously, creating a wet, sticky puddle below them.
“That’s it, you’re doing great…” his alpha comforts him while his body keeps spasming, vision swimming and dick throbbing while it sputters its last ropes of cum “My good, perfect boy - ” he praises softly, words too sweet for such a mind-break moment “keep bearing with me just a little bit longer, I’m close too”
Erling doesn’t stop even as Jude starts to come down from his high, just keeps hitting the deepest parts of his body in search of his own release, a mix of whining and grunting right besides his ear. He pushes the weight of Jude’s spent, boneless body even harder against him, now completely manhandling the smaller man into taking his harsh thrusts.
Erling doesn’t last long - couldn’t possibly, with how tightly Jude’s body hugs him.
Jude feels a last, rough bite on where his neck and shoulder connect - not exactly on his scent gland, but close enough to feel like a real mating bite. Erling grinds his teeth harder, puncturing Jude’s skin and tasting warm, metallic blood inside his mouth.
He hears heavy moaning, tiny thrusts rocking them as they’re locked together, and he feels it. With Erling’s cock as deep inside him as humanly possible, he feels on his rim how the alpha’s knot starts to inflate and take more space, stretching him so painfully and delightfully at the same time. Warmth explodes inside his guts, heavy pressure adding up on his insides, and he knows that means his mate is cumming inside of him. A lot.
“That’s it…” he hears the rough, strained and breathless voice once he lets go of his neck “Elsker deg, Jude.”
His breath comes out labored, exhaustedly inhaling and exhaling air through his sore throat. Still, with the little strength he gets from heaven knows where, he strokes the alpha’s scalp and plays with the luscious blond locks. “Yeah, i know” his hand pushes the hair strands falling on Erling’s forehead back, placing a soft, quick peck on it “Yo también te amo.”
The silence stretches between them for a good five minutes, both still trying to remain what little composure they have left. It had been quite some time since any of them felt so light-headed, and now they had to deal with being connected with each other by Haaland’s knot for quite some time.
The Norwegian braced himself and started trying to put him and his omega into a more comfortable position, worried about not putting too much of a strain on Jude’s back. What kind of alpha would he be if he didn’t prioritize his partners-for-life’s comfort? So, as delicately as he could, he made both him and Jude lay on the bed by their sides, still facing each other and as close as the knot obliged them to be.
Jude made an adorable growling sound, so close to a purring, tucking himself near Haaland’s neck and nuzzling happily on the alpha’s scent gland - his smell finally gone of the distressed pheromones.
“Now you smell just right," he confesses softly, tangling his legs together with his mate’s longer ones and placing his arm above his waist “So much better.”
“And you finally smell like us.” he answers, baring his neck to give his omega easier access while also taking a sniff out of Jude. No more black tea, just the addicting blend of chocolate, pine and salt that was theirs, and just theirs.
“And… I’m sorry Jude. For the way I acted tonight” Erling said after a few seconds went by, his mind finally catching up to what had transpired. He… he acted really rude towards Jude, didn’t he? Just like a possessive, unruly and violent alpha who thinks only with their lower half. And that- that wasn’t him. “It was wrong of me. I don’t mind you spending time with other alphas, they are your teammates for God’s sake, but today- i just-”
“Shh” Jude rapidly silenced him, placing his pointer finger on the alpha’s mouth, effectively shutting him up. “First, I’m really sleepy right now, and someone is getting in the way of that” he said looking up at him through his lashes - he was smirking at Haaland, but he could see how drowsy the look of his eyes were.
“And second. You did nothing wrong, Erling. If you had done anything I didn't like I would not have hesitated to hit you” he explains carefully, now taking his finger off Haaland’s mouth and now using that hand to cup his jaw “You don’t have to explain anything else to me. It was a darn bad day, I get that. Feeling frustrated is normal.”
Jude forced Haaland's head down while tilting his head up, kissing him gently - so soft, Erling would almost have doubted it happened had he not been looking so attentively at his mate
“I know it will take some time for you to come around what happened, but know you will always be my kind, gentle and caring alpha by the end of the day”
Again, unfair. Jude Bellingham was unfair and cruel for Haaland’s heart. But that was exactly why he fell in love, wasn’t it? The way words were not needed between them, how Jude easily understood what Erling needed even when he didn’t manage to express himself and how special, how victorious he made him feel.
Before he could answer anything, he saw Jude’s eyes fluttering close and decided to show kindness to his omega and let him rest - he turned off the small lamp on the bedside that was their only source of light during the entire night and the room went completely dark. Now, only Haaland, Bellingham and their love existed.
He ended up snuggling closer to his mate, embracing him with all the devoutness of a worshipper before an altar. Erling chose to be greedy a last time that night, making his tired mate one final question:
“When I wake up,” he whispered, only for Jude’s ears to know what he said “...will you be here?”
He saw his Jude’s eyes twitching, not opening themselves to look at him, but just enough for him to be acknowledged.
“Always.”
And that.
That was Erling Haaland’s real prize.