BonaDrag
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Summary
Haaland was known to be a reasonable, level-headed person on and off the pitch.
Not when it came to Jude Bellingham, apparently.
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"Don't go thinking you can win me over with your Norwegian pet names, Erling, I'm serious." Jude was pouting now, in all his boyish, irresistible glory.
Erling slid his hands to the boy's neck, resting them at the nape, a comforting but possessive touch.
"Tell me then sweetheart, how can I win you over?"
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And then Marty was tugging at Rust's button-up, throwing it away somewhere on the backseat, making a move to take off his own shirt when Rust demanded, "No. Your fucking T-shirt stays on."
So Marty obeyed. Who was he to deny his partner their secret, newfound kink?
Rust has a kink for Marty's Pink Floyd tee, and so do I.
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Marty has been here before, countless times even, but somethings different now, booze and the weight of anticipation heating up his body.
Rust reaches for the pack of Camels, brings a cigarette to his lips, drags it like his life depends on it, and asks "Why'd you come here?"
"I wanna fuck you."