Chapter Text
Erling Haaland’s footsteps echoed faintly on the thick carpet of the five-star hotel’s hallway. The silence in that wing reserved for athletes stood in stark contrast to the deafening chaos that had reigned in the stadium just a few hours earlier.
Norway had beaten England 3–2. It was a historic and hard-fought match right down to the last second, decided by him, Erling, in stoppage time of the second half. The goal that secured Norway’s spot in the World Cup semifinals.
That was the most glorious moment of his career. But even so, he felt a heavy weight on his chest the whole time.
As he walked toward Room 2021, Erling relived the exact moment of the final whistle. His teammates shouted, ran toward him, and jumped on his back. He smiled, raised his arms, and went through the celebration routine. But his eyes inevitably sought out a single figure on the other side of the field: Jude Bellingham.
Seeing Bellingham on his knees, his hands covering his face and utterly devastated, was like getting punched in the stomach. Erling’s instinct was to drop his own celebration, cross the field, and pull the Englishman into his arms, hiding that pained expression against his chest. But he couldn’t. The internet was already in an uproar over the undeniable “chemistry” between the two, fueling theories and ship pairings with every glance they exchanged. To make matters worse, his agent had been adamant on the eve of the tournament: “Erling, please be careful. The whole world is watching. Don’t give the tabloids any ammunition, you need to focus on the World Cup and nothing else.”
So he forced himself to remain neutral. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, praised each other’s play, and that of the rest of their teams, and shortly afterward, Haaland let himself be surrounded by his own teammates, swallowing hard as he fought the urge to comfort his boy right there on the spot.
Now, standing in front of the dark wooden door with the golden numbers 2021, anxiety made his stomach churn. He felt around in the pocket of his sweatpants, sensing the contour of the little box containing the small gift he’d bought for Jude before the game.
It’s a good-luck charm, a gesture of affection. They’d made a pact before the ball started rolling: no matter what happens, we won’t be mad at each other. But Erling isn’t naive. This was the World Cup. The dream of an entire nation weighed on Jude’s shoulders, and losing meant carrying the burden of elimination and the thought of having let his country down.
Erling took a deep breath and knocked lightly on the door twice. He had sent a message earlier asking if he could come up, and Jude had replied with nothing more than a curt Yes. The Norwegian was afraid he’d be met with a wall of ice or tears.
But he didn’t even have time to offer an apology. When the door swung open with a thud, and before Erling could focus on Jude’s eyes, a firm hand grabbed the collar of his T-shirt, pulling him inside with incredible force. Jude kicked the door shut, and in the next instant, Erling was pinned against the wall of the bedroom hallway.
The impact drew a soft sigh from her lips, which was immediately swallowed up by Jude's mouth.
Jude kissed him urgently and desperately, venting all his frustration, the anger of defeat, and the pent-up adrenaline onto those lips. The Englishman’s arms quickly wrapped around Erling’s neck. Jude’s fingers dug into Erling’s blond hair, and with a sharp tug, he ripped out the hair tie holding Erling’s bun in place, flinging it onto the floor.
Jude’s hands ran through Erling’s blond hair, pulling it hard enough to make Erling gasp against his mouth, tilting his head back to surrender to the younger man’s control.
Erling, still trying to process the speed of the attack, planted his feet firmly on the ground. His large, calloused hands slid down to Jude’s waist, feeling the taut muscles beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt. He pressed the Englishman’s hips against his own, trying to bring a little stability to that whirlwind, trying to slow it down before they both ran out of breath.
With a genuine effort of will, Erling pulled his mouth a few millimeters away from Jude’s. They were both panting, their lips red and moist, their faces flushed.
“Jude…” Erling whispered, his voice deep and raspy. “Hey. Don’t you… don’t you want to talk about today’s game? About how you’re doing?”
Jude fixed his dark, intense eyes on Erling’s. There was a haze of desire and stubbornness in them that made Erling’s body burn.
“Shut up, Erling,” Jude ordered, his low voice and the strong British accent sending a shiver down the Norwegian’s spine. “Just kiss me.”
Erling didn’t need a second invitation. That glimpse of vulnerability mixed with such masculine boldness was the spark. He pulled Jude back by the nape of his neck, pressing his lips to Jude in an even more passionate kiss.
Their tongues met in a hungry rhythm, leaving no room for tenderness. Erling slid his hands down from Jude’s waist to his butt, digging his fingers in and giving him a firm squeeze that drew a muffled moan from the Englishman.
Erling grabbed Jude’s thighs and propelled him upward. Instinctively, as if he’d been waiting for this, Jude wrapped his long legs around the Norwegian’s waist, digging his nails into his broad shoulders.
Without breaking the kiss, Erling began to feel his way through the room, guided only by his memory of the space, until his legs bumped against the edge of the king-size bed. He let himself fall forward, pulling Jude with him onto the white sheets.
From that point on, the room became a blur of warm skin, clothes strewn haphazardly on the floor, a struggle for dominance, and the echoing sound of ragged breaths. There was no room for anything else. There, they were just two men hungry for each other.
Erling positioned himself between Jude’s legs, admiring the sight of the Englishman beneath him. Jude’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his eyes half-closed, his dark skin glistening in the dim light of the lamp.
“You’re so beautiful, you know that, right?” Erling murmured, trailing kisses down Jude’s jawline, nibbling at the sensitive skin of his neck until he drew out the first loud moan of the night.
“Erling… please,” Jude pleaded, his hips rising slightly in search of contact, his fingers scratching at the Norwegian’s broad back.
Erling didn’t keep him waiting any longer.
He propped himself up on his elbows and reached for the bottle of lube on the nightstand, opening the cap with his mouth and squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers. He rubbed them together to warm it up a bit and slid his fingers toward Jude’s ass. First, Erling circled the area, then slowly inserted his middle finger. Jude arched his back and let out a moan, banging his head against the headboard, as Erling began to move his finger back and forth slowly.
Jude squeezes his shoulder hard. “Haaland, for God’s sake!” he mutters through clenched teeth.
The blond man flashes a teasing smile. “My impatient boy.” He slides in a second finger, picking up the pace.
He watches, mesmerized, as Jude throws his head back, his lips parted, letting out eager sighs. When he was sure Jude was ready, Erling gripped Jude’s waist and pulled him closer, aligning himself with him. He picked up the bottle of lube again and poured a generous amount onto his cock and into Jude’s hole, which shuddered at the coldness of the gel.
Haaland tossed the bottle haphazardly onto the bedroom floor and gripped his cock, forcing the head through the tight opening. Jude’s body shuddered slightly.
He began to enter slowly, savoring the tightness and the internal heat that seemed to burn away any lingering physical exhaustion from the game. Jude let out a high-pitched sound, a mixture of initial pain and pleasure, digging his heels into the back of Erling’s thighs to pull him in even deeper.
“Yes… fuck me hard, Erling. Go on.” Jude gasped, his teary eyes fixed on Haaland.
The Norwegian began to move. At first, with long, deep thrusts, feeling every centimeter of Jude’s body mold to his own. But the rhythm soon turned wild. Erling pinned Jude’s wrists to the mattress above the Englishman’s head and unleashed all his physical strength there.
The bed creaked rhythmically with the impact of their bodies. Jude moaned loudly, not caring if anyone in the hallways could hear them, completely lost in the striker’s relentless rhythm.
Haaland quickly leaned in to reach the Jude’s lips, and they began an intense, wild kiss, with Bellingham biting the blond’s lower lip hard and then licking the wound immediately afterward. That sent a spark through Erling’s abdomen, and his cock trembled with excitement; Jude could feel it growing inside him. He smiled, panting.
Erling then stepped back and lifted one of Jude’s legs, thrusting harder and more eagerly, savoring the sight of his cock sliding in and out of Jude, and how the flesh stretched to accommodate its girth.
As soon as Erling found Jude’s sweet spot, he hit it with a hard thrust. He kept thrusting and thrusting, hard, making the Englishman arch his back and let out uncontrollable moans.
All that sensation made Jude come hard against his own abdomen. He tightened his legs even more around Erling’s hips, his toes curling and his fingernails digging into Haaland’s shoulders with force.
Haaland gripped Jude’s waist, moaning as he continued to thrust into him until he himself came. Then his movements slowly ceased.
Erling lay down on his partner’s heaving chest, filling him with his cum. Both of their bodies trembled with spasms, completely engulfed by the intense orgasm.
His breathing seemed to follow Bellingham’s, slowing down together.
After a while like that, with his head buried in Jude’s neck and breathing heavily, Erling pulled back a little to look at the Jude’s face. A few tears of pleasure were streaming from his eyes, and Haaland kissed the corners of them.
While Jude was still trying to catch his breath, Erling pulled out of him with a pop, as Jude grumbled about the sensitivity, Haaland pulled him by the thighs, turning him onto his back on the bed. He lifted Jude’s hips, leaving him on all fours over the rumpled sheets. Jude looked back over his shoulder, his eyes heavy with lust, smiling sidelong, provocatively.
Erling smiled, giving his ass a sharp slap that made Jude moan and arch his back sharply. Haaland caressed the marked spot immediately afterward, gripping the buttock tightly and forcing his ass open. With his other hand, he gripped his hard cock and thrust into him again, this time without any hesitation.
The angle was deeper and more animalistic. Jude braced his forearms against the mattress, biting his lower lip to stifle his screams every time Erling slammed into him hard. The friction from the thrusts created an obscene sound that echoed throughout the room.
“Fuck, Haaland!” Jude moans, arching his back even more.
Erling smiled, even more excited, flicked his hair back, gripped Jude’s hips with both hands, and began setting a frenzied pace. He began thrusting harder, deliberately and relentlessly hitting Jude’s prostate; his hips slammed against Jude’s ass, and Haaland gripped Bellingham’s waist every time he watched, mesmerized, as his cock was completely swallowed by Jude’s fat ass.
This time, it didn’t take long for the two of them to have their second orgasm of the night. This one was even more intense; Haaland collapsed onto Jude’s back, breathing heavily against the sensitive skin of his neck.
The two of them are completely exhausted and sweaty, entwined in the sheets.
******
Silence finally settled over Room 2021, broken only by the distant hum of the air conditioner.
Jude was lying face down, his face buried in one of the pillows, his muscles relaxed after their marathon of sex. They’d had two more rounds before completely exhausting their energy. Erling was lying next to him, propped up on one elbow. With his free hand, the Norwegian traced invisible lines across Jude’s back, planting gentle kisses on the Englishman’s warm skin.
Erling sighed, his thoughts on the game subtly returning to his mind now that both of them are satisfied. He pressed his lips against Jude’s shoulder blade. “I’m sorry you guys lost, Jude. I really am,” he whispered.
There was a second of silence. Then Jude’s voice came muffled by the pillow: “You don’t feel a fucking thing.”
Erling froze for a moment, surprised, but then he heard the low, and hoarse laugh that escaped Jude’s lips. The Norwegian let out a short burst of laughter, relaxing his shoulders.
“Yeah, you’re right, I don’t,” Erling joked, giving the Englishman a light pat on the butt. “Because if it weren’t for you guys, we’d be the ones eliminated.”
“Exactly,” Jude murmured, rolling onto his side and then onto his back, staring at the ceiling before fixing his gaze on Erling.
The Englishman’s expression softened. The heat from their lovemaking still lingered on his cheeks. Erling, shifting to a genuinely sincere tone, looked him in the eyes. “But seriously… I’m sorry you guys got left out. I know how much that meant to you.”
Jude let out a long sigh, his chest rising and falling. He reached out, cupping Erling’s face by the cheeks, and pulled him down to plant a tender kiss on the tip of the Norwegian’s nose.
“Come here,” Jude said, pulling Erling close so he could rest his head on Jude’s chest.
Erling settled in, positioning his sturdy body between Jude’s thick legs. The Englishman embraced him, one hand rising to stroke his blond hair, while the other traced gentle circles on his back.
“It’s okay,” Jude said calmly, resigned to the outcome. “At least we lost to you guys. I’m glad you and your team are moving to the semifinals. You played great today, Erling. Holy shit.”
A proud smile spread across Erling’s lips as they pressed against Jude’s skin.
“Really? You think so?”
“You were unstoppable. You looked like a titan running like that in the second half,” Jude praised, letting out a low chuckle. Erling laughed along with him, feeling the vibration against his partner’s chest.
The Norwegian lifted his head slightly, planting a tender kiss on Jude’s chest, just above his heart, which was beating at a steady rhythm. He rested his chin there and looked at the Englishman with a mischievous smile.
“You did well, too… too bad your defenders were so slow.”
Jude’s gentle touch on Erling’s hair stopped instantly. He clenched his hand around the blond strands and gave a hard tug, causing the Norwegian’s head to tilt back.
“Ouch, ouch! Okay, sorry!” Erling laughed loudly, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m just kidding, just kidding!”
Jude let go of his hair with a slight smile, hugging him again, but the tone of his voice turned more serious.
“You have to win this World Cup now. Do you hear me? You can’t let our loss have been in vain. If I’m going to see England eliminated, let it be by the team that’s going to lift the trophy.”
Erling sighed, resting his face against Jude chest once more.
“I’ll do my best, baby. But I can’t promise anything. The other teams left in the competition are incredibly talented…”
“I don’t care,” Jude interrupted him, his voice firm. “If you don’t win this World Cup, you’re not getting any of this ass until the next Cup.”
Erling recoiled, breaking free from Jude's embrace. He blinked, his eyes wide with shock.
“What? You’ve got to be kidding me.” The Englishman didn’t answer, and Erling grew desperate. “Jude, this isn’t fair!” the Norwegian began to protest, stumbling over his English, his voice rising a notch with indignation and his accent grew stronger. “Besides, there’s still France, there’s Mbappé! The guy is incredible; he’s on fire in this tournament. How am I supposed to guarantee that…”
Jude burst out laughing at the blond giant’s exasperated reaction. He stretched out his arms and pulled Erling back against his chest, laughing at his boyfriend’s panicked expression. Erling let himself fall, but kept muttering against Jude’s skin as Jude went back to running his fingers through the blond hair.
“Mbappé isn’t all that,” Jude teased, rolling his eyes with playful disdain. “If you managed to beat England today, you can beat anyone. But who knows… maybe Morocco will do us a favor and knock them out in the quarterfinals. That’s one less thing for you to worry about.”
“Even so!” Erling grumbled, pouting visibly in frustration. “You can’t threaten me with something like that, Bellingham. Four years? I’ll die of withdrawal! My performance on the field will plummet, and it’ll be your fault!”
“Oh my god, stop exaggerating, Erling. It’s only four years,” Jude shrugged, and his voice is so casual.
Erling lifted his head again, resting his hands on Jude’s chest, staring at him with frowning and a genuinely concerned expression.
“Are you serious? Jude, look at me.” Erling propped himself up on his elbows, looking directly into Jude’s eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”
The look of despair mixed with a childish pout on the face of that man, who was nearly two meters tall, was too much for Jude. The Englishman couldn’t hold it in and burst into hearty laughter. He cupped Erling’s face and began showering him with ‘Eskimo kisses,’ rubbing his nose against Erling’s and pressing his lips against the Norwegian’s pouty lips until Erling softened and lay back down on top of him.
“Shhh… take rest.” Jude wrapped his arms around him again, running his hands up and down Erling’s broad back in a long, slow, hypnotic caress.
The weight of the night, the extreme physical exhaustion from the intense game, and the four rounds of wild sex finally began to take their toll. Erling’s eyes grew heavy. He felt his body sink, Jude’s warmth acting as the best sedative in the world.
He was about to drift off to sleep, floating in that pleasant haze that precedes complete unconsciousness, when a thought subtly startled his mind in slow motion.
Wait a minute... Erling thought, his heavy eyelids fluttering in the semi-darkness of the room.
He didn’t deny it. Jude didn’t explicitly say he was joking.
Erling tried to form a sentence, tried to open his mouth to demand a definitive answer, but Jude’s rhythmic caresses on his back and his exhaustion won out. He drifted off to sleep, left with only the certainty that, just in case, he would have to play the game of his life in the next phase.