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“Hold still.”
Jude blinks up at the man towering over him, obeying the instruction. He may be naked, on his knees, and very much at the mercy of Erling’s thick, dripping cock, but he can see the pure and furious want in Erling’s eyes even from down here and that feels like power too. His own cock twitches as he watches Erling fist himself, cock tantalising close to Jude’s partially open lips. Jude sometimes feels ashamed of how often he thinks about this dick. He’ll daydream about it in the most unfortunate situations, mind wandering as some brand tries to sell him a deal, his manager awkwardly saving the day because Jude zoned out thinking about the way Erling drips an unholy amount of pre-cum.
Jude hasn’t been to church in years - this is the closest thing he has to prayer.
He dips forward for a taste only to be grabbed by the hair and forced back, neck hitting the bed.
“Wait,” Erling grunts, enjoying Jude’s desperation. After a few more tugs with a dry hand he eventually holds his palm out, Jude licking it dutifully, glad for a taste.
It sounds smoother now, Erling’s chest picking up as he works himself to full mast, and isn’t that a sight? Jude doesn’t often feel small but Erling makes it easy; he’s broad and muscular as opposed to Jude’s lean muscular frame and from this angle he really does look like a giant. God, his cock is gorgeous, dripping and leaking, pink and fat, and Jude wants, wants, wants, raising himself slightly on his knees -
“Do that again and I’ll walk out,” Erling threatens, stopping to squeeze his cock at the base, eyes dark. Jude swallows down the whine in the back of his throat, distressed at the idea, settling back on his knees. Pleased with this display of obedience, Erling directs the tip of his cock to plump lips, spare hand holding the back of Jude’s head firmly.
“No sucking,” he warns, “just a taste.”
Jude is careful, shaky with desire, his own cock bobbing freely between his legs, neglected unless he’s given permission to touch it. He sweeps his tongue over the leaking tip, eyes fluttering shut as he savours the salty-sour taste.
“Good,” Erling murmurs, “good boy.”
Jude licks his lips, eyes on Erling. He aches for more, knows he can give so much more but Erling likes him like this, strung out and on edge for his next fix.
“Stick your tongue out.”
Jude does it without question, without hesitation. It’s effort, sometimes, straining his mouth and holding himself back as Erling slaps his thick cock on Jude’s tongue, gathering drool and saliva, taunting his lover. Today he drags his cock up Jude’s flushed, pretty face, streaks of pre-cum drying over butter-soft cheeks, his chin.
“Looking like a real little slut for me,” Erling comments, pleased, “tell me what you want.”
“You,” Jude begs breathlessly, “please.”
“My cock in your throat?”
Jude’s cock strains, desperate for attention, and he nods, which is not the correct response from the way Erling slaps his cheek with that thick cock, just hard enough to hurt a little. Jude’s sure a small bruise will form.
“Your cock in my throat,” Jude mumbles, rushing through the words, not as confident as Erling when it comes to talking filthy. Jude’s heart is racing, anxious as Erling stares down silently, expressionless.
“I - I - want,” he starts, irritated it doesn’t come naturally, that he can’t be seductive and easy like Erling, trying to find his words, “p-please. I want your cock - in - in my throat.”
Erling grunts in approval.
“Open your mouth then.”
Jude can do this bit. He isn’t patient, finding it difficult to wait as Erling toys with him. When it comes to the action, that’s when Jude shines. He’s quietly grateful as the giant cock making its way inside of him is inched in slowly, carefully. Jude isn’t sure if it’s for his comfort or Erling’s pleasure, watching each inch slip inside of Jude, but he doesn’t care. He can finally taste and feel everything, focusing on widening his jaw as much as humanly possible, breathing through his nose until Erling’s fully seated inside. The cockhead grazes Jude’s tonsils, making him gag lightly, keen to compose himself; he can’t move, not unless Erling allows it, huge hands holding Jude’s skull like he owns it.
“Look at you,” Erling mocks affectionately, “England’s special boy. Gagging on my dick.”
Jude moans in desperate want and humiliation, drool collecting at the corners of his lips. He can’t really suck, not when Erling’s entire cock is in his mouth - well, his throat. It’s far too big; he’d need Erling to pull half of it out if he’s really able to give a stellar blowjob and they both know that’s not the end goal here.
Erling experiments with a thrust, amused as Jude gags more forcefully.
“Open your throat,” he demands.
Jude isn’t really sure how. He feels stretched beyond his limits, body shaking with a bone deep desperation to win, to prove himself, defying law and logic as he tries once more to rearrange his jaw and accommodate. It must work, Erling humming in satisfaction, leaning in like he’s trying to lodge his dick inside of Jude permanently. Jude blinks back tears, a natural consequence of having the back of his throat full, deeply grateful for the steady, slow movements despite the brutality of it all. Erling forces his head fully back on the bed, balls resting on Jude’s chin and it sounds obscene, the wet slap, the way Jude gurgles and his throat fights against the intrusion.
Mentality. That’s what Tuchel always says. He cringes as England’s coach flashes in his mind - seriously not what he wants to be thinking about right now - but it’s true. Mentality wins, Jude tells himself, fighting his biological instinct to shove Erling away, committing to his decision to submit.
“Fuck,” Erling stutters, the first crack in his armour. What Jude doesn’t know, what is deliberately hidden from him, is the awe Erling feels, fascinated by his boy’s gorgeous submission. There’s a tap to Jude’s temple, a little check in, and he taps a thigh. Those are the rules. Tap to the thigh - I’m ok. Tap to the wrist - I need a break. Jude is a nightmare for pushing through even when he needs a reprieve, yet how can Erling be mad when he’s just as bad, wanting to see how far he can push. Jude is so beautiful when he’s broken.
If they had different jobs, he’d film this. It’s difficult to see just how debauched Jude looks, no matter how hard he tries to strain his neck and watch. Fuck, he’d film it and stream it all day, watching the way soft lips become cracked under pressure, the way Jude’s throat fights even as Jude himself complies. Erling grabs the back of Jude’s head, ready to fuck his face, nasty thoughts of this imaginary film playing. He couldn’t be trusted with it, they both know that. The amount of arguments they’ve had over Jude’s wanton behaviour - I’m not inviting anything, Erling, oh my god, you know what it’s like! - and yeah, maybe deep down, he knows it isn’t like that. When it comes to his baby, he doesn’t always feel like himself. He feels feral, animalistic, wild with jealousy and he just knows. He fucking knows. All those men Jude plays with, they’d go for it if Jude let them. Yeah, he’d play that film of his sweet boy with tears streaming, enthusiastically turning himself into a wet, warm hole for Erling. Let them all see.
“Fuckin’ take it,” he growls, pumping his hips, “make it wetter.”
Jude gurgles around him, somehow conjuring up more saliva, because he’s just that good, so willing and keen. Erling knows he doesn’t have long left but this is when it’s best - when he’s teetering on the edge, orgasm almost there, sprinting towards the finish line and feeling alive.
Jude’s mind melts away. His neck aches, his jaw hurts, he’s wet and hard and Erling’s cock feels so divine inside of him, he’s thirsty and he can’t take anymore, he wants more, he needs it all. He braces for impact as Erling thrusts erratically, breath coming in short bursts until he’s moaning out loud, snarling and bucking before coming with a long, low groan, thick ropes of come painting Jude’s throat. Mercifully, he pulls back, allowing Jude some space to breathe as he swallows the heavy load, coughing a little as he tries to keep up with the impossible pace.
Erling is finally unsteady of his feet, stumbling back before centring himself using Jude’s head, holding him with a tenderness that doesn’t match his earlier actions, cock softening, Jude tearful and thankful as he presses into a gigantic thigh, rubbing his face against it.
“Go on then,” Erling encourages, accent thick. Jude nestles in close, clinging, ashamed as he humps Erling’s leg, coming quick and hot, shaking and moaning through his orgasm. He sobs against the immovable body holding him up, bereft when Erling peels himself away, leaving him on his knees. Nothing seems real, nothing matters, apart from being close to Erling and where, where is he, why did he go, why -
“Drink,” the older man commands, holding a cup of water to Jude’s lips which he gulps down greedily. He can’t stop the flow of tears, overwhelmed, collapsing against his love as Erling joins him on the ground, scooping him up and into his chest.
“There,” Erling whispers, “everything’s good, baby.”
Jude knows this. He trusts this. He listens to Erling’s heartbeat, safe and certain and strong, just like the man himself.
“My dream boy,” Erling promises.