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[VIDEO] Locker room talk leaked, Haaland and Bellingham scandal?
…And while the names in the video have been censored, there is reason enough to believe the heated conversation was about former Dortmund teammates Jude Bellingham and Erling Haaland. Their close friendship has been often referred to as a “Bromance”, and they never spare words of praise for the other in interviews and press conferences. Though either of them is yet to comment on the video itself…
Real Madrid locker room video divides football fans
…because this may be the first time in football history where two prominent players have been outed by their own teammates. Although some express concerns about players’ privacy and locker room conflicts getting out of hand…
[LIVESTREAM] Deep dive into football’s greatest scandal RN
— …But, I mean, you cannot forget that Erling Haaland has a girlfriend and son, so I just– I don’t think that–
— Yes, I agree, I find it hard to believe myself, but the fact remains that the conversation was clearly about Bellingham and possibly–
— We can’t know for sure! The names have been censored. Come on, now…
Jude puts his phone on silent mode and tosses it onto the coffee table, where its screen continues to light up with new notifications. He turns it face down and leans back against the couch. He doesn’t find it as comfortable as usual, and keeps shifting in place, adjusting his weight, until he eventually gives up and rises to his feet, bare on the warm wooden floor.
He goes to the kitchen, gets a glass of water that he half drinks, half empties into the sink, then paces back and forth without making a sound.
Every word he could possibly think of is tied in a knot in his throat, and not only because he is alone, and has no one to say them to, but because he wouldn’t be able to hear them himself over the thrumming of his blood in his temples.
His cheeks tingle, face rapidly going numb as his muscles lock. He forces himself to breathe.
He walks back to the couch to lie down, and stares at the ceiling unblinkingly for enough time to feel his eyes dry up and tears well on his bottom lashes. He breathes.
He knows someone is calling him even without having to look at his phone again, because someone has been calling him for hours. His father, surely doubly worried because he is also his agent, his mother, maybe his friends, if he still has any.
He doesn’t pick up. In time, someone comes knocking on his front door. He doesn’t open.
From the couch, he hears his brother's voice call out his name over and over again, laced with concern.
Maybe, he thinks, if he just stays still enough, quiet enough, he will leave. He will leave and the calls will stop, and the articles and social media posts will stop existing, and the video will not have been leaked. He read somewhere time travel can only happen at the speed of light but maybe the opposite can work just as well. Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t look, and maybe time will reverse. Maybe he will find a way to prevent this before it happens.
But the doorbell rings again, and Jobe is still outside of his door, his phone is still blowing up with texts and the video is still being shared across the web.
After what feels like a lifetime, he finds the energy to leave the couch and drag his feet to the front door of his penthouse. He can’t not let him in. Not after his problems forced his brother to take time out of his own busy schedule to check in on him.
Madrid stretches wide and bright before him, framed by the large, floor-to-ceiling windows he walks past on his way to the door. The warm Spanish sun doesn’t concern itself with Jude’s problems, and continues to shine undisturbed on the city’s rust-coloured rooftops.
His family’s frozen faces smile at him from framed photographs on the walls, but he doesn’t dare look into their eyes.
He stops in front of the door. His brother stopped calling his name when he heard his footsteps.
After a moment, he says softly, “Jude, it’s me. Open up.”
His brother’s voice comes muffled from the other side of the heavy wood separating them, it makes Jude’s chest tighten. Reluctantly, he opens the door.
Jobe looks a little disheveled, his track jacket somewhat askew, and he didn’t even shave like he usually does every morning. He looks like he doesn’t want to be here, like someone – likely their mother – rushed him over for some urgent damage control.
“You’ve seen the video, I assume?”
So, no preambles then.
Jude’s head is held low as he trails behind his brother to the kitchen table. Jobe grabs the back of a chair and drags it out from under the table, but neither of them sit. Jobe just leans his weight on it.
That was a stupid question. Of course he's seen the damn video. He can't stop thinking about the damn video. His own teammates shit talking him in the locker room they’ve shared with him for over two years. Calling him names. Insinuating shit about him and…
“Of course I’ve seen it,” he replies curtly, his voice a stranger to his own ears. Like his throat is filled with sand and the sound just barely made it through the grains. He gets another glass of water.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone? Got mum all worried about you.” Jobe’s eyes follow him to the counter.
Jude takes a sip, swishing the cold water around in his mouth, not swallowing it. He spits it back out into the sink.
“My phone’s blowing up,” he says dismissively. “Everyone’s calling.”
“Then maybe you should pick it up.”
Guilty, Jude remains silent. He only shifts his weight from one foot to the other, ears perking up at each new buzz coming from the coffee table.
Jobe sighs. He mutters, “This is so stupid.”
In an instant, Jude’s cheeks grow hot with emotion. He pivots back to face his younger brother, meeting the sharp cut of Jobe’s eyes, the frustrating calm behind them.
“Stupid?” He takes a step forward, so close to him it feels only natural to grab the front of Jobe’s shirt in anger. “This could kill my career! This could end me!”
“It didn’t kill your career in Dortmund, it won’t do it now,” Jobe sentences.
Jude scoffs humorlessly, letting go of his brother. His hand leaves behind creases on Jobe’s white shirt.
“Dortmund,” he says. The bitter smile slowly fades away from his face. “What’s Dortmund got to do with it?” Jobe sucks his lips into his mouth, looking away. But he knows his brother too well; knows it’s what he does when he doesn’t want to say what he’s thinking. When he thinks that what he wants to say will cross a line. It infuriates Jude. “Come on, now. Speak your mind.”
“I warned you,” Jobe spits. His eyes find Jude’s again, their intensity makes Jude cringe. “You just couldn’t keep your hands off of him.”
An unpleasant chill runs down Jude’s spine, feeling himself sweating at the back of his neck. He takes a whole step backwards. “What?”
“I told you to stay away. People aren’t blind, Jude.” Jobe exhales a heavy breath. “You’re playing in different leagues and you’re still doing this. He’s married, for fuck’s sake.”
Jude’s mouth runs dry. His heart plummets into his stomach. In the silence that follows his brother’s stabbing words, Jude has the urge to run away. It’s a physical thing, like reins yanking at him from behind, dragging him away from this place, this house, this conversation.
“He’s not married,” he blurts out, realizing his mistake immediately.
His brother’s stare turns pitiful. “Oh, Jude.”
“No,” Jude puts even more distance between them, shaking his head firmly, “don’t. Don’t give me that. This is not about him, it’s about me. My career.”
“Right,” Jobe huffs out a strained laugh. “‘Cause his career is safe. He’s got a girlfriend and a son. It’s almost like I fucking told you to–” He cuts himself off. He turns away and takes a deep breath, and he looks so much like their father in that moment that Jude suddenly feels much smaller and younger than he is. “I don’t know why mum sent me. I don’t know why I said I’d come.”
“Jobe…”
“This is your mess. You sort it out.” He grabs the car keys he had tossed onto the kitchen table when he entered and shoves them in his pocket. “You’re older than me, Jude. I can’t keep cleaning up after you. I’ve got my own life to worry about.”
When he leaves, Jobe’s absence lingers heavily in the space he occupied, as though he’s still there, in the kitchen, staring at his older brother. His words echo in Jude’s ears for a long time after he shut the door behind him.
Erling calls him two days later.
Well, Jude answers two days later. Erling had been calling since the video was first leaked. Drowned out by the hundreds of other calls and texts and news articles, Jude had not been paying mind. Not until a specific text had made it through the swarm that flooded his phone. Simple and concise.
dont ignore me
So, when next Erling called, right as the sun dropped behind the jagged silhouette of Madrid’s skyline, Jude sat on the edge of his bed, feet against the soft carpet to ground him, and answered.
“Erling,” Jude says only, his tone flat.
Erling doesn’t greet him. “I called you yesterday. Why didn’t you pick up?”
“Why d’you think?”
Through the speaker, Jude hears Erling sigh. “How are you, Jude?”
Jude’s eyes roam around his dimly lit room, lingering on the desk in front of him, on the shelf above it. He stares at the framed illustration of the two of them in their Dortmund kit, Erling carrying him on his back in celebration. Even after so many years, hearing Jude’s name leave Erling’s mouth makes his heart ache.
He clears his throat. “I’m fine.” But his voice, traitorous, cracks.
“Jude–”
“Don’t Jude me. Not you too.” He lets his gaze drop to the floor and rubs at his forehead. “Why did you even call? This isn’t about you.”
Erling lets out a soft chuckle, entirely out of place. “Well, then, everything’s fine, then. If it isn’t about me, then it isn’t about you, either.”
“You’re fine,” Jude insists. He grinds his teeth before pushing the next words out. “You have a family. No one is going to doubt your-your masculinity. Or whatever.”
A shameful blush creeps over Jude’s face. He hates this.
“Jude,” Erling says again, and nothing more until Jude groans in frustration. He lets his back hit the mattress, a hand coming up to cover his eyes. “Whatever you think is happening, isn’t happening.”
Irritation grows steadily inside Jude. He feels it in his gums, like an itch to snap his teeth at Erling like a cornered animal.
Instead, he huffs out a short, curt laugh. “What do you know?”
And, really, what does Erling know? Even as slim as he is, he’s built like a tank, has a jaw made of marble and enough confidence to carry him through a lifetime of vulture press. He’s not like Jude. He’s tall and handsome and not someone anyone would ever call pretty. He’s not someone anyone would ever dare call a fucking faggot in his own locker room.
No, that’s Jude. That’s skinny, flirty little Jude with his pretty face and dumb fawn eyes.
He can’t stop thinking about it. He’s supposed to be safe now. The only assumption people are supposed to make about him is that he fucks girls. He’s a fucking pro footballer, for God’s sake. He’s young, he’s ripped, knows how to please, how to sell himself to the audience.
Smile at a girl in the crowd, don’t flinch when another man grabs you, fight back, show teeth, flirt, show skin, pose like a warrior for the cameras, tongue out, shirt off, shirt on, legs.
Football is theatre and Jude is a great fucking actor. And still.
Erlings huffs on the other end of the line. There’s an electronic voice speaking in the background and a loud noise suddenly pierces Jude’s eardrums.
“Where the hell are you, mate?”
Erling raises his voice to be heard above the noise. “Just landed in Madrid. I need your address.”
Jude’s heart stops. For a moment, he can’t see, hear, or feel anything. And then it’s only the sound of his voice, yelling, “What?!”
“Send me your location, I’ll take a cab there.”
“Are you insane?” Jude stands up from his bed and begins pacing his room back and forth. “You’re going to end me, Erling. This is going to–”
“I’ll take the back door.”
“You–” Jude stutters, incredulous. “I don’t have a back door.”
Erling makes an amused sound. “Well, your defender seemed sure your back door was thoroughly used.”
Jude hates himself deeply, profoundly, for finding it a little funny. This is not the time to joke around.
“Erling, I swear to God. Tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m sitting in the taxi, the driver is waiting for your address.” His tone shifts slightly, no more humor in his voice. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
And so, Jude sends him his location as soon as he hangs up.
In all the time Jude has been living in Madrid, Erling has never been to his house. They don’t exactly hang out anymore, not since Erling left Dortmund. It’s a dent in Jude’s pride that he couldn’t get himself to pretend, to act like things hadn’t changed. But how could he, after humiliating himself, begging Erling not to leave? Not to leave him?
So it was only the occasional text every now and then, pleasantries exchanged on the pitch as opponents, the rare conversation off the pitch as friends.
He always thought the occasion would present itself, eventually, to invite Erling over. He just didn’t expect it to be like this. He wasn’t prepared for this.
There’s a fire escape on the side of the building, which Jude guesses is as close to a back door as they can get, and he waits for Erling on top of the stairs. The corridor echoes with the sound of his footsteps and his gray hoodie dampens with sweat at the crease of his elbows from where his hands are crossed. He doesn’t remember the last time he was this nervous.
When he hears the door at the bottom of the stairs open, he holds his breath.
He counts down each step, the sound bouncing off the walls making Jude’s anxiety spike, worrying about neighbours who might hear them.
And then Erling is in front of him, a step down so they’re at eye level, a dark hood pulled over his head and a face mask hanging from one ear.
His cheekbones jut out of the hood, and the flickering neon light of the corridor casts sharp shadows under them, but there is no mistaking him. Absurdly, he smiles.
“Hi, Jude.”
Jude blinks dumbly at him, as if he can’t believe Erling is actually here.
His arm shoots out to grab his hoodie and pulls him the rest of the way up the stairs, muttering, “You’re fucking crazy,” and shoving harshly at Erling, steering him towards his front door.
Erling lifts his hands, open palms up. “Alright, alright, I’m going. Jesus.”
The door slams heavily behind them as Jude walks past Erling into his penthouse.
“Why the fuck did you come here?!”
Erling takes in the foyer, with its gray walls and minimalist decor and dim, warm lights. Slowly, he turns around to face Jude. He takes the mask fully off his face and jams it in his pocket.
“For a cup of tea,” he deadpans. “What do you think?”
Jude’s arms fold over his chest. He wants to rebuke immediately, to get this over with quickly, but Erling's face emerges from his hood, golden locks of hair falling loose on his shoulders as he slowly walks towards him and it’s just so strange, having him in his apartment. It takes the breath out of Jude, his words right along with it.
Jude backs away, keeping the distance between them, until they reach the living room. His hips hit the back of the couch and he stays there, his posture stiff, closed off. Erling stares at him, waiting.
“You didn’t say anything,” Jude begins, eyes low. “To the press, I mean. You didn’t say anything.”
“I wanted to talk to you first.”
Erling’s voice is warm, honey-sweet. Such a stark contrast with the imposing shape of him, occupying Jude’s living room comfortably, as though he owns the place and Jude is the guest. His accent is so different than when they were in Dortmund, English rolling off his tongue much more easily and confidently, like he’s right at home in Manchester.
Jude swallows thickly. It stings, still, that he wasn't there to witness the change firsthand.
Until he remembers himself, and reminds himself of how absurdly selfish he had been to think Erling should have stayed in Dortmund for him.
“My agent says to ignore it,” Erling’s voice tears him from his thoughts and he realizes he had been silent too long. “It will go away on its own.”
“Yeah, for you,” murmurs Jude. He looks up at Erling, then, narrowing his eyes. “What do you wanna do about it?”
Without missing a beat, Erling says, “I wanna help you.”
There is honesty in Erling’s voice. The sincere, earnest tone that disarms Jude and makes his skin crawl at the same time. It’s patronizing, and Erling knows – must know – how it would anger Jude to be belittled in such a way, as though he needs protection. As though Erling could easily give it to him. Erling, who is the person Jude should be protecting himself against. Yet, despite all of this, it makes Jude feel warm anyway.
“If you wanna help, you can tell them it’s all rubbish. That they weren’t talking about us. That nothing ever happened between us.” He swallows. “That it’s ridiculous to even suggest it.”
Erling’s gaze wounds. Like an arrow shooting straight through Jude’s chest.
“You want me to lie,” Erling states. Jude can’t look him in the eye. Inching closer, Erling continues, “You want me to tell them that I never had you. That I never desired you. That it is all fake.”
Jude feels trapped in his own home.
Embarrassingly, heat spreads in his core at the memories summoned by Erling’s words. Memories of hushed words exchanged in the darkness of the flat they shared in Dortmund, before they each got their own place. Of post-practice handies in the communal shower after everyone else had left. Of rough, ecstatic sex after a victory, riding the high until they both collapsed into each other and used the excuse to stay close ‘til the sun rose. Of the slow, lazy Monday morning slide of Erling’s body against his, in the low light of their bedroom.
Shamefully, Jude’s hole clenches at the memory of being breached by Erling.
He has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second, to chase the thoughts away, before focusing them back on Erling.
“I want you to do right by me for once.”
Erling halts a mere pace away from Jude, eyes widened slightly, and scoffs. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It came out wrong. I didn’t mean–”
“Are you saying I didn't treat you right?”
“Erling, that is not what I–”
Erling’s hand cups his chin so quickly, so delicately, that it takes a beat for Jude to register the movement. His heart beats so fast and so loudly, he’s sure Erling can hear it.
“Look me in the eye and tell me I didn’t do right by you.”
Jude has no chance to look anywhere else but right into those baby blues. Erling won’t allow him.
For two days, Jude has been sitting with his emotions. First among them is humiliation: for being caught, exposed, sold out to the masses like a cheap cut of meat; for having caused it in the first place, for having been unable to keep himself in check; for being his younger brother’s biggest source of concern, and for having disappointed him so wholly. Fear, too, of what’s to come, of how to get himself out of something he has no control over.
But simmering underneath, boiling in his belly is true, red hot anger that this thing has happened to him.
For two days he has lived with this feeling festering in him, spreading like rot, facing it alone; and now that anger spills out of him in a tidal wave that crashes against the only person in the entire world Jude knows can weather it.
“Were you treating me right when you left me?” He snarls, grabbing Erling’s wrist. It’s so firm under his hand that it barely does anything, but it gives Jude something real to hold on to. “Got yourself a girl and a little family, so now you’re safe. But what about me?!”
Erling’s grip becomes painful and he twists out of it, backing away. Erling hounds him, his eyes never leaving him.
“I left Germany. I didn’t leave you.”
It’s only when Jude’s back hits the wall that he realizes he has cornered himself again, and now, with Erling’s towering figure hovering over him, there is no escape.
“Y-you– No.” He shakes his head. He won’t let Erling twist what happened. “I begged you. And you left anyway.” Erling exhales through his nose and his warm breath scalds Jude’s cheeks. He can almost taste it. His knuckles ache from how hard he’s clenching his fists. “And now you won’t do the one thing I’m asking, ‘cause you don’t want to lie? What? Now you’re safe with your little girlfriend so it’s fuck the rest of us?”
Erling’s arm shoves at Jude’s chest painfully, pushing him up against the wall.
Jude has seen Erling’s ire up close before, but never directed at him. Never like this. Erling has never hurt him before.
“Don’t talk about her like this,” he growls. “You’re speaking as if I don’t love her. You think I’m with her only because she gives me a son?” His gaze is cold enough to burn. “You think that highly of you?”
Jude feels the unpleasant sting of tears behind his eyes and sees, instantly, the change in Erling as he, too, must notice it. His eyes flit to Jude’s quivering lips, then back up.
“I do!” Jude snaps, desperate. “And I think I’m entitled, after we spent two years–”
“Hiding,” hisses Erling. “We spent two years hiding. I don’t want to hide anymore.”
Through the tears breaching the weak barrier of Jude’s lashes, he laughs. It’s unexpected, loud, and hysterical. A grating sound that bubbles up from his chest and pours out of him uncontrollably.
His voice sounds like sandpaper when he asks, mean, “And tell me, Mister Honesty. Does your wifey know about us?”
He watches the muscles in Erling’s jaw flex and revels in that small satisfaction.
“She knows enough.”
“Did she know about us before the video came out?” Jude pries, cocking his head, his face wet.
Erling says, “Yes.” Slowly, his hand reaches up towards Jude’s throat. His thumb brushes over Jude’s jawline. Quietly, he admits, “Not the details.”
“No,” Jude’s voice is low as he laughs again, softly. “I bet you didn’t tell her everything. Bet she doesn’t know her boyfriend’s favourite place is between Jude Bellingham’s thighs.”
The hand around his neck tightens. A knee parts his legs and, in an instant, Erling’s body is pressed up against his.
“Stop,” Erling warns. Jude has never been one to heed warnings. Wouldn’t score as many goals as a midfielder if he was.
“Ever miss it? Ever fuck her and wish it was me?”
Erling’s mouth crashes against his as though it were a fist. His other hand cradles Jude’s skull from behind, keeping him completely immobilized while he devours him.
Jude whimpers into it. His legs tremble at the feeling of Erling’s hands slowly sliding down his sides and resting on his waist. Fingers spread wide and warm and painfully familiar. He wraps his arms around Erling’s neck and kisses him back, letting Erling breathe life back into his lungs after two days of tortuous non-existence.
It’s so easy to fall back into an old rhythm of teeth and tongues that neither of them truly forgot, so natural to let Erling grab the backs of his thighs and pick him up, to wrap his legs around him and allow Erling to hold him like he weighs nothing. His stomach somersaults as he is freed from gravity, and all he has to do to keep that heady feeling from fading too quickly is hold on.
Erling’s nose drags along his cheek, under his jaw, breathing into his neck. Inhaling Jude.
The closeness has Jude gasp, one hand holding onto Erling’s shoulder and the other tangled in his long hair, tugging him closer. He tilts his head even more, baring his throat to be ravaged by the mouth he has not stopped craving since he first tasted it.
Heat drips in his gut like melted sugar, his cock filling up against Erling’s.
Erling’s voice is breathy in Jude’s ear when he asks, “Where’s your bedroom?”
The world swims before Jude as Erling drops him on his bed and crawls on top of him. In the dark, Erling’s silhouette is stark against the orange backdrop of the hallway light, but Jude doesn’t need to see him clearly to know the feeling of his hands on his thighs, or the shape of his lips as they trail down the column of Jude’s throat.
He doesn’t need to see the hunger in Erling’s eyes, because he feels it in the way his body grinds against Jude’s frantically, with desire, in how hastily he reaches down between them, fingers hooked in the front of Jude’s pants to tug them down.
Something settles deep in Jude’s core at the realization that Erling must have missed him, too.
Erling grunts when Jude’s pants don’t come undone fast enough, and he sits back to rip them off his legs forcefully.
In a second Jude is completely exposed, splayed open under the lustful gaze of his first love, come back to him after so long. Erling’s lips are parted, wet with spit, his eyes obscenely ogling the dark length of Jude’s cock, curved against his belly.
“Damn, Bellingham.”
He only takes his hands off Jude to free himself of his hoodie and tee, tossing them carelessly on the floor, somewhere behind him, and then his touch returns: his fingers grope Jude’s inner thighs, arms looping around them as he leans down to lap at the hinge of Jude’s crotch like a dog. He’s sloppy with it, and purposefully so. He lets saliva drip from his mouth onto Jude’s tip and licks a long, agonizing stripe along the underside of Jude’s cock. He kisses the tip before taking it into his mouth.
Jude squirms in ecstasy.
His head lolls back into the pillow, moans breaking his voice in small little fragments, each uttered in tandem with every drag of Erling’s tongue. His throat is a tight tunnel of heat that vibrates with every sound Erling makes.
“Fuuuck, Erling,” he voices, just to fill the room with a different sound than the wet suction of Erling’s mouth.
Jude cards his hand through Erling’s hair, cupping the back of his neck to rock deeper into him. He looks down at Erling through his lashes and nearly comes on the spot at the sight of his cheeks bulging with Jude’s cock.
He tugs harshly at his hair, until Erling unhinges his jaw and pulls back with a loud, embarrassing smack.
In the time it takes him to undo his belt buckle and get rid of his pants, his fingers quick and nimble as though he was picking a lock, Jude rolls over to rummage through the drawer of his nightstand for the lube.
He’s not fast enough to turn back, not before Erling’s hands grab the plump flesh of his ass, leaning down for an animal bite.
Jude hisses at the sharp pain, swatting a hand back and managing only to hit Erling’s shoulder.
Erling’s soft chuckle, as he grabs the lube from Jude’s hand, is pressed against his nape.
“You use this on someone?” His voice rumbles right below Jude’s ear, where Erling leaves a wet kiss. “Or do you fuck yourself thinking about me?”
His hands are brands on Jude’s ass as he pulls his cheeks apart. It’s humiliating, to be handled like this, to be known like this.
Because, if Jude could will himself to be truthful, he would answer, Both.
The steady pressure of Erling’s thick fingers against the rim of his hole invades every corner of his mind and his head drops, face pressed into the pillows to muffle the broken, high-pitched wails that Erling’s hand gets out of him.
Jude’s back is drenched in sweat, gluing the fabric of his hoodie to the skin of his back, but it doesn’t seem to bother Erling one bit. Quite the opposite. His free hand slips underneath the hem and lifts it enough to get his mouth on Jude’s hipbone; the touch of his lips lights Jude up like a fire.
He’s wanted this for so long. After what happened in the past couple of days, he thinks that if his career ended tomorrow, at least he had this tonight. At least Erling was here with him, on top of him, inside him.
When Erling pulls out his fingers Jude feels the absence like a missing limb.
It doesn’t last long.
“Be still,” Erling says, his voice a little ragged, proof that he is just as affected by Jude as Jude is by him.
Jude doesn’t dare move. He hears the slimy sound of lube being squeezed out of the bottle, feels some of it drip down his thighs, and then Erling’s slicking himself up.
He feeds his cock into him slowly. He’s not rough like he used to be years ago when, after a match, Jude gladly let Erling use him to work all the adrenaline out of their system.
Now he fucks into Jude like the night will never end, a drawn-out glide in and out, filling him up inch by inch, until Jude feels like he’s going to burst at the seams.
Jude lets out a soft sigh when Erling’s hips are fully flush with his ass, turning his head to the side to breathe. He can hear his heartbeat pulsing inside his head, feel its war drum in his chest, his veins. He swears he can feel Erling’s, too.
Unexpectedly, a surge of affection drowns out everything else. He forgets why he was angry at Erling. Was he even angry at him? Does it matter? He has him, now. He reaches back, takes Erling's forearm to drag it forward and wraps it around his chest, and their fingers intertwine without having to utter a single word. The emotion is overwhelming.
It breaks Jude’s heart in two.
Erling’s body curves around Jude’s as he thrusts harder, deeper inside him.
The sob that shakes Jude’s entire frame comes as a shock. His eyes widen in surprise, but then his vision blurs instantly and another one tumbles out of him.
“Jude,” Erling’s voice soothes, as does his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to Jude’s damp cheek.
He pulls out with a hiss and flips Jude over. He kisses him properly, with both his hands cradling Jude’s face, before pushing back in.
Erling tastes of him. He hasn’t tasted himself on Erling’s tongue in so long, he wonders if Erling has missed it as much as he has. His thumbs caress Jude’s cheeks featherlight, wiping the tears away.
But the softness doesn’t make Erling’s gaze less ravenous.
He leans back, his hands closing around Jude’s knees to adjust the angle, eyes flicking down for a second to watch Jude’s hole swallow his cock like it was made for it, rubbing slow circles on the inside of Jude’s knees.
The intimacy is unbearable. They shouldn’t be doing this.
Erling has a family and Jude is not part of it. He made his choice years ago, and it was ridiculous of Jude to ever think it could be otherwise.
But then Erling dives back in, claiming the skin of Jude’s throat between his teeth as he fucks Jude through his tears.
“S-should’ve,” Jude hiccups. “Should’ve been me.”
Erling’s rhythm stutters, slows down.
He props himself up on his elbows, staring down at Jude, searching his face. What for, Jude can’t tell.
Ashamed of what he’s about to say, Jude hides himself behind his hands.
Delirious, he cries, “I should’ve had your child.”
The words escape him. He’s glad he can’t see Erling’s face, because the stillness that follows them cracks the damp, heavy air between them. The entire world stops. Time itself holds its breath.
“Fuck,” Erling moans then, head dropping into the crook of Jude’s neck. His cock twitches inside Jude. His mouth brushes over the hollow of Jude’s throat when he says, “Do you want it now?”
Jude’s mind is completely gone. He can’t think straight anymore. Thoughts form and die in the back of his mind before they can reach any definite shape.
Feeling is all he has left.
“Do you want my baby now?”
Dumbly, frantically, Jude nods.
One of Erling’s arms sneaks between them to take Jude’s cock in his hand, the other wraps around Jude’s shoulders instead. There’s not an inch of Jude’s body that isn’t being crushed by Erling.
He jolts like a live wire when Erling’s hand strokes him fast, eased by the wetness leaking out of his tip. His thrusts grow harsher, losing their rhythm, until Jude begins to feel too hot in the pit of his stomach, warmth spreading in his groin, down to his toes. He’s on fire, his hoodie drenched in feverish sweat.
He hears himself make a sound he’s never made before. Or, at least, one he hasn’t made in four years.
The orgasm shatters every remaining bit of his splintered mind, spilling thickly into Erling’s hand.
Erling follows him over the edge with an animal groan and a whispered Jude on his lips that is less sound and more the shape of the word in his mouth.
“You are right,” Erling says, after a while, still pumping shallowly inside Jude, making him writhe under him like Jude knows he enjoys. “This is still my favorite place.”
Erling catches Jude’s mouth in a breathtaking kiss, after which Jude is left panting into his mouth, hands threaded through Erling’s hair.
Jude sleeps for hours, and after that he lies awake for longer. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the bulky shape of Erling’s body lying face down beside him, his shoulders rising and falling steadily. He doesn’t snore, exactly, but he lets out a few soft sounds at every other exhale.
In the silence of his penthouse, he hears his phone buzzing in the other room. The temptation to go pick it up and check what the internet is saying about him is only kept at bay by the terrifying thought of waking up Erling if he moves.
He’s not ready to face him.
It’s ridiculous, since his thighs are still sticky with Erling’s come, but wouldn’t know what to say to him. Not after he has bared his heart and soul so completely. After he has made himself so vulnerable. He knows what awaits him, when Erling wakes up.
He knows Erling will get out of bed, take a shower, and maybe press his lips to Jude’s temple on his way out. He will return to his life, to his family, to his club. The scandal doesn’t really touch him.
Rationally, Jude knows the rumors will go away, if he lets them. Many other footballers have been through them and have come out the other side unscathed. They were just too good at football to be gay. Jude just doesn’t know if he is, at this point. Maybe he’s still too young.
The real issue, however, is that they are not rumors. Erling being in his bed is evidence enough.
He can deny everything, of course, but for how long? How much grace will he be allowed, before they come back to haunt him again?
Even if he makes a statement, gets a girlfriend, makes a family for himself, it will not change the fact that he loved Erling Haaland. It will not change the fact that he was loved by him.
The truth spilled between their shared breaths will never be unspoken.
His phone buzzes again, but Erling shifts in his sleep and traps the side of Jude’s body under his weight. The soft puffs of breath coming out of his slightly open mouth tickle Jude’s cheek.
He doesn’t move.
Tomorrow, he will call his parents and make a plan.
But not now. Now, while the city night lights glimmer from outside his window, he shifts closer to Erling until they’re chest to chest, cheek to cheek, and allows himself to drift back to sleep.