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It’s not unusual for Jude to get back to his phone after training and discover a flurry of unread messages; when he’s training with the England camp the Real Madrid chat is normally quite busy, and vice versa. Between those main chats, all the side splinter chats, as well as his DMs, the notifications can really pile up, and he normally ignores them until he can be bothered to read it all properly.
He glances down at his phone in his stall, skimming quickly over the notifications before he locks it again and gets in the shower.
Being back in the England training camp is always a bit unusual. He hates that he’ll be going back to a hotel rather than home, but it also feels easier and more homely to not be mentally translating things or trying to keep up with conversations in a language he’s barely functioning in.
He takes a leisurely shower, the rest of the squad heading out while he’s still in there. They invite him to the pub but all he can really think about is ordering room service and putting on the next episode of Below Deck, so he waves them off. It’s only once the locker room is empty and he’s dressed in his oversized joggers and sliders that he skims through his notifications after he orders a taxi.
There’s the usual messages he gets during the day; the ones from his mum, a few emails he needs to reply to, a text from the phone company. But there’s a WhatsApp notification that catches his attention as he clicks on it.
The chat—titled with a word he doesn’t recognise—has been made by Erling, of course, and Jude’s clearly been added after conversation has started, though Erling’s shared the message history with him too. He skims the first few messages in confusion. All the messages are in Norwegian, and Erling knowshe doesn’t speak Norwegian.
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You, Ajer, Erling 💛, Falch, Kissa, Leo, Nusa, Sandy, Ødda |
He puts his hoodie string in his mouth, chewing the end of it as he picks up his kitbag. He’s so absorbed by trying to figure out what the hell they’re talking about he doesn’t even say good night to the stadium staff, giving them a quick wave as he walks past.
By the time he gets into the car park, his ride is waiting for him. He slides into the backseat, glancing quickly at the driver to make sure he isn’t some weird fanboy, before looking back down at his phone and scowling.
Other than the messages Erling’s sent in Norwegian to the group chat, he hasn’t texted Jude all day, which is quite unusual for them. He hasn’t even replied to the selfie Jude sent from their gym warm-up this morning.
He chews his hoodie string again before texting Erling directly.
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Erling 💛 |
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Fuck. Jude can feel himself starting to get slightly hard in his joggers at the tone of Erling’s texts. Sometimes he and Erling will talk about everything and nothing—having the world while being homesick, the pressure that they’d both felt practically crushing them when they found each other at Dortmund—but other times it’s hotter and heavier.
Sometimes it’s more like their power struggles in Winner’s Rooms across the league, or the fucks that are filled with an edge of harshness that settles Jude like nothing he’s ever found before. They’d been doing it for years, but it felt like it hit some kind of crescendo in Miami after England knocked Norway out of the World Cup.
It is, still to date, the hardest Jude’s ever come, and the quietest his brain has ever been after a game.
He tabs back over to the group chat, scanning through the Norwegian for a clue as to what they’re talking about. He’s got most of their numbers saved; he knows Sander Berge and Martin Ødegaard are in the chat, as well as Kristoffer Ajer. He’s fairly certain most of the people in the chat are from the Norwegian national team.
He opens Google Translate and picks out a few random words from the texts. One of the messages is talking about whining, he’s fairly certain. His own name also appears in one message from Ajer, a little further down. Erling replies to him with a question, which apparently Ajer found amusing enough for Erling to flip him off.
One of the words he puts into Google Translate makes him raise his eyebrow and blush simultaneously as he reopens his chat with Erling.
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He’s so immediately aware of everything, the shake of the car, the way the streetlights sneak through the windows illuminating his phone. It’s so exposing, so he locks his phone and slides it back into his hoodie pocket and doesn’t move again until the taxi comes to a stop in front of the hotel.
He keeps his hood over his head and his eyes down as he goes through the lobby, praying that no one will recognise him. He can feel his cock stiffening at the prospect of what’s waiting for him in the chat, his phone intermittently buzzing as reminding him. It’s non stop, the messages flying in. The phone won’t stop vibrating where he’s pressed it to his stomach and he practically trips over his own feet to get into the lift in his desperation.
Once the lift doors slide shut, leaving him finally alone for the first time since the stadium, he gets his phone out again, opening his chat with Erling.
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His cock aches already. He jogs down the corridor to his room, hoping to God no one will see him.
He doesn’t even watch where his kitbag lands as he slams his hotel room door shut, sliding down it until he’s collapsed on the floor, frantically scrolling back to the group chat. He’d seen some notifications come through in English, which meant he could just read it without having to think about the translations, or put dirty phrases through Google translate.
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Erling 💛 is typing... |
He’s whimpering. Quiet, breathy little whimpers as he scrolls, reading the most degrading things about himself. His cock leapt when Sander said he’d whine like a dog in heat. He couldn’t even argue with the statement. The desire to have Sander pin him down, nip into the side of his neck and hold him there, making him take it, has a damp spot appearing in the front of his joggers.
Not to mention Thorstvedt’s almost certainly touching himself to the conversation right now, to the thought of Jude just looking like a whore. It’s so humiliating and degrading and he loves it. They’re all talking like these are conversations they regularly have, like talking about his arse, or how fuckable his mouth is, is a normal post-training conversation for them.
Maybe it is.
He covers his mouth with his hand, muffling the pathetic whine he makes. His cock is aching but he can’t do anything. Not until Erling tells him to.
As if by magic, another message from Erling comes in. The feeling of his phone buzzing makes him feel a bit lightheaded with arousal. He forces himself to close his eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, before locking his phone and throwing it towards the bed. He can’t spend all night on the floor moaning at the thought of Erling and his friends using him, he needs to at least have the self respect to get off the floor.
He makes himself get up, taking a steadying breath, before ripping his hoodie off and throwing it in the corner of the room. Only once he’s propped himself up against the headboard with some pretense of self control, does he let himself open the messages from Erling.
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He knew he wouldn’t be able to touch himself without permission, but the direct instruction makes him want it so much more. He thinks longingly of his dildo in his bedside table back home. Reading the messages while stretched open on it would’ve been so good, he feels almost sick with how desperate he is.
The notifications in the group chat don’t stop. He spreads his free hand out on the bed next to him and grips the duvet hard, as though that will prevent him from disobeying Erling, before going back to the group chat.
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You, Ajer, Erling 💛, Falch, Kissa, Leo, Nusa, Sandy, Ødda |
The sound that escapes him isn’t human, he doesn’t think. He really might black out with how aroused he is just at the thought. On a good day the team might be able to stop Norway getting on the scoreboard at all, but that involves a lot of things lining up.
Realistically, at least Erling will be fucking him in the Winner’s Room.
With that kind of motivation, though?
With a trembling hand, he clicks on the information bar for the chat and counts the numbers. There’s nine people in the chat, including him and Erling. Seven other Norwegian players Erling’s just offered him up to.
It’s not even Erling that’s offering, he realises as he reads the messages again. It’s Martin. Like he’s literally some kind of reward for the team if they work hard enough.
The idea has his hips snapping up in the air of their own accord as he twists around to bury his face in a pillow and moan. For an insane moment he wonders what Erling would do if he recorded his whines and sent them to the chat.
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He muffles another desperate whimper at the reminder that Ajer heard him. The thought is so hot he feels his entire body burn with how badly he wants to be fucked like that again.
It’s not possible to come with no stimulation at all, he’s fairly certain, but he’s worried even the drag of his damp joggers against the head of his cock will make him lose it. It’s the closest he’s ever been to accidentally coming.
With a trembling hand he drags his joggers down, exposing himself finally. His cock is leaking and so hard. He wants nothing more than to reach down and touch it. Instead, he opens his chat with Erling.
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The order feels like a moment of relief, his hips reflexively bucking in gratitude as he blindly fumbles on the bedside table for the small bottle of lube. The chat keeps going, but he has to put his phone down to lube his finger up. He leaves the phone on his chest, each vibration making his cock throb.
It’s sloppy and fast, and he winces at the slight burn as he plunges his finger in roughly.
The relief of finally feeling something in his hole makes him whine. He fucks his finger in and out of himself, trying his best to not touch his prostate. It’s not enough—one finger never would be—and all too soon he’s riding his finger and trying not to cry because he wants more. He wants Erling’s cock, or Kissa’s fist. Whatever they’ll give him.
His hand cramps and his finger aches, but still he fucks himself, eventually finding the strength to grab the phone and reopen the group chat.
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Sandy
Anyone watch England over the weekend?
18:46
Falch
Obviously
18:47
Kissa
You talking about whn he was on his knees before the yllow?
18:47
Falch
Think we can get Ståle to get game tape from England camp?
18:48
Broadcast I watched cut away from him before he even hit the ground
18:48
Kissa
Got ss of him face down ass up, dw dw
18:48
18:55
Falch
God bless
18:55
Sandy
Shame you didn't get a screenshot of his bottom eyes
18:58
He looked like he wanted to suck ref's cock to get his card overturned
18:59
Ajer
Bet he would
19:00
Just let anyone fill his mouth right in the middle of the pitch
19:00
He’s on his knees in the photo, his face flat against the Astro. It was a bullshit call from a ref that had been waiting for an opportunity all game to get him. There’d been nothing wrong with his tackle and he was sure of it, so he’d argued back. Of course he had. That’s when the yellow had come out. He’d dropped to his knees in frustration and then laid down for a moment just to calm himself down.
But looking at the photo now all he can see is the way his arse is out, the way his knees are spread. He looks like he’s posing for a porno.
They’d not only watched the game last week but taken screenshots of him. The thought is so overwhelming to him it’s all he can think about. Sander thinking he’d suck ref’s cock to get the card overturned.
If Erling told him to, he would've.
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He grinds down on his finger, desperate for any other kind of stimulation. If Østigård told him to hump his cleat right now, he’d break his knees with how fast he’d drop down. He’d rut up against him and whine and whimper and beg.
He wonders if Østigård would let him come or if Erling would drag him off and slap him for being a needy whore. Would the sting of the slap and the humiliation be enough to have him coming anyway, untouched and disobedient? Maybe Erling would drag his face through the mess and force him to clean it with his tongue while Østigård mocked him.
The idea of that makes him feel so desperately needy. It’s the only thing he wants, and Erling needs to know. It takes him a few goes to type in the right chat, and eventually just gives up on some of his typing mistakes. Erling knows he’s a slut for this.
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He doesn’t even bother to lube up his second finger. He shoves it roughly in, scissoring himself even though his fingers cramp. It’s still not enough, but he knows Erling isn’t going to give him any more. Not yet, at least.
As he tries to navigate back to the groupchat, he accidentally brushes the tip of his finger against his prostate. He sees stars, his cock pulsing angrily and his abs contracting. For a moment he really thinks he’s going to lose it, but Erling hasn’t said he can, so he forces himself to breathe through it even though he wants it so bad his whole body hurts.
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He’s hung out with Sander and Martin multiple times. Sometimes when he goes to visit Erling in Manchester, if they have more than a night that their schedules line up, they’ll go down to London to hang out all together. It’s normally a few pints at the pub down the road from Sander, or sometimes they’ll watch some shite TV and blow all their cheat day calories on a greasy takeout. It’s never, in all of the times they’ve hung out, occurred to Jude that Erling would’ve told them about their sex life.
It makes him feel so unbelievably aroused as he stares down at the most recent messages from Martin. Does Erling text them after every fuck? Or does he debrief with them the morning after every Winner’s Room? Has Sander thought about Jude being the team stress reliever while sitting opposite him in the pub—watched the way his tongue darts out to swipe at the edges of his lips when he gets a bit drunk and doesn’t quite manage to swallow all his beer down and thought his mouth could be better used in the locker room?
He wonders what it would be like if he stopped playing football and followed the Norwegian team around instead as their ever-willing cockslut. Would Erling and Martin ever let him leave the dressing room during games, or would they just cuff him to the bench and leave him for the first half, only to come back and fuck into him roughly in the middle of their half-time strategy meeting?
The idea has him whining and biting down on the pillow, wishing more than anything Erling would text him again to tell him he could touch his cock, or add another finger. Anything to end the torture. But Erling keeps texting the chat, like Jude isn’t even there, and that makes it so much worse and so much better at the same time.
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Erling’s one word reply makes Jude squirm. He knows the expression Erling has when he thinks Jude is pushing it on the pitch. Sometimes he’ll accompany the look with a poke to the side during the chaos of a corner, or a quick shove when no one’s looking. One time, back when they both played for Dortmund, he’d made a comment—probably rolled his eyes at Erling as he said it, or maybe accompanied it with some lewd guesture—and Erling slapped his face right in the middle of a goal celebration.
He’d looked back at the footage a million times since that day, hot shame coming over him every time as his eyes on the video slide shut and his mouth falls open a little. Erling knew, he must’ve known, before then how Jude was going to react, but for both of them it was like the first hit of a drug they never wanted to stop taking. That night Erling slapped his cheek gently, like he was testing the waters. Without the adrenaline of the game, with what was all too tender of a fuck for them to be having when they were just looking for some stress relief, Jude had begged him to slap him properly—or at least as hard as he had on the pitch.
When Erling finally cracked his palm across Jude’s face with enough force to leave a mark, Jude came all over himself and that had cemented both Erling’s love for putting Jude in his place, and Jude’s love for pushing Erling. He was more of a brat to Erling than anyone else, but mostly in the privacy of hotel rooms and their flats.
A notification from Erling comes through and he almost drops his phone in his frantic effort to open the chat, hoping more than anything it’s permission to do anything.
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He thought they’d been subtle. Sander and Martin know, of course, because Erling can’t keep his hands to himself when he’s had a few drinks but other than that he’s tried to be really careful with his movements around Erling. Østigård’s not wrong—as two top players it does make sense for them to end up in Winner’s Rooms more often than other players, but Ajer and even Nusa knowing that it’s more than just Winner’s Room fucks makes him suddenly extremely aware of what they’ve been like around each other.
He expects a moment of panic to crash through his horny haze, but all he can think about is how if everyone's known the whole time he could’ve been letting Erling do whatever he wanted in front of anyone.
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He watches as Erling’s typing bubble appears and disappears a few times, like he can’t decide what to say in response to that, before the bubble disappears. Jude goes back to the group chat and his stomach swoops as he sees Erling’s typing bubble appear there instead.
It seems to take hours. He stills his fingers in himself, pressed right up to the last knuckles, and stares at his phone, wondering what of all of their fucked up moments Erling’s going to share.
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Erling 💛
Bent him over in most hotels we've stayed in
19:40
Sometimes he'll be so desperate for it he'll get a private flight from Madrid
19:40
Ødda
That's why Erling gets so many single rooms
19:40
Only so many times you can listen to a whore screaming his name before it gets boring
19:41
Erling 💛
Rude
19:41
I gag him most of the time in hotels anyway now
19:42
Can't have everyone in the hotel hearing my slut you know?
19:42
Leo
He charters a jet for a fuck?
19:42
God he's even more desperate than I thought
19:43
Erling 💛
Sometimes I don't even let him cum
19:43
Send him back to Madrid aching and denied
19:43
Ajer
You can always tell when Erling's done that bc he'll be a massive brat the next match
19:44
Sandy
The time last season he shouted at ref and got red?
19:44
He'd edged him for hours the night before
19:44
Nusa
Gagging for it so much
19:44
Heard him through the wall he was that loud
19:45
Erling 💛
Told you he's a brat
19:45
Leo
That's insane
19:45
Trophies have been dictated by your off pitch antics Erling
19:46
Erling 💛
Not my fault he's a slut
19:46
Sandy
Sometimes on the pitch I just want to push him to his knees
19:46
He'd go so willingly
19:46
Mouth open cock hard immediately
19:46
Falch
Do you think he'd get off on everyone seeing him?
19:47
Kissa
Surely
19:47
How did he feel about you sharing the photos?
19:47
Erling 💛
Would've let me show them to his team if I wanted to
19:47
Just looking at them got him hard again even though he was so overstimulated and whiny
19:47
Falch
I feel like I'm the only person that hasn't seen these photos
19:47
Ajer
Did Erling not show them to you?
19:48
Falch
I'd remember seeing them
19:48
Erling 💛
You were drunk
19:48
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Jude can’t look away from the photos. He’d seen them in the Winner’s Room on Erling’s phone, his cock twitching desperately in an attempt to get hard again at the sight of them, but Erling had never sent them to him, never mentioned them again. He’d almost convinced himself it was some post-orgasm induced delusion.
There’s no denying it now though, not when he’s staring at his own gaping hole with Erling’s cum leaking out of it, his thumb hooked to expose even more of Jude. His face isn’t visible, but Erling’s jersey is, his name branded across Jude’s back. He looks like a pornstar doing some salacious sports shoot. He certainly doesn’t look like a football player, especially not the winner of the quarter-finals of the World Cup.
He looks like Erling’s bitch.
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The shame that rushes over Jude at the reminder of how horny he’d been for the entirety of that game makes his skin feel like it’s on fire. He’d been so frustrated he could barely see straight on the pitch but Erling’s directions when he’d landed on the tarmac in Madrid with the damp spot embarrassingly visible had been extremely clear. When he’d begged and whined down the phone the whole week, Erling just laughed at him and told him he’d be watching the game on Saturday and that Jude knew what he needed to do if he wanted to come.
He’d been certain he wouldn’t even get a shot at goal. Barcelona played rough, giving them no space to breathe, let alone claw back control of play. Jude had watched the clock climb and, going into added time, he still hadn’t gotten a moment that he could turn into some momentum. Every part of his body ached with how desperate he was for it. Finally, in the last two minutes, he got a lucky break—a moment of weakness in the Barcelona defence—and he seized on it.
When the whistle blew and the fans cheered, he could barely stand. All he could think about was coming and how badly he wanted it, how much he’d pushed himself to get it. He stumbled through the post-match interview in a daze, wishing he could escape all of it to call Erling and beg until he was finally allowed.
By the time he’d gotten back to the dressing room and checked his phone, he had one message from Erling. Three words. You can cum.
He should’ve waited till he was back in his flat, where he could’ve fucked himself on one of his dildos, really made the wait worth it, but he couldn’t think at all. All he’d wanted was to get himself off as quickly as possible, so he stumbled into the showers, and leant back against the cold tiled wall as the water crashed down around him.
It had only taken a few quick strokes before he had to bite down on his own arm to muffle his moans as he came all over the shower, panting and still wanting more. It hadn’t even occurred to him that some of the team might’ve still been in the dressing room, might’ve overheard him, or seen something.
Based on the way some of them didn’t make eye contact with him for at least a week, he’s fairly certain at least a few people heard.
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Jesus.
Jude has never considered a collar. In all the years with Erling, the idea of one has never come up. Now though, it’s all he can think about. He should feel disgusted by it, but instead he just finds himself whimpering and whining, wondering what it would feel like to have the leather resting against his neck. He wonders if Erling would do it up tight enough that Jude would have to focus just a little bit more on breathing, or if he’d hook his finger under the leather and tug Jude around.
Or would Erling just hold the lead? Sander is still calling him a whore, talking like he’d just take whatever they decided he deserved, so maybe they’d all have their turn with him while Erling just held onto the lead, tugging occasionally to remind him who he belonged to. Maybe they’d use the ring of the collar to attach him somewhere in their team locker room, forcing him to stand and wait until they were ready for him.
The idea is so overwhelming he thinks he’s probably about to come from the thought alone. He needs Erling to know how desperately he wants it.
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His fingers cramp and ache painfully in his current position, so he takes them out for a split second, doing his best not to whine at the emptiness. Trying to avoid getting his lubed up fingers on his phone, he shifts himself around until he’s on his knees, the phone propped up against the headboard. He plunges his fingers back in, adding the third and loving the burn and stretch of it.
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He trembles as he stares at the phone screen, his own name bold in the middle of the chat. He feels so exposed and vulnerable, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t be. He knows everyone in the chat knows he’s there, but it’s different observing than being told to contribute to it, to debase himself and beg at Erling’s request.
Everything feels so much rawer, so much hotter.
Erling’s name flashes across the top of his screen as another flurry of private messages comes.
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It takes him what feels like hours to type out his messages. He can’t stop his free hand shaking with desperation, keeps having to cut himself off to bury his face in the pillow and whine again at the humiliation that blazes through him. He’s sure Erling is watching his typing dots appear and disappear waiting to see if his boy will be good.
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That’s all it takes. He doesn’t even manage to drop his phone to get a free hand around his cock, just grinds back on his fingers and explodes, Erling’s permission branded into the inside of his eyelids as his vision goes dark with the force of it. The guttural moans sound inhuman and obscene as he tries to muffle them, his phone smacking him in the face as he drops it, still vibrating as the group chat continues without him.
He comes so hard he trembles and shakes, roughly pressing against his prostate through every spurt, not caring that the sheets underneath him are soaked and filthy as he eventually ruts down into them, forcing more cum out. The waves of pleasure seem to take forever to die down as he keeps fucking himself, grinding against the sheets to get more friction against his cock.
The overstimulation hits him as the pleasure ebbs away, leaving him boneless and whining in his own mess. He’s sticky and aching all over from being denied for so long, but he can’t stop himself slowly rutting against the wet sheets as he scrolls through the last few messages in the chat, humiliation making his spent cock twitch.
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