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“Do you like me?”
Jude knows it’s a stupid question the second it leaves his lips. Wishes for the world he could take it back, rewind to just a few minutes ago when they were both still in the throes of climax, release still wreaking havoc on their bodies.
Instead, he has to look into Erling’s widening eyes, raising eyebrows. Has to sit here, with the man’s cock still deep in his guts, come leaking out of his rim, and wait for him to reply.
Do you like me?
It sounds so stupid, so fucking girlish and ridiculous that he cringes at himself immediately, expression crumpling from unbridled hope to unbearable shame in no time flat. He hates that he can’t hide, can barely move with Erling’s stupidly big hands still gripping his hips.
At least afterwards, when Erling decides Jude’s more trouble than he’s worth, he’ll have something to remember him by. Bruises that will take longer to fade than just the flight home. He’ll have to hide them—from his mom, from her, from everyone for a few days. It will replace this secret. He always has to have one. Something special just for him.
A smaller, fleeting one, but a secret, nonetheless.
“Do I like you?” Erling repeats. It sounds even worse from his lips. Dumber.
He’s not teasing him. At least not in any detectable way, voice frustratingly even, features now schooled into something unreadable. Jude still concludes, based on nothing, that he is. That he’s just repeating the question back so they both can hear how fucking stupid it sounds.
He attempts an escape. Presses his face into Erling’s throat. If he starts licking, starts moving his hips in that way he knows drives him crazy, perhaps he will grow hard inside him once more. Then they can both forget this.
It doesn’t work. His chin has barely dipped before it’s grabbed by a large hand, thumb and forefinger pressing back with more pressure than necessary. Enough to make his teeth rattle in his mouth.
It’s like this, sometimes, when Erling forgets his own strength. Forgets that Jude is flesh and blood beneath him, breakable despite the corded muscle beneath his skin.
Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s acutely aware of how easy it would be to squeeze the life out of him. Squeeze until he truly bursts open, spilling his guts and insecurities out onto the hotel sheets.
Jude can take more than most, than any woman—than Erling’s own girlfriend, if groaned confessions in the throes of orgasm can be believed.
Erling does that a lot, leaves his kindest words for the most heated moments. Even then they're backhanded, vague and nauseating if he thinks too long.
It's not like this with anyone else. Who else is there?
You take me so well. Better than her?
You're so fucking tight. Tighter than her?
You were made for me. So why do you leave?
Fuck, Jude, I need you. But not enough to stay?
“Do you think that I don’t like you?” The Erling of the present inspects his face, thumb digging into his chin.
Jude does his best to give nothing. The bedsheets provide him no strength, but he fists them anyway, where they're pooled at his knees. Desperate for anchor.
It’s not his strong suit. He’s expressive, and he knows it.
Knows Erling knows it.
“I am balls deep inside you.” Jude twitches at that. Twitches around where Erling is, just as he said, still buried to the hilt, “yet you are confused?”
Still trapped in Erling’s grip, though it’s lighter now, gentler. Jude shakes his head, a short motion to one side, an even shorter one to the other.
“No?” Erling’s bottom lip pushes out. Not a pout, not genuine enough for that. Mocking. Mirroring the way Jude's own is jutting out from the pressure of his grip.
Tears burn in the back of his throat, behind his eyes. Jude needs them to stay put. He forces them back with a heavy blink. A slow inhale, in through his nose, then held in his chest.
If he holds it long enough, perhaps he'll pass out in Erling's lap. Maybe he will go limp, slump over, and forget about how badly he wants to tear his skin off.
Would Erling pull out if he did? If he collapsed, unconscious in his arms. Would he try to rouse him, press a cool washcloth to his forehead, and whisper sweet encouragement?
Would he stay nestled inside, waiting patiently for Jude to wake up? Or would he fuck him with abandon, uncaring, mouth running wild with things not meant for conscious Jude's ears?
“Why do you ask me this?”
Erling knows why. Jude knows Erling knows why. This is all for show. All for whatever sick amusement he gets out of torturing Jude.
Once again, Jude is rendered speechless. He tries to shake his head again. Erling catches the movement before it begins, tightening his hold on Jude’s jaw.
“You are so quiet,” Erling hums, sliding his thumb up from the cleft of his chin and pressing against his bottom lip. Jude opens for him easily. Too easily.
And when Erling chuckles, low and hot, the first tear trails down Jude’s cheek.
“Where did my mouthy Judy go?” Erling doesn’t even enter his mouth, passes over it with a fleeting touch. It leaves Jude open and wanting, chasing his finger with the tip of his tongue. “Am I not taking good enough care of you?”
Jude blinks. A slow one. It’s the last place he can hide. It’s blurry when he opens them again. Even through the haze he can feel Erling’s stare.
“No?”
Jude can’t remember what he’d asked. Can’t remember what he’s supposed to answer.
“You don’t even know, do you?”
It’s unfair, really, how easily Erling picks him apart. Deconstructs him with nothing more than a glance. He wonders if he’s like this with everyone or if Jude is just different. Easy.
Erling continues petting him, the hand at his hip wandering down across his ass. He kneads at it, gentle in a way Jude doesn’t think they deserve. When he tires of that, it slides lower, where they are still joined, teasing at his stretched and puffy rim.
“You are so special, you know.” Special. Jude hears that one a lot, on and off the pitch.
He doesn’t like the way Erling says it.
One of his fingers presses into him without warning, stretching him further. Even at his angriest, Jude could never deny the size of the other man’s cock—it’s just big. Big in a way that had left a much younger Jude with an embarrassing boner the first time he’d seen it. Soft, yet still swinging between his legs in a Dortmund locker room.
Big in a way that leaves little room for anything else.
Embarrassingly, though Jude is not sure how much more capacity he has for embarrassment at present, some of Erling’s spend drips down between his thighs, escaping where he is being tugged wider.
“You are full of my cock,” Erling’s other hand releases his chin, sliding lower to clasp around Jude’s throat. Just resting. “So full of my come.” It’s probably staining the sheets, dribbling out of him in gobs. “Yet somehow you are still feeling empty.”
Jude swallows. The motion presses his throat deeper into Erling’s grip. “No,” he manages, proud, at least, that his voice doesn’t crack.
The rest dies in his throat, constricted as Erling squeezes gently around his windpipe.
“I wasn’t asking.” Erling chides him, releasing before the pressure can build. “I was telling you how special you are, and you interrupted me.” Was he? Jude can’t recall, not when a second finger prods at his overstretched hole. Erling means to rip him open, split him in two. “Did you not want to hear?”
Despite it all, Jude whines. Because even though he’s crying, even though each of Erling’s words, each of Erling’s long thick fingers set him on fire, Jude still wants to hear. More than anything, he wants to hear.
Jude has spent many nights wondering why he’s like this. Why, despite everything he’s been gifted with—loving parents and brother, good looks, talent beyond measure—he still seeks out attention like a boy starved.
A specific kind of attention. From one specific man.
It’s a shameful thing. Embarrassing. It makes him cry harder. Hiccupping sobs that make him twitch in Erling’s lap, make him suction-tight around his cock.
“Shy, Jude?”
Jude shakes his head. That's all he's been able to say for some time. He shakes it again for good measure, screwing his eyes shut so tight it hurts.
“You wanted this. Asked for it.” Jude doesn’t remember doing that. Can’t remember his mouth forming those words. Though, he's sure he did. On some level this is what he wanted, what he was asking—always asking for—long before tonight, long before he'd even met Erling Haaland. “So afraid I didn't like you.”
Erling is hard once more. Jude can feel it throbbing inside him. The stretch is borderline unbearable, thick fingers still curling alongside his shaft. No room to even breathe, with each inhale sending his rim fluttering.
“Does it feel like I hate you, sweetheart?” He’s not sure how to answer that. His body surely loves Jude, come from earlier easing the glide of his born-again erection, of the fingers prying him ever wider. “I can hate you if you want.” His words are barbed, malicious in a way that stings worse than the stretch at his rim, “It would be easy.”
Erling’s babbling now, in that way he does when he’s wrapped in the heat of Jude’s body. It makes him feel warm, knowing that his body—that he was Erling’s safe space.
You feel like home to me, Jude, he'd said once. Fresh off the birth of his son, in some hotel in London with the blinds drawn and taped shut for good measure. Jude had choked on his cock until the sun had risen, fighting his way back to it when Erling had tried to pull him off.
“Do you want it to feel that way?" A well-angled thrust nails his prostate, still swollen and raw, "Do you want me to hurt you?"
His neck jerks so hard he feels it crack. Please, he wants to say, please don't hurt me.
“Words, Jude.” Haaland laughs, mean like earlier. “Use your mouth for something other than sucking my cock.”
Jude can’t. His tongue sits useless in his mouth, heavy, half-numb, and far too wet. Surely, if he opens his mouth, it will all spill out. Dribble down his chin and humiliate him further.
All he can manage is another whine, somehow more pathetic than the last. So pathetic he clenches down around Erling, holds back a hiss as he feels himself forced open further.
“Faen,” Erling curses, tugging at his rim, “loosen up, dritt.”
“Sorry.”
It’s the first thing he’s managed since the question that started this all.
An apology.
“Sorry.” He whines again, hips stuttering where Erling is now bouncing him on his cock, fingers pulling Jude up and down his length.
It’s obscene. Erling lifting him from deep within his guts, poking and prodding and tearing him open, steering with the hand still resting around his neck.
“Sorry?” Disbelief, “For what? Being too tight?” Jude can’t believe it either, to be fair. “I’m fucking you like this, and you’re sorry?”
Erling leans forward, licks at the seam of Jude’s lips.
His cock kicks at the feeling. It’s bouncing uselessly between them—hard, leaking, and thwacking against his stomach.
Hard, leaking, and ready to burst again.
“Perfect.” His breath fans across his face. Hot, even through the heat of the room. “Can’t believe you’re real.”
Shame be damned, Jude sticks his tongue out. Panting. Begging. Pleading. Erling won’t stop.
He never does. Even when Jude is raw from overstimulation, twitching and coming dry, Erling never stops.
Once, on a rare weekend off from football and sponsorships and relationships, his own girlfriend under the impression he'd be visiting Jobe, Erling had invited Jude to his home in Marbella and fucked him for hours.
Stop, please, Jude had whined. I'm going to pee, stop.
It's my fucking house, Jude. As if he hadn't seen the family photos lining the walls as Erling dragged him down the hall, panting into his neck and humping his leg. Piss. I'll clean it. And so Jude had the contents of his bladder ass-fucked out of him in the bed Erling Haaland shares with his girlfriend.
Jude had gone back to his own a few days later. Muttering excuses and trying his hardest not to wince when he flopped onto the mattress. He'd slept with her. To keep the ruse, he told himself, still aching of Erling.
So now, he doesn't stop, either. Instead, he drops his hand from its grip at Jude’s throat, trails it down over his chest. One finger flicks over a nipple—not long enough for Jude to get any real pleasure out of it, but enough to make him jerk forward, chasing it.
It lands on his lower abdomen. A teasing brush at first, circling. Then he presses down. Hard enough that Jude doubles over, bracing himself on Erling’s broad shoulders.
“Can you feel that?”
Jude hates that he can. Hates that he can feel Erling moving inside him, more so now with the pressure of his palm. He hates that it feels so good, that being stuffed full to breaking with cock and fingers and come rivals even the best victories.
“Does it feel like I like you?”
It does—as though he’s trying to burrow his way into Jude, content to live the rest of his days in his heat.
“Does it feel good?”
It doesn’t. It hurts like he hates him, burns as if he wants him to bleed.
A well-timed thrust to his prostate makes up his mind. His cock jerks, once in warning, then countless times as his balls empty, spilling between them in spurts. It’s an answer, arguably more embarrassing than if he had just moaned in agreement, pitchy like a pornstar.
Erling curses, something deep and half-audible, spit in a foreign tongue. Jude knows a few words. Nothing good, mainly swears and phrases so vulgar he’d splutter if he had to repeat them.
“Min kone,” he hisses, burying his face in Jude’s neck, my wife. Jude had googled that one, after a particularly rough weekend spent on his yacht in Monaco. It had taken him days to walk right, longer for the hickeys to fade enough for him to go home to his mother.
Erling does him one mercy then, the first and only of the night. He comes with a grunt, cock buried so deep in Jude that he swears he feels it in his throat.
When his orgasm subsides, or at least from what Jude can feel of it, he removes his fingers from where they were nestled in his rim. Jude risks a glance, pulls his face out of Erling's neck and regrets it immediately.
They're a sorry sight, glistening with spend in the dim fluorescents. The pads are wrinkly, pruned from their time inside him. Jude expects Erling to bring them to his lips, expects him to force his mouth open and make him lick them clean. Saliva pools in his mouth. Preparing.
Instead, he wipes them on the bedding. A quick motion, gone and back so quick Jude barely registers it. With a half-clean hand on the small of his back, Erling maneuvers them backwards, propping them against the pillows piled at the headboard.
Jude drops his head, ear coming to rest on a heaving chest. Heart pounding just beneath the surface.
It’s warm again, here in Erling’s arms. Here, with a second load of his come painting his insides, still plugged with cock. His own cools on their stomachs. They're a sticky mess of spit, sweat, and in Jude's case, tears.
The hand at his back moves, trailing lazy circles at the base of his spine. It's gentle, so gentle Jude feels his eyes prickle once more.
"Do you feel better?" Erling breaks the silence. The words rumble out of him, and Jude can feel them reverberate in his own chest. "Or do you have more questions?"
Jude has a thousand questions. More now than he'd had earlier. A thousand and one, he thinks, since Erling never did answer his original one. Not verbally, at least, or meaningfully.
It's not worth it to ask again, ask more. He knows Erling isn't one for talking, and would instead find a new way to take Jude apart with his body, distract him until he forgets what he was even questioning.
The self-awareness spares him none. He willingly wanders into the snare every time. Glowing, blinking warning signs begging him not to: turn back now and save what's left of your dignity.
It's hard to let the guilt eat at him now, heart and ass full to bursting. Erling presses a kiss to his forehead, and Jude lets his eyes flutter closed. Taking in the moment for eternity and a breath.
It doesn't matter if Erling likes him, he decides.
He's here, and that's enough.