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His boots dig into the turf, scraping and taking chunks out with how aggressively he’s walking but he doesn’t care. A long blond strand falls in front of his face but he sweeps it backwards, trying to unpin his hardened eyebrows. It feels like this facial expression is permanently plastered on him.
Ødegaard tries to ask him if he’s okay, placing his hand on his right shoulder but he shrugs him off, heading directly for the changing rooms. He’s not bothered about anything else, not his teammates asking him why he left the field, not Stolbakken shouting in his ear, all he cares about is that smell.
God, that smell.
Thickening, consuming. Lime and cinnamon flood into his bloodstream and brain, coating him with sweat and desperation to taste it, to taste him.
The door slams closed just as quickly as he slammed it open; he can’t see Jude yet, just a mirror in the changing room facing him, forcing him to take in his own appearance. His hair is fucked, sporadic blond flailing everywhere and his cheeks are red and splotchy, with his mouth slightly parted, like he’s preparing to push his tongue through the gap and taste what he’s craving.
Fuck, he thinks. Erling Haaland, a mess for Jude Bellingham. This isn’t him. He blinks and turns away from the mirror. The changing room is empty except for the thick aroma that brought him here in the first place, all of the doors are locked until he reaches the final one, and a towel he knows as Jude’s is thrown over the top.
With his width and height, he’s practically the size of the door, and he knows Jude can feel his presence, he can hear the younger man’s breathing pick up. Jude can probably smell him too, lemon and cedar blending with the omega’s own scent.
“…Erling?”
He closes his eyes and savours the way Jude sounds saying his name, weakened and small.
The lock clicks and he moves forward, pushing it open to reveal Jude, curled up on the changing room bench with his kit on the floor, sweat dripping off his toned torso. The only thing still clinging to him are his boxer shorts and socks, and the fragrance surrounding him. Erling takes in an unnoticeable deep breath, trying to ingest as much of the boy as possible.
“Mate,” he coos, moving to massage Jude’s shoulder.
“Your heat is early?” He asks.
Jude nods at him, huffing at himself. He looks frustrated, genuine annoyance is in his face. Haaland sympathises with him, regardless of the fact they’re supposed to be playing against each other at this very moment, he knows this is important to him, he’s been worked up about it all week.
“I’m so pissed off.” Jude mumbles.
Now that he’s here, he doesn’t even know how to continue. Before, he felt compelled to come and help his friend, like he was being dragged on a leash of citrus and spice and couldn’t stop himself, but now he’s frozen, stood in front of his best friend and at a complete loss for words.
Jude shifts on the spot and clenches his thighs, gripping his hands against the wood from the bench. He makes a strangled sort of sound before throwing his head backwards against the wall, closing his eyes and swallowing harshly, as though he’s trying to compose himself. Haaland stares shamelessly at him, trying to look away but his chest is heaving and his neck is sweaty and he just wants to devour him. He drags his eyes all over the boy, taking in every part he never let himself take in before.
And then, he spots it.
A wet patch sits right on the middle area of Jude’s boxers.
It’s been years of their friendship, years of expressed admiration and repressed desperation, years of wanting and never having. Something— whatever it is— has stopped him this whole time, but he wants so badly to take away all of Jude’s discomfort. To make him tremble.
Jude’s eyes are still closed, but Erling’s are wide open, practically bulging as he tries and happily fails to rip his eyes away from his friend's cock through the fabric. He doesn’t even realise he’s moved forward until he’s lowering himself onto his knees, dark blue socks muffling the smack sound they make against the tile floor.
“Dude— Haaland..?”
“Jude.” He says firmly.
From this angle, the height difference shows itself. Whilst Jude isn’t exactly small, he’s still basically face-to-face with his friend, whose elbows are behind him, propping him up, and his eyes are fixated on Erling’s.
“I want to help you.”
“It’s fine,” Jude says, unconvincingly. “I can just fake an injury during training.”
He reaches upward, pinching the waistband of Jude’s maroon boxers and slowly pulling them down, waiting for the younger man to disapprove, waiting for him to storm out of here and never speak to him again. He finds his own actions becoming uncontrollable, both of their dense scents swirling in the air, and it’s suddenly suffocatingly addictive to bathe in Jude’s pheromones.
He pulls them down in one quick motion, and immediately becomes dizzy with the vision. He’s dripping in slick, coating the creases between his thighs and the length of his cock, he’s practically swimming in it, thick drops falling and forming a small puddle.
“Oh.” He whispers, swallowing down the saliva that pours into his mouth.
“That’s embarrassing.” Jude whimpers, covering his face with his hands and hiding.
Erling doesn’t think it’s embarrassing at all. Suppressants fall short all of the time, who would he be if he didn’t help his friend. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, whilst his hands settle on Jude’s bare thighs, caressing them and squeezing the muscles, eliciting a groan from the younger man.
It’s almost quiet, Jude’s small grunts cut through the silence as he stares down at Haaland expectantly and waits.
“Is this g’na change anything?” Jude slurs, breathing rapid and thighs damp.
“No.” He responds. “Friends, yes?”
“Yeah mate, ‘cause this is what friends do.” Jude quips.
“Do you want my help?”
It gives him a second to respond, maybe it’s the tension, the nerves that swim through them, but eventually he sighs, nodding at the older man. Haaland’s mouth curls into a grin and he takes a deep breath before leaning forwards towards Jude’s cock. He licks a stripe from inside of Jude’s left thigh to the crease behind his knee, and peppers kisses back up, ending with a kiss to the base of his cock. The brunet’s eyebrows curl, matching his toes.
“God this is weird.” He says, strained and blush-ridden.
“Yeah.” Haaland agrees, but he doesn’t stop.
He parts his lips and envelopes the tip of Jude’s cock, running his tongue over the veins that are imprinted there and slowly lowering his head further down. The experience— or lack of it— doesn’t seem to bother Jude, whose hands are gripped tightly against the slats in the bench, teeth gritted and bearing.
The blond man takes it as a sign to continue, swallowing Jude down entirely until his lips pucker at the younger’s curled nest of pubes. His hands hook under Jude’s knees, lifting them so they sit on his broad shoulders and he can get a deeper angle.
Haaland’s own cock is tight and cramped against his football shorts, but he focuses on pleasuring his friend, adjusting himself and forming a half-rhythmic pace, bobbing his head.
“Oh, oh— that’s…yeah. That’s good, fuck.”
The younger’s hips buck upwards, he smiles around him at the enthusiasm.
Quietly, he takes his hand off of Jude’s thigh and uses his short fingernails to scrape lines on the back of the boy’s leg, hoping the sensation adds to his enjoyment. Based on his twitching and high-pitched whine, he thinks it does. His mouth is filled with a mix of his own saliva and Jude’s wetness, making a squelching sound each time his friend's cock hits the back of his throat, it’s nice, he decides. It’s nice to please his friend.
He takes his mouth off of Jude with a small satisfying pop sound accompanying it, nothing in comparison to the unhappy whine of protest the younger one makes at the lack of touch, though. He grips Jude’s thighs and pulls him forward so his ass is just off the bench, and spreads his legs, bringing two of his fingers towards Jude’s mouth.
“Huh?”
“You need to suck. It won’t feel good if my fingers aren’t wet enough.” He says, tone casual as ever, as he gives the brunet an expectant look.
He pokes at Jude’s lips, encouraging the boy to open up, and he does, wetting them with his tongue and lapping up the sweat and dirt that is still remnant from a day of training. For a moment they stay there, covered in each other's scents and mutually aware that there isn’t any going back now.
Not that they want to.
Jude pulls off the blond’s fingers, spitting the last of his saliva over the tips of them and letting it drip down, before he catches his breath and wipes his forehead, drenched in sweat.
His legs spread almost naturally, but Haaland still gives the younger man some encouragement, nudging them open fully with his spare hand. Slowly, he rubs his thumb and fingers together, spreading the wetness. He spares a glance at Jude whose eyes are glossy and transfixed on him, nodding nervously.
Jude is obviously desperate, it shows in his harsh breathing, how his chest heaves and how the older man feels like he can physically hear his heart pounding. It shows in other ways, too, like how when he looks down, Jude’s hole is soaked, practically pulsing and pushing out more slick the longer he’s observed.
He brings a thick finger to prod at him, making a circle motion with the tip and jotting mental notes on how Jude reacts to certain pressure points and movements. Like he’s a new technique that the blond just needs to master.
“Can you fucking hurry up?” Jude heaves, face a brighter red than the socks he still has on.
“Impatient.” He mutters, not giving Jude a chance to respond before pressing his finger tentatively into him.
It’s an odd sensation, he’s so tight. His finger is immediately clamped down by tense and wet walls. He watches, intrigued, as his middle finger disappears into his best friend, until he’s knuckle deep and Jude’s attitude is gone, replaced with high-pitched hoarse moans.
“Good?” He asks.
“Yes, yes. Fuck, wow.”
With no reason to stop, he gently brings his finger back towards himself, stopping just before it’s removed completely, and pushes it back in again. In, and out, in, and out, until he decides to curl the tip upwards on one thrust and Jude’s head thrashes back, moans echoing throughout the empty changing room.
Jude is panting above him, debauched, stammering random words of appreciation mixed with the occasional curse. He’s got a death grip on the bench but he breaks it to reach down and grab himself, palming his cock whilst the blond continues to finger fuck him.
“Another…please pl’se, another one.” He groans, eyes shut tight and mouth parted in an ‘o’ shape.
He drags his finger so just the tip remains inside, and slots his pointer finger next to his middle one, using Jude’s slick to manoeuvre both inside of the boy, knuckle deep. He continues fingering him, simultaneously watching him desperately use his own hand as a fleshlight. Both digits seem to push him further to his orgasm, Haaland watches as the younger’s hole clasps around his fingers and leaks onto them with each thrust. He smiles at his friend uncoiling beneath him, by his own hands.
Leaning down, he removes Jude’s hand from his cock, replacing it with his own mouth. He flattens his tongue beneath the tip, and continues the same pace he had before, swallowing Jude down and humming around him, smirking at the grunt he makes. He alternates between thrusting inside of him when his mouth is at the top of his cock, and curling his fingers when he deepthroats him.
“Gonna come, I— babe I’m gonna come.” Jude pleas.
“Mm.” Haaland hums, agreeing non-verbally against his friend's cock.
He twitches in his mouth and his thighs start to tense, squeezing against the blond’s head in small pulses. His hole starts to convulse against his fingers, moving faster than they have been to try and help Jude come. And he does, quickly, bursts of liquid coating Erling’s tongue and his throat, hole clenching around him tightly. His sinuses are filled to the brim, cum and slick and pure odour all from his friend quivering beneath him.
He removes his fingers agonisingly slowly, only once Jude starts to beg him for release, but he doesn’t swallow the cum still pooled in his mouth, he swirls it around, staring up at Jude whose head is against the wall and mouth is wide open, like an invitation.
He mounts Jude, placing his right knee on the bench, and on a whim, he grabs his friend's chin with his hand, thumbing at his bottom lip. Instinctively, Jude opens even wider, probably expecting anything but what he gets.
Haaland places his mouth over the younger’s, pursing his lips and letting the cum drop into Jude’s mouth, watching as he realises what’s happening, his eyes widen and he whimpers beneath him, but his grip gets tighter on his chin until the last drop is shared, and he uses his other hand to manually close Jude’s mouth himself. He raises his eyebrows at the brunet.
“Swallow.” He says.
Jude swallows. Of course he swallows.
They sit in their charged silence, so close that they can smell each other's sweat and scents and so close that they could probably kiss, if they wanted, but they’re friends. Haaland leans back slowly, lifting himself to his feet and staring down at Jude with a blank expression. He smiles slightly at the sight that greets him, a usual strong exterior now wet and relaxed and completely depraved beneath him.
“Good?” He asks.
“No, my cum tastes fucking rank,” Jude says, before breaking into a giggle. “Bit unexpected from you that was.”
He knows that…but what else are friends for?