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The morning sun bled through the heavy velvet curtains of Room 304, casting long, golden slats of light across the tangled mess of limbs and expensive linens. Jude woke slowly, the heavy, delicious fog of sleep still clinging to his mind. For a moment, he simply lay there, basking in the warmth of the massive, muscular body pressed against his back. The ache in his hips was a constant, pulsing reminder of the night before, but it was a good ache a grounding, physical proof that the last twelve hours hadn't been a fever dream. He felt Erling’s breath, warm and steady, against the nape of his neck, and the sheer comfort of it made him want to melt into the mattress and never move again.
But the "talk" they had promised themselves was proving to be an impossible feat. Every time Jude tried to shift to say something meaningful about their future, Erling would respond by nuzzling into the sensitive curve of his shoulder or dragging a heavy, calloused hand down the length of Jude’s stomach. The conversation was dying in their throats, smothered by a renewed, frantic hunger that seemed to have only intensified with the daylight. "Erling..." Jude murmured, his voice a sleepy, raspy thread as he turned in the blonde man's arms. "We really should... we need to figure out... ah!" He was cut off as Erling’s mouth descended on his, the kiss lacking any morning gentleness and instead possessing a ravenous, midday ferocity.
The "talk" was officially abandoned in favor of a chaotic, desperate scramble to get naked again. If the night before was a reclamation, this was an exploration. Their hands were everywhere, mapping out the terrain of each other's bodies with a feverish intensity. Erling traced the hard lines of Jude's abdomen, his thumbs dipping into the shallow divots of his hips, while Jude explored the terrifyingly vast expanse of Erling's chest, his fingers trembling as they brushed over the thick muscles. The air in the room quickly became stifling, thick with the scent of arousal and the frantic sounds of skin slapping against skin. They were moving with a manic energy, a desperate need to consume one another that felt almost violent in its urgency.
As the heat climbed to a fever pitch, Jude found himself craving a different kind of pressure. As Erling hovered above him, his blue eyes dark and predatory, Jude reached up, his fingers wrapping around Erling's thick neck, pulling him down with a sudden, sharp tug. "Harder," Jude hissed against his lips, his eyes blown wide with a sudden, primal need. "Don't be gentle, Erling. Please." He realized, with a jolt of euphoric clarity, that the sensation of being overpowered, of feeling Erling's massive strength constricting his airway, sent a lightning bolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure straight to his core. He wanted to be held, gripped, and choked until he couldn't think of anything but the man above him.
Erling, already teetering on the edge of total sensory overload, took the hint with terrifying enthusiasm. He leaned into the sensation, his large hands sliding up to Jude’s throat, his fingers wrapping around the slender column of his neck. He felt the desperate, rhythmic pulse of Jude’s life force beneath his palms, and the sensation drove him into a frenzy. He began to squeeze, his grip tightening in sync with the frantic, driving thrusts of his hips. Jude was lost in a haze of pleasure, his head tossing back, his eyes rolling as the oxygen began to thin, the sensation of being choked sending him into a state of transcendental bliss. He felt invincible, held in the grasp of a god.
However, Erling was perhaps a little too caught up in the moment. In the height of his climax, as his muscles coiled and his vision blurred with pure, animalistic ecstasy, his grip tightened instinctively not just a squeeze, but a full, crushing, "I am trying to swallow your entire head" kind of hold. Jude’s eyes suddenly went wide, not with pleasure, but with the "God, I'm actually going to meet you", sudden realization that he was actually, quite literally, seeing stars. His muffled, choked gasp was lost in the roar of Erling's own triumphant groan. The world tilted, the ceiling began to spin, and the last thing Jude saw before the darkness claimed him was Erling’s incredibly handsome, incredibly oblivious face.
The silence that followed was broken not by a romantic whisper, but by the frantic, panicked shouting of a man who had just realized he might have accidentally killed the world's most expensive midfielder. "Jude? Jude! Bellingham!" Erling yelled, his voice cracking as he realized Jude’s eyes were rolled back and his body had gone suspiciously limp. Right after Erling called the ambulance, the opulent quiet of the Four Seasons was shattered by the rhythmic, frantic shouting of hotel staff and the heavy, panicked footsteps of Erling Haaland, who was currently sprinting down the hallway in nothing but a discarded duvet, looking like a very muscular, very blonde, and very traumatized ghost.
The ride to the hospital was a blur of siren wails and Erling’s frantic, whispered apologies. As the paramedics maneuvered the stretcher through the sliding glass doors of the emergency entrance, a small swarm of onlookers including a few very confused club officials and a stray photographer began to gather. Erling, still wrapped in the white duvet like a frantic, muscular cocoon, felt his heart hammering against his ribs with more violence than it ever had during a Champions League final. He had to say something. He had to fix this. If the world found out he had nearly snuffed out the life of the golden boy of English football during a morning session of "exploration," his career was over, and Jude's reputation would be in shambles.
"It was a... a training accident!" Erling blurted out as a nurse approached them. His voice was an octave higher than usual, cracking pathetically. "A very, very intense... neck massage! Yes! Jude was just... he was very tense from the match, and we were practicing... specialized stretching techniques! Very advanced stuff! High performance stuff!" He looked at the nurse with wide, pleading eyes, his hands gesturing wildly to his own massive neck as if to say, "look how strong these hands are, they are meant for stretching, not strangling!" The nurse gave him a look of pure, unadulterated skepticism, but she didn't have time to argue as they rushed Jude into the trauma bay.
Inside the sterile, brightly lit room, Jude was the center of a whirlwind of medical activity. A nurse was quickly fitting a clear plastic oxygen mask over his face, the cool, concentrated air rushing into his lungs with a rhythmic hiss whoosh that felt like heaven. As the oxygen hit his bloodstream, the terrifying darkness began to recede, replaced by a dizzying, euphoric lightheadedness. He felt floaty, as if he were drifting on a cloud of pure bliss. He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes still a little glazed, and a slow, lopsided grin spread across his face. His throat ached with a dull, pulsing heat, and his neck felt like it had been caught in a vice, but as he felt the life returning to his limbs, a singular, delirious thought echoed in his mind: God, that was so worth it.
Erling was practically vibrating with anxiety as he hovered at the edge of the curtain, refusing to let the doctors push him away. "Is he okay? Is his airway stable? Does he need a specialized neck brace for his... stretching injuries?" he asked, his voice a frantic whisper. Every time a doctor poked or prodded at Jude, Erling winced as if he were the one being examined. He was sweating profusely, his mind racing to invent more plausible lies. Maybe we can say he had a sudden bout of vertigo? No, the neck marks are too obvious. A sudden laryngeal spasm caused by... by a very vigorous yawn? The sheer absurdity of his own lies was making his head spin.
"He's fine, Mr. Haaland," the doctor said, sounding remarkably exhausted for someone who had just treated a world class athlete for near asphyxiation. "His oxygen levels are stabilizing beautifully thanks to the therapy. It seems he just had a very... forceful... compression of the carotid artery. It's rare, but not unheard of in... high intensity environments." The doctor glanced pointedly at Erling, who was currently trying to hide his face behind the edge of the duvet. "We'll keep him for observation to ensure there's no swelling, but he seems remarkably... happy... for someone who just lost consciousness."
Jude, hearing the word happy, let out a muffled, bubbly giggle behind the oxygen mask. The sensation of the air rushing into his lungs was intoxicating, making him feel invincible. He caught Erling’s eye through the gap in the curtains Erling looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, his blonde hair a chaotic mess and his eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. Jude wanted to reach out and pull him close, to tell him that the "stretching" had been the best moment of his life, but for now, he just settled for a cheeky, lidded wink. He watched Erling struggle to maintain a "professional" composure while looking like a man who had just survived a shipwreck, and Jude decided that, yes, the paramedics, the oxygen, and the looming scandal were a very small price to pay for such a spectacular morning.
Feeling ever so mischievous, Jude took out his phone and took a quick selfie of himself. Content with how he looks, he decided to post it on his insta story with no caption, no music, nothing. Gotta let them wonder.
