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It makes sense, doesn’t it? To love someone so entirely that you find yourself learning the parameters of a world you’ve never had to navigate for a single day. The way an omega in football shoulders the malice of a stadium, every tackle, every clearance reduced to biology, their right to the shirt questioned before the whistle even blows.
And even worse, navigating the condescension that comes with being a Black footballer—not just having your biology weaponised against you, but the amplified racism that comes with your skin. The media never finds a truth to hold. One moment you’re the fragile figure they pin on omegas, the next you’re the reckless threat they project onto Blackness. They can’t decide if you’re arrogant or meek, passionate or petulant—only that you must always be something less, something wrong.
Erling’s been with Jude long enough to know the exact shape of those boxes. He’s seen the double standards play out across headlines and studio debates; where his own white alpha‑ness is praised as focus and dedication, his mistakes brushed off as a temporary blip, a single poor performance from Jude is treated as a moral failure. A stain. Proof that he’d cracked under the pressure—an excuse to say he never belonged at the top at all.
So it must make sense that one day, when said omega came back home from an intense, bruising match against Real Mallorca, the shift began in the dark.
The match was a bloodbath. Son Moix is always a bear pit, but that night the air stank of something rotten, hostility thick enough to choke the stadium. Jude ran himself into the ground, ninety minutes of lung‑bursting runs. Kicks to the ankles, elbows to the ribs. He kept going.
The vitriol from the stands wasn’t even aimed at him this time. It was hurled at his teammates—men he cared for, brothers who, no matter the alpha biology the sport worships, still had to swallow the same vile treatment. Watching them take it, hearing the chants echo down from the terraces, cut Jude just as deep.
So, Erling had flown into Madrid early, using a rare two‑day break in his own training just to be there when Jude got back. He was ready to catch him at the door, to let him burn through the anger. He’d expected the fury, the venting about how unfair it all was—because it was unfair.
And when Jude had finally stumbled through the door, he looked every bit as shattered as Erling had anticipated.
“I feel weird,” the omega had whispered, before he dropping his forehead against Erling’s chest. He was still damp with sweat, his kit bag sliding off his shoulder and thudding onto the floor. And his scent… Jude usually smelled like a constant mix of rain‑soaked earth and crisp Midland autumn air, but that night it was drowned out now by a sour, flat astringency of exhaustion.
And underneath it, something else. Faint. Like the clean, pillowy sweetness of baby powder and warm skin. Frighteningly domestic.
Erling had held him, rubbing soothing circles into Jude’s tense back, assuming it was just the crash after the adrenaline, the lingering sting of the abuse from the stands. But by morning the ‘weirdness’ hadn’t faded. It had embraced him instead, holding on so tight Jude could barely keep his eyes open, looking even worse than he had the night before. There was a fragile softness in the way he curled into the blankets, something unfamiliar that made Erling’s instincts stir. He kept his mouth shut, but the thought gnawed at him anyway.
Christ, is he—no way he’s…
And he’d had a bad feeling then, all the way to the pharmacy. Because you don’t just walk into a farmacia in the middle of Madrid when you’re Jude Bellingham. You don’t just grab an omega-repro kit off the shelf when your face is plastered across three sports dailies every single morning, grinning or grimacing depending on the headline. So Erling had pulled a dark hoodie low over his eyes, a face mask up despite the heat, and walked three neighbourhoods over to a quiet residential area where the old ladies didn’t know a La Liga player from a hole in the wall and nobody gave a second look to a hooded alpha buying things that felt too significant to be tucked into a paper bag.
The pharmacist was a no-nonsense Beta woman, reading glasses perched on her nose, and she didn’t so much as twitch when Erling set the digital tests down. She scanned them through like she did this a dozen times a shift—terrified teenagers, furtive omegas, alphas who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. Erling’s hands shook when he counted out the euros. He shoved the bag into his jacket pocket like it was evidence, like if anyone saw it the whole city would know and sprinted all the way back home.
And then… the bathroom floor.
Jude sat there, his long legs folded awkwardly against the tiles, arms wrapped tight around himself, his scent frayed with anxiety. So uncharacteristically fearful, the sight made Erling’s chest ache.
“Did you find it?” Jude’s voice was lost, uncertain. “The... you know.”
“Yeah.” Erling crouched down and held up the plastic bag. “Got a few.”
“A few?”
“I wanted to be sure.”
Jude’s laugh was shaky. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.” Erling pressed his forehead against Jude’s knee for a fleeting second before looking up. “Come. Let’s do this together.”
And of course, every single indicator came back positive. What else could they really expect when they’d both been so reckless? When Erling himself had let his rut-brain completely override their senses, knotting Jude at the very peak of his heat cycle without a single thought for heat-suppressants or emergency pills. It was the natural conclusion to an oversight they’d both chosen to ignore.
Looking at the proof lined up on the porcelain, Erling felt the initial hit of shock dissolve into a suffocating, sickening wave of guilt. Jude was silent beside him, his gaze fixed on the tests, his expression unreadable. Not afraid, not happy, just... thinking. Turning it over. And in the quiet, Erling could almost hear the question forming behind his eyes—what have I done? What have we done?
Erling knew. He knew exactly what this meant for Jude, the painful cost of it. Fighting tooth and nail to dismantle every stereotype thrown at him, tearing down the barriers attached to every single one of his identities just to earn his place on the pitch. And now this—a small screen, two words glowing up at them like a threat—could take it all away.
And Erling had the words on the tip of his tongue.
We could—we don’t have to—fuck, Jude, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.
“I—”
But Jude had cut him off with a laugh.
A familiar laugh that Erling had heard a hundred times before—laughter that meant Jude had been caught off guard, that his mind was still racing to catch up with whatever had just landed in his lap. It was the laugh he did when an opponent tried to get in his face and he just found the sheer audacity of it hilarious, when the pressure got too high and the only thing his body could do was make a sound and hope it meant something. It was a laugh that said, Of course. Of course this is what happens next.
Not a laugh of defeat, no. Jude had never known how to lose. It was closer to acceptance, like he’d already started turning the moment over in his head, tracing the edges of it, working out how he might move through whatever this was.
“Well,” Jude had whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he reached up with a sweat-stained wrist to loop his fingers into Erling’s shirt and pulling the big Norwegian down until their foreheads pressed together on the cold tile floor. “I guess we’re going to have to give them something real to talk about, aren’t we?”
Then came the families.
And Jesus, they were furious. Real anger that didn’t fizzle out after a few minutes. Anger that came from watching your kids make a really stupid decision that could cost them everything. Erling’s mother had smacked him so hard his ears rang, her hand connecting with the back of his head like she was trying to knock some sense into him. “You couldn’t have been more careful?” she’d demanded in Norwegian, her voice shivering with the worry she was trying to hide behind anger. “You couldn’t have thought about what this would mean?”
Jude’s mother had done the same, the moment they’d slid the ultrasound across the table, and she’d seen two heartbeats instead of one. She had reached over and clipped her son on the ear, muttering something smart about sons who had all the talent in the world and absolutely none of the sense to go with it.
And their clubs. Erling won’t get into that. Not the statement about ‘chronic tendonitis’ that fooled exactly no one, the way it all fell apart when Jude’s bump started showing, when the rumours became headlines and the headlines became front pages and suddenly the whole world knew what they’d been trying so desperately to hide.
Think-piece after think-piece, each one more sanctimonious than the last. Columnists who’d never stepped foot on a pitch or the burn of a sprint, suddenly experts on what Jude’s body could and couldn’t handle. Then came the online comments—the usual hateful bullshit from people who had never met him, never watched him live, and never seen the way he made the hardest plays look like standard training drills.
Omega footballer side-lines career with unplanned pregnancy.
Bellingham’s recklessness costs England their star midfielder.
Is this the end of the Jude Bellingham era?
Erling stopped reading them after the third day. Jude never even started. It was like he knew, instinctively, that he had to protect more than himself now—because he could take the criticism. He’d been taking it his whole life, had built his career on proving people wrong. He could handle the think‑pieces, the hot takes, every endless dissection of his body and his choices. But this time was different. There was something else to protect.
Seven months down the line, and Erling is bloody text-book grateful for the international break. It gives them these slow, quiet mornings together where nothing outside their walls matters. When their families fly in, the house gets loud and crowded in the best way possible—just pure warmth and affection everywhere. It’s everything Erling loved about growing up, but ten times better because it’s theirs. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Except maybe this—the muted elation that they’re a month from meeting their kids. Thirty days. The exact same thirty days Jude had been pregnant when they sat frozen on that cold bathroom floor in Madrid, scared shitless of a future that’s become everything they didn’t know they were waiting for.
Outside, the morning sun is weak, just a thin slice of gold trying to bleed through the Manchester fog and spilling watery across windows. Out there, the rest of the world is moving exactly how it’s supposed to. But in here? In this room? None of that exists. The noise just fades out. Time’s just... stopped.
Erling wakes up first. He always does these days. He lies still for a moment, listening to the heavy, slightly congested breathing of the omega beside him. He knows, with absolute certainty, that he has less than five minutes before Jude follows him. At seven months pregnant, Jude’s bladder has its own internal, highly aggressive alarm clock.
Sure enough, the mattress groans. Jude stirs, letting out a low, deeply irritated grumble into the pillows. Without opening his eyes, he bats a heavy arm blindly across the sheets, aiming a weak swat at Erling’s chest simply because his partner is awake and capable of moving without carrying an extra twenty pounds of human life.
“Fucking hate you,” Jude mumbles, his Brummie accent thick and gravelly with sleep. “Hate your knot. Hate your tall genes.”
Erling huffs a quiet laugh, leaning over to press a soft, lingering kiss to Jude’s warm forehead, right between his furrowed brows, before sliding out of bed. “Go pee, skatt. I’ll make breakfast.”
The kitchen’s warm with steam and morning light. Erling’s making tilslørte bondepiker—layers of sweetened apples, clouds of cream, and toasted crumbs. His mother insisted it would ease the heartburn that came with twins, and with Jude a month out from his due date, officially moved to Manchester now, Erling’s been making sure the pantry’s full of everything she recommends.
He’s finishing the cream layer when he hears the shuffle of slippers behind him.
Jude appears in the doorway, looking like he hasn’t slept in a week, and still Erling thinks he’s never seen anything so devastatingly beautiful. He’s in his usual uniform—tiny black tights that leave fuck-all to the imagination, and one of Erling’s old City shirts, the fabric stretched to breaking over his belly, riding up to expose the smooth, bronze curve of his underbelly. The shirt’s a ghost of something Erling used to wear, the Sky Blue faded from too many washes, the collar stretched from Jude pulling it over his head a hundred times. It clings to him like it’s trying to hold on, trying to cover him, but it’s losing. It’s been losing for months. The whole lower curve of his belly is bare, warm and dark in the morning light, the stretch marks catching silver as he moves.
Gorgeous. Absolutely, impossibly gorgeous.
Jude rubs sleep from his eyes, shuffling into the kitchen like he owns it—because he does, because he owns everything, because he’s carrying their twins and wearing Erling’s t-shirt and looking at him through tired eyes like Erling’s the only thing in the world that matters.
He props his hip against the counter, resting his crossed arms right on top of his bump like a shelf. The movement makes the club crest on the shirt warp comically.
“Smells like a bakery in here,” he comments, dark eyes tracking Erling’s movements. His scent fills the room—rain-damp earth and Midland autumn, layered now with the unmistakable milkiness of an omega in the final stretch.
Erling inhales and feels his chest go loose in a pure, protective rush of satisfaction.
“For the heartburn,” he says, scooping a massive portion into a bowl and handing it over with a spoon. “My mother says the apples help.”
Jude takes a bite, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a soft, appreciative moan. “Tell Mamma I love her and that she’s the only intelligent member of your family.”
“Hey.” Erling steps closer, reaching out to gently cup the exposed skin of Jude’s underbelly. The skin is burning hot, tight as a drum, and beneath his palm, a sudden, rippling flutter indicates that the inhabitants are awake. “They are active today.”
“They’re always active when you’re around. Little football hooligans, the pair of them,” Jude grumbles, though he leans into Erling’s touch, his head dropping against Erling’s shoulder. “I feel like a human stadium. They’re just doing box-to-box drills on my ribs.”
“Just practicing their positioning,” Erling whispers, his lips brushing Jude’s cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Excellent spatial awareness.”
Jude laughs, the sound muffled against Erling’s chest. “You’re insufferable, aren’t you? Couch. Now. I’m going to die.”
Jude doesn’t so much walk to the living room as he does migrate, a lumbering, heavy-footed shuffle that ends with him collapsing onto the plush cushions with a dramatic, winded groan. The bowl of tilslørte bondepiker is balanced precariously on the highest curve of his belly.
Erling follows a second later, bringing the TV remote and a mug of decaf tea. He doesn’t sit next to Jude on the cushions. Instead, he drops onto the carpet, slotting himself between Jude’s knees like it’s muscle memory now.
It’s a routine they’ve fallen into over the last few weeks. Jude’s belly has officially gotten too big for him to comfortably lean forward and reach Erling, but down here on the floor, Erling is perfectly positioned.
Almost instantly, Jude’s free hand drops into Erling’s long, loose blonde hair. His fingers tangle in the strands, twirling them absentmindedly, his palm dragging across the sensitive skin at the nape of the alpha’s neck. Jude leans back, inhaling deeply as he guides a spoon to his mouth.
The room’s thick with him now—Jude’s scent. It’s so potent Erling’s inner alpha is pressing against his ribs, completely satisfied.
On the screen is a past Champions League match—Manchester City versus Borussia Dortmund, Etihad Stadium.
“Bloody hell, look at you,” Jude says, nudging Erling’s shoulder with his toes as the footage shows them on the pitch. “Absolute merchant of chaos, you were. Look at that stride—ran like your life depended on it and still couldn’t get past me in the first half.”
“It was a difficult match,” Erling defends, soft and comfortable as he watches his younger self try to shake off a relentless Jude on the pitch. “You were tracking me everywhere. I had no space. You were very annoying.”
“I was brilliant,” Jude corrects without a shred of modesty, his fingers dragging smoothly through Erling’s hair. “Completely had you in my pocket. Go on, admit it. You didn’t know what to do with me.”
Erling huffs a laugh, his broad shoulders shifting against Jude’s inner thighs. He turns his head slightly, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss right where the faded scar of his mating bite curves against his skin. Jude twitches, a sudden spike of sweet, pleased heat blooming in his scent.
Erling looks up at Jude upside down. “I think I was distracted. It was your pheromones. You smelled too good on the pitch, so I let you win the ball.”
Jude immediately hooks his fingers into Erling’s hair, giving it a sharp, warning tug that makes Erling’s grin widen. “Don’t you dare start reducing my defensive masterclass to biology, Erling Haaland. Cheeky bastard. I intercepted that pass on pure reading of the game, thank you very much.”
“Ah, yes,” Erling chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “My apologies for my omega-phobia. It was all tactical genius, of course.”
Jude lets go of his hair with a smirk, scooping another spoonful of apples. “Exactly. Glad you’ve finally seen sense. Anyway, you need to let me learn how to do those Viking braids on you. They always look good, and I need something to do with my hands since I’m stuck on this bloody couch all day.”
“Maybe we should get a cat,” Erling adds, entirely out of nowhere.
Jude chokes slightly on a bite of his apples, letting out an incredulous laugh that shakes his entire bump. “A cat? Mate, slow the fuck down. We already got ahead of ourselves and now we’re having two actual tiny terrors in less than a month, and you want to add a feline to the mix?”
“It would be peaceful,” Erling reasons, grinning against as he presses a warm kiss right to the centre Jude’s of the bump, whispering to the fabric. “Hear that, little ones? Your daddy thinks you are enough trouble already.”
“Don’t undermine my authority to the belly,” Jude warns, even as his hand returns to Erling’s hair, his thumb softly stroking the alpha’s cheekbone.
“Don’t listen to him, Sigrid,” Erling whispers, his lips brushing the stretched fabric. “Don’t listen to him, Kygo. Pappa will get you a cat.”
Jude groans, his fingers tightening in Erling’s hair. “I’ve told you, we are not naming our children after Norwegian DJs and your childhood pet. The little terrors are not farm animals.”
“They’re strong names. Good Viking names.”
“Pfft. They’re not Viking names. Kygo is a DJ. Sigrid is—" Jude pauses, his spoon hovering mid-air. “Actually, Sigrid’s alright. But Kygo? Absolutely not. He’ll get bullied.”
“He’ll be tall,” Erling counters, his voice muffled against Jude’s belly. “No one will bully him.”
And he doesn’t say it aloud, but the thought crosses his mind—anyone who tried would have to go through him first. And if they got past him? Jude would already be there, all protective fury and clenched fists, ready to tear them apart with his bare hands. His omega who doesn’t back down from a fight. And with their kids involved? He’d be unstoppable.
“He’ll be tall and called Kygo. That’s worse. That’s like being tall and called—I don’t know—Kjell.”
Erling’s smile softens at the way Jude’s tongue wraps around the Norwegian name, the sharp kj sound coming out almost perfectly, the way he’s learned to say it over the years. It’s the same way Jude says tusen takk when Erling’s mother sends care packages, the same way he calls Erling brusjan when he’s being particularly ridiculous, all teasing affection wrapped in a language that isn’t his. He’s learned it all, absorbed it piece by piece, folded Erling’s world into his own like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
They have woven themselves into each other so completely that there’s no untangling them now.
“Kjell is a fine name.”
Jude’s spoon clatters against the bowl as he gestures emphatically. “No it isn’t. You’re not naming my child Kjell.”
“Our child.”
Jude narrows his eyes, a familiar stubborn set to his jaw. “Our child, who I am carrying, who is currently using my bladder as a football, will not be named Kjell.”
Erling presses another kiss to Jude’s belly, grinning against the warm fabric, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Fine. No Kjell. But Kygo stays.”
“Erling.”
“Kygo.”
Jude laughs then, a full-bellied thing that shakes through his whole body and makes the bowl on his belly wobble dangerously. “You’re an absolute menace, you know that? I’m not growing two humans just to name them after Eurovision rejects.”
Erling doesn’t even blink. “Eurovision is very popular in Norway,” he says, entirely serious, his pale eyes sparkling with barely contained mirth.
“That’s not the flex you think it is, sir,” Jude shoots back, but he’s smiling, his free hand still stroking through Erling’s hair, thumb tracing the shell of his ear with absent, infinite tenderness.
Erling turns his head fully, pressing his cheek against the warm curve of Jude’s belly, looking up at him with those knowing, grey eyes. “You love me.”
“I tolerate you,” Jude corrects, the word drawled and teasing. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Erling asks.
“Absolutely. I tolerate you because you make good breakfast and you’re good with your hands.”
Erling’s eyebrows shoot up, a grin spreading across his face. “I’m good with my hands?”
Jude’s grin turns sly, dark eyes glinting with mischief. “You are. You make a mean tilslørte bondepiker.”
Erling laughs, the sound vibrating against Jude’s belly. The twins shift in response, a flurry of movement against his cheek—tiny kicks and rolls, the unmistakable sensation of life stirring beneath his skin.
“See?” Erling murmurs, pressing his lips to the fabric. “They agree with me. They want a cat.”
“They’re not agreeing with you,” Jude says, his voice thick with fond exasperation.
Erling twists then, rising up on his knees so he’s face to face with Jude. His omega is soft and warm and so impossibly beautiful it makes Erling’s ribs feel too small for his heart, makes his breath catch. Jude’s wrecked and exhausted and carrying Erling’s children, and Erling has never loved anything more.
He reaches up, cupping Jude’s face in his large palms, tilting his head just so. The gesture is gentle, reverent.
“Thank you,” he says, soft, his forehead resting against Jude’s. “For all of this. For them. For staying.”
Jude’s eyes soften. “Where else would I go?”
“Don’t know... anywhere.” Erling’s thumb traces the curve of Jude’s cheekbone. “You could go anywhere. You could have done anything. But you stayed here. With me.”
“I thought it was an unwritten rule—you and I are obsessed with one another.”
Erling laughs and presses his lips to Jude’s forehead, then his temple, then the corner of his mouth, each kiss a careful, reverent thing.
“I love you,” he says, because he can’t not say it. Because it’s the only thing that matters.
Jude laughs—the soft, familiar laugh that means he’s been caught off guard but doesn’t mind. “I know.”
“I love you,” Erling says again, because he needs to. Because he’ll never get tired of it, because the words feel like they’ll never be enough.
Jude reaches up, his fingers curling into the collar of Erling’s shirt, pulling him closer until their breath mingles. “I love you too, you ridiculous giant,” he whispers. “Now kiss me.”
Erling does. He kisses Jude slow and soft, and the world outside their bubble doesn’t exist. It’s just this—Jude’s lips against his, Jude’s scent in his lungs, Jude’s belly pressed warm against his chest, their children stirring between them.
When they break apart, Jude’s smile is soft, his eyes half-lidded with contentment, his cheeks flushed with warmth. His hand finds Erling’s hair again, fingers threading through the long blonde strands.
“Alright,” Jude says, sinking back into the cushions. “Skip it back. I want to watch you get rinsed again.”
“It was one time,” Erling protests, dropping back onto the carpet between Jude’s knees, his broad shoulders fitting perfectly against Jude’s inner thighs.
“One beautiful time,” Jude says, foot prodding Erling’s shoulder. “Roll it back.”
Erling laughs, head tipping back against Jude’s knee, eyes on the screen. Dortmund in black and yellow, City in sky blue. The pixels of their past selves running across the pitch, Jude tracking him like a shadow—the way Erling always tracks Jude. Would follow him anywhere. Into anything.
Jude’s hand finds his hair. The twins roll against his spine. And Erling’s never been more certain of anything—nothing else matters. Hasn’t since Jude. And now their kids.