do people still do wip wednesday on this website? hopefully so lol. anyway, here's some haalingham fake dating setup that has consumed my every waking hour for the past week 🫣
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The pictures make The Sun in October, about a week before the Ballon D'or ceremony. Jude's dragging himself out of an ice bath at the Bernabéu when the family group chat starts going off like a firecracker. At first he thinks maybe Mum's sending more of those muscle recovery YouTube videos that have dominated her algorithm lately, so he wraps a towel around his waist, teeth chattering, and trudges back to his locker before he thumbs the thread open.
Mum: Jude, call me when you have a minute https://www.thesun.co.uk/sport/7025910
Jobe: ???
Jobe: oh shit
Jobe: tbh edges looking good tho bro
Mum: Jobe please
Jobe: what, im just sayin
Jobe: stop gatekeeping ur barber
When Jude clicks into the link, the bottom of his stomach drops out completely. He sinks down on the bench, biting at his thumbnail. Most of the rest of the squad has cleared out for the evening, licking their wounds after a tough 0-1 loss to Sevilla at home. It's just as well; he would rather be reacting to this without any prying eyes around. Honestly, he'd rather not be reacting to something like this at all. He's kicking himself for not being more careful, but it's a bit late for that. Cat's already out of the bag. Fuck.
They aren't the most damning photographs, but they aren't great either. He definitely doesn't love that the lurid article accompanying them (titled BI-LLINGHAM OR BELLINGAY?, two of the worst headline puns Jude has ever had the displeasure of witnessing) probably got caught in his mother's Google filters before he could see it. Based on the smoky quality of the air and the purple lighting, the photos had to have been taken just a few days ago, when they were in Manchester to play the Reds, and Jude was able to sneak away for a few hours. He hadn't seen any obvious pap, but that doesn't mean much these days. With Meta glasses and the like readily available, any Tom, Dick, or Harry could become a proper tabloid photographer just by strolling into the closest nightclub and glancing around.
They hadn't even slept together, is the thing. The Skarsgaard brother lookalike with the nice man-bun caught Jude's eye early in the evening, whilst he was sat at the bar laughing with some friends. Ten minutes later, he sidled over to Jude's cramped table in the back corner of the establishment with an easy grin and a pint in each hand for the both of them. "Sorry, can't," Jude said apologetically, but he'd smiled up at him anyway. "Beer doesn't quite work with my diet, I'm afraid."
The man raised his eyebrows and gave him an appreciative onceover that made the back of Jude's neck prickle pleasantly. "You don't look like the type that really needs to diet," he replied, then proceeded to chug both beers in quick succession, the long column of his throat bobbing smoothly, before coaxing Jude out onto the dance floor. Not that there was much coaxing needed, to be fair. The point is: Jude can't even say he'd been too drunk to know better. He was clear-eyed going into it, had thrown himself into the crush of bodies and willingly pressed closer when the man — what had his name been again? Soren? Stellan? Sven? Something like that. At any rate, Soren's big hands had come down to cradle Jude's arse, and one thing quickly led to another. The photos — three of them — capture the moment in grainy quality: Jude tilting his head to slide their mouths together, Jude reaching up to unfasten the tie holding the man-bun in place, Jude smiling as he turned his face slightly away, one hand tangled in golden strands of hair. If he'd been thinking about someone else's long blond tresses, that's nobody's business but his own.
Except, well, apparently a one-time encounter with a stranger is everyone's business now. It's obviously Jude, is the main problem. And the person he's kissing is very obviously male. Jude resists the temptation to do something stupid, like open Instagram or Twitter, and gingerly phones his mum.
I still wrestle with the catharsis of acting. I don’t end up playing a lot of likable characters, so I find myself living in a lot of unlikable skin. As a result of that I don’t always feel good. I get a lot more catharsis from taking pictures or painting or making short films. You have some control. I think all art—if it’s good—is a result of really trying to create something that you can’t put into words. Where language ends is where good art begins.
SO i actually went and checked this because i was SURE i had read winner's room fic from earlier
and i was right!
this series by gdgdbaby started as a fill for this hrpf kinkmeme prompt which was posted nov 3rd 2015!!! so there are certainly earlier instances of winner's room as a concept. that being said, none of these works actually take place in a winner's room and they don't seem to use the actual phrase "winner's room" as a term within the text - Snickfic still gets the credit there!!!
(and if you were wondering the fill is noah hanifin/unspecified vet)
Coachplayer. Coach x player. Coach in a sexual relationship with player. Coach with dubiously ethical but indisputably intimate and perhaps even romantic ties to his favorite player. Reblog if you agree
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