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The headlines had always loved Jude Bellingham.
Prodigy. Wonderkid. Midfield genius. England’s golden boy.
No matter what badge sat across his chest, Jude had always been the player everyone watched.
Well…Almost always.
There had been one exception.
Back in Dortmund. Back when Erling Haaland was there.
For the first time in his career, Jude wasn’t the biggest name on the pitch.
He was second.
It had driven him insane.
The first day they met had been a disaster. Jude thought Haaland was arrogant. Haaland thought Jude talked too much. Every training session turned into a competition, who could score the prettier goal, complete the better pass, get the louder applause from the coaching staff. If one stayed behind after practice, the other stayed even longer. If one celebrated, the other made sure everyone noticed them next.
Neither of them knew how to share a spotlight.
Their teammates had started taking bets on who would snap first.
Somehow, though, somewhere between late-night recovery sessions, endless away trips, and celebrating victories shoulder to shoulder, the rivalry softened.
The arguments became teasing. The teasing became inside jokes. The inside jokes became friendship. A friendship so effortless that people assumed they’d known each other for years.
Then one night, after Dortmund had stolen a dramatic Champions League victory, the city erupted into celebration.
Music poured from every bar, champagne flowed through the hotel, players stumbled around laughing louder than necessary.
Jude had slipped out onto the balcony for a moment of silence. He hadn’t expected Erling to follow him.
Neither of them remembered who had spoken first. Neither of them remembered what had been said.
They only remembered the kiss.
Quick and clumsy.
Followed by absolute silence.
By morning, they’d agreed it could never happen again.
Football was already difficult enough without tabloids inventing stories. Their careers were only beginning. They couldn’t risk becoming the story instead of the football.
So they buried it.
They remained teammates. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Then football did what football always does. It scattered them across Europe.
Transfers.
New clubs.
New countries.
New teammates.
Months turned into years.
No texts.
No calls.
No accidental run-ins.
It was as if Dortmund had existed in another lifetime.
___
Now it was the World Cup.
England versus Norway.
Bellingham versus Haaland.
The internet had decided long before kickoff that this was the match.
Every sports account posted split-screen edits.
Every analyst debated who would dominate.
Every newspaper printed the same headline in bold letters.
HAALAND VS BELLINGHAM.
It was impossible to escape.
Jude had seen his own face beside Erling’s so many times that week he was beginning to hate looking at himself.
Still…Something felt different today.
During warm-ups, he caught Erling looking at him.
Not once.
Not twice.
Constantly.
Every time Jude looked over, Erling would already be staring.
Then, without fail, a tiny blush would creep across his cheeks.
Barely noticeable.
Almost hidden beneath the stadium lights.
He’d smirk.
Then casually turn and walk the other direction like nothing had happened.
Jude frowned.
What was that?
Erling wasn’t exactly subtle, but he wasn’t awkward either.
Certainly not around Jude.
Not anymore.
The weirdest part wasn’t even the blushing.
It was that Erling kept checking his phone whenever nobody was looking.
Scrolling.
Smirking.
Locking the screen.
Then glancing back toward Jude.
Again.
And again.
Jude had never met anyone more chronically online than Erling Haaland.
If something ridiculous was trending, Erling knew about it within minutes.
If there was a meme, he’d seen it.
If football Twitter had decided to collectively lose its mind over something, Erling was probably laughing at it already.
Maybe he’d seen something Jude hadn’t.
A leaked lineup?
Some stupid edit?
An interview?
Whatever it was, Erling looked entirely too entertained.
Jude followed his gaze one last time.
Only…
Erling wasn’t looking at the pitch anymore.
He wasn’t looking at the England squad either.
His eyes kept drifting toward something-
Or…
Someone.
Jude couldn’t tell who.
And somehow, that bothered him far more than it should have.
_________
The stadium was a cauldron of noise, a vibrating mass of fans screaming for their respective nations. For Jude, the roar was nothing but white noise. His entire world had narrowed down to the towering, blonde presence of Erling Haaland.
Every time they crossed paths on the pitch, the air between them felt thick, charged with a static that had been building since their days in Dortmund.
Jude remembered the friction of those early months, the ego clashes, the fighting for the spotlight, and how that aggression had mutated into something far more dangerous.
He could still feel the phantom pressure of Erling’s lips against his, the desperate, hurried heat of that night after the win, and the cold, clinical agreement they had made to bury it for the sake of their legacies.
But as the match progressed, Jude noticed something off. Erling wasn't just playing; he was playing a game within a game. Every time their eyes locked, Erling didn’t look away with the professional indifference they had practiced. Instead, a faint, teasing flush crept up his neck, and a smug, knowing smirk played on his lips before he pivoted away, leaving Jude reeling.
What the fuck is he doing? Jude wondered, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Then came the substitution. Sitting on the bench for a few minutes, Jude’s eyes scanned the field, and he saw it.
Erling had stopped a player, not with a tackle, but in a way that looked far too intimate. From Jude's angle, it looked like Erling’s large hand was clamped firmly around the other man's waist, pulling him close.
A surge of hot, irrational jealousy ripped through Jude. He instinctively yanked his athletic jacket up, covering his eyes as if shielding himself from a crime.
He didn't want to see it.
He didn't want to see Erling touching someone else with the same possessiveness he had once reserved for him.
When the manager signaled for him to return to the field, Jude didn't just walk back on, he stormed. He played with a feral intensity, his movements sharp and aggressive. He was no longer playing for the trophy; he was playing to destroy the man who had once been his everything.
Erling noticed. He slowed his pace, his eyes widening as he watched Jude tear through the midfield. The smirk was gone, replaced by a look of genuine confusion and growing heat.
Jude saw an opening. He sprinted, weaving past the Norwegian defense with a precision that felt like a weapon. With one powerful strike, the ball screamed past the goalkeeper and hit the back of the net.
The English crowd erupted. Jude didn't celebrate with his teammates immediately. Instead, he turned his head, locking eyes with Erling.
Erling looked devastated. He stood frozen, his shoulders slumped, looking less like a titan of football and more like a man who had just realized he'd lost something irreplaceable.
He was distracted, his gaze drifting, staring intensely at Jude, not as an opponent, but with a raw, starving hunger that made Jude’s skin prickle.
As the referee blew the whistle for a brief stoppage in play, Erling found himself drifting toward Jude. The distance between them closed until they were shoulder to shoulder, the scent of grass and sweat mingling. Haaland engulfed him in a hug.
"You're playing like you want to kill me, Jude," Erling murmured into his ear, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in Jude's chest.
Jude didn't look at him, his jaw tight. "Maybe I do."
Erling let out a short, breathy laugh, leaning in closer so his breath brushed against Jude's ear. "Is that why you were hiding behind your jacket on the bench? Jealousy doesn't suit you, lille venn."
Jude stiffened, finally snapping his head around to glare at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You saw me," Erling whispered, his eyes darkening, a flash of that old, dominant spark returning.
"Get away from me, Erling," Jude hissed, though he didn't move an inch.
"Make me," Erling challenged, his smirk returning, though this time it was laced with something far more explicit. "Score another goal, Jude. Show me exactly how mad you are."
“I don’t need to. I’ve already won.” Jude smirked. Haaland seemed to not have noticed that the game was over. Norway was knocked out of the World Cup, and its fans were already arguing with the Britains. He looks up and around at his surroundings and realized that it’s over.
He’s out of the World Cup.
his mouth falls slightly as he watches Jude, who smirks at him before walking away.
________
The after-party was a blur of flashing lights, pounding bass, and the suffocating scent of expensive cologne and champagne. England had won, and the celebration was manic.
Jude, however, was drowning his complicated emotions in glasses of vodka and tonic. He was well past the point of buzzing; he was floating, his movements sluggish and his inhibitions completely dissolved.
He was slumped on a velvet sofa, laughing too loudly at a joke he didn't quite hear, when the atmosphere in the room shifted. The crowd parted, and there he was. Erling Haaland.
He looked out of place yet entirely dominant, dressed in a sleek black shirt that strained against his massive chest. He didn't look like a defeated opponent; he looked like a predator who had found exactly what he was searching for.
The moment Jude’s glazed eyes landed on Erling, a whine escaped his throat. Without thinking, Jude launched himself off the sofa, stumbling forward.
He didn't care who saw.
He collided with Erling’s chest, his arms wrapping tightly around the Norwegian’s waist, his face burying itself in the crook of Erling’s neck.
"You came," Jude mumbled, his voice thick and slurred, clinging to Erling like a lifeline. "Why did you come here?"
Erling’s large hands immediately found Jude’s hips, steadying him with a firm, possessive grip. He looked down at the smaller man, a look of amused affection crossing his features. "You can barely stand, Jude. You're a mess."
"I'm not a mess," Jude huffed, rubbing his cheek against Erling's shoulder. "I'm... I'm winning."
Erling chuckled, the vibration rumbling through Jude’s entire body. "Come on. Let's get you out of the spotlight before you do something we both have to explain to the press tomorrow."
Erling maneuvered Jude away from the party, his arm draped heavily over Jude’s shoulders, practically carrying him. He led him down a quiet corridor and into a private lounge, kicking the door shut behind them. The sudden silence of the room made Jude’s heart hammer against his ribs.
As soon as the door clicked, Jude didn't let go. He pushed Erling back against the wall, his movements clumsy but desperate. He looked up at Erling, his eyes wide and glassy, his lips parted.
"I saw you," Jude whispered, his voice cracking. "On the field. With that guy. You were... you were holding him."
Erling raised an eyebrow, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Oh? Is that what this is about? You're drunk and jealous, lille venn?"
"I hate you," Jude groaned, though he was pressing his body closer, his thighs brushing against Erling’s. "I hate how you do that. How you just... act like I don't matter. I was so mad I wanted to rip the grass up."
Erling let out a low, dark chuckle, his hands sliding down from Jude's waist to squeeze his ass firmly, pulling him flush against his hardness. "You were adorable. The way you scored that goal just to spite me... it made me ache, Jude." Haaland says as he takes one of his hands and squeezes his own bulge.
Jude stopped talking, his breath hitching. He stared deep into Erling’s blue eyes, seeing the raw, unfiltered hunger there. The alcohol had stripped away every wall, every fear of their careers, every professional boundary. All that was left was the starving need they had suppressed for years.
Jude reached up, grabbing Erling’s collar and pulling him down. Their lips crashed together in a messy, desperate kiss that tasted of vodka and longing. It wasn't gentle; it was a collision. Erling groaned into Jude's mouth, his tongue forcing its way in, claiming Jude’s mouth with a dominant intensity.
Erling didn't waste another second. He hoisted Jude up, Jude’s legs instinctively locking around Erling’s waist. He carried him a few steps to a leather armchair and slammed him down into it, hovering over him like a mountain.
"You've been wanting this all game, haven't you?" Erling growled, his voice dropping an octave.
"Just fuck me," Jude gasped, arching his back, his hands frantically pulling at Erling's shirt. "Please, Erling. Now."
Erling stripped his clothes off with efficient speed, his massive, pale body glowing in the dim light. When he freed his cock, it was thick and pulsing, already leaking pre-cum. Jude stared at it, his mouth hanging open, before Erling grabbed his thighs and spread them wide.
Erling didn't use a condom; in this room, in this moment, the world didn't exist. He spat into his palm, lubricating Jude’s tight hole with a few quick, rough fingers. Jude let out a loud, sharp moan, his head hitting the back of the chair.
"You're so tight," Erling muttered, his eyes darkening. "Still as tight as the last time I had you, I bet.”
Without further warning, Erling lined himself up and shoved forward. He entered Jude in one powerful, brutal thrust, burying his entire length deep inside.
"Fuck!" Jude screamed, his fingers digging into Erling's biceps, his toes curling. The sensation was overwhelming, the sheer size of Erling stretching him to his absolute limit.
Erling didn't give him time to adjust. He began to pump, his hips slamming into Jude with a rhythmic, violent force. Each thrust sounded like a wet slap, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Jude was tossed around in the chair, his body bouncing with every hit.
"Tell me," Erling gasped, his breath hot against Jude's neck, "tell me who you belong to."
"You!" Jude wailed, his voice breaking. "I'm yours! Fuck, Erling, harder!"
Erling complied, his movements becoming feral. He reached down, grabbing Jude's cock and jerking it in sync with his thrusts. Jude was losing his mind, the combination of the alcohol and the intense friction sending him over the edge. He could feel Erling hitting his prostate with every deep plunge, sending electric shocks of pleasure through his spine.
"I'm going to fill you up," Erling groaned, his pace accelerating, his muscles rippling across his back. "I'm going to put so much cum inside you that you'll feel me for days."
Jude let out a strangled cry, his body tightening as he reached his peak. He came hard, hot seed spraying across his own stomach and Erling's chest. A second later, Erling let out a guttural roar, thrusting one last time as deep as he could possibly go, his body shuddering as he blasted his warm load deep into Jude.
They stayed like that for a long time, locked together, their breathing heavy and synchronized. Erling collapsed onto Jude, burying his face in the crook of his neck, the silence of the room finally feeling peaceful.
"Still jealous?" Erling whispered, a hint of a smirk in his voice.
Jude let out a weak, exhausted laugh, clinging to Erling's shoulders. "Shut up.”