#worldcup2026

PART FOUR... Jude Bellingham x F1 Driver

!!! Part One !!! Part Two !!! Part Three !!! Part Four !!!

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in which... jude bellingham is desperately and hopelessly in love with his best friend.

warnings: extremely inadequate knowledge on how sports work (sorry!), set during the mexico vs. england world cup, jude yearning aka "it's always been you" syndrome, inspired by the 1975, mutual dependence but only one of them knows why, natalie 'nat' cohen is my oc but no fc is established, friends who accidentally function as a married couple, emotional damage, no one tell him to move on because he physically can't, she also has no idea he's in love with her (angst!!!)

notes (plz read): ok so this is like the first shit i've ever written on here and although it's a small blurb, i'd like for it to be a bigger part of an actual story... so if you enjoyed it and want to see more, let me know! written for shits and giggles and mainly based off of my user (because i love yearning boys and friends to lovers). ok i'm done.. enjoy!

wc: 1.2k

The first mistake Jude Bellingham ever made was looking at Natalie Cohen long enough to memorize her. The second? Well that depended on who you asked.

If you asked his brother Jobe, he'd tell you it was when he stopped calling her Natalie— something formal and safe, and began calling her 'Nat'— a nickname reserved for him and only him.

If you asked his mum, she'd tell you it was when she invited Natalie over for pizza and board games, curious to meet the girl her son continuously brought up. Jude insisted there was nothing there, everything he felt was entirely platonic. That day, he left her the last slice of food without thinking twice of it. His mother knew before him, because Jude never shared food.

If you asked his teammates, they'd tell you it was whenever his head turned before anyone else's after a final whistle, searching the crowd for one person in particular. They had deemed her Jude's lucky penny.

If you asked Natalie, she'd laugh and tell you Jude didn't make mistakes.

She'd be wrong.

Over time, his small crush on Nat devastated something vital within him, it corroded away the remaining strength of his hope— hope that his feelings for her would go away— until it felt like he was constantly drained by fear. Loving Natalie became easier than imagining a life where he didn't, and that scared the ever loving shit out of him.

A loud voice snapped him out of his trance,

"Bellingham!"

Jude blinked, immediately regretting his mind wander.

His manager stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across his chest, anger bubbling in his eyes. "You planning on playing today or are you too busy admiring the scenery?"

His eyes flicked down, disappointed in himself, before huffing out a "Sorry, coach." and jogging back into position.

The scenery, unfortunately, happened to be Natalie Cohen.

She was impossible to miss in a sea of white England shirts, mainly because she wasn't wearing one.

Jude frowned.

Is that...

He squinted.

A green Mexico jersey, number 9.

Jude stared, dissociating once more.

She caught him looking almost instantly, and, with absolutely no shame, she waved enthusiastically.

And gave him a thumbs-up. Her smile bright and pure.

In another man's shirt.

Yet, for a moment, he forgot about the jersey. Natalie's smile had always possessed the remarkable ability to soften every sharp edge inside him.

It just couldn't quite reach this one.

...

The roar of Azteca swallowed everything, with the match settling into its rhythm— cleats scraping against grass, whistles, bodies colliding, thousands upon thousands of voices blending into one impossible sound.

Jude forced himself to focus.

But every now and then, he couldn't help himself. His eyes would drift towards the section where he'd seen Natalie before kickoff. She was still there.

Still wearing that bloody Mexico jersey.

Yet, in all her innocence, she continued cheering in the sea of white and green. Equal parts horrified for Mexico, but thrilled for him. Even dressed in Mexico's colors, she'd still celebrated every one of his goals.

She found Jude's exhausted eyes almost instantly after the last whistle was blown and Englands fans erupted into happiness, already staring at her.

"Congratulations!"

He'd heard the word a hundred times over in the last five minutes.

From teammates who'd nearly knocked him over in celebration. From coaches and reporters and strangers. None of them sounded quite like hers.

There she was, still wearing that stupid green jersey. Still smiling at him like she'd hung the bloody moon.

His chest tightened.

"You were cheering for Mexico." He deadpanned, breathless from the game, yet doing his best to sound offended.

"I was cheering for both."

"You wore another mans jersey to my match!"

"He signed it!"

Jude narrowed his eyes. "That's not helping your case."

"Wasn't supposed to."

She grinned.

God, he was trying so hard not to smile back.

She'd always done this— poked at him until the corners of his mouth betrayed him. Even now, after ninety minutes of running until his lungs burned out and another twenty of pretending he wasn't exhausted for reporters and interview, she could still pull a laugh out of him.

"You scored twice," she continued, nudging his shoulder. "I screamed for both goals."

"You also celebrated Mexico's."

"They're allowed nice things too y'know."

"They lost."

"They scored."

"They lost."

Nat rolled her eyes at his argument, and before he could start another— her hand reached for him.

She threaded her fingers around his almost absentmindedly, giving his hand a gentle tug as another cluster of reporters began drifting in their direction.

"C'mon," she murmured. "You're swaying."

"I am not."

"You've been on your feet for two hours."

"I've been on my feet my whole life."

"Mhm."

Another tug. "We're leaving before someone sticks another microphone in your face."

Jude followed without resistance, letting her pull him away.

Not because she was pulling particularly hard. She wasn't.

Natalie could've led him straight into traffic if she'd asked nicely.

His pulse, however, refused to cooperate.

It skipped once at the contact before settling into something dangerously uneven.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

She held his hand the way she always did— without thinking. Crossing busy streets, navigating airports, pulling him through crowds after matches, dragging him into shops she'd sworn she'd "only be five minutes" in.

To her, it was instinct. Practical and friendly.

Yet they made him dizzy. Every touch felt like being handed just enough air to last long enough until she touched him again.

She never seemed to notice what it did to him.

Never noticed the way his thoughts stalled whenever she slipped her hand into his. Never noticed how he unconsciously adjusted his pace to match hers. Never noticed that he never, not once, let go first.

Maybe she truly didn't see it.

Or maybe she'd spent so many years treating him like home that she couldn't imagine it meaning anything else.

He wished he could do the same.

Instead, he let her weave them through the tunnel, away from flashing cameras and shouted questions, his fingers fitting around hers with an ease that had been practiced over years.

He wondered, not for the first time, if she realized how unfair she was.

How she could wear another footballer's name across her back, spend ninety minutes cheering against his team, then smile at him for less than a second and erase every ounce of resentment he'd convinced himself he felt.

Almost.

His eyes drifted down.

The green jersey was still there.

He sighed.

"I still can't believe you wore his shirt."

Natalie looked down at herself before bursting into laughter.

"Oh, my God."

"What?"

"You're actually jealous." His heart sped up. He was so, impossibly jealous.

"I'm not jealous."

"Jude."

"I'm offended."

"Sure."

"You could've worn mine."

The words left his mouth before he had the chance to stop them. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hesitate.

Natalie smiled— softly this time.

"I know."

She squeezed his hand.

"I'll wear yours next time."

She said it with the same casual certainty she had used to grab his hand. Like it meant nothing to her.

Jude smiled anyway.

Viking (Norway) vs Saracen (Iraq)

Pairing: Kylian Mbappe x Reader

Genre: fluff. fluff and more fluff.

Summary: France win the 2026 World Cup. But this isn’t really about the match. It’s about the moment after — when Kylian decides he’s done being careful with the thing that matters most.

Author’s Note: The 2026 World Cup is here, girls. Call up the Etsy witches. It’s hexxing season.

I was rewatching season 2 of Bridgerton, specifically that moment when Anthony and Kate finally say fuck it and dance together, knowing everyone is watching and choosing each other anyway. I love that so much.

So, I really wanted to explore the idea of Kylian reaching a point where he’s no longer scared to be in love, publicly.

In this fic, it’s implied that they’d already discussed it. That there was an agreement sitting between them for weeks: if France win, we go public. Which is why the win feels heavier, sweeter, more intimate. He did it for them.

Enjoyyyyyyy. 💕💕💕💕💕💕

————————————————————————

Breath caught, hearts stalled — and then France detonates into sound.

Blue. White. Red. Streamers fall like confetti snowfall, curling through the air as if the sky itself has chosen a side. The stadium erupts, a living thing screaming “Allez les Bleus” into the night. Somewhere, Peter Drury’s voice rises above it all, lyrical and reverent, speaking of redemption, of time bending back on itself, of a boy who refuses to accept endings. Of two goals in ten minutes. Of history dragged back from the brink by refusal alone.

Kylian barely hears it.

He is already gone. sprinting, shouting, swallowed by teammates who crash into him from every angle. He laughs, then screams, then laughs again, overcome, unguarded. He drops to his knees once, fists pressed into the grass, forehead tipped back to the sky as if he might actually touch it.

“We did it,” he gasps, half-laughing, half-disbelieving. “We actually did it.”

On the other side of the pitch, Argentina collapses inward in quiet devastation. Hands on heads. Shirts pulled over faces. Grief moves quieter, but it moves just as deep all the same.

And you watch.

You stand where you always do — just beyond the edge of the moment, close enough to feel its heat, distant enough to let it belong to him. Because it belongs to him. All of it. The world. The cup. You have learned this discipline by loving someone whose life is conducted in public: to exist just outside the frame, to be present without imprint, to remain steady when the world tilts toward him and threatens to collapse under its own attention.

You watch him move through the chaos with an ease that still astonishes you. Oh, how deeply he loves this sport. With all its trophies, but more so the labour. The repetition. The hours. The self-correction. The fatigue. The sacrifice. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. The obedience to routine until nights like this look effortless. You think how few people understand this about him. How fervently he loves this silly sport and this team. He belongs to this team utterly, even as it takes from him without ever quite naming the cost. He gives anyway. Again. Always.

And then… there is the madness.

The cameras. The noise. The weight of being looked at from every direction at once. You cannot quite understand how he enjoys it, how he turns toward the chaos. How he smiles into the lens. How he can be playful and luminous, offering himself willingly to the spectacle. It should consume him. It should hollow him out. But it doesn’t. Instead, it seems to animate him.

He looks perfectly himself in the middle of it all, radiant and unguarded, loving the impossible theatre of it, and somehow still remaining whole. My sweet, joyful boy. As though the disorder has been waiting for his calm. As though this moment, loud and unruly and impossibly bright, has always belonged to him. Your eyes well up.

He has won. He is happy. My golden boy.

The chaos softens into celebration. Family members begin to appear, laughter mixing with tears. Cameras flash. The trophy gleams under the stadium lights, passed from hand to hand, kissed, lifted. You’re watching him joke with someone when he turns his head.

You are smiling when you feel it. That unmistakable shift. His eyes find yours across the barrier, bright, disbelieving, still vibrating with adrenaline. And then his expression changes. He smiles, small at first, then wider.

“There you are,” he murmurs to himself.

And then he begins to walk.

You feel the eyes before you hear the reaction — a ripple through the crowd as they clock his direction. Your heartbeat picks up, traitorous. You keep your shoulders relaxed, your face neutral, even as he closes the distance and stops in front of the barrier, looking up at you.

“Hi,” he says, breathless.

“Hi,” you reply, softer than intended.

He studies you for a second, then holds out his hand.

“Come,” he says quietly.

You hesitate. He notices. Of course he does.

“It’s okay,” he adds immediately, voice gentle. “With me.”

You take his hand. His grip is firm, reassuring, his thumb pressing lightly into your skin as he guides you around the barrier and onto the pitch. The crowd reacts with cheers, applause, approval washing over you both. It startles you, how kind it sounds.

And once you’re beside him, the enormity of it hits. The lights. The noise. 73 cameras possibly. The history beneath your feet. You’re on the pitch. France has won the World Cup. Your relationship is now public. Your breath goes a little shallow. He notices instantly.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “I think so.”

He studies your face with his usual intensity. “You’re shaking.”

“So are you,” you say.

“Butterflies,” he replies lightly. “I’m here with a girl I have a crush on. She’s somewhere around here. I’ll introduce you.”

You laugh and give him a gentle push. “You’re an idiot,” you say coyly. He hums, amused.

Up close, he looks unreal — grass stains on his knees, sweat cooling on his skin, eyes still bright, as if the moment hasn’t finished moving through him yet. The noise presses in again and you feel suddenly, acutely aware of where you are.

He senses it again.

“Hey,” he says, stepping just a fraction closer. His thumb brushes against your knuckles, subtle, instinctive. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Forget them for a second,” he murmurs. “Talk to me like we always do.”

You swallow. “About the match?”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah. About the match.”

You exhale, the tension easing. “You scared me,” you admit. “For most of it.”

He laughs quietly. “Only most?”

“Eighty minutes,” you say. “To be exact.”

He tilts his head, mock-offended. “I had a plan.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m usually right.”

You smile, small. “You were extraordinary. Simply extraordinary.”

Something soft flickers across his expression.

The noise seeps back in. A chant rolls through the stands, swelling, rhythmic, alive. Somewhere a camera whirs closer. A voice calls his name. Another laughs. Reality, impatient, taps him on the shoulder. He exhales and eases back half a step, though his hand still lingers at yours, reluctant.

That’s when the streamers fall again.

They drift slowly this time, unhurried, ribbons of white, blue and red catching in the air before settling around you. One brushes your cheek. Another tangles briefly in your hair before slipping free. Under the unforgiving stadium cold, sharp stadium light, your skin glows anyway, warm as burnished gold.

He forgets to move. For a heartbeat too long, he just looks.

“How did I get this too?” he murmurs, barely.

“Ky,” you whisper, half-laughing, noticing.

“Mmm,” a hum more than anything.

“You’re staring.”

His eyes flick to the falling colours and then back to you. “I know,” he says, unapologetically.

“This is… a lot,” you say, shaking your head, amused, self-aware.

He steps closer, lowering his voice again. “Breathe,” he says gently. “You’re doing great.”

Before you can retort, a photographer calls out, gesturing animatedly.

“Over here! Just one together!”

Kylian groans softly. “Ah.”

He squeezes your hand once — a silent question.

“Okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Okay.”

They guide you into position. The cameras flash immediately, a soft staccato of light. Someone off-frame laughs and calls, “Relax! It’s a celebration!”

Kylian tilts his head toward you. “See? They like you.”

“I think they like you,” you whisper back.

He grins, crooked and boyish. “That’s not what they’re shouting.”

Another camera clicks.

“Closer!” a voice insists.

Kylian complies easily, his arm settling at your back respectful, careful, but unmistakably there. You feel the warmth of him even through the layers of fabric, grounding you again.

“You good?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you say.

A producer waves frantically, pointing upward. Kylian follows the gesture, then looks back at you with sudden delight.

“Look,” he says, lifting his free hand. “The screen.”

You glance up just as the Jumbotron fills with the two of you — streamers drifting, lights flaring, the moment impossibly cinematic.

“Oh,” you laugh, embarrassed. “Omg, no—”

“Yes,” he insists, already waving. “You have to wave.”

“Could I rather not—”

He nudges you gently. “Come on. They’re watching.”

You relent, lifting your hand in a small, shy wave. The crowd responds with louder cheers, warmer somehow. Kylian laughs again, triumphant.

He nods once, satisfied, then straightens as someone calls his name again, louder, insistent. Teammates. Officials. The trophy waiting.

He looks at you, regretful.

You squeeze his fingers and give him a sheepish smile. “Go.”

He hesitates just a second too long for a man who lives in motion. Then he leans in, his forehead nearly touching yours.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

And Julian

ICONIC BY MISTAKE: you're a controversial star for the mexican women's national team. what happens when you meet brian guiterrez, a star on the men's national team?

GRAYCEE SPEAKS: brian is soooo underrated, and there is not enough pics for him, so I took matters into my own hands

JOIN MY TAGLIST!

there was a running joke on twitter.

everytime you scored a goal, a retired player somehow found a microphone.

"she's too arrogant"

"too emotional."

"needs to learn humility."

then you'd score again.

the edits got meaner.

the headlines got louder.

you got better.

by twenty-one, you were already one of the biggest names on the mexican women's national team.

people either loved you or hated you.

there was no in between.

kids wore your jersey because you celebrated every goal like you'd won the World Cup.

older commentators hated that you smiled when defenders shoved you.

you didn't apologize after tackling people.

you talked shit during games.

"confidence isn't arrogance," you'd said after one reporter asked if you planned to "tone it down."

the clip hit six million views. half of the comments called you insufferable. the other half wanted your autograph.

the men's team arrived in Mexico City the same week your camp started.

media day was crazy. lights, cameras, and sponsors. players wandering around trying to find coffee.

you were halfway through filming a commercial when someone backed into you.

"oh my-"

a cup of iced coffee tilted dangerously before hands caught it.

"I'm so sorry."

you looked up and saw dark hair, light eyes, and an embarrassed smile.

"I definitely almost ruined your shirt."

you blinked.

"you saved the coffee," you said.

he laughed, "had to prioritize."

"you made the correct choice."

"I'm Brian."

he stuck out his hand.

you recognized him.

young midfielder, Chicago-born, recently called onto the Mexican national team. fans adored him because he played with joy.

you shook his hand.

"I know who you are.'

his eyebrows lifted.

"good or bad?"

"I've seen you play."

"...that didn't answer the question."

you laughed, "you'll survive."

someone called your name.

"I have to go."

he nodded, "see you around?"

you shrugged.

you did, in fact, keep seeing him.

every sponsor event.

every federation dinner.

every airport.

eventually, he stopped asking if the seat next to you was taken. he just sat down.

"so."

"so?"

"I saw your goal"

"the volley?"

"the one where you embarrassed the defenders."

"I embarrass defenders professionally," you scoffed.

"I noticed."

"you flirt with everyone?"

"I'm trying something new," he shrugged.

"oh?"

"only world-class forwards."

you almost choked on your water.

people noticed.

pictures of the two of you talking after training. laughing on the pitch. walking through airports. twitter exploded.

"they're definitely dating."

"they're literally just standing next to each other."

"exactly. they're in love."

"does it ever bother you?" Brian asked one evening.

"what?"

"the comments."

you looked up from your phone. "they've hated me since I was seventeen."

"they're cruel."

"no, they're loud"

silence.

then you asked, "you know what hurts?"

"what?"

"when girls apologize before they say they're good"

he frowned.

"I coach clinics sometimes. they always whisper, 'I think im pretty good' as if it's something shameful," you whispered.

you stared out over the empty training pitch.

"I don't want girls growing up believing confidence is only acceptable if you're a man."

Brian didn't answer right away.

instead-

"I think you're changing that."

you looked at him, "you really believe that?"

"I know it."

he became your favorite person without either of you realizing it.

you called after training.

he called right away after matches.

you watched each other's games whenever schedules allowed it.

"you got an assist!"

"you got two goals!"

"you should've shot in the seventy-third minute."

"you sound like my coach."

"you'll thank me later."

"you are unbelievably annoying," you grumbled.

"and yet you answered," he grinned.

one afternoon the men's team attending one of your training sessions. mostly for federation content. the cameras expected wholesome interactions. instead they caught you tripping Brian.

the entire field erupted in laughter.

"no!"

"she's evil!"

Brian covered his face and mumbled, "im retiring."

"you literally play professionally."

"I don't anymore,"

the clip reached twelve million views.

it was after a friendly in Guadalajara that everything changed.

you scored.

you won.

the federation hosted a dinner.

the restaurant lights overlooked the city.

you escaped onto the balcony for fresh air.

a minute later.

"I figured I'd find you here."

"you always do."

he leaned on the railing beside you.

"you okay?"

"mhm."

"liar."

you sighed.

"you know they asked me again."

"about smiling after goals?"

"whether I'd be more likable if I celebrated less."

he looked genuinely confused.

"you scored."

"I know."

"so..."

"I know."

"they wanted you to apologize?"

"basically."

he shook his head and said, "I don't understand people."

"I stopped trying," you laughed bitterly.

the city buzzed below. cars, music, life.

then he spoke quietly, "for what it's worth..."

"hm?"

"I've never met someone who works harder than you."

you looked over.

"you don't have to prove anything to anyone."

your chest tightened.

he wasn't talking about football.

he was talking about you. the real you. the one exhausted from constantly defending herself.

"I like that youre loud."

you laughed softly, "you do?"

"I like that you know you're good."

"you don't think it's cocky?"

"no," he smiled. "I think you've earned it."

silence stretched between you. comfortable, yet dangerous.

"you know..." he said.

"I've been trying really hard not to make this weird."

"oh?"

"I've had a crush on you since the coffee incident."

you stared. "seriously...?"

"you called me a hero for saving coffee!"

"I did not!"

"you absolutely did!"

"I said you prioritized correctly."

"close enough."

"so that's your move?"

"I was hoping the confidence was attractive."

"it is."

"it is?"

you stepped closer. "you know what's attractive?"

"what?"

"you never once asked me to make myself smaller."

his expression softened.

"I never would."

"I know."

you kissed him before you could overthink it.

gentle. warm.

when you pulled away, he almost looked stunned.

"so..."

"so?"

"I can stop pretending we're just friends? cause hormiga bet that we would never get together."

"you were terrible at pretending."

the internet found out three weeks later.

not because either of you announced it.

because someone caught him in the stands wearing your jersey after your match. the photo spread in minutes. the comments came flooding in.

"he's obsessed"

"king behavior!"

"she's too much for him."

Brian reposted the photo.

you looked at your phone, then at him.

"you know they're going to lose their minds."

he shrugged, "they usually do."

you smiled.

"I like you."

"I was hoping."

"no," you laughed. "I really, really like you."

he reached for your hand.

"I know."

the criticism never stopped. people still called you arrogant. too confident. too outspoken. too emotional. too much.

but after every match, somewhere in the stands, there was always one person applauding louder than everyone else.

not because you were perfect. not because you didn't make mistakes.

but because he'd seen every early morning, every frustrating workout session, every extra hour after practice when no one else was watching.

he knew exactly how hard you'd work to become the player everyone suddenly had an opinion on.

so whenever another reported asked if you'd ever consider being more humble, you just smiled.

"I'm proud of myself."

some people rolled their eyes.

others cheered.

across the room, Brian grinned like he'd heard the best answer in the world.

and honestly?

I want everyone visiting America for the World Cup to realize this is 100% legal as well as bad-ass!

In every town in the USA is filled with patriots / people who have armories like this, almost every block, actually.