maladaptive daydreamer @writtenbylolo - Tumblr Blog

⤷ the winner takes it all

masterlist ᯓ★ lo's commentary: well this was possibly the most hurtful thing i've ever had to write, but thank you for all of the support on my last fic. i appreciate it so much + hope this helps soothe some of the pain from the semi final :(

pairing: bf!jude bellingham x reader summary: after England’s heartbreaking 1-2 semi-final loss to Argentina, a devastated Jude tries to hold it together in public but completely falls apart once he’s back in the hotel room with you. heavy emotional comfort, soft reassurance, and the quiet kind of love that helps him through the worst nights. warnings: pain. more pain. more pain. and some sweet loving comfort. heavy angst + emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of jude crying, soft intimacy (nothing explicit), established relationship wc: 3.1k

It never really gets easier for Jude. Winning is stitched into his bones. He hates losing with a quiet, burning fury most people never see. But nothing cuts quite as deep as the feeling that he’s let an entire country down.

You watched it all with your pulse roaring in your ears. For long stretches England had looked dangerous, unbreakable even. Anthony Gordon’s goal had sent the England end into delirium, and for a little while the dream felt dangerously close again. This time. This year. The whole nation had let itself believe. Then it slipped away in the cruelest way possible. Again.

Two late goals from Argentina, clinical and ruthless, tore the final apart in stoppage time. The final whistle sounded like the end of everything. The stadium erupted in blue and white while the England players stood frozen on the pitch, chests heaving, dreams crumbling in front of their eyes.

Denise had her sunglasses on, but her grip on your arm was tight. Mark looked utterly devastated for his son, jaw clenched, eyes glassy. Your own throat felt raw, too tight. None of you could find words. You could only stare down at the pitch as Argentina celebrated wildly in front of the shell-shocked Three Lions.

Jude was near the centre circle, hands on his hips, head bowed. Even from the stands you could see the devastation carved into him. His broad shoulders rose and fell with each ragged breath, jersey clinging to his sweat-drenched frame. He tried so hard to hold it together, his jaw locked tight, eyes blinking rapidly against the sting, but the mask was cracking. You watched him mouth “fuck… fuck” under his breath, one hand dragging roughly down his face as if he could wipe the reality away. His knees looked like they might buckle for a second. The worst part was always watching him grieve the dream in real time, watching the reality of what they'd just lost settle in.

He still tried. He always did. You saw him pull a couple of the lads into quick, tight hugs, clap backs, force a few words of encouragement even as his own world felt like it was collapsing around him. But the pain was written so clearly across his face. His eyebrows furrowed deep, lips pressed into a thin line, dark eyes glassy and distant. He looked lost. Gutted. Like the weight of every “what if” and “so close again” was pressing down on his shoulders so much he could barely keep himself upright. The minute you saw him crying, your heart shattered clean in two.

“God, I just hope they’re easy on him in the interviews,” you whispered, voice tight.

“They never make it easy,” Mark replied quietly, patting your back.

Denise’s voice was barely above a breath, but it was steady. “He knows how to handle it. He just needs to get through the next few hours.”

The time between the final whistle and when the lads finally made their way over to the family and friends section blurred into something heavy and suffocating. You couldn’t bring yourself to check your phone. Couldn’t find any words for Denise or Mark. The hurt sat deep in your chest, sharp and aching, all for him.

You only looked up from the floor when you heard movement around you. Jude was walking over, cap pulled low, head down, shoulders slumped so low that it made him look smaller than his six-foot-one frame ever should. The devastation rolled off him in waves.

He hugged his mum first. She held him tight, whispering things you couldn’t hear, and you watched his broad shoulders tremble under her arms. Then his dad. Mark held him upright, hand rubbing slow circles on his back, murmuring quiet words of pride. That’s when you finally caught a proper look at his face. His breathing was hitched, eyes red-rimmed, one hand covering them as if that could shield him from the cameras that never stopped clicking. The media could be so cruel. They’d been vicious during the Euros, tearing him apart for every mistake, every expression, every “arrogant” celebration that wasn’t a celebration at all. Tonight they weren’t quite as vicious yet, but still… they were there. Waiting for the golden boy to break.

You met his eyes over Mark’s shoulder. His eyebrows knitted together the moment your eyes locked, and you were sure your face mirrored the pain on his. His bottom lip trembled for a split second before he forced it still. He was with his safe people, but the stadium still felt too exposed, too bright, too full of eyes that wanted to watch him fall apart.

Instead of letting himself fall into you – because he knew if he did, the dam would break completely – he dropped into the seat beside you and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, cap pulled even lower to hide his face more. You placed a hand on his back, rubbing slow, soothing lines up and down, offering whatever small comfort you could. It felt like the rest of the stadium had gone quiet. All you could hear was the occasional quiet sniffle he tried to hide.

“I’m so sorry Jude–”

He shook his head quickly, dismissive. Like he wasn’t ready to hear it out loud yet, like mentioning it at all was irritating the wound.

You frowned, heart twisting as you tried to find something else to say. “Did the interviews go okay?”

He nodded, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah… yeah. Just told them I was gutted.” His voice cracked on the last word and he cleared his throat, trying to steady it. “I’m so fucking–” He couldn’t finish, his voice breaking again as he hid his face with his hands. The words were too painful, caught in his throat.

You shuffled closer, your hand never stopping its gentle path along his back. “Alright, baby… I know. I know,” you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder.

He stayed hunched forward, breathing shaky, the weight of another near-miss pressing down on him like it might crush him right there in the stadium’s seat. Eventually the staff started rounding the lads up for the post match briefing before the third place game on Saturday. Jude stood slowly, blinking away fresh tears, trying to pull some composure back together that clearly wasn’t there.

He hugged his mum and dad again, long and tight. In that moment Morgan Rogers wandered over, looking just as drained as the rest of them. He’d become a close friend to Jude during the tournament, always by his side, and by extension he’d grown close with you too.

“Sorry Morgs,” you said quietly as you pulled him into a hug, “I don’t know what to say to you.”

He let out a heavy sigh against your shoulder, a little more composed than Jude but still clearly gutted. “Yeah… I know,” he mumbled, voice quiet. “Doesn’t feel real yet.”

You pulled back and gave his arm a gentle pat, your worried eyes already drifting back to Jude, who was wiping at his face again as he let go of his dad. “Stick close to him tonight, yeah?” you whispered.

Morgan nodded, frowning a little, the concern clear on his face. “I got him. Don’t worry. We’ll see you back at the hotel later.”

Jude eventually turned toward you. He placed a hand on your waist, not a full hug yet, like he still didn’t trust himself not to completely break down in front of everyone. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering there for a second.

“I love you,” you whispered, hand cupping the back of his neck, thumb stroking gently.

His voice came out higher than normal, shaky and cracking under the weight of everything. “I know, baby… I love you more.”

Then they were gone, trailing after the staff with their heads down. All you could do was watch his tall frame disappear, shoulders still carrying far too much, and wait until you could finally have him to yourself at the hotel later.

A few hours later you were lying on his bed in the team hotel. The room was dim, only the bedside lamp on. Jude’s head was buried in your chest, his body curled into you like he was trying to disappear. He’d showered and changed into his favourite black hoodie and joggers, but he was still so withdrawn, so quiet compared to the Jude you knew and loved. All losses affected him. But losses with England broke something deeper inside him every single time.

He loved playing for his country. It wasn’t just football to him; it was legacy, it was family, it was the little boy from Stourbridge who grew up watching the Three Lions and dreaming of being the one to finally bring it home. Every time they got close and fell short, the shame lingered. He carried the weight of a nation’s hope on his shoulders, and when it slipped away again, he internalised it as a personal failure. Like he hadn’t been good enough. Like he’d let every kid back home, every fan who believed, every former player who’d come before him, down. It wasn’t rational, but it was Jude. He was a winner through and through, and this kind of hurt cut right to the soul of his very being.

You kissed his temple softly, not rushing him. You’d stay here in silence until they forcibly dragged him from your arms if you had to. He wasn’t crying anymore, he was just silent. Both hurt the same.

After a long stretch of quiet, his voice finally cracked the stillness, low and hoarse.

“I… I wanted it so bad.” The words came out raw, almost childlike in their honesty. You felt them land heavy in your chest, a fresh source of sadness pouring over you. “You all did, Jude. You all fought so, so hard out there.”

“But it wasn’t enough,” he whispered, voice breaking on the last word. “It’s never fucking enough. We got so close again… I really thought it felt different this time. I believed in us. I believed in me.”

He shifted slightly, pressing his face harder into your chest like he could hide from the memory of those late goals. You ran your fingers up and down his neck, slow and soothing.

“Jude… you’re twenty-three. Twenty-three. You just led your country to the semi-finals of a World Cup. Do you know how insane that is? How many players would kill for what you’ve already done at your age?”

He stayed quiet for a moment, breathing against you. When he spoke again his voice was muffled but thick with emotion.

“It just hurts so much. I don’t know what even happened to us. We were winning. We were in control. And then…” His shoulders started to shake. “It felt like we were finally going to do it. Like the whole country was behind us. Like maybe this was our time.”

You tightened your arms around him, heart aching.

“You brought the nation together, Jude. For weeks people have been smiling again, believing again, wearing the shirt with pride because of you and the boys. Kids all over England are kicking a ball around in the park right now pretending to be you. That doesn’t go away just because it didn’t end with the trophy. You gave them hope. You gave them something to dream about. You get to keep doing that for years.”

He let out a shaky breath, almost a sob, and shuffled up so he could bury his face properly in the crook of your neck. His big body curled around yours, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist as he breathed you in like you were the only thing keeping him together.

“I knew if I let you comfort me in the stadium I was gonna sob,” he mumbled against your skin. “And… you know I just don’t want people seeing me like that. Not the cameras. Not the whole world. They already love tearing me down when things go wrong. Especially after the Euros… I couldn't give them that again. But I wanted you to comfort me, I needed it.”

You stroked the back of his neck, pressing soft kisses to his hair.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, baby. Not with me. Not with your family. You’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to be gutted. You just carried a whole country on your back for weeks. It’s okay if it feels heavy right now.”

He was quiet for a long time, just breathing against you, fingers clutching the back of your top.

“I really thought we had it this time,” he whispered eventually, voice small. “It felt… different. The lads were so together. The belief in the camp was real. And then it just… slipped. Again.”

You held him tighter.

“And it will feel different next time too. Because you’re going to keep growing. You’re going to keep getting better. And one day, whether it’s the next tournament or the one after, you’re going to lift that trophy. I know it. Your mum knows it. Your dad knows it. The whole country knows it, even if they’re hurting tonight. It hurts because you had belief, Jude. But we all still believe in you.”

He let out a wet, broken little sound and pressed even closer, legs tangling with yours.

“I just wanted it for them, you know? For my family. For you. For the fans who travel everywhere. For the kids who look up to me.” His voice cracked again. “I wanted it so fucking bad.”

“I know you did, my love. And you’ll get another chance. You’re only twenty-three. The best years are still ahead of you.”

He stayed buried in your neck for a long time after that, letting the quiet comfort of your arms slowly ease some of the weight. Every now and then his shoulders would shake with another quiet sob, and you’d just hold him closer whispering how proud you were, how much you loved him, how this one loss didn’t define the incredible player and man he was.

You kept stroking his hair, heart still aching for him, but so full of love it almost hurt. This was your Jude. The one the world didn’t always get to see. The one who carried everything so beautifully, even when it broke him.

“I’ll never forget your face when they sang Wonderwall and Hey Jude to you,” you whispered, voice soft. “Never. You’ve made some beautiful memories, baby. Ones that millions of people are going to hold onto for years. That’s not nothing.”

He stayed quiet for a long time, just breathing against your neck, arms locked around you like you were the only solid thing left in the world. When he finally spoke, his voice was small and raw.

“It just… it hurts so much tonight. I know I’m young. I know there’ll be more chances. But right now it feels like we were so fucking close. Like we had it in our hands and it just… slipped away again.”

You pressed a kiss to the top of his head again, hands smoothing down his back

“I know, my love. And it’s okay to feel that. You’re allowed to be devastated. You’re allowed to grieve it. But please don’t let it make you forget how far you’ve already come. Twenty-three years old and you’re one of the best players in the world. You’ve carried this team. You’ve inspired a whole country. Kids are going to grow up wanting to be you because of what you showed them this summer.”

He let out a shaky breath that sounded half like a sob, half like a laugh.

“You always know what to say,” he mumbled, voice higher than usual from crying. “Can’t even cry properly without you making it feel better. Even when I feel like the biggest failure in the world… you make me feel like maybe I’m not.”

“You’re not,” you said firmly, tilting his chin up gently so you could look at him. His eyes were red, lashes wet, but they were still the same beautiful brown eyes you fell in love with. “You’re my favourite person in the whole world. The hardest worker I know. The one who never gives up. The one who makes me proud every single day. This one loss doesn’t change any of that.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something fragile and hopeful flickering across his face. Then he leaned in and kissed you. Gentle and slow, full of everything he couldn’t quite say. It was soft and grateful, his lips moving against yours like he was trying to pour every ounce of love and thanks into it. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered. “Seriously. Tonight would’ve been unbearable if I didn’t have you waiting for me.”

“You’ll always have me,” you promised, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Win, lose, or draw. I’m right here.”

A tiny, tired smile finally cracked across his lips. It was barely there underneath the grief, but you saw it. It was the first one you’d seen since the final whistle, and it made your heart feel a little lighter.

“There he is,” you whispered, smiling back. “My favourite smile in the world.”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter and kissed you again, slower this time, sweeter. When he pulled away he tucked his face back into your neck, arms tightening around you as his body finally started to relax.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your skin, voice sleepy and warm. “For being here with me. Loving all of me. Even the shit parts that make me cry like a baby.”

“Especially the shit parts,” you teased gently, still playing with his curls. “I love every single one of them.”

He didn’t answer with words, he pressed one last soft kiss to your collarbone and let out a long, exhausted breath. Within minutes his breathing evened out, the tension finally draining from his shoulders as a restless sleep took him over.

You kept holding him, hands still moving gently over him to soothe him, heart full even though it still ached. Tomorrow would be hard. The media, the questions, the what-ifs. But tonight he was safe, here with you in your arms. One day, you truly believed it, he would lift that trophy. You closed your eyes and imagined it. His smile lighting up the whole stadium. The tension finally falling away from his shoulders. The relief he’d feel. Until then, you’d be with him for every high and every heartbreaking low.

tags: @thesizzler @hvnsinureyes

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