girl... I've been secretly waiting for a mexican/latina x jude fic...
pairing: jude bellingham x fem!mexican!reader
summary: when the world cup leads england and mexico to go toe to toe, you’re forced to learn that loving someone doesn't mean loving less of where you come from
contains: fluff, stupid humor, swearing, angst, miscommunication, avoidant attachment, slight fighting, crying, bittsweeet & a little bit of spanish
notes: saw this tiktok and it gave me inspo LMAO i’m SO sorry this took forever guys :/ my brain is lowk turning to mush so so sorry if there’s typos or if things don’t make since LOL / also mexico AND england both out the wc final now 💔 anyway i hope you guys like my silly writing !
Out of all possible pairings, this was by far your worst nightmare.
When the round of 16 matchups were announced, your heart stopped. Mexico vs. England. Right, right. My country vs. my boyfriend's country. Perfect. My family vs. my boyfriend. Oh just wonderful!
Once Jude finished training and returned to the team's hotel, you both immediately FaceTimed to discuss the news, in disbelief.
He's still in Atlanta with the squad, and you're in LA with your family. (You had agreed that if he advanced further, you'd fly out for the games, since you weren’t eager to add more air travel and pollution amidst recent hectic weeks.)
How could it be that out of all possible tournament outcomes, your nations would face each other? How?
Earlier in your relationship, you joked that if Mexico and England ever played, you'd root for Mexico, and Jude for England, obviously. But now, with the game imminent, you’re incredibly nervous.
Your mind raced through anxious thoughts—from logical to absurd. Will the game be intense? Too close to call? Extra time? PKs? What if Mexico wins and Jude decides we’re done? What if England wins, and my family turns on Jude, and we’ll never see each other again?!
Of course, you didn’t say any of thar during the call.
Instead, you talked about how huge the Banorte ‘Azteca’ Stadium is, the high altitude, how well both teams had been playing, the media hype, and that you'd be watching.
He mentioned how the team was approved to take Viagra to handle the altitude better, which made you burst out laughing.
Throughout the call, you both promised that regardless of the result, you'd face it together—promising to support each other, comforting one another after the final whistle, and working through any heartbreak. Everything will be okay.
"...So you promise not to be mad when I pull up in the beat-up 'Chicharito' jersey that I've had since 10th grade?"
"Mmm... maybe a bit crushed... but I promise not to be mad. As long as y’don’t cry when I score, deal?”
“Hey! It was a hefty penny for fifteen-year-old me to pay to a random guy on eBay… didn't have big girl money to my name… and yes, deal."
"M'honored babe, thank you."
Both of you understood how intense this game would be, so you pushed aside your worries and nerves, not wanting to burden Jude with your stress. He’s already carrying enough pressure on his shoulders, so it wouldn't be fair to add yours.
You decided to wait until after the match. Still, despite trying to imagine the day and all its emotions, you felt unprepared for the storm about to hit.
Those days flew by like nothing. Jude flew down with the team and staff after their match with DR Congo to train and prepare, while you arrived two days early with some of your girls.
You helped them settle into their Airbnb, explored the city, went grocery shopping, and enjoyed drinks and dancing until the early hours of the morning. You did offer your small Roma Norte studio apartment for them to crash at initially, as you stay there every few months for work or little trips with Jude. But, there was just no way they could all live or sleep comfortably, so you saw it as a well-earned “big girl money” splurge on behalf of your closest friends.
Once game day arrived, you were a nervous wreck. Your friends reassured you that you had every right to feel anxious, as they would feel the same in your shoes. But they also emphasized that everything would be fine, that your talks with Jude before hand were the best initiative to take. Still anxious, you all got ready together after lunch, took photos, and had your chauffeur, Charlie, drive you all to the stadium. Throughout the day, you sent supportive texts to Jude, knowing he'd read them whenever he could.
“the girls and i just finished getting ready! ended up wearing the shorts and sambas over the skirt and boots :p omw"
“omfg the stadium is HUGE! u and the boys are gonna loose ur hearing from this crowd”
“just made it to the suite:) i’ll send a pic of the view”
“deep breathes! i’ll meet up with you before you head to the locker rooms :) love you 💓”
You hoped he was managing better than you were. Your heart pounded as both teams walked out onto the pitch to sing their national anthems, and you felt borderline nauseous at kickoff. These 90 minutes would be agonizing, and you were so, so right.
It took all your strength not to cry when Jude scored twice in quick succession—the tension in the stadium grew thicker, with the faces of fans and friends reflecting disbelief.
At that point, all you could do was signal towards the private bar to your friends, a visible ‘drink up” plastered on your face, which led to another round after Quiñones finally scored for Mexico, cheering loudly and celebrating relief. But it didn't last long, as Kane scored that penalty effortlessly.
While Mexico reset at the kick-off circle, your phone pinged with messages from your mom, showing pictures of your family back home: grandparents in jerseys, the house decorated, nieces and nephews making silly faces, and your parents sending a video wishing you a good time. It made your heart ache painfully. When Jiménez scored, you were torn between laughter and tears, as no further goals followed.
The final whistle brought a lump to your throat and a flood of conflicting emotions—amazing game, heartbreaking loss, hope dashed, yet gratitude that Jude and England advanced.
How do you even react? Scream? Burst out crying? Smash your head against the wall? Jump up and down? No. You just stood there, prayer hands resting against your lips, trying to keep tears from blurring your vision.
You held yourself together as best as you could, thinking, 'Get a grip,” “Don’t make this about you,” “Don’t cry,' over and over in your head. It felt childish, as if football was meant to be joyful, beautiful, soul crushing, and unpredictable. It was just a part of the game, and you had no right to be upset at Jude for doing his job and scoring twice, bringing his team closer to the final. God, get over yourself!
As your friends slipped away for one last bathroom break, you managed a quick moment with Jude before he went to recover and speak to the press. Seeing him was electrifying, as that smile of his nearly knocked you over. He jogged towards you, arms wrapping around you instantly, as you responded instinctively.
"Hi, you," he said with a small laugh, his face glowing from excitement. You thought his cheeks were about to fall off from smiling so much. You looked up at him, one hand cupping his face. Just breathe. "You were unbelievable! M’so proud of you, baby,” you added, your hand resting on his pounding heart. “Thank you, my love,” he murmured, leaning into your palm and kissing it.
As you rambled about how excited your friends were, he studied your flushed cheeks and tired eyes. He knew why—of course he did—and in a perfect world, he’d undo those moments for your sake.
"Glad your girls enjoyed the match... How y’feeling? I know–?” he tried to ask, but he was stopped when you cut him off. "Oh— yeah, yeah I’m good! A little.. tired, but I’m alright; I wasn’t the one running around for almost two hours," you said with a small laugh, dismissing it lightly.
"Yeah, I—” "Jude, c’mon! We gotta hit up t’showers and run through target therapy before we chat w’the press lines," a staff member called. He hesitated, clearly not wanting to leave.
"Go, I need to head back to the girls and help them get home anyway,” you said softly, giving him a quick hug and a peck on the lips.
“I’ll see you when you’re done, okay? Do you want me to meet you at the hotel…? Or go to my—"
“Your place, please. I'll meet you there… Can you tell—"
“I’ll let Charlie know to come get you later, don't worry," you assured him, knowing Charlie surely wouldn’t have a problem doing so.
"Okay go! I’ll see you soon!” "Bye, bug. Text me when y’get back home,” he replied. “I will, Chau!” you chirped back as he continued down to the locker rooms, while security walked beside you to escort you back, disappearing from view on the hunt to reunite with your friends.
As he goes through press interviews, ice baths, target massage therapy, and a small celebration with the team, it's clear he feels relieved.
He's so beyond grateful they made it to the quarterfinals, thankful his parents Denise and Mark, Jobe, and his friends watched and cheered him on—the biggest stage.
However, his mind keeps racing about you. He wants to know you're okay, how you're feeling, and what you're thinking during and after the game.
He wishes he could be with you, away from the noise of 80,000 people and the pressure of the moment.
You told him you were fine, so he didn’t push further. He trusts you, and if you were upset, you would have told him, right? Before leaving, he sends a few quick messages saying he's on his way to you, with Charlie discreetly driving him to your apartment.
“just got done with press! went on waay too long”
“about to head out with charlie”
“maybe we can make some food when i get back :) grill up some salmon and zucchini"
“omw bug! be home in 30 :D”
When ten minutes pass without a reply, he finds it strange but tries not to overthink—perhaps you're in the shower, doing your bedtime routine, or dozing off watching TV.
What Jude doesn't know is that you're on the phone with your mom, crying. Sitting the little balcony table outside your room, makeup removed, hair down and a bit messy, dressed in a thin white long sleeve and turquoise gaucho pants, you are an absolute mess. Mexico's loss affected you deeply—more than expected. It was more than just anticipation.
You weren't only waiting for a historic national victory; you were overwhelmed with tears, thinking of how your grandparents had long dreamt of this day since they were young, just like you. Picturing your family—parents, cousins, nieces, and nephews—gathered around, sharing the same excitement and hope, made your heart ache even more.
You feel guilty for feeling this way. So ashamed with yourself. Jude's success —one of the key reasons for England advancing back into the World Cup quarterfinals and earned praise for his talent and effort—shouldn’t you be happy? You should be over the moon with joy for him.
So why does this grief feel so overwhelming? You want to lock these feelings away in a box and chuck it into the ocean to hide this guilt.
On the phone, your breathing is uneven, your voice shaky. "I hate that I can't stop... fuckin’ crying, y’know? I don’t wanna cry," you croak.
"The... the photos y’texted me of Grandma and Grandpa... and Ita and Tata in their jerseys, and the kids laughing and cheering with them... I feel so bad, Mami... I’m so sorry... and I don’t know why,” you heaved.
Halfway through the lengthy call, you hear the door unlock and Jude calling your name. He briefly catches snippets of your muffled conversation as he drops his bags, toeing off his shoes, and walks toward your room.
You barely stopped yourself from choking off your own spit. "I just... lo sé... sé que están bien, que no es mi culpa," you say with a small laugh and a sniffle.
"I— uh... está bien, está bien, I’ll stop crying... diles que llamaré mañana... alright... te quiero también... Chau chau."
When you hung up the phone, you barely even had a chance to dry your face with the end of your sleeve and compose before Jude was at the balcony doorway. His voice hitting your eardrums, as his long strides panged against the wooden floor. “Sorry I took so long! Press took forever.. Awh I haven’t soon those joggers in a whi—” his voice startled you, making jump in your seat to turn to look at him.
He stopped in his tracks instantly, the words completely falling dry in his mouth. He halted at the balcony doorway, a look of confusion and shock on his face as he scans over your wet, flushed face.
He was moving before you could think of an excuse, his brows furrowing the moment he saw your expression. “Wha— What’s wrong?” he asked, voice laced with concern as he moved to stand in front of you. A quick shake of your head followed, forcing out a quiet, “Oh hi! I’m good… Sorry, I was just on the pho—” but your eyes told an entirely different story.
“No, you’re not,” he said immediately, confusion flashing across his face. “Look at me—you’ve been like this all day. What you not tellin’ me?” he questioned, frantically trying to search your face for any sign of answers, his mind already running through every terrible possibility.
“Y.. Y’barely said a word ‘bout how you were during the match. We agreed tha’ we’d talk things out no matter t’outcome… We both promised! And y’still hidin’ from me,” He swallowed hard, unable to hide the frustration in his eyes.
“Jude.. I just didn’t wanna stress you out! Please, I’m f—“ “Stop saying that! Just stop!” he bursted out, making your throat go dry. “I— Fuck just stop! Please. Don’t keep shuttin’ me out like this… y’cant do that to me. I can’t help if you won’t let me in.” He croaked out, his voice winded and practically pleading.
That was when you finally broke.
The tears you'd been holding back came all at once, hot and uncontrollable as you hid your face in your trembling hands. Your head hung low as watery hiccups and broken sobs spilled past your lips like a waterfall, your shoulders shaking with every shaky breath you tried to swallow back.
"Hey, hey, hey—" he murmured immediately, his voice gentle despite the panic twisting in his chest.
He was beside you within seconds, dropping down to his knees to meet your level before pulling you close against his chest, as though he were afraid you'd fall apart if he held you any less gently.
One arm wrapped securely around your back while the other rested over your shoulder, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as he pressed his cheek against your hair.
It hurt to hear you cry like this.
He could feel how quickly your heart was racing beneath your chest, the uneven hiccups hitting the back of your throat, and feel the violent trembles running through your body every time another sob forced its way out of you.
Your muscles tensed against him as though you'd been holding yourself together for far too long before finally allowing yourself to break.
And all he could think about was how badly he wanted to make it stop.
The apologies came out broken and muffled against his shoulder, your voice cracking between every shaky breath.
"No, no," he was quick to soothe, rubbing slow circles into your back, shaking his head as he held you just a little closer. "Shh, s'okay, honey... s'alright."
His hand gently combed through your hair as he spoke, careful and patient.
"You're okay," he whispered. "Don't worry bout’ anything else. Just breathe, alright? Follow my breathing” he muttered out “Feel me.. M’ right here."
For several moments, neither of you spoke another word. He simply held you while your cries slowly quieted into soft sniffles and shaky breaths, never once loosening his hold. If anything, he wished he could hold you tighter—close enough to somehow take every bit of hurt from you and carry it himself.
Only when he felt the tension slowly begin to leave your body did he pull back ever so slightly.
His expression softened immediately at the sight before him.
Your eyes were glossy and swollen from crying, tears still clinging to your lashes before trailing down your flushed cheeks. Your bottom lip trembled faintly as you avoided his gaze, embarrassed by your own vulnerability.
"Oh, bee," he sighed sadly, his heart aching at how utterly drained you looked.
Both of his hands came up to cradle your warm face with impossible gentleness, the pads of his thumbs sweeping beneath your eyes to wipe away the tears resting there.
You couldn't bring yourself to look at him for more than a few seconds before another quiet apology slipped from your lips.
"No more sorry's," he interrupted softly, shaking his head as his forehead came to rest against yours. "You haven't done anythin' to be sorry for."
His brows furrowed slightly as he looked at you, thumb absentmindedly brushing across your cheek.
"You hear me?" he asked quietly. "Cryin' isn't somethin' you apologize for. Being upset isn't somethin' you apologize for."
His voice faltered for just a moment before he spoke again, softer this time.
His hand found yours once more as he stood from beside the balcony chair, fingers gently intertwining with your own before giving them a soft squeeze.
"C'mon, love," he murmured quietly. "Let's go inside."
There was no rush in his movements as he guided you back into the hotel room. The late evening air lingered against your skin as the balcony doors slid shut behind the two of you, muffling the sounds of the city below.
He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, never letting go of your hand once.
For a few moments, neither of you spoke. He simply rubbed his thumb against your knuckles while he waited patiently for you to settle, knowing he'd only overwhelm you if he pressed too much.
"Tell me what’s hurting, love," he finally asked softly.
The question was gentle—careful—as though he were afraid asking too loudly might shatter the fragile calm you'd managed to find.
You told him about the match itself. About watching him play one of the best games of his career and feeling so indescribably proud of him. About celebrating every goal and every moment because nobody deserved it more than he did.
But then told him how gutted you were for Mexico.
About your family gathered around the TV back home. Seeing the pictures of your family's faces shift from laughing and cheering to tears and disbelief. About the pride you'd always felt growing up watching them play and how much it still meant to you now.
You told him how emotionally torn you'd felt the entire evening—one half of your heart soaring while the other was quietly breaking.
And somehow, what made you feel worst of all was feeling guilty for feeling any of it in the first place.
"And..." your voice faltered slightly as you looked down at your lap. "S'not like y'did anythin' wrong. You—you played so so well. You were incredible."
You laughed quietly to yourself, though there wasn't much humor behind it.
"I just didn't wanna tell you and make you feel bad. Didn't wanna burden you with my emotions during your moment." Your fingers twisted nervously together as you spoke. "That wouldn't be fair to you."
His brows furrowed slightly at your words, though he remained silent, allowing you to continue.
"So I tried t'hide them away from you." You smiled sadly, shaking your head. "Guess that didn't really work either."
A breathless laugh escaped your lips as your hands came back up to your face, rubbing tiredly at your eyes and flushed skin, perhaps a little rougher than intended.
Without saying a word, Jude gently caught hold of your wrists before guiding your hands back down into your lap. His fingers carefully threaded themselves through yours once more, holding them there as though silently reminding you that you didn't need to hide yourself away anymore.
You couldn't quite bring yourself to look at him just yet.
The only sounds filling the room were your quiet sniffles and the soft rustling of the late-night breeze slipping through the slightly parted curtains.
"Please look at me, love."
His voice broke through the momentary silence so softly that your heart ached at the sound of it.
There was something fragile in his tone that finally made you lift your gaze.
His eyes were glossed over slightly—not quite crying, but close enough that you realized he'd been holding himself together just as much as you had.
"Want you t'listen to me for a minute, alright?" he spoke quietly. "M'not mad at you—or angry that y’been feeling this way."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"We—we both knew this game was gonna be intense," he said softly, squeezing your hand. "And we said before it'd probably go either way."
You nodded silently, listening carefully to every word he spoke.
"So none of this—none of what you're feelin' right now—is wrong."
He smiled sadly before shaking his head slightly.
"I just..." he paused, swallowing thickly before speaking again. "I think what hurts most is that even after we talked about all this beforehand... y'still couldn't tell me how you were doin'. Or just..." his voice softened considerably, "let me in."
The words made your chest tighten immediately.
"I don't want you t'feel like you've gotta hide yourself away from me just t'spare my feelings," he continued quietly. "And I don't want you thinkin' you can't talk to me because you don't wanna burden me."
His thumb brushed softly over the back of your hand as he smiled sadly.
"'Cause that isn't fair to you either, sweetheart."
Your throat tightened painfully as you listened to him speak. There wasn't an ounce of frustration in his voice—only sadness that you'd carried this all by yourself.
Unable to find the right words, you simply nodded in understanding.
The two of you sat quietly for a few moments afterward, allowing the silence to settle comfortably between you.
You smiled weakly at the familiar request before shifting closer to him. Carefully, he guided you onto his left thigh, your legs resting comfortably across his right as your arms naturally draped around his shoulders.
His own found their familiar place around your waist almost immediately, warm hands resting against the thin fabric of your shirt as his thumbs rubbed soothing circles against your side.
For several moments, neither of you spoke.
You simply rested against the crook of his neck whilst he held you close, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
It felt like coming home.
Eventually, his hand came up to gently cup your cheek as he pulled you back ever so slightly before leaning forward and pressing his lips softly against yours.
It wasn't rushed or hidden away as so many of your kisses had been lately.
There were no cameras waiting outside the door or stolen moments between busy schedules.
"I love you," he whispered softly between kisses. "S'much, baby."
His forehead rested against yours as his fingers brushed gently through your hair.
"And I just want you t'be okay."
The vulnerability in his voice made your heart ache.
"Worries me when I don't know how you're feelin'," he admitted quietly. "Or what you're thinkin' about up in here."
His kisses slowly traveled from your lips to your cheek before lingering softly against your temple.
"So whenever you start t'feel like this..." he murmured against your skin, "I need you t'tell me, yeah?"
He pulled back slightly, looking at you as though he needed to make sure you understood every word he was saying.
"Don't care how ridiculous or inconvenient you think it’ll sound—I want t'know."
His hand gently squeezed yours once more before he smiled softly.
"I want t'know so I can be here with you."
Your eyes softened immediately as you nodded your head.
"Okay," you whispered quietly. "I'll tell you. I'm so—"
You caught yourself the moment you saw his head tilt slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully as though a very familiar stop saying “sorry” was only seconds away from spilling past his lips.
A small laugh finally escaped you—the first genuine one of the evening.
"¿Me perdonas por decir 'lo siento', cariño?" you teased quietly.
His entire expression softened immediately as he smiled back at you.
"Oh, mi amor, por supuesto que sí," he laughed softly before pressing another kiss to your forehead. "Forgave you the moment I heard y’voice from downstairs."
The two of you laughed quietly together after that—the heaviness in the room slowly beginning to melt away.
The conversation drifted naturally onto happier things afterward. You asked him how he was feeling after the match and how the rest of the boys were doing, listening fondly as he recounted moments from the evening.
In return, you showed him the hundreds of photographs your family had sent from home—the television surrounded by cousins and grandparents, your friends crowded together watching the match, and pictures of everyone celebrating despite the bittersweet result.
It made him smile knowing just how loved both of you were.
Hours seemed to pass before you glanced over towards the kitchenette, suddenly remembering the groceries you'd bought earlier that afternoon.
"Oh fuck," you laughed quietly. "I completely forgot to prep for dinner."
He laughed softly at your horrified expression before standing from the bed and holding his hand out towards you.
"Then I suppose we'll have t'make dinner together."
And that's exactly what you did.
It was simple—nothing particularly fancy—but somehow making salmon and grilled zucchini at nearly midnight while dancing quietly in your tiny kitchen felt more romantic than any expensive restaurant ever could.
He made your tea exactly how you liked it without asking, pressing a kiss to your temple when he handed you the mug while pretending not to notice the fond smile growing on your face.
The rest of the evening passed quietly after that.
Skincare was shared between sleepy laughter and kisses pressed against warm cheeks. Toothbrushes sat side-by-side against the bathroom sink while tomorrow's clothes were messily folded beside your suitcases.
And when the lights were finally switched off, he pulled you impossibly close beneath the covers as though making up for every moment he'd spent worrying about you earlier that evening.
Your head rested comfortably against his chest while his fingers lazily traced shapes against your back.
"You alright?" he whispered quietly into your hair.
You smiled sleepily before pressing a soft kiss against his collarbone.
"Mhm," you hummed. "I am now."
He smiled against the top of your head before pressing one final kiss to your forehead.
"Good," he whispered softly. "Keep it that way."
The last thing either of you remembered before sleep found you was quiet laughter filling the darkness of your bedroom and sleepy kisses shared between whispered I love you's.
Tomorrow brings an early flight to Miami and another busy day for the two of you.
But tonight, all that mattered was that you were here—in his arms, exactly where you belonged.
thank you so so much for reading! sorry it took a bit to get this out i’m the slowest writer ever lol
lmk what you you guys think :p
