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Hello !! You have a lovely writing style and would like to ask and Micheal Olise x Reader where the reader works for him ( like chef or maid ) and they both have a crush but the reader is really shy and doesn’t know he likes her back.
Have a great day and thank you ❤️
ahhh cute ideaaa 💛💛💛💛
Noticed
michael olise x reader || angst + fluff || wc: 3k~ || chef/maid x footballer
summary: your basically the equivalent of his maid, he would never like you back, right?
You had always been good at knowing where you belonged.
It was something you had learned without anyone having to tell you. Some people walked into rooms and immediately became the person everyone looked toward. Some people had their names shouted by thousands of strangers, their faces recognized everywhere they went, their lives followed by people who wanted to know every little detail about them.
Michael Olise was one of those people.
And you were not.
You were the person who arrived early, quietly prepared his meals, organized his kitchen, and made sure everything was exactly where it needed to be before he even noticed it was missing. You were the person who remembered how he liked his coffee, the foods he avoided before matches, and the little habits he probably didn’t even realize he had.
You knew a lot about him. The worst part was that you weren’t sure he knew much about you at all. Because at the end of the day, you were still just the person who worked for him.
You were basically the equivalent to his maid.
The thought came back every time your feelings got a little too obvious. He would never like you back. Not the way you liked him. It wasn’t even something you questioned anymore.
Michael Olise was someone people admired from a distance. He was talented, confident, and effortlessly charming. People wanted to be around him.
You were the person who cleaned up after him when he left a glass on the counter. You were the person who made sure he had dinner waiting after a long day.
There was a difference. And you knew better than to forget it.
“Morning,” Michael murmured as he walked into the kitchen, his voice rough from just waking up. You looked up from the counter and immediately felt your heart betray you.
“Good morning,” you replied softly, turning your attention back to the breakfast you had prepared.
You hated that you noticed everything about him.
The way his hair was slightly messy. The way he rubbed his eyes when he was tired. The way he always looked calmer when he was home compared to when he was surrounded by cameras and crowds.
“You’re already finished?” Michael questioned, glancing at the plate in front of him.
You nodded. “You have training soon, so I wanted to make sure everything was ready,” you explained.
Michael leaned against the counter, watching you carefully.
“You always do that,” he said quietly.
Your hands slowed. “Do what?” you asked, looking over at him.
“Make sure everyone else is taken care of before yourself,” Michael answered.
You immediately looked away, letting out a small laugh. “That’s kind of my job,” you joked, hoping the lightness in your voice would end the conversation.
But Michael didn’t laugh. Instead, he sighed. “Is that really all you think this is?” he questioned.
You blinked. “What do you mean?” you asked.
Michael hesitated for a moment, his eyes staying on you. “You make it sound like everything you do doesn’t matter because you’re ‘just doing your job,’” he explained.
Your chest tightened. Because the way he said it sounded like he actually cared. And that was dangerous.
“You’re my employer,” you reminded him quietly.
The second you said it, you wished you hadn’t.
Michael went silent. Not angry. Just… quiet. And somehow, that hurt more.
“You really see me like that?” he asked softly.
“I mean… technically,” you admitted.
For a second, you thought he might argue. Instead, Michael looked down.
“I don’t think of you as just that,” he murmured.
Your heart skipped. Just for a second, you allowed yourself to wonder. But then reality came back. He’s just being kind. That was all.
Michael was a good person. He cared about people. That didn’t mean he cared about you in the way you secretly wished he did.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
His eyebrows pulled together slightly. “For what?” Michael questioned.
“For saying that,” you answered.
He stared at you.
“You’re thanking me for telling you that you’re important?” he asked.
Your fingers tightened around the towel in your hands. You didn’t know how to explain it. You didn’t know how to tell him that sometimes kindness felt strange when you weren’t used to receiving it.
“I guess I’m not used to hearing it,” you admitted.
Michael’s expression softened. “You should be,” he murmured.
You looked away. Because that was the problem. Michael had no idea what he did to you. He could say one simple sentence, and you would spend the next week wondering if it meant something.
And it couldn’t. It couldn’t mean something. Because people like Michael Olise didn’t fall for people like you.
“You should eat before your food gets cold,” you said, quickly changing the subject.
Michael stared at you for a moment before laughing quietly.
“You also always do that,” he teased.
You looked up. “Do what?” you questioned.
“Change the subject whenever things get too deep,” he answered.
You felt your cheeks warm. “I do not,” you argued.
Michael raised an eyebrow. “You’re talking about my breakfast instead of what we were just discussing.”
You tried not to smile. “You noticed that?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Michael smiled slightly. “I notice a lot about you,” he admitted.
Your heart stopped. Immediately, you looked back down.
Don’t. Don’t let yourself believe that means anything.
“I’m sure you notice a lot about everyone,” you replied.
The smile on Michael’s face faded slightly. “No,” he murmured. “Not everyone.”
The words stayed with you long after he left for training. You hated that they did.
You hated how a simple sentence could make your heart race and your mind create a hundred different meanings that probably weren’t even there.
Because what did he mean? Did he mean he noticed you because you were around often?
Did he mean he noticed you because it was his responsibility as your employer?
Or did he mean something else?
No. You immediately pushed that thought away.
Don’t be ridiculous. Michael Olise was kind.
He was the type of person who remembered people’s names, who thanked staff members, who checked on people when they looked tired.
You weren’t special. You were just someone who happened to be there.
Someone who made his coffee. Someone who cooked his meals. Someone who worked for him.
I’m just his employee.
You repeated the thought until it felt true again. Except Michael kept making it harder to believe.
When Michael returned home later that afternoon, you were already in the kitchen preparing dinner.
You heard his footsteps before you saw him.
And somehow, you knew it was him. That was another thing you hated. How easily you recognized him.
“Hey,” Michael greeted softly.
You looked over your shoulder. “Hi,” you replied.
Usually, you would have smiled. Usually, you would have asked how training went. Usually, you would have made some small comment about how tired he looked.
But today, you turned back to the counter. And Michael noticed. Of course he noticed.
“You’re quiet,” he pointed out.
You shrugged. “I’m always quiet.”
Michael leaned against the doorway.
“Yeah, you’re usually quiet,” he corrected. “Today you’re ignoring me.”
Your hands paused. “I’m not avoiding you,” you said.
He raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t looked at me for more than three seconds since I walked in.”
Your cheeks warmed. “You counted?”
Michael laughed softly. “No,” he admitted. “I just noticed.”
There it was again. That word. Noticed.
“You notice everything,” you replied.
Michael tilted his head. “Is that a bad thing?”
You looked down at the vegetables you were cutting. “No.” But your voice was too quiet.
Michael sighed. “It sounds like you think it is.”
You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know how to explain it. How were you supposed to tell him that being noticed by him felt dangerous?
How were you supposed to explain that every little thing he did made you wonder if maybe you mattered more than you thought?
And how were you supposed to admit that you were terrified of finding out you were wrong?
“You didn’t eat lunch,” Michael said suddenly.
You looked up. “What?”
“You didn’t eat lunch,” he repeated.
You blinked. “How do you know that?”
Michael looked almost confused by the question. “Because your food is still there.”
You stared at him. “You noticed that?”
A small smile appeared on his face.“Yes.”
Your heart sank. Because he said it so easily. Like noticing you was normal. Like paying attention to you wasn’t something strange.
“You don’t have to keep track of me,” you whispered.
Michael’s smile disappeared. “I’m not keeping track of you.”
You looked away. “Then what are you doing?”
The question came out softer than you intended.
Michael was quiet for a moment. Then he answered. “Caring.”
Your breath caught. Just one word. One simple word. And suddenly you didn’t know what to do with it.
Because you wanted to believe him. You really did. But wanting something didn’t make it real.
“Michael…”
He sighed when he heard the hesitation in your voice. “There it is again,” he murmured.
You frowned. “What?”
“That look.” You looked confused. “What look?”
“The one where you’re trying to convince yourself I don’t mean what I’m saying.”
You went still. Because he was right. And you hated that he was right.
“I’m not,” you whispered.
Michael gave you a small, sad smile. “You are.”
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. That almost made it worse.
Because if he had been angry, maybe you could have handled it.
If he had been cold, maybe you could have reminded yourself that you needed to keep your distance.
But Michael was patient. Michael was gentle. Michael looked at you like you were worth understanding. And you didn’t know what to do with that.
“You know you don’t have to be perfect around me, right?” Michael asked quietly.
You looked at him. “I’m not trying to be perfect.”
He gave a small laugh. “Yes, you are.”
You shook your head. “No, I’m not.”
“You apologize when I thank you,” he said. “You say you’re fine when you’re clearly exhausted. You act like accepting kindness is something you have to earn.”
You looked down. Because every word felt too accurate. “You don’t know that,” you whispered.
Michael stepped closer. “I do.” Your heart hurt. Because he sounded so certain.
“I don’t understand why you think you have to make yourself smaller around me,” he admitted.
You froze. Make yourself smaller. That was exactly what it felt like. Like there was some invisible line between you. A line that reminded you every day who he was. And who you were.
“Because there is a difference between us,” you said quietly.
Michael frowned. “What difference?”
You laughed softly, but there was no humor in it.
“Michael, you’re you.”
He stared at you.
“And I’m me.”
“That doesn’t explain anything,” he replied.
You looked away. “It does.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he argued gently.
You swallowed. “You’re someone everyone wants to know.”
Michael stayed quiet.
“And I’m someone you hired to help around your house.”
The moment the words left your mouth, the room changed. Michael looked at you differently. Not with anger.
With something closer to heartbreak.
“You really think that’s all you are?” he questioned.
You didn’t answer. Because the truth was yes. Yes, you did.
“I think you’re an incredible person,” Michael admitted.
You looked up.
“But I don’t understand why you refuse to believe that.”
Your chest tightened. Because you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe every word. But there was still that voice in your head.
He’s just being kind.
He doesn’t mean it like that.
You’re just someone who works for him.
“I don’t want to misunderstand you,” you whispered.
Michael’s expression softened. “What do you mean?”
You looked down. “I don’t want to think something means more than it does.”
For once, Michael didn’t immediately answer. Because he understood. You weren’t pushing him away because you didn’t care.
You were pushing him away because you cared too much.
“I wish you knew,” he murmured.
Your heart skipped. “Knew what?”
Michael looked at you. Everything about him softened. But then he hesitated. And that hesitation hurt.
Because it felt like he was standing right at the edge of saying something.
Something important. Something you had been waiting to hear. But instead, he just sighed.
“Nothing,” he whispered.
And somehow, that was worse. Because now you knew there was something. You just didn’t know what.
You spent the entire night convincing yourself you had imagined it.
That was the easiest explanation. Because the other option was impossible.
The other option meant that Michael Oliver, the person everyone admired, the person who had thousands of people cheering his name, the person who could have anyone he wanted, actually cared about you in a way that went beyond kindness.
And that couldn’t be true.
It was easier to believe you had misunderstood.
It was easier to believe you had read too much into every smile, every conversation, every small moment where he looked at you like you were more than just someone who worked for him.
Because if you were wrong, you could move on. If you were wrong, you could go back to being normal.
But if you were right? You didn’t know what you would do.
The next morning, you arrived earlier than usual.
Not because you needed to.
Because you wanted something to do. Something that didn’t involve thinking.
The kitchen was quiet as you prepared breakfast, and for a moment, you let yourself relax.
Then you heard footsteps.
“You’re here early,” Michael said softly. “Like earlier than early.”
You looked up.
He was standing in the doorway, watching you. And suddenly, the calm you had built disappeared.
“Good morning,” you replied.
Michael studied you for a moment. “Morning,” he answered.
The silence that followed felt different. Not awkward. Just heavy.
“You’re avoiding looking at me again,” Michael pointed out.
You immediately looked back down. “I’m not.”
He sighed. “You always say that.”
You tried to smile. “And you always say I’m avoiding you.”
“Because you are.”
You didn’t answer. Because you were. And you both knew it.
Michael walked closer. “Can I ask you something?” he questioned.
You nodded. “Of course.”
“Why do you think so little of yourself?”
The question caught you completely off guard.
You looked up at him. “What?”
Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday.”
Your heart tightened. “Michael—”
“No, just listen for a second,” he asked gently.
You went quiet.
“I keep trying to show you that you matter to me,” he admitted. “And every single time, you find a reason why it doesn’t count.”
Your fingers curled around the edge of the counter. Because he was saying the thing you were most afraid of.
“You’re kind,” you whispered.
Michael looked confused. “What?”
“You’re kind,” you repeated. “That’s all.”
His expression changed. Not angry.
Just hurt.
“Do you really believe that?” he asked.
You looked away. “I think you’re a good person.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t letting you hide.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you admitted, once again.
Michael’s voice softened. “I want you to tell me what you actually think.”
You swallowed. And for once, you stopped trying to make the answer sound less painful.
“I think you’re Michael Olise,” you whispered. “And I’m someone who works for you.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I think you’re nice to me because that’s who you are,” you continued. “But I don’t think it means anything more.”
The silence after that hurt. Because you saw it. You saw the moment your words reached him.
“You really don’t see it,” Michael murmured.
You frowned.“See what?”
He took a breath. Then another.
Like he was trying to figure out how to say something he had been holding in for too long.
“I don’t remember when it happened,” he admitted.
Your heart started beating faster. “When what happened?”
“When I started looking forward to coming home because you’d be here.”
You froze.
Michael looked down briefly before continuing. “I don’t remember when your coffee order became something I remembered without thinking. Or when I started noticing when you were tired before you said anything. Or when I started wanting to know how your day was, not because I was being polite, but because I actually cared.”
You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak. “Michael…”
“I know what you think,” he whispered. “I know you think you’re just someone who works for me.”
His eyes met yours. “But you’re not.”
Your heart ached. “Then what am I?” you asked quietly.
Michael smiled sadly. “You’re the person who makes my house feel like home.”
Your breath caught.
“You’re the person who remembers everything about me, even when I forget to take care of myself.”
He stepped closer. “And somehow, you still think you’re the person who matters the least.”
Your eyes burned slightly. Because you didn’t know how to handle being seen. Really seen.
“I thought I was imagining it,” you admitted.
Michael’s expression softened. “Imagining what?”
You laughed quietly, nervous and embarrassed. “The way you look at me.”
His face changed. Like he couldn’t believe you had been carrying that alone.
“You thought you imagined that?” he questioned.
You nodded. “I thought you were just being nice.”
Michael let out a quiet laugh. Not because it was funny. Because he was almost in disbelief.
“I have been trying so hard to make it obvious.”
You smiled a little. “You’re not very obvious.”
He laughed softly. “Apparently not.”
For the first time in days, the tension between you disappeared.
Not completely. Not all at once. But enough.
“I was scared,” you admitted.
Michael’s expression softened. “Of what?”
“That I was wrong.”
He shook his head. “You weren’t.”
You looked at him. “You’re sure?”
Michael smiled. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”
Your heart felt too full.
Because for so long, you had convinced yourself that someone like Michael Oliver would never choose someone like you.
And maybe that was the thing you got wrong.
Maybe love wasn’t about being equal in the ways you expected.
Maybe it was about someone seeing every part of you that you tried to hide.
“You know,” Michael teased softly, “you’re still going to have to stop calling yourself just my employee.”
You laughed. “I’ll try.”
“No,” he joked. “You’ll actually try.”
You rolled your eyes.
“There’s the confidence.”
Michael smiled.
“There’s the person I was looking for.”
And that was the moment you finally understood.
He had never been looking at the person who made his meals.
He had never been looking at the person who cleaned his house.
would you ever consider writing for ivar stenberg?
-🐇
yes I would, yes I would 💛💛💛
My Favorite Person
ivar stenberg x reader || 1.8k~ words || fluff + a smidge of angst || friends to lovers
summary: two oblivious friends finally admit it
You had always told yourself that Ivar was just like that with everyone.
That was the only explanation that made sense.
Because if you admitted that he treated you differently, if you admitted that maybe the little things he did actually meant something, then you would have to face the possibility that there was something between you that you had been ignoring for far too long.
And that was terrifying.
So instead, you convinced yourself that Ivar was just a good friend.
A very confusing, very annoying, ridiculously thoughtful friend.
A friend who somehow remembered your exact coffee order even though you had only mentioned it once months ago.
A friend who always walked on the outside of the sidewalk without ever mentioning it.
A friend who complained every single time you stole his hoodie but somehow never asked for it back.
“You know, most people would say thank you when someone lets them steal their clothes,” Ivar said, looking at you as you pulled the sleeves of his hoodie over your hands.
You looked down at yourself before looking back at him. “Most people would also take their hoodie back if they actually wanted it.”
Ivar opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
You smiled because you knew you had won.
“You don’t actually want it back,” you teased, leaning back in your chair.
“I do,” Ivar said immediately.
“You do not.”
“I do.”
“Then take it.”
Silence.
You raised your eyebrows.
Ivar looked away.
“I’m waiting,” you said, trying not to laugh.
“You’re annoying,” he answered.
“You say that every day.”
“Because you are.”
“And yet you’re still sitting here.”
He looked back at you, and for a second, his expression softened.
Only for a second.
But you noticed.
You always noticed.
“That’s because I’m patient,” Ivar said, quickly looking away.
You laughed quietly. “That’s the worst excuse you’ve ever made.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“It absolutely is.”
He rolled his eyes, but you could see the tiny smile he was trying to hide.
And that was the problem.
Ivar was always doing things like that.
Making you feel like maybe there was something more.
Then immediately acting like there wasn’t.
Which was why you had decided not to think about it.
Because Ivar was your friend.
Your best friend.
And you weren’t going to be the person who ruined that because you misread a few smiles.
“Okay,” your friend said from across the table, looking between the two of you. “I have a question.”
You immediately knew you weren’t going to like where this was going.
“No,” you said.
Your friend blinked. “I haven’t even asked yet.”
“I know you.”
“That’s rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
Ivar laughed quietly beside you.
And somehow, hearing him laugh made you forget your argument completely.
Your friend pointed at him.
“See? That. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
You frowned. “What?”
“You two.”
You and Ivar both answered at the same time.
“What about us?”
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
And you both immediately looked away.
Your friend sighed.
“You’re impossible.”
“We’re not doing anything,” you said, crossing your arms.
“Sure.”
“We’re not.”
“Okay.”
That tone alone made you suspicious.
“What?”
“Nothing,” your friend said, smiling.
You narrowed your eyes.
You hated that smile.
It was the same smile people had when they knew something you didn’t.
Before you could question them, the conversation moved on, eventually turning into the one topic that always caused problems.
Relationships.
“So,” someone said, looking at Ivar, “how are you still single?”
Ivar immediately groaned.
“No.”
You laughed. “What?”
“I know where this is going.”
“Where?”
“They’re going to annoy me.”
Your friend grinned. “Because it’s true.”
“What is?”
“You never like anyone.”
Ivar shrugged. “Maybe I just haven’t met someone.”
You glanced at him.
“That’s actually surprising.”
He looked at you. “Why?”
“Because you’re not exactly hard to like.”
The second the words left your mouth, you realized everyone had gone quiet.
You looked around.
“What?”
Nobody answered.
Ivar was staring at you.
“What?” you repeated, laughing awkwardly.
“Nothing,” he said.
But it wasn’t nothing.
You knew that look.
You just didn’t know what it meant.
Your friend leaned forward. “Okay, then. What is your type?”
Ivar sighed.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Everyone has a type.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
You smiled. “You’re avoiding the question.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He looked at you, and you swear there was something almost amused in his expression.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes,” you said.
And maybe you shouldn’t have.
Because the second you asked, something changed.
Ivar looked down.
Then he laughed softly.
“I’m going to regret answering this.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re all going to make it a big deal.”
Your friend immediately smiled. “Now I definitely want to know.”
Ivar shook his head.
Then he said, “Someone who makes me laugh.”
You smiled.
“That’s it?”
“No.”
Everyone became quiet.
“Someone who listens.”
You stopped smiling.
“Someone who remembers things.”
Your heart skipped slightly.
“Someone who makes everything feel easier.”
Ivar’s voice got quieter.
“Someone who makes me feel like I can actually be myself.”
You didn’t know why, but suddenly you felt like you weren’t supposed to be hearing this.
Like this was something personal.
Something he wasn’t supposed to say out loud.
Then he looked at you.
And before he could stop himself, he said it.
“Someone like you.”
The entire table went silent.
Ivar froze.
Actually froze.
His eyes widened slightly, like he had only just realized what he had said.
You stared at him.
“Ivar…”
“No.”
You blinked.
“No?”
“I mean— wait.”
He ran a hand through his hair.
“That was not how I was supposed to say that.”
Your heart started beating faster.
“Say what?”
He looked at you.
And suddenly, the person who always had something sarcastic to say had absolutely nothing.
“Ivar?”
“I like you,” he admitted quietly.
You didn’t say anything.
Because honestly?
You had imagined this moment before.
Not that you would ever admit it.
But in your imagination, it was always perfect.
You would have some clever response.
You would say something funny.
You wouldn’t just sit there staring at him like your brain had stopped working.
“Ivar,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know this is probably weird.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“No?”
You shook your head.
“No, it’s not weird.”
His expression softened.
“I just…”
You looked down for a second.
“I thought you only saw me as a friend.”
A small, almost disbelieving smile appeared on his face.
“Are you serious?”
You frowned. “What?”
“I have spent years trying to make it obvious.”
You laughed softly. “You have not.”
“I have.”
“You literally insult me every day.”
“Affectionately.”
“You steal my snacks.”
“You leave them unattended.”
You stared at him.
“That is not a good excuse.”
He smiled.
And there it was again.
That smile.
The one you always pretended didn’t affect you.
“I didn’t want to ruin this,” Ivar admitted.
Your expression softened.
“This?”
“Us.”
The honesty in his voice made your chest ache.
“Because you’re my favorite person.”
You looked at him.
And suddenly all the little moments made sense.
The hoodie.
The coffee.
The way he always looked for you first.
The way he always noticed.
“You’re such an idiot,” you whispered.
He laughed quietly. “That’s your response?”
“Yes.”
“Great.”
“But…”
He looked at you.
“I like you too.”
For a moment, he just stared.
“Really?”
You smiled. “Really.”
A slow smile appeared on his face.
And before you could say anything else, your friend immediately groaned.
“Finally.”
You turned around.
“What?”
Everyone was looking at you both like they had been waiting for this moment forever.
“You two are exhausting,” your friend said.
Ivar frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means everyone knew except you.”
You looked at Ivar.
He looked at you.
Then he sighed.
“Apparently we’re both idiots.”
You laughed.
“Apparently.”
And for once, when Ivar looked at you, he didn’t look away.
Smiling seeing cute kid/baby videos but then suddenly ain’t shit funny bc why are you posting your kids on the internet you dumb bitch take this shit down now don’t fucking do that
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Why are you not re-blogging? You think the fandom is dead, that no one’s interacting anymore, no one’s doing anything, no one’s writing, no one’s posting. ‘Everyone was so hyperfixed on that character, Where is the writing?’
People are writing. People aren’t reblogging. People aren’t giving some good feedback to motivate the writers that are putting their hard work, time, effort into making this piece that you were reading.
‘oh, it’s just too much work. You don’t wanna click that button and then click a few tags.’ Then you’re gonna have to suffer and not see a lot of writing from a lot of people because the only way this fucking app works is if you reblog.
I see so many pieces of work with 59 likes and 1 blog, I just saw one that had 690 likes and it had 9 reblogs. Even 1,000 likes and only 59 reblogs too. It’s devastating to see for the community of Tumblr. And I’ve been here for like five years, the way this app works is if you re-blog.
There’s so many people that are writing. There’s so many amazing things that I see and I try my best to reblog every single one that I read. That’s what I love doing because sharing someone’s piece of work is just beautiful because it allows me to show it to more people.
I reblog. And the beauty of it is;
I get notifications that this person liked it and this person liked it, and then that post continues to get more views, more likes and reblogs. All just because one person, reblogged it.
so please, if you are a part of Tumblr and you love reading your favorite writers fics, or love reading about your favorite character, please do your job and reblog it.
And if you don’t like re-blogging because you don’t want to do that on your account, then you can make another account and put all of the things that you read on that account. You can do separate things, like fic recs.
You can figure it the fuck out if you want people to actually be writing for a character you love. The writers are writing, you ain’t helping them share their work.
masterlist ᯓ★
lo's commentary: hello angels! this is VERY explicit, jude is experiencing many emotions so expect a lot of emotional whiplash. i hope u love it <3
pairing: bf!jude bellingham x reader
summary: after England’s crushing 1-2 semi-final loss to Argentina, a seething and devastated Jude returns to the hotel room filled with raw anger. what begins as furious tears and pacing quickly explodes into desperate, rough, possessive sex as he tries to fuck the frustration out of his system and reclaim control. he only trusts you to see him like this, and remind him exactly who the fuck he is
warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit smut, rough sex, angry sex, spanking, possessive dirty talk, spitting in mouth, emotional hurt/comfort, angry tears, self-blame, brief argument, mood swings, vulnerable jude, very clingy and guilty aftercare, established relationship
wc: 5k!
Jude took the loss incredibly hard. None of you had the right words for him. He was devastated in a way that went far beyond the scoreline. He couldn’t hold back the tears as much as he would have liked, even though he tried. God, he tried.
It’s not that he was ashamed of showing emotion. Jude was a passionate man. About his sport, about his family, about what he believes in, about you. But breaking down on international television in front of millions, was never something someone actively wanted to do.
“Fuck…fuck!”
You heard him shouting from the pitch, emotions raw, just before he covered his face with both hands and started pacing in tight, frustrated circles. The Argentinians were celebrating wildly right in front of him, cheering, bodies jumping. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, eyes squeezed shut like he was physically willing himself to not explode publicly. Then one of the opposing players said something in Spanish – you couldn’t hear or understand what –and Jude lashed out, slapping the back of the player’s head in a flash of blind frustration.
You and Denise both shot to your feet at the same time. His mum muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like “for fuck’s sake, Jude,” her hand flying to her mouth as you all watched the brief altercation unfold. Luckily the England lads were quick, pulling him away, keeping him wrapped up and shielded from the cameras as best they could.
He finished his post-match interviews and finally made his way over to the family section. You could tell from the way he kept hiding his face under the brim of his cap that he was pissed off he couldn’t stop the tears. Pissed off he couldn’t stop those late goals. Pissed off he couldn’t score more, contribute more, do whatever it took to push England over the line. He would have sacrificed almost anything tonight to get them to the final.
He hugged his parents first. Denise held him tight, rubbing his back in slow circles, whispering things only a mother could say. Mark gripped him hard, proud even in defeat, murmuring quiet words of reassurance. But their comfort seemed to ricochet off Jude’s body. He was vibrating with anger, with frustration, with a deep, burning disappointment that lived in his chest after every loss with England.
When he finally sat down next to you, his hand automatically latched onto your thigh, gripping like you were the only steady thing left in his world. You watched as his knee bounced restlessly, as he ran his hand over his face again and tugged his cap even lower, trying to disappear under it.
“Jude, hey… hey… look at me,” you said softly.
He turned his head slowly, propping his chin on his fist. The muscles in his jaw ticked hard. He was devastated, that much was clear in his red-rimmed eyes. But underneath it you could see the anger simmering; at himself, at the way it had slipped away again, at the fact that no matter how hard he ran, how much he gave, it still wasn’t enough to cross that final line for England.
You reached out and gently wiped under his eye with your thumb. He turned his head and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to your palm, lingering there for a second like he needed the contact to soothe his very soul. Then his eyes drifted away again, distant and unfocused, staring down at the now-empty pitch where the Argentina celebrations had finally started to die down.
The silence between you stretched, heavy and painful. His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth absently, like he needed something to anchor him to reality and not let him get lost inside his head.
“Can you come to my room later?” he muttered eventually, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. “I don’t… I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”
You nodded instantly, heart twisting at how small he sounded. “Yes… yeah, of course, baby. Whatever you need. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He let out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. “Don’t wanna keep crying out here,” he admitted quietly, almost embarrassed. “Not with everyone still watching. Just… need it to be you. Need it to be quiet.”
You squeezed his hand, leaning your head against his shoulder for a moment. “I’ve got you. I promise. As soon as you’re back at the hotel, I’ll come straight to you. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
Jude turned his head slightly, pressing another soft kiss to the top of your head. His voice was barely audible when he spoke again.
“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you tonight.”
You got to his hotel room just after the sun had set, the sky outside still bleeding orange and pink. He’d texted you very bluntly earlier, the way he got when the pain was still too fresh to soften for anyone, even you.
Consequently, you weren’t expecting him to be in a fantastic mood when you finally knocked on his door. He always came down to the lobby to collect you, no matter how tired he was. Not tonight.
“Who is it?” came his voice, sharp.
You could hear him moving inside, pacing, up and down the room like a caged animal.
“It’s me, bab–”
You hadn’t finished your sentence before the door swung open. He pulled you inside and shut the door behind you before you could even blink. His chest was heaving. The second you were over the threshold he let go of you, stepping back like he needed space but also couldn’t stand being far away from you. There were fresh tear streaks down his face that he was angrily wiping away with the heel of his hand. He was being so hard on himself. It broke your heart all over again.
“Do you think I had a shit game?” he asked bluntly, voice a little cold, eyes burning with more tears.
“What? No, I—”
“Good. Because what more could I have fucking done?” He started pacing again, hands tugging at his hair. “I ran until my legs felt like they were going to snap. I covered every blade of grass. I created chances. I defended when I had to. And it still wasn’t enough.”
You sat on the edge of his bed, watching him, heart aching as the words poured out of him.
“Jude… you gave everything out there. Everyone saw that. I saw that.”
“Yeah?” He stopped pacing for a second, eyes flashing. “Well it wasn’t enough, was it? The second goal was right in the middle of the fucking goal. Right there. We had six defenders on the fucking pitch. Six! I’m not a defender! How did we let that happen? How did I not see it coming? I should’ve been there. Should’ve been closer to the ball. I should’ve done more.”
You tried to keep your voice steady. “You can’t carry the whole team on your back every single—”
“I wasn’t trying to carry the whole team,” he cut in, voice rising. “I was trying to win! And we were winning. We were in control. And then it just… slipped. Again. Like it always fucking does–”
He cut himself off with a bitter laugh, shaking his head. His eyes were glassy again, angry tears threatening to spill over. He wiped them away roughly, like they personally offended him.
“Baby, you’re being too hard on yourself—”
“Don’t,” he snapped, but there was no real anger directed at you, just frustration spilling out of him any way it could. “Don’t tell me I’m being too hard on myself. I know what I saw out there. I know what I felt. We were better than that. I was better than that. I always think I can do more and then it’s the same story. We get so fucking close and then—”
You stood up slowly, reaching for him. “Jude, hey… look at me.”
He shook his head, running a hand over his face, body shaking with the tears he was trying to hold back.
“I’m so fucking tired of this. Tired of getting to the last stages and watching it slip away. Tired of the ‘nearly men’ narrative. Tired of people saying we don’t have the mentality when we just went toe-to-toe with the world champions for ninety minutes. What more do they want from us? From me?”
His voice cracked on the last word. He stopped pacing for a second, chest rising and falling fast, fists clenched at his sides. The room felt too small for all the fury and grief rolling off him.
You reached for him again, and he let you pull him in, but his body stayed rigid, vibrating.
“What can I do to make it better then?” you asked softly, stroking his back. “If you don’t want me to criticise the self-blame, then how can I help?”
“I don’t know!” His voice cracked, frustration and pain mixing together. “You can’t. I’m just– I’m so fucking angry and–and–”
He cut himself off, breathing hard. For a second it looked like he might pull away. His face crumpled, eyebrows knitting together as a choked off sob escaped him.
“Baby…baby it’s okay–”
“It’s not okay. Nothing feels okay,” he sniffled, tucking his head into your neck. You stroked his back, not sure what to do next. He was so fragile but so angry. You’d never seen him like this before.
“I know and I’m so sorry, Jude,” you whispered, kissing the top of his cheek as you held him close. “Tell me how to help you. I’ll do anything to make you feel a little bit better. Just tell me what you need.”
He lifted his head for a second, wet eyes meeting yours. He looked over your face slowly, like he was searching for something, before his gaze lingered on your lips. You wanted to say something else, anything to help pull him out of the spiral, but he was so focused on your mouth that the self-deprecating words had finally stopped pouring out of him.
“Baby?” you breathed softly.
His grip on your waist tightened almost painfully within seconds. He pulled you flush against him, mouth crashing down on yours in a bruising kiss. There was nothing gentle about it. It was desperate, angry, hungry, like he wanted to drown how he was feeling out with how good your lips felt against his.
You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound, walking you backwards until your back hit the wall. One hand slid into your hair, tugging hard enough to tilt your head back as he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against yours with desperate need.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with emotion, almost apologetic even as his body pressed harder against you. “I’m not trying to take it out on you. I just…”
He broke off, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were still glassy with frustration and leftover tears, but there was something else burning in them now – a desperate, almost feral hunger he only had for you.
“I need you,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I need you to remind me who the fuck I am. Need you to make me feel like me again. Strong. In control. Not this… this version that keeps fucking up.”
His hand slid down to grip your thigh, lifting it around his hip as he ground his hardening bulge against you.
“Want to fuck you so deep you forget every other name but mine,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping into the filthy, dominant tone he only used when he was desperate. “Want you screaming for me. Want to feel you fall apart on my cock so I can remember who I am. The one who takes what he wants. The one who always wins with you.”
He kissed you again, harder this time, biting your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.
“Tell me you want this,” he breathed, eyes dark and wild, hips rolling against you in a slow, filthy grind. “Tell me it’s okay to be rough tonight. Tell me you can take it. Because I need to feel like me again, baby. Need to feel like I own something. Like I own you.”
His fingers dug into your thigh, possessive and trembling with the emotions still raging inside him.
“Please,” he whispered, forehead still pressed to yours. “Let me have you like this.”
You hesitated for a second, searching his eyes. You weren’t entirely sure this was the healthiest way for him to process everything he was feeling…the anger, the grief, the powerlessness from the pitch. But this was Jude, and you didn’t think you could ever say no to him when he looked at you like that, desperate and aching and needing to feel something real.
You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear, and nodded.
“I can take it,” you whispered. “I’ll take anything you give me. You know I will.”
Relief and hunger flashed across his face at the same time. He squeezed your thigh again, leaning down to kiss you slightly softer at first, but quickly turning deeper, tongue sliding against yours with need and dominance.
“That’s because you’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he murmured against your lips, his accent thicker with emotion. “My beautiful baby. Always know what I need. Always let me have you exactly how I want.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were already glazing over, the soft, submissive look he loved so much taking over. It didn’t take much when he spoke to you like that.
“Yeah?” he asked, almost teasing even through the emotions still raging in his chest. “You gonna let me fuck all this frustration out on you, baby? Let me remind myself who the fuck I am?”
You nodded, already a little breathless. “Yes, Jude.”
That was all he needed. In one smooth, powerful movement he spun you around, pressing your front against the wall. Your cheek met the cool surface as he yanked your jeans and panties down your legs in one rough tug, barely giving you time to step out of them. His big hands immediately palmed your ass, squeezing, spreading, smoothing over your hips like he was reclaiming every bit of skin for himself.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, pressing his still-clothed erection against your bare ass from behind, grinding slow and hard. “Perfect arse. So fucking pretty for me. Bet you’re so wet already and I’ve barely touched you.”
You whimpered as his lips attacked your neck, sucking and biting while his hands slid under your t-shirt, pushing it up so he could feel your skin. One hand stayed on your hip, holding you in place, the other moved up to cup your breast.
“Tell me you’re my beautiful girl,” he growled against your ear, voice thick. “Tell me this pussy belongs to me. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I-I’m your beautiful girl, Jude,” you moaned, pushing back against him. “Belong to you… only you.”
He let out a low, satisfied sound and bit down on your shoulder, grinding his cock against you harder.
“Good girl,” he praised, his voice dropping even lower. “Gonna fuck you right here first. Gonna make you take it so deep. I’m the only one, aren’t I? The only one who makes you scream.”
He shoved his own joggers down just enough to free himself, thick and hot, pulsing with the need to be inside of you. You felt the head of his cock drag through your folds, teasing your entrance.
“Tell me again,” he demanded, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me who you belong to while I fuck you against this wall.”
“I’m yours, Jude,” you gasped, pushing back against him. “Only yours.”
He wanted to tease you for longer, but how could he when you were so good and obedient for him? He thrust into you in one smooth, powerful stroke, burying himself deep. His hands stayed on your hips as he watched himself disappear inside you and groaned. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, and you cried out, hands bracing against the wall. Jude moaned as you clenched around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stayed still for a second, letting you adjust.
“Fuck… always feel so tight,” he moaned lowly. “My pretty girl.”
Then he started moving with deep, rough strokes that pressed you harder into the wall with every thrust. One hand stayed on your hip, gripping tight enough to leave behind red marks, the other slid up to wrap around your throat, a possessive hold that had your eyes rolling back already.
“Say it again,” he growled against your ear, hips snapping forward. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”
“Yours,” you moaned, voice breaking on every deep thrust. “It’s yours, Jude. All yours.”
He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest as he fucked you harder, deeper, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the room. His pace was relentless but never cruel. Every thrust was purposeful, like he was trying to fuck the frustration and self doubt out of his system and into you.
“That’s my good girl,” he praised, lips brushing your neck between strokes, his voice loving despite his actions being quite the opposite. “Taking my cock so well. Letting me use you like this. Fuck, I needed this. Needed to feel like I can still make you feel good. Still make you mine.”
You whimpered, pushing back to meet his thrusts, and he rewarded you with a particularly deep, grinding stroke that made your knees buckle.
“Tell me you love it,” he breathed hot against your ear. “Tell me you love when I fuck you like this. When I take what’s mine.”
“I love it,” you gasped, cheek pressed to the cool wall. “Love when you fuck me like this, Jude. Love being yours.”
He let out a long moan and wrapped a strong arm around your waist, pulling you back against him so he could thrust even deeper. His free hand slid between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, gentle circles.
The difference between his relentless thrusts, but slow and gentle hands made your vision start to cloud white with stars already. “J-Jude I’m gonna come–”
“No you’re not, baby,” he rasped, slowing his hips enough to tease you. “Not until I tell you to. Hold it for me. Good girl… fuck, you squeeze me so tight when you get close. You’re so fucking wet for me.”
“Please–” you whimpered, thighs trembling.
“Nuh-uh. Not allowed until I get to come with you,” he murmured, sucking on your neck. “You’re gonna hold it for me, aren’t you, angel?”
You nodded frantically, trying desperately to hold off your climax by squeezing your eyes shut. He gave you a small mercy, pulling his fingers away from between your legs and bringing them up to your lips instead.
“Open, baby. Taste yourself for me.”
You obeyed instantly, parting your lips and sucking his fingers into your mouth, moaning around them as his hips sped back up to the punishing pace. The taste of yourself on his skin only made everything feel more intense.
“Fuckin’ hell… just like that, baby,” he moaned, tilting his head to watch your pretty lips envelope his fingers. “Look at you. Sucking my fingers while I fuck you against the wall. My perfect girl.”
The sounds he was making, the low and desperate groans and breathy curses, were not making it any easier to hold back. You whimpered, opening your eyes to give him a pleading look. He exhaled through his nose as he bit his lip, eyes rolling back slightly, the look on your face nearly sending him hurtling towards his own orgasm. He suddenly pulled out, spinning you around to face him. Before you could protest, he kissed you hard, tongue sliding against yours as he lifted you up, pressing your back to the wall again.
“My beautiful girl is gonna make me come too quick,” he murmured against your lips, a dark chuckle vibrating through him. “Especially if you keep looking at me like that. We’re gonna change position so I can hold it a little longer. Yeah, angel?”
He spoke to you slowly like you were stupid, and you were, you suppose considering he’d just fucked you dumb against the wall. Normally you’d fight back, push against the power play because he loved when you were bratty, but that wasn’t what he needed tonight. He wanted complete submission, and you’d give him anything he wanted.
“P-please,” you whined, chasing his mouth when he pulled back slightly, hands clutching at his biceps. “Need you back inside me, Jude…”
“Oh, my needy little baby,” he smirked wickedly, nuzzling his nose against yours, eyes still burning with a mix of frustration and hunger. His hand smoothed up your arm, and wrapped loosely around your throat.
“Open your mouth for me,” he whispered. You parted your lips straight away at his command, tongue out, eyes locked on his. His gaze darkened, pupils blown wide as he looked at you, waiting for him. He leaned in closer, hovering above you, and let a slow, thick string of spit fall from his mouth onto your waiting tongue. You moaned softly as it landed and swallowed it down without hesitation, eyes never leaving his.
Jude groaned deeply as his thumb stroked up and down your throat, feeling you swallow.
“Fuck… that’s my good girl,” he praised, voice hoarse. “Swallowing for me so pretty. You’d take anything I give you, wouldn’t you?”
You nodded, lips still parted, breathing a little faster.
“I want all your clothes off. Get on all fours on the bed. Now.”
You nodded again, still too drunk on submission to speak, stripping off your T-shirt and bra as fast as you could. Jude kicked his joggers and boxers off, throwing his own T-shirt across the room. He was leaking as he stroked himself slowly, watching you climb onto the bed.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his voice softer than it was before. “Can’t believe you’re all mine sometimes. Look at you… arching that pretty back for me already.”
The second you were on all fours, you automatically arched deeper for him, presenting yourself. Jude climbed onto the bed behind you, leaning down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine. His big hands settled on your hips, squeezing gently as he lined himself up. You were trembling with need now, feeling cold and empty without him inside you.
“Such a good girl,” he praised, dragging the thick head of his cock through your soaked, oversensitive heat again. “You love when I use you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you whimpered, pushing back against him desperately.
He didn’t make you wait this time. In one powerful thrust he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you open again so suddenly you cried out louder than before. Jude moaned loudly, the sound almost animalistic as he bottomed out.
“Fuck– so tight. So fucking good,” he growled, pulling back almost all the way before slamming back in. His pace was brutal from the start – deep, hard thrusts that rocked your entire body forward with every snap of his hips. The sound of the headboard hitting the wall echoed through the room.
He reached forward, fisting your hair and pulling your head back to arch your back more.
“Scream my name, baby,” he demanded. “Want to hear you. Want the whole fucking hotel to know who’s fucking you this good.”
“Jude– oh my god, Jude!” you cried out as he hit the specific spot inside you over and over. He knew your body better than you did. You could’ve sworn you could feel him in your stomach.
“That’s it. Louder. Let me hear how much you love my cock,” he groaned, one hand coming down hard on your ass with a sharp smack. The sting made you clench around him, and he moaned loudly. “Fuck yes. Again.”
He spanked you again, harder this time, the sound echoing as he kept pounding into you relentlessly.
“You’re mine,” he growled, voice breaking with pleasure. “Say it. Tell me who this pussy belongs to again while I fuck you stupid.”
“It’s yours!” you sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure spilling down your cheeks. “It’s yours, Jude– only yours– fuck!”
He let out a wrecked moan and leaned over you, chest pressed to your back as he fucked you even deeper, one arm wrapped around your waist to hold you in place while his other hand reached down to rub your clit again in tight, fast circles.
“Come for me,” he ordered, rough and desperate. “Come on my cock like the good little slut you are for me. Let me feel you. Scream my fucking name when you do.”
You shattered hard, screaming his name as your orgasm crashed through you, walls clenching violently around him. Jude fucked you through it, hips never stopping, groaning loudly as your climax milked him.
“Fuck– that’s my girl. So good. So fucking good for me,” he panted, voice breaking with pleasure. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna come so deep inside you. You’re gonna take every drop, yeah?”
“Yes– please, Jude– please come inside me,” you begged weakly, still shaking from your orgasm.
With a final, deep thrust and a loud, broken moan of your name, Jude came hard, burying himself as deep as possible as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering with the force of it. He kept grinding through it, like he couldn’t bear to stop, whispering filthy praise against your ear the whole time.
When he finally stilled, he stayed buried deep inside you, chest heaving against your back, arms wrapped tightly around you as he pressed soft, reverent kisses along your shoulder.
“God… I fucking love you,” he whispered, his voice shaky.
“I love you too baby,” you manage to get out, body feeling limp and hazy with the come down.
The switch happened so quickly you could barely keep up. The anger drained out of him at once, probably with his orgasm, you’d tease him later when you spoke about it. All Jude felt when he heard your soft voice was exhaustion and a sudden wave of nauseating worry. He carefully pulled out, a soft hiss escaping both of you, and immediately turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. His hands were gentle now, too gentle, as he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, voice cracking. His eyes were wide, searching your face desperately. He was so expressive with his face, eyebrows furrowing in the sweetest way. “Baby, tell me the truth. Was I too rough? I didn’t mean to– fuck, I was so angry and I just… I needed you so bad.”
You shook your head, still catching your breath, but he was already looking you over, hands sliding down your body with careful tenderness. He turned you slightly, eyes scanning your hips, your ass, the places he’d gripped hard.
“Shit… there’s marks,” he whispered, sounding devastated as his fingers traced the faint red imprints of his hands on your hips and the light handprint on your ass. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be that rough. This time it wasn’t just…it wasn’t just dominance or playing. I was actually angry and I took it out on you and I–”
“Jude,” you said softly, cupping his face to stop his spiral. He looked up and met your eyes, bottom lip between his teeth with worry. “I’m okay. I wanted it. I wanted you. You didn’t hurt me. You’ve been more rough before, you’ve left marks on me before. Don’t worry. You’re okay…I'm okay..”
He still looked torn, eyes glassy again but this time with guilt instead of rage. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it was almost crushing, burying his face in your neck like he could hide from what he’d just done.
“I know I’ve been rough with you before,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice shaking. “But that’s always been… playing. Power play and acting and shit. This time it was real. I was actually angry and frustrated and I took it out on your body and I– fuck, I’m scared I hurt you because I couldn’t control it. I never want you to feel like you have to take my bad days. I’d never hurt you just because I’m upset or angry. You’re the one person who makes everything better and I just used you like that and I feel sick about it.”
You stroked his back slowly, pressing soft kisses to his temple and the side of his head.
“Jude, listen to me,” you whispered. “I wanted it. I wanted all of you – the anger, the need, everything. You didn’t use me. You let me be there for you in any way I could. And I’m okay. I promise. You know I like it when you act like that.”
He made a small, upset sound and held you even tighter, legs tangling with yours as he pulled you fully on top of him. His hands roamed gently over your body now, soothingly checking every place he’d been rough, pressing soft kisses wherever his fingers found faint marks.
“I’m sorry,” he kept whispering between kisses. “I’m so sorry, baby. I love you. I love you so much. You’re everything to me.”
You kept holding him, fingers running through his hair, letting him cling to you until the guilt slowly started to ease and he could finally breathe again. He eventually settled with his face buried back in your neck, breathing you in like you were oxygen, one hand still gently rubbing your hip where he’d gripped you earlier.
“Stay like this,” he murmured. “Don’t let go. Please.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I love you, you’re okay Jude.”
He let out a long, shaky breath, finally relaxing completely in your arms. "I love you more," he whispered, voice slurring with sleep. "M'sorry baby..."
He was still feeling bad about how rough he was. In reality, you think it could've been the best sex you'd ever had. You were going to tell him that, but the change in his breathing told you he'd already fallen asleep. You press one last gentle kiss to his forehead, "there's nothing to be sorry for, my love."
tags: @chabelitalace @thesizzler @hvnsinureyes @harryskissies (let me know if u want to be added/removed from the taglist)
guys this was filthy af i'm sorry HAHAHAHA apparently he makes me feral idk
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summary: one unlocked phone ruined your perfectly innocent reputation forever.
Your phone was sitting innocently on the kitchen counter.
Which, in hindsight, was your first mistake.
The second?
Leaving TikTok open.
You’d only gone upstairs to grab a hoodie. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute at most.
When you walked back into the kitchen, you immediately knew something was wrong.
Jude was leaning against the counter, your phone in one hand and a bowl of cereal in the other. He wasn’t even eating anymore. He was simply staring at the screen with the kind of expression that made you absolutely positive he had seen something.
“…Why do you have my phone?” you asked cautiously.
He looked up.
“I was uh, moving it,” he answered innocently.
“Oh, right,” you said sarcastically, “Moving it from the table so you could look through it.”
“It was unlocked.”
“Mhm.”
“And TikTok was open,” he added, as if that would help his case.
You folded your arms. “TikTok was indeed open Jude.”
“It practically begged me to look,” he replied, a sheepish grin on his face.
“It did not.”
“It did,” he insisted with a shrug. “I didn’t want to be rude.”
You stared at him for a moment before pointing toward your phone. “To TikTok?”
He nodded.
“What did you find?” you asked, shaking your head in amusement.
Instead of answering, he slowly turned the screen around.
At the top were two words that made your soul leave your body.
Your Reposts.
“…Oh. Oh shit.”
He nodded.
“That’s exactly what I said,” he snickered.
“Can I have my phone back?” you asked hopefully.
“No.”
“You haven’t even told me what you saw,” you protested.
But you already knew you weren’t getting your phone back. Not before he got his fun in humiliating you.
“I think you already know.”
“I genuinely don’t,” you responded, feebly attempting to snatch your phone back.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he moved your phone out of your reach. “You genuinely don’t?” he repeated.
You shook your head far too quickly.
“Nope.”
“Hm.”
He scrolled once.
A slow-motion edit of him walking onto the pitch filled the screen. Dramatic music played while more images of him appeared.
Across the video, white text read:
Every time he comes on the screen, I do too.
He looked back at you.
“You reposted this.”
You blinked.
“…Did I?”
“You did,” he grinned.
“Huh.”
“Huh?” Jude echoed, trying not to laugh.
“I don’t remember,” you protested, attempting to relieve yourself from the embarrassment.
“You don’t remember reposting a minute-long edit of your own boyfriend?”
“I repost lots of things,” you said with a small shrug.
“You’ve reposted one hundred and thirty-two videos of edits of me, all in the span of 6 hours.” he replied.
Your eyes widened.
“…One hundred and thirty-two?”
He nodded.
“I counted.”
“I’ve been… busy,” you tried.
“I can see that.”
He swiped again.
Another edit appeared.
This time it was nothing more than clips of him laughing during interviews.
The caption read:
his smile actually fixed my life.
He slowly lowered your phone.
“You wanna explain this one, since the other one might be harder to explain?”
You looked him dead in the eyes.
“That wasn’t me.”
Silence.
He blinked once.
“…Sorry?”
“That wasn’t me,” you repeated confidently.
He glanced down at your username before looking back at you.
“It says you reposted it.”
“I was hacked.”
He stared at you for a long moment before letting out a quiet laugh.
“You were hacked?”
“Exactly.”
“And this mysterious hacker decided to repost edits of me?”
“People have weird hobbies,” you replied.
He nodded slowly, pretending to consider your explanation.
“Right.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“So someone hacked your account…” he started.
“Yes.”
“…logged into TikTok…” he continued, an amused expression forming on his face.
“Mhm.”
“…and thought, ‘You know what would be funny? Let me repost one hundred and thirty-two edits of her boyfriend.’”
You hesitated.
“…When you say it like that…”
“It sounds ridiculous?” he exclaimed.
“A little,” you responded, still embarrassed.
He couldn’t help laughing.
“I don’t think that’s how hacking works.”
“Well,” you replied, reaching for your phone, “you’re not a hacker.”
He stepped backwards before you could grab it.
“Nope.”
“Oh, come on!”
“I haven’t finished.”
“There is nothing left!” you lied. But it was to late, he already had your phone two inches from his face, his eyes widening more with every scroll.
“I think there is.”
He scrolled again.
Another edit began playing.
You watched in horror as slow-motion clips of him dropping to his knees filled the screen.
The caption made your face burn.
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BE HUMAN WITH HIM??
He looked up.
“So…”
“So?”
“You wanna tell me why you reposted this?”
“I like the editing.”
“The editing.”
“Very talented editor.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“So talented that you forgot I was even in the video?”
“Exactly.”
“I see.”
“I appreciate good cinematography.”
“You appreciate me on my knees.”
“I appreciate the lighting.”
He laughed.
“You are making this so much worse.”
“I’m making it believable.”
“It isn’t believable.”
“It could be.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You really expect me to believe you don’t think I’m attractive?”
“I never said that.”
“You kind of did.”
“I absolutely did not.”
He simply held up your phone again.
“The evidence disagrees.”
Before you could defend yourself, he scrolled to another repost.
His smile disappeared.
“Oh.”
You immediately became suspicious.
“What?”
“…This one’s interesting.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What does it say?”
He cleared his throat dramatically before reading aloud.
“‘I’d bark.’”
Silence.
You closed your eyes.
“No.”
He looked back down at the screen.
“‘I’d bark,’” he repeated, trying not to smile.
“No.”
“You reposted it.”
“I don’t know her.”
“You?”
“I don’t know whoever owns that account.”
He held up your phone.
“You own that account.”
“Allegedly.”
He burst into laughter.
Actual, uncontrollable laughter.
You covered your face with both hands.
“I hate this.”
“I don’t think you do,” he replied between laughs.
“I do.”
“I don’t.”
“I’ve never been more embarrassed.”
“I’ve never been more entertained.”
You groaned loudly.
“I can’t believe this.”
“I can’t believe you reposted the barking one,” he answered.
“It was ironic!”
“Was it?”
“Very.”
“How ironic?”
“…Extremely.”
“So ironic that you reposted it for everyone to see?”
“It was an accident.”
“You accidentally reposted one hundred and thirty-two videos?”
“It was a really long accident.”
He laughed again before scrolling even further.
“Oh…”
“What now?” you asked nervously.
“You have favorites.”
“I don’t.”
“You definitely do.”
“I don’t.”
He turned the screen around.
It was another edit.
Just him smiling.
Nothing else.
No football.
No goals.
No interviews.
Just…
Smiling.
Your cheeks immediately warmed.
He noticed.
“I don’t know why I reposted that.”
“You remembered reposting this one awfully fast.”
“It was probably muscle memory.”
“Muscle memory?”
“I panic-reposted.”
“I don’t think that’s a thing.”
“It is now.”
He locked your phone and tucked it behind his back.
“So.”
“So?”
“You think I’m handsome.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I absolutely did.”
“The one hundred and thirty-two reposts said enough.”
“They’re lying.”
“They’re public.”
“They’re malicious.”
“They’re yours.”
“I’ve been framed.”
“You’ve moved on from being hacked?”
“There are multiple suspects.”
He smiled, shaking his head.
“You know…”
“What?”
“You could’ve just told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That you think I’m attractive.”
You looked at him for a second before letting out an exaggerated sigh.
“I do think you’re attractive.”
His grin instantly widened.
“But…”
“There it is.”
“…the editor deserves at least forty percent of the credit.”
He stared at you for a moment before groaning dramatically.
“I’ve just been humbled by my own girlfriend.”
You smiled sweetly.
“You’re welcome.”
“That wasn’t a compliment,” he reminded you.
“I accepted it as one,” you retorted.
He laughed quietly before walking over and pulling you into his chest.
“You are impossible.”
“I’m mysterious.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“I’m charming.”
“You reposted a barking edit.”
“It was ironic.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It absolutely was.”
He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head before resting his chin there.
“You know,” he murmured, “I was feeling pretty confident this morning.”
“And now?”
“Now I know my biggest competition isn’t another footballer.”
You looked up at him curiously.
“What is it?”
He smiled.
“A hacker with suspiciously good taste.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“I still maintain that wasn’t me.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Of course.”
“You believe me?”
“Not for a second.”
You sighed dramatically.
“I’ll never beat these allegations.”
“No,” he said with another laugh, finally handing your phone back. “I don’t think you will.”
And from that day on, every single time you complimented him, he smiled innocently and asked the same question.
hiii, could you pls write smut pau cubarsi x reader with them celebrating the world cup win? 😞😞😞😞😞
LET ME LICK IT - p. cubarsí
inwhich! instead of partying after winning the world cup, pau took you out for ice cream, but you two ended up in a crowd of people. so, you gave him a little surprise back at the hotel.
frannytalks! españaaa 🤧❤️🩹 i have no words at all. also, i keep seeing the word “murmur” in things i read, so i am testing it out, i hoped i used it correctly. 😅 & i still have no idea how to write smut, idk if you all like describing more orrrr talking more, please let me know! don’t forget to join my taglist(s) here!
spain just won the world cup and you didn’t know how to act, you ran to your boyfriend on the field and kisses him all over, he picked you up, hugging you tightly.
all his teammates and friends went to party, but he refused to. he said he wanted to spend time with you and only you. obviously you accepted his offer instantly.
he took you to go get ice cream. it was going well at first, until countless fans started crowding you two, asking for photographs along with autographs. you noticed he was getting overwhelmed, so you two left and drive straight back to the hotel.
you could tell he was upset about it, but you didn’t know how to comfort him, “do you want to order room service ice cream?”
he was slumped over on the bed, facing the opposite direction of you, “it’s okay amor, you can order for yourself, i’m not hungry.” he said softly.
“are you sure, pau?” you asked, taking your jewelry off and placing it on the nightstand.
you watched him nod and felt a sting in your chest, you wanted to help him, especially since he just won’t his first world cup at such a young age.
then, you got an idea. you ordered an ice cream from room service, asking him again if he wanted something and he said no. you waited for it to get to the room, while doing so you got dressed into a cute pajama set.
you heard a knock and sprung up to answer it. you took the ice cream, which was practically melted already, and made your way over to pau.
“you sure you don’t want any?” you smiled, licking the ice cream while sitting in front of him, looking up.
pau smiled back, “no thank you, but stop looking at me like that.” he laughed.
“like what?” you giggled, this time putting a hand on his knee.
he shivered under your touch, trying to hold back a bigger grin, “your ice cream is melting.”
“oh is it?” you asked, purposefully dropping some on his upper thigh, you leaned down, still looking up at him and licked it.
“hey,” he breathed, scooting back a little.
you tugged at the waistband of his shorts slightly, looking down and avoiding eye contact, “can i lick it off?”
he laughed, pausing for a second, “what was that?” pau asked in a high-pitched voice, while reaching for your chin, pulling your head up.
you felt your face warm up, “please.”
“please, what?” he smiled, furrowing his eyebrows.
“please let me lick it,” you said softly, fighting back a smile, “off of you.”
pau’s fingers instantly hooked onto the waistband of his shorts and he tugged them down, letting them drop to his ankles. you watched as his cock sprung free, already half-hard from the sight of you kneeling there with the melting ice cream cone in your hands.
“you sure about this, amor?” he asked softly, voice low. “we can still go to a party, if you want.”
you shake your head, eyes flicking up to meet his while you felt the ice cream is sliding down the side of the cone. “i want this,” you murmured, as you leaned into his skin.
pau’s hand came up to hold the back of your head, thumb stroking gently behind your ear. “then go ahead, baby,” he said, guiding your head closer.
you went slowly at first, dragging your tongue over the head of his cock where a drop of melted ice cream already landed. the coldness of the ice cream made him twitch slightly. you pressed the cone under his tip and let more of the ice cream mess drip onto him, as you quickly cleaned up every single drop.
“fuck, that feels good,” pau breathed, his fingers tightening in your hair, not enough to hurt you.
you take him deeper, your lips stretching around his thickness and tongue swirling to catch every bit of the ice cream. a thicker glob slid down and you chased it with your mouth, pushing further until the head of his cock nudged the back of your throat. the sudden contact made you choke. a wet sound escaped your mouth as your eyes watered. you pulled back just enough to breathe, your spit and the ice cream mixing, and dripping from your chin.
his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth,“easy,” he whispered, laughing softly, as his cock twitches against your tongue, “you don’t have to take it all.”
you shake your head again and sink back down, and he made sure to meet you halfway, his hips rocked forward in a gentle thrust. the gag came harder, your throat tightened around him, tears slipping down your cheeks. pau’s other hand soothed your head as he held you down for a couple seconds before easing off.
“so pretty like this,” he murmured, as you popped his cock out your mouth for a second. “my champion’s reward, yeah?” he smiled, shoving your head back down.
you nod and mumble into his cock, making it vibrate. you stroked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, swirling your tongue at the tip of his cock as you heard him groan.
the ice cream was mostly gone now, just a thin layer of melted cream coated his cock. you sucked and licked all over until he was clean again, then pressed the cone to the tip of his cock again, letting the last of it drip over him.
his breathing grew heavier. he pushed your head down once more, firmer this time, guiding you to take all of him again. your nose brushed his skin and you choked again, but he didn’t let up until your hands clutched at his thighs.
“that’s it, baby,” he groaned, voice cracking towards the end, “just like that.”
his hips stuttered and he pulled out at the last second, stroking himself twice before thick ropes of cum spilled across the remaining ice cream inside the cone.
you bite your lips, lifting the cone to your lips and finished it in slowly. pau watcheed you with a crooked little smile, his chest going up and down quickly.
“that’s one way to celebrate winning the world cup,” he said, voice teasing as he tucked himself back into his shorts, “maybe you should’ve gotten a trophy for best moves,” he winked at you, laughing.
he reached down to tug at your legs, pulling you up and close, his arms wrapping around you instantly. pau rubbed slow circles over your back while he pressing kisses on your temple, your forehead, and the tip of your nose.
“are you okay, amor?” he asked, already tucking you into bed, “throat sore?”
you nod and he disappeared into the restroom for a moment, returning with a bottle of water from the fridge and a warm, damp cloth. He sat you on the edge of the mattress and tilted the bottle to your lips, making sure you drink in it small sips. then, he wiped your chin and mouth with the cloth, gently, making sure he didn’t hurt you more.
“come here,” he mumbled, tugging you down with him until you’re both lying on the pillows. he pulled the blanket over your bodies and tucked you against his chest, one hand stroking your hair in soothing passes.
“you were perfect,” he whispers against your temple, once more, “my good girl.”
his fingers traced patterns on your arm while he kept talking, in the low, sleepy voice he always got after coming. “proud of you for staying in with me tonight. couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate than this.”
he kissed the top of your head again and again, “want to go to a party? or just stay like this?”
you nod no, “i like it like this,” you breathed, closing your eyes as he kept talking away. you fell asleep to his voice, his body warmth keeping you toasty.
I was wondering if you could write (a lot pls pls because there arent many) about olise? one about celebrating w hum wining the Bundesliga and a hurt/comfort one from like where the reader when to a club because they were arguing and like not talking anymore and she went there to forget and she got her drink spiked? thankfully like she only got injured maybe or smth but he "saves" her and stuff.
Thank you sm lots of love and take ur time!!
yess loveee <33 this is the celebration one first c:
Golden Confetti
m.o. x reader || established relationship
summary: golden confetti, a bundesliga title, and a moment you’ll never forget.
The first thing you notice is the gold.
Not the cameras. Not even the thousands of fans singing from the stands.
Its the gold.
Golden confetti falls from above in endless waves, spinning through the stadium lights before landing across the pitch, sticking to your clothes, your shoes, your hair. It covers everything. The grass, the players’ jerseys, the shoulders of teammates hugging each other. It feels like the entire stadium has been turned into a celebration you could reach out and touch.
And maybe that is what makes it feel real.
Because for months, this moment had only existed as a possibility.
A dream.
A “what if?”
But now, watching the pitch after the final whistle, covered in Bayern players celebrating their Bundesliga title, it isn’t a dream anymore.
You watch as the players lift the trophy again, the crowd erupting. The chants from the supporters echo around the stadium, the music plays through the speakers, and every few seconds another burst of golden confetti shoots into the air.
Then you see him.
Michael.
He’s laughing with his teammates, his hair covered in little pieces of gold, his medal hanging around his neck as he looks around like he’s trying to memorize every single second.
When he finally notices you, his smile immediately gets bigger.
“You’re just watching?” he calls, walking toward you.
You look around at the chaos surrounding you. “Someone has to appreciate the moment.”
He laughs, shaking his head as more golden confetti lands on his shoulders. “Appreciate the moment? You’ve been standing there looking at everyone for ages.”
“I’m taking it in,” you say, smiling. “This is kind of a big deal.”
He looks back toward the stands, where the fans are still celebrating.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “It is.”
For a second, he doesn’t look like the player everyone has been watching all season. He just looks like someone who can’t believe he’s standing here.
You step closer, brushing a piece of golden confetti off his sleeve.
“You won the Bundesliga,” you say, almost like you’re reminding him.
He smiles. “We won the Bundesliga.”
You roll your eyes slightly. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he answers, laughing softly. “But it wasn’t just me.”
And that’s the thing you notice most.
Even in a moment where everyone is celebrating individual achievements, nobody is alone. Players are hugging each other, families of players are running onto the pitch, teammates are taking pictures together, and everyone is sharing the same feeling.
They did it together.
Another cheer rises from the crowd, and Michael looks over as his teammates start calling for him.
“Are they looking for you?” you ask.
He glances back. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“They’ve been looking for me for the last ten minutes.”
“And you’ve been hiding?”
“I’ve been having a conversation.”
You smile. “A very important conversation?”
“Very important,” he says seriously. “The most important conversation of the night.”
You laugh. “Really?”
“No,” he admits. “But it’s a good one.”
Before you can answer, another wave of golden confetti falls around you both, covering the pitch like a golden blanket.
You look up, watching the pieces float down.
“It’s actually kind of beautiful,” you say.
Michael looks at the confetti, then at you.
“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”
There’s something different about seeing a team celebrate a title compared to watching it on a screen. On television, you see the trophy lifts, the smiles, the interviews.
But here, you see everything else.
The tired smiles.
The relieved laughs.
The way everyone keeps looking around because nobody wants the moment to end.
You see the little things.
A teammate pulling another into a hug.
Someone laughing because they have confetti stuck everywhere.
The fans refusing to stop singing even after the match has ended.
The realization that all the difficult moments throughout the season led to this one night.
Michael looks down at his medal and smiles.
“I think I’m going to keep finding confetti everywhere for months,” he says.
You laugh. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes. It means you’ll remember this.”
He looks at you for a moment before nodding.
“I don’t think I could forget.”
The trophy ceremony begins again, and everyone starts gathering together for pictures. The players line up, medals shining under the stadium lights, the Bundesliga trophy held proudly in the center.
The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and the golden confetti keeps falling.
For a moment, everything is frozen.
The trophy.
The smiles.
The golden sky above the pitch.
The memory of a season that ended exactly the way everyone hoped it would.
And as Michael stands beside you, still covered in golden confetti and wearing the medal he earned, you realize something.
Some moments don’t feel real because they’re impossible.
They feel unreal because they’re everything you ever hoped they could be.
Summary → Another trend Jude has to participate in
A/N → English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical mistakes, I translated it using using Google translate
The afternoon sun reflected off the water in the huge swimming pool
Jude was lying on an inflatable mattress with one arm behind his head and his eyes closed
“Are you sleeping?” you asked quietly trying not to laugh as you looked at him over your sunglasses
“I'm relaxing” he hummed
“You sound like you're sleeping”
“I'm enjoying the peace”
You were sitting on the edge of the pool moving your feet through the water while scrolling through TikTok. After a moment, a smile appeared on your face
“Babyyy...”
Jude didn't even open his eyes “No”
“But I haven't even told you what it is!”
“I don't need to even know”
“babee?”
“Hmm?”
“It'll be fun!”
“All your 'fun' TikTok trends end the same way” He sighed and finally opened one eye
You laughed and jumped into the pool, swam over to his float and gently nudged it “Pretty please?”
He looked at you for a few seconds “Fine. If this means I'll have peace for the rest of the day”
Your face immediately lit up “yayyyy! thank you! I love youuu!”
“Don't get too excited. I already regret it” He tried to sound grumpy but the smile on his face gave him away
You swam back to the edge of the pool where you had left your phone on a small table. You leaned it against a bottle of water, fixed the angle, pressed record, and turned back to Jude
“Ready?” you asked, smiling at the camera before looking at him
“I guess”
“Okay. I'll go first” Jude took a deep breath and went underwater
You gently rested your hand on his wet hair and looked at the camera “My favorite color is pink, and Jude's favorite color is white!” You squeezed his hand to let him know he could come back up
Jude came out of the water, pushed his wet hair back and then gently guided you underwater, making sure you could come up whenever you wanted
“My favorite color is white and hers is light pink” he said confidently “My favorite food is baked beans and eggs, and hers is either spaghetti or burgers. She honestly likes everything” He laughed and gently squeezed your arm to tell you it was your turn
You came back up, brushing your wet hair away from your face while Jude went underwater “I pretty much like everything, so I don't really have one favorite food... but let's say any fast-food. And Jude's favorite food is... um...—” You stopped talking
“Wait...” You looked to the side, trying to remember
Under the water Jude moved his hand like he was saying *Seriously?*
You couldn't help laughing, then you squeezed his hand to let him come up
Jude came out of the water with a huge smile “You forgot, didn't you?”
“I remembered! I swear! It was on the tip of my tongue! Okay, I know now. Go back under!”
Jude just rolled his eyes with a smile “Sure”
He took another deep breath and went underwater again
“His favorite food is baked beans and eggs!" you said like you had just had a big realization
“My favorite animals are dogs and cats. We have two dogs and two cats, so... Jude's favorite animals are our dogs and cats too!” You smiled proudly and squeezed his hand
Jude came back up, pushed his hair back while you went underwater “My favorite animals are our dogs and cats. My favorite hobby is obviously football... and hers is dancing” He looked at you and smiled “Or shopping”
You came back up and looked at him. The two of you smiled at each other before he took another breath “My favorite hobby is dancing, and his is obviously football”
You squeezed his hand to let him come up, but before you could say anything else, you gently pushed him back underwater
“Go back under! I forgot to answer!” You giggled before looking back at the camera “My favorite song is Radio by Lana Del Rey, and Jude's favorite song is Love Me by Elvis Presley”
Jude came back up “Her favorite song is Radio by Lana Del Rey. I swear, there isn't a single day when we don't listen to it. She even promised we'd play it at our wedding”
He smiled warmly as he looked at you “and my favorite song is Love Me by Elvis Presley”
When you came back up, you reached for your phone and stopped the recording
For a moment everything was quiet. The only sounds were the water around you and children laughing somewhere behind the neighbors' fence.
Jude smiled at you “You know...”
“Hm?”
“I like days like this. The days when we don't have to rush anywhere”
You gently laced your fingers with his under the water “Me too. I hope we do this again someday. I really had fun”
summary: jude loses to a dying frenchman in the world’s dumbest debate.
Jude was sprawled across the couch with one leg hanging off the side, his phone inches from his face as he mindlessly scrolled through TikTok.
You weren’t really paying attention. You were curled up in the armchair across from him with a blanket over your legs and a book that you’d been pretending to read for the last ten minutes.
“Babe.”
You didn’t answer, pretending to be invested in your book. He had a special voice on, the one where he was either about to ask for something stupid or he already did something stupid.
“Babe.”
“What?”
He turned his phone around. “Listen to this.”
A guy appeared on the screen interviewing her girlfriend.
“What’s the most attractive accent?”
She didn’t even hesitate.
“My boyfriends.”
The comments were full of people swooning.
Jude looked at you with the biggest grin. “Such an easy answer, no?”
You tried not to smile.
“Oh?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“What if I asked you?”
“I’d say yours.”
“You hear mine every day.”
“And?”
“You don’t get bored of it?”
He looked genuinely offended.
“Do you get bored of looking at me every day?”
You blinked.
“…No.”
“Exactly, it’s the same with accents,” he said, grinning.
You laughed, shaking your head.
Then Jude sat up straighter, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement that usually meant he was about to rope you into some internet nonsense.
“C’mon.”
“Huh?”
“We’re doing it.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No,” you said again, rolling your eyes.
“Pleeease.”
“You’re twenty-three years old.”
“Twenty-three and begging.”
“I can see that.”
Too late. He was already opening TikTok.
“I’ll ask you first.”
“Hell no, you won’t.”
“I absolutely, most definitely will.”
You sighed dramatically.
“You never let me have peace.”
“You weren’t even reading,” he said dismissively, propping his phone up against a mug.
“Pardon?”
“It was obvious,” he laughed, “You kept glancing up at me, plus, you never flipped the page. Not even once.”
He switched to the camera and scooted closer until half of your face fit into the frame beside his.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Perfect.”
He pressed record, trying to keep a serious face.
“Okay…”
He cleared his throat like he was a professional interviewer.
“What’s the most attractive accent?”
You looked at him.
You knew exactly where this was going.
He knew you knew.
His smile was already impossibly smug.
He expected one answer.
His.
After all, you’d spent the last year teasing him for saying words like water and better.
He’d caught you copying the way he said love more than once.
He was convinced you’d fold immediately.
Unfortunately for him…
You had also seen a video. One where infinitely many people said “Dying Frenchman” as a response to the same question.
You tilted your head thoughtfully.
“Hmm.”
Jude waited, his grin still plastered on his face.
You pretended to think harder, furrowing your brow. He was practically vibrating with excitement.
“I think…” you started.
He nodded encouragingly, almost positive of your answer.
“…a dying Frenchman.”
Silence. Three seconds of universe stretching silence.
His smile froze.
“…What?”
You kept the straightest face you could manage.
“Yeah, a dying Frenchman.”
He blinked, his smile dropping.
“Excuse me?”
“No, but like not just a Frenchman.”
You held up a finger dramatically.
“A very nearly dead Frenchman.”
He stared, utterly confused.
“Like…”
You took a deep breath.
“…on the verge of death.”
He looked even more confused.
“Barely breathing, practically dead.”
You leaned your head back and put on the weakest, raspiest voice you could manage.
“Bon…jour…”
You wheezed dramatically.
“Je… am… croissant…”
Another tiny gasp for air.
“Hon… hon…”
Then you let your head flop sideways onto the couch cushion like your Frenchman had finally succumbed to whatever Victorian illness he’d been battling.
Jude was completely speechless.
You opened one eye.
“It’s unbeatable.”
He let out the most offended laugh you’d ever heard.
“What is wrong with you?”
You shrugged.
“I don’t make the rules.”
“Who does?”
“I don’t know.”
He stared at you for another second before dramatically pointing at himself.
“I thought you’d say mine!”
“I do like yours.”
“Like? Just, like?”
“Yeah.”
“Like?”
“I said I like it.”
“But you love…”
He gestured wildly.
“…terminally ill Pierre?”
You nodded solemnly.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Unfortunately? What do you mean unfortunately?”
“It’s just science.”
“There is no science involved in your choosing of a dying Frenchman’s accent as the most attractive!”
“There absolutely is.”
He threw his head back against the couch.
“I’ve been beaten by a man with one foot in the grave.”
“A French man,” you added.
“Oh, cheers for clarifying,” he muttered sarcastically.
“It very much changes things,” you argued.
“It really doesn’t.”
“It most absolutely does.”
He groaned into a cushion.
“I genuinely cannot believe this.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
He looked back up.
“So…”
“So?”
“My accent isn’t number one,” he pouted.
“It was.”
“Was?”
“Until dying Frenchman Pierre entered my life.”
He covered his face.
“I’ve lost my girlfriend to a ghost,” he said dramatically.
“He isn’t dead,” you exclaimed.
“He sounds dead!”
“He’s trying his best Jude! And plus, it’s the dying part of him that’s attractive.”
“I don’t think he is.”
You couldn’t hold it together anymore.
The laughter escaped all at once.
Jude watched you for a second before his own expression started cracking.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t, you love me.”
“I’ve suffered irreversible emotional damage,” he sighed dramatically.
“Oh, poor baby.”
He scooted closer until your knees bumped.
“You know…” he started.
“What?”
“I genuinely thought you’d say me.”
“I know,” you laughed, “That’s what made it so funny.”
“I was so confident,” he pouted.
“I could tell.”
“I already imagined the comments.”
“What comments?”
“Relationship goals.”
You started laughing again, unable to control yourself.
“He’s so British,” you said to the camera, still laughing.
He looked at you, a offended expression on his face.
“I am British.”
“You are.”
“And now everyone’s going to think you’ve got a thing for haunted baguettes.”
You started laughing harder, his Frenchman slander frying you.
He stared at you, shaking his head.
“You are unbelievable.”
You smiled sweetly.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I accepted it as one.”
He reached over and tugged you toward him by the sleeve of your hoodie until you tipped sideways into his chest.
“You are impossible.”
“But you love me.”
“Hmm.”
“You agree?” you asked hopefully.
“I’m not telling you.”
You looked up at him.
“So you’re sulking?”
“More like processing,” he corrected
“Processing the loss?”
“The betrayal.”
You poked his side.
“You’ll live.”
“Barely.”
“Oh?”
He nodded dramatically.
“I’m becoming…”
He took the weakest breath imaginable.
“…the dying Englishman.”
You burst into laughter so hard you nearly slid off the couch.
He immediately committed to the bit.
One hand clutched his chest.
The other reached weakly toward you.
“…Tell… my family…”
You were laughing too hard to answer.
“…that… she chose…”
Another dramatic gasp.
“…France…”
You buried your face in his shoulder.
He couldn’t even finish because he started laughing too.
The two of you stayed there for a solid minute, unable to breathe from laughing at something that had become increasingly stupid with every passing second.
Finally, once the laughter died down, Jude rested his chin on top of your head.
“So…”
“So?”
“You really don’t think mine’s the best?”
His voice was quieter this time.
Less teasing.
You smiled against his shirt.
“I never said that.”
“You literally did.”
“I said dying Frenchman wins.”
“So I lose.”
“No.”
You leaned back enough to look at him.
“I think your accent is my favorite.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“But?”
“But the joke was funnier.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“You sacrificed my feelings for comedy.”
“I absolutely did.”
He pretended to think about it.
“…Fair enough.”
“I knew you’d understand.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
“You know what my favorite accent actually is?”
“What?”
“Yours.”
“You’re only saying that.”
“I was saying it before you started impersonating a collapsing French baker.”
You grinned.
“Collapsing French baker?”
“That’s exactly what that was.”
“It was art.”
“It was concerning.”
“It was beautiful.”
“It was medically alarming.”
You laughed softly.
He smiled at the sound.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.
“I still would’ve picked yours.”
“I know.”
“And I’m never letting you forget that.”
“You absolutely will.”
“No chance.”
You smiled.
“Good.”
He frowned playfully.
“…Although…”
“What?”
“If I ever hear you say bonjour like that again…”
You looked at him innocently.
“Bon…jour…” you whispered in your weakest fake French accent.
He groaned so dramatically the entire couch shook.
“You are the worst.”
“And yet…”
You wrapped your arms around his waist.
“…you still picked my accent.”
He looked down at you, trying very hard not to smile.
“…Yeah.”
Then he sighed dramatically.
“Still lost to a dying Frenchman, though.”
You nodded with complete seriousness.
“I fear no one can beat him.”
“And that’s what I’ll be thinking about every time someone says ‘bonjour’ for the rest of my life.”
“You’ll think of me.”
“I always do.”
And somehow, despite the ridiculous conversation you’d just had about imaginary, barely-alive Frenchmen, that simple confession made you both smile far more than the TikTok ever had.
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Hiiii, may you right a fic about chamsdine talbi ?
Yesss he’s such a sweetheart <33
~just a harmless prank and a funny reaction~
“Who’s the guy in the closet?”
You’re still attached to your bed when you see the prank video. The caption read, “Pretending to hide someone from my boyfriend”
As if on cue, a text from Chemsdine popped up saying he was home. An idea popped into your mind, your body quickly following to execute it.
Quickly, you scrambled off the bed, messing up your hair, and throwing your sheets on the ground as if someone else had been here. You don’t know if he would fall for it or not, as his common sense could probably figure it out.
As Chemsdine’s footsteps became audible at the end of the hallway, you rushed to stand in front of your closet, stammering, “Uh… hide, hide, he’s back.”
To your delight, his footsteps quickened, and just seconds later, he burst through the door to your room, visibly alarmed.
“Who’s in the closet?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
“Who said anything about anyone being my closet?” you responded, trying your very best not to laugh. You couldn’t tell if he had caught the joke, or if he really believed you.
“Baby, I know someone is in the closet, so either you open that door or I’m doing it myself.”
Seeing how he was actually getting mad, you lost it, falling in a heap of laughter at his feet.
“It’s—it’s a prank!” you gasped, still laughing uncontrollably. He looked down at you, his face still worried.
“What?”
He stared at you, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt.
“It’s not real?”
“No, baby, no,” you giggled. “I would never.”
“Open the closet then,” he said, still a little suspicious.
You reached back, yanking open the closet doors, watching Chemsdine’s change from horror to relief.
It took all of your willpower not to burst into another fit of laughter.
“Okay, all jokes aside. Did you get my makeup remover wipes?”
“Yes,” he said, exasperated. “I spent 30 minutes looking for those. I literally drove to another store because the place I got the wipes from didn’t have any.”
“Aww, Chem—”
“But I guess I’ll go get them now because you like the guy in the closet better,” he said, cutting you off.
“Hey, not fair! He doesn’t even exist,” you answered.
“I’ll see it when I believe it,” he called over his shoulder, already walking away.
“You did see though!”
—
Sorry it’s short, I’m running on 2% battery and my chargers in my suitcase.
