— “ *:・ﾟmon petit désastre // julien loki
a/n: lads, its pissing me off how much fun i had writing this + reader being drunk is based on me being drunk
"julien!" you chimed, stumbling forward. he caught you instantly, his reflexes as sharp as ever. his arms wrapped securely around your waist, steadying you before you could crash face-first into the doorframe.
julien was only 18, but between his skyrocketing football career and his naturally grounded personality, he somehow always ended up being the responsible one. right now, looking down at his girlfriend who was practically vibrating with tipsy energy, he felt mentally about 30.
"what is this?" julien asked, a faint, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he plucked the bottle from your hands and set it on the counter. "tu es ivre?" [are you drunk?]
"noooo," you whined, burying your face into his chest until your voice was muffled by his hoodie. "not drunk. just... un petit...tipsy. very sophisticated."
"right. very sophisticated," he hummed, rubbing slow circles over your back as he guided you toward the couch. he took your shoes off without a second thought, completely focused on his very lightweight girlfriend. "let's get you some water, ma chérie."
you let out the most dramatic groan imaginable, immediately latching onto the front of his shirt so he couldn't escape. now that you were living in france with him, you'd been trying so hard to improve your french.
unfortunately, the moment alcohol entered your bloodstream, so did every grammar mistake known to mankind. you looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes overflowing with drunken admiration before grabbing both of his cheeks and squishing his face.
you paused dramatically, brow furrowed in concentration.
"je..." you mumbled, desperately digging through the five french words your brain still remembered. "je t'aime... beaucoup. très beaucoup."
julien bit the inside of his cheek.
"très beaucoup isn't grammatically correct, mon ange."
"silence, i'm talking!" you giggled, weakly smacking his shoulder. "tu es... très beau. like... very pretty boy." you poked his chest with a single finger. "and... and mon cœur?" you pressed your hand dramatically over your own heart. "..it goes boum-boum for you."
you gasped, suddenly remembering something.
"je t'aime grande comme la tour eiffel!" [i love you big like the eiffel tower]
a soft, breathless laugh escaped before he let you tug him down beside you on the couch, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist as you curled into his lap.
you were an absolute disaster. your french was somewhere between adorable and a crime against linguistics, but to him, it was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard.
"ah, oui?" he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear before pressing a kiss to your forehead. "your heart goes boum-boum?"
"oui!" you beamed. "very boum-boum."
your eyelids were already drooping as the warmth of the apartment—and julien's embrace—slowly lulled you toward sleep. you snuggled deeper into the crook of his neck with a content little sigh.
"moi aussi, je t'aime," he whispered, tightening his hold around his favorite lightweight. "but tomorrow, we're practicing your grammar."
he paused "...and absolutely no more buying liquor by yourself."
the sweet, romantic atmosphere survived for approximately five minutes before your stomach declared war. julien felt it the second your sleepy cuddles turned rigid, a pitiful little whimper escaped you before you buried your face into his neck—not out of affection this time, but sheer misery.
"julien..." you groaned, clutching desperately at his hoodie. "mon estomac..." you swallowed hard. "it's doing... like... bicycle kicks." his protective instincts kicked in immediately. thankfully, you were still coherent enough to warn him.
"bathroom?" he asked, already sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back.
"oui... vite..." another tiny whine escaped you. "julien... i'm gonna vomir..."
"j'ai compris, i've got you."
he lifted you effortlessly and hurried down the hallway and barely got you to the toilet in time. the moment you dropped to your knees, he was already beside you, gathering your hair into one hand while the other rubbed slow, reassuring circles over your back.
between miserable little whimpers and bouts of sickness, you kept trying to apologize through your slurred french.
"désolée... julien... i'm so.. désolée..."
you sniffled "i ruined the... mmmn...un romance"
"chut..." julien murmured, leaning over to kiss the side of your head. "arrête. don't worry about any of that right now." his hand never stopped moving against your back.
"just let it all out, chérie...you're okay."
after a few rough minutes, you finally sagged backward against his chest, completely exhausted. your face had gone pale and your eyes were watery, you looked like you regretted every life decision that had led you to this moment.
julien flushed the toilet before grabbing a cool, damp washcloth, carefully wiping your face and the corners of your mouth.
"better?" he asked softly.
you answered with the weakest little nod imaginable, resting your cheek against his shoulder. "never drinking l'alcool again," you mumbled. "promise."
a quiet laugh escaped him.
he rested his chin lightly atop your head.
"because next time, i'm buying you juice boxes instead."
he carried you back to the couch, tucked a blanket beneath your chin, and kissed your forehead. you looked so small, so fragile, and so thoroughly defeated by a handful of sips that he figured the crisis was finally over.
"stay here, mon ange," he said, gently patting your cheek. "i'll get you some water... and something salty for that poor stomach of yours." he wandered into the kitchen, letting out a long, tired sigh.
right now, he genuinely felt like the exhausted father of a particularly chaotic toddler and somehow he found it adorable.
a fond smile lingered on his face as he poured you a tall glass of water and grabbed a bag of savory crackers from the cupboard. he was gone for maybe ninety seconds, ninety seconds of pure, uninterrupted peace.
then he walked back into the living room, julien stopped dead in his tracks, the glass nearly slipped from his fingers.
there you were, sitting cross-legged on the couch. blanket? gone. dignity? who tf is that?
your head was tipped all the way back, eyes squeezed shut in complete defiance of both god and basic survival instincts, as you enthusiastically chugged the remaining liquor straight from the bottle.
"hé! non, non, non—qu'est-ce que tu fais?!" [hey! no, no, no—what are you doing?!]
he launched himself across the room, dropping the crackers onto the coffee table before snatching the bottle from your hands with football-player reflexes. he stared down at it in horror, at least two more very generous swigs were gone.
julien slowly looked back at you.
what, exactly, was happening inside that beautiful, wonderfully empty head of yours?
"pourquoi?!" he gasped, looking between you and the bottle like he'd just witnessed an actual felony. "you just threw up! tu es folle?!"
you blinked up at him, entirely unbothered by his rapidly deteriorating mental state. your lips smacked together proudly, then the alcohol hit. your entire body shuddered so violently it looked like your soul briefly considered evacuating.
"i had to..." you whined, words melting together into one long, defensive pout. "juli, listen..."
you pointed solemnly at your mouth.
"the taste..was yucky...because of the..." you scrunched your nose "...vomir."
you made the weakest little gagging motion imaginable.
julien stared, then he pinched the bridge of his nose, he could physically feel a headache beginning to bloom behind his eyes.
"...you washed away the taste of vomit...with the exact thing that made you vomit?"
you looked absurdly proud of yourself, like you'd just cured a disease. three seconds later, you flopped sideways into the couch cushions with a pitiful groan.
you squeezed your eyes shut.
"the room is spinning again..." "of course it is," julien groaned, sounding like he was only half joking. he tossed the bottle in the trash bin; before sitting beside you again, without a word, he scooped your limp, giggling self back into his lap.
pressing the glass of water against your lips.
you took one reluctant sip.
"don't negotiate with me."
"you're bossy," you mumbled, pouting as you obediently kept drinking.
he tightened his arms around your waist before you could suddenly remember another brilliant idea.
"no more l'alcool for you. ever."
after a few gulps, you turned your head away from the glass with all the stubborn determination of an overtired 5 year old.
"...manger...food...s'il te plaît."
julien sighed, looking down at your flushed face, your eyelids were heavy, your logic had completely dipped but your stomach was very clearly demanding something substantial to absorb the second wave of liquor you'd geniusly inhaled.
he pointed a stern finger directly at your face.
you nodded with exaggerated seriousness.
julien wasn't convinced for a single second, still, he hurried to the fridge. crackers weren't going to cut it anymore, luckily, his mother had sent him home yesterday with a container of homemade coq au vin.
rich, slow-braised chicken, mushrooms, lardons... exactly the sort of comforting meal your poor stomach desperately needed. he heated up a generous portion, and within moments the apartment was filled with the warm, savory smell.
when he returned, he nearly sighed with relief. you were exactly where he'd left you, although... you did appear to be glaring at the room as if you could intimidate it into stopping its spinning.
"alright, princesse," julien murmured, settling beside you before gently pulling you back against his chest so you wouldn't tip over. he cut off a small piece of chicken, coated it in the rich sauce, blew on it carefully, then held it to your lips.
you accepted the bite immediately, your eyes grew comically wide.
"julien...c'est magnifique."
"the chicken.. is so soft."
you rested your head against his shoulder.
"...like eating a cloud."
a proud little smile tugged at his lips.
"it's my maman's coq au vin."
he gently wiped a bit of sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. "it'll settle your stomach." then he offered another bite.
you happily opened your mouth again. halfway through chewing though, you suddenly stopped, your eyes widened. very slowly...you looked up at him.
julien immediately recognized that look. it was the expression that always appeared exactly three seconds before you said something completely ridiculous.
you whispered dramatically.
julien closed his eyes "...yes" he already knew where this was going.
"it's cooked in wine, but the alcohol burns off wh—"
you gasped so loudly he nearly dropped the fork. you pointed accusingly at him. "you're feeding me more booze! you're helping it!" you slapped a hand over your mouth then leaned closer like you were revealing classified government info.
"...you're an accomplice...un criminel."
julien completely lost the battle to stay serious.
he laughed, gently pressing another forkful against your lips before you could accuse him of any more crimes.
you obediently accepted the bite.
"i'm trying to save your life."
you mumbled around a mouthful of chicken. you didn't just eat, you absolutely annihilated that coq. every piece of chicken, every mushroom, every last drop of sauce, gone.
julien was fairly certain you would've licked the porcelain clean if he hadn't taken it away first, now you were sprawled dramatically across his lap, flat on your back, looking like a particularly overstuffed plush toy.
"...je suis une boule," [i am a ball]
you groaned, patting your stomach with immense sorrow "a very tragic boule." you sighed.
your hand hovered thoughtfully in the air.
"...a beach ball... eh, non... perhaps a bowling ball."
you slapped your tummy again.
your voice dropped to a whisper.
"...i am...un ballon de foot." [a football]
you puffed out your cheeks to demonstrate.
"...or...une poule enceinte." [a pregnant hen]
julien broke, he laughed so hard he had to duck his head "a pregnant hen?" he wheezed. "vraiment, chérie? that's what we're going with?"
"oui..full of chicken...and feelings."
he laughed even harder "alright." he slipped an arm beneath your back.
"time for bed, my little chicken. you need to sleep off... whatever this is."
you immediately began kicking your legs in protest.
you flailed so dramatically anyone would've thought he was dragging you toward a medieval execution.
"i can't sleep! je suis sale...and full!" [i am dirty...]
"sleeping dirty and full is..."
you searched the ceiling for the word.
julien looked toward the clock then back at you, then back at the clock. it was late and he had training tomorrow but he knew, there was, unfortunately and absolutely no winning this argument. if he carried you to bed now, you'd spend the next three hours dramatically announcing every inconvenience your body experienced.
"we'll stay here for a bit."
he leaned back against the couch before gently pulling you upright until you were sitting across his lap, your head tucked comfortably beneath his chin. apparently your brain interpreted can't sleep as time to confess every thought you've ever had.
whatever language skills you possessed had officially dissolved into a beautiful, catastrophic bowl of franglais.
you sighed dreamily against his neck, your fingertips wandered aimlessly across his jaw.
"...le roi...of my heart." [the king...]
"my heart...is a little biscuit."
julien already knew this sentence wasn't ending anywhere reasonable.
"...and you're...the hot milk."
you giggled. "très chaud." [very hot]
he laughed quietly through his nose.
"good to know." "and your eyes..."
you leaned in until your noses were nearly touching.
"...tes yeux..." [your eyes]
you stared directly into them.
"...they're like...two very big chocolates."
"...but then you'd be blind...so i won't."
"...thank you for not eating my eyes." you continued as though he hadn't spoken.
"je t'aime...beaucoup de beaucoup." [i love you…so, so much]
you pointed dramatically at him.
"if you were a football..."
"...i would never kick you..never...i would hug you."
before he could react, you threw your arms around his neck and squeezed hard, very hard.
julien made a very dignified choking noise.
you mumbled happily into his shoulder.
"...es mon pamplemousse."
"sweet...but a little sour...when you say no more liquor...that's bars.."
then, without warning, your entire expression became deadly serious. you grabbed both of his cheeks. again.
"listen to me. julien loki."
he already knew he was about to hear the most ridiculous sentence of his life.
"if the world ended tomorrow..."
"...si c'était la fin du monde..." [if it was the end of the world...]
you poked him square in the chest.
"...i would find you...even if..i'm a pregnant hen... mhm."
julien's heart physically hurt from how much he adored you.
"...hens can't fly, mon ange."
you thought about that. for a surprisingly long time.
you declared proudly, then silence. your eyelids fluttered once, twice then your head slowly tipped onto his shoulder.
julien smiled to himself, gently rubbing slow circles across your back as your breathing finally settled into a peaceful rhythm "...i love you too."
he kissed the top of your head "...my beautiful, pea-brained little hen."
for the next twenty minutes, there was peace. your breathing stayed slow and even, your tiny "pregnant hen" stomach rose and fell against his chest. julien was convinced the battle had finally been won. very carefully, he started shifting to carry you to bed, then—your eyes snapped open.
you shot upright like a vampire rising from a coffin, he barely dodged getting headbutted.
you gasped, grabbing both his shoulders, he immediately straightened.
"what? are you going to throw up again?"
you whispered, completely serious.
"...regarde...no more football."
"no longer full?" "oui." "...that's good."
your face crumpled. utter devastation.
you looked seconds away from tears.
"...je suis sale." [i am dirty]
julien slowly turned toward the clock, 11:00 p.m.
he groaned, tipping his head back against the couch.
"...it's eleven at night, you can shower tomorrow. i'll put you in one of my shirts and—"
you launched yourself out of his lap, though your legs immediately betrayed you. you wobbled so violently he'd instinctively reached out to catch you. still, you pointed a trembling finger at him with every ounce of royal dignity you could muster.
"jamais...i cannot sleep."
you gestured vaguely toward yourself.
"...with...paris grime...and liquor germs."
you looked utterly horrified.
"...je suis une princesse." [i am a princess]
you pressed both hands to your chest.
"princesses...do not sleep dirty."
julien looked at you, your hair resembled a bird's nest. your cheeks were bright pink and you were demanding a ceremonial midnight bath with complete sincerity...he didn't have the heart to refuse.
"...alright." he laughed quietly, pushing himself off the couch.
"come along, your majesty."
before you could topple over your own feet, he caught you securely around the waist. guiding you into the bathroom, adjusting the tap until the bath was the perfect warm temperature. while it filled, he carefully helped you out of your clothes with the patience of someone handling delicate glass. you, meanwhile, had become approximately ninety-five percent dead weight.
when he finally helped you into the tub, you practically melted.
you sighed blissfully, sinking deeper beneath the bubbles.
you pointed sleepily at julien.
"...you are...a very good boy."
you considered this carefully.
"what an honor." julien deadpanned, lowering himself onto the closed toilet seat beside the tub. he grabbed the loofah, gently working soap across your shoulders.
"my coach is going to ask why i have bags under my eyes tomorrow."
he smiled to himself "...and i'm going to have to explain that i spent the night running a luxury spa for one extremely drunk princess."
without warning— your wet, soapy hand landed directly on his cheek.
a mountain of bubbles decorated his face.
"...tell him...you love me...très beaucoup."
your eyes drifted closed.
"...your girlfriend...is la plus belle poule en france." [the most beautiful hen in france]
he gently wiped the bubbles from his cheek before leaning down to kiss the top of your damp head "...yeah" his smile softened into something impossibly fond.
"...i'll tell him exactly that."
by the time julien finally coaxed you out of the bath, wrapped you in a fluffy towel, and wrestled you into one of his biggest, softest t-shirts... you were barely conscious, the bath had completely defeated whatever drunk gremlin had possessed you earlier.
you were clean. you smelled faintly of his lavender body wash and your stomach had finally stopped plotting against humanity.
"...bed," you whimpered, eyelids barely staying open as you reached toward him without looking.
your hand flopped uselessly through the air.
"...julien...s'il te plaît..."
his expression softened instantly. then he scooped you into his arms for what felt like the hundredth time that night. "j'ai compris."
he carried you back into the bedroom, where the cool sheets waited beneath the heavy duvet. the second your head touched the pillow...
you made the happiest sound he'd heard all evening and within seconds, you had cocooned yourself beneath the blankets, curling into the tiniest little ball imaginable. julien let out a quiet sigh of relief, mission accomplished. he walked around to his side of the bed before finally collapsing onto the mattress.
he glanced toward the clock.
he was exhausted and the moment his head hit the pillow, two warm arms immediately reached across the bed.
before he could even react, you had already dragged yourself across the mattress, one leg thrown over his thigh, your face buried itself directly into his chest, like an exceptionally clingy koala.
your voice was barely more than a sleepy breath.
his hand automatically settled against your lower back, rubbing slow circles like it had developed muscle memory.
a tiny yawn interrupted you.
"...l'alcool...only you."
a quiet laugh escaped him. he pulled you impossibly closer until there wasn't even the slightest gap between your bodies.
he pressed a lingering kiss against your hair.
"we have a lot of grammar to practice tomorrow."
there was no response, you were already asleep. the loud, chaotic, franglais-speaking pregnant hen had officially powered down.
julien's body operated with the precision of an alarm clock. years of elite football had trained him to wake before sunrise without fail.
usually sometime around 4:30 a.m. today, his eyes opened at exactly 3:14 a.m. he frowned because something felt wrong, he shifted slightly. arm meeting nothing but cold sheets.
his eyes opened all the way, you were gone. he sat upright immediately. had you gotten sick again? were you currently losing another battle with the ghost of the coq au vin? without making a sound, he slipped out of bed and padded into the hallway. bathroom first. empty.
he wandered toward the living room instead and the second he stepped through the doorway, every ounce of tension left his shoulders, a helpless little laugh escaped him.
apparently sometime during the night, your half-asleep brain had decided that hydration was the single most important mission on earth. perched precariously on the coffee table sat an enormous pitcher of water beside a half-empty glass.
judging by the evidence...you had attempted to drink approximately the entire atlantic ocean but you hadn't gotten very far.
somewhere between glass number who-knows and don't die of dehydration, exhaustion had claimed another victim. you were curled sideways beneath a tangled mountain of blankets, absolutely unconscious, and from your adorable little nose came the tiniest rhythmic snores.
julien quietly stepped around the pitcher before kneeling beside the couch. he rested his chin in his hand, for a minute...he simply watched you. your cheeks were still faintly pink, your hair looked like you'd wrestled a tornado and lost. you looked impossibly peaceful.
"...you really are a menace." his voice was barely above a whisper, he brushed a stray strand of hair away from your forehead and your only response was a slightly louder snore. your nose twitched, then...
"...yeah. that's about what i expected."
the water pitcher had done its job. now you were just sleeping off the final consequences of that cheap l'alcool you found. julien sighed, surely there wasn't a chance he was going back to sleep without you. carefully, he slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other beneath your shoulders, you barely stirred.
only a tiny sleepy grunt escaped you as your face instinctively buried itself against his neck. even half-asleep... you still found him. he carried you back into the bedroom before tucking you beneath the duvet where you belonged.
the second he climbed in beside you, you latched onto him again, immediately, like a barnacle.
he chuckled quietly, within seconds, your breathing evened out once more. julien closed his eyes and somewhere between your sleepy little snores and the comforting weight of you curled against his chest...he fell asleep too.
the sun wasn't simply shining through the curtains. it'd chosen to absolutely violate the shit out of you as every stray beam landed directly on your eyeballs with the precision of a military operation.
your head felt like a football julien had personally volleyed into the top corner. your mouth was drier than the sahara. your stomach was staging a peaceful protest, and somewhere behind your eyes, a tiny construction crew had apparently decided to start jackhammering.
you rolled over with the world's most pitiful groan, reaching blindly for your emotional support boyfriend. your personal pillow. your human weighted blanket. your hot milk.
…but it was empty and cold, so you opened one eye.
the betrayal was immediate and devastating.
how could he? you were fragile, and still recovering. you deserved to be gently cradled, fed water through a tiny straw, tucked into about sixteen blankets, told everything would be okay in a soothing french accent until the room stopped spinning.
instead...you were abandoned, left alone, left to perish. with the last of your strength, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand, squinting through the blinding sunlight before furiously opening your messages.
julien loki u r a monster.
where r u.
i am dying of death.
and u left me.
i hate u.
its over. its jover.
were thru.
do not contact my lawyer. do not come to my town.
i am moving back across the ocean.
ITS OVER!!!!!!!!
with one final, exhausted huff, you tossed your phone onto the mattress. if julien refused to nurse you back to health...then you'd simply drag your own corpse to the kitchen. wrapped tightly in his oversized hoodie like the world's saddest burrito, you shuffled down the hallway with all the grace of an elderly penguin.
you rounded the corner and froze. the kitchen was empty but the counter, however...looked like something out of a breakfast commercial.
a huge plate of eggs. thick slices of toast. fresh fruit arranged so neatly it almost felt illegal to touch and beside it sat a steaming mug of honey-lemon tea, the citrus scent immediately making your poor little hangover brain sigh with relief. propped carefully against the mug was a folded note.
written in julien's neat, elegant handwriting.
bonjour, mon ange. i had to leave early for training and had a feeling you'd wake up feeling like a broken football ball. eat all of this. drink the honey lemon, it'll help your stomach and don't even think about touching any more liquor today. i love you. see you this afternoon, my pretty little hen. —julien
your heart went boum-boum, very hard. the guilt hit almost instantly. mon dieu.
he had made you breakfast and left you medicine and written you a note, he'd even remembered your stupid "football ball" comparison.
he was an actual saint. you fumbled for your phone with the urgency of someone attempting to undo several crimes at once. your fingers flew across the keyboard.
WAIT WAIT IGNORE THOSE FIRST MESSAGES OLMGGGGGG
the food looks so good i cry 😭
u are the best franceboy in french
i love u bercoup very much!!!!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️
grande comme la tour eiffel!!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
nearly a mile away. julien's phone buzzed quietly inside his gear bag, he didn't check it until water break and the moment he unlocked his screen, he stared then a helpless laugh escaped him. he lowered his head, shaking it fondly.
he slipped his phone back into the bag, still smiling. yeah, his beautiful, franglais-speaking, pea-brained little hen...was definitely going to be just fine.
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