Pairing: Julian Loki x Female Reader
Summary: He often goes too far—excess a second nature to him. But he has even less self-control when it comes to you. “Pardon, je suis nul!”
Tag/Warning: Fluff, Julian is nothing near nonchalant, heartwarming, domestic fluff, light hearted, Julian is terribly OOC.
a/n: I'm here to address the lack of Loki fanfic. Richard Gere, the man you are. Made me break my layout rule.
It all started with a silly mistake.
Last night after practice, he threw his jerseys in the wash without realizing that your entire white wardrobe was already in the drum.
A mistake that left you gasping when your pristine white clothes turned the same blue as the French flag.
He, the perfect player, had made the gravest of mistakes.
"Julian, don’t you dare come home."
You sent him a photo of your pile of clothes, now sporting their new color, alongside the culprit: his PSG T-shirt.
"Did you buy yourself some clothes? Should’ve asked me for my jersey."
Without another word of explanation offered, you blocked him.
His stupidity far too great to waste your energy explaining something he should know at his age.
Very quickly, you received a message on Instagram.
"Why aren’t my messages being delivered?"
Another one, on iMessage.
Another notification—an email this time.
"What did I do, babe? Please tell me?!"
Very satisfied, you tossed your phone onto the couch and set about finding his credit card to make up for his mistake.
And treating yourself was just what you needed—he wouldn’t hold it against you. He’d forgive you anything.
With your laptop on your lap, his card in your hand, and his PINs right in front of your eyes, you could hear your phone vibrating.
Over and over again, messages and incoming calls you had no intention of answering—and without even looking, you could have sworn he’d stolen Charles’s phone to harass you.
It was pointless—he didn’t even have the key.
Over the balcony, you watched him within the next ten minutes, running like a wild animal between the bikes and the Parisians jaded by life.
You saw him ringing the intercom like a madman. It was pointless, though—it had already been unplugged.
You heard him pounding on the door, Jane-Austen-esque pleas echoing through the stairwell.
"Stop ignoring me! Let me in, please, chérie!"
"I'm not letting you in! Not until you find a new club with a white outfit!"
Sitting on the couch, without even bothering to look through the peephole, you snapped back at him.
Finishing up a shopping cart that cost at least three times as much as what he’d ruined for you.
"Sorry, babe! I didn’t see your clothes! Can you open the door now… please?"
You were annoyed without really being annoyed; this situation was more of a game than something that could jeopardize your relationship.
And he understood that from your amused tone. Even better when he received a notification from his bank.
"Order more if you want, but please open the door for me!"
Faced with your silence, he stood there frozen, ear pressed against the door, trying to reassure himself that you were coming.
But after agonizing minutes of silence heavier than the aftermath of a defeat, he pulled himself together.
His footsteps echoed down the stairs, and finally you had some peace.
A calm as superficial as your irritation, which flared up again in full force barely fifteen minutes later.
A peculiar noise drew you to the living room’s floor-to-ceiling window, almost reluctantly, knowing full well it had something to do with that sweet idiot Julian.
An irritating, continuous, and precise noise.
The noise teenagers have been making since the dawn of time to signal their girlfriends to look out the window: pebbles being thrown at the window.
Over and over again—he could have kept it up until the glass shattered—but he stopped when he saw your head peeking over the balcony railing.
He was already quite the showman usually, but this was a one-man play all on his own.
A bouquet of flowers in one hand, a box of chocolates in the other, he opened his arms to you as if begging you to forgive him, the sinner.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm a jerk!"
Dramatic as only he could be, he fell to his knees, and all the passersby stopped to stare at this strange character.
"I'm such a terrible boyfriend! Forgive me!"
People leaned out of their windows, phones were filming, and laughter erupted.
"I've sinned! I've done wrong! But who am I to claim to be perfect!”
You were half-touched, half-terribly annoyed that he was making such a spectacle of himself.
But as the seconds ticked by, you found yourself getting more and more caught up in his little domestic squabble.
"What are you? I didn’t hear you!"
You teased him, knowing full well that the door was already open for him.
"Pardon, chérie, je suis nul!"
A Parisian-style spectacle.
Drama, shouting, and a hint of PSG thrown into the mix.
