Nasty French Jealousy-Bllk’ boys
Pairing: French Blue Lock x Female Reader
Summary: Babysitting in your spare time, you would have never guessed that a child barely five years old would become your boyfriend's greatest enemy. "You're not jealous, are you?"
Tag/Warning: Fluff, jealous boyfriend, established relationship, silly and not serious.
a/n: France is playing tonight, so here’s a special. Have a good read, and don’t forget: on encule le sionisme et l’état illégitime, génocidaire d’israël.
Today was track and field practice. Enough to keep up his speed and cardio for the field, certainly not enough to make him sweat.
But today was Wednesday—in other words, the day off from school for the boy you're babysitting.
Five years old, tall as three apples and already stars shining in his eyes every time your boyfriend increases the pace. The already absurd pace.
"Your boyfriend is super mega fast!"
He shouted almost every minute; his sentence not even finished that Julian had already skated half of the track.
"I really, really want to race against you!"
From up in the stands, he had shouted that request at the top of his lungs. His boundless bravery gently amused you.
Even more so when Julian stopped at the bottom of the stands, pausing his stopwatch to fulfill a child’s dream.
A little too easily for your taste.
Now on the track, a top-level athlete was up against a child who was probably still tripping over his untied shoelaces.
Stretching to keep his momentum, he asked this very serious question to a very childish kid.
"I'm the fastest in my school."
He let out a laugh—muffled, suppressed—but a laugh that set off alarm bells for you.
"And I'm probably the fastest in the world."
He looked at you as he said that, his expression a mixture of amusement and haughtiness.
You should have known—Julian was still jealous.
He’s been jealous ever since that time you told the child he was the fastest person you’d ever seen.
Discreetly, you shook your head at him, a look that made him understand he had to let the child win.
"What does the winner get?" Clearly very fond of gifts, the poor kid had no idea what was in store for him.
"The winner gets a kiss and the right to spend a whole day with me," Julian’s eyes lit up at your suggestion. "And you, Julian, if you win, you’ll get a week without any praise."
Enough to motivate the troops but discourage childish behavior.
But enough to bring a pout to the face of the oldest one—the supposedly most mature one.
Needless to say, you could still hear the child gasping for breath while Julian was already far ahead. Way ahead, as if he hadn’t understood what the rewards were.
All that, only to see him, barely a few seconds later, approach the finish line and stop.
He was stamping his foot, and you couldn't understand why he was looking back, ready to take off again at any moment.
And the answer came two minutes later, as the breathless child arrived, alternating between running and walking, a look of pure exhaustion in his tired eyes.
You understood when, once he caught up to him, Julian ran at his pace and together they crossed the finish line.
So perfectly in sync that you couldn’t argue with him being second.
"You’re such a kid, Julian."
"Not my fault—there was a kiss at the end of it."
You knew that, deep down, he disliked it when you looked after that child.
For the sake of that child—who was too capricious for his taste—you’d signal to him to be quiet so you could listen to whatever uninteresting things he had to say.
You also had this habit of not correcting him when he chewed with his mouth open. The sound of his munching drove him crazy, but didn't seem to bother you in the least.
But the last straw was when he found the child in his trophy room—and among his other prized possessions—fiddling with everything, and you didn't say a word to him.
Worse yet, you’d hug him while big crocodile tears streamed down his cheeks.
His mouth stammering that he was afraid of the man who looked like Santa Claus.
"Can't you see he's not even crying?"
"Noel Noa, don't you have a heart at all? See, that's the kind of question journalists might ask if they saw you acting like that."
"Like a big baby jealous of another big baby."
It outraged him—you could see it all over his face. But you didn’t see the child in your arms sticking his tongue out at him.
A double standard of which he was the victim.
Poor, unfortunate husband getting scolded by his beloved wife.
"You love him more than me, is that it?"
Your eyes widened, your lips parted in shock.
The icing on the cake—the ball in the back of the net—he was jealous.
Noel Noa, a legend and symbol of French soccer, who shone on the international stage more than anyone else, was jealous of a child.
All because, for just one day, you cared a little less about him.
"The cameras on you, the flashes everywhere you go—isn’t all that enough to inflate your ego in the face of a child?"
That kid cradled in your embrace was the little devil on your left shoulder.
A little devil who, hidden behind you, was making fun of him, pulling faces while you had to hold back your laughter at the absurdity of his jealous outburst.
"It will never be enough when it comes to you."
He admitted it in a solemn tone, devoid of that nonchalant air that usually came so naturally to him.
And that made you smile—he was really weird sometimes.
That night, as the two of you lay there patiently waiting for sleep to settle in the darkness, you thought back on that incident.
And even though it made you smile to yourself, you couldn’t help but think that even in the presence of a child, he still found a way to surprise you.
That his boldness was greater than that of a child who was still learning to speak.
"I want a child," you murmured, feeling him stir beneath the sheets. Turning to look at you, barely making out your silhouette. "Only one. Just to give you a little extra love."
"So," he pulled you closer to him, your back resting on his chest. His kiss burning your skin. "Who do you love more, the boy or me?"
Who would have thought that Mr. Destiny would find himself, against his will, in a situation where nothing went according to that so-called destiny?
While passing by your house, a little boy opened the door for him instead of you.
And before letting him in, the boy eyed him from head to toe before shouting to you that there was a weird man at the door.
To his great dismay, there were two just like him.
Two twins who shared a sharp tongue and a habit of not coloring inside the lines.
"You went over the lines here."
"And you have red hair," the first one snapped back. "Plus, I’m sure girls don’t like that," the other retorted.
Ouch. Not only was that completely irrelevant to the situation, but he genuinely thought his beetroot-red hair was cute.
You were the one who told him that.
Could it be that these two kids were right?
"I like your crimson hair," the voice of reason chimed in from the couch. "At least you match the French flag."
Too bad for him—you were worse than they were.
The three of you laughed, and he saw you cast a very special look at the two little rascals who were laughing their heads off.
The kind of look you would cast on him when he played.
Except that those two were not him, and they had nothing to do with your angelic behavior—which could only be described as such when compared to those two little devils.
And noticing that, he felt something weird stirring in his stomach. Envy and that misplaced jealousy of wanting to be the only one to have your sweet eyes.
It wasn’t until a little later that they realized that yes, even with red hair, you could have a little crush.
So, right in the middle of playing with modeling clay, Hugo sculpted you a little heart with your initial on it.
It was cute, it was adorable, enough to earn a kiss on the cheek.
"That’s adorable, sweetie."
They stopped dead in their tracks, their little fingers crushing the clay in the palms of their hands.
Their small hearts probably shattering inside their chests.
"What do you mean, 'sweetie'?" One asked, exasperated. "Are you two…lovers? " the second one added, sounding almost as betrayed.
Hugo’s lips curved slightly. Something he called a smile.
Then the realization hit him: he had just discovered a weakness to exploit as dazzling as finding an oil gusher in his backyard.
"I’m not just her sweetie—I’m her boyfriend."
He’d already seen hundreds of over-the-top reactions in his life, whether on the field or elsewhere.
But the satisfaction of seeing tears well up in their eyes, watching them get up and run into your arms—that was something that went beyond simply accepting one’s fate.
"But that’s not fair! You told us you loved us so much!"
"He’s not even handsome!"
He revelled in the spectacle and wanted to play along a little.
"We can settle this with a game. The winner gets to take her heart home."
"Don’t push it, Hugo," you said, stifling your giggles, fingers still running through their hair. "They’re still too young."
But nothing convinced him to rethink his proposal.
Certainly not the shouts of agreement from the two who were really fired up against him.
Two against one is only unfair when the guy playing alone isn’t part of soccer’s elite.
"I have to score three goals, you just one," his index finger pointed skyward. "No rules. Just one destiny."
There he was, playing the philosopher in front of two kids who thought they stood a chance against him.
Very quickly, and despite your words of encouragement for the two little ones, he scored his first two goals.
Yet they didn’t seem willing to give up, not even when you noticed Hugo deliberately missing opportunities just to play a little longer.
Just to do a few more nutmegs and dribbles to impress you.
And it came as no surprise when he scored his last goal, with both of them in front of the net, not bothered by the offside rule.
Of course they cried—a lot more when you took him in your arms.
Kissing the winner, a childish smile on your lips.
"Jealousy suits you well, Hugo. But that doesn't change the fact you already had my heart even before."
He looked like a fawn sprawled out in the grass, a pout adorning his mischievous little face.
He’d been sulking ever since you’d excluded him from the game; his feints and shots—which, strangely enough, were all aimed at the child’s head—a bit too rough for your liking.
And to get back at you for this unfair exclusion, he’d gobbled up all the fruit compotes you’d brought for the boy’s snack.
Leaving just one for him. The banana one. He deserved only the worse.
No matter how much you kept playing with the boy—whom you only babysat a few hours a week—you couldn’t help but glance at Charles.
Rolling around on the grass, whining like a spoiled baby, he was crying out about the injustice.
Not for too long, though—dry grass tastes bad in the mouth.
"You’ve always loved him more than me anyway!"
"That’s right, keep crying. You’ll sleep better tonight."
Hearing you laugh out loud with that kid who wasn’t even good at soccer. Seeing you pick him up when he did something ridiculously easy.
All of this made him feel increasingly jealous. The kind of jealousy he feels when his opponent celebrates a goal while his losing.
"Stop giving him all your attention," he kept repeating over and over.
"And you, stop being jealous of a kid," you'd shoot back every time he opened his mouth.
But it didn’t change his attitude. After all, he was still as stubborn as a donkey.
He stayed lying on the grass for a long time, whining about his plight, lifting his head from time to time to make sure you were looking at him.
But not at all. You were both in the middle of picking flowers.
Far from caring about that little demon in his loneliness.
Made even worse when he saw him holding out a bouquet of daisies and dandelions to you. Fidgeting with his chubby little fingers, his head bowed as if he were reciting a poem to his teacher.
But he realized it wasn’t a poem when you took him in your arms, rocking him and smiling the way you used to do with him and him alone.
That you’d play with that child while ignoring him—why not? But that you’d accept that poorly concealed declaration of love—no way.
He waited, just long enough for you two to decide to start playing ball again before propping himself up.
Like a wolf watching its prey, he crept up on you, completely unaware of the danger lurking nearby.
Then, without warning, without a shred of shame, he snatched the ball and ran off with it, stealthily.
Far, far away from this enemy who was three feet tall, stuttering when you were by his side and very much impressed by his football skills.
An enemy who wasn't really an enemy.
Far enough for you to yell at him to bring it back, threatening to tell Julian.
But apparently, even that wasn’t enough to change his Machiavellian plan one bit.
At the edge of the forest, he looked at you with that wild expression before kicking the ball.
Straight into the depths of the dark forest.
"He should go get it now! See if he’s brave and skilled like me!"
"Charles, jealousy will make you sick!"
