#learned they were happening in France too

[useless-catalanfacts]

People who only wanted to hear a cheerful children's song learning about Joan Petit:

Joan Petit quan balla ("When Joan Petit dances") is a traditional Catalan children's song that lists a series of parts of the body to move in the dance. Here's a video where you can hear it and see how it's danced: people hold hands and move in a circle and sing "when Joan Petit dances, he dances with his..." and add a body part, then repeat the chorus. Each time, the body parts add up on a list that gets longer and longer and the dancers have to remember and dance in order.

Like it happens with other elements of Catalan folk culture, it's shared with our sister nation, Occitania. Occitans also sing it, with the same melody, the same dance, and the same lyrics as the Catalan song but with the lyrics in Occitan language instead of Catalan. However, in Occitania it's more common to remember who the song is talking about, which is mostly unknown in Catalonia.

Joan Petit was an Occitan farmer. In the year 1643, he led the Croquant Rebellion against the king of France Louis XIV's strong taxation of poor people to gather money for war. Joan Petit was captured and tortured on the breaking wheel. The reason why the song lists body parts is in reference to this torture method of smashing all body parts slowly making its way to the head. The story was quickly told all through Occitania and even crossed the Pyrenees, and the memory of Joan Petit and his rebellion still lives on in Occitania. Maybe that's why the Occitan song, by changing only a few notes at the end of the sentences, sounds much sadder than the Catalan version.

One of the most iconic Occitan bands, Nadau, wrote a song explaining Joan Petit's life. Under the cut you can listen to the song and read the English translation of the lyrics.

Occitan lyrics and English translation:

En país de Vilafranca / Que s'i lhevèn per milièrs / Contra lo gran rèi de França / En mil shèis cents quaranta tres. Mes òc, praubòt, mes òc praubòt / En mil shèis cents quaranta tres. In the place of Vilafranca / they rose up by the thousands / against the great king of France / in 1643. But yes, poor things, but yes, poor things / in 1643.

Entà har guèrra a la talha / Qu'avèn causit tres capdaus, / L'un Laforca, l'aute Lapalha, / Joan Petit qu'èra lo tresau. Mes òc, praubòt, mes òc, praubòt, / Joan Petit qu'èra lo tresau. To wage war on the taxes / they chose three captains: / one of them was Laforca, the other Lapalha / the third one was Joan Petit. But yes, poor thing, but yes, poor thing / the third one was Joan Petit.

Per tota l'Occitania, / Que'us aperavan croquants, / N'avèn per tota causida, / Que la miseria o la sang. Mes òc praubòt, mes òc praubòt / Que la miseria o la sang. In all Occitania / they called them the Croquants / they didn't have any other choice / than either misery or blood. But yes, poor thing, but yes, poor thing / than misery or blood.

E qu'estón per tròp d'ahida / Venuts per los capulats, / Eths que vivèn de trahida, / Çò qui n'a pas jamei cambiat. Mes òc praubòt, mes òc praubòt, / Çò qui n'a pas jamei cambiat. And because they trusted too much / they were sold by the powerful / [the powerful] lived only of betrayal / a thing that has never changed. But yes, poor thing, but yes, poor thing / a thing that has never changed.

Que'us hiquèn dessús l'arròda, / E que'us croishín tots los òs, / D'aqueth temps qu'èra la mòda / De's morir atau, tròç a tròç. Mes òc praubòt, mes òc praubòt, / De's morir atau, tròç a tròç. They put them on the wheel / and they crushed all their bones. / At that time, it was trendy / to die like this, bit by bit. But yes, poor thing, but yes, poor thing / to die like this, bit by bit.

E qu'estó ua triste dança, / Dab la cama, e lo pè, e lo dit, / Atau per lo rei de França, / Atau que dançè Joan Petit. Mes òc praubòt, mes òc praubòt, / Atau que dançè Joan petit. And it was a sad dance / with the leg, the foot, the finger, / and thus, for the king of France, / danced Joan Petit. But yes, poor thing, but yes, poor thing / thus danced Joan Petit.

E l'istuèra qu'a hèit son viatge, / Qu'a pres camins de cançons, / Camin de ronda taus mainatges, / Mes uei que sabem, tu e jo. Mes òc praubòt, mes òc praubòt, / Mes uei que sabem, tu e jo And the history took its journey / it took paths of songs / and tales for children / but today we know, you and I. But yes, poor thing, but yes, poor thing / but today we know, you and I.

[thankyouforthememoriesworld]

Just search "correfoc" on google and you will see our beautiful fiery tradition

https://www.tumblr.com/thankyouforthememoriesworld/763245026495053824/last-year-i-went-to-spend-a-year-in-turkey-and-got?source=share

I think I want to go to one now🤣

[aquietgirlsmess]

Maël being so clueless when Jade has been giving him literal hearteyes is hilarious ngl

[sincerelybubbles]

could you write something where the reader is listening to reid going off on his tangents and when he gets insecure, just straight up saying. "no, go on. i like the sound of your voice." ? ty! ��

Don't shut up // no warnings as far as i can tell? lmk if not <3 pure fluff!! ty for the request <333

"They usually called her the Limping Lady but there's really no way to tell how many pseudonyms she used," Spencer is saying, dragging his hand through your hair where you lay on his lap, His other hand is busy grasping at the air while he talks.

"Because of the prosthetic leg?" You ask, urging him to continue talking. You're nearly asleep, eyes heavy and chest loose with the comfort of his proximity.

"Yeah. She actually nicknamed it 'Cuthbert' when she got the wooden prosthetic. It's actually pretty interesting - people have been using prosthetics for a really long time. We don't know exactly when people started using them in modern medicine, but the first evidence we can find of them dates all the way back to ancient Egypt where they found a prosthetic toe."

The documentary Spencer put on over an hour ago about World War II has long since been paused, Netflix's blinking "Are you still watching?" hovering uselessly on his laptop screen. He paused it ages ago to discuss the inaccuracies about Hitler's past, then Italy's involvement in France and the parallels between the almost French famine and the Irish famine, leading him to Virginia Hall.

All in all, you're in heaven. He's been stroking your hair, blunt nails scratching every so often, voice rumbling through his chest and stomach where your ear presses against. He's talking calmly, even, if not slightly rushed, like he can't wait for even a breath to keep telling you about everything he knows.

"I just want you to know all of the things I know, too, you know?" He told you once when you urged him to slow down. He's learned to take his time with you, eventually, realizing that you're not waiting for your opportunity to jump in. You don't spend your time with Spencer figuring out when it'll be your turn to talk next; instead, you lull in the comfortable space of listening while knowing he'll return the favor the moment you have something to say.

"Sorry, are you trying to sleep? I can shut up and turn the movie back on," Spencer says suddenly, hand stilling in your hair.

You open your eyes slightly to find him looking down at you, lip caught between his teeth, a hesitant look in his eyes.

Spencer doesn't often get insecure like this around you - you've spent plenty of time convincing him that there's no need - but moments like this still happen. You suppose it's a natural product of constant teasing and bullying through childhood.

"I don't mean to ramble," he mutters when he catches your eye.

"No," you say, interrupting him and reaching up to brush your fingers across his cheekbone and up to his eyebrows. "No, Spence, I literally love the sound of your voice. Please, keep going."

You watch him melt, afraid for a moment that his liquid brown eyes will start to water. You make a concerned noise, about to sit up and comfort him further, when his hand moves to press down on your collarbones. He holds you in place as he looks at you for a second, heated gaze causing you to feel warm. Slowly, he bends to press a kiss on each of your eyelids, right below your eyebrows. He rests his lips on the bones there for a few moments before moving to the next.

"I love you," he murmurs, the truth of the statement oozing out too sincerely to ignore.

He doesn't give you a moment to breathe before diving right back into his explanation of how ancient prosthetics were integrated into modern medicine, hand resuming its path in your hair and voice slowly bringing you to a calm half-nap.

[theworldgate]

I have to explain what is going on in the UK, because it is absurd.

So, this is Gary Lineker:

He's known for a fair few things over here. He was a very good (association) footballer, playing for England in the 1986 and 1990 World Cups, winning the Golden Boot in 1986, and managing to never get a single yellow card in his playing career. He played for Leicester City, Everton, Barcelona, and Tottenham, before finishing his career in Japan. But if you aren't in your mid 30s, you probably know actually know him him for a couple of other things. The first is the role of spokesman for another Leicester icon, Walkers Crisps (which are sort of equivalent to Lays, but hit different), as pictured above. Despite being a notably clean player, he used to play a cheeky serial crisp thief. I don't think he's done that for well over a decade, but his ads were on the telly a lot when I was a kid and it's a bit like learning that the hamburglar was an incredibly clean (American) football player or something.

The second thing Gary is widely known for is having presented Match of the Day, the big football program on the BBC, the sort-of state broadcaster, since 1999. He is, incidentally, very well paid for this (though with a consensus that he could get even more if he went to one of the non-free-to-view broadcasters because he is very good at the job). He also has a twitter account. And political opinions. So, the UK government has got itself dead set upon doing heinous stuff that will totally somehow work to prevent people who want to come to the UK making the perilous crossing of the Channel (between England and France). By heinous, I mean "openly advertise that they won't attempt to protect victims of modern slavery" stuff. It's very obviously using a legal hammer to victimise a marginalised group of people in order to win votes. And, uh, I should clarify that by "legal" I mean "using the passage of laws" - the policy is, in addition to all the other ways it's awful, probably incompatible with the Human Rights Act and the UK's international law obligations. Gary, top lad that he is, objected to this. On Tuesday 7th March, he made a quote Tweet of a video of the Home Secretary, Suella Braverman, bigging up the policy, he wrote "Good heavens, this is beyond awful.". This got a bunch of backlash from extremely right-wingers, and then he made the tweet that really got him in trouble (with right-wingers): "There is no huge influx. We take far fewer refugees than other major European countries. This is just an immeasurably cruel policy directed at the most vulnerable people in language that is not dissimilar to that used by Germany in the 30s, and I’m out of order?".

Now, I am not actually subjecting myself to watching a video of Suella Braverman bigging up a cruel policy to say whether the specific comparison of the language to 1930s Germany is accurate. But needless to say, Ms Braverman was amongst the many figures on the right of UK politics objecting to Gary's rhetoric. And here's the part where a fact about the BBC comes in: it is nominally neutral and impartial (and so, of course, is routinely accused of bias from all sides but particularly the right-wing), and has something of a code for its contributors to this effect. Now, that code has previously been applied to Gary Lineker, over a comment about whether governing Conservative Party would hand back donations from figures linked to the Russian regime. But it generally hasn't been applied too strongly to people like Gary, whose roles have nothing to do with politics (such as presenting a "here's what happened on the footie today" show), on the basis that, well, their roles have nothing to do with politics. However, when directly asked about whether the BBC should punish Gary Lineker for his tweets, government figures basically went "well, that's a them problem". But a couple of days passed, and it seemed like Gary's approach of "standing his ground because he did nothing wrong" was working and everything would die down. He was set to get 'a talking to' but not much more than that. The Conservative right, after all their fire and fury earlier, had gotten bored and moved onto something else. And then, on Friday 10th March, the BBC announced that he would be suspended from hosting Match of the Day this weekend. But it could still go ahead, because there are, like, other hosts! Except, well, funnily enough, when you take a beloved figure off air, for making a fairly anodyne tweet, no one wants to be the scab who actually takes up the role of replacing him. Gary's two co-hosts, Alan Shearer and Ian Wright, said that they would not appear without him. People who (co-)host Match of the Day on other days followed suit. The net result is that Match of the Day is currently set to air without hosts, BBC commentary, or global feed commentary. And the solidarity shown to Gary Lineker, over what is very flagrantly actual cancel culture and an attack on freedom of speech (the logic implied is that institutional impartiality requires that no one say anything too critical of the government ever), has continued to grow. The BBC has pretty much been unable to run pretty much any live sports content today, and has resorted to raiding the BBC Sounds archive to fill the sports radio channel. And, as of 17:30 on Saturday 11th March, the situation shows no signs of improvement, though some are calling for the Chairman Richard Sharp, who is separately facing corruption allegations, to resign (yes I linked to the BBC itself there, there is nothing, nothing, the BBC loves more than going into great detail about how much the BBC sucks).

[woso-dreamzzz]

Award

Hardersson x Daughter!Reader

Zećira Mušović x Hardersson!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Zećira gives you an award

When you were little, you didn't attend award ceremonies.

You watched them on tv, sure, if they were being televised but you were much too little to actually attend. If it was early enough, you would wait by the phone with whoever was babysitting you so you could talk to Morsa and Momma. If it was too late in the evening, you stayed up to watch and then went straight to bed.

So, this is the first time you've attended an awards ceremony with your mothers.

But it's not one of theirs.

It's yours.

You don't quite know what to expect for your FIFA awards show so you're not quite sure if this is living up to your expectations or not.

Everything just seems to be kind of happening around you as you sit there listening to the hosts talk about last year's season and all the work that's being done on and off the pitch.

It's only when Zećira appears on stage with an award and an envelope that you start paying attention.

Magda also sits up next to you. She'd been slouching previously but she sits upright fully and stares hard at her old teammate.

"Calm down," Pernille hisses from your other side as Magda stares, unblinking," You look crazy."

"I'm just paying attention!" Magda hisses back as the nominees are announced again.

You've come off of a very successful last season at Arsenal and the high of winning the World Cup but you still don't feel too confident.

You're up against the keeper from Lyon in France and the keeper from Juventus in Italy. Both had amazing seasons as well, both with and without their national teams.

It's a difficult one to call and, while Morsa and Momma seem confident, you don't allow yourself to hope.

If you don't get your hopes up then you can't be disappointed.

But Pernille's holding your hand and you can see Magda crossing her fingers.

Zećira clears her throat, opening the envelope.

"And FIFA's women's goalkeeper of the year award goes to..."

You suck in a breath, realising with a jolt that you actually will be disappointed if you don't win. You didn't dare hope but now you're sitting there, the hope creeps in a little.

You think it would be pretty embarrassing to lose now after everyone parading you around as a once in a lifetime keeper.

You catch Zećira's eyes as she pauses.

You can't really remember being interested in being a keeper until Zećira. For as long as you can remember, you've wanted her approval. You think that you wouldn't be half the keeper you are now without Zećira fostering it in you a young age.

"Sweden's Y/N!"

You're stuck in your seat, unable to move.

Magda hugs you first then Pernille and you're still frozen.

You're not entirely sure how you get up on stage.

You suppose you must have walked but you don't remember any of it. To you, it was like you blinked and suddenly you were climbing the stairs.

Zećira is in front of you and suddenly you are taken back to when you were little, when you weren't as tall as you are now and had to crane your head back to look at her.

She had seemed so out of reach when you were little, so big and strong that you couldn't even hope to compete with her.

But now, you can look at her eye to eye.

It doesn't seem to matter though as she pulls you into a hug.

You still feel like that little girl that followed her around on the pitch and had her practice with you in the park. You followed her around at camp too, eager to learn everything you could. You always want to impress her when she comes to your games.

You want to impress her now and you think you've done that because she hugs you for longer than she would have hugged anyone else on stage on live tv.

"I'm proud of you," She whispers as the crowd claps.

(You're pretty sure you can hear Magda cheering and you don't have the wherewithal to be embarrassed about that right now).

"Thank you," You say back, still awestruck as Zećira pulls away.

"You can smile, you know," She teases," You just won an award. Best keeper in the world."

"Only for the year," You remind her and she laughs.

The award is heavier than you thought it would be, the sudden weight in your hand feeling strange.

You look down at it.

This is your first goalkeeper of the year award.

But one day, it'll be just one of many.

[queenshelby]

AMERICAN GIRL (PART THREE)

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Grace's Stepdaughter!Reader

Warning: Grace is a bully, infidelity, taboo

The following day, Tommy had, indeed , arranged for a tutor to come to the mansion and work with Emma and, much to the dislike of Grace, he had offered you a position in one of his many legitimate establishments where, unbeknownst to you, he could keep an eye on you.

Usurpingly, he did not trust you yet, seeing how Grace had betrayed your father by sleeping with him. As such he believed that you were nothing but a wildcard, a force that could not be calculated, and therefore potentially presented a threat to him and his livelihood. 

And yet, despite himself, Tommy found himself intrigued by you nonetheless. There was an allure about you that could not be ignored and, moreover, there was a quiet strength in your eyes, a fiery spirit that he found incredibly attractive.

The work that you had been assigned to do under supervision was simple enough - organizing and cataloguing items in one of his stores down in Birmingham - but the time you spent there was never mundane.

One of the women who worked there with you for the time being was no other than Ada Shelby herself, Tommy's sister who was clearly there to spy on you until you could be trusted. Yet, despite the hidden animosity between you two, you quickly became friends.

Ada was a woman of few words but much wit, a firecracker hiding beneath a quiet, steely demeanor. Her dark eyes held a thousand stories, most of which she would never openly share with anyone and you respected her for that.

Ada had a child of her own, but no man by her side to help her raise her young son Karl. Her husband Freddy had passed on several years ago and a tragic loss like this was something you both shared in your lives. 

Just like she looked after her son, you were looking after your sister and  , therefore the two of you found a strong bond between yourselves.

Unlike Ada, you were not shy about sharing stories from your life with her, although they weren't many and, in turn, she spoke about her brother Tommy, about whom you happened to have many questions, none of which she refused to answer.

You wanted to know what kind of man he was and when Ada told you that he did bad things to a good end, you couldn't help but feel intrigued by his many motives. It was during those long hours at work that Ada shared the story of Thomas Shelby and his family, painting a vivid picture of his past that you couldn't help but find utterly captivating.

You learned that Tommy had been in France, and, in spite of his achievements, he threw his medals in the Cut. He was a tunneller during the Great War and, when he came back home, he had seen too much to be able to return to the man he was before.

The war had changed him fundamentally, and this did not surprise you. It had changed your father too, and you remembered, as a little girl, witnessing the way the man you loved dearly had returned from the trenches of Europe battered and emotionally destroyed. 

Ada told you how her brother had started Shelby Company Ltd. with his brothers, how they had built it together and turned it into a formidable force that controlled large portions of the city's trade without giving away the family secrets. Tommy was at the helm of all this, and you could understand why Ada once said that she saw both heaven and hell in his eyes.

He was capable of immense cruelty and merciless violence, but the kind heart he reserved for those closest to him remained hidden behind the tough and unyielding exterior.

You worked at the shop three days a week and, at least once every day, Tommy would come by to check on you before, occasionally, visiting a woman by the name of Lizzie Stark at her nearby lodging. 

You followed them once and found out that Lizzie Stark was a prostitute who worked for Tommy. She was, as far as you could gather, rather smitten by him. It was obvious to you that her and Tommy regularly engaged in intimate relations with each other but, even so, there was something distant in the way he looked at her, as though he was always preoccupied by thoughts far beyond his current reach.

Lizzie didn't seem to notice this while, yet she considered you as her biggest thread and, in spite of your better judgment, you found the thought amusing more than anything else. After all, it should have been Grace who she was jealous of, not you but then again, perhaps she knew as well as you did that Tommy didn't love either of them. As he had told you himself, he didn't have the capacity for love, or so it seemed. 

The first time you saw Tommy with Lizzie however, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of something akin to disappointment. But you weren't disappointed about the fact that he was unfaithful to Grace, but rather , you were disappointed in the way your own heart reacted when you saw them together.

Eventually, four weeks had passed since you started working at the shop, and you've had ample opportunity to observe Tommy's interactions with Lizzie and others. She wasn't the only one he had been seeing and, for some reason, even despite his misgivings, that strange fascination you felt towards him kept growing, albeit slowly.

You couldn't put your finger on what it was that made him so magnetic. His brooding nature and hardened exterior were part of it, but there was more to it than that.

He was a man of many contradictions, and that intrigued you.

That same night, just like many others, you passed him inside the corridors of the large house you were now living in, giving him a knowing glance as if to say 'I know what you did today' without uttering a single word. And he always returned the look with an exasperating half-smile that both maddened and thrilled you. He knew that you knew about his infidelity and, yet he did not seem to care. 

You didn't hate Thomas Shelby or any of the members of his family, but you despised Grace with every fiber of your being.

The day your father died, your whole world had crumbled before your very eyes, leaving you and Emma at the mercy of a woman who couldn't bear the sight of you. She made no secret of this hatred and had been eagerly waiting for your father's fortune to be handed down to her hands.

As such, you really wanted to tell her about her partner's unfaithfulness. You wanted to rub it in and let her know that he was doing to her what she had done to your father all long. But yet, something stopped you.

Some unspoken code of honor, perhaps, or maybe just the small sliver of compassion that still lingered within your wounded heart. You pitied Grace and feared her in equal measure, and you couldn't bring yourself to interfere and risk your own wellbeing and the wellbeing of your little sister Emma who, only in the past week, had started sleeping in her own room. 

Besides, Thomas Shelby was not your concern. He was a grown man who made his own choices, and it was not your place to pass judgment on him. But somehow, you found yourself doing it anyway.

Occasionally, Tommy kept you company when neither of you could sleep and it were those nightly interactions that slowly, almost unknowingly, began to brew a forbidden chemistry between you and him.

Leaning against the banisters, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he puffed on his cigarette, you couldn't help but feel your heart flutter when he asked you about your day.

His gaze followed your every action, lingering on the gentle curve of your waist or the crook of your neck as you spoke. It was that same raw intensity that made your skin tingle and your breath hitch - a silent conversation of want and need.

You would meet by chance most nights, either in the library or outside, by the stables, after Grace had gone to bed and whilst your interactions were innocent enough, your conversations were deep and meaningful.  You found Tommy to be intelligent and well-educated, with a passion for literature and fine art, topics that you would discuss at length, fuelled by the desire to learn more about him - and yourself.

Occasionally, you would catch him outside the lavatory in the staff quarters, listening intently as you sang while having a bath or shower. This was something that had always irritated Grace, hearing you sing, but Tommy seemed to enjoy it - or, at least, he never let on if he didn't.

One late night, as you were making use of the large piano near the library,  Tommy entered the room. You hadn't heard him come in, but you felt his gaze on you, watching intently as your fingers danced across the keys.

You paused for a moment, turning to face him before continuing your musical journey with another melody.

"You have a quite a talent for music,"  Tommy commented, his gaze cast downward to the floor.

Tommy leaned against one of the tall, mahogany shelves that lined the room. The soft amber glow from the fireplace illuminated one side of his face, granting him a certain warmth in his usually stoic features.

"I learned from my mother," you stated simply, continuing to play. Your gaze remained focused on the falling notes you were creating on the piano, not daring to turn your head and meet his gaze.

But, oh, how you wanted to! His presence made you feel all kinds of things, some you'd never experienced before, like unsettling excitement and an irrepressible craving for that forbidden fruit.

"I sometimes come to the staffing quarters just to hear you sing in the shower," he  murmured, his eyes locked on yours as he confessed.

You felt your cheeks heat up, your pulse quickened as you continued to playing the piano, the melody now more dramatic. You couldn't believe what you were hearing; he must have been joking, being so direct but if this was the game he wanted to play, then you would oblige.

"I have noticed, and so have the maids. You should be more cautious," you teased, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as the corners of your eyes crinkled with amusement.

Tommy pushed off the shelf, moving closer to you, the space between you shortening rapidly. He leaned on the piano now  , effectively entrapping you between him and the instrument. You could feel the warmth emanating from his body, and it made your heart race.

"Perhaps I wanted you to notice," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze bore into yours, leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed.

"And perhaps I wanted you to listen,"  you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

The tension in the room grew thicker, filling the air with a palpable energy that neither of you seemed capable of breaking. The only sound in the room was the gentle strumming of the piano keys beneath your fingertips.

Tommy leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. You could feel his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath he took, his eyes never leaving yours as he leaned over you and turned the page on the book in front of you.  You were acutely aware of the proximity between you, the way his body seemed to align perfectly with yours as if you were two halves of a whole. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a spark that threatened to consume you whole.

"Can you play this?"  Thomas asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he pointed to the new sheet music. His proximity still had your heart pounding, the wild beat echoing in your ears.

"Yes, of course I can. I can play anything," you winked  playfully before turning your attention back to the music sheet, your fingers dancing gracefully over the keys. You felt Tommy's gaze on you as you played, his presence making your heart race.

You continued to play, the melody filling the library with its enchanting sound. You could feel the weight of Tommy's gaze on you, and it sparked a fire within you that you couldn't ignore. Your fingers moved faster over the keys, your body swaying gently to the rhythm of the music.

Tommy watched you in awe, your talent and beauty captivating him completely until, suddenly, the door swung open .

Grace swept into the room, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Tommy standing so close to you, his hands hovering near yours.

"What is going on here?" she demanded, her voice tight with anger as Tommy stepped away from you.

"I am listening to Y/N play the piano," Tommy replied smoothly, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment. 

Grace's gaze flicked from you to Tommy and back again, her jaw tightening as she clearly struggled to maintain her composure. "I can see that, but I wonder why? Why are you listen to her play the piano at this hour?" she  pressed, her voice dripping with suspicion.

Tom's eyes remained locked onto yours, a silent message passing between you, a promise of something unspoken that only the two of you could understand.

"Because she plays beautifully, Grace. And, as usual, I can't fucking sleep, eh" Tommy replied, his nonchalant tone grating on Grace's nerves. She stared daggers at him, her eyes narrowed to slits.

"Well, wrap it up, because I cannot sleep either because of it," Grace said, her voice tight with anger, causing Tommy to look at her with a mix of irritation and mild amusement before standing up.

"I will see you tomorrow, Y/N. Have a good night," he told you, ignoring Grace's outburst and leaving you in a state of confusion and frustration.

You watched him leave, his presence leaving an ache in your core that took you by surprise while Grace told you to be quite and to go to bed. You didn't object, you knew better.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter @smailaway @sophiaaguirred @blondie-22

[willixmsonswife]

black swan/kyra cooney-cross

*kyra cooney-cross x fem!french!journalist!reader

*it's just an aftermatch interview with one of the new signings, what could possibly happen?

*word count : 2k

*a/n : this is part one of the black swan series, i'm still thinking about how many parts i'm going to do but yeah, this is more of an introduction and when they first meet so the next part is going to be the "actual beginning". let me know what you think :)

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

you never really fit into your family. not that that was something you wanted to, god forbid, but it still hurts to think that you could've had a different childhood if you had learned to act differently. but who was supposed to show you how to "act different and more girly" like your father always said? you've never been someone who talks a lot, goes out every weekend but you've always been good at voicing your opinion, especially if it was to put someone (your father) back in their place. the moments were you and your dad agreed on something were rare and gave your mum some hope that maybe, just maybe your relationship wasn't completely ruined. but it was and she knew that, she just had a hard time accepting it. you had too, when you were younger. you had idolized your father like almost every other child idolized theirs but you soon realized that your father was not like your best friend's. it had started when you were about nine and your dad got a job in london which meant that you had to move there. it was easy for your parents but for you? you threatened your parents that you would never talk to them again if they were serious about the whole situation. they were, or at least your father was and your mum followed his lead, she always did. so they forced you to come with them, even though you insisted that you could continue to live in your small city in the south of france, you just had to move in with your best friend claire. your parents laughed at your multiple tries to convince them to stay so in the middle of the following summer you had to say goodbye to your sweet french life, your classmates and claire. many tears were shed but claire's mum promised that she would ask your mum for your address and your best friend pinky-swore that she would write you. as soon as your family stepped out of your old house, you stopped talking. not a single word left your mouth during the entire journey to the new and foreign country that was intended to become your home. your father called you immature quite a few times, which you thought was hilariously contradictory to say for a man who started to scream at you every time you didn't do exactly as he said. once you entered your new "home", you instantly knew that it was never going to become a home for you, it was just a house that you lived in.

since the day you moved in, fifteen years had now passed. you had studied journalism at a university in london and found your place in the world of journalism. you had decided to focus on sport journalism, women's football to be exact. the growth you were able to witness since you started watching the arsenal women at age 11 fascinated you more than anything, which made your decision pretty easy. for a few years you've now pathed your way in the industry and it was better than you could've ever imagined. the interviews, the thorough researches before, the matches you attended, it made everything worth it and you even caught yourself sometimes thanking your parents silently for moving here despite your protests.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

it was the day of the london derby, everywhere you look on the streets you only saw red and blue and kick-off couldn't come soon enough. you had made your way to the emirates stadium earlier today, now preparing your planned interviews. you would be interviewing the captain kim little before the match and another teammate after the match, but it was still unknown who would be willing to talk to the press afterwards. everything depended on how the match would go. you were called to the side of the pitch where you got mic'd up and excitedly awaited the arsenal captain. kim didn't let you wait for long and the interview started.

"hello to everyone who's watching, my name is y/n y/l/n and i am here with arsenal's captain kim little! first of all, hello to you kim how are you doing?"

"i'm doing good, mainly focusing on the game at this moment."

"this london derby will probably decide if arsenal will still have a chance in the wsl title race, how is the team feeling about that?"

"of course we're all excited for the match, everyone is in top form and will definitely be giving 100%. the team knows that this is a crucial game but i'm also very optimistic that we can secure our deserved place in the title race."

the interview continues, the first fans start to enter the stadium and you finished asking all of your questions.

"well that was it kim, thank you for your time and good luck out there!"

"thank you for having me!"

the camera sways over to film the arriving fans and the mics get cut. it wasn't your first time interviewing the arsenal captain so she stays around for a few minutes afterwards to catch up before she has to go back to the locker rooms.

"it's always nice filming with you kim."

"right back at you y/n. i have to get back to the girls now but enjoy the match and maybe we'll see you after!"

"i will thank you!"

kim turns to leave but you stop her for one last question.

"oh kim, i forgot to ask. it'd be nice if someone from the team could answer a few quesions after the game, so could you maybe ask around?"

"i'm sure one of the newbies is up for that. i already have someone in mind, i'm sure you two will get along. i'll send her your way later."

with that, she turns around and leaves. you slowly make your way up to the pressbox while you can't help but wonder if you really just saw a little smirk on kim's face or if you're starting to imagine things.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

the game went even better than you could've imagined, arsenal scoring their first goal in the 17th minute thanks to a corner kick from katie. the second one was quick to follow with steph assisting a beautiful header from kyra cooney-cross, one of the new signings. stina also got her goal shortly after half time and kyra made the victory clear with another amazing goal while leah got her second assist. after 98 minutes, the ref ended the match and the entire emirates stadium erupted into cheers. by the time arsenal finished their walk around the pitch, you already stood by the sidelines, mic'd up and just waiting for the arsenal player that kim promised to send your way. you didn't have to wait long because as you let your eyes waver around on the pitch, you saw kim talking to a younger teammate, number 32, aka kyra cooney-cross. interviewing the woman who was awarded player of the match and scored two goals in this important game would be the best thing kim could've possibly arranged. as soon as kyra nodded and started to make her way over to where you were standing, you felt yourself getting nervous. why were you getting nervous? you had done thousands of interviews with new signings, this was your almost daily routine.

"hiya, i'm kyra cooney-cross. i'm guessing your miss y/l/n?"

you snapped out of it as soon as you heard the soothing voice of the person who was standing right in front of you.

"i- yes, yes that's me. you can call me y/n though, nice to meet you." "alright, y/n it is then."

she looked at you and you could've sworn she had the prettiest smile you've ever seen. you felt your cheeks heat up a bit but tried to ignore it.

"i'm gonna guess kim send you over to answer some questions?" "yes, exactly." "okay, let's get started then."

you signaled your camera man to come over and took a deep breath, only focusing on the interview you were about to start.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

the interview went great, the conversation flowing like the camera capturing your every movement and reaction wasn't even there. maybe that's why you didn't care to control the blush creeping up your cheeks when kyra looked at you for just a moment too long. you forgot that every question you asked and every answer kyra gave you were being recorded live for the world to see, so when it came to an end you had to quickly pull yourself together to at least make the end seem somewhat professional.

"that was the last question, thank you for sacrificing your time kyra."

you gave her your sweetest smile which she swiftly reciprocated.

"thank you for having me y/n."

much to your dismay, you now had to turn your back towards kyra.

"thank you to everyone who's watching until now, i hope you have a great evening and will join us again next saturday when arsenal faces west ham at meadow park."

the camera man nodded meaning he had stopped filming and then walked away. you turned back to see kyra still standing there, looking at you with what you would interpret as pure admiration. you felt your blood rush into your cheeks, again, and mentally cursed yourself for blushing so easily.

"everything okay?"

"yeah, no, everything's fine, i just- how do you do that so easily? talk to the camera i mean."

you looked at her, almost shocked by the fact that she was impressed by someone like you.

"what do you mean?"

"when you talk, it's almost like you don't know that hundreds if not even thousands of people are listening to every word that's coming out of your mouth. it's crazy to watch that, you're really talented y/n."

oh god she was making this whole try not to blush thing really hard.

"when i talk to the camera, i know that people are listening. that's what calms me down, and that's why i do it. people tune in to watch these interviews because they want to listen to me, not because they have to. god, that probably sounds so selfish." you let out a small chuckle before speaking again. "i haven't really been listened to by anyone my whole life, so knowing that people now want to listen to me is just crazy to me. i try my best not to disappoint them."

"oh, i'm sorry to hear that." kyra looked down at her feet, not knowing how to continue the conversation after this.

"nothing to be sorry about, really. i'm better now." you offered her a small smile, which was immediately mirrored by her.

"sooo, don't you want to join the rest and celebrate your big win miss player of the match?"

"nah, they're probably not even missing me. i can stay a bit-" she was cut off by alessia jumping on her back. "kyra you're taking way too long! we're all waiting for you!"

she got down from krya's back and looked at you. "oh hi y/n! long time no see."

you got pulled into a bone crushing hug by the blonde and didn't even have time to answer her before she started to talk again. "i have the order to take you with me cooney-cross. we wanna celebrate your goals!"

as quickly as alessia appeared, she ran off again but this time with kyra. she turned around while running to wave at you and kyra looked at you sorrily before nearly tripping and deciding that looking forward while running would probably be for the best. you waved at them, feeling kind of disappointed because of your interrupted and therefore unfinished conversation with kyra but you decided that it wasn't worth the overthinking. she was just being nice, that's the type of person she is, you shouldn't read too much into it. right?

[wraithdance]

Do you have any advice when it comes to dating straight men?

Short answer? Don’t. Long answer, under le cut we go for Calvary’s survival guide to dating men🙄

Actually curious why you want advice from my emotionally bereft ass but lmaooo. I’ll give you the advice I give my male dating family members and friends

1. Do not go into dating men desperate

you need to have at least the barest amount of confidence in who you are and what you want before dating a singular man.

Like I mean that shit, I’m not kidding. You don’t have to be self confident enough to write a self help book, but you need to be able to feel as if you can walk away when you are disrespected. no matter what fantasy you have of love, you WILL be disrespected babe. Learn early how to identify it when it happens and walk the fuck away with your self respect when it’s too much for you to ignore.

2. Do not let being ‘nice’ keep you from finding your dream partner

Start off with a working list of what kind of man you want and be as detailed and insane about it as possible. I mean everything down to what color underwear he wears if that’s something that might be a point of contention with you.

After you have that list write some hard rules for how a man is allowed to speak/act towards you and use that as a litmus test for if you continue a relationship. It is a privilege to be near you not a guaranteed right, so reinforce that or get walked over

3. Masturbate frequently and have your options open

Legit work out any hang ups surrounding sex and consider dating more than one person at a time so you don’t get stuck romanticizing one man.

No, that doesn’t mean you have to fuck all of them, but getting used to going on dates helps with nerves and prevents you from making the mistake of thinking you found ‘the one’ because you’re seeing the same dude. Please invest in a sex toy or 3. Being horny will get you into trouble!!

4. Do not trust a man’s word over your own senses

People lie. Don’t believe shit a man says unless he backs it up with receipts. He says he has a condo in France? ask to see the deed. He got his std labs done last week? Ask him to go with you to your regular doctor for a new screening.

Protect yourself always and if he gets mad that’s a red flag. Do not pass go because it’s life or death out here, babes. Which leads me to

5. Be a bitch. Be the biggest bitch you can be

Legit fuck every single thing anyone ever told you about being nice to a man. Work on getting comfortable with being an asshole and calling them out or you will be pushed over. This honestly goes for any gender like be a literal cunt when the time warrants it.

Someone pushy about you not letting them back to your place? Be loud and tell them they’re making you uncomfortable. Someone negging you? Look them in their eye and lean close, tell them “you know, when I first met you I thought you were a lot smarter. I guess not, since you had the nerve to say that to me without any regrets.”

Don’t like the date? Leave. That simple. It’ll save you heart ache and sometimes save your life.

Uh if you have more specific questions you can follow up but those are my top five rules. Men aren’t some scary mythical creature or hard science experiment. It’s all about setting yourself up to get what kind of love story you want. Good luck babes you’re gonna need it!!

MWAHH 💋💖

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

Confesser

Summary: Spencer is a criminology professor, and Reader is a French professor. Separate focuses managed to get tangled together once, which makes Reader even more suspicious when he stops by her office on Valentine’s Day.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Light flangst

Content warnings: Slap

Word count: 1.7k

A/N: a little last-minute Valentine scenario

The bulb in your desk lamp flickered, as if it was begging for you to call it a night. You've been working late nights at the office recently, not only to help your students before midterms but also to keep your mind at bay from the lingering anguish.

There’s nothing wrong with being alone on Valentine’s Day. It’s been the case for you for years now. Solitude has been your most consistent and prosperous state. It’s how you earned your place as tenure after just five years at Marbury University (Go Cardinals). A job for life. Many people aren’t lucky to have that like you are. So you can’t stop now and get comfortable. Your students love you, and over the years have advocated this position for you. Stopping now would be nothing but a disservice to them.

If only you hadn’t been so stupid your fourth year here (and the first half of your fifth), then the feelings you get when in Jefferson Hall might be less painful. You were stupid enough to believe that the number one workplace rule didn’t apply to you.

Don’t fuck your coworkers.

Perhaps you thought your achievements from back to back earned you a place of immunity in that pool. Well, Dr. Spencer Reid was happy to prove you wrong there. Things like that can always risk being casual, unrequited, awkward. And you were stupid enough to go back more than once, and sully the place and position you rightfully earned.

Spencer first noticed you speaking to some of your students outside the hall. When approaching, he spoke in French, assuming you were a foreign exchange student. But when you turned to face him, he saw your staff badge, and put the pieces together quickly. It’s not too far off of an assumption, as most people think you’re French when they see how easily the language and history flows from you. You applauded his French (both pronunciation and accent) regardless.

That meeting turned into a coffee date. Coffee turned to grabbing lunch, then grading papers together, moral support to keep one another going. That quickly trickled into a friendship as you learned about Spencer’s specialties, multiple degrees, and current employment at the BAU in Quantico. You’ve both been to France for pleasure and to study. One was coincidentally in the same year as each other, where you both visited the city of Orléans. The rich architecture and vast history as far back as the Merovingian era made you both agree you prefer it over Paris any day.

Those days were during your fourth year. And it was just over a year of friendship where you made the mistake of agreeing to a drink after work.

The bulb flickers, as if to mock those memories or distract you from going too deep. Does it really matter? Spencer made it clear it was a mistake. None of it was meant to happen — the kiss, the confession, the sex. And with your shared brilliance mixed with two vodka sodas, you both unraveled what used to be a genuine friendship, a trusting relationship among coworkers. You cut your desk lamp off with a click, muttering to yourself as you collect your bag and some books. It’s a good enough sign to call it a night and head home. At the very least, you could spoil yourself with a nice bath and some wine. You question if you should grab a bottle on the way home or use what you’ve got stashed.

Your keys rattle in the door as you lock up your office, and you jerk on the doorknob for the sake of double checking. Spencer told you most break-ins occur because people fail to check the locks in their homes or cars before leaving. You don’t know how many of your students or fellow professors in the Language Department would be eager to bust into your office, unless they need some spicy ancient French poetry or books on Rococo architecture. No issues of the sort have arisen yet.

That is until you spot him at the end of the hall, drenched in fluorescent lighting and paused as if you caught him in the act. Of what, you didn’t know. It’s not like Spencer was short on French books or books in French. You hesitated to speak, questioning if it was even worth speaking a word to him. Regardless of the fact that you have to go his direction to get to your car.

Of course you caved. “Spencer.” You tried to not make your gulp so audible.

He just stood there awkwardly, like this wasn’t as much his fault as it was yours. Like you were in his way.

You scoff. Seeing him there, just feet away, it’s a cruel feeling blooming in your chest. The idea that maybe it isn’t too late. Maybe he’s here to confess what he really feels. On Valentine’s Day, no less. A bit of a cliché, but you’re not in a position to be too picky about how you might make up. If that’s even what’s happening.

With reluctance, you walk toward him. “I’m heading home for the night,” you say. “Are you parked out front too?” It pains to ask as if this is all casual. It feels like your heart’s about to burst or crush because he’s not saying a word as you approach him. Not until you actually approach him.

“Hi,” he meekly says. He looks pale. He looks sick with worry. If you were more concerned, you would feel inclined to ask about it.

You try to avoid sighing too loudly. You need the air. Since the bar (and everything after that), you two haven't been this close. “Do you want to walk out to the parking lot?”

Spencer shakes his head. “I, uh, I got you something.” He digs around in his satchel and pulls out a frame delicately. Like it was an old piece of art. Spencer hands it to you.

It’s not an old piece of art. It’s an old piece of poetry. Two of them in a single frame.

“They’re not the originals. But I have a friend in Germany who knows a guy in France who could exchange some pretty old copies.”

You stared at the pieces. Gawked is likely the more accurate word. They were definitely old copies. It was all handwritten and translated to Middle English.

You looked up at Spencer. “Charles d’Orléans?”

Spencer nodded, lips pressed together in a boyish, nervous smile.

You were so stunned by the decoration of the parchment, the distinct age of the pieces (well before the revolution), you almost forgot to ask, “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Had some spares around the apartment. Figured you’d appreciate them more than me.” He chuckled.

You turned your head and narrowed your eyes.

And you saw Spencer’s audible gulp. Much more audible than yours earlier (yes!). “Read it.”

You scan over the parchment, translating in your head:

Let men and women on Love’s party

Choose their St. Valentine this year!

I remain alone, comfort stole from me

On the hard bed of painful thought.

As he is well this day has caught

A Valentine that loves him, as I guess,

Whereas this comfort me here alone

Upon my bed so hard of painful thought.

You looked back up at Spencer, hoping this time he’ll put some more context behind the words instead of leaving you to fill in the blanks (again). You waited.

“I’m sorry about what I said. Or I guess… the way I said it. Maybe both. Both is probably the safer option to go with. The point is that I’m genuinely sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”

You didn’t know what to do with the poems. It is instinct to keep them close to your chest like a book, but (like with you and Spencer) you’re afraid of ruining them. Somehow cracking it or damaging them. Firmly held in your hands, you are hyper-aware of its value. You also try not to let your emotions take a grip for the sake of your pieces. “You said it was a mistake.”

“It was a mistake that we went that far in one night. That’s… not who I am.”

You quirked a brow.

“That’s not who I usually am. I went too far in every way, and I’m sorry.”

You clamped your lips closed, looking around like students were present, ready to eavesdrop and gossip later. If your favorites were here, they would beg you to dish it all out over lunch. But no one was here. It was just you and Spencer (and Charles, kind of). “But what if my feelings were genuine?”

“I-I assumed they were. And I hurt them, and I’m sorry. I understand if I blew it and you may want to forget those feelings now, which is completely understandable. I destroyed it all in one night. And I can’t hold your hands right now, but I want to, and just say that you’re very important to me. And I miss you being around. And, uh, whatever context that might be, I hope we can be around each other again. A-at some point in the future.”

You sighed. It was heavy but concentrated. You needed a fresh breath of air. Spencer had the look of a sad puppy. It’s the way he looked whenever he was worried. How could you kick a sad puppy when he’s already down?

Well, you didn’t. You slapped him.

And he instantly reached for his cheek, already burning red.

“That’s for hurting me.”

Spencer nodded, not objecting to that part.

You then took that same cheek and pulled him closer, locking his lips with yours. And you both inhale deeply upon recognizing the contact. You’re hesitant about getting closer, given Charles is between you. “That’s me forgiving you.”

Spencer’s eyes crinkled as he held your face, but he didn’t initiate a kiss. The nerves in his fingers show he was hesitant to touch you so suddenly. He wasn’t messing this up again. “Can I walk you to your car?”

This time, it’s you who doesn’t hesitate. You hold the frame in one arm, cradling it like a baby. And you reach for Spencer’s hand as you walk out of Jefferson Hall.

[lixzey]

to the moon and back

Once upon a time, there was a wizarding family that was powerful and mighty. Nicholas Selwyn was the last of their family, and he and his wife Calliope had yet to have a child—an heir to continue the Selwyn name.

Then a miracle happened: Calliope had finally borne a child. A child born of the Selwyn and Rosier bloodline, the heir for whom they have waited so long. On the summer solstice of 1962, a daughter was born. And she was given the name Y/N, a fitting name for a princess. Families from the Sacred Twenty-Eight came from all around to offer gifts and praise for the little girl.

Among those families were the Blacks. Walburga and Orion Black had two sons. An almost two-year-old Sirius clung to his father's leg, hiding from everyone else. While the almost-one-year-old Regulus was sitting comfortably in his mother's arms. 

“Oh, Calliope, you are glowing!” Walburga Black praised the new mother, balancing her son on her hip. Walburga peered over the little girl that was bundled in a pink swaddle in Calliope's arms. “She's a darling!” 

“Yes, she is.” Calliope agreed with a wide grin. “The sweetest angel I've ever seen.”

Calliope looked up at the tiny hand that was a few inches away from her daughter's face. Six-month-old Regulus had his tiny hand over the newborn's face, seemingly admiring her.

“It looks like Regulus likes Y/N.” Walburga laughed, beaming at her son. Suddenly, Regulus' smacked Y/N square in the face.

“Regulus Arcturus Black, you do not hit women!” Walburga scolded the boy in her arms, who had no idea what was happening. Meanwhile, the little baby in Calliope's arms was screaming her head off, her face red as her cries echoed in the banquet hall.

Calliope soothed her daughter, an amused smile on her lips as she glanced at the little boy who had just hit her child.

"Oh, hush, Walburga. The boy doesn't know any better; he's just a boy.” Calliope chuckled. “I think he just really likes my daughter.”

“Regulus has great taste, then.”

“Maybe one day they'll fall in love.” Calliope mused, a twinkle in her eye as she looked at the little boy who had his eyes locked on her sleeping daughter. Walburga laughed, shaking her head. “We'll see.”

June 21st, 1968

Selwyn Manor was filled with colourful decorations, bright pink and lavender ribbons, and balloons lining the parlour and hallway. There were beautiful floral arrangements in tall vases, and even pink and purple flowers have been planted in the garden outside.

It was Y/N's sixth birthday, and she was beyond excited. Her mother and father opted not to throw another lavish party, but the house elves insisted on decorating the manor according to their young mistress' desires. Calliope and Nicholas proposed that instead of a party, they would take her on a summer trip to France as a gift for their daughter's birthday.

“Mummy, how do I look?” Y/N asked, twirling around as she modelled the dress in front of her mother. She was wearing a frilly lavender-coloured dress made by Miffy—their house elf—that doted on Y/N far too much.

Calliope beamed proudly at her daughter. “You look enchanting, mon ange.”

The little girl furrowed her eyebrows. “Mon ange? What does that mean, mummy?” 

Her mother chuckled. “It means 'my angel' in French, my love. This summer, I'll be teaching you French, alright?” 

Y/N nodded eagerly, nearly jumping with excitement at the mention of learning another language. “When are we going? When, when?” 

“We'll just wait for your father to finish up at the ministry, my love. After that, we'll go ahead.”

“Okay, okay. Can I go to the garden now, Mummy? I want to play with Miffy.”

Calliope laughed. “Alright, alright. Just don't get messy, okay?”

Y/N nodded before darting out of the room, the little house elf hot on her heels. Calliope shook her head at her daughter amusedly. Her little girl is going to get along quite nicely with the youngest Black son.

“Both of you shall be on your best behaviour for the whole summer in France; do you understand me?” Walburga reminded her sons, her gaze narrowing at her eldest. “Do you understand me?” 

Sirius tried his best not to roll his eyes at his mother, but he failed miserably. “You've told us that at least ten times this week, Mother.”

Walburga glared at her eldest, letting out an annoyed sigh before turning to her youngest with a smile. “Do you understand, Regulus?” 

The boy nodded, not wanting to get on his mother's bad side, like Sirius always did.

Walburga beamed at her youngest son, patting him on the cheek. “We are to leave eave at six in the evening, after your father gets done with business. You two better be ready to leave before five.” She turned to her eldest, snarling at him before turning and walking away from the young boys.

“Reggie, wanna go play in the garden?” Sirius asked as soon as their mother was out of earshot, a mischievous grin on his face. Sirius was often the troublemaker between the two, always rebelling against their mother's rules. Sirius despised their parents' belief in blood supremacy. It was a load of dung, according to Sirius, who loved watching muggle children play out in the streets in Grimmauld Place.

“But mother said to behave, Sirius.” Regulus hissed at his brother. Regulus hated it when Sirius got in trouble with their mother, usually persuading Sirius to go along with their mother's wishes in order to keep him from getting punished, but his brother was one stubborn git.

“Come on, Reggie,” Sirius urged, wiggling his eyebrows. “It'll be fun! We can pretend to have wands and duel.”

Regulus rolled his eyes at his brother. “If Mother-” 

“You're goody-goody with the elf; ask him to zip his mouth.”

Regulus scowled. “That elf has a name, you know.”

Sirius waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. So, are you coming or not?” Regulus sighed before giving in and following his older brother outside. As soon as the two boys got outside, Sirius looked around in search of a branch they could use as make-believe wands.

“Aha! Here you go, baby brother, a wand.” Sirius grinned, passing a thin branch to him. Regulus eyed the branch in his hand. “Do all wands look like this?” He asked, his nose scrunching in disgust.

“I dunno, s'pose so,” Sirius shrugged. “Bella's wand looks like a wonky twig, though.” Regulus cringed at the mention of their eldest cousin.

“I don't like Bellatrix.” Regulus muttered.

Sirius chuckled. “Who doesn't? Bella's a bit...mad. Glad we're not spending summer with them this year.”

Regulus smiled at the thought of spending the summer away from London. It was going to be their first time in France, and both boys were ecstatic. They have heard so much about the Black estate in France from their uncle Alphard, who spent all of his summers along with his siblings in the estate. Sirius and Regulus could not believe that their mother was once a happy child, much to Alphard's amusement.

“You think Mother and Father will leave us alone in France?” Regulus asked, fiddling with the stick in his hands.

“They do it every day, Reg.” Sirius rolled his eyes at his younger brother. Walburga Black was not the maternal kind; she had no patience for things related to child care. She decidedly left it all to the house-elves to care for her sons.

“Right,” Regulus cleared his throat, “so are we duelling or not?” 

Sirius gripped his wand and waved it around. “Prepare to duel!” He grinned mischievously, aiming the faux wand at his brother. “Jelly legs!” 

Regulus pretended his legs had turned to jelly and stumbled around clumsily. Making Sirius burst out into laughter. Regulus quickly turned and pointed his wand at his brother. “Tickles!”

Sirius twitched his nose and looked around himself, pretending that he could feel the invisible tickles. He aimed his stick at his brother again. “Eat slugs!” 

Regulus fell to his knees, pretending to vomit on the ground with a smirk. The garden was filled with giggles from the two boys as they duelled each other.

“That was fun!” Regulus laughed, trailing behind his brother as they carefully walked back inside the house.

Sirius turned to look at his brother and grinned triumphantly. “Told you.”

“You two look filthy!” Sirius and Regulus turned around, only to see their mother glowering at them.

“What did I tell you?” Walburga seethed at her sons. Regulus hid behind Sirius, who stood defiantly in front of his mother. “We just went out to the garden, Mother.”

“Kreacher! ” Sirius and Regulus flinched as their mother's shrill voice echoed through the house.

There was a loud popping sound, and the elf appeared next to their mother. “Mistress be wanting Kreacher?”

“Take the boys and make them look presentable. After that, pack their trunks for the summer.” Walburga ordered the elf before yanking Sirius by the arm and pushing him to Kreacher. Regulus whimpered, shifting under his mother's gaze, before walking to his brother's side.

“Keep them in line, Kreacher. We leave at six sharp.”

The elf bowed. “Yes Mistress. All shall be done, oh yes, shall be done.”

“Oh, for Merlin's sake! Hurry up!” Walburga screamed for her children. It was already five forty-five in the evening, fifteen minutes before the Blacks had to leave. She turned to her husband with an annoyed look. “Go get your children.”

Orion let out a loud sigh before turning to walk up the stairs to the boys' room. “Bloody woman, treating me like a dog.” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that!?” 

“Nothing, nothing.” Orion quickly ran up, evading his wife's anger.

“Boys, what's taking so long-” Orion opened the door to his sons' room, expecting them to be slacking, only to see Sirius fixing his brother's hair.

“There you go, Reggie!” Sirius declared proudly, handing his little brother a mirror. “You look good, if I do say so myself.”

Regulus took the mirror and looked at himself. His curls were slightly slicked back, with a few tendrils hanging loose and framing his face perfectly. Regulus grinned, passing back the mirror to his brother. “You should do my hair often, Sirius.”

Orion smiled at the sight of his sons. He never had that kind of bond with his own brother. He opened the door and stepped inside, the smile gone from his lips.

Orion cleared his throat, making both boys jump. “Boys, come on. Your mother's waiting downstairs, and you know she's not fond of waiting.”

“Yes, father.” Sirius turned to Regulus, taking his hand in his. “Come on, Reg, summer awaits!” All three of the Black men descended down the stairs. Walburga scowled at the sight of her oldest son's hair.

“I said to look presentable, Sirius.”

Sirius smirked, running a hand through his black mane. “I am presentable, Mother."

“You little-” Walburga raised her hand to strike her son when her husband cut her off.

“Just get in the fireplace, Sirius, Regulus,” Orion sighed, shaking his head. When they didn't move, he lightly pushed his eldest. “Now!”

Both boys scrambled to the dusty old fireplace, Regulus gripping the ends of his brother's robes. Sirius had a grin plastered on his lips, provoking his mother further.

“Get a handful of floo powder, Sirius,” Orion ordered. Sirius turned to the pot of black powder on the side of the wall, taking a handful of it in his small hands.

“Now you must say this clearly; otherwise, you and your brother would get transported to the wrong place. Black Manor, Dinard, loud and clear, Sirius.” The seven-year-old boy nodded, clearing his throat before loudly speaking.

“Black Manor, Dinard!”

Green flames engulfed the two brothers as they were transported into a beautiful sitting room. The smell of wood and spice immediately invaded their nostrils as soon as the two boys stepped out of the fireplace. Sirius and Regulus were awestrucked. The manor in France was far better than Grimmauld Place.

It was a sight to behold. It had a grandiose feeling, as if it had been lifted straight from the pages of an old French novel.

The walls of the elegant room were a deep forest green, the shade of which had been carefully matched to the hue of the lush gardens outside. In the centre of the room was the focal point, a large emerald green velvet sofa that seemed to invite anyone to sink into its depths. On either side of the sofa were two matching armchairs, upholstered in the same emerald velvet. The cushioning was studded with silver buttons that shone when the sunlight hit them, and the legs were carved from dazzling marble. Behind the sofa, the walls were lined with large, dark wood bookcases and cabinets filled with fine silver trinkets and antique books. An old-style grandfather clock was tucked away in the corner, counting down the minutes with its sombre ticking. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, and Persian rugs covered the floor.

For illumination, several grand candelabras rested on the tables and were held aloft by marble pillars, which were intricately carved with rococo details. Each candelabra was adorned with five burning white candles that cast a soft, golden glow over the room.

A grand piano sat in the corner by the arched window, while a gleaming bronze chandelier hung above it. There were gilded mirrors on the walls with silver frames that gave the room an extra sparkle. There were huge windows around the room, with rich green velvet curtains in a silver pattern parted in the middle to let light in.

A place of true elegance and sophistication. It was as if every detail was chosen with care, from the luxurious green and silver brocade that draped the walls to the gleaming marble floors and the grand mahogany-framed clock overlooking the room.

The flames roared again, revealing their parents. Walburga stepped out and immediately screamed for a house elf.

With a loud pop, a small elf appeared. It looked better than what Kreacher looked like. The elf wore a tea towel around its waist and a huge green ribbon atop its head.

“Mistress be needing Dilly?”

Walburga turned to her sons. “These are my sons, your young masters. They will be spending the whole summer here. I trust that my sons will be taken care of.”

“Dilly will take very good care of her young Masters; yes, she will. Only the best for the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

Walburga nodded curtly before turning her attention to her sons. “You both shall be on your best behaviour for the whole of summer. Do you understand? If word gets out to me that you two show anything less of what I have taught you, there will be consequences.”

Regulus visibly gulped, shifting under his mother's gaze. “Yes, mother.” 

Sirius looked unaffected by their mother's gaze. “Yeah, yeah, behave and all that.”

Suddenly, the fireplaces erupted into green flames once more. Out stepped a little girl with long (y/h/c) hair tied in pigtails and bright (y/e/c) eyes dressed in a frilly lavender-coloured dress. She was clutching a white-stuffed bunny in her arms as she looked around.

“Greetings, little one.” Orion greeted the little girl, who gave him a small, shy smile. Y/N fiddled with her hair as she stood by the fireplace, waiting for her parents. A little while later, the flames erupted again, revealing Nicholas and Calliope Selwyn. Y/N quickly hid behind her mother, clutching the skirt of her robes.

“Walburga, Orion, it's been so long,” Calliope greeted, taking a step closer to the Black matriarch, leaning in for a hug.

Y/N eyed the older woman curiously. She had aristocratic features, high cheekbones, and full lips, making her look regal and elegant as she stood. The little girl tugged on her mother's skirt. “Mummy!” she whispered fiercely, tugging on her mother's skirt harder. Calliope pulled away from the raven-haired witch with a chuckle as she looked down at her daughter.

Regulus looked at Y/N with an unamused look, scrunching his nose in annoyance. “She looks like a spoiled brat.” he whispered to Sirius, who nodded in agreement.

Walburga smiled down at the little girl, which shocked Sirius and Regulus. “You must be Y/N.” 

Y/N raised an eyebrow at the older woman. She looks scary, Y/N thought before promptly hiding behind her mother's back.

Walburga chuckled. “She's a bit shy, I see.”

Calliope laughed. “Oh no, my daughter is anything but shy.” Her gaze then fell onto the two boys huddled in the corner.

“Sirius, Regulus, come forward and introduce yourselves,” Orion instructed. Both boys stepped forward, standing tall and proud.

“Sirius Orion Black, the third at your service.” Sirius grinned proudly before bowing, his long hair falling over his face.

Calliope laughed at the young boy's enthusiasm. “You've gotten bigger since the last time I've seen you, young Sirius.”

“My name's Regulus, Regulus Arcturus Black.” Regulus smirked proudly, bowing like his brother.

“My, my, such well-mannered boys.” Calliope praised.

Walburga beamed proudly. “I taught them well.”

Sirius snorted, making Regulus chuckle. Their mother did not teach them anything because she threatened them if they did not comply with all her rules.

"Y/N, darling, introduce yourself to Mr. and Mrs. Black, my love."

“No.” Y/N huffed behind her mother.

“Come on, darling. Introduce yourself; tell them how you love dressing up.” Nicholas chuckled, nudging his daughter from behind his wife. Y/N reluctantly stepped out, a scowl etched on her lips. “Y/N Artemis Rosier Selwyn.” She introduced herself with a curtsy.

“Sirius, Regulus, go ahead and kiss Y/N's hand like a true gentleman.” Walburga urged, pushing Sirius slightly.

Sirius grinned mischievously as he took Y/N's hand and softly placed a kiss on her knuckles. “I am pleased to meet you, my fair maiden.”

“Likewise.” Y/N gave him a small smile.

Regulus rolled his eyes at Y/N. She looked like a girly girl. And he hated those kinds of girls. His cousins Narcissa and Andromeda were like that, and it wasn't fun. The two older girls would always drag him and his brother into whatever they pleased. And it annoyed Regulus more than it annoyed Sirius.

“Go on, Regulus,” Walburga urged her youngest son, who scowled.

“Hello, Y/N. I'm very pleased to meet you,” Regulus said, his tone annoyed.

“Pleased to meet you, Regulus.” Y/N curtsied. Regulus walked back to Sirius, only to be stopped by his mother. “Ah, ah, ah!” She urged her son, pushing him to kiss Y/N's hand.

Y/N raised an eyebrow as Regulus' face contorted in disgust. He looks conceited, and Y/N wanted to punch him in the face just because of it. Regulus reluctantly took her hand, scrunching his nose in disgust before kissing her hand as quickly as he could.

“So happy you could come.” Regulus sneered.

“So happy to be here.” Y/N said with a sickening sweet voice, rolling her eyes at the boy. 

“She's a darling, Calliope. Such a fine young lady!” Walburga complimented the little girl with a smile.

“Yes, she is.” Calliope chuckled, beaming at her daughter.

“But don't let that innocent face fool you. She has the famous Rosier temper.” Nicholas laughed.

“Ah yes, the famous Rosier temper.” Orion agreed. “I do believe we all know what that temper is capable of.”

“Ah, so you've been a victim of it?” Calliope asked with a smirk.

“Cygnus' wife, Druella.” Orion laughed. “Let's just say that I couldn't utter a word for a week.”

All the adults burst out laughing, leaving the children confused. Regulus perked up at the mention of his aunt Druella, whom he liked the most because she gave him the most sweets.

“I remember that! Drue was absolutely furious that you called her fat once when she was pregnant with her first.” Walburga snorted, almost forgetting about her manners.

“Mummy, can I go play?” Y/N asked, interrupting the adults' laughter.

Calliope looked down at her daughter. “Why don't you ask Mrs. Black, mon ange?” 

Y/N scowled, much to her father's amusement. She then reluctantly turned to Walburga, with a pleading look in her big, bright eyes—a look her father knew so well.

“Can I please go and play, Mrs. Black?” Y/N asked, her voice sweet and innocent.

Walburga chuckled. “Yes, my dear. After all, the manor will be your home for the summer. Go ahead and play in the garden with Sirius and Regulus while your parents and I catch up.”

“Thank you!” Y/N grinned before running out to the garden.

Sirius chuckled while Regulus groaned. “What a total bummer.” He couldn't believe he was going to be stuck with her all summer long. Regulus was sure she didn't like anything that he and Sirius liked to do, like quidditch or playing in the dirt. She looked so stuck up, and it made Regulus want to run away from her. He'd rather get chicken pox than be in the same room with her.

Walburga cocked an eyebrow at her sons, telling them to go and follow Y/N. Sirius ran outside to the garden with Regulus hot on his heels. The boys spotted Y/N sitting on the grass as she looked up at the starry sky.

“Whatcha lookin' at?” Sirius asked as he sat beside Y/N. 

“What do you think I'm looking at?” Y/N said sarcastically, not batting an eye at the two boys who were beside her.

“Ouch, venomous.” Sirius grinned, scooting closer to Y/N. “You looking at the stars? Looking for me, huh?”

Y/N rolled her eyes at the older boy beside her. Her eyes then landed on Regulus, who had his lips curled into a scowl, as if it were normal.

“What are you scowling at?” Y/N snapped at Regulus.

“Nothing,” Regulus sneered, turning his gaze away from Y/N. He couldn't stand her; just looking at her made him want to vomit. Y/N rolled her eyes, wanting so badly to just run away and never come back.

“Your brother's a git.” Y/N whispered in Sirius' ear.

“He'll grow on you.” Sirius promised with a smirk.

“Regulus looks conceited.”

Regulus' ears perked up at the mention of his name. He was conceited!? How dare she!?

“What did you say?” Regulus snapped, stepping closer to Y/N.

Y/N smirked. “You heard me.” She then turned back to face the stars.

Regulus huffed, his annoyance towards the girl turning into anger. He walked up to the flower beds and scooped up a handful of mud before walking back to Y/N and Sirius.

“Oi, Y/N!” Regulus yelled. As soon as she turned around, Regulus threw the clump of mud at the younger girl.

“My dress!” Y/N shrieked as mud splattered across her face and dress. She tried to wipe it off, but it was of no use. She glared at Regulus, who was smirking. Y/N balled her hands, clenching them into tight fists before storming up to Regulus and punching him square in the nose. Regulus stumbled back as he clutched his bleeding nose.

“You git!” Y/N screamed angrily as she tried to land a punch again. Regulus then pushed Y/N into a nearby bush. “I hate you! I hate you to the moon and back!” Y/N screamed at him, standing up and running back inside the house.

Sirius and Regulus burst out in a fit of giggles. That girl is certainly a spoiled brat.

“Mummy! Mummy! He threw mud at me!” Y/N shrieked as she approached her mother from the Black's back garden. Her dress was covered in mud, her pigtails were dishevelled, and she had twigs and leaves stuck in her hair. “Mummy! Regulus threw mud at me!” Y/N yelled again, tears forming in her big, bright eyes.

Meanwhile, the boy in question was snickering from behind the large oak door.

“The little spoiled princess got what she deserved.” Regulus grinned triumphantly at his older brother, who was trying his best not to burst out laughing at the sight of little Y/N Selwyn, stomping her foot at her mother and father, demanding that they do something about Regulus' behaviour towards her.

This was not her idea of fun.

@helens3amstuff @gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @lovemelikecrazyiloveyoucrazy @tchalamss @lilmaymayy @ashlynnmalfoy @crazycat-ladys-blog @michakune @mxltifxnd0m @spencerr3idd @dangelnleif @sthkate @ferrjulie @imnotoverlyobsessive @mel-vaz @elsagreeer @lovely-maryj @meowmeowmau @bobthe-turmpetman29 @saintcosette @starrystormwritings

[foreverisntenough]

‘Act II’

Summary: Attraction is like a gravitational pull that is undefinable and unavoidable. Unbeknownst to you, Jude had been keeping an eye on you since he caught a glimpse on his best friend’s girlfriend’s Instagram but he’s been loving his single life. You always were independent and know how to swim on your own but maybe you have been just treading water. Could the tides change on a holiday in Greece when you finally meet? It might get a little rocky but maybe you could be his paradise.

Index

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series! ‘Act II’ is interconnected to the 'You’re Mine' and 'Ours' Series but can read it independently.

Chapter 15 - 'Le Château’ | ‘Act II’

word count - 11.6k

When you woke up the next day still in Paris with Jude it felt both unbelievable and romantic, like stepping into a scene from a dream. The warmth of his arm wrapped around you, the soft glow of the morning light filtering through the curtains, and the faint sounds of the city waking up outside—it all felt impossibly perfect. 

After getting ready for the day, you sadly had to leave your dream tucked inside the Four Seasons and headed back to your family’s home. You led Jude down the hallway, through the house, and to a private elevator that descended into the garage. The sleek, polished doors slid open, and you stepped out, with Jude trailing behind, still groggy from probably staying up a bit too late messing about between the sheets but his eyes still glimmered with curiosity. The sight that greeted him snapped him out of it immediately. His jaw practically hit the floor when he saw the black Bugatti Bolide parked in front of you. The car’s dark, glistening curves reflected the garage lights, every inch of it screaming luxury. You casually moved toward it, pulling open the door with ease as if this wasn’t a rare, multimillion-dollar car. Jude blinked, trying to process what was happening.

“Y/N….What... what is this?” Jude finally managed to ask, his voice filled with awe and confusion. You couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction. 

“It’s my dad’s car,” you said, like it was no big deal. “I told you it’s a thing. I wouldn’t normally drive it, but… well, you heard the request.” You smiled.  Jude looked at you, then back at the car, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I’m definitely not complaining,” he said with a grin. You gave him a playful smirk as you slipped into the driver’s seat, glancing up at him. 

“You know,” you teased, “you really should learn how to drive. Might come in handy one day.” Jude raised an eyebrow, leaning against the car door, a playful yet conflicted look on his face. He was torn. He had never been more attracted to you, sitting there behind the wheel of one of the most beautiful cars he had ever seen, dressed in an effortlessly chic outfit that somehow made the whole thing even more intoxicating. But then again, he couldn’t stop his mind from drifting back to last night—flashes of your skin, your warmth, and how he felt tangled up with you in bed. His thoughts bounced between the sight of you now and the memory of you then, and he couldn’t quite decide which version of you made his heart race more.

“It’s a tough call,” Jude finally said, stepping closer and running a hand along the car’s sleek frame. “I think watching you drive this might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen... but last night? That might be rival it.” You chuckled, shaking your head as you started the engine, the roar of the car filling the garage. 

“Well, if you’re lucky,” you said, giving him a mischievous look, “you’ll get to enjoy both today.” Jude grinned, hopping into the passenger seat. 

“I’m the luckiest guy in France right now.” You eased the car onto the road, the hum of the engine harmonizing with the soft buzz of Paris fading into the distance. As the cityscape gave way to rolling countryside on the route to Burgundy, you glanced over at Jude, smiling as the sunlight began to dance across his skin. His usual golden complexion was now kissed with a warm tint, the soft rays making his features even more striking. Jude sat back in his seat, eyes half-closed, but his senses were fully alive. The sound of the Bugatti was intoxicating, a deep, guttural purr that made him smile almost unconsciously. He tilted his head toward you, still relaxed but obviously impressed. “Alright, I’ll admit it,” he said, glancing at the dashboard, then back at you. “Maybe I really should learn how to drive... this is too good to miss out on.” He told you. You laughed, glancing at him with a playful shake of your head. 

“I’ll help you,” you promised, your voice light. “But don’t get too excited—driving my dad’s car is like being on the final level of a video game. You’re not starting here.” Jude leaned back in his seat with a mock sigh, putting on his most devastatingly cute pout. 

“Really? No Bugatti on my debut?” he teased, his lower lip sticking out just a little. You shot him a quick, amused glance before focusing back on the road. 

“Sorry, baby. Not unless you plan on running before you can walk,” you quipped. Jude chuckled, feigning disappointment but clearly loving the back-and-forth. 

“I’m a fast learner, you know. Maybe I’ll surprise you.” He cooed. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll surprise me in more ways than one,” you teased back, smiling as you settled into the easy rhythm of the drive. The sun continued to rise higher in the sky, casting long, golden beams that bathed the French countryside in a warm, inviting glow. You felt the weight of Jude’s gaze on you, and the freedom of the open road. It was one of those perfect moments, where the world seemed to slow down just enough to let you savor every second. And a few hours later, as the car slowed to a stop on the stone driveway of your family’s château in Burgundy, you felt a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling up inside you. Jude had been calm for most of the drive, but now, sitting beside you, you could feel a slight tension in him. The fields filled with rows and rows of grape alleys framing the massive country home. He adjusted his sunglasses as his eyes scanned the figure standing in front of the grand estate. You could just barely see through the tint of the lenses, his eyes narrowing into a squint. Your mother stood there, as elegant as ever, waiting with a smile that could both warm your heart and send shivers down your spine. Dressed in a sleek, effortlessly chic outfit with a scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, she looked like the epitome of French sophistication. Jude, who had grown used to your descriptions of her, was now seeing her in the flesh, and you could tell he was both intrigued and slightly intimidated. He took a deep breath, then got out of the car, walking around to your side to open the door for you like a true gentleman. You stepped out and he slipped his hand into yours, a subtle gesture of reassurance for both of you. As you approached your mother, you gave her a bright toothy smile, feeling a little giddy introducing Jude to her.

"Maman!" you said warmly, your heart racing just a bit, "this is Jude… my boyfriend." Your mother’s eyes lit up with a mixture of surprise and delight, her perfectly painted lips curving into a wide smile. 

"Oh là là!" she gasped in excitement, her voice spilling over in that typical French fashion. "Enfin! Look at you both!" Before either of you could react, she moved forward, pulling Jude into a hug. For a brief moment, you saw a flicker of shock cross his face—this was not the cool, reserved French mother he had been expecting. But then he quickly recovered, smiling as he embraced her, still slightly taken aback by her warmth. She greeted him in a mix of French and English, her accent flowing effortlessly between the two.

“Enchantée, Jude. Welcome to our home! Oh, you are even more handsome than in the pictures!" Jude blushed slightly, caught off guard by her forwardness, but smiled politely. 

“Thank you. It’s so lovely to meet you. I’m really happy to be here.” He cooed. Your mother waved her hand dismissively, chuckling lightly.

“And we’re happy to have you. Please, call me Amélie." She took a step back, her gaze flitting between you and Jude, taking you both in like she was trying to memorize the moment. When she turned to hug you, she leaned in close.

“He’s much too pretty to let get away, ma chéri. And look at you—so happy. C’est parfait.” Her lips brushed your cheek as she whispered into your ear.  You pulled back, beaming, your heart swelling at her words. Jude squeezed your hand softly, a silent acknowledgment that he had caught the tender exchange between you and your mother.  As you all stood together on the driveway, your mother’s playful teasing and Jude’s slightly overwhelmed but still charmed demeanor filled the air with a warm, light energy. It was both comforting and exhilarating. As you stepped inside the château, Jude seemed to pause for a moment, taking in the atmosphere of the home. It wasn’t the cold, intimidating mansion he might have expected from an affluent French family. Instead, there was a warmth that radiated from the stone walls, softened by the light streaming through the windows. The hallway was lined with family photos—some in ornate frames, others more simple, but all filled with moments of happiness and love. It clicked for Jude in that instant: this wasn’t just a show of wealth or status, this was you—your heart, your memories, your life. Your mum clung to you as you walked through the door, kissing your cheek and holding you tightly as though you hadn’t seen each other in years.

“I missed you, ma chérie,” she said softly, her hand resting on your back as if she was reluctant to let you go. 

"I missed you too, maman." You smiled, returning her embrace Jude watched the exchange, his gaze softening. This wasn’t what he had imagined at all. There was so much genuine connection, so much love here, that any preconceived notions he had of cold, aristocratic families faded away. A part of him mildly confused because he’d heard from not only you but Whitney too that your family life was a bit distant. He was realizing though that that distance seemed to be more one of physicality then emotionality. 

"This place is beautiful," Jude remarked sincerely, his eyes wandering over the rustic but elegant decor—the perfect mix of comfort and class. Your mum smiled appreciatively but waved her hand dismissively again. 

"Merci, Jude. You’re very kind, but it's just a home. A little too big now that it's just me and your papa rattling around. But I’m so glad you like it." As she led you both further into the house, she started chatting away, her excitement spilling over. "I’ll admit Jude, I don’t follow football very closely, but from what I’ve heard around our house, you’ve been very impressive this year.” She then turned to you. “Your brother told me he’s going to be quite the problem for France at the Euros," she added with a teasing smile. Jude laughed, a sound that filled the room, warm and genuine. You couldn’t help but feel your heart swell as the two of them engaged so easily, their laughter melding together in a way that made your chest tighten, but in the best possible way. It was like you were witnessing the beginning of something special, a new chapter of your life that blended the people you loved most.

"I don’t know about that," Jude said modestly, still smiling. "But I’ll definitely do my best as long as it doesn’t ruffle any feathers here. I’d like to be welcomed back." Your mum laughed at his remark and continued to chatter about how Jude was always welcome as long as he looked after you, and how she’d been trying to catch up on football just to understand what all the fuss was about but had kept mum about your relationship to your dad. Jude listened attentively, the warmth of the room making him feel at home in a way he hadn’t expected. And as you stood there, watching him laugh and talk with your mum, you realized this was exactly what you had hoped for. The blending of two worlds you adored—Jude, with his down-to-earth charm, and your family, who had always tried their best to support you despite your unusual circumstances. It was all coming together, more beautifully than you could have imagined.

With too much time to spare before the dinner your mum had told you you’d have in a few hours, you found yourself wandering through the halls of your family’s chateau with Jude, showing him all the bits and bobs as you did back in the city. The house felt calm, almost serene—your mum was busy, and Louis and your dad were nowhere to be seen. Suddenly you had a mischievous glint in your eye as you led Jude further into the house toward your little art studio. It was a glass porch at the vineyard bathed in sunlight, each ray filtering through the vines that twisted along the edges of the windows. The air smelled of fresh earth, paint, and the faintest hint of grapes carried on the breeze. It was the perfect setting, peaceful and intimate, for what you were about to do: teach Jude how to paint.

“You ready for your first painting lesson?” you asked with a playful smile, turning to him. Jude hesitated, his confident demeanor faltering for just a moment. 

“Painting? Ah… I don’t know, angel…. I’m not sure how I’ll actually do at this,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous chuckle escaping him. You giggled, stepping closer to him and wrapping your arms around his waist. You kissed his cheek softly, reassuring him. 

“It’s just for fun, Jude. You don’t have to be good at it, and I promise I’ll go easy on you,” you teased, giving him a soft wink. Jude’s face softened, and he returned your smile, his hands resting comfortably on your hips. 

“Alright, but only if you promise to be gentle with your new student,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “I don’t know if I’m ready for the harsh critique of a professional.” He smiled. 

“You’ll be fine,” you laughed, pulling him along into the studio. “You’re my favorite student anyway.” Inside, the room was filled with light streaming through the large windows, the smell of paint a bit more prominent. You handed Jude a paintbrush and pointed to a canvas you had just set up for him, already grinning at the idea of watching him paint.  As he took the brush in his hand, his brow furrowed with concentration. 

"So, uh, what do I start with?" he asked, looking adorably lost. He stood beside you, an oversized canvas in front of him, looking both eager and slightly nervous. You smiled, amused by how his confidence on the pitch seemed to disappear when faced with a blank canvas. 

“It’s not a match, Jude. There’s no winning or losing here,” you reassured him softly, squeezing his arm as you set down a palette of colors in front of him.

He looked at the array of paints, then at you. Jude exhaled, his gaze flicking between your face and the canvas. “Alright,” he murmured, determined. “So what do I do… seriously?” He asked, feeling ready now despite his apprehension. 

“Anything you want,” you said, standing beside him. “Think of something that makes you happy.”

“Hmm…” Jude bit his lip, eyes narrowing at the blank canvas before him. “I’m drawing a blank, literally because I’m not going to attempt painting you.” He looked at you concerned. Like you might think he was dumb for not knowing but you felt the opposite. You just liked that he was willing to give it a go. You laughed, thinking he was sweet for indirectly saying you made him happy whilst you set up your own canvas. 

“Okay, well. First part is the easiest. We just paint the entire canvas with the gesso so you’re in good shape so far.” You smiled at him sympathetically but with reassurance in your eyes. 

“Gesso? Baby, I need… I need you to talk like I’ve never done this before because… I’ve never done this before.” He laughed at himself. 

“Oh right, right. Sorry. Okay, erm… Gesso primes or okay… like it prepares the canvas to paint. So genuinely just brush the canvas all over. Can’t do it wrong, baby.” You explained to Jude and so he did but meticulously copied the way you dragged the brush on your canvas just to be sure.  

“Now what, angel.” He looked at you proud of himself despite his still essentially blank canvas. You ran your hand over your face with a giggle. 

“I guess we could start with something simple, like what about a landscape? Just some basic shapes or whatever you want! Maybe you’re more of an abstract guy” You giggled. 

“And if I’m neither?” He smirked but you waved him off. After a moment, he dipped his brush into the paint, hesitating before finally dragging it across the canvas. He made his first stroke, a tentative sweep of blue across the canvas. You could feel his concentration, the intensity he usually reserved for football matches now channeled into the strokes of paint. His lines were shaky, like he was thinking too hard,  but he didn’t seem to mind too much. You watched him with a smile, appreciating the effort he was putting in despite his nerves. As the two of you painted side by side, the room filled with easy laughter. Jude would glance over at your work, pretending to be jealous of how effortlessly you created shapes and colors. “How do you make it look so easy?” he asked, a playful whine in his voice.

“Years of practice, baby. You’ll get there. Stick with me.” You smirked. Jude rolled his eyes dramatically but smiled, clearly enjoying the process more than he expected.  

“Trust me… that’s the plan, angel.” He smiled. You stood close, watching as he started to relax, his strokes becoming more confident. The sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a golden glow over both of you. You worked for a little while like that getting further into the paintings. You continued to paint side by side, lost in the moment, the world outside disappearing as the colors on the canvas began to take shape. “You know, I might just be the best student you’ve ever had.” He beamed looking at his own canvas. 

“Bold claim,” you teased, reaching over to pinch at his arm.  

“Hey!” He yelped, chastising you with feigned anger. “Don’t mess with my work please. Keep your hands to yourself.” He broke into a slight laugh at the tail end of his sentence, unable to hold onto his farce. 

“Alright, sorry! Sorry! Hands to myself. I got it.” You raised an eyebrow and both hands, trying not to laugh.

“Well… just well I work, angel. When I’m done… rules change.” He smirked.  Jude paused looking at his canvas again, then with a grin, he added a little stick figure to his landscape. “That’s me,” he said proudly. “Look at me, blending into nature.”

“A real masterpiece,” you declared, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re really a natural.” You fell into a sweet laugh, unable to hold it in. 

“You know, it’s more fun than I thought,” he admitted. “Especially with you here.” Jude smiled, the warmth in his eyes making your heart swell. As the evening sun started to set outside, the two of you continued to paint, the time slipping away in each other’s company. You realized that this moment, teaching Jude to paint in your family’s chateau, was one you’d hold on to forever—a quiet, intimate memory of just the two of you. It was turning out not to be a bad first day as his girlfriend. You gently reached for another brush, dipping it in green, and made a sweeping motion on your own canvas. 

“See?” you said, nodding towards your own strokes. “It’s just meant to be fun.” You smiled implying his worries before were unnecessary. Jude turned to look at your work, his eyes softening as he watched you. There was something in the way you moved, how natural it was for you to create something beautiful. He admired you, of course, but this was different. He felt like he was seeing a side of you that was so deeply personal. 

“You make it look so easy,” he murmured, his voice low with admiration. You smiled, moving to step behind him. You wrapped your arms gently around his waist. 

“It’s not about easy. It’s about feeling.” You rested your chin on his shoulder, guiding his hand again as he made another stroke. “Like how hard are you really thinking when you strike a ball? You’re not. It’s instinctual. You know how to do it. It’s just a feeling. Comfort and confidence and maybe a bit of bravery” You told him as you reached over to your own canvas making a dramatic line on your painting. You watched Jude’s eyes go wide momentarily, nervous that you’d messed it all up but then he tilted his head seeing that somehow it looked better that way. 

“I like that. That’s exactly how I feel about footie. Comfort and confidence… bit of bravery.” He cooed. But then Jude paused, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against his back, the scent of you mingling with the fresh air and the sweet scent of the chateau. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing against yours. “You know, I’ve never seen you so in your element. It’s... beautiful,” he whispered. You blushed, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. 

“No one’s ever really cared about this stuff before… You know things I actually like or  my process,” you admitted softly, the vulnerability in your words catching you off guard. “Like I told you… everyone just always wants to see the end result.” Jude’s hand moved to rest over yours, still holding the brush. 

“I care,” he said quietly. “I want to see everything.” For a moment, you both stood there in the sunlit porch, surrounded by the quiet of the vineyard, the only sounds being the gentle strokes of paint and the soft rustling of the vines outside. There was something incredibly intimate about it, sharing this creative space with him. It was as if he was seeing you in a way no one else ever had. You glanced at Jude, who was so focused now, a small smile on his lips as he worked. It wasn’t perfect—far from it—but that wasn’t the point. It was raw, honest, and beautiful, just like the two of you. Jude stepped back momentarily, looking at his creation with a mix of pride and amusement to inspect his current progress. “I don’t know what it is, but I like it,” he said with a grin.

“It’s you,” you said softly. “It’s yours. And it’s beautiful.” You laughed, stepping next to him and taking in the colorful swirls and lines.  He turned to you, his eyes softening as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly, his voice full of meaning. “Thank you for sharing this with me.” You leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth of the sun and the weight of his words. In that moment, surrounded by paint, sunlight, and love, everything felt perfect. You both returned to your paintings. You were focused, completely immersed in yours, but you could feel Jude's eyes on you, studying you. The brush in your hand moved effortlessly over the canvas, but your mind kept drifting back to the way he was watching you-his gaze soft, affectionate, and admiring.

"Do you need something?" you asked teasingly, without turning around, coughing slightly to hide your fluster. You could feel his stare like a gentle weight.

"Feels a bit backwards when the artist is more beautiful than the art." Jude chuckled, his voice low and warm. You grinned but raised an eyebrow in mock offense, finally turning to face him.

"So you don't like my work?” He rolled his eyes playfully, letting out a dramatic sigh. 

"I didn't say that." He quipped. You laughed, returning your focus to the canvas, but you could still feel him watching. A few more strokes of the brush, and suddenly you felt something cool and wet on your skin.

"Oh my god!!" You looked down to see a streak of light blue acrylic paint smeared across your exposed stomach. Your mouth dropped open in shock, quickly followed by a giggle as you saw Jude standing there, his brush in hand, grinning like a child who had just gotten away with something mischievous. "Jude!" you exclaimed, giving him a mock-glare. He simply shrugged, that playful gleam in his eyes, knowing full well what he'd done. Without missing a beat, you dipped your brush in paint and lunged toward him, but he was quicker. Dodging your attempts, the two of you fell into a childish chase around the studio, laughing like carefree kids. After a few near misses and lots of laughter, Jude managed to dodge you one last time, spinning around to wrap you up in his arms, trapping you. 

"Got ya.” He laughed, kissing your neck. “Maybe I need to teach you a few things. You’re slow, angel" he teased, pressing kisses all over your face and neck, his lips gentle yet full of playful affection.Your giggles echoed around the room as you squirmed in his grasp, unable to resist the joy of the moment. 

"Okay, okay, you win!" you conceded between laughs, still trying to catch your breath. He slowed his playful assault, his lips lingering near your ear. 

"Go ahead. I'll let you get me back." He whispered. Your heart skipped a beat at his words, feeling the shift in the air between you. You dipped your brush back into the white paint you were using, your hand trembling slightly, and with a slow, deliberate motion, you dragged the brush across his sharp jawline. The white paint was stark against his rich skin, the contrast making the moment feel charged, electric. Jude's eyes darkened, his playful grin fading into something more intense as he felt the brush glide over his face. He grabbed your hand, the one holding the brush, stilling your movement as his grip tightened ever so slightly. In one fluid motion, he pulled you into him, crashing his lips onto yours in a kiss that sent sparks through your entire body.

The kiss was deep, consuming. His hand came up to cup your face, the other still holding yours, as if anchoring you to him in that moment. You could feel his heartbeat thudding against your chest, and you responded in kind, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pressed closer, your body melting into his. The room, the paint, the canvas-it all faded into the background as you lost yourself in him. Every kiss was a new breath, every touch igniting a deeper connection. When you finally pulled away, gasping for air, you both stood there, staring at each other with that same fire in your eyes, the room charged with an unspoken understanding.

"You might've just made me love painting." He whispered again. Jude smirked, his lips brushing yours one last time.  You and Jude were giggling in the sun-drenched room, basking in the easy, playful intimacy of the moment when suddenly, the sound of a door slamming shut echoed through the house. Your heart jumped. You knew that sound well. Only one person entered the house with that kind of unannounced energy—your brother, Louis.

"Merde..." you muttered, already anticipating the whirlwind that was about to hit.  Louis was amazing but you were stuck with fear of introducing your boyfriend to your older brother. You moved to gently wipe the paint off Jude’s face before you led him into the massive farmhouse kitchen, where Louis was standing, tossing his keys onto the counter and immediately launching into rapid-fire French, his voice filled with warmth, jokes, and the unmistakable undertone of how much he had missed you. You exchanged back, just as fast, your words filled with sibling banter. Jude watched, trying to follow the conversation, his eyes flitting between you and Louis, clearly amused by the lively exchange.

“Ah! J'ai finalement décidé de rentrer à la maison!”  [Ah! Finally decided to come home] You know, you promised you would about five months ago, sœurette” [little sister] Louis teased, slamming the fridge door shut with one hand and grabbing a baguette with the other. You rolled your eyes, smiling.

 “Oui, oui, oui but I’m here now, no?” You shot back, playfully nudging Jude, who was watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement. Louis’ grin widened as he finally took in his surroundings and noticed Jude for the first time, his brows shooting up in exaggerated surprise. 

“Je n'y crois pas!” [i don't believe it] He cut himself off, switching to English for Jude’s sake, his tone now playful but dramatic. “Nah, no way. Jude Bellingham? What the fuck?” Louis laughed at the insanity of Jude’s presence. To say Louis followed football would be an understatement. “Ouah, you can’t possibly be interested in this.” Referring to you as ‘this.’ Louis laughed again throwing a torn piece of bread at you playfully. You shook your head, already bracing for the inevitable teasing. 

“Oh, tais-toi!” [shut up] you groaned, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Louis walked over, extending his hand to Jude, his extroverted personality taking over instantly.

“Mon dieu man, this is wild. What are you doing here, mate? What a pleasure.” He grinned at you mischievously before adding, “Can’t believe you’re with Y/N. She was a nightmare growing up, you know.” Jude laughed, shaking his hand firmly. 

“Yeah, she hasn’t changed much,” he joked back, throwing you a playful look. “Nah, pleasure’s mine though. Just here as Y/N’s boyfriend.” Jude smiled. 

“Excuse me, I’m a delight. Not having that from either of you.” You gasped mockingly, crossing your arms. “But yeah, Louis, this is Jude, my boyfriend.” You smiled proudly. Louis raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’re a delight now, but when we were kids? Let’s just say there’s a reason we needed two nannies,” he quipped, glancing at Jude with a conspiratorial grin.You rolled your eyes dramatically. You weren’t troublesome, Louis was being dramatic just to get a rise out of you. 

“Louis, s'il te plaît.” You whined. Louis laughed heartily before his expression turned more curious, glancing between the two of you. 

“But seriously… Does Dad know about this?” He tilted his head slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck, knowing this was coming. 

“Not yet. But let me guess—you’re going to have a field day telling him, aren’t you?” You gave him a pleading look. Begging your big brother not to do just that.  Louis grinned, not even attempting to hide his glee.

“Oh, you know me too well. I can’t wait to see his face.” Louis laughed. If Louis was into football, your dad was football. He lived for it. 

“Sounds like I’m in for a big introduction.” Jude chuckled but looked at you with a slightly raised brow. You should’ve prepared Jude but you figured his naiveness would be to his benefit and cute to watch. 

“Okay, okay… enough. Arrêt, Lou.” You sighed, playfully punching Louis in the arm. “Papa will love him. You’re just unnecessarily going to scare him and he’ll leave.” Jude smiled, his hand finding yours as he gave it a reassuring squeeze. 

“I’m not going anywhere, angel” he said softly, and even Louis, for a moment, seemed to catch the sincerity in Jude’s voice. 

You all moved to find yourselves in the glow of evening filtered through the tall windows of one of the lounges at the chateau, casting a warm light across the room’s rich wooden floors and plush furnishings. You sat comfortably beside Jude on a velvet couch, your fingers lazily intertwined with his, while your mother and Louis were seated across from you, each with a glass of aperitif in hand. The air was light with the scent of lavender and rosemary drifting in from the garden outside, mixing with the faint notes of the citrusy aperitifs your mother had prepared. Small plates of olives, almonds, and crisps sat on the low table between you all, each bite meant to tease the appetite before the family dinner to come. Your mother, elegantly dressed in a soft linen blouse, leaned back in her chair with a contented smile, clearly pleased to have her family gathered around, and perhaps a little more delighted that you had brought Jude to meet them. Louis, always the charmer, had been deep in conversation with Jude, discussing football and casually teasing him about adjusting to French wine. Jude, ever polite and easygoing, held his glass in one hand, the other gently resting on your knee still intertwined with yours. He was relaxed now, having settled into the rhythm of the conversation, his usual confidence shining through in the way he spoke with your family, even though you could tell he was trying to be on his best behavior. His laugh blended smoothly into the room, warm and genuine, as Louis made a playful remark.

“I’ll admit,” your mother said, raising her glass slightly toward Jude, “I wasn’t sure if ma petite fille was ever going to bring someone here. But I’m glad it’s you.” Her tone was soft but sincere, and she gave you a knowing smile. Jude glanced at you, squeezing your hand before smiling back at your mum.

“Thank you. I appreciate it. I’m lucky I got to be the one she brought. But I'm just happy to be here. It’s… beautiful,” he said, his eyes briefly sweeping over the room, then out toward the sprawling grounds beyond the French doors. You could feel his nerves slipping away with every sip of the chilled aperitif, the bubbles dancing on his tongue. He was fitting in seamlessly, but you knew it meant a lot to him to make a good impression.

“And I have to say,” Louis added, swirling his drink with an appreciative look, “you picked a good vintage, Jude.”  He smirked. Your mum had shown Jude one of the wine cellars off the kitchen and offered him the opportunity to pick a wine to start with. You stood next to him and coyly pointed at a bottle with a wink.  

“Honestly, I just follow her lead when it comes to wine.” Jude chuckled, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. 

“Oh mate, don’t do that.” Louis quipped. You’re mum swatted at Louis to be nice.  The room filled with soft laughter, the atmosphere light and welcoming. You leaned into Jude, resting your head on his shoulder for a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. It all felt so easy, so right, sitting there with him beside you, your family around you, the peacefulness of the chateau wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. As the conversation carried on, you caught your mum stealing glances at you both, her eyes gleaming with approval and happiness. You could tell she was happy to see you this way, with someone who made you feel at ease, someone who seemed to love you as deeply as you deserved. After Jude had charmed your family over pre-dinner drinks, he excused himself to use the bathroom, leaving you and your brother Louis alone in the room. The warm glow of candlelight bathed the room, the quiet chatter of your mum to the chefs drifting in from the kitchen. You took a sip of wine, savoring the calm before dinner.

"I need to talk to you about something." Louis, usually relaxed and easygoing, leaned in closer, his voice dropping slightly. 

"About what?" You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone. 

"About Jude," he said, his gaze serious.

"What about him?" You straightened in your chair, frowning. The casual atmosphere you’d been enjoying moments before seemed to evaporate.  Louis rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable, before glancing toward the hallway where Jude had disappeared. 

"I just... Are you sure about him? About bringing him here?" A wave of confusion rolled over you. 

"I wouldn’t have brought him if I wasn’t sure," you replied, your voice firm but puzzled. Louis had seemed fine with Jude earlier. In fact, they’d hit it off well, talking about football, French wines, and even exchanging a few laughs over stupid boy stuff. So why the sudden shift?

"I mean... there are other people, you know? People who’d be better suited for you." Louis sighed, leaning back in his chair, his brows knitting together. Your frown deepened. 

"What are you talking about?" The knot in your stomach tightened as his words sank in. It was rare for Louis to make a comment about a boy you’d see. It was a rarity for you to have a boyfriend in general. And it was completely uncharted for you to bring one home so this took you by surprise considering Louis knew how important Jude must’ve been to you if you were brining him home. 

"Someone like Gabriel. He’s from around here, from a good family. He could still give you what you want. You two would make sense. You’d fit." Louis shifted again, clearly struggling with how to phrase what he wanted to say. “Like if you want to settle down or whatever, maybe someone like that makes more sense for you.” He looked at you almost pleadingly.

"Gabriel? Are you serious?" You couldn’t help the disbelief that laced your tone. You stared at him, incredulous. Gabriel? The aristocratic boy you’d barely known, who only appeared at family gatherings to talk about business and vineyards? The boy who had a stick up his ass and told you going out was ‘beneath him.’ You hadn’t even exchanged more than a few words with him after that.  

"He’s stable. You know what you're getting with someone like him. He’s not... like Jude." Louis looked at you with an unwavering seriousness that you hadn’t expected.

"What do you mean, ‘like Jude’? What’s wrong with Jude? Louis… he’s my boyfriend. What the fuck?" You couldn’t hold back the frustration bubbling inside you. 

"It’s not that there’s something wrong with him," Louis said, his tone measured. "But his life is... different. Fast. Unpredictable. Guys like him are surrounded by people who want a piece of them, and I just don’t want you to get caught up in something that could hurt you." You stared at Louis, taken aback. It wasn’t like him to voice such concerns so bluntly, especially not about someone you cared about. 

"I don’t understand. You seemed to like him before," you said slowly, trying to make sense of his sudden caution. "You were getting along with him earlier. What changed?"

"I do like him," he admitted. "He’s great, honestly. But his lifestyle… that’s the problem." Louis looked conflicted, running a hand through his hair as if searching for the right words.

"What’s the problem?" You tilted your head, confused. Louis leaned forward slightly, his expression softening but his words still heavy. It felt a bit hypocritical. You access to the luxuries of life were equally on par with what Jude had in reach. You and Louis probably had been a bit more reckless with them to be honest. 

"Look ma chéri. You’ve always been careful with who you let in. You’ve never brought someone home, and that’s why I’m worried. Because guys like Jude... they live in a world where everything is magnified. The fame, the pressure, the temptation. I’ve seen it with friends. One minute everything’s fine, the next... things fall apart." He explained. 

"So, what? You think I can’t handle it?" Your chest tightened, your heartbeat quickening. Louis had always been protective, but this felt different, more personal. Suddenly you felt much younger than you were. 

"It’s not about you," he said quickly. "I know you’re strong, and I know you’re smart. But that doesn’t mean you’re immune to getting hurt." You felt a swell of frustration, and maybe even that hurt, building inside you. 

"Louis, I’m not naïve. I know what Jude’s life is like. I’ve seen it. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to hurt me." You quipped. Louis looked at you, his eyes softening with concern. 

"I know you’re not naïve. But you’re also not invincible." The silence between you felt heavy, the warmth of the room suddenly suffocating. You hadn’t expected this kind of resistance from Louis, not when he’d been so welcoming earlier. 

"Jude’s not some reckless celebrity, Louis. He’s kind, he’s respectful, and he’s been nothing but good to me." And as you said those words, you realized they weren’t all that true. Jude’s life had caused issues. It’d hurt you before you were even his girlfriend. 

"I’m not saying he’s not," Louis said quietly. "I’m just saying... his world is different from yours. And I don’t want you to lose yourself in it." He explained further. Your shoulders dropped slightly as the weight of his words sank in. Louis had always been a rock for you, a protector, but this felt like he was questioning your judgment and frankly, you began to question yours as well.  And it hurt more than you wanted to admit.

"Louis, stop." you said, your voice quieter now, "Jude is someone I care about. He’s not just some fling. I wouldn’t be with him if I didn’t think he was worth it." You cooed. 

"I know," he said, his tone gentler. "I know you wouldn’t. The thing is, it’s not about him being worth it, Y/N. It’s about it being right for you." Louis’s face softened further, the lines of tension easing. The sound of the bathroom door opening broke the tension, and you both turned to see Jude walking back into the room, his expression relaxed and unaware of the conversation that had just taken place. He smiled at you, his presence instantly easing the tension in your chest. Louis straightened up, offering Jude a smile as he returned to his seat. But as Jude took your hand, you couldn’t shake the lingering weight of your brother’s words.

As the dinner began, the waitstaff meticulously placed each plate of French cuisine before you and your family. Jude shot you a questioning glance, clearly trying to navigate the formality of the moment, which stood in such contrast to the warm and easy vibe your family had at home. You smiled reassuringly, squeezing his hand under the table, grounding him. The conversation meandered lightly, your mum asking Jude small but thoughtful questions — about Madrid, his career, his family, and how he found France. He answered politely, though you could see the slight tension in his shoulders. It was the first dinner with your family, and while the atmosphere was relaxed, there was an undeniable pressure that Jude felt. This wasn’t just anyone’s family — this was your family. Just as a server refilled the wine glasses, the unmistakable sound of the door opening echoed through the room. Your heart leapt at the familiar noise of footsteps. 

"Papa!" you exclaimed, jumping up from your seat as your father finally appeared, fashionably late as usual. Everyone watched with soft smiles as you dashed to greet him, exchanging rapid French in your usual excited manner. He was a man of presence, even when absent for stretches at a time, and that made you cherish the moments with him even more. You hugged him tightly, his cologne bringing back a wave of nostalgia. After exchanging a few words, you pulled back, eyes twinkling. "Papa, I want you to meet someone very important." Jude had already stood up as you turned, and the tall figure of your boyfriend made his way to the center of the room. As he approached, your father’s eyes narrowed slightly, the natural reaction of a father seeing his daughter’s suitor up close for the first time. You noticed the brief scrutiny, the protective instinct rising to the surface. But then, something shifted.

"Well, well... what is the Golden Boy doing in my house?" he said, his deep French accent adding weight to the teasing tone. Your dad's lips twitched, and a glint of recognition sparked in his eyes as they widened ever so slightly. He glanced back at you, then to Jude. Your heart skipped a beat as the nickname, tied to Jude's win of the prestigious Golden Boy award, rolled off your father’s tongue. Jude had made headlines across Europe for the honor, and you hadn’t fully realized until this moment that your dad, though rarely detached from football, was fully aware of Jude's reputation.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Jude Bellingham." Ever poised, he extended his hand with a warm smile. Your father grasped his hand firmly, but the narrowed look had given way to a more playful one. He clapped his free hand on Jude’s shoulder, giving him an approving look. 

"Ah, the pleasure is mine. You’ve come here with Y/N?" he said, the warmth creeping into his voice. Jude gave him a sincere ‘yes.’ As much as you loved your dad… he was in and out of your life, busy always. He couldn’t remember if he knew if Jude was a potential friend of Louis but your introduction had him feeling otherwise but nevertheless he wasn’t thrilled about his little girl bringing a boy home but it being Jude was slightly redeeming. "But to have the Golden Boy in my house... well, what a treat." Jude laughed, his usual confidence coming back full force, though you could sense the bashfulness underneath. 

"I’m sure you’ve had bigger names through these doors than me." Jude cooed. You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. Jude’s ease around people would always be attractive. Your dad waved off the modesty, turning to your mum. 

"He’s being humble. This one’s going to give France problems next year, you’ll see, poulette." He cooed as your dad moved to go give your mum a kiss. You stifled a laugh as you glanced at Jude, whose cheeks flushed just slightly. There was something about your father’s approval that seemed to lift the weight off his shoulders. The nerves Jude had been carrying all evening seemed to dissolve with that single statement.

"I can only hope I have a good tournament. But Y/N’s been kind enough to invite me here…" Jude continued, his eyes softening as he turned to you. "kind enough to let me be her boyfriend and invite me here." Jude explained with a sly smirk. Your breath caught at his admission. Your father raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between the two of you before settling on you with an affectionate smile. 

"Ah, so that’s how it is." He gave Jude another inspecting glance now knowing he was officially a boyfriend. "You better treat her well, or I’ll be coming after you."

"I wouldn’t dream of doing anything less, sir." Jude chuckled nervously. There was something that felt terrifyingly real about the subtle threat. You took a deep breath but the playful exchange filled you with warmth. 

"I think you’re winning him over." You whispered, leaning into Jude.

"I hope so," Jude murmured, smiling down at you. Just then, Louis, who had been silently observing the whole scene from his seat, rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. 

“Ouah, c'est tellement incroyable d'avoir le golden boy avec nous.” [it’s so amazing to have the golden boy with us.] he muttered in full french leaving Jude following nothing but the fact that it was about him. Louis shook his head with a grin that suggested he wasn’t surprised by the swift approval your dad had given Jude. "Mais Bien sûr, [but of course]  it’s the Golden Boy, Papa for your golden girl"  he teased, though there was no malice in his tone, it was weighted. Louis believed your dad favored you, and maybe it was true but also, now that he’d told you his apprehension about the relationship it felt more poignant. 

"Ah Louis,  la jalousie ne te va pas?" [Ah Louis, jealousy doesn't suit you] A smirk played on your dad’s lips as he took his seat at the head of the table. Your dad, catching on to Louis’ reaction, chuckled.

"Not jealous, just... surprised how fast this is going." Louis shook his head, giving you a pointed look. You gave him a look that said ‘we’ll talk later,’ but couldn’t help the way your anxiety was spiking at the whole situation. Jude seemed to take it all in stride, unfazed by Louis’ remark. He slipped his arm around your waist, drawing you closer as everyone returned to their seats. As the conversation continued, you noticed your mother giving you a nod of approval, clearly impressed with how Jude had handled himself. She had been watching the whole exchange closely, and the ease with which Jude fit into the family dynamic seemed to win her over too.

"You've done well, sweetheart," she whispered to you in French as the meal continued. You smiled, your heart swelling with the knowledge that your family had welcomed Jude, even Louis at least on the surface. Dinner was a whirlwind of stories, old inside jokes, and names of people Jude had never heard before. He spent most of the meal catching up, his eyes darting between family members as he tried to follow the decades-old family stories being shared. Conversations would slip in and out of French, and you'd have to quietly translate for him, but Jude handled it all with ease. You admired how quickly he picked up on the rhythm of your family, offering smiles, laughs, and even thoughtful questions at just the right moments. It hurt you though that he was blissfully unaware Louis wasn’t exactly thrilled about the pairing. And so, after dessert, the meal wound down, and you offered to help your mum in the kitchen. Jude, ever the gentleman, asked if he could help too, but before you could answer, your dad interjected, extending a hand toward Jude. 

"Why don't you join us outside instead, Jude? Louis and I were about to have a chat. You can tell us about your plans for the Euos so I can tell Didier." You shot Jude a reassuring glance, knowing this was your dad's way of bringing him into the fold. Jude hesitated briefly, but when your dad clapped him on the back and Louis stood up, he gave you a quick smile and followed them out. Jude’s brow did furrow momentarily trying to figure out if your dad actually knew Didier Deschamps or if it was a joke but nevertheless he went. You let him keep wondering. Your mum smiled at the scene, her eyes following Jude and your father. 

“He’s doing well,” she mused as you both headed into the kitchen. The staff was already cleaning up, so you and your mum leaned against the counter, glasses of wine in hand, taking the moment to catch up on gossip. She gushed about how happy you looked, how she thought Jude was handsome and polite, and how your dad seemed quite taken with him. “He fits,” she said simply, and you couldn’t help but smile. It made you feel better that she thought so, despite Louis’ hesitancy. The kitchen was cozy, filled with the warmth of your mother’s approval and the soft hum of conversation from the dining room staff. But you couldn’t shake the conversation from earlier in your mind, your heart heavy with the knowledge that Louis’ doubts had struck a chord in you. Outside, however, the atmosphere was a little different. Jude, your father, and Louis sat on the terrace, surrounded by the soft night air. Your dad had offered cigars, but Jude politely declined, opting to sit back and enjoy the conversation instead. Football, of course, dominated the talk. Your dad was in his element, relaying old stories of his favorite French teams and players. Louis joined in, discussing the upcoming Euros, analyzing team strategies and player potentials. Jude laughed easily, offering his own insights when asked, and it warmed your heart every time you heard his laughter drift back into the house. The scene outside seemed like a perfect integration of your two worlds — the man you loved fitting seamlessly into the family you cherished. But after a while, your father excused himself. He came back into the house to find you, his eyes softening when they landed on you. 

“I’ve missed you, ma chérie,” he said softly, pulling you into a hug. There was always something about your father’s presence that made you feel like a little girl again, like everything was safe and secure. Unfortunately tonight, thanks to your brother you felt more like one then ever. You chatted with your dad for a while, catching up on life and Jude, but you couldn’t help but wonder how things were going outside now that he had left Jude alone with Louis.

Back on the terrace, the dynamic between Jude and Louis had shifted. Louis, who had been quieter than usual for most of the conversation with your dad, now seemed to study Jude more intently. The easy laughter from earlier faded into a more measured silence.

"You’re a good player," Louis finally said, his tone neutral but not as warm as before. “Use you on FIFA all the time, bro.” Jude smiled, a bit unsure of where this was heading, but still polite. 

"Yeah? Thanks, mate.” Jude responded. Louis shifted in his chair, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his expression darker and more intense than Jude had seen all night. The laughter and easygoing conversation of earlier felt distant now, like it had been replaced with something far more serious.

"Listen," Louis started again, his voice low and deliberate. "I’m sure you’re a good guy. My parents, they love a charming guy, especially one that’s got Y/N actually smiling, and not the bullshit facade she’s usually got on and they’ll see that. They’ll invite you in, make you feel like family. But they don’t know you like I do. They don’t see the whole picture." He paused, his eyes locked on Jude’s, and the weight of his words hung in the air. Jude’s smile faltered, his heart sinking as the atmosphere shifted. For the past hour, he had felt like he was doing everything right—getting along with your dad, sharing stories, even earning a few laughs. But now, the warmth had drained from the evening, replaced by an unsettling tension. 

"I don’t understand," Jude said slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. "Why is that a bad thing? I want them to like me. I want them to accept me because I love her. Isn’t that the point?" Jude questioned. Louis’s gaze didn’t waver. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. 

"You don’t get it, bro, do you? It’s not about them liking you. It’s not even about Y/N liking you. Hell, she says she’s in love with you but what it’s really about? It’s really about you being good for her. And I’m not sure you are." Jude blinked, stunned by Louis’ bluntness. 

 "I care about her—she’s everything to me. Why would I—" Jude began to waffle in a panic. 

"That’s not enough." Louis’s tone was sharper now, more forceful. "You don’t know what you’re getting into. You don’t know her like I do. She’s tough, but she’s so sensitive. And I don’t think you can give her the type of dedication she deserves, bro." Jude’s mouth went dry. He hadn’t expected this. Not from Louis, who had seemed friendly enough at first, even laughing and joking with him earlier. But now, it was as if a wall had gone up between them, and Jude wasn’t sure how to climb over it. “Think of your schedule alone. You’re in and out of Madrid 9 months out of the year and then on international duties in the summer. Do you really have the time to care about her life then?” Louis snapped again. Jude’s heart sank. He wanted to rebuttal. Unfortunately as much as he disagreed, there was truth in what your brother was saying. He physically couldn’t be with you as much as he’d want to be. Louis shifted his chair again, the metal scraping loudly against the patio stones. The sound echoed in the quiet night, making the tension between them even more palpable. He leaned forward, his expression hard. "I’m going to be straight with you, Jude. You’re going to hurt her. You might not mean to, but you will. And when that happens, I’ll have to hurt you." Jude’s stomach dropped, a sickening twist of dread tightening in his chest. This was the second threat of the night. He had heard threats before, hell, he’d heard one from your dad mere hours ago but this was different. Louis wasn’t angry or aggressive—he was calm, almost resigned. That made it worse. "I don’t want it to come to that," Louis continued, his voice quieter now but no less menacing. "I like you. I really do. I told you, I even use you on FIFA, so trust me, I don’t want to hurt you. But if it comes down to protecting her? I will." Jude was an older brother so he understood mildly but he didn’t feel the need to protect Jobe in the way Louis felt the need to with you. Jude was speechless. He had no idea what to say. The threat wasn’t violent, but it carried the weight of someone who had been protecting you for years and wasn’t about to stop now. He opened his mouth, trying to find the right words, but they wouldn’t come. For a moment, all he could do was sit there, stunned and unsure of how to respond. Jude sighed, leaning back in his chair, running his hand over his hair. It was clear to him now that Louis was one of the few people in your life who saw beyond the exterior, someone who knew you for who you really were—vulnerable, strong, but more delicate than anyone else could ever truly grasp. That realization only added to the weight on his shoulders. Jude wanted to get this right, and it wasn’t just about convincing Louis—it was about showing him that he knew what he had with you was rare. He looked at Louis, trying to figure out where to start. This was unfamiliar territory for Jude, opening up to someone who wasn’t you, especially about something this personal. Finally, he found his voice. 

"Listen," Jude began cautiously, his voice quieter than usual. "I’ve messed up before with Y/N. I don’t know if you know that yet but I know that I have. I thought being ‘Jude Bellingham’—the footballer, the guy everyone sees on TV—was more important than being her Jude." His eyes met Louis’s, trying to gauge his reaction. Louis raised an eyebrow, his arms still crossed over his chest, not looking entirely convinced.

"And how exactly is this supposed to make me feel better?" he shot back, not unkindly but still guarded. Jude took a deep breath, holding up a hand. 

"Just… just give me a minute here mate, okay?" He paused, collecting his thoughts, before continuing. "What I’m trying to say is—I can’t breathe without her, man. I mean, I don’t know if you’ve see my performances the last month but it’s because of her. I can’t think straight without her." He chuckled, though there was no real humor in it. "I’m a mess without her. I had to go get her in New York. It wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity. I really really fucking love her.” Jude sounded desperate.  Louis’s expression softened ever so slightly feeling almost a pity for Jude but his guard was still firmly in place. "I know I’m not… I’m not worthy of her time," Jude admitted, his voice dropping as he spoke. "I’m just grateful she let me matter at all. I get what she means to you, Louis. And I’m not trying to mess up how much you take care of her. I just— I want to be there maybe in those ways you can’t be" He hesitated for a moment, unsure if his next words would land right. “I… The thing is….” He tried to think of the only comparison he could, something that would make sense in his world. "She’s… she’s like my World Cup. The thing that, if I win her,  it’ll be like I’ve done something that actually matters. My life would feel complete." But before Jude could continue, Louis cut in, his face finally cracking into a small smirk.

"Alright, alright, no need to go that far," he said, holding up a hand. "She’s great, but she’s not that great." Louis smirked. Jude laughed softly, feeling a weight lift from the conversation, even if just a little. He glanced at Louis, his expression earnest. 

"She might be, though," Jude said, the sincerity in his tone evident. Louis leaned back in his chair, a long exhale escaping his lips. He still didn’t fully trust Jude—how could he?—but for the first time, he could see that Jude was genuinely trying. There was something raw in the way he spoke about you, something that felt real. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to let his guard down, if only slightly. 

"Look," Louis finally said, after a long moment of silence. "I don’t expect you to be perfect. Hell, I don’t expect anyone to be perfect. But if you’re really serious about this, about her, then you need to prove it. Not to me, you don’t owe me shit. You’ll know I hate you if you don’t prove it but really, I mean to her. Because the second you mess up again, Jude… I won’t be easy to convince  because you haven’t really convinced me now." 

“You wouldn’t have even known if I hadn't told you. That’s how sure I am. I won’t, Louis. But I get it.” Jude sheepishly smiled with a nod, swallowing hard. “I’ll prove it.” He meant every word. He had to. Louis gave Jude a firm slap on the back before heading inside. Jude stood there for a second, gathering himself after the unexpectedly intense conversation. As Louis walked through the doorway, your dad looked up at him, his brow raised inquisitively, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

"Qu’est-ce que tu lui as dit?"  [What did you say to him] Your dad asked, his tone light but laced with curiosity. Louis smirked, leaning against the doorframe. 

"Papa, someone had to scare the kid," he replied, shrugging as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "Clearly, you weren’t going to do it." Then, with a grin, he exaggerated his voice, mocking your dad’s earlier words with an even thicker French accent, 'Ah, tu vas être un problème à l'Euros' mimicking the way your dad had praised Jude earlier. [Ah, *you are going to be a problem at the Euros*,] You caught the words, and your heart skipped a beat. What had Louis said to Jude out there? You never brought anyone to your family’s chateau, and now you were worried—what if Jude had been put off? You tried to catch Louis’s eyes, but he just gave you a smug little smile, clearly enjoying having rattled both of you a bit. You shifted in your seat, glancing towards the door anxiously, your mind spinning. What if Jude was ready to leave? What if Louis had gone too far? You couldn’t bear the thought of losing the warm, comfortable connection you had brought with you from Paris to here. But then Jude walked back in, casually carrying the glasses that had been left outside. His face was calm, his expression soft. He looked... fine. Better than fine, actually. He flashed you a wink as he handed the glasses to your mum, who immediately melted at his thoughtfulness.

"Oh, Jude, mon cherie," your mum cooed, taking the glasses from him. She leaned in, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I love you already!" she declared to the room, her tone light and cheerful. She was clearly charmed, and you couldn’t help but smile, a little of the tension easing from your body. Jude grinned, a bit bashful, but still managing to take it all in stride. He seemed completely unfazed, as though whatever Louis had said outside hadn’t shaken him at all.  You pouted at him, half-jokingly, but also just a little bit out of concern, wondering if everything was truly alright. He caught your expression and leaned over, giving you another playful wink, as if to say, Don’t worry, I’ve got this. Louis, standing off to the side, crossed his arms with a smug smile, clearly impressed by Jude’s resolve. Despite his earlier attempt to rattle him, Jude had handled the situation well. He hadn’t been scared off—he’d stuck it out. And though Louis would never admit it outright, that had earned Jude a bit of respect. For now, anyway. With the evening settling back into its rhythm, you exhaled softly, feeling a new wave of warmth toward Jude. He wasn’t just enduring the challenges of your world—he was embracing them. As the house quieted down, the echoes of laughter and conversation fading into the stone walls, you and Jude stayed behind in the warm, dimly lit kitchen. The remnants of dinner were cleared away, leaving only the soft glow of the old chandelier and the subtle clinking of glasses as Jude filled a cup of water. You watched him, feeling an overwhelming sense of contentment, the coziness of the chateau wrapping around you both.

“Thank you for coming,” you whispered. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself as you walked up behind him, slipping your arms around his waist and resting your cheek against his back.

“You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to be here, angel.” Jude turned his head slightly, glancing back at you with a soft smile.

“I mean, my family is a lot. I’m sorry if it was too much. Louis… can be… He just cares. Sorry.” You apologized. You felt a twinge of embarrassment bubbling up. Jude shook his head, setting down the glass and turning around in your arms to face you. His hands found their way to your hips, pulling you in a little closer. 

“You’re my girlfriend. It could never be too much,” he said, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry about Louis. Besides, we still have to tell Jobe. That’s gonna be fun.” You laughed at the mention of his younger brother, remembering the easy rapport the two of you had when you first met. But now, knowing you were officially Jude’s girlfriend, it felt different. 

“He’s gonna make it a whole thing, isn’t he?” you said with a nervous chuckle. Jude’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 

“Oh, definitely. He’ll probably take credit for the whole thing too. Somehow spin it like he had been involved.” You laughed along with him, feeling the tension melt away. Jude was always good at making you feel at ease, even when your nerves got the better of you. He wrapped his arms fully around you, holding you close and lowering his voice. “But speaking of… do I get to sleep with my girlfriend tonight? Or are your parents not about that?” You felt your face heat up at his teasing words, and you playfully squeezed his arm. 

“You’re not sleeping anywhere else,” you replied with a smirk. “They’ll just have to deal with it.” Jude’s grin widened, and as you led him out of the kitchen and through the quiet hallways of the chateau, you felt the weight of the evening slowly lifting. The old floorboards creaked under your feet, and the dim sconces along the walls cast soft shadows that danced across the antique furniture. You brought Jude to a secluded wing of the house, the air cooler and more still. When you opened the door to your room, Jude stepped inside, taking in the spacious yet cozy setting, the heavy drapes, and the ornate furniture that made the place feel like it had been frozen in time yet shimmer in luxury. He raised an eyebrow, flashing you a mischievous grin. 

“So... how thin are the walls in this place?” He cooed. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, biting back a smile. 

“You’ll have to be on your best behavior, Judey,” you teased. Jude chuckled, pulling you into his arms again.

 “Can’t make any promises.” He whispered as his lips brushed against your ear.  You laughed, swatting him playfully once more, but the warmth of his embrace and the soft glow of the room made everything feel perfectly right.

🪩🫶❤️‍🔥🍹🌞🍒 Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter 🍒🌞🍹❤️‍🔥🫶🪩

Next part - Chapter 16 - Glass Angel xx

[midnightarcheress]

you’re going out.

pairing: bodyguard!ghost x actress!reader cw: pining simon denying till his grave 5 | gold rush masterlist.

Simon was sitting in your living room, hands in the pockets of his jacket and boot anxiously tapping on the wood floor as he waited for you to get ready. you hadn’t seen each other since the trip to France, still too scared to leave your house after that last note, so he wasn’t expecting your rushed text about going out tonight.

“i’m so sorry for calling you last minute,” you say, closing the loop of your earring as you walk out of your bedroom, trying your best not to be late, “a friend invited me for dinner, and i’m not exactly allowed to leave the house without you, so–”

“‘s alright” he mumbles, cutting your rambling and turning to see you, his heart nearly stopping at the view. you’re stunningly standing by the couch, one hand propped on the armrest for support as you lean down to strap your heels, struggling to maintain your balance. in a swift motion, Simon pulls you closer, gently lifting your calf so he could clasp it for you, not noticing your small gasp at his touch and how intimate the gesture must look to anyone else.

he doesn’t mind accompanying you or, in this case, guarding you. it’s nice to have you near, even if it’s just for a few hours and out of arm's reach, it's enough to save him from the dullness of his own life. but tonight is different, new, nerve-inducing. you’re going out with someone. he only ever had to be with you when you’re alone roaming the city or in event-related situations. what the fuck is the etiquette for chaperoning a dinner with a friend?

on the way to the restaurant, he learned that your company is an ex-co-star from one of your movies, who just happened to be your romantic interest. of course. he couldn't help the slight frown that appeared on his face and the small discomfort building in his stomach at the thought of watching you charming some guy for heaven knows how long. the text that gave him hope suddenly turned into a modern-time curse from the gods in a matter of seconds.

the soft piano playing in the background did nothing to steady his heartbeat when the hostess led you to the guy waiting by the window, twenty-thousand-pound watch on his wrist and a smug grin on his face, placing a hand dangerously close to your hip when you greeted him. Simon was placed near the bar, easy path to the exit and a clear view of you, but no liberty to drink away the misery of not being the one making you beam so widely.

it felt like torture, containing the venomous jealousy coursing through his veins, festering his flesh and rotting his brain with gruesome schemes of how he could end this in the blink of an eye. if he had a throwing knife, the guy’s blood would already be pooling under the table and you’d be long one, out of the shackles of your restricting life, far from sycophants and parasites, just safe from whatever threat that wants to maim you.

but he couldn't do that. saving you it’s not on his job description, no matter how badly he wishes to. so he had to endure observing you from afar, watch the soft locks of hair cascading on your face, see your lips take in your third glass of wine, and faintly hear the easy laughter escaping from you after one of the terrible jokes being spit on the table, probably as a consequence of the alcohol, while envy gnawed at the confines of his ribcage and begged to a way out. 

it made no sense for him to feel that way towards you. he was on duty. he was there for a horrible reason, so he felt sorry for you, but how much of it is pity and not true affection? why did the green demon eating his insides subdue when he saw how happy you were? why was his heart nearly skipping a beat whenever you glanced in his direction? certainly, it was just a way to reassure yourself that nothing would happen, but what if it was more? what if he was the reason you retracted your hand when the man in front of you reached for it?

the clock hands moved in a dangerously slow pace, minutes dragging like hours and slipping his mind into a parallel universe where he never left his house, but the sight of the check put on top of the beige cloth of your table was the solace lulling him back to peace. he could finally let out the breath he held since you stepped inside, lungs exhaling and expunging the poison from his system, and drive you back, without a single scratch on your skin.

the ride to your house was quiet, neither speaking more than needed. it wasn’t strange, the communication between the two of you happened mostly out of necessity, but the tension was palpable in the car. his grip on the steering wheel was tight, almost as if he was afraid that if he let go, his hand would rip out every strand of hair standing on his scalp. it was too much. he was relieved to be out of there, confused with the turmoil inside his chest, and angry at himself for getting lost in daydreams about you. 

“can you walk?” Simon asks, holding the passenger door open after stopping at your gate.

“of course i can walk–” your hand finds his arm before your face falls directly into the cobblestones that pave the path to your front door, “okay, maybe i’m a little tipsy.” Simon rolls his eyes after your blithe chuckle and snakes a hand around your waist, helping you head inside.

once in the warmth of your home and after making sure you weren’t too drunk to take care of yourself, he walked out, stomach churning as he tried to ignore the distress of the night and get ready to melt his troubles with a bourbon. but before he could press the code of the alarm and relax his stiff shoulders, your harrowing scream made his heart drop and his legs sprint back to you, fast as lightning strikes, images of the worst possible scenarios already flooding his vision.

his laboured breath meets you pressed against the wall, wide tear-rimmed eyes glaring at the mirror of your bedroom, and his blood pressure rises with concern. he turns to gaze at the mirror, assessing what made you so frightened, and his own eyes widen, ‘i don’t appreciate you entertaining other men, darling. don’t forget who you belong to.’

how i love inner struggle

[holylulusworld]

BFG (7)

Summary: He’s new to town and just your type…

Pairing: Reacher x Plussized!Reader

Warnings: angst, unplanned pregnancy, lovesickness

A/N: I added the pregnancy because of an ask.

Catch up here: BFG (6)

BFG masterlist

The first days without Reacher were hell. He was still everywhere you looked. His scent lingered on your pillows, and you still felt his hands on your body.

You even dreamed about him. Day and night.

Life moved on while you suffered the worst lovesickness you ever experienced.

Sally Ann offered help and took over your shift for a few days.

Most of the time you had to force yourself to get up and start a new day without Reacher.

That was until you found out Reacher left a sweet little gift for you. 

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to you that Reacher got you pregnant. You had unprotected sex all the time and forgot about your pill more than once due to the events leading to KJ’s death, and what happened at your diner.

“Y/N, did you hear me?” One of your regulars asked as you wiped the same spot for the third time. “There is a new face.”

“Huh, oh?” You dipped your head to watch the woman step toward the counter. “Hi, welcome. What can I do for you?”

She asked for coffee, and cereal instead of pie. You chuckled at her choice but prepared a bowl with coco pops for her.

“This is a nice place, and the pie looks great. I have a friend who’d love your pie,” she said and watched you pour her a cup of coffee.

“Thank you,” you smiled at her and turned your attention back toward the stain on the counter. “I assume you are rolling through town.”

“I’m looking for someone,” she replied before taking a large sip. “A friend of mine asked me to check on her.”

You tried to end the conversation. The woman was nice but she reminded you of another stranger you met a few months ago. “That’s very nice of you.” You replied and tried to walk away.

“Wait, maybe you can suggest a hotel. I’ll stay for a few days,” she said. “That would be very kind of you. I’m not from around her and wouldn’t know where to look for a place to stay.”

“Oh,” you tried not to give away that there is no nice hotel in town. “We only have a motel. It’s not very nice and-” You leaned closer to whisper the next part. “Most of the guests are prostitutes, and their clients or people cheating on their respective other.”

“Crap,” she said and glanced around the diner. “Anywhere else I could bunker. Maybe someone is renting out a room.”

“You could stay at my place.” Reacher would scold you for offering a place to stay to a stranger. But he was no longer around, and you always followed your heart. The woman in front of you was nice, and she meant no harm. You were sure about it.

“Whoa, that’s very kind of you,” she said and held out her hand. “I’m Frances Neagley.”

“Y/N,” you gave her your name with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Frances. That’s a very nice name.”

“Yours too,” she chuckled. “I’ll pay you, of course.” 

“I don’t rent out. If you clean up your mess and eat your food at my place only while you are around, we are good.”

“It’s a deal,” she shook your head and grinned. “I’m glad I came here.”

“Me too.”

Frances helped you clean the diner and followed you home. She eyed you the whole time, as you told her about the town, your diner, and the stray you took in. The dog, not Reacher.

“I like dogs.”

You showed her around the house and introduced your dog to her. Frances was eager to learn more about the town, you, and your life.

“I’m tired, and will retreat earlier today,” you yawned and rubbed your sore back. “There’s food, beer, and water if you get hungry. I don’t mind if you grab a late-night snack. I’m alone again and—” You bit your tongue. She didn’t need to know you bought too many groceries because you forgot that Reacher left.

“Thank you,” she said and gave you a genuine smile. “Really. It’s nice of you.”

“No need to thank me. If you want to you can have all the beer,” you subconsciously rubbed your belly. “I don’t drink.”

Frances watched the motion with concern.

“That’s nice. I’m not much of a drinker myself, though.”

The next morning Frances was already up. She sat on your kitchen counter, eating coco pops when you entered the kitchen.

“Morning,” you chirped and went straight for the fridge. “Damn, I need something fresh but sweet.”

“Can I ask you a question?” She said while you rummaged in the fridge to find anything to satisfy your cravings.

“Sure,” you grabbed an apple and the pudding you were hiding in the back of the fridge for emergencies. Not the best combination for breakfast but these are different times.

Your sweet secret not so well hidden by the thin nightie you wore, caught Frances’s attention. “How far are you?”

“Uh-around two and a half months,” you started to cut the apple to distract yourself from thinking about the father of your unborn child and his absence. 

“Does the father know?” she asked, looking you straight in the eyes. “Y/N?”

“No,” you dipped a slice of apple into the pudding. “I don’t know if he’d care or how to reach him. He’s not the usual kind of guy, you know.”

“You think he wouldn’t care about his baby?” She hopped off the kitchen counter to gently touch your shoulder. “I bet he’d love to know.”

“He wouldn’t…” you sighed and shook your head. “You see, the father is not the kind of man to settle down or even stay in one place for longer than a week. If I told him, he’d believe I wanted to tie him down or something. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Y/N, you’re not a burden but pregnant with his baby. He should grow up and take care of the woman he got pregnant,” Frances tried to convince you to call the father of your child.

“I can handle this on my own. I always did, and never needed man,” you stated. “I know you mean well, but begging a man to come back to me is just not my style.”

“Reacher, finally,” Neagley rolled her eyes when Reacher told her he still didn’t have a phone. “I told you to stay in touch so I can report back to you. Is it so hard to buy a burner phone and send me the number?”

Reacher told her to report back and make it short. He asked Neagley to check on you after he left. He knew, that if he came back, it’d be even harder for him to leave again.

“Haul your big ass over here,” she grunted. “You left Y/N with more than a broken heart. I will give you twenty-four hours before I come looking for you. And believe me, you don’t want me to hunt you down, big guy!”

“Finally,” Neagley huffed. “I believe you’ll need longer.” She checked her phone, smirking. “Ten and a half hours. This must be a record for you.”

“Neagley, not now. Is Y/N okay? Is the…baby okay?” He asked and glanced at your home. “Is she home.”

“She is asleep. Don’t wake her,” she softly said. “I hope you came to stay and won’t leave again. You can’t get a woman pregnant and run off.”

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. His features softened while looking at Neagley. “Thank you for checking on her and calling me. I’ve got it from here.”

“If you leave her again, I’ll hunt you down…” She glanced at the two duffle bags slung over Reacher’s left shoulder. “I see you got luggage this time.”

“Everything I own and cherish,” Reacher said his goodbyes to Neagley before he entered your house with the key you gave to him.

He silently stepped inside your house, careful not to wake you.

Reacher didn’t plan to reach your house in the dead of the night, but sometimes things don’t go as planned.

He dropped the bags and kicked his shoes off before silently making his way upstairs.

Reacher entered your bedroom, tiptoeing toward your bed to watch you sleep. He dipped his head and reconsidered his decision to come back to you. He never hung his heart on a place or people except for his family.

For a heartbeat, he was about to leave, but then you whispered his name in your sleep. His heart stumbled, and he took off his shirt and shoved his pants down his legs. 

While you turned around to instinctively make space for the huge man, he crawled under the covers to wrap his arms around you. He kissed your temple and murmured your name.

Jack Reacher finally found his home.

BFG 8

 BFG Tags

@xxyaoi-nationxx

@lovestoreadfiction

@glambyk

@sonicthehedgedoggo

@thewitchesofart

@emily-roberts

@littlelearningbrat

@mcira

@shondlenoodle

@bitchwhytho

@miniemonie2001

@nervousnerdwitch

@stilesxreid

@dory-98

@loona-fox

@drewsuncrustables

@buckybarnessweetheart

@watersquirtpewpewboomm

@muamazon4

@yourlocalnegroko

@its-carlerrr

@fanboyswhore9

@mydolle-dd

@so-this-is-a-thing-now

@maldita-world

@redpool

@maeb99

[sissa-arrows]

Yesterday in France the groups Stop Arming Israel and Tsedek! (Anti colonialism Jewish group that has been attacked and censored multiple times in France) organized a small protest to block Thales a firm who manufacture weapons that are sold to “Israel”.

Somebody driving a black car tried to run over them. They didn’t slow down and drove slowly past the group or anything. They were driving fast so it was on purpose.

There’s a video and the license plate is fully visible on it. So if the cops or media wanna do anything about it they easily can but strangely I’m convinced they won’t cause I saw nothing about it on the news. I actually learned about it accidentally.

Edit: For the people asking to my knowledge there was no physical injuries. Tsedek! Didn’t mention anyone getting injured and on the video it looks like everyone was able to avoid the car. Also the amount of Zionist regretting that none of the protesters were physically injured is very telling when you know that a lot of the people protesting were Jewish. Also Stop arming Israel announced that they contacted their lawyers with the video and the license plate of the car cause they don’t plan on letting the whole go unpunished.

Edit 2: Here is Tsedek! Tweet about what happened with the video. If you scroll up a bit on Tsedek! Profile you will see Stop Arming Israel’s tweet too.

[feltit-wroteit]

Better For Me. Not You.

Jean-Pierre Magnan x Reader

Your boyfriend doesn't understand why you need to attend school when you have him to teach you. But, for you, there is nothing more important than getting an high education. A fight might be what your boyfriend needs in order to not make a fuss at school.

You had arrived in France after your parents decided England had became to bland. Sure it was a huge change, but not a sad one. You didn't have a lot of friends back in England so nothing was left when you set trail. But here, it was perfect.

On your first day, your parents went to buy some meet at the Magnan's and that is where you met Jean-Pierre. You two immediately clicked and the rest was history. It started with you going back every few days to purchase new meat and finished with Jean-Pierre courting you and becoming your boyfriend. It wasn't hard for you to fall in love with him. He was like the men you read about in your books that your parents had bought when moving here.

Jean-Pierre taught you everything he knew when you had asked him if he could. Schools for girls were very prestegious and you hadn't known a thing beside litterature. He was the perfect teacher. Always taking his time when you didn't understand something. You now were almost his equal which meant you were more than an average student. That is what your boyfriend said anyways and that was enough validation for you.

Recently though, the relationship had been rocky. Jean-Pierre's school was oppening its door for a few girls and you had gotten and acceptable letter three weeks ago. It was your first day today, and officially the one week mark of you not talking to your boyfriend. He probably thought that he was the one ignoring you, but it was the other way around. You couldn't even look at him after what had happened that afternoon while you guys were havimg à nice pic-nic.

-One week ago-

"Fuck! I don't want you too. It should be the only good reason!" You looked at him and waited for him to say he was joking. Hoping he was joking. Nothing came..."I don't know what to say Jean-Pierre-" "Don't say anything. Just do as I say." Of course you knew your boyfriend had controling tendencies but he had never used them on you. "Jean-Pierre Magnan. You will not speak to me like that. I deserve respect. Besides, it doesn't matter what you want in this." He scoffed. "Well, yeah it does." You looked at him and finally decided to put your sandwich down. Your appetite was no longer there. "Oh yeah? And how may that be true? Explain away." You motioned for him to do so after whipping your hand clean from your lunch's remnants. "I am your future husband after all." He looked ta you with fire in his eyes. You looked at him with disgust. "What is that suppose to mean? That I can't be a good wife because I have an education. That I am less than a woman for wanting to do something that only men had the right to do not so long ago but should be reachable to anyone? You digust me right now Magnan." You voiced your thoughts and let your frustration take over. "No. But it means that you have me and that is plenty enough to learn- I don't want you around all these boys! There I said it." He tried to reach for your hand thinking this thing was resolved and it was now your turn to scoff. "How much of a man are you? Maybe I shouldn't be your wife since you think me for a brainless damsel who will jump at any boy in my usual unfaithfulness? You are selfish." You said as you pulled your hand from his getting up. He got up with you and you saw the regret painted on your face. But it was too late. "Y/N... That is not what I meant. I was being selfish. Pardon me, please?" "Good to see you taking responsibility for your actions. But your selfishness will get us nowhere. Maybe me going to school isn't good in your books, but in mine? It is too good to be true. And you, of all people, know how bad I want this. Shame on you Magnan." You stabbed his chest with your index finger and let tears fall from your eyes. "I am so sorry, darling. Please forgive me. I lost my thoughts-I-I..." You looked in his eyes and pulled your finger away from his chest. Silence was the inly thing leaving your mouth and that didn't sit well with your boyfriend. You picked your stuff up from the ground and went to leave. "What are you doing, Y/N?" He followed you slightly. You turned around and made a distance with your hand gently placed on his abdomen. "I think it's better if we both take time to breath. See you at school Jean-Pierre." You turned your back to him once more and left.

Jean-Pierre sat back down and slammed his fist on the grass after gripping his hair by the roots. "Fuck!"

-Now-

You were looking at the class board and you noticed your name after some slight searching. Right beside his. You sighed and went to see the other girls that had arrived. This day would be a long one.

When you entered your classroom, Jean-Pierre had kept you a seat beside him and smiled at you. You smiled slightly and went to sit at an empty desk. First period was soent with him looking at you and you trying to focus and answer all of the teachers' questions. The teachers were pretty impression and the other boys were now looking at you too. Not in any way were you comfortable. They were looking at you like a rat in a labotary. Maybe you should've sat with your boyfriend at the front.

When it was time for lunch, you made your way to the cafeteria but were snatched from the waist. You let a squeak out and landed in a man's embrace. "Let go of me! I'm married!" You screamed and only heard a laugh. "We're married now? I thought we were at the divorce stage, darling." The man let you go and you replaced your hair. "Jean-Pierre." You curtsied. "Oh dear Y/N, please forgive me? I can't live with the thought of you hating me. I admit, I was dumb." You looked him dead in the eye and nodded. "I trust you. But please, promise me to never be this controling of me ever again. I won't let it slide quite easily next time." You stayed cold and he nodded fastly. He went forward and reached for your hand. He laid a quick but soft kiss on your lips and smiled "I promise, darling! But can tou sit next to me? A compromise? I don't like all of them eating you up from their stares. I know you answering all the question is attractive, but only I can look at you with wanting eyes. Right?" You both laughed slightly. "Of course my love. Besides I was not comfortable amd want to dedicate all of my attention to the subject at hand." He smiled at you and replaced a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Good." He kissed you again. "Good you replied with a smile.

While walking to the cafeteria, your head was rethinking of specific thing your boyfriend had said in that room. "So... You were dumb, huh? Do I make your head go mushy, mister Magnan?" You nudged your shoulder against his. "Oh shut it! You're stupid-" You faked a dramatic gasp. "Take thay back right now, Jean-Pierre Magnan!" There was a beat of silence before you burst in laughter.