#who is distractingly hot
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No crunking, but lots of haterating and hollerating and even some situations:
BRUTE FORCE (1947): Aptly named prison drama about a group of convicts (including Burt Lancaster, Charles Bickford, and radio actor Howard Duff) in a battle of wills and wits with the sadistic guard captain Munsey (Hume Cronyn). Forcefully directed by Jules Dasssin and certainly vivid, but the few moments of levity the Richard Brooks screenplay provides — such as a droll flashback sequence where former conman Spencer (John Hoyt, who later played Dr. Phillip Boyce in the original STAR TREK pilot) affectionately recalls the slick dame (Anita Colby) who once robbed him with his own gun — serve mostly to demonstrate that there's not enough light moments, even for such a determinedly grim and downbeat story. Worse, since the main action takes place entirely within the prison, women (including Ella Raines, Ann Blyth, and future TV Batgirl Yvonne De Carlo as well as Anita Colby) appear only in brief flashbacks. The film's main attraction is its superb acting — and even Lancaster's brooding sex appeal is somewhat overshadowed by Hume Cronyn's towering performance as the magnificently detestable Munsey. CONTAINS LESBIANS? Nope. VERDICT: Compelling in fits and starts, and Cronyn's Munsey is one of the screen's great villains, but it's so oppressive that your attention may start to wander, especially if neither Lancaster nor Cronin is currently onscreen.
HOTEL COCAINE Season 1 (2024): Colorful but sloppy Chris Brancato crime drama, based (apparently very loosely) on the life of a real person, Cuban exile and CIA asset Roman Compte (played, weakly, by Danny Pino), who, as the general manager of Miami's Mutiny Hotel, presided over the heyday of coke-fueled late '70s South Florida hedonism. Brancato uses this as a backdrop for a disappointingly ordinary gangster story, giving Compte a fictional older brother, Nestor Cabal (Yul Vázquez), indistinguishable from Brancato's previous fictionalization of Cuban cop/gangster José Battle Sr. in GODFATHER OF HARLEM (where he was also played by Vázquez), and pitting the brothers against a renegade DEA agent (Michael Chiklis) and an invading Columbian cartel led by Gilberto Henao (Juan Pablo Raba). Despite the title, the Mutiny setting is surprisingly under-utilized; the main plot is cliché-ridden and often listless; and the action is broken up by periodic fits of weird comic relief involving nervous acid-freak hotel owner Burton Greenberg (Mark Feuerstein), including bizarre appearances by Hunter S. Thompson (John Ventimiglia) and Rick James (Larry Powell) in the first two episodes. Pino is barely adequate in the lead, and it sometimes seems like Brancato foolishly expects viewers to find Roman sympathetic, which he really never is, even compared to his antagonists. The only real reasons to bother with the show are its Latina characters, including Roman's spunky teenage daughter Valeria (Corina Bradley); his sympathetic girlfriend Marisol (Tania Watson); and in particular Gilberto's sexy and sadistic Mexican enforcer/girlfriend Yolanda (Mayra Hermosillo). Alas, Laura Gordon is awful as Roman's loyal right-hand woman Janice, while Michael Chiklis, who had made such a strong impression as the antiheroic Vic Mackey on THE SHIELD, is just laughable as DEA agent Zulio. CONTAINS LESBIANS: Not in any meaningful way. VERDICT: Never dull, but too arch to be credible and yet not over the top enough to rival De Palma's SCARFACE, and unlike the similar but better-realized GODFATHER OF HARLEM, it has no particular insights to offer about either its era or its setting.
SEX-POSITIVE (2024): Cute but very dumb sex comedy, directed by Peter Woodward (who also co-scripted with Marie Kirby) about a down-on-her-luck young woman (Katherine Ellis) who moves into a New Orleans commune and, after her initial shock has subsided, becomes part of its loose-knit polycule of ongoing sex parties. The story tries hard to live up to its title, with mixed results: It largely avoids the performative dread sex comedies often evince at the idea of same-gender sex, and it even takes a few flailing stabs at body positivity, but much of its humor is still founded on the idea that people having a lot of (semi-public, maybe mildly kinky) sex is inherently outrageous, which means that if you don't blush and giggle at the mere idea of a sex party, the movie is only occasionally funny. On the other hand, it's refreshing to see a modern sex comedy that doesn't shy away from nudity, allows the characters to actually have sex rather than just talking about it, and doesn't paint the characters' promiscuous lifestyle as a moral failing that has to eventually be recanted. CONTAINS LESBIANS: Yes, although the script leans a little too hard on the idea that anything other than complete sexual fluidity is somehow regressive. VERDICT: In a less prudish cultural climate, a low-wattage comedy like SEX-POSITIVE would barely rate a yawn, but in an era of rampant self-censorship and dreary bourgeois repression, its dopey, good-natured smuttiness is sort of endearing.
SUNRISE AT CAMPOBELLO (1960): Okay Dore Schary film adaptation (directed by Vincent Donehue) of Schary's Tony-winning play, starring Ralph Bellamy (reprising his award-winning stage role) as Franklin Delano Roosevelt, recently stricken with infantile paralysis and struggling to decide if he can still have a political future, with Greer Garson as Eleanor, Ann Shoemaker as Franklin's imperious mother Sara, and Hume Cronyn as his friend and political advisor Louis Howe. At first, both Bellamy and Garson seem like they're overplaying their roles, with a bigness more suited to stage than screen; Garson's performance never really stops feeling like caricature, but Bellamy eventually disappears into his part and becomes surprisingly convincing. Cronyn and Shoemaker are both excellent, and extensive use of location shooting (including scenes staged in the Roosevelts' actual homes) keeps the film from feeling objectionably stage-bound, but the narrative's emphasis on the heroism of overcoming chronic illness (a struggle FDR took great pains to conceal as much as possible) is awfully sticky at points, and if you're not American, you may wonder what all the fuss is about. CONTAINS LESBIANS: There have been arguments for years about Eleanor (in particular surrounding her relationship with reporter Lorena Hickok), but you'll find none of that here. VERDICT: As biopics go, it's pretty top-drawer, but if you're not a history buff or don't care about the Roosevelts, it probably won't hold your interest.
#hateration holleration#movies#teevee#brute force#mark hellinger#burt lancaster#hume cronyn#john hoyt#chris brancato#hotel cocaine#mayra hermosillo#michael chiklis#danny pino#yul vazquez#mark feuerstein#sex-positive#peter woodward#katherine ellis#sunrise at campobello#dore schary#ralph bellamy#greer carson#ann shoemaker#franklin delano roosevelt#eleanor roosevelt#the main reason to watch hotel cocaine is mayra hermosillo#who is distractingly hot#shame about the show#it does also have#tania watson
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looks come and go but silliness? thats forever
fuck looks. relationships NEED to based on your ability to be SILLY TOGETHER!!!!!! you better be laughing together or ELSE
#said it before and i'll say it again: demisexual ppl know something the rest of us don't#cosmic#my lovely bf who's not only beautiful but also clever likes to ask ''why are you so pretty?'' with palpable affection#i reply it's the hormones lying to him. sometimes i shake things up and say they're telling him the truth.#cos has always been hot but i didn't notice until his quiet rizz grew on me. at which point he became distractingly nice to look at#like hello?? this guy has fluffy hair and grey-brown eyes and laughter bursts out of him like gurgling creek water#this has always been true i just was not paying attention. now im paying attention!!#been together for over a year now and yeah im still head over heels for this guy. cos. you mean the world to me#coughs. um ok im going to bed now goodnight tri-state area#love#humans#advice#good things
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this just looks extremely uncomfortable...
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☆ secretary!reader first interview/introduction into the company with ceo!rafe
You’re nervous. Rafe can see that. In the way your pretty teeth dig into the plushy flesh of your lip—in the way your fingers are fidgeting with your skirt, or twirling at your hair. Your feet squirming slightly under the seat, heels clicking faintly against the ground with your movements.
God.
He keeps his reaction to himself, instead just smirking slightly as he leans back in his chair. You’re beautiful and he knows he’s gonna hire you anyway, honestly, but he’s enjoying watching you like this.
“So, Miss Y/L/N,” Rafe begins, his voice deep and drawling and blank to anything he’s thinking. He keeps his eyes dead set on you, the intensity of his stare making your thighs clench lightly despite yourself: the action causes your cheeks to heat a bit, this could be your boss! but Rafe just smirks wider, not outwardly acknowledging, “why do you want to work for Cameron development?”
You blow out a little breath, Rafe’s eyes dropping down to the movement of your chest with it, before you natter on about why (even though all that’s really in your head now is because you’re ridiculously hot and I would kill for you to bend me over this desk)
Rafe listens, finding with genuine surprise that he’s not bored. He does this shit too often—interviewing new people. Ever since he took over the business, he’s wanted more workers, more people, expand the business etc. Improve—he’s proactive like that. But fuck him sideways, people are just boring. But you’re impressive, and likeable, and okay maybe he’s already a little bias because of your pretty pretty face and the way your business casual look hugs your body—he wants to touch but he’s enjoying listening. Your voice is sweet, he thinks, he wants it right in his ear, to feel your breath against his skin—as he watches your lips move with your words.
Idly wondering how they would look sucking at his skin. Bitten between his teeth. What flavour lip balm do you use? Your lips are shiny. Distractingly so. He wants to taste, now. Touch, taste, feel.
Once you finish speaking, his eyes flicker back up to yours lazily. Like he wants you to see he’s been admiring you, like he doesn’t care that you can sense his probing stares. It shouldn’t be attractive, but it is.
He gives you an approving nod, still smirking faintly. He leans forward in his seat, one large ringed hand sliding a few forms over your way but remains leaned in even after he’s passed them.
“Welcome to Cameron’s development, Miss Y/L/N.” He drawls your last name like a secret and a promise all at once, smirk widening.
You blink, face scrunching in confusion, “That’s all?”
He huffs a small gruff laugh, nodding his assent. “That’s all.” Rafe repeats, slightly amused and almost mocking as he tilts his hand and looks at you.
Your stomach flutters despite yourself. “Shouldn’t there—“
“Ah-ah.” Rafe cuts you off, raising a brow. The smirk on his face never leaving but becoming more pointed now. “I’ve got full reign over my company. My people. And I want you to be my secretary, ain’t matter how much I ask you. I want you. ‘Kay? Be happy, you got the job.”
His voice is deep, slow and firm. A man who knows he’s in control. Knows he’s the boss. Thrives off it in that quietly confident way. The look in his pretty eyes is vaguely dark, but almost amused, that smirk that’s causing your heart to fucking palpate always seeming to be on his mouth. He says ‘I want you’ with such a sure, subtly sly tone that it makes you forget you’re even at a job interview for a moment—that this man, this outrageously attractive guy, is going to be your boss. It makes your belly flutter with heat and you grip your thighs in your hands, actively fighting against the urge to squeeze them together like a desperate whore instead of the professional, polite woman you’re trying to be. That you are.
“Thank you, Mr. Cameron.” You say then, smiling sweetly. Excited, curious, apprehensive and nervous all at once. This was a lot easier (and more erotic) than you expected. Your voice is soft and polite as you tentatively reach forward and slide the paperwork your way.
Rafe chuckles again, rough and pleased, his eyes never leaving you—he leans back a little, his hand gives the back of yours a feather light brush as he hands the paperwork off. You bite back a sound. “Welcome to the team.” He welcomes you again, his smirk morphing into an arrogant grin.
You hate that you think that’s hot.
“Glad to be part of it.”
He smiles without much warmth, his foot brushing against yours from under his desk. He moves it unhurriedly, not apologising, like he wants you to feel it. Him. Not doing anything but watch you with the look that’s making your belly turn and flutter.
Shit.
#rafe#rafe cameron#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron concepts#rafe cameron blurb#rafe x reader#rafe imagine#rafe cameron imagine#rafe outer banks#rafe fic#obx rafe#obx x reader#outerbanks x reader
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AVOIDANCE - LN4



summary : Lando can’t help but keep his on you. You’re beautiful, talented, sharp as nails… just enough to wreck him. That doesn’t change the fact that he wants you. In fact, it only motivates him more.
listen up : daniel riccardo cadillac teammate!! 21st team. if you didn’t know, i have a driver x lando fic up on wattpad! i kinda wanna re write it bc i miss it so much and think it could be sm better! anyway i hope you like this!!
words : 6850
⋆。‧˚⋆
Tate Mcrae’s ‘Just Keep Watching’ blasted through the speakers just as the podium trophies were awarded to the top three.
Miami was hot and grueling for all the drivers, but specifically the finishers of P2 and P3.
Carlos and Alex stood below, watching their co workers get awarded, soon joined the newest addition to this season. “So what’s the deal with Lando and-”
He didn’t even need to finish, the two men already knew the name that would ghost his lips. “He’s in love with her, what else?” Alex said, crossing his arms to watch Lando pop his champagne.
The crowd screams made Carlos correct Alex even louder, “He’s got a crush on her!” They watched as Oscar sprayed Lando’s back, Lando trying to retaliate but failing due to the amount of champagne in his eyes.
“Always has!” Alex added, a flash of a silver race suit catches the crowds attention, the suit less important than who’s wearing it- someone that’s becoming more familiar to the top steps these days. “It’s been going on for years…”
Franco frowned, bringing his water bottle to his lips just as she faked Lando out with her bottle of champagne just to drink it, looking him dead in the eye while doing it. “She doesn’t know?”
Carlos and Alex stared at Franco, poor, innocent, fresh blood, Franco… He had no clue how far their story went, no idea what has gone down. Alex and Carlos both sigh, knowing far too much about their twisted little dynamic, “Oh she knows…” Alex mumbled.
“He doesn’t care that she knows and hasn’t done anything?” Franco looked so shocked at this that it almost made Carlos laugh.
“Oh no… I think it turns him on even more.”
⋆༺
I hate fish
I hate gin
I hate paper cuts
I hate losing
I hate Lando Norris.
And yet, the smile that tugs at his lips while he watches me pour the winning liquid down my throat, makes me think- only for a second, how could I ever hate him?
Him and his stupid freckles. Him and his bloody need to make space for himself in my life.
I stopped hating Lando a while ago. It lingers in my thoughts sometimes, but I'm pretty sure it’s a reflection of how I feel about myself.
“Don’t give me that look, sev.” We’re still standing on the podium, the shaken champagne dropping low in Oscars hands. “Come out with us tonight.”
“P3 isn’t a celebration for me.” I say flatly, ignoring the nickname he’s pinned on me since getting one glance at the number 7 in our karting days.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t still party.” The way his lips curve makes my heart race faster, something I'll tell myself is just the adrenaline from the race.
“You’re coming to the party?” Oscar says brightly, shining in bubbly as he wipes his eyes.
I nod, keeping it short and standing on the top step with the boys with me, smiling for the cameras, wondering how different it will be when I actually stand up here alone.
“Oh so you’ll come with Osc but not me?” Lando holds his trophy, waving to the crowd distractingly.
“Of course I will, I like him more than you.” I’m not lying, not really. I don’t miss the way Lando’s jaw tenses, only a split second that could be missed by a blink before he goes back to smiling and slapping Oscar on the back.
⋆༺
I do go with Oscar, sitting in the back of the car while my pregame shot sets in and Oscar rattles away on the phone with Lily.
The club is just what I expected, maybe just what I needed. Alex sees me first, making me genuinely smile while dragging me over to the others. He’s awfully happy for the circumstances of his race.
Daniel is doing shots with Max, probably celebrating his return to F1 for the millionth time. Isack, Pierre, and Ollie pull me into their conversation immediately after congratulating me. The two frenchmen are explaining football rivalries to Ollie, who sips his drink and gives me confused looks once and a while.
It’s just about the time when I'm drowning out the boys and wondering why I'm not drinking yet, when I see him. Lando walks across the floor with Franco by his side, he’s in all black, his curls grown out and a drink in each hand.
Franco leans in to Lando after they both notice me. While Franco talks, Lando’s eyes are on me. On my legs, on my heels, on my scrap of a top. They’re still on me when Franco stops talking. His reaction is a mix of laughter and uncertainty, his eyes darting away from me in the middle of his response. That’s how I know it’s about me.
“Fran, I’d rather you talk about me to my face.” Franco laughs at this, pulling me into a side hug as I mess up his hair.
“Start drinking before he keeps talking, it helps.” Lando hands me one of the drinks in his hands. It’s a martini. I pause before I take it and as if he reads my mind, he says, “Vodka, not gin.”
Everyone around us starts yelling and clapping at the exact same time. Making me pull my eyes from Lando and to Oscar, who smiles shyly at the welcome.
“Our race winner!” Lando holds up his glass, he’s so chill, an easy smile on his lips even though we all know people could have been saying that to him.
I love being with the rest of the grid, even if my intention last year was to have no friends, only enemies. My words clearly hasn’t panned out well because each of them has weaseled their way into my heart, new and old.
The only thing I dislike about being out with them is that women flock to us. I mean, the girls are pretty and usually nice, but it also means that my friends are pulled away by mini skirts and bras.
Don’t get me wrong, guys find me as well. It’s just that the ones that do happen to have a lot of confidence, walking into a crowd of fit F1 men who would likely fight for my honor… they happen to fall in the category that I call: False drunken confidence and eyes for my tits only.
So I stay away from the thirsty guys and stick with the ones who are alone due to the lack of their girlfriend not being here. Lando is always with us even though, to my knowledge, Lando is very single.
I’ve seen him flirt with girls, letting them slip their hands to his hair and kissing his neck cheekily. I’ve seen him wave goodbye with a pretty blonde on his arm, but never, in my two years in formula one, have I ever gone out and had Lando not talk to me.
“That girl is staring you down like you’re edible.” Pierre sips his drink, nodding to the blonde girl who is doing just what he said.
Lando looks at her, not flirty or teasing, just blinks before looking back at Pierre, “She looks about nineteen.”
“She’s twenty one.” Franco says, making us all look at him, “What? I talked to her.” I raise my brow at him just as the others mumble words of disbelief, “Okay- I made out with her.” He rolls his eyes.
“Great. I don’t want your sloppy seconds, sounds paddock bunny like.” Lando shakes his head, leaning back into the couch and slipping his arm around the back of it- around the back of where I'm sitting.
His jacket is over my legs, Lando saw the length of my skirt and my frown when everyone else sat and so easily handed it to me without another word.
Franco starts fidgeting in his seat, “I need to dance, who’s with me?” None of the guys move. He turns to me, smiling ear to ear and holding out a hand, “My queen.”
I almost say no simply because I hate the nickname the grid has dubbed me. I’m the only woman on the grid, something a bit awkward to navigate sometimes, but also something that the other drivers acknowledge but never really talk about.
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you dance with Lando instead.” Ollie says suddenly, making my eyes narrow and Lando drag his hand over his face.
“I’d give a hundred bucks to not do that.” I stand, throwing Lando’s jacket beside him and making him peak up at me. I don’t mean to sound so mean, but I don’t really know how else to respond to that.
Not when I know he wants me to say yes, not for money or jokes, either.
“Why will you dance with Franco and not Lando? Either is ending up posted somewhere tomorrow.” Carlos just has to remind me of the existence of phones and social media.
I take Franco’s hand, “Franco likes older women.” He grins at this.
“You are older than him!” Lando laughs, his eyes meeting mine and shining green in the strobe lights.
I can’t help but smirk, shrugging and tugging the younger man away, “C’mon, Fran.”
⋆༺
My free week is spent with training, getting coffee with Alex’s girlfriend, and trying to calm my mind by reading.
I’m back in the air too soon, flying with Max and Daniel who surprise me with a special guest… Lando. Flying with my teammate and basically his husband means that Lando and I are third and fourth wheeling.
I’m curled up in my seat, headphones on and book in hand while the boys play some card game. “Sev!” I hear Lando scream, making me pull of my headphones and hum in response.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Max asks as if they wouldn’t know the second a guy even asked me out.
“No. Why?”
Daniel grins, looking over his seat at me, “I have someone for you.”
My eyes narrow, “If it’s Lando, the answer is no.”
I see the brit frown, mumbling, “Why not?”
“It’s not Lando.” Daniel says, making Lando physically react and sitting up straight to look at his friend, “He’s a driver-”
“Immediately no.”
Max laughs out loud while Daniel rolls his eyes, “It’s rally-”
“Absolutely not.” Lando scoffs, earning a suspicious look from me.
“You have no say in this, buddy.” Max tugs the hood of Lando’s hoodie over his head, Lando shoving him right back.
“I have a girl for you, Lando.” I say, crossing my legs to get more comfortable in the two seats I’m taking up.
“Is it you?” He shoots back quickly.
“No.”
“Then I don’t want her.” He says it teasingly but his eyes are on me, his usual smirk gone.
None of the guys flirt with me except for Lando. Franco has said some joking remarks but apart from some drunken compliments, they’re like my brothers. Not Lando though, never Lando.
I’ve known him since karting as the nerdy little boy who liked all of my instagram pictures and fought me on track. Now he’s the nerdy formula one driver who’s annoyingly hot and wildly confusing, still fighting me on track.
Daniel whistles slowly, my eyes pulling away from Lando and back to my book. His eyes stay on me, I can fucking feel it.
They go back to their game and when we land in Italy, I leave that plane with one plan in mind: beating them.
⋆༺
“Hey sev.” I’m not happy to hear him, or see him. Except the way he looks might help a little bit.
“Fuck off, Norris.” He shouldn’t even be near the Cadillac garage.
My lap got deleted so I'll be starting P15. Lando’s P4 and even he’s upset about it. I’d give anything to switch with him.
He doesn’t roll his eyes, just crosses his arms and leans closer. “Be nice to me, you rejected me on the plane.”
I blink. “I always reject you.”
He nudges my arm, looking away to scan the paddock before sighing, “God forbid a man speak his truth.”
“What do you want, Lan?”
“You?” He grins ear to ear and I hate that it makes me smile. “Hold on!” He opens his phone and puts it up to my face.
“What!?”
He pockets his phone, “Just a reminder that I can still make you smile.”
“Still?” I raise my brow.
“Don’t act like we didn’t cry laugh back in karting.”
“Seven years ago!”
“And I stick with my feelings.”
Someone whistles behind us, “Ay, lover boy!” It’s Daniel, he’s grinning like an idiot next to a sky sports camera man.
I push Lando away but he grabs my hand to pull me back, “You’re gonna start rumors.” I say, very aware of the cameras on us.
He doesn’t miss a beat, “Go out with me and then they won’t be rumors, just facts.”
⋆༺
I don’t date drivers. I did once. Never again will I go back to that. There’s many reasons for him specifically, but a relevant one for anyone on the grid is that social media sees something and runs with it.
Lando isn’t shy when talking about me, he’s never openly said he thinks i’m hot on camera but the way he talks to me, the subtle flirty words that get picked up in cooldown rooms… we have a fucking ship name now.
Sour. Seven with Four; also a hint at how I feel about this little hashtag. Technically it’s pronounced ‘soar’ but I like Sour much more.
It’s gone so far that even the other drivers will address us as Sour, even though there’s never a real need to group us together, they think it’s hilarious.
The race goes okay from my position, ending up P7 and checking in on Kimi who couldn’t finish his home race. The weekend goes back so fast that the next thing I know, i’m on that fucking plane again.
I’m watching the race back when Lando sits across from me, closing my screen without saying anything.
I pull the red vine out of my mouth, “The fuck- Norris!”
“You’re over analyzing.” He puts his feet up on my chair, wearing sweats and bright red socks.
“I’m trying to get better.”
“Seeing every tiny mistake you make isn’t gonna win you races.” He says flatly, “I would know.”
“At least you’ve won a race.”
“Talk to me when you’re six years in and not two in a brand new team.” He reaches over and grabs a red vine before slouching in his seat, his curls pressing against the leather.
I breathe out, “I want to win.”
“Then beat Max. Beat Oscar- Beat me!” He shrugs, biting into the candy. “Just chill on the race stuff when we’re 40,000 feet in the air.”
“What do you propose I do instead?”
“Um… Watch Crazy Rich Asians like a normal person? Talk to me? Drink champagne. Play strip poker-”
“Lando!”
He’s laughing now, “Sorry! I had to! It’s just… every second of every day is about racing for us, which is good, keeping us focused right? But I've seen people burnout…” He glances back at Danny who’s laughing with Max, “It’s not fun.”
I cross my arms, smiling a bit. “You just want me to talk to you.”
The corner of his lip tugs upwards, “I want you to beat me.”
“Don’t tell me it’s a kink of yours.”
He full on laughs now, making my stomach twist. Lando stands, coming over to my side and sitting next to me just to open computer, “I’ll give you my netflix password.”
As soon as we land, Daniel and I have to go to a Cadillac event together. He drives while I do my makeup in the passenger seat, “So… you and Lando talked like- the whole flight.”
“It was short.”
He hums, rocking his shoulders, “Sure but an hour is a long time to talk non-stop.”
“We’re friends.” I rub my lips together, touching up my lip liner.
Daniel lets out a laugh while I pop open my lipgloss, “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear that.”
“Will you shut it? We are.”
I can hear how unconvinced he is in the tone of his voice, “Friends who flirt.”
“Lando flirts with me for fun- he knows people think it’s funny.”
Daniel glances at me, speechless for a second. “You can’t honestly believe he’s saying that shit for laughs… right?”
⋆༺
Being with girls after spending every moment of my day competing with men is like running through a field of daisies. Alexandra and Lily make me feel so refreshed and happy, even during a triple header!
We walk along the Monaco harbor, saying which yacht we would want or what we would name them, before heading out to get lunch.
The place is unbelievably packed, making us all realize that we need to get better at planning and me to get over my fear of making reservations.
I swear, I think i’m imagining his voice at first. But then, a head of dark curls and tanned body comes into view, “Hey pretty!”
Lando already has a table because- of course he does. When Lando greets us, it’s like the waitress gains consciousness and realizes who I am. I’m somehow dragged to a table with Lando and his best friend, Max Fewtrell. The five of us sit at a table for three.
Alex leaves midway through our drinks, having to go earlier than expected which leaves Lily and I, who are only able to laugh at who sits across from us.
The table is less crowded now and surprisingly, we get on pretty well. Although I do think it’s mostly Max and his cheery personality.
He’s genuinely hilarious and any tension that I expected is soon forgotten about after we order. Someone comes up and asks for a picture with Lando and I. We do it but I can’t help but cringe at the thought of #sourhavinglunchtogether going viral.
Not one moment goes by where we’re not talking, every breath overtaken by someone else’s thoughts on whatever topic we bring up. Lily takes a selfie to send to Alex who promptly sends a million laughing emojis.
After the millionth time that Max makes me laugh, Lando speaks up, half joking, half serious. “Why do you like all my friends more than me?”
“Maybe because they don’t hit on me every chance they get.” Now i’m half joking and half serious.
He’s quiet the rest of the lunch, popping in jokes as usual but something’s off and he’s horrible at hiding it.
Alex picks up Lily after our lunch, saying hello quickly before taking his girlfriend away from me. Max is on the phone when Lando awkwardly comes up to me.
“You know, If I make you uncomfortable… I’ll stop.” It comes out of nowhere. For a second, I don’t know what he means, but then I remember my remark about him hitting on me and it clicks.
I cringe, hating this conversation already. Do I want him to stop? Do I really just like it because of the attention? Or because it’s coming from him?
He looks worried- like he’s scared that he’s actually crossed a line. “You don’t make me uncomfortable- I just… don’t get it.”
His brows furrow, his hands in his pockets and his eyes too green for this world. His voice is serious when he says it, “You don’t get why I hit on you?”
I don’t know what to say to that. I always know what to say- especially to him. But now… he’s looking at me as if the last two years have been a joke at his expense.
Max joins us right before I can answer, saying something about his girlfriend and how he needs to head back. I just nod along, still looking over to Lando who won’t face me.
⋆༺
Monaco is cloudy today and I'm suddenly very glad I picked out jeans and a sweater for this morning. I’ve spent the week on runs, doing press, and meeting up with some old friends. It’s been a quiet few days, something surprising since it’s still race week. I tap my pass against the entrance, expecting to hear the usual chime of acceptance, but when I start to walk, I'm stopped by metal.
I frown and try again, but no luck. I’m about to try for a third time when, it finally chimes. But it’s not my paddock pass that slides against the machine with ease, I can tell just by the large veiny hand that holds it.
I look back to see his face and my stomach does that thing again- he’s so close and for a second, I'm swallowed whole by a mess of curls and beauty marks.
That second is soon over because without so much as looking at me, he nods to the people inside and says, “Go.”
I mumble a quick thanks before moving through the metal and into the paddock. I try not to make a face, aware of the amount of cameras on me, but what the fuck is going on?
Lando’s been avoiding me.
This has never happened before… I haven’t talked to him all week and it’s already Saturday. Well, unless you count that encounter that has me blushing and cringing all at once.
No. Sorry- No. Not blushing. My cheeks are just red from the sun… the sun on a cold and cloudy day.
⋆༺
“Are you okay?” Daniel asks, standing in the doorframe of my drivers room while i’m spread out on my couch.
“I’m great.” I mumble because, I am! P2 in quali. In Monaco! I should be way happier than I am.
“Are you sure…?”
“Do you think Lando’s mad at me?” I don’t look at him when I say it, I can’t. It’s wholly too embarrassing.
I can practically hear the way his eyebrows raise, “I don’t think so. Has he been acting differently?”
I sit up, “Today he apologized for walking past me.” He had his hand on my waist so I wouldn’t fall or panic. He was in a rush, but snatched his hand away the second I looked back at who was moving so fast.
“Basic etiquette?”
I laugh, “Not for Lando.”
“Well, do you want me to ask? Maybe he’s just locked in for tomorrow.”
“No!” I scramble, “No that’s okay! I don’t care. It’s good like this, quiet.”
Daniel just smiles and leaves me alone.
The truth is, I can’t do this anymore. I spent the whole of Saturday looking for him. What the fuck has happened to me?
When I run into him- yes, physically, On sunday morning, I spit it out. “What’s wrong with you?”
He blinks, “Sorry?”
We’re both in our race suits, orange and silver are not a good pair. “You’ve been weird this whole week- can you like act normal? Did something happen?”
He starts to say something but stops before it can come out. “I thought you wanted this.”
I’m the confused one now. “What?”
He looks around but no one’s close enough to hear, “I mean, the whole thing at lunch. You said you don’t like it when I hit on you and it’s really hard not to hit on you-”
“I told you it didn't make me uncomfortable.”
“Max said something about it too and then that post…” He trails off, like he’s scared to make me uncomfortable again.
A post went viral of all the reasons why Lando and I are secretly dating. It’s shit and honestly, a good laugh, but not that serious.
“It’s fine.” I cross my arms instinctively, “I thought you were mad at me.”
Lando rolls his eyes and when he looks back at me, I can feel the shift in the air. “Don’t tell me you’ve missed the flirting.”
“No!” I say a bit louder than necessary, “It’s just- your fans have noticed.”
He’s grinning now, stepping closer. “My fans?”
I need to shut up. I turn sharply and start walking away, “Bye, Norris.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Beat me today, Sev!”
I don't beat him. I give him some pressure on the last five laps- but Lando Norris wins Monaco and looks absolutely fucking beautiful while doing it.
It reminds me of Miami- he can’t stop smiling.
Me, Lando, and Oscar walk off the podium still laughing. Lando picks me up suddenly, his arms around my waist and making me scream. He shakes out his hair onto me- not as if it matters considering I'm soaked in just as much champagne as he is.
“Put me d- Awh the back says your guys’ names in cursive! You look like you’re getting married!” I laugh.
“I will keep you in air jail if you keep talking shit about our suits.”
He keeps me trapped against him until we get to the bottom of the stairs. Oscar gives me a look which distracts me so when Lando sets me down, I almost fall.
His hand grabs my waist, my suit unzipped and his skin far too close to touching mine. “I’m not talking shit. The white looks good.”
He grins. “Did you just say I look good?”
I roll my eyes, “I take it back, I want you to avoid me again.” I push him away, his touch leaving me while he smiles.
“You’re a horrible liar.” He nudges my arm, “Come on, admit it. You missed me.”
I scoff, “I did not!”
“Then why did you beg me to talk to you again?”
“I did not beg you-”
“You can admit it, Sev. You’re in love with me. That’s okay! We can date in secret and watch our ship edits in bed with our dog.”
My jaw actually drops. He’s ridiculous. “Our dog?”
He points at me, walking away backwards while his PR manager says something to him. “You being shocked about the animal and not everything else I said tells me all I need to know!”
⋆༺
“You can’t be tired!” Carlos snaps his fingers in front of my face, “You’re supposed to be the young one!”
I can’t believe they’ve managed to drag me out to a club. Sure, I like to party- but not during a triple header! I’m partially discouraged from going because almost every guy brought their girlfriend and Lando won’t be there to keep my single ass company.
The moment I think I want Lando with me is the same moment that I grab Alexandra and Rebecca, dragging them to the dance floor much to the dismay of their boyfriends.
We laugh and sing and swing our hips until they are dragged away by said boyfriends.
“Our queen!” Alex laughs when I pass him and Carlos, who bows.
Franco is all up on some girl which makes me promptly turn around and head to the bar. “Just a water, thanks.” I say to the bartender.
“Nothing stronger?” Someone says next to me. He’s the definition of tall, dark and handsome.
I fake a laugh, trying to be polite at the obvious attempt to start talking to me. “Nope.”
“Can I get you something?” He asks, turning towards me now.
My smile falters, “Waters free.”
He holds up his drink, swirling it around in the glass before holding it under my nose. I almost gag, tapping the counter and wondering where my water is.
“Come on, let loose!” He laughs and I suddenly hate how close he is to me. “Have you ever had a gin and tonic?” I’m immediately forced back to the memory of why my hatred of gin started. Yes, Max Verstappen is to blame.
“She hates gin.” The voice doesn’t make me roll my eyes like usual, in fact, a wave of relief washes over me.
His arm slips around my shoulders, looking up at the man who frowns at the sight of Lando.
The bartender finally hands me my water. “Sorry mate- didn’t know she belonged to you.”
Lando eyes him up and down, disgusted at his words, “Fuck off.”
He leaves with a quick, uncomfortable, smile. Lando turns to me, his arm still around me and pulling us close. “Nice skirt.”
“Nice attitude. You’re good at faking the whole protective thing.”
He smirks, “Faking?”
“I thought you were at the princes dinner, winner.” His nose scrunches at the last word.
“It’s one in the morning, sev. Royalty doesn’t stay up that late- well, except for you.” He winks and my heart speeds up, the bartender sliding him a drink to match mine.
“Couldn’t miss out on the party?”
“Well, I heard you were here and couldn’t resist.” He shrugs, his arm falling from my shoulder to grab his water. “Anyone drunk yet?”
“No but i’m pretty sure Franco is fucking a girl at our table…” This makes him laugh and once again, i’m reminded how lucky I am to even be around him, “Do you want to dance?” I say it fast, like maybe if it’s quick then he won’t hear me.
He does. He looks surprised but not ready to risk me saying no. Taking my hand, Lando downs the rest of his water and pulls me onto the dance floor.
I’m not drunk. I haven’t even had a sip of anything- but I feel like I'm fucking floating with him.
We dance for a while- too long, probably. I end up back with Daniel and Oscar at the table, drinking water and laughing with them.
Carlos joins us after I sit and I don’t think before saying, “Do you where Lando is?” I don’t miss the look that Oscar and Daniel share, I just chose to ignore it.
Carlos just shrugs, “He went home with some girl.”
⋆༺
I always forget how hard triple headers hit me until I’m woken up by Daniel because I fell asleep in my driver room.
Spain is much hotter than Monaco, more crowded too. The fans here are insane and I absolutely love it. I’m scheduled for a press conference with Lando and Esteban, something i’m almost late for because of my impromptu nap.
I sit on the side, Esteban in the middle of Lando and I. I sit through every boring question they ask Esteban and every irrelevant question they ask Lando.
One question is finally directed at me, “Do you think your lack of wins is due to the space being dominated by men?” My heart races immediately. I hate getting asked these questions obviously but in front of a million cameras and the other drivers, it’s even worse. “We’ve seen you get emotional on track- you really believe you’ll be able to beat someone so mentally tough like say, Max or Oscar?”
I’m not embarrassed now, just angry. The moderator tries to cut in, along with Esteban and Lando, but I get there first. “I’m not emotional, I just love my sport. Along with every other driver on the grid who shares everything with me except for the fact that they have something between their legs-”
I swear I hear Lando laugh.
“As for the lack of wins, I'd like you to try and go up against the current top three drivers in the world who have cars and years of experience to back them.” I shift in my seat, sitting up with my mic closer to my lips, “In other words, I have my seat due to the same reason that will win me races someday soon. I wasn’t a diversity hire, I am the best for the job, unlike you who clearly needs to go back and learn how to ask appropriate questions.”
Everyone is silent, the man who said the question is staring at me. I know my cheeks are red and despite my confident rant, I feel like I want to cry.
Lando’s the first to speak, “Can we get him out of here?”
Lando’s waiting for me when I leave the conference room. Leaning against the opposite wall, his water bottle in hand and his ankles crossed. He stands up straight when he sees me, “Hey!” I start walking down the hallway, needing to just get out of there. He follows.
“You handled that really well.” I mumble a thanks in response, staring at my feet as we walk, “He was a dickhead. You ripped him a new one though I'm really impressed- Like really, I’m proud of you!”
I stop walking before we walk out the door, turning to him and wrapping my arms around the man. It takes a second before he’s hugging me back, his hand slipping to my back.
I take a deep breath. Lando smells like mint shampoo and something sweet, pulling me tighter to him. He feels like relief.
“Are you okay?” He backs up a bit, keeping his hands on me.
I nod, “Thank you.”
He scrunches his nose, “For what?”
“You’re a really good friend, Lan.”
He drops his hands after I call him a friend, slipping them into his pockets. God he looks too good for friendship- hat backwards with curls peaking out, his nose scar perfectly across his nose. Why are scars so hot!?
“So are you.” He says hesitantly.
I scramble for something to say- any topic would do, honestly. I just need him to stop looking at me like that. “You know, I was left to dance with Franco the other night.”
He sways on his heels, “Couldn’t have been that bad, you’ve done it before.”
“Hope it was worth it.”
His eyes narrow, “Hope what was worth it?”
“She. The girl you left with.”
He smiles- actually smiles! It’s heartbreaking, too pretty for this world. “Who told you that?” My heart drops. “Are you jealous or something?”
“What! No!” I’m going to kill Carlos.
He laughs, “Horrible liar, sev.”
“I am not jealous.” I scoff, “You’re the jealous one… Fuck off I probably have to go do crisis management for my little spiel.” I flip him off as I walk away.
He shakes his head, walking the opposite way as me, I’m about to turn the corner when he says it, “Sev! For the record, no girl is worth more than you are.”
⋆༺
Oscar Piastri.
Lando Norris.
Me.
Our qualifying lineup for the Spanish grand prix.
Starting behind two mclarens- starting behind Lando! I’m in for a hell of a race. All I can do is pray for a miracle and trust myself.
I do trust myself, I trust myself when I send it at the restart, passing Lando. I trust myself in the last three laps, shaving my proximity to Oscar down.
I trust myself when, during the last lap- I pass him. It’s risky and for a second I'm scared that I could get a penalty… but then, there’s no one in front of me.
The checkered flag is all I see and suddenly my race engineer is yelling in my ear and I think I'm crying.
The second I get out of the car, I'm bombarded with people around me. Everyone’s congratulating me at once, Lewis high-fiving me at the same time Yuki pats my back.
Everything is the perfect about of overwhelming, Oscar hugging me, Carlos screaming while Ollie pulls his phone out to video.
My team embraces me with a million arm pats and tears, Daniel kisses my cheek before hugging me, whispering how well I did.
I don’t see Lando until the cooldown room. We’re the first ones there and he scoops me up as if I weigh nothing.
It’s different than our hug the other day- we’re both grinning ear to ear and when he tells me how proud he is of me, again, I tug him closer.
I pull away first. “You beat me. Is this something I'm gonna have to get used to or…?” I laugh and push him away when Oscar enters.
“Get a room.” He mumbles.
“We’re in one.” Lando rolls his eyes, unzipping his suit.
Oscar frowns, “I’m not keen to join.” I laugh harder.
⋆༺
We go to dinner. Not the club or a bar, a proper nice dinner with everyone I love in my life. My grid.
I sit in between Daniel and Lando, eating Pasta and laughing way too hard for this nice restaurant.
At some point, one of the rookies starts talking dating and we immediately fall into a rabbit hole of everyone’s dating life.
“What about you Lando? Is that playboy reputation real?” Kimi asks, making Lando laugh and shake his head- yeah right.
“I don’t really date…” He shrugs, “but I'm not a slut.”
I can’t hold in my laugh, “Right.”
“Right, what?”
“The whole of Monaco has seen your-”
“I need air.” Is all he says, standing up and walking right out the door.
I look around, the table quiet and tension thick.
“What’d I say?” No one answers, “Lando does date. Right?”
They all either mumble something or shake their head. “Hello…? Am I missing something? Why wouldn’t Lando date?”
It’s Franco who says it. “It’s probably because Lando’s been in love with you for years and you still think it’s some joke.”
I didn’t think it was possible for this table to get even more uncomfortable. Yet here we are.
Pierre hits Franco in the back of the head, they’re all staring at me. Expecting me to do something.
I put my fork down, standing up and leaving the way Lando did. There’s no way… Sure I knew he had a crush but he still hooked up with other girls! Whenever I dated, which wasn’t often, he’d send a glare to the man but left us alone.
Love? Lando Norris is not in love with me.
I rush out the door, seeing Lando standing in the hot night air, “I need to know why you did all of it.”
He turns around, surprised to see me, apparently. “All of what-”
“The flirting! The comments! Everything! Lando- You can’t actually like me.” I can’t breathe.
He makes me wait an agonizing two seconds, his mouth parted as he meets my eyes. “Why else would I do it, Sev?” His voice is soft and it reminds me that he’s never raised it at me.
“But you… you were joking.” The look he gives me right there… like he’s shocked I could ever think that, I’ll never forget it.
He breathes out, shaking his head like it physically hurts him to say, “I’m not stupid, sev… I know you don’t fancy me. Maybe some of the shit I said was in a joking way but I've never taken it back.”
I pause, getting madder by the second. “You are stupid. You teased me and flirted and basically wasted all of your energy on wanting me.” He doesn’t look hurt, just like he’s accepted it. “You can’t just not date because of me! You started a million rumors just by the way you look at me! You told my mom when you were thirteen that you would marry me one day! God- Norris!” I huff, running my hands through my hair like a maniac. I look at him, swallowing. He’s so beautiful, how could he ever not chose someone because of me? “The worst bit is that you let yourself think that the reason you’re stupid is because you didn’t give up.”
He doesn’t even process what I've said, “You’re right. I’m an idiot.”
“No.” It’s almost a laugh. “I am. I’m an idiot for never seeing how much you actually cared. And for pretending like I didn’t feel the same.”
His eyes dart to me. “What?” It’s no more than a whisper.
“I’m sorry for taking so much time- I think I really like you and I have for a while.” We both freeze, the only sound being our breaths and the faint voices from inside.
“Please tell me I'm not dreaming.” He steps closer to me, his hands drifting over my hips as I laugh.
I look up at him, “What would you do if it was a dream?”
He’s shaking his head now, “I’d never wake up.” And then he’s kissing me. Soft, careful… like I might break.
I grab his face and hold him tight. I’m never letting go of him now.
“This is the best day of my life.” I mumble into the kiss, making him laugh, “Beat Lando Norris and kissed him, save the date.”
He pushes a strand of hair out of my face, “Took you long enough.” Lando winks before kissing me again. I can’t believe I never knew what he tasted like, how perfect he feels against me.
He glances back to the door, “Ready?”
“To get ruthlessly teased? Sure.”
He takes my hand in his, “Worth it.”
When we walk back in, all Lando has to say is, “Don’t say a fucking thing.” They’re quiet for a moment, surprising us both, but then the whole table erupts in laughter and cheers. My family.
#formula 1 fanfic#fanfic#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#f1 fanfic#f1 fic#lando norris fanfic#lando norris#lando x reader#lando imagine#lando x you
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𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛
in which paige embraces being a wag
You always knew Paige Bueckers had the heart of a champion. But what you didn’t expect—what still knocks the breath out of you every time you look up into the stands and see her there, blonde hair tucked under a cap, jersey swapped for a soft hoodie and that signature lopsided smile—was that she’d choose to be your champion, too.
Every match.
Every single one.
No matter the city. No matter the time zone. No matter how brutal her own schedule gets with practices, team meetings, and flights back to Dallas—she’s there.
You spot her before the match today, just like always. She’s sitting in the third row, front and center, in the VIP section of the clay court in Madrid. Her phone’s already out, filming your warm-ups with a proud grin that makes your chest swell.
She catches your eye, points to her shirt, and mouths, “I wore your name today.”
Sure enough, she’s in one of your sponsor-branded hoodies. Custom-made. “(Y/L/N)” stretched across the back in clean lettering, a small tennis racket stitched into the sleeve.
You shake your head with a laugh, failing to hide the way your heart lifts at the sight of her. Paige Bueckers, WNBA star and America’s basketball sweetheart, acting like you’re the one to be starstruck over.
She’s your biggest fan. By far. And she doesn’t try to hide it.
The match is tight. Long rallies, tense points, sun beating down as you slide across the baseline, lungs burning. But every time you look over, Paige is on her feet. Applauding. Cheering. Shouting “LET’S GOOOOO, BABY!” loud enough that even the commentator mics catch it.
Sometimes you worry she’ll get kicked out for being too supportive.
Between sets, while you towel off and sip from your water bottle, your gaze flicks to her again. She holds up a little sign she must’ve made while you weren’t looking. In big bold letters:
“YOU SERVE, I SIMP.”
You choke on your water.
She winks.
You end up winning in a three-set grind that leaves your legs jelly and your chest tight with disbelief. The crowd erupts. But it’s her face you find first—radiant, thrilled, like she’s the one who just made it through match point.
The moment the final ball is called out and you collapse onto the bench, Paige is already weaving through the crowd, flashing her player pass like it’s a VIP badge to your heart.
She doesn’t care about the cameras. Doesn’t care about the reporters lining up for post-match interviews. She ducks under the rope and wraps her arms around you from behind, burying her face in your sweaty neck.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, voice thick. “You were amazing out there. That backhand in the second set? Babe. Literal art.”
You laugh into her shoulder, body aching but whole.
“You flew in from Dallas last night,” you murmur, kissing her cheek. “I don’t even know how you’re still standing.”
“I’m running on pure love and admiration,” she says, dead serious. “And also three Red Bulls.”
You pull away to look at her. She’s flushed, bright-eyed, beaming like your personal sun.
“Paige,” you say softly, cupping her face. “You didn’t have to come. I know you’re exhausted—”
“Shhh,” she cuts you off, pressing her forehead to yours. “I wanted to. I love watching you play. I swear I lose my voice every time, but it’s worth it just to see you light up the court like that.”
You close your eyes, letting the moment stretch between you.
Later, after the press, the cool down, the ice baths and the change of clothes, you find her waiting outside the locker room with a smoothie in one hand and your favorite hoodie in the other.
“You looked hot in that match,” she says, bumping your shoulder with hers. “Like. Distractingly hot. The camera operators probably had to recalibrate their lenses.”
You laugh, eyes crinkling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” she shrugs, lacing her fingers through yours, “you still choose me.”
Always. Every time.
@/WAGPaige my girl just dropped an ace at 40-40. god i love tennis. mostly my girl 🫶🎾
@/WAGPaige ESPN only showed her handshake with the opponent?? rude. show the real trophy. ME hugging her in the hallway like a clingy koala
@/WAGPaige people: why is paige at every match me: because love is real and lesbians are devoted
It’s the final match of the U.S. Open.
Arthur Ashe Stadium is electric—packed to the brim, buzzing with anticipation, with tens of thousands of people glued to their seats and millions more watching around the world. The air feels heavier, charged, like the whole city is holding its breath for you.
And in the middle of it all, under the brightest lights, you stand on the baseline—sweat dripping down your back, pulse racing, racket gripped tight in your hand.
Match point.
Your opponent's serve is good. Strong. But not strong enough.
You return it with a powerful forehand down the line—clean, sharp, devastating.
The ball clips the sideline. Your opponent can’t reach it.
Game. Set. Match.
You’ve just won the U.S. Open.
The crowd explodes.
Your knees give out.
You drop your racket and fall to the court, burying your face in your hands, trying to process what just happened. The noise is overwhelming—cheers, clapping, music, camera shutters going off like a symphony—but it all fades into static.
Until—
“THAT’S MY GIRL!!!”
You look up just in time to see a blur of blonde hair, denim jacket, and Nike sneakers sprinting past security.
Paige.
She leaps over the ad boards like she’s diving for a loose ball, practically barrels down the steps, and storms onto the court like she owns the place. One security guard tries to stop her—but the badge around her neck and the sheer force of her love get her through.
And then she’s on you.
Tackling you onto the blue surface of center court, arms around your shoulders, both of you laughing and crying and breathless. The stadium lights seem to zero in on just the two of you, like you’re the only people in the world.
“You did it,” she breathes into your neck, squeezing you so tight it almost knocks the wind out of you. “You freaking did it, baby.”
You laugh through the tears, arms winding around her waist. “I did it for you.”
“You did it for you,” she corrects, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “But I’m so damn honored I got to witness it.”
She kisses you right there in the middle of Arthur Ashe Stadium, in front of all of New York, in front of cameras and commentators and stunned sports fans around the world.
The crowd roars.
Not because you're a headline now.
But because it’s real. Because the win was glorious—but the love? Even bigger.
Later, during the trophy ceremony, you catch Paige standing just off to the side of the court. She’s wearing her oversized "Team (Y/L/N)" jacket with your face printed obnoxiously on the back, proudly dabbing at her eyes with a napkin she definitely stole from catering.
The reporters ask about strategy, about pressure, about how you handled the nerves.
But all you can think about is her.
After the ceremony, you get pulled into media duties, endless photos, press room obligations. Paige waits patiently outside the tunnel, still holding the flowers you didn’t even notice she’d brought you—red roses with a single note that reads:
“My champion. On and off the court.”
When you finally get a moment to breathe, you find her outside your locker room, sitting cross-legged on the bench, scrolling through Twitter.
You drop your duffel bag with a thud and just... collapse into her lap.
She immediately runs her fingers through your hair, soothing. Familiar. Home.
“You okay?” she murmurs, brushing the sweat-dried strands from your forehead.
You nod. “I’m better than okay.”
She smiles softly, and then—just barely above a whisper—says:
“Seeing you out there today… I’ve never been more in love with you.”
You look up at her. And for the first time in your career, it hits you fully—not the weight of the title, but the weightlessness of having someone like her in your corner. Always.
“You’ve been at every match,” you murmur, voice thick. “Even when I lost. Even when I didn’t believe in myself.”
She nods, a soft chuckle in her throat. “I’ll be at every one after this, too. Just say the word and I’ll be court side forever. Screaming like a maniac. Holding cringe signs. Wearing your merch like a proud little trophy wife.”
You grin and pull her down into a kiss. “Promise?”
She kisses your forehead. “Swear on every tennis ball I ever accidentally hit into the stands trying to return your serves.”
@/WAGPaige my girlfriend just won the us open #WAG4Life
@/TennisNation Paige Bueckers has officially redefined WAG energy. From front row hype woman to post-championship center court cuddle. Iconic.
@/espnW BREAKING: U.S. Open Champion Y/N shares tearful kiss with girlfriend Paige Bueckers after match point win. Sports power couple of the year?
@/WNBAFan Paige Bueckers interrupting the U.S. Open broadcast to tackle her girl is the most romantic thing I’ve seen all year. Someone write a movie.
#paige bueckers x reader#paige bueckers#uconn women’s basketball#uconn wbb#lesbian#wlw#paige x reader#paige buckets#wuh luh wuh#wnba x reader#dallas wings
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Do You Get It Yet?
hi guys!! this is one day late, but i literally fell asleep trying to proof read last night, so… you win some you lose some.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
summary: Spencer Reid is your professor and you really, really need help. If only he wasn’t so distracting.
warnings: smut, little bit of fluff, professor/student relationship, unprotected sex w/ talk of contraceptives, age gap (both parties of age), breeding kink, choking, and some light degradation
this is a fun one guys! let me know what you think!
You swear you aren’t stupid. Really, honestly you aren’t. You’ve done well in school your whole life, not always outstanding, but you’ve always done well.
Right now however, you feel completely dumb. You’re in you third year of university, and up to this point, you’ve done good. Your classes are challenging but rewarding, and you have a wonderful group of people in your life. You have a cat and an apartment to yourself. You have wonderful friends, Lena and Eden, who’ve been with you since your freshman year and who you loved like sisters. Everything in your life was going right, except for your stupid, stupid criminal psychology class.
You should love it. You’ve taken classes like it before and they really weren’t a problem for you, but for whatever reason, you can’t wrap your head around the subject matter at all. Everything you learn seems to morph together and you can’t get it to sort itself out. Your teacher, Dr. Reid, is incredible. He is a genuine genius, member of the BAU (your dream job), and to top it off, he is incredibly attractive. Not just to you either! Half the class is auditing, which probably contributes to your troubles. It’s hard to focus when everyone around you is constantly whispering about how fucking hot the teacher is.
You try to avoid it. You sit at the front of the room, not the first row, but still front and center. Even so, right behind you are two or three girls who will not stop talking about him. Sure, they’re saying what you’re thinking, but good god does it get annoying. You’ve tried pointed looks, a few aggressive hair flips and humphs, and even a few well timed shushings, but they will not let up. You’d move seats but the class is full and everyone has seemed to have already found a place.
So, really, your lack of understanding was not only on you. Dr. Reid us distractingly hot, the girls behind you will not shut up, and the subject matter is just plain tricky. All of this leads you to spend a big chunk of your free time in your professors office hours, which always seem to be full.
You get it. Girls, and some boys, show up looking their best and asking all sorts of questions, and honestly if you were in a different position you’d probably do the same thing. But, you aren’t, and you really need help. You go to his room completely disheveled with a notebook full of questions that for the most part stayed unanswered. You’re lucky to get five minutes of his undivided attention. Again, you get it, those minutes are the highlights of you week, but, your grade is starting to slip.
Finally, it gets to be too much, and you find yourself spending nearly the whole class building up the courage to ask to speak with him privately. Right when he concludes his lecture you spring up out of your seat and go straight to him, surely annoying some of your other classmates.
“Dr. Reid?”
He looks up from his desk, “Hi! Ms.?”
“Y/n. Or Y/l/n, I guess. I was hoping to talk to you privately if you had time?”
“Oh! Um, sure, of course. Let me just wrap up here. You can wait in the seats.”
This has already gone better than you thought it would. Half of you expected the only thing that would come out of your mouth would be gibberish.
“Thank you so much.”
You hurry off to take a seat and wait, and wait, and wait. Around five other people stay around to try and speak with him, and while you catch him anxiously glancing over at you, each conversation still seems to stretch on and on. Finally, after close to 15 minutes, the final student leaves and it’s just you and Dr. Reid left in the room.
He looks over at you and motions for you to join him at his desk, “I’m so sorry that took so long. People tend to have a lot of questions after my lectures.”
You take a seat in front of him, “It’s no worries. That was actually part of what I wanted to speak to you about.”
You pause, wondering how you should word what you want to say. He looks at you, waiting for you to go on, but he doesn’t seem impatient.
“I’ve come to all your office hours, and it helps, I’m just still struggling and I, uh, I just feel like it’s not enough time to get my questions answered, I guess?”
You’re looking at anything but him at this point, “I’m sorry I’m just kinda out of my element. I love this subject and normally it clicks for me, but it’s just won’t. I have a notebook full of questions and I’m worried I won’t be able to figure anything out. Sorry, I think I’m just rambling at this point.”
“No, don’t apologize, I understand. This class is challenging, and a lot of the subject matter is hard to research.”
He stops to laugh, “My office hours do tend to be pretty full. I’m, well to be honest I’m not sure why. A lot of the questions people have tend to be things I explained in my lectures.”
Without thinking, you cut him off, “I think people just want to be around you.”
He looks surprised at your words, and you are as well. You didn’t mean to say that at all.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry. It’s just with a teacher that looks like you, god, no. I mean with a teacher like you-“
Your cheeks grow hotter by the second, “You know what, I think I can figure this out on my own! I’m sorry for-“
He stops you before you can finish, “Y/n, I’ve taught this class before. Half the people are auditing. I’ve gathered what that means.”
He cracks a smile at that and you feel your heart flutter.
“I meant I’m not sure why people would waste their time trying to, uh, impress me at office hours. They’re meant for students like you.”
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
“Unfortunately, there isn’t much I can do on that front. My hours are open to anyone.”
Your shoulders deflate a bit at that, worrying you’ve wasted your time and his for nothing. He doesn’t let you stay like that for long though.
“I want to help you though. Truly. I know reaching out for help is hard and I’m glad you did.”
You look up at him then, “I can set aside some time for you once a week if you’re comfortable? We can review everything you’re not sure on until you’re up to speed.”
You were not expecting that. You thought he’d look over your questions and give you some articles and journals to review at best.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”
“You aren’t. I’m offering, Y/n.”
“Then I think yes, I’d like that a lot.”
“Great! Email me some times that work for you and we’ll get started.”
~
This is all, admittedly, a bit above your pay grade.
Despite your best efforts, you are not a chill girl. You’re not very cool. There’s nothing wrong with that usually! You’re shy, but still manage to talk people’s ear off. It’s normally a non-issue: that’s just how you are. Today however, you are meeting with Dr. Reid and you are so not chill about it.
You had his class yesterday, and while you feel better knowing you’ll finally have help, you couldn’t focus on anything but today, so you retained nothing. All you can think about is saying something stupid or off putting and having him start to despise you.
You know you shouldn’t worry this much. He’s a professional, you’re trying to be, it should all go smoothly. They’re just the issue of the colony of butterflies who have taken up residence in your stomach. You’re nervous, so nervous, and you are not the type to get this crazy over some guy. Yes, Dr. Reid is probably the hottest person you’ve ever met, but he’s still human! You think… the fact that he’s some sort of super genius with multiple (multiple!) phds does not help to calm you.
Your entire walk to Dr. Reid’s office is spent worrying over all of this. In fact, you’re so caught in your head you find yourself barreling into someone’s back as you walk through the door of the psychology department.
You rush to squeak out an apology while picking up your notebook, but are stopped short when you look up. It’s Dr. Reid. Of course it’s Dr. Reid. You seem unable to be in the same vicinity of him without making a fool of yourself, so why would today be any different. You’d hoped to be able to manage yourself for the better part of an hour, but your professors unbelievably solid back has literally knocked you on your ass.
You do notice a ghost of a smile on his face when you look up, and you’d like to think he’s admiring you clumsiness, but it’s not likely.
“Hi,” you manage to say after a near excruciatingly long silence.
“I’m really sorry, I clearly wasn’t looking at where I was walking.”
He laughs a bit, “It’s no problem honestly. You were the one knocked off your feet, so I really can’t be upset aside from the fact you may have hurt yourself.”
This makes you breath hitch a bit. Maybe you are incredibly starved for attention from the male gender, but the slight affection of his words made you blush.
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
If you were any more articulate you’d be a public speaker, but at least you always seem to make the man in front of you laugh.
“I was on my way to my office to meet with you, but since I already have, you can walk with me.”
You nod, pushing yourself off the ground, then blush again when you realize you had this entire conversation on the ground.
The walk is silent, and you’re sure it’s more uncomfortable for you than it is for him. Any question you had has completely exited your mind, and all you can think about is how good he looks in a suit, and how much staring you can reasonably get away with.
Your first session is sweet. You manage to hold it together in Dr. Reid’s presence. He is incredibly helpful one on one, and you feel more confident about the class than you have in weeks. Before you finish, he asks if you’d like to meet again.
“Yeah, if that’s alright. This helped so much, but I think I still probably need to do some more catch up work.”
“That’s perfectly fine, Y/n, I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”
He pauses for a moment, like he’s considering something, before going on.
“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to give you my cell. I want you to be able to reach me if you need to reschedule, especially if we continue meeting, and it’s a bit easier than email.”
You’re a bit stunned but manage to reply, “Of course! But, um, is that allowed? I don’t want to over step.”
He looks away from you for a moment before replying, “I’m honestly not sure. Maybe we just don’t tell anyone?”
You have to bite back a grin, but you nod nonetheless and exchange numbers.
Although you know you shouldn’t be, you’re giddy the entire walk home.
~
So far, you’ve met with Dr. Reid three times and haven’t had to use his number once. Not that you’d been looking for an opportunity to though! It just hasn’t come up at all until today.
It’s been raining all morning, which normally you wouldn’t mind, but you’re slightly under the weather and the thought of walking to campus and risking getting more sick doesn’t sound appealing in the slightest. Though it’s not normally an issue, moments like this make you really wish you had a car.
You’ve asked everyone you knew for a ride, but they were all busy.
Currently, you were on the phone with Lena, listening as she tries to calm you down.
“He gave you his number, Y/n. Just text him and say you’re sick and can’t make it.”
“It’s the day of though! I don’t want to come off as unprofessional.”
“Babe, again, you have his number. Your relationship isn’t exactly the most profesh in the first place.”
“It’s not like that, Lena.”
“Just text him. Over explain everything like you know you want to. He’ll probably think it’s cute, maybe he’ll even offer to come take care of you.”
You can hear the teasing lilt in her voice, but, still, you rush to defend him.
“You know it’s not like that.”
“Whatever you say, babe. I gotta go, but text him. It’ll be fine.”
You say your goodbyes, and deep down you know she’s right. About texting him, not the shy sort of seduction act she thinks you have.
After contemplating for a few more minutes, you type out your message and hit send.
You: Hi, Dr. Reid. This is Y/n from your criminal psych class. I know we’re supposed to meet today, but I’m feeling like I have a bit of a cold coming on and don’t want to risk walking in the rain.
You: I’m sorry it’s late notice, if I could get there I would, scout’s honor.
You were never in girl scouts. You don’t actually know why you said that at all, but it’s too late to take it back now.
As much as you try not to, you watch your phone screen, waiting for a response.
Luckily, you don’t have to wait long. You see a typing bubble pop up, then disappear, then pop up again, before finally two messages come through.
Dr. Reid: I completely understand. Don’t worry.
Dr. Reid: I could come to you? If you’re comfortable.
When you read that, you feel your stomach drop to your ass. You decidedly not expect him to offer anything like that. A few things fly through your mind, but mainly that Lena may have been right, and having your professor come to your apartment is, at least, frowned up by admin. Still, the image of him in front of you, in your home, with your cat, is too much to resist.
With shaking fingers, you text him back.
You: That would be wonderful if you’re sure you’re okay with it.
You: Friendly warning, I have a very affectionate cat.
Dr. Reid: Good to know. Is 4 still alright?
You shoot him back a quick yes and your address, and then get to cleaning every square inch of your apartment.
~
Dr. Reid is an angel on Earth.
When you hear a knock at your door, you have to stop before answering to regulate your breathing. When you finally do, you see your professor in front of you in a cardigan (a fucking cardigan) and togo cup of tea that he immediately hands to you.
It’s all like a hopeless romantics wet dream. Hot professor, in the rain, at your house, who clearly cares about you in some way? It’s like he’s trying to kill you.
You step aside to let him in and move to your couch, “You really didn’t have to do this.”
He stands for a moment before sitting at the opposite end and saying through a laugh,“The tea or coming over?”
“Both, I guess? I just feel bad that Ive take up so much of your time. I feel like a bit of an inconvenience.”
“Y/n, please stop worrying so much over this. I want to help you learn, it’s not an inconvenience or a both or unnecessary.”
You really look at him then, trying to read whether or not he’s being genuinely. He just seems too good to be true, like he’s a fiction character made just for you. Well, not just for you, but in your fantasies that’s how you’ll think about it.
The next couple hours are spent reviewing material you are sure he taught weeks ago and stealing glancing at his mouth when you are sure he is not looking. Your kitty makes a few appearances too, and seems to have formed an instant attachment to the doctor. You are not as sly with your staring as you’d like to think, and get caught a few too many times. Honestly, you are trying desperately not to think about anything but academia, but he makes it so unbelievably hard. Not to put the blame on him for your insatiability, but jesus fuck. Intelligence has always been incredibly sexy to you, and it oozes from him
Despite the distraction, you’ve been doing good in terms of building your understanding. Now however, you are on the verge of tears, chocking down a knot in your throat as you try to make sense of anything coming out of Dr. Reid’s mouth. This has to be the third time he’d tried to explain it to you, and while this is the entire point of these meetings, you feel like a failure.
The doctor is lost in his own world, trying desperately to explain the concept in a digestible way, so he doesn’t notice your state. That is, until you sniffle, just slightly, and immediately avert your gaze.
He cuts himself off, “Y/n? Are, are you okay? What’s wrong.”
It’s too much, so too much. What kind of dick asks something like that, with that much care in his voice. You can’t help the tears starting to fall.
“I’m so sorry. I just, I can’t understand it.”
He looks at you with his beautiful eyes and says, “Y/n, it’s okay-“
“No. God, you must think I’m a fucking idiot. No, not fucking, I didn’t mean to say fuck in front of you. God this is terrible.”
You’re fully crying at this point, and you can’t bear to look at Dr. Reid.
He stays silent for a moment, before you feel movement on the couch and look up to see he is much closer to you.
“You’re incredibly intelligent, Y/n. I, I would never judge you for needing help.”
You bury your face in your palms, and, very eloquently, try to speak through them.
“Sir, you really don’t need to say that. I know I should have been able to grasp this weeks ago, all of this.”
“Spencer.”
You look up, “What?”
“My name is Spencer. You don’t have to call me sir or Dr. Reid. I’d like for you to call me Spencer.”
“Well, Spencer then. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I really don’t know why I thought any of this would help, clearly there’s something seriously wrong with-“
You’re cut off by a hand on your jaw, guiding you to look up. Dr. Reid’s hand. Spencer’s hand, and it’s gentle and he’s staring at you, and you feel like your skin is on fire underneath his palm.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Y/n. You’re one of the most capable, intelligent people I’ve ever met. I’m breaking nearly 20 different codes of contact by being here, but I can’t help it.”
You feel all your words caught in your throat, and all you can fucking think about is his hand and his eyes and his lips. You don’t know what else to do, so, in an act of unusual bravery, you push forward and press your lips to his.
The response is immediate. All thoughts in your head are gone and replaced by a mantra of Spencer’s name. You feel his hands move to the nape of your neck, holding you to him, and his lips pressing yours open so he can glide his tongue over yours. You’re breathless and ruined, and when he pulls back you’re too struck by him to speak.
“You have no idea what you do to me, Y/n. I’ve never wanted anyone like this before”
Your forehead is pressed to his and you breath out, “Show me.”
The hand on you tightens its grip, but the man before you pulls back a bit, and it becomes your only point of contact.
“I, I can’t. I’m your teacher, I’m nearly 20 years older than you. I shouldn’t have even kissed you.”
“I kissed you. I want you, this. I want whatever you’ll give me.”
“It’s wrong, Y/n.”
“I don’t care. I want you, Spencer.”
Hearing you say his name must break his resolve, because in a moment his lips find yours again, and he’s pulling you into his lap.
To recap, you’re in your home, on your couch, straddling the hottest man you’ve ever seen, and his lips are trailing down your neck and over your clavicle. You put your arms around his neck, threading your hands through his hair and experimentally rolling your hips against his.
His hands grab your hips, stilling your movement, and breaks from his assault on your neck to say, “I won’t be able to control myself if you do that, Y/n. I need to know what you want.”
“I want all of it, doctor.”
The honorific must do something for him, because he growls low in his throat before once again connecting with your lips. The same hands that just stilled your movement now guide your hips to press into him harder. You feel his length beneath you and moan into his mouth.
You’d fantasized about this for months, but now it’s actually happening and it’s so much better than you could have ever imagined. You feel him every where, and he knows exactly what to do and whisper in your ear to drive you fucking crazy.
You move your hands from his hair and break from his lips to pull your shirt off. You make eye contact with him and then reach behind your back to unclasp your bra, leaving that part of yourself entirely exposed to him.
“Fuck, Y/n.”
The expletive takes you by surprise for a moment, but you snap out of it quickly, taking one of his hands and bringing it to your chest. He moves quickly from that point, cupping your breast in his hand and toying with your nipple. Your lips find his again, and you feel him move to flip you, but you stop him before he can.
“Bedroom, Spencer. Please.”
He nods and you climb from his lap. On your way to the room, he discards his shirt. You can’t help but ogle his frame. He’s slender and sinewy, but you’d be lying if you said he wasn’t the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. The angles and curves of his frame fit
together to create the perfect portrait of a man. He has scars littered over his arms and torso, but they don’t phase you.
You’re under him on the bed now, your core raising to meet his desperately.
“You’re so beautiful. So beautiful, I’m so lucky.”
His words cause a blush to form on your cheeks, which you can barely focus on as his hands are in the process of pulling your shorts and panties down your legs.
“God, Y/n, you’re soaked.”
You whine as his fingers make contact with where you need him most.
“Is this all for me, Y/n? Tell me.”
“You. Only you.”
“Jesus, Y/n.”
If someone had asked hours ago you what you thought your professor would be like in bed, this was the last thing you would’ve said. Not that anyone would ask… but still. He’s nerdy and adorable, and while his looks are literally to die for, he doesn’t scream ‘I’m gonna fuck your brains out’.
His fingers pick up their pace on your clit as you find yourself trying to undo his belt. You’re desperate to see him as bare as you are. He stops to help you get his pants down, and when you see him in his full glory you feel a little faint.
“You’re so big.”
He lets a little whine slip through, “Yeah? Biggest you’ve had?”
You blush a little at his tone. As much as you’re trying to fake it, you don’t have as much experience in this field as one might expect for a girl your age.
“I’ve only been with one other person, so yeah.”
Your candor is decidedly not sexy, and you really have no clue why you would say that right now. The man above you does not seem deterred though, if anything it spurs him on.
“Fuck, Y/n. Didn’t know you were so innocent.”
You blush again, but reach to grab him, trying to prove how good you can be. He’s heavy in your hand, and part of you worries how he’ll fit. You know you’re programmed to accommodate, but the thought is daunting.
He must sense your concern when he says, “Don’t worry, love. Gonna stretch you out for me.”
With that, his fingers resume their previous task, and he slowly moves down to trace your entrance with his middle finger. The sensation has you spinning, and let breathless moans leave your body he slowly starts to open you up. His fingers are long and precise in their movements. Every time he thrusts into you, they graze a spot that sends sparks of pleasure straight to your core.
“You’re doing so good for me, Y/n. So, so good for me.”
You can barely breathe, and your climax comes closer with every passing second. When his thumb moves to press over your clit and his other hand presses firmly on your lower stomach, you’re done for.
“Good girl, Y/n. Coming so pretty on my hand.”
Your orgasm is stupefying, and all you can think or say is Spencer’s name. You grab at him, desperate to find something to ground you, and you hear him moan as your nails dig into his back. He doesn’t stop for a moment, continuing to press into you and riding you through your high.
Once you come down, though you can still feel your legs shaking, you want more. You want all of him. You take him in your hand again, pumping up and down his shaft at a lazy pace.
“Spencer, I need you to fuck me.”
He laughs, his hand still on your core, “Ask nicely, Y/n. You come on my fingers and all of a sudden your manners disappear?“
You didn’t want to admit it, but he’s right.
“Please, Spencer. Please fuck me, I need it.”
“Good girl,” he takes your wrist and leads your hand to your mouth. “Spit.”
You aren’t exactly sure what he’s doing. You think he might be teasing you more, letting you work him over until you beg, but he answers all your questions quickly.
He guide your hand back to grab him, helping you jerk him off before he grabs himself and lines up with your entrance.
In his first Dr. Reid like moment in the last hour he stops and asks, “Fuck do you have a condom? I obviously didn’t think we’d do this, so I don’t have anything on me.”
You’re panting with anticipation at this point, but still manage to get out, “I’m on the pill and I’m clean. I trust you.”
His eyes go soft for a moment, before he continues his previous mission. He lines up again with you, before teasing your slit with the head of his cock. If you didn’t want him so bad, you could’ve come like this, but you are desperate. You push your hips up, hoping he gets the point, and he does.
“I could play with you all day if you’d let me, Y/n.”
You want to protest, and tell him to get on with it, but you don’t have to. You feel his tip
slowly pushing into you as he lets out a groan.
“You’re so fucking tight.”
He’s slow and careful, and you can’t remember sex ever feeling this good. You know he isn’t all the way in, but you already feel so full. When he does reach the hilt, you let out a low moan at the feeling. He’s completely inside of you, filling you in a way that is unbelievably good. He stays still for a moment before slowly pulling back and thrusting into you.
You can tell he’s being gentle, but hard enough and fast enough to have your legs start shaking more heavily again. You already feel a pit in your stomach, and you know you’re going to come, for a second time, embarrassingly fast.
“Fuck yes. So good for me, Y/n.”
The way your name sounds in his mouth drives you crazy. The only thing you can think about is how badly you want this moment to go on forever. Everything about him is perfect. Even now, while fucking your brains out (literally, you could make yourself say a word even if you wanted to), he’s cupping your head in his hand and telling you how beautiful you are.
Now that you’re more accustomed to the size of him, he takes your thigh, pushing it up to your chest, and starts too fuck into you faster and harder. His pelvis rubs over your clit with every thrust, driving you crazy. Your hands are in his hair and down his back, grabbing and clawing at him.
“You love taking this cock, huh baby? Can’t even talk, huh?”
His words go straight to your core, but you know what you need to come again. You guide his hand up near your sternum and manage to cry out a few words.
“Please, need it. Need you.”
He takes your request to heart and moves his hand to your neck, squeezing the sides. You feel yourself get light headed in the most incredible way. Tears are forming in your eyes. The feeling is so intense.
“So perfect for me. Such a smart girl and you’re just gonna let me fuck you dumb?”
You’re close, and you can feel the pit in your stomach start to spread and take over. Spencer’s hand on your throat tightens slightly, and it only take a few more thrusts before you’re coming on him.
“Coming. Fuck, Spence you’re making me come.”
“That’s right. Come all over me. Show me how good I make you feel.”
Your vision is going white at the edges and you feel like your whole body is shaking.
“Fuck, gonna come just watching you. Gotta pull out, baby.”
You grab him before he can, “No! Want it inside me.”
He groans above you and you feel his hips stutter.
“Fucking Jesus. Want me to fill you? Make this you mine?”
You nod, the tears now falling down the sides of your face.
“Gonna come, baby.”
You can feel when he does. His dick is pulsing in you, filling you completely, just like he said he would.
When he comes down, he pushes his lips to yours, kissing you with an intensity you’ve never felt before. For a while, he just lays there, kissing you.
“Gonna pull out now. Gotta clean you up.”
You whine, but nod regardless. You feel empty at the loss of him, but you don’t have much time to think about it before you feel a warm towel wipe around your centre.
“You gotta go pee, Y/n. Don’t want to develop a UTI.”
Five minutes ago this man was coming inside of you, and now he’s back to being the man who came to your house in the rain with tea. You do know he’s right though, so you pull yourself out of your bed on shaking legs and make your way to your bathroom.
When you come back in, you find Spencer with his pants back on. Your heart breaks a little.
In a small voice you ask, “Are you leaving?”
He looks up at you then, “Do you want me to stay?”
You don’t know why you wouldn’t.
“If you don’t want to you don’t have to.”
You can feel tears welling up again, but these are different from before; he notices immediately.
“Baby, baby don’t worry. I don’t want to go, I just didn’t want to over step.”
You laugh a little at that, wiping your eyes, “I think we’ve gotten over all the steps, Spencer. I, I want - Just please stay.”
He nods and moves to take off his pants before sliding into place next to you. His arm wraps around your waist and you feel a tingle in the spots where he touches you.
“I don’t want to have this be a one time thing,” you blurt out.
You feel him hold you a little tighter then.
“I was never planning that, Y/n. Now, sleep. We can talk about how much I’ve come to adore you tomorrow.”
END!! i hope you all love it!
tag list! (leave me comment if you want to join and i’ll add you): @sabage101
#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfic#criminal minds#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds smut#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x y/n#fic rec#professor!reid
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the bravo forum
melissa schemmenti x reader
a/n: the people have spoken— here is my contribution to the melissa schemmenti x reader community based on a crack idea from my notes app. bare with me, this is not edited and probably pretty bad-- but fuck it we ball ig. i also couldn't think of a name for this like at all. my tiktok fyp sort of throttled me into all things reality tv and that sparked this idea. also if you liked this feel free to check out my lisa ann walter masterlist for some of my older stuff.
”So now no one knows if they’re coming back or if they’re gonna pull a New York Housewives and just start over.” Melissa huffed over her shoulder to Barbara.
“Girlfriend, I told you, I don’t know these people, and I don’t care.”
Melissa watched as Barb entered the school ahead of her and shook her head. She really shouldn’t be surprised. Her work wife had always been very clear about her feelings when it came to the Housewives. And Melissa had tried to get her hooked. They’d tried every franchise and all she got from Barb was a disgruntled scolding for caring so much about these random women and their woes. Melissa can even recall Barbara advising her to pick up the Bible if she wanted to follow the trials and tribulations of someone she would talk about.
Melissa wasn’t normally someone who participated in any discussions about the things she enjoyed. She liked what she liked and anyone who didn’t agree with her could kick rocks. But letting Jacob move in had really changed the way she consumed media. She and the history teacher would come home from work, crack open a bottle, and go to town judging the various players in their programs. With him around, discussion became the norm. And now that he’s moved out, she’s sorta missing that community. Not that she’d admit it to anyone.
She bound into the teacher’s lounge, putting her lunch away and settling in her seat for the news like she did every morning. Jim Gardner was the only man she wanted to start her morning with. Midway through the program, excited voices floated through the swinging door.
“I’m telling you— they’re married. She won’t say anything but there’s no way they’re just girlfriends.” Both veteran teachers turned their heads at the newcomers with frowns in place. Y/n, the newest edition to the Abbott staff, winced almost instantly under both Barbara and Melissa’s gaze and quickly mimed a zipper over her lips. Barb smiled gratefully and turned back to the television, but Melissa’s eyes lingered a bit longer as they always seemed to do when the younger woman entered the room. And hard as she tried to keep her glare in place— once the teacher went back to her conversation quietly the frown melted into something softer. Almost curious.
Y/n Y/ln was something of a hot-button topic for Melissa. She’d started at the beginning of the school year, taking on the higher-grade English duties upstairs. And everyone seemed to love her. She’d flown in the week before classes started with a bright smile and brownies for the teachers. She’d spent her first month covering recesses and lunch duties for absolutely anyone who asked. And had even worked her way into some after-school clubs. She was everywhere. And after five months at Abbott, she still carried herself with the same level of joy and excitement she’d started with. It was infuriating if you asked Melissa. And Barb had asked her before. It seemed the reasons everyone else gravitated toward the new teacher were the exact reasons Melissa claimed made her dislike her. She was a kiss-ass, a pushover, and far too happy in the morning to not be doing some kind of drug. But every time Barb grilled her about it she never mentioned how distractingly shiny her hair was. Or how expressive her eyes were when she spoke about literally anything. And she all but refused to even think about how her eyes seemed almost glued to her figure whenever they passed each other in the hall during the day. She just couldn’t allow it. And she definitely wasn’t watching this morning as Y/n filled her cup of coffee and then exited the lounge with another teacher to continue her conversation.
Once she’d left the room, Melissa’s attention turned back to the television as if nothing happened. But there was Barbara, lips pursed knowingly and eyebrows set in a challenge.
“What?” Melissa asked, fighting the blush wanting to crawl up her neck. All Barb gave her in response was a pointed hum that told Melissa all she needed to know. She wasn’t fooling anybody.
-
“I can’t believe this is how you spend your free time. Here I was thinking you were reading Shakespearean Sonnets from three to eight when you actually just cyberbully Housewife fans.” Jacob laughed in disbelief as he leaned against the corner of Y/n’s desk.
“Okay first of all— Eileen Davidson’s delivery of ‘How dare you?’ after being called a Beast by Kim Richards was very Shakespearean. And secondly, cyberbully is a very strong word. I’m simply engaging in dialogue with my fellow Real Housewives fans. It’s not my fault I’m good at reasoning and evidence. Argumentation was my jam in college.” Y/n explained with a smile.
“So you’re saying you use your intelligence to cyberbully gay men and old ladies.”
“How rude, the Bravo-verse is not just for gay men and old ladies. It’s for everyone. I don’t discriminate on the forums— I’m an equal opportunity bully.”
“Huh, who knew there was such a sinister side to such a sweet woman.”
Y/n shrugged, “I’m multi-dimensional. Anyway, I brought all this up to run my lesson idea by you. We’re doing a unit on dialogue and I really think with some appropriately placed censors we can make it work.”
“Oh, That’s so engaging! And with so many franchises you can pull from quite a few scenes.” Jacob affirmed excitedly.
“Exactly. And it gives me an excuse to talk about my favorite show on the job.”
-
Lunch time came and the teachers found themselves in the lounge chatting idly at their assigned tables. Melissa’s glasses were perched on her nose as she scrolled through an article recounting the last episode. Jacob having leaned back in his chair, caught sight of the headline and instantly brightened.
“Oh Mel Mel, have I got an opportunity for community for you!”
Melissa slowly looked at the young man, unimpressed, “No thanks, I got more than enough community already.”
Jacob sighed at the woman’s lack of enthusiasm but trudged on, sure this opportunity would be up her alley. “Well, I just thought you’d take to the idea of arguing with people anonymously about the Real Housewives. There’s apparently a whole world of people discussing your programs online and from what I’ve heard they need some strong opinions to balance out the nonsense. I just think it might be nice for you to have a space to freely share your questionable takes about these extremely vapid women every week. A community is waiting for you.”
“Questionable takes? All of my takes are gold like my hatred for Eileen Davidson. That’s a very valid and based take. I’m always right. I don’t need no internet dummies telling me otherwise.”
“Well, when you realize I’m right and you start bullying randos online– I’ll be expecting a thank you.”
Melissa scoffed and watched as Jacob wrote the website down on a sticky note for her. “Huh, I’m sure you will be.”
-
She really wasn’t planning on looking at the website. She had no reason to. She was completely content to live with her Housewives thoughts. But then the Real Housewives of New York reboot episode was absolutely insane. And she needed to know if she was the only one in complete disbelief at this Puerto Rico trip. She pulled the sticky note from her purse and cautiously typed it in. She would only look at what was being discussed. Just a little peek.
MisterBravo: Am I the only one who HATES Meredith and Heather this season? #RHOSLC
4:00 PM in Real Housewives Board
↳20 Replies to this post
MeredithApologist: YES! YOU ARE.
HeathersReciepts: how can you hate the woman who brought us receipts, proof, timelines, screenshots?
Melissa chuckled quietly to herself as she read through the comments on the post. She hated to give Jacob any credit but this might actually be interesting. She continued to scroll until she found a recent post addressing the latest episode of RHONY.
Bravoholic: Deciding to play devil’s advocate tonight after tonight’s most recent episode. What are our thoughts on the RHONY reboot cast so far?
11:00 PM in Real Housewives Board
↳250 Replies to this post
She tapped into the replies and started skimming reactions. Lots of which she thought were stupid but not stupid enough to warrant a response of some kind. That was until she came across a crazy reply.
RepudiatedHousewives: Honestly, the trips just started and Brynn is already acting insane. Talk about a producer plant, am I right?
Now Melissa wasn’t a fan of Brynn but she also was smart enough to acknowledge Erin as a problem as well. Brynn didn’t stir things up all on her own. And also what kind of username is RepudiatedHousewives? Talk about pretentiousness. She couldn’t resist. She just had to respond.
RedHotPhilly11: repudiatedhousewives , you must be as pretentious and stupid as your username if you think Brynn is the only one producing this season. Erin is right there?
Y/n sat up immediately seeing the new reply flash across her screen. Pretentious and stupid? What the hell was this person’s beef? Brynn is a problematic producer plant, that’s just facts. So what if Erin gets wrapped up in her bullshit– she’s still better than Brynn.
RepudiatedHousewives: RedHotPhilly11– i’m assuming you’ve got your looks going for you if you’re pulling Erin into Brynn’s evil. Erin’s not perfect but Brynn is obviously the bigger issue here.
RedHotPhilly11: Yes, I’m hot. But that’s all you’re right about.
-
The forum shortly became Melissa’s most visited website. And she and this RepudiatedHousewives character loved going at it.
RHOAAddict: Rumor has it Phaedra Parks will be returning this season…thoughts on cast dynamics?
8:00 AM in Real Housewives Board
↳100 Replies to this post
RedHotPhilly11: Good! She’s kept Atlanta fun!
↳ RepudiatedHousewives: Incorrect– Bravo needs to make up with NeNe is they think they can save RHOA. Phaedra is actually a lawsuit waiting to happen. And she’d know, as a lawyer.
↳ RedHotPhilly11: Of course, you have so much to say.
↳ RepudiatedHousewives: Careful RedHotPhilly11, if you keep this up I’ll start thinkin you like me
RHONYLover: Calling all historians, Who’s the biggest villain in RHONY History?
10:00 PM in Real Housewives Board
↳100 Replies to this post
RedHotPhilly11: Aviva Drescher. Only right answer.
↳ RepudiatedHousewives: Wrong. It’s Brynn Whitfield.
↳ RedHotPhilly11: What are you, captain of the Brynn hate club?
↳ RepudiatedHousewives: Hell yeah! She won’t win in my lifetime.
↳ RedHotPhilly11: I feel like I have to admire your persistence but that feels to nice.
-
The morning after the finale episode of the season was a doozy. Both Melissa and Y/n had spent the evening going back and forth on the forum dissecting the drama that unfolded on screen. Other users had tried chiming into their conversation but both RedHotPhilly11 and RepudiatedHousewives refused to engage with anyone other than each other. And that energy seemed to carry into the teacher’s lounge that morning. Melissa was at her seat as usual, nursing her second cup of coffee as the news came to an end. And Y/n burst through the door with a sigh heading straight for the coffee machine. Her entrance obviously caught the attention of the other teachers but she was too busy mentally urging the coffee machine to brew faster to care.
“Woah, Shakespeare what’s up with you?” Jacob asked, sliding up next to the woman with a frown. “You’re never down here this late.”
“I had a rather late night so I decided to sleep in for a bit,” Y/n answered pulling the coffee to her chest with a sigh.
“Oh yes, too busy cyberbullying to get a proper night’s sleep?” The history teacher poked. At his jovial tease, the other teachers seemed to tune in. All eager to learn more about the English teacher.
“You cyberbully?” Janine asked incredulously from her spot next to Gregory. “That’s so mean, why would you do that?”
Y/n rolled her eyes and glared at Jacob pointedly before addressing Janine, “I do not cyberbully. I merely chat about television online. If people have bad opinions, I feel obligated to correct them.”
“Oh right, season finale for RHONY was last night. I’m sure you were lighting that little forum up, huh?”
“You know it. Although I’ve got this one person on the forum who replies to everything I post and we were going back and forth all night. They just know every button to push. Like last night, I was going off about the way Brynn was keke-ing with the producers after causing all that chaos the night before. A literal production plant! And then that RedHotPhilly11 comes in my replies arguing with me about facts! So we were going at it for quite a bit.” At Y/n’s words, Jacob’s eyes turned to Melissa curiously with a smile. Maybe the redhead had taken him up on his recommendation. And at her arched eyebrows and startled expression he was right.
“Wait a minute, you’re Repugnant Housewives?” Melissa’s hard voice piped in.
Y/n’s eyes widened in confusion, “Um no, I’m Repudiatedhousewives. How do you even know that?”
“Cause I’m the one pushing your buttons.”
”You’re RedHotPhilly11?” Y/n tilted her head in shock but that didn’t last long before a knowing smirk settled on her face. “Huh, now that I’m saying that out loud I’m not that surprised.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melissa challenged, ready for another fight. Offline.
“You are hot.” Y/n shrugged easily. Everyone in the room seemed to freeze at her admission but she stood tall in her words and leveled Melissa with a knowing gaze. “What? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our very first argument. Where you very boldly called my username pretentious and stupid.”
“Right right, and you said the only thing I had going for me was my looks,” Melissa smirked.
“And your only reply was that you’re hot. Again, can’t argue with facts.” Y/n snickered. “Wow, I can’t believe that of all the people on that forum we’ve been sparing with each other for the last 5 weeks. I didn’t even know you watched the housewives.”
“Who are you kidding, I’ve been watching longer than you’ve been alive kid.”
“Doubtful, I think I came out of the womb watching that franchise.” Y/n pushed up from her place at the counter to walk closer to Melissa’s table.
“Ah what do you know? You probably can’t even remember the original RHONY cast before this godawful reboot.” Melissa goaded, rising from her chair to look Y/n in the eyes.
“Wanna bet?” Y/n said and just as the women were closing the charged distance between them, Barbara reached up to pull Melissa back.
“Alright ladies, I think that’s enough fun for the morning. Why don’t we save this energy for your little chatroom, hm?”
Melissa shrugged and took her seat again working to push her irritation down. But as assessed her body– it wasn’t irritation she found. And Y/n found herself fighting the unexpected but familiar heat that a bossy beautiful woman could inspire within her. They both slinked back to their corners and everyone in the lounge exchanged curious looks over their heads. Not much later the school bell rang, and almost everyone dispersed. Except Y/n and Melissa. They eyed each other cautiously before Melissa broke the silence.
“Reunion part one, next week, my place. Bring wine.”
“Roger that, Red. Maybe we can tag team some poor souls while we’re at it.”
Melissa grinned at the prospect and nodded before heading out the door, “Now you’re speaking my language.”
Let’s just assume they’re still trying to get out of Bravo Forum jail.
#melissa schemmenti x reader#melissa schemmenti#abbott elementary x reader#msschemmenti#lisa ann walter x reader#lisa ann walter
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‘Aperture’
Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.
Index:
Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!
Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]
Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!
Chapter 1- 'Setting Traps' | 'Aperture'
word count - 11k
It was early August, and an exclusive luxury club in Ibiza was a heaving mess of heat, music, and bodies. Even in the private section your friend managed to secure, the air felt electric and claustrophobic. Normally, you would’ve thrived in this but tonight you loathed it—the crush of too many people, the constant stream of elbows and spilled drinks, and the overbearing mix of expensive overly potent perfumes. But tonight, in the confined chaos, you found yourself pressed up against someone unexpected, and unexpectedly. It wasn’t just anyone, not a complete stranger. It was a friend of a friend. Someone on a holiday of their own linked with the holiday you were tagging along on, who’d somehow managed to make himself indispensable in this moment. You were on a girl’s holiday with Campbell, Delaney and Foster, your closest friends, and a few of their connections through work. The tequila was Clase Azul, flowing too freely, and the world around you felt like a blurred vignette, so softened by the liquor, you couldn’t even make out the blue patterning on the bottles anymore.
A misstep in your impossibly high platform Prada gold heels [ref index] sent you off balance, and before you could catch yourself, his hands were there—steady and firm, finding the bare curve of your midriff in between the multicolored sequined embellished mini skirt and top you were in. His touch burned hot against your skin, grounding you in an otherwise unsteady world. You tilted your head back, your slightly glazed, doe-like eyes locking onto his. He looked down at you with a smirk that could only be described as lethal—lazy, confident, and infuriatingly handsome. His lips, impossibly perfect, curled up into an expression that made your breath hitch. They were that irresistible shade of pink, full and just shy of teasing.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice low and edged with a drawl that made it seem like he’d already figured you out. You weren’t sure if it was the tequila or the man holding you, but suddenly, the room didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.
"You have nice lips." The words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them, a mix of tequila and the reckless honesty of the night driving your tongue. It almost felt like someone else had said them, that's how uncharacteristic the comment felt. You giggled at yourself, almost embarrassed, but the way your gaze lingered on his face betrayed the truth-you meant it. Every word. They were nice. His lips were distractingly perfect, plush, pouty, and pink, curling into a lazy smirk that only deepened with your admission.
"Yeah?" Trent's voice was warm, teasing, as he tilted his head, leaning in closer. "Well, I've been compiling a laundry list of all the things that look nice on you. I'll throw my lips in there as well, alright?" Your stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way he was looking at you, what he just said to you. His words shouldn't have had this effect, but combined with his scent-mint laced with tequila and an aftershave that was downright sinful-they melted over you, a heady cocktail of intoxication. It was a gilded cage spun from his cologne, a velvet prison where every breath was a surrender. The air between you was thick with him—amber, dark and smoldering, vanilla, sweet as a whispered sin. His essence clung to your skin, curling around your throat like unseen silk, binding you in something deeper than touch. You inhaled, and it wasn’t oxygen that filled your lungs but the ghost of him, rich, opulent, inescapable. It didn't help that his hands hadn't moved from your waist. Massive on your frame. They were firm but gentle, fingers brushing the soft skin just above the waistband of your skirt. Every subtle shift of his grip sent a jolt of warmth through your body.
“Cheeky,” you murmured, a smirk tugging at your lips as you tried to match his energy. “You’re handsome, though. Is that how you get away with bull shit like that?” Your voice was playful, but the teasing lilt couldn’t mask the fact that you were a little breathless. His dark eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze, unwavering. The club’s lights cast a soft glow over him, highlighting every sharp angle of his jaw, every line of his face. He was beautiful in a way that felt unfair, like someone who should exist in magazine spreads, not in this cramped, dimly lit corner of a nightclub. And yet here he was, holding you steady, looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.
“It’s not bull shit, baby,” he said, his voice dipping lower, pulling you in like gravity. “I’m being serious. If you like my lips so much, they can be yours for the night.” Your breath caught at his words. The confidence in his tone, the way his gaze never wavered, made your cheeks flush. You tried to steel yourself, tried not to let him see how much he was affecting you, but it was impossible to hide the way your body leaned into his without you even realizing it. You, he thought, you were exactly what he wanted tonight. Cheeky, maybe smarter than he was anticipating, quicker definitely but perfect, sexy, beautiful, he’d watched you all night, and as it would go in his world, you found yourself stumbling into his arms, perfectly so.
"Is that right?" you asked, your voice softer now, almost daring, playful, managing to find composure under his spell was near impossible, but you found some fragment. Your fingers moved on their own, sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. You didn't stop until your hand rested against his neck, your nails grazing the base of his scalp in a way that made his shoulders stiffen, just for a moment. The slight hitch in his breath didn't go unnoticed, and it gave you a small thrill of satisfaction. Trent's smirk faltered, replaced by something heavier, something darker. His grip on your waist tightened just slightly, grounding you in the moment, a silent ‘don’t move away yet.’ Unbeknownst to you, you had him right where you would’ve wanted him, though the way his eyes were fixed on yours made it feel like he was the one in control.
"You have no idea what you're doing to me right now," he murmured earnestly, so quietly you almost didn't hear it over the pounding bass of the music. His eyes dropped to your lips again, lingering this time, and you could see the flicker of hesitation there, like he was holding himself back.
"What am I doing to you? You’re the one holding me," you whispered almost tauntingly, the words slipping out before you could think twice. The heat between you was unbearable now, the space narrowing until there was barely anything left. His lips were so close you could feel the faint brush of his breath against your skin. For a moment, neither of you moved, neither of you wanted to, the tension stretching between you like a taut wire. Then his smirk returned, but it was different now, slower, more deliberate.
"You're trouble, you know that?" he said, his voice dripping with amusement and something else-something that made your heart race. This wasn’t what he was expecting, you were much cheekier than he was anticipating but still sexy, beautiful under the lights.
"Maybe," you replied, your own smile teasing as your nails dragged lightly against the back of his neck again causing him to roll his head a little, swayed by the feeling. "But you don't seem to mind." You taunted his clear reaction to your hands on him. And you were right, he didn’t mind this at all, in fact, it was much more fun when someone returned his serve, the rally had him chomping at the bit. For you, you weren’t aware that said rally was even happening but you were beginning to catch on. Although, it was difficult to play when you were so distracted by him. It was almost unsettling how attractive he was. His calm, smooth, and unbothered demeanor only made it worse, disarming you at every turn. There was something about the way he carried himself, as if he already knew how the night was going to end and was simply waiting for you to catch up. Those dark, pooling yet piercing eyes and the pout of his lips could get him out of anything-hell, he could probably get away with murder if he tried. He was too pretty for his own good, and yet, you were already caught, tangled in the trap he'd barely even laid. You’ve seen men set traps before—watched them lay out charm like bait, pull back the spring with well-placed compliments, wait for the inevitable snap of attraction. But him? He never had to set the mechanism. The trap was already armed, already waiting, because it wasn’t something he does; it’s something he is. It was in the way the world tilted ever so slightly for him to have you falling into his arms without even trying. You weren't naïve. You could see the path laid out before you, the one so many girls before you had walked. It was in the curl of his perfect smile, the careless grace of his fingers staying on your ribs- their comfort on a stranger's body, the way he leaned back like the world was his for the taking, if he wanted it. He didn’t chase. Didn’t lure. He simply existed, and they came. Drawn like moths to a flame they swear won’t burn them. Falling victim to his allure seemed inevitable, but for some reason, you didn't mind. If he wanted you to be his prey tonight, maybe you'd oblige.
"And I'm not your baby," you cooed, rolling your eyes with a mock pout, though you couldn't ignore the way the nickname had made your stomach flip when he said it sentences ago, playing a little game of your own, testing if he even knew he was playing his. And then his smile grew again with cheek. The thing is, you didn’t believe in your game though. You didn’t care why he said it, you didn't hate that he called you it. Not at all. Maybe he’d never had to notice the way the traps happen, how the air tightens when he enters a room, how glances hook onto him like fish caught mid-current. Maybe he didn’t even realize that every step he took, every slow blink, long lashes fluttering, every lazy shift of his genetically blessed jaw was a trigger, a silent snap. Or maybe he very clearly did. Maybe he always had.
"Aren't you, though?" Trent's smirk deepened, devilish and self-assured. His hands shifted slightly, sliding lower until they rested just above your ass, pulling you closer into him. "I think you want to be. Actually... I'm pretty sure I'll have you calling me ‘baby’ by the end of the night."
The audacity of him should have annoyed you, but instead, it sent a spark of heat straight through your veins. His confidence was maddeningly attractive, the kind you wanted to knock down but couldn't help being drawn to.
"You sound so sure about that," you murmured, your voice teasing as you leaned in closer, your nose brushing against his. The look on your face was playful, a devious smirk pulling at the corners of your own lips as you tried to keep up with his game.
"I'm very sure," he replied, his voice dropping into something lower, something that made your heart stutter. "So sure that I'll put a wager on it." He taunted.
"A wager?" you asked, your tone feigning curiosity, though you already knew where he was going. He tilted his head slightly, his mahogany eyes that briefly lit a honey hue under a stray strobe light locked on yours.
"Yeah, a wager.” He smirked in a way that was confirmation he was very conscious of his looks, of his effects. “I think I'll have you purring in my ear, wanting more of the lips you think are so nice... if I kiss you." The air between you was thick now, buzzing with a tension that had you gripping onto your resolve like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. You tried to meet his confidence with your own, though the edges of your composure were fraying fast.
"And what if I don't want that?" you teased, your voice quieter now, though it betrayed the truth-you wanted it more than you were willing to admit. You were losing ground on composure. His smirk widened, dangerously charming as he leaned in just enough to make you hold your breath.
"You do," he whispered, his voice dripping with certainty. He winked at you, then pulled back abruptly, leaving you breathless as he leaned away from you to pick up his glass from the table beside you two. Lifting it to his lips, he took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving yours. He didn't have to say anything more-he already knew he'd won. Dammit, you thought, mentally clenching your fists at your sides in a futile attempt to regain control. He was right. You wanted to kiss him. Badly. Suddenly you were envious of glassware in an Ibizan club being kissed by his pillowy lips.
The moment he stepped back, the absence of his warmth left a void, and in a desperate attempt to reclaim the composure you had lost the second your eyes met his, you pivoted, snatching your own glass off another table. Your body turned sharply, leaning into the cool steel railing of the private section, your eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for someone—anyone—to anchor you back to reality. But you weren’t looking for anyone. You were looking for yourself, for a shred of dignity, for anything to tether you to something other than the pull of him. To not envy a fucking glass of tequila. Even in absence, he lingered—an intoxicant, a slow-burning spell that you couldn’t break so you kept trying to find that elusive dignity. Your chest rose and fell, each breath failing to steady the racing pulse beneath your skin. The tequila in your own grip trembled ever so slightly before you lifted it to your lips, the club lights catching the gloss of your pout as you wrapped your mouth around the straw. You took a slow, deliberate sip, the chilled burn of liquor tracing down your throat, your head tipping back ever so slightly as you swallowed. Unbeknownst to you, every inch of this unconscious display was laid out before Trent like an offering.
The way you bent into the railing, arching your spine slightly, left your already minuscule skirt riding higher, the glittering fabric threatening to reveal the soft curve of your ass. His eyes locked in, laser focused on the plunging curve neckline of your top that strained as you leaned forward, your tits dangerously close to spilling free, rising and falling with each breath you couldn’t seem to control. Club lights flashed in fragmented bursts, kissing the high points of your cheekbones, your collarbone, the delicate dip of your throat as you swallowed more tequila. You didn’t see the way he watched you, but you could feel it—heavy, searing, claiming.
Trent didn’t move. He didn’t have to. He leaned back against the side of the booth, one hand lazily gripping his glass, the other resting at the hem of his shirt as he watched—smug, satisfied, and entirely in control. Confident as he crossed one leg over the other, enjoying his view. The coy smirk on his lips deepened as he took another sip of his drink, dark eyes drinking you in just the same. You, in your reckless attempt to escape him, had only handed yourself over completely. And he knew it.
—
Campbell’s voice cut through the haze of heat and tequila, her arms wrapping around your waist as she stumbled into you, pressing a fresh drink into your hand. You barely registered her words, your head still spinning from the last round, from the smirk that had unraveled you, from the man who had made it his personal mission to toy with your resolve. You flicked the abandoned straw onto the table, deciding you had no use for the pretense of sipping. Instead, you tilted your head back entirely now and downed the remainder of your drink in one go, the tequila burning its way down your throat like gasoline to an already smoldering fire.
Your friend laughed, probably saying something about your reckless pace, but her words were nothing more than a distant hum against the pounding bass and the rush of alcohol in your bloodstream. You smiled back at her, a drunk, lazy grin, pretending to have heard her when in reality, your focus was locked elsewhere—on the heat still lingering over your skin, on the phantom of his touch still pressed into your waist. Then, as if the night hadn’t already conspired against your thin resolve, your friend turned, her face lighting up in pure, intoxicated joy. She saw someone—someone she hadn’t spotted through the crush of bodies yet.
“T!” She yelled before flicking her eyes back to you. “Y/N!!!!! This is my friend T. Have you met? Trent!” Campbell practically screamed, her words absurdly slurred, her excitement cutting through the moment like a knife. You froze. For a second, you thought maybe the alcohol had made you hallucinate, but no—there he was, still, standing right in front of you again, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Mere minutes had passed since he’d pulled away, since he’d left you breathless and desperate for control. But now, he was back, and you’d be lying if you said you could’ve ever forgotten that face after a lifetime. That mouth, those lips in particular. Trent smirked as he leaned in, embracing Campbell effortlessly in a clear platonic yet friendly hug, but his eyes never left you. They remained locked onto yours, unwavering, knowing.
“You have nice lips,” he cooed, a compliment with a past, his voice a slow, syrupy tease, mimicking the very words you had let slip earlier. His smirk deepened as he watched the way your cheeks betrayed you, the flush creeping across your skin before you could stop it. It was like he had a remote control to you, like he could turn you inside out with a mere glance. But you weren’t about to let him keep the batteries.
“Mmm, don’t know if we’ve met,” you mused, turning to Campbell with an expression that was smugly sweet, feigning innocence even as your pulse quickened.
“Really, huh? I thought we had,” Trent interjected smoothly, his voice laced with something dangerously playful. His gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate, before his lips curled into something downright sinful. “Well… I thought so because when I saw you tonight, I swore those lips were wrapped around…. a straw,” he paused, the innuendo dripping from his tongue like honey. “Maybe it fell…” His eyes flicked down to your drink—the one Campbell just handed to you that was already dangerously close to empty, the second round of tequila you were using as a shield against the slow, intoxicating pull of him. He knew. He knew exactly what you were doing. He’d rallied with girls on a night out before. He knew you were trying to drown the fire, to blur the sharp edges of the want coiling deep in your stomach. A part of you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But an equally strong part of you—one you were trying to silence with every gulp of Clase Azul—wanted to tell him to fuck you instead.
The moment his name was called, something in you clenched—tight, sharp, immediate. You told yourself it was relief, that the sudden break in his attention was a mercy. But your body betrayed you, your pulse thrumming in protest, your skin still humming where his gaze had lingered. He turned toward his friend, pulled effortlessly into another orbit, another trap he hadn’t even needed to set. It was almost laughable, how easily the world bent to him. Perched on the ledge of the booth, his friend gestured for him to come over, their pristine designer trainers pressed against the seat’s velvet, surrounded by girls whose gazes were already hungry, already waiting for him to just arrive so they could fall at his feet. And yet, for the past hour, he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t strayed. He had been locked onto you, circling, pushing, teasing. And that was the problem.
You hated him for it. Hated the way he had unraveled you so effortlessly, hated the way his words coiled inside your head long after they’d left his lips. You loathed the way he looked at you—like he already knew things about you that he had no right to know, like he had seen past the layers of indifference you tried to wear so well. And worst of all? You hated how much you liked it. It was pathetic, really, how deep he’d already sunk into you, how you could still feel the weight of his smirk pressed against your skin, how the mere echo of his touch felt more intoxicating than the liquor burning in your veins. You weren’t the type to fall for men like this—the ones who knew exactly what they were, exactly what they could do to you. You had seen his type before. Felt his type before. And yet here you were, caught in the same web, helpless against the slow, deliberate pull of him. You wanted to prove him wrong. You needed to. You wanted to walk away and never think of him again, to erase the memory of his voice in your ear, his hands grazing your body like he already owned it. You wanted to prove that you were immune, that you were better than the fallen, that you weren’t one of those girls staring at him like he was something divine. And yet, all you could think about was his wager. How, despite everything, you already felt like you were losing.
Campbell’s voice cut through the haze of your thoughts once over, her excitement colliding headfirst into the slow-blooming chaos in your chest.
“Did he just compliment you? Oh my god, I think he likes you! He’s never like that. What the fuck, Y/N?” she practically screamed, yanking you from your internal debrief on a complete stranger—a stranger you were now watching too closely, a stranger you should not be watching at all. Trent was talking to someone new. A girl. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you didn’t care. But something in your stomach twisted all the same. His body language was relaxed, effortlessly magnetic, the way all of him seemed to be. But his hands? They weren’t on her. You hadn’t noticed that, but he had. And that was intentional.
“I’m sure he does,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes, shoving the thought of him out of your head before it could sink any deeper. You tore your gaze away, pretending you didn’t see, pretending it wasn’t pissing you off.
“No, Y/N… like, he can be an ass. He goes so quiet. But that? That was not… He’s never like that. That was effort,” Campbell insisted, voice laced with a mix of disbelief and giddy amusement. You turned to her with an exaggerated gasp.
“Wow, thanks Cam! And you were introducing us?” You let a teasing grin stretch across your lips, nudging her lightly. “And effort… please.” You looked at her with a smug grin and a roll of the eyes. Campbell dissolved into laughter, shaking her head.
“No! No! I just mean… he’s actually so nice. Just… reserved. Kind of low-key shy, I think? So people assume he’s rude, but he’s not. Swear. I don’t know. I’ve just never seen him move like that before. To not be distracted.” You hummed, considering her words, rolling them over in your mind like dice. You understood how introverts could be mistaken for standoffish—you’d seen it happen before. Felt it happen before. That’s fine. But Trent? No. That wasn’t the man who had cornered you tonight, who had toyed with you like he already knew the outcome.
Confident. Cocky. Every word precise, delivered with weight and purpose. That was not the behavior of a shy man.
“Hmmm. Interesting.” You mused sarcastically. Your gaze flickered back to him, drawn as if by an invisible thread. And just as your eyes found him, his were already on you. It was unsettling, the way he was watching you—his expression unreadable, dark eyes sharp with curiosity, studying you like he was piecing together a puzzle. A puzzle that had just whispered his name. And then, in slow motion—deliberate, taunting, knowing—he smirked. Just the barest curl of his lips, enough to make your breath hitch. And then came the wink. A single, devastating flicker of his eye, effortless but deadly. Like an arrow loosed straight at your chest. It was playful. It was mocking. It was a challenge wrapped in charm, a silent dare to see if you would flinch. You had mere seconds to decide: Would you let it hit its mark, let it burrow deep where you knew it would linger? Or would you step aside, get the fuck out of the way before the impact knocked you breathless? Either way, the damage was already done, he’d fired it.
-
The night carried on, and so did you—unscathed, but not untouched. Trent had taken his shot, and while it might’ve grazed you, you weren’t bleeding out. Not yet. Your will was stronger than that, forged in something more unshakable than the way a man could look at you, stronger than the pull of a pretty face and a cocky smirk. But the truth was, it was touch and go, because he was handsome enough to break and snap it in two at any given moment, and that was a dangerous truth to swallow.
You and Trent kept to your corners, circling each other like fighters in a ring, locked in a battle neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt. It was a silent war waged between you, invisible to the rest of the world but undeniable in the space that stretched and shrank between you all night. The music pounded through the club, deep bass rattling the walls, seeping into the floor, into your bones, but the loudest sound to you was the echo of his voice in your head. The cocky lilt, the playful innuendos, the way he said your name like he already knew how it would taste.
There were stolen glances all night, ones you both thought went unnoticed. Yours lingering on him when he seemed to forget you existed, a strange ache settling in your chest at the sight of him—relaxed, unbothered, moving on. When he wasn’t looking, when he was draped in the effortless charm that made girls hover close, drawn into the glow of him. You watched, quietly simmering, convincing yourself it was indifference rather than irritation, as if you weren’t keeping count of the times he laughed too easily at someone else’s joke, leaned in too close to whisper something into another girl’s ear. Forgetting you.
His on you when you weren’t aware, when you were talking to another guy or laughing into your drink, lips slick with tequila and carelessness. Something darker lingered in his gaze, something brooding—like he didn’t quite like the ease with which you’d left him behind. The way you hadn’t turned your head to watch him go, something sharp flickering behind his gaze, like the sight of you untouched by his presence, yet he was watching other men leaving fingerprints on you. And that left a wound of its own.
And then there were the moments where your eyes collided, held, and something unspoken crackled between you, across the hazy stretch of the club, across bodies dancing in a drunken stupor, across conversations you weren’t listening to. And in those stolen seconds, something lit behind both of your gazes. It wasn’t tension. It wasn’t lust. It was deeper—raw, unfiltered desire. A recognition that neither of you could explain, and neither of you dared to. Desire, pure and simple, threatening to bubble over. No games, no taunts, no witty remarks to deflect from it. Just the ache of it. It sat between you, invisible but suffocating, until one of you—sometimes him, sometimes you—forced it back down. Swallowed it whole. Let it simmer beneath the surface of your skin, let it coil at the base of your spine, let the moment slip away before it ruined the game you both were too stubborn to stop playing, too stubborn to call it what it was, too proud to let it end in a draw.
-
And so, the night stretched on. The club pulsed around you, an organism of its own—music thrumming, bodies swaying, drinks spilling over the edges of crystal-clear glasses. But slowly the crowd was thinning, the air less electric. The once-packed club had begun to filter down, the air no longer suffocating but oddly vacant, like open water after a shipwreck. Friends had been lost to the night—some tangled into waiting arms for a night of fleeting indulgence, others already gone in cabs, leaving behind only the remnants of the chaos they had brought with them.
You found yourself on a velvet couch, plush and cool against your bare thighs, your phone heavy in your hands as you scrolled through contacts, half-heartedly trying to organize a ride back to your hotel. You stared at your phone, fingers sluggishly typing out texts. Somehow, you had ended up the most sober of your friends—whether by accident or design, you weren’t sure. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was the sobering effect of knowing that for all the glances, all the unspoken words, all the tension humming between you and Trent Alexander-Arnold…He hadn’t come after you. He wasn’t going to chase you. And you weren’t going to let yourself wish he would.
But just as that thought settled, just as you started to exhale, your pulse dipped into something traitorous—because you felt him before you saw him. A shift in the air. A presence at the edge of your awareness. And when you finally glanced up from your phone, there he was. Leaning against the railing just a few feet away, drink in hand, watching you with the kind of interest that made your skin feel too tight. His lips curled at the edges. Slow. Deliberate. Something you committed to memory without wanting to. You were alone. You hadn’t left with someone else, and it emboldened him all the more. He lifted his glass in a silent, wordless toast. And just like that—just when you thought you’d get out alive—he knocked you off balance again and back into the ring. You dropped your eyes with a dismissive shake of the head acting as if you were disinterested and solely focused on your phone. Your eyes narrowed and focused attempting to ignore how the air had gone thick again, charged with something darker, heavier than before.
Then within moments, you felt him slide into the seat next to you, his thigh pressing flush against yours, heat licked up your spine. He had finally come to you. His arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, fingers just a breath away from your shoulder—close enough to feel, but not quite touching. Even in his drunken haze, Trent understood boundaries. Or maybe he was testing them, toeing the line between restraint and indulgence. Not that the line was particularly clear anymore. That same scent—amber, vanilla, and something undeniably him—coiled around you like smoke, sweet and sinful. It was almost enough to make you forget why you were actively not giving into this. Almost. But you stayed focused, tapping at your phone with perfectly manicured fingers, trying and failing to string together enough Spanish to confirm your ride. Then—warmth.
“Nah, don’t do that.” A whisper, low and thick, slipped into your ear, lips so close you swore you felt them brush against the shell. A shiver ran down your spine, but you held your ground. His breath fanned across your skin, and God help you, his lips—those devastating lips—felt just as good when they weren’t even touching you, just speaking. You sucked in a deep breath, hoping resilience would come with the oxygen. “Come home with me, baby.” The words weren’t a plea. They were a promise. A slow, decadent offer drenched in seduction, delivered so effortlessly it was damn near unfair. And just as he was about to give in—let himself slip, let himself press a kiss to the column of your neck, to drag you under with him—you turned. He hadn’t expected that. His breath hitched, gaze locked onto yours, the usual lazy confidence flickering with something less certain.
“No?” You rejected him with a quiet, amused laugh, head tilting as you studied him. Trent blinked, processing, caught off guard. The world rarely said to him, this scenario never happening to him. “You were with other girls all night,” you pointed out, brows raising. “And now you want me to go home with you?” The question dripped with disbelief, with challenge. As if he could just shake off the countless drinks he’d handed to other women, the flirtation, the way he had let them get close—only to turn around and expect you to fall into his hands because you’d made the mistake of playing his game. He leaned in, voice smooth as silk.
“Yeah, but you knew my eyes were on you.” His voice, when it came, was a slow, knowing drawl that slid down your spine like warm honey. “You put on a hell of a show, baby.” And, fuck, it was calculatedly smooth. It was too smooth. It was like honey laced with something dangerous, honey sprinkled with cocaine, he was something addictive. The way he looked at you then—deep, dark brown eyes, heavy with intent—you could have drowned in them, let them pull you under until you forgot how to breathe. He smelled like temptation, his lips looked too plush, too kissable, and suddenly, the condensation on your empty tequila glass wasn’t the only thing wet. But you weren’t that girl. Not tonight at least. Your resilience putting in one strong shift in stoppage time.
“That’s a you problem.” Your smirk was sharp, head cocking to the side as you shot the words back at him. He exhaled a low chuckle, shaking his head, but then—he tried again.
“C’mon.” And, fuck, he pouted. He actually pouted. Not in a mocking, exaggerated way, but in a way that was so natural, so devastatingly cute, it was almost cruel. His lips pressed into a soft, plush curve, his big brown eyes slightly drooping, and it was disarming. One second, you’d been curious about unbuttoning his shirt just a little more, tracing your fingers down his toned chest, and the next, you were being guilt-tripped by the single most beautiful face you’d ever seen. Then—salvation. Or, Uber. Your phone pinged.
“No,” you hummed, biting back a grin as you stood. “Sorry, baby.” The pet name dripped with mockery, teasing but not unkind. And as you moved past him, you let your hand trail from his shoulder across his chest, fingertips grazing exposed skin in the V of his half-unbuttoned shirt, Your nails scratched lightly over the material, onto his skin then back to the otherside of material, dragging it open a little more as you pulled your hand across him, just enough to feel, just enough to make him shudder. Trent’s eyes fluttered shut. His head fell back against the wall behind him. And you? You caught a perfect glimpse of his chest, pleased with both the sight and the reaction. As you turned to leave, you sent one final, flaming arrow straight at him—a slow, deliberate wink. It hit. Hard. Trent was glued to the seat, body slumped, fingers gripping his glass a little too tight. You didn’t give him the option to get out of the way. And when you disappeared into the night, his lips parted, head tilting back slightly as he let out the softest, most defeated groan naturally accompanied by a gorgeous smile. The arrow of you had ripped right through him. And yet—he only felt more determined. Maybe deluded. But definitely determined to have you.
-
Deranged. That was the only way to describe it now.
Trent—Premier League star, England international, double-digit millions of followers, idolized and envied in equal measure—was lying flat on his back in the middle of his Ibiza villa’s king-sized bed, limbs sprawled, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths as he stared up at the ceiling like it held the answer to some impossible equation. It was late or maybe you’d call it early. The club had long since faded into a blur of neon lights and bass-heavy music, the sweat-slick bodies and overpriced tequila dissolving into the background of his memory. The house was quiet now, save for the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore beyond the glass doors of his bedroom. He could hear the rustling of palm trees in the warm night breeze, the distant hum of the city still alive somewhere in the distance. But inside his head? It was chaos.
He wasn’t in shock about why he was alone—he could’ve left with someone if he wanted to. Nicked someone on the way out. He could’ve snapped his fingers and picked any girl from the club, kissed her until she thought she was special, just to wake up and not remember her name. But that wasn’t the fucking point. The point was, he was here. Alone. He couldn’t believe that when he looked up at the blank ceiling he saw you.And when he got tired of staring drunkenly at the ceiling confused by his infatuation with rejection, he shut his eyes and it only got worse. The colors, the sounds, the feelings, the visuals all amplified. His body still thrummed with leftover adrenaline, a heat curling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He was wrecked, but not in the way he should’ve been. Not in the way that came from drinking too much and partying too hard. No, he was wrecked because no matter what he did, no matter how many times he blinked, he couldn’t get you out of his fucking head. It was pathetic. He shouldn’t be thinking about you. He shouldn’t be replaying every moment of the night, every glance, every smirk, every teasing remark that dripped off your lips like honey, ever decision he made that got him here. But fuck, he was. And it wasn’t stopping. And when he closed his eyes, he wasn’t met with darkness—he was met with you.
Every time, he saw you. Your body swayed behind his eyelids like a fever dream, the curve of your ass barely covered as you danced, just enough to drive him insane. He could see your lips wrapping around the rim of your glass, the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed down tequila like it was water, unbothered, unfazed—except for when he spoke to you. He remembered how you felt. God, he remembered. The warmth of your soft skin under his fingers, the way your nails scraped so innocently across his chest when you walked away, yet it felt like you had ripped something out of him. The brief but damning moments of contact, your bare waist under his hands, the soft graze of your hands on his neck marking him worse than any nail-digging scratch ever could. He remembered your scent—sandalwood and crushed magnolia—velvety, intoxicating, still clinging to his senses like you had been in his bed instead of dancing out of his reach all night and now stuck in his head. He should’ve been able to shake it off. He should’ve been able to roll over, let sleep take him, wake up tomorrow with the night nothing more than a passing thought. But instead, he lay there, the memories of you painting themselves across the darkness behind his eyelids, vibrant and inescapable. Even in the loudest parts of the club, he had still heard the hushed, breathy lilt of your laugh. Even among the hundreds of people pressing in, he had still smelled you, the scent hitting him in waves, making his head spin. You were fucking magnetic—and yet, the thing that drove him insane was that you repelled him. You wouldn’t let him in. And now, lying there, frustrated, strung-out, drunk but painfully clear-headed, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time. Want.
It wasn’t just lust, though that was there—fuck, was it there. It was more. It was an itch under his skin, an ache in his ribs, an obsession brewing before he could even recognize it as such. His jaw clenched, his body tensing as he shifted, only then realizing the other problem. He was hard. Of course, he was. Frustration crackled through him like static. The tension coiled low in his stomach, hot and unbearable, and when he finally registered the problem pressing against his boxers, he let out a vicious groan, yanking a pillow over his face like it could somehow suffocate the thoughts of you out of his system. It didn’t work. He prayed another layer over his eyes could blind him from the memories of you but you were everywhere and he felt it, he was completely bricked at the mere idea. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. After a night like that, a night of watching you, touching you, failing to get what he wanted, his body was betraying him.
Trent Alexander-Arnold didn’t win tonight and he didn’t like that. His head hit back against the pillow behind him with a thud, frustration tightening in his chest. He ran a hand down over the pillow covering his face, exhaling harshly into it, willing himself to think about anything else, anyone else. But it was pointless. It was you. Only you.
With a sharp exhale, he yanked the pillow off his face and sat up so fast the room spun. His head was a mix of tequila and longing, swimming in the aftershocks, a heat pressing against his temples that wasn’t from the alcohol alone. His fingers twitched as he grabbed his phone off the nightstand before laying back down because he felt so dizzy. Trent sprawled out in his bed, one arm thrown over his face, the other gripping his phone with a tension that could’ve had his knuckles going white. The room was still spinning, his head buzzing with the lethal mix of alcohol and frustration. He could still taste the night on his tongue—tequila, sweat, your fucking perfume. His chest rose and fell in slow, frustrated breaths, his mind running in endless circles around you. His messages were open. His thumb hovered over the screen. His jaw was tight. He was not that guy—the one who chased, who stayed up obsessing over a girl who had barely given him the time of day. He never needed to be. But here he was, his thumb moving before he could second-guess it, scrolling with a desperation he hated himself for, furiously until he landed on a number he prayed he kept. And then, finally— Campbell.
He hovered for a second, jaw tightening, something like shame flickering in his chest. Here he was, sending a text at an ungodly hour to not even you, your friend, that’s how little you gave him. But fuck that. He didn’t care. The message sent before he could think twice.
'Yo, it’s Trent. Hope you got home safe, Cam.'
Polite. Casual. Normal. Except behind the screen, he was anything but casual. His foot bounced against the bed as he lay there waiting for a response, fingers tapping against his stomach, restlessness clawing at his insides. He was wound so fucking tight it was ridiculous. It took Campbell a while to reply—probably because she was drunk and not a man currently losing his mind over a girl who had barely entertained him. Finally, his phone buzzed. He nearly dropped it in his haste to read the message. Was Campbell confused? Massively. But did she have an inkling? Yeah.
'Home safe… so is she in her room. U good?'
She laughed to herself staring at the unexpected text she received but entirely smug, but she figured she’d give him a little something, a crumb of hope that you were at least in your own room, alone or not, he could think what he wanted. Trent exhaled through his nose, rubbing his free hand down his face. Campbell knew. Of course, she knew. It wasn’t common for them to text and definitely not at this hour. He should’ve just left it there. Should’ve ignored the obvious taunt, tossed his phone to the side, and forced himself to sleep. Instead, his thumbs moved before he could stop them.
'Course. Where you lot staying?'
Blunt. Straight to the point. No room for misinterpretation. Campbell, predictably, ate that shit up. His phone lit up again, and he could practically hear her giggling behind the text.
'Maybe I'll tell you in the morning. Night xx.'
Trent groaned so loudly it echoed in the empty room. He tossed his phone onto the bed beside him and ran both hands over his face, tugging at his curls in frustration. This was stupid. He was stupid. He never did this. Never chased, never sat in bed like some lovesick idiot hoping for a text, not even from you, from your friend, never let someone burrow so deep under his skin after one night. But you had. Fuck, you had. And now he was paying for it. Why did he play a game with you if it wasn’t one he would win?
His body was still buzzing, the tension rolling through him making it physically impossible to lie still. He felt hot, like the club was still pressed around him, like your scent was still curling around his lungs. He rolled his head back onto his pillow, and instinctively let his hand fall to cup his dick over the fabric of his boxers, a natural position but tonight, even so, it was too much. He let out a pathetic frustrated whine at the mere thought of that ever being your hand. He felt like a boy desperate just for a touch, but he wasn’t a boy, he was a greedy adult now, he craved more. He wanted to show you, hold you properly this time, get a do over, dig his fingers into the flesh of your hips and fuck you. He hated how you oozed sex appeal, dangling yourself in front of him tauntingly and yet beautifully, even in your rejection. His skin was tight, his muscles coiled. He needed to do something before he lost his damn mind.
With a sharp exhale, he rolled out of bed, tugging his boxers off and tossing them somewhere in the dark. His feet carried him straight to the en-suite, his mind already set on one thing. A hot shower. Maybe that would help. Maybe it would calm him the fuck down. Steam filled the glass enclosure as he stepped under the spray, his hands bracing against the cool tile as the water pounded against his muscular back. He let his head hang between his shoulders, chest rising and falling as he willed the tension out of his body. It didn’t work. Not when the moment he closed his eyes, you were still there.
Your body pressed to his in the club. The teasing glint in your eye when you smirked up at him. The feel of your fingers dragging across his chest, the ghost of your touch still seared into his skin. His head fell back against the tile with a thud, his breath coming out ragged as frustration curled tight in his gut. He was fucking losing it. And when he finally caved—when he finally let himself relieve the ache you had left him with, his hand wrapped around himself, lips parting in a quiet groan—he hated that it was you on his mind. Not just your body. Not just the way your lips had wrapped around the rim of your glass. But the way you had laughed at him. The way you had walked away, unbothered, untouched, unfazed. The way you had denied him. It made him feral.
When it was over—when he had groaned his frustration into the heated air, his body finally giving in to exhaustion—he stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, water still cascading over his head. And then, with a shake of his head, he turned the knob, making the water ice fucking cold. Maybe if he froze himself out, he could shake you off. Maybe if he stood under the arctic blast long enough, he could purge you from his system. Spoiler: He couldn’t.
“Fuck!” He shivered, backing into a corner of the shower. It was too cold and he was too hot, goosebumps raised over his skin. When he finally dragged himself back to bed, drops of water still trailing down his back, he barely even bothered to check his phone. He already knew Campbell wasn’t going to text back. And he already knew, with a gut-sinking certainty, that he wasn’t going to sleep a damn bit.
-
You hadn’t slept well, let's say that. So this morning the bathroom air was thick with steam, the scent of warm vanilla and creamy sandalwood curling into the humid space as you smoothed lotion over your skin, fingers gliding over the curves of your thighs, the planes of your stomach, the dip of your collarbones. You needed a fresh start, and to wash last night away. Your body still held the heat of the shower, water droplets lingering in the hollows of your collarbones, disappearing beneath the barely-there fabric of your lace panties. Your headache pulsed—a dull throb behind your temples that had you closing your eyes for a brief moment, pressing your fingers into the ache. You weren’t sure if it was from the shots of tequila you’d thrown back like water, fueled by the reckless, wild-eyed version of yourself who had existed for the night… or if it was because that version of you had refused him.
The thought made your lips press together, a sigh slipping through your nose as you leaned forward against the counter, letting your weight rest against the cool marble. Had you made a mistake? Your pride said no. Your self-respect said absolutely not. But your body… oh, your body was humming with a different answer. Even in your dreams it purred for him.
Even through the haze of liquor, through the blur of flashing club lights and the deep bass of the music, your memory of Trent was untouched—dangerously clear. You could still see him, still hear the cocky lull of his voice curling around the words ‘come home with me, baby.’ Why the fuck didn’t you go!? You screamed at the pent up version of yourself in your head. The way he had looked at you—hooded gaze, tongue running across his bottom lip, those fucking dimples peeking out even in the low light—had been enough to make your thighs clench again in the en suite now. God, he was pretty. And last night’s version of you—intoxicated, stubborn, righteous in your rejection—had left you with nothing but what-ifs.
With an exhale, you pushed off the counter, fingers reaching blindly for your phone. Your headache was mild, your regrets minor, but the ache low in your belly? That was not so easily ignored. You hit next on a shuffle of a playlist, J. Cole’s In the Morning filled the room, the slow, sensual beat vibrating through the air as you moved toward the bed, stretching like a lazy cat as you let yourself sink into the music, into the soft sheets beneath your knees. Your hands roamed absently as you imagined what could’ve been—the heat of Trent’s body pressed against yours, the roughness of his hands on your hips, the deep pull of his voice in your ear as he whispered something sinful, something that made you dizzy, something that made you weak. You sighed, tipping your head back, running your fingers along the tops of your thighs as you smoothed in the last of your lotion, a mix of warmth and frustration curling in your stomach.
And meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, mere yards away, outside your very door… Trent was standing in the dimly lit hallway of your hotel, back pressed against the opposite wall, phone in hand, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips. He felt good. Smug, even. He had gotten the hotel name. He had the floor number. All it had taken was a bit of charm, a well-placed dimpled smile, a sprinkle of that Scouse accent, and a reluctant but meddling Campbell.
Campbell, of course, had put up a fight. But Campbell was nosy. Campbell wanted the tea. Campbell wanted to see what would happen and knew you well enough that sober you, was fine if Trent did manage his way. And so, when Trent had texted her again—his persistence a little embarrassing even to him—she had sighed dramatically and dropped the hotel name in his messages with nothing but a laughing emoji and a single word:
'Try.'
Oh, he was trying. And he had gotten this far. The door in front of him felt heavier than it should have though. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly. He’d played in Champions League finals, for fuck’s sake. He knew how to handle pressure. But this? This was different. Because last night, he'd lost. The rejection had tasted bitter, familiar in a way that made his stomach churn. He knew what it was like to feel the sting of a loss he thought he should have won. 2018 had taught him that. He had played in a Champions League final, full of fire and promise, only to watch another club lift the trophy at the final whistle. But the next year? He came back. He played again. And he won. Last night, you had been his 2018 heartbreak. This morning? He wanted it to be his 2019 redemption. His breath came slow, measured, steady as he reached up, knuckles hovering over the door for the briefest second. And then, before he could think twice, before he could talk himself out of it— He knocked. He paused and shook his head to focus before he did a second time. Two, that was normal right? How often do you knock? What the fuck was he doing at your hotel! His thoughts began to spiral. You heard the second knock, brows furrowing as confusion settled into your sleepy, mildly hungover and certainly needy haze. Room service? No, you hadn’t ordered anything. You assumed Campbell was still dead to the world, and Delaney and Foster had all but sworn off movement until lunch—so who the hell was at your door? Gripping your towel tighter, you hesitated, mentally flipping through half-formed Spanish phrases in case you needed them. You mumbled a ‘No, pero gracias,’ under your breath, rehearsing, before cracking open the door just enough to peek out. And that was when your stomach flipped. Because standing on the other side—looking entirely too smug for someone who’d been left high and dry last night—was Trent.
You froze. For a split second, the world narrowed to just him. The sight of him shown through the sliver of the door made your heart just about stop. The cocky slant of his smile. The way his dimple crept in as he tilted his head, dark eyes flickering down, clearly clocking the towel barely secured around your chest. None of it alarming or threatening to you though which maybe confused you the most but then the voice you wished so badly was in your ear a little more last night spoke up.
"You alright, baby?" His voice was syrupy smooth, thick with amusement. Your jaw slacked in confusion as you unlatched the secondary lock and opened the door a little more. Your grip on your towel tightening.
“Erm… hi?” You blinked up at him, skeptical, still caught off guard. “What are you—” Before you could finish, he stepped forward, cutting off your words, guiding you back into your room as if this had been the plan all along, something you two decided last night, like old friends, like this was normal.
“Just makin’ sure you got home safe.” His voice dripped with feigned innocence. “Since you wouldn’t let me do that last night.” You narrowed your eyes at him, fighting back the unwilling curve of your lips.
“So that’s what you were trying to do?” You cocked your head, watching as he strolled further inside like he owned the place. His eyes surveying the room, he shrugged as if accepting the interior causing your brow to furrow because you didn’t ask and you didn’t invite him in either but here you were. And the worst part of it, you liked all of it, every second.
“Yeah,” he said smoothly, plopping down onto your bed, entirely too comfortable. His fingers ghosted over the outfit you’d laid out for yourself, taking in the delicate lace bralette with a barely-there smirk. “Can’t say it wasn’t—you didn’t let me take you home, so how would you know?” He quipped so obnoxiously innocent, you huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you watched his big hand drag underneath the strap of the tank top you’d planned to wear but now you weren’t so sure you wanted to put it on.
“You’re…” You trailed off, searching for the right word. Because it wasn’t something bad, not exactly. But it was something. Something sharp and annoying but so annoyingly attractive, it made you want to drop your towel. Then it hit you. Campbell’s voice rang through your mind, reminding you of the comment she’d made when you first clocked Trent’s game. “You’re bold,” you concluded, smirking as you bunched up the clothes on the bed from beside him, swiping them. “For someone who pretends to be shy.” You elaborated, adding a bit of clarity. Trent only shrugged again, so nonchalant, like it wasn’t an accusation, just an observation he wouldn’t deny. Your jaw dropped in playful shock, an open-mouthed, amused smile stretching across your face. “Oh, so it’s on purpose?” You laughed, raising your brows.
“Dunno what you’re on about, y’know.” Trent leaned back on his palms, looking entirely unbothered. You rolled your eyes because if he was going to act like he lived here now, you were at least going to put on some clothes. You think you wanted to put them on at least. You turned toward the ensuite. But you didn’t really shut the door, not entirely—it was a big room, and it wasn’t like that—but as you peeled off your towel and reached for the lace bralette, Trent got an eyeful in the mirror. His throat went dry. Bare back. Tiny lace thong. Soft curves in all the right places. Memories of last night he didn’t share with you but of you came flooding back. His jaw slacked for half a second, brain short-circuiting, before he swallowed hard and yanked his phone out of his pocket like it was a goddamn lifeline. Focus, man. Clearing his throat, he shook his head, grasping for anything else to say before he lost all composure.
“So, you want some breaky?” He spoke up. The sudden shift caught you off guard. Emerging from the ensuite, you adjusted the waistband of your tiny Magda Butrym shorts, the lace trim peeking out, paired with a delicate gold Miu Miu knit tank.
“What?” You gave him a skeptical glance as you leaned into the mirror, moving to put in your earrings attempting like this interaction was not affecting you. “Did you not go home with a girl last night? Is that why you’re here?” You questioned him. Trent, who had been subtly (or not so subtly) watching your ass, snapped his gaze up, brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
“What?” He blinked. You smirked at him through the mirror, amused at the obvious shift of his gaze's direction.
“I’m just saying, if you're concerned, I won’t say anything about ruining your perfect track record—” You offered him a plea bargain, wondering if he was here merely for reputation damage control.
“My what?” His brows knitted together. You turned to face him, still grinning, but he looked—sincere. Maybe even… offended? So you paused.
“I’m just saying it’s fine you didn’t have to do this… show up here, make amends.” You said more gently, feeling bad that he looked a little taken aback by your call out. “Last night…” You began a sentence but really had no idea of its direction or ending so you hesitated staring back at him. You don’t think you misread him but then again right now, you felt bad with such an assumption.
“And I’m just askin’ if you want food,” he said simply, flashing an innocent smile that made you hesitate. Your mind ran through a mental list of all the reasons this was a bad idea. You had successfully escaped him last night. You had set your boundaries. You had won. But won what? A night alone? Because right now, you were losing again to the same dimpled grin and twinkly brown doe eyed threat you thought you’d avoided. Then you looked at him—his boyish grin, his easy charm, the way he was so annoyingly persistent but never pushy—and before your brain could stop you, your mouth betrayed you.
“…Okay.” As you grabbed the matching knit sweater to your set and slid on your Loewe cream slides, you glanced at Trent. “Pass me my phone?” You asked him with a blank stare. He was still perched on your bed like he belonged there, far too at ease in your space. Stretching one long arm out, the veins bulging, his muscles flexing as he unplugged your phone and tilted the screen toward him—smirking the second he saw the song he’d been listening to this whole time still playing. "In the Morning." His brows shot up cheekily.
“Thinking about something this morning?” His voice dripped with smug amusement, that teasing lilt curling around every syllable. Trent certainly was, that’s why he showed up, he hadn’t slept, so yes tongue in cheek but he was also curious if you’d bite. Instead, you rolled your eyes, stepping closer and snatching the phone from his grasp. Your fingers brushed his—just for a second, fleeting but charged. Not aggressive, not rough. More like… a preemptive escape. Because if you had let him, Trent would’ve held onto your hand. Would’ve used it as an excuse to pull you forward, onto his lap, into that damn bed. And the person you were most worried about in the room, wasn’t him. It was you. You might’ve let him. But no. Breakfast—you could do. Everything else? A catastrophe waiting to happen.
“Oh, hush. Get over yourself, honestly.” You teased, tossing the phone into your bag like the conversation was already done. “It’s on my favorites playlist.” Trent let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back onto his elbows. You meant it as a throwaway comment, but for some reason, it hit him differently.
He was sitting in your bed, still feeling the warmth of where you had been before you got up. He had seen you damn near naked, so comfortable in your own skin, moving through the room like you were a part of it, dripping in confidence without even trying. Radiating a sexiness he wasn’t sure he’d experienced before. He had watched you laugh at him, throw banter his way, roll your eyes in a way that made him want to press his thumb into the soft crease between your brows just to smooth it out. And now this. This small, seemingly insignificant thing, a throwaway comment to you. One of your favorite songs—was one of his.
And sure, the need to have you, to feel you against him, to ruin you in the very bed he was still sitting on—that hunger was still raging, hot and undeniable. But this was something else. Something new. Trent had spent mornings with women before. Hell, plenty. But they never felt like this. Like… something real and you hadn’t even slept with him last night. Like something he actually wanted to stay in, rather than counting down the minutes before he slipped out the door. Which was funny, because in his mind, he could already see a different kind of full-circle moment. Maybe this time, he started out like this—patient, lighthearted, taking his time—and ended the way he actually wanted, with you beneath him, breathless, saying his name the way he knew it would sound dripping from your lips. A long game. Maybe he was good at those too.
But was it a game? Because when he looked at you, now struggling with the hotel safe, brows scrunched in frustration as you tried to figure out how to lock your valuables inside, he didn’t just think about fucking you senseless. He thought you looked… cute.
And that realization nearly gave him whiplash. Cute? Did he just think that? About some girl he was supposed to just be chasing? Why was he chasing to begin with? Some girl he should be focused on getting into bed, not finding utterly adorable while struggling with a safe? What a mess. What a melt.
•
Thank you for reading! Welcome to my new fic 'Aperture' I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!
Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!
Next part - Chapter 2 - Winnings
📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷
#trent alexander arnold#Trent Alexander Arnold x reader#alexander arnold#trent alexander arnold imagines#taa x reader#footballer x y/n#footballer x reader#fie fic#aperture fic
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Under The Table

word count: 1.2k, pretty short and sweet
cw: super fluffy and teasing, the slow burn.
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Roman had already counted six "uhms," three wheezy inhales, and at least two instances of the ad exec blinking like a malfunctioning neon sign.
He sat at the head of the sleek glass conference table, jaw tight, fingers steepled in front of his lips to mask the increasingly obvious twitch of irritation. The man across from him was still talking—something about cross-demographic expansion, probably—and Roman wasn’t sure if he hated the pitch or the pitchman more.
Or maybe he just hated how Sunny kept smiling.
Not at him, of course. At the presenter.
She sat beside Roman, her legs crossed neatly at the ankle, tablet in her lap and stylus poised as if she were hanging on every overly emphasized syllable. Her smile was soft, eyes wide with interest, like the man wasn’t currently giving the driest delivery in corporate history. Roman could practically see the poor bastard preen under her attention, standing a little taller, gesturing a little broader.
Sunny nodded again, encouraging. Supportive. Warm.
Roman’s eye twitched.
He leaned back in his chair slightly, gaze cutting to the side where she sat—close, like always. Not too close to draw suspicion, but near enough he could smell her perfume when she moved, subtle and sweet and so distractingly her.
She didn’t seem to notice his shift in posture. Or maybe she did and was pretending not to, which annoyed him even more.
Because of course she could sit through this without a hint of irritation. Sunny didn’t get bothered by things like unnecessary filler words or loud sniffing or people who said “like” every three words. She was patience incarnate. Grace and wamrth in a blouse and heels.
Roman, on the other hand, was five seconds from snapping a pen in half.
“...and we’re really leaning into a more inclusive narrative framework,” the exec droned on, pausing again for another dramatic inhale that made Roman want to claw his own ears off. “So it’s, like, super vital that we—”
Roman’s sigh was audible.
Sunny’s stylus paused on her tablet.
She turned toward him just slightly, her brows lifting in silent question. Amused. Knowing.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t have to. He could already feel the warmth of her gaze brushing against the side of his face like a challenge. Like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
And God help him, she was enjoying it.
She hadn’t stopped smiling, but now there was a glint in her eyes—a quiet warning disguised as sweetness. The kind that said, Behave.
Roman said nothing. He didn't move. Just let his gaze settle straight ahead again, though he could feel her watching him.
Until—
Her hand shifted under the table.
He felt it before he processed it, the warm press of her fingers curling gently around the inside of his thigh. Not high enough to be scandalous, but just above the muscle, just where the tension in him coiled the most.
He stiffened.
Her fingers squeezed, a gentle but chiding touch, and her voice followed—low, meant for him alone.
“Hush,” she murmured, without even looking at him. Her tone was light. Teasing. “Your sighs are loud as hell.”
Roman’s breath hitched.
Just a flicker, but enough to betray him. He cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat, enough to loosen his collar—not that it was tight, but suddenly everything felt too hot, too close.
The presenter kept rambling, blissfully unaware, while Sunny went right back to her encouraging nods and gracious smiles, like she hadn’t just reached under the table and touched him like that—soft and purposeful, like she knew what kind of effect she had on him lately.
Because she did.
Things had shifted. Slowly. Naturally. But it was undeniable.
The lingering glances had stopped feeling accidental weeks ago. His gaze found her too often, and hers didn’t shy away. Her hand would brush his arm when they passed each other, fingertips dragging just long enough to make him wonder. She brought him coffee now without him asking, and always remembered how he took it. He’d offered to walk her to her car more than once. Just in case.
None of it was official. Nothing had been said.
But it was there.
Sitting between them now like a secret.
She retracted her hand, like nothing had happened, and Roman turned his head slowly. Caught the side of her face, her profile lit by the conference room lights, her mouth curved just slightly.
She didn’t look at him, but she knew he was watching her.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and quiet. Measured. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Sunny smiled wider. Still facing forward.
“I know,” she said, airily. “And I’m doing you a favor—if your death glare got any worse, he might’ve passed out mid-pitch.”
Roman huffed. “Might’ve been a blessing.”
“Roman,” she chided softly, elbow grazing his now.
His mouth twitched.
Maybe this meeting wasn’t such a waste of time after all.
—
The door to his office clicked shut behind her with a soft finality. Roman looked up from his screen, already knowing it was her. No one else ever knocked that softly or entered with the calm, collected energy Sunny carried like a second skin.
She walked over, set a neatly organized folder on the edge of his desk, and placed his coffee beside it—right where he liked it.
“Transcript from the pitch,” she said, tone bright but businesslike. “Cleaned up the stammering, but left the full quotes in the appendix, just in case you need to reference them later. Footnotes for the budget inconsistencies are flagged.”
Roman blinked. “You footnoted his bullshit?”
“Someone had to.” She smiled sweetly, but her eyes sparkled with shared exasperation. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”
He smirked, sitting back in his chair as he reached for the coffee. “You always bring this,” he said, pausing with the cup just before his lips. “Why don’t you ever bring one for yourself?”
She shrugged, tucking her tablet under her arm. “I hate coffee. Always have.”
That surprised him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. It tastes like burnt wood.” She wrinkled her nose in playful distaste. “I’m more of a tea person. But the little café downstairs only has one kind. Some cheap chamomile blend that tastes like paper. So.” Another shrug. “I just skip it.”
Roman watched her for a moment longer than he meant to, eyes narrowing slightly like he was adding her answer to some mental spreadsheet.
“Noted,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said, too fast.
Sunny gave him a knowing glance but didn’t press. “Well, let me know if you want me to summarize that in presentation form for the board. Otherwise, I’ll just send the digital copy over.”
He nodded. “Do that.”
She turned, walking toward the door, the click of her heels soft against the floor. Roman watched her go—watched the easy sway of her movements, the subtle curl of her hair against the collar of her blouse.
As the door eased shut behind her, he reached for his phone.
Amazon.
His thumb hovered a moment, then typed: electric tea kettle. variety tea sampler. overnight shipping.
She’d never know. Not right away, anyway.
But he’d remember. Because that’s what she did for him—remembered the little things. Made them feel important.
It was time he started doing the same.
---
inbox always open!
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Cursed CEOs 😈
18+ | Suggestive Content | MDNI! | CEO!Crown x Secretary!Reader
Imagine the members of Crown as your CEOs... 👔 🤭
CW: suggestive content / power imbalances / Alfons's and Jude's sections mention sexual harassment because of course w/ those two 🙃
(EN-released Villains only)
William Rex
Boss energy! "Sir" energy!
Will would look so suave in a suit. 😮💨 You would be so attracted to his commanding presence. Just sitting behind his big desk, giving orders to his subordinates, making a fuck ton of money... Yeesh.
He has such a powerful aura as a CEO, you can't help but be entranced. He’d definitely send you on all kinds of tasks that seem like they’re for him but are really for you.
"I need you to make a reservation at this restaurant for two for this evening."
"Oh? Do you have an important client dinner? I'm sorry I don't have that in the calendar..."
"Mm, yes, a very important client..." 😉
Harrison Gray
The more subtle, quiet, brooding type who seems genuinely attached to his work. His air of mystery and the distant authority he wields inexplicably excite you, making you want to learn more about him and do more for him. He carries a lot on his shoulders in private, but keeps up a relaxed demeanor in front of everyone. But you notice this about him and go out of your way to be helpful! And frankly, he is so turned on by that lol.
One night, he would be working late and you’d knock lightly on his door to say goodbye for the evening but he would find some excuse to make you stay late with him, and... well... 😉
Liam Evans
Sweetie alert! Liam is a kind boss. His employees respect and admire his understanding attitude and don't want to disappoint him.
All he wants, though... is to reward his star employee: you! He gets so distracted by you that he had to shift your desk assignment to be further away from him. But then he missed you so he changed it back! He's always lingering by your desk and asking you about your life outside of work. Over time he starts to flirt with you more and more, almost crossing an HR boundary more than once.
May or may not use his power to disguise himself and follow you around, who knows! Lol.
Elbert Gretia
Elbie isn’t exactly comfortable in positions of authority, so he’d be a very low-key CEO. He is a very good boss in most ways because of this. You can't help but worry about him, so you'd be super attentive, anticipating every task that he would like completed.
You often catch him watching you, taking in your brilliant competence. Unbeknownst to you, he's actually considering demanding that you not leave his office because he doesn’t want the other employees to see how sexy you look in your work attire...
Alfons Sylvatica
Sexual harassment incoming! Haha. Alfons would be the biggest HR nightmare lol. He would be the most corrupt boss you could imagine. Blatantly making you uncomfortable, quid-pro-quo-ing left and right for sexual favors from you, ‘disciplining’ you for shoddy work... you’d get so fed up with him, but even more fed up with the fact that you can't stop thinking about him outside of work... All you want is to please him, to hear him praise you, to show him how good at your job you can be... 🫠
Roger Barel
Distractingly hot boss! Also cocky!
And what's even worse is that he can tell that you’re totally flustered by him! And he loves every second of it!
He’d call you into his office to “check something” and end up getting you to come over to his side of the desk. As you bend over to check, you feel something running up the back of your leg... it’s the brush of his fingertips...
"Keep checking," he'd say, without taking his eyes off of your face, "we don’t want to have any errors in this report.”
Things would devolve from there lol.
Victor
... Victor in a suit and tie? 😵💫
He would be so effusive and complimentary. It'd start out just as praising your work but then he'd start praising your appearance, too... Calling you the sexiest secretary he's ever had and what not. It's technically inappropriate, but he's so playful about it that it disarms your cautiousness. Plus, occasionally he'll be really stern about something, and you have to admit... it's kind of hot! Your flustered reaction makes him chuckle to himself. He loves his adorable little secretary! 😙
Jude Jazza
If Alfons was harassing, Jude is downright abusive lol. You thought you knew what you were getting into when you applied to be his secretary, but even you are shocked by how fucking evil he can be.
He’d call you into his office and berate you for making the tiniest mistake, demanding that you do the same menial task over and over until you can’t see straight from looking at the files for so long. Even after the tenth or twelfth re-do, he'd still be unsatisfied. He’d have no choice but to punish you for being such a bad secretary.
He’d threaten to fire you... unless you perform some other “work-related” tasks... 😈
Ellis Twilight
Sweetest boss award goes to Ellis!
He’d want all of his employees to be ‘happy’ and would make sure to praise you and thank you for your work a lot. You might end up making a move in this situation, because he’d be too proper and kind to be overt about his attraction to you. But once he knows you are into him, you best believe he’s going to fuck you stupid over his desk!
"This is what makes you happy, right? I can't have an unsatisfied employee."
#ikemen series#cybird ikemen#ikemen villains#ikemen games#ikevil#ikevillains#ikemen villains william#ikemen villains harrison#ikemen villains liam#ikemen villains elbert#ikemen villains alfons#ikemen villains roger#ikemen villains victor#ikemen villains jude#ikemen villains ellis#william rex#harrison gray#liam evans#elbert greetia#alfons sylvatica#roger barel#jude jazza#ellis twilight#ikevil william#ikevil victor#ikevil alfons#ikevil harrison#ikevil liam#ikevil elbert#ikevil ellis
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heyy!! I absolutely LOVE your writing!! I was wondering if you could do a luke cooper x reader? Something like reader is maybe Jim's younger sister, or just related to someone in the office and she comes to drop something off to them or something and catches luke's eye. feel free to ignore this ahaha
girl, no way in hell I'm ignoring my sugarplum luke cooper.
tags n warnings: suggestive, jealousy, dirty jokes, terrible environment, creed and kevin (real warning). word count: 2.3k
A/N: hey, i'm back!!! sorry for being super absent here, I missed you all <3
𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 ⋆✴︎˚。⋆
Luke was a good person—when he wanted to be. Which was almost never. But when it came to you, he tried to be slightly more decent. Especially when it came to looking at you.
Not because he was a better man, no. He just avoided looking because you sat right next to Jim. And you—by every unfair twist of fate imaginable—just happened to be his sister.
Seriously? You?
The prettiest, kindest, most distractingly adorable girl in the office, and of course, you had to be related to the most upstanding, qualified, all-american guy in the building. Jim was fair with everyone—except when it came to you.
He had a very specific way of showing how protective he was: keeping you far, far away from anyone like Luke Cooper.
Luke had to bite the inside of his cheek sometimes just to stop himself from staring. Especially when you wore those damn button-up blouses that looked a little too good tucked into your skirt. Even your cardigans were starting to look criminal when you cinched them at the waist.
Sometimes, he’d “accidentally” knock something off his desk—just so you’d bend down to pick it up for him. A few precious seconds of watching you, a soft “here you go” from your lips, before Jim would clear his throat like a freaking siren.
But today, in a cruel plot twist straight out of a badly written fanfic, you were the one who dropped a highlighter.
Luke’s brain short-circuited when he saw the neon yellow pen roll dramatically across the floor, stopping right by Phyllis’s desk like it had a mind of its own. What the hell was he supposed to do?
Stand up? Risk instant death via Jim Halpert’s “big brother” death glare? Stay seated? Look like a jerk There was no winning move. Every option was a trap.
Then—you stood up.
Luke froze. Muscles locked, heart in his throat, eyes very carefully not following the line of your legs as you moved.
He could hear the faint squeak of your heels. The soft jingle of your bracelet. The rustle of your blouse when you bent down to grab the highlighter.
And he was gone. Fully spiraling. This was hell. Corporate, fluorescent-lit, paper-scented hell.
And yet… the corner of his mouth twitched. Because if hell meant watching you brush your hair behind your ear while laughing softly at your own clumsiness—he’d gladly stay.
You walked over to the spot, crouching down to grab the highlighter. This time, Luke didn’t look away. He wouldn't have looked away even if Jim smacked him upside the head with a broom handle.
Just a little lower and he’d see a bit more skin—not that he needed to. The visible outline of your top beneath your cardigan already felt like a punch to the chest. You moved like a dream. Like the office had suddenly switched to slow motion.
Then you looked up and smiled at him. Just a casual little smile. Nothing dangerous. Nothing scandalous.
It nearly killed him.
You went back to your chair like nothing happened. Like you hadn’t just melted every cell in his body.
Was that on purpose?
No. No way. That was too absurd. You’d have to be counting on physics to roll the highlighter directly to Phyllis’s desk—with your hip perfectly angled toward him? Come on.
Still… just in case… getting up to splash some cold water on his face sounded like an excellent idea.
Luke stood up and made his way to the break room, setting a cup of hot chocolate in the microwave before heading toward the bathroom.
“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Kevin said out of nowhere, side-eyeing Luke while noisily slurping instant noodles like it was a performance piece.
“Who?” Luke asked, feigning confusion as he stirred the powder in the cup and punched in the timer.
“Jim’s sister, duh" Kevin clarified, turning his head to get a full view of you typing away at your desk. “I’d have kids with her. So many kids. Fill up their whole house, then put in more kids. Just… kids everywhere.”
“That’s how you know she’s the wrong girl,” Luke muttered, giving Kevin a light punch on the arm before heading for the door. “You want kids with her. Rookie mistake. Stay away from girls like that, Kev. And keep your weirdness to yourself. We don't need more of you."
As he stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, Luke leaned back against the cold tile and looked up at the ceiling.
He hated the idea of being a dad. Hated the idea of being responsible for anything besides his laptop and maybe a white cat you’d name Pinky because of her pink paws… and because your future daughter would love that name, wearing cute pink dresses matching with yours he gave on your birthday.
He groaned.
No.
This was getting out of hand.
“You're so pathetic,” he muttered, running damp fingers through his curls. “You know who else stares at people’s asses without them knowing? Creeps on public buses. That's fucking sexual harassment.”
“They're just hard-working people,” Creed suddenly chimed in behind him, clutching an old newspaper like he was about to preach. “What? It’s not illegal to admire beauty. I don’t get why people say it’s gross.”
“You’re gross,” Luke scrunched up his face, hurrying out of there before any more of Creed’s essence clung to him.
He was already too much of a mess to absorb even an ounce more of that man’s weirdness.
But apparently, the universe had other plans. Because right then—just to torture him—you were standing by the microwave… holding his hot chocolate.
He stopped short.
And then you added marshmallows. Where the hell did you even get marshmallows? Were you part witch?
“I felt like drinking something warm too,” you said sweetly, turning to hand him the cup. “It’s freezing today.”
Luke glanced around like he was being filmed for a hidden prank show. Jim could not know about this. Ever.
Then again… you had approached him. Not the other way around.
“Yeah… it’s freezing,” he muttered with a small laugh, taking a sip. The chocolate tasted ten times better than it should have. It was literally store-brand powder. But still—what kind of magic were you made of?
“I was kind of expecting a thank you,” you teased, crossing your arms with a mock pout that nearly gave him a heart attack.
“For the hot chocolate?” He blinked, setting the cup down on the counter. “Thanks.”
“For letting you stare a little longer,” you added with a grin so smug and bright it could've powered the whole building. That confirmed it.
It had been on purpose.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. That was weird. I’m not usually like that,” he muttered quickly, practically burying his face back into the cup to hide from his own shame.
“It’s okay,” you smiled, uncrossing your arms and stepping just a little closer. “If it’s you, I really don’t mind at all.”
If not for the laws of physics, Luke’s cup might’ve floated straight into the air right then and there. Instead…
It hit the floor.
Chocolate splashed everywhere, shards of ceramic scattered. Luke stared at the mess in horror.
“Fuck,” he muttered, crouching down to collect the evidence. You bent down too, but he gently stopped you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Let me do it. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Oh… okay. Thanks.”
You pulled your hand back and rested them in your lap as Luke carefully picked up each shard of ceramic with his palm, standing to wrap them in a napkin and toss them into the trash. You grabbed a roll of paper towels, but before you could start wiping the mess, he reached out.
“I’ve got it—”
“No, let me clean this part,” you insisted, smiling and kneeling again to soak up the spilled chocolate.
Luke knelt beside you and just watched. There you were, cleaning hot chocolate off the floor, and somehow you still looked like an angel. If you two ever ended up dating, he’d probably pay to see you do this again—maybe in whatever weird outfit you felt like wearing that day.
“Why’d you say it’s okay for me to look at you?” he asked quietly, his hand falling to rest on the floor as he looked into your eyes.
“I don’t know,” you replied with a soft smile—the same honest one you always gave him. “I guess… I like you.”
More than just the office clown, more than the guy who always had a sarcastic comeback. You liked him.
“You’re probably the only one who does,” he murmured, exhaling and glancing away as you stood to toss the paper towels and wash your hands.
“Your uncle likes you,” you teased gently.
“He just wants to fix me. Make me into the son he never had,” Luke grumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “So yeah… I guess you might actually be the only one who really likes me.”
“I don’t think so,” you responded as you turned to face him again, drying your hands. “I like you a lot. You always make me laugh. Even when your jokes are super stupid, I still laugh."
Luke smiled slowly, his eyes lighting up with something softer, something he didn’t show often.
“Jim hates that,” you added with a grin. “He’s losing his title as the office comedian.”
“So that’s why he hates me?”
“He hates you because I like you.”
Oh, this time it was different. Luke could feel it—by the way your eyelids softened, the shine in your eyes, the slight lift of your shoulders. It bloomed warm in his chest, hotter than any cup of cocoa could ever manage.
“I like you too,” he replied casually, though his tone matched yours in quiet honesty. Even without more words, you both knew what he meant. “If your brother allows it, of course. Do I need to sign something, or should I have my uncle send over a memo? Because I can make that happen.”
“A real nepobaby, huh?” you teased, finally turning to look at him.
“It has its perks,” he grinned, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Now can we go back? Your brother’s staring at me like he’s about to pair me up with Dwight.”
“Oh, that would be awful,” you whispered, giggling softly. He couldn’t help it—he laughed too. Your laugh was far too infectious to resist.
“Yeah, like... they’d invent some beet-powered machine that chops off a piece of me every time I look at you.”
“And what would you do about that?”
“I don’t know… Crap. I think I’d disappear.” He joked, touching his own arms as if parts were missing. “Where am I? Guess I vanished from looking at you too much.”
“You’re so dumb,” you laughed, marveling at how he could be so effortlessly charming, so beautifully spontaneous—so Luke.
“It’s just my flirting technique,” he quipped, brushing invisible dust off his shirt. “That and dropping pens so you’d hand them back and I could sneak a glance.”
“So you were thinking everything through, huh?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t use the same trick on me today, missy.” He smirked, ruffling your hair playfully.
“Yeah, but you started it.” You grinned, trying to fix your hair once his hand pulled away.
“Yeah, keep laughing and soon you're laughing in my bedroom.”
“What’s going on in here?” Jim appeared in the doorway, his eyes sharp like a warning shot.
“Luke helped me with a mug I dropped,” you explained, looking at your brother, who seemed far too invested in finding a hint of a lie.
“You drop a lot of stuff, huh, Luke?” Jim raised an eyebrow at the guy, who just shrugged.
“Gravity. Blame Isaac Newton. Oh wait—sorry, forgot. You can’t complain to your cousin.” Luke mocked, trying to stifle a grin.
Jim turned to you, jaw slack, completely stunned. But as soon as you started laughing, he rolled his eyes.
“Sorry, Jim. That was actually funny,” you admitted, covering your mouth, while your brother leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“You used to be better,” he remarked, trying to hold back before breaking into laughter too. “Watch your back, Luke. Might be a good idea to start sleeping with the doors locked.”
“Man, it’ll take you a while to crawl outta the Cretaceous period.”
“Don’t add fuel to the fire,” you scolded, grabbing Luke’s hand to stop the back-and-forth.
“Stay sharp,” Jim warned, throwing one last glance before disappearing down the hallway.
“I was seriously freaking out,” Luke confessed, shaking his hands like he was trying to loosen the nerves. The moment suddenly felt light—soft as a marshmallow.
“Doesn’t look like it. I can’t even picture you nervous.”
“Your brother’s terrifying.”
You laughed, resting your head on Luke’s shoulder. “He just looks scary. Inside, he’s like an underbaked carrot cake.”
“With frosting?”
“No flavor. Like his jokes.”
Luke snorted, but his eyes darted back to the doorway, half-expecting Jim to reappear holding a “Code Red” sign. You gave his hand a small squeeze, bringing him back.
“Relax. If he were really mad, he’d have launched into a three-paragraph speech with a Star Wars analogy.”
“He’s done that?”
“You have no idea.”
Luke shook his head, amazed. “Honestly, I think I’d take Darth Vader.”
“He’s definitely gonna hear that in the Christmas recap.”
You both laughed, and for a moment, the usual office noise seemed to vanish—keyboards, phones, even the steady drip of coffee brewing. It was just the two of you in that quiet little corner, balanced between humor and a kind of controlled danger.
Luke looked at you, more serious now. “You know... I don’t really mind getting lectured by Jim.”
“No?”
“No. It’s worth it. Like... if it means I get a little more time like this with you.”
Your face felt warm—not from embarrassment, but from that rare kind of heat that only someone as wildly unpredictable as Luke could ignite.
“Can I say you look insanely gorgeous today?” he murmured, fighting a smile.
You laughed, shaking your head. “Take it easy, Cooper. I haven’t even decided if I’m letting you sit with my family at Sunday lunch.”
“Can I bring dessert? Promise I make an awesome cup of chocolate with marshmallows.”
“Only if it’s better than your jokes.”
“Might need to ask your mom for help, then.”
You laughed again—that kind of laugh that slips out easily when your heart’s already made a decision, even if your head is still pretending it hasn’t.
#x reader#imagine#reader insert#fanfic#evan peters#evan peters fandom#evan peters x reader#evan peters x you#evan peters x y/n#luke cooper x y/n#luke cooper x reader#luke cooper#luke cooper headcannons#the office fic#the office fandom
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Idia Shroud - "You Have Some Nerve"
🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.
In which during class you notice a certain Ignihyde dorm prefect is distractingly attractive. Or; In which Idia Shroud's handsome face gets the attention of a certain blunt and scary looking loud mouth and they confront him in the hallway after class.
Part 1 of my new Otaku × Delinquent Series

💀•♡•💀•♡•💀•♡•💀•♡•💀•♡•💀•♡•💀•♡•💀
"Hey! Hey you!"
"..."
"Hey, you! With the fire hair!"
"M‐me?"
"Yes, you; who else has here flaming hair!"
"U‐uh... What did you need..?"
"How dare you! Do you have no shame!?"
"Wha— !?"
"Who gave you permission to be so damn attractive!?"
"Attra— a‐a‐attractive!??"
"You're so damn handsome over there and it's distracting! How dare you be so hot, you jerk!"
"Ah! I‐I'm so s‐sorry!!!"
"You'd better make it up to me!"
"O‐of course, anything!!!"
"Good! We're going on a date, is that clear!?"
"C‐crystal!!!"
"I'll meet you outside of Ignihyde's dorm at 7pm tomorrow, got it!"
"Y‐yes!"
💀•♡•💀•♡•💀•♡•💀•♡•💀•♡•💀•♡•💀•♡•💀
🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.
Wanna see similar content? Check out my Masterlist!
#male reader#gender neutral reader#gn reader#twst#twst idia#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland idia#idia#idia shroud#twst x reader#twst x gender neutral reader#twst x gn reader#twst x male reader#twisted wonderland x reader#twisted wonderland x gn reader#twisted wonderland x male reader#twisted wonderland x gender neutral reader#idia x reader#idia x male reader#idia x gn reader#idia x gender neutral reader#idia shroud x reader#idia shroud x male reader#idia shroud x gn reader#idia shroud x gender neutral reader#otaku x delinquent#series
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The Way You Make Me Feel
A/N: this is a rework of an old fic and i love johnny <3
TW: self esteem issues, self bullying kinda?
fat/plus size gn!reader x johnny suh
WC: 983
“Gross,” you said, looking at yourself in the mirror.
You just tried on the 6th potential outfit for your dinner with Johnny tonight, but every single one had something wrong with it. One was too tight, in a bad way. One was too big and made you look bigger than you were. Every single piece of clothing that touched your skin made you want to leave the house less and less. It was just one of those days.
You’ve always had a wishy washy relationship with your body and overall appearance. You aren’t small or petite and because of that, it’s led to you feeling a little bit insecure every once in a while. Especially while dating Johnny. Someone as alluring and desired as Johnny dating you made you question his life choices.
Unfortunately, you weren’t the only one questioning his choices. You had consistently noticed all the stares you two received when displaying any kind of affection in public. They were looks of surprise and sometimes even contempt. Lots of times, waitresses would hit on him right in front of you before he made it clear he was with you. You never got used to the shock on people’s faces when realizing he would rather have you than them. Some looks just screamed “He could do better.” You did your best to ignore them, but your best wasn't enough. Johnny never noticed them, of course. He remained perfectly oblivious to any in person awkwardness that arose from him being distractingly in love with you in public. Dating an idol also opened up a whole new avenue of scrutiny. Johnny urged you to never look at what people said online, but sometimes, curiosity won you over.
You shed the outfit you had on, deciding to give up. Wearing only your underwear, you collapsed backwards onto your bed, losing all hope of finding the right outfit. The sound of the front door opening was not enough to make you move, and you stayed where you were, rotting on the bed and staring at the ceiling.
“Honey, I’m ho- whoa. Well, as hot as you look in nothing but your undies, I think the restaurant has rules about dress code,” he joked.
“Can we just stay in tonight?” you groaned, turning over in bed, back now facing Johnny.
“Y/N-” he starts, making his way to you, “this was supposed to be a surprise, but I got us reservations at your favorite restaurant, and we got our favorite table!” he said, trying to get you excited about going out.
“We can just go some other time,” you mumbled, unmotivated.
“Is everything alright, my love?” he sat down next to you, pulling your arm, forcing you to sit up next to him. You buried your face in his chest, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Why are you with me?” you blurted out.
“Um- is that a real question? Where is this coming from?” Johnny furrowed his brows.
“Yes. It’s a real question, so please give me a real answer- why are you with me?” you asked, more insistent this time.
“Why wouldn’t I be with you?” he replied in disbelief, “You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen. Everyday I wake up in absolute awe knowing that I am lucky enough to be with you. You are so incredibly beautiful on the inside as well, and that is such a rare trait to find nowadays. You are unbelievably kind, funny, charming, and insanely irresistible. You should know that by now! Remember how I told you that I couldn’t keep my hands off of you on our first date?” he ranted passionately before softening up. “Where’s this coming from, baby? Did someone say something to you?” he asked, taking your face in his hands, searching for any clues.
“I just-” you sigh, “I see all the stares we get when we walk down the street, and I see all these gorgeous people who you could be with. You could be with someone way better. Someone more talented and more beautiful. Someone who isn't… well, someone who isn't fat,” you finished, your eyes darting to the floor.
And like that, Johnny understood. He finally got what was going on. He lifted your chin and kissed you like his life depended on it. It was full of desire and nearly animalistic. He didn’t want to stop, but you needed to breathe eventually. he rested his forehead against yours, catching his breath.
“You being fat or bigger doesn’t make you less beautiful, just like anyone else isn't more beautiful for being smaller. I love you more than anything, and your size has nothing to do with the way you make me feel. You make fireworks go off inside me just when you smile or laugh. No one else could do that. It breaks my heart that you don’t see how perfect you are to me, but I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you see yourself the way I see you,” he said, giving you another kiss, softer and sweeter than the first but just as thrilling, if not more.
“Why don’t I order some food for us, and we’ll watch your favorite movies?” he suggested, giving your hand a squeeze.
“You’re the best.”
“And you’re the bestest!” he booped your nose.
“That’s not even a word,” you giggled.
“Well, it is now!” he exclaimed, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you onto his lap.
You didn’t know what made you so special in Johnny’s eyes, but you did know that the way he looked at you even as you sat there without even having proper clothes on was enough to remind you that you were special.
He pulled you into his arms and held you all night, sprinkling little kisses now and then, making you feel as beautiful as he knows you are.
#fluff#fat reader#plus size reader#johnny suh#john#johnny suh x reader#nct 127 x reader#nct x reader#johnny x reader#johnny suh x plussize!reader#johnny x plussize!reader#idol x plussize!reader#kpop x reader#gender neutral reader#nct 127#nct#gn!reader
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Ranking Men's Costumes in Period Dramas - Part II: The Good
Part I: The Bad
This is the second part to my ranking of men's costumes in Renaissance period dramas. I selected 10 shows and films which I think have great costuming for the female characters and ranked them according to their costumes for male characters. I have noticed that even when women's costuming is great, men's costuming might be absolutely dog shit. And that's very much what we saw in the first part, where I ranked the five worst entries. For some reason shows and movies are afraid to put men, especially the characters who are supposed to be cool, manly and hot, into historical costumes. And I'm not even asking for historical accuracy, I just don't want my male characters living in the actual 1500s in basically modern leather jackets and pants. Like I don't watch period dramas for vaguely historically inspired modern fashion, I watch it for the historical setting, which costumes help create. This time we will be looking some rare gems that actually imo have really good costuming even for the male characters. For the five best entries, we'll go from worst to best.
5. Eizabeth R (1971)
Elizabeth R is incredibly committed to historical accuracy in it's outfits, especially for queen Elizabeth herself, many of her costumes being directly recreated from her portraits. It covers the whole reign of Elizabeth, so this commitment is especially admirable as the timeline is more than 40 years, including a stark shift in fashion from less structured and more toned down Tudor fashion to the extremes of the highly structured Elizabethan fashion. It's not perfect, The hair is not always great and like many others they fail at French hoods, though they are not upward pointing or pseudo crowns detached from the hood, so could be much worse.

The men's costumes are also very good. They are faithful to history, they wear stockings, very short trunk hose, ruffs and even have some structuring in their doublets and jerkins. However, the reason this is not higher is that the men's costumes especially, but also many other costumes beside Elizabeth's are looking a little sloppy. There's some structure yes, but the men's silhouettes are just not bold enough and they end up looking a little costumy. Even the codpieces are shrunk so small I'm not even sure if they are there half the time. Cowardice. Here's two Robert Dudley's costumes and an actual portrait of him. I think the second costume is probably an attempt at recreation of that portrait, but it's just kinda halfway there.



4. Taming of the Shrew (1967)
This film is set in Renaissance Italy, the women's costumes fit well to 1520s-30s. They are honestly really great and cohesive. My only gripe is that their bodices have a very 1960s shape and the make-up is a little distractingly modern. But the costuming is not attempting to recreate historical accuracy, rather they took the historical silhouette and basic elements and crafted a very over the top but cohesive look. I honestly love these very much.



An interesting choice is made with the men's costuming, especially the main male lead, whose costume is based much more on the Renaissance German men's fashion of that period. His costumes resemble the over the top fashion of the German Landsknecht (first image below). In Italy (second image below) the doublets were also very voluminous and quite colourful but not to that extent as by the Landsknecht and literally no one, not even the other Germans, rocked that slashed style as hard.


This is not really criticism though. In fact I respect that choice a lot. His costumes are certainly not historically accurate, but they do fit the bombastic aesthetics of the overall costuming, they are loud, large and not afraid to fuck around. This man oozes sex-appeal much more than any character with some modern plain black pants and leather jacket. This is how you costume a Renaissance man who fucks.


3. Tulip Fever (2017)
I am stretching the definition or Renaissance here a bit, I admit. This movie is set during the 1630s tulip mania, by which point the remnants of Renaissance fashion had already been left to the previous decade. However, I do think most of the movies and TV set in Baroque era also struggle with the men's costumes. Though not as much, because black was fashionable for everyone, the cod piece was gone, trunk hose were replaced by more palatable Venetian hose, fashion was much more stripped down from embellishments, leather was not uncommon in jerkins and appeared even in doublets and hose and the Hollywood's beloved boots became actual fashion items. The men's silhouette in this period is very silly in my opinion and people seem to agree because it's usually skipped in costuming, but overall the period seems to fit modern masculinity standards much more easily than Renaissance era.
But I just really wanted to include this because the costuming is absolutely stunning (and let's be honest we are a bit desperate here trying to find 5 actually good examples). I have not watched the movie and probably never will because the post production was an absolute mess and it apparently came out as just a very bad movie, which is a shame, since the costumes are so good. The ruffs are perfectly crispy. The buttons are dense and look just right. The shoes, both boots and otherwise are so on point. The fabrics are honestly perfect. The silhouettes are just as goofy as they are supposed to be. And the women too have perfect silhouettes. All the details are just simply perfect. You rarely find costuming this meticulously created with historical details and great construction.


Honestly these top three could all be the best one. This final order was decided purely on which costumes I like more. And while I love the women's fashion of this period, I think the men's fashion is kinda stupid and boring, so I don't like these costumes on aesthetic level as much as the top two.
2. Romeo and Juliet (1968)
This movie is a perfect counterpart to the movie with the worst men's costuming which I talked about in the first post, Rosaline. They are both set in Italy around very end of 15th century and retell Romeo and Juliet. Both have very good costuming for female characters but obviously I think differ greatly in the male character costuming department. Romeo and Juliet costuming takes some artistic liberties to create a heightened reality quite similar to Taming of the Shrew costuming, but follows history much more closely. The colors are bright, the hose are tight, the giorneas are voluminous, the sleeves are long and massive and the cod pieces are prominent. Even the hair is perfect, even for women, they even use hairnets. I imagine the men's hair was quite easy to get right as hairstyles in 60s and 70s were basically lifted directly from 1400s Italian men's hairstyles. The men are even wearing appropriate goofy hats??? Amazing.




The costuming perfectly captures the era, but they still clearly had fun with it too. Honestly even though I appreciate the meticulously recreated historically accurate costuming, like in Tulip Fever, I tend to like more costuming that does take some artistic liberties to create a distinct look and atmosphere for the movie or TV show. There's some small things they don't get quite right, like having standard lacing instead of ladder lacing, metal eyelets (which would become a thing as late as in 1830s) and most egregiously Juliet in one scene has this very dumb supportive undergarment without even shift under it (first picture below)?? The outer garments were supportive during this era, there was no such thing as supportive undergarment which was any different from the outer kirtle (or gamurra in Italy). Shift was the only truly undergarment. But I will forgive these errors because the costuming is overall so fun and gorgeous. And they did get some details so so right, like look at Romeo's arming doublet (second picture below)! It has Lombardian sleeves!! This was a very specific style of arming doublet for this era and place. However those errors does prevent it from taking the first place. Which leads us to...


1. Orlando (1992)
This movie has Tilda Swinton in flamboyant Elizabethan men's clothing. That's all.





Okay, I that is all that needs to be said, but I will say more. This movie spans centuries and shows excellent costumes from several different periods, but I will focus on the Elizabethan costumes only for the sake of this post. The costuming is not super historically accurate in all the detailing, and clearly not trying to be, but it is always impeccable. Even while it takes artistic liberties and the story has an immortality fantastical element it still captures the men's fashion's silhouette much better than any other movie or TV show I know of set in this period. It does that better than the "we recreated these portraits" Elizabeth R. But what really makes this the best in my humble opinion, is that the movie is not afraid of the effeminate and emasculated modern perception of Renaissance men's fashion, no, it leans into it and uses it to explore the themes. The whole story is very much about gender and gender fuckery. Tilda Swinton plays the titular Orlando who is a cis man in Elizabethan era, becomes inexplicably immortal and later inexplicably turns into a woman for the rest of their several centuries. He is the embodiment of "I'm not sure if they are a butch or a twink" and as a bisexual I can only be grateful. But in all seriousness I think the costuming and the casting (queen Elizabeth is also played by a male actor) are so perfectly utilized to highlight the arbitrary construction of gender without needing to say it explicitly.
Conclusion
I have some closing thoughts. I took on this task as a way to show a point, which is that for some reason in Renaissance shows and film especially men's costuming is piss-poor, even when women's costuming is great. Male characters tend to have very bad costuming in Medieval media too, though this is also an issue for female characters. I don't think I have ever seen a Medieval show or movie with truly excellent costuming for anyone. In Renaissance media the issue is clearly not lack of skill or knowledge, they choose to do so. My thesis was that the producers think that the Renaissance men's fashion is too effeminate and too unsexy for the Hot Very Heterosexual Male Lead, who the mostly female audience are supposed fawn over like the female characters do. After the analysis think my hypothesis holds up.
Though there's an interesting trend I only noticed while doing this ranking; every entry (except the least bad) in the worst five list are from 21th century, and every entry (except Tulip Fever which is a little bit cheating anyway) in this best five list are from 20th century. I have some theories on why it turned out this way. First is that the studios have become increasingly more concerned with growing profits so they don't take risks and they put pressure on movies and TV shows to be as broadly appealing as possible. This means they can't just make period dramas for the core audience of period dramas, aka mostly women who are history nerds, so they pander to the modern sensibilities in costuming and not to the people who love to see actual historical costuming. Secondly, I think this might also tie to the broader conservative backlash against loosening of gender roles and broader queer acceptance. Among the core audiences of period dramas there are two distinct groups, queer nerds and conservative women, who don't want politics in their media, which is why they love historical stories because obviously queerness wasn't invented yet and people of colour didn't exist yet (they were and did). (They are ofc not always this extreme, but you get the point.) As men wearing dresses has become a culture war issue, I think the studio executives are afraid that anything not masculine enough in modern standards might alienate the more conservative audiences, and more broadly those who don't want to feel like they are engaging with modern political culture war topics in their escapist media. Even if they knew about the queer nerds, they wouldn't care about them and assume they will go along with it anyway. After all not challenging modern gender roles is not seen as an active choice, it's the default.
This bears repeating: cowards.
As a thank you for reading all the way to the end I will leave you with the image of Tilda Swinton in mid 1600s men's clothing. You are welcome.

Part I: The Bad
#fashion history#history#historical costuming#costuming#renaissance fashion#renaissance costuming#film costuming#historical men's fashion
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girl next door 🏠
jemily x reader
summary: jj and emily play welcome committee
a/n: this is a part of this fic i’ve been writing with an oc as the reader. i just subbed y/n for the oc’s name :)
y/n sighed deeply, stepping out of the airport. The DC air was thick and her linen lounge set was the only thing saving her right about now. She gazed down at her phone, checking the status of her uber. The car inched through the line of vehicles and she leaned against her suitcase. This was it, a brand new start and she had a townhouse to unpack before her new job starts.
At twenty-six, y/n felt like she was finally making decisions of her own. An occupation change. A location change. And finally a relationship status change. A new life.The car slowed to a stop in front of a row of townhouses. y/n thanked the driver and slid out of the car. She looked over the yards, all filled with various bushes and toys . Lived in. She wheeled her suitcase up the walkway and rummaged through her purse for her keys. Once the door popped open, she stepped over the threshold. She sighed sweetly at all the boxes lining the house.
“Home, sweet home.”
-
It was well past eleven when Emily maneuvered the SUV into their driveway. The ride home had been a quiet one, but both she and JJ were honestly just ready to be home. Emily tossed JJ the keys and moved to grab both of their go-bags. As both women made their way toward their front door, they caught sight of the light shining two doors down. The bay window’s blinds were high and the light bathed a young woman in a shadow. She looked to be going through a box, leaning against a green couch. Emily was the first to stop and JJ was quick to follow. The house had been empty for about a year since their old neighbor got married. And with their jobs, they hadn’t even realized anyone was moving in.
“Huh, looks like we’ve got a new neighbor.” Emily mused.
“guess so.” JJ observed. She turned her gaze to Emily and nudged her toward the door. “Let’s wait until daylight. I’m exhausted and so are you.”
Emily rolled her eyes but allowed the blonde to push her toward the door. “At least we have the weekend off.”
“Thank god for rotation.”
-
y/n yawned behind her hand for the fourth time since waking up. She stood in front of the coffee machine waiting patiently as the warm liquid brewed. She had another day of unpacking and organizing ahead of her and she’d absolutely need some coffee to get her through it. She was clad in a pink cami and boy shorts and her hair was pulled high off of her neck. Her big framed black glasses rested on her nose and her feet sat snuggly in her fluffy slippers.
As her coffee finished brewing, y/n grabbed her mug and made her way over to the bay window. With the blinds open, she hummed contentedly as she watched the street come to life on a Saturday morning. She watched as everyone seemed to slowly join her in wakefulness. Cars driving by, dogs rushing owners, and a very distractingly attractive blonde running up the sidewalk that lined the townhouses. The ponytail bobbed as she bounded past y/n’s house. The coffee momentarily forgotten, she leaned closer to the window watching as the woman entered the house two doors down.
“Sexy neighbor. This place keeps getting better by the minute.”
-
JJ pulled her earbuds out of her ears as she walked through the house. She rounded a corner into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and found a sleepy Emily nursing a mug of coffee. She took a sip of her water before leveling the woman with a smirk.
“Guess who caught the new neighbor checking me out in her cute pajamas?”
“Oh that’s not fair! Of course you’d run right past her window looking like that. You’ve already established yourself as the hot neighbor.” Emily groaned.
“You should run more. Maybe you’d get checked out too.”
“What does she look like?” Emily asked.
“Rather adorable in the early morning. Can’t be more than twenty-five. Thick rimmed glasses, thick hair piled on top of her head, dressed in the cutest little pink boyshort set and slippers.” JJ recounted with a dreamy look in her eyes.
“How many times did you run by?” Emily whistled.
“I’m just observant. it’s my job. Are we gonna do the baked goods in a basket “Welcome to the neigborhood”? Or what?” JJ asked.
“We don’t bake.”
“Well yes that’s true. But we know someone who does…” JJ smiled already pulling her phone up to craft a message.
“Oh, tell her to bring some of those powdered strawberry eclairs she was mentioning yesterday too.” Emily nodded, taking her coffee upstairs to get dressed.
-
“Show me the house!” A voice floated through the laptop on the counter. “I really can’t believe you left me for DC. At least show me where I’ll be staying when I come to visit.” Grayson, y/n’s best co-worker/friend from Kentucky huffed.
“Alright, hold your horses. I’ll give you a tour.” y/n smiled and lifted her laptop to walk through the house. She showed Grayson the two-story home and everything she’d set up thus far. “Obviously the guest room is yours whenever you’d like it. Just let me know when because I’d like to actually have things prepared before then.”
“It’s so cute, gosh I can’t wait to come visit. How’s the neighborhood? Met anyone interesting yet?”
“Very homey for sure. Lots of families and stuff. I think it’ll be a good fit. I haven’t met anyone per say, but I can say there is a super hot blonde runner who lives two doors down.” y/n grinned taking a seat on one of her island stools.
“Hot blonde runner, oh you have to get all up in that. You need a new body to get under.”
“Oh my god shut up? I didn’t move to get involved with someone on my second day. But that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy the view.”
“Is there an HOA meeting you can go to or something? You need to at least make some new hot friends to keep you company without me.”
y/n shook her head in disbelief and opened her mouth to reply when the doorbell interrupted her, “Gray, I’ll call you later. Someone is at the door.”
“Oh fingers-crossed, it's hot blonde. Bye love.”
y/n hung up and quickly made her way over to the door. She looked through the peephole cautiously and was shocked to see the hot blonde with two other women beside her. y/n fluffed her hair a bit and straightened her clothes out quickly before pulling the door open with a smile. “Um hi.”
All three women smiled and the colorfully dressed woman spoke first, “Hello sunshine! My name is Penelope Garcia and these lovely ladies are Jennifer Jareau and Emily Prentiss. Your personal neighborhood welcome committee.” Penelope spoke, practically bouncing on her heels.
“Oh wow, hi!” y/n grinned letting her eyes roam the three women fully. Her eyes lingered on the blonde she now knew as Jennifer Jareau but as her eyes moved to Emily she was just as entranced by her beauty.
“Pen doesn’t actually live here, but Emily and I live two doors down.” Jennifer gestured toward the house she’d entered earlier that day.
“And we brought the typical baked goods basket.” Emily offered, extending the basket of pastries toward the younger woman.
“Well it’s lovely to meet y’all. Would you like to come in? I’m sure I’ve got something in here to go with these sweet treats.” y/n asked, gesturing over her shoulder.
“We’d love to!” Penelope jumped happily following the younger woman into her home. With JJ and Emily following closely behind. As they all settled in the kitchen at the island, y/n turned suddenly as if remembering something.
“Oh where are my manners, I’m y/n! Inviting guests into my home without even telling them my name, my mother would have my head.” The younger woman smiled sheepishly before grabbing plates and mugs for everyone.
“Oh your accent is just precious, where are you from sweetness?” Penelope asked eagerly.
“Haha, I’m originally from Georgia. But I relocated from Kentucky.”
“A true Southern Belle.” Emily mused, causing y/n to blush with a smile.
“Something like that. Thank you all for welcoming me to the neighborhood. My former co-worker Grayson was just saying I should get out and meet some people.”
“She worried about you?” JJ asked.
“Yeah, the move was pretty spontaneous. I know literally no one here and my closest relative or friend is in New York. Safe to say she’s a bit concerned.” y/n supplied, leaning against the counter to dig through the basket of baked goods.
“Well you can tell her you’ve met three awesome ladies who’d love to be your friend. Two of which live right on your street!” Garcia grinned and y/n reciprocated. y/n grabbed a few muffins from the basket and peeled the paper back to take a bite. The women watched as the younger woman’s eyes fell closed in pleasure.
“Oh wow, this might be the best muffin I’ve ever had in my life. Where did you get these?” y/n moaned, eyeing the three women. Both JJ and Emily seemed positively stunned by the sound and sight of y/n tasting the muffin. Penelope noticed almost instantly and jumped in to save them.
“I made them! I’ve spent quite a while perfecting my muffin recipe, so I’m so glad someone is appreciating my hard work.”
“Oh that’s amazing, you’ll have to show me how you’ve mastered it. I’ve always loved a sweet treat so I bake pretty often.”
“Oh that sounds great, these two are completely useless in the kitchen. I’m happy to know there’s someone on the street who’ll keep them fed. Isn’t that right Jayje?”
“We’re not that bad!” JJ whined.
“Emily is literally not allowed to stand near the kitchen.” Garcia deadpanned, causing y/n to giggle watching the women bicker.
“I’ll be happy to share, I’m still really bad about portions anyways. So you’d actually be saving me.” y/n said sweetly.
“We’ll definitely have to take you up on that.” Emily nodded.
“You all seem like really close friends, have you known each other long?” y/n asked curiously, offering the women some of the goods in the basket.
“We all work together, Pen and I for longer but all of us now.” JJ answered.
“Oh, what do you all do?” y/n asked curiously. “That’s a pretty low turnover rate, you must really like the job.”
“We’re all FBI Agents. Part of a Team called the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Emily supplies, watching the younger woman’s face frown in confusion.
“FBI, like the FBI?” y/n asked incredulously. All three women nodded. “Can’t say I was expecting that at all. So you like actually fight crime with your badge and gun and everything?”
“I don’t do the whole gun or fighting thing, but These two? Absolutely. The amount of doors they’ve collectively kicked down is crazy.” Penelope mused nudging JJ playfully.
“Well, that’s hot.” y/n mused nodding as her eyes glazed over a bit. “You’ll have to show me your badges one day, I’ve always wanted to see one in real life.”
The younger woman took a drag from her mug and turned to throw her muffin paper away. As soon as her back was to the three women, JJ’s eyes were wide and gazing at Emily. Garcia was poking JJ’s side conspiratorially, and Emily was trying not to give into either woman’s knowing looks. The younger woman turned back to them with a curious smile before asking another question.
“So what exactly does being an FBI agent look like? You said you all worked for a specific group. The Behavioral Analysis Unit? What does that team do?”
Emily cleared her throat and answered, “We’re a team of profilers who work with local law enforcement teams to locate and detain serial killers all over the US.”
“Oh wow! That’s got to be some heavy stuff—lots of traveling. Thank you for your service.” y/n said with a salute toward the women. They couldn’t fight the laughter that bubbled between them and Emilly and JJ watched as y/n’s cheeks reddened and she giggled.
“Enough about us, I have to know what an adorable southern woman like you does!” Garcia grinned resting her chin in her palms.
“I’m in education, not as lively as chasing serial killers.” y/n answered sheepishly.
“Oh are you a teacher?” JJ asked curiously.
“Professor actually. I’ll be starting at state school this coming academic school year.” y/n supplied with a smile.
“You’ve definitely piqued my interest, what are you teaching?” Penelope basically bounced.
“Vocal Performance with a concentration in Musical Theater and Jazz.”
“A singer? You’ll have to give us a little show sometime. Em loves Jazz.” JJ winked over at the brunette.
“I guess it’s only fair since I’ve asked to see your badges. I’m sure we can arrange something.” y/n smiled warmly at the two older women.
“A professor? Forgive me, but you seem far too young to be a professor. How old are you?” Emily asked skeptically.
“I’d normally take offense but you’re right, I just turned twenty-six earlier this year. I’ve always been the youngest in the room, but I kinda love it. At the last school I taught at, everyone in my department was well over 50, I found that students really enjoyed a younger perspective.” y/n explained with a shrug.
“Makes sense. So you’re some kind of musical prodigy? Zoom through high school, undergrad, and your masters?” Emily continued.
“No, no. I was in a dual Undergrad and Masters program for music education and vocal performance so I was able to fast-track my road to being a professor. As far being hired so early, I’ve been told I’m rather charming.” y/n shrugged with a grin and a wink.
“I definitely see the appeal. I can’t believe you guys got such a fun and cool neighbor. All I’ve got is that mean old lady. Best believe I’ll be visiting way more often.” Penelope said facing both Emily and JJ. She quickly turned back to the younger woman. “We need to be friends, what are your socials?”
y/n smiled brightly at the tech analyst, “Of course, I’m y/n on everything.”
Penelope frantically pulled the accounts up and was quick to follow on all platforms, “Got it! We’ll have to get together soon before the school year starts and you get busy. I love meeting new awesome people.”
It wasn’t long before the women brought their little impromptu brunch to a close. y/n walked the women to the door and smiled softly as they turned to wave goodbye. As soon as the door closed Penelope looked at the other two women unimpressed.
“Come on you guys, you’re lucky I was here.” She groaned.
“Hey, what does that mean?” Emily scoffed in offense.
“It means I’m starting to wonder how you brought so many women into your bed. That was terrible flirting.” Garcia reasoned as they walked up the steps to their house.
“I wasn’t even trying then, thank you very much. Plus there’s a lot of thought and conversation that goes into something like that. She only moved in yesterday. We don’t need to overwhelm her. Plus we don’t even know if she’s into women.” Emily reasoned.
“She literally called you both hot to your faces.”
“No, she called us kicking down doors hot. She could have a thing for demolition for all we know.”
“Semantic. I’m calling it now though, she’s more than interested in women. Especially women in the FBI who wield guns and kick down doors.”
“Let’s hope you're right.” JJ finally added in collapsing against the couch with a dreamy look on her face.
#msschemmenti#jemily x reader#jemily#emily prentiss x reader#jennifer jareau x reader#emily prentiss#jennifer jareau#gnd series
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