#model! reader

[misswynters]

𝐗𝐎𝐗𝐎

jinx x fem!bombshell!reader

synopsis: You are a model for (victorias secret equivalent but in arcane universe) and jinx becomes infatuated with you. Known for you bombshell persona and explosive personality, you are the most well known model in all of piltover and zaun. Possibility even watching noxus and the other regions.

warnings: 18+, smut, kissing, smut, wlw , the use of a toy, jinx calls you sugar,

a/n: my first jinx fic <3, also on ao3 (not yet, under doorkiluv)

note | pls give me feedback (and don't only just like but also reblog and comment) this was supposed to be short but it went overboard

𓏲 ˖. ♡ 𝐉𝐢𝐧���� 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 for Piltover. Too clean, too polished, too boring. The people were all fake smiles and ridiculous hats, and she preferred the chaos of Zaun to its glittering streets. That all changed the day she first saw you. She’d been in Piltover on a whim, loitering in the shadows as she planned her next prank. Explosives in a fancy clock tower, maybe? She hadn’t decided yet. But her chaotic thoughts screeched to a halt when she looked up at the enormous neon screen in Piltover Square and saw your beautiful face.

You were walking down the runway in a show so glamorous it put Piltover’s polished spires to shame. Wrapped in a shimmering, barely-there gown that hugged your curves, you strode with an air of absolute confidence. Your bombshell persona was magnetic, your hips swaying to the rhythm of the music as the crowd erupted into applause. You gave the camera a cheeky wink and blew a kiss, and Jinx’s brain short-circuited.

“Holy… Who the hell is that?” she muttered, her wide eyes glued to the screen.

A vendor passing by glanced at her. “That’s her. You don’t know? The biggest model in all of Piltover and Zaun. Hell, even Noxus and Ionia are crazy about her.”

Jinx didn’t respond, too transfixed by the image of you flashing across the screen. You were a living firework, a walking explosion of charisma, beauty, and sheer presence. Your bold, flirty persona was a match for her own chaos, and it wasn’t just your looks that had her hooked—it was the energy you carried, the way you owned every moment. From that point on, Jinx was utterly captivated.

Back in her lair, your face became a constant presence. Jinx scavenged every poster, magazine, and billboard she could find that featured you. Her walls were covered in them, glossy images of you smirking, posing, and looking like you owned the world. She couldn’t get enough of you, and it drove her mad in the best way possible.

“Look at her,” she’d whisper to herself, lying on her bed and staring at a magazine cover where you lounged in a shimmering gold corset. “She’s a walking explosion.”

Whenever one of your commercials aired on Piltover’s big screens, Jinx made a point to watch. She’d perch on the rooftops, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as you spoke directly to the camera, your voice sultry and teasing. Sometimes, she’d mimic your lines, laughing to herself at how ridiculous she sounded compared to you.

The first time Jinx saw you in person, she nearly short-circuited. You were in Zaun, of all places, stepping out of a sleek transport at one of the fancier underground clubs. It was rare for someone like you to venture into the depths, but you carried yourself with the same confidence that lit up your photoshoots. Heads turned as you walked through the crowd, a knowing smirk on your lips as if you knew exactly the effect you had on everyone around you. Jinx’s pulse quickened. This was her chance.

She darted through the crowd, weaving between gawking onlookers until she was standing at the bar beside you. Up close, you were even more stunning, your beauty almost overwhelming.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you in a dump like this,” Jinx drawled, leaning casually against the counter. Her nerves were on fire, but she masked it with her usual cocky grin.

You turned to her, one perfectly arched brow raising as you took her in. Your gaze lingered on her bright blue hair and manic energy, and a small, amused smile played on your lips.

“Maybe I like a little chaos,” you replied, your voice smooth as silk. “And you certainly look like the chaotic type.”

Jinx grinned wider, her confidence surging. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m not just chaos—I’m a full-blown explosion.”

The two of you spent the night trading flirty remarks and playful banter, the tension between you crackling like a lit fuse. Jinx couldn’t believe her luck. You weren’t just a pretty face. But you had a fiery, explosive personality to match. You were bold, unapologetic, and just as dangerous as you were beautiful. At one point, she leaned in close, her lips brushing against your ear as she murmured, “So… what’s it like knowing the whole damn world’s obsessed with you?”

You laughed, the sound low and sultry. “I don’t mind the attention,” you said, turning your head so your lips were almost touching hers. “But right now, I’m more interested in you.” Jinx’s heart nearly stopped.

Back at her lair, were things escalated rather quickly. Jinx couldn’t keep her hands off you, tracing every curve and line of your body like she was memorizing you. Her fingers lingered on your hips, her lips trailing heated kisses along your neck as she whispered breathless praises. “You’re even better than the posters,” she murmured, her voice filled with wonder. “Didn’t think that was possible.”

You teased her with your signature confidence, your voice dripping with flirtation as you pulled her closer. “So you’ve been staring at my posters, huh? What did you think about me?”

Jinx blushed, but she didn’t back down. Instead, she grinned wickedly, her fingers tightening on your waist. “Thought about all the things I’d do if I ever got you alone,” she said, her tone low and rough. “And now, I’m not holding back.”

The tension was electric, charged with the crackling hum of her inventions and the intensity of her gaze on you. She had been teasing you mercilessly all evening, brushing her hands against your skin, dropping flirty remarks that sent heat pooling low in your belly. You could feel the mischief radiating off her as she twirled one of her newest creations in her hand. It was a bright, colorful pleasure device she'd been gushing about for days. Jinx loved experimenting, and tonight, you were her favorite subject.

She grinned at you, her sharp, mischievous grin that made your heart race every time. "Alright, Sugar," she purred, tossing the toy between her hands like it was some casual gadget and not something designed to make you lose your mind. "You trust me, don't ya?"

You raised an eyebrow, trying to maintain your usual flirty composure. "You mean to tell me that thing isn't gonna explode?"

Jinx cackled, tossing her head back. "Not this time, babe! Well, probably not. But hey, if it does, at least we'll go out with a bang!" She winked, and despite your hesitation, you couldn't help but nervously laugh. "You're impossible," you murmured letting her guide you to the mattress piled high with pillows and blankets.

"And you're irresistible," she shot back, pressing you down onto the bed with a surprising gentleness for someone so wild. Her hands were steady as they traced over your skin, her fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake.

She leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear. "Let me take care of you, Sugar," she whispered, her voice dripping with sweetness and heat. "Promise I'll make it fun."

The first sensation was the gentle hum of the device she'd created, a soft vibration against your folds that made you arch into her touch. It was colorful and whimsical, much like Jinx herself, with blinking lights and playful patterns painted across its surface. Despite its toy-like appearance, the way it worked against your body was anything but innocent.

Her free hand skimmed over your inner thigh, her touch featherlight and maddeningly slow. The wetness pooling between your legs became impossible to ignore, and Jinx took full advantage, sliding the toy up until it pressed directly against your bundle of nerves. A slick, wet sound began filled the room, the vibrations amplifying the noise as your arousal spread. Jinx froze for a moment before bursting into a fit of laughter. "Oh, look at you," Jinx teased, her eyes bright as she watched your reaction.

"Didn't take much, huh? Bet I could've just touched you, and you'd be melting for me." You tried to retort, but the words caught in your throat as she pressed the device lower, her mischievous grin widening as your body jerked in response.

"Aw, Sugar, don't hold back," she crooned, tilting her head to the side as if studying you. "I like hearin' you. Makes it more fun for me."

Your head fell back, a moan slipping past your lips as she adjusted the settings, the vibrations intensifying. She laughed softly, her free hand stroking your thigh as if to ground you. You buried your face in your hands, mortified but too overwhelmed by the pleasure to stop her. The toy’s vibrations grew stronger, and the obscene wet noises only intensified as she moved it against you, her laughter turning into a low, appreciative hum. “Damn, you sound so good,” she murmured, her tone dipping into something more serious. “Bet I could make you scream just with this.”

Your hips bucked against the toy, your slick arousal coating it and making the sounds louder and wetter with each movement. The lewd squelching only seemed to spur Jinx on, her grin growing wider as she adjusted the settings, sending sharper bursts of pleasure through your body. “Listen to that, Sugar,” she teased, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re a fuckin’ symphony for me. All wet and messy, just how I like it.”

The embarrassment of her words was quickly drowned out by the mounting pleasure, your moans growing louder as the toy worked you closer to the edge. Jinx’s free hand slipped beneath your thigh, lifting your leg to spread you open further.

“Look at you,” she said, her eyes dark with hunger as she watched the toy glisten with your slick. “So damn pretty like this. Could stare at you all day."

Her words made your cheeks flush, though you couldn't focus on embarrassment for long. Every nerve in your body was alight, the sensation of her toy paired with her teasing kisses and caresses driving you to the edge. And then she pulled it away, grinning wickedly at your gasp of frustration. "Not yet, Sugar," she said, clicking her tongue. "I'm not done playin' with you."

She shifted her attention, leaning down to press her lips against your neck. Her kisses were hot and open-mouthed, her teeth nipping at the sensitive skin. You felt her grin against your throat when you whimpered, your hands clutching the sheets beneath you. Her lips found your collarbone, her teeth sinking into the delicate skin to leave another mark.

"Gotta leave my mark," she murmured between kisses, sucking a particularly dark bruise just below your jaw. "Let everyone know you’re mine. My perfect, messy little bombshell.” Her words sent a shiver down your spine, but you hesitated, your modeling career flashing through your mind. "Jinx, I..."

She pulled back, her wide, manic eyes locking with yours. "Aw, don't worry about all that fancy-shmancy stuff," she said, her voice teasing but with an edge of sincerity. "Bet they'll just airbrush it or whatever. C'mon, Sugar, lemme have my fun."

Your protests melted away as she kissed you again, this time harder, deeper, her hands pinning your wrists above your head. The way she looked at you, like you were the most precious thing she'd ever seen, made your resolve crumble. "Fine," you murmured, breathless. "Do your worst."

Her grin was feral. "Oh, babe, you asked for it." Jinx worked her way across your body, leaving a trail of marks in her wake on your neck, your collarbone, and the valley between of your chest. Each one was a testament to her possessiveness, her need to claim you in a way that went beyond words. "You're gonna look so pretty tomorrow," she murmured, her hands and lips everywhere at once. "Walkin' around all marked up, like a damn work of art."

You couldn't even bring yourself to care about the consequences anymore. Her touch was overwhelming, every kiss and bite sending jolts of pleasure through you. She alternated between using her toy and her hands, keeping you teetering on the edge but never quite letting you fall. "Beg for it," she whispered, her voice dark and playful as she hovered above you. "C'mon, Sugar, lemme hear it. Tell me how bad you want me to finish you off."

Your pride wavered, but the need coursing through you won out. "Please, Jinx," you gasped, your voice shaking. "I need you. Please."

She chuckled, clearly satisfied with your quick surrender. "That's more like it," she said, finally pressing the toy back against you. The sensation was overwhelming, and this time, she didn't stop, driving you higher and higher until you finally shattered, a cry escaping your lips as you came undone beneath her. Jinx didn't stop right away, drawing out your pleasure until you were trembling, your body spent and your mind hazy.

When she finally set the toy aside, she crawled up beside you, pulling you into her arms with surprising gentleness. "See?" she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Told ya it'd be fun."

You tilted your head up to meet her gaze, a small smile playing on your lips despite your exhaustion. "Guess I'm stuck with you then," you teased, your flirty nature peeking through even now.

Jinx grinned, her signature chaos in her expression, but there was something softer there, something that tugged at your heart. "Damn right you are. You're mine, babe. Every last gorgeous inch of you." Her fingers danced across your body, tracing the bruises she'd left, her eyes filled with pride as she admired her handiwork. You shivered under her touch, the sensitivity from her earlier teasing still lingering.

"Look at this," she mused, her tone somewhere between awe and glee. "You're a freakin' masterpiece, Sugar. Better than any of those shiny posters they plaster all over Piltover and Zaun."

You couldn't help but laugh softly, the sound weak but genuine. "You think so?"

"I know so," she said firmly, leaning down to nuzzle her face into your neck. "They see the bombshell, the glitz, and the glam, but I get this. I get the real you, all wrecked and perfect just for me." Her words sent warmth spreading through your chest, the vulnerability beneath her usual bravado making your heart ache. You reached up to cup her face, your thumb brushing against her cheek. "You're too good to me, you know that?"

Jinx snorted, pulling back just enough to smirk at you. "Too good? Babe, I'm a menace. But I guess l've got a soft spot for you."

"Lucky me," you teased, letting your fingers trail down to the nape of her neck. She leaned into your touch, her grin softening into something sweeter. "Damn right. You're the luckiest gal in all of Piltover, Zaun, maybe even Noxus." Her playful boasting earned another laugh from you, and she kissed you again, slower this time, her earlier fire giving way to something gentler. The kiss lingered, her lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your chest tighten.

When she finally pulled away, she flopped down beside you, pulling you into her arms as if she couldn't bear to let you go. You rested your head on her chest, listening to the steady thrum of her heartbeat as your body relaxed into hers.

"Y'know," Jinx murmured, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on your back, "I used to look at those big, fancy posters of you and think, ‘She's way too good for someone like me!"

You tilted your head up to look at her, surprised by her confession. "Jinx..."

"But then I thought," she continued, her voice growing steadier, "what's life without a little chaos, right? And lucky for me, you're just as explosive as I am." Her words brought a smile to your lips, and you reached up to brush a strand of blue hair from her face. "Guess we make a pretty good match then, huh?"

She grinned, her manic energy shining through even in this quiet moment. "The best, Sugar." As the adrenaline from earlier began to fade, you let yourself sink into the warmth of her embrace, her steady presence grounding you. Despite the chaos that always seemed to follow Jinx, moments like this reminded you why you'd fallen for her in the first place.

banner: @anitalenia

taglist: @blazemaster4014 @st6rship @axoluxy @1nakitofan @redskye11 @cxcilla @evneedshozierrn @vulgarfuckinvirgo77 @raspberry-lava @alduinworldeater11 @m00nd0v3 @idk2anym @emmy21842 @ladey @keysmashsstuff @blkmystery

[softaestluv]

obsessed with the idea of onlyfans model! reader x Simon

Maybe you’re one of the biggest creators on the platform and you’re very well known after doing it for a few years. Except, you only do solo content, despite your peers constantly asking to collab or getting requests from fans to see you getting fucked.

Then, one day you post a video showing off some new panties and Simon’s tattooed and scarred hand just appears, squeezing the meat of your ass, claiming and possessive. A subtle message he’s sending to your audience as he spreads your cheeks apart, sliding your panties to the side and shows off your pretty pussy dripping with his cum.

[kiddokori]

how many straps can i put on this guy before she looks like a final fantasy character

[meo-eiru]

❤️Happy Valentines Day❤️

Today you received a picture from a special photoshoot, it seems it's from a man who exists to charm you with his beauty. Which gift are you most exited for?

[iydiamartinx]

AFTER THE NIGHT

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.1k synopsis: After a long night on patrol, Bruce returns home to find his wife in the shower. a/n: This is pure fluff, no smut.

The water was already warm, steam curling lazily against the marble walls as you stood under the shower, letting the heat soak into your muscles. A long sigh left your lips. Finally, quiet. Finally, peace.

Then the bathroom door creaked open.

You didn’t flinch—just smirked. “You better be naked if you’re coming in here.”

There was a soft grunt and the familiar shuffle of armour being stripped away. A utility belt thunked against the counter, followed by the muted rustle of fabric hitting tile.

You heard the shower door open a moment later. Then—

“Oh my god.” You twisted slightly to glance over your shoulder. “You smell like alleyway and sweat.”

Bruce stepped under the spray with a low groan. Water hit his chest, sluicing down over dirt-smudged skin and faint bruises blooming just beneath the surface.

“Active night,” he said gruffly. “You smell like flowers. I hate you a little.”

You laughed, turning fully to face him now, palms braced against his chest. “You’re filthy. I’m filing for divorce.”

He snorted, “Joke’s on you—I already put the mansion in your name. If anyone’s getting left out in the cold, it’s me.”

You grinned, fingers absently tracing the edge of a bruise blooming just under his collarbone. “Good. I’ll sell it and use the money to fund my villain era.”

His brows lifted, amused despite the exhaustion hanging under his eyes. “You? A villain?”

“I’d be great at it,” you said breezily. “Menacing, seductive, morally ambiguous. I’ve got the layers.”

“Please, if anything you’re more like a little thief. You steal my T-shirts,” he deadpanned.

You leaned in, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “And don’t forget I also stole your heart. Look how far gone you are, Wayne.”

Bruce leaned in, crowding your space with the lazy weight of his body, head dipping low until his nose brushed yours. “Completely gone,” he murmured, voice roughened by the night, but eyes soft and unguarded in a way he reserved only for you. “Hopeless, really.”

Your smirk faltered into something gentler, fingers trailing up to tangle in the damp ends of his hair. “That makes the two of us,” you murmured. “Because it seems I’m hopelessly gone for you too.” You gave him a teasing look. “What other wife accepts that their husband dresses up like a bat and jumps across rooftops all night fighting killer clowns? They’d have to be insane.”

Bruce’s lips curved into a rare, amused smile. “Completely insane,” he agreed, eyes flicking over your face with fond exasperation. “We can share a cell in Arkham together.”

You huff out a soft laugh, resting your forehead against his. “You joke, but at this point I’m convinced we’ve already earned our own padded room.”

Bruce’s fingers traced idle circles at the small of your back. “I call top bunk.”

You snorted. “You would. But I’m warning you now, I’m stealing all the blankets.”

“You already do,” he murmured dryly. “Little thief.”

“So if we’re going by that technicality, that means you fell for a criminal.”

“Explains why I keep coming back,” he said, his voice dropping to a soft murmur as his fingers slipped beneath the curve of your waist. “You’re my favourite kind of danger.”

Your smile faded into something softer, more vulnerable, eyes meeting his in the hazy glow of steam and silence. “And you’re my safest place.”

Bruce didn’t say anything—not with words. He just kissed you. Slow. Deep. Steady. 

The spray of the shower beat gently against your back, the scent of soap and heat curling between your bodies as his arms wound around you tighter.

Finally, you pull away, flicking you gaze back up to see his were still closed. “Turn around,” you whispered, nudging him gently.

He blinked open an eye, suspicious. “Why?”

“So I can scrub the grime off you, obviously.”

Bruce arched a brow, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “You just want to feel up my muscles.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m your wife, that’s my right.” You didn’t even try to deny it. “However, you’re still covered in dirt and god knows what else—and you stink.”

He let out a short snort but obeyed, turning so his back was to you, water trailing down the powerful lines of muscle and scars. You reached for the body wash and squeezed a generous amount into your palm.

Then you began—working in slow, gentle circles, your fingers gliding across his back with practiced care. You didn’t rush. You traced each scar like it was a story only you knew, every old wound and fading bruise a chapter you’d read too many times to count.

Because you had. You knew them all.

Every place Gotham had marked him. Every place he’d broken and healed. Every inch of pain he bore like armor beneath the cowl.

“You’re tense,” you murmured, thumbs pressing lightly into the tight line of his shoulders.

He hummed low in his throat. “You try fighting six guys in a rain-soaked alley.”

“Maybe next time,” you laughed quietly, fingers still digging expertly into the knots along his spine. Each pass of your hands drew out another groan, low and guttural, like the tension was finally bleeding out of him. You felt the weight leave his shoulders piece by piece.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I’m firing Alfred. You’re in charge of post-patrol recovery now.”

“You couldn’t afford me,” you teased.

“Try me.”

When you finished with his back, your hands slid downward, soft now, reverent, tracing the path you’d just soothed. For a beat, you just stood there—your palms resting flat against his skin, the thrum of his pulse steady beneath your fingertips.

Then, you reached for the shampoo.

You stretched up onto your tiptoes, trying to reach the top of his head, grumbling to yourself as your fingers barely skimmed his damp hair. “Why are you built like a damn skyscraper?”

Bruce let out an amused breath. “You need a stool?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, finally managing to get your hands into his inky locks.

Any teasing vanished the moment your fingers began working gently across his scalp. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp, unable to help the low, content exhale that slipped from his throat. He melted under your touch—shoulders loose, body quiet, breath slow.

You finished rinsing the suds from his hair with quiet care, the water rushing gently between you as your fingers combed through the last of the soap. When you were done, you let your arms wrap loosely around his waist, cheek pressing between his shoulder blades.

Then he turned, his hands finding your hips as he gently caged you between his body and the slick tile wall. He leaned down to kiss you again, lips finding yours with the kind of aching familiarity that had your heart skipping a beat.

“I missed this,” he murmured against your mouth.

“I missed you,” you whispered back.

[luvscarymen]

omg its done!! Alan Orion everyone! its not where i want it to be but ill probably make another one sometime soon :p

Alan belongs to @creepygnomeking / @hatchetmanofficial

[transformers-spike]

Do you have any headcanons for what the TFA autobots and decepticon's sparklings look like?

rn I have stuff for Decepticon sparklings

They give big uncanny valley vibes by Cybertronian standards. Instead of looking like tiny protoforms, they're tiny versions of their sires with underdeveloped armor, faded colors and a disturbingly fleshy texture

They're blind for the first week or so, utterly defenseless and very confused. They make tiny squeaks at this age, and they're still experimenting with their EM fields, which means bothering every bot around them at 3AM for no reason other than demanding attention

It's hard for me to fully make them ugly-cute (except maybe Lugnut's because what the fuck is that thing (affectionate)) - but they look... so much worse fresh out of the oven

Even if humans find them adorable (it's the oxytocin we feel whenever we see something with baby proportions/features) - bots find the sparklings pretty ugly (imagine your partner giving birth to a bunch of mole-rat-looking-things)

[arhvste]

“this is killing me.” kuroo mumbled as he tossed his phone to his side. “just trust me bro,” his best friend-turned roommate bokuto grinned. “this works everytime for me i swear!”

kuroo sighed before grabbing phone again to refresh his instagram story views once more. several people had already viewed the post-gym mirror selfie he’d taken in attempts to garner attention from one particular follower of his; you. “maybe it’s too cringe…” he muttered while over analysing the photo that had already gained a couple of likes within the twenty minutes it had already been up for. “nah.” bokuto reassured him and pat his friend on the shoulder. “you look sexy.” kuroo stared back at the two-toned haired boy. “… thanks bro.”

this isn’t something kuroo would typically post but times were tough and he was desperate. he’d seen you around campus but luck was not on his side when it came to scheduling and the two of you barely had class time together. yet the little class time you did share, kuroo hung onto it tightly and would let scenes of these weekly one hour classes replay in his head more often than he’d like to admit.

“i feel like a modern jay gatsby,” the ex volleyball captain huffed. “my selfie is the equivalent of the wild parties he’d throw in hopes to get daisy’s attention except i don’t want to post every night, i’ve already made myself cringe with this one post.” bokuto stared back at his friend blankly. “yeah… whatever that means.” kuroo frowned back “it’s a classic, you should know what i mean!”

how much longer was he going to have to wait? bokuto had promised him quick results with this method and so far he’d felt deceived and lied to. if talking to you when he got the chance wasn’t enough to get a conversation going outside the classroom, then social media seemed like the next best attempt to start interacting more.

what were you doing? why weren’t you viewing his story? could you even see his story? did he accidentally block you?

these questions ran through his mind as he quickly rushed to check to make sure he hadn’t for some reason blocked you from seeing his story. he half wished he did because then at least he’d know what on earth was taking you so damn long to see the photo he was increasingly starting to hate more the longer it was posted.

“this is stupid.” he stated as he faced bokuto who had zero concerns in his method in gaining someone’s attention. “it works you just have to wait, trust me.”

kuroo frowned as the little red hearts of others who weren’t you fluttered from the bottom corner of the photo. “look!” his best friend grinned as he leaned over kuroo’s shoulder and pointed to the screen of his phone. “you’re getting likes on it!”

“what’s the point if they’re not likes from the person i posted this for in the first place.” kuroo grumbled back in response. he couldn’t believe he’d been subjected to such an attempt to gain some attention from you. it was ridiculous.

it had been about forty five minutes since he’d posted it and he was slowly losing his mind. sure, the post was going to be up for twenty four hours (if he didn’t give into the voices in his head telling him to delete it) so forty five minutes was nothing, but the minutes were beginning to feel like hours and he was dying inside. why weren’t you viewing it already and what could possibly be keeping you off your phone right now?

“this is stupid.” he decided as notifications from his old team mates started to flash up on his screen. the last thing he needed was lev replying with ‘looksmaxing’ to a post that was secretly dedicated to you. “no, it’s barely been up!” bokuto whined. “you look hot so you should get some replies anyway what’s the big deal?”

pinching the bridge of his nose, kuroo huffed. “the big deal is the person i posted this for hasn’t replied!” what was the point in making sure to go to the gym during a rest day just to take this photo if he wasn’t going to at least make his existence more known to you? he’d even worked his legs enough to the point of managing to achieve the sweaty but sexy look. the muscles in his legs were dying, but his dignity sure as hell wouldn’t.

the college student opened up his phone with the intention to end the mental war inside his head once and for all by deleting the post altogether. bokuto watched his friend in defeat but his eyes flashed. “yes they did!” he yelled and pointed to the screen as your name flashed at the top of his screen.

kuroo’s heart jumped at the sight of your profile picture he’d made a daily routine of staring at and the now blue dot indicating a message from your profile in his inbox. to think he was going to delete this post just a second too, what were the chances?

psyching himself up, kuroo took a few quiet deep breathes before letting the time next to your message pass for a few minutes. he wasn’t an instagram warrior by any means, but he knew enough about general rules in order to not look desperate online.

bokuto watched over his friends shoulders as the two stared in anticipation awaiting the message kuroo had been dying for. this was it. leg day two times in a row was gruelling and he’d regret it for the next few days but it would have been worth it. the countless messages from his old teammates mocking his attempts at a thirst trap could be looked past now that you had finally given into the bait he’d so carefully laid. this is what he’d been waiting for. days of preparing and deciding how to gain your attention had finally paid off and he was about to reap the rewards he’d sown.

clicking the message with baited breath, his heart raced as bokuto’s grip of his shoulder tightened. finally.

‘the label on your shirt is sticking out, make sure to cut it’

“a wins a win.” bokuto filled the silence between the pair as kuroo stared at his phone with a blank expression. “… a wins a win…”

[baeshijima]

— stardust

the world is a vast place. in the grand scheme of things, humans are but a speck of dust; much like how you are sure you are nothing but a meagre speck of dust in the world he lives in, forever to be remained unseen. (if only you knew how you are the brightest star he'd ever laid his eyes upon.)

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 1.5k wc, royalty!au, contract marriage/marriage of convenience, fluff, smitten reca bc what would he be other than smitten, a little hint of bittersweet at the end if read between the lines aha...

A/N : ....i have a paper due monday. i havent started it. why do i do this to myself. (reca i love u can u not hear my cries and wails as fic after fic appears in my brain for u...)

Duke Reca of the northern territory; to many he is a well-accomplished noble, a young genius set for greater things, and the owner-slash-founder of the top theatre company. He is an idol — a role model to those who aspire to be more involved in the artistic side of the world.

To you, however, he is an absolute lunatic, the bane of your existence, and your contractual husband.

It's not like you had much choice. It was either: a) remain as a hollow puppet whose strings danced at your family's fingertips, or b) find some way to escape with outside power.

You, of course, chose the second option. Unfortunately, that somehow led to you meeting the young duke when out in the shopping district, trying to escape the suffocating presence of your family's knights accompanying you by running into a secluded alleyway, even if it was for but a momentary breather.

It was a whirlwind of a meeting... quite literally. Bodies flew; clothing tousled; breaths stolen. Well, at least for you it was like this. He, on the other hand, looked right as rain. (Lucky bastard.) You hadn't realised it was him at first, too absorbed in hasty apologies and the numbing bloom spreading across your backside like a wildfire (really, they ought to incorporate more padding in these flimsy clothes!), but when he uttered an apology of his own for not paying attention to his surroundings with an arm outstretched to help you stand, your mind all but blanked. What was someone of his status doing in a dingy alley? Didn't the newspapers report word of his self-confinement, having not stepped foot outside his manor in fervent preparation of his upcoming performance?

No, never mind all that; wasn't this a blatant opportunity being presented to you? An outside power that could help you escape the clutches of your family...

With gritted teeth, all sense of self-dignity was cast aside as you grasped his outstretched hand with both of your own, gazing into his widened eyes with your own narrowed ones.

"Your Grace, I know this is hardly the appropriate time nor place, but please... marry me!" Your words echoed within the enclosed space. Duke Reca blinked slowly down at you, and it was then you realised you never elaborated. "In... in a contractual marriage of convenience, of course."

"Oh?" he grinned, amusement and intrigue twinkling in his eyes. "And what is it you can offer me?"

"I..." Truthfully, there was nothing you could offer which would be beneficial to someone like him who had everything at the tips of his fingers. You were but a speck of dust in his world, merely floating and remaining unseen within his view. But even so, here you kneeled before him, his gaze wholly fixated on a speck of dust such as yourself. If nothing else, you at least had your desperation — a desperation to be your own person. "My lineage may be from that of a baron's, but I am confident I can be of use to you if you would permit it. So long as you accept my offer, I will do anything to aid you, whether that be through practical means or a performance you wish to see."

A beat of silence.

"Ha... haha... ahahaha!!"

And, as if things couldn't get any worse than a sore rear and disgruntled self, you were pulled out of your daze by a pair of gleaming carmine eyes, a maniacal grin, and his body, now kneeled just like you were, so very close to your own.

"That determination... how brilliantly you burn with such an expression!" The sheer glee which bled through his tone sent shivers down your spine, having never realised someone so esteemed had such a side to him. The duke breathed a breathy laugh and slightly backed up, his hands still holding your arms. "Alright, I look forward to seeing how brightly you will shine in your performance, my dear leading actor."

...Was it too late to back out and find an alternative solution?

Admittedly so, for the next thing you knew vows were declared and you were moved into the duke's residence. You could still remember your family's aghast expressions the moment you declared you were marrying Duke Reca and thus cutting ties with them. It was oddly freeing to see their contorted faces reveal their true nature.

Life as the duke's spouse was... something, to say the least. His servants and attendants almost seemed to have shed tears of joy at the revelation of their ever so lonely duke (their words, not yours) finally settling down and getting married, asking you questions such as how you both met, what drew you to their duke, who popped the question first, why you chose him of all people, so on so forth. It was... cosy. Something you admittedly weren't very accustomed to, but found yourself welcoming nonetheless.

One thing you never expected was for the duke to have a little pet of his own; a little toad dressed in a miniature beret and matching suit, at that. Assistant Director is what Reca had called her, and you think for someone so obsessed with the arts he ought to up his naming sense. She was also quite susceptible to compliments, something you discovered when commenting on the little toad's cute attire, with the duke's baffling translation of her bashfulness and her own compliment on your own looks. Apparently. You're not really sure, but you're inclined to believe it ever since she claimed a spot on your shoulder.

As the days-turned-weeks-turned-months bled into each other, you found yourself oddly lost at how well-adapted you have become of your new life and the duke's personality. From impromptu displays of affection both in and outside the manor to sporadic radio silence on his end when wholly consumed by his fervent passion for a project, you sometimes wonder just how you're still alive with the amount of heart attacks the man has given you.

But despite his... eccentricities, to put it lightly, there are times where you can't quite put a finger on certain expressions he would make when he thinks you're not looking. They're unlike his (once again, to put it very lightly) passionate eyes when rambling to you during mealtimes about an upcoming performance the troupe has; unlike the sheer mania he can exude when something truly sparks his inspiration; unlike the playfully smug grin he would give you when swooping down in dramatic flair to press a long kiss to the back of your palm; unlike the rare darkening of his expression that you cannot help but stiffen at when something or someone in the troupe doesn't quite match his expectations.

No. These ones are... soft. A kind of tenderness and unprecedented longing able to be identified if scrutinised close enough. It was evident in the ghost-like touches he would trail along your skin, as though afraid just a little more force would do irreparable damage. It was evident in the attention to even the most minute details, having everything from clothing to food to the decor suited to preferences you yourself never realised you had. It was evident in the way unadulterated fondness leaked through his tone when his unique terms of affection for you slipped through his lips when all was silent and you were supposed to be asleep.

"My dearest star..."

...Much like now, it would seem.

The bed dips by where your knees slightly bend, hidden under the beige covers. A familiar musky scent surrounds you not long after, and you find yourself involuntarily relaxing at the comfort it brings as your head further burrows into the pillow.

You want to stay awake, even if it's just for a second longer, to hear what he has to say to your less than conscious state. But, oh, his fingers threading through your hair and softly massaging your scalp and the gentle touch of his forehead against yours and the subtle comforting warmth that rolls off his body in waves does little to help you fight the sleep which easily takes over.

Oh, whatever! You'll just try and catch what he has to say next time.

Eventually your breathing evens out, only soft snores now heard within the large shared bedroom. Upon noticing this, Reca cannot stop the fond smile which lifts the corners of his lips, nor can he prevent the softening of his eyes as he continues to gaze at your sleeping form.

"My dearest [Name]," he whispers into the dead of night. Even now, several months later, he still cannot believe his luck to have run into you in that alleyway. It must have been fate which made him heed its call, urging him he would discover something sure to escape that terrible slump plaguing him for weeks on end.

Sure enough, it brought him to something irreplaceable; something he has been searching desperately for.

You.

And, with the tenderest of kisses pressed to your forehead that would put even the most sickening romantics to shame, he murmurs words of promise against your skin, an oath he swears to uphold no matter the obstacles which stand before him.

"In this life, I will ensure you have only the best of endings."

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

[lilacgaby]

katsuki being a pr nightmare? nothing new.

he didn't spare people his thoughts, cursing his way through the press and speaking his true feelings constantly. it's why he was liked, it was his unique charm they'd say.

but this time, a dating scandal had come out. well, more of a romance one.

his private twitter was leaked, one he'd mostly use to detail his feelings on the day. among the dozens of posts that were expectedly vulgar and self assured, recent ones stuck out.

over fan posts of you, a model he seemed to have been a huge fan of for a while. it became evident just how much of a loser he was. he'd quote them with small words like, "i bet her parents high five when they see her face," or "she looks just as good as prime all might did."

his name was trending heavily the next day, he was noticeably annoyed, now he'd have to make a whole new spam! he was called by his agency, which he expected.

though as he walked in, he did not expect to see you, golden with the afternoon sun and greeting him with a warm, smile. not a practiced one you'd use for photo shoots, no. he could tell the difference.

his manager cleared their throat, signaling for him to sit down before they started.

"i think we should capitalize of these crushes of yours."

he grew big eyed, looking at you now from the corner of his eye.

you felt the same way??

taglist: @k0z3me @darhinadadragon @maddietries @i-the-fluffo @uy242c @irenne-stans

[777freshlove]

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ RAPPER!CHRIS X MODEL!READER TEXTS

part one. part two. PART THREE.

© chromehrts 2025

[littlelamy]

fittings; drew starkey x victoria’ssecret!model!reader; mdni

the atmosphere in the fitting room was electric. a mix of bustling excitement and high stakes surrounded you as you stood in front of the mirror, admiring the intricate details of the lingerie you were trying on. it was one of the final fittings for the victoria’s secret fashion show, and you were set to take the stage in a few days. the excitement was palpable, but your thoughts were elsewhere today.

today, drew was here.

the reflection in the mirror showcased your figure, adorned in lace and delicate silks that clung perfectly to your body. the soft lighting accentuated every curve, and the sight alone made you feel powerful and confident. you adjusted the straps of the bra, feeling the softness of the fabric against your skin as you glanced toward the door.

drew stood leaning against the doorframe, his gaze locked on you with a mixture of admiration and something darker, more intense. his eyes roamed over your body, lingering on every exposed inch of skin as you shifted under his gaze. you had invited him to this fitting for a reason—his presence made you feel something extra, something exciting, and today felt like the perfect day to indulge in that energy.

“you look incredible,” drew murmured, his voice low and husky. he moved toward you, his hands sliding up your sides before resting on your hips, fingers grazing the edge of the sheer panties you wore. his touch was light, teasing, but it sent shivers down your spine. “i can’t believe you’re mine.”

a playful smile tugged at your lips as you looked up at him. “you’re going to have to behave yourself,” you teased, your voice soft but carrying a hint of mischief. “i’ve still got to practice walking the stage after this.”

drew’s grin widened as he leaned down, brushing his lips against your ear. “i don’t think i’m capable of behaving right now,” he whispered, the heat in his voice unmistakable.

your breath hitched as he kissed the sensitive skin of your neck, trailing his lips down your collarbone, each kiss slow and deliberate. you knew you should stop him, tell him to wait until after the fitting, but the way his hands explored your body, skimming the curves of your waist, made it impossible to focus on anything else. his touch was intoxicating, and every nerve in your body was alive, sensitive to his every move.

drew’s hands traveled lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, pulling them down just enough to expose more of you. his fingers brushed against your core, teasing you with feather-light strokes that made your legs weak. you closed your eyes, biting your lip as a soft moan escaped you. he knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you melt under his touch.

“you’re so perfect,” drew breathed, his voice filled with awe as he kneeled in front of you. his eyes never left yours as he slowly dragged your panties down, leaving you completely exposed before him. “so beautiful.”

you gasped as his lips pressed against your inner thigh, slowly kissing his way up. each touch sent waves of pleasure through you, your body trembling with anticipation. drew’s hands held your hips firmly, his mouth inching closer to where you needed him most. he paused, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive skin, making you squirm in his grasp.

“you taste even better than you look,” drew murmured before finally diving in. his tongue flicked over your clit, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your entire body. you gasped, your hands gripping the edge of the fitting room table for support as he devoured you, his tongue working in slow, deliberate strokes that had you seeing stars.

he didn’t rush. drew took his time, savoring every second, his mouth moving expertly as he licked and sucked, his praises spilling from his lips between each movement.

“you’re so sweet, baby. god, i could do this all day,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your core as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. his tongue circled your clit with the perfect amount of pressure, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

your breathing became ragged, every moan and whimper spilling from your lips growing louder. it was hard to stay quiet, especially when he was this good, but you had to remind yourself that the walls were thin and anyone could be passing by outside the fitting room. still, that sense of urgency only made the moment more thrilling, more forbidden.

you couldn’t hold back anymore as drew intensified his efforts, his tongue moving in rapid circles while his fingers slipped inside you, curling and hitting that perfect spot. the combination was enough to send you over the edge, your body shaking as the orgasm ripped through you.

you cried out his name, your grip on the table tightening as your legs trembled, barely able to support your weight. drew didn’t stop until you were completely spent, drawing every last bit of pleasure from your body before finally pulling back.

he looked up at you, his lips glistening with evidence of what he had just done, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you taste so good, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh before standing up, pulling you into his arms.

your head was spinning, your body still humming from the intensity of it all. you leaned into drew, your breathing uneven as you tried to regain your composure.

“fuck, drew,” you whispered, your voice breathless. “i’m supposed to be practicing right now.”

he chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face as he kissed you, his lips still tasting like you. “you can practice in a bit,” he murmured against your lips. “i just wanted a taste before you had to leave.”

you rolled your eyes playfully, pushing him away slightly as you stepped back to adjust the lingerie. the lace was still perfectly intact, though your legs felt a bit like jelly after what he had just done to you.

you caught your reflection in the mirror again and smoothed the fabric, still feeling drew’s eyes on you, hungry and full of desire. but you had work to do, even if you could feel the heat of his gaze burning into your skin.

“i need to go,” you said, giving him one last playful glance as you turned toward the door. but the way he looked at you, all hungry and satisfied, told you this wouldn’t be the last of his "distractions" before the show. and honestly, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[noosayog]

You’re a fan of wearing oversized shirts. You don’t own any real pajama sets, just piles of old t-shirts and a smattering of soft button downs you’ve picked up at the thrift store. They’ve made up your home uniform for so long, you don’t think when your boyfriend starts staying the night and you curl up beside him in nothing but a large shirt and your panties. You think nothing of it when, the next morning, you shuffle around the house in your slippers and a button up shirt so long it covers your teensy lounge shorts. 

“Where did you get this?” 

“Hmm?” you mumble, still half asleep as you boil some water over the stove. 

He comes up behind you, arms steady on the counter on each side of you. One hand pinches at the striped button down you’ve picked for this morning. 

“This. Whose is it?” 

The question is whispered so quietly, you think you mishear. 

“Mine?” 

There’s a moment of silence. A bit of hesitation. “Yours?” His arms slide under the shirt to circle your waist. “You bought yourself a shirt this big?” 

You lean back into his embrace, tilting your head up slightly to look at him. “Yes? Is there a problem?” 

He dips down and presses his face into your neck. Inhale. You feel a damp spot forming where his mouth touches your skin. He mumbles something. 

“What?” you giggle back, running a hand through his hair. 

“I said,” he plops his chin petulantly on your shoulder, lips puffed into a small pout. “Wear mine from now on.” 

You laugh now, pressing a noisy smooch to this cheek. “Are you jealous of some possibly dead person whose shirt I’m wearing?” 

“Y’think this is funny?” 

“A bit. I mean, c’mon. It’s just-” 

A squeak is pulled for your throat as he rips the shirt off you, buttons flying in random directions. Before you can register that your naked torso is just out, a t-shirt, still warm from being on his body moments ago, is pulled over your head. You help him stick your arms through the holes. 

The kettle on the stove starts to whistle and you have half a mind to continue teasing him, but you take pity on the poor man and let him sway you side to side in the soft morning light.

[iydiamartinx]

THE ART OF RESTRAINT

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @iydiamartinx word count: 1.9k synopsis: They’ve always known how to win. But when a charity photoshoot puts Gotham’s most ruthless CEOs in each other’s arms, in nothing but their underwear—they’re forced to face the one game neither is willing to lose. a/n: I thought I loved the Dick and Jason version but I've changed my mind. Bruce is just something else.

Gotham elite and the tabloids loved a spectacle. And this year’s calendar fundraiser had done the impossible—put you on a bed, half-dressed, with him.

Bruce Wayne.

Heir. CEO. Gotham’s golden obsession. A man carved from legacy and wealth, currently in the prime of a life most people would kill to live. Late thirties, sharp as the suits he wore, and infuriatingly at ease in his own skin. That steel-cut jawline had graced Forbes, GQ, and headlines you tried very hard to ignore. 

You’d fought him in boardrooms. Matched wits at galas. Outbid him in billion-dollar deals where charm was just a sharper blade. The two of you were constantly battling for ground. And now, here you were.

Not behind a podium. Not across a negotiation table.

But a bed.

Both of you had been voted Gotham’s hottest CEOs in a public poll that your PR team had insisted was a win. Visibility, they called it. Brand power. A good cause. You weren’t even sure how your assistant thought you’d agree to something like this—but they had said yes on your behalf, and now you were locked in.

There was no room for protest. No way to claw your dignity back without headlines.

So you wore the robe. Sat at the vanity. Pretended like you weren’t already counting the ways you’d make that assistant’s life hell.

And then he stepped out from behind the modesty screen.

Wearing black boxer-briefs and nothing else, Bruce Wayne crossed the set like a man walking into his own penthouse. Calm. Controlled. Completely unbothered in his own skin. You watched him in the mirror without turning your head, studying the way his body moved—fluid and composed, like none of this fazed him.

Of course it didn’t.

He thrived on this kind of thing. Power plays. Publicity. Knowing eyes were on him. There was a reason he was Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” he said, voice low and smooth as he came to stand behind you. His reflection met yours in the glass—eyes dark, unreadable. “You’ve never struck me as the modest type.”

You tilted your head slightly, arching a brow without breaking eye contact.

“And you’ve never struck me as the type to sell yourself in stretch cotton,” you replied coolly.

His mouth curved. “Charity humbles us all.”

“Funny,” you said, reaching for a brush you didn’t need, just to keep your hands busy. “I thought I did that.”

He didn’t laugh.

But the smile deepened.

“You try.”

That was the thing with Bruce. Behind the easy grins and playboy attitude, he was sharper than most people recognized and it was because of that you were always on your guard. That man’s charm could be even deadlier than his money and the last thing you needed was to fall victim to it.

The photographer clapped, bright and overly eager. “Alright! Let’s get started.”

Bruce moved first, taking his place on the bed. 

“Y/N, on Bruce’s lap. Bruce—hands wherever feels natural. Make it look like you’ve already crossed the line.”

You glanced toward the man now lounging at the edge of the bed, legs spread in unapologetic confidence. One arm draped lazily behind him, the other resting beside his thigh. You gritted your teeth at how he annoyingly seemed to own the space without trying.

You stood, letting the robe slip from your shoulders.

The silk whispered down your frame and pooled at your feet, and the air shifted. It felt as if it suddenly got thicker with tension.

Your black lingerie was lined with lace and tailored to flatter, pushing up your breasts, flattering the curves of your body, it had been handpicked by your stylist to make headlines. The lingerie was made for you.

And the way Bruce looked at you—like something feral had briefly flashed behind his composed mask—told you he knew it too.

He recovered quickly, of course. He always did. His eyes met yours again, calm and calculating, as if he hadn’t just raked over you with the quiet hunger of a man starved

You stepped toward the bed, the sound of your heels echoing over polished concrete. 

Bruce Wayne looked like sin in monochrome—black boxer briefs, bronzed skin, hair just a little too tousled to be accidental. Smug, unbothered, and very aware of the weight of your gaze.

You exhaled slowly and climbed into his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders. His palms slid to your waist instantly—firm, practiced, far too at ease.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low and edged with amusement.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you murmured, even as your fingers curled at the nape of his neck.

“Closer,” the photographer called. “Less posed, more like—God, I don’t know—like someone’s about to make a very bad decision.”

Your body shifted automatically. You leaned in until your nose nearly brushed his cheekbone, your lips hovering beside his jaw.

“Better?” you said, saccharine-sweet for the camera.

His hands tightened just slightly, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist—possessive, anchoring. “Getting there,” He grunted.

You pulled back slightly to make eye contact.

Your fingers slid from the nape of his neck to the edge of his jaw, thumb brushing lightly across the stubble there. His skin was warm, the tension beneath it taut like coiled wire—contained, but ready to snap.

“Good,” the photographer called again, sounding far too pleased. “Now move a little. Let’s get a story going. Y/N, take the lead. Bruce—let her.”

Sliding your hands down the front of his chest, you let your fingers trace the ridges of muscle beneath smooth skin. His breathing didn’t change, but you could feel the heat rising between you. He didn’t move—didn’t so much as twitch.

But you felt the breath he held.

You pressed firmly against his chest until his body gave under your hands.

Bruce let himself fall back against the bed, but the look in his eyes as he did was anything but yielding.

You followed him down, never breaking eye contact, your knees still bracketing his hips. One hand braced beside his head, the other resting against his stomach. Your hair slid over your shoulder, framing the sharp curve of your jaw and the wicked curl of your smile

Your lips grazed the slope of his collarbone.

You could feel the tension in his abdomen when your fingers brushed against it. Felt the control—the restraint—bleeding off of him in waves.

The photographer was muttering something about intensity and chemistry and God bless Gotham as his camera went off like crazy, but you barely heard him, your attention was fully on the silent challenge that was between you and bruce.

You trailed lower, just slightly, letting your mouth skim over the edge of his sternum. Then down. Slower. Your breath hot against his skin as you moved further, nearing the waistband of his briefs.

You smiled, lips ghosting just above the line of fabric.

Bruce’s hands snapped to your waist—strong, unrelenting—and the world tilted.

He turned you beneath him in a single, brutal sweep of motion. The mattress caught your back with a soft thud, air leaving your lungs in a sharp exhale as your spine met the sheets.

You barely had time to gasp before he was above you—on you—pressing you down with nothing but presence.

His thigh slid between yours. His weight settled in close.

One palm braced near your ribs.

The other wrapped, firm and steady, around your throat.

His thumb traced the underside of your jaw, tipping your face up toward his. His voice a rasp only you could hear. “Are you done pretending you’re in control?”

You stared up at him, pulse hammering under his touch, refusing to look away. You hated how easily your breath hitched. How good he looked above you like this. Like power incarnate, dressed in nothing but black and confidence.

Your nails grazed his ribs in response. Just enough to remind him you were going to fold to him that easily.

“No,” you whispered, lips parted, breath trembling just enough to betray the pulse hammering in your throat. “But it’s cute that you think you are.”

His smile was slow. Measured. Dangerous. The kind of smile that made men break and corporations crumble. 

“You’re cute when you lie,” He murmured.

His grip shifted, tightening warningly. A sharp breath escaped your lips before you could stop it, as he suddenly moved. Leaning back, he dragged you up with him by the throat like it was effortless. His hand adjusted, tilting your chin higher, forcing your eyes back to his.

Click.

Flash.

The sound of the shutter cracked through the charged silence like distant thunder.

“Beautiful,” the photographer called from somewhere outside the haze. “Hold that. Bruce, shift your hand—yes, just like that. Now lean in, like you’re about to kiss her.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Bruce leaned down slowly, deliberately, until his lips hovered a breath above yours—so close that his exhale ghosted across your skin, warm and maddening. Every molecule of air between you felt electric, buzzing with the threat of something unraveling.

But he didn’t touch you.

Didn’t close the gap.

You weren’t pretending anymore. Neither of you were. The shoot, the cameras, the lights—they’d all faded into background noise.

This wasn’t about a calendar.

This wasn’t about charity.

This was about control.

And God help you… you were losing.

Your body had gone still beneath him, pliant under the weight of his dominance. You could feel the fine tremor of anticipation humming through your limbs, the heat pooling between your legs as your breath caught and your lips parted—soft, instinctive, traitorous.

Bruce’s voice was barely audible—more breath than sound. “Say it.”

You blinked up at him, pupils blown wide. “Say what?”

“That you want me.”

Your jaw clenched. A flicker of something sharp passed through your eyes—anger, maybe. Or pride, stubborn to the last breath.

He waited. Poised. Patient. A man who always got what he wanted—and knew it.

“I want…” you began, slow and deliberate, your fingers trailing down his side. The heat of him scorched under your touch. You let your hand drag over every inch like a threat, like a dare. “…you off me.”

He smiled. That same maddening, ruinous smile.

But he didn’t move.

“Liar.”

Your breath caught at the back of your throat, just a hitch—but it was enough. He felt it. You knew he did.

Click.

Flash.

The camera shutter broke the silence, loud and sudden.

“Perfect!” the photographer shouted. “Don’t move. That’s the cover.”

But neither of you were listening.

Not until the sharp, sudden clapping of the photographer cut clean through the tension like a knife through silk.

“That was wonderful, you two,” he said, breathless, awestruck. “Let’s call it a wrap.”

The spell broke.

Bruce pulled away without a word, and the absence of his weight was immediate. Jarring. The air felt colder without him, your skin a little too bare where he’d touched you—like your body hadn’t gotten the message that it was over.

He stood and adjusted the robe slung over the back of a nearby chair, but didn’t bother putting it on. Just draped it over his arm, muscles shifting beneath golden skin. He looked as if the entire encounter hadn’t phased him at all.

You sat up slowly, smoothing your hair back with a practiced hand, doing your best to pretend your heart wasn’t still pounding in your chest.

“I’ll see you at the charity gala,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just manhandled you for the cameras and whispered sin into your skin.

You didn’t answer. Just watched him walk away.

Just before disappearing around the corner, he turned his head and looked at you. That same impossible expression on his face. Not smug. Not soft. Something in between. Something far more dangerous.

Your eyes narrowed.

This wasn’t over. Game on.

Next Chapter →

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (01)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 4.2k

Aliyah's Notes: this is my first series on here so go easy on me (#adele) pls + some things are not going to be obx canon ... at least some of yall are warned. anyw im so excited for this cause lord knows the amount of time ive wanted to make a fake dating fic!!!!!!! anyw i hope you all will enjoy this i had so much writing the first chapter

The clatter of high heels against the marble floor echoed in perfect sync with the ticking of your watch. Every step was deliberate, poised—just like your life had to be. Perfection, it seemed, was not a choice but a requirement for survival.

You adjusted your sunglasses, your gaze skimming over the glamorous expanse of the fashion agency's lobby. People buzzed around you like bees in a hive, their worlds spinning, fueled by the weight of names, status, and flawless images. You smiled politely at the receptionist, offering a nod, though your mind was miles away.

To the outside world, your life was golden. The covers of magazines, the invitations to high-society events, the million-dollar deals with luxury brands—it was a fantasy that others could only dream of. It was your dream some time ago, too. 

But today, your reality felt like walking on the edge of a tightrope, the safety net fraying below you.

Your phone vibrated in your purse, interrupting your thoughts. You fished it out, your pulse quickening when you saw the text from your lawyer. Three words that sent a chill through your carefully constructed façade.

"We need to talk."

Your heart sank. The issue of your visa had been hanging over your head like a storm cloud for months now, growing darker by the day. You’d known this was coming, but knowing and confronting it were two different beasts.

Fame didn’t shield you from the cold bureaucracy of citizenship laws, and your time was running out. One misstep, one delay, and your golden empire could crumble. In a matter of months, you could be deported, left behind by the very country that had built you up.

With a deep breath, you silenced your phone and slid it back into your purse. This wasn’t something you could dwell on right now, not in public. Your expression remained serene, even though your mind was anything but. You had a shoot in an hour, a charity gala that evening, and at some point, you had to meet with the lawyer to discuss "options"—a word that had started to feel more like a trap than a solution.

As you exited the building, the cool breeze caught your hair, the city unfolding before you like a glittering stage. New York City. You looked out at the streets, the people, the life you fought so hard to build. The car pulled up to the curb, and you climbed inside. On your way to your lawyer.

You stepped into the law office, the familiar scent of polished wood and stale coffee wrapping around you like a tight band.

"Ms. Y/L/N, good afternoon," Nicolas Ramirez, your lawyer, greeted you, standing behind his desk. His expression was composed, but you knew him well enough by now to spot the unease in his eyes.

"Hi," you softly smiled at him. Your heels clicked softly on the floor as you sat down, crossing your legs tightly, as if holding yourself together. "Let’s just get straight to it, okay? How bad is it?"

Nico sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Your visa expires in less than three months."

You felt your stomach twist, your worst fear inching closer to reality. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. "And what about the appeals? The extensions?"

"We’ve exhausted every possible option—work visas, artist visas, even humanitarian grounds. Immigration laws are tightening, and without a permanent solution like citizenship or residency, you’ll be forced to leave the country."

"Leave?" Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the full weight of the nightmare you’d been living with. 

Leave? Go back there?

The country you had fought so hard to escape. The country where your childhood had been marked by suffocating poverty, where your parents had already planned your marriage before you even turned 15. Where your dreams had been a distant, impossible hope until that one person changed your life forever.

You felt your throat tighten. You couldn’t go back.

Nico’s gaze softened slightly, his voice gentle but firm. "I know what this means for you. I know how difficult—"

"You don’t know," you cut him off, your voice sharper than you intended. "You… You don’t know—I can’t go back there, Nico. I just… I can’t."

He nodded, giving you a moment of silence to compose yourself, but the pressure in your chest only grew. You took a deep breath, trying to keep the panic at bay.

"So what now?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice steady. "Is this it? Am I out of options?"

"Well… There’s one option we haven’t explored yet." his tone was cautious, like he knew what he was about to say would open a new can of worms.

You furrowed your brow. "What?"

"Marriage."

The word hung in the air, thick and heavy. You blinked, unable to comprehend at first. "Marriage?" you repeated, as if saying it aloud would make the absurdity of it clear.

"It’s one of the few legal paths left," he explained, leaning forward slightly. "Marriage to a U.S. citizen could secure your green card and, eventually, permanent residency. It’s a legitimate route—many people in similar situations have done it."

You sat back in your chair, the tension in your body coiling tighter. The thought of marriage, of attaching yourself to someone you barely knew for the sake of staying in the country, made your skin crawl. You had already sacrificed so much for your freedom, for your career. And now this?

"You’re telling me the only way to stay here is to marry someone I don’t even love? Just to avoid being sent back to a country I don’t belong in anymore?"

"Not necessarily," Nicolas said, his tone measured. "It wouldn’t have to be a traditional marriage. Think of it as a business arrangement. It’s a legal partnership—nothing more. And it could save your career, your life here."

You crossed your arms tightly, your mind racing. Marriage. It was a word that had haunted you ever since your parents had tried to force you into it as a teenager. Back then, it was their way of controlling you, of keeping you bound to a life you didn’t want. Now, it felt like the universe was throwing the same chains back at you, just in a different form.

"I’ve compiled a list of potential candidates," Arjun continued, sliding a piece of paper across the desk toward you. "People who might be open to an arrangement like this. Athletes, businesspeople—individuals who might benefit from a similar deal."

You glanced at the paper but didn’t pick it up. The names blurred in front of your eyes. This wasn’t how your life was supposed to go. You’d already lost your family, fought tooth and nail to get out of your country and build something for yourself in the U.S. And now you were at risk of losing everything—again.

"I don’t know if I can do this, Nico," you said quietly, shaking your head. "I’ve already sacrificed so much. My family… I gave up everything to be here. And now you’re telling me I have to give up even more?"

"I’m not telling you that you have to do anything," he replied, his voice calm but firm. "I’m saying this is an option. One that could keep you here, legally. But the decision is yours. I’m just laying out the possibilities."

You swallowed the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your chest. 

"I can’t go back there," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. "I’ve worked too hard to get here. I can’t lose everything."

He nodded slowly. "Then maybe it’s time to consider unconventional options."

You finally picked up the paper, scanning the names but not really seeing them. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning with a thousand thoughts. Marriage. It felt like a trap, just like it had back then. But maybe—just maybe—it was the only way to keep your future intact.

"I’ll think about it," you said, standing up and smoothing the front of your dress. "But I’m not making any promises."

"Of course," he said, standing as well. "Just let me know. We’re running out of time, but I’ll support whatever decision you make."

You nodded curtly, turning toward the door. As you stepped out into the cool city air, your chest tightened with the weight of everything you stood to lose. The lights of New York City flickered ahead of you, just out of reach, as though the life you’d built here could vanish at any moment.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt truly afraid.

Your phone buzzed, dragging you out of your spiraling thoughts. You fished it out of your purse, heart skipping a beat when you saw the name: Nina. Your agent.

With a shaky exhale, you answered. “Nina, hi.”

“Hey, babe!” Nina’s voice was all cheer, a stark contrast to the storm inside you. “So, I have amazing news! Guess who just got major campaign offers coming in? You! Chanel, Loewe, and oh my God, don’t even get me started on Louis Vuitton. The year starts beautifully for you!”

You should’ve felt ecstatic, but instead, the words passed over you like an echo. All you could think of was the countdown Nico had set in motion: three months. Three months before everything you’d built here would be taken away from you. 

“That’s… amazing, Nina,” you managed, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Really amazing. Thank you so much.”

“Are you okay? You don’t sound like your sunshine-self.” Nina’s voice softened, concern creeping in. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause. Nina had been there through all your ups and downs, from your rookie days as a model to your rise in the industry. But the immigration issues, the fear of being sent back to a life you couldn’t return to—that was something neither of you could control. 

“Three months?” she repeated, her voice going higher. “Oh my God—what the fuck? I thought… I thought you had more time.”

“So did I.” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Nina, I don’t know what to do. I’ve called Nico and he tried everything—extensions, appeals—but the laws are tightening, and he said there’s only one real option left.”

There was a brief silence before she asked, “What option?”

You bit your lip. “Marriage. Nico says I could marry someone for a green card.”

“Marriage?” Nina’s voice came out in a shocked squeak. “Like a fake marriage? Babe, are you serious?”

“I don’t know!” you burst out, frustration and fear colliding. “I don’t know what to do! I can’t go back there. I can’t. My parents… My parents already wrote me off as dead, and if I go back, I’m stuck in a place I spent my entire life trying to escape.”

Her voice softened. “I know, honey, I know… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound—God, I can’t imagine how scary this is for you.”

You took a shaky breath, grateful for her understanding. Nina wasn’t just your manager—she was one of the few people who you actually close to. She was a 34 years old American-Filipina woman. You trusted her with your life. 

“Okay,” Nina said, her voice more focused now. “Okay, now listen. We’ll figure this out. I know Nicolas wouldn’t suggest something like this unless it was a real option. Do you trust him?”

You sighed. “Yeah. I do. But the idea of marrying someone just to stay… it feels like another version of what my parents wanted for me. Like I’m back in that same time of my life.”

“I get it. But this isn’t like that. You’re in control this time,” Nina said. “If this is what you need to stay here, it’s not about love or being owned by someone.”

You nodded to yourself, trying to absorb her words. “Well, um, Nico gave me a list of potential candidates—people who might be willing to make an arrangement. You’ll never guess who’s on it, though.”

“Who? Shawn Mendes? Harry Styles? Tom Holland—”

“Rafe Cameron,” you said, cutting her off. “The basketball play—”

“Yeah, I know who that man is, Y/N. His reputation is a total mess right now. It’s not surprising for him to be on that list.”

“Exactly,” you muttered. “It’s a perfect business arrangement for him, too. He needs a way to look respectable again, and I need to stay in the country.”

“So, you’re actually considering this?”

You leaned against a streetlamp, staring at the city around you. “I don’t know. Maybe? It just feels wrong. Like I’m giving up a part of myself.”

“As nicely as this can be said, you are being dramatic here, babe.” Nina sighed softly. “Look, I’m not going to push you either way, okay? But I do think you need to look at it from a different angle. You’re not giving up on yourself. You’re doing what you need to do to stay here, to keep fighting for your career and your future. And Rafe—or whoever you’ll end up marrying—is not your parents. He’s not going to control you or he’ll get slapped.”

You closed your eyes, trying to let her words sink in. She was right—you were in control now. This wasn’t the same as being forced into a marriage you didn’t want. This was about survival. About keeping your life in the U.S. intact.

"Yeah… I guess you’re right," you said softly, feeling some of the tension release from your shoulders. "I just need time to think."

TWO WEEKS LATER.

The soft glow of the late afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting warm light across your living room. After two relentless weeks of back-to-back fashion shoots, campaign meetings, and gala appearances, you had finally found a moment of peace. You curled up on the plush sofa, sinking into its embrace as the hum of the city outside became a distant murmur. The oversized, loose pajamas you wore were a far cry from the designer gowns and couture you’d been draped in recently, but they were yours—soft, comforting, and familiar. Your hair was twisted into a lazy bun under a satin bonnet.

You exhaled a sigh of relief, finally feeling the weight of exhaustion slip from your shoulders as you closed your eyes.

Buzz. Buzz.

The sound of your phone vibrating on the coffee table pulled you from the calm. You groaned softly, reaching for it with one hand, expecting to see another notification about a meeting or event. Instead, it was a message from Nicolas.

“Any thoughts on who you're going to marry? We need to move quickly if we want to ensure everything goes through in time.”

The familiar weight of the situation you’d been trying to avoid crept back into your chest. Two weeks had passed since your lawyer had first laid out the reality of your visa situation. In those weeks, you'd thrown yourself into work, hoping the constant flurry of activity would drown out the anxiety. But now, in the quiet of your home, the decision loomed large again.

You typed back, hesitating for a moment before hitting send.

"I haven’t decided yet."

A few seconds later, the reply came through.

"We need to discuss this in person. Can you come to my office today?"

You frowned, your eyes darting around the cozy room, not quite ready to leave your home.

"How about you come here instead?" you typed. "It’s been a long week, and I’d rather talk in private."

There was a pause before the three dots appeared, and then the message followed.

"Sure. I’ll be there in about an hour."

You put your phone down and leaned back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. This wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have, but it was necessary. Time was running out, and you knew you had to face it—whether you wanted to or not.

An hour passed in a blur, and soon enough, you heard the knock at your door. You padded across the room in your socks, your oversized pajama pants swishing softly as you walked. Opening the door, you found Nicolas standing there, looking as composed as ever in his tailored suit.

“Come in,” you said with a smile, stepping aside to let him in.

Nicolas entered, his eyes scanning the room before they landed on you. "You look... relaxed."

You gave a soft chuckle, gesturing to your pajamas. “Don’t mock the pj’s until you’ve tried them.”

He smiled slightly, but there was a hint of emergency in his expression as he took a seat in the armchair across from you. “I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately, but we really need to make a decision.”

You nodded, sitting back down on the couch, hugging a pillow to your chest. “I know… I’ve just been avoiding it.”

“And I noticed,” he said, pulling out a folder from his briefcase. “But with the visa expiration approaching, we don’t have much time. We need to find someone—someone who understands the situation and won’t make things harder.”

You bit your lip, holding a smile, glancing at the folder in his hands. “You bought the list?”

He nodded, and handed it over, and you flipped through the names, recognizing some immediately. Athletes, businessmen, even a couple of actors/singers. And then there was Rafe Cameron, his name standing out like a bold headline.

“I’ve looked at these,” you said quietly. “I just… I don’t know who to choose. None of ‘em feel right.”

Nico leaned forward. “It's not about right or wrong. It’s about who can offer the least amount of personal complications and help you secure your residency. Rafe Cameron, for instance—he’s someone who could benefit from this arrangement as much as you. His reputation needs mending, and this could be a mutually beneficial situation.”

You stared at Rafe’s name, the memories of seeing his name in the news about how much of a womanizer he was… Could you really tie yourself to someone like him in a fake marriage?

“Alright, but I need you to help me decide,” you admitted, looking up at him.

He nodded, his expression understanding. “Of course, that’s why I’m here. Let’s break it down together and figure out who makes the most sense, not just legally but for your peace of mind.”

Nicolas opened his briefcase again, pulling out more detailed files on the potential candidates. He laid them out neatly on the coffee table, each name with a stack of information—financial records, personal histories, public perceptions. It was all very businesslike.

You leaned forward, looking at the pages in front of you. Each one represented a major decision, a shift in your life you weren’t entirely ready to accept, but you knew you didn’t have much of a choice.

“Let’s start with the most practical options,” he said, sliding the file on Rafe Cameron toward you. “I know his name has come up before. He’s wealthy, influential, and… well, let’s be honest, he could use a boost to his public image right now. It’s a good match on paper.”

You stared at Rafe’s name again, tapping the edge of the file with your finger. “Yeah, but he’s also a bit of a mess, isn’t he? I mean, the media paints him as this… whore, and his personal life is always talked about. What if that blows back on me?”

Nicolas raised a brow. “That’s something to consider, but you also have to think of the benefits. His public image might not be very clean, but he’s powerful. Marrying him would put you in a stable position, and if it’s a business arrangement, his private affairs don’t have to concern you.”

You exhaled slowly, still feeling uneasy. Rafe Cameron was trouble, and you knew it. But at the same time, trouble might be exactly what could make this work—for both of you.

“What about the others?” you asked, flipping through the files. “There has to be someone who’s… less complicated.”

“Well,” he said, tapping another file. “there’s Owen Turner. He’s a succesful tech entrepeneur, keeps a low profile. No scandals, no messy reputation. He’s reliable, but you’ll have to approach this differently. He’s more private, less likely to want his personal life on display.”

“And boring—plus, he seems like the type of white guy to want a traditional wife. Like he would expect me to cook for him every night… and he has an ugly name.”

“Owen won’t be expecting home-cooked meals, Y/N. He’s a tech guy; he probably lives on energy drinks and instant ramen,” Nico pointed out, trying to steer you back to the serious topic. “But if we position it as a legal arrangement, he could see the value in it.”

You sighed, leaning back on the chair. “Okay, maybe Owen is the safer options. But can you imagine our wedding announcement? ‘Succesful Tech Entrepeneur Married Famous Model: They Share a Love for Cats and Instant Noodle.’”

Nico shook his head, trying not to smile. “Focus, please. This is a serious matter.”

“Right, right, sorry…” you said, wavering your hand dismissively. “But, what do you think about Rafe?”

“Rafe Cameron is the most straightforward option,” he said, his tone now more measured. “He’s already in the public eye, which means there won’t be as much of a shock if you’re suddenly married. Plus, his need for good press aligns with your need for stability.”

“And personally?”

He smiled softly, a rare gesture from him. “Personally, I think you should go with the person you think you can manage.”

You nodded, appreciating his honesty. Staring at the stack of papers in front of you, Rafe Cameron’s name glaring up at you from the top of the list. Every name on the list had its pros and cons, but something about Rafe’s file felt different. Maybe it was the intensity of his media coverage, the scandals, or the way he dominated the headlines for all the wrong reasons. But as much as you hesitated, his name kept pulling you back.

“I know his reputation isn't spotless,” Nico said, sensing your hesitation, “but in this situation, a clean reputation isn’t the priority. You need someone powerful, someone with enough influence to make this arrangement stick without getting tangled up in emotional complications.”

You nodded, again.”But I don’t know if I can handle all the baggage that comes with Rafe Cameron. His public image is a trainwreck. Wouldn’t that only complicate things more?”

Nico leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Possibly. But think of it this way: his personal life is already so chaotic that a stable, respectable marriage might be exactly what he needs to repair his image. And that’s where you come in. You’d be helping each other.”

Your eyes dropped back down to his file. "Do you think he'd even agree to something like this?"

Nico chuckled softly. “If there’s one thing I know about men like Rafe Cameron, it’s that they understand deals. His reputation is hanging by a thread, and a marriage to someone like you—someone with a pristine public image—could be the ticket to restoring his credibility. It’s a win-win, really.”

You considered Nico’s words. He was right. Rafe had everything to gain from a marriage of convenience, just like you. And while his scandals were messy, they didn’t define him entirely. He was still an elite athlete, one of the best in the game, and with the right PR strategy, you could both come out looking better.

But the thought of marrying someone like him—a notorious playboy with a history of messy breakups—made your stomach churn. 

“You know,” Nico continued, “if this were just about your visa, we’d be having a different conversation. But this is about your entire future. Your career, your freedom to stay here, everything you’ve built. I’m not saying it’s an easy choice, but it’s one worth considering.”

You sighed, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. "What happens if it falls apart? What if things with Rafe go wrong?"

"That’s why we’ll draft a contract," Nico reassured you. "This won’t be a traditional marriage, Y/N. You’ll both have clear boundaries, and legally, we’ll protect your interests. If things go south, you’ll be covered."

You stared at the file a little longer, then closed your eyes.Rafe Cameron. He was cocky, possessive, and reckless—everything you usually avoided. But maybe that was the key. You wouldn’t have to worry about him trying to control you or make this anything more than a business transaction.

It would be messy. It would be complicated. But it would also keep you here, in the country you’d fought so hard to call home. And maybe, just maybe, it would be the solution you both needed.

“Okay,” you said softly, your decision finally settling. “I’ll do it.”

Nico’s eyebrows shot up, a little surprised at how quickly you’d made up your mind. “You’re sure?”

“No,” you admitted with a weak smile. “But I think this is the best option. I’ll marry Rafe Cameron.”

Nico nodded, closing the folder with a satisfied smile. “Good. I’ll set up a meeting with him. We’ll get the ball rolling.”

Oh God, you were going to marry Rafe Cameron…

chapter two

[hoe4hotchner]

aaron x supermodel reader?? 👀👀

Mystery man | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Supermodel!reader | WC: 1.9k | CW: Fluff, reader is wearing lingerie in a picture at one point

The relentless flashes of cameras were nearly blinding as the black town car came to a halt in front of the venue. You took a moment to steady yourself, exhaling softly before stepping out into the chaos. The city was alive tonight, the buzz of Paris Fashion Week crackling in the evening air like electricity as journalists, media outlets, paparazzi's, and so on had gathered around the velvet ropes to the red carpet.

As you swung one long leg out of the car, the delicate fabric of your gown cascaded in shimmering ripples around you. The dress was a masterpiece—silk that seemed to flow like water, catching the thousand lights with every movement. Diamond earrings glinted against your skin, and your heels—custom-designed, of course—clicked against the cobblestones as you straightened to your full height.

The crowd outside erupted into a frenzy the moment they spotted you, shouting your name in a symphony of accents, the occasional “over here!” cutting through the noise. You didn’t flinch, didn’t falter; you were used to this. It was your stage, and you owned it.

But tonight wasn’t just about you.

You turned, holding out a hand, and watched as he stepped out of the car.

Aaron Hotchner.

Even in the middle of the whirlwind, he exuded a calm authority that made heads turn. The black suit he wore was impeccably tailored, the kind of understated elegance that spoke volumes without trying too hard. You had insisted on having the designer of your attire make something for him too—for the occasion you'd shrugged.

His dark eyes scanned the crowd, not with the excitement of someone dazzled by the spectacle, but with the sharp awareness of a man—an agent—who didn’t miss a thing.

For a moment, you wondered what he was thinking. If he felt out of place or if he was regretting saying yes to your impulsive invitation. But when his gaze shifted to you, the faintest trace of a smile curved his lips, and any doubt disappeared.

You reached for his hand, and when his fingers closed around yours, the crowd’s focus shifted instantly.

“Who is that?”

“Is that her date?”

“Oh my God, he’s hot!”

“Someone get a name!”

The whispers grew louder as the two of you began walking toward the beginning of the carpet. Hotch’s presence next to you was a contrast to your usual presence at these events. Normally you would've given the cameras a little pre-show, before heading inside to get dressed in the collection of the evening.

And where most people—even celebrities—might have preened for the cameras in the slowest way possible, he simply carried himself with confidence, his free hand brushing against the edge of his jacket.

When another wave of flashes erupted, he leaned in closer. “This is... different,” he murmured, his voice so low you could feel it more than hear it.

You glanced up at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “Different good or different bad?”

He gave you a look—half exasperated, half amused. “Let’s just say I’m starting to understand why you always come home exhausted after these things.”

Your laugh turned brighter, drawing even more attention from the photographers. “Welcome to my world, Agent Hotchner.”

The questions from the crowd grew more pointed. Someone yelled, “Are you two together?” while another voice called out, “Is this your boyfriend?”

Aaron’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over yours as if to steady you both. You could feel his discomfort at the attention, but he didn’t let it show outwardly.

As you approached the gilded double doors of the venue, you slowed, tilting your head toward him. “They’ll figure out who you are by tomorrow,” you said softly with a teasing tone.

He raised a brow. “Is that a warning?”

“More like a promise.” You smiled, squeezing his hand before leading him inside.

Once the heavy doors shut behind you, the noise from outside faded into a muffled hum. Aaron exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he looked around the space.

“Now that,” he said, meeting your gaze, “was intense.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, stepping closer to fix his tie, which had shifted slightly during the commotion. “And it’s only the beginning.”

The sun had barely begun to stream through the blinds of Garcia’s apartment, casting a soft, golden hue across her kitchen. She hummed quietly to herself, a melody she’d picked up from the latest show she had managed to binge between cases, as she went about her morning ritual.

Her bright pink robe swished around her as she moved. Everything in her kitchen had just as much personality as her; from the gleaming chrome appliances to the rainbow of coffee pods stacked neatly by her machine.

She hit the button for her usual shot of espresso, the familiar whirring sound filling the room as she reached for her favorite mug—a ceramic cat face with ears that doubled as handles and then turned to her fridge to gather all the fixings.

Her TV, mounted in the corner of her living room and perpetually tuned to a morning show, prattled on in the background. It was her morning white noise, the kind of chatter she half-listened to while focusing on more important things, like perfecting her froth-to-espresso ratio.

“...Paris Fashion Week turned heads last night with more than just couture,” the announcer’s voice chimed, accompanied by upbeat music. “A surprise appearance by a supermodel and her mysterious companion has everyone talking this morning.”

Garcia paused mid-pour, her interest piqued. Her gaze flicked to the screen, where a paparazzi photo filled the frame.

She squinted.

The image showed a stunning figure draped in a flowing gown, her hand firmly clasped in a man’s. His face wasn’t entirely visible, but his strong profile and familiar suit cut made Garcia gasp.

“No. Freaking. Way,” she whispered, her coffee momentarily forgotten.

The announcer continued, the screen now displaying the bold headline:

Supermodel Spotted With Mystery Man at Paris Fashion Week!

The next photo zoomed in on the man’s face, his stoic expression unmistakable.

“Oh my God,” Garcia said louder, her hand flying to her mouth. “That’s Hotch!”

The caption beneath the image confirmed it, sending her brain into overdrive: Mystery Man Identified as Aaron Hotchner, FBI Unit Chief.

Her half-made latte was abandoned on the counter as she scrambled for her phone. “This is not happening. This is not happening,” she muttered, her fingers flying over the screen until she found the contact she needed.

The phone barely rang before Derek Morgan’s voice came through, groggy and unamused. “Garcia, it’s not even eight, Hotch is away there's no need to wake up this ear—”

“Did you see it?” she blurted, cutting him off.

“See what?”

“Our boss!” she shrieked, pacing the length of her kitchen. “Hotch! He was at Paris Fashion Week! Holding hands with a supermodel! It’s on every channel!”

There was a pause, followed by Morgan’s skeptical laugh. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Hotch? Our Hotch?”

“Yes, our Hotch! The Aaron Hotchner! He’s on TV right now looking like James Bond at a runway show!”

Another pause, and then Morgan’s full-throated laugh rumbled through the line. “This I gotta see. Send me the link.”

Garcia was already snapping a picture of the TV screen, muttering under her breath. “I can’t believe this. He’s going to walk into work on Monday like nothing happened. Nothing happened!”

Morgan’s voice was rich with amusement. “Think he’ll bring her to the office?”

“Oh, don’t even joke,” Garcia groaned, dramatically flopping onto her couch. “This is going to be the topic of gossip for weeks. Months. Years! I need answers, Derek. Answers!”

Morgan’s chuckle softened. “Good luck getting any. You know how tight-lipped he is.”

Garcia sighed, already plotting her strategy. If anyone could get the inside scoop, it was her.

The streets of Paris were alive with the afternoon bustle as busy Parisians were heading home after a day's work. The sunlight streamed through the wrought-iron balconies and cast warm patterns on the cobblestone streets as the sun started to set. You sat at a small café table nestled in the corner of a quiet terrace, the scent of freshly baked croissants and strong espresso mingling in the air. Across from you, Aaron was the picture of peace, a man who seemed utterly unbothered by the flurry of attention he’d unwittingly garnered in just one night.

On the small table between you sat a glossy gossip magazine, its cover adorned with a candid shot of the two of you from the night before. The headline practically screamed: Supermodel’s Mystery Man: Who Is He? FBI Unit Chief Turns Heads at Paris Fashion Week!

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and bubbling as you traced a finger over the grainy image of Hotch, his sharp profile and protective grip on your hand immortalized in print. “They’ve already printed it,” you said, your tone a mix of amusement and disbelief.

Aaron leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. His phone buzzed incessantly on the table, the notifications relentless, but he didn’t so much as glance at it. Instead, his focus remained entirely on you, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

“They’re calling you a ‘mystery man,’” you teased, flipping the magazine open to the full-page spread inside. The photos captured every angle of the two of you from last night—the hand-holding, the shared smiles, the way he had leaned in to speak to you amidst the chaos of flashing cameras.

“And here’s my personal favorite,” you added, pointing to a particularly flattering shot of him looking utterly smitten as you had walked down the runway in a set of silver lingerie.

Hotch’s dark eyes flicked to the image before returning to yours. “I think I prefer to keep them guessing,” he said, his voice was warm, he knew that wouldn't be the case. He reached for his coffee, the faintest trace of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Hmm,” you mused, tilting your head as you studied him. “Not sure your team agrees.” You nodded toward his phone, which buzzed again with what had to be its twentieth alert in the last ten minutes.

He sighed, a sound more affectionate than exasperated, and finally picked up the device. “Garcia,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read a series of increasingly unbelieving messages. “And Morgan,” he added, his smirk deepening.

You rested your chin in your hand, grinning at him. “I told you they’d find out.”

Hotch set the phone back on the table without responding to the messages, his gaze softening as it met yours. “Let them talk,” he said simply, his voice carrying the conviction you adored. “Right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Your chest warmed at his words, and you leaned forward, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Good,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Because I wouldn’t want you anywhere else.”

For a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, the noise and chaos of the city fading into the background below.

“Though,” you added, breaking the moment with a mischievous smile and a wink, “I wouldn’t mind seeing you on next year’s cover of GQ. You know, for the sake of balance.”

Hotch chuckled, the sound so utterly endearing, as he shook his head. “Let’s not get too carried away.”