#model!reader

[chelseaknoo]

90s Eminem x Victoria secrets model! Reader

Request: Hi, can I ask for a longer story (it can be short too if you prefer)? How about Marshal in the 90s with a Victoria Secret model, paparazzi catches a cute moment between them and Em's friends make fun of them and the fans and media are crazy to see a cute side of him, and then he reminds everyone at an awards show that his cute side is only with his girl...

Note:Sorry I couldn’t make it longer enough I hade to rush it

Marshall Mathers—better known as Eminem—had been your boyfriend for a few months now. The two of you meeting was nothing short of surreal, thanks to Dr. Dre’s matchmaking. Dre had noticed Marshall’s little obsession with you when he caught him flipping through magazines featuring your modeling work—Victoria’s Secret, Playboy, and others. At first, Dre didn’t say much, but when he saw how tongue-tied Marshall got every time your name came up, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

It all started the night Dre surprised Marshall backstage at one of his concerts. You had no idea you were about to meet the man himself, but Dre had convinced you to fly out, promising it’d be worth your while.

---

The room was dimly lit, a sharp contrast to the blinding stage lights that had been in Marshall's face all night. He had just stepped offstage after performing in Detroit, his home turf, with adrenaline still coursing through his veins. Dr. Dre was leaning against the wall of the dressing room, scrolling through his phone casually like he didn’t have a surprise up his sleeve.

“Yo, good set tonight, man,” Dre said, looking up.

“Yeah, thanks,” Marshall replied, wiping his face with a towel and grabbing a water bottle. “Crowd was hype. Detroit never disappoints.”

Dre smirked, tucking his phone away. “So, you remember how you keep talking about that one Victoria’s Secret model you like?”

Marshall froze mid-drink, side-eyeing his mentor. “What are you talkin’ about?”

Dre raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Don’t play dumb, Em. I’ve seen your magazines. You’re always like, ‘Man, she’s so fine,’ every time her ad comes on TV. What’s her name? (Y/N)?”

Marshall turned red, scowling. “Yo, why you gotta put me on blast like that? I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

“Relax,” Dre chuckled, pushing himself off the wall. “I ain’t clownin’ you… much. Anyway, I might’ve done somethin’.”

“What the hell did you do?” Marshall asked, suspicion lacing his voice as Dre made his way to the door.

Dre opened it slightly and leaned into the hallway, waving someone in. “Yo, come on in!”

Marshall watched in confusion, his brows furrowing. The door swung open wider, and there you were—dressed casually but effortlessly stunning. It was a stark contrast to the glamorous shoots he’d seen you in, but somehow, it made you even more breathtaking.

“Hi,” you greeted with a warm smile, your voice soft but confident.

Marshall’s jaw nearly hit the floor. He blinked several times, convinced this had to be some elaborate prank. “Yo, what—” he stammered, looking between you and Dre. “What is this? Are you serious right now?”

Dre clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Dead serious. Thought I’d help you shoot your shot, man.”

“Wait… what?” Marshall was still processing, running a hand over his buzzed blonde hair.

You stepped closer, extending your hand. “I’m (Y/N). It’s nice to finally meet you, Marshall.”

“Uh… yeah, yeah. Nice to meet you, too,” he said, shaking your hand like he’d forgotten how to function.

Dre leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning like a proud matchmaker. “Told her you were a fan, Em. Turns out, she thinks you’re pretty dope, too.”

Marshall’s head snapped toward Dre. “You told her? Man, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Relax, man. She’s here, ain’t she?” Dre shrugged, unbothered by the flustered rapper’s reaction.

You laughed softly, the sound instantly easing Marshall’s nerves. “He’s right. I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to meet you. I’ve been a fan of your music for a while now.”

“You… have?” Marshall asked, the disbelief evident in his tone.

You nodded. “Absolutely. ‘My Name Is’ is iconic. And your flow? Insane.”

Marshall chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn, that’s crazy. I mean… thanks. I don’t even know what to say right now.”

Dre pushed off the doorframe. “Well, y’all have fun. I’ll leave you to it.” He shot Marshall a knowing look before disappearing into the hallway.

As the door closed behind him, silence settled between you and Marshall. He shifted awkwardly, trying to think of something clever to say but coming up blank.

“So, this is your hometown, huh?” you said, breaking the ice.

“Yeah. Detroit. Born and raised,” he replied, finally managing to meet your eyes.

“It’s cool to see where you’re from,” you said. “You must love performing here.”

“Yeah, it’s different here. The crowd’s wild, but it’s home, y’know?”

You smiled. “That’s awesome. I can tell you’re really passionate about what you do.”

Marshall felt himself relax a little, the initial shock fading. “Yeah, I mean… music’s everything to me. Keeps me sane, y’know?”

You nodded. “I get that. Modeling can be pretty intense, too. It’s nice to have something that keeps you grounded.”

He tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “How’d you get into all that? Modeling and stuff?”

You chuckled. “Kind of by accident, honestly. I got scouted when I was younger, and it just took off from there. But I love it. It’s given me opportunities I never dreamed of.”

Marshall grinned. “Yeah, like meetin�� me, right?”

You laughed, and he felt a surge of confidence.

“Exactly,” you teased.

The two of you spent the next hour talking like old friends, the initial awkwardness replaced by an easy connection. Marshall couldn’t believe Dre had actually pulled this off, but he wasn’t about to question it.

---

Months had passed since that unforgettable night when Dr. Dre introduced you to Marshall. What started as a whirlwind of nerves and uncertainty quickly blossomed into something neither of you could have anticipated. Now, you and Marshall were inseparable—a happy, albeit unconventional, couple.

Tonight, you found yourself seated in a cozy corner of a trendy Detroit restaurant. It was one of Marshall's favorite spots, lowkey and unpretentious. He had invited some of his closest friends, including Proof and Denaun, for dinner. The table was filled with laughter and conversation, everyone relaxed as plates of food were passed around.

Marshall sat beside you, his arm casually draped across the back of your chair, while his other hand toyed absentmindedly with the edge of his napkin.

“Yo, this mac and cheese is fire,” Denaun said, holding up a forkful. “Y’all need to try this.”

Proof leaned forward, squinting at Denaun’s plate. “That ain’t better than my grandma’s recipe, though. Don’t even start.”

Marshall chuckled. “Man, Proof, you’re always hypin’ up your grandma’s cooking. I’m starting to think she don’t even exist.”

“Say that again, and I’ll have her make a plate just so you can eat your words,” Proof shot back, laughing.

While the guys bantered, you were focused on your own plate, cutting a piece of the steak you had ordered. You noticed Marshall glance at your plate, his eyes lingering.

“You want some?” you asked, lifting the fork toward him.

“Nah, I’m good,” he said, but his gaze didn’t leave the steak.

You smirked, leaning closer. “C’mon, try it. It’s good.”

Marshall hesitated, then leaned in and took a bite. “Damn,” he muttered, chewing thoughtfully. “That’s better than mine.”

You giggled, cutting another piece. “Want another bite?”

“Hell yeah,” he said, and you fed him again, much to the amusement of the guys at the table.

“Yo, look at this dude,” Denaun said, pointing his fork at Marshall. “Marshall out here bein’ all soft with his girl. Feeding each other and shit.”

Proof snickered. “Man, I ain’t seen him act like this ever. You got him whipped, (Y/N).”

Marshall rolled his eyes but smirked. “Y’all just mad ‘cause you don’t have someone feedin’ you.”

You laughed, deciding to tease him a little. “Aw, don’t listen to them, babe. They’re just jealous.”

“Damn right,” Proof said with a grin. “But seriously, Marshall, I never thought I’d see the day. You’re out here lookin’ like a Hallmark commercial.”

“Shut up,” Marshall muttered, his cheeks tinged pink.

As the evening went on, the teasing continued. But you didn’t mind—if anything, you found it endearing how Marshall was willing to show a softer side around you, even with his friends present.

After dessert was served, you leaned back in your seat, feeling content. Marshall shifted closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. Without warning, he buried his face against your chest, sighing dramatically.

“Oh my god, Marshall,” you said, laughing as you glanced down at him. “What are you doing?”

“Damn, this is comfortable,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin.

The table erupted in laughter.

“Yo, what the hell am I seeing right now?” Denaun said, nearly choking on his drink.

Proof slapped the table, wheezing with laughter. “I can’t! Em, what are you doin’? You look like a baby tryin’ to nap.”

“Man, let me live,” Marshall shot back, though he made no move to lift his head. Instead, he tightened his hold on you, clearly enjoying the position.

You shook your head, your hand instinctively brushing over his short hair. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he said smugly, glancing up at you with a smirk before resting his head back down.

“Bro, you really just gon’ let him do that?” Proof asked you, shaking his head.

You laughed, shrugging. “What can I say? He’s comfortable.”

Marshall grinned triumphantly. “See? My girl’s cool with it. Y’all just mad.”

“Man, this is gonna be all over the tabloids if someone sees,” Denaun joked. “Eminem: Rap Legend or Cuddle King?”

Marshall finally lifted his head, flipping him off. “Keep talkin’, and I’ll show y’all who the king is.”

The table dissolved into laughter again, and you couldn’t help but smile. Despite the teasing, the moment felt perfect—a rare glimpse of normalcy and joy in the chaotic life you shared with Marshall.

As the night wound down, Marshall leaned in close, his voice low so only you could hear. “Thanks for puttin’ up with my dumb ass.”

You smiled, brushing your lips against his cheek. “Always.”

And in that moment, surrounded by laughter and love, you realized there was no place you’d rather be.

The next morning, the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen filled the small house you and Marshall had been calling home for the past few weeks. You were scrolling through a magazine at the kitchen table while he stood at the counter, his back to you as he buttered a piece of toast.

“Man, last night was wild,” Marshall said, his voice groggy from just waking up. “I can’t believe Proof was clownin’ on me the whole time.”

You smirked. “To be fair, you did use me as a pillow in front of everyone. You were asking for it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively as he turned to face you. “It’s whatever. It ain’t like anyone else saw it.”

Just as he sat down at the table, your phone rang. You glanced at it, frowning. “It’s Dre. You want me to pick it up?”

Marshall shrugged. “Yeah, go ahead.”

You answered. “Hey, Dre. What’s up?”

“Man, tell your boyfriend to check the news,” Dre’s voice came through, half-laughing, half-serious.

Marshall raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to the phone. “What? Why? What’s goin’ on?”

“You tell me, Mr. Loverboy,” Dre shot back. “Turn on your TV.”

Marshall groaned, pushing back his chair to grab the remote. “What the hell is he talkin’ about now?”

You followed him into the living room as he switched on the TV. Almost immediately, a morning entertainment show flashed on screen, and there it was—photos of the two of you from the night before, clear as day.

One image showed you feeding Marshall, both of you smiling like you didn’t have a care in the world. Another showed him resting his head on your chest, looking completely at ease. The segment’s headline read: "Eminem Shows a Softer Side with a Victoria secrets model!"

“Aw, hell no,” Marshall muttered, running a hand down his face.

You tried to stifle a laugh. “It’s kinda cute, though…”

“Cute? Yo, they’re makin’ me look like a damn puppy out here!” Marshall exclaimed, pacing the room.

Dre’s voice crackled through the phone still in your hand. “A puppy? Nah, Em, they’re callin’ you a teddy bear. I’ve been gettin’ calls all morning askin’ if you’re droppin’ a love song next.”

“Yo, Dre, this ain’t funny, man!” Marshall yelled, though his tone betrayed his embarrassment more than anger.

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” Dre said, laughing. “I already know Proof and Denaun are gonna have a field day with this. You better brace yourself.”

Marshall sighed, flopping down on the couch and burying his face in his hands. “Man, this is gonna ruin me. My whole image is shot!”

You sat beside him, patting his shoulder. “Relax, it’s not that bad. People love seeing this side of you. Besides,” you added with a teasing grin, “I think you look adorable in the pictures.”

Marshall groaned. “Not you, too.”

Later that day, Marshall reluctantly went to the studio to work on a new track. As soon as he walked through the door, he was greeted by Proof and Denaun, both holding newspapers with the same pictures plastered on the front.

“Yo! Loverboy’s here!” Proof called out, waving the paper like a trophy.

Marshall scowled. “Man, shut the hell up.”

“You see these, though?” Denaun said, holding up his own copy. “Look at this one right here, Proof. My man’s got his head all up on her chest like it’s a damn hotel pillow.”

“Comfort Suites by Victoria’s Secret,” Proof added, laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach.

Marshall snatched one of the papers from Denaun, glaring at the images. “Y’all are mad annoying, you know that?”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Proof teased, slinging an arm around Marshall’s shoulder. “We’re just happy to see you happy. Even if it’s funny as hell.”

“Man, y’all act like you’ve never seen someone chill with their girl before,” Marshall shot back, shaking him off.

Dre walked into the room, grinning from ear to ear. “What’s up, Romeo? You finishin’ that ballad yet?”

Marshall groaned loudly. “Not you, too, Dre!”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me,” Dre said, holding up his hands in mock defense. “You brought this on yourself. But for real, Em, the pictures are blowin’ up. Fans love ‘em. They’re sayin’ you’re finally showin’ you’re human.”

“Man, I don’t care what they’re sayin’,” Marshall muttered, slumping into a chair. “This is just dumb.”

Proof sat across from him, shaking his head with a smirk. “You can act all mad about it, but we all know the truth.”

“And what’s that?” Marshall asked, narrowing his eyes.

“That you’re head over heels for (Y/N),” Proof said simply.

Marshall hesitated, his tough exterior softening for just a moment. “Yeah, so what if I am?”

The room went silent for a beat before Denaun laughed. “Man, I knew it! You really are a teddy bear.”

Marshall rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Whatever, man. Y’all just mad you ain’t got what I got.”

“True,” Proof said, raising his hands. “I can’t even argue with that.”

“Damn right,” Marshall said, leaning back in his chair. “Now, can we stop talkin’ about this and get back to work?”

The teasing continued on and off for the rest of the day, but deep down, Marshall didn’t mind. He had you by his side, and even if the world saw his softer side, he knew it was all worth it.

-

Today, Marshall was being nominated for best rap album.You couldn’t be more proud of him.

The night was electric. The atmosphere at the awards show was electric, filled with flashing cameras and glimmering lights. You and Marshall were seated side by side in the front row, both dressed casually but still looking as stylish as ever. Marshall wore his usual attire: a plain white T-shirt, baggy jeans, and a hoodie, with a signature pair of sneakers completing the look. Even without a suit, he exuded a kind of effortless cool, the same way he did when he first made a name for himself. His confidence, though unspoken, was undeniable.

You couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride every time you looked at him. This was his moment—the culmination of years of hard work, struggles, and sacrifice. You had been by his side through all of it, and seeing him nominated for an award only made your heart swell.

The ceremony was dragging on, filled with different categories and performers, but you were content to just be there with him. You leaned against him slightly, your hand resting on his leg under the table, giving him a reassuring squeeze every now and then. Marshall kept his cool, never showing any signs of nerves, but you knew how much this meant to him.

Finally, they announced the nominees for Best Rap Album, and the room fell into a hush as they prepared to call the winner. Your grip tightened on his hand as the name of the winner was read aloud.

“And the award goes to... Eminem!”

A collective cheer erupted from the audience, and Marshall stood up, the loudest cheer coming from his friends who were seated across the room. He gave a slight nod, his usual smirk playing on his lips as he walked toward the stage. You stayed in your seat for a moment, watching him, your heart racing. This was it.

Marshall accepted the award, his eyes scanning the crowd as he took the microphone, his face flashing that signature mischievous grin.

“Damn, I don’t even know what to say,” he began, his voice casual but carrying through the auditorium. “First of all, I gotta thank the fans. Without y’all, I wouldn’t be standing up here today. You guys keep me going when I feel like giving up, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

The audience erupted into applause. You could hear the whispers of excitement from the crowd, the cameras flashing, the whole room hanging on his every word.

Marshall paused, looking down at the award in his hands for a moment, as though soaking it all in.

“I wanna thank my team—Dre and everyone who had my back from the jump,” he continued. “Without you guys, I wouldn’t be here. This is all for you.”

More applause. He had the audience in the palm of his hand, as usual. But then, he glanced toward you, his eyes softening as he caught your gaze from the front row.

“And lastly,” he said, his tone shifting ever so slightly, but you noticed it, “I gotta thank someone special. (Y/N), you’ve been there for me through everything. You’re the one who’s been by my side, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You blushed at his words, feeling the heat of the moment. The entire room fell silent as Marshall’s gaze never left you. You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the love in his expression, and it made your heart swell.

He cleared his throat, the corners of his mouth quirking up in that playful way of his. “But… I gotta say one thing to everyone out here—my cute side… that’s only for (Y/N),” he said sternly, and for a moment, you thought he was about to drop a punchline.

The room burst into laughter, and you couldn’t help but smile at his playful delivery. But then, there was a moment of silence, and all eyes were on him. The crowd had no idea what to expect next.

“You heard me,” Marshall continued, his tone still light but tinged with the confidence you loved so much. “That soft, cuddly, teddy bear side of me? It only comes out when I’m with her. So, don’t get it twisted, okay?”

The crowd roared with laughter and applause. Some of Marshall’s friends from across the room stood up, cheering loudly. Dre, who had been sitting behind you, raised his glass in your direction with a smirk. “Yo, that’s my boy right there!” he shouted, eliciting even more cheers from the audience.

You couldn’t help but laugh, your heart racing with pride. Marshall was a force of nature, and here he was, in front of thousands of people, being unapologetically himself. The crowd loved it. They loved him.

Marshall flashed a grin, his usual cocky attitude shining through as he held up the award. “But seriously, thanks to everyone who believed in me. This one’s for you, (Y/N),” he said, his eyes softening once more as he looked at you.

You smiled back at him, holding his gaze, feeling your heart swell with affection. He always knew how to make you feel special, even when the spotlight was on him.

The applause continued, but this time, it felt different—more genuine. Marshall had managed to not only win an award but also to share a moment of vulnerability with his fans. They had seen the tough, no-nonsense side of him for years, but tonight, they got a glimpse of the man who was also deeply in love and unapologetically devoted to the one person who understood him.

He stepped away from the mic, raising the trophy in one hand. “Alright, that’s enough outta me,” he said with a smile. “Now let’s get outta here before they start handing out the ‘Best Couple’ award.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his words, and the audience chuckled with you. Marshall had a way of turning even the most sincere moments into something playful.

As he walked off the stage, the audience still clapping and laughing, Marshall turned toward you, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“You good?” he asked, grinning like he hadn’t just turned an awards ceremony into a personal love fest.

“I’m more than good,” you replied, reaching up to pull him down into a kiss.

“Yeah, I’m lucky as hell,” he murmured against your lips, and you could feel the warmth of his words in the way he held you.

your lips curling into a flirtatious smile. "There’s gonna be a second award for you tonight… but it won’t be for your music."

Marshall raised an eyebrow, the playful tension between you two palpable. He leaned in closer, his lips curling into a smirk as he matched your tone. "Oh yeah?" he replied, his voice low and teasing. "What kind of award are we talkin' about here?"

You kept your eyes locked on his, letting the anticipation build. "Well, let’s just say it’ll be more personal," you said with a wink, your hand subtly brushing against his arm. "I think you’ve earned it."

He chuckled softly, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. "Damn, you’re bold," he muttered, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered, "I like it."

You could feel his breath on your skin, and the way his body instinctively leaned toward you sent a thrill down your spine. "Just wait, Marshall. Tonight, you’re gonna get a taste of a real reward."

His lips curved into a satisfied grin. "I’m definitely looking forward to it," he murmured, his voice husky with that unmistakable mix of confidence and desire. "You always know how to keep me on my toes."

With that, the two of you shared a quick kiss before heading back to your seat. But you could feel the heat between you both, knowing the night was far from over. As the awards show continued, all you could think about was the "second award" you’d be giving him later.

[rene-spade]

some smau! memes for my new fic

sneak peek 🤗

fic is out! here is part 1

Ren

[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

[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

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤPRADA FW25 * MATT STURNIOLO * INSTAGRAM

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N goes to the Prada FW25 show with the triplets and enjoy Milan with her boyfriend, Matt.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x prada model!reader　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

liked by sturniolofan1, matthew.sturniolo, ynfan72 and 1,528 others

people Supermodel Y/N L/N spotted today in Milan!

view all 3,065 comments

username wait you're lying??? she's actually there???

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username I'm obsessed omg omg omg

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liked by lilamoss, matthew.sturniolo, sturniolo.triplets and 11,628 others

ynsinstagram milano, your queen is here 🇮🇹🤌🏻

tagged: matthew.sturniolo

view all 3,065 comments

username um so like you’re actually perfect

username ughhhhh milan is so beautiful 😭

→ username ikr?? I dream of going there someday

username my jaw dropped but I'm happy about it

matthew.sturniolo love the shirt

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⤷ matthew.sturniolo actually I was talking about MY face in there

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username NO WAY, IS THAT REALLY MATT????

→ username OBVIOUSLY ???? the guy follow his girl everywhere 😭

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username you're everything mama, I adore you etc etc, but also like... MATT IS IN MILAN?? AS IN MY CITY???

username THIS IS Y/N'S WORLD AND WE'RE JUST LIVING IN IT

christophersturniolo 🏰🤌🏻🥧😱

→ ynsinstagram I agree, king 🙌🏻

username are nick and chris also there?

→ username I don't think they're (?)

→ username probably... this week is gonna happen the prada FW25 show, maybe she's in Milan to go there? her being the face of prada and all

⤷ username this actually makes super sense

username where Y/N is, fashion is following 🙌🏻

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liked by sturniolo.triplets, ynsinstagram, prada and 8,528 others

matthew.sturniolo this is what happens when you date a supermodel, they make you look cool by association

tagged: ynsinstagram

view all 3,925 comments

username damn god really out here choosing favorites

username he loves her your honour

username matt's milan era is just him third-wheeling Y/N and the camera

→ username FRRR!!! that girl looks amazing in every picture 😭😭

christophersturniolo bro really said I'm a prada boy now

→ ynsinstagram and he's slaying it 💅🏻

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→ matthew.sturniolo unreal

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→ matthew.sturniolo impossible

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→ matthew.sturniolo I think you mixed the triplet

⤷ christophersturniolo what's that supposed to mean???

username I'm SO sure that Y/N influenced matt 100% to buy prada stuff

username and now everyone say THANK YOU Y/N 🙏🏻

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liked by sturniolo.triplets, matthew.sturniolo, ynsinstagram and 6,279 others

gettyimages MILAN, ITALY - 19TH JANUARY. The Sturniolo's arrive at the Prada fashion show during Milan Menswear Fall/Winter 2025.

tagged: sturniolo.triplets

view all 3,624 comments

username WHAT THE FUCK

username what do you mean they're aLL IN THAT PRADA SHOW???? am I dreaming?

username omg omg omg omg shut up right now this is EVERYTHING

username PRADA KINGS 🙏🏻🙏🏻

→ username Y/N being their prada queen 🙏🏻

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username WHERE’S Y/N??????

→ matthew.sturniolo that's a good question

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ynsinstagram MILANO IS PRADA @/prada

tagged: prada

view all 8,624 comments

username fashion princess is living the dream so happy for her 😭🙏🏻

username mommy- sorry... mommy- sorry... MOTHER

kendalljenner you are GLOWING 😍

→ ynsinstagram love you, ken 🤍

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prada prettiest

→ ynsinstagram 🖤

username she is literally making the streets of milan her runway rn

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matthew.sturniolo nah bc how does someone look THIS good just stepping out of a car?? unreal

nicolassturniolo stop drooling

username prada is lucky to even exist while Y/N is wearing it tbh

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username 💳💳💳

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liked by ynsinstagram, matthew.sturniolo and 3,528 others

prada Y/N L/N and the Sturniolo Triplets attend the Prada FW25 Menswear Show in Milan, at the Fondazione Prada's Deposito.

tagged: ynsinstagram, sturniolo.triplets

view all 665 comments

username nick, chris, and matt are living every fan's dream rn just casually at PRADA with Y/N

→ username idk who I want to be tbh 😫

username ughh they look so powerful wtf

username the fact that prada is literally being carried by THEM rn 😫😫

username Y/N's outfit is literally what dreams are made of

→ username ikr??? so angel coded

username can we talk about how matt's whole outfit is lowkey giving runway vibes?? boyfriend is LEVELING UP

→ username and for that we say THANK YOU Y/N 🙌🏻

username Y/N's accessories alone probably cost more than my whole apartment but like... worth it 😃

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liked by rosiehw, matthew.sturniolo, haileybieber and 14,528 others

ynsinstagram cause i love to love, to love, to love you 🤍

tagged: matthew.sturniolo

view all 7,365 comments

matthew.sturniolo that guy's pretty handsome

→ ynsinstagram very :) and an amazing photographer too

⤷ matthew.sturniolo with a muse like you, I have no doubts

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nicolassturniolo cool pics and all, but where's my invite to the pasta tho?

→ ynsinstagram as if you didn't obligated us to bring some for you

⤷ username LMAO 😭😭 this is so nick coded

username EVERYONE PAUSE

username I want what these bitches have ;(

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→ ynsinstagram yes 😁

→ matthew.sturniolo always!

⤷ username WTF- HIIIII

⤷ username YOU'RE BOTH SO CUTE STOP

username why am I crying in the club rn

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liked by ynsinstagram, nathandoe8, tarayummyy and 12,588 others

matthew.sturniolo pizza in italy just hits different

tagged: ynsinstagram

view all 3,745 comments

username are yall breathing ok??

→ username no, actually going to the hospital rn

username bro went from youtube videos in sweatshirts to prada boy real quick

→ username AND I'M SO HERE FOR ITTTT

→ username don't you dare insult his sweatshirts 😔😔

nicolassturniolo matt driving in italy? 😱😱😱

→ matthew.sturniolo I can actually drive everywhere when I have a license, yk?

⤷ username clocked out 😭

username Y/N give me a chance pls pls pls

username fourth pic is peak boyfriendism 😭

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username luckiest boy on the planet

→ ynsinstagram luckiest girl*

⤷ matthew.sturniolo nah, I win on that note, no one is luckier than me

⤷ username whipped

ynsinstagram 🍕🍕🍕🍕🍕

→ matthew.sturniolo 🍕🍕🍕🍕

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username I NEED IT I NEED IT

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→ username and we all say THANK YOU Y/N 🙌🏻🙌🏻

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ynsinstagram italy has my heart and so do you, mio amato 🤍

→ matthew.sturniolo I promise I'm keeping it safe here 🖤

⤷ username I'm gonna throw up- THIS IS SO CUTE SHUT THE FUCK UP

username Y/N taking a picture of matt taking a picture of her 🙏🏻🙏🏻

© vanteguccir

[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.”

[amirasainz]

Hiiii, I love your blog so much. I was wondering if you could do Lando, who's girlfriend is a model. It is during the fashion weeks and she is very exhausted but boyfriend Lando takes care of her and is cheering her on the whole time. Thank you bby 💘

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 🧡

Lights, Camera and Flashes

The buzzing chaos of Fashion Month had arrived. Yn was in her element, juggling fittings, rehearsals, and back-to-back shows across New York, London, Milan, and Paris. As the world’s most sought-after model, her name was on every designer’s list. Each city meant new challenges, new outfits, and new pressures.

“Babe, are you sure you’re okay?” Lando asked as they touched down in New York for the first leg of the month.

Yn, seated beside him on the private jet, turned to give him a smile. “I’m fine, Lando. Just excited. It’s going to be a long month, but I’ve done this before.”

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Yeah, but this year, you’re in every major show. You’re human, Yn, not a robot.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said firmly, squeezing his hand. “Especially with you here.”

Lando chuckled. “Alright, but remember, the moment you feel off, you tell me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she promised.

---

New York

The energy in New York was electric. Yn stepped into the first fitting at Alexander Wang’s studio, where she was immediately swarmed by assistants and stylists. Lando stayed close but out of the way, watching her work with awe.

“You’re staring again,” Yn teased during a break, catching him leaning against the wall with a goofy grin.

“Can’t help it,” he replied. “You’re incredible.”

Show day arrived, and Lando was front and center in the audience, holding a bouquet of red roses. As the music boomed and Yn stepped onto the runway, he couldn’t contain himself.

“Let’s go, Yn!” he shouted, drawing amused glances from nearby attendees.

Yn strutted down the runway, her confidence radiant. She caught Lando’s eyes briefly, a small smile tugging at her lips. When the show ended, Lando was waiting backstage with his bouquet, pulling her into a tight hug.

“You killed it,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Thanks, babe.”

But as they exited the venue, they were met by a sea of paparazzi. Lando immediately stepped into protective mode, wrapping his arm around Yn’s waist and glaring at anyone who got too close.

“Back up,” he barked, shielding her with his body.

“Lando, it’s okay,” Yn murmured, though she appreciated his protectiveness.

He guided her safely to their car, refusing to let go until they were away from the chaos.

---

London

The second week brought them to London, where Yn had fittings with Burberry and Victoria Beckham. Though she was still riding the high from New York, Lando noticed the subtle changes—her slightly slower pace, the way she leaned on him more often.

“Feeling alright?” he asked one evening as they returned to the hotel.

“Yeah,” she replied, but her voice lacked its usual energy.

Lando wasn’t convinced. After her first show in London, she came backstage to find him waiting with a massive bouquet of lilies.

“You didn’t have to do this again,” she said, though her smile betrayed how much she loved it.

“Of course, I did. You deserve it.”

The paparazzi were even more aggressive in London, shouting questions and shoving cameras in their faces. Lando tightened his grip on Yn’s hand, his jaw set.

“Lando, it’s fine,” she whispered, but he shook his head.

“It’s not fine. They don’t get to treat you like this.”

Once they were safely inside their car, Lando turned to her. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” he said.

“I can handle it,” she replied softly.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he countered.

---

Milan

By the time they arrived in Milan, Yn’s energy was noticeably lower. Her flawless walk on the runway was still the talk of the industry, but off-stage, she was quieter, more fatigued.

“You’re not eating enough,” Lando pointed out one morning as she picked at her breakfast.

“I’m just not hungry,” she said.

“You’re running on fumes, Yn,” he said, his voice filled with concern.

“I’m fine, Lando,” she insisted, though the dark circles under her eyes told a different story.

Lando doubled down on his support, making sure she had everything she needed. After each show, he was there with flowers, helping her navigate the crowds and shielding her from the paparazzi.

When she came back to the hotel after her third show in Milan, she collapsed onto the bed. Lando didn’t say a word; he simply ordered room service, drew a bath, and set up her favorite playlist.

“Come on, princess,” he said, lifting her gently. “Time to relax.”

---

Paris

By the time they reached Paris, Yn was running on pure determination. Paris Fashion Week was the grand finale, and every major designer wanted her.

Lando could see how hard she was pushing herself, and it worried him.

“Yn, you need to slow down,” he said one evening as they walked back to their suite.

“I can’t,” she replied, her voice cracking. “This is the biggest week of the year.”

“And you’re the biggest model of the year. You’ve already proven yourself,” he argued. “Your health is more important.”

She didn’t respond, but he noticed the tears welling in her eyes.

On the night of her final show, Lando was louder than ever, cheering her on as she walked the runway. When it was over, he met her backstage with the largest bouquet yet.

“You did it,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

“I know, baby. I’ve got you,” he said, kissing her forehead.

---

When they finally returned to their hotel that night, Lando went all out to pamper her. He ordered her favorite food, prepared a warm bubble bath, and queued up her favorite movie.

“Lando,” Yn said as she sank into the bath, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to,” he said, sitting beside the tub. “You’re my princess, Yn. You deserve the world.”

As the movie played later, Yn curled up in Lando’s arms, her head resting on his chest.

“I couldn’t have done this without you,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

“You don’t have to do anything alone,” he replied, brushing a kiss against her temple. “I’ll always be here for you.”

Yn drifted off to sleep, the exhaustion of the month finally catching up to her. But with Lando by her side, she felt safe, loved, and completely at peace.

And for Lando, there was no greater honor than being her rock.

[yourauthorjen]

| ALL EYES ON YOU | — joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | a challenge was all it took for you to make your sharp eyed bodyguard fall for you.

| includes: | model!femreader x bodyguard!joaquintorres, angst, mutual pining, flirting, little bit steamy, mention of assassination, blood, and guns, little bit fast paced

| word count: | 3.5k

| a/n: | this was from this lovely request, thank you for the suggestion! i hope this is what you asked for it was a fun challenge to write but its the best i could get out. i also based this work off of the song "all eyes on you" by nicky youre, feel free to stream it while reading.

PROTECTION WAS THE wrong word to use when you were locked in your penthouse with absolutely nothing but your TV and a small pile of books you had already read five hundred times.

House arrest seemed like a better word to use, and your bodyguard Clint seemed to agree, rustling his suit jacket for the umpteenth time in the last five minutes.

You were sprawled across the velvet couch, feet kicked up as a reality showed played over the screen, too shallow and too fast to even bother paying attention to.

"Y'know, if you keep doing that to your jacket it's gonna ruin the seams."

Clint's mouth tugged upward into an amused smile— but it didn't reach his eyes. He glanced down at his watch, then at the door, like he was expecting it to burst open at any moment.

You rolled your eyes playing with the hem of your shirt. "Relax. I'm not going anywhere." And that was the problem, wasn’t it? You were stuck here — protected from the so-called threats swirling outside, from crazed fans to nameless blackmail to, most recently, a terrifying, too-close brush with a lot of drug addicts, the memory still clung to you like a shadow. It was a flash of silver glinting under the fluorescent lights, the sudden hard grip of a cold hand, cool metal buried into your forehead before you could even scream—

Blood.

Lot's and lot's of blood.

It still stained your hands, the metallic scent trailing after you even after you had washed your hands so many times that they turned raw. The dark red, almost brown, running down your fingers, even if it wasn't yours. The sight still haunted your brain, lingering in the corners when darkness fell and the monsters rushed back daring you to fall into a peaceful sleep, as if to say that the burden and guilt was something you had brought upon yourself.

You hadn't even read a quarter of your script yet, and the misery had already fallen onto you like rain, soaking through your body.

Now, you were under strict orders to stay in. Out of sight, out of danger.

And you despised every second of it.

You had whined, negotiated, bribed, and cried for your PR team to just let you out of the house once. But the only thing they had offered in return was a look of pity and a rough 'I'm sorry, we need to keep you safe."

A sharp knock snapped you out of your daze, and you scrambled upwards as Clint tensed. However, much to your disappointment, it was just another broad shouldered man wearing the same black uniform that Clint did, and an earpiece glinting under the dim lights.

He bent low, murmuring something into Clint’s ear— too low for you to catch, though you strained instinctively. Whatever it was, Clint stiffened immediately, eyes widening and his hand immediately going to his jacket pocket, patting like he was checking for something.

You sat up straighter. "Everything okay?"

Clint's jaw tightened as he glanced at the man beside him then back at you. "My wife's in labour."

You shot up from the couch already shooing him out the door. "Then why are you standing here like a tree trunk? Go! I'll be fine."

Clint grimaced, clearly torn. "I can’t just leave you—"

"Yes, you can," you interrupted sharply. "He can stand guard," you said pointing to the broad shouldered man hovering awkwardly near the door.

"With all due respect ma'am—"

"Oh be quiet, you," you rolled your eyes, "I'll be fine. As your boss I order you to go."

"But—"

"Go." you said firmly dragging out the word. "Before I get Grumpy over there to drag you out the door."

Clint looked helplessly at the man but he just shrugged and mumbled something into his ear. Still torn, he nodded and without another word he rushed out the door and into the hallway as the door slammed shut behind him, the noise echoing around the too big penthouse.

You knew you should've gotten the smaller apartment.

The other guard— Grumpy, as you'd already nicknamed him— cleared his throat meaningfully.

You turned your gaze lazily toward him, one brow arching. "Problem?"

"No, ma'am," he said stiffly, then glanced at his watch. "Your replacement protection should be here shortly."

"Replacement?" you gawked, "I thought you were already my replacement."

Grumpy cleared his throat again, "Ma'am I was just told to notify your bodyguard about his situation."

You let out a long, bored sigh. "Is he as good as Clint?"

He didn’t answer — didn’t even crack a smile — just shifted like he couldn’t wait to be anywhere else. But you supposed it would be fine. You could wait several minutes before your new replacement came, and you'd get a few months the least, to torment him as much as you want.

The next several minutes ticked by with the pace of the snail. Your phone had been abducted by your PR team and you couldn't Uber Eats anything. It was like your entire existence was now condensed to a few square feet of boredom and velvet cushions.

You swung your legs over the side of the couch, fiddling with the hem of your shirt again as Grumpy stood by the door like an awkward, overgrown statue.

Another glance at the clock.

Another glance at the door.

Another loud, martyred sigh from you — purely for his benefit.

He didn’t even twitch.

Rude.

You opened your mouth, wanting to ask if you could borrow his phone. Maybe buy some new books to read, or download Netflix so you wouldn't be bored out of your mind waiting for Grumpy 2.0 to come.

But before you had the chance to ask the elevator outside your apartment dinged, and the door flew open as a man stepped inside.

You had expected him to be a copy and paste version of Clint or maybe Grumpy, but instead you were greeted with a fresh eyed young man with dark curly hair and surprisingly not dressed in the generic uniform everyone else wore.

He was younger than Clint by a lot— probably close to your age, maybe a few years older at most— dressed in a black shirt that fitted just enough to show the lean, strong build underneath, a tactical vest and a pair of dark cargo pants, his legs sturdy and muscular.

He had a duffel bag slung over his arms and his eyes were a beautiful shade of coffee brown. Not the sludgy muddy kind, but the rich hazelnut kind that you found at your local coffee shop just a few blocks away.

You couldn't help the twitch on your lips as they curved into a smirk when his eyes flickered over the room landing on you for a fraction of a second before jerking away with a visible twitch of nerves.

How cute.

"This is Lieutenant Joaquin Torres," Grumpy said, glancing at his watch. "He's been assigned to you until further notice."

"Lieutenant, huh?" you blinked, their eyes both snapped towards you as you stood up from the couch "That's interesting."

The lieutenant— Joaquin, nodded. "Yes ma'am."

You scowled, crossing your arms. "Please don't call me that, it makes me sound like a grandma. How old are you anyways?"

Joaquin hesitated for the briefest moment, his bag still slung over one shoulder, before answering, “Twenty-seven.”

"Not that much older than me," you said, eyes sparkling.

Grumpy cleared his throat before turning to Joaquin. "Your orders are to keep the girl safe, and to not interfere with any harm that comes within her. You are to strictly keep her out of danger and to always keep her in your sight. Sam will be coming in every week to check in on you and if there are any... complications bring it up to him."

"Yes sir."

"Don't worry Lieutenant," you smiled sweetly, "We probably won't have any complications."

Grumpy's eyes lingered on you suspiciously as you waved your fingers at him before he nodded and stalked out the door. As the door closed behind him, you stood up, stretching before marching over to where Joaquin was standing.

"So," you said, dragging the word out lazily, "you're my new babysitter?"

Joaquin stiffened, his jaw ticking just a smidge. "Bodyguard," he corrected, voice earnest. "I'm your— I'm assigned to your protection detail."

You blinked slowly at him, lashes fluttering. "Same thing."

You studied him with open curiosity, head tilting to one side as you took in his appearance.

Up close, he was even more handsome with messy dark hair, lashes too long for someone who was supposed to look intimidating, and a faint scar running along his jawline.

"So," you said, "Do you go by Lieutenant or something? Or should I call you Torres."

"Whatever you like, but Torres is just fine."

You smiled slowly, ""Joaquin, then."

He flushed, much to your surprise. An actual flush, creeping up from under his collar to the tips of his ears.

God, he was precious.

You took another lazy step toward him, deliberately slipping into his personal space, tapping your finger against your thigh. He stood his ground, standing stiffly, but you didn’t miss the tiny shift, the way he tensed as he stood there, stock still.

Interesting.

"You nervous?" you asked lightly, cocking your head.

"No," he said too fast, too sharp.

Liar.

There was a long, heavy pause where you just stared at each other. You could see him fighting the instinct to look away, but he didn’t move. Didn't blink or breathe either.

So, you just spun on your heel, wandering back toward the couch, collapsing into the cushions with a dramatic sigh.

"This is bullshit," you said, talking mostly to yourself. "Do you have a phone? I'm hungry."

Joaquin shifted his weight awkwardly, clearly trying not to fidget under your stare. "I—" he started, rubbing the back of his neck. "I’m not supposed to give you my phone, ma’am."

You pouted, leaning your chin into your hand. "You can call me by my name, y'know. You do know it, right? Or did they just throw you in here blindfolded and wished you good luck?"

His mouth twitched in an almost a smile, but then he snapped it back into a straight line. "I know it," he said evenly. "I'm just trying to be professional."

"Professional," you echoed, letting your legs dangle off the side of the couch. "God, you’re like a walking HR manual. Lighten up, soldier boy."

"I’m not a soldier anymore," he said quietly, gaze flickering somewhere above your head.

"Fine, I'm sorry," you said, twisting the rings around your finger. "Are you allowed to order me pizza? Or can you at least call my manager and tell her to go fuck herself into a hole because this isn't fair."

His lips twitched again, and you grinned, proud of yourself for the little progress you were making.

"I'll let your manager know you're hungry."

"That'd be amazing," you said, "I would kiss you right now but I don't think that'd be very professional in your line of work."

His ears turned faintly pink again, and that's when you decided right there and then, that messing with him was going to be your new favourite pastime.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next weeks slipped into the same sluggish, mind-numbing routine lounging around your penthouse which, for every passing day, seemed to get smaller and smaller while doing everything in your power to break through the heavy, silent barrier that Joaquin Torres had built around himself.

He was so polite and professional, alway standing when you were in the room, yet always looking anywhere but at you.

It was like a little game the two of you played, though Joaquin didn't seem as interested as you were. Even though you baited him, complimented him, joked with him he just calmly sidestepped and gave you a small smile.

You spent your days lounging on the couch, spewing nothing but nonsense. At first, it was just for fun, something to do and a distraction, but soon it became part of your daily routine.

You talked to him even if he didn't reply all the time. And it wasn't just because he was hot—though it was definitely a bonus— but it was the way he listened. Occasionally he'd nod along to whatever you were talking about, sometime he'd watch you an amused expression his face, other times if you were lucky enough he would offer a couple of words in response.

You hadn’t really dated anyone seriously. Not in this world. Not when every glance turned into speculation, and every touch became some crazy news headline. Your PR team would have a meltdown if they even suspected you were eyeing your own damn bodyguard.

But none of that stopped you from the way your eyes ogled at his chest when you accidentally walked in on him shirtless the other day. You swore on your life it was an accident as you were just turning the corner, fresh laundry in your arms, when you froze.

He had just opened the bathroom door, hair damp and sweatpants hanging low on his hips a towel in his hand as he rubbed it through his hair.

The laundry in your hand slipped out of your arms and fell into a heap onto the floor, as you watched the water drip down his chest into those perfectly carved chiseled abs.

His eyes immediately widened as he took a few steps backwards. “I— I thought you were—”

“Clearly not,” you said, biting your tongue to keep your lips from curling into a smile.

He yanked on his T-shirt, much to your disappointment and muttered a flustered apology before vanishing into his room, slamming his door shut.

You were tempted to knock on his door, but in the end, you decided to leave him alone. He'd probably just turn you away in the end.

It was maybe three or four days after the incident, and you were feeling particularly stir-crazy. The boredom had festered overnight and curdled into mischief. It didn’t help that Joaquin, with all his stupid politeness and that unfairly pretty face, was walking around like the poster boy for self-restraint, and every time you attempted to tease him about what had happened the night before, he just shut you down.

So you were very much in the mood to ruin that.

You strolled into the kitchen, barefoot, humming under your breath. You were dressed for breakfast, a thin, oversized shirt that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs and dipped low in the back. One of your straps was sliding off, and your shorts were riding up your thighs as you stretched.

Joaquin was already there, leaning against the counter as you strode into the kitchen, a spoonful of omelette halfway to his mouth as he looked up and choked.

You blinked at him innocently, lips twitching as he coughed into his elbow, the tips of his ears singing red.

"Uh oh," you said, propping your elbows onto the counter and leaning forward. "Are you okay? You want some water?"

He cleared his throat hard, setting the fork down with a sharp clatter as his eyes darted around the room. “Yeah—yeah, fine,” he said quickly, “Just—uh. Swallowed wrong.”

"Hmm," was all you could say as you grabbed an apple, taking a bite.

You opened your mouth after swallowing, ready to bug him more, but he was already pushing his chair back, face flushed and gaze fixed on a spot somewhere above your head. “I should, um—I’ll be in the other room if you need anything,” he mumbled, and all but bolted out of the kitchen.

Satisfaction pooled into your stomach as you chewed thoughtfully. God this was too easy.

By the time you wandered into the living room again, Joaquin was planted firmly on the couch, rigid as always, gaze fixated on the front door instead of the TV that was playing a rerun of Jeopardy. Clint was still MIA, and probably wouldn't return for another few more weeks, and Joaquin had been extra stiff lipped since this morning.

You flopped down onto the other side of the couch, lifting your head slightly before pushing back the curtain of hair that fell into your face. "So, are you allowed to tackle me if I ran out the apartment screaming?"

Joaquin didn’t even look at you. “Yes.”

"Okay."

Your fingers itched as you scooted over to where Joaquin was sitting. He was still staring dead ahead, but you caught the small twitch of his arm as you propped your legs onto his lap.

"Hypothetically though, if I managed to get out of this building somehow would you drag me back or would you help me escape?"

"I would drag you back."

"Ooh, kinky. You’d probably be gentle about it though. I bet you'd wrap me up real slow, would ya?"

He didn't answer, but his jaw clenched as he shifted beside you.

You rested your chin onto your hand, grinning. “Or maybe not. You are kind of strong, aren't you?” You reached out poking his bicep with your finger.

However, this time he jerked away, your legs slipping off his lap and your eyes widened as he stood up, a wild look in his eyes as he ran a hand through his hair.

You opened your mouth but he already beat you to it.

"You have to stop that," he said, swallowing thickly as he paced around the room. "You can't— you're making my job harder than it should be."

"I—"

"No!" he snapped, stopping in front of you. "I’m not just some guy, okay? I’m your goddamn bodyguard. I’m supposed to keep you safe. Not—” He ran both hands over his face, his voice fading.

Your breath caught in your throat and your eyebrows furrowed. "Do I make you nervous?" you asked softly, cautiously taking a step closer.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, pacing again. “Every day I walk this line, trying to be professional, trying not to screw up. And then you go and look at me like that, say things like that, and I can’t—” He shook his head. “I can’t think straight. And I can’t do this.”

Your heart ached, and guilt bled through your chest. He looked absolutely wrecked, torn, and confused, and you couldn't help but shrink back.

"Joaquin... I'm— I'm sorry."

He blinked slowly, taking a deep breath as he closed his eyes briefly. "No, it's fine, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have overreacted."

He turned towards you as you stood frozen in place, every breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips. His eyes were soft but raw with confliction and yearning. You watched his chest rise and fall, watched the way his jaw tensed like he was holding back a storm behind his teeth.

And then he stepped closer.

One step. Two.

Your heart was hammering, not from fear, but from the way he looked at you like you were both the problem and the answer. His fingers twitched at his sides before he slowly, hesitantly reached up, brushing a knuckle along your jaw.

"I shouldn't..." he whispered, his thumb ghosting over your cheek now.

"Then don't," you whispered back, "I don't... I don't wanna hurt you."

But his mouth crashed onto yours anyways, his hands cupped your face, firm and warm, and his lips were soft and sweet, kissing you frantically as if he was drowning and you were air.

He kissed you like he was learning every shape of your lips, like he wanted to remember this in a thousand ways. Your hands moved on their own, sliding up to curl around the back of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as his hands dropped to your waist, fingers splaying against your lower back.

He said your name, but you just slipped your hand underneath his shirt, tracing your fingertips over taught muscle and smooth pane of flesh. You gasped softly when his lips trailed from your mouth down to your jaw, your pulse, his breath hot against your skin. And still, he held you tightly, not daring to let go like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against your neck, his voice low and strained.

You tilted your head back, eyes fluttering shut. "Don’t you dare."

A soft, breathy laugh left him, half-relieved, half-wrecked, and he lifted you, hands firm under your thighs as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He pressed you back into the nearest wall, his lips crashing into yours again, fingers tightening on your hips like he couldn’t bear a single inch between you.

Maybe your manager would murder you later, if you bothered telling her about Joaquin, but she could yell the damn out of you and it still wouldn't change the content sigh that came out of your lips and the stomach clenching feeling of his mouth on yours.

You could feel his eyes on you as he dragged a finger over the waistband of your shorts, and when his fingers dipped lower and lower, you kissed him once more, savouring the moment because it was the best thing that you could ever ask for.

[ahqkas]

HEAR ME OUT! You can do this when you aren’t busy. But Theo with a model!gf!Reader. I had this idea while listening to model edit audios and the thought of Theodore with a model gf seems so real😕

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

i love this concept sm , the great hall was abuzz with the usual morning chatter as students filled in for breakfast. theodore nott sat among his friends at the slytherin table, a magazine open before him. the glassy cover displayed a stunning picture of you, his model girlfriend, your striking features and confident pose making you the centerpiece of the latest fashion trends.

mattheo, enzo, blaise, draco, and pansy were engaged in their own conversation, but theo’s attitude was glued to the magazine. he traced his fingers over the image of you, a mixture of pride and irritation brewing within him.

“can you believe this?” theo muttered under his nose, finally looking up to address his friends. “i bet some gits are wanking their shit to this magazine because of her.”

mattheo snorted, glancing over at the cover with a smirk gracing his face. “jealous much, nott?”

theo rolled his eyes and closed the magazine with a loud snap! “it’s not just jealousy. it’s the principle of it. she deserves better than to be ogled by every creep who buys it.”

“you bought it,” enzo exclaimed while chewing on his toast.

pansy smirked as she snatched the magazine from theo’s reach and openly gazed at the displayed picture of you, not hiding the way she was checking you out. “well, you can’t blame them. she does look amazing.”

before theo could come up with a retort of his own, the subject of their conversation walked into the great hall. you were a vision of effortless beauty, even in your school robes, and your presence seemed to command attention without you even trying. you caught sight of your boyfriend and your friends, your face lighting up with a radiant smile.

as you approached the slytherin table, theo’s irritation melted away, replaced by a warmth that spread through his chest. you slid into the seat next to him, leaning over to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“morning.”

“good morning.”

blaise leaned in, a teasing glint in his eyes. "theo was just saying how jealous he gets, thinking about all those boys fawning over you."

you raised an eyebrow and looked at theo with a playful smile. "jealous, huh?"

theo shrugged while a sheepish smirk formed on his face. "can you blame me? look at you."

you kissed him again, this time on the lips and lingering a bit longer. "you're sweet, theo. but you don't have to worry. i'm all yours."

pansy rolled her eyes, though her expression showed she was everything but annoyed. she cherished seeing her friends happy for once. "alright, lovebirds. can we eat now?"

[chelseaknoo]

can you do a Eminem fic like you’re friend did please! 🥺

2000s Eminem x Supermodel! Reader headcanons

Note: I’ve never really written for a celebrity before, so bear with me~

Inspired by @luvbarb3e

-You’re agent set you on an audition for the main girl in a music video for some rapper, and you surprisingly got the role.

-When you walk into the studio, you're greeted by the rapper himself who pulls you into a tight hug , smelling your expensive perfume and his hands reach down farther than would be accepted.

-After hours of filming semi-explict scenes of you and the Detroit rapper, on you're break he asks you for your number, which you unhesitantly agree.

-After picking you up from you're photoshoot he takes you on a date, which was filled with shopping and dinner.

-giving you the princess treatment by holding your bags,paying for you,opening doors for you,helping you out the car.

-After a few more dates during dinner at a fancy restaurant, he asks you to be his girlfriend, which you excitingly says yes.

-taking you back to you're hotel room to fuck you senseless.

-Doing photoshoots with him where he's seen worshipping you and your body,either him or you giving kisses,him flipping of the camera.

-Seating you in front row seats at his concerts.

-Rapping verses about you and immediately clapping back with a disstrack on any celebrity who dares has you're name come out of their mouth.

-Showing off his pretty girlfriend to the world.

-Now having you in his every music video.

-Ready to kick any perverts ass who dares to try anything.

-Buying you so many dogs and showering you with expensive gifts on random occasions.

-Taking your heels off for you after a long day and massaging them.

-Cooking and baking for him.

-Resting his head on top of you’re chest.

-Constantly eyeballing you’re body in you’re dresses and lingerie during you’re shows.

-Talking about you nonstop.

-Coming over to you’re house and cuddling with you in you’re massive pink fluffy bedroom, showering you with kisses as his hand reaches for the strap of you’re short nightgown <3

[demie90s]

request for model! reader who is pretty with a mean streak, impatient and snappy new yorker vibe, chats and makes fun of everyone/super sarcastic on the team but becomes really sweet and soft when talking to caitlin, and caitlin loves how special it is talking to her, but no one believes that she is soft until the team overhears caitlin on the phone with reader and they are shook

She’s Only Sweet to Me

Caitlin x Model!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:Your that girl—model-pretty, sharp-tongued, New York raised with a mouth that could make a ref cry. Caitlin’s the only one who gets a different version of her.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:Slow burn, sports romance, slice of life, banter & fluff

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:Strong language, sarcasm, affectionate nicknames, team-wide whiplash, Caitlin being loved correctly

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.4k

ᴠɪʙᴇ:“You’re literally annoying.” / “And you’re literally 6’0 and still missed a layup.” —5 minutes later on the phone— “Hi baby… you eat today? You sound tired, I miss you.”

First Person — Caitlin’s POV

Everyone on the Fever thinks I’m lying. Like, actually lying.

They’ve seen her—tall, gorgeous, snatched hair, designer everything, iced-out nameplate that says “rude.”

She comes to games in sunglasses she refuses to take off, tells the refs they suck with zero hesitation, and once called Aliyah “adorable in a puppy way.”

Last week, she looked up from her phone, smacked on her gum, and told NaLyssa:

“You could’ve blocked that shot, but I get it. Maybe your spirit left your body.”

No one’s safe. Not even the coaching staff. She’s sarcastic, impatient, always talking shit And somehow? She’s my girlfriend.

Which no one believes.

Because apparently I’m “too nice” and she “probably doesn’t even like people.”

But they don’t get it. She melts for me. And today? They’re about to find out.

We’re sitting in the recovery room after practice. Everyone’s scrolling, chatting, decompressing. I’ve got ice on my ankle and my phone buzzes.

🖤 lil meanie: “u done?? pick up pls. miss u”

I smile before I even unlock my screen.

“Hey, baby.”

Her voice is so soft I literally sink back into the cushions.

“Hi, pretty girl… you okay? Did they overwork you again?”

I can feel heads turning. But I keep going, like it’s normal. Because to me, it is.

“A little,” I say. “I’ve got ice on. But I’m okay now. You calling made it better.”

I hear a dramatic gasp from the next table. I glance up. Erica’s looking at me like I just revealed a secret identity.

“She’s still being mean to everybody else?” I whisper.

“Ugh, yes,” she sighs. “Someone told me I looked ‘too good to be stressed’ so I’d better not miss my free throws.”

Pause.

“That someone was me. But still.”

I laugh, covering the mic. But she hears it.

“Are they around?” she asks. Her voice drops, warm and teasing. “Are you hiding me?”

And now I’m grinning like an idiot.

“No,” I murmur. “They’re just… shocked. You’re kind of ruining your whole brand right now.”

She laughs—this ridiculously cute little sound.

“Should I hang up before they find out I make you playlists and send you ‘drink water’ texts like I’m your mom?”

It’s too late.

“WHO IS THAT?” Kristy yells.

Grace is frozen mid-protein shake. Aliyah’s halfway off the table like she needs answers immediately.

“That’s her? The meanie?? The model???”

I stay calm. I blink.

“Yeah. She’s sweet when she likes you.”

“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME—”

Erica’s hands are in the air like she’s testifying in church. “—THAT IS THE SAME GIRL WHO CALLED ME A ‘SPIRITUAL CHARITY CASE’??”

I shrug, smug.

“She tells me I’m her peace.”

And then. Without warning, I put her on speaker.

“Hi,” I say.

“They’re all here. They heard everything.”

There’s silence.Then.

“…I hope every one of you pulls your hamstring in warmups.”

“There she is,” Grace laughs.

Aliyah claps. “Order has been restored.”

But me? I’m still smiling. Because the second I take her off speaker, she’s right back to it.

“Sorry you had to share me for a second,” she murmurs.

“Now… tell me what you want for dinner, baby.”

Yeah. She’s only sweet to me. And they finally get it.

[cloudbride]

Wildest dreams

pairing: charlesleclerc x famous!reader , pt2

reader is pierre gasly’s childhood friend , enjoy

pierregasly : idk which was more exhausting, the hike or y/n taking a selfie every five minutes 🤣

yn13:@/pierregasly ITS FOR THE MEMORIES Pez ur gonna thank me 20 yrs later

user110: THE BESTIES ARE BACK 🚨🚨

lewishamilton : no tag ?🧍🏾

liked by author

userr77: miss u on the paddock yn come backk

chalresleclerc: @/pierregasly i thought hiking was our thing no?

Pierregasly: @/charlesleclerc i thought y/n invited you?

yn13:@/charlesleclerc i stole yo man 😘

liked by pierregasly

article—>

The F1 world is in absolute chaos right now as romance rumours surrounding Charles Leclerc spread quicker than his winning races. The latest news?

Rumours have circulated that Charles Leclerc and one of Pierre Gasly's childhood friends model Y/N (who fans previously thought gasly was dating ) were together.

Leclerc just earlier, this week, took the world by storm when he defended the model on Twitter against his own fans can you believe it?

But now they're all shocked as it's revealed that Charles has actually been photographed going out with a different girl altogether !

Fans are now questioning the relationship between y/n and Charles Leclerc, as there have been hints that they hung out before …..—>

Read on for all the exclusive details and more.

————

i randomly thought about this and had to post something haha idk where to go from now but we’ll see

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (02)

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: 4.1k

Aliyah's Notes: rafe triple appearances 👏 i actually rlly like this yk like the pacing and the dynamics are great imo. i hope u all will like it too. reader seems like such a jobless ho in this chap but she's booked and busy yall i promise

As the early morning sunlight streamed through the large windows of your apartment, you stood in front of your full-length mirror, taking a deep breath as she surveyed her reflection. Today was the day—the day you would finally meet Rafe Cameron and discuss the terms of your marriage arrangement. The thought made your stomach flutter with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Despite your bubbling personality, the pressure of the situation weighed heavily on your shoulders. You had spent the past few days steeling yourself for this moment, and now that it was finally here, the reality of it sent your heart racing.

You glanced at your closet, a vibrant array of outfits hanging neatly. You had planned to wear something that screamed “fabulous”, but time was slipping away from you. You settled on a leopard-print strapless top, pairing it with a denim mini skirt. You slipped on your favorite black heels, which added just the right amount of height and made your legs longer. You grabbed your black Prada bag, a reminder of the success you had fought so hard to achieve.

Despite your nerves, you felt a surge of excitement. This meeting was a step forward resolving your visa issues, and you were determined to make the best of it. You wanted to present yourself as confident, someone who could hold your own—especially when facing someone like Rafe Cameron.

You slipped into the back seat of your private car, offering a quick nod to your driver, Gregory. As the engine purred to life, you felt your heart pounding in your ears, each beat amplifying the weight of anticipation.

When you arrived at the law office, your gaze immediately landed on Nicolas, your lawyer. He stood up from his chair and made his way over, exchanging small talk that felt oddly comforting amid the tension. Together, you entered the meeting room, where Rafe and his lawyer were already waiting for you.

Even seated, his presence dominated the space. His broad shoulders, casual posture, and confident smirk that made him look every bit the arrogant athlete you had read about. His lawyer, Sabrina Rashid, sat beside him, a sharply dressed woman who radiated professionalism. Rafe, on the other hand, looked annoyingly relaxed in a plain white t-shirt and black jeans. 

Well, this made you look overdressed… Embarrassing, but you kept your head held high.

Nicolas gestured toward the table. “Shall we?”

You slid into the chair opposite Rafe, offering a small nod to his lawyer before turning your attention to him. His blue eyes flickered over you, lingering longer than necessary. You could practically feel his ego inflate with every second.

“You’re late,” he drawled, breaking the silence. His voice was as cocky as his expression.

You arched a brow, setting your Prada bag on the table with a soft thud. “Hello to you too—and you’re lucky I showed up at all, considering your reputation.”

He smiled. “Feisty. I like that.”

And so, you cringed at his words. You rolled your eyes, refusing to take the bait. “Let’s get to the point, shall we?”

Nico cleared his throat, clearly eager to steer the conversation to business. “Yes, well, the purpose of today’s meeting is to discuss the logistics of the marriage arrangement—specifically, where you’ll be living, financial obligations, and how this will be handled publicly.”

“Publicly?” you repeated, frowning slightly. “I thought this was supposed to be discreet.”

Rafe shrugged. “I don’t do discreet, sweetheart.”

You shot him a glare. “I am not your sweetheart.”

“Not yet, but wait ‘till we’re married.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by his audacity, but recovered. “This isn’t going to be like that. We’re not doing some fake, lovey-dovey routine for the press.”

Rafe leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Who said anything about love? I’m talking about looking like a normal couple, someone the media can’t tear apart every other week. It’s all about appearances, sweetheart.”

“Stop calling me sweetheart.”

“Whatever you say,” he grinned. “Plus, you gotta admit, you and I? We’d be a headline every day, sweetheart.”

“Is he serio—”

Nico stepped in before you could respond. “Alright, enough. Let’s get back on track.” He glanced at Rafe’s lawyer, who nodded and opened a folder.

“First item on the agenda: where will you two be living?” Sabrina asked, her tone professional and no-nonsense. “Given that this marriage is primary for legal purposes, we need to establish residency. For it to be legitimate, you will need to live together.”

You shot a look at Rafe, who was already smirking like he’d won some kind of silent argument. “I’m not moving in with him,” you said flatly.

“You think I’m thrilled about having a roommate? Especially one who probably spends hours in front of the mirror.”

You crossed your arms. “I do not.”

Lies.

“Oh, please. You’re a model. You probably have a different skincare for every day of the week.”

“And it’s supposed to be a bad thing because…?” You frowned. “You should take exemple. You look like you wash your face with body soap.”

Nico pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s focus, kids.”

Rafe’s lawyer continued, ignoring the banter. “You’ll need to appear as though you’re cohabiting. If not, immigration authorities will become suspicious, and the arrangement could fall apart.”

You narrowed your eyes at Rafe. “Where do you live, anyway?”

He learned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve got a place in SoHo. Penthouse. Nice view, great amenities. It’s got plenty of space for you to do… whatever it is models do.”

“Funny, I have my place in the Upper East Side. And I am not giving it up.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Upper East Side, huh? Posh.”

“I earned it.”

“Well, we’ll need to figure something out,” Sabrina interjected smoothly. “But you need to live together. In one place.”

Rafe looked amused. “You can have the closet space. I’m a sweet guy like that.”

“How generous,” you muttered, turning back to the lawyers. “Fine. We can do the whole ‘living in one place together’ thing. But I need time off, to stay at my place once in a while.”

Rafe winked. “Wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”

You ignored him. “What about finances? How is this going to work?”

Nico pulled out his own folder. “We’ve drafted a preliminary agreement outlining financial contributions from both parties. It’s important that this marriage appears legitimate, so we suggest pooling certain expenses—utilities, rent or mortgage payments, and shared household costs. This can be done through a joint account, which will be monitored to ensure the marriage looks genuine.”

You could feel Rafe’s eyes on you, and you shot him a look. “A joint account? I hope you’re not expecting me to pay for your post-game drinks?”

He chuckled. “Relax. I’ve got more money than you can spend in a lifetime. The joint account is just for show. But if you want to chip in for groceries, I won’t stop you.”

“Oh, how noble of you,” you replied dryly.

Nico glanced between you and Rafe, clearly trying to keep the conversation on track. “This account will cover all necessary shared expenses—bills, groceries, and any incidentals that may arise from your living arrangements. It’ll help maintain the appearance of a genuine marriage.”

Sabrina nodded in agreement. “Exactly. As for your individual assets, those will remain separate. No need to worry about your personal finances getting tangled up.”

You relaxed a little at that. “Good.”

“And what about public appearances?” Rafe asked, sounding surprisingly serious. “How often do we need to do the whole ‘happy couple’ thing?”

Nico exchanged a look with Rafe’s lawyer. “You’ll need to be seen together frequently enough to make it believable, but not so much that it seems forced. A few key events—charity galas, public outings—will suffice. It’s important that you strike a balance.”

Rafe shrugged. “I’ve got games, events, plenty of opportunities to be seen.”

You sighed. “I have shoots, fashion shows, and meetings. We’re both busy.”

“Sounds like we’ll have to schedule our love life,” he quipped, flashing you a grin that made you want to throttle at him.

You gave him a sweet smile. “Good thing it’s not real.”

He laughed, and for a second, the tension in the room eased.

Nico shuffled his papers. “There’s one more thing to discuss—media coverage. Given that Mr. Cameron is already in the spotlight, it’s important to control the narrative.”

Sabrina continued; “We’ll need to issue a carefully crafted statement once the marriage is official. Something that explains how you met, why you’re together, and addresses any potential rumors before they can spiral out of control.”

“A public statement?” You cringed at the thought.

“It’s necessary,” Nico said. “If this looks like a publicity stunt, it could raise red flags with immigration.”

Rafe leaned back in his chair, looking far too relaxed for the situation. “Don’t worry, we’ll make it believable. I’m great with the media.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what worries me,” you muttered.

He smirked. “Come on, sweetie. We’ll be the hottest couple in New York. Think of the headlines.”

“I’d rather not,” you moved your hands dismissively.

The lawyer continued discussing the finer details of the arrangement—contract clauses, confidentiality agreements, and timelines. You zoned out for a moment, your eyes drifting back to Rafe. Despite his infuriating attitude, there was something about him. Something that made you feel like this might not be the worst decision after all.

“I hope you’re prepared for the spotlight,” he said suddenly, snapping you back to reality. “The media’s gonna eat this up.”

You arched a brow. “Please. I’ve been in the spotlight longer than you have, and with far less drama.”

He grinned. “We’ll see about that.”

You leaned forward, meeting his gaze head-on, the space between you suddenly charged. “I’m not one of your little fangirls, Rafe. You might charm the media, but you’re not charming me.”

His smirk faltered, just for a second, replaced by something darker, more intense. His gaze dipped, lingering on your exposed cleavage, heat flaring in his eyes. You felt a spark, your breath catching as your own eyes betrayed you, flickering to his lips—pink, curved, and way too tempting for your liking. The air between you thickened, crackling with an unspoken challenge, the playful banter giving way to something far more dangerous.

Rafe’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and for a moment, you forgot where you were, the weight of his stare pulling you in. The thought of what it would feel like to wipe that cocky grin off his face—or maybe even taste it—flickering through your mind.

But then Nico cleared his throat, shattering the moment like glass, and you quickly sat back, your heart racing as you wrenched your gaze away from Rafe’s.

“So, we have a deal?” Rafe asked, cutting through the tension.

You glanced at Nico, who gave you a subtle nod of reassurance. With a deep breath, you turned to Rafe and extended your hand. “Yes, we do.”

His hand clasped yours, warm and firm. “Looking forward to being your husband, sweetheart.”

“Looking forward to not being your wife,” you rolled your eyes, pulling your hand back. “This is purely business. Don’t get any ideas.”

“Whatever you say, wife.”

The next few days passed in a blur of contracts, legal jargon, and meetings with Nico, Sabrina, and Rafe. You had signed your life away—well, not really your life, but it certainly felt like it. 

You were lounging in your Upper East Side apartment, scrolling through Instagram when your phone buzzed.

Rafe Cameron.

Just seeing his name made your stomach tighten with a mix of irritation and something else you couldn’t quite place. Hesitantly, you opened the message.

Rafe: “When do you plan on moving in?”

You stared at the screen for a second before typing.

You: “I’m not even packed yet… what the hell.”

Rafe: “What you waiting for? You’re not chickening out, are you, sweetheart?”

There it was again—sweetheart. That nickname got on your nerves, but you were determined not to let him get under your skin (although he already did).

You: “Stop calling me that, and also I have a job and a life. I can’t just drop everything to move into your stinky place.”

Rafe: “I’m offering help.”

You snorted at your phone. Right, because Rafe Cameron would actually help you pack your boxes.

You: “What are you gonna do? Carry my shoes for me?”

Rafe: “If it gets you here faster, then sure. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

Your eyes widened. Was he serious? You couldn’t picture Rafe Cameron, basketball star and all-around cocky jerk, standing in your apartment, packing boxes and loading them into a truck. The mental image alone was laughable.

You: “Wait! No!”

Rafe: “Why no? You need a few more days to decide on what to pick?”

You: “Jerk.”

Rafe: ":)"

You: “And I can’t move in yet. We need to make a public appearance and get married before I start packing and do all the move-in things.”

There was a pause before his response came through.

Rafe: “Fair.”

You: “Excited to live with me, am I right?”

Rafe: “Projecting much?”

You: “You wish.”

Rafe: “Ditto, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes. You quickly clicked on the rolling eyes emoji as a response and threw your phone onto the couch, not wanting to keep talking to him.

The next morning, you blinked your eyes open, greeted by the familiar warmth of your apartment, and for a fleeting moment, you forgot about everything. The visage, the arrangement, the pressure, the stress, immigration, Rafe Cameron—all of it felt distant, like a strange dream.

But then reality settled back in.

You groaned softly, burying your face into your pillow for a second longer before sighing and throwing off the covers. Today was yet another meeting with the lawyers, and you already were over it.

You knew marriage was a lot of papers and documents, but you truly didn’t think it was this much.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you padded across the plush carpet to your closet, glancing at the outfits hanging neatly in a row. Usually, your first thought would be what designer outfit to wear today but you couldn’t muster the energy to care this morning. Today wasn’t about looking fabulous; it was about getting down to business, and you didn’t care how you looked because you’d be stuck in a room for hours with two lawyers and your future husband.

Future husband… God, how weird was it to say that about a man you didn’t even know.

Instead of focusing on it, you reached for a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a simple white tank top. You pulled a thick, cozy grey cardigan over your shoulders, its warmth a small comfort against the stress building in your mind. 

As you made your way to the kitchen, your phone buzzed on the countertop, and for a moment, you thought it might be Rafe. But no, it was just a reminder from Nico about the meeting. You sighed, grabbed a cup of coffee, slipped into the backseat of your car and headed to the law office.

The law office was as sleek and imposing as ever—polished wood, glass walls, and the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. You stepped into the conference room, finding Nicolas and Sabrina already seated at the table, a stack of papers in front of them. They looked up and offered polite smiles as you entered.

“Morning,” you said, taking a seat and smoothing the sleeves of your cardigan.

“Morning, Y/N,” Nico replied, his tone friendly but businesslike. “How’re you feeling?”

You hesitated, offering a half-hearted smile. “A bit nervous and tired, I guess. But ready to get things moving.”

Nico nodded, glancing at the empty seat beside you before opening his mouth to speak, but Sabrina beat him to it.

“Hello, Ms. Y/L/N, just to let you know—Rafe won’t be joining us today.”

Your heart sank, but you tried not to show it. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“Last-minute practice session,” she explained, her tone casual. “It was unavoidable, apparently. He couldn’t get out of it.”

You nodded slowly, processing the information. It wasn’t that you were angry—just… bothered. This was an important meeting, after all. Even though this marriage was fake, it still involved a lot of big decisions. Decisions you didn’t feel comfortable making without him.

“Okay,” you said after a moment. “I guess we’ll have to catch him up later, then.”

Sabrina gave you a sympathetic look. “I’ll make sure he’s informed about everything. I know it’s frustrating, but Rafe’s schedule can be pretty unpredictable.”

“I get it,” you replied with a shrug, trying to convince yourself it wasn’t that big of a deal. “It’s just... this is important, you know? It would’ve been nice to have him here for this.”

“I understand,” Sabrina said gently. “And I’ll make sure he’s fully briefed on everything. He’s committed to this, even if it doesn’t always seem that way.”

You nodded, still feeling a bit unsettled but trying to brush it off. He was used to a chaotic schedule, and you couldn’t expect him to drop everything for every meeting. But still... you couldn’t shake the slight discomfort gnawing at you.

“Okay,” you said, trying to focus on the task at hand. “So, what’s the plan for today?”

Nico flipped through the stack of papers in front of him. “We’ve got a lot to cover. First off, the wedding itself. We need to finalize a date, and given your visa situation, we’re looking at a timeline of about three weeks.”

“Three weeks?!” you exclaimed, immediately covering your mouth with your hand. It was sooner than you’d expected, but you understood the urgency. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Nico said, waving his hands. “We need to move quickly. The sooner the marriage is official, the sooner we can start the immigration process. And in the meantime, you and Rafe will need to be seen together publicly—on dates, outings, and even social media.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Public appearances... right. How often are we talking?”

“Enough to make it believable,” Sabrina took over. “We don’t want to overwhelm you, but it’s important that you’re seen together frequently. A few key public outings, some posts on social media—it’ll help establish the narrative that you’re a real couple.”

You nodded. “And Rafe’s on board with all of this?”

“He is,” Sabrina reassured you. “We’ve discussed it, and he knows what’s required.”

“Okay,” you said, feeling a bit more reassured but still uneasy. The idea of staging your life for the public was daunting. It wasn’t just about attending a few events or posting pictures—it was about selling the image of a relationship that didn’t exist. And with Rafe not even here for the planning, you couldn’t help but feel a little disconnected from it all.

You smiled faintly. “It just feels... strange, doing all of this without Rafe. I mean, I know it’s a fake marriage, but it would still be nice to have him involved, you know?”

“I understand,” Sabrina said. “It’s not ideal, but Rafe’s committed to this. His schedule is unpredictable right now, but that doesn’t mean he’s not invested in making this work.”

You nodded, trying to take comfort in her words. Maybe Rafe’s absence wasn’t a sign of disinterest���maybe it was just bad timing.

Nico continued, flipping through the papers. “Let’s move on to the wedding itself. Have you given any thought to what kind of ceremony you want?”

“Honestly, I haven’t thought about it at all.”

“Alright,” Nico said, nodding.

“A small ceremony,” you echoed, thinking it over. “It… It could be nice, no? That could work—but shouldn’t Rafe have a say in this?”

“He will,” Nico assured you. “Mrs. Rashid will loop him in on everything. But for now, we need to focus on logistics. The venue, the guest list, the timeline—it’s all about making sure everything looks legitimate to immigration.”

“Okay. Let’s go with the small ceremony, then. But I’d still like Rafe’s input before we make any final decisions,” you said softly, your cheeks warming slightly.

“Of course,” both lawyers said with a smile.

The conversation shifted to the finer details—the venue, the guest list, the timing of public appearances. It felt more like planning an elaborate PR campaign than a wedding, but you tried to stay focused. Every decision was one step closer to securing your future, even if it didn’t feel real.

The meeting felt like a marathon. You exhaled a long, tired sigh, your head spinning with wedding details and timelines. You couldn’t help but glance at your phone again, half-expecting a message from Rafe. But there was nothing. He was at practice, wrapped up in whatever game plan his team was working on.

You adjusted the strap of your tote bag and pulled your cardigan tighter around yourself as you headed for the door. But as you opened it, you stopped short, nearly walking straight into someone standing just outside.

“Whoa—” A familiar voice interrupted your thoughts, and you blinked up to see Rafe Cameron standing there, leaning against the doorframe, as if he had been waiting for you.

“Rafe?” you blurted out, surprise laced in your voice. You hadn’t expected him to be here, especially after Sabrina said he wouldn’t make it.

He straightened up quickly, looking just as startled as you. “Y/N… uh, hey. I—uh, I’m sorry I missed the meeting,” he stammered, his usual confident demeanor slipping for a moment. “I couldn’t miss practice…”

You stood there, momentarily frozen. It wasn’t like him to stutter—and it threw you off. “Oh… right. Yeah, no, it’s fine, don’t worry. Sabrina said you had practice,” you said, trying to brush off the awkwardness.

He shifted his weight, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Yeah, I, uh… tried to make it, but, you know… basketball.”

You nodded slowly, still surprised that he had actually shown up. “Well, the meeting’s over. Sabrina said she’ll catch you up on what we discussed.”

“Right, yeah, I’ll talk to her,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, so... goodbye?”

“Goodbye,” he said, looking down at the floor for a second before glancing back at you. There was a brief, awkward silence that stretched between the two of you. Neither of you moved, though you weren’t sure why.

Finally, Rafe cleared his throat, and his gaze flickered over your outfit. A slow smirk crept onto his face, his familiar cockiness returning. “So... what’s with the sweatpants and cardigan? Didn’t know you had it in you to dress so casually.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the teasing tone. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged, his smirk widening. “Just saying... it’s not exactly the runway look I was expecting from a supermodel.”

You felt a laugh bubble up in your throat before you could stop it. “You’re one to talk, Mr. I-show-up-in-a-T-shirt-to-a-business-meeting,” you shot back, your lips curving into a smile.

Rafe’s eyes lit up slightly, surprised by your reaction. It was the first time you had actually laughed at something he said, and for a moment, he just stared at you, taking in the sound. Cute, he thought to himself, the word slipping into his mind unbidden.

“At least my T-shirt was designer. This,” he flicked his gaze over your cardigan, “looks like something you stole from your grandma’s closet.”

You gasped, feigning offense. “I happen to like this cardigan, thank you very much. It’s cozy.”

He grinned. “Cozy, is it? Guess you’re preparing for the life of domestic bliss we’re about to have. How cute.”

You shook your head, fighting another smile. “Funny—like you even know the meaning of domestic bliss.”

He tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. “Who says I don’t? I could be all about the cozy life. You don’t know me.”

You arched a brow. “Really? You? In sweatpants, lounging on a couch, binge-watching Netflix?”

“I can be a homebody if I want to,” he said, shrugging, though the teasing glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t being serious. “Give me some credits, alright? I can rock sweatpants.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Maybe you will. You’ll be living with me soon enough—” you froze slightly at that reminder, and your smile wavered. He noticed the shift and cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ll make sure to show up to the next meeting. Promise.”

You gave him a small nod, still smiling. “You’d better.”

He nodded, and for the first time since you’d met, there was no teasing in his expression—just quiet understanding. You gave him one last look before heading down the hall, feeling the warmth of your laugh still lingering in the air between you.

And Rafe stood there watching you walk away, thinking about how cute your laugh was—and how much he wanted to hear it again.

chapter three

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤVOGUE BEAUTY * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where the world-famous actress and model, Y/N, is invited by Vogue to record a video of her Beauty Secrets, but during the recording, Chris, her boyfriend, decides to make a brief appearance.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x famous!reader　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The golden sun peeked through the silk curtains, illuminating Y/N's spacious marble bathroom. She was at home in her luxurious suite, ready to share her beauty secrets with the world.

A few days ago, Y/N was busy organizing her appointments when an email with the iconic Vogue logo caught her attention. With a mix of curiosity and anticipation, she opened the message to discover that Vogue was interested in featuring her in its exclusive beauty video series, Vogue Beauty Secrets.

The news filled her with excitement and pride. As one of the most in-demand models of the moment, walking on runways for renowned brands like Gucci and being a regular in the pages of Vogue itself, Y/N was already a familiar presence in the fashion industry. However, the invitation to share her beauty secrets with the Vogue audience represented an exciting opportunity to connect on an even deeper level with her fans and followers.

As Y/N prepared to start recording the video, she could hear the distant sound of laughter and the distinctive hum of video games coming from the next room. Her boyfriend, Chris, was immersed in one of his thousands of games, completely absorbed by the virtual world.

With a captivating smile, the girl waves to the camera with her left hand, starting the recording. Her long hair falls like a silken waterfall as she approaches the dressing table adorned with high-quality beauty products.

"Hi, guys! It's Y/N here." She greets enthusiastically, her smile stretching across her face as her right hand lifts slightly, showing the white mug full of fresh brewed coffee. "And I'm back on my favorite channel. Today is a very special day because I'm sharing my beauty secrets with you!"

With grace and elegance, Y/N begins her skincare routine, explaining each step in meticulous detail. She gently applies a gentle cleanser, massaging it into her skin in circular motions while commenting on the latest happenings in the fashion world.

"You know, being on the cover of Vogue for the fifth time is an honor." She shares casually. "But it's also a reminder of how much hard work and dedication it takes to get there. I remember when I was just a 10-year-old kid walking down the hallway at home in my mom's heels."

While applying a refreshing toner, Y/N describes how she likes to take care of her skin to keep it radiant and flawless, even under the relentless camera spotlight.

"It's all about consistency and finding what works for you." The girl advises gently, looking directly into the camera with confidence. "And never underestimate the power of drinking lots of water and getting enough sleep!"

With one fluid movement, Y/N moves on to the next step: makeup. She carefully selects her favorite products, explaining the reasoning behind each choice as she applies them with masterful skill.

"My makeup philosophy is simple: enhance natural beauty." She explains, delicately tracing her eyebrows with a pencil in the tone of her natural hair. "It’s all about enhancing, not transforming."

Y/N lowered her head slightly, her right hand hovering over her laid out products before her index finger and thumb fished out her Dior blush.

"This one is Dior Backstage Rosy Glow Blush. It's super beautiful and gives you, like, baby pink glow. I'm literally obsessed!" The girl opens the small packaging, momentarily showing the pink powder to the lens before applying it delicately to the apples of her cheeks with a white brush. "I used to use really heavy blush when I was in school." Y/N confesses, laughing. "My face looked like a paint palette! Chris said it also looked like I had sunbathed for hours without sunscreen. But over time, I learned the art of subtlety."

As she continued to expertly apply her makeup, focusing on the smooth strokes and precise touches, a noise at the bathroom door broke her focus. With a surprised sigh, she saw through the mirror her boyfriend entered the spacious room with a frustrated expression on his face.

"Fucking hell!" He grumbled under his breath, muttering curses as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

Y/N couldn't help but laugh softly at the sight of him, knowing he was dealing with another loss in his game against Nick and Matt.

"Having some trouble, babe?" She asked playfully, turning her face slightly towards him and giving him an amused look as she continued to apply her makeup.

Chris let out a heavy sigh and walked with quick steps toward her, looking over Y/N's shoulder to see what she was doing. His eyes widened in surprise as he noticed the strategically placed recording camera before turning towards his girl with raised eyebrows.

"Wow, wait!" The boy exclaimed, excitement clear in his voice. "Are you recording a video?"

Y/N nodded, smiling as she explained about Vogue's invitation and the opportunity to share her beauty secrets with the world, her hands gently closing the packaging of the blush before putting it away in its original place.

Chris watched with admiration her animated features as she talked and her hands moving her favorite products - which he had already memorized, him himself buying many of them for her everytime he passed by Sephora -, his eyes shining with pride.

"That's so cool, baby!" He exclaimed, smiling big and wrapping an arm around her waist, moving so that he was more centered inside the lens's frame and clinging to his girl. "You're amazing, you know that?"

"If your intention is to make me blush, it will be impossible under those layers of blush." Y/N intervened, raising her right hand with her palm facing him, rolling her eyes playfully in an attempt to feign annoyance, but the minimal smile on her face said otherwise. "Do you want to stay here? With me."

"Can I?" Chris widened his eyes comically, turning abruptly to her, feeling elated.

"Of course you can, honey!" Y/N couldn't help but laugh at Chris's excitement, nodding with a smile. "Welcome to my world of beauty." She opened her arms in an exaggerated gesture of welcome, receiving a nasal laugh in response.

As she resumed her makeup, explaining the next steps in detail, Chris watched with interest, asking questions and showing genuine interest in the entire process, a childish and euphoric aura surrounding his body.

As Y/N picked up her favorite mascara and began to explain in detail about the brand and its incredible formula that provided volume and length without clumping, Chris's eyes traveled between the product - which he already knew very well - and her concentrated expression. He could see the passion in his girlfriend's eyes as she talked about her beauty rites, and this only increased his admiration for her, an involuntary smile resting on his face.

Then, when Y/N was about to apply the mascara, the boy gently stepped forward, extending his hands, stopping her movements. The girl raised her eyes to him, a confused expression hovering over them before noticing what he wanted to do after watching Chris take the product from her hands.

That wasn't unusual between them; Over the three years of their relationship, Chris had become skilled at some specific makeup steps, helping his girlfriend on several occasions.

"Can I?" He asked softly, holding the mascara in her eyes level.

Y/N smiled, feeling grateful for her boyfriend's affectionate gesture, throwing a wink in the direction of the camera before turning her body slightly to the side, so that her face was still visible to the lens and that Chris could see her completely.

"Please, go ahead, baby." She finally replied, her eyes shining with tenderness as she watched Chris move closer, wanting to put himself in an easy position for both of them, without running the risk of smudging his work.

With skill and care, Chris began to apply the mascara to Y/N's long, naturally curled lashes, following the precise movements he had observed she doing so many times. He furrowed his eyebrows in a serious expression, determined to do an impeccable job, his tongue lolling out of his lips in concentration.

"Chris and I have an interesting ritual. For as long as I can remember, I've always been very careful about the way I look, and that didn't change after I started dating Chris, and much less when we started actively going to each other's houses." Y/N explained softly, without moving her lips too much with the intention of not making him smudge his work. "And Chris, being the adorably clingy boyfriend that he is, would spend hours in the bathroom with me while I was trying out new makeup or getting ready to go out. He would just sit on the closed toilet seat and watch me for minutes on end."

"How could I not look at a work of art as perfect as you?" The boy interrupted her, shooting off his sentence before an involuntary smirk appeared on his lips, feeling the skin of her right cheek burn against his own hand.

"And then, one day, he asked to do my makeup, but before I explained the function of each product." Y/N quickly resumed her train of thought, ignoring her boyfriend's flirting. "And over time, every time we go out together, he asks to help me, or just to watch me doing my skin routine."

"Sharing these intimate moments with you is the best part of my daily routine." The brunette said softly, his tone low with the intention of only his girlfriend hearing, his eyes meeting hers tenderly.

Y/N quickly pressed her lips into a thin line, feeling her neck and cheeks burn even more in shyness, her right hand moving up his body, caressing his covered hip lightly with her fingers in ghost touches.

When he was finished, Chris stood back with a triumphant smile, admiring his work with pride. Y/N turned around, facing the camera and the mirror completely, observing her own reflection for a few seconds, impressed with the result. Her lashes were perfectly defined and voluminous, exactly how she liked them.

"Wow, you're getting better at this!" Y/N exclaimed, approaching her face to the camera slightly, blinking repeatedly, wanting the lens to capture her boyfriend's perfect work. "Thank you, my love."

Chris smiled excitedly, happy to have made Y/N feel even more pretty, his hands returning to their previous place on her waist.

"Vogue, please, get Chris to do the next episode of Vogue Beauty Secrets."

extra - comments:

"petition for Chris and Y/N to start posting makeup videos together ✏️📄"

"I never thought I would see Chris knowing about makeup, much less doing someone's makeup 😭"

"this is the cutest thing I've ever seen in my entire life 😔✋🏻"

"I need a boyfriend like Chris, who does my makeup every day 🙏🏻"

"Chris is the true meaning of acts of service 🥺"

"couple goals fr 🤞🏻"

"Chris is to blame for my standard being so high 😫"

"get someone that looks at you like Chris looks at Y/N while she puts on makeup 🤭"

“okay, but can we talk about Y/N’s flawless skin? I'm jealous 😫”

"Y/N's makeup >>>>>"

© vanteguccir

[datdreamypup]

Pose

Lensman!Caleb who has dreamed of working with you since your debut photos were released. When he finally lands the job after pulling so many strings, he makes sure to make 0 mistakes.

Lensman!Caleb who makes sure to get every angle perfectly. How could he not when everything about you is perfect? You deserve only the best! Aka him

Lensman!Caleb who gets flustered everytime you are too close when he's showing you the results or you compliment his work. We all know he's got a thing for praise, especially from you.

Lensman!Caleb who has a hard time focusing whenever you're using certain poses or the brand deals have you in somewhat revealing clothing. He has to mentally scold himself and remind himself its just work.

Lensman!Caleb who secretly keeps his favorite photos of you. He knows its probably creepy but its for his portfolio, he promises! We know what you are Caleb...

Lensman!Caleb who HATES when you're working with other models, specifically men. It drives him crazy, he's secretly glad the big bulky camera hides his death glares whenever the poses require the two of you to touch.

a/n: used Lensman instead of photographer bc it felt too long 💔

Anyway, somewhat a continuation of my last post but if the roles were swapped

[missmielyhoran]

Daddy

in which Y/N's daughter accidentally calls Harry Daddy and the whole world goes crazy...

(Singer!Harry Styles × Model!Y/N)

(Fake Ig series)

Main Masterlist

Series

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Blurb

Grammy winning boyfriend

You can send me requests here♡