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maudie-duan · 8 days ago

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Summary: "It was everything, all at once, it was you, it was him, it was the broken girl inside you, crying to be healed, to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved, because you wanted to be loved, you wanted to be seen, you wanted someone to love you the way you deserved. You had always had so much love to give, but no one who could reciprocate, the world always taking, but never giving back."

Word Count: 11.6k

A/N: Plus-sized!reader x Trainerry based on this request <- To the Anon that requested this. I hope it's everything you wanted and more. I really had to pull at some feels for this one. Thanks you so much for this!!

Warning: Angsty self-hate with a happy ending, and a mild sweet smut scene at the end that you can skip if that's not your cup of tea. (Heavy themes centered around hatred of body-image/body shaming. All self-induced)

It wasn’t that you wanted to change yourself entirely. You just wanted to be able to look into the mirror and, for once, like what you saw. It wasn’t a size or a number you were after, you wanted the peace of mind, the relief, the weight of the stigma lifted for more than just the occasional, oh yeah, I look good kind of moments.

Because let’s face it, we all know those moments were fleeting, but what if you could feel it for longer? What if your eyes could roam over your body, and maybe, just maybe, you could spend less time picking yourself apart. What if you could try on those jeans and this time they fit just perfectly—none of the excruciating cut of the waist digging into your belly while you sat, or the fear of not even being able to button them in the first place.

You wanted freedom, you wanted joy, you wanted less days of the mental prison that your brain held you in every time you looked into the mirror, or binged on that food you knew you should avoid. That was what this would be, the journey you were ready to embark on—a journey to confidence, a journey to loving yourself, a journey back to you. These were the words you were filling your head with, the prep talk you had given yourself that morning as you got ready, and now that shit was laughable, you thought as you walked through the gym doors, eyes already darting around as a gust of cool air spread over your bare arms.

This was the part you hated, the part you were dreading. It hadn’t even been two seconds and you were already tugging at the hem of your oversized tee, your gaze scanning over bodies in motion, most fit as fuck, some laughing and moving about, some focused forward in the zone, their eye on a prize that felt out of your reach, bending and flexing with an effortless ease you couldn’t even wrap your mind around, let alone even conceive the amount of energy you knew went into making each rep look like a walk in the park.

And now you felt crazy, because you were signing yourself up willingly, putting yourself out there for what? To fail? To be judged?

Was this really what you wanted? Did you really hate yourself this much? Was this even considered hate, or was this self-love? Because suddenly, the line was becoming blurred, and here you stood, waiting by the front desk on full display, following the instructions given via email, because you were too weirded out to set up everything in person. Hell, you didn’t even know where the bathroom was. It wasn’t like you could disappear until you were ready.

So maybe you couldn’t run and hide, but you could hide behind your phone, and wait for your trainer, god, what was his name again? Henry? Harris? Fuck, how could you be blanking, and as you took to searching for your welcome email, a deep voice sounded through your frantic thoughts:

“Hey there! ” a cheerful voice called out.

That’s when you turned to see a tall figure approaching you, his bright smile lighting up the room as he ran a hand through his tousled dark hair, green eyes reflecting the light, and holy shit, that physique, that body screamed fitness. And as you peered over your shoulder to see if he was signaling for someone else, your heart skipped a beat, cheeks flushing, because there was no way in hell this dude was going to be your trainer.

“Oh… were you talking to me?” you stammered, trying to maintain eye contact but failing miserably, hands already fidgeting with the him of your shirt.

“Yes, you have a training session at 9, correct?” he asked, extending his hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, and you felt a jolt of electricity the second your hands collided. “I’m Harry, it’s really nice to meet you. I can’t wait to help you on this journey.”

“Thanks,” you replied, trying not to drool over his British accent as your voice came out small. Your palms were sweaty, and you quickly wiped them on your pants, hoping he didn’t notice.

“So, what are your fitness goals?” Harry asked, his tone encouraging and friendly, and just by the way he was making eye contact, you could tell that he was genuinely curious, like it wasn’t just his job to know.

For a second, you hesitated, your mind racing. You had so many thoughts swirling around this very question. What was it that you wanted again? To lose weight? Feel healthier? Gain some kind of confidence? But the words felt stuck in your throat, your mind going blank as you said, “Um, I just want to… you know, get in shape and feel better about myself,” you finally managed to say, your voice trembling slightly.

Harry nodded, his expression holding a warmth you weren’t expecting, maybe an understanding, like he knew exactly what you meant to say, a sort of grace given that sent a flutter to the pit of your stomach.“That’s a great start! Remember, it’s all about progress, not perfection. I��d love to work together to set some goals that suit you and your lifestyle. I’m all about sustainability for the long-term, not the instantaneous results that rarely last long.”

And even though his words sent a flicker of hope through you. You could feel the self-doubt trying to creep back in. “I’m not really sure about all this,” you admitted, eyes moving around the room. “I’ve never been good at working out, and honestly, this place isn’t really my vibe. Like a place I feel like I belong... I guess.”

Yet as you said the words, Harry’s smile never wavered. “I get it. Change is always a little uncomfy at first, but you know everyone starts somewhere. The important thing is that you’re here, ready to take that first step, and as cheesy as it sounds, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

For a moment, you looked at him, holding his gaze, and that’s when the nervousness seemed to fade. There was something about his confidence and the kindness he exuded that was infectious, and you felt a small spark of determination ignite within you. “Okay…” You breathed.

“I’ll try my best, but I can’t promise you anything,” you told him with a small smile, feeling a bit more resolute, like yeah, maybe you could actually do this, like there was hope for the self-loathing bitch within you, because fuck her, she couldn’t have it all, you deserved a little light, some time away from the shadows of your self that kept stealing tiny moments of joy you could never get back.

At some point, you had to live, right?

“That’s the spirit!” Harry answered, his enthusiasm making your smile grow despite the lingering insecurities. “Shall we get started?”

And as he led you deeper into the gym, you couldn’t shake that feeling of awe, that mix of anxiety threatening the surface. You were about to do it, finally take that leap, about to be trained by this gorgeous guy, and while the thought made your heart race for maybe all the wrong reasons, you also felt a sense of possibility, like maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something great, something to make you feel alive again.

But it’s crazy how quickly excitement can fade.

The first week was pure torture, and the second week was no better. You wanted to quit, but you didn’t know what you wanted.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? You had walked through those gym doors with all these grand ideas about transformation, about becoming someone new, but now, three weeks in, you were just as sweaty, still a breathless mess who couldn’t even do a proper squat without Harry having to adjust your form for the millionth time.

And god, those hands, always professional without a doubt, but there was something about the way they would ghost over your shoulders, the way they corrected your posture, or lightly pressed against your lower back to guide you, that had your skin burning from everything but the workout.

“Let’s try something different,” Harry said, and you could hear that patient tone, the one that never made you feel like the failure you knew you were.

He grabbed a bench, positioning it behind you. “…Seated squats. They’re gentler on the knees, and the bonus is they’ll help you build the strength for the full movement.”

Your first instinct was to prove yourself, to convince him you were able to do a full fucking squat like every other person in this gym, but somehow the words died in your throat when you caught sight of yourself in the mirror—red-faced, sweat pooling in places you didn’t want to think about, your oversized shirt clinging to rolls you had been spending years trying to hide, and lets not even get started on your arms, fucking hell, your arms felt like they were made of jello, wobbling with each movement. Not to mention your thighs had already been chafing with every step, that familiar burn a reminder of exactly why you had been avoiding this place for years.

It was torture, pure fucking torture, but you sat anyway.

“Hey,” Harry called out, pulling you from your thoughts, and suddenly he was in front of you, those green eyes level with yours as he crouched down. “Where’d you go just then?”

“Nowhere… I’m fine,” you lied, because what were you supposed to say? That you were having a mental breakdown over a squat? That you could feel every pair of eyes in the gym judging the “chubby girl” who couldn’t even do basic exercises?

But Harry just nodded, like he knew exactly what you weren’t saying. “Right then, seated squats it is. And after that, we’ll work on some upper body stuff. Sound good?”—The thing about Harry was that he never seemed to push when you shut down. His superpower was to redirect, adapt, and move on to something else, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Never an ounce of judgment.

You had noticed other things too, in these first three weeks—like how sometimes he shifted his weight to his left side during demonstrations, or how he would choose specific exercises over others without explanation. Once, when he was showing you how to do lunges, he distinctly favored his right leg, the change so evident that you almost asked about it, but something in his expression had stopped you.

One day, near the end of week three, the gym’s usual crowd of fitness models decided to make their appearance. You had recognized them by now, you know the type, the group of women who looked like they just stepped out of a Lululemon catalog, all tight abs and perfect ponytails, not a jiggle in sight. They were hard to miss, and even more apparent the way they gravitated toward Harry like moths to a flame, and why wouldn’t they? He was gorgeous, British, and had the kind of body that made you wonder what he looked like without a single scrap of clothing.

And these were the kind of thoughts that you had to shake from your head, because you didn’t want to go there.

Not when he was that close.

“Harry!” one of them shouted, her outfit like a latex glove, leaving little to the imagination as she bounded over. “Could you check my form on these hip thrusts?”

And fuck, you would have laughed if you weren’t trying to make yourself invisible, focusing on your water bottle like it held the secrets of the universe, but you couldn’t help watch them from the corner of your eye. Harry glanced at his watch and then back at the woman.

“Sorry, Melissa, I’m with a client right now,” he said, and was it your imagination or did he step slightly closer to you? “Maybe check with Tom at the front desk about booking a session.”

That was when the woman’s eyes flicked to you, and you could practically feel the onset of her assessment, knew the exact look she was giving, that up-and-down glance that was cataloguing every flaw, every roll, every reason you didn’t belong here. But Harry had already turned back to you, already demonstrating the next exercise like the interaction hadn’t even happened.

“Right, so for this one, you’ll want to keep your core engaged to protect your low back,” he was saying, but all you could think about was how he had just dismissed her, how he had chosen to stay focused on you when he could have just as easily given her five minutes of attention, and you chalked it up to professionalism without a second thought. He was getting paid to train you, after all.

This was his job.

But then why did your stupid heart skip when he smiled at you after you completed your set?

Week four started like any other, except it felt harder as you dragged yourself through the gym doors, already anticipating the torture ahead. You felt like shit... not good at all, more like death had warmed over you. Even though your body was starting to recognize the routine, your brain was still screaming at you to run every time you saw the weight rack.

“Morning!” Harry called out, and damn him for always being so cheerful at 9 in the morning. “How’re you feeling? Any soreness from last session?”

“Just my entire body,” you groaned, but there was less bite to it than before. “Who knew your ass muscles could be this sore.”

He laughed, that genuine sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well, that means you’re doing it right, and that’s a win, ay? Today we’re going to work on some balance exercises, really activate those stabilizer muscles.”

You were halfway through a set of single-leg stands, wobbling like a baby giraffe and cursing Harry’s name in your mind when it happened. It was quick, you losing your balance—again—and you stumbled backward, your elbow connecting with Harry’s leg as he moved to steady you, and out of nowhere, he made a sharp, pained, involuntary sound that made your blood run cold.

“Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry!” and when you whirled around, he was gripping his knee, face tight with a pain that looked too familiar to be from your clumsy elbow. “Harry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, but his voice was strained, and he was still holding his knee like it might shatter if he let go. “Just an old injury acting up. Nothing to do with you. I promise…”

But you had seen that kind of pain before, in your own mirror when your body would decide to remind you of all the ways it had been pushed too far. “Sit down,” you tell him, taking charge of the situation, surprising even yourself in the process. “Seriously, sit.”

For a second, he looked like he might protest, but something in your expression must have convinced him because he lowered himself onto the nearest bench, still favoring that right knee. The gym suddenly felt too quiet, too exposed, and without thinking, you positioned yourself between him and the rest of the room, like you could shield him from all the curious glances.

“It’s an old football injury,” he said finally, the words coming out reluctant, like he was still trying to hold them back. “Soccer… I mean—sorry, I know you Americans call it soccer. Tore my ACL completely about six years ago. Had surgery, did all the physio, but...” He shrugged, a gesture that looked too casual for the weight of what he was sharing. “Sometimes bodies don’t heal the way they’re supposed to.”

Startled by his words, you stared at him, this perfect-looking trainer with his perfect-looking body, and it was like something shifted inside your chest. “But you’re... you’re a trainer. I always pictured you all so—”

“Perfect?” He finished, looking up at you with a wry smile. “Yeah… that’s what everyone thinks. But the truth is, I can’t even run anymore. Can barely kick a ball without my knee giving out. Gosh, some days I wake up and have to spend like twenty minutes just trying to convince my knee to work properly.”

The words seemed to linger, weighted with an openness you hadn’t expected. Here was Harry, this beautiful, confident man, admitting to being broken, and somehow it finally made him real in a way that his encouraging words, or the professional distance he kept, never had, and that seemed to scare you.

“Is that why you became a trainer?” you asked, settling onto the bench beside him, your workout forgotten. “Because of the injury?”

He nodded, absently rubbing his knee. “Yeah… I guess in a way…I couldn’t play anymore, but I couldn’t stay away from fitness entirely… it was kind of my life, so I started learning about adaptive training, about working with bodies that don’t fit the typical mold. Turns out I’m better at helping people find their own path than I ever was at following mine.”

In that moment you wanted to say something, wanted to match the encouragement of his words, but all that came out was, “Well, that feels really fucking unfair.”

He laughed, surprised, but sincere. “Yeah, it really fucking is.”

And just like that, something changed. That professional distance he had been maintaining cracked just a little, and you saw him, not Harry the trainer, but Harry the person, a man who had his dreams ripped from under his feet, but still learned how to build new ones from the scraps.

“I should probably tell you,” he said, his voice lighter now, “this is why I modify so many exercises. It’s not just for you—half of them I can’t do the ‘proper’ way anymore. Those seated squats? I do them on my bad days, oh, and those knee-friendly lunges? Learned those during my physio.”

And fuck, there it was beating at your insides, that crush, that you had been desperately trying to ignore, suddenly felt less like a schoolgirl fantasy and more like... god dare you say it… Something else. Something deeper. Because now, when you looked at him, you didn’t just see the attractive trainer who was nice to the “fat girl”. You saw someone who maybe understood you more than you knew, who probably knew your body better, knew all the ways it betrayed you, the frustration of every limitation, and the slow, painful process of finding acceptance.

“Thank you,” you breathed, really wanting him to know you meant it. “For telling me.”

He stood to his feet then, eyes sweeping over your face, before offering you a hand up. “Come on, let’s finish your session. But maybe we’ll skip the jumping jacks today, yeah? My knee’s not the only one that needs babying.”

After that day, everything shifted, not just in your mind. Harry, of course, still maintained his professionalism, but there was a warmth now, an understanding that hadn’t existed before. Your workouts became less about pushing through pain and more about finding what worked for your body—and his.

“See, the thing about traditional training,” he explained during week five, while demonstrating a modified plank that didn’t make your wrists scream, “is that it assumes everyone’s working with the same equipment. But we’re not, are we? You’ve got your challenges, I’ve got mine… but the trick is finding what works for us.”

Us…

And, damn it was such a small word, but boy did it seem to carry weight.

That’s when you started noticing more things, like how he would ice his knee between clients, or how he would shift positions during longer demonstrations, or how his jaw would tighten on particularly bad days. But you also noticed how he never let it stop him, how he moved through it, and adapted his entire life around this limitation without a trace of self-pity.

So why couldn’t you?

“After my surgery,” he told you one day while you struggled through a stupid resistance band exercise, “I spent months being angry. Angry at my body, at the universe… I guess at everyone… everyone who could still do what I couldn’t. It took me a long time to realize that anger was just fear wearing a different face.”

“Fear of what?” you asked, breathless from exertion but curious nonetheless.

“Fear that I’d never be enough again. That, without soccer, without that, I guess that identity, I was just... nothing.” He told you, adjusting your form gently, his hands warm through your shirt. “Sound familiar?”

He had you there; it was all too familiar. Because wasn’t that exactly what you felt every time you looked in the mirror? That without the body you thought you should have, you were somehow less than? And the parallel hit you like a ton of bricks, because was this not him basically telling you that he understood, that he had been where you were, just in a different way—that maybe not all trauma was the same, but it still hurt, even when the two weren’t comparable.

“So what changed?” you asked during a water break, after you finally digested the realization, watching him absently massage his knee.

“Perspective,” he said simply. “Started focusing on what my body could do instead of what it couldn’t. Yeah, I can’t play soccer anymore, but I can help people like you find their strength. That’s not nothing, is it?”

People like you… And maybe the phrase should have stung, but the way he said it, with such an honest warmth, made it feel more like a compliment.

“You know what I love about training you?” he asked suddenly, and your heart did a stupid flutter in your chest. “You’re honest. You don’t pretend like it’s easy or fun. You show up even when you hate it. Do you know how rare that is?”

This makes you laugh, wiping sweat from your face with a towel. “Yeah, I’m a real inspiration... The girl who nearly cried doing wall sits yesterday.”

“Maybe… but you still finished them, though,” he pointed out. “That’s what matters. Not how pretty it looks or how easy it is. Just that you don’t give up.”

With perfect timing, the gym hotties made another appearance, a new group this time, but technically the same, all giggling and hair-tossing as they tried to catch Harry’s attention. One of them even “accidentally” dropped her water bottle right by where he was spotting your chest press, and for a second you held your breath, waiting for him to look, to give them the attention they were so desperate for, but he just kicked the bottle gently out of the way and kept his focus on you.

“That’s it, three more,” he encouraged, and maybe it was your imagination, but his voice seemed a little louder than necessary, like he was making a point. “You’ve got this.”

Later, as you were packing up your things, you overheard one of them complaining to her friend:

“He’s always with that girl. Like, what’s the deal? Is she paying him extra or something?”

It was one of those times you wished you could roll it off, but the words pricked at your skin, and before you could spiral into self-loathing, Harry appeared at your elbow. “Ready for the cool-down stretches?” he asked, and his hand touched your lower back, guiding you away from the women who were still whispering their gossip.

“I’ve got a new routine I want to try—it’s specifically designed for people with knee issues, but I think it’ll help with your hip flexibility too.”

People with knee issues.

Like him, like you, like your fucking body that creaked and fought you at every turn, but now what was once a negative connotation had shifted, had become a positive acknowledgment, a thing you both shared. All the modified movements, the limitations, yes, they were real, but gone was the judgment, and the monster you could make of them.

By week six, you had developed a routine. You still hated mornings, still wanted to die during cardio, but there was something else now, a sense of anticipation. Not for the workout itself, god no, but for the hour you got to spend with Harry.

A growing anticipation for the way he would light up when you managed something you couldn’t do the week before. All the terrible jokes he would tell to distract you during the dreadful planks. The way he would casually touch your arm or back—always appropriate, always professional, but still, there was something that made your skin tingle, a curious wonder that had your mind reeling.

“You’re getting stronger,” he told you one morning, watching as you completed a set of squats—real ones this time, not the shitty seated ones. “Can you feel it?”

And honestly, you could. Not just in your muscles, but in the way you carried yourself. You still had times when you tugged at your shirt, still felt your thighs rub together, but it was different now. Maybe less shameful, more just... fact. Your body was what it was, but it was capable of more than you thought.

“My knee’s been acting up this week,” Harry had admitted during a demonstration of a new exercise. Mentally, you had already noticed that it was less fluid than usual, but you didn’t say anything.

He cleared his throat, trying to hide the wince of pain, “Probably the weather change. But look—” Then, he showed you how to modify the movement, turning what should have been a jumping exercise into a step-touch pattern. “Same muscle activation, less impact. All of this to say we work with what we’ve got, yeah?”

We…

And there was something in the way he said it, like he was trying to bind you both together through all the tiny imperfections. That’s when you found yourself, starting to stay a few minutes after your sessions, helping him reset equipment or just chatting while he iced his knee. It was during one of these moments that he opened up a little more about his injury.

“The thing is… the pain wasn’t even the worst part…” he said, pressing a bag of ice into his finicky knee. “It was watching my mates continue on without me. I mean, of course, they would visit the hospital, tell me about matches, and I was grateful… really I was… and I would smile and nod, hit all my marks… but the truth was I was dying inside… Took me years to be able to watch soccer again without feeling bitter.”

“Do you still feel bitter?” you asked, organizing dumbbells to avoid looking at him directly.

“Sometimes,” he confessed. “On bad days, when my knee won’t cooperate and I see people running without thinking twice about it... Yeah, it stings. But then I remember that without this—” he gestured to his knee, “—I’d never have become a trainer. Never have met the people I’ve helped. Never have...” He paused, and when you looked up, he was staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “…Never have met you...”

You couldn’t help the heat creeping up your neck, your face burning with it, and like an idiot, you fumbled the dumbbell you were holding, completely giving yourself away. “I’m sure you say that to all your clients,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice from wobbling, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said simply. “I don’t.”

And as his words settled, the world around you seemed to pivot, the air now filling your lungs, charged with something that felt dangerously close to desire, but then someone dropped a weight plate across the gym with a thunderous clang, and the spell was broken, but you held onto that moment for as long as you could, because you felt it, felt the need beginning to ache in your bones.

But the one question that would always remain was:

Could he ever want a girl like me?

Week seven was when you nearly quit. It had been a bad week all around—work stress, family drama, and your fucking period decided to show up with a vengeance. You had barely slept, your body hurt in ways that had nothing to do with exercise, and the last thing you wanted was to squeeze into workout clothes and pretend like everything was fine, when it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry… But I don’t think I can do this today,” you told Harry the moment you walked in, not even bothering with a greeting. “I just... I can’t.” And there was shame in the way the words came out, like maybe this was your true self after all, and the rest was just an act.

He took one look at you, like, really looked at you. Not the quick bullshit assessment most people did, and nodded. “Okay. Tell me what you need?”

And his words nearly blindsided you. It wasn’t the “you have to push through” or “you’ll feel better after.” It was just a simple acceptance of where you were at, and you stood there trying to gather your words, feeling the burn at the back of your throat.

“I don’t know,” you forced, feeling tears prick at your eyes. “I’m honestly so exhausted and everything hurts, and I looked in the mirror this morning… I don’t know… it’s just been a shitty week, and I’m just not sure what the point is anymore, and—”

“Hey,” he gently interrupts, steering you toward a quieter corner of the gym. “Breathe for me, yeah? Just breathe.”

And you did, gulping in air like you were drowning, and maybe it was his hand on your low back, but gradually the panic receded just enough for embarrassment to creep in. “Sorry. I’m being dramatic.”

“You’re just being human,” he corrected. “We all have these days. Hell, I had one last week—woke up and my knee was so stiff I could barely make it down the stairs. Wanted to throw things, and cry, and give up. You know what I did instead?”

“What?”

“Called in sick and spent the day on the couch watching terrible reality TV and eating biscuits.” Your brows shot up, and he grinned. “What? You thought I was going to say I powered through with positive thinking? Fuck that. Sometimes you need to just feel what you’re feeling.”

You felt overwhelmed. His answer was so unexpected, so honest, that you found yourself laughing despite the tears. “So what should I do?” You asked, wiping at your eyes.

“Today? If you want to stay, we can modify everything. Gentle movement only, nothing that makes you want to die. We can do some stretching, maybe some light resistance work if you’re up for it. And if at any point you need to stop, we stop. No judgment, no pushing. Just listening to what your body needs.”

And thank the heavens up above, because it was by far the easiest session you had ever had, physically speaking. But emotionally? God, emotionally, it was everything. Harry had adapted every single movement to match your energy level, never once making you feel weak or pathetic for needing the modifications. Everything was intuitive, even when the gym hotties walked by and gave you pitying looks, he shifted positions to block their view, talking louder about muscle groups to draw your attention away.

“You showed up,” he said at the end, as you were doing your final stretches. “On a day when everything in you said to stay home, you showed up. That’s a huge win.”

“It feels like nothing,” you muttered, but he shook his head.

“Six weeks ago, would you have come in feeling like this?”

And as you gazed into his green eyes, you thought about it. Six weeks ago, you would have used any excuse to avoid the gym. “No… I would have stayed home.”

“Then that’s progress. Not all progress looks like smaller jeans or bigger muscles. Sometimes it looks like showing up when you don’t want to.” His hand rested on your shoulder, warm and steady. “I’m proud of you.”

His words seemed to hit you harder than any physical exercise could ever touch the surface. When was the last time someone had said that to you? When was the last time you had given someone a reason to?

By week eight, something fundamental inside you had changed. Not just in your body, though you had to admit, you were feeling stronger, more capable, but in how you existed in your skin. You still had all the same insecurities, all the same soft places and jiggly bits, but they felt less like failures now and more like... just parts of you.

Which is why, when you got dressed that morning, you reached for the new workout outfit you had bought on impulse—fitted leggings and a tank top—there would be no hiding behind excess fabric, not today. Of course, your reflection still showed everything you usually hated—the belly that refused to lie flat, the arms that continued their gentle wobble, the thighs that would always touch. But for once, you didn’t want to reach for the oversized shirt.

“Fuck it,” you told your reflection. “Let’s see what happens.”

And what happened was Harry nearly dropped his water bottle when you walked in.

“You look—” He caught himself, his professionalism snapping back into place like a rubber band. “That’s a great color on you… It really brightens up your complexion.”

And try all he wanted, but you had seen that first reaction, the way his eyes had widened, tracked over your curves before he could even remember himself. It sent a thrill through you, gave you a sense of power that had you on cloud nine.

“Thanks,” you said, trying to sound casual even as your heart hammered. “Figured I would switch things up a bit…”

“Yeah… It’s a nice change for sure,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made you look at him. I mean, really take in his expression, because it said it all. “Just... for what it’s worth, you should wear whatever makes you comfortable. But this—” He gestured vaguely, carefully not looking directly at your body. “This confidence suits you.”

He had you soaring, and the workout that followed ignited a new kind of tension growing between you. Harry had always been hands-on with corrections, but now each touch felt loaded with a new possibility. When he adjusted your hip position during bridges, his fingers seemed to linger a beat too long, and fuck, when he spotted your chest press, he stood closer than strictly necessary. And when he demonstrated proper form for a new exercise, you caught him glancing at you in the mirror, checking if you were watching.

You were. You always were.

“You know,” he said during a water break, his own face flushed from a particularly intense movement, “I’ve been training people for five years, and I’ve never seen someone transform the way you have.”

“I haven’t really transformed, though,” you told him, gesturing at yourself. “I mean, I’m maybe a size smaller? If that?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Then he sat on the bench beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “When you first walked in, you looked like you wanted to disappear. Moved like you were apologizing for taking up space. Now look at you—wearing what you want, taking up all the space you need, moving like you have a right to be here. Because you do.”

The sincerity in his voice made your throat tight. “It’s because of you,” you said quietly. “The way you teach, the way you... see me. Not as a project to fix, but as a person. Like I don’t have to fit into the mold I thought I did.”

“Fuck the mold. It’s boring,” he said, and his hand covered yours on the bench, just for a second. “Lifes too short to try and keep up with all the bullshit.”

That was when the gym hotties chose that moment to make their appearance, a trio of them this time, chest high, all sports bras a size too small, stretched across their fucking boobs with an obvious intention. You watched as the tallest one made a beeline for Harry, her trajectory as clear as a heat-seeking missile.

“Harry! I was hoping you could show me that lunge from the other day during our session… it seems to have totally slipped my mind.”

“I’m with a client, Bridgette,” Harry said, not even looking at her. His hand had left yours, but he shifted closer, his knee touching yours. “Like I tell the others, you can book a session at the front desk if you need personal instruction.”

Bridgette’s eyes flicked between you and Harry, taking in the minimal space between you, the way Harry’s body was angled toward yours like a plant seeking sun. “Right. Sure. I’ll do that.”

And just as she was about to turn to leave, she says, “Oh… and it’s Courtney, by the way…” then she stalks off, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped.

“You know, I think they’re all convinced I’m either paying you extra or sleeping with you.”

Harry’s amused expression fell. “Have they been saying things to you?”

“No… no more than I expected,” you confessed. “You know how it is.. heaven forbid the chubby girl get any personal attention from the hot trainer? It’s probably not realistic in their world… and I guess in mine either… but of course, they’re going to talk.”

“You’re not—” He stopped, jaw clenched, and when he continued, his voice held a careful control. “First of all, I don’t think your chubby… if that’s what you want to call it… so fuck them. Second, you’re not just nothing. You’re a client who works harder than anyone else in this gym, who shows up even when it’s hard, who—” He cut himself off again, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And I’m not just giving you attention because... Christ, I’m making this worse.”

“Because what?” you urged, heart racing.

He looked at you then, and for a moment, you saw past the professional mask he was trying to hold, to something real and wanting underneath. “Because it’s my job,” he said finally, but the words sounded hollow. “Come on, let’s finish your session.”

The rest of the workout passed in tense silence, both of you overly aware of every accidental touch, every shared glance in the mirror. When he helped you stretch at the end, his hands on your calf as you lay on the mat, the tension was almost unbearable, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself grounded.

“Same time Thursday?” he asked when you were gathering your things, and there was something helpless in his expression, like maybe he was afraid you might say no.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Same time Thursday.”

As you left, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror by the exit, flushed and sweaty, curves on full display in your fitted outfit, looking like someone who belonged here. Not because your body had dramatically changed, but because maybe you were actually starting to believe you had a right to exist in places like this, exist in your own skin, like maybe it could be okay.

And just as your eyes were about to move forward, you caught sight of Harry watching you go, and the look on his face...

Yeah. You were definitely in trouble.

But for once, you didn’t want to run from it. You wanted to see where this path could take you, just as you were.

When week nine rolled around, you were back on track, your mind totally on board, and everything was going great. Even you were amazed by yourself, the way you were hitting every mark. Harry still kept a professional distance, but it wasn’t taking from the attraction you felt, now a low hum over your skin, signalling an obvious draw to him, that sent a pulse between your thighs every time his hands touched your body.

It was becoming a problem, actually. The way your body responded to him now—not just the flutter in the pit of your stomach, but it had turned into a full-body awareness every time he was near. When he corrected your form, his fingers grazing your hip or pressing against your back, you had to bite back sounds that had nothing to do with exertion. And you were pretty sure he knew it, too, from the way his jaw would tighten, the way he would step back a little quicker than necessary, like he needed the distance just as much as you.

One day, you were in the middle of box step-ups, feeling strong, feeling capable, feeling like maybe you were actually becoming the person you had wanted to be when you first walked through those doors. The fitted workout clothes were your new normal, and while your body hadn’t dramatically changed, the way you moved in it had. Confident. Taking up space. Belonging.

Because like Harry said “Fuck them all.”

“That’s it, drive through your heel,” Harry encouraged, and god, his voice when he got all instructor-mode did things to you. “Really activate those glutes.”

You were focused, you were in the zone, you were—

And then your fucking ankle rolled.

One second you were stepping down, controlled and strong, and the next you were falling, your right ankle giving way beneath you with a sickening pop that you felt more than heard. The sound that tore from your throat was raw, primal, and suddenly, you were on the ground, hands clutching at your ankle as pain shot through it like lightning.

“Fuck!” The word came out high and sharp as a sob ripped from your throat, and then Harry was there, dropping to his knees beside you, his professional calm never wavering even as his hands hovered over you, not quite touching.

“Don’t move,” he demanded, his accent thicker with urgency. “Let me see—can you wiggle your toes?”

You tried, gasping at the pain that radiated up your leg. Around you, the gym had gone quiet, and you could feel every pair of eyes turning your way. The fat girl has fallen, was all you could think, because, of course, she had. Everyone was probably thinking you couldn’t handle the exercise, probably pushed too hard, probably—

“Hey, look at me,” Harry whispered, cutting through your thoughts. His hand cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Just me, yeah? No one else matters right now.”

But they did matter. You could hear the whispers, feel the stares, and like another betrayal, the tears of frustration burned at your eyes, already threatening to spill over. Not just from the pain—though fuck, it hurt—but from the humiliation of it all. Nine weeks of progress, nine weeks of building yourself up, and here you were, crumpled on the gym floor like every stereotype you had been fighting against.

The stares felt like the harsh truth of ‘I told you so,’ feeding that inner monologue you had been trying to suppress.

“I need to check if it’s broken,” Harry said, his hands gentle as they ghosted over your ankle. You hissed at even the lightest touch, and he pulled back immediately. “Right, we’re going to the hospital. Can you stand at all?”

“I don’t—I can’t—” The tears came then, hot and angry. “Everyone’s watching.”

“Fuck them,” Harry said fiercely, and the sharpness startled you enough to look at him. His green eyes were blazing with something protective, something furious, something lighting a fire within him. “Marcus!” he called to another trainer. “I need you to clear this area. Now.”

Then, to you, his voice softer now: “I’m going to help you up, okay? We’ll go out the back exit. Can you put your arm around my neck?”

The next few minutes were a blur of pain and movement. At that point, Harry was essentially carrying you, your weight supported against his solid frame, and for a moment, you forgot about everyone else because all you could focus on was how strong he was, how easily he held you up despite his own bad knee. When he got you to his car, he helped you into the passenger seat with a gentleness that made your chest tighten.

“I need to cancel my appointments,” he muttered, pulling out his phone as he started the car. “Sarah? Yeah, it’s Harry. Let’s go ahead and cancel the rest of my appointments for the day...”

And you listened, dazed, as he gave her instructions. “You know you don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off with a look.

“Yes, I do. You’re hurt, and you need to get to the hospital. End of story.”

The hospital was a whirlwind of X-rays and ice packs, and doctors with cold hands. Your ankle wasn’t broken, thank goodness, but a bad sprain that would have you off your feet for at least a week, and even though the news was disheartening. There was joy in the way Harry stayed the whole time. He even held your hand during the x-ray, kept you distracted with silly stories while you waited for results, and graciously helped you fill out paperwork when your hands were shaking too much from residual adrenaline.

“You know,” you said at one point, watching him charm the nurse into bringing you an extra ice pack, “most trainers would have just called an ambulance and been done with it.”

He looked offended at the proposal. “What kind of person would I be if I did that? Besides,” his expression softened, “I needed to make sure you were okay.”

The drive to your apartment was quiet, your ankle propped up in the backseat, wrapped in an ace bandage, throbbing with every heartbeat, or sudden bump in the road. Harry had insisted on driving you home, waving off your suggestion for an Uber, and now here you were, trying not to think about how normal this all felt, him driving you home, eyes flicking to yours in the rearview mirror, every time you stared too long.

“Third floor,” you said when he pulled up to your building, and then realized what that meant. “Shit. I’m on the third floor. With no elevator.”

“We’ll manage,” Harry said, already getting out to help you.

‘Managing’ turned out to be a slow, painstaking process. Harry’s arm was around your waist, taking most of your weight, and you had never been more aware of your body—not in the usual self-conscious way, but in how it pressed against his, how his fingers splayed across your hip to hold you steady. He smelled good, inviting even. You liked this proximity, enjoyed the feel of the muscles in his shoulders working as he nearly carried you up each step.

Halfway up the second flight, his knee buckled slightly, and you both had to stop, pressed against the wall, breathing hard.

“Your knee,” you gasped, guilt flooding through you. “Harry, I’m too heavy—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply, his arm tightening around you. “Don’t do that. You’re not too anything. My knee’s just being a bastard today. We’re both a bit broken, remember? We’ll make it work.”

And you did, step by careful step, stopping when his knee was cranky, adjusting when your ankle screamed, a quiet give and take, you both seemed to be savoring, and by the time you reached your door, you were both sweating and trembling, but something about doing it together, about both of you pushing through your limitations, made it feel like a victory rather than the anguish of a struggle.

Harry helped you inside, getting you settled on the couch with your ankle elevated, and for a moment, you just looked at each other, both breathless from more than just exertion. The silence felt weighted, thick in the air, heavy with the words unspoken, and you found yourself saying, “Do you want to stay? Like hang out, I mean? I could order food or—”

“I should get back,” he said too quickly, but he looked reluctant. “I probably need to get back. Sort out the schedule for tomorrow, since I canceled on everyone today. Figure out how to rearrange things…”

That’s when reality crashed back in. Right. Of course. This was his job; you were just a client, and he had definitely already gone above and beyond. The disappointment must have shown on your face because then he quickly added, “But we’ll need to talk soon, yeah? Go over modifying your workouts for your current situation. Once you’re healed enough to come back, I mean.”

Situation…

The word like a fucking knife to your gut… “Your situation,” he said, like you were some kind of problem to be solved, a complication to work around. Just like always, too much, too difficult, too... everything, and all at once, you felt the warmth of the last few hours evaporate, leaving you exposed, foolish in the way you thought there could be more, but silly you.

“Right,” you said, your voice coming out flat. “My situation.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, clearly sensing the shift but not understanding it. “I just mean with your ankle—”

“No, I get it.” And you forced a smile that felt like plastic. “Thanks for everything today. Really. It was... above and beyond.”

He stood there for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something else. Then he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Here, let me... I don’t normally do this, but...” He seemed to be fighting with himself. “Can I give you my number? Just in case you need anything or have questions about the ankle?”

Your heart sank. He was giving you his number out of pity. Poor chubby girl who hurt herself, better make sure she doesn’t feel completely abandoned, god, it was so obvious—it was charity, wrapped up in the typical nice guy package.

“Sure,” you said, typing it into your phone with numb fingers. “Got it.”

“Text me so I have yours,” he said, and you did, sending a simple “Hi, it’s me” that felt like swallowing coals.

The awkwardness stretched between you like taffy, both of you unsure how to move the moment forward. Harry shifted his weight, favoring his good knee, clearly wanting to leave but not knowing how. “So... rest, ice, elevation. Doctor said a week minimum before trying any weight-bearing exercises. We can work with that when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, definitely.” You told him, trying to keep that plastic smile in place. “I’ll let you know.”

After he left, you sat in the growing darkness of your apartment, ankle throbbing, and did what you always did when things got too real—you retreated. But you did send him a text that night:

Y/N: I appreciate you shifting your day around. It was really kind. I’ll reach back out when I’m ready to come back. Thanks for everything.

Professional. Distant. Safe.

And his response came quickly:

H: Of course. Rest up and let me know if you need anything. We’ll get you back on track in no time.

But you didn’t reach back out. Days turned into a week, then two. Your ankle had healed, but your mind had spiraled back to old patterns. Every time you thought about the gym, you remembered falling, remembered everyone staring, remembered Harry having to literally carry you because you were too much for your own body to handle.

To your surprise, his texts came sporadically:

H: Hey, how’s the ankle?

H: Just checking in. Doctor cleared you yet?

H: We got some new equipment that I really think you’ll like. Excited to try it when you’re back.

H: Hope you’re okay. Miss having you in sessions.

That last one even made you cry, but you still didn’t respond. It was easier to ghost him than to face the humiliation of going back. Easier to order takeout and binge Netflix than to deal with the messy feelings he seemed to stir up. You had been down that road with guys like him; it never works. Always the friend but never the lover. You were stupid to think there was something there, stupid to believe you were anything more than a client he felt sorry for.

Two and a half weeks after the ankle incident, you were deep in the trenches of doubt, sucked in by yet another self-loathing pity party, when the doorbell rang, but you ignored it at first. Then it rang again, followed by a knock.

“If that’s Mrs. Gladys about the rent, it’s in the mail!” you called, not moving from your cocoon of isolation.

“It’s not Mrs. Gladys.” You froze. That accent, that voice, fuck, it was Harry at your door.

“I know you’re in there,” he continued. “I can see the TV light under the door. And... I brought Chinese.” He spoke up again.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You hauled yourself up, catching sight of yourself in the hall mirror, and immediately regretted it. But it was too late, he already heard you moving, and it would be worse to leave him standing there, so you opened the door just a crack, trying to hide your body behind it.

“Harry, what are you doing here?”

He looked good. Of course, he looked good, in jeans and a worn tee that clung to his chest in ways that should be illegal, especially on a Tuesday night. He was holding a massive bag of takeout in one hand, and wait… were those flowers?

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the genuine worry in his eyes made your chest tight. “I know this is weird, but I wasn’t sure what I should do. You hadn’t answered any of my texts, and I was worried about you…”

“I thought it was just protocol,” you answered, your voice tight.

He shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I mean I was asking from a trainer’s point of view, yes, but I was hoping that it would come across as... I don’t know... more?”

“More? What do you mean?” You asked, cracking the door open a bit more.

“I thought when I gave you my number, you were catching the vibe that I was trying to put out...” He laughed, looking down at his feet, and the bashfulness was so startling on him that you almost forgot to breathe as a strand of hair fell loose. “What I’m saying is I thought there was a vibe between us?”

“Mmm,” was all you could manage, stunned. “A vibe?”

“Honestly, I thought you gave everyone your number?”

This made him laugh, looking back up at you with those heartwrenching green eyes, and fucking hell, those dimples. “No, trust me, I’ve learned my lesson with that one... Have you seen some of those ladies at the gym? A little persistent, yeah? Trust me, they’re not my type. I’m not interested.”

“I see...” You were mesmerized. This guy, this gorgeous, sweet, amazing guy, was standing at your door with flowers and food, talking about vibes.

“I can go, though... if this is too weird... but I’d hate to eat all this Chinese takeaway by myself,” he said, holding up the bag, and it did indeed look like enough to feed a small country, and it took everything in you not to make a fat joke, but something in his expression stopped you.

He was nervous. Harry was nervous.

“No. Please... come in... I never pass up... what did you call it? Chinese takeaway...”

When he came in, you shut the door and immediately examined the bag. The smell was incredible, and your stomach reminded you that depression meals of cereal and toast weren’t actually sustaining.

“I do think you bought enough to feed a small army, though...”

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything...”

This got a laugh out of you, the first real laugh in weeks. “Well, lucky you, I like everything... You don’t get curves like these being a picky eater...”

“I see...” He said with a sexy smirk, that had you giddy as his eyes roamed your body with the same heated look you had seen that day in the gym mirror. He wasn’t hiding it now, wasn’t trying to be professional. He was just a man, looking at you like you were something to devour, pajamas and all.

“Yeah... there was definitely a vibe...” You teased, narrowing your eyes at him while taking the flowers from his hands and bringing them to your nose. They were simple, but the gesture made your heart flip.

“I’ll put these in water...” And as you moved toward the kitchen, you felt his eyes following you, suddenly aware of how small your apartment felt with him in it.

The energy you guys had been dulling in the past was present, making itself known as it filled the space. Now you had a new hunger growing in your belly that had nothing to do with Chinese food and everything to do with the way Harry was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Fuck it you thought, and you set the flowers down in the sink for later, “I’m not usually this forward… but I’ve been dying to kiss you?” you asked pressing your back against the sink, and you said the words with an air of confidence that seemed to flee the second your eyes found his. Sending you right back to that place of self-doubt.

Harry didn’t answer, and you watched as he silently pushed himself away from the counter and closed the small space between you.

It felt like every movement slowed, every breath hollow, as if the sight of him before you was a figment of your imagination, and you couldn’t quite bring your eyes to meet his, not yet. You just stared at his broad chest, his strong stature like stone before your gaze, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his breath, like maybe he was waiting for you to make the move.

But it was something about the way he stood there, that same gentle patience he had exuded all along. It was devastating, the kindness now an ache that deepened inside you, the second you pressed your palm flat to the center of his chest.

Yet his stillness remained as you felt the warmth of his body, the beating of his heart, but you still couldn’t look, because here was the fear telling you that you couldn’t have it, that you weren’t worthy, that this wasn’t real, but god he was real, and the breath that left his body was real.

And it hurt, and you were scared, and when his hand moved to yours, pressing your palm into his chest, you felt yourself breaking. Then you braved a look, your eyes finding his, and it was like something cracked within you, a well of every insecurity you had ever had, came spilling from your chest with a gasp, as a sob rose, and it wasn’t even him that you were crying about.

It was everything, all at once, it was you, it was him, it was the broken girl inside you, crying to be healed, to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved, because you wanted to be loved, you wanted to be seen, you wanted someone to love you the way you deserved. You had always had so much love to give, but no one who could reciprocate, the world always taking, but never giving back.

Then his hand was cupping your face, his eyes on your mouth, and the second his lips pressed to yours, delicate and soft, he drew in a deep breath, like you were the air he needed to fill his lungs with, like suddenly here you were, and as your mouths begin to move, the chatter in your head began to fade away.

As the kiss deepened, hands roaming, you felt yourself letting go, slipping to a place of peace, to a place you had only ever felt with him, to those times when he had you in a room full of people, yet the world always seemed to narrow to just the two of you. This was that moment, a universe that belonged to you and Harry.

And for the first time, maybe ever in your life, you allowed yourself to just exist.

When you pulled away, your eyes met, making a silent exchange, and you grabbed his hand with a slow nod, ready to make sacred what you felt in your heart, give him the pieces that he had made whole with the kindness of his spirit. You wanted to give yourself in the only way you knew how to convey what words couldn’t say.

And when he laid you down on the bed, he was gentle, hands moving over your curves like they were the most sacred gift you could give, and maybe they were in that moment, and when he kissed your lips, you felt the passion and the need in the delicate balance of his control. It felt safe. Harry was taking his time to explore the plains of your body, no rush, just a tender embrace that had tears streaming down your face.

“Is this okay?” he whispered against your skin, and the care in his voice made your chest tight. Always checking, always making sure, like you were the most beloved artifact, instead of too much.

You nodded, but your hands were already moving to guide his away from your stomach, that soft place you had spent years hating, years hiding. He noticed, you knew he would, and he paused, his green eyes searching yours in the dim light of your bedroom.

“Talk to me,” he said softly, his hand stilling on your hips. “What’s going through that beautiful mind?”

“I just...” You said, turning away, and the look in his eyes was too much for the shame pricking at your skin. It wasn’t like you hadn’t had sex before, but there had never been this level of positive vulnerability on both parts. The feeling reminded you of your first time, and maybe almost every time, actually.

The good times, few and far between.

Yes, the fear was there, and so was the desperation, but that was the part you didn’t want to be there. You didn’t want that desperate feeling of doing, just to feel wanted. You knew this wasn’t the case now, but it was hard to shake that pattern of thinking when this was the only relationship you had to sex. “You’ve probably been with so many girls who are... who look...” And the words stuck in your throat.

Skinny. Fit. Perfect. Everything you weren’t.

“Hey.” His finger gently turned your chin back to him. “I’m here with you. Only you. And I’ve wanted to be here, exactly here, for weeks.”

But when his hand moved again, you caught it, redirecting it away from your middle, and this time he didn’t let you. Instead, he slowly lowered down your body, holding your eyes as he did, and before you could stop him, his lips were pressing against the soft flesh of your stomach, right where you were trying to hide.

“Harry—”

But he was already kissing every inch, every delicate place, every roll and curve you had spent years despising, and as he continued, your body trembled with sobs beneath his lips, overwhelmed by the adoration in his touch.

“God,” he breathed against your skin, “Every inch of you is beautiful. I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

And just when you thought you couldn’t break anymore, here was another wall crumbling, and when he moved back up to kiss you, you could taste the mingling of your tears on his lips now, salt and beauty, a messy mix of his devotion and time.

“Can we just...” you start, then stop, embarrassed by what you wanted to ask. This was the part you wanted to skip, the lead up, you didn’t think you were strong enough for it, not right now, not in this moment, not when you were barely hanging by a thread, your emotions everywhere.

“What do you need?” He pulled back slightly, studying your face. “Tell me.”

“Can we just... be together? I want to feel you, to kiss you. Is that okay? I don’t need...” You gestured vaguely over your body, unable to say the words.

Then you watched as understanding dawned in his eyes. “If that’s what you want,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But… hopefully you’ll let me take care of you another time—”

“Another time?” You repeated, a little too excited, because god, the hope in your voice was already embarrassing.

He smiled, that dimpled smile that had you out of your mind from the beginning. “Yeah, love, there’s no way this is a one-time act. I’m already hooked. You have me completely. Trust me.”

That was all you needed, because then you were reaching with a shaky hand to your nightstand, pulling out the condom you had optimistically kept there. He took it from your trembling fingers, and the care he took with everything—with you—made fresh tears spring to your eyes.

And it was like a light switch flipping on in your brain when he pushed inside you, like something waking. At first, you weren’t sure what to do, whether you should just lie there, and let him lead like you had usually done in the past with others, or if you should use your words. But everything in you wanted to take some kind of control, to show him that you weren’t just passive, that you could give as good as you got.

The feeling built slowly, his hands mapping your body like he was trying to memorize every curve, every response. And just as you felt yourself getting close, that familiar tightening, a surge of confidence unlike anything you had ever felt before, flooded through you like a line of fire.

That’s when you pushed your hands into his shoulders, trying to be smooth about the move, hoping he would get the hint, but then he stopped without hesitation, concern flashing across his face. “Do you want me to—”

But you were already moving, pushing him onto his back and climbing on top, not giving a fuck that your stomach was visible, or that your boobs would bounce, that hell, maybe everything would jiggle, but for once, you didn’t care, because the way he was looking at you, like the fucking goddess you were and felt, was everything. It made you feel powerful, turning what was already pleasure into a feast that fed the famished hunger within.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands gripping at the flesh of your hips, as he bucked up to meet you, and the awe in his voice was already pushing you to the edge. It didn’t take long until you came hard, crumbling forward, and his arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you tight against his chest as he followed you over.

Even though you were aware of everything, all the flaws, all the thoughts, the way your body felt pressed against his, you stayed like that for a long moment, giving your body time to meld with his, no matter how uncomfortable it was or if you felt like your body would crush him. You wanted to be with this man in every way, maybe even savor the way his hands still moved up and down your body, caressing over every curve as both of you caught your breath. When you finally lifted your head, he was looking at you with such tenderness, such wonderment that it made your chest ache.

“You’re incredible,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Absolutely incredible.”

Later, after he had cleaned you both up with a warm washcloth, yes, you let him, because he insisted on taking care of you despite any objections, and damn he was a sweet talker, you knew you couldn’t resist the power of his words. Because you knew he meant them. Afterward, when you lay curled against his chest, his bad knee elevated on a pillow, and you with all your insecurities knocking at your mind’s door. You knew in that moment that you were two broken people, but even two broken halves can make something whole together, and that was the devastating truth you held onto.

And as you drifted off to sleep, his arms around you, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you thought maybe the universe was finally giving you something good, giving you someone who saw you, saw the real you, not just as a project to fix or some kind of problem to solve, but as someone worth loving, exactly as you were.

You knew the journey to confidence wasn’t over. You knew that you would still have your bad days, still struggle with mirrors and fitted clothes, and that fucking voice in your head that said you were never enough. But for now, you had someone who wanted to be there for those days, too, someone you knew would remind you of your worth when you forgot it yourself.

Someone who would love every inch of you, especially the parts you’ve allowed yourself to hate. Someone who made you believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserved to take up space in this world—and in his heart.

And that was worth more than any number on a scale could ever be.

Taglist: @mads3502 @matildasatellite @likea-silhouette @lizsogolden @manna86 @chelseatpwk @aileen1237 @aglimpseofharry @olvsbee @bibltch @xnthld @cherrycolas-things @avas-daniel @mellamolayla @caroll-94 @montse1608 @hellohowareyouearthlings @bentley-119 @harrymatcha @girlslovejahseh

@peach-x-petals @boredhsblog

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reiderwriter · 2 years ago

Text

Everyone Looks Better in a Sundress

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (GN + AFAB)

Summary: The AC at the BAU decides to take a holiday during a summer heatwave, and when you decide the FBI’s dress code is merely a suggestion, you unwittingly catch Spencer’s eye.

Genre: smut (18+, minors DNI)

Warnings: Dom!Spencer, sub!reader, semi-public sex, fingering, car sex, degradation, name-calling, edging, praise-kink, dumbification, basically Spencer is a tease and the reader really gets off on using his official title.

Word Count: 3.8k

Authors Note: Hello! This is my first posted fic, so any feedback is welcome and absolutely appreciated (I tried to keep it GN!AFAB but if you notice any gendered pronouns pls lmk immediately!) I finally decided to start writing again after a few years, so I might be a bit rusty but I recently started rewatching Criminal Minds and I am so in love with Spencer! This little fic was inspired by @imagining-in-the-margins CM Summer Sunshine Fic Challenge, so big thank you to them for the inspiration! This could also develop into a multi part fic in the future, so if that’s something you’d be interested in, please let me know in the tags and comments! XOXO K

Part two!

After three years in the BAU, you should know that summers in Quantico, Virginia are nothing to play about. Sure, it could be cloudy sometimes, and summer rain did allow for some relief, but with a heatwave on the way and a week of office work ahead of you, it seemed every member of your team was excited for the office AC.

That was, of course, until the maintenance department sent out an office-wide email telling you it was “undergoing work” for the foreseeable future.

You received the email during your commute, and immediately turned around to change. There was no way you were surviving in your slacks and long-sleeve shirt, and, truth be told, you knew that your bosses wouldn’t mind if you were a little more relaxed in your workplace attire if you weren’t going to be spending time in the field.

It took all of thirty seconds to shoot a message to Garcia, telling her that you’d be a few minutes late for your daily carpool, letting her know the situation so she didn’t hack into your car GPS (which she still claims she absolutely did not do the last time you accidentally slept in, but would in an emergency just to know you were safe).

She quickly sent you a reply: “put on that floral number we picked up last week! Between you and Morgan, I'm hoping my eyes will be feasting today 😉.”

You let out a little chuckle as you read the message, and quickly complied. A sundress didn’t sound too bad right now at all.

The dress in question was perhaps pushing it slightly for office work. It was short, and you knew immediately when putting it on that you would spend the day pulling it down to a more appropriate length. But the shade of blue fit your skintone perfectly, and the floaty material was exactly what you needed to beat the heat.

Grabbing your keys again before you could second guess yourself, you didn’t let your mind linger quickly on the thought that perhaps the dress was a little attention grabbing. And perhaps there was someone in the office whose attention you wanted to grab.

-X-

The commute into the office wasn’t bad, but stepping out of your nicely temperature regulated car into a wall of heat made you thank yourself for your foresight. And it seemed that the rest of your team was dealing similarly. Walking into the office, you noticed that Prentiss had divested herself of her shirt, sitting comfortably with an iced coffee and red tank top, an electric fan inches from her face. Morgan was similarly outfitted in lighter clothes than usual, and you could audibly hear Penelope’s brain working to come up with the best heat related compliment for her work husband. You couldn’t see Hotch or Rossi, but you knew they kept their own back-up units in their offices, so they wouldn’t be struggling at all today. You assumed JJ, too, was in her office.

“Well, look at you Cutie. You’re gonna break some hearts today, I know.” You roll your eyes as you throw your bag down. You were used to Morgan’s playful teasing by now, but compliments and affirmations were always welcome. You grimaced looking down at your desk chair and realised you had another problem. Your very recent purchase of a black leather office chair was going to absolutely make your day a living hell. Before you resigned yourself to a day of sitting in the orthopedic seventh layer of hell, your heard the angelic call of your office BFF.

“It feels like the devil’s armpit in here, god, do not expect an miracles from me today, I’m collecting my laptop and immediately moving away from all the heavy heat-producing machinery in my cave. Anyone got any space at their desk for me to work at?”

“Yes!” You replied a little too quickly.

“Feel free to make yourself at home, Pen, I have to look over some files with Reid later anyways so I’ll just pull up a spare chair to his desk, it’s all yours.” You thanked your lucky stars that everyone was too hot to tease you about your imminent proximity to the office’s Boy Wonder.

It turns out hiding a small, tiny, stupid crush from a team of FBI profilers wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but you were confident in thinking the only one who had clocked on so far was Penelope. And that was only because of your weekly girls nights and an unfortunate habit of spilling secrets while intoxicated. Sure, the others still teased sometimes, but that was only because the two of you were the easiest targets. And they just didn’t know how on the nose they were sometimes.

She gave you a quick look, of the ‘we will be discussing this later’ variety but didn’t say anything else and quickly excused herself to collect her things.

You quickly pulled up a (non-leather) chair next to Reid’s and straightened out your dress as you started searching for the file you were looking for. Although you absolutely had an ulterior motive to intruding on his space, you actually did have work to do. But the heat, and the knowledge that you’d be working closely with Reid again any minute now did nothing to help you stay focused.

Of course, having worked on the same team now for three years meant that you’d been alone together before. In all honestly, he was your partner of choice for any field task and you complimented each other well. The two of you worked together on Geographical Profiles for the majority of your cases, using your people skills, and his practical knowledge to gain insight into the locations unsubs lived, worked, murdered and hid their victims. And of course, you were friends outside the office, too. But you felt there was a distance between the two of you that made itself known the minute you stepped off the Jet or out of the bullpen.

As you searched the desk, you let your mind wander to what he would look like in this heat. You knew he didn’t deal with the heat well, and could often be found with his shirt sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone on the cases in the warmer climates. You thought about him panting in the heat, pushing his hair out of his face, glistening with sweat and grumbling quietly about the heat. You specifically thought back to a case from a few weeks back, where the two of you had an awkward run-in with an automatic sprinkler when you made your way to interview a witness. His purple shirt had ended up soaked, and on day six of the investigation, his go bag was thankfully short of replacement clothing. So he’d sat in the precinct, shirt semi-transluscent, completely oblivious to your brazen oggling and sudden lack of anything intellectual to say. Or anything to say in general.

It was only as you felt yourself getting warmer (a particularly impressive feat on today of all day’s) that you had to pull yourself out of the fantasy. But of course, as you stood up to get yourself a cool drink, you realised you were face to face with the man of your fantasies.

“Y/N? Did you need something?” He looked down at you, with a soft smile on his face.

“Oh! No, it was Garcia, she, um, she needed somewhere to work because her office is practically a sauna with all those computers. And I was thinking, we still need to work on that report on the geographical profile from the last case, so I offered her…my…” You trailed off, noticing you were rambling and allowed yourself a second to look at the man in front of you properly for the first time that day.

It was going to be a miracle if you got any work done ever again.

Like you, he’d opted for a change in uniform. He’d rid himself of his usual waistcoat-cardigan combo and was left in a button down shirt. It was, as you’d hoped and prayed, open slightly more than usual at the top. You frowned unconsciously as you realised he had also pushed his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, unhappy that you wouldn’t get to watch him do it in-person, his veins popping out as he exerted himself in the smallest way.

A few seconds of silence passed, and you had to make yourself tear your eyes away from a droplet of sweat that was neatly making its way down his throat, tracing a line that you could only hope to one day follow with your lips. When you snapped your eyes up to his, he nervously did the same, gripping his bag a little tighter to him.

“Oh, yeah that sounds good, um, let me just put my bag down and we can, uh, get started I guess.”

“Yeah of course. I was just gonna grab a drink first, do you want one?”

“Sure, yeah, a coffee would be good.”

“Okay, I’m no expert but that cannot be healthy in this heat. I know you’re practically a caffeine addict at this point, but I’m getting you a glass of water and you’re going to thank me, okay Doctor?”

He rolled his eyes and settled comfortably into his seat, but made no complaints as you walked away.

-X-

“This is ridiculous, how can they expect us to work like this?” Agent Prentiss grumbled from her desk.

“Oh, come on now, Prentiss, you can’t be complaining about a little heat, now.”

You rolled your eyes at your coworkers playful back-and-forth, doing your best to not melt into your borrowed seat. You’d been working side-by-side with Reid for the last three hours and the heat was now unbearable. You were stuck to the seat in an uncomfortable way, especially with the extra exposed skin from your dress. It had ridden up your legs more than you expected it would, so you were constantly shifting in your seat attempting to keep yourself decent.

The heat rolling off your teammate didn’t help. You had assumed that his love of cardigans, scarves and layers in general meant that he usually ran on the cooler side, but he was practically burning up next to you, making any and all accidental touch near intolerable.

Each accidental brush of his fingers as you passed files between the two of you, each knock of your knees together under the desk as you moved to read over one-anothers shoulders, and every time you got up for another drink, it’s like he’s read your mind because he stood up at the same time and you had to awkwardly untangle yourself from the mess of desk chairs and office furniture. With every touch, you feel yourself getting hotter and hotter, the heat pooling between your legs embarrassingly.

It’s only when, later in the day, he brushes the seam of your skirt with his fingers when reaching over you with his other hand for a file you know for a fact he does not need, you realise that all of those accidental touches may have been absolutely intentional.

Lowering your voice to a whisper, you bring your lips closer to his ears.”Spence, what was that?” You try to keep your voice steady, but his fingers are stil lingering closer to your sensitive areas than you found comfortable.

He drops his eyes to yours, looking you in the eye for the first time since you started working together in a comfortable silence.

“What was what?” He asks innocently, his cheeks flushes as he starts drawing small circles on your thigh.

“You’re touching me. You’ve been touching me a lot today, Doctor.”

“Oh, I’m Doctor now, am I?” He smiles at you before quickly moving his attention back to the file he was reading.

“Don’t change the subject.” You feel your whole body flush, as he ignores you and continues his reading, not removing his hand from your leg the entire time.

“S-Spencer, I’m serious.” He looks at you again then, and your heart jumps into your throat as you realise he’s removed his hand from the hem of your skirt, only to have it return under the material, moving closer and closer to where you really wanted him.

“You know,” he whispers under his breath, so quiet you’re sure that no one could overhear, “you look really pretty in this dress.”

Your brain is short circuiting as you feel his hand on your inner thigh, failing to register the implication of his words as you do your best to stammer out a reply.

“A-actually, Garcia chose it out for me. She said that you would-” you cut yourself off before you can say anymore. You’re surrounded by a room of your close friends and teammates and you’re doing your best not to beg your incredibly attractive coworker to push his fingers into you right then and there. Biting your lip so you don’t say anything else, you try to stand and shift away.

But Reid is there, and with his other hand he maneouvers you even closer to him somehow.

“She said I would what, beautiful?”

He’s so close now and you find yourself again staring at his exposed neck, wanting nothing more than to bury your head in him and kiss and lick and bite until he gives you what you want. The little circles he’s drawing on your legs are removing your inhibitions quicker than any alcohol could.

But then he grips you a little tighter, and forces you to look up into his eyes again and respond.

“She said that you would, uh, she said that you would’nt be able to take your eyes off of me. We were shopping together and she was just teasing and, well, yeah.”

“All dressed up for me, then? You thought you’d test the theory and see if she was right?”

And suddenly he’s ghosting his fingers across your panties and you’re doing your best to not make any other noises as he looks you deep in your eyes.

“Do you think she was right, Y/N?” He asks. But before your brain can catch up and choose whether or not to answert, he’s pulling away. He’s standing up and he’s walking over to Morgan, file in hand, asking questions about another previous case file, and you’re left sitting at his desk questioning if any of that actually just happened.

-X-

You spent the rest of the day in a daze. Luckily, your team was so busy complaining about the heat that you were sure none of them noticed the tension you carried through the rest of your day. With the AC still not working, Garcia had gained permission from Hotch to head back to her own apartment to finish up the day with more appropriate equipment, and had quickly evacuated your desk, allowing you to retreat back to your own space.

Emily had finished her own paperwork early due to a well-timed bet with Morgan, and had taken herself off to JJ’s office, and Morgan was meeting with Hotch in his office to discuss a potential death row intervew. So with the end of the workday in sight, only you and Reid remained in the bullpen.

After your little run in, you knew that you weren’t going to get any effective work done. Emily had once joked that Reid’s high IQ gets slashed to 60 every time he comes in contact with an attractive woman. At the time, you’d laughed, joked along. Nowthat it was your reality, it wasn’t as funny to you.

He’d played with you, called you beautiful, had his hands on you in the most frustratingly dizzying way- and then just as soon walked away from you. It wasn’t as if you wanted him to take you right then and there, in front of the entire office.

In fact, you’re quite sure that no matter how horny you were, you’d have stopped him before he went any further that publically. But you weren’t as sure you wouldn’t have dragged him off to a supply closet and forced him down on his knees and under your skirt.

To be short, you were pissed. He had left you, hot and bothered, on a day where you literally could get no relief from the heat.

You watched him work for a while after that. His desk faced away from yours, which meant you could covertly watch him whilst he worked and he would be none the wiser. After catching yourself staring a hole into the back of his head for the fifth time in an hour, you grunted out a curse and started packing your things up for the day. Unfortunately, you were just loud enough to catch the man’s attention.

“Leaving so soon, princess?”

“Yes. It’s hot and I’m tired and I just want to go home and take a cold shower and get into bed.” You started packing your things up again, but you quickly noticed that Spencer was doing the same.

“Are you leaving as well?” You asked, your stomach doing a small flip in apprehension of his answer.

“Yeah. I’m also hot, and tired and a cold shower sounds amazing right about now.”

You flushed at even the slightest change of a double meaning. Did he want to shower with you? Was he really going to step over that line?

He continued to pack up his things calmly, and you did the same. You walked towards the elevator, and it wasnt until he reached from behind you to press the call button that you realised he was so closely following you.

“And besides, your bed sounds amazing right about now.” The hairs on your neck stood up as he whispered into your ear, his hot breath fanning against your neck as you felt heat pool between your legs for the second time that day. You froze up like a deer in headlights, and as the elevator dinged open, you felt Spencer walk you in, press the button, and close the door before making his next move.

“You didn’t answer me earlier, you know? When I asked about the dress? Do you think Garcia was right?” He had crowded you into one corner of the elevator, and your brain was still short-circuiting. Shit, maybe you were the one whose IQ was cut in half, because the man in front of you seemed more confident than you had ever seen him before.

His placed his hands on the guard rail either side of you, as one of his legs found its way between yours and you let out a small whimper, then cursed yourself when you saw the smirk growing on his face.

“Come on, Princess, use your words.” He teased again.

“She wasn’t right.” You breathed out. “You looked at me a few times, but nothing too long and nothing…inappropriate, but-”

“But what?” He pushed his leg further into you, moving his hands to grip the fabric at our waist, and suddenly you were counting your blessings that no other agent in the building had decided to use the elevator right now.

“But you can’t keep your hands off of me.” His lips crashed into yours the second you finished your sentence, as you desperately grabbed at his hair, desperate to feel more and more of him against you despite the sticky heat.

He pulled away reluctantly as the elevator came to a stop in the basement carpark, but you still desperately clung to him, pressing kisses into his jaw and down his neck as you breathed in the scent of his sweat on his skin. Your words had failed you, but your body was desperate to communicate exactly what you needed.

He chuckled as he pulled you off of him, stroking your hair as he pulled you to your car. Opening the passenger side door for you and taking the keys from your bag, he placed a kiss to your temple, pulling away only enough to whisper into your ear. ”Which one of us can’t keep their hands off the other now?”

You were hot and delirious and you were not going to interrupt him now. He climbed into the driver’s seat, something you knew he didn’t do often, and placed his hand on your leg again as he drove.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered as soon as you were far enough away from the building. You complied immediately, not wanting to interrupt anything the man might do to you. “Good girl,” he mumbled as he immediately picked up where he left off earlier, rubbing your sensitive nub through your underwear. Your dress was pushed up now

“You know, Garcia was right” he spoke again, his fingers snaking their way under the elastic of your underwear. You could only moan in surprise, desperately close to getting exactly what you wanted.

“I have been staring at you this whole day. You came in this short dress, practically on display for anyone to see.” His fingers were now slowly circling your clit, going torturously slowly as you bucked up your hips for some much needed friction.

“When you got me that glass of water, I followed you, you know. Watched you reach for the glass on the top shelf, saw your skirt riding up. We’re you so desperate for me to notice you that you put yourself on display for the entire office like a little whore?” You moaned in surprise as his words registered in your mind.

You tried to reply, to deny and protest your innocence, but he chose that minute to thrust a finger into you, the awkward angle forced by your position in the car creating a beautiful friction. You started rocking your hips quicker against his hand, opening yourself up to him fully, and grabbing his wrist so he couldn’t pull away for a third time that day.

“You can’t even deny it, Look at you using my hand to get yourself off. Are you gonna come for me? Gonna do it right here in your car?” You moan out a yes as he adds another finger, stretching you out further as you whimper around him.

“Fuck, yes Spence, I’m a whore, your little whore.” You feel that familiar coil in the bottom of your stomach tighten and soon your releasing yourself all over his hands. Gasping for air, your head falls back on the passenger seat, and you release your grip on Spencer’s hands.

“Good job, princess, you did so well for me. We’re almost home now, let’s get you in that shower.” You whimper a little, nodding as you allow your brain to settle once again, completely comfortable with letting Spencer take control and do whatever he needs to do with you for the rest of the night.

-X-

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #Criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fanfiction #Criminal minds fic #Spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x y/n #Spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #Spencer reid x oc #Spencer reid drabble #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid imagine #Criminal minds smut #maturereiding

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pathologicalreid · 8 months ago

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a long way to go | s.r.

in which your family breaks no contact and Spencer reminds you that you're doing the right thing

margovember

kindergarten teacher!reader masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: flangst? (hurt/comfort) content warning: nondescript childhood trauma, kindergarten teacher!reader word count: 1.4k a/n: okay so the request was for angst and it is but the comfort gives fluff. at this point my genres are arbitrary. huge shout out to anyone else who isn't going home for thanksgiving for one reason or another.

Frowning at the email on your computer, you shifted your weight on your rotating chair and leaned your head back into the chair cover that Garcia had crocheted for you.

We’d love for you to join us.

It felt as though someone had tossed a bucket of ice water over your head, years and years of blocking emails and leaving your phone number unlisted had culminated in this moment. It shouldn’t surprise you; you worked at a public school and your email was listed in the faculty directory, but the sight of your father’s name left a sour taste in your mouth.

You were alone in your classroom, the fluorescent lights were turned off, leaving you in the gentle illumination of the string lights that you kept threaded along the walls. Contract hours were over, but you still had papers that needed to be completed. Opening your email after the final bell had thrown a wrench in your plans.

A knock on your door pulled you out of your haze, you looked up to see Spencer standing in the doorway. You checked the time in the corner of your monitor to find that it was nearly six, well into the evening, and you hadn’t even noticed. “Did we have plans?” You asked, alarm rising in your tone, you looked down at your day planner and didn’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t miss something.

“No,” Spencer said immediately, wanting to quell any of your anxieties before they had the chance to develop. “I hadn’t heard from you today, so I might’ve asked Garcia if she had your location on your phone and found that you were at work much later than usual,” he told you, setting his messenger bag on one of your student’s desks before leaning against yours.

You leaned over your desk, setting your chin in your hands and sighing. “You found me,” you mumbled unenthusiastically, eyeing your monitor again.

He’d cut his hair again, in a moment of frustration he’d started snipping, but he ended up calling you for help. It no longer feathered the tops of his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asked, tilting his head to the side and tapping the bobblehead you kept on your desk.

Taking a deep breath, you shook your head, “Nothing, I just have a lot of work to do.” You were designing a holiday coloring page, making the outlines yourself because you didn’t like any of the ones you found on the internet.

“Okay,” Spencer responded, extending his vowels. “Now you’re lying to me,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation; he was merely stating the truth.

It bothered you that he was right, and it bothered you that you lied to him. You shouldn’t feel the need to lie to him because, really, if anyone was going to understand how you felt about the email, it was Spencer. You wedged your hands beneath your thighs, keeping yourself from digging your nails into your palms, “My father sent me an email.”

Dad felt too casual, and his first name felt too detached. He was just your father, someone who had been chosen time and time again over you, and whom you hadn’t spoken to in nearly six years. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Five years ago,” you answered distantly, remembering how he’d had the nerve to show up at your college graduation even though the rest of your family knew you weren’t in contact with him. Wetting your lips, you looked back at the email on your screen, “He wants me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his family.” People that you shared no connection to—blood or otherwise—and made up the family that had taken your place in his life.

Spencer straightened up a stack of papers on your desk, the shuffling sound so familiar that it put you at ease, “What do you want to do?”

You pinched your eyebrows together, not used to someone asking for your wants, “I want to reply to him, but I know that engaging with him would be equivalent to opening the floodgates.” Releasing a dam of trauma that wasn’t suited for your kindergarten classroom, “I can’t reply to this email.”

Nodding softly, Spencer studied your eyes with a pained look in his eyes, “I know, honey.”

Taking the computer mouse in your trembling hand, you scrolled over the email and blocked the sender before deleting the email and deleting it from the trash for good measure. Hot tears welled in your eyes as you wrapped your arms around yourself, “I hate him.”

You despised him. A man who you shared blood with just so happened to be someone you hated with bone in your body. Bones he had contributed to that you wished you could pull from your body and replace with an untainted set. What was worse was that he had the ability to influence your emotions like this, he could make you angry with nothing more than digital mail.

Anger felt so useless, it was something he used as armor, and you feared that by being angry, you were becoming like him. You were so horrified by the mere idea of your own anger that it made you cry, and you were terrified of your life becoming one big circle.

They say if you grow up with an angry man in your house, then there will always be an angry man in your house. All you needed was to believe in Spencer’s ability to be gentle, but nothing Spencer did would change the fact that you cried as soon as you were pricked with rage.

Spencer crouched in front of you, taking both of your hands in his larger ones and keeping them warm for you. “You don’t owe them anything,” he told you, watching you carefully with his big brown eyes, “It hurts. I know it hurts right now, but you know that you just did the right thing. I’ll remind you of it for as long as it takes for you to believe it.”

The dam broke then, tears fall from your chin to your lap as Spencer gathered you in his arms to the best of his ability, you tried not to flinch away from his embrace. You reminded yourself that he wasn’t there to hurt you, he was there to help you. He ran his palm flat along your spine as you gave in, burying your face in the crook of his neck and basking in the darkness of your own sorrow.

“You did the right thing,” he muttered softly, pulling away and using the pads of his thumbs to wipe away your tears. “You don’t need to apologize to anyone about it,” he said preemptively, knowing you were about to apologize to him for your show of emotion.

You nodded dazedly, leaning your cheek into his palm as he cupped your face with his hands, “I don’t know what I do now.”

Spencer smiled gently at you, “We’re gonna keep moving forward. Are you hungry? Do you want to get dinner?”

Sighing, you shrugged despondently, looking back at your now blank monitor, “I should get some stuff done.” You wiggled the mouse and typed in your password, you stared blankly at your unfinished coloring page, any and all motivation to finish the drawing had vacated as soon as your father made contact.

“What if,” Spencer started, “You come home with me tonight, and tomorrow I’ll come in with you? You can finish up your work and I’ll get to spend some time with you.” Spencer Reid might just be the only person willing to accompany you to work on a Saturday just because you’re having a hard time.

You bowed your head, “You don’t have to do this, Spence.”

He hummed in response, “I want to, and besides—we have plans to make.”

You frowned, your head lifting so you could look him in the face and inquire for more details, “Plans for what?”

“Thanksgiving,” he responded as if it should’ve been obvious, “You’ll get to join BAUsgiving this year, it’s one of Garcia’s favorite holidays.”

Faltering, your eyes widened at his insistence, and you took a deep breath, “I’m not… I don’t want to intrude on your family time.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows incredulously, “Honey, you’re part of that family now. Besides, sometimes I think the team likes you more than me.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds angst #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #margovember #kindergarten teacher!reader

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cinnaleaf · 6 months ago

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「 Holidate | A Very Merry Footballer Ficmas 」

summary: you agree to fake date trent to save his image during the holiday season, but the lines on the contract start to blur | MDNI 18+

warnings: fake dating trope, teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, praise kink, dirty talk, alcohol consumption, language, smau, lighthearted angst, banter, kinda chaotic, **extended fam briefly mentioned are fictional 🎅🏾: sleigh got stuck in traffic so i’m late, forgive me | finale of my ficmas series wc: ~13.8k

You were halfway through your second cup of coffee, scrolling through emails like you usually did in the morning, when a peculiar email popped up.

From: Tyler Alexander-Arnold

Subject: Collaboration Proposal

You squinted at the name, thinking it sounded vaguely familiar but you weren’t sure why until it clicked. Trent Alexander-Arnold’s older brother. The footballer. You groaned, already feeling like there was going to be utter nonsense attached to the message. Athletes in your DMs and emails were nothing new, but they usually wanted shoutouts or some ‘collab’ that was a thinly veiled way of sliding into your messages for a hookup. You weren’t about to entertain a guy who thought sending his club’s match tickets was romantic.

But curiosity got the best of you:

Hi Y/N, I hope this email finds you well. My name is Tyler and I manage my brother, Trent Alexander-Arnold. PLG has followed your work for a while and we’re impressed by your authentic and engaging brand. I wanted to reach out with a unique proposal that I believe could be mutually beneficial. Trent is looking to shift his public image after recent media challenges, and we believe a collaborative effort with someone like you could help him accomplish this. The idea involves a short term arrangement posing as Trent’s girlfriend during the holidays with the possibility of extending the partnership into next year. We understand your time and reputation are valuable and will ensure all aspects of this arrangement align with your standards. Compensation and details are attached for your review. I look forward to hearing from you. Best regards, Tyler Alexander-Arnold

You stared at the screen, mouth slightly open. You had your fair share of wild pitch ideas before, but this was...new. A footballer fake boyfriend? For what? And why you?? You weren’t even the type – at least not for the girlfriend aesthetic they usually went for.

You scrolled down to the attached terms and your jaw dropped at the six figure amount of total compensation, and that wasn’t even including the performance bonus. The number was so pretty you wanted to print it out just to stare at it physically. A six month contract to ‘date’ Trent with a minimum of public appearances and the ability to control your own content. They were basically handing you all the creative freedom you demanded so often in every partnership you were ever a part of. But your pride was screaming at you. You built your brand on being authentic. Your followers trusted you because you weren’t fake. They would be able to sniff out any bullshit from you in milliseconds. You didn’t know if you could play it off that well.

Just as you were in your thoughts, doom scrolling through Instagram, you landed on a post about Trent.

SpillTheBeansUK: Trent Alexander-Arnold spotted partying at 4 am while Liverpool struggles on the pitch. Distraction much?

mintleaf: WHERE the FUCK is TYLER

realmrsTAA: he’s just having fun you miserable lot. leave my man alone 😤

YNWA_forever: he’s out clubbing while salah’s carrying the club? embarrassing look as vice cap

oh_shes_nosy: 4 am? with who though?? 👀 don’t let it be another ig baddie omg

ShutUpAndDefend: can’t defend on pitch but can defend a bottle of liquor fuck this guy

Footiebro: bruh just stay home and train. nobody asked for this shit wtf is his problem

DramaLlama12: this man said ‘defense’? never heard of her. shots at 4am? say lesssss

tumblrinagurl: need him to be so serious he’s messing up my fanfic posting schedule, follow the fucking script what the fuck

FPLQueen: this is exactly why i took him out of my fantasy team weeks ago. this is a big L

girl_shutup: not my man getting roasted while he’s just living his life 😭 y’all are haters fr

Shady_LFC: pov: you’re just a local lad from liverpool who wants to vibe

The entirety of the comments section was a battlefield. You sighed and toggled back to the email. It wasn’t your business what kind of PR storm he landed himself in, but if his camp was offering this type of money, he must’ve really fucked up.

Two days later, you found yourself in Manchester, sitting across from Tyler in a pristine meeting room at PLG. The room was sleek with chairs that looked expensive but were so uncomfortable. Tyler was polite but he didn’t look all that professional for someone who was supposed to be managing a high profile footballer.

“Uh, thanks for coming” he started, handing you a glossy folder. “I know it’s unconventional but I really think you’re the right person for this kind of arrangement.”

“Unconventional?” you raised an eyebrow, flipping through the paperwork. “Mate, this is unhinged. I’ve never had a request like this before.”

Tyler smiled sheepishly but just as he was about to respond, the door opened and Trent sauntered in. God forbid he enter the room like a normal person, he just had to be loud and obnoxious about it. He looked taller than you expected him to look, and he wore a tracksuit, totally unfashionable but it worked for him somehow. He nodded at Tyler before looking at you with an expression that was somewhere between bored and mildly annoyed.

“So this is her then, yeah?” Trent asked, as if you weren’t literally in the same room as him.

You leaned back in your chair, unimpressed. “And this is the guy who can’t keep his head on straight?”

Trent’s lips twitched as if he wanted to smile but refused to give you the satisfaction of it. Tyler exhaled, sensing there was likely more chaos to come from this little arrangement.

“Let’s stay focused” Tyler said firmly, pulling up the digital presentation he prepared. “The plan is to recalibrate Trent’s image and make him appear more serious and stable. Y/N’s audience aligns well with that narrative and her credibility can strengthen the likelihood of people believing this.”

“Sounds great” you said while closing the folder. “What’s in it for me though? Besides the headache.”

Trent snorted at your statement which earned him a glare from Tyler. “You’re getting paid aren’t you??”

“Trent.” Tyler replied sharply, then turned back to you. “There’s significant compensation and full creative control over your content. You also have the chance to build a connection with a large audience outside of your typical demographic. PLG will manage all the logistics and you don’t have to lift a finger unless you really want to.”

It was a good pitch, a lot better than you expected, but Trent’s attitude was already grating you. “I have one condition.” You snapped the folder shut dramatically and Tyler gestured for you to continue.

“I need your brother to at least pretend he’s interested in this. If he looks like he hates me in every picture my followers will clock it easily.”

Trent leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Relax. I’ll play nice.”

“You better” you shot back, grabbing your purse. “I’m not here to save your ass mate. I’m only doing it because the money is too good to pass up. And I actually know how to curate an image unlike you.”

Trent scoffed, rolling his eyes at your jab. “Curate an image? By doing what? Posting oat milk lattes and sunsets?”

“Try millions of people who actually care about what I say and what I buy” you fired back, standing up to adjust your bag strap. “But you? You’re lucky if anyone even reads your dry ass captions.”

Tyler pinched the bridge of his nose like he was deeply regretting his life choices. “Okay..enough. Both of you.” He turned to Trent with a warning expression. “Y/N is here to help you and we’re paying her a lot of money to make sure you don’t turn into a liability.”

Trent rubbed his hand over his forehead and crossed his arms, his smirk still in place. “Got it. I’ll be the perfect fake boyfriend.”

“You’re already bad at it” you muttered under your breath.

“Okay stop.” Tyler interrupted before Trent could come back with anything else. He stood up, motioning for you to sit back down. “We’ll need to go over specifics so you don’t mess up anything when this starts.”

“Right. Because I’m the one that’s gonna be a problem.” you answered back dryly, making Trent chuckle quietly. Tyler pulled up another presentation on screen with multiple bullet points and mocked up photos. “This is how this is gonna work. We’re going to start small with discreet hints like stories and maybe some pictures while you’re in Liverpool for the holidays. Make sure it’s subtle. Y/N, if your followers are eagle eyed we need to make sure it’s not too obvious at first.”

You nodded, already mentally calculating how to stage something that was lowkey but believable. “Got it. But what about him?” You jerked your thumb toward Trent, who looked like he would rather be anywhere but in the meeting room.

“He’ll match your posts,” Tyler said. “Simple stuff only though, like sharing ambiguous shots. Nothing too heavy.”

Trent scoffed and cocked his brow. “So what? Like a blurry picture of my trainers and call it a day?”

“Oh my god” you muttered, shaking your head. “You literally have no sauce. None. You’re so boring.”

“Moving on…” Tyler cut in before another argument could break out. “You’ll spend Christmas and Boxing Day with us at our family’s house in Liverpool. So you have to play the part for social media and for our parents, Marcel, and family friends. I’ll be the only one in on this.”

Trent frowned, not liking that idea at all. “Do they really need to be involved?”

“Yes.” Tyler answered matter of factly. “Because if we can’t convince them, then there’s no chance anyone else will believe it either.”

You raised your hand like you were in a classroom. “Mmk, quick question. What’s the backstory? How did we meet...how long have we been fake dating?”

Tyler pulled up a slide titled ‘Backstory’ and you glanced over it quickly, wanting to complain because it literally looked like he stole the idea from a girl blogger on the internet.

“You met at a private influencer event in London–”

Trent interrupted, “What’s an influencer event?”

You blinked at him. “Are you that fucking dumb?? There’s no way…”

“It’s like the stuff you post” Tyler deadpanned. “Clothes, photographers, influencers, models. Anyway...you hit it off, exchanged numbers and started seeing each other about four months ago and kept it lowkey because you wanted privacy.”

“Four months?” Trent questioned while frowning. “Isn’t that a little short?”

“Not when you’re a serial dating Libra…” you shot back. “And honestly the less time we pretend to have been together, the less likely we are to mess up the details.”

Tyler nodded. “Exactly that. But you still need to act like you’ve been dating for months. Know each other’s habits, inside jokes, favorite things.”

You tilted your head at Trent, narrowing your eyes. “Right. What’s your favorite food Trent?”

He looked like you asked him for the code to his house. “Um..protein I guess?”

“What? That’s not—I know you’re fucking lying” You slumped back in your chair, rubbing your temples from the regret. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Tyler ignored the tension and instead moved on. “After the holidays you’ll need to continue with the occasional post for the next month..just enough to keep the story alive online, but you don’t have to be seen with him publicly at all until February. We’ll do a hard launch in February with photos together and maybe a public appearance. After that, just a few photos online here and there.”

“And then we break up just in time for hot girl summer” you added, pretending it was a joke but it really wasn’t. You weren’t trying to let this affect your time on a yacht under the sun in Capri.

Trent smirked. “Hot girl summer??”

You gawked at him. “Meg the– wait are you serious? Are you on the internet at all??”

Tyler cut in with a firm voice. “Can you both shut up for two seconds? This will only work if it’s convincing. That means no fighting in front of people. Especially in public.” You rolled your eyes but stayed quiet, glancing over at Trent who was scrolling through his phone under the table. Probably googling himself knowing him.

After the meeting was over, you left the building with a heavy sigh that felt like it came straight from the soul. You couldn’t believe you accepted the proposal and were now under the contractual obligation to deal with Trent and his extensive attitude for the next six months. The cold air hit your face as you stepped into the car park and you pulled your purse closer as if to shield yourself from whatever chaos Trent was bound to bring in these next couple of months.

The sound of footsteps behind you made you groan internally. Speak of the devil.

“You always this fun or is it all for me?” His voice was smug, his accent rolled the words off in a way that made you have to pause just to think about what he said and that grated your nerves already. When you turned around, his hands were shoved into the pockets of his joggers, leaning against a black car. Of course he followed you out.

“Only for you mate. Consider it your welcome package..or an early Christmas gift” you deadpanned while still fumbling with your purse.

“Lucky me.” Somehow he made it sound like he meant it. Maybe he wasn’t all that clueless..or maybe he was just fucking with you.

“Don’t push it.” You yanked open the door of the hired car waiting for you, already done with his small talk.

“It won’t be so bad” he smirked, like it was some kind of joke to him. Like he wasn’t the one who needed this arrangement to clean up his trainwreck of an image.

“Just act like you’ve been somewhere before” You paused before you slid into the car. “Show up, smile, and don’t say anything stupid. That’s all I need from you. No more, no less.” You swung your legs in and reached for the door, about to close it, but his voice stopped you.

“Wait! What’s your favorite food?”

Your hand froze mid reach and you looked up to give him an unimpressed look. “Why?”

He shrugged, far too pleased with himself for someone whose job it was to not piss you off. “I think I should know. Seeing as I’m pretending to be the love of your life and all.”

The sheer audacity of this man was maddening. “Love of my life?? Please” you snorted. “I’m only mildly okay with you right now. I tolerate you. That’s it.”

“Ok. Fine. So what is it then?” he pressed, enjoying the way you rolled your eyes at nearly everything coming out of his mouth.

“Shrimp fried rice” you snapped, yanking the door shut. Through the tinted window you saw him grin and you shook your head, slumping into your seat as the car pulled off. You weren’t sure if it was the money, the challenge, or the audacity of Trent that made you agree to any of this.

Whatever it was, you knew it was going to be the longest six months of your life.

You made it to Manchester two days early to ‘acclimate’ as Tyler called it, but in all actuality you needed time to figure out how to make this situation feel less like reality TV. Posting subtle hints on Instagram was your first step. Just enough to start the speculation without turning everything into a circus. Your first story was a panoramic view of Manchester from your hotel room, where you left a cute caption about not being in London or Los Angeles for once. The comments rolled in nearly immediately. People wanted to know why you were in Manchester for the holidays, and whether it was for a brand deal, or a new beau. Your next story was a picture of your luggage, strategically unzipped to show a small piece of a Liverpool scarf tucked inside. You didn’t even caption it, you just let everyone draw their own conclusions.

Later that week, you were in the passenger seat of Trent’s car as he drove the both of you to Liverpool. It was silent, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, the silence was just there. You had your airpods in, half tuned into a podcast, while he had one hand on the wheel and the other scrolling through a Spotify playlist, probably looking for some stupid Drake song to play.

“This is your plan then?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

You pulled out one airpod and glanced at him. “What?”

“This instagram stuff.” He gestured toward your phone. “I saw your story. Not bad. Kind of dramatic though..don’t you think?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Says the one having a PR disaster so terrible he had get his brother to hire a fake girlfriend for him.”

Trent smirked, turning his eyes back to the road. “Ah, fair. But a Liverpool scarf is a lot. That’s gonna cause some shit.”

“That’s the entire point. My followers will be on it in minutes and by the time we show up at your parents’, half the internet will have think pieces about how we’re madly in love.”

“Madly in love?” He shook his head, laughing. “That’s overkill.”

You shrugged, looking through your camera roll for your next post. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

The Alexander-Arnold house was exactly what you imagined. It wasn’t obnoxiously huge but it was comfortable and cozy. The home’s exterior was decorated with Christmas lights and a wreath hung on the front door that looked handmade.

You stood on the doorstep with bated breath. Trent was next to you with his hands shoved in his pockets, as unbothered as ever. If he was nervous about selling this relationship to his family, it didn’t really show.

“Ready?” he asked with a faint smirk.

“Are you?” you cocked your brow. “I’m not the one who waited until two days ago to mention I existed.” Trent winced but didn’t respond and instead pressed the doorbell. You didn’t know why he did that considering he could’ve just walked in. Maybe he was nervous. Either way, him not taking the responsibility over the fact that his mum would probably clock both of you had you annoyed. The door opened shortly after and his mum stood there, all smiles and festive. There was a look in her eye that told you she wasn’t buying any of this nonsense from the start. “Oh! You must be Y/N!” she greeted warmly, stepping forward and pulling you into a hug before you could even say hello. The hug felt genuine enough, but it also had that undertone of ‘lets see whats really going on here’.

You blinked, trying not to overthink things. “Hiii, so nice to meet you Mrs. Alex–”

“Dianne. Just call me Dianne” she interrupted, pulling back but keeping her hands on your arms while looking at you. “No need to be formal. You’re family for the holidays.”

Family. Right. That’s what this was. You were Trent’s ‘girlfriend’. You forced a smile, ignoring the way your stomach was turning as a result of her response. Trent’s dad appeared behind his mum and he gave you a firm handshake, but his expression was less warm and more reserved.

“Welcome. Glad you’re here to join us” he said simply.

“Thanks for having me” you replied, trying to keep your tone polite but still warm.

Marcel was leaning against the staircase in the hall with his arms crossed, displaying a shit eating grin plastered across his face. “So” he began, dragging the word out as he straightened up and walked over with a stroll. “You’re the random girlfriend that’s popped up out of nowhere.”

You felt your pulse spike but you forced yourself to laugh. “Yeah..I guess that’s me.”

“Hmm” he hummed, tilting his head. “Funny you’ve never been mentioned before until two days ago. Not even once.”

Your smile tightened and you glanced at Trent, hoping he would swoop in and save the day with something clever but he just stood there looking like he was vaguely amused by the whole thing.

“Marcel, don’t be rude,” Dianne warned lightly.

“I’m not!” Marcel kissed his teeth. “I’m just saying it’s mad he’s never mentioned her and now she’s here for Christmas. I don’t know this girl..never seen her a day in my life.” He turned back to you with a cheeky grin. “How’d you meet? Paris? Milan? Ibiza??”

You really wanted to knock Trent upside his head at this point but instead you gave a sweet smile. “At a private influencer event actually.”

Dianne laughed, knowing her son wasn’t serious enough to attend a private event like that. She looked at him, trying to figure out if all of this was bullshit. Marcel didn’t even try to hide his disbelief. “Yeah, sure. What was the event called?”

Your stomach dropped and you went wide eyed. You could’ve googled literally anything about Trent’s past couple of months to make this more believable, but you didn’t and clearly neither had he. You paused to think for a little bit, which was just long enough for Marcel to attack.

“Yeah that’s what I thought” he smirked.

“Alright that’s enough” Dianne interrupted, but it was clear she was waiting for that answer as well. “Marcel leave the poor girl alone.”

Michael cleared his throat and stepped in. “Dinner’s in an hour.”

By the time Christmas dinner rolled around, you sat down next to Trent, almost too distracted by the food to notice the tension brewing at the table, but then his mum’s voice cut through your distraction like a blade wrapped in sugar.

“So Y/N..” She handed you a gravy boat with a fake smile. “How long have you two been together?”

“Four months” you answered with ease, remembering the backstory presentation. You looked at Trent for a brief moment to make sure he was following along.

“Three” Trent said through a mouthful of roasted potatoes while not even looking up.

You scrunched your face, blinking back disbelief. “Four.”

“No it’s three” he insisted, frowning as he reached for some rice. “September, right?”

“August” you corrected him through clenched teeth and kicked him under the table. His fork froze mid air and he finally looked at you.

“August?”

“Yes” you hissed, trying to keep the forced smile on your face while glancing back at his mum, who was watching like a hawk. “The end of August.”

Trent shrugged, and went back to eating the food from his plate. “That’s basically September.”

“It’s really not.”

Dianne’s eyes darted between both of you with a smile still there, but curiosity very obviously piqued. “Strange..” she started lightly. “I don’t remember hearing about you in August or September. He didn’t mention you until just a few days ago.” Marcel almost choked on his drink from laughing, and even their dad chuckled to himself before taking a sip of his drink.

“I didn’t want to jinx it that’s all” Trent said casually while leaning back in his chair, still popping food into his mouth.

You glared at him. “Jinx it?”

“Yeah” he smirked, looking at you. “Didn’t wanna rush things y’know?”

You bit down on the side of your cheek to keep from snapping at him. He wasn’t following the script at all. He was barely trying, mostly hoping to coast on charm like it would cover all the gaping holes in your ‘love’ story.

“Right…” Dianne slowly spoke while arching her brow just enough to make you feel nervous. “So where did this event happen again?”

“London” you answered fast before Trent found a way to ruin that too, but he answered at the same time as you, with a completely different answer.

“Paris.”

Marcel snorted into his drink, laughing so hard he started bumping the table and made the cutlery rattle. Across from you, their mum had a smile still on her face but the look on her face drilled right into your badly built backstory. She didn’t say anything, but you knew she had more questions when she eyed Michael with a knowing glance. You turned to Trent, narrowing your eyes at him and gave him another kick under the table that landed on his shin. He jumped forward and dropped his fork on his plate.

“London” you repeated in a tight voice with a smile that was more of a grimace. “We met in London at the influencer event.”

Trent nodded, rubbing his shin but still smirking, not taking any of this seriously. “Yeah London. The city with all the..... influencer stuff.”

Marcel nearly slid out of his chair from failing to keep his laughs at an appropriate volume at the table. Dianne looked at him with a warning but it didn’t bother him in the slightest. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand with an entertained look on his face. “Oh yeah?” he said grinning. “Since you’re so in love, what’s her favorite food then?”

You could see the gears in Trent’s head trying their very best to come up with an answer while he chewed his food. “Uhhh....” He drew the word out for so long you wanted to answer for him. “Shrimp fried rice?” You let out a soft exhale, surprised he actually listened in the car park. Marcel wasn’t impressed and tipped his head back to cackle.

“Took you long enough to answer.”

By this point, the entire family was trying to hide their laughs from the absurdity of the situation. Their dad even cracked a smile and shook his head as he passed a plate of roasted veggies to Marcel.

“Trent” Dianne dabbed her mouth with a napkin, still smiling. “You’re absolutely hopeless when it comes to relationships.”

“I’m not hopeless” he contested, glaring at Marcel who was still in stitches over the whole ordeal.

“Oh, love” you said sweetly, leaning in close enough to lower your voice. “You really are.”

He tilted his head, cutting his eyes at you but he had a playful look in his eye at the same time. “Careful. You’re supposed to be in love with me, remember?”

You smirked, raising your glass like you were doing a toast. “I must be a really great actress then.”

The sound of the door opening saved you from whatever dumb thing Trent was about to say. Tyler walked in a casual rush, juggling a reusable tote bag and his phone. “Sorry I’m late.” He slid in the chair next to Michael. His wife wasn’t far behind and had a baby on her hip, smiling to make up for Tyler’s disheveled state.

“Tyler!” Dianne exclaimed, momentarily distracted by her eldest child. “We were just about to have dessert. There’s plenty of food left, let me fix you a plate.”

“No need” Tyler replied while waving her off with a smile. His gaze shifted to you first, and then Trent. “You two alright?”

“Great.” Trent answered, dragging the word out in a very unbothered tone.

“Fantastic” you added, side eyeing Trent.

“Good..” Tyler clapped his hands together. “Because I brought something to make this whole thing even better.” From the tote bag, Tyler pulled out two neatly wrapped presents and handed one to both of you under the table with a wink.

“What’s this?” you asked in a whisper, frowning while trying to discreetly look at the tag.

“Just go with it,” Tyler whispered back. “It strengthens the story. Just act surprised.”

Trent shook the box in his hands like it came from the North Pole, fresh off the sleigh. “What is it?” he asked, too loud for the covert operation Tyler planned.

Marcel’s eyes lit up immediately. “Hey, what’s all that?”

“It’s nothing” you glared at Trent and then Marcel. “Just something we brought for each other.”

Dianne’s attention turned back to you and you felt her sizing up the gifts that had randomly appeared all of a sudden. “How thoughtful…”

You reluctantly tore into the wrapping paper. Inside, there was a Diptyque gift set and a pair of designer sunglasses from Jacques Marie Mage that were so exclusive they had yet to hit most influencer’s feeds. It was perfectly on brand and very believable. Trent unwrapped his gift with the same flair of a child. Inside was a custom bag from Goyard with his initials engraved, and a high tech Hypervolt massage gun that hadn’t been released yet.

“Nice” Trent exclaimed while holding both up like it was a trophy. “You have good taste baby.”

Baby?

The table paused collectively. Dianne’s eyes froze on both of you, Marcel peered at you over the rim of his glass, Michael leaned back with a curious look on his face. Tyler gave you a subtle thumbs up from across the table and you wanted to strangle him.

“Baby?” you repeated in a confused tone. “Where did that come from?”

“Just felt right. Don’t you think?” Trent shrugged with a smirk.

You clenched your teeth, glancing over at the baby that was now side eyeing you too. You gave her a sweet smile and she frowned at you more. “Oh it’s perfect.”

Michael broke the silence with a hearty laugh. “Well..it’s nice to see you two so close.”

“Oh, we’re close” you said quickly, giving Trent a look that could kill.

“Basically inseparable” he added, winking as he set the gifts on the table. Tyler cleared his throat to try and get the conversation back on track. “So, Mum..what’s for dessert?”

Thank god Dianne didn’t press any further after Tyler’s distraction, but you knew this was far from over. When no one was watching, Trent leaned toward you in a low and smug voice. “Relax. You’re doing great.”

You didn’t even bother looking at him because you were so annoyed.

“Stick to the script or I swear I’ll throw one of these Diptyque candles at your head.”

Trent chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Looking forward to it…..baby.”

By the time dinner was over, you walked upstairs to kick off your heels and Trent had already claimed the bathroom. You could hear the sound of running water and his terrible singing drifting through the door as you sat on the bed, laying out your carefully curated skincare routine: cleansing oil for your makeup removal, glycerin cleanser for moisture, red light therapy, centella toner, hyaluronic acid serum, eye serum, ceramidin moisturizer, a spritzer of atobarrier cream mist, and a sleeping lip mask. You lined them up on the table like little soldiers. When Trent finally came out of the shower, his towel was wrapped around his hips and he paused mid step, staring at your collection of bottles and jars.

“What the hell is all of that?” he asked, pointing with his toothbrush still in hand.

“It’s called flawless, glass skin” you shot back, reaching for the oil cleanser and heading to the bathroom. He leaned against the wall with a smirk. “You look like a chemist.”

“Don’t knock it til you try it” you ignored him as you massaged the oil cleanser into your skin. “This is why I look like this” you gestured to your face, “and you’re just...you know.”

Cute? He was cute. But there was no need to gas him up.

“Just what?”

“Nevermind.” you muttered, grabbing your face towel.

“Nah. Finish it. Go on” he teased, stepping gloser. “Already halfway there anyway.”

You glared at him. “If you don’t get out of my face…” Trent turned to adjust the towel around his hip and it slipped. The towel fell on the floor and his dick was in full display. Not bad honestly – thick with a slight curve that was...kind of aesthetically pleasing. Your mouth dropped before you could realize and you turned around so fast you almost knocked over a serum bottle.

“Oh my god! Trent!”

“What?” he asked, way too casual for someone who just flashed you. “It’s just skin. You’re acting like you’ve never seen one before.”

“Not the point!” you yelled, keeping your eyes firmly on the wall while he laughed. Eventually, he bent down to grab the towel and you could hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke again.

“Chill. Don’t act like you weren’t curious about it anyway. Gonna post my dick report anonymously online now?”

You turned back to glare at him now that he was safely wrapped back in the towel. “Please. I’m sure the girls you were with at 4am have already done that for you. Just..don’t let it happen again or I’m actually going to gouge my eyes out.”

He grinned at you, strolling over to the bed like he didn’t just traumatize you. “You’re dramatic. It’s cute.”

After the dick debacle, you climbed into bed, muttering under your breath about boundaries and respect. Trent flopped down next to you while scrolling through his phone without a care in the world.

“You’re actually so annoying” you said while setting up the perfect soft launch shot.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one a few times,” he replied without looking up.

You ignored him to focus on the picture. It was supposed to be subtle, yet strategic: your skincare bottles glowed under the warm light from the lamp on the bedside table. In the background, Trent was slightly blurred from the setting, yet identifiable as he laid on the bed, legs crossed with his phone in one hand. The caption you added: ‘never let santa stop this slay, skincare always 🎄✨’. By the time you posted the story, your phone was already pinging because SpillTheBeansUK had posted it with a quickness.

SpillTheBeansUK: Who’s the mystery man in Y/N’s background? The skincare? Impeccable. The vibes? Cozy. But that ARM…who’s claiming it? 🕵️‍♀️

ynstan99: WAIT. WHO IS THAT IN THE BACKGROUND?

liverpoolbabe01: that’s defo liverpool and that’s trent’s fam’s house i recognize it bc my mum’s cousin’s best friend’s sister’s brother in law lives just across the road omg she bagged a footballer???

nosygirlfc: GIRL WE KNOW THAT’S TRENT WE’RE NOT DUMB

“What are you posting?” Trent asked, glancing over at your screen.

“Work” you replied simply, turning your phone toward him. “You see that? That’s how you soft launch.”

He studied the story for a bit and nodded while smirking. “Not bad. My turn.”

“You’re posting something?”

“Yup” he replied plainly, scrolling through his camera roll. Minutes later he posted a random photo of his feet propped on a coffee table next to the Christmas tree downstairs, with your phone case barely visible at the edge of the frame that he took earlier. His caption was lame and boring: Holiday vibes.

“That’s so pathetic” you shook your head.

“It’s subtle,” he argued, leaning back against the pillows.

“It’s lazy” you argued back, setting your phone off to the side.

“Lazy works.” He turned off the light, smirking. You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond and pulled the blanket up while turning away from him. The room went quiet before he broke the silence with his sarcasm just as you were starting to drift off to sleep. “Night, my love.”

You should’ve known Boxing Day wasn’t going to be about lounging around in pajamas and eating leftovers while scrolling through Instagram in peace. Not when Tyler was involved.

The man had sent a fully detailed itinerary to both of you at an ungodly hour that morning, outlining what he dramatically called ‘The Boxing Day Stroll’. The plan was to head to Manchester, walk around casually, and let the pre-arranged paparazzi do their thing. Of course it wouldn’t be all that easy because the man had already messed up damn near everything else in this facade.

“Just act natural” Tyler said while driving you over to the staged area. “And look like you can’t get enough of each other.” As the car pulled to a stop, you glanced over at Trent who was slouched in his seat, lazily scrolling through a dating app on his phone when he was supposed to be fake dating you.

“You do remember what we’re doing, right?” you asked.

“Walking” he said without looking up.

“Walking and looking like we’re deeply, madly, dangerously in love” you corrected him. “So don’t glare, or pout, and don’t say anything idiotic when someone asks what my name is.”

Trent finally looked up and his lips curved into that same infuriating smirk that pissed you off. “You’re very bossy, you know that?”

“And you’re very bad at following directions.” you argued back.

“Relax baby. I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

“Don’t call me baby” you muttered while pulling the car door open before he could irritate you anymore than he already had.

The city was packed with people entering storefronts, couples and families carrying bags from Boxing Day sales, and kids running around screaming from sugar rush. The holiday vibes were still in full force and picturesque enough for you to almost forget the cameras until you heard the sound of a shutter. You tensed and looked over to the source of the sound but Trent was still unbothered by it, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He must’ve done these before. He annoyingly looked good even though all he did was throw on whatever was closest. Meanwhile, your fit was carefully curated and you wore a cute co-ord jumper over a wool coat, jeans, chocolate brown booties with a ribbed fold over knit fabric, a crossbody bag, and assorted jewelry from PR packages you received.

“Hold my hand” you whispered through clenched teeth with a frozen smile while passing a group of shoppers.

“What?”

“Hold. My. Hand.” you repeated with a forced expression while waving at an eager little boy who looked more interested in Trent than you. He rolled his eyes but reached for your hand. His palms were warm and comforting, annoyingly enough.

“Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” you replied through your fake smile, tilting your head to pretend you were saying something cute instead of wanting to knock him upside his head. As you walked down the street, you could see the paps positioning themselves and whispering about different angles. You stopped in front of a shop window that had the most gorgeous jewellery and pretended to admire a necklace while pulling Trent closer.

“That one’s nice” you pointed to a random piece on display.

“Eh. Too shiny.” he glanced at it for all of two seconds.

You side eyed him. “Too shiny?? It’s a necklace.”

“Yeah. It looks tacky as fuck” he smirked.

“You think that’s tacky?” you cracked back. “You don’t even know how to dress. You have multiple pairs of the same trainers and tracksuits. That’s tacky.”

“Nah. They’re not all the same. Some of them are for athletic wear and the others are for leisure. There’s a difference.”

You almost laughed but quickly covered it with a cough instead. This man was ridiculous in his own way, and it was kind of endearing. When you turned the corner to a quieter street, the paps pretended to be hidden behind strategically placed stalls, waiting for the perfect shot. “Okay..” you muttered, leaning into Trent just enough to be believable. “Let’s just make this quick. Look at me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“Not too hard to do. You’re easy on the eyes.”

You lost your steps for a little and muttered, “Don’t overdo it,” brushing a nonexistent strand of hair from your face to behind your ear. “Just be calm.”

“I’m calm” he countered, lightly grazing his thumb over your knuckles. “You’re really committed to this shit, huh?”

“Well..your management team is paying me for this so yeah..I am” you tightly smiled. The cameras kept taking photos but you didn’t look toward them this time so that they could get exactly what was needed. The pictures hit the interwebs almost instantly and they were good. There was a candid of you mid laugh as Trent looked at you with a soft expression and melting grin. The second one was a close up of your hands intertwined while you leaned into him. The angle it was taken in made it look like you were sharing a private moment in the middle of a crowded street. The final picture was of Trent breaking off a piece of chocolate and feeding it to you while smiling in a cozy corner of a small shop. That wasn’t planned though, the joy from that was the real deal.

Before you made it back to the car, Tyler was already in the group chat, hyping both of you up. The pictures were reposted by SpillTheBeans too:

SpillTheBeansUK: Trent Alexander-Arnold spotted out with influencer Y/N L/N looking very cozy in Manchester on Boxing Day. Rumour has it, this love story started a few months ago...Any thoughts, Beans? 👀

ynstan99: sobbing, crying, throwing up. LOOK AT THEM

whatRUonabt: PR but i can’t even hate she’s gorg and they look good

reds4vr_: not convinced after that stunt he pulled last week during match. this is obviously fake news to get us off his back

chirpchirp: she’s just like me fr but i can hold his hand better footiebro: she’s leng but i hope bro isn’t serious he’s got too many distractions

giseleeee_: i give it 3 months before they announce a break up this is fake as fuck

plsbereal: imagine him holding her camera silently while she films vlogs and ootd’s i’m screaming 🥺

YNsquad: i can’t wait until she posts her next chaotic story and he’s in the background. confirm it queen!!

You scrolled through all the chaotic comments, shaking your head as Trent leaned in to peek at your screen. “What are they saying?” he asked, more invested than he wanted to let on.

“My fans think you’re obsessed with me” you held back your grin while showing him the comments.

“Nah. Other way around I think” he smirked, cocking his brow.

“Whatever” you rolled your eyes, still scrolling through your phone as the car pulled away.

By the time midweek rolled around, you were wondering why you agreed to any of this. Sitting in the box at Anfield felt like you were walking into enemy territory. This was...cute, but not really your vibe. The launch strategy was working so Tyler insisted you show up to keep up this festive fairytale. The box was filled with WAGS and family members dressed up. You weren’t entirely out of place, your fit was eating theirs up rightfully so, but you still felt like a fish out of water every time someone looked at you for too long. You tried to make the most out of it and half an hour into the match, you posted a curated story of a video on the field, zoomed in just enough to show everyone on the field in clear view with the caption: not usually my vibe but i’ll allow it ⚽

The second slide was a chaotic close up of your freshly done nails in an almond shape holding a drink. The third was a shaky clip of the crowd cheering just as Trent assisted with a goal. It didn’t take long for you know who to start some mess.

SpillTheBeansUK: Y/N posts from the box after her Boxing Day photoshoot with TAA! Official or not? Let the investigations begin 🕵️‍♀️

loverpoolluvr: she’s just posting random stories. y’all are reading too much into it

overlibramen: how are you lot defending this? man has a new personality every week. let’s bffr

ynbabesfc: nails immaculate and she’s living rent free in your head and trent’s. COPE

sleuthysleuth: the timeline makes sense i’ve got the receipts and it tracks

trentsgfwannabe: i bet she doesn’t even like football and he deserves someone who can actually appreciate the sport

By the time you and Trent made it back to the house that night, you were drained to hell. The day was filled with forced smiles, cameras, and a lot of online chaos that you tried not to look at but ended up scrolling through anyway.

“You okay?” Trent asked in a softer voice than you expected for someone who supposedly didn’t care.

“I’m fine..” you mumbled while grabbing an oversized hoodie you borrowed from him earlier in the week and some pajama shorts. “I just feel like I’m so out of my element right now.”

Trent had already claimed his spot on the bed and was scrolling through his phone with one hand and eating crisps out of the other. “You’re not that bad at it” he replied, looking up at you as you climbed on your side of the bed.

“Wow thanks” you responded dryly and grabbed one of the snacks he was holding out for you. You were both on your phones, scrolling through various apps while crisp bags crinkled noisily through the silence.

“…Do you ever get nervous or scared?” you asked to break through the silence.

“Nervous or scared about what?” He set his phone down, looking at you with a confused look.

“Of losing yourself with all the fame. It’s like.. I’ve built this whole brand online on my own and I have an audience that trusts me a lot because my whole thing is based on being real with them. But this is....not real. And it feels wrong.” You gestured at him and then you. “I’m scared it’s going to ruin things for me.”

Trent nodded at you and took a deep breath. “Yeah, I get it. Everything I do on or off the pitch always feels like it’s for someone else. I don’t always know what I want. And I change my mind a lot.”

You looked at him in surprise, taken aback by what you assumed was honesty. “Really?”

“Yeah..” he leaned back against the headboard. “Feels like I’m a product and not a person sometimes. Sometimes I rebel every once in a while but I guess I took it too far this time.”

For the first time, you saw him as Trent and not some footballer with a PR disaster on his hands. “Well...at least we have this to bond over. Being fake together.”

He laughed then grinned at you with a wide smile. “Yeah...something like that.”

“It’s kind of weird though. Because for something so fake...it’s starting to feel like it’s...not. Since we’re together all the time and whatnot.”

Trent cocked a brow at your last statement. You opened your mouth to backtrack and say something snarky or petty, but your phone rang against the bedside table. The screen lit up with a facetime call and your stomach dropped when you saw the name.

Romeo Cruz.

Romeo was a rising singer in LA that had all the charm, charisma, and a voice that made every girl want to melt. He slid into your DMs months ago, and while it wasn’t anything super serious, there was definitely flirting going on, and it was FUN. You glanced at Trent who was also looking at your screen.

“Who’s that?”

You reached for your phone with hesitation. “Uhh..just someone I know. No biggie.”

Trent leaned back on the headboard with a clenched jaw. “Yeah? Someone important enough to facetime you at nearly midnight?”

You rolled your eyes and ignored him, answering the call anyway. “Romeo! Hey.” On the screen, Romeo appeared with tousled curly hair, a signature smile with dimples, a sharp jawline, and beautifully glowing, sun kissed skin. “Hey beautiful” he dripped in his velvety, deep and smooth voice. “Just checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Yeah, sorry” your tone was a bit light, a little flirty, but you were nervous because Trent was right there, burning his eyes into the side of your face. “Life has been....busy. A little chaotic but you know me, I love that.”

Romeo noticed the tension inflicted in your voice and cocked his head back from the screen a bit in concern. “You good? Where are you? LA or London?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer because Trent reached over and took the phone from your hands like it was his own phone. “She’s busy right now.” He answered for you in a flat tone, holding up the phone so Romeo could see him and his annoying smirk.

“Uh.. and who are you?”

“Her boyfriend,” Trent replied smoothly. “Thanks for the check in mate but she’s good. We’re in the middle of something.” He paused for the drama of it all and then looked at you.

Romeo had a look of disbelief and irritation showing on his face. “Well tell her to call when she’s–”

Trent didn’t let him finish and took the opportunity to cup your chin with one hand, pulling you into a kiss. For something that was fake it felt way too convincing. You felt butterflies in your stomach as his lips met yours. He didn’t pull away immediately, but when he did you were dazed and out of breath. Too stunned to speak. Romeo saw it all and Trent’s face lit up with the cockiest grin ever.

“Yeah I doubt that mate. She’ll be too tired.” He hit the button to end the call.

“What the fuck was that?” you stared at him, your mouth agape in shock.

“What?”

“What????” you repeated, the volume in your voice increasing. “You just kissed me and basically told him I’m taken..like I’m your actual girlfriend! What the fuck??”

Trent popped a crisp into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously and meeting your death glare with a calm look, then he shrugged. “Just following the script, remember?”

By New Years Eve, your public side of the bargain was winding down, but Trent was still annoying you more than ever, even after the kiss. The sound of him chewing in your ear was still echoing days later as you stood in front of the mirror of the hotel, adjusting your ponytail again. Your hair was slicked back with the ends flipped up in soft curls that bounced whenever you moved. You had two loose strands in the front. Your followers knew those strands as your ‘slut strands’ – a term you coined because whenever you had those two strands framing your face, things always ended up a little wild. Between the alcohol flowing at the NYE party, the DJ, and Trent by your side, you knew something was bound to happen. You were always a Chatty Cathy on the juice, and the strands were an unofficial warning label that signified you were about to be everyone’s best friend, or a major problem. You adjusted your dress and gave yourself a final look in the mirror. You were trying to give unbothered girlie with a hint of ruining someone’s life one drink at a time. You grinned at yourself, knowing you looked like you were that girl™.

Just as you were about to spritz your perfume, Tyler texted the group chat:

Start heading to the club. The event is popping off atm. Pap friendly corner is just outside near the bar’s exit so make it count.

You rolled your eyes in annoyance. Of course Tyler felt the need to micromanage the party from a distance while acting like he wasn’t the most hands off manager in the industry. He could barely schedule Trent’s interviews on time but was now suddenly invested in making this fake relationship seem so solid. You just wanted to have a good time and be free of this nonsense publically like your contract originally stated.

“I can’t believe all three of the Alexander-Arnold boys are this annoying” you muttered under your breath while putting your heels on.

Your contract made it clear that New Year’s Eve was the grand finale for the public part of the facade. After tonight, you wouldn’t have to parade around looking like you were madly in love anymore. The plan was to silently pull back and make the relationship seem more private with the occasional story, casual mentions, and reposts every once in a while until June, where you would announce a breakup and be free of him for good. You grabbed your purse and headed for the door to meet Trent downstairs. If this was going to be the last time you had to fake it, you were going out with a bang..and you were going to have some fun with it too just to celebrate the end of this mess.

When you reached the lobby of the hotel, Trent was waiting for you and scrolling through his phone. He looked good, his trim was crisp, his fit wasn’t terrible, and he smelled amazingly good. He lowered his phone, eyeing you from head to toe with a clenched jaw.

“Damn” he voiced involuntarily.

You tried to avoid smirking and adjusted the strap of your dress but a smirk still appeared anyway. “That’s it? Just damn? I put a lot of effort in for this look…”

He licked over his lips and finally looked you in the eye. “Then you already know how you look.”

“You’re lucky I’m feeling great or else I’d make you say it with more enthusiasm.”

“Trust me” he started, running a hand over his head. “I’m enthusiastic but you don’t need a bigger head than you already have.”

You rolled your eyes and brushed past him to head to the car waiting outside, your heels tapping against the marbled lobby floor. “Shut up and come on. I can’t deal with you while sober tonight. I need a drink.”

By the time you made it to the club, it was already pure chaos. The bass was so heavy you could feel it in your chest as you walked through the VIP area. There were strobe lights flashing around, illuminating random moments of chaos. A group of footballers were trying to outdrink each other in a booth stacked with empty Clase Azul bottles, an influencer in a bright dress was dancing on a table with a sparkler in one hand, and a model was yelling at a bartender because she couldn’t find a tiny baggie of white substance she drunkenly left at the bar who knows how long ago.

When you and Trent walked in, heads turned and whispers cut through the air. His hand brushed against your back to keep up with the facade. The scent in the air was...interesting. It was a blend of liquor, sweat, perfume and the faint tang of weed smoke. You knew tonight was going to leave a mark whether it be on your reputation, your conscience, or both.

“Where’s Tyler’s pap friendly corner again?” you asked, leaning into Trent so you wouldn’t have to yell over the blaring music.

“Near the bar. But let’s grab a drink first.”

You followed him as the hem of your dress brushed against your thigh. The bar was wild. People were pushing against each other like they would run out of alcohol, or maybe they just really wanted the Getty Images watermark with a top face card photo to memorialize the end of the year. The bartender was busy juggling a bottle of Hennessy with one hand, and pouring multiple shots with the other hand, all while someone was yelling for espresso martinis from the corner.

“Champagne? Martini?” Trent asked, turning to you as you perched against the counter with your hips leaning into the wood.

You shook your head. “A round of shots from top shelf and a coconut water.”

“Uh...that’s specific.” He turned to the bartender, ordering for you and himself.

“It’s so I can get fucked up but still stay hydrated from the electrolytes.” Your hands grazed over the two strands of your hair, very diva like. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s my whole thing..it even went viral on tiktok. Don’t knock it til you try it.”

The drinks arrived quicker than you expected and you downed a couple shots immediately in between sipping the coconut water. Trent nursed his vodka soda with lime, scanning the room with his eyes.

“Don’t be boring” you said, gently shoving two shots closer to him.

“I’m not boring” he replied, eyeing the shots and the way your nails grazed against the top surface of the bar.

“Then prove it. Drink the shots and come dance with me.”

He shook his head before reaching for the shots and downing them both. “I don’t dance.”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up and live a little” you quickly finished the last of your shots and coconut water and then grabbed his hand, leading him to the dancefloor as the curls in your ponytail bounced between the bass reverberating through the club.

The crowd on the dance floor was just as chaotic in a sea of gyrating bodies and heat. You were too tipsy to be sure of what the DJ switched the song to, but it felt seductive and made you sway your hips automatically. The music took control before your brain could even think about it. You turned toward Trent, moving your body to the beat with ease while he watched. He was locked in, staring at you so hard it almost looked like he didn’t realize he was eyeing you like that.

“You’re really not gonna dance?” you teased, tilted your head as you stepped closer with a flirty smirk.

“I told you I don’t–”

“Shut up Trent” you playfully grabbed his hand and pulled him further into the crowd. “Just dance with me.”

As the alcohol coursed through you, you let your hips find the beat, rolling against him with just enough pressure to test him. You felt him tense up behind you, holding his hands just above your waist like he didn’t know whether to grab you or run away.

“Aren’t you Jamaican?” you yelled over your shoulder with a smirk. “Just relax and let the beat find you.”

He let out an exhale and finally rested his hand on your hip. You arched back a little, grinding into him more and his other hand landed on your ass. His body was betraying him and his breath quickened, trying to think of anything else but your ass grinding against his dick so he wouldn’t get hard. His jaw was tight but then his lips parted when his eyes dropped to the way you were rolling your hips against him. He was barely blinking as he stared. Trent’s grip tightened just enough for you to become aware of it.

“You like dancing, don’t you?” you teased again.

“This isn’t dancing.”

“No?” you dared, grinding against him harder. “Then what is it?”

Trent’s fingers dug into your waist and pulled you up against him. His head dipped closer to your neck and he bit his lip like he was fighting the urge to kiss you there. The lines were quickly blurring in the fog of alcohol and you weren’t sure who was pushing harder to cross them. His breath was hot against your neck as you danced up against him. You felt something stiffen against his lower half but you were so tipsy you thought it was his phone. Trent abruptly pulled back, letting go of you as you stood there confused.

“I need a drink.” He turned back toward the crowd, leaving you standing there trying to catch your breath. Your heart was pounding and your body was bouncing with energy that had nowhere to go thanks to the shots and coconut water you had. Before you knew it, a voice yelled your name, but it wasn’t Trent.

It was Levi Colwill.

“Ahh, Y/N! Trent’s better half” Levi slid into Trent’s place, handing you a shot. “Got your favorite.”

You handed it back to him, forcing a smile. “Levi…”

“You look like you could use some better company” he eyed the outline of your body. “Not that Trent’s bad but..you know I’ll dance with you. Just saying.”

You rolled your eyes but still laughed at him...because you were drunk. “Still stirring the pot like always.”

“You know that’s what I do” He downed the shot you refused. “What you been up to? I know you’re exhausted pretending to be with Trent.”

The alcohol made you bolder. “You get me! He’s so annoying sometimes.”

Levi stepped closer, yelling into your ear over the music. “You know where to find me. Send me a DM when it’s all–”

“Levi” Trent slurred in an irritated tone. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Levi shook his head, sipping the drink in hand and then smirked at Trent. “I was just saying hello.”

Trent gripped your wrist firmly but not painful as he pulled you away from Levi and into a quieter corner of the club, which just so happened to be near the bar’s exit where the paps were waiting for the perfect moment to take pictures.

“What the hell was that?” you hissed, yanking your arm free.

“What was what?” Trent snapped back.

“Dragging me away like some jealous boyfriend. That’s not part of the script Trent.”

Trent’s jaw clenched and he stepped closer, leaning into your ear. “You were enjoying that too much. We’re supposed to be together..you can’t flirt with other guys here.”

You laughed, not believing your ears. “Are you dumb?! You walked away like you couldn’t handle it! I’m just trying to have fun tonight.”

“I walked away because you were making me hard.” he shot back in a drunken state, not realizing what he just admitted to.

Your brain short circuited under the fog of alcohol as the music thumped around you. All you could focus on was the thought of Trent standing in front of you, hard, because you danced on him. Then your brain took it a step further and you remembered the night his towel slipped. You had a split glimpse of him on soft and now your tipsy mind was wondering what it looked like on hard. You felt the heat from your cheeks trail down slowly, making your mouth feel dry and knees weak. You were trying to think of literally anything else but the alcohol coursing through your veins wasn't doing you any favors and neither was the way he was looking at you. Trent’s teeth pulled at his bottom lip like he was fighting his thoughts too. You shifted closer to him, playing with a strand of hair framing your face.

“Trent..” you began in a whisper. You didn’t know if you wanted to apologize, flirt, or tell him to just kiss you. His head dipped toward yours as his lips inched toward yours slowly. You were leaning in without even realizing it and his hands hovered over your waist hesitantly. Your eyes dropped to his lips and you saw him lick his lips like he was priming them.

“Y/N!”

A shrill voice broke through whatever was about to happen and you blinked back as someone grabbed your arm. It was another influencer you knew from a brand event but you couldn’t remember her name in your drunken state. She grinned and hugged you like she didn’t just ruin the most dramatic non-kiss of your life.

“Oh my days, girl I haven’t seen you in forever!” she yelled, dragging you toward a VIP booth that was probably just as chaotic as the rest of the club. Trent stood there with an unreadable expression watching as you were pulled away. He turned his gaze to the paparazzi outside who were very pissed they didn’t get their perfect shot.

Just as the countdown to midnight was about to begin, you found your way back to Trent. The club was louder than ever as the final minutes of the year ticked away. Trent was still in the same spot, nursing a fresh drink while the other hand was shoved in his pocket. He noticed you before you could say anything and you saw his eyes lock onto you with a certain look in his eye.

“Perfect timing” you giggled when you reached him, pulling him closer toward the exit where the paps were standing guard. “This is where Tyler wants us so let’s just get it over with.” You positioned yourselves near the glass doors so they would have a better view. The cold air from outside cooled you down a little, but it did nothing to knock any sort of clarity into you. As soon as the crowd started counting down, the air became tented with anticipation.

10...

9...

Your heart was beating fast against your chest and the alcohol made every sensation feel way stronger. You tilted your face up a little to meet his eyes, but he was already staring at you. Trent’s hand reached to cup your chin and tilt your face further upward.

8...

7...

His thumb brushed over the corner of your lip and the sensation made you exhale softly. He looked you in the eyes first, then at your lips, then back up at your eyes again, making you feel dizzy yet excited at the same time.

6...

5...

You parted your lips slightly with heavily lidded eyes. Both of you were supposed to be ‘acting’ but whatever was going on right now was not staged. His other hand found the dip in your waist, pulling you close enough to feel the fire in his eyes.

4...

3...

You leaned in at the same time, moving on instinct from the magnetism as the cameras outside began to flash. The paps were losing their minds and the shutters went off wildly, but all you could think about was how badly you wanted this kiss.

2...

1...

The room erupted into loud yelling, cheers, and champagne bottles popping as fireworks lit up the London sky outside. The second the cloud struck midnight, Trent’s lips lit a flame in you that made your whole body have goosebumps. His hand found your ass, gripping it firm enough to make you gasp and the tiny noise coming out of you motivated him even more. Your body arched into his as you continued kissing him in a way too entirely real make out session. You palmed the fabric over his dick and he groaned into your mouth, making you moan into his mouth in response. The crowd around you celebrated to a very random club remix of Auld Lang Syne but you were too wrapped up in him to care about celebrating the new year.

You finally pulled back breathless while staring at him. His lips were a little swollen but the fire was still in his eyes.

“We need to leave before they get the wrong pics” you blurted out, slurring your words from being tipsy but also flustered.

“Yeah” he said with his hand still on the curve of your back. “Hotel?”

“Hotel.”

When you made it back to the hotel and the lift doors closed, your back hit the mirrored wall as Trent pinned you into the corner. His hand slid over your thighs and the fabric of your dress bunched up.

“Thought I annoyed you” he muttered against your ear as his fingers slipped between your thighs.

“You still do” you replied back sassily, but then you gasped when he found the thin strap of your thong and tugged it against the folds of your pussy. The friction made you whimper and you dug your nails into his arm for stability. “But I can multitalk.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, gripping your thigh to open you up more. His other hand kept working the fabric of the thong, sliding it up and down until you were grinding against his knuckles. “Fuck you're soaked. This for me?”

“Shut up” you hissed while tugging at the button of his jeans with shaky fingers. When the lift dinged on your floor, you barely made it to the room before his hands were pulling, grabbing, and claiming you. He pressed you against a huge window of the hotel room while the fireworks were still popping off in the night sky.

“Take it off” you demanded, yanking at Trent’s shirt.

He pulled it over his head to show off his toned, muscled body that had been haunting you since the towel accident. You didn’t have much time to admire any of it because his hands were already undoing your dress, dropping it to your feet. The cool glass of the window pressed up against your bare skin and you shook a little when his lips latched on your neck, sucking and biting while his hands roamed over you. You moaned his name in a whimpered beg and arched into him when his mouth moved down to your boobs. His tongue ran over your nipple and he wrapped his lips around it, suckling gently and massaging the other with his hand. You gasped, clutching his shoulders and melting your body into his.

“You beg so pretty” he murmured against your skin. “What do you want, pretty girl? Tell me.”

“You” you panted in a trembling voice. “I need you inside me now.”

Trent groaned and ran his fingers between your folds to find your clit. The circles he rubbed against the sensitive nub made you moan loudly. “Not yet,” he rasped. “Need to feel how ready you are.” A broken sob escaped you when his fingers slid inside your pussy. His fingers were long enough to reach a spot that made your knees weak as he worked you open. Your head fell against the window as the squelch of your wetness filled the hotel room.

“Good girl” he coaxed, and your walls clenched around his fingers in response. He laughed and you could feel his smirk against your skin. “You like that, huh? You like being told how good you are?”

“Yesss” you gasped, grinding against his hand. “Fuck yes.”

He pulled his fingers out and you whined but the sound quickly turned into a needy moan when he ran the tip of his dick over your slit. He lined himself up, gripping your thighs to lift you up and push into you.

“DAMN” he groaned loudly, leaning his head back in both pleasure and disbelief from how you were gripping him. “You feel so fucking good gripping me.” You felt the curve when he stroked deeper, each thrust pressing you against the glass while the fireworks mirrored whatever was going on in this hotel room. “You’re so noisy” he teased when he heard you moan his name. He reached between your thighs to play with your clit again. “You want everyone to hear me fucking you, don’t you? You like that shit.”

You nodded, too far gone to care about anything but the feeling. “Oh my god, yes! Please don’t stop. You’re fucking me so good.”

Trent’s mouth latched to your neck again, leaving a mark you were going to have to cover up later. His hands gripped your ass, pulling you closer as he thrust harder..deeper. Your moans were nonstop, echoing against the window while he pounded into you.

“You’re creaming all over me” he groaned, dropping his eyes to his dick thrusting in and out of you with the perfect rhythm. “Look at that. Such a good girl for me.”

His praise and coaxing made you shatter. Your walls clenched around him while your orgasm rained over your thighs and onto him. Moaning cries mixed with his curses and filled the room until he took one last deep stroke into you and pulled out of you. You lowered yourself to take him in your mouth, sucking gently on his tip as ropes of cum filled your mouth. You got back up, very shaky and wobbly, but he wasn’t done yet. Trent carried you to the bed, lifting you up on top of him. Both of you were too far gone to care about the contract by that point and spent the rest of the night partaking in some ultra festive activities to bring in the new year as fireworks continued to pop off in the distance.

The morning after, the sunlight was streaming through the large window you had just been fucked against the night before. It way too bright for how you were feeling now, even after the coconut water. Your head was pounding and you still felt groggy. Your lashes were barely clinging on and you forgot to do your skincare routine before falling asleep thanks to your activities. You groaned and reached for your phone, fumbling with it in your hands while Trent moved from somewhere else in the room to hand you a cup of coffee.

“Good morning” he smirked at you, knowing exactly why you were in the state you were in.

“Morning...and thank you” you muttered in a scratchy voice from a mix of sleep and..other activities. You took a look at yourself with your front camera and you snorted. Your hair was all over the place, your makeup was smudged and one of your lashes was hanging off. You took a glance back over at Trent, who had faint scratches on his back, making you laugh harder. The chaos was oddly on brand for the authentic, slightly unhinged content you were known for, so you decided to capture the moment to post online.

You opened the camera app and switched to the wide angle just to make it that more authentic. You held your coffee cup in your hand with your messy hair and hanging lash on full display. In the background, Trent was off to the edge of the frame where only part of him could be seen digging through his distinctive Goyard wash bag, oblivious to his surprise cameo. You typed out the caption ‘Happy New Year 🥴✨’ and added it to the photo in white text before posting it on your story. You didn’t have to check the notifications...you knew what you did.

By the time you showered and made yourself look put together, your post had been picked up by SpillTheBeansUK where they did a full deep dive. Their post was a carousel of screenshots. The first was your original story in its chaotic glory, the second was a cropped version zoomed in on Trent’s hand digging into his bag and the faint lining of the side of his head, the third was a side by side of all the previous photos to confirm it was him.

SpillTheBeansUK: Happy New Year from Y/N and Trent Alexander-Arnold! 👀

realmrsTAA: sobbing into my pillow rn I KNOW THAT BAG

ynfansince2019: not her lashes hanging like that. IKTR QUEEN

yn_onlyyn: she’s so me coded i love her

leafygreens05: TRENT BABE TELL ME THIS ISN’T U?!? ARE THOSE SCRATCHES?

ballerbabyy: this feels like i’m on facetime with a friend i love her sm and they’re so cute

notyourfootiebae: Y/N and Trent 🏆 romeocruz: 😒

You laughed as you scrolled through the comments. Trent walked in, ready to head out for breakfast. Although, he was entirely too calm for someone who had just been moaning your name while you were bouncing on him just a few hours ago.

When you sat across from him during breakfast at the hotel restaurant, the realization of everything hit you all at once. You didn’t want this to end. Not the public antics, banter, or things with Trent. He was looking at his phone, scrolling through his apps. Unbeknownst to you, he was deleting his dating apps. All of them.

Meanwhile you were spiralling. Quietly, but definitely still spiralling.

“What happens when this is over?” you asked quietly, cutting through your eggs benedict.

He looked up, pausing his thumb over the delete button of the last app. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged, stabbing at the food with a vanished appetite. “The contract. When June comes and we’re supposed to ‘break up’... What happens then?”

Trent deleted the final app and set his phone down to look at you. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a quiet voice.

You laughed, trying to mask your nerves. “Well that’s not reassuring.”

“Why?” He asked, tilting his head. “You worried about something?”

Your fork tapped against the hollandaise sauce on your food while you gathered what you wanted to say. “Um..well..this whole thing started off as a job for your image. But now....” you trailed off and looked at him.

“Now?” he prompted, locked on your eyes.

“Now it feels...different.” you admitted. “It doesn’t feel fake anymore. At least not for me.”

You thought he would smirk and have some comeback ready but he didn’t this time. Instead, he leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed loosely. “Doesn’t feel fake to me either.”

“Really?”

“Yeah” Trent leaned forward to rest his arms on the table. “It started off as a contract but I think that changed a little...we both know that.”

You stared at him. “So..what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we don’t have to stop,” he replied, never taking his eyes off you. “We don’t have to make a huge deal about it or anything but I don’t want to stop seeing you. It feels…” He trailed off to search for the right words.

“Like something worth exploring?” you offered, finishing his sentence.

He nodded, giving you his signature smirk, but this time it made you melt a little. “Yeah. Like that.”

The day the public stint of the contract was supposed to end came and went like any other day. You and Trent kept seeing each other instead of posting fake launch photos like the contract originally suggested after NYE. Tyler was smug about it the minute he found out, thinking he was the best Cupid ever. The last time you saw him, he handed you a Valentine’s Day PR brief with a grin.

“Guess we’re not cancelling the hard launch then?” he asked in a satisfied tone. You wanted to throw the folder at him, but he was right. You weren’t going anywhere and neither was Trent. Your fans adored the idea of you with him. There were multiple theories flooding your comment section daily, micro analyzing every interaction. Meanwhile, Trent’s fans reluctantly admitted he looked happy in a relationship for once.

The hard launch came in the form of a Youtube video thanks to the fans: Boyfriend Rates My Outfits

Your followers were begging for this video for weeks. You never announced having a boyfriend but they knew you better than that. You didn’t plan on giving in but Trent was all for it. Your chaos had rubbed off on him, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“Do it” he said one night while laying in bed with you at your place after a date night. “It’ll be funny.”

“Funny for who?” you replied, rolling your eyes.

“For me.”

Eventually you agreed, and the video started with you sitting in front of your neatly organized wardrobe, clasping your hands together. “Okay..you’ve all been asking for it so we’re doing a ‘boyfriend rates my outfits’ video today. My man isn’t really a fashion connoisseur so don’t expect much.”

Trent’s voice came in from behind the camera, already flirty. “Nah, I have taste, don’t set me up like that.”

“Do you?” you countered, laughing as you disappeared to change into the first outfit.

You strutted back in the room wearing high waisted jeans, a blazer and a cropped top paired with trainers. It was chic and cute enough for a brunch or something similar. Trent zoomed the camera in dramatically on your feet. “Shoes are nice. I’ll give it...an 8.”

“An 8?!” you scoffed, doing a little spin for him. “You’re mad. This is a 10.”

“Ah..okay. 9.5 but only because you look good walking away.”

The next look was a silky midi dress with a thigh high slit, paired with strappy heels. You stepped in the room and did a twirl for the cam.

Trent let out a whistle. “11. Easily.”

“You can’t give it an 11!” you protested, hands on your hip.

“Why not?” he grinned. “I’d take you out in that.. maybe in Greece or Spain.”

For the third look, you went full streetwear and wore cargos, a fitted crop top, a leather jacket, and chunky boots. Trent panned the camera up and down with a lot of dramatics. “You look like you’re about to rob somebody.”

“Trent!”

“Hey, I’m into it though! Come rob me baby” he added quickly, smirking. “9 out of 10.”

The final outfit was a red mini dress with an open back that hugged you in all the right places, paired with heels and a statement purse. Trent was quiet as he looked at you, shaking the camera while he adjusted the focus. “Goddamn. That’s a 12.”

“A 12?” you laughed, walking up to the camera and playfully covering the lens while giving him a kiss. “You’re not supposed to go over 10, T.”

“I don’t care. You’re breaking the scale.”

Trent turned the camera to face the both of you as both of you smiled into the lens. “Alright. Like, comment, subscribe, and…” He trailed off, lowering the camera a little and looked at your lips. He whispered, thinking the mic wouldn’t catch anything but it did. “...and turn this off so I can take this dress off you.”

Your jaw dropped and you swatted at his chest playfully, giggling. “You’re going to get me demonetized if you keep talking like that.”

As you edited the video, you decided to leave that part in there because it was funny and also cute. The comments rolled in quickly when word spread around online about it:

ynbabydoll: THE WHISPER AT THE END??? HELLO? I’M FERAL

ynstanclub: trent stuns in Y/N’s youtube video!!

ynplustrent: the way the cam shook when she came out in that dress....i know they get real nasty

spicynsaucy: UNCOVER THE LENS I WANNA SEE IT

footieNfashion: why is this more compelling than any press interview he’s ever done?

LFCStan44: this feels like i shouldn’t be in the room watching them rn but i’m here for it idk. love to see him back to his happy old self

FreeKickFiend: ugh..the way he sounds when he called her baby. that should be me

YNWADefenseNeeded: bro’s focus on this video is what we need on the pitch ALL the time RedKisses98: this man has forgotten we exist. thanks a lot Y/N

You shut your laptop after the premiere of the video and sunk into the couch next to Trent. He was scrolling through the comments on his phone, with that same infuriating, yet extremely attractive smirk on his face.

“You’re really enjoying this huh?” you nudged him with your elbow in a teasing tone.

“Of course,” he replied without looking up. “I’m the star of your channel now.”

You shook your head, laughing. “Very bold of you to assume they’re watching for you.”

Finally, he looked from his phone, cupping your chin and pulling you into a kiss. “Nah...but I’m here for you though. Fully off script. No contract needed.”

#trent alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold x reader #trent alexander arnold smut #footballer x reader #footballer x y/n #trent alexander arnold one shot #footballer imagines #trent alexander arnold imagine #trent alexander arnold fanfiction #football fanfic #fem!reader

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ms-demeanor · 1 year ago

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The thing about LLMs is that they're like cars that have a touchscreen on the console; it's more expensive and worse than what came before in almost all circumstances.

And like car touchscreens it's something that I suspect that the vast majority of consumers dislike and would prefer not to use.

But that doesn't mean that touchscreens are bad it just means they don't belong in cars.

It *IS* a massive problem that "AI" is being shoved at us by a bunch of people who invested WAY too much into AI and are trying to make a return on their investment. It is *ALSO* a problem that "AI" is a terrible name for the pattern interpretation tools that tech companies have dumped billions of dollars into so people are being told that a lot of things that are just pretty basic algorithmic tools are "AI," which makes the whole thing feel overhyped, oversold, and useless (which it is for a tremendous number of people!)

But I get really frustrated with claims that AI slop is what ruined google search (google search has been ruined for a long time; when their goal became "people need to do more searches so we can serve them more ads" instead of "we need to return the best results for our users" it was destroyed and that had nothing to do with AI and everything to do with a profit motive) or that AI is why we're being inundated by spammers (spammers have been a problem for a VERY long time) or that it's impossible to find good info these days because the internet is full of garbage AI articles to generate clicks (that has been the BANE OF MY EXISTENCE in terms of research for MUCH LONGER than GPT4 has been around it is called search engine optimization and if you haven't had your results full of poorly written non-information listicles for the last seven years I suspect you haven't been doing quite the same volume of searching as I have been).

These are known problems that are being exacerbated by this particular kind of tool, but the problem with phishing isn't that the emails are extremely tailored to particular users, it's that the world is chock full of scammers who are incentivized to treat people like shit for money.

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boyfhee · 4 months ago

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﹙𝓲ssue﹚ㅤ:ㅤSUNSHINEㅤ...ㅤ( 제이크 )

概略 ───── 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗂 𝖺𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 — 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.

COLLECCIÒNㅤ｡⠀( 1O18 ) ㅤ&ㅤex ! jake x fem ! reader, angst ㅤ 𖥔 unrequited, reader is engaged

ㅤ ꒰⁠ ⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠ ꒱ㅤ..ㅤhappiest reading .. i guess :3 also, this is for @yuons i love u

reblogs⠀⠀ꢾ꣒⠀ feedbacks ! °ᯅ°

“did i wake you up?” your brows furrow at the words over the phone, sleep making it difficult for you to recognise the voice on the other side.

a soft groan escapes your lips as you reach out to turn on the bedside lamp, mumbling drowsily. “who is this?”

“sunshine,” your eyes widen at that word— you recognise that name. “it’s me,”

“jake?” your words are breathy and urgent, whispered in disbelief. you prop yourself up on your elbow, the silk sheets rustling under your skin as you hold the phone a little tighter. “what are you— how did you get my number?”

“can we save that for later, angel?” you pause at the desperation in his voice, and before you could speak, he adds further. “i’m outside. i really want to see you.”

it barely takes you a minute to get out of the bed, your satin night wear is soft and messy against your skin. fixing it is not a bother, for you’re busy walking over to the windows in your room that are arched up to the ceiling just the way you like them.

you push the curtains aside cautiously, words dissolving on your tongue when you see him standing on the street right in front of your apartment. you can barely make out his face— tears or the mist of the night, whatever be the reason. you see the dim golden street light glowing around him like a halo.

“please,” his words stir something in your chest; dread, relief, love— it feels heavy.

you’re quick to grab your robe, leaving the phone on the bed as you rush out of the bedroom and down the stairs, hurriedly tying it up and also tripping over a step. it’s scary, your palms are sweaty, doubtful towards your own conscience, wondering if it’s a disgusting trick your own mind is playing on you.

you almost lose your breath at the sight of him when you open the door— he does too.

you both let the silence speak for the years lost. you had last seen him five years ago, last heard from him four years ago, and when your parents found out about your secret conversations through emails— that was the last you had written to him.

“i. . .” his words speak of need and hesitation. “i’ve missed you,”

and yearning. yearning and pain.

he’s wearing a loose shirt and hair is longer than the last time you had seen him. it’s a little beyond his eyebrows, the slight curls covering his eyes and somehow, he looks even more handsome.

“you look so beautiful— always did— you got even prettier,” your fingers tighten around the door frame, his words are like a stab in your chest. “did you miss me, angel? i told you i’d come, i told you i would find you no matter what—”

and his love— the knife you turn inside of yourself.

jake doesn’t know if he is needed anymore. you look well, good, successful— always were, aiming big and for the top. storms of fear haunted you all the time, a constant nagging at the back of your mind that it wasn’t going to work out. you pushed away, he pulled you closer, warm embraces tying you both together on nights when both of you were exhausted from the endless arguments. and amidst it all was a blooming promise— a promise to stay.

and now, jake is here, five years later, vienna, austria, at your doorstep, hands out for you to hold.

his steps are hesitant and cautious as he approaches you closer. he takes your hand and you let him, he leans in for a hug, you don’t refuse until your eyes fall to the shiny diamond on your finger— a reminder, a warning.

“wait—”

he interrupts you before you can finish, needing to have you in his arms like the oxygen he needs to breathe. “i have missed you so much, darling. thank you for not giving up on me, for waiting—”

“jake,” you say with more emphasis on his name. it sounds foreign, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.

his eyes widen in perplexion when you take a step back, the lack of warmth from your hands slipping out of his already leaving an ache in his heart.

“i’m engaged,” you confess in a guilty whisper. “go home,”

and then you close the door on him.

#—approved.#jake x reader #enhypen x reader #jake angst #enhypen angst #jake imagines #enhypen imagines #jake scenarios #enhypen scenarios #jake headcanons #enhypen headcanons #jake fics #enhypen fics #enhypen jake #enhypen fluff #jake fluff

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liveyun · 3 months ago

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the archivist.

life has bothered you enough that you end up taking a job at a forgotten archive. somehow, one of the barren books seem know too much about you, and so does he.

▸ pairing. namjoon x fem reader/oc

▸ genre. dark fantasy, liminal horror, magical realism, mature

▸ warnings. (for this one-shot) soft eldritch joon ? ? , surrealism , unreality, oc is a broke student, mentions of a toxic ex, time gets weird, mild possession ? ? . . kind of yearning ? , also — there’s erotica appearance!! namjoon is very gentle but also very intense, emotional vulnerability x10000. english isn’t my first language so pls excuse the lil mistakes ! !

▸ wc. 2.2k +

part of the “DEADL7NES” series

────────────────────────

You take the job because you’re broke.

You found the job on a half-broken bulletin board behind the convenience store, thumbtacked between a flier for lost kittens and a “no questions asked” roommate search.

The paper looked old. Faded ink. Just a time and an address.

No title, no description. No contact number. No interviews, no prior experience needed either.

Desperation has a sound — it's the growling of your stomach on the fourth day of instant ramen, the shame of unread emails with subject lines like we regret informing you.

So despite this whole ordeal sounding shady at all points, you show up.

The building looks like it’s seen some pretty tough shit.

It leans into a pocket of space between two concrete towers like a secret. Ivy coils up its bricks like veins, there are signs of ageing and neglect, but there’s a certain vibe which just screams vintage is undeniable. There’s no signboard, only a brass doorknob that’s too cold for your touch.

You step in. Dust sighs under your shoes. The air is still, too, like it’s listening.

The timing was listed at 7:00 PM sharp. A quick glance to your wrist watch tells you it’s 6:56, and you let out a small exhale of relief through your nose.

“I see that you’re quite punctual. . .” a voice as deep as sounds echoing back from vast halls startles you as you flush momentarily. you were zoned out on the small creeper plant which seems to have no roots at all, claiming the wall from the wood floorboard.

Kim Namjoon.

That’s what he introduces himself as when he steps out from behind the desk, his voice as quiet, yet raspy as the rest of him.

“I’m Namjoon. You’ll be taking care of the shelves,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the books that stretch like ribs around the room. “Call for me if you need help. I’ll be at the desk.”

You nod.

You do not speak, because his presence has stolen language from you.

It’s not just that he’s handsome — it’s that he’s unreasonably and unfairly so. Not the kind from glossy advertisements or late-night dramas, though, this. . . is different.

He is carved.

Ancient. Like a statue that forgot it was stone and decided to breathe. Like the sculptor blew the breath of life to their creation.

There’s wisdom in the slant of his eyes. Softness, too. Like an ancient, old dragon who never ages. The dragon, who believes that there’s strength in gentleness.

His hair is thick and dark, parted gently like the petals of a bloom. Dimples bloom when he smiles, but it’s rare.

You find yourself waiting for them like sunrise.

────────────────────────

You start the job.

It’s mostly cleaning — dusting shelves, sorting book returns, arrivals, fixing the labels that curl off from old spines, and sometimes even wiping, although that’s rare. Sometimes people come in, reserved and quiet, as though they too stumbled in by mistake. You suggest titles. Smile when they leave. You see the same names again and again. No one ever asks for a library card.

The place smells of paper and petrichor.

He’s always there, somewhere—at the big desk in the corner, writing into thick journals. Sometimes you catch the curve of his hand around a pen, ink smudged on his fingers.

He doesn’t talk much. But his plants are always freshly watered. You often catch glimpses of him lovingly watering his potted plant of night jasmine, admiring the tiny life with his gentle, calm eyes.

Something strange happens: your life starts to fix itself.

The rent gets paid on time. You get better sleep. An old wound on your ankle fades like it remembers how to heal. Your ex no longer harasses you over texts. Your fridge now has fresh produce instead of ancient boxes of takeout. Your stomach issues are gone, your skin is devoid of acne and hyperpigmentation, your roommate finds a better apartment and moves out, and the silence she leaves behind is warm, not cold. Your grades improve almost magically. The professor who you swore couldn’t stand the sight of you automatically starts giving you extention periods for your assignments.

It doesn’t make sense. But you don’t question it. Not when you can finally exhale for the first time in months, can buy yourself a latte without getting concerned glances from the barista regarding the embarrassingly low balance in your student card.

You feel grateful. You feel. . . happy.

────────────────────────

One evening, you’re working, as usual. You shelve a set of old poetry books and your fingers brush against a cover that looks newer than the rest. Bound in deep crimson, its spine uncracked. The pages look white instead of yellow.

No title. No author.

You pull it free.

It’s erotica. The kind that moans long and slow.

You shouldn’t read it, but you find yourself reading it. You cannot make yourself resist.

Your eyes devour the first few lines.

“Her limbs trembled like branches after rain, heavy with want.

His hands were galaxies, tracing constellations across her skin, stars burning beneath each fingertip.

She opened beneath him like dawn, and he worshipped like a man made of midnight.”

You think you’ve forgotten breathing.

“He pressed his lips to her collarbone, reverent, like a psalm sung in a forgotten tongue.

The mouth of the beloved does not ask permission.

It tastes. It drinks. It sings against the skin.

Her breath caught like a bird between palms—

desperate, fluttering, sacred.

When her eyes closed, it was not from fear.

It was surrender.

The world vanished beneath her spine.

There was only warmth,

and the memory of a name

moaned, but not spoken.

And when he took her, it was not just a body—it was a memory. It was a myth. A myth only he could unravel from her.”

Warmth pools between your thighs, unbidden, shameful, aching. You press your thighs together, hoping for a bit of relief.

“You found that one.”

You jerk. The book nearly flies from your hands.

Namjoon stands across the aisle, arms folded loosely, gaze dipped low. His eyes are unreadable—amused, yes, but something else. Like he’s expecting this of you. Like he’s seen it happen before.

You stammer. “I, uh, — I was just—”

“Curious?” he offers, head tilting slightly. The sleeves of his khaki cardigan are folded up to his elbows, showing the delicious, golden skin of his arm.

The silence thickens. Your throat works. He doesn’t approach — he just watches you. Eyes slow, deliberate, knowing. You feel exposed, naked, like the words you read clung to your skin and spelled your desire in script only he can decipher. Shame crawls down your neck like branches of a tree, swirling with the desire which bloomed in between your legs.

He smiles. One dimple appears.

You close the book and try to breathe.

That night bothers you enough to have you squirming in your bed, aching with need.

That night, you dream of slender hands roaming in between your legs and sending you to the clouds of heaven.

────────────────────────

You don’t speak of it again.

But it lingers.

The air between you two crackles differently. Some days he looks up when you pass, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Some days you catch him watching you through the reflection in the glass door. He never stares.

Just. . . observes. Like he’s waiting for you to notice something you haven’t yet.

Weeks pass.

One night, you’re working late again, alone among the shelves. The rain taps the windows in a quiet but soothing rhythm. It feels warm. Cosy. You don’t feel sleepy working late anymore, and you feel this library has become your small world. You’re humming under your breath, dusting the top of a shelf, when a heavy book slips from its place and falls with a thud. You reach down—

—and hear a click.

There’s something behind the shelf. A panel has loosened, just barely. You dig your fingers in and pull it open.

A drawer. Hidden, because you swear that you come by this shelf almost everyday and you’ve never once caught a glimpse of it.

Inside there’s a stack of thick, leather-bound books. The top one slides forward and you stumble to catch the fat book.

You lift it.

And on the first page, you see your name.

Your full name. Handwritten in that same smooth ink you’ve seen on his desk. In the same, smooth drawl you’ve seen countless times.

You flip through it. The first pages are mostly empty, and you feel like this is some sort of a very cruel joke. Frustration touches you, and soon you’re vigorously flipping through the pages untill you reach the middle of the novel, the text written in a muted shade of blue.

I. Childhood

She was a girl with small hands and wide eyes.

She knew how to be quiet,

the way others knew how to dance or sing.

Or maybe because she was often told she spoke a lot.

When no one looked, she tucked her hands in a sack of grains, finding comfort at how the grains brushing against her soft palms felt home. No one answered her questions of wonder when she asked how did butterflies learnt how to fly, or how did they get such beautiful colours in their wings.

She was always waiting for something —

not a person, not a thing.

Just . . . something.

Maybe it was kindness. . .

Or maybe a door.

II. Adolescence

At night, she’d trace the ceiling with her gaze,

as if searching for a skylight no one had built.

There was a fire in her,

but she hid it well—

tended to it like a secret she couldn’t afford to burn.

She’d try to figure out the changes she’d went through, trying to understand if she willed them, or they just happened.

And when her tender heart was thrown away by someone insignificant, she didn’t cry.

She just curled up in her bed and stared at the light

leaking in through the window

like it was your last friend,

wondering what was wrong with her,

Or if she could ever be good enough.

III. The becoming.

There is no single word for surviving.

You did it by half.

One shift. One skipped meal. One train. Years away from home.

You stitched rent money and broken dreams

into something like hope.

No one clapped.

But you kept waking up.

That was the miracle.

—

The letter that never came,

But you expected it the most.

You checked the inbox like a ritual, a routine.

It was summer—

the air sticky and humid with waiting.

That one line, that one school—

you had braided your future around its name.

But the screen stays blank.

You laughed.

Then you cried until your chest hurt

and your throat forgot how to make sound.

You touch your stomach when no one looks.

You cross your arms when you speak.

You fear being too much,

but worse — being not enough.

You pretend you don’t see the way people look past you.

But you do.

And it breaks you.

Quietly.

But you still keep going.

—

You were cleaning,

thinking of bills and bus rides.

You find a nameless book,

But the texts inside named a different spark inside you.

You tremble, not out of fear.

Your thighs press together,

slickness blooming between them like honey under sun.

You gasp when the thought touches you—

of lips against your collarbone,

of fingers ghosting down your spine,

of someone saying your name

like a prayer without God.

You are not shy.

Only aching.

—

Your days are brighter.

And your nights are peaceful.

The wind touches your cheeks gently and you don’t question it anymore.

Because you truly feels the tranquility of happiness in a very long time, so why even think about it?

The drawer.

You didn’t mean to find it.

You were lost in the puzzle of your own mind —

Dreaming of endless skies and the rain that fell.

Then the book fell.

And the drawer opened — like it had been waiting.

Inside: parchment, ink-stained and breathing.

A book too thick to belong to anyone.

Except you.

The first page had your name.

“Is this a joke?” you ponder, but it isn’t.

Now that you’ve read your story,

You taste salt. But you don’t know if it’s bitter or sweet

Because the tears which depart your eyes aren’t of sorrow, nor fear

But your heart feels heavy,

And your body trembles.

It’s because the soul remembers

what the body has not yet learned.

You didn’t realise you were on your knees now, your hands shaking as you come to an end of the novel. Your eyes burn with tears as your heart threatenes to trash out of your chest.

He is there. Right beside you.

Close enough that his warmth shouldn’t feel so cold.

Close enough that you wonder how long he’s been standing there as you slowly turn your head to look at him, kneeling down before you. Your eyes are hazy with tears, but..

His eyes— they look gentle, soft, and almost sorrowful. The kind of softness that ruins you quietly, like lullabies sung in the wrong language, tender but distant, like a poem written for someone who died too young.

But his smile. Ah, his smile. The kind which has dimples popping out, the kind which makes his eyes turn to gentle cresents.

That smile is nothing like his eyes.

The touch which brushes your cheeks is warm, but cold at the same time, as if he knew what the turmoil inside your heart was like. His fingers, his thumb, wiping away your tears.

“Now, now—don’t cry. You yourself wanted a better life, love.”

But that’s not what scares you.

It’s those eyes which don’t look as gentle as you’ve always seen them to be.

“Did you think I would do this for free, love?”

────────────────────────

#bts smut #namjoon smut #yandere bts #bts x reader #bts angst #namjoon fics #namjoon angst #namjoon fluff #namjoon scenarios #bts imagines #bts x you #namjoon x you #namjoon x reader #bts au #namjoon fanfic #bts fics #bts fanfic

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katsukistofu · 1 year ago

Text

my caffeine mix-up! pt. ii

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ hawks x fem reader. fluff. slightly suggestive. you accidentally pick up the number two hero’s coffee so picks you up instead. | part i

note: fukuoka is the canon location of hawks hero agency

You stare at the text for what embarrassingly feels like at least the tenth time this hour.

pick you up at 8 ;)

Was sent mere moments ago from the contact Hawks, that had several hearts next to his name that you don’t remember him putting, saved in your phone after he dropped you off at work this morning.

Nearly giving your coworkers who just so happened to be looking out the windows at the time synchronized heart attacks in their cubicles, which would’ve been very hard to explain to your boss.

Who, thank All Might, was not here today.

But the millisecond you walked out of the elevator onto your floor, their nosy natures quickly won over their states of disbelief.

Desperate for the juicy details, nothing could stop them from swarming you like a group of hungry piranhas, and you’re flooded with a sea of questions you’re simply at a loss for how to answer.

“How did you meet him?” “So when’s the wedding?” “Were you rescued in a villain attack that wasn’t on the news yet?” “Oh my god, did you two—?”

“Guys!” You cut them off with a frantic wave of your hands, you did not need to hear the end of that sentence. “We just happened to meet. I, uh.”

Your coworkers look at you with expectant eyes, eagerly waiting to hear your no doubt heart-racing meet-cute story with the hero so popular, that when the paparazzi got a picture of him sipping kombucha tea, the drink went out of stock in stores nationwide faster than you could even say its name.

“I accidentally took his coffee order.”

You cringe a bit as you finish, and you’re met with the most comically shocked faces you’ve ever seen in your entire life.

“You WHAT!?”

“Damn I literally just tweeted ‘my coworker stole Hawks’s coffee’ and it already has a hundred reposts.”

“Oh honey, you’re lucky our boss is out sick today. He’d fire you for that.”

“Yeah, Hawks is his all-time favorite on the charts since All Might.”

You groan. “I know! He was so nice about it too, I still feel bad.”

“You should be.”

All your coworkers simultaneously glare at your company’s front desk receptionist that somehow snuck up to your floor, who for some reason takes that as a signal to continue.

“I could never be illiterate enough to take his order if I was in that coffee shop.”

“No one cares, Janet,” everyone says in deadpanned unison.

Janet huffs and turns to leave, but not before pointedly throwing another withering look at you.

She never did like you ever since you politely corrected her grammar in that passive aggressive email she sent when you were a new hire.

Not illiterate your ass.

Throughout the day, you answer more emails, calls, and print papers in a daze.

When you go to forward an email, all you can think about is how his strong arms felt on your waist. When you go retrieve ink to refill the printer, all you can think about is his gentle yet firm grip that he had on your thighs.

This could not be healthy.

But what if it was? You’ve never been touched so intimately, so softly before, like you were something precious, even in your fleeting experiences with relationships.

No one’s made you feel this safe like he does from just being in their presence.

But you blame that on him being a hero. He was probably trained on how to calm civilians down, especially during rescues.

You don’t really think that applied to people who stole his coffee, but maybe that was just you trying to feel special.

With a shake of your head, you straighten yourself in your chair. You had to get it together.

No more thoughts of Hawks on company time until it’s time to clock out!

But it seems like the winged flirt had other plans.

hawks ♡♡♡ [12:00]

hey

[sent an image]

hawks ♡♡♡ [12:01]

saw a pretty flower on

someone’s roof and it

reminded me of you :)

You freeze when you see the notification pop up, mid-bite through the food that you picked up from your favorite aesthetically pleasing cafe for lunch.

With a mouthful of sandwich, you click on the message to text back, when suddenly the realization hits you.

You had no idea what to wear for the date.

Oh my god, what were you even supposed to wear? Was there some kind of etiquette for this?

I mean, it’s not like he’s taking you to the Hero Gala. It’s just a higher end homey sushi and ramen place, but still.

Pinterest probably didn’t have “cute date outfit ideas for going out with the freaking number two hero” in their search results.

In your mind, you nervously run through different casual but still elegant clothes to wear. Maybe that nice blouse you had been saving, the one with the ruffles on the sleeves? You bite the inside of your cheek. No, maybe your classy sleeveless turtleneck midi dress instead?

Ugh, but you’ve already worn it out too many times last month. Not to mention the current ninety degree weather would cook you alive in that.

You pray that the paparazzi wouldn’t dare to stalk you on your date, but imagine if they did and took a picture of you two?

Caption: Hawks takes girl that never wears anything else out on date.

Even worse, caption: Hawks seen taking girl that can’t dress if her life depended on it out on date.

Nope, not on your watch.

The further you brainstormed, the more each piece of your wardrobe seemed less and less fitting to wear for such an occasion.

An idea pops into your head.

What was Hawks’s favorite color? You could base an outfit off of that instead.

Thinking about it, it was probably red. Hell, if you had pretty crimson wings like him you’d forget every other color in the rainbow.

Should you text him and ask?

After a little mental wrestling yourself, you muster up all the courage you could possibly have on a Monday afternoon.

[12:20]

you

that’s so cute :((((

thank you <3

you

also random but what’s

your favorite color?

hawks ♡♡♡

ooh we playing twenty questions? ;)

you

lol i guess we are ;)

hawks ♡♡♡

hmmm ok then

hawks ♡♡♡

my favorite colors

probablyyy red

you

i knew it

hawks ♡♡♡

oh?

hawks ♡♡♡

been thinking about me

have you, pretty girl?

you

……..maybe

hawks ♡♡♡

you’re so cute when

you get all shy

Your cheeks warm at that, and you physically have to put down your phone for a moment to cool off.

[12:34]

hawks ♡♡♡

my turn

hawks ♡♡♡

whatcha having for lunch?

you

[sent an image]

sandwich :)

hawks ♡♡♡

ooh that looks yummy

you

it is!!!!

you

it’s from the cafe across

the one where i nabbed

your coffee lol

hawks ♡♡♡

ah when fate brought

us together by my overly

sweet latte

hawks ♡♡♡

i’ll make sure to stop by

it after patrol tomorrow :)

you

yay!!! lmk what you think

i want a full review

hawks ♡♡♡

yes ma’am (︶▽︶)7

you

what are you having for lunch?

hawks ♡♡♡

[sent an image]

just chicken lol

Of course he was. It did look good. The fried edges were perfectly crispy, and it was a nice golden brown color and—

hawks ♡♡♡

but i wish it was you instead ;)

you

!!!!!?1!?)$1&1$@-

hawks ♡♡♡

aw, you embarassed right now?

you

YESOHMYHOF???

you

YOU CANR JUST

SAY THAT

hawks ♡♡♡

whyyy nottt

hawks ♡♡♡

it’s true though! :(

you

oh my god i’m going to die

you

and this sandwich is

going to be my last meal

hawks ♡♡♡

noo don’t die

you

i will

hawks ♡♡♡

id miss you :(

you

then know that it

was all YOUR fault.

hawks ♡♡♡

pffft you're so cute

hawks ♡♡♡

wish i could see your

flustered face right now

you

STOP

you

i think i'm going to

have to block you

you

this isn’t good for my heart

hawks ♡♡♡

noooooooo!!!!!!

come backkkk!!

You had to bite back a fond giggle, feeling warm all over. How was it fair for him to be this cute over text and in person?

hawks ♡♡♡

okok but before you block me

which i don’t think you will

hawks ♡♡♡

send me your address so

i know where to pick up the

most beautiful girl alive <3

you

oh u smooth ass mf

hawks ♡♡♡

for you? always

you

UGHHH

fine here it is

you

123-4567 fukuoka, tenjin,

chuo ward, 8-91

hawks ♡♡♡

perfect

see you soon birdie ;)

After an eventful day at work, you’re turned around, glancing at your back in the mirror.

Even though the scarlet dress that falls just below your knees hugs your figure in all the right places, you still feel a little self-conscious in it.

You honestly haven’t touched it since you bought it at the mall with a friend, who insisted that red was your color even when you had wrinkled your nose.

But as you admire the smooth, soft fabric of it now, you can’t help but be reminded of a certain someone’s beautiful wings.

You think you were really starting to warm up to the color.

A spritz of your favorite perfume and slight touch up of your makeup later, you hear a knock on the door to your balcony.

That must be him!

You excitedly unlock the sliding glass, and you’re finally greeted with the sight of Hawks’s signature grin that you missed all day.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

“Hi,” you say back, a bit breathlessly.

As if you were the one who flew all across the city just to see him.

He takes the moment to look you up and down, not in a hungry, lustful way like you’re used to when you’re around other men, even when you’re not exposing much skin.

Hawks admires you.

Like you’re a statue of a goddess, made of the most pristine marble. Like you’re a beautiful cherry blossom tree at peak bloom, with the wind serenading your soft pink petals.

Like you’re something so divinely beautiful and enchanting, you deserve to be revered.

“Wow.” Hawks opens his mouth, but no other sound comes out. The bouquet he’s hiding behind his back for you goes limp in his hand.

For a man who never runs out of words to say, he’s been rendered speechless.

There’s a tingle of anxiety at your neck and you’re suddenly a little nervous. “How—How do I look?”

Hawks takes a deep breath, and finally speaks.

“You look absolutely, astoundingly gorgeous.”

Hawks’s lips curve upwards softly when you visibly melt, his touch sweeter than the caramel of his eyes as a hand tips your chin up to meet his warm gaze that the summer heat had nothing on.

“And that’s the least interesting about you.”

─────────

“This is really good.”

Is what you ultimately decide when you’re on the fourth piece of the unagi roll you ordered.

Hawks grins, you looked cute with your cheeks puffed up like that. “Isn’t it? I knew you’d like it.”

You nod while covering your mouth, chewing slowly to savor the delectable taste of the sushi. “I’m literally going to gatekeep this place so hard.”

“Good.” He reaches across the table for your hand with an amused laugh. “It can just be our little spot, then.”

You softly smile back at him.

“Our little spot.”

At that moment, the waiter comes over with Hawks’s shoyu ramen. “Enjoy!”

“Thanks!” Hawks beams at him, then turns his attention to the bowl in front of him.

Then a slight frown appears on his face.

You tilt your head. “What’s wrong?”

His worried eyes meet yours.

“You sure just sushi is enough? You can always order something else, it’s on me.”

“Oh no it’s okay!” You wave a hand. “I’m not really that hungry—“

“I don’t believe you.” A hint of a teasing smile plays on his lips. “Could hear your tummy growling a bit earlier.”

“You heard that?” You whine. How embarrassing.

“All the more reason to share my ramen with me.”

Your eyes widen. “You want me to?”

“I do.” Hawks stubbornly says, picking up his chopsticks to grab noodles with them. He holds them up to your lips, a growing smirk on his handsome face.

“Say ahhh.”

Throwing a quick glance around the restaurant, your cheeks flame. “Hawks!”

“What?” He’s still wearing that casual, shit-eating grin. “It’s just us and a few other people here, c’mon.”

You huff. “I can feed myself!”

“I know you can, birdie.” Hawks holds your gaze with piercing but warm eyes. “But I want to do it.”

You fiddle with your own chopsticks, looking at anything but his eyes.

“Please? Let me take care of you.”

Finally, you cave at his pleading expression.

“Okay.”

He feeds you, and you’re not still not sure why he’s so happy to do so, but you let him.

The owner of the sushi and ramen place laughs as he looks over at the booth you two had occupied a few hours before closing.

As always, there’s a generously heavy tip left on the table and this time a new, small note.

thank you, boss :> we’ll be back!! - h

─────────

It’s summer, again.

Keigo flies you back home in his arms after his patrol and your nine to five, and as you touch down on your balcony, the sky is starting to turn a brilliant gradient of orange, pink and purple as the sun begins to dip below the horizon.

His eyes are lidded as he pulls you closer to him by the waist on the couch.

“You like when I’m this close to you?”

In the privacy of your apartment with the only sound being the breeze from your air conditioning and the faint chirping of crickets outside, it’s like the both of you are in your own little world.

“Yeah.” You sound muffled while hiding your burning face in his chest. “You still make me nervous.”

“I make you nervous?” His low voice is lilting as he tilts his head, and pulls you even closer to him with a firm hand now on the small of your back.

Keigo smirks, drinking up the sound of your little gasp. “I’m gonna take that as a yes, little dove.”

You blink dreamily, disorientated by his warmth seeping through his sleeveless turtleneck and the feeling of his firm chest against yours. He was so cozy. “Dove?”

“Yeah. ‘Cause they symbolize peace, and you’re my safe place.” Keigo’s eyes soften at the way you snuggle into him in response. He was yours too, your comfort person. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

“Mmm.” You’re resting your head on his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. “Tell me again.”

“As many times as you want.” He leans down to whisper in your ear.

“You’re perfect.”

You let out a laugh, his breath was tickling your ear. “Kei, why’s your heart beating so fast when you say that?”

“Mm.” He offers you a sly smile, hand tracing circles on the small of your back as you lay on top of him.

“Guess you just do something to me when we’re together, birdie.”

Your eyes start to feel heavy, and you hug him even tighter at that.

“I’m so glad I stole your shitty excuse of a coffee that day.”

And it’s when he laughs from deep within his chest that you know he is too.

— Courtship feeding is believed to function as ceremonial pair bonding. The male bird usually feeds their female mate, and the resulting nutritional boost contributes to more and healthier offspring.

#sorry to all the janets out there xx #hawks x reader #hawks fluff #bnha x reader #mha x reader #keigo takami x reader #hawks x you #mha fluff #mha oneshot #bnha oneshot

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reveryfics · 7 months ago

Note

Hey, could i request eddie Brock & venom x male reader where venom is absolutely infatuated with the reader and practically forces eddie to talk to him. They do websites end up together and when venom is revealed the reader accepts venom. Venom is like a cat that only really let's the reader pet him, there's eddie too but the reader has a special place

Symbiotic Obsession

Pairings: Eddie Brock & Venom x Male reader

Summary: Eddie gets your name from Anne when he expresses his frustration with a recent article trying to expose a rising corporation. He was told you a keen eye for design and was hoping you could fix up a few scandalous pictures, what he wasn't expecting was Venom to be so gun-ho about you.

A/n: I'm hoping I understood what you meant by "They do websites" but if not let me know and I can rewrite it! Again thank you all for the support and recent requests, I do have a lot to go through so bare with me.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The flickering neon sign of "The Salty Dog" cast an eerie glow on Eddie Brock's face as he downed the last of his beer. Frustration gnawed at him, a bitter taste in his mouth. "I'm at a loss, Anne," he grumbled, the words thick with the weight of his predicament. "Without those pictures, I ain't got anything on them."

Anne, ever the confidante, listened patiently, her chin resting on her hand. "I might know someone who can help," she offered, rummaging through her purse. A sleek black and silver business card emerged, bearing a number and the title "Web Designer."

Eddie raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident. "How is a web designer supposed to help with blurry photos?"

Anne chuckled. "He's more than just a web designer, Eddie. He's a whiz with image manipulation. Give him a call."

Eddie, however, remained unconvinced. Days turned into weeks, and the business card lay forgotten in his wallet. Venom, the symbiote bound to him, grew increasingly impatient. "C'mon, Eddie," he hissed, his voice echoing in Eddie's mind. "Act like a grown-up and just call the guy!"

Finally, after a barrage of Venom's incessant nagging, Eddie relented. He dialed the number on the card, his finger hovering over the hang-up button. The phone rang a few times before a tired voice answered. "Can I help you?"

Eddie, feeling a surge of unexpected nervousness, stammered, "My name's Eddie Brock. I got your number from Anne. I... I need your help with some photos for an article."

There was a brief silence followed by the rustling of papers and the rhythmic clacking of keys. "Send them over," came the voice, a hint of weariness in his tone. "I'll see what I can do."

Eddie hesitated, then, with a resigned sigh, sent the blurry images to the email address on the card.

The silence that followed was punctuated by the distant clatter of keys and occasional hums from the other end of the line. "I should be able to clean these up," hel said finally. "Meet me at the address I just sent you in a few days."

Before Eddie could respond, the line went dead. A text message popped up on his phone: "See, Eddie? That wasn't so hard!" Venom crowed, a distinct note of mockery in his voice. Eddie rolled his eyes, but a flicker of anticipation stirred within him.

A few days later, Eddie found himself at a dimly lit bar, his gaze scanning the room for the male. He spotted him in a corner booth, nursing a lukewarm beer and looking lost in thought. Approaching him, Eddie offered a friendly smile. "Uh hey.”

Startled, he looked up. "Eddie Brock, right? Anne mentioned you."

They exchanged pleasantries, the conversation flowing easily. Hel, to Eddie's surprise, was surprisingly insightful and witty. As he handed him a USB drive containing the enhanced photos, Eddie felt a strange pull towards the man, a sense of intrigue he couldn't quite explain.

"How can I repay you?" Eddie asked, feeling a pang of guilt.

He shrugged, taking another sip of his beer. "No need. Consider it a favor for Anne."

Venom, however, had other ideas. "How about we… I take you to dinner?" Eddie's voice, laced with Venom's eagerness, came out in a jarringly loud whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Sounds like a date."

Venom, ecstatic, practically vibrated with excitement. The date, to Eddie's chagrin, was more Venom's than his own. Venom dominated the conversation, his voice a playful, sometimes mischievous counterpoint to Eddie's more reserved demeanor.

Despite his initial reservations, Eddie found himself drawn to the male. Their subsequent dates were a strange mix of awkward silences, witty banter, and Venom's surprisingly insightful – and often inappropriate – commentary.

Months passed. Eddie, to his own astonishment, found himself falling for him. He confessed his feelings one quiet evening, his heart pounding in his chest.

"I... I have this… parasite," Eddie stammered, the words catching in his throat.

He, ever the enigma, simply leaned back against the couch, a curious glint in his eyes. "Parasite?"

The silence that followed was thick with anticipation. Then, with a dramatic flourish, Venom erupted from Eddie's back, his form shimmering with an eerie light. "I'm not a parasite!" Venom declared, his voice booming. "Take it back!"

Instead of recoiling in fear, he simply stared at Venom, a slow smile spreading across his face. "That's… fucking awesome."

Venom, taken aback by his reaction, grinned. "Yes, we are very awesome!" he declared, curling around the male like a protective shield.

The rest of the evening was a whirlwind of introductions and awkward silences. Eddie, watching Venom nuzzle into their boyfriend's lap like a contented cat, felt a warmth spread through him. He never thought Venom's obsessive behavior would lead to this – a genuine connection, a shared life with another being.

He and Venom had a boyfriend, and despite the initial chaos, it was a life he wouldn't trade for the world.

#fanfic #fanfiction #mlm #queer fanfiction #third person #x male reader #xmalereader #gay #gay fanfiction #marvel #eddie brock x male reader #eddie brock #venom #venom x male reader #eddie brock x reader #requested

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ginnsbaker · 7 months ago

Text

All Of Your Pieces (5 - The Truth)

Chapter Summary: A nuisance at your workplace forces you to re-evaluate your entire existence in Westview—and Wanda's hand, too. Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3.8k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: Gaslighting

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's commented on the story so far. Please, bear with me! // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

It doesn’t make any sense.

Geraldine had just stepped out to grab lunch for both of you. “Back in a jiffy!” she'd chirped before leaving. Now, an email sits in your inbox, unread, but the subject tells you everything you need to know.

Resignation letter, it says, effective immediately.

You stare at the screen, stunned. Geraldine loved her job. If something was wrong, she would’ve said something—wouldn’t she?

You try calling her number, but it goes straight to voicemail. Growing uneasy, you decide to ask around the office.

“Hey guys, have you seen Geraldine?” you ask a group of your coworkers near the copier.

They shrug. “Last I saw, she was heading out for lunch,” one of them offers.

Frowning, you make your way to the lobby. Maybe the receptionist noticed something.

“Did Geraldine pass by here recently?” you ask.

She looks up. “Yeah, about an hour ago.”

“Was she with anyone?”

“I didn't notice, sorry.”

“Sure, no worries.” You head to the security desk next. The guard gives you a smile and a warm greeting before noticing the crease on your brows.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Hey, Norm. I’m looking for Geraldine. She went out for lunch and then sent in her resignation. Did you see her leave?”

Norm rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I did see her talking to someone outside earlier.”

“Who?”

“A woman. Late twenties, about 5'7". Red hair, pretty. Looked like they knew each other.”

Redheads around that age aren’t exactly common in town—certainly not ones who could be mistaken for your wife.

“Did you catch her name?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No, sorry.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, stepping away from the desk.

Even if it is Wanda, it’s hard to connect her directly to Geraldine’s sudden resignation. Wanda has her moments of jealousy—which has been frequent as of late—but would she really go as far as to push someone out of their job over it?

Back in your office, you open Geraldine’s resignation email again, scanning for any hint you might have missed. That’s when you notice an attachment you hadn’t seen before. Curious, you click it.

An official-looking document appears on your screen, bearing a logo you don’t recognize: a circle with a sword piercing through it.

At the top, bold letters read: S.W.O.R.D. Alert: Westview Anomaly

Your eyes skim down the page.

*"To all Westview residents,

This is an urgent notice from the Sentient Weapon Observation and Response Division (S.W.O.R.D.).

An anomaly has been detected in your area. For your safety and the safety of those around you, please remain indoors and avoid any attempts to leave town until further notice.

We are working diligently to resolve the situation.

Thank you for your cooperation."*

You lean back in your chair, your mouth twisted into a humorless smile. Is this some kind of joke?

“What’s that?” a voice asks from behind you.

Before you can close the window, Alex, your co-worker is already bent over, eyes scanning the message. As he reads, his face pales, eyes widening with something between fear and recognition.

“Alex?”

He stumbles back, his movements jittery, like a cornered animal. “No… I-I can’t. Please, no more,” he mutters under his breath.

“W-What's wrong?” You take a cautious step forward, reaching out, but he jerks away from your hand like it burns.

Suddenly, he seizes the lapels of your jacket, gripping them so tightly his knuckles blanch.

“Please, I beg you,” he implores. “Make her stop.”

“Stop who? What are you talking about?”

His eyes dart around, wild and frantic. “She’s doing this. Controlling everything.”

“Alex, you're not making any sense.”

He grabs your arm, eyes pleading. “Please, you have to make her stop!”

“Who? Who am I supposed to stop?” you ask weakly. Deep down, you have a sinking feeling about who he's referring to, but you can't—or won't—acknowledge it.

Wanda is a good person.

She wouldn’t—couldn’t—do this.

If this is some kind of elaborate prank the entire office has set up for you, you swear you'll be the next one handing in your resignation first thing tomorrow.

But instead of the charade ending or Alex cracking a grin, he becomes even more hysterical.

“You have to help us! She’ll only listen to you. I can’t take this anymore—I feel everything she feels—”

You whip your head around and shout, “Are you guys seeing this?!”

No one—not a single soul—acknowledges you. They go about their business like you and Alex don’t even exist. Alex’s hands move from your jacket to your shoulders until he's gripping them hard, pushing you with surprising strength, his eyes panicked and unblinking as he begs you over and over for help.

When he shoves you again, something in you snaps. You push back, hard.

Perhaps, too hard.

Alex stumbles, losing his grip. He crashes to the floor, the back of his head colliding with the armrest of a nearby chair with a sickening whack.

“Oh my god! Alex, I’m sorry!”

You drop to your knees beside him, helping him sit up and checking for any sign of injury. He groans, rubbing the back of his head where it hit the chair, then turns to you with a dazed expression.

“What happened?” he asks, wincing slightly. “Why am I on the floor?”

You stare at him in disbelief. “You... you don't remember?”

He blinks, confusion clouding his eyes. “Remember what? Did I miss something?”

“You—” you start, then stop yourself. The frantic look in his eyes from moments ago, his desperate pleas—it’s like it never happened. “Y-You lost your balance,” you say carefully, watching him for any sign of recognition. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He laughs nervously. “Oh, great. That’s embarrassing.”

You nod, forcing a smile. It doesn’t sit right with you—lying to him—but the thought of him slipping back into that earlier state terrifies you. Part of you is relieved to see him acting normal again, yet you can’t shake the feeling that something is seriously wrong.

You help him to his feet, though your own legs feel wobbly. “Maybe you should sit down for a bit,” you suggest.

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, brushing himself off. “Actually, I could go for a coffee and a bagel. Want to join me?”

You glance quickly at the monitor of your computer. The message from S.W.O.R.D. is still there, glaring proof that the last two minutes weren’t just in your head. Right?

“I—uh, sure,” you stammer. Maybe a walk will help clear your head—or at least help you figure out how to deal with this. “Let me grab my wallet.”

–

Monica Rambeau is back in the real world, but reality feels no less surreal.

She spends half her day in a makeshift clinic just outside the nightmare she barely escaped, repeatedly telling Hayward she’s fine—ready to work, even—but her clearance is being held off for some reason.

Perched on a flimsy cot, Monica fiddles with the hospital bracelet still looped around her wrist. How could she even begin to explain what it was like? Being trapped in that town, her thoughts—no, her very self—locked away in some distant corner of her mind. She’d been a prisoner, forced to watch herself perform a role she couldn’t control.

Worse, she hadn’t just been aware of Wanda’s grief, guilt, anger, and longing—she’d felt them. They’d coursed through her like her own emotions, impossible to separate, impossible to ignore.

“How are you feeling? Any dizziness? Headaches?” The doctor asks her.

Monica musters a tight smile. “I'm fine, really.” But it's not entirely true. Her head throbs—not from any physical pain, but from the collision of two conflicting realities vying for space in her mind: the life she knows as Monica, and the fabricated existence of Geraldine—no matter how fleeting that life had been.

“So, am I cleared?” Monica asks.

“We need to review all your lab results first.”

“And my uniform?”

“It’s still in analysis.”

“I need to get back out there,” Monica murmurs. The doctor says nothing, retreating to her charts.

Jimmy steps into the tent, catching the tail end of the conversation. “Mighty glad to have you back, Captain. How are you feeling?”

“Like myself,” Monica answers, though she’s not entirely sure she believes it.

“Thank heavens for that.”

Monica’s notices a woman standing beside Jimmy, someone she hasn’t seen before.

“Uh, what’s the latest?” she asks, eyeing the bundle in the woman’s arms—clothes, from the look of it. Something other than another hospital gown, hopefully.

The woman answers, “There’s a briefing in ten. Pants are encouraged.” She hands Monica the aforementioned pants and Monica sighs in relief. Finally, some proper clothes.

“This is Dr. Darcy Lewis,” Jimmy says. “She’s the one who discovered the broadcast.”

Monica’s about to introduce herself when Darcy beats her to it, adding that she’s a huge fan of hers.

Before Monica can comment on that, the doctor approaches, holding a tablet. “We need to take these again,” she says, showing Monica the imaging results.

“Those are blank,” Darcy points out with a curious tilt of her head. The doctor explains the need for another blood draw and more tests, but Monica refuses.

“No, no, no. We’re done here,” she says with finality, before sliding off the gurney and heading toward her new uniform.

—

Nothing unusual happens for the rest of the day. Wanda is in the kitchen, as always—just like every other time you come home. She spends her days cooking, cleaning, keeping everything perfect. Not that you’re complaining, but there was a time when Wanda had hobbies. She used to keep a guitar in her room back at the Avengers compound—

Avengers?

What the hell is an ‘Avengers’?

And, more importantly, where did that thought come from?

“You're home early!” Wanda says, waltzing into the living room, an apron tied around her waist—exactly as you’d expected.

“Yeah, I wasn't feeling well,” you say, your eyes tracking her carefully.

She crosses over to you in concern. “Oh no, what's wrong?”

“Just a rough day,” you murmur. “Where are the boys?”

“They’re at Agnes’s,” she says with a small smile. “I thought we could have a nice dinner—just the two of us. It’s been a while since we had a proper date.”

You nod slowly. “That sounds nice.”

“Perfect!” Wanda beams. “I’ll just finish up in the kitchen. It’ll only take a few more minutes.”

As she turns away, you’re unable to stop yourself from dragging this out any longer.

“Wanda, wait.”

She stops, glancing back at you. “Yes?”

You take a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

Rubbing your temples, the frustrations of the past week crash down all at once. “Can we sit down? Please, just come here.”

She obediently takes a seat beside you, her expression unreadable.

“Wanda, something strange is happening,” you say, having a hard time meeting her eyes as you say this.

“Like what?” You hear Wanda ask beside you, her voice surprisingly even.

“Alex had some kind of breakdown. He was begging me to 'stop her.' When I asked who he meant, he wouldn't say. And Geraldine—she just up and quit without a word.”

“That sounds serious. Maybe he should see someone,” Wanda says.

“I think that…” You trail off, gathering courage before turning to face her.

Wanda’s still smiling like nothing’s wrong, her features so exquisitely composed that it's hard to tell whether she has anything to do with this or if you've been unfairly suspicious of her.

But her eyes tell you something else. All you see is a storm brewing. She has never been able to hide her emotions from you, no matter how hard she tries. Wanda’s eyes have always given her away.

“I think that he was talking about you,” you say slowly, testing the waters. Wanda’s temper isn’t something you shy away from—it’s part of who she is—but right now, you’re treading lightly.

She laughs nervously. “Me? That's ridiculous.”

“Wanda,” you say softly. “I love you. But I need to know the truth.”

She stands abruptly, turning her back to you. “I think you're exhausted. You should go ahead and take a shower—”

You get to your feet as well. “Don't dismiss me! I feel like I'm losing my mind.”

She whirls around, eyes glistening. “What do you want me to say?”

“The fucking truth!”

Wanda flinches, and you freeze, immediately covering your mouth. You’ve never sworn in front of her before—not even during your worst arguments. Which, strangely, you can’t quite recall right now. You know you’ve had fights. Wanda’s had hobbies. You’ve traveled beyond Westview. These memories feel real, even as the details slip through your grasp like water.

She studies you for a long, silent moment, something clearly churning behind her eyes. Once you've simmered down, you know you should probably say sorry for lashing out like that.

“Wanda, I didn’t mean to—”

“The truth,” she cuts in sharply, “is that you're overworked and stressed. You've been distant, imagining things that aren't real.”

“Don't turn this around on me,” you retort, feeling your anger rising again. “Ever since the Harvest Festival, you know things have been off. When Agnes asked me about places I've been outside of Westview, I realized—I couldn't remember anything. It's like my life started the day we moved here.”

She forces a laugh, brittle and unnatural. “That's absurd. We've been here for years. Memories fade. It's normal.”

“No, Wanda, it's not normal,” you say through gritted teeth. “I can't recall our wedding, our honeymoon, the day the twins were born. It's all—”

“The albums are downstairs, Y/N, but we’ll get to them once you’re feeling better. Stress can do strange things to the mind, and—”

“Stop deflecting!” you snarl, your fists clenching at your sides. “It’s not just Alex, or Geraldine. People are acting weird, Wanda. And I think you know why.”

Her arms fold tightly across her chest, a wall going up between you. “I don't have to listen to this,” she says.

“Yes, you do!” You step closer, your voice softening as you try a different approach. “Wanda, I'm scared. I feel like I'm losing my grip on reality.”

She sighs deeply. “I understand you're feeling overwhelmed. But accusing me of... what exactly? Manipulating everyone? I can’t believe you’d even consider it.”

“Should I not have?” you whisper. “I got an email from an organization called S.W.O.R.D. about a ‘Westview Anomaly’. They think something's seriously wrong here.”

Wanda scoffs, rolling her eyes. “An email? It’s probably just spam. I don’t need to be working in an office to know better than to open suspicious messages.”

Tears prick your eyes. Why is she being like this? Why does it feel like she’s making you question your own sanity?

“Wanda, please.”

She places her hands on your shoulder, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Maybe you should rest. We can talk about this later.”

“No!” You shove her hands away with more force than intended, startling her. “Why won't you talk to me?”

Wanda’s expression hardens. Without a word, she turns on her heel and starts walking away.

“Because you’re being irrational,” she finally throws over her shoulder. “You’re not yourself.”

“Maybe because I don't know who I am anymore!”

Wanda stops in her tracks, slowly turning back to face you. “What do you mean?”

“I can't remember my life before Westview,” you say, your voice trembling. “I have no memories beyond this town. Is this all real? Are the boys? Am I—”

Wanda closes the distance between you in an instant. “You’re very real.” Her hands find your face, cradling it with a tenderness that almost feels like an apology. “You’re Y/N. You’re my wife, the mother of my children. You’re my everything.”

“I…” you murmur, your gaze dropping to the floor. You wish her reassurances could sweep away all your doubts and fears, but they just don't.

They’re not enough.

“How do I fix this?” Wanda's voice cracks, her hands dropping to her sides.

You’re desperate to believe her, to feel the truth in her touch, so you reach out. Your hands find her waist, fingers gripping softly as if the contact could tether her to you. As if holding her could make her words real.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” you plead, pulling her closer to you. “Please.”

Wanda looks at you, and you can see the internal struggle play across her face. After a moment, she takes a shaky breath, exhaling like it costs her something.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Wanda’s always underestimated how much you get her, how deeply you care and are willing to understand whatever she’s keeping inside. You’ve been the only one who really got her, next to Pietro. But this is different.

This truth she’s holding could shatter everything. Telling you could mean losing you again—and maybe for the very last time.

Her eyes lift to meet yours again, and there’s a faint smile on her lips. For a split-second, you think she's about to give you what you’re asking, but then—

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Wanda says softly.

Before you can protest, her hands cradle your temples, and her eyes burn crimson. A warm sensation washes over you, and your vision blurs.

“Wanda?” you manage, a note of alarm creeping into your voice.

But the world is already blurring, dissolving into a haze, the memories of this conversation fading like a forgotten dream.

When you blink, she’s smiling at you from the kitchen doorway, her hair tied back and an apron dusted with flour wrapped snugly around her waist.

“You're home early!” she exclaims brightly.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” you reply, feeling a bit disoriented.

Her smile widens. “Perfect timing,” she says, turning back toward the stove. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Where are the boys?” you ask.

“They're at a friend's house for the evening,” she replies. “I thought we could have a nice dinner, just the two of us.”

You nod slowly. “That sounds nice.”

She returns to the kitchen, and you sink into the couch, rubbing your temples. A nagging feeling tugs at the back of your mind, like you’re forgetting something important. It’s probably nothing, you tell yourself. Just exhaustion.

In the kitchen, Wanda quickly dabs a tear from her cheek and takes a deep breath.

“Everything will be okay,” she whispers to herself, just as the oven dings to signal that dinner is ready.

—

The briefing concluded on a sour note.

Hayward has officially escalated the situation, branding Wanda a hostile entity and moving toward full confrontation. Monica, Jimmy, and Darcy protest vehemently, but their objections are dismissed without a second thought.

It’s hard to justify the reality of Wanda's influence over the town: controlling the residents like puppets, violating their rights every second—it’s not an act of benevolence.

Monica, however, knows grief intimately. She regrets opening up to Hayward about her experiences in Westview, naively believing he might empathize with Wanda’s pain. Instead, he’s weaponized it, twisting her insights to justify his growing hostility. She realizes now just how misplaced her trust was.

“By the way, there’s something we’ve been meaning to ask,” Jimmy says as they are leaving the tent. “Do you happen to know Wanda’s wife in there? Y/N?”

Monica freezes for half a beat before glancing at him. “Yeah, but I didn’t meet her until I was pulled into the Hex. Why?”

“You know she’s dead, right?” Darcy says bluntly.

“I—” Monica's expression darkens with surprise. It's been just a few weeks since she returned from the Snap, vanishing for five years, and she's still trying to catch up on who else has come back and who hasn't.

Darcy picks up the thread of conversation as they walk. “What was Y/N like? Did you get a sense of her personality inside the Hex?”

Monica takes a moment to think. To be honest, she’d worried about you ever since Wanda cast her out. Knowing now that you’re dead should bring some closure, ease her concern—but that only made her regret coming back here without solid answers.

“From what I saw, she seemed like a wonderful person—kind, gentle,” Monica says.

“And she's under Wanda's control, right?” Darcy asks.

Monica shakes her head. “I don't think so. I believe Wanda had everyone in town playing a role, but not her family. I don't have concrete proof, but I could tell they were real.”

“So, it really was Y/N in there? It wasn't someone else just wearing her face?” Darcy presses in disbelief.

The idea is staggering. Wanda is immensely powerful—everyone saw what she could do with the Hex, reshaping reality itself. But bringing someone back from the dead? That seems like a step too far, even for her. Doesn’t it?

“I honestly don’t know,” Monica sighs, feeling the fatigue settle deep in her bones. “With Wanda, it’s hard to say what’s possible anymore.”

“Do you think talking to Wanda would get her to release the town?” Jimmy wonders.

“We can’t say for certain. All I know is that Wanda had the ability to cast me out. We can’t even confirm if she’s doing it alone. Hayward’s jumped to conclusions, and I hate the direction we’re going with this,” Monica says.

Darcy arches an eyebrow. “Hold up. Are you saying you think Wanda has an accomplice in there?”

“I’m just trying to cover all bases,” Monica says. “Maybe someone else knows what’s going on here and they’re stirring the pot too. We can't rule anything out.”

She turns to Jimmy. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe we can find a way to resolve this diplomatically. I truly believe Wanda means well. She’s just... been through so much, like all of us.”

Jimmy nods in agreement while Darcy shrugs, still skeptical but on board with the plan.

“How do you suggest we do that?” Darcy asks.

“By learning more about Y/N,” Monica says. “Think about it—remember how Wanda reacted at the deli? She was worried about Y/N, right before she threw me out of the Hex. I think Y/N figuring out the truth about their life in Westview is the key to all of this.”

“Wait, what deli?” Darcy grumbles, throwing her hands up like she’s just missed the season finale of her favorite show. And in a way, she has. “That never showed up on the broadcast!”

“Maybe Wanda's editing the footage real-time?” Jimmy suggests.

Monica nods. “It’s possible.”

“Well, Jimmy and I have scoured everything on Y/N,” Darcy interjects, pulling out her pad and scrolling through her notes. “All we found was a measly file in Stark’s database—barely more than a footnote.”

Monica crosses her arms and ponders for a moment. “I think I might know someone who can help,” she finally says.

Jimmy and Darcy exchange a look before speaking in unison. “Who?”

“You’ll see,” she says cryptically, dialing a number as she walks away.

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