hi lux! i saw you’re open to one shot requests and i was curious about your take on beauty pageant!reader x isaac, i’d imagine it’d be similar to popular!reader from your “dirty little secret” fic
p.s, i absolutely love how accurate you write for isaac!
Thank you for the request anon!! Sorry for the wait, but here you go<3
Pairing: beauty pageant!reader x isaac lahey
Summary: You’re in need of a date for the biggest pageant event of the season after your long-term boyfriend dumps you. The good news? Isaac Lahey makes a pretty convincing date, even if he can’t stand you.
Warning/tags: Really nothing crazy, just fluff. Fake dating, friends to lovers, they're flirting but neither of them realizes it. Maybe some suggestive comments? No use of y/n and no physical descriptions. An absurd amount of italics (I am who I am). Not proofread!
“Can you believe it?” you ask exasperatedly, flopping back onto Lydia’s bed. “Dumping me is one thing. Going with Erica Reyes to the gala is something else entirely!”
You frown upward at the ceiling, letting out a huff. Lydia flips through a magazine, only half-listening while Allison grins down at her phone.
“The problem isn’t even that he moved on,” you continue. “It’s that he moved on publicly. I mean, who does that?”
Lydia groans, shutting the magazine.
“Why don’t you just get another date?”
You sit up, astonished. “I can’t just take anyone, Lyds. I want it to look serious, like I moved on too.”
“So, you don’t want him back,” Lydia concludes, pursing her lips as she talks. “You want him to regret leaving.”
Allison perks up at this.
“What about Isaac?” Allison suggests from her spot on the floor, eyes not leaving her phone.
“We’re not exactly buddy-buddy,” you explain. “Why would he agree to do it?”
It’s not that Isaac hates you. That would almost be easier. Hate requires effort. Hate requires caring enough to form an opinion. Isaac’s opinion of you seems to be permanently stuck somewhere between mildly entertained and deeply annoyed. Which, in your opinion, is impressive.
“Because,” Allison sighs, “underneath all of that brooding, he is still a teenage boy.”
You eye her curiously. “You’re saying I should flirt with him?”
Allison shrugs. “I’m saying you should remind him you’re a girl.”
“A very pretty girl,” Lydia adds.
You scoff, gesturing to yourself. “As if that wasn’t obvious as is. Besides, that feels manipulative.”
Lydia picks up her magazine again, flipping it open. “It’s only manipulative if it doesn’t work.”
The next day, you find yourself sitting on the bleachers after school. You’ve got your notebook in your lap, pretending to write something down as you wait for lacrosse practice to end. Lydia and Allison chat mindlessly next to you, spanning from pageant dresses to nail art.
At some point, Coach blows his whistle for a beat too long, and Lydia nudges your side. You look up, eyes scanning the field. You spot Isaac across the field with Scott and Stiles.
Scott is busy smiling about something Stiles is saying while he talks with his hands animatedly. Isaac is trailing slightly behind them with his usual expression of someone who would rather be anywhere else.
You watch him approach the bleachers. Scott reaches the bottom first.
“Hey,” he smiles, holding a hand out for Allison.
You smile at the interaction. Stiles looks between you and Lydia.
“So, how are we feeling? Nervous? Excited? Ready to emotionally destroy every other contestant?”
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m looking forward to some healthy competition.”
Isaac snorts at that. “I’m sure.”
There it is, the first insult of the day.
“I know you didn’t come all this way just to roll your eyes at me, Lahey.”
Isaac opens his mouth, then closes it, because he doesn’t really have an answer.
A small victory, but you smile nonetheless. Before he can recover, Lydia stands.
“Oh, Allison, didn’t you need to help me with something?”
Allison looks confused. “I did?”
Lydia gives her a look that communicates an entire conversation. Allison immediately understands.
“Oh, right. Yes. That thing.”
Scott looks between them. “What thing?”
“The thing,” Lydia repeats once more.
Before Scott or Stiles can argue, Allison grabs Scott’s arm. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“To help Lydia with the thing,” she explains.
Lydia loops her arm with Stiles’, giving you a knowing grin before disappearing toward the school entrance.
He nods. “I’ll see you around.”
And then he turns. You stare after him. Seriously? That’s it?
“Wait up!” you shout, gathering your things from the bench and slipping your bag over your shoulder.
He stops, turning around.
“You’re walking with me?” he asks suspiciously, eyebrows drawn together.
“You say that like it’s a punishment.”
“You have a very expressive face,” you inform him.
A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“See?” you ask. “I knew you liked my company. Or at the very least you’re secretly entertained by me.”
“If you say so,” he grumbles, adjusting his helmet under his arm.
“So,” you start as the two of you walk.
Isaac glances over. “So?”
“I need a favor,” you explain.
Immediately, his expression changes. “Nope.”
“But you don’t even know what I’m asking,” you frown.
“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugs. “I know you.”
You stop walking. He takes a few more steps before realizing you aren’t beside him anymore. He turns around.
You give him your best smile, the one that has gotten you out of countless situations. “I need a date.”
Isaac stares for a long moment.
“No,” he says eventually.
You blink. “Well, that was fast.”
He crosses his arms. You cross yours.
He sighs. “You saying my full name doesn’t make me want to help.”
“Because I don’t do pageants,” he states plainly.
You laugh. “I’m not asking you to throw on some heels and participate. You just have to stand there and look pretty.”
His eyebrows lift. “Look pretty?”
“I’m not sure that’s something I can do.”
You look him up and down. Messy hair, pretty eyes, permanent scowl.
He looks away, fighting a tiny almost-smile. You step closer.
“You would look very handsome,” you argue.
“I would totally owe you.”
You huff, staring at him. Isaac sighs.
He knows he should say no. Actually, he already said no, multiple times. And still, you’re standing there, looking at him like you’ve already decided he’s going.
He doesn’t understand you, honestly. He knows when people are pretending. He knows fake smiles, fake confidence, fake versions of yourself.
But with you? He can’t tell where the act ends.
He takes one long look at the pout on your lips before dropping his head.
The words slip out before he can even stop them, and your face lights up immediately.
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
“I’ll make it worth your time, Lahey,” you state. “Friday. Six o’clock.”
“And wear something nice,” you remind.
He nods, lips pulled in a firm line as he lets the reality of his situation set in.
“See you!” you wave, turning towards the parking lot.
He watches you leave, then shakes his head. With one final groan, he keeps walking.
Isaac arrives exactly on time.
You smooth your hands down the front of your dress one last time before opening the door, already halfway through whatever sarcastic comment you’ve prepared for him. But, it dies in your throat.
He cleans up nicely, much to your surprise.
The black suit fits him almost unfairly well, tailored just enough to compliment broad shoulders that usually disappear beneath oversized hoodies and lacrosse sweatshirts. His hair looks like he actually attempted to tame it, though one stubborn curl has already escaped near his forehead.
He notices you staring almost immediately.
“You’re staring,” Isaac teases.
“I am not,” you argue. “I’m just pleasantly surprised.”
His eyebrow arches. “So you expected me to look terrible?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” you reply. “You just look…expensive. It’s nice.”
He rolls his eyes. “You look nice too.”
The compliment is so casual it catches you off guard.
Neither of you says anything for a second.
“Well, can I come in?” he asks. “Or did you want to keep gawking at me?”
“Hilarious,” you deadpan, moving aside.
He walks past you, hands tucked awkwardly into his pockets as he glances around the house. His eyes linger on the framed pageant photos lining the hallway. Not judgment, but genuine curiosity.
Really, you’d forgotten they were there. State titles, crowns, scholarship certificates. Your mom insists on displaying every single one.
“They’re my mom’s idea,” you explain before he can ask.
“I didn’t say anything,” he grins.
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was just wondering how often you have to dust all of these,” he explains.
You laugh, then sigh. “Every Saturday.”
Your mom pokes her head out from the kitchen.
He straightens almost instinctively, smiling.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” your mom smiles, looking warmly between the two of you. “You clean up well!”
Isaac glances down at himself. “Thank you.”
The two exchange pleasantries as your eyes drift toward the ballroom shoes waiting by the front door. Then back to Isaac, a terrible realization hitting you.
He looks back at you suspiciously. “What?”
“You don’t know how to slow dance.”
His expression doesn’t change. “...Yes, I do.”
“It’s just swaying,” he argues.
“It is so much more than swaying, Lahey.”
You groan, walking over to the speaker sitting on the bookshelf. Behind you, Isaac sighs dramatically.
“I already don’t like where this is going,” he whines.
“You weren’t going to like it no matter where it went,” you say over your shoulder.
Your mom snickers, making her way back to the kitchen as a soft jazz song fills the living room.
You turn back to him. “Come here.”
“I’m serious,” you say, pointing at the hardwood floor. “Now!”
With all the enthusiasm of someone walking toward their own funeral, Isaac steps forward. You hold out your hand, which he eyes warily.
“I don’t bite,” you remark.
“Somehow I doubt that,” he grumbles, placing his hand in yours.
You gently guide his other hand toward your waist. His palm rests just above your tailbone.
“You literally just said too low.”
“I meant,” you laugh, taking his wrist and adjusting it yourself. “There.”
“Oh.”
He clears his throat. “And your other hand?”
You lift it, resting it lightly on his shoulder.
He glances down. “Now what?”
“Now…” You take one slow step backward. “You follow me.”
“I thought you said dancing wasn’t just swaying.”
“It isn’t,” you shake your head.
“This feels like swaying,” Isaac says.
“One…” Another step. “Two…”
He follows without missing a beat.
“See?” he says. “I’m a natural.”
“You’ve taken exactly two steps,” you correct, laughing.
At some point, the conversation shifts. From school, to Stiles’ latest conspiracy theory, to Scott’s inability to lie, to Lydia’s book of the week.
Before you know it, you’re no longer counting steps. Isaac isn’t stiff anymore, shoulders relaxed and hand settled naturally against your waist. Your own grip loosens on his shoulder as the song changes.
Though, neither of you notices.
“...You’re getting better,” you say quietly.
“I know,” he says smugly.
“There it is,” you say disappointedly.
“You’re one to talk,” he responds, looking over at the large, framed photo of you sitting above the fireplace.
“Point taken,” you shrug.
The music fades into the next song, and neither of you moves. You feel comfortable. You hadn’t expected comfortable.
Then your mom calls from upstairs. “Sweetheart? You should leave!”
The spell breaks instantly, and you step back.
“So,” Isaac rubs the back of his neck. “I passed?”
You smile. “Beginner’s luck.”
“You don’t have a choice,” you reply.
He opens the front door for you with an exaggerated sigh.
“I knew agreeing to this was a mistake.”
You grin as you brush past him. “You’re still here.”
The valet opens your door before you have the chance to reach for the handle. Isaac looks at him, offended.
“I can park my own car,” he reasons.
You suppress a laugh as you smooth the skirt of your gown.
“Come on,” you persuade, pulling yourself out.
Together, you climb the wide stone steps leading into the Beacon Hills Grand Hotel. Even from outside, you can hear music drifting through the open doors.
Inside is exactly what you expected. White roses spill from crystal vases on every table. Chandeliers scatter warm light across polished marble floors. Waiters weave through the ballroom carrying trays of sparkling cider while a string quartet plays somewhere near the grand staircase.
Contestants in pastel gowns mingle with former titleholders wearing crowns that sparkle under the lights. Judges shake hands with local politicians while photographers call names from across the room. Somewhere in the distance, you hear Lydia laughing.
You glance sideways. Isaac looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Six chandeliers seems excessive, yeah?”
You laugh. “I told you it’d be fancy.”
“You are so dramatic,” you note, looping your arm with his.
The moment you step into the ballroom, conversations begin to shift. People smile at you, wave, offer congratulations before the competition has even begun.
What you’re not used to, however, is the way their eyes immediately slide toward Isaac.
A pair of contestants whisper behind manicured hands as one of the judges raises an eyebrow. Someone from the committee practically jogs over.
You smile automatically. “Good evening.”
“We’re so glad you made it.” She turns toward Isaac with obvious curiosity. “And who’s this?”
You open your mouth, but Isaac beats you to it.
“Isaac,” he offers, extending his hand.
You tighten your hold on his arm, tilting your head against him.
“Yes, Isaac,” you confirm. “My boyfriend.”
Isaac tenses under your grip. He nods once.
You bite your lip to hide a smile while she looks between the two of you.
“Well, enjoy yourselves,” she grins.
The second she’s gone, you break apart.
You look worriedly around at the watchful eyes before grabbing his arm once more and pulling him towards the edge of the ballroom.
“I know, I know, I should’ve told you,” you admit. “But would you have agreed to it if I did?”
“I didn't want to agree regardless,” he argues.
“Well you came, didn't you?” you conclude.
He opens his mouth to speak, but the words die on his tongue. He exhales.
“You have any other confessions?” he asks.
You cast your eyes upward in thought.
“Let’s see…” you start. “I hate onions, I thought The Godfather was a drag, and I’m not wearing underwear.”
Isaac’s expression drops. “How insightful.”
You grin at his droning voice as Lydia appears seemingly out of nowhere, Allison close behind. Lydia’s eyes flick between you and Isaac.
“Well,” she greets. “You actually did it.”
Lydia circles Isaac once, hands folded behind her back like she’s inspecting a museum exhibit. Isaac watches her with growing concern.
“Evaluating,” she says like it’s obvious.
Allison nudges Lydia with her elbow. “Leave him alone.”
Lydia hums thoughtfully before looking at you. “He cleans up well.”
Isaac looks down at his suit. “It feels like that’s an insult.”
“Yeah,” you frown, scooping up a glass of cider, “welcome to my world.”
A photographer waves from across the ballroom.
“Contestant number seven!”
You point at yourself as the photographer motions impatiently.
Isaac looks horrified as you grab his wrist. The photographer positions you beneath an arch of white flowers.
You and Isaac each take one awkward half-step. The photographer frowns.
Isaac mutters under his breath as you step even closer.
“Closer!” the photographer insists.
You finally give in, sliding just enough to brush his shoulder.
“There we go,” the photographer says successfully.
“Sir, could you put your hand around her waist?”
He huffs, slowly settling his hand against your waist. He’s warm, steady. Much steadier than your suddenly racing heartbeat.
The second the camera lowers, Isaac immediately steps away.
Dinner passes easier than you expected. Mostly because Isaac is unintentionally hilarious.
He spends the first half of it trying to decide whether to use the little fork or the big one, and learns that he hates sparkling water.
Eventually, though, your nerves take over. Your appetite seemingly disappears in anticipation of interviews.
“Why are you nervous?” Isaac asks.
“I’m not,” you shake your head.
“You always eat less when you’re nervous.”
Your fork stills. “How do you know that?”
He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “We’re friends. I pay attention, y’know.”
Your heart gives an inconvenient little flip. He says it so casually, like it isn’t the nicest thing anyone’s ever noticed about you.
Soon enough, a slow song begins to play. Couples gradually make their way toward the dance floor.
Isaac regards the dance floor with the same fear of someone looking at a battlefield.
You stand, smoothing your dress. “Ready?”
He groans, looking between you and your outstretched hand. Eventually, he sighs, placing his hand into yours.
The dance floor isn’t nearly as crowded as you thought. The quartet plays softly while couples sway beneath warm lights.
Isaac’s hand settles against your waist, and this time you don’t have to move it. You smile.
It’s on that dance floor that you have the overwhelming realization that you’ve spent the entire evening looking at him. Not once have you checked to see whether your ex noticed, or wanted to see what dress Erica is wearing. Not once have you cared.
The quartet eases into another song, the first few notes floating across the ballroom softly. Neither of you speaks, the music carrying the conversation instead.
One slow step, then another. The dance you’d spent twenty minutes teaching him now feels effortless. He’s no longer thinking about where to put his feet, and you’re no longer correcting him.
Instead, you find yourselves talking between steps. Mostly, it’s just Isaac complaining about the spelling of hors d’oeuvres.
His hand shifts ever so slightly against your waist as the music slows even further. The room fades into soft colors and laughter. The chandeliers blur overhead, the conversations becoming background noise.
“I’ll admit, this isn’t nearly as terrible as I thought it’d be,” Isaac says.
“I told you I’d make it worth your time, didn’t I?”
He glances around the ballroom before looking back at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
For the rest of the song, neither of you says much. Neither of you seems to notice when the music finally comes to an end, either.
The drive home is quiet. The radio hums softly somewhere between stations as you rest your head against the passenger window, watching the streetlights blur together outside. Isaac drums his fingers against the steering wheel.
You look over at him. “You were a surprisingly good pretend boyfriend.”
The words leave his mouth before he can stop himself. He clears his throat.
“I mean–” he cuts himself off, looking for the words.
You grin to yourself, deciding to let him suffer for another minute.
He pulls into your driveway and shifts the car into park, though neither of you moves.
You look over at the front porch, finding the lights still on. Your mom is probably waiting up.
“Thank you,” you finally say, “for covering for me.”
Isaac is still staring ahead, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel like he’s trying to convince himself not to say whatever he’s thinking.
You reach for the door handle.
“What if…” he starts, pausing. “What if we did this again?”
You tilt your head. “Then what?”
“A date,” he states. “A real one.”
You don’t think you’ve ever seen Isaac Lahey look so nervous.
You pretend to think. “Hm.”
His eyes narrow. “Oh, don’t do that.”
“I’m weighing my options,” you offer.
He reaches over you, pushing the door open and gesturing outward. “By all means.”
He watches you carefully, waiting. You decide to let him wait another second, or maybe two. Then you lean over just enough to bump your shoulder against his.
“I’d love to go on a real date with you.”
His smile is small, and a bit crooked. He nods.
You laugh, climbing out onto the driveway. “Goodnight.”
Isaac waits to see you safely inside before pulling away from the curb. You close the door behind you with a wide smile.
“Honey?” your mom calls. “How was it?”
You kick off your heels and race into the living room, smile never leaving.
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