Girlfriend Treatment | Trent Alexander-Arnold
Summary: You've been holding off on becoming Trent's girlfriend, but there's nothing like a bit of peer pressure to change your mind.
Word count: 3.1k
Warnings/tags: smut, fluff, trent being the loml
mdni please :)
a/n: I love taa. thats all.
masterlist!
His breathing is heavy in the crook of your neck, lips damp and soft on your skin, your own breaths ragged as you come down from your high, flushed and warm from the moment, your eyes trained on the light above your bed and the fact that you shouldn’t be doing this. You run your hands down the plains of his back, smiling to yourself at the fact that he hasn’t pulled away. “You need to get to training,” you say, “Match day and all that.”
You can feel his hesitancy as he pulls away to sit back on his heels, hands trailing along your skin. “Can I shower here?”
You nod, “I’ll start on breakfast.”
He leans forwards and kisses you, just a peck, before getting out of bed and disappearing into the bathroom, leaving you blushing in your messy sheets. God, he’ll be the death of you.
You drag yourself out of bed and pull some pants on, grabbing his t-shirt as you head to the kitchen, swearing when you see the time – lunch it is, you guess. You’re familiar enough with his pre-match routines to know what he’ll want to eat and how long he can stay. Caught up in your thoughts – of him, and his match and whether you’ll agree when he inevitably asks (again) whether you’ll be there. You’re plating up when he reappears in his joggers, shirtless, smiling at the sight of you in his clothes; if the match goes well, he’ll probably want to fuck while you wear his shirt, and you’ll almost certainly oblige.
Sure enough, he asks while you're sitting at the table. “I’ve got two comps left,” he says, “Please come – bring Hannah, if you like.”
You glance at him, "That sounds like WaG behaviour – not your girlfriend, remember?"
"Darlin', you know that fact's entirely on you, right?"
“Who else is going?” You deflect.
“Just my brothers.”
You mull it over; if anything, his brothers are good fun, and you’ve got no plans. “I’ll think about it,” you say, “but I’m not wearing your shirt.”
“That sounds like a yes,” he teases, taking your empty plate, “You’re coming?”
You lean back in your chair, watching him start to wash up, “I said I’ll think about it.”
Even with his back turned to you, you can feel his smile. “Don’t think too hard, you’ll hurt your head.”
“That’s my line,” you scoff, standing up to join him at the sink. Absentmindedly, you find yourself leaning your cheek into the top of his back, your hands sneaking around his middle. “Let me ask Han if she’s free, mkay?”
His soapy hand finds yours. “Can I have my shirt back?”
“I like this one.” you mutter. “I’ve got a ton of your other ones in the drawer, though.”
He wipes his hands on a tea towel, then turns to hug you back, leaning back against the edge of the sink. “I was wondering where they’d all gone.”
You smile at him, “It would be such a shame if you never got them back.”
“I need to go, sweetheart.”
You kiss him. “Don’t miss me too much.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “See you later.”
“Hmm, maybe.”
When he’s gone, taking one of his other shirts and promising to text you after training, you lie on the sofa, texting your friend to see if she can come to the game – last time you went without a friend, someone took a load of photos of you with his parents, and the rumours had been circling for weeks after.
From Hannah: I have that work dinner, remember? Yk I’d rather come to the game, but I can’t miss it.
To Hannah: Shit, I forgot. Don’t worry about it, have fun at the dinner <3
With a few hours until the game, you shower and text Trent to send you a ticket, taking your mind of the anxiety about getting spotted again by getting ahead on some of your admin for the new year, deliberating for a little too long on what to wear, knowing you’ll wear something similar to what you’ve worn to every other game you’ve attended in the winter – a thick coat and jeans, probably with a red top so you don’t stand out too much from the sea of Liverpool supporters.
Tyler picks you up just after six, and you find yourselves sat in the box early with some of the other players' friends and family, watching the warm ups while Marcell catches you up on his current girl troubles and the argument he had with Dianne the other day; you've heard about it all through Trent already, but you don’t mention that to his brother, instead getting Tyler to bring you a drink from the bar.
The first half is both awful and brilliant at once: Leicester City's early goal throws the Scousers off a little, but the two own goals cheer the home crowd right back up. Trent disappears back to the changing rooms during half time, and you chat some more with his brothers – at this rate, you'll have gotten an entire family history out of them by the time the game ends. He comes over for a couple of minutes right before the game starts up again, looking all sweaty and waving to his brothers. You go to the barrier and crouch down to talk to him.
"God," you mutter, "You reek of sweat."
"'S almost like I've been playing football."
You smile down at him. "Good luck – you're playing well."
His eyes are adoring, though you won't let yourself admit that it's you he's looking at like that. "Gimme a kiss?"
"In front of everyone?" You frown, "And with you smelling like that?"
He stares at you for a few long seconds, and you cave, opting to press your lips to his cheek before pecking him on the lips. "Go get 'em."
He moves away from you as you stand, leaning your elbows on the barrier to watch him weave through players to get back to the pitch, chatting to Robbo on the way. Back in your seat, Trent's brothers are looking at you with quizzical expressions.
"I thought you weren't together." says Tyler.
"We're not." you mutter.
"He hasn't asked?" Marcell chips in.
"Oh, he's asked." you say.
"Why'd you refuse then?"
You want to sink into the floor. "When he asked, it was just after all those photos came out, and I was super freaked out about having my life turned upside down by the idea of everyone finding out I'm dating Liverpool's golden boy."
"You just kissed him in a stadium of 50,000 people."
You can feel your face going red. He raises a good point – you've gotten past the panic of having your face fleetingly in the tabloids, and it's not like you and Trent don't already act like a couple – he even took you to Qatar with him and introduced you to the actual WaGs.
The second half drags by, but Trent plays well until he's taken off, right at the end, and you can tell he's unhappy with the overall performance. You check your phone when the game ends, aware that it's going to be a long while before you leave, surprised by the bunch of texts Hannah had sent you.
From Hannah: I wish I was at the match this meal is so boring
From Hannah: omg not the own goals
From Hannah: ummmm since when were u kissing trent in PUBLIC?!?!!?
From Hannah: wife him up
To Hannah: what?? where did u see that??
She sends you a link to a tweet by some LFC fan who must have been sitting in the seats above the box, because beneath the words "UM TRENT WHO ARE YOU KISSINGGG???" are a bunch of photos of you crouched down to talk to him, recognisable by your coat but thankfully without your face in them – the time stamp shows that it must have been posted within minutes of the interaction, and you're almost impressed.
Tyler sees what you're looking at and scoffs. "Jesus, that was quick."
"Right?" You laugh. "At least my face isn't in it."
He nods, "Better than last time, eh?"
The two of them bid farewell once the stadium's cleared out, knowing Trent will drive you home, and make you promise to drop by at some point before the next game. Once they're gone, you spot Hendo's wife and go to say hi, the two of you catching up until, at long last, Hendo and Trent reappear, having showered and done their interviews. Trent hugs you tight when he sees you, his warm hands slipping under your coat and pressing into your skin.
"Proud of you, T." you say, earning a satisfied smile. "Wanna grab something to eat on the way home?"
He agrees, walking with his arm over your shoulders, chatting to Hendo on the way to the car, signing a couple of autographs on the way out, smiling for the lingering fans. They don't pay you or Rebecca much notice, you hang back until they're gone and Trent finally unlocks the car.
"Chinese?" You offer on the way, "My treat?"
He laughs, "What's gotten into you? Two public appearances in one evening?"
"Going to the local Chinese place is hardly a public appearance." you argue.
"I'd love to." he says, stopping at a red light. You smile to yourself, for once filled with utter confidence in everything about this relationship – or, more accurately, suddenly able to acknowledge that this man loved you and wanted to be with you, even if he'd never put the former into words.
He parks on the street in front of the takeaway, grabbing a menu from the counter and joining you to deliberate about what to order in the corner by the window. You spend five minutes um-ing and ah-ing only to order what you always do. You insist on paying like you'd send you would, and sit back down beside him.
You turn pointedly to face him rather than the counter. "T," you begin. Fuck, who'd have thought you'd be so nervous about asking a question you already knew the answer to? You need to find a segue. "Have you seen the photos?"
"Again?" he asks, the concern immediately clouding his face – he saw the anxiety you went through last time, and it makes your heart flutter to know he holds that concern for you.
"Relax, my face isn't in them," you say, getting the tweet back up. He inspects the photos, instinctively smiling at the little moment.
"Why are you so okay with it?" he asks.
You shrug. "There's no point in getting stressed about the same stuff twice."
"Wise." he teases, squeezing your thigh slightly.
"I'm practically Oogway." you say, making him laugh. "Seriously though-"
Your order is called, interrupting you. He goes to get it, unlocking the car as you take the bag from him. In the car, he sends you a worried look as he turns the engine on. The takeaway sits on your knees, warm on your jeans.
"What were you going to say?" he asks.
You tell yourself to let tonight last a little longer. "Oh, uh, nothing. Let's get home, yeah?"
He parks on the street under your flat, waiting diligently while you fiddle with your keys and grab your mail from the pigeon hole, greet an elderly neighbour and insist on taking the stairs.
Once inside, he helps you grab the chopsticks and drinks before settling onto the sofa, cross legged with the news on in the background.
"Listen," you say, "I've been thinking."
"Don't tell me you bought me dinner just to break up with me."
You panic for a second, "Oh my God, no, of course not! In fact, kinda the opposite."
He leans against the sofa behind him, looking a little smug. Bastard. "Oh yeah?"
"Don't tease, okay? I need to say this."
His eyes don't leave your face as you put your meal on the coffee table. "Go on."
You face him, "T, I maybe like you a bit – well, a lot – more than I ever planned to, and, like, I was thinking a lot over Christmas and stuff, but I wish I hadn't been so anxious when you first asked me to be your girlfriend, 'cause I don't want to be thinking about what the fucking Mirror are saying about us when they're irrelevant to us, as like, people. You’re one of the most important people in my life and every time we spend time together I'm just reminded of how lucky I am to have you in my life, and of how bloody dumb I've been. Anyway, this is a very long way of saying something simple: I love you, and do you want to be my boyfriend?"
Trent has a soft look on his face that makes you flustered. "For real?" He mutters, mostly to himself, as he takes your hands. He pulls you to him so you're forced to straddle him and takes his sweet time kissing you, hands on your waist.
"Is that a yes?"
He laughs, "You're cute, y'know? of course it's a yes, love."
You blush. "Does this mean I get girlfriend treatment now?"
His lips, ever so gentle, ghost over your neck, "My sweet, sweet girl, let me show you just what kind of treatment you get now."
You are, as ever, putty in his hands.
Gently, he moves you so that you're under him, kissing your neck and murmuring endless kindnesses into your skin as he undoes your jeans, pulling them down to expose your thighs, the fabric tangling around your ankles. He pulls back, seemingly reluctantly, to pull them off your legs completely, and repositions himself so he can kiss you on the soft flesh of your inner thigh, leaving teeth marks and bruises in his wake, hands preoccupied with your bra and removing your top.
Ever the tease, his kisses only graze the fabric over your core, hands teasing your nipples. You sigh, getting frustrated with his not-quite touches.
His lips finally attach to your core through the lace of your pants, finding the fabric damp with your arousement, his mouth wet over you. His mouth on your panties elicits a moan from you, breathy and sweet. His hands disappear from your chest for a moment before you feel the slight sting of him tearing your underwear off, leaving you exposed to him as he kneels on the floor, your legs over his shoulders, hands in his locs.
He is systematic with his assault on your core, knowing your every weakness and slightest tells, his tongue toying with you, teeth grazing your clit slightly, making you twitch with pleasure around him. He presses his fingers into you, relishing in the way you contract around him, letting out another moan, this one louder, less restrained as he unravels you, bit by bit, like an animal toying with its prey. You're bucking into him more now, trying to use the pressure of his mouth on your clit to create a rhythm, unsatisfied with his slow teasing – he knows, instinctively, that you probably don't even fully realise your doing it. He uses his fingers to set a pace, still teasing, still unpicking you, slow and steady.
His other hand holds your hips, keeping you pressed right into him, allowing him full control over you in your most vulnerable state, moaning as you come undone for him. He can tell from your shaking that your close, that it will only take a few strategic movements to have you coming on his face, and he is more than happy to push you over the precipice, feeling your moment of tenseness, muscles contracting with absolute pleasure, before you breathe again, heavier, warmer, trying to make sense of your situation as he plants kisses on your sensitive skin. He kisses his way up your stomach, kissing you when he reaches your neck. You're still trying to catch your breath, the kiss sloppy and messy.
"T," you murmur, shivering at his every touch. "T, need you."
He hums, "Mmm, I'm not doing this for the first time as your boyfriend on the sofa."
You giggle. "I don't think I trust my legs right now."
"I got you," he says, "You know I've got you."
He picks you up, your arms still wrapped around him, and takes you to your bedroom, apparently unbothered by the weight or inconvenience of carrying you across the flat.
He lays you down on your bed, still unmade from the morning, and pulls his top off, trousers and boxers following. Hovering over you on the bed, he kisses you again, relishing in the feeling of your fingertips on his back, the sensation inciting something guttural in him. Only you can do this to him, pull him apart with just the lightest of touches. You take pride in that fact.
His touch is firm, and your thighs, still sensitive from his abuses, warm at the feeling of his hardened length pressed to them, precum decorating your fingers as you reach down to aid him, your thumb toying with his tip as he kisses you, open mouths and desperate, your other hand on his neck, pulling his ear close to your mouth.
"Please, Trent," you murmur, "Please."
He moves your hand from his length, lining himself up with your core, lips refinding yours as he pushes in, nearly coming right then as you gasp into his mouth, letting out the prettiest of moans as he bottoms out in you, unable to keep your composure under him.
He moves slow, not necessarily soft, but he draws out the experience, making the most of every gasp and moan, lips never leaving your skin, your nails digging into the muscular smoothness of his back. He could die at the feeling of you under him, around him.
He returns one hand to your clit, toying with you to edge you closer to your climax, the feeling of your convulsions around him bringing him closer too. He pushes you over the edge, riding you through your orgasm and into his own, grunting into your skin as he breathes you in, loving every sensation of you on him. He could live in this moment for eternity.
Your kiss on his forehead brings him back to the world. You, fucked out under him, hair a mess, smile lazy. "Boyfriend."
He relaxes on top of you, careful not to lean too much weight on your chest – he'd hate to suffocate you – and kisses your jaw. "Girlfriend."