Chapter Text
*flashback*
You make your way through the crowd next to the bus. There’s hundreds of BWL boys just like you. One is even wearing the same dark red button down shirt as you. You wore it to stand out from the blue and white…but you guess there is no escape.
You resign to the fact that you will never see your idol. Will never see his piercing blue eyes rest on your dark rimmed glasses before they continue down to the dark blue soft sweater that is tied over your shoulder. You slow your gait and almost stop walking until suddenly- a flash of gelled back blonde hair, different from the others because the hairline is definitely receding, pierces through the crowd. There he is. Christian Lindner. Your heart jumps into your throat and in no time you have elbowed your way through the crowd and are standing in front of him. Less than a meter away.
He is signing autographs with his delicate but rough and manly hands, the fabric of his shirt sliding ever so slightly above his muscular chest as he goes from signing to taking a picture with another boy.
You realize only now how impatient the last few months have made you. You cant wait a single second longer. It has to be now.
As he turns to the next fan about ten guys away, your body acts before your mind permits it and without warning you're shoving your picture of Mr Lindner into his strong hands. His fingers dance expertly over the piece of paper- exactly where your hands had been only moments before. But as he reaches for his pen it drops to the ground.
Suddenly you’re on the pavement, scrambling to get the sweet pen-that has been in his hands, his jacket pocket, probably even his pants’ front pocket- into your hands. You grab it and look up- only to find Christian Linder- the defender of the rich and lowerer of taxes for those who don’t need it, the most economically intelligent man in your country, and, above all, sexiest politician to walk the earth in centuries- looking down at you.
It’s so much better and so much worse than you ever expected this moment to go.
It’s so much better in the way that, when his piercing ocean blue eyes finally meet yours and his thin lips quirk into a friendly smile, the whole word around you seems to deafen. But it’s so much worse because you are trembling all over and seeing him from this angle was not on your list of things you were prepared to deal with today.
Your eyes are level with his crotch and you simply can’t help the heat now positively sprinting to your gut. He holds out his thick, manly hands and helps you up. You give him the now sweaty pen and expect nothing back except maybe a thankyou.
What he says next nearly makes you sink to the floor.
“Good boy,” he mutters, almost as if to himself. But he's staring intently into your eyes. He’s still holding your hand. “What’s your name?” He asks next, his voice deep and rich.
“Y/N.”
The moment goes on for hours.