#our Maxie | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

coastielaceispunk · 1 year ago

Text

Liquid Dreams

Hello, lovelies, it has been too long! Life is finally calming down and I am so ready to get back into writing, thank you for your patience with me and all your love always. Returning by finally posting this forever wip of my favorite Pedro boy to write. This lil fic is dedicated to @lowlights on her birthday! My love, my soulmate, and forever beta babe, I love you! Happy birthday beautiful!

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x F!reader

A Man’s World-Verse

Word Count: 1.9+k

Warnings: Established relationship, wet dream, consented somno, ass play, fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, cum play, cum eating, lil begging, dirty talk, a 'good boy' and a 'that’s my girl' among others, silliness and softness, sleepy sex.

Summary: You help Max through a wet dream and he treats you to a VERY good morning.

MASTERLIST

+++++

Opening your eyes barely in the early morning light, you hear distressing noises. No. Wait. Needy noises?

Blinking away the remaining sleep in your eyes while you stretch, your fingertips find the source of the desperate sounds all the way on the far side of the king-sized bed. The light caress of your fingernails on his exposed skin pulls a muffled whimper from his lips. You pause your hand’s movement and his breathing evens out again, still deep in sleep.

As you lean up on your elbow to see him, your brain takes a moment to catch up to what you are looking at. A quiet gasp leaves your parted lips. Max is laying on his stomach, face down on his pillow, his arms underneath and hands grasping the pillow tightly. The bed sheet is kicked all the way off of his naked body and his left leg is hiked up, facing away from you. His whole body glistens with a thin sheen of sweat and his mop of hair is sticking to his damp forehead. Somehow, he has worked his second pillow down between his thighs, and as you crane your neck to take in more of him, lingering on his adorable ass, you see how the firm pillow has pressed up into his crotch.

Little breathy whines sharpen your attention and the slow roll of his hips begins to captivate you. The welcoming pressure of the pillow surely causing such sounds. Max is humping his pillow in his sleep. Poor thing is having a wet dream. You cannot help but slide your equally naked body closer, his heat calling to you. He sleeps so deeply you wonder how much you can help him through whatever fantasy he is currently imagining.

When the tips of your fingers glide up the back of his warm thigh to the crease of his bottom, he starts to pant. You take so much pleasure in the effect your touch has on him. Even in sleep, he responds as if you are pure electricity on his skin. Then…he mumbles your name.

“Baby…please…more. I need more.” Max is dreaming about you. Fucking you. Being fucked by you maybe? Your pussy is wet with interest now, arousal finding its rightful place.

Leaning even closer, you place your hand on his hip to feel his rolling thrusts into the bed. With your lips to his ear, you whisper, “I can give you more, Maxie. Have you been a good boy?”

Max mewls into his pillow, hot and wet, drooling from your coaxing words as his hips pick up their pace, fucking his pillow further into the mattress.

You coo at him quietly to keep going as your soft touch moves from his hip to the round of his ass and then to where his balls are nestled between his weight and the squished pillow. His whines become clearer as you stroke the sensitive area beneath his balls with your knuckles. The friction of his cock along his tummy must be amazing because you can tell he is getting close by his stuttering breaths. Still dreaming, Max just needs something to push him over the hazy edge.

That’s when your wandering fingertips pull themselves upwards between his cheeks. Max looks so beautiful like this. Relaxed, responsive, vulnerable. He lets out a choked gasp when you press the pad of your middle finger to his tight entrance. He did want more.

“Good boy, Maxie. Come for me.”

Max pistons his hips so hard the whole bed shakes. With a strangled cry into his pillow, he comes for a long time. His hips continue to roll through his high and his arms unravel from under his pillow to pull his whole body further into the bed with an animalistic growl, feeling every second of sleepy ecstasy he can.

Once he stills and takes a few deep breaths you bring your hand back to his hip and roll him towards you. Max looks up at you with heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes, his face content and satisfied, his chest heaving. You can’t help but smile down at him in his disheveled state.

“Good morning, Maxwell,” you glance to where he fucked his come into the sheets, the large glossy stain mocking you, you wish it was covering you. Your eyes trail over to his softening cock and the little bit of come that covers his stomach, “you’ve made such a mess, baby, let me help you.”

Max’s hand grips your ass as you position yourself on your knees beside him to lean down and lick his tummy clean. His touch, a sign he is present now, makes you sigh.

“I think you’ve helped me plenty this morning, my darling,” Max groans as your lips suck every last bit of his spend off of him. His breath hitches when you kiss him lower on his hips and you look up to see that he is watching you closely. “So beautiful you are.”

Max hums as you continue mouthing at his stomach, hips and thighs, his fingers dip into your soaked folds from behind, “Oh, sweetheart.” Max leans up to crowd your space and lay you back with his full weight soliciting a comforted whine from your lips.

“Did making a mess of me turn you on, my love?” Max whispers into your neck as if you’re both still sleeping. His hands press and pull their way down your body as he rocks into you becoming hard again.

“Of course it did,” you counter, matter of factly.

“Of course,” Max repeats as he cups your mound making you outwardly moan. The tips of his thick fingers teasing your entrance.

“Baby, please. More,” you can’t help but beg his own words back to him.

“Anything for my dream girl.”

Your gaze finds his at the response, full of love and lust. Max then crashes his lips to yours in a passionate kiss just as two thick fingers thrust into you. He swallows your moans, curling his fingers up before pulling them all the way out to push them slowly back in. Over and over, the squelch of your arousal fills the humid morning air. Your hips move of their own accord seeking every inch of his long fingers.

The kiss turns feral and instinctive as you wiggle below Max and he ruts his renewed length into your thigh.

“Max…” you whine in a quick breath to his persistent lips and he knows what you need.

He reluctantly pulls back for air. “More?” Max asks already lifting to situate between your opening thighs. When he removes his fingers from your pussy, you groan, but he shushes you with quick kisses. You watch him shove his fingers, covered in you, between his kiss-swollen lips as he lines himself up with your slick entrance.

“Fuck, baby, just had to…” Max sheaths himself fully, “...taste you.” He is talking with his mouth full of his own fingers, does he still think he’s dreaming?

All you can do is cling to his sides. He worked you up so fully he glides in easily and the thick tip of him punches deep within. Both of you are so open in the early minutes of waking, trading groans and sighs when he starts to move. The soft leisure turns to heavy purpose as your bodies awaken together.

As he finds his pace, Max removes his fingers from between his lips, his tongue chasing the taste of you that lingers, and slides his hand between your warm bodies to circle their slickness over your swollen clit. His slack-jawed expression makes you clench around him as his touch dips lower to feel how you open to take all of him. Max’s groan of approval makes your eyes roll back and once he is satisfied his fingers find your clit again with more pressure.

“You feel so good, so tight, around me, baby,” Max grunts with a couple of particularly deep thrusts moving you up the bed into your pillows.

Plummeting towards your climax you pull Max down to you, locking your ankles above his ass and start to meet him thrust for thrust pulling him even deeper. He falls to his elbow, his other hand trapped, and his lips seek the plushness of your breasts that have pressed into him under his weight. Sloppy, wet open mouth kisses stain your cleavage and when he pulls one of your nipples into his mouth with a harsh suck, you cry out his name.

“Max! Ma-Max…oh fu-” you cut yourself off with an indulgent moan that has you gasping for air as your orgasm rips through your whole body. Your toes tingle, your fingers ache with how tight you fisted Max’s hair, and you feel as if you are waking up all over again rolling through the haze of your climax.

“That's my girl, squeezing me so good, so wet, so warm,” Max continues to grind deep into you as you ride out the last waves of your orgasm whimpering and whining under him. You know he is starting to seek his second release when he begins to murmur and mumble into your neck. Both of his hands now grasp the back of your neck, your ass, and your hips, anything he can hold to feel all of you. He always needs more and you are the one to give it to him.

Through his loud panting and heavy breathing he doesn’t hear your question, “wha..?” He's just so caught up in you.

“I said,” you pant into his ear as he picks up his pace again, “Tell me. Tell me what you were dreaming about.”

As if the memory crashes into him all at once Max whines and his hips start to falter.

“Tell. Me.” You whisper and nibble his earlobe.

Now he is frantic and gasps for air, “I…baby…you…I was where you are right now.”

“Ohh? I was filling you up?”

“Y-yes,” Max whimpers as your hands travel back down to his ass, his high pitched sounds telling you he's nearly there again.

“Taking me so good…right…” your middle finger trails between his cheeks again and really presses to his puckered entrance, “here?”

“YES, baby, oh god!”

Max comes hard inside of you, his final thrusts seeking more pressure from your finger and when it slipped just inside the tiniest bit, he was thrown over the edge with a husky shout. A few more lazy thrusts and he's done painting your pussy, his come leaking out of you around his softening cock staining the sheet below.

He pulls out of you with a soft grunt and collapses comically next to you on the bed falling partially on his first, still wet spot. The way he pulls his arms into himself and his scrunched face makes you giggle. As he laughs too you roll over to lay on his chest. He holds you in his arms catching his breath as you draw patterns into his chest freckles.

“Is that something you would like me to do, Max? Something you would like to do together?” You quietly speak after a stretch of silence watching the rising sun’s rays peek through the blinds.

“If you are comfortable with trying, my darling, I think I would like it very much.”

“I love doing everything with you, Maxie.”

He smiles at you softly, stroking your sex-wild hair from your face. His sleepy face is now bright with love and possibility.

“My dream girl.”

+++++

This may lead to another fic....

Join my Taglist!

#happy birthday my love!!#our maxie #switch!Maxie #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord x you #maxwell lorenzano #maxwell lord #justice for maxwell lorenzano #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #maxwell lord ww84

98 notes · View notes

coastielaceispunk · 2 years ago

Text

LJ!!!!

I am a warm gooey mess after reading this, I’m in love with it so damn much! You have written this lovely man so beautifully I couldn’t help but cry!

Maxwell Lorenzano deserves ALL THE LOVE PEOPLE!!

Sheer

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Plus Sized F!Reader

Summary: You owe more to an unlikely savior than you could ever imagine.

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: T, discussion of off-screen character death (cancer), negative body image and self-worth talk, light spicy thoughts, angst. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: This story was a real surprise and a treat to pop out of my head one morning, especially with a Pedro boy I haven't written for! Our reader is a plus sized girlie in this story, and we're dealing with some negative body image and self-worth talk on both sides. The reader also discusses the death of a friend, so if that may be triggering to you feel free to scroll along, lovely reader.

This should have been your best first day. The first day at the job that will finally get your head above water. The first time you’ve felt qualified, and that you’d fit in. And the first where you could see the stepping stones to something bigger and better in front of you.

It was your fucking thighs that ruined it all.

You’d wanted to make a good first impression. Bought a whole new outfit just to show how committed you were, down to the thigh-high stockings and matching underwear. That was for you, something under the pencil skirt and blazer that made you feel even more powerful. It had cost a pretty penny too. Your ample bottom and full figure needed good support, and that plus lace was always the highest price at the lingerie boutiques. But you shelled it out, along with their recommended garters and thigh highs “for peak professionalism,” and were feeling yourself as you strutted off the subway. There was practically a soundtrack playing behind you. Maybe “Uptown Girl,” the notes making a smile come to your face and your head bob as you exited the train.

You’re normally more careful, aware of how much more space your body takes up than the other knockout New York girls streaming around you. But confidence had you swinging your hips and stepping confidently…right until you bumped into a woman’s handbag with an aggressive closure, the metal skimming past your calf and over the delicate nylon.

It ran instantly, a testament to how much of a rip-off these undergarments were. You felt it split along the length of your shapely leg as you hurried out of the station and towards the gleaming monolith of your office. Scurrying inside, you slipped into the bathroom unnoticed to assess the damage.

The run had split into a gaping maw down your leg, the smooth fantasy of the nylon revealing the more mottled flesh underneath. You held back tears as you wracked your brain for a solution. You could run to a shop, get a replacement pair. You’re still early to clock in, wanting to arrive punctually to impress your supervisor. That’s it, you’d just pop out to a drugstore for a new pair and no one would be the wiser.

It was a perfect plan. You just needed to move. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot.

The mirror mocks you, internal monologue screaming to the forefront from where you battered her back this morning.

Wouldn’t have ripped them if you were smaller.

Why do you need to take up so much space?

Did you think all this would change what you are?

Nastier names you call yourself only in the torture chamber of your mind echo in your ears. Your mascara is dangerously close to running, eyes catching on every flaw in your outfit, every wrinkle, everything that screams don’t look at the parts I hate, every unflattering angle. You reach deep to return to that carefree state you held just fifteen minutes ago but it’s dissipated like steam from a coffee cup.

Grabbing a handful of tissues you storm into a stall and lock it, leaning over to let the tears drip onto the floor without ruining your makeup. The minutes are ticking away, time running out to fix your minor wardrobe malfunction, but the ache in your head and behind your eyes has become the only thing you can focus on now. Your sobs are quiet little sniffles and short gasps, thankful for the privacy.

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom slams open, and you shoot up, holding your breath. You’re not alone anymore.

Someone in smart leather shoes smacks across the floor, walking past the stalls and coming to a stop. A zip, then the tinkle of urination. Your expression crumples on itself in confusion.

Then a deep, masculine sigh reaches your ears, and your face quickly burns with embarrassment.

Fuck, did you walk into the men’s room?

You didn’t even check, just burst in to the first door with a toilet on it. There may have been urinals, but you were too preoccupied in the moment to pay them any mind. You clap your hands over your mouth, lightheaded at the fact that you’re listening to a grown man piss and he has no idea you’re in here. This day has turned from amazing to devastating to mortifying so quickly you could throw up.

The man finishes, striding over to the sinks to wash up. You breathe a sigh of relief, ready to make a mad dash out before someone else enters. The water turns off, a few flicks of his hands in the sink, and then…

He starts talking.

“This is your day,” he says, an order that you can imagine him doing in the mirror. “You will succeed in what you do, and you will find satisfaction in that success. You will continue to grow, and be proud of yourself. You will start doing that today.” With every word you cringe inwardly. He’s so earnest-sounding, really enunciating his daily affirmations in a public restroom. His voice is pleasing to listen to at least. If he was a late night radio DJ you would certainly tune in to him to fall asleep.

A moment of silence, a silent hope.

“This is your day…”

Oh for fuck’s sake, embarrassment be damned, you can’t keep listening to this.

“Hi there,” you squeak out, your whole body tense as his monologue cuts off sharply. The pause is at least ten months pregnant before he speaks.

“I-I’m so sorry, I thought I was alone,” he stammers out, two quick steps heading towards the door.

“No, I’m sorry, I-I shouldn’t even be here, it’s…” Your words run out of steam when you realize his footsteps have stopped.

“You’re a woman. In the men’s room.”

You can’t help but smirk. He’s a little slow on the uptake. It’s surprisingly sweet.

“It’s been a rough morning.”

Another pause.

“Are you in trouble?”

You peal out a weak laugh.

“Nothing like that, just…” Taking a deep breath, you blow it out. Might as well admit your failures to a stranger. “I ripped my pantyhose on the way here, and it’s my first day and I wanted to make a good impression, and then I got overwhelmed and…” Your breath starts to quicken, and below the Pepto Bismol pink stall you see two shoes slowly approach. They’re well cared for, supple shining leather, but scuffed all along the toe. Tan slacks overtop the laces, a crisp pleat ironed into the length. You even see a glimpse of striped socks underneath, a collection of garish colors that makes you smile.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the voice says soothingly, closer than before. His accent sounds Spanish before he manually flattens it, forcing it back into his throat in favor of an all-American good boy accent. It eases the tension in your shoulders, sitting down on the toilet seat and dabbing at your eyes.

“I know it’s stupid. And I should just go out and get another pair. I just…” you say, but struggle to voice what’s really bothering you to a man who hasn't seen your face. Who probably doesn’t care who you are beyond a bizarre Monday morning anecdote. Most don’t, after all. You can’t remember how many times a man has looked through you because of the roundness of your tummy, or the thickness of your thighs. Or even worse, devoured your curves with roaming eyes but won’t look you in the eye, or call you back.

“It’s not stupid. You wanted to feel ready to take on the day, and something bad happened. We all deal with it,” he says, the gentle register he’s taking on soothing to your frayed nerves. “Do you have a place to go for another pair?” he asks. You bite your lip, shaking your head before realizing he can’t see you.

“First time out here, but I can manage,” you say timidly. The embarrassment of your predicament is climbing back up your throat, the thrumming need to get out and away making your hands shake.

“I know a place, but it’s probably quicker for me to run out for you. Do you want to stay here while I get them?”

You sputter, a thousand excuses why he should not do that roiling in your brain. “You don’t have to,” is the only one you manage to get out, heart hammering. A little chuckle wafts to your ears, and the heat in your cheeks blooms in your tummy as well. He sounds handsome, and that is short-circuiting your brain even more.

“I have gone on an errand or two in my life,” he jokes, feet making their way towards the door. “Lock it behind me so no one else comes in. I’ll do this -” He knocks on the door in a quick but recognizable pattern. “- when I’m back. It should only be a few minutes.”

“You’re that good huh?” You stammer again, your whole body threatening to light on fire in this stall. This man may come back to a pile of ash instead of a woman dying of embarrassment.

“Eh, I could be better,” he says, and the door to the outside opens with a rush of lobby noise. “Be right back.”

A thick slam lets you sneak out to bolt the lock. Returning to the mirror that betrayed you just minutes before, you watch your reflection. Behind the roundness in your face you pick at and criticize, you recognize another emotion. Determination, and fortitude you push yourself to stop downplaying. You can overcome this setback. Nothing is lost. If anything, you might have gained a confidant, someone you could laugh about this comedy of errors with over coffee in the break room.

You’ll be sure to thank him properly when he gets back.

Maxwell Lorenzano hurries out of the office building he’s worked in for six months, down the street and to the Macy’s two blocks away. He knows these roads like the back of his hand, and all of the stores that line them. A good thing to keep in his back pocket when he was pitching new products and charming sales people. Especially good when he knows exactly which door to go through to get to the women’s delicates section.

He strides in with all the glorious purpose of a man on a mission, and people part for him. He likes to think it’s because he cuts an impressive figure, tan suit over a white button-up, brown and yellow striped tie flapping with urgency. But there’s always the nagging worry that it’s because they recognize him. That the scurry away is fear. He’d been confronted in the past, a handful of angry men and women who wanted to take out their frustrations with their fists. But worse is the anxiety, the fear, like he could snap his fingers and magic them out of existence.

The aftermath of that damn stone still hangs heavy around his neck.

“Can I help you?” a petite saleswoman asks when Max comes to a stop in the nylon section. His sudden drop in demeanor from confident to hesitant must have signaled her over. In his eagerness he didn’t even ask his damsel in distress which kind she needed, or her size. He chews his lip in contemplation.

“I’m looking for a pair of nylons for my…” He pauses, no words coming to mind. His unlikely acquaintance? His mystery girl locked in the men’s room? His noble quest? The saleswoman - Karla, her name tag informs him - puts him out of his misery.

“I can help you with that. What kind does she wear? Control top? Thigh highs?”

Max’s mouth dries out. The most he knows of her is the glimpse he got of her feet, sensible black heels, well worn. The sight warmed something in his chest. She must be a hard worker, someone on her feet all day and always up to run an errand for a friend. He bets they ache at the end of a long day. Does she have someone to rub them for her?

“What do…most women wear to an office?” he asks, flitting his eyes over the variety of styles and shades.

“All the professional women I know use thigh highs. Easier in the office than a full set.” Karla directs him to the right section. “What size is she?”

Damn, this is where his lack of foresight fails him. He should have asked, but the intimacy of that question died on his tongue. Why did they size nylons in weight and height, the two most sensitive topics? He’d rather swallow a mouthful of glass than ask. Picking up one of the packets, he flips it to the size chart. There are only four options, which is easier than he expected.

“I can’t remember, better safe than sorry. One of each,” he says, Karla’s well-manicured eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

“And what color?” Karla asks. He noted that at least.

“Sheer black.”

Karla moves to grab a handful of the basic style, the cheapest on the display, before Max stops her.

“These ones,” he amends, tapping the more expensive set. If she’d already torn one pair, another flimsy set wouldn’t do. It had nothing to do with the fact that the lace edging the expensive ones is more delicate, a prettier pattern, and thinking of giving it to you raises goosebumps on the back of his neck.

He doesn’t even know you. It’s just…practical.

Karla rings up his purchases without further question, though maybe a little side-smile. She gives Max a brighter one when he takes the bag.

“You’re a good boyfriend,” she comments, scurrying off before he can respond. His face burns hot as he exits the store, checking his watch. The innocuous word - boyfriend - pings in his mind.

It had been some time since Max had run an errand for anyone. A few empty flings followed his divorce but nothing substantial enough to require a trip to the drugstore, or even a coffee shop. It was one of his favorite things about being a husband. He lived for the little memos on his desk blotter - Mrs. Lord needs you to pick up hairspray and milk - and followed them to the letter and beyond. He prided himself in knowing her favorite scents, what brands she preferred, what she turned her nose up at and what feminine products she needed. Sometimes he’d slip in something extra, a bouquet of flowers, a simple card. She’d groan at the expense, especially in the most dire times, but it always ended with her on her tiptoes kissing him, whispering, “My hero,” in his ear.

He really enjoyed being her hero, even after everything that happened.

It’s still early enough that his bathroom stowaway won’t be late to her first day. He’ll get to swoop in and save the day, be a hero to one person for a short moment. Jogging back into the office, the clash in humidities making his shirt stick to his back, he returns to the bathroom door. Rapping his pattern on it, he waits for the shick of the lock and a few moments more in case she wants to be back in the stall when he enters.

Stepping in and locking the door behind him, the open space is still empty, her shoes in her stall. Her toes are pointed towards each other, legs nervously rubbing.

“I, uh, forgot to ask your size,” Max blurts out, cringing immediately at the first thing that comes to mind. He knows she’s holding her breath, so he speeds through the next part. “Those sizing charts are more invasive than a doctor’s visit, so I just got one of everything, and the shop lady said that thigh highs are what everyone’s wearing but I’m not an expert so I hope it’s…okay.” He trails off before stepping further in and sliding the bag under the stall door. He scolds himself not to look further but he does catch a glance at her shapely calves before straightening back up.

“I can…leave now. Unless you want me to stay until you’re ready to go. What…whatever you want.”

She still hasn’t said anything and it’s heavier than his anxiety on his chest. He’s sure he’s offended her, or completely screwed this one small task up. Leave it to him to take helping a stranger to new, wildly creepy levels. Should he have just gone to reception to ask a woman for help? Is she mortified a man she’s never seen bought her something so intimate?

He waits in agony.

You try to comprehend what this stranger has handed you. In his absence you practiced thanking him for what you assumed would be the wrong size of pantyhose. You planned how you would reassure him that he could leave so you could escape to the women’s room and struggle into whatever he returned with.

But instead, he surprises you with a folded bag tucked discreetly under the bathroom stall.

Four identical pairs of thigh-highs, all matching your outfit, and in every size you could hope for. Pulling out the correct packet, your breath catches in your throat. They’re nicer than you allow yourself to buy, the high-quality nylon silky under your touch. The lace along the edge is finely textured, beautifully designed.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, your voice faraway to your own ears, a ball forming in your throat. The man’s feet shuffle against the tile floor.

“I hope you don’t think I’m being a creep. My ex-wife always said I was good at finding exactly what she needed.”

His voice is tight, and it plucks at your heart.

“Not a creep, you’re definitely my hero today,” you manage to say, rolling down the ruined pantyhose. The other follows, tucking your bare toes into your shoes to protect them from the cold floor. The man paces outside while you stretch each new nylon up your legs.

“Definitely not how I thought my day would start,” he says, the smile in his voice making your first real one grace your lips.

“Me neither. I can pay you for these.”

“I could never accept. I’ll return the extras, but please. Consider them a ‘welcome to the office’ gift. Or consolation after the morning you’ve had.”

“Oh, so you work here too? Great, now I’ll have to worry about bumping into you in the other men’s bathrooms.”

“I would gladly approach all bathrooms with caution if I got to run into you in one again.”

A softer pause than before.

“Would you like me to leave?”

Smoothing the lace band around your plush thigh, you let your fingertips trace the edge. Briefly, you imagine fingers other than your own following the same path before hooking underneath to slide them down inch by inch, replaced by soft lips.

“I’d like to thank my savior face to face,” you tease, smoothing your skirt and toeing your shoes back on. You dab some toilet paper under your eyes, pat your hair, and take a deep breath before exiting the bathroom stall.

The stall door slams shut as the man who saved your day turns to face you. His eyes light on your face first, open curiosity melting into a charming smile that is…familiar. In fact, a lot of him is familiar. His wide shoulders, suit jacket stretching against them. The sweep of his blond hair, not as light as it used to be but still caramel with burnt sugar strands. His large hands, no longer sporting a Rolex or an ostentatious pinky ring. And his face, one of the most recognizable in recent years, wearing an expression you’ve never seen. If you weren’t so dumbstruck you’d think it was appreciation. It was the look someone might give before calling you beautiful.

“Max Lorenzano…”

“Max Lord.”

His introduction trips over your recognition, dazed expression sharpening and shattering under those two words. The hope in his eyes dims as he schools his expression into acceptance, honey-golden aura swapped for the cool light of cold winter mornings.

“I’ll go. My apologies,” he says, simple, direct. You’re sure this has happened to him many times, possibly followed by shouts or sneers. Your own words stick in your throat as he claps his hands together and moves to leave. Thankfully your hands are fast enough, wrapping around his arm and pulling him to a stop.

“No, please, wait,” you finally manage, your bodies so close you’re burned by the heat radiating off his jacket. He turns in your grip, which you release to clasp your hands in front of your stomach.

“I didn’t mean…you startled me, I never expected…” you start, rolling your next words around in your mouth. He watches you, half wary, half hopeful. This close you can see how the edges of his lips are slightly chewed, how close his shave is, the sheen of sweat along his neck. He must have ran to get back here so quickly. Your heart thumps weakly against your ribs.

“I never thought I’d ever come face to face with the person who granted my wish,” you say, watching his jaw tighten in anticipation of vitriol.

“When I saw you on TV, and you asked me what my one desire was, I had…so many things come to mind. To be prettier, thinner, beautiful.” You can tell he wants to say something but you barrel on before you lose your nerve. “But I’m not a complete idiot, I’ve seen a few movies about wishes. I know those things can blow up in your face, and I don’t think I could take being hurt about how I looked by some magic rock.”

Max’s hand cups your elbow, thumb rubbing a soothing path.

“So I closed my eyes and I wished exactly this: I want one more day with my best friend at the time in her life when she was happiest.” The next breath you take in shakes. “She died seven years ago. Breast cancer. I miss her every day, and I just wanted one more with her. And I got my wish. And it was the best fucking day. The world outside might have been a mess, but we watched our favorite movies, snuck out to the spots we loved before she got sick, ate our favorite foods and talked all night. And I know it was real because she handed me my own ass and made me come to terms with some shit I did not like about myself. Only she would do that.” You fight against the tears, a sniffle coming out instead, as Max watches you with blossoming wonder.

“And when it was done she hugged me and told me to kick ass and eat cake and break hearts and I’ve been doing my best ever since.” You let out a watery giggle, Max’s smile warming your cheeks. “I never thought I’d be able to thank the person who gave me my best day, but then, here you are, giving me something I needed again. So, wow, thank you. I…thank you.”

Max clears his throat, his own eyes glassy.

“Can I hug you?” he asks, and you push into his arms without further preamble. He holds you with deep breaths, both of your hearts cracking open and healing pressed together. The overwhelming scent of sweat and spicy deodorant and the warmth of his skin is a balm to your frazzled nerves. His cheek rests against your forehead and when you squeeze him a little tighter he returns it.

When you part, your reddened eyes and sniffling noses make you both snort out laughs, moving to the sink to freshen up. You powder your face, surprisingly unselfconscious after all that just happened. Max straightens his tie and sweeps back his hair. It looks soft, barely styled. His shoulders seem lighter.

Both presentable, he lets you into the hallway, hazarding a peek to prevent any scandal. You walk side by side as he asks you where you’re starting work - transcription - and you ask where you’ll be able to find him - the mailroom. He waits for you to sign in with the front desk before leading you to the elevators, not so surreptitiously angling for the empty one before leading you in. He’s meant to be going down a floor, but rides with you up to the sixth.

“I’m glad you made that wish,” he says once the doors shut, the elevator whirring to life under your feet. “And that you didn’t make the other ones. You’re already beautiful.” He says the last three words quietly, like they would spook you if he said them with his whole chest. Your cheeks burn, the smile dimpling them. “And…thank you. For telling me. No one’s ever told me they’ve been happy.”

You ride in silence until just before your floor, turning to look at the man who gave you so much. He’s watching you like a miracle, like he wants to wrap you in his arms again, like he wants to say something very stupid to a person he barely knows. He swallows it instead, but you can’t help yourself. You lift up on your tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek, and savor the way he leans into it.

“My hero,” you whisper, stepping out to let the doors close between you.

Your lips, and your words, linger on him for days. Your impressions lingers on his heart for longer. After a week he tries to forget, to push you to the background in a futile attempt at self-preservation. You don’t know him, and he doesn’t know you. Fate smashed you together but you should part just as quickly, save you both the heartache. He’s still a complicated man, and you deserve better than that.

It works until he gets a piece of mail for you, two weeks later, and possessed by some boldness he’s forgotten he has, he plasters a sticky note on it.

“I hope your first week has been better than your first day.”

He wants to write so much more, but knowing anyone could see it stops his hand.

He doesn’t expect a response, at least not right away. You might still be embarrassed. So when he’s closing up at the end of the day and you come up beside him, the shock on his face breaks you into laughter.

“My week has been nowhere near as good as my first day,” you finally say. “But I did find a good place to eat a few blocks away. Great dinner options.” Max’s heart pulls between stopping and beating uncontrollably in his chest until he finally says, “We better check it out then.”

The laughter is just as easy as the first day, the conversation even better. He refuses to let you leave without trying the milkshakes, and beams when he watches something heavy fall off your shoulders as you look at him.

You tell him more about your life, your friend that brought you both together more than she’d ever imagined. He tells you about the life he lives now, of Alistair and how proud he is of him. Questions and anecdotes and words both loud and soft wrap around you in the wooden booth. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s felt like Maxwell Lorenzano.

When he walks you to your subway stop Max’s hand falls to your lower back and remains. The soft way you look at him makes him think that maybe all his heroics have finally gotten him somewhere after all.

And next time he finds himself in a bathroom with you, it’s very much on purpose.

END