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delopsia · 2 years ago

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Rum & Coke | Max Brinly X Reader

Summary: You aren't sure what you're more torn up about. The fact that you hooked up with the only son your stepfather has, or the fact that the only guy to ever fuck you so good that you couldn't walk the next day, is your stepbrother. And you can't get him out of your head. Word Count: 12,300 Cross Posted Here on AO3 Warnings & Notes: STEPBROTHER! Max (don't bite me), swearing, unprotected sex, alcohol, slight mentions of food.

In hindsight, when your mom and her boyfriend first barged into your bedroom and announced that they were getting married, you should have asked how many people they were inviting. Because you had assumed it would be a tiny little venue, with just a handful of your closest friends and family attending. You hadn't expected to wind up in what felt like a fucking castle, jam-packed with more people than you'd ever seen. You've never even met half of these people, and you certainly don't know the sweet old lady that's handing you a cup of brown liquid from the bar.

Ah.

Rum and coke.

"You looked like you could use a drink," her voice is paper thin, wavering like a leaf in a harsh breeze. Yet she flies across the bar, mixing drinks with a speed that does not match the rest of her frail body.

The coke is flat, and there's more rum than you'd like, but the alcohol burns sweetly at the back of your throat all the same. You'll take this over weaving aimlessly through the drunken crowd, which, you're sure, is the doing of this singular rogue Grandma. The cup is small, it's far too easy to down the first glass, and to your amusement, Grandma has a second glass already made for you.

She certainly is not the bartender whom your mother hired, but who are you to complain?

The alcohol hits your system when you've gotten halfway through your second glass. Dizziness ebbs at your consciousness, the ballroom spinning in the subtlest of ways. The DJ is playing some unnamed pop song that you've heard a million times, yet you can barely hear it over all the voices.

"Granny!"

In the blink of an eye, the crowd parts like the red sea, all for a well-dressed man, seemingly the only other person in this building that is close to your age.

"Granny, you can't just take over the bar!"

"Oh hush," Granny slides a drink identical to yours across the bar, one that he barely catches, "I know what I'm doing."

The bartender behind him looks indifferent. You suppose it doesn't matter all that much to him, as long as he gets paid for his time; who cares who is actually tending the bar? He certainly doesn't seem to mind, settling calmly into an open bar seat, a stark contrast to the flustered man next to you.

"I'm really sorry," his voice is high and pitchy; you get the feeling that Granny gives him a run for his money pretty often.

"She makes a mean rum and coke, is all I can say," at some point and time, she's refilled your drink. With straight rum, no coke, apparently.

You can't lie, he's cute, but you're not sure if that's your genuine impression or if it's the rum clouding your thoughts. Flushed cheeks, messy hair, and pale blue eyes that peer up at you from over the rim of his glass. Hmm, maybe this wedding isn't so awful after all.

There's a gap in your memory. One moment you're sitting at the bar, feigning obliviousness as his eyes rake up and down your frame; the next, your back is hitting the wall. There's a plush thigh slotting between your legs, and there's a pair of lips on yours, sloppily entertaining with yours. His tongue tastes like cola, hot in your mouth, messily tangling with you. The dimly lit room spins around you, and you can't quite tell if it's from the rum or the feeling of his lips trailing down the sensitive skin of your neck.

"Fuck," you find yourself gasping, fingertips digging into the rough material of his blazer. Your hips have a mind of their own, grinding down against his thigh, chasing a pleasure that just isn't enough. More, you want more; you need more.

You don't even know this guy's name, and yet here you are, putty in his hands, willing to take anything and everything he'll give you. You really should be in the lobby, formally meeting your new step-family; you need to make a good impression on your new step-brother, considering he's going to be moving in this week.

All of that is thrown out the window when his hand dips down, toying with the edge of your shorts. Family can wait. You're giving him all the right signs, yet blue eyes still flick up to yours, swollen lips parting to ask a question that you already know the answer to.

"Please."

His lips are on yours again, fingers delving past your waistband. They waste no time, tracing sensitive skin until they find your twitching entrance, circling in a way that has you gasping against his lips. There's hardly any resistance when he pushes two fingers into you; it's almost embarrassing how easily you take them. They're thick, curling up to massage a spongey spot that has your legs trembling underneath you. You can barely muffle the whine that leaves your lips, and yet it still manages to echo throughout the bathroom.

"Right there?" He cooes, fingers working in and out of you, spread just enough to make you feel the stretch.

You can't keep yourself quiet, hiding your face in his collarbone as you cling to him, spasming around the fingers fucking your weeping entrance. You're squirming, both closer to and away from him, as he repeatedly abuses that spot. You can't miss the slick sounds that bounce off the bare walls, a sound that could be unmistakable to any stranger that chooses to walk in here.

You're fluttering around his fingers, core tightening with a tingling, frenzied heat. You recognize this feeling, but you've never had a man bring you this close, this fast.

"Yeah?" His fingers twitch within you, picking up their rhythm; now, you realize that you'd said that out loud. Your legs tremble below you, struggling to keep you up, fuck, not yet, not yet.

"Wait," you cry, and the fingers come to a screeching halt just moments before he's brought you to the edge. It's hard to miss the panic that burns behind his eyes. "Fuck me, please."

The corner of his lip twitches up, speechless; all he can do is nod, fingers slipping out of you and leaving you to clench around nothing. You can't help the whine that leaves you, but you're not empty for long. The moment your shorts hits the floor, the unnamed man is lifting you up, strong hands cupping your ass as your legs intertwine needily around his waist. You don't know when he fished himself out of his slacks, but he's hard and leaking between your legs.

He has less patience than you do, cock rubbing against your entrance before you greedily take him in. God, he's thicker than he looked. Not the largest you've taken, but you're sure that isn't going to matter if he can use his dick as well as he used his fingers. The slightest of aches bloom as he sinks into you, hole fluttering as it tries to take it all.

He groans into your shoulder, low and heavy, and it's such a pretty noise that you'd love to hear again and again. His eyes are trained between your legs, fixated on his cock disappearing between your quaking thighs.

"Fuck, honey," he murmurs into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine; he finally bottoms out, "there you go, that's it."

You don't think you have room to breathe anymore, chest heaving; even so, you find your fingers tangling into his hair, dragging him back down to your lips. He chuckles into it, thumb rubbing shapes into the swell of your ass as his lips meet yours. His hips rock up into you as your teeth clack together, a poorly coordinated kiss smothering the whimper that boils out of you.

It's only when you're getting squirmy, nipping at the tongue that meets yours, that he draws his hips back, snapping them back up with a considerable force that has you yelping.

"Why did you stop?" You grumble, forcing your eyes open to meet his. "Don't tell me you've got a dick like that and don't know how to use —ah!"

He's done it again, hips grinding tauntingly against yours after he's drove back in, "I know how to use it, sweetheart."

And then he's moving, setting an unrelenting pace that punches each and every breath out of you, nipping at your collarbone as he stares down to where your bodies meet. Absolutely mesmerized by how your little hole takes him, clenching down around him when the fat head of his cock drags against the very spot his fingers once abused.

Outside the door, you feel like you can hear your name being called; it sounds like your mom. Your cheeks tint red, barely muffling a cry when the man between your legs pushes you further up the wall, properly drilling into your weeping hole. All of a sudden, you're so, so aware of the sickly wet noise coming from between your legs, it's so, so loud.

His thrusts are brutal; makes you feel every inch as he practically bounces you on his cock, using gravity to his advantage, hips pushing you up and drawing back, gravity dragging you back down until the hilt of his cock is flush against you. "Does that feel good, hm?"

Your throat feels raw; your tongue dry from how long your mouth has been hanging open; God, you don't even remember when you stopped concealing your cries until now. Words refuse to form; all you can do is nod, and the bastard laughs, head ducking down to nip at your exposed collarbone. Hot breath fans out against your skin, heavy and quick, and the quickening of his pace wordlessly tells you that he's close.

Fingertips dig into the base of his neck, leaving angry red marks in their wake as the coil in your stomach tightens and tightens. He's murmuring something against your neck, something soft and sweet that contacts so starkly to the dick relentlessly bullying its way up into you.

The door opens.

"Y/N?" It's your mother's voice that echoes across the bathroom. Of course, it is.

The stranger stops, peering up at you with wide blue eyes. Your fingers are reflexively burying into his hair, drawing him back into your neck as you stare at the stall door, silently thanking the heavens above that this is one of the nicer bathrooms. The kind with stall doors that reach all the way to the floor, concealing whoever may be inside.

To your dismay, heels click across the hardwood floor. A stall door creaks open, and slams closed. God, she's in the stall behind you, and here you are on the other side of that wall, stuffed full with a stranger's cock. To make matters worse, he starts moving again, slow, shallow thrusts, cock head dragging against a spot that has you seeing stars.

"What are you doing?" You mouth, to which he shrugs, tongue laving across your collarbone. In and out, short, grinding thrusts into your abused entrance. What's worse is that you can almost feel it more now than you could before, forced to focus on every fucking inch of him as you wait for your mother to hurry up.

He's coming back up, nose bumping against yours as he pumps into you, pink-cheeked and messy-haired. He looks as wrecked as you feel, lips meeting yours for a breathy kiss, panting into your mouth with the quietest of whines.

"I'm gonna cum," he murmurs, voice concealed by the flush of the toilet.

The alcohol still clouds your decision-making, not a thought behind your eyes as you nod your head, tightening your legs around him because the idea of him cumming in you sounds nice. You're getting squirmy again, hips wiggling down against him with every shallow thrust. Has he always had these freckles?

Your hand is moving on its own, leaving his neck in favor of cupping his cheek, thumb swiping over the soft skin of his cheekbone. He smiles at that, kisses your wrist so sweetly that your drunken heart flutters. You wish you could have taken this one home first, keep him around for the night and fuck him again in the morning, if he'll have you.

The door squeaks closed again, your mother begins to call your name once more, and he's picking up the pace. Big hands clenching your hips, fucking you nice and deep in such a way that familiar heat blossoms between your legs, stretched walls tingling with every thrust. That squelching noise comes back, and he's grunting now, pressing his nose against yours.

"Gon' cum," you hiccup, trembling, "I'm gonna cum."

He's nodding, "yeah?" Voice pitcher than it was, rougher.

The edges of your vision turn white, and with a cry, you cum on his cock, body quaking with the force of it. You can't catch your breath, clenching around the dick that still plows into you. He pauses, begins to pull out, but your ankles have locked around his waist. With a strangled noise, the cute stranger cums in you, molten hot cum coating your swollen insides.

The moments after are mostly quiet, panting into each others mouths as your legs begin to droop, finally, finally letting him pull his softening cock from you.

"Shit, I'm..." he's beginning to let you down, but your legs are made of jelly. All you can do is stumble, clinging to him for stability.

"I don't mind it," you mumble, finding your footing. You don't mind the way he holds you by the waist, drawing you near until he can wrap his arms around you.

It takes some coordination to get your shorts back on. You're playing it off as the alcohol making it hard to move, but quite frankly, you don't think you'll be able to walk in the morning. As the two of you stumble out of the bathroom, his hand resting on the small of your back, you start to feel it. Cum leaking out of you. It's a strange sensation that you're not sure how you feel about.

"Well, Granny is still working the bar," he mutters, mostly to himself, but he grins when you laugh. Granny is indeed still working at the bar, shaking a silver container as she chats with an unnamed man, and you're pretty sure that's the bartender dancing with your cousin.

All of a sudden, it's like a swarm of people know you. Unfamiliar faces approaching you, saying your name, uttering something about your mother being worried sick. Your post-orgasm haze has you wanting to stay with the sweet stranger, who'd so lovingly just fucked you with an inch of your life, but you lose him in the crowd.

"Wait!" You're shouting, but the woman who's grabbed your hand is unrelenting, practically dragging you across the ballroom.

Your mother is hysterical, squeezing you so hard that you feel it leaking out of you again. You barely force a smile, making up some excuse about going out for some fresh air after you'd choked on your food. It's a miracle that it works, and to your dismay, it seems to be the only miracle of the night.

You can't find that man.

Even as all the guests line up to wave your mom and her new husband goodbye, you tucked into the backseat, you can't find him. You're desperately searching for him, but he just isn't...there.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Your mom asks, peering up at you through the rearview mirror. For a split second, he appears at the forefront of your mind, peering up at you from behind a glass of rum and coke.

"Just a stomach ache," you supply, leaning your head against the window.

They drop you off at home, armed with money for pizza and the house keys. Earlier, you'd looked forward to having the house to yourself while they spent the night at a luxury hotel. The last hurrah before your new stepdad and step-brother move in tomorrow morning. You're not exactly thrilled about the idea of a new sibling, someone you'd never met, suddenly living under the same roof as you.

Yet, as you crawl into the impossibly cold bed, you find yourself wishing that he'd already moved in. Or that you'd given the stranger your address and told him to come to find you again, that you'd asked a friend to spend the night. Anything to distract you from the emptiness that's settled deep inside of your core.

You awake to the sound of footsteps. Blinding white sunlight peeks in through the blinds, burning your retinas the moment you pry your eyes open.

"Fuck," you groan, squeezing your eyes shut. Everything hurts. Your back, your legs, your hips, hell, even your lips are a little bit sore. Sitting up is your first mistake, a throbbing ache blossoming between your legs.

You've had your fair share of hookups, some decent, most of them forgettable. Even so, none of those have ever had you wobbling around your bedroom quite like the stranger from last night. Plenty have threatened, plenty have tried to deliver, but nobody has ever fucked you this thoroughly. Getting to the shower itself is a damn chore.

"I know how to use it, sweetheart," you mock, in a shrill voice, peeling your underwear off. The sight that meets you is, well...

"Gross." They go into the trash can; there's little hope of saving them.

The shower is a blessing to your aching back, hot water kissing the sore, bruised skin of your hips. It's the only thing that the water and artificially scented soap cannot wash away, the only remnant you have of last night.

If only you had his number to go with it.

Fresh out of the shower, you dare to venture down to the kitchen. You're still adjusting to how big this new house is, only having moved in just over a week ago. Your new step-brother's bedroom is just down the hall, already filled with boxes and a fully put-together bed.

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead," your stepdad teases as he rounds the corner, head barely visible behind the boxes he carries. "There are sandwiches waiting in the kitchen if you'd like one."

"Thank you," your voice is wrecked, but he's nice enough not to inquire about it.

Indeed, there are sandwiches in the kitchen, including a few of your favorites. If there's one good thing about this whole surprise stepdad thing, it's that the man has remembered the singular time you told him about your favorite kind of sandwich, and good God, has he delivered. Perhaps it's because you're starving, but it tastes better than any sandwich you've ever had.

Something glass shatters.

Your eyes flick up to the entryway, pausing mid-bite into your sandwich.

Oh.

"What the fuck?" Said in unison, two voices perfectly intertwined.

It's him.

The man from last night. His cheeks are just as freckled as you remember them, eyes just as blue as they were when they peered up at you whilst he nibbled on your collarbone. God, he looks good in that red t-shirt.

"Oh, Y/N!" Your mom shuffles into the kitchen in a robe you've never seen before; the stranger—your stepbrother, averts his eyes, "I was meaning to formally introduce you to Max, here," she frowns, then, eyes widen, "how did you get that bruise on your collarbone?"

She's touching your collarbone, the same one he, Max, had been biting just the night before. You hadn't realized there was a mark there too.

"Ow!" You squirm away from her touch, feigning a pain that you don't actually feel. "I fell last night, just don't — don't touch it!"

Behind her, Max's ears turn bright red, idly rubbing at his neck. Your new stepfather walks into the room, and his head turns, revealing a set of thin scratches that crawl up the back of his neck.

Holy shit.

Your mom is distracted by her new husband, Max all but bolts up the stairs, and you're left alone in the kitchen to process just what the fuck happened.

"I hooked up with my stepbrother," you utter, biting into your sandwich because, as shocked as you are, your stomach is still grumbling.

You aren't sure what you're more torn up about. The fact that you hooked up with the only son your stepfather has, or the fact that the only guy to ever fuck you so good that you couldn't walk the next day, is your stepbrother.

It's the same horrifying revelation that Max seems to be having too. When he walks through the kitchen again, he stops and just...puts his hand on top of your head. Squeezes a bit, and you're livid that it sends a shudder through your body. "Just making sure you're...real," he supplies, then awkwardly stumbles outside once more.

No matter what you do, he won't leave your head. It should have just been a hookup, something fun and forgettable, no strings attached, but it's so hard to forget him when he lives under the same roof as you. Your parents take you out for a celebratory "first family dinner," and when Max sweetly pulls the chair out for you at the restaurant, your heart just about jumps out of your chest.

The kitchen messes up your food, scams you out of fries and adds a bizarre side dish to your order, and doubles the amount of fries for Max. Your mom cooes when he swaps his extra plate of fries for the unasked-for, green concoction that you were given. All she sees is her new stepson looking out for her baby; all you can see is how absolutely cruel the universe is for handing you such a perfect man and making him your stepbrother.

There's a brief moment where you get to step outside, startled by the sudden, chilly air. You certainly hadn't dressed for this weather, but it was getting so suffocating in that restaurant. Had the waiter not been taking forever to come get the card, you'd have been long gone by now. Alas, here you are, shivering in the late-Autumn breeze, staring up at the full moon above you.

"Hey," you're startled by Max's sudden appearance, but your jolt of surprise is concealed by your shivering.

Not the first time you've been trembling before him, unfortunately.

"Hey," you chirp, voice high and airy, "what're you doing out here?"

"Same thing you are, I suppose," he comes to a stop next to you, so close that your shoulders brush.

It's quiet for a moment, just you, Max, and the wind. Someone's honking their horn in the distance, earns a soft chuckle from him. "Of all the people that we could have..." he begins, but he doesn't need to finish his statement.

"Yeah," you finish, laughing dryly, "of all fucking people."

He clears his throat. "Does it actually hurt?"

"Are you talking about the mark you left on my collar bone, or is my waddling just that obvious?" As much as you'd like to dance around it, your parents could walk out at any second, and you'd rather get this conversation over with.

Max sputters, "you...huh?" Blinks twice. "Both?"

"Collarbone doesn't hurt at all," idly, your fingers climb up to rub at the offending bruise as if you could simply wipe it off, "however, I have not been able to walk since last night."

Next to you, he's quiet, much to your dismay. It was easier to ignore the cold when he was talking, but now the air is growing tense, and you're shivering.

"Cold?"

"No."

"C'mere."

Max has his arm held out, fingers beckoning you to step closer to him. Against better judgment, you do, letting him draw you into his impossibly warm chest, strong arms wrapping around you. Nothing needs to be said; the pitter-patter of his heart against your ear is more than enough. It's everything your lonely heart craved last night, the circles being drawn into the base of your spine, the nose buried into your scalp. It's so strangely perfect, all moral conflicts inside.

"You know," he murmurs, voice heavy, "all morning, I talked my dad's ear off about the pretty little thing I'd run into at the bar."

His words make your cheeks heat up. "And yet, the pretty little thing turned out to be your new stepsibling," the words feel like weights on your tongue; it hurts just to acknowledge that new fact out loud, "this feels like some cruel prank being played on us."

There's a kiss being pressed into your temple, then Max freezes. "Shit, I keep wanting to — I'm sorry."

"I'm not much better," you sigh, peering up at him from underneath your lashes. Your noses bump, lips just mere centimeters apart. It's not fair.

Swearing under his breath, Max looks over his shoulder for a long moment. You look too, expecting to see your parents exiting the building, but you don't see them at all.

"Just one more time," he's saying, and then his lips are on yours.

They're just as soft as you remember them being, molding oh so perfectly against yours. He draws back, evidently having intended it just to be a peck, but your fingers are winding into his hair, and you're hauling him back down. It's messy, spit trailing between your lips as eager tongues meet, tangling until they ache. He tastes like coke.

The restaurant door chimes and you're just barely able to tear apart, pawing at your mouths to wipe away the evidence of your crimes.

"There you two are!" You hear your mom say, voice approaching.

You're not sure how to explain this position, but evidently, Max has a plan. Scooping you up off the ground bridal style, spinning you around in a way that forces you to cling to him, squealing.

"Max!" You cry, burying your face in his neck. "Bastard!"

There's laughter, and it seems to be working, is all you know. Max is running with you now, yelling something about it being "really fucking cold out here," carrying you all the way to the car.

"You know, you can put me down," you giggle, kicking your legs back and forth as he approaches the car.

"To be fair, it is my fault that you've been walking funny all day," a devilish smile graces his face as he says it. Even so, under the dim light of the street lamp, you can see that the tips of his ears have turned pink.

You go to bed that night feeling just as strange as you did the previous night. Your lips still tingle from how he kissed you, how he'd cradled your shivering frame as if you were the most precious thing on Earth. If you focus hard enough, you think you can still hear him downstairs, caught up in talking to your parents. Poor thing, you almost feel guilty for fleeing the conversation as soon as you got the chance.

Almost.

All attention is fixated on your phone, thoughts, and feelings numbed by the video playing on the screen. It's so much easier to run from the conflict raging on inside of your head. Your head screams that he's your stepbrother, but your heart reminds you that you're not blood-related.

How were you supposed to know the pretty boy at the bar was your stepbrother? It's your parent's damn fault for not introducing you at least once.

In your palm, your phone vibrates with a text message. The message preview tells you that it's your ex, Jacob. 'Hey,' is all it reads. Typical. In all fairness, you're rather surprised that he's texting you already. You'd assumed his fling with Emma would last a lot longer than three weeks, but then again, he's never been great at keeping a partner.

Knock_ Knock_

"It's open," you yawn, tilting your head to see who has chosen to disturb your presence.

The doorknob turns, and in steps Max, cradling two mugs of an unnamed steaming liquid. "I didn't know that a debate over hot chocolate or tea could get so heated."

"I'm surprised that you were able to hear which side I was on," Jacob long forgotten; you're sitting up, carefully taking the mug he holds out for you. "What made them finally decide?"

"I gave up and started making both," he chuckles. Clever.

Your ringtone blares, startling both of you, as Jacob's photo appears on your CallerID. You reach for the phone, not to answer, but to send him to voice mail. Not exactly in the mood to hear Jacob breathe into the phone while he struggles to find the words to swoon you back into his bed.

"No way," Max's face contorts into something unreadable, "is that Jacob Custos that's calling you?"

Blink. "You know him?"

Shrugging, Max sips his tea, "you could say that."

You have to pat the corner of the bed to get him to sit down, and he just barely takes up that spot as he recalls his high school days. Come to find out, you had gone to the same school, but Max was a grade above you and just miraculously didn't ever see you. It's so absolutely mind-boggling that you spent four years under the same roof and never realized.

"We used to piss each other off in the locker room," he reminisces, looking down into his now empty cup, "is he still a shit driver?"

"Forever and always," you sing-song. Last you heard, he was working in construction, and you'd really like to meet the guy that decided Jacob was responsible enough to man a multi-thousand-pound piece of machinery.

"Hey, you two," your heart just about lurches out of your chest when your mom pokes her head through the open door, "we're headed to bed. Try not to stay up too late, okay?"

You can barely get out a nod before she's disappearing, the door shutting behind her. You wish she hadn't shut it because now you've been given the blessing of privacy, and Max's eyes are meeting yours for the first time since you got home.

For a moment, you're still.

It's a guessing game of who moves first. Max's hands are on your waist; you've got your fingers twisted into his hair, and he's kissing you like a starved man, lips interlocked, sloppy as you struggle to find a rhythm. With one arm, he cradles you against him, secured tightly around your waist; with the other, he braces himself as he gently lowers you down against the mattress, never once breaking the kiss. It's nicer than the heated one you'd shared in the bathroom; without the rum clouding your mind, you're free to think clearly, really take in everything Max has to give you. On its own, your hand finds its way to his cheek, stroking the skin there, and you already know that it's about to become a bad habit that you're not sure you'll be able to break.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he murmurs against your lips, his voice huskier than it was just a minute ago. Contrary to his words, he doesn't pull away, just kisses you, like he was born to do it.

It's not as heated as you thought it was going to be. Expectations anticipated hips grinding against yours, lips on your neck as a girthy cock stretches out your sore, thoroughly fucked hole. What you're getting, though, is making your heart flutter. Sweet, short pecks interlaced between deep, long caresses that have you panting for breath. It's dizzying, the contrast between the Max you met last night and the Max on top of you right now.

Curious, you find yourself nipping at his bottom lip, wondering if he will give you what you're asking for. He does, lips parting oh so slightly, a hot tongue meeting you halfway. Slowly intertwining, doing nothing but explore each other. Little slides of tongues against each other between shallow kisses that have you squirming from the overwhelming sensation.

He shifts, clambering out from between your legs in favor of laying on his side, next to you. It's a welcome change; your back is still a touch sore. He must assume as much, based on the way he sheepishly grins as he pecks the tip of your nose.

"Not planning to have me limping in the morning?" You wonder aloud, curling into him when lightly muscled arm curls around you, pulling you into him.

"Nah," he's bashful in his tone, "I know you're sore, don't wanna make it worse."

It shouldn't be as comforting as it is. As much as you enjoy the idea of him fucking you into the big, comfy bed, he's right. You're still sore, and a repeat of last night is bound to make it worse, no matter how gently he dicks you down.

Max's hand crawls up your shoulder, coming to a rest against your cheek. His hand is so large that it practically encompasses half of your face, thumb stroking the thin skin under your eye. Such a simple act shouldn't have your heart fluttering in your chest, but it does.

You don't intend to fall asleep, but it's almost impossible to resist when sleep starts ebbing at your consciousness. Max is wrapped around you like a blanket, his heartbeat a lullaby that sings a perfect tune. He's stroking your head, eyes barely open as he does so, and you're so, so comfortable that you're powerless to do anything more than close your eyes.

He's not there when you wake up.

You can't blame him, it would be worse if he was still there and your parents caught him in your bed, but it still stings when you open your eyes to find a cold, empty bed. The ache that settles in your bones is nagging, a consistent reminder of what could have been had fate not been so cruel.

It's even more unfortunate when you walk into the kitchen and your mom corners you, inquiring about something a little bird had told her. "Wendy said she saw you and Max sneaking around at the wedding. Is this true?" And you don't know how you manage to convince her that it definitely was not you.

The paleness in Max's face tells you that he's gotten the same question.

All of a sudden, you cannot be alone in the same room together without a parent swooping in for some "family bonding." Your first thought is that it's only going to last a few days, but it lasts weeks, and it's so absolutely soul-crushing to be right next to the person who plagues your every thought, your every dream, and not be able to do the things you want to.

Every time you have to introduce Max as your stepbrother, every time you utter your relation and watch as the ladies make heart eyes the moment they realize that they have no competition, it feels as if someone is raking burning hot coals down your spine. It's not fair, truly. You kiss the man a total of what, three times? And now he's all you can think of anymore.

You crave his touch like an addict craves a drug; it's humiliating. How your heart leaps up your throat when he accidentally brushes his fingers against your shoulder when he's reaching for something, how giddy you get when he opens the door for you.

There's a day when you're not paying attention; your mind consumed with unraveling why Emma up and left Jacob for the umpteenth time when your nose cracks against something hard. It sends you stumbling, socked feet sliding on the hardwood floor.

Hands grasp your waist, your senses abruptly overwhelmed by a familiar body wash and the warmth washing over your body. You're looking up, nearly jolting when you lock eyes with him. It feels like a crime to be so close to him, yet you can't get yourself to move.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Max mutters, despite the glaringly obvious fact that you ran into him.

Even so, he doesn't let you go, fingertips digging into your skin in such a way that for a moment, you're back in that bathroom, drunk on rum and coke like a bunch of lightweights. Then, as if burned, you let each other go, scurrying out of the kitchen like a pair of roaches.

You carry the sensation of his hands on your waist for the rest of the week.

A week before she leaves for her honeymoon, your mom decides to invite over Jacob and Laura, insisting that it would be perfect to go on a "thruple date!" You audibly gag the moment she announces her plan; Max begs them not to embarrass the both of you like this.

It's futile. You find yourself in a stuffy carnival, sipping on an unnamed alcoholic beverage with Jacob's arm slung around your shoulders, doing all you can to not look at Laura and Max. She's only holding his hand, kissed him on the cheek when she first arrived, but you feel sick at the sight.

"This feels like a cruel joke," Jacob grumbles whilst you wait for his food at a snack stand. Bastard is always hungry, but he always buys you something, so you can't be too mad about it. "Why can we never get the people we want?"

"Beats me," you grumble. Jacob is the only soul who knows about your dilemma with Max; it's only fair, considering how much detail you know about his and Emma's sex life. He's the last person to judge, all things considered.

"I have an idea."

Blink. "Huh?"

He's handing you a bubbly drink that you don't recall hearing him order, one of your favorites. "We make them jealous."

It's a perfect plan. Instagram pictures with cleverly captured taglines, Snapchat stories of questionable meanings. While everyone else enjoys the carnival rides and games, you scheme like a pair of thieves. Each time Max looks your way, Jacob slings an arm around you. For every kiss Laura plants on Max's cheek, you plant two on Jacob. Empty kisses, a press of the lips to skin that do little to stir your mind.

Somehow, you end up at one of those dart games. Jacob is on a bender trying to win this stuffed bear for Emma. Briefly, you attempt to win a fuzzy wolf plush, but the darts fit awkwardly in your hands. Quite frankly, you've never touched a dart a day in your life, and it seems you don't harbor a hidden talent for the game.

Jacob's using all your tickets on this game, over and over. It's almost embarrassing to watch him; his persistence is his own downfall. The guy at the booth is just plain laughing at him at this point. The plushes can be won if you get three darts to land, which is the worst part. Jacob has not hit the board more than once, and the employee isn't even erasing his final tries.

At least the tickets aren't going to waste, you suppose.

"Darts?" Max's sudden appearance scares you so bad that you jolt.

"It's really unfortunate to watch," you supply dryly, "shame. The wolf up there is pretty cute."

Jacob runs out of tickets, finally, finally backs off, and lets the poor employee go back to playing on his phone. What you don't expect is for Max to hum next to you and walk up to the booth, handing over a pale yellow ticket.

He lands every dart.

"When the hell did you know how to do that?" Jacob squeaks, voice high and pitchy. Max simply shrugs and points to something that you don't quite see.

People are starting to look. Now that you've noticed their presence, it feels like the whole world is looking and knows that you're associated with the bulky himbo. Perhaps this is what drove Emma so far away from Jacob. As much as you love him, your feet are carrying you away, seeking shelter in some place secluded, where prying eyes can't associate you with the fool.

Against better judgment, you head for the car, without alerting anyone of where you're headed. Because in the car, you can at least convince yourself that nobody is staring at you. Nobody can look straight through you and make your stomach churn. You don't have to see Max and Laura, as long as you aren't wandering the carnival grounds.

The car park is still just as full as it was when you first arrived. You can't tell how long its been, but the sun was up when you arrived, and now the moon hangs high in the sky. Shadows loom, and the lights in the parking lot have gone out.

Hell, you forgot where your parents parked.

It's not like the black SUV was exactly the type of vehicle to stand out, either.

You're wandering the lot, seeking that gaudy "Just Married!" bumper sticker in all of its hot pink and neon yellow glory. No dice, you don't see the damn thing anywhere. The parking lot has turned into a maze, your head spinning as you try to find a car that seemingly no longer exists. You really shouldn't have left your phone with Jacob.

A hand lands on your shoulder, and you yelp.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, it's just me!"

Your somersaulting heart shudders as it relaxes. "Max?"

"What're you...?" He's cradling a plush wolf in his arm, reaching out with his free hand to squeeze your shoulder.

"I was looking for the car," you huff, practically deflating under his grasp. His hand doesn't stay for longer than a few fleeting moments, leaving a cold spot on your skin.

"I know where it is," he mutters, then, "just don't...take off in the dark alone again, okay?"

Reminding yourself that you aren't his to worry about is a chore on its own. Even more so, you struggle to get your next words out. "Shouldn't you be worrying about Laura and not your stepsibling?" You don't intend for your words to carry as much venom as they do, but Max flinches all the same.

"I..." but it's all that leaves his lips.

He takes you to the car, it's parked in a completely different lot, and a car has pulled in behind it, blocking the sticker completely. You must have walked right past it. To your surprise, he clambers into the back seat with you, doesn't give a reason, just...does.

"I got you this." You don't recall closing your eyes, but you find them fluttering open as something soft brushes against your arm. The wolf plush.

It's softer than it looked, the perfect size to fit into your arms and hug against your chest. For reasons unknown, tears sting at your eyes, boiling hot and threatening to spill over when you attempt to blink them away.

"Thank you," you croak.

"Hey, don't cry," it's almost irritating how quickly he catches on to the changes in your emotions; even worse, his concern only makes it worse. One by one, tears run down your cheeks, and you can't even comprehend why it's happening.

Max is there, though; he always is. Scooting across the seat, shushing you as big hands cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears. "Please don't cry, honey," the roughening of his tone, the pet name, the sensation of his hands on your face, it all makes it worse, "if you start crying, then I'm gonna start crying, and it's all going to be one big cry fest in here."

Through your tears, you laugh, burying your head into his shoulder when his arms wrap around you, "I don't even know why I'm crying is the worst part."

He's quiet, stroking his hand up and down your back, tracing out your spine. It's not like words can remedy the situation; truthfully, you don't think anything can fix whatever the hell this is.

"I wish things could be different," he mutters, voice breaking, "I really want to—"

"—Please don't finish that sentence," quite frankly, you don't think you can bear the thought of living in a world where things were different. A world where you could do everything you want to do with him. "I can barely keep it together as it is, idiot."

His nose presses against your temple, and lips ghost your skin. Your gut twists, anticipating the unfamiliar press of lips that will end electricity shooting through your veins, sparks flashing behind your eyes.

It never comes.

Soon, everyone is returning to the car in one big wave, and you find yourself crammed into the corner. Laura sits between you and Max, Jacob offers to drive you back in his car, and you initially reject his offer, but then Laura starts talking about all the things they did at the carnival, and you just can't take it.

"Actually, I think I'll go with Jacob; I'll see you guys in a bit," you say, and your voice sounds so unfamiliar that you almost wonder if you've swapped bodies with someone.

Your mom is saying something, but you don't register a word as you slip out the door and walk to Jacob's idling sedan. Hugging the plush wolf to your chest a futile attempt to soothe the ache in your chest that grows with every step.

"I had a feeling you would change your mind," Jacob teases when you settle into his passenger seat. He's smiling, but you don't need to look to know that he's equally as hurting as you are.

There's about an hour where he just drives. Aimlessly taking turns, venturing down backroads that you've never seen, making comments about the houses you see. You pass a couple arguing in their driveway, and that's what starts it.

"Do you think she cheated?" Jacob wonders aloud, slowing the car as you pass them.

"Nah," you still don't recognize your own voice, "he definitely fucked her sister."

Empty accusations fueled by your wishes of what could have broken your hearts instead. A forgotten date, breaking a family heirloom out of anger, pawning off the wedding ring for drug money. Fantasies of situations that you have a chance of fixing, something that remains in your control. A situation where words alone can fix things.

You wind up sitting at a traffic light behind a black SUV and a red sedan. Such a strange coincidence it is that you would wind up behind the same model of vehicle that your estranged lovers frequent. Your voices are raising, you're yelling, and you don't know why. Screaming obscenities, fuck you for making me fall in love with you. Fuck you for making me feel this way and then walking away.

Fuck you for giving me the person I've always wished for. Fuck you for taking them away. I hate your stupid grin, I can't stand the way you make me feel like the most special person in the world; how dare you get me hooked on you and then walk away.

You don't intend to be so loud, people are looking as they drive past, but you can't stop. Venomous words drip from your tongues; you're yelling at everything, at the dashboard, at each other, until your voices are cracking and your throats are raw.

"That was therapeutic," Jacob says, after a long while, voice barely a whisper. The roads are getting familiar again; you're almost home. "We should open a business."

It's amusing to think about. "We should."

Max and Laura are standing in the driveway when you pull up. You can't see Max's face, but Laura is in the midst of closing her eyes, leaning up to meet his lips and—

Jacob leans on the car horn.

You hate how satisfying it is to watch them nearly jump out of their skin. It's so satisfying for your aching heart to get its way and be an ass just this once.

Jacob doesn't let off the horn, holding it down even as he sticks his head out of the car. "I'm sorry!" It's such a blatantly fake tone, so obvious that he's fucking with them. "I don't know why it's doing this!" Then he's peeling out of the street, wheels squealing as he tears off into the night.

You wind up in Jacobs's apartment, sprawled out on his new comfy new couch as you tip back another drink. You've lost count of how many you've had, but the room is violently spinning, and there's a text appearing on your phone, but you're too drunk even to type your password correctly. That stuffed wolf remains tucked in your arms all the same.

You get home late sometime the next day, nursing a hell of a hangover as you slip through the front door. Your parents aren't home, off shopping for whatever they need for their honeymoon. You hope it won't be too long because your mom has a bottle of wine that she promised you, and even the ache raging on inside of your head cannot keep you sober.

"Where the hell were you?" Hearing Max talk feels like the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. "Do you know how hard I've been trying to get ahold of you? You scared me!"

Vaguely, you're aware of him being on your left. "Shh, you're too fucking loud," you grumble, clamping a hand over his mouth, "just shut up and look pretty, would you?"

The alcohol must be lingering in your system because you're not even registering what you did until you've gotten all the way down the hall. Max stands quietly on the other end, not moving, jaw slack. You almost dare to think that you see his eyes begin to water.

They leave bright and early the next morning. Your mom dotes on you the whole morning, double, triple checking that, yes, you are sure you will be alright. That, yes, the money she left you is enough. That you know how to use the new-fangled security system and have at least three copies of the neighbor's phone number.

Max stands next to you on the front porch, waving in perfect synchrony with you as the car backs out of the driveway. With a honk of the horn and a wave, they disappear down the road, off on their adventure. As soon as they've gone, you're turning and walking back inside.

"Does it pain you that much to even stand next to me?" Max whines, right on your heels like an overly attached puppy.

"Yes." Your sudden change of tune is a drastic one, but you can't help it. It's hard to get that image of him and Laura out of your head.

Can driveways burn?

"Is it something I did?"

Pause. Your feet come to a stop, and Max crashes into you, chest right against your back as he struggles to regain his balance. His hot breath tickles your neck, minty from his toothpaste; you have to fight the urge to close your eyes at the sensation.

"I wish it was."

Max doesn't try to stop you from walking away. You don't expect him to, but it's strange for him to give up so easily without at least putting up a little bit of a fight.

There's a fresh text from Jacob on your phone inviting you over to a newly opened bar for drinks tonight. He's invited some friends that he wants you to meet, thinks you may like this Nick guy that just moved into town. The garb you put on is a distant echo of the one you'd worn to the wedding. Similarly colored shirt, the exact same shorts that hug you in all the right places.

Maybe they could be your lucky shorts, you think, as you double-check yourself in the mirror. Perhaps they'll attract your dream guy, and this time he won't have any relation to you.

Laura is sitting on the couch when you wander downstairs.

"You going out with Jacob?" She asks, and it's the first time she's really spoken to you. You're almost surprised.

"Something like that," you say, tugging on your shoes, "going drinking with some friends, maybe go home with some dude I don't know the name of, the usual."

She laughs like you two are best friends, just gossiping. "Well, good luck."

You look up to see Max standing in the entryway, leaning against the frame as he stares you down. Jaw slack, with that funny glint in his eye again. You blink, and it's gone. Strange, you almost thought he looked sad for a second.

The first sign that this night is going to go horribly is how long it takes Jacob to pick you up. "I'll be there in five minutes," turns into an hour, and Laura ends up accompanying you in the driveway, chatting with you about your favorite drinks whilst Max sits on the porch steps like a damn gargoyle, staring off into the distance.

"Is he...alright?" She asks you, tilting her head over her shoulder.

Your fingers twist the hem of your shorts. "Mid-life crisis, perhaps?"

He only moves to wave you goodbye when Jacob finally pulls up. There's a new dent in his car, and you don't know a damn person in his car, but you get in anyway because you'll take anything over Max and Laura.

The Nick guy is just as cute as Jacob had promised, but it's not hard to tell that the sweet girl sitting next to you, Abigail, has the biggest crush on him. You're not about to take that from her, as lonely as your heart is.

"Rum and coke, please," you say when the bartender tilts his head to you.

The drink he hands you isn't as strong as the one that Max's Granny made for you. It's made properly, with less rum than there is coke, but it burns the back of your throat all the time. You fiddle with the rim of the now half-empty glass, recalling a hazy image of blue eyes peering over at you, sparkling with naive curiosity.

You tip the glass back and wave the bartender down once more.

It must be the shorts. Or maybe it's the rum.

Whatever it is, deja vu nips at the edges of your thoughts as your back hits the bar wall, as some unnamed man presses you up against it, kissing you breathless. You're trying to keep up, moving lazily, but he's moving faster than you can process, aggressively licking into your mouth, claiming each and every inch. It's such a familiar sensation, yet it feels so...

wrong.

He's doing all the things Max did.

His thigh is easing between your legs; he holds you all the same, still tastes like rum and sugary sweet coke. If you try hard enough, you can almost picture those dimly lit bathroom walls, can still feel the rough material of his blazer under your fingertips as lips trail kisses down your neck. You wonder if this man is named Max, too.

When your eyes flutter open, it's not the bathroom you see, though. It's not the man you want to see. It's not Max. Even as he sucks on the sensitive skin at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, nibbles on the bone with his teeth, it's not him. It's not Max, and the very realization makes you feel sick to your stomach.

"I'm sorry," you say, pushing his head away from your neck, and you're relieved that he complies, "it's nothing you did, but I can't do this."

He looks confused, cocks his head to the side, but he nods, stepping away to let you leave. Jacob's beyond drunk, passed out on the bar as Emma stares him down from the other side. You know why she's here; you know that she's probably going to get nervous and fly the coop in a few weeks. She always does.

You've lost count of how many times you've seen her show up at a hole in the wall like this one, drag her nails across the smooth wood of the bar, a sheepish grin on her red lips as she traces them up Jacob's shoulder. Whispers something in his ear that has his head shooting up, eyes wide, and a giddy expression sprawling across his face.

It's cold outside.

The kind of cold that sends a chill down your spine, dries out your throat with each foggy breath. It's the perfect kind of night for snowfall, and you regret not bringing a coat. The town grows quieter the further you walk; the only thing you can hear is the sound of your own boots hitting the pavement.

You walk, and you walk, and you walk. Eventually, the town disappears behind you, too.

"So much for getting laid," you say to nobody in particular, "wonder if Laura is sucking Max's dick right about now."

Selfishly, you hope she chokes and bites him.

There's a coldness on your cheeks as your home comes into view. You only notice it because of how the wind blows, stinging your numb skin with thousands of tiny, invisible needles. Sniffling, you wipe at the half-frozen tears. At least it's dark out, you suppose; nobody can see you reinvent the walk of shame.

"What the hell?" Something is moving on the doorstep.

Hypothetically speaking, you should pull out your phone and call the police. Tell Max to get his dad's gun because, hey, something is curled up in front of the door. Maybe it's the house ghost you have yet to meet or the werewolf of Butter Street coming to pay a visit.

No, that's not it, that's...

"Max?"

He's sitting in the same spot you left him in, and as you draw closer, you realize that he didn't hear you. He's looking down in his lap, jaw cradled in an open palm as he just...stares. His hair hangs low, blocking your view of his face, but there's a shaking in his shoulders that you recognize. Breathing heavy, body shivering as it's wracked with a loud, heart-wrenching sob.

"Max?" You try again, just feet away.

His head shoots up, tear-filled eyes wide as they land on your trembling frame. "What...?" Gulp. "How did you get here?"

"Walked." Jamming a thumb in the direction you just came from. Your legs are going to be sore in the morning, and you're not looking forward to it.

Max is standing up, and in two big strides, he's right in front of you. His arms open, but they freeze, coming to fall idly at his sides. It's awkward because you both know what he was about to do, and now he's looming before you, not looking you in the eye. Moving on your own accord, you close the gap and wrap your arms around him, tucking your head against his warm chest.

"You could have called me, and I would have come and got you," he murmurs into your scalp, winding long arms around your waist, loosely at first, then properly squeezing you into him. "You're so cold."

"Why're you crying?" Dodging the question, your hand finds its way to his cheek, brushing away what tears you can.

Max hiccups, leaning into your palm, another tear running down his cheek. "I tried," heavy breath, sniffle, "I tried to make myself like Laura, I tried to..." his own sobs cut him off, but you know the ending of that sentence.

I tried to forget you, but I couldn't get you out of my head.

Drawing him in until he's buried his head into your shoulder feels like the most natural thing in the world. Your eyes sting as hot tears land on your exposed, bitten skin, hands roaming up and down his back. There's nothing you can do, nothing you can say to make this situation any better.

"To think all of this has been caused by a piece of paper," you say, laughing at how stupid this all is, "we're not even genetically related!"

Max leans back, smiles, "it's so stupid," and then he's kissing you.

Just a soft peck of the lips that lasts a few seconds too long, then another, lips molding against each other like they were made to do just this.

"Inside?" He asks against your lips, pecking them once more. All you can do is hum.

World long forgotten, you tumble into the house like a couple of idiots, tripping over each other, your own feet. Both of you try to lock the door, but neither of you remembers to take your shoes off as you fly through the house. Past the kitchen, up the winding stairs to the second floor, hand in hand. You don't even know where you're going until he takes a hard right.

"I don't think I've ever even foot in your room until now," you say, practically falling onto the bed with him. It's plain, mostly. Pale blue walls adorned with a few framed retro posters, a desktop computer tucked into the corner. Not much decorating, but it looks nicer than Jacob's room, at least.

"I wasn't sure how long I was going to stay here, so I haven't done all that much with this room," his arm snakes around your waist, "still not sure, actually."

"Really?" You hate how estranged the two of you have been; it's hard to talk about life when your parents are down your throats twenty-four seven.

He hums, "I applied to Landis University for next fall," warm fingertips massage the exposed skin of your tummy, "don't know what the hell my major would be, though."

"Divorce lawyer," you suggest, to which he rolls his eyes.

"I'll figure it out," blinking slowly, like a big old cat, "all I know is I want to have a big, fancy house and enough money to spoil someone silly with."

Acting on impulse, you roll over to face him, craning your neck to kiss his nose. It scrunches under your touch. "Is that so?"

Another hum, low and content, hand trailing up your body. You can't help the involuntary shiver it elicits from you. "This is new," and you know what he's talking about, the singular mark you bear from the man at the bar.

"I tried to pretend he was you, y'know," it should be embarrassing, telling him this, but it's not, "it worked for all of ten seconds."

He's leaning down, hair brushing your chin as he presses the softest of kisses to the offending mark. "I tried too," another kiss, "she was nice, but she's just not...you."

He's coming back up, then, to kiss you properly. Lips interlocked, in a slow pace that leaves you endless time to memorize each and every inch of each other. There's no need to rush, not when he's drawing you into his arms, holding you close as he tilts his head.

"Rum and coke?" Against your lips, between kisses.

Running your hands through his tangled hair. "Rum and coke."

The way he rolls you over is slow. It's not until he's parting your knees, settling between them, that you realize. Head spinning because you refuse to break the kiss for something as useless as breathing, heart fluttering because he's parting his lips, meeting your tongue halfway. Little kitten licks between your ventures, back and forth like a tug of war.

"You're gonna kill me," he's panting like a dog, and things haven't even gotten heated yet.

Laughter dies into a whine when lips meet your neck, catching his breath in between kisses and playful nips at your skin. You know he's going to leave marks, he's already making his way to your bitten collar bone, and you can't bring yourself to tell him no when you want them too.

"Can't believe this," he fusses, tongue laving across the area, "I let a sheet of paper come between us, and now someone else is leaving marks on you."

It's your turn to roll your eyes. Can't truly blame him; you'd be upset too.

When a red bruise is beginning to blossom on your skin, he sits up, pulling his shirt up and over his shoulders.

"God, what the fuck." Is all you can say because why hadn't you ever noticed his prettily sculpted chest before? Lightly muscled and freckled, just like the rest of him.

Ears turning red, Max toys with the hem of your own shirt until you get the hint and tug yours off too. Wordless, he comes back down to you, pecking your lips once, then kissing down your breastbone, leaving tiny red marks in his wake. Fingers hook under your waistband; bright blues flicker up, asking a question, kissing your tummy.

Lifting your hips for him, you're almost shocked by how quickly he takes them off you, underwear and all.

"I've been thinking about doing this for months," he says, sucking on a plush thigh. You don't know what to say to that, especially not when you become painfully aware of the hot breath fanning out against you, tickling. He nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, soothes over it with his tongue.

It drags up, up, up, and then his tongue is on you, languid kitten licks that have you whimpering into the back of your hand. He looks up at you as he does so, locking eyes with you as he works you over with his tongue, sucking lightly, making you jolt.

"I wanna hear you, honey," he says, gripping your hips to keep you from squirming away as he picks up his pace. The slick sounds of his tongue against you are obscene, but it's not quite as obscene as the noise he makes when you push your hand into his hair, tugging lightly.

"There you go," you don't recall when he wet his fingers, but they're teasing against your entrance, toying with the rim, "this still okay?"

"More than okay."

You whine as two thick fingers curl into you, shallowly fucking them in and out, in tune with his tongue, while he works them into you, bit by bit. He maps you out like he's been doing this forever, rubbing into the exact same spot that has your thighs involuntarily clamping around his head.

"Shit, I'm..." you can't finish your sentence because the smug bastard is grinning and using his free hand to bring your thigh back, squished against his cheek.

Oh.

Tongue still working you, he closes his eyes, adds a third finger as he rhythmically fucks you open with them. You're fluttering around his fingers, whimpering into the open air as they abuse your little sweet spot, unyielding even as you try to squirm away. Heat blooming in your lower belly, burns hotter with every puff of breath against you; God, he's doing it again.

He stops. "Close?"

You almost hate him for how he's got you. Chest heaving, legs trembling. There should be no reason why this dork knows how to work you this fucking well.

"I'm not a dork," he pouts, kicking his jeans off. Hell, you said that out loud.

"But you're my dork, is the difference," there's no use in arguing it, and he beams all the same. It's a stark contrast to the fat cock that hangs low between his legs, and you realize now that your half-drunk brain must have made it look smaller.

"I guess that's better," you can taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses you.

It's easy now that you know what to anticipate when his cock rubs against your entrance, catching on it. Max is kissing your neck again, distracting you as the head sinks into your fluttering hole.

"This time," he says, pausing to let you adjust to the overwhelming stretch, "I'm going to take my time with you."

You're pulsing around him, and you know he can feel it. It's getting harder to breathe the further he sinks in, stretching you wide on his cock, and you just know you're going to be feeling it for days, no matter how gentle he is with you.

It's only now that you can look up and see his face, jaw slackened, breathing hard as he stares at where his cock disappears into your stretched little entrance. It's the same expression he wore in the bathroom, absolutely fixated on the sight.

"Mesmerized or something?" You grit, feeling your body quiver around him.

There's a dull ache settling deep within you as his hips finally, finally meet, flush against you. Max grins sheepishly, thumb running against your thinly-stretched rim, such a strange sensation that makes your leg twitch. "Something like that."

You know there's more to the story, but you opt not to pry; instead, you curl your fingers against the nape of his neck, guiding him down until he's just close enough for you to kiss him. Hips grind into yours in perfect synchrony with his lips, a dizzying feeling that has you panting into his mouth.

The first draw of his hips is already enough to have you whining, it's so, so slow, and somehow it already feels even better than you remember it being. Agonizingly slow thrusts that punch the air out of your lungs with every press back into you, has you shaking as your nails bite into the pale skin of his shoulders. You're so, so glad that he isn't wearing that stuffy blazer this time around.

The angle slightly shifts and—

"Ah!" You don't intend for the noise to even leave your mouth, never mind for it to be so loud.

Max grins, "there?"

And then he's pulling his hips back, thrusts back a little quicker this time, maintains that same angle that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, a cry dripping from your tongue. Fucking you properly now, he's panting prettily against your bruised neck as you become hyper-aware of the soft little squelching sound coming from between your legs.

Such a noise should be embarrassing, but it's impossible to care about it when the thick head of his cock catches on your rim the way it does.

There's heat flaring deep in your gut, between your legs; you can barely even think as Max drives his hips into your weeping entrance. Fucking you within an inch of your life, vision going blurry, and your eyes are just barely able to remain open.

"Fuck, Max!" You mewl, only vaguely aware of the sweet nothings he's been murmuring into your ear, the teeth ghosting the shell of your ear.

He's cradling your face with one hand, and you only become cognizant of it when his hips stutter to a crawl. Blearily, your eyes flutter open, confused as to why he just stopped all of a sudden.

"You're crying," he murmurs, fingertips chasing away a tear.

"Feels good," you slur, absolutely drunk on the pulsating cock lodged between your legs, "tha's all."

Eye roll, and then he's pressing your noses together, wearing the loveliest smile. Hips moving again, short little thrusts that have your core tightening, clenching down around his dick as he fucks you. His breathing labored, gasping into your mouth as he begins to lose his rhythm.

You can just barely drag your hands off his shoulders in favor of holding his cheeks; they're so warm, pale skin flushed from it.

"Close," you keen, legs squeezing around his hips; there's that slick sound again, twisted with the soft patting of his pelvis against yours.

Max is nodding, wordless as he picks up the pace, fucks you nice and deep as you weakly clench around him. So thoroughly fucked that you can't even clamp down around him, even when you try. Heat rages into a fire, and you're fluttering around him when he buckles down and pistons his hips into you.

With a poorly muffled wail, you're cumming, jaw slack, body a trembling mess whilst he fucks you through it. Muffled praises littered into your skin, and he's just barely able to pull out before he cums with a whimper. Hot cum painting your inner thighs, your weeping, swollen hole.

You don't know how long you lay there for, just barely clinging to consciousness. You must have drifted off there for a minute because one moment you're closing your eyes, and the next, there's a warm cloth between your legs .Max's lips are on your knee whilst he cleans you up.

"You alright?" He asks when he meets your barely open eyes.

All you can do is hum, making a little grabby hand when he moves to get off the bed. There's a flash of surprise, eyebrows raising, that's quickly replaced with what you can only describe as absolute, utter fondness. With a big, goofy grin, he tosses the cloth into the hamper and eases back into the bed with you.

"I'm not gonna disappear this time," he promises, kissing your forehead, "or the next, or the time after that."

Your heart flutters excitedly at that — the implication of a next time and a time after that. "How are we going to manage with...?"

He hums a quiet little noise that you barely hear. "We'll figure it out. Come up with codewords or something. 'Rubber duckies,' maybe."

"So you're saying that if you want to sneak around, you're going to look at me and say 'rubber duckies' and hope nobody catches on?" It's such a bizarre concept; you feel like a little kid, just trying to slip under your parent's watchful radar.

"Okay, so maybe not rubber duckies," he squeezes you closer, tracing up and down your spine, "I don't suppose you have any ideas brewing in that head of yours, do you?"

Hm. "Maybe."

"What?"

"Rum and coke."

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