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pucksandpower · 7 months ago

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Stroke of Midnight

Max Verstappen x Alonso!Reader

Summary: New Year’s Eve sees you crouched under a table, shoving grapes into your mouth as the seconds tick by in a desperate attempt to find love in 2025 … but it just so happens that love finds you a whole lot sooner than you expect

Note: Happy (almost) New Year! Wishing everyone a sweet and fulfilling 2025 ❤️

The club is too loud, too crowded, too much. Somewhere near the DJ booth, your father is probably breaking it down to the worst remix of an already bad pop song.

You don’t want to know what’s happening. You don’t even want to be here, except here is Monaco on New Year’s Eve, and it’s supposed to be magical. That’s what the internet said when you Googled it this morning. But so far, the magic feels more like sweat and regret.

And desperation. There’s no use pretending otherwise anymore.

Your legs cramp as you shift under the table, pulling your knees to your chest to avoid the sharp heel of a passing stranger. The white tablecloth is a flimsy barrier between you and the chaos outside — limbs, perfume, champagne flutes tipped at precarious angles.

You check your phone. Eleven fifty-seven.

“God,” you whisper to yourself, clutching the little plastic bag in your hand. “This is rock bottom.”

But is it? The thought stops you short. You could argue there’ve been worse moments.

There was your first boyfriend, for starters. The trust fund baby who somehow thought being wealthy made cheating excusable. “It’s not like I need you,” he had said when you caught him. Yeah, no kidding.

Then came the mechanic. Charming, sweet, and exactly what you thought you needed — until you overheard him laughing with his friends about how he only asked you out on a bet. The details are blurry now, but the humiliation is crystal clear.

And, of course, the summer of horror: introducing your third boyfriend to your dad, only to walk in on him rummaging through your father’s underwear drawer. “I just wanted to see what greatness looks like,” he had explained with a sheepish grin, clutching a pair of Fernando Alonso’s boxer briefs like they were relics from the Vatican.

Three strikes. You’re out.

“Not this year,” you mutter, shaking your head. This year, you’re taking things into your own hands.

You dig into the bag, spilling green grapes into your lap. Twelve of them. One for each second before midnight, each representing a wish for the year ahead. You glance at the clock again — eleven fifty-eight now. Two minutes to go.

Someone shifts the table above you, and you nearly choke on your gasp. The tablecloth lifts slightly, and a pair of curious eyes meet yours.

“What the hell?”

It’s a man — dark-haired, stubble-jawed, vaguely familiar, though everyone in Monaco looks like they could be a movie star. He’s crouched, trying to see past the shadows. You stare back, frozen.

“Are you hiding?” He asks, tilting his head. His accent is clipped and Dutch, which somehow makes this all worse.

“Uh — no,” you stammer, holding up a grape like it’s evidence in court. “I’m … I’m doing something. It’s a tradition.”

“Under a table?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause. He blinks at you, then ducks his head fully under the tablecloth. “Alright, I’ll bite. What kind of tradition involves grapes and hiding under furniture?”

“It’s Spanish.” You’re not sure why you feel defensive, but you do. “You eat twelve grapes, one for each second before midnight, for good luck in the new year.”

“Good luck.” He glances pointedly at the table legs surrounding you. “How’s that working out?”

You scowl. “It’s not midnight yet.”

He snorts. “Fair enough. Carry on.” He starts to retreat, but something stops him. “Wait. Why under the table?”

“Because …” You hesitate, not wanting to explain that part of the superstition involves being in a confined space to focus your intentions. It sounds ridiculous out loud, even to you. “Because it’s quieter down here.”

“Right.” His tone is skeptical, but mercifully, he leaves it at that. “Good luck, grape girl.” He’s gone before you can respond.

The clock ticks closer to midnight. Eleven fifty-nine. You clutch the grapes tighter, willing yourself to focus.

“Okay,” you whisper, heart pounding. “This is it. Love. Luck. Anything but whatever the hell the last three years were.”

You pop the first grape into your mouth as the countdown begins, the music fading just enough for the crowd to yell, Twelve!

It’s sour, but you swallow it quickly, reaching for the next. Eleven!

The third grape is sweeter. Ten!

Someone bumps the table above you, but you keep going. Nine!

The fifth grape tastes like possibility. Eight!

You’re halfway through the sixth when the tablecloth lifts again.

“Sorry, but I just-” It’s him again, the Dutch guy. He ducks under the table fully this time, looking half-apologetic, half-curious. “I couldn’t help it. What happens if you don’t finish in time?”

You glare at him, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. “Whuh ah oo doin’?”

“Trying to understand the stakes here,” he says, crouching beside you. “It’s fascinating.”

“Go ‘way!” You manage, scrambling for the eighth grape. Five!

“Is this, like, a universal Spanish thing? Or just your family?”

You shove the ninth grape in your mouth, ignoring him. Four!

“You’re really committed,” he notes, watching you chew furiously. “I respect that.”

You jab a finger toward the edge of the tablecloth, signaling him to leave.

“Alright, alright,” he says, hands up in surrender. “Good luck, truly. I hope it works.”

He disappears just as the countdown hits Three!

The eleventh grape is a struggle, but you manage. Two!

You grab the last one, cramming it in just as the crowd roars, One! Happy New Year!

It’s chaos — cheering, champagne popping, music surging back to full volume. You sit there under the table, sticky with grape juice and feeling utterly ridiculous.

“Happy New Year to me,” you mutter, wiping your hands on your dress.

Above you, the tablecloth shifts again.

“I had a feeling you’d make it,” the Dutch guy says, grinning. He’s holding two glasses of champagne. “Figured you might need this.”

You stare at him, utterly baffled. “Do you always bother strangers under tables?”

“Only the ones who look like they’re about to choke on tradition.”

You take the glass hesitantly, unsure whether to thank him or tell him to leave you alone. He raises his own in a toast.

“To luck,” he says simply, his smile oddly sincere.

You sigh, clinking your glass against his. “To luck.”

And for the first time in years, you think it might actually work.

***

The Dutch guy, whose name you still don’t know, doesn’t leave. You expect him to. After all, who bothers someone under a table, offers them champagne, and then sticks around? But here he is, leaning casually against the table, like this is his New Year’s Eve tradition too.

“So,” he says, studying you over the rim of his glass, “how do you know it worked?”

“What worked?”

“The grapes. Your luck in love.”

“It’s not instant,” you reply dryly. “I don’t think someone’s going to walk up and propose to me tonight.”

“Shame,” he says, smirking. “Would’ve been a great story.”

You roll your eyes, standing up carefully to avoid smacking your head on the table. The club is still throbbing with music, the crowd a drunken sea of sequins and suits. Your father is nowhere to be seen, probably charming half the room with drunken stories from his glory days.

The Dutch guy follows you, holding his champagne like it’s an extension of himself.

“So, do I get a name?” He asks.

“Do I get a name?” You counter.

He laughs, setting his glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “Martin. Martin Garrix.”

It clicks immediately. The Martin Garrix. You’ve seen him on magazine covers, his face plastered on Spotify playlists, his name on Coachella lineups.

“Oh,” you say, a little surprised. “You’re that Martin Garrix.”

“Depends,” he says with a grin. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He laughs again, an easy sound that somehow cuts through the noise around you.

“And you are?”

You hesitate. The last thing you want is to be recognized as Fernando Alonso’s daughter tonight. “Just … me,” you say, shrugging.

“Alright, Just Me,” he teases. “What’s the plan now? Back to the dance floor?”

“I don’t really have a plan.” You glance toward the bar, but it’s swamped. The thought of pushing through that crowd makes your skin crawl.

Martin tilts his head, considering you. “You know,” he says after a moment, “I’ve got to play a set in a bit. But before that, I could introduce you to someone.”

Your brow furrows. “Introduce me?”

“Yeah. A friend of mine. You’ll like him.”

You cross your arms. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to get rid of me?”

“Not at all,” he says, grinning. “But if you’re looking for luck, he’s got plenty of it.”

Before you can argue, he’s already motioning for you to follow him.

Martin weaves through the crowd effortlessly, stopping just long enough to charm security guards and exchange handshakes with people who look vaguely important. You trail behind, clutching your champagne glass like a lifeline.

“VIP,” he explains over his shoulder, as if that answers anything.

“I was in VIP,” you mutter. “Then I left to crawl under a table.”

“Your loss,” he quips.

The VIP section is smaller than you remember, cordoned off with velvet ropes and guarded by men in black suits. Martin flashes a wristband, and the guard steps aside.

You’re led to a booth tucked in the farthest corner, hidden from most of the chaos. Someone is slouched in the corner seat, a drink dangling from his fingers. His head tilts up when Martin approaches, and your stomach flips.

Max Verstappen.

You stop dead in your tracks, heat rushing to your face. Of all the people — of course it’s him.

Max looks at you, then at Martin, then back at you. His brow furrows in confusion, his normally sharp blue eyes a little unfocused.

“Martin,” he says, voice thick with alcohol, “who’s this?”

Martin grins, gesturing toward you. “Stray kitten I found under a table. Thought you might want company.”

You gape at him. “I am not a stray kitten.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Martin says, completely unbothered.

Max blinks, then sets his drink on the table. “Wait. I know you.”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, “I know you too.”

It’s a terrible response, but you’re too flustered to think straight. Max Verstappen, reigning Formula 1 world champion, is sitting in front of you, looking unfairly handsome even in his clearly drunk state.

Martin claps Max on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to it. Don’t scare her off, mate.”

“Wait, what-” You start to protest, but Martin is already disappearing into the crowd.

You’re left standing there awkwardly, clutching your glass like it’s a shield. Max watches you, his expression softening into something unreadable.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

You hesitate, then slide into the booth, leaving just enough space between you that it doesn’t feel too intimate.

“So,” he says, leaning back. “What’s this about a table?”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “It’s a Spanish tradition. You eat twelve grapes at midnight for good luck in the new year. I was under the table to-”

“Focus your intentions,” he finishes, surprising you.

Your eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

“Carlos told me about it once back when we were teammates,” he says with a small smile. “He thought it was funny.”

You relax slightly. “Well, it’s not funny. It’s practical.”

“Under a table, though?” His smile widens.

“It’s quieter!”

He laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes your heart twist in your chest. You’ve always found Max intimidating — cool, calm, untouchable. But right now, with his hair slightly messy and his guard down, he seems … human.

“You’re drunk,” you blurt out.

He nods, unabashed. “A little.”

“A lot,” you correct.

“Fair.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “But what about you? You’re here on New Year’s Night, eating grapes under tables. What’s that about?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “Bad luck. Bad … everything, really. I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze steady despite the alcohol. “Bad everything?”

“Love life,” you admit, looking away. “It’s been a disaster.”

“Join the club,” he mutters, taking a sip of his drink.

You glance at him, surprised. “What do you mean? You’re-” You stop yourself, realizing how stupid it sounds. He’s Max Verstappen. He could have anyone.

“Exactly,” he says, reading your expression. “And that’s the problem. No one takes me seriously. They just see the driver, the fame, the money.”

You soften. “That sounds lonely.”

“It is.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken words.

“You know,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, “I always wondered what it’d be like to talk to you.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“In the paddock. You’re always with your dad, or with someone else. I never knew how to …” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I always wondered too.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, the noise of the club fades into the background.

“Yeah?” He asks softly.

You nod, suddenly shy. “Yeah.”

His lips twitch into a small smile. “Maybe Martin was right.”

“About what?”

“Luck.”

You laugh, the sound light and unexpected. “Maybe.”

He leans back, the tension in his shoulders easing. “So, what now? Are you going to wait for the grapes to work, or are we going to make our own luck?”

You raise an eyebrow. “And how do we do that?”

“Well,” he says, a playful glint in his eye, “we could start by getting out of here.”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere,” he says, standing up and holding out his hand.

You stare at his hand, then take it, letting him pull you to your feet.

“Alright,” you say, your heart pounding. “Let’s see where this luck takes us.”

***

The valet pulls up with the car, and it’s … a Ferrari Monza SP2. Of course it is. Sleek, black, and absurdly expensive, it looks like something out of a Bond movie. The kind of car you don’t just drive; you wear it, command it.

Max grins at you as the valet hands him the keys, his drunken sway almost imperceptible — almost. He heads straight for the driver’s side, but you grab his arm before he can open the door.

“Are you serious?” You ask, wide-eyed.

“What?” His expression is equal parts innocence and mischief.

“You’ve been drinking.”

He glances at the keys in his hand, then back at you, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “I’ve had worse nights.”

“Max,” you say firmly, your voice cutting through the noise of passing cars and drunken revelers spilling out onto the Monaco streets. “You’re not driving.”

He raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “So, what? You’re offering?”

You blink, caught off guard. “I-I didn’t mean-”

But he’s already opening the driver’s side door and stepping aside, holding it open for you with a dramatic flourish. “Your chariot awaits, madam.”

Your first instinct is to argue, to remind him that this is his car and you’re not exactly in the habit of taking over Ferraris from Formula 1 champions unless they’re your father. But the glint in his eye dares you to say yes.

“Fine,” you mutter, slipping past him and sliding into the driver’s seat.

The leather feels luxurious under your fingers, the steering wheel practically begging to be gripped. You know Ferraris — you grew up around them, after all — but this one feels different. It feels … alive.

Max climbs into the passenger seat with surprising agility for someone who’s had more than a few drinks. He looks entirely too pleased with himself, leaning back like he owns not just the car, but the world.

“Where to?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant as you adjust the seat and mirrors.

He shrugs, a lazy smile on his face. “Surprise me.”

The car roars to life under your hands, the engine purring with a deep, satisfying growl. You pull out of the valet lane and into the Monaco streets, the city lights sparkling like they’ve been sprinkled with diamonds.

You have no plan, no destination in mind. So, you let the roads guide you. Past the harbor, where yachts bob gently against their moorings, and out onto the open road leading away from Monaco.

Max watches you drive, his gaze heavy but not uncomfortable. “You’re good at this,” he says, his voice cutting through the low hum of the engine.

You glance at him, one hand on the wheel. “I should be. My dad made sure I could handle cars before I could even ride a bike.”

He chuckles. “Sounds about right.”

The road begins to curve as you head toward Nice, the city’s glow fading behind you. The winding asphalt hugs the coastline, offering glimpses of the dark sea shimmering under the moonlight.

Max leans his head back against the seat, his eyes half-closed. “This is nice,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You smile, focusing on the road. “It is.”

The stretch of beach comes out of nowhere, a small, deserted slice of sand tucked between rocky cliffs. You might have driven past it without a second thought, but Max suddenly sits up, pointing wildly.

“Stop!” He yells.

You react instinctively, slamming on the brakes. The tires screech against the pavement, and the car comes to a jarring halt.

“Jesus, Max!” You exclaim, turning to glare at him. “What is wrong with you?”

He’s already unbuckling his seatbelt, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “We’re going skinny dipping.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” He grins like a kid who just discovered a hidden jar of candy. “Come on. The water’s right there.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” He pushes open the door and climbs out, gesturing for you to follow. “It’s New Year’s. Perfect time to do something stupid.”

“Skinny dipping isn’t just stupid, Max. It’s-” You gesture vaguely, your cheeks heating. “It’s ridiculous.”

He leans down, resting his arms on the open car door. “Exactly. That’s the point. Live a little.”

You hesitate, glancing toward the beach. The moonlight glints off the waves, the sound of the surf mingling with the gentle rustle of wind through the grass. There’s no one else around.

“Max,” you start, your voice uncertain.

He tilts his head, his expression softening. “Hey. It’s just water. I won’t look if you don’t want me to.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stalling.” He steps back, holding his arms out as if to say, what’s the worst that could happen?

You sigh, unbuckling your seatbelt. “If I freeze to death, I’m haunting you.”

“Deal.”

The sand is cool under your feet as you follow Max toward the water. He’s already pulled off his shirt and pants, tossing them carelessly onto the beach. The moonlight catches on his skin, highlighting the lean muscles of his back.

You hesitate at the water’s edge, the waves lapping at your toes.

“This is crazy,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

“That’s the point,” Max calls over his shoulder, already wading into the surf.

You bite your lip, glancing around one last time to make sure you’re alone. Then, with a deep breath, you pull off your dress, leaving it in a heap beside Max’s clothes.

The water is shockingly cold as you step in, but it’s not unbearable. You wade in deeper, the waves swirling around your waist, then your chest.

Max is already floating on his back a few meters ahead, his arms stretched out like he’s completely at peace.

“See?” He says, his voice carrying over the water. “Not so bad.”

You tread water, glaring at him. “I hate that you’re right.”

He laughs, the sound echoing across the beach. “You’ll get used to it.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. The water is calm, the world around you eerily quiet except for the soft crash of waves.

“This is nice,” you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Told you,” he says, tilting his head to look at you. His expression is softer now, less playful. “Thanks for indulging me.”

You shrug, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks for trusting me with your car.”

He grins. “I figured it was in good hands.”

The silence stretches between you again, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels … easy. Like the two of you have always been here, floating in the moonlit water, sharing something unspoken.

“I’ve always liked you,” Max says suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. “What?”

He turns onto his side, treading water to face you. “I mean it. For years, I’ve … I don’t know. I never thought you’d feel the same, so I didn’t say anything. But tonight …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. It felt like the right time.”

Your throat tightens, your mind racing. You’ve always thought Max was out of your league, untouchable. But here he is, confessing in the most Max way possible — honest, straightforward, no games.

“I’ve always liked you too,” you admit, your voice trembling.

His eyes widen, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He laughs, the sound full of relief and joy. “Well, I guess the grapes worked after all.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Never,” he says, his voice soft.

It feels like a promise.

***

When you and Max finally stumble out of the water, shivering and laughing, you head straight to the spot where you’d left your clothes. Only, when you get there, the beach doesn’t look quite the same.

Your dress isn’t where you left it.

“Oh no,” you mutter, scanning the dark sand.

“What?” Max asks, standing next to you, his arms crossed against the cold.

“My clothes.” You point at the waterline, which has crept much closer during your impromptu swim. “The waves must’ve gotten to them.”

Max glances down and then back at you with a smirk. “You mean those clothes?”

You follow his gaze to a small, soggy heap half-buried in the sand.

“Oh, for the love of-” You dart toward them, scooping up your dress and underwear, which are completely soaked and dripping.

Max doesn’t even try to suppress his laugh. “Well, this is awkward.”

“Don’t,” you warn, glaring at him.

“I didn’t say anything!” He holds up his hands defensively, still grinning.

You groan, holding up your dress, which now feels about ten pounds heavier with seawater. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t wear this.”

Max tilts his head, considering. “Guess you’ll have to drive back naked.”

“Max!”

“Kidding, kidding!” He steps closer, tugging his own damp shirt over his head and holding it out to you. “Here. Problem solved.”

You hesitate, eyeing the shirt. “What about you?”

“I’ll live,” he says with a shrug, clearly unbothered by the chilly night air. “Take it.”

You sigh, knowing you don’t have much of a choice. “Fine. Turn around.”

Max smirks but obeys, turning his back to you.

You quickly pull the oversized shirt over your head, the fabric still warm from his body. It smells like him, too — a mix of salt, sweat, and something distinctly Max. You tug it down as far as it will go, grateful that it’s long enough to cover everything important.

“Okay,” you say.

Max turns back around, and his grin is immediate and wide. “Wow.”

“What?” You ask, crossing your arms.

“You look good in my clothes,” he says, his voice dropping slightly.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn at the way he’s looking at you, his gaze lingering a little too long. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he counters, his tone light but earnest.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Instead, you shake your head, muttering, “Let’s just go.”

Max doesn’t argue, but his grin lingers as the two of you make your way back to the car.

“Where are we going?” Max asks as you slide back into the driver’s seat, the leather cool against your bare thighs.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” you say, adjusting the mirrors again.

He shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “We could go back to my place.”

You snort. “Why does that sound like the setup to a bad pickup line?”

“Hey,” he protests, mock-offended. “I’m a gentleman.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you, though?”

“Sometimes,” he says, grinning. “Depends on the company.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Well, as much as I’d love to see your undoubtedly bachelor-esque apartment, I have a better idea.”

“Oh?”

“My dad’s place,” you say, pulling onto the road.

Max raises an eyebrow. “Fernando’s?”

“He’s not there,” you assure him quickly. “He’s probably still at the club, or passed out somewhere. And I happen to know he stocked the apartment with some really good champagne.”

Max hums, considering. “Fancy champagne, empty apartment … I like the sound of this.”

You smile, turning onto the highway. “I thought you might.”

The drive back to Monaco feels different this time. The adrenaline from the beach has faded, replaced by a quiet comfort. Max sits beside you, his head tilted back against the seat, humming softly to himself.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “You’re not falling asleep, are you?”

He shakes his head, reaching for the radio. “Nope. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you tease.

He laughs, fiddling with the dial until he lands on a station playing 80s hits. The familiar opening chords of Take On Me by A-ha fill the car, and Max immediately starts singing along.

“Talking away,” he belts out, completely off-key but fully committed.

You can’t help but laugh. “Oh my God, Max.”

“What?” He says, grinning at you. “You don’t like my singing?”

“I’m just saying, maybe stick to driving cars.”

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Ouch. That’s harsh.”

The chorus kicks in, and Max leans closer to you, practically shouting the lyrics. “I’ll be gone, in a day or twoooooo!”

You’re laughing so hard you can barely keep your hands steady on the wheel. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he says, winking.

You roll your eyes, but the truth is, you kind of do. There’s something about the way Max is so unapologetically himself, even when he’s being completely ridiculous. It’s endearing in a way you didn’t expect.

The next song comes on — Africa by Toto (not that Toto, the other one) — and Max doesn’t miss a beat, launching into another impromptu performance.

“I bless the rains down in AfricAAAA!”

“Please stop,” you beg, though your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Never,” he says, grinning at you like this is the most fun he’s had in ages.

And as the lights of Monaco come back into view, you realize you’ve never felt more at ease with someone. Max’s off-tune singing, the salty breeze still clinging to your hair, and the warmth of his shirt against your skin — it all feels like something out of a dream.

“Hey,” Max says suddenly, his voice softer now.

“Yeah?” You glance at him, and for once, he’s not smiling. His expression is thoughtful, almost serious.

“I’m glad it was you tonight,” he says simply.

Your heart skips a beat, but you manage to keep your voice steady. “Me too.”

He turns back to the radio, cranking up the volume as another song starts. And as you drive toward the city, the two of you singing along to the music, it feels like the beginning of something you’re not quite ready to name — but it feels right all the same.

***

The apartment is just as you left it — sleek, minimalist, and undoubtedly your father’s. Clean lines, muted colors, and an expansive view of Monaco’s twinkling lights spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Max whistles low as he steps inside, running a hand through his damp hair. “Your dad has good taste.”

You scoff, kicking off your shoes by the door. “He has a good interior designer. There’s a difference.”

Max chuckles, padding after you as you head straight for the kitchen. “Where’s this fancy champagne you promised?”

You open the fridge, scanning its contents. Sure enough, five bottles of Dom Pérignon are lined up like soldiers, condensation clinging to their dark glass.

“Here,” you say, pulling one out and setting it on the marble countertop. “But don’t complain if it ruins you for whatever it is that Formula 1 uses on podiums these days.”

Max grabs two flutes from the cabinet you pointed to and shrugs. “I think I’ll survive.”

You pop the cork with a satisfying pop, pouring the sparkling liquid into the glasses he offers.

“To questionable life choices,” Max says, raising his glass.

You laugh, clinking yours against his. “To new beginnings.”

The first sip is crisp and effervescent, the kind of taste that makes you close your eyes for a second to savor it. Max seems equally impressed, letting out a low hum of approval.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says, taking another sip. “This is good.”

“Only the best for Fernando Alonso,” you say, rolling your eyes.

The two of you settle on the couch, the city lights casting a soft glow over the room. Conversation flows easily, the champagne loosening whatever walls you might have had left after the events of the night.

By the second bottle, you’re both leaning into each other, laughing at stories you’ve never told anyone else.

“So, wait,” Max says, his voice slightly slurred. “You actually punched him?”

“I didn’t punch him,” you correct, giggling. “I just … shoved him. Hard. With my fist.”

Max snorts. “That’s literally a punch.”

“Semantics.” You wave him off, taking another sip of champagne. “He deserved it.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Max says, shaking his head with a grin.

By the time you open the third bottle, everything is a blur of laughter, shared glances, and a warmth that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

You’re halfway through another story when Max interrupts, leaning closer. “You’ve got …” He gestures vaguely at your face.

“What?” You ask, frowning.

“Hold on.” He reaches out, brushing the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The touch is light, almost hesitant, but it sends a jolt of electricity through you.

“There,” he says softly, his thumb lingering a second too long before he pulls back.

The room feels suddenly smaller, quieter. Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, without thinking, you lean in.

The kiss is messy, fueled by champagne and years of unspoken tension. Max’s lips are soft but insistent, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer.

You barely register the sound of your glass clattering onto the coffee table as you climb onto his lap, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Is this okay?” He murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and ragged.

You nod, your hands already tugging at the waistband of his jeans. “More than okay.”

His hands slide under the shirt you’re wearing — his shirt — his palms warm against your skin. The touch makes you shiver, but you can’t tell if it’s from the cold or something else entirely.

“You look so good in this,” he whispers, his lips trailing down your neck.

“Stop talking,” you mutter, pulling him back up for another kiss.

He laughs softly but obeys, his hands roaming freely now, exploring every curve like he’s trying to memorize you.

You lose track of time, of where you end and he begins. The champagne bubbles in your veins, making everything feel hazy and light.

Somehow, you both end up half-naked on the leather sectional, your legs tangled together. Max’s hands stay under the shirt, resting against your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

Your hand drifts lower, brushing against the waistband of his briefs. He lets out a low groan, his head falling back against the couch.

“Careful,” he says, his voice thick with a mix of amusement and warning.

You smirk, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw. “You’re the one who said to live a little.”

He laughs, pulling you back down into another kiss.

Eventually, exhaustion gets the better of both of you. The kisses slow, turning softer, lazier, until you’re both too tired to do anything but collapse against each other.

Max’s arms wrap around you, his body warm and solid beneath you.

“Don’t let me fall asleep like this,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his chest.

“Too late,” he replies, his voice already heavy with sleep.

And as your eyes flutter closed, you can’t help but think that this might be the best questionable life choice you’ve ever made.

***

The first hint of dawn spills into the apartment, a soft, golden hue creeping through the glass walls. The city below comes to life slowly, but up here, in the quiet sanctuary of your father’s apartment, everything feels frozen in time.

You’re vaguely aware of the early morning light as you stir, still half-asleep, tangled in the warmth of Max’s arms. His hands are still under the shirt you’re wearing — his shirt — resting against your bare waist. Your head rests on his chest, his steady heartbeat like a metronome beneath your ear.

You should feel embarrassed, maybe even regretful. Instead, you feel … safe. Content.

The sound of keys jingling outside the door doesn’t register immediately.

Then, the lock turns, and the door creaks open.

“Ah, mierda.”

The low curse comes from the entryway. The unmistakable, groggy voice of your father.

You jolt upright, your blood turning ice-cold as the realization sinks in.

Max stirs beside you, groaning softly. “What’s going on?”

You don’t have time to answer before Fernando appears in the living room doorway, his hair disheveled, his jacket slung over one shoulder, and the beginnings of a hangover etched across his face.

His gaze lands on the two of you — your bare legs, Max’s shirt haphazardly covering you, and the obvious fact that both your pants are nowhere to be seen.

There’s a long, excruciating silence.

“Papá,” you manage to squeak, your voice higher than you intended.

Fernando blinks once, twice. Then his eyes narrow. “What is this?”

Max freezes, his brain clearly struggling to catch up. “Uh …”

You scramble for words, any words, but your mind is a complete blank.

Fernando steps closer, his voice sharp. “You. Verstappen. What are you doing here?”

Max raises a hand, as though he’s trying to surrender. “I can explain-”

“Oh, you better,” Fernando interrupts, his tone dark. “Because from where I’m standing, this looks like …” He gestures vaguely at the two of you, his expression a mix of disbelief and fury. “… a very bad decision.”

You hastily pull a throw pillow over your lap, trying to muster some semblance of dignity. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Fernando arches a brow. “It looks like I came home to find my daughter and Max Verstappen half-naked on my couch.”

“Okay, so maybe it’s a little what it looks like,” you admit, cringing.

Max finally seems to snap out of his stupor. He sits up, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Listen, Fernando, I-”

“You don’t get to call me Fernando,” your father snaps. “Not right now.”

“Okay,” Max backtracks quickly, holding up his hands. “Look, this isn’t her fault. It’s on me.”

You turn to him, frowning. “Max-”

“No, it’s true,” he continues, his voice steady despite the situation. “I shouldn’t have let things get … out of hand.”

Fernando crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing further. “Out of hand?”

“I mean-” Max stumbles over his words, clearly realizing he’s digging himself deeper. “It’s not like we planned for this to happen.”

Fernando’s gaze flicks to you, his expression unreadable. “Is that true?”

You open your mouth, then close it, your cheeks burning. “Well … yes. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“It’s complicated!” You blurt out, throwing your hands up in frustration.

Fernando pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that you’re pretty sure isn’t complimentary.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he says after a moment, his voice tight. “You-” He points at Max. “Why are you even here?”

“We were … celebrating,” Max says hesitantly.

“Celebrating,” Fernando repeats flatly. “By taking your pants off on my couch?”

“Okay, that part was-” Max starts, but you cut him off.

“Can we not talk about pants right now?” You plead, your face hot enough to fry an egg.

Fernando gives you a look that could melt steel. “No, we’re absolutely going to talk about it. What were you thinking?”

“Maybe we weren’t thinking,” you admit quietly, avoiding his gaze.

“That much is obvious,” he mutters.

“Papá, please,” you say, your voice softening. “It’s not like we meant to disrespect you or your home.”

Fernando sighs, the anger in his expression giving way to something else — disappointment. It stings more than you care to admit.

Max shifts uncomfortably beside you, breaking the silence. “I know this looks bad-”

“It is bad,” Fernando interrupts. “Do you have any idea what this could do to your reputation? To hers?”

Max frowns, his jaw tightening. “With all due respect, I care more about her than my reputation.”

Your breath catches at his words, but Fernando doesn’t seem impressed.

“Convenient to say that now,” he mutters, crossing his arms again.

Max’s expression hardens. “It’s the truth.”

The tension in the room is suffocating, the silence stretching out until you can’t take it anymore.

“Can we just … take a minute?” You say, looking between them. “Please?”

Fernando stares at you for a long moment, his expression softening just a fraction. “Fine. One minute.”

He turns on his heel, muttering something under his breath yet again as he storms toward the kitchen.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, you let out a shaky breath, turning to Max.

“This is a disaster,” you whisper.

Max reaches for your hand, his touch grounding. “We’ll figure it out.”

“How?” You ask, your voice tinged with panic.

He squeezes your hand gently. “Together.”

Despite everything, his confidence is reassuring. You take another deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Together.”

Fernando’s voice cuts through the moment from the kitchen. “You better be decent when I come back.”

Max lets out a low chuckle, and you can’t help but smile despite the situation.

“Let’s just survive the next five minutes,” you murmur, standing to pull on your still-damp jeans.

Max grins up at you, his eyes warm. “I like our odds.”

You glance toward the kitchen, where your father is undoubtedly fuming, and pray he’s right.

***

The tension in the room is suffocating as your father storms back from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hand and a sharp glare aimed squarely at Max. You sit on the edge of the couch, trying to make yourself as small as possible. Max, to his credit, doesn’t flinch under the weight of Fernando’s gaze, though his posture is tense, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

Fernando takes a long sip of his coffee before setting the cup down on the counter with a decisive clink. “Alright,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “Let’s talk.”

Max leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “I-”

Fernando holds up a hand, cutting him off. “No. I’ll talk first. You’ll listen.”

Max glances at you briefly, then nods. “Okay.”

Your father steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “So. Verstappen. Tell me — were you trying to sleep with my daughter under my own roof?”

The bluntness of the question makes you choke on air. “Papá!”

“Stay out of this,” Fernando says sharply, not even sparing you a glance. His eyes are locked on Max, who blinks in surprise before straightening in his seat.

“No!” Max says quickly, his voice firm. “Of course not.”

Fernando tilts his head, his lips twitching as though he’s fighting back a smirk. “Oh, so she’s not attractive enough for you to want to sleep with?”

“What?” You gasp, standing up. “What is wrong with you?”

“Sit down,” Fernando says over his shoulder, though there’s an unmistakable gleam of amusement in his eyes.

Max looks like he’s been thrown into the deep end of a pool without warning. “That’s not — what? No!”

Fernando raises an eyebrow. “No, she’s not attractive, or no, you weren’t trying to sleep with her?”

Max glares at him, his jaw tightening. “You’re twisting my words.”

“Am I?” Fernando says, taking another slow sip of his coffee.

“Yes!” Max snaps, then seems to catch himself. He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I wasn’t trying to disrespect you or your home. I swear.”

Fernando steps closer, looming over Max. “You swear, huh?”

“Yes,” Max says firmly.

“And yet,” Fernando says, gesturing at the couch with a dramatic wave of his hand, “I walked in on this. My daughter, half-naked, tangled up with you.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my god, stop.”

Fernando ignores you. “Explain that, Verstappen.”

Max meets his gaze, unflinching. “I care about her. That’s the truth.”

Fernando’s eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn’t respond immediately. He paces a few steps, tapping his fingers against his coffee cup as though mulling over his next move.

Finally, he stops, turning back to Max. “You care about her,” he repeats, his tone skeptical.

“Yes,” Max says, his voice unwavering.

Fernando tilts his head again, studying Max like he’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Alright. Let’s test that.”

Max frowns. “Test what?”

“Your commitment,” Fernando says simply.

You groan again, standing up. “Papá, this isn’t some kind of-”

“Sit,” Fernando says, pointing at the couch.

“Stop telling me to sit!” You snap, but you drop back down anyway, crossing your arms over your chest.

Fernando turns back to Max, a small, mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “So. Verstappen. If you care about her, you won’t mind answering a few questions.”

Max hesitates but nods. “Alright.”

Fernando sets his coffee cup down again, cracking his knuckles for dramatic effect. “First question. Do you even know her middle name?”

Max’s eyes flick to you, then back to Fernando. “Of course I do. It’s-” He pauses, frowning. “Wait. Do you have one?”

Fernando lets out a bark of laughter. “Strike one.”

You roll your eyes. “Max, I don’t have a middle name. Don’t listen to him.”

Max glares at Fernando. “That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Fernando says with a shrug. “Next question. What’s her favorite color?”

Max’s frown deepens. “Pink?”

Fernando shakes his head. “Wrong.”

“Wrong?” Max turns to you. “It’s not pink?”

“It’s not pink,” you confirm, biting back a smile.

Fernando smirks. “Strike two.”

Max leans back, exhaling slowly. “Alright. What is it, then?”

Fernando opens his mouth, but you cut him off. “It’s burgundy.”

“Burgundy,” Max repeats, nodding to himself. “Got it.”

“Too late,” Fernando says, waving him off. “You’re already failing.”

“Papá,” you say, your tone a warning.

Fernando raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. One last question.”

Max leans forward again, his expression determined. “Go ahead.”

Fernando’s smirk returns. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”

The question hangs in the air like a loaded gun.

Max doesn’t flinch. He meets Fernando’s gaze head-on and says, “I don’t know yet.”

You blink in surprise, as does your father.

Max continues, his voice steady. “But I know I want to figure it out. I care about her, and I want to spend more time with her. That’s all I can say right now.”

Fernando studies him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Then, to your astonishment, he nods. “Fair enough.”

“Fair enough?” You echo, staring at him in disbelief.

Fernando shrugs, picking up his coffee cup again. “At least he’s honest.”

Max lets out a breath he probably didn’t realize he was holding, and you shake your head, still trying to process what just happened.

“Just one thing,” Fernando adds, turning back to Max with a pointed look.

“What’s that?” Max asks cautiously.

Fernando leans in slightly, his voice low but firm. “If you hurt her, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Max doesn’t hesitate. “Understood.”

Fernando nods once, then steps back, his demeanor relaxing slightly. “Good. Now, get dressed. Both of you.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands again. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Max says, nudging you gently.

You glare at him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

Fernando smirks, heading toward his bedroom. “You’ve got ten minutes before I come back with more questions.”

“Papá!” You call after him, but he’s already gone.

Max chuckles softly, leaning back on the couch. “That went well, all things considered.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “You think that went well?”

He grins, shrugging. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you like me anyway,” he says, his grin widening.

You roll your eyes, but you don’t argue.

***

One Year Later

The club is just as loud and chaotic as it was a year ago, but it feels different this time. Maybe it’s the crowd, maybe it’s the glow of the New Year’s lights, or maybe it’s the fact that Max’s hand hasn’t left yours all night.

You’re back where it all started, tucked into the VIP section of the Monaco club where you had once crouched under a table eating grapes in a last-ditch attempt to find love. That night had been nothing short of chaotic, but looking back, it had been the beginning of something you wouldn’t trade for the world.

“Is it how you remembered it?” Max asks, leaning in close to be heard over the music.

You glance around at the glittering lights and pulsing crowd, then back at him. “It’s definitely less embarrassing this time around.”

Max grins, brushing a thumb over your knuckles. “I don’t know. You were pretty cute in your desperation.”

You groan, nudging him with your shoulder. “Are you ever going to let me live that down?”

“Not a chance,” he says, laughing. “It’s one of my favorite stories to tell.”

“Great. Glad my suffering is so entertaining for you,” you tease, though you can’t help but smile.

Max tugs you closer, his voice softer now. “You know, I’m really glad you ate those grapes.”

You look up at him, your heart fluttering at the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Me too.”

The DJ announces that it’s nearly midnight, and the crowd buzzes with excitement. Max pulls you to your feet, his hands resting lightly on your waist.

“Ready to count down?” He asks, his voice warm and low.

“With you? Always,” you say, grinning.

The countdown begins, and the energy in the room spikes. You can feel the excitement in the air, the anticipation of a new year, a fresh start.

“Ten!” The crowd shouts.

Max’s hands tighten slightly on your waist, and you lean into him, your pulse racing.

“Nine!”

You look up at him, your eyes locking.

“Eight!”

His gaze softens, his smile turning gentle.

“Seven!”

You bite your lip, butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“Six!”

Max leans down, his forehead brushing against yours.

“Five!”

Your breath catches as the noise of the crowd fades into the background.

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

You close your eyes, tilting your head up.

“One!”

Midnight strikes, and Max’s lips meet yours, soft and certain. The room erupts in cheers and confetti, but all you can focus on is the way he’s holding you, like you’re the only person in the world.

The kiss deepens, his hands sliding to your back, pulling you closer. You smile against his lips, your heart full and light-

Only to be rudely interrupted by someone literally wedging themselves between you.

“Alright, break it up!”

You stumble back a step, blinking in surprise. Max looks just as stunned, his hands still midair where they’d been resting on your waist.

Fernando stands between you, his arms crossed and a deeply unimpressed look on his face. “Leave room for Jesus.”

You gape at him, your cheeks burning. “Papá! What the hell are you doing?”

“I think the better question,” he says, looking pointedly at Max, “is what you two were doing.”

Max stares at him, then throws his hands up. “We were kissing. It’s New Year’s!”

Fernando raises an eyebrow. “And you couldn’t do that with a little more … decorum?”

“You’re not even religious!” You protest, exasperated.

Fernando smirks, clearly enjoying himself. “And that’s why, by Jesus, I mean me.”

Max blinks. “You mean … you?”

You stare at your father, your frustration warring with the urge to laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“Completely,” Fernando says, deadpan. “Now, why don’t we all take a nice step back, breathe, and reflect on the fact that I’m allowing this relationship to exist at all.”

“Allowing?” Max echoes, crossing his arms. “With all due respect, I don’t think you get to allow anything anymore.”

Fernando turns to him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, is that so?”

“Yes,” Max says firmly. “We’re adults. And we’re together. Whether you approve or not.”

Fernando looks at him for a long moment, then lets out a low chuckle. “Well, at least you’ve got guts.”

“More than that,” you interject, stepping between them. “He’s good to me. Better than anyone else ever has been. And I love him.”

Fernando’s smirk fades, replaced by something softer. He looks at you, his expression unreadable, then nods slowly. “I know.”

“You know?” You ask, surprised.

He shrugs. “Of course I know. I’m your father.”

Max exchanges a glance with you, clearly just as confused. “So … what’s with all the drama, then?”

Fernando grins, stepping back. “Because it’s fun.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands again. “I can’t believe this.”

Max laughs, pulling you into his side. “I can.”

Fernando claps Max on the shoulder, his grin widening. “Happy New Year, Verstappen. Don’t screw it up.”

Max meets his gaze, his expression serious. “I won’t.”

Fernando nods, then turns to you. “And you — try to keep him out of trouble, will you?”

You smile, leaning into Max. “I’ll do my best.”

Fernando waves you off, disappearing back into the crowd with a casual, “Don’t make me come back over here.”

Max watches him go, then turns to you, shaking his head. “Your dad’s insane.”

“Welcome to my world,” you say, laughing.

He grins, leaning down to kiss you again. This time, no one interrupts.

2K notes · View notes

unabashegirl · 6 days ago

Text

Tethered {h.s}

A slow-burning night in Milan turns into something unforgettable when a designer’s assistant and a world-famous artist realize neither of them wants to say goodbye.

Author’s note: This one’s soft, slow, and a little bit starry-eyed — I really loved writing it. Thank you for reading, and as always, your reblogs and comments mean the world to me. 💌 Let me know what you think!

‼️ This fic contains explicit sexual content (18+). Please read responsibly. ‼️

📌 word count -> 8.7K

📌 Please consider joining my Patreon -> Patreon

Harry sat at the end of the long dinner table, half-hidden behind the rim of his wine glass. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above him like a sky of artificial stars, casting shadows that danced over porcelain plates and untouched amuse-bouches. The clinking of forks, the murmurs of conversation in a blur of Italian and French, the low pulse of music in the background—it all felt a touch too loud.

He shouldn’t have come.

He’d flown to Milan for the show, slipped in through the back entrance, nodded politely from the front row, applauded when expected. That had been enough. He’d already planned to slip away quietly, return to the countryside villa in Tuscany where the stone walls were thick, and no one cared what he wore or who he was.

But Alessandro had insisted.

“Just the after party,�� he’d said, eyes alight, hands on Harry’s shoulders in a way that left no room for protest. “You’ll vanish tomorrow, tesoro, but tonight? Tonight, you shine.”

And now here he was—boxed into a corner seat, a soft-spoken model chattering beside him about a gallery in Berlin, while the man across the table lit a cigarette without asking. Smoke curled toward the ceiling and Harry breathed it in, sharp and chemical and grounding.

He let his eyes wander.

Golden people. Gold-touched lives. Everyone so sure of themselves, so hungry for attention. Cameras flashed in the corner where someone was pretending not to pose. It was beautiful and hollow and exhausting.

His fingers drummed against the stem of his glass.

“Do you hate it that much?”

The voice cut through his thoughts. Soft, amused, female. Different.

He turned slightly and found you leaning toward him, chin propped on your hand, watching him like you’d been doing it for a while.

“Excuse me?” he said, the edge of his accent curling around the words.

“The party,” you said, lips twitching. “You look like you’d rather be hit by a car than finish that wine.”

He let out a short laugh, dry and surprised.

“You’re not wrong.”

You smiled—tilted and knowing—and lifted your own glass toward him in mock salute. “Cheers to being held hostage by fashion royalty.”

“Cheers,” he muttered, clinking your glass with his before taking a sip he didn’t want.

“Let me guess,” you went on, “you got talked into this by someone you couldn’t say no to.”

He gave you a slow look. “That obvious?”

“Only to the other prisoners.”

He should have noticed her earlier.

Not because she was loud or glittering or trying to be seen—quite the opposite, in fact. She was still, poised, like the eye of a storm. Not the kind of stunning that shouted. The kind that crept up on you slowly, then all at once, like an ache in your chest you only noticed when it was too late.

Her dress was simple. Black, maybe navy, with thin straps and a low back. Nothing flashy—yet it hugged her in a way that made his throat tighten. Her skin glowed under the soft chandelier light, and her hair was pinned up with a few loose strands curling against her neck. She wore no jewelry, except for a thin gold ring on her middle finger and a watch that looked vintage.

Harry blinked. How had he missed her?

He was usually more observant than this. But then again, he’d spent the first half of the night counting down the seconds until he could leave.

Now he found himself leaning in, just slightly.

“You work for Alessandro?” he asked, voice low, suddenly curious. Genuinely curious.

Her eyes, ringed with a subtle sweep of liner, flicked up to meet his. “Mm. Assistant designer.”

“Dream job?”

She tilted her head. “It was.”

Something about the way she said it made him pause.

“And now?”

“Now I’d kill for a glass of water, a hot shower, and a bed that isn’t covered in tulle and half-finished sketches.” She smiled, not bitter—just tired. “But yes. Still the dream.”

He huffed a soft breath of a laugh through his nose. “So, what—you didn’t want to be here either?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Please. I came straight from backstage. I’ve been in four-inch heels since six in the morning. I didn’t even know this dinner was happening until someone shoved a change of clothes at me and said, ‘Smile, you’re going to dinner with celebrities.’”

Harry grinned. “I’m honored.”

“You should be.” She took another sip of wine, then set the glass down and leaned her cheek into her palm again, eyes on him. “But I still would’ve rather gone home.”

He let his eyes linger on her face now, less guarded than before. There was a smudge of fatigue beneath her left eye, just beneath the makeup. Her lipstick had worn off in the center. Her posture was relaxed, casual in the way only people who don’t care to impress can be.

It was disarming.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I think I finally found someone at this table I don’t want to strangle.”

A soft laugh slipped from her lips, not practiced like the others he’d heard tonight. Real.

“Careful,” she said, eyes dancing. “That almost sounded like flirting.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “Almost?”

“You’ll have to try harder, Styles.”

And for the first time all evening, he didn’t want to leave.

They stayed there for hours.

The party thinned out slowly, the glamorous slipping away in pairs and groups, laughter trailing like perfume in their wake. Alessandro blew Harry a kiss across the table before disappearing with someone whose name Harry didn’t catch.

But she stayed.

And so did he.

They talked. About the collection. About the chaos backstage. About their favorite places in Italy—hers, a tiny coastal town she refused to name, as if sharing it would make it too real.

He told her he was tired. Not just tonight, but lately. Tired of being watched. Of being on. Of people calling his name who didn’t know him at all.

She didn’t pity him. She just nodded, like she understood something deeper than he’d said aloud.

At some point, her shoes came off. She tucked her legs beneath her on the velvet banquette, wine forgotten, chin resting on her hand again. Her lipstick had vanished entirely, and the pins in her hair were starting to fall. There was a thread coming loose at the hem of her dress, and she didn’t seem to care.

She was stunning. Devastating, even.

He didn’t flirt. Not really. The mood had changed. Something softer had settled in the space between them—something quieter than attraction, heavier than curiosity. He didn’t want to charm her. He just wanted to keep her talking.

But then her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, sighed. “I’ve got an 8 a.m. fitting. I should—”

“Yeah,” he said, though he didn’t mean it.

She slipped her shoes back on, slow and reluctant, then stood and smoothed her dress. He stood, too, just to feel a little less like a fool.

She reached for her coat, but he caught it first and held it out for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she slid her arms into the sleeves.

There was a moment. A brief one. She turned to face him, eyes flicking up to meet his, her breath caught halfway through some unspoken sentence. She looked like she was going to say something more.

But she didn’t.

“Goodnight, Harry,” was all she said instead.

He watched her walk out of the private room and through the ornate archway until she disappeared completely.

He didn’t ask for her number.

And the moment passed.

He was supposed to leave Milan the next morning.

Supposed to escape to the quiet hills of Tuscany, to sun-drenched stone walls and good wine and solitude. That had been the plan.

But now—now all he could see was the curve of her smile under chandelier light. The faintest crease in her brow when she talked about working too hard. The tiny scar on her wrist she hadn’t noticed him noticing. The way she looked at him like she saw him, not the version of him everyone else paraded around.

He couldn’t get her out of his head.

And it drove him mad.

By noon, he’d canceled his flight.

The next morning, Harry sat on the edge of the hotel bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the half-packed suitcase in front of him.

She hadn’t even told him her name.

He didn’t know why that bothered him most. Maybe because it made the whole thing feel like a dream—unreal, hazy around the edges. Like if he blinked too long, he’d forget the sound of her laugh. The way she’d looked at him across the table, unfazed and uninterested in everything except the conversation between them.

He picked up his phone before he could talk himself out of it.

“Alessandro” answered on the second ring.

“Tesoro,” he said in that theatrical lilt that meant he hadn’t looked at the caller ID but assumed it was someone who owed him something. “If this is about last night, I—”

“It’s Harry.”

A beat.

“Ah. Mio caro. You survived.”

“Barely.” Harry exhaled, thumb rubbing against the hem of his T-shirt. “Listen. Can I—can I come by the atelier?”

Alessandro paused. “Why?”

“I just…” He hesitated, then chose honesty. “I met someone. I think she works with you.”

That caught his attention.

“Oh,” Alessandro said, drawing the word out with interest now. “La ragazza. You mean the one with the tired eyes and the sharp tongue?”

Harry’s lips twitched despite himself. “That’s the one.”

“Mmm. She’s good. Too good for us, really. Always trying to fix everything. Always working too hard.” He clicked his tongue. “You want me to give you her number?”

Harry hesitated. “No. I’ll just… drop by. If that’s okay.”

There was a pause on the line. Then Alessandro said, suddenly enthusiastic, “Actually, it’s perfect. I’ve got a few pieces I want to try out. I need a body that photographs like sin.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but smiled. “That’s a yes, then?”

“Come in after lunch. But don’t distract my staff, capito?”

Harry ended the call, stomach churning with something too restless to name.

The atelier smelled like steam, fabric glue, and espresso.

When Harry walked through the glass double doors, heads turned instantly. Conversations stuttered mid-sentence. A model standing near the sewing station almost dropped her coffee. One of the interns gasped audibly and clutched a pin cushion to her chest like a shield.

Harry was used to being stared at. But this felt different—more intimate. Like they hadn’t expected him here, in this space. And truthfully, he hadn’t expected it either.

He wore wide-leg black trousers and a soft ivory button-down left slightly open at the chest. The fabric fluttered as he walked, breezy and effortless. His sunglasses were tucked into the collar. His sleeves rolled up messily to his elbows. Tattoos peeked through like secrets.

He looked like someone who didn’t belong in a workspace—but owned it anyway.

“Dio santo,”Alessandro’s voice echoed from the back of the room. “Someone tell me I didn’t die and go to heaven.”

Harry turned just as his friend appeared dramatically from behind a curtain of unfinished muslin, arms open wide.

“Still so dramatic,” Harry drawled.

“And yet you’re the one walking into my atelier dressed like a poet who fucks.”

Harry barked out a laugh. A few interns nearby did too, before pretending to be horrified with themselves.

Alessandro clapped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him in for a kiss on both cheeks. “You look good. Tired. But good.”

“Long night.”

“Was she that good?” Alessandro winked, already walking him toward the back of the studio. “Come. I’ll make you a coffee. You can tell me everything—slowly, and with descriptions.”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

Alessandro turned around so fast his oversized rings clicked against each other.

“You what?”

“I talked to her. That’s it.”

“And now you’re here, stalking her at work?”

Harry gave him a look. “Not stalking.”

“Obsessing?”

“…Maybe.”

Alessandro beamed, pleased. “You really are a poet.”

They passed bolts of fabric, mannequins mid-draped, and models half-dressed for fittings. A few assistants whispered and turned away quickly when Harry caught their eye. The space was loud but focused—everyone moving, measuring, correcting, perfecting.

When they reached the back office, Harry paused.

His eyes had caught something.

It was on the worktable—half-buried under fabric swatches, loose sketches, and someone’s espresso cup. A sheet of paper with sharp pencil strokes and smudged charcoal, clearly drawn quickly. Instinctively.

A sketch

Of him.

It wasn’t perfect—his jaw was too sharp, and the slope of his nose exaggerated—but it was him. The shirt he’d worn last night. The curve of his hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. The thoughtful tilt of his head.

It was him, seen through someone else’s eyes.

“She did that?” he asked quietly.

Alessandro leaned in, raised a brow, then laughed. “Dio. She said she couldn’t sleep.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a second. He just kept looking.

She’d shaded the eyes last. It was the only part of the sketch untouched by smudges. Carefully defined. Focused.

As if she’d started drawing a stranger and ended up sketching someone she couldn’t look away from.

“You’re in trouble,” Alessandro murmured, watching him.

Harry didn’t argue.

The sketch sat between them like it had a heartbeat.

Harry’s fingers hovered just above the edge of the paper, not touching, not daring to. It felt too personal—like reading a diary he hadn’t been meant to find.

“She sees things,” he murmured, voice lower now.

Alessandro leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching him with interest. “Mmhmm. That’s what makes her so good. She notices what others miss. Details. Stillness.”

Harry swallowed. His gaze lingered on the slope of the sketch’s neck, the way she’d captured the slight tilt of his head. He hadn’t even known he’d sat like that. Had she been watching him the whole time?

“I have to go back to Tuscany,” he said after a long silence.

Alessandro sighed, almost theatrically. “Always running away to your Tuscan hills. You and your romantic recluse act.”

“I need the quiet.”

“And yet… here you are,” he said, gesturing loosely to the sketch, to the space between them filled with something unsaid. “Chasing the girl who kept you talking all night.”

Harry didn’t deny it.

“I want to know her,” he said, soft but firm. “But how do I ask her that? It’s Milan Fashion Week. She’s working herself into the ground. Everyone wants something from someone here.”

Alessandro tilted his head. “And what would you want from her?”

Harry exhaled slowly. “A name. A real conversation. Not the kind that disappears when the wine wears off.”

His friend studied him for a moment. Then, instead of teasing, he said with rare quiet, “Then wait. Let her breathe. You’re not the only one who hasn’t stopped moving.”

Harry gave him a look. “You’re unusually wise today.”

“I’ve been moisturized, well-fed, and slightly tipsy since nine a.m. I’m glowing with clarity.”

Harry huffed a laugh, leaning back slightly, eyes still on the sketch.

The rest of the atelier buzzed around them, models being pinned into half-finished garments, music humming low, scissors snipping in rhythm. But in this small corner of it all, time felt still.

Harry didn’t know her name.

But he knew how she saw the world. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever had someone look at him like that before.

Y/N pushed the atelier door open with her shoulder, arms full of garment bags, phone pressed to her ear, and a headache blooming just behind her right temple.

“No, I didn’t forget the zippers,” she hissed into the phone. “I reminded Martina three times—yes, okay, I’ll check again. I’m literally walking in right now—”

She stopped.

Mid-step. Mid-sentence.

The call disconnected without her even realizing it.

He was there.

Standing near the back of the room, in soft sunlight streaming through the tall windows, his sleeves still rolled to his elbows, one hand lazily tucked into the pocket of his black trousers.

Harry Styles.

From the dinner party.

From the night that hadn’t left her mind since she’d walked away from it.

He was staring at something on the table. Her table.

No—her sketch.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

For a second, the atelier faded. The sewing machines, the models rehearsing runway turns, the steady hum of caffeine-fueled assistants. It all went still.

He looked up slowly. Like he’d felt her walk in.

His eyes met hers across the room. And for a second, neither of them moved.

Then Alessandro appeared beside him with a dramatic little flourish, voice ringing across the floor.

“Amore! You’re late. He’s been waiting.”

“Waiting?” Her voice came out softer than she meant, throat still tight.

Alessandro grinned. “Yes. For you.”

Her stomach flipped.

Harry straightened but didn’t come closer. He didn’t speak yet, either. Just watched her. His expression unreadable, but his eyes were soft. Curious. A little uncertain. The same way they’d looked across the dinner table the night before, in the quiet lull between laughter and the end of something unfinished.

Y/N crossed the floor carefully, trying not to trip over herself—or her thoughts.

She stopped a few feet away. Close enough to see the faint smile at the corner of his mouth. Close enough to see that he was holding the sketch now.

The paper looked delicate in his hands.

“I didn’t think you’d…” she started, then stopped. “I didn’t know you were still in Milan.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be,” he said.

“And now?”

His eyes met hers again. Calm. Clear.

“I changed my plans.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. The atelier felt too loud. The moment too quiet.

Then he held out the sketch to her.

“I don’t usually let people see me like this,” he said. “But you already have.”

Y/N stared at him, pulse fluttering wildly in her chest.

Somewhere near them, Alessandro sighed and muttered, “I swear to God, if you two don’t kiss by Friday, I’m firing someone.”

Neither of them laughed.

They were still staring.

Waiting.

Y/N felt heat creep up the back of her neck.

It was ridiculous—blushing, at her big age, in the middle of Milan Fashion Week, in front of Harry Styles holding her sketch like it meant something.

But he was looking at her like it did.

His eyes dipped back down to the page, then up again, and she knew—knew—he recognized the vulnerability in it. Not just his likeness. Her gaze. How she’d seen him.

She didn’t know how to explain that. Or if she even wanted to.

“Scusate!” Alessandro called out, breaking the tension with the subtlety of a cannon blast. “Enough of the romantic staring. We have clothes to fit and muses to dress!”

Y/N blinked, startled.

Alessandro waved dramatically toward a nearby rack. “The garments for Harry are there—adjustment pile. I need you to help him try them on. And be gentle, he bruises like a peach.”

“I do not,” Harry said mildly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Go on, go on,” Alessandro pushed, already turning on his heel like he had six more crises to attend to. “Take him to the blue room. Away from the nosy eyes and gossiping mouths.”

Y/N hesitated, then moved toward the rack, pulling out the few pieces with Harry’s name labeled in chalk on the tags. When she turned, he was already beside her.

“Blue room?” he asked, voice low and warm.

She nodded, trying to play it cool. “This way.”

They walked together down the hallway—past racks of sequins and silk, assistants threading needles, interns whispering in corners. She could feel the glances, but no one dared say anything with Harry next to her.

She opened the door to the blue room—a fitting space draped in soft navy velvet, with tall antique mirrors, gold hooks on the walls, and a plush settee in the corner.

It was quiet.

Safe.

She set the clothes on a nearby stool, then turned to him, still blushing but trying not to show it.

“I can step out if you want to change.”

He shook his head gently. “Only if you want to.”

Y/N hesitated—long enough for the air to grow heavier between them.

Then she crossed to the wall and busied herself with unzipping one of the garment bags.

Behind her, she heard the soft rustle of fabric, the click of buttons.

Neither of them said a word.

But the silence wasn’t awkward.

It was full.

Of everything they hadn’t said the night before.

Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the garment bag even after the zipper was all the way down.

She could hear him behind her—slow, unhurried movements as he peeled off his shirt. Fabric slipping from skin. The rustle of trousers. A belt unlooped.

She swallowed and cleared her throat lightly. “We’ll start with the navy wool suit. Alessandro’s trying to decide between that and the double-breasted.”

“Which one’s yours?” Harry asked, voice low and casual, but something in it tugged.

She turned to face him and felt her breath hitch for half a second.

He stood in just his boxers, toned and freckled and barefoot on the velvet carpet. His tattoos looked darker in this light, ink swimming across golden skin. He didn’t smirk, didn’t tease—just looked at her like he wanted to know the answer.

She held out the navy jacket first.

“That one,” she said. “I adjusted the silhouette last week. Softer at the waist. You’re broader than the model who fit it originally.”

Harry stepped forward, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up slightly.

She lifted the jacket, letting him slide his arms into it. He moved slowly, watching her face the whole time. When she reached to smooth the fabric at his shoulders, her fingers brushed the warm curve of his neck.

He didn’t flinch.

Neither did she.

Her hands trailed down to the lapels, tugging gently, then smoothing them flat. She could feel his breath now. Could smell whatever cologne clung faintly to his skin—clean and woodsy and a little sinful.

“Too tight?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he said. “Feels good.”

She glanced up and met his eyes—greener than they had any right to be, soft at the edges.

He didn’t look away.

“Pants next,” she said, trying to gather the tension and place it somewhere more manageable—like professionalism. But her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the waistband of the trousers and held them out.

He stepped closer to take them, and when his fingers brushed hers, it was brief.

But not forgettable.

He turned, and stepped into the trousers. She waited, staring down at her hands as if they might do something stupid on their own.

When he turned back, the pants hung too low at the hips.

“Come here,” she murmured, reaching for a box of pins on the small table nearby. “I need to mark the waist.”

He stepped toward her again, and she knelt slightly, fingers brushing the waistband, folding the fabric gently before pinning it.

His breath caught when her hand brushed the sharp line of his hip.

She looked up at him—so close now her breath stirred the fabric of his shirt.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He looked down at her, lips parted.

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “Not really.”

The pin hovered in her fingers, forgotten.

Her fingers still rested lightly against the waistband of his trousers, pin tucked into the fabric but forgotten.

Harry was looking down at her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her face. Not in a performative way. Not like a man used to getting what he wanted. More like someone who had stumbled into something unexpected—and didn’t want to move too fast and ruin it.

Y/N swallowed.

She was still crouched just enough to be level with his chest, close enough to feel his body heat roll off of him in quiet waves.

“Not really?” she repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry let out a slow breath through his nose.

“I thought I’d forget you when I left that dinner.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his.

He wasn’t smiling.

“I told myself it was just the wine. The lighting. The moment,” he said, voice soft and steady. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not for one second.”

The pin slipped from her hand, landing soundlessly on the carpet between them.

Her hand remained against the fold of his trousers, unmoving.

“I don’t even know your name,” he added, like it physically pained him to admit it.

She blinked slowly. Her voice, when it came, was quiet—delicate around the edges.

“Y/N.”

His lips parted. He said it once, just to feel it. Like a secret he’d been dying to be told.

“Y/N,” he repeated. “You said goodnight like you didn’t want me to follow.”

“I didn’t,” she murmured. “Because I didn’t think you would.”

Silence bloomed again, thick and real.

She stood slowly, rising to meet him.

Now they were eye to eye.

The pinned waistband rested between them. Her hands hovered, unsure whether to stay or fall away. But he didn’t move. Didn’t break eye contact.

“You still leaving for Tuscany?” she asked quietly.

He studied her for a long moment. Then, with a small breath:

“Not yet.”

And somehow, that said everything.

Before either of them could say another word—before Harry could reach for her, or she could step back and figure out what to do with the storm suddenly curling in her chest—the door burst open.

“Dio mio, do I have to do everything myself—”

Alessandro froze in the doorway, a bolt of silk slung dramatically over one arm, an iPad in the other, sunglasses still perched on top of his head like a crown.

He blinked at the scene in front of him.

Y/N standing a breath away from Harry, her hands still near his waist. Harry staring at her like she held every answer to questions he hadn’t known he was asking.

Alessandro’s gaze flicked to the fallen pin on the floor. To the tension thick enough to cut with his shears.

“Oh,” he said simply. “Oh.”

Harry stepped back a little, but not far. His fingers grazed the hem of the jacket, suddenly all too aware of how exposed he still was.

Y/N blinked fast, like she’d been yanked out of a dream.

Alessandro didn’t even pretend to hide his smirk. “Should I… come back later? Or bring champagne and officiate?”

Y/N flushed. “I was just pinning the trousers.”

“Of course you were,” he said with a dramatic wink. “And I’m just here for the invisible lining specifications.”

Harry cleared his throat. “You needed something?”

“Oh yes!” Alessandro snapped back into motion, waving the iPad like it held state secrets. “The double-breasted. We need to compare it with the navy one. And also—press people are asking if you’re still in Milan and where you are. I told them you were having a moment of spiritual clarity and couldn’t be disturbed.

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly.

“Anytime, tesoro mio.”

Y/N was already bending to retrieve the pin, carefully smoothing her features back into neutral.

But something had shifted.

Harry saw it in the way her hands moved more slowly now. The way she didn’t quite meet his eyes.

And he hated that they’d been interrupted.

Alessandro handed over the second jacket, still talking, oblivious to the invisible thread still pulling tight between the two of them.

But Harry knew.

So did she.

The rest of the fitting passed in a blur.

Y/N did her job—focused, efficient, eyes trained on fabric, not him. But Harry felt her in every moment. In the way her hand brushed his sleeve when she adjusted the shoulder seam. In the way she quietly handed him a glass of water while Alessandro chattered away about lapels and runways. In the way she never quite looked at him the same after that moment in the blue room.

By mid-afternoon, the atelier had thinned out. Models gone. Garments tagged and bagged. Lights dimmer now, casting warm amber shadows across the floor.

Harry stood near the back hallway, one hand in his pocket, the other idly playing with a pin she’d left behind on a table.

He heard her before he saw her.

Her steps were softer now. Slower. Less hurried.

She turned the corner and froze, a tote slung over one shoulder, her phone in hand.

“You’re still here?” she asked softly.

He looked up. “Didn’t feel like leaving.”

A beat passed.

Then: “You always this persistent?”

Harry tilted his head, lips curling. “Only when I’m interested.”

She leaned against the wall across from him, the distance between them quiet and humming. The hum of two people who hadn’t let go of the moment, even after the door had slammed open and the world had resumed spinning.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” she said.

“I wasn’t expecting you last night.”

Her eyes flicked up. Met his. Steadier this time.

He took a small step closer.

“I meant what I said,” he told her. “About not being able to forget you.”

She exhaled slowly, as if trying to keep her chest from shaking. “Why me?”

Harry looked at her like it was obvious.

“Because you didn’t try to be anything you’re not. Not last night. Not today. And because I liked the way you looked at me.”

She blinked.

“That sketch,” he said quietly.

Her throat bobbed.

“I didn’t think you’d ever see it.”

“I don’t think I was supposed to,” he added. “But I’m glad I did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was weighty.

Soft.

Important.

Y/N shifted slightly, hugging her tote tighter to her shoulder.

“I’m not good at this,” she admitted. “Whatever this is.”

Harry smiled. “Neither am I.”

Another beat.

Then she said, voice quieter than before, “I get off at eight.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

She shrugged. “There’s a café two blocks down. No cameras. Good pastries. Better wine.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll be there.”

She turned to go, then paused, glancing back once over her shoulder.

“Wear something less poetic.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. “No promises.”

And just like the night before, she walked away.

But this time, he had her name.

And a place to find her.

The café sat on a quiet side street tucked behind an ivy-covered wall, the kind of place that didn’t bother with signs or menus in English. Inside, it smelled like espresso, warm bread, and rain-soaked stone.

Harry got there first.

He chose a table near the window—half-shadowed, half-lit by the amber glow of a single pendant lamp above. The table was small. Intimate. Like the whole place was built to protect secrets.

He wore a dark sweater this time. Hair tousled, sleeves pushed up, rings clinking gently as he turned his wine glass between his fingers. He hadn’t touched the drink.

He was waiting.

At 8:04, the door creaked open.

Y/N stepped in, cheeks flushed from the chill outside, her coat slightly damp at the shoulders. She looked like she didn’t belong in the curated dimness of Milan’s fashion scene. She looked like something real walking into a dream.

He stood as she approached.

“You came,” he said quietly.

“You waited,” she replied, slipping her coat off and draping it on the back of the chair. “That’s rare.”

He sat. Watched her settle in. She wore a soft grey sweater, sleeves too long, the neckline a little stretched. Bare-faced, tired, beautiful.

“I wanted to see you like this,” he said, almost without meaning to. “When you’re not working. Not running.”

She tilted her head. “And what do you see?”

Harry considered her for a long moment. “Someone I want to keep learning.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was warm.

Grounded.

The waitress brought them wine, then disappeared like she knew better than to linger.

They talked. About nothing and everything. Favorite songs. Childhood cities. Her first sketch that got noticed. His first panic attack on tour. The kind of conversation that skipped small talk entirely and went straight to the parts people usually hide.

By the time they finished the second glass, the café had emptied out.

A bell chimed quietly as someone left. It was just them now, shadows long, voices low.

Y/N looked down at her glass, fingers tracing the rim. “This feels like a mistake,” she whispered.

Harry’s brows pulled together. “Why?”

“Because it feels too easy. And nothing good in my life has ever felt easy.”

He reached across the table, hand brushing hers. Slowly. Not to hold it. Just to be near.

“Maybe this time it’s not a trick,” he said. “Maybe it’s just… timing.”

She looked up at him.

And for once, she didn’t look away.

Her hand turned, gently curling around his. The touch was light, like a promise not to rush.

He stood then, still holding her gaze, and walked around to her side of the table.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, but not nervous.

He reached for her—slowly, giving her time.

And when she didn’t stop him, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Careful. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath her ear. Her lips parted slightly in surprise, then eased into his like they’d been waiting all day. All week.

It didn’t last long.

But it said everything.

When they pulled apart, her eyes were still closed for a beat longer than his.

“You’re not going to disappear after this, are you?” she whispered.

He smiled, thumb still against her skin.

“No,” he said. “Not this time.”

The has changed everything.

But there was no dramatic shift. No confession. No morning spent tangled in bedsheets. Just a quiet parting in front of the café, a lingering glance, a smile that meant this isn’t over, and the warmth of his hand briefly resting on her back as he helped her into her coat.

But after that, something softened between them.

It began with messages.

Late at night. Between fittings and castings. Between hotel rooms and crowded trams.

H: Still thinking about that lemon tart you didn’t let me try.

Y/N: You could’ve asked instead of staring at it like a Victorian orphan.

H: Are you always this mean to people you kiss?

Y/N: Only the ones who show up in perfect lighting and ruin my concentration.

Then, it became time.

Shared quietly. Without labels. Without plans.

She stopped being surprised when he’d show up at the atelier with espresso and fresh cornetti.

He stopped being surprised when she showed up at his flat on a Wednesday night, hair in a bun, sketchbook under her arm, and no explanation at all.

It became a rhythm.

Late dinners in his temporary apartment—sometimes pasta, sometimes toast, sometimes nothing but red wine and stolen bites of chocolate. They’d sit on the floor with the windows open, music low, the city humming below.

She’d draw while he played her records. He’d watch her from the couch, fascinated by the way her mouth twisted when she concentrated, how her hands smudged graphite across her cheek.

He never kissed her again—not yet.

But he wanted to.

Every time she leaned close to show him a sketch.

Every time she laughed and touched his knee like it was nothing.

Every time she fell asleep beside him on the sofa, curled in his hoodie, toes tucked under his thigh, trusting him completely.

One night, they sat together on the balcony, shoulders brushing, a blanket wrapped loosely around both of them.

It had started to rain—just lightly, Milan glistening below.

She was quiet. Tired. Her cheek resting on his shoulder. The kind of tired that wasn’t just physical, but lived-in. The kind that came from carrying too much alone.

Harry didn’t speak.

He just let her be there.

With him.

He reached for her hand eventually, sliding his fingers between hers without looking down.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she said, voice low and unguarded, “I’m not used to this.”

He turned his head, brushing his lips to her hair.

“To what?”

“This,” she murmured. “The quiet. The kindness. The… waiting.”

Harry gave her hand the gentlest squeeze.

“I’m not in a rush,” he said.

And he meant it.

Because the truth was, he wanted to wait.

He wanted to stay in this moment.

Where nothing had to be said.

Where the kiss still lingered, unspoken.

Where the closeness meant more than anything they could’ve done in a single night.

It started with a headline.

She didn’t even see it first—Martina did, shoving her phone in Y/N’s face as they passed bolts of silk in the atelier’s back corridor.

“Who’s Milan’s Mystery Muse? Harry Styles Spotted Leaving Hidden Flat Night After Night.”

Below it: grainy, zoomed-in photos. A hand that could be hers. A blur of her coat. The outline of Harry’s profile as he stepped into the building’s side entrance.

“Is this you?” Martina asked, wide-eyed.

Y/N stared, heart dropping into her stomach.

Alessandro appeared minutes later, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, iPad under one arm, espresso in hand. His usual chaotic energy was buzzing on a different frequency now—less flamboyant, more serious.

“I told you to be careful,” he said quietly, pulling her aside.

“I was.”

“Not careful enough. They always find you, cara. Especially when the man you’re seeing has a face made for Vogue covers and half the world on alert.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a second.

“It’s just gossip,” she said. “There’s nothing confirmed.”

“Exactly. Which means they’ll dig deeper.”

Alessandro sighed and placed his espresso down with too much force. “I can’t have drama around the show right now. I love him, but if this leaks further—if they start naming names—you will be the one who pays for it. Not him.”

She knew he was right.

That night, she didn’t go to Harry’s apartment.

She didn’t answer his text.

Or the one after that.

H: Did I do something wrong?

H: Is this about the article? I can make it go away.

H: Say something, yeah?

It wasn’t until the following evening that she finally gave in.

The city was loud outside. Her thoughts louder.

She stood outside his apartment building for ten full minutes before buzzing up.

When the door finally opened, he stood there barefoot, in joggers and a threadbare hoodie, curls pushed back from his face, tired written across his eyes.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

Not until she stepped inside and the door clicked shut behind her.

Then: “They found us.”

Harry didn’t look surprised. “They always do.”

“I didn’t sign up for that.”

“I know.”

“I work here,” she said. “In this world. I can’t afford to be the reason people talk. Not like that.”

Harry crossed the room slowly, voice steady but quiet. “You think I don’t know that?”

She blinked, stunned by the flicker of pain in his expression.

“I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length for exactly this reason,” he said. “But then you showed up. And for the first time in a long time… I didn’t want to.”

Silence bloomed between them again.

Then—softly:

“I missed you last night.”

Her chest ached.

“I was scared,” she admitted. “I still am.”

He stepped closer.

“Then stay scared with me,” he said gently. “I’ll wait. I’ll protect it. I won’t let them turn it into something it’s not.”

She looked up at him.

“I told you that I don’t know how to do this.”

Harry gave a soft smile. “We don’t have to know. We just have to keep choosing it.”

Another long beat.

Then, finally, her hand reached for his.

Their fingers laced together. Solid. Sure.

He didn’t kiss her right away — just looked at her like he was taking a photograph. Something in his expression said, This is the moment I’ll think about when you’re not here.

She stepped into his space, heart slamming behind her ribs.

“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said again — softer this time. Like a plea. “Stay. Just tonight.”

The walk to the couch felt like crossing into something irreversible. Neither rushed. Neither said a word.

When he finally kissed her, it wasn’t hesitant. It was slow but certain. Like he knew now — that she wanted him just as much, that she wasn’t going to disappear again.

Their mouths moved like they’d been made for this rhythm. Her hands curled behind his neck, into his hair, pulling him closer. His lips dragged down the column of her throat, over the hinge of her jaw.

He groaned softly against her skin. “You always smell this good?”

She smiled against his cheek. “Maybe you’re just obsessed.”

“God help me,” he muttered, mouth pressed to her collarbone. “I think I am.”

They sank into the couch in a tangle of limbs, heat blooming between them like a spark finally catching. His hands moved with reverence, palms splaying wide over her sides, thumbs brushing beneath the curve of her breasts as if asking, Can I?

She nodded. “Touch me, Harry.”

His breath caught.

He pushed her shirt up, dragging it over her head in one slow motion. She wore no bra. His lips parted like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“Jesus Christ.”

She flushed — and not from modesty. From the way he was looking at her. Like her body was art, something rare and unspeakably precious.

“Come here,” she whispered, pulling him in again.

His mouth latched to her breast with a groan, hand cupping the other as his tongue circled her nipple slowly, then suckled. She gasped, arching into his touch, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Fuck,” she whimpered. “That feels…”

“Yeah?” he asked, voice thick, mouth hot against her skin. “Tell me.”

She grabbed his hand, slid it down the slope of her belly, into the waistband of her jeans.

“Want your fingers.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes flicking to hers as he popped the button open. “Yeah darlin’? Been thinking about this?”

“All week,” she admitted, breathless.

He kissed her hard, groaning into her mouth as he pushed her jeans down, tugging her panties along with them. She kicked them off without grace.

His hand found her again — bare now, soft and slick and so warm.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed. “You’re soaked.”

She jerked in his grip when he dragged two fingers through her folds, teasing over her clit.

“Harry—”

“Shhh,” he soothed, kissing her jaw. “Let me make you feel good. I want to know what you sound like when you fall apart.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as his fingers slid inside — not rushed, just deep. Full. Familiar, but so much better like this.

He fucked her slow with his hand, thumb circling her clit in just the right way, his mouth on her neck, whispering praise between every shaky breath.

“You’re perfect like this, d’you know that? So fucking beautiful, so tight around me…”

Her thighs trembled. “I’m close—oh my god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come for me, baby. Come on, let me see it.”

She shattered in his arms with a gasp, legs clenching, hips bucking into his hand.

He didn’t pull away until she whimpered from the sensitivity.

Then he kissed her — deep, open-mouthed, like he was starving.

“Need to be inside you,” he rasped, forehead pressed to hers. “Need it so bad.”

She reached down, palm brushing over his bulge through his boxers. “Then take me.”

He didn’t move for a moment — just looked at her like she’d handed him something he didn’t deserve.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Harry. I want all of you.”

That broke him.

“Condom?” she asked softly, already reaching for her bag.

“I’ve got it,” he murmured, voice tight, kissing her jaw as he stood long enough to grab a condom from his wallet, yanking his boxers down, cock flushed and leaking, so hard it looked painful, “Been carrying one around like an idiot. Just in case.”

She laughed—quiet and breathless.

She sat up, breath catching as she watched him roll it on. “Jesus.”

Harry laughed, low and wrecked. “Don’t look at me like that or this’ll be over too fast.”

He climbed back over her, kissing her lips, her jaw, her throat.

“Tell me how you like it,” he whispered against her skin. “Tell me what feels good.”

“I don’t care,” she gasped. “Just—want to feel you.”

He nudged at her entrance, pushed in slow — so fucking slow — and cursed as her body stretched around him, taking him inch by inch.

“You’re—fuck—you feel unreal.”

Her hands fumbled for him, needing to hold something as he bottomed out.

They stilled together, both breathing hard.

Then he began to move.

Rhythmic, smooth, dragging every ounce of pleasure out of every stroke. She whimpered beneath him, gripping his arms, nails biting into his skin.

“Faster,” she whispered.

“You sure?”

“Yes, god—Harry—please—”

He obeyed.

The sound of skin on skin filled the room, along with her moans, his low grunts, the sharp edge of his voice every time he said her name like a prayer.

She pulled him down, kissing him desperately. “Don’t stop. I’m—shit—I’m gonna—”

He reached between them, thumb circling her clit again, and she came with a sob, clenched around him so tight he had to stop moving for a second.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

“Got you,” he groaned, thrusting once, twice more before spilling into the condom, his body going rigid above her, head bowed, hair falling into his face.

When he collapsed beside her, he pulled her into his arms immediately, breath still uneven.

They stayed that way for minutes — nothing but skin and breath and warmth.

She pressed a kiss to his chest.

“I think we just broke the world,” she whispered.

Harry laughed, hoarse and happy. “I’d do it again.”

Y/N woke slowly.

Not to an alarm. Not to the click of her heels across the tiled hallway of the atelier. Not to the dull ache behind her eyes from lack of sleep or too much wine.

But to warmth.

Soft sheets. The smell of Harry’s skin. Her cheek pressed to his chest, his arm curled securely around her back, his fingers tangled in her hair like he hadn’t let go all night.

She blinked, heart heavy with something she didn’t know how to name yet.

Harry was still asleep — or half-asleep, at least. His breathing was slow, steady. His lips slightly parted. The corners of his mouth curled just enough that she could tell his dreams weren’t bad.

She watched him for a long moment.

The room was bright now. Morning light poured in through the slatted blinds, casting soft golden stripes across the hardwood floor. His coat was still draped over the armchair where she’d thrown it. One of her earrings glinted on the floor. Her clothes were in a heap by the couch.

They’d never made it to the bed.

She smiled to herself.

Carefully, she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to get a better look at him. The angles of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the tiny pink scratch near his shoulder she hadn’t remembered leaving.

Her heart ached. In the good way.

Harry stirred, lashes fluttering open.

She expected something groggy, a mumble, a sleepy blink. But his eyes found hers almost instantly.

Like he’d already known she was there.

“Morning,” he rasped.

She bit back a smile. “Morning.”

He stretched beneath her, groaning softly. “What time is it?”

She shrugged. “Does it matter?”

His hand slid down to the small of her back, palm spreading wide, warm and grounding.

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

They stared at each other.

There was no rush between them. No awkward tension. Just a stretch of silence that felt more like understanding than anything else.

Y/N broke first. “Last night…”

Harry raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think I can go back to pretending it didn’t mean something.”

He studied her carefully. “You thought I could?”

“I don’t know,” she said, honestly. “You’re used to this. The press, the afterparties, the camera flashes. I’m just… me.”

“You think that matters?”

She looked down. “It should.”

Harry reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’ve had a lot of people in my life,” he said quietly. “People who wanted things from me. People who stayed as long as the lights were bright.”

She looked up again.

“But you?” His thumb brushed her cheek. “You were gonna disappear. Not because you didn’t care, but because you did. Because you were scared. And you still showed up anyway.”

“I didn’t want to,” she said, voice cracking. “I wanted to go back to my apartment. I wanted to shut the world out.”

“But you didn’t.”

She shook her head. “No.”

Harry exhaled, like something in his chest had been unknotted.

“Then stay,” he said.

She stilled. “What?”

“I don’t mean just today.” His eyes locked with hers. “I mean… stay. With me.”

Her heart was thudding now — a steady, pounding rhythm in her ribs.

“I’ll go back to Tuscany,” he said. “We can lie low if we have to. Or stay in Milan, if you want that. You don’t have to give anything up that you’re not ready to. But if you are… if you’re willing…”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. Their noses brushed. Their breaths synced.

“I’d leave it all behind,” she whispered. “I’d walk away from everything if it meant I could wake up like this everyday.”

Harry closed his eyes, pulling her closer.

“Then let’s not waste another fucking second.”

She laughed — breathless and warm and a little teary.

“Okay.”

And just like that, without fanfare or declarations, something between them clicked into permanence.

Not a fairytale.

But a beginning.

Let me know what you think

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fixated-cookies · 2 months ago

Text

Royal Claim

A visiting dignitary makes the mistake of flirting with you—innocently, unknowingly kissing your hand at the royal banquet. What he doesn’t know is that you belong to the King. And while Dark Cacao Cookie doesn’t correct him in public… he makes sure you understand who you belong to in private. Slowly. Deeply. Again and again.

Pairing: Dark Cacao Cookie x Reader Word Count: ~2,000 Rating: Explicit / 18+ Warnings: Jealousy, possessiveness, rough sex, size kink, marking, mild overstimulation, deep penetration, filthy talk, breeding kink vibes, aftercare

COMMISSION

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

The citadel was alive with warmth tonight, bathed in the golden light of chandeliers and the soft hum of diplomacy. The long hall echoed with the chatter of dignitaries, the clink of goblets, and the polite laughter of guests exchanging pleasantries. It wasn’t often that so many foreign officials were allowed within the Dark Cacao Kingdom’s stone walls, but tonight was an exception.

You stood off to the side, holding a small crystal dish, uncertain of what to do with it now that your conversation partner had wandered off. The rich food, the heavy silks, the strict posture—everything felt just a little overwhelming, though you did your best to smile and stay attentive.

That’s when he approached.

A tall Cookie dressed in crimson formal robes, edged with sun-gold embroidery. A diplomat, if you recalled correctly. He introduced himself with a soft accent and a graceful nod, his words laced with honeyed charm.

“I must confess,” he said, voice low but clear, “I’ve seen many wonders in this land... but none quite like you.”

Your cheeks heated. You laughed softly, politely, unsure if he was joking or simply being kind. “You’re too kind, sir.”

He didn’t retreat. If anything, he stepped closer. “Kindness has nothing to do with it. I simply speak the truth.” His hand reached gently for yours, lifting it with practiced ease. “May I?”

You blinked, confused, but nodded. And before you could really process what was happening, he brought your hand to his lips and pressed the faintest kiss to your knuckles.

It wasn’t lecherous. It was gentle. Formal. Old-fashioned.

Still... your heart skipped.

“I hope you’re being treated well here,” he continued, eyes meeting yours with calm intensity. “If not, I’d be more than honored to keep you company during your stay.”

You didn’t quite know how to answer. A shaky smile formed on your lips.

Up on the throne dais, Dark Cacao Cookie sat silently.

He had not moved in over an hour. Stoic. Quiet. Watching.

Only a few attendants glanced up to notice the slow, deliberate tightening of his gloved fingers around the throne’s armrest. The faint clench of his jaw. The way his gaze never left you.

He said nothing. He made no scene.

But the temperature in the hall felt colder all at once.

The feast began to wind down as the night deepened. Goblets were drained, dignitaries bowed their thanks, and polished shoes clicked against marble floors as guests slowly filtered out.

You were helping a servant clear a tray when a familiar voice interrupted, low and clipped.

“The King has requested your presence in his chambers.”

You blinked. “Me?”

The servant gave a stiff nod.

Your heart fluttered, confused but not alarmed. It wasn’t uncommon for Dark Cacao to call for you, though it usually involved gentle conversation or shared silence over tea. Still, something about the way the servant said it felt... strange.

By the time you reached the king’s private chambers, the vast corridor outside had gone still. The guards posted at the entrance bowed silently and stepped aside, allowing you in.

The doors shut behind you with a soft but final thud.

You stepped in cautiously. The chamber was dim—lit only by the soft flicker of a hearth and a few candles that lined the stone walls. The fire crackled, casting gold along the dark floor.

He was already there.

Standing with his back to you, half in shadow, his great cloak draped over one shoulder. The armor was gone—only the long dark robes remained, unfastened slightly at the throat. One gauntlet still adorned his hand, the other had been set aside on a table nearby.

He didn’t speak right away.

You hesitated in the doorway. “You called for me, your majesty?”

His head turned slightly. Just slightly. Enough to confirm that yes, he had heard you.

And then, after a long pause—

“You let him touch you.”

The words struck like stone. Flat. Emotionless. But his voice was too calm.

You blinked, taken aback. “I—? Oh... the diplomat?” You gave a small nervous laugh. “He was just being polite. I didn’t think anything of it.”

Dark Cacao turned fully now.

His gaze landed on you, and your breath caught. It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t even angry.

It was still.

Composed.

But the silence behind his eyes made your stomach twist.

“You didn’t stop him.”

You fidgeted, suddenly unsure of your footing. “I didn’t realize I needed to. I’m sorry—was I not supposed to...?”

He crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, heavy boots echoing softly on the stone. You found yourself stepping back without meaning to. The air between you began to thrum with something tense. Something unsaid.

“You are mine,” he said, voice still low. “Not a prize for others to sample. Not a flower for stray hands to pluck.”

You stared at him, unsure what to say. You weren’t used to hearing him like this.

“I didn’t know it would upset you.”

His eyes narrowed faintly. “That is the only reason you are still standing upright.”

Another step. Closer. The flicker of the fire made his broad silhouette swell, casting a long shadow behind him.

He reached out—not harshly, but firmly—and took your chin between his gloved fingers.

“You didn’t know,” he repeated, voice like stone ground to dust. “Then allow me to show you.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the grip on your jaw shifted, tilting your head up, his thumb brushing the edge of your bottom lip.

“You will not forget again.”

He released you.

And then began to slowly remove the remaining glove.

He didn’t give you time to speak.

His glove hit the ground with a soft thud, and in the next breath, your back collided with the nearest stone column. A gasp caught in your throat—half shock, half something else entirely—as his hand braced beside your head, shadowing your body with his own.

His voice remained composed. But his touch was not.

Large, calloused fingers slid along your side, down your waist, before curling tight around your hip. You whimpered at the sudden pressure, your head tilting up to meet his burning gaze.

“I will not raise my voice,” he murmured, nose brushing against your temple. “I will not shame you with rage or accusations.”

His knee pressed between your legs, parting them, guiding you back until your spine kissed cold stone.

“But you will remember.”

You could feel the hardness in his pants already, pressed against your thigh—solid, demanding, heavy. And when he leaned in to kiss you, it wasn’t a kiss at all. It was a claim. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging it slightly, his tongue slipping past the protest you hadn’t even tried to make.

You moaned against his mouth.

“You let him hold your hand.” His hand slid beneath your shirt—warm, rough, firm. “Tell me, did you imagine what else he might’ve touched?”

“No—no, I didn’t—”

He chuckled, low and humorless.

“I don’t believe you.”

In one swift motion, he lifted you—effortless, strong—and carried you across the room to his massive bed. You didn’t have time to react before he was laying you down, hands already tugging your clothing open, baring your body to the cold air.

Then he paused.

Just looked at you.

His jaw was clenched. His pupils wide. His breathing heavy.

“I am not a man given to possession,” he said, fingers trailing down your chest, over your stomach, until he reached your thighs. “But you are the one thing I will not allow to be touched by another."

The mattress dipped beneath your back, firm and cold from the castle stone. You hadn’t even caught your breath from the walk over when he was already on top of you—kneeling between your legs, shadowed by the firelight. But he wasn’t rushing.

No, that would be too kind.

His hands came to rest on your sides, thumbs pressing lightly against the hem of your shirt. You expected him to tear it. You wouldn’t have blamed him.

Instead, he took his time.

“You wore this tonight,” he said quietly, his tone unreadable, “when you knew others would be looking.”

You blinked. “I—”

His fingers moved, finding the first button. Undoing it. Then the second.

“You chose something soft. Innocent. Easy to touch.” He tugged the fabric open just enough to expose your collarbones. His eyes followed the line of your skin like a predator eyeing something precious—and already his gloved hand slid upward to trace your throat.

“Did you want to be touched?” he asked, not coldly. Just... genuinely. Cruelly. “Did you want someone else’s fingers where mine should be?”

Your breath hitched.

Another button undone.

He opened your shirt fully, baring your chest to the flickering firelight.

The chill of the room made you shiver, but his hands were so warm. One trailed along your ribs, the other pressed flat over your sternum. The weight of it made you squirm.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

You shook your head.

“You are.”

His hand slipped downward, stopping at the waistband of your pants. He didn’t move immediately, just rested there, watching you with dark, half-lidded eyes.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. “If you don’t want this, say it now.”

You didn’t.

Of course you didn’t.

His fingers hooked under the waistband and began to pull. Slow. Deliberate. The scrape of your trousers against your thighs echoed louder than anything else in the room. When they caught around your knees, he helped you kick them off—tossing them aside like they were in the way.

You were half-naked now. Exposed. Breathing hard.

He didn’t touch you right away.

Instead, he leaned down. Kissed the hollow of your throat. Then lower.

And lower.

By the time his mouth wrapped around your nipple, warm and wet and sucking slow, your back arched off the bed. His teeth scraped just enough to make you whimper. His tongue soothed it. Then he did it again on the other side—lazily, like he had all the time in the world to devour you inch by inch.

One of his hands slid between your thighs. Just rested there. Heavy. Teasing.

You squirmed.

He looked up at you, expression unreadable. “Are you getting worked up over this? Or is it still the thought of that man touching you?”

You whimpered his name.

He growled softly—and finally, his fingers pressed against your heat. Rubbing through the fabric, slow and steady. So little friction. So much pressure.

“Dripping already,” he murmured. “And I haven’t even put my mouth on you yet.”

He leaned in closer. His breath ghosted over your inner thigh. His fingers curled under your last piece of clothing.

“Shall I make you beg for it?” he whispered. “Or will you give yourself to me without shame this time?”

Then he kissed the inside of your leg.

Then higher.

And higher still.

Just before his tongue finally met your skin, he glanced up at you again.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he said, low and deep. “And remember this the next time another dares touch what’s mine.”

His mouth was so close you could feel his breath against the thin, damp fabric still clinging to you.

But he didn’t touch you.

Not quite.

His hands settled at your hips, fingers slow as they slid beneath the last barrier between you and him. You squirmed, instinctively trying to close your thighs—but he gave you a single sharp glance, and your body fell still.

He exhaled slowly, reverently.

"These," he said, voice low and scathing, “should’ve never been worn for another’s eyes.”

He pulled.

The fabric stretched at first, clinging pitifully to your skin before giving way. You whimpered at the sensation—the drag of it, the air kissing your wetness, the humiliation of how soaked through they were. He didn’t mock it. But he did pause.

He held the ruined undergarment in his hand, looking down at it like it was some offensive thing—something tainted. His jaw flexed.

Then he tossed them aside.

Now you were bare. Laid out. Thighs parted. Your chest rose and fell in soft, shuddering breaths, and still he said nothing.

His eyes took you in.

Every inch.

Every twitch.

And then he undid his own trousers.

You heard the belt first—the sharp clink of the buckle unfastening. Then the whisper of fabric. Your eyes widened. He didn’t tease. He didn’t ask if you were ready.

He just moved closer, pressing the broad, flushed head of his cock against your entrance.

Thick.

Hot.

Bare.

The moment the tip pushed in, your breath caught like you’d been struck.

"You’ll remember this," he said softly, his voice a low thunder beneath your skin. "The next time someone thinks to kiss your hand. You'll remember how I ruined you for anyone else."

He began to press deeper.

Your body stretched, pulsing tight around him. You whimpered, tried to breathe, tried to relax—but he was so big and so slow, dragging every inch of himself in like a punishment.

His head dipped. His breath was rough against your ear.

“Take it,” he growled, voice shaking, “Take all of me.”

He bottomed out with a sharp, final thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

And then he paused.

Buried inside.

Your body trembling, clutching around him like it didn’t know how to hold something so wide, so deep, so utterly unrelenting.

You gasped, a sound high and helpless, and his hand reached up—tangling in your hair, pulling your face toward him.

“Now scream for me,” he said, “and let them all know you belong to their king.”

He was trembling. You could feel it—every inch of him was shaking above you, inside you. His arms, braced at either side of your head, trembled with the effort it took to hold back, to stay composed. But his body was losing the war.

He pulled out slowly, all the way to the tip—your walls clenching down, unwilling to let him go—and slammed back in with a sound so wrecked you barely recognized it came from him.

“Ah—fuh—hhnnh—”

His breath stuttered out of him in bursts. His pace turned uneven. Sloppy. And you were so wet now—each thrust echoed with obscene slick sounds that should’ve humiliated you, but instead made your toes curl.

You moaned, helpless. He gasped. His hips stuttered.

You were unraveling him.

And he knew it.

“C-can’t…” he rasped, barely audible. “Too—tight—fuh—”

His jaw dropped open. No words came, just a sharp cry as he drove himself deep, deeper, his weight grinding you down into the mattress.

His hands were everywhere—clutching your thighs, your waist, your chest. Desperate to hold you. Anchor you. Claim you. His mouth found your shoulder and bit down—not enough to hurt, just to mark—his groan muffled against your skin.

He was panting now. Each breath dragged from somewhere deep, primal. His forehead pressed to yours, sticky with sweat.

You whispered his name.

His hips bucked.

A noise punched out of him, cracked and shuddering.

“Can’t—can’t stop—”

His thrusts turned punishing. Slamming. The sound of his body against yours filled the chamber, thick and fast, wet and hard. The bed rocked beneath you. Your body shook.

Every time you clenched around him, he sobbed—yes, sobbed—tiny gasping sounds that spilled from his mouth like he’d never known pleasure this raw.

You felt his release before he said a word.

The sudden snap of his hips.

The way his cock twitched, buried impossibly deep inside you.

Then—

A sound.

Low.

Shattered.

“Ah—ah—hnnnh—” he cried out, loud and broken and beautiful. His whole body convulsed as he came, his hands digging into your hips, his chest shaking from the force of it.

Warmth spread through you, thick and pulsing, as he poured himself into you. Not once. Not twice.

But over and over.

His moans didn’t stop. He didn’t go silent. He kept groaning—like he couldn’t hold it in, like every second inside you was too much and not enough. His head dropped to your shoulder, teeth biting into the flesh there as he spilled himself inside you like it was his right.

You whispered his name again.

He whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

His arms wrapped around you, crushingly tight, keeping you in place as his cock throbbed one final time.

Then silence.

No—almost.

Because he was still panting. Still shaking. Still moving his hips in slow, tiny thrusts like he wasn’t done.

Like he couldn’t be done.

Your legs trembled. Your fingers dug into his back. You could feel him twitching, hard and warm inside you, even after the climax had passed.

And then—

He spoke.

Barely.

“Don’t… move,” he whispered. “Need to—need to stay in you… just a little longer.”

His voice cracked on the words. Like it hurt to say them. Like he was ashamed.

He kissed your cheek, lips hot and soft.

“Still mine. Still full of me.”

You nodded weakly.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He groaned again.

And didn’t pull out.

ahhh I didn't realize just how many people LOVE dark cacao cookie hehehe

#dark cacao cookie #dark cacao cookie smut #dark cacao cookie x reader #crk smut #smut

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