⠀ ִ ࣪ ׅ 𐔌ㅤ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 —
ʚɞ ⸝⸝ MAX HAS been trying to bag a date with you since 10th grade, but as you're a bit of a Kat Stratford—independent, outcasted, and opinionated—he is always met with rejection. You're sick of his persistence and loyalty to you, so when you two are paired for a project, you determine to attempt to set him up with Lacy Schuler, a snarky mean girl who's been dogging after you for "stealing" Max, in hopes of finally getting him off your back...
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ warnings : swearing ,, suggestive ending ,, long but not a slowburn and worth itttttt ,, inspired by wicked king
— 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓, considering your circumstances, that you had an unalienable right to dislike Max.
What that right was, you yourself did not know. There was nothing he had done exactly to entice such longstanding aversion towards him in you, except, perhaps, endlessly pursuing you, but, other than that, Max had infamous notoriety for his humor, his generosity, the ease of simple friendship which was endowed in him...
Still. How favorable he posed himself mattered little to you. You disliked him all the same.
At first, when you'd transferred to your present school in 10th grade and he first saw you, the rather direct way he had of coming up to you and promptly begging to take you on a date was nothing but amusing.
It's not that you had any particular aversion towards dating, but that, as a celebrated "witch" or "radical brute",—the title was interchangeable, and quite accepted by yourself—dating was, to you, a hindrance—for lack of a better word. It was never something you considered yourself fit for, and, try as you might, you could not picture yourself as a girlfriend. You were yourself a genre of Kat Stratford: independent, obstinate, loud, and opinionated.
Without knowing your name that 10th grade day, and breaking from his friends in the hallway, he immediately found you behind your locker and, struck with a look of pure adoration, the first ever words he said to you were as such: "have you ever seen Amadeus?"
Your rejection to watch it with him a few tries later did not deter him. In fact, his countenance was seized in what seemed to be a higher level of eagerness and passion when you did, and he whispered: "that's okay, Mozart was a brute anyways. What about Peeping Tom?"
It would be fine if it ended there. But Max didn't stop. It was as if being the schools' most outspoken, stubborn, and non-conformational pupil wasn't enough.
For him, it was absolutely crucial to get just one chance with you. He was never a half-loving type of guy. When he loved, he loved fully, and persistently. And he loved you. Nothing, to him, was comparable to such a feat as simply being liked by you. He was determined for it to be so, and tried practically every month.
And he was so charming, not at all constant in the creepy, pathetic way, that if you yourself were not so impervious in your desire to stay single, you would've folded. He was easy, and gentle, and kind, and loyal, and ready to worship the ground you walked on...
But... you just didn't know why he tried with you. Never before had a guy exactly thrown himself at your feet, "witch" as you were, so you just attributed it to his fancy.
Each new attempt he made—which was practically biweekly—you slowly hated him more, until you full-on despised him by 12th grade. He was incredibly open about it, not at all ashamed. The entire school knew that Max was irrevocably in love with Y/N "heinous bitch" L/N. And your said reputation of misandry and crudeness was further confirmed by your unwavering aversion for him, made unmistakably clear.
But, while you didn't like Max, it was easy for others to faun over him.
Being somewhat of an outcast naturally meant having innermost counterparts, who took great pleasure in gossiping cruelly about you. You did not mind them—being indifferent to the opinions of others—but any chance you got to get them off your back was sought after.
For 2 years you had been dogged about by their "headmistress", Lacy Schuler, for being Max's "muse". Not like it was within your scope of doing, but she liked having a target to go after, especially if that target was you. And liking Max as she did meant having a perfect motive for clowning you.
So, your hatred for Max was intensified. If he could just leave you alone, you surmised that everything unpleasant in your life would be easily eradicated. But he was determined to make your life hell.
"It won't be that bad," hummed your friend as she picked limply at her bread. "It's just one day."
Sitting across from her at the lunch table, with your head in your hands and your stomach in cruel knots, you couldn't think of anything worse than having to work with Max on your AP seminar project.
From the exact moment Ms. Maddens paired your names together in her boisterous tenor tone, you slumped into your chair and kept yourself from yelling in frustration. Alone with Max. You knew he would use this to his advantage.
Then, with his charming, bashful smiles and red cheeks, his immediacy in finding you right after class and asking where you wanted to meet... you knew that foolish, burning look in his eyes when they found you so well that you were practically friends with it.
"One day..." you clamped down on your cheek and rubbed your eyes. "One day..."
"Hey, look at it like this," Ivy perked, tossing the crust into her mouth and speaking loudly around it. She readjusted in her seat and swallowed, "you know Lacy Schuler..."
"Do I now?" you groaned and shook your head. Being alone with Max in the cafe down the street meant much more attention from her, even if it was solely for academic purposes.
"And how pathetically she likes Max," Ivy giggled into her hand. "Well, is not this the perfect opportunity to get him off your back?"
You retracted your head from your hands and looked dumbly over at her, posing an inquisitive brow. "I've tried that."
"Well, can't you just... stress how pretty Lacy is... and how perfect they'd be together? Try setting them up. I'm sure it'll toot his horn," Ivy mocked jokingly, "I mean, Lacy's not known for her brain is she?"
At first, you wanted to refute, but you could find no wrong in her statement. Lacy was incredibly pretty... and if Max knew that he was sought after by the school's prettiest girl, perhaps he would abandon "Y/N the witch" once and for all and terminate all your worldly problems. You pursed your lips and toyed with your necklaces.
"Give him advice on how to shoot his shot... Tell him what to do... he'll totally flip!"
"You think so?" you chirped with a small smile, and narrowed your eyes.
"Oh, are you kidding? You underestimate the prowess of teenage boys."
— 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 been expecting?
That Max would walk through the cafe's doors and immediately try it with you, in his charming, love-struck way? That he would relish in the thought that this was almost like a date, sitting across from one another, sipping on the smoothies he bought without your knowing?
Well, yes. But, to be fair, that was absolutely something he would do. And though Max's affections to you were still made blatant and unchanged, and there posed no difference in that eager way he had of speaking to you, he had not tried you once.
Not one quip about the circumstances, not one eager attempt to beg of you more time...
You were ready to reiterate what you did every time: "lay off, Max. You know my answer."
And you were ready to hear a whispered: "any answer from you is fine with me," through a twitching grin.
But he didn't. It was very strange.
Well, he still bought you the smoothies, and you frequently caught yourself in his line of vision whenever you glanced up from the project... but, other than that, nothing to recommend him to you. He acted exactly the same, with his charm, his jokes, his flush, but at least kept himself from that.
It really unnerved you. For two years now you heard the same thing from him every time you saw him, but now? It made you uncharacteristically nervous.
You spent all that time together attempting to build the courage to throw Lacy Schuler in his face, when, before, you were ready to shove it down his throat at first sighting. Now, you just couldn't bring yourself to propose it.
And what was this? Were you seriously nervous in front of Max?
Not at first you weren't. Max, in his loose sweats and red hoodie, walked in balancing chocolate and strawberry smoothies alongside his binder that he'd acquired from the front counter and, with that familiar, cheeky grin about his lips, placed a glass before you, sliding in the booth across from you and cocking his head.
When he smiled at you like that, and spoke with you as he did, it was easy to scowl at him and curl your lip. But, as time wiled and the likelihood of his proposal making an appearance lessened significantly, you found the familiar sense of exasperation you felt around him easing into queasiness, until you had passed 3 hours at closing in the cafe without ever having acquired the courage to mention Lacy.
You offered to finish the last of the project on your own—as you were the only one of the two who'd brought your bag—and began presently storing it away in your duffel, rushing to get out before the waitress started pushing you out the door.
"Let me walk you to your car," Max proposed, reclining with his thighs against the table and his hands gripping the ledge. He lowered an eager stare at you, the kind you knew so well, and a smile danced fleetingly on his mouth.
Licking your parched lips and slinging your bag over your shoulder, you shoved your hands in the pockets of your jacket and nodded him forward. "Just this once."
This was entirely unexpected, both by him, and you. Max sprung to his feet with an astounded look, blatantly shocked that you were joining his side and taking him up on his offer rather than telling him to fuck off. Quickly, though, and without fail, his mouth slashed into a grin and you smiled stupidly to yourself as you walked up beside him, rolling your eyes.
"Don't get any ideas, Max," intercepted you as you cut in front of him.
The waitress was closing up and cleaning off the empty tables. You thanked her and, retracting your hand from your pocket, nudged the door open and stepped through under the litany of chimes announcing your departure. A brisk, northern wind found your hand quickly in your pocket again and the lower half of your face buried in the high-neck of your jacket.
"Where's your car?" you called to him over your shoulder, hearing the door swing shut behind him as you stepped down and the thud of his own feet succeeding yours.
"Wherever yours is," he quipped, and finally managed to join your side instead of trailing. You tossed him a penetrating glance as you strolled down the street to the walkway across the road.
"I hope you mean across the street, then," you hummed.
"Across the street it is," his eyes twinkled under the flickering light of the overhead streetlamp. There were no cars on the road, and you crossed over easily. Between talking with him and looking both ways, you were trying to manage Lucy Schuler's name. When, in the parking lot, you'd weaved through the various cars and he pointed out his not far from yours, he hummed a small, "told you."
You veered left with him and he walked you all the way to your door, which you presently opened and stored your bag on the seat. You half-expected him to, as you were emptying your things, turn around and leave the night on that note, but he reclined on the car opposite you and looked at the back of your head.
"So, what changed?" he hummed, and cocked his head. "I think I like this a lot more than the whole cussing out act."
"Goodness, I'll make a note not to let you walk me to my car anymore," you blew out with a roll of your eyes, and, straightening and pushing a strand of your hair out of your eyes, turned to him. Seems he still had more to say.
"Nothing, then," he breathed, and a chuckle occupied his lips. He glanced down, then up again, and found your eyes.
"Nothing." You pressed your hands beneath your hips and rested against the rear side of your car, pursing your lips at him. Well, there it was.
After a bout of silence occupied in looking at one another, and on this very familiar, pleasant note, Max pushed himself off the other vehicle and prepared to walk away to his car. His shoes scuffed the pavement and your eyes followed him, as if expecting to see him stop and stay. All at once, your brain scrambled and you remembered Lacy Schuler. You couldn't afford nervousness now.
"Max," you breathed, and found your heart leap when he turned back eagerly and looked at you through low-set, softened brows and hazel irises. Shuffling your feet, your mouth stuttered around your next words and your nails incised crescent moons in the skin of your palms. "I have... do you... know... Lacy Schuler?"
Max's head tilted left and he gazed at you through inquisitive eyes. "Lacy Schuler? I... do."
A shiver found your covered skin, and lingered where Max's eyes brushed over. "She's... pretty, no?" you breathed, and grounded your feet.
Max's lips tightened and he looked at you as if he couldn't give two shits about some Lacy Schuler or her looks. "Tolerably," he hummed dismissively.
"Well, she likes you. A lot. And, therefore, hates me," you began. "I just thought... wouldn't it be so nice if you made a move on her? I mean... it's the nice thing to do, to give it a chance. And I can help you, if you need it..."
All at once, Max took a step back, and his head retreated back as if deeply offended, his eyes darkening wholly. He couldn't believe his ears for what they'd just heard. He took a moment, eyes slacking and finding the ground, but tried again and succeeded in finding it. "Give it a chance?"
Quickly, and almost defensively, you jumped to explain yourself, "it's just that... so many people... and... she's liked you for so long... it would do you both good."
"Really? As if I've ever cared for a girl who likes me," he forced a laugh, attempting to sound cool but coming off indignant.
That line made you cringe over yourself, and you sucked in a breath through your teeth, your cheek twitching. "You could learn to care," you demanded, growing sour and cold and all your nerves sliding away. "Would that be so hard?"
Max blew out an unbelieving breath and shook his head. There was disbelief in every crevice of his countenance, "you know better than anyone that you can't just learn to care," he choked. "Not even after two years."
Okay, now this was just personal. He was completely twisting your words. It was your turn to be wounded. You took a step back and your jaw went slack, staring at him in shock. You wanted to say something, to defend yourself, but you came up entirely short. Was not he right? The shock of the reality of his words rendered you unable to speak.
Silence reigned if but for a moment. He caught you, and he knew it. But he was not boastful, or proud. He subdued, thought, and, came up pondering. Max's eyes, which were full of prior disdain, were now occupied in undulating steadiness.
With unnerving, astounding coolness and hidden fury and frustration, he stepped forth until you had to crane your neck to meet his eye, so that you could see clearly the shadows thrown over his face by his nose and lips and smell, better than ever before, his signature cologne where it was sprayed onto his skin, which glittered in the light. At so close a distance, your inhibitions were tested and you were faced with an unsettling, sick desire, that settled sourly in your limbs and glued you to the spot.
What was this? Why was your stomach jumping? Why was your skin burning, and your lips tingling whenever his gaze drooped limply to them? For all his seeming steadiness, there was so much burning, aching passion flaming off the threshold of Max's skin, that it leached into you and found you burning as well.
"Alright, Y/N," he breathed, his mouth leaning in, "you think I should do it—you think I should try it out with this Lacy, because... I ought to? Because she likes me? Because I'd be good at it? Very well, then. If you want to be the mediator, be the mediator. Tell me what to do..."
Stuttering, your brain desperately searching to seize a word in response, your jaw remained slack on potential phrases and you looked with widened eyes at his passion-ridden, solemn face. Your whole body was alert. Sick. Alive and embarrassing in its fervor of confusing intensity. What was it that you were all of a sudden feeling for Max?
"Do you think," Max continued hoarsely, and his head cocked intimidatingly, "if I looked at her like this? And whispered slowly... do you think she'd very much like that? Would it work on her?"
Choking, desperate, and pathetic, you stuttered hopelessly, "probably. Maybe you don't need my help after all."
"Oh, but I do," he intercepted, his voice controlled passion and his fingers quickly finding the belt loops of your jeans and pulling you against his hips. His burning, pleading eyes on yours was a dangerous thing. "You were so good to offer. Why not help me?"
God, what had you gotten yourself into? You were now pressed against him, and his lips were just hovering over yours, and you could feel your body slackening limply into his arms and your eyes drooping to a languid, lust-ridden close. He knew he had you.
"Tell me," he leaned in and captured the lobe of your ear between his teeth, biting, then kissing, then smoothing over your skin with small intervals of licks so that you were mewling into open air and attempting to control the pathetic bout of passion seeping from your skin. "Do you think she would like it if I touched her like this?"
"M— maybe," you breathed into his hair, but your voice was an enemy that cruelly betrayed you, and he smiled into the skin of your neck with all the indignation and fury he felt for your having offered such a preposterous thing. This was not a show of his love for you anymore. This was revenge.
"Would this be enough to capture her?" His hands were now traveling under your jacket, your skin prickling against his cold fingertips that easily found and teased the hem of your bra. "Should I do it like this? Would it work?" And you were pressed against the car, and a soft sigh was passing your parted lips the lower down his lips traversed your neck. Passion bounded off of your breathing bodies.
"Tell me, Y/N, use your words," and his lips were leaving your hot, teeming skin, and you hated it, and you were burning and hot and full of pent-up desires that you needed to take out on him immediately. And he was looking at you and you could cry out of all the frustration and love and pain and passion you were feeling for him. His lips could not resist yours, and they were angrily brushing the skin of yours and desperately begging to clash. "Would your Lacy like this enough?"
"Yes," your lips whispered on command, right into his mouth. Not because you'd meant to say it, or because you even wanted to... in fact, your mind was screaming no, no, no. But everything about this was so yes. And you were looking at yourself from a 3rd person perspective, completely out of control of your faculties and at Max's entire command, and you needed to feel him, needed to have his tongue on yours. "Yes," you breathed into his mouth, and it was the word that pulled the trigger.
At once, Max was kissing you, and his tongue was hungrily delving into the cavity of your mouth and he was angrily grunting into your teeth. It was nothing slow, romantic, or pure, and it was all things passionate, ardent, and ravenous. His fingers clawed at the meat of your waist and rode furiously underneath your layers of clothing, and you swore you could feel the energy teeming off his skin and see dusts of stars beneath your lids. He was letting himself go entirely, abdicating for this kiss, whining into your mouth and pulling your hips wildly against his over and over as if he needed you impossibly closer. "Fuck—" he bit.
Your fingers delved into his shaggy brown hair and twisted into the roots. There was heat everywhere. You felt it pooling in your body and you felt it reacting to Max's touched. When he brushed too close to the peak of your breast beneath your bra you could not suppress a moan from entering his mouth and when his knee pushed between your legs your head spun cruelly and demanded more.
"Max," you mewled as his kisses grew sloppier, more irregular, and more erratic, so that you could barely breathe but to moan his name as his tongue found your neck.
"Say it again," Max groaned hoarsely, his voice a desperate, pleading, raspy whine, "what you always say."
You could hardly think. Your senses were full of him him him. There was no room for thought otherwise. Say it. Say it. Say it. God, this was too much. And your lips were bruising and swollen and your body was riding his.
"I hate you," you whined between the intervals he took apart from you to draw his breath, because it was all you knew in that moment, "I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you. It's all I think about. I hate you so much it consumes me." The more you said it the more you realized how untrue it was.
At this litany of false hatred, Max groaned uncontrollably. He made a low sound and immediately his hand fell to your jeans, grazing over the hem of the denim and wedging 2 fingers inside, teasing you. His mouth worked erratically on yours, leaving sloppy bites and kisses and licks all over the expanse of your neck and jaw and his tongue bruising the sweet spots in your delicate skin until you were crying out into the vacant night.
"Tell me, Y/N, do you think Lacy would like if I kissed her like this?"
"Max— Max I need—" you were sinking into him, and you knew what you wanted, and your hand fell to his and was about to demand it, when suddenly, with a quick gesticulation, his hand adjusted to press your lower abdomen to the cold metal of the car and forcefully separate his lips from yours.
In a singular movement, the passionate dream was over and he was off of you. One moment you were caught up and stuck with him in an endless bout of arduous lust, and the next he was pushing off of you.
"We'd better hope so, hmm?" he rasped furiously into your ear, his voice weaved through with pure lust and pure acrimony.
And in a mess of your own passion, heat, and desire, he left your needs unsatiated, left you pressed against your car. And with the dregs of passion and lust in his eyes and step, Max turned on his heel and abandoned you.
- why do i always end up finishing these at the crack of dawn bruh i need to fix my sleep schedule. Anyways hope yall like it yaya hehe❤️ i hate this wowowowowo
