#joaquinphoenix

6 years ago today Arthur Fleck was being introduced to the world. Getting to know Arthur felt like finding my soulmate here on earth, whom I had been with spiritually for as long as my soul existed in this universe. Him being considered a fictional character in this timeline I am currently making this post in didn't hold me back from dedicating my life to him and living with him every single day ever since. I dedicate my time to loving him the way he derves to be loved,even tho I feel like it's never enough. No words could ever express what Arthur has given to me over the years. He is the light of my soul. I've witnessed people trying to break him and worse. I witnessed people trying to deny his true self and make him a person he never was. I've witnessed people letting him go and coming back. Or leaving..... I stayed within him and he stayed within me ever since.

Size 90 x 70 cm

The Joker played by Joaquin Phoenix.

Size 90 x 70 cm

The Joker played by Joaquin Phoenix.

Thank you for requesting! I just realized I actually never posted any fic related to Willie (except from multi HC) even though I love him! So here is the first and not the last I will post! enjoy <3

A = Aftercare Willie can’t leave you like that, he’s too wrapped up in you. After the heat dies down, he kisses your skin like he’s saying a prayer. Cleans you up with hands that tremble just slightly, presses his forehead to yours like he’s grounding himself. “You okay, baby?” he’ll ask, voice low, rough, but gentle. “Still with me?”

B = Body part (favorite) Your eyes. He stares like he’s trying to read your soul, like the world doesn’t exist unless you’re looking back at him. He’ll cup your face in both hands, kiss you slow, worshipful, even if five minutes earlier he was fucking you like a man starved. “Don’t look away from me.” he murmurs. “Not when I need you like this.”

C = Cum It’s not just release for him, it’s connection. He likes to finish with your bodies pressed tight, cheeks flush, eyes locked if you’ll let him. The way he groans your name into your skin feels like a confession. If he pulls out, he’ll run his fingers through the mess, paint it over your skin like a mark.

D = Dirty Talk His voice is thick with emotion when he talks. It’s not just filth, it’s reverent. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he growls, lips brushing your ear. “You make me feel like I can’t breathe without you.” When he gets really gone, he’ll murmur things you weren’t meant to hear. “Mine. Always mine.”

E = Experience Willie’s been with people, sure. But you, he wants to know what makes you gasp, what makes you cry out, what makes you melt under his touch. He’s learning you like a man learns a song by heart, slow, deliberate, devoted.

F = Favorite Position Anything that keeps you close. He loves when you ride him, your hands in his hair, his arms around your waist, keeping you locked in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Or missionary, but deep and slow, his forehead pressed to yours, whispering your name like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

G = Goofy (How much he jokes during sex) Willie isn’t the playful type in bed. There’s a weight to every moment, a heat that doesn’t leave room for giggles. But once in a blue moon, if you say something that makes him laugh, he’ll smirk, real low, eyes hooded and say something like, “You’re lucky I love you.” The kind of smile that makes your spine tingle, like he’d kill for you just as easily as he’d kiss you.

H = Hair (Grooming habits) He keeps it natural. A little rough around the edges, just like him. Chest, trail, a little underarm sweat when he’s worked up. He doesn’t care to clean up unless you ask. Then he’ll do it, but slow, like a ritual. Like it’s something intimate he’s letting you control. And if you run your fingers through the hair on his chest while he’s inside you? He’ll break, just a little.

I = Intimacy (How romantic he is during sex) It’s overwhelming. Intensity you can’t run from. He looks at you like he’s carving your soul into memory, like no one’s ever made him feel this way. His hands shake sometimes, not from fear, but from how hard he’s trying not to lose himself in you. It’s worship, yes, but desperate; dark. Like if he doesn’t give you everything, he’ll die from the weight of what he feels.

J = Jack off He tries not to. Not when you’re not around. It makes him angry restless. If he has to, it’s always thinking of you, always rough and punishing, biting his knuckles to keep quiet. He’d rather wait and take it out on you properly, pressed against the wall, fingers digging into your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him from snapping.

K = Kink Possession. Marking. Biting. He needs people to know you’re his, even if they don’t see it directly. You’ll catch him pulling you into his lap at a party, hand under your shirt, fingers pressing just hard enough on your side to leave the outline of his grip. Later, behind closed doors, he’ll fuck you slow and deep while staring into your eyes, murmuring, “You’re mine.”

One night, after a fight with someone who looked at you too long, he pulls you into the backseat of his car. Windows fogged, your back against the leather, and he takes his time, makes you moan his name loud enough that if anyone passed by, they’d know. He finishes by painting his cum across your stomach with his fingers, whispering, “They don’t get to look at what’s mine.”

And the next day? A bruise on your hip. His name in your ear like a vow.

L = Location Private, dark places. He doesn’t need fancy. A locked door. A parked car. A back room where the only light is what spills in from under the door. Somewhere he can let go, where the world shrinks down to just your breath and his heartbeat thundering in your ears. But his bed? That’s sacred. That’s where he loves you.

M = Motivation (What turns him on, gets him going) It’s not just your body, it’s the way you look at him. The way you trust him when you shouldn’t. When you reach for him even when he’s sharp, silent, shaking. That’s what unravels him. He wants to be the one who ruins you for anyone else and still be the one you run to when it all burns down. That need? It eats him alive.

N = No (Something he won’t do, turn-offs) Humiliation. Not toward you. Never. He might growl, grip too tight, get a little rough but degrade you? Call you names? Make you feel small? He’d rather die. If he crosses a line and sees your eyes darken with discomfort, he stops. Immediately. “Tell me no.” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse. “If you say stop, baby, I swear I’ll listen.”

O = Oral (Giving and receiving) Willie’s dangerous down there, not just because of his tongue, but because of the way he does it. Like it’s penance. Like you’re something holy and he’s starving. He grips your thighs and buries his face like a man possessed. Receiving? He growls if you tease, grabs the back of your neck and groans out your name. He likes watching you take control, but only because it’s you.

P = Pace He doesn’t do things halfway. It’s either slow and punishing, holding himself back with trembling arms, or it’s fast, rough, desperate, like he’s chasing something that’s slipping through his fingers. When he’s angry, he fucks to forget. When he’s in love? He fucks to remember. Every thrust, every kiss, seared into memory.

Q = Quickie Sometimes he needs you. Now. Doesn’t care where. Bathroom wall, alley behind the club, the car with the windows fogged up. But even his quickies are never careless. He’ll pin you in place, kiss you hard, fuck you like it’s the last time. And then he’ll pull you close, breath still heavy, whispering, “We’re not done. Not even close.”

R = Risk Willie lives for danger, but when it comes to you, he’s calculated. He won’t risk your safety but he will push the limits of privacy. He’ll slide his hand under your clothes at the bar, fingers brushing where they shouldn’t, whispering filth in your ear while the music masks your breathless sounds.

Once, at a party, someone flirted too long with you. Willie didn’t yell. He just took your hand, led you into the hallway, pressed you against the wall, and kissed you like he was staking a claim. His knee between your legs, his hand around your throat, lips brushing your ear as he growled, “Let ‘em look. Just so they know who owns you.”

S = Stamina He can go for hours if he’s lost in you. And if he’s been away, physically or emotionally it’s like a storm breaking. He doesn’t stop until your voice is hoarse, until your body shakes against him, until he’s sure you feel how much he needs you. And even then, he’ll pull you into his chest, lips brushing your neck, whispering “Again.”

T = Toys Willie isn’t one for toys unless they serve something, unless it’s about control, teasing, or making you lose your mind. He prefers his hands, his mouth, his body. But if you bring it into the bedroom, he’ll learn. And once he knows what makes your breath hitch or your back arch? He’ll use it until you're wrecked and begging.

U = Unfair (How much he teases) He can tease, sure but only when he’s craving the reaction. If he pins your wrists above your head and grinds against you slow, it’s not because he’s playing a game, it’s because he’s addicted to the need in your voice. But too much denial? Nah. He needs you undone too bad to drag it out too long.

V = Volume (How vocal he is) Willie’s not silent, never was. He growls your name, moans low, breathes curses like confessions. When he’s deep in it, the things he says get raw “You feel so fuckin’ good!” “You’re mine...” “I need you” and if you whisper his name back just right, you’ll hear him break. Just for you.

W = Wild card (A random headcanon) Sometimes, after sex, he just stares. Not in a creepy way, more like he’s stunned you’re still there. Still choosing him. He’ll run his fingers down your arm, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. It terrifies him, how deep he’s in. But it also makes him fight harder to protect it.

X = X-Ray (What’s under the clothes) He’s built like a man who’s fought to survive, lean, hard muscle, scars he won’t talk about unless you touch them soft enough. He’s thick, uncut, and knows how to use it, slow or rough, but always with intention. His whole body reads like danger, but with you, it hums with hunger and heat.

Y = Yearning (How much he wants you when you’re not around) It’s not just want, it’s ache. Willie gets restless when you’re not near. Can’t sleep, can’t focus. He’ll replay your last kiss in his head, hand buried in his sheets, whispering your name like a ghost. When you come back? He won’t say much. Just pull you in and make love to you like he’s putting himself back together.

Z = ZZZ (How he sleeps after) He holds you. Always. Doesn’t matter if it’s hot, doesn’t matter if he’s pissed. You’re in his arms, or against his chest, or tangled up so tight he could stop breathing and not even care. And if you shift in your sleep, he stirs, lips brushing your shoulder as if checking you’re still there. Still his.

The Joker played by Joaquin Phoenix.

Size 200 x 130 cm

Here it is! Be warned at least one extra chapter his planned for this, I love writing steamy chaotic Max!

 ( Public play, teasing, filthy and affectionate, Friends-with-benefits, flirty coworkers) 

You never meant to become friends with Max California. So, becoming more intimate had been the surprise of your life. 

It had started like every other fucked-up flirtation with Max: half a dare, half a bad idea, soaked in neon and noise. 

Tonight, you were out together, some sleazy underground club where the lights are dim and the bass is thick enough to make your ribs ache. Max had his arm slung lazily around your shoulders like it’s just another Tuesday. But his fingers? They’re twitching with intent. 

“You look too good tonight,” he said in your ear, voice slick with amusement. “Might have to do something about it.” 

You gave him a look, a warning, yet the neon lights hid the blush of your cheeks “Max.” 

“What?” He grinned, wicked. “I’m behaving. For now.” 

But the way he was looking at you said: not for long. 

By the time, you were tucked into a booth in the back, barely lit, mostly forgotten by the swaying bodies on the dance floor, he was already too close. Your thighs brushed under the table. His arm settled on the back of the seat. And then his hand dropped...to your leg. 

His palm was warm, rings cold against your skin. He squeezed your inner thigh just once, testing. “Tell me to stop.” he murmured, low enough so only you could hear. 

You didn’t and simply looked at him in the eyes, defying. 

He laughed, soft and pleased. “That’s what I thought.” 

You ended up talking to someone, a friend of Max, some girl with glitter on her cheeks and a drink in each hand. And yet he was still touching you. Sliding his fingers up higher. The tablecloth covered most of it, but you felt exposed, and you felt like you were going to combust, your cheeks burning, your heart racing in your chest. 

His hand slipped between your legs, his purpose clear. You nearly choked on your drink, your toes curling in anticipation. 

Max leaned in, pretending to listen to the conversation. His fingers parted your legs wider. One dips beneath your waistband. He found you warm, already slick, ready, and you felt his breath hitch against your neck. 

“Fuck...” he whispered. “You’re soaked for me already. That’s so dirty, baby.” 

Your pulse was crazy, as if your heart would burst out of your chest. Max was grinning like a devil, one finger circling you slow, so slow. He was teasing, deliberately drawing it out. You shifted in your seat, your breath catching, and he only pressed in deeper. 

“You gotta keep your face pretty,” he muttered. “Don’t want them knowing what I’m doing, do we?” 

“Fuck..”You wanted to kill him, really. But you’re too far gone. 

Every time the girl glanced your way, Max would still. All smiles, friendly, easy, like he’s not got two fingers buried inside you beneath the table. Like he’s not curling them just right. 

Your thighs twitched, you bite the inside of your cheek. Max watched you with dark amusement, fucking you with his hand slow and dirty, the pad of his thumb rubbing soft little circles that make you want to scream. 

“Still being good?” he asked, feigning innocence. “You better not come until I say.” he cocked an eyebrow, his eyes drinking every detail, every tiny expressions your face showed. Your hands gripped the edge of the seat, you were barely holding on, so close to orgasm it was hard to conceal. 

“God, you’re so fucking hot like this” he breathed in your ear. “Dripping all over my fingers and trying not to make a sound. You know what that does to me?” He pressed his hard length into your hip, grinding once for emphasis. Your hips bucked instinctively, but he slapped your thigh with his free hand. A warning. 

“Ah-ah,” he grinned. “Keep still.” 

You nodded, desperate. Thankfully it was just the two of you now, you were panting, your legs squeezing around his fingers. 

“Use your words, baby.” 

“Please...” you whimpered, your eyes, meeting his, begging him to allow you final release. 

Max leaned in, pressing his mouth to your ear. “My good little slut.” 

You come undone right there, quietly, body trembling, vision going hazy. Max kept working you through it, murmuring filth in your ear, telling you how pretty you looked when you broke for him. 

You let yourself fall against Max as he withdrew his hand, kissing your temple. He licked his fingers clean, slow and obscene, never breaking eye contact. 

“Jesus, Max.” you exhaled in extasy. 

He just grined, licking his lips. “Wanna go somewhere even riskier?” 

But you pressed a hand against his chest before he could name a ridiculous place “Go sing first.” 

He blinked, as if remembering, his smirk faltering, just slightly. “What?” 

“You came here to perform, Max.” you murmured, voice low and breathless but steady. “Don’t make them wait.” 

His grin returned, but softer now. Less wolfish. He brushed a knuckle along your jaw, slow. You were flushed, your legs still trembling under the table, and he looked at you like you just ruined him in the best way. 

“Gonna be hard to focus now” he said, “knowing you’re sitting out here all fucked-out and pretty.” he chuckled as you smiled back. Just a little and crossed your legs sensually.  

He huffed a laugh, then kissed you, just a real kiss this time. No tongue, no show. Just warmth and lips and a thumb on your cheek like he doesn’t want to let go. 

“I’ll be watching.” you promised. And that did something to him. His eyes darting away, then back, then down to your mouth. He stole you one more kiss, softer still, just a press, and then pulled back like it costed him. 

“Fine.” he murmured. “But after the set? You’re mine again.” He winked at you, standing, adjusting his belt, flicking his tongue over his teeth like he’s winding himself back into Max California. But there was a faint pink to his ears. When he took the stage, lit in cheap club lights and worn leather, he sang like he was singing just for you.  

You blushed, finding yourself thinking about how it all started... 

***A few months before*** 

The job was supposed to be temporary, just a few shifts at the adult store while your real life sorted itself out. Max was there on your first day, sprawled behind the counter like he owned the place, eyeliner smudged, boots up, flipping through a magazine you were pretty sure wasn’t just for articles. 

He glanced up at you.“Newbie,” he said.“Welcome to the kingdom of kinks. I’m your corrupt tour guide. You’re either gonna quit in a week or end up telling me your safe word. Let’s find out.” 

You blinked, wondering if you had ended with the worst coworker you could get, a pervert. 

“Relax.” he added, hopping off the counter. “I’m joking. Mostly. You got a name, or should I just call you ‘Intern Number Four’?” 

You gave him your name, eyeing him, that boy was one of the kind. Rather handsome and full of confidence. You thought either you wouldn’t be able to stand him, or he would become your best friend in the dark underworld. 

He nodded like he was already assigning you a permanent nickname. “Cool. You’re gonna want gloves for aisle three. The lube shelf leaks like a war crime.” 

He introduced you to the store like it was sacred ground. Every toy had a nickname. Every porn DVD had a rating system “Plot, acting, thrust realism. I grade hard but fair.” He gave you a rundown of fetishes with the precision of a professor and the glee of someone who really wanted you to laugh. 

But what stood out was how safe he made it feel. No judgment. No pressure. Just jokes, consent, and curiosity. 

Three weeks later, you were in the backroom together, laughing so hard you nearly dropped a box of vibrating nipple clamps. 

Max made everything chaotic. He talked constantly. He’d lean over your shoulder while you stocked shelves, whispering filthy commentary about the merchandise. He made bets about customers. He asked personal questions way too fast and shared way too much. 

And somehow… it worked. You started bringing your camera to work on slow nights, taking shots of neon signs, reflections in toy packaging, Max in ridiculous poses between aisles. He loved it. 

“Make me look like one of those tortured rockstar bitches,” he’d say, sprawling dramatically across the register. 

You clicked the shutter. “You are one.” 

He grinned. “Yeah, but now there’s proof.” 

One night, the manager left early, and Max put on a playlist he swore was ‘the filthiest soundtrack ever made.’ You were both halfway through restocking lube samples when he said, “Hey. You ever shoot people at parties?” 

You looked up. “Like photography?” 

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “There’s this libertine club. Chill place. Everyone’s cool. Sometimes there’s performances, sometimes it’s just vibes. You should come. Bring your camera. I think you’d like it.” 

Your brow rose. “And this has nothing to do with the fact you want me to see you half-naked in mood lighting?” 

He winked. “I said you’d like it. I already know I look great.” 

You pretended to consider. “Do I have to wear latex?” 

“Only if you want free drinks.” he grinned. 

And that’s how you ended up for the first time in a libertine club. And you did bring your camera. The club was nothing like you expected. Not sleazy nor loud. It was beautiful, in a twisted, intimate kind of way: crimson curtains, velvet booths. Shadows moving like smoke. Everything glows soft red and amber, moody, secretive, alive. Bodies sway to slow music, some clothed, some nearly naked, but no one looked twice. Everyone was in it And everyone looked like they belonged. 

You did not.Not yet. 

Max noticed immediately. He nudged you through the front bar, one hand on your lower back, just enough pressure to anchor you. 

“You good?” he murmured, close to your ear. You nodded, but your fingers are clenched to conceal the nervous trembling. He noticed that too. 

“Wanna bail?” 

“No.” you said quickly. “Just... new.” 

He grinned. “Yeah. I remember that feeling. First time I came here, I thought someone was gonna ask me to get naked and crawl on all fours.” 

“Did they?” you asked, the conversation distracting you positively. 

“Almost.” He smirks. “I said I only do that on Thursdays.” 

You laughed, tension breaking just a little. 

He led you to a booth tucked into one of the side rooms. Softer music here. Softer light. A low table with half-empty glasses and a silk rope coiled on one end like a centerpiece. 

As you sat, he lounged across from you like he owned the place, one boot on the cushion, elbow draped over the backrest, lazy and lethal in a tank top and chains. The leather jacket long gone. 

“This is the voyeur room,” he introduced with a sense of familiarity “You can watch. Or be watched. Or both.” 

Your eyebrows lifted. “Which do you prefer?” 

Max siped his drink, smiling charmingly “Depends on the mood. And the company.” at those words his gaze lingered on you. Leaving a bruning sensation over your skin. 

At some point, you start taking photos, slow, careful, respectful. Light bouncing off skin, silhouettes against sheer curtains, two women laughing in each other’s arms, someone tied with silk and smiling. 

You were in your zone. And Max watched you work like it was a private show. 

“Your face changes when you shoot,” he said when you returned to the booth. “You get all focused. Soft. Like you’re seeing something no one else can.” 

You shrugged, bashful. “Guess that’s the point.” 

He nods. “You’re good at it.” And he meant it. 

Later, after a few drinks, Max was dancing like he didn’t care who was watching, but his eyes kept finding you. In the crowd. In the dark. Through the lens. 

That night, both of you tipsy, surrounded by laughter, moans in the distance you sat next to each other, relaxed. You showed him a photo you took of him laughing in red light, head thrown back, eyeliner smudged, joy and danger all over his face. 

His thigh pressed against yours. He didn’t move away, enjoyig the proximity and you did too. He looked at the photos for a long time. Then he said, quiet: “Nobody ever gets me like that.” 

You didn’t answer, flattered, briefly avoiding his gaze. And as silence stretched, he spoke again “I won’t lie.” he murmured voice thick with mischief to change subject “I half-expected you to ditch me for someone in latex.” 

You grinned “Maybe next time.” 

“You’re saying there’s a next time?” 

You turned toward him, faces close, heat lingering between your skin.“I liked it more than I thought.” 

He licked his lips slowly. “Then I’ll keep bringing you. Think you’re the only person I trust to keep my ego in check.” 

You laughed, leaning into him. His shoulder bumping yours. And when your hand brushed his, just for a second, he didn't pull away. He just curled his pinky around yours, so subtly it might not even be real. But it was. 

It felt like something unspoken started right there. Something that would build, shift, simmer. 

***Back to present times*** 

It was a slow afternoon.  You were restocking shelves, pricing vibrators, trying to ignore Max who was leaning on the glass counter like he was starring in a porno about lazy clerks with great cheekbones. 

He tapped the packaging of a vibrating cock ring.“Hey,” he called. “This one’s got twelve settings. That’s six more than I can manage manually.” 

You glanced at him. “That’s generous. I would’ve guessed four.” 

He gasped. “You slander me in my own place of worship!” 

You grinned. “It’s mutual. You once said my ‘aura is like a bisexual funeral.’” 

He snorted. “Yeah, but I meant it with love.” 

You rolled your eyes, heading into the back to grab more inventory. Max followed. Of course he did 

He climbed onto a stool, chewing on a toothpick he got from who-knows-where, and watched you. You reached up to pull down a box from the top shelf. Your shirt lifting and showing skin. 

“Do that again.”  His voice went low. 

“Are we back to victorian era?” You shoot him a look. “You’re a menace.” 

He smirked. “And yet… here we are.” 

You stepped down. And before you could say anything else, he took one step forward, and kissed you. Soft, careful, almost surprised with himself, like he didn’t plan to do it until it was already happening. 

You froze. Then melted. Your hands slide into his hair. His arms came around your waist. The kiss turned deep, not rushed, not filthy, just real. Different from the kisses you shared before. The kind of kiss that says I’ve wanted to do this for a long time but didn’t know how to ask. 

When you pulled back, you were both a little breathless. Max stared at you. Eyes wide. Laughter dancing behind them. “Well fuck.” he said. “You’re gonna make me fall or some shit.” 

That night, you headed to his place. Max insisted you watch some bootleg punk-horror hybrid from the ‘80s called Suck My Chainsaw. You said you would leave right after. He shrugged and patted the couch, throwing a blanket over both of you like it was definitely not a trap. 

The movie was trash. Max quoted every line. Your head ended up on his shoulder somewhere around the second act. He rests his cheek against your hair like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

You didn’t leave, you both ended up half-asleep in the low flicker of the screen, curled together in a mess of limbs and denim. 

“Stay.” he murmured.“I mean... stay like overnight. Crash here. Spare toothbrush is in the skull mug.” 

You open one eye, grunting “Romantic.” 

“I contain multitudes.” 

You woke up in his bed sometime around 3 a.m. The blanket had fallen off. You were warm. Max was warmer, sprawled beside you, shirtless, breathing steady, one hand thrown loosely across your stomach. 

You don’t move. Not yet, you knew it was just a game. 

You watched his hand shifting, fingers flexing, trailinsg down, slowly. Uncertain. Like he was asleep… or pretending to be. 

You whispered “Max?” 

He didn’t answer. But his hand kept going. Across your hip, down the front of your underwear, testing. You suck in a breath. 

His voice rang low and wrecked in the dark: “Tell me to stop.” 

You didn’t. He groaned,  relieved, starving, and slid his hand down fully, cupping you through your underwear. “Fuck” he breathed. “Been thinking about this for weeks.” 

You turned towards him. He kissed you before you could answer,  deep, hot, needy. His hand worked you while his mouth devoursed you, soft gasps and filthy praise tangled between kisses. 

“I wanna taste you...” he whispered. “Let me? Please?” 

You nodded. He didn’t wait. He moved down the bed, dragging your clothes away like he’s done this in every dream. He took his time. Using his tongue like a weapon, slow and relentless , moaning against you, muttering how perfect you were 

When you finally came, it was with your hand in his hair and your name breaking from his mouth like it meant something. Somehting more. 

He crawled back up, pressing kisses to your chest, your neck, your jaw. 

“You’re mine.” he whispers, smiling. “Sex friends. No refunds. As I told you from the start.” 

.... 

You woke before he does. The sun was starting to filter through his crooked blinds, casting gold lines across the crumpled sheets. Max wason his stomach, one arm flung across your waist like he’s claiming you even in sleep. 

There’s was hickey on his shoulder, your doing.You smile, breathing slow. Then, you rolled onto your side and traced a finger across his spine.It made him shift. 

“Mmgh… again?” he mumbled into the pillow. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I might be tapped out.” 

You laughed softly. “Relax. I was letting you sleep.” 

He lifted his head just enough to peer at you. His hair’s a mess. Eyes half-lidded. And he smiled, soft, crooked and sleepy. 

“You stayed.” he stated happily. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Apparently the bed’s shit when I’m not in it.” 

He snorted. “Good. Rent’s paid in orgasms. You’re warned.” earning him a light kick under the covers. 

In that late morning, you found yourself in his kitchen in his oversized shirt, sipping coffee out of a chipped mug while he searched for pants and dramatically yells that someone stole his dignity. 

“Pretty sure you pawned it in ‘97.” you called back. 

He appeared a minute later, shirtless, tattoos and sleep-mussed hair and a pair of jeans slung low. He leaned on the counter, observing you with a rare intensity. Long enough that you lowered the mug. 

“What?” 

He shruggged. “Just thinking.” 

“Dangerous.” 

“No he says, and the smile fades a little. Becomes something quieter. “Just… this. Us. Last night. This morning...It didn’t feel weird. Not even for a second.” 

You nod. “It didn’t. Because...we are’better than best friends’. Way better perks.” You chuckled “And no refunds?” 

He grinned. “Hell no. You’re stuck with me now.” He leaned over you, kissing you; quick, soft, and so fucking easy. To think that earlier that week, you had found yourself in a club booth, his fingers between your legs, his voice in your ear, whispering: 

“Don’t make a sound.” now it felt like this was becoming more than friendship with benefits... 

***  

“Okay, hear me out.” 

You looked up from where you're pricing lube bottles. Max was holding a new product like it’s radioactive, a double-ended vibrator in glossy black plastic, shaped like something between a snake and a question mark. 

“If we don’t test this, are we really doing our jobs?” 

You raised a brow. “You wanna try it on yourself, or...?” 

He grinned. “Us. For science.” 

You scoffed. “We barely survived the vibrating saddle last month.” 

Max looked wistful. “RIP my tailbone. But my soul ascended.” 

You tossed a bottle cap at him. He catched it with his mouth like a show dog and bowed, making you laugh. It made you think how natural and happy whatever was between you two was. Lately you had found yourself thinking more and more about making it a true relationship, like official. You only waited for Max to express the same. 

Later, while restocking shelves, he leaned his chin on your shoulder from behind. 

“You know,” he said, voice low, “we could write off a few of these as ‘internal staff use.’ Technically.” 

You tilted your head. “You trying to expand our sex life?” 

He hummed to confirm “If capitalism’s gonna eat us alive, might as well come first.” 

You nudged him with your elbow, but he didn’t move. 

Instead, his hands slid around your waist, not groping, not teasing. Just holding. A rare stillness in Max California. 

“You good?” you murmured, blushing, wondering if it would lead to the serious conversation you had been waiting for. 

He nodded against your back. “Just... like this.” 

You covered his hand with yours. Letting the silence stretch. It was weird, you thought, how easily you went from coworkers to confidants to something that defies naming. There was nothing official. No labels. 

But the way he was holding you now? 

It said mine without a word. 

***the morning after*** 

The sun was barely up when you woke, but the room was already warm. One curtain was crooked, letting a beam of light fall across the bed. Dust floated in it like glitter. Somewhere, a car alarm chirped and died. 

You were tangled in Max’s sheets, legs intertwined, your back pressed to his chest. He was half-sprawled across you, arm heavy over your stomach, his breath soft at your neck. One ring dug lightly into your skin, a reminder he didn’t even take them off last night. 

You shifted making him groan. 

“Mmf… don’t move. You’re ruining the whole perfect body pillow thing we got going.” 

You laughed, your fingers playing with the rings on his hand “You’re drooling on me.” 

“Affectionately.” He nuzzled into your shoulder, still mostly asleep. “You’re lucky. Most people don’t get Max California in post-fuck cuddle mode. This is elite access, babe.” 

You hummed, playful. “Is this you pretending you’re not a good cuddler?” 

“Shut up.” he mumbles. “I’m dangerous and mysterious.” 

You turned over to face him. He was all bed hair and sleep-creased cheeks, one eye cracked open, watching you. 

“Good morning,” you said softly. 

He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes right away. There was something lingering there, something tender and unspoken. His hand drifted up to cup your cheek. 

“I liked last night.” he says, voice hushed. “Not just the… you know. Filthy stuff. The other stuff too.” 

Your throat tightened, not daring to hope for another confession. 

“I know,” you said. And you kissed him, gentle, long. Just warmth and lips and Max slowly pulling you on top of him with a sigh that said he was not ready to let you go yet. 

“I could get used to this,” he murmured into your mouth. 

You stilled at his words. He noticed, pulling back just a bit, eyes searching yours. 

“I mean… not too used to it,” he says quickly, backpedaling. “Not like... ‘brunch and joint bank accounts’ used to it.” 

You smile. “Relax, Max. It’s just morning. No one’s asking for a wedding ring. I just...could get used to it too.” 

His shoulders eased and he exhaled, caressing your back “Then, let’s see where it leads us...” 

You didn't reply and instead, you grinded down just a little, slow and deliberate, making his smirk return like a sunrise. 

“Oh no.” he whispered, hands finding your hips. “You’re dangerous in the morning.” 

You rolled your hips again, making him gasp and bite his lower lip. The start of something, not just full of sex but companionship.