#max normann

"Hello everybody behind the screen. Tonight's going to be a little different. Little dark, little scary. A little scary, a little awesome, a little scary. 67." Payton said into the camera.

"Oh, wait. Did you say 67?" Max snorted, doubling over with laughter as Payton mimed the action.

"Holy cow. Almost flew past my head and through my br- through my head, but it didn't get lost on me, brother. Too good. Too good."

Payton wiped tears from his eyes, still wheezing from laughter, then straightened up with a dramatic flourish toward the camera. "Alright, alright—let's introduce the squad before we lose our damn minds again. It is me, Papa. And—"

"Daddy," Max cut in.

"Mhm, and Bragnus. Papa, Daddy, and Bragnus."

Payton swung the camera toward you and Alicia without warning, the flash blinding you momentarily. "And the cutie patooties!"

Alicia's grin splits wide as she snatches the camera from Payton's hands, her nails—painted that deep plum shade you helped pick last weekend—gleaming under the dim light. "Alright, let's get the real star of the show," she says, swinging the lens toward you. The viewfinder captures you mid-eye-roll, but there's no hiding the way your mouth twitches upward. Three years with Jordan and you're still not used to being the center of attention, even when it's just your friends being idiots with a camera.

Payton's face fills the frame suddenly, cheeks sucked in like a chipmunk, eyes crossed, tongue lolling to the side—the kind of stupid expression that makes you snort despite yourself. Behind him, Jordan's gaze locks onto you with that dopey, lovesick intensity that still makes your stomach flip, his dimples carving deep parentheses into his cheeks.

"Alright, loverboys," you deadpan, shoving the camera back to them, "what are we doing here today?"

"Ghost hunting, baby!" Payton whoops, throwing his arms wide and nearly smacking Max in the face.

Payton's voice dropped into that exaggerated ghost-hunter whisper. "We are here spending 24 hours at the Queen Mary."

--

The Monster can cracks open with a hiss, the sound unnaturally loud in the cramped quarters of the ship's old crew cabin. You take a sip before tossing one to Max. You both take synchronized gulps, the liquid burning your throats in that artificial, electric way that feels like swallowing a battery.

"Dude, you guys are demons," Payton says, watching you both with his arms crossed, half-judgmental, half-impressed. "It's not even 3:00 a.m. yet."

Max wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild. "Fucking yonster to the dome. We don't give a damn."

Jordan, leaning against the rusted metal doorframe, snorts. "I sense sensitivities." He wiggles his fingers theatrically. "You want to sense the sensitivities."

Payton sniffs the air, exaggerating it until his nostrils flare comically wide. "I think I can smell it. I can taste it."

A beat of silence—then Jordan stiffens, head snapping toward the shadowed corner of the room. "Wait. What was that?"

"What was what?" Payton spins around, knocking into Max, who nearly spills his drink.

You don’t wait for the boys to spiral further into their nonsense. Grabbing Alicia’s wrist, you tug her toward the far side of the quarters where a narrow door hangs slightly ajar. 

Inside, the bathroom tiles glint under the light. Alicia’s grip tightens on your arm. "Oh my god," she whispers, voice hitching. "The bathroom’s freaky, bro."

A stain streaks the ceiling in a shape too deliberate to be water damage. The sink faucet drips, though you’re pretty sure there’s nothing coming out. You swallow hard. "I don’t like this."

Alicia exhales sharply through her nose. "So freaky."

Behind you, Max’s voice floats in from the other room, suddenly serious: "Hold on. I was sensing something in here, actually." His footsteps creak closer, slow and deliberate—then pause. You don’t turn around. "J, come here," you say instead, eyes locked on the mirror’s warped reflection.

Max’s shadow looms in the doorway before he leans in and gives the toilet a good whiff. "What’s this ghost splooge called?" His tone is clinical, like he’s narrating a nature documentary. "Exoplasm?"

"Endoplasm," Payton corrects from somewhere behind him.

You roll your eyes. "Ectoplasm."

"Ectoplasm," Max repeats, nodding sagely. Then he wrinkles his nose, sniffing the air. "I got second-hand high off that toilet stink."

Alicia pinches her nostrils shut. "Oh my god, it’s rancid in here."

You flick your flashlight beam across the peeling wallpaper—somewhere between nicotine yellow and the colour of regret. "It’s that fucking yonster," you mutter, and Max wheezes so hard he nearly drops his can.

---

The EMF meter in Payton's hand holds a steady green as he begins to explain what they're doing.

"So, obviously, it's going to be at green," Payton announces, waving the EMF meter like a conductor's baton. The device's screen glows an unbothered lime, casting his face in an eerie, sickly light. "If we see any yellow—if you see any red or orange—that's how you know we're fucked."

Max nods solemnly, enunciating: "P. H. U. C. K. E. D."

Payton jabbed a finger toward Jordan, the EMF meter clutched in his other hand like a holy relic. "Okay, but if this turns yellow, orange, or red, you're getting dicked down."

You snatch the device from him before he can finish, holding it up to Jordan’s chest with a smirk. "Nah, it’ll just be me doing it. No ghosts."

The meter’s green glow flickers. Then spikes straight to red.

Jordan stares at the meter, then at you, his expression caught between amusement and genuine alarm. "Okay," he says slowly, raising his hands like you’re pointing a gun at him. "Well. That’s a little concerning."

Payton’s voice pitches upward, cracking halfway through his sentence. "What the hellyante?" He lunges forward, grabbing your wrist to inspect the meter himself. 

You don’t let go of the device. "J," you say, voice low. "You’re fucking haunted."

---

The can glides across the uneven metal table like it's being pushed by invisible fingers—not a dramatic slide, but a slow, deliberate creep that sends Max scrambling backward so fast his chair screeches against the floor. Your phone's flashlight catches the condensation trail left behind, glistening like a slug's path in the sudden silence.

"I'm not fucking joking right now," Max says, voice stripped of its usual energy. He points at the can with a trembling finger. "That just moved."

Jordan's chair jerks sideways without warning, scraping against the floorboards hard enough to make Alicia yelp. He grips the armrests, knuckles white. "Why did my chair just—?"

"I'm not actually fucking with you," Max interrupts, eyes wide and locked on the can. "I watched it move like three inches. Look at it. You can see it."

You angle your phone closer, the camera zooming in on the condensation still pooling beneath the can. "Holy shit," you murmur. "You can see the slide marks."

Payton exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders tense. "Jordan's actually not lying."

"I'm not lying," Jordan snaps, then flinches as his chair jerks again, this time hard enough to knock his knees against the table's edge. "I was chilling. Literally just said, 'Wait, Max isn't kidding,' and then got fucking slung."

Max's hands tremble where they grip the edge of the table. "Holy fuck."

Payton swivels toward him, eyes narrowed. "Max. Are you actually serious?"

"I swear on my life," Max hisses, voice cracking. "Deadass, Payton. It was moving like—" He mimics the slow creep with his fingers, the gesture absurdly precise. "Like this."

Alicia looks over at you and crosses her arms. "We're the debunkers here. Condensation seeps into the bottom, makes it slide." But her voice lacks its usual conviction, and she doesn't step closer to inspect it.

Your throat tightens as you stare at the can. The condensation isn’t pooling anymore—it’s spreading, thin tendrils spiderwebbing across the table like something’s tracing invisible paths through the dampness. You swallow hard. "I think… should we get outside?"

"Let’s get outside," Payton says immediately, already backing toward the door. "Let’s get outside and explore."

--

The EMF reader’s glow pulses like a heartbeat in Jordan’s hands, casting jagged shadows across the walls of the cramped room. You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper, your fingers twitching against your thighs like they’re itching to snatch the damn thing away from him.

Payton clears his throat, suddenly solemn, like he’s delivering bad news. “For those of you at home, green is good. That means there’s no paranormal entities here.”

Max leans in, nodding like he’s explaining nuclear physics to a toddler. “What this device does is it can detect the subtlest of frequency changes in the electromagnetic field, which is basically—” He pauses, turning to Payton with exaggerated patience. “Payton, would you like to tell them what that is?”

Payton blinks, deadpan. “The electromagnetic field. A noun.”

Payton's face twisted into mock solemnity as he gestured with the EMF reader like a priest blessing his congregation. The tension in the room shattered instantly as Max doubled over, wheezing, his forehead thumping against the table.

"Not—not a noun," Max gasped, still shaking with laughter, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

Payton clapped Jordan on the shoulder, grinning. "Bragnus, you good? Can’t lose you to the paranormal entities."

Jordan blinked, slow and deliberate, like he was coming out of a trance. "I was just thinking about—"

"I know you’re the most vulnerable," Payton interrupted, wagging a finger in his face.

Jordan exhaled sharply, then tilted his head toward the empty space beside him like he was addressing a shy guest at a party. "Whatever spirit is sitting in here with us right now, if my friends are bothering you in any way, shape, or form… just blink orange twice." The meter’s light flashed. "If you're trying to talk to us, uh, make a noise."

Payton threw his arms wide, nearly smacking Max in the face for the second time that evening. "If you're here, if you're a paranormal entity, let it be known!"

Max’s eyes flicked to the EMF reader. "Wait, it’s flaring up—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Payton backpedaled instantly. Max leaned forward, suddenly earnest, like he was coaxing a stray cat out from under a porch. "If you're in here and you want to have a little bit of fun with us, just come closer to this." He tapped the meter’s screen, where the red pulsed in time with his words. "You see how it blinks red when you get closer to it?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Max, stop gentle parenting the spirit. Please."

Alicia snorted. "It’s gonna think you’re condescending."

Undeterred, Max turned toward Jordan, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You hanging out with Jordan? You hanging out over here with Jordan?" You glanced up at Jordan. Max gestured toward the bed with exaggerated care. "Are you over here by the bed? Yeah, you’re over here right by the girls."

Your throat tightened. "Hi ghost," you managed, voice cracking. "Nice to—to meet you."

Max nodded like this was a totally normal conversation. "If you’re here, could you just put a hand out and just hold it on this so we can—" The EMF reader screeched, its light burning a bright red. "Yeah, good. That’s great. Just stay right there so we can make sure you’re here."

You gripped Alicia’s arm hard enough to bruise. "Holy fucking shit, guys. I don’t like this."

Jordan squared his shoulders. "That’s actually scary. Like… that’s my girlfriend."

Payton clapped his hands together like he was trying to restart a stalled engine. "Let’s walk around the room."

Jordan held up a finger—slow, deliberate—and your stomach dropped. You knew that look. "Wait, wait, wait. I have an idea."

Payton groaned. "That’s not good."

Jordan ignored him, stepping forward until the EMF reader in his hand was practically glowing like a molten brand. "If you’re here with us, can you please come closer to me?"

You lunged for his sleeve. "Jordan, no—"

But it was too late. 

Jordan’s eyes widened. "Okay, blinking."

Max shuddered violently, rubbing his arms. "I just got chills."

Payton grabbed Jordan’s wrist, staring at the EMF reader. "No, no, no, no. Why did it hit red, though?"

Jordan’s voice dropped to a whisper. "It was holding red. It was holding red."

Max swallowed hard, suddenly serious. "Wait, wait. That actually freaked me out."

Payton shook Jordan’s shoulder like he was trying to restart him. "Jordan, Jordan, dude."

Jordan didn’t blink. He just stared at the EMF reader in his hands, its glow painting his knuckles blood-red. "If you’re here with me," he murmured, voice softer than you’d ever heard it, "can you please come closer to me? I’m not trying to hurt you or anything. I just want to be friends."

You snorted.

Jordan tilted his head, listening to silence that wasn’t silent—not really. The air hummed, thick with something you couldn’t name. "I’m lonely right now," he added, like that explained anything.

You leaned into Alicia’s ear. "I guess I’m chopped liver."

--

The planchette sits untouched in the center of the Ouija board like a dare. You and Alicia hover behind the camera, zooming in on Max’s trembling fingers as they hover over the plastic piece—close, but not touching. Not yet.

Payton clears his throat, suddenly solemn. “Okay. What’s the most respectful way to start a Ouija board and finish a Ouija board?”

Max’s knee bounces under the table. “Safest. Not most respectful.”

“And safest,” Payton amends, nodding like this is a sacred ritual and not a glorified sleepover game. He turns to Jordan. “You ready, Bragnus?”

Jordan cracks his knuckles, grinning. “Born ready.”

Alicia’s grip tightens on your shoulder. “Payton.”

“What?”

“I just saw something behind you.”

Payton doesn’t even turn around, just scoffs. “No, you didn’t.”

“No, I’m serious,” Alicia insists, her voice dropping to a whisper. Her fingers dig into your sleeve, nails pressing half-moons into your skin. The camera shakes slightly in her other hand.

You lean forward, squinting at the playback screen. “In the camera.”

Behind Payton, just at the edge of the frame, something shifts—a smudge of shadow that shouldn’t be there, too tall to be furniture, too still to be one of your friends. Your stomach twists.

Then—. Three sharp raps, loud enough to make Max yelp.

Alicia’s breath hitches. “Oh my God.”

In one frantic scramble, you and Alicia bolt behind Payton and Jordan, pressing yourselves against their backs like human shields. Jordan’s arm snakes around your waist instantly, pulling you tight against his side. His fingers splay across your hipbone, anchoring you.

Payton doesn’t budge. “Okay,” he says slowly, voice low. “That’s not funny.”

Max’s hands hover frozen over the planchette, his eyes darting between the board and the door. 

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Then another knock. One. Two. Three. 

Alicia’s breath fans hot against your neck. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, okay, okay—”

--- The apartment door slams shut behind you with a finality that makes your shoulders jerk—like you’re sealing something in, not out. Jordan’s keys hit the bowl by the entryway with a clatter, but neither of you move to turn on the lights. The streetlamp outside paints the living room in jagged stripes of orange through the blinds, and you stare at the shadows they cast, half-expecting them to twitch.

"You good?" Jordan murmurs, already toeing off his shoes like he’s settling in for the long haul. His voice is soft, but it’s the kind of soft that means he’s holding back laughter—not at you, never at you, but at the absurdity of it all. Three years together, and he still thinks your fear is cute.

You don’t answer. Instead, you grip the hem of his shirt like a kid clutching a security blanket and drag him toward the bedroom. Jordan stumbles after you, grinning, but his amusement fades when you flick on the overhead light and immediately wince. "Okay," he says slowly, watching you pace the perimeter of the room like a soldier checking for landmines. "So we’re not good."

"The Ouija board moved, Jordan," you hiss, yanking open the closet door hard enough to make the hangers rattle. Empty. You drop to your knees to peer under the bed, heart pounding.

Jordan crouches beside you, his shoulder pressing warm against yours. "Baby," he says, gently steering your face toward his. His thumbs brush your cheeks, and you realize belatedly that you’re breathing too fast. "It was Max’s shaky ass hands. You know that."

You swallow hard. The rational part of your brain knows he’s right—knows Payton probably rigged the EMF reader as a prank, knows the knocking was just the ship’s ancient pipes settling. But the part of you that spent three hours watching shadows warp in the Queen Mary’s flickering lights isn’t rational. "I just—" Your voice cracks. "I need you to stay tonight."

Jordan’s expression softens. He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "Wasn’t planning on leaving," he murmurs, tugging you upright.

Jordan’s fingers brush the strap of your tank top with a gentleness that shouldn’t be possible for hands that size. “Arms up,” he murmurs, and you obey instinctively, letting him peel the fabric off you like he’s unwrapping something fragile. The cool air hits your skin, but his palm settles warm against your ribs before you can shiver. “There you go.” His voice is syrup-thick, the kind of tone he reserves for thunderstorms and bad cramps and now, apparently, post-ghost-hunting jitters. You don’t protest when he guides you to sit on the edge of the bed, his thumbs tracing idle circles over your kneecaps as he kneels to untie your sneakers.

The first kiss lands on your anklebone—a fleeting press of lips that makes your breath hitch. The second grazes the hollow behind your knee, his stubble catching against your skin in a way that’s more grounding than rough.

Jordan crosses the room to your dresser with the practiced ease of someone who’s memorized the layout of your apartment down to which drawer sticks halfway. His fingers pause over the top drawer—the one with your good bras, the ones you never wear—before sliding it open with a soft thunk.

He pulls out your favorite sleep shorts—the ones with the frayed hem you refuse to throw out—and a worn-out band tee that still smells faintly like his cologne from the last time he stole it back. The fabric is soft between his fingers, and he shakes it out with a quiet laugh. "You keep stealing my shirts," he murmurs, but there's no heat in it. Just that fond exasperation that makes your chest tighten.

"You keep leaving them here," you counter, but your voice wavers when he kneels in front of you, guiding your arms through the sleeves like you're something precious. His knuckles brush your collarbone, lingering just a second too long.

The words slip out before you can stop them. "We should just move in together."

Jordan freezes. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the distant hum of the refrigerator. Then his hands slide up to cradle your face, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheekbones. "Yeah?" His voice is rough, like he's been holding the word in his throat for years.

"Yeah." You press your forehead against his, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave—something citrusy and sharp that still makes your stomach flutter.

"I think that's a great idea." His fingers skim down your sides, tugging the hem of the shirt over your hips with exaggerated care. "

Jordan’s shirt hits the floor with a quiet thump, the fabric pooling in the dim light like a discarded shadow. You watch the familiar ripple of his shoulders as he stretches—the way his muscles shift under skin still faintly flushed from the adrenaline of the night. His fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans, and you catch the glimpse of that stupid tattoo above his hipbone—the one he got drunk in Vegas two years ago, the one you still tease him about whenever he changes in front of you.

The sweats he keeps in your bottom drawer—the ones with the hole near the left pocket—slide over his hips with practiced ease. He doesn’t bother with a shirt. Never does. You’ve memorized the way his bare chest looks in the half-light of your bedroom, the way the streetlamp outside cuts diagonal stripes across his collarbones.

"Move over," he murmurs, already nudging your legs aside with his knee. You oblige, rolling onto your side just enough to let him slide in behind you. The mattress dips under his weight, and then his arm is curling around your waist, pulling you back against him with a sigh that ruffles the hair at your nape. His skin is warm—always warm—and you press your icy toes against his shins just to hear him hiss.

"Asshole," he mutters, but his grip tightens anyway, his palm flattening against your stomach like he’s trying to fuse you together. You can feel his heartbeat against your shoulder blade, steady and insistent.

The mattress sighs beneath Jordan's weight as he settles behind you, his bare chest pressing warm against your spine. His fingers hook gently into the waistband of your sleep shorts—not tugging, just anchoring—and his breath evens out against the nape of your neck in slow, familiar increments. You count them silently, syncing your own breathing to the rise and fall of his ribs against your back.

Outside, a car alarm wails three streets over. The refrigerator hums its midnight lullaby. Somewhere in the apartment complex, a door slams.But you couldn't care less. Not when your person was next to you.

🎵 left hand free — alt-J

liked by jordanhuxhold, maxnormann, aliciakmitch, and others

yourusername never again. please never ever let me do a video with payton again.

user 1 this whole video made me die —user 2 fr

user 3 rosie o'donnel did not die for this —user 4 #hayfeverchallenge

paytonking nah girl you loved it —yourusername loved seeing Jordan in that shirt —user 5 I KNOW THATS RIGHT

user 6 we got the Etsy versions of damon, stefan, and niklaus from vampire diaries —user 7 but levelled up elena and rebekah tho

user 8 no pics of Y/N in a Y/N dump 😔 —yourusername im sorry —jordanhuxhold I tried but she didn't like any of the pics I took —yourusername Alicia mogged me okay —aliciakmitch GIRL DONT LIEEEE

user 9 you and max and those damn monsters —maxnormann mmmmmm white monster —yourusername max sybau

user 10 Jordan always mogging —yourusername my page. talk about how hot I am. —user 8 maybe if you posted yourself