summary: two strangers wake up alone, lightyears from home, thrown into a mission neither of you remember choosing. he is a stranger, he has to be.
but something doesnât fit. not in the way he looks at you like heâs already lost something. the pieces come back wrong, not fitting where they are supposed to, and neither dr grace or yourself can explain this away.
he feels it though, one thing that is deep and certain: that once, you might have been everything to him.
warnings: 18+, eventual smut, major angst, amnesia, memory loss, violence, major major hurt/comfort, arguments, heartbreak, slowburn, kind of enemies to lovers
Description: You're planning the wedding of the decadeâMax Fewtrell and Pietra PilĂŁo's summer celebration at Villa d'Este on Lake Como. Forty-seven page vision documents, destination logistics, and a bride who knows exactly what she wants. You can handle it. What you can't handle is their best man: Lando Norris, fresh off a breakup, he's arrogant, he's relentless, he doesn't take no for an answer, and he's decided that making your job harder is his new favorite pastime. You just want to execute the perfect wedding, he simply just wants you.
Genre: wedding planner x best man, he's down bad immediately, all of the tropes, "are you single?" on first meeting, why are we soooo horny, rom-com meets porn, unresolved ending, ANGST, cheeky norris
Notes: um, idk, sorry ive been mia for months, hope you enjoy reading this as much as i did writing it!
WC: 17.5k
That was two months ago.
Two months of Pietra's color-coded spreadsheets, vendor calls with Italian florists who didn't speak a lick of English, and approximately sixty-three emails about whether the napkins should be ivory or ecru. (They're the same fucking color. You didn't say that, though, you're a an actual professional.)
Max is already here, standing on the fitting platform in his shirtsleeves while a tailor who looks approximately one hundred years old circles him with pins. The groomsmen are scattered around the roomâMax's his brother is scrolling through his phone in the corner, and the other three groomsmen are huddled by the window arguing about something that sounds football-related but you're not paying attention.
And Lando Norris, the best man, is in one of the leather chairs, legs stretched out in front of him, watching you.
He's been staring at you for the last twenty minutes while you've been in the checking suit orders. You felt it. Ignored it. Felt it again. Kept ignoring it, like a professional.
Now you've got his garment bag draped over your arm and you're done pretending you don't notice.
"Norris," you call out.
He doesn't move right away. Just lets his eyes drag up from wherever they wereâunhurried, unbothered, like you've interrupted something he was very much enjoying. "That's me," he says, and the smile that follows is the kind that knows exactly what it does to people.
"Dressing room two," you say, already walking toward the hallway. "Let's get you fitted."
You hear him get up. Hear him follow. The hallway is quieter, away from the chaos of the main room, and dressing room two is all dark wood paneling, it's exactly the kind of place where people spend obscene amounts of money and feel good about it.
You hang the garment bag on the hook, unzip it.
"Jacket first," you say without turning around. "Then trousers. If the shoulders don't sit right or the sleeve length is off, don't adjust it yourself. Just tell me."
When you turn around, he's in the doorway. Not coming in. Just leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with this lookâeyes slightly narrowed, mouth not quite smiling, like he's just confirmed something he suspected and now he's deciding what to do about it.
"You're very good at this," he finally says.
"At my job?" You raise an eyebrow. "Revolutionary concept."
"No." He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, slow, like the space belongs to him now that he's decided to enter it. "The wholeânot looking at me thing." He tilts his head slightly. "You've been doing it since I walked in. It's very disciplined and I'm a little impressed, actually."
Your jaw doesn't move. Your expression doesn't either. "The suit, Norris."
"See, that." He stops close enough that you have to consciously not step back. Close enough that you catch his cologneâsomething clean and expensive and quietly devastating. He's taller than you clocked from across the room, and the way he's looking at you isn't rude, isn't aggressive. It's just certain, like he's already several steps ahead and he's being generous enough to wait for you to catch up. "That's the thing. You do thisâ" a small gesture toward you, vague, like he's indicating everything, "very professional, very unbothered. But you felt me looking at you."
"Everyone in the room felt you looking at me."
"Sure." The corner of his mouth pulls up. "But only you ignored it that hard."
The silence sits between you. He doesn't rush to fill it, just watches you with that quiet, completely unearned confidence, chin tipped down slightly, eyes steady, the kind of eye contact that doesn't shift or flicker, the kind that makes you aware of exactly where your hands are and whether your face is doing something it shouldn't be.
"Are you going to try this on," you say, "or are we wasting Pietra's fitting appointment?"
He reaches out and takes the jacket from the hanger himself. Doesn't look away from you while he does it.
"Quick question," he says and the pause that follows is long enough to be deliberate. "Are you single?"
You've got to be fucking kidding me. You shake your head, "That is not a quick question."
"It's three words." He shrugs the jacket on and takes his time with the second button. "Pretty quick to me."
You step forward and fix the collar before you've put any real thought into it. Professional and an awfully horrible fucking habit you've developed because right this second your fingers brush the back of his neck and you feel him go very still.
"Shoulders are good," you say, stepping back. This is absolutely fine. So absolutely not fine.
"You didn't answer."
"Because it's not relevant, Norris."
"To the fitting?" He turns to face the mirror, but his eyes find yours in it immediately. "Probably not. To me?" The corner of his mouth pulls again. "Little bit relevant."
You crouch down to check the trouser break. He looks down at you. You can feel it without looking up.
"You do this with all your clients?" he asks.
"Check the fit?"
"Go all quiet and professional when someone makes you uncomfortable."
You stand. "You're not making me uncomfortable."
"No?" He turns from the mirror to face you properly. You become aware of your hands. "Then why haven't you answered?"
The room feels smaller than it did five minutes ago. You're aware of the door behind him, the mirror to your left, the very small amount of air between you.
"The sleeve length is off," you say. It's a lie, but you reach for his wrist anyway.
He lets you take it, doesn't say anything while you pretend to check the cuff, while your fingers brush the inside of his wrist.
"You're single," he says.
You glance up and he's already looking at you, which is unfortunate considering how attractive the fucker actually is. His lip is quirked upwards at the corner, and his eyes are squinting in that specific way that tells you he is enjoying this very much.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He's still letting you hold his wrist, still watching you with that same certainty. "You would've shut this down immediately if you weren't."
You drop his hand and step back. "The jacket fits."
"Good." He shrugs the jacket off, and you watch the fabric slide down his arms, watch the way his shoulders move underneath the sweater. He hangs it back on the hanger with more care than you expected, smoothing the lapels before turning to the mirror. His hands go to the hem of his sweater, tugging it down, adjusting it. The movement pulls the knit tight across his chest, his shoulders, and his eyesâthose fucking eyesâfind yours in the reflection.
He doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend he wasn't waiting for you to look. "So when are you free?"
Your throat is dry. "I'm not."
"For dinner." He's still watching you in the mirror. Still standing there with his hands resting at his sides like he's got all the time in the world.
"I know what you meant."
He turns around. The movement is slow, his weight shifts, his hips turn, and suddenly he's facing you instead of the glass. "That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
"But it's not a no." The smile that spreads across his face is different from beforeâsofter, more genuine. It makes him look younger, less like him and more like someone who actually wants to know your answer. And somehow that's worse. "Which means you're thinking about it."
"I'm thinking about how to get you to try on the trousers."
His hands drop to his belt.
The metal clinks as his fingers work the buckle loose and you freeze. Actually freeze, every muscle in your body locking up as you watch his handsâtanned, long-fingered, confidentâslide the leather through the silver.
"What are youâ"
"Trying on the trousers," he says, like it's obvious. The belt slides through the loops with a soft whisper of leather against fabric, and his shit-eating grin only widens. "That's what you wanted, right?"
"You don't have toâ" You turn around and face the wall. What the fuck is going on? "There's literally a changing screen right there."
"There is." You hear the zipper, the metallic sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. Then fabric sliding down his legs, the soft rustle of denim pooling at his feet. Oh my god, oh my god. "But you're already in here."
Your stomach drops. Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You draw in a breathâtoo sharp, too quickâand try to compose yourself. Try to remember that you're a professional, that you've handled difficult clients before, that this is just a suit fitting.
Except it's not. You both know it's not.
"I will actually leave," you say.
"Why?" He sounds amused. You can hear the smile in his voice, can picture exactly what his face looks like right now without even seeing it. "You're the wedding planner. Don't you need to check the fit?"
Your face is on fire. Your hands are clenched at your sides and you're staring at the wood paneling on the wall like it holds the secrets of the fucking universe. "I can check it when you're dressed."
"I'm getting dressed right now." A pause. Then, quieter, "You can turn around. I'm not naked."
You shouldn't. You should walk out of this room, find another tailor, maintain some semblance of professionalism.
He's in his boxers, black Calvin Kleins that sit low on his hips, and that stupid cream sweater that's ridden up just enough to show a strip of tanned, toned stomach. The jeans are pooled at his feet and he's just standing there, holding the suit trousers, legs long and golden like he spends half his life in the sun.
Which he does. Because he's a fucking Formula 1 driver. And you're trying very hard to look at his face, at the trousers in his hands, at literally anything except the very obvious bulge straining against the black fabric of his underwear.
Your eyes drop. You can't help it. The Calvin Klein waistband sits just below his hip bones, and the fabric is doing absolutely nothing to hide how well-endowed he is. Or how hard he's getting. Jesus Christ.
"Well?" he says, and his voice has dropped lower, rougher. Like gravel and honey mixed together. "Should I put these on, or are you going to keep staring?"
Your eyes snap up to his face and the grin there is absolutely wicked. Victorious. He knows exactly what he's doing to you, knows exactly where your eyes just were, and he's loving every second of it.
"The trousers," you manage. Your voice sounds strangeâtight and strained and breathier than it should beâand you quite literally want to rip your vocal cords out. "Put them on."
"Say please."
Your brain short-circuits. "Excuse me?"
"You want me to put them on?" He tilts his head, and the movement is casual, easy. Still holding the trousers in one hand, the other resting against his hip, thumb hooked into the waistband of his boxers. Still standing there like this is completely normal. Like he stands half-naked in front of wedding planners every day. "Ask nicely."
This is insane. This entire situation is insane. You're alone in a dressing room with a half-naked Formula 1 driver who's asking you to beg him to put his pants on while he's very clearly hard and very clearly enjoying watching you try not to look.
"Please," you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant it to. "Put on the trousers."
His grin widens. "See? That wasn't so hard."
He steps into them. One leg, then the other, and you watchâyou can't not watchâas he pulls them up slowly and deliberately. The fabric slides over his calves, his knees, his thighs. Golden skin disappearing inch by inch beneath midnight blue wool. Over his hips. Over that bulge that's still very much visible, still obscenely obvious even through the suit fabric now.
He doesn't button them. Just leaves them sitting low on his hips, the zipper undone, the waistband gaping open enough that you can still see the black elastic of his Calvin Kleins.
"How's the fit?" he asks.
You can't speak. Your mouth is completely dry, your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, and you're very aware that you need to actually do your job now. Need to check the hem and the break and the waist, which means getting close to him again. Means kneeling down in front of him. Means being eye-level withâ
"I need to check the break," you hear yourself say.
"Go ahead."
You move before you can think about it. Drop to your knees in front of him, and the position isâit'sâdon't fucking think about it.
Your hands reach for the fabric at his ankle. The hem is perfect. You both know it's perfect. Pietra sent the measurements three times, the tailors here are the best in London, there's no way it's wrong.
You can feel him watching you. Can feel the weight of his gaze on the top of your head, on your hands, on the way you're very carefully not looking up. But you smooth the fabric anyway. Adjust it against his shoe. Check the length with fingers that are definitely not shaking.
"You know what I think?" he says, voice quiet.
You don't answer. Keep your eyes on the hem.
"I think you're single. I think you've been single for a while. And I thinkâ" he pauses, and you feel him shift slightly above you, "âyou're going to go to dinner with me tomorrow."
Something snaps into place in your head. A brilliant, terrible idea.
Fuck it.
You let your hand slide up from his ankle. Slowly. Palm flat against the fabric of the trousers, fingers spreading wide as you move up his calf. The muscle is solid beneath your touch, tense. You feel it twitch as you pass over his knee, and you keep going. Higher. You feel his leg go rigid under your touch. Hear his breath catchâsharp and sudden.
"You think so?" you ask, still not looking up. Your hand keeps moving. Up his thigh now, and he's gone completely still above you. Not moving. Not breathing. Just frozen.
"Yeah," he says, but his voice has gone rough. Strained. "I do."
Your hand reaches the very top of his thigh. You pause there and let the moment stretch. Then you slide your palm over the bulge straining against his trousers and squeeze.
He makes a soundâsharp, shocked, something between a gasp and a groan. You stand up slowly, keeping your hand exactly where it is. Keeping pressure. His hands come up like he's going to grab you, touch you, pull you closer, but he freezes when you press harder.
"Fuck," he breathes.
You're close now. Close enough to see his pupils blown wide, close enough to feel the way his breathing has gone uneven. His hips shift forward into your touch and you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this.
"You were saying?" you murmur, tilting your head up. Your mouth is inches from his.
"Iâ" He swallows hard. Can't seem to finish the sentence. His eyes drop to your lips and you lean in closer. So close your breath ghosts across his mouth. Your hand moves slightly, rubbing through the fabric, and he actually groans this time.
"What was that about dinner?" you whisper.
"Tomorrow," he manages. "Eight. I'llâfuckâI'll pick you up."
"Mm." You lean in like you're going to kiss him. Let your lips almost brush his.
Then you let go, step back, and knee him directly in the dick.
Not hard enough to do real damage. But hard enough.
He doubles over with a choked sound, hands flying to his crotch, and you step around him calmly. You pick up your tablet from where you left it on the chair, and take one final look at Lando Norris.
"The trousers fit perfectly," you say, voice perfectly professional. "I'll let the tailor know we're done here."
You ignore Lando Norris for the rest of the fitting.
It's not difficult. He stays in the dressing room for a solid ten minutes after you leave, and when he finally emergesâfully dressed, thank fucking godâhis face is doing something between amused and aroused and genuinely shocked.
You don't look at him. You focus on Max's final adjustments, on coordinating with the tailor about the timeline, on making notes in your tablet about pickup dates and alteration appointments. When Lando tries to catch your eye in the mirror, you turn away. When he opens his mouth like he's about to say something, you start talking to the elderly tailor about mother-of-pearl versus horn buttons.
Your hands only shake once you're in the car back to your flat. That evening, you send Pietra a follow-up email:
You don't mention Lando. There's nothing to mention, it was a fitting. He tried on a suit, everything went fine. Pietra responds within an hour with twelve exclamation points and a gif of someone crying happy tears. You close your laptop and don't think about Lando Norris for the rest of the night.
Or the next day.
Or the day after that.
Three weeks pass.
Three weeks of vendor calls and seating charts and a truly deranged argument with the florist about whether "white" and "ivory" roses are actually different. (They are, apparently.) Three weeks of normal, professional wedding planning work where you successfully do not think about Lando Norris or the fact that you kneed him in the dick in a Cifonelli dressing room.
You're good at compartmentalizing. It's a necessary skill in this job. You've dealt with difficult clients, bridezillas, grooms who show up drunk to their own rehearsal dinners. One overly confident racing driver who doesn't understand professional boundaries is nothing.
Except he keeps showing up in your email thread with Max and Pietra. Little comments on the group chain about the bachelor party planning, questions about the timeline, a truly chaotic suggestion that they do sparklers at the reception that Pietra immediately vetoed. You don't respond to him directly. You address Max only.
You're fine. Everything is completely fine. It's a Wednesday nightâ11:00 PM, to be exactâand you're on your couch in your pajamas with a pint of HĂ€agen-Dazs Cookies and Cream that you've been working through for the better part of an hour. Some reality show is playing on your TV. You're not really watching it, too busy scrolling through the seating chart for the reception, trying to figure out where to put Pietra's uncle who allegedly had an affair with Max's aunt's best friend in 1987.
Your phone rings. Unknown number. London area code and you ignore it, taking another spoonful of ice cream. It rings again thirty seconds later. Same number.
You sigh, set the pint down on your coffee table, and answer. "Hello?"
"So, I've been thinking about you."
You freeze, spoon halfway to your mouth. That voice. You know that fucking voice. "Norris?"
"Lando," he corrects, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Hear the way he's settling into this conversation like he's got all fucking night to terrorize you. "And before you hang upâwhich I know you're about to doâI need to tell you something."
"How did you get this number?"
"Max," he says easily. "Told him I needed to coordinate some best man stuff. He gave it to me, no questions asked. Great guy, but a bloody terrible judge of character."
You close your eyes. "It's eleven o'clock at night."
"I know. I waited aaaaalllll day to call you." He pauses. "Didn't want to seem too eager, ya'know."
"You're calling me at eleven PM. That's the definition of eager."
"Fair point." He sounds amused. "Sooo, are you wearing panties right now?
You choke on your ice cream. Actually choke, coughing and sputtering into your fist while he laughs on the other end of the line. The pint nearly tips over on your coffee table and you have to grab it with your free hand, still trying to catch your breath. "Are youâ" More coughing. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
"Completely serious," he says. "It's a yes or no question. Pretty straightforward."
You set the ice cream down. Hard enough that the spoon rattles. "I'm hanging up."
"No you're not." And the worst partâthe absolute worst part of all of this is that he's right. You're still sitting here, phone pressed to your ear, face burning, while this man asks you about your underwear at eleven o'clock at night like it's a perfectly normal thing to do.
"Why are you like this?" you ask.
"Like what?"
"Insane. Mmm, iInappropriate, I don't know maybe the completely lack of boundaries."
"I prefer 'direct,'" he says. "And you still haven't answered my question."
"I'm not answering that."
"So that's a yes." He sounds pleased with himself. "Good to know."
"That's notâI didn't sayâ" You stop and take a breath. "What do you want, Lando?"
"I told you. I've been thinking about you."
"Then stop thinking about me."
"Can't." He says it simply, like it's a fact he's already accepted, like it's a facet that you're supposed to also accept. "Believe me, I've tried. Spent three weeks trying to forget about the dressing room. Didn't work. So now I'm calling you at eleven PM like a psychopath because apparently that's what you've reduced me to."
Your stomach does something stupid. You cannot do this right now. Seriously, you cannot. "I reduced you?"
"Yeah." There's rustling on his end, like he's shifting position. You picture him sprawled out somewhereâon a couch, maybe, or in bedâphone pressed to his ear, that insufferable grin on his face. "You put your hand on my dick and then kneed me in it. That's not something a person just forgets."
"You deserved it."
"I did," he agrees immediately. "Completely deserved it. I was inappropriate and pushy and I basically stripped in front of you. Very poor form. My mum would be horrified."
"God, no. She thinks I'm a perfect gentleman." He pauses. "She'd probably like you, actually. You seem like the type who'd keep me in line."
"No one can keep you in line."
"You did a pretty good job with your knee."
You close your laptop. Pull your knees up to your chest, phone still pressed to your ear, ice cream forgotten on the coffee table. This is insane. You should hang up. You should block this number and email Pietra tomorrow and tell her you can't work with her best man. But you don't, because despite every alarm blaring in your brain, you're enjoying this. "What do you actually want?" you ask quietly.
"Dinner," he says. No joke this time. No flirting, just honesty. "One meal. You pick the place, you pick the time. If you hate it, I'll never bother you again."
"You'll bother me anyway. You're the best man."
"Fine. Then I'll be professional. And completely appropriate. I'll call you 'ma'am' and everything."
"You're not calling me ma'am."
"See? You care." He sounds pleased. "That's progress."
"That's me stopping you from being weird."
"I can be weirder." He pauses. "Much weirder. Want me to prove it?"
"No."
"No, I think I can," he goes silent for a brief second. Then, "Uhhhhhhh, oohhhhhhh, mmmmmâ"
Your brain short-circuits. "What the fuck are youâ"
"Oh god, yes," he moans into the phone, and it's so obscene, so deliberately pornographic that your face catches fire. "Just like that!"
"Stop!"
"Okay, okay! Say you'll will go with me!" he says in a higher pitched voice, clearly imitating you, before dropping back to that low groan. "Oh yeah, baby, just like that!"
"Oh my GOD, Lando!"
"Right there, don't stop, don't fucking stop."
"Goodbye, Lando!" You're already pulling the phone away from your ear, face burning so hot you might actually combust.
"Friday, eight PM!" he shouts before you can hang up. "Wear something nice! I'm taking you somewhere expensive!"
You hang up. Sit there on your couch, ice cream forgotten, staring at your phone like it personally betrayed you.
Friday comes too soon.
You spend Thursday trying to convince yourself to cancel. Draft three different texts saying you can't make it, that something came up with work, that this was a mistake. Delete all of them. Pietra sends you an email with fourteen exclamation points about linens. You have a call with the florist that somehow turns into a forty-minute argument about garden roses versus peonies. You confirm the string quartet for the ceremony and the DJ for the reception and the backup generator for the lights because Pietra is convinced there will be a power outage even though Villa d'Este has never had a power outage in its three-hundred-year history.
You don't think about Lando Norris. (You think about Lando Norris constantly.)
Friday morning, you have a dress fitting in Knightsbridge for another bride who can't decide between two nearly identical shades of white. Friday afternoon, you meet with a new client in Mayfair to discuss color palettes for their engagement partyâ"We're thinking sage and blush, but like, elevated sage and blush, you know?" You nod. You take notes. You smile and say yes, you can absolutely source elevated sage napkins.
You don't cancel. By the time you get back to your flat in Monacoâyou live here because half your clients are here and the tax benefits are obscene and you can pretend it's a practical decision and not because you've always wanted to live somewhere beautifulâit's 6:47 PM and you have one hour and thirteen minutes to get ready.
You shower. Stare at your closet for fifteen minutes. Pull out four different dresses and hate all of them. Settle on a black slip dress that's simple and elegant and shows just enough without being obvious. Nice black Manolo heels, with your hair down and makeup that looks effortless but took thirty minutes. You look at yourself in the mirror and try to figure out what the fuck you're doing. Your phone buzzes at 7:52 PM.
After rushing down the elevator, you push through the glass doors and step outside into the warm evening air. And there it is.
A Porsche GT3 RS. Forest fucking green, parked directly in front of your building like it belongs there, which it absolutely does not. The engine is running, that distinctive Porsche rumble that turns heads even in Monaco where supercars are background noise. The driver's side door opens and Lando Norris unfolds himself from the car, andâfuck. He's wearing a white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tucked into dark trousers that fit him obscenely well. No tie. Top two buttons undone. His hair is slightly messy in that way that's definitely intentional, and when he sees you, his entire face lights up.
"Hi," he says.
You stop on the pavement. "How did you know where I live?"
His grin is shameless. "Max."
"Of course."
"Alsoâ" he gestures at you, vague and all-encompassing, "âwow. You look incredible."
"Your selfie was terrible."
"I know." He doesn't look embarrassed. "But you responded, so it worked." He walks around to the passenger side, opens the door for you. The interior is all tan leather and you might come just from sitting inside of it.
"Shall we?" he asks.
You should turn around. Go back upstairs and text him that this was a mistake. Instead, you get in the car, he closes your door, walks back around to the driver's side. Slides in and the door shuts with that solid, expensive thunk that only German engineering can achieve.
"Seatbelt," he says, already reaching for his own.
You buckle in. The belt clicks into place and he's already pulling away from the curb, the Porsche responding to the slightest touch of the accelerator like it's been waiting for permission to move. The streets of Monaco blur past. He drives fastânot recklessly, but definitely confidently. Like he knows exactly what the car can do and exactly how far he can push it. His right hand rests on the gear shift, fingers drumming against the leather. The left is on the wheel, relaxed, assured.
Then his right hand moves and lands on your thigh. It rests there, warm and solid through the thin fabric of your dress. His fingers spread slightly, thumb brushing against the inside of your leg. You look down at it. Then at him. He's watching the road. Completely focused like his hand isn't currently on your thigh, like this is totally okay to do upon meeting someone for the second time.
"What are you doing?" you ask.
"Driving." He glances at you briefly, grin tugging at his mouth. "Why, what does it look like I'm doing?"
"Your hand?"
"What about it?" He squeezes gently, once, then goes back to that light, proprietary touch. "Problem?"
"Yes, actually."
"Hm." He doesn't move it. "Want me to stop?"
You should say yes. You should absolutely say yes. "I didn't say that."
His grin widens. "No, you didn't." He shifts gears and his hand moves with it, then returns to your thigh. Higher this time. Not quite at the hem of your dress, but close enough that you're very aware of how little fabric there is between his skin and yours.
"You're very presumptuous," you manage.
"Uh-huh," He takes a turn smoothly, the Porsche hugging the curve like it's on rails. "Also, you haven't moved my hand. So clearly I'm doing something right."
"You're doing something, that's for sure."
"Is it working?"
"Is what working?"
"This." His thumb moves, a slow stroke against your inner thigh that makes your breath catch. "Me being charming and forward and completely shameless."
Your face is burning. "You're not charming."
"Liar." He glances at you again, and there's something predatory in the way he's looking at you. Something that makes your stomach flip. "You wouldn't be in this car if I wasn't at least a little bit charming."
He's right. You hate that he's completely right. "I didn't agree to let you feel me up in your car."
"You didn't disagree either." His thumb moves again, and this time you can't quite suppress the small inhale. He notices, and you want to grab the wheel and crash the fucking car. "Besides, I'm being a gentleman. My hand is barely moving."
"Where are we going?" you ask, trying to redirect.
"Dinner." His hand stays exactly where it is. "I made reservations at Le Grill. You know it?"
"At the Hotel de Paris?" Your stomach drops. "Waitâaren't people going to see us?"
He looks at you. Actually looks at you this time, taking his eyes off the road for longer than is probably safe. "People?"
"You'reâ" You gesture vaguely at him. "You're you. You're Lando Norris. People know who you are."
"So?"
"So, we'll be seen together. You and I."
"Good." He says it simply, turning his attention back to the road. His hand doesn't move from your thigh. "That's the point."
"The point?"
"Of taking you to a nice restaurant. In public. Where people will see us." He shifts gears smoothly, accelerating through a turn. "I'm not hiding you in some basement bistro. You agreed to dinner with me, so we're doing it properly."
"I didn't agree to being photographed."
"Then don't smile at the cameras." He grins. "Or do. You'll look good either way."
"Lando, please."
"Relax." He squeezes your thigh again. "It's just dinner. People eat dinner all the time. It's a very normal human activity."
The light ahead turns red. He slows to a stop, turns to look at you fully. His hand is still on your leg, thumb still doing that maddening stroke against your inner thigh. "Besides," he says, eyes locked on yours, "I already told Max I'm into you. He laughed. Said I should go for it. So if anyone asks, we're just two single people having a meal. Nothing scandalous about that."
"You told Maxâ"
The light turns green. He's already accelerating before you can finish the sentence.
There were photos taken outside the Hotel de Paris. At least six people with their phones out, asking for pictures, calling his name. Lando handled it the way he probably handles everythingâwith that easy charm that makes people feel like they're the only person in the room, even when he's already moving on to the next one. His hand never left yours except to pose for photos, and when he was done, it came right back.
Dinner goes well. Too well, actually. The restaurant is all art deco elegance and Lando isâfuck, he's good at this. Charming without being smarmy, confident without being obnoxious. He orders wine without looking at the list, pulls out your chair, makes the kind of casual conversation that feels effortless even though you know it's not. He asks about your work, actually listens when you answer, remembers details from Pietra's emails that he has no business remembering. And he's gorgeous in the dim lighting. That's the worst part. The candles catch the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when you say something that amuses him. His shirt is still unbuttoned at the collar and you keep noticing his throat, his collarbones, the way his hands move when he talks.
He catches you looking. Grins like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "See something you like?" he asks.
"Don't push it."
"That's not a no." His hand finds your knee under the table. Stays there through the rest of dinner. Through dessertâwhich he insists on ordering even though you're full. Through the coffee. His thumb traces lazy circles against your leg and you're very aware of every single point of contact. By the time you're back in the Porsche, it's past eleven and the streets of Monaco are quieter. He drives slower this time, his hand back on your thigh like it belongs there.
"I had a good time," he says.
"Shocking."
"You did too. Don't lie." You don't answer, and instead you look out the window instead at the city lights blurring past. He pulls up to your building too soon. Puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine.
"So," he says.
"So."
"Can I come up?"
You look at him. He's watching you with that same intensity, that same certainty, like he already knows what your answer is going to be. "That's very presumptuous," you say.
"I prefer forward." His hand squeezes your thigh. "And you haven't said no yet."
"I haven't said yes either."
"But you're thinking about it." He leans closer, and you can smell his cologne again, that same expensive scent that's been driving you crazy all night. "Aren't you?"
You should say no. You should thank him for dinner, get out of the car, go upstairs alone. "Just for a drink," you hear yourself say.
His smile is dangerous. "Just for a drink."
He turns off the engine and the encompassing sudden silence is loud. You hear your own breathing, hear the way his shifts slightly as he unbuckles his seatbelt.
"Come on then," he says finally.
You get out before he can come around to open your door. He manages it anyway, meets you on the pavement, and his hand finds the small of your back as you walk toward the entrance. The lobby is empty, just silence and the night security guard who nods at you as you pass. The elevator is at the far end, and your heels click against the floor with each step. Lando's hand stays on your back, warm through the thin fabric of your dress.
You press the button. Wait, and the elevator arrives with a soft chime. The doors slide open. You step inside. He follows anf the doors close and suddenly the space feels much smaller. You're very aware of how close he's standing, how you can feel the heat radiating off him.
"Which floor?" he asks.
"Seven."
He presses the button. The elevator starts moving.
You watch the numbers climb. One. Two. Three.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
You look at him. He's already watching you, leaning against the elevator wall with his hands in his pockets, looking entirely too comfortable. "About whether this is a terrible idea," you say.
"It definetly is." He doesn't sound concerned. "But you're still bringing me up."
Four. Five. Six.
The elevator slows. Stops. The doors open. You step out into the hallway. He follows, close enough that you can feel him behind you as you walk to your door. Your hands are shaking slightly as you dig for your keys in your clutch.
"Need help?" he asks, and his voice is closer now. Right behind you.
"I've got it." You find the keys. Unlock the door. It swings open into your flatâdark except for the light you left on in the kitchen. You step inside and he follows, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud.
He doesn't move further in. Just stands there in your entryway, hands still in his pockets, watching you. "Nice place," he says.
"You haven't even looked at it."
"I'm looking at you."
Your face heats. You turn away, set your clutch down on the console table by the door. Slip off your heels. The relief is immediate but also makes you shorter, more aware of how much taller he is. "I'll get us something to drink," you say.
"Sure."
You walk toward the kitchen. Hear him follow. When you glance back, he's looking around nowâat the open floor plan, the windows overlooking the other buildings, your cream-colored Cloud couch and the art on the walls.
"Wine?" you ask, opening the fridge.
"Whatever you're having."
You pull out a bottle of white. Realize your hands are still shaking when you try to open it.
"Here." He's suddenly right behind you, taking the bottle from your hands. "Let me." He opens it easily. Pours two glasses then hands you one.
"Cheers," he says. You take a sip and the wine is cold and crisp and does nothing to settle your nerves. Lando leans against your counter, glass in hand, still watching you with that same look.
"You're staring," you say.
"I know."
"It's rude."
"I know that too." He takes a sip of wine. "But you look good so good right now, I can't help myself." He sets his glass down. "Come here."
It's not a question. Not quite a command either. Justâan invitation. A test and you should tell him to leave. Should remind him this is a terrible idea. Should do literally anything except walk toward him. You walk toward him and he doesn't move. Just watches you close the distance, watches you stop right in front of him. Close enough to touch but not touching.
"Hi," he says quietly.
"Hi."
His hand comes up. Slowly. Gives you time to move away if you want to. Cups your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "I'm going to kiss you now," he says. "If that's not okay, you should probably say something."
You don't say anything and he leans in. His mouth finds yours and it'sâfuck. It's nothing like you expected. Softer at first, almost careful, his lips moving against yours like he's learning you. His hand stays on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, and his other hand comes up to your waist, pulling you closer. Not demanding. Just guiding.
You kiss him back and feel him smile against your mouth.
"There she is," he murmurs, and then the careful is gone.
He kisses you harder, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours and his hand tightening on your waist. You make a soundâsomething embarrassing and needyâand he swallows it, uses it as permission to crowd you back against the counter. The marble is cold against your lower back but he's warm, solid, pressed against you from chest to hips.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, angling your head exactly how he wants it. The other hand moves lower, gripping your hip, thumb pressing into the hollow there through your dress. You can feel how hard he is already, the thick length of him pressing against your stomach, and when you shift slightly he groans into your mouth.
"Fuck," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips already swollen, and there's something feral in the way he's looking at you now. "Bedroom. Where's your bedroom?"
You point vaguely toward the hallway. Can't quite form words.
"Show me." You take his hand. Lead him down the hall, past the bathroom, to your bedroom door. It's dark inside but you don't turn on the light. Don't need to. The city lights through the windows give enough illumination to see the bed, to see him closing the door behind you with one hand while the other pulls you back against him.
He kisses you again. Hungrier this time, one hand fisted in your hair, the other sliding down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping your ass through the silk. He walks you backward toward the bed, doesn't break the kiss even when your legs hit the mattress.
"This dress," he says against your mouth. "Been thinking about taking it off you all night."
"Then take it off."
His hands find the zipper. Slides it down slowly, deliberately, knuckles dragging against your spine. The dress loosens, falls open, and he peels it off your shoulders. It pools at your feet and you step out of it, standing there in just your underwearâblack lace, matching set, the expensive kind you told yourself you definitely didn't wear for him.
He steps back. Looks at you.
"Jesus Christ," he says quietly.
You reach for his shirt. Start unbuttoning it, fingers fumbling slightly because he's watching you so intently and it's making your hands shake. He lets you get three buttons undone before his patience runs out and he pulls it over his head, sends it somewhere across the room. Andâfuck. You knew he'd be fit, he's an athlete, but seeing it is different. Tanned skin, defined muscles, the sharp V of his hips disappearing into his trousers. You put your hands on his chest, feel his heart racing under your palms, feel the way his breathing has gone uneven.
"Your turn," you say, fingers going to his belt.
He doesn't help. Just stands there watching you unbuckle it, unzip his trousers, push them down his hips. He steps out of them and then it's just his boxer briefsâblack, tight, doing absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. You look up at him. He's grinning now, that same cocky grin from the dressing room.
"See something you like?"
"Shut up."
"Make me." You kiss him again and he makes this soundâlow and pleasedâbefore his hands are on you, one sliding up your back to unclasp your bra while the other grips your ass, pulling you flush against him. The bra falls away and then his mouth is on your neck, your collarbone, trailing lower.
"Bed," he says against your skin. "Get on the bed."
You do. Climb onto the mattress, lie back against the pillows, and watch him watch you. He hooks his thumbs into his boxer briefs, pushes them down, andâ
Oh. He'sâfuck, he's big. Thick and hard and already leaking at the tip, and when he wraps his hand around himself and strokes once, you forget how to breathe.
"Still want to tell me to shut up?" he asks, climbing onto the bed, caging you in with his arms.
You can't speak. Can only stare at himâat the way his muscles shift as he moves, at the cocky tilt to his smile, at the heat in his eyes. His hand slides up your thigh. Slowly. Taking his time. Fingers tracing patterns against your skin until he reaches the edge of your underwear.
"These," he says, snapping the lace against your hip, "need to come off."
He doesn't wait for permission. Just hooks his fingers into the lace and drags it down your legs, tosses it somewhere behind him. Then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, and the way he's looking at youâhungry and focused and completely shamelessâmakes heat flood through your entire body.
"Fuck," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Look at you."
His fingers trace up your inner thigh, feather-light, getting closer and closer to where you need him. But he doesn't touch you yet. Just keeps tracing these maddening patterns against your skin while you try very hard not to squirm.
"Landoâ"
"Yeah?" He's grinning now. Knows exactly what he's doing. "Something you need?"
"Touch me."
"I am touching you."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?" His fingers move higher, so close now you can feel the heat of his hand. "You might need to be more specific."
You grab his wrist. Guide his hand where you want it. His palm cups you and you both make a soundâyours is relief, his is something darker. "Fuck, you're already wet," he says, and then his fingers are sliding through your folds, finding your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. "Is this what you've been thinking about? All through dinner?"
You can't answer. Can only arch into his touch as he works you with his fingers, slow and deliberate, learning exactly what makes you gasp.
"Answer me," he says, leaning down to kiss your neck. Teeth scraping against your pulse point. "Have you been thinking about this?"
"Yes." It comes out breathless. "Yes, fuckâ"
"Good." He slides one finger inside you and you both groan. "Because I've been thinking about it since the fucking dressing room."
He adds a second finger, curls them just right, and you see stars. His thumb finds your clit and works it in rhythm with his fingers, and you're already embarrassingly close, already fisting the sheets because it's too much and not enough all at once.
"That's it," he murmurs against your throat. "Let me feel you."
You come hard, sudden and sharp, your back arching off the bed. He works you through it, fingers never stopping, prolonging it until you're shaking and trying to push his hand away because it's too sensitive. He pulls his fingers out slowly. Brings them to his mouth. Sucks them clean while maintaining eye contact.
"Jesus Christ," you manage.
"We're not done." He's already reaching for his trousers, digging through the pockets. Pulls out his wallet, then a condom. "Not even close."
He tears it open with his teeth, rolls it on, and then he's positioning himself between your legs. The head of his cock presses against your entrance and you both freeze for a second.
"You good?" he asks, and there's something almost vulnerable in the question. Like he actually cares about the answer.
"Yeah." You pull him down into a kiss. "I'm good."
He pushes in slowly. Just the tip at first, letting you adjust, and fuckâhe's thick. Thicker than his fingers, stretching you in a way that's just on the right side of too much. "Breathe," he says against your mouth. "Just breathe."
You do. He pushes in deeper, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you and you both have to take a moment because it's overwhelming. He feels enormous like this, filling you completely, and when he shifts slightly you make a sound that's almost pained.
"Okay?" His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. "Talk to me."
"Move." Your hands grip his shoulders. "Please move."
He does. Pulls out slowly, pushes back in, sets a rhythm that's measured and deliberate. His eyes don't leave yours, watching every reaction, every gasp, adjusting his angle until he finds the spot that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks, doing it again.
"Yesâfuckâthereâ"
He grins. Picks up the pace, driving into you harder now, and the bed frame starts hitting the wall with each thrust. His hand slides down between your bodies, finds your clit again, and the combination of his cock and his fingers is going to kill you.
"Come on," he says, voice rough. "Want to feel you come on my cock."
You're already close, can feel it building at the base of your spine. His rhythm never falters, just keeps hitting that spot inside you over and over while his fingers work your clit, and when you come this time it's harder than before, your whole body seizing up as you clench around him.
"Fuckâ" He groans, hips stuttering, and then he's coming too, burying himself deep and grinding against you as he rides it out.
For a moment, neither of you move. Just breathe hard against each other, hearts racing, skin slicked with sweat. Then he pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and collapses next to you on the bed.
"So," he says, still catching his breath. "That wasâ"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're about to say. Justâdon't."
He laughs. Rolls onto his side to look at you. "I was going to say that was worth the three-week wait."
Despite yourself, you smile. "It was pretty good."
"Pretty good?" He looks offended. "I just made you come twice."
"Twice isn't that impressive."
"Give me ten minutes." His hand slides up your thigh. "We'll go for three."
For a second, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together last night. The restaurant. The car. Your apartment. Your bed. Lando.
You sit up. The sheets are tangled, your dress is still pooled on the floor by the door, and there's a dull ache between your legs that confirms last night definitely happened. But Lando's not here. His clothes are gone. His shoes. The only evidence he was ever here is the faint smell of his cologne on your pillows and a note on the nightstand.
You reach for it. Hotel de Paris stationery, which means he had it in his pocket.
You shower. The hot water does nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in your stomach. When you get out, you pull up his contactâthe number he texted you from with that blurry selfieâand type out a message.You hit send. The message sits there for a second, then: Not Delivered
You stare at it. Try again. Not Delivered
He blocked you. Or his number's disconnected. Or something. You wait a day. Try calling. It rings once, then straight to voicemail. The generic kind.
"The person you are trying to reach is not available." You hang up. Stare at your phone and think, what the fuck?
The weeks blur together in a haze of spreadsheets and vendor calls and forcing yourself not to think about Lando Norris.
You throw yourself into work, you finalize the floral arrangements for the ceremonyâwhite roses and peonies, exactly as Pietra specified. Confirm the string quartet for cocktail hour and the DJ for the reception. Coordinate with the Villa d'Este staff about the timeline, the seating chart, the fucking napkin placement. You email Pietra approximately four hundred times about details that probably don't matter but keep you busy enough that you don't have time to feel pathetic.
You don't tell anyone what happened. Not your friends, not your assistant, definitely not Pietra. What would you even say? I slept with the best man and then he ghosted me? It sounds stupid even in your head. You see his name in the email threads. Max and Pietra's group messages about the bachelor party, about travel arrangements, about the rehearsal dinner. Lando responds to everythingâquick, efficient, and never directly to you. Always just replies-all to the group.
You stop trying to text him after the first week. Stop checking his Instagram after the second. By week three, you've almost convinced yourself it was just a one-night thing that you both silently agreed to forget about.
Almost. Then Pietra sends the email.
Wonderful, this is going to be absolutely fucking wonderful.
You arrive at Villa d'Este on Sunday afternoon with your tablet, three different backup chargers, and a determination to be so fucking professional that Lando Norris will feel like an absolute idiot for whatever game he's playing.
The villa is stunningâwhich is not surprising given that Pietra wouldn't settle for quite literally anything less. Terracotta and cypress trees and Italian sunshine that makes everything look like a painting. The staff greets you at the entrance, and you're shown to your room: a corner suite with a view of Lake Como that would be romantic if you weren't here to work.
You unpack. Check your timeline. Confirm with the florist about tomorrow's delivery. Send Pietra a message letting her know you've arrived. She responds immediately with approximately forty heart emojis. The welcome dinner is at 8 PM on the terrace. You spend an hour deciding what to wear, which is stupid because this is a work event and you should just throw on something professional and call it done. Instead you try on four different dresses before settling on a linen midi dress in creamâelegant, appropriate, and coincidentally (totally not planned) makes you look incredible.
At 7:38 PM, you step onto the terrace. It's exactly as beautiful as you expected. String lights overhead, long tables set with flickering candles, the lake shimmering in the background. Pietra spots you immediately and practically runs over, pulling you into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and champagne. "You're here! Oh my god, thank you for coming early, I know it's a lot but I justâI needed you here, you know?"
"Of course," you say, and you mean it. Pietra's one of the good ones. "Everything's going to be perfect."
"I know. Because you're here." She squeezes your hand, then gets pulled away by one of her bridesmaids. You grab a glass of wine from a passing server. Scan the terrace. Max is by the bar with his brother. The bridesmaids are clustered near the railing, taking photos. And thenâ
There.
Lando's at the far end of the terrace, leaning against the stone wall with a beer in his hand, laughing at something one of the groomsmen just said. White linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair messy like he's been on the beach. Even from here you can see the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders when he moves. Beautiful bastard.
He hasn't seen you yet. You turn away and head toward the opposite side of the terrace. You can do this. You can be in the same space as him for one week without it being a thing. You're a professional for fucksake.
"Well, you're doing it incredibly well." He gestures toward the bar. "Come on, let me introduce you to everyone. Wellâeveryone you haven't met yet."
Your stomach drops. "Max, I've alreadyâ"
But he's already steering you across the terrace, toward the group of groomsmen, toward the bar, toward him. "Lando, mate, have you metâ" For half a secondâjust halfâsomething flashes across his face. Something that looks almost like oh fuck. But then it's gone, smoothed over, replaced by that easy smile, and he's extending his hand like you're strangers.
"Don't think we've been properly introduced," he says. His voice is perfectly friendly. Perfectly casual. "Lando."
You stare at him. At his outstretched hand. At the complete absence of acknowledgment in his eyes. "I know who you are," you say.
"Right. Wedding planner." His smile doesn't waver. "Pietra talks about you constantly."
He's still holding out his hand. Waiting. You shake it. His grip is firm, professional, and he lets go immediatelyâno lingering, no recognition, nothing. Max is already talking. Something about the bachelor party itinerary, about the boat they rented, about someone's girlfriend who couldn't make it. You're not listening. You're looking at Lando, at the way he's nodding along to Max's story like this is completely normal, like he didn't fuck you three months ago and then disappear.
"âright?" Max finishes.
You have no idea what he just said. "Absolutely."
"Perfect! I'll let you two sort out the logistics." Max claps Lando on the shoulder and wanders off toward Pietra, leaving you standing there with a man who's currently pretending he doesn't know what you look like naked.
The silence stretches. Lando takes a sip of his beer. You grip your wine glass hard enough that you're mildly concerned it might shatter. "So," he says finally. "Bachelor party logistics, huh?."
You stare at him. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
"What?" He has the audacity to look confused. Concerned, even. "Did Max not fill you in on the timing? I can send you theâ"
"Stop."
He stops. The casual mask slips just slightlyâsomething sharper underneath, something that looks almost like guilt but you're not sure because it's gone before you can name it. "You blocked my number," you say quietly. The terrace is loud enough that no one else will hear, but you keep your voice low anyway. "You left a note that said you'd call. And then you blocked my fucking number."
"I didn'tâ" He stops. Looks away. Jaw working. "It's complicated."
"Complicated." You laugh, and it comes out brittle. "Right. So complicated that you couldn't send a single text that said 'hey, this was a mistake' or 'I'm not interested' or literally anything besides complete silence for three months."
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" You step closer, and he actually takes a step back. Good. "Because from where I'm standing, you spent weeks pursuing me, convinced me to have dinner with you, fucked me, and then disappeared. So please, Lando, tell me what it was actually like."
His hand tightens around his beer bottle. "Can we not do this here?"
"Oh, now you want to talk?"
"Iâ" He glances around. The terrace is full of people, but no one's paying attention to you. "Yes. Justânot here."
"Why not?"
"Becauseâ" He stops. Runs his free hand through his hair, and there it isâthe first crack in the facade. He looks actually frustrated, like an actual fucking human being. "Because Max and Pietra don't know. About us. Aboutâ" He gestures vaguely between you. "Any of it."
"There is no us," you say. "There was one night. That you pretended never happened."
"I'm not pretending."
"Then what do you call this?" You gesture at the space between you. "The handshake? The 'don't think we've been properly introduced'? What the fuck was that?"
"I was trying toâ" He stops. "I didn't know what else to do."
"You could've been honest, Lando."
"Yeah, well, I'm trying to be honest right now."
"Three months late."
"I know." He steps closer and his voice drops, quiet enough that it's just for you. "I know, and Iâlook, can we please just talk about this somewhere that isn't the middle of Pietra's welcome dinner with forty people around us?"
You open your mouth to tell him no, to tell him there's nothing to talk about, to tell him he had three months to have this conversation and he chose silence instead. But before you can get a single word out, someone calls his name.
"Lando!"
You both turn. There's a woman walking toward youâtall, blonde, short hair, absolutely stunning in a lilac slip dress. She's smiling, bright and easy and completely unaware that she's just walked into the middle of something, and when she reaches Lando she rises up on her toes and kisses his cheek like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Your stomach drops so fast you actually feel dizzy.
"There you are," she says, her hand landing on his arm. The touch is light, casual, but it stays there, definitely stays there. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Pietra wants to do a champagne toast before dinner and she's panicking because she can't find the speech she wrote."
Lando's face does something that looks like dread and resignation and guilt all at once. "Magui, Iâ"
And that's when it clicks. When your brain finally catches up to what you're seeing, to who this is, to what this means. Magui. Magui Corceiro. Portuguese model, Lando's ex-girlfriend, andâaccording to Pietra's meticulously organized bridal party spreadsheet that you've reviewed approximately three dozen times in the last two monthsâthe maid of honor. She turns to you now, still smiling, still completely oblivious to the fact that you're currently having an out-of-body experience. "Hi! You must be the wedding planner. Pietra showed me all your photos of the ceremony setupâit's going to be absolutely gorgeous."
You can't speak. Your brain has completely short-circuited because Lando's ex-girlfriend is standing in front of you being lovely and friendly and probably a genuinely nice person, and she has no idea that you slept with him three months ago. That he left a note on your nightstand and then blocked your number. That he's standing here right now looking like he wants the terrace to open up and swallow him whole.
"Hi," you manage. Your voice sounds strange, like it's coming from very far away. "Yes. The planner."
"I'm Magui." She extends her hand and you shake it on autopilot, and her grip is warm and her smile is genuine and you kind of want to die. "I'm so excited for this week. Pietra's been planning this wedding since I met her, I swear."
"Yeah," you say. Very articulate. "She has."
Magui's hand is still on Lando's arm. She's not holding on tight, not being possessive, but it's thereâa casual point of contact that speaks to history, to familiarity, to the kind of comfort you only get with someone you've known for years. And suddenly, with a clarity that makes you feel physically sick, everything makes sense. The Hotel de Paris, where he took you to dinner. Where people saw you together, where phones came out, where he very deliberately chose somewhere public and high-profile instead of some quiet bistro where you could've had privacy. The ghosting that came after. The blocked number. The three months of complete silence. He took you there to make her jealous. He fucked you and then he went back to her. And you were stupid enough to think it meant something.
Wow, what a fucking joke.
You look at Lando and he's staring at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he can see the entire realization playing out on your face. There's something desperate in his expression now, something that looks almost like panic, and his mouth opens like he's about to say something, like he's going to try to explain or defend himself or ask you to just wait, just give him a second toâ
You don't wait. "Excuse me," you say, and your voice comes out perfectly level, perfectly professional. "I need to check on the seating arrangements."
You turn and walk away before either of them can respond. You don't runârunning would draw attention, would make it obvious that something's wrongâbut you walk fast enough that you're through the terrace doors and into the villa's cool interior within seconds. The hallway is blessedly empty. You make it around the corner, out of sight of the terrace, and then you stop. Just stop, press your back against the wall, close your eyes, and try very hard to remember how to breathe.
Fuck.
You avoid Lando Norris for the next four days. Monday is vendor deliveries and a conveniently timed florist crisis. Tuesday is spa day for the bridal party, which you skip because you're "confirming final counts with catering." Wednesday is the rehearsal dinner and you plant yourself next to Pietra the entire night, keep Max's brother between you and Lando during dinner, and do not make eye contact. Not once. Not when he gives his speech and everyone laughs. Not when you feel him watching you from across the table. Not when Magui's hand is on his thigh and you have to pretend you don't see it, don't care, aren't replaying that night in your apartment on a fucking loop.
It works. For four days, it works.
Then it's Thursday nightâthe night before the weddingâand you're alone in your room. You've showered, changed into an oversized t-shirt, pulled your hair into a messy knot. Your tablet is open on the bed next to you, tomorrow's timeline pulled up even though you've memorized every minute. Ceremony at 4:30. Cocktail hour at 5:45. Reception at 7:00. Everything is confirmed, everything is perfect, and you should be asleep because tomorrow is sixteen hours of nonstop work.
Instead you're staring at the timeline trying not to think about the fact that tomorrow you'll have to watch Lando stand at the altar in that Cifonelli suit. Watch him give a speech about love and commitment while Magui sits at the head table looking beautiful and oblivious.
There's a knock at your door. 11:47 PM. More likely than not, it's Pietra panicking about something last-minute, or hotel staff with towels you didn't ask for.
It's one of the groomsmen. Tom, maybe, or the one whose name you keep forgettingâone of Max's childhood friends who has been aggressively normal all week and therefore completely indistinguishable from the others. He's still in his dinner clothes with his tie loosened and he's holding his phone out to you.
"Sorry, do you have the groomsmen timeline for tomorrow? Mine cuts off after the ceremony and I can't find theâ"
"Yeah," you say. "One second."
You go back to your tablet. Pull it up. AirDrop it to him. The whole thing takes forty seconds. "Brilliant, cheers," he says. "Sorry for bothering you."
"It's fine."
You close the door. Stand there.
The room is exactly as you left it. Tablet on the bed, timeline pulled up, lamp on the nightstand casting the same warm light it's been casting for the last two hours. Nothing has changed. Everything is fine and confirmed and in its place and you did not just spend the walk to the door composing your face into something that wasn'tâ
You were going to fix your hair. Your hand was actually moving toward your hair. You go back to bed. Turn off the lamp and stare at the ceiling for a while in the dark like a normal person who is completely fine and definitely not lying in a five-star suite on Lake Como having feelings about a man who couldn't be bothered to text.
You're asleep by one. Probably.
You're up at six. The florist calls at 6:04 because she's psychotic, and there are, apparently, too many peonies. You stand on your balcony in yesterday's t-shirt and handle it, because that's what you do, and also because handling it means you can't think about anything else, which is the closest thing to a coping mechanism you have right now.
By eight you've redistributed the surplus flowers, confirmed the string quartet's arrival, talked Pietra down from a weather spiral (partly cloudy is not rain, it has never been rain, clouds are not an emergency), and eaten something standing over the sink. By ten you're in your dress and moving through the villa with your tablet and your timeline and your entire personality held together by a thread.
It works. Right up until the ceremony. The groomsmen are already at the altar when you do your final sweep from the back of the terrace. You're checking sightlines. Checking the musicians. Checking that the flower girl hasn't eaten the petals out of her basket again.
You find him anyway. You weren't looking and you find him anyway, which is really just your life now. The suit fits exactly as well as you knew it would. You stood in that dressing room and checked every seam yourself. Midnight blue, peak lapels, the mother-of-pearl buttons Pietra specified in the email she sent at 11 PM on a Tuesday. His hair is neat for once. He's laughing at something Max just said, head tilted, and he looks, well, he looks beautiful.
You look back down at your tablet. He looks up. You feel it without seeing it, that same thing you felt across the room at Cifonelli four months ago, and you keep your eyes on your screen and breathe.
The ceremony starts one minute late. You note it and say nothing. Pietra comes down the aisle and she looks so genuinely, stupidly happy that something in your chest does a thing you weren't prepared for. Ten meters of Italian lace and she's crying already and Max looks like a man who cannot believe his luck, and you're standing at the side of this terrace with your tablet and your earpiece and your professional remove, and it still gets you. It always gets you. It's the only part of this job that still surprises you every single time.
You watch from the periphery, same as always. That's where you live at weddingsâjust outside the frame, making sure everything inside it stays perfect. You check the musicians. Check the timing. Check that the rings are where they're supposed to be.
You don't mean to keep finding him in the crowd. It just keeps happening. He's watching Max the whole time. That's the thingâthere's no performance to it, no awareness of how he looks. Just him, actually present, actually feeling something, and when Max's voice breaks slightly on his vows Lando looks down at his shoes for a second like he's trying to get it together.
You write 4:47âceremony concluded in your notes.
When they kiss the whole terrace erupts and Lando is the loudest, clapping with his whole body, grinning like an idiot, and Max grabs him first before Pietra and they do that thing men do where they hug and immediately try to make it funny and Pietra throws her arms around both of them and the photographer is getting all of it and you are standing fifteen feet away writing transition to cocktail hourâon schedule.
Like Lando, at the edge of the terrace, with a drink in his hand, not talking to anyone. You notice it the way you notice everythingâperipherally, catalogued, filed away. He's been stopped twice for photos, laughed at something Max's brother said, done a full loop of the terrace. But right now he's standing at the stone railing looking out at the lake and he looks like someone who is also trying not to look at something.
You're at the coordinator's table near the kitchen entrance. Good sightline, close enough to intervene, far enough to be invisible. You've eaten half a bread roll. You have a glass of water and a glass of wine and you've touched neither of them in forty minutes. This is normal. This is what weddings look like from your side of them.
The speeches start at eight. Max's father goes first. Then Pietra's sister, who cries through the whole thing in a way that is genuinely charming and gets the room crying with her. Then the maid of honorâMagui, composed and warm and funny in exactly the right measure, and you watch her at the microphone and feel nothing except a vague and distant acknowledgment that she is, irritatingly, very likeable.
Then Lando stands up. The room shifts the way rooms do when someone walks into them with a specific kind of energy. He gets a cheer before he's even said a word, someone whoops from the back, and he grins and waits for it to die down with the patience of someone who has been in front of crowds his entire adult life.
"Right," he says. "So I've been told to keep this under ten minutes."
Someone shouts something. He laughs. "Which is generous, actually, because I had a whole thing prepared and then Max told me Pietra's sister was going first and I watched her speak at the rehearsal dinner and I've scrapped it completely because there's no following that."
More laughter. Pietra is already crying again. You are looking at your tablet. "I've known Max since we were kids," Lando says, and his voice shiftsâstill easy, still him, but quieter now. This was more real. "And I can tell you that for a long time he was the most annoying person I'd ever met, which is saying something because I work with some genuinely difficult peopleâ"
Laughter.
"âbut the thing about Max is that he has never once, in fifteen years, pretended to be someone he isn't. Not for anyone. And I always thought that was justâI thought that was just who he was. That it was easy for him."
He pauses. Looks at Max.
"And then I watched him meet Pietra."
The room has gone very quiet. "And I realized it wasn't that it was easy. It was that he was waiting. For someone who made itânot easy. Justâworth it." He picks up his glass. "I've never said this to your face because you'd be insufferable about it, but you're my best friend and I love you, mate. And Pietra." He turns to her. "Thank you for making him this annoying to be around. He smiles all the time now, it's disgusting, we all hate it."
Pietra laughs through her tears.
"To Max and Pietra." The room rises and you raise your water glass and you do not look at him and your throat is doing something completely unreasonable that you are going to ignore. By nine-thirty the dancing is in full swing and your job has mostly become logistics maintenanceâchecking the cake is ready, confirming the late night snacks are on schedule, fielding a minor situation involving someone's elderly aunt and the wrong seat assignment. Small things. Manageable things.
Which means you have too much space in your head. You slip out through the side door onto the smaller terrace, the one that wraps around the north side of the villa. It's quieter here, just the music drifting out from the reception and the lake below and the night air which is warm and still and completely wasted on you. You lean against the railing and look at the water and let yourself have five minutes of not performing.
You hear the door behind you. You know before you turn around and turn around anyway. Better to get it over with. He's loosened his tie at some point, top button undone, and he's holding two glasses of wine which is either presumptuous or optimistic or both. He holds one out to you.
You take it. You're too tired not to. He comes to stand next to you at the railing, not close enough to be a thing, justâthere. Looking at the lake. You look at the lake too. The music from inside is muffled out here, something slow, and the water is doing that thing it does at night where it looks completely still even though it isn't.
"Good speech," you say, because you're a professional and it was.
"Thanks."
Silence. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just weighted. "The flowers looked incredible," he says.
"They did."
"Pietra cried when she saw the ceremony setup. Like, before anyone arrived. Just walked in and started crying."
"I know. I was there."
"Right." He turns his glass in his hand. "You're always there."
You're not sure what to do with that so you don't do anything with it. The lake does its thing. The music does its thing. You finish half your wine and let the silence sit because you're too tired to perform and apparently so is he.
"Magui and I have been on and off for four years," he says finally. Not looking at you. Looking at the water. "On when it was easy, off when it wasn't, back on because it's familiar and familiar felt like enough when you're never in the same place for more than two weeks." He pauses. "It wasn't enough. It hadn't been for a long time. We both knew it."
You don't say anything.
"The night I took you to dinner," he says. "We were off."
There it is. "And after," he says. "When I left yours. We were still off." He pauses. "And then I got back and she called and we were," he stops. "We were on again. By the time I thought to reach you it had been two weeks and I didn't know how to." He exhales. "There's no good version of this."
"No," you say. "There isn't."
"I should have told you. Before dinner, before any of it, I should have told you it was complicated and let you decide if you wanted to be anywhere near it." He turns his glass in his hand. "I didn't because I didn't want you to say no."
The music inside swells for a moment then settles. Someone laughs, loud and bright, and then it's quiet again out here.
"So right now," you say. Carefully. "You and her."
He doesn't answer immediately, which is its own answer. "It's complicated," he finally says.
"You said that already. At the welcome dinner."
"I know." He looks at you then. Really looks at you, and you wish he wouldn't because it's much easier to be angry at someone when they're not looking at you like that. "I'm sorry. For the record. Not because I need you to forgive me or because we're stuck at the same wedding. Justâyou didn't deserve any of it. The dinner, the note, the silence. None of it was fair to you."
You look at him for a long moment. He means it. That's the worst part. He's standing here in the suit you watched being fitted four months ago and he means every word of it and it doesn't change a single thing.
"No," you say. "It wasn't. You should sort it out," you say. "Whatever it is. Justâsort it out."
You mean it as exactly what it is. Not an opening, not a door left ajar. Just the truthâthat four years of on and off is no way to live and you can see it on him and whatever else he is he doesn't deserve that either.
You pick up your tablet. Turn toward the door.
"Hey."
You stop. He's stepped closer. Not by muchâjust enough that you're aware of it, the same way you've been aware of him all night, all week, across every room you've had the misfortune of sharing. His tie is loose and his eyes are doing the thing they do and he has absolutely no business looking like that.
"What," you say.
"Nothing." The corner of his mouth pulls up. "Just â you look really good tonight."
"Lando."
"I'm just saying."
"You're just saying," you repeat.
"The dress isâ" he gestures vaguely, "â it's a good dress." You look at him. At the half smile and the careful eyes and the very deliberate closing of distance that he's doing so slowly you're almost supposed to not notice.
"Don't," you say.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing something."
He takes another half step. You don't move back, which is either confidence or stubbornness, and at this point you genuinely can't tell the difference. He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne, the same one from the dressing room, from your kitchen, from the one night you've been trying to stop replaying for four months.
"Sort it out first," you say quietly.
He stops. Something moves across his face. The half smile fades into something more honest, and he looks at you for a long moment in the dark with the lake behind him and the music leaking through the doors and forty people thirty feet away who have no idea.
"Yeah," he says finally. Quietly. "Okay."
You hold his gaze for one more second and then you go back inside.
The cake goes out at nine fifty-two, eight minutes behind schedule, which you will think about for days. Pietra doesn't notice. Nobody notices. The room is candlelight and dancing and white flowers and everything she asked for, and you stand at the edge of it with your tablet and your earpiece and watch it all run exactly the way you built it to.
Max dips Pietra on the dance floor and she shrieks and the whole room cheers.
You write 2147âreception on track in your notes. You don't look for him. That's the thingâyou don't look. And somewhere between the cake and the late night pizzette and the moment Pietra throws her bouquet directly at her maid of honor's face, you realize you've stopped bracing for it. Stopped waiting for him to appear in your peripheral vision. Stopped doing the thing where you feel him in a room before you see him.
Maybe that's something. Maybe that's enough for tonight. You're in the car to the airport by noon on Monday. Your inbox has forty-three unread emails, a voice note from Pietra that is mostly crying and the word perfect repeated several times, and nothing else.
You fly home. You make coffee. You open your laptop.
You don't check for anything specific.
He calls on a Wednesday. Three weeks after the wedding, 9 PM your time, and you answer on the second ring which you will think about later with some irritation.
He calls two weeks after that, and then two months later.
It's October when you finally have the balls to properly ask.
You don't mean to. You've been on the phone for forty minutes about nothingâhis race in Japan, your nightmare client in Paris, an argument about whether peonies are actually better than roses which you're winning handilyâand it just comes out.
"Are you and Magui still off?"
Silence. Two seconds, maybe three.
"Yeah," he says. "We're off."
"Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, and he's quiet again
Neither of you says anything for a moment. "The peonies thing," you say. "I'm right."
"You're not right."
"I'm always right."
"Okay, you're right about flowers and wrong about everything else."
"Name one thing."
"You told me Austin was always loud and last weekend it was completely fine actually!"
You're laughing before you can stop it and he sounds pleased about that, insufferably pleased, and you talk for another twenty minutes about nothing and when you hang up you sit with yeah, we're off for a long time in the dark.
He doesn't call for another two months.
You don't call him either. That's the thing you come back to, laterâyou could have. You have his number, he has yours, there's no rule that says it has to be him. But you wait, and he doesn't call, and you tell yourself it's fine because it is fine, it was always going to be fine, you knew what this was.
You get through November on spreadsheets and a particularly chaotic engagement party in Cannes. December on a destination wedding in Marrakech that nearly kills you professionally but produces the best photographs you've ever seen. January on sheer spite and very good coffee.
He calls in February. A Sunday, 11 AM, like no time has passed at all.
You answer on the third ring. Progress.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"I'm in London."
"Okay."
"It's raining."
"It's always raining."
A pause. "I know I went quiet."
"You don't have to do this, Lando."
"I know I don't have to." His voice is even. "I just wanted to say it. I went quiet and I'm sorry."
You look out your window at Monaco in February, grey and still, the harbour flat and cold.
"Is everything okay," you ask.
"Yeah." A beat. "It's getting there."
You believe him. You always believe him, which is its own problem.
"I have a bride in Tuscany," you say. "She wants the entire wedding in shades of terracotta."
"Is that bad?"
"It's not bad it's justâit's a lot of terracotta, Lando."
He laughs and something in your chest unknots quietly and you talk for an hour about nothing and when you hang up you don't sit with it this time. You just go make coffee and open your laptop and get on with your day.
He calls the following Sunday. And the one after that.
By spring it's justâa thing. Your thing. He calls on Sundays when he can, Wednesdays when he can't wait until Sunday, random Tuesday nights from airports when his flight is delayed and he's bored and you're the person he wants to talk to apparently, which you have filed under not my problem and left there.
You know his schedule better than you mean to. You know Bahrain is always chaos and he hates the Monaco GP for reasons he won't fully explain and that he's been trying to learn to cook since January with limited success.
"The pasta was fine," he says, from his kitchen in Woking on a Wednesday in April.
"You said that last time and then you told me you ate cereal for dinner."
"The pasta was fine and then I had cereal for dessert. Two separate things."
"That's not what dessert means."
"That's exactly what dessert means."
"Lando."
"What, it was good cereal."
You're smiling at your kitchen table over a glass of wine and you are absolutely not thinking about what this is.
He doesn't call on Sunday.
Or the Sunday after that. You don't call him either. You tell yourself you're busy, which is trueâthere's a wedding in Vienna in November and a corporate event in Paris that's somehow become your problem and a bride who has changed her color palette four times in three weeks. You're busy.
You're always busy, so it's fine.
October becomes November. November becomes December and you're at your parents' house on Christmas Eve standing in the kitchen when your phone rings.
Your stomach does the thing before you've even looked at the screen.
"Merry Christmas," he says.
"It's not Christmas until tomorrow."
"Merry Christmas Eve then."
"That's not a thing."
"I'm making it a thing." A pause, warm and easy. "Are you with your family?"
"Yes."
"Good." Simply. Warmly. "Good."
You're standing in your childhood kitchen with two glasses of wine in you and Lando Norris is wishing you a Merry Christmas Eve from wherever he is and you are so far from fine it's almost funny.
"Merry Christmas Eve," you say.
He laughs. Soft and real. You talk until your mum calls you for dinner. You hang up and go and you don't think about it and you are not fine and that's just where you are now apparently.
He doesn't call in January.
Or February. Or March. Or April or May.
You stop expecting it around March, which feels like its own small achievement. You get through February on a wedding in Marrakech and sheer stubbornness. March on a nightmare engagement party in Geneva and very good chocolate. April on nothing in particular, just the ordinary machinery of your life clicking along without him in it, which is how it was before and how it will be after and that's fine.
You're fine.
It's June. A Thursday afternoon, sun coming through your kitchen window at that specific Instagramable angle, coffee going cold on the counter. You have fourteen unread emails and a call with a florist in an hour and approximately zero feelings about anything.
Your laptop pings.
You stop. Go back.
Read the CC line again like it's going to say something different the second time.
It doesn't.
You close the laptop.
Sit there.
The florist call is in thirty-eight minutes. The seating chart is still a disaster. Your coffee is cold and the sun is coming through the window and Monaco is doing its thing outside completely unbothered by the fact that you are sitting at your kitchen table doing the math again and this time it's adding up to something very fucking specific.
Six months of silence and this is what he was sorting.
You sit with that for a while. Let it go where it needs to go. The Christmas Eve call. The easy Wednesday. Sort it out first. Him saying yeah, okay on a terrace in July like it was a promise.
And maybe it was. Maybe this is just what okay looked like from where he was standing.
Your laptop pings and you open it without thinking.
From: Lando Norris To: You Subject: Re: Wedding Planning Inquiry
One line.
I can explain.
You stare at it for a long time.
Then you close it. Open a new email. Type:
Hi Magui, lovely to hear from youâcongratulations on your engagement!
no matter how many layers you wear, you still feel cold when youâre alone. youâve started suspecting the feeling has very little to do with temperature. Û¶à§
pairings ! lars lindstrom x fem! reader
warnings ! lowercase on purpose, reader can be read as neurodivergent, mentions of body image issues, mentions of past depression, non-sexual nudity, implied family issues i think, ooc lars maybe??, a little angst/comfort, FLUFF. english is not my first language!! part two of this ! title from: misuse oh â ethel cain.
author's note ! oh my god, this is long as hell and i lowk didn't know how to end this!!! please remember that my requests are open for any ryan gosling character!! please YAP ABOUT THEM IN MY ASKS!! PLWEASSEEE đ€§ ok thank u.
word count ! 3,9k words (so long i'm sorryyy).
since meeting lars, youâve learned two things about him very quickly: he is devastatingly good at scrabble, and he knows how to chop wood.
you watch him outside sometimes through the kitchen window, sweater discarded and only wearing his flannel and white undershirt, splitting logs with repetition.
lars loves repetition. you think it makes him comfortable with himself; actions repeated enough times stop requiring conscious thought entirely.
you don't think anyone else has noticed that about him.
â...and you donât use wet wood,â he explains one evening, crouched carefully beside the fireplace. âit smokes too much.â
you nod seriously like this is the first time you've heard this information. it is not.
you already know how to build a fire; your father taught you years ago during one particularly bad winter when the power kept cutting out for hours at a time. you remember sitting cross-legged on the floor wrapped in blankets while he explained airflow and why flames suffocate without enough oxygen. you remember the gray in his head more than the instructions.
still, you let lars explain it anyway.
âdry leaves first,â he continues, focused entirely on the tiny structure heâs building between the logs. âthen smaller branches. then bigger pieces after it catches.â
his personality changes when he teaches things. care reveals itself in strange ways, you suppose. sometimes itâs simply someone believing youâre worth explaining things to carefully. you hadnât realized how long it had been since someone last treated you gently enough to teach you something without irritation. years, maybe? no. longer than that.
larsâ house is comfy. it's not really a house; it's more like a modified garage, but you never cared about that.
your mother used to say calling a house âcomfyâ was just a polite way of admitting it was small. but larsâ house isnât small; at least you don't think so, and your mom used to be more wrong than right most of the time.
larsâ house feels safe in quiet ways your apartment never has. you find yourself lingering longer every visit. gus didn't believe you the first time you explained the way his house made you feel, thinking you were making a bad joke.
âhe doesnât even turn his lights on,â he said slowly, fork suspended halfway to his mouth. âthatâs insane.â
you shrugged a little, suddenly embarrassed by how defensive you felt. âi donât either.â
across from you, karin looks delighted. you think she genuinely loves how similar you and lars are.
which is a little concerning, honestly.
the snow has started melting by now. ice dripping from rooftops and patches of dead grass reappearing.
no matter how many layers you wear, you still feel cold when youâre alone. youâve started suspecting the feeling has very little to do with temperature.
ever since meeting lars, youâve been spending less time by yourself. you're careful about not being too pushy; you can tell lars needs space the same way animals need quiet after being startled. too much pressure, and he retreats into himself immediately, gaze darting elsewhere, shoulders tightening beneath his sweaters, and an uncomfortable smile.
you knock exactly three times whenever you visit; routine makes the behavior yadda yadda, and he opens the door almost immediately now.
still awkward. still avoiding direct eye contact most days. his eyes usually land somewhere beside your shoulder instead, or on the floorboards, or briefly towards the trees outside before flickering back again.
but he opens the door.
sometimes, while stepping inside, you catch the curtains moving in karin and gusâ house across. you know theyâre watching.
you know they think the two of you are already together. you arenât.
probably.
the distinction feels blurrier lately than youâd like admitting.
you donât actually do much at larsâ house. thatâs the weirdest part. you sit at the kitchen counter while he cooks dinner quietly beside you. you fill the quiet, telling him about fabrics at the shop. which materials retain heat best. which textures people buy most during winter. you explain how velvet catches dust embarrassingly fast and how wool shrinks if washed incorrectly.
lars listens carefully to all of it.
sometimes you don't have more fabric to tell him about, so you talk about the weather instead.
âthink itâs gonna rain tomorrow,â you say one evening, chin resting against your sleeve while lars stirs soup quietly at the stove.
he glances towards the window automatically. âyeah...â
âi hope itâs not a storm," that catches his attention, and you shrug awkwardly under the weight of his gaze. âi hate storms.â
you donât tell him thunderstorms used to keep you awake as a child, convinced every sound outside your window meant something terrible approaching. you donât explain how loneliness worsens during stormsâsomehow, every room suddenly feels too small and too loud at once.
lars doesnât ask for explanations anyway.
after dinner, he suggests scrabble quietly. you always say yes immediately.
the two of you play for hours sometimes, knees accidentally brushing beneath the table before both of you subtly readjust in opposite directions. lars becomes strangely competitive during the game, focused intensely on every letter, brows furrowed with concentration severe enough to make you smile.
you didn't even know you could get your ass kicked at scrabble, and you think lars likes winning more than he likes speaking.
youâre not even sure if what you feel for him is romantic, but you know your body feels colder after leaving his house.
that evening ends earlier than you want it to.
you linger by larsâ doorway longer than necessary, coat already on, keys in your hand, while neither of you seems particularly eager to initiate the goodbye. lars stands there half-hidden beneath the warm yellow light from the lamps inside his house.
your boss advised you about this.
âgive the man some space,â sheâd told you once while folding some clothes behind the counter. âleave him wanting more.â
you hated that immediately, because she didn't seem to realize that you leave wanting more too.
you wave goodbye from your car anyway. lars lifts his hand back awkwardly from the porch.
and then you drive home alone.
making dinner for one person feels different now. the apartment feels too quiet while you stand over the stove. every sound is exaggerated: water boiling, the refrigerator humming faintly, and forks clinking against ceramic plates.
you thought about adopting a cat sometimes. youâd almost gone through with it once, months ago, after seeing a little gray kitten sleeping in the pet shop window downtown. something small and warm waiting for you at home sounded nice back then.
now the idea feels wrong, egoistical.
your mother used to say pets were like permanent babies. youâre not that good with babies.
you know this because karin and gus once asked you and lars to babysit theirs.
youâre still fairly certain it was a setup, karin practically radiating happiness. but theyâd both looked so exhausted, pleading that they needed some time alone that refusing felt cruel somehow.
so, there you were, standing awkwardly in their living room, holding an actual human infant against your hip.
âi donât think iâve ever taken care of a baby before,â you admit carefully, bouncing the baby gently the way youâve seen people do in movies.
the fact gus doesnât immediately correct your form feels encouraging.
âthey mostly eat, poop, and sleep,â he says casually while wrapping a scarf around his neck.
âtheyâre also incredibly fragile.â you remind him. âdoes lars know how to take care of one?â
âoh, god, no,â gus says instantly, laughing softly. âhe is the baby of the family.â
something twists unexpectedly in your stomach at that.
the baby coos suddenly in your arms, tiny hands flexing against your sweater. without thinking, you press your nose gently against theirs. youâve seen karin do it dozens of times by now; she looked cute doing it. you hope you look the same way.
your mind wanders briefly to what lars looked like as a baby.
âwhat was he like?â you ask, eyes looking for gusâs ones. âas a baby, i mean.â
âoh.â he smiles to himself as the memories flood his mind. âlars cried constantly. drove our dad and me insane.â
the answer lands strangely inside you. a small heavy feeling settling beneath your ribs, deep into your stomach.
you imagine tiny baby lars crying somewhere in the middle of the night, sensitive to everything already. too cold, maybe. too lonely. wanting comfort badly enough to scream for it.
the image hurts more than it should.
âmhm.â you murmur softly. âyeah, i was a crybaby too.â
âyou donât seem like one," he says, barely giving you any attention while he looks for his coat.
you donât know why the comment bothers you immediately.
you shift the baby slightly higher against your chest. âmy mom used to say i cried every time she left the room,â you admit quietly. âi was always attached to her side.â
you arenât entirely sure why you say it. maybe to defend yourself. maybe to defend lars.
gus only nods vaguely, already focused on finding his keys. you realized he stopped listening to you entirely.
the front door opens. karin steps inside first, cheeks pink from the cold air outside, lars following close behind her.
your entire body notices him immediately, straightening your posture at the mere sight of him.
âhi,â you say. you would wave, but thereâs a whole baby occupying both of your arms currently.
âhi,â lars answers softly, lifting his hand awkwardly instead.
karin looks thrilled. âyou both know where to find us if anything happens,â she says brightly while pulling on her gloves. âgood luck.â
you press your cheek softly against the babyâs. âsay bye to mom and dad,â you murmur playfully.
you see by the corner of your eye lars closing his eyes tightly for one brief second before reopening them again.
a second pit forms in your stomach, this time different. heat rising towards your cheeks. you hope that you imagined that, because the idea of lars liking the image of you with a baby is too much to handle at the moment.
so you say nothing.
ââ
you were right about the rain. unfortunately, you were also right about the storm.
the sky had looked wrong all afternoon, heavy in a swollen gray. customers at the shop kept glancing towards the windows nervously while wind rattled against the glass.
âi can drive you home,â your boss offered while locking up for the evening. âyour car looks like it dies out of spite.â
you narrowed your eyes immediately. âthat was unnecessarily mean.â
âitâs also true.â
you refused anyway. partly because accepting help still embarrasses you in ways you havenât outgrown apparently and partly because you trust your car despite everything. itâs old and ugly, yes, but loyal. your car has seen you cry before; that has to count for something in your opinion.
so naturally, because your opinion doesn't matter, it breaks down halfway home.
you stare ahead in silence for a full five seconds after it happens, hands still gripping the steering wheel tightly as rain pounds violently against the windshield.
âwell,â you mutter finally.
thunder cracks somewhere nearby. the sound is so sudden and close your entire body jerks instinctively.
you hate thunderstorms.
as a child you used to think lightning existed specifically to reveal terrible things hidden in darkness. murderers, monsters, and people that walked too slow.
the church nearby only makes the fear worse. its lightning rod cuts sharply against the storm-dark sky now; you feel every thunder deep into your ribs. you inhale slowly, then exhale, and you try again.
your car is not restarting.
of course it fucking isnât.
rain batters loudly against the roof while you debate your options. karin and gusâ house is close enough to walk to from here. you know they wouldnât mind helping.
but then your thoughts drift automatically towards lars. and immediately recoil again.
you saw him yesterday, and showing up unexpectedly during a thunderstorm feels dangerously close to becoming too much. too needy. too attached. you know people can grow tired of being needed eventually.
the possibility terrifies you more than the storm does.
because you genuinely donât know what youâd do if lars ever started looking exhausted by your presence.
you sit inside your car for another two minutes listening to rain hammer against metal. then finally step outside.
your coat darkens within seconds, rain clinging heavily to your hair and your sleeves, soaking through denim at the knees almost immediately. spring rain is different from winter snow: less sharp, but somehow more invasive. you shiver hard.
you hate how afraid you still are of storms at your age. every lightning flash still turns the world briefly unreal around you, empty streets appearing and disappearing in violent white bursts. the neighborhood is completely deserted.
your socks are already wet despite your best boots. at least it isnât winter anymore; you think snow might actually kill you in weather like this.
you reach karin and gusâ porch first. your hand lifts automatically towards the door, about to knock. your eyes can't stop themselves from stealing a look at larsâ house.
across the road, his porch light is on.
your brain thinks it before you can manage to stop it: home.
thunder cracks again over your head, and before you can fully think better of it, your feet are already moving towards larsâ house instead.
you knock three times, as always. then again, louder. you knock a third time before realizing youâre dangerously close to beating his door down entirely.
then you hear movement inside, quick shuffling footsteps. the lock turns.
lars opens the door and stares at you openly for a second, surprise completely unhidden across his face.
âyouâre wet.â
you blink at him. âthereâs sort of a thunderstorm happening,â you point out gently.
a smile slips onto your face despite the cold. lars standing there half-awake and startled somehow immediately eases the panic sitting beneath your ribs.
âmy car broke down,â you explain. âsorry.â
your teeth chatter slightly around the last word, âgod, iâm freezing.â
instinctively, you almost reach towards his hand to prove your point, but halfway there you remember yourself and pull your hands quickly back against your chest instead. lars notices anyway.
without hesitation, he steps aside immediately to let you inside.
warmth hits your body all at once. not enough to stop the shaking yet, but enough to hurt slightly. your soaked clothes cling heavily to your skin as water drips onto his floorboards. the house smells faintly like cedarwood and laundry detergent and burnt wood from the fire earlier still lingering in the air.
you suddenly feel horribly intrusive.
âiâm sorry,â you say quickly while pulling your shoes off awkwardly by the door. âi was actually going to go to karinâs house, butâŠâ but what?
but your body chose him automatically? but thunderstorms make you want comfort in embarrassing ways?
you say nothing instead.
âiâm glad you came here.â he says, softly.
your entire body reacts immediately, warmth rushing suddenly beneath your skin despite the freezing rain still soaking through your clothes. itâs humiliating how much power simple kindness has over you.
âdo you maybe have a towel?â you ask, squeezing water absently from your sleeve. âorâ i dunno, maybe i could shower or something? i really donât want to bother you, i justââ
âyeah.â
lars answers so quickly you stop talking entirely.
âyeah,â he repeats, already moving slightly towards the hallway. âiâll make you a bath.â
you smile at him instinctively despite still visibly trembling. âiâm probably going to need some clothes too,â you admit.
lars nods once.
âi think i still have some things from bianca.â
of course you know who bianca is. you know most things about lars by now, collected slowly over evenings at his kitchen table. bianca. the doll. the breakdown, then the funeral. youâd never make fun of him for it.
âokay,â you say gently. you give him a small thumbs-up even though your fingers are still shaking violently from the cold.
lars immediately starts moving around the house afterwards with hurried awkward energy. he looks slightly lost, but heâs trying so hard.
and thereâs something devastating about watching someone unfamiliar with caretaking attempt it carefully anyway just because you need them to.
lars disappears down the hallway for several minutes. you stay there, standing near the front door, rainwater slowly collecting beneath your boots while thunder rattles faintly through the windows.
when lars finally comes back, heâs carrying a towel folded carefully over one arm and a pile of clothes against his chest. he extends them towards you without fully meeting your eyes.
you take them gently. âthank you.â the sweater on top is soft-looking, pale blue. slightly oversized. âtheyâre cute.â
lars blinks hard at that.
âiâllââ he swallows once. âiâll fill the bath.â
his hands are shaking a little. you notice because youâve started noticing everything about him now. the way his breathing changes when heâs overwhelmed. the way he clenches his jaw slightly before speaking difficult sentences aloud.
you nod softly. âokay.â
you stay put after he leaves, partly because youâre worried about dripping water all over his floors. you glance absently towards the kitchen and you wonder if lars owns a mop. thunder cracks outside again. you wrap the towel tighter around yourself instinctively, breathing slowly until the shivering stops slightly.
lars returns a few minutes later.
âbathâs ready.â
he sounds slightly breathless. you immediately hope it isnât because of nerves.
âokay,â you say, again. without meaning to, you mimic his tone exactly out of breath.
the bathroom is small. like everything in larsâ house. youâre oddly surprised by the bathtub. for some reason you always imagined lars as exclusively a shower person.
you place the folded clothes carefully on the sink cabinet. then you turn towards him, waiting for him to leave.
lars stays exactly where he is, watching you. his hands are curled tightly into fists at his sides. shoulders stiff. eyes fixed somewhere near your face but not making eye contact.
he looks terrified suddenly, though of what exactly you canât tell. your stomach twists uneasily.
âlars?â you say his name gently, confused.
the rain continues softly outside while the bathroom light hums faintly overhead.
âcan iâŠâ larsâ voice catches halfway through the sentence. you wait quietly. âwatch you bathe?â
your eyes widen slightly in surprise.
you know lars well enough by now to recognize that whatever this is, it isnât casual. nothing about him is casual.
âoh,â you say softly.
your mind tries to fit the pieces together; lars standing rigid in the bathroom doorway. lars avoiding touch but watching your every move. lars admitting once that heâd never actually seen a woman naked before. not even bianca.
âoh, lars,â you murmur gently now, understanding dawning slowly. âis this because youâre curious?â
his shoulders tense immediately, eyes closing with force.
âabout bodies, i mean,â you clarify.
he nods softly.
âthatâs okay,â you say softly. âiâm curious about your body too.â the confession leaves your mouth before you fully think it through.
your eyes widen almost immediately afterwards.
ânot likeââ heat rushes painfully into your face. âi mean, i would never ask you toâ not that thereâs anything wrong withââ you stop yourself before embarrassing yourself entirely.
you inhale once slowly, then nod. âokay,â you murmur. âyeah. you can⊠watch me bathe.â
the soaked fabric hits the bathroom floor heavily when you drop it. cold air brushes immediately against newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and stomach. standing in your underwear in front of someone who isnât technically your boyfriend should probably feel more scandalous than this.
but lars doesnât feel like not your boyfriend either.
you wonder what this means to him. surely lars wouldnât ask this if he didnât imagine some future between you both eventually. unless he trusts you this much because he sees you as something safer than romance entirely: a best friend, someone comforting precisely because desire isnât involved. your stomach twists uneasily at the possibility.
your fingers linger uncertainly against the clasp of your bra. you hesitate, and think briefly about bianca: perfect plastic proportions, smooth untouched skin, impossible symmetry.
your body is painfully human in comparison. real skin, stretch marks against your thighs, tiny scars you barely remember getting, and texture everywhere.
you hope lars doesnât notice any of it. and immediately feel guilty for hoping that at all. as if insecurity itself is a betrayal against the female body.
âdo iâŠâ you glance towards him for the first time since you dropped your clothes, doubtfully. âkeep my bra on?â
lars hasnât looked away from your body once. heâs barely blinking, expression fixed in intense concentration, like heâs terrified of missing even a second of your skin.
âlars,â you say again softly, trying not to laugh despite your nervousness. âmy underwear?â
that finally seems to break him from the state he was trapped in. he nods quickly, almost alarmed by the alternative.
you think that if he sees anything more, he might actually die on the spot.
it feels strange stepping into a bath while still wearing your underwear, but the warmth reaches you so quickly you stop caring almost immediately.
the bathtub is smaller than you expected. your heels brush the porcelain when you shift slightly, water lapping softly against your stomach. lars keeps watching you.
your body notices him immediately; you should probably feel nervous sitting half-dressed in warm water while someone watches from beside the bathtub, but instead you just feel⊠seen gently.
you close your eyes for a second, letting your head rest lightly against the edge of the tub. the warmth sinks deeper into your muscles now, softening places inside you that have been tense for months.
suddenly, water spills softly across your shoulder.
your eyes open immediately; you see lars crouched beside the bathtub, holding a small plastic cup in his hands. he looks deeply concentrated while carefully pouring warm water over your skin, his movements slow enough not to startle you.
you stare at him quietly; his brows knit together with focus. the nervousness is still lingering visibly in his shoulders despite how gentle heâs being. you want to thank him, but speaking feels wrong, like words might shatter whatever delicate thing exists in the room.
your eyes settle on the bathroom tiles instead. you want to watch him, but you know lars startles easily around attention sometimes, especially the direct kind, so you keep your gaze lowered instead.
âthatâs nice,â you admit softly, sighing relaxed.
lars pauses beside you. âyeah?â
you nod.
from the corner of your eye, you notice lars moving again. his hand hesitates near your shoulder for half a second, then moves to your bra strap.
your breath catches, and his fingers hook gently beneath the damp fabric strap, pulling it slightly lower against your shoulder. your stomach fills with an overwhelming warmth, so intense it almost hurts.
ââââ ` Dex has a quite specific fetish, and you don't mind exploring it.
TAGS: Gender neutral reader | Sub Dex | Violence | Sadomasochism | Coming untouched | Heavy pain kink | Blood | Tags missing | Dark content
The warm air lazily caresses his bare skin, tracing every muscular contour, making his flesh hypersensitive, amplifying even the slightest movement and his hands remain restrained behind his back, the handcuffs just tight enough to remind him of your presence, to keep him in place even as the rest of his body leans subtly forward in relaxation.
His lips part slightly without conscious thought, releasing a silent breath and his pupils are so dilated, obscuring the color of his pretty eyes, leaving only that dark, intense gaze as it scans you with a shameless, undisguised hunger.
He shifts slightly in the chair, a restless movement, a held breath that never releases, anticipation is coursing through his body eating him alive, waiting for you to decide what comes next.
He feeds on the intense disgust in your eyes, that hatred that seems to emanate from you in waves so dense they could drown you and he absorbs it in the most complete and starving way possible, letting it settle under his skin like fuel and your hatred would only become a problem for him when the ritual breaks and you suddenly start seeing him as a person rather than what he wants to be to you.
Dex knows you too well for someone you claim to despise.
He understands your particular inclination towards cruelty, your tendencies to inflict pain, the intense thrill that courses through you at the sight of freshly spilled blood. He has seen how your breathing changes, how your attention focuses, how the sickening darkness seeps through the cracks of any self-control you pretend to have.
You give, he takes, and it works because there's no one else who fits this space like him.
No one else can handle this balance of repulsion and longing that is ugly and deeply uncomfortable.
And perhaps that's the most pathetic part of it all... That out of everyone, out of all the possibilities, he's the only one who understands how to satisfy it, in the end, he's the only one who can please you in this way, however pitiful that may sound.
He licks his lips, watching intently as your finger slides across the table, testing how smooth and resistant the surface is.
âAren't you going to ask me my safe word?â he purrs playfully, his voice husky, low with excitement and amusement.
Your eyes shift from the table to rest on those pools of hazel.
You remain stoic, ignoring his joke, âhow many?â you ask softly, nothing like what you're really thinking, reaching closer and raising your hand to place it on the back of his head and he's immediately tensing as your fingers tangle and tighten in his hair.
Dex swallows, unable to control how the blood rushes to his groin too quickly and his useless hands clench, taking a breath before replying.
âUntil I wish I had a safe word.â he mutters, listening to his heart pounding so loudly in his ears.
There's a tingle traveling beneath your skin, and your hand tighten his hair.
âBreathe.â
Just as he's about to inhale, you roughly force his head back and slam his face against the table and the sound is so loud, echoing through the place and Dex gasps from the pain that starts in his nose, spreading like flames across his face and you keep it pressed against the surface, the first blow leaving you breathless.
And you don't stop.
You do it again, lifting his head, smashing it against the smooth wood.
One, two, three, four, five blows, each one harder than the last and he's shivering in the chair, thighs tensing beneath his black cargo pants, hands shaking behind his back.
You're panting for breath now; each blow resonates more deeply in your ears, lodges itself in your brain.
And Dex?
He's in heaven.
The table breaks his nose, there's warm blood gushing from his nostrils as his lips are split, he feels his gums burn and bleed, smiling widely at such delicious feeling and each blow widens the split on his cheekbone caused by the impact and his forehead is aching.
He wonders what his fresh bruises look like, and the mere thought makes his cock throb and leak untouched and sensitive inside his clothes.
You let him breathe after the eighth impact, pulling his face away from the filthy wood, now darker with blood that belongs to him. You let out a little huff as you watch the deep red strands of saliva connecting his split lips to the table before it snaps from the shake you give his head to make sure he hasn't passed out.
He's grinning with his eyes closed, so ecstatic and pretty it makes you sick to admit it, so writhing in pain that burns his swollen wounded face, then you grip his hair tighter and you need to see him die like this, quivering and panting in agony until he just can't take it anymore.
You want his indestructible skull to crack because of you, you want that adamantium to damage his brain somehow, you hope he stops breathing once you've finished off his pretty and perfect nose.
The fact that he can still endure more infuriates you, and he's begging you for more as you stare at the fresh and inviting blood adorning his disfiguring face.
âPâPlease, more, more more,â he babbles, drooling as he keeps his mouth agape to pray to you, and you want to know if his teeth are loose, you want to see if you damaged them enough for him to spit one out.
You bite your lip hard until it's bruised and return to your task with more fervor than before, smashing his face again but with more force, maintaining a solid grip on his now sweaty hair and his shoulders go slack. You don't need to look to know he's pushing his hips up for some sweet friction.
You just continue, harder, a tenth time, frowning at how starving you feel for more, clenching your teeth when he lets out an agonizing groan on the tenth blow. His head even slips from your grasp from the force, and you have to place your hand on his neck and grip it to lift his face again.
Then your hand travels to his hair, tilting his head towards the light and he's so broken, he can't even keep still and he has a satisfied smile on his blood-soaked face, bruises adorn him beneath the sticky deep red, his half-open mouth drools nonstop, his eyes are no longer open and you hope he has a weak pulse now, you hope his brain hits his skull.
With the finger of your free hand, you caress a cut on the bridge of his nose, smearing your finger with his blood, and bring it to his mouth, just to test how conscious he is.
Slowly, his pink tongue peeks out, his mouth barely moving because he can't even feel it anymore. He wipes the blood from your finger using his warm tongue, humming at the metallic taste, and you can't help but smile with satisfaction. Then, as your final display of pleasure, you grip the hair that falls over his forehead and pull down, his face slams back against the surface with a loud blow, listening to something breaking that makes you gasp in fascination.
Dex tenses all over and not a single sound escapes him, and you see him squirm slightly after a few seconds.
Such a whore for pain.
So adorable, he came inside his pants, making a mess inside the fabric that sticks to his weeping, thick cock. His torso is covered in sweat, every muscle glistening making you so hungry, wetness adorning his freckled flesh that must taste so salthy and good.
You push him off the chair effortlessly; he falls to the ground with a heavy thud and weakly settles onto his back, huffing in need, groaning in pain that intensifies when he feels air hit his raw face.
You're standing in front of him, staring at how dark the faded fabric is in his crotch.
So wet.
You stare more than you should, fascinated at how he's so big and worthless, too easy for you and you are licking your lips, your shoe slides into his groin without any little gentleness, reveling in how hard he remains even though he's just finished.
Dex whines silently, pushing his tired hips against your shoe, arching his back when you press too roughly, eliciting a guttural moan from his dry throat; poor, sweet boy can barely breathe.
His cock hurts so much it's not even pleasurable anymore, but he's so delirious by it. He's drugged by the excruciating pain, choking when you press a little harder right where his aching tip is, and then you pull your shoe away when you realize that not satisfying him will only make him feel worse.
Which is all that matters.
You take a step back, admiring the work of art before you.
He looks like a masterpiece, blood trickling down his neck, his face perfectly disfigured, his chest rising and falling so gently it seems he's not breathing anymore, perky nipples hard and sensitive adorning his tits, thick thighs spread, his cock waning before you and his muscles are loose, adjusting to the discomfort of maintaining his hands behind his back.
You feel the urge to touch him, to dig your finger into his swollen cheekbone, but you're disgusted by the thought. So you just reach into your pocket, pull out a pair of small keys, and toss them aside.
âYou have ten minutes to leave. Clean my table,â
You mutter, not caring if he heard you or not, and you hope he didn't.
ââââ ` Dex unexpectedly becomes obsessed with a method in which he adds points to his âgood deeds.â
TAGS: Crack fic | Drabble | Gender neutral reader | Roommates AU | Obsessive behavior | Mentions of Violence | Age difference
This is all your fault.
You vaguely remember waking up in the middle of the night about three weeks ago to the sound of the door opening. You saw him walk into the kitchen and reach under the sink for cleaning supplies. He had dried blood on his hands and a smug smile on his face, murmuring goodnight when he saw you, but your brain was disconnected because all you could see was the blood on his hands.
And that's when you made your mistake.
âDamn, Dex, I bet you did good. You should start counting how many good things you've done out of the goodness of your heart until you reach, I don't know, a big number,â you joked.
By "good things," you meant the number of people he'd killed, and by adding "goodness of his heart," you made it clear it was all a joke.
The problem is, he didn't hear it that way.
It started small, that new hobby of his, if you could even call it that.
You'd heard him muttering it to himself, so it wasn't important to pay attention until he started telling you directly.
You were brushing your teeth when suddenly he walks past you, leaning against the doorframe as he watches you. The space is already too small for him to be there so you hope that whatever he had to tell you was going to be relevant.
âHold the door open for someone today. Plus five,â he says after a long while. You don't quite understand what he means, so you frown, spitting out the minty foam from your mouth.
âFive what?â
âPoints.â
You turn to look at him, and he stares at you as if he's seeking your approval, simply in his natural habitat.
â...Right.â
Not even five seconds after you look back at the sink, Dex continues, âDidnât push a guy onto the train tracks, I think thatâs plus ten.â
You sigh, pausing your rinse for a second so you're able to speak. âDexââ
âFifteen total,â he adds, thoughtful, and you decide not to ask anymore because you just can't stand him.
By the second week, he already has a notebook dedicated specifically to his calculations, along with other materials that are completely unnecessary.
You arrive at the apartment exhausted, and the first thing you notice as you approach is him sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Papers, books, drawing axes, and graph paper are meticulously arranged in front of him and three pens of different colors are positioned right next to his hand, when you get close enough, he lifts the page he's working on.
âThere's a curve,â he says, tapping the thin paper. âMorality isn't linearâ
You look at him intently. âObviously,â you say, hoping your response will cut him off, but it doesn't.
âNo, listen.â His eyes turn away from the flawless graphic to look at you again, and it is unpleasant how sharp and intense his gaze is, practically forcing you to pay attention to him. âGood actions have diminishing returns if theyâre repetitive. But high-impact actions... Those spike the graph.â he savors the last words with delight and you canât deny youâre a little curious about how his system works.
So you play along.
âWhat counts as high-impact?â You raise an eyebrow, and Dex grins, glancing down to find another sheet of paper in the lower left corner. He holds it up so you can see it clearly.
Itâs a rather long list; you donât even want to read it completely, so you focus on the highlighted sections, which are the most impactful.
Saved a child from being hit by a gray Kia Forte: +80
â Didnât kill the driver afterward: +15 bonus restraint.
And then, further down the list, underlined with a fluorescent highlighter:
I ate your leftovers without asking: -10
You stare at the sheet of paper, and he watches you, waiting.
ââŠYou could have asked for them.â
âI did, you ignored me though.â
By week three, which is now, there's a small whiteboard hanging on the living room wall, which you definitely don't like having there, but he's already dragged you into it.
The whole whiteboard is covered in numbers; it's more structured than the notebook, but less detailed, so you assume what you're seeing now is the basics.
You focus on the numbers and the categories written in capital letters.
MINOR GOOD (1â10 pts)
MODERATE GOOD (10â50 pts)
MAJOR GOOD (50+ pts)
And then, further down in a different color:
JUSTIFIED NEGATIVE ACTIONS (VARIABLE)
You raise an eyebrow, curious. âDex,â you begin slowly, âWhat's that section?â
He turns to you, taking the cap off a green marker and a black one. âThey're not really negativeâ he explains, âContext mattersâ
And now he's writing something new.
Eliminated armed mugger: +50
Then underneath:
Occurred in front of 8 civilians: -25 (public distress penalty)
You sigh, shaking your head in disbelief and then glare at him. âYou killed someone in front of eight people and you're calling it a net positive?â
Dex lets out a hoarse laugh âWhen did I say that, huh?â he asks defiantly. âAnd they were grateful, stop bitching... Donât mess with my numbers,â he warns firmly.
âDon't you talk to me like that, fucking freak.â After these words he's just smiling at you, and that's a reminder that you can't even insult him because, for some sick reason, he seems to enjoy it.
All you can think about at that moment is that you should move out, hell, you should have moved the moment you found out who he really is. But you always end up hesitating because the rent is cheap, and he, let's say, pays eighty percent of it and doesn't ask for much.
And surprisingly, nothing bad has ever happened to you because of him, even though he mentioned several times in vulnerable moments that everyone around him ends up leaving him or getting hurt.
That's when you realized it's best not to even think about leaving, so thanks to all that, you now find yourself putting up with his antics.
âGood news,â Dex says one night, collapsing onto the couch next to you while he's wearing his Bullseye costume, and if heâs sprawled out like that, it means he hasn't done anything yet and the suit is brand new again, which you mentally thank him for.
You keep staring at your phone screen, but you pay attention anyway, knowing heâs referring to his score thing. âDid you get a new high score?â
âMhm,â he hums contentedly.
âI see, how much?â
âTwo hundred.â
Thatâs impressive enough for you to turn and face him just to find him grinning like the Cheshire Cat and the crowâs feet at the corners of his eyes are more prominent, which fully awakens your curiosity. âSince when?â
Dex shrugs. âCumulative adjusted.â
You roll your eyes at his response, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. âThatâs not how it works.â
âIt is now,â he replies in a relaxed manner, leaning back on the sofa with his arms outstretched, sighing delighted while showing a conceited smirk that he definitely shouldn't have and you think for a few seconds about how you once believed he could get something worthwhile out of all this because he was "trying"âin his own twisted wayâand perhaps in the very, very distant future he would realize that being good means something quite different than what he believes it means now.
How naive you were.
Of course he would change his own rules from time to time for his own benefit and to adapt them to his orthodox methods to obtain results that make him feel like he's doing good things that do not harm good people.
âBeen making better decisions,â he adds after a few seconds, nodding toward the whiteboard and you turn your head and glance at it.
You hadn't even noticed that it now includes complex equations too, they're something about weighted morality coefficients.
And suddenly your attention is solely drawn to those red letters, written to be more noticeable and legible than everything else.
Your eyes widen as your brain registers the information. âDexâŠâ you say carefully. âWhy the fuck does it say '+20; I didnât kill my roommate'?â
When you finish speaking, you look back at him, and he looks genuinely confused, but thereâs a spark of amusement in his eyes.
âHavenât killed you yet.â
You donât even care anymore.
âOkay, man,â you exhale, sinking back into the sofa with your phone in your hand, and Dex moves closer to you, snuggling in your side settling in to join you in your peaceful scrolling.
âSo glad Iâm contributing to your growth.â
âMhm you are,â he purrs sweetly, and you roll your eyes.
series: daredevil | pairing: benjamin poindexter x reader | 6.6k
warnings: suicidal ideation / lots of talk and jokes about death /canon typical Dex stuff / everyone has a lot of mental issues
summary: start of this universe
So where the fuck is he?
Is Matt Murdock really so bad of a boyfriend he neglected to show up for your opening night?
Dex thinks back on all his time following you - trying to recall if Murdock had come to any of your studio sessions or if he had even stepped inside the theatre before but nothing comes to mind. Youâd gone on dates, mostly during the weekends when the law office was closed, and you practically lived at the manâs apartment, but the more he goes down the rabbit hole of your and Murdockâs witnessed interactions, he doesnât come up with an instance where Murdock has been around when you dance.
Does Murdock even care about you?
Did he just waste months coming up with a way to torment the Devil for it all to mean nothing?
Would killing you even matter?
Hot white rage pulses through Dex and he decides he will make it matter. He will just need to improvise.
As Dex settles into his seat, he tries to not get frustrated over the fact he can't recall the name of the Governorâs Head of Security. Whatever his name is, he sucks at his job. There aren't even metal detectors set up at the entrance of the theatre and the stationed guards are only carrying tasers. He highly doubts the men even know how to use the weapons -Â they'd probably shit themselves at the first crack of gunfire, instead of doing their job and protecting the Governor.Â
Part of him wants to shoot her and the Mayor by her side, but that would distract from his message and he can't have that.Â
He needs to send his message.Â
But, maybe, if the universe is kind to him, the old hag will have a heart attack from the shock of his display or she'll die of boredom from having to watch her granddaughter perform. He has no idea how that woman is still in the company, but it must be nepotism. She is probably the worst one on the stage and it is clear her lack of skill is not proportional to her ego - he has seen her bitching about favoritism to the crew during rehearsals when the star of the show was on stage.Â
In his very humble opinion, you more than deserve to be the Swan Princess.Â
You are extremely dedicated to your craft and Dex may be a tad bit envious of the control you have over your body. You make leaping around the floor look effortless and there is a smoothness to the way you dance that has him almost understanding why people come to the theatre. If everyone was even half as good at conveying their joy and sorrows through movement alone, without it looking like they are concentrating on their choreography, the stories they are trying to tell might actually be entertaining.
You move like fabric in the wind - organic and without any sort of stiffness. It is a little bit mesmerizing to him because it almost reminds him of fighting. When you pirouette, he can visualize you extending it into a kick - your legs are extremely strong and he can almost feel the bruise he would get if he were on the receiving end of one.Â
You make it all look so easy and he may have more than one recording of your various performances so he can study you.
He could spend hours watching you dance.Â
He has spent hours watching you dance.
Everyday for months - every early morning practice and every time youâve stayed late at the studio. Heâs watched you move through every perfectly memorized placement and heâs watched as you lost yourself to music in freestyle. Youâve performed ballet, ballroom, hip-hop, and all sorts of things he doesnât know the technical names of for him and heâs admired all of them. You have a deep passion for the arts running through you and it's clear you've poured your soul into expressing yourself through movement.
Heâs almost sorrowful heâll be losing the routine of following you, but that is more than overshadowed by the thrumming under his skin he gets before he finally gets to enact one of his plans.Â
Dexâs eyes flick down to the center floor seats, a few rows in where there is a single gap waiting to be filled, a scowl forming on his lips.Â
It is almost curtain call and Matt Murdock is nowhere to be found. Heâs come to accept that the blind lawyer has a chronic issue with being on time, but one would think when his girlfriend is the prima ballerina on opening night for the New York City Ballet season, heâd be there before the doors close. But as the lights begin to dim, the seat remains empty - the reserved sign probably visible from the stage.Â
Dex clenches his jaw to tamper down his annoyance and part of him feels offended on your behalf. Not because he views you as anything beyond a target - but Murdockâs tardiness is disrespectful to all the time that youâve put into training for this night and that is something that resonates in his chest. It has taken so much planning and preparation, on his part and yours, to get to this point and the man has the audacity to roll in late?Â
Maybe Dex needs to send a different type of message.
But that will be for another time.Â
For now, his eyes stay glued to the empty seat until you float on stage, and only then does he look at the performance.Â
It really will be a shame that this will be your final one. Dex has seen all the dress rehearsals, but seeing you dance in front of an audience is a different experience. Everyoneâs attention is on you, but you move like you are truly Odette and are none the wiser to their gaze.Â
Even if Murdock wouldnât be able to see how you are twirling, he knows the man would hear how each attendeeâs breath is being held in awe, too caught up in your spell to remember basic bodily functions. He would know that no one, not even Dex, can keep their eyes off of you.Â
That is how the night continues - Dex alternating between glaring at where Murdock should be and watching you weave your tale.Â
And when the grand moment comes, when Dex should be sending his message and piercing your heart while Odette falls to her death, he stays rooted in his seat, letting the curtains close to applause instead of screams.Â
The buzzing in his head is so loud and so overwhelming that he does not process getting up and leaving the theatre with the crowd - he goes from glowering at the covered stage to standing in front of the fire exit you always use to sneak away without anyone seeing you. His fingers twitch at his side, wanting to throttle something as his carefully laid plans crumble around him.Â
Dex cannot believe Murdock truly just did not show up at all. If there had been some sort of disastrous event that required him to suit up, the Mayor would have been notified in some emergency manner, but the man had been there at the standing ovation. There are no alerts on his phone - nothing to signal the Devil is out on the town, dealing out Justice.Â
There isnât even a sighting of him tagged on social media.Â
So where the fuck is he?
Is Matt Murdock really so bad of a boyfriend he neglected to show up for your opening night?Â
Dex thinks back on all his time following you - trying to recall if Murdock had come to any of your studio sessions or if he had even stepped inside the theatre before but nothing comes to mind. Youâd gone on dates, mostly during the weekends when the law office was closed, and you practically lived at the manâs apartment, but the more he goes down the rabbit hole of your and Murdockâs witnessed interactions, he doesnât come up with an instance where Murdock has been around when you dance.Â
Does Murdock even care about you?Â
Did he just waste months coming up with a way to torment the Devil for it all to mean nothing?Â
Would killing you even matter?Â
Hot white rage pulses through Dex and he decides he will make it matter. He will just need to improvise.
The gears in his head turn as he waits for you to emerge from the building - he is confident you will not be attending the after party and that you will be slinking away into the shadows the moment you are able to.Â
Dex is not the only one Murdock has betrayed and he doubts you are in any mood for celebrations. Beyond your one true passion, Murdock seems to be the only other thing in your life. You donât go out with friends, you donât have any other hobbies, and you seem to yearn only for his approval. He canât really fault you for that, as he understands that sort of devotion, but it is why you were selected to be his target instead of Foggy Nelson or Karen Page.Â
It was meant to be a significant blow to the Devil.
And, in a fucked up way that only recently come to light, it was meant to be a gift to you.Â
Your dancing has brought some joy to Dexâs life the past few months and he had planned to repay your kindness by taking away your pain.Â
He does not need his FBI training to see you are actively suicidal. He recognizes the same Darkness that wrapped itself around his head tightening around your throat. Heâs seen the blank, empty stares and the way your leg muscles twitch when the subway rolls into the platform, wanting to launch yourself in front of it.Â
Seven times heâs seen you stop yourself from crossing that yellow line and each time he wondered if he would have interfered or let you go. Three times heâs seen you sit with a bottle of pills and Jack on your dinner table. He saw you pick up a paring knife and trace it up and down the veins of your forearm, just needing a little extra push to draw blood.Â
You arenât going to survive until morning and Dex needs to control that narrative.Â
The minutes stretch and drag and he stands there waiting until the metal door opens and you step into the cool night air.Â
You are no longer the beautiful swan captivating a crowd - youâve changed into a sad black sweat suit and have scrubbed your face raw removing your makeup. Your eyes are exactly as he expects them to be - hollow and red rimmed.Â
You donât scream when you realize you arenât alone on the small fire escape. You stare at him for a moment, before your gaze flicks up and down his frame before settling in the center of his chest.Â
âOh,â are your first words to Dex, âitâs you.â
The blandness of your words shock his system - he was so prepared for fear and for having to restrain you, but here you are, just standing in front of him like heâs anyone else in the world.Â
Dex quickly regains his composure before leaning in slightly to make himself seem even bigger, even more threatening, and confirms in a low voice, âyou know who I am?âÂ
âBullseye,â you mumble, still not looking him in the eyes. âBenjamin Pointdexter.â Your hand tightens slightly around the bouquet of roses in your arms before you relax back into a state of aloofness. You seem to sway with the wind for a moment before you continue on, your voice barely audible, âI donât know where he is.âÂ
âIâm sure you donât, sweetheart,â Dex replies, knowing he sounds like heâs taunting you, âbut weâre going to find him together.â His hand shoots out and takes your bicep into a vice grip. You donât even flinch at his touch - just slowly tilt your head down to see where heâs wrapped around you.Â
Thereâs no protest as he drags you down to ground level and begins to guide you through the alley ways to stay away from any lingering crowd. Surprisingly, you keep pace with him and the only noise that comes from you is the jangling of your water bottle against your keys in your bag. When the boundaries into Hellâs Kitchen are passed, and Dex diverts into the main roads, you comply with his threats to not call out to anyone for help. You are basically a doll he is puppeting around.Â
Only when Murdockâs apartment building looms over you, do you seem to come out of your dissociative trance - you turn your head to look at him, lips dipped into the slightest of frowns.Â
âAre you going to kill me?â you ask, not sounding scared at all. It's like youâve already accepted your fate and just want confirmation.Â
âYes.âÂ
âOkay,â is your response and Dex wrinkles his nose at that, because even he can be bothered by such a blase attitude.Â
âYouâd be dead either way,â he points out as he pulls open the door and pushes you into the lobby. âIt will be quicker and neater than jumping in front of a train or trying to OD on some over the counter shit. Iâm doing you a favor.â
You actually hum at that, going towards the stairs without him having to direct you there. He keeps his grip tight on you as he follows you up the steps, ready to use you as a shield if need be. âI was going to go to the bridge. Get washed out to sea.âÂ
Dex huffs at that, because that sounds like a highly ineffective plan. âTheyâve upped their patrols along the good spots - someone would have grabbed you before you could make it over the railing. And even then, thereâs no guarantees the fall would kill you. Youâd probably break your legs and back when you hit the water and youâd drown. Then wash up along the river and end up on the front page of some tabloid.âÂ
âMaybe I want to drown,â you counter, some semblance of something finally in your voice.Â
âWe can arrange that.âÂ
The rest of the hike up to the apartment is silent and your hands are steady as you unlock the door to Murdockâs apartment.Â
Dex expects the unit to be empty - Murdock would have been on his ass otherwise - but he orders you to sit on the couch as he clears the space, bringing out his gun to do so. From the corner of his eye he watches you take a seat, dropping your bag and your flowers on the floor by your feet. He supposes you donât care to put them in a vase if you wonât be around to admire them. After securing the area, he takes a few long steps towards you, holding out his hand and demanding your phone.
You dig it out from your hoodie pocket and give it to him without fuss. He drops it to the floor and stomps the life out of it, while you look on with disinterest. When he is done, he turns to fetch the broom hanging by the kitchen trashcan and gathers the mess into the dustpan to toss out.
Dexâs new plan is to wait for Murdock to return home and then execute you. He knows there is a blindspot in the kitchen, so no billyclubs will be able to fly through the window to disarm him before he can react. The Devil will not be able to stop him this time.
He will be sending his message tonight: that Dex is going to take everyone Matt Murdock has ever loved and force him to break his stupid code. Fisk couldnât get Daredevil to kill, but he will.Â
Dex will.Â
He takes his position and lets himself relax into the waiting game - it is something he is very good at. Being a sniper -Â being a soldier - means needing to have patience and waiting to strike seems to be the only time he has an abundance of it.Â
Across the room, you sit like a statue, head tilted up towards the roof access door but otherwise completely checked out. Your posture is perfect as you wait for your end.
He's going to make your death quick. You won't even know it happened - one second you'll be there, then you won't be. There will be no pain. It will be merciful.
He's being merciful.Â
Dex wants to say something to you, but he knows he can't. Even the smallest of noises can alert Daredevil and he isnât stupid enough to let himself be caught because he couldnât keep his fucking mouth shut.
He knows what he would say to you, if he could open his mouth.Â
That's more than most people get. Heâs never wanted to engage with a target before - he doesnât see the point of taunting them before putting them down - why would he waste the breath talking during a fight? They wouldnât even be able to process his quips - theyâd be dead before he could get through any of his words.
But with you, he wants to make sure you hear him before you disappear into the Darkness.Â
He doesn't know why that bothers him.Â
Dex presses his tongue against the back of his front teeth and tells himself to get out of his own head. He needs to focus. Any lapse in focus can ruin what heâs worked so hard for.
He has not come this far to fail. His message will be sent. He will break Murdock.
The billboard outside flicks between ads, bathing the apartment in different neons for a perfectly silent and still three hours, forty seven minutes, and twenty seconds.Â
Gravel crunches under boots on the roof above them and Dex raises his gun so his bullet will go sweetly right into your brain stem. His finger brushes the trigger, but he waits to flex - needing for the perfect moment to occur so he can get his point across clearly. He listens as uneven footsteps drag their way to the access door, his brows knitting together just slightly. The Devil is clearly limping.Â
The buzzing in his head shuts off and everything narrows down to the room around him in anticipation for the fight that is about to occur.
The access door rattles as Murdock reaches it - probably needing to reach out to grab it to steady himself. Time slows to a crawl as Dex waits for the metal to fly off its hinges, but instead of any screeching or buckling, it is a muffled, but very frustrated, âfuck!â that echoes through the night sky.Â
Confusion courses through Dex, because in all his fights with Murdock, heâs never reacted like this. It has always been raw fury and wasting no time trying to pummel each other into a pulp. The man still behind the door is clearly extremely pissed off, but he is not using his âIâm pissed off but very specifically at Bullseyeâ voice.
Is he too injured to realize that someone else is in his kitchen?
Dexâs gaze flicks to you and only because he has watched you for long and Knows you so well does he see that you have become alert. You are still not moving a muscle - just barely breathing as your eyes stay locked on the roof access - but you are once again Aware of your surroundings.
To your credit, you do not react at all when the door finally swings up and bounces off the wall with a tinny âclangâ. The Devil stalks into the open concept apartment in his decidedly armor free Man in Black get up.Â
Or what is left of it.Â
His shirt barely qualifies as such anymore - itâs been shredded by some bladed weapon and it does nothing to hide the new deep clean cuts carved into the manâs torso. His left pant leg looks like it might have gotten caught in a fire - the multiple holes there have a distinct burn pattern and Dex can smell the lingering smoke from where he is standing. Blood coats the lower half of the Devilâs face, fresh from where his nose broken and still dripping like a faucet.
Heâs barely holding himself up as he stumbles onto the landing, but he had clearly won whatever battle he had been in, so woo fucking hoo for him.Â
âReally?â Murdock croaks out, his speech slightly slurred from his beating but not lacking any in its bite. âYou came here instead of going out?â
Daredevil never fails in his ability to be unpredictable, because in every scenario he had playing in his head, Dex had never ever thought of the possibility of being completely ignored. Even if he canât smell an intruder with his face bashed in - shouldnât he be able to hear him? He doesnât fully understand what the fuck Murdockâs deal is, but he knows enough that it has to do with heightened senses and being able to detect heartbeats. Â
He feels like he is short circuiting - like he is frozen and he doesnât know what to do because he cannot comprehend his plans failing because Murdock is not playing his part correctly for a second time that night.
For the first time in hours, your voice breaks the silence. You arenât emotional - you donât waver or wobble with your words- you are quiet and devoid of any other signs of life.
Youâre waiting for Dex to pull the trigger.Â
âWhere were you?âÂ
It is the wrong thing to say and the wrong tone to use - even he knows that. The man in front of him is too caught up in his own rage and his own issues that he canât tell you arenât trying to pick a fight. You arenât trying to do anything - youâre already as good as gone.
A sharp bark of laughter fills the air as Murdock starts to move forward, âwhere was I? Where was I?! I was out keeping the city safe, sweetheart! Thatâs where I was! I was where I was actually needed!â
He makes it down two steps before his ankles give out under his own weight and he has to grab onto the bannister to keep himself up. Murdock leans heavily into the railing, dripping blood everywhere, and you react in concern for him, standing up in an instant and going towards the stairs with your hands out like you could possibly catch him if he fell.Â
Dex tracks you with his eyes and gun, but the rest of him stays still as, despite everything he's not done, you try to help your boyfriend.Â
âWhere were you?â you repeat, still just barely audible, but now there is a hint of a plea in your words. Dex has the feeling that the question you are asking does not equal the meaning you are intending. He is not good at picking up on that sort of thing usually, but he has studied the inflection in your voice. He knows what the different pitches mean - how you emphasize words to get your point across.Â
Murdock snarls at you like heâs some sort of cornered dog and Dex presses his tongue harder into his teeth. Daredevil is the most dangerous when heâs injured and angry and it will be any moment when heâs registered on his radar and the battle begins. To an outsider, Bullseye has the clear advantage, but he knows that isnât the truth.
Thereâs a reason both men are still alive.
The Devil stumbles down more steps towards you, managing to keep himself up by sheer willpower alone. You rush forward, prepared to cushion his fall with your own body, but you stop short when you are swatted at. The dirty muay thai ropes donât come close to connecting with you, but the message of âstay backâ is clear.Â
The repositioning of his aim is automatic - a hair up, a breath left and a bullet would find home in Matt Mudockâs skull. It is the intensity of his training that keeps Dex from pulling the trigger and removing the threat that is in front of you.Â
âYou donât get to do that,â the man hisses at you, the blood trapped in his nose making his words thick and stick together. âI told you - I told you I couldnât promise anything with what has been happening with the Hand!â He makes another motion towards you, jabbing his grimy hand to point at your chest, like heâs accusing you of something. âYouâve seen what theyâve been doing - what they did to that woman! You expect me to - what? Sit there while they tear the city apart because you put something on my schedule?â
For what it is worth, you stand your ground and donât back down from the raging man. You stand just steps below him, poised to keep him from crashing to the ground. Dex canât see your face and he wonders if you are crying.Â
If the Devil is able to tell, he isnât affected by it.Â
Your right hand raises up, your fingers shaking so badly you probably wouldnât be able to hold anything, and you try to reach out to cup Murdockâs cheek.Â
Daredevil catches your wrist before you can even extend your elbow just as you yet again whisper out, voice cracking, âwhere were you, Matt?â
The two of you stand there, caught in something Dex doesnât understand as he watches the scene unfold in front of him, his own mind confused about what he should do next.Â
He should be fulfilling his plan.Â
He should be ending your suffering and starting Daredevilâs.Â
But he once again canât pull the trigger.
Without any idea of the situation he is truly in, Murdock distances himself from you, pushing your hand away with too much force and starting to climb the stairs backwards, âNo. No! Iâm not doing this with you. Not after tonight!â
The Devil turns, his feet thundering down as he reaches the landing again, and with just as much effort as he used to open it, the door is slammed shut, leaving you and Bullseye once again alone in the apartment.
The air is thick with tension as Dex tries to work out what had happened in the last minute and a half.Â
Murdock hadnât been able to tell someone with a gun was in his kitchen because he had been too injured and too pissed off. Beyond the broken nose, he must have had a serious concussion or too much blood loss because Dex canât think of another reason that Daredevil would just walk away from him.Â
If he was in his right mind or not completely fucked up, he would not leave anyone alone with Dex, especially his fucking semi-famous girlfriend.Â
But there Dex was, standing stock still with his weapon still aimed at where Murdock had just been, eyes locked on the door, waiting for it to reopen.Â
It doesnât.Â
Forty two seconds pass, then the billboard across the street switches to a new ad, and the room goes from being a moody purple to being illuminated in a bright sunny orange. Dex feels like he is trapped in a dream or he is experiencing a new type of hallucination because nothing around him feels real. Â
As he moves to reholster his gun, his head starts to throb over the force of the anger washing through him. The disappointment and resentment he felt towards Murdock when he failed to kill Fisk pales in comparison to the rage building inside of his chest. This level of emotion is something Dex has never experienced before and he doesnât want to just scream or kill Murdock.
Dex wants to sever his cochlear and olfactory nerves. He wants to put Murdock into True Darkness, to let him experience True Fear before ripping him apart limb by limb.Â
A quick and easy death is not in his future.Â
The world is pressing down on Dex, closing in and becoming overwhelming as the monster he has always tried to keep at bay roars to life inside of him, desperate to destroy everything around him.Â
Then, for the upteenth time that night, he is mentally knocked on his ass by you turning in place, like you are on a clock work gear and can only make minute movements, and looking right at him.Â
Tear tracks are highlighted by the remainders of your mascara, with fat drops still falling from your lashes. Your red glassy eyes lock with his, and even though you are feet away from him and he feels like his head is underwater, Dex hears you perfectly.Â
âCan I make a request?â your pretty pretty lips ask, barely parting to do so.
âA request?â he parrots in a croaky voice as everything that makes up Dex narrows down to you. The rest of the world - Murdock, Fisk, anything outside the four walls around him - disappears and there is only you and him left in the Darkness.Â
You barely tip your chin down in a nod, eyes darting away from his like you are expecting a similar outburst from him for daring to ask a question.Â
âRequest away,â he finally manages to say, just before his feet start to act on their own and takes a step towards you. He has no idea what you could possibly want from him, but he hopes it is a desire to drown because maybe, maybe, youâd let him hold you under the water until you stop struggling instead of wanting to jump off a stupid bridge.Â
âCanâŠcan I get some cheesecake before youâŠ?â you gesture vaguely out to the room and Dex realizes that you still expect him to kill you.Â
He had told you he would, but he isnât sure if he is still going to.
He doesnât have a plan anymore.
-----
New York truly is the city that never sleeps because thirty minutes later, Dex is sitting across from you on a bench by the river, poking at a piece of cheesecake with a fork. You are taking small delicate bites of your own slice around the closest thing to a smile on your face heâs seen all night.
You have no qualms about him staring you down, memorizing everything about you he doesnât already know as you enjoy your snack. His jaw ticks as his eyes keep going to darkening bruise encircling your wrist. It mars your perfect skin and is another glaring reminder of just how badly Murdock has hurt you tonight.Â
You might need a splint - Dex can already see the swelling happening and you donât need physical pain on top of all the emotional and mental suffering you are dealing with. There is a pharmacy only a block away and if it is not a twenty-four hour joint, heâll just break in to take what he needs. As he starts to wonder if wearing something on your wrist will hinder your dancing, he remembers the words he wanted to say to you all those hours ago.Â
Dex wets his lips with his tongue, then in a low, calm voice, tells you, âyou were perfect tonight.âÂ
Your fork freezes midair as your eyes go wide at his admission, like you have no idea what he is talking about and him breaking the silence will cause more to crumble down around you. He is quick to follow up with more, wanting to tell you exactly what he thinks of your dancing.
âYou didnât miss a mark. Youâve been practicing and practicing and you pulled it off. You were perfect. The spins, when you were the Black Swan - the um,â Dex snaps his fingers as he tries to remember the correct word - none of them are English and they all sound the same to him.Â
âThe fouettes?â you supply, soft and sweet. You are searching his face, a hint of something positive in your features and no sign of fear or dread. Just curiosity.Â
He feels himself start to smile and he commits the term to memory, âyes, those. Thank you. The fouettes. That was impressive - and adding in the little improvised flair at the end made the crowd go wild.â
Your cheeks start to color and something in Dex crows at being successful at something that night. You look back down to your cheesecake, rolling your bottom lip between your teeth before giving a shy, âthank you.â
He lets you bask in his praise - something that is not easily given - as he takes a bite of his own dessert. He doesnât remember the last time he stepped outside his pattern for food, and heâs glad he did. You actually know where to get good cheesecake.Â
You keep your eyes downcast as you boldly make more conversation with him, âwere youâŠgoing to kill me during the show?âÂ
âYeah,â Dex tells you, not hiding who he is at all, shoving another forkful into his mouth. âThe finale, when the White Swan throws herself in the lake. I figured it would be Poetic or some shit.âÂ
You laugh at that - the smallest huff and your cheeks pushing up into soft mounds. He is quick to latch onto the feeling it gives him because it is so different from everything else he experiences.Â
He likes whatever you are doing to him. He likes you responding to his words with a smile instead of indifference. He likes this fluttering in his chest instead of the buzzing in his head.
âThat would have been a nice way to go.âÂ
âBetter than jumping?â he prompts, curious the know where you are mentally in your journey towards suicide.Â
Dex knows the moment he leaves your side, you will be taking matters into your own hands - Murdock might have well signed the declaration of death himself before running off into the night. Heâll offer his services to you, free of charge if that is the road you want to go down, but he will not be taking your life to get some reaction out of Daredevil.Â
Heâll help you out of the Darkness on your terms, no one elseâs.Â
You shrug at his question, eyes flicking up quickly to look at his face for just a second before going back down to the table. âIâŠdonât really like being coldâŠand with all the increased patrollingâŠâ You trail off, but the little furrow in your brow tells him you want to say more.Â
So Dex waits, letting you mull things over as he finishes eating. Only when he tosses his trash away do you find yourself again.
âI had it all planned, you know? NotâŠnot that. That came afterâŠbut before, whenâŠâ You wrinkle up your nose as Dex hangs on your every word, wanting anything you will give him before he has to let you go. âBefore the show? All my life? This was my dream role, you know, ever since I learned about it? Itâs all I wanted to do. I know itâs stupid and cliche, butâŠâ You duck your chin so it is almost touching your chest, then admit to him, voice dropping so low he can only just hear it. âI promised myself that if I ever got it, my night would be cheesecake and a hot bath. And I have cheesecake. So, thank you. For that.âÂ
Dex searches your face, not knowing what he is looking for. He thinks its sad that your reward for achieving your dream is something so mundane and thing inside him that is so fucked up is latching onto the fact that he has the ability to fulfill your second desire.Â
He can make sure you get a hot bath before you pull the preverbal trigger.Â
He can make you smile again before the sun comes up and the reality of everything sets in.Â
Dex will do that for you and it wonât be something merciful of him. Heâll do it as a proper thank you for giving him such a wonderful show.
For giving him such a wonderful night.Â
----
He means to just give you the keycard and let you be on your way.Â
Heâs already slipped one of his knives and the bottle of muscle relaxants he took from the pharmacy into your bag. Thereâs plenty of liquor in the minibar. You will have everything you need to slip off to sleep, never to wake up again after you soak to your heartâs delight.Â
But, somehow, without his consent or initial approval, Dex finds himself in the suiteâs bathroom, leaning against the counter while you test the temperature of the water before you fill the tub. You are probably about five minutes from passing out from the intensely physical and emotional night youâve had, but for the moment, as he looks you over, you appear content. Your good hand is swirling through the shallow water as it heats up and your attention is on some romcom playing on the television that hangs in the room.Â
He never understood why there would need to be one in the bathroom, but heâs not going to comment if it is helping you relax.Â
Eventually, you plug the tub so it can fill and oh so gracefully push yourself up into standing. His eyes crawl up and down your form, taking in how your muscles sit on you and where your different strengths lay. He was not bullshitting about being impressed with your Black Swan performance - your athleticism is something to be admired. In your thirty two turns, you could stay centered, not tilting forward or moving about the stage as you twirled. You have control over your body that Dex could only dream to achieve.Â
You watch him examine you, tilting your head slightly as you do. He has no idea what you could be looking for, but you seem to find it because you turn away to start to unzip your hoodie.Â
âDo you want to join me?âÂ
Dex thinks that to anyone else, it would sound like an invitation for sex or some other lewd act, but he knows that is not what you are asking of him. He has no desire for that and he thinks neither do you - you just do not want to be alone and in that moment, neither does he.Â
He doesn't want to lose you just yet.Â
So, his response is to start stripping and you are quick to follow suit. He keeps his eyes away from your intimate areas out of respect, but he can't help but zero in on the now purple ring on your wrist.Â
He should never have let Murdock touch you. Dex should have put him down the moment he had raised his voice at you. He had never respected or cherished you in the way you deserved. Murdock thought it was acceptable to lash out at you over his own mistakes.Â
It wouldn't be happening again.Â
Whatever you desire, until the moment your heart stops, will be yours, Dex decides. You like sweet, mundane things so it won't be difficult to spend the night with you. You want to take a bath and watch a movie and stop hurting. And if you get hungry, he'll order you room service and get all the cheesecake you want. He has nothing else to spend all his money on.
The water is near boiling when he steps into it, and only when he is mostly emerged does he understand exactly why you wanted a hot bath. He did not know his body was so sore.
He does not hold back his pleased groan.Â
But he does hold back his surprise when you settle against him, your back to his chest. You are a warm, pleasant weight against him and you show no hesitation in getting comfortable. He is no longer a stranger to you - he is a presence in your Darkness.
It's been so long since anyone's touched him in a kind way and between whatever it is you have bloomed in him and the streaming water, he finds himself relaxing back into the tub.
Your head finds his shoulder, turned so your nose is brushing his throat. Your breath skates across his collar bone, already evening out as you drift off into an unconsciousness you'll return from. You are sinking into him and the water like you just plan to float away.Â
He finds himself smiling at that and he drops his arm to wrap around your waist and keep you snug against him. He places his chin on top of your head, feeling like maybe the universe had smiled on him this night.
The Devil has lost the Swan Princess and Dex has gained an Angel.Â
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