#but the request gives me a good excuse to

[cherry-hulu]

— Diamond Life : The Series

Summary: 13 in 1. Literally.

Warnings: OT13 x Fem!Reader, Free Use concept, pwp, ++ more. Basically just a lame excuse for me to write free use reader x svt 😥

Note: open for requests 🫣 this post will basically be the m. list for the series:)

Unfortunately, no matter what, men will be men. It's no surprise that sex talks was a norm within a group of 13 men. From watching porn, to talking about their experience with sex and kinks, there truly was nothing to hide between them.

They've seen each other's all. The good and bad. The soft and hard. Have even indulged in a few cuckold moments with one or two.

The idea of free use was first introduced over a monthly meeting hosted by Dokyeom. The boys were drunk out of their minds, none of them was sober and was clearly not in the right way of thinking resorting them to using their dicks instead of their brain.

Soonyoung planted the seed, mentioning it when the topic of fantasies and weird kinks was brought up. Apparently Vernon had a spit kink, Wonwoo had a thing for asphyxiation, Jun was into food play, and Soonyoung was into free use— what the fuck was free use?

According to Soonyoung's very slobbered and barely coherent words, it was when someone was 24/7 available for sex. Almost as if it was reduced to a hole, ready for fucking any time at any moment.

It was a too good to be true fantasy. The boys knew it would be nearly impossible to happen, to find someone so willing for sex and to have it at any moment. But it didn't stopped the scenarios from pouring into their head, blood rushing to their cocks.

The thought of just being able to come up to someone and just be able to slide their dick in without any ministry and no mind to their situation was hot as fuck.

Mingyu then watered it, saying "What if we all had someone we can pass around, one against thirteen, imagine how full she can get." And boy did that made their imagination run wild.

Seungcheol fertilized it saying "I mean, our 10th year anniversary is coming around. Doyun hyung did say that he'd give us anything we ask as long as there's an agreement.."

And Doyun — made it bloom.

[ 01 | After Hours ] . . . Scoups x Reader x Wonwoo — Sex, overstimulation, and aftercare. What a way to come home fron work.

[cherrysolo]

loooove the way you wrote pissed lu, i remember reading something from his old roommate (?) where he said he never saw him anything but calm so i couldn’t picture it until i saw your reply to the request!! would love to see more of him trying to keep himself calm or how he would react to pissed reader <3

thank you sm!! I remember seeing his old roommate say that! it was very difficult for me to write because I don’t picture him as an angry person, so it was a good challenge! I’m so glad you loved it <3

this little piece is inspired by your request to see how the reader acts when she’s pissed and how lu deals with it. it’s also inspired by Taylor Swift’s song “all too well”. (if u guys get the references hehe). plus I deal with anxiety so this is soooo me lmao.

you and Luigi had flown from Hawaii to Pennsylvania to have a reunion dinner with his fraternity brothers. all of his closest college friends would be there with their significant others. you were so excited to finally meet some of his best college friends, you knew how much they meant to him.

as excited as you were, you were just as nervous. you struggled with social anxiety and meeting new people in large groups, something that luigi didn’t have trouble with at all. sometimes it felt isolating to have a partner who was very social and flourished in large groups. but anyway you did it for him, you just needed to relax and put on a happy face for him.

the dinner was going well as the boys reminisced, and the girlfriends made small talk. explaining their new job titles, talking about post-collegiate bliss, and looking back on their lives at penn.

quickly coming to the realization that you were the only one who didn’t go to an Ivy League school. you just studied English literature in Montreal, nothing special. all of these successful twenty somethings, long history of accomplishments, and you’re just… you. your eyes dotting back and forth at everyone at the table, just realizing how beautiful and blonde all these women are. did lu go to school with them too? my god, you felt so small and insecure with these anxiety-ridden thoughts flying through your mind. the smell of food began to be too much, your hair was sticking sweaty to your neckline, and your leg started bouncing to help calm yourself. you knew that these thoughts were untrue and were created in your mind, but your heart couldn’t stop racing. you didn’t feel good enough, to be by his side.

Luigi has always been a practical person, but he understood you struggled with anxiety and being in unfamiliar situations. He has never truly been in your shoes, but he tries his best to help out in anxiety-ridden situations, by grounding you or repeating your mantras.

Since he was used to comforting you in these situations, you quietly tried to grab his hand while he was talking to his ex-roommate to his left. you grab his hand, placing it on the table and intertwining your fingers. this is typically what you guys do to ground yourself in public, it’s a simple and sweet gesture.

as quickly as you grab his hand, it’s gone. he gives you a side eye, drops your hand, and continues his conversation like nothing happened. he dismisses you, in a way he hasn’t before. the act is cold and shocks you to no end. you then excuse yourself to the bathroom to calm down. while pacing back and forth in the ladies' room, you begin to have even more thoughts about what just occurred. why can’t he be affectionate in front of his friends? do I embarrass him? do you think they’re noticing how long I’ve been gone? taking some deep breaths, you walk back to the table.

…

“why have you been ignoring me the whole way back to the hotel?” luigi confronted you as soon as the door unlocked.

you scoffed, your anxiety and upset eyes had turned into anger. you felt embarrassed and angry that you even felt anxious and that you couldn’t be as socially acceptable as your partner.

“it’s nothing, I just want to go to bed, I’m tired,” you whispered. but luigi was having none of that,

“baby, you’re the one who said we should communicate better. what’s wrong? everyone was so happy to meet you tonight.” he pleaded with you.

“you dropped my hand.” you plainly stated, as luigi looked at you dumbfounded and confused.

his mouth agape, truly questioning what you meant by that.

“you dropped my fucking hand, what am I supposed to do with that?” you raised your voice, noticing the anger take over.

“I didn’t even fucking notice, what are you even talking about?” luigi matched your tone.

“I don’t even know any of these people. They’re all strangers, they’re all older than me, I feel so out of place! you know how bad my anxiety gets!” rushing to explain your anger but it just makes you feel worse.

luigi rolls his eyes, “I was catching up with my friends! you’re literally saying I dropped your hand. like what does that even mean? I don’t even remember the moment. god forbid I don’t pay attention to you for two seconds!” his tone and aggression shocked you. the last sentence is what made you go quiet. your face dropped, and you silently walk into the bathroom to take your makeup off.

lu regrets what it said as soon as it left his mouth. this is why he doesn’t like to be angry in front of you, regrettable things are said. he genuinely wants to help you during times of stress, but he doesn’t fully understand what goes on in your brain. he couldn’t tell that you were so upset over a small gesture.

as you leave the bathroom, getting ready for bed, you sigh, feeling a bit silly about overreacting. your feelings were valid, but the aftermath of a sudden argument makes you feel dizzy. you know that deep down he cares for you, but occasionally he doesn’t fully understand the extent of your anxieties. luigi was already falling asleep, so you lightly got into bed, not wanting to wake him.

the bed shifts as luigi turns over to face you, putting his hand on your waist. “this okay baby?”. you sighed and nodded yes.

rubbing his hands across your waist and your stomach, he begins to apologize, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or scared. I try to pick up on signals, but I can’t always read you that well. I’ll always be there to hold your hand,”

you hummed and placed your arm on his bicep, moments like these remind you why you love him so much. even during overwhelming situations, or not entirely understanding your reasoning, he still comes around, eventually.

“I love you, lu. I just get so overwhelmed and sometimes frazzled, sometimes my mind is like a car alarm that goes off for no reason, if that makes sense,” you explain, giggling. your laughs due to how silly it sounds out loud, but it’s true.

he smiles softly, trying to make sense of your analogy. “I see what you’re saying. sometimes I feel like a car that has no engine, I just shut off completely.” says jokingly, trying to make you smile.

you giggle, nudging your head into his chest, with his warmth enveloping you. “I think we both need to communicate more, amore,” he says softly, you know he’s joking, but there’s the truth behind it.

you felt him pull you closer, “I love you forever, my love. now get some rest” he softly says and presses a kiss on your forehead.

as you fall into a deep slumber, you feel so loved and appreciated by lu.

[hvnlygrl]

Hiiii! Ok I want to start off by saying I love love love your work! Can you write a blurb about reader flirting with JJ to make bf!Rafe mad bc she wants his attention and wants him to take her home and give it to her rough

flirt.

pairing — rafe cameron x fem!reader

word count — 0.6k

warning — smut! minors dni

synopsis — when rafe isn’t giving you enough attention at a party, you find a way to get it yourself, even if that means going to jj maybank for it…

notes — yes absolutely yall know i love a good spicy!rafe fic hehe :) thank u smm omg ur too kind and thank u a million for the request 💌you can read a similar one-shot that i’ve written here!

join my follower celebration — until feb. 3rd!

you and rafe had gotten into a brief, meaningless argument on the way to the party, and he was making it his mission to ignore you until you learned your lesson.

you recognized his petty plan and immediately began devising your own plan, one that was sure to get you the attention you craved from the cameron boy.

the two of you walked in together, however you each went in separate directions with him heading toward kelce and topper and you going straight for the booze. you poured yourself two shots, making sure to hold direct eye contact with rafe as you downed them both. then you smiled, winked and walked over to your favorite group of pogues.

rafe listened to kelce drone on and on about his new girlfriend, eyes watching you curiously to see what type of shenanigans you were about to get yourself into. he couldn’t help the fire that began bubbling in his chest when he watched you walk up to jj maybank.

you struck a conversation with the blonde immediately upon arriving at the group.

“hey, jj!” you made sure to be animated enough that rafe would notice, but not so animated that jj would be put off or turned on.

“what’s up, y/n?” he raises a curious brow at you as he notices the lack of a certain kook by your side. “where’s rafe?”

“talking with kelce and topper,” you shrug innocently, “i need a favor…”

jj immediately picks up on the situation, “you want me to fake flirt with you to piss rafe off, right?”

“oh my god, how’d you know?”

he winks at you before moving a little closer, leaning down to whisper into your ear, “because he’s already staring at me like he wants to kill me.”

you laugh, making sure to throw your head back, letting your hand go up to very lightly touch his forearm. you’re sure not to look back at rafe, needing the situation to look as legit as possible.

rafe doesn’t bother to excuse himself from the conversation, simply just walking away from topper and kelce and heads straight to you.

jj sees him b-lining to you, deciding to give you a heads up. “bogey, twelve-o’clock.”

you nod, “thanks, jj, i owe you one!”

“anytime,” he huffs out a laugh, “good luck, y/n.”

rafe grabs the top of your bicep without saying a word, simply dragging you up to the bathroom and locking the door behind you.

“what’s up, rafey?” you ask innocently.

he pins you up against the wall, “you think you’re cute?”

“i think i’m adorable,” you wink at him, “you think i’m cute?”

he rolls his eyes at you, “you are so in for it when we get home.”

“aw,” you frown before leaning up to whisper in his ear, “i was hoping i was in for it now, baby.”

he feels himself growing hard in his shorts, his breathing growing shorter and shorter. “oh yea? you sure you can stay quiet for me?”

you nod quickly, biting at your lip, “i’m sure you can keep me quiet.”

rafe eyes you up and down, contemplating for just a second. you opted to wear a cute (and very short) dress to the party.

“take your panties off and bend over the counter,” he commands as he unbuckles his belt and drops his shorts, his hand gripping his hard cock.

you follow the instructions, one hand holding the panties out for him to do whatever he wants with them. he grabs them from your hand and shoves them in your mouth, “tap the counter twice if you want me to stop.”

you nod, heart beating loudly as you feel his hands make their way up the insides of your thighs.

you’re in for a long night.

-> back to masterlist.

[deadhands69]

I Never Told You What I Do For A Living

Hitoshi Shinso x Reader

Hurt/Comfort ☔ >>☁️ From the First Five Ask game Hurt to comfort but it got a little weird. Sorry. I’ll do more Shinso in the future! Request from anon, thank you!! Who would have thought your boyfriend’s secret hero identity being outed would be a good thing?

It's so sisyphean. 

You’ve been with Hitoshi Shinso for years, but you still have no idea what he does for a living. He leaves every evening before the sun goes down and comes home late every night, sometimes covered in blood. 

Usually, it’s not his.

Usually, you don’t ask.

You just expect it. Running stacks of washcloths under warm water to clean him up every night. Tending to his wounds and reassuring him that it’s fine. 

But it’s not fine. 

Your heart breaks every time you have to look into his eyes and see the pain of whatever he’s been through. Knowing, he’ll never be able to tell you like you’ve asked, begged him to in the past. 

All he’ll tell you is: it’s nothing immoral, nothing illegal.

You spend all night wondering how anyone could even get close to him with his quirk. What he could possibly be doing. And what kind of life you’ll have with someone who clearly has a separate life they could never share with you. Just when you start to fall asleep, the alarm goes off. The bags under your eyes can easily compete with his at this point.

And then you drag yourself out of bed and do it all again the next day.

This repeats night after night after night, like it always has.

Until it doesn’t.

And he doesn’t come home. 

Or answer his phone.

The sun is beginning to peek through the blinds in your shared apartment when, finally, your phone buzzes. You answer hopefully but your heart immediately drops. 

It’s the hospital. Something about taking him in for surgery. You vaguely hear the words ‘fractures’, ‘contusion’, and ‘lucky’ but you’re barely able to listen at this point. Everything is a whirlwind. You throw on your jacket and rush out the door still in your house slippers. 

Only to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The TV bolted to the wall overhead flashes through recent news. Weather. More news. It’s all quite repetitive until a new story is thrown into the mix.

“BREAKING” the headline flashes, “unranked secret hero hospitalized after identity leaked.” You don’t need to listen to the rest of the story to know who they’re talking about.

Eventually, you’re joined by a tall dark haired man in the waiting room. You’ve never met him, but he knows you by name. Without much introduction, he jumps into the details. 

 How they’re moving him to other missions. How they should have been more careful and he’s so sorry for the pain he’s caused you both. An hour ago, you didn’t know anything about your boyfriend’s life, now you’re overwhelmed with it. The man sitting in the uncomfortable chair across from you continues speaking with the assumption someone had already contacted you before this. He apologizes again.  

It should come as some small relief to hear the man speak about their missions. Knowing the significance of the cycle you’d been in, what he’s done to help people. You should feel relieved that he’s always had someone there to talk to. That he’ll never have to hide anything from you again. It’s not over yet though.

Hitoshi should be the one to tell you these things. 

“Excuse me,” you mumble to who you’ve assumed to be his sensei. He nods.

The nurses station is busy, but as soon as they see you, you’re informed they were about to bring you back. As you follow their footsteps, you worry what state he’ll be in. Wishing you’d listened more to the phone call. Asked more questions while you were in the waiting room. After years of cleaning his wounds, you were used to it on some level but this is different.

“He’s just waking up, I’ll give you some time before letting anyone else in.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, tapping open the door to the dark room.

He doesn’t look much worse than you’ve seen him. The IV and stitches are new, but he’s awake. He smiles when you enter and you’re not sure if it’s the morphine or if he’s actually happy but you’ll take it either way.

Sitting on his bedside, he leans into your arm. 

“I have so much to tell you later,” he murmurs sleepily before closing his eyes.

It’s over.

And it’s going to be okay.

masterlist

Vampire vibes! I almost ran with it but it got realllllly not comfort ending really fast so I bailed.

[thevampireladyambrosia]

The Professor's Pet

Request via anon.

Pairing: Male!Kitsune x Female!Reader.

Content Warning: Power dynamics (professor x student), manipulation, age gap, knots.

You have always been a good student. At least at this university. A school involving magic was the dream. As a human, however, you struggled a bit. Especially with charms. In fact, you frequently explode them by pouring too much energy in. You can't help it. You are just so excited. Thus, you fell behind in class.

The professor, an older kitsune with all nine tails, noticed this. He had been trying to help you as much as he could, but he could only do so much. So you quickly began to fail the class.

This caused you to panic. You could only go to this place because you got a full ride scholarship. A scholarship that requires a certain GPA to keep.

So you doubled down. You tried harder. You stayed up later. Only for things to become more of a disaster. Your anxious energy explodes charms more easily. Your sleep deprivation led to you making mistakes you normally wouldn't.

It was very late one night that you decided you'd approach the professor the next day. You knew his office hours from the beginning of the year; from when he had gone over the syllabus. Maybe you could ask for an extra credit essay? Something. Anything. You had to pass this class.

The next day goes slowly. It's like the universe knew you had something that needed done, so it slowed down time. You found yourself glancing at the clock every couple minutes. You were an anxious mess. The professor seemed nice enough. But would he help you?

When the time came for you to approach his office you somehow grew more anxious. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced your feet to move. You entered his office.

He looked up and smiled. He greeted you and gestured for you to take a seat.

“I'm assuming you're here about your grade?” He stated. He said it casually and in a nonchalant way. But it was anything but that to you. It determined the rest of your life. Failing would mean not being able to continue at this school. It would mean everything had been for nothing.

“Um… yeah.” You replied. You mentally kicked yourself. You wanted to say more, but it would come out. Like your mouth was too dry, and your lips were sewn shut.

“I went ahead and took a look at your assignments. It appears you weren't absent for much. Rather, it became apparent that you had a knack for exploding things throughout the year. As you likely know, I could have done something if you had excused absences. I could have let you make up the work for partial credit. Simply failing is different, though. If I let you redo it, you'd gain an unfair advantage over your classmates.”

You sucked in a breath. There it was. What you had feared all along. Your face fell. You were really going to fail the class.

“But…” You immediately snapped back into attention. There was a glimmer of hope in that simple word. “I do reward effort. And you, my dear student, have put in effort. Tell me, how far are you willing to go to secure your grade?”

You blinked. Did he want you to clean the classroom? Write a huge report? Do a presentation?

“I'd do anything. Anything at all.” You said confidently.

“That's a bold statement.” The kitsune said. But you didn't miss the glimmer in his eye. The same one people have when they get something they want. When they succeed at something. Satisfaction.

“It's the truth,” you replied. And it was. At this point in time, you'd do just about anything to secure your grade. Aside from doing something that harmed others.

“How about I give you a bonus assignment? One worth a good chunk of points. It would be distributed and added onto your other grades. But you'd have to keep it a secret. And I'd want something in return.”

You couldn't believe your ears. A chance to pass. You'd have to be positively insane to say no. But what did he want in return?

“I'll do it. Whatever it is, I'll do it. And I won't tell a soul.” You couldn't believe your own mouth. This was basically cheating. This would make you a fraud. The kitsune seemed to recognize where your mind was heading. And he acknowledged it in his next statement.

“It's not cheating. I'm a professor. I would know. The greatest minds weren't just people who were good at things. They were people who were passionate about things. You, my dear, have passion. You have drive. You have perseverance. Is it really cheating? Or are you just getting acknowledged for your work?”

You felt strange. He had praised you. Maybe he was right? I mean, you did work hard.

“But, even more amazing, is the fact you know how to work the system.” You looked at him. What was he talking about? “Wearing that short skirt you know would drive men crazy.”

Your eyes widen. You open your mouth to protest, to explain, but his hand slips under your skirt. It catches you so off guard that you don't even get a word out. Luckily, he only rubs your thigh before withdrawing his hand.

“I-” He cuts you off.

“You said anything, remember?” He's smiling at you. “What I want is simple. I want you to let me stuff your pretty little cunt with my cock. Just this once. After all, that's what you offered when you said anything, yes?”

He had a point. You did say anything. And maybe one time was worth it for a good grade?

“Okay. I consent. Just this once.” The professor didn't hesitate. You could barely process anything before you were bent over his desk. Your underwear were pushed aside as he roughly shoved a finger in. It stung slightly but quickly faded as your cunt lubricated itself.

It would help if you didn't enjoy it. If your cunt wasn't sending waves of pleasure into your brain, making it short circuit. When his thumb found your clit and a second finger joined, you moaned. It was loud and filthy. It made you feel disgusted with yourself.

He fingered you until you came around onto his hand hard. It was the most intense orgasm of your life. And it was given to you by your professor. Your way older professor. But you didn't care anymore.

He made you beg for his cock. Made you plead. And you did. He didn't even bother to undress you nor himself. He just pulled his growing erection out and kept your underwear pushed aside. He shoved into you in one swift motion that made you cry out and see stars.

He fucked you rough and hard, his pace unforgiving. And when you came, you gushed around his cock. If you thought the orgasm earlier was intense, this one was unreal. You became practically boneless. Your vision went white. You could have sworn you passed out for a brief moment.

And then he came. Buried deep in your cunt. You felt the warmth of his seed fill you. And something strange happened too. It was like he got bigger. Like his penis expanded, locking him in. You had expected him to pull out. You had assumed incorrectly.

It wasn't even a minute after his penis went back to normal that he fixed your clothes and ushered you out. Something about office hours being over.

You walked back to your dorm on wobbly legs, your professor's cum dripping down your thighs. You pressed them together to hide it as much as possible.

When you arrived back, you showered and went to bed. A few days later you had a B in his class.

[nikoniclove]

New smut posted!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61399129/chapters/158542468

Teasing

NSFW folks - see Ao3 link for author’s notes and the requests that got included

You wake up to wet kisses decorating your chest, and your eyes flutter open. Blonde hair is about all you can make out. Your vision stays fogged with sleep for a long moment. “Morning, baby,” JJ purrs before her lips wrap around your nipple. That clears the sleep from your brain pretty damn fast, and you moan a greeting. Or you intend to greet her, but it comes out as a moan. Either way, she’s pleased to hear the sound. “Couldn’t resist,” she hums. “Waking up to you naked in my arms… my bite marks all over your breasts, Emily’s handprints on your hips… then I started thinking about last night and exactly how we put them there.” You’re so flustered, hearing JJ talk like that with her voice still raspy from sleep. You squirm beneath her. “Are you getting wet already, baby?”

“Jen, don’t start something you can’t finish,” Emily grumbles into her pillow.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” JJ wonders, scraping her teeth over your nipple.

“We have to be in early today, remember?” You groan loudly, thumping your head back against the pillow, because you know exactly how this is going to play out for you, and it sucks. “Yep, sorry, love.“

“Rain check,” JJ promises, slinking up to find your lips with hers. “Because I’m just as worked up as you are, baby,” she whispers into your ear.

It’s gonna be a long fucking day.

The mandatory 8 AM budget meeting makes you strongly consider a lobotomy. It’s long, tedious, and mind-numbing. Your memories keep looping back to last night and the fun that was almost had this morning. You fidget in your seat. Almost immediately, your phone vibrates in your lap.

E: what dirty thoughts are you thinking over there?

E: you don’t squirm like that about expense tracking

Your cheeks heat with a familiar blush, and you duck your head quickly.

E: easy, pretty girl

Your eyes widen, as you tuck your phone face down between your legs, very much trying to ignore it and them. Except they know you, and they’re obviously having fun at your expense.

J: no need to use your phone, baby

J: I’m sure we have a toy in one of our go-bags that we can put to good use

J: maybe that’s how I’ll play tonight - tie you open and let a vibrator run on low right against your clit until you’re a mess

J: how long could you take it, baby?

The quick succession of texts coming through vibrating between your legs makes you flinch noticeably. It’s enough to get Hotch’s attention, and he glares at you pointedly. You mouth an apology and try to focus on the… something on the screen. You missed the context with their sexting, so whatever graph is up there just looks like gibberish.

Another buzz comes through, and you fumble your phone when you see the photo JJ sent you. You dim the brightness on your phone and breathe through the intense arousal coursing through your veins. A lot of skin. So much skin. Your brain fizzles out, and whatever attention you had been paying is gone, now replaced by the image of JJ in nothing but red lingerie, a Santa hat balanced on her head.

It continues throughout the day. Emily’s fingers linger over yours when she gives you a cup of coffee. JJ finds any excuse to rub against you. Emily snags you on the way to the bathroom for a heated make out session that makes your knees weak. JJ leaves her lipstick print purposefully on your takeout coffee lid.

When your desk phone rings, it takes a couple of times of clearing your throat before you can speak without sounding desperately turned on. The person on the phone says they’re ready to prep you for your testimony. You’re confused, and it’s not just because all the moisture in your body currently resides between your legs. “I’m not scheduled for a testimony.” The prosecutor’s assistant repeats the instruction that you’re due to be prepped for a testimony. “What case is this for?” You sigh tiredly. “Let me check with my unit chief. What number can I call you back on?”

With callback information in hand, you head up to Hotch’s office to relay the request. You hope he declines, but you doubt you’re that lucky. Sure enough after Hotch calls the prosector’s office to get the gist of what’s happening, he sends you packing. “Head out now. The drive will take a few hours at least. Testimony is first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree.

When you pass Emily and JJ’s desks, you clomp grumpily. “Oh no,” JJ understands. “How long?”

“Tonight at least. I’m due in court tomorrow morning. Hotch said to start the drive now.”

“Call us when you get to the hotel, and we’ll help you with the problem we created,” Emily promises. You grumble because you know it won’t help. You’re just going to be uncomfortably turned on for the next 24 hours at least. Still, you’ll call them anyway because even if you don’t want to admit it, you’ll miss them. You’re used to spending your evenings with them, doing any number of things, so you know you’ll be a bit lonely in the hotel by yourself.

Through the drive, you try to focus on the road, but your mind wanders to the photo of JJ - her breasts encased in beautiful red silk and lace, small red lace panties hugging low on her hips, and the perfectly accessorized Santa hat in her blonde waves. It’s almost all you can think about. When you’re parked at a red light near the hotel, you give in and flip to the group text to look at the picture again. And again. And again. “Fuck me,” you groan, tensing your fingers around the steering wheel.

In the hotel room, you flop backwards onto the bed, simply falling off your feet. You bounce awkwardly, honestly hoping it will shake enough loose that you don’t feel so… knotted and jittery. The list of things you’d do to be in bed with your partners is lengthy, and you can’t do any of it because you have to be in court by 7:30 AM.

You grope around for your phone, clicking through to the speed dial with muscle memory alone. You nearly whine when Emily’s rasped voice greets you. “Sorry,” she apologizes, so maybe you made that sound aloud after all. That’s not pathetic at all, you sass yourself. “If we had known you’d get called out solo, we wouldn’t have been so teasing.”

“Let us help, baby.”

“It doesn’t work. It’s just going to make it worse,” you retort, even as you maneuver back against the headboard and shimmy out of your work slacks.

“Up to you,” Emily offers. “We’re happy to put on a show for you. What do you want to see, hmm, pretty girl?” That time, you know without a doubt that your whine is audible. “Switch to video.” Her instructions wash over you, and your brain sparks with pleasure. Just that nickname in that dominating tone of voice makes you needy and desperate. “Good girl. Show us what you have on.” The camera pans down to capture what’s left of your work outfit. “Did you make a mess in your panties?” You shiver at the degrading nature of her question; you love it. “Use your words, pretty girl.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Show me,” she commands. Your body jolts at the slightest touch of your fingertips gliding through your hot center.

“So beautiful, baby,” JJ hums. “I’d pin your thighs apart and spend hours sucking your clit and tonguing your hole. Fuck, you always taste so good, and making you come while I eat you out is a personal favorite.”

Your hand skates over your ribs and down your belly. “Not yet,” Emily denies. “Who does your pussy belong to?”

“Fuck,” you groan. “You. It’s yours.”

“You’re right. It is mine, so what makes you think you can touch without permission?”

“Emily,” you beg. “Please.”

“Tell me. Are you leaking? Juices dripping from your pussy down the delicious curves of your ass?” You gasp the appropriate affirmative response. “Take it all off for me. I want you bare. Do you see Jen, love? Mimic her position. You’re both going to follow the same directions for me.” In the small screen, a very naked JJ leans back against the headboard at home, her knees spread wide, her fingers playing casually between her legs. You follow suit, setting up the phone so it can be propped up to leave your hands free. “That’s it. Such a good girl for me. Two fingers, down your clit, and then just the tips playing at your entrance.” You follow her instructions, gasping as you tease yourself. “Keep going, just like that.”

“How would you fuck her if she was here, Em,” JJ wonders, her hips rocking against her hand.

“Mmm, so many choices for such a pretty girl. I’d spank her wet pussy until she came.” A shudder wracks your body. You know exactly what that feels like, what it would feel like. “Ace, tight circles on your clit.” You groan. “Show me you know how to obey, and I’ll make sure you get your reward when you get home,” Emily promises. “I’ll just push you up against the door and fuck you right there. You’d be a good girl and take it, wouldn’t you, love?”

“Yes, please,” you beg.

“Jen, two fingers, fuck yourself like a good girl. Ace, keep at it. Tight circles. Don’t stop.” JJ’s moans through the phone are going to be the death of you. She’s loud and uninhibited, doing exactly what Emily tells her to do. Emily taunts her, baiting her, and it’s perfect for making JJ come, her thighs closing tightly around her hand as her body shiver. “I didn’t forget about you, pretty girl.” As good as it feels, as turned on as you are, it’s a tension you know won’t snap. Your sob is frustrated, even as it bleeds with desperation and arousal. “Easy, easy.”

“It’s not going to work,” you groan. “My brain… it’s not… fuck! Why does my body only work like that when we’re all in the same goddamn place?! Why can’t I make it work when I’m so desperately turned on and it feels so good and two unbelievably sexy women are… what the fuck is wrong with me that I can’t take all that stimuli and turn it into something positive for my body?”

“Hey, hey,” Emily soothes quickly, focusing the camera back on her face. “Nothing’s wrong with you. Take a breath.” You groan and grumble continuously, flailing your limbs in your tense, worked up state, that feels and looks a lot like temper tantrum. “Ace. Focus on me.” You snatch your phone and do as she says. “There we go. You’re okay.”

“I don’t feel okay,” you snip. “I’m discombobulated and all over the place, and I kept daydreaming while I was driving, which is definitely not advisable, and somehow I have to be coherent enough to give a testimony against a killer, and I can’t even make my body do something very basic that bodies are supposed to do.” Your monologued ramble doesn’t help either; it just feels like the wheels have come off the cart as it careens wildly into mayhem.

“For women, it’s not always easy. It’s a mental game for most.”

“Then it’s a game I lose at on the regular. I give up. My body only does that for you and JJ. It doesn’t give a shit what I want. But you talk in that voice of yours, and all of a sudden, no problems. Or fewer problems because I’m still fucked up but at least not always in the orgasm department.”

“You are not fucked up,” JJ insists, adjusting Emily’s hold on the camera to include them both in the frame. She’s thrown a loose shirt over her nudity. “There is nothing wrong with you, baby. C’mon. Breathe.”

“I can’t. My entire body is throbbing, and my brain can’t focus on anything that isn’t her voice or you coming.” With one hand, you scrub roughly over your face.

“Find your metronome app,” Emily instructs. “Open it and make it loud.”

“My what?! I’m not… I’m not playing guitar right now. I’m going to combust because you’ve been teasing me all day, and my body can’t do the thing, and a metronome is not just going to magically fix that.” You’re talking a mile a minute, your cadence as strung out as you feel.

“Metronome. Now.” You clench your jaw, breathing forcefully through your nose to quell the frustration. When Emily can hear the rhythmic sound, she offers you a bit of praise. “Put the phone where it was before, and turn up your volume at least one notch.”

“Emily,” you whine, feeling hopeless about her attempt to do whatever this is.

“I’m not asking. I’m telling you exactly what to do. Trust me, and do it.” You situate the phone on the nightstand again. “Close your eyes. Sit cross legged. One hand on your belly, one over your heart. Sync your body with the metronome. Breathe into it.”

“Sync my… what?”

“Sync your heartbeat with the metronome. Breathe into it. Let the consistent rhythm help calm your body.”

“Isn’t this a little woo-woo-yoga for you,” you snark. “Every time I ask you about meditation you scoff at me.”

“Yeah, well, I did some research on ways to calm the body with sound, so we could lean into them when we’re apart. This is one of them,” Emily explains, a slight hesitation present in her words. “Can you stop being a brat and just try it?” Benefit of the doubt. Emily’s trying to help. You can try and meet her halfway. It’s your dumb body she’s trying to calm after all.

Little by little. Bit by bit. You manage it. “There you go, baby,” JJ encourages. “Great job.”

“My body still feels like it’s on fire.”

“We’ll take care of that when you get home. I promise,” Emily assures you. “Get some rest. Give your testimony. Drive home safely. We’ll cool it on the obvious teasing.”

“Yeah, okay,” you agree. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for, baby. It’s okay. We love you.”

“I love you too.”

——

When you have a very intense sex dream, you’re up before your alarm. You take the coldest shower you can manage and then get dressed for court.

It’s the Army mindset that gets you through the testimony without your brain wandering, but as you sit in the pews in the court room, you start to imagine just how many ways Emily and JJ could fuck you silly in here. The judge’s gavel, however unrelated, snaps you back to attention, and the tips of your ears burn with embarrassment.

By the time you’re getting in the SUV for the drive back, your body is thrumming again with pent-up energy. You turn the music up as loud as you can stand and step on the gas. Normally, you’d stop once somewhere in the middle to stretch your legs, get a soda, and use the bathroom. Today, you don’t even think about it, just speeding through all the backwater towns the freeway takes you through. You have exactly one goal in mind.

In the apartment, you kick off your shoes, taking just enough time to close and lock the door. The kitchen and living room are empty. The computer glow from the office determines it as your next stop. Emily is working on something, her face carrying a blue tint from the screen. She looks up when you burst in, and a genuine smile happily curls the corners of her lips. You have the common sense enough to make sure she’s not a video or phone call for work, but that’s all the mind you have for logistics. Pushing the office chair back with the ball of your foot, you climb onto her lap. “Now, Emily. No teasing, no anything. Just… fuck me now.”

Her eyes darken as she works the fasten on your slacks. “Whatever you say, my love.” Later you might recognize how Emily reacted to your uncharacteristic taking charge, but right now, you need to come. You needed to come 36 hours ago when JJ woke you up with her mouth against your chest. You needed to come a hundred times between then and now. “Get up for a second.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” you snip. Her eyebrows arch in amusement. She just taps your hips. Your suit slacks aren’t made to straddle someone’s lap and also give them room to maneuver. “Fine, but you’ve worked with less before.”

“I have,” Emily agrees amenably. “Take them off, and I’ll do exactly what you asked.” You strip everything off in record time, clamoring back over her lap, effectively pinning her to the office chair. “Fuck, I love you like this. It’s so sexy, love.”

“More fucking, less talking,” you demand, halting any other conversation with your lips on hers. You take one of her hands from your hip and move it purposefully between your legs. “No teasing. You were the first partner I found, and I will very happily go find JJ to take care of this if you can’t.”

Emily kisses your neck, her fingers curling inside you. Her free hand grips your hip to keep you stable. “You know I’m plenty capable of making you come, my love.”

Your hips work desperately. Your forehead drops against her shoulder, your breath coming in ragged, quick gasps. You don’t have any control left; you’ve been keeping yourself reined in, masking your body’s arousal for so long. Your moans are loud. “More, Em… fuck, please… I need more… I wanna come for you. I need it… Em… Emily…” Those wonderfully talented fingers press deep inside of you, and your breath catches in your throat. Your mouth gapes open, momentarily incapable of making any sound at all. Her thumb swiping over your clit makes your toes curl. Every muscle in your body tensing before you tremble against her with the force of your release. You haven’t caught your breath when you’re demanding another. “Again. Keep going, Emily, please.”

Briefly, vaguely, you recognize her texting something on her phone before she tosses it to the carpet. She slams her laptop closed, shifting things to the side haphazardly. With her clean hand, Emily taps the desktop. You can’t part with the friction of grinding down on her, even for a second. Too needy, too desperately strung out. Too horny to do the simplest ask. You whimper when she pulls her fingers free from your pussy, adjusting her grip to lift you onto the desk’s edge.

Your moan echoes through the space when Emily separates your folds to lick and suck at your clit. She hums her pleasure as your taste coats her tongue; it sends vibrations rocketing through you in the best way.

JJ’s touch on your shoulders surprises you. “Is Emily making you feel good, baby?” You grab her hand, moving it to your breast, while your other stays knotted in Emily’s hair, absolutely refusing to let her free. It feels too good. It’s exactly what you need. Your head tips back with a breathlessly loud moan.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” you chant. Your hips move with a mind of their own against Emily. It’s not just her tongue and lips, her nose bumps against you. You grind down, very much riding her face. “Fuck!” A combination of Emily between your legs and JJ rolling your nipples sends you over the edge.

The desk is unforgiving beneath you as you catch your breath, finally releasing your grip on Emily. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Ace pinned me to the chair and demanded I make her come. So sexy watching her take what she wanted from me. What did you say, love? Hmm? You told me I didn’t get to tell you what to do.” JJ moans at the thought, picturing the whole scene.

“I was too desperate to care about being polite or about my usual awkwardness,” you mumble defensively and self consciously.

“I loved it,” Emily professes. “What do you say we get you some dinner, and then JJ can show you that holiday lingerie set she picked out?”

“Complete with the Santa hat,” you check.

“Of course, it’s not the look without the hat,” JJ promises. She offers you her hand to help you slip off the desk. “Dinner and round two. C’mon, baby. Let’s give you a proper welcome home.”

[thollandsgirl2013]

Thank you so very much for doing my last request when I saw the post I was so excited to read it!!! If it's not too much trouble, could you do another one where Tom (who is the designated driver) and the reader and some of their friends are at a pub quiz one night and there is a guy who tries to come onto and touch on the reader and tom (who has a big crush on the reader) gets mad and goes into protective mode plzzz 😊

Not really happy with how it turned out. It could have been better. I hope you like it 😶

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐮𝐛 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐳

Parings → Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings → fluff, drunk guy

Summary → At a pub quiz, Tom protects you from a drunk guy, later on confesses his feelings.

The pub buzzed with energy as you and the gang settled into your usual spot near the corner, a cozy booth that offered just the right mix of privacy and visibility. The monthly pub quiz had become a cherished tradition among you, Tom, Harry, Harrison, Tuweine, Sam, and Sam’s girlfriend, Clark. The seven of you made an unbeatable team, though the friendly debates over trivia answers often turned into playful chaos.

“Alright, team!” Harry said, smacking the table as the first round’s questions were announced. “We’ve got this. No stupid answers this time, Harrison.”

“I wasn’t stupid last time!” Harrison retorted, indignant. “The question was ambiguous.”

“Mate, it was ‘What’s the capital of France,’” Sam deadpanned, earning a laugh from everyone at the table.

You caught Tom grinning as he leaned back in his chair, sipping from a bottle of non-alcoholic beer. His brown curls were slightly messy, and his soft smile made your chest feel warm. Tom had been sober for two years now, a decision he’d made that he's really proud of. It hadn’t changed much about your nights out, except that he always drove you all home—and refused to let you forget it.

As the quiz carried on, you felt the urge to grab another drink. You nudged Tom’s shoulder as you stood. “Want anything from the bar?”

“Nah, I’m good, love,” he replied, his voice warm and familiar. “But don’t take too long. We need you for the next round.”

You chuckled, giving him a mock salute. “Yes, boss.”

At the bar, you ordered your drink and leaned against the counter, tapping your fingers idly as the bartender started to mix it. The pub was packed tonight, and the energy felt almost tangible, a buzzing current of chatter, laughter, and clinking glasses.

“Hey there,” a voice interrupted your thoughts.

You turned to find a man standing uncomfortably close, a cocky grin plastered across his face. His slightly slurred words and the beer in his hand told you he’d had more than a few drinks.

“Did it hurt?” He asked, smirking.

“Excuse me?” you replied, confused.

“When you fell from heaven.” He leaned in closer, his breath reeking of alcohol.

You forced an awkward smile, shifting away slightly. “Can you not please? I’m just waiting for my drink.”

The bartender was taking forever, and you felt your stomach twist uncomfortably as the guy continued to talk ignoring your comment.

“You here alone? Because a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be.”

Your gaze darted to your table, hoping someone would notice. As if on cue, you caught Tom’s sharp eyes locking onto yours. His playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a look of pure concern—and anger.

The guy reached out, brushing his fingers against your arm. “How about I keep you company?”

“Don’t touch me,” you said firmly, stepping back. But before you could say more, the man grabbed your wrist.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t be like that—”

“Let. Go. Of. Her.”

The voice was calm, low, and terrifyingly controlled. You turned your head to see Tom standing behind the man, his jaw clenched, his fists tight at his sides.

“Who the hell are you?” The guy slurred, sizing Tom up.

“Her best friend,” Tom said evenly, his hand darting out to grab the guy by the collar. “And I swear to God, if you don’t back off, I’ll—”

“Tommy!” You grabbed his arm, your voice cutting through the tension. “Stop it. It’s not worth it.”

Tom hesitated, his chest heaving with barely restrained fury. Slowly, he released the guy, shoving him back a step. “If I see you near her again,” he growled, “you’ll regret it.”

The guy muttered something under his breath but quickly staggered off when Tom took a menacing step forward.

Tom turned to you, his expression softening immediately. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, though your hands were still shaking. “I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

“C’mere.” He placed a hand gently on your back, guiding you to a quieter corner of the pub. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “He just came out of nowhere and wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Tom’s hand dropped to yours, squeezing lightly. “I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”

“Tom, stop,” you said softly, meeting his worried gaze. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You came when I needed you.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, his eyes searching yours. “If anyone ever makes you uncomfortable like that again, you come to me immediately, okay? I don’t care where I am or what I’m doing. Just—just come to me.”

“I promise,” you said, offering a small smile.

“Good.” He sighed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Now, let’s get back to the table before Haz tries to answer something ridiculous again.”

As you walked back, Tom kept his hand on your back, a protective presence you hadn’t realized how much you needed until now. When you sat down, the group immediately noticed the shift in his mood.

“Everything okay?” Harry asked, glancing between the two of you.

Tom nodded, his arm still resting on the back of your chair. “Yeah. Just dealt with a jerk. Nothing to worry about.”

You smiled at Tom, grateful beyond words. As the quiz continued, you felt his presence beside you, steady and reassuring.

And when he looked over at you, his eyes soft and filled with unspoken emotions, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was more to your friendship than either of you had dared to admit.

-----------------

The drive home was calm, the hum of the car engine the only consistent sound amid the occasional murmurs from the boys in the back seat. Tom’s hands gripped the steering wheel as he glanced at you, fast asleep in the passenger seat. The faint glow of streetlights danced across your peaceful face, and his heart squeezed.

“You’re so whipped, mate,” Harrison whispered, smirking as he leaned forward from the back seat.

“Shut up,” Tom muttered, his eyes fixed on the road, though the heat creeping up his neck betrayed him.

“Come on, Tom,” Harry chimed in, his voice dripping with mischief. “You nearly decked a guy for her tonight. If that doesn’t scream I’m in love with my best friend, I don’t know what does.”

“I was protecting her,” Tom defended, his voice low but firm. “That guy was out of line.”

“Sure, that’s all it was,” Tuweine added, his tone teasing. “And the way you kept your arm around her all night? Completely platonic, right?”

Tom’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to argue, especially not while you were sleeping just a few inches away. He risked another glance at you, his chest tightening again at how serene you looked.

“Tom,” Harrison pressed, leaning forward even more. “When are you going to tell her?”

“Tell her what?” Tom replied, feigning ignorance.

“Don’t play dumb,” Harry said, grinning. “You’ve been in love with her for ages. Literally everyone knows. Even Sam’s girlfriend clocked it within five minutes of meeting you.”

Tom groaned, running a hand through his curls. “I can’t just… tell her, okay? What if it ruins everything? What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

“Oh, she feels the same way,” Harrison said knowingly.

“Wait, how do you know that?” Tom asked, his voice a mix of hope and panic.

“Mate, she looks at you like you’re her favorite person in the world,” Tuweine said, sitting up straighter. “The way she lights up when you talk, how she always saves the seat next to her for you, she would punch us if we try to take it. It’s obvious.”

Tom hesitated, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “But what if you're wrong?” He murmured.

“Tom,” Harry said gently, leaning forward to rest a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “You’ll never know unless you take the risk. She deserves to know how you feel. And if anyone can make it work, it’s you two.”

Tom didn’t respond immediately, his mind racing. He glanced at you again, your head leaning slightly against the window. The thought of confessing his feelings filled him with equal parts excitement and terror.

“You’re overthinking it,” Harrison added, breaking the silence. “Just tell her. You’ll feel better once it’s out in the open.”

Tom sighed, shaking his head. “You lot are relentless, you know that?”

“Only because we care,” Harry said with a cheeky grin.

The boys chuckled, leaning back in their seats and giving Tom a moment of quiet. But their words lingered, echoing in his mind as he drove.

By the time they reached the house, Tom had made up his mind.

“Tom?” Harrison whispered as they all got out of the car, leaving you still asleep in the passenger seat.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t chicken out.”

Tom shot him a look but didn’t argue. He opened your door gently, crouching down to tap your shoulder softly.

“Hey, love,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re here.”

You stirred, blinking up at him sleepily. “Already?”

“Yeah.” He offered a soft smile, his heart flipping as you rubbed your eyes and yawned.

Tom helped you out of the car, his hand lingering on your arm for a moment longer than necessary. As the others walked ahead, giving you some space, Tom took a deep breath.

“Y/N, can I tell you something?” He asked, his voice hesitant.

You looked up at him, your eyes still slightly bleary but full of trust. “Of course. What’s up?”

Tom hesitated, his pulse pounding. But then he thought about everything the boys had said, about how much you meant to him, and how much he wanted you to know.

“I—” He stopped, running a hand through his curls. “I think… I think you’re amazing, I-I love you. And I need you to know that.”

You tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Well, I love you too, Tom.”

“No, I mean…” He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. Actually, I know I am.”

Your eyes widened, and for a moment, Tom felt like the ground might swallow him whole. But then you smiled—a real, bright, heart-stopping smile—and his breath caught.

“It’s about time,” you said softly, stepping closer. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you too.”

Tom stared at you, his heart soaring. “Wait—really?”

“Really,” you confirmed, laughing at his stunned expression.

Tom didn’t hesitate. He leaned down and kissed you, his lips soft and warm against yours. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in that moment.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. “I’ve been wanting to do that for so long.”

You laughed softly, your arms wrapping around his neck. “Well, you can do it as much as you want now.”

Tom chuckled, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close. “I’m never letting you go, love.”

“Good,” you murmured, leaning into him.

Inside the house, the boys peeked through the curtains, grinning like idiots. Harrison turned to the others, smug. “Told you he’d do it tonight.”

“About time,” Harry muttered, shaking his head with a laugh.

Outside, Tom tightened his hold on you, completely unaware—and completely happy.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ° .•

[quxyivs]

heyy i was wondering if i can request a angst fic for chan so its like you go to visit him and there is another female idol or something in the studio then its like he almost forgets the reader yk? then she tries to join in into the convo he ends up acting like he doesnt want her in it the rest is up to you bae 🩷💋

OMG?? THIS IS ACTUALLY SUCH A GOOD IDEA!??? Also tysm for the req!! 🫶🏾

Forgotten

Trigger warning ⚠️!! - Accusations of cheating, Cursing, throwing shit, blood!! (lmk if i forgot anything)

Bang Chan x Fem Reader

P.s- the fem idol will be called Jio 🫶🏾 (i didn’t do a spell check so if there is bad grammar i’m sorry😭)

-story below the cut<3

You woke up slowly from you and chans shared bedroom in your shared apartment expecting to see your loving boyfriend but instead it’s just an empty bed. You sit up and rub your eyes and get ready for the day before stumbling across a note on the kitchen counter beside some Pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries on top with some fresh fruit on the side too.

“Morning baby!! I had to leave early to start practicing for our new comeback. I made some breakfast for you just before I left!! See you when I get home!! -Love channie” As you read the note you felt your heart warm and flutter as you dig into the food that he cooked. After you get finished you clean the house and just relax for a bit before deciding to visit your boyfriend to check up on him, i mean cmon. we all know chan has a habit of overworking himself and forgetting to eat. You began cook chans favorite meal before getting in the car to go see chan. You call him to tell him but he doesn’t answer the phone and you think “it’s cause he’s busy!!”

You arrive at the JYPE building and walk in greeting the front office lady and then making your way to chan. You enter the practice room and wave at the other members. “Hey guys!!” you say as you hold the bag of food in you hand. “Hey y/nnie!!” Felix says as he jogs over to you giving you his normal big smile and hugging you. “Have you seen chan lixie?” You ask pulling back a bit from the hug. “Ah he’s in the studio, you know him..” Felix said shaking his head in disappointment jokingly. “Of course. See you guys!!” You and Felix finally let go and you walk into his studio to see another female in the studio. He looked close to her, giggling with her and smiling at her with a bubbly look on his face.

“Hey channie!! I bought you lunch!” You said but he just..ignores you? You assumed he didn’t hear you so you clear your throat to speak up but he cuts you off. “Just sit it down.” He said almost sounding pissed off..? You sat the food down then stood there listening to them talk about some guy at a cafe..? Did her and chan go out? Was he cheating?? “Hey what are you guys talking about?” You said but again, you were ignored. “Is it like..some secret I can’t know about..-?” But again to no avail you were ignored. After a couple of more attempts you just get up and storm out slamming the door on your way out. As you walk through the practice room everyone is looking at you and Changbin stops you from leaving.

“Woah what’s wrong? what happened?” He said genuinely worried about you seeing how your fist were balled up. “Nothing. Tell chan when he comes home his shit will be outside and he can go be with his new girlfriend!” You snap as you push changbin aside and storm off leaving everyone confused as they look at each other. After a few hours the girl leaves and chan comes out the studio room waving the girl bye and walking her out.

When he turned back around everyone looked at him disappointed. “What? Why are you all looking a-“ “you’re a fucking dick dude.” Lee know was quick to cut him off leaving chan caught off guard. “Excuse me-?” He said genuinely confused. “You dumped y/n to get jio? really? that’s fucked up hyung.” Changbin said crossing his arms in disbelief. “What!? i’m not dumping y/n!? What are you talking about!?” Chan said frantically and confused a sudden bad feeling rising in his stomach. “She left the studio talking about how your shit is gonna be outside and for you to go live with your new girlfriend..” Jeongin said and Chans heart immediately dropped as he grabbed all his stuff and ran out the building getting in his car and driving home as quickly as possible.

He got to the front door and used his key to get inside. Once his key finally worked he ran inside and when he came in he saw broken glass on the floor and blood splatters. His heart dropped to basically the pits of hell. “Y/N!? Y/N WHERE ARE YOU!??” He ran up the stairs to find you in the bathroom wrapping your hand. “Baby-!! What hap-“ “Get the fuck out cheater.” His eyes widened. “What do you mean I didn’t-“ You grabbed the wraps to throw at him which he caught. “Yes you did-!! I saw you talking to her, talking about some guy from a cafe, and then you ignored me like I wasnt even in the room!! multiple times!! fuck you!!” You spat with anger as your eyes weld up with tears.

Chan finally realized how bad all of that must’ve looked in your eyes. “Babe please. Let me explain-“ “Then explain asshole!! i’m waiting!” He took a deep breath coming in closer to you. “Yes we did go to a cafe, but not as a date. I was there to help her with her date. So if things went bad I could just take her home. I’m sorry I ignored you I just got so caught up in the conversation-.. i’m so sorry baby please don’t kick me out- please I love you and only you okay..?” His left hand raised to your cheek wiping the tears off your cheeks. “I would never cheat baby.. I love you..” He said softly his own eyes filling with small tears. You look up at him before hugging him softly. “Never ever ignore me like that again..” You say as you cry softly into his chest. “I promise love..”

I loved writing this!! Thank you Anon for the req!! 🫶🏾🫶🏾

[thewritetofreespeech]

Heyo, my favorite writer! Could I request Hades with a reader who is good at managing money? Idk why, it sounds funny.

“We’ll have to make it bigger!” Zeus insisted as he looked over the initial plans for the Valhalla stadium. “Something like this cannot possibly manage the power of Gods.”

“Not to mention your other suggestions.” Hermes added as a side comment. Looking over his lord’s notes. “Are you sure we have the budget for this?”

“Of course! Of course!” Zeus insisted. “I’m sure it won’t be that expensive.”

“Correction. It will be terribly expensive.” The God of Gods flinched as he heard the stern tone behind him and slowly turned around. The equally stern figure of [Y/N] next to his brother. “Where do you think funds like this will come from? The sky? Trees?”

“Well…I thought we could dip into the offerings fund to help….”

“You have about as much of a mind for money as you do fidelity, brother.” Hades scoffed as he went to inspect the plans. “Times have changed. The humans don’t tithe nor give offerings like they once did. The offerings fund doesn’t run as limitless as it used to.”

Zeus grumbled. Stroking his beard as he tried to think. “What do you suggest then?”

There was a moment of silence, then [Y/N] sighed. “I guess I will have to find the funds somewhere.” They already had their pad out. Making notes quickly. “But in exchange, this needs to be scaled back. Understood?”

“But [Y/N]-chan…this only happens maybe one in a millennia. It's honestly going to be a once in a eternity thing.”

“Understood?”

Zeus flinched again at their stern tone but mumbled a yes. “I’ll see to it that preparations are equally grand but also manageable, [Y/N].” Hermes interjected.

“Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll have to make these figures add up.” They then took their leave.

“How do you stand being with them?” Zeus asked his brother when they are alone.

“I like their industriousness.” Hades replied. “And, thanks to their savvy money sense, I never have to be without. How is your fund doing by the way, brother?”

Zeus blew a raspberry at his older brother, then went back to work on his plans for the arena.

[yinora-evergreen]

Hiii could i request some headcanons about reader being Dean and Sam's sibling who's coming out as a lesbian???? :3

pairing: platonic!sibling!Dean Winchester x fem!Winchester!reader, platonic!sibling!Sam Winchester x fem!Winchester!reader

warning: coming out, reader is stressed, the closet might have a glass wall, Sam kinda already knows bc he's smart, Dean being oblivious, mentions of John, headcanon style, mentions of reader wearing lipgloss/lipstick, Winchester genes aka reader has similarities to the brothers, spoilers for season 7, minor spoilers for season 8, Dean is bi, idk if i mentioned it but i headcanon that Sam is pan though i left that up to your own interpertation, kinda feel like this is shitty writing bc idek

a/n: i am SO sorry that it took me litterly forever to get this done, i've suffered of writers block and i think i finally got over it. i personally love this request! i loved writing these and lmk if you'd like an actual imagine written too, and if so, should it be more serious or maybe a little more funny/crack/casual?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

let's say you've had secret girlfriends growing up, hiding it with the title "close friends" whenever John or your brothers asked about it, and it worked most of the time.

Your dad simply didn't really bother checking, simply strictly reminding you that hunters can't get too close with people.

In your teenage years, you observed Dean to kind of learn how to talk to other girls if you wanted to flirt with them, and Dean being who he is, was always oblivious to it, telling you how he got girls to makeout with him in janitor's clossets without hesitation and with a smug smirk on his face whenever you asked.

Sam however, did certainly notice when you'd be in class a little too late, hair a little more messy than it was from a girl's hands gripping onto it and lipgloss a little smudgede.

He didn't bother asking about it though, he knew you'd cover it up with some excuse such as that it was windy outside when you went there during break or that you didn't realize and that you must've accidently smudged your lipgloss when wiping something off your face, and at first he thought it was from kissing boys anyway.

later on when you three were hunting together again, after you and Dean had gotten Sam from Stanford, on a case, Sam had noticed a look on your face when you were questioning the victim's sister. a look he's seen plenty times before, on Dean's face, when he was looking at women in bars.

and in his mind, something just clicked.

Sam never mentioned it though, he wanted to let you take your time, if you ever decided to come out to them, he wanted you to have that part of your life in your control.

Dean however, was as dense as a brick wall with extra isolation and a thick layer of paint and wallpaper.

he would blatantly mention how good the waitress' ass looked in those jeans, and you'd agree, and he wouldn't bat an eye to it, he'd just give you a cheeky grin and Sam would roll his eyes in response.

eventually, later on, you three met Charlie!

When you first met her, you two got along amazingly, as if you have been friends for ages, rather than the fact that you met a day before.

When she agreed to help out with hacking into Dick Roman's computer, and she had that earpiece in, and she blatantly told you and your brothers that she liked girls and couldn't possibly flirt with that security guard, you closely watched your brothers' reactions.

it both comforted you and made your insides twist when you saw that they quite litterly didn't really care. should you come out to them?

even later than that, you desided that finally, you'd come out to Sam and Dean.

you had spent nearly all morning in your room in the bunker, pacing around and thinking through how you were gonna tell them.

when you finally did come out of your room, both Sam and Dean were sitting at the table, and when Sam saw the look on your face he instantly went worried brother mode.

"Are you okay? what's wrong?"

that makes Dean look up immediately.

"Nothing- Nothing, just, i need to tell you guys something..."

Dean closes the laptop, both of them turn their attention to you fully, worried but staying quiet for your sake.

"i uh... i've been walking around with this for a while, and I... well, I'm a lesbian, I like women and only women, and I hope you are okay with that"

most of the worry in the pit of your stomach dissappears when you can see the relief on both their faces.

"Damn, [name], don't scare us like that again" "Dean." "what? I thought she was gonna come out and say she's engaged to some guy or got bitten by a werewolf or something!"

Sam definetly scolds Dean silently.

"It's alright, [name], you're still our sibling, still our baby sister, nothing's gonna change that." Sam reassures you with those puppy eyes of his and that soft spoken tone.

"yeah, well... while we're at it, I swing both ways" Dean takes a swig of his coffee right after he says that, and you're worries dissappear.

"thanks, I don't know why i was so worried, i mean, we fight monsters every other day, i don't know why i thought being gay would sepperate me from you two" you answer with a light laugh, definetly relieved.

"yeah, i uh, know how that feels" Sam answers a little more quietly.

"well, anyway, i'm making burgers for dinner, you gonna join me for a food run?" Dean mentions as he gets up.

"yeah, sure" you answer and get your jacket.

you really can't ask for better brothers.

[inkshadow]

"she's an author," and that's all he'll say on that front. if she's not good with words then... perhaps it's time for a career change. "release the — drink your coffee! just because we opened this particular topic up for discussion does not give you an excuse to talk about my ability to have sex. or when." insu's flustered and tries to hide it behind the aggressive chewing of his pastry but he doubts its anything ahra will accept. she typically rejects most of the things he requests her to do. "i... actually don't know. i called you that because i wanted the ground to swallow me whole with how loudly you asked 'who is heather'. funny enough, she did call me whipped. i figured the mention of a contract cleared that up though. why? did you want to be my girlfriend?"

"mmm... i guess so." she reaches for her coffee to sip at, pleased with the fact that it tastes perfect. "sometimes things just happen and it's easier for one party to not reach out. not that i think you wouldn't understand! just... not everyone is good with words." though she doesn't know heather at all to make that assumption for herself. "now you're strictly a five dates before you release the beast kinda guy?" her comment is offered mostly teasingly since things feel awfully serious, which isn't something she can easily deal with before midday. "you think she thought i was your girlfriend? you called me just my name!"

[morsartis]

do you have any headcanons about GHB, chahut or other purplebloods?

I have so, so many headcanons about so much. Please feel free to hit me up on those. Off the top of my head I have-

-Purple bloods are the most protective of their quadmates

-The Faygo Flavor Discussions are a guaranteed bloodbath they go to WAR over what they consider a superior flavor.

-All purple blood have chucklevoodoo but it varies from troll to troll with the Makara’s having the strongest and most terrifying which is why the others made GHB head of clown church.

-All purples can honk and enjoy it. The honks are unique to each purple. 

There are more. I love worldbuilding it is my jam. But they will not all fit in one post so if you want specific stuff feel free to slide in and request!

[the-sunshine-dims]

I love writing silly little scenes, and silly thoughts, love characters being told silly things, and we know their wrong, but also it's just so silly and soft that we as readers just smile and continue

[sultrysparkles]

MHA BOYS NSFW HEADCANNONS

[•~featuring- AGED UP!! Izuku Midoryia, Katsuki Bakugo, Eijiro Kirishima, Denki Kaminari, Hanta Sero, Hitoshi Shinsou~•]

[•~a/n- haven't written in months!! excuse my writing but im getting back into it!! send requests!!, TY FOR 1K FOLLOWS 🙏🏼~•]

₊˚⊹♡ Izuku Midoryia

-Definitely a closeted pervert. have you seen the way he reacts around other girls?? you can't tell me that he hasn't watched a whole bunch of porn. his mind is definitely filthy and has no limits, very imaginative.

- but he tries his best to hide it, of course. he gets really embarrassed knowing that he's fantasizing about such sexual ideas and how it isn't right, but he can't help it when you wear those low cut shirts that expose your cleavage so well, or whenever your skirt rides up your thighs, showing off so much skin he doesn't even know what to do.

-100% a tits guy. any size is perfect to him, because to him it's not about the size. as long as he can grope and squish them or even seeing your hardened nipples poke through the thin fabric of your shirts. It's just enough to get him going.

-he gets super shy the first couple times you two do fuck. I'm talking constant rambling, the cherry red blushed cheeks and all those whimpers. he really doesn't know how to act. he's been waiting for the moment your soft delicate hands wrap around the base of his cock, or when he could feel your slick walls tighten around his shaft. he's been dreaming of this night for so long, he can't believe it's actually happening.

-he gets fucked out so so quickly. it's already so hard to not just cum as soon as he enter your tight wet walls. so after a couple thrusts he's mumbling about how good you feel and how much he loves you. when he gets closer, his hips buck into yours in an unsteady pace. his thrusts are more shaky and harder as he's whispering both quiet praises and curse. shutting his eyes tightly as he reaches his high, mouth slightly agape too.

-he loves eating. he prefers giving rather than receiving, simply because he'd rather please you. hearing your soft angelic sounds and watching as your face reacts with every little thing he does is already enough to make him cum. like I said, he has watched so much porn, he has analyzed them for moments like this. and he's analyzing you too. taking mini mental notes of what makes your hips shuffle, or what makes your cries go a pitch higher. he's so good at giving head, it makes you question if he even is a virgin anymore.

₊˚⊹♡ Katsuki Bakugo

-a throat fucker. you could start off going slow and taking him in little by little, but every time you end up with mascara smeared all over your eyes, spit mixed with precum dripping down your chin. and your mouth full of his cum. bakugo gets impatient, and needs to feel your throat around his cock. he's thrusting into your mouth like he doesn't care that your sobbing, gagging on his cock so hard your stomach aches, because he knows you like it when he's rough with you.

-he's an ass guy. and back shots with him are like no other. he bends you over his work desk, arms pinned to the middle of your back as hers leading his leaky tip to your entrance, ramming it in. a hand sneaks over to the fat of your ass, grabbing a handful as he waits for you to adjust to his size. after all he isn't that mean to make you feel pain. once you give him the green light, he instantly starts pounding into you, watching the as your plush ass ripples with every thrust. even spanking it a couple times.

-prefers to cum on you. don't get him wrong he loves to cum inside, his ego only grows as he watches his cum drips out your hole. but seeing your face, your gorgeous face decorated with the opaque ribbons of his cum, it feeds the possessive side of him. knowing that you're only his. but cumming on your ass? it's just enough to get fully hard again and ready for round two.

-imagine katsuki having you on your stomach, your upper half being shoved into the mattress by one hand. the other hand gripping onto your mouth. he didn't tell you to be quiet, because he doesn't want you to be. he loves hearing your pleas and mewls but he knows how loud you are. the neighbors would be pissed if they heard you two all night. but you enjoy this moment ever more. the angle he's holding you at makes his angry tip ram into that spongey spot repeatedly. making his attempts to silence you go to waste.

-he gets jealous super easily. especially if he notices you're hanging out with Midoryia more than him. you're his. and only his so why should he have to share someone like you with anybody else? he needs you to understand who you belong to, so jealousy sex is a common thing for you two. he's a lot rougher with you, doesn't show you any mercy. he'll keep edging until he gets tired of it, bring you so close to your high only to pull out last second. he needs to let out his frustration some how.

-his favorite position is definitely doggystyle. like I mentioned he's a big ass guy, but he likes the position mainly because you're at his mercy. he controls the speed, going painfully slow or brain numbingly fast. he craves power and control. a big hair puller too, the position allows him to yank on your hair whenever he wishes too. mainly to make you moan louder, or to bring make you listen to all the humiliating things he has to say about you.

₊˚⊹♡ Eijiro Kirishima

-definitely talks you through it. he is big. and he knows it. so the first time he slides himself in, he's peppering you with many kisses to your forehead. holding your hand and telling you about how well you're taking him. he pushes himself in, slowly snd gently do he doesn't hurt you two much. he would hate to see you cry. just reminding you there's only a little bit more to go, snd when you do take all of him in. he tells you how proud of you he is. he's such a sweet gentleman<3

"c'mon just a couple more, I know you can do it princess..."

"you did it baby, took me so well, you feelin' alright?"

-he loves hand holding. mainly because of the size difference. your hand is so much smaller than his. your palms are gentle and soft, contrasting his own. he fingers curl around yours perfectly, almost like they were meant to be together. but his favorite part is whenever you squeeze his hand. it makes him feel so strong. like you're telling him you feel safe with him, he just loves all the intimacy.

-he's a decent eater, he can get the job done of course. but nothing will ever compare to his fingers. they're long and wide, and at the perfect size to make you see stars. his digits curl just right while they thrust repeatedly. and his thumb is focused on your clit, rubbing smooth tiny circles on the bud. making your back arch and pelvis shake from the pleasure.

-hes such a gentleman, and he prioritizes your pleasure of his. one way he shows you this is by always making sure you cum before him. no matter what the situation is. he could pissed at you, but he'd still make sure that you cream all over his wide fingers before focusing on his own throbbing erection.

-is super big on consent. he does not play around about that. he would never EVER want to hurt you in any way, so he always triple checks to make sure you're okay with everything. always asking before he slips your panties of you, or reminding you that you don't need to force yourself for him. he also does not play about that mumbling stuff. he needs to hear an audible answer from you're lips before he can continue.

"you know better than that baby, c'mon use your words"

₊˚⊹♡ Hanta Sero

-he's such a tease. always leading you on, whether that be the heated make out sessions, or the way he whispers dirty things into your ear in public. he'll even pretend that he didn't just tell you how much he wants to bend you over the restaurant table and fuck you dumb Infront of all the people here. he doesn't actually mean it, it's all just to rile you up for later.

-has a big humiliation kink. it's so selfish but he can't help it. hanta lives to see your cheeks flush a baby pink as you hide your face away from him. he find it's so cute, knowing how easily he can break apart your attitude so quickly. he's always reminding you of how dirty you sound moaning for him like this, or how pathetic you look struggling to take all of him in your mouth.

-a big wrist holder. type of guy to always pin your wrists above your head as his hips buck into you swiftly. you're at his grace and he has all the control right now, which he tease you about of course. you look so desperate and downright helpless being held like this that's he can't help but remind you of it.

-this ties in with humiliation, but he also has a really bad dumbification kink. he wants to fuck you so dumb you won't even be able to straight for the rest of the night. whenever he's thrusting up into you as you run your mouth babbling about how good he's making you feel, hanta just wears the most shit eating grin ever. because everything you're saying doesn't make sense, not even in the slightest but his ego boosts exponentially knowing he can get you in a state like this.

-he loves THIGHS. especially if they have stretch marks or cellulite on them. he finds them so appealing. your thighs looks so soft and plushy, he can't help but just want to lay on them. but his favorite thing about them is whenever he's eating you out and you squeeze them around his head just right. gosh it feels like he's about to suffocate to death, but he wouldn't even be mad about it. he'd let you crush him with your thighs any day of the week.

-if you had one complaint about hanta, it would be about how many hickeys he would leave on you. after every night you'd wake up to finding hickeys all over your body. you see it as mainly annoying yet a little cute, but hanta does it just for both his own pleasure and for his possessiveness. seeing you marked up because of him just turns him on so much especially seeing your inner thighs decorated in the purplish red bruises. everyone knows who gave you all them too, giving him the greedy satisfaction he craves.

₊˚⊹♡ Denki Kaminari

-he is such a pervert. and he doesn't even hide it. now he's not like mineta, he's not going to go around and flirt with every girl he sees and harass them. no, his eyes are only focused on you. and just you. and whatever he does, he always makes sure that you're okay with it of course but that's not stopping him from whispering dirty things in your ears when you're in public. the worst part is, whenever you confront him about it he'll play dumb, acting like nothing ever happened.

-both an ass and tits guy. denki can't just pick one, they're both so hot to him. lowcut and tight shirts have him in a chokehold. he loves the way your boobs are somewhat exposed in low cut shirts, and tight shirts that show you're figure make him feel all mushy. but on top of that, he's a sucker for short miniskirts and short shorts. anything which just reveals your shape just makes him want to act up.

-the biggest tease you'll ever meet. he will mes with you about everything. did you just squirt on him? yeah he's never letting you forget that. oh did you want him to go faster? he'll make sure to go extra slow for you. he does it all just to make you angry (he finds it oddly hot seeing you annoyed) but his favorite part is teasing the tip of his cock into your entrance. no matter how much you beg for him, he'll repeat his painfully annoying little actions. only stopping whenever he feels like you've waited enough. overall he's just so unserious.

-D1 eater. that man knows what he's doing. well scratch that, no he doesn't. he doesn't know what he's doing to be real with you, he's eating mainly for his own selfish pleasure. drool and arousal is all over his chin but he doesn't care, he hasn't had enough yet. his tongue is thrusting into your hold viciously as a finger is rubbing desperate circles on your bud, even sending a couple light zaps to help him stimulate you.

-his favorite position is definitely cowgirl. it's the way you're on full display for him, tits bouncing as you grind yourself on him. he also likes the position because it allows you to have control. denki is a big switch and wouldn't mind you taking the lead for once, and if he needs to he won't hesitate to lift you up by the hips and thrust up into you.

-BIG dumbification kink. for both himself and you. seeing you so cock-drunk turns him on so much, because you look so good. your hair sticking to your sweaty forehead as your eyes are half lidded and hazy. but on the other side, he wants you to the same to him. denki secretly wants you to ride him so well that he short circuits and can't think straight. the effect your wet clammy pussy has on him puts him in a trance.

₊˚⊹♡ Hitoshi Shinsou

-LOVES THIGHS. he is 100% a thigh guy. he doesn't care what you do to him. you could try to crush his head and he'd thank you for it. his favorite part though, is whenever you sit down and your skirt rides up your thighs, exposing so much more. just seeing your bare exposed thighs only makes his thoughts even worse than normal.

-headboard grabber!! he definitely is rough with his thrusts and grips the headboard to steady himself. and he looks so good doing it. imagine hitoshi, all sweaty and looking back down at you with his natural sleepy eyes as you both lose yourself to the overwhelming pleasure. he looks absolutely majestic.

-hes definitely into somno. of course he'd only act on it if he had your consent. but once you gave him the okay, the stars aligned for hitoshi. we all know he's an insomniac and that he usually has trouble sleeping, so it's not unusual to wake up, feeling his girth stretching you out in the middle of the night. he'd try to be super gentle and soft at first so you didn't wake up. but he gets impatient quickly and ends up risking it, usually always waking you up.

-A BIG HAIR PULLER. loves to pull your hair, mainly to force you to keep eye contact with him and so he can you're fucked out expression. and the mewl you let out whenever he tugs on your hair extra harshly makes him want to let loose right there. but he's also a big sucker for getting his own hair pulled too. your soft delicate fingers getting entangled in his dark lavender locks,the sensation is merely indescribable.

-he loves it whenever you praise him. he'll act like he doesn't care about it much, but deep down his heart is pounding rapidly. just hearing how good he's making you feel, especially with your shaky voice. it's such a turn on for him. whenever you praise him about anything he melts, feeling so confident in himself. which only lead him to be even more determined to make each time unforgettable

-face sitting with hitoshi is such an experience. imagine this, you've begged him to let you try it, just so you could understand the hype behind it. and hitoshi agrees, pretending to not be just as excited as you. (he's been dreaming of his head being squished with your thighs). but once you lay your cunt over his face, he gets to work. now im not going to lie, yes not the best eater but this position makes up for everything. this man is eating like he's been starved for months. and don't you dare try to live yourself off him, he's only going to pull you back down.

DO NOT COPY/REPOST MY WORK, I will find u lil bro

[filmstarved]

i can fix him and fuck him.

18+ [logan x female!reader]

nobody can break through logan's walls with ease like you can. and he actually lets you, welcomes it even. he needs it to breathe and when he's ready to walk out of the gifted youngsters door, there you are again.

word count: 5,737

logan sulks. he’s so devoid of love and compassion that he sulks. he’s confused most days, too. unsure of who he is and what he even wants. the people who are somehow closest to him can’t even find their way past the fire breathing dragons that guard the drawbridge to his heart. (scott jokes that he doesn’t have a heart and that the adamantium replaced it and he’s fully pumping cold, hard metal).

logan is a man who answers to himself and doesn’t give people even the slightest chance to ask him a dumb fucking question because he’s not in the fucking mood. he’s never in the mood…unless you put him in one. usually a good one.

you earn a smile from logan as easy as the sun makes it seem to rise every morning and the moon to take its place at night. it leaves the team dumfounded. they believe if you weren’t here, logan would have left a long time ago. they’re right. logan used to search high and low for any excuse to leave. he never knew where he’d go, he’d just…go. but you didn’t dare let him out of your sight. not ever since the professor had brought you to what you call home a little over a year ago now.

deep down, he wanted reasons to stay. somewhere deep inside that metal frame…he wanted things to be right again. he’d find it tiring most days to carry around his grief and anger. but you gave him reasons to stay just one more day.

“so we’re working on that thing for charles together tomorrow right?” you asked on a wednesday, standing so cutely in the threshold of his door that it was almost annoying to him.

“so we’re catching that movie downtown with ororo and hank tomorrow right? it starts at 6!” you asked on a thursday.

“heeyyy, lo…do you possibly, maybe think you could sub for scott’s morning classes tomorrow? he has a dentist appointment…,” you shyly asked on a very late sunday night. (logan heard scott’s jokes about his heart so he made you ask. logan was the only one available.)

but behind his stoic stature and intimidating glare fixed on his face accompanied by knitted brows, he’d always say yes…to you. you were his reason for staying. he knew it but would never admit it. you knew it but played the oblivious part well. and the rest of the team would gossip about it when you two weren’t around. but as long as you were here, logan has nowhere else to be.

although as of late, you’ve been busy. much busier than usual. charles has you creating plans for a mission happening soon. when you’re not teaching mutant ethics 101 to freshmen, you’re hauled up in the lab or library; sometimes darting back and forth between the two multiple times a day leaving very little time to worry about logan.

tonight, you brought your work back to your dorm. as you cleaned up a rough draft of an exit strategy, rain began to tap lightly on the window. you had lit candles littered around the room as well as grouped on your table, a small desk lamp illuminated the surface further. as you reached up to stretch your aching back muscles, you were startled by the sound of a throat clearing.

your eyes shot to the sound at your door where logan stood, leaning against the frame; arms crossed and still like he had been glued to the spot. 

“hi lo,” you say. “y’scared me, heh.” you aren’t used to logan greeting you often, especially not this late. he’s over 150 years old, of course he’s grumpy and an early bird. you’re usually the one at his door with requests and invitations to social events he assumes can be nothing short of insufferable. he sighs, his stare dropping to burn holes in the ground. “logan, are you-“

“i think i’m gonna get out of here, bub.”

those words felt like an arrow hitting the bullseye in your chest and then another splitting the first one right through the center.

“wha-what do you mean?…you’re leaving?” you asked, confusion and frustration trembling in your voice.

“it’s too hard being here.”

with that, you stood up from your chair, beelining to him. “c’mere,” you say hushed, pulling on his leather clad arm, trying to unfold them and get him out of the door frame. he doesn’t budge and you pull “the look” that you know he can’t say no to. “come sit with me please, lo.”

he unfolds his arms which allows you to grab his hands to lead him to take a load off on your bed. your bare feet pat on the hardwood floor as you quickly go back to close the door.

you walked back over to him, assessing his body language. ever since he let you use your mutation to “read him” a few months ago, you told him you’d never do it again without his permission. one gaze into his eyes and a touch of his skin and you could feel everything wracking around in his head. anxiety, rage, hate but love, pain. it was hard to feel just for a moment and your heart cracked knowing he was riddled with those feelings constantly.

but right now you couldn’t help it, he was slouched on the edge of the bed, his head dropping to rest in his large hands, and apparently ready to walk right out of the door. your powers are amplified with a touch and even more when you can look into their eyes. from a distance, you could feel a sense of unease and something else… a pressure…built up in your stomach as you surveyed your friend. it didn’t feel bad though…it felt familiar. a good familiar. you stopped reading him and did your best to shrug off the aching stomach feeling and care for your disheveled logan.

he wasn’t emotional, like ever. he hid all that, only showing you what you wanted to see; what he believed you wished him to be — happy, whatever that was. but that couldn’t’ve been farther from the truth. sure, you want him to be happy but also just whatever he wanted to feel, you wouldn’t suppress it or try to change it to fit some ideal of who people on the outside want him to be. yes, he was one of the meanest motherfuckers you had ever met but he was your mean motherfucker. (whatever that means because nothing has ever really been clear between you two).

you walked closer to him, forcing yourself in his diabolical bubble. you stood between his legs, removing his hands from his face to wrap them around your waist. you scooped your hands under his scruffy chin, pulling up to get a look into his bloodshot eyes. oh, he’d been crying.

“lo…,” you muttered. “why were you crying, wolv?” you slide a thumb across his cheek where tears had stained the skin. “why do you want to leave?”

he pulled his face away, breaking his stare with you. he dropped his head forward to rest on your stomach, wrapping his arms around your legs so his hands rested on the back of your thighs. he began to slowly rub the exposed skin of them that your very short night shorts didn’t cover. he lifted the hem of your shirt slightly to press his hot face into the soft, cool skin underneath. he hummed into it, allowing you to feel the vibration.

“logan,” you softly moaned his name under your breath. his fingers press firmly, inching closer to the crease in the skin where your ass meets thigh.

“is this okay?” he asks lowly, when he looks up for confirmation to keep going, you’re already looking down at him nodding. “say it’s okay for me to touch you like this, bub.”

“yes, keep going, logan,” you said curtly. in your voice there is a hint of need. you hadn’t been touched like this since jean’s christmas party, tipsy off spiked egg nog in the garden with a guy whose mutation was a very wet, long tongue. flirting with him seemed intriguing in the moment, but five minutes later, it rendered itself utterly useless due to user error. the sexual tension between you and logan is so potent it usually clears out a room. aside from accidental brushes of hands and quick looks at each others lips mid conversation, neither one of you has acted on it.

his hums turn to growls and soft whimpers as your hands ran through and tugged his hair. your fingers found their way to his nape, splaying out to grip the hair there in your fist. he managed to place a single kiss on the skin right above the elastic of your shorts before you pulled his head back to scrutinize his face.

“you don’t have permission to read me,” he groaned. before you could ask how he even knew that’s what you were doing he said, “you get this serious, focused look in your eyes. i can feel you in my head.”

“logan, what are we doing?” you ask, releasing his hair and stepping out of his bubble. 

his hands drop from the absence of your thighs onto his lap and his sighs frustratingly. 

“what do you mean?” he asks, admiring your body in the dim light with a semi pressing on the denim of his jeans through his boxers.

“i’m…not doing this with you…if you’re just gonna disappear from my bed before the fuckin’ sun comes up. i’m not doing this,” you said, with your hands on your hips.

he pressed his hands into his knees to push himself up to tower over you. he took two big steps forward and stood in front of you. his hand raised up to brush the back of his fingers across your cheek to cup it and rub his thumb over the warm skin. 

he pressed his lips to yours, skillfully allowing his tongue access to it. you let him. “i give you permission,” he moaned in your mouth. “read me. feel how i feel about you…how i’ve always felt about you.”

he welcomed the hesitant slip of your hands past his jacket and under his shirt, shivering and chuckling “mm, cold” into your mouth. you rested your cool touch on his hips and with his mouth obsessed with yours, you read him. 

your head dizzied instantly and the hair on the back of your neck stood up. you had never felt anything as strong as this. you could almost taste the colors in logan’s head. your heart dropped to your stomach like you were on a rollercoaster, feeling sick from adrenaline in the best ways. and then, returned that good familiar feeling. this time buried even deeper in your stomach, moving it’s way lower…and lower until logan was swallowing the noises escaping you. before you literally passed out, you dropped your hands and took back ownership of your lips and tongue. breathing heavily, you moved away from him to collect yourself.

a beat of silence followed by a heavy sigh and a “well, say something” from logan passed and you opened your mouth to speak before shutting it again.

that…was the best thing you had ever felt. no drug could compare to the euphoria that a minute of kissing logan could bring. you could practically feel yourself lubricating and your upper thighs unconsciously squeezed together as you scrambled to find thoughts.

there were none. your mind already dumb and wanting more of him…more of the feeling. your fists planted firmly on both your hips as if you were grounding yourself to the floor to avoid buckling. you eyed the ground, looked back up at him and forwarded with another heated, taking-in-each-others-breath kiss. your hands found their way to the same place gripping the hair on his nape to which he praised the tug with a moan. he supported your balance as your whines got more whiney and needy and your hands held onto him like life support.

“lay down,” he said into your kiss. it wasn’t really a command, more of a warning because he tossed you on the bed like unfolded laundry.

he stood over you as you collected yourself, darting your tongue out to taste the spit he left behind. you propped yourself up on your elbows to get a look at the man casting a shadow over you. without the sounds of pleasure exclaiming in each others mouths, your ears absorbed the comforting sound of the battering rain. a tree branch smacked the window as thunder rumbled outside.

logan took a moment to admire your presence. starting at the top, he gazed upon your hair that he associates with vanilla and roses and the times he’d touch himself wondering how it’d feel being wrapped around his hand and pulled.

as he removed his leather jacket, he took his time mentally undressing you. feeling even more pressure build in your clit, you bore your hips down into the mattress, rolling them in circles to stimulate the swollen nub. he beheld your tits, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip at the sight of your hard buds under your very thin, white tank top. he threw his heavy jacket to the side, letting it thud in a ball on the ground.

“you look so beautiful, sweetheart,” he said, deeply enthralled by your scantily clad figure laid out in front of him. unable to stop staring, you could see the bulge in his pants get larger and it ridiculously turned you on. with you making eye contact with the crotch of his jeans, he effortlessly unfastened his belt buckle. the metallic buckle clanked to the floor as his jeans and boxers pooled around his ankles. 

he stroked himself while he looked upon you. it was like you could read his mind, because you began to touch yourself. the twitch of his lips and darkening of his eyes validated your teasing. letting yourself drop back on the bed, you caressed your body for him. one hand occupied by cupping your tit and pinching and twisting your nipple while the other is exploring the wet spot left on your panties. not being able to handle eye-fucking you any longer, he dropped to his knees on the edge of the bed between your legs. logan hooked his arms under your knees, pulling you close which in your intoxicatingly lustful brain you found funny, so you laughed.

logan spread your thighs open so he could fit in between them to leave wet, sloppy kisses all over your skin. he nibbled here and there, earning soft hisses and hums from your parted lips.

kiss kiss nibble hiss mmm kiss hum nibble nibble bite kiss suck

he spent about a minute just doing that, leaving warm welts in his mouths wake. “i need these off of you, princess.” once he had kissed his way up to the elastic of your shorts, he snapped it. you nodded and he did the honor of pulling them down and flinging them across the room like he was opening presents on christmas morning. 

he let out an amused scoff as he ran his trembling hand down his face, caught between ecstatic disbelief at the sight of your black lace panties with little black bows adorning the seams. you mentally thanked your past self for slacking on doing laundry and only having your “special occasion” panties left to wear.

“d’you know how pretty you are,” he said. his eyes traced over every inch of you in excitement like you were artwork he stole from the louvre and made out like a bandit with.

his hand disappeared to slickly stroke himself, his mouth watering in anticipation for your taste. his chest heaves as he takes in the sight of you, studying every curve prettily laid out before him; thinking about every position he wants to see you in and every way he wants to please you. without another groan inducing thought, he lunged forward to press a kiss to your lips, his tongue demanding attention. you drink his breath like liquor becoming completely intoxicated by him. he needed this, he needed you.

“need…to taste…you,” he breathed in between kisses. with this mouth obsessed with yours, his hands caress your tits, his thumbing circles on one of the nubs while he’s pinching and pulling on the other. your head falls back and your neck rolls at the sensation, earning profanities from your pretty, swollen lips. your tit misses the hand that he proceeds to run down and up your thigh to locate the spot in your panties you were playing with a moment before. as he parts from your kiss, he’s hooked two fingers under the elastic, pulling those off swiftly.

you yelp when he pushes your torso down. you stare up at the decorative ceiling as he savors you, kissing and massaging your thick thighs. he’s enjoying playing with you as much as possible before allowing himself any pleasure. he wants your juice to cover his face…his neck…his arm…the bed…the floor too when he gets you to pop like a water balloon.

“logan…please, please,” you beg, pawing at his hair. you lift your head to watch the man between your legs taking in the sight and smell of your pretty, wet pussy. even in the dim light, he could see how much you ached for him. he not so secretly got entertainment from watching you lightly buck your hips up to his face and he would’ve let it continue but your pheromones became overwhelming for him; engulfing his head in it’s enchanting aroma.

like fresh pie on a windowsill, he was drawn into you. logan opened wide to swipe one flat tongued lick up your slit. he had one goal — to knock all sense out of you, to fully engulf you in pleasure. he wants you dumb and begging for him to stay right where he is — at the mansion and also all over you. 

logan audibly sucked and popped your clit in and out of his mouth, teasing the most sensitive bit. he’d suck and pop and then lick up your slick, repeating the act. one of his big hands reached up to cup your tit, pinching and twisting and circling. from his hair to the tit he wasn’t playing with, you clawed at whatever would ground you. being eaten by logan felt like floating above the stratosphere.

your wet soaked his beard and it only made him more horny, his cock dripping and throbbing in his fist. tasting you, inhaling you, winning pretty sounds from you, knowing he’s the one making you buck up and fuck his nose only made his appetite for you insatiable. he let go of himself to push his pointer and middle fingers into your needing pussy. you hissed and cursed. the thrill of him devouring you began to reach its peak. his fingers pumped relentlessly into you, curling them to stimulate your g-spot. moans, curses, the gushing of your wet cunt, his sucking and popping and vibrating moans mixed with the rain and thunder grumbling outside filled the dorm like mozart’s symphony no. 25.

he wanted to kiss you, so he did. with his fingers still coaxing an orgasm out of you, he shared the sweet taste. he got back on the bed with you, sliding his free hand under your back to push you up to further to see the mess you were making on the sheets.

“look at how good you’re taking my fingers,” he groaned, inching closer to your ear so you could hear his dirty language loud and clear. “you can come for me, baby.” he peppered a few kisses to your forehead, removing his hand from behind you so he could press it into your stomach. this only heightened the overwhelming wash of pleasure coursing through you.

“lo…logan, i’m-“

“fuck my fingers, baby. use them…oh that’s it…that’s it…i feel that clenching, c’mon you can do it for me. go big baby, make me happy.” his dirty mouth and sporadic clit circling and pumping in and out of you with his tireless wrist pushed you over the edge. you cowered into his neck, pulling on his white tank top and biting the salty skin below his ear as your pussy obeyed, erupting with your juices. out of breath and fucking dumb already, you could feel the wet soak the sheets under your ass.

logan pulled his fingers out of you, landing a light smack on your pussy before licking you clean off of his digits. you fell back on the bed, your arms above your head as you heaved and saw stars.

“‘m not done with you, princess.” he slid off the bed, still delighted by your taste and engulfed in your aroma.

“fuuuck,” you groaned. the pulsing lightning feeling spread throughout both legs as an effect of your rocking orgasm. logan was wicked with his tongue, a devious magician with his fingers and you were his sole audience member wondering about his tricks for sleight of hand.

he quickly tossed his tank, that had tug marks from your attempt to ground yourself, to the side, his muscles flexing under his skin. as he let your post orgasm, cock-dumb brain fog clear, he spit in his hand to fuck his fist. his saliva mixed with the pre-cum leaking from the head, he groaned and sighed heavily at the feeling of giving his dick some sort of relief. you, needy for another hit of him, propped yourself up on your elbows to watch the most delectable creature pleasure himself.

just the sight of him illuminated by candles and flashes of lightning outside as he gets off to how fucked out and dumb you look was enough to have you open up again and play with yourself. the sensitivity from your swollen nub required a delicate touch but your pussy ached, clenching around nothing. his knitted brows relaxed, eyes darting from your pretty face, to your tits, to your fingers rubbing circles where his mouth resided moments ago back to look longingly into your eyes.

“you’re gonna stay,” you said. your hand reached your mouth, your tongue swiping a lick up your middle and ring fingers, wrapping your lips around them to coat them in your saliva. “tell me you’re going to stay for me,” you elaborated. your wet fingers found your aching center.

“there’s no where else i want to be,” he answered. he paced closer to the bed where you laid, his dick basically making eye contact with you as he stopped a few inches away. “you’re mine, you know that?” he noticed your hand slow, “keep going,” he commanded. logan reached out to cup your face, tilting his head to get a look at you obeying his every request. “your face…your mouth…,” his thumb swiped across your lips as he spoke. “your body…your cunt.” he leaned down to kiss your mouth, leaving a string of spit attached to your lower lip. “your laugh…your heart,” he said kindly, his hand massaging your scalp. moans earned from his praise escaped you. “you’re all mine. is that okay with you, baby?”

you’re so bewitched by his aura and his subtle touches make your heart race so fast that you can’t do anything but try to maintain his torrid eye contact and nod.

“use your words, honey.” his thumb returned to the softness of your parted lips.

“i’m yours, logan,” you said, taking his thumb in and closing your lips around it. “if you’ll stay with me, i’ll be yours forever,” you breathed around his thumb, speaking from a mix of eager lust and the terrifying need for him to not to be an asshole, just once.

“i’m not going anywhere…i promise,” he said matter of factly before leaning back down to hungrily devour your kiss. “i need to…fuck you…now,” he cursed in between swallowing moans. 

“do what you want…i’m yours,” you said just clearly audible over the storm rumbling outside. you two shared eye contact so intense that you noticed his dick twitch from your peripheral. you took his dick in your drooling mouth, reaching up to squeeze the base of him. it twitched from the warmth, pressure and tongue swiping rhythmically around his angry, red tip. you kept yourself enveloped around his length, bobbing your head to hit your gag reflex. the added lubrication drove him crazy, his abs twitching under the toned skin of his abdomen. you moaned around him purely from the enjoyment you got out of having him stretch the corners of your mouth, feeling the sting from it. 

logan reached down with both hands to hold your head steady while he sped up thrusting into your throat. your gags and gasps for air, his praise and the storm filled the room beautifully. 

“fuuuck, baby, keep that throat open for me please,” he begged. his hands left their position to find a new one — one supporting his thrusting hips, the other petting your head. “oh, you look so fuckin’ pretty with my cock down your throat…you’re taking me so good, sweetheart.”

he pulled his dick out of your mouth to smack it on your face, complimenting how gorgeous you look. he kissed and licked the mess off of your mouth.

“mm, baby i need to know how good you feel.” with that, he rounded the bed to lay down. “c’mere, baby.” you turned around, crawling on all fours to obey him. his cock in its usual place to be, in his fist, leaks pre-cum in anticipation for you to smother it with your warm, clenching pussy.

“lay down,” he said.

“damn, yes sir,” you say, jokingly annoyed with all of his demands. you lay down next to him, your knees instinctively parting slightly. he lays on his side, resting his hand on your stomach, rubbing his large hand in flat circles.

“d’you know how long i’ve thought about this moment with you?” he asked, leaning in to kiss and suck the skin in the crook of your neck. you lustfully sighed at the sensation of his hot breath. his hand finds its way between your legs again, tickling and tapping at your slit. “i want you to read me the whole time i’m inside…can you do that?”

“are you—“

“yes i’m sure, i feel so fucking good right now and i haven’t even felt you. i want you to feel that and more,” he explains, pulling your chin in to taste the desperation on you.

before he came just from your kiss and rutting against the sheets, he hovered above you. his lips stayed attached to your chest, kissing lower and lower to suck a tit into his mouth, flicking your nipple with his tongue then biting softly on the nub. his hand disappeared from the side of your head to grab hold of his shaft, flicking his tip against your clit. his head dropped as he watched and listened to your slick coating his cock. he quickly swiped up and down your pussy trying to savor every fold and feeling. his brows furrowed, not being able to resist your warmth, he lined himself up with your hole, using his hand to guide just the tip into it.

“oh…fuck,” he groaned in excitement. he pushed in just a little more which caused you to hiss. his head shot up and eyes scanned your face for any sign of regret or unsureness. “are you okay? d’you want to stop?”

“no, baby,” you giggled, lifting your arms rest around his neck, one hand always finding a way into his dark locks. “just been a while…keep going, i’m okay.”

with your permission, he pushed in a little more. he let out a deep groan at the feeling of you stretching to form perfectly around him. you gasped, pressing a hand into his chest, feeling a similar sting to the one you felt in the corners of your mouth earlier. against his want to start thrusting his whole length into you, his went slow, watching your demeanor for cues to keep going.

“you feel…fuck…like it was made for me,” he said which caused the butterflies in you to flutter their wings even faster. “are you okay?” his chest heaved and his breath fanned your face.

“fuck me…please logan,” you said. your hands reached his hips, pushing them down onto you. without wasting another minute, he did. 

he bent your knee more to press it into your chest as his hips repeatedly slammed down hard, his balls smacking your ass. with one hand giving him better access by positioning your leg higher, the other cupped and squeezed your bouncing tit.

“oh my…fucking god,” you moaned. you had let the walls of your mutation down, allowing yourself to be flooded by not only your pleasure…but the love logan feels for you plus the absolute sheer euphoria that he was experiencing deep inside of your pussy. it coursed through your body like a steam engine leaving the station. it had felt like you had been brought to five earth shattering orgasms before the one that was bound to shake you again soon.

“you know you feel so good, look at that fuckin’ fucked out smile. can you feel it? can you feel how good you make me feel, baby? don’t stop readin’ me, princess. it’s all for you,” he praised for you to hear every word.

“holy shit…mm fuckin’…ahh!” your hands couldn’t help but find their way above your head, subconsciously reaching for the bed post for something to ground you again.

“here, baby, hold onto me.” logan grabbed your wandering wrist with his free hand, slapping your hand on his chest which you pressed into as if you were pushing him away. before your cock drunk mind could register what happened, he had flipped the two of you so you were on top. 

logan looked so fucking pretty under you. you took a second to breathe and take in the view before bending your knees to put yourself in a squatting position on his cock. you placed your hands on his heaving chest for support as you started to bounce your ass on him. ‘oh this is so fun’, the thought making you giggle in elation as you drilled down your hips, rocking them back and forth to feel him stimulate the deepest parts of you. his thumb bored into your clit, drawing circles on it. 

as you kept bouncing your wet pussy on him just how he liked, logan lifted his knees up behind you and pushed you back onto them. he moved his hand away from your clit and picked his head up to watch his dick disappear deep inside you. then, he spit. his saliva landed on your pussy and stomach. he went back to stimulating you, fully realizing how much that turned you on from the tight clench around him and the extra juice running down his ass onto the sheets under you two.

he, still playing with your clit, summoned your face closer to his with the middle and ring fingers on the other hand. once closer, he grabbed your neck to kiss your fiercely. 

“you’re my good girl, huh?”

‘mhmm’ was all you could muster with his hand around your throat and his hips still ramming his cock into your stretched out hole.

“use those words for me, baby. are…mm, fuck…you my good girl?”

“ye…sss, baby i’m your…good…oh my fucking…girl!!”

“open your mouth.” he fucking spit in it. you moaned tasting him again and feeling it on your face. “good…fuckin’ girl,” he complimented, kissing you and then squeezing your cheeks to spit on your tongue again. 

your body started to go limp and your eyes were practically glued together. you could feel the searing hot orgasm burning up inside. you could feel logan in a way that you never thought possible. everything. 

his love, his passion, his longing, his fear, his anxiety, his lust, his heart…everything was yours in this moment. high on his feelings, you let your head fall back coming undone on top of him.

“oh you’re so pretty…that’s pretty, baby, keep…fuck…use me, it’s all for you.” his words took you further and further into ecstasy. it was a really good fucking trip that you never wanted to end. the pain of his cock fucking you out and his grip clutching your skin like he’d fall off earth without doing so made you moan so intensely that not even the thunder outside could compete.

he could tell you were a few fucks away from collapsing but so was he. 

“baby…you keep clenching around me like that…i’m gonna fuckin’ fill you,” he said. you kept bouncing on it, wanting him to even feel a fraction of how he just made you feel. he closed his eyes trying to last as long as possible in the heaven that he found in you. his thumbs bore into your hips as he used them to ground himself.

“i want it, baby…fill your good girl up.” you leaned down to speak into his ear and then carry on kissing his neck, letting him claim your moans as trophies. 

“fuuuuck…fuuuck,” he moaned as his thrusting became sloppy and you weren’t bouncing as much anymore. his abs twitched again along with his face. 

SNIKT!!

you hissed at the cool metal of his claws against your skin and the feel of him throbbing severely inside you as he let himself paint your walls. you thanked him in pleased moans before falling on his chest. still semi-hard inside, he kissed the top of your head to which you looked up and he gave you a proper kiss. he let himself twitch out a few more dribbles of cum inside you before pulling his claws back in to carefully rub your back.

a few beats of silence went by as you listened to each others hastened breaths and the rain tapping the glass. 

“…i love you, logan.”

“i think you know how much i love you, baby,” he said, smugly remembering how you looked coming on his dick, further escalated by his letting you read him.

you two snuggled naked under the covers and as you laid on his chest and listened to his light snoring, you read him again. 

ease and silence…and love.

[pucksandpower]

To Have a Heart

CEO!Max Verstappen x single mother!Reader

Summary: Max is a titan of industry, used to making grown men cry with one glance … then you and your daughter turn his carefully controlled life upside down

Warnings: descriptions of pediatric cancer

Max strides into his corner office, his Italian leather shoes clicking sharply on the marble floors. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline, but he pays it no mind as he makes his way to the large mahogany desk.

His assistant, Clara, follows a few steps behind, her heels clacking nervously. “Sir, Mr. Henderson is waiting in the conference room per your request.”

Max doesn’t bother responding as he unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat behind the desk. With a flick of his wrist, he motions for Clara to leave. She gives the tiniest of nods and scurries out, closing the double doors behind her.

Taking a deep breath, Max presses the intercom button. “Send him in.”

A moment later, the doors reopen and a balding, paunchy man in an ill-fitting suit enters. Even from across the room, Max can see the bead of sweat rolling down the man’s forehead.

Good.

He should be nervous.

“Mr. Henderson.” Max says, his tone clipped. “Do you know why I called you here?”

The man — Henderson — fidgets with his tie. “Y-Yes, sir. The, uh, the Brighton acquisition ...”

“The $3.75 billion deal that was supposed to be finalized yesterday.” Max interjects, leaning back in his chair. “A deal that the company has been meticulously negotiating for over six months. A deal that would have been the largest hostile takeover in our firm’s history.”

Henderson gives a somber nod, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Max fights the urge to roll his eyes at the sad display.

“Because of your incompetence, that deal is now in jeopardy.” Max continues, his voice dropping to a menacing register. “Please explain to me how someone with three decades of accounting experience could possibly make the amateur mistake of misplacing a decimal point on the binding purchase agreement?”

“I … I missed it in the final review.” Henderson stammers out, sweat now visibly staining the armpits of his shirt. “The numbers, they all start to blur together after-”

“Do not insult my intelligence with your pitiful excuses.” Max cuts him off, slamming a fist down on the desk. He takes no small amount of satisfaction in the way the man flinches. “Because of your idiocy, we offered $235 million over the agreed purchase price. An overpayment to the tune of $2.5 billion with a ‘B’!”

Henderson seems to shrink into himself with each biting word. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Verstappen. It won’t happen again, I swear-”

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again.” Max growls, rising from his chair so quickly that it goes clattering backwards. He leans across the desk, getting directly in Henderson’s ashen face. “Because you’re fired. Effective immediately.”

The words seem to take a moment to register in Henderson’s mind. When they do, his eyes widen in panic and he starts shaking his head rapidly.

“No, no, please! You can’t fire me!” he cries, any veneer of professionalism crumbling. “I-I’ll work double shifts, triple shifts! I’ll volunteer for all the weekend audits, no overtime pay! J-Just don’t fire me, I’m begging you!”

Max recoils slightly at the outburst of blubbering, his lip curling in disgust. How pathetic, to see a grown man so thoroughly debased. He almost feels pity for the wretch … almost.

“This conversation is over.” Max says, his tone resolute as he straightens his tie. “You have one hour to collect your things and get out of my building. After that, security will escort you out.”

“B-But I have three kids!” Henderson sputters, tears streaming down his face now. “A mortgage. Alimony payments! You can’t just-”

In a burst of rage, Max sweeps his arm across the desk, sending papers, files, and office supplies clattering to the floor in a violent clutter.

“I am Max Verstappen!” He bellows, his face flushed crimson. “I do not make empty threats, Mr. Henderson. You are a miserable, costly disappointment. A failure. And I will not allow failures to remain under my employ.”

The words seem to drain what little fight was left in Henderson. His shoulders slump in defeat, and he lets out a pitiful whimper. Max feels his anger deflate, replaced with a tired disdain.

“One hour.” he repeats, falling back into his chair in exhaustion. “Get out of my sight.”

Henderson doesn’t need to be told twice. With trembling hands, he begins collecting the various objects scattered across the floor — pencils, paperclips, manila folders now slightly crumpled. His motions are slow, pained, like those of a man having just received a terminal diagnosis.

Max watches impassively as the sniveling accountant gathers his belongings. Part of him feels a twinge of … not quite guilt, but maybe the faintest pangs of empathy for the broken man before him. He quickly smothers that flicker of sympathy. This is the cost of doing business in the world of high-stakes acquisitions and mergers. There is no room for weakness or mistakes. Only results matter.

Finally, with his meager pile of office supplies clutched to his chest, Henderson straightens up. His face is blotchy and tear-stained, but he seems to have regained some small scrap of dignity. He meets Max’s cold stare for just a moment before turning on his heel and shuffling out of the office.

The double doors close behind him with a hollow thud that hangs in the air. Max lets out a slow exhale, suddenly aware of the tension that had been coiling inside him. He runs a hand over his face, then taps a button on his phone intercom.

“Clara, get me William Evans from legal on the line immediately.” he says, his voice steady once more. “We need to do damage control on the Brighton situation before it becomes irreparable.”

“Right away, sir.” comes the reply, his assistant’s voice tightly professional.

Max leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he stares out at the New York City skyline. This is far from the first firing he has issued, and it certainly won’t be the last. He is a great white shark, always needing to move forward or else he will drown in the depths of his own ambition.

There is a soft rap at the door, pulling Max from his reverie.

“Come in.” he calls out. Clara enters, her face schooled into a mask of polite disinterest. So much the better — he respects discretion.

“I have Mr. Evans on line two for you.” she says crisply.

Max gives a succinct nod. “Thank you, Clara. That will be all.”

As his assistant withdraws, Max takes a fortifying breath. He is Max Verstappen. He is the master of the corporate ocean. And he will not allow one flailing failure to capsize his empire.

Squaring his shoulders, he picks up the phone and begins issuing a stern series of orders and demands. After all, there is little time for rest when one aims to be a modern day titan of industry.

***

You take a deep breath and rap firmly on the door to the HR director’s office. “Come in.” a flat voice calls out.

Steeling yourself, you twist the handle and step inside the dingy, fluorescent-lit room. Janet, the red-haired HR manager, looks up from her computer with a practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Ah, Y/N. What can I do for you today?” She asks in an overly saccharine tone.

You take a seat across from her cluttered desk, your knee bouncing with nervous energy. “I … I need to request some personal leave. Family medical reasons.”

Janet’s perfectly penciled eyebrows rise in bland surprise. “I see. And how much time were you hoping to take?”

Your throat tightens as you force out the words. “At least a month. Maybe more, depending on … on how things progress.”

The HR manager clucks her tongue as she shakes her head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’re in our busiest quarter and you know the company policy — no extended leave during crunch periods unless it’s a valid health emergency.”

You feel panic fluttering in your chest. This has to be a valid emergency! “But it is an emergency! My daughter, she’s ...” Your voice cracks and you swallow hard, desperate to maintain your composure. “She’s very sick, potentially terminal. I need to be with her right now.”

Janet’s face remains stubbornly impassive. “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter’s illness. Truly, I am. But unless you can provide official documentation from a medical professional, my hands are tied.”

The words hit you like a slap across the face. Of course they would require documentation to approve leave — it’s standard corporate policy. But how can mentally collect yourself to get paperwork in order when you’ve been spending every waking moment by your little girl’s hospital bedside?

Unbidden, your mind flashes back to two nights ago, watching in helpless terror as your daughter’s tiny body was racked with another severe seizure. You had screamed yourself hoarse calling for the nurses as the meds they pumped into her did little to stop the violent convulsions ...

You’re vaguely aware of Janet still speaking across from you, something about company guidelines and productivity expectations. But the words sound muffled and far away, as if you’re underwater.

How naive you were to think they might bend the rules, just this once. To think the faceless corporation you pour your life into might actually show a shred of human compassion during your hour of desperate need.

No. That’s not how companies like this operate.

They don’t care about you or your daughter’s life. All they care about is the bottom line, and you’re just an expendable number in their organizational flowchart.

You’re jolted back to reality as Janet raps her lacquered nails impatiently on the desk. “Well? Is there anything else or can I get back to work?”

Is there anything else? Oh, there’s so much more you want to scream at this unfeeling paper-pusher. You want to cry and rage and beg her to just show an ounce of basic human decency.

But you know it would be pointless. Janet is just a cog, same as you. There’s only one person here with the power and influence to authorize what you need.

Only one person who strikes abject terror into the heart of every employee with his infamous volcanic temper and uncompromising expectations.

The thought makes your stomach twist into knots, but you know what you have to do. For your little girl’s sake, you have to try.

So you rise from the chair, willing your legs not to shake. “Thank you for your time.” you mutter tightly, already turning on your heel and storming out of the office.

You don’t look back as Janet calls out something about proper procedure. You just keep moving, your footsteps fueled by a mother’s desperation.

The elevator seems to take an eternity, each second feeling like a little bit more of your daughter’s life trickling away. By the time the doors finally open with a mocking ding, you’re practically vibrating with pent-up nervous energy.

As the mirrored box ascends, your heart feels like it’s trying to batter its way out of your chest. You can hardly breathe past the constriction in your lungs. What if the infamous Max Verstappen laughs in your face? Or has you fired on the spot for daring to interrupt his billion-dollar dealings?

No, you can’t afford to think like that. This may be your only chance to get the time off you so desperately need. For your daughter’s sake, you have to be brave.

The elevator seems to crawl upward at a glacial pace. By the time the doors finally part with a soft chime, you feel like you’re going to be sick from anxiety. This is it, the executive floor — the lair of the terrifying Max Verstappen himself.

You step out into the plush, mahogany-accented lobby with shaking legs. Behind a curved desk, Max’s assistant Clara looks up, her expression instantly hardening when she recognizes you as some inconsequential employee.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Verstappen is not accepting any visitors at the moment.” she says, her tone brooking no argument. “If you’d like to schedule an appointment for next week ...”

“Please.” you blurt out, hating how your voice trembles. “It’s an emergency. I … I need to see him. Just for five minutes.”

Clara’s manicured eyebrow arches skeptically. “I extremely doubt Mr. Verstappen would consider your issue important enough to warrant an unscheduled meeting. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a million things to-”

“It’s about my sick daughter!” The words burst from your lips before you can stop them. Immediately, you regret being so unprofessional, but desperation has eroded your self-control.

For a split second, Clara’s expression flickers with something that might be pity. But it’s quickly subsumed by her usual cool mask of professionalism as she shakes her head.

“I’m very sorry to hear about your daughter’s illness. But those are still not grounds for me to disturb Mr. Verstappen while he’s-”

“Please!” You plead, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. “I’m begging you. This could be my last chance! If he says no, I’ll leave, I promise. But I have to try!”

Clara regards you appraisingly for a long moment. Then, letting out a weary sigh, she presses the intercom button. “Sir? There’s someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A … personal matter.”

The line crackles with static for several tense seconds. You hold your breath, praying beyond hope that the infamous Max has a rare charitable impulse today.

Then, his unmistakable baritone growls through the small speaker. “This had better be good. Send them in.”

Clara winces almost imperceptibly before gesturing towards the double oak doors to Max’s corner office. “Good luck.” she murmurs.

You don’t need any further prompting. Drawing a shuddering breath, you straighten your spine and make your way to the doors. You pause just briefly, hands trembling, before rapping your knuckles firmly against the lacquered wood.

There’s no going back now. Either Max Verstappen is about to grant you a miracle … or utterly crush your last, fragile hope.

***

Max scowls as the intercom crackles to life, Clara’s hesitant voice filtering through the speaker. “Sir? There’s someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A … personal matter.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. Surely whatever this is can wait until tomorrow. Max is elbow-deep in paperwork and holding patterns, trying to do damage control on the Brighton acquisition fumble. He has no time for frivolous “personal” disruptions.

“This had better be good.” he growls into the intercom. “Send them in.”

With an irritated huff, Max leans back in his buttery leather chair as the doors to his office swing open. He’s already opening his mouth to berate whoever dares disturb him over something as trivial as a “personal matter.”

Then you tentatively step into the room and Max’s words die in his throat.

Even with your shoulders hunched inward and your makeup smudged from crying, you are utterly breathtaking. A fragile beauty drowning in an oversized blazer, your wide eyes darting around his opulent office with obvious intimidation.

An unwelcome jolt of attraction lances through Max’s chest and he quickly squashes it down. He cannot afford such distractions, especially from a lowly employee like yourself who should know better than to interrupt him during work hours.

“Well?” He finally finds his voice, aiming for a brusque tone to remind you both of your respective places. “You’re hardly someone important enough to be granted an audience. This had better be worth my time.”

The harshness of his words seems to make you flinch. You worry your lip between your teeth, shrinking back slightly.

“I … I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr. Verstappen.” you begin haltingly. Already Max can feel his patience waning. He hates fumbling fragility and wants only confident decisiveness.

But then your next words come tumbling out in a desperate rush. “It’s about my daughter, sir. My little girl … she’s in the hospital. She has a brain tumor and her condition is deteriorating rapidly. I asked Janet in HR for some personal leave to be with her, but she denied my request and said I need official medical documentation which could take days I don’t have!”

Tears are welling in your eyes now, your voice rising to nearly hysterical levels. “Please, Mr. Verstappen! She’s only three years old and I’m a single mom. I’m all she has right now! I���m begging you … please just give me some time to be with her before … before ...”

You seem unable to voice whatever terrifying possibility lurks in the back of your mind. Instead, you dissolve into shoulder-shaking sobs, burying your face in your hands as you break down completely.

Max feels his earlier irritation softening in spite of himself. He’s seen grown men thrice your age become blubbering messes under his withering glare. But there’s something distinctly vulnerable and gut-wrenching about your anguished tears.

Part of him recognizes this as a prime opportunity to regain control, to berate you for such an unseemly display of emotion. His reputation as a merciless taskmaster practically demands he put you in your place.

But another part of Max … a part he barely recognizes … feels a rare pang of empathy pierce through his calloused exterior.

Perhaps it’s the thought of a scared little girl lying crippled in a hospital bed, scared and missing her mother. Or perhaps it’s the way you wear your devastation so plainly, managing to humanize yourself in a way most people never achieve in his eyes.

Whatever the reason, when Max finally speaks, his tone has lost its earlier bite.

“I did not realize the full severity of the situation.” he says, slowly rising from his chair. He moves around the desk, not missing the way you tense as he approaches.

Up close, he can see the puffy redness rimming your eyes, the despair etched into every line of your face. It stirs something inside him … an ancient ghost of an emotion he can’t quite place.

“I’m sorry you were dismissed so carelessly by HR.” Max continues, struggling to keep his voice even. “Perhaps if you had led with mentioning your daughter’s condition, instead of being so oblique ...”

He trails off as you sniff loudly, dragging the sleeve of your blazer across your nose. The motion is equal parts endearing and mortifying for him to witness.

“Here.” he says impulsively, plucking a crisp linen handkerchief from his suit pocket. He presses it into your hand, watching as you blink owlishly at the unexpected gesture. “Allow me to make things right.”

Without waiting for a response, Max turns and strides over to his desk. He snatches up the phone and rapidly punches in a extension code, holding the receiver to his ear as it begins to ring.

“Janet? Yes, it’s Max Verstappen.” he says crisply when the line picks up. “I’ve just been informed about an ... employee situation that requires your immediate attention.”

He pauses, glancing over at where you’re clutching his handkerchief like a lifeline. Your eyes are still glistening with tears, but you’ve gone utterly still — hanging on his every word.

“One of our marketing staff came to me in quite a state about needing extended leave to be with their hospitalized child.” Max continues, his voice hardening slightly. “A matter you seemed to dismiss without proper consideration for the … nuances of the circumstances.”

There’s a sputtering on the other end of the line, undoubtedly Janet trying to make excuses. Max doesn’t give her the chance.

“The decision has been made to grant the employee’s leave request, effective immediately.” he cuts her off. “They will be excused for … two months, with full pay and benefits.”

His announcement seems to render you momentarily stunned. You simply stare at him, eyes wide and unblinking, like you can’t quite process what you’re hearing.

Max clears his throat self-consciously, refocusing on Janet’s flustered response filtering through the receiver. “B-But sir, we have very strict policies about-”

“Which is precisely why I’m instructing you to make an exception.” Max interjects, his voice brokering no arguments. “This leave is to be coded as paid health and wellness time. I expect no push-back or foot-dragging on this, understood?”

There’s a meek murmur of assent from Janet’s end. Max can’t resist a tight smile of satisfaction.

“Good. I’ll leave the paperwork in your capable hands then. That will be all.” He punctuates the statement by firmly hanging up the phone.

As the clatter of the receiver breaks the tense silence, Max turns to find you staring at him with an utterly inscrutable expression. For a long moment, neither of you speak or move. He finds himself paralyzed under the weight of your intense, unblinking gaze.

Then, with a strangled cry, you suddenly surge forward and throw your arms around him. Max goes ramrod stiff as your slight frame collides with his, your tears dampening the front of his crisp dress shirt.

“Thank you!” You’re whispering over and over like a prayer, clinging to him with a desperation that should be uncomfortable. And yet ... “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Max feels utterly transfixed, like a statue too stunned to react. He can’t remember the last time someone dared to encroach so boldly on his personal space, much less make actual physical contact. He’s not accustomed to such … warmth.

But before the unfamiliar embrace can start to grate on him, you suddenly pull back. Swiping at your eyes, you manage a watery smile up at him.

“You have no idea how much this means, sir. I … I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and understanding.”

He wants to scoff at the notion, to remind you that he is Max Verstappen — merciless and uncompromising in his corporate dealings. That this was merely an isolated instance of pragmatism to avoid a PR incident or workplace lawsuit, nothing more.

But something in your earnest gaze stops the curt rebuttal in his throat. For once, the infamously brusque Max Verstappen finds himself momentarily at a loss for words.

So instead, he gives a terse nod of acknowledgment. Already, his mind is starting to analyze how best to re-allocate your responsibilities for the next two months, which temporary hires to bring in for supplemental coverage.

But one stray thought continues to nag at the back of his mind, an errant curveball amongst the dizzying calculations.

For the first time in years — perhaps his entire adult life — Max feels almost … human.

It’s a strange and deeply unsettling realization, but luckily one he doesn’t have to dwell on.

Because in the next breath, you’re sweeping out of his office, a renewed vigor in your step and a brilliant smile lighting up your features. Max watches you go, an odd tightness settling into his chest.

He doesn’t have words — or perhaps doesn’t want to admit to any words to describe what he’s feeling in this moment. But one thing is for certain, for better or worse, you’ve well and truly upended Max Verstappen’s world.

***

Max remains rooted in place long after you’ve departed, his office now eerily silent in your absence. He should feel relieved to have some peace and quiet again after that … emotional encounter.

Yet instead of settling back into his usual all-consuming work flow, he finds his mind stubbornly replaying the scene on an endless, maddening loop.

The desperation etched onto your delicate features. The way your frame practically vibrated with barely-constrained anguish. The broken, pleading sound of your voice as you begged for his mercy ...

Despite his best efforts to dismiss it, the memory of your raw vulnerability has burrowed its way under Max’s skin, taking up an unwelcome residence. It picks and nags at the edges of his consciousness no matter how much he wills it away.

He has witnessed similar breakdowns from countless employees over the years — grown men and women brought to sniveling tatters by his uncompromising demands. But none of them elicited the same … response within him.

None of them made something twist so peculiarly in Max’s chest, unleashing that brief yet startling flicker of empathy from whatever dark crevice it lurks.

Gritting his teeth, Max paces behind his desk in tight, agitated circles. He prides himself on being a merciless pragmatist, unmoved by emotional pleas or babelling outbursts. Whatever decisions he makes are calculated toward the maximum profit potential and bottom line, end of story.

So why does this one case, this one instance of showing a bare modicum of human compassion, insist on gnawing at him so persistently? It makes no logical sense, no matter how he tries to mentally contort it.

Perhaps that’s the core issue — that for once in his life, Max’s motivations weren’t born strictly of logic or financial incentive. Something else had escaped from beneath, something primal and indefinable, when you broke down so nakedly in front of him.

The realization causes Max’s steps to stutter to a halt. His jaw works tensely as he runs a frustrated hand through his brown hair, disheveling the meticulously groomed coif.

He can admit to himself that some base part of his brain had been … affected by the rawness of your emotion. The way you had stripped away all artifice and propriety to plead so urgently and authentically.

Not many people manage to disarm Max Verstappen’s carefully curated expectation filters. But you had blown straight through them without even realizing it, battering down the reinforced walls he builds around his life. Just by being horrifically, unguardedly human.

It’s both impressive and deeply unsettling in equal measure.

Before Max can spiral any further down this rabbit hole of self-reflection, a sharp rap of knuckles against the door jolts him back to awareness. He straightens and clears his throat roughly.

“Come in.” he calls out, already retaking his seat and trying to project an aura of resolute control.

Clara slips into the office, her usual unflappable poise slightly ruffled as she catches the tense atmosphere. “You asked to see me right away, sir?”

“Yes.” Max says brusquely, watching her over steepled fingers. “I need you to do some … discreet digging for me into a personal matter.”

Clara’s perfectly groomed eyebrow arches inquisitively. But to her credit, she doesn’t comment on his evasive phrasing.

“And what exactly am I looking into?”

“The employee who was just in my office seeking leave.” he explains curtly. “The one with the hospitalized child. I need you to find out everything you can — where the child is being treated, their condition, prognosis, all of it.”

Clara’s perfectly glossed lips purse ever so slightly. “You’re aware I can’t exactly go through official medical channels without violating all sorts of privacy laws ...”

“I’m fully aware.” Max interjects with a curt wave of his hand. “Which is why you’ll have to take a more … unconventional approach. I don’t particularly care what methods you have to employ, just get me those details by the end of the day.”

His assistant regards him silently for a long beat, as if trying to suss out his motivations. Max meets her contemplative look with an unwavering stare of his own.

Finally, Clara gives a tight nod of understanding. “Consider it done, sir.”

With that, she pivots on the towering heel of her Louboutin and sees herself out of the office, the click of her footsteps rapidly retreating down the hall.

Max lets out a slow exhale, alone with his thoughts once more.

What is he doing? This bizarre crusade is so wildly outside of his typical conduct and practices. The lengths he’s going to, all for the sake of some random underling’s personal crisis ...

A smart, calculated part of his brain recognizes this entire situation as a fool’s errand, a waste of time and resources. He should be devoting every ounce of his focus toward extricating the Chinese investment group from the Brighton deal before their next earnings call.

And yet, he can’t seem to fully let this go. Your haunted, hopeless expression keeps flickering through his mind’s eye. The memory of your tears soaking into his suit lapel as you clung to him with a desperation that shook something deep within him.

It’s almost as if his body is acting of its own accord, driven by some urge he can’t fully parse or control. Like a murmured voice insistently compelling him to … to what? Help you? Offer some vague sense of solace or security?

The thought is patently ludicrous, and Max scoffs audibly at his own melodrama. Get a grip, he chides himself sternly. Since when do you care about coddling your peons?

He forcefully shakes off the uncharacteristic reverie and turns back to the stacks of paperwork and documents splayed across his desk. Focusing intently on running new financial projections for Q3, he manages to bury himself in the work for a solid two hours.

He’s in the midst of furiously scribbling margin and revenue notes when the trill of the phone line cuts through his concentration. A glance at the caller ID has him resisting the urge to sigh.

“Clara.” he answers crisply, leaning back in his leather chair. “I trust you’ve made progress?”

“Indeed.” comes the smooth reply, devoid of inflection as always. “Though I should warn you, some of these details are … concerning.”

Something tightens in Max’s chest, but he quickly tamps it down. “Just lay it all out for me. No need to editorialize.”

“Very well.” Clara acquiesces. “So the child, a three-year-old daughter, is currently a patient at Lennox Hill Hospital here in the city. According to my sources, she was admitted five weeks ago after experiencing severe seizures and hallucinations. An MRI revealed she has a large mass-”

“Let me stop you right there.” Max interjects, his brows furrowing. Even he can recognize those are less than encouraging signs. “What’s the official diagnosis then?”

“Grade IV glioblastoma.” Clara replies flatly. “One of the most aggressive malignant brain tumors, especially in children her age.”

A terse silence falls between them as the weight of that diagnosis sinks in. Grade IV … practically a death sentence wrapped up in clinical terminology. Max finds his hand unconsciously clenching the arm of his chair.

“And her prospects?” He finally prompts gruffly. “What’s the … prognosis for her case?”

Clara doesn’t answer right away. Over the line, he can hear her exhale slowly, a rare tell of emotional discomfort from his typically unflappable assistant.

“From what my contact at Lennox Hill said … if we’re talking full disclosure?” Her customary professionalism wavers slightly as her voice grows hushed. “They’ve given her three months at most, sir. Maybe less, if another seizure or bleed occurs before then.”

The words hang in the air like a guillotine blade against Max’s neck. Suddenly, all those intrusive mental flashes of your inconsolable despair take on a sharper, even more heartrending clarity.

Of course you were devastated, he realizes with startling empathy. How could any mother face their child’s death sentence with any measure of composure?

An unexpected swell of emotion rises in Max’s throat and he has to blink rapidly to keep it at bay. Now isn’t the time for such indulgences.

“Thank you, Clara.” he manages in a rough baritone. “That will be all for now.”

He ends the call without waiting for a response, abruptly severing the connection.

Alone once more, Max slumps back against the leather upholstery, an uncharacteristic weariness settling into his bones. He reaches up to loosen his already disheveled tie, suddenly feeling stifled within the confines of his suit.

Three months. Three paltry months for a precious young life to be snatched away before it ever really began. His jaw clenches hard.

That’s unacceptable. Not just unfair, but a complete and total injustice to all that is right and good in this world.

No child should have to suffer like that … and certainly no mother should have to face a future of unimaginable grief and emptiness once her only family is gone. Not if there was anything to be done about it.

And, at the end of the day, Max Verstappen has the means to quite literally move mountains with his wealth and influence.

An idea begins to blossom in his mind — one that feels daring and reckless and so utterly unlike his usual business-oriented self. But he finds himself drawn to it with a singleminded resolve he can’t quite explain.

Jaw set, Max snatches up his phone and punches in a number he never thought he’d use outside of donor galas.

“Roland? Max Verstappen here.” he says gruffly when the line picks up. “I need you to connect me directly with someone in Sloan Kettering’s pediatric oncology department ...”

Half an hour and multiple calls later, Max is finally patched through to one of the top clinical researchers in the field: Dr. Spencer Paulson.

“Dr. Paulson, thank you for making time on such short notice.” Max says, his tone polished yet clipped. “To cut right to it, I was recently made aware of a … sensitive case involving a terminal pediatric patient and some rather bleak estimated survival rates.”

Without preamble, he lays out what little he knows about your daughter — the diagnosis, the staging, the Lennox Hill prognosis that has already written her off for dead. All throughout, the doctor on the other end of the line remains grimly silent.

“So in your expert opinion.” Max finishes, realizing his hand has unconsciously tightened into a white-knuckled fist. “What would you say her realistic prospects for meaningful treatment or survival are?”

There’s a pregnant pause, then a grim sigh filters through the tinny line. “Based on what you’ve told me … I’m afraid the prognosis does indeed sound dire. Grade IV glioblastomas in children under five have approximately a 5% survival rate past twelve months with conventional treatment regimens.”

Max clenches his teeth, brutally unsurprised yet still floored by the frank assessment. Moments ago, he had still been clinging to a fool’s hope.

“However.” Dr. Paulson continues, his tone brightening slightly. “We do currently have an … experimental trial ongoing that might be an outside option to explore.”

Something akin to hope flutters in Max’s chest. “I’m listening.”

“Well, to put it simply, we’ve had some promising early results adapting viral gene therapies to target and destroy these aggressive brain tumor cells in young patients.” the doctor explains, shifting into a more clinical, lecture-style delivery.

“By modifying and re-engineering certain viruses to bind only to the specific mutated RNA and protein markers found in diseases like glioblastomas, we can theoretically use those same viruses as a delivery vector. One that can slip past the blood-brain barrier and directly infect the cancerous cells with a sort of … controlled payload, if you will.”

Max nods along, his mind working furiously to keep up with the technical jargon. “Some kind of treatment regimen then? Drugs or radiation therapy delivered directly to the tumor site?”

“Precisely.” Dr. Paulson confirms approvingly. “Only we’ve expanded past just chemo and gamma rays as the options. Thanks to the pioneering work of doctors like Bert Jacobs, we’ve now created an entirely new frontier of cancer treatments centered around gene therapy and mRNA editing.”

He rattles off a dizzying litany of polysyllabic scientific terminology that sails completely over Max’s head. Not that it matters — his focus is fully captured by the notes of guarded optimism finally creeping into Paulson’s voice.

“Of course, this is all still highly experimental. We’ve only managed to achieve remission in a handful of trial cases thus far.” the doctor cautions. “And we have no idea if the viral vector we’ve engineered will be equally effective against every variation of cancerous mutation out there.”

Max nods impatiently, waving a hand as if to physically shoo away the vague caveats. “I appreciate the need for clinical hedging, doctor. But let’s cut right to the heart of the matter.”

He draws in a fortifying breath. “If you were to take on this little girl as a patient, deploy these … gene therapy regimens of yours … would you give her a legitimate chance? At treatment, remission, survival?”

There’s a pregnant pause, as if Dr. Paulson is carefully considering the ethical ramifications of his answer. Then, “If she meets the selection criteria and baseline health conditions … and we get a bit of luck on our side ...” Another sigh, heavy with the weight of his responsibilities. “Then I’d say we would have a fighting chance, yes.”

Those five simple words crash over Max with the force of a tidal wave, hitting him squarely in the chest.

A chance. At life. At making it past those grim, dire prognoses.

After several moments of stunned silence, Max finally finds his voice.

“Say no more, doctor. Whatever it costs — money, time, logistics — none of it matters. I want this treatment option fully activated and prioritized immediately. Spare no expense, I’ll take care of the bill.” He utters the words with the same decisive confidence he handles his billion-dollar business dealings.

Because in this moment, it doesn’t feel like just some impulsive, emotionally-driven whim. Helping your innocent child — ensuring she gets the fighting chance she deserves?

It feels like the only choice he can possibly make.

***

You sit hunched in the hard, plastic visitor’s chair, your body angled protectively towards the small hospital bed. Despite the tubes and wires snaking from her fragile limbs, your daughter appears almost peaceful in her restless slumber.

She always was such a sound sleeper as a baby, you reminisce wistfully. Remembering how you’d regularly creep into the nursery just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, assuring yourself she was still breathing.

Even back then, the ever-present fear of something going horribly wrong never truly left you. The world is far too cruel a place to let a mother relax, no matter how deeply you wish you could.

One slender hand rests atop the thin bedsheet covering your little girl, your thumb tracing soothing circles along her tiny knuckles. A silent, simple gesture of tenderness you hope she can feel even in sleep. If only you could so easily soothe away her pain and suffering as you could your own.

The quiet flutter of the heart rate monitor keeps beat, each mechanical beep another hammer striking your already shattered soul. You want to feel relieved, blessed even, that it continues that steady cadence. Instead, you only feel exhausted hollowness.

Because this morning, the doctors came to “discuss options.” As if their clinical detachment could soften the blow of learning your child is well and truly out of miracles.

“We’ve run every available scan and lab test.” Dr. Rhodes had said, failing to meet your desperate gaze. “I’m so very sorry, but the tumor isn’t responding to any of our treatments. At this point, we have to start considering ...”

You hadn’t let him finish, couldn’t let those hateful, unthinkable words pass his lips. Palliative care. Hospice. Just give up and let nature take its inevitable, brutal course while they pumped her full of numbing opiates so she could “comfortably” slip away.

The rage and anguish had bubbled up from some primal pit within your guts, hot and viscous like magma erupting from deep beneath the earth’s crust. You’d screamed incoherent denials until your voice was hoarse, begging and pleading through sobs for them not to take away your only hope.

In the end, they’d sedated your daughter fully so you could “calm down” and “process things rationally.” You know they meant well, trying to spare her from your outburst. But it only compounded your devastation, feeling like they were already treating her as a lost cause no longer worth fighting for.

So here you sit, after untold hours of cycling through various stages of grief, left only with bone-deep weariness cloaked by a fragile veneer of numb acceptance. You dimly wonder if you’ll ever truly feel anything else ever again.

Through the blur of tears constantly stinging your eyes, you keep a silent vigil over your daughter’s bedside. You memorize every delicate sweep of her sooty lashes, the tiny smattering of freckles across her upturned nose. Desperate to commit every last precious detail of her existence to memory before … before ...

A choked sob bubbles up from your chest at the thought, hot and acidic at the back of your throat. You quickly muffle it with the crook of your elbow, determined not to disturb your resting girl with the outward manifestations of your agony.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. An old meditative mantra you try to focus on, struggling to regain control of your tenuous grip on composure. You know your tears and hiccupping gasps for air are only harming yourself at this point. Better to conserve what little physical and mental strength you have left to simply be with your daughter while you still can.

The grief is an ever-churning sea just waiting to drag you under its dark, icy depths. But still you stubbornly tread water, unwilling to fully surrender just yet. Not as long as you can still feel the reassuring thrum of her pulse against your fingertips, a solitary lifeline keeping you tethered to the present.

You aren’t sure how much time stretches in that manner — minutes or hours, you cannot say. The days have all started blurring into one long, endless haze of sleeplessness and overwhelming sorrow.

So when the door to the hospital room suddenly clicks open, the sound manages to penetrate the cotton-muffled fog shrouding your senses.Instantly, you stiffen and blink rapidly, as if only just now awakening to your surroundings.

A stranger stands in the doorway — a tall, slender man in an impeccably tailored suit that looks distinctly out of place amongst the bland, sterile patient rooms. His face is sharp and angular, almost harsh in its sternness if not for the way his brow is furrowed with evident concern.

You open your mouth to ask who he is and what he wants, but he raises a placating hand before you can find your voice.

“Please, don’t be alarmed.” he says, words clipped yet softened slightly. “I know this is a terrible situation, and the absolute last setting you’d want an uninvited visitor.”

Now that he’s closer, you can see behind his obvious affluence lurks a cultured, aloof sort of demeanor. There’s no outward malice or disrespect in his manner, but he carries himself like someone long accustomed to privileges and deference. The sight of him sets you even more on edge amid your emotional rawness.

“My name is Spencer Paulson.” the man presses on, taking a few measured steps further into the room. “I’m actually a doctor, Ms ...”

“Y/N.” you automatically supply, dredging up the remnants of social graces. “Y/N L/N. And this is … this is my daughter, Olivia.”

Your voice cracks ever so slightly on her name, heated moisture already welling behind your eyes once more. You quickly dab at their corners with the sleeve of your worn cardigan, determined not to dissolve into fresh hysterics in front of this absolute stranger.

“Well, Ms. Y/L/N.” the man — Dr. Paulson — says, tone measured. “I realize I’m intruding on a highly stressful situation for you and your family right now. And for that, I truly am sorry.”

His apology seems sincere enough. But wariness still prickles along your nape as your overtired, over-protective instincts flare up. You clutch your daughter’s limp hand in yours a fraction tighter.

“Then if you don’t mind my asking.” you begin in a calculated tone, scrutinizing Paulson carefully. “Why are you here? And what business could possibly bring you to Olivia’s bedside unannounced?”

He regards you silently for a long moment, something inscrutable flickering across his features. When he speaks again, his words are deliberately precise, weighted down by their momentous gravity.

“I was recently contacted by … an interested third party about your daughter’s case.” Paulson explains, clasping his hands behind his back. “I was filled in on the specifics of her diagnosis — glioblastoma, grade four, extremely aggressive and largely unresponsive to standard treatment. Am I correct so far?”

You can only numbly nod, a chill prickling across your flesh. The man’s crisp, clinical recitation of your worst nightmare forces a painful convulsion of renewed heartache.

Paulson seems to catch your distress and quickly presses on. “Right, well, I’m actually here in an official capacity as the Chief of Pediatric Oncology over at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.”

The words hit you with all the force of a defibrillator charge, jolting your entire frame upright in the hard plastic chair. Your jaw drops open, already fumbling for a desperate reply that will somehow make this all make sense.

But Paulson continues before you can vocalize any of the hundreds of jumbled questions flooding your mind.

“I’ll keep this relatively simple, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says, holding up a forestalling hand. “My team at Sloan Kettering recently received permission to transfer your daughter over to our care as soon as logistically possible. You see, we’ve been working on an experimental new treatment protocol — a form of gene therapy designed to treat even the most aggressive, mutation-riddled forms of cancers like Olivia’s brain tumor.”

You blink owlishly, unable to fully process the onslaught of technical jargon being leveled at you. All you can do is continue sitting there, stunned into silence as the doctor launches into an almost dizzying explanation of re-engineered viruses, targeted gene editing, and “controlled payloads” being essentially the extent of modern medicine.

“... And while the trial is still in its early stages, we’ve actually already achieved partial and even full remission in a few key pediatric cases remarkably similar to that of your daughter.” Paulson continues, his tone growing faintly tinged with optimism and something akin to pride. “Which is why we’re reasonably confident Olivia could be an excellent candidate for our experimental therapies, if you allow it.”

He lets the weight of that statement hang in the air between you, watching you carefully for any visible reaction. But you’re frozen, fighting between warring tides of soul-rending hope and knee-jerk cynicism.

After all, you’ve come to reflexively distrust when desperation-stoking scenarios sound too good to be true over the past several torturous weeks. A small, rational voice in the back of your mind pipes up to remind you that you can’t afford to get your hopes up, only to be gutted yet again by the crushing inevitability of disappointment.

But another part of your wearied brain — the part that’s grown so fatigued by the oppressive feeling of hopelessness — recoils at dismissing any potential reprieve from the nightmare, no matter how fanciful or far-fetched.

So instead you hear yourself croaking out a single, wobbling syllable.

“How ...”

Paulson tilts his head inquisitively. “I’m sorry?”

You clear your throat, igniting the spark of desperate yearning flickering to life inside your chest. “How much would … would a treatment like this cost?”

For the first time since barging his way into your fragile world, Paulson’s aristocratic features twist into an unmistakable grimace. He lets out a tight sigh, clearly recognizing the gravity behind your simple question.

“Unfortunately, due to the experimental and intensive nature of this therapy … the baseline costs do run relatively high.” he explains in a precise tone, as if trying to distance himself from the crass logistical realities. “If approved for the trial and full treatment regimen, we’re looking at around $1.4 million in projected costs over the first six months alone.”

The astronomical number hits you squarely between the eyes, setting your head swimming with disbelief. One point four … million? The amount is so ludicrously exorbitant that it almost doesn’t seem real.

You open your mouth, fully intending to spit out the derisive scoff that such an impossible ask deserves. No amount of desperate wishing could ever make that attainable for a single, working-class parent already drowning in tens of thousands of medical debt.

But Paulson clearly recognizes the crestfallen defeat settling over your features. Because he quickly rushes ahead with his next words, effectively cutting off any vocal dismissal on your end.

“However, as I mentioned earlier, we did get some … special circumstances greenlighted regarding your daughter’s case.” he says, tone brightening with carefully cultivated hopefulness. “You see, there’s an anonymous benefactor who’s agreed to cover the full cost of treatment on a … philanthropic basis, let’s call it.”

The words punch you directly in the gut, momentarily robbing your lungs of oxygen like a cruel sucker-punch. You blink dazedly up at Paulson, struggling to make sense of what he’s saying through the roaring static in your ears.

“I … I don’t understand.” you manage to stammer out. “Someone wants to … pay for my daughter? All of it? But why? How could they possibly-”

“Hey now, none of that.” Paulson cuts you off, his voice softening with what might be the first hints of empathy and warmth creeping in. “The why doesn’t matter right now — only that it’s been arranged at no cost to you or your family.”

He moves closer then, resting one hand on your shoulder in an unexpected gesture of kindness that makes you flinch despite yourself. Up close, you can see the sincerity shining in his hazel eyes, pleading for you to simply accept this incredible parting of the dark clouds that have shrouded your existence.

“I know this is … well, frankly astounding news on top of everything else you’re already dealing with.” Paulson continues, giving your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “And please, believe me, we want to avoid overwhelming you with undue complications. For now, I think it’s enough to simply feel that spark of hope again, yes?”

Despite your best efforts to tamp down the desperate yearning swelling in your chest, you find yourself nodding mutely in agreement. Because in this moment, you understand exactly the miraculous implications of his words.

After so many agonizing weeks of feeling utterly powerless, of watching your baby girl’s life slowly ebb away before your very eyes … there is a chance. An opportunity, a fighting possibility that everything won’t end in crushing grief and irredeemable sorrow.

And even just that single glowing ember of hope, no matter how faint, is enough to shatter the dam holding back your turbulent sea of pent-up emotion. Paulson watches in quiet acceptance as you finally break down in great, shuddering sobs — only this time, they’re threaded with the catharsis of relief.

Happy tears stream down your blotchy cheeks, unchecked and convulsive. You press your face into the cool, starchy sheets of Olivia’s bed, body wracked with a release of tension weeks in the making. It feels as though you’re being simultaneously unmade and reborn in this singular, messy instance.

Through the storm of your breakdown, you’re dimly aware of Paulson stepping away to give you privacy. And then, just before he slips from the room entirely, his composed baritone rings out one last time.

“We’ll make all the arrangements to transport Olivia to Sloan Kettering as soon as possible. Get her started on this treatment regimen right away, alright?”

You can’t even summon the words to respond, only nodding rapidly between hiccuping bursts of gasping and sobbing. But just before he exits, shutting the door silently behind him, you catch Paulson’s murmur.

“There’s a fighting chance now. That’s all any of us can really ask for ...”

***

Max rakes a hand through his meticulously styled hair as he strides down the sterile hallway of Sloan Kettering’s pediatric oncology ward. His eyes scan the room numbers tacked to each door, searching for the one he was provided.

456 … 458… ah, there — 460. Max pauses outside the closed entry, squaring his shoulders as he tries to tamp down the uncharacteristic fluttering of nerves in his stomach. Taking a fortifying breath, he gives the door a perfunctory series of raps with his knuckles.

Almost immediately, a muffled voice filters through from inside — your voice, he recognizes with a start. “Come in!”

Max’s brow furrows momentarily at the warm, chipper lilt to your tone. So unlike the brittle, devastated one he had heard that fateful day in his office. Though he supposes that’s only fitting, given the radically shifted circumstances these past several weeks.

Pushing his hesitation aside, Max takes the invitation and pushes into the hospital room. You’re seated in one of the uncomfortable plastic visitor’s chairs, wearing a soft cardigan and jeans — by all appearances the very portrait of a typical doting mother.

Well, not entirely typical. Because curled up on the bed next to you is a tiny, doe-eyed little girl whose resemblance leaves no question as to her relation to you.

Olivia.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you glance up — and immediately do a double-take, eyes going comically wide. “M-Mr. Verstappen?” You splutter out, frozen halfway out of your chair like a hostess belatedly remembered her manners. “I … I didn’t realize you were-”

Max holds up a hand to stop the tide of nervous rambling, inexplicably touched by your visible shock. The effect is only compounded when Olivia shifts on the bed, eyeing him owlishly from beneath the cuddly weight of a stuffed unicorn nearly as large as she is.

“It’s quite alright, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says, offering you the barest hint of a disarming smile. An expression he finds shockingly easy to produce given the scene before him. “I admit I hadn’t warned you about my visit in advance.”

He pauses there, suddenly realizing the reason for his impromptu trip isn’t entirely certain, even to himself. It had begun as little more than a nagging impulse tugging at him throughout his days, growing more persistent and insistent until he finally gave in and scheduled some time away from the office.

And now that he’s here, standing in this dimly-lit hospital room, Max feels strangely … unmoored. Adrift in a situation his renowned business acumen didn’t even begin to equip him for handling.

But then your daughter is shifting again, curiosity winning out over her bashfulness as she props herself up on her elbows. “Who’re you?” She pipes up in a tiny, raspy voice that somehow bypasses Max’s usually implacable defenses.

Something pangs oddly in his chest at the innocent inquiry. He finds himself crouching into an automatic squat, bringing himself level with the bedside so he can better meet Olivia’s inquisitive gaze.

“You can just call me Max.” he says, injecting a gentle warmth into his tone that he didn’t even realize he was capable of. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

It occurs to him then that he’s been subconsciously clutching the bouquet of flowers still in his off-hand — an overly ornate spray of exotic lilies and birds of paradise blooms that probably cost more than a month’s rent for most families. He had ordered them from the city’s most exclusive florist boutique on pure aesthetic impulse, without pausing to consider the message such an excessive display might send.

This morning, holding the massive arrangement felt appropriate, a reflection of Max’s stature as a dominant business magnate. But now, watching Olivia’s large eyes track the oversized bouquet with open-mouthed awe, he feels suddenly self-conscious.

Hoping to recover some sense of propriety, Max clears his throat and holds the flowers out in front of him.

“These are, ah, for your mother.” he explains gruffly, avoiding your questioning gaze burning against the side of his face. “A small token of … of appreciation, one might say.”

He isn’t quite sure what prompts the carefully worded addition — perhaps an instinctive reflex to avoid showing any overt sentimentality. But either way, you seem to simply accept the generous offering with bemused grace.

“Thank you, Mr. Versta-” You quickly correct yourself at his mild arched brow. “Er, Max. They’re absolutely lovely.”

You bend to inhale the rich floral perfume, eyelids fluttering in evident delight at the fragrance. Max watches the childlike awe play out across your soft features, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction settle in his chest.

Having given you the flowers, he rises to his feet once more with a put-upon sigh of effort. Every bit of spoiled opulence and bravado that usually comes as second-nature to Max.

And yet, none of it lands quite with the affected solemnity he’s accustomed to projecting. Not when Olivia’s sweet-faced attention is still utterly transfixed by his every move and micro-expression.

Your daughter still hasn’t looked away from him even as you arrange the flower vase on her bedside table, entranced in a way only the very young can be. It’s … disarming, to say the least. But not entirely unpleasant, Max finds himself admitting.

“I, ah, got something for you as well, Olivia.” he announces impulsively. From behind his back, he produces a floppy-limbed teddy bear easily half her size.

He’s not even sure what prompted him to purchase such a pedestrian sort of toy. All he knows is that he saw the stuffed creature in the hospital gift shop window on his way in, and some impulse compelled him to acquire it for reasons he still can’t understand.

But any lingering uncertainty fades from his mind like a passing cloud when Olivia lets out an audible gasp of delight. Her little hands instantly shoot out, making desperate grabbing motions at the plush offering.

“Ohmygosh, thank you!” The words tumble out in a breathless, childish rush. Before Max can even react, she leans precariously over the edge of the bed, arms outstretched and grasping imploringly.

On instinct, Max takes a half-step forward, carefully depositing the stuffed bear into Olivia’s waiting embrace to avoid any accidents. She immediately snatches it to her chest, burying her face in the softness of its soft fabric with a contented hum that seems to vibrate in Max’s very soul.

He swallows hard past the unexpected lump that forms in his throat, watching a child delight in something so simple and innocent. How long has it been since he allowed himself to find joy in the pure, unbridled way that Olivia does? Far too long, he’s forced to admit.

Clearing his throat with an awkward rumble, Max tears his gaze away from your daughter’s cuddling. He levels his focus back onto you instead. Only then does he realize you’ve been staring at him throughout the entire interaction, an unreadable look painted across your face.

“I trust the medical team has kept you informed of Olivia’s progress so far.” he prompts in his usual clipped tone, struggling to reassert some sense of distancing professionalism. “I don’t have any special insight into the procedural specifics, but from what I’ve gathered, positive results are steadily accumulating, yes?”

You blink once, almost like shaking yourself out of a reverie, before offering a slow nod in response. “Y-Yes, you could definitely say that.”

Something sparks behind your gaze then — some dawning realization creeping over your delicate features. “In fact, Dr. Paulson himself said Olivia seems to have responded better to the gene therapy than almost any other patient yet. Her tumor reduction trend is so far exceeding their best models that they’re actually considering tweaking the formula for future tria-”

You abruptly cut yourself off, lips pursing into a tight line as you turn your focus back to Max. He holds your stare evenly, waiting for whatever it is you seem to be mustering the courage to say.

Then, almost in a whisper, “Max … are you the anonymous donor paying for all of this?”

The words hang in the air like a physical force between you, so full of implication and unvoiced emotion that even Max can’t find a way to deflect them. He stares back at you, utterly disarmed beneath the intensity of your scrutinizing gaze.

For a long beat, only the hum of hospital machines and equipment fills the weighty silence. Max’s jaw works tensely as he considers how best to respond. He wants to shrug it off, make some sardonic quip to reestablish the carefully curated aloofness that serves him so well in the business world.

But then Olivia lets out another joyous giggle as she squishes the plush bear’s paw, completely enraptured and undistracted by the silent standoff occurring across her bedside. And all of Max’s formidable defenses and calculated denials abruptly dissolve in the face of such childlike innocence.

So instead of evasion, he answers your question with a small, barely perceptible nod and a softly murmured, “Yes.”

He doesn’t have time to brace himself before you’re suddenly surging up out of the chair with a wounded cry. And then your arms are flung around his neck, your body slamming against his chest as you pull Max into a fierce and entirely unexpected hug.

The impact momentarily stuns him, freezing Max in place with his arms held useless at his sides. He can’t remember the last time someone dared to initiate such a brazen display of physical contact — perhaps ever, now that he racks his brain.

But just as he contemplates gently extricating himself from your clutches, your ragged voice rises to his ear in a trembling whisper.

“Thank you.” you’re whispering over and over like a fevered prayer. “Thank you, thank you, thank you ...”

With each impassioned repetition, Max can feel more of the tension slowly leeching from his frame. He finds himself sinking bonelessly into your embrace, one hand coming to rest against the small of your back in an automatic gesture of soothing.

Soon enough, heaving sobs are wracking your entire body against his. Hot tears quickly begin to soak through the fabric of his expensive dress shirt as you cling to him with the desperation of a fallen angel clawing her way back into grace. But Max doesn’t pull away, doesn’t extricate himself or put distance between your respective roles as worker and corporate king.

Instead, in a move even he can’t fully explain or justify, his free hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in even tighter as you keen your grateful relief against the column of his throat.

“It’s … quite alright.” he finds himself rumbling in a low, soothing voice completely at odds with his usual persona. “No thanks are necessary. All that matters now is ensuring your daughter’s full and complete recovery … at whatever cost required.”

He isn’t sure whether his throwaway platitude is meant more for his benefit or yours at this point. But either way, you show no signs of releasing him from the crushing strength of your desperate clutch anytime soon. So Max does the only thing left available to him — he simply lets you cry and shake and cling to him for as long as you need.

Until finally, with a handful of watery hiccups and sniffles, you manage to tilt your blotchy face up towards his.

“I … I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this.” you murmur throatily. “For giving Olivia more than just some faint hope, but an actual chance to grow up and live the life she deserves.”

Tenderness isn’t something that often breaks through Max Verstappen’s shroud of callous indifference. He can count on one hand the number of times in his adult life he’s allowed himself to indulge in such sentimental trivialities.

But gazing into your puffy, reddened eyes, he finds he can’t quite summon any bitter cynicism. Instead, his voice remains low with a soothing gentleness that feels almost foreign falling from his lips.

“The only form of repayment I’ll require.” he says finally, “is your permission to take you to dinner.”

He blinks once, almost taken aback by the words that slipped unbidden from his throat. But you, for your part, seem equally dazed as your brows knit in bewilderment.

“Dinner? But … I haven’t left Olivia in weeks.”

At that, Max manages a wry smile, feeling as if he’s regained at least some fraction of his footing and composure. “Of course I don’t expect you to. I simply meant for the three of us to dine together … here, in the hospital. My treat, naturally.”

Your fingers unconsciously clench tighter into the fabric of his ruined dress shirt. But even with the hint of embarrassment pinkening your cheeks, he can see what looks almost like … excitement? Perhaps even coyness sparking behind your gaze before you avert your eyes demurely.

“I … yes, of course.” you murmur, sounding almost bashful. “We would be honored.”

Max simply nods, committing every little part of the interaction to his increasingly scattered memory for later dissection. For now, he withdraws himself from the gentle circle of your arms with what he hopes appears a natural sort of casualness.

“Very good then,” is all he finds himself able to say in response. “I shall make the necessary arrangements and return shortly with something to eat.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides towards the exit, throwing one final look over his shoulder. You’re already back in your chair at Olivia’s bedside, shooting him another shy little smile as you start to idly stroke your now dozing daughter’s hair.

And before Max even fully processes the impulse, he feels the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a warm half-grin in response.

A expression so unfamiliar on his usually dour features that it renders him momentarily unrecognizable, even to himself.

Shaking his head as if to cast off the dizzy sense of displacement, Max continues out into the hallway. He stubbornly refuses to dwell too much on the stirrings of contentment radiating through his chest.

Such indulgent notions are highly unseemly for a man of his stature and influence, after all. Better to ignore them entirely, as he always has.

Though even as the thought crosses his mind, Max finds himself picking up his pace with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Because somewhere along the way, he realizes ...

Denial doesn’t appear to be an option anymore.

***

Two Years Later

The ornate grandfather clock in the corner ticks rhythmically, its pendulum swinging with measured precision. Max’s gaze flicks over to it briefly before returning to the stack of documents before him. Numbers and figures blur together as his eyes scan the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.

A giggle from the corner of the room breaks his focus. He glances up to see Olivia sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet, curls bouncing as she plays with her Barbie dolls. A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips at the sight of her innocent joy.

“What are you up to over there, kleine muis?” He asks, his voice gruff but tinged with affection.

Olivia looks up, her eyes sparkling. “I’m having a tea party with Barbie and Ken.” she explains, brandishing the dolls. “Would you like to join us, Maxie?”

Max chuckles softly. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I have a bit too much work to do for a tea party right now.”

“Okay.” Olivia says cheerfully, returning to her imaginary festivities.

You had dropped Olivia off at Max’s office after her kindergarten class, needing to rush to an urgent marketing meeting. Max had insisted on keeping her company until you returned, despite the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

He watches Olivia play, mesmerized by her ability to create entire worlds from mere toys and her vibrant imagination. Her carefree laughter is a soothing balm against the chaos of his day.

After a while, Olivia looks up again. “Maxie, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, lieverd. What is it?”

Olivia fidgets with one of the doll’s dresses. “Today at school, we had to draw pictures of our families.”

Max’s heart constricts slightly at the innocuous statement, but he manages a reassuring smile. “Did you have fun with that activity?”

Olivia nods enthusiastically. “Uh-huh. I drew me, Mommy, and you.”

The words hit Max like a physical blow, stealing his breath away. He stares at Olivia, his eyes widening as a storm of emotions swirls within him.

Olivia, oblivious to his inner turmoil, continues, “But then Timmy said that you’re not really my daddy since we don’t have the same last name. Is that true, Maxie? Are you not my daddy?”

Max swallows hard, his throat constricting. He had grown to love this child as if she were his own flesh and blood, but he had never dared to assume the sacred title of father. The realization that Olivia saw him that way, despite the lack of biological ties, threatens to shatter his carefully constructed walls.

Pushing back from his desk, he rises to his feet and makes his way over to where Olivia sits. He lowers himself to the floor, his movements stiff and hesitant. Olivia watches him with curious eyes, still clutching her dolls.

“Olivia.” he begins, his voice thick with emotion he struggles to contain. “Even though we don’t share the same name, and I didn’t ...” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I didn’t have a hand in bringing you into this world, you are every bit as much my daughter as if you were my own.”

Olivia tilts her head slightly, considering his words. “So, I can call you Daddy?”

The simple question unlocks something deep within Max’s core, a part of himself he had locked away long ago. He feels moisture prickling at the corners of his eyes, an unfamiliar sting that he doesn’t fight.

“Yes, kleine muis.” he whispers, his voice wavering. “I would be honored if you called me Daddy.”

Without warning, Olivia drops her dolls and flings her small arms around Max’s neck, hugging him tightly. Max freezes for a moment, unaccustomed to such open displays of affection, before melting into the hug. He wraps his arms around Olivia’s tiny frame, holding her close as if she might slip away at any moment.

They stay like that for long minutes, Max’s shoulders trembling slightly as the dam he had so carefully constructed finally cracks. Tears slip silently down his cheeks, mingling with the softness of Olivia’s hair as he buries his face against her.

At last, Olivia pulls back, her eyes shining with joy. “I love you, Daddy.” she says simply, the words reverberating through Max’s very soul.

He manages a watery smile, brushing away the dampness on his cheeks. “And I love you, lieverd. More than you could ever know.”

Olivia beams at him before scrambling to her feet. “Oh! I almost forgot!” She darts over to her little backpack, rummaging through it eagerly.

Max watches her, his heart still thundering in his chest from the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him. He had built an empire, commanded boardrooms with an iron fist, and struck fear into the hearts of grown men … yet this innocent child had disarmed him completely.

“Here it is!” Olivia exclaims, returning with a piece of paper clutched in her small fist. She holds it out to Max, beaming. “For you, Daddy.”

With trembling hands, Max takes the drawing. A bright smile breaks across his face as he studies the crude but endearing figures — stick figures, but he can clearly make out Olivia, you, and himself, joined by vibrant swirls of color.

“It’s beautiful.” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over the lines with a tenderness he reserves only for her. “Thank you.”

Over the next few days, Max has the drawing professionally framed, the simple piece of artwork taking pride of place on the wall of his office. Whenever his gaze falls upon it, his heart swells with a love and sense of purpose that had been missing for far too long.

Beside the framed drawing hangs his business degree, a symbol of his power and influence in the corporate world. Yet, it is Olivia’s artwork that holds the most meaning, a reminder of what truly matters in this life.

Because Max is many things — a captain of industry, a force to be reckoned with, a man who has clawed his way to the top through sheer grit and determination.

But most importantly, he is a father.

And he has never been more proud of any achievement than to call himself Olivia’s daddy.