#how do i explain to him i would fist fight someone for him

[noonaishere]

Online/Offline [C.S] - one hundred and two | now you *have* to explain

“I don’t know, auntie.” 

A customer walked up to the counter.

Minsoo covered her phone with her hand. “Y/n?”

You came out of the kitchen. “Yeah?”

“Can you help this customer? My aunt is on the phone.”

“Yeah, you can take it outside if you want.”

“Thank you.” Minsoo said to you before replying to her phone, “I said I don’t know, auntie.”

You helped the customer and about ten minutes later, Minsoo came back over to the counter looking frazzled. “Sorry about that.”

“What was that about?”

“My aunt - San’s mom - was asking me if I’ve seen San and what he was up to and everything. Apparently she heard something was going on with him through her lawyer because he knows someone who knows San’s lawyer.” She rolled her eyes with a sigh.

“Oh? He doesn’t call her?”

Minsoo shook her head. “Not since the emancipation.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “The what?”

“Uhhhhh.”

“I mean, I guess you don’t have to tell me if--”

“San was a Chaebol heir!”

You choked on your own spit. You had no idea how you inhaled it, but you were so surprised you started choking. “A-- what?!” You coughed.

“Shit, I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone,” Minsoo whined.

“Then why did you say it?!”

“I don’t know! His mom always plays with my head! I’m sorry!”

“Don’t apologize to me!”

“Ahh!” Minsoo whined.

You laughed. “Well, now you have to explain.”

“Ugh, okay, but don’t tell him I told you.”

“Fine, I won’t.”

“So… ugh, okay. So when San was maybe sixteen, he met Seonghwa in school.”

You nodded.

She nodded. “When San was eighteen, there was this whole big fight in our family, because his dad is the current owner of Choi Electronics - which is like, electronics mostly, but a whole bunch of subsidiaries - and they wanted to merge with another company when he turned twenty.”

You nodded.

“They actually could have merged when he was eighteen, but they decided that he and the daughter of the owner of the other company should be married for like… I don’t  know, security or something, so they had to wait until they both turned twenty. But they made them meet when they were both eighteen.”

“Holy shit. The lives of rich people are insane. That sounds like medieval kingdoms allying with each other.”

“Maybe, I don’t know. A lot of families do it but it’s so archaic.” Minsoo took her phone out of her pocket.

You looked at her quizzically.

“I’m making sure the call ended. If my aunt heard me say that, she’d kill me.” 

You nodded. “Are your parents like his parents at all?”

She put her phone away and grimaced as she thought. “Not as much?”

Your eyebrows lifted in silent questioning.

“Like, my mom is his dad’s younger sister, so she works for the company but never had that kind of pressure, and I never had it either. We’re just not that important.” 

“That must be nice. You get the money but not the responsibility.”

She seemed to weigh something in her mind before continuing. “But… once I tell them I’m dating Seonghwa, we’re probably going to get into a fight… and there’s a good chance I could get cut off.”

“Oh my god. They don’t know?”

She nodded.

“I mean-- not to derail, but would you break up with him for them?”

She looked at you flatly, a face you’ve seen Seonghwa make multiple times when he was displeased by someone or something. You raised your brows in surprise.

“Break up with the lovely nerd-man who’s helping me learn to stick up for myself and who thinks my being chubby is cute or neutral, so I can stay with a family who calls me fat and wants me to be a doormat?”

You pointed at her aggressively. “I TOLD YOU he’d think it was cute!” And banged your fist against the counter in excitement.

“When did you say that?” She laughed.

“Didn’t I? I don’t know, maybe I just thought it. But whatever, I was still right! You’re adorable.”

She laughed bashfully.

“But yeah, don’t break up with him for them.”

“I don’t want to, but I get the feeling that they’re going to give me an ultimatum and I’m going to have to find an apartment soon.” She sighed.

“Maybe you can move in with him; combine your Gundam collection.”

She chuckled.

“But yeah, the San thing, go ahead.”

“So anyway… the fight started because San and the girl had an official meeting - it’s a blind date - and he came back from the meeting saying that he hated her. I never met her, but San called me afterwards and told me everything she said, and she seemed like, uh…”

“A heinous human being?”

“Yeah. Like a real princess who’s used to everyone waiting on them hand and foot, you know?”

You nodded.

“So then he went to his parents and was like ‘I’m not marrying her,’ and they were like, ‘What about the daughter of this other company?’”

“And that obviously wasn’t the point.”

“Yeah. So he told them he didn’t want to marry someone they picked out for him because her dad’s company was doing well because he didn’t want to be miserable for the rest of his life… And they fought for weeks. He got his own lawyer, and this whole court case happened, and he basically had himself legally estranged from the family and got some amount of money from them that I don’t know, and then they cut him off.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, he’s not in any wills anymore or anything.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. I actually uh… I helped my grandma do a sneaky thing and she made my amount of her will larger so I could give it to him.”

“Did you?”

“Of course.”

You held up your fist for her to pound it and she did.

“You’re a solid girl, Minsoo. I’m surprised you weren’t too scared to do it.”

She shook her head. “I’d do anything my grandma would ask me. She was such a beacon of love in our family… and sense.”

“Shame no one else took after her.”

She nodded sadly.

“So were the results of the case their retaliation? Or is that what San wanted?”

“Being written out of the wills was his parent’s requirement. He got whatever money was legally in his name, and gave some of it to Seonghwa to start this café.”

“Oh, wow…” 

You looked around the café. It had never occurred to you that someone as young as Seonghwa being a café owner meant that he had to have a nice chunk of cash on hand to make everything happen. 

“I had no idea. Why has he never said anything? Also… I thought Seonghwa was the owner?”

“He is. San is his investor.”

“Holy shit, I had no idea.”

Minsoo nodded. “Yeah.”

“Did he ever say why he emancipated himself?”

“Not to me. But it’s pretty obvious, I think. He wanted to be in charge of his own life.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I guess all that money is kind of pointless if you can’t live the way you want and are forced to marry someone you don’t even like.”

Minsoo nodded.

The two of you stood in silence for a bit.

“You can not tell him I told you.”

“I won’t, don’t worry.”

Obviously, you had to talk to him about it.

   previous | main cast | masterlist | next

a/n: Y/n is finally learning all his secrets!

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[seokmattchuus]

Matthew I am NOT your strongest soldier 😔

[toji-bunny-girl]

Toji with a puppy girl👀

Nah cuz puppy!reader…x wolf!toji‼️⁉️ GOODBYE YALL🫡

Alright imagine wolf cop!Toji and puppy!reader who accidentally got caught speeding and acting all fidgety and nervous when he made her roll her window down. Wolf cop!Toji’s leaning against your car door, merely asking for your driver’s license and you’re already shaking in your seat.

The first thing you did was trying to explain why you were speeding just a little, to buy some heat suppressants and Toji could see that you weren’t lying about that. Puppy girl is all sweaty, your eyes are droopy with indecipherable lust and your aromal pheromones were begging him to breed you. He is a servant of the law, supposedly having to be professional on his job, but fuck did he want to help you with your heat.

He doesn’t know the extent of his self-control and he has no interest in testing it today—so he promptly sends puppy off with a warning, he’d better not catch you speeding again.

The next time he saw puppy was a few seasons later—when he was passing by an alley on the way home from dinner with the chief. There was a little yelp of desperation, and what seemed to be someone calling for help. He could smell the scent fraught and despair, along with a familiar whiff of feminine pheromones.

Stalking into the tenebrous alleyway, he found you cowering all scared over the corner, ears back and tail between your legs as a hooded male prowled closer to you. 

Without much thinking, Toji hauled the male away from you, smashing his frame against the wall before locking his hands behind his back. 

The man tried to fight back but it was all simply in futile. He could try all he want but Toji would still have him subjugated under his strength. Ripping the hoodie off of him, and as his features were described; it was the serial rapist around your area. 

“Oi!” he called for your attention, sobbing as you shut your thighs tight together. “Get my phone outta my pocket.”

You did as you’re told, dialling the number he chanted aloud and soon the cops were there to bring the male under custody. 

“Thank you for saving me, sir,” you spoke to the intimidatingly huge wolf. And Toji returned with a terse ‘welcome’, noting the crimson blush you wore underneath your cheeks and your strong intoxicating scent; it made his head heavy and the world seemed to whirled in his sight. 

“Yer’ alright?” his voice was comfortingly deep, the grizzly pitch scratching the nerves in your ears. You’re practically sweating, and acting like how you were the first time he saw you. “Why are you out here alone this late?”

“I was going to get some heat suppressants and my car was getting fixed. So I had to walk…” you embarrassingly cried. Fuck, he swore in his head, not again. The officers were busy with the rapist bastard and letting you continue your walk alone seemed unsafe. So, he’d better send you back as quickly as possible and get on his merry way home. 

Or so he thought. 

“Please, please, please…!” you tearily whined, rubbing yourself against his knee, nose buried deep in his neck, breathing in his manly essence. Toji was beating back a groan, your scent punching his nostrils and messing up his heartbeat. He was supposed to drive you home, and somehow you’re straddled on top of him just as he has reached your home.

“Hey—”

“It hurts s’much, sir!” you’ve balled his shirt into your fist, staring at him with those wet puppy eyes. It’s your hormones against his instincts, and he has to put himself under control no matter what. “The toys are no use, I can’t do it anymore!”

“Where’s ya suppressant?” Toji sighed as he rummaged through your bag, his thigh began to dampen and the bulge in his pants pumped against the restraints of his brief as it grew in size. You didn’t manage to buy it, did you?

“Please, save me,” your voice broke as you cried, desperation oozing out of your eyes along with your tears. He could feel your pulse through his pants and your drenched panty, and fuck were you pushing him towards the edge of his limits. “It’s just this once, please…!”

Your words were the breaking point that wrenched the very last of his self-control out of his wavering self. But rules are still rules, and he worked quickly to call his partner, instructing him to help log out of his shift system for him. You were practically all over him when the phone call ended, your little teeth nipping and licking over his saliva-coated neck.

“Bad girl,” Toji clicked his tongue, his voice was low, almost predatory with a growl. You let out a yelp when he grabbed your face, forcing your head to the side as to expose the supple skin of your neck. It wasn’t fair for you to mark him without expecting him to imprint on you. Especially when you’d let out your adorable gasps as he sunk his sharp teeth into your flesh, your skin threatening to break and blood ready to flow under the subjugation of his canines.

He would only learn more of the sound you’d make when he pressed a finger against your pulsing clit through your embarrassingly wet panty, teasing and rolling your bud until your body shook and voice begged him to touch you more.

You were all he could smell and hear, his mind and body nearly drunk off of your pheromones that bubbled into the sizzling hot air. And it took the rest of a pathetic amount of restrain left in him not to eat you whole. He would have to compromise on the honey that seemed to coat your skin, sucking and biting the sweetness off of you.

Your gasps turned to whines when he stuffed a finger into your heat, a single digit of his large enough to please your squeezing cunt. But he expected you to take more than that, stretching out your slick-dripped pussy with two of his thick fingers. Your cavern squelched as he slipped them in and out of you, your head growing heavy and your eyesight turning hazy.

“Feel so—nnh, good…!” you slurred through the pleasure that shook your nerves. Your movements did nothing but agitated the bulge in his trousers, and Toji hated being edged of all things. So he had your wrists bounded by his cuffs, your arms raised above his head and your motions then restricted to your hips as you buckled them from the tingles in your core.

Toji smirked through one of the bite he was marking on your chest when he pumped his digits in and out of your sloppy cunt faster, his thumb reaching your clit and stimulating both of them at the same time. You burst into heightened cries as you felt your orgasm coming close, your hips rolling with his thick fingers as they curled over the gummy part of your wall, your eyes rolling to the back of head as pressure started building in your core.

“Mmnh—I’m cummin’, I’m cummin’!” you repeated into a chant, your features twisting to his enjoyment as he watched you come undone from his mere fingers.

From the look of it, Toji knew you haven’t had enough. You were at the height of your heat, any coherence long melted into your innate desires to mate, for hours at least. You tried to free yourself from the cuff he’d locked you in, your eyes raking over his body down to the pumping size in his pants, a spot of pre-cum damp from your doings.

“Please, sir…” you whined through your adorable doe eyes, your craving for his cock to fill your cunt catching up to your limit. “Please fuck me.”

“That’s what I wanna hear,” Toji smirked, nipping the end of your sensitive ear, causing you to shudder from his touch. He loved the fact that he doesn’t have to ask for you to beg for him, his animalistic ego stroked by your adorable neediness.

Your eyes nearly popped out when you watched him unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down to release his fat cock, veiny and pulsing and ready to pump you full. You were almost too eager to fit him inside of you, your hips sinking down a little too quickly. But Toji was quicker to grab you before you hurt yourself. You were already well prepared, your body releasing all the hormones necessary but still, you were built a little too small for him.

“Someone’s impatient,” Toji chuckled as you wriggled in his hold. Just as he thought, your lips paused open when he slowly sank you halfway down his length, his thick cock pushing against the wall of your tummy, a little bump from the shape of his bulging from the inside of your stomach.

The both of you swore underneath your breaths, and you threw your head back when Toji started shifting into your hips. You were so damn tight and warm and wet that his carnal need to breed hit him like a fucking truck.

His jaw clenched as he forced his whole length into your pulsing hole, your eyebrows furrowed and teeth sunk into your bottom lip from how full you felt. Your breaths left your mouth as dragged moans when Toji began to draw his hips out and into your weeping cunt, slow but deep.

His thumb drew circles upon your hardened clit once again, attempting to ease your clenching hole but it did nothing but tightened your grip around his girth. “You gotta relax, pup,” he groaned into the sultry air, and you cried as you shook your head.

“M’ can’t! Please!” you mewled, rolling your hips for the least bit of friction, itching to ease the tingle between your thighs.

“Fuck,” Toji growled as tears of frustration began forming in your eyes. You weren’t the only one starved for sex, he’s been holding on for so long just not to hurt you. But you’re an eager one, can’t even wait for his cock to start moving and you’re sniffling your tears aback. “You better not regret this,” he clicked his tongue before drawing his hips back, slamming them up into your weeping cunt.

The car shook from the force and a scream lodge itself in your throat, your pussy ached with his cock dragging against your walls, and a pulsing warmth began to swarm all over your belly. “Haah—it’s s’good!” you mumbled unsteadily, your back arching into him and eyes turning crossed.

“I need you to be, shit—clearer, sweet.”

“Your cock f-feel s’good, sir!” you could feel the way Toji twitched inside of you, his pace relentless and rough. It doesn’t take long for you to feel the crack of the pressure in your core, and your released gushed all over his lap and car seat, the scent of your essence making his head heavy.

He doesn’t stop even when your lips spewed nothing but rambles, your drool slipping down your chin and onto your marked chest. Instead, he began to fuck himself into you, harder and faster. Your thighs shook for the way his cock spurred up your insides, it was as if he was trying to bring you apart then and there.

Toji bellowed out a low growl as his nails sank into the flesh on your hips, using your body like a fleshlight and messing up your sore cunt. Your slick cavern hugged his cock tight as he twitched, the nerves on his tip dancing upon the fire of pleasure before you feel a rope of his velvety semen paint your insides white, a wave of orgasm crushing down over you soon after.

You’re too drunk and dumb off his cock to stop him, your eyes rolled to the back of your head and tongue idly lolling out. Toji had spent too much of his time enveloped in your mating pheromones, his hormones raging all over his body, twisting the levels until he was down to nothing but a hulking body of a male intending to impregnate.

Unbeknownst to you, it would take days for a wolf’s rut to wear off.

[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.

[lalunanymph]

PLEASURE IN PAIN

✧.* SUMMARY tangled in sylus's web, you discover the many insidious ways he can make you break even without causing you any pain

✧.* WARNINGS dark content, interrogation kink, sex drugs, injections, blindfolds, coercion, forced confessions, captivity, mentions of drugs, non-con, bondage, restraints, mean onychinus leader sylus, fantasies, role play, lingerie kink, mentions of alcohol, edging, orgasm control, orgasm denial, clit play, vibrator play, petnames (kitten, sweetie, bad kitty), Dom/sub undertones, language humiliation, twist at the end, established relationship, MDNI, 18+

✧.* DAWN SAYS listen, i can explain um,,,, so basically,,, i have no excuse

✧.* A03 | twt/x

It was acrid and dark behind the blindfold.

The material was one of the good kinds, made from thick cotton which barely allowed any light to seep through. As you shifted in the cold, hard seat, you caught the faintest tinkling of chains. Your fists clenched, heart tripling in speed as you remembered the events which led you here in the first place. 

The sparkling mini dress you wore for the night out. Strobing lights. Pulsing excitement. Hands on your waist. 

The shot of vodka you accepted from a handsome stranger in a bar, his dark eyes glossing over your flushed features. 

All you remembered was the lights fading into pressing darkness and now, here were were.

Restrained and right in the hands of someone dangerous. 

The tap tap tap of sharp dress shoes on the floor pierced through the blood rushing in your ears, stealing your attention instantly. 

Whoever it was, he smelled of a rich cologne, the fragrance of his piney aftershave filling your nose when he bent forward, the heat of his body close enough to seep into the thin material of your dress. 

“Good morning. I trust you had a good rest, Y/N.” 

Horror jolted deep in your chest at the fact that he knew your name. The deep, dark cadence of his voice incited a faint stirring of familiarity. Hands that were warmer than you expected. reached out to touch your face. 

“W-who are you?”

God, what a fucking clichéd question. You squirmed in your bonds, and yanked your head back, mustering a glare twisting on your lips.

“I asked you a question—”

“And I heard you,” he shot back, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest. “I see we have not yet been introduced to each other—how rude of me. My name is Sylus…”

The tapping of his dress shoes made a circle around you, and you craned your neck around to keep him within reach, your entire body tense from anticipating what he would do next.

“... and you have some information I want.”

Your mind went to the gun strapped to your thigh, and you tried to shift around, wondering if it was still on your body.

As if he could read your mind, his dark chuckle touched your ears.

“Oh, are you looking for this?” 

The cold tip of your UNICORN-issued firearm touched your cheek, and you recoiled back, seething.

“Give that back—!”

“Only if you tell me what I want to know.”

The sound of the gun clicking, its barrel pressing right to your head, made you flinch. A hundred thoughts raced through your spinning mind; if the other Hunters knew where you were. If your watch had given off a signal when you were kidnaped. Did anyone notice you leaving the club? How could a man kidnap you without anyone putting up a fight? 

“They know where you are,” you warned him. “The other Hunters. They know where I am because my watch has given them my signal.”

His response was a confident scoff. “You’re mistaken, sweetie,” condescension dripped from his tone, and you felt the barrel of the gun move right to your forehead, pushing back a stray lock of your hair. The cold tip traveled right to your jaw, teasing the swell of your lower lip. 

Without warning, he pushed the metallic chamber past your lips, forcing you to suck on the cold metal. 

“Mhmph—!”

Rough fingers twined in your hair, locking your head in place. Forcing you to take it.

His reply exacerbated the humiliation and fear you felt when he said, “I’ve disabled your signal and your location. It’s simple really. The Hunter’s tech you use is so poorly outdated, I could laugh at it.” 

Sylus retracted the barrel, and you his sadistic glee shone when he chuckled at your sputtering and gasps. The taste of bitter gun residue coated your tongue, and you spat it out, complete fear threatening to steal the last fragments of your composure. 

Your chest heaved, mind narrowing down onto the meaning of his words. 

Hopeless despair bled right into your next words when you uttered: “You're wrong. They’ll come for me. I know they will.”

“Oh, you pretty little delusional Hunter,” he muttered scornfully. The sound of your gun clattering to the ground made you flinch; your years of training at UNICORN to withstand interrogation slipping from the frenzied state of your mind. 

Theory was vastly different from practice, especially when confronted with the lord of the N109 Zone himself.

“The Hunters are not coming for you. Not when I don’t want them to find you.”

Casually, he draped an arm around your shoulder, toying with the ends of your hair. The heat of his body was almost unnatural, and with him this close, you could feel the expensive silken material of his shirt rasp against the bare skin of your back. 

“But, I have a proposition. A proposition for you to leave with your head intact. Do you want to hear it?”

He spoke before you could say another word. “An armory of mine was raided by a group of Hunters. They appeared to have insider knowledge as none of my security feeds can catch sight of them. I had a hunch it might be Jenna’s doing when one of them explicitly mentioned your name on the recording—”

The sound of panting filled your ears, and with a jolt, you recognized Tara’s heavy breathing.

“We need to get out of here… Y/N….”

A clicking sound and the clip ended.

“Recognize her?” 

His fingers danced along the column of your throat, playing with the silver necklace you wore. The tips of his nimble digits were calloused, rasping against the delicate softness of your skin; a sharp contrast of sensations which drew an unwilling shiver running down your spine.

“I don’t know her,” you denied, needing to protect Tara. If Sylus got his hands on her, there was no telling what he would do—how he would break her.

You had more experience than this, a class above other rookie Hunters. If anyone could withstand a sticky situation, it would be you. 

His exhaled chuckle touched your ears, drawing goosebumps down your arms—and not the good kind. 

“Listen here, sweetie. Let me make you a deal. You tell me all the names of your little Hunter friends who dared to raid my armory, and I let you go with your life intact. How about that?” 

You turned your head to the side, unable to bear the arid heat of his hot breath on your cheek. Clearing your throat, you shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair, buying time to form a reply. 

“H-how do I know you will keep your promise?” 

In response, Sylus chuckled, a low, hearty, expensive sound.

You could picture him laughing like that on golf courses, or while slicing someone’s throat into ribbons.

“It seems your perception of me leans towards error, kitten,” the sudden nickname took you off guard. “I always keep my promises, especially to enticing little Hunters like you.”

His forwardness made your head spin. There was little doubt of the desire bleeding through the untoward advances he disclosed onto your unwilling ears. 

Your cheeks ran warm, and you fought to contain your level headedness, licking your lips as you considered the realities of sharing such delicate information with him. 

On one hand, you might risk compromising the mission framework that Captain Jenna had likely concealed from you to protect your other comrades. 

But, on the other hand, if you didn’t leave alive, you would never have a chance to bring down Onychinus again. 

The choice was in your hands.

And you chose silence.

The tap tap tap-ping of his shoes on the metallic floor was back again, and this time, it echoed the panicked palpitating of your heart.

You flinched when Sylus grabbed you by the shoulder, pushing some weight to dig you deeper into the chair. You winced, but remained firm in your pretend, nonplussed silence.

But, you forgot this was Sylus you were dealing with. The infamous, ruthless Onychinus leader. The man who could bring entire empires down to their knees.

He would never take ‘no’ for an answer, much less your stubborn silence. “Cat got your tongue, kitten?” He swept a hand underneath your chin, toying with you as he tugged your face up, forcing your lips within an inch of his.

“That's not very nice, isn't it? Not responding to someone's question.”

His tongue flicked out, touching the corner of your mouth and you resisted the urge to part your lips, firmly keeping your jaw shut.

“Mhm. I see how it is. But, don't worry, kitten,” his voice had taken on a silken quality, dangerous and Low. “I have ways of making people talk—of making you talk without laying a single finger on you.” 

He let go of your face and you heard his footsteps receding away. Alone and afraid, you tugged on the chains, trying to get in touch with your Resonance. Maybe you could break through these chains, using your Evol to melt through the metal links.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you.” Another voice joining the fray stopped you from squirming around, your head whipping up to catch who else was here.

“The chain is fortified to withstand any Evol attempts. It's made of a Protocore material that dulls the biological linkage reaction to the atoms surrounding the area. It's a Deepspace damper which means you won't be able to work around it.”

His footsteps were heavier than Sylus’s, and he moved with purpose, setting down what sounded like a metallic plate, where items clinked together. 

What he did next hit you like a freight train when you felt the cooling sting of an alcohol swab on your bare arm.

“No—”

“I propose you stay still or else the needle would break off and stay stuck in your arm.” There was a sadistic edge to his warning, an undeniable joy he got from being Sylus's puppet.

A sharp sting pinched your arm and you gritted your teeth, holding your breath when you felt the ice cold fluid siphoning into your veins.

The man gently pulled out the needle, using another swab to staunch the light bleeding. 

“There. You'll feel the effects soon.”

Your mouth was drier than a desert when you forced it to speak past the terror lodging in your throat.

“What did you give me…? What did you inject inside of me?!”

Barely paying your hysterics any mind, the man chuckled.

“That, my darling, was a patented N109 Zone aphrodisiac. A new formula we are testing and lucky you—you're the first one to receive it!”

His maniacal laughter grated your ears, and you shook your head from side to side, gasping. 

“Shit! Stop this—don't do this to me!”

“In a minute you will feel your entire body growing warmer, and then, that's when the fun begins,” he muttered gleefully. 

Whether it was a placebo effect of his words, you felt your entire body growing heavier. As if you had downed an entire row of shots, you felt heat suffuse across your face, creeping down your neck and arms, curling into a ball right in the pit of your stomach. You gasped, fighting against the manacles to try and touch your cheeks. They were hot enough to melt off your skin; the shivers wrecking you apart and driving you close to the brink of committing arson. Except the only thing on fire would be your self-control.

Embarrassingly, your nipples began to stiffen underneath your dress. A fresh wave of slick dampened your panties and you felt your heart triple in speed at the sound of the door opening, more footsteps entering the room.

“Is it done?”

Clenching your thighs together, you fought back against an obscene moan about to rip free from your mouth at the low timber of Sylus’s voice.

“Yes, sir. She's undergoing metamorphosis now.”

Flickers of flames lapped down your neck, stoking the heat in between your thighs to a terrifying level. 

Like your senses were heightened, you could smell him from where you sat; the spicy heat of his cologne permeating your senses.

It brushed over you in waves when he stepped closer, the heat of his body grazing your bare shins.

Sylus ran a finger across your jaw, smiling to himself when he noticed how you gritted your teeth and squeezed your thighs together. 

“My, my. Already feeling it, aren't we? You've always been such an overachiever, haven't you, kitten? You’re the fastest reactor we’ve ever had.” 

You felt the imprint of him kneeling next to you, the restraints around your ankles keeping your lower body open and vulnerable to him.

“Let's try this again.” His touch on your thigh was possessive, circling higher and higher to where you needed him the most. Sylus leaned in, his cheek pressed to your inner thigh, inhaling the musky scent of your pussy underneath the tent of your dress, which was hotter than any desert air he had ever put his mug through.

You jumped. Clearly not expecting his face to be so close there.

“The names of the Hunters who raided The armory. Now.”

In a tone which broke no give, Sylus was not a patient man waiting for you to toe around and beat the truth from the bush. He preferred to take matters into his own hands; he would edge the truth of you if he could.

Your breathing caught. Looking like sin in that little dress which dipped under the valley of your tits, and the flimsy, silky hem which rode all the way up over your plush, pretty thighs… What else was he supposed to do?

Not give into his desires?

“You're so unfair.”

Your hips rocked upwards, an obscene giveaway to the need building inside of you. Sylus wasn't a man who was built on inexperience; he had seen a good number of women in his days who needed a little bit of rope to get themselves loose for him.

But you were a goddamn natural.  

Your tits stretched across that sorry excuse of a dress, the see-through fabric showing off your tight nipples ready to be sucked and played with. The sight of your bare shins bathed under the fluorescent light of the interrogation room added to the allure, the forbiddenness of this situation.

You came to life in that chair, writhing like a possessed wave and keening softly, the drugs working their magic to keep you sensitive to his every touch.

“I never said I would play fair, kitten.”

Your cherry red lips puckered into a despairing snarl, and he imagined them around his cock, sucking him off. Milking him dry. 

One single touch to your neck and you jerked as if you were bitten by a snake. Strapped to the chair and trembling from every innocent onslaught, you were the perfect picture of a helpless slut, ready to be devoured.

Sylus moved to the two-way windows, switching off the tinted end so whoever was on the other side could not see what was happening. Not for the sake of giving you privacy—hell no.

He wanted to enjoy his little captive in peace.

The sound of items being rummaged around perked your ears up. You felt him approaching you, the blunt tip of something rubbery pressing right on the dent of your lower lip.

“Do you know what this is?”

Shaking your head, your eyes twitched behind the blindfold. 

Clicking a button, the rubber tip suddenly came to life, and you jerked back, hearing a familiar hum.

“Oh… oh no…”

Biting back a chuckle, Sylus watched as you could do nothing but whine in the chair. You twisted around, testing the bonds, feeding right into your helplessness when you realized there was no way out. Your nipples were two little cherries ripe for the picking underneath your dress, your arms covered with a carpet of goosebumps.

The sound of adhesive tape tearing rang loudly in your ears, and you tensed, feeling him stick the vibe right to your inner thigh. Sylus taped the purple head of the toy right at your opening, making a dent on the pretty pink panties you wore stretched tightly around your cunt.

He switched it on and the effect was immediate.

You twisted and writhed; grounding your ass on the chair, trying to dislodge the vibrator.

Dulcet mewls spilled from your lips, and Sylus did nothing but cross his arms and watch.

It was one thing being a slut in private, but there was something absolutely delicious about watching a woman lose it in such a public setting. Especially when she knew you were watching her.

You groaned. You gasped. Throwing your head back. The vibrations rocked through your world, leaving your mind a blank, humming state.

You grounded your ass in the chair, feeling more juices slick up your pussy. Sylus used more rope to pry apart your legs, stretching your panties even further until the vibrator dipped into the cleft of your pussy, purple head enclosed by slick folds.

“Feels good, right?” His low, dark voice resonated from your right side, lips close enough to brush against your ear. 

Sylus had interrogated enough people in his life to know when their reactions would be telling. He could tell when someone was close to tapping out and revealing their grand master plans.

He could tell when they were on the last leg of their resolution before they broke down and spilled the truth to him.

But for you, Sylus could tell you were on the verge of the biggest release on your life

Please, please… your writhing body seemed to beg. Don't make me do this. Don't shame me like this.

Taking it a notch further, he grabbed your head, twisting your hair painfully in his grasp. 

The sharp bite of agony was enough to tip you right to the edge, your thighs trembling. Pretty little Hunter who always got what she wanted, he thought. If only your captain could see you now… if only your teammates could see how easily you folded to me.

Back arched, mouth hanging open, you were the picture of submission.

And he ripped it away from you at the last second.

Sylus switched the vibrator off, watching as you crumpled back into the chair, a gasp ripping past your lips.

“Did you think I would give it to you without getting something back in return?”

His amused, silky tone cut through the blood rushing in your ears.

“Names, sweetie. I want them.”

Your tongue felt like a bloated fish in your mouth, the words unable to swim past the gasps struggling to fight past the surface.

Amused by your breathless gaping, Sylus ran his fingers down your chin, scratching it lightly as if you were an unruly cat.

A whine slipped past your defenses and he grinned. Such picture perfect submission delivered to be seen. Sylus wanted to further rub in how hopeless you were without him.

Ripping the blindfold off, you blinked your pretty eyes, like a baby deer seeing sunlight for the first time. Your irises dilated at the sight of him, the look of bewilderment morphing into a spiteful glare. 

“Let me go!”

It was adorable, really. You actually thought you could order him around. Be the boss. 

Sylus wanted to show you who ran this show; whose ship you were standing on. 

He leaned against the wall, one perfectly groomed brow raised. “And why would I want to do that, sweetie?” Taking another step towards you, he was pleased to find your eyes roving after him, determined to monitor his every movement.

Poor, naive little Hunter. Haven't you realized by now? You were never the predator—you were just prey. His prey. 

“Don't glare at me like that, sweetie. It is very unbecoming of your pretty face.”

Biting past a scathing remark, you wanted to tear these shackles off you and give him a piece of your mind. But, Sylus was already bored with the games.

“I'll keep on asking if you don't tell me everything you know, sweetie. And we can do this everyday.”

The threat stopped you short, a trembling exhale hanging between your parted lips.

Sylus could see the fear swirling in your eyes, the singular look of apprehension going right to his cock.

Not every captive could get such special attention from him, and yet, you were given a premium experience.

"You should be more thankful, sweetie. I'm not this nice to anyone and I'm doing a lot for you."

He caressed your cheek, and even that simple act could make your pussy clench, hips grinding against the static vibrator. 

“I'll see you in a few moments, sweetie. Till then, rest well.”

You should've known Sylus Qin was a man of his word. 

The serum injected remained strong for what felt like a day, but they kept on replenishing it, especially after the first signs of waning began, which mostly happened after meals. You grew to dread the sound of the door flap opening, because it meant another day of writhing with your hands tied in front of you, unable to relieve the tension between your legs.

You were in a light doze, slumped against the chair, when the door opened, and you opened your groggy eyes. Sylus stood over you, a smirk etched on his face. 

He was dressed in a fancy suit the color of a bright flame, his silver hair slicked back. A black stud adorned his left ear, silver necklace with a ruby pendant hanging from his throat. 

“Going to officiate the opening of Hell?” you sneered, and he snorted.

“How creative of an insult, sweetie. But, no.”

He stepped closer, and you had no idea what would come next until he clicked a button inside his jacket’s lapels, and the shackles holding your wrists behind your back melted to the ground with a loud clang. You winced, rubbing your raw wrists. 

Wordlessly, he extended a hand out towards you, and you scrutinized it with a glare. Sylus chuckled, shaking his head.

“I’m not going to bite. Well, not yet, at least. You’re still important to me, sweetie.”

Gingerly, you extended your hand toward him, cautious but accepting of his touch. Your fingers, still stiff from the lingering tension, trembled slightly as they wrapped around his warm palm. The firmness of his grip grounded you, offering reassurance despite him being the reason why you were captive in the first place.

Sylus gently pulled you to your feet, his other hand around your waist to keep you steady. The sensation of pins-and-needles surged through your legs as the blood slowly circulated. You wobbled slightly, but his presence was solid, anchoring you as you found your balance.

“Careful, kitten.”

Your blood boiled at his casual use of that nickname for you. Firm hands pressed against his pecs, and you tried to push away from him, nearly falling flat on your face in the process. Sylus’s arms immediately shot out to catch you, holding you close to his broad chest where the heat of his body radiated the warmest, burning right into your flushed cheek.

“Let me go—”

He removed his arms from your frame, lifting them up in mock surrender. Ignoring your glare, he procured a velvet shopping bag from god-knows-where behind his bag, handing it to you with a smug smile.

“I bought these for you, kitten.”

You stared at him in blatant confusion, but took the bag. From inside the smooth depths, you procured a skimpy pair of lingerie, made of lace and held up by wisps of mesh. The bustier was low-cut, easily showing off your chest, and to your mortification, the panties were crotchless.

“I thought you could use something to cover up that sorry excuse of a dress you’re wearing,” he said, voice dripping with playful sarcasm. 

You spluttered, eyes wide, staring at the garment he gifted to you with disbelief. Of all things he could’ve chosen for you, this was his idea of an improvement? “And you thought this was the better alternative?” you snapped, incredulous. 

Sylus was unfettered by the rising pitch of your voice, and simply grinned, a mischievous glint in his ruby red eyes. He chuckled softly, as if your frustration fueled his amusement, his lips curling into his familiar, devilish smirk. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers, kitten. Now, do you want to throw a hissy fit, or do you want to put on a fresh change of clothes?” 

Insane. He was completely deranged for thinking you would go through with this. Resisting the urge to throw the skimpy piece of lingerie in his face, you shot him a look of complete vitriol. A sharp, crass curse hovered on the tip of your tongue, barely restrained as you fought the urge to spit it at him. 

“And what if I refused to do it?” 

As if he anticipated your stubbornness, Sylus snapped his finger and two attendants entered your cell. Taking you by surprise, they stepped forward, grabbing your arms, shockingly strong for two, short women. One of them drags your dress down, ripping a few buttons in the process. The other restrained you with her arms locked around your torso, while her comrade grasped the band of your panties and tugs it off your legs in a fluid motion. 

They brought out a pair of scissors to deal with your bra, cutting through the material as easily as a knife slicing through hot butter. Scraps of lace fluttered to the ground, looking like dead butterfly wings. In the same breath, they tugged the bustier over your head, tightening the ribbons behind your back, ignoring your cry of pain and flailing hands trying to bat them away.

Throughout the entire ordeal, Sylus remained quiet, staring at you with an inscrutable expression you couldn’t read. Was it indifference? Amusement? Something more? You couldn’t tell and his stillness only heightened your discomfort. Meanwhile, the tinier attendant, a brunette with nimble fingers, knelt by your feet and lifted your leg gently, slipping it one-by-one through the crotchless panty holes. 

The cool material slid against your skin as she dragged it up your thighs, adjusting it with practiced ease until it rested snugly on your hips. The sensation of the garment was both unsettling and intimate, made worse by Sylus’s unwavering gaze.

Another snap of his fingers. The attendants disappeared, taking your discarded clothes and destroyed underwear with them.

Sylus took measured strides toward you, hands behind his back. Those crimson eyes flickered over every inch of your body, drinking you in.

“Much better. And you look good in red, my dear.”

The sensation of humiliation ravaged along your skin, settling like a disgusting pit of tar right at the bottom of your stomach.

“What do you want with me?” 

Your whisper drew a smirk on his handsome, but dangerously sharp features.

“Oh, my dear. You have no idea of the things I want to do to you.” 

A dark mist shot out from behind his back, splitting into two tendrils that swiftly wrapped your wrists in its foggy hold. It half-dragged, half-led you towards the bars of your prison, forcing you to your knees. Your hands dangled helplessly through the cold metal, your body contorted painfully into this uncomfortable position the mist held you captive in. Sylus chucked a pillow he took from a hidden pocket of space behind him, nudging it right under your knees. Bound and with no way of fighting him off, your back was arched, body exposed to his sinister will.

A low desk with a piece of paper and pen was set right in front of you by the same mute attendants. The sight of the blank page filled you with an indescribable sense of dread.

Sylus stood over you, his presence looming and intimidating, expression unreadable. His red eyes flickered to the prepared pen and paper. “I want the names you’ve been keeping from me in an hour, sweetie.”

Struggling against your unnatural bonds, you opened your mouth, but stopped when he shot you down with a look.

“And to give you some incentive…”

On cue, the cell door opened and in walked a short doctor with wiry, salt-and-pepper curls. He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose with one hand, precariously balancing a tray filled with syringes in the other. Knowing what he was about to do to you was terrifying. At least with the blindfold on, you weren’t aware of how thick the needle was, or how the milky fluid in the syringe sloshed around when the doctor tapped on the glass vial. 

Your stomach churned uneasily, a nauseating mix of dread and unease churning inside you. Every muscle in your body was taut with tension, coiled like a spring as you braced yourself for the inevitable. 

The air was thick with tension, growing denser at every step the doctor took towards you. Your breathing came out in ragged, shallow bursts, the misty restraints offering no give no matter how much you tried to recoil away from the approaching syringe.

“Relax now, love,” the older man warned you, trying to keep his leering eyes away from your scantily clad body. “It will hurt if you move too much.”

You had no choice but to succumb to his orders, holding your breath at the inescapable bite of pain in your arm. In a few seconds, the syringe’s contents were emptied into your bloodstream, and within less than a minute, the effects started again.

But, it felt different this time. The pulsating contractions made a spurt of slick trickle down your leg, the overwhelming heat traveling across your body like a contagious rash. Your nipples stiffened underneath the lacy bra cups, popping out almost painfully hard. The blood rushing straight to your clit made it sensitive to the slightest rush of air, your split legs kneeling on the floor exacerbating the vulnerability of your bare and swollen pussy.

“Sylus—”

You gasped, your breath hitching as you shook your head from side to side, as if the motion could dislodge the hazy cloud of lust creeping into the corners of your mind. The warmth pooling within you blurred the lines between resistance and surrender. Your vision wavered, becoming unfocused, as you struggled to keep him in the edges of your sight. But, his presence danced just out of reach, leaving you feeling unmoored, teetering on the brink of losing control.

The sensation of a hard object slipping past your clenched teeth roused the slightest bit of your interest, but with the lust pumping hard in your veins, it wasn’t easy to hone in your focus on anything else.

Sylus forced the hard, rubbery object deeper down your throat, ignoring your heaving chest triggered from your gag reflex. Plunging it in and out of your mouth carelessly, he lubed it up with your spit, and with a flick of his wrist, trailed it down the length of your body teasingly, before slipping it right into your pulsing pussy. 

The toy stretched your muscles, your walls rippling around the rubber conqueror to greedily suck it in; the vibrator sinking down to the hilt effortlessly from the amount of slick you were producing. 

“... a special one, sweetie.” His fingers in your hair brought your attention back to the buzzing between your thighs. But, that wasn’t what caught your full focus—it was the whirring silicone tongue lapping right at your clit which made you flinch, an intoxicated gasp falling from your puffy lips.

“This toy is designed to measure your sweet, little cunt’s contractions and when it senses you’re on the edge…” Sylus trailed off, intentionally stringing along your curiosity until it was hanging by a tenacious thread. “... well, you’ll see,” he finished, standing straighter, admiring the view of you bound, gasping and gyrating your hips as if fucking the thin air.

He had to admit, the sight before him was a wonder, pumping his desire to do unholy things to you.

But, he tightened his hands into fists, knowing he had to put on an air of nonchalant to get what  he needed from you. 

Judging from your broken moans and hitched gasps, his patience might win out soon.

Your hips stuttered, the fuzzy look in your eyes signaling your approaching release. Poor, little Hunter, he thought, a cruel smirk curling on his sculpted lips as your tensed body shook and heaved, hovering right on the precipice of a huge orgasm. As if a switch had been flipped, your entire body slumped forward, knees nearly buckling and bringing you to the floor if it weren’t for his Evol restraints around your wrists keeping you up right through the bars. 

“Aw. Were you close, sweetie?” His saccharine sweet voice dripped with sarcasm. “Tsk, tsk. This little kitten can’t listen, can she? I did say the vibrator could sense your orgasm approaching but did you even attempt to control your urges? No. Of course not. You don’t want to listen to me.” 

His words cut through you with their faux sympathy and you mustered enough anger and dismay to shoot him a terrifying glare.

“Fuck you, Sylus.”

“Oh, you wish, sweetie.” 

He chuckled at your affronted expression, circling closer to your bound body. You tensed when the tip of his shoe touched the innocuously static vibrator still lodged in your pussy, toying with the loose grip.

“Hmm. If this little plastic demon falls out of you, should I be kind and put it back? Or, do I leave you to your vices.”

Deciding in an instant, Sylus chuckled, a smug look on his face as he clasped his hands behind his back, clearly satisfied with what he was about to say. 

“Perhaps an hour with the vibrator might make you change your mind. One can only hope you will find relief, sweetie.” The mock sympathy in his voice left you breathless and disoriented, too stunned to muster an insult fast enough. 

Like a shadow in the night, he disappeared from your view, leaving you to your torment.

It felt like hours of unending torture. Where one cycle of edging began, it left you feeling more unfulfilled when the vibrator denied your pleasure, stopping dead every single time you were poised to fall off the precipice. 

Full body shivers tore through you, the smell of your own arousal burning through your nose. Your thighs began to cramp, the constant onslaught of arousal and edging making your pussy almost numb and sore, the muscles tense from teetering on the edge of a release for the past hour. 

The paper and pen swam in your vision, symbols of both your promised release and your comrades’ death sentence—thoughts you tried to push aside. Despite your best attempts to ignore them, they flit in and out of your consciousness, reminding you of where Sylus’s true displeasure lies. It wasn’t your fault; you were merely collateral in his fight with the other Hunters who had stepped on his toes. 

The vibrator pulsed, massaging your G-spot. Your thighs clamped down, going tense, breathing growing heavier. 

As soon as you hoped the toy would give you relief, the promise was snatched from under your nose—bringing you back to square one. Breathless, sore and full of hot, slick juices which were constantly denied, you finally gave in with a hitched sob. 

The pen shook in your hand, your words shaky and almost illegible. But, you managed to scrawl the names of the Hunters who were involved in the illegal raiding of his armory. Hanging your head forward, you tossed the pen aside like it was venomous, hearing it clatter onto the floor. 

Footsteps resounded around the small cell, mingling with your silent sobs. 

A pair of shiny dress shoes appeared in your vision, calloused fingers tilting your head up to look him right in his red eyes. Sylus thumbed your tears away, an indescribable depth swirling in his gaze, leading you close to the waters for you to drown in. 

But, he severed the tenacious connection with a hollow sigh, withdrawing his hand from your jaw to pick up the paper with the list of names. 

“Good girl.”

Your head dropped back to your chest, a sob rising in the back of your throat. Sylus snapped his fingers and the mists holding your hands hostage melted off, retreating back to him. 

You crumpled to your knees, and blindly groped for the vibrator still stuck in you. Whimpers slipped from your clenched teeth, and you fumbled with the smooth head of the toy, trying to find its switch.

Sylus, who was watching the entire ordeal with an unwavering gaze, chuckled softly, strolling up to you. 

“Need some help, kitten?”

Not waiting for you to respond, he lifted you up into his arms, whisking you out of the cell. Sylus was a few heads taller than you, his brawny build overshadowing your tinier one. It made sense how easily he manhandles you, setting you down on a wide bed, propping you on your hands and knees.

Instead of giving you relief since you had complied with his request, Sylus gripped the edges of the vibrator and slid it out of your clenching cunt, leaving you gasping from the sudden emptiness. 

To your mortification, he dropped the toy to the floor and crushed it under the heel of his dress shoe; a smug grin plastered on his face. Your head lolled limply, as if the exhaustion and frustration had become too much to bear. But underneath the weariness of having every single drop of your pleasure denied, you curled your hands into fists, knuckles pale with tension. Anger surged in your chest, simmering and growing with each shallow breath, threatening to implode as the frustration clawed its way through the fatigue, demanding to be released.

“You… you son of a bitch—”

Sylus didn’t give you a chance to finish your insults. Without warning, the mists shot out from his side, racing to ensnare your limbs; four tendrils holding you open and vulnerable under his darkening gaze. The tendrils lifted you up slightly from the bed, your body hovering over the dark, satin sheets. Sylus padded over to you, reaching to touch the rise of your ass appreciatively.

“You do cut a stunning, submissive figure, kitten.”

The sound of clothes shedding to the floor made you freeze, panic pumping hard in your veins when you felt his calloused hands around your waist. Sylus’s lips touched the nape of your neck, this position offering you little resistance from his advances. Under his careful control, he could shift you around using the mists, like you were a puppet to reposition and possess. 

The trunk of his thick, muscular waist was warm underneath your split thighs, your arms restrained behind your back, the tendrils around your ankles keeping you immobilized and wide open. Sylus clicked his tongue in sympathy when he took in your swollen folds, your puffy clit poking her little, overstimulated head out from the hood.

“Look at your pretty kitty, sweetie. She looks so neglected…” 

His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and from his command, the mists dragged you close enough for your pelvis to bump his chin. The realization of what he was about to do next shocked you into a loud moan the second you felt his tongue glide through your puffy folds.

Mhm… you taste divine, love.

Such a pretty kitty.

You feel like heaven, my darling. 

His praises flowed freely, each word dripping with reverence, momentarily overshadowing the raw desire simmering under the surface. The hunger in his gaze was undeniable, the act of praising you bringing him as much pleasure as the act of watching you come undone.

Sylus’s large palms wrapped around your waist, guiding your hips. The feel of his tongue massaging your clit, sucking on your folds, drew you deeper into an inescapable ecstasy.

You did the right thing, sweetie, he hummed, voice a low, approving timber. You made the right choice in betraying the Hunters for me. 

Your eyes fell tightly shut, hoping to block out his words. But, you could still hear everything; his ragged breathing, the rustle of his body on the sheets. You could feel his mouth and teeth sucking love bites into your plush thighs, marking you as his for the world to see.

Slick dribbled from your opening in silver strings, dripping onto his chin as he continued to lap and lick your clit.

Sylus knew your body too well. The second he felt your thighs trembling under his touch, he switched up the rhythm, going slower, with light kitten licks on your folds. You groaned, dropping your head, trying to grind your hips to feel more of his tongue. 

Bad kitty, he licked a path from hole to clit, slurping on your juices. Be good and don’t move too much. 

Holy shit. Curses tumbled from your puffy lips, each one escaping in ragged breaths as you fought to keep control. Your nails dug sharply into the soft skin of your palm, leaving crescent-shaped indents as you desperately tried to stave off the cresting release building deep inside of you. 

Every muscle in your body trembled with the effort to hold back, yet the tension only seemed to heighten the intensity of the moment. 

Your pussy trembled, contractions expelling more juices running down his face.

The dark look in his ruby eyes was thrilling, stealing your breath.

“You taste like sin,” his deep voice rumbled against your flush folds, tightening the pit in your belly. You looked ethereal on top of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, pussy spread so obscenely open for him.

Sylus took a moment to admire this wet dream come to life, as he trailed his middle finger to your fluttering cunt, sinking the tip of it past the loosening muscle. He didn’t have to exert much effort; your body welcomed him without much resistance—taking in another finger. 

Sinking knuckles deep into you, the pad of his thumb came to rub firm circles on the swell of your clit. Your hips shunted, damp pussy right above his mouth (Sylus wanted to make you cum your brains out until you forget your own name).

He had to take a moment to admire your pretty pussy. Bare. Glistening. All for him. 

Once he was done appreciating her, Sylus snaked his tongue over your clit, replacing his circling thumb. Sucking on the little swollen nub while he continued to pump his two fingers deep inside of you. 

Your cries rebounded around the room, head tossed back to reveal your unmarked neck.

That had to change. And quick. 

Withdrawing his fingers from your damp depths, Sylus slipped it into your mouth, watching with dark eyes as you sucked your own essence off them. The fog of submission had already clouded over your gaze, leaving you pliant under his control. And what he wanted now more than anything was to fuck you senseless.

Using help from the mists, Sylus shifted you lower, your pretty cunt hovering over his cock. 

“I’m going to fuck you now, kitten.” 

Vulnerable and compliant, you found yourself instinctively nodding, ready to agree with anything he wanted without a second thought; lost in the depths of your surrender.

Simmering with pride at how easily you conceded to his words, Sylus grasped the base of his thick girth, slapping the head a few times on your clit. Shallowly dragging his sloppy tip over your folds, he nudged it past your opening. The sight of your quivering cunt slowly sucking him up shot bolts of electricity up his spine. 

You squeezed down perfectly on him—a vice-like grip that drove him delirious.

“Fuck… kitten…”

The room quickly began to fog up from the heat of both your bodies meeting. Driven by lust, the damp squelches rang across the walls, along with your dulcet moans.

Sylus… oh god… oh god… fuck—you feel so good…

Hours of edging and denial left your pussy sore, but you still rode him with zealous delight. The mists had released its grip on your limbs without your realization, but Sylus couldn’t blame you.

The way your hair fell in your face, down to the twist of your lips in a snarl, showed you were too far gone to care.

Bracing your hands on his broad shoulders, you used it as leverage to grind and shunt your hips up and down; spelling out your name on his dick, bouncing on it like you were the one who owned him.

And Sylus was more than happy to give you the reins.

He propped an arm under his head, one hand resting on the swell of your hip, using it to steady you as you rode him in a frenzy. 

Your splayed thighs covered in his hickies brought his attention to your toes scrunching in his periphery. With a lazy flick of his wrist, Sylus dragged down the edges of your bra cups, forcing your breasts to spill past the lacy material. Your nipples tightened instantly under his dark gaze, tingling when he started to pinch and roll them between his thumb and index finger.

Horripilations of shivers wracked your frame, and you whined.

— God… I’m gonna cum. 

Heavy breaths puffed past your parted lips. So close… Sylus… can I…?

“Good girl—you remembered your manners,” he praised, twisting your nipples harder, laughing in his low and smooth baritone when your hips stuttered and you squealed. Knowing you were a hair's breadth away from the biggest release of your life, Sylus gave a lazy nod. 

“Cum, kitten. It’s time for you to finally taste the sweet release.”

But, god, did it hurt. 

Hours of edging had worn the muscles of your lower body down, and your contractions came as painful pulses, each one more stinging and sore than the last.

It was hardly a pleasant experience, and the tears welling up in your eyes was undeniable proof of the discomfort. Each moment seemed to stretch unbearably, and the burning behind your eyes only intensified, leaving no room for pretenses. 

“Agonizing, isn’t it?” Sylus grunted, breathless from how good you were squeezing down on him. 

Poor little kitty, he slurred against your throat, fucking into you from below. Sylus had taken back his control, large hands on your hips forcing you to grind down on him, prolonging your pleasure and pain.

But, you can take it, can’t you? My good girl… my strong, brave, little Hunter.

At the breath of his final praise, the two of you fell off the edge of surrender, spiraling out of control and into each other’s arms. You came together: your body convulsing as waves of pleasure overtook you, while his hot release flooded inside of you, coating your insides with the mark of his claim, each pulse of his cock intensifying the sensation.

You began to shudder uncontrollably, your walls tightening and pulsing around him; the shared climax binding the both of you in a moment of raw intensity, your bodies locked together in the aftermath. 

Sylus caught you in his arms when you slumped forward, cock pushing his cum deeper inside of your trembling, little cunt.

He held you for a long moment, rubbing his hands soothingly across your back—doing his best to ground you back to reality. The fog of submission lifted one breath at a time, as your eyes fluttered open, slick and sweat-coated face breaking out into a smile.

His heart melted at your kind expression, and the shell of his dominance started to crack too, exhaustion evident on his handsome face. Your ears were still ringing from the intensity of your orgasm as you instinctively arched into his touch, seeking the soothing comfort of his gentle hands stroking you back into calmness.

“Was that satisfactory enough to quench your wicked whims, little dove?” Sylus teased, returning to his role as your lover.

You grinned and gave him a shy nod, resting your head on his chest.

“Quite so. The doctor you hired was a very persuasive actor, indeed.”

Sylus snorted, amused by your remark. After all, the man he hired was a retired professional bound by an airtight NDA, ensuring he’d never speak of this again once the scene was over. 

“And the maids? How did you like them?”

You hummed, tracing your finger down the hollow of his chest where the faint outline of a suspicious, unhealed stab wound lingered.

“I quite liked how they weren’t gentle with me. You should give them a small compensation, you know—a gift for how well they performed.”

“You know I’d have to fire them after this, right?” he mused.

You made a face. “Can’t they stay on in our household?” 

Sylus grumbled, tightening his arms around you. “You know what I absolutely find fascinating about you, kitten?” Your raised brows incited him to rush through his words, trying not to give you the wrong idea. “What I meant was, you’re too kind for your own good. They’ve seen you at your most vulnerable and you still think it’s a good idea to keep them around to serve you breakfast?” He snorted. “You’re incorrigible.”

“But, think about it this way,” you argued. “If they stayed with us, they wouldn’t have a reason to spill our secrets to anyone else. Closed mouths are a gold mine in the N109 Zone… or did the person who told me that lied?”

Sylus had to admit, ever since marrying you, your negotiation skills had significantly sharpened.

“Fine. I’ll take your advice this time, Mrs. Qin.” He leaned closer, rubbing his nose against yours. “My wife is far more intelligent and cunning than I ever imagined. Her words are sound and reliable.”

You rolled your eyes at his efforts to butter you up. “Alright, alright. Quit it with the sweet talk.”

He smirked, his expression a mix of playfulness and concern as gently took your hand in his warm grasp. “Are you alright? I didn’t go too hard on you, did I, sweetie?” Despite his layers of muscle and rugged exterior, his voice was soft, laced with genuine care.

The lengths to which Sylus would go for you were immeasurable, each sacrifice a testament to his devotion. 

In that moment, you caught a glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes—an unspoken need for reassurance. A desire to know that despite all you had witnessed, you would still choose to stay with him. The weight of his worry tugged at your heart. 

“I’m fine,” you murmured softly, leaning in to press a tender kiss on his cheek. “I’m always fine when I’m with you.” 

Your words were sincere, wrapping around him like a protective embrace, ensuring him that no matter the darkness you faced whenever you were by his side, your bond would forever remain unbroken.

— comments, feedback and reblogs are appreciated !! your support for my work means the world to me <3

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, feed my works to AI and claim them as your own.

[odxrilove]

☆ TXT AND THINGS THEY DO THAT MAKE YOU QUESTION WHAT YOU TWO ARE

pairing: txt x f!reader

genre: hcs/scenarios, fluff, bsfs/friends2???? ~1.2k :D

a/n: requested by anon! song rec - nouvelle vague by wave to earth.. also big thank u to val pookie @fairybinie for helping me out sm with these scenarios!!! happy birthday poo i hope u had an amazing day and i wish u the best!! love you lots :D

back to masterlist!

☆ YEONJUN

constantly keeping his hand on your waist. such an action may seem futile and unnoticeable considering yeonjun’s the one doing it, but it still makes you confused. yeonjun’s known to be flirty, a literal heartthrob wherever he goes. he’s also very touchy, easily hugging someone or putting his arm around their shoulder. but it’s only truly with you that he lets his hand rest on your hip, finger hooked into one of your jeans’ belt loops.

at first he started doing it at parties, after finding you in the crowd, arms circling your waist to keep you from getting lost in the wave of people. it continued at normal hangouts, laughing alongside his friends as his fingers fiddled with the hem of your top. then it happened when you two were alone, lounging on your couch while watching a movie. there wasn’t anything or anybody he had to protect you from, but he still slid his hand between the backrest and your body until you were practically glued to his side, his arm comfortably holding onto your waist.

you’re not sure why he does it; maybe to show others you’re not available– you are though, or to purposely tease you and make your heart skip a beat– something that already happens a lot in his presence. but one thing you know for sure is, it certainly doesn’t help your already weak heart.

☆ SOOBIN

being oddly protective of you. soobin is the least confrontational person you know, so it didn’t surprise you when he kept his mouth shut as one of your classmates teased him in class. that’s initially how you two became friends, him nursing your wounded fist after you punched the bully right in the nose for calling him a lanky nerd. 5th grade sure was wild. the following years, soobin tried his best to defend you like you defended him back in the day but again, he’s the least confrontational person you know. however, his best friend-instincts took over him when a guy tried to hike up your dress at the graduation party. you nursed his wounded fist after and the two of you became even closer. after the “fight of the century” soobin swore to himself he would protect you. at first, you found it funny, trying to stop yourself from blushing when he would raise his voice at whoever decided to bother you that day. you don’t really know when it started but with each new time, his best-friend protection act would slowly turn into something that held a lot more feelings than just platonic ones. the way he would look at you to see if you were alright, or the way his hand would slid into yours, or even the one time he called you his partner instead of his best friend. everything was slowly changing, and you didn’t even know if soobin was even aware of it himself.

☆ BEOMGYU

calls you his girlfriend. the first time he did it, you thought he was just joking around, trying to tease you. so you laughed it off, attempting to hide the way your heart fluttered at the thought of you being his actual girlfriend. but the second time, a week or so later, you were even more confused. did beomgyu think you two had something going on? did he find out about your old crush on him? you really didn’t know why he started calling you his girlfriend, since none of his other actions showed he felt anything except platonic feelings for you. he stopped after the fourth time, after he noticed your disoriented and clearly disheartened expression. weeks passed and not once did beomgyu explain his old but short habit to you. but then, months later, when you had almost forgotten about the whole ordeal, beomgyu did it again. to be honest, him calling you his girlfriend that time was in fact beneficial for you– you refused to talk any longer to the creep begging for your number. but the way the word rolled off his tongue, a hint of arrogance and a ton of proudness, made you reach for his hand, acting like the role he had assigned you. tension followed after, for weeks, and your heart continued to long for him. if only you knew you were the only thing on his mind whenever someone said the word “girlfriend”.

☆ TAEHYUN

constantly buys you things. it may seem shallow at first, but whenever taehyun brings you a small trinket or whatever food you were craving at that moment, your heart fills with joy. it’s not the way he spends money for you, but the way he looks at you when he gives it to you, eyeing you to see your neutral expression change into a happy one. taehyun’s a great listener, so he knows all your orders and favorite things by heart, which only makes it easier for him to empty his bank account for you. he swears you’re not special, or at least not more important than the rest of his friends– for whom he rarely ever buys anything– but he can’t really stop his brain from thinking of you when he sees something pretty or tasty at the mall. the dainty necklace around your neck is the literal proof of his favoritism towards you. he had given it to you on your graduation and you hadn’t taken it off since. it was a symbol for your friendship, he said, something to remember the many years you spent together, but the shiny “T” letter pendant made your heart swell every time you felt it against your skin. in all truth, taehyun was just waiting for you to notice the letter pendant of your name he wore on his necklace and hid, carefully, under his shirt collar.

☆ HUENING KAI

he constantly mentions you two in his future. you and kai have been friends since the two of you were in diapers and basically experienced all your first together. spending all those years together, in the same neighborhood, school and friend groups lead to many talks about your futures, sometimes wiping anxious tears away or doubling over from laughter at the mention of so many possibilities. it was a normal thing for you two, getting together and just talking about whatever would be on your mind at that moment. every conversation was different but one thing never changed, the way huening kai wouldn’t forget to mention you in his future plans. he would have pictured everything out, you two living next to each other in your own homes, working across the street from each other, adopting pets at the same time so they could be friends, meeting every friday for a ramen and movie night… whenever you were worried about what the future prepared for you, kai would comfort you, reminding you that no matter what happened later, he would always be there. it always reassured you but unfortunately, you never had the guts to tell him that you’d prefer to live together later, spend your work lunch breaks together, adopt a pet together, and turn every night into a movie marathon.

taglist: @0x1lovebot @fairybinie @blaqpinksthetic @odetoyeonjun @pockyandme @soobin-chois @lolalee24 @soobisms @junityy @kaimal @laylasbunbunny @jaeyunverse @enhacolor @honglynights @starry-mins @bibinnieposts @raevyng @yoonzin0 @tyunni @pointlessapple @yyx2 @pearlygraysky @angelyeo-hyj

please do not copy, repost or steal any of my work. all content belongs to @odxrilove

[binniesbooks]

• MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE WALL

SB 000 .F23 2024

wc 3.2k

pairings classrepresentative!Soobin x bulliedfem!reader

warnings humiliation, slight bully Soobin, bullied reader, fainting, facial, unprotected sex, creampie, mirror sex, recording, oral sex (m. receiving), squirting, name calling (+ if i missed anything)

faye's notes I'M TOTALLY CRAZY! Like seriously! I should stop writing fics out of impulse BAHAHAHAHA this is not proofread, I'm sorry, again, this story is just made impulsively 😭 Soobin should stop posting pictures out of nowhere. I need to write about him immediately because I'm his wife. 😋 No one should do it first before me 😋 I just love Soobin so much and his mirror shots! Fuck. Dead.

p.s. wrote this for more or less 4 hours, wtf

"Ahh! Fuck, why are you so f-fucking good!" Soobin threw his head back with one arm supporting his body and the other one holding his phone, trying to capture every moment.

"Look at you acting so modest at school, but here you are, giving someone head," he smirked, tugging a fistful of your hair, making you moan with his cock still inside your mouth.

"Shit!" He hissed through his teeth as he felt the pleasuring vibrations from your mouth.

Soobin is your most hated person in the world, if that's enough to explain. He makes fun of you. He causes you trouble, harm, and danger. But the fact that he's one of the most respected representatives of your class, you can't do anything but let your anger just boil inside you. 

Choi Soobin is not your average type of classmate—enemy. He never fails to be included in the rank list—he's an intelligent and handsome man. He talks so well in front of the class, he gets high scores, he has the fame. You would actually have a crush on him if only he treated you the same way he treats the others.

And you hated your class for always laughing along with him and always tolerating what he does—well, he's actually a good student, you're just not on his "people that I will treat right" list.

"How are you miss 'teacher's pet'?" Soobin would subtly pull a chair to sit in front of your desk, often whispering these things.

"Soobin, please. If you have nothing else to say, move," you would firmly answer him.

"What? Aren't you proud that you know how to find your way under their pants?" he accused.

"I'm not doing any of the sort! I won't commit sexual activities with people other than my soon-to-be husband!" Your voice came out as a squeak as you tried to hold yourself back, but you're seething with anger. 

"Oh, what are you doing anyway? Drawing your idols?" he snickers.

"Choi Soobin--"

"Yes, darling?" his eyes meeting yours with a smirk plastered on his lips. "You know what," he starts, casually tucking your straying hair behind your ear, "If I were you, I would stop doing that, they don't even know you."

You clicked your tongue, swatting his hand away, "Soobin, I swear—"

"Yes, yes, you swear," he snickers once again as he stands up, the sharp scraping sound of the steel chair making your ears hurt, gathering the class' attention. Soobin casually shrugged his shoulders, making your classmates continue what they were doing.

"Listen!" Soobin pounded the podium that afternoon for an announcement—oh yeah, he's the class representative.

"We will be having our annual outdoor activity next week."

With a heavy heart, you sighed. The 5-day trip is your most hated activity. You would go to a camp, pair up with your friends, and do the task together. Not to mention the unending seminars and trainings while you're at it.

Of course, a week won't pass by without Soobin getting into your nerves. You're so fed up with him and his petty attitude towards you, but you don't know it yourself, you just can't find the courage to fight back or at least stand up for yourself. You would always be left with your nails digging into your palms and a boiling blood. 

"Okay guys! Line up! We're getting into the bus! I'm checking the attendance!" It's still so early in the morning and you get to hear his irritating voice again, which you resorted to wearing earphones to at least drown his voice.

However, you were the last one to get in inside the bus, so there are no more available seats to sit down aside from the two-seater in the front. And of course, one of the seats is already occupied. By who? Who else—the Choi Soobin himself.

"Excuse me, does anyone want to trade seats?" you bargained. Only for them to answer with "sorry, I want to sit with my friend" and such. 

"As much as you don't want to sit beside me, I don't want to sit beside a whore and a slut like you," Soobin whispered with a fake smile when you sat beside him. 

"Shut the fuck up. I'm not a whore nor a slut, I don't do explicit activities just like you," you seethed. "I bet you're the type that fucks anyone just to get your dick wet," you whispered, rolling your eyes. Soobin could only laugh at you.

You tried to focus on the road the whole ride. Doing your best to ignore Soobin's huge sleeping figure just beside you. Your eyes flitted to the rearview mirror of the bus, staring a hole at Soobin's head—to kill him—through the reflection. And yes, Soobin actually looks kind and peaceful when he sleeps. There, you silently wished for him to at least be a little less meaner. 

You didn't know you fell asleep. You woke up inside the empty bus. You quickly marched out to look for your classmates. It looks like they are just starting to settle down. You scrambled your way towards the camp, pulling your suitcase. You're lucky one of your male classmates noticed you and had at least the decency to offer a hand. 

When you arrived just by the door, you swear you heard Soobin murmur something behind you like 'look at our pick me girl' or something along the lines. 

After the short orientation, you celebrated a little inside, knowing that the girls and the boys would not share the same room to sleep, at least. And you celebrated further when they announced that the ratio of the room to the student would be 1:1. Basically, you have the privacy you needed, and you don't need to be bothered about having a roommate. 

You were asked to rest for now and just return to the hall in the afternoon to officially start the program. You giggled when you got inside the room. Quickly running to the bedroom and jumping on the bed. 

But then you were startled when you heard laughter and loud voices.

 Oh crap! The walls are thin! 

But that's the least of your concerns; it's not like you would be noisy or something.

The afternoon came quickly, and the program kicked off without flaws. They announced the activities that should be done and the schedule for the meals, including the curfew hours. If you were to be asked? Your answer would be, so far, so good. 

The dinner was also held in the same hall. The organizers did a good job of making use of the tables and chairs in the hall as your dining table and training table.

However, your little happy moment was immediately cut off when Soobin purposely grazed one of the students elbows, making the cold water she was holding be poured over you. Loud gasps from the crowd echoed inside the hall as strings of apology came out of the student's mouth. Your eyes flickered throughout the wide space as you muttered, "It's okay," to the student. Your eyes found Soobin walking away from the scene.

You quickly finished your meal after patting your drenched shirt with a tissue the student offered. After finishing your meal, you have no other choice but to go straight to your room. 

You prayed that tomorrow would be a fine day for you.

Tuesday. Second day of the outdoor activity.

You were grouped into pairs. The organizers taught you about first aid. Orienting you about the things you should and shouldn't do in case of emergency. You and your partner executed every step well. It does show that you have learned everything.

Soobin also did well in their execution. But you noticed about his 'unnecessary' touches to his girl partner. Well, he actually isn't doing anything unnecessary. You're just too overprotective of your body. 

Soobin watched you being mortified with his simple quirks, laughing to himself, judging you and your mind.

Wednesday.

You were grouped into five members. Your next activity was the obstacle course. The sole reason for this is to train your mind to think quickly for a technique that would work and allow you to lead. 

Some of the groups even failed from the start. They couldn't decide which would be the leader. 

On the other hand, Soobin was leading his group at ease. He looks like he knows it, just like the back of his hand. Too familiar with what a leader should do.

Thursday. 

It suddenly rained, so your activity that was supposed to be held on the mountain was postponed and was moved for the next day. Which made your stay eventually longer for another day. The organizers resorted to an indoor activity. Or you could actually call this free time. They allowed everyone to have fun. Everyone was having a blast on their own or with their friends.

You decided to take a short walk while the rain poured hard. You passed by a vending machine and grabbed yourself a drink—which might be wrong because you're too far from the hall now and there's no restroom to be found. 

Your eyes widened when you saw a room, which you guessed was a toilet. But when you opened the door, someone was inside.

"What the fuck?! Don't you know how to knock?!"

"Aaahhhh! Don't you know how to lock?!" you retorted as you froze in your feet and turned your back to the person inside the toiled. 

"Fucking goodness! What the hell are you doing here?!" he zipped his pants up before he turned to you—again, it was Soobin.

"I-i'm looking for a restroom! You should know how to lock the door!" You squealed.

You heard him scoffed, "The lock doesn't work, and..." 

"And?" you questioned, folding your arms in front of you, feigning frustration—but you couldn't hide the fact that your ears were so red. 

"This restroom is not for the girls, weirdo." His lips played a mocking smile. "You're not beating the whore allegations, are you?" He stepped forward, trapping you on the wall, his hand flew to your waist, pinning you.

You tried to push him away, "Get your filthy hands off—H-hah!" 

Your body trembled, and your knees became wobbly when he pressed his hand against your lower abdomen. 

"S-soobin... Your... Your hand..." You tried to pry his hand away, but to no avail. Soobin just pressed it further, making the hair of your body stand up. 

"S-soobin... Please... Y-your h-hand," you stuttered. You felt a few drops of the hot liquid flow out from you.

Soobin pulled his hand away, leaving you slumped on the floor, shaking. "You're so easy," he chuckled before he left.

You didn't almost make it to the toilet. The moment you let it out, you felt tears run down your cheeks. Maybe because of humiliation, or anger, or arou—there's no way!

That night, you chose not to eat dinner, you stayed inside your room. However, someone knocked on your door. You didn't want to open it at first, but the person behind kept on knocking. When you opened the door, there's no person in the hallway. But a food was left beside your door. Your name was written on the water bottle and the packaging of the meal, just like the other meals you ate the past few days. You decided to eat it, not bothering to think whether it's poisoned or whatever.

Friday. The supposed to be last day of the outdoor activity. 

It was a team activity again. The survival. Your team must survive for at least one day in the mountains. You were supposed to look for foods in the wild, to survive a day or night in the mountains. The team is composed of four members. And lucky you, you were teamed up with Soobin. 

You tried your best to be as distant as possible. Just looking at him makes you remember everything that happened last night. 

Everything was going well from the start. Three of you were girls, and you all agreed that Soobin would be the leader of the group.

You made a small port for the four of you to rest, you found fruits that can be eaten, and you gathered the woods for the fire you were supposed to make later.

However, Soobin wasn't expecting something like this to happen—for you to faint out of exhaustion. You are actually weak-hearted, which makes you easily dizzy and tired when doing extra workloads. 

"Soobin! Y/n fainted!" 

"What?!" Soobin quickly ran towards the three of you. The other girls are panicking about you. "Fuck!" he muttered as he tried to wake you up. "Y/n wake up!"

"This won't do! You guys continue our task; I'll bring her to the camp. Please take care of yourselves up here, okay?"

Soobin carried you on his back, walking and running down the mountain as fast as he could. He was assisted by the organizers, but the program wasn't perfect at all! There are no nurses around. 

So Soobin got no choice but to bring you to his assigned room and take care of you instead—class representative duties, right?

"God fucking damn it!" he huffed as he laid you down on the floor, and he was chasing his breath. 

He washed himself first, cleaning out the dirt that clung to his body. Then he grabbed some of his extra clean shirts for you to change into. He wiped you clean with a wet towel and wanted to change your clothes, but he decided not to do it or you would make a fuss. Then he carefully laid you down on his bed, keeping you warm.

One of the teachers knocked and checked on him. He was also told that the activity was cancelled and they made the students go back. The teacher was relieved to know that you were fine and that you're resting.

You woke up with him sitting beside you. "W-where are we? What happened?" you weakly asked. 

"You're finally awake," he sighed. "You fainted." 

He then passed you a packet of sugar and some water. "Drink this, I have nothing else to offer."

After a few minutes, you felt yourself recover a bit. It wasn't that bad, you're just too exhausted. 

"Let's go back," you said as you rose from the bed and walked towards the door.

"Look at this attention seeker," he scoffed.

"What the fuck are you saying again?! I just fainted!" you yelled back.

"That's right! You just fainted, and you want to go back in the mountains? For what? For our classmates to carry you and let them touch your body? Or for the teachers to give you extra credits for being a 'good girl'?" Soobin's brow furrowed as he raised his voice.

"What did you say?" You walked closer to him.

"That you're a slut, a whore, and an attention seeker. Simple as that."

Soobin smirked as he watched you dug your nails onto your palm again.

"What? Am I wrong?" 

Tears were threatening to fall from your eyes as you looked up to him with gritted teeth.

"You're... You're totally wrong..." you sniffled.

"Then show me you aren't like that," he says.

"W-what?" 

Soobin sat on the bed as he watched you. "Get on your knees for me," he smirked. "Show me you are not a teacher's fuck toy."

"Prove it, so I won't tell the class you soiled your pants last night," he finishes.

You didn't know what came over you. You just found yourself kneeled down between his legs as you tried your hardest to suck him.

Ahh! Fuck, why are you so f-fucking good!" Soobin threw his head back with one arm supporting his body and the other one holding his phone, trying to capture every moment.

"Look at you acting so modest at school, but here you are, giving someone head," he smirked, tugging a fistful of your hair, making you moan with his cock still inside your mouth.

"Shit!" He hissed through his teeth as he felt the pleasuring vibrations from your mouth.

You pulled away. "S-stop recording," you muttered.

"No, this is for the records. A proof that you aren't a teacher's pet," he grinned before guiding your head back to his cock.

"You're such a whore," he snickers as he zooms in to your face. "Fucking good, with this pretty face," he muttered.

He shoved your face down, practically fucking your throat, not giving a fuck at how you gagged. Then he pulled you away as he shot his cum on your face.

"Ohh fuck! Fuck! Ahh!" His body trembled as he finally came, his phone shaking in the process. 

Pressing the stop button, he tossed his phone on the bed and pulled you up on his lap, crashing his lips against yours as his hand wandered on your body, groping and squeezing any part.

"Need to be inside you, you slut," he whispered between the kisses.

"'m n-not," you whimpered. His hand finally settled on your waist, and he grinds you above him.

"Look how hard you make me," he said, his teeth grazing your neck.

"S-soobin... Stop... W-we shouldn't be doing—ahh...mpph.."  Your soft moans and whines are music to his ear.

"Shhh, be quiet for me, okay?" he said, giving your chin a kiss. He slips his hand under your skirt, pushing your underwear to the side.

"See? You're a total whore, y/n. You're wet."

Too embarrassed, you hide on his neck, hugging him closer. He easily lifted your hips and slid himself inside you with so much ease as you whimpered on his ear.

"T-this is w-wrong.. Ahh.. please..."

"Wrong?" he questioned, tilting your face to look behind you, only to be met with your own eyes. Soobin manhandled you with ease and turned you around instead. Your back flushed against his chest as he spread and held your legs up. 

"Watch how your hungry pussy suck my cock," he whispered to your ear as the both of you watched yourselves in the mirror. Your ears turned red out of embarrassment as you bit your lower lip, restraining yourself to moan.

"Be quiet, okay? The others are back," he said, kissing your ear. Your hands clasped over your mouth, the squelching sound was the only thing to be heard. 

"I love how dirty you are, fuck, you turn me on so much," he grunts, hitting deeper places inside you.

"B-bin..." you whined, tears rolling down your cheek. 

"S-something's g-gonna.... Ahhh... S-soobin, please..."

"You're close, doll? Cum on my cock, then," he smirks.

"N-no wait! Wait!" you squirmed, trying to get off of him, but he's too strong for you.

"S-soobin please w-wait---" Clear liquid gushed out of your pussy in a squirting manner because of his cock still deep inside you. Your body started twitching when he continued to fuck you relentlessly.

"Gonna fill you. 'M gonna fill you to the brim, fuck you're so fucking tight!" Soobin hides behind your neck as he finishes inside you, his grip on your thighs tightened.

"B-bin... I feel like... 'm gonna... F-faint..." Your body was slumped on his chest. He slowly pulls out of you, a glob of his cum coming out from your spent folds. He then laid you down on his bed again and lays beside you as he tucked the both of you to bed. 

The problem for tomorrow is for tomorrow. He's now on cloud nine, feeling so good as he lays beside his favorite girl crush.

@binniesbooks 2024

[judebellswife]

Shattered Trust, Mended Hearts

— REQUESTED by ANON / REQUEST status: OPEN

— pairing • jude bellingham x soft!reader

— summary • Jude Bellingham, consumed by jealousy and fueled by rumors, believes his girlfriend is cheating on him. In a moment of anger, he refuses to let her explain, kicking her out of their shared apartment. Tragedy strikes when she gets into a life-threatening accident, leaving Jude overwhelmed by guilt and regret. With her in the hospital, he reflects on his mistakes and learns that love and trust are fragile but worth fighting for. Realizing that she never betrayed him, Jude is forced to confront his own insecurities. Together, they find a way to rebuild their broken relationship, restoring what was lost in a sea of misunderstanding and pain.

— warnings • Heavy angst, miscommunication, car accident, hospital scenes, mention of injuries, emotional turmoil.

"Jude, please, just listen to me—"

"I’ve already heard enough!" Jude's voice roared through the apartment, his anger palpable, bouncing off the walls like daggers. He stood in the kitchen, fists clenched, chest heaving, trying to contain the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. His dark eyes, usually so warm when they looked at you, were cold and distant, as if he couldn’t even recognize you.

You stood frozen near the door, the keys you had just placed on the entry table trembling under your fingers. You had no idea what you were walking into. Coming home after a long day at work, all you wanted was to relax with Jude, maybe watch a movie, talk about your day—but instead, you were met with fury.

"Jude," you whispered, your voice shaking, tears already welling in your eyes. "Please. Just tell me what’s going on."

He scoffed bitterly, turning away from you as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Don’t act like you don’t know," he muttered, his back to you now as he stared out the window into the rainy night.

You blinked, confused. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Jude whipped around, his expression dark. "Oh, don’t play innocent, Y/N. I know about you and Ryan."

The mention of Ryan's name hit you like a punch to the gut. Ryan was a colleague from work—someone you'd had to collaborate with closely for the last few weeks due to a project, but it had never been anything more than that. He was friendly, sure, but you never saw him in that way. You never even thought Jude would be suspicious. "Ryan? Jude, he's just a co-worker, we—"

"A co-worker? That’s funny, because that’s not what everyone else seems to think!" Jude's voice was dripping with bitterness, a tone you had never heard from him before. "Do you think I’m stupid? You think I don’t see the way you’ve been acting? Coming home late, spending more time with him than with me—"

You shook your head frantically, trying to approach him, but he stepped back, his face twisted in hurt and disbelief. "Jude, no, it's not like that! I swear, it’s just work! There’s nothing going on between me and Ryan, you have to believe me!"

But Jude wasn’t listening. He wasn’t hearing you. All he could see, all he could feel, was the poison that had been festering in his mind for days, the doubts and insecurities that had been fueled by whispers and rumors. He was blinded by his pain.

"You think I’m an idiot? You think I haven’t heard the rumors? Everyone’s been talking about it, Y/N. About how you and him have been seen together, laughing, having lunch, all those 'late nights' at the office. I bet they weren’t all about work, were they?"

You were shaking now, tears streaming down your face as you tried to reach out to him. "Jude, please. I would never—"

"I don’t want to hear it!" His voice cracked, loud and raw, and it silenced you. His anger was too much, too overwhelming. You had never seen him like this before—this angry, this distant. And it broke your heart to see the doubt in his eyes, the mistrust.

"I thought I knew you," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost more painful than his shouts. "I thought we had something real. But maybe I was wrong."

Your chest constricted painfully, your breath hitching as you reached for him one last time, desperate to hold on to something that was slipping away. "Jude, please," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Don’t do this. I love you."

But Jude’s gaze hardened. "If you loved me, you wouldn’t have lied to me."

The silence that followed was deafening, your heart shattering into a million pieces as he turned his back to you again, his next words sealing your fate.

"Get out."

You stood there, frozen, your mind racing as you tried to comprehend what he had just said. "What?"

"Get. Out," he repeated, his voice quiet but firm, as if he couldn’t even bear to look at you anymore. "I don’t want to see you right now."

Your world came crashing down in that moment, the weight of his words too much to bear. You opened your mouth to say something, to beg him to listen to you, but no words came out. You felt numb, completely broken.

With trembling hands, you grabbed your bag and stumbled toward the door, your vision blurry from the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. As you reached for the doorknob, you turned back one last time, hoping—praying—that Jude would stop you, that he would realize how wrong he was and call you back.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, rigid and unmoving, his eyes focused on the floor, his expression unreadable.

And so, you left.

The rain was relentless, soaking through your clothes as you stepped out onto the dark street. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering both from the cold and the overwhelming despair that consumed you. You couldn’t think straight. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was walk, your feet moving without direction, aimlessly wandering the city streets, your mind still reeling from everything that had just happened.

How had things gone so wrong? How had the love you shared with Jude turned into this nightmare?

You pulled out your phone, trying to dial your friend’s number, but your hands were trembling too much to type properly. You managed to hit send, but as you crossed the street, you didn’t hear the roar of the car coming toward you until it was too late.

The blinding lights flashed before your eyes, and then— Nothing.

Jude sat on the couch, his hands covering his face as he let out a shaky breath. He had kicked you out. The realization sank in slowly, the weight of what he’d done pressing down on him like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

I kicked her out.

The anger that had burned so fiercely in him just moments ago was gone, replaced by a sickening sense of guilt and dread. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty without you there. And now, sitting there alone in the dark, he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that something was terribly wrong.

His phone buzzed in his lap, dragging him out of his thoughts. It wasn’t a number he recognized.

"Hello?" His voice was hoarse, tired.

"Is this Jude Bellingham?" a woman’s voice asked, calm but urgent.

"Yes," he answered slowly, his heart beginning to race. "Who is this?"

"This is St. Mary’s Hospital. I’m calling about your partner. She’s been in an accident."

Jude felt the floor drop out from beneath him. "An accident? What—how bad is it?"

"She’s in critical condition. We need you to come to the hospital as soon as possible."

Jude’s legs felt like lead as he sprinted through the hospital’s sterile halls, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he reached the emergency ward. His heart pounded violently in his chest, panic rising with each step.

A nurse led him to your room, where the sight of you lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to machines, left him frozen in place.

His world shattered in that moment.

You were so pale, so still, and the beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room. Jude sank into the chair by your bedside, his hands shaking as he reached out to take yours.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking as tears filled his eyes. "God, I’m so sorry, *Y/N*. I didn’t mean any of it. I should’ve believed you."

He squeezed your hand gently, bringing it to his lips as his tears fell freely now. "Please wake up," he begged. "Please. I need you. I—I love you. I was so stupid. I should have trusted you."

The guilt gnawed at him, tearing him apart as he watched your chest rise and fall weakly with each breath. How had he let things spiral this far? Why hadn’t he listened? Why hadn’t he let you explain?

For three days, Jude didn’t leave your side. He barely slept, barely ate. He couldn’t think of anything else but you and how wrong he had been.

When your fingers twitched on the fourth day, Jude’s heart leapt in his chest.

Your eyes fluttered open, groggy and disoriented, the bright lights of the hospital room making you wince. Everything felt heavy, your body aching, and it took you a moment to remember what had happened.

"Y/N?" Jude’s voice was soft, but urgent, pulling you back to reality. You turned your head slowly, finding him sitting beside you, his face pale, eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying.

"Jude…" you whispered, your voice hoarse.

Jude reached for your hand, his fingers trembling as he held yours tightly. "I’m so sorry," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I was so wrong, *Y/N*. I was so stupid. I—I didn’t trust you, and I should have. I should have believed you. None of this—none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t been such an idiot."

You blinked, trying to process everything, your heart aching at the sight of him so broken. "Jude…" you whispered again, trying to find the right words. "It’s okay."

"No, it’s not." He shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks as he pressed your hand to his lips. "It’s not okay. I almost lost you because I was too caught up in my own insecurities to trust you. I should’ve known you would never… I should’ve known better."

You looked into his eyes, the raw pain and regret there clear as day, and despite everything—despite the accident, the pain, the heartache—you still loved him. You had always loved him. "Jude, I love you," you whispered, managing a small smile despite the tears in your own eyes. "I never wanted to hurt you. I would never cheat on you."

He let out a shuddering breath, leaning down to rest his forehead against your hand. "I know," he whispered. "I know now. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, I swear. If you’ll have me."

You squeezed his hand weakly, your voice soft but filled with emotion. "Of course I will. I’m not going anywhere."

Jude let out a soft, broken laugh through his tears, leaning in to gently press his lips to your forehead. "I love you so much," he whispered against your skin. "And I’m never letting you go again."

[cyber333angel]

getting spanked by rafe because he saw you talking to a pogue..

you have been rafe camerons girlfriend for a long time, everyone knew you were his. there were signs to tell that you belonged to him all over your body. from the gold anklet that dangled on your foot, to the “r.c” tattoo that is branded under your boob, flexing when you wore a bathing suit . except not everyone chose to acknowledge how much you meant to rafe.

you and your boyfriend were currently at a party, it was a typical kook house and owned by one of rafes friends, kelce. sitting on the couch for about 30 minutes you watched as your boyfriend sold coke to a broad amount of people, you knew he sold and you honestly didn’t mind. but it did get very tiresome to watch. “rafey m’bored. we’ve been sitting here like allll day! it’s a party, i wanna actually do something!” your boyfriend ignored you, persuading a customers into buying some coke. “rafey!” you grip his arm and looks back at you “kid, can’t you see im working? go play with your girlfriends or something till im done.” you pout at him and mumble “y’re so annoying.” him not paying attention to you, you leave and go find someone who is actually willing to talk to you. you find a friend of yours and drink a couple of shots in the kitchen but she tells you that she needs to go the bathroom, you nod and stay put. soon after you see an old friend.

“oh m gee! hey jayj!” you have known jj maybank since you childhood. both growing up as “pogues” but since your parents had a good business they grew into more money, naturally making you two grow apart. “hey princess. how’s kook life been treating’ya.” you roll your eyes and talk to him for while. back at the table rafe hears from a friend that he caught his girl flirting with a pogue. instantly aggravated from the rumor, he makes his way to the kitchen, finding you with all smiles talking to some guy. furious, he steps between you and jj, “heard you were-uh flirting with my girl, is that-that true?” he looks at him picking a fight, you attempt to explain the misinterpreted scene to him “rafe-“ he pushes your arm away. “nah let the fucking pogue answer, baby.” his patience was gradually thinning out.

“calm down dude , theres literally zero reason to get heated.” jj says “no one was macking on your girl, alright trust-“ he was cut off by rafes fist connecting to his face, making him stumble to the ground. rafe grabs your hand and pulls you out of the kitchen “rafe what the hell! why would you do that, we were just talking!” ignoring you he makes his way to his car and opens the passenger side. you pout, “m’not getting in with you if your angry rafey.”

“sweetheart get in the fucking car, i promise you it will only be worse if you keep testing me, go sit in the car.” whimpering at the unsympathetic tone you sit down, you decide it’s best to stay quiet the whole ride. he pulls into the driveway of tannyhill and you try a last attempt to explain yourself. “rafey please listen t’me! I really was just catching up with him! I hadn’t seen him-“ rafe has his head down, rubbing his eyes. you quiet down when he puts his hands on your thigh, rubbing it up and down gently. he says calmly “go up stairs to our room and take all that shit off. when I get up there I want to see you with your ass in the air and your mouth fuckin shut, alright?” you nod keeping your head down, knowing there’s nothing you can do now. up in your shared room, you strip yourself of your clothes and climb onto your bed, feeling nervous of the punishment coming to you. hearing rafe come up the stairs you quickly get into position with an arched back. you also hear a faint jangle as he steps closer, in front of the bed he takes both of your hands and handcuffs them. you knew where this was going but it was inevitable to run from. rafe appears behind you “you know what you did to deserve this right? know how bad you disrespected me in front of people, you-you understand that right?” you shake your head frantically onto the soft pillow “yes daddy I know, said m’ sorry already!”

“I didnt ask all that, what your gonna do is count each time you get a spank alright? you can do that hm baby?” you nod again “yes daddy..” he pulls you by your waist to the edge of the bed, taking a seat and pulling you onto his lap, your legs and arms dangle off his thighs. you close your eyes and the first spank lands, a loud “pap!” echoing in the room. it stings, you squirm around in his lap “ouch!” you cry, but do as your instructed “o-one!”

“stay fuckin still.” the second one is even harder then the first. rafe had already done five brutal slaps on your right ass cheek. “your taking it like such a good girl..good job baby.” your right cheek was already feeling numb leaving your left rear end a little alleviated. you know you’ll be bruised and hurting tomorrow. rafe sees some of your slick oozing from your cunt, he takes two fingers and plunges them into your sticky hole. you flinch and mewl, he chuckles. “you like that shit? you like when daddy’s upset?” the slaps did hurt but you couldn’t admit it did turn you on..well you didn’t really need to admit it seeing how the evidence was shown by how soaked your pussy was. “don’t worry princess im halfway done..” he spanks you once more, wincing, this time you couldn’t count. needing a minute from the intense sting. your boyfriend leans in close to your ear, “c’mon what number was that sweetheart?”

“s-six daddyy please m’sorry!” he mocks you “aw four more baby s’okay, you can do it.” finishing the intense ill-treatment on your ass, rafe helps you up from his lap. now sitting on him with a bruised behind and tears running down your face. “what’d we learn today sweet girl?”

“not to talk’to other g-guys and respect you.” he nods “mhm that’s right. I didn’t want to hurt you alright baby? just need you to learn to respect me and know who you belong to.” you nuzzle into his neck “s’alright rafey, i know.. can you make me feel good now daddy, please! m’so sticky!” he smirks at you “yeah of course..you did so good for me and I know how much this needy pussy needs to cum.”

[munsooooon]

Steve hates very much to be called "Steven" not even as a joke, he has not talked about it with anyone but implicitly everyone senses it in some way or another and therefore they do not call him that way, it is always Steve or Harrington or some nickname. That's because when his parents called him that it was because they were incredibly angry or drunk and therefore punished him in horrible ways, when they called him Steven he usually ended up getting beaten up. When they called him Steven in public it was enough to make him freeze and make him shiver, eventually he would be silent and terrified for the rest of the evening.

Now being older if someone calls him Steven, he immediately assumes they are fighting with him or that he did something wrong and depending on the situation or the person he will react with sadness or anger, for example, when Tommy called him Steven, it ended in a awful fist fight. It really makes him feel very bad, in recent years sadness is what he felt the most when he hears his name, because it hurts him too much to disappoint the people he loves.

Eddie doesn't know it, but he doesn't call him Steven either, it's always a nickname or Stevie, or Steve or even Harrington. Until one night, when they were in Steve's room kissing fiercely and passionately, Steve was under him doing whatever it took to feel Eddie rubbing his skin, between gasps and accelerated breaths, every little movement Eddie made or every little touch Steve felt, he reacted effusively with his whole body shuddering, he was and felt hypersensitive, he couldn't keep still.

"Steven" Eddie whispered with softness and a beautiful smile, Steve looked at him surprised. "Stay still, I need to take your clothes off, love"

Steve loved that. It was the first time someone pronounced his name with such love. He stood for a few seconds, processing what was happening. He began to shake in anticipation of what Eddie might give him. His brain was short-circuited, and all he could think of was Eddie calling him "Steven" with that authority and that beautiful softness that only he had. He felt loved.

"Are you okay? Do you want us to stop?"

Steve took a few seconds to appreciate him, ran his face gently, because the words wouldn't come out even though they were in his throat. He was always silent when he shouldn't be but he couldn't help it.

Eddie kissed the hand that was on his face, not intending to go any further, and Steve melted once again, he wanted to speak and express loudly the pleasure the other boy was making him feel but he couldn't. Instead, he took Eddie's hand and directed it to his pants to make him feel what he had provoked, to make him understand that he didn't want to stop.

"No, I don't want to stop" Steve said as he sat on Eddie's lap. "Call me Steven again, just you, just you Eddie, call me love, baby, tell me I'm your princess and never stop"

Steve was incredibly loud that night, moving his hips against Eddie's lap, trying to fuck himself harder, deeper. He spoke his name softly and lovingly, until he began to cry, begged for more as tears flooded his face. Eddie held him tight with his arms to keep him right where he wanted him but also to keep him safe to hold him as he released a weight he seemed to be carrying for years.

Eddie couldn't utter a word, it was unbelievable. Eddie was always loud and Steve was quieter, but in the dark, in the security of their love, Steve could be whatever he wanted and could act however he wanted, so he was being loud as he wished because in Eddie's arms no one could punish him.

"You're such a good boy, don't you?" Eddie says softly.

"Yeah?" Steve asks as he chases Eddie, he moans loudly as Eddie once again hits that place on his body, his mouth stays open as he moves on Eddie, soft sounds keep coming out of his mouth, he closes his eyes, because he can feel Eddie all over his body, even though he moves slowly.

"Yeah. You're so sweet, my baby boy, I can't even explain how much I love you, princess"

Steve smiles with his eyes closed. He looked precious, his cheeks were flushed, his lips red, and somehow the tears made him incredibly beautiful.

....

Steve still hates being called that, he finally confessed it to Eddie but also gave him permission to call him that on special occasions. Plus, he told him that he would love to tell his parents what he does with the traumas they caused him. Because now every time he's called Steven it's because he's loved, because he's revered and because he's being fucked incredibly well.

Steve get his name back, Steven belonged to him and Eddie.

[cameronspecial]

I would like Rafe to be jealous, possessive and protective. Everyone asks the reader to talk to him, because she is the only one he loves

Let Me Keep Beating Him, Angel

Pairing: Frat!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: A Fight and Blood

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.5K

Masterlist

Rafe knows that Y/N is a beautiful girl. He has eyes and her intelligence is obvious to anyone. He loves her with all of his heart, never planning on letting her go. What he doesn’t love is how other guys see it too. It’s not that he wants to keep her away from the world, he just doesn’t want to listen to Billy Peters talk about how he would rail Y/N until she screams for him to stop. It disgusts him. No girl should ever be talked about in that way, let alone his sweet Angel. Rafe pulls Billy back by the shirt collar. “Her name doesn’t belong in your pathetic mouth,” he growls. He doesn’t give Billy time to explain before his fist meets Billy’s face. He continues the assault, seeing red at the thought that Billy could ever think about touching Y/N in such a vile way. 

The rest of the partygoers part for Rafe’s rage, many of them trying to get him off of Billy. Everyone is screaming at him to leave Billy alone because of the amount of blood coming from Billy’s wounds. Rafe doesn’t listen, focusing on protecting Y/N from Billy’s words. “Someone get Y/N” is the most heard sentence throughout the crowd. 

——

Brittany MacDonalds runs toward Y/N in a huff, “Y/N, come quick. Nobody can get Rafe off of Billy.” Y/N immediately follows Brittany to the living room to find Rafe with bloody knuckles. Billy’s face is pleading profusely and she can see that he is about to pass out. Her warm touch on Rafe’s biceps stops him. If he continued, he might risk hurting Y/N. Rafe worries something is wrong with her and turns to her, letting Billy drop to the floor. His hands cup her face, “Are you okay, Angel? What’s wrong?” Her heart flips at his worry for her, but she remembers why she is here. “Rafe, why are you beating Billy up?” she says in a motherly tone. He gives her a kiss, “Billy was being a bad boy, saying the nasty things he wanted to do to you, Angel. I had to make sure he knew that was not okay.” “You could’ve done that without hurting him,” she points out. 

He shakes his head, “You know the only thing that gets through to guys like him is a good smack in the head. So let me keep beating him, Angel. Yeah?” “How about I get him to promise never to say things about me again? Will you take me home then?” she questions, taking his hand into hers.

“Angel, that won’t work.” 

“Well, I’m sure he got the message with the beating you already gave him. Plus, you can’t protect me if you go to jail because he presses charges.”

“You’re right, Angel,” Rafe turns to Billy. “If I stop beating you, I need you to swear you’ll never let Y/N’s name slip past your lips and that you won’t press charges.” Billy knows he is no match for the powerhouse that is Rafe Cameron, so he vigorously agrees with Rafe’s statement. Rafe motions for Billy to leave before wrapping his arm around Y/N’s shoulders and leading her out of the house. “You have to stop beating people up because of me,” she scolds, playing with the fingers of his hand on her shoulder. His lips find her cheek, “I’m sorry, Angel. It’s my duty to make sure these idiots know you are protected.” 

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia

[sleepynoons]

togame x afab!f!reader (characters aged up), nsfw, 18+, not beta read

cw: marathon sex, unprotected sex, oral (receiving), slight face riding, subdrop + dubcon (not intended but could be interpreted as so), one slap on the ass, cum eating, fingering, descriptions of violence + pain + blood

notes: the underground fighter/fight club!au that no one asked for. i've never seen the movie either, so literally, take everything – especially the fight scene in this one-shot – with a fucking atom of salt. i was inspired by this lovely art, and since the manga mentions that togame has limitless stamina... well, i kinda had to do something with that info...

YOU'D EXPECT your boyfriend to be tired out by now. in fact, if you were him, the two of you would have gone to bed hours ago, deep in slumber from the day’s excitement and exhaustion. instead, you’re splayed out on the bed, arms boneless next to you and mouth releasing tired whimpers, as your body rocks along with every deep thrust from jo.

his hands hold onto your hips tightly, pulling you back as he pushes forward, attempting to bury himself ever deeper into you. jo’s always been competitive, and paired with his methodical nature, he’s obsessed with trying to bring the two of you to new heights of sexual pleasure.

how did the two of you end up like this?

your brain’s hazy, clouded by the feeling of jo’s cock kissing that sweet spot inside of you and his teeth nipping and biting at your neck and shoulders. but you try to recall, as a means to hang on, to stay awake for just a little bit longer.

you were invited to watch jo fight for the first time. you weren’t particularly fond of supporting violence, but he had insisted it was something of a casual community event, and it was good for some extra cash and fun prizes. it was also an important part of his life, and since the two of you’ve been dating for a few months now, he wanted to bring you along to meet some of his friends.

when both of you were driving to the club, hosted in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town, you asked, “aren’t fight clubs illegal?”

he shrugged and said, “number one rule of fight club: don’t talk about fight club.”

you snorted and rolled your eyes. “you already have.” jo chuckled and answered all the questions you had until the two of you arrived.

he guided you toward the entrance and showed you around, pointing out a few coolers for drinks, the bathroom, and the arena itself. several people were already there, catching up and placing bets on the night’s matches.

as you walked around, you overheard someone say, “all my money’s on togame.” you glanced at your boyfriend, but he made no indication that he had heard anything. 

after being introduced to a few of jo’s friends, it was almost time for the match-ups to start. he had explained to you earlier that he would have to leave you unaccompanied as all participants were required to prepare for their rounds in a large storage room, which was essentially a smaller, neighboring warehouse unit. you reassured him that you would be fine, and in the worst case, you would wait for him in the car.

the fights shortly began after your boyfriend left. you watched as challengers came and went, some throwing punches and kicks at each other while others with more experience used their wits and specific techniques. you cringed as fists collided with jaws and feet were swiped off the floor. but everyone, including the fighters, seemed to be enjoying themselves, so you remained in your seat.

after four matches, it was finally jo’s turn.

like all of the other fighters, jo was shirtless and barefoot. everyone in the audience seemed to roar for your boyfriend as he made his way into the ring. when he stepped into the light, you sucked in a deep breath, a little shocked and in awe.

you had never seen jo so excited about anything in his life.

the jo you knew ate so slow that all the food would be cold by the time he was half-finished, preferred to nap on a beach chair instead of swimming in the pool, and hosted gatherings with friends at home to avoid clubbing and drinking out. the person you’ve gotten to know in the past few months seemed to be a wholesome, harmless dork.

but this jo didn’t even spare you a glance. now that he was standing in the ring, he was laser-focused on his opponent, eyes wide with dilated pupils and a wild, animalistic glint in them. it became abundantly clear to everyone in the audience that, no matter what, jo would win.

apparently, jo had amassed quite a bit of a reputation for himself, hence why the fight club was so packed. the hollers and howls from the spectators escalated as jo exchanged blow after blow with his opponent. you watched as your boyfriend ducked a swing, shifted his balance and stepped on one of his opponent’s feet, effectively immobilizing them for a second, before using his shoulder to jab at and ram into the opponent’s solar plexus. the other stumbled back a bit before managing to land a heavy kick to jo’s side, and despite knowing it would leave a nasty bruise, jo didn’t flinch and instead lunged forward, landing a series of punches in quick succession to the other’s face. in a few moments, his opponent surrendered. you finally allowed yourself to breathe, only noticing then that you barely did throughout the fight.

as the referee held up jo’s arm to announce his victory, he finally looked around in search of you. your boyfriend must’ve noticed your stunned expression, so he cocked his head and discreetly nudged his chin towards the exit. intuition told you to wait for him outside.

as you rushed outside, jo easily caught up to you, spinning you around and pinning you to the car. you squeaked as he kissed you deeply, taking away the air you just managed to regain, and pressed his body against yours, the smell of sweat and rusting blood piquing your senses. when he broke away and you thought you had a moment to recollect yourself, he dove back in, sucking on your lips till they bruised and swelled and brushing his hands against your ear, knowing that the touch made you shudder and buckle at the knees. even when your legs gave way, he didn’t relent, and you had to gasp out a “it hurts!” for him to pull away. you watched as he let up, and when the two of you were face-to-face, that wild glint you saw earlier was still apparent in his eyes. but his usual lazy smile returned as he apologized and rubbed at the spot where the car door handle was digging into your skin.

you can’t seem to recall your return home, and even then, you only remember jo haphazardly unlocking his door as you clawed at his t-shirt to take it off. you were still oblivious then to what the night actually held in store.

you’re brought back to the present when jo’s arm suddenly wraps around the front of your shoulders and chest and heaves you up. now, your back is arced backwards, and the slight shift in angle causes you to mewl in pleasure. you’re starting to see white spots in your vision with the way his thick cock stretches your walls apart and pokes at new spots in you that you’ve never discovered yourself.

between pants, jo gulps and asks, “what are you thinking about? am i that bad?”

you want to object, but then he gives you a harsh slap to the ass cheek with his other hand that effectively silences you.

“princess, i won just for you, so give me some attention, yeah?”

you manage to choke out, “for me?” jo reaffirms by pulling almost all the way out, leaving only his tip inside you, and then thrusting himself in again heavily with force so strong you feel it rattle throughout your body. you’ve always known your boyfriend is strong, but today’s fight and sex have exceeded your expectations. you cry out shamelessly and cum unexpectedly that even jo releases a guttural moan when your pussy clamps down on him, and he also finishes.

you collapse onto the bed. faintly, you hear jo apologize, “shit, sorry, babe. didn’t mean to cum inside of you.” he helps you roll over so that you’re lying on your back, and picks your legs up to slide you fully onto the bed. you think it’s the end.

but suddenly, the bed dips at where your feet lie, and your legs are pried apart. jo lines firm kisses along your inner thighs, and you whimper at the feeling of his fingers playing with your folds. he slides the fingertip of his index finger up and down between your folds, causing you to jolt whenever he flicks at your clit.

“jo…,” you whisper. you rest your hands around your boyfriend’s neck, holding onto him in hopes of grounding yourself.

“how about one more, babe? just one more,” he pleads, transfixed at the sight of your messy, wet pussy. his want hasn’t been satiated. he needs to feel you one last time. he begs again, “i won’t put it in, i know you’re sore. i’m going to clean you up, alright?”

the feeling of his warm tongue against your hole erases all of your thoughts and concerns. he’s careful, aware that you’re spent and overstimulated, and he laps at the mixture of his and your cum spilling down and onto the sheets. when he feels your body tensing up, he pauses and presses feather-light kisses instead as he waits for you to relax once more. he then mouths at your folds, sucking one into his mouth and licking softly, then switching to the other. you’re both moaning at the sensation – you because every suckle brings you closer to your high and him because you taste, smell, and feel so sweet and delicious against his tongue. finally, he reaches the top and spreads apart your lower lips with two fingers, admiring the sight of your pert clit throbbing in anticipation and need.

you groan, eager and impatient, when jo stares for too long. you scratch at his undercut to get his attention and whine, “jo, hurry! want your mouth on me!”

obediently, he dips down and gingerly kisses your bud. you shiver at the light touch and cant your hips upward, urging him to continue. jo resumes, alternating between gentle pecks and quick sucks of your clit, which leaves you writhing and compounds your arousal. occasionally, he even hums, and the vibrations pinch at your bud and you yelp in surprise every time. you’re no longer holding onto his shoulders – you’re grabbing and tugging at the curls of your boyfriend’s hair and pressing your clit against his mouth and nose, desperate for release. jo supports your movements as his large, calloused hands cup your ass. lastly, jo adds in his tongue. the erratic, unpredictable switching between all of the different ways he can tease your oversensitive nub quickly sends you over, and as you scream and cum, your thoughts are fully consumed with the sensations of his mouth drinking up your release and his nose nudging against your clit to extend your climax. you’re wantonly rubbing yourself against jo, smearing your pussy messily against your boyfriend’s face, and your eyes roll back as he just takes it and laps at what he can.

“you’re so fucking good to me, princess,” he moans into your pussy. from his words, you feel one last crashing wave of your orgasm, pleasure overwhelming you for a little longer, before it begins to subside.

seeing that you’re coming down from your high, jo pulls away. he licks at his lips, savoring the remnants of your high, and watches as you begin to drift off. jo himself is finally feeling the drowsiness and settles next to you.

even as you’re losing consciousness, he whispers, “this is the best reward, baby.” you nuzzle into his warmth, mumble something incoherent, and fall asleep.

[paddockletters]

revenge | carlos sainz

paring: carlos sainz x reader| daniel ricciadro platonic!x reader request: yes / thank u so muchhhhhh! summary: When Ferrari drops Carlos, everything changes. What begins as heartbreak quickly turns into an epic comeback.

The second Carlos walked through the front door, his shoulders slumped and his jaw clenched, I knew something was horribly wrong. The energy was off. His usually bright eyes were clouded with disappointment, and the air felt heavy with something unspoken.

I closed the book I was reading and stood up quickly, concern etching across my face. “Carlos? What happened?” I asked, my voice already trembling.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he dropped his bag on the floor with a thud, ran a hand through his hair, and sank into the couch. His silence was deafening, making my heart race even more.

“They dropped me,” he finally muttered, barely above a whisper.

“What?!” My heart stopped, confusion and anger fighting for dominance. “Who dropped you?”

“Ferrari. They’re letting me go after this season.” He looked up, and his eyes met mine, filled with a mixture of disbelief and sadness. “It’s over.”

A heavy silence hung between us for a moment. How could they do this? How could Ferrari let go of Carlos, someone who had poured everything into the team? Rage bubbled up inside me, and before I knew it, I was pacing the room, fists clenched.

“This is bullshit,” I snapped, unable to contain my fury. “How can they just drop you after all you’ve done for them? You’ve been giving it your all!”

“They said they wanted to ‘go in a new direction,’” Carlos explained, his voice dripping with bitterness. “New direction, my ass.”

I stopped in front of him, crouching down to meet his eyes, my mind already racing with ideas. “Carlos, you don’t deserve this. We’re not going to let them get away with this. You’ve got too much talent to sit on the sidelines.”

He shook his head softly. “What can we do? It’s Formula 1. Teams make decisions like this all the time.”

But I wasn’t going to accept that. Not after seeing how much Carlos loved this sport, how much he lived for every race, every lap. I couldn’t let Ferrari destroy his dream.

“I’m not going to let them get away with this,” I declared, standing up with determination. Carlos looked up at me, confused.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ll see.” I pulled out my phone, already forming a plan in my mind. “Trust me.”

I started making calls. I was an heiress, after all—money wasn’t the problem, but power? That was where the fun began.

A few months after Ferrari’s betrayal, Carlos and I stood in the sleek new garage of what would soon become the most talked-about team in Formula 1. I had used every resource at my disposal—contacts, investments, sheer will—to get a majority stake in a team that had been on the verge of collapse. I didn’t care about the costs. I cared about giving Carlos the chance he deserved.

“You really did it,” Carlos whispered, walking slowly around the car, his fingers brushing lightly against the sleek new design. “I can’t believe this.”

“You better believe it,” I said with a grin, watching his awe-struck expression. “This is your comeback. And Daniel’s too.”

Carlos turned to me, his face softening into a look of deep appreciation. “I don’t even know what to say. You’re incredible.”

I shrugged playfully. “Just say you’ll win.”

Carlos smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “No pressure then, huh?”

Before I could respond, Daniel burst into the garage with his usual energy.

“Look at this beauty! They might have dropped us, mate, but they didn’t see this coming,” Daniel said with a grin, walking over to give Carlos a playful slap on the back.

“Who’s ready to kick some ass?” he said, nodding towards Carlos. “We’ve got our own team, mate. Can you believe it?”

Carlos chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief.

“If you’d told me a year ago this would be happening, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

“Well, believe it,” I chimed in, walking over to give Daniel a quick hug. “Because you two are going to show everyone what they’re missing.”

Daniel winked. “You know, you’ve always had a way of making things happen.”

“Gotta admit, you pulled off a miracle. And I didn’t even have to charm anyone for it.” Daniel turned to me, eyes full of mischief.

I laughed, shaking my head.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit, Ricciardo.”

Carlos wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close.

“That’s why she’s the best.”

Daniel made a mock gagging sound.

“Alright, you two, save the romance for after we win some races.”

As we stood there, planning for what was sure to be an exciting season ahead, I could already feel the buzz. The buzz that comes from knowing we were going to take on Formula 1 headfirst. Carlos was back, and he wasn’t coming alone.

Just then, my phone buzzed. A message from Lando popped up:

"You guys really pulled it off, huh? Should I be scared?"

I showed the message to Carlos, who laughed.

“He should be.”

Max quickly followed: "Finally, a real challenge. Let’s see what you two can do."

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Oh, he’ll see.”

The group chat continued to explode with messages from drivers across the grid. Even Charles chimed in: "Mate, honestly, I’m just relieved I won’t have to race against you in the same car anymore."

Carlos leaned against the wall, smiling. “This is going to be fun.”

I couldn’t help but grin. “Oh, it’s going to be so much more than that.”

Later that night, the three of us found ourselves at a cozy restaurant in Monaco. We had rented out a private room to avoid the prying eyes of the press. It was one of those rare moments when we could just relax and laugh together.

Carlos leaned back in his chair, watching as Daniel devoured his meal with his usual lack of grace.

“Mate, do you ever slow down?”

Daniel grinned, food still in his mouth. “Nah, man. I race and I eat fast.”

I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh.

“Please don’t choke. I don’t want to be responsible for rescuing your sorry ass from a steak.”

Carlos leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“You’d save him though, right?”

I laughed softly, resting my head on his shoulder. “Maybe after I finished my meal.”

Daniel pointed his fork at us, smirking. “You two, always ganging up on me. This is what happens when you’re the third wheel.”

Carlos shot him a grin. “We wouldn’t trade you for anyone.”

Daniel mock pouted. “Aw, you do care.”

The night went on, filled with jokes, teasing, and camaraderie. Daniel was more than a teammate—he was a part of this journey, and Carlos and I cherished having him along for the ride

It was mid-season, and our team was starting to find its rhythm. Carlos had been pushing hard all season, but it wasn’t until Spa that everything clicked into place. It had been a grueling weekend—rain, tricky conditions, everything that could go wrong, had—but Carlos was in his element.

I stood in the garage, holding my breath as the final laps unfolded. Carlos was in third, closing in fast on P2. My heart pounded as I watched him glide through the final corners, the roar of the crowd deafening as he crossed the line—third place, his first podium with the new team.

The garage erupted in cheers, and I found myself running towards him as he climbed out of the car, arms outstretched. He pulled off his helmet, his face flushed with triumph and adrenaline.

“You did it!” I screamed, throwing my arms around his neck, unable to hold back the tears of joy.

“We did it,” Carlos corrected, pulling me close. “This is all because of you.”

I kissed him right there, in front of the cameras, in front of the whole paddock, not caring who was watching. He had earned this moment, and nothing could ruin it.

Daniel, not one to miss out on a celebration, ran up and threw his arms around us both.

“Alright, alright, enough with the sappy stuff,” he joked, pulling us both into a massive hug. “Let’s get some champagne!”

As the three of us stood on the podium, drenched in champagne and laughter, I caught a glimpse of the Ferrari garage across the way. The looks on their faces were priceless. Regret. Confusion. They had made a mistake, and they knew it.

Carlos followed my gaze and grinned. “Think they’re sorry yet?”

“Oh, they’re definitely sorry.”

As Carlos and Daniel rose through the ranks, whispers from the Ferrari camp began to emerge. It didn’t take long for the media to catch wind of the story—Ferrari regretted their decision to drop Carlos. Badly.

It wasn’t just the whispers. The looks on their faces whenever Carlos and Daniel took podiums said it all. During one particular race weekend, we were walking through the paddock when Frédéric Vasseur passed us, his face tight with frustration.

I caught his eye and couldn’t resist a small, satisfied smile. The regret was clear—Ferrari had made a mistake, and now they were paying for it.

Later that evening, we were all lounging in the team motorhome when Daniel, ever the instigator, pulled up an article on his phone.

“Look at this—'Ferrari Facing Major Backlash After Dropping Sainz.' I mean, they basically admit they screwed up.”

Carlos glanced at the article but shrugged it off, ever humble.

“It’s in the past. I’m happy where I am.”

But I couldn’t let it go that easily.

“They’ll never live this down,” I said, sitting next to Carlos and resting my head on his shoulder. “They had you and threw it all away. Now look at them.”

Daniel chimed in, “Yeah, they’re stuck in midfield while you’re up there taking trophies.”

Carlos leaned down and kissed the top of my head softly.

“Honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing. Because this—” he gestured around the room, to me, to Daniel, and to the trophies lining the shelves, “—this is where I was meant to be.”

The 2026 season had been one for the ages. Carlos was unstoppable. With every race, he pushed harder, fought more fiercely, and after a series of podiums, he was leading the championship going into Abu Dhabi.

The final race was a nail-biter. Charles was right behind Carlos in the standings, and the pressure was immense. The entire paddock watched, breath held, as the laps ticked down. Carlos was leading, but Charles was closing in fast.

As I stood in the garage, my hands gripping the edge of the pit wall, I could hardly breathe. This was it. Everything was riding on this.

“Come on, Carlos,” I whispered under my breath, my heart pounding.

And then, as if time slowed down, Carlos crossed the finish line. First place. World Champion.

The garage exploded in cheers, and I was running before I even realized it. Carlos jumped out of the car, and I threw myself into his arms, tears streaming down my face.

“You did it!” I sobbed, my voice trembling with emotion.

Carlos grinned, pulling me into a deep kiss, the cheers of the team echoing around us.

“We did it,” he whispered against my lips. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Daniel arrived, grinning from ear to ear, and tackled us both into a hug.

“World Champion! My boy, you did it!”

Carlos laughed, pulling Daniel into the hug, our trio complete. “Couldn’t have done it without you either, cabrón.”

As the champagne sprayed and the celebrations erupted around us, I glanced over at the Ferrari garage. The regret on their faces was palpable. They had let go of a champion, and now they were watching him stand at the top of the world.

Carlos pulled me close again, kissing my forehead softly. “We showed them, didn’t we?”

I smiled, my heart full. “Yeah, we did.”

We celebrated long into the night. And as Carlos held the trophy high, I caught sight of the Ferrari garage once more. The regret on their faces was clear—they had let go of a champion, and now they were watching him stand at the top of the world.

As Carlos lifted his trophy into the air, he turned to me, a look of pure happiness on his face. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered.

I smiled up at him, my heart full. “Yeah, it is.”

[11rosebunny]

hi! could I request bofurin boys getting patched up from their s/o after a fight?

Patching them up after a fight (BOFURIN)

Haruka Sakura

He's learned how to heal his wounds in the past years after spending majority of his life alone. He would rather die than to get yelled at by someone looking after him so he taught himself how to clean up his gashes and bloody bruises on his body.

Earlier in the day, he was caught up in an unexpected fight and his opponent managed to get a cheap shot on him when someone was distracting him. He's not going to lie—it hurt like a bitch when his fist made contact with his already wounded cut on his jawline.

Afterwards, when the fight is done, he apologizes that you had to wait for him a little longer than usual after school. But the moment you took in the prominent gash on his face, you nearly dropped your duffel bag to the floor.

You yelled at him for being so reckless to which he clicked his tongue and took away your bag to hold it for you when he walks you home. However, you ultimately refused to leave him like this, so now here you are in an alleyway cleaning up the wound on his face with bandages and hydrogen peroxide you two bought from the local drug store.

He already tried to stop you by saying he was going to take care of it home, but you were too persistent (and pissed) so you continued to heal him anyways.

The whole time, he can't look you in the eye, afraid he might give into his intrusive thoughts to bite the shit out of you. He's blushing and worrying someone might see the both of you.

"Hurry up...!" His foot is tapping up and down quickly out of nervousness.

He refuses to look you in the eye and remains staring at the opening of the alleyway where you two walked in.

In pettiness, you pressed the cotton ball on his gash harder than before making him jitter on the wooden crate he sat on with wide eyes.

"You be quiet and wait until I'm done!"

"Tch! Whatever!"

Hajime Umemiya

"Ah, seriously [Name]. You know I can do this by myself..." He smiled softly as he watched you bandage his thick fingers.

He was beaten up badly—not that he did a bad job in the fight he was in earlier but when going into combat, he does slip up especially if he's ganged up on, which is what happened earlier.

Usually, he doesn't mind healing his own wounds and is completely fine if someone else does it for him. He's even let a kid put a bandaid on him when he bumped into the little sucker which caused him to bump his knee on a metal pipe.

But when you two scheduled a stay at home date, he shows up to your house holding his jacket that draped behind his back, covered in scratches and cuts.

"Sorry I'm late, I was caught up earlier with something." He says with a weak smile.

You hold your door in front of him stupidly as he begins to sweat drop at your stare.

Eventually, you do let him in and you lead him to your bedroom. He explains that he was caught up in a fight as he placed his jacket on your chair then sitting on your bed.

You sigh not turning around to face him. It was obvious you were disappointed. "Yeah I can already tell."

He laughs with a regretful smile watching you go through your desk and find the bandages, cotton balls, and medical tape.

He's already aware that you don't have any right to be doing this, there's a hint of guilt shoved down his throat when you let out a sigh and bring your hands to yours to wrap them up. At the same time, you and him create small talk; forcing him to tell you why he got into a fight making him let out a throaty laugh.

But a part of him finds you cute for that. The way you're willing to patch him up, even when you're upset at him. He likes seeing the size difference with your hand and his. His fingers are extremely calloused from him gardening and throwing punches all the time—while your hands are smooth and gentle against his skin. He doesn't say anything to aggravate you more, so instead, he lets you heal him with a warm smile on his face.

Toma Hiragi

He's gone through multiple fights with not a single person laying a finger on him, so it's rare for you to ever see him come to you all beaten up.

Sure he has a rough exterior and sharp features, but even a sturdy guy like him can get knocked over. He's quite pissed that he let something like that ever happen and is embarrassed to say the least. When you ask him where he is and what's taking him so long, he ignores your messages and tries to patch up himself up quickly before returning to you.

He's rather die than to let you see him like this. When he finishes taking care of his wounds, you can tell with the way the bandages hang loosely, the cuts that peek out near the ends of the tape, and the way his clothing is all dirtied up, you can tell he tried hiding that from you.

"...You look like a mess."

He jumps at your accusation, "The hell are ya talkin' about?!"

You end up pointing out the poor job he did at putting the bandages on his body. He opens his mouth to cover it up right away, but in a second he stops himself, he knows he would be lying if he fought back.

He's embarrassed, way too embarrassed.

He shuts his eyes closed when you end up patching the wounds yourself. He didn't even clean them beforehand when he came to you. The entire time, he's felt like his ego is knocked down when you two went into a secluded field of grass with items to help with the gashes all over his face.

To you though, it's funny. The way he tries to fall asleep in hopes that your remarks will all be over soon. At the same time, he's blushing and looking away when you take his face with both hands.

"Yer' doin' too much."

"I'm doing too much?" You repeat looking into his eyes to which he quickly looks away.

"Tch. Gonna be the death of me..." He mumbled the last part.

Taiga Tsugeura

Dating him was probably the most responsibility you've ever had in your life.

It's happened before, the routine of you and him planning to meet up at your house turns into him coming home to you all scratched up and you taking it upon yourself to heal his wounds.

He still feels extremely guilty upon watching you roll your eyes at him and forcing him to sit down on your bed in front of you to clean up his wounds. While he's at it, he continues on to share about what happened to him and why he's all bruised. He explains it like a kid trying to justify why his clothes are all ruined. He's honestly scared if you start scolding him about being more careful.

Mitsuki Kiryu

After he gets into a pretty big fight, he returns to you as if he's prancing about his day.

You're shocked to say the least. The way his bluntness is plastered all over his face while you deadpan him when he goes on to talk about the melonpan that is currently on sale at the nearest convenience store. You blink at him repeatedly as if he's not aware of the state he's in right now. You have to be the one to point out the huge gash on his elbow that began to stain the white patterned button up shirt he was wearing.

"Oh! I forgot." He says as if the fight he was in earlier didn't mean anything.

He laughs at the way you yell at him for being stupid before you two make it back to his house. Instantly, he tells you where he keeps all his medical things and then you instruct him to go wash up first then meet you in his room.

He takes it as a reward after winning his fight. He can't really use his phone when you're practicing sitting on top of him to clean up the cut on his eyebrow that ended up bloodying his piercing. To you, it seems like he's enjoying this too much, even going as far to rocking in the chair he's sitting on and spinning it from side to side. He finds it extremely nice to see you like this—so worried and so scared for him.

There's a small part of him that wants to break a bone next time to see how you'd react.

Hayato Suo

There's really no way of arguing with him. Right off the bat, when you throw texts at him, angered at how he hasn't responded in the last hour, he comes back to you shortly after and texts back without much warning.

From: Hayato Suo

Sorry [Name] , I was out with Sakura and we got into a fight ヾ(＾∇＾)

Sent at 4:47PM

From: You

WHAT

Sent at 4:48PM

You rush to his school but when you're half way there, you bump into him on the same path that leads back to your house, meaning, he was going to you either way. You're in shock and out of breath at his state. You've never seen him that beaten up before and when he looks at you, he quickly changes his surprised expressions to his usual soft smile.

"That was quick—"

"Idiot!"

You drag him back to your house and disgracefully throw him onto your couch. The entire time, he finds it amusing watching your shaken character reach for your cabinets in desperation to heal him up quickly.

It was the first time he's ever been in a fight for that long. Usually, he's able to take down opponents within minutes and goes on to tell you about it afterwards. But the fact that it took him nearly more than one hour, you're terrified when it's the first time you've seen him the most beaten up.

You're frantic, basically begging him to tell you what happened when you're healing his wounds. At this rate, it turns into an interrogation while he answers every question you have with the right amount of explanation.

He seems far too happy when you clean up his wounds, normally it would be him healing you since he's able to go through fights without getting hit once, so when he feels your soothing touch and the way you clean every wound with precision and gentleness, he's shocked at how skilled you can be.

"I wasn't aware that you know how to heal wounds." He says raising a brow with curiosity. A small smile is formed on his lips watching you wince your eyes.

"No, of course not...! I was just worried for you!" You answer back feeling your ears go red. He surely knows how to make you lose your mind.

He stifles out a laugh, "Just teasing..." He says sticking out his tongue slightly.

[snowsinterlude]

the ballad of money, power, and glory.

(coriolanus snow x reader x lucy gray baird)

summary: being lucy gray's best friend, you were always updated on her life, not knowing how she truly felt for you. and now, with coriolanus snow being your new friend, it was odd seeing them fighting so much over your attention, with you not knowing that both of them were obsessively in love with you.

based on this ask

c.w: lucy gray baird, coriolanus snow, implied aromantic reader, yandere behavior from both of them (nothing too serious), unrequited love, drama, jealousy, love triangle, obsessive love. contains some movie/book accurate mentions but nothing very important, violent content, lucy is mentioned to have been your first kiss, commedy in the end.

chapter one: money.

"god, you gotta see her, snow." lucy beamed, her smile going from ear to ear as she talked about you. "she's so cute! i think she's the love of my life, truly." she said

snow frowned at her words. in the capitol, it wasn't seen in good lights to have someone talking so passionately about other person of the same gender. he rolled his eyes internally, his arms were on the back of his back as he walked behind her. supposedly, you were going to be waiting for them at the train station.

he walked, and walked, and walked. all of those minutes were awfully torturing his soul as he watched lucy gray talk more and more about you- as if she hadn't done it during the entire hunger games already. like on the zoo, when he thought she would be crying from fear of dying when, in reality, she was crying from fear of not seeing you for a last time.

he remembered it perfectly, better than he remembered the biology classes he had. lucy bawling her eyes out silently, still sobbing as she looked at him and explained how much she owed you- how much she loved you. it was like she couldn't think of anything other than you.

"she is always so pretty, so sickeningly beautiful. i can't stand the thought of losing her, snow. i wanna be with her." she said, her eyes red and puffed while her nose was as red as a tomato.

"have you told her about it?" he asked, face leaned on his fist as he observed the singer cry.

"no, snow." she answered, sniffing. "i've made a mistake," she chuckled, wanting to slap herself.

"what did you do?"

'i only noticed i love her now."

remebering that, snow started thinking that you should be the most beautiful girl of district 12- or that maybe you didn't had a single flaw on your skin por something like that. maybe you were one of those who hypnotized people at your surroundings to make them percieve you like the most desired thing they wished for.

but then he saw you from afar, waiting for lucy gray while your eyes roamed through the crowd. he didn't asked for you, no, never. he never asked you to blink like a doll, to look at him with those shining eyes and god, whatever it was that snapped inside you made him obsessed with the thought of having you as his main prize.

his thoughts were interrupted by the sight of lucy gray baird hugging you tightly, kissing your face multiple times as you laughed, hands on her waist as you kissed her face too. he cleared his throat, awkwardly.

"ah, snow. that's my best friend, my soulmate, y/n" she said, and you chuckled before shaking his hand.

"pleasured to meet you, yn. im-"

"coriolanus snow, i know." you said, kissing the back of his hand in a theatrical manner. "hello."

"you know?"

"yeah, my dear lucy told me all about you. and, let's be sincere, you were on the tv during the interviews on the hunger games." you said, smiling while shaking his hand "i'm happy you helped her!" you said

the spark that shone in his heart was fueled furiously by your words. 'your desde lucy'? what's that, a movie?

that was the first time he felt jealousy.

chapter two: power.

lucy gray baird was your best friend since kindergarden. what could you say? sandbox love never dies.

well, her love for you seemed to have grown sharp as a way to protect you and herself from the ones that could hurt you. that's why she glanced at snow menancingly as he forced his place between you both at the bar. when you were dancing with some older group of old ladies, she finally spoke up.

"what are you doing?" she asked, not looking into his eyes, and she didn't needed to for him to know she was angry.

"what do you mean?" he asked, faking innocence.

"don't act innocent, coriolanus." she growled, frowning "she's mine."

"i don't recall asking for that information." he said, smiling at the sight of your happy face dancing with other elders.

"you will not take her away from me." she said, getting up and walking to you only to playfully grab your waist and your hand, dancing with you while coriolanus watched.

you were so dazzling beautiful in his eyes, he just had to have you. it wasn't his fault that lucy gray thought and felt the same way about you.

with that in mind, lucy gray baird punch on his face was unexpected.

"what the fuck, baird?!"

"i told you to leave her alone! you are a fucking peacekeeper, coriolanus! when will you stop that?!"

"'that' what???" he asked, voice loud enough for him to frown at it.

"don't feign dumb, you disgraceful blond. you know she has sensible hearing and you bring her in to fucking SHOT at trees?" she screamed. the singer had the most defiant frown on her face, making it clear just how much she was willing to go for you.

his expression seemed to calm down, his stare on her became confused. "i... i didn't know- she didn't tell me-"

"oh of course you don't know. do you even bother asking?!" she asked, her eyes boring holes into him. "get away from her, snow."

and she left him behind just like that.

of course he wouldn’t know how sensitive you were when it comes to your hearing. he would never get to know you the way she did. but behind that façade, she hated herself for introducing him to you.

at this moment, she hated snow as much as he hated her.

chapter three: glory.

that wasn't on your plans.

you were aware of your friendship with lucy being a bit too... sweet. you didn't care about it. she was still your best friend and you were still the girl who saved her from that ginger girl.

when you met coriolanus snow, you could already see history repeating itself. lucy was jealous and coriolanus was obsessive. this match would end up being your death, probably.

you didn't really liked them the way they wished you did. you were aware of how much coriolanus liked you, from the moment you kissed the back of your hand till now.

and yet, you were still not into the singer nor the victor, you were fine on your own and decided that a long time ago. you wouldn't be a good girlfriend, couldn't even take care of yourself, how would you take care of someone else?

for that motive, and others, that i won't be able to speak about, you never liked anyone. and people started thinking it was lucy gray's fault, with her cunt m constant bragging about being your first kiss. and she was, but you not liking anyone wasn't her fault, you truly just couldn't seem to find someone who was just right to you.

with that being said, you were the one angry at them right now. what the hell that has happened between them, envolved you, and you weren't having it.

"i don't love any of you," you said, for their own shock.

chapter four: the ballad of the unloved ones.

sitting still on front of you, lucy gray baird felt like she was punched on her heart, losing air from her lungs quickly than actually needed. coriolanus, right by her side, felt the urge to throw up as he recieved the unhappy news of how you didn't loved them.

it was the truth, though. but you still held them on each of your arms and let them take in the affirmation of how you felt about them.

"but-" lucy begun, shaking a bit from the anxiety on her chest.

"-no, lu. i'm sorry," you said, "i don't really feel like loving anyone. i never loved anyone, not in this way though." you cooed, giving her the comfort of your kisses on her forehead.

"but maybe, if we j-just-" coriolanus stopped in his tracks when you shook your head negatively, your fingers drawing patterns on his scalp, and he almost meowed at it.

"sorry, dear. i only love you both as friends." you said.

and they understood you after a long talking, a bunch of silent tears and sobs from their delusions.

by the end of the day, they were at the bar, both looking pathetically red from the way they cried after it.

"sorry for punching you on the nose," lucy said, and she looked like a ghost, finger tracing patterns on a cup. "i don't wanna lose her," she goes.

"sorry for shooting the mocking jays on that evening," he said, sipping on his cup. he was refering to the evening where she punch him.

"you did what."

"uh. i shot the mocking jays."

"coruolanus 'm gonna shoot you in the ass." she growled.

they were back to being friends, and made sure to protect you. just because you didn't reciprocated none of their feelings it didn't mean they would start bitchin' about it (even though they did for like, two weeks.)

so, them both heard festus with his friends talking about you- it wasn't nothing good. and which better way to end him than punching him?

yeah, they were still your best friends. you still loved them dearly with each part of your being.

but just as friends.

[7oji]

imagine you run into an ex-boyfriend after a night out with toji 🎀

◞⁺⊹ toji fushiguro/fem!reader ──── fluff. established relationship. jealous toji ofc. 800+ words.

A sober Toji takes you by the hand to head out of the club after you have had too many drinks. He was having a lot of fun seeing you all red and tipsy, but you would probably blame your hangover on him the next morning.

The deal was that he was supposed to be taking care of you. And he did. He only leaves your side to walk over to the valet.

Those few seconds are enough for your gaze to wander into the crowd before it stops to recognize a guy walking your way.

“That’s my ex...” you blurt out.

Toji returns at the perfect moment to see you tense up. He follows your eyes and his own narrow slightly as he spots a guy your age waving in a friendly manner.

“Is he a problem?” he questions in a low tone, locking his hand around yours.

A bit of alcohol probably drained out of your system, not so much about being trapped without a car and being forced to interact with someone from your past, but more about the fact that Toji grabbed every opportunity to pick out a fight if it was about you. He looked like he enjoyed scaring guys away from your drunk dancing all night.

“He’s okay. We only dated for a while in high school,” you reply after a long breath.

Worried about what you will see in his eyes you avoid looking at him. Instead, he feels a gentle squeeze on the hand before you wave back.

“Heeey,” you greet him as only a drunk girl could. “Long time no see.”

The guy’s expression changes from excitement to a startled look when he notices the large figure beside you.

“This is my husband, Toji,” you introduce him, immediately satisfied at the stunned reaction to that title.

Toji nods at the boy in acknowledgment, ignoring the hand reaching out to him. You swallowed worriedly and try ignoring it too.

A few polite questions are exchanged, all while Toji looks over at the guy with a careful stare, unaware his hand clenched your own in a fist.

“I’m glad you are doing okay,” you finally say after spotting the valet coming closer with your car. “And this was nice, but we really need to go! We have to get back to our kid.”

Easy like that, Toji’s demeanor becomes just a little more serene at the mention of your boy.

You make your way to the car, nudging Toji’s hand in an attempt to stop him from doing much else, but he manages to give the guy a last look with his mouth curling into a mean smile.

“Take care,” he says in a tone that made everyone question if it really was a well-wished farewell.

Your husband turns around to get the keys from the valet. He takes his wallet out and offers the worker a chunk of bills that was large enough to make all people around notice his generous tip.

Toji finally gets into the car in a seemingly carefree manner but finds you already inside trying to contain your laughter.

“What?” he raises his brow.

“You really have a way of making guys sweat, you know?”

He snickers at your words. Not a hint of remorse in sight.

“I suppose I just have a way with people.”

“Oh man, so many memories are coming back…” You give a final breath of relief as you slump on the co-pilot seat.

“Yeah, I’m sure you had plenty of guys following your trail,” he huffs playfully while starting the car. “You were probably one of the prettiest girls in school, right?”

Probably because of the alcohol, but a wistful gleam appears in your eyes.

“Yeah, right. I was lucky to even get that guy as a date for prom.” Remembering how you felt about yourself during those years put you in a sentimental mood, more so in your current state. “You probably wouldn’t even have looked my way back then.”

Toji chuckles when he finally understands why that guy back there had a stupid look on his face when seeing you. It also explains why you didn’t keep pictures of that time, or at least showed them to him.

A bit of nostalgia spreads across his own face as he goes back to his younger days as well. But one look your way makes an affectionate glow replace the melancholy in his eyes. You were a beautiful woman now, and you got all dressed up for him tonight.

“You’re crazy. I would have noticed you instantly back then,” his smile grows a little kinder the more he speaks. “I’ve always been an expert at picking out hidden jewels.”

If you had each other back then, maybe things would have turned out differently. Or maybe not, but you were grateful to be together now. Dewy-eyed at the thoughts, you lean into his side.

“You always know the right thing to say,” your words come out slurred by this time. You start to doze off right then and there.

Toji chuckles and places a kiss on the top of your head before starting the drive back home.