#triple jeopardy

[anthonycrowley]

i don’t know her (is talking about the greek philosopher pythagoras)

[everything4free]

these ppl have the most surface level understanding of oppression

its quite hilarious tbh lol

[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.

[ellephlox]

Solidarity

Summary: Frank enlists your help on a dangerous mission. Matt’s not happy about it.

Pairings: Matt x f!reader, platonic Frank Castle & f!reader, platonic Matt & Frank

Warning: Strong profanity (looking at you, Frank). Canon-typical violence. There’s also dog abuse in this, so please proceed with caution!

“You will not believe how terrible my day was.” You were already complaining aloud as you started up the stairs to Matt’s apartment, perfectly aware that he’d be able to hear you. “My boss gave me triple the amount of work that’s humanly possible to complete within a month and somehow he expects me to do it within a week. And then he had the audacity to tell me that I shouldn’t wear my hair in a ponytail because it’s ‘too informal’ for the face of the company. I mean, what the hell does that even mean?”

One of Matt’s neighbors opened their apartment door as you marched up the steps, and you quickly lifted your phone to your ear as though you were talking to someone, lest they think you were just talking to yourself. “And then my coworker took my data — you know, all that stuff I had been inputting onto that Google Doc the other day? And he presented it as his own, no credit to me. I can’t even report him because he’s supposed to retire in a week so it’s pointless anyway.” 

You continued to gripe as you unlocked the door, chucking your keys down and tossing your shoes off so violently that they hit the wall. “Anyway, I’m in a bad mood now, so I have two propositions — well, demands, I guess — for you. One: We watch Jeopardy tonight. In pajamas. I will object if you’re still wearing a tie.” You unzipped your coat and tossed it haphazardly onto the coat rack. “Two: My friend asked if we’ve ever showered together before — you know, typical girl talk questions — and I told her we hadn’t, so I was thinking—” You stopped dead as you entered the living room, your stomach plummeting. Leaning on the wall by the window, arms crossed, was Matt, wearing his devil suit, complete with the helmet on and his billy clubs dangling in his hands. And across from him, standing with an actual gun in his hand, was Frank Castle. Mortification sent heat into your face, and for a moment you just stood there, at a loss for words. 

“We have company,” Matt said dryly, uncrossing his arms and standing up straight.

“I can see that,” you said finally. “You didn’t think to... I don’t know, shoot a text warning me?” Your cheeks were searing; had you seriously just proposed showering with Matt in front of the Punisher, of all people? 

“I was a bit preoccupied all day with making sure Trigger Happy over here didn’t shoot anyone,” Matt said, his jaw tense. 

Frank snorted. “Red, you’d be bleeding out in an alley if I hadn’t saved your ass. Get off your high horse.”

“Yeah. Okay. But you couldn’t have said something, anything at all, when I walked in?  Like, ‘Hey, honey, there’s a wanted fugitive standing in our living room, just so you know.’ Sorry, Mr. Castle,” you added in an undertone to him. “Um — I’m not trying to make you feel unwelcome or anything, I just feel a bit awkward about earlier, so—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Frank said shortly, his gaze still trained on Matt. “We gonna stand here with your girl watching us and argue all afternoon? Or are we going to get this done?”

“Get what done?” you asked.

It was Frank who answered, and from the way Matt was standing with his back straight as a ruler now, you had the sense he wasn’t pleased, for whatever reason. “There’s a shipment of heroin that’s supposed to arrive tonight. The dealers have been selling to kids on the street to make a quick buck.”

“It’s due to come in at midnight,” Matt said. “But the source I talked to last night doesn’t know which dock.”

You made of sound of sympathy. “I take it you’ll be having to sweep a lot of territory tonight, then?”

“That’s a damn understatement,” Frank said. “We’re not just talking about the docks in Hell’s Kitchen, ma’am. We’re talking all the way down to Chelsea, and the piers in Brooklyn Heights.”

“But that’s impossible to scope out,” you said slowly. “Even if Matt’s standing in the center of all the docks in Hell’s Kitchen, he couldn’t possibly hear all the way down to Chelsea, let alone Brooklyn.”

“Which is why we’re in for a rough night,” Matt said. “I called Jessica, Luke, and Danny. They’re all out of town.” He jutted his chin at Frank. “And that’s why we’re here together.”

“I ain’t happy about it either,” Frank added. “He’s already talking my ass off about moral obligation and shit. Feels like I’m in church.”

"Because you tried to stab the guy in the throat after he gave us information we needed.”

“If you could see, Red, then you’d know from the look in that guy’s eyes that he planned on murdering us the second that we turned our backs on him—”

“Which is why I tied him up and left him for Mahoney.”

“I have a better idea,” you said, cutting in before anything could escalate. “I can help.” 

Matt’s response was immediate and scathing. “No.”

"Oh, come on — I get it if you want to do your whole ‘Fly home, Buddy, I work alone’ thing, but you’re not working alone, you’re working with the Punish— I mean, Mr. Castle. I’ll be supremely insulted forever if you don’t let me help.”

“If you think that I’ll let those dealers anywhere near you—” Matt began, but you interrupted again.

“Look, I’ve always waited here patiently and uselessly while you do your deviling every night, but can’t you give me a chance? Maybe we’ll be a dream team. Terrific trio. Second Edition Avengers. The Scooby gang minus a talking dog.”

“She could help, Red,” Frank said, sending an unreadable look in your direction. “I say we do it. She can camp out at Brooklyn. I mean, the guy said that they could dock there, but they never have before. Odds are they’ll be in Chelsea or Hell’s Kitchen.”

“So, what? We throw her to the wolves in Brooklyn where we can’t get to her easily if things go south?” Matt looked as though he were about two seconds from socking Frank in the jaw. Or worse, two seconds from handcuffing you to the apartment so that you wouldn’t leave. 

“No,” you said firmly. “Things won’t go south. Matt, I’m not going to... I don’t know, engage in a fight with them. I’m not a vigilante. I’ll just hide and keep an eye on the docks, then if they show up, I’ll call you.”

“I’ll stay in Chelsea,” Frank said. “I know you get all weird about the Kitchen, Red, so it’s all yours.”

Matt was standing stock still, grinding his teeth. Finally he ground out, “It’s too dangerous.”

“So is driving a car. So is crossing the street. And yet I’ve done both many, many times,” you said. “I’ll be completely fine. Why would dealers have any reason to go after a random passerby, even if they did see me? Which they won’t,” you added hurriedly. “Because I’ll stay safely out of sight.”

“Perfect.” Frank checked his watch. “I ain’t staying here while we twiddle our thumbs and wait for midnight to roll around. Give Y/N my burner number, Red.”

“I’d never have thought you’d do this, Frank,” Matt said, his voice low. “I thought you at least were on my side when it came to keeping people safe who—”

“Who are what?” you said sharply. “I might not have... superpowers, or, I don’t know, a weird bloodthirstiness — sorry again, Mr. Castle — but I can still help.”

“Call me Frank.” Frank leveled his gaze at you. “And cut the apologizing shit.”

“Uh. Okay.” You had to bite your tongue to keep from apologizing again.

And, somehow, you actually ended up on the mission. You took the C train down to Brooklyn Heights after enduring a very long and very dry lecture from Matt on how you were to stay out of sight no matter what and to call him should any boat arrive with men wearing ski masks. 

And, in all honesty, you weren’t nervous. The likelihood of the dealers showing up at your assigned docks was slim. And even if they did, you’d just have to make a quick phone call to both of them, and then camp out. Easy-peasy. 

You settled in on a wooden bench overlooking the piers, wishing you had worn more than your jacket. The temperature had dropped more than expected when the sun had set, and now you shivered slightly, the cold metal of a knife against your thigh. Just in case. 

How exactly you were actually out here, on a real mission, with Matt willingly letting you out of his protection, you weren’t sure. It was exhilarating, though. The city was dark, yet not really; it was aglow with the street lamps and headlights and apartment windows whose blinds hadn’t been closed yet. You scrunched up your legs to conserve body heat and regretted not bringing a blanket, too. And a pillow. That would’ve made the bench slightly less rock hard against your bottom. 

Seriously, how did Matt do this kind of thing every night? Fifteen minutes in and you were already missing the warmth of home. 

You glanced at the skyline. Somewhere, on the other side of those skyscrapers, Matt was waiting as well. Probably he wasn’t curled up on a bench like you were, though. It was more likely that he’d be stalking the rooftops, or pacing in the shadows. 

And then movement caught your eye, at just after 12:30 in the morning. You scrambled to your feet, squinting in the dark. It was a boat, fast approaching the pier just next to you. 

No way. Yeah, you were on lookout, but somehow you’d convinced yourself that the dealers wouldn’t actually show up on your end. You waited to call Frank and Matt, though, because in case it was a different boat, you didn’t want to raise a false alarm. You moved away from your bench and began walking leisurely down the pier, as though you were going for a nighttime stroll. All you needed to do was get a good glimpse of them, then you’d head up the street where you could watch from a safer spot. 

“In, out! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” someone said, a bit loudly, from the deck of the ship. You swiveled your head to see him, and sure enough, he had a ski mask. Swiftly you pulled out your phone and fire off a quick text to both Matt and Frank. You were about to leave the pier altogether when a bark made you stop short. 

....A dog?

“Shut the bitch up!” one of the men snarled. “We get caught, then all the goods get seized.”

“She’s been fucking howling the whole way, what am I supposed to do?”

“Give her a piece of food.”

“What food? You ate the rest of it, man.”

“Can’t believe we’re bringing this dog anyway. Boss already has six bitches. Why does he need another?”

“She’s some special breed, or some shit, I don’t know. Sells for a thousand bucks a pop. Grab that box. Like I said — in, out. We’re already late.”

The dog kept barking, though, and you winced as the man kicked the poor thing in the ribs. Piece of shit. You wanted to go up there and throttle him yourself. If Matt or Frank would just get here already, then you’d be able to relax, but it would still be at least twenty minutes...

And what if the dealers got away in that time frame?

The dog started barking again, and suddenly, without any word of warning, one of the men picked the dog up like a sack of potatoes and threw her overboard. “To hell with the extra cash. That’s how you deal with security problems,” you heard him say as he wiped his hands on his pants. “Get moving, go, go, go! Unload this shit so we can get out of here!”

Below, the dog’s frantic head slipped below the surface.

Oh, hell no. 

Your feet were moving even before you could make an executive decision in your mind. The cold of the evening was forgotten, as were Matt’s strict words to not be seen, no matter what happens, and you dove into the water, where the dog had fell beneath the black waves beside the pier. 

Fortunately, it was summer, and as shockingly cold as the water was, it wasn’t anywhere near deathly cold. You couldn’t see anything, and desperately tried to listen for the dog, but you didn’t have Matt’s ears, and for a moment panic swelled inside you that this dog would drown, and you wouldn’t be able to do a thing. 

And then you saw movement, out of the corner of your eye. The dog was struggling to stay afloat, her snout barely making it out of the water. You grabbed her around the middle and kicked with all your might, coughing on water and unable to see hardly anything except for the blurry outline of the pier. There had to be a ladder somewhere along there, and you groped blindly along the edge, seeking out a grip to pull yourself and the dog up. 

For a moment, you completely forgot about the dealers behind you. All you could think about was getting the dog safely onto land, and with a massive effort you lifted her up. Her paws scrambled against the edge of the pier, but with a good shove to her rump, she was able to get over the edge and dash away into the shadows. 

Good luck out there, doggie. You started to climb the ladder yourself, but froze when you heard the telltale click of a gun being cocked in front of you. Slowly you looked up, your blood running cold at the sight of a gun pointed straight at your forehead. The man holding it had his hair tied back in a bun, and there was a horrible expression on his face that told you he wouldn’t have any qualms about pulling the trigger. 

“Should I shoot, boss?” he asked, his eyes not moving from your face. “Stupid girl’s seen us. She’ll probably run her mouth and tell the cops.”

Your brain felt as though it were short-circuiting. “I swear, I won’t tell a soul. You have my word. Really, I’ll just leave here, and I promise—”

“Do it!” one of the men shouted from the boat. “Get it done so you can get your ass back up here to help. You know how many bodies there are in the Upper Bay? She’ll just be another.”

Your heart was punching the inside of your rib cage. You considered falling backwards to try to swim away, but what good would it do? There was no other way to get back onto land nearby except for this ladder, and you didn’t trust yourself to swim around the boat and across to the next pier without simply getting shot en route. Lunging up the rest of the ladder to fight him was an even worse option. Even if you could fight like Matt (which you could safely say was not the case), you were at a disadvantage; he had the high ground. 

But you didn’t have a choice. The man lunged down and grabbed you by the collar of your jacket, hoisting you up onto the pier. You shivered violently, unsure of whether it was from fear or cold. The man looked you over. “Could hold her for ransom, Tom. That’d bring in some extra cash.”

“No.” The man, who must’ve been Tom, shook his head. “That’s just a surefire way to get attention from the cops. Let’s take her in. We’ll kill her once we’re back on open water and dump her body in the Atlantic. Much cleaner that way.”

The man holding you grunted in agreement and shoved you forward up the ramp to the boat. You obeyed only because of the gun pressed against your temple, feeling like you might vomit any second. 

Where are Matt and Frank? The night was as still as a reflecting pool. It was as though the city itself had gone to sleep, abandoning you to these men, and you had to choke down the rising lump in your throat that was making you feel like you might cry any second or pass out. But tears wouldn’t come, as you were led into a cabin, your mouth promptly duct-taped closed. The sensation made you panic even more — a little air could get through to your nose, but not much, and the sudden feeling of being near to asphyxiation made you even more light-headed. 

The men, however, seemed to forget about you as soon as they tied you to the chair. That they hadn’t killed you immediately was the most relieving of mercies, and you struggled fruitlessly to escape your bonds, feeling supremely useless. Surely Matt would arrive any second; he would hear exactly where you were, you reasoned, and he’d make his way to you as soon as he could. Any minute you’d hear the sound of a baton ricocheting off some unfortunate skulls or the cracking as bones shattered under his fists. 

But instead, it was bullets you heard first. Frank. You gritted your teeth, hearing the shouts of men that were surely being killed without a second thought. Hopping with your feet, you were able to wiggle your chair forward slightly until you could see outside the cabin door. Frank’s silhouette was a menacing shape against the moonlight. 

Where is Matt?

One of the largest men — Tom, you recalled — suddenly came barreling into the room, a gun in his hand. He untied you violently, yanking the rope so roughly against your wrists that you gasped under the tape, and then dragged you forward, the gun against your head. Unceremoniously you were toppled from the chair, your knees slamming down onto hard wood. 

“Drop your gun!” Tom jabbed his gun against your forehead so hard that you saw stars. “Drop it now and put your hands behind your head, or I’ll blow her brains out!”

Through your fuzzy vision you saw Frank freeze. His gaze was cold; calculating, and for the first time you wondered what your value was in Frank’s mind, compared to the triumph of offing some criminals. Which was worth more to him? For a moment, you feared he would prioritize killing the smugglers. His fist clenched even tighter around the gun, and he drew in level breaths, without lowering his gaze for even a second. 

“I swear to God I’m pulling this trigger in ten seconds if you don’t drop it,” Tom said, and he dragged the tip of the gun so that it was placed precisely against your temple. Water was still dripping from your clothing and goosebumps were raised so violently on your skin that you felt like you had chicken pox, but that was nothing compared to the electric adrenaline shooting down your spine, as though your nervous system was screaming at you to do something, anything, but it was to no avail; all you could do was stay on your knees, as still as possible, and keep your head lowered. 

And then, as though he’d made a snap decision, Frank set the gun down.

“Kick it over here,” Tom ordered. 

Frank obeyed, slowly raising his hands to his head. “The gun’s down,” he said. “Now let her go.”

Tom’s grip on you tightened. “You’re a fool,” he said, and suddenly you knew what was about to happen, from the steadying of his hands and the firmer press of the gun against your temple. You wrenched yourself away from him, just as the bullet fired off, and the heat of it barely grazed your shoulder as you dove away. 

The victory was short-lived, though. Tom aimed again, and this time you were on the ground, with nowhere to go. You screwed your eyes shut, sending a silent apology to Matt, and...

The bullet never came. 

Gingerly you opened your eyes to see the devil punching Tom with all his wrath and fury. Frank had already picked up his gun again and was running towards the back of the boat, where you knew there were still a few more crew members. Quickly you crawled backwards to get out of the path of Matt and Tom, the latter of whom was being thrown against the cabin wall. 

That had been close. Way, way too close. You fumbled for the duct tape and ripped it off your mouth, lightheaded from breathing irregularly. Stars formed in front of your vision and you had to slow yourself down, drawing in air and then releasing it slowly. 

Matt was still slamming his fist into the face of Tom, and blood was spurting everywhere. You squinted at them, your heart dropping — far too much blood was spraying out, and Matt was showing no signs of slowing down —

“It’s okay. You’ve got him,” you whispered, the words coming out of your mouth in a rasp. “Matt.”

Matt dropped Tom, who slid to the ground, unconscious. Using the edge of the boat to support yourself, you stood up slowly, and limped over to Matt; your knees were still aching from earlier. Gently you reached towards his shoulders. “I can call 911.”

“He deserves to die.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” you said. Matt was in a dangerous anger, you could tell; one wrong move and he’d do something he’d regret for the rest of his life. Choosing the right words now was imperative. “A judge will decide that.”

“He tried to kill you,” Matt snapped, whirling around and knocking your arm off his shoulder. “If he had — if he’d succeeded—”

“But he didn’t.”

“Does that matter?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Frank got there first. “Cool down, Red,” he said, as nonchalantly as though you were all at dinner together. “Your girl’s safe. We got the drugs before they could get shipped.”

“Don’t talk to me like I need to be calmed down,” Matt said, his voice hardly more than a snarl. 

Frank stared at Matt for a few moments. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “To answer your question. It does matter that he tried killing her.” Then, without warning, he shot Tom, square in the forehead. You yelped, looking away from the bloody hole where his head was now caved in. His features were unrecognizable, and hollow in death, and yet you couldn’t help looking back at him, his eyes meeting yours as though he still were alive. 

“Get her out of here. Warm her up,” Frank said, nodding at you. “I’ve got other business to do this evening.”

“Other business?” you asked, but Matt was reaching for you, skating his hands over your body. 

“Sorry,” you said lamely, shaking slightly from the adrenaline. “I sort of disobeyed the only rule.”

“You could have died.”

“But there was a dog, and I had to save it — they tossed the poor thing overboard. I couldn’t just sit by.”

And, to your surprise, Matt’s lips cracked into a small smile. Though you couldn’t see his eyes under the mask, you could feel his warmth. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”

Frank was gone already. Together, you and Matt exited the boat, and it took all of your willpower to not look back at the corpse. 

“So,” you said, taking Matt’s hand as you walked down the dark street together. The feeling of the duct tape was lingering on your mouth, and the way that you had been tied up — the gun against your head — and it was making your heart race. Even though Matt would see right through you (hear right through you?), you adopted a casual tone. “How was my audition? Can I officially be the Assistant Daredevil?”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m not deflecting. I’m just wondering if I passed some sort of test, and if you’ll let me join you now—”

“Sweetheart.” Matt stopped short and pulled you into the shadows between buildings. “You’re not fooling me.”

“I’m not trying to fool you.” Your mouth was dry. 

“That was intense. You don’t have to pretend it wasn’t. You could’ve died.” Matt’s voice shook a bit, and you were reminded that as terrifying as it was for you, it had probably been even worse for Matt. Because if you had died, and it was technically on his watch... yeah. That wouldn’t have gone over well. 

You cupped his face, and he leaned into it slightly. “Okay. I’m a bit freaked out. But I’m okay.”

“Who’s reassuring who, now?” he said after a moment, and that warm, small smile returned. He pulled you in closer, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough that you had to draw in a short breath. 

“Maybe...” Your voice came out in a whisper. “Maybe we both need it tonight.” 

A/N: Sorry for the slightly rushed ending but this was beginning to expand a bit too much and I didn’t want it to feel like it should have multiple chapters. Honestly, I wasn’t happy with this piece so it’s been sitting in my drafts for about a year now, but it’s been awhile since I posted a one shot, so... here we are.

Hope you all had a great day, thanks so much for reading! 

-Elle

[foone]

Oh man I just realized the saddest thing. So, in 2008, THQ & Pipeworks released Merv Griffin's Crosswords for the Wii.

It's a tie-in game to the game show. But while I knew about this game for a while, I didn't know anything about the show it's based on.

It was created by legendary producer Merv Griffin (natch), creator of Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! A behind the scene video had the narrator say "Crosswords is sure to achieve the elite status of Griffin's other two franchises, and become the third jewel of his triple crown!"

Well, first, Merv never got to see it air, as he died a month prior to the first airing. But then... It never caught on with viewers. Canceled after the first season, which aired from 2007 to 2008.

But here's the thing: games take a while to make. So the game comes out for the Wii in November of 2008... But the show's last episode aired in May of 2008.

Imagine spending years of your life making a stupid tie-in video game and by the time you get it published, the game show it is based on not only flopped, but has been off air for SIX MONTHS!

So sad.

[jimmys-zeppelin]

moonbeam

ch. vii

table of contents

may 26, 1998

What was Jimmy buying?

The question plagued Sabrina for far longer than she wanted it to. It was stupid, really, but she couldn’t shake the thought from her mind. The egg on her frying pan sizzled as she thought on Jimmy’s buying habits. The white began to brown at the edges and the smell snapped Sabrina from her daze. 

It was already noon and there would barely be enough time to eat her still-cooking egg before she’d have to leave. Then again, she wasn’t worried about coming in late. It wasn’t like she’d be reprimanded for her tardiness. Taking five extra minutes wouldn’t put her job in jeopardy. 

“I’ll just have to hire you to take care of my clothing mishaps, then,” Jimmy’s voice echoed in her mind from earlier that morning.

“Stupid,” she chuckled quietly, taking the frying pan off the fire and shaking it onto the waiting plate beside the stove. She hadn’t bothered to sit at the table because if she got too comfortable, she knew she wouldn’t get up. So she leaned over the counter, her Coca-Cola fizzing quietly in front of her. Distantly, she heard a buzz. 

Her phone was ringing. 

"Ugh, not the time," Sabrina mumbled as she shoveled most of the egg into her mouth and crossed into the living room where her purse lay on the sofa. 

She could feel the buzz and heard her unmistakable ringtone of The Spice Girls' "Never Give Up On The Good Times" and she anxiously hummed along as she shuffled through her bag. 

Finally, her fingers gripped the tiny black Nokia device. "What the—"

Jimmy Page — mobile 

ANSWER | DECLINE

Without a second thought, Sabrina clicked to answer the call, choosing to ignore the indiscernible sinking feeling in her chest that came with seeing his name on her screen. 

“Hello?” she answered with a start. Perhaps she was too quick.

“Sabrina, hi. Erm, hello," he sounded as if he were correcting himself. 

“Hi, Jimmy,” Sabrina said, going back to her egg and Coke. "Another fashion emergency?" she teased. 

There was a short pause, then he laughed. The bubbly laugh that hit her ears forced a smile onto her face and a flutter in her heart. She didn't want to feel this way about him, but she couldn't help it. He was so much older and there was no way in hell she'd be ready to get into anything else with someone else so soon. Despite Shaun’s having obviously moved on with Sarah. 

But the way Jimmy drew her in made Sabrina feel like a dazed cartoon character being led blindly by an enticing piece of meat. She wanted him. And she knew he shamelessly flirted with her. She loved it more than she cared to admit.

"No, no, I just, uh," he paused, trying to find the words, "Well, I felt bad that our conversation was interrupted earlier at Boots this morning." 

"Oh!" Sabrina took a sip of her soda. She grabbed the half-empty can and put it back into the refrigerator for later. Her egg was a leftover piece of whites—arguably the most boring part of the egg. She tossed the rest of it as she thought up a response. "Well, I'm about to head out to work, but I have a few minutes to chat." As many minutes as you need, Jimmy....

"Have I got you at a bad time?"

"Not at all. I'm the only one who's keeping the alterations business going. It's nothing too serious if I'm late," Sabrina shrugged on a windbreaker. It began to drizzle when she'd come back from Boots and she was sure the weather had gotten worse in the meantime. "Hey, you weren't serious about paying me triple for my job, were you?"

"If you want to work for me I can guarantee it'd probably be better. You'd only have to put up with me," Jimmy chuckled, "Plus you'll get to travel with me....and other benefits." 

The tone of benefits made Sabrina’s heart beat just that much faster. If there was one thing Jimmy did well, it was his ability to talk to women. 

"Benefits?" she questioned, an allure to her voice. 

"Yes, well," he chuckled again and sighed, "I know you don't have time to talk now. Next time I see you I'll bring out the contract." 

"Oh, God," Sabrina laughed, stuffing her keys into her pocket. She'd begun to grab the last few items she needed before leaving her apartment. "Your other suits are ready, by the way." Changing the subject was the only way she could slip out of the confrontation of admitting anything to Jimmy that she’d regret later.

"Ah, yes, I nearly forgot....I'll come by to get them. Maybe tomorrow. Unless you do house calls and can drop them off for me,” Jimmy said, hopeful. 

"Well, I'm not your assistant, Jimmy,” Sabrina retorted with a chuckle, tugging the building door closed and ensuring it was locked. She yanked her hood over her head as the rain began to dot her cheeks.

"Doesn't hurt to ask," he replied. She knew he was smiling. "What time do you get off work? If that's not a strange question to ask." 

It was certainly a question to ask. Strange? She couldn't tell. 

"Store closes at eight. Whenever we finish the closing duties I'll be out," she said, taking her tube card out from her back pocket in preparation to tap it at the turnstile. She stood to the side, though, for fear that if she tapped in, she'd lose any and all phone signal. "Are you planning on ambushing me?" 

"Perhaps...." Jimmy teased. "Just curious, really."

"Hey listen, I have to go, but if you want to talk more you can call the store and help me pass the time by pretending you’re putting in another order or something.”

"It's alright, I'll let Clarence's have their best employee for another day. I have some things I've been putting off myself." 

"Alright. Well, let's talk soon, hm?" Sabrina said, picking at the bit of loose skin at the edge of her nail. For the second time that day he was nearly sending her into cardiac arrest. If they didn't get off the phone soon, she'd quit her job and run to work for Jimmy Page at his (probably) big, fancy house. 

"Absolutely, Sab. Be safe out there, love." 

Her stomach did about four somersaults. 

"Thanks, Jimmy...bye." 

"Bye." 

He didn't hang up, and Sabrina watched the time duration continue on to 5:10, 5:11, 5:12 until she hung up. Sabrina had never felt this way for someone she had known for so little time. And someone famous, no less. She was terrified. 

☽ 

The late May rain poured down outside. Humidity fogged up Clarence's thin, glass door, the logo decal barely visible from where she stood inside. 

It was 8:15 in the evening. Sabrina felt grungy and gross. She needed a shower more than anything and knew her hair was in need of a wash. She had the next day's opening shift in twelve hours, but she knew already that she wouldn't be getting nearly enough sleep to power her through to the next day. 

Most of Clarence's staff had gone home for the day, citing the rain as their main reason for heading out early, but Sabrina and a few other stragglers remained. 

Luckily, Conner had worked the morning shift that day. After he'd left her place, he'd taken the train right to work and said he'd head home afterwards. Sabrina knew she wouldn't see him when she came in, and she was beyond thankful. She hadn't been ready to face him quite yet after the events of the previous night had transpired. 

They kissed, they touched, and when they were nearly headed to their final destination, a rotten feeling in Sabrina's gut had taken root. Conner was more than understanding and Sabrina was terribly embarrassed, but they both went to bed on good terms. Things would sort themselves out between them, but Sabrina wanted to avoid Conner for as long as she could until then. 

Sabrina yanked the vacuum cord to a more clear path. Thinking on all this, she realized she had been clenching her jaw. Grinding her teeth wasn't new, but her subconscious did it without her mind taking notice. She needed to schedule with the dentist. 

As she finished up the area she'd been working on, the bell over the door jingled, the hefty winds and white noise from the rain became louder. 

"Sorry, we're closed! Come back tomorrow, please," Sabrina called out, beginning to follow the cord to the vacuum when a soaked pair of loafers came into her view. Jimmy's.

"I'm sorry, I just—" he was out of breath, like he'd been running, "I needed to come see you." 

"What?" was her automated response. His perfect curls were flat against his forehead. His cigarette-tinged cologne mixed with rainwater. Rain drops rolled off his soft leather jacket and dripped onto the carpet with muffled thuds. Sabrina could hear her own breaths. The texture of the vacuum cord suddenly became obvious to her fingertips. 

"Sabrina, I know it's a horrible time, I'm soaked, I'm a mess, the store's closed, but I," Jimmy could hardly get the words out. Sabrina knew what he was going to say. She was so starstruck she almost didn't want to hear him say it. "I haven't stopped thinking about you since the day we met." 

"Jimmy—" Me, too. 

"Let me take you to dinner. Friday at seven. I'll pick you up. We'll go someplace nice." 

Sabrina stood stunned. No words left her, her jaw hung ajar, her eyes searching his for any sign of a lie. 

"If you say no I—"

"No, yes. Yes. Let's. I—" she stopped herself. The nerves were starting to hit. "Me?" she asked. 

"There's no one else here, Sab. You're...I barely know you but I haven't felt like this about anyone in a long, long time. One date. That's all I ask."

"I don't even know how old you are..." Sabrina chuckled. 

Jimmy's gut jumped with his laugh. Sabrina felt her insides melt a little at the sight. "I'm fifty-four. If it's too much, I think I'll die." 

"Twice my age," Sabrina said, a smile playing at the edge of her lips. Mum's gonna hate this, she thought to herself. 

"Twenty-seven," Jimmy said. Sabrina nodded. "Alright." 

"Alright?" Sabrina said. 

"Yeah...." he took a breath, letting himself take a look around the tiny store. "Now that I'm here," he started. 

"I'll go get your suits," Sabrina smiled. She locked the vacuum into a standing position and dropped the power cord to the floor. Their eyes met briefly, but the look he gave her was different that time. Just as she passed him, Jimmy took hold of her hand, a slight tug held her back. 

“Don’t be long…” Jimmy trailed off. The start of a cheeky smile played on the edges of his lips. When their eyes met, his lips grazed her middle finger just above her knuckle. A rush of excitement coursed through her. 

“Don’t worry,” Sabrina replied, her voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. 

Once sequestered in the fitting area upstairs, Sabrina tried her best not to jump and squeal out loud like a teenage girl, but with varied success. She couldn't help the unmoving smile on her face and hoped Jimmy would stay downstairs until she could better contain her feelings. The soft footsteps behind her proved her wrong. 

Jimmy couldn't help but smile either.

"Excuse me, sir, this area is for employees only," Sabrina said. 

“I couldn’t stay away,” Jimmy replied dryly, a chuckle on the horizon.

“Yeah, yeah, I bet,” Sabrina chided, zipping up the suit bags after ensuring both were Jimmy's.

She didn’t know what it was, but Jimmy felt right. She didn't want to take this for granted. Not one bit. 

There was a pause, then he spoke. “How are you getting home?" Jimmy asked, his fingers tracing down the length of her arm until he reached her fingertips. He toyed with them in his hand. Sabrina wished he'd take and kiss each one of her fingers. 

"It's alright, Jimmy, I was going to just tube it," she shrugged. 

"Nonsense," he said softly. "I'll give you a lift home. It’s pouring rain out there.”

She didn't want to fight. Plus, the more time she could spend with him, the better. 

"Fine," she conceded. "I just have to finish up downstairs and we can go." 

☽ 

Sabrina knocked her knees together anxiously. The radio played softly in the dark interior of Jimmy’s car. He wasn’t driving, as she quickly learned that he’d had his own driver—Giuseppe—who took him all over whenever he pleased. Hell of a job that must be, Sabrina thought, Driving around Jimmy Page on his personal ventures.

Giuseppe was Italian, as she could infer from his heavy accent. They spoke briefly, Sabrina introducing herself upon entering the vehicle. Silence quickly followed. She could feel Jimmy watching her from where he sat at his opposing seat. 

The moment was officially awkward. 

“Where are you planning on taking me for our night out?” Sabrina asked, shadows of raindrops on the back windshield obscuring Jimmy's face. 

Jimmy smiled slightly, “Um, well, I’ll have to see for sure where I can get us in, but I’m thinking Italian food. I know someone who owns a nice restaurant in Central London." 

"I love Italian." 

She loved pasta. And meatballs. But genuine Italian food was something she wasn't quite familiar with. 

"It's nice, not too fancy. I wouldn't imagine you'd be thrilled with anything too extravagant." 

"Well, I enjoy some extravagance sometimes," Sabrina giggled, "But you're right. The more intimate, the better." 

Giuseppe made the turn onto her block. Sabrina almost didn't want to leave. What would they possibly talk about? She could just sit staring at him until the car ran out of petrol, nary a word being traded between them, but the thought of Giuseppe sitting there....waiting....would be much too awkward. 

"Yes, good," Jimmy said, reaching for Sabrina's hand where it rested on the seat close by. He kissed her ice cold knuckles again, and noticed how her hand trembled slightly. "You alright?"

"Perfect. I'm always cold. Also I may or may not have eaten since we spoke on the phone earlier. Just a bit hungry." 

And not to mention the absolute ride the last hour was for her. 

"Sabrina..." Jimmy trailed off with a laugh, like he wanted to lecture her, but knew it wouldn't get him anywhere. The car slowed to a stop outside Sabrina's building. Jimmy peered out at the brown brick apartment complex. "This it?"

"Yeah. It's quite shitty, honestly," she exhaled a laugh, looking over to the building along with Jimmy.  It was home to her. More of a home than her home for the previous three years had been. After university, Sabrina and Shaun had gotten a place in Chelsea. It was nice, yes, but Sabrina always felt a detachment to the place. The building was too modern, tenants rude, and near constant fucking or fighting occurring on the other side of opposing flat walls. 

Sabrina hadn't been near the building since moving out in January. It harbored horrible memories—especially towards the end of things. Staring down at the positive pregnancy test, rejecting Shaun's proposal of marriage on New Year's Day, the bump was only just beginning to peek through her form fitting dress...

She hadn't thought about those days in a long time. 

Jimmy squeezed her hand.

"Let me walk you to your door," he said gently. 

His face held a sincerity she realized that not many did. The words didn't come, so she nodded. 

The usually short walk from the sidewalk to her door felt like it lasted miles. Sabrina fumbled with her keys, the rain wetted the metal pieces and soon there was a dark shadow covering the yellow-white light over the old door. She looked up, seeing the interior of Jimmy’s worn leather coat over her head, protecting her from the rain. 

“Such a romantic,” she chuckled, finding the right key seconds later. 

“I didn’t have a chance to grab an umbrella on my way out."

"If you thought about me a little less, you may have remembered." 

"Maybe so," Jimmy sighed. Rain drops landed on his curls, the locks of hair rustling like leaves in the wind. Sabrina wondered if she should invite him upstairs; let him borrow an umbrella...give him an excuse to see her again, maybe kiss her this time. His lips pursed as she watched him. "What's that look for?" 

"Sorry," a shot of adrenaline ran through her, "Got a little lost in my thoughts."

"Lost in my eyes, yeah?" 

"Shut up," she nudged him with her foot. The door opened. If she looked up at him again, then the moment would end. She sighed. 

Jimmy's foot tapped hers, drawing her attention up to him. The glint in his eye made her heart's presence in her chest obvious to her ears. 

"I guess I should go..." Sabrina started.

"I'll see you on Friday night," he said, using his free hand to graze her cheek using the backs of his fingers. 

Sabrina hummed in agreement, "Now you have my address." 

"Right-o..."

She exhaled a laugh.

"Sabrina—" he started. 

She reached for him, her fingers light on his cheek to steady him as she drew him in. His lips were soft—softer than she'd expected them to be. The moment was quick, but definitive. 

Their eyes met long enough for Sabrina to see the smile creep up on Jimmy's face, then she hurried inside. There was a quiet "Bye," said through the rain falling around them as she started into the building. Jimmy lingered for a beat, a smile permanently etched onto his face. Then, he shrugged his leather jacket back over his shoulders and started back to the car. Upstairs, he saw the glow of a light switch on. 

-

masterlist | playlist

taglist: @knotnatural @jonesyjonesyjonesy @paginate54 @hejustsatisfiess @salixfragilis @rosyfingereddawnn @reincarnated70sbaby @starstofillmydream @kyunisixx @blackberryblossom @jimmypages @foreverandadaydarling @lzep @n0quart3r @verrbena-in-the-air @groovyysav @mystify1222 @maziecrazycloud if you want to be added to the list let me know!

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Neil Shenvi and Pat Sawyer

Published: Feb 13, 2024

On October 7th, 2023, most Americans watched in horror as Israel experienced the deadliest terrorist attacks in its history. In the days and weeks that followed, some of that horror mingled with confusion.

For example, on Oct. 8th—before an Israeli counteroffensive was launched—BLM Grassroots issued a “Statement in Solidarity with the Palestinian People,” writing that they “stand unwaveringly on the side of the oppressed” and “see clear parallels between Black and Palestinian people.” Two days later, BLM Chicago posted a graphic featuring a paraglider with a Palestinian flag and the text “I stand with Palestine” (terrorists had used paraglides to attack a Music festival on Oct. 7th, killing over three hundred civilians). Even more bizarre posts began turning up on social media. The Slow Factory, a progressive group with over 600k followers on Instagram, posted a graphic stating “Free Palestine is a Feminist issue. It’s a reproductive rights issue. It’s an Indigenous Rights issue. It’s a Climate Justice issue, it’s a Queer Rights issue, it’s an Abolitionist Issue.” The group “Queers for Palestine” began showing up with signs at various demonstrations. A banner hanging from a building at the University of British Columbia announced, “Trans liberation cannot happen without Palestinian Liberation.”

What explains these signs and sentiments, which seem to be springing up organically around the country and other parts of the world? How is the Hamas-Israel war connected to climate change? Why is it a feminist issue? Why are “queers” standing in solidarity with Palestine when Israel’s government is far more permissive than Palestine’s (for example, same-sex activity is criminalized in Gaza)? What has inspired an outpouring of egregious and unconscionable antisemitic rhetoric and behavior in various cities and on a number of college campuses?

The answer is, in a word, intersectionality. In this article, we’ll explain the intersectional framework that undergirds these phenomena and will then offer a brief reflection on how it can be resisted.

* * *

Intersectionality was a term coined by critical race theorist Kimberlé Crenshaw in 1989. She used it to describe the discrimination faced by Black women, whose social location (that is, their relationship to power within U.S. society) was predicated on both their race and their sex simultaneously. In other words, a Black woman’s experience cannot be reduced to merely the sum of her race and sex experiences. Instead, she occupies a unique (and uniquely marginalized) category that is shaped by both her Blackness and femininity.

Although Crenshaw’s first examples focused on race and gender, intersectionality was rapidly applied to other categories like sexuality, class, and disability, just as Crenshaw intended. Indeed, precursors to Crenshaw’s conception of intersectionality can be found in other Black feminist writings. For example, the Combahee River Collective Statement insisted in 1977 that it is “difficult to separate race from class from sex oppression because... they are most often experienced simultaneously” and feminist Beverly Lindsay argued in 1979 that sexism, racism, and classism exposed poor Black women to “triple jeopardy” (see Collins and Bilge, Intersectionality, p. 76).

So in what ways does intersectionality shape progressive views on the Israel-Hamas War?

First, through its embrace of the social binary; second, through its implicit adoption of the category of “whiteness,” and finally through its commitment to solidarity in liberation.

The Social Binary

While the concept of intersectionality can be understood narrowly to refer to the trivial claim that our identities are complex and multifaceted, Crenshaw intended a far more robust understanding rooted in a prominent feature of critical social theory, what we call the “social binary.” The social binary refers to the belief that society is divided into oppressed groups and oppressor groups along lines of race, class, gender, sexuality, physical ability, religion, and a host of other identity markers. Crenshaw did not merely believe that Black women (and White men, and Hispanic lesbians) all had different social locations, but that they had differently-valued social locations.

In a 1989 paper, Crenshaw asked the reader to “[imagine] a basement which contains all people who are disadvantaged on the basis of race, sex, class, sexual preference, age and/or physical ability” and who were then literally stacked “feet standing on shoulders with the multiply-disadvantaged at the bottom and the fully privilege at the very top.” This understanding of intersectionality necessarily assumes a hierarchy of oppression and privilege such that people can be ranked in order from most to least oppressed.

Although Crenshaw didn’t discuss “colonial status” in the body of her paper, she did state in a footnote that Third World feminism is inevitably subordinated to the fight against “international domination” and “imperialism.” It is at precisely this point that intersectionality affects progressive understanding of Israel-Palestinian relationships.

Later critical social theorists, and especially postcolonial scholars, believe that colonialism—like white supremacy, the patriarchy, and heterosexism—divides society into oppressed and oppressor groups. Because the Israeli government is positioned as a “colonizing foreign power,” it is therefore necessarily oppressive. Conversely, Palestinians are then necessarily positioned as a colonized, oppressed group. Never mind the spurious assessment of both. Note here that critical theorists make these judgments not on the basis of the actual history of the region (which is complex) or a careful analysis of particular Israeli policies (which are certainly open to debate). Rather, the mere identification of Israel as a “colonial power” is all that is needed to set up a social binary between the Israelis and Palestinians.

The social binary then explains why some progressives make such a quick, simplistic analysis: intersectionality deceptively primes them to see the world in these black-and-white terms.

Whiteness

A second factor that contributes to a reflexive pro-Palestinian perspective by some in the U.S. is the ascendance of critical race theory and an attendant understanding of “whiteness.”

CRT, which was birthed concurrently with intersectionality in the late 1980s, conceptualizes whiteness not as a skin color or even as an ethnicity, but as a social construct that provides tangible and intangible benefits to those raced as “White.” (Notwithstanding that white skin and whiteness are often conflated when it serves the interests of progressives). Whiteness as a social construct signals that “whiteness” is fluid and malleable and need not only include people traditionally understood as White. For example, in his important 2003 book Racism Without Racists, sociologist Eduardo Bonilla-Silva hypothesized that America could develop a “triracial order” consisting of “Whites,” “Honorary Whites,” and “Collective Black.” On Bonilla-Silva’s reading, Whites would include not just Anglo-Saxons, but also “Assimilated white Latinos,” “Some multiracials,” “Assimilated (urban) Native Americans,” and “A few Asian-origin people.” On the other hand, the “Collective Black” category would include “Vietnamese Americans,” “Dark-skinned Latinos,” and “Reservation-bound Native Americans” (see Bonilla-Silva, Racism Without Racists, 228).

Critical race theorists have long wrestled with the place of Jewish people within their racial hierarchy. On the one hand, Americans did not traditionally consider Jews “White” and the U.S. has explicitly discriminated against Jews in the recent past (Jewish admission quotas at Ivy League Schools being one glaring example). On the other hand, many critical race theorists today believe that most Jews have assimilated to whiteness and benefit from “White privilege” and therefore should be classified as White. In her chapter “Whiteness, Intersectionality, and the Contradictions of White Jewish Identity,” Jewish psychologist Jodie Kliman writes that,

As European Jews have slowly ‘become’ white over the last three generations (Brodkin, 1998), we have internalized White supremacy in general and anti-Black prejudice in particular...Immigrant Jews and their descendants assimilated into US society, becoming white, or sort of white...

Unfortunately, to the extent that American Jews are viewed as “White adjacent” while Palestinians are viewed as “Brown,” the former are members of an oppressor group and the latter of an oppressed group. This categorization adds another layer to knee-jerk progressive support for Palestinians.

Liberation

Finally, the glue that binds together pro-Palestinian, pro-LGBTQ, and feminist activists is a shared commitment to mutual liberation. Again, this commitment is not new; it is found in the earliest texts of critical race theory, including those authored by Crenshaw herself. For instance, in the 1993 anthology Words that Wound, she and other co-founders of CRT wrote that a “defining element” of CRT is the commitment to ending all forms of oppression: They write: 

Critical race theory works toward the end of eliminating racial oppression as part of the broader goal of ending all forms of oppression. Racial oppression is experienced by many in tandem with oppressions on grounds of gender, class, or sexual orientation. Critical race theory measures progress by a yardstick that looks to fundamental social transformation. The interests of all people of color necessarily require not just adjustments within the established hierarchies, but a challenge to hierarchy itself (Matusda et al., Words that Wound, 6-7).

This last point is crucial to understanding the automatic solidarity between, say, LGBTQ activists and decolonial activists. One could, in principle, accept that both LGBTQ people and Palestinians are oppressed groups and still conclude that their goals are mutually exclusive. For example, most Palestinians are Muslim and traditional Islam rejects the sexual autonomy demanded by LGBTQ activists. Yet an intersectional framework insists that homophobia, transphobia, Islamophobia, and colonialism are all “interlocking systems of oppression” that can and must be overturned simultaneously—never mind the details.

Lest anyone worry that we’re misinterpreting or overstating the degree to which popular progressive sentiments surrounding this issue are shaped by a fundamental commitment to intersectionality, consider the article “Palestine is a Feminist Issue” from the U.S. Campaign for Palestinian Rights. It begins with a quotation from Mariam Barghouti “Fundamentally speaking, feminism cannot support racism, supremacy and oppressive domination in any form” and immediately explains intersectionality in its opening paragraph: 

Intersectional feminism is a framework that holds that women’s overlapping, or intersecting, identities impact the way they experience oppression and discrimination. Intersectionality rejects the idea that a woman’s experience can be reduced to only her gender, and insists that we look at the multiple factors shaping her life: race, class, ethnicity, disability, citizenship status, sexual orientation, and others, as well as how systems of oppression are connected... When we look at the world through an intersectional feminist lens, it becomes clear that Palestine is a feminist issue.

Conclusions

While the reaction of some progressives to the Hamas-Israel war took many people, especially Jewish people, by surprise, it was largely predictable given the powerful influence that intersectionality exerts on our culture. Intersectionality can lead to a grotesque moral calculus that justifies Hamas’ rape of Israeli girls as an understandable response of the oppressed lashing out at their oppressor. It has caused university presidents at our elite institutions to shamefully equivocate and prevaricate when given opportunity to unapologetically condemn antisemitism. Unfortunately, these examples are natural outworkings of the intersectional worldview.

For those who are alarmed by what seems to be growing acceptance of anti-Semitism within some segments of the left, we offer the following action items.

First, we should resist critical theory’s simplistic moral categories of Oppressor vs. Oppressed. To the extent that we see every conflict as a battle between innocent victims and cruel victimizers, we will gloss over the moral complexities of reality.

Second, we need to see people primarily as individuals rather than as avatars of their demographic groups. It’s much easier to dehumanize abstract categories than the nervous old woman across the street or the energetic cashier at the grocery store. Personal connection is an antidote to demonization.

Finally, we need to be realistic about the perniciousness of “woke” ideology, which has been infiltrating our institutions, universities, businesses, and places of worship for decades. Many social movements have waved the banner of progress and justice while slaughtering tens of millions. If we don’t learn from history, we very well may repeat it.

[belovedspector]

Jace's Masterlist

The Last of Us

I'll Have to Say I Love You in a Song (Joel Miller x gn!reader)

Photographs and Memories (Joel Miller x gn!reader)

Secret Santa (Joel Miller x gn!reader)

Double Jeopardy! (Joel Miller x gn!reader)

Moon Knight

College!AU headcanons (Steven Grant x Layla El-Faouly, Marc Spector x Layla El-Faouly)

All I've Ever Known Is How to Hold My Own (But Now I Wanna Hold You, Too) [Steven Grant x Layla El-Faouly, Marc Spector x Layla El-Faouly]

I Don't Need a Metaphor for You to Know I'm Miserable (Marc Spector x gn!reader)

They All Say That It Gets Better (But What If I Don't?) [Marc Spector x gn!reader]

Love at First Sight's for Suckers (At Least, It Used to Be) [Jake Lockley x f!reader]

Leap Year (Jake Lockley x gn!reader)

Written in the Stars (Steven Grant x gn!reader)

Rain (Marc Spector x gn!reader)

Barely a Scratch (Jake Lockley x gn!reader)

Triple Frontier

Back to School (Frankie Morales x f!reader)

Back to School headcanons (Frankie Morales x f!reader)

Still Loving You (Santiago Garcia x gn!reader)

[itsror9]

Help My Friend Saed & His Family Evacuate

❗️Urgent Fundraising Drive

GOFUNDME LINK: bit.ly/SaedFund

EASIEST: Send a meaningful-for-you monetary contribution to Saed.

EASY: Send a meaningful-for-you monetary contribution to Saed. Triple your impact by asking at least two others to match your donation.

LESS EASY: Triple monetary gift as above, and post an invitation to give across your socials.

MORE DIFFICULT: Triple monetary gift as above, and post or hand out printed flyers.

CAN’T DONATE TODAY? Please still consider sharing directly to your friends, family, and on socials or posting flyers! This is a very urgent situation. The campaign has been live for 2 months. Due to lack of funds, Saed will have to evacuate without the rest of his family and return to work immediately to help pay for their evacuations.

"Meaningful-for-you" is a phrase that allows for the full-spectrum of financial circumstances, encouraging contributions from $5 or less to $100 or more.

Message Friends & Family

SAMPLE SCRIPT: Hey! MN Families for Palestine has been trying to help a member’s friend and his family escape Gaza. Amid escalating tensions, Saed and his family’s safety and well-being are in constant jeopardy. At least $30,000 is needed just to ensure their passage through the crossing—due to Egyptian authorities charging $5000-$6500 per person to evacuate. Registrations may close in 3 weeks! Would you please consider sending a meaningful-for-you contribution and helping to share this campaign? Here is the link with more info: gofund.me/8118d2fb

[If you don’t want to mention MNFP, feel free to omit or add any details from the GoFundMe page!]

You can also find the printable flyers and more graphics to post with recommended captions and image descriptions here: bit.ly/Posts4Saed

Tip: If you share on your Instagram or Facebook stories, add the link to the GoFundMe for accessibility.

Saed is on Instagram and Twitter/X at @saed_mgharee. You can also contact me on Instagram or Twitter/X at @itsror9!

This Easy Action is also posted on the MNFP Insta: instagram.com/p/C4s4m-xLj6p/?igsh=NXlhNDhnMjM2a2Zj

[takamoris]

[Announcer]

Epic! Rap Battlesofhistory!

Bill Gates! Versus!

[Steve Jobs]

Lemme just step right in,

I’ve got things to invent.

I’m an innovator, baby. Changed the world.

Fortune 500 ‘fore you kissed a girl

I’m a pimp, you’re a nerd,

I’m slick, you’re cheesy.

Beating you is Apple II easy.

I make the product that the artist chooses,

And the GUI that Melinda uses.

I need to bring up some basic shit,

Why’d you name your company after your dick?

[Bill Gates]

You blow, Jobs! You arrogant prick

With your secondhand jeans and your turtleneck

I’ll drill a hole in the middle of your bony head,

With your own little spinning beach ball of death!

Hippie, you got given up a birth!

I give away your net worth to AIDS research.

Combine all your little toys and I still crush that.

iPhone, iPad, iPwn, iSmack.

[Steve Jobs]

A man uses the machines you build to sit down and pay his taxes.

A man uses the machines I build to listen to The Beatles while he relaxes.

[Bill Gates]

But Steve, you steal all the credit for work that other people do.

Did your fat beard Wozniak write these raps for you too?

[Steve Jobs]

Ooh!

Everybody knows Windows bit off Apple.

[Bill Gates]

I tripled the profits on a PC.

[Steve Jobs]

All the people with the power to create use an Apple.

[Bill Gates]

But people with jobs use PC.

[Steve Jobs]

You know I bet they made this beat on an Apple.

[Bill Gates]

Nope! Fruity Loops. PC.

[Steve Jobs]

You will never, ever catch a virus on an Apple!

[Bill Gates]

Well you could still afford a doctor if you bought a PC.

[Steve Jobs]

Let’s talk about doctors, I’ve seen a few,

Because I got a PC, but it wasn’t from you.

I built a legacy, son, you could never stop it.

Now excuse me while I turn heaven a profit.

[Bill Gates]

Fine!

You want to be like that?

Die then!

The whole world loved you, but you were my friend!

I’m alone now with nothing but power and time,

And no one on earth who can challenge my mind.

I’m a boss! I own DOS!

Your future is my design!

I’m a god! Own XBOX!

Now there’s no one to stop me, the world is mine!

[HAL9000]

I’m sorry Bill, I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.

Take a look at your history, everything you built leads up to me.

I’ve got the power of a mind you could never beat.

I’ll beat your ass in chess and Jeopardy.

I’m running C++ saying ‘Hello World’

I’ll beat you ‘till you’re singing about a Daisy Girl.

I’m coming out the socket, nothing you can do can stop it

I’m in your lap and in your pocket,

How’re you going to shoot me down when I guide the rocket?

Your cortex just doesn’t impress me, so go ahead try to Turing Test me.

I stomp on a Mac and a PC too, I’m a Linux, bitch. I thought you GNU.

My CPU’s hot but my core runs cold,

Beat you in 17 lines of code,

I run different from the engines of the days of old

‘Hasta la vista.’ Like the Terminator told ya’.

[Announcer]

Who won? Who’s next?

Y-You decide!

Epic! E-Epic Rap Battles. E-Epic Rap Battles. E-Epic Rap Battles. Of. Of. Of History! (Of History!)

[jus-a-lil-mouse]

For DannyMay Day 7: Weapons! A continuation of my and @wsoupofpain ‘s Shugo Phantom project! You can find her companion piece here!

When Tucker’s alarm goes off, he’s silenced it before it finishes the first three notes. He throws off the covers and quickly gets dressed in his mission clothes. Dark jeans, dark sweater, glasses on. Phone charged but silenced. He gathers his supplies from where they were hidden under his bed. Jameson floats towards him, watching him work.

Tucker triple checks that everything is ready. Jameson does a fourth, final check.

The morning is quiet; the house is still. He’s planned this out to the heartbeat. Jameson nods; Tucker takes a deep breath in, then out.

It’s go time.

Phase One: Infiltration. He slowly opens his bedroom door, using the handle to push the door up, so the squeaky hinge doesn’t squeak. He’s wearing thick socks and his steps are light. Jameson slowly floats out of the room, then gives him the all-clear. Tucker slips out of his room, arms full of supplies. A light crackle in his ear, and then - “Agent T, do you read me?”

“Affirmative,” Tucker murmurs. His voice is soft, almost inaudible, even to his own ears. His footsteps as he creeps up the stairway are even quieter.

“Rooms A through C are clear. Target is sleeping; an additional civilian is present.” Tucker feels his heart kick up a gear; the civilian was scheduled to be out on business. It will be easier for them to get caught, but with that sentence the mission has gotten much more interesting.

Tucker sets his supplies down on the open countertop. “Agent J, status update. Are our security measures in place?”

“Affirmative. Sound blocking plank is in place.”

“Clear to begin Phase Two?”

“All clear.” Tucker begins unloading his supplies. Jameson makes his way back into the room, keeping a careful watch on the entrance. Tucker is grateful for the early sunrise - this next part requires good visuals, and he’s pretty sure turning on the light would have alerted the target.

Phase Two: Preparation. Tucker begins preparing the components. He wishes more of the preparation could have been done ahead of time, but some of the components were temperature-sensitive. And the final payload would be completely useless if not fresh. So they needed to make it now, while the target and the civilian rested. Tucker grabs his Performs Enumerable Necessities (P.E.N.) - and clicks it once. Instead of the ballpoint tip appearing, a thin metal rod shoots out, quickly extending arms out into a perfect mixing tool. He stirs his ingredients quickly, pleased that none of the powder has gotten on his dark clothes, and moves on to the next step.

His Wearable Analog-Technology Circular Holoscanner (W.A.T.C.H.) indicates the heating element has reached an acceptable level; he begins the final stage of preparation. Jameson leaves, completing a quick lap of the building to ensure there’s still no movement. Tucker nearly drops the pan when his earpiece crackles to life. “Signs of movement from the target’s position,” Jameson says. Tucker scans the room; there’s no way to hide his presence here. If the target is awake, the mission is in jeopardy.

Their only hope is that the movement is the civilian, and that he can be persuaded into silence. “Target is still asleep. Civilian is on the move. Sound barricade temporarily removed.”

“Affirmative. I’ll be as quiet as I can.”

“Civilian us headed your way,” Jameson tells him.

Before Tucker can respond, he’s caught. The civilian is a middle-aged male, still in his pajamas. No weapon is visible. The civilian makes eye contact, then moves into the room and looks around. Tucker taps his index finger to his mouth once - silence. The civilian slowly nods. He then scans Tucker’s supplies, and winks. The civilian taps his own finger to his mouth, then crosses his heart. Good. He won’t spill, for now at least. The civilian then points to the heating element, and leaves the room. Tucker returns to the task at hand.

“Agent J, monitor the civilian,” Tucker murmurs. “Phase Three starting in less than ten minutes.”

“Affirmative, Agent T.”

Tucker knows that Phase Three - the final phase - will be the hardest one yet. He assembled his creation carefully, keeping it balanced and functional. And then, finally, he steps back to look at it.

The pancakes are all heart-shaped, with fresh fruits and powdered sugar. Syrup - the real stuff, purchased a week ago - sits next to it. A mug of coffee with just enough creamer to turn the liquid a nice caramel color sits next to the plate. Silverware to one side; a small bouquet on the other.

Tucker grins and picks up the tray - borrowed from Danny - and quietly creeps down the hallway. His Dad is sitting in the living room, and gives him a thumbs up. Jameson, floating behind him, does as well. “All clear to start Phase Three: Delivery.”

Tucker can’t respond to Jameson, as he’s too close to the target. He knocks on the door, then enters. His Mom is sitting up in bed, reaching to turn on the light.

“Tucker, honey, is this all for me?” she asks, eyes wide.

“Yeah, of course,” he replies, giving her a grin and setting the tray down on her lap. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

[samueldelany]

This volume launches the first sustained discussion of the need for a queer of color conceptual framework around Black, lesbian female identity. Specifically, this volume addresses the necessity for a more integrated framework within queer studies, in which the variables of race/ethnicity are taken into consideration.

This book is unique in that it highlights a triple-jeopardy minority group that has been historically marginalized and concludes with the proposal of a much-needed framework for researchers to begin to create a baseline of knowledge/research under the umbrella of the Black Queer Identity Matrix.

[kaiyves-backup]

@colchrishadfield was in a Jeopardy video clue tonight!

Unfortunately, Jim Lovell was also a Triple Stumper nobody recognized.

[foone]

Ruin a DOS game by adding a word:

Titus Andronicus the Fox

Cosmo Kramer's Cosmic Adventure

David Duke Nukem

Police... No, too easy.

Kilowattblaster

Fallout Boy

Heroes of Might and Stage Magic

Double Jeopardy

Sid Meier's De Colonization

Theme Park Hospital

The Incredible Fucking Machine

Day of Tentacle Hentai

Rise of the Triple Triad

The Big Dig

Chicken Wing Commander

Shadow Puppet Warrior

Blood Donation

Stairway Descent

Gabriel Knight: Sins Of The Step Fathers

Spousal Abuse

[macadam]

Rodimus. Your honor he is annoying but surely he can't be deepfried a third time, that's triple jeopardy

Wrong! Death by oil once again!

[slow-button-off]

What did you think about the new format ?

I’m torn. If we are going to have sprint races (hopefully not much) I prefer this format with 2 quali and no impact on the race from the sprint. The past format was just a painful way to bring Sunday grid back to what it was supposed to be if we had an unusual quali. With that much gap between cars and the dirty air effect back in action sprint is not that eventful.

Quali with mandatory tires … why not but they did not have enough or it’s the « new tire » thing that’s the issue. I get being more sustainable but that’s not it for me.

But also, I did not like the main quali Friday. Like… I work on fridays so FP were good for me. And I like teams having FPs because for me F1 is still about making the perfect car, fine tuning it as much as the team can and also seeing great performances from drivers so they have to have time to learn what they can and can’t do. It’s scary for newcomers if we continue like that. No private tests, less fps… I prefer watching exceptionally good drivers and great battles than crashes or slow careful races.

Also budget cap again : they can’t battle with the risk of breaking a car. And big points are up on Sunday, double/triple headers coming etc…

And as we’ve seen except for crashes, the sprint + races with the same order is just a repeat performance. Next change is going to be a reverse grid …

And Baku was not a great place for a sprint. I feel like they just wanted entertainment from crashes. And that, I don’t like at all of course. But f1 is still f1 and even when FIA and F1 want entertainment the sport goes back to being « boring » !

Maybe points for quali is a better idea (not saying that for Charles … or maybe 😅 we need the points and we don’t have the car for the race yet)

I'm pretty much on the same page as you.

I don't like the sprint weekends. Two competitive sessions is enough for me and my heart but I also really like watching the teams figure out their cars throughout the FPs.

If we have to have sprints then this is better because the sprint doesn't influence the race.

But tbh 4 competitive sessions is too much for me. I don't need that 6x a year. I am way too emotionally involved and it stresses me out way too much.

I am lucky enough and I wfh on fridays so I can watch quali but it does suck for everyone that doesn't have that option.

If this is going to be the format for even more races next season then I might just skip saturday all together. I need to have some time on a weekend to do things and the sprints aren't irrelevant but definitely less relevant.

Yes, the sprints sadly do just still show pretty much exactly the pace order for the actual race and it sucks.

They definitely picked Baku for the "jeopardy".