#Brighton Press

[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.

[goodgooner]

Every word from Arteta's Brighton press conference

Our manager discusses Saturday's opponents, issues a team news update and reflects on Pele's influence on the global game

[klausysworld]

can u write something about damon just being soft and whipped for his girl. just need a damon fluffy fic rn 😩😩

Everything to him

Damon stood with his arms around his girl’s waist as she finished her makeup in the mirror. His chin on top her head as he watched as she layered the romantic red lipstick onto her soft plump lips. He could only hope to have their prints all over him by later that night as she looked herself over.

“You look perfect” he mumbled when she frowned a little and tilted her head. “There’s absolutely nothing I would change, in fact although the makeup has you looking all this much sexier, even without you wear the face of an angel” he purred seeing her lips lift into a smile and her head turn to look at him.

“I’d say flattery gets you no where but it seems to have gotten you rather far as of now” she lifted her arms over his head and round his neck while batting her lashes as him. He pulled her closer so his lips ghosted hers and his eyes dropped at the feeling of her fingers in his hair.

“I only tell the truth to you” he whispered gravelly and she hummed in reply, scratching at his head slowly knowing how it affected him. His eyes shut and pressed his forehead to hers “god I love you” he muttered and her smile grew

“I love you Damon Salvatore” she grinned and he tilted his head slightly to have his lips against hers. He allowed her to take the lead, moving her mouth against his and Brighton’s her other hand up to cup his face as both his hands slid up her back to hold the tops of her arms.

“You’re going to ruin my hair” he muttered and she laughed lightly against his lips before pulling back to look at him, her fingers running through each lock

“I like it messy” she decided before brushing it through with her hands and positioning it in a way that she found suited him best. His eyes glossed over as he watched her loving smile and felt her gentle touches. Her fingertips dances down the back of his neck and round to the front before she adjusted his leather, pulling it tighter on him and wetting her painted lips. Her palms smoothed down his chest, her deep red nails dragging down his black t-shirt before pulling up the hem only to groan at his display of abs. Her thumb tracing his happy trail and stopping at the top of his low-hanging jeans. Her fingers skimming over his belt in a teasing manner.

“Y/n…” he muttered feeling his body getting aroused by her actions “we have a reservation”he reminded, a breath of air leaving him as her hand cupped his crotch through his trousers “baby…” he whispered “you can almost never get a table there”

She sighed and gave him a light squeeze, listened to him grunt and then fixed his shirt and stepped back admiring him “okay…but after…” she pouted and he nodded eagerly

“After you can do anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

She bit her bottom lip gently and held her hand out which he quickly took with a lustful smirk in place.

He kept a hand in hers the whole drive there, only breaking the hold for a second as they got out the car before an arm was back round her hips. She smoothed her cherry coloured dress down, adjusting it to rest a little lower on her thighs as it had ridden up in the car. His gaze dropped to her heels which make a distinct ‘click’ with each step she took. His eyes followed back up her gorgeous legs, along her beautiful figure and back to her face. Watching as she spoke to the waiter at the front who was finding their reservation in the system with a bashful blush on his cheeks as she flashed her pearly white teeth. Damon knew how easy it was to get lost in her charm.

He was barely aware of the world around them as he followed her to their table by the window, overlooking the sunset which was already meeting the stary night sky. Menus were slipped into both their hands and wine glasses filled as though the staff just knew what they would order.

She looked to him with admiration in her eyes and his lips curled up “I can’t believe you managed to book us in here” she whispered and he smiled back

“I can’t believe you almost had us miss our time slot, we only just made it”

“I’m sure I would’ve made up for it”

his mouth formed a lip lifted grin in response and he glanced down to his wine glass “I don’t doubt that, not for even a second” he muttered under his breath and she offered him another award winning smile which consequently brought his own upon his lips.

Her foot slipped out of her heel to leisurely brush along his leg as their food came and they engaged in pointless yet meaningful conversation and ate their meals. And for one of those rare moments, he felt like he was human again. He felt no urges, no lust for blood or chaos, he was calm. Happy.

He loved Y/n in ways he had never explored. Ways he wasn’t sure how to but he did them regardless and if he was doing it wrong, she didn’t tell him. She just helped him feel it, she chose him first and loved him and solely him and it was all he had ever wanted. All he had ever needed.

His mind often wondered at times like this, just listening to her voice and watching her lips move, and then the way her eyes would shine under the light and her hair would bounce over her shoulders as she waved her hands around in unnecessary gestures.

He knew he was smiling like a teenage boy with a crush but he couldn’t help it, even when she stopped talking and just grinned back at him knowingly. Her hand finding his and squeezing gently as their desserts were placed before them.

“If you’d like…we could skip dessert” Damon whispered suggestively making her smile

“Oh but then we’d have wasted our reservation” she sighed and leaned back in her seat, digging into her sweet dish and watching his eyes darken over slightly before he looked down to his food and begrudgingly ate the heavenly portion.

By the time they had both finished, paid and gotten to the door, a horrific amount of rain was bouncing off the ground.

Y/n turned her head to him before swiping the car keys from his hand and dashing for car making him let out a laugh and chase after her, completely forgetting his vampire abilities and just managing to get into the car before she locked it. Both of them looked at each other with large smiles on their faces before each bursting into fits of laughed and flicking their hands at one another to throw rain-water on their faces.

Eventually they got home and Damon had he run his arms, spinning in circles and running for the ridiculously big bathtub so they could soak together in the warmth of both the water and each others arms.

[russo-woso]

Jealous girl || Alessia Russo

Warning smut 18+, strap on, fingering, squirting, cunnilingus, breeding kink, face sitting, orgasm denial, dom!alessia, sub!reader

If you were being honest, you wanted the night to end how it did.

From the moment you woke up, Alessia had been teasing you.

In fact, before you even woke up.

Alessia decided she was going to make it fun for herself today.

Waking you up, she pressed gently kisses along your neck, before beginning to suck on a part of your neck where she knew you loved.

You let out a muffled moan into the pillow as your senses awoke.

“Less…” You attempted to tell her something but when she whispered a shh to you, you knew that Alessia was in one of her, as you’d always put it, one of her teenage boy moods.

“Relax, baby.” Alessia whispered, her tongue soothing the fast forming red mark on your upper neck.

Moving to tower over you, Alessia connected her lips to your revealed collarbone, nipping and sucking at your delicate skin.

You placed a hand in her hair, pushing her head more into your skin, desperately not wanting her to stop.

Whilst focusing on your lower neck and collarbone, Alessia’s hand travelled down your body, lifting the oversized T-shirt up your torso.

You whined as her fingers connected with your clit, feeling the pleasure you’d wanted.

“Lessi, please don’t tease.” You whispered, a pleading look in your eyes, as Alessia circled her fingers at an agonising pace.

“I’m not teasing, pretty girl.” Alessia told you, clearly lying.

“Please go faster.” You begged

You were close to doing the job yourself but you knew the punishment that would go with it.

“On my face.” Alessia said, gesturing for you to sit on her face.

As you switched to the new position, she took your top off completely, admiring your clothes less body before guiding you onto her face.

“Less, fuck.” You cried as Alessia’s tongue ran through your folds.

“You taste so good, baby.” Alessia mumbled, causing a moan to escape your mouth.

You gripped onto the headboard as Alessia’s mouth roped round your clit, pleasure coursing through you.

You started rolling your hips against her tongue to match her pace.

“Less - fuck - you’re gonna make me cum.” You managed to say between ragged moans and cries.

Alessia’s tongue continued to move against your clit, giving you the perfect amount of pleasure.

Your movements died down as you felt yourself get closer and closer to your longing orgasm so when Alessia grabbed your ass, helping you to move against her, you knew you weren’t going to last long.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna cum. Less, oh god-” You started saying but was cut off by Alessia promptly lifting you off her face.

You have her the most angry look you’d ever given her.

“What a shame, baby, look at the time. Jonas wanted us at the stadium for ten. We best start getting ready.” Alessia pointed out, a smirk clearly evident on her face.

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, pretty girl.”

———————

After a well deserved win against Brighton, the season was over and although you’d finished third in the league, everyone was happy.

You had been eager all day to get back home to finish what you’d started this morning.

The moments shared with Alessia was on your mind constantly throughout the match.

What didn’t help was Alessia made it so difficult to make you forget.

Every chance she got to tease you, she took.

When she scored, she picked you up curing her celebration, squeezing your ass, before whispering, ‘I can’t wait to fuck you tonight.’

Her confidence and randomness shocked you but you pushed, attempted to push, it to the side.

During the regular lap around the field, thanking the fans, you felt Alessia’s hand wrap around your waist, guiding you to the tunnel.

“Less, what—” you begin to ask but was quickly cut off by Alessia shushing you.

“—You’ll see, baby.”

Alessia dragged you to the changing rooms, pushing you against the wall.

“You looked so fucking hot with the new kit.” Alessia told you, before placing her lips on your jaw.

Her hands had a hard grip on your hips, allowing barely any movement.

A whine left your mouth as she sucked at your pulse point, Alessia growing more harsher the more noise that left it.

“Less… please.” You mumbled, trying to focus on speaking but it was hard to when the feeling off Alessia’s mouth was on your neck.

You didn’t know what you pleading for. You didn’t know if you wanted her to continue. You didn’t know if you wanted her to stop.

“Hmm, I think we best stop, don’t you? Don’t want any of the girls walking in do we?” Less pulled away, wiping her thumb over her mouth to break away a string of saliva.

“I really hate you. I really do.” You stated, barging past her and to your cubby.

That’s what lead you to getting revenge.

Going out that night with the team meant that you got to dress up and look your best.

Perfecting your hair and makeup for hours, and picking out the perfect outfit, meant that you could get the bestest revenge on Alessia.

The night started well, you were sat next to Alessia, cuddled up in the corner, making conversation with some of the other girls.

As the drinks started to kick in, some of them decided to head to the dance floor.

You decided to join them too, wanting to make the night memorable and fun.

To begin with, the dancing was harmless, you were dancing with some of your best friends with a massive smile on your face, and Alessia was loving it too. She loved seeing you happy so she was more than enjoying seeing you dancing.

But her smile dropped once she saw a man approaching you.

Your smile turned to a grin once he started speaking to you.

Unknowingly to Alessia, you had a grin on your face because you wanted this to happen, this was your revenge.

Alessia watched on, you and the mystery man dancing as one of his hands rested on your hips, where hers should be.

“Someone’s got your girl, Russo.” A thick Irish accent was heard across the table and for once, Katie was scared by Alessia, the face full of anger would have managed to scare anyone away.

Just as the song finished, you turned to face your teammates but before your eyes could get to them, they were stuck on a very angry looking Alessia.

“Hi, baby.” You smiled, pulling her in for a hug.

You noticed the confusion on the guys face and you couldn’t help but giggle.

“Let’s go.” Alessia commanded, taking your hand in hers and practically pulling you out the bar.

“Less…” you began, not knowing her emotions.

"You're mine, pretty girl. No one else." Alessia began, leading you to the car.

"I know, but-"

"-No buts. You know better." Alessia cut you off, flagging down a taxi, opening the car door, allowing you to get in.

The rest of the way home was silent, the tension slowly building up.

Once Alessia had paid the driver, you entered your house, Alessia immediately pressing you against the hallway wall.

"Be a good girl for me and strip and wait on the bed for me. I'm gonna show you that you're mine."

And with that, you walked ran up the stairs, stripping as soon as you got to the room, leaving you in the red set of lingerie, Alessia's favourite.

You'd put it on when getting ready, hopeful that Alessia would actually get to see it.

“You look gorgeous.” Alessia told you as she walked into the room.

“All for you, lessi.”

“All for me, huh?” Alessia questioned and you nodded.

She approached closer and closer until you could feel her breath on your neck.

“You let somebody else touch you, and nobody touches you. Only I get to touch you.” Alessia repeated similar words from earlier.

“Only you touch me.” You confirmed, looking wide eyed at her, your eyes secretly begging her to do something.

“Good.”

With that, Alessia connected her lips to your neck, sucking the life out of it.

Your hands found her back, trying their hardest to take her shirt off.

Eventually, she pulled away from your neck, allowing you to pull her shirt over her head.

At the same time, her hands wrapped around your back, I clipping your bra, before placing her lips on your hardened nipple.

“That feels good.” You hummed as her tongue swirled around it.

You felt Alessia’s hands work their way down your body, her finger looping round the side of your underwear, pulling them off.

“Less, please no teasing.” You begged and Alessia nodded.

“No teasing, pretty girl. I promise.” Alessia said against your stomach, placing a kiss there and lowering herself.

“Please hurry up.” You whined and Alessia tutted in response.

“Desperate are we?”

“I’ve been waiting all day, baby. Please do—” You began but was cut off by a cry leaving your mouth due to Alessia’s tongue flattening itself across your folds.

“That feel good?” Alessia asked into your pussy, vibrations coursing through you.

“Yes, lessi, so good.” You breathed out, your breath already erratic.

Alessia continued to flick at your clit endlessly, pushing you closer and closer.

“Please don’t stop, baby.”

Your hand was in Alessia’s hair, pushing it more into your pussy.

“Never.”

You knew Alessia was going to let you cum, she was also just as desperate. She wanted to watch you fall apart and know that it was because of her.

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum. Please don’t stop. Please.” You rambled, not really caring what you were saying. “I’m coming. Fuck, less.”

Alessia gently sucked at your clit, allowing you to ride out your high.

“You taste so good.” Alessia shamelessly moaned into your pussy as she licked your juices. “Stay here, baby.” Alessia commanded, leaving you to catch your breath as she walked to your closet and reached for the box at the top, pulling out the biggest strap you owned.

You felt yourself drip even more at the thought of it in you.

“On your knees.” Alessia stated, helping you onto your hands and knees. “Good girl.”

You let out a muffled moan at the praise, as you buried your face in the bed, awaiting for what was about to happen.

Alessia rested a hand on your back, her thumb rubbing over it, whilst she guided the tip in.

With ease, the strap entered you and Alessia continued to thrust in until her hips met you.

“That’s it, good girl.” Alessia said, grabbing your hips.

You let out a cry as Alessia pulled out and thrusted back in.

After a few slow thrusts, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please go faster, baby.”

To your surprise, Alessia actually listened and sped her movements, causing pleasure to run through your body.

“Fuck, baby, you look so perfect.” Alessia told you, as you moaned uncontrollably into the duvet.

A loud smack was heard as a bright red mark appeared on your ass.

Alessia grabbed it and massaged it whilst thrusting in and out of you.

“Fuck, you feel so good, less. I’m gonna cum.”

“I’m gonna cum too, pretty girl. Gonna fill you with my cum and make you a mummy. God, you’d be such a pretty mummy. Gonna be pregnant with my baby. Mine. Not his. Not anyone else’s. Mine.” Alessia rambled, her eyes closed at the thought.

“Let me have your baby, less. Cum in me, please.”

“I will, baby.”

Lifting a leg on to the bed, Alessia pounded into you harder and faster, hitting your g-spot perfectly.

Without warning, clear liquid shot out your pussy, soaking Alessia’s abdomen and the duvet.

Your moans were muffled as your arms gave way and your face buried in the duvet.

“Fuck, pretty girl, I love it when you squirt.” Alessia said, rubbing your back as she slowed her movements to not overstimulate you.

“Fuck.” You mumbled, tired, as Alessia helped you into a comfortable position.

“You were amazing, baby.” Alessia gently kissed your head after you rested it on her chest.

“I mean, I’ve been waiting all day.” You told her. “I even purposefully let a man touch me so I could cum.”

“Naughty girl.” Alessia tutted, a small smirk on her face as she realised your plan. “You’re mine though, no one else’s.”

“I’m yours, lessi. No one else’s.” You told her, melting into her.

“Good.”

“My jealous girl.”

[inkblotsinkblots-alt]

My experience with [band]

My experience with [band] and [band]'s management starts in April 2022. I had emailed the band's business email that used to be in their bio in December 2021, and in April 2022 I got a response. I had been asked if I was available within the next couple of weeks to come down to Brighton and do a photo shoot with the band. Management really liked my work, and wanted to work with me. I was asked to provide my rates and any expenses that would incur. I had asked if I would be at least credited for these images on social media (tagged etc ...), and management said that they could not commit to that at that time. This photo shoot did not happen.

I worked with [band] for the first and only time in January 2023 and photographed / videoed their set.

I was completely blindsided by the fact that this could’ve been a huge opportunity for me, and it could change my career completely. When I got the email inviting me to work with the band, I screamed and actually worried my parents for a few minutes. I agreed to terms that I shouldn’t have (not a full written agreement, but various statements in emails). In hindsight I had no clue what some of them meant (and I think the band’s management knew that).

There was no formal contract, only emails. The band would own my photos 'in perpetuity' and when I asked what that meant, they (management) said that 'the band have the freedom to use them however they please'. Making money off of my photos, and putting them on merch that they would then sell out of, was not mentioned. I was under the impression they would only be using the photos on social media as I did not get any clarification, even though I asked for it. I wanted to press for a more detailed answer, but I was afraid that I'd lose the job.

This was never about the money that I'd potentially make from having my photos on merch, it's that I didn't even know it was happening. I was also 'allowed' to upload '3-4' photos to my social media from the gig, even though they were my photos. I was stupid enough to agree with this. Again, I felt as though if I challenged this I would lose the job.

At the end of the show in January 2023 I was promised at least a couple of shows on the upcoming tour, as '[I was] great to work with. Such a pleasure.' I have no evidence that I was offered shows during that tour as it was said to me in person. I was then let down at the beginning of March (after multiple follow up emails) with 'I don't think there is the additional need for your services also' when I asked about discussing the tour. I was devastated.

I was offered photo passes* to subsequent Manchester gigs and I took them as they had no strings attached, and the band would not own my images (that's why you've seen a lot of them on my socials).

I met a bunch of well-known creators, musicians and photographers while working with [band] and they were all so very sweet. Some of which I am still in contact with today, and some I am good friends with. I am very grateful for this.

I fully support Shelby, she is so incredibly brave for talking about her experiences, and it's because of her bravery that I felt confident enough to share my experience - although very different in nature.

I fully believe that [band]’s management wanted to take advantage of fans who wanted to photograph [band]’s gigs. And pay them as little as possible with no consistency in pay between photographers or how many photos they were allowed to post. (This is my own opinion)

I am not the only one that has had a negative experience with [band] and their management as a photographer / creative, but those are not my stories to tell and if they want to comment then they will. Please don't speculate on who these people are or harass them on social media, they have every right to not want to talk about their experiences. Please respect everyone involved.

Massive love, take care of yourselves.

am

(*Photo passes are offered to press photographers and non-touring photographers. They shoot the first three songs from the photo pit and then leave. Either to go into the crowd for the rest of the gig, or leave the gig entirely.)

please do not edit this post or reblog, do not take screenshots and post this on twitter or any other social media platform, thank you.

[samkerrworshipper]

Medication - Leah Williamson

fluff, little bit of angst, anxiety attacks, mentions of depression, 3500 words

balled my eyes out to black fridays by tom odell and then this was birthed.

blurb:

your a rookie on the lionesses squad, who suffers from anxiety and when you stop taking your meds after learning you are starting a game in the euros everything goes downhill for you.

i am so sorry for how vague this was lol i’m writing this and publishing at 2:30 in the morning

I’d never liked gamedays. Everything felt different, all the feelings and emotions heightened. The pressure was insurmountable, especially when you are playing for your nation. Especially when you are one of the youngest, one of the least experienced, one of the youngsters. Today, we were playing Norway, my first game as a Lioness where I was a part of the starting line-up. It was a must win game, the stakes were high for us to win these Euro’s, especially considering it was a home euro’s for us. If we wanted to progress to the finals we couldn’t lose, the pressure was on.

I’d understood that as soon as I’d been notified that I was to start the match, understood that everything changed as soon as you were actually on the pitch. Our one point win over Austria had been great, but we were all hungrier for more, hungrier for the points that we needed to get us ahead in the competition. Sarina knew that there was an expectation for us to win, we all knew that.

I’d been feeling it all week, feeling the anxiety thrumming through my veins as we practised and went about our normal routine for the week. Something was different, it was my first year as a senior Lioness and I’d never been named as a starter. That was a big deal, a really big deal. That was all I could think about. What if I fucked it up? What if I messed up and they told me that I wasn’t going to be welcome back. What if Sarina saw me on the pitch and thought that I was worthless, useless, bad. That was all I could think about as we were standing in the tunnel getting ready to walk out. I was sandwiched in between Lucy and Beth. My hands shaking in my pockets and my breath quickening subconsciously. If I wasn’t aware of it then apparently the defender behind me was, because just as we were about to walk out I felt one of her hands fall to my shoulder, pulling me back into her just enough for her to be able to press her mouth to my ear and whisper,

“You’ve got this amore, you’re going to do perfectly fine,” Lucy’s voice was so strong, but so comforting. She was like an older sister to me, and had been since my first day at training camp. She had been the first person to believe in me besides my Arsenal teammates, the first person to really advocate for my future. She was also the first person on the Lionesses team besides Leah to learn about my struggles with anxiety, adhd and depression. She’d been a light in my life, texted me to make sure I was keeping up with my medication, or just to check in.

In the wake of the Euro’s I’d stopped taking my anxiety meds. I took Lorazepam, which worked really well for me, but it also tended to make me really drowsy and fatigued. Things that are not ideal when you are training and playing almost everyday for your country. It had positive effects, I definitely found it a lot easier to train and play my hardest, but there were a lot of negatives. Like how I was feeling right now. Like my heart was going to beat out of my chest, my hands getting clammy with sweat and shaking non stop like I’d just shot up on steroids. The sound of the crowd at Brighton didn’t help either as we walked out onto the pitch. I struggled to get through the national anthem and the pre game pleasantries, my chest and body hurting from the anxiety that was building up inside of my body.

I was grateful but also not to step out on the pitch properly. It felt like I was on a different planet, my senses overly heightened and my brain short circuiting almost everything.

I could feel Leah’s gaze on me as we all lined up to start the game, she worried about me, a lot. I was also her Arsenal teammate and she’d taken me under her wing beyond football, we’d become very close in our time spent together. I ignored her sidewards glances though, tasking myself with showing our nation that I deserved to be where I was and some jitters weren’t going to affect that.

My first half was rocky, normally with the mixture of adrenaline and endorphins my anxiety subsided when I started playing but this time I must have been too far gone, too much pent up anxiety built up for it to just fade away. It reflected in how I was playing, but our forwards had been flawless, slotting in six goals which put us in a lead that was pretty much untouchable. Clambering into the rooms at halftime was a charade. Everyone besides myself seemed ecstatic and hyped about our lead, I was on the inside but I was also wrapped up in my own bubble. I took a seat on the floor of the change rooms, taking in Serena’s speech about keeping our heads and just continuing what we were doing. I allowed Lucy to pass me a drink bottle, obliging her request for me to hydrate myself. She could tell something was up, she’d been hovering around me on the pitch, covering me. When one of the Norwegian girls had taken my feet out from under me she had immediately been at my side, pulling me up and then yelling at the umpire about how it had clearly been a foul if not a yellow. Leah had to pull her away just to ensure Lucy wouldn’t get carded herself, all whilst I stood there absolutely helpless as result of the amount of effort I was having to put into not collapsing from the amount of pain in my chest.

Leah kept it pretty brief after Serena, sticking to what she’d said and putting an emphasis on a few things before we headed back out. She managed to snag a grip on my jersey though as I trailed with the girls at the back of the group.

“Are you okay?” There was a little bit of captain in it, but it was mostly gentle, her voice a little bit rugged from the amount of yelling she’d done on the field.

“I’m fine.” Her facial expression was enough to tell me she didn’t believe a word I was saying.

“I’m telling Serena to sub you off, you clearly don’t look well enough to be playing.”

“I told you I feel fine Cap, I can play out the rest of the 90, please let me play it out.”

Leah looked conflicted, conflicted with what to do and how to react to my plea. I wasn’t one who begged very often, I didn’t see the point in it.

“Fine but y/n, as soon as anything happens out there, you put yourself in danger or someone else in danger you are going off, understood?”

I didn’t have any other option but to nod at Leah.

“Yes, captain.”

My voice had held some sarcasm as I tore her hand from the bottom of my jersey and started jogging back up the tunnel to catch up with girls that I’d previously been chatting to.

The last ten minutes of the second half was when bad transitioned to really not good. My body began to catch up with my over exertion and every second on the field became a battle. It was a blessing that the ball wasn’t really travelling down my end, Less and Toony had both been substituted in and were having a field day in our forward half kicking it back and forth to run the clock down. The Norwegian girls were giving it their best but you could tell they knew it was over. As the minutes passed though and we went into extra time I could feel my body really starting to get heavier, you could blame it on the lack of hydration and the english heat that we were playing in but I knew it was my body betraying me. I’d been denying my body for too long and it was catching up with me. I didn’t even know how many minutes of extra time we had, my vision was slowly blurring, my steps becoming wobbly and the pain in my chest becoming overbearing.

I could hear my opponent, I think it was Maren, or was it Guro? Asking me if I felt alright. I didn’t really comprehend it though, I couldn’t hear anything properly, it felt like I was underwater, my ears ringing out and my vision blacking over as I fell face first into the turf. Maren managed to catch me before I fully face planted into the grass, helping my limp form down to the ground before starting to yell out for help. It was then of course that the whistles blew and the match ended. I could make out the sounds of the crowd going nuts, maybe even my teammates on the sidelines yelling in triumph. I couldn’t open my eyes though and I definitely couldn’t make out the voice of Maren on the ground beside me trying to ask me questions and attract the attention of a medic. It was all mellowed out as my body succumbed to a coma like state that I’d forced myself into.

Leah and Lucy were the first two from my own team to locate me, passed out on the ground with Maren trying to provide as much privacy for me as possible whilst also pressing her hand to my throat to make sure that there wasn’t anything seriously wrong. It was Maren, Guro had been subbed off at the 84’ minute mark. I remembered that because I’d silently been wishing at the time that Serena would do the same, but she’d made her final changes and taking me off apparently hadn't been one of them.

“Y/n, can you open your eyes for me? Or squeeze my hand?”

I could feel Leah’s own hand fall into mine and I squeezed it as best as I could, it was enough for me to tell her that I was conscious enough to make out what she was saying to me.

“Good y/n/n, the medics are about to be here, can you try and open your eyes and talk for me?”

I tried my hardest to crack my eyes open, when I did finally muster up the will to open one of them I was met with the brightness of the stadium lights. I groaned almost immediately, being forced to take in my surroundings. I was surrounded by our trainers, who were draping different towels over my body in an attempt to cool me down and cover me. My cleats had been removed from my feet and someone was soaking my socks in cold water, something that I was not pleased to be awakened by.

“Good sweetheart, stay focused on me yeah, eyes on me.”

My eyes snapped back up to Leah, who was crouched above my head, Serena and Lucy’s heads were beside her own, staring down at me.

“The medics are going to come look at you and you are going to let them, okay?”

I almost immediately shook my head at Leah but she kept her jaw clenched and her stern face up.

“I’m not asking y/n, you just passed out on the field, you need to be assessed.”

I shook my head again and Leah rolled her eyes at me.

“An-n-xiety.”

I could hardly make out my own words in the stadium full of noise and the words themselves made me realise how much I was struggling to regulate my own breaths.

Leah nodded knowingly, suddenly everything seemed to come into perspective for her.

“You stopped taking your medication, didn’t you?”

I gulped and nodded at her, trying to block out all of the distractions that were happening around me. She looked annoyed at me, I cowered a little bit with the glare that she was giving me. After the last time I went on a sabbatical from my medication I swore to Leah I would never do it again.

As the medics crouched down next to me I shut my eyes again, it all becoming too much for my head. I let the medics fuss over me, I blacked out somewhere in between them putting me on a stretcher and getting me off the pitch.

I reawakened with sweat dripping down my body, all of the oxygen depleting from my body and my chest aching like it never had before. I choked a little bit as I sat up from my spot, gasping for air to enter my lungs. It took me a few seconds to recognise where I was, sitting inside the makeshift medical room at Brighton. My head was pounding and my whole body was aching.

“Y/n, look at me, you're having an anxiety attack, deep breaths.”

“Wh-what.” The words came out in a gasp as I struggled to take in any air, looking at Leah for guidance.

“We’re at Brighton, we just played Norway, you had an anxiety episode on the pitch. You’re having an attack right now, I need you to take deep breaths, follow me, in and out.”

I watched Leah as she exaggerated some deep breaths, if it hadn't been for the circumstance I probably would have laughed at her.

As I slowly started to take in more air she tried a different tactic.

“Good y/n/n, your doing so well my good girl. Can you tell me five things you can see?”

It was deflection, something that Leah had picked up on from her therapist.

“Serena, you, the light, Lucy and a drink bottle.”

Leah nodded at me encouragingly, rubbing slowly up my back as she continued.

“Good, you’re doing so well, how about four things you can feel?”

“Your breath, the scratchy blanket, my wet socks and I don’t know.”

My words were still choken as I used up whatever oxygen I was taking in to get the words out.

“That’s okay, that’s good, you are doing so well for me angel, how about three things you can hear?”

I tried to focus fully on Leah, on her words, her rubbing my back, her breath against my neck.

“Serena tapping her shoe, the heart monitor and the music from the changeroom.”

It was faint but if you focused in enough you could just hear the sound of my teammates in the change rooms, getting up to god knows that with the absence of their captain and manager.

“Perfect, you are doing absolutely perfectly. How about two things you can smell?”

“Antiseptic and your perfume.”

“Good, last one, one thing you can taste.”

I could feel my breath and body evening itself out, it felt like I was a piece of linen that was slowly but surely being ironed out, all of the crinkles and creases leaving my body.

“I don’t know.”

“Last one y/n, I know you can do it.”

“Metal, the iron taste from blood.”

Leah nodded at me, plastering a kiss on my forehead. Her words and actions being enough to bring me back down to earth fully. I very slowly took in my surroundings properly, Serena, Lucy and Keira were all sitting at the end of my bed, watching as Leah did her thing. I was hooked up to a few different things, cords and wires poking out of my extremities. A saline drip, heart monitor and another machine that I wasn’t sure the purpose of.

“Hey my girl, you back here with us now?”

I pushed my head into Leah’s chest, trying to hide from the world that I was now a participating member of.

“No hiding, not here,”

I groaned as Leah pushed me out of her chest, annoyed by the loss of contact and the confrontation of having to be put in front of some of the people I respected most.

“You gave us a fright back there, I think you came close to killing Maren.”

I gulped nervously, hanging onto every word that left Serena’s mouth, just bobbing my head in agreement because what else was I supposed to do.

“M’ sorry, didn’t mean to, just wanted to prove that I deserved to be here.”

Serena’s face held a kind of understanding, like she’d seen girls before me who had been the same, willing to die to prove their worth to the dutchwoman who we all regarded so highly.

“You wouldn’t be here in the first place if you didn’t deserve to be. It’s one thing to push yourself but to the point where you black out on the field is another thing. If it ever happens again y/n y/l/n then I can swear to you now that you will be benched, am I understood.” I nodded meekly at Serena,

“Yes ma’am.”

She nodded at me, she’d gotten her point across.

“Leah tells me this happened as a result of you not taking your medication?”

I pushed my head back into Leah’s chest, grunting at her when she pushed me out of it. I couldn’t do much else but nod at Serena.

“I get side effects ma’am, it makes me drowsy and sleepy, I didn’t want it to affect my game.”

Serena was very quick to fire back at me,

“You take medication to ensure that you feel well, there is no shame in that. If you are having a problem with side effects then you are to bring it up with one of our doctors, not boycott your medication entirely. From now on I am going to be responsible for your medication, you will come to me everyday to take it so I can ensure that you are receiving the correct doses so something like this does not occur again, is that understood?”

I gulped and nodded at Serena. She smiled at me knowingly in return.

“You are an elite athlete y/n, it is imperative that you care for your body. Or something like this happens, something with such magnitude that it can’t be overlooked. Your health and wellbeing comes first, always.”

I nodded at Serena once again, allowing her to give me a hug before leaving the room to give us some privacy. As soon as the door closed behind her I shed a few tears, I hated confrontation, it was one of my biggest fears.

“She’s right y’know, this could have been a lot worse, what if you’d put yourself in a really dangerous position because you were in a bad headspace and ended up seriously injured, you can’t just stop taking your medication randomly y/n, it’s not safe.”

Leah’s voice was murmured against my forehead, her lips staying plastered to the oily and cold skin.

“No one else on the team relies on medication to function, I thought I would be fine, I feel so stupid always being the one having to rely on shit to get through the day.”

I could feel Leah rolling her eyes from above me.

“No one else on the team struggles with intense anxiety and depression like you do, we are all different, we all function differently. There is no shame in needing medication y/n/n, Lucy uses an asthma puffer, does that make her stupid?”

I looked over at Lucy, it was different.

“No but it’s different.”

“How?”

Leah’s answer was fired back at me and I struggled slightly to recover from her sudden reply,

“Lucy has a physical problem, mine’s just in my head.”

“What you went through today seemed pretty physical to me.”

I was stumped by that answer, looking across at Kiera and Lucy who nodded along with what Leah was saying.

“You struggle with your mental health, there is no shame in that. You rely on medication. So what? Good for you for listening to your body and acknowledging that you need that to help you make it through the day. Y/n, there is absolutely nothing wrong with using medication to help you. If I felt sick, with the flu, and I needed antibiotics or whatever, would you think that I was weak for using them?”

I shook my head at Leah almost immediately, the question was a no brainer for me,

“Exactly, because I’d be taking the medication needed to keep me well and functioning. All you are doing is the same thing y/n, keeping yourself alive and well.”

[laundrybiscuits]

Eddie’s doing some dumb trick with a couple of wooden spoons, clever hands making them move through the air in improbable ways, and Steve’s about to bite his whisk in half. 

He’d thought for sure that Eddie would be going home the first week; Edward Munson, 29, bartender/musician from Brighton with mismatched tattoos and wild hair, seemed like exactly the kind of pretentious asshole who would flame out early with some ill-advised hipster experimentation. If Steve (28, social worker from Indiana, USA) had been a complete asshole, he’d have said that Eddie didn’t have the fundamentals. That he was all sizzle, no steak. 

It’s a good thing Steve’s not a complete asshole, because Eddie’s been blowing the technicals out of the water so consistently it’s actually pretty fucking embarrassing. His signatures and showstoppers are making a very respectable showing too, except for the time he tried to incorporate some fresh pandan extract and fucked up the liquid ratio, leaving him with a dripping mess that Mary’d declined to even try. 

Afterwards, Steve had seen him leaning against a tree and struggling to light a cigarette. Steve went over for no particular reason, flicking on his lighter and holding it out like a peace offering. Eddie looked at him warily, but bent over the offered flame. 

“Can’t believe I made it through this one,” Eddie said after a moment, white smoke curling out of his mouth.

“Yeah, I feel like that every week.” Steve leaned against the tree next to Eddie. It was a big tree, the kind that’s probably been growing in this field since before England was even England. 

“Nah, but—c’mon, you know what I mean.”

“You had some bad luck with your showstopper. Happens to the best of us, man. Your signature hand pies looked sick as hell.” Steve’s own hand pies had turned out pretty well, so he was feeling generous. It had only been the third week; plenty of time for Steve to snag Star Baker, though even by that point, Steve had been getting the creeping feeling that he was being a little too American about the whole thing. Everyone else seemed to think competitiveness was some kind of deadly sin. It was—actually kind of nice, to get the same kind of nerves he’d always gotten before high school basketball games, but know that he wasn’t really fighting against anyone except himself in the tent.

Anyway, the very next week, Eddie had done some kind of kickass gothic castle with a shiny chocolate dragon and gotten Star Baker for the second time. Steve had clapped him on the back, appropriately manly. Eddie had pulled Steve into a real hug, arms tight around Steve’s shoulders and his whole lean body pressed up close and warm. It had only lasted a moment, and then Eddie had bounded over to Mel and Sue, both of whom he’s been thoroughly charming since the get-go. 

Steve thinks that when this season—or, uh, series—airs, no matter where Eddie places, the entire country is going to be just as charmed. Eddie’s going to get whatever kind of cookbook deal or streaming show he wants. Sponsors will take one look at that handsome face and charismatic grin, and a whole world of possibilities is going to open up for Eddie. 

Steve’s not in it for any of that, of course. He’s here kind of by accident, because Robin pushed him to apply, and it’s a goddamn miracle he’s been holding his own. Hell, it’s a miracle he’s in this country at all. When Robin had started looking at the Cambridge MPhil program in linguistics, she’d said wouldn’t it be great if and he’d snorted, yeah right, like I could ever get whatever job I’d need to move to another freaking country, but then—well. Things had happened the way they’d happened, and now Robin’s almost finished with her degree and Steve is taking time off from the London charity he works at in order to be on Bake Off. 

He’s told all this to the cameras, plus the stuff about how baking started as a way for him to connect with the kids he used to babysit in Indiana, blah blah blah. He thinks it’s probably too boring for them to air, but he gets that they have to try to get a story anyway. 

Eddie Munson, on the other hand, is probably going to be featured in all the series promos. Steve is rabidly curious about what Eddie’s story is, but he hasn’t worked up the nerve to just ask. It should be the easiest thing in the world. They’ve got kind of a camaraderie going, the two of them; a bit of a bromance, as Mel’s put it more than once. 

It’s true they get along pretty well, and the cameras have been picking up on it: on the way Eddie’ll wander over to Steve’s bench like a stray cat whenever they get some downtime, how they wind up horsing around sometimes, working off leftover adrenaline from the frantic rush of caramelization or whatever. There’s the time Eddie had hopped up on a stool to deliver some kind of speech from Macbeth, of all things, and overbalanced right onto Steve, who had barely managed to keep them both from careening into a stand mixer. Sue had patted Eddie on the shoulder and said, “Well, boys, that’ll be going in the episode for sure.”

They both get along with the other contestants just fine, of course, but they’re two guys of about the same age with no wife and kids waiting at home. It’s only natural that they’re gravitating together, becoming something like friends, Steve figures. It’s pretty great that he’s getting at least one real friend out of this whole thing.

It would be even greater if Steve could stop thinking about Eddie’s hands in decidedly non-friendly ways. With all the paperwork he’s signed, he can’t even complain to Robin about how Eddie looks with his sleeves pushed up to show off the tattoos on his forearms, kneading dough and grunting a little under his breath with effort. Steve had almost forgotten to pre-heat his oven that day. 

Two benches away, Eddie fumbles the spoons he’s been juggling with a clatter, and he bursts out laughing, glancing over at Steve like Steve’s in on the joke. Steve grins back, heart twanging painfully in his chest, and thinks: well, fuck. Guess this is happening.

[so-so-woso]

i wanna be the one | part 3

Summary: Your first season at Arsenal as told by the highlights of your relationship with Leah Williamson. I don’t know how to write summaries, but this one is mostly angst tbh.

Disclaimer: Artistic liberties were taken in regards to Leah’s thoughts, feelings, and opinions as described in the fourth section. I am not/was not trying to extrapolate any of her actual thoughts, feelings, or opinions about anything mentioned in that section.

Word Count: 3,668

The next couple of months went by pretty quickly, all things considered. There were ups, there were downs, you got your first minutes against Brighton that was a bit of both. It was exciting and you were glad you finally got to play, but you let in a second-half goal that tied the match. A draw was a draw, and not a loss, and it was just one goal, and no one else seemed particularly upset with you specifically, but you certainly were. You imagined it was obvious that goalkeepers don’t like giving up goals, but logically you knew they would happen. It just sucked that you felt like you let the team down in your first real chance to play. After the game, you had gone home and immediately threw up, then lay on your living room floor for a couple hours before going to bed at 7 pm. You had always been someone who took things hard, even as a kid, but this one seemed to hit a little bit harder, presumably because you had already been feeling like you didn’t deserve to be here. But then again, you had pretty much always felt like that too, even as a kid. The worse part, probably, was that it also always made you feel stupid – because on the good days, you felt like you knew the truth, how everyone else saw it, how it was. But on the bad days, you couldn’t see anything but how horrible you were at everything you tried to do. That day was a bad day. Luckily, the next few were pretty good.

Before you knew it, it was March, and you were at Leah’s house celebrating her birthday with the team. You had all gone out to dinner, and then back to hers for cake and drinks. You weren’t really sure if presents were part of the deal, so you had made sure to wear a jacket with a big enough pocket to keep yours in, in case they weren’t part of the deal. You supposed you could’ve asked someone, but you were pretty sure some of the others were starting to pick up on the fact that your flirting with Leah wasn’t entirely a joke. Beth and McCabe had both straight out asked you about it once, and both had also quietly informed you that she didn’t date teammates. Katie had actually said that she didn’t date teammates anymore, but wouldn’t say anything else about it and you didn’t want to press, despite being curious. But none of that seemed to dissuade Leah from letting you flirt with her, or flirting with you back. It was still really confusing, but if it was all she would give you, then you would take it. You would also realize of course that this wasn’t entirely healthy, but there were worse vices to have.

So there you were, sitting crowded on a couch in Leah’s living room with your teammates, laughing at Kim and Beth sing karaoke – or try to sing karaoke anyway. You felt like you could say that since you had already embarrassed yourself twice doing the same thing. You had retired from your karaoke career and squeezed onto the couch next to Viv to enjoy the rest of the evening. It was honestly a really good time, and probably one you preferred to the nights you would all go out somewhere. They were fun in a different way, you supposed, but they did usually always end up just reminding you that you really were an introvert no matter how much you would pretend otherwise.

You had caught Leah’s eye a few times throughout the evening, but hadn’t managed to really get in a conversation with her yet, so you ended up spacing out on the couch trying to think of excuses you could make to get her alone. Everything you ended up thinking of would definitely be more obvious than you wanted, though, so ultimately you just stayed awkwardly on the couch for a couple more hours. Eventually people started filtering out, and as much as you wanted to linger, you knew that not only would that be obvious, but with the way Beth was going, she was going to be here for quite a while longer, or until Viv managed to drag her out.

You decided to say your goodbyes and throw one last quip at Katie over your shoulder, who threw a pillow back at you. You laughed and bent down to pick it up and throw it back, but Leah beat you to the punch.

“Don’t throw shit in my house, McCabe,” she called as she tossed it back across the room. Looking up at you then, she said quietly, “I’ll walk you out,” and you felt her hand on the back of your arm as she led you towards the door.

You became uniquely aware of both the soft pressure of her hand and the hard shape of the gift hidden in your pocket pressing against your stomach. You had somehow managed to ignore it all night, but now with her touching you, even as innocently as she had, it was like your senses had shot through the roof. You felt your nerves just begin to buzz as you reached the door and she pulled her hand away, which almost made you more nervous somehow.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, the consummate host.

You smiled and nodded, and said of course, your hand snaking into your pocket to retrieve the gift you’d stored there. You had apparently hesitated long enough that she knew you had something else to say. She looked at you expectantly and you felt that familiar surge of anxiety twist deep in your gut. Suddenly, all of this felt really, really stupid, and you could feel the burning start across your cheeks. You knew Leah could see it, too, from the look of slow growing concern on her face. You mumbled something incoherent and shook your head, pulling your hand from your pocket – empty – and reaching instead for the door. You opened it too quickly and too forcefully, and Leah was still looking at you like she wanted to ask what was wrong, but wasn’t sure if she should, and having her eyes on you made it all so much worse.

You took one step outside and hesitated – a small step for man and a giant leap for cowardice, it felt. You suddenly hated yourself again. Everything was always so easy when it didn’t mean anything, but the second something mattered all you could ever think about was how badly you would fuck it up. But you’ve made it this far into the evening, it would be stupider to just leave, right?...right?

You spun on your heel, and Leah was leaning against the doorframe staring at you. You hated it when she stared at you, almost as much as you loved it. You swallowed hard, and shoved your hand back in your pocket, this time quickly removing the red-wrapped rectangle before your brain had time to consider otherwise.

“Here,” you said. How polite.

You sighed and rolled your eyes at yourself.

“S-sorry, I—I didn’t know what you would want, so I just…it’s my favorite book. You don’t have to—it’s stupid, you don’t have to read it,” you rambled, and she let you, before she reached out to take it from you and held it against her chest as you watched you.

“Thank you,” was all she said. You sighed again and turned away, but your feet wouldn’t move away and your mind wouldn’t either, so you turned back to her.

“It meant a lot to me, when I was kid, after my parents…and, um, then I read it again as an adult and it’s like…it meant more, I guess.”

“…I don’t think that’s stupid.”

You could only hum in response, eyes dropping again for a long moment as you returned to choking down the embarrassment that had started swelling back up in your throat. Then finally, graciously, a firmness settled in your spine and you met her gaze again. God, you really liked looking at her.

“Happy birthday, Williamson.”

A beautiful grin spread across her face in response.

“There she is,” she said, and you knew exactly what she meant. Fear and Doubt and Bad Days made you someone else, and you knew you would have to explain it to her and the rest of the team at some point. Tonight had probably sped up that process quite a bit, but you didn’t think you can handle it right now, and you knew she wouldn’t make you. But she had smiled at you, and that made you smile back, and you felt Good again.

“Good night.”

“…good night, Y/N.”

Yeah, you thought, maybe it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leah tore her ACL in April. That sucked, for a multitude of reasons – mostly for her, obviously, but it still made you feel sick too. You, and pretty much everyone else remotely invested in English football, hated that she’d miss the World Cup. This was supposed to be England’s year, and it could still be, but it wouldn’t be the same without Leah. It wasn’t really comparable, but you’d broken your collarbone once in college and missed most of the season, and you knew how badly that made you feel, even when the team did well without you. Especially when they did well without you. You knew she’d pretend it was okay because things like this happen, but you also knew she probably wasn’t really okay.

You had called her the evening it happened and left a voicemail: “Hey, it’s Y/N. Um, I know you’ve probably got like a thousand people trying to talk to you, so no worries but I just…I don’t know, I just…I wanted you to know I was thinking about you, and if you needed anything or wanted anything or literally anything, just, um…just let me know. Okay, um, bye.” Super smooth. When you woke up the next morning, you saw that she had texted you back ‘thanks’ at some point during the night. You would be lying if you said you weren’t a little disappointed that was all she had said, but you knew she would probably have a rough time for a while and that she had plenty of people supporting her, so like with everything else, you would take whatever she’d let you have.

The next few weeks saw you surviving on similar crumbs. You had gone to see her a few times with the team, and you’d text back and forth occasionally, but you really wished you could just go talk to her by yourself. You knew, of course, you didn’t really have a good reason to, though. You were friends, you guessed, and that was probably reason enough, but you wanted to see her and help her and take care of her, and that wasn’t your place however badly you wanted it to be. So, like everything else, you sucked it up and swallowed it down and did everything you could to pretend it didn’t bother you.

And then after her surgery she texted you again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

leah: i read your book

leah: it was good

leah: it made me cry

y/n: that wasn’t the intention

leah: no but in a good way

leah: i get why you like it

leah: it reminded me a lot of you

y/n: in a good way?

leah: yeah mostly

y/n: mostly?

leah: yeah

leah: it was sweet and funny

leah: but also sad

y/n: you think i’m sad?

leah: i think you are sometimes

leah: sorry

leah: was that too much?

y/n: no you’re right

y/n: it’s just a whole thing

leah: do you want to talk about it?

y/n: yeah

y/n: but not like this

leah: do you want to come over?

y/n: like right now?

leah: whenever

y/n: okay

y/n: is monday okay?

leah: yeah if that’s what you want

y/n: yeah

y/n: okay

y/n: cool

y/n: i can bring dinner

y/n: i know you can’t cook on your best days

leah: fuck off

leah: but yeah bring dinner

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was the first time the two of you had really hung out totally alone, which you thought you had wanted but now that you’re actually here, sitting in Leah’s kitchen, you felt kind of stupid again. You poked around at the food you had brought, taking small slow bites here and there, while the two of you talked. It was, honestly, pretty awkward. You started with small talk, then talked about Leah’s injury and her surgery and her rehab, and the upcoming end of Arsenal’s season, the upcoming World Cup, pretty much everything but what you probably should’ve talked about. Eventually you finished dinner, and Leah offered another glass of wine and suggested you move to the living room. At that your throat dried up faster than the conversation had. You hesitated for a moment, but after about two seconds of watching her hobble around you took to your feet and began clearing the table. She told you not to, but that didn’t stop you, and she didn’t try any harder to stop you either. She lingered for awhile, though, in the kitchen, watching you, before moving over to the living room herself and settling on the couch. You brought the glasses and the wine, and made a point to sit on the opposite side of the sofa.

The silence continued for a few more moments before Leah finally broke it.

“So…did you want to talk?”

“Right, I tell you my trauma, you tell me yours?”

 “I don’t think I have any trauma.”

“…are you sure?”

“…no.”

Her reply was quiet and she shifted in her seat as she took a long drink from her glass. You did the same, and let the silence settle again. This time it did so softly, and despite the fact that the conversation was about to turn more serious, you were lacking your earlier awkwardness. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was just the time spent, but this for some reason felt more comfortable – the two of you sitting in the dim light of Leah’s living room, speaking with quiet words and loud stares. You basked in the silence for several moments, both of you musing over your own aforementioned traumas-or-perceived-lack-thereof, while you let the little bit of alcohol you’d consumed solidify your spine. Eventually, you drew in a depth breath and began.

“So, the beginning, then?”

And you talked. About your childhood, your parents, and the car accident. About moving to Texas, your grandmother, and how much she tried for you. About how sick and sad and unhappy you had felt all the time. About how playing football was one of the only times you felt okay. About playing in college, and how you got drafted to Seattle, and about how you came to Arsenal, and how much you loved it. About how good and fortunate and lucky you knew you were to be able to play professional football. About how you still felt sick and sad and unhappy all the time. About how it always lingered, no matter what you did or where you were. About how stupid it made you feel, to both know your worth and think you’re worthless. About how no one really knew any of that, because you had gotten really good at lying.

You cried a little bit. So did she. And then she talked. About how she didn’t date teammates, and about how much the last time had hurt. About how she wasn’t the one who had ended it, but she was the one who had made it bad, and about how she’d never admitted as much out loud before. About the constant pressure she was under, and how she tried so hard to use it instead of being crushed but sometimes it felt too heavy to lift. About how much she loved football, and how much she hated the attention she was getting because of it. About how much she really did try to use that attention to refocus on more important things, and how exhausting it could all get. About how devastated she was to miss the World Cup, and how some small part of her was glad for the excuse. About how no one really knew any of that, because she had gotten really good at lying.

And there you sat, two liars being honest with each other. It wasn’t long before the silence wrapped warmly around you again, this time both of you content to linger in it as long as you could – but if you were being honest, you guessed there was something else you should probably add.

“…do you want to know another secret?” you said quietly, unable to keep the corner of your lip from twitching though able to bite back the smile. She huffed a breathless laugh, and gave a small yeah as she wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt.

“It’s my birthday.”

Her face fell suddenly, confused, and her brow furrowed – which funnily enough you realized just then was a look that you had sorely missed.

“What? When?”

“Now. Today.”

“Today's your birthday?”

You didn’t bother fighting the small smile that pulled at your face then, and you nodded. Leah twisted around then, quicker than you’d seen her move all evening, and with her good leg kicked you in the calf, twice.

“What the fuck – why the fuck didn’t you say something!?”

“I don’t know, I don’t really – I don’t really celebrate stuff,” you said, pulling your leg away and feigning a few slaps towards her foot. “I just – I wanted to hang out with you.”

She huffed then, crossing her arms across her chest, visibly annoyed that you kept this secret for last. You sighed and pulled your legs further away, then decided to retreat entirely, standing up to gather both your glasses and the wine bottle.

“…is that why you picked today? To come see me?”

Her voice was softer, more akin to your earlier conversation and absent any tone of irritation. You turned to look down at her, and saw that her face was absent irritation as well, the brow-furrow gone and the look in her eyes asking all the questions her mouth wouldn’t.

You straightened up, the quiet confirmation leaving your lips before you even thought the word yes. You hesitated as you heard yourself, then turned and continued into the kitchen. You heard the couch shifting behind you and by the time you had finished cleaning up she had joined you, leaning against the kitchen table.

“You like me,” she said, lilting, and it was your turn to huff then.

“Yeah, I thought that was pretty obvious.”

“Yeah, but…you like me.”

You rolled your eyes at her slow tone shift, having now morphed pretty fully into teasing. You dropped the kitchen towel you’d been absently folding on to the countertop and took a single step towards her, closing the gap between you save for a few inches.

“Yeah, I do. Should I be more obvious?” you mocked back.

“I don’t think you could be more obvious. Neon sign, maybe.”

“I could get one, I know a guy.”

“You know a neon sign guy?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been in London for like four months and you have a neon sign guy?”

“Maybe I have a lot of neon needs.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea, I don’t even know.”

You were practically talking on top of each other, and you only realized you were also practically standing on top of each other when you felt Leah’s knuckles brush against your stomach. You cut yourself off and looked down at her hand, clutching the front of your shirt. When had she grabbed you? You didn’t know, and looking back up at her face, she didn’t know either, but you were both suddenly very aware of it. Her hand fell free and she took a step back, as did you, turning back to the counter and again absently reaching out to straighten the towel you’d dropped moments before.

“I should go,” you said, turning then towards the door instead of her. “Practice in the morning—”

“—yeah, of course,” she interjected, moving to meet you at the door. You both reached it at about the same time, and both tried to pull it open. You backed off, then she did, and then you did again, this time with a gesture for her to move in. She did, and the door opened, and you stepped outside with an apology.

“Sorry,” you said, finally turning back around and looking at her, chewing on the inside of her own cheek as she leaned against the door.

“No, it’s – um, I had a nice time.”

“Yeah!” you returned, a hair too excitedly. “Uh, yeah, it was…it was really nice to see you. Like away from everybody else. Not that everybody else isn’t cool, too, it’s just…yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” you repeated. She laughed softly at that, and so did you, and you both mumbled quiet good nights but neither of you moved. You just stood there on her doorstep with your hands in your pockets, and she stood leaning against the door, biting her own lip. And then suddenly something in the moment bent around you. It didn’t quite break, it just urged you slightly forward, where you pressed your lips against her cheekbone.

When you moved to pull away she turned her head and there were her lips, a mere inch from yours. You both froze, still as stone, daring the other to move. But for however long you stood there, she didn’t, and you didn’t either, and then you turned and walked away. Whatever had its hooks in you couldn’t quite break just yet.

But you could wait, you thought again. You would wait.

[inuyashaluver]

Okay I think I need more MLT fics because that was too cute for me to handle at 7 AM

nail day - maya le tissier

maya le tissier x reader

description: in which you and your girlfriend have your monthly nail session, resulting in silly arguments and timers being set

warnings: nothing i think, fluffy!!

a/n: your wish is my command, lovely! IM FEEDING EVERYONE MAYA CONTENT WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT, I LOVE HER ❤️

⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆

you and your girlfriend, maya find it hard to be apart from each other. the familiarity of one another’s presence was considered a necessity at this point.

a main contributor to your major codependency is the fact that you both play for england and manchester united. there wasn’t really an option to be separated and that was the way you liked it.

—

you and maya originally started dating when you both signed for brighton & hove in 2018, you were the same age and just stuck together like glue, your friendship short lived until you both started flirting shamelessly with each other.

through endless pining and yearning over numerous dates, you began to date when maya made the first move.

it was a cold day and maya had texted you that chilly morning that she had a little surprise for you. when she came to pick you up for training, she stood at your front door with a warm drink in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.

“what’s all this for?” you smile, hugging the girl tightly, taking the items quickly before ushering her inside your flat.

“oh just because, look how they spelt your name on the cup” she giggles nervously, fiddling with her hands as she avoids eye contact with you.

your eyebrows furrow but you look at the cup nonetheless, you look down to see maya’s handwriting on the cup.

‘girlfriend ♡’ followed by a little ‘please x’ written under it. the smile on your face was something maya would never forget, it made her heart beat so fast, honestly feeling like a panic attack.

you put your cup down with a big smile and immediately jump on the girl, she catches you by your thighs and laughs brightly when you kiss her cheek repeatedly.

“i’d love to be your girlfriend! you’re so cute” you coo, she smiles up at you and wraps her arms around your waist to give you a tight hug. “you’re the cutest” she mumbles into your shoulder, pressing a gentle kiss there while she holds you to her.

everything felt right in that moment, like a missing piece of you was finally complete. both of you knew, this was special.

—

when you and maya signed to manchester united, you moved in together in a brand new flat, creating a home of your own together. a perfect reflection of the two of you in every nook and cranny.

one thing you and maya agreed on wholeheartedly was that spending time together outside of football related activities was incredibly important to your relationship.

whether it was enjoying a night in or just going out for a stroll, you both loved that quality time of just being together without a care in the world.

one of your favourite activities to do with each other was to get your nails done. every single one of your teammates at united as well as england knew how important nail day was to you and maya.

it was a time for both of you to just sit and chat with a little pampering, you would both make an effort to match in some way. whether it was the same colour or same little design, both of you would be walking out of that nail salon with matching smiles and nails.

did you get teased for it? oh god, like no tomorrow but you and maya loved it more than anything. a subtle yet extremely loud ode to your relationship.

something else you and maya also loved about nail day was your nightly back scratching session. sure it sounds weird but you and maya literally couldn’t get enough of it, becoming part of your night routing no matter where you were.

so much so, it blended into your everyday lives, the gentle scratch of nails offering a comfort the both of you couldn’t explain, it was familiar, it was home.

—

you and maya finally had a free weekend, both of you excited for nail day. the previous day in training, some of the girls were asking what you’re matching set will be this time, something maya took great pride in and asked for opinions to everyone that was willing.

“do you think red or white?” maya ponders to ella and millie, the girls look at your girlfriend with amused smiles as she slings an arm over your shoulder.

“hm, red goes with the kit” ella points out, millie nods along with the girls words. maya thinks about it for a moment, “true, but england camp is in a couple days and we won’t have time to change it so if it’s white then it’s universal” maya explains, at your girlfriend’s seriousness, you begin to giggle.

maya immediately looks down at you with a smile before she realises you’re mocking her, “baby, this isn’t a joke” maya huffs, “i know, lovey” you nod with a sympathetic pout before kissing her cheek affectionately, causing the girl to melt into your touch with pink cheeks.

“but if we’re wearing the away kit, you could also get blue as well” millie informs, this conversation was genuinely so serious and it was so endearing.

maya sighs, she’s frustrated. “shit, you’re right,” she tucks you closer into her side as you all conversed.

“we’ll figure it out, maya baby, don’t stress” you chuckle, reaching up to graze your nails on the back of her hand to ease her worries, maya looks at you and nods before giving you a quick kiss on your lips.

—

you both ended up getting both blue and white nails, maya gives you a satisfied smile when you both interlock hands after walking out of the salon. you both had the time of your life just chatting and enjoying each other’s company while getting your nails done.

when you both got back to your house, you both binge watched a bunch of movies while packing your bags for camp, which was coming up the next day.

giggling and getting distracted by maya wanting your attention. managing to tug you in her lap to lazily make out, you give into her for a couple minutes before you realise what she was doing.

“maya” you scold, she smirks at you while she squeezes your hips, “yes, beautiful?” she kisses your lips sweetly and you physically have to push her away when she keeps chasing your lips for more contact.

“the bags” you point out with a smile, she groans and rests her forehead against your collarbone, nuzzling into you while you remind her what she needed to pack, she tended to be quite forgetful when it came to packing her bag. (you think she does it on purpose to make you do it - spoiler, she does)

“you’re not listening, are you?” you huff, feeling the girl kiss your neck gently, “you sound very pretty” she mumbles into your skin, moving to kiss your jaw and giving you a teasing kiss on the corner of your mouth.

you shake your head at her amusingly, “you’re impossible” you whisper against her lips, kissing her quickly before hopping off her, receiving numerous complaints as you packed the girl’s bag for her. she gave you a big, dizzying kiss as a thank you so you weren’t complaining.

that night as soon as you got to bed, maya gives you a devious grin and you already knew what she wanted. she pushed you to lie flat on the bed while she peeled your shirt slightly upwards.

you let out a sigh of relief when the girl gently rakes her nails over the skin of your back. she kisses your cheek as she scratches your back, smiling at the way you completely melted under her touch. it was incredibly intimate for the both of you, something that you both considered your love language for each other.

after about five minutes, you and maya swap, she hums happily as your nails graze her warm skin. “i love you” she exhales, you kiss her back quickly, “i love you” you giggle at her progressively getting sleepier by the second.

you take your hand off her for a second and she immediately springs up to look at you with an offended expression. “hey! that was way shorter than what i did for you!” maya accuses, throwing you a half-hearted scowl as you look at her with wide eyes.

“it was the same amount!” you laugh, she shakes her head instantly, sitting up to face you in the bed. “no, baby, sorry but you’re wrong,” maya tutts, crossing her arms over her chest as you giggle at her.

“don’t laugh, it’s not funny!” she whines, you nod and place a hand on her thigh, your nails gently scraping the skin there.

you watch her visibly soften for a second before she points an accusatory finger at you, “don’t try and weasel your way out of this, missy” she scoffs, you laugh brightly at her and you can see her fight a smile.

“i’m not laughing” maya grits and rolls her eyes, you can see the corners of her mouth twitching as you laugh at her. “hm, i think you’re smiling though” you grin, moving closer to her and poking her cheek, she moves her head to bite your finger and you yelp as she almost catches it between her teeth.

“nope, that’s it’, we’re setting a timer” maya hurriedly grabs her phone from her bedside table and puts on a five minute timer, looking at you expectantly when she lays back down. “fine” you groan, watching your girlfriend become a puddle under your touch.

after the timer went off, she reset it and you immediately protest. “maya! no, it’s my turn!” you whine, the girl looks at you in mock confusion, “what, no? it’s still mine, look” she shows you her screen and you can see she reset the timer.

you narrow your eyes at her but give in easily, you both would do anything for each other and you both knew it.

“the deal is that you scratch your girlfriend’s back, (y/n/n), be serious!” maya exclaims after scratching your back after her 3 turns, moving to tackle you to the bed, you both lay on your sides giggling and smiling as you just look at each other. the amount of love you held in your eyes told you both everything and more.

she grins lazily at you when you push some stray hairs out of her face, she pulls you closer to her and instinctively scratches your back.

you smile and kiss her sweetly, returning the gesture and falling asleep easily that night.

—

when you both arrive to camp, you’re immediately asked about the results of nail day, maya boasts immediately and shows off to everyone. even showing the media team which has shown to be a new tradition in the arrival videos.

long story short, nail day is essential for both of you and everyone knows it.

⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆

you know the drill - pretend it’s you! ily lessiiii

liked by ellatoone and 44,232 others

mayaletissier: don’t let your girlfriend take advantage of you just because she’s cute and pretty, kids

view all comments

yourname: you don’t scratch someone’s back for two seconds and suddenly you’re taking advantage of them

↳ mayaletissier: i still love you

↳ yourname: i’m a saint because i love you more

yourname: you got way more scratches then i did!

↳ mayaletisser: i did not!

↳ yourname: 30 minutes worth!?

↳ mayaletissier: have i ever told you how beautiful you are

↳ yourname: minx

lionesses: these nails were a definite favourite!!

[wolfpants]

my year in fic

It's 5am and I can't sleep, so what better way to keep me sane than this lovely roundup post @sorrybutblog tagged me in! Tagging @citrusses @getawayfox @oknowkiss @sweet-s0rr0w @tackytigerfic @skeptiquewrites @mallstars @sitp-recs @moonflower-rose @danpuff-ao3 @writcraft @wrapped-up and anyone else who sees this and wants to play too!

Sorted newest to oldest ✍🏻

Thickets | Drarry | E | 17.3k

When Draco returns to the UK after two decades of building his career as an internationally-renowned artist to look after his ailing, estranged father, he crosses paths with his former flame, Harry Potter, in the most unexpected way.

Waiting for the Moon to Rise | Drarry | E | 8.9k

When Harry and Draco move into Grimmauld Place straight out of Hogwarts, the last person they expect to find taking up residence is Bill ‘divorced, dishevelled, and dangerous’ Weasley. But what if their new, furry little problem is the help they need to finally bring them closer? Stranger things have happened, Draco supposes.

Terrible People | Drarry | E | 52.8k

What happens when Harry and Draco end up on the same Muggle gay cruise? They certainly didn't plan for it to happen (but their friends might have). They're stuck with each other for a week, they might as well make the most of it, right?

A Saviour's Guide to Manners and Decorum | Drarry | E | 13.1k

Honorary Minister Harry Potter (yes, he's fully aware his job title is meaningless, and he quite likes it that way) is a disaster at public events. After seven years of dealing with his boorish behaviour, cringey table manners, and clumsy dancing, the Ministry's press team take matters into their own hands and hire Wixen Britain's leading Etiquette and Deportment Expert, Draco Malfoy, to take on the challenge of cleaning up Harry's image before the Ministry's 300th Anniversary Celebration Gala.

Everybody Hates a Tourist | Drarry | E | 51.5k

On a stag do in sunny Brighton with the Gryffindor lads, the last person Harry expects to run into is Draco Malfoy. After a glimpse of Malfoy’s Muggle life in Britain’s gay capital, Harry’s curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself returning to the seaside again and again, drawn to the city, drawn to this new version of Malfoy that Harry barely recognises from school.

Precious Metal | Ronarry, Dron, Drarry | M | 28k

Precious metal awaits in an abandoned, cursed cottage on the Isle of Jura. Ron’s illegal hunting ring is on it, but disaster strikes when he runs into a jumpy and suspicious Draco Malfoy, camped out where the treasure is hidden. What happens when they accidentally unleash a bond curse when both of them harbour feelings for the same man?

Trillium | Dronarry | E | 13.4k

Harry and Draco are shagging. Ron’s got a hunch, and the only way to find out is to volunteer his services alongside Harry’s in the Big Malfoy Manor Cleanup of 2010. What could possibly go wrong?

Kinkuary '23 | Various pairings | M - E

A collection of 28 short fics spanning different pairings and inspired by the Kinkuary 2023 prompts! A mix of M and E ratings. Expect rare pairs, Drarry, crossgen, group sex, dirtyhotwrong... you name it!

[herejusttosufferalong]

Part 3: re: New Speculation that L&N have been together since Toronto

Pattern of L’s and N’s circle of friends

“9) N and N friend group posts including JD – I will post this analysis separately of a pattern that I’m seeing. Pattern is the posts from her side coincided with posts on his side (as in they happen in a specific cluster of days). Almost as if N knows something from his side will be posted and she a) has to distract herself b) distract the fans so that whatever L posts don’t get that much of a backlash c) has to send a secret message to L that she’s doing fine and she’s still 💯 in”

I think part of her secret code to L is as long as she’s wearing her claddagh ring, she’s still in. I don’t know what L’s secret code is - I think it’s as long as he’s on lifeguard duty, he’s still in 😂

I’m sure there are loads that I missed. I kept the IG posts from N to Bridgerton unless it’s really newsworthy or quite anticipated by fans. These are just from the pap walk onwards.  I also included some posts from outside sources because of speculations that they might be coming from their team to further the goal that they are working on. Which makes me think (and this is going to be an unpopular opinion) that N may have a hand on DM posts of her and JD (me: hides behind a door).

I might really be reaching here -- deep in my delulu seeing patterns when they don’t exist – but listed out like this almost seems like there is a back and forth between their groups and what gets out publicly.

Aug 8th

L – Bridgerton press tour bloopers

N – Choose Love, political posts

A – Soho with friends

Aug 2nd 

T posts Italy recap video

Aug 1st

N – Tatcha, skin care routine (self care)

A/R/S/T/C – various photos, stories, videos from Italy trip

July 31st

BG – Italy SM posts

Jul 30th

A/R/S/T/C – various photos, stories, videos from Italy trip

PM – Italy article

Jul 29th

A/R/S/T/C – various photos, stories, videos from Italy trip

“Pap” Maria – videos of lifeguard Luke

DM – Italy story

N and friends – JR birthday

Jul 26th             

N – Dr. Who, CAA announcement

A – TT dance (Chris Brown)

DM – N/JD and L/A posts

L – unliking HBS IG posts

Jul 24th

N/LH/SMcS – IG stories of nightout; N’s new polaroid

DM – N/JD speculations; belated L/A spotted in Brighton Soho

Jul 23rd

A Fan account – posts of 20 somethings that L followed during HBS 2023

A – story, rehearsal for Lettuce dance

Jul 22nd

R/S/T/C – Brighton Soho for T’s birthday (not confirmed if L and A were there)

Jul 20th

A – Latergram LA photos

DM – 2nd pub shot with N/JD featured in DM

Jul 17th

A – story with Theo; TT dance (Apple)

Jul 16th

N – Polin team, NC last day of filming, Top 6 post

Jul 15th

A - Latergram LA photos

Jul 14th

JD/JR/LF – Football match (speculations N was there)

Other Sources - L/R/JV Football match (can’t confirm if A was there)

Jul 13th

N with Mum – Wimbledon with launch of new polaroid (L’s groomer did her hair)

L – Carla’s wedding (can’t confirm if A was there)

A – IG story of her made up face (looked like she’s going out, maybe implying she’s going to the wedding)

Jul 12th

DM – 1st pub shot with N/JD featured in DM

Jul 11th

A – Football story (with JV and R, can’t confirm if L was there)

A – TT late LA post (Good luck Babe)

Jul 9th

N – NC last day of filming, Top 8 post

Jul 6th

L – GQ Heroes dump

JD – story in N’s apartment

Jul 4th

N – BTS, entering Top 10; Independence Day Binge

A – TT late LA post (Million Dollar Baby)

Jul 3rd to 5th

R/S/Other Sources – photos and videos from GQ Heroes

Jul 1st

L – La La Land

From other sources – PR birthday, pool pics, 1st lifeguard duty

JD – People Places Things play date

Jun 28th

L – Laterals BTS

N – Shoes…more shoes release

A – TT GRWM post (Birds of a Feather)

Jun 27th

Other Sources – Galway video and photos (I don’t recall L or N reposting these in their own SM accounts)

Jun 25th

JD – hanging out in the park; N’s bag featured

Jun 24th – 30th (approx.)

L and A in LA (ugh)

A – LA hotel story

From other sources – PR birthday, pool pics

Jun 23rd

Other sources – more Loewe photos and videos, L supporting JB cause

L – Loewe IG stories

JVN – IG grid post, 6th slide “I hope you let them” – I think this is JVN message to N

Jun 22nd

N – wedding transformation

L – Loewe story teaser

Jun 21st

N/JVN – Taylor Swift with M and CW

Jun 20th

N – Wedding Dance

L – Fallon guest spot, photos and video

Jun 18th

N – wedding BTS

Jun 17th

L&N - really early in the morning GMT time, Washington Posts IG stories and posts

N – SKIMS campaign

L – L and Corey in Milan

A – Milan IG stories

Jun 16th

N – London Premiere photos; SATC TT; “Bridgertons” story

From other sources – more Milan videos and photos including at least 3 occasions with A in them

Jun 15th

L – Milan/D&G photos

N – Boob cake story (with JD, CW, and others); Tatcha post end of promo (self-care)

Jun 14th

N – TFMT table read; pre-premiere pics

Jun 13th

DM/PM pap walk photos

N – the furniture they broke

L – feel like celebrating, Men’s Health, London Premiere BV photos

holy shit anon

[poraphia]

"I’ll Hold Your Hands."

Wilbur x anxious!reader 1303 words • 8.16.23 Request from @ax-y10! Reader has anxiety and picks at their hands and fingers. Reader is also overstimulated and nervous, but Will comforts! wilbur soot masterlist here :)

It's our first date, but you've shown me that even through anxious habits, you'll do anything to make me happy.

♡♡♡

“Hey, you ready?” A soft voice asked through the phone. Even with no effort his accent could send shivers down my spine.

“Mhm,” I hummed. “Give me a moment to come downstairs.” I took one final look in the mirror, making sure my outfit was pressed down enough to compliment my curves and gorgeous enough to let Will know there won’t be any regrets in asking me out. I slipped on the perfect set of shoes before walking out of my hotel room and toward the nearest elevator.

I was only staying in Brighton for two weeks before heading back home. Wilbur and I have been friends for a while beforehand. It wasn’t until recently that mutual feelings started to bubble up between us. It was a late night 2 AM call when Will asked me:

“Hey, (y/n)..?”

“Yes, Will?”

“Um… If you do come to Brighton anytime soon… I know a lovely place for us to eat dinner.”

I chuckled, noticing the shyness of his voice. “Are you asking me out, Mr. Gold?”

“Perhaps.”

After some packing and planning, I flew out to the United Kingdom to visit friends, travel to different locations, and most of all, go on my first date with the one and only, Wilbur Soot.

The elevator doors slid open. I walked out with the clicking of my shoes echoing down the hallway. Once I made it to the lobby, it didn’t take long to spot the dashing tall man sitting on one of the complementary couches. His legs were crossed with his glasses resting upon the bridge of his nose. I waved at him in an attempt to get his attention, and soon enough he spotted me as well.

Once he got up, I was able to see his outfit more properly. He was wearing black slacks with black dress shoes on, and he wore an orange dress shirt with the top three buttons unbuttoned. His hair was fluffier than usual, and his sleeves were folded up to show his forearms.

A big smile was planted on his face now as he outstretched his arms. I picked up my pace before nearly throwing myself in his embrace, hugging him tightly. His limbs wrapped around my waist before lifting me in the air and twirling me around.

“It feels good to finally see you!” He exclaimed through laughs. He put me down and stepped back a bit, admiring my outfit. “You look so beautiful..” He muttered.

A soft chuckle escaped my lips. “I could say the same for you.” I said, making sure I hid my hands behind my back. He raised an eyebrow before reaching for my arm and holding my hand.

“Come on, the restaurant is just a taxi cab away.” He said, to which I nodded in response. We walked side-by-side, but a bit of my confidence faltered. Did he notice my fingers? I painted them this morning so that from a glance, they looked perfectly fine. But I know that with a good look, anyone could notice the peeling skin, the bitten-off nails, and the swollen tips. It’s safe to say, I wasn’t opting to be a hand model anytime soon.

Wilbur kept my hand in his as we entered the taxi. After he directed the driver and paid him, he turned to me. “Hey, you doing alright?” He asked. He used his thumb to soothe the back of my hand, but his furrowed eyebrows and worried glance never left my face.

“Hm? Oh, I’m fine, Will, don’t worry.” I reassured.

I was very much not fine.

I didn’t have the realization that I was in an entirely new country, going on a date with a long-term best friend I’ve had on the internet, to what I presume to be a relatively fancy restaurant in the city—

until now.

Nervously, with my other hand, I started to pick off the skin of my thumb with my index finger, a little frustrated that I was unable to use both hands. Wilbur and I continued to have regular conversations as I absent-mindedly scratched off nail polish and skin.

Once we got to the restaurant, I made sure to hide my other hand in my pocket or behind my back. Anywhere out of Wilbur’s vision. The only time Wilbur let go of my hand was to check off the reservation he had for us as we followed the waiter to our table. In cushioned chairs, we sat across from each other. The white tablecloth and circular surface sat promptly in between us.

Our waiter placed the menus in front of us, and Wilbur immediately picked up the booklet to begin examining the options. I, on the other hand, quickly flipped it open and hid my hands under the table, still fiddling with swollen fingers. Once again, my heart was racing. The abundance of people in the room chattering with utensils clinking against plates, someone I consider important in my life sitting right in front of me, my shaking leg bouncing my hands up and down— I’m getting overstimulated.

“(y/n)? (y/n)!” His voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked up, only to notice our waiter was back with a pen and notepad. I glanced over to Will. His head was tilted, and he only looked at me with concerned glistens in his eyes. “Do you know what you want to drink?” He asked softly. I looked over to the waiter again.

“Oh— uh, can I just get a water?” I asked, stammering over my words. The waiter nodded before walking away to retrieve our beverages.

“(y/n), you haven’t been holding up so well and you look pale. Is everything alright?” Wilbur asked. His hands were placed on the table, almost reaching at me so that he may take my hand in his. I sighed, looking down at my lap in shame.

“You promise not to judge, right?” I said.

Wilbur shook his head. “No, no, of course not, love… Tell me what’s wrong.”

With a deep inhale, I placed my hands on the table. My nail polish was chipped, and the tips of my fingers were beet red. By the sides of my nails, my skin was peeling off.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He sighed. Carefully, he picked my hands up by the palm and brought them close to his lips, gingerly kissing each finger with the softness of his lips. My face flushed at the sight, not being able to look away.

“I-it’s just,” I started. Tiny tears started to prick at my eyes. “I didn’t realize how fast this was all happening, and I guess I started to get all… Panic-y. I-I’m just really sorry. I didn’t want to ruin tonight.” I stuttered out with a trembling voice.

“Love, I promise you, you didn’t ruin anything. Everything is okay. Do you want to get out of here? If this is all too much we can go back to the hotel and just hang out there. Anything you want, (y/n). Because what matters at the end of the day, to me, is that we have a great time together.” He planted one last kiss in the palm of my hand. “That’s all I want for us.”

I couldn’t help the small sniffle as the warmth of his words wrapped me tightly in a blanket. I looked at him with lovestruck in my eyes. I wanted to do nothing but melt in his embrace, bury myself in the crook of his neck every morning, to hold hands while walking around the big city. At that moment I knew—

I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

With the sincerest smile, I looked at him.

“Just keep holding my hands, Will.”

In turn, his dimples nearly lit up my whole world.

“Only for you.”

♡♡♡

a / n ~ eep hope you enjoyed! Ax i hope this comforts you in some sort of way I lowkey had to do my research for this one loll

[russo-woso]

No space || Kim Little

Requests here. Prompt lists here.

"It's fine, you can just sit on my lap."

Quick little one :) (sorry I had to do that)

You had made plans to go with it with the team to celebrate the end of the season.

Finishing on a big high, a 5-0 win against Brighton, it was definitely a well deserved night out.

The season has been a crazy one at that.

There were lots of firsts for a lot of people, first debuts, first goals, for you, it was first time being captain.

With Kim being on the bench, Leah out injured, and Katie also on the bench, the armband was given to you.

Although that was a major first, it wasn’t the biggest one.

The biggest one was dating a teammate for the first time.

When you joined Arsenal during the 2021-22 season, you knew who your new teammates were.

Some you knew internationally, Leah, Beth and lotte, some you knew from playing against them, some you hadn’t met at all.

There was one person who you had never met personally but had always been intrigued and impressed by.

The way she played, the way she spoke, the way she smiled, it had you in a chokehold even though you’d never met her.

Kim Little.

When you first met Kim, it was, well you liked to put it this way, love at first sight.

As the rest of the 21-22 season went on, you and Kim got a lot closer.

There was a noticeable age gap between you and Kim by five years but when you really started falling for Kim, that worry disappeared.

And she felt the exact same way. At first Kim was weary of the age gap, but she figured love was love, and she loved you.

Near to the end of that season, Kim bit the bullet and asked you on a date.

She thought it out very well and had noted down over the months which foods you liked and didn’t like, and made a three course dinner for you.

As you were leaving her house that night, you said goodbye and hugged at the door, and as you jumped in your car, you realised you forgot something.

Running back to her door, before you void even knock, Kim opened it.

“Y/N, wait! I forgot something!” Kim shouted, not knowing you were just there.

“I forgot something too.” You smiled, walking closer before leaning down to connect your lips.

That was a long time ago now, and although you thought in that moment you couldn’t be happier, you really could.

Within the past year, you and Kim have moved in with each other, which was perfect.

You were having the highest of highs in your career, having been arsenals top goalscorer, with 21 goals, this season.

So when you were asked to celebrate tonight, there was no way you were saying no.

“Y/N, Kim!” An Irish accent was heard from the other side of the club. “What drinks would you like? First rounds on me.”

“I’ll have a margarita Katie, thank you. I’ll come with to help you carry the drinks.” You told her before turning to Kim. “You go find us seats, baby. I won’t be long.”

You pressed a kiss to her cheek before walking over to Katie who was at the bar.

“So, you and Kim got anything planned for later tonight?” Katie asked, passing the time whilst the barman got the drinks prepared.

“I don’t know. It depends on what time we get back.” You responded, a light pigment resting on your cheeks.

“There’s your drinks, ladies. Enjoy your night.” The barman smiled politely, handing you a tray each filled with numerous drinks.

Making your way back to the table, you helped hand the drinks round before looking at all your teammates, noticing there way no more space left.

“Where should I sit?” You asked aloud, most of the girls looking in your direction.

“It’s fine, baby, come sit on my lap.” Kim told you, gesturing for you to come sit on her lap.

You smiled, walking over to Kim and settling on her lap, leaving a kiss on her lips.

She wrapped her arms around you, attempting to rest her head on your shoulder but with the height difference, it made it hard for her to do that.

“Switch?” You asked and she nodded straight away.

Once Kim was comfy on your lap, you finally noticed the girls all smiling at the two of you.

“You two are so in love.”

[chronicallycouchbound]

Rating names/terms for Ehlers Danlos Syndrome:

Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome: 10/10 Lawful neutral, it’s the official terminology, lets you know what’s up

EDS (in all caps): 9/10 Sometimes confused with other unrelated conditions and acronyms but usually works

EDs (‘S’ is lowercase): 2/10 Usually refers to erectile dysfunction or eating disorders, which causes a lot of confusion.

Ehlers Danlos: 8/10. Good shorthand while still knowing what’s going on.

Earers Daniel’s Syndrome: 1/10. I have only heard this once, from an ER doctor. He said it to me as he turned away from his screen (which was pulled up to the Web MD page for EDS) and proceeded to mansplain my condition to me inaccurately. At least he tried.

“Eyers Dan—“ *waves hand around*: -5/10 I’ve heard this one a lot from medical professionals. I just know I’m about to be malpracticed and am already planning the quickest way out of the situation.

Zebras: 6/10 I like the imagery, I like mascots, I like the story (when doctors are in med school they’re told “if you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras” but them zebras are missed) however, I have two criticisms: a) more rare conditions are out there, and zebras technically refers to any rare diseases, not just EDS b) I feel sad when I think about how it basically calls EDS the “I was medically malpracticed disease”

EDSers: 8/10 a cute lil shorthand for “people with EDS”. Easier to explain than the zebras thing

hEDS/vEDS/cEDS/including subtypes: 7/10 I like the idea of being able to know what your subtype is and find people in your sub community, HOWEVER my only concern is that it can feel (and used for) invalidating people without a genetically confirmed subtype because of inaccessibility. I haven’t had gene testing because I can’t afford it— but I have clinically diagnosed EDS, which has been confirmed at multiple hospitals by multiple specialists. I score a 9/9 on the Brighton, meet all major criteria, and meet almost every other minor criteria for EDS on top of that. But I don’t know my subtype yet. I don’t hate/dislike people who use this term and I don’t discourage it, but I do encourage mindfulness about genetic testing accessibility and privilege of access.

Bendy disease: 10/10 a silly goofy joke I say with friends “I cannot walk up stairs on account of my loosey goosey bendy disease” which is always funny to me. Even with my serious things like “my life threatening cardiac conditions are rapidly progressing” you add “on account of my bendy disease” and bam theres my coping skill.

Ehlers: 3/10 a step in the right direction, but it sounds like “yellers” and dismisses half of the team that described the condition

“Double jointed”: 1/10 I was told my whole life until I was 18 that I was just “double jointed” for starters, it’s medically inaccurate. You’re hyper extending, subluxing, or even dislocating joints whenever you’re “double jointed” in a joint. There is not two joints there (unless you’ve had x rays and for some reason genuinely do have two joints in that spot). I honestly hate this term and it’s incredibly dismissive of the pain that happens with EDS while also making it seem like a super power that we’re encouraged to do

Contortionist: 1/10 [NOTE!!! some contortionists DO NOT have EDS and can just bend like that. Some have benign joint hypermobility. But many contortionists do have EDS.] In the context of people with EDS, I hate this term. It’s often the first thing people jump to when I explain my condition. They see my crippled ass in my wheelchair/powerchair or limping around with my cane/crutches/rollator, usually in multiple braces/supports (and thats just external noticeable-to-everyone things, let alone if you hear any aspects of my daily life) and their first thought is: “wow!! So you can entertain me like it’s a freak show!” And not “holy shit dozens of dislocations per day and countless subluxations per day must be excruciating”. I did contortions when I was younger to get praise and due to peer pressure. Fuck that noise I will not be your ugly law era freak show creepy cripple p0rn. Fuck everything to do with that actually.

[uwmspeccoll]

Wood Engraving Wednesday

JOHN LAWRENCE

Once again we turn to the fanciful engravings of English illustrator and wood engraver John Lawrence (b. 1933), this time from a small (4.25" x 3") 1992 Folio Society edition of Robert Browning's version of The Pied Piper of Hamelin, printed at The Bath Press in Bath, England on Fabriano Ingres laid paper. The engravings themselves are only 3" x 2", but they are vivid and richly detailed.

John Lawrence, whose career spans nearly 70 years, is one of England's most-respected living wood engravers. He has illustrated well over 200 books and has taught his craft at the Brighton School of Art, Camberwell School of Art, and Cambridge School of Art from the 1960s to 2010. He has influenced generations of noted contemporary wood engravers, and was himself a student of Gertrude Hermes (view some wood engravings by Hermes we have posted).

Our copy of the Folio Society's Pied Piper is yet another donation from the estate of our late friend and colleague Dennis Bayuzick. The book was originally bound in full moire silk by Hunter and Foulis, but our copy was specially rebound in 2001 by English bookbinder Stephen Conway (see below).

View more posts with wood engravings by John Lawrence.

View other illustrations for the Pied Piper by Kate Greenaway and Sarah Chamberlain.

View other books from the collection of Dennis Bayuzick.

View more posts with wood engravings!

[clementineskesh]

Transcript

Stargrave Elcessor is sitting in her office just repeatedly pressing the button, just over and over again. Click, click, click, click, click. She's watching her feeds, hoping that it will explode, hoping that she will die, that everyone will die, because to her, death is less scary than the threat of fundamental real change.

[Nothing is Stationary starts playing]

But nothing happens when she hits the button. Nothing will ever happen when she hits the button ever again, when anyone hits this button ever again. And to be clear, by taking them offline, it's not just that you've prevented them from exploding. It's that, you know, exploding is their secondary function already. It used to be that these things were built to explode. But for the Divine Principality, stellar combustors were built to prevent explosions, metaphorical and mundane. They are a threat meant to pause possibility, to halt history itself.

And that is what deactivating the stellar combustors has done. This is what Millennium Break has done. It's opened up history. It's created possibility for people across the galaxy. Boots are still on necks, but the biggest hammer, the sharpest knife, the strongest disincentive against pushing back is gone.

And they might do it quietly. But the people on Tartarus 5 celebrate. On Lonn and to Helaine Delta in Thulsa and Xenacip. They celebrate on Bhopal Kha and Maine and Bishamonten, on Carjal and Isfahan and all the rest. On research stations and refineries and on standard spread worlds: not everyone, not every one, but some people touch hands and light candles and some launch fireworks and hide before anyone asks any questions

And some people make plans. On Altar and Brighton and Crown and Gift-3, they make plans. On Moonlock and Seneschal and Skein, on Thyrsis, and on Volition, and on the Brink, and all throughout the Twilight Mirage, they make plans. And in Sinder Karst and in Joyous Guard, in Carhaix, on the Isle of the Broken Key, in City City, on New Oath, in the Crown of Glass, in Baseline; all across Palisade, the plans are already in motion.

Jade Kill: in motion. Violet Cove and Rose River, Carmine Bight and Gray Pond: in motion. The Blue Channel: they're moving on them now, because against all odds tomorrow is coming and it brings more work. And for the first time in weeks, the sun will feel good on their skin as they do it.