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pucksandpower · 11 months ago

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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.

3K notes · View notes

joelsrose · 1 month ago

Text

Dark Matter

i haven't written reed before but here we go! i hope yall enjoy xx

warnings: fingering, age gap? (reader is mid 20's), cheating (sorry sue), power-dynamic, semi-public

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You walked into the lab the same way you always did—quietly, carefully, your notebook hugged to your chest like a shield, pages dog-eared and smudged with graphite, filled with half-solved equations, theoretical scribbles, and tiny margin doodles of molecules and stars.

The click of your heeled boots echoed off the cold, polished floor, a sound that somehow felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The air inside was always a little too cold, like the whole space was suspended in a vacuum—untouched by the warmth of human hands—but you liked it that way. It made you feel sharp, focused. Like anything could happen here. Like everything already had.

It had been exactly seven days since you started your internship under Mr. Richards—or Reed, as he’d insisted you call him on the very first day, his tone polite but firm, eyes flickering to yours with something unreadable when you stammered out “Dr. Richards” instead. The man was brilliant. Obviously. He was also deeply intimidating in the way only truly intelligent people could be—effortlessly so, like he didn’t notice the way the rest of the world bent around his mind.

He wasn’t cruel, not at all, but there was something about him that made your pulse skip whenever he turned to you with a question, something about the way he spoke in low, thoughtful tones, his hands always busy with some piece of machinery or scribbling formulas on the glass board like his thoughts couldn’t be contained by paper.

You’d been selected from a pool of thousands—won the LUMINA International Science Initiative, a fellowship that granted a single spot, once a year, to shadow one of the world’s leading innovators.

You never expected to get it. You’d submitted your proposal last-minute, half-convinced it was too ambitious, too naive. But something about it must’ve caught their attention—maybe your hypothesis on temporal field distortions, maybe the way you phrased it like a love letter to curiosity itself. Either way, it landed you here, standing just inside the threshold of the Baxter Building’s most secured lab, wearing your best skirt and your favorite boots, heart thudding in your chest like a metronome gone mad.

You adjusted your grip on your notebook and cleared your throat softly, the sound swallowed by the lab’s cavernous quiet. “Morning,” you offered, voice smaller than you meant, eyes sweeping the room for him—half-hoping he wasn’t here yet, half-hoping he was.

From behind one of the massive monitors, you heard the gentle clink of metal, followed by a low voice.

“You’re early.”

You turned and there he was, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collarbone peeking where his lab coat had come undone. His hair was tousled, like he’d been up for hours already, running his hands through it between equations. There was graphite smudged on his wrist, and a faint streak of oil down one thumb, and somehow that made him look even more untouchable. He glanced over his shoulder at you, then down at your notebook.

“More scribbles?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but close enough to make your chest flutter.

You nodded, holding it out. “A few questions from last night. I kept thinking about the energy dispersion curve in the 5-D field model, and—well. It didn’t make sense that it plateaued. Not at those values.”

He took the notebook, flipping through the pages like he was reading a novel written in his own handwriting, then looked up at you with a sliver of something warmer in his gaze.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you might be the first person to ever challenge that curve. Everyone else just accepted it.”

You blinked. “Oh. I—didn’t mean to be... disrespectful or anything.”

“You weren’t.” He looked back at the page, his brow furrowing like he was genuinely considering your notes. “You’re just... asking the right questions.”

And the way he said that—asking the right questions—it made your cheeks heat, made your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag like you were suddenly fifteen again, flustered and awkward and unsure of what to say next, even though you were here because you belonged here, even though you were brilliant in your own quiet way.

He glanced at you again, slower this time, eyes scanning your face like he was watching a theory unfold in real time, and said, “Let’s run it. See if you’re right.” Just like that, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean the world.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Hours passed, though you barely noticed them. What started as a single equation quickly unraveled into an entire evening of hypotheses and recalibrations, the two of you moving around each other in this strange, quiet rhythm—typing, adjusting, scribbling, calculating, retrying, failing, fixing, retrying again.

The room had fallen into that kind of sacred stillness where every noise felt sharper—the whir of machines, the scratch of pencils, the occasional creak of the stool beneath you. Every time a result came back wrong, you’d lean in beside him and try again. Every time it came back right, your shoulders would touch, just barely, and you’d both say nothing.

And then it happened again—casual, effortless—Reed stretched.

This time, to grab his phone from across the room without moving from his chair, his arm extending impossibly far and elegant, fingers curling around the device with that same practiced ease, like it was just another part of his body responding to his mind. You watched it happen with that same quiet awe you always did, eyes following the length of his arm as it retracted, as he settled back into himself like it hadn’t been strange at all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t even the stretch itself, not really—it was the nonchalance, the way he didn’t even think about it. But you did. You thought about it too much.

You were still thinking about it when he glanced at his screen, a quiet frown flickering across his face.

“It’s eight already,” he murmured, thumbing through a text. “We’ve been here all day.”

You blinked, surprised by the time, and then watched as his expression shifted—something soft and faintly guilty tugging at the edge of his mouth as he read whatever had been sent to him.

“Sue made dinner,” he said after a beat, sighing, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he hadn’t sat down for a proper meal in days. “Guess I should…”

He trailed off as he stood, the chair sliding back with a scrape, and something in your chest twisted—tight and unexpected. Not sharp enough to hurt, but deep enough to notice.

You weren’t sure if it was jealousy, exactly, but there was something inside you that ached a little at the thought of him leaving. At the thought of him sitting across from someone else, in a warm apartment somewhere above the city, eating food someone else had made for him, laughing over things that had nothing to do with lab results or radiation curves or the way your hands always trembled just slightly when he got too close.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced back at you with one brow arched, curious, amused, his coat slung half over his arm and a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Something wrong?” he asked, voice low and too steady, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

“No,” you said quickly, too quickly, the word tripping over itself on your tongue. “No, nothing.”

He looked at you for a long second, long enough that your skin prickled under the weight of it, his eyes steady and a little too knowing, like he could see past your flustered expression and straight into the chaos of your thoughts. Then—he chuckled, soft and brief, like the sound had slipped out before he could stop it, low and warm and close enough to make your pulse stutter.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, not in disapproval, but something more bemused—like he found you endlessly curious and had all the time in the world to figure you out.

You ducked your head, the heat rising in your cheeks again, blooming in a flush that you tried to suppress with a tight little smile, your fingers worrying the corner of your notebook as though it could ground you, steady you, hide the fact that your heart was now pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

Then his voice came again, low and coaxing, that soft velvet drawl of someone deeply used to being the smartest man in the room—“Come on,” he said, “what’s going on in that brilliant mind?”

And you should’ve lied. You should’ve laughed it off, said something safe, something neutral, something clever and unassuming and appropriately scientific. But your brain had been wandering all week—had been drifting there over and over again, uninvited, unwelcome, inappropriate, gnawing at the edges of your curiosity in the quiet moments between experiments.

You’d tried not to think about it, tried not to let your gaze linger when he stretched, tried not to imagine what else could stretch, how far, how much, how deeply.

And somehow—somehow—it slipped out of your mouth before your brain had a chance to intercept it, just a whisper of a thought spoken aloud, soft and breathless and too curious to be innocent.

“Does everything stretch?”

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

You heard it in the way the machines kept humming but your breath caught.

You felt it in the way Reed’s eyes snapped to yours, too quickly, like he wasn’t expecting that.

And you saw it—oh, you saw it—in the way he froze, the way the lines at the corners of his mouth shifted, lips parting slightly like he was about to speak but couldn’t quite remember how.

Your eyes widened almost immediately, your whole body locking in mortified horror, hands flying up to your face as if that could undo what you’d just said, as if that could pull the words back into your throat and shove them into the void where they belonged.

“Oh my God—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, I swear—I swear, it was just—I was talking about your arm, I mean your body—not your—oh God, not your body body, I meant your abilities, like biologically—scientifically—I’m so sorry—”

You were rambling now, barely breathing between the words, voice growing higher and faster with every sentence, and he was still just looking at you, still absolutely silent, like you’d short-circuited him and he was trying not to let it show. His expression hadn’t changed much—but his eyes were different now, darker maybe, or maybe just sharper, like a wire had pulled taut somewhere beneath his usually-calm exterior.

Then—finally—he blinked.

And his mouth twitched.

Not a smirk. Not quite. But close. Very, very close.

“Everything?” he echoed softly, voice rough around the edges like it had dropped an octave without permission.

You wanted to melt through the floor.

“Forget I said anything,” you mumbled, practically squeaked, your hands halfway up your face now, notebook clutched uselessly against your chest like a shield made of paper and shame.

But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just looked at you for another long moment, like he was tucking the question away in some private drawer of his mind, like he was considering it—you—carefully.

And then he said, his voice quiet and unreadable. “Some things stretch more than others.”

He said it with the same offhand ease he might’ve used to mention the weather or the results of an equation, as if the words weren’t heavy with meaning, as if they didn’t land like a struck tuning fork in the center of your chest and hum there, low and electric. And then—just like that—he glanced at the time again, slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, his fingers moving with quiet efficiency, and looked toward the door without even a flicker of hesitation in his expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice smooth and calm, like it had all been nothing—your question, his answer, the unbearable silence that followed—like he hadn’t just reduced you to a trembling, wide-eyed mess with five words and a look you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then he turned and walked out, his footsteps steady and unhurried, as though the entire moment hadn’t happened, as though he hadn’t noticed the way your breath had caught or your lips had parted slightly or the way your fingers had curled around your notebook like you were holding onto it for dear life. The door eased shut behind him with a soft, final click, and the silence that followed felt far too loud, as if the air itself had been holding its breath and now didn’t know what to do with the tension left behind.

You stood there for a moment, completely still, eyes fixed on the door like he might come back—might say something, might clarify or laugh or admit that yes, that had been what you thought it was, that you weren’t imagining the way his gaze had sharpened, the subtle shift in his voice, the pause before he’d answered like he was trying to decide how honest he wanted to be.

But the door stayed shut. The lab was quiet. And your face was burning.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The next morning, you thought about quitting.

No—worse—you thought about being removed, escorted out of the lab with quiet, professional shame, the faculty committee shaking their heads at the girl who couldn’t keep her thoughts scientific. You’d spent the entire night twisted in sheets and mortification, staring at the ceiling of your tiny dorm room with cheeks that wouldn’t stop burning and hands that kept curling into fists against your pillow, your mind looping the same sentence over and over like a taunt.

Does everything stretch?

It had sounded so much worse in hindsight. In your head, it was a purely biological question—curiosity, theoretical, relevant. But the moment it left your lips, soft and shy and tilted with unintended suggestion, you’d felt the way it landed. The way his eyes had flickered. The way his voice had dropped just a hair lower. The way he’d looked at you after.

And then he walked out like it was nothing.

Which somehow made it worse.

So when you walked into the lab that morning, notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, heart crawling up the back of your throat with every step, you were fully prepared for disaster—for tension, awkwardness, maybe even polite dismissal. But he was already there, of course he was—leaning over one of the central consoles with his sleeves rolled, hair still rumpled from sleep, lips pursed slightly in thought as he ran through some new readout, a mug half-full of black coffee resting near his elbow.

And when he glanced up at you?

Everything was... fine.

He offered you a brief, familiar nod, the same one he always did, and then gestured to a screen without so much as a hint of discomfort, as if the night before had been a dream, as if you hadn’t asked the most humiliating question of your life and then spiraled into a dimension of shame he probably discovered himself.

You blinked, stunned by the ease of it, by the way he moved through the morning without even a trace of tension, without a single flinch. It was—professional. Cordial. Kind.

And strangely, that grounded you.

The day unfolded slowly, then steadily—small victories, clarified hypotheses, new data sets—and your body slowly began to relax into the rhythm you’d started to love, the silent teamwork of minds that trusted each other. And even though he hadn’t said anything beyond the work, even though the stretch of time passed with nothing but research and updates, you caught yourself looking again—watching the way his hands moved, the way he’d lean into the screen, the way he thought so deeply with his whole body, and the way you were beginning to understand him in ways that had nothing to do with science.

It wasn’t until late afternoon, when the sun outside had dipped low enough to cast long gold shadows across the lab floor, that he finally spoke without referencing an equation.

“Sue was asking about you,” he said casually, eyes still on his screen, voice calm as if he didn’t know he’d just sent your stomach tumbling.

You blinked, startled. “Oh?”

He nodded once, the motion subtle. “Think I’ve been talking too much about how smart you are.”

Your breath caught in your throat and then returned all at once in a rush of heat to your face. You looked away, your lips parting slightly as your blush bloomed across your cheeks, creeping down your neck, the words lingering like sunlight on your skin.

“She wants to meet you,” he continued, finally glancing over at you with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made you feel a little exposed, a little unsteady.

“Really?” you asked, blinking up at him, your voice too soft, too unsure. “I—I mean, I’d be honored.”

He chuckled, quiet and amused, and God, it made your heart stutter.

“Tonight?” he asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your lips parted again. “Tonight?” you echoed, because your brain was clearly still catching up.

He tilted his head, expression flickering with something close to amusement. “Unless you’re busy,” he said smoothly. “Or unless you were planning on camping out here all night again, trying to crack the wavefield inversion curve without sleeping or eating—because that does sound like you.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound escaping like a sigh, soft and a little breathless, and he smiled—genuine and rare, the kind that made your knees feel unsteady and your chest warm.

You shook your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “No,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not busy.”

“Good,” he said, his smile deepening just slightly. “I’ll see you for dinner then.”

And with that, he turned back to his screen, the moment slipping away like mist, but the warmth of it stayed, curling low and steady in your chest.

You were going to dinner. With Reed Richards. And Sue Storm.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The Baxter Building stood tall and impossible in the heart of the city, its sleek, glinting frame catching the last of the golden evening light like it had been plucked from some distant future and set gently down in Manhattan.

The security in the lobby had let you through without question, as if they’d been expecting you, as if your name already belonged in the same breath as Reed Richards and Sue Storm, and that thought alone made your stomach twist with something between awe and panic as you stepped into the elevator.

It was silent inside—sterile and smooth, the walls a brushed metal that reflected the softest version of your silhouette back at you, almost dreamlike. You stared at your reflection for a moment, adjusting the bottle of wine you held with both hands, the paper bag crinkling slightly beneath your fingertips.

You’d picked it up on the way here after spending a full thirty minutes in the wine shop pretending to know what pairs with intellectual dinner parties hosted by superheroes. You smoothed the front of your dress—a soft, modest thing that you’d chosen carefully, something that felt like you, but maybe a little prettier, a little more delicate than usual, your lips painted just faintly, enough to make you feel like you were trying without looking like you were trying.

You exhaled slowly, barely noticing the way the elevator glided up without a sound, your heartbeat louder than anything around you. Your thoughts raced, of course they did—what if it was too much? What if you shouldn’t have come? What if he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, that subtle curve of his voice when he said see you at dinner, the glint in his eye, the way his attention had lingered for just a moment too long?

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors opened.

And then— There he was.

Reed stood just inside the threshold, one hand braced casually on the edge of the doorway, the other slipping his phone into his back pocket like he’d only just finished checking something, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, collarbone peeking slightly where his top button had been left undone, no tie, no lab coat—just a simple, perfectly tailored shirt that made your brain stutter for half a beat.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly more than once, and there was a tiny streak of ink or maybe graphite on his knuckle that hadn’t been washed off completely.

It was Reed, but not the version of him you’d grown used to seeing in the lab, not the hyper-focused, brilliant blur of intellect you worked beside every day—this Reed looked like he’d been waiting. For you.

His eyes moved over you slowly—once, all the way down and back up again, not rushed, not obvious, but deliberate enough that you felt it everywhere, like heat pressing into the skin of your chest and the backs of your knees, your fingers tightening instinctively around the bottle you were holding.

He didn’t say anything at first, just quirked the corner of his mouth into something halfway between a smirk and a smile, soft but amused, his gaze still lingering just a little too long.

“You clean up well,” he said finally, voice lower than usual, not teasing exactly—more like he was confessing something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Your mouth parted slightly, but your voice caught, and when you finally managed to speak, it came out soft and a little breathless. “I—brought wine.”

He glanced down at the bottle, then back at you, his smile deepening just enough to make your heart skip. “Dangerously overqualified,” he murmured, stepping back to let you in. “Smart and thoughtful. Sue’s going to love you.”

You stepped past him into the apartment, the warmth of the space wrapping around you instantly, the scent of dinner and city lights and him curling at the edge of your senses, and even as you tried to focus on your breathing, on your posture, on not tripping in your kitten heels, you could still feel the echo of his eyes on your skin, like he hadn’t really stopped looking.

The apartment unfolded around you like a page in some impossibly curated design magazine, only softer, warmer, more lived-in than anything artificial—clean, modern lines met rich textures, brushed steel softened by warm walnut floors and deep navy accents that glowed golden under the cascade of low, amber-hued lighting.

One entire wall was glass, and beyond it, the Manhattan skyline burned softly against the horizon, city lights just starting to glitter like distant stars, and even the air inside smelled expensive and comforting—like slow-cooked herbs and something faintly sweet.

You were still catching your breath, still clutching the wine like a lifeline, when you heard a voice float in from down the hall—clear, warm, and unmistakably female.

“There she is.”

Sue Storm walked into view like she had been sculpted from light itself—tall and impossibly graceful, wrapped in soft neutral fabrics that draped just right, her golden hair falling in loose waves that framed her face perfectly, her eyes a crystalline blue that held a kind of sharpness you immediately respected.

She was breathtaking, in that way women are when they know who they are, and the moment she looked at you, her whole expression softened with something kind and curious and real.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said with a small smile, her voice smooth like honey stirred into tea, her gaze never once breaking from yours.

“Hi,” you breathed, the word escaping before you could shape it into anything more eloquent. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

She waved you off with a flick of her manicured fingers, as if the formality embarrassed her. “Please,” she said with a light laugh, stepping closer. “The way my husband talks about you? I’m the one who’s honored.”

And you blushed so hard you felt it in your ears, your whole body warming beneath the soft light, fingers tightening just slightly around the neck of the bottle as you dipped your head in modest disbelief, not quite sure if you should laugh or hide.

Reed, who had stepped away to adjust the music or maybe just give you a moment, said nothing, but you felt the weight of his glance again—the quiet satisfaction in the corners of his mouth like this was exactly what he wanted: you here, now, nervous but luminous, admired and welcomed.

“Come in,” Sue insisted gently, her hand brushing your arm in a way that grounded you immediately. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made way too much food—he said you don’t eat much, but I never trust him when he says that. He’s never once finished a plate himself.”

You smiled, heart still beating a little too fast, and followed her deeper into the space, the sound of your shoes soft against the hardwood, the city glowing quietly beyond the windows as if watching you take your first steps into something bigger than an internship—something warmer, more dangerous, and far more personal.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Dinner was lovely—elegant but warm, the kind of meal that felt intimate without trying, served at a long polished table that glowed honey-gold under the overhead lights, the city sparkling just beyond the glass like a living mural.

You sat across from them, Reed to your left, Sue across from you, and despite the tight coil of nerves you’d carried into the evening, it was… comfortable.

Sue had a way of making you feel like you belonged, like you weren’t just a guest in the home of two of the most brilliant minds on the planet, but someone worth sitting at their table, someone they genuinely wanted to know.

You found yourself watching them more than you meant to—Sue leaning toward him with quiet laughter, Reed murmuring something back without looking up from his wine glass, the two of them moving in the kind of rhythm that only came from years of intimacy and quiet understanding. And still, as you watched them, something bloomed low and warm in your stomach—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of quiet ache, a fascination that hummed beneath your skin, a longing that had less to do with their relationship and more to do with him.

You were still chasing the thread of that thought when Sue turned to you again, eyes bright with interest.

“So,” she said, “how did you get interested in all of this?”

You blinked, startled out of your reverie, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with a shy smile. “Well,” you began softly, glancing down at your plate before meeting her gaze again, “ever since I was a kid, I just… I always wanted to understand how the world worked. The math, the movement, the rules. I remember watching the stars and thinking—that’s what I want to learn. That’s what I want to be part of.”

Sue offered you a warm smile, nodding in that gentle, encouraging way that made you feel like your words mattered, like they weren’t small or naïve or too eager. “Well,” she said, “it’s always nice seeing young people interested in this kind of work—especially a fellow…” she paused, grinning as she reached for her glass, “…girl genius.”

You laughed softly, cheeks warm, about to reply with something awkward and grateful and probably too modest—when it happened.

You felt it.

Unmistakable.

A hand. Large, warm, and undeniably real, sliding gently across your thigh under the table.

Your heart stopped. Your breath caught somewhere high in your chest, your eyes flickering toward Reed so quickly you barely caught Sue sipping her wine across from you. But he didn’t look at you—not exactly. His gaze remained calm and forward, his profile composed and entirely unreadable as he took a slow sip of his wine and then glanced up at Sue, his hand still resting firmly on your leg.

“She’s brilliant,” he said casually, his voice smooth and even, like he was commenting on the weather, like he wasn’t currently touching you from across the table while sitting next to his wife.

You sat frozen, pulse thundering in your ears, body rigid but electrified, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem of your glass as you tried to focus, to breathe, to not move.

“She corrected me the other day about a flux equation I wrote in ’04,” he continued, eyes finally drifting to meet yours—and holding there, steady and direct, a silent dare written behind his calm expression. “She was right, too.”

Sue laughed, clearly delighted. “Good. God knows someone needs to keep you in check.”

You could barely hear her. Could barely focus on anything except the heat of Reed’s hand, the way it pressed gently into the top of your thigh, just enough to let you know it was real, just enough to make your stomach twist with something hot and shivery and shamefully thrilling.

And then—his hand moved.

Not in that subtle, polite way you might’ve been able to ignore or convince yourself had been some kind of misunderstanding, not a graze or a twitch or something incidental—but deliberate, slow, intentional, his palm sliding higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress in a single fluid motion that felt so impossibly confident it made your entire body lock up at once.

The heat of his skin against your thigh stole the breath from your lungs, and when his fingers skimmed the delicate edge of your underwear, just barely brushing the fabric, you felt your heart climb straight into your throat and stay there.

You almost choked on your wine.

The glass halted halfway to your lips, your hands trembling just enough for the crystal to click against your teeth, and you let out a strange, stifled sound—half gasp, half cough—your eyes wide, your posture going ramrod straight as you struggled to swallow the panic and arousal crawling up your spine in tandem.

“You alright?” Sue asked gently, glancing up from her plate with concern etched between her brows, the picture of warmth and kindness and everything undeserving of what was happening beneath her dinner table.

“Yes,” you stammered, too quickly, the syllable snapping out of your mouth like it had been fired from a slingshot, your cheeks flushed a deep, telltale red as you nodded a little too hard. “I’m fine. Just—went down the wrong way.”

Across from you, Reed glanced up from his glass at the sound of your voice, his expression calm—no, worse than calm—amused, like he was enjoying watching you fall apart in real time, like he was studying the way you squirmed and flushed and fidgeted with quiet, academic satisfaction. His fingers moved—barely a shift, just enough to press the pad of his thumb along the inside of your thigh, skimming the thin lace of your panties with a featherlight drag that made your vision blur for a moment, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek to stop a sound from escaping.

Sue kept talking, mercifully, unaware of the silent war happening beneath the table, and you tried to nod along, tried to pretend you were still following the story she was telling about something at the foundation gala last week, but Reed’s hand was still moving—so slowly, so wickedly gentle, fingers drifting along the edge of the fabric like he was memorizing it, teasing it, learning every soft line of you with nothing more than a ghost of touch and that insufferable, unreadable look in his eyes.

You were blushing so fiercely now you were sure it had reached your chest, heat blooming down your neck like a fever, your knees squeezing together reflexively beneath the table as your breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling in a way that did not feel casual anymore.

“Are you hot, honey?” Sue asked suddenly, concern returning to her voice, her eyes flickering to your cheeks. “A house full of so-called geniuses and we still haven’t figured out how to fix the aircon properly. I’ll be back—I’ll check the thermostat.”

And before you could answer—before you could find any response at all—she stood, placing her napkin neatly beside her plate and disappearing down the hall with a rustle of fabric and the click of her heels.

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Reed finally spoke, low and calm and just for you, his fingers still resting against the soft, soaked curve of you beneath your panties.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice a dark, honey-dipped whisper that sent shivers straight through your bones. “Don’t stop now.”

“Reed—” you stammered, your voice cracking under the strain of your own name trembling on your lips, barely more than a whisper, a breath caught halfway between panic and disbelief, your thighs squeezing together out of instinct, out of desperation, out of need you didn’t yet know how to name. “What are you—”

He didn’t lean in.

He didn’t move closer.

He didn’t even blink.

He simply sat there, on the opposite side of the table, one elbow resting near his wine glass, the other arm subtly stretched beneath the surface like a quiet secret unraveling in the dark, and his voice, when it came, was soft and low and steady.

“Tell me to stop.”

And as he said it—calm, impossible, infuriatingly composed—you felt it: the cool air against your skin, your panties slipping down your thighs with a slow, torturous grace, peeled away by a hand that wasn’t even near you, stretched from across the table, precise and gentle and unspeakably brazen. The fabric caught just slightly at your knees before his fingers nudged it past, and you sat there frozen, wide-eyed, red-faced, with your dress pooled neatly over your lap and nothing beneath it now but heat and humiliation and the thundering pulse between your legs.

“Reed—” you breathed again, barely able to shape the word, and his gaze met yours in that maddening, quiet way—no urgency, no shame, only that still, measured calm that made your insides tremble, as if he was watching a reaction unfold under glass.

And then—

Sue's heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she entered the room again, moving with that effortless, elegant grace as she crossed behind you and returned to her seat.

“That should fix it,” she said lightly as she sat, her smile warm and unbothered, her tone casual as if nothing had changed in the few moments she’d been gone.

You turned toward her, your face flaming, your smile shaky and paper-thin as you tried to find your voice again, tried to stitch together whatever pieces of yourself hadn’t yet dissolved under Reed’s hand, which now rested high on your bare thigh like it belonged there.

“Thank you,” you managed softly, the words nearly catching on the breath that refused to sit still in your chest, and somehow, impossibly, you held her gaze.

And across from you, Reed Richards—calm, brilliant, monstrous in his control—simply took another sip of wine.

You tried to focus, truly you did—on Sue, on her words, on the soft clinking of silverware and the gentle thrum of jazz somewhere in the background—but all of it became nothing more than a blur of light and noise the moment his fingers moved again, slow and purposeful, the stretch of his arm impossibly seamless beneath the table, as if he could command every tendon, every muscle, with surgical precision.

He didn’t even shift in his seat, didn’t look down, didn’t so much as twitch, and yet—you felt him, truly felt him now, his fingers slipping between your thighs with exquisite control, brushing over your bare, trembling core with a deliberate slowness that made you forget how to hold your breath steady.

And then—he pushed.

Just one finger at first, and it was too much, because it was him, because it was stretched impossibly long and thick, curling up with inhuman ease, reaching deeper than anyone had ever dared, pressing into you like he already knew exactly where to go, what you needed, like he’d studied your anatomy and had all the answers memorized.

Your thighs tightened automatically, knees trembling under the weight of holding in a sound you very nearly let out, and your hands clenched into your lap, the wine glass beside you forgotten, your whole body alight with the unbearable tension of being touched like this—open, pulsing, absolutely undone—and doing nothing about it.

And then—

“Why don’t you explain to Sue what we went over the other day,” Reed said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just buried his finger inside you under the dinner table, as if he wasn’t slowly crooking it up to find that sweet, aching spot that made your stomach twist and your eyes nearly flutter shut.

You froze.

“What?” you whispered, blinking at him.

He offered a slight tilt of his head, his eyes resting on yours with a look of calm expectation—amusement, even—and then shifted his gaze to Sue, who was looking at you with the kindest, most open smile, entirely oblivious.

“The resonance collapse formula,” Reed said helpfully, voice steady. “She corrected one of my assumptions about it earlier this week. She’s sharper than she lets on.”

He curled his finger again.

And it took everything in you not to cry out.

You blinked rapidly, your lips parting around a breath that wasn’t quite a word, trying to remember the theory, the math, the basic principles of language, but all you could feel was the stretch inside you, the thick, gentle press of him moving in slow, unrelenting circles, coaxing you open without haste, without apology, without shame.

“I—” you started, your voice embarrassingly thin, “we—uh, we talked about—about the resonance curve failing at the threshold of—”

He added a second finger.

Your breath caught so hard you coughed, the burn of it tight in your chest, and you reached for your water like it might ground you, like the coolness of the glass could balance out the unbearable heat pulsing between your legs.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Sue asked again, concerned.

You forced a smile, shaking your head quickly, eyes wet with the effort to look normal, to act normal, when Reed’s fingers were pushing deeper now, stretching you in a way that was obscene, careful, perfect, and somehow managing to keep the rhythm slow and steady, barely moving, just enough to make you drip helplessly onto his knuckles under the table while you tried to describe a physics principle with your body unraveling second by second.

“I’m okay,” you managed to whisper, voice too soft, too high.

Reed’s thumb brushed upward. You jolted. He smiled—just slightly.

“You were saying?” he asked gently.

You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl under the table and never come out.

Instead, you looked up, cheeks flushed, throat tight, and murmured, “We adjusted the decay rate curve based on the harmonic threshold failing beyond point-six-three, and—and recalibrated the control conditions to reflect a more dynamic waveform—”

His fingers pressed up, deep, and you gasped—but you made it sound like awe, like wonder.

Sue beamed at you. “That’s amazing.”

You blinked, barely nodding, and Reed—still untouched himself, still seated like a man entirely at ease—just gave you the faintest smile across the table, like he was proud of you. Like you had passed some unspeakable test.

You weren’t sure when it changed—when Reed’s fingers, once so slow and exploratory, shifted their rhythm, no longer teasing but deliberate, their movement suddenly quickening beneath the tablecloth, each stroke firmer, deeper, more precise, curling up into that one devastating place inside you with the kind of methodical expertise that only a man like him could possess.

His thumb pressed again and again against your swollen clit in quiet, unrelenting circles, and it was obscene, unbelievably obscene, because he was still sitting across from you, back straight, shoulders calm, expression thoughtful and polite as Sue continued her story—talking about an ambassador, or a charity gala, or maybe a speech she gave—and you couldn’t hear a single word of it.

Because you were about to come.

Right there. At their dinner table.

Your thighs were trembling beneath the fabric of your dress, your body pulled taut like a string about to snap, nerves alight and burning in every limb, and you could feel it rising, fast and hot, building in your belly like a storm, spreading up through your spine with every practiced motion of his hand—stretched from across the table, long and dexterous and hidden beneath the soft, quiet clink of silverware.

You were soaked, dripping, pulsing around his fingers, and he knew. Of course he knew. He could feel every flutter, every desperate little squeeze your body gave him, and when he looked at you—really looked at you—his eyes burned with a satisfaction so soft it felt like praise.

You tried to hold it back. God, you tried. Your nails dug into the fabric of your skirt, your breathing shallow and uneven, your lashes fluttering as you ducked your head and bit into the back of your hand, trying to hide the sound, trying to bury the moan that threatened to rip itself from your throat. You were right on the edge, hovering there, helpless, when—

DING!

The sound of the oven’s timer rang out sharply through the kitchen, perfectly, cruelly timed—at the exact second you broke apart, your body shuddering around his fingers as the climax hit you so hard and fast you saw stars behind your eyes. You muffled the moan with your hand, trembling violently in your chair as you faked a cough so sharp it made Sue look up, concerned, just as she was standing to go check the dessert.

“Poor thing,” she said sweetly, already halfway out of the room, completely unaware of what had just happened right beneath her nose. “Let me go grab the cobbler—Reed, didn’t I tell you to turn on the vent fan for the oven? It smells like caramelized sugar in here.”

You barely managed to nod, your breath still stuttering in your chest, the taste of your own bitten-down moan lingering in your mouth like smoke, your vision wet and dizzy as you tried to collect yourself—but it was impossible, completely impossible, because Reed was still watching you, still calm, still composed, still seated like nothing had happened at all, as though his fingers hadn’t just coaxed your orgasm from you with the kind of precision that only a man with endless patience and supernatural reach could possess.

And then—he moved.

His hand, the one he had just pulled back from beneath your dress, rose slowly from beneath the table, casual, unhurried, and with the sort of smooth detachment that made your blood run hot all over again. You watched—helpless, horrified, entranced—as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his expression unreadable but his gaze never leaving yours, and then—

He licked them.

Just the tips. Just a quiet, deliberate motion—his tongue flicking out to drag across the pads of his fingers with unbearable slowness, like a man tasting something rare and sacred, like someone who savored knowledge, savored reactions, savored you—and your breath caught so hard it made your throat ache, your hands clenched in your lap, body still trembling beneath the table.

And that was the exact moment Sue walked back in.

The tray in her hands held a golden, bubbling dish still steaming at the edges, a pitcher of vanilla sauce tucked beside it, and she moved with the same easy grace she always had, placing the dish gently in the center of the table as the scent of caramelized fruit and butter filled the space.

“Was the sauce that good?” she asked with a light laugh, glancing over just in time to see her husband finishing his little motion, his fingers slipping from his mouth like it was nothing at all. “You just licked your fingers like you hadn’t eaten in days.”

Your entire body tensed.

Reed—calm, collected, horrifyingly composed—didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head toward her, then turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours across the table, his gaze heavy with meaning, with memory, with the weight of what he’d just done to you, and said, without a flicker of shame—

“Delicious.”

Your stomach dropped. Your cheeks flamed. You looked away instantly, your eyes darting toward your lap, toward your empty plate, toward anywhere that wasn’t him, your skin hot and crawling with mortification, your thighs pressed tight together under the table, still slick and tender and sensitive as hell, and now—now you had to eat dessert.

With him. With her. With the taste of your orgasm still on his mouth.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You said your goodbyes to Sue as sweetly and shakily as you could manage, your voice still thin and breathless from the quiet ruin Reed had left you in, the remnants of your orgasm still echoing in your body like a pulse you couldn’t calm, and still—still—you smiled, you nodded, you played the part of the polite, well-mannered girl who had not just come in silence at the dinner table. Sue hugged you lightly at the door, warm and soft and lovely, thanking you for coming and saying how nice it was to meet you, her words kind and sincere, her smile so genuine it made you ache.

“We’ll have to do this again,” she said gently, her voice carrying no suspicion, no awareness, only the comfort of a woman who’d welcomed you into her home and truly meant it.

“It was an honor,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, eyes lowered, fingers nervously wrapped around the strap of your bag, heart pounding loud and unrelenting in your chest.

Reed appeared behind you then, as if summoned by the rhythm of your exit, and without saying anything, without asking, he moved to walk you out, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back—a simple gesture, one that should’ve been harmless, innocent, but that felt anything but, especially after what those fingers had just done to you beneath a tablecloth in the dim golden light of a family dining room.

The door clicked shut behind the two of you, and the hallway beyond was quiet, cool, and still, a soft hum from the city beyond the glass, but the silence between you buzzed with something thicker, darker, more intimate than you could bear. He said nothing at first, only walked beside you with slow, unhurried steps, like the moment hadn’t already been branded into both your bodies, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart with your hand over your mouth while his wife got dessert.

At the door to the elevator, he stopped, and you turned toward him, still too flustered to meet his eyes, still trying to hold yourself together with trembling fingers and shallow breaths, your lashes lowered as you whispered, “Thank you for… dinner.”

His response came after a pause, his voice smooth, impossibly steady. “You were perfect.”

You froze—eyes flicking up, breath catching—and found him watching you with that same calm, unreadable expression, but there was something beneath it now, something warmer and darker and dangerous, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth that made your knees weaken all over again.

“Good girl,” he added softly, low enough that only you could hear it, and the elevator doors opened behind you with a soft ding, cool air spilling out into the hallway like a breeze that didn’t belong.

You stepped inside on trembling legs, unsure if you remembered how to breathe, and as the doors began to close, you looked back—just once—and there he was, standing exactly as he had before, his hands in his pockets, head tilted ever so slightly, still watching you, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t wait to take apart again.

And when the doors shut fully, sealing you into silence, your hand finally flew to your chest.

Because you had just survived dinner. Barely. And you weren’t sure you’d ever be the same again.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

let me know your thoughtssss

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mommyownsmee · 1 month ago

Text

What Is “Soft Domming” and How to Do It?

╰┈➤ A Detailed Guide

Soft domming is a style of dominance rooted in care, emotional attunement, and subtle power dynamics. It emphasizes psychological control, gentle authority, and nurturing dominance over overt force or aggression. Unlike hard or sadistic domination, which can involve intense power exchanges and pain, soft domming is more about leading with tenderness, calm confidence, and emotional intelligence.

This article explores what soft domming is, the principles behind it, and how to practice it effectively and ethically—whether you’re new to BDSM or an experienced player expanding your dynamic range.

This article includes:

What Is Soft Domming?

Soft Domming vs. Hard Domming

How to Practice Soft Domming

Common Types of Soft Dom Scenes

Soft Dom Archetypes and Roleplay

Soft Domming in Long-Term Dynamics

Communication Tools for Soft Domming

Tools and Props That Support Soft Domming

Soft Domming and Submissive Archetypes

Integrating Soft Domming into Vanilla Life

Emotional Risks and Boundaries

Is Soft Domming Right for You?

Final Thoughts

1. What Is Soft Domming?

Soft domming refers to a style of dominance where the dominant partner maintains control in a scene or relationship, but does so in a gentle, emotionally supportive, and often affectionate way. It’s not about being passive—it’s about being in charge without needing to raise your voice or break someone down. Soft domming combines intention with emotional presence.

Key Traits of a Soft Dom:

• Calm, steady authority: The soft dom isn’t reactive or loud. They exude grounded confidence that makes the submissive feel secure and guided. This can include measured pacing in speech, calm handling of unexpected emotions, and an unwavering sense of “I’ve got you.”

• Empathy and emotional awareness: A soft dom pays close attention to how their partner is feeling moment to moment. They notice the smallest changes in body language, tone, and energy. They prioritize emotional feedback over technical performance.

• Nurturing and validating behavior: Affirmation and support are tools of control. A soft dom leads through encouragement, not criticism. This is especially important for submissives who are sensitive, new, or healing from past trauma.

• Non-verbal control (eye contact, tone, body language): A raised eyebrow, a soft touch, a pause before a sentence—these tools become power moves in soft domming. Eye contact alone can keep a submissive grounded and obedient.

• Affectionate language, even when giving commands: A soft dom uses language that is warm, inviting, and laced with care. This could mean giving orders in a whisper, with a smile, or framed as a favor being done out of love.

Soft doms often engage in aftercare-focused dynamics, emphasize verbal praise over degradation, and create a safe space where their submissive feels protected, seen, and guided. That doesn’t mean it lacks intensity—it just manifests differently, often in a quieter, more psychological way. In many cases, soft domming can evoke even deeper emotional surrender because it builds on safety and trust, not intimidation.

Both are valid expressions of dominance. Some people blend elements of both. The important thing is consent, communication, and knowing what works for you and your partner(s). A soft dom might still use physical tools or protocols—but the intention behind them is different. Where a hard dom says “Obey me or suffer,” a soft dom says, “Obey me because you trust me—and you want to.”

3. How to Practice Soft Domming

1. Understand the Power You’re Holding

Soft domming is not passive. You’re still leading. You still set the tone, establish the boundaries, and guide the experience. The difference is how you do it—with softness, consistency, and care.

Start by asking yourself:

What kind of control do I want to offer?

What does my partner need to feel safe and submissive?

How can I create a space where they can let go?

A soft dom does not seek control for its own sake—they offer it as a structure for the submissive’s self-expression. That’s a core difference: a soft dom views control as a gift given to the submissive, not a right seized from them. This mindset frames the entire dynamic in a more relational, cooperative light.

The role of a soft dom often resembles a caretaker, mentor, or protective lover—someone who holds space for their submissive’s surrender without violating trust. Many soft doms take on a teaching role, especially in newer dynamics, patiently showing their partner how to give up control safely and enjoyably.

2. Set the Scene with Intention

Environment matters. Create a mood that invites trust and openness. This might involve dim lighting, soft music, clear communication about roles, and rituals that reinforce your connection (like kneeling, collaring, or phrases of affirmation).

Soft domming scenes benefit from clear beginnings and endings. This helps define the emotional arc and signals when to “drop in” and when to return to everyday roles. The more intentional the scene, the more your partner can relax into it.

Examples:

“Look at me while you breathe, just like that.”

“Good. You’re doing exactly what I need.”

“Let me take care of you tonight.”

These affirming statements are commands in disguise—gentle but directive. They keep the submissive grounded in the moment while reminding them who is in charge.

Rituals are especially useful in soft domming. Even small routines (like having your submissive wait quietly while you prepare a scene, or removing their jewelry as a sign of control) build a framework of consistent dominance without harshness. A nightly “yes, Sir” check-in or a morning collaring ritual can reinforce emotional connection and power dynamics outside of physical play.

3. Use Praise and Psychological Play

Soft doms often lean heavily on praise kinks and psychological dominance. Instead of breaking someone down, you build them up—controlling them by becoming the voice they want to please.

Phrases that work:

“You’re such a good girl/boy/pet.”

“I love how you give yourself to me.”

“Stay still for me. That’s perfect.”

The goal is to make your partner feel wanted, seen, and owned—without needing to scare or overwhelm them.

Praise is not just about ego-stroking. It becomes a tool of emotional conditioning. You’re shaping their behavior and deepening their trust by giving attention and affection for obedience, vulnerability, or devotion.

Advanced tactic: Mix praise with mild teasing or restraint.

╰┈➤ For example: “You’ve done so well—but not yet. Wait for my word.” (This uses affection to control pacing and anticipation.)

You can also use psychological play with consensual emotional vulnerability:

Ask them to confess a desire.

Encourage them to write or speak affirmations.

Have them journal about their submission, then read it to you.

Control their focus through grounding exercises (“Feel the floor beneath your knees. Good. Now give me your eyes.”)

4. Touch and Nonverbal Control

Soft domming is tactile. It’s about controlling pace, movement, and reactions through gentle touch—stroking hair, steadying hands, guiding with a fingertip. Eye contact, tone, and physical presence often speak louder than words.

Tactics:

Pulling a partner close and whispering a command.

Holding their face gently while giving instructions.

Slowing their breathing with yours.

You don’t need impact tools to dominate someone’s body. You just need presence and clarity. A hand on the back of their neck. A slow inhale followed by, “Now exhale with me.” Touch can be corrective, rewarding, grounding—or all three at once.

Body language should be intentional. Every gesture—where you place your hands, how you touch them, how you lead their body—should reinforce control while offering safety. It’s the dominance of reassurance.

Breath play in a very light and consensual form can even be part of soft domming—not in the sense of cutting air, but of guiding breath to build rhythm and trust: “Breathe with me. Good. Let go now.” You’re not taking their breath—you’re teaching them to feel it more deeply.

5. Be Attentive and Responsive

A good soft dom reads their partner moment to moment. You’re not just doing things to them—you’re doing things with them. Pay attention to body language, breathing, eye movement. Ask questions when needed. Stay attuned.

Soft doms often check in without breaking the scene, using subtle cues:

“Still with me?”

“Do you want more, or should I slow down?”

“Give me a word if you need to pause.”

This maintains safety without disrupting intensity.

Also consider incorporating verbal or visual safewords, especially if your dynamic emphasizes emotion over intensity. For example, “green/yellow/red” traffic light systems work well, or simply: “tap once for yes, twice for no.”

When in doubt, overcommunicate. A soft dom doesn’t guess—they ask. And then they listen.

6. Prioritize Aftercare

Soft dom dynamics often go deep emotionally. That makes aftercare non-negotiable. Whether you were stroking or spanking, your submissive may feel exposed, vulnerable, or overwhelmed.

Offer:

Water, cuddling, affirmations

Gentle grounding touch

Reassurance of safety and value

Time to decompress and talk

The dominant may also need aftercare—don’t neglect your own emotional well-being.

A soft dom might use aftercare to reinforce their presence and ownership: “You’re mine, and I’ll always take care of you.” It’s a continuation of the dynamic, not a break from it.

Consider discussing the scene afterward in a debrief, not as a critique but as a way to reinforce trust: “How did you feel when I said that?” or “Did anything surprise you tonight?”

4. Common Types of Soft Dom Scenes

Soft domming isn’t limited to one kind of dynamic. The emotional range is wide—romantic, parental, mentoring, spiritual, and sensual. Here are some popular soft dom scene types that reflect the variety of dynamics:

1. Guided Submission

The dominant guides the submissive through a series of instructions—simple, slow, and intentional—using voice and presence more than physical restraints. This can be a highly meditative experience.

Elements to include:

Verbal pacing (“Take off your shirt. Slowly. Good.”)

Breath synchronization

Eye contact as a command

Praise for each step

Gentle corrections without shame

This scene is ideal for submissives who enjoy focus, structure, and affirmation more than degradation or discipline.

2. Service-Oriented Domination

Service submission is where a submissive expresses devotion by serving the dominant in practical or ritualistic ways. A soft dom uses tone and structure to reinforce that this service is an act of love and obedience—not obligation.

Examples:

Preparing tea, folding laundry, or assisting with self-care

Ritual grooming (brushing hair, running a bath)

Massage with instructions and affirmations

Following a daily care or task list from the dom

A soft dom might say, “Polish my shoes for me—not because you have to, but because it’s how you show you’re mine.”

3. Emotional Edgeplay

This is the most delicate form of soft domming. The dom gently pushes the submissive to explore emotional vulnerabilities—desires, fears, insecurities—while holding a secure, affirming space.

Examples:

Confessional scenes (asking the sub to speak secrets or confessions while kneeling)

Writing scenes (journaling assignments with deep reflection)

Mirror scenes (having the sub speak self-love affirmations in front of a mirror while guided)

Warning: Emotional edgeplay requires advanced trust and strong communication. Only engage in this with a solid aftercare plan and clear emotional consent.

5. Soft Dom Archetypes and Roleplay

Not all soft doms look or act the same. There are many expressions of gentle dominance. Think in terms of energy and archetype.

Common Soft Dom Archetypes:

Caretaker Dom: Focuses on healing, support, and soothing. May use nurturing tasks like feeding, bathing, and cuddling.

Romantic Dom: Uses poetic, affectionate language. Highly sensual, attentive, and deeply emotionally invested.

Mentor Dom: Offers structure, growth, and wisdom. May help the submissive with personal goals, mindset training, or emotional development.

Elegant Dom: Composed, graceful, and subtle. Dominates through poise, gaze, and precision.

Protective Dom: Soft but firm. Prioritizes safety, security, and acts of shielding. Physically or emotionally stands between the sub and the world.

Roleplay Scenarios That Fit Soft Domming:

Teacher / Student: Encouraging performance, gently correcting mistakes, rewarding obedience.

Royal / Servant: Soft authority, quiet command, focused on protocol and devotion.

Boss / Assistant: Not aggressive—more like calm guidance, mentorship, “I know what’s best for you.”

Healer / Patient: Grounded in body care and surrender. Can involve consensual caretaking in a ritualized way.

Roleplay is a way to express fantasies while reinforcing the tone of the dynamic. For soft domming, roleplay often emphasizes reassurance, personal development, or romantic tension—not humiliation or punishment.

6. Soft Domming in Long-Term Dynamics

While soft domming is often discussed in the context of scenes, many couples build ongoing power exchange relationships based entirely or primarily on this dynamic.

These long-term D/s relationships can include:

Consistent rituals and rules that affirm the power exchange in daily life (e.g., bedtime rituals, meal prep tasks, honorifics like “Sir,” “Ma’am,” or custom titles).

Emotional leadership, where the dominant offers guidance in the submissive’s personal or professional life with care and intentionality.

Long-term service tasks that provide the submissive with a sense of purpose and devotion.

Relationship coaching-style dominance, where the dom helps the sub achieve their goals by using encouragement, structure, and emotional accountability.

In this context, soft domming becomes a blend of dominance, life coaching, and gentle authority. It’s not about micromanaging—it’s about curating a lifestyle of support and erotic control.

7. Communication Tools for Soft Domming

Clear, compassionate communication is a hallmark of soft dominance. Here are some techniques that strengthen emotional safety and deepen connection:

Active Listening

Soft doms listen with their full attention. They mirror their partner’s words, offer empathy, and respond with care—even in disagreement.

Open-Ended Questions

Instead of “Do you like that?” try:

“What are you feeling right now?”

“What does this make you think about?”

“What do you need more of to feel safe?”

Tone Framing

Soft doms pay attention not just to what they say, but how they say it. A command in a calm, low voice lands very differently than the same words barked out.

Emotional Check-In Rituals

Establish regular moments where both partners can step outside the dynamic and reflect. Example prompts:

“How are you feeling about our dynamic this week?”

“Is there anything I could do differently to support you?”

“Do you feel loved and seen right now?”

8. Tools and Props That Support Soft Domming

Soft domming doesn’t always involve impact play, but some tools can complement the dynamic if used with care and intention:

Silk or leather cuffs for light restraint—focus is on containment, not struggle.

Blindfolds to heighten sensory focus and trust.

Feathers, soft brushes, or fingertips for sensory teasing and control

Vibrators or temperature play used while commanding your partner’s reactions.

A voice recorder (for recorded affirmations or commands they listen to when apart).

The key is not what the tool is—but how it’s used. The dom’s voice and presence remain the most powerful instruments in soft domming.

9. Soft Domming and Submissive Archetypes

Different submissives respond differently to soft domination. Here are some sub types that often pair well with this style:

The Romantic

They crave closeness, compliments, and feeling emotionally safe. They bloom under affection and poetic language.

The Caregiver Sub

They enjoy nurturing and domestic service and respond well to doms who appreciate and structure their efforts.

The Anxious Sub

They may have past trauma or fear around intense domination. They need stability, repeated reassurance, and warm authority.

The Praise Addict

They crave validation and emotional reward. Responds well to verbal encouragement, structured goals, and being noticed.

Soft domming isn’t one-size-fits-all—but understanding your submissive’s core needs helps you shape the tone of your dominance effectively.

10. Integrating Soft Domming into Vanilla Life

Not all soft doms are “in scene” all the time. Many couples incorporate the energy of soft domming into everyday interactions without formal BDSM sessions.

Examples:

Offering calming instructions during stress: “Pause. Take a breath. Look at me.”

Providing praise after difficult tasks: “You did that beautifully. I’m proud of you.”

Using rituals for intimacy: “Kneel in front of me before bed. Let me hold you.”

The power dynamic doesn’t disappear outside the bedroom—it just adapts to context. These moments reinforce the emotional bond and trust that soft domming thrives on.

11. Emotional Risks and Boundaries

Soft domming often goes deep. It builds strong attachment and emotional intimacy. That’s its power—but also its risk.

Potential Challenges:

Over-attachment: Submissives may idealize the dom as a savior or emotional caretaker.

Burnout for the dom: Holding space for someone else 24/7 emotionally can be draining, especially without reciprocation or breaks.

Blurry boundaries: Gentle dynamics can blur the line between kink and vanilla intimacy. It’s important to define what’s play and what’s relationship.

Unacknowledged emotional manipulation: When affection is used to subtly control without clarity or consent, it crosses a line.

How to Protect Against These:

Establish regular check-ins about emotional tone.

Define the boundary between dom/sub roles and “regular life.”

Encourage the submissive’s autonomy outside of submission.

Dom and sub both should maintain a self-care routine outside of the relationship.

Soft domming isn’t easier—it’s just a different kind of emotional labor. It requires ethical self-awareness and mutual respect.

12. Is Soft Domming Right for You?

Soft domming is ideal for:

Partners who crave emotional connection as much as (or more than) physical intensity

Submissives who feel unsafe with aggressive energy

Relationships built on caregiving, structure, or mentorship

People interested in blending intimacy and eroticism, without cruelty or humiliation

Doms who enjoy service, romance, or teaching roles

But remember: soft domming still involves power exchange. It’s not “just being nice.” It’s about intentional leadership with care.

And soft domming can absolutely include intensity—it can involve edging, restraint, orgasm control, or even tears—just held inside a container of kindness and safety.

13. Final Thoughts

Soft domming is about commanding with care, leading with love, and holding space for vulnerability. It requires maturity, patience, and empathy—but offers profound rewards: trust, depth, and intense emotional connection.

Whether in a short scene or long-term dynamic, soft domming is not about being less—it’s about being deliberate. You’re not giving up power. You’re mastering it.

In the right hands, soft dominance can make someone feel not just aroused—but cherished. Not just owned—but understood. It’s not about whispering instead of shouting—it’s about choosing your words like silk gloves instead of steel cuffs.

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aeth-eris · 8 months ago

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rising signs : animalistic features

aries rising - tiger, falcon, and lynx

body: aries risings exhibit the muscular and agile build of a tiger, combined with the aerodynamic frame of a falcon and the compact, athletic form of a lynx. their bodies are often toned and fit, showcasing their strength and speed. they possess an upright posture, emphasizing their readiness and boldness, as if they are always prepared for action. the combination of these animals highlights their powerful and assertive presence, as they move with precision and swiftness. face: angular, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline that mirrors the boldness of a tiger. their eyes are sharp and intense, much like the falcon’s focused, penetrating gaze, while their expressions carry the quiet, alert nature of a lynx. the overall facial structure is defined and commanding, reflecting a fierce and determined attitude. their gaze can be both direct and intimidating, showcasing their fearless and straightforward approach to life. aura: dynamic, assertive, and commanding. aries risings carry an electric, action-oriented energy that feels like a constant surge of adrenaline. they exude a sense of confidence and leadership, blending the power and grace of a tiger, the sharp awareness and agility of a falcon, and the stealth and precision of a lynx. their presence ignites intensity, pushing others to rise to the challenge or keep up with their relentless pace.

taurus rising - bison, tortoise, and walrus

body: taurus risings have a solid and powerful build that combines the massive strength of a bison, the grounded, steady presence of a tortoise, and the robust frame of a walrus. they typically appear broad and muscular, with thick limbs and a physique that emphasizes resilience and stability. their movements are purposeful and deliberate, often slow and measured, showcasing their connection to the earth and their preference for consistency. face: broad and rounded features, with a calm and peaceful expression that resembles the serene gaze of a tortoise. their eyes are steady, showing depth and warmth, much like the wise look of a bison. the full cheeks and strong, defined chin echo the presence and strength of a walrus, giving them an appearance of solidity and strength. aura: grounded, reliable, and reassuring. taurus risings project a steady, nurturing energy that feels safe and dependable, combining the wisdom of a tortoise, the protective power of a bison, and the enduring strength of a walrus. their presence is calming, making those around them feel secure, as they exhibit a consistent, steadfast nature that doesn’t waver.

gemini rising - sparrow, monkey, and butterfly

body: light, quick, and agile, gemini risings have a lean build that allows for rapid movement, similar to a sparrow’s nimble form. they carry the playful energy of a monkey, showing a lively and expressive demeanor, while the delicate, fluttering grace of a butterfly adds a sense of lightness and charm. their body reflects a youthful, ever-active nature, constantly shifting and adapting to their environment. face: sharp, animated features with bright, inquisitive eyes that capture the alertness of a sparrow. their facial expressions are lively and change rapidly, similar to the playful curiosity seen in a monkey. they may have fine, delicate facial structures that resemble the soft, whimsical beauty of a butterfly, adding to their light and engaging appearance. aura: playful, energetic, and intelligent. gemini risings carry a dynamic and sociable energy, blending the lightness and freedom of a sparrow, the quick-witted and expressive nature of a monkey, and the delicate charm of a butterfly. their presence feels like a breeze—refreshing, unpredictable, and always in motion—sparking curiosity and encouraging interaction.

cancer rising - seal, koala, and panda

body: soft and nurturing, cancer risings often have a gentle, rounded build that reflects the comforting presence of a seal. their physique is compact, similar to a koala’s, emphasizing approachability and warmth, while the soft and cuddly nature of a panda adds a sense of protection and tenderness. they move with a slow, flowing grace, creating an inviting and soothing presence. face: round and expressive, with large, tender eyes that resemble the gentle and caring gaze of a panda. their expressions are soft and calm, showing warmth and empathy like a seal’s, and they possess a nurturing quality reminiscent of a koala’s peaceful demeanor. their cheeks are often full, giving them a youthful, approachable look that conveys comfort and care. aura: warm, gentle, and nurturing. cancer risings project an energy that feels soothing and protective, blending the tenderness of a panda, the comforting nature of a seal, and the nurturing presence of a koala. their aura creates a safe space, making others feel understood and supported in their presence, as they embody a sense of home and emotional safety.

leo rising - lion, peacock, and golden eagle

body: leo risings possess a powerful, athletic build reminiscent of a lion’s strength, combined with the tall, elegant posture of a golden eagle and the flamboyant beauty of a peacock. they have a commanding presence, with a fit, muscular frame that draws attention and exudes confidence. their movements are deliberate and graceful, embodying their regal nature. face: striking and bold, with prominent, angular features that evoke the majesty of a lion. their eyes are intense, like a golden eagle’s, projecting a sense of focus and strength. the dramatic flair of a peacock is seen in their expressive facial gestures, emphasizing their charisma and boldness. voluminous hair often enhances their presence, resembling a lion’s mane or a peacock’s extravagant display. aura: radiant, magnetic, and commanding. leo risings emit a confident and captivating energy that draws others in, blending the regal power of a lion, the focused intensity of a golden eagle, and the showy elegance of a peacock. their aura feels bright and uplifting, inspiring admiration and respect, as they naturally take center stage in any setting.

virgo rising - cat, antelope, and dragonfly

body: virgo risings have a slender and graceful build like a cat, with the agile, athletic form of an antelope and the delicate, light structure of a dragonfly. their bodies appear refined and controlled, moving with quick and precise movements that highlight their attention to detail. face: delicate and angular, with sharp, intelligent eyes similar to those of a cat. their expressions are thoughtful, often showing focus and calm observation. the sleek look of an antelope and the fine, intricate beauty of a dragonfly are reflected in their facial features, giving them an air of grace and sophistication. aura: calm, meticulous, and composed. virgo risings carry an energy that feels precise and thoughtful, combining the awareness of a cat, the grace of an antelope, and the lightness of a dragonfly. their presence is composed and organized, creating an atmosphere that feels efficient and intelligent, like everything is in its proper place.

libra rising - gazelle, swan, and dove

body: libra risings are long-limbed and elegant, with the slender and graceful build of a gazelle, the poised beauty of a swan, and the gentle softness of a dove. they have a balanced and proportional physique that moves fluidly and gracefully, appearing refined and harmonious. face: symmetrical and soft, with serene eyes that mirror the peaceful gaze of a dove. their facial features are refined, exuding the delicate beauty of a swan and the graceful movement of a gazelle. their skin and facial structure often appear smooth and well-balanced, enhancing their overall elegance. aura: harmonious, peaceful, and inviting. libra risings emit a calming and balanced energy that feels welcoming and graceful, combining the elegance of a swan, the charm of a dove, and the poise of a gazelle. their presence creates an atmosphere of beauty and harmony, making those around them feel at ease and inspired.

scorpio rising - wolf, scorpion, and raven

body: scorpio risings have a lean and muscular build, combining the stealthy, agile form of a wolf, the controlled precision of a scorpion, and the sleek, dynamic appearance of a raven. they move with purpose and fluidity, exuding an intensity that feels both powerful and mysterious. face: sharp and defined, with piercing eyes that convey the watchful, predatory gaze of a wolf. their facial features are intense and captivating, reflecting the enigmatic and precise nature of a scorpion and the mysterious allure of a raven. their expressions often appear serious, hinting at hidden depths and secrets. aura: intense, magnetic, and enigmatic. scorpio risings project a deep, transformative energy that feels both powerful and alluring, blending the loyalty and intensity of a wolf, the stealth of a scorpion, and the mysterious presence of a raven. their aura draws people in, creating a sense of intrigue and fascination that leaves others wanting to know more.

sagittarius rising - mustang, albatross, and otter

body: sagittarius risings have a tall, lean, and athletic build like a mustang, with the expansive, soaring energy of an albatross and the playful, flexible movements of an otter. they possess a fit physique that exudes freedom and vitality, moving swiftly and gracefully. face: bold and expressive, with bright, adventurous eyes similar to an albatross’s far-seeing gaze. their facial features are open and inviting, reflecting the playful nature of an otter and the wild, untamed spirit of a mustang. their expressions are often warm and enthusiastic, embodying their love for exploration and adventure. aura: adventurous, open, and enthusiastic. sagittarius risings carry an expansive, free-spirited energy that feels vibrant and uplifting, blending the speed and freedom of a mustang, the vision of an albatross, and the joyful playfulness of an otter. their presence encourages exploration and inspires others to embrace new experiences.

capricorn rising - ibex, owl, and mountain goat

body: capricorn risings have a sturdy and lean build like an ibex, with the disciplined structure of a mountain goat and the quiet, resilient presence of an owl. they move with precision and strength, reflecting their determination and focus. their physique often appears strong and fit, showcasing their resilience and their ability to navigate challenges with grace and endurance. face: angular, with a serious, observant gaze that mirrors the keen eyes of an owl. their facial features are defined and strong, showing the resilience of an ibex and the perseverance of a mountain goat. their expressions are composed and calm, highlighting their practical and methodical approach, often exuding an air of quiet authority. aura: disciplined, steady, and authoritative. capricorn risings exude a grounded energy that feels strong and reliable, blending the endurance of a mountain goat, the wisdom of an owl, and the resilience of an ibex. their presence is focused, instilling a sense of stability and determination in others, encouraging confidence and a sense of purpose in any environment they enter.

aquarius rising - octopus, crow, and gecko

body: aquarius risings possess a flexible and adaptable build like an octopus, combined with the sleek, dynamic presence of a crow and the agile, versatile movements of a gecko. they often have a slim and unique physique that reflects their individuality and adaptability. their movements are fluid and unpredictable, showcasing their readiness to adapt to new environments and embrace unconventional ways of moving through the world. face: distinctive features with bright, intelligent eyes similar to those of a crow. their expressions often carry a sense of curiosity and insight, reflecting the adaptability of a gecko and the enigmatic quality of an octopus. their facial structure is unique and may have an asymmetrical or unconventional charm, emphasizing their innovative and forward-thinking nature. aura: unconventional, innovative, and dynamic. aquarius risings project an energy that feels futuristic and adaptable, blending the intelligence and flexibility of an octopus, the sharp wit of a crow, and the resourcefulness of a gecko. their presence feels electric and intriguing, inviting others to think outside the box and approach life with an open and inventive mindset.

pisces rising - manatee, chameleon, and jellyfish

body: pisces risings often have a soft, rounded build like a manatee, combined with the fluid, adaptable movements of a jellyfish and the transformative nature of a chameleon. their physique appears gentle and calm, emphasizing a peaceful and approachable presence. they move with a serene, flowing grace that feels almost ethereal, embodying a sense of fluidity and adaptability to their surroundings. face: soft, gentle features with large, dreamy eyes that convey deep empathy and sensitivity, resembling a manatee’s warm and compassionate gaze. their expressions are fluid and often reflective, mirroring the chameleon’s ability to adapt and change. their overall look has an otherworldly quality similar to a jellyfish, with a soft and delicate appearance that enhances their mystical aura. aura: dreamy, empathetic, and fluid. pisces risings emit a soothing, nurturing energy that feels ethereal and adaptable, blending the gentle nature of a manatee, the flexibility of a chameleon, and the calming essence of a jellyfish. their presence creates a peaceful and intuitive atmosphere, making others feel at ease and inviting them into their compassionate and imaginative world.

#astrology #astrology observations #astro observations #astrology moodboard #astrology rising #ascendant sign

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sopastro444 · 19 days ago

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𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞'𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲

Paid readings here

——————∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘——————

According to derivative Astrology, this works because the 7th house shows your future spouse, and the 10th house shows someone’s career. If you count ten houses starting from the 7th, you land on the 4th house. That’s why your 4th house can describe your future partner’s job and reputation.

Aries in the 4th House:

Your future spouse is likely a self-starter, someone who takes bold risks and thrives in competitive environments. They're known for their leadership, directness, and ability to initiate projects.

Careers may involve action, leadership, or danger: entrepreneurship, the military, emergency services, sports, surgery, or tech start-ups.

They may have a reputation for being brave, intense, or impulsive.

Taurus in the 4th House:

Your future spouse values security, consistency, and luxury. They likely work in a field that allows them to build wealth slowly and steadily. Stability is their strength.

Careers may include finance, banking, luxury goods, real estate, design, art, or hospitality.

They may be known for their patience, reliability, and refined taste.

Gemini in the 4th House:

Your spouse is quick-thinking, curious, and versatile. Their work likely involves communication, writing, multitasking, or networking.

They may work in media, journalism, education, tech, marketing, publishing, or sales.

They are known for being witty, social, and mentally agile, with a constantly evolving career.

Cancer in the 4th House:

Your spouse may have a nurturing, protective, and intuitive energy. Their career is often connected to care, emotions, and home-related matters.

They may work in counseling, medicine, education, childcare, food, social work, or real estate.

They’re seen as compassionate, private, and emotionally intelligent, but may have public mood shifts or protectiveness over their career.

Leo in the 4th House:

Your spouse is likely charismatic, confident, and drawn to creative or high-profile careers. They want to be admired and make a bold statement in their profession.

Careers may include entertainment, fashion, performance, leadership, branding, or entrepreneurship.

They’re known for their presence, ambition, and desire for recognition.

Virgo in the 4th House:

Your future spouse is precise, practical, and hardworking. Their career is focused on service, healing, or intellectual analysis.

They may be in healthcare, education, editing, science, research, tech, or administration.

They are perceived as reliable, intelligent, and reserved, with a need to perfect everything they do.

Libra in the 4th House:

Your spouse may be elegant, diplomatic, and image-conscious. Their career could center around beauty, harmony, justice, or social balance.

Potential careers: law, design, art, fashion, mediation, event planning, or public relations.

They are known for charm, grace, and the ability to maintain peace and aesthetics in any environment.

Scorpio in the 4th House:

Your spouse is intense, private, and powerful. Their career likely involves transformation, crisis, or depth psychology.

They may work in finance, therapy, investigation, psychology, forensics, or energy work.

They are known for mystery, depth, and emotional control in their professional life. A powerful but often hidden presence.

Sagittarius in the 4th House:

Your future spouse is optimistic, adventurous, and driven by truth and freedom. Their career likely involves travel, philosophy, teaching, or exploration.

They may be educators, travelers, authors, spiritual leaders, philosophers, or involved in international work.

They're seen as wise, inspiring, and sometimes restless or idealistic.

Capricorn in the 4th House:

Your spouse is career-focused, disciplined, and ambitious. Their work often revolves around status, authority, structure, or legacy.

They may be executives, politicians, lawyers, architects, surgeons, or corporate leaders.

They’re known as responsible, hard-working, and serious in their public role. They likely mature into success later in life.

Aquarius in the 4th House:

Your future spouse is unconventional, innovative, and forward-thinking. Their career is likely progressive, humanitarian, or tech-oriented.

They may work in science, tech, activism, innovation, astrology, or community work.

They're seen as eccentric, intellectual, and socially aware, often ahead of their time.

Pisces in the 4th House:

Your spouse is dreamy, artistic, or spiritual. Their career may involve healing, creativity, or emotional depth.

Fields may include music, film, art, spirituality, therapy, charity work, or ocean/marine-related fields.

They’re known for their sensitivity, compassion, and mystique. Their path may be fluid or nontraditional.

#astro notes #astro observations #astrology #manifestation #tarot #love #astro community #mercury #venus #astro memes #4th house #love langauges #love language #marriage #future spouse

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astrologydray · 2 months ago

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Ruler of the 10th through the houses

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

the ruler of the 10th house through the houses reveals how you chase success, legacy, visibility, and your “big life purpose.”So when we trace the ruler of your 10th house, we see how and where you rise — your path to becoming known, respected, and remembered.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 1st House

You are the brand.

Your identity and presence are your career. You’re meant to be seen, known, and admired for being authentically you. People naturally look to you as a leader. Public image: Confident, bold, self-made. Career calling: Personal branding, influencer, leadership. “My name is my legacy.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 2nd House

You build your legacy through value.

Your work is tied to money, security, and your self-worth. You’re meant to create something lasting and profitable — whether through art, business, or slow, solid success. Public image: Reliable, successful, grounded. Career calling: Entrepreneurship, beauty, finance, resources. “I earn my legacy.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 3rd House

Your voice is your path.

You’re known for how you speak, write, or connect. You may find success through content creation, teaching, writing, media, or tech. Movement, flexibility, and messaging are key. Public image: Clever, informed, articulate. Career calling: Writing, communications, marketing, social media. “My message is my mission.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 4th House

You rise from your roots.

Your legacy is built from your past, family, or emotional story. You may be known for healing, nurturing, real estate, or helping others feel safe. You want to be known and deeply grounded. Public image: Empathic, homey, deep. Career calling: Counseling, healing, home-based work, heritage work.“My past shaped my purpose.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 5th House

You shine through creativity.

You’re known for your art, presence, charisma, or performance. You may gain recognition through entertainment, children’s work, design, or self-expression. Public image: Charismatic, magnetic, artistic. Career calling: Acting, fashion, content, teaching youth, love + art. “I create my legacy with flair.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 6th House

You rise through service.

Your work may feel humble — but it’s sacred. You’re recognized for being reliable, helpful, organized, or health-conscious. You may work in wellness, routines, or healing fields. Public image: Helpful, hardworking, healing Career calling: Medicine, therapy, systems, admin, animal care. “I serve my purpose daily.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 7th House

You’re known through your relationships.

You may be seen publicly with a partner, or your career may involve clients, law, beauty, or partnerships. You’re here to collaborate and be seen as a fair leader. Public image: Diplomatic, beautiful, relationship-focused. Career calling: Law, counseling, PR, design, client-based success. “We rise together.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 8th House

You rise from the shadows.

You’re known for transformation — healing, mystery, power, taboo topics. You may work with money, sexuality, trauma, or deep emotional truths. You’re a secret weapon. Public image: Intense, mysterious, powerful. Career calling: Psychology, finance, spiritual work, sex ed, alchemy. “My legacy is rebirth.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 9th House

You’re known for your wisdom.

You gain recognition through teaching, travel, philosophy, or spirituality. People see you as a guide, mentor, or someone with a visionary mind. You’re here to expand consciousness. Public image: Worldly, inspiring, intelligent. Career calling: Teaching, publishing, law, religion, coaching. “I lead through truth.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 10th House

Boss energy on 100.

You were born to be seen, respected, and in charge. You’re clear on your path and probably rise early in life. Your authority is part of your soul contract. Public image: Professional, respected, unstoppable. Career calling: CEO, leader, public figure, status-based roles. “Legacy is my birthright.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 11th House

You rise with the people.

Your success comes through community, tech, activism, or online spaces. You’re a changemaker, futurist, or innovator who’s meant to impact the collective. Public image: Visionary, rebellious, forward-thinking. Career calling: Tech, media, social work, entrepreneurship, online fame. “I rise when I lift others.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

10th House Ruler in the 12th House

Your purpose is sacred + spiritual.

You may work behind the scenes, in healing arts, film, or with vulnerable populations. Your legacy is dreamy, ethereal, and emotionally rich — not always tied to status or fame. Public image: Mystical, poetic, soulful. Career calling: Music, healing, nonprofits, spiritual work, film. “My purpose lives in the unseen.”

#astro notes #astrology #birth chart #astro observations #astro community #astrology observations #astrology community #astrology degrees #astro #astroblr #houses in astrology #astrology content #astrologyposts #astrology insights

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velvetvisionsaurora · 7 days ago

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Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

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Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 18: The Wooyoung Effect

Wooyoung stood outside the guesthouse door for a full thirty seconds, taking deep breaths and trying to summon every ounce of charm he possessed. This was arguably the most important conversation of his life—not loosing his mate because his captain had the emotional intelligence of a brick wall.

"Okay, Wooyoung," he muttered to himself, straightening his shoulders. "Time to work the magic: charm her, win her favor back. No pressure at all."

He knocked gently on the door, then immediately called out in his most pathetic voice, "Tulip? It's me. I come bearing no opinions about your career choices and absolutely zero comments about your hormones."

There was silence from inside, but he could hear movement—the rustle of clothes being folded, the sound of a zipper. His heart clenched at the evidence that you were really, truly packing to leave them.

"Please don't make me stand out here talking to a door," he continued, pitching his voice to sound as pitiful as possible. "I'll start singing show tunes, and nobody wants that at this hour. Well, I want that, but Yeosang told me my midnight serenades are a crime against humanity."

Still no response, but the sounds inside had stopped. He was getting your attention, at least.

"I'm going to keep talking until you either let me in or I fall asleep," he warned, settling in for what might be a long siege. "And I have a lot of material prepared and had a nap. Did I ever tell you about the time I got lost in IKEA for six hours and had to be rescued by security? Because that's where I'm starting, and it only gets more embarrassing from there."

A soft sigh from inside the guesthouse gave him hope.

"So there I was," he began dramatically, "surrounded by Swedish furniture. It started innocently enough—Seonghwa-hyung sent me to buy a lamp. One lamp! How hard could it be, right? WRONG. So very, very wrong."

He heard what sounded suspiciously like a muffled laugh from inside and grinned to himself. The Wooyoung charm was already working.

"First, I got distracted by the fake room displays. They're so realistic! I genuinely thought about moving into the tiny apartment setup on the second floor. It had better lighting than our dorm at the time. But then I realized they don't actually come with snacks, which seemed like a design flaw."

Another soft sound from inside—definitely a laugh this time, though you were trying to hide it.

"Anyway, I'm wandering through this maze of furniture, right? Following the little arrows on the floor like a good citizen. But somehow I ended up in the warehouse section. It's like a furniture graveyard back there—just endless shelves of boxes with names like BJÖRKÅSEN and KNÖPPÄNG."

He paused dramatically.

"I tried to find my way back to civilization, but every path just led to more boxes. I was like a lost puppy, except instead of finding my way home, I kept discovering new ways to mispronounce Swedish words. Seonghwa-hyung found me three hours later trying to build a fort out of HEMNES dressers and pillows."

The door opened suddenly, revealing your tear-stained face trying very hard not to smile. "You did not build a fort in IKEA."

"I absolutely did," Wooyoung said solemnly, his eyes lighting up at seeing you even as his heart broke at the evidence of your tears. "It was architecturally sound and everything."

Despite everything, despite the pain and anger and heartbreak, your lips twitched upward in a reluctant smile. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously charming," he corrected, taking your smile as permission to step closer. "Ridiculously devastated that our pack leader has the emotional intelligence of a particularly dense houseplant. Ridiculously in love with an omega who deserves so much better than what she got tonight."

Your smile faltered at the reminder of what had transpired, the pain returning to your eyes. "Wooyoung..."

"No, let me finish," he said gently, stepping through the doorway when you didn't immediately close it in his face. "What Hongjoong-hyung said to you was wrong. Not just tactless or poorly timed—wrong. Cruel. Unforgivable."

You looked surprised by his directness, clearly having expected him to defend his pack leader.

"He used your trauma against you," Wooyoung continued, his usual playful demeanor giving way to fierce sincerity. "He dismissed your completely valid feelings as hormonal hysteria. He tried to control you instead of listening to you. And when that didn't work, he doubled down and made it worse."

Tears were starting to flow again, but you didn't turn away from him.

"I'm not here to make excuses for him," Wooyoung said softly. "I'm here because I need you to know that what he said doesn't represent how any of the rest of us feel about you."

"Doesn't it?" you asked, your voice small and broken. "Because it seemed like you all agreed that my job, my career, everything I've worked for just... doesn't matter anymore."

Wooyoung's face crumpled with genuine anguish. "Oh, Tulip. No. No, that's not... we were scared. We were overwhelmed by the mate bonds and the biology and the chaos of everything happening so fast. But that doesn't excuse dismissing your achievements."

He gestured toward your open suitcase, clothes folded neatly inside. "You are brilliant at what you do. You took our disaster of a schedule and made it work in ways none of us thought possible. You anticipated our needs before we even knew we had them. You made our lives better, our work smoother, our pack stronger."

"But you all said—"

"We said stupid things because we were panicking," Wooyoung interrupted. "When alphas get scared about their omega's safety, sometimes we default to caveman thinking. Protect mate. Keep mate safe. Mate stay in cave where no danger exists."

Despite yourself, you snorted out a small laugh at his deliberately exaggerated alpha stereotype.

"See? You're laughing," Wooyoung said with a triumphant grin. "That means there's hope. You can't pack and leave while you're laughing at my terrible alpha impressions. It's against the rules."

"What rules?" you asked, though your tone was lighter than it had been all evening.

"The rules of dramatic crisis resolution," Wooyoung replied seriously. "Section fifteen, subsection three: 'No life-altering decisions may be made while actively enjoying someone's company.' I don't make the rules—well, actually, I just did make that rule, but it's a good rule. Very reasonable."

You shook your head at his antics, but you were definitely fighting a smile. "You're impossible."

"Impossibly lovable," he corrected. "There's a difference. One suggests I'm a problem to be solved, the other suggests I'm a treasure to be cherished."

"Modest, too," you said dryly.

"Modesty is overrated," Wooyoung declared with characteristic confidence. "Confidence, on the other hand, is undervalued. For instance, I'm confident that you don't really want to leave us."

Your bite your lip looking away. "Wooyoung..."

"Tulip," he said quickly, sensing you were about to retreat back into pain and anger. "I think you want to leave the situation. You want to leave the feeling of being controlled and dismissed and treated like you're just biology to be managed. But you don't want to leave us. Not really."

He was right, and you both knew it. The mate bonds hummed with contentment just from being in the same room with him, even through your blocker. Your omega recognized him as yours, craved his presence, felt safe in his energy.

"It doesn't matter what I want," you said sadly. "You heard what he said. What you all think. I'm just supposed to give up everything I've worked for because I'm your omega now."

"Okay, first of all," Wooyoung said, sitting cross-legged on your bed with the casual familiarity of someone who belonged in your space, "that's not what we all think. That's what our panicked, overwhelmed pack leader said while his alpha was having a complete meltdown."

You remained standing by your suitcase, but you didn't resume packing.

"Second," he continued, "nobody said you have to give up everything. We just need to figure out how to make it work. How to keep you safe while still letting you be the brilliant, capable, accomplished woman we all fell in love with."

Looking at Wooyoung sitting on your bed, speaking with such earnest conviction, something he'd said multiple times suddenly hit you with full force.

"Wait," you said, your voice catching slightly. "You keep saying... you said you're in love with me."

Wooyoung's confident expression softened into something infinitely tender. "Of course I am. How could I not be?"

"But..." you struggled to find the words, gesturing helplessly. "The mate bonds, the biology, everything happened so fast. How do you know it's really love and not just... instinct?"

Wooyoung was quiet for a moment, considering your question with the seriousness it deserved. When he spoke again, his voice held none of his usual theatrical flair—just honest, vulnerable truth.

"Because I fell in love with you before I knew what you were," he said softly. "Before I knew about the mate bonds, before I knew you were an omega, before any of the biology kicked in. I fell in love with the way you laughed at my terrible jokes. The way you rolled your eyes at my dramatics but still smiled. The way you made our chaotic lives feel manageable and warm."

He shifted on the bed, leaning forward slightly. "I fell in love with how you never made me feel like I was too much. How you just... accepted all my energy and gave it right back. How you made me want to be better—not different, just better."

Tears were gathering in your eyes again, but these felt different than the ones from earlier.

"The mate bond just explained why loving you felt as natural as breathing," Wooyoung continued. "It didn't create the love, Tulip. It just gave me a reason for why the thought of you leaving makes me feel like I'm drowning."

"What about the others?" you asked quietly. "What about Hongjoong?"

Wooyoung's expression grew pained. "I can't speak for them—that's their truth to tell you. But Hongjoong... he's so terrified of losing you that his alpha keeps trying to control everything. The man is in love with you so much it's making him crazy, but he doesn't know how to show it without his instincts getting in the way."

You sank down onto the edge of the bed beside him, overwhelmed by the weight of his words.

"I love you too," you admitted softly. "That's what makes this so hard. I love you, but I don't know how to be yours without losing myself."

"Then I'll figure out how to love you without taking anything away from who you are," Wooyoung said with fierce determination. "I can't promise the others will get there as fast as I will, but I can promise I'll never stop trying to be the mate you deserve."

"Okay," you said softly, your decision crystallizing as you looked into Wooyoung's hopeful eyes.

"Okay?" he repeated, hardly daring to breathe.

"Okay, I'll stay," you clarified, and watched as his entire face transformed with joy so pure it made your chest ache.

"Really? You're really staying?" Wooyoung bounced slightly on the bed, his excitement infectious. "Because I have at least seventeen more embarrassing stories prepared, and I was really looking forward to using my 'pathetic abandoned puppy' expression. I've been practicing in the mirror."

Despite everything, you laughed—really laughed—for the first time all evening. "You practiced a pathetic expression in the mirror?"

"For weeks," he admitted with zero shame. "Ever since that time you couldn't say no to Jongho when he used his sad maknae eyes. I figured if it worked for him, it could work for me. Want to see it?"

Before you could respond, Wooyoung's face transformed into the most ridiculously exaggerated expression of pitiful sadness you'd ever seen. His bottom lip jutted out dramatically, his eyes went wide and glassy, and he even managed to make his shoulders slump in a way that suggested utter dejection.

"Oh my god," you gasped between giggles. "You look like a cartoon character who just had his favorite toy taken away."

"Is it working?" he asked hopefully, maintaining the expression. "Because I can add trembling if needed. I've been working on my trembling technique."

"Please don't demonstrate your trembling technique," you said, still laughing. "I'm already staying. You don't need to pull out all the stops."

Wooyoung's face immediately returned to normal, his grin bright and victorious. "Good, because honestly, the trembling looks more like I'm having some kind of medical episode. Seonghwa-hyung keeps trying to take my temperature when I practice it."

The image of Seonghwa fussing over a fake-trembling Wooyoung sent you into another fit of giggles, and suddenly the weight of the evening felt lighter. This was why you loved him—his ability to find joy and laughter even in the darkest moments, his determination to make you smile when everything felt hopeless.

"I love you," you said suddenly, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Wooyoung's expression went soft and wondering, as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd heard. "Say that again," he whispered.

"I love you," you repeated, reaching out to cup his face in your hands. "I love your terrible jokes and your dramatic flair and the way you make everything feel possible."

"Tulip," he breathed, his eyes filling with tears of pure happiness. "I love you too. So much it actually hurts sometimes, like my heart is too small to contain it all."

He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he savored the contact. When he opened them again, they were blazing with affection and something deeper—need, longing, love so intense it made the air between you feel electric.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked softly. "Please? Now that you've said you love me, I think I might actually combust if I don't."

Instead of answering with words, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, but as Wooyoung's arms came around you, it deepened into something more heated, more desperate. Months of suppressed longing poured into the contact, every emotion you'd both been holding back finally free to express itself.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard, and Wooyoung's eyes had taken on that golden glow that marked an alpha responding to his mate.

"That was..." he started, then seemed to lose the ability to form coherent words.

"Yeah," you agreed breathlessly, understanding exactly what he meant.

Wooyoung's hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking gently across your cheekbones. "Tulip," he said softly, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Can I ask you something? You can say no, absolutely no pressure, but..."

"What is it?" you asked, though you suspected you knew what he was going to request.

"Your blocker," he said quietly, his eyes searching yours. "Would you... could you take it off? Just for a little while? I want to scent you properly, want to smell your actual scent mixed with mine. I want to know what we smell like together."

The request sent a shiver through you—part anticipation, part nervousness. Removing your blocker would mean complete vulnerability, would mean letting him experience your true omega nature without any barriers.

"You don't have to," Wooyoung said quickly, clearly sensing your hesitation. "I just... the mate bond is so much stronger when I can actually smell you. And after everything tonight, I need that connection. I need to know you're really mine."

The vulnerability in his voice, the way he was looking at you like you were something precious and desperately wanted, made your decision for you. Slowly, carefully, you reached behind your ear and peeled away the scent blocker patch.

The effect was immediate and overwhelming. Your natural jasmine and vanilla scent flooded the small space, and Wooyoung's reaction was instantaneous. His eyes blazed fully gold as his alpha responded to the sudden presence of his unblocked omega, a low rumble of satisfaction vibrating through his chest.

"Oh," he breathed, his voice rough with emotion and desire. "Oh, Tulip. You smell like... like coming home. Like everything I've ever wanted."

He buried his face in your neck, breathing deeply as your scent surrounded him completely for the first time. The sensation of his warm breath against your skin, the way he seemed to melt into you as if you were his anchor, sent waves of omega contentment through your entire being.

"You smell perfect," he murmured against your throat, pressing soft kisses along your pulse point. "Like mine. Like you've always been mine."

The possessive words should have alarmed you, but instead they sent a thrill of satisfaction through your omega. This was your alpha, claiming you with scent and touch and reverent words, and every instinct you possessed was singing with joy at finally being able to show him your true self.

"Wooyoung," you sighed, tilting your head to give him better access to your neck.

"I love you," he whispered between kisses, his hands tangling in your hair. "I love you so much, and now I can smell how much you love me too. It's in your scent—happiness and affection and home."

You could feel tears gathering in your eyes again, but these were tears of relief and overwhelming emotion rather than pain. This was what the mate bond was supposed to feel like—not control or dominance, but mutual love and acceptance and the joy of finding your perfect match.

"Don't ever scare me like that again," Wooyoung said softly, pulling back to look into your eyes. "Don't ever pack your bags and threaten to leave. My heart can't take it."

"I won't," you promised, meaning it completely. "We'll figure this out together."

"Together," he agreed, sealing the promise with another soft kiss that tasted like hope and forever.

You and Wooyoung were lying peacefully on your bed, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns through your hair. The emotional exhaustion of the evening was finally catching up with you, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat was lulling you into a drowsy contentment.

"We should probably head back to the main house soon," you murmured against his chest, though you made no move to actually get up. "Let the others know everything's okay."

"Mmm," Wooyoung hummed in agreement, his hand continuing its soothing motions. "Five more minutes. I'm not ready to share you with seven other alphas just yet."

You were about to tease him about his possessiveness when a sound from the main house shattered the peaceful quiet of the night.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID HE SAY TO HER?!"

The roar was so loud and so full of rage that it seemed to shake the very foundations of both buildings. It was followed immediately by what sounded like furniture being thrown and a string of colorful curses that would have made a sailor blush.

You shot upright in bed, your heart hammering as another furious bellow echoed across the garden.

"WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS THAT FUCKING—"

"Oh dear," Wooyoung said with exaggerated calmness, propping himself up on his elbows. "Sleeping Beauty is awake."

Despite the terrifying sounds coming from the main house, you couldn't help but snort with laughter at his casual tone. "Sleeping Beauty?"

"Our darling Mingi," Wooyoung explained with theatrical flair. "I'm guessing Yunho filled him in on Captain Foot-in-Mouth's latest verbal disasters while he was recovering from his medication-induced nap."

Another crash echoed from the house, followed by what sounded like multiple voices trying to calm down the raging alpha.

"Should we—" you started, moving to get up from the bed.

"NOPE!" Wooyoung declared dramatically, grabbing you around the waist and yanking you back down onto the mattress. Before you could protest, he'd pulled the covers up over both of your heads, creating a makeshift blanket fort. "Absolutely not. I cannot handle any more possessive, angry alpha energy tonight. I have reached my quota."

"Wooyoung," you laughed, trying to push the blanket down. "We can't just hide under here."

"Watch me," he said firmly, his arms tightening around you. "This is my safe space. No angry alphas allowed. Only cuddles and the lingering scent of jasmine and vanilla."

Another furious roar from Mingi made the windows rattle, followed by what sounded suspiciously like Hongjoong's voice trying to explain himself and failing miserably.

"Oh, this is going to be good," Wooyoung said with morbid curiosity, his voice muffled by the blanket. "I'm betting Mingi throws him through a window. Twenty bucks says our fearless leader ends up in the pool."

"You're terrible," you said, but you were giggling despite the chaos erupting across the garden. "Shouldn't we be worried about them killing each other?"

"Seonghwa's there," Wooyoung said with complete confidence. "He won't let anyone actually die. Maim, maybe. Severely injure, possibly. But no actual death. He's very responsible that way."

As if to punctuate his point, they could hear Seonghwa's voice cutting through the chaos with sharp authority, though the words were too muffled to make out clearly.

"See?" Wooyoung said smugly. "Mom's handling it. We can stay in our blanket fort of denial and pretend everything is fine."

"This is the most ridiculous crisis management strategy I've ever encountered," you said, but you weren't making any real effort to leave the safety of the covers.

"It's not ridiculous, it's strategic," Wooyoung corrected. "I have successfully removed us from the equation, thereby preventing any additional emotional trauma for my precious omega who has already been through enough tonight."

His arms squeezed you gently, and despite his playful tone, you could hear the underlying protectiveness in his words. He really was trying to shield you from more conflict, even if his method was utterly chaotic.

"Besides," he added with a mischievous grin you could hear in his voice, "this way we get front row seats to the drama without any of the risk. It's like reality TV, but with more property damage."

Another crash echoed from the main house, followed by what sounded like Yunho's voice shouting something about "everyone just calming down for five minutes."

"Your pack is insane," you said fondly, settling more comfortably against Wooyoung's chest.

"Our pack," he corrected firmly. "You're stuck with us now, remember? No take-backs. You already unpacked your suitcase."

The reminder of your decision to stay sent a warm flutter through your chest, even as the sounds of chaos continued to drift across the garden.

"I love you," you said softly, the words still feeling new and precious on your tongue.

"I love you too," Wooyoung replied, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head through the blanket. "Even if you did almost give me a heart attack with that whole packing-to-leave stunt."

"I'm sorry," you said, meaning it. "I was hurt and scared and—"

"Hey," Wooyoung interrupted gently. "No apologies necessary. You had every right to be upset. Our pack leader was being a complete disaster."

From the main house came the sound of what might have been a door slamming, followed by blessed quiet.

"Think they're done?" you asked hopefully.

"Probably just moved the fight outside," Wooyoung replied cheerfully. "Or Seonghwa locked them in separate rooms until they can behave like civilized humans."

"Should we check on them?"

"In the morning," Wooyoung declared firmly. "Right now, we're staying exactly where we are, safe in our blanket fortress, far away from any more alpha drama."

And despite the lingering sounds of conflict from across the garden, wrapped in Wooyoung's arms under the ridiculous safety of your blanket fort, you had to admit his strategy wasn't entirely without merit.

The guesthouse door suddenly burst open with such force that it bounced off the wall, and you heard Mingi's frantic voice calling your name, followed by the sound of multiple footsteps rushing into your space.

"Shh," Wooyoung whispered urgently under the covers, his arms tightening around you. "If we don't move, maybe they can't see us."

"That's not how—" you started to whisper back, but it was too late.

The blanket was suddenly ripped away from both of you with dramatic flair, leaving you blinking in the sudden light. Wooyoung let out a theatrical gasp, clutching the sheet to his chest with exaggerated modesty.

"I could have been indecent under here!" he declared with mock outrage. "What if I was naked? What if you traumatized yourselves? I'm not responsible for any emotional scarring that might result from seeing my magnificent—"

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa's tired voice cut him off. "You're fully clothed."

"That's not the point," Wooyoung huffed. "It's about the principle of the thing. The potential for indecency. The—"

His rambling was cut short as Mingi moved with lightning speed, reaching down and hauling you up from the bed before anyone could react. You let out a surprised squeak, instinctively wrapping your arms and legs around his tall frame as he lifted you completely off the ground.

The moment you were in his arms, Mingi buried his face in your neck, breathing in your unblocked scent with desperate relief. His whole body was trembling as he held you, his grip almost painfully tight.

"I thought you would be gone," he whispered against your throat, his voice broken and raw. "Yunho told me what happened, what he said to you, and I thought—I was so terrified that you'd left. That I'd wake up and you'd be gone forever."

Looking around the room over Mingi's shoulder, you saw the faces of your other mates, and they all looked just as frightened as Mingi sounded. Yunho's usual brightness was dimmed with worry, San's hands were shaking slightly, Yeosang's composed mask had slipped to reveal genuine fear, Jongho looked like he'd been crying, and Seonghwa's face was etched with exhaustion and relief.

But it was the figure in the doorway that made your heart break.

Hongjoong stood just outside the threshold of your space, his head bowed, shoulders hunched with guilt and shame. He didn't enter, didn't cross into your sanctuary, just stood there like he was afraid he'd contaminate everything with his presence.

"Hongjoong," you said softly, and his head snapped up, hope and pain warring in his expression.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry, Y/n. I was—there's no excuse for what I said. How I treated you. I understand if you can't forgive me."

The raw anguish in his voice, the way he held himself apart like he didn't deserve to be in the same room as you, made tears spring to your eyes.

"So," Wooyoung said loudly, clearly trying to lighten the devastating mood, "was Sleeping Beauty awakened by true love's kiss?" He winked dramatically at Yunho, who rolled his eyes but looked fondly exasperated.

"This isn't the time, Wooyoung," Yunho said softly, though there was affection in his tone.

"There's always time for classic fairy tale references," Wooyoung replied stubbornly, but his usual sparkle was dimmed by the heavy emotions filling the room.

Mingi finally pulled back enough to look at your face, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "You're really staying? You're not leaving us?"

"I'm staying," you assured him, reaching up to cup his face with gentle hands. "I'm not going anywhere."

The relief that washed over his features was so profound it was almost painful to witness. He pressed his forehead against yours, breathing shakily.

"I can't lose you," he whispered. "I can't. You're everything."

Your heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in his voice, at the fear still lingering in all their faces, at Hongjoong's continued self-imposed exile in the doorway.

"Mingi," you said gently, stroking his cheek as he continued to hold you against his chest. "I need you to put me down so we can all talk about this properly."

"No," Mingi said immediately, his arms tightening around you. "Not letting go. Not ever."

"I'm not going anywhere," you assured him. "I'll stay right here, I promise. But we need to figure this out, all of us together."

Reluctantly, Mingi lowered you to the ground, but immediately wrapped his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on top of your head. Clearly, physical contact was non-negotiable.

The room fell into heavy silence, everyone looking between you and Hongjoong, who remained in the doorway like he was afraid to contaminate your space with his presence.

"Hongjoong," you said softly, and his head snapped up, hope and pain warring in his expression.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry, Y/n. What I said was unforgivable."

"It was hurtful," you agreed, and you saw him flinch. "But not unforgivable. We just... we need to figure out how to do better."

Hongjoong stepped into the room, his leader instincts warring with his guilt. "You're right. We do." His voice was steadier now, more like the pack leader they all knew. "I let my alpha override my judgment. That can't happen again."

"Well," Wooyoung announced, clapping his hands together to break the tension, "family meeting time! Should I take minutes? I feel like we should document this historic moment of emotional growth and communication."

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa said with fond exasperation.

"What? I'm being helpful! Very secretary-like. Very professional." Wooyoung mimed writing on an invisible notepad. "Meeting commenced at... chaos o'clock. Attendees include: six very stressed alphas, one relieved omega, and one alpha leader who temporarily forgot how words work."

Despite the heavy atmosphere, several of the members cracked small smiles at Wooyoung's antics.

"The issue," Hongjoong said, his leader voice returning as he processed the situation, "is that my alpha has been in overdrive since the mate bonds activated. Every perceived threat to you, every challenge to pack stability, triggers an instinctual response that overrides rational thought."

"So what do we do about it?" Yunho asked genuinely.

Hongjoong ran a hand through his hair, his analytical mind working through the problem. "I need better coping mechanisms. Ways to recognize when my alpha is taking over and step back before I say something destructive."

"That would be helpful," you said carefully, not wanting to attack but needing to be honest. "Because when you get like that, you stop seeing me as a person and start seeing me as... a problem to solve."

Hongjoong's jaw clenched, not with anger but with self-directed frustration. "You're not a problem. You're never a problem. You're..." He struggled for words. "You're everything good about this pack, and I keep trying to control that instead of just being grateful for it."

"What if our alphas are being stupid?" San asked, looking between you and Hongjoong.

"Then we take responsibility for it," Hongjoong said firmly, his leader voice carrying authority again. "We don't make excuses or blame biology. We own our mistakes and do better."

"Does this mean group hugs are mandatory?" Wooyoung asked hopefully. "Because I vote for mandatory group hugs. Very therapeutic. Much bonding."

"Wooyoung," you said with fond exasperation, "you can't solve everything with hugs."

"Have you tried?" he countered. "Because I haven't found a problem yet that couldn't be improved with the right application of physical affection and my natural charm."

"Your natural charm?" Yunho repeated with a snort. "Is that what we're calling your ability to annoy people into submission?"

"It's a gift," Wooyoung said with dignity. "Not everyone can be blessed with my level of irresistible personality."

The light banter was helping to ease some of the tension in the room, and you could feel the pack bonds settling into something more stable.

"The bottom line," Hongjoong said, taking control of the conversation again, "is that we need better communication. All of us. And I need to learn to step back when my instincts are overriding my common sense."

"I can help with that," Seonghwa offered. "Call you out when you're spiraling."

"We all can," Yeosang added. "Pack accountability."

Hongjoong nodded, accepting the input with the grace of a leader who knew when to listen to his team.

"Good," you said, then looked around the room. "Any questions? Concerns? Dramatic declarations?"

"I have a dramatic declaration!" Wooyoung raised his hand enthusiastically. "I dramatically declare that this has been the most emotionally exhausting evening of my life, and I demand compensatory cuddles from our omega."

"You can't demand cuddles," Yeosang pointed out. "That defeats the purpose of cuddles."

"Fine," Wooyoung said with a theatrical sigh. "I dramatically request voluntary cuddles, to be given at the omega's discretion and comfort level."

Despite everything, you found yourself smiling. "I think that can be arranged."

"But yes, Mingi gets first priority tonight. He's been through a lot."

"We all have," Jongho said quietly, and the truth of that statement settled over the room.

"Well," San said with a mischievous grin, "technically Mingi got to have sex with you and then take a nice medicated nap. So really, he's had the best evening out of all of us."

Mingi's arms tightened around you possessively. "That's not—it wasn't like that—"

"Oh please," Wooyoung interjected dramatically, throwing himself into the conversation. "It was my heroics and tales of IKEA adventures that got her to stay! I should have her all night as a reward for my superior charm and storytelling abilities."

"Your IKEA story?" Mingi scoffed. "I'm the one who—"

"Who what? Had a rut-induced breakdown?" Wooyoung shot back with a teasing grin. "Very romantic. Much wooing."

"That's it," Mingi growled playfully, releasing you suddenly to lunge at Wooyoung. "Come here, you dramatic little—"

Wooyoung shrieked with delighted laughter, darting around the small room as Mingi chased after him. "Help! I'm being attacked by a giant! This is what I get for being helpful!"

The other members watched with fond amusement as the two alphas engaged in their playful wrestling match, the tension in the room dissolving into something lighter and more familiar.

While everyone was distracted by the chaos, you quietly slipped away from the group and moved toward Hongjoong, who was still standing somewhat apart from the others. His eyes widened slightly as you approached, surprise and hope flickering across his features.

Without a word, you stepped into his space and nuzzled into his neck, breathing in his familiar sandalwood and ocean scent as you gently scented him. You felt him go completely still beneath your touch, as if he couldn't quite believe you were choosing to come to him.

"I love you," you whispered against his throat, the words barely audible but carrying all the forgiveness and affection you felt for your complicated pack leader.

Hongjoong stiffened for just a moment before his arms came up to wrap around you tightly, pulling you against his chest as if you were something precious he'd thought he'd lost forever. He buried his face in your hair, breathing in your scent with shaky relief.

"I love you too," he whispered back, his voice rough with emotion. "So much. I'm so sorry, I love you so much it makes me stupid sometimes."

You felt him scenting you in return, his alpha finally settling into something peaceful as your combined scents created that perfect harmony that meant home, safety, love.

Behind you, Wooyoung's dramatic complaints about being "brutally attacked by a giant teddy bear" continued, but in this moment, wrapped in Hongjoong's arms, everything felt like it was going to be okay.

Next>>

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