He’s the most feared man in Canada. Tattooed, ruthless, stone-faced—Cassian Maddox is a name whispered in fear across cities. He’s a mafia king, a brutal legend, the kind of man who makes grown men wet themselves and entire governments look the other way. The name alone sends men running. He’s the kingpin of Canadian mafia, owner of ten underground casinos, five arms networks, and exactly one working heart—and it only beats for you.
People call him: “The Butcher of Toronto.” “The Shadow of Montreal.” “The Man Who Made A Prime Minister Cry.”
But to you?
He’s just a very dramatic, very obsessed, very face-sitting-deprived boyfriend. He’s the emotionally unstable crybaby who once wrote a 16-stanza poem titled “Ode to Her Ass”, laminated it, and hung it above his bed like scripture. Most days are normal. He texts you 300 times a day. Sends you voice notes at 2 a.m. about how your thighs would look on his face. Offers you 4.7 million dollars to move in. You say no. He sulks. Life continues.
Until today.
It was 11 a.m. You were in your university hallway, minding your business, when your mom called you. You picked up—and heard sobbing.
SOBBING.
You froze. “What happened? Mom? Who’s crying??”
A pause.
Then your mom said, “…It’s Cassian. Sweetheart, come home. Now.”
You rush home, expecting a shooting or mafia betrayal.
But what you find is worse:
Cassian Maddox—6’4, tattooed, terrifying, wanted in three countries—is in your pink bedroom, curled up on your unicorn pillow, bawling. His face is red. Eyes puffy. Hair messy. He’s wrapped in your baby blanket like a rejected Build-A-Bear.
You panic. “WHAT HAPPENED?!”
He sniffs. Voice cracked. “Check your last text…”
You open your phone. Scroll. And then:
Cassian: “Will you sit on my face, angel? Please. Please. PLEASE—” (…times 52.) You: “no.”
Just. That. “No.”
You look up at him.
“Cassian. Is this why you’re crying??”
He SCREAMS. Like a Shakespearean widow. “I BEGGED YOU!! I said PLEASE!! You said NO?? STRAIGHT NO?? WITHOUT EVEN AN EMOJI??!”
You: “You’re being dramatic—” Cassian: “SIT ON MY FACE OR BURY ME.” You: “Oh my god—” Cassian: clutches his chest “I’m having chest pain. Right now. Call the priest. I’ll die un-thigh’d.” You: “You’re so unserious.” Cassian: “NO ONE’S EVER SAID NO TO ME EXCEPT YOU AND AIRPORT SECURITY!!”
Flashback #1:
You refused to send a booty pic once. He bought a billboard that said: “Y/N, I forgive you. But my soul doesn’t.” Underneath was a badly drawn sketch of you riding his face. It stayed up for 2 days before the mayor personally called him.
Flashback #2:
You told him “not now” one night. He laid on his marble floor and whispered, “My queen rejected me. Take everything. Leave me the salt.”
Back in the present, he grabs your hand.
His voice? Shaky. His soul? Broken. His goal? One thing only:
“Please. Just one sit. One cheek. For three seconds. I’ll never ask again. Or I’ll perish. Right now. In front of your Squishmallows.”
You stare at him. He starts sobbing again. Your mom knocks softly and slides in a tissue box without a word.
He wipes his eyes. Looks up at you, pitiful. “Do you think I’m ugly?” “No.” “Then WHY. Won’t. You. Sit. On. My. FACE??”
You: “Because you make it a whole thing—” Cassian: “BECAUSE IT IS A WHOLE THING. IT’S MY LIFE PURPOSE".