#courtship and curses

[kelyon]

Courtship 1: Introduction

How Lacey French became Mrs. Gold. Part of the Golden Cuffs 'Verse

Mr. Gold comes for the rent and leaves with a dinner date.

Read on AO3

Lacey French was huddled up by the space heater behind the counter when Mr. Gold walked into Game of Thorns. Outside it was already pitch black, even though it was fifteen minutes before five o’clock. Lacey knew it was 4:45 without looking at the clock because today was Rent Day and everyone knew Mr. Gold was always on time. That man was as consistent as a machine--and just as heartless. 

He made his way up to the counter, circling around the displays of unsold vases and dusty Happy Birthday mugs. In his sleek black coat, he looked like a panther or a wolf. A predator who knew his prey was as good as caught and would take his time savoring the hunt.  

Lacey straightened up and gave Mr. Gold a quick nod. She wasn’t afraid of him. He wasn’t here for her. Poking her head through the door to the back of the shop, she called out: “Dad! He’s here!”

When her father didn’t answer, Lacey turned back to Mr. Gold. 

“Excuse me just a minute.”

By a silent inclination of his head, Mr. Gold indicated his permission for her to leave. 

The rickety stairs down to the basement shook under her running feet. Her father was over by the utility sink, his back turned to the door, up to his elbows in water and fertilizer chemicals. 

“Dad!” Lacey shouted over the running water. “Didn’t you hear me? Mr. Gold is here. For the rent.”

His back stiffened. The water turned off. Turning around slowly, he looked at her with the same expression he’d been wearing ever since Mom got sick. The expression of a man watching his whole world turn to dust. He picked up a green towel from the counter and dried his hands.

“Alright,” he grumbled. “Let him know I’m coming.”

Lacey hesitated before going back up the stairs. “We do have it, don’t we? The rent?”

Her father sighed. “How was business today?”

“Terrible.” He knew that. “It’s January. The only order we’ve had all week is Johnny Byrd buying Lisa a dozen red roses.”

All Dad did was nod and put the towel back on the rack. “Just go tell Gold I’ll be up in a minute.”

Mr. Gold was still on the other side of the counter when she got back. He stood with gloved hands on top of his gold-tipped cane and his eyes roving over the dingy storefront. Was he still happy he had bought the place from them? Or was he realizing what a worthless investment it was? 

She cleared her throat and Mr. Gold’s gaze shifted to her. 

“It might be a while,” she told him. It might be a very long while, if they had to wait for her dad to gather up all the rent they owed.  

Mr. Gold took a step closer to the counter, where Lacey had taken her usual place on the stool by the cash register. She had counted out the drawer this morning when they opened. There had been less than forty dollars in change and nothing had come in or gone out since.

“Everything alright?”

His voice was mellow, almost friendly. His accent gave the words a lilt you didn’t hear much around Storybrooke.

Internally, Lacey rolled her eyes at herself. Lilt. What a pretentious word. Useless too. It wasn’t like anyone was giving her bonus points for using vocabulary words in a sentence.

“No.” Lacey answered Mr. Gold with frankness born from metaphysical levels of exhaustion. “No, nothing’s been alright for a very long time. Thanks for asking.”

He didn’t seem put off by her rudeness. If anything, it looked like he leaned a little closer to her. 

“I read about the accident in the paper when it happened. They were your cousin and uncle, is that right?”

Lacey clenched her jaw. Of course Mr. Gold would pick that as a topic of conversation. “Yep. Uncle Peter i--was my mother’s brother.”

A month since it happened and it was still hard to use the past tense. Not that she could think about Mom in past tense either. It would all take a lot of getting used to.

“A terrible thing,” Mr. Gold said softly.

She shrugged. She was so tired of accepting people’s sympathy. “Can’t blame the widowmaker highway for living up to its name. Everyone knows you shouldn’t leave Storybrooke in winter.”

“It’s a shame that road is outside city limits. I’m sure Mayor Mills would make it safer, if it was under her control.”

“Mayor Mills can do anything when she wants to.” It was such an obvious fact it barely needed to be said. The Mayor of Storybrooke was cunning and capable. The town was lucky to have her in charge. 

“And just before Christmas, too.” Mr. Gold shook his head.

If Lacey started thinking about Andrew and Uncle Peter’s funeral she would start thinking about Aunt Terri and Janine and Chloe and how sad they all looked and how helpless she had been to do anything for them, just like they had been helpless to do anything for her at Mom’s funeral. If she started thinking about it, she would start crying and never stop.

So she made the active choice not to think about it. Instead, she looked at Mr. Gold with clear eyes and quipped:

“Yeah. Hell of a way for my little cousin to find out there’s no Santa Claus.”

He made a noise, a half-snort that was choked back by sheer force of will. The lines at the corner of his mouth were slightly deeper than normal, like he was biting back a grin. His eyes, when he looked at Lacey, had a glint in them. It wasn’t entirely amusement, but there was a sort of fondness there. Maybe a sort of admiration.

Or maybe she was kidding herself. 

This was the longest conversation she’d ever had with Mr. Gold. She’d never spoken to him at all before her mother got sick. She’d never had to. They didn’t rent from him back then, and he never came by the flower shop to get a bouquet. Who would he buy for? Everyone in town was afraid of Mr. Gold, and he didn’t seem to mind his reputation. People didn’t matter to him, except as names in a ledger. Debts and favors owed, antiques pawned at his shop, rent paid in full or past due.

Lacey bit her lip. Dad was still not back with the rent. If she listened closely, she could hear the floor creak as he moved around upstairs. He was searching the part of the building where they lived for any extra cash they might have squirreled away in different hiding places. It had to be cash, of course, Mr. Gold didn’t take checks. That was just as well. Any check Moe French wrote now would bounce like a tennis ball on a trampoline.

What would Mr. Gold do if they didn’t have the rent?

Despite the cold, she rolled up her sleeves. Trying to look casual, she went over to the buckets of roses lined by the wall and picked through them for the fullest blooms.

“Do you like flowers, Mr. Gold?”

She tried to act innocent, looking over at him with a yellow rose in her hand. She wasn’t sure what she was trying to do right now. Stall, apparently. Give Dad more time to look for some surprise cash. Get Mr. Gold in a good mood so he might go easy on them when the money never showed up. Maybe he’d take a flower arrangement in lieu of rent . Maybe if she made a good impression, he wouldn’t throw them out on the street.

From the look on his face, he saw right through her. Clearly, Lacey was not the first person to try to warm him up when they needed something. She was about to give up the game, when he took a step toward her. 

“A well-maintained garden is a thing of beauty,” he said calmly. “Yet it always seemed a waste to bring flowers inside and watch them die a slow death in a vase.”

Lacey shrugged, and slid the yellow rose back with its brethren. So much for that. “They die if you leave them outside too.”

“I suppose they do.” Mr. Gold took another step closer. His voice took on a darker tone. “It is a cruel world for pretty things.” 

Lacey moved. She couldn’t say if she was moving away from him or toward him, but she moved and then one of the buckets crashed to the ground. Long-stemmed red roses scattered all over the floor.

“Shit,” Lacey hissed. These were Ever Reds, the best red roses they had. This was the variety they could charge the most for and most wanted to avoid damaging. If these petals got bruised they’d be worthless.

“Shit,” she said again. She’d gotten on her knees and was gathering the spilled flowers as quickly--and carefully--as she could. At least the water had stayed in the bucket. At least she wouldn’t have to clean up the spill. 

“Stupid. I’m so stupid,” Lacey muttered under her breath. 

It wasn’t until Mr. Gold spoke that she remembered he was in the store. 

“I wouldn’t say stupid.” He made the remark casually. He was holding one of the roses in his leather-gloved hand, examining it. He held it out to her. “I thought I read something about you being valedictorian, Miss French. I remember thinking what a shame it was that so many scholarships would only take you as far as Storybrooke Community College.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t even get there.” She snapped at the mention of an old wound. “Now I’m spending my life on my knees on the ratty carpet of a failing flower shop.” 

She looked up at the rose in his hand. He was offering it like it was a gift, but it was her merchandise. Its beauty didn’t mean anything to her except for what price it could offer. If it wasn’t worth money, it wasn’t worth anything. That was the cold, mercenary way she had to look at things. 

She took the rose by the stem and tossed it in the bucket until it could be sold. By the time she got to her feet, she had calmed down a little. She was able to look Mr. Gold in the face and tell him the lesson it had taken her almost two years to understand: 

“Stupid is thinking that booksmarts and good grades alone will get you anywhere in life. Or that anything you accomplish in high school will mean a single thing once you’re out of it. Or that no one decides your fate but you.” She shook her head. “So yeah, I’m actually really stupid.”

With a heavy sigh, Lacey shoved the bucket of roses back into place. When she looked up, Mr. Gold was staring at her arm. Thin lines of pink and red streaked across her pale skin.

“Oh!” Lacey giggled as a reflex. “I didn’t even feel that! It’s an occupational hazard here at Game of Thorns. Roses are always hungry for blood.”

They had a first aid kit under the counter. Most of the scratches were surface-level, but she swabbed her arm in betadine just to make Mr. Gold feel better.

“See? No big deal.”

He was staring at her again. At her face this time. For just a second, he looked confused. It was the first time he had looked at her without looking like he already knew everything about her. For just a second, he looked like she intrigued him. 

Then the wall came up again. The wall of cold civility that separated Mr. Gold from everyone else in the world. The wall Lacey hadn’t realized was there until she saw it come down.  

“You should have dinner with me, Miss French.”

Lacey blinked. “I should?”

“Yes.” He was so calm. So matter-of-fact. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

She blinked again. “Like a date?”

He wrinkled his nose but conceded the point. “I suppose it is. Let’s say Tuesday evening, Bella Notte?”

Lacey felt her eyes go wide. She’d been to Bella Notte exactly once in her life, on her eighteenth birthday. And that had just been for lunch with Mom! She’d never gone there for dinner. Her parents had only had dinner there on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. And Mr. Gold was offering to take her there on their first date? This was big. She had to play it cool.

“Sure!” 

That was less than cool. The word wasn’t a total squeak, but Mr. Gold’s lips did twitch at the sound.

Lacey cleared her throat. “The store closes at six. I can meet you there--”

“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said smoothly. His eyes traveled over her, from her oversized sweatshirt to her threadbare blue jeans to her dirt-stained sneakers. “Wear something suitable, won’t you? I want to see you in the nicest thing you own, Miss French.”

“You know, you can call me--”

“Gold!” Her dad burst through the door at the front of the shop. He had an envelope in his hand that even Lacey could see wasn’t full enough. “Mr. Gold, I--uh--Can I speak with you privately?”

Lacey rolled her eyes. “Just say the words, Dad. I’m sure Mr. Gold has figured it out by now.”

Her father shot her a dirty look, then turned to face Mr. Gold. “I apologize for this, but it does look like I’m going to need a slight extension on this month’s rent.”

For the first time since he had come into the store, Mr. Gold smiled. “That’s quite alright, Mr. French. Perfectly understandable. This is a slow time of year for many businesses.”

“I--yes. But things will pick up in just a few days, once people realize how close it is to Valentine’s Day.”

“For your sake, I hope it won’t be that long.” Mr. Gold showed his teeth like a crocodile. “According to your rental agreement, there’s a fifty dollar fee for every day the rent is in arrears.”

From behind the counter, Lacey watched the color drain from her father’s face. “But that’s--that’ll be more than a thousand dollars before Valentine’s Day!”  

Mr. Gold gave an exaggerated shrug. “That’s the agreement you signed, Mr. French. If you can’t abide by the contract, I’m well within my rights to evict.”

“Wha--No, you can’t do that!”

Moe French was head and shoulders taller than Mr. Gold, and easily twice his weight. But he was the one sputtering and blustering helplessly, while Mr. Gold stood with the stillness of absolute confidence. Power radiated off of Mr. Gold, an aura so thick Lacey could almost choke on it.

She licked her lips.

“I--I have half!” Her dad offered the envelope. 

Mr. Gold took it with another fake smile. “A fine start,” he said. “Let me know when you have the rest. The fees start accruing at midnight tonight.”  

They watched in stunned silence as Mr. Gold made his way to the door. Before he left, he turned around. 

“Miss French, it was a pleasure speaking with you. I hope to see you again. Quite soon.” 

[merlindotpdf]

fun fact i named myself after arthur pendragon so i think maybe we are destined to fall in love

😳😳😳 omg...

[flwrkid14]

The Case of the Phantom Lipstick

Tim Drake is many things: a genius, a detective, a vigilante, a caffeine-dependent insomniac with abandonment issues and seventeen backup plans for every imaginable outcome.

What he is not, however, is delusional.

Which is why when he finds a kiss mark—an actual lipstick kiss mark—pressed to the inside of his favorite hoodie, he does not panic. He calmly, rationally, pulls the hoodie off, examines the fabric, and blames Steph. Probably Steph.

Except… it’s neon green. Not Steph’s color. Not Cass’s style either. Babs doesn’t do lipstick. Kon doesn’t own lipstick. And the only people who’ve been in his apartment recently are Bruce (definitely not), Damian (God, no), and Alfred (crime).

He throws the hoodie in the wash. Industrial cycle. Hot water. It should come out.

It doesn’t.

It doesn’t even fade.

It glows slightly under UV.

Okay. Fine. One hoodie. Maybe it’s old. Maybe he forgot something. Maybe he bought it that way.

But it happens again.

And again.

And again.

Old hoodies. New hoodies. Hoodies buried at the back of his closet that he hasn’t worn since he was sixteen. A hoodie still in the packaging, tags attached—he opens the bag and there’s a green kiss mark on the inside sleeve, like it’s been waiting for him.

They’re always placed differently. Sometimes hidden in the seam of a cuff. Sometimes pressed on the back hem. One tucked into the folds of a sleeve. One directly on the chest, over his heart.

He checks for tracking devices. Hidden ink. Sensors. Spoilers. Anything.

Nothing.

And it doesn’t stop with the hoodies.

One day, after a long patrol, he peels off his Red Robin gear and catches a glimpse of green near the collar of his suit. He freezes.

Another kiss mark. Same color. Right on the inside lining.

There’s one on his glove. One hidden under the fold of his utility belt pouch. One on the lining of his cape.

What’s worse? The Batcave scanners pick them up. There’s residual ectoplasm. Babs runs the data three times before looking at him like he’s either cursed or dating something from the beyond.

(He’s not. He’s pretty sure.)

Every attempt to investigate it fails. The cameras glitch. Video footage loops or scrambles. Laser grids are bypassed by something moving through walls. Magical wards short-circuit. Even Constantine shrugs when Tim reaches out.

“Strong liminal energy,” Constantine says, puffing a cigarette. “Someone’s got their spectral claws in you. Not a curse though. Feels like... courtship.”

“Courtship,” Tim repeats.

“Yeah. Spectral wooing. Ghost smooches. Congrats on your engagement, mate.��

Tim hangs up.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

Meanwhile, Gotham is experiencing what can only be described as “mild haunting.” But by Gotham standards, it’s barely a blip.

There are no mass possessions. No destructive battles. Just… ghosts. Hovering. Watching. Whispering things when Tim walks by. They show up at patrol spots. Float past his apartment. Some even drop cryptic notes: “May your union be fruitful,” and “Blessings upon the Chosen.” Occasionally they throw gifts at him. One leaves him a glowing thermos full of ghost flowers. Another—a floating knight in spectral armor—bows low while handing over a box of what Tim can only imagine is their version of chocolate, before vanishing with the words “For the chosen consort.”

Tim’s furious.

He’s not dating a ghost. He doesn’t know any ghosts. He doesn’t want to be courted by one.

...Probably.

Except.

Except sometimes, when he’s alone, he swears he feels someone there. Not threatening. Just present. A warmth in the air. A flicker in the corner of his eye. A soft sigh on the back of his neck. A whisper:

“Mine.”

And Danny Phantom—Protector of the Ghost Zone, King of the Infinite Realms, 100% a disaster bisexual—floats outside his window every other night with his face pressed against the glass like a cat trying to figure out if the human inside likes him.

Because Danny’s not trying to scare him! He’s just following tradition!

See, ghosts mark their chosen with energy. They ward off rivals. They court with gifts and blessings and acts of devotion. And yeah, maybe leaving lipstick marks on someone's battle gear is a little extreme, but Danny’s working with ghost etiquette, okay? And from where he's standing, no one's stopped him.

(Though Jason did try to stab him once. Danny considered it a bonding experience.)

Now Danny just needs Tim to say yes so the full wedding rite can be completed. The lipstick marks? Those are just... engagement placeholders.

The problem? Tim doesn’t know he’s essentially dating a ghost.

The bigger problem? Gotham’s ghosts do.

And they’re ready to throw hands with anyone who thinks they’re a better match for Tim Drake than the literal Ghost King himself.

Tim? He just wants one hoodie without magic lipstick on it. He’s not even asking for peace anymore. He just wants answers.

He’s so tired.

[lady-luckk]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ love twisted into madness

# pairings: yandere concubine harem x reader

# synopsis: you’re the unwilling ruler of a country with obsessive concubines who are trying to kill each other.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, possessiveness, drugging, and murder. if you are uncomfortable please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: this is a rewrite of my previous yandere concubine harem from my old blog, @screeching-bunny. reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

they called you mad. insane, even. but you didn’t care. insanity was a refuge, a safe place in a world so deeply fractured. you hated your life with a burning passion, a disgust for the bloodline that bound you to a throne you never asked for. the family that birthed you, each one more power-hungry than the last, seemed like a curse. if given the chance, you would’ve chosen to be born to a pauper, far away from the twisted games of royalty.

but fate had no mercy.

once, you were nothing more than an afterthought, a shadow, the last person anyone would have expected to rule. the line to the throne stretched out ahead of you, and you were nowhere near it. but then the scheming mothers and the poisoning, the subtle betrayals and the bloody coups… one by one, your half-siblings, your full siblings—gone, each one murdered to clear the path. and just like that, the unwanted heir became the sole ruler.

you remember the day the crown was placed upon your head like it was yesterday. the moment the weight of it settled on your skull, the vultures swarmed. smiling, whispering, each noble hoping for a taste of your favor. you despised them all. they were like flies, buzzing around you, pretending to admire you while secretly planning to feast on your downfall. even your closest childhood friends, the ones you had trusted without question, turned on you. you couldn’t believe your eyes when your best friend, the one who had sworn loyalty to you, kneeled at your feet and asked for your love. then came another. and another. the shameless petitions for courtship were endless, their hunger unbearable.

love? what even was that? you had never known it. your mother had been slaughtered when you were young, and your father had always been a distant, cold figure. the only love you had ever felt was the strange, suffocating devotion of those who wanted to possess you, to claim you as their prize. people were a nuisance to you, nothing more than obstacles in your path. you’d long ago retreated into your own mind, where no one could hurt you, where the expectations of others didn’t matter. but that world, your sanctuary, was slipping away, one manipulative touch at a time.

when you turned twenty, your father, ever the schemer, presented your first concubine—a princess from a neighboring country. she was clingy, obsessive, a tiny spark in a world of insanity. she watched your every move, her eyes glued to you like a hawk, and whenever your gaze shifted, a storm brewed in her. her jealousy simmered beneath the surface, and with each new concubine, it grew worse.

your harem was a battlefield of madness, a twisted circus of egos and power plays. each day, one of your concubines would try to outdo the others—some showing off their skills, others pushing for attention in the most devious ways. the jealousy was sickening, feeding into a cycle of betrayal, lies, and violence. assassination attempts weren’t a rare occurrence; they were an expectation. each poisoned drink, each knife in the dark, was just another step in a game you never wanted to play.

you couldn’t escape them, not even for a moment. the madness of your harem was unrelenting. you could feel their eyes on you constantly, watching, waiting for their chance. every night was a war for your affection, a contest to see who would be the most adored, the most loved. the prize? a night in your bed. and as the days passed, their obsession grew darker, their need more desperate.

"your majesty, you’re the sun to my dark sky," they would whisper, their voices sickly sweet, desperate. "let me be your first spouse, your most cherished."

the words were the same, day after day, night after night. the promises of eternal loyalty, of adoration, of power. and you, trapped in a world where affection was a commodity, were left with no choice but to indulge them. it was a game, a power play that you didn’t want to be a part of, but you were the one they wanted. you were the crown, the prize, and they would destroy anything or anyone who stood between them and that title.

your chambers were no sanctuary. every time you entered, you could feel the undercurrent of madness. a concubine would always be there, waiting for you, dressed in provocative clothing, eyes filled with a strange hunger. they would make their move, their voices trembling with longing.

"please, your majesty," they would beg, their breath hot against your skin. "i need you. won’t you be mine tonight?"

but there was something more terrifying in their eyes, something darker. their love wasn’t just love—it was obsession. an obsession that twisted them, made them forget what was real, and pushed them to do things that were unspeakable. it was suffocating, it was frightening, and worst of all—it never stopped.

your harem was a breeding ground for monsters. not just the scheming foxes and the conniving lotuses, but the crazed, broken individuals who had lost all sense of reason. they would cry for your attention, manipulate your emotions, and twist their reality to get you to notice them. and the worst part? they knew how to play the game better than you ever could. each tear was a weapon, each sob a carefully crafted plea for power.

but you were not without your own tricks. you learned the game quickly—how to play with them, how to break their spirits before they could break yours. and every time one of them would try to manipulate you, you would feign sympathy, guiding them to your chambers, watching as they thought they’d won. but you knew the truth: they were all pawns, each one playing into your hands without realizing it.

as you led the newest concubine to your bed, her eyes glistening with hope and love, you could feel the fury of the others behind you. a smirk tugged at your lips as you heard their thoughts burning through the air.

"i’m going to make her regret this… i’ll make her suffer."

and so, the madness continued. each day, each night, a new battle, a new war for control. and you, the unwilling queen, stood at the center of it all, watching the chaos unfold with a cold, detached smile.

as the days bled into one another, your mind began to fracture under the weight of it all. the constant flurry of false affection, the endless manipulation, the dark undercurrents of obsession—everything blurred into a maddening fog. you had learned to expect the chaos, to accept that your life was one long, twisted game. but even now, they still found ways to surprise you.

you awoke every morning to the oppressive sound of whispers, the shuffle of feet, the flutter of silk against marble floors. your concubines, the ones you had chosen to stay, would surround you like shadowy figures, each one vying for attention, for a moment of your time, of your affection. and though you had learned to tune them out, to shut down the noise, it was a constant bombardment, a storm that never relented.

one evening, as you prepared for your nightly routine—slipping into the silk robes that once felt like a symbol of power but now merely served as another prison—you felt something new, something unsettling. the air was thick with a strange tension, an undercurrent of unspoken rivalry that seemed to be growing. at first, you tried to ignore it. another day, another ridiculous attempt to win your favor. but tonight, there was something different.

a new concubine, a girl so fresh and untouched by the games, had been added to your harem just days ago. she was beautiful, yes, but there was something off about her. her eyes—too calculating, too sharp—gave away more than she intended. at first, you had brushed it off as naivety, the innocence of someone still unfamiliar with the madness that consumed this place. but now, something in her gaze told you that she wasn’t as ignorant as the others.

you had given her a chance, of course. you always did, to see how they would behave, how far they would go to earn your favor. and tonight, she was ready to make her move.

you had just finished dressing, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of your crown, a crown that now felt more like a curse than a symbol of power. you turned to find her standing at the entrance of your chambers, her posture immaculate, her hands folded demurely in front of her. the soft glow of candlelight danced across her delicate features, casting shadows that seemed to distort her expression.

"your majesty," she whispered, her voice sweet but with an undertone of something far darker. "i need to speak with you. it’s important."

there was a brief flicker of something in her eyes—a glimmer of certainty, a challenge, perhaps. your gaze narrowed, but you motioned for her to come closer. the others were watching from the shadows, as they always did, but this time, you didn’t care. you were tired of the games, tired of pretending that this wasn’t the reality you had to face every day.

she stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor, each step deliberate, calculated. when she reached you, she knelt—something you hadn’t expected. most of them, even after all these years, still tried to assert their superiority, to play the role of the dutiful concubine. but not her. she was different.

"your majesty," she began, her eyes never leaving yours, "i would die for you. but i have a question."

you raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but gave no response. you knew that any movement could give her more power, more ground to stand on, so you remained still, letting her feel the weight of your silence. it was a game you had perfected long ago—let them speak, let them reveal their desires, their fears. and then, you would tear them apart with a single word.

"what would you do," she asked, her voice trembling now, just slightly, "if i told you that the one who truly controls you… is me?"

the words hit you like a thunderclap. at first, you thought it was a joke, some petty game she was playing to test her limits, to see how far she could push. but the look in her eyes was dead serious. she wasn’t playing. she wasn’t afraid of you. she was looking right into the abyss, daring you to blink. then it hit you. you had consumed an aphrodisiac.

you took a step forward, your pulse quickening. the room seemed to close in on you, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the walls. you could hear the others shifting outside, the sound of their breathing rising in the stillness of the night. your body felt like it was on fire. but you didn’t care.

this wasn’t about them. this wasn’t about the power struggles that had consumed your life for so long. this was about her. this was about the fact that she had just declared war without even realizing it.

for the first time in years, you felt a stir of something in your chest. it wasn’t love—god, no. but it was something else. something darker. something that recognized the challenge for what it was.

you leaned down, your lips brushing her ear as you whispered, "try me."

her breath hitched, but she held her ground. she was daring you. she was throwing down the gauntlet, expecting you to crumble, to prove her right. but you wouldn’t. no. you had been molded by this life of manipulation, betrayal, and blood. you had been raised on a diet of lies, and now, you were the one who made them.

as you pulled away, you locked eyes with her, a wicked smile curving your lips. "you think you control me?" you said softly, letting the words sink in. "you’re just another pawn in this game. and if you think for one second you can win… well, let’s see how long you last."

she stiffened at the threat, but she didn’t back down. there was something maddeningly beautiful about her defiance. and that, you realized, was the problem. she wasn’t like the others. she was the spark that could set everything ablaze.

and yet, there was a part of you that admired it. she was a mirror to your madness, a reflection of your own broken mind. she wasn’t afraid to burn everything down, to turn the world upside down.

but what she didn’t understand was that the game wasn’t just about power. it was about survival. and in this palace, there could only be one survivor.

you guided her to your bedchamber, her hand trembling with excitement slightly in yours. but as you crossed the threshold, the game began. you could hear the others following you, footsteps growing louder, the silent battle already starting. you could feel the fury and the desire building, the relentless drive to claim what was yours.

as you turned to face her, her eyes gleaming with anticipation, you realized one thing: this would be the last time you let someone else think they had control. you would own this game, and anyone who thought they could take that from you would be burned in the flames of their own ambition.

you were the king of this madness. and in the end, they would all bow to you, or they would burn.

among the many concubines, there was one who stood out—not for his looks or his talents, but for his unnerving obsession with you. zhang wei, a general’s son from a distant province, had initially seemed like just another handsome face vying for your favor. but over time, something darker began to reveal itself beneath his polished exterior. he didn’t chase you like the others, with desperate displays of affection or teary eyes. no, his devotion was quiet, almost suffocating in its intensity.

zhang wei would watch you from the corners of rooms, his gaze never wavering, never blinking. he’d smile when you spoke to him, but it wasn’t a smile born of genuine warmth—it was something colder, something more dangerous. his words were always careful, calculated, as if he were speaking to a deity, not a mere mortal. every conversation felt like a subtle attempt to claim you, his eyes gleaming with an obsession that went far beyond admiration. and the longer you ignored him, the more intense that obsession became.

one evening, long after the others had retreated to their chambers, zhang wei stayed behind, his posture stiff with a quiet desperation that made your skin crawl. he approached you slowly, eyes wide, almost reverent, but the hunger beneath the surface was unmistakable. when he spoke, his voice shook with a mixture of longing and madness.

"your majesty," he said, his words nearly a whisper, as though confessing a secret. "i have waited so long, watched from the shadows, and now… i cannot stand it any longer. i would do anything for you, my love. let me be your first husband. i will prove my loyalty, my devotion. i would die for you."

his voice wavered with desperation, as though his very survival depended on your acceptance. it wasn’t love, not in the way most would understand. it was a twisted devotion, a need to possess you, to claim you as his, to make you his entire world.

the more you rejected him, the deeper his obsession grew. zhang wei followed you everywhere—his eyes constantly on you, his voice whispering in the hallways. it didn’t matter what you did to distance yourself; he was there, waiting, always lingering just out of sight. every time you turned a corner, you could feel his presence, his eyes on your back, never faltering.

"your majesty," he would say, his voice soft but urgent, "you are everything to me. no one else matters. no one but you."

his devotion was not a simple desire to be loved—it was a suffocating obsession, one that threatened to swallow you whole. you could insult him, ignore him, even tell him to leave, but it never mattered. zhang wei would still look at you with those maddeningly adoring eyes, his love unshaken, unwavering.

the others in your harem noticed, of course. they saw the way zhang wei hovered near you, his possessive gaze never leaving your side, and they whispered in corners. his presence was unsettling to them, but they knew better than to challenge him directly. his obsession had become so profound that he no longer sought your affection. he sought only to be near you, to breathe the same air, to be the one closest to you, even if you never returned his feelings.

he was no longer a mere concubine. zhang wei was something far worse. he was a predator, driven by a singular, dangerous desire: to make you his, at any cost. and no matter how much you pushed him away, no matter how many times you rejected his advances, you could feel his grip tightening, his obsession growing darker with each passing day. there was no escaping zhang wei. and the thought of what he might do next—should you finally push him too far—left a cold, unsettling shiver running down your spine.

zhang wei’s obsession with you went beyond his twisted devotion to you. as his fixation deepened, so too did his sense of entitlement. he began to view every other concubine not as rivals, but as obstacles standing in the way of what he believed was rightfully his: your undivided attention, your affection, your love. he didn’t just want you; he needed to eliminate anyone who dared to take even a fraction of what he desired.

it started subtly at first. zhang wei would approach his rivals with a false politeness, his smile sharp, his words dripping with honeyed charm. he would compliment them, flatter them, even offer gifts—tokens of his ‘respect.’ but there was always something in his eyes, something dark lurking beneath that calm exterior, that made every exchange feel like a thinly veiled threat. the others, blissfully unaware at first, accepted his advances, thinking they could win his favor with kindness. they didn’t know that with each word, each token of ‘affection,’ zhang wei was marking them as targets in his twisted game.

one of the first to fall was mei-ling, a young princess known for her beauty and her melodic voice. zhang wei, in one of his more insidious moments, invited her to his private quarters under the guise of a ‘friendly conversation.’ he made her feel special, important—like she was the only one who truly mattered in his world. he listened to her sing, praised her endlessly, and made her believe that she was the one he desired above all else. but when she least expected it, he cornered her, locking the door behind them. his tone shifted, became harsh, and he told her that she would never win his or your favor.

"you’re just a pretty face, mei-ling. but that's all you’ll ever be." his grip tightened on her wrist as he whispered, "if you ever think you could take my place, you’re mistaken."

the next day, mei-ling fell ill—deathly ill. the court physicians couldn’t find any explanation, and her voice, once so sweet and full of life, was silenced forever. it was a slow, agonizing process. by the time anyone realized what had happened, it was far too late. zhang wei’s smile remained ever-present as he continued to express sorrow for her passing, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. mei-ling had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

but the elimination of mei-ling was only the beginning.

lian was next, a fiery and bold concubine who had dared to openly challenge zhang wei's claim on your attention. lian had never been one to back down, and unlike the others, she didn’t fear confrontation. but that was precisely what made her dangerous to him. one evening, in the middle of a gathering, zhang wei calmly approached her, his eyes betraying nothing of his inner rage.

"don’t you understand, lian?" he asked, voice low but full of an unnerving calm. "do you really think you can win our majesty’s affection? you’re nothing more than a distraction to them, a fleeting thing. i’m the one who will stand beside him. i’m the one who will be at their side forever."

lian, always quick with a sharp tongue, didn’t back down. she laughed, dismissing him as a fool. that night, zhang wei followed her back to her chambers, knowing she would be alone. what happened there was a mystery—no one truly knew what transpired behind those doors, but when lian was found the next morning, her throat had been slit cleanly. the bloodstains on her sheets painted a chilling picture. her body had been posed, her eyes wide with fear, and the note beside her read: “you were never meant to win.”

the harem grew uneasy, whispers spreading like wildfire. but none of them dared speak openly of what they suspected. zhang wei had become a silent terror, a looming presence that only tightened his grip the more you pushed him away. his love for you had mutated into something sickening—no longer about desire, but about possession. he wasn’t just fighting for your affection; he was fighting to destroy anyone who stood between him and his claim over you.

your harem had become a twisted reflection of the palace itself—a gilded cage, beautiful and suffocating, where the concubines were both trophies and pawns. each one of them, whether driven by love, ambition, or survival, wore a mask of devotion, but beneath it, desperation simmered. there were the ones who had learned to play the game—silent, calculating, waiting for their moment to strike or be struck down. the others were the broken ones, their eyes hollow from endless manipulation, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of constant competition and violence. in this toxic arena, loyalty was a currency that could be bought and sold, but trust was a concept that had long since been abandoned.

every whisper, every glance, every touch was laced with suspicion and jealousy. some sought power, others affection, but all were bound by the same ruthless need to survive. and then there were those who, like zhang wei, had descended into madness, their love twisted into obsession, their hearts warped by a desire to control, to own. none of them were truly free, not in this place, not while you, the center of their world, remained unreachable, a god they could never fully possess. the harem, a symbol of wealth and power, had become their prison, and each day was a fight for dominance, a battle where only the strongest would remain.

[celestialgalaxyglow]

Batfam and Danny, Master Post

Part 1 - The Dinner

Part 2 - Training

Part 3 - Danny's "vitals"

Part 4 - D&D on Patrol

Part 5 - Father-Son Bonding

Part 6 - Danny's Name

Part 7 - An Unexpected Guest

Part 8 - One Pluralist Family

Part 9 - The Wayne Family Curse

Part 10 - He's Just a Silly Little Guy

Part 11 - Dr. Danny

Part 12 - Alfred Knows All

Part 13 - Like Father, Like Son

Part 14 - Bruce's Baby

Part 15 - Bruce is a Dragon?

Part 16 - Consequences

Part 17 - We Love You Too Dad

Part 18 - Bruce Fells Old

Part 19 - Anties

Part 20 - Sneezes

Part 21 - "You're not my real dad!"

Part 22 - Grandma Selina

Part 23 - Anniversary Plans

Part 24 - The Prophet

Part 25 - Pancakes vs. Waffles

Part 26 - Jason the Crime Lord

Part 27 - Best Friends, a "Rival," and a Sister

Part 28 - We've all done it

Part 29 - A New Home

Part 30 - A New Suit, A New Name

Part 31 - Shenanigans

Part 32 - Invitation

Part 33 - The Gala

Part 34 - Announcement

Part 35 - Courtship

Part 36 - Mother's Baby

Part 37 - The Dinner

Part 38 - The Secret Protégé

Part 39 - Viral Video

Part 40 - Babysitting

Part 41 - Happily Single

Part 42 - Akhi

Part 43 - Adopted?

Part 44 - Favoritism

Part 45 - Good Morning

Part 46 - Besties

Part 47 - Freshly Baked Cookies

Part 48 - Love Story

Part 49 - Invisibility

Part 50 - All Robins' Night

[nanamiskentos]

The first sign that something was off was the uncharacteristic silence. No footsteps, no grumblings of a medieval sorcerer wreaking havoc in the 21st century. Not even the crash of metal and cables to signify that SUKUNA had once again lost the fight to your little apartment's toaster, and resorted to eating the wiring.

"Sukuna?"

No answer either. That alone was enough to raise some alarm bells, for he was never this quiet.

You found him in the kitchen, crowded like an overgrown wildcat beside your cheap dining table, muttering to himself while trying to balance a massive bundle of wildflowers in one hand, and what looked like. . . a scroll?

You blink rapidly, "What, are you writing me a war declaration?"

Sukuna's russet eyes flick up, caught. His gruff expressions hardens, immediately defensive as if you had already accused him of something distasteful. Like that time you had hissed and scolded him for asking your local butcher for the freshest kills in the one and only time you had taken him grocery shopping with you.

Besides, how had he been aware that the meat merchant would have called the authorities on him? Didn't that puny man know that Sukuna singlehandedly vanquished the Emperor's army in Heian-Kyo, in the great summer of 794?

But now, Sukuna looks vaguely bored, "This is not for you."

You cross your arms, "Really? You're using my pens, I didn't even know you could read, let alone write."

Sukuna snarls, fingers tight around the very strained thin blue biro that promises to snap under the weight of his grasp, "It is an inferior modern implement."

"You're holding it upside down."

Sukuna scowls harder, and if you didn't know better and if you didn't have the King of Curses wrapped around your finger, you would assume he was trying to pin with you a glare to kill, "I was trying to surprise you."

"Oh my god, are you trying to be a romantic?" You're gaping, hand slapped over your mouth.

Sukuna stands up sharply, almost taking down your new light fixture from IKEA, as he snaps, "Trying? I am not trying. This is romantic. You're just too far removed from true elegance to understand."

"You put a dead pigeon next to the flowers."

"It is a symbolic offering."

"It's a health code violation, Sukuna."

"It shows my devotion."

"It shows I need to call pest control. You know that thing is a disease-carrier, right?"

Sukuna looks genuinely offended, "I went on a quest, woman. I climbbed your building's fire escape to gather the best wild herbs and flora that this macabre city has to offer –"

"That's a bunch of dandelions and one tulip."

"And a sprig of mint, you ungrateful fiend. I charmed the wise woman downstairs for her crops."

You think of your elderly downstairs neighbour, with her crabby attitude, sharp cane and stories of how things were so much better before the Soviets. You proceed to eye Sukuna with glistening, drooling stomach mouth, his four, thick arms, and ink winding over his face, "Somehow, I doubt that. Wait, what's that smell?"

Sukuna turns slowly, curtly giving you a look over his shoulder, "Nothing. Do not concern yourself."

Ah, but lo and behold. In the middle of your expensive non-stick pan, you eye a horribly charred steak, aggressively seasoned with cinnamon, soy sauce, and absurd helpings of instant coffee grounds.

"I heard women like food offerings during a courtship." And mind you, not a hint of shame in Sukuna's proud voice.

"This is what you nearly set my apartment on fire for?"

"Out of affection!"

Sukuna crosses all four arms, swathes of sheer muscle rippling as he does so, "Modern rituals are pointless. In my time, it was proper practice to compose poetry, and bring offerings. A verse beneath a maiden's window at night was a gift of the highest value."

"Is that why you were on my balcony yesterday, and I found a haiku written on spare receipts?"

Sukuna's withering frown deepens, carving into barely flushed skin, "You were the one complaining to that irritating friend of yours last week. How no-one ever does anything nice for you, and everyone has lovers but you. And you missed feeling chosen. So I chose you."

You ignore the traitorous thump! of your heart against your ribcage.

"And your friend, irritating, honestly with a voice like that, and a face so untrustworthy, how one even puts up with that is a question that I wonder at, and –"

"Sukuna."

"Your friend said that if a man does not appear with both flowers and adequate food, he is not serious nor worthy of one's time." Sukuna gestures, as one would point out to a child, to the botanical massacre and blackened meat, "I adapted."

Now your heart is doing traitorous, little twists.

"You're serious?"

Sukuna gives you a look that someone would give to an annoying bug buzzing around a room, bored and avoidant, but the choppy spikes of his blush-pink hair do little to hide the flush darkening on the tips of his ears, "I do not do things halfway."

"So the live cricket in the bouquet. . . ?"

"Represents vitality. Even the village oaf would know that."

You suddenly wonder whether you should flip the gas off from your still searing stove, sending plumes of blackened smoke to stick to your kitchen tiles, "Oh, fuck. My landlord is gonna' kill me."

Sukuna trails after you, a bite of anger in his voice, as he continues to prattle behind you like a large shadow, "What is a landlord? Why is another man lording your land? I am perfectly capable of agricultural management, I had an estate, you know."

NOTE: for the supreme sukuna-wife of my heart @creamflix ❤️

[kefiteria]

I mean, if you’re looking for a cute headcannon prompt, I think Sebek reacting to being accidentally courted is cute and funny

How You (Accidentally) Court Sebek Zigvolt and Break His Brain In Seven Faeromantic Steps🪻

pairing: Sebek X Reader!

tags: fluff, accidentally overpowered in love rituals, 200% more flustered Sebek

Step 1: You Give Him Moonfruit Wrapped in White Heather

Your intention: “Funky lil night snack. Enjoy!”

Sebek's brain: ‘MOONFRUIT WRAPPED IN WHITE HEATHER??? THEY MIGHT AS WELL HAVE KNELT WITH A RING.’

Cue Sebek (audibly choking): “Y-YOU… W-WHAT POSSESSED YOU TO OFFER SUCH A THING?!”

You: “…Vitamin C?”

Sebek (frantic whisper): “The last person who gave this to someone started a war over fae marriage rites!”

He doesn’t sleep that night. He lies awake. Holding the fruit like it's a cursed object.

Then buries it. Then digs it up again. Then buries it deeper.

Step 2: You Buff His Armor With Hawthorn Oil 🛡️

Your intention: “✨Spa Day for Iron Armor✨”

Sebek's reaction: Full body STIFFEN. Actual shudder. Like you just ran a love confession down his spine.

Sebek (yelping): “HAWTHORN?! OIL?! ON MY ARMOR?! D-DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE?!”

You: “…Cleaned it?”

Sebek (face redder than a lava core): “YOU’VE BOUND YOUR PRESENCE TO MY BATTLE AURA!!”

He immediately tries to remove the oil. But it’s absorbed.

The armor now smells like you. He panics harder.

He starts considering exile.

🌿 Step 3: You Tuck Honeysuckle Behind His Ear

Your intention: “You look like a stressed-out romance novel character. Here.”

Sebek: Broken. Utterly. Devastated. Spiritually compromised.

Sebek (hissing): “D-DO NOT PLACE SYMBOLIC BLOOMS UPON MY FACE!!”

You: “Why not? It’s cute.”

Sebek: “CUTE?!? IT’S A SYMBOL OF POSSESSIVE DESIRE IN COURTSHIP—DO YOU WISH TO BE TRIED BY THE FAE LAWS OF HONOR?!”

He doesn’t remove the flower.

He just blushes so hard it wilts off his skin.

🌼 Step 4: You Leave Him a Bouquet of Primroses at Twilight

Your intention: “He seemed cranky. This is my flower-language for ‘chill out, king.’”

Sebek’s response: Completely silent. Holding the bouquet like it’s an explosive.

Sebek: “Why… why would you give me…seven primroses…under the star's first gaze…?”

You: “…That’s how many I could pick before my fingers got cold?”

Sebek (voice cracking like broken glass): “You just performed a sacred vow exchange ritual accidentally.”

He almost gives them back. Then realizes giving them back would worsen it.

He walks around holding them like cursed relics. Silver tray and all.

🍀 Step 5: You Weave Sweet Clover into His Hair

Your intention: “You’ve got a beautiful hair. Let me style it. This is a gift to me.”

Sebek’s reaction: Full fae knight system crash.

Sebek (hyperventilating): “W-WHY WOULD YOU TANGLE A CROWN OF CLOVER INTO MY SCALP?? D-DO YOU LONG TO BE WED IN THE FAE MANNER?!”

You: “Oi calm down, I was making you Pinterest-core!”

He freezes so hard he stands in the hallway for ten straight minutes.

Silver sighs walking past him. Malleus tilts his head. Lilia takes a photo.

❄️ Step 6: You Leave a Snowdrop at His Door at Dawn

Your intention: “He’s up early. I’m up early. We’re just ✨early✨”

Sebek’s reaction: He doesn’t see the flower. He sees his entire romantic destiny laid bare on stone.

Sebek (whispering): “A…dawndrop…by my threshold. Their promise of guidance through hardship. S-soft petals…soulbound intention…”

You: “What.”

Sebek (wheezing): “WHY MUST YOU WOO ME AT SUNRISE?!!”

He ends up carrying the snowdrop in his glove all day like it’s a holy relic.

He refuses to explain why. No one believes him anyway.

🌹 Step 7: You Drop a Red Rose Petal on His Desk

Your intention: “Aesthetic.”

Sebek’s interpretation: YOU JUST GAVE HIM YOUR HEART AND DECLARED JOINT MILITARY ALLIANCE.

Sebek: “A single petal. The sign of blood-sworn unity on a chosen battlefield. You—You’ve waged love upon me!!”

You: “…Do you need a nap?”

He straight up knocks over the desk and declares a 24-hour vow of silence.

No one knows if he’s praying or crying.

The Grand Sebek Breakdown

Finally, at the end of this romantic rampage, Sebek corners you in the library, cloak flaring, ears red, and he SLAMS his hands on the table:

Sebek: “ARE YOU COURTING ME—OR DO YOU SIMPLY HAVE A DEATH WISH?!!”

You: “Huh? I gave you fruit, flowers, and hair clips. You’re acting like I proposed under a blood moon.”

Sebek (sputtering, vibrating): “THOSE ARE PROPOSALS UNDER A BLOOD MOON!! IN FAE TERMS!! IN MY CULTURE!! YOU’VE PERFORMED SEVEN RITES!!”

You: “… That explains a lot, actually.”

He short-circuits. He just turns around and walks directly into a bookcase.

Silver sighs again. Lilia’s laughing so hard he falls out of the rafters.

[theeartuaist]

The App

It started with the app.

You never downloaded it. You never saw it download. It just appeared on your phone one grey Tuesday afternoon nestled between your weather app and your calendar like it had always belonged there. It wasn't sleek or modern but oddly anachronistic, with an interface that reminded you of Windows 95 and an icon that seemed to shift slightly when you weren't looking directly at it.

"TrueMate" it was called, in soft pink font, glowing gently, innocuous. You told yourself it must’ve come from an ad you accidentally clicked. Maybe during that 3 a.m. scroll through horror subreddits or that article on cursed love letters.

You should have deleted it immediately. Instead, you shrugged. Curiosity is always the first thread pulled. You opened it. You swiped once and that was all it took.

"Match found," the screen declared without requiring a profile, photo, or even your name.

Just one match: Raye.

Just Raye, no last name, new to the area. Picture: pale skin, high cheekbones, lips too red, eyes too dark. His profile picture had an uncanny quality to it, as if several photographs had been mercilessly stitched together by an algorithm with unusual ideas about human faces.

Then, a message pinged from Raye:

Hello. I would like to meet you.

Yoy should have closed the app. Instead, you found yourself typing back:

That's a bit forward. You don't even know me.

I know you are the one I want to meet. Tomorrow? Coffee? I have researched the proper courtship ritual. I will arrive with flowers. You will be impressed.

The oddness of his phrasing made you smile. A foreigner, perhaps, or someone on the spectrum with an endearing directness?

He picked the café. It was one of those cosy tucked-away places with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu filled with ironic puns.

Raye greeted you the next day. You weren’t catfished at least - he was tall and almost aggressively ordinary, with a face you'd forget while still looking at it. His suit was impeccable but somehow wrong—like it had been chosen by carefully studying magazine ads without understanding context. He clutched a bouquet of flowers that still had the price tag attached.

"These are for you," he announced at a volume slightly too loud for the quiet café. "I have purchased the traditional courtship flora."

You accepted them with murmured thanks, noticing how his fingers seemed to bend at odd angles when he released the stems.

"I have secured beverages and circular sweet bread items. Please sit so we may progress to the next stage," he said, watching you with unblinking eyes.

You chatted. It was normal. Almost. Raye had opinions about everything that seemed quoted directly from somewhere else—movie reviews, political commentaries, song lyrics—all delivered with the same intense sincerity. He laughed exactly three seconds after you made jokes, his head tilting at precisely the same angle each time. When he reached for his coffee, his movements were fluid but somehow rehearsed, as if he'd practised in front of a mirror.

"Your species fascinates me," he said after you mentioned your job.

"My species of [your job]?" You replied with a laugh.

"Yes. That." He leaned forward suddenly. "I have observed that after the initial meeting comes the small talk, then the revealing of childhood traumas, then the physical connection. We have completed two stages. Tell me about your childhood disappointments."

Something in his expression made you change the subject to movies instead. His knowledge was encyclopedic yet strangely hollow, as if he'd memorized IMDB entries without watching the films.

"You enjoy stories where humans overcome obstacles and form mating bonds," he observed.

"That's one way to describe romantic comedies, I suppose."

His eyes seemed to recalculate something. "Yes. Human romantic comedies. I enjoy them as well, as a human."

The conversation continued like that for an hour—moments of almost-normality interrupted by statements just odd enough to make you wonder if you was being pranked. But there was something compelling about Raye's attention, the way he absorbed your words as if they were precious.

You were halfway through your drink when, with the abruptness of someone following a script to the letter, he placed his hand on yours and said:

"Let's get married."

You choked. Tea went up your nose. “Sorry, what!?” you said, coughing and wiping your mouth.

Confusion flickered across his face, and his eyes had gone completely flat. "What do you mean? I'm not a stranger anymore," he said, his voice modulating into something softer. "I'm your fiancé. I just proposed."

The café seemed to grow quieter, the background noise fading. You pulse quickened as you pulled your hand away.

"There must be some misunderstanding - that's not how anything works - this is our first date. We literally met like an hour ago. People date for months, years even, before getting engaged."

"Incorrect," Raye replied, producing a small notebook from his pocket. He flipped through pages filled with what looked like screenshots. "In 'The Proposal,' Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds become engaged after knowing each other for 3 years, 2 months as work colleagues. But in 'Leap Year,' Amy Adams decides to propose after 4 years of dating. In 'Sweet Home Alabama,' they were married in childhood. And in 'The Bachelor,' multiple women compete for one marriage proposal in a matter of weeks." He looked up triumphantly. "The data is inconsistent. I have chosen the most efficient option."

Something cold slithered down your spine. "Are you... quoting movies to me?"

"I have conducted extensive research on human mating rituals," he said, tilting his head at that familiar angle. "I have watched 247 romantic comedies, 183 dramas involving romance, and 62 reality television shows about finding mates. I have identified the pattern. First meeting, then coffee, then proposal. We are proceeding correctly."

"That's not real life. Those are stories, fantasies."

His expression shifted again, this time to something you couldn't quite place—disappointment mixed with the concentration of someone recalibrating complex calculations.

"I see. I have misunderstood." He blinked rapidly. "Then we must proceed to the next step where one of us runs through an airport to prevent the other from leaving, or perhaps stands outside with a music-playing device held overhead, or perhaps, we should wait for it to rain and exchange a kiss-”

That's when you noticed his reflection in the window behind him—or rather, the place where his reflection should have been. Instead, there was a shimmer in the air, vaguely human-shaped but rippling like heat waves off summer asphalt.

"What are you?" You whispered.

"I am Raye," he said with a smile that showed too many teeth. "I selected this name because it contains 50% of the same letters as 'mate.' I have been studying humans for what you would measure as 3.2 Earth years. You are the first specimen I have selected for my personal research."

He reached across the table again, his fingers elongating slightly as they approached yours. "The app was merely a formality. I have been observing you for 76 days. You are perfectly ordinary, which makes you extraordinarily perfect."

You stood up so quickly your chair clattered to the floor. "I need to go."

"Are you…rejecting me?” He tilted his head, frowning. "I have proposed marriage. You are supposed to say yes after initial reluctance. That is how the story proceeds."

"This isn't a movie, Raye."

"No," he agreed, "Movies end. What I propose is much more permanent."

As you backed away, heading for the door, Raye remained seated, watching you with those unblinking eyes. Just before you reached the exit, your phone chimed with a notification.

A new message in the app that shouldn't exist: The courtship ritual is not complete. We will try again with the correct sequence. I have much to learn, and you are the perfect teacher.

You deleted the app the moment you got home. It reappeared the next morning—nestled between weather and calendar, as if it had always belonged there. Because of course it did!

(Because for some beings, a story doesn't end until they understand the proper way to tell it. And Raye seemed determined to get this story right. However, many revisions it might take.)

next chapter

[mentally-in-northern-italy]

a lover’s ruse — c.d. [1]

Summary: Your agonizing courtship and Cedric’s need to spite his ex are both ailments that have a very simple cure: a fake relationship, obviously.

⤷ [1] - in which prefect patrols end with a haphazard agreement being reached.

Requested: read the request here

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x fem!gryffindor!reader

Word Count: 3.9K

A/N: I'm so sorry guys. This has been such a long time coming, I'm not sure people are even waiting for this anymore. But this is the first part and I'm thinking of turning it into a full-fledged series. Second part of the fic WILL be out as soon as I'm done exams.

—

The first few dates were bearable enough  — if you squinted hard and counted the silence as a virtue. 

The next few were nothing short of painstakingly harrowing. And that’s being kind.

This one, however? It made you seriously contemplate lunging over the walls of the Astronomy Tower and meeting Death, himself, halfway. Little else could offer greater reprieve, in your mind, from this. 

The setting should’ve been romantic, in theory. The night was still, but not stiflingly so, and the moonlight danced around the top of the Tower teasingly, doing little to illuminate the dark. If he stepped into a crevice where the light didn’t reach his face and you tuned him out just enough, you might even call the view beautiful. But, you soon found out – only a few dates in – no view could be described as such when you have Trevor Selwyn standing next to you.

Trevor Selwyn should’ve been a perfect match, in theory. An avid member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight –  there was little else that could prove more pertinent to families, like yours, with snobby ideals of purity and the measures necessary to maintain it, generation after generation – a Slytherin, an athlete (he doesn’t like mentioning that he’s a substitute player, on his best days), and a prefect. And, as you soon found out – only one date in – he’s also an utter and complete idiot.

So, you should’ve said no, in theory. Kicked and flailed your arms like a petulant child, screamed and wailed and protested when your parents proposed a courtship between the two of you. You should’ve told Trevor himself that he possessed the tact of a Cornish Pixie and the wit of the dimmest of trolls. But, as you soon found out (after the wailing episode) – absolutely zero dates in – Trevor is nothing but persistent and your parents anything but unwavering in their resolve. 

“I’ve met the Minister once,” he remarks out of nowhere as he looks off, off of the edge of the tower with all the regality of an acclaimed emperor. 

You hum in response. You haven’t said a word all night and he hasn’t noticed a thing.

“Granted, I was only two but I recall the Minister telling my father –”

“I think I should head back, actually,” you interrupt before the anecdote can truly begin. There are a few things you’ve learned about Trevor so far but none of them are as glaringly consequential as this: if he starts talking about his father, he won’t be able to stop. Escapades from Uagadou, his adventures in Egypt warding off curses and serpents and the magical scrolls of Machu Picchu –

“Oh,” he furrows his brow as if deep in thought and you almost laugh. That boy has never had a thought in his life. 

“I don’t want to be late for prefect patrols is all,” a faux sweet lilt to your voice doesn’t do much to subdue the frown on his face. 

He nods curtly. “I’ll walk you back.”

Your refusal is automatic. “I think I’ll mana–”

“It’s no problem,” he starts walking towards the stairs and you’re left with no choice but to follow.

On any other occasion, the walk would’ve taken mere minutes. The hallways would’ve been something theatrical, a soft fusion of candlelight and the streaming moonlight at this time of night. With Selwyn by your side, however, the minutes seemed like hours, and the candlelit corridors, usually golden and warm, felt like the dull glow of a waiting room. Your shoulders ached from how stiffly you held herself as each step echoed louder than the last, as if the castle itself was sighing in disappointment and disdain.

“I had an enjoyable time tonight,” Trevor started when you finally reached and you tried your utter best to hide the discomfort when his clammy hand reached for yours. He brought it to his lips and pressed a single kiss on it before you gave him a tight-lipped smile. You expect him to then turn and go, to walk back down to his own common room but he stays standing there, his face blank. 

“Me too,” you smile, in hopes that this was the confirmation he was after. Another lesson you’ve learned about the boy has been this: nothing else pleases him as much as validation does. 

He gives some semblance of a smile back. You blink. The next thing you know he has started to lean in and his eyes are fluttering shut and his slightly puckered lips are mere inches from yours now and the ridiculousness of it all proves too much to bear – you guffaw in the most obnoxious way possible. A mixture of anger and hurt crosses his face before he retreats and you’re unsure of how to recover.

“I’m so sorry,” you cover your mouth and try to stop the laughter. “I– I just thought of a funny joke. I’m so–”

“Fix your hair, would you? It looked atrocious today,” he quips quickly to gain control of the situation back. The last thing you’ve learned about the enigma that Selwyn is is this: his superiority cannot be challenged. If it is, he will try to establish it again – by insulting you in the most seemingly hurtful manner. 

It doesn’t quite have the desired effect. You snort at his attempt and suddenly the laughter has returned. He exhales once out of his nose as he turns to go but not before calling out, “I will pick you up at the same time tomorrow night. Don’t be late.” 

The laughter dwindles at the thought of enduring this again. “I’m busy tomorrow!” 

“Don’t be late,” he calls again. 

“Charming,” you hear someone call from behind you and you can tell who it is without having to turn and look at his annoyingly perfect face. His clever quips usually carry the extraordinary ability to irk you to no end but after the night you’ve had, they seem especially akin to knives on a chalkboard. 

You can picture Cedric Diggory’s earnest yet irritating smile he seems to wear at all times, the kind that makes his honey-coloured eyes crinkle in the slightest way at the edges with no difficulty. You can picture his perfectly ironed robes, clad with pins and awards he has won over the years and his hair that falls in place like dominoes. There’s only ever one way to describe him: pristine. Always. 

Though you’d never cared much to exalt him to the status of an academic rival, it’d be foolish to call him anything else. He had a way about him that reeked of complete and utter competence at everything, which indubitably invited a certain degree of resentment from everyone. You were no exception.

And not only did the universe seem keen on making an already-horrible night worse by scheduling him as your prefect patrols partner tonight, it also seemed quite keen on wanting to humiliate you in front of him. 

“The gossip that you are, Diggory,” you huff with biting sarcasm as you finally turn to face him. “Using your patrols as a way to spy on unsuspecting young lovers. Classy.” The break of his grin is almost blinding and you have to avert your gaze to avoid damage to your visual field.

“Nothing else entertains me these days as much as your courtship, I’m afraid,” he jests, slipping an easy hand into his pocket. “If you need more time together, I understand. I’m perfectly capable of completing the patrols on my own tonight.”

With your face aflame, you shoot him a look and begrudgingly start walking beside him, arms crossed tightly over your chest like a shield and footsteps hitting stone a bit too sharply. 

“How kind of you.” You say curtly and make it a point to walk a few steps ahead of him. He doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by it: he follows a few steps behind you, but the smugness radiating off of him envelops you nonetheless. 

“You can laugh, you know,” you say again after a moment of silence. You have long-since learned that the best way to avoid embarrassment is to submit to it. You’ve been courting Selwyn long enough to know it – sheepish smiles exchanged with classmates when he pecks you on the cheek in the hallways, mortified but apologetic grimaces whenever he tries to clasp your hand in his as he walks you to your common room after supper. Judgment – if it must be served – is best served plainly. Overtly. 

He shakes his head in amusement as he finally catches up and walks in step with you. “Now, why would I laugh? That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.” 

“That was humiliating,” you mutter under your breath before you can stop yourself. 

Cedric’s amused smile wavers as he glances at you with something you hope isn’t sympathy. And as much as you hate to say it, it wouldn’t be something you would put above him – for all the determined rebuttals and rivalries in class, Cedric has only ever been infuriatingly kind. “I think Selwyn might be a tad bit more humiliated than you, [Y/L/N].”

“Good. If he ever tries to kiss me again, I might hex him into oblivion and end up as a headline in the Daily Prophet.” 

His amusement returns and you’re glad. You’re not sure how to interact with him beyond the usual teasing remarks. “Would it be in bad taste to say that I'd quite want to see that?” His smile only grows when you roll your eyes. “Will you be doing that tomorrow night then? Shall I call the reporters?” 

You make a face. “You won’t be grinning that wide when I send a dementor after you from Azkaban, Diggory.”

“Send one after Selwyn. He’s in need of a good kiss.”

Your lips twitch at the joke and Cedric notices the slight movement. You press them together before a full-fledged smile can appear on your face and Cedric revels in it. “You’re not funny.”

“Yes, I’m sure Selwyn’s funnier,” Cedric teases. 

“Still not funny.” You take a few quicker steps to walk in front of him again, having had enough of his teasing for the night. 

He catches up again and has no particular difficulties keeping up, no matter how much you try to hasten your steps. “Forgive me for prying –”

“I won’t.”

“But, why Selwyn?” The question’s sincerity catches you off-guard.

“What?”

“I just mean – I find it hard to believe that you’re… devoid of options. So…why him?” He picks his words carefully, as if he’s weighing them in his mouth before letting them fall out. And perhaps it was due to the late hour or the undeniable warmth that Cedric’s eyes perpetually hold, but you actually considered giving him a sincere answer. 

“He’s–” you pause as you vow to yourself this would be the last display of vulnerability Cedric would be getting from you tonight. Your voice drops despite yourself, and you find your fingers fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. Something about Cedric’s quiet attention makes the truth feel heavier than usual. “He’s my parents’ choice. They want me to graduate with a prospect secured.”

His eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. “If a courtship is what you’re after, I’m sure you’d find better prospects in – pardon my bluntness – anyone else.” His teasing cadence has dropped altogether now and you wrinkle your own eyebrows in confusion as you consider the notion that Cedric might actually be trying to help you. 

“It doesn’t matter who–” you pause again. “I don’t plan on marrying him, Cedric.”

Cedric frowns. 

You go on, “I’m only ‘courting’ him until graduation to subdue my parents. I won’t marry him so it doesn’t matter who it is.” You squirm in guilt as Cedric stays frowning. “And I realize it’s cruel to string him along – I do – I just – I don’t know what else to do.” 

Cedric nods after a while – a slow, courteous nod that indicates he understands but wholly disagrees with whatever you’re saying. It’s a nod you’ve seen from him when he proposes a rebuttal to whatever alternate answer you’ve proposed in class, an alternate solution to a problem and admittedly, a much more pragmatic one.  He opens his mouth to voice it before the sound of giggles fill the empty hallways from around the corner.

You both exchange a prefectly look with each other, acknowledging the obvious student out of bed, awaiting a scolding for being out past curfew. Before you two can approach to see who it is, they turn the corner themselves.

“Evelyn,” Cedric breathes out in surprise as your gaze lands on the familiar brunette-haired girl in your year, her hands firmly clasped in Damien Avery’s, matching love-sick grins plastered on both faces and lipstick stains on the latter’s neck. With their hair dishevelled and robes askew, they blink in stunned silence.

You purse your lips as you look between the two, realization cresting at once. Though Cedric’s dating life was never a particular topic of interest, you immediately recognized the girl as his girlfriend, Evelyn Waters. 

Well, ex-girlfriend as of two weeks ago. 

“Ced,” his name falls from her smudged, lipstick-stained mouth softly, her eyes widening slightly. She hastily straightens out her robe and runs a hand through her hair. “I–”

Cedric clears his throat awkwardly as he shoots Avery a lingering glare. “It’s an hour past curfew–” He manages to get out, his voice unbelievably even. He keeps his eyes on Avery, not sparing Evelyn another glance. 

“I’m a prefect, Diggory. I think we’re fine,” Avery dismisses, stepping around him. He tugs at Evelyn’s hand.

Cedric steps in front of him again, towering over the shorter boy with ease. “Forty points from Slytherin,” he says simply, his eyes uncharacteristically stoic.

Avery scoffs and looks at Cedric in disbelief. “Yeah?” He sneers. “Are you going to take another forty for theft?” 

Cedric exhales heavily through his nose at the implication. The night air has suddenly chilled and the tension is so thick, it makes it hard to breathe.

“You know… considering…everything.” Avery smirks, gesturing subtly to Evelyn’s hand he still has clasped within his own. Evelyn watches the exchange silently.

“Considering everything, Avery,” you finally find your voice in the uncomfortable silence and step forward. “I’ll be taking another hundred points away from Slytherin for your misuse of prefect privileges. Expect to hear from Professor Snape tomorrow when I formally file a complaint.”

Avery turns to you, his goblin-green eyes staring into yours for a minute before he narrows them. “This isn’t your fight, [Y/L/N]. Stay out of it.”

“I think you,” you jab a hard finger at his chest, pushing him away slightly, “should stay out of the hallways after curfew. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” You grab Cedric’s arm and tear him away from the pair. 

He doesn’t protest when you begin to lead him down a random set of stairs to get away from the scene of the stiff confrontation. Cedric walks a few steps behind you wordlessly as you chance periodic glances to make sure he’s still following. After a few moments, you slow your gait so he can catch up with you.

“Hey,” you jostle him out of his thoughts which seemed to have permanently etched a furrow in his brows as he shuffled his feet across the stone floor.

He sighs, running a quick hand over his face and then stuffing it back into his pocket. “You didn’t have to enjoy that quite so much.”

You frown. “Enjoy what?”

“Do you not normally enjoy my humiliation?” He asks with a teasing lilt in his voice, but the humour stops short of his eyes. You can tell his mind is still stuck elsewhere, replaying that scene over and over. 

“I’m not a sadist like you,” you quip. 

He offers you a quick smile as if to confirm receipt of your well-intentioned humour, but doesn’t say much else. You walk in uneasy silence once again. 

“She’s an idiot,” you say finally. “Just– for the record.”

“Hm.” He smiles wryly again but his eyes hold a heaviness that you don’t like. You can tell the breakup took a greater toll on him than he has let on the past few weeks. And you’re not exactly sure why that weighs down on your heart.

“Seriously, Diggory,” you sigh. “She’s an idiot for breaking up with you and she’s an idiot for getting with Avery.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. ���Yeah.” 

The heaviness still hung in the air despite your attempts at trying to provide Cedric an outlet to let out his frustration. You scoff internally at his staunch unwillingness to talk ill of anyone – not even his ex-girlfriend who moved on from him in a blink of an eye. You think again of Cedric’s genuine interest in your ‘Selwynian’ plight. You sigh once before shaking your head. Were you really about to help Cedric Diggory?

“You know what? You need to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Acting like it doesn’t bother you,” you hit him lightly on the arm. “It bothers you, right?”

He holds your gaze for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Suppose it does.” He admits quietly.

“Do you want her back?” 

He frowns at the question. “What–”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he breathes out after a while and looks away, as if embarrassed at the confession. You can tell he’s fidgeting with his pockets nervously. 

“Then, make her jealous,” you say. “I saw how she was looking at you. She knows she made a mistake. But she won’t admit it because that’s not how it works. Make her jealous and she’ll have to admit it. It’ll get it out of her.”

He looks at you in amusement. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to help me or sabotage me.”

You scoff. “Accept the generosity before I change my mind.”

He shakes his head with a bitter smile, clicking his tongue against his teeth quietly. “That won’t work, anyway.”

“It will,” you assert. “Trust me, Diggory. It will.” 

He shakes his head again. “I don’t even know how to–”

“Date someone else,” you supply easily.

“I don’t like anyone else.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “No shit. We already established that you still like Evelyn.”

“So, I ask out a girl I’m not actually interested in?” He asks in disbelief, discomfort evident on his face. 

“Yeah,” you shrug. 

He frowns and pauses, glancing at you with confusion. “That’s cruel beyond belief, [Y/L/N].”

His admonition makes you pause, too. The familiarity of the proposal strikes you at once. It was exactly what you were doing – stringing along a clueless Selwyn until graduation and then breaking his heart without a second thought. The cruelty of it all had always been a nagging thought – but its noise had been distant and dull. It was now ringing in your ears however, your skewed perception of morality hitting you at once.

“It’s not– cruel.” You try to tell yourself, more than him. “It–”

“It’s heartless,” he says again, matter-of-factly. “This, and what you’re doing to Selwyn, by the way.” 

You sigh at his moral policing. You knew he was right, but Selwyn was a problem for another night. 

“Fine,” you relent. “How about a girl who agrees to be your fake girlfriend?” 

He scoffs lightly. “If that were so easy to find, wouldn’t you have gotten a fake boyfriend already?”

You both stop walking at the same time, your footsteps coming to a screeching halt simultaneously. It was almost as if Cedric’s words had materialized and turned into physical roadblocks. His gaze slowly turns to you, honey-brown eyes landing on yours, but you’re already watching him in stunned realization. 

“[Y/L/N] –” he begins thoughtfully.

“No. No. Absolutely not.” That look in his eyes — the one like he’s already decided. Like he’s already seen this through to the end. It makes you nervous in a way you can’t name. You start walking ahead of him rather quickly but he catches up to you with no difficulty once again. His long strides match your pace perfectly.

“This was your idea–” He tries to reason again, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing off the walls as he chases after you with a walking stride.

“My idea– was not for us to do that–” you huff out as you keep up the pace, unrelenting.

He finally catches up to you and reaches for your arm, his hand closing gently around your elbow. The warmth of his touch sends a jolt through you, halting your steps more effectively than his words ever could. “It makes sense.”

You blink, momentarily thrown. “No–” 

“You won’t have to be needlessly cruel just to keep a prospect around–”

“Cedric.”

“And I won’t have to heartlessly pretend to like a girl who doesn’t know I’m pretending,” his hands find your shoulders. “It makes sense. You know it does.”

“I won’t–”

“And no more nightly dates with Selwyn,” he interrupts. “No more dodging his kisses.” 

That finally shuts you up. You shake your head though you can’t find the words to protest anymore. Cedric decides to sweeten the deal further.

“No life sentence in Azkaban, either.”

“Shut up.”

His lips tug upwards slightly and your eyes can’t help but catch on the movement. You let your eyes roam over his face — annoyingly symmetrical, irritatingly warm — and suddenly it hits you how easy it would be to fall into this lie. How dangerously tempting it is to pretend.

“No one would even believe it,” you say weakly. “We hate each other.”

“You mean you hate me?” He smiles dryly. “Because I don’t recall ever hating you.”

You avert your eyes before you start tracing his smile lines again with your gaze. “I just mean– we’re always at each other’s throats.” 

“That makes it more believable, don’t you think?” 

You shake your head, closing your eyes. “It’s a bad idea–”

You don’t get to finish your sentence before a familiar owl flies overhead and perches itself on the ledge next to you, clutching a letter. It doesn’t take long for you to realize who it’s from – the intricate green envelope and Selwyn family crest catching your eye immediately.

Cedric raises an eyebrow as he holds back a smirk. You grumble under your breath before plucking the letter from the owl begrudgingly. 

“Aren’t you going to open it?” He questions as he stifles a smile.

“No,” you huff in annoyance. “He … sends these every night. A ‘goodnight poem’, he calls them.”

Cedric doesn’t say anything, his grin already revealing he knows what your next words will be. 

You glance at the letter again — Selwyn’s cursive looping like a snake about to bite. What were you even doing?

You sigh, knowing exactly what this meant. “Fine. Let’s do it.” You cast the ignition spell, watching the green wax seal curl into smoke. “Let’s date.”

He blinks. “Wait — really?”

 “Don’t make me change my mind.”

 His grin returns, slow and lopsided. “Pretend to date,” he corrects.

“What?”

“We’re pretending,” he says cheekily, your cheeks aflame at his teasing cadence. "Don’t fall in love with me, [Y/L/N].”  

With a determined roll of your eyes, you turn on your heel. “As if, Diggory.”

Second part coming soon!

[bosbas]

Chapter 5: they said the end is coming, everyone’s up to something

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!daphne's best friend!reader WC: 3.1k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love, mentions of a broken bone, mentions of death (but no death), alluding to sex, things are HAPPENING

Summary: At her wit's end after Anthony's multiple attempts to scare away her suitors, Daphne employs her best friend's help to keep her brother distracted while she tries to find a husband. It's a foolproof plan, except it ends up working a little too well. (or, a Bridgerton version of The Taming of the Shrew/10 things I hate about you)

July 7, 1812 - Anthony felt the breath knocked out of him as he landed on his hand, pain rippling through his arm and toward his shoulder like a hot iron rod branding his skin. A low groan escaped his lips once he got his breath back, and he bit his lip to keep from screaming from the pain as he cradled his injured hand.

Looking up to see the horse that had just thrown him off its saddle, Anthony screwed his face into the most venomous glare he could given the state he was in. Now, the question remained: how on Earth was he supposed to get home?

Anthony had been on his morning ride when his horse encountered a small frog, smaller than his pocketwatch. But alas, its size did not matter. The Bridgerton’s horse had been far too frightened to continue through the usual route. Instead, it decided to launch Anthony off its saddle and run around in circles until the frog hopped away, no doubt more terrified than the horse. 

With not much else he could do, Anthony held his injured arm close to his chest and roughly grabbed his horse’s reins, starting his return to the Bridgerton residence. Damn his proclivity for taking rides in more secluded areas!

With every step he took, Anthony clenched his jaw, the pain overtaking him entirely. Surely he’d broken a bone, he thought. Mighty inconvenient time for it to happen, too, since he was now courting someone. Could he even dance with you with a broken hand? He wasn’t quite sure. But he’d like to try, at the very least.

As his thoughts drifted to you, much like they tended to as of late, he found himself thinking a bit more deeply about what his injury truly meant. By all accounts, Anthony was lucky he’d only broken his hand. Had his horse been more erratic, he could have ended up with a broken rib. Or worse, crushed under its strong and punishing hooves.

At that thought, the breath was stolen from Anthony’s lungs once again. He very well and truly could have ended up dead because of an activity as mundane as a morning horse ride. 

And where would that leave you? Surely you would find another suitable man to court you, as much as the thought made his blood boil. But if this incident were to happen in the future, once you two were married, what then? What if you already had children, and he left them behind as well, much like his father had?

Anthony’s mind was in complete turmoil, his wounded hand now the least of his worries. How could he have let himself fall for you? 

The Bridgerton let out a strangled scream and kicked the grass beneath him, thankful it was still too early for anyone to be milling about. He couldn’t let this go on. This courtship with you could only end in pain. Even if you did agree to marry him, how long would it be until you had to experience the same loss his mother had? Anthony couldn’t let it go on. 

And so, as Anthony walked into his home, gasping for breath and begging for a medic, he decided that he had to let you go. It was the kindest thing he could do for you. He made up his mind to talk to you that very night at your ball. 

He cursed himself for getting feelings involved in a courtship in the first place, but there was not much that could be done in that regard. 

With his mind made up, he chose to focus on his fractured hand rather than his broken heart, finding that pain much easier to deal with.

--- 

Daphne squealed as soon as she saw you, immediately leaving her family to go talk to you.

“The ballroom looks beautiful,” she complimented, amazed at how vibrant your home looked when it wasn’t just you and your father.

“I know, it’s the same every year and I can still barely believe it,” you responded looking around at the guests dancing and laughing.

It was the one night every year you got to actually enjoy being at home, and nothing was going to ruin your mood. Your ballroom felt alive for the first time in twelve months and you weren’t about to waste the evening. 

“Is Anthony here?” you inquired, looking around for any sign of the man. 

“Yes, by the refreshments I’m sure. He’s been acting oddly all day, though. I have no idea what the matter is with him but maybe you can fix it.”

You laughed nervously. “I’m sure nothing I do will make a difference. This isn’t even a real courtship!” you reminded her, though you didn't like the way the words felt coming out of your mouth.

Clearing your throat, you rushed to change the subject. “What is your intention with Mr. Norwood tonight? Will he be in attendance?”

Now it was Daphne’s turn to look uncomfortable. Shifting from side to side, her eyes scanned the ballroom. 

“He will be in attendance, yes. I’m not quite sure about what will happen, but I know I must speak with him. Could you keep Anthony busy while we talk?”

“Of course,” you assured her, secretly excited to have an excuse to spend all night next to her brother.

An hour later, Daphne had finally found Phillip, and you took that as your cue to seek out Anthony. 

Crossing the ballroom to where he was standing, you tapped him on the shoulder as he spoke with his mother. Turning to look at you beside him and sporting a huge grin, Anthony leaned down to kiss your hand. 

“It’s lovely to see you this evening,” he said, his hand still holding yours gingerly. “Your home looks beautiful.”

You gasped when you looked down and saw his bandages. “What happened? Are you alright?” you asked, concern evident in your voice. 

Anthony looked down, almost as if he’d forgotten he’d broken three bones, and suddenly became very still. 

“Ah, just an incident during my morning ride. Nothing too serious,” he smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you have a moment to speak?” he asked, frowning slightly. 

“Um, yes, of course,” you responded. You were slightly confused at his change in mood but were quickly drawn out of your thoughts when you saw Daphne and Mr Norwood having a heated conversation. You weren’t quite sure what was being said, but you knew Anthony would be fuming if he caught wind of it. 

“We can go to the gardens,” you suggested, leading the eldest Bridgerton brother away from his sister.

“Is that Norwood talking to my sister?” questioned Anthony, the pair catching his eyes as he traveled across the ballroom.

“Is it?” you feigned ignorance, gripping Anthony’s healthy hand tighter and speeding up. 

As you stepped out of the densely packed ballroom and into the cool night air, you tripped over your feet and yelped as you saw the ground quickly approaching you. 

Anthony, as attuned to you as ever, reached out to grab you with his injured hand and prevented an unfortunate fall onto your paved outdoor pavilion. Immediately, he hissed in discomfort, feeling his entire arm throb as he finished steadying you.

You gasped, horrified at how much pain the Bridgerton seemed to be in. “Are you sure it’s nothing serious? Anthony, what happened?” you scolded, fear evident in your voice as you led him away from the windows facing the ballroom. 

Clearly, he had downplayed the gravity of his injury, and you cradled his hand in yours as you searched his eyes.

“I only broke three bones,” he tried to reassure you, though he failed miserably. 

“Three bones?” you screeched, drawing the attention of the other partygoers milling about the gardens. “Anthony, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, staring at the white bandages that covered his fingers.

You felt an unfamiliar panic rising in you. The thought that Anthony had been in any pain at all was devastating to you, and you couldn’t help the worry you felt when you looked at his gritted teeth and tightly closed eyes. 

“A-Anthony? Can I do anything?” you asked softly, tears forming in your eyes. 

You tried to calm yourself down. It wasn’t like Anthony was in any sort of mortal danger. He was at a ball, after all! He wouldn't have come if he was truly unwell. Why had seeing him injured set you off so much? You’d never been one to be so skittish, so why now?

Your mind stilled for a moment.

Heavens, you were in love with him.

A small gasp escaped your lips at the realization, your hand dropping his immediately.

It wasn’t a game anymore, you thought, panicked. This was real. Your feelings were real.

God, how could you have been so stupid as to fall in love with him? And how had it taken you until now to realize?

Did this mean you had to end things with him?

Now you were really crying. Maybe it was the right thing to do, then. To let him go if you really felt this way. 

A small sob escaped your lips.

“Oh, Anthony,” you cried, trying desperately to wipe away the barrage of tears coming down your cheeks. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, completely focused on you now that the pain in his hand had subsided. “Y/N, what’s the matter?” he asked again, growing properly worried now. 

But you were too distraught by the thought of losing him to respond. You tried to form a coherent sentence but could only manage a few choked sobs at a time. 

Anthony placed his uninjured hand on your cheek, turning your face toward him. 

“I’m right here,” he reassured, knowing that having him near you always seemed to calm you down. 

Taking a few deep breaths, you managed to control yourself a bit better and sniffed sadly. 

“I just don’t want this to end,” you said, your voice breaking.

Anthony’s breath caught in his throat. Had you somehow found out he was going to end things with you? He had no idea how you would have, but he blinked uncomfortably nonetheless. 

Mistaking Anthony’s hesitation for confusion, you clarified, “Us. I don’t want us to end.”

Ah, damn everything. He was completely powerless when it came to you.

“I don’t see why it has to,” he responded, breathlessly leaning down to kiss you on the forehead. 

He was too far gone to think clearly, and the thought of marrying you seemed awfully attractive at the moment. The kiss on your forehead turned into a kiss on your temple, then your cheek.

And finally, with a shaky breath, he closed his eyes, leaning down to kiss your lips. 

The feeling of his soft lips encasing yours was completely indescribable, and your brain completely shut down any and all thoughts that did not include kissing this man back. You stood on your tiptoes, wanting to be closer to him as you felt his tongue poking into your mouth.

Gasping for breath, Anthony broke the kiss and looked down at you with a wild look in his eyes. Never in his entire life had he done something so rash, including during his numerous years as a rake. But you were simply too irresistible. He couldn’t help it; he wanted you more than he had ever wanted anything else. 

Remembering where you were, you gasped softly, looking around to see if anyone in the garden had seen what had just transpired. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, and reassured by the fact that no one inside the ballroom could see you, you reached out to Anthony, who was already leaning in to kiss you again.

“Anthony,” you scolded softly, laughing at how eager he was. Then, lowering your voice to a whisper, you said, “We must find somewhere else to continue this conversation. We can access the library through the garden around this corner.”

“Best conversation I’ve ever had,” murmured Anthony sarcastically, allowing himself to be led to your family library while ensuring no one was looking your way. 

Once you were inside the library, you shut the doors leading to the garden and locked them, not wanting to risk being found alone with a man while you were yet unmarried. 

As soon as you turned around, you felt your back hitting the doors behind you and Anthony’s body pressed against you, kisses raining down on your face. 

You giggled, having far too much fun than what was appropriate for a lady in your place in society. You grabbed Anthony’s head in both hands and guided his lips to yours once again, needing the connection to him more than you needed air. 

As you continued kissing, you both grew more desperate. An unfamiliar warmth was spreading through you, and you could do nothing but whimper as Anthony’s hands roamed your torso.

He groaned in restraint, breaking your kiss once again. 

“Do you want to do this?” he asked you, leaning down to kiss your neck.

Breathlessly, you responded, “Well, I’m not quite sure what ‘this’ is…” You had never received any sort of talking to from your father about the marriage night, if that’s what Anthony was referring to. Your knowledge was based only on the whispers that you had heard while eavesdropping on your housemaids. 

Anthony laughed richly, completely enamored by you. “Of course, you don't,” he smiled down at you. “Why don’t I start by demonstrating and you tell me if you want me to keep going,” he said seductively, his voice dripping with desire. 

You could only nod in excited agreement, amazed that you were finally seeing Anthony’s rakish side. 

--- 

You awoke early the next morning to a soft kiss on your cheek.

You opened your eyes and found yourself on the floor of your library, covered only by the blanket that was stationed on the couch for when you spent nights reading into the early hours of the morning. Anthony was next to you, looking at you and trying to take in every detail possible. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, mostly to himself as his eyes roamed your figure.

You felt your face growing hot at the compliment and buried your face in his chest. He laughed and hugged you close to him, careful to keep his injured hand protected. 

“I must go now before anyone suspects anything,” Anthony said, checking his pocket watch. It was still five in the morning, far before anyone in his household or yours would be awake let alone notice anything amiss, but he wanted to take no chances. 

“I shall call on you later today, of course,” he assured you, starting to get dressed while still doing his best to maintain any sort of physical contact with you.

Interlocking your fingers with his, which were at the present moment located on your hip, you nodded and bit your lip, enjoying the show. 

“I’ll be waiting,” you promised, sitting up to plant a tender kiss on his cheek. 

He did you one better and pecked you on the lips, elated at this newfound way of interacting with you. 

“I’ll ask your father for your hand tonight,” he said decidedly, already excited at the prospect of a future with you. “And perhaps we’ll ask for an expedited marriage license because I don’t know how much longer I can keep myself from you again.”

You could only giggle in excitement, not quite believing that the man in front of you would soon be your husband. 

“Check on Daphne for me,” you requested, remembering how agitated your friend looked last night. “And I’ll see you this afternoon.” 

Leaning down to kiss you goodbye, Anthony smiled warmly at you. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

--- 

Anthony had no idea how he’d managed to remain calm for the rest of the morning. He had gone home and slept for a few more hours, then went downstairs to greet his mother and assure her that he had left your ball early because his hand was being quite bothersome. 

Then, he’d spent the rest of his time trying to make himself look presentable for your father, needing him to approve if he was to ask him for your hand in marriage. 

Anthony had never been in this position before, and as much as it caused him a great deal of stress, he was elated and nothing really could have soured his mood. 

Finally satisfied with his appearance, Anthony headed downstairs to go to your home once again. On his way out, he passed by the tea room where he found Daphne. And, remembering your request from this morning, he greeted her warmly. 

“Hello, Daph,” he said cheerfully, but the sob his sister let out stopped him in his tracks. “What’s happened?” he asked, seamlessly shifting into Daphne’s protective older brother. 

“Mr Norwood,” cried Daphne. “He said my dowry wouldn’t be enough to cover the cost of a new home, and that he doesn’t want to marry me anymore,” she explained between fitful sobs. 

“He what?” asked Anthony, appalled at this common man’s lack of decorum. “What a complete bastard,” he swore, waving away Daphne’s shocked look at his colorful language. “Had he expressed interest in marrying you before?”

Daphne nodded tearfully. “He said he loved me,” she sniffled, already knowing how silly and naive she sounded. 

Anthony narrowed his eyes. “You see, that’s why I didn’t let you out of my sight your first season. You really can’t be trusted to make this decision, Daphne. Of course he only wanted you for your dowry! He is an untitled bachelor with no fortune to his name, are you thick?” 

“Am I thick? Are you really asking me that?” yelled Daphne, fuming at her brother’s response to her despair. 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m asking you,” responded Anthony sharply, in disbelief that someone could do this to his sister. “This is why I should be the one making this decision, or at least vetting your candidates,” he muttered, a bit louder than he’d intended to. 

Daphne scoffed, furious at Anthony’s condescension. “Oh, you think you know better than me?” she taunted. “Then how come you haven’t figured out that the only reason Y/N is interested in you is because I asked her to fake it so I could get a chance to talk to some gentlemen without you meddling,” she spit out, her tone venomous.

Anthony froze. With a voice that was calm but deadly, he asked, “I beg your pardon?”

—

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[kelyon]

Courtship Lacey! Would you be open to adding a third into your bedroom if Mr. Gold requested it?

We've been married for an hour, I hope he's not tired of me already!

But yeah, someday, why not? Someone we can share or someone Mr. Gold wants to use me. Either way could be a lot of fun. Especially if Mr. Gold requests it. Doing what he wants is the whole point.

I wonder if he's got his eye on anyone...

[moonshinesonic-moonstarslight]

More Tiny Cumplane!

Og Mobei Jun: *stares down at tiny Qinghua. Wonders if Qinghua got cursed. Sees wide excited eyes staring back at him. Really wonders if his human got cursed* Hm.

Airplane (currently the size of a 3yold): *beaming smile, not worried at all about getting killed by his favorite character* Hi! You are very pretty, my king!

Og Mobei Jun: *knows Qinghua only calls him that to others when questioned on why he supports the 'weak' fourth prince. Also knows that Qinghua only talks about his looks when drunk or drugged. Worry increases* Oh? Is he now?

Airplane: *nods happily, gesturing wildly* Of course! My king is the best after all!

Og Mobei Jun: *flattered even if his concern has skyrocketed. Plotting on finding out what happened to his human* Hm.

Og SQH: *rushes into the room* Xiao Yi! I told you to go to Qing Jing! Why are you still... *Sees Mobei Jun* My Lord!!

Og Mobei Jun: *two Qinghuas? One big? One little? Yi? As in one? Stares at his human searching for answers*

Og SQH: *panicking because the child was not supposed to meet the demon he works for! The little brat will share with his friend no matter what. And while Shen-shixiong will not be told anything, the disfavored disciple will be* This lowly one apologizes! Aiya! Aiya! Xiao Yi get over here right now.

Airplane: *skips over, enjoying this immensely. Has a horrible idea mid-skip. Grinning as he continues over* Okay Mama!!

Og SQH: *keeps his annoyed expression without faltering, but now silently screaming and wondering if he was actually his much of a menace as a child (yes), pulls the child out of the room* Excuse us my lord, I need to talk to my child for a moment.

Airplane: *seeing that this is backfiring quickly, tears up* I'm sorry Mama. Xiao Yi just wanted to see 'your king' as he's Xiao Yi's king too!

Og SQH: *finish dragging the child out of the room, silently wondering if killing his 'younger self' would be worth it* And Mama did not think it was safe for Xiao Yi to do so yet. That is why Mama told you to go play with A-Yuan and Bing-ge on Qing Jing. *Tightens hold on child's wrist slightly* You are very lucky my lord is feeling merciful at the moment Xiao Yi.

Og Mobei Jun: *listening in, wondering when his human had a child and more importantly with who. He could have sworn he ran off all the others eyeing his human. Did Qinghua go behind his back even with this? ... Was his human so desperate for a child that he wouldn't wait for Mobei Jun to propose? He had been waiting for Qinghua to respond to the courting attempts... Had he missed something? Did Qinghua respond and he just went along like nothing happened? If so did his sneaky human take matters into his own hands as usual?* Hm. Mobei Yi then.

(Yes, Mobei Jun has come to the conclusion that Airplane is his and Qinghua's child. That SQH went out of his way to have out of frustration of their courtship going nowhere. He is never corrected on this. Airplane finds it hilarious and Og SQH is blind to this conclusion.)

[really-fanny-longbottom]

only in my dreams [part 3]

azriel x reader, eris x reader | the beginning of the end. warnings: mentions of death, violence, abuse and burns. words: 8.8k

series masterlist | general masterlist

a feeling of numbness began to invade you from the top of your head to your toes.

as you closed your eyes and calmed your breathing, you felt your shattered heart one last time before focusing on your emotions and feelings and bringing them to the surface.

realizing that it was impossible to reach all of them, you focused on those whose presence had become a habit and which had begun to suffocate you day after day. 

jealousy — upon seeing that azriel's courtships were not intended for you.

pain — realizing that the spymaster eye's weren't looking for you the way yours did for him.

insecurity — thinking that you will never be enough for the shadowsinger that occupied your thoughts.

sadness — understanding that you will never find yourself in the arms of the person you most want to hold you.

broken heart — when you realize that the male you love will never love you back.

you let them emerge, and when they did, you let them swim back and forth as you dug your way through them looking for that little switch. 

the switch that was about to solve all your problems. in a few moments, it would mend your heart and bind it with a steel chain around it, to prevent it from breaking again — from feeling again. 

after digging your way for a few more seconds, the switch came into your reach and as you headed towards it, you noticed the darkness that surrounded it.

the darkness that would invade your veins and corrupt your heart — the price to pay.

by reaching for the switch with an invisible hand, you let the happy memories with your friends replay in your mind, granting one last wish to your aching heart. 

it was while reliving those memories that you were hesitant about what you were about to do, seeing the good times you had spent with the friends that had become your family.

nesta, gwyn, emerie, rhys, cass, feyre, mor and amren — all their faces appeared in turns bringing a slight smile and a feeling of comfort. 

but it shattered when the image of azriel and elain holding hands and exchanging smiles invaded your mind without permission. 

you would never be her and he would never look at you that way.

that was your breaking point.

you wouldn't continue to suffer for a male who didn't even dedicate a second of his time to acknowledge you.  

and just like the snap of a finger, the hesitation disappeared, anger replacing it, making the invisible hand reach out and finally complete its task. 

with a simple click. . . 

you turned it off. 

and become darkness. 

••• 

a storm was heading towards prythian. 

black clouds haunted the sky, an immense darkness hid behind them, preparing to release its confined monsters at the right moment.  

the courts were dominated by gray — a consequence of the storm that was about to break. 

the trees had lost their color; the flowers and food planted in the gardens stopped growing; the water in the rivers and seas was still, with no wave being formed; the animals had fled and a crushing cold forced every inhabitant to stay at home.

the sun was nowhere to be found. 

with no explanation from the high lords for what was happening, the inhabitants were left at their mercy to conjure one.

'this is the work of witches,' some said.

'prythian is dying. it's the end of the world,' said others.

but the rumor that most circulated among the courts?

the rumor that many believed but were too afraid to say out loud?

the rumor that due to fear was whispered between ears or past written in letters?

someone had disturbed a powerful being, and this was the result of their wrath.

now, prythian was condemned to face their punishment. 

the entire extension of prythian seemed cursed, but no court was worse than the night court.

mainly velaris.

all eyes that fell on the city would only take a second to identify it as the epicenter of the storm.

after all, that was where the 'curse' itself began. 

••• 

velaris was paused in time.

flying over what was once vibrant and full of life, velaris, azriel, cassian, and rhys continued their search.

they flew through the empty streets, past the closed shops, with no sign that anyone lived there. 

if the males didn't have the age they have, they would never have believed that this had once been the city of starlight. 

it all started four weeks ago. 

four weeks since Madja's drastic revelation about you.

four weeks since the last time any of them had seen you.

you had disappeared without leaving any kind of trace.

while amren, nesta, and feyre read all the books helion had lent them about rare powers, mor on the continent trying to find someone who knew more about empaths, the males were tasked with finding you.  

the brothers had already flown over the entire night court to try to find any trace of you — but without success.

it was as if you had simply evaporated.

they went as far as contacting eris to find out if the heir knew anything about you. 

although they didn't get any information regarding you, the males ended up discovering that eris himself was looking for you.

apparently, your news powers had reached the ears of beron, awakening his interest in you.

unfortunately, this wasn't the first time beron had been interested in you. 

news in prythian never took long to reach all the courts. 

when the first rumor about an empath in prythian emerged, all the high lords were agitated, especially when that same empath was one of the members of rhysand's inner circle.

empaths were very rare, with only two recorded in the last twenty thousand years, so the extent of their powers and capabilities remained a mystery. 

rhysand had to set up a meeting and introduce you to the high lords personally to prove you weren't a threat. 

and you weren't. the high lords saw firsthand what a caring, kind, and gentle person you were.

they saw your abilities as a healer and the purity in your eyes.

you were the epitome of kindness. 

there was no reason to fear you.

until now. 

they could barely believe what you had become. it was as if the girl they had met decades ago had never existed. 

as if it had been nothing more than a dream. 

helion was the first to find out about your situation when rhysand came to him.

rhysand will never forget how helion said you must have suffered too much and too long in silence to be able to become what you became. 

the warning that followed still haunted the male in his sleep 'do not underestimate her, rhysand. it's innocent and pure people like her who can find the deepest darkness within themselves when motivated to do so. she may not have been a threat before, but she certainly is now.' 

the truth that no one wanted to admit was that they were scared of you.

scared of your new powers and what you would be able to do with them. 

and now, beron was looking for you. 

you were never a violent or aggressive person. in fact, in all the years since you joined the inner circle, they had never even seen you raise your voice.

but now with your emotions turned off, and your powers, if beron finds you and you feel threatened. . . 

they weren't sure that beron would come out alive from that confrontation.

they didn't know how far you would go to protect yourself, but there was one thing they knew: they needed to find you quickly.

••• 

on a distant illyrian mountain, in an unpopulated zone, an abandoned cabin had been improvised as a laboratory.

the cabin contained only three rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room/kitchen.  

this last room was the largest of the three, but due to all the tables that filled it, it gave the impression of being the smallest.  

on the tables against the walls were various dried plants and flowers — in other words, dead. 

you were sitting on a wooden stool in front of one of the tables in the center — that one was loaded with green plants and flowers with colors ranging from blue, red, and yellow.  

your eyes studied a sunflower while your hands surrounded it with a darkness they emitted.

you watched as the poison began to spread through it from the root to its petals — how it began to lose its color and wither with each passing second. 

this has been your occupation for the last four weeks.

ever since you discovered your new powers, you have dedicated yourself to learning about them.

all those sleepless nights, the days with little food in your stomach, the headaches, and the hours you spent sitting had been rewarded.

you could poison a entire plant or in a specific place of your choice, it could spread quickly or slowly, it could be deadly immediately or last for hours, you could remove the poison and bring the plant to its original state.

but the most interesting part? you had accidentally discovered during one of your experiments a few days ago that even after its death, you were able to control it. 

that's what you had spent the last few days working on. 

you believed this was the final step to achieving your full power. 

you watched closely as the flower reached its final stage. you could feel its vitality fading away at your fingertips. 

with one last movement of your hand, the flower reached its end.

letting a few seconds pass, you took the opportunity to readjust yourself on the bench and stretch a little. you felt the muscles in your arms and back relax instantly. 

you didn't know how long you had been sitting here working on the flower, but when you looked out the window and saw the light of a new day outside, you realized that a few hours had passed. 

with your eyes finding the flower once more, you ignored the headache that was beginning to form on the right side of it, you had had many lately preceded by a bad night's sleep because of the nightmares that had invaded your mind for almost two weeks. 

you had never had nightmares before, and these were mysterious. you couldn't understand them no matter how hard you tried. 

you let go of that thought, pushing it deep into the back of your mind, and focused your attention on the task at hand and extended your hands towards the flower. 

this was the moment of truth. 

slowly, with each rotation of your wrist, the flower started moving.

a big smile appeared on your face as you watched the flower move with the direction of your hands — following your lead. 

your attention shifted to your hands as you realized what was happening.

your glow was changing color. 

transforming.

what used to be darkness was now a bright red. 

the reach of your full power. 

however, your moment of triumph was interrupted when your ears perked at the new sounds outside of the cabin.   

footsteps.

several of them.

the cabin only had one entrance and one exit, and that was where the intruders were headed.

you knew exactly who they were. you knew they were looking for you. they had come very close to finding you the last time, forcing you to move. 

luckily for them, back then, your priority was learning your new powers, but this time? this time, you were irritated.

your eyes didn’t leave the flower when the cabin door was kicked open and five autumn soldiers burst into your small laboratory.

you had heard that Beron was looking for you, but you thought the male wouldn’t be stupid enough to send his soldiers to the night court — especially illyria. 

apparently, you were mistaken.

the soldiers began shouting orders that you ignored.

did beron really think he could capture you? use your powers as he pleased? 

without warning, the cabin door slammed shut, the hinges creaking.

the males' heads turned toward the sound faster than humanly possible, yet they dared not move when a melody followed — one that sounded like a lullaby.  

with trembling hands and legs, the soldiers tried to maintain their composure as they turned in the opposite direction. 

"tell me," your voice rang out across the room, "which one of you can winnow?" 

there was a deadly tone in your voice, enough to send shivers down the males' spines and cause doubts in their beliefs.

your voice was light, calm, and delicate like a siren's song luring its victims to their death.

in a matter of a second, regret settled in the eyes of the soldiers, too scared to even remember that they had been questioned. 

when none of them responded, you moved just an inch on the stool, allowing the soldiers to see what you were doing.

without making any noise or sudden movements, the males began to walk backwards slowly while they increased the strength with which they gripped their swords, their eyes still fixed on the scene they were witnessing — a dead flower being guided by the action of your hands that subjected it to what could only be described as the dance of death. 

the noise of a soldier swallowing the lump in his throat reached your ears, the same one that made the wise decision in answering you. "all of us."

the small laugh you let out made them shrink.

"well, that's perfect," you finally turned to them, "that way, i don't have to waste time guessing.” 

mouths dropped at the sight of you.

the eyes that held nothing behind them, the long hair down to your waist, the simple long white dress you wore, your bare feet, and the smile that would scare away the bravest warriors. 

behind you, the flower continued to dance without ever stopping. 

one of the soldiers gripped his sword tighter. “wh. . .what-what's that supposed to mean?” his voice failed to hide the fear that was rising from him. 

you stood up.

the soldiers backed away even more, their backs hitting the wall behind them.

"by the Cauldron. . ." one of them muttered. 

five too-fast heartbeats filled the silence of the room. 

you smiled.

“i need you to deliver a message to beron for me.”

the soldier, who was on the far left side, began to search for the doorknob at an unnatural speed.

the smell of fear was palpable in the air. 

"lucky for me that you all can winnow, but unlucky for you," you took another step, watching their faces change as they realized what was about to happen. "i only need one of you to deliver the message." 

the last thing the soldiers saw was your eyes turning red before everything exploded. 

••• 

azriel didn't know how many hours he had been flying or how many laps he had already made over velaris.

lost in his thoughts, the male made the mistake of looking down. 

he flew over a small, familiar house at the top of a street.

inside the small house, there was an old healer with her face stained with tears and pain in her chest caused by a worrying heart. 

the old healer was in the same position as the previous days. sitting at the window in her living room, waiting for her beloved niece to return. 

but with each passing day, Velaris grew grayer, taking a bit of the old female's hope with it. 

guilt struck his heart. 

the last time he had seen madja was five days ago. 

nuala and cerridwen had prepared several casseroles to help the old female through what was the worst time of her life.

feyre offered to take them, and azriel and cassian volunteered to help. 

the spymaster expected Madja to kick him out or release her anger on him, but she never did.  

the healer welcomed him with open arms and prepared him some tea as thanks for his help.

the suffering in her was visible; red eyes, low voice, bent posture, slumped shoulders, and several handkerchiefs soaked in tears on the living room table. 

how could things have gotten to this point?

the promise azriel made to himself flashed through his mind — he would bring you back into Madja's arms.

the movement of cassian's wings broke his trance, and azriel's eyes left the small house and resumed his flight.

four weeks without any information.

the males even thought that you might have left the night court and gone to a different one. 

but no wards had been passed, and they would know if anyone had passed them. 

so wherever you were, you were still within the borders of their court.

but where? 

the brothers flew to meet each other, and when rhys was preparing to speak, something happened. 

a surge of power ripped through the night court with a red flash accompanying it. 

the mountain and the ground shook, the water rattled, and somewhere, screams were torn from the throats of the citizens in their homes.

the males were sent straight to the ground, their wings and illyrian strength not enough to keep them in the sky. 

azriel, cassian, and rhysand had to protect their eyes from the intensity of the flash while trying to remain stable on a shaking ground and ignoring the overwhelming feeling they felt as the wave of power passed by the entire court.

so many thoughts ran through their minds.

what was happening? was Prythian being attacked? were the girls okay? 

after a few more seconds, the flash began to diminish until it disappeared completely, leaving only the remains of something red all over the sky.

the mountains and the ground regained their stability and the rivers their calm. 

as they raised their heads, the brothers saw what appeared to be red powder falling from the sky and towards the ground.

cassian was the first to pick up a small amount and rub it between his thumb and index finger, trying to decipher what it could be. 

with no answers, cassian turned his attention to the males sitting next to him, checking for injuries, and noticed that they were both doing the same to him.

after checking that both they and the city were okay, the three of them took to the skies, and their eyes immediately found the source of the wave of power — illyria. 

the illyrians would never attack them. they could be brutish and arrogant, but they were not stupid, leaving only one possible explanation. 

"y/n." azriel whispered.

"it's her," rhys confirmed as he stretched out his hand, where remnants of the red flash landed on it. 

shock did not fail to appear on the males' faces. none of them mentioned what they had just witnessed, but all three knew.

your power had grown.

you were stronger, more powerful. 

cassian broke the silence, if his brothers weren't going to talk, then he would "she knows," a silent agreement hovered between them, it was only a matter of time before you found out about your new powers. 

"what do you think she's doing with it?" a bad feeling invaded them at the general's words.

something big was about to happen.

they all knew it — they could feel it.

"we should go back." rhysand ignored his brother's words — he wasn't prepared for this conversation.

"what?" azriel protested, his wings beating faster with the anticipation of going to look for you. "we finally know where she is, and you want to give up?" 

"no one's giving up, az," cassian placed his hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him down, "but look around you. you just felt her power, and we've been flying for hours. we can't go to her like this." 

azriel removed his brother's hand from his shoulder, a bit harsher than he intended, but he couldn't stop the anger that filled every word of the scream he released next. "what, you think she's going to attack us?" 

cassian's wings lowered a little, and he didn't hide the look of defeat he felt nor the hurt it caused in his chest when he said what had to be said "i don't know."

shock ran through the shadowsinger's body, making him move away as if those words had burned him. 

cassian let out a small sigh before continuing, "that's not our y/n, az. we don't know what she's capable of, and we have to assume the worst-case scenario." 

when Azriel tried to protest again, rhys stopped him. "cass is right. we'll be back in a few hours when we're recharged."  

azriel knew they were right, but the guilt that invaded him didn't let him rest so easily.

"besides, we need to know if the girls are alright."

azriel nodded. if helion's words were truly true, if you now posed a threat, then they couldn't risk surprising you without being prepared. 

that single thought hurt him more than a sword strike, but that was the new reality they faced. 

the males resume their flights but with their destination being the house of wind.

there was nothing they could do for now. all that was left for them was to wait.

azriel looked back.

to the mountains where you were.

the mountains that hid you from him.

or the mountains that protected him from you?

••• 

eris vanserra was having a long day, and there was no sign lurking that it was about to end. 

as he walked through the halls of the forest house, eris let his mind wander to the meeting he had just left.

beron had just made his alliance with koschei and the mortal queen official, but that wasn't what bothered the young heir.

his father had also told his council that his search for you was not over.

not even when the only soldier who had returned described word for word what had happened in illyria. 

the soldier's testimony did not have the same effect on the high lord as it had on his council. 

while the old males had shrunk in their seats at the description of your powers, beron had moved closer as if to hear better. 

a hand slammed down on the meeting table hard enough to stir the liquids in the crystal glasses that sat in front of each member.

"speak, boy!" beron demanded.

"she. . .she's different, high lord. i've never seen anything like this before, not even with hybern."

"be specific! do i look like someone who has the patience for riddles?"

"death," the soldier said quietly, as if afraid that the walls might have ears.

beron stood up from his seat at the revelation, curiosity gnawing at his body.

eris leaned back from his chair and gripped the arms of the chair in an attempt to soften the shock that this news had caused him, while beron's council struggled to regain color in their faces.

"she looked like death." the soldier finished before being dismissed.

when the door to the meeting room closed, the council erupted in screams. 

the males of the council tried to dissuade beron from his search for you but without success, as was to be expected. 

his greed grew, as did his hunger for power. now knowing what you were capable of, his desire to find you was now even greater, with the several soldiers who had left the autumn court with orders to find you as soon as the meeting ended as proof. 

that was what bothered him. not the change in your powers, not what happened with the soldiers — his soldiers — but your well-being.

but why?

he was beginning to think he had lost his mind.

eris had even made the mistake of staying after the meeting ended to try to persuade his father to continue searching for you.

that had earned him the burn on his shoulder that he now bore. 

what was going on with him? 

why hadn't you left his mind in these last few weeks?

his brain was telling him to ignore the situation and focus on the potential war with the death god that was becoming more real with each passing day. 

but his heart. . .his heart was telling him to write a letter to rhysand asking about you, to know if they had found you yet or if they had any clues about you.

anything to comfort him.

little did he know that this would not be necessary because when he opened the double brown doors that led to his room, his eyes met those that appeared in his dreams. 

there you were — sitting on his bed with one leg over the other in what looked like a tight black dress.

a smile formed on your lips as you stared at the male in front of you. "did you miss me?" 

••• 

"that was y/n?" nesta's voice was so low that if cassian hadn't been right in front of her, he probably wouldn't have heard her.

"yes," cassian confessed to her as he witnessed the pain appearing in his mate's eyes.

cassian didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around her.

this situation was difficult for everyone, but the general knew it was especially so for the female he was trying to comfort.

your relationship with nesta was different from everyone else's. it had started out as rocky as a bad day, but just as bad days never last forever, neither did your beginning. 

before you knew it, you and Nesta were laughing together, exchanging books, walking arm in arm, and going almost everywhere together.

you had become sisters.

and the thought of losing you caused her more pain than she could have ever imagined.

as Nesta pulled away from her mate’s arms, she faced her brother-in-law.

“what’s the plan?” you had fought for nesta, never backing down, never giving up, and now she was going to do the same for you.

rhys’s eyes softened, and he squeezed Feyre’s hand tighter before answering, “cass, azriel, and i are going to illyria to see if we can find out where she’s hiding.”

nesta nodded, but before she could speak, a voice interrupted her.

“how will you know where to go?” elain asked.

“we’ll follow the trail of the power surge, that should be enough to tell us where it started.”

elain nodded in understanding before her eyes flicked to azriel. 

the male was quick to look away, focusing on his brother. 

"she might not be there anymore." cassian pondered. 

"still, it's worth a try." feyre spoke a few seconds later. 

rhys gave her a weak smile that didn't reach his eyes — feyre mirrored it. 

an awkward silence fell over the family. 

these past few weeks had been the strangest they had ever experienced. sometimes, it felt like it wasn't even real, but rather a never-ending nightmare — sometimes they had to pinch themselves to make sure they were awake, and this was actually happening. 

"i'll go with you." nesta broke the silence. 

cassian knew there was no point in arguing, so he just nodded, wrapping his arms around her. 

azriel nodded as well before turning to feyre and asking the question everyone was eager to know the answers to.

"news from mor?"

feyre let out a long sigh before shaking her head.

"we received a letter earlier. she arrived in rask three days ago but hasn't found anything yet. she said there's an old male who's experienced in rare powers, but it might not mean anything," feyre let out another sigh, "she said she'll let us know when she finds something." 

every day, they waited anxiously for a letter from mor. with hope fading by the day, they believed more and more that the answer lay on the continent.

azriel was interrupted from his thoughts by a gentle touch on his shoulder, and he turned to find the middle Aacheron sister standing in front of him.

"can we talk?" She asked softly.

looking back and seeing the rest of his family chatting, azriel nodded and followed elain into the hallway.

when the female in the pink dress tried to touch his hand, he pulled away faster than her brain could process.

azriel remained silent, letting elain guide a conversation he had no desire to have.

"what happened that night?"

his response ended up being a frown rather than words, so elain continued.

"the night of our date. you never showed up at the restaurant," when azriel stayed silent, she continued, "i know you went looking for her, azriel. i heard madja say you went to the clinic looking for y/n. why?" 

azriel had the answer, but it wasn’t with elain that he wanted to share it. 

and as if his brother had heard his thoughts, rhys appeared in the hallway, telling azriel it was time to go. 

azriel didn’t look back before following his brother and taking off. 

••• 

eris checked that no one was around his room before closing the doors.

the male leaned against the door for a few moments as if to make sure you were real.

"you're here."

your smile widened, "i am." 

eris matched your smile and moved to sit on the wooden chair in front of the bed before undoing a few buttons on his shirt and moving to unbutton his boots.

"did beron get my message?" 

"he did." 

you watched him for a moment before speaking again. "so, you know about my powers." 

"i don't care about your powers." he was quick to respond. 

"what about your soldiers?" 

"they shouldn't have threatened you." 

"but he keeps looking for me." 

eris continued to untie his boots as he confirmed your statement. 

"i told him to stop but he wouldn't listen." 

"hm," you slowly stood up before stopping in front of him, "is that how you got that burn?" 

eris's hands stopped immediately, and without moving much, he directed his gaze to the white shirt that had fallen down when he bent over, now revealing yet another of beron's marks. 

eris sighed and stood up, leaning his back against the wood of the chair. 

his golden eyes met yours and he didn't look away, not even when he considered what lie to tell. 

"i saw your mother when I was coming here." 

you moved closer. 

"she was applying what i think was a cream to her bruises." 

eris closed his eyes. he had heard about the argument his parents had had a few days ago when he was away at meetings. 

his mother hadn't told him anything but he had assumed how it had ended. 

the heir felt a weight on his legs and arms wrapping around his neck. when he dared to open his eyes, he found yours a few inches away. 

"do you want me to kill him?" 

the question took him by surprise. no one had ever dared to say such words. 

"would you do it if i said yes?" 

it was no secret that eris dreamed of the day he would put an end to beron's reign.

one of his greatest goals was to free autumn and his family from the clutches of that male. 

"for you, yes." 

eris laughed and tilted his head back only to be grabbed by the chin by a hand smaller than his and meet your eyes again. 

"i'm serious. say the word and it will be done."

the owner of the golden eyes was lost for words. no one had ever cared about him like this.

not knowing what to say, eris brought your lips together.

you kissed him back almost immediately, adjusting yourself on his lap.

eris broke the kiss just long enough to say, "i was worried about you." 

you laughed into the kiss, responding with a quick, "i can take care of myself, prince."

eris laughed back, "i know, but i missed you." 

his response did something to your heart — something you couldn't quite put your finger on. 

it would be a lie if you said you came here just to warn him about his father. 

for some reason, this male made you feel things that shouldn't have been possible. 

your brain was telling you to pull away, to leave, but that thought was forgotten when your heart answered for you. 

"then show me how much you missed me." 

eris was more than happy to do so.

••• 

darkness.

silence.

were the first two things you came across.

total darkness surrounded you.

you couldn't make out what was around you. no matter how hard you tried to squint your eyes, they couldn't make out any kind of shape, not even a shadow.

no noise could be heard — wherever you were, silence dominated that place.

what was going on?

how did you end up here? what were you doing here?

"hello?" 

you didn't get any response back, which led you to assume that you were alone. Whether that was a good thing or not, you didn't know, but something told you that you were about to find out. 

as you took a step forward, you stretched out your arms in the hope of finding a surface that you could use to guide yourself.

it took several steps until you found what seemed to be a wall. as you let your hands run along it, you realized that its surface was rocky and damp and that your footsteps echoed.

always with one hand on the wall, you let yourself be guided to whatever was waiting for you on the other side. 

seconds.

minutes.

hours.

you didn't know how long you had been walking, your hand already cold from being pressed against the wall for so long.

just when you were beginning to think that the darkness was endless and that you were lost or trapped, that there was no way out, something answered your worries.

a weak beam of light entered your field of vision, indicating the path to salvation. 

in what seemed like a matter of survival, you ran towards the light that gradually grew brighter as you approached.

the moment the light became a little stronger, you realized that you were inside a cave when you saw the entrance.

when you finally left the cave, you saw that the light that was offered to you came from the moon, hence its dim brightness. 

without any intention of returning to the infinite darkness, you walked towards the trees that led you to a lake.

the lake was large, surrounded by pine trees, and with only the moonlight illuminating it and reflecting on its water.

the view was enchanting. It reminded you of one of those places where people would go when they needed to be alone or to think.

a place that would become someone's favorite place — where they would feel nothing but tranquility and security.

where they could escape reality and take a break from their problems for a few hours.

unfortunately, not everything is as it seems.

just as a wolf can seem affectionate and friendly at first, causing its prey to let its guard down moments before attacking, this lake also seemed like a place of peace and not one of danger. 

your feet took you to the edge of the lake, where you crouched down and stretched out your hand to be enveloped by the water.

the water was pleasant and reminded you of summer days. you were swinging your hand from side to side when something caught your attention.

there, reflected in the lake, right behind you and a lot taller, emerged a dark figure. 

a figure that was impossible to make out, could it be anything — a person, an animal, a shadow?

acting on instinct, you turned as quickly as possible, and the only thing you could find was darkness accompanied by a deep voice.

"come find me." 

••• 

your eyes flew open.

your breathing was fast, as was your heartbeat — as if they were in a race that they both wanted to win. 

a line of sweat ran down your chest while another on your forehead followed suit.

you sat up slightly in bed as your eyes quickly adjusted to the dark room.

you saw the desk in the middle of the room where the pile of letters still stood, the tall windows that were covered by brown curtains, the fireplace where there were still traces of the wood that had burned a few hours ago and finally — the warmth that rested against your back.

you were still in Autumn.

in eris's room.

the male's arm was around your waist, his chest against your back, and his previously closed eyes were now open.

those golden eyes that did something unknown to your heart.

eris sat up, remaining behind you, bringing his free hand to brush your hair away from your bare shoulder where he placed a light kiss.

you could have sworn your heart skipped a beat at the brush of his lips against your skin, but you attributed those thoughts to your sleepy state. 

with his arm still around your waist, he pulled you towards him until your back was resting against his bare chest and your head on his shoulder.

"is everything okay?" eris asked, barely above a whisper.

what was he doing to you?

how was it that after everything you had done to protect your heart, this male could undo it with just a touch? 

"little fox?" 

you closed your eyes at the nickname. your cheeks felt hot — from the nickname or from the male holding you?

you felt a warm hand take its place over your heart, a gesture so simple yet meaning so much.

your heart began to stabilize, your body to relax, and your breathing to return to its normal state as eris began to make small circles with his hand.

"i'm okay, eris." you couldn't help the small smile that pulled the corners of your mouth upward until your dimples appeared. 

this was becoming too real — too deep.

you had to get away. from this male, from this place — from everything that reminded you of a certain heir with red hair and golden eyes that reminded you of the sun

"are you sure, little fox?"

whatever this was between you and this male couldn't continue.

how could he be having this effect on you?

"mm-hm." your response was followed by a light kiss on your temple before another was placed on your cheek.

what was this feeling in your stomach? why was your heart reacting like this?

you had to put an end to this. you were going to tell the male that whatever this was was nothing more than a bit of fun.

you were going to pull yourself out of his arms, forget about his lips, put on your clothes, and leave.

you made your decision.

you didn't pull away when eris pulled the two of you to lie down.

you didn’t protest when he laid your head on his chest and wrapped an arm around you.

you didn’t stop him when he covered you with the blanket.

your mind felt heavy — what had you been thinking about earlier?

you snuggled closer to him, placing one of your arms over his stomach and tangling your legs with his.

you kissed his chest, and he ran his hand briefly through your hair.

a vague sense of thought passed through your mind — you had made a decision, hadn’t you?

you couldn’t remember. 

••• 

the next morning, eris woke up alone in his bedroom, now lit by the light of a new day.

he did not find your figure on the left side of the bed. instead, he was surprised by a piece of parchment.

"i had to go, i have some business to attend to. don't worry, prince, you will see me again."

eris fell onto the bed with one hand hiding his face but not enough to hide his smile.

a warm and welcoming feeling filled his heart.

for the first time in all his centuries of life, eris vanserra was happy. 

so happy that he didn't notice that his burn had been cured.

•••  

the inner circle was gathered in the living room with amren back from her home. 

rhys had shared the vision with everyone that the four of them had encountered in the cabin — or what was left of it. 

rhys, cassian, azriel, and nesta were still lost for words. their minds couldn’t form thoughts — too busy trying to process everything they had seen in the cabin. 

the plants and flowers, the evidence of your power in the destroyed walls and soil, the soldiers, and. . .the dead flower that still danced. 

every time they closed their eyes, that was the sight they were greeted with. 

feyre sat on the arm of the chair with a hand pressed against her chest. “y/n. . .the soldiers. are you sure it was her?” 

when everyone remained silent, azriel took over. “it was her. the soldiers had traces of her power, we don’t know where she went, but we believe she couldn’t have gone far.” 

"i couldn't find anything in helion's books," amren said, "what do we do now?" 

several sighs were let out, and then "i think we should-" azriel couldn't finish his thought due to the change in the air. 

as his family immediately took up defensive positions, he realized he wasn't the only one who felt it. 

everyone's eyes found the source of the change — the door to the living room. 

it was early morning, the light illuminating the room completely, but somehow, darkness could be seen beyond the door. 

everyone's hands began to find their weapons. 

it was impossible to break into the river house — rhys had placed the wards himself. 

the darkness moved. 

azriel didn’t wait for the threat to strike first. 

his centuries of training, experience, and combat kicked in. 

in an instant, faster than the blink of an eye, truth-teller was flying through the air, about to strike his target. 

until a hand stopped it. 

the darkness began to dissolve, revealing you behind it. as you walked into the room, the knife was still immobilized in your hand. 

as surprise and shock grew on the faces of what you once recognized as your family, a smile grew on yours. 

your eyes flickered through violet, blue, brown, and silver ones until they stopped on a pair of hazels. 

the shadowsinger’s knees nearly gave out before you spoke. 

“now, that’s no way to welcome a lady.” 

••• 

you walked around the room as you took in the decor.

the inner circle had moved to sit on the couch as they watched you.

"i like what you did with the new place, very fancy." you said as you ran a finger along the dining table.

as you walked to the couch, a smile still on your lips, you stopped to pour yourself a glass of whiskey before sitting down next to nesta.

"hello, friend." you said as you took a sip of the drink that burned your throat.

"y/n."

when nesta showed an intention to speak again, you quickly turned your gaze to the males who were sitting on the couch opposite yours.

"i heard you were looking for me. how cute." you said with what could be detected as false emotion.

"where have you been?" rhys asked you.

"oh, you know. here and there," your hand slid down your leg, stopping at your knee, "by the way, beron made his alliance with koschei and that human queen official yesterday." 

amren gave you a scornful look, "and how do you know that?" 

a cheeky smile filled your face. you rested your arms on the back of the couch and crossed your legs as you replied, "i was with eris yesterday." 

seeing her roll her eyes, your smile widened before you met the eyes of the female who had become like a sister to you.

nesta watched as you stared at her with blank eyes and no emotion on your face — pain struck her heart as she didn't recognize the person in front of her. 

"we saw the cabin." 

azriel's voice broke your eye contact with the female and made you focus on him. 

"oh, yeah? and what did you think?" 

amren answered, "monstrous." 

your gaze met hers. “i was just protecting myself.”

“were you?” she asked, “or were you trying to show off?” 

your eyes turned red, and the room began to shake as you let your power surge to the surface.

cassian, rhysand, and azriel widened their eyes as the archeron sisters tried to hide the fear that filled them. 

you stood up from the couch and walked towards the female without ever breaking eye contact or missing a step.

"be careful, amren," as you approached her, she began to retreat her steps. "if i were you, i would choose your next words wisely."

the ancient one's back touched the wall, and you noticed her breathing become faster. "you don't want to anger me." 

as you glanced one last time at amren, you gave her a smile before heading for the door. 

azriel was quick to stand up. “where are you going?” 

your feet stopped, and you glanced over your shoulder. “leaving, obviously.” 

just as you were about to resume walking, you were interrupted again. 

“no,” rhys answered this time. 

this made you slowly turn in your place — it took all of rhys’s strength not to flinch at the look in your eyes. 

cassian, who was next to him, murmured, “careful, rhys. don’t get on her nerves.” 

rhys glanced at him sideways before swallowing the lump in his throat and letting out his high lord voice. 

although he didn’t show it, he was shaking inside, but he hoped this would work on you. 

"you're not going anywhere. now that you're here, i want you under my supervision at all times. i forbid you to leave velaris." 

everyone held their breath as they waited for your reaction. 

they were all surprised when your answer was "fine, do i have a room here or will i have to sleep on the couch?" 

one by one, they sighed in relief before rhys spoke again "of course you have a room here." 

"i'll take you." azriel walked forward before anyone could protest. 

after climbing the stairs, turning left, then right and another right, they reached the door to your room. 

without hesitation, you opened the door and when you were about to close it, a hand stopped you. 

"azriel, no. i have a headache and i just want to sleep." 

azriel was surprised by your answer but now that you were in front of him, he didn't want to wait any longer. 

"there's something i want to tell you. about that night." 

"honestly, i don't care." 

"i didn't go to meet elain. i went looking for you," seeing the confusion on your face, he continued, "i went to the clinic that morning but i didn't find you-"

"i wasn't there."

"i know and-"

"azriel." cassian's voice trailed off, drawing your gazes to him.

"come," when azriel tried to protest, cassian was firmer, "now."

"thank the cauldron." and with that, you slammed the door in his face. 

••• 

after dinner, the members of the inner circle entered the living room where amren was on the couch with an old book on her lap.

no one had commented on what had happened.

not out of fear of amren but out of fear of what it would mean to admit it out loud.

feeling your power, the closeness they felt — they weren't ready for this conversation even though they knew they would have to have it sooner or later.

"what are you looking for?" feyre asked the elder.

when the silver-eyed female didn't answer, the high lady approached and read the contents of the book.

her eyes widened "you're reading about koschei?"

the others approached.

"yes, what y/n said earlier made me think."

azriel sat down next to her "about an alliance with beron and the queen?"

"yes," amren kept her eyes on the book.

cassian took the seat across from her and rested his arms on his thighs. “why?”

amren sighed and closed the book, setting it down on the small coffee table.

"think about it. koschei has been on the lake for thousands of years, right?" when everyone had settled down, she continued, "so, why act now? with all the centuries he had to free himself from the lake, why now?"

not liking where the conversation seemed to be going, rhys approached the table and picked up the book, turning it over in his hand. “what’s your theory?”

“i think he was waiting.”

“waiting for what?” nesta asked.

amren stood and went to pour a glass of wine. “not for what. for who.” 

"amren." the high lady said.

everyone realized that this was not going to be a simple conversation. 

"he's a sorcerer and his powers weren't neutralized, we realized that when he cursed vassa. so, what other spells can he do?"

the general ran a hand through his hair before sighing "what are you trying to say?"

amren looked at the high lord who was already looking at her, with a nod, she indicated to open to page one hundred and forty seven.

rhysand followed her indication but it was the only thing he could do because the content was in an ancient language — long lost.

"what does it say?"

amren cleared her throat to answer and for the second time that day, the inner circle saw her get nervous.

"it's a spell to see the future."

"what?" everyone asked in unison.

elain spoke for the first time since all this began "i thought only seers could see the future."

amren shook her head. rhysand looked at the her and like a snap of fingers, the situation became clear in his mind.

"you think he used this spell to see when would be the best time to act."

amren nodded. she grabbed the book and flipped through the pages until she found the one she wanted.

"koschei needs help to break the spell that is binding him to the lake. he needs someone powerful. very powerful."

her gaze met azriel's. "i think koschei used the spell and saw when that someone would appear and has been waiting ever since. he needs someone with a power that he can relate to. i think-"

"y/n," nesta murmured.

all eyes moved to her but nesta only looked at amren.

the ancient one didn't need to say anything to confirm Nesta's thought.

"koschei is a death god," her eyes remained focused on the silver ones. "y/n is a necromancer. her power involves death and we have all just witnessed how powerful she is." 

"no. . ." azriel blurted out as feyre covered her mouth with her hands. 

"amren?" Feyre asked. 

the female simply nodded her head. 

"if koschei saw the future, he saw what was going to happen to y/n," rhysand began, "he waited until her powers changed to act." 

silence fell over the room. 

this was bigger than they had thought. they had all thought their only concern would be beron, but little did they know how wrong they were. 

a second passed. 

two seconds.

three seconds. 

"koschei was waiting for y/n." 

azriel was the first to move, followed by the others.

"y/n!"

they all ran towards your room. 

their hearts were pounding as they got closer. 

"y/n!" 

just a few steps away. . .

"y/n!" 

the door to your room was knocked down and the space was invaded by seven people. 

your room was dark. 

your bed was empty. 

and you were nowhere to be found. 

It was too late. 

••• 

you were at the lake again. 

the lake surrounded by pine trees and illuminated by the moonlight. 

the lake that promised tranquility and safety. 

'another nightmare' you thought to yourself. 

the figure appeared again reflected in the lake but this time in front of you. 

you followed its reflection until you found it hovering over the lake. 

anyone else would have backed away, screamed or even run away. 

but you were not just anyone and whatever this was, it didn't scare you. 

you walked closer until your feet were greeted by the water. 

"who are you?" 

the figure approached and beneath the cover of darkness you could make out the shape of a man.

"my name is koschei. we finally meet, y/n." 

your face remained neutral, without a trace of shock or surprise. 

"how do you know my name?" 

a deep chuckle rang across the lake, making its water vibrate.

"i've been waiting for you."

it was only when the man shrouded in darkness placed a hand on your shoulder that you realized this wasn't a nightmare. 

••• 

pryhtian shook as a great flash invaded the sky, dyeing it red.

the houses shook.

people screamed.

animals fled.

the cold increased.

but it was only when they looked back at the sky that they realized what had happened.

the clouds changed color.

the darkness that had been hiding behind them advanced.

the storm was here. 

a/n: thank you for reading!

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*if you asked to be tagged and you weren't, it's because i couldn't find your blog.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[phyrestartr]

Divine Favour | Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader (Pt.2) NSFW

W/C: 3.2k #NSFW, THEY FUCKIN', bottom!reader, top!sukuna, mild yuuji/reader, yuuji and gang are v early 20s, heian sukuna, male reader, typical kitsune shapeshifting, canon typical violence, morally grey reader, sukuna ignores feelings through the force of sheer willpower, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, dubcon elements, blood as lube (SORRY), Sukuna unhinged horknee, ABO elements

A/N: I wanted to make this include more parts, but I am so flabbergasted and in awe of the response to this fic that I feel the need to feed y'all feral creatures LMAO. JKJK but 👀 Thank you for all the feedback and support! It really gives me the motivation to continue writing and to interact with the JJK community. I'm having a lot of fun!

tags: @kamote-kuneho @kamote-kuneho @nyanwko @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @3zae-zae3 @chibiduck @kiiyoooo @lukaijah

“What the fuck is this?” Sukuna drawled, an intense fury simmering through his being. His gaze couldn't tear free from you, not even to size up the blindfolded weirdo watching him intently. 

He shattered the coffin, freeing you from the makeshift cursed bath some freak had forced you into. He smoothed damp hair from your sickly face and searched for sparks of life somewhere in the cold stillness that'd overtaken you. And there was something. He found it, a little glimmer of vitality in the smallest, shakiest inhale. 

“Good,” he praised, brushing your hair back more and more to get a better look at your face. You looked like the frail little thing he saved all those decades ago.

“You know,” Gojo interrupted, but Sukuna paid him no mind, “If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually cared about that kitsune.” 

“Then you don't know what this is,” Sukuna decided blandly. “Figures.” Kenjaku kept him off the record, huh? Guess that's a bonus.

“Oh? Do you wanna enlighten me before Yuuji comes back?” Gojo smiled, as if he really expected Sukuna to play nice and be honest with him. “Come on, come on, it's your chance to be vulnerable~” 

“Tch. Pretty damn sure the fox'll be the one to tell you.” His hand smoothed over your stomach and rubbed slow, gentle circles against your skin as reverse technique sought to bring you all back to him. “He yaps about as much as your insufferable ass does. Granted, he talks a lot nicer.” 

“Wow, rude.” Gojo sighed and clapped twice as if clapping on a light. “Okay! I've had enough bullying. Yuuji–” 

“Brat, don't you fucking dare–” 

Yuuji inhaled sharply. He blinked owlishly at your calmed expression, your eyes now closed and breathing now steadied thanks to Sukuna's aid. 

Aid. That wasn't something the king did. 

“Sensei,” Yuuji managed, voice quivering under the weight of memories’ emotion. “Can you fix this?”

Somehow, you were stuck in the throes of flirtation with the malevolent king of curses. 

“It may be courtship,” Uraume guessed, soft smile brightening their cold exterior. 

(They'd been smiling more recently, actually, ever since you completed that overcoat and presented it to them. Nary a day went by when they did not don the sentimental garb.)

But you weren't so sure; the event of courtship was serious business across all lucid creatures. Animals and creatures of primal existence sought out partners with favorable genes and strong constitution, whereas humans and the like yearned for merit or love in their coupling. You didn't quite grasp the way humans thought. Not yet. 

Well, save for flirting. You decided it was a sort of pre-courtship where nothing became serious and nothing was on the line, but frivolous touches and haughty words of praise ran rampant when those concerned crossed paths. 

Much like today.

(Much like the days before and after.)

You walked along the stone-paved path most mornings, lost in thoughts and mumbling to yourself bits and pieces of poems. Most were unfinished, but in their own time, verses would find one another and complete the incomplete. 

A groggy yawn hummed from the palace entrance. And moments later, Ryoumen Sukuna fell into step with you, grumbling and mumbling complaints about the nippy Spring morning while he tucked his arms away into his sleeves. 

He followed you, idly looking around the expansive space you'd helped curate and maintain when you weren't busying yourself with the girls or decorating clothing. The gardens weren't a mess before, not at all, but now they had a certain taste–trees and flowers were planted with specificity, stones were moved, paths reworked. You took the outside over completely. The king didn't mind. 

“Sukuna-sama,” you said, voice melting in kind with the morning frost. “I'll need to leave for a short while.” 

Sukuna quirked a brow and looked at you. You gazed upon the large, thick koi flashing their beautiful scales and ornate patterns of orange and white as they swam and followed you. Tch. How come even the fish were drawn to you? 

“And how do you think you'll accomplish that?” Sukuna tossed a rock into the koi pond, making the fish scatter. “Getting away from me isn't something you can do.”

You huffed and looked at him. “I understand. I simply seek your permission.” 

“Denied.”

“Ah.” You deadpanned. “Why?”

“You're mine; I decide where you go, how you breathe, if you eat. Or are you forgetting that?” 

You sighed and let your ears droop sadly with your tails. “Surely you jest.” 

“Are you laughing?”

You whined like a sad, sad street pup before cozying up to him, slipping your hands up his stomach and chest like you were supposed to. “Please?” 

“No.” 

You chittered and pressed your face against him, but didn't protest and complain much more. 

Sukuna’s thoughts whirled. The show was amusing, sure, but you didn't do anything without reason, especially when it had to do with breaking character and acting out like this out of–

Oh? 

Sukuna leaned down and sniffed you, searching for the intriguing coil of flowery citrus he nearly missed on the warming breeze. It was so, so faint, but decadent and alluring in a way that made the master of toxins cautious–most poisons tasted sweet, after all. 

You pulled your head back, shrinking down the slightest bit with your ears flattened against your skull. Your eyes, wide as a full moon, stared up at him, expectant. The touch of your hands on him never left, though.

“Brassavola nadosa.” Sukuna tilted his head. “You smell like it.” 

You blinked curiously, relaxing. “Is that so?” 

We don't have that orchid in the garden. Sukuna hummed and lifted a lock of your hair, catching another weak waft of the flower's faint scent. 

It's coming from him, then. Hm. 

“Tell me again why you want to leave the palace?” Sukuna asked on a hunch.

And that hunch doubled down when you fidgeted with the cloth of his haori and looked aside. 

“I wish to bear children," you admitted, shy and quiet. "To try, at the very least. Perhaps find a mate, too.” 

Children. You wanted children. After everything those sorcerers put you through for who knows how many years, you still wanted to mother a runt of your own. And you were willing to run off into the wild to, what, let some random man knock you up? Fill you with seed of unknown origin, unknown value, unknown potential?

Sukuna's ego flared. He leaned down to you, tilting your chin up to make you look him in the eyes regardless how small you felt in that moment. He deserved to witness you. You deserved to witness him. 

“You're not leaving,” he breathed, and he swore he could hear your heart break. “If you want a brat, you'll get a brat–only if you stay here 'n give up on those shitty thoughts of finding a sire out there.”

Your eyes scanned his face, tracing over serious lines and honest creases. Clearly, you searched for an answer–

“How?” 

–one that Sukuna didn’t have. Or maybe he did. Perhaps he just couldn't find the words for it. 

He scoffed and ruffled up your hair, unable to answer you. “You're not leaving. Not unless I say so.” 

The first time he let you go, he left scars. 

He found you in your chambers come early evening. Your tails swished and flicked as you sat amidst a nest of his robes and the missing linens from his chambers while you futzed over the embroidery of another haori, this time adorning the plain thing with the darkest scarlet one could find. Sukuna could already guess why. 

Your being burns as wildfires do. Lively. Emphatically. Devouring more and more so long as the earth lets you. Yet where you do not lay ruin, you grant warmth and light in a divine way. Wildfires are not such horrible things if one stays a respectable ways away. 

Your poetic nonsense irritated him to no end, but he fell enamored all the same; you spoke to honor him with every utterance of his name. You didn't try to kiss his feet nor did you bask him in compliments–you only spoke into existence that which hummed through your mind, unprovoked. It just so happened to be everything Sukuna liked to hear. 

So when he found you secluded away, beckoning so sweetly with intoxicating scents of citrus and gardenia, what choice did he have but to lay claim, to give you the brat you so sorely yearned for?  

You sensed him. Your gaze flicked to him, stoic and unmoved as ever, as the energy in the room built into suffocating silence, something like tectonic plates caught in deadlock, holding their disastrous energy, waiting for the right moment to devastate the world with a single, cataclysmic shift.

And of course, it was the impatient predator that moved first, setting a catastrophe into motion. 

The hours blurred together. 

Every minute of the chase was thrilling, invigorating, surprising–you were filled with tricks and traps, never slowing down for a second to think or doubt as the beast of a sorcerer pursued you through his palace, through the city below, and now into the looming forest in the mountains. 

Admittedly, he'd gotten carried away. He lost himself in the rush of it all, the adrenaline and pure, destructive desire pushed his self-control into unraveling just the slightest bit; honest attacks tore through space and time, hoping to maim and cripple you if they were to hit. And, honestly, the way you avoided his attempts to strike you down enthralled him as much as it enraged him–he was seconds away from unleashing his domain until a less-than-satisfying ripple of cursed energy tore across your thigh and put you down.

It was then, walking up to you, to his prey, that Sukuna remembered you weren't a sorcerer. Most would be able to stand and walk it off, maybe even heal with reverse technique, but you could only grasp at your weeping wound and grimace. Because you were not a sorcerer, you were a kitsune: a trickster, a creature full of mischief and void of cursed energy. 

Yokai. Not a human. Not a curse. Not like the rest of the boring souls wandering his earth. 

Sukuna pinned you the second you tried to make a break for it. Fangs and claws gnashed and tore into him while his hands strained to keep you down and rip those damn clothes free from your burning skin. 

Mating's never a pretty thing when it comes to nature. Humans like you made it something more.

Sukuna clasped a hand over your mouth and forced his weight onto you, ripping reedy yowls from your core as you twisted and turned, primal mind urging you to run, run, run, don't make this easy, make him prove his worth–

Rip.

Ribbons of what were once your robes fluttered to the ground, useless and unsalvageable. They were plain black, so unlike what you usually wore. You wouldn't miss them. 

“Make this as difficult as you want, pet,” Sukuna whispered as he loomed over you. His hand slid from your mouth to your throat when you stilled.  

“You know how this ends.” 

His pants were pulled down while another hand wiped slippery blood against your pliant entrance–and that was the only warning you got before he pushed into you. 

Where you should have screamed, you instead sighed. Your back arched off the ground like a work of art. Two hands gave up on holding you down in favour of gripping your waist and hips, pulling you closer to him, forcing you flush against his body. 

He noticed it then: a litany of old scars and discoloured marks shining against your skin. Marks left by those who did not deserve to taste such a delicacy. 

Unsightly.

Blood painted the grass. Cleaves and slashes ate away at those tainted scars, painting over the ugliness left hidden for too long–now, his marks would decorate you. Now, those hidden scars would mean something. They’d mean everything. 

Yet Sukuna's selfish maiming wasn't fitting the bill, and your antsy-ness was proof of it. You tried for the last time to pull from him, but his grip tightened around your throat. You gazed at him, then, eyes so wide and hungry, eager to fight or fuck–whichever came first. 

He braced over you and nearly winced as he dragged out of your suffocating heat. A sharp snap back inside loosened you, the glide of blood and slick aiding him. 

“I'll take you the way you need it,” he drawled as he built the pace quickly, already feeling his own obsession and excitement reverberating through his body, filling every fibre of muscle with electricity.

“Then,” he growled, leaning closer to your face. “I'll fuck you the way you want it.”

“More,” you sighed, digging your nails into the pillow you had your face buried in while the beast fucked you from behind. Sukuna groaned in compliance and lanced into your guts deeper, harder, faster than before–you were the only one that could handle the brutal way he let loose, and he was more than willing to indulge in that privilege. 

The hands all over you rose to the occasion, too; one had your tails fisted in his ruthless grasp, rudely holding you still and pulling you back against his hips; another rested on the curve of your ass, only moving to give a sharp slap or to knead your soft, perfect skin; the last two held your hips in a crushing force, his calloused fingers digging into your plush sides and sharp hip bones like you might disappear at any second. 

A sharp, sweet whine signaled the beginning of the end, as did the restless fidgeting and shifting in the king's grasp. Seeing you, a poised, powerful, mischievous being, come undone beneath him came to be one of Sukuna’s favourite sights, especially knowing it could only be because of him--only him. 

He leaned over you, his heavy chest pressing into your back as one hand released your waist in favour of fisting in your hair and tugging your head back and out of the futon you so desperately clung to. 

“Ah-ah,” he scolded breathily. “No hiding.” It was a familiar sentiment, one he had no problem reminding you of now and again. You had a horrible habit of trying to vanish when overwhelmed, after all. 

“Terrible beast,” you snapped back, scoffing indignantly when the deep bassy laugh of the man rolled through your body. “Horrible.” 

“You love it,” Sukuna growled back, grinning through every word. 

Something about it clearly struck a chord with you, judging by how fast you choked on your voice and came undone, legs trembling and body tightening around the too-big intrusion. The king groaned and bit at your neck, licking whatever blood beaded at the surface in between rushed, hushed words of praise for you and your efforts–most, if they heard the things he said, would call it out of character for the beast. Most didn't get to see beyond his raw power and crippling cruelty, however. 

Sukuna grunted and spilled inside you, pulling you back by your hair, hips and tail to ensure he forced every bit of his offerings deep into your core. Your body rocked and twitched against his, accepting all he had to offer you at the end of yet another coupling, before he let go of your locks and let you collapse face-first into the futon. 

He pulled out slowly, watching as every inch slipped from your abused hole before popping free and uncorking a dribble of whiteness from inside. He tutted and scooped it up with two fingers before stuffing it back in. 

“Oi, oi, are you even trying to keep it in?” He teased, smirking as you huffed. 

“You've exhausted me. I have no energy to attempt the impossible,” you lamented, nuzzling your nose further into the soft sheets smelling of cedar and fresh blooms–something so uniquely Sukuna. 

Your king sighed and gave your ass a firm few pats. “Guess I'll have to spoil you even more.” He settled onto his back and easily pulled you onto him, yanking you up to straddle his waist right where that second mouth laid open and eager to taste you. 

“This is uncouth,” you sighed. But you rocked back against the thick, heavy tongue pressing into your pliant heat, licking deep into you with a mind and hunger of its own. 

“Seems couth enough for you,” he commented, watching you ride his centre with rapt attention. “Little harlot's getting off on this, hey? Such a needy little brat.” 

His hands smoothed up and down your legs and sides as you shamelessly chased a second high. Your hands clasped over his as he took you into his hand and stroked you back to ample stiffness, the soreness of too many rounds of fucking making you far too sensitive to touch. 

“S-Sukuna-sama,” you stammered. “I can't–”

Sukuna's head tilted with a pleased smirk. “Ho? I thought you wanted to bear children? Are my offerings not enough for you?” 

You scrunched your face up into something of a prissy glare, but the shine clinging to your lashes and the shuddering of your body against his betrayed your crumbling demeanor. Of course, he was impressed with how his fox was fairing considering everything he put you through. 

He maneuvered you onto your back, grinning as you growled and weakly struggled against him. You looked perfect–stomach swollen, hair fanned out behind you, eyes teary but unable to tear away from the creature that’d tormented you for hours upon hours with no desire to give you a break. 

“Greedy god,” Sukuna lamented. One hand came to rest on your bruised neck again, fitting around so perfectly. “Nothing’s ever fucking good enough for you.” 

“You are.” 

That gave Sukuna pause. He stared down at you, all eyes looking over you with rapt attention as he tried to think. Tried to understand. Tried to parse those words and uncover what exactly you tried to convey. 

But it didn't click. 

“Tch. You're lucky I'm a generous god,” he scolded, releasing you from your torment in favour of collapsing down beside you for some much-needed rest. Not only did your beautiful body wear him out (not that he'd admit it), but your whimsical words wore his sanity thin. The worst part was you didn't even intend to damage him so. 

“I am truly honoured to merely be in your presence,” Your voice, light and dreamy as petals fluttering, laughed, and Sukuna's soul did something odd. 

He stared at the ceiling as you shuffled beside him, quickly returning to his side, donned in one of his haori and determined to make a comfortable nest of blankets and clothes around you both for the rest of the night–ah, morning? Huh. What an ordeal. 

You curled up next to him, shoving your back firmly against his side the way you often did when resting as a fox, and Sukuna huffed. 

“Turn to me,” he commanded, and you obeyed. 

He, too, turned to face you to envelope your lithe form with invincible arms and divine protection. Your soft purrs rolled through him, settling his wild spirit into a lazy tempo of an early morning stroll through a garden filled with one sort of white orchid: 

Brassavola nadosa. “Lady of the Night.” Your calling card. Your divine essence.

"Brassavola nodosa (Lady of the Night) is a medium-sized epiphytic or lithophytic orchid species boasting extremely fragrant flowers throughout the year. The blossoms, 4 in. across (10 cm), emit a citrus fragrance at night. Each flower features long, slender, pale green or creamy-white sepals and petals and a large, heart-shaped lip sometimes adorned with purple or dark red spotting." - gardenia.net

[pucksandpower]

A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship

Max Verstappen x reporter!Reader

Summary: Max decides to get relationship advice from a book written in 1815 and it goes about as well as you would expect. But sometimes the wrong formula still gets the right answer

“In our modern age, when so many standards of propriety have shifted, a gentleman may find himself at a loss when attempting to court a young lady. The rules of etiquette that governed such relationships in decades past offered a framework to guide conduct and ensure all was done properly.

This humble volume intends to provide today’s gentleman that same guidance, so that he may pay suit to the object of his affection in a manner befitting them both. Within these pages, the reader will find what constitutes proper introductions, suitable topics of conversation, appropriate gifts or tokens of regard, and protocols for exchanging correspondence.

While society evolves, there remain certain courtesies that bespeak good breeding. Master these, and you shall go far in winning the hand of any respectable young lady.”

- Excerpt from “A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship” by Reginald Worthington, 1815

A gentleman must display impeccable manners, never using foul language and maintaining a calm and collected demeanor at all times.

“So Max, tell us how you’re feeling ahead of the British Grand Prix this weekend,” you ask, microphone in hand.

Max shifts in his seat, avoiding your gaze. “Uh, yeah, feeling good. The car has been quick so far this weekend in practice.”

You nod enthusiastically. As the newly appointed F1 reporter for Sky Sports, you’re eager to prove yourself in the paddock. And getting an exclusive interview with the reigning double world champion is a great start.

“You have not won at Silverstone before. Do you think you can do it for the first time on Sunday?”

“Absolutely. The team have been working hard and I think we have a good chance,” Max replies.

You glance down at your notes. “Now Max, let’s go back to last weekend in Austria. The incident with Lando on the first lap — can you walk us through what happened from your perspective?”

Max feels his face getting hot. The controversial collision is still a sore point after the race stewards penalized him. He takes a breath, pushing down his true feelings.

“Well, it was racing incident,” he says slowly. “Lando had a good start and was alongside going into turn one. It was tight between us and unfortunately we made contact.”

You raise an eyebrow. “But do you feel that you were more at fault? It seemed to be quite an aggressive move.”

Max clenches his fist under the table discreetly. Calm and collected, he reminds himself.

“Like I said, it was just racing. These things happen sometimes between us drivers.”

“So you don’t think it was an unsafe maneuver on your part?” You press. Your piercing gaze makes Max shift again.

Just stay polite, he thinks. But his frustration boils over.

“It was freaking racing, okay!” He snaps, his calm demeanor vanishing. “Shit happens! Lando didn’t leave me space and we collided. Don’t try to blame me!”

You lean back, eyes widening in surprise at his sudden outburst. Max’s heart drops, immediately regretting his loss of composure.

“Uh, sorry about that,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. “I didn’t mean to curse.”

“No worries, I understand it’s a sensitive topic,” you say evenly. But inside, you’re taken aback. You’ve never seen Max Verstappen react like this.

Desperate to get the interview back on track, you move to the next question. “Let’s talk about your rivalry on the track. Do you feel the tension has somewhat decreased this season as you run ahead with the championship?”

Max nods, clinging to the redirect. “All twenty drivers on the grid are competitors at heart. For sure the rivalry grows each season. Not everyone is fighting for the title so there’s less at stake for some but that can change at any moment. There is always respect between us.”

His standard PR answer seems to bore you. Glancing at the clock, you start wrapping up the interview.

“Last question, Max. Any special plans for the British Grand Prix weekend?”

“Eh, not really,” Max mutters, still kicking himself for losing his temper earlier. So much for gentlemanly manners around ladies. You’ll surely think he’s a foul-mouthed jerk now.

“Okay, I think that’s all we have time for,” you say, standing up. “Thanks again for the interview, Max, I know you’re quite busy here.”

“Yep, no problem,” Max mumbles, avoiding eye contact.

You turn to leave, but stop. “And Max? Don’t worry too much about the clash with Lando. It happens to all drivers sometimes. See you around!” You flash him a smile before exiting.

Max sits stunned for a moment after you leave. Even after his swearing and temper, you hadn’t been upset with him.

A grin slowly spreads across his face. Maybe he hadn’t ruined his chances after all!

Walking back to the Red Bull motorhome, Max can’t stop thinking about you. The way you smiled at him, so warm and understanding. And how you smelled vaguely of lavender.

Max has been captivated since you arrived in the paddock but he has no idea how to approach you … or any woman for that matter.

His only experience is with fast cars, not beautiful reporters.

Pulling up to his driver room, Max is greeted by his physio, Bradley.

“How did it go mate? You look bothered,” Brad asks.

Max sighs. “That interview with Y/N was a disaster. I screwed it up!”

He recounts his slip-up angrily cursing about Lando to Brad, who tries to stifle a laugh.

“Really, that’s what you’re worried about? A little swearing? I’m sure she’s heard far worse around the paddock!”

“But the book said to never use foul language around ladies! To be a gentleman at all times! And I failed at the first test!” Max runs an agitated hand through his hair. “Now she’ll never consider me as a suitor.”

Brad gapes at him. “A suitor? Max, what century are you living in?” He glances down and notices the antique book peeking from Max’s backpack.

Grabbing it, Brad starts flipping through the pages incredulously.

“Wait, you’re actually trying to follow advice from this ancient thing to get a girl?”

Max tries to grab the book back, his cheeks reddening. “Give it back! Yes it’s old but shouldn’t dating still be proper and polite?”

“This stuff is wildly outdated. Just ask her out for drinks. Be yourself!” Brad gestures exasperatedly.

“I can’t just ask her out, are you crazy?” Max sputters. “What if she says no?”

Brad places a hand on his shoulder. “You’re the bloody world champion. And you’re not too hard on the eyes. She’d be mad to turn you down!”

Max cracks a reluctant smile, appreciating the confidence in him. Maybe Brad is right, Max considers. He just needs to relax and stop overthinking things.

“Tell you what, the team is throwing a big party after the race on Sunday. Why don’t you invite Y/N as your date?” Brad suggests.

Max’s stomach flutters nervously at the thought. “I guess I could try ...”

Brad claps him on the back. “That’s what I’m talking about! Now hand that daft old book over so I can throw it in the bin.”

“No! I mean … I’ll hold onto it,” Max says, snatching it back.

It may be outdated but it still has some wise words, he thinks. Even if he doesn’t follow everything word-for-word, a brush up on manners couldn’t hurt.

Max feels reenergized. One mishap wouldn’t ruin his chances with you.

This weekend he would focus on winning the British Grand Prix. And then he would ask you to be his date for the after-party.

Properly, like a gentleman.

What could go wrong?

A gentleman should compose handwritten letters with eloquence and embellished language to express his sentiments, as these missives often carry great weight.

Max sits at the desk in his driver room, pen poised over a pad of stationary borrowed from the hotel.

He takes a deep breath.

My Dearest Y/N …

He pauses. How exactly does he eloquently express his feelings here? Chewing the pen anxiously, he tries again.

My Dearest Y/N,

Since first you did arrive upon the Formula 1 scene, I have been captivated by your beauty and grace ...

Max groans, crumpling up the paper. This sounds ridiculous! But the book had stressed the importance of handwritten letters to woo a lady. And with his shyness around you in person, writing a letter seemed the best approach.

If only he could find the right words.

Staring at the blank sheet of paper, Max thinks back to the British Grand Prix last weekend. He had taken Brad’s advice and invited you to the post-race celebrations as his date.

To his delight, you had happily accepted.

The party had been going perfectly. You both laughed and chatted easily over drinks. Then the DJ started playing and Max got the courage to ask you to dance. With your hand in his, bodies swaying gently together, Max was sure this was his moment to finally tell you his feelings.

But when he tried, the words tangled up inside. His throat went dry and he could only stare mute into your eyes. The song ended and the magic of the moment faded. You slipped away back to your friends, leaving Max cursing his nervousness.

Which is why he’s now resorted to writing a letter. If only he can find the right poetic phrases, he would be able to express everything in his heart.

Chewing his lip, Max starts again.

My Dearest Y/N,

Ever since you did arrive in this paddock, I have admired you from afar. Your beauty and spirit doth light up the Formula 1 world. Being in your radiant presence doth make my heart soar ...

Max frowns. He sounds like Shakespeare on steroids. This is getting him nowhere. Crumpling up another attempt, he gets an idea. He needs advice from someone more eloquent. Pulling out his phone, he selects Daniel Ricciardo’s number.

“Maxie! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Daniel answers cheerily.

“I need your help. I’m trying to write a letter to Y/N telling her ...byou know, that I like her,” Max mumbles. “But I’m struggling with the words. You’re so smooth and charming — any advice?”

Daniel laughs loudly through the phone. “A love letter mate? That’s adorable!”

Max rolls his eyes. “Haha. Yes, it’s hilarious. Do you have any tips or not?”

“Hmm okay, don’t stress too much over the fancy wording. Keep it simple and heartfelt, you know? Just speak honestly about why you like her.”

Max nods. “Right, speak from the heart. I can do that.”

“Go get her champ! Let me know if you need any more romantic advice,” Daniel teases.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Max hangs up with a smile.

Taking a fresh piece of paper, he starts writing.

Dear Y/N,

I wanted to properly tell you how I feel about you. From the moment I first saw you in the paddock, I thought you were the most beautiful and amazing woman.

Your smile makes me weak. Being near you gives me butterflies in my stomach.

Spending time together at the party was really special for me. I wish I had told you then how I felt. But I get so nervous around you that the words don’t come out right. So I thought writing this might be easier.

I know we haven’t known each other long. But I would love the chance to get to know you more. Maybe we could have dinner sometime, if you feel the same way?

Let me know.

Yours,

Max

Max reads over the short letter and nods, satisfied. It’s simple and honest, just saying the thoughts he can never seem to speak out loud around you.

So, after carefully folding the stationary, Max slips out of the Red Bull motorhome in search of you.

Max finds you chatting with some other journalists near the media center. He hangs back shyly, waiting for you to be free.

You glance up and catch his eye, giving a smile and wave. Taking a deep breath, Max approaches.

“Hi, Y/N. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course!” You say, turning to him. The other reporters conveniently scatter, leaving the two of you alone.

“So uh, I wrote you this letter.” Max mutters, pulling the folded paper from his pocket. His palms are sweating and he rubs his neck nervously. “It’s just some thoughts I wanted to share with you.”

“Aww Max, you didn’t have to write me anything!” You beam at him sweetly.

Max shoves the letter toward you, willing himself to just give it over before he loses confidence. But as you reach out for it, anxiety grips him.

What if you reject him after reading it? Or worse, what if you show the soppy love letter to your coworkersto laugh about?

His pulse pounding, Max swiftly yanks the letter back. Before he can think twice, he starts hastily ripping it up into tiny shreds.

“Max!” You cry out in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“I, uh, just realized how weird it was to write you something so personal,” Max stammers, face flaming red.

He lets the shreds of paper fall from his fingers.

“Oh.” Your face falls in disappointment. “That’s too bad, I’m sure it was very thoughtful ...”

An awkward silence follows. Max curses internally, hating himself. Why had he chickened out at the last second? He scrambles for something to say.

“Yeah, it was too forward of me,” he rambles nervously. “I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea about us. Not that there is an us! I mean, we’re colleagues.”

You frown slightly in confusion. “Colleagues? I thought we were becoming friends ...”

“Right, yes friends!” Max amends quickly. “Friends is good. Don’t want rumors or gossip spreading. Not that what I wrote was gossip worthy! It was boring really, nothing important.”

He forces out a laugh, cringing at his bumbling excuse. You just stare at him in bewilderment.

“O-kay then ... well, I need to get back to work. See you around, Max.” You give him a strange look before turning away slowly.

Max watches you walk off, letting out a long groan once you’re out of earshot.

He slaps a hand to his forehead. Could that have gone any worse? He’d absolutely butchered it and now you must think he’s a complete weirdo.

Dejected, Max trudges back to the motorhome. He replays the scene in his head, berating himself over and over. If only he had the guts to just give you that letter!

Instead he had to go and make a complete fool of himself. There’s no way you have any interest in him now after witnessing that trainwreck.

Sulking back to his driver’s room, Max finds his teammate in the hallways.

“What’s up with you? You look like you just lost the championship,” Checo remarks.

Max just opens his door and flops down onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh. “I really screwed things up with Y/N ...”

He recounts the whole awkward encounter to Checo, who tries and fails to hold back laughter.

“It’s not funny!” Max snaps, tossing a scrunched up sock at him.

“Sorry, hermano,” Checo says, composing himself. “But really, I doubt it was that bad. Just explain to Y/N what happened and try again.”

“No way. It’s hopeless now,” Max moans. “I can’t face her after that.” He grabs one of the shredded letter pieces off the table, smoothing it out to reveal a fragment of his confession.

Crumpling it back up, Max tosses it aside bitterly. He definitely lost his chance thanks to his own nerves and stupidity.

Max does everything he can to avoid you over the next days, too embarrassed to face you after the letter fiasco. For your own part, you seem equally uncertain how to act around him now.

At races you keep interactions strictly professional. The ease and friendship that was developing between you is gone.

Max hates that he ruined everything before it could even really begin.

It’s not until the Dutch Grand Prix weeks later that you finally confront him.

“We should talk,” you say, catching Max alone after practice one day. “Why have you been avoiding me since Silverstone?”

Max shuffles his feet, staring at the ground. “I just made things weird with that letter. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You step closer, tilting his chin up gently so he meets your eyes.

“I thought the idea behind it was really sweet. I was so disappointed when you just ripped it up. I care about you, so don’t push me away, okay?”

Heart pounding, Max manages a sheepish nod.

You lean in slowly and kiss his cheek, pretending not to notice how his skin turns rosy.

“I’m still waiting to see what you wrote for me one day,” you whisper with a smile before walking off, leaving Max stunned.

Touching his cheek, a grin spreads across Max’s face. Maybe he hadn’t ruined everything after all.

The book might know a thing or two.

A gentleman should present small tokens of affection: Offering a lady flowers, a lock of hair, or a sentimental keepsake is a cherished practice.

Max paces the floor of his Monaco apartment, phone in hand as he scrolls through a website about flower meanings and symbolism.

Max clicks on the different options, overwhelmed. Who knew flowers were so complicated? Red roses mean passion but are too strong for courting. Yellow roses signify friendship. White lilies convey purity and innocence.

Max frowns. None of these seem quite right.

Finally he comes across the perfect choice — peonies. According to the guide, pink peonies signal romance, prosperity and good fortune.

Isn’t that romantic? This will be the ideal flower to to show how much he cares for you.

Satisfied with his floral choice, Max orders an impressive bouquet of pink peonies to be delivered to you before the upcoming race.

As soon as you receive them, he anxiously waits for your reaction.

To his disappointment, no thank you comes. In fact, you don’t acknowledge the flowers at all.

When Max finally spots you in the paddock on Thursday, his smile fades at your red-rimmed eyes and congested voice.

“Are you okay? You don’t look well,” Max frowns.

You give a stuffy laugh. “Thanks, just what every girl wants to hear.” Dabbing at your runny nose with a tissue, you sigh. “Sorry, I’m a mess today. Turns out I’m quite allergic to peonies. Those lovely flowers you sent put me out of commission the past two days.”

Max’s eyes widen in alarm. “Wait, you’re allergic to peonies? I had no idea, I’m so sorry!”

He mentally kicks himself. Some romantic gesture this was, practically making you ill. “I was just trying to do something nice ...” he says guiltily.

But you wave off his concern with a smile, touched that he went to such effort. “It’s really sweet of you, truly. They were beautiful. My immune system just seems to have other plans.”

Max shoves his hands in his pockets. “Let me make it up to you. What if I cook you dinner next week instead of flowers?”

Your cheeks flush slightly. “I would really like that.”

***

The following Tuesday, Max puts his meager cooking skills to use whipping up pasta. Pretty soon he has an aromatic tomato sauce simmering away while he slices bread for garlic toast.

When you arrive, bottle of wine in hand, Max greets you wearing a “World’s Okayest Chef” apron. Laughter and light banter flow easily between you two all evening. The domesticity of sharing a meal together feels wonderfully natural. Lingering glances and touches over the table make it clear this is now a proper date.

After dessert, you help Max tidy up the kitchen. Playfully flicking soap suds at each other soon turns into a full-on bubble fight. Laughing and stumbling into each other, Max ends up gently pinning you against the counter.

Your giggles trail off, smiles fading into something warmer. Slowly Max leans in, lips meeting yours in a soft kiss.

When you eventually pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours contentedly. No flowers or grand gestures needed.

Just this — being together.

***

Before free practice of the following race, Max seeks you out, fidgeting nervously with the small pair of scissors in his hands.

“I … I wanted to give you something special. A token of my affection for you.”

Before you can react, Max takes a lock of his light brown hair and starts snipping right there in front of you. Your eyes widen in surprise as the severed strands fall into his palm.

“It’s uh, a lock of my hair. For you to keep,” he explains, holding it out to you sheepishly.

You have to stifle a laugh at how earnest he looks. “Wow Max, that’s really thoughtful but you didn’t have to cut your hair for me!”

Max’s cheeks flush pink. “No, I want you to have it! To show, you know, that I’m devoted to you and all that ...” His voice trails off at your amused expression.

Maybe this romantic gesture is a bit stranger than he realized. But you take the lock of hair from him with a gracious smile.

“Well, I’ll always treasure a piece of you.”

His grin brightens. Then he remembers the other part of his gift. “Oh wait, there’s more!”

He pulls a small oval locket from his pocket and clicks it open to reveal an empty compartment.

“I thought you could keep the hair in this locket, close to your heart,” he explains earnestly. “That way you will always have a part of me with you.”

Your eyes soften, touched by the sentiment if not the unconventional nature of his gift. But seeing how much thought Max put into it makes you melt and you give him a quick kiss.

“It’s perfect, thank you. Here, would you put the hair inside for me?”

Carefully, Max places the strands into the golden locket and fastens it around your neck, face lit up.

“So you really like it then?”

You nod, gently clasping the locket in your hand. “I’ll cherish it always.”

A gentleman should bring a tasteful gift, such as a book of poetry or a hand-painted fan, as a gesture of appreciation for her hospitality when visiting a lady’s home.

Max double checks the address on his phone as he pulls up outside your London flat. He’s visiting for the first time today and wants to make a good impression.

Max looks down at your gift on the passenger seat — a squirming bengal kitten, licking up the treat Max had brought to calm her for the car ride.

You had completely fallen for his two rambunctious bengal cats when you met them at his apartment.

“They are just the cutest! I’ve always wanted a bengal,” you had cooed as Jimmy curled up contentedly in your lap while Sassy climbed across your shoulders.

So when Max saw that the ethical breeder he bought his cats from had this spirited little kitten available, he knew she would be the perfect gift for your first proper date at your home.

A living reminder of the night your relationship began.

Scooping up the wriggling furball, Max walks up and rings your buzzer.

You greet him at the door with a smile and quick kiss, then abruptly stop short at the sight of the kitten in his arms.

“Max, what is that?”

“It’s a bengal kitten!” He announces proudly, holding her up like he is reenacting The Lion King. “I got her for you, as a gift.”

He holds the mewling kitten out to you eagerly. You stare back, mouth agape.

“You got me a kitten? Max, that’s insane!” You exclaim. “Bengals cost thousands of euros, you can’t just show up with one. Oh my god, please tell me you didn’t seriously buy me a €3000 cat.”

Max’s smile falters, realizing suddenly how over-the-top the gift seems.

“I mean, I just wanted to do something really special for you,” he mumbles, face reddening.

The kitten lets out a pitiful meow. You bite your lip, conflicted. She really is adorable. And you know Max meant well with his lavish gesture. Sighing, you open your door wider.

“Okay, I guess I can’t turn away this cutie now. Come on in.”

Max’s face lights up in relief. “You’ll keep her then? That’s amazing!”

He carefully sets the energetic furball down and she immediately starts exploring. You have to laugh as she pounces and tumbles over her paws.

“She’s going to destroy all my stuff,” you stare resignedly as she claws her way up your upholstered couch, claws snagging the fabric.

Max waves off your concern. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for anything she ruins. And I’ll make sure she can come to races too, so you’re never apart.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think they’re going to let a kitten into the paddock?”

“Lewis brings Roscoe so they have to allow cats too or it’s not fair! Don’t worry, I will make it happen,” Max declares confidently.

Despite yourself, you smile at his determination. Gazing down at the kitten now nibbling your toe, your reservations melt away.

She really has stolen your heart already.

“Well, I guess we’re in this together now, huh little one?” You murmur. “Thank you. I think she’s the perfect gift.”

His whole face lights up at those words. Impulsively, you stand on tiptoe to kiss him.

“I think I’ll name her Emiliana,” you suggest softly. “Since she’s my special gift from Max Emilian Verstappen.”

Max grins. “I love that idea.”

Maybe Max is out of touch with normal gift-giving. But looking into his smiling eyes, you know everything he does comes from a place of love. And you wouldn’t change his thoughtfulness for anything.

Even if it means welcoming a hyperactive €3000 kitten into your life.

A gentleman should exercise prudence and restraint in the event that his family honor is insulted. Engaging in a duel must be the last resort, pursued only when all other means of resolving the matter have been exhausted.

“Who’s ready for her first race?” You coo to Emiliana, clipping a leash on to her harness. The energetic bengal kitten twirls in excited circles hearing the jingle of her collar.

Max chuckles, scooping Emiliana up. “I know you’ll love exploring the garage!” Kissing her furry head, he nestles her safely in his jacket pocket for the walk over.

Arriving at the bustling paddock, Max gently puts Emiliana down to allow her to explore, the kitten’s wide eyes reflect the flash of cameras and bright team colors swirling around. With Max’s hand securely in yours, you both smile proudly showing her off to the other drivers and staff.

Most are delighted, stopping to fawn over the curious feline. But as you pass by the Alpine motorhome, she ends up scampering across the asphalt and almost tripping Esteban Ocon in the process.

“Ugh, control your overgrown rat!” He grumbles loudly.

Max freezes, blood boiling at the insult toward Emiliana. Clenching his fists, he spins to confront Esteban. But you grab his arm firmly.

“Max, stop. He’s not worth it,” you murmur. After a tense moment, Max reluctantly relaxes his stance, not wanting to cause a scene.

You steer him away, stroking Emiliana comfortingly. “Don’t listen to the mean man, sweetie. You are perfect.”

But Max continues seething silently.

The remainder of the weekend passes uneventfully and you assume Max has let go of the unpleasant encounter. But once the race starts, you grow anxious seeing the two drivers battling unusually close together.

Sure enough, despite leading comfortably, Max slows his car to allow Esteban to catch up. Your heart drops as Max then swerves aggressively into Esteban’s side, sending him spinning off in a blaze of shredded carbon fiber. Meanwhile, Max continues on unfazed to take the chequered flag.

You’re fuming when Max finally makes his way back to the garage. Seeing your crossed arms and fiery glare, his triumphant smile fades.

“I know what you’re going to say ...” he starts guiltily.

“That you promised not to seek revenge and then deliberately crashed Esteban?” You snap.

Max winces. “Seeing him just brought back all that anger ...”

“So you decided to punt him at 200 mph?” You throw your hands up in exasperation.

“I was not thinking clearly,” Max scuffs his shoe. “My temper took over again.”

Your anger melts slightly seeing Max’s remorse. With a sigh, you pull him into a tight hug. “Do you have any idea how badly you both could’ve been hurt by pulling a stunt like that?”

Max looks down, properly chastised. “You’re right, it was really dangerous what I did.”

“Not to mention nearly ruining your own race!”

“I didn’t care about losing position,” Max admits. “I have already secured the championship. Defending Emiliana’s honor was more important in the moment.”

You shake your head. “Our kitten’s honor is not worth you risking your life! Please think these things through before acting so rashly.”

“You’re right, I wasn’t thinking straight,” Max says sincerely. “I promise to be more responsible going forward. No more putting myself or anyone else in danger over petty spats.”

He hugs you close again. “Thank you for keeping me rational and safe.”

You smile up at him with a soft laugh, letting some of your tension melt away. "Someone has to.”

A gentleman should keep a strict code of chivalry: Offer your seat to a lady, hold doors, and protect her from harm, both physical and emotional.

The Singapore Grand Prix is always a grueling one thanks to the heat and humidity. But this weekend, Mother Nature seems intent on making it even tougher.

Dark ominous clouds have been building all afternoon before finally bursting open right as final practice ends. Fat raindrops pelt down rapidly, sending the paddock scrambling for cover.

Safely under the shelter of the Red Bull garage, Max keeps an eye out for you. He knows you’re stuck in the media pen finishing interviews along with the other reporters.

Sure enough, he spots your ponytail across the pen, soaked through as you attempt to shield your equipment from the downpour.

Without thinking, Max hands off his mic and races out into the rain toward you. Holding his team jacket over your head, he guides you under the shelter of a nearby awning.

“Oh my gosh, Max! You’re soaked!” You exclaim, taking in his drenched state.

But Max just shrugs it off. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Couldn’t let you get caught out there though.”

He rubs your arms briskly, trying to warm you up. Seeing you shivering in your thin blouse — now transparent from the rain — Max feels a pang of protectiveness.

“Here, let me get you something dry ...” He sprints off, returning minutes later with a Red Bull hoodie and umbrella from his driver’s room.

Bundling you up in the warm dry clothes, Max finally relaxes. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. But I wasn’t about to leave you stranded in that!”

You smile up at him, sincerely touched. “My hero! Thank you, superstar.”

Leaning up on your tiptoes, you give him a soft kiss. Max thinks that heart swells three sizes, thrilled that he was able to protect you.

As the weekend goes on, Max keeps finding little ways to display chivalry. Opening doors, giving you his seat, shielding you with umbrellas whenever the rain returns.

You assure him that the fussing is unnecessary but Max insists. He wants you to feel cared for and safe at all times.

Unfortunately, not everyone in the paddock shares that sentiment.

You’re rushing to grab some coffee before the race when you overhear a muttered conversation by a group of reporters that are huddled together.

“There she is — Verstappen’s girl ...”

“Ugh, it’s so obvious she only got the job with Sky Sports because they’re dating.”

“Sleeping her way to the top if you ask me. No way she’d be here otherwise ...”

Their cruel laughter cuts through you sharply. Blinking back sudden tears, you hurry away before they can notice you.

Of course you’ve dealt with doubters questioning your skill and merits before. It’s an occupational hazard as a woman in motorsport.

But having your relationship with Max twisted in such a way stings deeply.

Arriving at the grid, you paste on a smile and try not to let the nasty remarks ruin your day. You have always had to work twice as hard to prove yourself and you were not going to give up now.

But Max notices that something is off immediately. And, when you keep avoid his concerned gaze, he gently presses for answers.

“What’s wrong, liefde? And don’t say nothing,” he adds, seeing you open your mouth to brush it off.

You sigh, reluctantly telling him about the reporters’ hurtful comments. Instantly Max’s jaw tightens, anger flashing in his eyes.

“Who said that? Point them out to me.”

You hesitate, not wanting to cause a scene. But Max takes your hand firmly.

“I won’t let them get away with questioning your integrity like that. It’s unacceptable.”

So you subtly point out the gossiping reporters huddled nearby. Max’s gaze darkens. Turning on his heel, he marches straight for the media center.

By the time you catch up, he’s already deep in a terse conversation with Formula 1’s head of communications.

You watch in astonishment as the offenders’ media access is promptly revoked despite their loud protests. But Max stands firm, insisting this is non-negotiable if he is expected to keep participating in his media duties.

When he finally returns to you, his anger has melted away into concern. “I’m so sorry you had to hear their garbage. Don’t ever listen to it, okay? You are brilliant at what you do.”

Your eyes well up again but this time from gratitude. Even during the pre-race chaos, Max made defending you his top priority.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hugging him tightly. “My knight in shining racing gear.”

Max just holds you close, wishing he could shield you from all harm. Because your happiness and comfort are paramount to him. And Max will gladly take on any dragon — or unscrupulous reporter — that dares to threaten that.

With Max by your side, ready to come to your aid in rain or shine, you know everything will be okay.

A gentleman should always be well-dressed in the latest fashions and ensure that his cravat is tied to perfection.

Max frowns down at the open suitcase on his bed, clothes strewn everywhere. He’s digging through the wardrobe he packed trying to find something stylish to wear for the United States Grand Prix.

The problem is, Max has no idea what the latest fashions even are. Jeans and a team-branded shirt are his staples both on and off the track. But he needs to make more effort for you.

Sifting through his options unsuccessfully, Max sighs. There’s nothing here that screams high fashion. He would have to do the unthinkable and ask advice from someone … like Lewis Hamilton.

Max cringes at the thought of approaching his rival for fashion help. But Lewis is always complemented for his outfits so he is clearly an expert on the subject.

Swallowing his pride, Max fires off a text before he can overthink it.

To his surprise, Lewis responds enthusiastically with suggestions and styling tips. Their competitive rivalry is momentarily forgotten as the veteran driver dedicates all day to helping Max looking sharp.

Arriving at the paddock on Thursday morning, Max scrutinizes his reflection anxiously while scanning his pass. He’s wearing slim-fitting distressed jeans with a silky patterned shirt that Lewis instructed was to be left half-unbuttoned.

Definitely way flashier than his normal attire but Lewis assured him it was very on-trend. So Max takes a deep breath and heads out to find you.

Your eyes widen in surprise taking in his dramatic style overhaul. “Whoa, look at you!”

Max preens a bit, relieved that you don’t seem to be put off by his bold fashion choice.

“I figured it was time to elevate my fashion game,” he spins cheekily to show off the full look.

You have to stifle a laugh at seeing straight-laced Max suddenly dressing like a runway model after fans used to be shocked to see him in anything other than a white shirt.

It’s certainly different but cute that he’s putting in so much effort for your relationship.

As the weekend continues, so does Max’s parade of high fashion outfits. He turns up looking like he stepped off a catwalk in trendy printed shirts, embroidered jackets, and even sequined trousers.

By Sunday, the dramatic style transformation has paddock tongues wagging. Max appears entirely oblivious to the gossip though, just happy that his attempts to impress you seem to be working.

But watching him awkwardly fidget with the billowing oversized silk sleeves of today’s shirt as he tries to focus on preparing for the race, you realize that this isn’t your Max. Not really.

Catching his eye, you gesture for him to join you out of earshot and away from the view of cameras. Gently taking his hands, you meet his gaze.

“Be honest with me, what’s going on with the makeover? This isn’t like you at all.”

He ducks his head with a sheepish smile. “I just wanted to dress nicely for you this weekend. Like a proper gentleman.”

You lift his chin until he’s looking at you again. “You don’t have to try and be someone else for me. I like you for you — jeans, team kit, and all.”

Max’s shoulders relax in relief. “Yeah?”

“Of course! Please don’t feel like you ever have to change.” You lean up to kiss him softly. “Now let’s get you into some racing gear, champ.”

A gentleman should know that prolonged eye contact is a powerful tool for conveying one’s intentions.

“So Max, I have to ask about the incident with Carlos last race. Do you think your aggression was over the line?”

You fixes Max with an inquisitive gaze, microphone poised as you wait for his response. But instead of answering, he just stares back intensely without blinking.

After a long awkward pause, you shift in your seat. “Uh, Max? Did you hear my question?”

“Hmm? Oh right, yeah. It was just racing, these things happen,” he says vaguely, eyes never leaving yours.

You move on to the next question, puzzled by his distracted behavior. Throughout the interview, Max continues gazing at you unwaveringly.

It’s a bit unsettling to have him stare so fixedly without looking away.

Finally you wrap up the stilted conversation, feeling relieved to escape his laser focus. What was up with that?

Over the weekend, you catch Max staring silently at you on numerous occasions — in hospitality, on the grid, across the garage. Without blinking or looking away, he’ll fix you with that powerful gaze until you flush and look away first.

By Sunday you’ve gotten used to the drawn out m moments of extended eye contact.

But during the post-race press conference, Max cranks it up a notch. As you ask Charles a question about the race, you feel Max’s eyes boring into the side of your face. Glancing over, you nearly fumble your recorder.

He’s just ... staring. Blatantly. Right at you as you’re trying to have a professional conversation.

The other drivers keep sneaking amused looks between you two and trying to hide their snickers.

You finally wrap up hurriedly, flustered by Max’s unrelenting eye contact. As the rest of the press file out, you hang back.

“So the whole staring thing ... we’re really doing that huh?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

Max has the grace to look sheepish. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to throw you off! I’ve just been trying to connect with you even more.”

You have to stifle a laugh imagining him sternly holding his own gaze in a mirror for practice. “I could tell! But maybe dial it down a little bit during interviews?”

Rubbing his neck, Max chuckles. “Yeah good call.”

He’s quiet for a moment before meeting your eyes again, this time softer. “I do like the way it makes me focus just on you though. Like the rest of the world fades away.”

“Yeah,” you duck your head, “I like that part too.”

Max’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. Reaching out, he gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

When Max leans in, eyes fluttering closed, you let yourself get lost in the moment. The outside world disappears and all that’s left is his lips on yours, saying more than words ever could.

A gentleman should never speak of his own accomplishments or wealth in a boastful manner, instead let your actions and character speak for themselves.

“Liefde, have you seen my phone charger?” Max calls from the living room of his apartment. “Nevermind, found it!”

He grabs the charger off of the coffee table, narrowly avoiding knocking over the World Drivers’ Championship trophy displayed prominently in the center.

You stifle an amused smile as you enter. Ever since you jokingly teased Max about being humble, he has made his accomplishments strangely hard to ignore.

Like the fact that his trophy room door now mysteriously stays wide open whenever you’re over. Or how he keeps offering for you to take Air Max whenever you need to travel instead of flying commercial. It’s his unique way of bragging without actually saying a word.

Joining him on the sofa, you have to shoo away one of the cats that is trying to swat the trophy off the table. Max just grins.

“Sassy really loves that thing! Although I guess I can’t blame her, it is very shiny.”

You laugh, curling into his side. “It certainly seems to belong front and center lately. Along with your three championship-winning helmets on the table in the foyer.”

Max attempts an innocent look that doesn’t quite stick. “What? They’re nice decorative pieces!”

“Mmhmm,” you hum skeptically. Glancing around, you note magazine covers bearing his face displayed on the walls along with a framed race-worn suit hanging randomly next to the kitchen.

Meeting his eyes, you give him a knowing look. Max holds your gaze for a moment before cracking.

“Okay fine, I may have highlighted some ... accomplishments since your little humble comment,” he admits with a sheepish grin.

You have to laugh. “Max, you know I was just teasing you! I would never want you to downplay your achievements.”

Twisting to face him, you take his hands in yours. “You’ve worked so hard for everything you have. Please don’t feel like you can’t be proud about it.”

Max’s expression softens. “I know and I am really proud of my racing success.” Glancing around the trophy-filled apartment, he chuckles. “Maybe a bit too loudly recently.”

You lean in to kiss him tenderly. “I love you and I’m so proud of you. But it’s this,” you tap his chest on top of his heart, “This is what made me fall for you, not the jet or the trophies.”

“Yeah?” Max asks, eyes crinkling happily.

You snuggle into his shoulder. “Of course. You’ll always just be my Max.”

But then the gifts start arriving. An Hermes Birkin bag here … some Van Cleef jewelry there. Presented nonchalantly but you know that their extravagance is no accident.

Finally, you have to say something when a couture Chanel gown appears in your hotel room one day.

“What’s going on with all these gifts all of a sudden?” You ask gently.

“Nothing! I just want to treat my amazing girlfriend the way she deserves to be treated.”

You raise an eyebrow and look … and look … and look … until Max cracks. “Okay fine, I may have been trying to show off a bit,” he admits. “But it’s hard not to when I want to give you the world!”

Your expression softens. Taking his hands, you wait until he meets your eyes.

“You could give me plastic rings and clothing from the thrift store and I would be just as happy. Your love means everything to me, not material things.”

“Really?”

You nod and climb into his lap to connect your lips in a slow kiss. Pulling back, you add teasingly, “But I am keeping the dress.”

He laughs, all tension vanishing. “Of course, it will look incredible on you. Like everything does.”

A gentleman should demonstrate a willingness to adapt to a lady’s interests and preferences, cultivating shared hobbies and passions.

“Here we are!” You announce, gesturing at the entrance of the padel club. “I know you’ll love this. It combines the best parts of tennis, squash, and racquetball.”

Taking Max’s hand, you lead him inside eagerly. You’ve been trying to get him to try padel, your favorite hobby, for ages. Finally convincing him to play while visiting him in Monaco, you do a quick rundown of the rules in the locker room.

“So basically we score just like in tennis but the walls and mesh are also in play. You can use them to bounce shots off of strategically,” you explain, miming hitting the ball off the glass wall.

Max nods along, game face on. He’s determined to share your passion for this sport.

“Got it. Use the walls, beat the opponents, win the match,” he summarizes confidently.

You laugh. “Pretty much! Now let’s go kick some butt out there.”

Gripping your paddles, you head onto the slick court. Max gravitates right to the mesh wall, intrigued by the unique setup.

You have to hide your grin — he’s like a kid exploring and testing shots out eagerly. His competitive nature means that he is completely engrossed within minutes.

And Max certainly has a knack for padel. His fast reflexes and coordination transfer over as he adapts his technique. Soon you’re both moving seamlessly around each other, dominating the points against a random couple Max had convinced to play against the two of you.

Hours later, sweaty but exhilarated, Max slings an arm around you grinning.

“That was epic! This is such an awesome game, I can’t wait to play more.” His excitement makes your heart swell. Nothing better than sharing your interests with someone special.

Over the next weeks, you find any excuse to play padel together. On lazy mornings, Max coaxes you out of bed. During race weeks, you even manage to squeeze in a few matches after media day.

Soon Max transforms into a padel fanatic, always scouting new courts and competition. His dedication to mastering every shot warms your heart. And the silly trash talk and celebrations make every match so much fun.

It was no surprise when Max decided to organize a players tournament between races. Getting the other drivers involved had your makeshift paddock league battling it out.

“Here for the padel party!” Daniel crows, showing up in head-to-toe tennis gear.

Charles, Carlos, Lando, and Pierre are there too, warming up their swings. You help Max demonstrate the rules, the other guys teasing him good-naturedly about his new obsession.

Once play begins though, the intensity heats up quickly. Max’s laser focus kicks in as he charges around you protectively, looking to crush anyone who dares hit near you. Luckily you hold your own plenty well too against the drivers.

When the final point is called in your favor, Max tackles you in an exuberant hug, the guys applauding around you. Grinning and flushed with exertion, you all head inside to refuel and celebrate a fun day of sport and competition.

One padel date turned into a shared passion that bonded you both with the other drivers too. And seeing your smile reflecting Max’s own euphoric one, you know this is only the start of many joyful tournaments and casual games together.

Maybe Max went a bit over-the-top in his newfound padel fever. But his willingness to dive headfirst into your interests fills you with more love than you ever thought possible.

Having someone care enough to enter your world so fully and share the things that light you up — that’s the most meaningful gesture of all.

A gentleman should learn to play a musical instrument or be a connoisseur of music, as serenading a lady can be a charming expression of affection.

Max turns the acoustic guitar over in his hands, plucking experimentally at the strings.

With your birthday coming up, serenading you seems like the perfect romantic gesture. Now he just has to actually learn how to play this thing. It seems simple enough — how hard can the guitar really be?

Max starts pressing on the strings randomly, the resulting discordant notes making him wince.

Okay, this might take some work.

Pulling up a beginner tutorial on his phone, he starts practicing the basic chords. But his fingers fumble clumsily, refusing to contort into the proper shapes. The more he tries, the worse the mangled sounds get.

Frustrated after the thirty minute lesson yields little improvement, Max sighs. “How am I supposed to woo my girlfriend with music if I can’t even play a damn C chord?”

Time for a professional to step in. Max books lessons with a private guitar instructor, determined to nail this down in time for your birthday surprise.

At the first lesson, the instructor eyes Max’s hands critically. “Right, let’s start by getting your fingers conditioned ...”

He takes Max through various stretching and dexterity exercises to limber up. Max nods along dutifully until the instructor pulls out a contraption with rubber bands and metal prongs.

“What the hell is that thing?” Max asks warily.

“A finger strengthener — we need to work on your independence and stamina,” he explains matter-of-factly, fitting the device over Max’s hand.

Max grimaces as the rubber bands strain against his fingers. The instructor just nods approvingly. “Perfect, twenty minutes per day with that.”

By the end of the torturous lesson, the only progress Max has made is identifying the parts of the guitar. He’s nowhere close to actually playing.

Max leaves discouraged but even more motivated to conquer the instrument somehow before your birthday. He continues meeting with the instructor multiple times a week, practicing rigorously outside of lessons too.

You notice his new habit of constantly stretching his fingers but Max plays it off casually not wanting to spoil the surprise.

The week before your birthday, Max has made marginal improvements but is still far from properly playing full songs. Desperate, he invites the instructor over for one final intensive lesson.

After two grueling hours of relentless drills, the instructor throws his hands up. “I’ve never had a student struggle this much with guitar basics. Maybe we should consider something easier, like the triangle or a recorder ...”

“No!” Max interrupts forcefully. “The guitar is a classic romantic instrument. I just need more practice before her party tomorrow.”

The instructor sighs. “If you say so. Just keep working on your fretting transitions and we’ll hope for the best.”

After he leaves, Max stays up late into the night strumming determinedly. By your birthday, his fingers are sore and calloused within an inch of their lives. But he can semi-confidently stumble through a love song and that’s enough for tonight.

When the moment arrives, he takes a deep breath and begins gently playing the intro to “Thinking Out Loud,” ready to serenade you. Max makes it halfway through before the chords descend into choppy noise.

You still applaud enthusiastically after, smiling ear to ear. “That was amazing, my love! Thank you so much.”

Max ducks his head bashfully. “It still needs some work. But I’m glad you liked it.”

Laughing, you take his tortured hands and kiss each fingertip. “I loved it because it came from you. That’s all that matters to me.”

Warmth blooms in Max’s chest. No matter how imperfect, you appreciated his efforts because of how much heart he put into it just for you.

In the end, no amount of lessons could transform Max into a virtuoso overnight. But he did become accomplished in one universal language — love.

And at the end of the day, that means everything.

A gentleman should recognize and appreciate a lady’s accomplishments, whether in the arts, charity work, or society.

“So Max, what are your thoughts on taking pole position here in Brazil?” The reporter asks.

Max grins into the mic. “Yeah, feels great to put it on pole here. The team has done an amazing job dialing in the car.”

He pauses and then adds, “Of course my girlfriend Y/N also put in a stellar qualifying effort yesterday covering the action for Sky Sports. Her commentary is always so eloquent and insightful.”

The reporter smiles amused as Max continues raving about your on-air skills for several minutes before remembering to refocus him on the results of the actual qualifying seasion.

This has become a familiar trend lately in Max’s interviews. No matter the question, he manages to redirect the conversation to highlight your various talents.

“... our pace was really strong today, I think we will be able to keep the top step tomorrow. Oh, speaking of strong pace, Y/N just ran a personal best 5k time last week during training ...”

In team debriefs, the same thing happens. Engineer queries about race strategy are derailed into praise about your presenting skills. PR reps trying to discuss Max’s social media posts somehow end up hearing about your recent venture into pottery making instead.

Even in casual conversations, you come up constantly.

“Morning, Max! How are you today?” His trainer asks while spotting a weight lifting session.

“Doing great! Y/N is also doing great, she’s learning Dutch and picking it up so quickly. Have I mentioned how talented she is with languages?”

By now the whole paddock is highly familiar with your many accomplishments, since Max seizes every possible opportunity to spotlight them.

You find it rather endearing, if a bit silly at times. Like when Max commandeered an entire interview just to detail the charities that you volunteer with.

“You know I’m capable of mentioning my own accomplishments if they come up naturally, right?” You tease him later.

Max looks sheepish. “I know, I just like bragging about you! I’m really proud of everything you do.”

You soften, giving him a quick kiss. “That’s really sweet. But maybe tone down the constant spotlight a little?” You suggest gently.

“Noted,” Max chuckles.

He makes an effort after that to highlight your achievements only when truly relevant. Because while he could praise you all day, Max also respects your wishes.

And he realizes you don’t need him to validate your worth — your talents speak for themselves. But he still can’t resist sharing little proud snippets whenever your accomplishments come up organically.

Over time you appreciate Max’s admiration and support more and more. Having someone so genuinely invested in all aspects of your life is incredibly touching.

Maybe he goes a bit overboard in his praising sometimes. But knowing that Max is always your biggest cheerleader, when it comes to racing coverage or otherwise, means everything.

A gentleman should seek the permission of the lady’s father or guardian before proposing, demonstrating respect for her family and social conventions. Once granted, he should choose an intimate setting for the proposal, away from the public eye. He must then express his intentions with sincerity, dropping to one knee and presenting a ring as a symbol of his commitment.

Max takes a deep breath, fidgeting with the small velvet box in his pocket. Today’s the day — he’s going to ask your father for permission to marry you.

You’ve reassured Max time and time again that your dad loves him but that does nothing to settle his nerves as he knocks on the front door of your childhood home.

When your father welcomes Max inside warmly, he relaxes slightly. Clearing his throat, Max launches into the speech he prepared.

“Sir, I’ve come today because I want to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage. We have been together for years now and I want to spend the rest of my life with her, completely committed to her happiness. She is the most amazing person I’ve ever known.”

Max pauses, blushing. “Sorry, I had this whole thing planned out better. I guess what I’m asking is — may I have your blessing to propose to Y/N?”

Your dad grins, clapping Max on the shoulder. “You know you didn’t have to be so formal about this. I already see you as part of the family.”

Max smiles bashfully. “I just wanted to show my respect for you and Y/N. Your blessing would mean a lot to me.”

“You have it absolutely. I couldn’t imagine anyone better for her than you.” He pulls Max into a hug. “Welcome to the family, son.”

Max leaves on cloud nine, thrilled to have this traditional step done right. Now on to planning the perfect proposal location away from prying eyes ...

After scouring options, Max selects a peaceful mountaintop in the Swiss Alps. Complete with luxury chalet just for the two of you — intimate but romantic.

Max painstakingly decorates it with flowers, candles, and photos of your relationship throughout the years. For the ring, he chooses two large natural diamonds in an unique asymmetrical setting, symbolic of two imperfect halves making a flawless whole.

Now fully prepared, Max just has to wait for your upcoming vacation to pop the question. He spends the days leading up to it buzzing with nervous excitement.

The helicopter ride to the mountain is pure torture for him. What if you say no? What if he fumbles the proposal speech? Endless doubts race through Max’s mind.

But as soon as he sees your delighted smile taking in the warmly lit cabin, his anxiety melts away. This evening is about letting his heart speak.

Through a private chef-cooked dinner, your laughter echoes in the chalet just like it always sounds. Full of joy and life and love.

Max knows that he’s ready.

Taking your hand gently, he leads you outside onto the moonlit balcony. Time to finally ask you to be his forever.

Max clears his throat, meeting your eyes. “Y/N, from the moment I met you, my world changed. Your smile and your light fill my days with meaning. You make me a better man.”

He slowly kneels, pulling out the ring box with trembling fingers. “I want to laugh with you, cry with you, share every high and low for the rest of our lives. Will you make me the luckiest man in the universe by becoming my wife?”

You clasp a hand over your mouth, eyes glimmering with tears. You only manage to get out a watery “Yes!” before also dropping to your knees in front of him.

Grinning ear to ear, Max slides the ring onto your finger with a kiss. “I promise to always love and cherish you.”

“And I promise the same to you, today and always.”

You throw your arms around him, both giddy with joy under the stars.

The customs that got you to this moment may have been old-fashioned but your love is timeless.

[mymoshangthoughts]

headcanon that airplane is the biggest liujiu shipper

wrote fanfiction, liked the concept, and when he saw them irl interact he was like "maaannn why'd i have to give them such a tragic ending??"

so initially when liu qingge lived through the caves and liuyuan started to get along, he was like "omg my ship is HAPPENING" but then he found out about cucumber bro and he's like, lowkey upset at shen yuan for sinking his ship x'D it's not the end of the world, but man, cucumber-bro really does suck the fun out of everything

so like, post series, shang qinghua is the middle of his very confusing Will-They-Won't-They courtship with Mobei-Jun. like on one hand, mobei is seRIOUSLY starting to make progress with things and shang qinghua is enjoying his violence-free and noodle-full life, but also mobei is like... fucking confusing.

so he decides, fuckit, im pretty sure i had some mind-reading amulet or someshit in chapter who-even-knows (prolly cucumber-bro, man that dudes memory is like a steel trap) and he's like "aight i'll go find that amulet and then i can figure out if my king is just giving me all the most confusing mixed signals in the world or if he's like, actually into me"

so he goes on the quest, somehow manages to snag the amulet, and all is well and good until he realizes he fucking misremembered the plot-lines. the PENDANT was the one with the mind reading powers, the AMULET gives you the ability to see and touch and communicate with ghosts!!

which is an objectively terrible and cursed thing that shang qinghua decidedly does not wanna bother with. hell no. he does not get paid enough for that shit. so while he's toying with the amulet over on an ding and contemplating what to do with it, he just happens to spot liu qingge being stalked by a ghost...

...a very specific ghost...

so, like any shipper with the opportunity to Make It Canon, airplane shooting toward the sky knows EXACTLY what to do with the amulet >:D