#courtship and curses

[merakiui]

tmdg!jade posts something like this on his magicam story (yes, this is directed at reader):

meanwhile tmdg!reader is posting things like this on her magicam (yes, this is directed at jade):

[y-rhywbeth2]

...in light of yesterday's mention of Illithid and sexual reproduction: Yes, we have printed words in an official sourcebook that says Torilian illithid absolutely do sexually reproduce.

With humanoids.

"Half-illithid are the progeny of mind flayers and various other creatures. Most often, such progeny are formed through magical tampering with the reproductive process of the host creature, rather than through direct mating." - Underdark

"Most often."

"Most often."

Is there a humanoid kink in mind flayer society? Is it frowned upon? I feel like that's the kind of thing that's frowned upon amongst the glorious master squids.

So generally they're playing geneticist and/or artificially inseminating people, but you still might want to look into protection if you're a mind flayer or banging one. I will bet money that the Emperor does not pay child support.

The children look like regular members of their non-illithid parent's species. But they have tentacles, eat brains, and have psychic powers.

[thekatebridgerton]

Ok but imagine an AU where the Bridgerton are known as the ‘cursed’ family because everything bad always happens around them and it is known that anyone who marries into the family will die a untimely death. Violet is the miraculous survivor, though her darling Edmund passed instead, and is determined to figure this stupid curse so her kids could find love. Her daughters have trouble in the marriage mart and all the ladies run away from her sons in fear.

But then, eight people fell in love with each of her children.

I love the idea of the 8 Bridgerton having a different version of the curse. For example with Anthony everything goes well except something embarrassing always happens before he proposes, Benedict's lovers always ghost him after one night with him, Colin always finds out some terrible scandal about the person he's courting, Daphne always being friendzoned just as she thinks she's falling for someone, Eloise is always overcome with the inexplicable urge to be 'very very honest' (and insulting )with any man approaching her for courtship, Francesca's prospects are met with non lethal accidents, Gregory always finds his picks either inlove or engaged to someone else and Hyacinth's suitors just don't stick around long enough to figure out how her curse activates .

And then you have Kate, who is somehow okay with having the public know that Anthony proposed after sucking her boobs as long as he doesn't marry her sister. Simon who is delighted at dating someone rumored to be cursed and does NOT see Daphne as a friend. Sophie who pretty much IS fighting Benedict's curse because it wasn't her fault she had to ghost him after a one night delight, it was Araminta who didn't let her leave the house. Penelope an actual secret gossip columnist which makes her Scandal the most explosive of all and has means to protect herself, Phillip the guy who loves when Eloise tells him all his flaws so he can improve them, Michael who is so drawn to Francesca he's okay with risking death, Lucy who is engaged to a man so gay he gave her leave to falling inlove freely, and Gareth, a guy so stubborn he wants to find the source of the Bridgerton curse by sticking around Hyacinth.

Violet's children fall one by one. As they finally find their soulmate, which has to be the one person willing to fight the curse, just as Edmund fought for Violet

[silver-dragonborn]

If anyone deserves vengeance, fire, and blood, it's Aemma Targaryen.

Give me fanfiction where she's a literal ghost haunting the halls of the Red Keep, shadowing Viserys's every step, and sending Alicent and Otto Hightower nightmares that keep them up all night. I want to see a situation where she makes life unbearable for the men who destroyed her. I want her curse to wrap around their necks and strangle them slowly. I want her ghostly form cradling her dead boy Baelon to appear before Viserys and say, "You have killed us, you have killed us, you have killed us." Aemma repeats herself until the words rise to a ghastly scream, jaw stretching, eyes rolling to the back of her head as she screams so loudly that Viserys's Lego land splinters and falls apart.

Just like Un-Cat hunting down Freys and Lannisters alike, let the curse of Aemma Targaryen tear the Greens apart from within. Let her rage consume those who've wronged her in an inferno until there's nothing left but ashes. Let her ghost lighten the load on Rhaenyra's shoulders so she can marry Harwin Strong and finally enjoy life with her beautiful, brown-haired boys without the Hightowers breathing down her neck.

[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.” 

[the-ipre]

You ever come up with the best character names and know you will never reach that peak again

[patriciavetinari]

Sorry for shitty light but that's a new dress that I like.

[merlindotpdf]

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

😳😳😳 omg...

[moondirti]

kyle yearns for his captain's approval. you're the perfect medium through which he can secure it.

featuring: gaz x fem!reader x price. very consensual. fondling. inspection. fluff. praise kink. objectification. cucking? anal play. mentions of dp and breeding. 4k words of nonsense.

when price asks gaz if he's got anyone at home, gaz answers.

truthfully. he'd be hesitant to admit that he does to anyone else – soap especially, what with his track record of worming his way into people's pants – but his captain is... his captain. jonathan price. a real force of nature, cursed with an uncanny determinism and a habit of getting what he wants regardless of if those around him are willing. gaz knows that price will find out eventually; when the ring he's been planning to purchase for months finds it's way onto your finger, and he requests a change be made to the dependants section of his paperwork. perhaps before then too, if he really did some digging. but gaz also knows that, if there were anyone to trust with this precious knowledge, it'd be him.

so, he tells him about the little number he's got tucked away in a home in south oxfordshire. it's the lazy afternoon before a big mission, and he shouldn't be drinking but he is, a tumbler cradled between his palms and the burn of rye whiskey loosening his tongue. price doesn't speak, just listens, as the sergeant gradually devolves into more and more detail about your meeting, your courtship, the work you distract yourself with when he's not around. and despite his reverence, he admits it all breathlessly, a sheepishness pervading every word. how is he expected to keep his composure when the air is so heavy? unrelenting scrutiny and the potent waft of cigar-smoke draw a hot flush to his skin, the older man humming every so often as a prompt for him to continue.

he wants to, oddly enough. gaz is a reticent man, second only to ghost when it comes to keeping his life private. but something about this circumstance has him ready to lay it all bare. he wants to tell price about how you kiss his neck, the wicked fucking ways in which you use your mouth to milk him dry. he wants to pull out his phone, scroll through the hidden album full of pictures of your tits, of home-made films that paint you in a cum-covered, dazzling light. he wants price to know that he chose right, wants to hear the praise whispered in his ear as his captain lays a sturdy clap onto his back.

instead, he shrugs.

"not much more to tell, cap."

"damn shame." price taps his cigar to rid of the ashes. "sounds like a proper match, garrick. good for you."

and it's enough. a big enough lump of wood to keep the needy fire in his belly roaring. he shifts in his seat to dissuade the heat, rubbing his jaw in contemplation like he hasn't already thought of a perfect way to reap more.

"tell you what, sir. we survive this next assignment, i'll bring you over to meet 'er."

it's a hairbreadth escape, but they do manage to make it back alive, albeit a bit more scarred than they once were. gaz gets home late at night to find you awake, waiting on him despite the incredibly short notice he'd given you for his arrival. it's there – in the foyer, his nose buried in your neck as you babble on about how much you missed him, and what you'll make for breakfast to celebrate, and questions like hey, are you okay? that cut looks fresh or when was the last time you slept? – that he breaks the news. you'll be having his captain over for dinner in two week's time.

of course you're overjoyed. you've been begging to meet the people he risks his life with ever since he told you what he did for work. the planning is immediate. you're dumping recipes on him the next morning, asking for his opinion on what appetiser, main, and dessert your guest of honour would enjoy best. and what's his poison, anyway? i can get my hands on a nice bottle of scotch if you think it'd be worth it. kyle doesn't have the heart to tell you that nothing you'll do would matter much, that price has already taken a liking to you. besides, if anything, your homemaking ability makes him chub up in his pants. best not to rob himself of that delight.

the night arrives as quick as it had been put forward. gaz has to dodge your attempts to put a tie on him, stifles your complaints with a kiss and insists that it's not that kind of dinner party. you're confused (bless you) but flit around making last minute preparations in your bustier midi-dress anyway, kitten-heels clicking against the polished hardwood floors. at a certain point, he can tell that you're fussing over nothing and pulls you by the hand to stand by the doorway with him.

"there's something i didn't mention earlier." he whispers when you're finally settled, tucking his index finger under your chin. your brows knit anxiously. he pecks the canyons between them, stroking your bottom lip until the frazzled energy bleeds from you.

"why would you wait? there's not enough t–"

"not exactly something you can plan for, doll. s'just gonna happen." when you fail to push him for more context, he sighs. "price is expecting to see you."

"sure... that's the whole point, isn't it?"

"no, sweetheart." gaz's free hand wraps around your waist, lowering until it reaches the plush sweel of your ass. his touch lays breadcrumbs for you to follow, leading you down the very depraved path he's trekked a million times the past few weeks. "i mean all of you."

your lips part in realization. oh. he's scared straight for a second, heart hammering like it always does when he reveals a darker fantasy to you. but you merely smile – anxious, sure, pupils clouded with fresh concern, but a smile nonetheless – and accept his admission gracefully.

"and you want me to let him?"

gaz nods. "if you'd please."

you place a chaste kiss on his cheek, careful not to smear your makeup onto his clean-shaven skin. "okay."

he visibly slackens, an edge of playfulness cutting it's way back into his tone. "what's say we take those panties off, make things easier when the time arrives?"

"can' remember the last time i had a beef welly this good, love. family recipe?"

"yes, actually! but it took me some time to perfect for my own. the original called for sherry in the duxelle, but i always thought wine was better suited."

kyle doesn't know if he's ever been more proud of you.

you're a vision. the paradigm of charm. he half feared things to would be awkward following your conversation at the doorway, but aside from the first few minutes of price's arrival – the time it took everyone to thaw the ice of unfamiliarity – you've been anything but stilted. in fact, he worries that you missed the true implication of his request – of the direction things will take later – given the way you laugh openly. the ease in which you bridge conversation topics. your attentiveness, eyes roving over both your boyfriend and his captain to ensure everyone has everything they need. you certainly don't act like a girl who's going to be nakedly appraised tonight. all the expected clumsiness, the stumbling over your own words, replaced instead by eloquence and quick wit.

sweet girl. bloody... beautiful, darling girl.

price seems to think so too. he chuckles heartily at the stories you offer of kyle failing learning to waterski during your anniversary trip to mauritius (and offers his own insight too, something along the lines of how you'd expect the sergeant to be better balanced, given he's survived hanging off a helicopter before). offers some solid advice on how to deal with the ostentatious coworker whose been bugging you for months. and when you question him about his personal life – a line every good soldier knows not to take with their CO, which has gaz wincing internally – all your guest offers is a genuine, crinkle-eye smile. no doubt appreciative of the non-intrusive manner you ask.

he shoots gaz a look before answering, and it's one full of tacky warmth. a look he's seen several times on the field, molasses sweet and satisfying, one that invades his private thoughts too often to admit. whose effect he knows only comes off in a cold shower, a quick pump to his cock if you're not around to help relieve it. something like approval. unspoken praise.

"wish i could say i've been blessed like the two of ya. married to my work, m'afraid."

"oh." you wave your arms, standing to clear the table of dirty plates. "don't be ridiculous, john. you're a wonderful man. put yourself out there and i'm sure it'll come to you." you say it like it's breathing, and just as easily prance away to the kitchen, your voice losing to the clatter of silverware in the sink. thus, when you yell out something about dessert (price is really only able to decipher i made madeira! over the illegible chorus of cabinets closing) kyle is the one to answer you. well-trained in untangling your voice from any sort of ruckus, poor cell reception and moans and drunk gibberish and the obstructive fabric of his hoodie when you sob into his chest.

"maybe later, doll!" he voices back, scratching the back of his neck as he takes in the food still laid out in front of them. picked apart by hungry forks but still, enough to make up days worth of leftovers.

"mm. the girl stuffed me full, garrick." price stretches from his seat. "if i didnt know any better, i'd reckon you lot were fattening me up to feast on me come winter."

gaz stores the remains of your meal into nearby tupperwares then follows suit, urging his captain to follow him into the lounge. "please," he laughs, nodding when the man pulls a cigar from his pocket and twists it in a silent question. "she thinks they starve us out there. tries to make up for it by feedin' me into oblivion when i'm home."

"speak for yourself. i could do with a home-cooked meal every now 'n' then." the captain takes a puff of the maduro between his fingers, lets the smoke cloud his hindbrain. your house smells so much like you, like kyle and you – warm laundry and anise and jasmine – that he feels a quick lick of guilt at ruining the fragile balance of it. too little too late, too – the scent of leather and oily spice pervades the space.

but you don't mention it once you waltz back in, smoothing your hands across the back of your dress. "if we don't get a chance to try the cake tonight, remind me to send you home with some, john." gaz poorly conceals his laugh with a cough, sinking into the cushion when you shoot him an offended look. "what?"

"nothing," he pouts, then hides his next words behind the back of his hand, whispering to price. "i told you."

"i can hear you, you twat!" you flick his ear, brows furrowed in faux irritation as your boyfriend wraps an arm around your legs.

"i know! hey– i know, gorgeous. was only joking." his forehead nudges your tummy, restless until you comb your hand over his tight curls. "th'captain knows that too. isn't that right, sir?"

"of course."

"you laugh now, but wait until you're halfway through a month long mission. you'll wish you had me around!"

"don't i know it." kyle murmurs, the fingers at the back of your thigh slowly creeping upward. the skirt of your dress slips, climbs up your legs with the motion of his forearm, and all too suddenly he remembers your lack of undergarments.

fuck. he almost forget he pocketed your panties. and you... you've been so natural, such a good hostess despite the cold brush of air constantly on your cunt. it flips a primal switch inside him – that same trigger that'd prompted mention of this night in the first place. blood rushes to his cock so fast it hurts, desperation flooding his lungs until the only thing he can breathe out is your name.

"hmmm." you smile in return. and if price weren't here, he'd bury his nose into the canyon between your legs and take a deep inhale of your natural musk.

but he is, and so all gaz can manage is a quiet: "how about you show the captain our little surprise?"

"oh?" the man in question hums. dangerously relaxed, two legs spread and his posture curved as he watches the little display you put on for him. "what's this about a surprise, then?"

you bite your lip, raking your nails down from your boyfriend's neck to his shoulder and placing a tight, reassuring squeeze there before breaking away. nothing is said as you push an ottoman between price's knees, making sure it's steady before pushing him to rest against the back of the couch.

"do you like my dress?" you practically purr, bending over as to pronounce your tits. kyle's breath stutters, watching for the way superior's eyes take in your form. gratification swells in his belly when he just smiles, patting your hip.

"s'that really a question that needs to be asked, lovie? you know the answer."

an adorable mix between a shrug and giggle is all you give. "kyle says you want to see me."

"aye. i do."

"and i wanna make him happy."

"same for me."

and kyle thinks he could just cum in his pants if this keeps up. he feels filthy, both an observer and the main act in this spectacle. the knowledge that his captain doesn't just want you, the love of his life, but him too works away at him, hollowing him out until he's nothing but a husk of docile yearning.

"so, what'll it be?" you say.

"turn around. elbows on the ottoman, knees on either side of my thighs."

you obey instantly, lamplight catching the heated flush of your skin while you position yourself according to price's wishes. your back arcs so that your ass is prominently within his view, plump even beneath the loose material of your dress.

"kyle."

"sir." he coughs, shifting to conspicuously adjust the aching mass tucked in his waistband.

"on your knees, son. righ' here beside me. when i ask a question, you're expected to answer."

"yes, sir."

"got tha' that, lovie?" he grunts. "respond now, and then it's silence from you."

"okay!" you wiggle your hips, forgetting yourself for a moment. "sir!"

this gaz can do. following orders. grounded pragmatism, however far this is from a professional setting. he figures price has gleaned as much, has given him this task so he doesn't flounder off track throughout the evening and ruin things for everyone. the hard part is over then, all of that hesitant foreplay – of opening up, getting you to agree, of the stretch of time it took for everyone to warm up to one another – wrapped up for something simpler.

all he has to worry about is answering promptly and correctly while he watches his captain–

flip your skirt over your hips.

a low whistle. then, two hands on your backside, kneading the soft flesh there. working either globe apart like dough, the glistening seam of your most private parts spread open to prying eyes. price appraises your cunt for the first time like he would a winning showdog, or the sky on a particularly pleasant day. all utilitarian-like. if it weren't for the bulge in his trousers, your boyfriend would almost be offended.

"no panties, hm?"

"no-" you start, squeaking out an apology when you earn a firm swat to your thigh.

"i asked her to go without them tonight. thought... you'd appreciate it, sir." kyle replies, swallowing the saliva that arises upon seeing your lips flutter.

"good lad." a hot flash of arousal breaks across his chest. the captain lets go of his grip on your ass, watching how the fat jiggles back into place, then returns to squeezing it. "surprised i couldn't smell 'er, way she was dancing around us all night."

it isn't a question, so gaz stays quiet.

the groping continues. sometimes its light – brushes of calloused palms across the area, disturbing the stillness like a rock skipping over water. you ripple when he pokes, shake when he taps. other times, and increasingly once price notes your resilience to pain, it borders on rough. moulding your flesh into compact pinches, jabbing his thumb into the softness so hard it'll bruise. you take it all with grace, a low whine building in your chest that he let's go unpunished.

"she's taking this well. you rough her up often?"

"when she asks, sir." he thinks for a moment, catching your wily smile from the corner of his eye. minx. "likes it more than i do giving it to her."

"need someone to take care of the both of ya." price chuckles, then moves on, oblivious to the way the sergeant's hips buck at his implication. or, maybe he notices – probably does – and stores it away for another time. "looks like a greedy little pussy to me." his thumbs hook onto either side of your labia, pulling it apart like fresh bed to reveal the sloppy mess between. your clit is enflamed, angry for being neglected for so long. if you were allowed to speak, kyle can guarantee with almost a hundred percent certainty that you'd be whining to be touched. "look a' tha'." price's accent grows thicker. "fat little thing just jumping for attention."

he curls a finger, then flicks the swollen bud. a loud moan bursts from you, your face falling between your forearms as you hold yourself back from begging. gaz would've acquiesced by now, would've rubbing the bundle of nerves raw the second you fanned your pretty lashes up at him.

but price snaps it three more times in rapid succession, which apparently is too much for you to handle because you yell. "p-please!"

he remedies your slip up with a slap to the same area. the crack on impact echoes long enough to tell him that one hurt. "shhh. so spoiled, sergeant. how often do you make her cum?"

"a-at least three times a go, sir."

"what's the record?"

"eight."

"and the longest you've held off?"

kyle hesitates, bowing his head for the reprimand he knows is coming. "never... never tried. sir."

"tch."

a precision blow. swift but petrifying. the captain's managed to find both your loose strings in a matter of minutes, tugging to see them come undone on his lap. gaz has got the unwavering urge to rest his chin on his strong thigh, put it on the record that he isn't weak willed, just indulgent. something that can be easily remedied, with his guidance. if he'd let him.

and you...

you're gyrating your hips, begging for some pressure on your aching centre. price gives it to you, though not in the way you expect, pinching your clit and tightening his hold until you're motionless, muscles trembling but otherwise perfectly poised.

so the inspection continues. he fans out your vulva, exposing the hole that clenches around nothing. a laugh wracks his frame at the sight, the aftermath of it husky. amused. "begging to be filled, a'right. how many cocks has she had in 'ere?"

"just mine, sir. and her toys."

"how about at once?"

kyle's never been so bold with you; has always held back that godless part of him, that needy dog he sees his comrades often embrace. pure, unfettered degeneracy. you're soft, and pretty and good and a high-functioning member of society. and he's never once wanted to see you hurt, uncomfortable or bite-mark-bloodied, despite the way his mind screams at him to at least ask. see if you'd be willing to appease that side of him.

yet you visibly shiver at the thought proposed by price, gooseflesh pocking your skin, and he knows he should have thrown caution to the wind.

"one, sir."

he watches the man's finger outline the circumference of your opening, dipping in by the millimetre to test the waters. "shame. could probably stretch her out. get 'er nice and loose for whenever you wan' something to keep you warm without the commitment."

the finger plunges in.

gaz watches you swallow his superior to the last knuckle in what must be a world-record, no time to blink lest he misses it. price goes with the motion, setting his free hand onto your ass to keep you steady as he wiggles his digit to make space amidst the tight embrace of your walls. or, that's what he thinks is happening. the only indication he has of things are the lewd squelches your cunt emits and the face of pure ecstasy you pull. but he's well-versed enough in your bodily functions that he's sure of his estimate.

"scratch wha' i said. nothing beats this." his superior groans, and for the first time that night, adjusts himself in his pants. kyle wishes he would pull it out, allow himself the relief of freeing a raging hard-on from its confines. but kyle also wishes that he could be given something to do, something with his mouth perhaps, to sate the unaddressed thrill in his bones. it wouldn't take a smart man to figure out that both wishes are very much correlated. "fucking suffocating clutch. wouldn' pull out if my life depended on it. pussy like this isn' made for that, garrick."

"sir?"

"you cum inside her, lad?"

"i- yes. i-i do. she's on birth control."

"best to see to that, then." he says, like the contraceptive is an obstacle and not a consolation. you release another, long-winded moan, to which price pulls his finger out to pat your vulva. like taming a wild animal. "though what i said still stands. could always do with a loose hole."

his hand inches up.

this time, it's gaz who groans.

loudly. his eyes fluttering halfway shut, hands tugging at the tight fabric over his groin. you throw a curious look over your shoulder, concern glossing your pupils until you confirm that the source of the sound isn't pain, but pleasure. ecstasy at finally having his wants vocalised, that incessant impulse that nags and nags and nags anytime he's fucking you from behind, tight rim practically leering up at him, tempting him to thrust upwards and 'accidentally' slip in.

"you like that, sergeant? hm? ever use this asshole? it looks unbroken to me."

"y-you're... not wrong, sir. i–"

"but you want to?" he finishes for him, scooping some of the abundant slick from your cunt and slathering it onto your back entrance. it's not enough lubrication to do anything but press one thumb in, but he repeats the process to push the other in alongside it.

"yeah."

you give him a look that can't mean anything except we'll talk about this later and he can bloody kiss price if he was given permission to, if not for anything but helping him open this impossible subject with you.

"we'll see to tha' some other day, then."

his thumbs retreat. your hole winks shut again. gaz is torn between looking at you or his captain, but the latter man robs him of the indecision by bringing his dominant index and middle fingers to his lips. they're shiny with the remnants of your fluids, as if he needed any incitement to wrap his mouth around the digits. he works at them until price's fingers prune, laving his tongue around the knuckles, against the nail beds, all the way through to the fold of skin between them.

so desperate to please, to see to it that 'some other day' is everyday henceforth.

a future with price by your sides. beyond just the field. the bite in your supple existence. spice supporting anise and jasmine, some aphrodisiac blend that'll carry you through to the end of your lives, happy. sated. a mediator. commander. captain. his captain.

"that's a good boy."

he could really get used to this.

[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.

[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

[lullinglily]

His Promised Consort (Messmer the Impaler X Fem!Reader)

Being the firstborn of Queen Marika means that Messmer carries a great deal of importance concerning who he is to marry. Marika saw to that, of course.

While it was troublesome finding a family that would relinquish their child to one as serpentine as he, she did eventually find a willing house.

You were the daughter of a wealthy noble family settled inside the walls of the Royal Capital, and a strong contender for the prince’s hand.

When Marika first tells her son of the meeting she’s set up, he’s terrified. How could one come to love him, cursed as he is?

Nevertheless, he wishes to please his mother. 

The young prince is especially clueless when it comes to these sort of things and finds himself frequently asking for help from his servants. How does one woo a young lady such as yourself? What if you dislike him? It’s far too often that his chamberlain catches him venting his anxieties to his serpent companions. 

When he first meets you you’re almost his exact height. It’s no big surprise; you’re both quite close in age, after all. After the initial meeting however, Messmer’s demigod status begins to show. Each time you meet he’s about a foot taller. While you’re looking up at him in awe, he’s staring down at you in confusion. Why is it that you still don’t make it up to his chest?

He never ceases to be charmingly awkward each time you meet. Even though he’s grown he still acts like a shy young boy, especially around you. Fumbling with his hands, regaling you with tales of his family’s successes, stumbling over his verbosity … It’s adorable. 

Later on in the courtship, Queen Marika herself will invite both you and Messmer to catch up on your own while she and your family discuss things further. It’s a little nerve-racking of course, but Messmer approaches this task with total earnestness. He wants you to like him; to be proud of him and his family. And so, he takes you on a tour of Leyndell castle. He shows you around and gives you lengthly explanations of each and every inch of the place while trying to ignore how quickly his heart is beating. He finds it difficult to talk when a simple glance from you is enough to tie his tongue up in knots.

From time to time there will be dinners at either family’s residences, and the both of you will always be sat together. The prince uses these opportunities to be as gentlemanly as possible; pulling out your chair for you, asking if you need anything, if the food is to your liking, etc … While it’s not his intention, it never ceases to fluster you. So much so that at some point you pull him aside and tell him that all you truly want is to hear him talk about himself; about his desires and what he likes. And that, while you appreciate how accommodating he always is, you’d like to know less about the prince and more about Messmer. It’s after this discussion that he becomes more relaxed, and more intrigued with you as a whole. He’s still awkward in your presence, still eager to please, but somehow less uptight about it all. 

His snakes grow closer to you each time you visit as well. At first they approach you only to take you in, their eyes working you over before pulling back towards their master. As your relationship with Messmer grows so too does his serpents’ fondness for you. They keep their eyes on you even when their Lord’s back is turned, much to his chagrin. They’ve gotten more comfortable with your presence, gently rubbing against you as if urging you to pet them. The moment you enter the room they perk up, flicking their tongues in greeting as they move towards you, often prompting Messmer to gently reel them back. 

It’s hard for him to believe that eventually the both of you will be married. You seem to him a princess already, perfect in every way possible, and so different from his curse-ridden self. 

You mean everything to him. After years of courting you, of feeling unworthy of your grace, of awkward brushes against each other and a final exchanging of vows; you were together. He simply could not have been happier.

Your wedding was grand, yet few people were allowed in to witness it. Those who were granted access to the union told of a serious looking Messmer attempting to hold back a smile as the priest read aloud the words he was meant to repeat; words which he echoed almost as soon as they were spoken to him. His voice, while stoic, was betrayed by this telling notion of excitement. 

The both of you lived together in Leyndell only for as long as it took Messmer and his mother to plan the crusade. You’d enjoyed your time there, your husband could tell, but he swore to you the Land of Shadow would be far more to your tastes. A land in which he alone ruled, and so too would you. 

He left once the plan was ready to be put into action, placing a gentle kiss on your hand where the ring he gave you rested. He promised to return for you once his crusade had its first few successes, and soon enough it had. 

You’d missed him, and by the way he enveloped you in his lanky embrace it seemed he missed you just as terribly —  if not more so. 

While you were sure your marriage to your husband and his horrid deeds sullied the name of your house, you refused to leave him. You were both quite attached to each other.

Messmer’s Fire Knights told of the bond between him and his Pyrefly Consort, how it had existed since childhood and held strong even in the death-touched land they both now occupied. 

Never would those under his command have the privilege of seeing the both of you doting on each other. In fact, anyone who bore witness to The Impaler himself melting in his wife’s arms would be incinerated on the spot. 

After everything had been said and done, after Messmer and his crusade had been denounced by the very Order they served, after Marika’s blessings had halted; you remained his. In that grim keep he had only you and his seal to remind him of his mother, of Marika and her kindness. 

While his seal was still in its place, it was no heartfelt gift. You, however, were. 

You who so sweetly regarded him as your one and only beloved, you who he’d known for so long it felt as though you were a part of his very being. You whom he loved so dearly, so completely. When those he trusted rebelled against him, when his name was made into a four-letter word and even his mother seemed to have forgotten him, you still took his bloodied hands in yours. 

And for that he will forever be in your debt. 

[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...

[really-fanny-longbottom]

Only In My Dreams [Part Three]

Summary: The beginning of the end.

Warnings: Mentions of death, violence, abuse and burns (not too descriptive)

Words: 8.9k

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 Y/N 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 has 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.

"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, 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 says there's an old male who's experienced in rare powers, but it might not mean anything," Feyre let out another sigh, "she says 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 Archeron 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 start 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." 

"Hmm," 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." 

And so he did.

-

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-hmm." Your response was followed by a light kiss on your temple before another was placed on your cheek.

What was this feeling in your belly? 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. 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 in the garden?" 

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’s waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Nesta asked.

Amren stood and went to pour a glass of wine. “Not for what, but 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 in denial. 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. 

"Y/N!" 

Their hearts were pounding as they got closer. 

"Y/N!" 

Just a few steps away, several prayers were sent to the Mother for you. 

"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 unmade and 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! There will be one or two more parts (I haven't decided yet) and I have a lot of ideas to finish it off in style!

[Masterlist]

General Taglist: @emryb @fantasyandshit @azrielover @shadowsingercassia @brieflyclassymortal @lilah-asteria @lure-of-writing @pruvii @olive-main @mybestfriendmademe @anuttellaa @lively-potter @meul-a @mrsjna @avajustreads @littlelou22 @talesofadragon @circe143 @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @dark-chaos-314 @tequilya @scoliobean @saltedcoffeescotch @charlotteintumbleland @agirlwithwifiandalaptop

Taglist Fic: @crazylokonugget @quinzzelx @cumuluscranium @i-am-infinite @rcarbo1 @romantasyreader28 @thegreyjoyed @whyshouldihaveanam3 @meher-sumedha @paleidiot @skylarkalchemist @thestartitaness @romanoffslegacy @bookwormysblog @sandramalikstyles-blog @peachcontour-blog @tele86 @sidthedollface2 @kitsunetori @thegoddessofnothingness @myromanempiree @fxckmiup @ruler-of-hades @angelofl0ve

*if you asked to be tagged and you weren't, it's because I couldn't find your blog.

the beautiful dividers belong to @cafekitsune

[fraugwinska]

Going with the times was amazing! Thank you so much. If I may can I get another Alastor x Reader who is a very affectionate person like always going in for hugs if she's close to them and she gets drunk and starts trying her hardest to give Husk a hug because he looks so grumpy, so he summons Alastor to come get his girlfriend. Who then gets incredibly happy to see him and just clings to him after he picks her up. Id also like to see Angels reaction to all of this.

You are awesome!

No, YOU are awsome! :> I do love Husk and Angel together, throw drunken Reader into the mix and we have ourselfes some chaos :D I sincerely hope you like it! <3

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Take the edge off

It had started so innocently. 

For the first time since you met him, Husk had actually, actively invited you for an after-dinner-sendoff-drink at the bar, along with Angel. 

Coming from him, the one that had been the most on the fence with you, you didn't dare to pass this opportunity. It was understandable though. Husk had a deep distrust in Alastor, and, by proxy, in you when he had introduced you to the surprised residents as his ‘courtship’. 

You had visited the hotel often after that, staying for activities or dinners, bringing over some baked goods or homemade treats if your work schedule allowed time for it, lending listening ears and comforting hugs in spades to anyone who needed it and earned the admiration - or at least acceptance of your presence - from almost everyone over time. Almost. 

Husk, ever the skeptic, had made it clear to you he wouldn't want to have any relations to demons who chose to stay at Alastor's side, let alone his ‘partner’. 

But you stubbornly persisted, even though it had hurt, even though Alastor would pat your head and tell you it was wasted labor - you still tried, bringing an extra bottle of the herb sirup you knew Husk liked to spice his drinks with, or you tried to engage him in conversations about things you learned he was interested in. Now, your earnest efforts had seemed to finally been fruitful - instead of invading, you were finally invited to sit at his bar. 

In all the nervousness of not fucking this up, you drank too much, way too fast. You were a lightweight on good days, but now, after five not-so-kid-friendly drinks in the span of less than an hour, you were… unhinged. 

“I told ‘ya the last Gin Tonic was too much for her!”

Angel snorted with laughter, two hands holding you back from climbing over the bar to an aggravated Husk, arms outstretched and whining loudly. 

“Huuuuuuusk, come on, just oooone!”, you struggled against Angels grip on your waist, eager to reach the furry demon and put your arms around him, “I give the bestest, bestestest hugs ever, you cannot not smile, I promise!” 

Husk ducked with a mumbled curse, dodging your gripping hands when Angel temporarily lost grip on you because he laughed too hard at the chaotic mess that you were - normally his job, with Charlie as the babysitter - oh, how tables turned. 

“Fuckin-... how the hell was I supposed to know that she'd turn into a goddamn demonic care bear?!” Husk grunted, pulling the feathery end of his tail out of your hands - you had caught it with delighted giggles and glee, and pouted when it slipped out of your fingers. 

“Niffty! YO, NIFFTY!”, he bellowed, looking down to find her already at his side behind the bar. 

“Shit, you're fast. Oy, go and get Alastor, pronto, tell him his friggin’ girlfriend is…” Husk was pulled back by his neck, a sudden weight on his back making him swallow the end of his sentence. You had managed to escape Angels restrictive hands, and slung your arms around the cat demons neck, nuzzling your cheeks into the fur on his back. 

“Theeeere ya go! Feel the frown turn upside down!”, you sang, words muffled by his pelt, grip as strong as iron. Husk groaned, prying at your hands, but - to no avail and Angels absolute amusement - you tightened your hold on him the more he struggled. 

Niffty tilted her head, clearly not fazed by what was happening. Angel heaved, clutching his chest as he tried to calm down enough to speak. 

“Niff, just… pfff, stop that, leave his whiskers alone babe, holy shit, huh-huh, okay, okay… just run an’ tell Smiles to get his doll before she strangles Husky, okay?”

The little bug nodded eagerly and scurried away. 

Angel turned to Husk, still a highly bemused grin on his face. “‘Ya know, having the radio demons lover hanging around ‘ya neck might earn ‘ya some major street cred.”

“Oh, you fuck off if yo’ can’t help.”Husk growled, trying to ignore your figure, still clutched onto him like a living backpack. “Get off me kid, come on, dammit.”

“But you're not happy yet.”, you said innocently, refusing to let go. 

Angel gave Husk a meaningful look. “‘Ya know, she really does give great hugs, when she's sober and not batshit crazy drunk like this.”

“I don't need hugs, I need a fucking drink is what I need.”

“Huuuuusk…”, you whined again, quieter now, sadder. “Why do you hate me?”

Husk stood still, exchanging a look with Angel, who seemed pitiful now. He nudged his head to the two of you as a silent command: Say something nice. Husk sighed, patting your arm around his neck awkwardly. 

“I don't hate yo’, kid.” 

“Yeah you do… I just want to be friends, see your happy face, smiling… but you hate me…”

Angel narrowed his eyes at him, mouthing ‘Do better’, and he huffed. 

“Jesus fuckin…, listen, I don’t like yo’ choices of men, but ...you're alright. Way better than yo’ bitch ass of a boyfriend at least.”

Angel opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of Alastor's signature jazz background music approached and he quickly decided to just sit back, out of the immediate danger zone but near enough to have a first class seat to whatever would happen now. 

Alastor walked up with an amused smile and curious expression. 

“Evening, my fellow friends. Niffty came to me with a cryptic message, about my darling doe strangling our beloved bartender?”

Husk scoffed, turning around so the radio demon could see you hanging on him like a koala on a tree trunk, pointing at you. “This yours?”

Alastor laughed, his face lighting up in a softness Husk had seldom seen before. 

“Indeed, it seems to be.” He chuckled, stepping up to you. “Darling?”

You rose your head at the sound of his voice, smiling happily when you recognized him. 

“Al!” He caught you with ease when you jumped from Husk’s back straight into his arms, patting your back as you locked your arms around his waist. “My, those two did their diligent work, you are quite inebriated.”

You giggled into his coat. “Yup, I am hammered like a rusty nail!” You lifted your head, beaming up with tired eyes at his bemused grin. “And Al, guess what! Husk said I'm not an ass like you, so he doesn't hate me anymore! I’m alright!”

Husk, who rubbed his sore neck, froze at your words, quickly shooting the radio demon a glance. Static crackled and for a second, he shivered from the licks of electricity running over his spine, making his fur stand up. But nothing further happened. Alastor just smiled at you, ignoring the cat demon completely, and ruffled your hair. “How good for you love, you did it afterall! But it’s late now, why don’t you stay here tonight?” “That’d be nice…”, you sighed, sleepy and exhausted.

You let his waist go, only to wrap your arms around his neck as he scooped you up to carry you. Angel and Husk gawked at the scene before them, questioning reality as Alastor, of all people, pressed his lips to the crown of your head, which made you humm and turned to leave, leaving the bar without so much as a cheerful "Good night, chums.".

Angel leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands in his hands, watching the pair disappear in the dark with an amazed expression. "Man, she really takes his villain-y edge off, doesn't she? Kinda scary how she gets Smiles to almost behave human." Husk poured himself another drink. "Scary doesn't even cut it." He took a huge swig, but he still had to grin.

[heian-era-housewife]

The Pebble

Synopsis | The pebble-picking courtship rituals of penguins may just be the key to winning your heart and saving Sukuna's sore tushy.

Content | fem!reader x Sukuna, fluff, sweetness, smol angst, penguins!

"Nothing!" You say, completely unprompted, voice cracking slightly as you shove a suspicious something-or-other into your pocket. You turn to face Sukuna as he closes the distance down the sidewalk where you'd ran ahead.

"Again?" He he deadpans, voice flat and thick with judgement. "Like you need any more."

"This one was kind of pink...like your hair," you pout with childlike innocence, scuffing your foot.

"Where are you even keeping all of these rocks?" He asks, knowing fully they've been dotting odd corners of your home as of late. He's found them popping up on windowsills, countertops, even clunking around in the laundry on the not-so-infrequent occasion you forget to take them out of your pocket.

You offer a shrug and non-commital murmur, still sulking.

"Fine," He yields, annoyed yet secretly enamored with your odd fixation. "Let me see it."

Smiling brightly, you plunk the little pink stone into the palm of his large hand, bobbing slightly on your toes, awaiting his appraisal.

"Hmm. It is kind of pink." He concedes, squinting down his nose at it with the air of a much older man.

****

Returning home later that week, seeking the comfort of his favorite chair, he sinks tired and battle-worn into its plush cushion only to be met with a sharp jab to the rump. Jolting up from his seat, he swipes away a jagged stone from its cushion, cursing as he plops himself down once more, scorning your infernal hobby.

=JAB=

Jumping up a second time, he flings away the cushion revealing another lumpy pinkish rock that slipped its way beneath the plush seat making a mockery of his sore and sullied behind.

"Woman..." he growls.

****

Another night, over dinner, you wave your chopsticks fervently, demonstrating as much as telling a zoned-out and seemingly uninterested Sukuna all about a program you saw earlier that day.

"-and the male penguin searches the whole beach for the perfect pebble, right?"

"Mhm," he chews absently.

"He'll walk all over looking for the best one. It can take days sometimes!"

"Mm..."

"They usually look for the shiniest ones and then when they find it they- Ryo?"

"Hm?" He grunts without looking up.

"Are you listening...?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I, uh. Then they-" you fade out watching as his eyes glaze over. "Nevermind..."

He looks up just in time to catch your polite yet sad smile as you return to eating your dinner in quiet.

*****

He's not sure what started it, or even why you're upset. All he knows is a fight has broken out between you. Nothing too serious, but enough that you've taken a drive to clear your head, something you've rarely done before over an argument. It worries him.

Sukuna is used to fighting. He does it all the time. You could argue it's his favorite passtime. But not with you. Not here. His home is his sanctuary and you are his refuge. An unfamiliar feeling of guilt and unease settles in his stomach making him shudder. Absently turning on the TV and moving to his chair, he decides to sit, remembering to check for stray rocks this time. Staring blankly into space, wondering what he's done to set you off and how he might fix it, a feeling of déjà vu reaches his mind from the distant voice on the television.

"-he's spent days searching for the perfect stone. Now, as he makes his way back toward his chosen mate, the male penguin is hopeful she'll accept his courtship offering."

His eyes flick to the screen with rapt curiosity as the penguin offers the beach's shiniest pebble to the waiting female.

"Placing the pebble carefully within the center of her nest, she displays the male's offering as a sign of their successful pairing. Now the two will continue to hunt for rocks with which to complete their nest together."

Sukuna bites back the ridiculous urge to pump his fist in triumph for the hopeful male. Springing to his feet, he knows exactly what he must do.

*****

Later that evening you return, the bitter sting of your earlier argument now a soft ache in your chest. You decided to run some errands while you were out, huffing through the door with the entirety of your grocery run split between your two straining arms.

"Woman!" Sukuna's voice cuts through the quiet, its usual edge replaced by doting concern. "Let me help you!"

"It's fine, Ryo, I-" you stop dead in your tracks, eyes landing on a fixture you've never seen before. A bag slides from your slackened grip, punctuating the silence. "Ryo? What is that?"

"Do you like it?" He asks, eyes cast timidly to the side, one sheepish hand stroking the back of his neck.

"You...you built a shelf for all my s-stupid rocks while I was...gone?" Your words catching in disbelief.

"I can take it down if you don-"

=FWUMP=

All the bags hit the floor simultaneously as your arms wrap tightly around his middle, face buried against his chest. Salty tears stain his robes as you babble incoherently against his heart's steady beating. After a moment, he taps your shoulder.

"There's a new one, too," he hums in a low voice. Pointing toward the shelf's center a glittering pebble the same shade as your eyes catches the evening's fading light. "I didn't spend hours searching an entire beach for it..." he jokes softly, "...but I hope you'll still..."

Reaching up, you pull him in for a salt-stained kiss- the first of many more that evening. The fear that you bore him, the occassional worry that he doesn't care to listen to the ramblings of a half-mad woman in love, swept away by the lessons of a penguin and one perfect, shining pebble.