#Stamping up France

[mlady-magnolia]

HEAR ME OUT

MI GIRLS WITH TATTOOS 🤭🤭

FUCK YEAH MI GIRLS WITH TATTOOS

[enhaflixer]

pjs - The Prince's Diaries - full fic

💌 Synopsis: Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing. You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia. But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love. Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart. “If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”

cw: SMUT but lots of fluff, smut on a piano, smut in a library, smut on a chaise, lots of fluff barely any angst the reader is in distress cuz of this whole princess thing.

-

Your alarm blares for the third time, and you finally surrender to consciousness, throwing your arm out to silence the offending device. Another Monday. Another week of classes, part-time work, and trying to stretch your student budget until the next paycheck. Nothing special.

The apartment you share with your roommate isn't much—a cramped two-bedroom with perpetually spotty WiFi and a temperamental shower—but it's home. At least for now.

"Late night?" Your roommate smirks over her coffee mug as you stumble into the kitchen, hair still wrapped in a towel.

"Research paper," you groan, reaching for the coffee pot. "Professor Kim is trying to kill us all before midterms."

You're pouring cereal when a sharp knock at the door makes you jump, spilling Cheerios across the counter.

"You expecting someone?" your roommate asks, already heading to answer it.

You aren't. It's 8:37 AM on a Monday. Nobody visits at 8:37 AM on a Monday.

When your roommate opens the door, the hallway seems suddenly filled with people. Men in dark suits. A woman with an impossibly tight bun. All of them standing with perfect posture, like they've collectively swallowed broomsticks.

"May we come in?" It's not really a question. The woman steps forward, eyes scanning your apartment with barely concealed judgment. "We're looking for Y/N L/N."

Your roommate points at you wordlessly, backing away as the entourage enters.

"Ms. L/N," the woman says, her accent crisp and foreign. "I am Charlotte Martell, private secretary to Her Majesty Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia."

You nearly choke on your coffee. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Genovia," she repeats, as if that clarifies everything. "A small sovereign principality between France and Spain."

"I know what Genovia is," you lie. You absolutely do not know what Genovia is. "But what does that have to do with me?"

The woman—Charlotte—gestures to one of the men, who produces an official-looking folder stamped with a crest you don't recognize.

"Queen Clarisse is your grandmother," Charlotte states, watching your face for a reaction. "And following the tragic death of your father, Crown Prince Philippe, you are now the sole heir to the Genovian throne."

Your roommate gasps dramatically. You burst out laughing.

"Okay, who put you up to this? Was it Kyle? This has his film project written all over it." You look around for hidden cameras.

Charlotte's expression doesn't change. "This is not a prank, Ms. L/N."

"Right. Sure. I'm secretly a princess." You roll your eyes. "And I suppose I've got a glass slipper and fairy godmother too?"

"Your Highness—"

"Nope. Stop right there." You hold up your hand. "I don't know who you people are, but my dad's name was Michael. He was an artist from Cleveland. He died when I was six. My mom raised me alone."

Charlotte and her companions exchange glances.

"Perhaps we should speak with your mother," Charlotte suggests delicately.

"Great idea," you agree, reaching for your phone. "She'll clear this right up."

But when your mom answers, her voice sounds strange. Strained.

"Mom, there are people here saying I'm some kind of princess and you've been hiding it from me my whole life. Tell them they've got the wrong apartment."

The silence on the other end stretches too long.

"Mom?"

"Honey," she finally says, her voice small. "Maybe you should sit down."

Your stomach drops. "No. No way."

"I never thought this would happen," she continues, words rushing now. "The agreement was that they'd never contact you. That you could live a normal life."

The room starts to spin. You grip the counter for support.

"This isn't funny anymore."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. Philippe—your father—wanted to acknowledge you, but I couldn't bear the thought of raising you in that world."

"Philippe?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. "My father's name was Michael."

Your mother's sigh crackles through the phone. "Michael was my brother. After Philippe died, Michael helped us... create a story that would protect you."

"Protect me from what? The truth?" The betrayal cuts deep, making your voice sharp.

"From a life that would never be your own," your mother says softly. "I wanted you to have choices."

You look at Charlotte and her entourage, still standing stiffly in your kitchen. This can't be happening.

"I think I'm hallucinating," you announce to no one in particular. "I haven't slept in thirty-six hours. This is just sleep deprivation."

Your roommate pinches your arm. Hard.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"Not dreaming," she says helpfully.

Your mother is still speaking through the phone. "These people—the Genovian royal staff—they'll bring you to the consulate. I'll meet you there, and we can talk properly."

"Mom, I can't just—"

"Please, sweetheart. Let me explain in person."

The phone call ends, and you stare at the device in your hand like it's suddenly turned into a live snake.

"This isn't real," you mutter. "This can't be real."

But three hours later, you're sitting in the Genovian consulate—a building you've passed a hundred times without noticing—watching your mother cry as she explains how she met the Crown Prince of Genovia during a semester abroad, how they fell in love, how she discovered she was pregnant after he returned home, how he died in a car accident before they could marry.

"The Queen wanted to acknowledge you officially," your mother explains, wiping her eyes. "But I refused. I didn't want that life for you."

"That life being...?"

"Being royal," she says, as if it's a disease. "Living in a gilded cage. Every move scrutinized. Never making your own choices."

Charlotte, who has been standing silently against the wall, clears her throat. "If I may, the situation has changed substantially. Without a direct heir, Genovia faces a constitutional crisis. Parliament may vote to dissolve the monarchy entirely."

"And that's... bad?" you ask, still struggling to process any of this.

"The monarchy has protected Genovia's independence for centuries," Charlotte explains. "Without it, larger neighboring countries would likely absorb our territory."

Your mother squeezes your hand. "I never wanted this burden for you. But it's your decision now."

"What decision? I don't even know what's happening!"

"The Queen requests that you come to Genovia," Charlotte says. "Learn about your heritage. Meet your grandmother. After that, you're free to make your choice."

"My choice to... what? Become a princess?"

Charlotte nods solemnly. "To accept your birthright, yes."

You look at your mother, this woman you've trusted your entire life, who has apparently been lying about your identity since before you could speak.

"I have exams next week," you say weakly. It sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

"All arrangements have been made with your university," Charlotte assures you. "This is, after all, a diplomatic matter."

You laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "Right. Diplomatic."

Your mother takes your face in her hands, forcing you to look at her. "You don't have to do this. You can walk away right now, and we'll figure something out."

But you can see in her eyes what she's not saying—that this moment was always coming, that the lie was never sustainable, that a door has opened that can't be closed again.

"I just want to know the truth," you tell her. "All of it."

She nods, tears streaming now. "Then you should go. Meet her. Learn who you are."

-

Twenty-four hours later, you're on a private jet somewhere over the Atlantic, still half-convinced you're having an elaborate mental breakdown. Your mother came home with you to help pack, both of you moving through the motions like sleepwalkers.

"The Queen is eager to meet you," Charlotte says from across the aisle, breaking the silence that's stretched between you since takeoff.

"My grandmother," you say, testing the word. "My grandmother the Queen."

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "This must be overwhelming."

You laugh, the sound hollow. "I keep thinking I'll wake up."

"I assure you, this is quite real," Charlotte says, missing the point entirely.

You stare out the window at endless darkness, trying to reconcile the person you were yesterday with whoever you're supposed to be now.

"What's she like?" you ask suddenly. "The Queen."

Charlotte considers this carefully. "Her Majesty is... formidable. Dignified. Dedicated to Genovia above all else."

"Sounds warm and fuzzy," you mutter.

"The Queen has experienced great loss," Charlotte adds quietly. "Her husband. Her son—your father. She has sacrificed personal happiness for duty."

That silences you. What do you say to a grandmother who's spent decades thinking her bloodline ended with her son, only to discover an heir she never knew existed?

"I don't know how to be a princess," you admit after another long silence.

"No one expects you to know already," Charlotte replies. "There will be extensive training, of course."

"Of course," you echo faintly. "Princess training."

The palace is like something from a fairy tale—all soaring spires and perfect gardens. Dawn is breaking as your motorcade passes through massive iron gates, and you catch your first glimpse of your apparent new home.

"This is insane," you whisper, pressing your face to the window like a child. "People actually live here?"

"The palace has been the royal residence for over three centuries," Charlotte informs you. "The east wing houses government offices, while the royal family occupies the north wing."

Your suite is bigger than your entire apartment. The bathroom alone is the size of your bedroom at home. You're staring at the claw-foot tub, wondering if you're allowed to actually use it or if it's just for show, when there's a knock at the door.

A young woman in a uniform curtsies—actually curtsies—when you open it.

"Your Highness," she says, eyes downcast. "I'm Olivia, your lady's maid."

"My... what now?"

"I'm here to help you prepare to meet Her Majesty."

Your laugh has a slightly manic edge. "I've been wearing the same clothes for twenty-four hours and haven't slept. I don't think 'preparation' is going to help much."

Olivia smiles sympathetically. "Perhaps a bath first?"

You pace back and forth in your suite after your mother's confession at the consulate, hands pressed against your temples. The weight of everything—your father's true identity, your grandmother the Queen, this entire hidden heritage—crashes over you in waves.

"This can't be happening," you mutter. "This doesn't happen to normal people."

Olivia, your newly assigned lady's maid, watches anxiously from the doorway. "Your Highness, perhaps some tea would help calm your nerves?"

"Stop calling me that!" you snap, whirling around. "I'm not a 'Highness.' I'm just—" You break off, unable to even finish the sentence. Who are you now?

Charlotte enters with a stack of leather-bound books. "These are Genovian history texts. Your lessons begin tomorrow. Also, the royal portrait artist would like to schedule a sitting, and we'll need to discuss your public introduction to the Genovian people."

Something inside you finally snaps.

"EVERYBODY JUST STOP!" you shout, throwing your hands up. Charlotte freezes mid-sentence, Olivia nearly drops the tea tray, and even the security guard outside your door peeks in with alarm.

"I need—" your voice cracks, "I need everyone to just stop for a second. Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my student loans and my biology midterm. And now you're talking about royal portraits and—and—"

You grab the nearest pillow from a velvet settee and scream into it, a muffled sound of pure frustration. When you pull it away, you're laughing hysterically.

"Holy shit," you gasp through semi-maniacal laughter, "I'm a princess. I'm actually a princess!"

You collapse onto the nearest chair, still clutching the pillow to your chest. Your laughter shifts to something closer to hyperventilation.

"This is completely insane," you continue, gesturing wildly. "I've never even been to Europe before, and suddenly I'm supposed to rule a country? I don't even know where Genovia is on a map! I can barely keep my succulents alive!"

Charlotte approaches cautiously, as though you might explode again. "Perhaps a moment alone would be beneficial—"

"No!" You jump to your feet again, pacing frenetically. "No more alone time to 'process.' I need answers. Real answers. Like, what happens if I just walk out right now? Get on a plane and go home? Will there be, I don't know, international incidents? Diplomatic immunity revoked? Does Genovia have an extradition treaty with the United States?"

Charlotte and Olivia exchange alarmed glances.

"I mean, what's stopping me from just saying 'thanks but no thanks' to this whole princess gig? I didn't sign up for this! My mother lied to me my entire life, and now I'm supposed to just—what? Put on a tiara and wave to crowds? Marry some prince I just met? Rule a country I know nothing about?"

You stop suddenly, a thought occurring to you. You turn to Charlotte, eyes wide.

"Wait. Do I get a tiara?"

Charlotte blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. "Several, actually. The Genovian royal collection includes—"

"Several tiaras," you repeat, dazed. "I get several tiaras."

You start laughing again, but this time with a hint of wonder breaking through the hysteria.

"I have a grandmother who's a Queen," you say, testing the words. "My father was a Crown Prince. I live in a palace now." You spin in a slow circle, taking in the ornate room with new eyes. "I'm a princess."

The reality of it finally, truly hits you—not as an abstract concept but as your new life. Your knees go weak, and you sink back onto the settee.

"I'm Princess Y/N Renaldi of Genovia," you whisper, the name strange on your tongue. "Holy shit."

The bath, it turns out, is heavenly. The exhaustion and tension of the past day seep out of your muscles as you soak in water scattered with actual rose petals. It's so ridiculous that you find yourself laughing alone in the massive bathroom.

"Is everything alright, Your Highness?" Olivia calls through the door.

"Fine! Just having an existential crisis in a bathtub fit for Marie Antoinette!"

After the bath comes what can only be described as a full-scale makeover. Olivia is joined by a team that includes a hairstylist, makeup artist, and someone called a "royal wardrobe consultant" who tuts disapprovingly at the clothes you packed.

"These won't do at all," she announces, holding up your favorite jeans like they're contaminated.

"What's wrong with them?" you demand.

"Her Majesty has certain... expectations regarding royal appearance," the woman explains delicately.

"I'm not actually a princess yet," you point out. "Technically, I haven't agreed to anything."

But your protests fall on deaf ears. Two hours later, you're staring at a stranger in the mirror. Your hair has been styled into something elegant and smooth. Your face has been transformed with makeup that somehow looks natural despite taking forty-five minutes to apply. And you're wearing a dress that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe at home.

"There," the hairstylist says proudly. "Now you look like a princess."

You don't feel like a princess. You feel like a fraud in costume.

The "Blue Salon" turns out to be a formal sitting room where an elegant older woman waits, standing by a window. She turns as you enter, and you see your own eyes staring back at you from her face.

"Your Majesty," Charlotte announces, "Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N Renaldi."

The Queen—your grandmother—studies you silently for a long moment. You resist the urge to fidget under her gaze.

"The resemblance is remarkable," she says finally, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of emotion. "You have his eyes. My son's eyes."

You don't know what to say. This woman is a stranger who is somehow your closest living relative.

"You must have questions," she continues when you remain silent.

"About a million," you admit. "Starting with why my entire life has been a lie."

If your directness offends her, she doesn't show it. "Your mother made her choice. I respected it, though I disagreed with it. But circumstances have changed."

"So I've heard. Constitutional crisis. End of the monarchy. Very dramatic."

A hint of a smile touches her lips. "You have spirit. Good. You'll need it." She gestures to a chair. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

The next hour is a crash course in your own heritage. The Queen—your grandmother—explains the history of Genovia, the role of the monarchy, and the crisis created by the King's death without a recognized heir.

"Parliament has granted a grace period of three months," she explains. "In that time, you must decide whether to accept your title and begin preparation for eventual rule, or to renounce your claim permanently."

"And if I renounce?"

"Then the monarchy ends with me," she says simply. "And Genovia's future becomes uncertain."

No pressure or anything.

"There's another complication," your grandmother adds, and something in her tone makes you brace yourself. "The Genovian constitution requires the heir to be married before taking the throne."

You choke on the tea you've been sipping. "Married? I'm twenty-one!"

"Which is why, should you accept your title, suitable candidates would be presented immediately."

"Suitable candidates," you repeat incredulously. "You mean arranged marriage?"

"Think of it as... pre-screened dating," your grandmother suggests with a straight face.

"This is insane," you mutter, setting down your cup before you drop it. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my midterms. Now I'm discussing arranged marriages and constitutional crises."

Your grandmother regards you thoughtfully. "I understand this is overwhelming. You need not decide everything today. Take time to adjust. Learn about Genovia. Meet some of the young men Parliament considers suitable."

"And if I hate them all?"

"Then we face that challenge when it arises," she says diplomatically. "For now, perhaps we can start with dinner. I've invited one potential candidate to join us this evening."

"Seriously? I just got here!"

"Time is a luxury we don't have," your grandmother reminds you. "Prince Jongseong of Astoria is already in Genovia for diplomatic meetings. It's an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted."

Your head is spinning. "Prince who of where now?"

Your grandmother hands you a folder. "Astoria is a key ally. A marriage alliance would be most beneficial."

You flip open the folder to find a dossier—an actual dossier—on someone named Prince Jongseong of Astoria. The photograph shows a young man about your age with perfect features and an expression of cool dignity. He's handsome in an intimidating way, like a sculpture you're not allowed to touch.

"Great," you say weakly. "Blind date with a prince. No problem."

The day passes in a blur of instructions, protocol lessons, and people telling you how to walk, talk, sit, and breathe like a princess. By evening, your exhaustion has been replaced by a surreal, floating feeling, as if none of this is actually happening to you.

"Remember," Charlotte reminds you for the hundredth time as you're escorted to the State Dining Room, "curtsy when he's introduced, address him as 'Your Highness' initially, then 'Prince Jongseong' after that. The Queen will lead the conversation."

"What if I just hide under the table?" you suggest. "Blame it on jet lag?"

Charlotte doesn't even acknowledge your joke. "The Prince is known for his diplomatic skill and decorum. Please try to match his level of dignity."

"No pressure there."

The dining room is intimidating—all crystal chandeliers and gold trim. Footmen stand at attention along the walls. Your grandmother already waits at the head of a table that could seat thirty, though only four places are set.

"You look lovely," she tells you, and you resist the urge to tug at the formal dress that feels like a costume.

"I look like someone else," you reply honestly.

"Sometimes appearing royal is the first step to feeling royal," she says, which doesn't make you feel any better.

The doors open, and a court official announces: "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of the House of Park, Crown Prince of Astoria, and Lord High Commissioner of the Eastern Provinces."

Your first thought as he enters: people shouldn't be that perfect-looking in real life. It seems unfair somehow.

Prince Jongseong is tall and moves with unconscious grace. His formal attire—some kind of military dress uniform with medals and sashes—accentuates broad shoulders. His features are even more striking in person—sharp jawline, intense eyes that miss nothing.

You remember to curtsy, wobbling slightly in your heels. When you straighten, his eyes meet yours directly. No smile, just assessment.

"Wait," you blurt out before anyone can speak. "Are we related?"

The room goes absolutely still. Charlotte makes a small choking sound behind you. Your grandmother's expression doesn't change, but her eyes widen slightly.

Prince Jongseong blinks, the only indication that your question has caught him off guard.

"I beg your pardon?" he asks, his voice deeper than you expected, his accent subtle but distinctive.

"Sorry, I just—I'm new to this whole royal thing, and apparently everyone's connected somehow, so I wanted to check if we're like, third cousins or something before this gets weird."

Your grandmother clears her throat. "Prince Jongseong's lineage and the Renaldi family have no direct connection for at least seven generations."

"Oh. Good." You feel your face heating up. "That's... good to know."

Prince Jongseong's expression remains absolutely neutral, but something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes briefly.

"Your Majesty," he addresses your grandmother first, bowing formally. "Thank you for your invitation."

When he turns back to you, you feel suddenly, intensely scrutinized.

"Your Highness," he says, bowing again. "It is an honor to meet the Princess of Genovia."

You're supposed to say something regal in response, but what comes out is: "I only found out I was a princess yesterday, so we're kind of in the same boat there."

Prince Jongseong does something unexpected. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost, but not quite, a smile.

"An unusual circumstance," he acknowledges, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes suddenly more interested. "Though I assure you, the honor remains."

Dinner is a masterclass in awkwardness. Your grandmother and an Astorian diplomat discuss trade agreements while you try to remember which fork to use for each course. Prince Jongseong watches you with those observant eyes but says little.

It's during dessert that he finally addresses you directly.

"I understand you were a university student before this... revelation."

You look up, surprised he's bothered to learn anything about you. "Yes. Political science, ironically enough."

"A useful background for your new role," he comments.

"I was planning to work for a non-profit," you admit. "Not rule a country."

"Few of us choose our destinies," he says, and something in his tone makes you wonder if he's speaking from experience.

After dinner, your grandmother suggests a "stroll through the East Garden" which is apparently royal code for "leaving you alone with your potential suitor while still maintaining proper supervision," as Charlotte and two guards follow at a discreet distance.

The garden is beautiful under the moonlight, with flowering trees and perfectly manicured hedges. You walk in uncomfortable silence until Prince Jongseong speaks.

"You seem overwhelmed."

You laugh, the sound sharper than intended. "What gave it away? The identity crisis or the third cousin question?"

"Both were... illuminating," he replies, and you think you detect a hint of humor beneath his formal tone.

"Sorry about that," you sigh. "This is all just... a lot."

"I can imagine," he says, though you doubt he can. He's probably been a prince his whole life, never wondering who he really is or where he belongs.

"No offense, but this isn't exactly how I planned to spend my week," you tell him honestly. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal college student with student loans and a part-time job. Now I'm having dinner with princes and learning how to curtsy."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges, which feels like the understatement of the century.

"Can I ask you something?" you say suddenly.

He inclines his head slightly. "Of course."

"Is it always this weird? Being royal, I mean. Does it ever feel... normal?"

The question seems to surprise him. He considers it seriously before answering.

"I cannot speak to your experience," he says carefully. "I was born into my role, prepared for it from childhood. But even so, there are moments when the weight of responsibility feels... alienating."

It's the most human thing he's said all evening.

"What do you do in those moments?" you ask, genuinely curious.

Something shifts in his expression—a momentary glimpse of a different person behind the perfect princely mask.

"I remember that even a gilded cage is still a cage," he says quietly. "But with the right mindset, it can also be a platform for meaningful change."

You study him more carefully. Maybe there's more to Prince Perfect than you initially thought.

"That's... surprisingly profound," you admit.

The hint of a smile touches his lips again. "You expected shallow platitudes?"

"I don't know what I expected," you say honestly. "Everything about today has been surreal."

"Including meeting a potential husband selected by parliament?" he suggests, and there's definitely a note of dry humor in his voice now.

You can't help but laugh. "Yeah, that's pretty high on the surreal list."

"If it helps," he offers, "I find the situation equally unusual, though perhaps less distressing as I've had longer to adjust to the concept."

"How generous of you," you say sarcastically before you can stop yourself.

To your surprise, a genuine smile briefly transforms his face, making him look younger, more approachable.

"You're very direct," he observes.

"Sorry. New to the royal filter thing."

"It's... refreshing," he admits. "Most people I meet have agendas carefully hidden beneath pleasantries."

"My only agenda is surviving this day without having a complete breakdown," you tell him truthfully.

He stops walking, turning to face you. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face, and for a moment, he looks like a real person rather than a perfect royal specimen.

"You're doing better than you think," he says, and it feels like the first completely genuine thing he's said all evening.

The moment stretches between you—something unnamed passing in the silence—before Charlotte clears her throat, reminding you of her presence.

"The Queen will be expecting us to return," she prompts.

Prince Jongseong straightens immediately, mask back in place. "Of course."

As you walk back toward the palace, your hand accidentally brushes his. A small touch, barely nothing, but something unexpected flutters in your stomach. His eyes meet yours briefly, and you wonder if he felt it too.

Back in the formal reception room, he bows over your hand. "It has been a pleasure, Your Highness."

"Likewise, Prince Jongseong," you manage, this time remembering the proper response.

As he prepares to leave, he hesitates, then adds quietly, "Perhaps when we meet again, you might be more accustomed to your title."

-

You wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, momentarily disoriented. The canopied bed, the ornate furniture, the distant sound of voices speaking a language you don't understand—where are you?

Then it hits you like a freight train. Genovia. Palace. Princess.

You groan and pull a pillow over your face. Maybe if you smother yourself with Egyptian cotton, you'll wake up in your cramped apartment with your psychology paper still due and your normal life intact.

A gentle knock at the door shatters that fantasy.

"Your Highness?" Olivia's voice calls. "Her Majesty requests your presence for breakfast in thirty minutes."

You remove the pillow with another groan. "Tell her I've fled the country."

There's a pause. "I... don't think I can say that to the Queen, Your Highness."

Despite everything, you laugh. Poor Olivia, stuck with an unwilling princess who doesn't know the first thing about royal protocol.

"I'll be ready," you call back, dragging yourself out of bed.

The "breakfast room" (because apparently regular dining rooms are insufficient for morning meals) is sunshine-bright and intimidatingly elegant. Your grandmother already sits at the table, reading documents while sipping tea.

"Good morning," she says without looking up. "I trust you slept well?"

"Not really," you admit, slouching into a chair before remembering Charlotte's lecture about posture. You straighten awkwardly, feeling like you're balancing a book on your head.

Your grandmother finally looks at you, one eyebrow arched. "Honesty before coffee. How refreshing."

A servant appears instantly with a cup of steaming coffee prepared exactly how you like it. You stare at it suspiciously.

"How did they know...?"

"Part of the job," your grandmother answers simply. "Knowing what people need before they ask for it."

You take a grateful sip. "At least that's one perk of this princess gig."

Your grandmother sets down her papers. "Your schedule today is quite full. We have much work to do."

"Schedule?" You didn't know you had a schedule.

"Charlotte will brief you after breakfast. But first," she slides a leather portfolio across the table, "Your Genovian citizenship papers, passport, and diplomatic credentials. You'll need to sign where indicated."

You flip open the folder. The first document declares you Princess Y/N Mignonette Renaldi of Genovia, Crown Princess and Royal Heir.

"Mignonette?" You look up, confused. "That's not my middle name."

"It is now," your grandmother says with finality. "A royal name."

You sign where indicated, feeling like you're signing away your old identity with each stroke of the pen.

"There's something else we need to discuss," your grandmother says once you've finished. "Your... public introduction."

"My what now?"

"The people of Genovia must meet their princess. There will be a press conference tomorrow, followed by a formal ball next week."

You choke on your coffee. "Tomorrow? A press conference? I can't—I don't—I'm not ready for that!"

"Which is why today is devoted to preparation," she says calmly. "Diplomatic protocol, Genovian history, public speaking..."

Your appetite vanishes. People—actual citizens of an actual country—are going to be judging whether you're fit to rule them. The thought is paralyzing.

"What if I mess up?" you ask quietly. "What if I embarrass Genovia? Or you?"

Something softens in your grandmother's expression. "You are more capable than you realize." She hesitates, then adds, "Your father was much the same way. Doubting himself, yet exceeding every expectation."

It's the first time she's voluntarily mentioned your father, and the comparison catches you off guard.

"I wish I'd known him," you say before you can stop yourself.

"As do I," she replies softly. "As do I."

The moment of vulnerability passes as quickly as it appeared. She's all business again, consulting her watch.

"Charlotte will meet you in the library in fifteen minutes. And this evening, Prince Jongseong will be joining us for the diplomatic reception."

Your stomach does a weird flip at the mention of his name. "Already? I just met him yesterday."

"He's requested to assist with certain aspects of your diplomatic training," your grandmother explains, a hint of something—amusement? satisfaction?—in her eyes. "The prince has excellent connections throughout Europe. His guidance will be valuable."

"I'm sure," you mutter, wondering what his real agenda is. Nobody volunteers for tutoring duty without an ulterior motive.

-

The dress fitting is endless torture. The royal stylist, Madame Aubert, fusses over fabrics and colors while treating you like a mannequin rather than a person.

"Perhaps the blue? It brings out Her Highness's eyes," she suggests to Charlotte, who nods seriously.

"I like the green one," you interject.

Both women look at you with surprise, as if they'd forgotten you could speak.

"The green is... less traditional," Madame Aubert says diplomatically.

"I'm not exactly a traditional princess," you point out. "Raised in America. Didn't know I was royal until two days ago. Let's embrace the unconventional, shall we?"

Charlotte's lips thin with disapproval, but she doesn't argue. "The green then. With appropriate accessories."

The "appropriate accessories" turn out to be your first tiara—a delicate silver creation with small diamonds that makes your heart skip despite your determination to remain unimpressed by royal trappings.

"This is from the royal collection," Charlotte explains as Madame Aubert carefully places it on your styled hair. "Traditionally worn by princesses at their first official appearance."

You stare at your reflection, this stranger with perfect hair and makeup wearing a genuine tiara. The disconnect between who you were days ago and who you're supposed to be now has never felt more stark.

"What if I can't do this?" you whisper, fear finally breaking through the sarcasm you've been hiding behind.

Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "Everyone feels unprepared for significant change, Your Highness. Even those born to royal life."

"Even Prince Perfect?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

"Prince Jongseong?" Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "Especially him, I suspect. The burdens of Astoria's crown prince are considerable."

You turn to her, surprised by this insight. "What do you mean?"

"Astoria has undergone significant modernization in recent years," Charlotte explains. "Prince Jongseong has been at the forefront of many reforms, often against traditional factions. His reputation for perfectionism is... protective."

This new perspective on the prince is unexpected. You think back to his comment about gilded cages during your garden conversation.

"I misjudged him," you realize aloud.

"First impressions in royal circles are rarely accurate," Charlotte says with surprising gentleness. "We all wear masks of one kind or another."

The conversation is interrupted when your grandmother sweeps in to inspect the dress selection. She surveys you critically, then nods approval.

"The green is unexpected," she notes. "But it suits you. Bold without being inappropriate."

"Thank you," you say, genuinely pleased by her approval.

"Now," she continues briskly, "for this evening's diplomatic reception. There will be approximately fifty guests, primarily ambassadors and foreign dignitaries. You will be introduced formally, then circulate with me for the first hour."

Your momentary confidence evaporates. "Fifty people? Tonight? I barely know how to address half the titles Charlotte's been drilling me on!"

"Consider it practice for tomorrow's press conference," your grandmother replies calmly. "Prince Jongseong has offered to assist you. He knows most of the attendees personally."

Of course he does. Prince Perfect probably emerged from the womb networking with international dignitaries.

-

The diplomatic reception is held in yet another ornate room you haven't seen before. You're beginning to wonder just how many formal spaces one palace needs.

You stand beside your grandmother as Charlotte announces each arrival, desperately trying to remember their titles and countries while maintaining what you hope is a regal posture.

"His Excellency Antoine Dubois, Ambassador of France," Charlotte intones.

A distinguished older man approaches, bowing over your grandmother's hand. "Your Majesty, always a pleasure."

He turns to you with obvious curiosity. "And Your Highness, welcome to Genovia. France looks forward to a long and prosperous relationship with the future Queen."

You manage a decent curtsy. "Thank you, Your Excellency. I look forward to learning more about the historic ties between our nations."

The diplomatic phrase Charlotte drilled into you comes out smoothly, and you feel a small surge of triumph. Maybe you can do this after all.

As more guests arrive, you fall into a rhythm of greetings and basic pleasantries. Your nerves gradually settle—until Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

He enters looking even more striking than yesterday, dressed in formal evening attire with a subtle military influence. A row of medals decorates his chest, and a blue sash crosses his torso. The effect is both regal and undeniably attractive.

He bows to your grandmother first, then to you, eyes meeting yours with unexpected warmth.

"Your Highness," he says, and there's something almost like approval in his gaze. "You look magnificent."

The compliment catches you off guard. "Thank you. You look... very princelike yourself."

A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. "I try my best."

Your grandmother watches this exchange with interest. "Prince Jongseong, perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce Princess Y/N to some of our Eastern European allies? I believe the Latvian ambassador was hoping to meet her."

"It would be my honor," he replies smoothly.

Your grandmother leans closer to you. "Remember, diplomatic relations are built on personal connections as much as formal agreements," she murmurs. "Use this opportunity to establish yourself."

Great. More pressure.

Prince Jongseong offers his arm, and you take it, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the contact.

"Nervous?" he asks quietly as he leads you through the crowd.

"Terrified," you admit. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I have no idea what I'm doing."

"A secret of royal life," he replies, his voice low near your ear. "Most of us feel that way. We're just better at hiding it."

You look at him in surprise. "Even you?"

"Especially me," he says, and for a brief moment, his perfect façade slips, revealing something vulnerable beneath. Then it's gone, replaced by his usual composed expression as you approach a group of diplomats.

"Ambassador Petrov," Prince Jongseong greets an imposing man with a silver beard. "May I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N of Genovia?"

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and carefully navigated conversations. Prince Jongseong remains at your side, smoothly guiding interactions and occasionally rescuing you with well-timed interventions when you falter.

During a brief moment alone while getting drinks, you turn to him. "Thank you. For... all this." You gesture vaguely at the room.

"You're doing remarkably well," he says. "Most people would have fled the country by now."

"Don't think I haven't considered it," you mutter, making him smile.

"What's stopping you?"

You consider the question seriously. "I don't know. Maybe... responsibility? My grandmother needs me. Genovia needs me. Running away seems selfish."

He studies you thoughtfully. "That sense of duty will make you an excellent ruler someday."

"If I survive princess lessons," you joke weakly.

"You will," he says with surprising conviction. "And perhaps along the way, you might even find aspects of royal life to enjoy."

"Like what? The constant scrutiny? The lack of privacy? The arranged marriages?"

His expression shifts at that last point. "Not all royal marriages are purely political these days. There can be... compatibility considerations."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly, gesturing between you. "A 'compatibility assessment'?"

He doesn't answer immediately, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I would prefer to think of it as... getting to know each other without predetermined expectations."

"Except for the fact that my grandmother and your government clearly have expectations," you point out.

"True," he acknowledges. "But perhaps we could set those aside, temporarily. See if there's more between us than diplomatic advantage."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "And if there isn't?"

"Then we remain allies with mutual respect," he says simply. "No one can force a marriage in the modern era, regardless of constitutional requirements."

Before you can respond, Charlotte approaches. "Your Highness, the Prime Minister has arrived and wishes to pay his respects."

Prince Jongseong steps back slightly. "We should continue this conversation another time."

"I'd like that," you admit, surprised by your own honesty.

He bows formally, but his eyes hold something warmer. "Until tomorrow, Princess Y/N."

-

The press conference is a blur of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Despite your fears of public humiliation, you somehow manage to survive it—stumbling only twice over Genovian pronunciations and making just one awkward joke that, thankfully, the press seems to find charming rather than offensive.

"You were marvelous," your grandmother tells you afterward, her approval warming you despite your exhaustion.

"Really? Because I think I just agreed to visit a children's hospital tomorrow and I have no idea what a royal visit actually entails."

"Charlotte will brief you," she says dismissively. "The important thing is that you appeared genuine. The people responded to that."

You think back to Prince Jongseong's advice about authenticity over perfection. Maybe he was right after all.

"Speaking of Prince Jongseong," your grandmother continues, with that same hint of calculation in her eyes, "he's arranged for a tour of Genovia's historical districts tomorrow evening. The royal council believes it would be beneficial for you to be seen engaging with our cultural heritage."

"The royal council believes," you repeat skeptically. "Or you believe?"

Your grandmother's lips twitch. "Let's say our interests align in this particular matter."

You roll your eyes. "You're not exactly subtle about this matchmaking attempt."

"Subtlety is a luxury afforded to those with time," she replies. "We have precious little of that."

She's not wrong. The constitutional deadline looms over every decision, every interaction. Sometimes you forget that your grandmother faces the end of her life's work—the dissolution of a monarchy that has stood for centuries—if you don't step up to the challenge.

"Fine," you concede. "I'll go on the royal field trip. But don't expect me to fall madly in love just because he knows his way around old buildings."

"I expect nothing," your grandmother says innocently. "Though I would point out that an appreciation for history is an admirable quality in a potential consort."

That night, sleep remains elusive despite your exhaustion. Your mind keeps cycling through the day's events, replaying moments of triumph and embarrassment in equal measure. After tossing and turning for hours, you finally give up and slip out of bed.

The palace is different at night—quieter, less intimidating without the constant hustle of staff and royal obligations. You wrap a robe around your pajamas and venture into the hallway, nodding to the security guard who pretends not to notice your disheveled state.

Without any real destination in mind, you wander through dimly lit corridors, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. Somehow, you find yourself at a set of glass doors leading to the garden where you walked with Prince Jongseong that first night.

The garden is silvered with moonlight, the formal hedges casting complex shadows across manicured lawns. You step outside, breathing in the scent of night-blooming flowers, and follow a stone path deeper into the grounds.

You've just discovered a charming fountain featuring a mermaid when a voice behind you says, "You couldn't sleep either?"

You whirl around, startled, to find Prince Jongseong standing a few feet away. He's dressed casually—at least by his standards—in dark pants and a simple white shirt, open at the collar. With his hair slightly mussed and his perfect posture somewhat relaxed, he looks younger, more approachable.

"You scared me," you accuse, pressing a hand to your racing heart.

"My apologies," he says, taking a step closer. "I didn't expect anyone else to be out here at this hour."

"That makes two of us," you reply, suddenly conscious of your own appearance—hair hastily tied back, face bare of makeup, wearing palace-issued silk pajamas under a matching robe. Not exactly how you'd choose to encounter the frustratingly perfect prince.

"I watched the press conference," he says, changing the subject. "You did well."

"I stumbled over 'agricultural initiatives' and called the Finance Minister 'sir' instead of 'minister,'" you point out.

His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that's becoming familiar. "And yet, you were authentic. The people responded to that."

"That's almost exactly what my grandmother said."

"The Queen is a perceptive woman."

You study him in the moonlight, curious about this less formal version of the prince. "Do you always wander palace gardens at midnight?"

"Only when sleep proves elusive," he admits. He hesitates, then adds, "The demands of royal life can be... difficult to quiet."

"Tell me about it," you sigh, sitting on the edge of the fountain. After a moment's hesitation, he joins you, maintaining a respectful distance. "Two days ago, my biggest worry was my political theory midterm. Now I'm worried about constitutional crises and diplomatic incidents."

"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges.

"That's the understatement of the century," you laugh, but there's no real humor in it. "Everyone keeps acting like I should just accept all this—the title, the responsibility, the arranged marriage—like it's perfectly normal."

He's quiet for a moment, then asks, "May I speak candidly, Your Highness?"

"Please. And maybe drop the 'Your Highness' when we're alone? It's weird enough without the constant reminders."

He nods, then says, "Y/N, then." Your name in his voice, without the royal title, sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. "The truth is, none of this is normal. Not even for those of us raised in it. We're just better at pretending."

"You're saying you hate it too?" you ask skeptically.

"Not hate," he corrects. "But there are... challenges. Expectations. Sacrifices."

"Like what?"

He stares at the fountain, watching moonlight play across the water. "Privacy. Freedom to choose one's own path. The luxury of mistakes."

You study his profile, seeing something vulnerable in his expression that's never visible during daylight hours. "So why do it?"

"Duty," he says simply. "Family. The knowledge that privilege comes with responsibility."

"That sounds rehearsed," you observe.

To your surprise, he laughs—a genuine sound that transforms his face. "Perhaps because I've been repeating it to myself since childhood."

Your curiosity grows. "What would you have chosen? If you weren't born a prince?"

The question seems to catch him off guard. He considers it seriously. "I've never allowed myself to think about it. But perhaps... music."

"Music?" That wasn't what you expected.

"I play piano," he admits, sounding almost embarrassed. "Classically trained, of course, as all proper princes must be. But I find myself drawn to composing. It's... freeing."

You try to imagine Prince Perfect hunched over a piano, lost in music of his own creation, and the image is strangely compelling.

"Will you play for me sometime?" you ask impulsively.

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, certainly, but something else too. Something warmer. "If you wish."

"I do," you say, surprised by your own sincerity.

A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the gentle splashing of the fountain. Without the pressure of formal events and watchful eyes, you find yourself relaxing in his presence.

"What about you?" he asks eventually. "If you weren't suddenly thrust into royal life, what would you have chosen?"

"I was studying political science," you remind him. "I wanted to work in international development. Help people who are overlooked by traditional power structures."

"Noble aims," he observes.

"Now I sound like the one with rehearsed answers," you laugh.

"No," he says softly. "You sound like someone with genuine conviction." He pauses, then adds, "Someone who would make an excellent queen."

The compliment catches you off guard. "You barely know me."

"I'm a good judge of character," he replies. "It's a necessary skill in diplomatic circles."

"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly. "Diplomacy?"

His eyes meet yours, and something electric passes between you. "Not entirely," he admits.

"This is something unexpected," he says finally, his voice lower than before.

The air between you feels charged with possibility. You're acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight gap in his collar revealing a glimpse of collarbone, of the way moonlight catches in his eyes.

"Jongseong," you say, testing his name without the princely title. It feels intimate somehow, crossing an invisible boundary. "Why did you volunteer to help with my training?"

He doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his honesty surprises you. "Initially, for diplomatic reasons. An alliance between Genovia and Astoria would benefit both nations." He hesitates, then adds, "But after meeting you... my motivations became more personal."

"How personal?" you press, heart racing.

Instead of answering, he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingertips graze your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"Personal enough that I find myself in gardens at midnight, hoping for a chance encounter," he admits quietly.

You don't realize you've been holding your breath until you exhale shakily. "That's... quite personal."

His gaze drops to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. "May I..." he begins, then hesitates.

"Yes," you whisper, not needing him to finish the question.

He leans in slowly, deliberately, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is gentle, questioning, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You don't. Instead, you find yourself leaning into him, one hand coming to rest on his chest where you can feel his heart beating as rapidly as your own. The kiss deepens, becoming something more urgent, more honest than any interaction you've had since arriving in Genovia.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing unevenly. Jongseong rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment.

"That was..." he begins.

"Unexpected?" you suggest, echoing his earlier word.

He laughs softly. "Yes. Though perhaps inevitable."

"Is this going to cause an international incident?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Only if we let it," he replies, drawing back slightly to meet your eyes. "This... whatever is developing between us... it needs to be separate from politics. At least for now."

"Can it be?" you wonder aloud. "Everything about our lives is political."

"Not everything," he says firmly. "Not this." He takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "When we're alone, I'd like to just be Jongseong. Not Prince Jongseong of Astoria with all its attendant expectations."

The vulnerability in his request touches something in you. "I'd like that."

"My friends at school used to call me Jay," he admits, sounding almost shy. "No one here uses that name."

The nickname humanizes him instantly, creating a contrast with the formal prince everyone else sees.

"Jay," you repeat, testing it on your tongue. His eyes darken at the sound of his nickname in your voice. "I like it."

"May I kiss you again... Y/N?" he asks, your name without titles sounding intimate in his accented voice.

In answer, you close the distance between you, kissing him with more confidence this time. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands that are usually so perfectly styled.

You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his mouth against yours, his hands tracing patterns on your back through the thin silk of your robe. There's an urgency building between you, a heat that makes you forget your surroundings, your circumstances, everything but the feeling of being in his arms.

It's the distant sound of a guard's footsteps that finally brings you back to reality. You pull apart quickly, both breathing heavily. Jongseong's hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips slightly swollen, and there's a flush across his cheekbones that you've never seen before.

"We should probably go back inside," you say reluctantly, glancing toward the sound. "Before someone finds us."

He nods, though he looks as unwilling as you feel. "You're right." He stands, offering you his hand to help you up. "Though I find myself wishing for more midnight encounters."

"Is that a royal request?" you tease, accepting his help.

"A personal one," he corrects, bringing your joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

-

The historical districts of Genovia are charming beyond your expectations—cobblestone streets, centuries-old architecture, and views of both mountains and sea that take your breath away. But if you're being honest, you're far more aware of your tour guide than the sights.

Jongseong—or Jay, as you've begun to think of him in your private thoughts—appears perfectly princely today, back in formal attire with his public mask firmly in place. If not for the occasional heated glance when no one is watching, you might think you dreamed last night's encounter.

"This cathedral dates back to the 14th century," he explains as you enter a soaring space of stained glass and ancient stone. "The Renaldi family has traditionally been crowned here since 1523."

"Where I'll be crowned," you murmur, the reality of your future suddenly pressing in.

His expression softens briefly. "Yes. Though not for many years, one hopes."

The palace security detail keeps a discreet distance, but they're ever-present, along with several photographers approved to document your cultural education for the Genovian press. Every movement, every interaction is observed, recorded, analyzed.

"How do you stand it?" you ask quietly as you move between exhibits in a historical museum. "The constant scrutiny."

"You develop a public self," he explains, maintaining a proper distance as he guides you through a display of royal artifacts. "A version that can withstand examination."

"And the real self?"

His eyes meet yours briefly, intensely. "That remains private. Shared only with those who have earned trust."

The implication isn't lost on you. Last night, he showed you something real—something beyond the perfect prince facade. The knowledge feels like a precious secret.

The tour concludes with dinner at a historical restaurant overlooking the harbor. Security has cleared the establishment of other patrons, creating an illusion of privacy that you both know is false. Still, sitting across from him as sunset paints the water gold, you find moments of genuine connection between the formal conversation about Genovian history and culture.

"You've memorized a remarkable amount about Genovia," you observe as he explains the significance of an ancient trading route.

"I studied your country extensively after learning of your existence," he admits. "I wanted to be prepared."

"For what?"

"To meet you," he says simply.

Something warm unfurls in your chest. "That's... thorough."

"I prefer to be informed," he replies, but there's a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone. "Though I confess, no amount of research prepared me for the reality."

"Disappointed?" you ask, only half-joking.

"Quite the opposite." His gaze is steady, sincere. "You continually surprise me, Y/N. It's... refreshing."

The way he says your name, without titles or pretense, sends a thrill through you despite the public setting.

After dinner, as you're escorted back to the palace, the car's privacy partition offers a brief moment of seclusion from watchful eyes. Jongseong's hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining.

"I wish we could have a normal evening," he says quietly. "Without guards and photographers. Just the two of us."

"Is anything about our lives ever going to be normal?" you wonder aloud.

He squeezes your hand gently. "Probably not. But we might find moments of normalcy in the chaos."

The car slows as you approach the palace gates, and reluctantly, he releases your hand. The mask of royal propriety falls back into place with practiced ease.

"Thank you for the tour, Prince Jongseong," you say formally as the car stops at the palace entrance. "It was most educational."

"The pleasure was mine, Your Highness," he replies with equal formality, though his eyes convey a very different message.

Later that night, you find yourself drawn once again to the garden, hoping for a repeat of the previous evening's encounter. The fountain beckons with memories of his kiss, but the garden remains empty save for the ever-present palace guards.

Disappointed, you turn to head back inside when you notice something on the bench by the fountain—a folded piece of paper tucked partially beneath a small stone. Looking around to ensure no one is watching, you retrieve it, unfolding it quickly.

Inside, in elegant handwriting: Piano room, east wing, midnight. —J

Your pulse quickens. The east wing houses several music rooms, according to Charlotte's exhaustive palace tour. It would be simple enough to find your way there.

It would also be reckless, improper, and potentially scandalous if discovered.

You fold the note carefully, tucking it into your pocket, and head back inside, decision already made.

The palace at midnight is a labyrinth of shadows and silence. You've changed from your formal evening attire into something more comfortable—dark jeans and a simple blouse that feels like armor after days of princess couture. With your hair loose and face scrubbed of makeup, you almost recognize yourself again.

You navigate the corridors carefully, grateful for Charlotte's detailed palace tour. The east wing is older, with fewer guards patrolling its halls. The music room isn't difficult to find—soft piano notes guide you to a partially open door.

Inside, lit only by a single lamp, Jongseong sits at a grand piano. He's shed his formal attire for dark pants and a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair falls loose across his forehead as he plays, eyes closed in concentration.

The melody is hauntingly beautiful—melancholy yet hopeful, complex yet accessible. You stand in the doorway, transfixed by this version of him you've never seen before—completely unguarded, lost in his music.

When the piece ends, his eyes open and find you immediately, as if he sensed your presence all along.

"You came," he says simply.

"I came," you confirm, stepping fully into the room and closing the door quietly behind you.

He remains seated at the piano, watching as you approach. "Did anyone see you?"

"Just the guard outside my room. I told him I was going to the library."

He nods, satisfied. "That was beautiful," you add, gesturing to the piano. "What was it?"

"Something I've been working on," he admits, looking almost shy. "It's not finished yet."

"You composed that?" You're genuinely impressed.

"Music has always been... an escape," he explains. "Somewhere I can express things I can't say aloud."

"What was that piece saying?" you ask, perching on the edge of the piano bench beside him.

He considers this, fingers ghosting over the keys without pressing them. "It's about living between worlds. Belonging fully to neither." His eyes meet yours. "I started it the night we met."

The admission sends warmth flooding through you. "Play more?" you request softly.

Instead, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I'd rather talk. Without titles or expectations or diplomatic considerations."

"What should we talk about... Jay?" His nickname feels intimate on your tongue.

His eyes darken at your use of the name. "Anything. Everything. Who you were before Genovia. Who you hope to become."

So you talk—really talk—in a way you haven't been able to since arriving in Genovia. You tell him about college, your friends, your dreams of working in international development. He shares stories of his childhood in Astoria, the weight of expectation, the moments of rebellion carefully hidden from public view.

"I crashed a motorcycle when I was seventeen," he admits, and you try to reconcile this image with the perfect prince you first met. "Snuck out of the palace, borrowed a security guard's bike, ended up with three broken ribs and a lecture from my father I still haven't forgotten."

"I can't imagine you being that reckless," you laugh.

"I'm not, usually," he acknowledges. "But sometimes the pressure builds until something has to give."

You understand that feeling all too well. "What happened after?"

"I was sent to military academy to 'channel my energies appropriately,'" he says with a wry smile. "It actually helped. Gave me structure, purpose beyond simply being the crown prince."

As you talk, the distance between you gradually diminishes. His hand finds yours again, thumb tracing patterns on your palm that send shivers up your arm. Your shoulders touch, then your knees. The air between you grows charged with possibility.

"I haven't stopped thinking about last night," he admits, voice dropping lower. "About kissing you."

"Neither have I," you confess.

This time, there's no hesitation. He leans in, capturing your lips with his, one hand coming up to cup your face. The kiss deepens immediately, as if you're both making up for lost time. You shift closer on the bench, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm.

His kisses are more confident than the night before, exploring rather than questioning. Your fingers thread through his hair, marveling at its softness. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open to him without hesitation, a small sound of pleasure escaping you.

The bench is awkward, limiting movement, so when he pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, you stand, tugging him with you. He follows willingly, but instead of returning to your kiss, he guides you to a small sofa in the corner of the room.

"More comfortable," he explains, settling beside you.

This new position allows for closer contact. When his lips find yours again, his arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against him. Your bodies align perfectly, and heat builds between you with each passing moment. His kisses move from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, discovering sensitive spots that make you gasp.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your skin.

"More than okay," you assure him, tilting your head to give him better access.

Your hands explore hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the firm muscles of his chest, the surprising warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. His own explorations become bolder, one hand sliding up your side, thumb brushing the outer curve of your breast.

Even this innocent touch sends electricity through you. You arch into his hand, silently encouraging more. He obeys your wordless request, cupping you fully through your blouse, thumb circling in a way that makes you bite your lip to stay quiet.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, eyes dark with desire. "From the moment I saw you..."

You silence him with another kiss, not trusting yourself with words. Your body is taking control, wants overwhelming rational thought. When his hand slips beneath the hem of your blouse, warm against your bare skin, you shiver with anticipation.

His fingers trace patterns up your ribcage, hesitating at the edge of your bra. "May I?" he asks, ever the gentleman even in this moment.

"Yes," you breathe, beyond caring about propriety or consequences.

The first touch of his hand against your bare breast draws a soft moan from you that he captures with his mouth. His thumb circles your nipple through the thin lace, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You press closer, wanting more, needing more.

Your own hands grow bolder, tugging his shirt from his waistband, slipping beneath to explore the warm skin of his back. You feel the subtle ridge of a scar near his shoulder blade, a humanizing imperfection that makes him even more attractive somehow.

"What's this from?" you ask, fingertips tracing the mark.

"Fencing accident," he murmurs against your neck. "Age twelve. Opponent didn't pull his strike."

You press your lips to his jaw, then his neck, enjoying the way his breath catches. "Any other scars I should know about?"

His laugh is low, slightly uneven. "Several. But discovering them might require more privacy than a music room allows."

The reminder of your surroundings is like a splash of cold water. Anyone could walk in—a guard, a staff member, your grandmother. The scandal would be immediate and irreparable.

Reluctantly, you pull back slightly, though your body protests the loss of contact. "You're right. This isn't the place."

His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "I got carried away," he admits. "You have a... significant effect on me."

"Likewise," you assure him, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips before putting slight distance between you. "But you're right. We should be careful."

He helps you straighten your clothes, then adjusts his own, running a hand through his disheveled hair in a futile attempt to tame it. The sight of him—rumpled, flushed, looking nothing like the perfect prince the world knows—fills you with a secret satisfaction.

"When can I see you again?" he asks, taking your hand. "Like this, I mean. Just us."

"I don't know," you admit. "My schedule is packed for the next few days. Royal duties and all that."

"I have to return to Astoria briefly," he tells you, disappointment evident in his voice. "Diplomatic matters requiring the crown prince's attention. But I'll be back for the royal ball."

The royal ball—your official introduction to Genovian society. The thought fills you with anxiety, but now also anticipation at the prospect of seeing him again.

"Dance with me at the ball?" you request.

"Every dance they'll allow," he promises. He hesitates, then adds, "Though propriety will demand you dance with other suitable candidates as well."

"Other suitors, you mean," you clarify, the political reality of your situation reasserting itself.

His expression tightens slightly, but he nods. "Yes. The royal council will expect you to consider all options."

"And what do you expect?" you challenge softly.

His answer is immediate and sincere. "Only that you follow your heart, wherever it leads." He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Even if it's not to me."

The selflessness of this statement catches you off guard. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

"What did you expect?"

"Something more possessive, maybe," you admit. "More princelike."

He smiles, that real smile that transforms his face. "I'm trying very hard not to be the prince with you, remember? Just Jay."

"Well, Just Jay," you say, returning his smile, "I can't make any promises about where my heart will lead. But right now, it seems rather fixated on a certain piano-playing prince with surprisingly skilled hands."

-

The next few days pass in a blur of preparations. There are fittings for your ball gown (a process that involves no fewer than seven people and countless discussions of hemlines and necklines and something called "appropriate royal décolletage"). There are dance lessons with Monsieur Laurent, who seems personally offended that Prince Jongseong isn't there to partner you. There are briefings about every guest who will attend, complete with flash cards for memorizing names and titles.

"The Duchess of Wellington prefers to discuss her charitable foundation, not her recent divorce," Charlotte instructs as you review the guest list. "And under no circumstances ask the Spanish ambassador about Gibraltar."

"This is worse than finals week," you grumble, flipping through the stack of cards. "At least then I was only tested on one subject at a time."

"Society is judging you on everything simultaneously," Charlotte confirms cheerfully. "Appearance, knowledge, grace, diplomacy..."

"Thanks. That's very reassuring."

The night before the ball, you find yourself restless, missing both Jay's presence and the calming effect of your midnight conversations. Over the past month, you've grown accustomed to his company, to having someone who understands both your old world and your new one. This week without him has left you feeling strangely adrift.

You wander down to the music room, hoping to recapture some of that peace, but the room feels empty without him. You sit at the piano, pressing random keys, creating nothing like the beautiful melodies he coaxed from the instrument. On impulse, you check under the bench, then inside the piano itself, hoping for another note, but find nothing.

It's silly to feel disappointed. He's a crown prince with actual responsibilities, not a lovestruck teenager leaving notes for his crush. Still, you can't help wishing for some connection, some indication that he's thinking of you too.

Back in your room, you're about to climb into bed when there's a soft knock at your door. Olivia enters with a small silver tray.

"This just arrived for you, Your Highness," she says, presenting what appears to be a letter sealed with dark blue wax.

Your heart skips as you recognize the crest pressed into the seal—the royal emblem of Astoria. You wait until Olivia leaves before breaking it open with trembling fingers.

Inside, written in that now-familiar elegant handwriting:

Y/N, Diplomatic obligations keep me in Astoria longer than anticipated, but I'll return tomorrow in time for the ball. Save a dance for me—preferably more than one. This week has felt like an eternity. I've missed our conversations, our moments away from public scrutiny. I find myself at my piano each night, working on the piece I started after we met. It's nearly complete now. Perhaps I'll play it for you soon. The past month has been unexpected in every way. When I first agreed to my father's request to help with your royal transition, I never imagined... Some things are better said in person. Until tomorrow, J P.S. I still feel your touch on my skin.

-

The day of the royal ball arrives with military precision. Your schedule is planned down to the minute—when you'll bathe (9:15 AM), when your hair will be styled (11:30 AM), when makeup will be applied (2:45 PM). It's as if you're a product being assembled rather than a person preparing for an event.

"I can bathe myself, you know," you inform Charlotte when she reviews the schedule over breakfast. "I've been doing it successfully for two decades."

"Today is not about efficiency, Your Highness," Charlotte replies. "It's about tradition. The royal ball has marked the formal introduction of new members of the royal family for generations."

You think about Jay's letter, tucked safely under your pillow. Tonight isn't just about tradition for you. After a month in the palace, you've reached a turning point—not just in your royal journey, but in whatever is developing between you and Jay.

The day progresses according to schedule, each hour bringing you closer to the evening's festivities. By the time you're finally dressed, you hardly recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your ball gown is a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that seems to change colors as you move—now sapphire, now indigo, now almost black. The bodice is fitted, adorned with subtle crystal beading that catches the light like stars, while the skirt flows outward in graceful folds. Your hair has been swept up in an elegant style that manages to look both regal and youthful, and atop it all sits a delicate tiara—platinum vines intertwined with small diamonds.

"You look every inch a princess," your grandmother declares when she sees you, genuine approval warming her voice.

"I feel like I'm wearing someone else's life," you admit.

She approaches, adjusting your tiara slightly. "It is your life now. You've taken to it more naturally than anyone expected—including yourself, I suspect."

There's a knowing look in her eyes that makes you wonder how much she's guessed about your feelings for Jay. Your grandmother misses little, and your increasingly frequent "diplomatic discussions" with Prince Jongseong over the past month have hardly been subtle.

"Remember," she continues, "tonight you represent not just yourself, but Genovia. Every interaction matters."

"No pressure," you mutter.

"Considerable pressure," she corrects, but with a hint of a smile. "That's the nature of our position."

The ball is being held in the palace's Grand Ballroom, a space so opulent it makes even the other royal rooms seem understated in comparison. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Massive floral arrangements perfume the air. A full orchestra plays softly as guests begin to arrive.

You stand with your grandmother at the entrance, greeting each person as Charlotte announces them. Your hand is kissed so many times it begins to feel like a separate entity from your body. You cycle through the diplomatic phrases you've memorized, trying to match names to faces to countries to appropriate topics of conversation.

You continue greeting guests, anxiety gradually giving way to a strange confidence. After a month of intensive training, you're actually doing this—being a princess, representing Genovia, handling diplomatic small talk without major incident. The realization is both surprising and empowering.

And then finally, after what feels like hours, Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."

Your heart stutters as he appears, resplendent in formal attire—a midnight blue military-style jacket with silver accents that perfectly complements your gown, as if coordinated. (Knowing your grandmother's attention to detail, it probably was.) He looks every inch the crown prince, and yet all you can see is Jay—your Jay—hidden beneath the formal facade.

His eyes find yours immediately, warming in a way that feels intimate despite the crowded room. He bows formally to your grandmother, exchanging pleasantries, before turning to you.

"Your Highness," he says, taking your hand. Instead of the customary kiss to your knuckles, he turns your hand gently and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, just above your pulse point.

The gesture is technically within the bounds of protocol but charged with meaning only you understand. You feel your heartbeat quicken beneath his lips, and know he can feel it too.

"Prince Jongseong," you manage, your voice steadier than you expected. "Welcome back to Genovia."

"I understand congratulations are in order," he says smoothly. "The press has been most favorable regarding your public appearances this week."

"The princess has exceeded expectations," your grandmother agrees, watching this interaction with interest.

His eyes never leave yours. "I'm not surprised."

The moment stretches between you, full of unspoken feelings built over these past weeks, before Charlotte's announcement of the next guest breaks the spell. Jay bows again and moves into the ballroom, but not before one last glance that promises more to come.

Once all guests have arrived, the formal dancing begins. Your grandmother opens the ball with the Prime Minister, and then it's your turn. Tradition dictates that your first dance be with the highest-ranking unmarried nobleman present—which happens to be Jay.

He approaches as the orchestra begins a stately waltz, extending his hand. "May I have this dance, Your Highness?"

You place your hand in his, grateful for all those practice sessions over the past month. "You may."

His hand settles at your waist, familiar yet different in this public setting. You move together perfectly, your earlier clumsiness long gone, replaced by a confidence born of compatibility and practice.

"You look breathtaking," he says quietly as he guides you through a turn. "That color suits you."

"Thank you. You look..." You search for a word that encompasses how he affects you without being inappropriate for public consumption. "Regal."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is that a compliment or a complaint?"

"Both," you admit. "I miss Jay. Prince Jongseong is very impressive, but..."

"But not who you want to be with," he finishes, understanding immediately. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. "He's still here. Just... constrained by circumstance."

"Can he break free later?" you ask boldly. "Perhaps after the ball?"

His eyes darken. "He'll find a way."

The orchestra's final notes signal the end of your dance, forcing you to separate. Jay bows formally, though his eyes convey much more intimate thoughts.

"Until later, Princess," he says, voice low with promise.

The rest of the evening becomes an exercise in diplomatic multitasking. You dance with Prince Nikolai, finding his conversation refreshingly direct. You dance with the French ambassador's son, the Duke of Wellington, and several other names from your grandmother's list of suitable candidates.

Each dance, each conversation, feels like a performance—you playing the role of princess, potential bride, future queen. Only your brief interactions with Jay feel real, though these are limited to passing glances and the occasional comment as you move in the same diplomatic circles.

During a momentary respite, you find yourself near a set of French doors leading to a terrace. Needing air and solitude, you slip outside, grateful for the cool night breeze after the stuffiness of the ballroom.

You've only enjoyed the peace for a moment when a familiar voice says, "Escaping your own ball?"

You turn to find Jay stepping through the doors, looking concerned.

"Just taking a short break," you assure him. "It's a lot to process."

He glances back at the ballroom, then joins you at the stone balustrade. "We shouldn't be alone together," he says, though he makes no move to leave. "Not where anyone might see."

"Yet here you are," you point out.

"Here I am," he agrees. "Unable to stay away despite knowing better."

You study his profile in the moonlight, drinking in the details you've missed during his week away. The strong line of his jaw, the perfect posture that somehow looks less rigid tonight, the subtle way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

"I missed you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

His expression gentles. "And I you. Far more than I anticipated."

You glance back at the ballroom, where hundreds of guests dance and mingle, all potential witnesses to this private moment. "A week felt longer than I expected."

"I composed three new pieces," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Music seems to flow more easily when I'm... feeling something intensely."

"Is that your princely way of saying you thought about me?" you tease.

He turns to face you fully, close enough that you can see the subtle variations of color in his eyes, even in the dim light. "I thought about little else."

Your heart skips at the naked honesty in his voice. Over the past month, you've learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression, to understand what lies beneath his carefully controlled exterior. Tonight, he's making no effort to hide his feelings.

"The ball is beautiful," you say, changing the subject before you do something reckless like kiss him where anyone might see. "I'm surprised I haven't completely embarrassed Genovia yet."

"You could never," he assures you. "You've taken to royal life with remarkable grace."

"I've had a good teacher," you reply, holding his gaze meaningfully.

He steps closer, close enough that the skirt of your gown brushes against his legs. "There's a small courtyard beyond this terrace," he says, his voice low. "More private than here. Would you walk with me? Just for a moment?"

You know you shouldn't. You're the guest of honor at a ball being held in your honor. People will notice your absence. And yet...

"Lead the way," you decide, throwing caution aside.

He offers his arm with perfect formal correctness, as if you're simply taking a proper turn around the terrace. But once you're beyond the sight of the French doors, his hand covers yours where it rests on his arm, a much more intimate touch.

The courtyard is small and enclosed, lit only by the moonlight and a few distant lanterns. A fountain burbles quietly at its center, surrounded by hedges that provide welcome privacy. The music from the ballroom is muffled here, creating the illusion that you've stepped into another world.

The moment you're properly hidden from view, Jay turns to you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek.

"I've been waiting to do this all evening," he murmurs, before his lips find yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, a reacquaintance after a week apart. But it quickly deepens, a month of growing desire making you both less cautious than you should be. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands settle at your waist, respectful even in passion.

"I missed this," you breathe against his mouth. "Missed you. The real you."

"I'm most real when I'm with you," he confesses, forehead resting against yours. "Everywhere else, I'm playing a role."

"Even in Astoria?"

"Especially there," he sighs. "My father has... specific expectations about how the crown prince should behave."

You pull back slightly to study his face. "You never talk about your father."

A shadow crosses his expression. "There's little to say. He is a traditional ruler with traditional views."

"About Astoria? Or about who you should marry?" you ask, cutting to what you suspect is the heart of the matter.

Jay's silence answers your question.

"He doesn't approve of me," you realize. "Of us."

"He doesn't know you," Jay corrects gently. "He sees only the diplomatic equation—a princess with an uncertain claim versus more established alliances."

The reality of your situation crashes back. No matter how genuine your feelings, how perfect this stolen moment, politics surrounds you both like the walls of this courtyard.

"And what do you see?" you ask, steeling yourself for his answer.

His hands frame your face, his gaze unwavering. "I see you. Not the princess, not the diplomatic opportunity. Just you—stubborn, honest, intelligent, beautiful you."

The sincerity in his voice melts your defenses. You reach up to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone with your fingertips.

"When did this happen?" you wonder aloud. "When did you become so important to me?"

He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I don't know. Somewhere between your first disastrous curtsy and the moment you called me Jay instead of Prince Jongseong."

"It was the piano playing," you decide with a small smile. "I'm a sucker for musicians."

He laughs softly, the sound warming you from within. "I'll compose symphonies for you, if that's what it takes."

"Takes for what?" you challenge gently.

His expression grows serious. "To convince you that what's between us is worth fighting for, regardless of politics or convenience or royal expectations."

The weight of his words settles over you. A month ago, you were a college student worrying about midterms. Now you're a princess with constitutional responsibilities, standing in a moonlit courtyard with a prince who's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.

"Jay," you start, not sure what you're going to say.

"Don't answer now," he interrupts softly. "There's still time. Still much we both need to consider."

He's right, of course. The constitutional deadline looms, but it's still weeks away. Tonight isn't the time for final decisions.

"We should return," he says reluctantly. "Your absence will be noticed."

"Yours too," you point out. "The dashing Crown Prince of Astoria is quite popular, I've noticed."

A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Jealous?"

"Should I be?"

His answer is another kiss, deeper than before, his arms pulling you flush against him. When he finally releases you, you're both breathing heavily.

His eyes darken. "Meet me in the music room. One hour after the ball ends."

Your breath catches. "That's... quite direct."

"You asked," he reminds you, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Will you come?"

The music is drawing to a close, your time together nearly over. "Yes,"

-

Once alone, you change from your nightgown into something less formal but still respectable—dark pants and a simple blouse. You check the clock. Forty minutes until you're supposed to meet Jay in the music room. Enough time to let the palace settle, for guards to assume their night positions, for suspicion to fade.

The music room is dark when you arrive, only a single lamp burning low near the piano. For a moment, you think you've arrived first—then you spot him, standing by the window, looking out at the gardens below.

"Jay," you say softly.

He turns, and the expression on his face makes your heart skip. He crosses the room in a few long strides, and then his arms are around you, his lips on yours, and all pretense of formality evaporates.

This kiss is different from those that came before—less hesitant, more certain. A month of growing feelings, a week of separation, an evening of pretending indifference—all of it culminates in this moment of honesty between you.

When you finally part, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "I've been wanting to do that all night."

"Even during our dances?" you tease.

"Especially then," he admits. "Having you so close, yet having to maintain proper distance... it was excruciating."

You laugh softly. "Poor prince. Such diplomatic hardship."

"You have no idea," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "The things I wanted to say to you..."

"Say them now," you encourage, pulling back slightly to see his face.

He studies you in the dim light, his expression serious. "I don't want to overwhelm you."

"Try me," you challenge.

He takes a breath, then leads you to the small sofa where you've sat during previous late-night conversations. Once you're settled side by side, he takes your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm.

"When my father first suggested I assist with your royal transition, I saw it as a diplomatic assignment," he begins. "Astoria helping Genovia, building goodwill, assessing a potential alliance. Very... political."

You nod, encouraging him to continue.

"Then I met you," he says with a small smile. "This defiant, overwhelmed, utterly genuine person who didn't fit any diplomatic template I'd prepared for."

"I was a mess," you remind him.

"You were authentic," he corrects. "Do you know how rare that is in royal circles? How precious?"

His sincerity catches you off guard. "I just didn't know how to be anything else."

"Exactly," he says, squeezing your hand. "And over these past weeks, watching you navigate this new world while somehow maintaining that authenticity... it's been remarkable."

"I find myself thinking about you constantly," he continues. "Looking forward to our conversations. Composing music inspired by your laugh. Wondering what you're doing when we're apart."

"I know it's fast," he acknowledges. "Barely a month since we met. But I also know that when I'm with you, I feel more myself than I ever have. Like I don't have to choose between the crown prince and the person beneath it."

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I'm falling in love with you, Y/N. Not the princess. You."

The confession hangs in the air between you, honest and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"Say something," he urges when you remain silent, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

Instead of answering with words, you lean forward and kiss him, trying to convey through touch what you're not sure how to express aloud. Your feelings for him have grown so gradually yet so intensely that putting them into language feels impossible.

When you finally break the kiss, you keep your face close to his. "I don't know what this is," you admit. "Everything in my life has changed so completely in the past month. But the one thing that feels real, that feels right, is you."

His eyes search yours. "But?"

"But I'm scared," you confess. "Of feeling this much. Of making decisions based on emotions when the stakes are so high. Of disappointing my grandmother, Genovia, everyone counting on me to make the right choice."

"What if the right diplomatic choice and the right personal choice are the same?" he asks quietly.

"Are they?" you challenge. "Your father doesn't seem to think so."

His expression tightens slightly. "My father sees alliances in terms of historical connections and military strategy. But a union between Astoria and Genovia makes sense on multiple levels—economic, cultural, geographic."

"Very romantic," you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He smiles, recognizing your deflection. "I'm trying to address your concerns about duty. The personal reasons are..." His voice drops lower. "Well, I think I've made those clear."

Heat blooms in your cheeks at his implication. "Crystal clear."

"We don't have to decide anything tonight," he assures you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "The constitutional deadline is still weeks away."

"And until then?" you ask.

"Until then," he says, shifting closer, "we continue getting to know each other. Without pressure from our families or royal councils or diplomatic expectations."

"Can we really separate those things from who we are?"

"Perhaps not entirely," he admits. "But we can try. Starting with this."

He kisses you again, and for a while, the complications of royal life fade into the background. There's only this moment, this connection, this growing certainty that whatever path you choose, you want him beside you.

Much later, as you reluctantly prepare to return to your separate rooms before the palace awakens, Jay pulls you into one last embrace.

"We should go," he murmurs against your hair, though his arms tighten around you instead of letting go.

"Not yet," you whisper, unwilling to break the spell between you.

Jay studies your face in the dim light, something shifting in his expression. "Come with me," he says suddenly, taking your hand.

"Where?"

"Somewhere more private," he answers, leading you toward the door. "The guards change rotation in five minutes. We'll have a window."

Heart racing with equal parts excitement and nervousness, you follow him through the shadowed corridors. He moves with practiced ease, clearly familiar with the palace's nocturnal rhythms. After several turns, he stops before an ornate door you don't recognize.

"The royal library," he explains, producing a small key. "It's never guarded at night. No one will look for us here."

The library is vast and silent, moonlight streaming through tall windows, illuminating shelves that stretch toward the ceiling. A small fireplace holds the remnants of embers, casting a faint glow across a single chaise longue and a smaller, more intimate piano than the grand one in the music room.

Jay locks the door behind you, then crosses to stoke the dying fire. The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the room. When he turns to face you, something has changed in his expression—something darker, hungrier.

He approaches slowly, giving you every chance to step away, to maintain the careful boundaries you've observed until now. But you don't move, don't want to move, transfixed by the intensity in his gaze.

Now, his breath is warm against your lips, fingers brushing your cheek with a reverence that makes your chest ache. The only light comes from the dying fire in the hearth, flickering shadows across the lone chaise and the grand piano beside it. The rest of the palace sleeps, unaware of the two figures standing too close in the quiet of the library, the air between them thick with something forbidden.

"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, voice wrecked with restraint.

"I won't," you whisper.

And then he kisses you.

It's slow at first, a gentle press of lips meant to savor, to test, to give you one last chance to stop this before it spirals beyond control. But when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, something breaks.

Jay groans softly, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding to your waist, gripping you like he's afraid you'll disappear. He backs you up until you collide with the piano, your hips pressing against the polished wood, a soft creak echoing through the empty library.

"God," he breathes against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Then show me," you whisper, tilting your chin up to capture his lips again.

That's all it takes.

Jay's hands slip beneath the fabric of your blouse, fingers finding bare skin, warm and wanting. He lifts you onto the edge of the piano in one smooth motion, the wood cool against your thighs as he steps between them, fitting his body between yours like you were carved for each other.

His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, trailing down your throat, slow, deliberate. Your breath hitches when he reaches the curve of your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, leaving heat in his wake.

He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking with yours as his fingers skim higher up your thigh. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice strained.

Instead, your fingers tangle in his hair, your breath unsteady as you part your legs just a little wider, inviting him in.

His chest rises and falls sharply as his hand slides higher, fingertips brushing over the heat of your core, teasing through the thin lace.

"Fuck," he exhales, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his fingers press against you, feeling just how wet you already are.

You tremble beneath his touch, hips shifting forward, seeking more friction, more of him.

Jay lets out a soft, desperate laugh against your skin. "So eager," he teases, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"

"Shut up and do something about it," you whisper, voice wrecked.

His control snaps.

His fingers slide beneath the lace, parting you with a slow, torturous stroke that has your head falling back, mouth parting on a silent gasp.

"Jay," you whimper, your hands clenching his shoulders as his fingers dip lower, circling, teasing, never quite giving you enough.

"Patience," he breathes, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. He's just as wrecked as you are.

Then, finally, he sinks a finger inside you.

Your body clenches around him, a sharp inhale breaking the silence of the library.

"That's it," Jay murmurs, lips brushing your temple, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. "Let me hear you, my love."

His fingers work you open slowly, curling, pressing, stroking in time with the shallow thrusts of his hips against your thigh. His mouth never stops—kissing, biting, sucking at your skin, leaving marks that will be hidden beneath your clothes come morning but burn with the memory of him.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, his thumb circling exactly where you need him most.

"Fuck," he groans when you roll your hips into his touch, chasing the friction. "You're so wet for me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"Jay—" Your voice catches as he strokes deeper, his fingers curling just right, white-hot pleasure spreading from your core outward.

He presses a soft kiss to your parted lips, swallowing every moan, every gasp, his pace slow and purposeful, like he wants to memorize the way you fall apart beneath him.

"Say my name," he whispers against your mouth, his voice shaking.

"Jay—"

"Louder."

"Jay," you gasp, body trembling as the pleasure coils tighter, too much and not enough all at once.

"Good girl," he breathes, curling his fingers one last time, pressing his lips against yours just as you shatter around him, your back arching against the piano, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He keeps working you through it, slow, lazy strokes that make you shudder, pressing kisses to your throat, your jaw, everywhere he can reach.

And when your breathing slows, his forehead rests against yours, his fingers still buried inside you, the taste of your pleasure still on his lips.

"I should let you go," he murmurs, but his hands don't move, his body still pressed against yours, hard and wanting.

You cup his face, pulling him back down for another kiss, deep and slow and full of everything you can't say.

"Not yet," you whisper.

And just like that, Jay groans, dragging you down from the piano and onto the chaise, his mouth and hands promising you're nowhere near done.

-

The palace is quiet as you slip through the corridors, heart still racing from the evening's events. You pause at a window overlooking the gardens, watching moonlight silver the paths where you first kissed Jay weeks ago. How much has changed since then—how much you have changed.

You're so lost in thought that you don't hear the approaching footsteps until it's too late.

"Your Highness?"

You turn, startled, to find your grandmother standing a few feet away, wrapped in a dressing gown that somehow manages to look regal despite the hour.

"Grandmother," you manage, hoping the dim lighting hides your flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. "I was just... getting some air."

Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes miss nothing. "A common need after such an eventful evening."

You wait for questions or accusations, but instead, she joins you at the window, both of you staring out at the moonlit garden.

"I couldn't sleep on the night of my first royal ball either," she says unexpectedly. "Too much excitement. Too many decisions looming."

You glance at her, surprised by this rare personal revelation. "Was your ball also for... matchmaking purposes?"

A small smile touches her lips. "Of course. Royal balls have rarely been simply for dancing."

"Did it work?" you ask, genuinely curious. "Did you find someone suitable?"

"I did." Her voice softens with memory. "Though not whom my parents expected."

"Grandfather?"

She nods. "He was considered politically inconvenient. The third son of a minor royal house with more titles than fortune. My parents had their sights set on a neighbor with stronger military forces."

You absorb this information, struggling to reconcile it with the pragmatic queen you've come to know. "But you chose him anyway."

"Love is not a luxury afforded to royalty," she says, her tone measured. "But sometimes, if one is very fortunate, duty and affection may align."

The implication hangs between you. She knows. Perhaps not the details, but enough.

"Is that what happened with you and Grandfather?" you ask.

Her smile deepens. "We built something real from an arrangement that began as political. Not love at first sight, perhaps, but a deep and abiding partnership that grew into something... essential."

You think of Jay—of the way he looks at you when no one else is watching, of his hands on your skin just hours ago, of his confession in the music room.

"I'm not sure what to do," you admit quietly.

Your grandmother turns to face you fully. "You've grown quite... fond of Prince Jongseong."

It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "Yes."

"And he of you," she observes. "That much has been evident for weeks."

Your head snaps up. "You've known?"

"I have eyes, my dear. And considerably more experience with clandestine palace romances than you might imagine."

For a moment, you glimpse a different woman beneath the queenly facade—younger, perhaps, with her own secrets and desires.

"I don't want to choose wrong," you confess. "For myself or for Genovia."

"The choice is rarely wrong or right," she replies. "Merely different paths, each with its own challenges and rewards."

"That's not very helpful," you point out.

To your surprise, she laughs—a genuine sound rarely heard in palace corridors. "I'm afraid that's the most honest counsel I can offer. But I will add this: I have been watching you these past weeks, Y/N. You have taken to royal life with remarkable adaptability. You have won the respect of the council, the diplomatic corps, and, most importantly, the people of Genovia."

"Have I?" You find this hard to believe.

"Indeed. Which means you have earned the right to make this choice for yourself, with Genovia's interests in mind but not at the expense of your own happiness."

Her hand touches your cheek briefly—a rare gesture of affection. "Besides, I have not spent thirty years preserving this monarchy only to see its next ruler miserable in a politically expedient marriage."

With that cryptic statement, she turns to leave. At the end of the corridor, she pauses.

"One more thing, Y/N."

"Yes, Grandmother?"

"The southeast wing has far fewer night patrols than the east wing." Her eyes twinkle momentarily. "For future reference."

She disappears around the corner, leaving you speechless in the moonlight.

The next morning, a note arrives with your breakfast tray.

Meet me in the rose garden at noon. There are matters we must discuss before the council meeting tomorrow. —J

The formality of the message concerns you, so different from his usual warmth. You spend the morning distracted during your language lesson, earning several pointed looks from your Genovian tutor as you massacre conjugations.

By noon, you're a bundle of nerves as you make your way to the garden. You find Jay seated on a stone bench, his posture rigid, his expression guarded. He stands when he sees you, bowing formally.

"Your Highness."

The title and distance hurt more than you expected. "Are we back to that now?"

His expression softens momentarily before the mask returns. "I've received a summons from my father. I'm to return to Astoria immediately."

Your stomach drops. "For how long?"

"That's what we need to discuss." He gestures to the bench, and you sit, carefully maintaining space between you. "My father has learned of... our connection."

"How?" You've been so careful.

"It seems Prince Nikolai mentioned to his father how taken you and I seemed with each other. The Danish king mentioned it to the Austrian ambassador, who informed my father's adviser."

"That's..."

"Royal gossip," Jay supplies with a grim smile. "It travels faster than light."

You process this information, anxiety building. "What does your father want?"

"He believes our association has progressed beyond diplomatic utility," Jay says carefully, clearly choosing each word. "He reminds me that Astoria's interests lie in stronger alliances with certain Eastern European powers, not with a... 'newly discovered princess of questionable legitimacy.'"

The words sting, though you know they're not his. "I see."

"No, you don't," he says firmly, his composed facade cracking. "Those are his words, not mine. Never mine."

"But you're still leaving."

He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of frustration. "He's the king. I cannot simply ignore a direct summons."

"And when you return to Astoria?" you press. "What then?"

Jay's eyes meet yours, conflict evident in their depths. "He expects me to begin formal courtship proceedings with Princess Elena of Belgravia."

The name hits you like a physical blow. Princess Elena—beautiful, accomplished, born and raised royal, and the daughter of one of the wealthiest monarchs in Eastern Europe.

"I see," you say again, because what else is there to say?

"I've requested a private audience with my father before any announcements are made," Jay continues. "I intend to make my case for... an alternative arrangement."

Hope flickers faintly. "What kind of alternative?"

"My own choice," he says simply.

You both know what that means. Who that means.

"When do you leave?" you ask.

"Tomorrow morning."

So soon. Too soon.

"The council meets tomorrow afternoon," you tell him. "To discuss my... suitors. To begin formalizing the process."

"I know." His hand twitches as if to reach for yours, but he restrains himself. You're in plain view of the palace windows. "My timing could not be worse."

You laugh, though there's no humor in it. "When has timing ever been on our side?"

He smiles sadly. "Perhaps just once, when a certain princess couldn't sleep and wandered into a garden at midnight."

The memory warms you despite everything. "What should I do about the council?"

"Stall," he suggests. "Ask for more time to consider. The constitutional deadline is still three weeks away."

"And if you don't return by then? If your father refuses your 'alternative arrangement'?"

The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. Jay's jaw tightens.

"Then you must do what's best for Genovia," he says finally. "As I must do what's best for Astoria."

"Even if that means..."

"Even then," he confirms, though the words clearly pain him.

You sit in silence, the carefully tended roses blooming around you in vibrant contrast to your darkening mood.

"Tonight," Jay says suddenly. "Meet me in the library. Midnight."

Your heartbeat quickens at the memory of your last library encounter. "The guards—"

"Will be occupied with a minor disturbance in the north wing," he finishes. "I've arranged it."

You raise an eyebrow. "How very un-princely of you."

A hint of his real smile appears. "I thought you preferred me un-princely."

"I prefer you," you correct softly.

His eyes darken, and for a moment you think he might forget propriety entirely and kiss you right there in the sunlight. Instead, he stands, straightening his jacket with a deliberate motion that reestablishes distance.

"Until tonight, Your Highness," he says formally, loud enough for any listening ears.

The library is bathed in moonlight when you slip inside at midnight. Jay is already there, pacing between the tall shelves.

The moment the door closes behind you, he crosses the room in swift strides, gathering you into his arms. His mouth finds yours with desperate intensity, and you respond in kind, clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach.

"I can't bear the thought of leaving you," he murmurs against your lips.

"Then don't," you reply, knowing it's impossible even as you say it.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands framing your face. "If there was any other way..."

"I know," you assure him. "I understand duty. Better than I did a month ago, anyway."

He smiles at that, though sadness lingers in his eyes. "You've become quite the princess."

"A reluctant one," you remind him.

"The best kind," he counters, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "The kind who questions, who challenges, who sees beyond tradition to possibility."

His faith in you is staggering. "What if I can't do this without you?"

"You can," he says with certainty. "You already have been. I've just been fortunate enough to witness it."

He leads you to the chaise where you lost yourself in him just nights ago. This time, though, he simply sits, pulling you close against his side.

"I've been thinking," he begins, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "About us. About what happens after I speak with my father."

"And?"

"There are several possibilities," he says, the diplomat in him emerging. "He may agree to consider an alliance with Genovia through... us. It's not without precedent or merit, despite his current reservations."

"But you don't think he will," you observe.

Jay sighs. "He is... traditional. Set in his views. Convinced of certain alliances' superiority."

"So what happens if he refuses?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "Then I have a decision to make. One I've been contemplating for some time."

Your heart quickens. "What decision?"

"Whether my duty to Astoria's future must follow the exact path my father envisions," he says carefully. "Or whether I might serve my country better by following my own judgment."

The implications of this statement hang between you.

"You would defy him?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"I would reason with him first," Jay clarifies. "With every diplomatic skill I possess. But if he remains unmoved..." He takes a deep breath. "Then yes, I would consider... alternatives."

"What kind of alternatives?"

He turns to face you fully. "I will be king one day, regardless of whom I marry. My father's insistence on certain alliances reflects old thinking—military might and territorial advantage. But Astoria's future lies in economic partnership, cultural exchange, technological advancement. Areas where Genovia has much to offer."

"That sounds very rational," you observe. "Very diplomatic."

A smile touches his lips. "I'm trying to frame my personal desires in terms my father might respect."

"And what are your personal desires?" you ask boldly.

His eyes darken. "I think I've made those quite clear." His hand comes up to cup your cheek. "But if you need me to be more explicit..."

His kiss leaves no doubt, deep and claiming and full of promise. When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily.

"I love you," he says simply. "I want a future with you. As Prince of Astoria, as future king, but most importantly, as Jay—the man I can only truly be when I'm with you."

Tears spring to your eyes at the raw honesty in his voice. "I love you too," you whisper, the words feel both terrifying and inevitable. "I don't want to lose this. Lose you."

"Then trust me," he urges. "Trust that I will find a way back to you. Trust that what we've found is worth fighting for."

"What should I tell the council tomorrow?"

"The truth," he says. "That you're still considering your options. That you need the full three weeks to make your decision."

"And if they press me?"

"Then you might mention that one option includes a harmonious union between Genovia and Astoria that would benefit both nations for generations to come." A hint of mischief enters his expression. "Be vague on the details."

You laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. "Very diplomatic."

"I've had excellent training," he reminds you.

You lean your head against his shoulder, savoring the solid warmth of him. "How long will you be gone?"

"A week. Perhaps two. I'll send word when I can, but communications may be... monitored."

The reminder of your precarious situation sobers you. "And if you don't return before the deadline?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Then you must do what you believe is right. For yourself and for Genovia."

"That's not the answer I wanted," you admit.

"It's the honest one," he replies. "I will do everything in my power to return to you with a path forward for us. But I would never ask you to risk Genovia's stability on my promise alone."

It's painful, but you understand. The weight of nations rests on both your shoulders. Your wants cannot be the only consideration.

"How did we get here?" you wonder aloud. "Two months ago I was worried about midterms and student loans."

"And I was dutifully attending diplomatic functions, playing the perfect prince," he adds. "Never imagining that a reluctant American princess would upend everything I thought I knew about duty and desire."

You smile at his characterization. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

"Indeed we are," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "And I intend to keep it that way, regardless of what my father or your council might prefer."

The conviction in his voice bolsters your courage. "So what now?"

"Now," he says, pulling you closer, "we have approximately five hours before dawn. I can think of several ways to spend them that don't involve diplomatic strategy."

"How scandalous, Your Highness," you tease, though heat pools in your core at his implication.

"You bring out my rebellious side," he murmurs, lips finding the sensitive spot below your ear that makes you shiver. "Among other things."

Words give way to touch as you lose yourselves in each other one last time before duty calls you back to separate worlds. Every kiss, every caress feels weighted with significance—a promise, a memory to sustain you through the uncertainty ahead.

Hours later, as dawn threatens the eastern sky, you lie tangled together on the chaise, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"I should go," he whispers, though his arms tighten around you. "I'm expected at the airfield in three hours."

"Five more minutes," you plead, not ready to relinquish this moment.

He presses a kiss to your hair. "Five more minutes," he agrees.

-

The council chamber feels cavernous and oppressive as thirteen pairs of eyes study you with varying degrees of interest, skepticism, and calculation. Your grandmother sits at the head of the long table, her expression carefully neutral as the Prime Minister outlines the constitutional requirements yet again.

"The deadline approaches, Your Highness," he concludes, peering at you over his spectacles. "The council requires your decision regarding a suitable match so that proper arrangements can be made within the constitutional timeframe."

You take a deep breath, remembering Jay's advice and your grandmother's unexpected counsel.

"I understand the urgency," you begin, your voice steadier than you expected. "And I appreciate the council's diligence in presenting suitable candidates for consideration. However, I believe the constitution allows me the full three weeks to make my decision, and I intend to use that time."

Murmurs circulate around the table. The Minister of State leans forward, his bushy eyebrows drawing together.

"Your Highness, while technically correct, it would be prudent to announce your intentions sooner. Diplomatic arrangements require time, wedding preparations must be made, public announcements coordinated..."

"And all of that will happen," you assure him, "once my decision is final. But this is not merely a diplomatic arrangement—it is a marriage. One that will affect not only my life but the future of Genovia. I believe such a decision deserves careful consideration."

Your grandmother's lips twitch—almost a smile—before her expression returns to regal impassivity.

"Perhaps," offers Lady Rothschild, the only female council member besides your grandmother, "Her Highness might share which candidates she is most seriously considering? To allow for preliminary preparations?"

All eyes return to you, expectant. You think of Jay, likely in the air now, flying back to face his father and an uncertain future.

"I am considering several options," you say carefully. "Including the possibility of a union that would align Genovia's interests with Astoria, combining our complementary strengths in trade, technology, and cultural influence."

The Foreign Minister straightens in his chair. "Astoria? Has Prince Jongseong made an official overture?"

"Prince Jongseong and I have discussed the potential benefits of such an alliance," you reply, technically truthful while omitting the nature of those discussions. "While nothing is formalized, I believe the possibility warrants serious consideration."

This sets off another round of murmurs, more animated than before. You catch your grandmother watching you with something like approval in her eyes.

"Astoria has historically sought alliances eastward," the Defense Minister points out. "King Min-hyuk is known for his traditional leanings."

"Traditions evolve," you counter. "And wise rulers adapt to changing circumstances."

The Prime Minister clears his throat. "While an Astorian alliance would indeed offer significant advantages, we must be prepared for all outcomes. I suggest the council continue preparation for multiple possibilities while Her Highness completes her... deliberations."

It's a reasonable compromise, and you nod agreement. "I appreciate the council's patience and wisdom in this matter. I assure you that my decision will prioritize Genovia's interests while honoring the constitutional requirements."

The meeting concludes with formal pleasantries, though you feel the weight of speculation following you as you exit the chamber. Your grandmother falls into step beside you in the corridor.

"Well played," she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Though I believe you've given Lord Pallimore indigestion with the suggestion of Astorian negotiations he knew nothing about."

You can't help but smile. "I merely stated facts. Prince Jongseong and I have indeed discussed the potential benefits of such an arrangement."

"I imagine you have," she replies dryly. "Quite thoroughly."

Heat rises to your cheeks. "Grandmother!"

"I may be old, my dear, but I'm not oblivious." She pats your arm. "Now we wait. And prepare for all possible outcomes, as the Prime Minister so diplomatically suggested."

"Do you think there's a chance?" you ask, unable to keep the vulnerability from your voice. "For Jay and me?"

Your grandmother considers this carefully. "I think Prince Jongseong is more resourceful than his father realizes. And I think King Min-hyuk, for all his traditional bluster, is a pragmatist at heart." She glances at you with unexpected gentleness. "But most importantly, I think you have discovered something genuine in each other. Such connections are rare in royal circles, and not easily broken—even by kings."

Her words offer comfort as the days stretch into a week, then ten days, with no word from Jay. You go through the motions of royal duties—charity visits, diplomatic receptions, cultural events—while your thoughts remain fixed on Astoria and the man fighting for your shared future.

On the eleventh day, when hope begins to falter, a small package arrives. No return address, no accompanying note, just a small box wrapped in simple brown paper.

Inside, nestled in velvet, lies an antique key on a delicate silver chain. You recognize it immediately—the library key Jay used on your last night together. Attached is a small card bearing only a date: three days hence, exactly one day before the constitutional deadline.

The message is clear: He's coming back. He's found a way.

For the first time in eleven days, you breathe fully.

-

The palace gardens are awash in golden late afternoon light as you pace the gravel path. You've changed outfits three times, settled on a simple blue dress that Jay once said brought out your eyes, then second-guessed that choice a dozen times since.

The sound of approaching footsteps has you turning, heart in your throat.

Jay stands at the garden entrance, still in traveling clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the journey. He looks exhausted but determined, his eyes finding yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the weight of eleven days' separation and uncertainty holding you in place. Then you're running, propriety forgotten, and he meets you halfway, catching you in an embrace that lifts you off your feet.

"You're here," you breathe against his neck, inhaling his familiar scent. "You came back."

"I promised I would," he reminds you, setting you down but keeping you close. "Nothing could have prevented it."

You pull back just far enough to see his face, searching for clues about his meeting with his father. "What happened? What did he say?"

Jay glances around—you're in plain view of several palace windows. "Not here. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"

You think for a moment, then smile. "Follow me."

You lead him through the palace to a small sitting room in the southeast wing—the area your grandmother so casually mentioned has fewer night patrols. It's a cozy space with comfortable furnishings and, most importantly, a lock on the door.

Once inside, Jay pulls you into his arms again, his kiss desperate and relieved and full of eleven days' worth of longing. You respond with equal fervor, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, reassuring yourself that he's really here.

When you finally separate, both breathing heavily, he presses his forehead to yours. "I missed you. Every minute of every day."

"I missed you too," you whisper. "The waiting was... unbearable."

He leads you to a small sofa, sitting close, your hands still intertwined. "I have much to tell you."

"Your father?" you prompt.

Jay takes a deep breath. "It was... complicated. Initially, he was immovable. He had already drafted an announcement of intentions between Astoria and Belgravia."

Your heart sinks. "Oh."

"However," he continues, "I convinced him to hear me out before making anything official. I presented a detailed analysis of Genovia's strategic value as an ally—our complementary economies, technological innovations, cultural significance."

"Very diplomatic," you observe with a small smile.

"I was extraordinarily diplomatic," he agrees, a hint of humor in his eyes. "For five days straight. I enlisted support from progressive council members, provided economic projections, cultural impact studies..."

"And he remained unmoved," Jay admits. "Until I played my final card."

"Which was?"

His eyes lock with yours, unwavering. "I informed him that I would pursue this alliance with or without his blessing. That while I respect his wisdom and experience, my future reign would be guided by my own judgment. And that judgment sees clearly that you—both as princess and as yourself—represent the future Astoria needs."

You absorb this, staggered by the implied defiance. "You threatened to go against his wishes?"

"I made clear that my commitment to Astoria's prosperity is unwavering, but my choice of partner is non-negotiable." His fingers tighten around yours. "I also reminded him that he married for love, against his own father's wishes, and that Astoria has thrived under his reign nonetheless."

"And?" you press, heart pounding.

A smile breaks across Jay's face, transforming his features. "And three days of hostile silence later, he conceded that perhaps Genovia deserves 'further consideration' as a potential ally."

"That's... good?"

"From my father, it's the equivalent of enthusiastic approval," Jay assures you. "Especially with this."

He reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a small velvet box. Your breath catches.

"My grandmother's ring," he explains, opening it to reveal an exquisite sapphire surrounded by diamonds. "Given to her by my grandfather when they formalized their engagement after months of diplomatic negotiation. My father presented it to me this morning before I left."

"Jay," you whisper, staring at the ring. "Does this mean...?"

"It means that I have my father's grudging consent to pursue an alliance with Genovia through marriage," he confirms. "Assuming, of course, that Genovia's princess finds such an arrangement acceptable."

Despite the formal wording, the vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. This is not merely a diplomatic proposition.

"The council meets tomorrow for my final decision," you tell him. "The constitutional deadline is the day after."

"Convenient timing," he observes with a small smile.

"Almost as if someone planned it that way," you agree, returning his smile.

He shifts from the sofa to one knee before you, the ring box open in his palm. All traces of the diplomatic prince fade away, leaving only Jay—your Jay—looking up at you with naked hope and love.

"Y/N," he begins, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "These past weeks have transformed my understanding of duty, of purpose, of love. You've challenged me, surprised me, and shown me a version of myself I never knew existed. I cannot imagine a future—royal or otherwise—without you in it."

Tears blur your vision as he continues.

"I know our beginning was unconventional. I know our path forward will have challenges. But I also know, with absolute certainty, that what we've found together is worth fighting for—worth building a life, a partnership, and two kingdoms around."

He takes your hand, his touch steadying your trembling fingers.

"Will you marry me? Not just as princes and princesses fulfilling constitutional requirements, but as Jay and Y/N, building something real within the framework of our royal duties?"

The question hangs in the air, though your heart already knows the answer. You think of your journey—from reluctant princess to woman standing in her power, from diplomatic arrangement to genuine love, from fear of losing yourself to finding a partner who sees and values all of you.

"Yes," you say simply, your voice thick with emotion. "Yes to all of it—the duty, the challenge, the love. Everything."

He rises, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. "I love you," he murmurs against your lips. "The princess, the diplomat, the woman who still occasionally trips over her formal gowns... all of you."

You laugh through your tears. "And I love you—the perfect prince, the midnight pianist, the man who sees me clearly when I'm still learning to see myself."

His kiss is a pledge, a promise of the future you'll build together—one that honors duty while making space for love.

Tomorrow will bring announcements and celebrations, diplomatic strategies and constitutional requirements fulfilled. But tonight belongs to the two people who found each other beneath the crowns and titles—a connection neither of you expected but both now recognize as the most precious of diplomatic achievements.

A love powerful enough to bridge kingdoms while remaining, at its heart, deeply, uniquely your own.

and they lived happily ever after 

the end.

fin.

-

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltiloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @m3wkledreamy @inlovewithningning @vveebee @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @fancypeacepersona @yunjiiin @adoredbyjay @wheretheheckis-ssaki @flawlessapollo6 @stwrlightt @jaeyunsbimbo @fateismoonstruck @kiikiisblog @bbsantc @xeee334 @cherrybeomm @merwdusa @urmomdotcom5678

[woso-dreamzzz]

Arguments II

Alexia Putellas x Hardersson!Reader

Natalia Guijarro (OC) x Hardersson!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Your first argument

You weren't really one to argue.

You didn't enjoy confrontations. You didn't like yelling.

But you knew this was where it was heading.

Talia stewed in the driver's seat all the way home, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel.

This wasn't how you wanted her to find out.

You had been lucky, you think. You and Talia didn't argue. You had disagreements over silly things over when to feed the pets and whose turn it was to do the laundry.

But you knew, just by looking at the way Talia's jaw clenched that this was heading toward an argument.

You prepare yourself.

It happens almost as soon as the apartment door is closed.

"Lyon?!" She demands," Really, Lyon?!"

It wasn't the best way for Talia to find out, you can admit that. It wasn't that you were trying to keep it a secret. It was that you were told not to talk about it while the details were worked out.

You sigh. "I'm sorry but-"

"I thought you were happy here!" Talia interrupts," At Barcelona. In Spain. With me!"

"I am!"

"You're leaving!" Talia yells," You're leaving!"

"I'm not!" You snap back, hands clenching into fists as you dig your nails into your palm.

Talia scoffs. "Oh, forgive me if I'm wrong but Lyon is in France, yes?! So, yeah, y/n, you're leaving!"

"You're blowing this out of proportion!" You stand chest to chest with her.

You're practically the same height as her now so you're both yelling straight in each other's face.

(You have to concentrate as to not connect your lips to hers because it's unfair just how attractive she is while yelling).

The loan to Lyon had come out of nowhere, as was most emergency loans. It was a string of bad luck for the French team, their keepers dropping like flies until all that was left was two academy players who had never played for the senior team.

You, on the other hand, were twenty-one years old already with six years experience and a world cup win under your belt. You were a proven winner and Lyon were willing to throw an extortionate amount of money at Barcelona to get you on loan.

They offered you bonuses that was bordering on more zeros at the end of a number than you'd ever seen.

Lyon had been knocking on the door when your agent let clubs know you were leaving Arsenal. It had been a toss up between them and Barcelona.

But you chose Barcelona and they still kept knocking.

You agreed to the loan though, if only to get experience in a different league.

"If you want to leave," Talia yells," Then there's the door!"

"Oh, yeah? Well maybe I will!"

"Go on then!"

"Fine!

"Fine!"

You whistle as you make it to the door, crouching down to clip on Prins' leash before storming out into the hallway.

You choose to take the stairs instead of the elevator, working out some of your frustration on the way.

Prins' leash gets clipped onto your belt loop and you take off on a controlled jog around the neighbourhood.

Talia calls you.

You ignore it.

She call you again.

You don't want to continue this argument.

You turn off your phone.

You keep jogging, your feet pounding onto the pavement.

Prins runs next to you happily. He's always been able to keep up on your morning runs and a random afternoon run doesn't seem to faze him either.

Your mind runs just like your feet as you overthink all of your little interactions in the argument earlier. You wonder, briefly, if this means you and Talia have broken up now.

You hope not.

You're not sure how you would cope if Talia broke up with you over this.

Your running slows to a walk as you make your way to the beach. You sit on the sand and just stare out across the sea.

Prins whines a little bit, stamping his feet on the ground.

"Sorry," You say, unclipping his leash so he can run," There you go."

He doesn't though. He just whines a bit more, shuffling closer until his snout is pressed up against your face.

You smile.

"Thanks, Prins," You say, tearfully," You're a good boy."

His tail wags happily.

"He is a good boy."

You nearly burst into tears are hearing a familiar voice behind you.

"Hi, Alexia."

"Hi."

She sits down next to you and you bury your face in Prins' fur, not wanting her to see you cry.

"Nat's worried," Alexia says," She's calling everyone to see where you've gone."

"I turned off my phone. I didn't want to argue anymore."

Alexia frowns. "You argued with each other? That doesn't sound right."

"She was very angry," You whisper, turning on your phone in your pocket.

Alexia can just hear you over the roar of the sea. You've still got your head buried against Prins so your words are muffled.

"She's not angry anymore," Alexia says," She's very, very worried. You've been gone for nearly two hours."

That doesn't sound right, you think but when you fish out your phone, Alexia's right.

You've been running for nearly two hours since the argument.

"Oh."

Alexia chuckles. "Yeah, oh. You've had people looking for you. I think Nat even called your parents."

"I didn't want her to worry. I just wanted to stop arguing," You mumble.

"That's okay," Alexia assures you," But maybe you should shoot her a text telling her where you are so she doesn't worry anymore, huh?"

"Okay."

You text Talia your whereabouts.

There's silence for a long while between you both, nothing but the ocean and occasionally Prins shuffling around to get comfortable.

The sun is setting when Alexia speaks again.

"What were you arguing about?"

"I'm moving to Lyon," You say and Alexia jolts.

"What?" She asks in disbelief," Why? Does Barcelona not make you happy anymore?"

You give her an odd look. "No, it does, but staying out for one season wouldn't do any harm. Lyon has no keepers. Barcelona has two others plus that La Masia girl."

"The one that's always following you around?"

"I think it's sweet. She's good." You shrug. "I'll be back next year anyway."

"Wait..." Alexia blinks a few times. "What do you mean you'll be back next year?"

"It's only a loan," You reply," They're..." Your face goes red. "Lyon's offering the club a lot plus a bonus for me." You're sure that you resemble a tomato right now. "It's a lot of money. Enough to pay for a house in cash. Talia mentioned about maybe finding a place for ourselves."

"You want to buy Nat a house?"

"Well, I want to buy us a house." You frown. "Sorry...is it too early in a relationship to consider that? My Morsa said she was envisioning a house with Momma within the first month."

"No!" Alexia assures you," It's sweet. You're sweet, y/n, but I think there's been a bit of a misunderstanding."

You turn to look at her. "A misunderstanding? Over what?"

She doesn't get to answer because a body crashes into you and a phone is shoved into your face.

"I found her!" Talia exclaims," I've got her! I've got her!"

On the phone screen is your mothers, both pressed up against each other as they stare.

"Don't do that!" Morsa immediately jumps into a lecture. "Do you know how worried we were?! We called you so many times! We thought you were dead in a ditch!"

"I had Prins with me." It's a weak defence and you know it but you have to at least try. "He wouldn't let anything happen to me."

"Princesse, I love you but your dog is as dumb as a pile of bricks," Morsa says," But I'm glad you're okay."

"You can go to France," Talia says quickly," Not that you need my permission but if you want to go then go. I'm sorry that I yelled. If you want to leave Barcelona then go but-"

"Leave?" You repeat," I'm not leaving. I'm just going on loan."

If you weren't still a little worried about Talia breaking up with you then you'd find the shocked look on her face comical.

"What?"

"It's just a loan," You say," I...erm...They're willing to give me a lot of money for it. I thought, maybe, we could use it to get a house."

"I...You...We...You want to get a house with me?"

"I mean...er, if you want that too. I know that-"

You don't get to finish because Talia drops her phone to pull you into a kiss.

"Yes, I want to get a house with you."

[lostintransist]

Fallen Angel | Cat Distribution System

Part 1 | AO3 | *This is a story told in scenes and can be read in any order though is listed in chronological order on the masterlist.

A jaw-cracking yawn split your face. You were lying on the couch in the living room waiting for the sun to rise. It had been a late night at work. You had to stay later than normal for the scheduled deep cleaning. The clock showed 6:27 when you rolled to a stop outside the house you shared with the guys.

You had scheduled yourself off tonight, knowing you would need the time to recover. Today’s goal would be to stay awake for as long as possible. Scrolling through your apps, eyes bleary you hear a sound from further in the house that you aren’t familiar with. Sitting up you find a fresh-faced bleach blonde clicking down the hall in clubbing heels.

Vaguely you remember Kyle mentioning that he would be going out with some friends last night.

“Oh!” The blonde stops short at seeing you. Probably the bags under your eyes making you look like a zombie.

Curiosity satisfied, you shift to lay back down.

“When Kyle mentioned he was in a polyamorous relationship I didn’t realize that included with a,” her lip curled up and away from her teeth as she bit into the word like a rotten peach, “woman.”

Did this bitch just…?

“And when Kyle mentioned he was going out to get his dick wet he didn’t mention it would include dragging a mannequin home.” You glare up at her from the back of the couch.

Johnny appears from the kitchen, muscles on full display as he scratches at his chest under his sleeveless workout shirt. Blondie’s gaze raked up and down Johnny’s form appreciatively.

Now you weren’t a jealous person but if you could hurl yourself over the furniture before Johnny caught you would have thrown her out of the house yourself.

“How copy?”

Bless that man and his instant understanding of the tension in the air like nitroglycerin on a bumpy road. He crossed the room and settled in behind you on the couch, placing a kiss on your head.

“Fine. The trash was just taking itself out.”

The blonde’s mouth popped open as she gaped at you.

“No one likes day-old fish, now out,” you flick your fingers to the door.

She stamps her foot and makes a noise of shock.

“How did someone like you,” nasty emphasis on the word you, “End up dating men like him and Kyle?”

Johnny tensed, ready to fight your battles.

“You ever hear of the cat distribution system? Well, sometimes it assigns things other than cats, like me. I got assigned to five of the hottest military men in the county and you?” Dragging your eyes from her toes peeping through with chipped polish to the dark roots coming through on the top of her head, “Wouldn’t get picked even as the last bitch at the shelter.”

With no good rebuttal to that, because there really wasn’t one, the blonde saw herself off and slammed the door behind her.

Turning you find Johnny, slack-jawed staring at you.

“What?” You ask him, concerned.

“I didn’t know you had it in you bonnie.”

“To be a bitch? Course I can. I also haven’t slept in rolling up on twenty-four hours so that doesn’t help.”

He pops both hands onto your cheeks and gives you a kiss that leaves you blinking back into reality by the time it is done.

“Do you have a degradation kink I didn’t know about Johnny?”

“Yes.” This reply comes from Kyle.

He looks no worse for wear after his night with the bitch you threw out. He looked remarkably put together for someone who had a nighttime visitor actually, with hair laid down nice, a maroon shirt, and dark wash jeans.

“Ah fuck off Garrick!” Johnny snapped.

“Where did your last girlfriend go, Kyle? I really liked her!” You whine as you lean back into Johnny.

“France.”

“Well, can’t you convince her to come back and join the polyq? I’d happily sleep with her. Your one-night stands are not nice to me.”

Johnny tugged on your earlobe.

“I’ve got dibs next bonnie.”

“I know you do. All I’m saying is I don’t think I’d need to be ovulating to let her peg me.”

Kyle barked out a laugh as Johnny dropped a smiling kiss to the top of your head.

Johnny murmured his love for you into your hair. Kyle crossed the room to drop a kiss on your lips.

“I love you, sweet girl. I’ll reach out and let her know you’re interested.”

“You don’t need to do that but at least stop bringing home dates that don’t believe you’re polyamorous maybe?”

Johnny piped up here, “Yeah Kyle, maybe you should start kissing any of us before you leave with a girl.”

“You just want more kisses, Johnny,” Kyle teased him.

“Fuck right I do,” he leaned forward.

You can’t help but smile as you watch Kyle and Johnny kiss. They love each other, and they love you, and you love them. This house held so much love you swore it had to have settled into the walls.

Gary appears, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He glances over the kissing men and your relaxing position on Johnny. The weight of his body settling on yours, head resting on your collarbone as his arms wrap around you makes the moment that much sweeter.

You drop a kiss to his forehead, “Morning Gary.”

You get a grumble of sound as a reply.

Movement draws your face back to Kyle.

“I’ve got some errands to run this morning. Can I get a kiss for the road?” His plush lips are quirked in a small smile.

“Of course!” You chirp, the hand closest to him lifting to his face while the other stays resting on Gary’s back.

Kyle leans forward, the hand he uses for balance sliding under the neck of Gary’s shirt.

His kisses taste faintly of Johnny and Gary’s sighs against your body tell you he was appreciating the contact as well.

When Kyle pulls back from the kiss he drops one to your forehead, one to Gary’s hair, and finally one to Johnny before heading for the door.

“So you missed it, Gary, apparently our girl here is interested in getting pegged,” Johnny sits up a bit to lean around and look at Gary.

You slap at Johnny’s thigh.

“You quit that. I said I was interested in getting pegged by Kyle’s last girlfriend, not that I was interested in getting pegged in general.”

Gary pushes up on his hands to stare at you. Unable to bear the interested confusion in his gaze you cover his face with your hands.

“All of you need to stop being mean to me!” But you can’t help but laugh even as you say it.

Masterlist | Fallen Angel Masterlist

@lilynotdilly

[gatotricolor]

Luka Redesign!!!

more under the cut

He's argentinian, he lived there until he was 8, then his family moved to France (his dad grandpa was french).

He is still a chill dude, but he stand ups more for himself.

Marinette doesn't use him to forget Adrien here!!!

Snake Miracle is time themed, it has the power to go to the past or the future (basically what the bunny miraculous did). He's the time guardian here.

He is 18 here, on his last year of Lycèe.

His dad isn't Jagged here, rather he is more like a paternal figure bc jagged and anarca are friends.

His dad is a deadbeat father, he comes and goes.

Also he isn't Juleka's twin here, he's her older brother (like the og concept!!)

Aside from the time related powers, he has a bonus power (All heroes have) of hypnosis with his lyre.

The miracle jewel adapts depending of the owner, in this case it's an earring.

He has a cord weapon thing with two "claws" to move in certain places but also trap people. It could damage someone but he knows how to use it.

He became a hero at the same time as Chat Noir and Scaralady.

When CN and SL had their rivalry thing he was like a "mediator".

He has 2 tattoos (while the store progress he gets more, his mom is a part time tattoo artist); a bat matching w/ juleka (she has a raccoon) and an argentinian postal stamp with a black swallow (golondrina sureña/negra). He laters gets a snake tattoo.

He has a very close relationship with Sass, he likes to show him culture pop icons of music movies and shows.

For shit and giggles to some up the main 3 relationship:

(yes, it's a polycule)

[britcision]

Tell you one thing about moving to Canada, it really highlighted the concept of comparative wealth to me

I grew up in England, where “second holiday home” was 1000% a rich people thing. Owning a second physical building, especially near a lake, that you could just leave empty half the year and visit, was uber wealth

Owning a trailer was pretty wealthy - and having space to park it

Meanwhile, in Canada, and especially where we live near cottage country… everyone has a cottage

I know people on food stamps who had a family cottage - and yeah, it wasn’t exclusive, it was the extended family chips in and timeshares between about six households

But if you do not have a summer cottage, you know someone who does, at any income bracket

And it’s also not different priorities or unwise spending!

Owning a cottage, especially with a timeshare, is cheaper than a decent tent

And a lot of this is also down to the different standards for those cottages

In the UK, cottage is usually on the mains, has heat, has power, has complete plumbing

Cottage country Canada might not have any of that

It’s a building with walls, windows, insulation, and maybe a water tank - and that’s the baseline

Being able to shower at cottage is fancy cottage

Flushing toilet is fancy cottage

Canadians go to the cottage and hop in a time machine, and it’s a very valuable experience!

And the reason for this is actually super obvious:

England is on a small island. It’s heavily populated, and doesn’t have as much space

I think you can fit all of England into one of our big Canadian lakes

Canada has a lot of space, and a lot of lakes, and therefore a lot of lakefront properties that just… they’re cheap as chips for someone to knock together a cute little pioneer era cottage and sell or rent

There isn’t the urgency for big developers to buy the land and put together something glam for the wealthy folks; you drive another ten minutes, there’s another fuckin’ lake

And this is starting to change as the area gets more populated, and cottages are being bought up and renovated to new price points, and that sucks

As northern cities get bigger, the cottages get more expensive, and you gotta drive further for a cheapy little timeshare cottage

But there’s another little lake

(And this isn’t getting into all the other detriments with the heavy development and deforestation around building and renovating and the lakes getting crowded out because oh boy will they build in hard to access areas

It’s just… always catching me off guard that people here own cottages like my grandparents used to visit France; cheaply, on a whim, and without much effort)

[asha-mage]

"Sid Meier's Civilization is actually about a group of immortal god kings condemned to forever struggle against each other in a never ending cosmic game in which their empires and nations are but pawns" gets brought up as a funny 'ha ha' joke about Civ, but the thing is that is the most supported reading of the game's mechanics, writing, art direction, and even trailers.

But what's really funny is that each new installment leans harder into this idea then the last. With Civ 7 making it so that leaders aren't even tied down to their 'historic' civilizations (meaning you can't even argue the 'national personification' thing anymore) and since Civs can change while leaders can't, that means that leaders are also the only constant across an entire campaign.

This means, for example, in the universe of Civilization, the likes of Gaius Octavius, Hatshepsut, Napoleon, and even Gandhi are constantly reborn, take up leadership of a small singular village, live for uncountable eons (unless slain by another Leader or dethroned), rebuild the same nation, people, empire over and over and over again with only slight variations, until one achieves victory over the others (be it by sending their people into the stars, building a society that culturally subsumes all others, conquering the world, or otherwise somehow 'winning history' by the metrics they held dear in their mortal lives) and gains...nothing as far as we know.

We don't know if they wither to dust instantly Gothel style, or reign until the heat death of the universe, or begin aging and live out a mortal life for however long remains to them. All we know for certain is that they are right back there again at the stone age as soon as the next game starts, becoming chiefs of a tribe of thatched roved houses on some unrecognizable landmass, with nothing to do but start all over again from scratch. Build the same walls and monuments and wonders, fight the same endlessly shifting battles against the same rivals. Maybe this time Rome is stamped out in antiquity, and maybe this time is launches the first space colony. Maybe Egypt raises up the pyramids once more, and maybe they raise up the Colossus, or the Hanging Gardens, or Statue of Liberty, or the Sydney Opera House. Maybe Napoleon's France finally achieves perfect ideal democracy, or maybe his warring ways lead a coalition of Japan, China, the Gauls, and Sumerians facing off against him all over again. Maybe Gandhi decides mutually assured destruction is the only way to protect world peace. The names change, the lands and continents change, the ages change, eventually even the civilizations themselves change- Gaius finds himself the Emperor of Egypt and Hatsheput the Queen of the United States of America- but the only thing that doesn't change is the leaders. Their configurations vary and sometimes they face off against a newcomer they haven't before, but always it ultimately comes back to a group of immortal rulers- the great and the good, the wicked and the genius, the mad and the unlikely, and the just plain lucky that one and all ended up in the history books- who keep trying to take one more swing, one more run, one more turn at fulling the ambitions of their mortal life, and leading their people to glory.

Because the only way to break the cycle, to the end the game (both in universe and out) is to stop playing. Give up. Stop pushing that glowing little arrow button. Stop following the ambitions, the ideals, the dreams, the hopes that lead them here in the first place.

But just like Civ players and just like humans in general, they never do.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Weaponized | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Part Six

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

Words: ~4,100

Series Tags/Warnings: Violence, Trauma, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian, Auror!MC, Modern AU, Female Reader Insert, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Forced Proximity, Ancient Magic, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Betrayal, Reconciliation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Divergent

Beta: @dreamy-gal-30 <3

Auror Division Headquarters, Operations Wing – London

Sebastian stepped into the administrative wing just past nine, the air still sharp from the morning chill. He carried the satchel containing the secured artifacts and a concise mission report tucked neatly into the fold of his arm. He hadn’t slept well. Not because the mission had gone poorly—it hadn’t. If anything, it had gone too smoothly.

He blamed you. Or, more specifically, the version of you who had slid so seamlessly into the role of his wife.

Don’t think about that.

He rapped once on Hale’s office door, and when her voice called out, he stepped inside.

“Report,” he said simply, handing the folder across, along with the artifacts.

Hale didn’t look up right away, just took them with a nod. “Anything notable?”

“Contact was guarded but cooperative. Sale was clean. Warden held character.”

That earned him a glance. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

Hale’s office was messy as usual, documents scattered across the desk, memos stacked haphazardly, and a single mug of coffee half-drunk sitting precariously on the corner. But just beside her elbow, Sebastian spotted a folder. A thick one.

He didn’t mean to look, not really. But his eyes landed on the open page anyway. The heading was clear: Service Record – Canadian Magical Enforcement Division.

Sebastian blinked. “That her file?”

“Part of it. There’s more locked up. Why?”

Sebastian hesitated. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he asked, “Can I see it?”

Hale leaned back in her chair, eyeing him. She seemed to weigh the request against some internal scale, then, with a sigh, she lifted the folder from the stack.

“I suppose it only makes sense since she’s on your squad. But keep your mouth shut and don’t remove anything. Technically this is above your clearance level, Sallow.”

He nodded. “Of course. I’ll have it back after lunch.”

“See that you do,” Hale said, already returning to her paperwork.

He stepped out into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind him, and made his way toward the shared office space at the end of the west wing. 

Inside, Sebastian dropped into his chair and set the folder on his desk. For a moment, he just stared at it. Then, slowly, he opened the file.

Canadian Ministry of Magic – Division of Magical Enforcement Operative File: Major Warden [REDACTED] Security Clearance: Tier 6, Active

A photo of you on the page stared back at him, unsmiling, your short black hair even more severe than usual, and below it, the sheet was marked with numerous stamps and official seals from magical law enforcement divisions far outside Canada.

France. Germany. Argentina. Japan. South Africa. Australia. Each bore an embossed date and clearance notation, the most recent ones only months old.

Sebastian’s brow furrowed. You were rotated constantly, and from the looks of it, you hadn’t had a proper home base in over three years.

He turned the page.

Health and Wellness Protocol Blood Type: [REDACTED] Wand Hand: Ambidextrous Baseline Vitals: On file (see Medical Subfolder B) Allergies: Dragon Dander, Billywig Stings Prescriptions: Contraceptive Regimen, Iron Stabilization Potion Psych Evaluation Status: Required bi-weekly during active rotation Post-Op Debrief Compliance: Mandatory questionnaire submitted immediately after each mission

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. He flipped through several of the attached forms which included countless physiological checkboxes, each page signed with your initials. He scanned a few at random.

Tactile Disassociation: No Auditory Hallucinations: No Hypothermia: No Head Laceration: Yes, Minor Menstrual Cramping: Yes

He paused at that one and blinked like he’d misread it. But no, there it was. A single checkmark inside the box. Matter-of-fact. Clinical.

Something about it made his throat go tight.

Some post-mission reports indicated mild bruising. Others flagged exhaustion or spells of dizziness. One from last winter even had “Localized Frostbite, Fingers” checked off. 

He flipped further. 

Pages and pages of mission reports followed, including redacted summaries, field evaluations, and threat assessments. Yes, there was brutality, death, and blood. Some of the operations listed over 30 hostile casualties, all by your hand. And yet... that wasn’t the pattern that emerged as he read.

Again and again, the same phrases appeared:

“Civilians prioritized.” “Engaged hostiles only after extraction secured.” “Refused to evacuate until final hostage accounted for.”

It wasn’t violence for the sake of violence. It was violence in service of something else—containment, extraction, survival.

There was one entry from a mission in Quebec where you’d been dispatched to track a colony of wendigos that abducted six children. The first time around, only four were recovered alive. But in your notes, the handwriting tight and slanted at the bottom of the page, you’d written: “Two still unaccounted for. Will revisit location post-recovery.”

On the very next page was the mission report of that return trip.

Op#403-C: Recon & Retrieval – Wendigo Colony, Quebec Status: Complete Deaths: 0 Injured: 1 (operative: moderate) Extracted Targets: 2 juvenile civilians (previously presumed deceased) Threat Level: Class IV Operative notes: Major Warden returned alone against recommendation and located secondary nest. Engaged three entities without backup. Operative sustained puncture wounds and hypothermia. Prioritized civilian retrieval over neutralization. Both children returned in stable condition.

There was a scrawl in the margin, likely from a commanding officer: “Above and beyond operational mandate. Exceptional.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, the folder spread open in front of him, the reports blurring slightly at the edges. You went back. No one had ordered you to. The mission was already marked complete, but you saved those kids. And all this time, he’d thought—

He shook his head. Sebastian had seen what you could do firsthand in Whitechapel: the devastation you could unleash when pressed, the way your expression didn’t change even when bodies hit the ground, and the cold, clinical detachment you seemed to wear like armor.

He’d bitched about it to Ominis. To Garreth. Hell, even to civilian friends over drinks, calling you a Ministry-controlled weapon. But your file showed a career of endurance, not apathy. A record of someone who didn’t pull back, not when it mattered. Someone who dove headfirst into fire, into frost, into hell again and again because someone needed saving and no one else would do it.

Then Sebastian glanced up at the clock.

Shit. Twelve o'clock. 

Sebastian swore under his breath as he snapped the file shut. He already late for lunch at the pub.

He hesitated at the door. He was supposed to return the file. Hale had been explicit. But the idea of leaving it behind, of parting from it without finishing the last few pages…

He’d bring it back after lunch. It’s not like anyone would notice.

The Hex & Hops Tavern, Diagon Alley – London

The pub was warm compared to the wind-swept street outside. Sebastian shook off his coat just inside the door and glanced around, spotting them immediately.

Ominis and Garreth were already seated near the back, tucked into a corner booth beneath one of the frosted windows. Ominis nursed a pint while Garreth was already halfway through a basket of chips, gesturing animatedly as he spoke.

As Sebastian approached, Garreth glanced up and grinned. “Look who finally decided to join us.”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all,” Sebastian muttered, sliding into the seat across from them.

Ominis tilted his head slightly. “That sounds ominous.”

“Sorry,” Sebastian said, running a hand through his hair. “Got caught up at the office, that’s all.”

“Caught up?” Garreth echoed. 

Sebastian reached for the menu even though he wasn’t planning on reading it. “Got my hands on an… interesting file.”

Garreth leaned forward with immediate interest, abandoning his chip mid-air. “Don’t tease. What kind of interesting? Scandalous? Embarrassing? Please tell me it’s Hale’s.”

Sebastian huffed a laugh, more out of exhaustion than amusement. “Not Hale’s.”

Ominis set down his pint. “The Warden.”

It wasn’t a question.

Sebastian gave a tight nod and folded the menu shut, pushing it aside.

Garreth whistled. “You stole her personnel file?”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Sebastian said. “It was just… open. Hale let me look.”

Ominis’s voice was quiet. “And?”

Sebastian’s fingers drummed on the table. “Technically, I’m not even supposed to be telling you I read it.”

Garreth grinned. “Which means, obviously, you’re absolutely going to tell us everything.”

“I’m serious,” Sebastian warned, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Classified.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Garreth pointed out, waving a chip at him. “Don’t dangle a classified carrot and expect us not to bite.”

Ominis raised an eyebrow. “You brought it to the pub, didn’t you?”

Sebastian winced.

Garreth cackled. “Of course you did.”

“I just… wasn’t done reading it.” Sebastian muttered.

Ominis rolled his eyes. “You’ve already broken about 50 rules bringing it here, so are you going to show us or not, Sallow?”

Sebastian huffed a quiet breath through his nose and glanced around the pub, scanning for anyone who might be watching. Just locals, a few Ministry types he vaguely recognized—no one close enough to eavesdrop. Still, he lowered his voice.

“Fine,” he said, reaching into his satchel and drawing out the folder. He set it on the table and, with a subtle flick of his wand beneath the table’s edge, cast a charm to obscure the contents from any onlookers.

“There,” he slid it into the middle of the table. “Skim. Quickly.”

Garreth practically pounced, tugging the folder toward him like it might vanish if he hesitated. Ominis, for his part, simply leaned in, lifting his wand to read the contents.

“Sweet Merlin,” Garreth breathed as he flipped to the first page. “She’s been everywhere. Look at these stamps—Australia, Japan, France… how many departments has she worked under?”

Sebastian hummed. “She hasn’t had a home posting in years.”

Garreth turned another page, his eyes scanning a mission summary. “Says here she neutralized thirty-two hostiles in a single op. What the hell do they feed the Warden Corps?”

Sebastian pulled the folder back toward him. “That’s not the part that matters.”

“Oh?”

Sebastian tapped a page with the back of his knuckle. “That same op? She refused to leave until every civilian was safe. Put herself between a detonation curse and a hostage. Nearly lost her arm. And that’s not a one-off. It’s a pattern.”

Garreth went quiet after that. He pulled the folder even closer and began flipping through the pages in earnest now, brow furrowed, mouth slightly parted as he skimmed report after report. Every so often he’d murmur something low—“damn” or “bloody hell”—without looking up.

Ominis, meanwhile, sat with his usual quiet poise. He didn’t react much to what he read. No dramatic exclamations or slack-jawed disbelief. Just a slow unfolding quiet, like he was putting together the final pieces of a puzzle he’d already mostly solved.

Sebastian watched them both, arms crossed.

Eventually, Garreth leaned back, closing the file slowly.  He blew out a breath and scratched at the back of his head. “I mean... I knew she was intense, but this is something else.”

Sebastian nodded.

Garreth looked down again, expression uneasy. “She’s still kind of terrifying, don’t get me wrong, but—” He winced. “I feel bad now for calling her a cyborg behind her back.”

Ominis snorted softly. “Good. You should.”

Garreth gave him a flat look. “Not helping.”

“I’m not trying to help,” Ominis said mildly, folding his hands. “I’m pointing out that maybe your instincts are worth questioning from time to time.”

Sebastian tilted his head. “You’re not surprised.”

“I’m not,” Ominis said simply. “She’s methodical, not cruel. Disciplined, not indifferent. People confuse the two all the time. Especially when they’re threatened.” He added pointedly.

Sebastian leaned back in the booth. “Look, I’m not saying she’s not capable. Obviously she is. That file makes that clear.” He paused, jaw tight. “But her detachment still bothers me. I mean I get that she’s been through hell, but it’s like there’s no—” He waved a hand vaguely. “No normal human baseline. And the Ministry dropping her into my squad without so much as a heads-up? That’s insulting.”

Garreth nodded, mouth twitching downward. “They're treating the Auror division like we’re kids who can’t handle our own assignments.”

Ominis looked between them with the kind of cool disdain that usually preceded a verbal scalpel. “That’s your ego talking, both of you.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “Excuse me?”

“You’re insulted that someone more qualified got sent in to help with the smuggler cases.”

Garreth shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly interested in the condensation on his pint glass.

“And as for her detachment?” Ominis went on. “Frankly, you should be grateful she’s not more emotional. Considering all the shit the officers put her through, I’d say she’s showing remarkable restraint.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Garreth flinched. Ominis blinked, genuine surprise flickering across his face. “You don’t know?”

Sebastian’s expression darkened. “Know what?”

Garreth cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at Sebastian. “Mate, uh… there’s been some stuff. Around the barracks. You know, stupid shit. Missing gear, cold water jinxes in the showers. I didn’t think it was serious, just some friendly… hazing.”

Sebastian turned slowly to stare at him. “Hazing?”

“It was just the usual stuff we all went through. Nobody thought it was—”

Ominis shook his head. “She’s not a recruit, Weasley. She’s a decorated operative. And you think it’s funny that the officers treat her like shit just because wasn’t born in Britain?”

“…Don’t get me wrong, alright?” Garreth said hastily. “I didn’t hex her robes or mess with her kit. I just… knew it was happening.”

Sebastian stared at him. “And you didn’t do anything about it?”

Garreth grimaced. “I thought it would blow over! She didn’t say anything, didn’t report it—hell, half the time it didn’t even seem like she noticed!”

“She noticed,” Ominis scoffed, gaze fixed on his half-finished drink.

Sebastian turned on him. “And you? You knew too?”

Ominis raised his brows like the answer should have been obvious. “Of course I did.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I considered it,” Ominis said evenly. “But if I’d so much as suggested the officers back off, you’d have taken it as a personal attack. And more than likely you wouldn’t have given a damn what they did to her, anyway.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

“You already hated that she was here,” Ominis continued, calm but pointed. “You questioned her instincts, consistently undermined her in front of the others. If I’d stood up for her you’d have assumed I was taking sides, and not yours.”

Sebastian looked away. Ominis was right, and he wasn’t proud of it—how territorial he’d been, how quickly he’d judged you, how easy it had been to pretend you were nothing more than an outsider sent to babysit his team.

“I didn’t know,” Sebastian said finally, voice low. “If I had—”

“You didn’t want to know,” Ominis said. "You only care now that you've read her file and realized she’s not someone you can write off.”

The silence that followed was long. Uncomfortable. Then Sebastian stood. 

“I’ve got work.”

Garreth blinked. “What? Now? You didn’t even eat!”

“Yeah,” Sebastian muttered. “Someone’s gotta fix this shit.” 

Auror Division Headquarters, Training Wing – London

The dueling ring echoed faintly with the sounds of boots on concrete, scattered laughter, and the thrum of spellfire as Sebastian stepped inside. Multiple squads of officers were already assembled, stretching or chatting while they waited for training to start. 

Conversations quieted the moment he stepped into view. Sebastian was never loud when he was angry. He didn’t need to be.

He stood at the center of the room, hands behind his back, gaze sweeping across the gathered faces. “Form up.”

They did.

Sebastian let the silence drag just long enough to make their skin itch, walking between the rows, circling them like a predator sizing up its prey. His boots echoed with every step. No one dared speak.

He finally stopped near the front, hands still clasped behind him.

“So nobody was going to tell me, hm?”

The officers exchanged weary glances.

“Cold water charms. Hexed boots. Sabotaged gear. I don’t know who started it, but I know damn well none of you stopped it. And before anyone tries to give me some speech about tradition or ‘toughening up the new recruit’—she’s not new. She’s not yours to break in. She’s a decorated Warden from the Canadian Ministry with more frontline time than the lot of you combined. And you treat her like shit.”

Sebastian took a step forward, voice razor-sharp. “You lot are lucky she hasn’t filed a single report. Not one complaint. Not one request for disciplinary review. Because if she had, over half this room would already be on probation.”

He took another step. “When you humiliate your own teammate, you don’t just make yourself look incompetent, you make this entire base look incompetent. And if even one more incident happens under my watch, I swear on every curse I’ve ever broken, I will personally escort your ass out of this division. Is that fucking clear?”

The silence thickened. A few officers glanced at each other. Most looked at the floor.

“Good. Now here’s what’s going to happen,” Sebastian said coolly. “You’re going to run. Full perimeter of the base, east wall to north gate and back. And you’re going to keep running until I say stop. If you collapse, you keep crawling. If you so much as whine, I’ll have you reassigned to waste disposal duty with no field clearance for six months.” He gestured sharply. “Move.”

There was a beat of hesitation, then the squad scattered, boots thudding across stone as they poured out into the yard. You moved, too, automatically. One foot forward, then the other, your posture already shifting toward a sprint.

“Not you,” Sebastian said quietly.

You stopped, mid-step, turning slowly to face him. “Sir?”

“You’re not going with them.”

“...I can run,” you said.

“I know you can,” he said. “That’s not the point.”

The silence between you stretched.

You didn’t argue again, but you didn’t agree either. You just stood there, shoulders drawn taut like a bowstring, bracing for another judgment. Another order. Another quiet humiliation masked as discipline.

Sebasrian sighed. “Look… I didn’t know what the other officers were doing, but I should’ve seen it sooner. That’s on me.”

You didn’t respond. But your eyes flicked away, and that said enough.

“I can’t undo what’s already happened,” he added. “But I can make damn sure it doesn’t keep happening.”

Still nothing, but you were looking at him again. And for the first time, Sebastian met your eyes—not in passing, not through the cold filter of suspicion or rivalry—but directly. He’d expected them to be cold, reflective of the way you moved through the world, but they weren’t. 

Not even close.

There was a depth there he hadn’t prepared for. Not warm, exactly, but… honest. And striking. Beautiful, even.

Sebastian exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And… look, I’m sorry about how I acted.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowing. “...Which time?”

Sebastian winced.

He’d yelled at you in front of the whole squad after Whitechapel, blamed you for disobeying him even though it saved his life. He’d grilled you harder than anyone else during drills, nitpicked your tactics, doubled your sparring rounds. And the rest of the time, he ignored you entirely.

His throat tightened. “All of them.”

Your expression didn’t change but he saw the way your jaw tightened and the way your fingers flexed slightly where they hung at your sides, like you were resisting the urge to cross your arms again. Or punch him. Which he probably deserved.

“Are you apologizing because you mean it,” you said slowly, “or is there an angle I’m missing? Some Ministry directive I haven’t been briefed on? Maybe a note that says ‘build rapport with the unstable Canadian before she snaps’?”

The bitterness in your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean like it had been sitting there for weeks, just waiting for an opening.

Sebastian knew he deserved it.

“There’s no directive,” he said quietly. “I’m not playing politics. I just... realized I was wrong about you. I… yeah, I was pissed when they assigned you to my unit,” he admitted. “Didn’t want the interference. Didn’t want someone watching my team. I thought you were there to babysit us, or spy on us. Or me. But..." Sebastian cleared his throat. “Hale let me read your file.”

“...So you read a bunch of sanitized mission summaries and decided I was worth basic human decency?"

He flinched. “That’s not what happened.”

“No?” You finally looked at him again. And god, there was steel behind your eyes. Not anger, just a sharp, measured resolve. “Then what did happen, Sallow? You needed a dossier to tell you I wasn’t the enemy?”

He didn’t have a defense. Not one that wouldn’t make him sound worse.

You shook your head, a short exhale passing through your nose. “You know, you could've just, I don't know, asked me about myself when I got here if you were so damn curious.”

Sebastian swallowed. “I—”

“You didn’t need my file to know I was qualified,” you cut in. “You just needed to pay attention.”

He winced. “I know.”

“This happens everywhere I go,” you said flatly. “A foreign name on the roster, some fancy clearance from a different Ministry, and suddenly everyone’s territorial. Suspicious. Insecure.”

Her voice wasn’t bitter, but it wasn’t forgiving, either.

“And now that you’ve read my file,” you continued, “you know this isn’t my first rodeo. You’re not the first superior who didn’t want me on their team. Trust me, I’ve seen worse. At least this time no one hexed my mattress or tried to steal my wand.”

That landed harder than you probably intended, if the twist in Sebastian’s gut was anything to go by.

“I’ve done this song and dance before,” you said. “And I’ll do it again somewhere else when they reassign me.”

Sebastian didn’t know what to say. All he could hear was Ominis’s voice echoing in his head. 

For weeks, he’d tried to tell Sebastian in that patient, exasperated way of his, that you weren’t cold, you were trained. That everything Sebastian took as detachment was just discipline, and that you didn’t have a choice in any of this either.

And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? You’d just been doing your job. It was him who’d made it personal.

Because ever since he was a teenager—since Solomon—Sebastian had clawed his way toward competence like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He’d fought to be better. Sharper. In control. He’d built himself up as someone who knew how to run a unit, someone whose instincts could be trusted, someone who mattered.

But then you walked in.

A decorated Warden, your rank above his own yet ordered to work under him. But in his gut, it had felt like a correction. Like someone upstairs had decided he wasn’t good enough. That the squad he built wasn’t good enough.

And maybe they weren’t.

But that wasn’t your fault.

Sebastian ran a hand down his face. “You’re right,” he said softly. “You're completely right. And again, for what it’s worth, I’m… I’m sorry. I really am.”

You studied him for a beat longer, unreadable. Then your arms slowly uncrossed.

“Noted,” you said.

Not forgiven. Not forgotten. Just… noted.

Sebastian shifted his weight, glancing toward the window where the squad was still running in the yard, sweat-soaked, winded, regret etched into every heavy stride.

You followed his line of sight. “…How long you going to make them run for?”

Sebastian glanced at you, a huff of air escaping his nose—half a laugh, half sigh.

“Until I stop being angry.”

You tilted your head. “So… another hour?”

“At least.”

You nodded like that seemed fair.

“Also,” you continued, sounding somewhat hesitant. “I read your file too. On the plane here.”

Sebastian blinked. “You what?”

“It’s standard protocol when assigned to a new unit,” you explained. “Fields record. Mission logs. Including the one with the photo where your hair looks like you lost a fight with a wind charm.”

Sebastian opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Look, that mission was in Wales. The wind practically had a vendetta.”

You didn’t smile exactly, but the corner of your mouth twitched, and he couldn’t help it—his mouth curled at the edge, too. 

“Alright then,” he said, crossing his arms. “What’d you think of it then?”

Your eyes cut sideways, voice dry as bone. “Your’re clever but reckless, have poor impulse control, you’re allergic to authority, and your handwriting’s shit.”

He laughed before he could stop himself. “So you think I’m smart?”

You gave him a flat look. “I think you’re a headache.”

Sebastian grinned. He didn’t know what this was—this strange, careful warmth threading between the sarcasm—but he knew better than to push it.

“Alright,” he said, tipping his head toward the ring. “Well… you’re off the hook for the run, but don’t think I’m going easy on you during drills.”

You arched a brow. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

Banner Credit

[matan4il]

IDK where the following image is from originally, I know I've seen it before Oct 7, so it's not recent, but there's no link to the source of the figures, so while I trust the percentages are right, IDK which date the image is referring to when it says "now."

It IS an important image, because THIS is what genocide and ethnic cleansing looks like, even decades later. However, I wanted to add a few comments regarding the green on the map. Because the green countries make the image look more optimistic than the state of Jews in Europe today is. Just please note that this post is not meant to vilify any country. No nation is a monolith, and in every country in the world, there were people who helped to save Jews, and people who persecuted Jews. This post is about general effects, not demonizing entire nations.

Sweden: Denmark and Norway's Jewish communities were partly destroyed in the Holocaust, but for those who survived, it was thanks to being smuggled to Sweden by the undergrounds in those two countries. The "green" in Sweden is therefore still a direct result of the genocide and ethnic cleansing employed against Jews in Denmark and Norway.

Denmark: Maybe the only truly bright spot on the map, as the increase in the Jewish population is solely thanks to the Danish underground having made a mark by saving most of their Jewish community during the Holocaust.

Switzerland: Despite the Swiss government closing its borders to Jews under a policy known as "the ship is full" (in fact, it was the Swiss who asked the Nazis in 1938 to stamp the passports of Jews with a "J" to make Jews officially identifiable), despite the theft of Jewish money from the bank accounts of Jews murdered in the Holocaust, and despite the Swiss government unofficially aiding the Nazis (for example, by allowing Wermacht tanks to pass through the country), Switzerland was never occupied by the Nazis, and therefore Jews who managed to make it there illegally were saved (sometimes with the help of unique Swiss individuals, like Paul Grueninger, a border police commander who saved Jews by allowing them in against orders and falsifying their registration. He was caught and put on trial and punished by his own government for his actions, but also honored by Yad Vashem as a Righteous Among the Nations). So again, the increase in the Swiss Jewish population is a result of genocide and ethnic cleansing of Jews, and this rise in the Swiss Jewish demographic happened despite the Swiss government's attempts to prevent it.

France: Most of the increase there is a result of France pulling out of Morocco and Algeria. Local Jews, who saw local Arabs accusing the Jews for French colonialism, and experienced a rise in anti-Jewish Arab violence in these countries even before the French retreated, feared for their safety and lives, and chose to leave for France as well. Since at least the kidnapping and murder of Ilan Halimi in 2006, there has been a constant surge of antisemitism in France, and a following decrease in the size of its Jewish population. The increase in Jewish demographic that the above image shows is therefore a combination of anti-Jewish violence and ethnic cleansing in northern Africa, and the fact that so many Jews fled that persecution, that even the murder of roughly 22% of France's Jews in the Holocaust coupled with a current decrease, leaves the country appearing "green" in that map in comparison with 1938. France is currently one of the leading countries in Europe in terms of antisemitic incidents.

Spain: This country had already begun its ethnic cleansing of Jews in 1492. The great expulsion of Jews refusing to convert to Christianity was followed by the Spanish Inquisition, which hunted down any converts from Judaism suspected of secretly still practicing the Jewish faith. This campaign included inhumane torture and murders. In 1938, the Jewish population in Spain was still so low (4,000 people, who made up 0.02% of the Spanish population), that any increase in the numbers, no matter how small, would appear substantial in terms of percents. During WWII, Spain was ruled by the tyrant Franco, who officially remained neutral, but did consider becoming aligned with Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy after the fall of Spain. He was also an antisemite. He did nothing to protect Spanish Jews, prohibited Jewish religious services, and even initiated his own marking of Jews in their passports. Despite that, he allowed fleeing French Jews to pass through Spain (meaning as long as they were headed elsewhere), but some ended up staying there, a fact he would use after the war to cultivate a myth that Spain protected Jews from the Nazis, which he believed would help him with the victorious Allies. This accounts for a part of the increase in the Spanish Jewish population. Another part is a 2015 law allowing Jews descendant from the families expelled from Spain in 1492 to re-claim a Spanish citizenship. The process cost a lot of money, there was a deadline for how long applications could be submitted, and only a small number of the Jews who should have been, were actually recognized thanks to it. Still, this also contributed to the "green" that you can see for Spain in the image. In conclusion, this is another increase that's mostly caused by the ethnic cleansing and persecution of Jews. Spain is one of the current leading countries in Europe in terms of antisemitic incidents.

[ameagrice]

DAYDREAM

CHAPTER ONE | “What The Dormouse Said.”

It happened at six o’clock, November third. The sun was setting; the air was cool; the hit to the head was harsh, and quick. She thought of how lucky she was that the Handler was in the area. After all, that woman saved her life. Frankie owed her a debt.

And the Handler ensured that Frankie paid it off.

It started as field assignments—poisoning here, hiding there. Anything to keep the timeline together, only the one at first. Later, things changed; suddenly, Frankie was assigned work with the Infinite Switchboard, watching for anomalies in the timeline and defecting them.

Her life, put simply, was boring. Medication for her state, a lifetime of servitude to the Commission, and free pastries on Monday mornings, proceeded by flicking through timelines and noting anything out of the ordinary.

Anything could be an anomaly, which was why, when the radio in the cafe mid-evening croaked out the news of Sir Reginald Hargreeves’s death, Frankie figured it must have been an anomaly, because that man simply wouldn’t just die. Nonetheless, the news reports continued into the night and until morning, floating from paper to screen through the week until eventually, it stopped.

The sun shone for the first time that week on the last day of it, a beautiful Sunday. Dressing, fumbling with her jacket sleeves on the way down the stairs, Frankie Jones made the time to collect her mail. She made the time to sort through it, abandoning the junk and sitting at the bottom step of the porch to address the milky-white envelope, her name stamped across the paper. Fingers slipped under the lip of the note, avoiding a paper cut, pulling out the single, lopsided note inside.

THE OLD MAN IS DEAD. WE THOUGHT YOU WOULD APPRECIATE COMING TO HIS FUNERAL THIS SUNDAY. HAVE A GREAT DAY! (It’s at the same address. The stingy bastard refused to move).

— KLAUS.

And so, her life grew interesting.

· ─────── 𖥸 ─────── ·

As it turned out, she arrived far too late.

The foyer of the building she neglected to step foot in for twenty-two years was…empty. From what Frankie remembered of the place, it was just as echoing and cool as it was back then, and just as quiet. Sir Reginald Hargreeves liked his silence and solitude, and inflicted his ideals on the wards residing in his home.

She wandered around and around the seemingly empty home until her eyes found the family in the kitchen. Three men, two women and a young man. Quiet as a dormouse, Frankie waited in the doorway, just until somebody noticed her. First, the tall, muscular man, also known as Luther Hargreeves. Eyes blown and hand raised, shaking, he pointed at her, and the others followed his action to face her. It was like being behind glass in an aquarium.

“Does anyone else see the child in our kitchen?” He blurbed.

The one with dark hair, dressed in black, hummed. “Girl Scout gone lost, maybe?”

“Could be an orphan, looking for the money of Sir Reginald Hargreeves—” the one in the skirt said.

They wouldn’t have remembered her rightly anyway—they had all been too young to recall her, just as she had almost forgotten them. All born on the same day, at the same time, but only one lacked anything real.

“I’m eighteen. And you sent me a letter, Klaus Hargreeves.”

Said man gasped dramatically, inhaling so hard he coughed and spluttered, falling backward off the table. Klaus landed a mess of long limbs on the floor, at the feet of the young man Frankie barely recognised. Klaus’s hands grasped at the table ledge, pulling himself up.

“Little Frances? Shouldn’t you be…bigger?”

“Shouldn’t you be a little more dressed for your dad’s funeral?”

“I’m sorry,” said Allison Hargreeves in an expensive outfit, hair glossy and set. “Why are you, like, twelve? I mean, Five’s explained to us about himself, but…are you a ghost? I mean—”

“She works for the Commission.”

The room grew silent, but the boy did not.

“She travels through time,” he turned his dark eyes to her. Five Hargreeves, the image of sophistication and mess all at once, a twenty-year-old in oversized clothes eating a peanut-butter sandwich. His eyes turned flinty, jaw set. “Isn’t that right, Frances?”

And, well…

She couldn’t say no.

[chilling-seavey]

The Lights of my Hometown (cl16)

↳ Timeless: F1 Grid Masterlist

↳ Summary: In neutral Monaco, Charles is watching the Great War unfold from the newspaper. Life feels so normal; but nothing is normal anymore.

↳ Title Song: The Lights of my Hometown by the Peerless Quartet (1916)

↳ Word Count: 1.0k

↳ A/N: Pretend all dialogue etc. in this is in French. I didn't want to make you all read poorly google-translated French so just pretend its, like, dubbed or something LOL

↳ Warnings: Wartime discourse, descriptions of loss of loved ones, grief, and characters being blind to the true horrors of war.

September 1916

The crackle of the phonograph harmonized with the beautiful notes of the soprano that spilled from its horn. In the parlour of the Monte Carlo apartment, Charles sat comfortably on the chesterfield with his cup of tea and the morning paper in hand. The Journal de Monaco was one of the prime connections to the ongoing war in Europe and, every morning, Charles took to its pages to follow the happenings on the Western and Eastern fronts. In the comfort of his apartment amongst the joyous sounds of his favourite records, in the neutrality of Monaco, he knew he held a luxury most men in Europe no longer had.

Some of the Monegasque men traveled to France at the start of the war to fight for the French army, not wanting to sit idle by while the rest of the world fought for freedom in Europe. Charles’ elder brother was amongst these rare few; wanting to follow in their father’s footsteps and fight heroically in battles for the greater good. Their father had been killed in the Second Boer War just before the turn of the century and his honour lived on in the hearts of his three sons; his dedication to his family and to Europe. 

Their mother had pleaded with her eldest son not to volunteer his life for a war that their tiny Principality was not a part of, but perhaps he was just as headstrong as their late father. Charles, although old enough to enlist in the French army as well, chose to stay home and take care of their mother and their younger brother. It wasn’t a decision made from cowardice, although no one in Monaco thought it to be such. They were all perfect content in their familiar comforts amongst their national neutrality. 

“Sir,” the butler then stepped into the room, addressing Charles who, for the time being, was the man of the house. Atop his gloved hand was a silver tray, “the post has been delivered.”

“Ah, splendid,” Charles folded his newspaper and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table, turning his full attention to the man as he approached. 

The butler lowered the silver tray on which two envelopes sat, stamped and addressed to ‘Monsieur C. Leclerc’ in the senders’ cursive scrawl. Charles picked up the envelopes and thanked the butler, dismissing him in doing so, and then he settled back against the chesterfield. 

With his mother upstairs with her lady's maid getting ready for the day, Charles took it upon himself to open his brother’s letter first with a sharp swipe of his letter opener along the top of the envelope. He read the contents carefully, having had plenty of practice dodging the mud splotches and water stains that came from the trenches over in northern France. He could tell through his way of writing that his brother’s spirits were low; morale of the Western Front struggling as the Great War raged onto the end of its second year. 

Just then, Charles’ younger brother, Arthur, came prancing into the parlour, draping himself over the back of the chesterfield as if to read over Charles’ shoulder, inquiring without so much as a ‘good morning, “A letter from Lorenzo?”

“Yes,” Charles, having finished reading, held up the folded parchment to him to take, “he is still in the Somme.”

“A pity,” Arthur tutted, placing himself in the armchair in the corner of the room to read.

Charles then moved onto his second letter, tearing open the envelope with his letter opener and pulling out the parchment. He had figured this letter would be from his dearest friend, Pierre, whom he met when he studied abroad in Paris back in 1908. Pierre had been serving in the French air force throughout the war, always keeping Charles up to date on the gossip rather than the news—what things they did to German prisoners for a bit of a laugh or which soldier got a disease from a night at the local brothel.

Instead, Charles was startled by the shockingly clean and proper parchment that was pulled from the envelope; a striking difference to the usual muddied and crumpled papers that came from the front lines. Under a furrowed brow, he began to read,

‘Dear Charles, I am writing to you on behalf of our darling Pierre, with whom you were dearest of friends. We received a notice from the Minister of Militia yesterday that our darling boy had been killed in action a fortnight ago. His plane was shot down over enemy lines and, later, recovered by our troops to be buried at the front. Our hearts are crushed by this tragedy and the only thought that God wanted him home can, in a measure, bring us consolation, although I feel as if we will never get over the loss of our baby boy.  Thank you for being a true friend to our Pierre. He always spoke so highly of you. If you ever find yourself in Normandy, please pay us a visit. May God comfort and bless you. Yours sincerely,  M & Mme J Gasly’

Charles sat there for a moment, the letter clutched in his hands. He stared at the words, re-read them, trying to make sense of an announcement that felt so unreal. It couldn’t be true; he had just received a letter from Pierre the week before and he had sent one back. Had Pierre never received his letter then? Did he even know how much he meant to Charles? 

Charles slowly tore his eyes away from the letter and looked out over the harbour and the glistening waters of the Mediterranean. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sea was sparkling, and Monaco was at peace. Life went about as normal. 

Life in Monaco went about as normal while men were dying in sodden battlefields up north.

Life in Monaco went about as normal while Pierre was dying in sodden battlefields up north.

Charles didn’t wipe away the tear that slipped down his cheek. 

Grief weighed heavy on his heart and, in that moment, like a child once more, he could only beg fruitlessly to God for his brother to come home safely.

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[kaialone]

Faust and Chronus actually came up in the Q&A with Daisuke that was held earlier today at Japan Expo in France!

I thought it was neat, so here's my rough translations of what was being said in Japanese. (question was at this time stamp)

--

Q:

Can you tell us any anecdotes or funny stories about Faust?

A:

Just Faust himself is already funny, right? But well, this is a story we haven't depicted yet, but after the story of Strive, Faust and a character called Chronus end up continuing to travel together for a long time. (…)

Going with that- Chronus is a character with a very rigid personality, but through living with Faust, I imagine he would gradually become softer over time in a slice of life comedy-like scenario.

--

[vkelleyart]

Coming August 24th: The French Collector's Edition of RED, WHITE & ROYAL BLUE (Aka MY DEAR F***ING PRINCE)

So excited to join Lumen Editions in announcing their french-language collector's edition of RED WHITE & ROYAL BLUE, or as they call it in France, MY DEAR F***ING PRINCE! I can't express how grateful I am to have been brought on board to provide illustrations for both the dust jacket and endpapers for this absolutely mind-blowing edition of the book. 

They pulled out all the bells and whistles for this, with foil stamping on the front and sprayed edges, and a bookmark! I also got a chance to repaint and touch up a number of old and new fan arts for inclusion in the endpapers to match the updated character designs we did for the American version, including a full color Brownstone kiss! <33 

The idea they had for the dust jacket: A sort of before and after of the State Room Scene. On the front, Alex glares at Henry in a mix of resentment and sexual frustration, and on the back, the resolution of all that pent-up emotion. Bold choices all around. (Vive la France!) 

Lastly, if you look closely at that interior flap, you might just catch Casey McQuiston, Matthew López (director of the RWRB movie adaptation) and Aneesh Sheth (also acting in the film) at the table with June. :D

The only link available for purchase outside France is the Amazon.fr link below, but I have been told it works! The USA Amazon link will hopefully be up soon! Preorder your copy here:

[libraryofloveletters]

The Christmas Market

Pierre Gasly x Fem!Reader

Warnings: home sick reader, pierre is trying his best, christmas markets, cheesy couple stuff, pierre is kinda sweet when he's not being an ick, pierre can't skate for shit, cooties as these kids would say.

Word Count: 718

Author's Note: again, my charity of the month writing the man. y'all know I don't fuck with this man like that lmaooo - for @2-fast-2-curious cause this is her pookie

--

You were missing home quite a bit and Pierre decides to indulge in one of your favourite holiday traditions.

Home sickness was no joke and it was kicking in big time.

You lived in Milan since you had applied to go to University there. You moved during your first year and fell in love with the place and with a certain formula one driver who lived there as well.

As much as you've come to love Milan and Pierre, you always went home for the holidays. For the last three years, you were home for Christmas and in France for new years with your boyfriend, Pierre and his family.

This year was much different, your studies kept you in Milan a lot longer than expected and you would be missing out on a lot of your family traditions.

No tree decorating, no cookie decorating and no Christmas market.

Pierre being the sweet boyfriend he was, was trying his best to cheer you up as much as he could. He usually waited until a week or two before Christmas to get his Christmas tree but this year, he bought the biggest artificial tree one could find and about a million and one ornaments to see if he could improve your mood.

And for a bit, it did work. The 5 hours it took you two to put the tree together, your mood did improve but the next day, it was back to focusing on your exams and the lack of Christmas mood was apparent.

He offered to bake cookies with you but you turned down his offer; you typically baked your mom's famous and secret cookies but you didn't have the recipe, hence the secret part.

Pierre was running out of ideas but then an ad for the Christmas market popped on his Instagram.

He finds you on the couch, finally popping your laptop for the afternoon. "How about a date night?" He asks, reaching for your hand.

"Babe," you groaned, letting him pull you up. "I'm not really in the mood."

"C'mon, some fresh air will make you feel better. You've been glued to your laptop all day."

"Fine," you gave in, the two of you getting ready. Pierre didn't give you any idea as to where you're going other than to dress warm. You figured you'd probably walk to dinner or something but you weren't - he opened the car door for you, driving to some undisclosed location.

To be honest, you weren't paying much attention to him or where he was going until the car came to a full stop, Pierre turning off the engine. You finally look up from your phone to see the sign in front of you; Christmas market.

"You didn't," you turn to face your boyfriend.

The man smiles, nodding. "I know it's not the one at home but, it's still a Christmas market so I hope that counts."

"Of course it does!" You reach over to give him a kiss, your hand resting on his jaw softly.

Pierre gets out of the car and you mirror his action, the two of you holding hands as you walk into the market.

The Christmas trees planted around the place, the lights wrapped around the roof of each stand, the sound of laughter and cheesy Christmas music filled your ears, as did the smell of gingerbread. You two decided to make the rounds.

You walked through the market, taking in all of it. Pierre let you drag him to every booth, buying you whatever your heart desired, even the ridiculously overpriced hot cocoa. You took photos as you went, stopping in at the photo booth; the classic ones of you two smiling, giggling and kissing with the stamp at the bottom - Milan Christmas Market 2023.

The night wrapped up with you attempting to teach Pierre how to skate. His hands in yours as you carefully took him around the skating rink.

He falls against you, you're pinned between him - a man struggling to hold himself up- and the barricade. "Did you have a good time?" He asks and you nod, a smile on your face.

"I did. Thank you for this, baby."

Pierre leans in, almost slipping but he catches himself as he kisses you. There's a little boy skating by, doing better than Pierre you might add, who makes a face at you two kissing. "Ew!"

You and Pierre can't help your laughter.

[morelikeravenbore]

Sebastian Sallow x f!oc (Aurélie Collins).

This scene will likely feature in my fifth year AU WIP but was written for a discord writing event with the theme 'Cupids arrow' (the theme is there if you squint really hard, I promise.) 

🍓 Content: Bickering is a love language. They're insufferably fifteen. Two orphans idiots insisting they're not in love with each other. His mouth says "I'm not in love" but his body language says "I burn for you". Aurélie would like it to be known that they absolutely did not go on a date and if anybody says otherwise, they're lying.

🍓 Warnings: some swearing? Otherwise sfw.

🍓 Word count: 1.3k

Preview: He gaped at her. For weeks she'd been begging him to take her out for stupid tea and stupid fucking cakes, and now she was storming out in a huff because the experience didn't live up to whatever unobtainable level of perfection she'd imagined it would be? Merlin's fucking beard, never ever ever so long as he lived would Sebastian ever befriend another French girl: the ordeal of knowing one was enough to send him to a premature grave. [A/N: plot twist that's your future wife Sebastian muaahahaahahahahaaha.]

🍓 Cross posted to [wattpad] and [ao3]

Jammed uncomfortably into a too-small table in the corner of the cramped tea shop, Sebastian Sallow wore a scowl as dark as his all-black outfit. As far as his meticulously crafted plans to save his sister went, taking a French girl to fucking Steeply & Son's for an outing that she repeatedly, with much tenacious finger-pointing and foot-stamping, insisted was "not a date!" wasn't something he'd ever thought to factor in. Now, instead of spending an otherwise productive Saturday afternoon sneaking into the Restricted Section to nick another book he'd been eyeing (“Hexes and Hiccups: An Unintentional Villain's Spellbook”), he was hunched over a doily-covered table while Aurélie cast a critical eye over the assortment of tiny cakes piled on a platter between them. 

Sebastian didn't have time for carefree forays into the village to sample cakes and sip tea; when September slipped quietly into October, Anne's condition had worsened. When Halloween ushered in November, she got worse still. And now that December had arrived with unrelenting sheets of snow, Sebastian could practically see his twin sister fading before his very eyes. 

Every moment he wasn't working towards a cure was a moment he didn't have to spare. Most days, it was all Sebastian could do to keep from screaming. Most nights, he did not sleep. More often than not, he was short-tempered and argumentative. But did nobody understand the gravity of the situation? — That if he lost his sister, he'd lose himself, too? That if he lost her, his heart would remain eternally homeless, adrift in a snowstorm of grief, frozen in place forever and ever? 

Sebastian's scowl darkened. All around him, happy couples made gooey eyes at each other. Opposite him, Aurélie held up a cake between her thumb and forefinger as if it were an active dungbomb and let out a long, drawn-out sigh. 

'But why are they so small?' she asked for the third time in a row. 

Sebastian squinted at the micro-dollop of buttercream and what he guessed was a sliver of strawberry atop the teeny cake and answered, for the third time in a row, 'I told you. To maximise their profits.'

Repeatedly he’d tried to warn her that Steeply & Son's was renowned for their overpriced, undersized pastries, and that if she was expecting a tea shop run by a woman with a hunchback in Hogsmeade village to be anything remotely close to her beloved boulangeries back in France, she was bound to be bitterly disappointed. But had she listened to him? No. And now here she was, disappointed by cake just as he'd predicted. 

“I told you so” burned so hot on his tongue he thought he'd combust if he didn't say it out loud. Somehow he managed to swallow it back, but it scorched all the way down to his stomach. 

Visibly sulking, Aurélie set the little cake back on the platter and stared at it for a long, mournful moment before declaring, 'I want to leave now.'

Sebastian spluttered. 'What? We just got here!' he argued, but the red-headed embodiment of moodiness was already on her feet, hastily gathering her coat, scarf, extra scarf, woolly gloves and fluffy blue hat with a pout that deepened by the moment. 

He gaped at her. For weeks she'd been begging him to take her out for stupid tea and stupid fucking cakes, and now she was storming out in a huff because the experience didn't live up to whatever unobtainable level of perfection she'd imagined it would be? Merlin's fucking beard, never ever ever so long as he lived would Sebastian ever befriend another French girl: the ordeal of knowing one was enough to send him to a premature grave. 

Flinging his own scarf around his neck (the thinnest one he owned, since she was wearing his best), he followed her out of the tea shop and into the snow-covered grounds of Hogsmeade square. 

‘Aurélie!’ Frustration forged a path through the ice as he called after her, his frozen breath puffing out like angry steam from a boiling kettle. ‘I'm sure they didn't bake them that small to offend you!’

Ahead of him, the over-swathed girl only made a distinctly French sound of derision and picked up her waddling pace across the village square. Sebastian caught up easily, far more sure-footed in the snow than she. 

‘What's wrong?’ he demanded, taking a firm hold of her elbow lest her angry stomping across the icy cobblestones result in a head injury. Snow was falling thick and fast now, settling atop her silly hat like icing sugar, dusting her hair like strawberries and cream. 

‘Nothing is wrong!’ she wailed, struggling to shove her right hand into the left glove. ‘It's snowing and I'm cold and I want to go home!’

Frustrated, Sebastian watched her trying to force her thumb into the pinky hole for as long as he could stand before snatching the glove away. 'It's the wrong hand!' he snapped. ‘And your scarves are all tangled! Why do you insist on wearing two?’ 

'I thought it would help,’ she moaned, allowing him to drag her under the icicled eaves of the nearby Post Office.

‘Wearing two scarves is ridiculous!’ he lectured, slipping her hands into the correct gloves before moving to untie the tangle of wool around her neck. ‘You're going to choke yourself! Wearing one thicker scarf would be a lot more helpful than tangling yourself in two!’

‘I wasn't talking about the scarves!’ she argued back. 

‘What then? If you're so desperate for cake, I'll ask the House Elves to bake you one the size of your head if it'll stop you whining—’

Aurélie stomped her foot in the snow. ‘Ohlala, are you the last baguette in the shop?’ she wailed. ‘I don't want cake, I want my maman!’ 

Well, now he was truly flamboozled. 

‘Your — mother?’ he said. Was a cake? he was glad he didn't add. 

‘I thought that if I did something that reminded me of her, it might make it go away!’

The pain in her voice iced the fire on Sebastian's tongue. ‘Make what go away?’ he asked, gently smoothing the ends of her freshly untangled scarves. 

‘The homesickness…’

Ah, that. The plight of the orphan, doomed to be eternally displaced, burdened with a pain that never went away. Shame wearied Sebastian's shoulders: once again, he'd been too caught up in his own problems to remember that she was suffering, too. For so long he'd been without his home that he'd forgotten how it felt to be newly bereft of it. 

Aurélie looked up at him. 'How stupid am I to think I could actually find her again in a bit of cake?' she said with a small, sad smile. A bit of snow fluttered from her hat and settled in her lashes. Without thinking, Sebastian wiped it gently away with his thumb.

'It's not stupid to look for your parents in familiar places,' he said, his breath curling warmly around their faces. 'Why do you think I read so much?' 

Many a night Sebastian had fallen asleep with his head on a book, some small, lonely part of him hoping his mother might find him and tuck him into bed as she'd done when he was little. She never did, of course — not even in his dreams, but it never stopped him from hoping. 

‘Do you ever find them?’ Aurélie sniffled. ‘In the books?’ 

The lie came out easily. ‘Sometimes,’ he nodded. ‘Sometimes I do, yeah.’

An hour or two later, aptly supplied with cakes from the kitchens and books from Sebastian's secret stash under his bed, the Undercroft offered them a warm reprieve. Side by side they sat, shoulders and legs pressed under a blanket, the old moth-eaten sofa the only soft place to sit. It wasn't the familiar comfort of his childhood home, with his parents in the next room and Anne annoying him relentlessly while he tried to read — and it certainly wasn't the South of France, but in all the years Sebastian had been searching for home, he was learning that traces of it could be found in even the most unlikely places.

SPECIAL THANKS to my wifey @mianeryh for making sure Aurélie's Frenchness is always on point 🤌 (especially when she yells at Sebastian hehehe) love youuu x

[communistkenobi]

reading about the Soviet trials of Nazis post-WWII and how the USSR tried and convicted leagues more Nazis than did the western ally countries (the author puts the far upper estimate to 45k trials, compared to the 1-2k trials each done in America, France, and the UK). and it’s extremely funny reading about them because the author is like well of course we must acknowledge that these were show trials meant to consolidate Soviet power, compared to the beautiful western allies who only did it out of the goodness of their hearts to destroy the Nazis. like retributive justice is the prime mover of legitimacy in these cases, the purpose of international and national trials (including hundreds of death sentences) was to comprehensively de-legitimise the Nazi government by putting many top officials and collaborators on trial as representatives for the state in an effort to establish legal concepts of collective guilt, but if you do it on an industrial scale like the USSR did it’s bad I guess lol? It’s not clear from reading that this was an ineffective or overly punitive legal strategy, the number itself is supposed to demonstrate the illegitimacy of Soviet trials

and so like the eternally frustrating thing when reading international history is that it’s hard to find normal historical accounts of Soviet participation in, say, WWII because the giant red rubber stamp labelled EVIL COMMUNISM BAD keeps getting in the way of the writing. like the authors don’t do this with the Nazis, authors don’t spend pages of preamble being like btw these guys are EVIL and VILE, it’s pretty plainly demonstrated by describing the actions, motivations, and beliefs of the Nazis. And so in the exceptional moral treatment of the USSR what ends up happening in the literature is this deep existential liberal anxiety and insecurity that bleeds through the writing to the point of distraction. like just tell me what happened! If the Soviets do something horrible just describe it to me, I don’t need all historical accounts wrapped up in a moral fable, I’m not 12 years old, I promise I’ll shake my head in disagreement if they did something bad, but you have to actually make a case for bad behaviour for me to do that