#cw death of a mother / mom.

[mint-8]

Platonic Yandere Show-Off!

Yandere Mother vs. Yandere Father x Child! GN! Reader

Content/Trigger warning: Mentions of death, torture, and pregnancy. Please read as completely platonic.

- United in an arranged marriage, neither Yandere Mother nor Yandere Father are particularly pleased with their current situation. Both are enraged due to their respective family's tradition of marrying into money and improving business respectively, and are already planning on how get to get rid of the other one so they can live a happy single life, preferably with all of the remaining assets from having their spouse die in 'mysterious' ways.

- Yandere Mother and Yandere Father are tasked with having at least 1 child so they can inherit the entire family business. Their gender doesn't matter. They need to make an heir. Yandere Mother is disgusted at the idea of having Yandere Father inside her, and so does he, but after avoiding the inevitable for a couple years, they finally spent one quick and uncomfortable night together to get it over with.

- While Yandere Mother is busy dealing with the pregnancy, Yandere Father makes sure to put aside enough money for his child's education, entertainment, health, and anything else they might need. Look, he might hate his wife, but he is not going to hate an innocent creature that had no choice to be born to such a horrible woman, he is going to do his best to raise his child right, but might leave most of the heavy duties to the mother. And speaking of, Yandere Mother is excited for having a child. It will be HER child and no one else's, and is very happy that her piece of shit of a husband is going to leave most of the kid's upbringing to her. She will make sure her baby grows with only the best of the best, and of course, only loving their mama! Your sperm donor will only appear for publicity reasons.

- Yandere Mother and Yandere Father who are surprised when your birth occurs a bit earlier than expected, but nevertheless rush your mother quickly to the best hospital in the country while your father waits outside of the operation room. Partially because it will look good for the press and partially because he doesn't want to be like your deadbeat grandfather who skipped his birth so he could drink with some investors. Yandere Father, at least, wants to be there for you. Meanwhile, Yandere Mother is screaming bloody murder in the other room. The pain is horrible. Even when the doctors gave her strong medications for the delivery, she still feels the first complications of motherhood. But even with all the difficulties, she bears through it all and gives birth to what will become of her and her husband's future adoration and obsession, you.

- The first to meet you is, of course, Yandere Mother, who held you as soon as the nurse's finished washing off all the blood and liquids, and who couldn't believe her eyes when she first saw you. Even when you were wet and crying after experiencing breathing for the first time, you still looked like the most adorable of little angels. Yandere Mother couldn't help but cry and weep from the incredible amount of love she felt in the moment, while a warm smile grazed her face, as she protectively held you, hearing your heart beat in unison with hers. She even refused to let the nurses and doctors check on you until she pretty much collapsed from the exhaustion of giving birth.

- Yandere Father meets you after the hospital staff gave him the clearing after running some tests. To say he fell in love is an understatement. This man fell to his knees when he first saw you at the maternity ward, peacefully sleeping with a soft blanket covering you. He couldn't help the tears that fell down his face, or the clear adoration in his eyes. He just... loves you much. His baby, his little angel. The adorable and cute baby in existence was right in front of him, and you were all his! He made you, after all! Oh, how excited he was to get you ot of here and buy you dozens of toys, and clothes and-

"They are beautiful, aren't they?"

"Like an angel..."

"If you hurt them in any way, I'll make sure to hire an assassin to torture you to death"

"I can say the same to you, dear"

- Yandere Mother and Yandere Father spoil you rotten through your childhood. Especially Yandere Father, who can't spend as much time with you as he would like because he has to take care of the family conglomerate, but always sends you hundreds of gifts your way, which are always meticulously chosen and discarded by Yandere Mother, who makes sure to spend every moment that you are awake by your side. She will make sure to raise you into the most innocent, polite, and kind little one in the entire world. She might love you with all her heart, and is more than willing to frame someone for a murder she committed if it came down to it, but she won't neglect you by letting you grow as you please! Oh, no! Proper etiquette classes and lectures about being responsible, respectful, and kind are very prevalent in your busy schedule and educational curriculum.

- Yandere Mother chooses homeschooling with only the best of the best private teachers and tutors to foment your growth! And no complaining or pressure from her extended family will change that! Yandere Father also supports this plan, with the added clause that you need to participate in extracurricular activities outside for your fortified home. Yandere Mother was going to cut your father from suggesting such dangerous activities to fragile, innocent you, but quickly changed her mind when he explained that he wishes to have photos and memorabilia of each and every one of your achievements, specifically those in which you absolutely crush the pathetic competition.

- Yandere Mother and Yandere Father attend every competition and event you compete or participate in, cheering you on from the audience and celebrating with grand parties and banquets for every success or failure. They love making everyone in the world know about their perfect little prodigy and are not shy in the slightest to prove it! Although, if you ever felt uncomfortable or annoyed by such displays of affections, no sweat! Yandere Mother and Yandere Father will completely understand and will keep your celebrations inside of their home, protecting your privacy if you so wish.

- Yandere Mother loves spending time with you to show her affection, being an active and involved parent in pretty much everything you do, always showing support, financial or emotional, for every single one of your hobbies and aspirations. She is also very touchy and cuddly, she specially loved to hold you close to her when you were a baby, giving you kisses and waking you up with more kisses and giggles. She loves to embarrass you with all the photos and loving memories she has of you!

- Yandere Father prefers to shower you in gifts and delicious treats whenever he is free. He especially loves going out to trips to your favorite mall or shops, lets you browse through the different sections, and buy everything your little heart desires. He tries his very best to be strict and teach you about the importance of money, but you give him your 'puppy eyes'™️ and he becomes weak once again. He also loves complimenting you and giving you praise whenever you succeed, as well as helpful tips and advice in the cases you lose or are in need of some support. He especially loves when you come to his home office or during meals and ask him anything and everything you might have in your mind. Your Yandere Father is very well educated after all (and so is your mother!) and is very eloquent when explaining topics and talking about how the world works. He has so many fond memories of little toddler you waddling to his office, asking silly questions and him calmly and sweetly responding as you fall asleep on his shoulder.

- Yandere Father and Yandere Mother loves you so much, little pumpkin. They know that you will grow to become an amazing person, but can't help but worry about others potentially hurting you! So, they make sure to background check anyone that you could possibly have an interest in (romantic or otherwise), to be 100% sure that they will appropriate companions for you. Very few people make the cut, with the many undeserving of your love and attention being quietly taken care of. Not necessarily in a brutal way, but Yandere Mother sure misses her time as queen bee of high-school when she would destroy the lives of those trying to take her down, and Yandere Father has such a vast collection of weapons that it would be a shame not to use them every once in a while!

- Yandere Mother loves you with all her heart and would do anything to protect your smile. Yandere Father loves you with the entirety of his soul and is more than willing to commit war crimes to protect your happiness. The two of them hate each other deeply for always keeping your attention off the other, but work surprisingly well in raising and taking care of you, so they toughened it up and simply focus on your safety and well being. They don't care who they have to hurt, kill, torture, or incriminate. They will do it and make sure you never find out. You are their adorable sweetness. You don't need to know about the atrocities in this world =)

"You are the absolute most, my little star. I love you ♡"

"I'll love you even if you kill me, dear. You will always be my little angel ♡"

[read-write-thrive]

Hospitals had never been the favorite location of either of the Dead Boy Detectives, and they usually refrained from even approaching the premises when at all possible. In the early days of the agency, it was too risky— too many dying or newly dead individuals meant Death was nearly impossible to escape, after all. Even now, with an expanded agency under the influence of the Night Nurse, and as such without immediate risk of hell if they strayed too close to Death, they still tried to avoid hospitals out of habit and for the comfort of all involved—the boys never knew when someone might see them (and it never stopped stinging when someone suddenly did) and it wasn’t exactly easy for the girls to just walk into a hospital without rousing suspicion. It was easier in some ways, these years later, now that the girls were adults and less likely to be seen as truants, but that newfound freedom did not bring with it any sudden desire to see what they were missing behind hospital doors.

All this caution and hesitation was ignored when Charles tapped on the mirror to check on his parents and was met with an unexpected chaos. A heart attack, from what the paramedics were saying as they wheeled the old man out on a stretcher, Charles’s mother and their neighbor following behind in her car. Charles didn’t witness the incident itself, pure luck on the timing, but the aftermath was a flurry of commotion that left him reeling.

He wandered back to the main space of their headquarters (a bigger place than what it once was, courtesy of the girls’ tiring of the boys being unreachable during a crisis or two and deciding to go all in on a shared flat) in a daze. Charles didn’t hide his checking in on his parents anymore, but still preferred to do it alone. Thankfully, his friends were kind, wonderful people who were happy to leave him to it. Said wonderful friends, however, were also quick to notice something wrong.

“Charles?” Edwin, naturally, was the first to notice Charles’s return and immediately put his book aside.

The girls, engrossed in a new show on the other side of their living room, snapped up in their own ways.

“What’s wrong?”

“What happened?”

Charles swallowed down the mixture of emotions threatening to drown him, “It’s my dad, he’s had a heart attack.” He screwed his face up in an attempt to stop the tears that threatened to spill out. Why was he crying? The bastard made his life miserable—

“Good.” Crystal was the first to comment. Niko slapped at her arm. Crystal put her hands up, “What? He was awful!”

“It’s still his dad!” Niko protested, “You can’t just say that!”

Charles tuned out their bickering. Everything felt a little tuned out, actually. And then Edwin was in front of him, hands on his shoulders.

“-love? Charles?”

“Hmm?” Charles tried to silence his whirring emotions.

“Are you alright?”

The Charles of even several years ago would have been quick to brush it all off with a smile. But he’d grown since then.

“Honestly? Not sure. Is that bad? Crystal’s right, he was a dick.”

“And Niko makes a very good point as well. He’s still your father.”

The tears were back again. Edwin pulled him in for a hug before Charles could say another word.

The girls had also quieted, alternating between watching the exchange and speaking through meaningful glances.

Niko was the one to break it, “Did you want to see him?”

The very idea shocked Charles, going rigid in Edwin’s arms.

“He might not even be dying, and going to a hospital is recipe for trouble—“ Charles responded slowly, as if waiting for someone to agree with him and take the weight of the decision off of him.

“I mean, a heart attack is probably close enough to death even if it doesn’t get him.” Crystal contributed.

“And our avoidance of hospitals doesn’t matter if you’d like to go see him. The Night Nurse’s lone positive trait is her protection from Death’s clutches, after all.” Edwin said into Charles’s curls.

“I-“ Charles gave himself a breath, “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

“We don’t have to.” Crystal said softly.

“Yeah, we can just have our movie night and distract you, or if you want to talk to us but not go see him…” Niko backed her girlfriend up, trailing off into the silence.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Edwin echoed, sighing, “But I don’t want you to regret anything, either.”

“That’s true, it might be good for closure…” Niko chimes in once again, positive in the face of it all and determined to see Charles cheered up as well.

“Fuck that. You don’t owe him closure. If you don’t want to go, then don’t go.” Crystal’s anger was not what it once was, but she had her moments, particularly when abusers were the topic of discussion. Thankfully she seemed determined to keep her composure.

“Your call, Charles.” Edwin said, pulling away from the embrace but not letting Charles go just yet. He obviously had more to say, if the turn of his mouth was any indication, but he was all softness regardless.

“Could be my last chance, innit?” Charles said lowly, obviously not thrilled at the prospect, “If the bastard goes…”

Edwin’s face shifted, and Charles knew he’d guessed Edwin’s unspoken comment correctly. Still, Edwin’s tone and posture were the same, “No one expects it of you. And we’ll support you regardless of what you decide.”

Charles had a distant feeling of pride that Edwin had gotten better at this sort of thing. He’d tell him that another time. Once this was all over and the world made sense again.

After a moment of reflection, Charles sighed, “I think I’d like to go. Might help me heal or closure or whatever, yeah?”

The girls were up, pulling on their coats and shoes without a second thought. Charles felt monumentally lucky to have them.

Including the boy who held him still, voice low and meeting his eyes, “Do you want all of us with you? We can stay behind if you’d rather do this alone.”

Charles shook his head with his same sad smile, “I don’t want to think what might happen if I do all this alone, mate. Though you’ll have to forgive me if I lose my cool.”

Edwin clearly saw through the attempt at a joking diversion but smiled regardless, “Very well. Do you know which hospital we’re visiting?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s probably closest to their place, yeah?” Charles guessed, scrambling his thoughts trying to remember which hospital he’d been taken to when he’d broken his arm as a kid. It was so long ago, and so much had happened since…

Edwin once again shook him out of his thoughts, “Some investigation is in order, then. Niko? Crystal?”

“On it!” Niko chirped, already deep into her phone, Crystal close behind.

After some internet sleuthing, the girls had acquired the address of the nearest hospital to the Rowland family home and were taking the long way there while the boys readied themselves in front of the mirror.

“Are you ready?” Edwin double checked, hand outstretched.

Charles shook himself, “Not sure I’d ever be, love, but let’s get on with it.”

Edwin pulled him in for a quick kiss on the cheek, a sincere smile, and then through the mirror they went.

—-

They stepped out of a mirror in one of the many bathrooms in the hospital complex, disoriented by the amount of beings (alive and dead alike) as they tried to navigate the halls. The A&E department was the worst, with traumatic deaths creating a perpetual plethora of ghosts. Of course, this was also the first place they needed to check.

The boys held hands tightly as they went, both wound tight by the noise and the blood and the general atmosphere of the place. It was far from the most dangerous place they’d been in their decades together, but that brought little comfort in the face of it all.

Phasing through the various doors and curtains, it was ultimately clear that if Charles’s father was in this hospital, he’d been moved elsewhere. They split momentarily, with Edwin going to find a map of the hospital while Charles waited at the nurse’s station to see if he could get any leads on his family.

It soon became clear that there was simply too much going on for Charles to glean any real information, and he was ready to give up and find Edwin when the next phone call to the desk came from a familiar phone number and gave way to a familiar voice. Niko’s voice was clear on the other end, and just loud enough for Charles to overhear. The nurse gave the information with little questioning, informing all involved that Mr. Rowland had just been moved to a private room on a different floor. Charles didn’t stick around to listen to what exact department the man was in, or what the prognosis was—as soon as he knew the number he was off to find Edwin.

It was quieter in this department. Less urgent. Which meant something significant that Charles was pointedly not thinking about, less that send him into another tailspin. Thankfully Edwin’s presence was grounding beside him.

A nurse left the room as they found it, giving a glimpse through the doorway. Charles’s mother sat at his father’s bedside, accompanying neighbor at her side. They couldn’t see his father (or his father’s ghost for that matter) from their vantage point.

Edwin gave one last squeeze of Charles’s hand to get his attention, “I can give you a moment alone if you’d like.”

“Don’t you dare.” Charles tried to joke, but his voice didn’t seem to cooperate. Edwin’s eyes saddened, but he gave a firm nod and gestured for Charles to take the lead.

The man of the hour looked frail against the white sheets. He was awake, but by the look of his eyes he was definitely on his way out. There was a bulky mask over his nose and mouth, IV in his arm, heart monitor dragging along beside him. Charles's mother sat quietly, holding his hand between two frail ones of her own.

Charles didn't think his emotions could get any more complicated, and then his father's eyes found him. Then Edwin. Then back to him. He rasped behind the mask, Charles's mother shushing him gently.

"Hi dad." Charles sighed more than said, standing awkwardly at the foot of his bed and gripping Edwin's hand so hard he wouldn't be surprised if he managed to hurt him despite all the ghost technicalities.

Another rasp, this time accompanied by a frail hand gesturing towards the boys. Charles nearly slumped in relief when his mother glanced their way but returned to murmuring to her husband rather than reel back in shock. She had some time left, at least. His father, however, continued to try to speak.

Seeing his mother's distress, Charles felt himself snap into his protective mindset without thought, snarking, "Just give it up, mate. They can't see us—you're the only one dying here, so only you get the honour. Trust me, I'd rather talk to mum than you any day, but I cant say I'm too torn up about you going first. Maybe she'll get to have some happy years without you."

The man thankfully stopped his rasping, but his eyes emoted enough that Charles knew he heard him. It gave him the confidence to keep going, never quite sure what his next word was going to be but glad to say it anyway.

"Not that you asked, but I've been having a great time these last thirty, forty years. Yeah my death was awful, don't get me wrong. Kinda wish you got even a taste of that, for all the shit you put me through… Actually, do heart attacks hurt?" He turned his question towards Edwin, who had such a complicated expression that Charles immediately decided that the question wasn't that important, "Doesn't matter now, I guess. But yeah, my afterlife has honestly been better than my life ever was. Not only do I not have to deal with your bullshit, but I've also found people who actually care about me.

"Like this, right here, is Edwin," Charles swung their held hands upwards in an attempt at a wave, earning a slightly hysterical chuckle from Edwin, "He found me dying in that attic, showed me kindness as I died, and I've been by his side ever since. He's the best thing that ever happened to me—"

Charles took a breath as his voice cracked, Edwin's hand squeezing his in silent support. Charles didn't look over to try and keep it together a bit longer.

"He's the love of my—well, love of my afterlife. And I know you’d hate that, or at least hated all that when I was alive. I remember your rants about how all those people dying deserved it. Shouting at the telly like they personally offended you just by existing. Do you still think like that, all these years later? Hell, now here you are, dying on a hospital bed while your queer son laughs at you. What a twist!" Charles laughs, but it doesn't sound right even to himself. He, once again, pointedly doesn't look at Edwin. Looking at Edwin means dropping the brave face, and he's got a few more things to say first.

“You know, you’ll think this is weak or whatever, but I checked in on you and mum over the years. Neither of you could see me, and I never stuck around long, but I wanted—no, I needed to see. If I was the only one you beat, if you’d turn to mum now that I was gone. If you felt any remorse when I died. I’m not sure what I would’ve done if I’d seen you raise your hand to her. Probably taken up Edwin here’s offer to haunt the shit out of you.”

“I never—“

“Not in those words, love, I know, I know. But you meant it like that and you know it. Anyway, thankfully I never saw it. And she didn’t cower like I did, or hide any bruises, so I figured you were safe there. As for remorse, well, never really saw that either. I was bitter and angry those first few years over that. Thankfully Edwin here kept me busy. And now I can’t really be arsed, especially now that you’re dying and I can’t find much remorse either. Angry it took you so long, maybe.”

Charles once again looked at his mother, at the tears on her cheeks and her face turned in silent prayer.

“Even if you never beat her, I still wish you’d given her more time without you. Did you ever visit her family? You shot it down every time she even hinted at it when I was alive. And she’d smile and move on like it didn’t hurt her to hear that the man she married hated her family that much. You know, I used to promise her that I would take her to see them again. I’d tell her that once I was grown up we’d run away and live in India where you wouldn’t care enough to chase after us. She’d swat me for that. Disrespecting you. It always came back to you. Which is just how you wanted it, right? The whole world revolving around you? So fucking glad I got out of there. I shouldn’t have had to die for that, but whatever. It let me live free of you. And soon enough I won’t have to worry about you at all.”

Shoes squeaked obnoxiously right outside the door. Charles glanced up just in time to see Niko giving him a thumbs up as Crystal pulled her away from the glass. Turning back, he was glad to see his mother hadn’t turned away from her husband. No need to confuse her or get the girls in trouble.

Charles sighed and turned back to his father, “Not really sure what else to say here. Edwin? Any ideas?”

Edwin thankfully took the playful question as seriously as Charles meant it, “Hmm. You could tell him about hell if you’d like to be especially vindictive. Or take the moral high ground and forgive him for all he did to you. Crystal and I would also be happy to curse him for all he did if you’d like. Literally or figuratively.”

Charles genuinely laughed at how his father’s eyes widened, “While that sounds tempting, he’s already on his way out. All we’d do is freak out my mum.”

Edwin gave him a soft smile, “Of course. Just a suggestion.”

He returned the smile and squeezed his hand in thanks before turning back to his father, “Right. Well dad, I’m glad I caught you before Death did. I won’t speak to hell or anything, don’t want to jinx it, but I hope you get what you deserve. I’m not going to stick around to find out. And I won’t forgive you, either. You were a right bastard and I still struggle with getting you out of my head even after literally dying. So you don’t deserve my forgiveness, honestly. I’ll keep an eye on mum, but that’s for her and my sake, not for yours. Probably won’t go to your funeral or any of that, either. I’ll be a little mad if they bury you next to me, but those are just bones by now so I guess it doesn’t really matter. Yeah. I think that’s it. No forgiveness, no love, just hope you get what you deserve and that I never have to see you again. That about sums it up.”

Edwin squeezed his hand again, drawing his attention, and speaking softly, “Does that mean you’d like to go? We can wait if you want to be sure.”

Charles once again felt overwhelmed with it all, particularly with how lucky he was to have Edwin. He didn’t want to start crying here, so he just nodded and pulled Edwin with him out of the room.

“How’d it go?” Crystal asked from her seat in the hall chair, Niko nodding next to her.

“He’s dying alright. Gave him a piece of my mind. But I’m ready to never think about him again, honestly.” Charles tried to make light of it, but it was clear none of them bought it. He blinked up towards the ceiling to keep the tears away just a bit longer.

“Once we get back to the apartment, expect plenty of hugs from us.” Niko informed him, eyes glancing down the hall at the others down the way.

Charles smiled, “Noted. Sorry to make you come all the way out here, guys.”

“Nope, none of that—“ Crystal started, but was cut off by nurses suddenly rushing towards the room, obvious some alarm or something had been pulled. The girls stood in a rush to get out of the way.

“We’ll see you back at the apartment!” Niko called back to the boys as they took their leave.

Edwin held his arm out, the way he did when he wanted Charles to feel especially cherished, “Shall we?”

Charles turned very purposefully away from the door and took the offered arm with a thankful smile. He would need to have a proper cry and rant and rave about all of this later, he was sure. He’d come to learn that all those complicated emotions don’t just go away when you ignore them. But, for now, he was happy to hold onto his partner and get the bloody hell out of this hospital.

~

EDIT: now with part 2 !!

[winepresswrath]

Armand's simpering little "and I never have" has taken on new dimensions for me. Technicality king and also I think very in keeping with his whole malign fairy creature deal. You can tell him not to hurt the bae, but you should really specify what "hurt" entails. Is chopping someone's hands off really hurting them? If they have annoyed you very much I mean.

-questions Armand might pose to Lestat that inspire him to leave the country

[nagasriel]

hehehe hiii doomed yuri !!!

I went insane and did this

Just cute Malbosa stuff i swear <3

It's below the cut as it contains Blood and Death

sad :(

Also first time i'm drawing blood ! It looks nice i'm really happy unlike Malva, cause she ded

[nightly-ruse]

Can I get uhhhhhh SpottedTiger hypokits :D

I’m in a SpottedTiger rabbit hole rn-

Evil woman evil woman!

Lynx was born on accident after a fling between Spottedleaf and Tigerclaw resulted in her but she was slid into Goldenflower’s litter, done by Spotted who had just had the kit a few hours before Golden started kitting her sole surviving kit Swiftkit. No cat besides Spottedleaf and Tigerclaw knew of her true parentage.

She beside her brother and cousin Brightpaw went to prove themselves but was left brotherless and without a tail. Weak, shamed, and grieving Lynxpaw was taken by her now exiled father’s friend Darkstripe to meet her dad and she joined him. She became the devil’s daughter, his butcher and sole heir. She knew it was wrong. She hated the blood that stained her claws. But she couldn’t take it back, not now or ever. She died getting her younger sister Tawnypaw out of Tigerclan, being executed right beside her father. She saved one life. And that’s all that matters to her.

Eye strain version under the cut!

[girlofwonder]

would like to expand on yara's hatred for the greek pantheon being deeper than just 'they've greatly wronged me in every aspect of my life' ... but she feels like every pantheon should be demolished & every god revoked of their power. cw: maternal death / death of a mother under the cut.

but i don't believe she particularly right in that aspect. there are good gods, in the dc greek line-up: it just so happens to be a multitude of female ones: artemis, arphodite, athena ( questionable lol), hestia, etc.. beings yara would deem as a causality of war if one came between her & the gods. which is just... not good.

most of this stems from yara feeling like the guaraní spirits & gods abandoned her mother ( which isn't true ). in a time of need, when she believes her mother prayed to them ( her final moments ) ... & they didn't answer her. but i feel as though yara's mother didn't pray for her own survival; like any good mother would, she prayed for yara's. & that little glitch, or rather misconception on yara's part, is what has caused her a lot of grief & unsustainable rage throughout her life. ... thinking power is all bad, thinking no one has ever looked out for her or her blood, thinking her heritage failed her & her mother when infact, they're the only reason she lives.

[sloppypears-ash-sg]

Mommies Know Best (OCs)

Assets!

(CW: car accident [dr*nk driving and speeding mention]/mentions of d3@/th under the cut)

Finally, Pan and Coney's moms!

Pan and Coney ARE half-siblings, but they refer to each other as full siblings.

Sundae was Coney's mom. She was loving, caring, and enjoyed hanging out with Coney and Pan. She was also pretty shy, mainly in her childhood and a bit in her adulthood, and connected with Coney because of that. She was autistic, too. Coney and Pan loved her.

Waffle Maker was Pan's mom. She worked more than Crock-Pot or Sundae, and she loved working with Pan and Coney. She helped out with schoolwork unless it was a more creative project, to which she left it to Sundae. She was dyslexic and had ADHD. Coney loved her, and so did Pan until after she died. Pan hates her.

When Coney was 11 and Pan was 7 (no pun intended), they asked Waffle Maker and Sundae to go to one of their favorite restaurants. Sundae accepted, though it took some time to convince Waffle Maker.

Waffle Maker drove the siblings and Sundae, and things were going smoothly until she had to take a detour. She got a little lost, and while turning around, a drunk driver (going over the speed limit) crashed into the car.

The result of the impact was horrible.

Pan and Coney weren't hurt too badly, just some minor injuries...

but their moms weren't so lucky.

Both of them died in the crash, unable to be recovered.

It was the first end of Pan's life as they knew it.

Keep that in mind.

[talentforlying]

iris: if your muse could convey one last message to someone they have lost or left behind, what would it be? — BOTANICAL HEADCANONS ( @demidritch )

god, i don't think he'd have the stones to actually go through with it, but i think he'd want to talk to his mom. he'd want so badly to talk to his mom.

mary anne died when he was born, so he never met her and she never met him, and in reality he'd be too terrified by the possibility of rejection to even try and contact her — what if she looked at him and immediately saw all the horrible things he's done? all the deaths, all the failures? what if she saw his father in him? what if he's so unlike anything she could have ever wanted for him that she flatly denied he was her son at all? — but if he had the chance to leave her a message with no risk of reaction, he'd do it in a heartbeat. he'd want to promise her that he's still trying to make the life she traded to him worth something, and that he's never going to stop.

[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

[planetallure]

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ dark!fic recs

CW: once again, these works contain dark and explicit themes that may be upsetting or triggering to some. please use your discretion and discernment.

@cherienymphe : when i first seriously got back on tumblr and got into dark!fanfic, cherie's was one of the first blogs i found. her writing was essentially my indoctrination. it was terrifying how much i loved it/her writing. truly phenomenal. i've read quite of few of her stories (mainly for rafe cameron, jj maybank, steve rogers, and peter parker) but i'll list my faves.

"when the party's over" - its something about this series...i think about it often. if you're into forced pregnancy or corruption tropes, tap in.

"wicked games" - i actually first read this one on ao3 before i discovered her tumblr and was absolutely gagged. another one i think of often.

"amnesiac" - the first series of hers that i ever read. absolutely traumatized me and i sobbed reading it. amazing storytelling.

"the hills" - another bangerrr. a one night stand ends in complete and total blackmail and entrapment. he just wanted to give her a better life *clown face emoji*.

"his father's son" - after ward death, rafe takes over the reins in more ways than one.

"teenage dirtbag" - this series single handedly made me a jj girl. the tension??? yup yup mhm.

"the less i know the better" - ironically my favorite part of this story is readers relationship with rafe but seeing jj slowly and then rapidly descend into madness? yeah.

"claimed" - a/b/o dynamics. brought me back to my wattpad days. still eat it up.

"daddy dearest" - steve meets a single mom and decides to be not the stepdad, but the dad who stepped up.

i'll be honest, i was a non believer in dark!peter but: "she's with me", "one last time." "suburbia" and "basic training" made a believer outta me. hands. down.

@lambtotheslaughterr : it absolutely amazes me the things that come from her mind. the level of creativity and originality needs to be studied. oona, you are criminally underrated.

“rise” - the first series of hers that i read. arguably the best series i’ve read on here thus far. this is the first part to her “the day the world ended” universe and it completely blew me away. i couldn’t believe that something like it had come from some silly little boat show. just brilliant.

“when the bough breaks” - the first work of hers i read. this one for me was a heartbreaking slow burn story, but the smut…makes up for it. yes yes.

“i burn” - sex!addict reader x rafe cameron. need i say more? actually, i will. the smut and tension in this one towards the end? it was shameful how turned on i was.

“one way or another” - buckle up, grab a snack, and prepare for the ride of a lifetime. that’s it.

“something wicked this way comes” - a single mom trying to escape her past, except her past is rafe cameron. this was one very spooky scary la la.

"summit" - the second part to the tdtwe universe. its still brand new but its already feeling like another banger, i mean it's oona. tap in.

@harryspet : rae was also apart of my indoctrination and boy did she do what needed to be done. her perfectly curated moodboards alone did it for me. very mindful, very demure.

"homestead" - what can i say...i'm a sucker for pregnancy stories :( and this series was no exception. absolutely delectable. enjoy.

"well kept" - classic millionaire ceo x reader, my younger wp reading self cheered gleefully. my love language is acts of service and boyy was this one speaking my language. had me at "scheduled braiding appointment."

"bambi eyes" - this one was one of those that made me want to take a good long look in the mirror and ask myself, "is this who we are...is this what we represent?"

@sherrybaby14 : this one is for the mcu girlies. more fics than you could ever ask for. everyone say "thank you, mother!"

"the distraction" - i'm starting to notice a kidnapping/stockholm syndrome pattern here...ANYWAY! work is realllyy stressful for steve and you just happen to be the perfect distraction.

@straywords : she's no longer active but her incredible writings remain so please, peruse. its like a beautiful museum over there.

"a break" - *gasp* another pregnancy story! stucky edition.

@darkficsyouneveraskedfor : an icon, a legend, she is the moment! another infinite library for my mcu girls. roo has all you could ever want or ask for.

@perlelune

"all too well" - yes, yes, another one, its who i am. rafe cameron proving once again that you can't escape him.

"lucky" - best friend!rafe x reader. he didn't know what he had until it was almost gone

"tag, you're it" - never read a scream fanfic before this one but boy did i have fun! chad is so pookie in this too :(

@honestsycrets : back when i was in my miguel era, sy single handedly kept me fed.

"starved | mio" - "mio", in which you babysit mayday and it gives miguel baby fever and "starved", in which he made you a mom...but its left less time for other activities.

"stung" - sex pollen/abo. reader gets bitten by an anomaly causing a reaction that only miguel can cure

"amor y respeto" - he just can't love you the way you need to be. so you and miguel break up...at the worst possible time.

"exclusive" - you and miguel are fuckbuddies. you want more, but miguel can't bring himself to give it to you. so you find company in hobie, who's there for you in all the ways that you need. miguel's not happy about that.

"canary" - you're a singer in the 1920s who's fallen in with the dangerous o'hara brothers.

"grande" - sex!worker miguel x assistant!reader. think...a pepper x tony kinda dynamic. except, miguel doesn't take kindly to certain slights. :)

@starfxkrinc : last but certainly not least! moony is a ridiculously talented writer and a mutal of mine. i found her early on during my resurgence on here. this is her new side blog (rip lovesickbrat and starfxkr!!) luckily she was able to salvage a lot of her past works and is back like she never left. i recommend her "western nights" series (really just the trailer park!jj tag in general) and her "ode to eaters" au. a queen of all things taboo. she does it for the girls who are drawn to the dark and scary. the gross and weird. <3

[midday-clouds]

Yandere Batfamily x Neglected & "Immortal" Reader 》I Part II Part III Part IV Part V

There are many yandere batfam x neglected reader but I can't get enough of them--- So here is a silly story idea I have

I don't go into too much detail about how the reader is immortal but I'll probably share about it another timeee

CW: Neglect, Self-Degrading, Kidnapping, Violence(Being shot at), Blood, "Death"

Reader is a product of a hookup between Bruce and some random other woman, your mom

You and your mom had a decent relationship. The two of you would help each other out and have fun playing games. You were so content without knowing who your father was.

Your world begins to collapse when your mom doesn’t come home one day. A bunch of strange people suddenly come into your house and drag you out. You never understood what happened that day besides that you were now alone.

After your mother is announced dead, you find out that you are related to the millionaire, Bruce Wayne. You don’t know much about him but still find yourself put on the Wayne Manor's doorstep

Bruce had just gone through the loss of Jason and had just taken Tim in. He would have happily made some space in his schedule but a case always comes up and makes him forget about you.

Due to Bruce being too busy, you never properly mourned for your mother. Alfred would try to help you but you needed your dad.

For the first week, you locked yourself in your room, almost immediately forgotten by the rest of the family. Alfred would bring meals to your room, knowing that you aren't ready for any sort of interaction in this state. 

Alfred tries to convince Bruce to prioritize your health but there is always a case that takes up all of his attention

After that first week, you become comfortable enough to try and get out of your room at least.

With you around the manor more, the family begins to see them more often but not enough to care.

All of them were busy being vigilantes and weren’t interested in connecting with you. Sure, don't mean to neglect you, but some criminals just don't know when to stop

This worsens your mental state, making them regret not trying to bond with their family earlier. If they had tried in the beginning, then maybe they would have made connections with your new family. Now it feels like they've lost their chance

Alfred would do his best to comfort you but he could only help so much.

When you met Dick, it was when he was stopping by to talk to Bruce. You both had a fun conversation together but that was it.

After that first interaction, you tried to talk to Dick more often when he stopped by, but it seems the first time was just lucky. Dick always had something that didn't allow for a quick chat,

Meeting Jason was honestly terrifying. You were in the kitchen when you heard some noise from outside. It's dark outside so you walk up to the window to see what the sound was

Because of the darkness outside and lights inside, you mainly just see your reflection when looking outside

You squint your eyes to try to see past the reflection when a red helmet pops up and frightened you

Falling onto the ground, you stare in shock at seeing the stranger open the window and step inside

Jason tries to relax your nerves by taking off his helmet, showing he isn't a threat. It doesn't help much when you don't even know who he is

He explains himself after seeing your confused look and you both end up having a small conversation. It was nice until Bruce came in and pulled Jason away.

You never seem to meet Jason again

There were very few instances where you interacted with Tim. Even though you lived in the same house, Tim was always busy.

You’d both exchange small greetings when seeing each other in the hall but that was it. You didn't want to disturb him so you never stopped by his room

you hoped that when Tim had free time, the two could hang out. However, Tim always made plans that you couldn't fit into

Sometimes you would hear that Tim has been playing a game with his friends and you would play it but by yourself.

After a couple of years, Damian enters the family and you were so excited

Because Damian was new to the family, you thought it would be the perfect opportunity to bond with him

That didn't go well. He almost stabbed you

Your opinion of Damian was quick to go sour.

Damian's acts to show authority have gotten you scared of walking around the manor and frightened of animals. Specifically Titus.

It is quite unfortunate as you love animals and to have a dog in the family would bring you so much joy. Too bad Titus has attacked and chased you on multiple occasions

You didn't know what to do with the violence Damian had been taking out on you. You don't feel comfortable talking to Bruce and don't want to bother Alfred. This leads to you bottling up your emotions and locking yourself in your room

During your time, you spent reflecting on your life. Being in the manor isn't helping your mental health so it would be good to go outside more. Due to your constant attempts to bond with your family, you don't spend too much time with your friends from school

Seeing this as another perfect opportunity, you make plans with your friends to get out of the house and have a bit of self-care

Once the day comes, you quickly pack a small backpack and leave the house, only leaving a note for Alfred that says where you're at.

Finally getting some “fresh” air and being surrounded by those who feel more like family than your real family

You all have the best day and make plans for more get-togethers. 

It may not be the safest to be out so often but you’ve lived in Gotham your whole life, you know the safety procedures to stay safe. There isn't much news on you so people don't even recognize you as Bruce’s kid

Of course, something had to happen

You and your friends had just finished a fun day and you realize that your bike was stolen, meaning you don't have a way home. Your friends offered to take you home but you declined out of politeness. If something does go wrong, you ask your friends to call you to check up on you

Your walk home is longer than expected and it’s getting darker. As you walk through the streets of Gotham, you’re suddenly pulled into an alley and are threatened with a gun

There a three masked guys and one of them seems to have recognized you as Bruce’s kid, changing their plan to use you for ransom

You’re knocked out and taken to an abandoned building where you’re tied up to a pipe in the back

The kidnappers have a ransom letter and take it to the Wayne manor, including the small backpack you carried around

Unfortunately, Alfred was on his month-long vacation and Bruce was the one to receive the letter

He takes the time to contact "all" his kids and they're all perfectly fine and he doesn't recognize the backpack that was sent with the letter. There was a wallet but no ID card of any kind. The letter also didn't have a name on it.

Bruce brings up the case to the rest of the family but they agree that it may be a scam. 

The letter was likely from some desperate person who was trying to trick Bruce into giving money so it was put on the side while the family worked on a bigger case. 

Because of this, you’re held hostage for an unknown amount of days before the kidnappers get tired of waiting and shoot you in the gut out of frustration 

You’re filled with immense pain from the bullet before darkness consumes you.

More days pass before you wake up, still tied to a pipe and blood stained clothes

It seems your kidnappers had left your body behind rather than getting rid of it. You’ve been struggling with the rope since you have been taken and it was paying off because you can see that you can almost get your hands free.

Once you're out of the building, it is midnight. You immediately run back to the manor the moment you find a family path.

No one is there to notice you make your way back to your room. Because of how long it's been, you don't leave a trail of blood. Maybe some dirt but hopefully it won't be too hard to clean up

You debate on what action to take next. Looking in the mirror, the injury from the bullet is gone and you don't want to go to the hospital

One thing that is clear though is that you are extremely hungry and how dirty you feel. With this on your mind, you do your best to clean yourself up before going down to the kitchen

You don't feel comfortable talking to anyone so thankfully the rest of the family is busy at night,

Once you are sure no one is around, you take a bunch of snacks and hurry back to your room

In your room, you eat everything until you finally feel full. Hopefully, you don't just throw everything up because it feels so nice to finally have something in your stomach

Your nerves begin to relax and you truly take in the events that happened

How are you still alive? You were shot and haven't had food for days. What happened? Did Bruce not get the ransom letter? Why did no one save you? Did your friends call you?

Quickly remembering your friends, you look for your phone but are unable to find it. Not wanting to worry your friends, you open up your laptop to contact your friends through there. You see that you've gotten multiple calls and messages from your friends and it honestly makes you happy, knowing that there were people that worried and cared about you. You quickly text your friends and tell them what happened (Not mentioning how you survived being shot)

During your chat, the topic changes to college stuff. Your senior year has just ended a couple of weeks ago and it would be good for you to move out and be closer to those that make you happy. Also, after the kidnapping, you don’t want to be near your current family. They were the reason you were kidnapped and didn’t even bother to help you

Your friends suggest going to college outside of Gotham, perhaps in Bludhaven.

After many years of being stuck in a family that does nothing but hurt you, you got an acceptance letter for a school in Bludhaven. You were so happy and had a small celebration with your friends. Unfortunately, none of your friends would be joining you but you couldn’t wait to truly be free. 

Alfred returns from his vacation and reviews all the work that he left behind, along with Bruce’s mail. He knows Bruce has likely already reviewed them but it helps Alfred get back on pace with his work

He finds the discarded ransom letter and immediately checks up on you.

When he goes to your room, he finds the room empty besides some items that you weren’t planning to bring to college with you. This worries Alfred more and goes to Bruce’s office to confront him about the letter.

Bruce is filled with immense guilt when he realizes he forgot that you existed and now you could be dead in an abandoned building. Him and the rest of your family completely forgot about you

Bruce has an emergency meeting with everyone where he explains the situation. Once a plan is set, they all go out in the night to find you. However, they only find loose restraints with dried-up blood and a broken phone.

When the family returns to the manor, Tim goes to his room to fix the phone, Bruce and Damian go to the Batcave to review the cameras, Dick and Jason decide to visit your room

With Alfred’s help, Dick and Jason find your room and take a look around. It isn’t the biggest and barely has anything in it. 

Jason finds some old and filled journals and looks through them. There is a checklist for school work, notes to yourself, and personal entries. He understands the emotions you put in your journal and wants to protect you. Especially when he reads your last entry about your kidnapping 

Dick looks at the decorations you have on the wall. There are some glow-in-the-dark stars, some posters from school events, etc. One of the posters is for a theater show and he wonders if you were a part of it. Either an actor or tech person, Dick wonders why he never heard about your shows. He attempts to take a poster off the wall but the tape used peeled some of the paint off the wall.

Bruce loads up the camera and looks at what happened the day the ransom letter was given to Bruce. You had this happy smile as you made sure you had everything you needed before going through the front door. About a week later, Bruce sees you on the camera, in bloodied clothes and completely exhausted. This brings a wave of relief to Bruce while Damian looks closely at the camera footage. The front of your shirt is covered in blood and has a hole in it, but you seem completely uninjured. 

The last thing the two see of you is you slowly taking your stuff out of the manor and officially moving out

Bruce and Damian find your room to update Dick and Jason on their findings.

They’re thankful that you’re alive but still need to see you in the flesh. Looking around your bedroom, there aren't many clues about where you have gone. 

Tim takes a few days to fix the damage on your phone. At the very least, he needs to save the data that was kept on the phone. After messing with a few parts of your phone, he transfers all the data to his computers.

Once everything is saved, Tim lets his curiosity get the best of him and looks through all of your stuff before informing the rest of the family. All your photos, text messages, etc. He sees all the calls and voicemails your friends sent you on the day you were kidnapped.

Tim continues to learn more about your interests and your efforts to spend time with the family. You ranting to your friends about only playing a game or reading a book because someone in the family has read or played it.

Tim ends up having a copy of all your data for personal use before speaking to the rest of the family

Your phone is finally fixed and Tim can use it to find the location of your laptop. All the way in Bludhaven

With new hope, the family begins their search for you

They just need to take you home and keep you safe

Forever

[maraudersilver]

Begin Again (James Potter x teacher!Reader)

James Potter x Fem!Teacher!Reader

wc: 1,3K

cw: main character death (Lily)

Widowed 27 year old James Potter went to fetch Harry from his new primary school after he received an urgent email from the headmaster. Harry got himself on another fight with the same kid.

If he continued like that, James would have no other option but to homeschool him. He sighed, pulling the car on the sidewalk. He knew Harry was not completely at fault. First, he lost his mother not too long ago, which caused his magic to be more uncontrolled than before. That led him to the second problem: Harry had been using magic unconsciously before muggle kids.

James was exhausted. Sirius had proved to be the godfather he had always expected him to be, taking care of little Harry whenever James had to work.

If Lily saw him, she would be disgusted with him. He didn’t need to work. His parents had left him an inheritance so big even their great-great grandkids would be considered millionaires. But the lost of her… Lily had been his sun, his dreams, his whole heart, soul and body. And loosing her had taken a toll on him. The grief had insufferably settled on his chest the moment she abandoned the world of the living, and Sirius and Remus had taken care of both him and Harry for months; James had been incapable of doing anything for himself without Lily.

So he looked for a job at the Ministry to keep his mind occupied. And sent Harry to a muggle primary school so he didn’t have to depend on Sirius and Remus much more. Even Peter, who was not much into kids, had babysat the kid more than once. Especially on those nights James would drink to oblivion.

So when he saw a gorgeous woman grabbing Harry’s hand at the entrance of the school, smiling at the kid with a radiant smile, his heart fluttered on his chest. It was strange. James had thought his heart death since the moment he lost Lily. How curious.

When Harry’s green eyes —identical to Lily’s— focused on him once James stepped a foot on the playground, they glinted with joy.

“Daddy!” Harry dropped the young woman’s hand and ran towards James’ awaiting arms.

“What’s up, buddy!” James grunted, trying to keep his feet steady. Merlin, his baby had grown so much.

“It wasn’t me! I was– He insulted mom! And I got so angry! And suddenly the table felt over him. But I didn’t do it!” Harry babbled incessantly, almost in desperation.

“I believe you, Harry.” James sighed. Another magical performance before muggles. Although, he was proud Harry defended Lily’s honour to the point of throwing tables at kids. “Is that your teacher?” James pointed to the woman who was awkwardly standing at the entrance still. The kid, who had apparently forgotten the presence of the teacher, looked back only to nod a second later. “Yeah. Miss. Bailey.”

“Let’s go talk to her. C’mon, champ.”

James grabbed his son’s hand and walked towards the woman, Harry not implementing any kind of resistance. The closer they got, the more James could see how beautiful the woman was. And how young. Probably around his age, he noted. Her eyes were kind, and she was offering a reassuring smile to Harry, who beamed at her attention.

“You must be mister Potter.” Godric, her voice was melodic, James thought. A velvety sound had reached his ears, so honeyed he wondered if he had encountered a mermaid on earth.

Harry slapped his arm when James took more time to answer than what was considered polite, and the man startled, smiling nervously. “Um yes, it’s me. But call me James. I’m not that old to be considered mister,” he chuckled, and he thought his heart would jump out of his chest when he heard her giggle.

“Nice to meet you, James.” She gave him her name, and James thought it suited her. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. “Let’s go straight to the point. I was not there when the fight happened, but we can’t allowed that kind of physical violence against other students.” James grimaced, and she noticed, because quickly added, “even if it is in defence.”

“I apologise on behalf of my son,” James reluctantly said. Another kid insulted Lily, yet it was Harry who was being punished.

The young teacher sighed, looking at him with sympathetic eyes. James felt like he was going to throw up. “I know– It’s been brought to my attention the situation Harry has gone through as of lately, and it’s normal for kids so young to experiment some… behavioural changes in respond to the trauma.” If it hadn’t been for her kind eyes, James would have already snapped at her for talking so lightly about Harry’s loss. About his loss. “I would have reacted worse than him if someone had spoken about a loved one that way. Although I have to ask you to keep this confession unofficial.”

“But I didn’t do it!” Harry complained, furrowing his brows, green eyes filled with sense of unfairness.

Miss. Bailey looked down at him with compassion. “I believe you, Harry, but your peers have spoken against you, sweetie. And, unfortunately, we have to act according to that.” She crouched to be at his eye level and smiled kindly, caressing his cheek gently. “Let’s do something. You have to be with me for detention during your breaks. If anyone asks, all you’ve been doing is copy some sentences. But we can play some board games, whichever you like. You okay with that, darling?”

Harry, after a moment of consideration, nodded in agreement, and grinned widely at the woman. James could feel his chest filling with warmth for his son. At least someone was advocating for him, even if he had been sentenced to detention for something he couldn’t control.

Miss. Bailey stood up to her height again, now sheepishly smiling at James, who thought she looked adorable. “I’m really sorry for not being able to help Harry more, but unless someone speaks against Hall, I have my hands tied.”

Again, if it wasn’t for the kindness of her voice and the deep tile of her irises, James would have lost his wits against her. However, his blood pressure returned to normal and just nodded. “I take your word on that. Harry is not violent. He took after my wife… late wife the most, and she was an angel on earth.”

Miss. Bailey’s eyes softened. “Harry speaks a lot about her. She sounds like a great woman.”

“She was.”

There was a moment of solemn silence between both adults, only interrupted by Harry’s restlessness.

“Well, um, I have to go back to class.” She awkwardly chew on her lower lip, James being unable to stop the way his eyes followed the motion. “See you tomorrow, Harry. Bring whatever game you want to play, okay?”

“Okay, miss.” Harry said softly, and the teacher cooed at him.

Then, once again turning to James, a faint warmth filled her cheeks. “It was nice to meet you, mister Potter.”

“James,” the man reminded her amusedly.

“James.” She nodded. James’ knees wobbled, how sweet his names fell off her lips.

Harry squeezed his hand again, reminding him of the almost hyperactive child he had come to fetch.

“Right, um, hope to see you around, Miss. Bailey.”

She giggled again, and James felt like being thrown into heaven. She mumbled her name at him. “Only kids call me Miss. Bailey.”

He repeated her name, tasting it on his tongue. Sweet and light.

“I also hope to see you around, James.”

And in the drive back home, with a chatting Harry on the backseat, James thought life could still offer him the kind of joy Lily had brought to his life, the teacher’s smile ingrained in his brain. He was really looking forward to see her again.

[sophiria]

Dulcis Amor

dad!Gojo Satoru x mom!Reader cw: 18+ themes, jjk manga spoilers, post-canon fix-it, references to babytrapping and mentions of birth control, a little bit of manipulation and deception, unmarried couple, twisted and fluffy feelings, vague mention of the reader's hair, implied that you're a little obsessed with each other words: around 900

Satoru was lounging on the Engawa, keeping a watchful gaze on your form inside the bedroom. As you slept peacefully under the blankets, your son fussed in his arms, and the hint of a smile appeared on his lips.

"Oh?" Satoru breathed out, shifting his child so he could rest better on his chest. "Is the little Gojo missing his mom?"

Your son wriggled slightly before going back to sleep. "Back to using me as a pillow, hm?" Satoru mused. "I guess your dad is okay too."

He had never thought a romantic partner was in his cards, let alone having a child. And yet…

He briefly closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. He had died. Murdered by Sukuna. And you made a Binding Vow to bring him back to life.

(Satoru had been furious with you—he had already accepted his death, and you had sacrificed something precious for him.

The Strongest had never known someone who cared for him as much as you did.)

His son stirred on his chest. Satoru looked down at your child. Fatherhood...who would have thought?

It only took one time, one burst of passion (and love, something Satoru could only acknowledge in his mind), and you were pregnant with his child, his heir.

As Satoru was lost in thought, you quietly joined him on the Engawa. Your expression softened as you gazed at your son sleeping soundly on his father's chest.

Satoru peered at you through his pitch-black glasses and motioned for you to join them. You did so and stopped beside the recliner where your lover and child rested.

You caressed your son's head before running your fingers through Satoru's hair, and he smirked softly. "You're such an affectionate mama," he teased, his voice low and hushed. "You're always spoiling us both."

You huffed before smiling, then gently picked up your son, who gripped onto your clothes with his tiny hands. He cooed, and you tickled his nose, making him laugh. Satoru's heart fluttered at the heartwarming sight, and he swallowed hard. He had to look away for a moment, taking a deep breath.

(That's his family. His beautiful little family. Something he never thought he'd have, something he never thought he'd wanted.)

You brought your little one inside, and he yawned as you placed him gently into the crib. 

Satoru followed you and wrapped his arms around your torso from behind. He nuzzled your neck, and his loose snow-white hair brushed against your skin. 

One of your hands found the nape of his neck and stroked it. He purred at your touch, relishing it. "I don't think I'm ever going to let you out of the Gojo estate."

You brushed your nose against his hair. "You won't, hm?"

Satoru lifted his head from the crook of your neck, and his sky-blue eyes found yours. "You're you and the mother of my child. Do you think I would allow any harm to come your way, especially now that you can no longer use Cursed Energy?"

You eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehensiveness. "Since when are you this overprotective?"

He briefly narrowed his eyes. "Since you decided it was a good idea to sacrifice your cursed energy to bring me back."

You heaved a sigh. "Here we go again," you mumbled. "Satoru, I did it for you, I—"

"I know," he cut you off in a deep voice, raising to his full height before cupping one of your cheeks and angling your face towards his. "I know. But you shouldn't have sacrificed your cursed energy."

Your lips parted as you gazed into his eyes, though before you could reply, Satoru leaned forward and took your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. Your noses brushed against one another, and you closed your eyes. He opened his own, looking down at you through his lashes while slightly tightening his hold on your cheek and waist.

Satoru wondered if you were ever going to figure out that him getting you pregnant wasn't a mistake—that he chose to deactivate his Infinity while the two of you had sex.

(He had to do it. You sacrificed your nature as a sorcerer to bring his soul back to life, and he wanted to keep you safe and bound to him.)

You leaned back to breathe in some air and looked at him through half-lidded eyes. "I need to tell you something," you said, bringing your hand to his face to cup his cheek. "About the pregnancy."

Satoru's posture stiffened, although he managed to keep his expression nonchalant. "What about it?"

You began stroking his jawline. "Me getting pregnant...it wasn't a mistake, nor a malfunction of your cursed technique."

He desperately tried to keep a straight face. "Oh really? So you're telling me it wasn't my Infinity acting up?"

You hesitated, and your hand left his face. You then wrapped your arms around his upper body, snuggling up to him. The tension began to leave his body, and he held you to himself. "I was never on birth control," you admitted, voice muffled by his chest. His eyes widened at your words—wait, what? Did you— "I'm sorry I lied about it, Satoru."

You sniffled and held onto him in what seemed to be a silent way to beg for forgiveness. His eyes twinkled, and Gojo felt something akin to butterflies in his stomach. "Shhh, it's okay," he murmured, caressing your back in a comforting manner. "It's okay. I'm not angry." He buried his face into your hair, inhaling your scent. "I could never be angry at how much you've always wanted me."

[samsblades]

✶ . ၄၃ .  something to cling to — aaron hotchner

cw : gn!reader, father-figure!hotch, hurt/comfort, angst, reader is around 18-22/a young adult in college, set sometime before/close to the beginning of season one, dead parents (reader's dad), abandonment, overall parental issues lol, anxiety, crying, panic attack probably, ft haley and the early season one team, food mentions, poor editing, 4.6K words. thank you @beatlewishes for inspiring me!

summary : aaron has been a sort of father figure since the death of your father. he picks up from your apartment at the start of winter break only to find out that your mother has left you.

aaron doesn’t hear from your mother very often. not that he needs to. you’re an adult with your own phone and campus apartment and abilities to communicate when you need something from him. that just means he takes things extra seriously when they come from her. so when she texts him, asking if he can pick you up for winter break and let you stay in his home just until her work day ends, he immediately responds with a resolute, yes, of course.

it’s the sort of thing that you’d normally ask him about, but it’s nice to see your mother be the one to take the initiative to ensure that you don’t have to take the subway with your heavy bags, all alone in the cold.

the text he receives is last minute, and he leaves work earlier than usual to arrive at your apartment on time. your mother told him you have to be out of campus housing by 8pm, and it’s a bit of a drive from quantico to your school. unfortunately, he has to be on a call the whole way over, and never gets the chance to text you that he’s on his way. he just hopes that you know he’ll be the one to pick you up rather than your mom.

the look on your face when you open the door for him tells you right away that you weren’t told. he holds back a sigh, giving you a gentle smile instead.

“hi, kid. i know you were expecting your mom. i’m sorry. she had to take an extra shift at work, but she’ll come pick you up from my house later tonight. that okay?” he asks sincerely, even though you don’t really have a choice.

you try to smile back. at least he’s here, you suppose. it means something that your mom asked him to come get you when she couldn’t, though you wish she’d have told you about it so that you didn’t get so excited by the knock on the door, expecting it to be her. she’s sort of distant these days, and you barely get home because you work on the weekends. you haven’t seen her in a while, and though things have been hard for years now, you still were looking forward to seeing her. she gives good hugs and promised to take you to your favorite restaurant on the way home to celebrate the end of your semester.

“hi, aaron. of course it’s okay. thank you for coming to get me. it’s too damn cold for the subway,” you say, trying not to sound disappointed. you’re sure he can see right through you, just how he can with nearly anyone at all, and he knows you well.

“it certainly is too cold. i’m glad your mother texted me. can i carry anything for you?” he always offers to carry your things, even if there isn’t much. you hand him your heaviest bag, and carry all the totes and looser things in your own arms. you murmur a thanks, to which he replies, “of course,” then watches as you balance a considerable amount of bags in both arms as you turn off the front light and lock the door. he’d offer to help with those too if he didn’t already know that you’re stubborn and like to take care of things for yourself.

his car is right in the parking lot, but he wishes you’d put on a scarf or a hat or maybe both before going outside. it’s quite cold; there’s snow in the overnight forecast. haley told him so this morning. he walks at a brisk pace so he can get you in the heated car sooner.

there’s enough room for your things in the backseat, so he doesn’t bother with the trunk. he puts your duffle bag on the seat, then opens your own door as you set down the rest of your things before heading to the driver’s seat. he knows he doesn’t have to worry about it, but he still checks that you’ve buckled your seat belt before he pulls out of the parking lot.

you’re polite and never snappy, entertaining his questions about how things have been since the last time he saw you, which wasn’t all that long ago. he’s a very busy man, arguably busier than your mom, but you’ve seen him more recently than you saw her. he’s very caring like that, though outwardly quite stern and stoic. you were very intimidated by him when you were younger, scared even. but your father was friends with him for years and years, close enough that you sometimes would forget that they worked together. it’s not something you forget anymore, not after your dad died on the job. and since then, you very rarely see him in his casual clothes like you used to as a kid.

he’d be over at the house in t-shirts and quarter-zips, but since your father died, your mother doesn’t invite him over for casual dinners much anymore. he’s become busier, too, so nearly any time he visits or takes you out to dinner, he’s still in his suit and tie. that’s not something you mind, of course, it’s just one of the many things that have changed, even if small and often inconsequential.

when aaron runs out of things to say, he sighs to himself, quiet enough so you won’t hear it or overthink it. you lean against the cold window and keep your eyes trained on the passing street lights and shops and tall dc office buildings. he knows you’re feeling upset that you’re mom couldn’t make it, but that you’re being adult about it, by being kind to him and trying to talk it through in your head, like always. you’ve always been a little too adult for being so young, he thinks. he can’t blame you, though. 

there’s simple lights on his front porch and a pretty christmas tree showing through the front window. haley hugs you when you step inside, and you can feel her growing belly against you. their house is perfectly warm and it smells like dinner’s been cooked not too long ago. you give her the warmest smile you can muster.

aaron puts his hand on your shoulder as you head to the table for dinner and you start to relax. maybe this isn’t what you were wanting, but it’s nice. you’d been hoping to have dinner with them soon, anyway, so what’s the harm in it being now. haley’s always so sweet, extra maternal and doting now that she’s pregnant. aaron can tell she likes the way he acts around you, caring and soft, because it makes her think of how he’ll be for their baby on the way.

you’re very grateful for a warm, home cooked meal after a semester of whatever you can scrounge up in your apartment or the less than ideal dining halls. after dinner, you get comfortable on their couch. aaron sits on the other end and turns on the tv to the channel he thinks you’ll like best, at least for background noise. he’s relieved to see you working through your disappointment of not seeing your mother right away. it pains him to see you upset in any capacity.

but the contented calm of being in a warm, familiar home doesn’t last all that long for you. your mother’s night shifts always go late. then there’s the twenty minute drive from there to here. you understand this very well, but conversation with aaron lulls and the tv runs turn boring and the clock ticks late enough that a tired haley retires to bed. you’re naturally anxious, unsure how to react as your night is ruined once again.

you try to call her, text her, call her again. aaron watches you carefully. you huff out in frustration. “she’s not picking up. she should’ve been here half an hour ago.” he can tell that you’re covering up your worry with a hint of anger.

“i know. i’m sure she’ll be here soon, she’s probably on the road right now. that’s why she’s not picking up,” he placates.

“no,” you shake your head, “the calls just aren’t going through,” you stress, a hint of your anxiety peaking through the cracks of your weary composure. “it says her phone is off.” this sparks real concern for him.

“let me try,” he says, hiding his own worry to avoid adding to yours. he almost promises to get you home with her tonight, but he’s learned not to make promises he doesn’t know for sure that he can keep. when he calls her, he steps away. not to hide anything from you, just so you don’t see his face as he calls her once, twice, three times. she doesn’t pick up and you’re noticeably distressed now. 

he sits right next to you on the couch and puts his arm around your shoulder. “her phone could’ve just died, sweetheart,” he quickly assures you, knowing that you’re already thinking about worst case scenarios.

because the worst case scenario has happened to you before, and no matter how many years it’s been, that feeling of dread and worry and then absolute devastation never leaves you. aaron was the second person you cried to after your father died. your mother was of course the first. now, you try not to cry in front of either of them, but you fear it’ll happen tonight.

you’re more than anxious, on edge, and maybe at your wits end tonight. after finding out about one dead parent, you worry extra. you scare easily. and this semester hasn’t necessarily been easy. you’re so tired. not just pulled an all-nighter and fell asleep on your computer for an exam tired, but months of stress and loneliness were supposed to come to an end today, but have just gotten worse kind of tired. and that’s very quickly tugging at your ability to think rationally or keep any sort of composure.you wring your hands in your lap and your shoulders are tense underneath his steady arm. he gives your bicep a comforting rub.

“we’ll find her. she’s alright. we’ll wait up a little longer for her. if she doesn’t show up tonight, you’ll sleep here and i’ll call my team. they’ll find her and make sure she’s alright,” he reassures you. he knows you’re worried something bad has happened to her. 

he doesn’t want you to know that he’s worried that she’s left on purpose. the way she texted him to take you home today, neither of your calls going through, and the way he can tell even from afar that she’s been distant as of late makes him wary. and he’ll have to tell you eventually, but he’d rather wait until he has better proof, rather than a hunch. he knows his suspicions would upset you, likely make you angry with him.

“shouldn’t we start looking for her now?” you ask nervously, eyes already teary. his heart clenches at the sight.

“well, honey, i’d start with calling her workplace to see when she left,” he tells you, leaving out the ‘or if she was there at all’ part, “they’re already closed, though.” he takes another look at you and sighs softly, not in frustration, but concerned affection. “but you’re right. it’s a good idea to at least check if there’s someone there still. i’ll call there and a few people who might be able to help. but we’ll be able to find out the most tomorrow morning, okay?”

his words provide both assurance and a new bout of urgency. “but what if something happened to her?”

aaron’s face softens a bit more, just for you. “i understand you’re worried about that. and you know i’ll always take this sort of thing seriously. that’s my whole job, buddy. i really think she’s alright. you know she gets lonely at home and stays at her friend’s sometimes. and… you know she sometimes has bad nights that she’d rather you not see. there’s lots of potential reasons why she hasn’t shown up yet, and i can promise you, statistically, the odds that something very bad has happened to her aren’t as high as you think. she works in a safe area and your mother is a very smart woman. i’m not telling you not to worry or that i won’t do everything i can to find her right now, i’m just telling you that i think she’ll be okay, yeah?”

you listen closely, almost clinging to the sound of his low, comforting voice to avoid spiraling. you nod along, swallowing nervously. “okay,” you relent, huffing the word out, but not relaxing one bit. your body can’t get rid of the memories of finding out that your father had died. since then, you’ve never done well with waiting or uncertainty. 

“there’s not much you can do to help me. will you try to get some sleep? the guest room is set up.” the moment he suggests it, he physically feels you tense even further underneath him. “or you can stay up right here to wait for her while i make some calls.” that gets him a nod.

the idea of being left alone with just your anxious thoughts, the dark, and the quiet as company is unsettling to say the least. that’s what trying to fall asleep in the guest room means.

aaron can easily assume that’s why you’d rather stay here, but he knows it’ll do you no good to try and stay awake. that’s just more overthinking and lost sleep. so he changes the channel to nature documentaries and sits at the dining room table where you can see him through the doorway and just barely hear the low rhythm of his deep voice over the tv. he doesn’t want you focused on what he’s saying, but more so his steady, reassuring presence. 

it’s 3:04 in the morning when hotch runs out of things to do. he’s called his best assets that might pick up at this time, and written down every detail about the situation and your mother to share with his team. he looks through into the living room to see your drooping eyelids and slouched form. a little longer and you’ll probably fall asleep on your own, but he wonders if he could coax you to lay down with a blanket and a pillow. he stands quietly, and your eyes flick up to look at him when he walks past. he gives you a small smile, doesn’t answer the question in your tired eyes yet.

he takes the comforter and pillow from the bed in the guest room and before you can protest, he lays the blanket over you.

“did you find anything?” you ask sleepily, hesitantly taking the pillow from him as he hands it over. you’ll feel less guilty if you sleep on the couch rather than a comfy mattress. the pillow lays over the plush of the comforter in your lap.

“not yet,” he says gently, “i wasn’t able to get a hold of anyone at your mom’s work, but i got in contact with a few people i know who can help. the team will have plenty to work with in the morning. i already emailed and asked them to come in early.”

you give him a dejected nod. “thank you,” you murmur. he takes one of your hands in his.

“of course,” he says firmly, like he needs you to know just how much he means that. there’s absolutely no hesitation in his desire to help you. he’d stay up until three in the morning every night until he does what he can to fix this. unfortunately, his suspicion is that it’s something he can’t fix, but he’s prepared to be with you every step of the way.

“i’m too anxious to sleep,” you whisper. he crouches in front of you, his knees bumping against your shins for a moment through the fabric of the blanket.

“i know,” he murmurs back, taking one of your restless hands in his before pulling you into a hug, not bothering to move the softness of the comforter and pillow between your bodies. you sink into him, wanting to cry, but too tired. you’ll probably cry tomorrow instead. his hand smooths over the back of your head, coming to rest on your back right below your neck. it’s so steady and firm, warm and comforting. “i’m sorry this is happening. we’ll figure it out. why don’t you lay down? i’ll sit with you if you think it’ll help. i’m just waiting for someone to call me back.”

“okay,” you mumble into his shoulder, taking a long, deep breath and savoring the shield of his arms against all else for a few moments longer. then you pull away and he sets the pillow down on the couch cushion for you. you sigh, lowering your head and pulling your legs up. you take care of the blanket yourself, but he still takes the time to make sure your feet are nice and covered so you don’t get cold overnight. he turns off the last lamp in the room, though the dim chandelier over the dinner shines through the doorway. then he pulls the coffee table closer to the couch and sits on it.

by the time he’s settled, your eyes are already closed, but there’s a pinch between your brows and a frown on your lips. he frowns back at you, his gaze sweeter and sadder now that you can’t see him. one of his sturdy hands finds yours, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles as if he can soothe away the crease right above your nose. a little huff of air leaves your nose and he frowns deeper. his other hand lands gently on the side of your head, smoothing over it to calm you and ease you into sleep. haley always falls asleep faster with his hands in her hair, so he thinks it might help you.

you feel his thumb brush over your eyebrow and you wonder if he knows that your dad used to do that when you were younger or if he’s just trying to get the anxious muscles in your face to relax. you’re pretty sure the frown never leaves your face, but you fall asleep much quicker than you thought you would. 

it’s not very restful, but your body keeps you in the dark until it picks up on the movement of aaron and haley going through their morning routine. there’s hushed footsteps and the sound of cereal pouring into a ceramic bowl, milk splashing.

you stretch slowly, neck aching, eyes dry, stomach and heart heavy. then you pad into the kitchen, feeling oddly shy and sheepish after overtaking the couple’s couch for the night and keeping aaron up and away from his wife until so late. they’re both in the kitchen, aaron ready for work and haley pouring her bowl of cereal. she looks tired when she turns in your direction at the sound of your footsteps, and aaron looks composed as always. haley looks at you with a much more obviously sympathetic expression, but he smiles at you too.

“would you like some cereal, honey?” haley asks, walking over to give your shoulder a little rub. “if you feel like something else, you’re more than welcome to anything in our fridge. don’t tell aaron, but there’s frozen waffles in the freezer.” the thought of eating makes your stomach churn a bit, but you think you can handle something as simple as cereal.

“just cereal is alright, thank you,” you murmur.

“of course, sweetheart,” she smiles, grabbing you a bowl and spoon and letting you serve yourself. you sit at the table in silence, slowly chewing the food that takes a little bit like nothing to you. neither of them ask you anything or try to make you talk when you’re clearly not wanting to. aaron stands to put his bowl away and leave. haley watches with a sigh as you quickly stand to meet him at the door.

“please let me come with you,” you ask, letting a bit of vulnerability seep into your voice. “i won’t be any trouble, i just– i don’t know if i can sit here and do nothing.” 

he purses his lips and studies you for a moment. sometimes it doesn’t help to have a family member hanging around as they search for someone. and sometimes they’re worse off there, too. but he knows you’ll listen if he asks you to just stay in his office and it might be good for you to see gideon. you’ve known him even longer than hotch.

“alright,” he relents, “why don’t you go grab a book, you won’t find the ones in my office to be any fun. get dressed quickly.” 

you nod once and your thank you trails behind you as you rush off to change out of your pajamas. then you’re in his car on the way to visit the bau after a long time. you haven’t been to the office in over a year. sometimes you avoid it like the plague, other times you try to visit more often to feel closer to your father when nothing else works.

gideon is the only one who’s there before hotch. when you were a kid you thought he lived there. he’s quick to give you a kind smile and warm hug. aaron thinks the hug does do you good, though it makes you a bit emotional when gideon says your name and a simple, “we’ll do our jobs and take care of it.” then he sends you back to aaron with a firm pat on your back.

aaron keeps you in his office after that, so you don’t see reid or morgan when they arrive. you catch a glimpse of morgan walking across the bullpen when you look out the window, though. it’s alright, you don’t really know them as well as hotch or gideon.

it takes a few long, silent, and tedious moments for you to settle enough, but you somehow find it in you to read the book aaron advised you to grab. you don’t really pick up all that much, but it’s a distraction. you scribble on some loose paper with a pen you unceremoniously lift from his desk. it takes a lot less time to get an update than you though it would. your hope was running low.

but hotch shows back up not to long after and closes the door behind him. he sits next to you. you stare at your hands.

“our technical analyst, garcia, was able to track your mother’s phone. it’s not turned off… but if looks like our calls weren’t going through. she didn’t answer, but garcia’s number was able to call her. we should be able to get a hold of her soon,” he explains evenly, gently, as he places a hand on your shoulders. there’s something, maybe more, that he’s not saying and you know it.

“…why weren’t our calls going through?” you whisper, afraid of the answer. he sighs like he’s afraid of giving it to you.

“it seems like she blocked our numbers, honey. we’ll keep looking until we’re sure she’s safe and we get in contact with her, but right now it looks like she’s… well, it looks like she’s running. garcia tracked her to a town in western pennsylvania. she’s stopped for gas along the i-80. we called her job. she put in her two weeks at the beginning of the month,,” he tells you, both apologetic and matter of fact. his suggestion hits you like a punch to the gut. they’ve found her. that’s good. aaron thinks she’s running, presumably away from you. not good. unacceptable, you feel.

“wh-why would she do that?” you ask, voice breaking and turning teary much faster than you intended for it to. you’re a bit horrified, and maybe a little lightheaded from it too. you’re sure that this can’t be real. 

“that’s what we’re trying to figure out. is there any reason you could think of?” he asks gently, trying not to make the question too abrasive. 

“no,” you insist, a little harshly and vehemently that it makes you feel a bit guilty. you’re angry and upset, though. “you’re asking me if there’s any reason i could think of that would explain her leaving me? s-supposedly rubbing away like- like some kind of teenager? except that means leaving her kid behind without a word? after promising me she’d pick me up and take me to dinner, is that what you’re asking?” you’re crying by the end of it. you hate how your anger always dissolves into these stupid, pitiful tears. 

aaron’s sorry that he asked, but it’s hard for him to believe it, too. he just wants to understand the situation. that’s how he figured out a way to start making it better. that’s his job. but he remembers that right now it’s his job to hug you. to tell you he’s sorry and that he’s honestly not sure what’s going on either. that he’ll figure it out, though, and get you back to your mom. maybe he’s not supposed to be completely honest, but he’s one for telling the full truth, so he tells you it might take time, but that he’ll be with you the whole time.

“i’m sorry, honey,” he says again. you cling to him and cry for a while. he fights the urge to check his watch and just keeps his hands cupping the back of your head and soothing up and down your back. 

you want to argue with him. to demand further proof, to insist that she’s innocent, like you’re her damn lawyer and he’s her prosecutor. that though makes you cry harder because you’re her child and he’s only trying to help. and you’re just so tired. far too tired to say anything, but a pained “why,” mumbled into his chest. he’s not perfectly sure, but he’s spent all last night and this morning figuring it out. he wishes he’d paid better attention, tried to see her more and picked up on things before she actually skipped town. god, he feels so sorry. 

“i don’t know,” he says quietly, a half truth at best. his whole job is to come to see and understand the why, and he has a few ideas, but it’s your mother’s job to explain it to you, not his. and his overly analytical conclusions, even if spoken gently, wouldn’t ease your mind one bit. “we’ll get her on the phone and we can ask her. we’ll figure it out. i want you to stay with haley and i until we’ve got everything sorted. is that alright with you?”

you wipe at your face and nod, still leaning against him. “okay.” you’re not sure how you feel about staying with your mother after all of this, even if she returns sooner than later. right now, it feels like aaron’s your only constant, even when he’s gone all the time. it’s just that he seems to come back each time, with a certain gentleness and the sort of soft smile that his coworkers don’t see very often. 

then, you suppose it’ll be weird. aaron will be away from home most of the time, and it’s not as if you can spend your days in his office. so you’ll be with haley, who’s about to become a mother, and you wonder if that’ll hurt too much.

but at the end of the day, you won’t be alone. “okay,” you repeat, as teary, a little more relieved, because you have something. something to cling to, and it has to be enough.

[narxcisse]

★ — Mama's boy Jason Todd headcanons

Jason Todd x Mother/Mother figure!Reader

CW: mention of Jason's death (+reader blames Bruce for his death), fluff, I did my best to keep it canon without romanticizing or fanonizing anything. 😭

English isn't my native language

Jason met you before his days as Robin, back when he was still living on the streets. You were one of the rare adults who didn’t look at him with pity or disdain but instead treated him with quiet respect. Maybe you ran a small diner, a shelter, or worked as a social worker with no patience for bureaucracy.

The first time Jason came into your life, he wasn’t looking for help. He was scrappy, full of fire, and incredibly proud, but you saw past the bravado to the hungry, clever kid beneath. You offered him food without strings attached, and from then on, he kept coming back.

When Bruce took him in, you were one of the few people he trusted enough to talk to. He didn’t tell you about being Robin outright, but you noticed he’d sometimes show up with bruises or a limp, his explanations half-hearted at best.

Jason sought your advice on everything—from school troubles to navigating the strange dynamics of the Wayne household. You often found yourself acting as a translator for his emotions when he struggled to articulate them.

He valued your opinion deeply. If you told him to apologize to Bruce for a fight or to take a break when he was pushing himself too hard, he’d grumble but almost always listen.

Even as Robin, Jason was fiercely protective of you. If he thought someone was giving you trouble or you were in any danger, his sharp instincts kicked in. “No one messes with my mom,” he’d mutter, even if you insisted you could handle yourself.

Jason’s growing disillusionment with Bruce often spilled into your conversations. You tried to mediate, understanding both sides but always prioritizing Jason’s feelings.

When he died, it broke you in a way you didn’t think was possible. You immediately blamed Bruce for letting him take on so much danger, not even letting him explain everything that happened. (Over time you apologized to him for what happened and understood that he was just as devastated as you were by Jason's death.)

When Jason came back as Red Hood, he avoided you for a long time. He didn’t think you’d accept him, not after everything he’d done. But when he finally worked up the courage to see you, he was stunned to find you opening your arms to him without hesitation.

“You’ve been through hell, Jason. I’m just glad you’re alive.” Those words stuck with him more than anything else anyone had said since his return.

You didn’t sugarcoat your disappointment in his methods, but you also didn’t try to control him. You understood that his pain and anger needed to run their course. Instead, you focused on reminding him that he still had someone who believed in him.

Jason acts tough, but around you, he’s a little softer. He loves the comfort of having someone who doesn’t expect him to be anything other than himself.

He calls you more than he calls anyone else. Sometimes it’s to rant, sometimes it’s just to check in. “You eat yet?” he’ll ask, even if he’s halfway across the world.

Whenever he’s in Gotham, he always makes time to visit you. He’ll bring little gifts—books he thinks you’ll like, a weird trinket from some mission, or your favorite snack.

Jason craves your approval more than he’d ever admit. When you compliment his growth or tell him you’re proud of him, he practically glows, even if he rolls his eyes and pretends to brush it off.

He’s fiercely protective of you, more so than anyone else. If he even suspects someone’s giving you a hard time, he’ll show up unannounced, ready to “handle” it. You usually have to calm him down before he goes full Red Hood.

You’re one of the few people who can challenge Jason’s darker impulses without him lashing out. “You don’t have to agree with me, but at least think about it,” you’ll say, and he actually does.

When he’s struggling with his identity—whether he’s a hero, an anti-hero, an anti-villain or something else entirely (bro seriously thinks he's Barbie. 😭🙏)—you’re his anchor. You remind him that he’s more than his past, more than his mistakes.

Jason often credits you for keeping him grounded. He’ll never say it outright, but you’re one of the reasons he hasn’t spiraled further.

Jason fixing things around your home without being asked—tightening loose hinges, replacing lightbulbs, and even rebuilding your bookshelves because he “didn’t like the wobble.”

Late-night phone calls where he opens up about his fears and frustrations, his voice quieter and more vulnerable than usual.

Cooking together when he visits, even if he claims he’s “not great in the kitchen.” He loves hearing your stories as you work side by side.

The rare moments when he lets his guard down completely, resting his head on your shoulder or letting you ruffle his hair like he’s still the scrappy kid you first met.

Jason may be a complicated, broken man, but with you, he finds a sense of peace he doesn’t get anywhere else. To him, you’re not just a mother figure—you’re his family, his safe place, and the person who never gave up on him.

The first sign something was wrong was the way Jason entered your apartment—quiet, almost hesitant. He was usually a storm of energy when he visited, slamming the door behind him and announcing his arrival with some sarcastic quip. But today, he just slipped inside, set his helmet down carefully on the counter, and stood there, staring at nothing.

You didn’t need to ask if he was okay. You already knew he wasn’t.

“Jason?” you called softly from the couch, setting down the book you’d been reading.

He didn’t respond right away, just shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a chair. His movements were slower than usual, less precise. It was like the weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders, and for once, even his stubbornness couldn’t hold it up.

You stood and approached him carefully, giving him space to come to you if he needed it. “Rough day?”

He let out a low chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “Something like that.”

You waited, not pressing him to elaborate. Jason had always been like this—he’d open up when he was ready, and not a second before.

For a moment, you thought he might brush you off entirely. But then, with a deep sigh, he turned to you, his expression a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. “I don’t know. I just…” He trailed off, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

That admission made your heart ache. Jason, who always acted like he didn’t need anyone, who carried his pain like armor, had come to you because he didn’t know what else to do.

Without a word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. He stiffened for half a second—old habits, you supposed—but then he melted into the embrace, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I’m just so tired,” he muttered, his voice muffled.

“I know, sweetheart,” you murmured, rubbing slow circles on his back. “I know.”

He held onto you like you were a lifeline, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. You didn’t push him to explain, didn’t try to fix it. You just held him, letting him unload the weight he’d been carrying for who-knows-how-long.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours. Time didn’t seem to matter. Eventually, Jason pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes red but a little clearer.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, his voice thick with emotion.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He huffed out a small laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Yeah, well, don’t go getting used to this. I’m not turning into a softie or anything.”

You smiled, tapping his chest lightly. “Don’t worry. You’re still the toughest guy I know.”

Jason rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned into your touch again, letting his head rest on your shoulder. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to just be—a son needing his mom. And you were more than happy to give him what he needed.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

AN: I wrote this for my bestie, I hope you liked it. 💗🤺

[leidyhaze]

Heartstrings and Second Chances

Satoru x reader

synopsis: You see Satoru falling for another girl who isn't you, you've noticed the way he gazes at her as if she's his entire universe. You constantly believe that she is his ultimate love, his first love. And you can never replace her.

cw: angst (like as in) ,18+, smut, character death, this is a mess tbh, she fell first but he fell harder, suicide, fingering, love making, love sex, unprotected, breeding, clingy reader, satoru’s mom being a bitch, satoru needs you to get pregnant.

Wc: 5k+

a/n: ahhh my first oneshot here in this account, i hope you like it <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

"I won't marry her. "

"Satoru— stop!"

"I have a fucking girlfriend!"

Satoru's voice reverberates in the room, and you, already gazing downward, can no longer tolerate being here. You only wish to escape and go.

“ I didn't know that your son has a girlfriend? "

You’re angry, to his mother. Satoru is tightening his jaw and ready to talk once more, but his mother unexpectedly interjects.

"Oh— i actually didn't know that, but don't worry, Satoru will cut her off."

“No, I won't,” he chuckled. Certainly, he won't; he cares for his girlfriend, and you are aware of that. Satoru is a wonderful person, you like him, naturally. How is it possible to not? However, there is already a girl who possesses him, and Satoru loves her. She was the love of his life.

He cares for his girlfriend deeply, and no one could ever take her place. Not a single person, not even you.

"I don't know what you're planning but i have my decision, i won't get marry and i won't fucking cut off Diana." He said and left.

"Listen, I apologize. I'll simply go have a chat with him." His mother speaks and trailed behind him, your mother gazes at you and you recognize that expression. “I’m fine,” you smiled.

"I believe I've chosen the wrong guy for you, darling," she chuckles, and you do as well.

You shouldn't try to compel Satoru to love you; he understands that Diana is his soulmate.

“Don’t you like satoru?” Your mom asked.

You shook your head. “No”

A lie, of course.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Working at your parents' business is not beneficial, it's quite exhausting. Documents scattered throughout the office, papers here, papers everywhere. Damn.

You require a break, so you shove the papers aside and lay your head on the desk.

Suddenly someone knocks.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but someone is seeking to become your secretary."

Oh right, the secretary. Your former secretary departed because she claimed she needed a break. Constantly striving, you wish that this individual is resilient enough to join you in your battle.

You clear you throat and said “come in”

Then you notice her; she has short hair, no makeup, and her eyes reveal that she’s weary, but she unexpectedly smiles.

Nanami, one of your employees has left, leaving just the two of you.

"I truly need this job, so please." She pleaded and shut her eyes, and you can tell she’s exhausted from searching for work.

“That's fine, I don't have specific preferences.” You indeed smiled at her. She gave you the application form, and you looked it over.

Diana Flammia, 25 years old.

"Wow, you're actually older than I am." She chuckles at this. "No, I simply want a job," she said, gazing downward.

"I suppose you're hired, I believe it's fine that you're older than I am, so could you mentor me? I'm really not skilled at managing this company," you said, and she chuckles at you. "Of course."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

You're back here at this annoying dining table having a meal with Satoru and her mother. The quiet is so intense that the sole sound you detect is the fork clashing with the plate.

But your mom breaks the silence.

"Hey, do you believe we need to end this?" All of you suddenly gaze at her big eyes, especially Satoru's mom.

"W-what do you mean by that?" she inquired of your mom.

"I mean, the kids don't care for one another." We are unable to compel them, so we need to end this marriage." Your mother mentioned that you glance at her and smile, and you noticed Satoru smiling as well.

And he looks so stunning when he does.

However, her mother appeared furious, evidently disapproving of it.

She was ready to talk, but Satoru spoke ahead of her.

"I agree," he remarked as he sliced a steak.

She laughed, "Of course you agree, you want to marry that girl, that poor child."

Satoru halts in his path, clutching the fork firmly, and you can see the veils in his hands. "Don't refer to her that way." He remarked while gazing downward, his eyes growing dim.

"What? It's a fact, she's brat—“ abruptly, Satoru slams the fork into the table, making her mom fall silent. He glared at her and stood up, he left, heading outside.

"That's quite impolite of you, Mrs. Gojo," your mom remarks.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

You spotted Satoru in the garden and were about to walk over, but then you noticed he was conversing with someone on his phone.

"Did you get a job? That's good, baby, just don't put too much pressure on yourself, alright? “ Your heart is hurting, you have feelings for Satoru, you wish to think of yourself, but you can't—everyone deserves to be happy.

"Good night, I love you." He ended the call and sighed, shutting his eyes. He opens them upon realizing that you are present.

He glances at you from the side, but you're averting your gaze, trying to avoid making eye contact.

"Are you just going to stand there?" he said suddenly, it's the first time he's ever talked to you. Perhaps he felt gratitude because the marriage ended.

"Hey, come over, take a seat," he said as you walked slowly until you reached the bench and sat down. He sits beside you, gazing at the sky.

"My mom is quite a bitch, isn't she?" he chuckles, "saying something about Diana," he laughs once more.

He was keeping her safe.

"Regarding Diana, please avoid putting pressure on her to work."

You unexpectedly gaze at him, and he gazes back at you, establishing eye contact. "I advised her against working because she was ill, yet she was persistent, insisting that she didn't want to remain at home doing nothing. “

You nod, "I understand that."

"Please don't put pressure on her, her body is frail, and...” his voice faltered, “and ready to surrender, so please treat her kindly. She's kind, so no need to worry. “

"I am aware."

You’re aware that Diana is kind, she assisted you earlier during the meeting. Inquiring if you're fatigued and she will handle the task. Diana is a celestial being.

"There's no need to worry, I'll handle her."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Time has gone by and everything feels so..challenging. You've been working for 24 hours, and you wish to call Diana for help, but you can't.

Diana is likely resting, as she requires sleep as well.

But damn, you also need some rest.

“No, I can manage this,” you told yourself, these last few days have been something else. It’s enjoyable being with Diana. She is constantly by your side, assisting you.

She is kind.

However, previously? She behaves oddly, she asks you to join her for a meal and also to spend time together. You feel happy, of course, but that doesn't change the reality that she's behaving oddly.

Upon waking up and upon reaching your office, you discovered your employees quiet. Typically, they are noisy, but currently they're quiet as though something occurred.

And can you believe it? Diana is not present.

You called Nanami, and he arrived at your office, you observed that his eyes were red, as though he had just been crying.

You clear your throat. "Are you aware of the reason diana is not here today?" You inquire as you glance over the documents on your desk. There are numerous.

He gazed at you, "why?" You inquired.

He nibbles on his lower lip to prevent himself from weeping.

"She...she passed away this evening."

You came to a halt.

"What did you say?"

No.

No.

A tear drops from your eye, but you swiftly wipe it away, "I-I don't understand, why?" Your voice trembles, and the tears you wipe away come falling once more, and this time you allow it.

"We...we still aren't sure, but someone claimed she took her own life."

You understand everything now about why she was acting oddly yesterday. All is understood.

But for what reason?

You covered your face with your hands and wept, you weren't even aware, did you cause her stress?

You keep on crying, and tears just keep streaming down. You were excessively worrying about whether you had wronged her.

You've always had a fondness for her, you always will. Due to her, you comprehend Satoru, he was deeply in love with her, and you realize that. She was a heavenly being.

However, you were not aware that she would transform into an angel, so shortly.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

"Only 3 weeks, my dear."

Satoru is utterly heartbroken, do you really believe it won't?

It would be pleasant to spend just 3 weeks with him. And you believe he doesn't want you to.

"Honey, I believe she's correct, moreover, Satoru requires some comfort."

You believe it's not a wise choice to console him.

"I'm not sure what children today want, he won't eat and has just shut himself in his room." You fidget with your fingers while hearing his mother.

Is it something you should pursue?

What if he gets angry when he spots you?

Numerous thoughts in your head cannot quell the what ifs.

"Darling." Your mom speaks while brushing your shoulders, motivating you to proceed. "It's only 3 weeks."

"Alright."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

The quietness upon your arrival makes it seem as if the house is lifeless.

Satoru's mother has already departed, she doesn't even show you around.

You examine the house, it was large, naturally. You climbed the stairs and discovered a locked room.

Certainly his room.

You walk into the room next to his and place your belongings there.

Then you knock on his door.

No response.

Once more.

Still no response.

As you were preparing to leave, a sob caught your attention, you halted in your steps and looked down, fighting back tears. He was devastated as one would be, she was his girlfriend, his everything, his greatest love.

You clean up your belongings and proceed at a slow pace.

back to his room, and you knock once more. “Are you there, Gojo?” You rang.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

You were taken aback, you realized he would be furious. Your hands shaking and his words resonating in your mind.

"Is it Mom who sent you?" I don't need you," he stated in a chilly tone.

You're unfamiliar with this aspect of him, when he talked to you in the garden, it was...gentle. But now, it’s filled with sorrow and rage.

"I-I'll only be here for 3 weeks, so don’t worry, I won’t disturb you." Your voice shakes as you anticipate whether he'll respond, but he remains silent.

"H-have you eaten yet?"

No response.

You think that perhaps tomorrow you will finally meet him and talk to him, so you head to your room and lie there, looking at the ceiling.

You shut your eyes, sensing the tears streaming once more.

"I miss you, Diana."

You’re wrong.

You are mistaken.

Since the instant you opened your eyes, Satoru remains in his room.

You will leave, naturally, work, once more.

You knock again at his door, one hand clutching your bag. "Gojo?" You called him. However, undoubtedly, no response.

“I will be heading out, if you’re hungry, there’s some food in the refrigerator. Please avoid skipping meals.”

You await a response, but there is only silence, you exhale deeply and beginning to stroll downward. Ready to leave, you gaze at Satoru's room one final time.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Upon returning home, everything remains unchanged, the house is silent and Satoru is still in his room.

You look in the fridge to see if he has eaten, but he's didn’t , so you hurry to his room and knock. You’re exhausted, but what’s occupying your thoughts at the moment is Satoru. He must have food.

“Gojo? Why didn’t you have anything to eat?" You inquired with him, but there is still no response. You can't contain it any longer, so you dashed into your room and took the key to his room. His mother provided it to you.

As you prepare to unlock it, you hesitate, he will be upset, you're aware of that. You shake your head, unlock it, and upon opening the door, you saw him.

He was sitting in the corner of his bed, his hands on his toes with his head underneath. He was weeping, you can hear his sobbing.

"Satoru," this is the first time you call him in his first name.

He remained silent, continuing to cry.

"You must e-"

“I miss her.”

You stopped.

You shut your eyes as the tears are about to drop once more.

"I miss her, i want to see her."

And with that, your tears stream down.

"Satoru... it's important for you to have something to eat."

"What I need at this moment is Diana," he said, and at last, he gazed up at you you noticed his blue eyes, brimming with tears.

You took a seat, observing him.

"Do you believe she'll be happy if she finds you in this state? She did it because she desires to rest, and you... Satoru, you must live!” You yelled.

“I can’t live without her. “

Fuck.

"Before her passing," he began, "she—she mentioned she needed space, but I..I had no idea.." He was crying uncontrollably, making it difficult for him to speak.

"Are you aware of what she told me just before she passed away? She mentioned that life is valuable and expressed her joy in feeling loved by all, including you. “You cried, uncertain if you should mourn Diana's absence or observe the man you loved suffering in front of you.

Observing his affection for her.

"The marriage ended because my mom inquired if I wanted to proceed or not. I refused." You informed

He looked at you, a puzzled expression on his face.

"That's not true” you avert your gaze from him, tears streaming down your cheeks.

"I-I wish to be with you...but..I'm so selfish if I were to do that, you know? When I worked along with Diana, I recognized my choice was right because Diana is..."you fell apart.

"Watching you with her, gazing at her as if she's everything to you pains me. However, what can I do? She was your greatest love. And nobody can take her place in your heart." You were weeping alongside him, your face is so disheveled, and you aren't concerned about his thoughts at this moment.

"It's fine, I merely expressed what I desire. You don't have to harm yourself for not eating, “you said and left him space.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ��� ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Satoru had dinner last night.

Just as you were about to sleep, he unexpectedly knocks and inquires if there’s any food left in the fridge.

You lead him to the fridge and he consumes.

And now you observed him while he was having his breakfast.

"Morning.." he stated, and you looked at him in surprise, questioning if he truly meant it. "Good..Morning?"

He smile weakly at you and goes on eating, while you remain stunned by his unexpected move.

And tonight, you watched him organize his room, which is in chaos. After Diana passed away, he don’t know what to do.

And now, he was tidying it up, repairing and even rearranged some items. He entirely transformed it.

As he was still cleaning, you provided him with food, as he requires nourishment to regain his strength.

As you walked in, he gazed at you, and you noticed him, your eyes quickly turned to a photo he was holding. It was an image of Diana.

"Sorry, I just got you something to eat," you said and put the food on his table and was on the verge of leaving when he grabbed your wrist.

You paused, you can’t even bear to see him. Following what occurred last night, you felt embarrassed.

"Sorr-"

"Prove yourself."

What?

"Teach me to have faith in love, once more."

Tears stream from your eyes, you find it hard to grasp what you're hearing. "You don't have to-"

You inhaled sharply as he abruptly released you from the embrace, your face collided with his chest as he rested his chin on your head.

“Please.”

You cried against his chest.

"This seems..off," you remarked, attempting to distance yourself from him, but he held you close. "Let’s offer one another a second chance."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

"Should we go out?"

You open your eyes wide and gaze at him, the two of you are sitting on the sofa watching some films. It was uncomfortable, yet Satoru always initiated a discussion with you.

"I- I’m not sure h–“

"You don’t date?”

You moved your head in a negative way.

You received a company at a young age, leaving you no time for dating, oh how you wish you could.

You consistently desire to experience dating, romance, and being in a relationship. Since you were born, you've never had any boyfriends, perhaps a crush when you were little, but what about now? No.

"Hey, that's fine. Let's have our dinner tomorrow, alright?" you smiled at him, feeling so cherished by him lately. On certain nights, the two of you discuss Diana, expressing that you miss her and he misses her.

The date went well, you and Satoru are becoming closer and more at ease with each other.

One night you dreamed a dream so vivid that it left you in tears upon waking. You look at the clock and realize that it’s 2 a.m. in the morning. You require additional sleep, yet you're unable to.

You walked towards Satoru’s room.

As you entered Satoru's room, you noticed he never locks it anymore since that event occurred.

You observed him slumbering, his expression serene, with long eyelashes closed and lips slightly ajar. You walk up to him and he suddenly becomes alert.

He lowered himself, massaging his tired eyes, “hey, are you alright?” Do you need anything?" he gazes at you now.

"I-I dreamed a...terrible nightmare," you said while glancing down, snuffling. "It was really bad s..satoru, it was truly frightening." You are crying now.

He takes your wrists and places you on his bed, you’re now sitting there. He puts his hand on your shoulder and directs you to lay your head on his shoulder.

"Shh, it's alright." he said as he gently patted your shoulders, and you shut your eyes, leaning your body against his.

Satoru gently placed you on his bed, and as his touch ghosted you, your eyes flew open, discovering him there. "I’m here."

He lay next to you and drew the blanket up to your chests, and you sense his arms enveloping you once more.

embracing you.

Upon waking, his arms are still wrapped around you, your back is to him, and you can sense his breath.

You were just about to stand when his powerful arms suddenly tugged you back, prompting you to roll your eyes.

"Satoru, I have some works to complete."

He merely moans while still embracing you, he turns you to face him and you notice his eyes remain closed, yet his lips are smiling.

This man.

Following that, Satoru invites you to sleep in his room once more. Until it becomes your habit to sleep together.

“Mom? “

You abruptly withdrew from Satoru while the two of you were conversing on the sofa. Your head resting on his chest while his arm is around your back.

"Wow, I didn’t realize you’d be moving on so quickly?" his mother remarked.

"Not right now, please," Satoru said, but naturally, his mother always ignored his request.

"Excuse me? I'm truly glad for the two of you! I was taken aback, alright? I wasn't aware that she'd take Diana's place so quickly. You always claimed that she is your greatest love—" his mom halts when Satoru yells at her.

You gaze downward, tears streaming from your eyes.

What were your expectations? Certainly, she was his greatest love. You're foolish to believe that he can love you the way he loved her.

You fled from their home, you're in pain, a lot.

What made you believe you could take her place?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Today is Satoru's birthday, and your mom is asking you to go to his house. You informed her that you are unable to, and since that day, you haven’t returned to Satoru's home.

You wish to wish him a happy birthday.

"Go on, darling. You have a present for him, correct?”You scowl at your mother and she simply laughs. "Come on, darling, I have a present for him too, alright?"

And you did, because how could you not? Your mother is pleading with you to take and give him her present!

As you reach the house, the music fills the air, you take a breath before entering.

As you open the door, the music abruptly halts and everyone turns to face you.

You nipped your bottom lip, and your hands began to tremble.

Unexpectedly, Satoru comes closer to you and grips your shaking hand tightly. "Uh, hey..." he proclaims. "She is-"

"She’s Diana’s boss!" You swallow at that.

"Mei Mei—"

The girl quickly snatches the present from your hand. Your present to him. "Let’s take a look..."

"Cut that out!" Satoru yelled.

You were trembling. Panting, you desire to grab the present from the girl's grasp, but you can't. You shut your eyes as they unveil the gift.

They laugh.

"Are you kidding? A keychain?" she stares at you with a look of disgust. "You know, if Diana is here, she'll bake him a cookie. Diana knows Satoru better than you do. Dia—‘

“Diana isn’t here!’ They gaze at Satoru in astonishment, including you.

‘She’s gone now, so please... please don’t bring her up.’" He told them, his eyes growing larger.

When you unexpectedly come to the understanding that you're still present, you dash out of the house, weeping.

However, this time Satoru wouldn't allow you to leave. He chases after you and catches you in his strong embrace.

He hugs you tightly from behind while you sob, burying your face in your hair.

"Don't leave..please."

You despise yourself, feeling so foolish for believing you have a chance.

It's evident he wishes to erase her from his mind while being with you, but it doesn't change the reality that she was his first and greatest love.

You push his hands away from your body and confront him. You see him in tears. "You mentioned… let's give each other a chance, but… do I stand a chance with you?" you weep.

He gazes at you with watery eyes, takes a step closer, and grasps your shaking hand. “You have..you always have..”

He gently dries your tears with his other hand and kisses your forehead, whispering,

"I love you."

You close your eyes, crying even more. You heard it. He stated it, he declared I love you.

"Please stop crying."

You acknowledge it now, no one can take Diana's place in his heart, you realize now.

Diana is both his first and greatest love. He cherished Diana, and now he will cherish you for the rest of his life.

He gently caresses your cheeks, gradually leaning in for a kiss, and you sense it, you feel the love and desire. You feel the love.

His lips are tender, mild. He desires for you to sense his affection for you. Then he encountered your tongue, drawing you nearer, arms encircling your waist while your arms curled around his neck, deepening the kiss.

Tongues dancing with each other, here you are with him, kissing under the moonlight.

You feel so loved.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Satoru set the flowers next to Diana's grave, smiling as he gazed at her name.

He missed her, but he’s doing fine now.

After Diana passed away, Satoru felt lost, she was his entire world.

He can hardly believe that he is alive today and capable of loving again.

Diana left a mark on his heart, he loved her deeply and will cherish her forever.

"Hey, are you alright up there?" he inquired, looking at her name.

She had grown weary of life and chose to end it. Satoru attempted to prevent her, but they are both aware that regardless of the outcome, she will soon become an angel.

"I cant say ‘i love you’ to you now, you know? I will be having wife soon," he chuckles, imagining your adorable face.

"Technically, she's not my wife yet, I… will ask her to marry me tonight." He glances at the ring in his hand, envisioning himself placing it on your finger.

He’s so inlove.

“We will create a family, i know..that’s your dream..with me, but that’s also my dream, with her.”

Satoru understands that you and Diana are different, he had loved Diana, yet he realizes you are his for eternity. He was certain.

"I’m sorry, I-I love her..." he faltered at her grave. "I'm afraid to admit it, but I'm aware of my feelings, I know that this feeling is unique, this love is distinct from what I felt for you, I love her more than I loved you now." He's fearful that Diana might leave him, yet 'what ifs' linger in his thoughts.

"What if you hadn't died, would I still love her? Diana, I can't live without her..." he was becoming emotional, aware that Diana was both caring and altruistic.

Yet, he understands that he has to release her.

With your arrival in his life, the pain that Diana caused is gradually fading away. That's when he realized that Diana is his first love. And you, his greatest love .

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

"You're incredibly beautiful," Satoru murmured as his hand glided over your body, the wedding had gone perfectly, and now you both are in bed together.

He kisses your neck, gently sucking on the sensitive spot there. He’s whispering ‘I love you’ and ‘you’re so beautiful’ in your ears.

His kisses traveled lower, until he caught your breasts, fondling them with both hands. "Satoru.."

"Thats it, love. “ He placed his mouth on your nipple, sucking it while pinching the other one with two fingers. Your back curves, completely drenched below.

Once he’s done, he gazed at you and kissed you, you were moaning into his lips. His fingers slid down until he found your covered sex. His thumb rubbed your clit, causing you to moan into his mouth, he pulled back and gazed at you. He smiled. "You're perfect," he murmurs.

"Satoru, more.." you pleaded, and he complied, lowering your skirt. He chuckled upon seeing you aroused.

"No, don't laugh," you cautioned him.

He moved your panties aside and slid a finger inside you, causing you to gasp, “Satoru!" You called him, back arching. You're like this for only one finger.

"Darling, you’re so sensitive ."

You moan loudly when he added a second finger, with two fingers inside you, and you were breathing heavily. Satoru wants to buried his self in you, yet he wants you to be ready beforehand.

He perceives you tightening around his fingers and picturing it with his cock instead . A breathy moan escapes your lips, your legs quivering as his fingers thrust rapidly.

You clutch the bedsheets, closing your eyes as you experience the pleasure. You're almost there. "Release it, darling, give it to me," he murmurs, kissing your knuckle while his fingers move faster inside you, causing you to moan louder and cream his finger.

Your legs tremble, spine bending as you reach climax. "You did great, darling." He kisses your forehead. "Satoru, I want you, please." He smiled and nodded at you, kissing your lips once more, while your hands moved to his chest, gently undressing him.

You're unsure about reaching out to him. "It's fine, I'm yours, my love."

He removed his trousers and underwear, and you glance at his bulge and erect member. You reach at it and make contact with its tip. Satoru tilts his head backward, his hands abruptly halting you.

You glance at him as he adjusts himself at your entrance, gently stroking your hair.

“Breathe, darling. “ And you do, you sensed his tip on your clit and now at your entrance. He gradually enters you, causing you to gasp. So enormous. When he entered you, you felt incredibly full. You extend your hand to satoru and he gradually leans towards you, causing your lips to connect.

He began to move, making you groan. "Satoru..." he entered you with a gradual rhythm. "Nngh.."

"Did that feel good, love?" he inquired, and you nodded in response. He began to thrust more rapidly, lifting one of your thighs onto his shoulder as he continued.

"Satoru! Feels...great..ah!" You moan to him and he pushes again, more forcefully this time. "That's it, love." You felt warm, you’re so tight around him, driving him crazy.

'Satoru..' you called, 'more..' He pressed roughly against your lips and quickened the pace, making your mind spin. You can hear the damp noise and his hips hitting against you.

"Satoru, I-m..." he was thrusting quickly, you look so messed up. You can’t concentrate, all that occupies your mind is how incredible Satoru was and the pleasure he’s giving you.

With one final thrust, you reach climax, your legs trembling as you draw him in. However, he continued, he’s pushing forward. "Too much! Satoru!”

He doesn't pay attention to you and keeps doing what he's doing. "I'm unable to... stop... I will make you mine, and we will build a family together." He said as he suddenly envisioned you with his child in your womb.

"You’re... growing larger inside... me!" He placed his fingers on your clit, rubbing it vigorously and quickly.

"Come again for me, love, just once more." And you felt it once more, nearing the edge. You call out his name when you reach your climax, feeling his seeds within you as you both fall down.

He rests his forehead on yours and grins. "I love you," he says, and you return his smile. You lean in to kiss him, he then lies next to you, drawing you close to his chest while kissing your forehead.

"I bet by tomorrow you'll be pregnant." You swat his hand away, and he just chuckles at you. He drew you closer, encircling your waist with his arms, resting his chin on your head while inhaling the scent of your hair.

You both drifted off to sleep and dreamt of Diana smiling widely while congratulating you both.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　

a/n: thoughts? My first one shot! My fingers going to break rn.