#i question the writing of this series and will always question like. most of it. but they have these LITTLE MOMENTS that drive me crazy

[nenoname]

even though it's been said that ford's character wasn't fleshed out until super late in the series, it's funny that a key trait we've always known about him was that he was a goofball

(the gnome page is here because it's honestly the most hilarious depiction of them + ford immediately questioning how dangerous they are, and the zombie incantation page is here cos "well of course i have to write it down even if it's super dangerous!!! ......i'll add a warning in red ink i suppose.")

+ shoutout to whoever on the crew made ford write "what a guy! i honestly couldn't trust him more. not evil in any way!" on the page that looks like its covered in blood

+ the blacklight pages may be ford going through a breakdown but the frowny face kills me everytime

[prythianpages]

First Fight | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader | your first fight/argument with Eris.

a/n: I was in the mood to write a fight scene. I couldn't really figure out what to write a fight about it but this came out of that lol. This was meant to be a short drabble but it seems that I can never write a drabble as this is longer than one. Still short though, it's 1,478 words and for some reason I have the habit of writing for this series late at night. Anyway, this takes place shortly after you and Eris agree to be friends with benefits.

warnings: angst, eris and reader being slightly delulu in their growing feelings for one another

“You’re sending my brother away?”

Eris didn’t even glance up from his desk. The quill in his hand continued to scratch deliberately across parchment as if the anger in your voice hadn’t just pierced through his study. He always knew when you were near and he had sensed your approaching presence before your footsteps crossed the threshold.

He kept his eyes down as he used his magic to gently shut the door behind you. He didn’t want anyone to see you here as it wouldn’t be good for you. It would only stir up more rumors and rouse up unwanted curiosity. 

 “Good day to you too,” he murmured, lips twitching faintly in amusement.

You didn’t respond. Your silence was heavier than words and he could feel it. The way you stood there. Stiff and arms crossed, eyes boring into him. It drew a sigh from his chest. 

Slowly, Eris lifted his head, amber eyes finally meeting yours. “Your brother surely doesn’t think of it that way.”

You scoffed. “Of course he doesn’t. He’s too dense to realize when he’s being played and my father is too blinded by titles and coin to question anything.”

Eris arched a brow, leaning back in his chair. “Then perhaps I deserve a thank you.”

“You want gratitude for manipulating my family like chess pieces?”

As the only son in your family, your brother had chosen the path of a scholar, content to bury himself in the history of Autumn rather than take part in it as a soldier. Occasionally, he was invited to sit in on your father's meetings with Beron. Sometimes, as an observer. Other times, as a participant. Becoming an emissary had never been part of his plan. Not that he had much of a plan at all.

But when the High Lord’s son personally offered him a post in another court, complete with a generous salary far above what most emissaries earned… 

Well, only a fool would have turned it down. 

Eris did not answer. Instead, he sat back and contemplated your reaction. He didn’t know what he was expecting but anger certainly was not it. 

“Why did you do it?”

His gaze darkened as the truth warred on his tongue.

Why did he do it?

Because he didn’t want your brother’s boredom to bleed into your life. He lacked a sense of purpose and instead of searching for one, he had begun to focus on your purpose within your family. Which was the same as in any noble family—alliances and marriage. 

“Would you have rather married Lord Stevenson?” Eris asked, voice low.

You stiffened, anger simmering down.

Lord Stevenson was a lecherous old bastard with a gaze that lingered too long on any female. It made his blood boil to think of you being sold off to and paraded by someone unworthy. 

“That was your brother’s plan,” he continued. “He was already drafting the papers. Do you know how many wives Stevenson has buried? How many complaints have been silenced?”

Still, there was a defiant look in your eyes. “I can fight my own battles.”

Eris met that look in your eyes. “That doesn’t mean I want you to.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved, frozen by the words that hung between you two. Eris was also taken aback, surprised the words had slipped.

Then, your expression changed–just slightly. Something broke through the anger. It was unreadable yet unnerving.

“You don’t get to want things for me,” you said, voice quiet now. “That’s not what this is. That’s not what we agreed on.”

You turned to leave and Eris called your name but you didn’t look back. The door shut behind you and he was left staring at the space you’d once filled, a frown tugging at his brow.

What had he done wrong? And why had your anger, the way you looked at him unsettled him so deeply?

There was a tight and unfamiliar weight in his chest now. Regret? Hurt? He couldn’t name it nor did he want to. 

But it lingered all the same.

**

It had been a little over a week since he’d last seen you. Not long to some but for Eris, it was. He was used to seeing you at least once a week and it didn’t help that the last time he saw you, you were upset.

He told himself he’d wait for you to come to him. Until whatever anger you had harbored subsided. But on the tenth day, he found himself sneaking around the Forest house and heading toward your room.

His heart fluttered as he rounded a corner. Though you were on the other side and about to bump into him, he did nothing to stop it. He let you slam chest-first into his body, ignoring the fire he felt ignited in his veins at the contact.

 Your breath caught, body tensing. Eris reached out, arms gripping your shoulders as he steadied you and it was only then that your body eased, realizing it was him.

"Eris," you breathed, eyes wide as you looked up at him. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” He deflected your question back to you. As if he hadn’t been walking down this hallway for the same reason you were. 

You stared at each other for a heartbeat. And then, without a word, Eris grabbed your wrist and tugged you down the hall. You didn’t protest. The nearest door creaked open, and Eris all but shoved you inside before closing it behind you.

You looked around the tiled space, blinking at the soft pumpkin and vanilla scent and the neatly stacked towels by the sink. The two of you were in a bathroom. You didn’t have to speak for Eris to know what you were thinking when you looked back at him.

“It was the closest door,” he said with a slight shrug. “Would you rather I dragged you into a broom closet?”

You crossed your arms. “I was hoping for something slightly more dignified.”

There was no bite to your words. No trace of the anger or hurt he had not only seen but heard in your voice last. What he could hear, though, was the way your heart was pounding. 

Eris took a slow breath, hands curling at his sides. “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

That seemed to startle you more than running into him did. Your cheeks flushed. “No,” you said, shaking your head slightly. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

You leaned against the bathroom counter behind you, expression softening. “These past few weeks have been… overwhelming. Every male around me seems to think my future is theirs to shape. And when I found out you offered my brother that position, I—Well, I didn’t stop to consider why you’d done it and took out my frustrations on you instead…”

Eris’s brow furrowed but he didn’t interrupt.

“I know now that you were trying to protect me,” you continued. “And I am very relieved that the proposal did not go through. So… thank you.”

The tension in Eris’s shoulders eased. “Good. Because for a moment, I feared you were actually heartbroken over the failed proposal.”

You scrunched your nose. “Cauldron, no.”

You laughed then and Eris hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound until it was gone.  Something inside him threatened to untangle but he shook the feeling off. You and him were…

Well, he didn’t know what exactly to call it. You were lovers but friends? He wasn’t so sure if you thought of him that way. Or if you thought much of him at all, beyond your physical needs.

“I want you to have the option to choose,” he then said quietly.

His thoughts drifted to his past… to his arranged engagement. The lengths Morrigan had gone to end it and the consequences that followed. He shuddered at the thought of you being cornered like that, of you being a victim to a similar fate.

You met his gaze slowly. “Ladies like me don’t have that luxury.”

“Well,” he said, stepping closer to you.  “I’d like you to.”

You studied him carefully. Too carefully. Like you were intent on peeling back every layer he’d worked so hard to hide behind. It made something twist in his chest.

“Do you care for me, Eris?”

Eris blinked, taken aback by your question. His mouth opened but no sound came. He wanted to say no. He needed to say no. Instead, a smirk ghosted across his lips.

“It depends,” he said, thinking back to the words you said last to him. How he didn’t get to want things for you as it was not what you had agreed on. “If I’m allowed to.”

“You’re allowed.”

The way you looked at him now was softer. Less calculating and more unguarded. 

Even the air between you had softened, warmed by all the things neither of you were brave enough to say aloud like a flame not yet ready to burn.

a/n: I'm still trying to figure out how to write the end to this so the next updates might be flashbacks/scenes that happened in the past. Might write a scene of Eris & reader seeing each other again after UTM (might have smut but idk yet bc it's been a hot min since I wrote smut)

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227 @paleidiot @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand , @slut4acotar @awkardnerd

@blueroseava , @lovetia , @historygeekqueen , @idk1027 ,@naturakaashi

@blightyblinders , @wolvesnravens , @galaxystern08 , @faeofthemoonandstars , @antisocial-architect

@elisha-chloe, @cwallace02sblog, @randomramblesfanfiction, @moonlitlavenders, @booksnwriting

@sunny1616, @holb32, @gamaranci

[benz12313]

Letters From Home pt.2-Ridoc x Reader🌶️

{Images are not my own}

Summary: You are struggling to deal with the lingering emotion from after being tortured and those stupid letters from home. Ridoc gets tired of watching you, and decides to take matters into his own capable hands.

Warnings: ‼️(MDNI) 18+ explicit content‼️, talk about extreme violence and torture, pain seeking behavior, self-harm thoughts? (not quite sure if this counts or not), abusive/shitty parents, talk of death, talk about friendship angst, mental health struggles, grief, dom!Ridoc, slight chubby!reader, use of pet names (babe, baby, princess, Good Girl, etc.), rough spanking and subsequent emotional release, p in v, dumbification (not sure if this fits, but also it fits, just not degrading her about it), this is just pure filth, okay?, okay

Author's Note: So I'm ovulating and like why not come back to tumblr with a bang now that I'm feeling better. 😅🤣 In all seriousness though, I loved writing this part of this mini-series. He's so sweet to the reader, I can barely believe I wrote this. 🥹🥹🥹

Part One

Word Count: 6,438

I sighed, twirling my pen in my hand as I sat through history, Ridoc on one side of me and Sawyer on the other. It’d been a few weeks since our…fight? Confrontation? He’d apologized the next day, and so had I. In fact I apologized to them all, after Ridoc explained everything in more detail. Something that he did begrudgingly, wanting to spare me from the truth, but I’d begged him to tell me everything.

I had either blacked out or gotten a concussion that knocked the sense out of me, but I’d begged her to keep hitting me, using my signet to manipulate her emotions so she wouldn’t stop.

Ridoc had lost his shit, realizing that I wasn’t all there. That even though I had nearly lost consciousness my signet hadn’t stopped. So he’d yanked at his chains, destroying the skin on his wrists until his thumbs had broken, allowing him out of his cuffs.

He’d then beaten the interrogator, until the other one came in and he shifted to protecting me instead. They stopped their assault on me, but chained him up again, cuffs tighter this time so he couldn’t slip through. Then Varrish was called in, hours later, and it wasn’t long after him that Violet had passed out and Nolan was called to mend Ridoc, Violet, and I. 

But during that time where the exercise continued they’d had to just watch my limp body lay on the ground. My breaths shallow enough that they didn’t know if I was alive or dead.

They spent eight hours like that. 

Even though Violet and Ridoc had assured me that it wasn’t my fault, that I’d been in shock and thrust into a hard situation with no good outcomes…I could still feel Rhiannon and Sawyer’s disappointment.

Even when Violet tried to explain that they just didn’t understand, that they’d been terrified; I still felt like I’d fucked up. I should have spoken up. I should have told someone. I shouldn’t have pretended like everything was fine.

I shouldn’t have dived headfirst into the pain, like it was a fucking lifeline. 

I’d been quiet since, and while I wasn’t on Violet protection duty…one of the others was always nearby. Usually Ridoc, unless it was his turn to protect Violet from Varrish, then usually Rhiannon. Occasionally Sawyer, but the guilt pulled at me too much, my outburst had terrified him the most, or at least, he had been the loudest about his fear. Rhiannon had expressed similar fear, when we’d said our sorries. Violet understood, but had been scared too. Ridoc hadn’t spoken of his feelings about it at all, but he’d obviously been shaken.

Thumbs don’t break every day after all.

But he hadn’t spoken of his side of things, only opting to be a steady force for me to turn to. Not that I had to ‘turn to’ him when he hardly left me alone. I’d spent two nights in his room until my door had been fixed. (Luckily Dain hadn’t asked too many questions, probably made aware of the full situation.) Then I practically had to unattach Ridoc from my hip so I could have my own space again. Even if it was concerningly lonely sleeping without my best friend by my side, it was still nice to have alone time. 

Even with my friends surrounding me, I’d been struggling. Yes I was still grieving, but with that, the urge for pain…persisted. Even when I wish it wouldn’t. The urge to lose my thoughts and fears and feelings became too much, too often. I’d been working with Rhiannon on the mat, or joining Violet and Imogen in lifting weights; working out until Ridoc would have to help me back to my room so I could pass out. But nothing really brought me out of my head for more than an hour or two afterwards. 

I always came right back to wanting a fist in my face. Wishing I was chained back in that room. It terrified me. I didn’t want to get hurt, I just wanted to forget. Pain was the only thing that had made me actually forget. 

“You coming?” Ridoc asked teasingly, standing next to me as I realized our friends were watching us at the door. His curls were getting longer, almost blocking his eyes which were carefully taking me in. Definitely needed a trim. 

“Yeah, sorry.” My voice came out quieter than normal, and I cursed myself as his eyes softened further. Damnit. Now he definitely wouldn’t be leaving me be to study this evening. 

“Go ahead guys!” He called over his shoulder, breaking his gaze for only a moment as I gathered my things. His eyes were on me by the time I was done, just in time for him to pluck the bag out of my hands. 

It was just us in the classroom, as he threw my pack over his empty shoulder. His chocolate eyes focused on me as he bit his lip. “You lost time again?”

“Yeah.” I muttered, gesturing for him to get going but he didn’t move. 

“Okay.” He said, looking at me another moment before he nodded to himself. “You’re coming back to my room tonight.”

“What? No! I told you already, I need some alone time still.” I protested. 

He stalked forward slowly, leaning down into my space, the warmth of his body seeping into my skin. His hot breath brushing against my neck as he muttered quietly in my ear, “I’ve given you time Princess. You aren’t managing it. Those stupid workouts aren’t enough. We do it my way now.” He leaned back, and I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. He had a mischievous grin on his face, and his eyes were dark and focused entirely on me. I turned pink under his stare and he licked his lips, before grinning wider. 

“W-what do you mean?” I asked, curiosity blooming in my chest. I ignored the ache between my thighs. 

“Pain and pleasure mix very well together if you know how to do it right Beautiful. And luckily, yours truly is very well versed on that subject.” He said, eyes dancing with mirth at the increasing blush across my face, neck, ears, and chest. 

“Sex?” I hissed out the question, even though the room was empty I still didn’t dare get louder than a whisper. 

“Only if you want to. I was thinking more along the lines of bending you over my knee to start with.” He winked and turned, so I couldn’t see him. “If you wanna try just come with me. Promise I’ll get every thought out of that pretty little head of yours. ‘Cept my name of course, can’t have you forgetting that.”

Warmth pooled in my core, my breathing faltering as panic and excitement brewed in my mind. Panic because Ridoc Gamlyn was probably my best friend here and best friends don’t sleep with…or spank… each other. And excitement because, fuck, imagining Ridoc bending me over and slapping my ass red, then maybe fucking me after was getting me much more hot and bothered than it really should be. My mind raged only long enough for Ridoc to leave the classroom. My heart lurched in panic as he went out of sight, and my feet followed after him quickly, my body answering for my head. 

I dashed down the hall and settled beside him, slowing down again. He looked down at me, a smug grin on his face. “Hey beautiful.”

“Hey.” I blushed again, averting my eyes as he chuckled lowly. 

He didn’t speak until we’d made it into his room, and he shut the door behind us, locking it with lesser magic before he dumped our packs on his armchair in the corner. Nerves were pulling at me and he must’ve noticed, because he sat on the edge of his bed, and motioned me forward. 

I hesitated, and he gave me a soft, encouraging smile. “C’mere, it’s still just me. Just your Ridoc.”

Your Ridoc.

What did he mean by that? Or am I just overthinking and it didn’t mean anything? Either way my feet were moving to position me standing between his legs, as he looked at me. “You sure you wanna cross this line? Not gonna lie to you, even if we don’t have sex, and it’s completely up to you whether you wanna do that or not, it will change things between us. I will always be your friend though, so don’t worry about losing me or ruining things. I just want you aware, don’t wanna push you to do anything you don’t wanna do.”

“Do you…wanna…?” I asked, suddenly shy as hell. He grinned wide though as he pulled me closer by my hands, and he held my legs in place with his thighs. 

“Have sex with you?” He provided and I nodded. His eyes darkened and he licked his lips. “Princess, I’ve been wanting to fuck you since having to stare at that pretty ass of yours the entire way across the parapet. Only more after getting to know you. Don’t you worry for a second if I’m a willing participant or not.”

He wasn’t lying, I could tell by the sincerity in his eyes, which made me clench my thighs as my arousal heightened. He was so…blunt about it, it was refreshing.

Another question rang through my head though, something that terrified me to ask but I knew I would have to. 

“What about after?” I asked, voice quiet. “Would we…just go back to being friends? I don’t really want to just use you.” His eyes flickered with shock as he assessed me, gaze softening as he pulled me down to straddle his waist. 

“It’s okay if you do. I’m…used… to this kind of thing.” He assured, but his eyes were still guarded, so I shook my head. 

“No! I like you more than that.” I said, surprising myself.

Sure, Ridoc had always been special out of my friends, and he’d definitely been a thought while pleasuring myself late at night, but I’d never really considered a relationship with him. I didn’t think he’d want to be tied down. 

Hope blossomed in his eyes for a split second but he smothered it with a grin as he wrapped his arms around my waist tightly. He jerked me forward and I braced my hands on his chest to catch myself and he kissed my cheek, leaving it burning and butterflies fluttering in my stomach. “How about we worry about that later yeah? If you decide you wanna keep me, then I’m yours. If not, no worries.”

Noncommittal, even now.

Even when I could feel the hope in his gaze, in the way he was holding his breath. I was starting to think that maybe it was a defense, never letting anyone close enough to hurt him. To break him. 

Mine. I’d make this man mine. Then he’ll never feel unworthy again. 

“Okay Ridoc.” I nodded, sending him a soft smile as my hands traveled up his chest to rest on his shoulders. “Where do we start?”

“Well what’s your experience level? Ever had a safe word? Spanking? A Dom? Anything along those lines?” He asked and I shook my head. 

“Most I’ve gotten to personally is a boyfriend who wanted me to call him Daddy. But…I do read romance books involving all those things.” I blushed at the admission and he looked pleased at that answer. “So I know…roughly what..can happen.”

“Okay Princess, just know a lot of those books don’t involve a lot of the care side of things and many of them aren’t good at showing healthy sexual relationships. It’s important that you’re comfortable, always. It stops the moment it gets to be too much. Understand?” His smile may have been teasing but his eyes were serious. I nodded, and his eyes narrowed, smile straightening into a thin line, making me gulp. “Verbal answers Y/N. And while we’re at it, while we’re playing, I want you to call me Sir. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes Sir.” I chirped back at him eagerly, nodding a little and he chuckled, his hands beginning to rub up and down my back under my jacket. 

“Oh I’m gonna enjoy this.” His voice was husky and low, laced with arousal. “You didn’t answer my question from before baby. You understand it’ll stop if you’re uncomfortable?”

“Yes Sir.” I said, tightening my thighs around his waist in response to my increasing horniness. 

“You familiar with the color system?”

“I am, Sir.” I nodded. 

“Good, remind me what it is baby, then I’ll give you your first reward.” He grinned, one hand traveling up my shoulder to rest on the side of my neck, rubbing my jaw with gentle strokes. 

“Green for keep going. Yellow for check in. And red for stop.” I said, and as soon as the last word left my lips he surged forward, his hand sliding to back of my neck and pulling me to him at the same time that his hand on the small of my back pulled forward, my clothed core grinding deliciously on the growing erection in his leathers. But I could barely focus on that with the way he was claiming my mouth, wholly consuming me. 

Moans rose to my throat but he swallowed them whole as his tongue slipped into my mouth, the taste of apple, fading mint, and Ridoc overpowering my senses. His hand on my back moved and hooked onto the squishy skin of my hip, grinding me into him harder. 

I could barely breath, hardly think, hardly fucking register anything beyond the absolute fucking bliss that Ridoc was giving me right now. And it was getting hot, too fucking hot. 

When we separated I whined, chasing his mouth as he chuckled at me. “Patience Princess.” His voice was rough, husky, and made me whine again. “We still gotta lay out boundaries, don’t get ahead of things.”

“But Rid-“ A harsh slap to my ass stopped me, making me gasp as pleasure and pain erupted along the soft skin. Even through my leathers it felt absolutely delicious. 

“Not my name right now sweetheart.” He growled out, eyes narrowed, and mouth in a tight line, trying to stop the quirking of his lips, no doubt fighting off a smirk at my reaction. 

“S-sorry Sir.” I gasped out and he smiled, hand smoothing over and massaging the spot he slapped. 

“Hmm. I’ll forgive you this time. Next slip-up is two, and we’ll add another for every subsequent slip-up. Sound fair Princess?” He asked, slowly pushing the jacket off my shoulders, leaving me in my tank top. 

“Yes Sir.” I replied and he smiled. 

“As I was saying. Boundaries.” He ran his thumb over my mouth, before meeting my eyes again. “I need to know now if you wanna have sex. And if you do, do you want that during our playtime or after?”

“Yes, I do. And during? I don’t really know how that’d work…” His grin was immediate, smug almost. Definitely mischievous. 

“Oh I can think of a few ways.” He bit his lip, looking contemplative as he stared at his thumb as he continued rubbing over my lips. The increasing pressure of the sensitive skin pinched between his thumb and my teeth making me squirm a bit in his lap. He groaned, hands moving back to my hips to tightly hold me still. His eyes met my own again. “We’ll keep it to after for today. Is there anything I need to know? Anything that might be triggering?”

“No Sir, please I-“ I whined….fucking whined?! What the hell was he doing to me? I’d never been so hot and bothered in my life. “I don’t want to think anymore. Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely…” He grinned, eyes sparkling for a moment, before they went serious again. “Before we get started, I do have one boundary Princess.” He paused and I stilled, making sure I hold on to every word.

“I can bring you pain. I can take away all those shitty thoughts swirling in your head all day. But I’m the only one. I don’t trust a single fucker in this place other than me to lay their hands on you and not truly hurt you. To care for you properly after, in the way you need. We don’t have to be exclusive. Or together. It doesn’t mean I have to be the only one you have sex with. But this part? The part where I smack your ass raw until it hurts to sit. For hours or days after? Where we might decide to do other things someday to make all those shitty thoughts fly away. Things where you could get seriously hurt if someone doesn’t know how to do it right or gets carried away? Only I get to do that. Because I’ll probably kill someone if I learn that they raised a hand to you in any way. Consensual or not. Understand?”

“I understand.” I whispered, heart aching as my fingers clenched around the fabric of his shirt, but for the moment, not with pain. “Only you. I only trust you Ridoc.” He smiled, forgiving my intentional slip-up, probably only because we were having a serious moment. 

“Okay Princess, you ready?” He cocked an eyebrow, his gaze turning challenging. 

“Yes Sir…green.” I tacked on at the end, grinning as he chuckled. 

“No more slip-ups now.” He kissed my nose, before gently lifting me off his lap, setting me back so my feet are on the floor. “Now, I want you to get undressed for me pretty girl. Leave on your underwear and bra. I wanna see exactly how wet your panties get as I smack your ass raw. And I need something to hold onto you with. Quickly now Princess.”

“Okay Sir.” I quip, quickly backing up so I can bend over and unlace my boots, fumbling for a minute due to nerves, my brain fried between lingering guilt over messing up with my friends, the pain from losing my family due to my selfish choices, and the growing need between my thighs because of Ridoc. So many conflicting emotions spurring me on, giving me a damn headache as I finally removed my boots and stood straight. 

The wind was immediately knocked from my lungs, seeing Ridoc there, shirtless and muscled, his belt gone and boots unlaced, ready to be kicked off at a moments notice. His messy locks falling in his face, and brown skin seeming to glow in the candlelight, making him look like some sort of sex god. The sight made me wet my lips, and he grinned smugly up at me. 

“I know I’m gorgeous Babe, but you don’t need to drool.” I scowled and busied myself with removing my clothes, trying (and failing) to avert my eyes so I could focus on my task. Suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious once I was naked, I wrapped an arm around my waist, trying not to feel out of place now that I was in my simple black bra and panties. Nothing fancy or intricate, just normal. “Fuck. Don’t hide that beautiful body of yours now. C’mere.” 

I looked up to see that he was the one damn near drooling now, eyes reverent as they slowly scanned my body, his hands forgotten where he’d outstretched them to reach for me. His eyes wandered over my full breasts, to the thick tummy, and my wide hips with just a bit too much fat (that even after hours of training, never seemed to go away) like I was a goddamn meal he wanted to devour. Then he groaned when his eyes made it to my thighs, which were huge compared to most of the other women here. I’d never had a thigh gap in my fucking life. Then down the rest of my short legs, licking his lips as he took in my toned calves; pretty much the only part of me I could get to cooperate with how I wanted it to look. 

His eyes jumped back to mine when I didn’t move and his eyes hardened. “Don’t make me come get you, Princess. I won’t ask again. Come. Here.” A sick thrill blossomed in me at the idea of defying him, of making him chase me and take what he wanted and punish me for being a brat, but I shoved it down, stepping back toward him. 

Once I was within reaching distance my world was suddenly tilting. In a flash of movement I found myself laid on my stomach, resting across Ridoc’s thighs and feeling a bit dazed at the sudden shift in my equilibrium. 

And then before I could do anything I let out a quick yelp, that leveled out into a moan, not because he’d spanked me, but because Ridoc just bit my ass. Hard. Then immediately soothed it over with his tongue, groaning himself. “Fuck Princess, this ass. It’s always done shit to me. Can barely focus when you walk around, acting like you don’t know every set of eyes in the room is watching you. Like you don’t know I’m watching you.” I moaned at the thought. Was that why he was always behind me? In class, walking down the halls, always nearby when I was mounting my dragon? 

“F-fuck.” I hissed as a hand finally came down on the back of my thighs. Sweet stinging burst across the skin as his hands morphed from pain to pleasure as he started soothing the skin he’d smacked, like he was trying to train my brain and body into knowing that any pain he brought me would be soothed over. That he wasn’t a threat in any way. 

“Sweet, innocent, little Y/N…already have you swearing huh? Didn’t know your pretty little mouth could speak like that. Makes me want to hear more.” One hand slid up my back slowly, before wrapping his hand around my bra, effectively keeping a firm grip on me as I clung to his thigh. “Hold on tight Princess, I’m not gonna go easy on you. I want you to count each one, understand?”

“One, Sir.” 

“Good Girl.” I gasped as his hand immediately came down on my ass, jolting me forward, and if he hadn’t had such a hold on my bra I probably would have been thrown off his lap. 

“Two, Sir.” I hissed after every slap, holding in loud moans, and counting. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven and Eight was the back of my thighs again. 

Hisses turned to moans that I could no longer hold back as I trembled in his lap, pain blossoming over my ass and thighs in the most delicious ways. Nine. Ten. He stopped then, hands turning cool as he massaged my skin, which must of been red as hell by now. He surely wasn’t holding back at all. 

“Color?” He asked, the hand on my bra moving my hair out of my face and hooking on my chin, moving my head so he could meet my gaze. Tears welled in my eyes as the fears and sadness and guilt came inching back. It had been working. Working so fucking well. 

“Green.” I whispered, voice cracking as my desperation started to leak through.  “Please don’t stop yet. Please Sir.” The last part was a downright plea and he nodded. 

“I’m gonna wrap my hand around your pretty little throat now. And you’re gonna keep counting for me. Okay Princess?” He asked, licking his lips as his eyes quickly ran over my body before meeting my own again. 

“Yes, please Sir.” I begged and he grinned down at me. he was smug, masculine, and pure male pride dripped from his gaze as he stared down at me and he moved his hand to gently squeeze my throat.

“I’m so proud of you Princess. Trusting me with your body like this. Don’t worry, we’re just getting started.” Slap. But he wasn’t pausing this time.

“We’re.” Smack. “Gonna.” Smack. “Get.” Slap. “Every.” Slap. “Thought.” Smack. “Out.” Slap.

“Fu-fuck.” I whined as his hand tightened in warning. What he was warning me of? No fucking clue. Because my thoughts had all zeroed in on the aching in my ass as I struggled not to move to relieve the aching in my core. 

“Princess.” He growled at me, eyes narrowing. “You’re forgetting the wrong thing.”

“W-what Sir?” I asked and his hand tightened as he smacked my ass the hardest yet, immediately followed by a second smack, just as rough. Stars flashed in my vision as all breathing was cut off for a moment as I was sent careening into the fist at my throat. But as quickly as it was gone I was breathing again, and Ridoc was still glaring down at me as I was reduced to a moaning mess beneath him. 

“You lost count Princess.” He growled. But he was already messaging the sting away, and I melted into his touch. “And your eyes are already getting that haunted look to them again.”

The sting was fading too fast and he tutted.

Then smirked.

A dull fear sinking into my stomach as that smirk widened, evil plans surely forming in his mind. “Since you’ve lost the ability to count for me. And since it’s going to be a…while… before these slaps really start effecting this pretty ass of yours…I want you to thank me instead. I want the only words coming out of that pouting mouth of yours to be 'Thank you Sir’, until you can’t speak at all. Understand?” He smacked my ass, lighter…testing me.

“Thank you Sir.” I whimpered, wanting to beg him again, but simultaneously not wanting to disappoint him. 

And so we continued. The stinging morphing into a warm ache and my desperation for him increasing with every slap. The hand at my throat grounding as I watched him bite his lip and stare at my ass hungrily. A chorus of “Thank you Sir,” echoing throughout the room between my moans. Somewhere in the last five smacks I’d started shaking harder, feeling on the precipice of something I couldn’t name as the coil in my core wound tighter and tighter. Surely I wasn’t going to cum just from him spanking me right? Right??

“Color.” He said suddenly as I blinked at him through…tears? When had I started crying?

“Green.” I whispered, hurriedly. “Please. Green. Green. Green.” My voice was desperate. Frantic. In a tone I’d never heard come out of my mouth before. 

“Five more.” He leveled at me. “You’ll only need five more. Care to know why?”

“W-why Sir.” I gasped, tears flowing unashamed. 

“Because.” He smacked my ass, hard, and I moaned loudly at the beautiful ache. “After four more slaps you’re gonna cum on my lap. Untouched and aching for me to finally sink my cock into that soaked pussy of yours.”

“T-hank you.” I choked out as my chest heaved. “Sir.”

He spanked me again and my whole brain short-circuited for a moment. “After three more slaps your ass is gonna be so sore that you won’t be able to sit for a week without remembering everything I have done, and will do to you tonight.”

“Thank you, sir.” I moaned as we stared into each other’s eyes, the coil pulling tighter and tighter as he spanked me again, jolting me forward into the hand around my throat, tears streaming down my cheeks. 

“Two more pretty girl. It’ll take only two more.” Was he promising me, or threatening me? It was so hard to tell when I could barely think and he was staring at me so seriously. 

“Thank.” Sob. “You.” Shake. “Sir.”

His hand came down so hard this time I wailed. Honest to gods, wailed. But gods did I want that last one. Wanted it with every fibre of my miserable fucking being.

“Thank you Sir.” It sounded more like begging and moaning than thanking but oh well. He was lucky I could speak at all.  

“You know why it’s only gonna take one more Y/N?” He leaned in like he was sharing a dirty secret and I felt like my entire existence was hinging on what he said next. “Because you’re gonna be fucking selfish and take it like a Good Girl.”

My brain reeled at the word. Selfish. But before I could be sent into a full panic his hand tightened around my throat and he spanked me, hard. The coil in my core snapped and my vision flashed white as I tumbled into sweet oblivion, pleasure coursing through me as I simultaneously fell off that emotional precipice. I shook. I cried. I moaned. I think I even begged. For what I don’t know. Everything going deliciously blank as I rocked in his lap, rutting into his…hand? I think?…as I chased that pleasure selfishly, just like he wanted me to. 

Like a Good Girl.

His hand pulled at my underwear before sinking into my heat with two fingers, making me moan deliciously, even though it only slightly eased the ache between my thighs.  

Ridoc’s POV

Gods.

Holy fucking gods.

Her ass and thighs were bright red, nearly purple in spots, despite me trying to go easy on her and soothe between the harder smacks. She was lying limply in my lap, cheek pressed into my thigh and a look of pure bliss on her face as I slowly pumped my fingers into her spasming cunt.

She was still rocking her hips, chasing the high I’d just brought her to. The high she was still coming down from. She was crying too, but I tried not to think about that, knowing it was more from the emotional release she’d experienced rather than the potential pain in her ass. 

“Color?” I asked softly. Checking in anyway, trying to soothe my own worry that maybe after trying so hard to make sure the beautiful girl beneath me was okay, I’d still managed to take it too far. 

“So..fucking…green.” She moaned, sounding so fucking out of it. I couldn’t help but chuckle when I pulled my fingers from her pussy and she whined, her face pulling into a pout. But she didn’t even bother to lift her head. 

“Don’t worry Princess. I’m still gonna give you my cock. Just gonna get you real comfortable, okay?” 

“K…sir.” She softly murmured the smile returning to her plump lips and making my chest ache. 

“Just Ridoc now Beautiful.” I reminded her, playtime officially over. Now just to take care of this beautiful woman on my lap. “I’m gonna move you now.” 

“Mmm.” Was all I got in response and I chuckled as I gently lifted her up. Moving her so she was facedown in my pillows, and ass up so I could soothe her more easily. She moved her head to the side, watching me with something akin to adoration in her eyes as I leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, which she returned, albeit lazily. “Want you Ridoc.” She was whining now, which was honestly a first for me. 

Asking for it. Sure.

Begging for my dick. Sure.

Fuck, I’d even been commanded to give someone dick before. 

But I’d never had someone whine for it, like their whole night would be ruined if they didn’t get it. She’d been whining half the fucking night for me, and to be honest, it was really doing something for me. If my painfully hard dick in my pants was anything to go by. 

I mean, everything about her made me painfully hard, but the whining reaaaally did it for me. 

“It’s okay babe. I’ve got you.” I said, my voice hoarse as I pulled back, lazing wet kisses across her collarbone and then down her spine. Until I reached her ass, which was still red, hot, and sore looking. I sighed, cooling my hands with my signet and began massaging over the skin, making sure to gently work out the tense muscles so at least the pain tomorrow wouldn’t be as bad. She’d still ache, for at least a week. 

I kissed and licked all over her perfect ass and then down between her thighs, and she moaned a guttural, almost animalistic moan as I licked a stripe up her cunt.

I echoed that groan of hers as the taste of her burst across my tongue. Sweet and heady mixed perfectly with something that was just so her that I immediately dove in, unable to help myself as I devoured her. 

She moaned such sweet, pleasure filled moans that I silently begged the gods that she’d let me make her mine, officially. I thrust into the bed to soothe my dick at least a little as I slipped two fingers inside her and continued to soothe her ass with my other hand. 

“More.” She gasped, “I- I need more Ridoc.”

“How much more?” I teased as I reluctantly pulled back from her pussy, sitting up as I continued to slowly pump in and out. Gods, she was fucking drenched for me. “A finger, two?”

“Y-your cock.” She whined again and my dick throbbed painfully at her lewd wording. “Please Ridoc. Please don’t make me wait anymore.” She was crying again now and I gently shushed her, my hand slipping from her pussy as the other gently soothed across her back. 

“Awe don’t cry pretty girl. I won’t make you wait any more, I promise.” I hushed, kissing her jaw and then grabbed an unused pillow and sliding it under her hips. God knows she wouldn’t be able to hold them up in the state she’s in right now. I quickly stripped after that, anticipation making me move quicker than I ever have in my life. I paused, looking down at this beautiful girl, silently thanking whatever god who allowed her to end up in my bed tonight, before I leaned over her. 

“Ridoccc.” She moaned as I rubbed my dick through her folds, getting my dick wet with her slick as I groaned into her shoulder, kissing and sucking her neck as I went, marking her as mine unashamedly. At least this way I’ll leave a lasting mark so I’ll know that tonight wasn’t some fever dream. So even if she wants to walk away tomorrow and never speak about it again I’ll know it was real. 

“You ready babe?” I asked and she moaned my name again, wiggling her ass a little, pressing against me harder. 

I’ll take that as a yes. 

I gently pressed inside her, almost losing my mind with every inch I sunk into her. Carefully, rocking back out and then back in again so I could make some headway. Once I filled her to the hilt, her pussy was clamping so hard on my dick that it felt like I wouldn’t be able to breath without cumming. “Fuuuuck Princess.”

She moaned my name again. 

I’m starting to think that’s the only thing she can remember how to do right now. Maybe I really did spank her stupid. 

Y/N POV

Ridoc. Ridoc. Ridoc. 

Ridoc’s dick was too fucking good. He’d just started thrusting into me, movements gentle but precise, still managing to piston me into the pillow beneath my hips, and reaching spots within me that no other had ever been able to reach. 

I mean, his monster fucking cock probably was the cause of that. But you won’t hear any complaints from me. 

Probably won’t hear anything except me chanting his fucking name like a mantra right now. It’s about the only thing I could manage to get past my lips other than moans. 

I’m boneless, and I can’t think of anything but Ridoc, Ridoc, Ridoc. And his dick is hitting all the right spots, pulling me closer and closer to my next climax. 

It’s bliss, pure fucking bliss. And I never want it to end. 

It’s too much and not enough and I’m fucking whining his name again as my entire body tenses. 

“That’s it Princess. Cum on my fucking cock.” I can finally hear his babbling again as my brain focuses entirely on him, clarity coming back to me the higher he winds my pleasure. Like my brain knows I want to take everything he’s giving me, even his pussydrunk babbling. He’s pounding into me now, precision gone but it doesn’t matter because he’s still winding me higher as he pins me with his body between him and the mattress, his head falling on my shoulder as I moan beneath him. 

Everything feels so intense, like he’s consuming me wholly as he ruthlessly pounds into my pussy and hips slamming into my pour abused ass. “F-fuck I’m not gonna last much longer princess. Please be a Good Girl and cum with me. Can you do that for me? Please, please be a Good Girl for me one last time. You’ve been so good for me all night. Please Y/N.”

I don’t know why he’s begging me now, but my pussy clenches anyway at his words. A few thrusts later I’m seeing stars and moaning, his mouth finding mine and swallowing my cries as he shoves his tongue in my mouth and thrusts. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Three times. 

Before he stills and warmth fills my core, and satisfaction soars through me as he groans into my mouth as he kisses me deeply. Kisses me until both of us still completely and my eyes blink open, though lidded and I’m sure showing my desire. 

He’s looking down at me with adoration and awe, his own eyes lidded as he gently slips out of me, and we both hiss at the loss of connection. I still can’t think about anything but how amazing that was, all of it, and how handsome Ridoc looks all fucked out like that. 

My eyelids get heavy, and I blink, trying to keep them open, wanting to burn the image of post-sex Ridoc into my brain. He smooths some hair out of my face and gives me a soft look. “Sleep Princess. I’ll take care of you while you rest. You’re safe here with me.” 

“Mmm Ridoc…” Whatever I was about to say died on my tongue as my eyes drifted shut, and sleep over took me as I fell asleep to him murmuring something to me as a cool hand massaged my ass again. 

~ I'm taking requests as well, just submit them to my inbox and I'll get to them when I have time.

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[trinittysantos]

wip wednesday <3

lately I've been writing a little for a lot of different fics and I wanted to share some snippets! crossing my fingers that over the weekend I'll have a chance to really lock in on one specific fic to fully finish something

from I want to be free of this ache, of this need (rated e, mowalsh first time one shot)

As Samira rambled, Emery’s gaze had turned considering, “I always thought you were straight.” “Most people do,” Samira shrugged. “I’m used to it. And it’s not like I really have any experience with women… or that much experience with men if I’m being honest. I really don’t get out much.” Emery just continued looking at her, still unreadable. Samira suddenly felt embarrassed, the hot shame of feeling like she’d overshared crept up her throat.  “Anyhow, thanks for listening to all of that. Have a good night, Doctor Walsh. Or, a good day I guess,” Samira fumbled, “since, again, it’s morning.” Samira firmly shut her mouth and gave her a quick wave, turning to leave before she could keep talking.  “Hang on,” Emery said. When Samira turned back, the look Emery was giving her sent a shiver up her spine. “I could help you out.” There was no way she meant what Samira thought she meant. No way that Emery Walsh was propositioning her at seven-thirty in the morning outside of the PTMC. “What? You can’t mean—” Emery took a step closer, “I think you know exactly what I mean. You’re a smart woman Samira. Take it or leave it. No hard feelings either way.”

from touch and touch and touch and touch me (rated e, mohantos fwb one shot)

“Hey,” Trinity’s hands rested on Samira’s hips, thumbs stroking the line of skin between Samira’s top and her pants. “You don’t need to be nervous, okay? It’s just me.” Samira took a deep breath. It was just Trinity. Trinity, who stood up for her at work, who invited her to drinks and pulled her out of her shell, who Samira had trusted with secrets she’d never told anyone. If Samira did something awkward or weird, it didn’t really matter, Trinity would just make a joke and move past it. She was safe here to just be herself.  That was all the encouragement she needed to reach out and cup Trinity’s chin to pull her into a kiss.

from no one's ever had me (not like you) (rated e, garsantos established relationship one shot)

Trinity used to be able to manage to play it cool in front of any women she slept with. She wasn’t some kind of female Lothario, but she had moves. She knew how to pick up a woman at a party or a bar and bring her home and show her a good time without being a stumbling, pathetic mess. But stumbling, pathetic mess seemed to be all she was capable of when it came to Yolanda. They’d been hooking up regularly for a couple of months now and as much as Trinity tried to give as good as she got, Yolanda had managed to suss out all of her weak spots and used them against her to inevitably turn Trinity into a trembling, panting mess while Yolanda herself seemed nearly unaffected. “How would you feel about me getting the strap out?” Yolanda asked between pressing kisses to Trinity’s neck. “You have a strap?” Trinity’s mind raced with the different scenarios that statement could lead to. Yolanda’s lips continued traveling down the line of Trinity’s shoulders, “I do. And I would really like to fuck you with it.” Trinity’s mind went blank with a combination of shock and arousal, “You want to fuck me with it?”

from I can't hide from you like I hide from myself (rated t, gen, whitaker-focused fic from my ongoing series)

When Dennis had left that night, Trinity had jokingly told him that he could always call her to come pick him up, no questions asked. It had sounded like something a parent in a happy family sitcom would say, the type of thing that neither of them had ever heard growing up. Dennis had just laughed and waved her off as he closed the door behind him. But now he was sitting on the sidewalk in front of a bar downtown, experiencing what he was pretty sure was a panic attack, fumbling with his phone to pull up her contact page. He listened to the phone ring against his ear, praying that she had her phone nearby, that she and Yolanda hadn’t gotten distracted during their movie night and abandoned their phones in the living room.  But it only took a few rings before Trinity answered, “Hey, what’s up?” Just hearing her voice made Dennis feel like he could breathe again.  “Can you come get me?” Dennis’s voice came out strangled. “Please?” “Of course,” Trinity’s tone immediately shifted to something serious, something he’d rarely heard outside of the hospital. “Where are you? Are you safe?” “I’m outside the bar,” Dennis said, trying not to let his voice crack. “I think I had too much to drink��� I really just want to go home.”

from my still untitled mel-centered gen fic from the same ongoing series

Mel woke up the next morning feeling drained but significantly better. It took her a few minutes to claw her way out of bed and down the stairs. She had no idea what time it was, but she was sure Samira would’ve woken her up if she’d had to leave.  But to her surprise, she walked down the hall to find Trinity and Dennis in the living room with Becca, the clock on the wall showing it was nearly eleven.  “Hey sleepyhead,” Trinity greeted, her eyes were trained on the tv screen and Mel looked over to see that they were playing a video game. “How’re you feeling?” “Better,” Mel said, taking a seat in the empty armchair by the door. “What are you doing here?” “Samira had a shift today, but Dennis and I were off so she called us to come hang with Becca. We’ve been spending the morning having our asses handed to us at Super Mario Party.” “She hustled us,” Dennis said from his spot on the couch, but his tone held no malice, just amusement. “Said she hadn’t played this game much and then made a bet with us that if she won we had to order pizza for lunch.” “Is that true, Becca?” Mel asked, hiding a smile. She was still getting used to seeing Becca come out of her shell around her friends.  Becca shrugged, “I didn’t know how bad they are at video games.”

[cinematiquemuse]

Terms and Conditions (May Apply) Part 1

From the series: This Is Fine (And Other Lies I Tell at Work)

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: John Walker x Bob Reynolds

Chapter Summary: It’s officially Sports Day. Bob’s stressed, John’s suspiciously charming, and Joaquin’s ready to throw hands. The routine? Nailed. The feelings? Debatable. The ending? …Complicated.

Warnings: 18+ content, minors dni, mentions of homophobia, smut, friends with benefits, alternate universe - office, hurt/comfort, suggestive sexual content, eventual p in a.

Author's Note: I got too carried away writing this chapter and had to split it into two parts. :D

Word Count: 10,520

Miss Ian's Masterlist | This Is Fine (And Other Lies I Tell at Work) Masterlist | Part 2 of This Chapter | AO3

Chapter 3: Terms and Conditions (May Apply)

Growing up, Bob learned early that love could be both loud and absent in the same room.

His father was a specter of a man—present in title, rarely in body. Always overseas. Always working. And when he was home, he’d breeze in like a passing storm: barely looking Bob in the eye, never asking the kind of questions dads were supposed to ask. If he did speak, it was to correct. Criticize. Clash.

So Bob stopped expecting warmth from him. Stopped seeking it.

His mother, on the other hand, loved too much. She loved with a desperation that bordered on drowning. She told Bob everything—every marital fight, every petty grudge against their relatives, every fear she couldn’t carry on her own.

“I’m the only one who can understand you,” she’d say, voice trembling with devotion. “I’m your best friend. I’m the only one who can see you.”

At seven, Bob thought that was special.

At thirteen, it felt like a weight he couldn’t drop.

By sixteen, he understood that being someone’s emotional anchor could be a slow kind of erosion.

With no healthy example of boundaries and no peers to show him how to exist gently in the world, Bob grew up too much and too soon.

He was always “too something” for his classmates.

Too smart. Too serious. Too blunt. Too odd.

No one sat next to him unless assigned. Teachers praised his grades but raised eyebrows at his tone. Peers whispered when he walked past, threw glances that weren’t quite cruel but never kind.

He learned the cycle:

Sit in the back corner.

Wait for a new transferee.

Hope this one won't hear the rumors.

Hope this one might see him instead of the version his classmates had built like a scarecrow.

They never did.

The whispers always got there first.

So Bob stopped trying. Stopped reaching. Let the world shrink to the safety of solitude.

His only friend remained his mother—too close, too enmeshed, but reliably there.

She told him she was the only one who truly loved him.

And for most of his life, he believed her.

Bob doesn’t know who he is.

Not really. Not beyond the roles handed to him like heirlooms he never asked to inherit: son, shadow, stand-in for someone else's dream.

What he does know is this—he wants out.

Out of the house.

Out of the life that’s been mapped for him in neat, suffocating lines.

Out into a world where no one looks at him and sees only what they expect.

Don’t get him wrong—he loves his mother. In the bone-deep way that kids love the people who raise them. But love doesn’t erase the way her affection comes with chains. Love doesn’t change the fact that she is the one holding him down.

Even at eighteen, he couldn’t leave the house without her say-so. Couldn’t choose his course in college. Culinary school wasn’t his dream—it was hers. Her dream of building a food empire, of owning a business where he would do the labor, the managing, the soul-gutting work of turning passion into profit.

And Bob?

Bob didn’t want that.

He didn’t want to sell food. Didn’t want to build a brand or monetize a skill that felt sacred to him. Cooking, for Bob, was something intimate. Something soft. Not a commodity, but a language. He didn’t want applause or customer reviews—he just wanted to make something warm for the people he cared about and watch them feel loved by it.

But that chance rarely came. Too few people. Too few moments. Too little room to love outside the walls of his mother’s version of him.

So he stopped cooking altogether.

Didn’t even cook for himself. Couldn’t find joy in it anymore.

Then the pandemic hit.

And while the world fell apart, Bob saw a crack of light.

A fracture in the script.

A chance to rewrite the story.

His mother still hadn’t built her dream business. His father, now retired and bitter, brooded in every hallway like a storm cloud without rain. The money was tight. The air was tighter.

Bob made his move.

He proposed something radical:

“I’ll get a work-from-home job. I can help with the bills.”

Translation: I can finally do something that’s mine.

The fallout was instant.

His mother screamed betrayal. Claimed he was abandoning the only person who had ever truly loved him. Said he was choosing money over family. Over her.

His father called it disrespect. Said Bob had caused “too much pain,” like love was a battlefield and Bob had lit the match.

But Bob didn’t back down.

He applied. Got the job. Started working for O.X.E. from a secondhand desk in the corner of the living room while his parents sulked around him.

Then the paychecks started coming in.

And suddenly, they were quiet.

Because now they needed him.

The same boy they told couldn’t stand on his own was suddenly the one keeping the lights on. The fridge stocked. The medicine bought.

Bob didn’t say “I told you so.”

He just kept working.

Kept breathing in the fragile kind of freedom that came with doing something for himself. Even if it wasn’t much. Even if he still wasn’t entirely sure who he was, or what he wanted.

He just knew it wasn’t this.

And for now, that was enough.

Then the opportunity came.

Bob didn’t transfer departments just because he was bored. Or burned out. Or needed a “new challenge,” like he told HR with a practiced smile. Well those things are part of the reason he took the opportunity.

But what pushed him to do it was because he needed a way out.

So when a new position opened up at O.X.E.—on-site, office-based, daily commute required—he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask if he was qualified. Didn’t wait for a sign.

He just applied.

And when he got the job, he made the conversation he’d been quietly dreading:

“I need to find a place closer to the office. Commuting from here every day would kill me.”

His mother froze.

Went stiff like someone had pulled a string in her spine. Her mouth opened, but it wasn't a shock—it was betrayal. Pure, quiet devastation that painted Bob as the villain in a story she’d been telling herself since he was a child: that he would always choose her. Always stay.

“You’re leaving me?” she’d whispered, like he was packing a bag and never coming back. “After everything?”

For a second—just one second—Bob faltered.

He knew how this went. The guilt. The need. The way she made herself small and fragile until he wrapped his life around her again.

But this time? This time he couldn’t afford it.

He was drowning in the closeness. Slowly, quietly unraveling. If he stayed any longer, he wouldn’t just resent her—he’d start to hate her. And he didn’t want that. Didn’t want to destroy the only relationship he had left just because he didn’t know how to say “enough.”

So he said it.

“I still love you,” he said gently. “But it’ll be more convenient for me to get a place near my office.”

She didn’t cry. Not right away.

But her next attempt was more subtle. A hopeful, high-pitched, “Well, maybe I could stay over some nights? Just to help you settle in—”

Bob cut her off before she could finish.

“It’ll be hard,” he said carefully. “I’ll barely be at the apartment. Office hours. You’ll just be alone, and it won’t be good for you.”

That wasn’t the full truth. The full truth was: I need this place to be mine. Mine, and quiet, and free.

So she let him go.

Not with grace. But with silence.

Bob signed the lease before training even started.

The new apartment was small. A little too beige. The kind of place with echoey walls and flickering bathroom lights. But it was his. His mornings. His mess. His fridge with only things he liked. His laundry basket, unjudged.

It wasn’t freedom, not completely.

But it was a start.

Joaquin had always had a free pass.

No questions asked. No texts needed. He could show up at Bob’s apartment with a bag of chips, a bottle of cheap wine, or even empty handed—Bob would always let him in. Joaquin was the exception to every wall Bob had ever built. The one person who never made him feel too much, or too intense, or too smart for his own good.

It was Joaquin who helped him realize that he could be more than what his mother imagined him to be. That maybe there was life outside the role of dutiful son and guilt-strapped caregiver. That maybe—maybe—he didn’t have to shrink himself just to be loved.

So yeah. When Joaquin soon finds out John Walker picked up Bob at the ass crack of dawn on competition day? There would be a look.

Possibly a scolding. Possibly just a quiet, loaded “be careful.”

Because Joaquin knew him too well by now.

He knew Bob’s entire history could be written in call logs and chat bubbles. Knew his idea of romance had always existed in long-distance echoes—relationships stretched thin over time zones, never intimate enough to scare him, never close enough to threaten the illusion of love. Love that Bob doesn’t know how it actually was. It was safer that way. Easier to walk away from a goodnight call than someone standing at your door. Easier to say “I love you” when you don't have to back it up with touch.

Bob didn’t fall for people. He fell for words.

So when Joaquin dropped the truth like a guillotine—“heard this from the other tenures conversation. John just went through a breakup with his girlfriend. Like two weeks before our training started. Long-term. Messy. He’s still trying to win her back.”—Bob pulled the emergency brake.

He did what he always did: shut it down. Froze it. Muted the thread, cooled his replies, and let the silence stretch between them like a warning sign.

He’s a self-proclaimed emotionally detached king.

But the problem with John Walker was… he didn’t stay in the messages.

He existed outside the chat. He was present. Real. All loud laughter and smug grins and hands that moved too close when he talked. He was a whole-ass human, and Bob wasn’t used to dealing with someone with body heat.

Now Bob was in his car. Again.

Exchanging snarky banter like nothing happened. Like Bob hadn’t ignored him after the beach trip, like John hadn’t had to volunteer himself as an uber driver and shopping pack mule just to close the gap.

The car ride was quiet, windows down, in their cheer uniforms and the early morning sky still yawning open. John made a comment about Bob’s obnoxiously color-coded makeup list (Yelena gave that to him). Bob called him an illiterate himbo. John fired back something about cowboy boots being too sexy for Bob to pull off.

It felt normal.

That was the dangerous part.

Bob leaned his head against the window, letting the air rush past his face like it might carry away the chaos in his head. He could almost hear Joaquin’s voice already:

"Don’t fall for him just because he notices you."

He wasn’t falling.

He wasn’t.

He just wants the attention.

They arrived at the office just as the sun was starting to warm the glass façade, casting long streaks of light across the floor like stage lights cueing an entrance.

Neither of them bothered to carry their duffel bags up—John had already decided that Bob was riding with him to the gymnasium later. He didn’t ask. Just said it with a smirk like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Bob didn’t argue.

So it was just the shopping bags in their hands—the ones still heavy with rhinestone glue, body glitter, and the awkward intimacy of last night. The bags that had, unintentionally, become vessels for more than just fake lashes and spirit gum. They carried the weight of whatever passed between them in fluorescent-lit aisles and casual banter that felt just a little too close.

The lounge was chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

Their cheer team had claimed the entire space, transforming it into a makeshift prep studio. It smelled like setting spray and ambition. Laughter ricocheted off the walls, punctuated by the hiss of curling irons and the rustle of fringe vests being yanked into place. Someone was blasting a pop-country remix on their phone that was definitely not competition-legal, but no one cared.

Kate was doing the Lord’s work in the corner, surrounded by a mountain of open palettes and discarded cotton pads. She was blending contour with the kind of focus most people reserved for open-heart surgery. America hovered beside her, adding glitter and lashes like a finishing artist touching up a masterpiece.

Bob took one look at the scene and—momentarily—thanked the universe for the simple dignity of being a man.

No foundation. No lashes. No risk of someone gluing rhinestones to his eyelid.

He should have known better.

Yelena spotted them like a hawk from across the room, eyes locking in with terrifying precision.

“You two,” she snapped, marching over like war was about to break out. “In line. Now.”

Bob blinked. “For what?”

“Makeup,” she said, already pulling him forward by the arm like he was a very tall child. “Kate’s doing your face. And no, this is not up for debate. You are representing O.X.E. I want cheekbones.”

Bob exchanged a look with John, who just smirked and waggled his brows like he was enjoying this far too much.

So Bob sat. In the makeup chair. With Kate already tapping primer onto his skin and America sharpening an eyebrow pencil like it was a dagger.

He sighed. “I spoke too soon.”

John chuckled beside him, folding his arms and waiting for his turn with all the smug satisfaction of someone who lived for Bob’s discomfort.

And maybe it was the glitter in the air, or the adrenaline building in his chest, or the leftover echo of last night’s easy back-and-forth, but…

For the first time that morning, Bob let himself relax.

Just a little.

By the time Kate and America had finished transforming the entire cheer squad into a lineup of sparkly, cowboy-themed champions, the office lounge looked like a glitter bomb crime scene. False lashes clung to desks like fallen soldiers. Someone’s bronzer palette had been stepped on (RIP), and the air was thick with hairspray and competition nerves.

Ava, clipboard in hand and voice projecting like a battlefield general, began assigning carpools. It was simple, logistical, and should’ve gone smoothly—until it didn’t.

“Alexei, you’re taking Wanda and Bob, right?” she asked, eyes flicking from her clipboard to the group.

“Actually,” John cut in before anyone could answer, casually slinging an arm over the back of a nearby chair, “Bob’s coming with me. His bag’s already in my car.”

A pause.

A beat too long.

Kate’s eyes flicked up.

Yelena’s eyebrows went sharp.

Even Peter looked up from his phone.

Ava blinked, briefly thrown off, but made the note anyway. “Okay… John’s car then.”

Which is how Bob found himself in the backseat of Walker’s car, crammed in with Kate on one side and Peter squished in the middle. Yelena rode shotgun, of course, silently plotting their choreography like the fate of the universe depended on it.

For a while, there was only the low thrum of country-pop from the radio and the occasional squeak of leather seats as someone adjusted their fringe vest.

Then Yelena, ever the chaos instigator disguised as a composed leader, turned in her seat, slow and deliberate.

“So…” she said, not even trying to mask the suspicion in her voice. “Bob’s bag was in John’s car already, huh?”

Bob blinked at the back of her head. “I—yeah. He picked me up. That’s all.”

Yelena’s voice sharpened like a knife sliding into its sheath. “Really? Or maybe you have been together since last night.”

Bob choked on air. “What? No! No—he just—we went shopping. For the props. That’s it.”

“Shopping,” Kate echoed, not buying it for a second.

John, still driving, barely batted an eye. “He needed help carrying stuff. I volunteered. I’m strong like that.”

Bob side-eyed him with an intensity that could ignite fire. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not lying either,” John added with an easy shrug.

Peter, bless his chaotic heart, chose that moment to lean forward from the backseat. “Wait—so, are you not with Joaquin?”

Bob blinked. “What?”

“I just assumed,” Peter continued, casually nosy. “You and Joaquin were like, always together before the department training started. I thought you were dating. You guys were inseparable. That and your IG story with him when you guys went bar hopping.”

“That’s because we’re best friends,” Bob replied, trying not to sound defensive, which naturally made him sound extremely defensive.

“But like… you could be together,” Peter mused aloud. “You have the vibe.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Bob muttered, sinking lower into his seat.

Kate stifled a laugh. Yelena smirked knowingly. And John?

John just kept driving like none of this was about him. Like the entire car wasn’t filled with rising tension and unspoken assumptions and Bob’s growing panic.

No confirmation. No denial.

Just that irritatingly smug silence.

Bob groaned under his breath and stared out the window, already counting down the minutes until this day was over—or until someone launched themselves out of the car.

Whichever came first.

They arrived at the gymnasium with all the grace of a low-budget action film.

The moment John’s tires kissed the pavement, Yelena was already unbuckling like her seatbelt had personally offended her. She launched herself out of the car with the precision of an assassin on a mission, boots hitting the ground before the engine even fully stopped.

“INSIDE!” she barked, already marching toward the gym’s double doors. “Complete costumes on. Dress rehearsal starts now. Touch-ups after we’ve survived the death trap that is this choreography.”

No one argued.

Everyone just scrambled out after her in a blur of fringe vests, panic, and glitter.

Inside, the gym buzzed with quiet tension—the kind that always hung in the air before competitions. The sound system crackled as someone did a mic test. Gym mats were laid out, pompoms stacked in corners like mines waiting to go off, and the smell of sweat and setting spray lingered like holy incense.

Surprisingly, the dress rehearsal ran smooth.

No missed lifts. No wardrobe malfunctions. No one cried. Yet.

Everyone had collectively decided to abandon chaos in favor of survival. After all, most of them had been roped into the cheer squad against their will—bullied, bribed, or blackmailed by one (1) Yelena Belova and her terrifying brand of gentle coercion.

And if they were going to suffer, they might as well make it worth something.

Bob stretched his legs during water break, breathing in the artificial chill of the air-conditioned gym, letting his eyes wander across the squad. He watched as Kate adjusted her bandana, America helped Peter re-pin the star on his costume, and John—not that Bob was looking too long—flicked his hat on and off his head like he couldn’t decide if he was cool or just annoying.

Lowkey, Bob suspected only one person here joined willingly.

Alexei.

That man had volunteered.

Enthusiastically.

Without hesitation.

Bob had watched the whole thing happen—how Alexei had practically beamed as he signed up like he was joining a cult he was proud of. And how Yelena had stared at him for a solid ten seconds, visibly weighing his enthusiasm against the sinking reality that he was basically a walking dad joke in human form.

Bob could still remember her deadpan: “We are not doing knee slides to Journey songs, Alexei.”

But she’d let him in anyway. Because, frankly, she needed bodies. Specifically: male bodies. And Alexei, for all his goofy energy and “my-kid’s-in-a-dance-recital” aura, was willing. Which was more than she could say for the rest of the poor souls she’d cornered with clipboards and existential threats.

Bob, for his part, was also tricked into joining the team, accidentally dragging John with him. And Yelena had promised it would “build character” for the both of them.

Now here they were—weeks of sweat, broken nails, bruises, and blisters later—finally at the dress rehearsal, trying to look like they hadn’t been sleep-deprived and glitter-poisoned for a month.

Bob took a swig from his water bottle and let his eyes drift back to John, who had just failed to catch his own hat mid-flip and was laughing about it anyway, like it didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

Bob told himself it didn’t.

But the universe, as always, loved to test him.

Alexei sat down next to Bob without a word, the bench creaking under his weight. He didn’t say anything at first—just stretched out his long legs and rested his elbows on his knees like he was trying to decompress his entire spine.

Bob let the silence sit.

He’d learned early on that Alexei was the type to fill space just to hear himself talk. If he had something to say, it would come. But right now, he's uncharacteristically quiet. Bob was tired, still coming down from adrenaline and rehearsal brain, and didn’t mind the quiet company.

But eventually, Alexei spoke. Voice low, like he didn’t want anyone else in the gym to hear.

“Y’know… I trained John when he first got here.”

Bob turned slightly. That wasn’t where he thought this was going.

Alexei continued, still calm, still quiet. “Didn’t know him well outside of work. Still don’t, to be honest. But he’s a good kid. Sharp. Driven. Bit of a flirt—gets away with it because he can back it up with performance.”

Bob raised an eyebrow, unsure whether that last part was meant as a dig or a compliment.

Alexei gave a soft huff of breath. “But the thing is… he surrounds himself with people who don’t know how to mind their own business. Except for Lemar. Lemar’s solid. Stays in his lane. Doesn’t push.”

Bob blinked, trying to follow where this was headed.

“But the rest of ’em?” Alexei pressed on. “Still tight with his ex. Still want them back together. Still act like anyone who might—step into that space—is some kind of threat.”

There was something bitter in his tone now. Not angry. Protective.

“They’re defensive,” Alexei said, finally looking at him. “Loud. The kind of loud that turns ugly. The kind of loud that makes excuses that start sounding… familiar. Borderline homophobic.”

Bob didn’t need the rest of the sentence to fill in the blank.

“Lemar’s the only one who doesn’t feed the fire. Doesn’t fight it either, but… he doesn’t add fuel.”

Bob’s throat was dry. “Why are you telling me this?”

Alexei tilted his head slightly. “Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you. The way you don’t look back unless you think no one’s watching. And because I’ve seen you give a damn about people who don’t always deserve it even if you pretend that you don't care.”

That one hit harder than Bob expected.

“And because,” Alexei added, softer now, “I think you’ve got a golden heart, kid. You remind me of someone I wish I’d protected better, once.”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how to.

He cleared his throat instead and asked, “And what if I don’t like boys?”

Alexei gave him a quiet smile. “Then I gave you bad advice for the right reason.”

And just like that, Bob’s breath caught in his chest—words on the tip of his tongue that he didn’t even know how to unpack.

Before he could try, John appeared.

“Hey,” John called, dropping into a squat in front of them like he’d just stumbled across something interesting. “What are we whispering about? Plotting a mutiny?”

Bob’s mouth opened, ready to panic-lie.

But Alexei didn’t even flinch. “Just telling Bob how I once sprained my ankle during a warm-up and tried to blame the floor.”

John laughed, quick and easy. “Classic.”

He turned to Bob then, gaze sweeping over him a little slower than necessary. “Also—first time I’ve seen you with your hair like that.”

Bob blinked.

“You’ve got that whole rugged outlaw vibe going on,” John added, voice dipped in that casual charm he weaponized so well. “Kinda works for you.”

Bob didn’t bite. Just shrugged and muttered, “Didn’t feel like gel.”

John smirked like that was somehow an invitation.

It wasn’t.

But it still felt like something.

Check Part 2 of this chapter.

────୨ৎ────

Add yourself to my taglist! <3

[bellaaldamas]

It is a fact that many people even in the OG Tangled fandom liked the movie for the very same things the detractors (on either progressive or conservative side of the fence) hated it: the aforementioned aesthetics. Not just the visual ones but the perceived stereotypes and boxes certain viewers like to push characters into. Including, as you accurately pointed out, the "bad boy changes for the good girl" trope with Flynn. One that even some of the Tangled "fans" reduced his character to, even though he was actually a deconstruction of that trope. Disney circa OG Tangled wasn't even particularly subtle about that, literally giving Flynn/Eugene two names: one reflecting his protective facade and the other one reflecting his real persona. It is absurd how both fans and detractors look for cliches in the movie and invent the ones that don't exist in it when there are canon cliches that are objectively there and serve their narrative purpose (the sarcastic smouldering facade to hide pain and trauma caused by oppression and abandonment being one of the most obvious).

What I always highlight when discussing OG Tangled is that it was admittedly never profound in terms of plot or delivery - it was a simplistic and at some points outright corny story with strong, multi-layered characterization and powerful psychology. That's what made it stand out above the pseudo-intellectual "male feminist" narratives a la "Buffy", produced and written by a misogynistic abuser Whedon and still hailed as "feminist" by the progressive crowd (which says all one needs to know about them; then again, they claim Andersen's TLM was "feminist" even though it is literally a male entitlement piece projected onto a female character who, to top it off, ends up being punished for her initiative and feelings by death).

Back to the "bad boy changing for good girl" trope, this is how those aesthetic lovers perceived the romance arc in the OG movie. Disney, being obnoxious, money grubbing and cowardly but far from stupid, weaponized it by producing the Tangled Series that reflected and followed up on that perception instead of following up on the actual canon characterization and development.

To drive the point home that Disney was indeed taking advantage of the "changed bad boy" misconception about Flynn (to avoid providing in-depth and canon compliant exploration of his and Rapunzel's post-movie experiences) they incorporated one of the most sexist tropes in the series: a Madonna/Vixen dichotomy; by giving Flynn an abusive and manipulative ex fiance. Who was unironically a daughter of a mafia boss to boot (because the cliche had to be fulfilled completely and be as obnoxious as possible for the critical thinking lacking crowds to digest it).

With that storyline, Disney was killing two birds with one stone: reinforcing Series Rapunzel's "pure and good woman" image by pitting her against the "evil other woman" and making Rapunzel look better at her female rival's expense (while the series continued to butcher Rapunzel's character and have her devolve into a willfully ignorant classist blind to her own privileges); as well as amplifying the false portrayal of Flynn as a "bad boy" and retroactively re-writing his past and backstory to "prove he was always that way before he met Rapunzel who put him on the right path".

In the light of the above, my first reaction to surprisingly positive reception of the series on part of the self-identified "Tangled fans" was to question what exactly they even liked about the original movie and why. Because the series took all the messages and the essence of the OG, misrepresented it and made a mockery out of it for the sake of "feminist" pandering. Rapunzel cutting off her hair on her own was the culmination of it but certainly not the start. The campfire scene and Flynn opening up about his vulnerabilities and traumatic childhood in the OG movie ended up being ridiculed and turned into a punchline in the series in the very first episode.

The aesthetic lovers, however, did not view it as pandering because they didn't even get that reference. Most of them didn't see it as a mockery of one of the most pivotal moments for Rapunzel and Flynn's bonding in the OG film because the direct, unashamed, in your face allusions to it went completely over their heads.

To them, the campfire scene was no different from the lantern scene rather than a build up that made the lantern scene developments possible in the first place. They saw and enjoyed the visual aesthetics and not the contents and chronological consistency. In the campfire scene Flynn and Rapunzel not only listen to each other and reciprocate the other's compassion and understand and it is not only about Flynn opening up to Rapunzel about his backstory. The scene is not in the least about the obstacles and deterrents - psychological more so than physical - that prevent them individually and their relationship from progressing further.

This is outstandingly showcased when Gothel confronts Rapunzel, tries to gaslight and manipulate her into submission again and when words and lies no longer work she shoves the satchel into Rapunzel's face, playing up a cautionary tale narrative. Gothel's new manipulative tactic is to tell Rapunzel (read: women) that she is too naive and hormonal to realize Flynn's real intentions. That she cannot think clearly because she is too blindsided by his pretty face (read: you cannot marry a man you just met so let your toxic family, mountain dweller who prefers reindeers to people and/or Snowman explain to you what love really is). Except back then Disney made it obvious it was an abusive, misogynistic, gaslighting narrative as opposed to presenting it at face value and upholding it (like it did with Frozen).

The satchel in that scene is the physical embodiment of guarantees that Rapunzel has at her disposal to ensure Flynn does not betray or cross her. It is also an instrument of control - and the OG movie makes it abundantly clear you cannot build a healthy relationship around control and power imbalance. That's why when Flynn returns with the firewood so does his cocky facade (hence the quip about the "super human strength" in his hand).

That's also why their romance does not progress any further and Rapunzel spends most of the time during the Kingdom sequence next day interacting and bonding with other people (and, prior to that, Maximus) - up until she consciously chooses to let go of the aforementioned instrument of control over Flynn and gives him back the satchel. Only then does the lantern scene become a romance scene and not just Rapunzel seeing the "lights" scene; and only then does her and Flynn's almost kiss happen.

But this is something that also went over the heads of not just the aesthetic lovers but the progressives who call the OG movie "unfeminist" - that it was, in fact, Rapunzel having control over Flynn for literally 75 percents of the film. And she only relinquished said control when she chose to, was ready to and when she realized she was safe around Flynn as much as she was safe outside the tower learning to socialize in spite of Gothel's brainwashing ("I'm not scared anymore").

Progressives hate power fantasies for women and praise cautionary tales. Yet again Disney delivered - and gave them Frozen. Where the heroine's romantic and other forms of personal agency are not only shamed and suppressed but actively punished. What the OG Tangled showed to be an example of societal pressure that a woman has to withstand and resist ("trust me, my dear, that's how fast he'll leave you, I won't say I told you so") Frozen showed to be an example of the society knowing better what and who a woman needs than her "gullible and naive" self does.

No more "you were wrong about the world and you were wrong about me". Meet the "you were so desperate for love" and "I don't know what love is".

But the aesthetic lovers back then vehemently denied how Frozen was not only the start of pseudo-progressive pandering - it was the funeral of the Princess Franchise, the end for women's power fantasies and the beginning of the cautionary tales. And because they denied that they had to also deny how the Tangled Series was a product of that new pseudo-feminist direction. As long as the aesthetics were still there they absolved Disney of pandering.

Disney had no problem producing a character of Cassandra out of nowhere, making her their "progressive mouth piece" and having her be abusive towards Flynn also out of nowhere because another trite and sexist "heroine's female best friend who hates her boyfriend/husband" trope is apparently "so feminist". They'll be damned if they don't repeat that "feminist scenario" with PatF, were the series to happen. Especially when they already have a "groundwork" for retcons in the form of Naveen and Tiana's friend Charlotte's shared "history" where Naveen's initial intentions towards the aforementioned were not exactly the most noble. It wouldn't matter that Naveen changed since then and by the end of the film was no longer a spoiled rich layabout wanting to marry for money. Just like it wouldn't matter that Charlotte never held it against him because she was also spoiled and rich and clearly realized everyone has flaws but it's how we act in spite of them that defines us. Disney would drag this plot point out of context, "progressify it" and turn it into another cautionary tale shaming Tiana for believing in romantic love and "marrying Naveen after knowing him for two days" and Charlotte will be there to say "I told you so" (she never actually did in the OG movie but Modern Disney will gaslight the audience into believing it happened).

In the hypothetical series Naveen would prove to be incompetent and useless (but much like Flynn, he is still pretty and that's all a man needs for Disney to sell merch with his face on it). The new "campfire mockery" will be Eudora telling Tiana she "regrets having planted the toxic idea about meeting a prince charming in her head" and apologizing for "giving Tiana unrealistic expectations" (a woman wanting respect, support and love from a man is "unrealistic expectations" for modern media and modern "feminism").

Cherry on top, to show just how unapologetic Disney is with its "progressive pandering" and shredding the original movies they will come up with some spectacularly ridiculous retcon somewhere along the way. Like having Louis say that if Ray hadn't "given up everything out of love for that stupid star he would be alive today". Never mind the fact that Ray did not even die because of or for "Evangeline" but to save his friends.

Progressives and aesthetic lovers would eat it up again because they don't engage with media critically whilst conservatives will be happy that "at least the series upholds traditional values by not breaking the sanctity of Tiana and Naveen's marriage", even if their romance ends up being butchered the same way Rapunzel and Flynn's was.

Ariel Is a Far Stronger and More Feminist Character Than Series-Rapunzel—and It’s Time People Acknowledge That

I decided to also write a defense post about Ariel, my favorite princess.

It honestly frustrates me to no end how Ariel is constantly mischaracterized as "weak" or "anti-feminist" when in reality, she’s one of the strongest, most independent princesses Disney has ever created. She had an abusive and controlling father who tried to crush her dreams and limit her world—and she still found the courage to fight for freedom, for love, and for her own voice. And yet, Ariel is so often torn down, while series-Rapunzel is bizarrely praised for treating love like a prison and her partner like a burden.

Ariel wanted to live on land long before she met Eric. Her dream of freedom and exploration wasn’t driven by romance—it was hers alone. But when she did fall in love, she was allowed to embrace it fully. She saw marriage as liberation, not a cage. She never once treated Eric as her enemy, or as someone holding her back. In fact, her love gave her the strength to break free from her toxic family dynamics and finally live life on her own terms. That is empowering. And that is exactly what the original Rapunzel/ Petrosinella tale was about too—a girl escaping an abusive parental figure through love and marriage, not in spite of it.

But somehow, Disney decided to completely trash that message with series-Rapunzel. Suddenly, marriage is framed as a prison, and Rapunzel—a girl who spent 18 years locked in a literal tower—has nightmares about being with a man who would literally die for her. Instead of escaping an oppressive environment, she stays with her abusive parents because they’re “her real family,” while pushing away the one person who actually supported her and gave her a way out. And people applaud this? Call it feminist?

Ariel was also traumatized—she lived under constant fear, was gaslit by her father, and punished for being different. But she never turned that trauma into cruelty. She never lashed out at Eric, never used him as an emotional punching bag, never called marriage a trap. Meanwhile, Rapunzel in the series treats Flynn like a villain just for loving her. And yet, people constantly excuse her toxic behavior because she’s “traumatized”—while simultaneously blaming Ariel for wanting to escape her father’s control and painting her as “selfish” for leaving. Why is Ariel’s rebellion villainized and Rapunzel’s coldness glorified?

Not only that, but series-Rapunzel only stops fearing marriage after she learns Flynn is secretly a prince. So we’re just okay with that? We’re okay with her subconsciously believing he isn’t good enough until he turns out to be royalty? That’s classicism, plain and simple—and it gets even worse when you remember her so-called “best friend” mocks Flynn for his poor background and Rapunzel says nothing.

Meanwhile, Ariel fell in love with a human prince while having nothing to offer him. She was voiceless, homeless, and desperate—but still believed in love and fought for it. She didn’t care about class, about status, or about control. She just loved him, and believed that love could save her. And you know what? It did.

And the best part? Ariel doesn’t go back. She’s not punished for choosing love. She doesn’t get forced to stay under the sea with an abusive father just because of blood ties. She’s allowed to leave, to grow, to change, to live. That is what real empowerment looks like—not staying stuck in trauma, not rejecting love out of fear, not mistreating your partner because you haven’t healed.

Ariel is stronger than series-Rapunzel. Full stop. She didn’t let trauma turn her into an abuser. She didn’t need someone to be rich or royal to love them. She chased her dreams, fought for her freedom, and still had enough heart left to believe in love. That is not weakness—it’s power. It’s strength. It’s real feminism.

Honestly, it’s a miracle Disney didn’t use the Hans Christian Andersen ending for the live-action remake—because punishing Ariel for loving a man would have fit too neatly into their new narrative: that women can only be strong if they reject love, softness, and vulnerability. But Ariel proves them wrong. She always has.

Ariel will always be the strongest and most feminist princess to me. And no amount of revisionist writing or false empowerment will ever change that.

[al-luviec]

I got so insanely mad while drawing this

+ closeup and normalness

[simcardiac-arrested]

ur probably sick of seeing posts like these but i just want to sit here and muse about how, well, i enjoy tumblr #mytumblr not just because of all the obvious stuff like how it’s not run on an algorithm, and because it’s one of the only social media that i don’t have to jump through hoops to use and that isn’t phone-exclusive (for me)

but i think my favorite thing has to be the askblogs, and running one. which is weird, because if you asked me as little as 3 years ago what i loved most about tumblr, i’d probably say “uh, looking at owl house posts, i guess?”, it’s weird because i never actually planned to make one and created it on a whim based on a few random people’s tags, and even then it was made mostly as a joke. i just never thought about it before—i grew up with askblogs, an era of tumblr that was truly as magical as it was catastrophic (as all things that get vaguely popular), but i never thought about making one because: it’s a commitment, it seems like a lot, i’m inconsistent, how would i draw for it every single time, etc etc all that good stuff

but then i just made it. and fuck me is it the most fun thing ever. it doesn’t have to be consistent. it doesn’t have to be perfect, or polished, or anything really. it just has to be. to exist out there in the world and be open to messages. the most it has to be is loved by me and by u guys.

and that’s the thing! the best thing—i love involving u guys in my writing, pushing the characters in one direction and then the next, seeing where that takes us (because i don’t always know either, that’s what writing is all about babeyyy). i love that i don’t have to just post the most important plot beats one after the other and have the story be done there. i love that i get to weave the development through vaguely connected, sometimes relevant but sometimes completely random joke asks. that i don’t have to write a whole ass novel of build-up or draw everything as one long-running comic just to make my characters feel like they actually exist and react to the things around them, that they’re not just here to get from point a to b. and i love that you’re all part of it. the story seriously just wouldn’t be the way it is without all of you guys who are always so curious to ask something, or call a character out (depending on how much they need to be humbled COUGHHHHCOUGHHHHH)

so yeah, i’m just forever grateful for all of you and for the fact that tumblr allows things like these to happen. i have no idea what other site could possibly offer the same sort of experience, or anything similar, but i am just forever in love with the fact that it’s something you can do here. i wouldn’t trade it for anything. what a cool fucking thing to be able to do

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

they conveyed a lot by having ibrahim respond "i know, atike" when she tells him "i'll always be with you" as opposed to his strained silence when kosem tells him the same

[docholligay]

Do you think authors sometimes don't realize how their, uh, interests creep into their writing? I'm talking about stuff like Robert Jordan's obvious femdom kink, or Anne Rice's preoccupation with inc*st and p*dophilia. Did their editors ever gently ask them if they've ever actually read what they've written?

Firstly, a reminder: This is not tiktok and we just say the words incest and pedophilia here.

Secondly, I don't know if I would call them 'interests' so much as fixations or even concerns. There are monstrous things that people think about, and I think writing is a place to engage with those monstrous things. It doesn't bother me that people engage with those things. I exist somewhere within the whump scale, and I would hope no one would think less of me just because sooner or later I like to rough a good character up a bit, you know? It's fun to torture characters, as a treat!

But, anyway, assuming this question isn't, "Do writers know they're gross when I think they are gross" which I'm going to take the kind road and assume it isn't, but is instead, "Do you think authors are aware of the things they constantly come back to?"

Sometimes. It can be jarring to read your own writing and realize that there are things you CLEARLY are preoccupied with. (mm, I like that word more than concerns). There are things you think about over and over, your run your mind over them and they keep working their way back in. I think this is true of most authors, when you read enough of them. Where you almost want to ask, "So...what's up with that?" or sometimes I read enough of someone's work that I have a PRETTY good idea what's up with that.

I've never read Robert Jordan and I don't intend to start (I think it would bore me this is not a moral stance) and I've really never read Rice's erotica. In erotica especially I think you have all the right in the world to get fucking weird about it! But so, when I was young I read the whole Vampire Chronicles series. I don't remember it perfectly, but there's plenty in it to reveal VERY plainly that Anne Rice has issues with God but deeply believes in God, and Anne Rice has a preoccupation with the idea of what should stay dead, and what it means to become. So, when i found out her daughter died at the age of six, before Rice wrote all of this, and she grew up very very Catholic' I said, 'yeah, that fucking checks out'.

Was Rice herself aware of how those things formed her writing? I think at a certain point probably yes. The character of Claudia is in every way too on the nose for her not to have SOME idea unless she was REAL REAL dense about her own inner workings. But, sometimes I know where something I write about comes from, that doesn't mean I'm interested in sharing it with the class. I would never ever fucking say, 'The reasons I seem to write so much of x as y is that z happened to me years ago' ahaha FUCK THAT NOISE. NYET. RIDE ON, COWBOY.

But I've known some people in fandom works who clearly have something going on and don't seem to realize it. Or they're very good at hiding it. Based on the people I'm talking about I would say it's more a lack of self-knowledge, and I don't even mean that unkindly. I have, in many ways, taken myself down to the studs and rebuilt it all, so I unfortunately am very aware of why I do and write the things I do most of the time. It's extremely annoying not to be able to blame something. I imagine it must be very freeing. But it ain't me, babe.

Anyway, a lot of words to say: Maybe! But that might not stop them from writing it, it might be a useful thing for them to engage with, and you can always just not read it.

Also, we don't censor words here.

[aeyumicore]

misty invasion - omnipotent perception

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: rafayel x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with some plot, porn with feelings, angst with comfort

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 6.5k (who’s surprised)

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, slight spoilers and alterations to ‘omnipotent perception (rafayel’s misty invasion card), slightly toxic relationship, m!receiving handjob, bathtub sex, pulling out, cummies in hair/face, lots of making out, hickeys, HEAVY references to rafayel’s lore (sea god and some abysswalker), references to rafayel’s 4* memory fragrant dream, so much angst (with comfort), soooo much feelings, sensory deprivation, sensory play, blindfolding, switch!raf, desperate rafayel, kinda withholding rafayel, clothes on in tub, p in v seggs, use of y/n, use of pet names

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: video | ao3 | xav's version | sylus's version | zayne's version

━ ✧.˖ A/N: RAF IS HERE! sooooo this one is a long one. each one of my misty invasions got longer and longer, i am a menace to myself. but this one made sense, i felt as if raf’s misty invasion had the most lore subtly stitched into it and you guys know i always try and explore some angst/lore <3 i am very happy and excited to finally close out the misty invasion series. 

i’m going to be taking a much needed break after this. i’ll likely still be writing, but slowly and in my own time. I had a brief period of motivation, after the clarity of sharing my story, but now i am back to being anxious and exhausted.

that being said, please do not send anyone hate in my name or in my defense. I have never and will never ask for that. it’s enough that i have your support, i don’t need more than that. 

special thank you to my friend @myusuchaa for helping me SO much with the rafayel lore. definitely the biggest fish forker i know <3

as always, if i missed any warnings or used too specific physical descriptors, let me know and i can do better! thank you guys for your support. i love you!

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

“Do you feel lonely in this world that is totally different from yours?”

—

It’d been a beautiful summer day, riding bicycles along the Italian coast of Verona. Rafayel had just finished his piece for an art exhibition in the capital of the picturesque city, and you’d had time to soak in the summer breeze with each other. The air was wonderfully salty, just enough to remind you of the sea itself. Of Rafayel. 

It hadn’t truly surprised you when you’d found out Rafayel had lived here before, especially now knowing his Lemurian roots. Something about the way he walked through the Veronian brick paved roads, the rustic wind tousling his beachy waves, the cloudy sun shining on his effervescent skin. Like he’d belonged here, once upon a time. 

It was the perfect day.

Even when you’d teased him about the Lemurian who’d dissipated into sea foam for a mere human, and Rafayel’s expression misted over with a melancholic nostalgia. When his eyes glazed over with a torrent of inexplicable emotions, he could tell you wanted to prod him about it. But you didn’t, and for that he was incredibly grateful. There was a part of him that longed for you to know, to remember, the truth of that story. But he couldn’t trust you with that part of him again. Not yet. 

Even then, it was a perfect day. The two of you in Verona, the city of Romeo and Juliet. 

Two ill-fated lovers. 

It was perfect, he was perfect. 

Until you asked him that question. 

“Do you feel lonely in this world that is totally different from yours?”

Suddenly, Rafayel couldn’t look you in the eyes. Even when the rain droplets had started to patter onto your sun kissed skin, Rafayel holding you close under his favorite cardigan to shelter you from the onslaught of crystalline water. He couldn’t look at you. He refused to look at you.

If he did, you might’ve seen the tumultuous storm flickering in his eyes. The violets in his irises bright with unshed tears, the blues dark with a bitter loneliness. 

He didn’t speak to you the entire way back to your hotel, heading straight to the bathroom. At first you think that perhaps he’s upset with you, but he only draws you a warm bath in the luxurious clawfoot tub overlooking the Italian night lights. 

When he finally does speak to you, peeling off his layers of soaked clothing, you can tell he’s masking his true emotions under a facade of classic Rafayel sarcasm. Joking about whether he should write a Lemurian handbook for you or just read you 1,001 Lemurian stories. But he surprises you when his voice cracks with a raw genuineness, one that’s masked under layers and layers of hesitancy and loneliness. You can’t quite understand it.

“You can be my caretaker. And I can tell you 1,001 stories,” he mutters, eyes trained on the ground once more, voice soft and vulnerable. 

“I’m okay with every choice you provide,” he continues as he peels your wet jacket off your shoulders innocently. When his hand reaches the inside of your coat, grazing against your exposed waist, he pulls his hand back. His face is a storm of conflicted torment.

“...But you should take a warm bath first. Or else you’ll catch a cold.”

As he turns to leave, the sight of his lean and muscled back making you blush, you muster all your courage and call out to him, “You can’t leave. You still haven’t answered my question.”

You catch his wrist, using all your force to pull him back. Rafayel stiffens, unable to catch himself before he tumbles backwards into the filled tub. 

He’s able to protect his head from hitting the edge of the tub, the water sloshing around and splashing onto the tiled bathroom floor. Rafayel sits in the tub, not a semblance of annoyance on his face. Instead he looks flustered, the warm water clinging to his defined muscles.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Rafayel’s hair is disheveled, the water making clumps of his damp hair stick to his wet skin. His eyes watch you with inscrutable emotions, waiting for you to speak. 

You don’t answer his question, instead asking one of your own.

“You can spare me the details, but there’s something important you should tell me…” you hum, walking to his side by the tub, leaning over him, “How do Lemurians express love?”

Rafayel looks startled by your question for a second before composing himself, “Do you really want to know?” The fragrant candles in the bathroom flicker, the steam of the bath dancing against the soft flames. His words seem less like a genuine question…and more like a vague warning. 

Before you can respond, Rafayel’s fingers are closed around your wrist, tugging you into the tub on top of him. You squeal as Rafayel guides your body onto his, the violent crashing of water loud against the soft sound of the rain against the large glass windows.

Rafayel looks smug, his hand holding yours against his chest. You’re messily sprawled across his half naked body when he shifts you off of him so that he can sit next to you, his strong arm wrapping around your body. The warm water is uncomfortable against your still half-clothed body, but you can only focus on the way Rafayel holds your fingers up to his mouth, pressing a kiss into the back of your hand like you were royalty. 

“When Lemurians fall in love with someone…” Rafayel mutters, his warm breath fanning against your hand, “All our senses are committed to perceive them without question.” His eyes are intense as he speaks to you, hoping to convey even an ounce of the love he speaks so honestly of. 

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Your senses? Like…this?” You untangle your hand from his, bringing your index finger up to his lips. You barely graze his pouty bottom lip before he’s panting, struggling to speak. 

“...Your way of triggering my “senses” has only touched the surface,” he mutters sulkily, yet he has to look away from you, cheeks rosy at your mere touch. He grabs your hand, eyes locked back onto yours giving you a silent warning. 

But you only proceed further, your fingers grasping his chin, your eyes peering up at him with a faux innocence. It’s not long before your fingers wander south, pressing into his heaving chest, flitting around his sharp collarbones. Rafayel’s reaction only fuels you with mischief and confidence, the way his breath matches his heartbeat: fast, erratic, and demanding. 

He looks at you with almost…disbelief. Disbelief at your actions, but more so disbelief at the way your simplest touches can have his body reacting so viscerally. It was a testament of just how much the dark-mauve haired Lemurian loved you, his every sense reacting to you so readily.

“...Are all humans idiots?” Rafayel grits, refusing to look at you again. But his body betrays his words when your hand ventures further down. You’re barely able to register the shocked expression on his flushed face before your back is pressed into the edge of the tub, the water splashing wilding as Rafayel hovers atop you.

He’s careful not to press his body into you, knowing he’d be an absolute goner once he felt your core against his. His thick muscles twitch angrily as he holds you down against the back of the tub, your hand clutching his shoulder for support against his erratic actions. 

“Someone’s intentions are as clear as day,” he accuses you. Though his words hold not even an ounce of ill-intention, he narrows his eyes at you. Just then, the rain outside turns into lightning, briefly illuminating Rafayel’s ethereal features. The flash of light accentuates the tempest that’s brewing in suspicious eyes. 

As you watch the turmoil flicker in them, you suddenly think maybe you pushed too far, “Do you not like it?” Your voice comes out more insecure than you’d wanted it to, suddenly aware of how forward you were being.

Rafayel sighs, pausing before his voice comes out pained, “If I said I didn’t, would you stop?” 

At the hint of anguish in his voice, you move to pull your hand away. But Rafayel’s hand abandons its grip on the tub to clasp against your hand, holding it tighter against his neck, refusing to let you go.

You gasp, as his movements cause the warm water to swash around. With his forceful hand over yours, your flushed skin prickles against his alarmingly chilly skin. 

“Rafayel, your body is so cold!” you whisper worriedly, fearing he might be catching a cold. For a second you forget that he’s Lemurian, accustomed to the frigid depths of the ocean. As your eyes search his anxiously, hand still gripping his cold shoulder, Rafayel’s own eyes watch yours meticulously. 

The swirls of blue and pink in his eyes have always been breathtaking, like the perfect mix of the most expensive paints. But now, as he watches you with the depth of the whole Lemurian oceans in his eyes, you’re completely speechless to the flickering of rampant passion behind them. 

That is until he grabs your chin roughly. Rafayel was no stranger to taking what he wanted, but this was different. The way he grabbed you screamed of…insecurity. Demanding, but unsure all the same. His cheeks are tinged the prettiest of coral pinks, his bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly as he closes the distances between your faces. Quickly, so he can’t change his mind. 

His soft lips slot over yours in a bruising embrace of passion, need, and unwavering longing. There’s something mind numbing about how gently his lips take yours, yet the pads of his fingers hold your chin so forcibly, as if afraid you’d slip into the depths of the water and disappear from his arms forever. 

The thunder rumbles deafeningly but all you can hear is Rafayel. He pants into you, his mouth claiming every inch of your lips, of your tongue. He kisses you like he knows nothing else, like he feels nothing else. 

He doesn’t let you go, although you’d never want him to. You only want him to hold you tighter, pull you closer, take you harder. You want to protest when he finally pulls away, gasping as a thin rope of saliva connects your parted and bruised lips.

Flashes of light illuminate his face, making him look as ethereal as the sirens warned about in ancient tales and myths. He hesitates to speak, trying to find the words to convey the emotions he’s been trying to control since the memories of Verona had begun to overwhelm him. The memories of his past. His past with you.

“And you’re warm,” he pants, still trying to catch his breath. His heart was pounding painfully, his body always so willing to react to you. All his senses, always so hyper aware of you, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. His thumb strokes your glistening bottom lip, fingers still holding your chin captive. His eyes watch you with an unbearable longing, the previously intense crinkle in them softened to a tender vulnerability. 

“So perfect for me.”

Butterflies wriggle in your tummy, and you reach your wet hands reach up to cup his cheeks. 

“Rafayel, you seem different…” you mumble, stroking the cold and smooth expanse of his cheek. He looks down, avoiding your gaze, clearly grappling with a turmoil of intrusive emotions and memories. Despite that all, his face softens under your touch, even unbeknownst to him. 

Before you can ask him what’s on his mind, he’s rubbing his cheeks into your palms. The warmth of your affectionate embrace makes it difficult for Rafayel to think clearly, and he can’t stop himself from whispering, “Will you still love me no matter who I become?”

You’re speechless at the blatant insecurity in his voice, in his eyes. Rafayel was always confident, years as a world-famous artist had made him self-assured in more ways than one. But now, as his shadowed and down-cast eyes searched yours desperately for an answer, you could see just how unsure he was. You could see the cracks forming in his polished shield, the fissure spider webbing uncontrollably, on the precipice of shattering completely. 

His eyes pierce yours, fully intending to get an answer from you. You don’t even think he notices how pouty he’s become, his bottom lip protruding in an tragically adorable show of just how badly he needs you to understand him. To love him. 

To remember him. 

Unable to withstand his paralyzing gaze any longer, you yank him down to you by the chain that hangs around his neck. The silver necklace matched the shimmering bracelet he’d gifted you, that currently sits on your own wrist. 

Rafayel grunts as you pull him closer, clearly taken aback. His gaze doesn’t lighten, only becoming more intense and heated as your breath grows more bated against his own parted lips. 

“You…” he grumbles, trailing off, eyes flickering down to the beautiful sheen across your lips, before they dart away, looking to where his fingers grip the edge of the porcelain white tub. The rosy blush that dusts his cheeks gives away just how much he yearns for more, more of you. 

You find him to be so irresistibly tortured that you can’t help but hook your arm around his neck, pulling him further down until your lips collide with his collar. If you can take even an ounce of his tumultuous pain away, you’d do it.

The thunder roars violently as you kiss him, the water in the tub splashing over and hitting the bathroom tile. Rafayel is quick to relent all control, letting you take every inch of him. His fingers thread into your hair as you kiss his sensitive chest, teeth nipping at the cold skin on his collar. His whimpering gasps are audible, fingers tugging at your damp hair, as you suckle torturously at his chest, no doubt leaving a reddened bruise. 

When he finally pulls away, there’s a clear look of reluctance on his beautiful features. You try and pull him back, and he briefly lets you before pulling back, the look of hesitation returning to his thunderous eyes. 

You give up, instead moving your finger to brush against the reddened hickey forming on his collar. Rafayel looks at you, pained and begging for mercy, as your fingernails graze over the sensitive skin. 

“When humans fall in love…” you hum, admiring the beautiful bruise, “We try to leave a unique mark on them.” 

At that precise moment, the moment you mention you’re in love with him, you can visibly see the fractured remnants of Rafayel’s walls come crashing down. He pants, eyes fixed on the way your hand presses over the right side of his chest, so dangerously close to where his heart was. To where his bond with you was etched into his very soul. 

In that very moment, a flip switches in Rafayel. His eyes burn, not with anguish or uncertainty, but with a dangerous desire.

“If you say so…” he rasps, leaning in until your breaths mingle into one. As his eyes flicker closed, lips ghosting along yours, he whispers, just before his lips claim yours. 

“Join me, then.” His lips press into yours, holding back as to not take you completely.

“Let’s drown in the ocean.” He inhales your torrid gasps, his words deceitfully simple. 

“Together.”

Rafayel kisses you, instantaneously consuming you. He pants into you, unable to soften the way his body reacts to you, the way his senses consume you until there’s nothing left of him. To him, loving you, losing you, and repeating the cycle…felt exactly like that.

Like drowning. 

He throws all that emotion into the way he kisses you. The embrace is so intense that it makes tears form in your eyes, emotions welling in your chest so tightly you fear you might burst. 

When he pulls away to breathe, you look up at him, “You never answered my question from earlier.”

Rafayel’s eyes widened, knowing exactly which question you were referring to. What he didn’t expect was for you to be so direct. His eyes dart around, but you hold his face in your palms before he can physically turn away. He opens his mouth to speak, before pursing his lips again in hesitation. 

You gently prod him, fingers stroking his locked jaw, “Raf?” 

“It…” he starts, eyes crackling with emotions. Rafayel struggles to find the words. He knows exactly what he wants to tell you, but can’t find the words to express it to you. 

It’s not that he wanted to be withholding, least of all with you. He would give you anything. He had given you everything, time and time again. To the point where it destroyed him. 

But the fear of having it all taken away, again, had made him so reluctant to lean back into the wind, like he’d done so many times in the past. Too scared of how much of himself he’d lose again in the never-ending cycle of falling irrevocably in love with you. 

And yet, as much as it took from him, it didn’t matter. Because you were everything to him.

“In this human world…it’s not difficult for a Lemurian to become lonely,” he laments wistfully, eyes misted with a faraway look. 

He continues. “But in all the lives I’ve lived, I almost never felt lonely,” Rafayel gently smiles at you, a smile filled with a wistful sorrow. 

“Really? Why?” you ask genuinely, still soothing his hardened jaw. His features had softened considerably as he peered down at your wet form, the tension between his legs growing visibly.

Rafayel chuckles. His answer was simple. 

Because, there was always you. 

But that was a tale for another time. 

“Are you trying to trick a foolish Lemurian into giving up all his secrets again, my little human?” he whispers huskily, leaning down to kiss at the skin under your ear. 

You’re about to ask him what he means by again, but the words die on your tongue when Rafayel sinks his teeth into your neck. His fingers find the buttons of your drenched top, unbuttoning it feverishly, desperately shedding your layers of clothing off of you.

Before you know it, you’re naked in Rafayel’s arms, his own bare manhood pressed insistently into your inner thighs, dangerously close to your core. Though the rest of his body is chilly from the rainwater, his throbbing erection burns against your skin. Even submerged in water, you can feel his pre cum oozing onto your leg, hot and thick.

His lips trail down your shivering body, kissing the grooves of your collar, teeth grazing the swell of your breasts. He’s nearly heaving, gasping for air like he can’t breathe. And truthfully, he couldn’t.

The dam of his emotional barriers absolutely decimated, the flood of his unabated passion overwhelming his senses. There is only you. The smell, the sound, the feeling, the sight, the taste of you. 

A Lemurian in love. Utterly, brokenly, and wholeheartedly. 

You try to match his intensity, pulling at his soft and wavy hair, drawing him closer to your naked body. You thrust your chest towards him, wanting him to claim you like he’d done so many times before. 

Rafayel chuckles at your obvious desires, but more than willing to oblige. His Queen. 

His lips close over your breast, his lips cold but his tongue wet and hot against your nipple. The warm water splashes messily against your clashing bodies. The lightning outside flashes, the shadows of your lewd acts dancing against the bathroom walls.

“Nnghnh, R-Raf!” you wail, his skilled mouth devouring you whole. Your spine arches into his demanding mouth, the wet splashes of the bath and the ravenous slurps filling the acoustics of the hotel bathroom. 

The pleasure of his tongue is so intense that your body can’t help but squirm backwards. Rafayel chuckles almost cynically, as he captures the back of your neck with his long and slender fingers. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to run away from me,” he pouts, leveling with your drooping eyes, body already delirious from the pleasure Rafayel knows how to bring you. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, bringing your chin up so that your eyes meet, “Don’t make me wait anymore, please.” 

You can’t help but smile at his adorable pout, his eyebrows furrowed in a sulky plea. You wrap your hands around the back of his neck, twirling his wavy hair into your fingers, bringing him closer until your foreheads are pressed together. 

“I don’t want to wait either,” you whisper breathlessly against him, his face so close you can feel the length of his eyelashes against your cheek.

Rafayel gulps, his neck bobbing with the pressure of how forcefully he has to restrain his senses, restrain himself. It’s so clear how vulnerable he is to your every whim, so you take the opportunity to push him below you. His glimmering eyes shine with confusion, but he lets you climb atop him, hissing when your slick cunt presses down on his cock.

“What are you doing, Miss?”

You don’t answer, leaning over the tub to grab Rafayel’s damp cardigan, bringing it up to his face. He raises an eyebrow in question at you, his palms resting in the fat of your hips as your bare pussy drags against his pelvis. 

“Do you trust me?” you grin playfully at him, spreading the cardigan out and preparing to use it as a makeshift blindfold. Rafayel seems to know exactly what you’re planning. He looks up at you, inexplicable emotions reflected in his glassy eyes. 

“I do,” he whispers finally. His worlds are simple, yet something about them rips through your consciousness, filling you with a torrent of bittersweet fractures of a lost memory. 

A memory of another time Rafayel told you those same words.

I do.

Rafayel can read the confusion in your eyes, and squeezes your hips reassuringly. You’re shaken from the confusion of your mind-bending memories. Trying to focus on the moment at hand, you clear your throat and carefully tie the soft and expensive cardigan around Rafayel’s head, effectively cutting off his vision.

You lean down to whisper against his ears, lobes pink with excitement and anticipation.

“Let me show you what else humans do when we’re in love.”

Rafaye’s entire body quakes, his chest rising rapidly at your unabashed words. His fingers dig into your hips as he does his best to limit his embarrassingly visceral reactions to your body. With his vision limited, all his other senses are heightened to your will. 

With your lips at this ear, your neck is exposed to him. The smell of your pheromones mixed with your perfume clouds his thoughts, the urge to drive his teeth into your pulse so unbelievably overwhelming. But your palm on his chest pushes him down, your lips trailing down his ear, down his neck, and to his chest. 

With his eyes covered, his skin is all the more sensitive to your touch, 

“Please,” Rafayel rasps, nails digging into your thighs, “Please. I can’t wait anymore.”

You giggle at how adorably needy he’s become. You can tell just how much the blindfold affects him, his body more readily reactive to your lips, your fingers, your words.

Even with his eyes covered, Rafayel can’t help but pout. The inability to see you, his beautiful Queen, made him all the more desperate.

You decide to indulge him, fist closing around his cock under the water. Rafayel’s hips jolt violently, his lower half lifting to chase the friction of your soft hand. While he cries out in pleasure, you kiss down to where the water meets his defined chest.

“O-oh fuuck,” Rafayel hisses, his head thrown back on the edge of the tub, neck straining into the cool ceramic. His hips buck up into your fist wildly, your hand moving far too languidly for his taste. You continue to tease him slowly, his cock and your hand completely submerged under the surface of the water. He whimpers, teeth digging into his bottom lip, continuously thrusting up into your hand.

You take his desperation as an opportunity to torture him more, moving as gently as you can so that you can move up to his ear without him noticing. With your hand still pumping his oozing cock under the water, you whisper into his ear, letting your tongue graze his earlobe.

“When humans love someone…we want to make them feel good,” you whisper seductively into his ear, purposely letting your words come out in hot breaths. Rafayel jolts and squirms in response, fingers gripping the edge of the tub until his knuckles are pale white. 

“Sh-shiit,” he hisses breathlessly as your hand pumps up and down faster, the movements causing the water to ripple. His muscles flex under your touch, shining with a wet sheen against the flashing glow of lightning. 

“So? Does it feel good, Raf?” you murmur into his neck, pressing a chaste kiss to where his throat bobs with the heavy beat of his pulse. 

He thrusts himself into your hand violently, voice coming out in a gravelly groan, “Yes. You always feel so fucking good. S-so soft.”

Surprising him again, you take his lips into yours, insistently pushing your tongue into his mouth, all the while your fist continues to jerk him off. You catch every one of his unabashed moans with your own mouth, the muffled sounds of his pleasure mixing with the thundering storm outside.

It’s a furious clashing of saliva, teeth, and pure unfiltered passion. His fingers digging into your waist, your fingers squeezing his cock so tightly it threatens to have him spilling all over you and the filled tub. 

When you pull away, the spit dribbles down Rafayel’s chin and onto his damp chest. He looks adorably flustered, the cardigan still covering his eyes. With his sight gone, the feeling of your tongue against his, your fingers wrapped around his cock, your plush thighs against his twitching muscles is all the more intense. His body, all the more pliant for you. 

“Hah – if you keep going, I’m g-gonna–”

He doesn’t even have time to finish his words when his cock lurches in your greedy hands, thick and burning rivulets of cum shooting into the lukewarm bathwater. It’s strangely beautiful, like a ribbon of iridescent pearls. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Rafayel gasps, nearly choking over his own rapid breath, his fingers gripping the edges of the tub.

His body convulses with his orgasm, a broken mantra of swears and lewd groans the only thing audible even in the roar of the storm outside. 

“Nnnghnh – b-baby,” Rafayel whines as you pump him through a mind-numbing overstimulation, desperate to see you. But you don’t stop, only giggling as you watch even more cum spurt from his angry pink tip. 

In a sudden flash of splashing water and strong fingers gripping your thighs, you find yourself under Rafayel again, his hand holding the back of your neck protectively as he slams you into the edge of the tub. His cardigan no longer covers his eyes, likely discarded somewhere on the wet floor.

Your eyes are wide from the whiplash of his sudden movements, “Rafayel?”

His sunset eyes blaze wildly as he watches you, the sight of you so utterly indulgent and overwhelming after having his vision returned to him. 

“Will you let me worship you?” 

His question is vulnerable, desperate. He looks at you so damn hopefully that it’d be impossible to say no even if some insane part of you wanted to. 

You reach up to clasp his cheek in your hands, pulling him closer until your noses brush against each other, “Yes, always.”

With the breathy desperate utterance of consent leaving your lips, fanning across his open mouth, he loses it.

He forces your thighs wider, gripping you by the fat of your hips and dragging you towards him until your bare cunt brushes right against once-again hard erection. You were used to Rafayel’s virtually non-existent refractory period, his cock upright and commanding attention so quickly after his orgasm.

The lukewarm bath water makes every touch feel much more fluid, all the more intimate and sensitive. Your grip the edges of the tub for support, Rafayel’s movements erratic and unpredictable. He leans down towards you, your bodies as close as the confines of the tub will allow. 

“My Queen,” he mutters under his breath like a vow, shifting to line himself up with your entrance. Without another warning, he pushes himself into you. 

You squeal at the stretch, your arousal making it easy for him to push into you completely. Rafayel groans as he enters you, his head thrown back in ecstasy, his large hands wrapped around your thighs. 

Rafayel is absolutely not shy with his cries of pleasure. His body shudders even though he hasn’t moved since seating himself fully inside of your warm and impossibly tight walls. 

When he doesn’t move, you screw your eyes open in confusion, doing your best to speak through the wonderful stretch of his cock inside your quivering walls, “R-Raf? Are you okay?”

Rafayel doesn’t speak, but the glow of the storm outside illuminates the way his throat bobs, every fiber of his body overstimulated with the pleasure of your body gripping his, refusing to let go.

You move to shift towards him, worried about the way he’s locked up, but that only causes your body to involuntarily squeeze around him. Rafayel hisses, pushing you back down gently, his fingers caressing your cheek.

“I-I just need a second.”

“A-are you okay?” you ask worriedly.

“You’re so tight, so warm,” Rafayel chokes out, his fingers tightening around your cheek and thigh. You can vaguely feel his cock growing inside you, and it’s then you realize he’s paralyzed, not by hesitation or pain, but pleasure.

You can’t stop yourself from teasing him, clenching down on his manhood snug inside you. Rafayel moans, his hands coming down to grip your thighs in a silent warning.

“No more teasing me,” he cautions with a pout, one hand shifting to rest on your naval. At your mischievous grin, Rafayel presses down. 

You cry out, eyes rolling back as he forces the walls of your pussy to rub against his cock. Rafayel wants to smirk at your helpless writhing, but the sensation is also overwhelming for him. His body heaves, nearly collapsing on top of you, only catching himself by gripping the sides of the tub.

Your fingers wrap around his trembling biceps, eyes urging him to take you.

Rafayel swears, obliging at the fucked-out look in your eyes. He unsheathes himself fully from your addicting gummy walls, barely even leaving his tip in, before shoving himself back into you.

The newfound vigor of his thrusts makes the water in the tub slosh wildly, splashing all over your face and hair. But you could care less, because the feeling of his excitement bruising its way in and out of your throbbing cunt is literally all you can think about. Pathetic moans of pleasure, the only sound you can make.

Rafayel fares no better, strings of beautiful grunts leaving his own lips. His pelvis slams into your soft inner thighs, the sound of the water against your colliding skin sinfully mixing with your combined moans. 

“You’re so – nghnh – perfect for me, Y/N,” Rafayel groans as he drives into you, the tip of his cockhead brushing into your cervix and g-spot all at once, at every thrust. 

His hands clutching the tub on either side of your head cage you in, making it so the only thing you can focus on is him. And the only thing that his senses can perceive is you.

The only thing he can see is you, your tears mixing with the soapy water, the reddened love bites blossoming on your skin.

The smell of you heightened even against the fragrant scent of the bath soap, your pheromones driving him to the edge of insanity. 

Your wanton cries for him, fueling him to fuck you harder, the sounds of your sweet pleasure making his own noises come out unabashedly. 

The taste of you lingering on his tongue every time he bends down to capture your lips in his, saliva running down both your chins. 

But mostly…the feeling of your perfect walls constricting him, pulling him in, refusing to let go. The feeling of your hands, pressed deep into his twitching muscles. Your soft thighs locking him against your sopping cunt. 

God, he was so in love with you it was nearly pitiful. 

“You’ll always be my Queen,” Rafayel babbles, thrusts becoming erratic as he becomes overwhelmed by the bittersweet memories that’d resurfaced in Verona, “My entire heart.”

You nod vigorously at his words. “Always Raf,” you gasp, holding onto him as he pounds into you even harder, your spine thudding into the tub, the water cushioning the blows.

“You better never leave me,” he broods, putting every ounce of emotion into the way his cock claims every inch of your poor cunt. The word ‘again’ dies on his lips, the writhing artist above you opting to save that for another time.

“W-would – nnghnh – never leave you.”

His wild eyes focus on your words. He says simply, the subtleist hint of insecurity and doubt playing in his shaky voice, “I’m gonna – hah – hold you to that.”

You bob your head, wanting him to see how serious you are, see just how much he meant to you.

Your fingers venture to your clit, desperately pent up from all the sexual and emotional tension that’d built up from today. Rafayel doesn’t see you immediately, his head thrown back in a drawn out groan, his body glistening with sweat and bath water, chiseled muscles twitching with his impending release.

When he finally glances back down, he sees your fingers furiously pawing at your clit and he nearly growls at the sight beneath him.

His voice comes out broken and husky, uncharacteristically so for the normally charismatic and smooth-talking painter. He gently pushes your fingers away, his own lengthy and skilled fingers replacing yours.

“Let me,” he begs, hips stuttering as he nears his second release, “I’ll take care of you Y/N.”

His sweet words make you shiver, your body convulsing around him. Rafayel shudders as you grow tighter around him. It felt like you were nearly cutting off his circulation, in the best way. 

Rafayel’s fingers on your quivering bundle of nerves have you seeing lightning even with your eyes screwed tightly shut. He truly had the hands of a god, fingers slender and deft, the pads of his digits hardened from years of skilfully maneuvering expensive paint brushes. Your body was his canvas, and he’d spend hours creating art with you. 

“R-Rafayel, I’m soo – nngh – c-cloose,” you slur, your body arching into him, head thrown back until all you see is the ceiling above. 

Rafayel heaves at the sensation of you coming undone around him, his fingers still rubbing furiously. There’s a bright desperation in his glowing eyes, the need to see you cum on him as strong as the need to fill you up with his endless seed. 

As his body trembles above you, his fingers grip the tub so harshly his knuckles have turned taut and deathly white. 

“I-I’m close too, baby,” he groans, “Please, can I cum?”

You nod vigorously, wanting nothing more than to feel him release with you But Rafayel wants to hear you. 

“Say it, Y/N. Tell me,” he pleads, “I need to hear you.” His voice is so brokenly desperate it drives you closer to your release, the sound of his lewd pleas so utterly erotic. 

“Ra-Rafayel, n-need it s’bad. Shiiit – please!” you all but scream, his insistent fingers pushing you into your orgasm. 

Rafayel chews on his bottom lip as he watches how beautifully you explode on him, so unbelievably close to finishing himself. He desperately wanted to cum inside you, but he knew if he did that he would be at the point of no return. You’d very well spend the rest of your trip in Verona locked in your hotel room, his cock nestled inside you until you literally begged for mercy. And maybe not even then. 

So with every ounce of will he had left, he pulled out of you as he came, standing on his knees so he could wrap his fist firmly around his cock as he came. The force of his cum so strong it shot all over your damp breasts and even your face, your expression still contorted in the ecstasy of your climax. 

You watch in awe, your cunt convulsing around nothing, your orgasm tapering off, as Rafayel trembles through his own pleasure. His cum is hot as it splashes onto your wet body, some of it shooting into your hair. Honestly the sight of how powerfully his cock erupted makes your stomach lurch in arousal.

Rafayel whimpers through his endless orgasm, his fist pumping up and down as he finishes on you. You’re left quivering beneath his imposing body, mesmerized by the white ropes of cum that shoot from his angry red tip. 

When he finally finishes, his glassy eyes watch you, absolutely awestruck. He bends down, his forearms trembling as one grips the side of the tub, the other stroking your cheek. He catches a rivulet of his milky seed with his finger, grinning cheekily at your reddened face.

“I’ve never seen anything so damn beautiful.” 

If it’s even possible, your cheeks burn even more furiously. You swat his fingers away.

“Shut up,” you whine, looking around at your bodies, joined in the filled tub. You inwardly cringe when you notice there’s more pools of milky white fluid than there are bubbles at this point. The amount of cum he gave you every time was nothing short of a phenomenon. 

“It’s everywhere!” you shriek dramatically, hitting his chest above you, “We need to get cleaned up!”

Rafayel’s grin widens, and before you can ask him what he’s scheming, he uses the finger still on your cheek to smear his cum around.

“Rafayel!” you yelp, trying your best to inch away from his filthy fingers, coated in both your arousals, struggling due to the limited space of the tub.

“But you look so exquisite like this,” Rafayel murmurs, fingers capturing your chin, pulling you up to look at him, his eyes hazy and sated, “My beautiful Queen…”

He dips down to press a lingering kiss to parted lips, mouth hitched open in excitement. When he pulls away he grins playfully at you.

“Besides, it’s good for your skin. Lemurians have a lot of uses, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Is that why your skin always looks so flawless?”

Rafayel’s cheeks flare, his eyes averting from yours, “Okay! Let’s get cleaned up shall we?”

You smile widely, unable to contain your fit of giggles. Your body shakes with your laughter, making the water ripple, “You’ve tried it haven’t you?”

Rafayel’s sheepish expression answers your question, “No! Shut up!”

“I knew it!”

© aeyumicore 2024.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

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[lovelyhan]

— starcrossed losers ⟢

at age fifteen, you’re betrothed to a prince named jeonghan. at age twenty-five, you’re set to marry him. so when your father gives you a chance to find love all on your own, you immediately take it. now if only jeonghan would stop fucking sabotaging every relationship you’re trying to get into.

★ FEATURING; jeonghan x reader

★ WORD COUNT; 21k words

★ TAGS; princess!reader, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, magic & fantasy, betrayal (not frm jh), angst, minor character death, blood and violence, smut (MINORS DNI)

★ NOTES; two years... it took me TWO YEARS to write this and post it AJAHDSFJSHFDGDF i am sorry? SO DEEPLY SORRY!?!?!? but that aside, this probably only starts to get more jeonghan-centric at the 10k word mark... OUGH..... i needed to do a lot of worldbuilding AHAHAHAHA BUT I PROMISEE it's for good reason!

this is part of the it’s complicated series.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

★ SMUT TAGS; vaginal fingering, making out in places where you shouldn't, semi-public sex (that's it for this part unfortunately...)

Your life changed forever on a Tuesday morning.

As a princess, your days were dictated by a perfectly curated schedule. Every hour accounted for, every moment neatly placed in a grid of expectations and duty. It should have felt restrictive for most girls your age. But not for you. You liked the structure. The routine gave your life shape and purpose. You didn’t have to wonder what the day might hold or scramble to meet your obligations. All that was required of you was to show up, shoulders squared, chin high, and play your part in the ever-charming production of royal daughterhood.

Mondays and Wednesdays were for lessons with your private tutor—arithmetic, magical history, the foundations of politics and diplomacy. Tuesdays and Thursdays belonged to physical training. Fencing and archery were your common favorites. Fridays were reserved for etiquette, where you were taught about flawless posture, graceful curtsies, and a hundred ways to say no without ever using the word. Meanwhile, weekends were for socializing, when nobles from Ancarra and beyond paraded their heirs and fortunes before the court like trinkets at market.

On this particular Tuesday, Changkyun’s form was sloppy—left shoulder too low, footwork too eager—and you exploited it mercilessly, driving him back across the mat with a flurry of perfectly timed lunges. He faltered on his retreat, lost his balance, and went down with a sharp oof before the tip of your foil points just shy of his collarbone.

You didn’t smirk, but it took effort.

Flat on his back, your fencing partner let out a groan and flung an arm over his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Master Yesung. He’s turned you into a menace.”

“I’ve always been a menace,” you tell him, withdrawing your foil with a flick. “You’re just slow today.”

From the far end of the training hall, a low, throaty rumble of approval rolled across the floor like distant thunder. You glanced over your shoulder to find Reya lounging on the polished stone, tail twitching like he’s amused with your victory. The massive white tiger regarded you with half-lidded pride, resting his chin on his paws like the king he thinks he is.

Changkyun gave Reya a wary glance. “He still hates me.”

“He hates everyone,” you replied fondly. “Except me.”

You didn’t say the rest: that Reya is more than a pet. That you hadn’t tamed him—you found him, half-starved and snared by a hunter’s trap in the snowfields. That when your magic surfaced and it turned out you weren’t a fire-wielder, or a stormcaller like the other gifted scions of noble houses but simply a girl who could speak to animals: everyone acted like you’d been cursed with the art of babysitting.

That is not real magic, they said. It will never be useful in court.

So you honed your body instead. 

Foil. Footwork. Form. You mastered it all, until no one dared question your worth out loud. And maybe Changkyun is the only person who ever looked at you without that shadow of disappointment on everyone’s faces when they thought you wouldn’t notice.

Your fingers brushed as you help him to his feet, and your heart lifts—

—just as Royal Advisor Siwon clears his throat.

The sound snapped through the air like a blade cracking on steel. You and Changkyun jump apart.

“Your Grace,” Siwon said, bowing deeply. His silver-rimmed spectacles gleam in the sunlight. “The king requests your presence. Immediately.”

You blinked. “I’m in the middle of training.”

“I’m afraid this takes precedence, Princess,” he told you with the faintest edge of regret in his tone. He’s always been considerate of your feelings. “The matter is… personal.”

Your stomach twisted at that.

Moments later, you pulled off your gloves, tucking them under your arm beside your training foil. Reya got up from his corner with a huff as he padded silently toward you, his presence at your heel like a silent question.

“I’ll return,” you told Changkyun, though you’re not sure you will.

The halls of the Castle of Ancarra were quiet at this hour, but never truly still.

Morning sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, spilling pools of color across the floor dancing faintly over the stone as if the palace itself breathed. The scent of blooming flowers drifted in through open archways from the garden courtyards beyond, clinging to the walls like perfume. Somewhere distant, you heard the faint hum of magic wards being tuned by the royal mages, that soft shimmering sound like glass being struck gently by wind.

You, on the other hand, smelled like sweat.

Each step echoed a little too loudly as you padded down the eastern corridor. Beside you, Siwon walked with his usual glacial calm, every inch the model of a court advisor. Reya prowled silently behind you, massive white paws silent against marble. His fur rippled like snowdrifts in motion, and his blue eyes tracked every passing flicker of movement with the lazy wariness of a predator who knew he had nothing to fear.

You squinted up at Siwon, who maintained his pace without so much as glancing at you. “You know, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to assume I’m dying.”

“I assure you, Your Grace,” he replied without inflection, “you are not.”

“Then I’m being exiled.”

“Also incorrect.”

“Then what is it?”

He gave a patient sigh, the kind adults always gave when they thought you were being childish. (You were fifteen, not five, but that never seemed to matter.) “It is not my place to say.”

You groaned. “That’s what you always say.”

“Because it is always true.”

“Can you at least tell me if I’m going to like it?”

“Some might consider it an honor.”

“...Will you make me one of those snowman figures with your frost magic to shut me up?”

Siwon glanced at you, startled but amused. “I thought you already outgrew those, Princess.”

You huffed, and Reya let out a rumble behind you—his version of agreement, no doubt. You didn’t like the way this was heading. Siwon’s face gave nothing away, as usual, and there’s no way to break through his defenses.

Rounding the corner near the west wing stairwell, you nearly collided with one of the younger palace maids, who let out a startled yelp and nearly dropped her stack of linens.

“Oh! Princess!” she gasped, eyes wide as saucers. “You’re still in your fencing kit?”

You look at her bizarrely. “Yes? It’s fencing day?”

Regardless, she looked horrified. “Your hair is all—your tunic—oh dear, you’re soaked. I-I’ll have the other attendants prepare a bath immediately. Do you want rosewater or lavender? I can call for your blue silks, or maybe—”

“She won’t have time for that,” Siwon interrupted mildly, stepping forward. “Her Highness is expected in the king’s study at once.”

The maid faltered. “Oh. I see. O-Of course.”

You offered a weak smile. “It’s fine. My father’s seen worse. Remember when Reya broke into the aviary and I spent half a council meeting covered in goose feathers? This can’t be worse than that.”

Behind you, your tiger gave a low, pleased chuff. You could feel his smugness. The maid tried to laugh politely but gave up halfway through. She curtsied and retreated with all the urgency of someone fleeing a burning room.

You scratched behind Reya’s ear absently as you continued walking with Siwon. “You’d think they’ve never seen sweat before.”

“You are a princess, Your Grace,” Siwon said. “The ideal princess does not perspire. She glows.”

“I’ll be sure to glow after I’m dead.”

Siwon did not react.

Which, of course, was the worst reaction of all.

He reached the grand oak door at the end of the corridor and knocked twice with the back of his hand, the sound deep and final before opening the door.

“After you, Princess,” Siwon said, and you stepped across the threshold, sweat-streaked and bracing yourself for the sentence that would ruin the rest of your youth.

The scent of ink and parchment greeted you first.

Not the cloying perfume of court scrolls but something plainer. Vellum stacked in rows, ink dried in the well, candle wax crusted in yellow pools on the old wooden desk. A fire smoldered low in the hearth, casting long shadows over the high shelves. A half-eaten plate of bread and cheese sat untouched near the window, forgotten beside a ledger the size of a paving stone.

Your father sat behind the desk, hunched over a thick sheaf of correspondence, pen stilled in his hand.

The King of Ancarra was not a large man, not like the kings in your history books who towered over battlefields in gleaming armor. He was wiry, silver streaking his dark hair while the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened not by age but by long nights and hard decisions. He looked up when you entered, and the tiredness in his face softened.

“Bug,” he said, smiling gently. “You’re here.”

As Siwon left you two your own devices, you bowed because you were expected to. But when you straightened, you didn’t hide the concern in your face. Not even that old, endearing nickname could dispel your unease.

“You look awful.”

He barked a tired laugh and set the pen aside. “Thank you, sweetling. That’s what every man longs to hear from his daughter.”

You stepped forward, Reya padding behind you with the faintest growl of warning. He never liked this room. Maybe it reminded him of confinement, or maybe he just hated the smell of parchment.

“You’re still doing all the ledgers by hand,” you said, eyeing the mountain of work.

Your father didn’t deny it. “Who else would?” His smile was wry. “The ministers mean well, but they’d outsource my soul if I let them. I trust my own hand better.”

You bit your lip. He’d always been like this—stubborn in his solitude, steadfast in his refusal to lean on others. Ever since your mother died, he’d carried everything himself. That day was etched into your life, even though you weren’t old enough to remember it. You were told she passed giving birth to you. That her last words were your name. Your father never married again, never even considered it.

Part of you always wondered if that was loyalty, or guilt.

You moved to stand beside him, your sweat-streaked fencing gear looking very out of place in the quiet glow of his study. “You could have waited for me to change.”

He gave a soft hum. “Didn’t want to waste time. I know how long it takes for you to pick a ribbon for your hair.”

You gave him a playful glare.

And then, his expression changed—just slightly. The weariness didn’t fade, but something settled in beside it. A sort of gravity you’d seen only a handful of times in your life.

He gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit. There’s something I need to tell you.”

The hairs at the back of your neck prickled, but you do as you’re told. Reya let out another disgruntled noise as he curled at your feet, frost blue eyes squared on your father. Shortly after sitting down, you folded your hands and straightened your spine like you’d been taught.

“Is something wrong?” you asked.

“...You’ve grown,” Your father’s fingers brushed across the parchment before him, as if searching for the words inside it instead of in his own mind. “Fifteen now. Three years left until you’re given the Dawning Crown.”

That doesn’t quite answer your question.

The Dawning Ceremony was a rite of passage for every member of Ancarran royalty. On your eighteenth birthday, the veil of childhood would be lifted. You’d stand before the court in ceremonial robes, swear your oaths beneath the kingdom’s banner, and receive the Dawning Crown—a silver circlet that marked your right to advise the throne, to lead, to inherit. 

But something told you that wasn’t what the king summoned you for today. 

“Yes,” you said warily. “What of it?” 

Your father looked up at you then. His eyes—tired, kind, and quietly burdened—searched your face as if trying to memorize it before he said something you wouldn’t forgive.

“I’ve arranged a betrothal for you.” 

Silence dropped between you like a stone into water, and it rippled in your chest. You blinked, as if you’d misheard. “What?”

“A betrothal,” he repeated gently. “To Prince Jeonghan of Seraphia. The engagement will be announced before the year’s end. You’ll be married once you both come of age.”

Your throat went dry as you sat there stiffly, the rest of your body frozen while your brain scrambled to catch up. Outside, you could hear the distant flutter of birdsong through the windows, absurdly cheerful for the moment. Reya stirred at your feet, sensing your shock.

“But…” You swallowed. “I thought I would— I thought I’d be able to choose.”

Your father’s face flickered with regret, but his voice was firm. “I did what I had to, bug. This alliance is necessary. Seraphia’s port routes feed half our inland trade. And their King trusts Jeonghan to succeed him one day. He’s… he’s a good boy.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried not to make a sound like a dying bird.

Jeonghan.

You remembered him only in flashes. A diplomatic visit when you were thirteen. A boy with moonlight hair and a smile made of silk and sunshine. All the noble daughters swooned while he bowed and kissed their hands like something out of a storybook.

But you saw it.

You saw the glint of amusement in his eyes when he flattered people just to watch them squirm. The flick of his wrist when he’d “accidentally” stepped on your dress train. The way he’d offered you a honeyed tart, only for you to discover it was filled with chili paste. Your lips had burned for hours.

You scowled. “I would’ve preferred his brother. Joshua at least has a soul.”

The king’s sigh was long and worn, as though he’d rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in his head and never found a version where it didn’t end with you furious.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he said quietly. “But it’s what’s best. For the kingdom.”

You could feel the pressure in your chest start to swell—tight and hot and helpless. You shoved back from your chair, the legs scraping loudly against the polished floor. Reya’s ears flicked at the sound.

“So that’s it?” you demanded. “You marry me off to another kingdom and hope I forget everything I wanted? What about Ancarra? Who do you expect to rule when you’re gone, if I’m stuck in the next kingdom over with a husband I didn’t choose?”

Your voice rang louder than you meant it to, but once it started, it wouldn’t stop.

“Father, I’ve trained my whole life to help you. I’m learning about the laws, the politics, the treaties. I’ve fought and studied and bent over backwards to prove I’m not some fragile little girl just because my magic doesn’t shoot lightning out of my hands!” you sniffled, barely breathing with how much your throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. “And now you’re saying it’s all just... for decoration?”

Your father closed his eyes.

For a moment, the silence returned. Not heavy like before, but much more somber.

“You think I don’t want you here?” he asked, and your heart cracked at the roughness in his voice. “You think I haven’t dreamed of the day I’d see you on the throne beside me, crowned and proud, finally free to shape this kingdom with your own hands?”

The king stood behind his desk, and the gesture felt too slow for the weight of what he carried.

“You’ll still rule Ancarra in my place one day, bug,” he said, his voice low with weariness. “But I’ve seen the parts of you that mirror the worst of me. The way you shoulder everything on your own. The way you keep others at a distance, offering only what’s required and nothing more. I know that kind of loneliness. I’ve lived it. And I wouldn’t wish it on you.”

He looked at you then, and the weight behind his gaze was heavier than any crown.

“I’m not trying to chain you to another kingdom. I just want you to have someone by your side. Someone who sees you not as a sovereign, or a symbol, but as a woman. As a queen who doesn’t have to stand alone.”

You turned away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the anger from spilling out again. Just minutes ago, you’d been silently fretting over your father’s terrible habit of grinding himself into the ground—and now he was saying you were the same. That you’d inherited his loneliness like it was part of your bloodline.

Reya brushed against your side, his fur warm and solid as a low huff vibrated in his chest. You’re not alone, he said. I’m still here.

But the comfort didn’t dull the sting. It didn’t make the room feel any less like a cage.

“Please, bug,” he said softly, reaching across the desk to take your hands in his. His grip was warm, steady, and just a little too gentle. “I need you to trust me. Just for now.”

You looked at him—at the sleepless shadows beneath his eyes, the ink smudged into the creases of his fingers, the quiet burden he carried alone because he never let anyone close enough to share it. Your chest ached.

You nodded, once. “Just for now.”

Life went on, as it always did.

Your schedule remained unchanged—lessons, training, etiquette, more training. The castle walls stayed the same shade of honeyed stone, and the banners still rippled with the wind in Ancarran silver. No one treated you differently, but that was the worst part. The servants still curtsied, the guards still bowed, and Siwon still handed you your briefing scrolls with quiet efficiency. As if nothing had changed. As if your future hadn’t just been carved into stone.

But when you walked through the halls, people looked at you a little longer. Nobles smiled a little too kindly. Maids paused mid-task to whisper behind their hands.

Reya sensed the shift, too. He stayed closer than usual, his great striped head brushing your elbow when you walked, his breath warm at your back when you slept. His presence grounded you, but not even he could quiet the nervous churn in your stomach as the ceremonial dinner approached.

The Seraphian royal family arrived two days after the harvest moon. Their procession was the usual fanfare—banners and courtiers, guards in gilded armor, a fleet of pearl-dappled carriages led by plumed steeds. You watched it unfold from the balcony with arms crossed, ignoring the way your heart drummed harder when you spotted Jeonghan stepping out in gold-trimmed robes, his hair ink-black and tied back with a silken cord. 

It used to be much lighter, didn’t it? Though there were always rumors about the eldest Seraphian prince—that he changed his hair as often as his wardrobe, either by spellcraft or cosmetics. You weren’t sure which unnerved you more. 

The ceremonial dinner was held that evening in the Grand Marbled Hall. Candles glittered in every chandelier. The finest cutlery had been polished to mirror-shine. You were seated at the right of your father; Jeonghan sat directly across from you, grinning like this was all terribly funny.

For the sake of appearances, you were perfect. Pleasant and regal as you should be. You smiled when prompted, clinked your glass when toasts were made, and managed not to stab anyone with your fork. But once dessert had been cleared and the nobles began drifting into smaller pockets of conversation, you stepped away from the main table. 

And, of course, Jeonghan followed.

“You’re brooding,” he said, appearing at your side like a shadow. “It’s a charming look on you, truly. Very mysterious, but also very tragic.”

“I’m resisting the urge to toss you into the fountain,” you said coolly, still upset over Reya being barred from the ceremonial dinner. Siwon claimed your tiger would terrify half the guests into fleeing back to their homelands, but honestly? That’s exactly where you want Jeonghan to be. 

All of a sudden, Joshua materialized behind him with a sigh. “Brother, maybe you shouldn’t antagonize your future wife during the first dinner.”

The older boy raised an innocent brow. “I’m simply trying to get to know her better. It’s called bonding.”

“It’s called being a smug little shit,” you muttered, turning to Joshua. “Remind me again why they didn’t marry you off instead?”

“Because I’m only thirteen, Princess,” Joshua said with a rueful smile. “And unlike Jeonghan, I can’t talk my way out of anything. Or into it.”

Jeonghan pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

This was what your interactions looked like for the next few years. 

Time wore on in polished routines and reluctant familiarity. Your lessons deepened. You traded your fencing foil with a sword. Your council briefings grew longer. And through it all, the shape of your future loomed larger, carved into every careful glance from the court, every politely worded expectation.

Jeonghan visited often enough to fulfill duty, but never more than that. He was cordial in public, infuriating in private. He knew just how to smile at the other noble girls, how to offer a compliment sweet enough to make them blush. But never you.

You weren’t sure when it started to bother you.

He didn’t try to charm you. Didn’t send letters. Didn’t hover by your side during banquets or take your hand when music played. Instead, he teased you, irritated you, challenged you. When you dueled with the court trainers, he’d lean against a post with a smug grin and critique your footwork. When you won a mock debate in strategy lessons, he’d ask if you were aiming for tyrant or empress.

He wasn’t cruel. Just… completely uninterested.

And so, you mirrored him. Distant, cool, and unimpressed.

It was easier that way. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you preferred it like this—that it was better if neither of you cared. That way, when the Dawning Ceremony finally arrived, and the court crowned you with silver and called you queen-to-be, you wouldn’t look for him in the crowd. You wouldn’t hope he was watching. Wouldn’t wonder if he saw more than just a political pawn.

You were eighteen now. The veil of childhood had been lifted. The Dawning Crown gleamed in your reflection like a weight you’d only begun to feel.

The door creaked open behind you. Your stylists fell silent at once—one still halfway through pinning the final clasp on your ceremonial mantle. When they turned and caught sight of who had entered, they dipped into low bows, murmuring deferentially before excusing themselves in a flurry of silks and whispered footsteps.

You met your father’s reflection in the mirror.

He looked tired. Always did, these days. The strain of kingship lived in the soft slump of his shoulders, in the silver threading through his dark hair. But tonight, he wore a quiet pride that almost softened it.

“I still remember when you used to run barefoot through the garden, covered in dirt and insisting you’d seen a dragon in the clouds,” he said, his voice low and fond. “And now look at you.”

You turned to face him fully. The ceremonial robes felt heavier under his gaze—woven from Ancarran silver and river-blue silk, embroidered with threads that shimmered like starlight. The Dawning Crown had been nestled into your hair not ten minutes ago, and already it felt like a permanent weight.

“You’ve grown into a fine heir,” he went on. “The court respects you. The people speak your name with hope. I have no doubt you’ll rule even better than I did.”

The words landed gently, like feathers instead of stones, but you only offered a small nod. “Is that all, or did you come to deliver another surprise engagement?”

He huffed a laugh. “Not today.”

A shape lingered in the hall behind him. You turned toward the figure, and felt your spine straighten when he stepped inside. You recognized him immediately. 

Lord Kwon Soonyoung of the River Quarter. Young for a noble, but sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and endlessly frustrating to the older lords who couldn’t keep up. He spoke boldly during court sessions, often to your quiet amusement. Not because he was reckless, but because his suggestions made sense. Because they weren’t rooted in pride or greed or tradition-for-tradition’s sake.

You could tolerate Soonyoung.

More importantly, Reya mirrored the same sentiment. Your beast stirred at your side but made no noise. His tail thumped once against the floor, and when Soonyoung reached out, Reya allowed him to touch his head—without biting or growling or snarling.

You blinked. “He never lets anyone do that. Not even the king.”

Soonyoung smiled faintly. “I bring very expensive jerky to council meetings.”

Your father gave a dry cough that might’ve been a laugh. “I thought it was time you had an advisor of your own,” he said, shifting his weight. “Someone who understands your vision. Who won’t cower, but won’t sabotage you either. You’ll still have access to the council, of course. But from now on, Lord Kwon will report directly to you.”

You glanced back at Soonyoung, one brow arching.

He inclined his head solemnly. “If you’ll have me.”

And despite the crown digging into your temples, despite the pressure mounting outside those palace doors, you found yourself almost relieved for once.

The kingdom held its breath as the sun dipped low behind the peaks of Ancarra, casting long shadows across the capital. From the grand plaza to the marble steps of the palace, thousands had gathered to watch you rise.

The Dawning Crown sat heavy atop your head—woven silver and moonstones, forged centuries ago for this moment. You wore it like you wore the future: unshaking, though it pressed against your every thought.

You stepped forward beneath the carved arch of the Grand Marbled Hall, every bell in the capital chiming at once. Your people stood below. Nobles flanked the raised pavilion. The wind caught your cape and made you look more like a figure from myth than flesh and blood.

Jeonghan, of course, was in the very front of the crowd, cloaked in Seraphian white and gold. His black hair fell loose tonight, ribbon tied lazily at the nape of his neck, and his expression is half amused, half something else. He didn’t look proud. He didn’t even look solemn. That damn prince simply looked like he was waiting for something only he knew the shape of.

You tore your gaze from him as the High Chancellor stepped forward.

His voice carried through the twilight air: blessing your name, your bloodline, your title. You bowed your head at the proper moment.

When it was your turn to speak, you found your voice more easily than expected. You spoke not just as a daughter, but as a queen-in-waiting. You spoke of duty, and legacy, and of your people—of Ancarra’s strength. The crowd answered with a roar.

And just like that, it was over. The stars blinked to life overhead. The music would begin soon. So would the toasts, the dancing, and the procession of noble flatterers lining up to be seen. But first—you slipped from the velvet crush of the crowd and found Soonyoung waiting just off the ceremonial steps, where the torchlight flickered low and Reya prowled like a sentinel in the dark.

He stiffened when he saw your expression. “Princess?”

You pulled him aside, away from the footmen and ladies-in-waiting, and met his eyes.

“You’re my advisor now,” you said, voice low but steady.

He nodded.

“Then this is your first task,” you whispered. “If you cannot stop my betrothal to Jeonghan… delay it. Months, years—I don’t care. Just buy me time. As much as you can.”

Soonyoung blinked. “And if they ask questions?”

“They won’t.” You stepped closer. “Because you’ll be clever. And because no one—not the council, not the court, not even my father—can know that it was me who told you.”

Your advisor hesitated only a moment longer.

Then he smiled, something sharp and wolfish. “Consider it done.”

Years passed like storms over open fields—loud, relentless, and gone before you could catch your breath.

Your title grew heavier with each passing season. Every month brought new scrolls to sign, new decisions to weigh, new nobles testing your patience and pretending not to. But by your side, always, was Soonyoung.

He proved himself more than just a quick wit and a clever tongue. He was tactful when you were tired, bold when you hesitated, and disarmingly good at navigating court politics without letting it twist him. Most importantly, he did as you asked: he stalled. And stalled. And stalled.

Soonyoung often cited economic instability. He sowed polite doubt about timing. He suggested further diplomatic exchanges. And every time the matter of the betrothal crept to the surface, he found a way to push it back under without leaving fingerprints. For that, you trusted him more than most.

Still, no amount of clever maneuvering could keep Jeonghan away.

The Seraphian prince was a constant thorn in your side. Not overtly cruel but sharp enough to get under your skin. He made biting comments over tea with the council. Danced merely once at galas, and always with just you, even if his smile never reached his eyes. He acted the perfect prince in public, all grace and golden formality, but in private he still found delight in teasing your temper and smirking when it frayed.

And you matched him, blow for blow. It was the only way you knew to survive it.

You tried everything else. You proposed policy changes that would jeopardize the alliance. You drafted appeals to dissolve the arrangement. You whispered to other members of court, trying to find a crack in the centuries-old yet unspoken agreement binding Ancarra and Seraphia. But the betrothal endured, untouched, like some ancient curse carved into stone. 

You were set to marry each other once you both turned twenty-five, and not even Soonyoung could circumvent the inevitable for longer than he already had.  

On the eve of your twenty-fourth name day, you couldn’t bear it any longer.

You found your father in the observatory, where he often retreated these days, away from court noise and council bickering. He looked older now—softer around the eyes, silver threading his entire beard—but still steady, still listening.

“I’ve done everything you asked,” you told him, voice low but urgent. “I’ve honored the engagement. I’ve strengthened our kingdom. I’ve waited. But please…” Your hands clenched at your sides. “Please let me find love on my own. Not in a treaty. Not in an obligation.”

The king looked up at you, quiet for a long moment. And in that silence, your heart thudded so loudly you feared he could hear the break in it.

Your father didn’t answer right away. He looked at you for a long time, like he was peering through the layers of duty you wore like armor—past the queen-in-waiting, down to the little girl who used to trail behind him with ink on her sleeves and admiration in her eyes.

Then finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair, wearier than you’d ever seen him.

“If you must,” he said softly. “Then choose. But do it wisely.”

And just like that, the floodgates opened.

Soonyoung, ever your loyal accomplice, was the first to act. But your father’s advisor, Siwon, was ten steps ahead. Between them a list was compiled: eligible bachelors from noble families across the continent. Men with good standing, decent lineage, tolerable personalities. A thick folder of names, portraits, court records, and correspondences appeared on your desk within the week.

“You asked for love,” Soonyoung reminded you, lifting an eyebrow. “Not obscurity. We still have to make it look… proper somehow.”

You stared down at the endless sea of faces, all of them smiling too politely. The illusion of choice wrapped in silk and gold. It wasn’t exactly what you’d hoped for, but it was something—a sliver of agency in a life that rarely allowed any.

Near the end of the list, a familiar face stopped you cold.

Im Changkyun.

The boy who used to spar with you in the training yard until both your arms gave out. The only one who never pulled his strikes. Who called you “lightfoot” just to get under your skin and laughed when you beat him anyway. He’d left court years ago to pursue something abroad for a few years—you hadn’t heard from him since.

You held his portrait a moment longer than the others.

He looked older now, jaw sharper, eyes steadier. But something in his expression was the same: direct, unafraid. You set the image aside, just slightly, like a card at the top of a deck.

“Considering him?” Soonyoung asked, not even trying to hide the curiosity.

You didn’t answer. Not really. Just tapped the edge of the page and muttered, “He’s not terrible.”

Several days later, you invited Changkyun to the castle.

The back gardens were quiet this time of day—just enough sunlight spilling through the high hedgerows to illuminate the walking path in pale gold. The magnolias were in bloom, their wide petals fluttering in the breeze like fallen silk. You waited near the old stone bench beneath the olive tree, Reya sprawled lazily in the grass at your feet like he didn’t weigh as much as a small carriage.

Siwon and Soonyoung lingered at the archway entrance, trying and failing not to look like posted guards. You’d already told them three times that Reya was protection enough—and given the way the striped beast flicked his tail with bored menace, you were fairly confident no one would get within lunging range without permission.

Still, you appreciated their presence. Just as you appreciated the way the household staff had been strictly instructed, sworn to silence, and double-compensated for their discretion.

No one from Seraphia could know. 

You heard footsteps before you saw him—light, careful, and familiar. When Changkyun emerged from the vine-draped path, the first thing you noticed was how tall he’d gotten. His frame was broader, shoulders squared. His hair was longer now too, tied back against his nape.

But then he grinned, and you knew it was still him.

“Well,” he said, stepping into the clearing with a casual ease that made Reya lift his head. “Some things don’t change.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Your taste in terrifying pets.” He nodded at your tiger. “Still looks like he wants to eat me.”

Reya snorted through his nose. You weren’t entirely sure it wasn’t a laugh. “He does. But only a little.”

Changkyun bowed low, more mockery than formality, then straightened and met your eyes. “Your Highness.”

“Don’t,” you said, voice softer than you expected. “Not here.”

His expression eased. “Alright, Lightfoot then.”

You nodded despite the jab, the name fitting better in his mouth than you remembered. And for a moment, standing there in the hush of a secret meeting surrounded by the scent of olive and magnolia, you felt like a girl again. A little reckless. A little hopeful.

“So,” Changkyun said, glancing past you to where the advisors waited in careful silence. “Am I here for tea, or a political inquisition?”

You smirked. “That depends on whether you’re still terrible at fencing.”

“Oh no,” he groaned. “You’re going to beat me again, aren’t you?”

“If you’re lucky,” you said, turning to lead the way deeper into the garden. “If you’re not, Reya will.”

And Reya, as if understanding perfectly, bared his teeth in a lazy grin.

You walked side by side with Changkyun through the garden path, Reya ambling behind like a silent chaperone. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable, just tentative. It had been years, after all. He’d grown into his frame the way trees settle into their roots—steady, grounded, and unpretentious.

You stopped at the far end of the gardens beneath a low-limbed willow, leaves swaying like curtains in the wind. When you turned to face him, the words tangled briefly on your tongue.

Changkyun tilted his head. “You’re fidgeting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said, grinning. “Same way you used to before you asked to borrow my practice foil. Or when you were about to do something reckless.”

You huffed, cheeks warming. “I’m not here to be reckless. I’m being strategic.”

“Same thing, in your case.”

You gave him a look, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll be frank with you.”

“That’s new.” He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.

You ignored him. “You’re here because I’m… looking.”

His expression shifted—curious, but not alarmed. “Looking? For what?”

“A husband,” you said quickly, like yanking a bandage off. “Someone suitable enough that my council and court will approve. Someone who could make this kingdom feel less like a cage, and—” You stopped, biting the inside of your cheek. “Someone I could maybe stand.”

Changkyun blinked, taken aback for a moment, then leaned in slightly. “But… aren’t you already betrothed?”

You stilled before carefully saying, “It’s complicated.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Not pressing, not even judging, but he did take a moment to read between the lines.

“Right,” he said finally, with a nod. “Complicated.”

You were grateful he didn’t pry further.

Hmph, you thought. If Jeonghan were this thoughtful, I wouldn’t have a problem with it.

You immediately wanted to punch yourself. What? No. No. Why in the world—? You shook the thought off like water from your hands. Ridiculous. Completely and utterly—

“I’m flattered,” Changkyun said gently, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. “Really. It means a lot that you’d even consider me.” His eyes dimmed just a little. “But I can’t.”

Your heart paused. “Can’t…?”

He nodded, almost apologetically. “There’s someone else. We’ve been together a while now. She’s not from a noble house, so it was never going to be public, but… we’re expecting a baby in the spring.”

It hit you like a brick wall of mortification. “Oh, gods—Changkyun, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you in a—”

“No, no,” he said, holding up a hand. “I know you didn’t. You never would have tried if you did. I’m honored you thought of me, but I’ve already made my choice.”

You took a step back, mortified beyond belief. “I just tried to poach a taken man.”

“With a pregnant partner,” he added with a teasing grin. “A bold move, even for you.”

“Stop laughing,” you hissed, trying to suppress the heat crawling up your neck. “This is a diplomatic disaster.”

And of course, when you turned to stalk back to the garden entrance, you saw them—Soonyoung and Siwon, standing just where you left them, whispering like schoolboys and failing horribly at hiding their laughter.

“You both knew, didn’t you?” you growled.

Siwon cleared his throat and looked up at the sky. Soonyoung offered a helpful shrug. “We just wanted to see how long it would take for you to find out.”

“You’re both fired.” 

“You’ve said that four times this month,” Soonyoung said cheerfully.

“And it gets less believable every time,” Siwon added.

Behind you, Changkyun laughed again. Reya huffed. You tried very hard not to fling yourself into the hedge and disappear.

You went back to the drawing board with a vengeance.

The wall of your study, once reserved for regional maps and grain forecasts, was now a collage of organized chaos. Pinned parchments fluttered in the breeze from the open window—portraits, lineage charts, summaries of estates and personalities. It looked less like a matchmaking effort and more like a war room. Reya had taken to curling up just outside your door, wisely avoiding the flurry of thrown quills and muttered curses.

Siwon and Soonyoung stood to one side, arms crossed like generals surveying a battlefield. They were your most loyal—yet infuriatingly conniving—advisors, offering unfiltered commentary with the energy of drunk gossip mongers.

“Lord Hwan?” Siwon suggested, tapping one parchment with a silver quill.

“Too stiff,” you replied without a hitch. “He talks like he’s trying to sell me on an insurance scheme every time he opens his mouth.”

“What about the Crown Viscount’s second son?” Soonyoung asked. “Handsome. Educated. Keeps birds.”

“He also believes women shouldn’t sit in council chambers. Next.”

After a while, the portraits dwindled down to just a few names that hadn’t been immediately dismissed. Among them, a new face caught your eye—a boyish nobleman from the southern coast. You remembered him. Soft-eyed but sharp-tongued. He has an earring glinting in his official portrait, a reputation for charity work, and biting courtroom wit.

“Boo Seungkwan,” Siwon said, noticing your gaze. “Heir to the wine barons of Chasan.”

“Isn’t he the one who screamed at the High Treasurer for misappropriating village taxes last winter?” you asked, intrigued. “

Soonyoung grinned. “The very one. Rumor has it the Treasurer nearly cried.”

You plucked Seungkwan’s page from the wall. “I like him.”

“He’s a bit dramatic,” Siwon offered.

“He’s principled,” you corrected, pinning the portrait near the top of the selection board. “And I’ve had enough of spineless men. Give me someone who isn’t afraid to raise his voice when something’s wrong.”

“He also sings,” Soonyoung added helpfully.

“Even better.”

You three stood there a moment, gazing up at the organized chaos—your court of candidates, your silent rebellion. It could be the most brilliant plan in the world, or the one that precedes its impending doom, but you’re more than willing to take a gamble.

It didn’t take long for you to make the journey to Chasan.

You traveled in an unmarked carriage with Soonyoung at your side, no royal banners or official escorts. Siwon had protested—loudly, thoroughly, and with increasing despair—but your father, ever the silent observer of your misery, gave his blessing with one condition: Keep a low profile. 

Chasan was warm with early spring, the hills rolling green and gold beneath a sun that glinted off the distant sea. When your carriage pulled up to the modest but elegant estate of the Boo family, no one rushed to greet you. No horns. No footmen. Just a confused stable boy blinking at you like you’d ridden in on a cloud.

You glanced at Soonyoung, who raised an eyebrow.

“Guess no one told them the queen-to-be was dropping by.”

“I did write in the letter that I’d come in person,” you muttered.

One of the household servants scurried out after some frantic internal shouting. “Our deepest apologies, Your Highness, Sir Boo is in the lower vineyards at the moment. We… we weren’t expecting you so soon.”

“It’s fine,” you said, already stepping down from the carriage. “We’ll find him ourselves.”

Soonyoung caught up, eyes scanning the gentle sprawl of grapevines that stretched toward the southern slope. “Maybe you’ll get to see what he’s like in the wild,” he joked.

You shot him a look.

The two of you wandered down narrow earthen paths between sun-dappled vines, boots crunching softly over tilled soil. A few workers paused to bow, but no one made a fuss. Chasan was humble in the way that made you ache a little. No gold plating, no marble archways. Just earth, sky, and the scent of crushed grape skins in the wind.

“There,” Soonyoung whispered, grabbing your elbow and pulling you behind one of the taller vine trellises. You followed his gaze and stopped short.

Boo Seungkwan was farther down the row, partially shielded by the grapes, one hand still gloved in working leathers. He was laughing, light and warm, as he leaned close to the young servant boy in front of him. 

And then, without hesitation, he kissed him.

Not a scandalous kiss. Not a stolen one either. But soft, sure, and heartbreakingly tender.

You stared, your heart thudding with a strange sort of… sorrow. Or maybe guilt. You hadn’t meant to intrude. You hadn’t expected this.

Soonyoung gently nudged your arm. “Guess we’ll be checking him off the wall.”

You swallowed and turned away, careful not to make a sound as you whispered, “Let’s go. He deserves to enjoy this moment without a royal shadow looming over it.”

Neither of you spoke again until you were halfway back to the estate, the quiet breeze tugging gently at your cloak.

“…Siwon is never going to stop laughing about this,” Soonyoung said at last.

You sighed. “I know.”

That crushing defeat hit you harder than you thought.

You didn’t speak to anyone for days. Not after Seungkwan. Not after Soonyoung tactfully burned the last of the correspondence in your fireplace while Siwon wordlessly updated the registry of Unviable Matches with a heavy sigh.

Maybe this was your fate. Maybe it had always been. Maybe you were foolish to think you could outrun the gods' ink when the story had already been carved in gold. Betrothed at fifteen. Crowned at eighteen. Wed to Jeonghan by—

You didn’t let yourself think the year aloud.

Your advisors, mercifully, didn’t try to coax you out of your misery. No jokes. No teasing. No “we’ll find another” or “what about this one.” Just silence and quiet presence.

Siwon left your tea in the mornings and your scrolls at dusk. Soonyoung started keeping his sarcasm locked behind his teeth. Even Reya laid his massive head across your lap while you read, his usual restlessness tempered as if he, too, knew your storm was not one that could be barked away.

You went through the motions. Court duties. Decrees. Oversight reviews. But your spirit dragged its heels, worn and brittle. And after nearly a week of going nowhere, you couldn’t take the stillness anymore.

So you left.

No guards or carriages. Only a cloak over your shoulders and Reya at your side, his striped form padding silently beside you as you stepped out into the humming heart of the capital.

The city had always been your balm. Cobblestone streets. Songbirds in the eaves. Familiar chatter from vendors and weavers calling out their wares. The people greeted you with warmth, not fanfare. They knew Reya by sight now—knew his name, even—and parted for him without fear. Children ran up to scratch his ears. Old women offered you candied dates or weathered blessings.

You wandered further through the market square, slowing as a tapestry caught your eye. It looks new, strung between two wooden posts—its threads shimmering silver in the sunlight. A dragon this time, coiled mid-roar and stitched with care and pride.

Before you could move on, a small hand tugged at the hem of your cloak. You looked down to find a boy, no older than ten, staring up at you with wide, serious eyes. In his hands, he held a delicate ring of daisies and chamomile.

“It’s a crown, Your Highness,” he said shyly, holding it out like a secret. “Not the fancy kind, but it  feels nice to wear.”

You crouched to his height, gently taking the floral gift with both hands. “Then it’s perfect,” you whispered. “Thank you.”

Thank the stars you hadn’t worn your Dawning Crown. It would’ve felt like mockery now. You slipped the flower ring over your head and straightened. The child beamed. Reya gave a gentle huff of approval, as if to say: See? You still matter to the people.

You exhaled slowly and looked over the rooftops where the palace glittered far above the city.

You weren’t ready to give up yet.

After purchasing some trinkets to bring home to your father and your lousy advisors, your footsteps take you further beyond the market. The flower crown sat a little lopsided on your head, but you made no move to fix it as you settled onto the edge of the city square’s old stone fountain.

Reya laid down beside you with a content grunt, his chin resting on his massive paws as his tail flicked idly across the cobblestones. A warm breeze blew, catching the scent of fresh bread and sun-warmed stone. Pigeons cooed and strutted about the square like they owned it.

One of them hopped closer, cocking its head.

“Well?” you asked it. “I don’t have food but you get conversation. Fair trade?”

The pigeon blinked, unimpressed. You’re not who usually feeds us. Where’s that baker girl with a soft voice and flaky biscuits?

“Hm. She’s got better treats and a softer voice,” you laugh. “You birds have standards.”

Another pigeon joined the first, eyeing Reya suspiciously. Why do you always drag around that oversized tiger? He looks like he eats things like us for fun.

Reya rumbled low in his throat without lifting his head. Keep talking, feathers. I haven’t had lunch.

The pigeons flapped backward in alarm, cooing indignantly.

Savage! Barbarian! You wouldn’t dare—

“Ignore him,” you said, stifling a smile. “He likes pretending he’s scarier than he is.”

Reya huffed again, this time clearly offended.

One pigeon scoffed. He nearly ate one of us the last time you were here.

“And one of you tried to steal his jerky. Actions have consequences.”

You sat there for a few more minutes, chuckling quietly at the birds' gossip—half of it nonsense, half of it accurate enough to be alarming—until you heard a voice behind you. Gentle and familiar in a distant, unexpected way.

“May I join you, Your Highness?”

You turned your head, and nearly gasped.

Standing just beyond the sun-dappled edge of the fountain was a boy you hadn’t seen in years. No—not a boy anymore. He was taller now, broader at the shoulders, his dark hair falling just past his collar. Instead of court finery, he wore a pared-down version of Renxing armor: travel-worn, softened at the edges, the pauldrons stripped away and the gold embroidery dulled by dust and sunlight.

You blinked, almost laughing from the sheer surprise of it all. “Minghao! Stars, it is you.”

“It’s good to see you again, Princess.” He caught your hands when you reached out—steady and familiar. 

But before the moment could settle, Reya let out a low growl, rising onto all fours. His ears are pinned back, blue eyes locked on your old friend with unmistakable suspicion.

“Oh, stop that,” you said, stepping in to soothe him with a hand on his head. “Reya, Hao’s a friend. Not lunch.”

Something’s wrong, he growled, muscles coiled beneath your touch. He smells like fire and blood.

You hesitated, fingers buried in Reya’s thick ruff as his growl faded to a low, vibrating hum. His tail didn’t flick, his gaze didn’t waver.

Fire and blood…

Minghao probably did smell like both, even if you couldn’t catch the whiff. Maybe in the way old battlefields did. Burnt magic clung to his clothes like smoke. His hands bore the marks of sword work, knuckles darkened with bruises that hadn't fully healed. Still, he was a fire elemental. And the general of the Renxing army. What else was he supposed to smell like? Roses?

But hostile as he was, Reya had never reacted like this before.

You gave his ear a scratch, more for your comfort than his. “He’s just being dramatic,” you said lightly. “Doesn’t like surprises. Or anyone who’s taller than me.”

Minghao smiled. “I could kneel, if that helps.”

“Don’t tempt him.”

He chuckled, stepping closer with a graceful ease that didn’t match the war-weathered armor. “Did he say anything interesting?”

“No,” you lied smoothly, straightening up. “Just a lot of growling and wounded pride. Why? Worried he’s giving away secrets?”

“Only curious,” he said, voice soft. “It’s not every day a celestial tiger growls at me like I kicked his favorite moonstone.”

“You did once steal a peach tart from my plate. He never forgot.”

“I regret nothing.”

You looked him over, still stunned. The years had sculpted him into something sharp and striking. There’s a faint scar curving along his forearm, and the unmistakable presence of someone used to command. But his eyes… his eyes were exactly the same.

“I didn’t even know Renxing was sending delegates.” 

“Technically, soldiers,” Minghao amended. “My father offered support in fortifying your kingdom’s defenses. He sent me and a small contingent to assist in training.”

“That’s the official reason, isn’t it?” you teased.

He chuckled. “You’ve grown sharper.”

“And you haven’t changed at all,” you interject with a beaming smile. “Do you still carry that lopsided bow you used to train me with?”

Minghao grinned. “I retired it years ago. But I remember those lessons well. You nearly took out my eye once.”

“It was one time,” you said, rolling your eyes. “And you moved too close to the target!”

Reya, however, didn’t find this reunion nearly as delightful. He rose behind you, placing himself between Minghao and your side with a deliberate flick of his tail.

You gave him a dry look. “He taught me archery, Reya. If he meant to hurt me, he’s had a ten-year head start.”

“I must’ve offended him in a past life.” Minghao chuckled, giving a short, respectful bow towards the tiger. 

“He just doesn’t like being left out of things,” you said, motioning for Minghao to sit with you by the fountain again. Some of the pigeons scattered as Reya circled, settling beside you with an annoyed huff. You pretended not to notice the way he kept one sapphire eye trained squarely on your old friend.

“It’s strange,” you said, watching the breeze stir the trees across the square. “I feel like I should’ve known you were coming. Or that I would’ve felt it somehow. We used to be glued to the hip during all those summer visits.”

“We were children,” Minghao replied gently. “But I remember it, too. I was glad when my father chose me to come here. I hoped I’d see you again.”

You flushed, just a little. “Well… you have. And I’m glad. Really.”

“I’ll be staying at the castle with the soldiers,” he told you. “We begin drills in a few days. Until then, I thought I’d take a walk through the city. See what’s changed.”

You grinned, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Not much. The pigeons are still rude.”

A few feet away, one of them let out a coarse squawk. You’re the one talking to birds like a madwoman. Can’t even find a husband.

You lobbed a pebble at it. “You eat garbage.”

Minghao watched in silent amusement as you finished your not-so-private argument with the town’s most opinionated pigeons. When you finally noticed his expression, you offered a sheepish grin.

“I missed this,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

You raised a brow. “The pigeons?”

“You,” he said, laughing softly. “You’ve always had a… unique way of handling the world.”

“You say that like it’s a flaw.”

“It’s not.” His gaze lingered, warm and thoughtful. “It’s just—very you.”

Reya let out another displeased noise. But you were too caught up in the moment to notice the way his muscles stayed coiled beneath his striped coat, the faint bristle in his fur. He didn’t like this reunion.

But you? You were just happy to see an old friend.

Back at the castle, preparations for your guest had moved quickly. One of the east-facing guest rooms—typically reserved for visiting dignitaries—was swept, polished, and perfumed with lavender water. Minghao’s soldiers were escorted to the royal barracks, where Ancarrian efficiency met them with warm cloaks, strong cider, and a welcome that was formal but kind.

By morning, the dining hall was bathed in golden light, sunlight spilling through the tall arched windows. The table had been set with a surprisingly casual spread: flaky breads still warm from the oven, crisp autumn pears, spiced porridge, and thick cream served in polished stoneware.

You were already there, hunched slightly over a steaming cup of tea, still groggy but determined not to show it. Reya was helping himself to whatever lavish breakfast the castle chefs had laid out for him, utterly absorbed in his bowl. From the way his ears twitched with contentment, your tiger was clearly pleased. You only looked up from your own food when you caught the quiet rhythm of approaching boots.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Minghao said, bowing first to your father, then offering you a softer nod. “Princess.”

“You’re early,” you replied, smiling into your cup but it drops the moment Reya starts baring his teeth at your friend again. “Reya. Knock it off.” 

Your father chuckled. “He tells me his men were stretching at dawn on the south field. Quite the commander.”

“Discipline is second nature in Renxing,” Minghao said, lowering himself into the seat next to yours with smooth, princely ease. “Though I’ll admit—your lands make it easier. Crisp air. Clear skies. Even my men look taller here.”

“Flatterer,” your father said, grinning. “Careful, or you’ll find yourself a permanent guest.”

“That would be no punishment,” Minghao said, his eyes catching yours for the briefest moment, light with mischief.

You bit back a laugh and nudged the basket of pastries toward him. “Try the honeyed ones. They’re dangerous enough to make you not want to leave.”

He did, and the way his face lit up made you grin. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

Across the room, Soonyoung and Siwon stood with the servants near the door, their posture still and unreadable—save for the way Soonyoung’s brow lifted slightly when you leaned in, listening to something Minghao murmured beneath his breath.

You talked like it had been days, not years. He spoke of Renxing’s northern reaches—wild coasts and glass-shelled beetles that migrated through frozen rivers. Of teaching a recruit to read by bribing him with hawthorn sweets, only for the boy to repay him in river crabs. Your father listened with gentle amusement, but it was you who laughed the most

And then, without warning, the thought crept in like smoke curling under a door.

What if it were him?

The match with Jeonghan had been sealed long ago, your fate marked in ink and crown and ritual before you could even attend council meetings officially. But what if it hadn’t? What if you hadn’t spent your whole life dodging destiny like it was a creature waiting to pounce?

What if love was simple?

A shared pastry. A soft story. Warm hands over tea and morning sun.

You looked at Minghao again—his easy smile, the grace in his posture, the power quiet and controlled beneath the silks and steel. And in that stolen, treacherous heartbeat, you let yourself wonder.

What if it had been him instead?

Before your thoughts could wander dangerously, however, your quiet meal was interrupted.

You noticed the change before you heard it. A flicker of movement by the door. A servant, breathless and wide-eyed, darted toward Soonyoung and Siwon. She was whispering something too fast for you to catch. 

Minghao was still speaking beside you, animated as he described a night march through an ancient canyon in northern Renxing where their footsteps echoed like ghosts trapped in a glass cage. His voice was smooth and warm, and you wanted to listen, truly you did—but your gaze kept slipping back to the door.

Soonyoung’s arms were folded now. Siwon murmured something in return to the servant, nodded once, then approached the table with the quiet stride of someone who only ever brought important news. The king glanced up at the shift in mood, and you followed his gaze as Siwon stopped just behind your chair and bent slightly at the waist.

“Your Highness,” he said softly, his eyes flicking toward you, “Prince Jeonghan of Seraphia has just arrived. He’s asked to speak with the princess at her earliest convenience.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Minghao’s story paused mid-sentence. He looked toward Siwon with faint curiosity, but said nothing. Your father gave only a slight nod, an order to let him join breakfast, and returned to his tea as if this were a perfectly ordinary disruption. But your hand, still resting near the plate of fruit, curled into a quiet fist.

Moments later, the doors opened with their usual hush, but somehow it felt louder this time. Jeonghan stepped in, haloed in sunlight through the high windows. He was still draped in Seraphian silks, still unfairly beautiful. 

His hair was brown now, swept back with a soft curl falling over his brow in a way that seemed carefully unintentional. He moved with that same effortless poise you had grown up watching and (grudgingly) admiring.

Minghao, ever-so gracious, stood as Jeonghan approached, offering a nod before shifting seats to the other side of the long table. It left the space beside you open intentionally. 

Jeonghan slid into the empty chair like he’d belonged there all along. “Good morning,” he greeted, his voice dipped in velvet, his smile almost disarmingly warm. “I apologize for the surprise visit. I was in one of my moods and thought—why not go see my future wife?”

You gave him a withering look, but it faltered when he leaned in just slightly and added, “Joshua sends his regards. He’s recently been engaged himself, you know.”

“Oh?” the king said, lifting a brow. “Congratulations are in order.”

“Yes,” Jeonghan said with a calm nod. “The daughter of one of our royal mages. She isn’t of noble blood, but she’s well-versed in magic and negotiations. My brother’s always had a soft spot for strategists.”

“Sounds like he inherited that from someone,” Minghao said mildly.

You raised a brow. Jeonghan only smiled, utterly unbothered. “Hardly. I prefer my companions predictable. Less likely to start a war over breakfast.”

A chuckle moved around the table.

Then Minghao tilted his head and said, almost idly, “And he’s not using magic, still?”

Jeonghan blinked. “Pardon?”

“Joshua,” Minghao clarified with a small smile. “Both of you, actually. Last I heard, neither of the Seraphian princes had taken up their birthright. The royal bloodline in Seraphia is known for its strength in enchantment, no? And yet you keep it buried, still?”

You stiffened a little. Not in shock, but because the question came from nowhere. Your spoon hovered above your tea. Magic was always a strange subject between nations. But the abstention of Seraphia’s recent royalty was somewhat a hot topic among the surrounding kingdoms—Ancarra included. 

Minghao, for his part, was infamous across empires as a fire elemental prodigy. The youngest to command a regiment of war mages in Renxing’s history. His aura carried that same warmth now, flickering low like a hearth. Reya, beside your chair, shifted uneasily. His icy blue eyes fixed on the man across from him like a second set of judgment.

Jeonghan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Our magic is not the crown’s priority. Seraphia thrives through diplomacy, not flames.”

Minghao leaned back, folding his hands. “A shame, really. I always wondered what it would look like—royal Seraphian magic unleashed.”

You didn’t miss the slight tension in Jeonghan’s jaw.

And that, more than anything, gnawed at the back of your mind as Minghao took another sip of tea. You sat there in your seat with perfect posture and a polite smile, but the thought slipped into your skull like a splinter.

You’ve never seen Jeonghan use magic.

Never seen him spark even a flicker of it. Never caught a rumor, never heard a whisper. Not even from the palace gossip mill, which had happily speculated about the color of his undershirts once and still hadn’t shut up about the time he laughed too hard at a coronation toast.

And you would’ve asked. You should’ve asked.

But that would’ve required speaking to him longer than a required greeting, longer than the bare-minimum exchange you both had perfected over the years—smiles for the court, ice behind closed doors. You found out about Joshua’s affinity by accident, really. He’d once stopped to admire a hedge maze in your gardens, and when he touched a dying stalk, it bloomed again beneath his hand. Simple and gentle, much like the boy himself.

But Jeonghan?

Nothing.

No elemental surge. No runic marks. No rumors of illusions, or voicecraft, or even basic wards. Either he had nothing—or he was hiding something so carefully, so deliberately, that no one had been able to name it.

And now Minghao was here, a walking blaze of power, and Jeonghan was smiling like none of it even mattered. You reached for your teacup, mostly to keep your hands busy.

You didn’t like mysteries. Especially not when they sit beside you, pretending to be harmless.

The silence stretched just long enough to begin tasting uncomfortable. Minghao’s smile didn’t falter. Jeonghan’s posture remained infuriatingly elegant, but you could tell—if only because you’ve spent years learning how to read him—that he’s ready to change the subject. 

It’s your father who spared him the effort.

He cleared his throat and gently set his goblet down. “And how long will you be staying with us this time, Prince Jeonghan?”

You turned slightly toward the head of the table, grateful for the break in tension. Jeonghan flicked his eyes toward the king and answered smoothly, “Just a few days, Your Highness. I was passing through the border en-route from the east and thought it best to pay a visit.”

“An unannounced visit,” Soonyoung muttered under his breath from his post by the door. Siwon nudged him with an elbow.

The king chuckled, brushing past the remark. “It is always a pleasure, no matter how sudden.” Then he glanced toward you. “Perhaps you and my daughter might walk the gardens this afternoon? The roses have finally bloomed this year.”

You almost choked on your tea.

Jeonghan nodded with a faint, serene smile. “Of course. It would be an honor.”

Your spoon clinked against porcelain just a little too hard. Reya emitted a low growl from under the table, whether in protest of the plan or of Minghao’s lingering presence, you can’t tell.

Minghao, to his credit, simply sips his tea again. But his gaze flicks to you, then to Jeonghan, curious. Assessing.

And for the first time in a long while, you can’t tell which prince unsettles you more.

You didn’t get far from the dining hall before your hand shot out to catch Soonyoung by the sleeve, dragging him into the shadowed archway beside one of the tapestry alcoves. Siwon followed of his own accord, arms folded neatly behind his back, expression already knowing.

“I’m asking this plainly,” you whispered, eyes flicking back toward the corridor. “Are we absolutely certain Jeonghan doesn’t know what we’ve been up to?”

Soonyoung blinked. “As in the matchmaking campaign?”

You stared at him.

“Right, yes, that,” he amended. “Then no. I mean yes. As in, he doesn’t know. I’m almost sure of it.”

“Almost?”

Soonyoung’s smile twitched. “Prince Jeonghan is… difficult to read. Cheerful as he is, he doesn’t quite let anyone be privy to his intentions.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “What if he’s just biding his time? Waiting until I’m alone before springing some awful, ‘You’ve dishonored our families’ speech and demanding we set the wedding date?”

“Princess,” Siwon said gently, “he’s had nearly a decade to pull such a stunt. And he hasn’t. Don’t start doubting the quiet now.”

You glanced up at him, voice lower. “But what if Minghao's presence stirred something? What if he sensed it, somehow—that I’m searching for someone else?”

Siwon regarded you with the patience of a man who had outwaited a thousand royal tantrums and twice as many council disputes. “Prince Jeonghan is many things. But petty is not one of them. He’d confront you if he had suspicions, not toy with them.”

“Not petty, huh?” you muttered, “I’m not so sure about that…”

Soonyoung scratched the back of his neck. “We did keep the search quiet, Princess. Every servant sworn to secrecy, every meeting arranged through as discreetly as possible. If Prince Jeonghan knows, he’s clairvoyant. Or just very, very nosy.”

You sighed and pressed a hand to your forehead. “This whole morning felt cursed. Reya was uneasy the whole time. I—gods above, I liked being with Minghao again. That’s the worst of it. I liked it, and Jeonghan probably sensed that.”

“So?” Soonyoung said, baffled. “You’re allowed to entertain visiting nobility, especially if they’re your friends. Prince Jeonghan doesn’t own your breakfast companions.”

“But he’s my betrothed!”

“In title only.”

Your shoulders sagged, and you gripped the edge of the column beside you. “I felt like I’d been playing a game I didn’t know the rules of. And everyone else was holding cards I’d never seen.”

Siwon’s gaze softened. “That is the nature of court.”

A sigh escaped your lips. “I’m supposed to walk the gardens with him soon.”

“Try not to trip into the koi pond again,” the older advisor added.

“That was once,” you scowled. “And it was raining.”

Soonyoung grinned. “Still your most graceful fall.”

You shook your head and pushed away from the column. “Pray for me.”

“I’ll light a candle,” Siwon said dryly.

“I’ll start digging a moat,” Soonyoung chirped.

You waved them off and stepped back into the corridor, spine straightening with every step. Whatever awaited you in the garden, you would meet it with dignity.

The royal gardens stretched out before you, awash in morning light where sunlight filtered through the trees that swayed with the breeze. You walked slowly along the mosaic path, hands clasped loosely before you, Reya trotting a few steps ahead. He hadn’t growled once—not even when Jeonghan fell into step beside you like a ghost slipping from a dream.

“It’s been some time since we walked here,” Jeonghan said plainly.

You didn’t meet his eyes. “Has it?”

“I suppose not that long,” he amended with a soft chuckle. “But long enough to miss the scent of the roses. Your gardeners have always done them justice.”

You glanced toward the flower bed just ahead—wide as a banquet table and brimming with tangled stems of roses. Their leaves are a lush, lacquered green, buds curled tightly on the branches like secrets not yet told. A few bold blooms had already unfurled—deep crimson, velvet-soft, catching the morning light like drops of spilled wine.

“They’re late in blooming this season,” you murmured.

“Maybe they’re waiting for a sign,” he said. “Something worth blooming for.”

You didn’t respond. There was always something slippery about him—how his compliments wore the face of riddles, how his tone was too gentle to grasp without suspicion. You didn’t trust softness when it came from him. Not when you’d spent half your life bracing against it.

Still, he continued beside you, hands tucked behind his back in perfect princely grace. His eyes scanned the gardens, the trees, the rooftops just beyond the horizon.

“I heard your father’s invited Renxing to join our military councils,” he mused.

You stiffened, just slightly. “He has. Their soldiers arrived yesterday.”

“And Minghao is their prince and general?” Jeonghan added lightly, almost amused.

That makes you pause. “You’ve met?”

“A long time ago,” he said. “I doubt he’d remember it, but he does seem aware enough of my existence to want to pick a fight with me .”

You huffed. “You make it easy for anyone to want to pick a fight with you.”

Jeonghan didn’t deny it—just offered a knowing smile, the kind that curled at one corner of his mouth and made you want to both slap it off and stare a little longer. You walked in silence for a few steps. The wind stirred the trees again, rustling petals onto the stone path, and somewhere nearby, water trickled over the lip of a marble fountain.

Then he said, almost offhandedly, “He likes to speak first. Draw lines before anyone else has a chance to set the terms.”

You glanced sideways at him. “You mean Minghao?”

Jeonghan nodded. “He’s clever. Knows exactly where to place a cut for the deepest bruise.”

“Well, he’s a general. He’s trained for that.”

“He’s also a prince,” your fiancé pointed out, tone light but edged. “Which makes it harder to tell when the blade’s diplomatic.”

You didn’t answer. Not because he was wrong, but because you were surprised he noticed. Still, Jeonghan wasn’t looking at you. His gaze wandered, serene and distant, as if this was just another quiet stroll instead of a conversation tensed on the knife-edge of politics.

“For what it’s worth,” he added after a moment, “I’ve never liked men who think precision is the same as power.”

That caught your attention.

You studied him for a beat longer. His posture, as always, was deceptively relaxed—too smooth, too practiced. But something had shifted. Maybe it was the way he said it, or the fact that Reya brushed gently against his side as he passed, tail flicking once before moving on. Jeonghan looked down at the beast, a faint smile twitching at his lips. 

“He’s warming up to me.”

You scoffed. “He’s tolerant, at best.”

He tilted his head with a lazy smile. “Still better than hostile.”

It was. You hated that you agreed.

Days drift by in a hush. You expect tension, expect something grand to stir. After all, two foreign princes now share your roof, both with their own legacies, their own shadows trailing behind them. And yet, the palace breathes as if nothing has changed. No great disruptions, no clashing tides. 

The soldiers in the barracks adjust to the presence of Renxing’s warriors with the wary politeness of men trained to kill side by side, and the kitchen staff still sends up too many pastries at tea. Minghao spends most of his days in the training yards or reviewing your kingdom’s defenses with the captains. He is gracious when he joins you at court, always with a smooth word or charming smile. Reya still watches him like a hawk from afar—but the tension has settled into a sort of cold awareness, like two great cats pacing the edge of each other’s territory.

Jeonghan, on the other hand, has made it his personal mission to haunt your every quiet moment.

He never speaks of the conversation in the garden again, but you can feel it hanging in the air whenever he appears. You pass him in the corridor, and he gives you a smile. You leave the solarium early, and he’s somehow in the hall just outside, pretending to admire a tapestry. You ask the cooks to surprise you with something new for breakfast, and he comments idly at the table that you’ve always liked tart things with honey.

It’s maddening.

By Thursday, you’ve had enough.

You marched down to the archery range before breakfast, bow in hand, and jaw set with razor-tight focus. You haven’t had time for this in weeks, and it shows in the tension of your shoulders, the crackle in your spine. You notch your arrow, draw back your arm, exhale—

“Good morning, Your Grace!”

You startled a little too dramatically. The arrow sailed in a wide arc and landed somewhere in the hedges with an unceremonious thwack.

You spun around to find Jeonghan standing at the edge of the range, hands clasped like he’s arrived for a morning stroll. Beside him was Soonyoung, who gave you a guilty, wide-eyed look before mouthing I’m sorry and quickly stepping out of the line of fire.

Your voice came low and clipped. “Are you following me?”

Jeonghan only lifted a brow. “Why, of course not. I was merely enjoying the views that the Ancarran castle has to offer. As your future consort in alliance, I should know the corners of your kingdom, don’t you think?”

Soonyoung took one careful step back, and from his perch under the nearby tree, Reya let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Jeonghan didn’t even bother making himself look like he didn’t purposely startle you at all. 

You sighed and retrieved another arrow. Next time, you’ll aim for him.

You notched it, shoulders tight with barely restrained irritation. Behind you, Jeonghan and Soonyoung settled onto the bench near the range like they have every right to be there. Which, technically they do, but that didn’t stop your fingers from twitching with the urge to send an arrow through the wood beside Jeonghan’s ear.

Another shot—closer to the bullseye this time. Still not enough to stop your pulse from thrumming too fast.

“You’re good,” Jeonghan said, his tone easy and observational, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Shua and I weren’t trained like this in Seraphia. As you know, our court prefers diplomacy and dance over daggers and bows.” 

You didn’t turn, but you heard the amusement laced through his voice. Soonyoung gave a small, sympathetic shrug from beside him. “It’s true. I once saw him faint at the sight of blood.”

“Exaggeration,” Jeonghan replied airily. “I merely swooned with elegance.”

You let out a slow exhale, notched another arrow, and fired. This one landed square in the center of the target. You heard a low whistle from your advisor and—more infuriatingly—a small, approving hum from Jeonghan.

“It’s rather convenient,” the prince mused, crossing one ankle over the other. “My future queen being so fearsome with a bow. I daresay I won’t need to lift a finger. You’ll protect me, won’t you, Princess?”

The arrow you’d just pulled from the quiver snaps between your fingers.

“If I protect you,” you said coolly, “it’s only because I don’t trust anyone else to finish the job of ending your miserable existence cleanly.”

Soonyoung looked away, coughing suspiciously into his sleeve.

But Jeonghan? He beamed like you handed him a bouquet. “How romantic,” he sighed, resting his chin on his hand as if admiring a painting. “You do know how to make a consort feel cherished, after all.”

Your heart pounded, and it’s not from the archery.

The morning was clear the day Jeonghan left.

A soft breeze combed through the courtyard where his carriage waited, draped in the white-gold sigils of Seraphia. The horses pawed the cobblestones impatiently, as if mirroring the mood of the man they wait for—restless and infuriating to the very end.

You stood beside your father beneath the marble archway, cloaked in the formal grays of a diplomatic farewell. The king’s voice was kind when he spoke to Jeonghan, and your fiancé was all grace and bows and eloquent farewells. Even Minghao lingered beside you with an inscrutable smile, hands behind his back like a soldier at ease. You’re aware of the others watching too—Siwon and Soonyoung among the entourage, the guards, the servants—all witnesses to this perfectly polite departure.

It’s nearly done.

But then Jeonghan stepped forward to take your hand in his. He kissed it, gently and reverently, all according to protocol. And then he leaned in too close for comfort.

“I look forward,” the prince murmured into your ear, warm breath brushing your skin, “to the next time I get to ruin your aim.”

You jerked back before the blush could spread to your ears, willing your face into a mask of court-trained calm. Every lesson you endured under the glare of etiquette tutors saved you in that moment—your shoulders straight, your smile pleasant, your tone as composed as a glacier.

“Have a safe journey, Prince Jeonghan,” you said, eyes narrowed in the most ladylike way possible. “Do try not to miss me.”

His smile could set cities alight.

“Oh,” Jeonghan began, stepping back toward his carriage, “I intend to do exactly that.”

You resisted the violent urge to throw something at his head.

He’s gone before you could reply, the carriage wheels rolling across the stones like the closing of a storybook chapter. 

Only, you suspected—no, you knew—he’ll be back soon.

By the time Jeonghan vanished beyond the gates, you'd already gathered Siwon and Soonyoung in the war room—not for military strategy, but something far more treacherous: 

Court-approved matchmaking.

“We’re at a consensus then,” you said, tapping your finger once against the map of Ancarra. “Prince Minghao is not a viable option. Even if I wanted to—”

“Which you actually do,” Soonyoung cut in with a pointed look. 

“Even if I did,” you repeated with force, “it would be a diplomatic nightmare. Calling off an engagement with Seraphia for the prince of Renxing? We’d be lucky if we only lost trade ports and not entire border towns.”

Siwon chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re willing to pick the task up again, Princess. You looked… quite dejected after your trip to the Boo Estate.”

You had to pin Soonyoung down with a glare to keep your advisor from saying anything that will raise your blood pressure to dangerous levels. “Failure is part of the journey to true love. Hasn’t anyone told you that, Siwon?” 

Your father’s advisor hummed, his spectacled gaze skimming the interior list of nobility you’d had scribes compile over the past few weeks. “So the suitor needs to be from Ancarra. Someone who can cause enough gossip, enough scandal, enough public affection to make it plausible you fell wildly in love and couldn’t help yourself.”

Soonyoung grinned. “Which means we need a boy you could realistically kiss in public without gagging. Oh, and someone that won’t run when Reya so much as growls at them.”

You glared at him. “You’re on thin ice.”

Your advisor raised his hands in defense. “What? I’m just saying—you do tend to scowl at most men like they’ve insulted your bloodline. Same goes for your beast.”

Siwon, ever the calmer tactician, cleared his throat. “We’ll approach this with structure. Let’s narrow the list to eligible bachelors who meet the following criteria: loyal to the crown, reasonably attractive, tolerable by Reya, and—preferably—already a little in love with you.”

You tapped your fingers again, faster this time. “It doesn’t need to be a real romance. Just enough of a performance to convince Seraphia the engagement fell apart because of me, not them. If I’m the reckless one, Jeonghan saves face. Everyone’s happy.”

Soonyoung leaned back, arms behind his head. “You really think Prince Jeonghan cares about saving face?”

“…No,” you admitted, remembering the smirk he wore as his carriage departed. “But Seraphia might. And the court definitely will.”

“Then we manufacture a heartbreak,” Siwon said simply. “We choose someone charismatic, familiar, close to the palace—enough that no one questions why you spent time together. You’ll laugh too loud at the gardens. Leave flowers in his rooms. Maybe even—gods forgive us—write a poem.”

Soonyoung winced. “That’s low.”

“All is fair in love and politics,” you muttered. “Or at least, in fabricated love.”

You glanced out the window, where the sun slipped behind the edge of the tower, casting long shadows across the floor. Jeonghan was gone, and your future hung on the next name you circled with ink and lied through your teeth about.

War you could prepare for. But this? This was treasonous theater. And it didn’t help that the world kept sending you warning signs left and right.

It began with Lord Doyoung of the northern territories—a bookish type with a gentle voice and decent bone structure. You think, Yes, this one might do. But the very morning he’s due to arrive in the capital, his carriage overturned on a clear road with no other travelers. His horse? Spooked by a pigeon. A pigeon wearing what the guards swear was a tiny gold ribbon.

Suspicious.

Then there’s Jaehyun, a second-born noble who helped manage his family’s glasswork business. Intelligent, considerate, and crucially uninterested in politics. You traveled discreetly to a manor on the coast to meet him. However, the moment you arrived, he was gone. Apparently left the day before to pursue an urgent pilgrimage after receiving a mysterious letter from a "reputable Seraphian monastery" asking for his divine insight.

But the worst, the true collapse of your sanity, came when you tried to court a commoner. A sweet, curly-haired apprentice scribe from the capital. You met by accident—he dropped his stack of scrolls, Reya frightened the life out of him, and you ended up laughing like someone in a romance novel. You arranged to meet him again secretly by the statue of the winged lion after dusk.

And guess who’s already there?

Jeonghan leaned against the base of the winged lion like it was a throne carved just for him. The dusk painted him in gold and shadow, and he looked utterly at home—one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded loosely, a single wildflower tucked behind his ear like he’d stolen it from a love-sick dream.

“You’re early,” he said lazily, as if he’d been waiting minutes rather than hours. “I almost thought you weren’t coming.”

You stopped dead. “You’re not him.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’m certainly better-looking.”

“You—” You took a sharp breath, rage tightening behind your eyes. “Where is he?”

Jeonghan tilted his head. “The apprentice? I believe he’s having a lovely evening at home. His mother made delicious stew, and he felt it’d be rude to miss it. Or so the note said.”

You stared. “You intercepted him?”

Your fiancé smiled, all teeth and wicked charm. “Technically? I intercepted the opportunity. You never said this was an exclusive audition.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping into the moonlight, that damn wildflower still tucked behind his ear, “you keep trying to replace me with men who don’t know the difference between a sword hilt and a dinner spoon. Truly, you wound me, Your Grace”

You didn’t realize your fists were clenched until your nails dug crescent moons into your palms.

“This isn’t about you,” you hissed.

Jeonghan stepped closer, voice maddeningly gentle. “It always is.”

Your fists were clenched so tightly your arms shook, your breath short and ragged. The statue's winged shadow barely concealed you from the open square, where lanterns were being lit one by one, their warm glow spreading like a slow-burning fire.

And Jeonghan just stood there.

Mocking you with that unbearable calm, his eyes full of all the things you hadn’t said in ten years. The flower behind his ear was ridiculous. His shirt collar was crooked. His entire existence was meant to push you to the edge of insanity.

“You’re infuriating,” you snapped.

He smirked. “Then stop chasing ghosts and—”

You didn’t let him finish.

Your hand fisted his lapel and pulled hard, slamming your mouth against his before your brain caught up with your body. It wasn’t soft or sweet or measured, but raw, full of teeth and fury and years of words swallowed down in silence. You’d meant to shove him, maybe slap him. But somehow, your lips found his instead. 

And the worst part—the truly damning part—was how good it felt.

The warmth of his mouth. The way he froze for the barest second, then exhaled against you like he’d been holding his breath for a lifetime. And then he kissed you back.

Jeonghan didn’t just return it. He answered it.

His hands slipped to your waist, slow but sure, like he’d dreamed of this and was finally awake. He kissed like he knew every inch of your stubbornness, every sharp edge, and loved the way you cut him open. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your face, deepening the kiss—and it became something molten, dangerous, entirely public.

Somewhere behind you, Reya snarled like a warning. You weren’t alone. The statue’s shadow didn’t hide the way Jeonghan’s hand curved around your hip, the flush in your cheeks, the hunger in the space between your mouths.

You tore away first, panting and wide-eyed as your heart thundered in your ribcage. Jeonghan looked at you all while swiping that tongue of his across his bottom lip.

“Was that part of the act?” he asked softly, lips still red, voice dangerously close to tender.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because if you spoke, you might admit it wasn’t the kiss that terrified you.

It was how long you’d wanted it.

By unspoken agreement, neither of you addressed the kiss behind the statue. Not in words, anyway. But everything afterwards shifted.

Jeonghan began appearing in Ancarra with alarming regularity—always with a perfectly valid excuse. Delivering letters from Seraphia. Attending diplomatic luncheons. Touring agricultural reforms that absolutely did not require a prince’s attention. And every time he stepped through the gates with that lazy smile, your blood pressure spiked.

He was still insufferable. Still poking at you like a child with a stick and a beehive. 

“You missed me,” he’d say, voice low in the hallway.

“I was hoping you’d gotten arrested,” you’d reply without looking at him.

“You dreamed about me again.”

“Reya dreamed about biting you. I just watched.”

But no amount of sarcasm could undo the heat that had settled between you like a splinter you couldn’t dig out. And while your verbal battles raged on, your bodies fell into an entirely different rhythm—one of breathless tension and stolen moments.

A quick kiss when no one was looking. A lingering touch at your waist beneath the pretense of helping you onto a horse. A late-night visit to the library that ended with your back pressed against the cold wall of a forgotten corridor, his mouth hot against your throat.

You hated him.

You hated how good he was at knowing when to push you. You hated how you let him.

One day, Jeonghan found you in the west wing solarium—alone, for once, dressed in something plain for the heat. The moment he stepped through the arched doorway, you already knew he was going to do something reckless.

You tried to keep your tone sharp. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t,” he said innocently, approaching anyway. “I was remembering how you kissed me first.”

“I kissed you to shut you up.”

“Well,” he murmured, stepping behind you, brushing your hair aside to press a kiss just below your ear, “it didn’t work.”

You didn’t stop him when his hand slid beneath the hem of your dress, fingers trailing up your thigh with infuriating patience. You should’ve. You always told yourself you should’ve. But instead, you exhaled through your teeth and leaned back into him, fists clenching the edge of the table as he teased his way higher—his touch maddeningly sure, maddeningly soft.

And when his fingers finally slid inside you, you didn’t even pretend to resist.

Because for all the years of distance, all the fire and anger and scarred memory between you, Jeonghan still knew exactly where to find the weak spot beneath your armor.

“You’re shaking,” the prince murmured against the shell of your ear, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Didn't know you could be so delicate.”

“I will break your nose,” you hissed, breath catching as his fingers curled just right. “Shut up and get it over with.”

He chuckled. “You say that like I’m doing this for me.”

“Gods, I hate you.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

You bit down hard on your lip to stop the moan rising in your throat. His hand moved with a maddening rhythm—confident and precise, like he’d learned you in secret. Maybe he had. Maybe Jeonghan had always known how to find the cracks in your walls, the fault lines in your resolve.

Your knees nearly buckled when he dragged his thumb over your aching clit. The spot that made your vision flicker, made your breath stutter.

He caught you before you fell.

“Oh,” your fiancé said with mock sympathy. “Is this where the princess begs?”

You turned your head, eyes glittering with fury and heat. “You’re so lucky I’m unarmed.”

“Am I?” He dipped his head to kiss the corner of your jaw. “Because right now, I feel like the one being conquered.”

You made a sound—part growl, part gasp—as the pleasure crested higher. You hated how easy it was for him to pull you under, hated how your body betrayed you, trembling at his touch even as your mouth spat venom.

But gods, it felt good.

It felt like revenge, like surrender, like twelve years of wanting something you swore you’d never let yourself need. He played your body like an instrument only he knew how to tune—drawing out every gasp, every tremor, until the fire in your gut finally, finally broke.

You clutched the table edge like a lifeline, moaning his name as each wave of your orgasm shuddered through you. You felt sticky and unclean, and Jeonghan thought it to be a good idea to smear the mess he’s made of your cunt across your inner thighs.

As if to mock you even further, he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek as he whispered, “You’re going to think about this tonight. When you’re all alone.”

You whipped around and shoved him—half-heartedly, breathlessly. 

“Get out before I feed you to Reya.”

Jeonghan grinned, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles like a knight, of all things. “I’ll come back when you miss me.”

“I never do.”

He was already gone by the time you realized your legs still hadn’t stopped trembling.

Thankfully, Jeonghan left before lunch. That meant you could change your ruined dress and have a meal in the peace and quiet you deserved after that daunting encounter in the solarium.

You sat between your father and Minghao in the smaller sunlit dining chamber—the one reserved for informal meals and less scrutiny. Sunlight poured through the windows, glinting off the crystal decanters and catching in the honey glaze of the roast pheasant. The servants came and went like shadows. Minghao poured you some tea without asking, which you would have appreciated, if you weren’t so wrapped up in your own mind.

“So,” Minghao says casually, “how’s the treason?”

You glanced sideways at him. “Treason?”

He smiled. “You’ve had that look on your face since you walked in. Like someone who just burned a letter and buried the ashes under a rose bush.”

Before you can answer, it began.

The birds.

You heard them before you saw them—three magpies nestled like gossiping witches along the arched windowsill. One of them fluffed her feathers and gasped loud in your skull.

She was scandalous with a man just this morning!

Your eyes widened. No one else reacted. Of course they didn’t. Only you could hear them.

Back in that room again, another cooed. Pressed up to him like a heat-starved mare—

I told you, the third interrupted with a huff, she’s betrothed to him. It’s legal. The king said so. Even if she climbed that prince like a ladder, it would still be state-sanctioned.”

You nearly choked on your tea.

Your father paused mid-sentence. “Something wrong, bug?”

You covered your mouth with your napkin, glaring furiously at the birds. One of them winked.

“Just… feeling a little hot,” you muttered.

Oblivious to your internal unraveling, thye king picks up his fork and says, “We should start finalizing your name-day celebration soon. Twenty-five is a milestone.”

“I vote we skip it,” you said darkly, eyeing the window again. The birds have not left.

Minghao hummed. “You’ll have to get used to celebrations. Especially now that your wedding with Prince Jeonghan is not far behind.”

You hesitated just long enough for him to notice. 

“...Unless it’s not happening?” the general asked jokingly.

You didn’t know how to explain it. How every time Jeonghan visits, he kisses you like he wants to ruin you. How your body remembers the curve of his smile before your mind catches up. How you tell yourself it’s a temporary madness—just lust, just unfinished business, just war-born tension—but your hands keep betraying you anyway.

And now the damn magpies were singing it to the skies.

She moaned his name! one of them cackles, beak open wide. She gripped his hair like—

“Excuse me,” you said sharply, standing up so fast your chair skitters back. “I need some air.”

Your father looked mildly concerned. Minghao raised an eyebrow.

“Should I send someone with you?”

“Only if they can shoot birds,” you mutter, already turning toward the hall, cheeks blazing.

Behind you, you heard one final chirp:

Reckless princess. She’ll marry that boy or die trying.

The weeks leading up to your twenty-fifth name-day blur into a storm of brocade, guest lists, and mental breakdowns.

What was once meant to be a modest royal banquet has spiraled into a full-blown spectacle at your father’s behest. The ballroom has been draped in gold silks and strung with imported glass lanterns, and couriers from neighboring kingdoms have arrived daily, bearing gilded gifts and stomach-turning compliments. You’ve had to write nearly a hundred invitations by hand—because of course you did, since your father insisted that nothing but your own pen would do for a celebration of this scale.

Four gowns. Four. In one night. Each more elaborate than the last, all designed by different tailors to reflect “the four faces of the princess.” (Whatever that means.)

And looming behind the lace and laughter and godforsaken gemstone embroidery is the other event everyone is whispering about: your wedding.

To Jeonghan.

You tried to keep a mental list of reasons to loathe him, just to stay anchored. He’s insufferable. He flirts with everything that looks his way. He laughs when you’re mad. He kisses like he owns the air you breathe and gets away with everything because his face is tragically symmetrical.

And worst of all?

You’ve started to imagine what it would be like to marry him and not hate it.

The very thought sent you into a tailspin of self-loathing and denial. But no matter how many times you told yourself you didn’t want this, something traitorous inside you fluttered every time he looked at you with those unreadable eyes and said your name like he’s always known it.

By the time your name-day arrived, you’re equal parts exhausted and vibrating with tension. The maids were still pinning the final layers of your first gown—a deep rose silk trimmed with silver thread—when someone knocked at your chamber doors.

“Princess?” one of the guards called. “Prince Jeonghan and Prince Joshua request to see you.”

You nearly groaned aloud, but waved them in. “Fine. But if they mess up a single pin, I’m going to skewer them with it.”

The door opened, and the two Seraphian princes entered like they own the place—Jeonghan with his usual amused swagger, and Joshua with a more subdued grace you haven’t seen in months. 

You didn’t rise from your seat as your maids were still halfway through adjusting the fall of your sleeves. but you did narrow your eyes when Jeonghan swept in with a smirk and a flourish. The new color of his hair wasn’t lost on you either—deep burgundy red. You still had no idea how he changed its color like the seasons. 

“Happy birthday, Your Grace,” Joshua greeted warmly, offering a polite half-bow.

“Thank you,” you replied, eyes softening. “It’s good to see you again. I thought you’d be too busy planning your own wedding.”

Joshua’s smile flickered, but he was quick to recover. “Ah. Well. Some things are in motion, others… less so.”

You raised a brow. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

“It’s complicated,” he said, then adds with a small laugh, “But I’ve learned from Jeonghan not to overshare.”

His brother leaned against the wall with a lazy smile. “I’m an excellent role model.”

You snorted. “You’re a warning sign carved into a cliff face.”

Before either man could reply, a footman appears in the doorway, whispering something in Joshua’s ear. The younger prince bowed again before excusing himself, promising to speak with you again before the night is over.

And then it’s just you and him.

Jeonghan eyed the gown you’re still being pinned into with a mock-solemn look. “Do I get to see all four today, or is this one the final form?”

“Don’t act like you care,” you quipped, trying very hard not to shift under his gaze.

“Oh, I care. I’ve always loved watching you suffer.”

“Wonderful. Then you’ll enjoy what happens next,” you told him coolly, gesturing for the maids to step back. “Because if you’re going to keep staring at me like that, I’m going to assume you came here to be mauled.”

As if on cue, Reya let out a rumble of noise from where he was being pampered by one of the braver palace maids. Ferocious as he was, he always did like getting his claws clipped, as well as wearing his favorite collar if the occasion permits. 

Jeonghan closed the distance between you with infuriating calm, eyes never leaving yours as he flashed a wicked grin. “You look beautiful when you threaten me.”

Your pulse did that annoying thing it always did when he looked at you like that—like you were something worth chasing, even when you were bristling with knives. You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly dislodged the Dawning Crown pinned into your hair. 

“And you look like a scandal waiting to happen.”

His grin widened. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Before you could come up with something scathing in return, Reya padded over, nails clicking softly on the polished floor, his gleaming coat freshly brushed, a ridiculous silk bow tied around his collar. He stopped beside Jeonghan and huffed, as if unimpressed with the theatrics.

Jeonghan crouched smoothly to scratch behind Reya’s ears. “Ah, my true supporter arrives. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from her wrath.”

Reya growled, just faintly.

You smirked. “He’s siding with me, clearly.”

“I’m wounded,” Jeonghan said, rising with mock offense. “Betrayed by beauty and beast alike.”

Then he extended his arm to you. “Shall we?”

You stared at it for a beat, suspicious. But Reya nudged your leg gently with his snout, and you sighed, slipping your hand into Jeonghan’s. “Fine. But if either of you embarrass me tonight, I’m feeding you to each other.”

“Romantic and resourceful,” Jeonghan said with a wink. “You’ll make an excellent queen.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. But as you walked down the corridor, Reya flanking your other side like a silent shadow, the three of you looked like a tableau of something unspoken and inevitable.

The ballroom was a gleaming vision of excess: golden drapes spilling from vaulted ceilings, glass lanterns casting slow-dancing light over a sea of jewel-toned silks and polished marble. An orchestra played on a raised dais, their melody light and sweet, but charged with the weight of spectacle. 

You stood beneath the tallest chandelier, Reya sitting loyally at your side despite the sea of legs and perfumes swirling around him. The first toast had long since passed. You’d curtsied, smiled, and performed your gracious-lady routine so many times your cheeks hurt. And then the master of ceremonies called your name.

A hush fell.

Your father approached with a dignity that made your throat tighten. He was dressed in deep blue, embroidered with your kingdom’s sigil, and he extended a gloved hand with gentle formality. You placed yours in it, and let him lead you into the center of the floor. The music swelled.

Your first dance had been rehearsed, of course—weeks of steps and spins and graceful nods. But when he whispered, “You’ve grown into someone I’m proud to call my heir,” you missed a beat. His voice was low, almost shy. “And I know… it’s time to let my little girl go.”

You blinked hard, eyes stinging. “Father…”

“I asked too much of you, bug. Pushing this match before you were ready.” He exhaled, voice heavy but warm. “But Jeonghan… for all his faults, he’s steady in the ways that matter. If you’ve come to accept him, then maybe I wasn’t entirely wrong to hope.”

You didn’t correct him. You couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that—like someone trying to make peace with the things he had broken, and still dared to believe he hadn’t ruined everything.

The dance ended in soft applause, and you embraced him tightly before slipping away into the crowd. You barely had time to exhale before another hand reached for yours.

Minghao.

He wore black trimmed with crimson thread, Renxing’s crest gleaming like bloodied gold on his shoulder. His touch was precise, his posture perfect, but his eyes held a steadiness that grounded you. Your heart warmed even further. 

“I’ve never liked these things,” he murmured as he led you into the dance. “The court politics. The pageantry. Celebrations of this caliber are rare in Renxing.”

You gave him a dry smile. “And yet you came anyway.”

“I came because I’m loyal to the alliance between our two kingdoms,” he said simply. “And to you.”

That steadiness—his quiet presence, his unwavering calm—had always comforted you. Minghao was the shield between Ancarra and the unknown. For months, his men had trained your country’s footsoldiers and honed them into formidable warriors. You felt safe with him, the way one does with stone walls and drawn blades.

But then he added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s a beautiful kingdom. Shame what war does to beautiful things.”

You glanced at Minghao, frowning faintly. “We’re not at war.”

“No,” the general said, still smiling. “Not yet.”

The song ended, and he bowed with courtly precision. You blinked after him uneasily. But there was no time to dwell—another partner was approaching.

Of course, it had to be him.

Jeonghan offered his hand with a dramatic flourish, his red hair far too striking to ignore. “May I steal the final dance of the night?”

“Only if you promise not to talk,” you muttered, taking it.

He did not promise. Of course not. He pulled you in with the confidence of a man who knew every beat of your rhythm, every angle of your resistance. His hand rested lightly on your waist, the other guiding you effortlessly into the waltz’s pattern.

“You cried,” he said smugly.

“I did not.”

“You almost cried.”

You glared up at him. “If I did, it was because I had to dance with you.”

His grin softened, just slightly, something real shining through the mischief. “You’re beautiful. Not just the dress. You. I thought you should hear that without a punchline attached.”

You blinked.

It unsettled you more than his teasing ever had.

The song slowed, spiraling toward its final note. For a moment, your fiancé held you still, one breath closer than necessary. The world spun in candlelight and cello strings around you, and you hated the way something in you leaned toward him instead of away.

“I won’t always be an enemy, you know,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you replied, just as quiet. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”

After the dances, your stomach practically growled in protest.

Dinner was winding down into a soft haze of candlelight and velvet laughter. The tables glittered with the remains of a decadent feast—glazed meats, sugared fruits, wine-stained napkins folded like petals. Reya lay at your feet, gnawing contentedly on a thick strip of jerky, a gift from Soonyoung (via the royal kitchens, of course). Every so often, his tail thumped against the marble with a low rhythm, as if to remind the room that he was still on guard.

You barely had time to sit between greetings, pulled into conversations and compliments from all sides. There was Yeri, a childhood friend turned court mage, who gave you a vial of bottled starlight as a name-day gift. And Seulgi, the clever young ambassador from the coastal isles, who kept trying to guess which gown was your favorite. You laughed freely for the first time all night, warmed by the company, the flicker of candles, the slow-blooming sense that maybe everything might be all right.

Until it wasn’t.

Near the center of the ballroom, Jeonghan stood facing Minghao. It looked almost casual, but only on the surface.

Then Jeonghan said, loudly enough for the conversation to die around you, “Tell me something, General. How many times have you tried to kill your own father and emperor now? Was it three?”

Minghao’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a bold accusation to make in public, Seraphian.”

“And yet,” Jeonghan replied with unbearable calm, “you haven’t denied it.”

You stood up from your seat, heart jumping to your throat. Minghao stepped forward, his voice still even, but you could hear the warning beneath it. “I serve Renxing with my blood. My father knows this.”

“Does he?” Jeonghan tilted his head. “Or did you send his last stand-in home in pieces, too? Or was that an ‘accident’ like the rest?”

A cold, electric silence followed.

“I’ve seen the way you linger at the map of Ancarra when no one’s looking,” Jeonghan added. “The way your men move when no orders are given. You’re not here to serve the alliance. You’re here to watch it rot.”

Minghao’s hand twitched. Just a flicker. Just enough to make Reya growl.

You shoved back your chair and moved, fast. “Jeonghan, stop—”

Too late.

“I should’ve cut your tongue out the moment I knew what you were,” Minghao hissed.

“And I should’ve told her what you are days ago,” Jeonghan snarled, and without waiting for another word, he punched him. The impact rang through the ballroom like a crack of thunder.

Minghao didn’t fall. Of course he didn’t. But his head jerked back, his lip split—and when he turned back, he looked every bit the general people feared. Cold and murderous. You stepped between them before another blow could land.

“Enough!” you said, chest heaving. “This is a royal banquet. On my name-day. You will not spill blood here.”

Reya pressed his flank to yours, snarling low. Behind you, guards surged forward—but no one dared act before you gave permission. Jeonghan wiped his knuckles on a napkin. “You should tell your father. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter. The truth always shows eventually.”

Minghao didn’t speak. But his silence was louder than anything. And just like that, the celebration fractured. Not with a scream, not with blood—but with the breaking of something deeper.

Trust.

It was several hours past midnight when you heard three gentle but firm knocks on the door to your bedchambers.

Annoyed, you stared at the collection of unopened gifts stacked high on your vanity. From delicacies imported from neighboring kingdoms to the most expensive cosmetics in all of Ancarra, your guests had certainly spared no expense in trying to curry your favor. But not even their lavish presents could dispel the pure vexation that had made your blood boil the entire evening.

You didn’t bother to answer the door. Instead, you swept yourself into the plush seat tucked beneath the dresser mirror. There was only one half wit currently residing in the castle brave enough to disturb you in the dead of night, and with how miserably tonight’s festivities had gone, you were in no mood to extend your hospitality to anyone—least of all Seraphia’s exasperating, insufferable, scheming—

“Isn’t it a little too late to be testing out swatches, Your Grace?”

You tried to ignore him. The way his silken dress shirt dangled half untucked from his trousers. The self-satisfied look on his face when he noticed you fumbling with the cherry red rouge you’d been applying to your lips.

But try as you might, you couldn’t ignore Jeonghan when he reached a hand in front of you, nimble fingers wiping off the excess color you’d accidentally tinted just a few millimeters past your lip line.

Not when his smoldering stare held yours captive in the image reflected in your gilded mirror. Not when you couldn’t even find it in yourself to resist when he gently grabbed your chin and forced your gaze to marvel at the man himself.

“Sulking again, Princess?” Jeonghan sneered, and you wanted to hate him for it, but you couldn’t. “I saved you from a man charged with treason three times in a single decade. Why are you pouting at me like I took away the love of your life?”

“Because you’ve made it your life’s purpose to make mine miserable,” you snapped, lacing each word with venom. “Minghao isn’t a traitor. If he was, he wouldn’t become the general of the Renxing army. He wouldn’t even be daring enough to live in our castle for months.”

He sighed, sounding almost sympathetic—but you’d long seen past the ruse. “Poor little thing, still being played like a fool all because you abhor the idea of one day becoming my wife. Tell me, didn’t you find it odd, how persistent he was in pursuing a woman who’s already spoken for?”

“Minghao is not pursuing me, and I am not spoken for,” you hissed, trying not to crumble from the way his thumb dabbed lightly at your lower lip. “Not by you. Not by anyone. Father gave me a choice—”

“Yes, of course. Everyone knows the story of the Ancarran Princess chained to a troublesome foreigner. So troublesome that she had to beg on her knees just to get the king to reconsider,” Jeonghan cooed, his face inching closer to yours.

“But as it turns out, all the other men you’re trying your damnedest to replace me with are even worse fiends than I.”

Your lungs burned as if they’d been set aflame, and Jeonghan was merely fanning the fire. “You’re despicable.”

“And you, Your Grace, are far too gullible,” he chuckled, each breath searing against your skin. “I’d say just give it up and surrender, but you’ve been fighting me since we were children. Ending our relationship in such a boring way wouldn’t make for a good story, now would it?”

You remembered something Soonyoung once told you in passing: how Jeonghan loved deeper than anyone expected. He loved his homeland. He loved his family. He loved his people. And with how tirelessly he kept pulling you back into this engagement, anyone would assume he loved you too.

But how were you supposed to believe that someone like him was capable of love when all he did was thrive off your misery?

“This new rouge you’re testing,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t just stomped on your last nerve. “It’s the kind that takes days to remove once it dries, isn’t it?”

“In what way does that concern you?” you gritted out.

The despicable prince simply hummed. “Oh, nothing. I’m just curious about its actual longevity.”

Your heart practically stuttered to a stop when he closed the distance between you—only a hair’s breadth separating your mouth from his. You didn’t know how it happened, but your fingers were suddenly coiled in the fabric of his shirt. Searching for purchase. For solid ground.

But you should have known better than to anchor yourself to someone as volatile as Jeonghan.

“If someone were to ruin it in the next ten seconds,” he whispered, his voice all heat and danger, “would you be even more furious than you are now? Or would it have the opposite effect? Would you finally melt into their arms? Would you let them tear all your defenses asunder?”

Your pulse roared in your ears, and suddenly, you couldn’t remember how to breathe. His intense gaze pinned you in place no matter how badly you wanted to flee. The scent of expensive champagne lingered on his lips, and to your horror, you found yourself craving a taste.

But you couldn’t. You couldn’t want that. You couldn’t want him.

This was the man who had made your life a waking nightmare for as long as you could remember. The man you’d be cursed to sit beside in the throne room if you didn’t act soon.

You knew these facts perfectly well, and yet…

A scream ripped through the corridor, sharp and blood-chilling.

Jeonghan snapped his head toward the door. The sound of shouts followed, heavy footsteps, the unmistakable ring of steel against steel.

“What was that?” you breathed, your voice brittle with disbelief.

Jeonghan was already on his feet, eyes narrowing as he reached for the dagger he always kept hidden inside his coat. “Trouble,” he said grimly. “Exactly the kind I warned your father about.”

Another cry echoed down the hall—this one closer.

Then the door burst open.

A castle guard staggered inside, crimson soaking the front of his uniform. His mouth opened, a desperate warning hanging on his tongue, but it was too late. A blade sliced across his back, and he fell with a gasp. Behind him came two men clad in obsidian armor trimmed in blood-red. Their faces were obscured by masks, but the crest etched into their chests was unmistakable.

Renxing.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Jeonghan swore violently and grabbed your wrist. “We have to go. Now.”

He yanked you into motion. Your bare feet slapped against the cold stone floor as he led you out the side passage and into the corridor beyond. Chaos bloomed all around you. Servants scattered, guards fell, and the dark-clad invaders moved with deadly precision through the castle.

“Jeonghan—what is happening?” you gasped, stumbling to keep up with him as he veered toward the grand stairwell. 

He didn’t look back. “The Renxing Empire. Minghao. He’s making his move.”

“No,” you said, heart lurching. “No, he wouldn’t—he’s still here, he’s been living here—”

“He’s been watching you. Learning the gives in your defenses. Counting how long it takes for your soldiers to mobilize.” Jeonghan’s voice was hard as steel. “And now he’s using it all against you.”

Around the corner, a blur of motion caught your eye.

Reya came barreling through the hall—his snow-white maw stained crimson. He pounced with his teeth bared, knocking one of the Renxing soldiers clean off his feet, and with a snarl, clamped his jaws around his neck.

You let out a cry. “Reya!”

The tiger lifted his head, ears twitching, and bounded back to you, fur bristling, blue eyes alight with fury. Jeonghan cursed under his breath.

“I knew it,” he spat. “I knew that bastard wasn’t here to play diplomat.”

He grabbed your hand, fingers firm and unyielding. “We have to find the king. Now.”

The three of you sprinted through the castle, Reya leading the charge with a guttural roar. The corridors grew slick with blood. Familiar faces—servants, guards, nobles—lay scattered and motionless. The once-gleaming halls of your home were being razed from the inside out. When you finally reached the king’s bedchambers, the massive oak doors were already ajar. The scent hit you first—metallic and thick. Then you saw him.

Your father lay slumped over the edge of his bed, blood soaking through his embroidered robes, pooling beneath his lifeless hand. And standing above him, eyes cool and unrepentant, was Minghao.

His sword dripped with red.

You stumbled backward in disbelief. “No…”

Jeonghan stepped in front of you, shielding you instinctively. “So this was your grand plan, was it?” he growled, tone deadly. “Cozy up to the Ancarran throne and strike the moment our backs are turned.”

Minghao didn’t even flinch. “You were never naïve, Jeonghan. That was always your problem. But the princess…” His gaze flicked to you, unreadable. “She wanted so badly to believe in goodness. It made her easy to control.”

Your heart shattered. “Why?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Why do this?”

“Because peace is a lie,” Minghao said, voice cold and resolute. “Ancarra has grown weak. Soft. You live behind silk curtains and delude yourselves with choices you were never truly free to make.”

He stepped forward, sword still glinting in the torchlight. “I came to study my enemy. And now I’ve buried your king. The only thing left to do… is take the rest.”

Jeonghan snarled and drew his blade. And behind him, Reya let out a thunderous roar, low and full of rage. You stood paralyzed between the past and the future, your kingdom falling apart in front of you—betrayed by one you’d defended, protected by the one you’d hated. Your hands shook at your sides. Jeonghan wasn’t a warrior, he’d said it himself. You were unarmed too, but even with your weapons, your down spiral into grief would make it impossible to wield. 

A sudden blast of cold tore through the chamber—sharp as shattered glass, singing with elemental fury. The air cracked as a jagged beam of frost magic erupted from the doorway, striking toward Minghao with blistering speed.

He parried it without hesitation, raising his palm as searing fire spiraled out from his fingers. The two magics collided midair, frost and flame meeting in a violent, hissing explosion that shook the floor beneath your feet and bathed the room in blinding steam. You staggered back, stunned—not by the impact, but by the magic itself.

You knew that spell. You’d seen it only a handful of times, in hushed moments of practice behind closed doors. Only one person cast frost magic that way.

Siwon.

The king’s most trusted advisor, robes singed at the edges, his eyes blazing not with panic but with purpose. He emerged from the ruined entrance, frost still crackling at his fingertips.

“There’s no time,” Siwon said, voice hoarse but commanding. “You have to go. The southern gates have already been breached—Soonyoung and Prince Joshua are waiting with a carriage at the old postern tunnel.”

“No,” you gasped, still frozen in place. “I’m not leaving him. I can’t—”

“Princess,” Siwon cut in, harsher now. “The king is gone.”

You shook your head, the burn in your throat rising with each breath. Your eyes remained fixed on your father’s body—his crown toppled, his blood soaking the carpet your mother once chose. It felt impossible. It felt wrong to leave him here alone. But Reya had already made his decision. With a deep growl, your tiger stepped forward, nudging your side with his enormous head. His low whine was almost mournful as he lowered himself to the ground, offering you his back.

“Reya…” you whispered.

He growled again, firmer this time, nudging you harder. And then—miraculously—he allowed Jeonghan to climb on behind you, his tail lashing with urgency. Jeonghan didn’t question it.

“Let’s go,” he said, gripping your waist as Reya tensed beneath you, muscles bunching like coiled springs.

“Don’t let him take the throne,” you whispered to Siwon, your throat raw.

He gave a single nod, eyes heavy with something far more complicated than grief.

And then Reya bolted.

You clung to her as she raced down the blood-soaked halls of the royal wing, Jeonghan’s arms around you, the wind screaming in your ears. Behind you, the flames of Minghao’s betrayal burned hotter than ever, and you knew this was only the beginning.

The wind had long since dulled into a low, steady whistle as Reya carried you through the winding woods beyond the outer citadel. The scent of smoke clung to your skin. The copper taste of blood still lingered at the back of your throat. But you felt none of it. Not until his paws hit the forest floor and slowed, the ground beneath him trembling slightly with the echo of distant explosions. The rendezvous point was just ahead—a small ridge overlooking the secret passage that led to the waiting carriage below.

Reya knelt again.

You slid off his back slowly, your knees buckling the moment they touched the ground. You didn’t cry out. Didn’t speak. Just curled your fingers in the dirt and stared at them like they didn’t belong to you.  Jeonghan dismounted after you, quiet for once. He took a step forward, maybe to say something, maybe to steady you—but you turned away, shoulders trembling with the weight of everything you’d tried to keep inside.

The tears came then. Finally. Hot and merciless, carving tracks down your cheeks as a sob tore itself from your throat. “I should have known,” you whispered. “He was here for months. And I didn’t see it. I trusted him. I trusted—”

Your voice cracked, the image of your father’s lifeless body flashing in your mind’s eye again. “Father told me I had a choice. And I chose wrong.”

“You didn’t choose wrong.” Jeonghan knelt beside you, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His teasing smile was gone. All that remained in his eyes was something gentler. “You chose to believe someone could be better than the world made him. That’s not a flaw, Your Grace. That’s who you are. It’s why people love you.”

“But the kingdom... M-My father, Siwon—”

You shook your head, overwhelmed with memories of Siwon making ice sculptures for you in secret, of your father lifting you into the air when you were small, telling you that Ancarra would someday be yours. That all the land the sun could touch was worth protecting.

“I was supposed to protect them,” you said, voice raw. “But I couldn’t.”

A rustle in the trees cut the air like a blade. Then another. And another. Jeonghan rose to his feet instantly, hand going to his waist where his blade was sheathed. You scrambled up behind him, Reya growling low in his throat as shadows stepped out from the dark.

Renxing soldiers.

Half a dozen at least, clad in black and red, their armor glinting beneath the moonlight.

“Well, well,” one sneered. “The little princess, right where we want her.”

“You think you’re getting out of this alive?” another added. “You let your kingdom fall from within. You let us in. And now you want to run? After everything?”

Their words twisted in your gut like poison. You didn’t speak. But beside you, Jeonghan went terrifyingly still. And then—you saw it. A glint in his eyes, sharp and inhuman. Something reptilian. Slitted pupils. A golden gleam, cold and ancient. It vanished a second later, but it made your breath hitch.

Before you could question it, Reya stepped forward, positioning himself between you and the soldiers. His tail lashed. His fur bristled. But most startling of all—

Go.

Your eyes widened. Reya never spoke like this—rarely ever with such clarity. But his voice rang clearly in your head, steady and resolute. I’ll hold them off.

“No,” you gasped aloud. “Reya, no—”

He turned his massive head toward you briefly, his frost blue eyes impossibly calm.

Ancarra will never die as long as you live.

Then he charged.

“Reya!!” you cried, arm outstretched, but Jeonghan grabbed you from behind.

“We have to go,” he said firmly—though you knew he hadn’t heard a word your tiger said. Somehow, he still understood.

You stumbled after him, barely able to breathe, heart threatening to break clean in half—but you ran. You ran, tears blurring your vision, Reya’s roar behind you echoing in your bones as you and Jeonghan raced for the ridge where Soonyoung and Joshua were waiting.

You didn’t look back.

Because looking back would break you beyond repair.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

⟢ end notes: oh mein gott... after two years, i finally put this baby out of my system and into existence. HELLOOOOO lovely people of caratblr, i missed you all so terribly!!!!! this story has been camping in the back of my mind the entire time i was gone, and i'm so happy to finally get to share it with you! the entire thing is 40k ish in total, and i've been told tumblr gets EXXXTRA cranky if i even dare to dump everything in one go, so here we are, chopped into two parts :( i will probablee have the next part up next week just to keep you guys on your toes heh. i hope you liked reading this as much as i loved writing it. i miss jeonghan so terribly, and this fic got me to blow off that steam SIGHHH.

this is part of the it’s complicated series.

[theonottsbxtch]

THE FLAT NEXT DOOR | OP81

an: @iimplicitt started drawing a firefighter oscar and next thing i knew, i was writing this story. it's so dear to me, firefighter!oscar you mean so much to me. also ive written something similar to this called sunflower syndrome (i dont think ive posted) which i can post, its next door neighbours and shes a single mum as well, its completed just never been posted lol - lemme know if you want it

summary: a firefighter with a soft heart & no idea what he’s doing with his life. a single mum who gave up everything for a tiny pair of shoes. a six-year-old matchmaker with a butterfly painted on her cheek. and the slow, aching kind of love that feels like coming home.

wc: 14.1k

Oscar hadn’t planned on becoming a firefighter. In fact, he hadn’t really planned on anything. Life, so far, had been a series of decisions made more out of avoidance than ambition. Moving to England from Australia at fifteen had felt like starting over in the middle of a film, he’d missed the beginning and had no idea what the plot was meant to be. His accent had softened over the years, but the disorientation never quite left.

By the time he finished school, uni felt like a trap more than an opportunity. He wasn’t academic, not really. His girlfriend back then had big dreams and a UCAS application filled out before the rest of them even figured out their predicted grades. She wanted him to come with her. Scotland, maybe, or Manchester, but he couldn’t pretend to want something just to stay close. Long distance sounded like a slow death, and he was already tired of pretending to care about futures he couldn’t picture. They broke up in late spring, somewhere between the last exam and prom. He barely remembered the conversation now, only the strange mix of guilt and relief afterwards.

The fire service had been a suggestion from someone he barely knew, his mate’s older brother or a careers advisor he met once. The idea stuck, though. It felt solid, practical. So he moved to a town just outside London, somewhere not too fast but not too sleepy either. Now, in his mid-twenties, he still wasn’t sure it was what he wanted, but it was something. A job, a flat, a rhythm.

The flat was part of a red-bricked terrace that hadn’t aged gracefully but wore its wear with a sort of tired charm. Peeling paint on the railings, a communal garden mostly made of grass that didn’t grow right, and neighbours you recognised before you knew their names.

For a while it was quiet on his floor until his neighbour moved in not long after he did, though they didn’t speak properly for months, he always saw her. She was quiet, but not unfriendly. Always rushing, school runs, shopping bags, the sort of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep but from doing everything yourself. She had a daughter, six years old and full of questions, the kind who shouted hello from the doorstep and thought Oscar was a superhero just because he had boots by the door and came home smelling faintly of smoke.

He didn’t know much about her. She kept to herself, didn’t bring people round, and handled things with a quiet efficiency that made Oscar feel both impressed and slightly in the way. He saw her most often on Sunday mornings, pyjama bottoms tucked into socks, mug in hand while she coaxed the little one into her coat. He wondered, sometimes, if she had ever had a plan, or if she, like him, had simply found herself in a life that looked like it belonged to someone else.

The town had a softness to it in the early mornings, before the cars filled the roads and the high street buzzed with prams and pensioners. The air still held a trace of mist, clinging to hedgerows and the slate roofs that lined the close. Oscar liked this time of day, even if he wasn’t a morning person by nature. There was a quiet permission in the hush, like the world was still deciding what kind of day it wanted to be.

His flat smelled faintly of laundry detergent and burnt toast. He tugged on his jacket, the navy fire service one with the embroidered badge half-unpicked from where it had snagged last month. His boots were by the door, laces loose from habit. The station wasn’t far, a ten-minute walk if he didn’t stop for a coffee or get caught by someone with too many questions.

He swung the door open and nearly collided with her.

“Sorry—” they said at the same time, both stepping back, the awkward shuffle of neighbours not expecting to meet in the narrow shared walkway.

She was crouched beside Aurelia, zipping up a purple puffer coat that was already streaked with breakfast. Her hair fell forward as she glanced up at him, blinking through the unexpected encounter.

Oscar straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t see you there.”

“That’s alright,” she said, standing up. Her voice was warm, light, with the kind of casual tiredness that didn’t sound like complaining.

Aurelia grinned up at him, gap-toothed. “Are you going to fight fires today?”

He chuckled, crouching a little to her level. “If they start, yeah. Hopefully not too many, though. I’ve just cleaned my helmet.”

She giggled at that, and her mum gave him a grateful sort of smile, small, quick, like she wasn’t used to people being gentle with them.

Oscar stood again, unsure what else to say. The kind of silence that stretched just a second too long settled between them.

“School run?” he asked, just to fill it.

“Yeah. She’s already tried to convince me she’s sick twice.”

“I am sick,” Aurelia insisted. “Sick of spelling tests.”

That made her mum laugh, the kind of laugh that sounded like it didn’t come often enough.

Oscar smiled, then pointed toward the road. “I’d better get going before Zak starts calling. My boss has the patience of a gnat.”

She nodded. “Alright. Have a good shift.”

He hesitated for half a beat. “You too. I mean—have a good school run. And day. And… everything.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “You too, firefighter.”

As he walked down the path, he heard Aurelia whisper, “Mummy, I think he’s cool.”

He grinned all the way to the station.

The station smelled of instant coffee, damp gear, and the faint chemical tang of smoke that never really washed out. Oscar pushed through the side entrance, nodding at the watch crew already gathered in the mess room. The TV was on mute, rolling through the morning headlines, and someone had burned toast again, the fire alarm had a nasty habit of reacting more to that than actual emergencies.

He dumped his bag in his locker and shrugged off his jacket, already feeling the dry warmth of the place settling into his bones. There was a comfort to the station, rough around the edges, but reliable. It reminded him of the school changing rooms back in Melbourne: paint chipped from too many boots, the faint echo of shouts in the corridor, the shared understanding that none of it was glamorous, but it was theirs.

“Morning, mate,” came a voice from across the room.

Oscar looked up to see Andrea, one of the senior firefighters on his watch, cradling a mug with World’s Okayest Firefighter printed in peeling letters. He had salt and pepper hair, always grumbling about overtime, and somehow managed to be everyone’s uncle without trying.

“Morning,” Oscar replied, reaching for the kettle. “Anything going on?”

“Not yet. Callout at half three, car in a ditch near the A-road, but that’s about it. Oh, Zak wants a word when you’ve got a sec.”

Oscar groaned quietly. “Do I need to be nervous?”

Andrea grinned. “Always.”

He found Zak in his office, chewing on a pen lid and frowning at a stack of paper that looked older than both of them. He waved Oscar in without looking up.

“You busy this weekend?” Zak asked, without preamble.

Oscar blinked. “Uh, not really. Why?”

Zak finally looked up. “We’ve been asked to send someone to this community thing at Chestnut Grove Primary. Little safety talk, couple of demos, let the kids have a go with the hoses, all that, see the truck.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Chestnut Grove? The one down the road”

“Yeah. Saturday morning. Council’s pushing the whole community engagement thing again. You up for it?”

He could’ve said no. He wasn’t the best with big groups, especially ones full of excitable children and clipboard-wielding parents. But something about the name clicked in his head, a flicker of memory. Hadn’t he seen little Aurelia in a forest green uniform?

“I’ll go,” he said, surprising even himself.

Zak blinked. “Right. Well. That was easy. Cheers.”

He left the office feeling oddly restless. Community events weren’t usually his thing, too many people, too many eyes. But he figured it was just one morning. How bad could it be?

Back in the mess, Andrea glanced up from the paper. “You’ve got that face on.”

“What face?”

“The one where you’ve agreed to something and immediately regretted it.”

Oscar shrugged, pouring himself a coffee that tasted vaguely of plastic and burnt hopes. “Just volunteered for the school event.”

Andrea gave a low whistle. “Brave man. Good luck dodging flying juice cartons.”

Oscar smiled to himself, thinking of Aurelia’s grin that morning, the way she’d looked up at him like he was some kind of action figure come to life. If nothing else, maybe it would be nice to see some children think he was a hero he 100% wasn’t.

It was one of those spring mornings where the sun tried its best, but the chill hadn’t quite loosened its grip yet. The air was sharp, fresh with that faint green smell of grass and new leaves, and the sky had that washed-out blue that promised warmth later, maybe.

Oscar parked the spare appliance near the edge of the school field, just where the tarmac gave way to a patch of uneven grass. The truck was technically out of use, something to do with the hydraulics, Zak had said, but it looked the part and that’s what mattered. He unfolded the little step ladder and opened up a few side panels to make it look more interactive. A pop-up banner flapped in the wind beside him, showing a smiling child in a tiny fire helmet with the slogan Be Cool, Stay Safe in cheerful red letters.

The fair itself was already in full swing: bunting strung between gazebo poles, the smell of frying onions from a burger van, and a trail of small children darting between stalls clutching glittery cupcakes and face paint flyers. Oscar had been given a little corner to himself on the edge of the field, which suited him fine. He liked watching the buzz of it all from a slight distance, present, but not in the thick of things.

He was in full kit except for the heavy jacket and helmet, both left hanging neatly inside the cab. Just his white fire service shirt rolled up at the forearms, and the braces of his overalls snug over his shoulders. He leaned against the side of the truck, hands in his pockets, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of his shirt.

A few curious kids had wandered over already. Two boys who’d wanted to climb inside the cab and press every button, a shy little girl who’d asked if he had ever rescued a cat from a tree, while he hadn’t, he said yes, and a boy who only cared about the siren.

Oscar found himself smiling more than he expected. There was something easy about it. Maybe it was the way kids didn’t expect anything except enthusiasm and the occasional high five. Maybe it was the way parents hovered a few feet away, grateful for five minutes of peace while someone else answered the never-ending questions.

He took a sip from his coffee flask, just as he heard the unmistakable patter of small feet sprinting across grass.

“Neighbour firefighter!”

He turned, and there she was, Aurelia, bounding across the field with a neon butterfly painted across one cheek and a balloon animal in one hand. Her plimsolls were slightly muddy and her coat was half unzipped.

Oscar laughed, straightening up. “Oh, I know you!”

She skidded to a stop in front of him, breathless with excitement. “Mummy said we might see you but I didn’t really think you’d be here!”

“Well, I don’t lie about fire engines,” he said, crouching down to her level. “That’s a very serious thing.”

She grinned, already peering into the open side of the truck. “Can I go in?”

“Course you can—but hang on a sec, where’s—?”

And then he saw her. Walking at a slower pace across the grass, hands deep in her coat pockets, eyes already on him. The breeze lifted the edge of her scarf, and her hair glinted slightly in the sun. She looked different here, more relaxed somehow, out of the usual early morning rush and into something softer.

“Hi,” she said, when she reached him. “Looks like you’ve got an assistant now.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling, “bit short for the uniform, but she’s got enthusiasm.”

Aurelia had already clambered halfway up the step ladder, peeking into the cab with the confidence of someone who fully expected to be given the keys. Her balloon animal was now tucked under one arm like a sidekick.

Her mum laughed, folding her arms loosely as she watched. “She’s been bouncing off the walls since breakfast. I think she thought she’d get to drive it.”

Oscar grinned. “Could probably teach her. Might be more focused than some of the lads at the station.”

She gave him a look, one of those amused half-smiles he was starting to recognise, a little dry, a little warm. “You here all day?”

“No, just the morning. Couple of hours, bit of leafleting, bit of ‘don’t play with matches’ chat. Then I get to drag all this lot back to the station and pretend it never happened.”

“Well,” she said, glancing toward Aurelia now balancing with one foot on the step and the other poised mid-air, “you’re already a highlight. She’s going to talk about this for weeks.”

Oscar watched Aurelia for a beat, her complete absorption in twiddling the dials on the dashboard, and then turned back to her mum, catching the moment her eyes dipped.

Just for a second.

A quick flicker downward, over the rolled sleeves, the broad line of his shoulders beneath the white shirt, the dark straps of his overalls snug against his chest.

He smirked. “Careful, you’re staring.”

Her eyes snapped up, sharp and just slightly horrified. “I am not.”

“You are. It’s alright. Happens all the time,” he said, leaning casually back against the truck, utterly insufferable now. 

She scoffed, but her ears had gone pink. “No! I just think it’s a nice shirt. Very crisp. Good cotton, probably.”

Oscar chuckled, folding his arms. “I’ll let the fire service know. Get one sent out to you.”

“Oh, good,” she said dryly. “Nothing says flattering like free uniform merch.”

Aurelia’s voice rang out before he could reply. “Mummy! Come look at the back bit! There’s hoses!”

She gave him a look that said this isn’t over, then stepped past him to help Aurelia down. Oscar caught a whiff of her perfume as she moved, something light and clean, like citrus and soap, and tried not to look too pleased with himself.

He crouched again beside the little girl. “Want to hold the thermal imaging camera?”

Aurelia gasped like he’d offered her a crown. “Can I?”

“Course you can. Let me just grab it.”

While he disappeared momentarily into the side compartment, her mum looked after him, one eyebrow raised, like she was still debating whether to be annoyed or amused. Maybe both.

When he returned, holding the chunky bit of kit with both hands, he caught her smirking to herself.

“What?” he said, passing the camera to Aurelia.

“Nothing,” she said sweetly. “Just admiring the shirt again.”

Oscar grinned. “Thought so.”

And if he stood a little straighter for the rest of the morning, well, no one could blame him, really.

By midday, the fair was starting to wind down. The bouncy castle had deflated into a sad, crumpled mess, and a few stalls were already packing away jars of pick ’n’ mix and rain-speckled flyers. The sun had climbed properly now, still not warm, but bright enough to squint against.

Oscar stood by the truck, arms folded loosely, watching as Aurelia gave the thermal imaging camera a final, dramatic sweep across the grass, pretending to detect imaginary fires. Her mum hovered a few steps behind, rummaging in her bag, trying to locate a missing glove.

He caught her voice, half-muffled by the breeze. “Alright, Rels, we’ve got to go soon. Last bus is at twelve and I’m not chasing it again.”

Oscar straightened a little. She was looking at her watch, already slipping back into that quiet, slightly hurried rhythm he recognised from mornings in the shared walkway.

He pushed off from the side of the truck and wandered over, deliberately soft-footed across the grass. He stopped just behind her.

“Boo.”

She jumped about a foot in the air and turned, hand instinctively going to her chest. “God, don’t do that!”

He grinned. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

She exhaled sharply, trying not to smile. “You’re a menace.”

Oscar nodded toward the road beyond the fence. “You’re heading off?”

She gave a small nod, still a little breathless. “Yeah. Got to catch the bus before it disappears into the void. It’s only once an hour out here.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, hands back in his pockets now. “Let me give you a lift.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’ve got to drive the truck back to the station anyway, and Aurelia’ll love it. And I brought my car in this morning, first time in ages, I was running late, so I can just take you both home after.”

She stared at him, clearly caught off guard. “Oh. I mean, that’s kind of you. I don’t want to, um…”

“Inconvenience me?” he finished, one brow raised. “You wouldn’t be. It’s just a lift.”

She hesitated, glancing at Aurelia, who was now poking at the truck’s steering wheel with something close to reverence. “We don’t usually talk this much.”

Oscar gave a soft laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Thought I’d change that.”

She looked like she might say no, just on instinct, like she didn’t want to be a bother, but the words never quite came. Instead, she sighed and gave him a resigned sort of look.

“Fine. But only because Aurelia will probably combust if you offer.”

Oscar turned to the little girl, crouching again beside her with mock seriousness.

“Hey, Aurelia,” he said, “want to ride in the fire truck?”

Her eyes went wide. “What? Really?”

“Really,” he said, gesturing grandly toward the cab. “I need a co-pilot.”

She shrieked in delight and immediately threw herself at her mum, already halfway into the truck in her head. “Mummy, mummy, we’re going in the fire engine!”

Her mum shook her head with a quiet laugh, murmuring as she passed Oscar, “You’re going to regret this.”

But he was still smiling, already opening the cab door, like he doubted that very much.

Once he checked that everything was back in place, Oscar jogged over to the headteacher, a harried-looking man in a tweed jacket with a clipboard under one arm, who, thankfully, tended right to it and began talking to the stall holders.

When he turned back, he found Aurelia had already jumped in and her mother was right behind her attempting to get up herself. He came up behind her quietly, hand brushing gently around her waist as she shifted her weight.

“Easy,” he said near her ear, low and careful. “Didn’t want to startle you again.”

She tensed slightly, then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

He tightened his hands around her waist and hopped her up into her seat then stood on the ledge. “Right then, Aurelia you’ll have to sit on your mum’s lap,” he told her, lifting her up onto her mother’s lap. “I haven’t got a booster seat, and I reckon you’d get swallowed up by that seatbelt on your own.”

“Okay!” Aurelia chirped, already clambering in. She nestled against her mum, legs swinging slightly, her face bright with excitement.

“Hold still a sec,” Oscar said, reaching in to pull the seatbelt across both of them. His arm brushed hers as he clicked it in, and when their eyes met briefly, he gave her a look that was pure cheek.

“Safe and sound.”

She raised a brow. “You enjoy this far too much.”

“I really do,” he grinned.

He stepped back, shut the door with a solid thunk, and jogged round to the driver’s side. Once inside, he leaned over and handed Aurelia a chunky black handset.

“Alright, Firefighter Aurelia,” he said, reaching for the cab’s radio. “We’ve got a very important mission.”

He pressed the button and spoke into it in his best dramatic voice. “Control, this is Unit Seventeen. We've received reports of a rogue ice cream van, repeat, rogue ice cream van, causing mayhem in the residential zone. Suspect is armed with sprinkles. Requesting permission to pursue.”

Aurelia squealed with laughter and clutched the handset like it was made of gold. Her mum shook her head, but Oscar caught the smile she was trying not to show as he flicked the ignition.

The old appliance groaned slightly as it rolled off the grass and onto the gravel path. The gate swung open ahead of them, and they bumped gently onto the road.

The drive was short, fifteen minutes or so, but it was quiet, in a good way. Aurelia made soft siren noises under her breath the whole time, practically vibrating in place, and her mum kept a steady hand around her middle to stop her launching herself at every passing tree or pigeon.

When they finally pulled into the station yard, the engine still humming beneath them, Oscar spotted Lando through the open shutters. He was parked in a camp chair just inside the bay, arms folded, head tipped back, fast asleep with a half-eaten bag of crisps in his lap.

Oscar flicked his gaze up to Aurelia, then caught her mum’s eye.

“Wanna wake up Sleeping Beauty?”

Aurelia’s face lit up. “Can I? Really?”

“Go on then,” he said, reaching up to the dash. “Just one burst, yeah?”

She bounced in her seat as he tapped the siren switch. The wail screamed to life, echoing through the yard. Lando nearly fell out of his chair, crisps flying in every direction.

Oscar killed the siren after two seconds, laughing as Lando stood up blinking, dazed and scandalised.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Lando shouted, wiping crumbs off his shirt.

Oscar stuck his head out the window. “Community engagement, mate.”

Aurelia was giggling so hard she nearly dropped her balloon animal.

Her mum shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re going to get sacked.”

Oscar smirked. “Not unless he grasses.”

He parked the truck, turned off the engine, and helped them both down one at a time.

As he pulled up, he looked at her sideways. “Worth it?”

She gave him a wry look. “You’re completely ridiculous.”

He grinned. “And yet, look at the smile on your daughter’s face”

She didn’t respond straight away, just looked at him, that same half-smile playing at her lips, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes yet. Not because she wasn’t happy, but because she wasn’t used to all this. The ease of it. The way he fit so seamlessly into an afternoon that wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a spring fair and a sugar crash.

Aurelia, oblivious to the grown-up moment passing quietly over her head, was already tugging at her mum’s hand.

“Mum! Look! Look, it’s like Fireman Sam! The pole! Can we slide down it? Can we?”

Oscar chuckled and crouched beside her. “You’ve got a good eye, Aurelia. That’s the real thing. Only the grown-ups are allowed on it though, bit dangerous, that one.”

She pouted, considering the injustice, then lit up again. “When I’m a grown-up, I’m going to work here with you.”

“Deal,” he said, offering her a pinky. “You’ll be the best firefighter in the place.”

She pinky-swore with great ceremony, and then launched into an intense interrogation about hoses, helmets, and whether or not he’d ever saved a dinosaur (he hadn’t, but he’d chased a very angry goose once, which she seemed to find acceptable).

Eventually, the sugar high began to dip and she slumped a little, thumb sneaking toward her mouth before her mum gently steered her hand away. Oscar caught the silent exchange and didn’t say anything, just gestured toward the far end of the garage.

“Car’s parked out the back. You ready?”

Her mum nodded, brushing a stray curl off Aurelia’s forehead. “Yeah. Let’s go before she falls asleep standing up.”

Oscar got changed out of his gear and wore just a hoodie and a pair of shorts as the girls walked to his car. They bundled into his car, Oscar making a show of unlocking the door like it was a limo and she was royalty, and within five minutes, they were on the road again, the fire truck a quiet memory behind them.

Aurelia was asleep before they turned onto their street.

Her head lolled against her mum’s arm, soft snores escaping in little puffs. Her butterfly face paint had mostly faded, a faint smudge of pink and glitter under one eye.

Oscar pulled into the car park behind the flats and cut the engine. The stillness after the hum of the engine felt sudden, like stepping into a moment that didn’t quite belong to the day.

She shifted carefully, not waking Aurelia, and glanced over at him.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “For all of that. You didn’t have to.”

He leaned back in his seat, eyes still on the dashboard for a moment before he looked at her.

“I know,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”

They got out quietly, and he came round to open the door for her, taking Aurelia gently from her arms and settling her against his shoulder without fuss. She stirred but didn’t wake, hand fisting into the fabric of his shirt as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

They climbed the stairs together, slow and careful, her just a step ahead as they reached their landing. She unlocked her door quietly, reaching out to take her daughter back.

Oscar passed her over gently. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

“She’s all legs,” she whispered, smoothing Aurelia’s hair.

He nodded, hands slipping back into his hoodie pockets. For a second, neither of them moved.

The corridor was still. Just the hum of an old light overhead and the faint smell of fabric softener from someone’s laundry down the hall.

“I should… put her down,” she said, but her voice didn’t carry much urgency.

He looked at her then, really looked at her. “This was nice,” he said. “Spending time. With you.”

She held his gaze, surprised by how much that simple truth settled somewhere deep in her chest.

“Yeah,” she said after a moment, soft and honest. “It was.”

Neither of them quite knew what to say next. But it didn’t feel awkward, just quiet. Comfortable.

Then she smiled, just a little, and nodded toward her door.

“See you tomorrow, neighbour.”

He smiled back, stepping slowly away.

“Sweet dreams, Aurelia,” he said, softly, before turning and heading for his own door, the warmth of the moment still clinging to the edges of him.

And behind her closed door, she stood for a beat longer than she needed to, heart ticking just a little louder than usual.

A couple of days had passed, and the brightness of the spring fair had faded into a more typical grey sort of morning. The kind that didn’t quite rain, but threatened to at any moment. Oscar was shrugging into his station fleece, keys already in hand, when he stepped out into the corridor and nearly tripped over something on the doormat.

He blinked down at the small tupperware tub sitting neatly against his door, like it had been placed there with great care.

Inside, through the foggy plastic lid, he could just about make out a few slightly lopsided fairy cakes, frosting a bit wonky, a generous scattering of rainbow sprinkles on top. They weren’t shop bought. Not a chance. They had that unmistakable homemade charm, the kind that didn’t care about appearances but would taste better than anything in a bakery.

Tucked underneath the corner of the lid was a small card, folded over like a secret note passed in class. His name was scrawled across the front in purple felt-tip, the letters slightly uneven. 

He crouched down, picked it up, and flipped the card open.

Dear Mr Oscar,

Thank you for letting me drive the fire truck. You are the best firefighter in the world. I made you fairy cakes. Mummy helped but I did the mixing.

Love from,

Aurelie (age six and a HALF)

Oscar stared at the note for a long moment, a smile spreading slowly, unstoppably across his face.

He glanced at their door, tempted to knock, but it was early, and quiet behind the wood. Probably the usual hushed breakfast rush in there, uniforms, pony tails and cereal on the floor. He didn’t want to interrupt. Not yet.

So he tucked the card into his jacket pocket and examined the container, before heading off down the stairs with the kind of ridiculous warmth in his chest that made even a dreary Tuesday feel a little golden around the edges.

By the time Oscar got home, it was well past eight. His shift had overrun, as they often did, from a small domestic fire to someone’s car keys that were stuck in the car. He was knackered, hungry, and somehow still smiling like an idiot every time he glanced at the now empty cake tub in his hands.

He’d saved one. The best one, in his opinion. A bit sunken in the middle, heavy on the sprinkles, the icing smudged at the side like someone small had licked their thumb and tried to fix it. It was tucked into a bit of kitchen roll in the pocket of his coat.

The corridor light flickered as he climbed the stairs, his boots quiet on the worn carpet. Their doors faced each other, and for a moment, he just stood there, unsure if he was about to come off charming or really quite tragic.

But then he knocked.

Soft, just enough to be heard over whatever bedtime might sound like on the other side.

A pause. Then the click of the latch, and she opened the door just a crack before widening it when she saw him. She looked cosy, oversized hoodie, hair up, bare feet. The kind of comfort people didn’t wear unless they felt safe at home.

“Hi,” she said, surprised but not in a bad way. “Everything alright?”

Oscar held up the empty container like a peace offering. “Official return of government property. Wouldn’t want to be accused of fairy cake theft.”

She smiled, hand resting on the doorframe. “Did she really give you those?”

“Left them on my doormat. Full note and everything. Genuinely the highlight of my week.”

“She was very serious about it,” she said, laughing gently. “Kept asking if I thought you’d know they were from her. I told her you’d probably figure it out from the purple pen.”

“There was a lot of purple,” he nodded solemnly. “It was a full forensic giveaway.”

She laughed properly then, a hand over her mouth, and the sound curled around his ribs like a warm drink.

“I, um…” he shifted a little, suddenly aware of his own nerves, “I saved one. If she wants it back.”

She raised a brow. “You saved one?”

He held up his hands. “For sentiment, not greed.”

“Mm-hm,” she said, amused. “Well, she’s out like a light. Crashed in the middle of Matilda. Completely missed the part where Miss Trunchbull throws a child across the playground.”

“Shame. That’s the best bit.”

They stood there for a second longer than was casual, silence stretching warm between them.

Then, soft as anything, she said, “You want to come in?”

Oscar blinked. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “If it’s not weird.”

She stepped aside to let him pass. “It’s a little bit weird,” she said honestly, then smiled. “But not bad-weird.”

He slipped inside, brushing past her in the doorway, and something about the quiet of the flat, the low lamplight, the faint scent of strawberry shampoo in the air, it made him feel like he was somewhere he wasn’t quite ready to leave.

She shut the door behind them, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like just the neighbour with a fire truck.

He felt like someone she wanted to keep close.

The flat was warm in a lived-in sort of way. Not spotless, but comfortable. A couple of cushions on the floor, a half-folded blanket draped across the back of the sofa, a mug left forgotten on the coffee table with a teabag still inside. It felt like somewhere someone lived, not just existed.

Oscar stood a little awkwardly in the middle of the room at first, unsure whether to perch or hover. She motioned towards the sofa, already heading into the kitchen.

“Put the telly on if you want. I’ve got, like, two channels that work properly and one that just plays antiques shows.”

He chuckled, watching her disappear round the corner. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He heard the clink of mugs and the whirr of the kettle. The sofa gave slightly under him when he sat, still warm where she’d been earlier, and he glanced around, a framed photo on the side, probably her and her daughter at the beach. Wind-swept hair, noses sun-pink, a proper grin on Aurelia’s face. That same grin she’d worn all day at the spring fair.

She came back in with two mugs, one hand curled round each handle.

“I wasn’t sure how you take it, so it’s builder’s,” she said, offering him one. “Strong enough to put hairs on your chest.”

He took it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into his fingers. “I’ll risk it.”

They sat, not far, not quite close, but comfortably between. The telly was on in the background, some low-budget crime drama no one was really watching. The soft light pooled across her legs where she’d folded them under her, and the sleeve of her jumper kept slipping over her knuckles as she held her tea.

“Thanks,” he said eventually, nodding at the mug, then motioning towards the kitchen. “And for the cakes. And the note. That really made my day.”

She smiled, eyes soft. “She loves you, you know. Keeps calling you our firefighter.”

“Our?” He raised a brow, teasing. “Possessive, that.”

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word. “You did give her a lift in an actual fire engine. Might’ve set the bar a bit high.”

“Bugger,” he muttered playfully. “Should’ve started with something less exciting. Bin lorry, maybe.”

They both laughed, a quiet, comfortable sound. The kind that filled the little flat without echoing, like it belonged there.

There was a lull then, not awkward, just gentle. She reached down to pull the blanket from the floor and tossed one end over his legs without a word, settling the other across her own.

He blinked down at it, then looked at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sharing blankets now, are we?”

She didn’t even look at him. “You’re the one who looked cold.”

“Right. Humanitarian effort. Got it.”

He sipped his tea to hide the grin, eyes on the telly though he couldn’t have said what was happening. Every so often, her knee brushed his. Not enough to make a thing of, but enough to notice.

Eventually, she said, quiet enough that he almost missed it, “It’s nice. Having you here.”

He turned to her then, properly, softly. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

The telly droned on. Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, two mugs slowly cooled on the table, and two people who hadn’t meant to mean anything to each other found themselves sitting shoulder to shoulder beneath a blanket, realising maybe they did.

It had been just over a week since that quiet evening on the sofa, and things had shifted in the sort of way you only noticed once it had already happened. There hadn’t been any grand declarations, no big talk, no labels. Just little things.

Oscar now offered her a lift any time he saw her out shopping, even if she only had a single bag. He’d insist it was on his way, even when it clearly wasn’t. He started carrying her parcels up without being asked, shoulder-barging the stairwell door open with a grin and a “Special delivery!” like it was no big deal. He always handed them over with one hand and a joke but his eyes always lingered just a beat too long. She didn’t seem to mind.

She didn’t say no to him, either.

It wasn’t just about her, though. He was clearly soft on Aurelia too, somehow managing that delicate balance between fun and dependable, chaos and calm. He never tried too hard, never made her feel like a chore. Just… showed up. It mattered.

So when he spotted the two of them coming back from school one afternoon, something in his chest twisted.

Aurelia wasn’t bouncing the way she usually did. Her hand was tucked tightly into her mum’s coat, and her face was blotchy in that telltale just-finished-crying sort of way. She wasn’t sobbing now, but she wasn’t smiling either.

Oscar frowned, stepping out of his doorway just as they reached the landing. “Alright?” he asked gently, eyes flicking between the two.

She gave him a small, weary look, and then crouched to Aurelia’s level. “Go on, love. Go get changed into your pyjamas, yeah? I’ll be in in a minute.”

Aurelia nodded mutely, her little lip still trembling, and padded through the front door. It clicked softly shut behind her.

Oscar stayed quiet for a beat. Then, low and careful, “What happened?”

She let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall, arms folded. “It’s nothing big. At least, not to anyone else. But to her…”

He waited.

She glanced down at the floor. “It’s bring your dad to school day tomorrow. They’re doing some assembly thing. A lot of the kids’ dads have these big jobs —marine biologist, police, pilot, someone even works at a zoo. And obviously she doesn’t have anyone. She asked if she could take her god father, but he’s away, and my brother’s not really around.”

Oscar’s brows pulled together slightly, the picture forming. He could feel the weight of it even now, the pressure that sort of thing put on a kid. Everyone else parading a parent around like a badge of honour. And her? Just trying to smile through it.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a lot for her to carry.”

“Yeah,” she said, voice quiet. “She didn’t say anything about it until just now. Said she didn’t want to upset me.” She scoffed lightly at herself, blinking fast. “She’s six, for God’s sake. She shouldn’t be worrying about me.”

Oscar’s gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted slowly to meet hers. “Why don’t I go?”

She blinked. “What?”

“To the school. For the thing. I mean.” he shrugged, awkward now, eyes flicking away “If she wants me to. I’m technically a firefighter. That’s still cool, right?”

She stared at him.

He gave a small, crooked smile. “I’ve got the day off. And I’ve got the uniform. Not the proper helmet, that’s locked up, but I could bring the jacket. Talk about smoke alarms and what happens if you leave your toast in too long.”

“You’d really do that?”

Oscar looked at her properly now, really looked, and all the gentle affection in him softened his voice. “Yeah. If it’ll help. I’d do a lot for her. And you.”

Her lips parted like she might say something, but nothing came out straightaway. Instead, she just nodded, slowly, almost like she didn’t quite trust her voice yet.

“I’ll ask her,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But thank you, Oscar.”

He gave a half-shrug, like it was nothing, but his heart was thudding behind his ribs.

“Tell her I expect a very professional introduction,” he said, backing away toward his flat, trying to keep it light.

And just before he stepped inside, she called after him, voice soft but sure.

“She’ll be over the moon.”

He didn’t say anything back.

He just smiled.

And his whole chest felt full.

Oscar had never had stage fright in his life. He’d once crawled through a burning pub roof, half convinced it was going to come down on his head, and hadn’t flinched. But standing outside the Year Two classroom, fiddling with the zip on his fire service fleece while a sea of tiny faces peered through the glass?

Yeah. That did it. 

Aurelia stood proudly beside him, hand firmly in his, like she was escorting a VIP. “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered with complete sincerity. “You’re the best one.”

That undid him a bit.

The door opened and a teacher with a rainbow lanyard and a kind smile welcomed them in. Oscar ducked slightly out of habit, as though the ceiling might lower to match the size of the furniture. The classroom was bright and chaotic in the way only a primary room could be. Walls plastered with glittery artwork, phonics charts, paper bunting with all the kid’s faces and a corner reading nook with two bean bags that had seen better days.

Aurelia immediately tugged him by the hand to the back wall. “These are mine,” she said, pointing to a messy collage of tissue-paper flowers, a painted hedgehog, and a bright crayon rainbow. “And that’s my favourite one.”

He leaned in, smiling, and then paused. Nestled in the middle of the display, in a wonky black felt-tip frame, was a drawing of three stick figures.

One tall with brown hair and blue scribbles on his shoulders. One with long lines of hair and a dress in Aurelia’s favourite shade of pink. And one, small and neat, holding both of their hands.

His throat did something strange.

Aurelia tapped it with pride. “That’s you,” she said. “That’s me. And that’s Mummy.”

He blinked. Swallowed. “Right.”

No one had ever drawn him before. Not like that. Not part of something. Not holding hands.

She didn’t notice his pause, already rifling through a drawer of coloured pencils, humming quietly. The rest of the class buzzed around them, but in that little corner, time felt like it had narrowed.

“We’re allowed to make a new picture for home if we want,” she said. “I’m going to do one for Mummy.”

He crouched beside her, watching her draw two wonky hearts and a triangle house with smoke coming from the chimney.

“Can I help?”

She nodded and handed him a green pencil.

He added a little tree with apples. Then, below the drawing, in his slanted, firefighter has to fill forms handwriting, he wrote carefully:

Mummy is the prettiest of them all.

Aurelia giggled and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I think mummy is going to love that.”

He smiled at her, warm and full. “I hope so.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of picture books, wide-eyed questions from excitable children, and a slightly panicked moment when one kid asked how many people he'd "seen explode." 

But through it all, it was Aurelia's face he kept coming back to. The way she looked at him with pride, like she’d brought in something precious to share. The way she whispered his name to her friends, like she was letting them in on a secret. The way she slid her hand into his without even looking, like it was just the natural place for it to be.

And maybe the strangest bit?

It felt like home.

After the school visit, Oscar hadn’t quite been ready to say goodbye. Not yet. So when Aurelia mentioned, rather loudly and unsubtly, that she fancied an ice cream, he’d raised a brow in her mum’s direction and said, “Well, I suppose it is practically summer…”

She didn’t protest.

So they ended up walking to the corner shop, Aurelia skipping ahead with a swirl cone in one hand and rainbow sprinkles already melting down her fingers. He paid for the lot, obviously, brushing off any protests with a lazy, “Call it my speaker’s fee.”

When they got back, Aurelia darted inside first, cone long gone and hands sticky, only to stop dead in the kitchen.

“Mummy! Look!”

Aurelia pulled out the paper from her book bag with sticky hands, but her mum took it delicately, like it was something rare. Her eyes softened as she read the words beneath the sketch. Then, without a word, she reached for a magnet and pinned it to the fridge, pride of place, just above the shopping list.

Oscar watched from the doorway, the weight of something quiet settling in his chest. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

That night, just before he was about to settle in for a late dinner and a bit of telly, there was a soft knock at his door.

He opened it to find her standing there in joggers and an oversized hoodie, a small container in her hands.

“I made this,” she said. “It’s not much. Just lasagne. But it’s a thank you. For today.”

His lips curled into a slow, lopsided smile. “I see where Aurelia gets it from.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. He took the container from her, their fingers brushing for a second too long, and the air between them shifted—just slightly, but enough to notice.

They stood in the corridor for a moment. It was quiet. Still. A pause between heartbeats.

Then, softly, almost shyly, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He froze, just for a second. Her lips were warm, gentle. She was already pulling back, the beginnings of an embarrassed smile forming as she started to turn away.

But he caught her.

“Wait.”

His hand came up, firm but tender, fingers tilting her chin towards him. His thumb brushed her cheek, and then—

He kissed her.

Not tentative. Not uncertain.

He kissed her like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. Because he had.

She gasped just a little and then melted into him, her hands sliding up into the front of his hoodie, bunching in the fabric like she needed something to hold onto. And when she let out the tiniest, breathy moan against his mouth, he smiled into the kiss, cocky and utterly undone all at once.

“Alright there?” he murmured against her lips, his forehead resting lightly against hers.

She was breathless. “It’s been a while.”

His eyes softened, thumb still stroking along her jaw. “Worth the wait, though.”

She nodded.

And neither of them moved. Not for a long while.

Just them. Just warmth. Just… something that felt very, very real.

They stood there for a while, neither of them quite ready to let go.

Eventually, she nudged her nose against his cheek and whispered, “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

He blinked at her, lips still curved from the kiss. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She led him back into her flat, closing the door softly behind them. The hallway light cast a warm, golden glow over the walls, and the familiar smell of home. He followed her into the living room, everything dim and quiet. Aurelia’s newer drawings were still scattered across the coffee table. A soft throw had been kicked half off the sofa.

She turned to him, suddenly sheepish, running a hand through her hair. “I feel like I’m at uni, sneaking someone in,” she said with a small laugh.

He grinned. “I never went.”

She tilted her head, surprised. “Me neither.”

He looked at her for a second, then nodded towards the closed door down the hall. The one with a glittery star-shaped sticker on it.

“That why?”

She glanced back at the door. Something shifted behind her eyes. A quiet sadness, old but not forgotten.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I was supposed to. Got in and everything. Nottingham. English Lit. But I was nineteen and stupid and thought I was in love.”

She walked over to the sofa, sat down, and he followed. Their knees brushed. She stared at her hands for a moment before continuing.

“Didn’t know I was pregnant until I’d already turned down the offer. Was going to reapply the next year. But then she happened. And everything got really real, really fast.”

He didn’t say anything. Just listened, his body angled towards her, giving her the space and the safety.

“Her dad left when she was four months old,” she said, with a small, almost apologetic shrug. “Just sort of disappeared. Too young, too overwhelmed, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now.”

He was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was gentle.

“Of course it matters.”

She gave him a tired smile. “Not in the way people expect it to. I’m not bitter. I’m just tired sometimes. It’s a lot. But then she does something like draw me with a crown and a sparkly dress and labels it Queen of Mummies and I forget everything else.”

Oscar looked at her for a long moment. Then, softly, “You’re incredible, you know.”

She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh. “I’m tired and a bit moody and have approximately seventeen loads of laundry waiting, but thanks.”

He reached out, his hand brushing gently over hers. “I meant it.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft and a little glassy in the low light.

There was a pause, weightless but full of something.

“You’re not sneaking me in,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re letting me in.”

And that, God, that did something to her.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he tucked her in without thinking, arms coming round her like they’d always belonged there.

They sat there like that. Still. Quiet. Her fingers tracing absent-minded shapes on his forearm. The world outside fell away, no alarms, no homework, no long nights of dishes and lost socks.

Just this. Just him. Just her.

And the hum of something beginning to bloom.

It had been about a month since that first kiss in the corridor.

Oscar still had his own place, but he spent two, sometimes three, nights a week at hers now. It wasn't official, they hadn’t talked about labels, but the toothbrush beside hers in the bathroom said enough. So did the way he’d taken to calling her flat home without thinking, or how Aurelia would lean sleepily against his leg in the mornings while she waited for her eggs to finish cooking.

They had a rhythm now, dysfunctional but quiet and real.

He’d learnt how not to wake Aurelia when he rolled in late, how to turn the key in the lock with just the right amount of pressure and not let the hinge on the bathroom door creak when he showered after a night shift. She, in turn, had mastered the morning shuffle. Tiptoeing around the flat while he slept off the early hours, even closing cupboard doors with that soft, deliberate touch only mothers and night nurses seemed to perfect.

Some mornings, if his shift ended early and she had a bit more time, she’d curl back into bed beside him for a half hour. No words. Just warm limbs tangled together under the duvet while the outside world waited.

It was gentle, it was something he’d never thought he’d get, something he’d never thought he’d deserve.

That night, though, the fire station ws quiet and all he could think about was home. He was half slumped in one of the chairs in the rec room, sipping lukewarm tea from a chipped mug and watching some repeat quiz show on mute. It was just him, Lando, and two of the more senior lads, all of them looking somewhere between exhausted and wired.

Then the alarm started blaring.

The tone was different, lower, more urgent. Not a false alarm or a test. Not a bin fire or a smoke detector in a student flat.

Oscar was already on his feet before Control came through the speaker. 

“House fire reported, scratch that, pub fire, multiple reports of visible flames, location. The Fox and Hound, Chapel Lane.”

That made him pause. The Fox and Hound was a big one. Old building. Thatched roof. Always busy on weekdays and visible from his little flat.

It was 2am.

“Let’s go!” Andrea shouted, already moving. Oscar hauled his gear on, the straps familiar and fast now. His thoughts flicked to her, to Aurelia, how they were safe at home but bound to wake up to the sound of sirens. He tucked it away. Couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t think about anything but getting there.

The engine roared to life, tyres heavy on wet tarmac. Blue lights bounced across empty roads and shuttered shopfronts. No one spoke. Lando checked the comms, while Oscar stared out the front window, jaw tight.

As they got closer, they could already see the glow. Not just smoke, flames. Licking skyward in bright, vicious tongues.

He felt it then. That buzz in his blood. Not fear, exactly, something sharper. Something colder.

They pulled up just outside the pub. Heat rushed at them as soon as the doors opened. People were gathered at a safe distance, coats over pyjamas, phones in hand, eyes wide.

Oscar jumped down, helmet secure, heart thudding.

“All right,” came the voice in his earpiece, “we’ve got reports of staff inside, one maybe trapped, two might’ve made it out the back.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “Which floor?”

“Upstairs flat. Left side.”

And just like that, they moved. Through the smoke, through the roar and the crack and the chaos.

He didn’t think of her again until they were inside. But when he did, it was like armour.

She’s waiting. You get out. You go home.

The heat hit him like a wall.

By the time Oscar got inside, the fire had already taken hold of the bar. Bottles of spirits cracked and burst like fireworks, sending shards and fuel across the floor. The wood panelling burned fast—too fast. There was a reason fire crews hated pub jobs. Alcohol and timber made for a nasty combination.

His mask filtered the worst of the smoke, but visibility was poor. He ducked low, sweeping the hose with one hand while shouting into the crackling dark, “Fire and Rescue! Anyone inside?”

There was no reply, just the moaning groan of the ceiling starting to go.

They cleared the ground floor quickly. A member of staff had managed to stumble out the back, coughing and panicked, mumbling about another one unaccounted for.

Oscar was halfway out, half a breath from turning back, when he caught sight of the stairs through the smoke.

Stairs.

He froze, then turned back to Control. “This place has rooms. It’s an inn.”

There was a pause in his earpiece.

“Confirmed. It’s a pub with letting rooms. Upstairs. Go careful.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He ran.

The heat intensified as he climbed. Fire moved like a living thing, chewing through floorboards, plaster, lives. The smoke was blacker here, thicker, laced with that acrid sting of burning plastic and varnish.

He moved fast, sweeping left and right. Doors half-open. Sheets scorched. The moan of fire too close.

And then he heard it.

A sob.

Small. Choked. From the far room, left corner.

He found her curled up on a narrow bed, knees hugged to her chest, cheeks streaked with soot and tears. Couldn’t have been more than eight. Long brown hair stuck to her face, and she was shaking.

“Mum?” she whimpered.

Oscar’s breath caught.

For half a second, she wasn’t a stranger. She was Aurelia. She was his little one. In a different place, a different time, but just as small. Just as scared.

He didn’t hesitate. Ripped off his oxygen mask and crouched down beside her, voice steady.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay. I’m here to help. We’re getting out of here, alright?”

She nodded, hiccupping sobs now. He wrapped her in his jacket, pulled her close, and hoisted her into his arms.

“Close your eyes for me, alright? Tight. Don’t look.”

She did.

The flames were close now. He felt the blistering heat crawling up the corridor behind them as he turned, shielding her with his body.

The ceiling above the stairwell was starting to sag. There wasn’t time to think. Only move.

He bolted.

Smoke seared his lungs. His mask hung useless at his hip. He pressed her tighter to his chest, ducked as a beam groaned and crashed just behind him, sparks flying past his shoulders.

The front exit was blocked. Too hot.

He spotted a smashed window in the corridor off the landing—low enough. Maybe.

He didn’t think, just acted.

He lunged for it, twisted his body to take the brunt, and threw his arm over her head as he pushed through.

Glass scraped his back. A cry tore from his throat, but he held her steady.

And then—

Air.

Cool, blessed air.

He stumbled out onto the pavement, coughing, the girl still cradled tight against him.

A medic ran forward and took her. She was sobbing, but alive. Alive.

Oscar slumped to his knees, gasping.

Lando was beside him in seconds. “Mate—what the hell?!”

Oscar waved him off, catching his breath, throat burning.

“She was in there. A kid.” He looked up. “Could’ve been her, Lan.”

Lando didn’t need to ask who her was.

It took another hour to put the fire out completely. They lost the roof, and two rooms, but no lives. None.

Oscar sat on the pavement long after the hoses went still, his turnout gear soaked through, back bleeding, lungs scorched, but he was upright.

He couldn’t stop seeing the girl’s face.

Couldn’t stop seeing Aurelia in it.

By the time they got back to the station, Oscar was soaked through with sweat and soot. His shirt stuck to the grazes along his back, stiff with smoke. His hands trembled when he took his gloves off.

The station was quieter than usual. No jokes. No kettle boiling. No telly. Just that heavy silence that follows the worst kind of shout.

Zak caught his eye as he stepped down from the truck.

“You’re done for the night, Piastri,” Zak said quietly, hand on his shoulder. “Go home, Oscar.”

Oscar opened his mouth to argue, to say he was fine, standard procedure, but the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t fine. He didn’t feel anything close to fine.

So he nodded. Wordless. Stripped off his gear and shoved it in the drying room. Pulled a hoodie from his locker and walked out of the doors with the smell of burny wood still clinging to his hair.

The cab ride home was a blur. He didn’t remember much except asking the driver to leave him on the corner, needing the walk to clear his head.

But it didn’t help.

Because all he could see was her. That little girl, curled up in the bed, sobbing for her mum. The one he carried out. The one who had Aurelia’s eyes.

He didn’t even realise his key had missed the lock twice until the door opposite his flat opened.

And then she was there.

She took one look at him and moved without thinking. “Oh my God—Oscar—”

He barely got the door open before she crossed the hallway, hands on his chest, eyes scanning him like she needed to count all his fingers and toes just to believe he was still whole.

“I heard there was a fire. We could see it from here, someone said it was your station that went out and—” Her voice cracked as she clung to his hoodie. “You didn’t answer your phone so I assumed you’d gone but—”

He didn’t mean to. But his arms went round her like instinct, and his voice finally gave out as he buried his face into the side of her neck.

“I need to see her.”

She didn’t ask who. She just nodded.

He stepped inside her flat and moved straight to the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, the way it always was. Soft light from her nightlight spilled onto the hallway carpet.

Aurelia was fast asleep, curled on her side, clutching that stuffed bunny she never went to bed without.

Oscar watched her chest rise and fall. Just breathing.

Just alive.

And that was all it took.

His knees buckled slightly, hand braced on the doorframe, and tears spilled hot down his cheeks. She was there in an instant, arms around his waist, and he didn’t try to stop it.

He wept quietly, forehead resting against hers, chest heaving as every unspoken terror bled out of him.

She reached up and cupped his face gently. “Come on,” she said softly, “let me take care of you, yeah?”

He didn’t argue.

She led him by the hand to the bathroom, flicked the light on low, and turned the tap to fill the bath.

Without a word, she reached for the hem of his hoodie, and he let her lift it over his head. Her fingers brushed the grazes on his back, and she exhaled, not quite a gasp, but almost.

He looked down at himself. Soot-stained, battered, worn thin.

She didn’t say anything. Just tugged his joggers off gently, like she was handling something fragile.

When he was bare before her, she stepped closer, pressed a kiss to his sternum, and wrapped her arms around his middle.

He pressed his nose into her hair, breathing her in. Clean. Warm. Real.

“You’re home,” she whispered.

“I thought she was going to die,” he choked. “She was crying for her mum. She was—she looked just like—”

“I know,” she murmured, and her hand found his. “You saved her.”

She helped him into the bath, then climbed in behind him, still in her top having discarded her leggings, gathering him close like he was the one who needed holding now. And maybe he was.

No more sirens. No more shouting. No fear.

Just soft water. Warmth. Her.

Home.

The steam had fogged up the mirror, and the water had gone lukewarm by the time she pulled the plug. Neither of them moved for a moment. Limbs heavy, breath slow, her arms still wrapped around him from behind. His back rested against her chest, and her cheek was pressed to the crown of his head.

Eventually, she stirred first, nudging his shoulder gently.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice hushed like she didn’t want to wake the world. “Let’s get you dry.”

He let her guide him up, hands loose in hers. She reached for a towel and wrapped it round his waist, then took another and ran it through his hair, careful and slow like she was unravelling the knots of the day with each movement. His eyes stayed on hers the whole time, soft and unreadable. She dried herself as he put some clothes on, watching him as he slipped on the pyjamas he left yesterday, while she opted for a pair of shorts and a tank top.

She led him into her bedroom with nothing but the quiet creak of floorboards between them. Her hand rested on the small of his back, grounding him.

When she turned to face him, he didn’t speak. He just looked at her like she was something he still didn’t quite believe was real.

“Lie down,” she said softly.

He did, not like it was an order, more like a suggestion he’d been waiting for. He lay back against the pillows, hair damp, skin warm. He looked younger in the low light. Unarmoured. All soft edges and tired eyes.

She climbed in beside him and straddled his hips, in the vest and shorts she’d pulled on a second ago. Her fingers ghosted over the scrapes on his shoulder, her brow creasing.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live.”

“Still.” She leaned down, brushed her lips over one graze like it deserved an apology. “You gave too much of yourself tonight.”

He let out a slow breath, hands resting on her thighs. “Didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

“I know.” She kissed another spot. Then another. “But you don’t always have to carry everything alone, you know.”

He swallowed, his throat tight. “I don’t know how to do this slowly,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not with you. Not after tonight.”

She leaned forward until her forehead rested against his. “It doesn’t have to be slow,” she murmured, lips brushing his. “It just has to be soft.”

And it was.

No rush. No fumbling. Just touch, and breath, and the quietest kind of yes in every movement.

His fingers curled around her hip, grounding himself, and when he kissed her back it was like he needed her to know. I’m here. I’m yours. I came home to you.

She smiled at him, the warmest smile he’d ever seen.

It wasn’t fireworks or declarations.

Just warmth. 

Home.

She kissed him again, this time slower. Deeper. Her fingers slid into his damp hair, anchoring him to her, and his hand found the curve of her hip again, drawing her in without thought.

The air between them felt thick with warmth, not heat, like the moment before a storm breaks, all hush and anticipation. There was no rush in it. No fumbling. Just the steady build of something that had been waiting in the quiet between them for weeks.

She shifted a little, her legs bracketing his, the hem of her vest brushing the tops of his thighs. His hands slid up, tracing her shape like he was learning it by heart. The small of her back, the line of her waist, the softness of her ribs. She leaned down, her breath warm against his cheek.

“Is this alright?” she asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his nose along hers. “More than alright.”

She kissed him again, deeper this time, and he responded with a soft noise at the back of his throat, his hands gripping a little tighter, his body rising to meet hers. Their movements found a rhythm, gentle, reverent. He helped her lift her vest, pulling it slowly over her head, and she let it fall to the floor beside the bed. There was no embarrassment in her. No hesitation. Just trust, and something else, something fragile and burning beneath the surface.

He sat up, mouth brushing her collarbone, then lower, until she gasped, not from surprise, but from the quiet ache of being seen. Wanted. He pressed kisses down her chest, hands steady on her waist, as if every part of her mattered. Like she wasn’t just something beautiful, but something sacred.

Her fingers found the waistband of his joggers and tugged them down with a quiet smile. “I think you’re overdressed.”

He huffed a laugh against her neck. “Been saying that about you for weeks.”

When they came together it wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth, and weight, and breath. Her hand slid into his, fingers laced tightly, like she needed the grounding. He moved slowly, gently, his forehead resting against hers, his free hand stroking up the length of her spine in time with the soft rhythm between them.

Neither of them spoke, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything important was already there, in the way their bodies met, and parted, and met again. In the way she whispered his name like it meant something. In the way he held her like she was the only safe thing left in the world.

And when it was over, when her body relaxed against his, and his arms came around her like instinct, they stayed there, skin to skin, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and the quiet hum of something that felt a lot like love.

He brushed his fingers through her hair, soft and absent.

She pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, her voice barely more than a breath.

“I’ve never had this,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’ve got it now.”

And she did.

The flat was filled with the kind of early morning stillness that only came after a long night. The light outside hadn’t quite brightened, but it wasn’t dark either, that muted, silvery sort of grey that hinted at a day gently waking up.

Oscar stirred first, arms curled around her, legs tangled in the duvet. Her head was on his chest, one of her hands tucked beneath his shirt like it belonged there, like it always had. He blinked slowly, heart still steady in the after-glow of everything, and let the moment stretch.

No alarms. No radios crackling to life.

Just breath. Just her.

Then came the familiar shuffle of small feet padding across the hallway, a door creaking ever so slightly, the rustle of a blanket being dragged along the floor.

Aurelia.

He felt her tense slightly against him, just a flicker, the instinct of a mum on alert, but she didn’t move to untangle herself from him. Instead, she sighed, soft and sleepy, and whispered, “She’ll come to the kitchen first.”

Sure enough, a cupboard door opened with a tiny clatter. A pause. Then the quiet clink of a cereal bowl.

He smiled. “She does this every time, doesn’t she?”

“She thinks she’s sneaky.”

“Is she?”

“Not even slightly.”

He laughed gently and kissed her hairline before slipping out of bed. He pulled on his joggers and one of her hoodies that hung by the door, the sleeves a little short on him, then padded into the kitchen.

Aurelia looked up from the kitchen table, spoon halfway to her mouth. Her eyes went wide for a second, not surprised, just curious, and then her face broke into a grin.

“You slept over again.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly a bit shy. “Yeah. That alright?”

She nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re in mummy’s hoodie.”

Oscar laughed. “I am. D’you reckon it suits me?”

She tilted her head, considering. “Yeah. But your sleeves are funny.”

Just then, her mum appeared in the doorway behind him, wrapped in one of his T-shirts, hair tousled, still sleepy-eyed.

Aurelia beamed.

Oscar glanced back at her, and something in his chest pulled, that same quiet tug he’d felt last month, in the classroom, staring at a child’s drawing of a life he hadn’t known he’d wanted until he saw it sketched out in crayon.

The three of them. A little sun in the corner. Lopsided hearts.

She came up behind him and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, a soft morning kind of kiss, and brushed past to the kettle.

Aurelia watched them both, spoon hanging from her mouth. Then, very simply, she said,

“You should just live here now.”

They both looked at her.

She shrugged. “You always make mummy smile.”

Oscar blinked, caught a little off guard. He looked over at her, the woman who’d somehow become the best part of his days, and saw the faint blush creeping up her neck.

“We’re working on it,” she said gently, reaching to ruffle her daughter’s hair.

And maybe they were.

They didn’t have a grand plan, or timelines, or promises inked in stone, but they had something. And in typical child nature, after dropping a bomb like that, Aurelia left her bowl and moved onto drawing.

Oscar was mid grabbing the butter from the fridge when his phone started to buzz with a FaceTime call.

He frowned at the screen, then smiled. “It’s my mum.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You gonna answer?”

“Suppose I’ve got to now,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and tapping the green button.

His mum’s face filled the screen, tanned and bright-eyed, her hair swept back, sunshine spilling in behind her through the windows of her kitchen in Melbourne.

“Oh! Look who it is!” she grinned. “Took you long enough to answer. I was starting to think you’d moved to the moon.”

Oscar chuckled. “No, still Earth-side.”

She narrowed her eyes, playful. “That is not your flat, Oscar Jack. I know your tiles. Is this Lando’s place?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but just then, Aurelia let out a small triumphant cheer as she held up her finished drawing. “Look, Oscar, it’s us in the fire engine again!”

His mum’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that’s not Lando either.”

Oscar looked down at the floor for a moment, then gave a sheepish smile.

“Right,” he said, shifting a little. “So… bit of a life update.”

He turned the phone round gently, showing his mum the cosy kitchen, the mess of crayons, the fireman sticker Aurelia had slapped onto the fridge, and finally, her.

She smiled warmly, caught off guard for just a second by being the centre of attention, but not pulling away. She gave a small wave. “Hi.”

Oscar cleared his throat, a little hoarse with nerves. “Mum… meet the woman who’s kept me sane the last couple of months.”

His mum blinked, a beat of silence, and then she smiled so wide it softened every line in her face.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Now that makes sense.”

He laughed, a quiet, breathless sort of sound, and she leaned into his shoulder slightly, her hand resting on the table beside his. Aurelia had already resumed drawing, now completely absorbed in adding stars to the day sky.

His mum nodded, still smiling. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is,” he said, before he could even think to stop himself.

There was no panic in it, no need to explain further. Just truth, warm and steady between them all.

“You look happy, love,” his mum said at last. “Properly happy.”

He glanced sideways, saw the way she was looking at him, like he’d finally landed somewhere soft.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I am.”

Just as he was about to speak up again, Aurelia called his name demanding his immediate attention, and to Oscar, she deserved immediate attention so he left the phone on the island with her and wandered off into the living room to see what she needed.

“So,” his mum said, leaning her chin on her hand, “you’re the one that’s brought my son back to life huh.”

She laughed softly, brushing a crumb from the table. “I don’t know about that. He’s done plenty of the heavy lifting.”

His mum tilted her head. “You’ve got no idea, have you?”

She looked up, brow furrowed just slightly.

“That boy,” his mum said, with the fondness she recognised as a parent, “has always been kind. But I haven’t heard him sound like that in years. Like there’s a little bit of sunshine in his voice again.” Her eyes stung, just a little, but she kept her smile. “He makes it easy to be kind to him.” “I’m glad he’s got you,” she said, voice quieter now. “And I’m glad he’s got her too. It seems your little one is a bundle of magic.”

She nodded, looking toward the living room where they were both laughing. “She’s my whole world.”

There was a pause, and then Oscar’s mum said, not unkindly, “Must’ve been hard. Doing this all on your own.” “It was,” she admitted, honest without bitterness. “Still is, some days. But it’s better now. Easier, with him.”

His mum’s smile turned into something a little misty. “Well. If he’s half as good to you as he was to his little cousins back home, you’re in very safe hands.”

“I think I am,” she said, quietly.

Oscar’s voice called from down the hallway then, something about star stickers and him being promoted to co-pilot of the living room space rocket, and they both laughed.

“I should go help him survive his new role,” she said, pushing her chair back.

Oscar’s mum smiled. “Tell him I said he’d better ring again soon. And you, look after each other, yeah?”

“We will.”

And as she ended the call and stood, walking towards the warm sound of her two favourite voices down the hall, she realised it had been a long time since things felt this much like home.

Seven months had passed, and life had woven itself into something steady, soft edges and everyday joy.

Oscar had sold his flat back in April, after a lot of faffing and a surprisingly emotional trip through storage boxes. Now, all his belongings lived here, in the flat that had once felt like hers and hers alone, but now smelled like them. His mugs were in her cupboards, her shoes were tangled up with his by the door, and there were three toothbrushes in the bathroom, hers, Aurelia’s, and his. One day, quietly, it had stopped feeling like he was staying over, and started feeling like home.

They had routines now. Quiet ones. Aurelia would burst into the bedroom at seven on the dot if it was his day off. On early mornings, he’d creep in at six, just off a night shift, and she’d leave the landing light on for him like a lighthouse. He knew how she took her tea, and she’d learnt not to make noise until he’d actually had some of it. He made dinner most nights, unless she’d had a good day at work and was feeling ambitious.

It was simple. Not perfect, not glossy, not always easy. But it was theirs. And it was good.

This morning, the flat was busy with the chaos of first-day-back energy. Year Three. New backpack. New lunchbox. New plaited hairstyle that had taken them two goes to get right.

Aurelia had been buzzing from the moment she opened her eyes.

“Am I late? Is it time? I’m going to forget cursive. I bet I’ve forgotten cursive!”

“You can write better than most adults, you’ll be fine,” Oscar said, dropping a kiss to her forehead as she wriggled into her shoes.

Her mum gave her one last once-over by the door, brushing a bit of fluff off her shoulder. “You look beautiful, baby.”

Oscar grinned. “You look cool. Very Year Three.”

She beamed. “I’m going to boss Year Three.”

He dropped her off that morning, gave her a high five at the gates, and watched her disappear into the swarm of backpacks and bright socks and morning yawns.

But it was that afternoon that stopped him still.

He’d offered to do pick-up. Thought it’d be a nice surprise. He stood by the railings, hands in his jacket pockets, feeling strangely nervous in a sea of parents and buggies and scooters.

Then she came running out of the gates.

Pointed straight at him.

And with the biggest grin, shouted, “My dad is here to pick me up!”

Oscar froze.

The word rang out in his head like a church bell. Like something he wasn’t quite supposed to hear.

Dad.

His chest tightened. Not with panic. Not with fear. But something much bigger. Something messier.

She ran straight into his arms and he lifted her with a small laugh, though it came out shaky. She chattered the whole way home, about spelling tests and Miss Price’s new earrings and how someone brought in a tarantula, but he barely caught any of it.

Because one word had wrapped itself around his ribcage.

Later, once she was tucked up on the sofa with a biscuit and the telly on low, he stepped into the kitchen, where she was rinsing mugs by the sink.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little quieter than usual.

She turned, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Hey, you alright?”

He just looked at her for a moment. His eyes were glassy.

“She called me her dad.”

She paused. Slowly put the towel down.

“I went to pick her up and she saw me and said it. My dad is here to pick me up. Just like that.”

He let out a shaky breath, a small, astonished sort of laugh. “I thought I was going to cry right there in the playground like an idiot.”

Her heart clenched. She stepped toward him, and he pulled her in like a lifeline.

“She meant it, didn’t she?” he whispered into her hair.

“She did,” she said softly. “She really, really did.”

That night, after the dishes had been done and the flat had settled into its usual hush, Oscar found himself stood in the doorway to Aurelia’s room.

She was half asleep already, the telly's low hum from the living room barely audible through her door. She stirred slightly, sensing him, blinking one eye open.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

He stepped in, crouched beside her bed. “Just checking in on you.”

“You always do,” she said sleepily, reaching for his hand.

He smiled. “Habit now.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You’re the best one, you know. I’m really glad you’re mine.”

Oscar swallowed. “I’m really glad I’m yours too, pickle.”

She wriggled a bit, yawning into her blanket. “Love you, Oscar.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Love you more.”

And in the quiet of that room, with the soft rise and fall of her breathing, he stayed just a minute longer, heart full in a way he never thought it could be.

Over the years, things changed. For the better and never the worst.

They got married in a small ceremony at the register office, all low-fuss and laughter and Aurelia dropping petals like she was queen of the world. He wore his uniform jacket, she wore a soft blue dress that matched her eyes, and Aurelia insisted on holding both their hands the whole way through the vows.

He officially adopted her not long after that. There was paperwork, a hearing, signatures, all formal, all necessary, but what he remembered most was the moment she looked up at him, fidgeting with the sleeve of her cardigan, and said, “Can I have the same name as you?”

He cried. Fully. In public. No shame.

“You sure?” he’d asked, voice thick.

She nodded with a smile that could’ve split the sky. “I want to be the same as you.”

After that, life kept growing. Gently, beautifully.

They hadn’t planned on having another child. Not because they didn’t want to, more that they’d built a home already, and it felt enough. But life, as ever, had other plans. It happened one quiet spring, and when she told him, he’d gone very still and said, “Are you serious?” and when she nodded, he sank to his knees with his arms round her middle like she was something holy.

That pregnancy was nothing like the first. It wasn’t fraught with fear or pain or the weight of being alone. This time, she had someone holding her hair back when the sickness kicked in. Someone who learnt how to make the weird toast she liked at four in the morning. Someone who ran baths and rubbed her back and whispered “you’ve got this” against her skin when she needed it most.

He took proper paternity leave too, remembering how he told Zak, “Don’t give me grief, Zak, it’s the law”, and when he finally did go back to work, he did it dragging himself out of bed with bags under his eyes, a half-eaten banana in one hand and a tiny sock stuck to the back of his uniform trousers.

But he was happy.

Proper, head-to-toe, bone deep happy.

Oscar, who used to dread going back to his childhood home, now booked flights to Australia every year like clockwork. Family trips, beach towels, squabbles over carry-ons, and Aurelia teaching her little brother how to build sandcastles while their mum took pictures and Oscar applied suncream with the seriousness of a soldier preparing for war.

And when he looked back, years later, in the slow quiet of a Sunday morning, coffee in hand and the flat filled with life, he sometimes thought of the school fair. Of the day he met her. Of balloon animals, and face paint, and one very small girl yelling “Neighbour firefighter!”

And he’d smile, every single time.

Because somehow, against all the odds, it had been the beginning of everything.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

[cosmicmunsonwrites]

LOVE mean!rafe and desperate!reader i need more where they finally become official if they ever do

but i’ll do anything for you

mean!rafe cameron x desperate!fem!reader

cw — mdni, p in v, cockwarming, rafe gets softer

summary — after rafe finally starts developing feelings, he decides to take whatever they have to the next level.

authors note — this can be read as a standalone but is essentially a part 2 to “i just wanna be one of your girls.” please request more!! they motivate me so much more than just free writing. should i keep adding to this series too??

do not copy or post my work anywhere else.

“tell me you’re mine,” rafe demanded as his big rough hands kneaded the soft fat of your ass. his blue eyes glared into yours while he waited expectantly for your reply.

you moaned quietly when your hips rolled into his and his tip pressed up against your cervix in the most delicious way. “i’m yours, rafe,” you replied excitedly and eagerly. “i’ve always been yours.”

he nodded with a satisfied grin on his face. “good,” he mumbled before leaning forward to kiss you. your hands moved from his shoulders to his jaw as you pressed further into him. he thought the passion you poured into his lips was cute.

when you pulled away breathlessly with kiss-bitten lips, you frowned slightly with tears brimming in your waterline. “but are you mine?” you asked hesitantly. your face was quiet and scared, entirely expecting his answer to disappoint you like it always did.

he thought for a quick second. you were fucking gorgeous, you listened to everything he said, you did everything he asked, and you were completely obsessed with him. what else could he want? “I’m yours,” he whispered against your lips before kissing you again.

his hands moved underneath your ass to slowly lift you up and quickly slam you back down on his length. you whimpered into his mouth, leaving enough room for him to slip his tongue inside and get you feeling all dizzy.

he began to roll your hips into his own, your clit dragging against his pubic bone and the movement allowing you to feel every vein of his cock. tears began to slip down your cheeks. he fucking loved how sensitive you were.

“can’t take it, rafe,” you muttered against his pink lips. you panted as your walls spasmed around him and tried to push him out. “you’re too big.”

he could’ve swore he’d just fallen in love with you again. “move in with me,” he blurted out. he didn’t even have time to think about the words leaving his mouth. he just knew he needed to keep you safe and locked away where no one could snap you out of your little dream.

you nodded almost instantly. even with glossy eyes and tears staining your cheeks, you smiled bigger than ever. “i want that,” you said happily. he grinned and leaned back against the sofa, allowing you to move at your own pace and do whatever you needed for yourself. “rafe?”

“what?” he asked. there was almost a hint of irritation in his voice knowing that there was more than likely another question coming his way.

you wiped your tears and replaced your hands on his shoulders, trying to ignore the way his cock was impaling you. “does this mean we’re, like, exclusive?” you asked hopefully.

he internally rolled his eyes at that. was that really a question? he though it was pretty self-explanatory. he began to think he’d fucked you stupid already without even doing much. “sure,” he said.

you squealed giddily and hugged him tight. he almost began to question what he’d just gotten himself into.

[demilypyro]

So I've seen a few too many people on twitter talking about The Kiss Scene from the new Scott Pilgrim anime. People saying it's fetishistic and indulgent, people calling it male gazey, etc. And while the kiss itself is certainly a bit exaggerated, I felt like writing a bit about why I disagree, and why context is important, like it always is. But it basically turned into an extended analysis on the metatextual treatment of Roxie Richter. So bear with me. It's a long post.

What really matters about this scene is not the kiss itself, but what precedes it. Not even just the fight scene just before it, but what precedes the whole anime series, really. And that's the Scott Pilgrim comic book, and the live action movie. Because in both, Roxie is a punchline.

She's a joke. Her character starts and ends with "one of the exes is actually a girl, I bet you didn't expect that." Jokes are made about Ramona's latent bisexuality, the movie especially treating it as funny and absurd, and her validity as a romantic interest is entirely written off by Ramona as being "just a phase." There's a fight scene, she's defeated by a man giving her an orgasm which implicitly calls her sexuality into question (come on), and the movie just moves on. It sucks. It really, really sucks.

The comic fares a little better. It never veers into outright homophobia like the movie does, and while the line about Ramona having gone through a phase remains, Roxie actually gets one over on Scott when Ramona briefly gets back with Roxie. But Roxie is still only barely a character. Like all the other evil exes, she's just a stepping stone towards the male protagonist's development. She barely even gets any screentime before she's defeated by Scott's "power of love." But Roxie stands out, since she's the only villain who is queer, or at least had been confirmed queer at that point (hi Todd). In a series that champions multiple gay men in the supporting cast, the single undeniable lesbian in the story is a villain. She's labeled as evil, made fun of, pushed aside in favor of the men, and then discarded. Her screentime was never about her, or her feelings for Ramona. It was about the straight, male protagonist needing to overcome her. And that was Roxie Richter. An unfortunate victim of the 2010s.

Fast forward to current year, and the new anime series is announced. Everybody sits down to watch the new series expecting another retelling of the same story, and.... hang on, that straight male protagonist I mentioned just died in the first episode. And now it's humanizing the villains from the original story. And there's Roxie, introduced alongside the other evil exes in the second episode, and she's being played entirely straight, without a punchline in sight. No jokes are made about her gender, no questions are made of her validity as one of Ramona's romantic interests. The narrative considers her important. In one episode, she already gets more respect than she did in either of the previous iterations of Scott Pilgrim. And this isn't even her focus episode yet... which happens to be the very next one.

The anime series goes to great lengths to flesh out the original story's villains and to have Ramona reconcile with them. And I don't think it's a coincidence that Roxie gets to go first. While Matthew Patel gets his development in episode 2, Roxie is the first to directly confront Ramona, now our main protagonist. This is notable too because it's the only time the exes are encountered out of order. Roxie is supposed to be number 4, but she's first in line, and later on you realize that she's the only one who's out of sequence. She's the one who sets the precedent for the villains being redeemed. She's the most important character for Ramona to reconcile with.

What follows is probably the most extensive, elaborate 1 on 1 fight scene in the whole show. Roxie fights like a wounded animal, her motions are desperate and pained. Ramona can only barely fight back against her onslaught. Different set-pieces fly by at breakneck speed as Roxie relentlessly lays her feelings at Ramona's feet through her attacks and her distraught shouts. And unlike the comic or the movie, Ramona acknowledges them, and sincerely apologizes. And the two end up just laying there, exhausted, reminiscing about when they were together.

Only after this, after all of this, does the kiss scene happen. Roxie has been vindicated, she has reconciled with the person who hurt her, the narrative has deemed that her anger is justified and has redeemed her character. And she gets her victory lap by making the nearest other hot girl question her heterosexuality, sharing a sloppy kiss with her as the music triumphantly crescendos.

It's... a little self-congratulatory, honestly. But it's good. It's redemption for a character who had been mistreated for over a decade. And she punctuates the moment by being very, very gay where everyone can see it, no men anywhere in sight. Because this is her moment. And then she leaves the plot, on her own accord this time, while humming the hampster dance. What a legend. How could anything be wrong with this.

[inthelittlewood]

Questions about Eyes And Ears AU

I had somebody ask for a brief interview regarding my storytelling for their university project and thought I'd lend a hand.

I thought those of you that follow the story might like the insight too, so here ya go:

When you first introduced the Listeners in Evo SMP, did you have a broader narrative or concept in mind, or were they more of an atmospheric element at that point?

The honest answer is that I didn't want to write too much about somebody else's character(s), that being Grian's Watchers. If I could write the conflict from the side of the Listeners then we could continue the narrative with a pre-designed opposing force but have them be relatively mute for the most part. Partly to build anticipation of when they might act or retaliate but it also worked for behind the scenes purposes too. If the series hadn't slowed/stopped as suddenly as it did, I definitely would have poked Grian to pick his brain about what story elements fit his original imagining of the Watchers. So it was mostly narrative reasoning but they also served a mechanical behind the scenes purpose of transporting us to a new area which was necessary due to bugs we'd encountered with world gen etc.

What inspired you to flesh out the Eyes and Ears AU more in recent years? Was that mostly a personal creative decision, or was it influenced by fan interest?

Honestly I hadn't premeditated too much their reintroduction into anything that I was working on. Sure I'd seen a little chattering here and there about the Watchers but I honestly just wanted to write an individual story beat (albeit a tropey one) of c!Martyn snapping and turning on Ren but that never came to fruition due to Scar taking us out. The plan was always to backstab Ren then say a cool line like "Red Winter is over, Red Spring has begun" or something else punny. Seeing the fevered reaction of the audience though gave me some confidence that I could try my hand at some layered or entirely post-production storytelling, so heading into Last Life I was all guns blazing.

The Eyes and Ears AU is quite open-ended — do you intentionally approach it with the idea of leaving narrative space for fan interpretation?

It really is right? Yes, it's a very mindful decision to leave it open-ended but not so much for the audience's benefit or interpretations, but to give myself creative freedom to take the story wherever I'd like to. Committing to too many power scale, multiverse or narrative shackles early can really strangle stories I've noticed (from reading comics and manga) meaning back pedalling or aggressive retcons are required to explore certain paths, which is rarely a good experience for the reader. I do enjoy their versatility and capability to be applied to any Minecraft or adjacent story too. Some might call it too broad, I call it malleable.

How do you feel about fans expanding the lore through headcanons and theories? Have any fan interpretations stood out or surprised you?

I think it's brilliant! People inundate my inbox on Tumblr seeking permission to write stories or create characters / AUs but I've literally no authority on that. I suppose it might be a different conversation if they were profiting off of those works, but 99% of people simply want to write for fun which I highly encourage!! I'll be honest that I haven't read a great deal of AUs or headcanons, my exposure to them is mostly via chat messages during lore talk streams or questions that come through regarding the Eyes And Ears AU. As a general rule I try to avoid reading too much of other people's works on the topic because I worry I'll accidentally regurgitate it in some way then stumble into plagiarism, you know? It's why I focus more on digesting stories outside the fandom whether it's manga, Sanderson books, reading old Japanese folk tales and the like. I can source inspiration from those on how to weave narrative and execute plot twists without having to glance in my front yard.

Has fan content (art, theories, animatics, etc.) ever influenced how you think about or approach the AU?

Oh for sure they have. It's literally why after every season we'll do a sit down stream and talk about the lore in detail. Figure out the puzzle and potential trip wires of plot points from the episodes and how we can neatly pack them into the pre-existing story. A lot of people wouldn't do that as they'd be precious about their work and believe their opinion is th only correct one, but I looooove soundboarding with the audience on it. I also take that mindset in game and sometimes think about the scenery of an impactful moment whenever I'm able to control / design it. I'll have little quips or quotes cooked in my mind for how I'd ideally deliver a blow or plot twist, buuuuut given the nature of the Life series you very rarely get to execute things how you'd like haha! I definitely wouldn't have done as many of the poems had their not been such a positive reaction to those. I often see individual lines or entire passages make their way into art pieces as typography or highlighted in animatics which is really gratifying. It's why I also put such an emphasis and priority on audio production in my editing. If I can craft something that feels atmospheric, driving and punctuating with music, staggering vocals or sound effects then the auditory portion is already done, they can focus solely on the visual aspect of things. I try and be as cinematic / TV like as my skillset allows for that reason.

You’ve mentioned trying not to fully canonise the AU, but still referencing it consistently — how do you balance telling your own story effectively, while trying not to involve other creators, particularly on the Life Series, when a lot of your time is spent in a group?

The easiest way to do this, is to not do it. For the most part the only storytelling done with the AU is done in post-production. I never name drop the Watchers or Listeners in world (believe me, I was as surprised as all of you when I saw that Secret Keeper statue in Secret Life!!) and in recent seasons they haven't even reared their head as an influence whatsoever. They're on holiday, they deserve it. But when they do whisper in my ear, they're motivated decisions that I would likely make as a player/character anyway because the win objective is always the thing I'm striving towards. I can just pepper angst around it to make things seem more manipulated rather than selfish ha. I think that's why the open ended nature of the Watchers has served me well because as much as they have a singular motive which is to feed on negative emotions, that can be achieved in so many ways ranging from bloodlust to deception, heartbreak to panic. It's versatile for storytelling. It can be in your face, or a slow burn.

What do the Watchers and Listeners represent to you, symbolically or narratively? Do they serve a specific function in the stories you tell?

The Watchers used to represent the audience when Grian first introduced them, but after departing EVO I've definitely breathed more of an egotistical and sinister air into them. They're very much a unique entity / faction now, they in some ways represent gluttony, selfishness and neglect in achieving their goals. The Listeners on the other hand, are a lot of the opposite traits, but I'm still wanting to explore how being the hard end of most conflicts can be dangerous. I want to explore that at some point, whether it be with infighting or failures. They shouldn't be seen as simply bad/good, they're just, different. It shouldn't be too hard navigating that nuance but I want it to reflect elements and motives that we find in our own lives.