#that's not a tag i was ever expecting to write

[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, 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.

★ 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 another arrow, 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, feigning ignorance. “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 gasps, loud in your skull.

She was scandalous with a man just this morning!

Your eyes widened. No one else reacts. Of course they don’t. Only you can hear them.

Back in that room again, another coos. Pressed up to him like a heat-starved mare—

I told you, the third interrupts 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 my life 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.

⟢ 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.

[myrleius]

what remains when the sound fades — bakugo k.

timeskip bakugo k. x patient fem!reader│wc: 3.8k

synopsis: Bakugo’s almost deaf now. But at a hospital he never meant to care about, with a girl who falls asleep without warning, he learns that maybe silence isn’t the end.

cw/tags: fluff, angst, hard of hearing!bakugo, made-up illness for fem!reader, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers

The doors slid open with a sound Bakugo couldn’t quite hear anymore. He just felt the pressure shift in the air, a faint vibration under his skin. 

He stepped into the hospital lobby anyway, hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders drawn tight beneath the fabric.

No appointment today. No injuries or bruises to patch up either. But somehow, this visit felt heavier than the others combined.

His boots tapped against the polished tile—at least, he assumed they did. These days, sound was more of a memory. His hearing aids buzzed softly in his ears, letting in pieces of the world like light through cracked glass. Voices blurred, distant and muddled. Sharp one moment, swallowed the next.

He still wore them though. Most days. When he remembered.

He stopped by the reception desk. The nurse glanced up, clearly recognizing him. Pro-hero Great Explosion Murder God Dynamite wasn’t exactly subtle, even in civilian clothes. 

He didn’t bother speaking.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly wrinkled sticky note—bright yellow with a tiny inked flower blooming in the bottom corner. Yn had given it to him months ago, back when he'd muttered—half ashamed—how much he hated asking people to repeat themselves.

The message was simple:

Hi. I’m hard of hearing. Can you write things down for me, please?

He held up his phone next, showing a photo of yn—caught mid-laugh, paint smudged on her wrist, eyes shining with something quiet and untouchable.

The nurse smiled gently and scribbled something on a notepad, turning it toward him.

She’s on the third floor. Art event today.

He nodded his thanks and made for the elevator, the paper note folded carefully back into his pocket.

As he waited for the elevator doors to open, he let himself replay the conversation from this morning.

“I’m losing my hearing,” he’d said, blunt and brief. “It’s almost gone.”

He expected disbelief. Or pity. Or those strained silences people always gave when they didn’t know what to say.

But it didn’t come.

Kirishima just slammed a hand on his shoulder, grin bright and unwavering. “Damn, man. That’s rough. But you’re still gonna kick ass, right? You’ll figure it out. And if you need backup, we’ve got you.”

Kaminari blinked, then leaned forward, curiosity overtaking any hesitation. “Wait, so does this mean you won’t hear me when I’m being annoying? Sweet—uh, I mean, not sweet, but—can I learn sign language just to mess with you?” He grinned, dodging the half-hearted swipe Bakugo took at him. 

Sero snorted. “Dude, you already ignore us half the time. What’s the difference?” When Bakugo glared, Sero held up his hands. “Kidding, kidding. But seriously, if you ever need us to repeat shit or write stuff down, just say the word.”

Mina didn’t miss a beat. “Okay, new rule. We’re all taking sign language classes. Also, don’t think this gets you out of game night. We will mime everything if we have to.”

And Deku—the one who’s known him longest, who’s seen him at his worst and his best—didn’t even flinch. His eyes remained steady, analyzing, before he nodded once. “You’ve already been adjusting, haven’t you? The way you’ve been positioning yourself in fights, relying more on visuals…” Of course he noticed. “You’ll still be one of the best. And… if you want help finding resources, or training workarounds, I’m here.”

No one stiffened. No one treated him like he was broken. And that hit harder than he’d thought it would.

And now, standing alone in the quiet of the hospital, he wasn’t sure if it made the weight in his chest had eased or fucking doubled.

The elevator dinged.

He stepped inside, pressed the third-floor button, and leaned back against the wall. He wasn’t here for anything urgent. Wasn’t even sure what he planned to say.

He just… needed to see yn.

They’d met a few months ago when his hearing started going to shit. She was always here, a familiar figure in the waiting rooms and hallways, worn hospital bracelets like second skin. At first, she was just a girl with the tired eyes and bright laugh who somehow made the place feel less suffocating. 

But she was more than that. 

She understood, really understood, what it felt like when your body turned against you.

He hadn’t expected to find someone like that in the middle of this nightmare.

Yet there she was. Her presence, gentle and steady, made it easier to breathe. She didn’t pry. Didn’t talk just to fill the silence. And she knew exactly how to sit with this kind of slow pain that didn’t have clean answers.

But when he needed it most, she always seemed to know what to say to help him hold his shit together.

The doors open, scattering his thoughts like startled birds. Before he could gather them again, his feet carried him out.

The third floor was loud.

Not in sound—Bakugo barely caught snippets of laughter and the thuds of feet—but in color, in motion. The hallway was lined with drop cloths and plastic sheets taped across the walls and floor. Furniture had been pushed back. Paint buckets sat open, and kids ran by waving paintbrushes like flags.

It smelled like wet acrylics and masking tape.

Bakugo didn’t need to ask who was responsible.

“Hey! No paint in anyone’s eyeballs, got it?” came a voice from further down the hall. “We want windows, not lawsuits!”

He turned the corner just in time to see yn balancing a tray of mini palettes, swerving between kids and elderly patients like it was a practiced dance. A brush was tucked behind her ear. Paint dotted her sleeves. Her smile was effortless.

And then her eyes met his.

She brightened instantly. “Bakugo,” she called, walking over. “You don’t have an appointment today, right?”

Bakugo shook his head and signed stiffly, fingers sharp with feigned disinterest, “Had extra time. Figured I’d see what you’re up to.”

Yn didn’t miss a beat. She was fluent by now, between her own years in this hospital and months of chatting with him.

“Oh, so you missed me,” she signed back with a cheeky grin, handing him a clean smock. “Got it.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t refuse it. He slipped it on, its sleeves straining around his biceps, while surveying the windows. Every one of them, long panes stretching the whole corridor, was already a riot of color—splashes of sky blue, cartoon suns, stick figure heroes, one ambitious mural of a dragon and a bakery somehow mashed together.

“What the hell is all this?” he asked aloud this time.

Yn adjusted her stance, instinctively positioning herself so he could see her lips, just in case he hadn’t caught her words. They’d practice this enough that she didn’t even think about it now. 

“Window canvases,” she said. “They’re replacing the glass soon, so I asked if we could paint on them instead of just throwing them out. Figured it’d be good fun for the others. Plus, my friend’s gallery agreed to exhibit them, so they get recycled and displayed. Cool, right?”

Bakugo folded his arms. “Let me guess—you bribed the staff, didn’t you?”

“Hey! I got permission from the hospital director,” she said, wiggling her fingers. “Now quit stalling and help me out.”

They spent the next hour darting between stations. Yn played the ringleader—passing out fresh brushes, hyping up shaky stick figures like they were masterpieces. Bakugo kept a closer eye, steadying ladders, pulling kids away from spilled paint, reminding a particularly rowdy pair of teens not to paint each other’s faces again.

It was loud. It was uncoordinated. It was a mess.

And it was… nice.

He wasn’t giving orders or chasing down villains, but he could still do something here. Still be useful.

One of the older patients tugged on his sleeve, holding up a brush. She pointed to the top corner of her window, then mimed her arm not reaching.

Bakugo didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed a chair, climbed up, and filled in the empty corner with simple strokes of yellow.

When he stepped back down, the woman gave him a toothy grin and signed, slowly but clearly, “Thank you.”

He blinked. Then nodded, almost sheepishly.

Yn watched it all with a warm, quiet smile.

By the time the last of the patients shuffled off to their rooms, the floor had fallen quiet.

The sunset bled through the painted windows in long, glowing streaks. Everything was bathed in amber. Where once there was sterile white, there was now a wash of color—skies, forests, tiny heroes flying beside flowers, scrawled messages of hope and names written with confidence.

Bakugo stood at the center of it all, arms folded, head tilted back. Even the ceiling had caught a few stray splashes. The low hum of his hearing aids filled the silence, a steady static he’d grown used to. Tonight, it felt less like noise, and more like… presence.

Yn drifted to his side, her shoulder nudging his.

“Think they’ll let me do this again next year?” she asked, voice light and teasing.

Bakugo huffed. “Not if they see what you did to the walls.”

“They’re covered. Mostly.” She gestured to the plastic sheets still clinging to the walls, though tiny paint splatters had seeped into the creases. “Besides, they're repainting the whole floor anyway. I just… sped things along.”

He shook his head, a low laugh slipping out despite himself. He glanced over. Her hair clung to her forehead, cheeks flushed, fingertips stained in streaks of color. Despite the exhaustion weighing on her shoulders, triumph sparkled in her eyes.

“You did good,” he signed. Hands slower than usual, but sure.

She didn’t hesitate to sign back. “You helped.”

He looked away at that. His hand twitched at his side before he shoved it into his pocket.

A moment passed.

Then another.

“I… told them,” he muttered, more to the empty hallway than to her. Fuck if he knew why. Maybe just to prove it mattered. “The other heroes. Told ‘em I can’t hear for shit anymore.”

Yn didn’t react. She just waited, giving him space to let it out.

Bakugo stared out at the windows, jaw tight. “I didn’t think I’d be able to say it. But I did. Told ‘em I’m still learning sign, still working on reading lips. But I’d still… probably need someone to help interpret if my aids crap out. Might miss shit or mess up.”

A pause. And his throat worked again. “I didn’t expect them to—to take it so well. Just an, ‘Okay. We’ll adjust.’ They didn’t even look at me like I was broken.”

Yn’s hand settled on his shoulder, the touch feather-light. “Because you’re not.”

“But I’m slower now. I can’t do the same field work. Can’t hear civilians shouting. That used to fuck with me so much.” He exhaled sharply. “But they said they’d work with me. That they’d adapt or whatever.”

“Then that’s their call,” she said, shrugging. “They know what they’re signing up for. And they asked you to stay anyway.”

His gaze flicked to hers. Something tight and uncertain lingered beneath the surface.

“You ever think people say that shit just to be nice?” he asked, voice scraping low. “Like, they believe it now, but deep down, they still think you’re… a liability?”

Yn paused, thoughtful. Then tilted her head. “Would you?”

Bakugo blinked. His mouth twitched. “Fuck no.”

“Then why assume they would?” she asked, sliding her hand down his arm to catch his hand. “They’re not stupid, Bakugo. They’re pros. They know what a liability looks like. I don’t think they’d risk the safety of people on someone they didn’t believe in.”

His brow furrowed, mind scrambling to find the flaw in her logic. There had to be one.

As if sensing his spiral, she cut through with quiet certainty. “You’re not weak, Bakugo.” The word landed deliberately, dismantling his unspoken fear. “You’re just changing. That doesn’t diminish who you’ve always been.”

Bakugo was silent. He let her words sit, feeling its weight. Then, slowly, his hand turned, fingers lacing with hers.

“I just… I get scared,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “Not about being deaf. About being fucking useless.” His thumb brushed her knuckle, an unconscious plea. “I thought it meant I was done. That I couldn’t be a hero anymore.”

“You’re not done. You’re just learning a new way to fight,” she said, her voice was softer but the steel beneath it never wavered. “And if anyone’s stubborn enough to make it work? It’s you.”

She leaned in until their shoulders touched, forcing his gaze up. “Imagine it—first deaf hero in the charts. Kids with hearing loss seeing someone like them up there.” Then her smile widened, teasing again. “Unless… you’re actually considering retirement?”

He snorted, real and unguarded. “No fuckin’ way.”

“Then you’re not done.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Because you get to decide that.”

Her words sat in his chest like a live wire.

Bullshit. 

Heroism was supposed to be hard. He'd welcomed that—the broken ribs, the sleepless nights, the impossible choices. But this wasn't another challenge to overcome. It was a permanent fucking handicap. Deafness wasn’t an enemy he could punch. It was a door slammed in his face.

But.

His hands flexed against his thighs. The same hands that had once sparked with explosions now knew the shape of signs. The same body that had lunged into battle without hesitation now calculated angles, light, vibrations—workarounds.

Was that weakness? Or just another fight?

The hospital hallway stretched too bright, too quiet. He could still see the other heroes’ faces when he’d told them. No flinching. No whispers. Just nods, quick adjustments. They planned to work around it. Like pros. Like equals.

Bakugo slowly felt the warmth of her hand then.

He gritted his teeth. Fuck. A long-buried memory resurfaced—one he’d almost let slip away.

Heroism wasn't about perfection. It was about persistence. About dragging yourself through hell with whatever pieces you still had, just to keep the light in others’ eyes.

A breath shuddered out of him. Fine. Fine. If the world wanted to count him out over something like this, they’d learn the same damn lesson they always did.

Because Katsuki Bakugo didn’t lose. Not to villains. Not to fate.

And definitely not to himself.

He breathed out slowly. His heart beat steady in his chest.

And then, with absolutely no warning, he reached out and ruffled her hair with excessive vigor, fingers combing through the strands just to wreck them completely. 

“The hell?” he asked, voice full of forced insult, but his touch was gentle. “Since when did you get smart enough to say shit like that?”

Yn squeaked, batting his hand away. But she didn’t move far. Because she felt it, too—the way his hand hovered for a moment too long. Shaking, not from strain, but from everything it took to admit he was scared.

She could’ve called it out. Could’ve gone soft. Instead, she smirked and poked his cheek. “Says the guy who needed me to spell it out for him,” she fired back.

He scoffed, but his hand lingered, sliding from her hair to cradle her cheek. His thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone—lighter than his usual rough handling, but just as deliberate. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice dropping to something dangerously close to tender. “Guess I needed that.”

He barely heard it, but he saw her breath hitch.

“Oi.” His squint was all mock-suspicion as his thumb brushed the flush spreading across her skin. “The hell's this, huh? Sunburn?”

“Shut up.” She tried to twist away, but his grip shifted to her chin, holding her in place.

“Ain't wearing makeup,” he mused, leaning closer. “So unless you're running a fever—”

“I swear to god—”

“—must be me.” The smirk in his voice was audible. “Damn. That's embarrassing for you.”

She huffed, but didn’t pull back this time. Instead, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, right over his chest.

The light from the painted windows spilled across her face just then, making her eyes look like they were glowing. Blue paint smudged her cheek, a messy contrast to the red flush beneath it. And her lips, damn it, they looked so soft. So inviting.

He’d imagined this. More than he’d ever admit. Would she go all soft and sigh, feeling warm like her hugs or laughter? Or would it be all teeth and fire, like when she’d snap a comeback with that infuriating grin, leaving him itching for more? God, either would ruin him.

Bakugo leaned closer, their noses brushing. “Hey… I’ve been thinking—”

And then her body tipped.

His reflexes moved before his thoughts did.

He caught her easily, arms looping around her middle as her knees buckled. Her head dropped lightly against his chest, her weight sudden but familiar.

“Shit,” he muttered, adjusting her in his hold.

Her breathing was soft, even. Completely out like a light.

Right. Her sleep spells.

She’d explained them the first time it happened—some kind of neurological disorder with no warning signs or real triggers. One moment she was awake, the next she was out cold, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. She’d joked that her brain had a faulty “off switch.” Nothing dangerous, just… inconvenient. That’s what she called it.

But it still scared the hell out of him every time.

“Ruined the moment, idiot,” he mumbled, brushing her hair back.

She didn’t respond, obviously. Just nuzzled unconsciously into his chest like she always did when this happened.

Bakugo sighed and looked around.

The hallway was empty. Lit gold. Quiet

He stood there for a long minute, holding her steady, his heartbeat slow in his ears. Her weight wasn’t heavy. Just… warm.

This wasn’t the kind of saving he was used to.

No villains. No collapsing buildings. No flash of cameras or crowd roaring after.

But maybe… that was okay.

Maybe saving people wasn’t always about being the strongest. Sometimes, it was holding someone when they fell. Watching over a hallway of kids so they could paint suns. Catching a brush before it hit the floor.

He looked back at the art. 

At the handprints. 

The names. 

The hope.

Bakugo exhaled.

Yeah. He could still be a hero like this, too.

When yn woke up, the first thing she noticed was the dim lighting. It was night outside, the curtains pulled but still faintly glowing at the edges. The overhead light cast a soft halo around the room—just enough to see by.

The second thing she noticed was the dry taste in her mouth and the dull ache in her back, which meant she’d been out for a while.

The third thing she noticed was the very broad figure slouched in the chair beside her bed, arms crossed and chin tucked low against his chest.

Bakugo.

He was fast asleep. His hearing aids were out and tucked into a little case on the table beside her water cup. His hair was messy, a smear of green paint still streaking one forearm like a leftover memory of the day.

Yn blinked at him, a slow warmth blooming in her chest.

“You could’ve gone home, dummy,” she whispered.

He didn’t respond. Of course not.

She pushed herself up slowly, limbs stiff but cooperative.

The motion must’ve stirred him, because Bakugo’s eyes cracked open a second later. Red, sleep-heavy, a little bleary.

He blinked, squinted at her. Then straightened with a quiet grunt, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re up.”

“Was I out long?” she rasped, reaching for the water.

He grabbed his hearing aids and slid them in. “Five hours.”

“Mm. That’s not bad.”

He gave her a flat look. “You missed dinner.”

She smiled, unbothered. “Worried I wouldn’t get my pudding cup?”

“I ate your pudding cup.”

She laughed. “You thief.”

“It was melting,” he said, smug.

She looked at him for a long moment.

The curve of his shoulders. The stupidly hot smirk. The stubborn warmth in the way he always stayed, even when it wasn’t convenient.

Then, she held her arms out with all the drama she could summon. “Pity hug. Now, you monster.”

He gave her a look—half amused, half exasperated—but stood up anyway and leaned down to hug her, arms looping around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hands found the back of his neck, fingers toying lightly with the tips of his hair.

He didn’t pull away. Just rested his forehead against hers, eyes half-lidded and soft.

“Did I miss anything?” she murmured.

“Mm. Something pretty major,” he murmured back. “Life-changing, even.”

She chuckled. “Can I still experience it? Or was it a one-time thing?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “It’s a lifetime thing.”

Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t perfect. There was too much grinning, too many half-laughs between presses of lips. But it was good. Warm. A tiny pocket of peace carved out of everything else.

And then, it changed. Just a little. He leaned in again, his hand sliding lower, and lips parting with unsubtle intent.

Yn made a sound of protest, half chuckle, half warning, and pressed a hand to his chest.

“Hey,” she said, breathless. “We are in a hospital.”

“No one’s watching,” he muttered, cocky. “I’ll be quick.”

“Bakugo,” she warned, trying to look stern.

His grin went lopsided. “Be glad I waited ‘til you were awake. I was tempted earlier.”

She groaned. “Oh my god.”

But she was still tangled in him, still laughing, and he looked unbearably pleased with himself.

A knock at the door interrupted the moment—gentle, polite, and clearly a nurse’s way of saying wrap it up, Romeo.

Bakugo sighed dramatically. “There goes our chance…”

“Text me when you get home, all right?” she said, hand still on his chest, ignoring his whining.

He leaned in, kissing her forehead. “I can smuggle you out, you know.”

She flicked his arm. “Out. Go. Before they revoke your visitation rights.”

He laughed and headed toward the door, pausing just before he stepped through.

“Oh,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder. “By the way. You’re my girlfriend now. Just letting you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh. That’s it? No asking?”

He shrugged. “I figured the kissing made it pretty clear.”

She tried not to smile, but failed. “Fine. But you’re buying me pudding next time.”

“Noted.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking softly behind him.

Yn lay back against the pillows and let the silence settle.

Officially dating a half-deaf, overly-confident exasperating pro hero with a pudding problem.

Not exactly how she thought the day would end.

But it felt good. Solid. Like something she could lean into without fear of breaking it.

And even if he was a thief… At least he’d finally stolen something she’d wanted him to all along.

[solrburst]

a vow — joel miller x reader

𝑅equest: “HI!! Was wondering if you could write something where Joel Miller isn’t big on PDA, or anything really despite reader being in a relationship with him, and after a fight over it with the reader he gets mad that she’s holding hands or something cute with another guy at Tipsy Bison? Followed by some smut/possessive apologetic Joel”

𝒮ummary: After a fight, Joel’s jealousy boils over when he sees you with another man.

𝒲arnings: possessive!joel, hurt, joel and reader fight at the beginning, comfort, age gap, unprotected sex, riding, slaps, idk how to tag anymore

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: well this made me realize that maybe i like to write fights sorry

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 6k

It started in his kitchen.

Where most things did — the fights, the makeups, the silences that said too much.

You were leaning against the counter, arms crossed, still in his denim jacket, backpack slung over your shoulder like you weren’t planning on staying. And Joel? He was standing near the sink, jaw tight, hands braced on either side of it like the metal might anchor him.

“You really gonna get mad about this again?” His voice was low. Tired. Irritated in that way that made you want to poke harder.

“Again?” you echoed, eyes narrowing. “I’ve barely said anything about it. But yeah, I’m getting mad — because it’s fucking weird, Joel.”

He looked over at you, eyes flat. “It’s not weird. I just don’t like people bein’ in my business.”

“It’s not just people being in your business!” You threw your hands up, voice rising. “You don’t even look at me when we’re outside. Won’t touch me, won’t talk to me half the time unless no one else is around. It’s like I only exist in your house — or your bed.”

He flinched at that. Just barely. But you caught it.

“And what, that’s not enough for you?” he said sharply. “Me takin’ care of you, keepin’ you here, riskin’—shit I haven’t risked in a long time—for someone? That ain’t worth nothin’ unless I’m makin’ some public show of it?”

You crossed your arms tighter, heat in your chest. “It’s not about some show. I’m not asking you to fuck me in public. I’m asking you to hold my hand when we walk into a bar. To stand next to me like I’m yours instead of some secret you keep in your back pocket.”

He stared at you for a beat, then looked away — jaw flexing hard, that stubborn set to his shoulders that you knew too well by now.

“I don’t do all that cute shit,” he muttered. “I never have.”

You blinked. “Yeah. No kidding. You’re a fucking robot half the time. Meanwhile, I’m out here looking like the stupid girl hanging on the grumpy old man who won’t even admit we’re together.”

Joel’s eyes cut back to you, dark and sharp. “You fucking done?”

You tilted your head, stepping toward him, mouth curling just enough to twist the knife. “Yeah, I’m done. Done trying to get you to act like you give a damn outside your bedroom.”

And with that, you grabbed your bag, turned, and walked out — the screen door slamming behind you hard enough to rattle the frame.

You didn’t expect him to come after you.

And he didn’t.

Which is exactly why, two nights later, you were at the Tipsy Bison wearing your tightest pair of jeans, drink in hand, laughing at something one of the guys across the table said — one hand casually resting on his arm, your smile just a little too sweet.

Joel walked in then.

Big and brooding in that flannel and denim, the weight of him practically sucking the oxygen out of the room. He saw you in less than five seconds. Saw you — and the way that kid leaned toward you like he had a fucking chance.

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Joel Miller jealous.

The Tipsy Bison was louder than usual. But you weren’t listening. Not really.

You were perched on the high stool, drink in hand, legs crossed just right. Laughing at something that wasn’t funny. Smiling at a guy whose name you’d already forgotten.

What was his name again? Tim? Troy?

Didn’t matter. He was sweet enough. A little younger than Joel. Definitely not as interesting — or as dangerous — but that was the point. He was harmless. Just enough to make sure Joel saw.

And oh, he saw.

You could feel it before you even glanced his way — that heavy, unblinking stare from across the bar. He hadn’t come in with anyone. Just walked straight to the far end of the room, sat alone, and ordered a whiskey. Same as always. Except this time, he didn’t look away when your eyes met.

He didn’t even blink.

You let your gaze slide past him, casual, like he was just another stranger. Sipped your drink. Laughed again, brighter this time, fingers brushing the guy’s forearm like he’d said something charming — which he hadn’t. He was boring as fuck, talking about crops or horses or patrol routes. You weren’t listening.

You were acting.

Joel, on the other hand, wasn’t.

He didn’t move. Didn’t drink. Just sat there, watching you like you were something feral he was trying not to chase. One hand clenched around his glass, the other twitching against his thigh like he wanted it somewhere else.

Probably on your waist.

Or your throat.

You smiled wider, legs crossing tighter, leaning forward just a little as the guy beside you asked another question you didn’t hear. You nodded anyway, tilted your head, gave him a look that you knew was dangerous when used correctly.

Joel shifted in his seat.

You saw it.

The flick of his jaw. The slow exhale through his nose. Like he was trying real hard to be civil — and failing. Because Joel Miller didn’t do jealous. He didn’t do soft. And he sure as hell didn’t do being ignored.

But that’s exactly what you were doing. Ignoring him.

Just like he’d ignored you on the street, in the mess hall, at the market — brushing past like you were nobody. Like months of sweat and skin and soft, sleepy mornings meant nothing in daylight.

So now?

He could sit in the dark and watch.

The guy beside you leaned in closer, and you let him. Just enough. You laughed again, letting the sound carry — high and teasing — then finally turned your head to glance at Joel.

Just for a second.

Just to let him see that glint in your eyes.

You’re not the only one who gets to pretend.

Joel didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

But his hand left the glass.

And curled slowly into a fist.

You’d just started tracing the rim of your glass, that little bored swirl of your finger that only showed up when your patience ran thin — which it had. The guy beside you — Troy, you remembered his name now — was halfway through another story about patrol routes and some close call near the fence when you felt it.

A shift in the air.

That slow, unmistakable pull of gravity — like a storm rolling in behind you.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

You felt Joel before you saw him.

Bootsteps. Heavy. Measured.

Then a pause. And his voice, low and sharp as a blade.

“She’s with me.”

It cut clean through the room.

Troy blinked, looking up. Confused. “Sorry, what?”

You finally looked over your shoulder — and there he was.

Joel fucking Miller.

Standing behind you, jaw locked tight, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, heat practically pouring off him. His eyes were pinned to Troy, but his hand was already settling on the back of your stool — not quite touching you, but claiming the space around you like a perimeter.

Joel didn’t repeat himself.

Didn’t have to.

The silence around your little corner of the bar stretched tight. Troy glanced at you, uncertain, half-laughing. “Uh—she didn’t mention—”

“I don’t give a shit what she mentioned.” Joel’s voice was flat. Dangerous. “She’s mine.”

Your heart kicked in your chest.

He finally looked at you then — eyes dark, unreadable — and you saw it all written there in the way his jaw twitched, the way his nostrils flared with each breath.

Possession.

Not the sweet, romantic kind.

The raw, territorial kind.

You arched a brow, playing with the rim of your glass again. “Oh, now I’m yours?”

Joel didn’t blink. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your stomach twisted — heat flashing low. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction. Not yet.

Troy stood awkwardly, glancing between the two of you like he’d accidentally stepped on a landmine.

“I—I didn’t know, man. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Joel gave a tight nod, still watching you. “Yeah. I know.”

Troy gave you a quick, embarrassed smile. “Uh, thanks for the drink. I’ll, uh—yeah.”

And then he was gone, retreating toward the other side of the bar with a speed that would’ve been funny if your body wasn’t already thrumming with adrenaline.

Joel stayed where he was. Right behind you.

You turned back toward your drink, lifted it halfway to your lips. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know.”

“I do know,” he said, voice low, leaning closer until his breath ghosted against your ear. “But I don’t share.”

Your skin prickled.

He let the silence sit for a second. Just long enough to let that line sink all the way into your bones.

Then his hand finally touched you — not rough, but deliberate. Spreading over your lower back, fingers warm and firm, pulling you just slightly toward him on the stool.

“Get up,” he said quietly.

You turned, eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Joel’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“Because if you stay on that stool any longer, I’m gonna put you over my knee right here in front of everyone.”

Your breath caught — involuntary — and his lips twitched at the corners.

He saw that.

And he liked it.

“Now,” he said.

And like hell you’d admit how fast you stood.

The air outside was cooler now, wind sneaking between buildings as the two of you made your way through Jackson’s dim, quiet streets. Your boots clicked angrily on the path. Joel’s were silent. You didn’t look at him.

Not at first.

He was a step behind, as always — shadowing you. Not guiding. Not pulling.

Just there.

Like a warning.

You didn’t speak until you were clear of the bar, out where no one else could hear — the hum of the Bison fading behind you, replaced by the crunch of gravel and the soft rustle of trees.

And even then, you didn’t start soft.

“‘She’s with me,’” you mocked, glancing over your shoulder. “That’s the line you go with? Not even a ‘hey, can we talk for a second’? Just full-on caveman.”

Joel said nothing.

His eyes were on you, though — steady, unreadable, jaw tight like he was holding back something vicious. Not anger. Not quite.

Possession.

You kept walking, too fast, but he kept up like it cost him nothing.

“Is that what I am to you?” you snapped, voice sharp, “Some… thing you get to claim when you feel like it?”

Still nothing.

You stopped suddenly, spinning on your heel, forcing him to halt just inches from you. “Seriously, Joel. Say something. You don’t talk when we’re in public. You don’t talk when we fight. You barely talk when I’m in your bed.”

He stared down at you, the lines in his face deepening in the moonlight. Still silent.

You shoved his chest. “What, now you’ve got nothing to say? After you scared that poor guy off like a fucking dog?”

Joel’s jaw flexed. His breath came through his nose — slow, controlled. His hand lifted, catching your wrist in a loose grip before it could push him again.

“I didn’t scare him,” he said finally. His voice was low. Measured. “I told him the truth.”

“Oh, fuck off with that,” you hissed, stepping back, trying to break his grip — and failing. “You don’t get to ignore me for weeks in front of everyone and then pull that ‘mine’ shit like you’ve earned it.”

Joel took a slow step toward you. You backed up — only to find your back pressing up against the wood of someone’s fence. The edge of it bit into your spine.

His hand let go of your wrist.

But it didn’t feel like freedom.

“You done?” he asked quietly.

You stared at him. “No. Not even close.”

He stared back. Silent. Waiting.

And it hit you — the restraint. The way he wasn’t grabbing, wasn’t yelling. That he wasn’t cold, not really.

He was simmering.

A pot about to boil, and you were standing too close to the flame.

You scoffed, shaking your head, voice quieter now. “You don’t get to pick when I exist, Joel. Either I’m yours or I’m not. You don’t get to claim me when it’s convenient.”

His eyes darkened, and his silence deepened.

And suddenly, the stillness wasn’t passive.

It was heavy. Intentional.

He wasn’t ignoring you.

He was letting you talk.

Letting you dig the hole. Letting you burn your anger down to ash. Letting you unravel — until there was nothing left but that thin, frayed thread of control keeping you upright.

And when you finally stepped away from the fence, chest rising hard, trying to breathe through it — he reached for you again.

Not rough.

But final.

His hand slid to the back of your neck — warm, firm, unmoving.

Not a pull.

A promise.

You shivered.

And he still hadn’t raised his voice.

“Walk,” he said simply, voice deep and even. “Before I lose whatever’s left of my fuckin’ patience.”

You stared at him, lips parted, heart pounding. Your mouth opened — but nothing came out.

So you turned.

And you walked.

And this time, he stayed close.

One step behind.

Just like a wolf.

The front door shut behind you with a heavy thunk, the lock clicking into place with Joel’s key.

You didn’t move.

You stood there in the middle of his entryway, heart beating too loud in your chest, jacket still on, fingers curled into your palms. The quiet was deafening.

And then—

Boots behind you.

A slow approach.

You felt him before he touched you. The heat of him, the weight of his silence, the barely-contained energy rolling off him in waves. You held your ground, refusing to turn — even as he stepped up behind you, close enough that his chest brushed your back with every breath.

Then his hand slid around your waist.

Not gentle. Not rough.

Just certain.

He pulled you back against him — tight — until you could feel the shape of him, hard and deliberate through his jeans, pressing into the curve of your ass.

He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“You wanna know why I didn’t say it before?” he said, voice low, raw, hot enough to melt bone. “Why I kept it quiet?”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His other hand came up, dragging your jacket slowly down your arms, letting it fall to the floor with a whisper of fabric.

“Because I don’t want to share you with this place,” he muttered. “Not the patrols. Not the bar. Not the fuckin’ streets.”

His fingers traced up under your shirt, brushing warm skin, climbing slow — claiming you with nothing but touch.

“I keep it quiet ‘cause when I think about someone else lookin’ at you…” He let out a slow, dark breath. “It makes me want to break things.”

Your breath hitched, and he smiled against your neck. Not sweet.

Predatory.

“Tonight?” he murmured. “You did it on purpose. Sat there touchin’ him, laughin’ like I don’t own every sound that comes out of your mouth.”

His hand slipped up, fingers wrapping gently around your throat — not squeezing. Just there.

A reminder.

“You wanted to make me jealous.”

You swallowed, barely.

Joel hummed low in his chest. “Congratulations, baby. You did.”

Then he finally turned you — slow, controlled — pressing your back to the door, pinning you there with his hips, his hand still at your neck, thumb stroking your pulse.

His eyes locked on yours, and his voice dropped to a gravel-dark promise.

“Now I’m gonna show you exactly what it means to be mine.”

You didn’t argue.

You just let him take.

Your back hit the door, breath shallow in your chest as Joel held you there — not just with the weight of his body, but with everything unspoken finally surfacing behind his eyes.

His hand was still at your throat, thumb tracing your pulse like he needed to feel it, to know you were still here. Still his.

He leaned in, slow, gaze flicking down to your mouth — and then he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not rushed.

Sure.

The kind of kiss that said no one else gets this. That made your knees weaken even as his hand slid to your jaw, holding you steady.

And then, between kisses — mouth brushing yours, breath hot, words like sin wrapped in gravel — he spoke.

“You wanna know the truth?”

You nodded, dazed, lips parted.

He kissed you again. Slower this time. More careful. Like it hurt.

“I don’t show you off because I’m afraid they’ll look at you,” he muttered, voice rough. “Afraid they’ll look at you and wonder why the hell you’re with me.”

You blinked, the breath catching in your throat.

Joel didn’t stop — couldn’t. Not now.

“You’re twenty-something. Young. Beautiful. Got that mouth on you that drives me fuckin’ insane.” His forehead pressed to yours. “And I’m—fuck, baby, I’m not young. Not shiny. Not safe. Not what you’re supposed to end up with.”

You opened your mouth, but he silenced you with another kiss. Harder. Needier.

“I watch you walk through this town, all lit up like you’re made of fire, and every part of me wants to tell the world you’re mine.”

His hand slid down to your waist, gripping tight.

“But another part…” His voice cracked low. “Another part thinks one day you’ll wake up and realize you should’ve picked someone your age. Some kid with soft hands and a nice smile who don’t come with all the damage I carry.”

You stared up at him, chest rising hard, throat tight.

“But I can’t let that happen,” he said, softer now — and somehow darker. “I noticed that tonight.”

He leaned in again, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

“I’m too selfish, baby. I won’t let you go. You’re mine. Always have been.”

Then, quieter — almost like it hurt to say.

“And that ain’t gonna change. Not ever.”

You could feel it in the way he kissed you again — not to claim, but to keep. To beg. To promise. All at once.

There was nothing polished about it. No sweet speech. Just Joel. All cracked pride and brutal honesty and hands that had never learned to let go once they’d held something real.

And you?

You kissed him back like you were never leaving.

Because you weren’t.

You were breathing hard now — lips swollen, chest rising against his, the air between you charged and electric.

Joel’s confession still hung in the air, raw and exposed like something bleeding. His hands gripped your waist like they didn’t know how to let go. Like he couldn’t trust himself to.

You stared up at him, fire still in your eyes, throat tight with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t soften.

So you didn’t soften.

You tilted your head, lips ghosting over his jaw, your voice a rasp against the edge of him.

“I’m still fucking mad at you.”

Joel’s breath hitched — like maybe he’d expected something sweeter. Something forgivable.

But then you grabbed his shirt in both fists, yanked him back to your mouth.

“And I’m still yours,” you growled against his lips.

You kissed him like a weapon — hard, teeth clashing, your body pressed against his with reckless force. Joel grunted into your mouth, one hand sliding down to grab your ass, pulling you into him until you could feel just how far gone he already was.

“You think I need soft?” you breathed, voice ragged, grinding your hips up into his. “You think I want sweet little love taps and quiet words?”

His hands were on your thighs now, lifting, carrying you across the room like nothing weighed anything — until your back hit the wall next to the coat hooks and the picture frame tilted crooked.

“I think you want to get fucked so hard you forget why you were mad,” he growled.

You gasped, laughing breathlessly — head falling back as he pressed kisses to your throat, open-mouthed and bruising.

“Not forget,” you panted, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “Just… punish you for it later.”

Joel’s laugh was low, dangerous. “You wanna punish me?”

“I will,” you hissed, nails dragging up the back of his neck. “After you fuckin’ earn it.”

That was all it took — the line snapping.

His mouth crashed into yours, rough, unrelenting. His hands were everywhere — under your shirt, under your bra, gripping your hips like he was trying to memorize them by touch. You tugged at his belt, cursing under your breath when it didn’t come undone fast enough.

He dropped you down — hard enough to make it creak — and dropped to his knees in front of you, shoving your jeans down, kissing up your thighs, biting just to feel you jolt and curse and grab his hair.

“I want you to remember this,” he muttered, breath hot against your skin. “Every time some other idiot tries to make you laugh — every time you open that smart mouth and test me — I want you to feel what being mine fucking means.”

And when you moaned his name, sharp and ragged, you knew he already had you marked deep.

And he wasn’t even close to finished.

The denim barely hit your knees before his hands were on you — hot, rough, and demanding.

He grabbed your thighs, shoved them open without asking, like the answer had always been yes — like your body was his to position, to spread, to ruin.

"Goddamn," he growled, dropping his head between your legs, breathing you in like he was already drunk on it. "You get this wet for some kid talkin’ about patrol duty?"

You gasped, fingers gripping the edge of the bench.

“Not for him,” you snapped, breathless. “For you, asshole—”

His hand came down, sharp slap to your inner thigh.

"Then act like it."

Before you could snarl something else, his fingers were on you — thick and calloused, slipping between your folds and dragging up through the mess he’d made of you just by looking.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice thick with something darker than lust. "This was mine, the whole time. And you let him sit there thinkin’ he had a shot at my pussy?”

You gasped as he pushed two fingers inside — deep, no warning, curling hard as he filled you with the kind of force that left your mouth hanging open.

"Joel—"

“Quiet,” he snapped, thrusting again, slower now, but brutal in rhythm. “You don’t get to talk back right now. Not when you’ve been actin’ up like this. Not when I own every inch of you, and you’re sittin’ out there touchin’ some guy like I’m not fuckin’ enough.”

His thumb pressed hard to your clit, circling tight, dragging a ragged cry out of your throat. Your hips bucked, but his other hand slammed your thigh back against the wood of the bench, holding you still.

"That’s right," he hissed. "You wanna be a brat, you get used like one."

You tried to move — tried to roll your hips for more, but he held you down, fingers pistoning in and out of you, fucking you with the kind of ruthless focus that made your vision go blurry.

"You belong to me," he muttered. "Say it."

You whimpered, back arching, mouth struggling to form words.

“Say it.”

“I—I’m yours,” you gasped.

His fingers pushed deeper, hitting that spot that made your legs twitch.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m yours, Joel—fuck, I’m yours, I’m yours—”

"That’s fuckin’ right," he snarled, mouth hot against your throat now, biting a mark into your skin. "You let anyone else even look at you like that again, and I’ll fuck you right in front of 'em. Make sure they see who this pussy really belongs to."

You were so close now, thighs trembling, nails raking down his arms as your body clenched around his fingers like it didn’t know how to let go.

"Come for me," he growled into your mouth. "Come on my fuckin’ fingers like the needy little mess you are."

And when it hit — it crashed.

You came with a cry that barely sounded human, grinding down against his hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the goddamn earth. He didn’t stop — not right away — just kept working you through it until your voice cracked and your body begged for mercy.

He finally pulled his fingers free, soaked to the knuckles, and dragged them slow across your inner thigh — painting his name into your skin without saying a word.

Then he looked up at you — eyes dark, wild, and full of everything he hadn’t said before tonight.

“You’re not walkin’ tomorrow,” he said.

And you believed him.

You were still trembling when Joel hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you off the bench like you weighed nothing — your jeans kicked off somewhere behind, shirt hiked up just enough for his rough palms to press against bare skin.

“Joel—” you breathed, but he didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

His mouth was hard on yours again as he carried you down the hall — bumping into the wall once, not caring, growling low in his throat when you moaned against his lips. His grip tightened around your thighs.

“I told you,” he rasped, pushing the bedroom door open with his shoulder. “You’re not gettin’ away from me. Not tonight. Not ever.”

The room was dark, moonlight cutting across the bed. He dropped you there — not careless, but with the weight of someone who knew exactly how much you could take. You barely had time to blink before he was on you, tearing his shirt off over his head, belt unbuckled and jeans shoved down in seconds.

Then he was pulling you up, flipping you over onto your knees.

“Hands on the headboard.”

Your body jolted — the command hit harder than it should’ve. You hesitated just a second too long.

Joel’s hand came down on your ass, sharp and perfect.

“Now.”

You scrambled forward, gripping the wood at the top of the bed, your cheek against the cool pillow as you felt him move in behind you — heavy, warm, the head of his cock dragging between your thighs, teasing.

And then — he pulled you back.

One strong arm wrapped around your waist, dragging your spine up against his chest. His body was hot, solid behind you, the rough scratch of his chest hair against your bare back, his cock thick and hard, pressed right up against your soaked entrance but not pushing in yet.

His other hand found your neck again — not choking, just there. Just holding.

“You feel that?” he growled into your ear, the head of him nudging against your folds, slick and slow.

You whimpered, nodding.

“That’s mine.”

He thrust in with one brutal stroke.

You cried out, eyes squeezing shut, back arching hard against his chest as he filled you — all the way, no pause, no mercy.

He held you like that — impaled, helpless, his grip on your neck tightening just enough to make your head fall back against his shoulder.

“You’re mine,” he said again, panting now, rolling his hips into you, deep and rough and relentless. “Say it.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours,” you gasped, clinging to the headboard even as your legs shook beneath you.

He slammed into you again, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Joel!”

“Damn right you are.”

He fucked you like he had something to prove — and he did. Every thrust was deep, punishing, his arm like steel around your waist, holding you up, keeping you from falling even as he fucked the fight right out of you.

His mouth was at your ear, teeth grazing your skin.

“You think some dumb kid could make you come like this?” Thrust. “Think he could handle you?” Thrust. “Think he’d still want you after hearing the way you scream for me?”

You were sobbing now — overwhelmed, split open on him, every muscle shaking, his cock hitting that spot so deep and perfect it made your brain go white.

“Tell me no one else gets you.”

“No one—fuck—no one gets me but you!”

Joel groaned against your neck, hips slamming into yours, his hand sliding down from your waist to rub fast, rough circles on your clit.

“Then come for me. Come again, baby, and let this whole fuckin’ town feel it.”

You shattered with a scream, your walls clenching around him like a vice — and that was it. Joel cursed, bit your shoulder.

He didn’t let you go.

Not even then.

He stayed pressed against your back, buried to the hilt, his arm still tight around your middle, his hand still on your neck, pulsing against your skin like another heartbeat.

Breathing ragged. Body trembling.

You were his.

And now the whole fucking world knew it.

You didn’t know how long you lay there together, still pulsing from the high, your body draped against his chest, slick and trembling. But Joel didn’t say anything.

He just ran his hand slowly down your back, tracing the curve of your spine, the barest scratch of his nails making you shiver.

Then—

"Get on top of me."

His voice was low. Commanding. But softer now, more settled — like the edge was still there, just quieter under the skin.

You blinked, lifting your head. “What?”

Joel leaned back, letting his weight sink into the bed, arms folding behind his head. His chest rose slow and steady, eyes dark as he looked at you over his shoulder.

"You heard me. Turn around. I want you to ride me."

He let the pause stretch, let the heat fill it.

“Wanna watch you fall apart on my cock.”

Your breath caught — but you moved. Slowly. Purposefully.

You turned, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs, facing away now. You could feel his eyes dragging over your back, your hips, the way you moved with that subtle soreness from everything he’d already done to you.

You reached down, guiding him back to full hardness with a few slow strokes — which didn’t take much. Joel groaned behind you, head tipping back into the pillow as his hand came up to grip your waist.

“Just like that,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You positioned yourself above him, the head of his cock sliding against your entrance, your thighs shaking slightly as you lowered yourself down.

“Shit,” you gasped, head dropping forward as he stretched you open again, inch by inch, all of him thick and deep.

Joel hissed a breath through his teeth. “Goddamn, baby—fuckin’ tight like this.”

You steadied yourself, hands braced on his thighs as you started to move — hips rocking slow, deep, grinding back onto him.

Joel growled, low and wrecked. His hands found your ass, gripping the flesh hard enough to bruise, fingers digging in with every bounce.

“Fuckin’ love watchin’ you like this,” he said through clenched teeth. “Back arched. Drippin’ down my cock. Look like you belong there.”

You moaned, biting your lip, speeding up just enough to make the sound of your bodies slapping together echo through the room.

Then his hand came down hard — smack.

A sharp slap to your ass, jolting your whole body forward.

You gasped, grinding back into him harder, your moan caught between pleasure and something filthier.

“More,” you whispered, breathless.

Joel chuckled darkly. “You got no shame, huh?”

And then he spanked you again, other hand gripping your hip tighter, guiding your rhythm as you rode him faster.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice rasping. “Bounce on it, baby. Show me how much you need it.”

You were barely holding on, head thrown back, hands slipping down to brace against his knees as you fucked yourself on him, each thrust hitting that perfect spot, each slap of his hand pushing you closer to breaking.

“Whose pussy is this?” he growled.

“Yours,” you gasped, choking on the word. “Joel, it’s yours—”

“Say it louder.”

“It’s yours! Fuck— I’m yours, I’m—fuckin’ yours—”

And when you came, it hit like a wrecking wave — your body locking up, thighs shaking, cunt clenching around him so hard he growled, deep in his chest, and thrust up into you, meeting your movement with wild, desperate rhythm.

Joel came with a rough curse, hands tight on your hips, slamming you down one last time, holding you there as he spilled deep inside you, breathing hard.

You stayed there for a moment — straddling him, spent and shaking, dripping with sweat and his release — your back pressed to his chest now as he sat up slightly, wrapping his arms around your middle.

No words.

Just breath. Touch. The sound of his heartbeat against your spine.

Possession had never felt so good.

Your breathing was still ragged when his arms wrapped around you — strong, steady, grounding — and Joel leaned up just enough to press a kiss to your spine, right between your shoulder blades.

Neither of you spoke at first.

Your thighs were shaking. Your chest was tight. And Joel just held you there, your back to his chest, both of you sunk into the mattress like the world had narrowed to this one room — this one moment.

His lips brushed your skin again, slower this time.

Not lust.

Not claim.

Just Joel.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he muttered against your shoulder.

You didn’t say anything — not right away. You just let your hand find his on your stomach, threading your fingers with his, still catching your breath.

He kissed your shoulder once more, his voice softer now. “Didn’t mean to make you feel like I was hidin’ you.”

You turned your head slightly, cheek brushing against his beard, your voice still raspy. “You kinda did.”

Joel winced. He didn’t try to deny it.

“I know.” His hand tightened gently around yours. “Truth is… I’ve never had anything like this before. Anyone like you. I didn’t know how to—hell, I was scared if I held on too tight, you’d see how much I don’t deserve it.”

You shifted in his arms, your back curving to him like muscle memory. He was always solid, always warm — but now he felt tender, too.

Vulnerable in a way that made your heart twist.

“Joel,” you whispered, glancing up at him, “you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to show up.”

He looked down at you, brow furrowed, like he was still learning how to believe that.

“I don’t talk easy,” he said. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” You gave a soft smile, reaching up to brush a thumb along the line of his jaw. “But when you do… it’s worth it.”

Joel let out a low breath, like maybe that weight on his chest was finally easing up. He kissed your forehead — slow, deliberate, lingering.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For not claimin’ you sooner. For makin’ you feel like you weren’t everything you are to me.”

You curled in closer, letting his arms wrap tighter, your legs tangled with his now, warm under the blankets.

“You’re lucky you fuck like you mean it,” you teased, voice light again, lips grazing his throat.

He huffed a low laugh, fingers brushing through your hair, then down your back.

“Damn right I do.”

You both settled then — the tension melted out of your muscles, the fight long gone.

In the quiet, you felt his hand drift to your hip again — not to grip or guide, but just to hold. To feel you there. Real. Close. His.

And this time, when he whispered, “You’re mine,”

…it wasn’t a threat.

It was a vow.

You woke up to sunlight bleeding through the curtains and the soft drag of Joel’s fingers across your bare back.

He was already awake, propped up on one elbow beside you, hair tousled, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them in the morning light.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still scratchy from sleep and maybe just a little from everything he’d growled the night before.

You smiled, stretching slow, your sore muscles protesting just enough to make you wince.

Joel caught it, smirked. “Told you you wouldn’t be walkin’ right.”

“Smug bastard,” you muttered, curling into him anyway, your face in the warm space between his chest and shoulder. “Don’t get used to being right.”

His arms wrapped around you, his hand slipping into your hair. He didn’t say anything right away — just kissed your forehead like it was instinct.

Then, quietly: “You busy later?”

You blinked. “Uh… no?”

“Good.” He leaned back just enough to look down at you. “I want you to meet Tommy.”

“I already know Tommy, Joel.”

He didn’t respond.

You stared.

Joel watching you, steady, a little nervous behind the eyes — which meant this meant something.

“Wait. You’re introducing me?”

He nodded once. “Figured it’s time he knew the truth.”

“The truth,” you echoed, raising a brow. “And what’s that?”

Joel’s jaw ticked — and then his hand slid up your side, slow, until it rested just over your heart.

“That you’re mine.”

You swallowed.

“That I love you.”

The words were quiet. Unadorned. No theatrics. Just Joel, stripped bare, telling you something he’d carried too long in silence.

Your heart slammed hard against your ribs.

“I love you too,” you said, voice barely there. “Took you long enough.”

Joel chuckled, leaned down, kissed you slow — deep and warm and certain.

“Yeah,” he murmured against your lips. “But now everyone’s gonna know it.”

Later, the sun high in the sky, he kept a hand on your waist as the two of you walked across town. Not just touching — guiding. Showing.

Tommy spotted you both from across the street and waved. When you got close, he grinned. “Well look who finally crawled outta his cave. Joel, who’s—?”

“This’s my girl,” Joel cut in, hand tightening slightly at your hip. “Been meanin’ to bring her by.”

Tommy raised a brow, surprised — maybe even impressed.

Your smile turned sly, but you said nothing, letting Joel say it.

“She’s… important to me,” he added, clearing his throat. “More than that. I love her.”

Tommy blinked. Then laughed, reaching out to shake your hand.

“Well, shit,” he said. “Guess miracles do happen.”

Joel grumbled something under his breath, pulling you in closer like he couldn’t help it. Like it wasn’t just possession anymore — it was pride.

You leaned into his side, kissed his jaw, and whispered where only he could hear:

“Think I like hearing you say that.”

Joel glanced down at you, eyes soft. “Get used to it, sweetheart. I’m done keepin’ quiet.”

[valeisaslut]

TWO. THOUSAND. PEOPLE.

WHAT.

i genuinely do not know how to begin processing this, but i’ll try my best. because this means so much to me.

i just hit +2,000 followers and i’m sitting here staring at the number like it’s gonna disappear if i blink too hard. the fact that this happened in four months of writing and uploading is... honestly kind of deranged. i never, ever imagined this would happen. not in a million years. not in any of the 849 alternate timelines where i chickened out and never hit “post.”

when i started writing again back in february, it was just me and a brain full of delusions. i had no plan. no expectations. i uploaded three fics but then came this little idea, a little popstar, a little rockstar, and a whole lot of yearning. collide was born out of that — a messy, passionate, chaotic, healing, horny, gut-wrenching, soul-hugging story that somehow grew into this living, breathing world that now exists in your heads and hearts too. that’s still so insane to me.

my stories and my chaos aren’t just mine anymore. they live in you now. in your playlists. your rereads. your 3am messages. your tears and laughs and all-caps tags.

and that’s the most beautiful, fulfilling thing i could ever hope for as a writer.

you’ve made this little dream of mine feel like home. you’ve made me feel seen and valued in a way i don’t even have words for. i’ve cried over your comments. i’ve laughed out loud at your spirals. i’ve felt so held by this corner of the internet we’ve built together. you guys didn’t just read my stories — you believed in them. and in me. and in this unhinged, poetic, sapphic brain of mine.

so thank you. for every message. every reblog. every post. thank you for reading my words and deciding to stay. thank you for making collide a phenomenon in ways i never could’ve imagined.

thank you for seeing me.

here’s to more fics, more series, more heartbreak, more healing, more horny chaos, more poetic brainrot, and more of this little community that somehow became one of the most important parts of my life.

i love you. deeply. stupidly. eternally.

— val 🩶 a girl with a dream, a keyboard, and 2,000 beautiful souls.

[esotericcangel]

─── OFFICE CRUSH ✎

summary: you’ve been pining over your genius coworker for almost a year now. you never expected him to reciprocate.

pairing: bau!spencer x fembau!reader

warnings/tags: enemies to lovers, smut, fingering, unprotected sex, language, slight angst, one sided pining, sort of ooc spencer.

authors note: hello i am back!! finally got the courage to write smth lol. p.s. kinda hate this..

His hands. Oh god, his hands. Spencer’s fingers ran across the words of the files containing information about the BAU’s most recent case. A young girl had been murdered, along with two other’s. A serial murder, the team had concluded. And yet as horribly tragic as it was, you couldn’t seem to focus on the fact that someone’s life had been lost. All you could do was trace the veins on Spencer’s hand like a physical touch. 

You sucked in a sharp breath when he flipped a page, his glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose askew, his brown eyes focused on the contents of the file. He licked his lips, eyes scanning the words, a small breath escaping him. As if he was deep in thought, the gears in his brain turning methodically, his genius already piecing together the case just from pictures of the crime scene.

It was one of the many things that turned you on about Spencer; his innate ability to solve crimes, the way he spewed out facts like a human wikipedia. It made your stomach burn and the spot on your cotton panties sticky with arousal. You’d try hard to focus on the cases you received, ferociously studying the crime scene pictures… but to no avail. He was too distracting. 

But you’d never do anything about it. Because you were 100% that Spencer Reid did not like you. 

Well, it wasn’t that he disliked you, but he always seemed so apathetic towards you. You could barely find a moment to converse with him. I mean sure, he was known for being particularly cautious around people he didn’t know, and was widely known for his germaphobic tendencies. But when you tried to speak to him? He could only ever manage a hum or a nod, either dismissing your inquiry about a case or just flat out avoiding you. On flights, he chose the farthest seat from you. When pairing up to look for an unsub, he somehow made sure he wasn’t paired with you. And although it disheartened you, you could never find out why. 

It’d been a few months since you’d figured out your newfound feelings for the young BAU agent, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep your secret from Spencer. Honestly, you were surprised no one had figured out sooner. I mean, you were working in an entire team of profilers. Penelope somehow, the only non-profiler, had found out first after she’d caught you staring at Spencer during one of Rossi’s iconic wine parties. And, naturally, she told Morgan, which at first you weren’t happy about. But who could be mad at Garcia for so long? 

Next was Emily, who you considered to have formed some friendly relationship with. Her only advice was to, quote, ‘go for it’, which you’d always said was ridiculous. Spencer barely liked you as a friend. No way he’d like you romantically. 

It was a late night Friday now, most of the team having left due to the late hour. The case file sat heavy in your hands, your knuckles cramping as you flipped another page, sighing. Your joints hurt and your body was tense. But not from the fact that you’d been nonstop working for six hours. From the fact that Spencer was only a few feet away from you, seemingly doing the exact same thing. The sleeves of his dress shirt had been rolled up to his elbows, his tousled, boy band-esque hair even more tousled than when the day had started. Your mouth felt like sandpaper as you attempted to swallow, your stomach doing flips. 

Eyes darting back to the crime scene photos, you sighed, brows furrowing as you caught something. “Wait a minute..” you mumbled under your breath. “Dr Reid.” 

Spencer, who had been doing his own analysis of the unsub, sighed and lifted his head, eyes falling on you. “What?” he spoke flatly, lip curled just a fraction, a crease forming between his brow. 

Your heels clacked against the wooden floor as you made your way to Spencer’s desk, file head in hands. “All of the victims—“ you pointed towards a file containing an ID picture of each victim. At this point you were standing beside Spencer’s seat, practically leaning over him to show him the discovery you’d made. 

What you didn’t know was that the proximity made Spencer’s breath hitch, his nails digging into the material of his dress pants as he clenched his jaw. 

“We know that each victim has given up at least one child for adoption. It’s possible the unsub is doing this out of revenge. Maybe even justice. It could mean he had parental issues growing up, specifically with his mom.” 

“Maybe, but you can’t assume that. Just because coincidentally they all gave up children for adoption doesn’t mean it’s connected to the unsub’s motivation.” Spencer argued in response, eyes narrowing slightly, a small huff of irritation leaving him. But he wasn’t irritated that you were making this point. He was irritated at the betrayal of his own body, how it reacted whenever you were near. 

His retort made you bristle, jaw tightened, hand throwing down the file onto the desk. “Why do you always do this?” You exclaimed out of frustration.

“Excuse me?”

“You—you always dispute my theories, you’re constantly avoiding me. Did I do something wrong? I don’t understand.”

Spencer, in a fit of exasperation, stood from his desk, his tall stature towering over you. “You don’t understand? You don’t understand why I’m like this?” He snapped, jaw tense.

“God.” He muttered lower, shaking his head as he glanced away. “No.. no I don’t. SO help me. Help me understand why you’re so hostile all the time!”

“This isn’t hostility, agent!” Spencer snapped back, effectively shutting you up. 

It was silent for what felt like hours, but in reality was only a few seconds. “Do you.. know how hard it is, having to work with you?” He began, voice a bit gruff. Your brows furrowed in offense, but you let him continue. “Having to see you everyday in—in these skirts,” he reached out and tugged on the hem of your skirt, eliciting a gasp from you. “And listening to your smart mouth? I’m supposed to be a genius. Do you get it? A genius.”

Confusion was all you felt, eyes scanning his conflicted expression, your throat bobbing as you swallowed. “Dr. Reid, I don’t—“ 

“Spencer… fuck. Please just call me Spencer.” 

“Okay.. Spencer.” 

He had a visual reaction to that, his expression going a bit dark, a flush crawling up his neck. You could faintly hear him murmur God under his breath, but you chose not to comment on it. “Do you even know what you do to me?” He asked again, expression almost pained. He stepped closer to you, causing you to step back. The edge of your hip hit your desk, your eyes wide with a mixture of anticipation and slight fear. 

“I—I didn’t know you felt—“ 

“Course you didn’t. I tried my best.” He leant in, hand gripping the desk by your hip, leaning in and placing a soft kiss on the side of your neck. Like a flower, you bloomed for him, tilting your head to provide him more access to your skin. You let out a breathy sigh, eyes fluttering shut, a small noise escaping you. “Spencer..” 

“Shhh..” He chastised softly, his lips brushing your skin as he left open mouthed kisses down your neck, stopping every few seconds to nip. “Tell me you want this.” He whispered, breathy and laced with need, as if he’d been holding back for too long. Which, evidently, he had. “I.. I want this.” was all you could say.

Spencer took it as an invitation, his one hand coming up to hold your hip, the other on your jaw. He captured your lips in a sloppy kiss, your own hands reaching upwards to tangle in his hair, eliciting a wanton groan from him. 

You could taste the faint sweetness of coffee as his tongue licked into your mouth, the feeling of his hand traveling up your skirt making your hips buck. Spencer didn’t tease, didn’t draw it out. In seconds, his fingers were pressing against the damp spot on your panties, a gasp leaving both of you as you mutually pulled away for air. 

“What, do crime scene photos make you wet?” He teased between breathy intakes, the corner of his mouth tugging up slightly, his puppy brown eyes glossed over. 

You groaned, from both his tease and the pads of his fingers pressing on your clit through your panties, a sharp breath escaping you. “Don’t worry baby..” He cooed, fingers slipping past the cotton, his finger running through your slick. He traced a path up your slit, relishing in the way you gasped, hips bucking into his hand. His finger slid into you with ease, a breathy curse escaping him as he began to pump his finger in and out of you in a steady rhythm. 

“You like that?” He taunted, eyes scanning your pleasure stricken expression, the way your teeth dug into your bottom lip and your eyes fought to stay open. 

You nodded, chest rising and falling rapidly with each panted breath, your hips jerking forward as you felt your orgasm near. 

“F—Fuck Spencer, I’m gonna—“ 

And then as soon as it had been built, it was gone. Your eyes flew open, the sight of Spencer sucking your slick off his fingers entering your vision, your brows furrowing. 

He smiled maliciously, cocking his head to the side as he regarded you with a look that held more arrogance than you’d ever seen on Spencer Reid. 

“What? You thought I’d give it to you that fast?” He teased, hands already tugging down your panties by the band, pushing up your skirt by the hem. 

The clink of his belt seemed to snap you out of your reverie, a soft breath escaping you as you glanced down. “Spencer..” you murmured, voice a bit needy, almost a plea. “Please.”

And how could he resist that plea?

By now he’d tugged down his pants to rest at his knee, the buttons on his boxers undone. He pushed into you with one steady thrust, hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. The sudden feeling of your bodies connecting made you both moan out, the volume making you both panic.

Spencer’s hand quickly darted up, covering your mouth to muffle the moans falling out. Each thrust was quick and speedy, his tip kissing your sweet spot and making your eyes roll back into your head.

It wasn’t long before you were both closer to your peaks, Spencer’s hand leaving your mouth then grabbing the back of your head, pulling you in for another messy. kiss. You moaned into each other’s mouths as you came, the warmth of Spencer’s release prominent in your belly, and the feeling of you clenching around him making his hips twitch. 

Eventually, the need for air won and Spencer pulled away with a wet pop, a small string of saliva connecting your lips as ragged breaths escaped the both of you, your chest heaving in unison. “I.. I always thought you hated me.” You breathed, voice a mixture of exertion and content. 

Spencer swallowed and shook his head, hand squeezing your hip as he leant in and pecked your temple. 

“Far from it.”

© 𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 please refrain from copying, translating or claiming my work as yours .ᐟ

tags @bea-tween-the-pages @fadeshocksbiggestfan .ᐟ

[breakmeoff]

Optimus Fine │The Boy Next Door (drabble)

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader

warnings: none! fluff n crack.

word count: 500ish

synopsis: the insanity of the daily gifts keep coming, and you are coming to realize that there are many more where they came from. chris will get bored with you at some point - right?

drabble sequence: falls between The Boy Next Door chapters 5 & 6

note: there are so many other silly puns/pick-up lines that channie and stay have exchanged that i have a hidden treasure trove of these i could keep writing lol. thx for reading :)

Masterlist

Whenever Chris put his mind to something, he didn’t ever waver until he got what he wanted.  And right now - he wanted you.  At this point it had been about a week and a half since the random gifts had started being delivered to your office.  

It was becoming more difficult for you to hide the fact that you had a ‘secret admirer’, because by this point your new buddy, Henry, from DHL was becoming a regular in the hospital hallways - always making his daily stop at your office.  

With your eyes focused on your computer monitor, scanning over the documents you’d just been sent on your newest research assignment, you heard the faint knock on your open office door.  Without even looking up, you smirked lightly.  “Afternoon Henry…”

“Y/N,” he began, walking in with the small package tucked under his arm and his tablet out for signature.  Turning to look up at the deliveryman, you caught his lopsided smile.  “If you’re not careful, I bet your coworkers are going to start thinking these are all from me,” he said with a chuckle.

Laughing softly, you reached for his tablet, making eye contact briefly before signing your name.  “Y’know at this point it might be easier that way.”  

Taking the tablet back from you, he nodded his head and tipped his cap at you teasingly.  “This time tomorrow?”

“I hope not for your sake,” you grinned, giving a half wave as he walked out your office door the same time two of your coworkers walked by, glancing in to see yet another package on your desk.

Not even bothering to care who saw this time, you reached for the pair of your scissors resting in your pen cup and sliced open the tape on the cardboard box.  Sitting neatly on top was a familiar looking card.

If you were a Transformer, you’d be Optimus Fine.  - BC

You’d never typically been one for stupid humor before, but now, reading each new pick up line was becoming your favorite part of the day.

Dropping your scissors back where they belonged, you then placed the new card on top of the growing stack of the others that had come with each previous gift, and turned back to the box.

Reaching inside and digging past the packing peanuts was precisely what you expected, an Optimus Prime figurine.  With a heavy smile and soft laugh, you shook your head and placed the new toy next to the snow globe you had received earlier in the week - in a place of honor right by your monitors.  

Reaching for your phone, you quickly snapped a picture of Optimus and sent it to Chris.

You:  You aren't ever gonna quit, are you? Chris:  not until my last dying breath You:  I think I'll run out of desk space before that happens. Chris: guess I gotta send a desk next You:  Do and you die. Chris: I have a better way you could get me to stop? You:  I'm afraid to ask... Chris: let me see you soon You: Chris... Chris: i'm finding this way too much fun and am happy to keep sending you embarrassing toys if you'd prefer Chris: your choice really Chris: but I'm warning you right now... Chris: I won't give up until I get what I want, sweetheart.

tag list: @angel-writes-skz-here @idkimobsessed @queenofdumbfuckery @mfcherry @downingmorphine @pixie-felix @d3kstar @lveegsoi @ebnabi @nebugalaxy @babystay724 @mmarusa @imagine-all-the-imagines @erisuna @beabidoobee @hanniesbubuwife @bbykaixx @riri53 @jinniesgirl @alx-wyjsr @skzswife @hwangjoanna @stephanieeeyang @minnysproutgriffinteddy

[darknoverse]

deltarune chapter 4 spoilers

i'm gonna assume everyone got the tag muted now but eh here's you fair lil warning

oh also don't expect REALLY more deltarune fanart idk if i'll do any at all i just got inspired for this one grrgbrbrbr

BRO THOSE TWO CHAPTERS WERE FUCKING INSANE?????

LIKE HELOO?????/pos

idk about y'all but the chapter 4 ending was so fucking sad i cried deadass lol. Nobody can ever make me hate you Kris . nobody can ever convince me to do so .

i feel so bad for them, all the hints of lore dropped in those two new chapters destroyed me but OUGHHH THATS SOME GOOD WRITING TOBY COOKED FR

[gabetheunknown]

Because I've been thinking and writing for this fic for over 2 years now, it certainly deserves a lil drawing to complement it! I even made a background??? Lot's of firsts for me! Go give my fic (or my drawing if ur just here for that) a little love!

Between the Lines of Authority (85912 words) by GabeTheUnknown Chapters: 19/? Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Shani, Jaskier | Dandelion/Radowid V Srogi | Radovid V the Stern, Jaskier | Dandelion & Priscilla, Essi Daven & Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Shani (The Witcher), Rience (The Witcher), Essi Daven, Sabrina Glevissig, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Triss Merigold, Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel (The Witcher), Priscilla (The Witcher), Radowid V Srogi | Radovid V the Stern Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Oxenfurt Academy (The Witcher), Age Difference, Professor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, College Student Jaskier | Dandelion, No beta we die like Henry Cavill's career, Teacher-Student Relationship, First Kiss, Angst, like inevitably there is going to be angst, First Time, Anal Sex Summary: Jaskier recently started living on campus at Oxenfurt University. Studying liberal arts is his first step in becoming an artist. He struggles, not with his work, grade-wise, but concentrating has never proved harder when he sees his history professor for the first time. Geralt soon finds out that this might be, in the few years he's been teaching at Oxenfurt, the smartest student he's ever taught. He's as annoyed as he is impressed. Their bond grows when they set up a plan together to improve the academy's assessments. Neither of them expect their lives to become so complicated in the span of only a few months.

[With the specific scene under the read more]

“Morning, Mr. Rivia,” Jaskier said in a joyful tone when he entered his lecture hall on Thursday. He was the first to arrive for class, which made Geralt arch a brow. That rarely ever happened.

He watched for a moment as Jaskier walked up to him and placed a paper cup with Geralt’s name on it on his lectern. It smelled of coffee, and vaguely of hazelnut. As amused as he was the first time when Jaskier brought him coffee, he smiled and gave him a nod in appreciation.

“Are you?” Jaskier asked, placing an elbow on Geralt’s lectern and his chin on his palm.

Struck by confusion, more than anything else, Geralt frowned, “sorry?”

“Available on Sunday?” Jaskier repeated what he asked over text.

Geralt kept his gaze on him for a moment. It wasn’t a complicated question, per se, it was just a slightly complicated situation—which was an understatement—and since Geralt had already replied to it with silence two times, he found himself unable to find the words in that moment.

He was available on Sunday, he just hadn’t decided if he wanted to spend it with his student, or on his own, on his couch, with a nice whisky. Besides, the last time Jaskier came over, they didn’t get much work done.

Geralt eyed the entrance of his hall before flicking his eyes back to Jaskier, who was way too close to him for his comfort.

“Pick a seat. Class is starting,” Geralt said low, lifting his chin in a nod.

Jaskier moved away, just before more students started trickling in. There was a tiny smile on his face before he turned to pick a seat.

Geralt swallowed, letting out a short sigh, before he greeted his students and mentally prepared for his lecture.

[ddejavvu]

navigation / inbox

Hello and welcome! Whether you’re here because you’ve been following me and this popped up on your dashboard, or because you were browsing a tag under this post, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve really been pushing myself to write more lately, because I have all the ideas in the world and none of the motivation to do anything about it! So, here we are: My summer of series!

My plan is to post as many chapters of all of my series as possible this summer. At the time of drafting this event post, I’m currently actively working on 7 series- which I know is quite a lot! But for me, writing one chapter of one and then moving onto the next for a chapter is much more manageable than writing the entire series all at once, even if I'm still completing quite a lot of writing. This is meant to get me out of my writing slump, and to get you some new content! I hope you enjoy my summer of series :)

The series you can expect to see started and/or continued during this event are:

Spring Fling - Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x reader: You should have known the ‘no refunds’ detail on the website for Spring Fling was a red flag. But you paid no mind to it, eager to be assigned a quick fuck for spring break. When the man that walks through your cabin door is none other than Jake Seresin, your wildly infuriating fellow pilot, you have two choices: Bicker the entire time and have a miserable spring break, or fuck.

Hot Summer Nights - Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x reader: Bradley’s hunting the Hard Deck for a hot and heavy summer fling. You’re puttering around looking for the love of your life. Maybe you’re naive, maybe he’s callous, but whatever it is, you end up heartbroken, and Bradley sets out to fix his mistakes and piece you back together.

Spiralling - Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x reader: Transferring to a new squadron after the death of your pilot is hard, but you need a fresh start away from memories of Blaze. Only problem is, you’ve been assigned to possibly the worst option imaginable, a cocky pilot who’s adamant that he didn’t ask for you in his backseat, that he’s only flying two-seater because they forced him to. It seems like you can’t do anything right for Hangman, and he sends you spiraling so far that you’re not sure you’ll ever recover.

Excuse Me, Barmaid - Hiccup Haddock x reader: Berk is a small island with a small populace. Everybody knows everybody, and everybody especially knows Hiccup, the son of the Chief. When you’re thrown into the mix, arriving alone on a ship from an island they’ve never heard of before, you’re the talk of the village. It, of course, doesn’t help that you’re now roommates with the aforementioned son of the Chief. Stoick’s hospitality is welcome, but how will you survive living amongst the Chief of Berk and his inquisitive son, all while keeping your secrets close to your chest?

You and Me, as One - Hiccup Haddock x reader: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III isn’t the burliest, hairiest, or the best with an axe in his tribe. But he is the viking who can tame any dragon with only a flash of his palm. Until now. When he stumbles upon an unfamiliar dragon off the far coast of Berk, she doesn’t play nicely with his offering of friendship. Neither does the dragon’s rider, who has just as fierce a snarl. The pair present an enticing mystery to Hiccup, but neither the dragon nor the human show any interest in getting close. Can he make friends, or are there corners of the world his optimism can’t brighten?

Some series that have been lost to time on my blog and may receive an update during this event are:

Lost and Found - Eddie Munson x reader: Just your luck, you get dress coded on your first day at Hawkins High. You’re already ridiculed for being the senior transfer, and now on top of that, the only shirt that covers you up in the lost and found belongs to the school freak.

Slumber Party - Steve Harrington x reader x Eddie Munson: When Eddie and Steve find out that you're nursing crushes on both of them, they get you to crash at the Harrington House for a slumber party, changing your relationship forever.

Some series that I've never posted on this blog, but have been privately developing for a while now which may be published during this event include:

One Wall Apart - Remus Lupin x reader x Sirius Black: You hadn't ever imagined yourself having roommates twice your age, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Plus, Remus Lupin and Sirius Black are very accommodating.

Protective Detail - Aaron Hotchner x reader: Despite the dangerous nature of your father's job, you've never fallen into the crossfire- until now. While he rushes to stop the man stalking you, he places you in the protective detail of his long-time friend, Aaron Hotchner. You're almost positive that being hunted by a killer is not an appropriate time to develop feelings for someone, but you can't stop yourself from falling for the man acting as your bodyguard.

1-800-HOOKUP - Sirius Black x Reader: You're dared to make a call to the local sex hotline by your friends at a slumber party, but behind closed doors you call back. A lot. What are you meant to do when the voice you touch yourself to every night comes from one aisle over in the grocery store?

I have plenty more ideas, but these are the most fleshed out in my mind and in my drafts. These are the ones I'm planning on writing, but if a new one gets thrown into the mix, I will update this post and I will make a separate one letting everyone know! I know that I have not included a series for every fandom/character that I write for, in fact, there are some repeats!

These are just all the ideas that I think about the most, and I apologize if you're not interested in these fandoms. I plan on continuing to update blurbs every day/every few days, so if you're on the hunt for someone not listed here, have no fear! you can continue to request as usual and I will try to continue to write as usual even if I'm focusing primarily on my series.

This is a very ambitious plan, and though I’ve taken precautions to give myself the best chance at success, I ask for your patience and understanding. I’m an adult with a full time job and other responsibilities, as well as other hobbies. I intend to keep writing on the forefront of my free time during this summer, because as I’ve said, I want to do it more often, but if I go a little while without updating, or update a series other than the one you're excited for, please remember that I’m doing this for free because I want to, not because I have to. With that being said, let’s kick off our Summer of Series with the long-awaited next chapter of Spring Fling, which is 5K words in and on track to be finished within the next couple of days!

[rivendellwatch]

🌶️✨ SPICE WEEK GUIDELINES — a.k.a. Rules of Engagement Before You Drop That Silmaril-Sizzling Content ✨🌶️

Dearest Elves, Mortals, Maiar, and various unhinged entities of Arda...— We are now 9 days away from Spice Week!!!

As your local chaotic event host, I’m here to make sure Spice Week is a delightfully spicy, safe, and respectful time for everyone involved. So before you start writing steamy Rivendell rendezvous or drawing thirst traps of Númenórean kings… please read this, besties!

🚫 Things That Are NOT Allowed:

Let’s get serious for a second (I know, tragic). These themes will not be accepted, allowed, or tolerated:

❌ Underage content (and that includes "but they’re technically 300 years old" if they’re mentally a child or presented as underage).

❌ Non-con / dub-con (nope. not even if it's ‘fantasy’ or ‘symbolic.’)

❌ Sexual assault / rape (again, NO.)

❌ Bestiality / zoophilia (If the creature isn’t sentient (can’t speak, can't consent, or doesn't have a complex personality like a person), don’t write spicy stuff about it.)

❌ Explicit or glorified abuse (BDSM, kink etc are not automatically abuse. Consensual kink between adults — including things like power dynamics, restraints, etc. — is allowed as long as it’s clearly framed with consent, safety, and communication (whether in the fic, author note or the tags/warnings). We know the difference between "consensual rough play" and "non-consensual harm," and we expect contributors to know it too.)

❌ NSFW content involving minors in any way

❌ Extreme graphic violence

❌ Using mis-tagging to sneak around these rules (If you do this, I will personally hunt you down for sport)

Any work including the above will be rejected from the AO3 collections and not promoted or associated in any way with Spice Week. If I see it... I’ll be pulling a full Galadriel-when-the-ring-tempts-her moment.

And you will be blocked. Simple as that.

If you're ever unsure whether your content crosses that line, feel free to ask — it's better to clarify!

Quick FYI Because Apparently Some of You Tried It ✨

Listen.

Some folks, in previous events, decided to follow this account while being blocked on my main (or this one) and thought they could still sneak in their stuff. That is still happening to this day, on here.

Bestie. Please.

Like during Fluff Week and Cuddle Week, here’s the rule:

👉 If you are blocked by me on any account, your work will not be shared or associated with this event in any way. Period.

I won’t link it. I won’t promote it. I will simply Gandalf-nod and walk away. (And yes, I do check. You’re not being sneaky. You're being Boromir-in-the-tent levels of obvious.)

Minors DNI. I Mean It.

I hate to sound like a mom and not the unhinged older sibling I truly am but: MINORS, DO NOT INTERACT. DO NOT PARTICIPATE!!!

This event is 18+ only.

And if I catch you trying to sneak in, I will go full Elrond at the Council:

“You have only one choice. The ring must be cast back into the fire.” Translation: Blocked. Yeeted. Banned.

ABSOLUTELY NO ACTOR X ACTOR CONTENT.

This is your official warning, delivered with all the chaotic love of a Silvan auntie with a battle axe and a wine goblet: do NOT submit Actor x Actor stuff. I beg. I plead. I gnash my teeth like Gollum in a cave. I should NOT have to say this in 2025 but here we are.

No "Actor A x Actor B", no "what if the cast lived together in a cottage and accidentally fell in love over pancakes," no "they were at the Emmys and their hands touched" — STOP. RIGHT. THERE!!!!.

This is a SPICE WEEK for LOTR, Rings of Power, the Silmarillion, all that delicious Middle-earth madness. You wanna write Gil-galad pining like a sad Victorian maiden? YES. You wanna write Celebrimbor doing morally questionable things with molten gold and Sauron’s attention? YES AGAIN. But if you try to hand me anything that involves ACTORS DOING FAKE THINGS TO EACH OTHER, I will yeet it into Mount Doom myself.

This isn’t TMZ, it’s Tolkien. This is a safe space for fictional emotional damage, not crossing boundaries with real humans. Be cool. Be respectful. Be feral about canon if you want — just leave the cast ships OUT of your thirst posts.

If you post RPF to the tag, I will smite you with the Wrath of the Valar and a ✨very petty block✨. I’m not above it. Ask anyone. I’m powered by vibes and caffeine (not those days tho, blood pressure is borderline 180 so I CANNOT HAVE COFFEE) and I DO NOT flinch.

TLDR: No Actor x Actor. Not even a little. Not even as a joke. Not even “but it’s so soft” — NO.

✅ What IS Welcome (a.k.a. the Many Ways You May Sin Respectfully in Middle-earth):

Spice Week is your chance to let your imagination run wild through the plains of Rohan, the halls of Moria, and yes, even the caves behind waterfalls in Lothlórien (you know the ones). This event is here to celebrate all the fun, flirty, and feral aspects of the Tolkienverse, so as long as your content abides by the boundaries listed above — you’re welcome to go full “Galadriel with a sword” energy!!!

All Tolkien content is allowed: that means The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, Rings of Power, Unfinished Tales, History of Middle-earth, etc. If Tolkien even breathed near it, it’s fair game.

Any ships (canon, rarepair, OC x canon, elf x dwarf, whatever) are welcome — no judgment, no ship bashing. If it’s consensual, legal, and tagged appropriately, I’ll be there nodding like Elrond pretending to be chill while Legolas and Gimli flirt in front of him.

AUs? Oh absolutely. Modern AUs, coffeeshop AUs, swordsmith AUs, “oops we’re fake dating in Valinor” AUs — please. Go feral. Want to put Elros in a flower shop or Galadriel in a motorbike gang? Live your truth!

Ghosts? Time travel? Reincarnation? Magical body swaps? As long as consent and clear communication are respected in the narrative, bring the weirdness. We love a little fantasy chaos.

Fanfic, fanart, moodboards, poetry, crafts, playlists, embroidery of spicy verses in Tengwar — all forms of creative content are welcome! (Yes, even memes.)

Fluff-with-spice? Cool. Full smut? Sure. Just vibes and longing glances fading to black? Go off. So spicy it needs a Silmaril to cool down? Just tag it right, and we’re good!

Note: Absolutely not opening the floor for debates on the Not Allowed list.

This isn’t the Council of Elrond, you’re not Frodo dramatically volunteering, and I’m not here to hear impassioned speeches about “but what if it’s tasteful non-con??” No. The rules are firm, the mountain is closed, and if you try to toss this content into the fires of this event, I will be Gollum and bite your finger off. No tantrums, no loophole gymnastics, no “devil’s advocate” essays. Just vibes, fictional spice, and respecting boundaries.

If those do not fit your wishes, you're welcome to host your own event or post your stuff, just do not associate it to Spice Week.

Thanks for reading! I know it's long (that's what she said- sorry), but this keeps the event safe and fun for everyone.

The AO3 collections (one anonymous, one public) will open on the first day of the event. I’ll go over that again in the masterpost!!!💌

If you have questions, drop them here and I’ll add them to the Q&A in the main post!!!🧡 More updates coming soon!

[spacerockband]

like, he didn’t even stop 9/11…

[newtid]

You haven't posted in a few days. You good?🤔

you haven't been around long enough to witness my dry spells of not posting/forgetting to post, have you

i don't make art quickly! got bugs in my brain that make finishing anything feel sisyphean

i'm always around on my main blog @newtbog, but it's really just reblogs and the occasional original post about whatever

[linkedin-offficial]

local full time technician gets alot more than she bargained for, more at 8

some stuff for dragons in my flight rising lore! sirko runs a circus on the outskirts of hyrule, and pipimi unfortunately gets wrapped up in the places hijinks after being hired by them to be a full time technician.

more details under the cut!

like stated previously, sirko is the ringleader of a circus called "the sensational sunset circus", popular for its sunset aesthetic and plethora of attractions. pipimi was attracted to this job offer because she was looking for an excuse to get away and leave her old life behind. so, she applied, and the moment she arrived, she was adorned with compliments and attention. to her suprise, she was the only new hire theyve had in years. and the longer she stays, shes grows quite certain she knows exactly why.

(and yes, the tadc parallels are apparent .. oops 😭 my brain loves to unconsciously attach my hyperfixations to eachother)

all of the members of this circus are very different and have quite striking personalities. the current list of the living (excluding sirko and pipimi) is as follows :

mowbray - (he/him ; sibling and right hand man to sirko) a fairly lax individual most of the time. one of the few of them with a braincell. can usually tolerate most things but can very easily snap if you bother him enough. friends with pipimi solely because they both are somewhat smart enough to not go insane immediately.

holiday - (she/her ; makeup artist and costume designer) fairly laid back and super duper chill, and easily one of the sweeter members of the circus. she doesnt hesitate to bring others up in mood and try to help where she can.

she has a .. "special connection" with pipimi, letting her call her 'holly', and visiting her often. she says its just because of how often her clothes tear, but most of the other members speculate other .. interesting reasons.

jaxton - (he/him ; That asshole) probably the one guy who most likely wouldnt lay down his life for pipimi. he constantly bullies her, teasing her at every chance he gets.

when he isnt messing with her though, hes trying out new tricks to impress the locals and maybe scam some out of their money. hes tried countless times to help his fellow coworker iskam try and become better at her scam artistry, but iskam certainly isnt smart enough for his precious arts. what a shame.

iskam - (she/he/they ; "future seer" vendor) a particularly clueless individual, he enjoys trying his hardest to predict others futures, genuinely believing hes right when in reality, she just makes things up. the money is just a bonus to her endeavors. couldn't count to 100 if you asked.

on the plus side, they like the company of pipimi, mostly because she tries really hard not to hurt others feelings. pipimi knows iskam is wrong, but wont say it.

pakwan - (she/they ; resident dumpster fish) somehow more clueless than iskam, but still just as cheerful. she enjoys a melon snack more than anything in the world. well, not really. she enjoys pipimi's company more than anything else, and often accidentally splashes her with water with excitement when pip comes by.

she loves doing tricks, especially for pipimi. pipimi loves to listen to pakwan ramble about her day. in a sort of mutual peace of mind, kinda way.

mang - (he/it ; horrible little rat bastard thief) being small and cunning has its advantages, and mang uses them well. known to be the local thief of the circus, it takes every opportunity he can to sneak about and steal anything he can fit into his pockets. if you can get on his good side however, youll never lose another key again. because of this, it quite likes pipimi.

halimaw - (he/they ; the beast of the basement) dangerous and cunning. halimaw is sly with his words but bumbly and outrageous at the same time. large and un-anxious, he wont hesitate to bite your head off if you refuse to listen to him. gets what he wants, and when he doesnt, he takes by force. these are primarily reasons why he was locked down there. better safe than sorry.

saya - (she/her ; sister to holiday and ex-partner to halimaw) very reserved and almost acts as a mediator. she values her dance skills VERY seriously and considers dance the ultimate art, much to her sisters dismay. they dont fight about it however, and they are quite close.

anyway, thats it for now!

ill probably be talking about these 10 sometime in the future but for now have this !! i love thinking about them and they mean alot to me <3 circus freaks

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

OH MY DESTINY, HOW FAR YOU HAVE SPRUNG NOW ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; satoru gojo goes north.

word count; 5.3k

contents; satoru gojo, canon divergence, HEAVY jjk spoilers (for chapter 236!! but also kinda 237), fix-it fic, me coping w/ the manga for 5k words straight, canon-typical violence and death, implied stsg, probably non-canon compliant use of binding vows (but do i care? no), gojo satoru lives.

a/n; yeaaa this is literally just me coping <3 needed to write this for my mental health. he’s fine guys trust me

the experience is not altogether unfamiliar, on its own.

he’s felt it before. even now, he can still vividly recall it; a girl he failed to protect, a boy he failed to save. a man with a scar on his bottom lip.

that sickening numbness, as he lied in a pool of his own blood. sticking to his hair and tattered clothes, the colour red flooding his subconscious. that cold, cold sensation — a jarring shift, chilling and ruthless, going from everything to nothing. tiptoeing the line between life and death. 

emptiness. sinking deeper into the abyss, that all-enveloping darkness. that awful feeling of pure helplessness.

(he could never forget it.)

back then, though, gojo is certain he didn’t feel this way. all he could think about twelve years ago was survival — clinging to the weak flutter of his heart, a dying butterfly. clawing his way up to the skies. anything to escape that harrowing sensation, a kind of desperation all humans feel in the face of certain death, spurring him on. but now —

he almost welcomes it. nearly content in its approach. it should frighten him, but it doesn’t.

through half-lidded eyes, vision blurred by sweat and blood and dust, gojo watches the sky.

it's beautiful, he thinks. as beautiful as ever. peaceful, unchanging, soothing in an eerie kind of way. that clear blue, fading a little at the corners as his muddled mind grows just a little darker, a little more fatigued. he can barely gather the strength to keep his eyelids open. 

yet he keeps his gaze on that endless sky, as if it’s all he’s ever known.

with every passing second, the world grows just a little more blurry. pale dots spread around the corners of his vision, like grains of stardust in an ever-expanding cosmos, clouding his senses. there’s a buzzing in his head that won’t go away. everything looks as if it's spinning, and he can barely tell left from right, north from south. everything is growing darker, so fast that it’s alarming, and gojo can’t seem to even think clearly.

but he can still see that blue, blue sky. bluer than he ever remembers it being. even as snow begins to fall, descending upon shinjuku as if bidding him farewell. the sky takes on a gray hue, but that shade of blue is still all gojo can see, as he takes shallow breaths and half-heartedly attempts to remain conscious. willing himself not to give in just yet, choking on his own blood. 

and it's an odd feeling, really. one he never thought he'd meet again, but here it is, it's back — and it's all-consuming. beckoning him into a place he’s never been before. the unknown. 

it's not scary. gojo doesn’t think he has it in him to feel fear, anymore. but it's a strange sensation, as death kisses its way up his neck, sending shivers down his spine; as the numbness spreads, devouring him whole.

it’s unknown. thoroughly and wholly. and that unknown is overwhelming, all-encompassing, it’s all he can see before him, it's —

ah.

gojo takes a deep breath. the air burns his lungs.

everything's ending, isn't it?

it would be so easy. to simply close his eyes, let them flutter shut as that all-encompassing sensation takes him down to earth. to allow himself to simply rest, for a moment. wouldn’t that be nice?

it would be so easy.

gojo watches the sky. it's all he can do. 

the numbness keeps spreading throughout every cell of his body. he can barely feel the blood trickling down his chin, or the harsh bite of the winter cold, his skin buzzing with ache. he can't feel his arms or his legs, and he knows exactly why. everything in the world is closing in on him and god, he just feels so fucking tired.

ah. ah. more darkness. more numbness.

everything and nothing, all at once. slipping away into oblivion. the snow keeps falling but he can't see anything, can't hear anything, can't feel anything, anything at all.

nothing. nothing. less than nothing.

— and then, suddenly, an airport.

"yo."

gojo blinks.

a boy. a boy with black hair, tied into a small bun. a dead boy. his best friend.

suguru stands before him, and he looks exactly the same as gojo remembers. young, bright, with those awkward bangs still hanging over his face. grinning boyishly, and greeting him with youthful cheer. 

gojo feels young, too, he realizes — the weight on his shoulders a little less heavy, the familiar black of his sunglasses obscuring his vision. but he can still see the flicker of suguru’s cursed energy clear as day. as if it never left him.

feigning a mild displeasure, gojo makes a face. he hears himself speak, but his mind and six eyes continue to spin in circles, trying to comprehend the sight in front of him. trying to make it understandable, figure out what’s going on. 

but he doesn’t succeed. because it’s impossible to understand. and, really, that’s answer enough. 

huh.

so this is what the afterlife is like?

he inhales through his nose, basking in the clear air, and it doesn’t burn his lungs. his chest feels lighter than it’s been in years.

that seems a little too good to be true. 

"you’re kidding me. this sucks.”

suguru makes a kind of face like he’s pouting, plopping down in the seat right next to gojo’s. the white haired boy stretches his limbs out and huffs, pretending the sight in front of him doesn't send a tremor running through his very soul.

suguru continues to speak and gojo continues to listen, all while observing the scenery in front of him.

the airport looks familiar. through the glass windows he can see a glimmer of the blue sky, and a plane waiting to take flight into the clouds. the air smells of summer and jet fuel and new beginnings. it’s pleasantly cool, a light breeze caressing his skin and coaxing a hum from the confines of his throat. 

(he remembers this airport. remembers having his arms full of vending machine snacks, trailing after suguru as he dealt with all the annoying technicalities. amanai was there, too, watching a plane soar up into the sky with childlike wonder. a little anxious, as she boarded the plane to okinawa, and then back to tokyo.

her first and last flight.)

suguru is there, right next to him, and he’s speaking. breathing. like something out of a dream, the kind that always haunts gojo in his sleep.

he breathes in, and then out. 

suguru is there. and not just him – nanami and haibara are, too. all young, all dead. all somehow breathing; he sees them inhale and he sees them exhale. he hears them speak and it’s like nothing ever changed. 

they speak of regrets, of south and of north. nanami doesn’t seem to regret a single thing, and gojo is glad. even yaga is there, he notices belatedly. even amanai, and her maid, and a certain man with a scar on his bottom lip. everyone all together again.

the airport buzzes with warmth. nostalgia, as suguru’s laughter rings in his ears. and gojo grins, in tandem, bright and childlike. wallowing in the tender atmosphere. 

the sight in front of his eyes is perfect, he thinks. absolutely perfect. a glimmer of spring, one he never quite managed to forget. a vibrant flicker of blue, one he thought he’d lost forever.

his one and only blue spring of youth, right in front of his all-seeing eyes.

a little too good to be true.

with a sigh, gojo stretches idly, smiling a little to himself. his joints don’t ache, his head isn’t buzzing with fatigue, and his heart feels lighter than it's been in recent memory. 

“now i’m hoping this isn’t a dream,” he hears himself mutter, allowing his eyes to flutter shut at last. he can still see suguru’s cursed energy, and everyone else’s. he isn’t alone. what a nice thought. 

and it’s strange, gojo thinks. it really is. he’s dead. sukuna killed him. he’s dead, his remains are lying somewhere in the streets of shinjuku, and that should bother him. he should be punching the floor and screaming, cursing sukuna’s name with every fiber of his being — it should frighten him, the realization that everything has ended.

but it doesn’t. 

gojo isn’t afraid. and he isn’t upset, either. he bears no grudge against anyone, just like that day twelve years ago.

he’s with suguru, now, and his juniors. his old teacher. the people he cares for are with him, and the airport smells so nice. everyone is young, and happy, and none of them will ever have to kill or be killed again. 

calling it anything less than heaven would be doing it a disservice. 

gojo smiles, exhaling a relieved breath. one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding til now, stuck in the back of his throat for the past decade. a tiny thought makes it to the forefront of his brain, like a spring breeze flitting in through an open window.

like this, he thinks, i could die with no regrets.

“— except that’s not true.” a voice proclaims. “is it?”

gojo opens his eyes.

suguru looks at him. everything goes silent. everyone else has already gone blurry, a little faded, as if they aren’t what’s really important. as if the entire world has narrowed down to just this; him, and suguru, in the corner of an airport too precious for words. that one decisive slice of heaven. 

suguru opens his mouth, and speaks, and his voice has a finality to it that fills gojo with a mellow kind of dread. 

they look into each other’s eyes, and both know what’s coming.

“the students are outclassed.” suguru rests his chin on the heel of his palm. ”you said it yourself — sukuna wasn’t giving it his all when he fought you. he still has more than a couple cards up his sleeve, doesn’t he? like his incarnation.”

gojo listens to suguru speak, not saying a word.

“they’re no match for him,” he continues, unperturbed. “all of them are going to die. every single one.”

suguru leans back in his chair, still looking straight into gojo’s eyes. seeing through him, gaze filled with a certain sharpness. a little cruel, but there’s a kindness there, too. as if he’s simply ripping the band-aid off, trying to make it as painless as possible. 

he clicks his tongue.

“and you still haven’t buried my body, either.”

a moment passes. then two.

gojo smiles to himself, rueful. a little saddened. 

“.. damn,” he grins, weakly. leaning back in his chair, slumping against the soft leather. “couldn’t you have kept indulging me for just a bit longer?”

suguru smiles. a soft thing, in the flicker of the light. a little too good to be true. “sorry,” he chimes. “but the plane is leaving soon.”

as if on cue, the pa system sounds.

flight to okinawa; departing in nineteen minutes.

“it hasn’t left, yet,” suguru hums, and it sounds like an inevitability. ringing in gojo’s ears. “you know what that means, don’t you?”

he does. he does, but it still hurts. gojo looks into suguru’s eyes, and sees himself reflected in them — young, transparent. blue. fading, but not quite faded. not quite dead.

and maybe it’s to be expected. maybe he was just trying to delude himself into believing the alternative, into believing that an afterlife as sweet as this could really be waiting for him. maybe it was naive, a childish fantasy. 

but still —

”haah.” a heavy exhale, fatigued. gojo slumps even further into his seat, squeezing his eyes shut. running a hand through the soft strands of his hair. ”oh, gimme a break. and here i thought i could finally relax for once.”

a chuckle flows from suguru’s lips, amused. ”you aren’t the type to go down like that,” he murmurs. ”c’mon, satoru. there are still things you need to do.”

”how?” gojo scoffs. ”i’m split in half. and i’m too exhausted to use my reverse cursed technique.”

”eh,” suguru shrugs. ”you’ll manage.”

gojo shoots him a dubious look. ”you’re acting like it’s a papercut,” he huffs, crossing his arms. ”my guts are on the fuckin’ pavement.”

”oh, quit your complaining already," suguru rolls his eyes, and shoots him an accusatory glance. "i died with a hole through my chest. at least your heart is still intact.”

”i wanted to make it painless for you!”

”well, it hurt like a bitch. so thanks for that.”

gojo pouts, fighting back a smile. he thinks suguru must be doing the same. and it’s juvenile, a little twisted — but then again, weren’t they always?

suguru cocks his head. beckoning gojo into taking action. ”you’ve still got some fight left in you,” he says, and there’s a fondness to it. ”you always do.”

”get up, satoru.”

silence. unbroken, unperturbed. if he focuses enough, he thinks he can hear the distant buzzing of cicadas, the crinkling of soda cans. the whistling of the wind. placebos; memories ghosting his subconscious. 

it’s quiet, for a while. gojo stares into space, blinking slowly. then he parts his lips.

”suguru.”

the boy in question turns towards him. but gojo looks up, instead — eyes set on the roof, like he’s trying to see beyond it. into the comfort of the blue sky. 

suguru hums, a cue for him to follow. and gojo closes his eyes.

”i think… i might be tired.”

silence. no one says a thing.

”i think i’d prefer to stay here,” he admits, a forlorn look in his eyes. tapping his fingers on his knee. ”in the past, like this.”

the scent of jet fuel and summer lies heavy in the air. gojo inhales it, greedy. as if savouring it. trying to make it a part of his being, filling his lungs with sweet nostalgia so it never goes away.

”we could just stay here. together,” he muses, barely above a whisper. there’s a kind of longing to the tilt of his voice, something soft. ”couldn’t we? never moving forward, or back.”

the words taste salty, on his tongue. an ocean breeze. a whisper; ”we could just stay like this.”

suguru’s gaze trails from satoru, down to his lap. his bangs follow the slow movement, silky strands falling over his eye. the chuckle that drifts from his lips doesn’t have much humour to it. 

”haha… you’ve never been the type to stay in one place for too long, satoru.”

gojo clenches his fist.

a moment passes.

”you want me to go back,” he hears himself say, somewhat bitter. ”you want me to go back, and then what? there’s nothing i can do. i’m not the strongest, anymore.”

”you are.” suguru’s voice is firm, decisive. ”you can still win. you know exactly what you need to do. there’s only one way to get out of this.”

gojo sighs. one hand in his hair, tousling it. mildly frustrated. ”… it’s risky.”

”you’re bleeding out.”

”if i do this — i won’t ever be the same.” gojo turns to look at suguru. ”i sure as hell won’t be the strongest, anymore.”

”and would that be such a bad thing?”

silence. the two boys look at each other — one dead, one half-alive, both connected to the other. for eternity. suguru’s eyes are full of understanding, as they look into the blue of satoru’s. 

”there’s always been a gap between you and everyone else. that’s what you said, before. aren’t you tired of it?”

a brief intake of breath. gojo closes his eyes.

that’s right. that aching gap. the solitude that comes with absolute strength — a weight he’s borne all his life. doomed never to connect with others, never to be understood. doomed to always live in the sky, far away from the earth and the ocean.

the title of the strongest. a cross he alone had to bear.

(did he ever really want it? or was he just resigned to it, conditioned from the very beginning?)

the feeling of isolation that’s been haunting him for decades seeps into his skin. the cruel knowledge that no one will ever truly know him; even worse, the knowledge that it’s all for the best. you can admire a flower, and help it bloom, but you can’t ask it to understand you.

such a cruel curse to be born with.

suguru’s voice fills his mind, his senses. the flicker of his cursed energy is gentle, like an ocean wave rolling in right before the sun sets. ”you said it yourself, satoru.” gojo can hear the smile in his voice. ”you love everyone.”

love. it always comes down to that, doesn't it? the greatest curse of them all.

(but he could never bring himself to fully throw it away.)

”there are still people waiting for you, out there,” suguru reminds him. and gojo knows that he’s right.

he still hasn’t buried suguru’s body. that thing is still inside his head, doing god knows what. and his students — they must be fighting sukuna, right now. if he’s lucky, no one’s dead yet. if he’s lucky. then there’s shoko, of course. and ijichi, everyone else from the school.

not just that — the world itself is waiting on him. waiting for him to pass on, so it can crumble away. waiting for him to make it, so he can stitch it back together. 

dying isn’t a luxury satoru gojo can afford. he knows that, he does, but —

(dammit.)

”suguru,” he starts, hesitant. voice more feeble than he ever remembers it sounding. almost childlike, in its uncertainty. “what… should i do, from here on out?” a beat. ”where should i go?”

suguru raises a single eyebrow, and then tilts his head. ”do you really need me to tell you that?” he asks, a little teasing. gojo’s reply is instantaneous.

”i do.”

the airport falls silent, again. 

”i’ll listen to you,” he elaborates, tapping the edge of his chair, absentminded. eyes shining with a glimmer of something awfully tender. ”so… it has to be you.”

suguru inhales, softly — fresh air wafting through his transparent lungs. breathing out in a meek chuckle, with a soft shake of his head. almost in disbelief. ”well, in that case…”

a smile. he meets gojo’s gaze. ”then i think you should go north.”

gojo looks into his eyes. a moment passes, slow, detached from space and time. a moment that matters more than anything. their eyes meet, and in suguru’s eyes, gojo sees a reflection of their youth.

what a shame.

”alrighty, then.”

placing his palms on his knees, the white haired man gets up from his seat. stretching his arms with a soft groan. a sigh flows from his lips, drifting out into the clear air. 

”so much for finally getting a vacation,” he huffs, frowning as he casts a jealous glance at his best friend. ”you dead people have it easy, you know that?”

suguru’s still smiling, but he’s not getting up from his seat. the pa system sounds, again. a little louder this time.

flight to okinawa; departing in six minutes.

a deep breath. air flows into his lungs, and then back out; soaking up the summer air he knows he’ll never quite get a taste of again. no summer will ever feel as warm as this one did.

suguru stays right where he is. young, dead. smiling. the same smile he wore when gojo killed him, framed by the setting sun. the same kind of sunset that’s beginning to form outside the translucent windows of the airport, nostalgic and sweet, dyeing the clouds in a soft pinkish hue.

it’s breathtaking. 

”will i see you?” gojo asks, before he can stop himself. eyes still stuck to the setting sun. ”when everything ends.”

…

suguru chuckles, once more. rueful. gojo thinks it sounds just a bit meek, a little like he’s holding back tears. ”maybe,” he breathes, shrugging halfheartedly. not meeting his eyes. ”who knows?”

it’s not the answer gojo wants to hear. but he’ll take what he can get.

and finally, suguru gets up. slowly, methodically. elegant, in the way he moves, the way he brushes non-existent dust off his baggy pants. smiling, hair swaying softly with the breeze. gojo finds his gaze, and that smile shifts into a lazy grin. one so distinctly suguru that it can’t possibly be just a figment of his imagination. 

”don’t find out too soon,” he quips, teasingly. ”alright?”

a slap. gojo doesn’t see it coming, and it knocks him forward — he stumbles slightly, lanky legs moving clumsily, sunglasses falling off at the impact. his back stings, a little. 

over his shoulder, he looks back at suguru. the boy has a hand raised, and his grin is playful, brimming with warmth. except he’s no longer a boy — now he’s wearing traditional robes, hair much longer, face a little more hardened. but that grin is still the same as ever. gojo thinks he looks almost proud.

”go get ’em, satoru.”

gojo blinks.

the grin that breaks out across his lips, then, is wide. bright, brimming with youth, lighting up every corner of his face. almost overwhelmingly sweet. it envelops his very being, as he stands there, clad in his black compression shirt and baggy pants. hair a little less messy than it was in high school, face a little more hardened — but he hopes his grin, at least, looks the same as ever.

he turns his back on suguru, and puffs out his chest. trying to hide the sappy smile still lingering on his lips, the glassiness of his eyes. his voice comes out loud, cheery, echoing throughout the airport — but still somehow so tender.

”roger that!”

gojo looks ahead. the airport is blurred, a little hazy, but a bright light shines farther up ahead. a beacon for him to follow, one that blinds him if he looks at it for too long. blue, white, golden — the colours of the sky. beckoning him forward, to a familiar place.

he takes one step north.

”ah, satoru. one more thing.”

the sound of suguru’s voice stops him in his tracks. ”hm?” gojo turns on his heel, white hair tousled by the soft breeze. a little confused. ”what is it now?”

suguru grins. the whole airport smells like spring. 

”—, — —.”

…

one long, tender moment passes by. gojo doesn’t even breathe, mouth falling open slightly, in a way that must look comical to the man in front of him.

the airport glimmers like a marble in the sun. transparent, blurred, but still somehow so real. suguru’s words echo in his mind. 

then gojo laughs, the sound bubbling up from his throat like seafoam on a scorching summer day. hearty and deep, coaxed out from the very bottom of his gut — genuine. a little breathless. he can’t wipe away the grin on his face, wouldn’t do it even if he could. his blue eyes crinkle, as he looks at suguru, showing off his dimples and teeth.

”so corny,” he teases. suguru rolls his eyes.

”hey, don’t blame me. this is your imagination.”

a huff slips from his lips. ”yeah, yeah…” gojo waves him off. then he meets his eyes, again, still grinning boyishly. ”i’ll hold you to that, okay?”

”got it,” suguru chirps. ”good luck out there, satoru.”

”pssh. who do you think you’re talking to?”

the men exchange smiles, one final time. funny, how that’s always how their story ends; with a heartfelt smile. even if it’s coated in blood, or nothing more than a figment of their imagination.

then gojo turns around, again, and takes a step forward. not looking back this time. trusting suguru to still be there, watching over him. like always.

the bright light at the end of the airport glimmers, tantalizing, mesmerizing. suguru is right — there’s only one way to get out of this. only one way to make it back alive.

and it’s risky. very much so. it’s a gamble, the greatest one gojo’s ever made, even worse than that time twelve years ago with the reverse cursed technique. 

it’s a gamble, all or nothing.

binding vows are dangerous, fickle things. built on equivalent exchange. give something and get something, of equal value. sacrifice and gain. 

gojo’s thought about it, before. a morbid curiosity.

what could he possibly gain by offering the greatest treasure of the jujutsu world? 

he lifts one hand up, to caress his face. lingering over the skin of his eyelids, now closed. but he can still see the cursed energy around him. burned into his retinas. 

the six eyes. the blessing of sight.

a blessing. a blessing he never once asked for, one he was simply born with. born with all this power, doomed to live above the rest. all for a pair of eyes that never seem to see the things that really matter.

and, really, it’s a gamble.

gojo takes a deep breath, and then one large step forward.

(buddha left the royal life behind him at 29 years of age, he recalls. and then he sought out enlightenment.)

the light comes closer, and closer. lotus flowers bless his path. he takes seven steps forward, and his path blooms out before him; one flower blooming by his feet for every step he takes. seven steps north.

i’ll give you everything, he speaks to the someone watching the world. a god, a natural order, himself — it doesn’t really matter. i’ll give you all six. 

in exchange — 

the light is close, now. so close he can almost touch it. it burns his skin, but he doesn’t falter. he doesn’t look away, eyes seeing through the blindness and reaching out for something. something alive.

don’t let me die, he bargains. give me enough of it to kill him.

i still have things i need to do.

one more step, out of the airport —

(and satoru gojo makes a sacrifice.)

a binding vow is made.

the six eyes dissipate, like vapour drifting off into the darkness of a never-ending cosmos.

when gojo opens his eyes, he’s met with a cold, gray sky. 

the world shifts on its axis before him.

everything looks different. he can’t see, but he can, it’s just not the same as before. it’s naked, and raw, and surface-level. not enough to sink his teeth into.

he can still see cursed energy, feel the flicker of it all around him, but it’s hazy. it’s not clear enough, not enough for him to get a good grasp on — like the world lost its saturation. like everything got tilted slightly to the left. an eerie feeling that something isn’t as it should be.

and wow, okay. this is new.

but gojo parts his lips, weakly, and breathes in — and the air tastes the same as ever. cold, crispy. it fills his lungs and he exhales it through his nose. a human act. a breath of life.

i’m still alive.

it’s an odd feeling, like someone took a heavy weight off his shoulders. like someone stripped him of everything that makes him him. an strange sensation, heavy, entirely impossible to ignore. however —

the gain after the loss hits him almost immediately, embracing him with a burst of cursed energy so violently overwhelming that his sight becomes entirely irrelevant. it devours his very being.

everything becomes a blur. 

— i’ll give you everything. 

so, in exchange…

give me enough cursed energy to go on a good rampage.

the cursed energy within him spikes, so sudden and violent that gojo fears his skin might break open. buzzing like flies inside his veins, a vibrant burst of life, every colour in the universe. all the power one can expect from willingly casting away the greatest jewel of the jujutsu world.

gojo moves his fingers. he can feel them, finally — all limbs intact. positive cursed energy flows from his brain, no longer exhausted beyond comprehension. enough, more than enough to give him access to every possibility within his soul.

belatedly, he realizes that his sight isn’t the only thing that’s been weakened. the control he’s grown so used to having over his cursed energy is dwindling, and fast; that firm grip seems to have left with the six eyes, replaced by a set of shaky hands. gojo has experience, and for now, it’s enough. but he still has to concentrate to contain the nearly overwhelming flicker of his cursed energy, stinging his skin as if it can’t fully be contained by his body anymore. prickling his veins. it feels a little like trying to keep water from running through the gaps between your fingers. 

and he feels naked, in a way, suddenly living without something that defines his very being. a little hollowed out. a little wrong, like someone reached a hand through his ribs and pulled out his heart. 

but damn, does it feel good.

his cursed energy output is all-encompassing. his mind feels more clear than he ever remembers it being, and it’s like the world is at his fingertips. something similar to what he felt twelve years ago, but still so different. 

it isn’t ascension, not even close. quite the opposite. but that feeling of freedom is still so abundant. it’s all he can see before him; endless possibilities. 

twelve years ago, satoru gojo faced a certain man, and rose to the skies. he will never, ever forget it. that flicker of eternal solitude, the burst of overwhelming euphoria. that sense of everything being just right.

twelve years of living in the sky, and now his feet meet the ground, at last.

everything feels different. everything looks different. things won’t be the same, ever again — but maybe, suguru was right. maybe that’s not such an awful thing.

to be reborn. to be given a choice.

gojo opens his eyes, and finally takes in all the sights before him. everything happens in a blur, so fast he can barely catch up — his body acts before his mind, and suddenly he’s face to face with sukuna.

not megumi, but sukuna. fully incarnated.

and he looks displeased. almost frustrated.

”how?” 

the look of pure shock on his face is more satisfying than gojo could ever put into words; the satisfaction of seeing a king fall to his knees.

somewhere in the background, he thinks he hears a cacophony of voices, awfully familiar in a way that has warmth blooming in his chest. the students, he assumes — voices of shock, and something he tentatively recognizes as relief. but he doesn’t have the time to let his guard down, just yet.

(no matter how much he’d like to look back at them and give them a self-assured peace sign, bask in their smiling faces.)

instead, he answers sukuna. ”a binding vow,” he grins, and he thinks he must look a little manic, gesturing towards his eyes with his thumb. ”gave these puppies away. didn’t expect that, did’ya?”

sukuna looks at him, for a second.

then he laughs, loud and ugly, grotesque. taunting. he looks at gojo with something that almost resembles pity, something bordering on disappointment.

”pathetic,” he spits, all teeth. ”what good is living if it’s not at the top?”

gojo simply smiles.

he recalls that one question. eleven years ago, somewhere close to the ruins of the very street he’s standing in now. the question that flipped his entire world upside down.

(are you the strongest because you’re satoru gojo? or are you satoru gojo because you’re the strongest?)

a grin breaks out across his lips. his cursed energy pulsates inside his veins, eager to be let loose, and he takes on a fighting stance. parting his lips to speak, unsure of whose question he’s answering.

”well, we’re about to find out.”

the sky is gray, grayer than ever. even so, all he can see is that familiar shade of blue. as clear as it’s always been, even without the six eyes. 

gojo smiles. 

just keep watching, suguru. 

this time, i definitely won’t lose.

[chirpingchorus]

> looking for an fma 03 fic > ask author if their fic is 03 or mangahood > they don't understand > pull out an illustrated diagram explaining what is 03 and what is mangahood > they laugh and say "it's both, ma'am" > read the fic > it's mangahood

[virtuousvigil]

Wanting, Wrapped in Red

a sweet & spicy JayVik fanfic for Day 4 of #BottomJayceWeek

⟡ Fandom: Arcane (League of Legends) ⟡ Word count: 24k ⟡ Status: Completed {upd8: More Coming later!} ⟡ Rating: Explicit (18+) ⟡ Summary: Viktor doesn't care about his birthday. It's an already arbitrary day made furtherly trivial by the fact that it wasn't really his birthday—the orphanage he'd been dumped at never had a proper DOB to assign to him, so it was really just the anniversary of the day his creator decided they didn't want him anymore. He wasn't one for celebrations, anyway.

His partner Jayce, on the other hand, loves any excuse for conviviality. Viktor assumes that he'll be able to escape any forced ceremony since they've been forced into long-distance over the last year, but the package he arrives home to shipped from Jayce's address—alongside the incessant text inquiries he'd gotten all day pestering him about when he'd be home—prove him wrong on that front.

Viktor promptly discovers that his stance on birthdays might need reevaluation.

Comprehensive Taglist & alt Link Below ⬎

⟡ Tags: Modern AU, Masturbation, Lingerie, Alternate Universe - College/University, Harvard University, except the author knows jack shit about harvard so it's just sorta mentioned in passing, Long-Distance Relationship, Phone Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Sex Toys, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Edging, Shameless Smut, Wet & Messy, Czech Viktor (League of Legends), Cuban Jayce (League of Legends), Meet-Cute, Trans Jayce (League of Legends), Cis Viktor (League of Legends), Strip Tease, Viktor is a Menace (League of Legends), But in a sexy way, Light Dom/sub, Dom Viktor (League of Legends), Sub Jayce (League of Legends), no beta not proofread we die like Benzo, jayce defies all logic and laws of reality/science as one does, references to Viktor's less than ideal childhood (orphanhood), they meet as kids but don't remember until later for no reason other than i think it's cute

Available on Ao3.

Dividers by sweetmelodygraphics