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Trash Novel Chronicles: I Don't Want the Heroine || Ruggie Bucchi
You get isekaiâd into what could only be described as an affront to literature, as the second male lead.
So you decide to cut all ties with the heroine and live a peaceful (wealthy) life with your secretary, Ruggie Bucchi. Except life doesn't go as planned as you get more chaos than you signed up for
Series Masterlist
You knew you were in for a ride the moment your so-called "friends" forced you to read the lowest-rated web novel of the year as punishment for losing a bet. And not just any bad web novelâno, this was the Mount Everest of literary disasters. A true champion of trash.
Some reviews said their IQ points dropped by atleast 20 points. Others swore their vision blurred after reading it. One particularly scathing reviewer said, âThis book is responsible for my grandmaâs untimely passing. She read it and gave up on life.â
So, armed with a drink (or three), you settled in to read. And oh, you were not ready.
The heroine is engaged to the Second Male Lead, a duke with infinite money, charisma, and love to give. Heâs the human equivalent of a weighted blanket. And what does she do? She cheats on him with the Male Lead, Duke of the North, who is basically a human icicle.
The Male Lead, by the way, has the personality of a damp rock. His dialogue alternates between monosyllabic grunts and poetic nonsense like, âYou remind me of a cloudy winterâs moon.â Sir, what does that even mean?
The villainess? Not even a villainess. Just the dukeâs childhood best friend, whoâs labeled as "mean to the heroine" because she has the audacity to call out her cheating. Somehow, this makes her evil.
Then thereâs the business subplot. The heroine convinces the Second Male Lead to invest in a clearly terrible idea. He pours his entire fortune into it because she fluttered her eyelashes at him, and surprise, it fails. He loses his estate, his reputation, everything.
And does she apologize? Nope. She runs off with the Male Lead to frolic in snowy landscapes while the Second Male Lead becomes a âvillainâ and, of course, dies tragically.
And Ruggie. Poor, loyal Ruggie. The second male lead believed in him, gave him a job, and supported his family. Ruggie sticks by him until the bitter end, only to die too because this author hates happiness.
You finish the book in stunned silence. âWhat the actual hell?â you whisper, clutching your head. âWho gave this author access to the internet? Who greenlit this abomination?â
You need to breathe. You grab your coat and storm outside, still ranting under your breath. âIf I ever meet the author of this garbage, Iâm fighting them on sight. This is a hate crime. This book probably caused global warming. Itââ
Suddenly, thereâs a low rumble. You glance up, and your blood runs cold.
Itâs a rogue truck. Carrying a full mariachi band. And itâs heading straight for you.
âAre you serious right now?â you shout at the universe.
The last thing you hear is a trumpet playing a very off-key version of Despacito before impact.
Your final thought as darkness takes you: I better not get isekaiâd.
You wake up in an unfamiliar room, and for a blissful, fleeting moment, you think, Maybe the mariachi band killed me for good. Maybe I'm in heaven.
But then you see the gilded furniture, the obnoxiously large bed, and a wardrobe so stuffed with capes that you feel personally attacked. The truth hits you like a slap in the face: I got isekaiâd. Of course. Because the universe hates me.
Then, you see the mirror. And what stares back at you isnât your face. Oh no. Itâs his face. The face of the poor, tragic Second Male Lead. The man destined to be scammed, betrayed, and emotionally wrecked by the most obnoxious heroine in existence.
You scream internally. Then externally. For a while.
You stumble out of the room, still in a haze of existential despair, and thereâs Ruggie. Your loyal secretary, who looks like heâs had years shaved off his lifespan dealing with this nonsense.
âGood morning, boss.â Ruggie says, giving you a half-smirk. âHeroineâs asking about that investment again. You wanna reconsider?â
âYes,â you say immediately. âCancel it. Pull out everything.â
Ruggie freezes. âEverything?â
âEverything,â you repeat. Then, because youâre feeling generous (and also guilt-ridden because you know whatâs coming for this man), you add, âTake 20% for yourself and your grandma. Put the rest back in the bank.â
Ruggieâs jaw drops. âYou serious?â
âDead serious.â
He stares at you for a second, then breaks into a grin so wide it could blind the sun. âFinally! Iâve been waiting years for you to wake up!â
Next, you sit down to write.
The first letter is to the heroineâs family: Dear Sirs, I regret to inform you that I am breaking off the engagement with your daughter, as she has the personality of a wet towel. Kind regards, Duke Idiot.
The second letter is to the Emperor: Your Imperial Majesty, please annul my engagement before I have a nervous breakdown. I am begging you. Also, I can bake cookies. Let me know if youâd like some. Yours in desperation, Duke Idiot.
By the time youâre done, youâre sweating, but itâs a cathartic kind of sweat. The kind that comes from breaking free of your chainsâor in this case, an incredibly stupid plot.
Ruggie walks back in, still riding the high of not having to bankroll the heroineâs disastrous ideas. âWhatâs with the letters?â
âIâm saving myself,â you say dramatically.
He snorts. âTook you long enough.â
The first thing you do after finishing your letters is write one moreâto the villainess.
Itâs short and to the point: Come over. ASAP. Iâm done enabling the heroine. Engagement's over.
When she arrives, itâs with the energy of someone who just won the lottery. She squeals, shakes you so hard you see stars, and pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. âFINALLY! Youâve woken up from the dumbest coma in history!â
Youâre rubbing your temples and trying not to pass out from the intensity. âYeah, yeah, thanks. Now stop shaking me or Iâm going to puke on these ridiculously expensive boots.â
She laughs, but finally lets go, sitting across from you as you explain your plan to stop everything from becoming an unhinged dumpster fire. Youâre mid-sentence when it happens.
First, the door bursts open, and the heroine comes storming in like a banshee, crying, screaming, and flailing.
âHOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?â she shrieks, tears flowing down her cheeks like sheâs auditioning for a telenovela.
âDo what?â you deadpan. âNot ruin my life for you? Sorry, Iâm on a self-care journey.â
Before she can retort, thereâs a second, even louder commotion. You look up, and itâs the Emperor himself. The actual Emperor.
âOh, wonderful,â you mutter.
The Emperor strides in, looking equal parts amused and concerned. âI heard about your engagement breaking off. Thought you mightâve been possessed. I had to see this circus for myself.â
Heâs barely seated whenâbecause the universe hates youâthe heroine drags in him: the Male Lead, aka the Duke of the North, aka Brick-Wall-With-a-Sword.
âThis is unfair,â the heroine sobs, dramatically clutching the Male Leadâs arm. âHe canât do this to me! Youâll defend me, wonât you?â
The Duke grunts like a sentient tree stump. You guess thatâs his version of âyes.â
What happens next is a symphony of chaos.
The heroine screams about betrayal. The Duke grunts out periodic agreements, like a caveman backup singer. The villainess is shrieking threats of peeling their skin off and making it into a fashionable handbag. Youâre yelling at everyone to shut up, but no one listens.
Meanwhile, Ruggie peeks in, takes one look at the situation, and immediately decides heâs not paid enough for this. But, because heâs Ruggie, he grabs tea and cookies for the Emperor, who is thriving.
The Emperor pats the seat next to him. âRuggie, my boy, sit. This is better than court drama. I wish the Empress could see this.â
They sip tea and munch on cookies while you slowly lose your mind.
Finally, you manage to silence the room. You glare at the heroine, whoâs still sniffling like you personally ripped up her diary.
âItâs not your choice,â you say flatly. âI donât like you anymore. Get over it.â
Her jaw drops. The Duke of the North lets out an indignant grunt.
You turn to him. âAnd you. Take her and leave before I dump water on her and she melts like the wicked witch she is.â
The villainess, not one to miss a petty opportunity, sticks her tongue out at them. You donât stop her.
The Emperor finally finishes cackling and waves a hand. âAlright, alright. Annulment granted. Good luck cleaning up this mess.â
You turn to Ruggie, and without a word, you both high-five. Itâs a perfect, satisfying smack.
The first thing you do after all the chaos is roll up your sleeves and confront the mess that was once "your" beautiful mansion. Itâs cluttered with an assortment of hideous gowns, gaudy trinkets, and utterly pointless items the heroine insisted you buy.
A gold fan catches your eyeânot because you like it, but because Ruggie is staring at it with the intensity of a starving man at a buffet.
âTake it,â you sigh, fondly exasperated.
Ruggie lights up like youâve just handed him a winning lottery ticket. He mock salutes you and declares, âMy eternal loyalty to you, my lord!â with the kind of dramatic flair that would make the villainess proud.
You almost laugh, but then you remember how fiercely loyal he is. You soften, ruffle his hair, and say, âJust promise me, if you ever get the chance, youâll run for the hills.â
He frowns, mock offended. âWhat? And leave your kitchen un-raided? Never! Youâre stuck with me.â
Your smile grows wider as you shake your head. âFine, fine. Stay, then. But only if you keep making coffee the way I like.â
Later, as youâre tossing a truly horrifying pink lace monstrosity into the donation pile, the villainess strolls in like she owns the place.
âYou know,â she says, eyeing the mess with an amused smirk, âwe should throw a party.â
âA party?â you echo, already suspicious.
âYes, a party!â she pauses, a wicked gleam in her eye, âTo celebrate your freedom from Miss Overinflated Ego and her personal brick wall.â
You bark out a laugh, unable to help yourself. âYou know what? Why not? Letâs celebrate. I deserve it.â
The villainess claps her hands in delight. âPerfect! Iâll handle the guest list.â
And, because sheâs the villainess and canât resist stirring the pot, she makes sure to send invitations to everyone: the heroine, the male lead, the Emperor, the Empress, and even the crown prince and the princess.
âItâs always nice to add a dash of drama,â she says, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
You just shake your head. âYouâre unhinged, you know that?â
âAnd youâre just figuring this out?â she quips, already halfway out the door.
As she leaves, you sigh and glance at Ruggie, whoâs now holding an ornate vase like heâs trying to figure out if itâs worth pawning.
âThis partyâs going to be a disaster, isnât it?â
Ruggie grins. âOh, absolutely. But hey, at least itâll be entertaining.â
The rustling in the dead of night was faint, almost like the sound of a guilty conscience, but louder and significantly more annoying. Naturally, you reached for your sword, because what kind of noble sleeps without a weapon under their pillow? Amateurs, thatâs who.
Tiptoeing through your dark mansion, you followed the suspicious noise, squinting in confusion as it led you... to the kitchen. The kitchen. Not the vaults, not the study with all the expensive heirlooms, but the place where snacks lived.
You paused in disbelief. Who the hell raids a kitchen? Am I getting robbed by a starving possum?
Creeping closer, you peered around the doorframe, sword raised and ready for battle, only to findâ
âRuggie,â you said flatly, and he jumped so hard he nearly hit the ceiling.
âGAHâ! Donât sneak up on people with a sword, you psychopath!â he yelped, clutching his chest like he was the victim here.
âI wasnât sneaking, you were sneaking! In my kitchen!â you shot back, lowering your weapon.
Ruggie froze mid-cookie bite, looking every bit like a raccoon caught rifling through a trash can. â...Uh, you werenât using this stuff?â he said, gesturing at the counter full of pilfered baked goods.
You rolled your eyes and plopped onto the floor next to him, plucking the cookie right out of his hand and taking a bite. âWell, Iâm using it now.â
âHey! Thatâs mine!â he protested, clutching the rest of his stash protectively.
âIs it, though? Is it really?â you countered, grinning as you chewed. He gasped dramatically, as if youâd just insulted his entire bloodline.
âWow. Unbelievable. First you almost skewer me like Iâm some thief in the nightââ
âYou are a thief in the night.â
ââand now youâre stealing my snacks?! Youâre a menace.â
You laughed, getting up to grab some milk, because who raids a kitchen at 2 a.m. and doesnât have milk with their cookies? While your back was turned, Ruggie sat there blinking, flustered as hell.
Heâd been expecting a lecture, or at least some sarcastic comment about his âhyena instincts,â but youâd just⌠joined him. Like it was normal. Like you hadnât caught him mid-cookie heist.
When you returned with two glasses of milk, you sat back down and offered him one. âYou couldâve just asked, you know. I wouldâve had the cook make you something.â
Ruggie stared at the glass, then at you, his ears twitching slightly. â...Yeah, but whereâs the fun in that?â he said with a grin, but it lacked his usual confidence.
âFair enough,â you said, leaning back against the counter with a sigh. The two of you sat there in companionable silence, munching on cookies like a pair of delinquents at a midnight picnic.
And while you were busy enjoying your snack, Ruggie was busy trying not to spontaneously combust. The way you were so chill about catching him red-handed, the way you shared your stolen spoils without a second thoughtâit wasnât fair. You treated him like an equal, like a friend, and he liked it far more than he should.
Later, when you finally left, yawning and telling him to âtry not to eat the entire kitchen,â Ruggie just sat there for a while, staring at the empty glass of milk like it had all the answers.
He was doomed. So, so doomed.
The state of your estateâs finances is beyond a jokeâitâs a full-blown circus, complete with clown shoes and a unicycle on fire. Youâre sitting at your desk late into the night with Ruggie by your side, trying to untangle the mess left behind by the original second male leadâs truly impressive levels of idiocy.
âWhy,â you groan, slamming your head onto the table, âis 12% of the regional budget allocated to the heroineâs imported perfume?â
Ruggie snorts, peeking over your shoulder at the ledger. âWait, what? Oh, no, this gets better. Look hereâ3% for âheroineâs nails.ââ
You stare at him, unblinking, as your soul slowly leaves your body. âHer. Nails.â
âOh, but my favorite,â Ruggie says, barely suppressing his laughter, âis this one: monthly support sent to the male leadâs territory. Why? The manâs got a literal fortress of gold up north. What kind of simp were you?â
âA professional simp,â you reply dryly, shaking your head in disgust. âIâm cutting all of this. Every last drop. No more perfume fund, no more nail allowance, and definitely no more donations to the male leadâs Scrooge McDuck vault.â
By the time youâre done, the heroineâs absurd luxuries have been replaced with something actually useful. The funds are reallocated to schools for commoners, infrastructure, and most importantly, your own staff.
When you announce the changes, the staff look at you like youâve descended from the heavens. One of the maids starts tearing up when she hears about her raise. The head butlerâusually so reservedâbows so deeply you think his back might give out.
You should feel accomplished, but the ledger on your desk is still screaming chaos incarnate, and youâre barely halfway through.
Itâs nearly midnight when Ruggie silently slides a cup of coffee onto the desk in front of you. He pats your shoulder, his usual teasing smile replaced with something softer.
âYouâre doing good, boss,â he says quietly, almost like heâs trying not to spook you.
Youâre too sleep-deprived to respond with your usual wit. Instead, you lean into his touch without thinking, resting your head against his side. Your arms wrap around his middle in a tired hug.
Ruggie freezes, a hand hovering awkwardly over your head like heâs not sure what to do. After a moment, he gives in, patting your head gently.
âYou okay there?â he asks, voice tinged with a rare gentleness.
âExhausted,â you mumble, not bothering to move.
You donât notice the way Ruggieâs ears twitch, or how his grin softens into something almost shy.
âWell, get some rest when you can,â he murmurs, still patting your head like heâs afraid to stop.
You donât see it, but he looks utterly smitten, like youâve just handed him the world on a silver platter.
Itâs supposed to be a quick shopping tripâin and out, you told yourself. Just something small to thank Ruggie for all his hard work. Youâre scanning the shelves, debating between a sleek gold pen and a bottle of spiced honey, when you hear a low, amused voice behind you.
âWell, well, if it isnât the drama queen himself.â
You turn to find Leona, Grand Duke of Sleep Deprivation, lounging against the nearest shelf like heâs modeling for a Royalty Weekly cover.
âLeona,â you say. âWhat are you doing here? Buying Cheka another excuse to follow you around?â
He scoffs. âAs if. Iâm just here forââ He pauses, like he canât bring himself to admit the truth. ââŚSupplies.â
âSupplies?â you echo, grinning. âYou mean youâre buying Cheka a treat because youâre a softie and love him?â
Leona glares, but his cheeks betray him by flushing. âKeep running your mouth and see what happens.â
You laugh, elbowing him lightly. âRelax, I think itâs cute. A Grand Duke doting on his nephew? Adorable.â
You bumped into Jack not long after, and the three of you somehow ended up making a day of it, wandering between stalls and laughing at Leonaâs muttered commentary about overpriced trinkets and Jackâs earnest attempts to justify why buying locally was a good investment.
Then you saw itâa brooch glinting in the sunlight, its design simple yet elegant. It wasnât flashy, but it reminded you of Ruggieâsharp, understated, and unexpectedly striking. Without hesitation, you bought it.
By the time you returned to your estate and handed the gift to Ruggie, you were grinning ear to ear, excited to see his reaction. He unwrapped it carefully, his eyes widening as he held the brooch up to the light.
âThis⌠is for me?â he asked, his voice unusually soft.
âOf course,â you said, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. âYouâve done so much. Itâs just a small thank-you.â
Ruggie turned the brooch over in his hands before looking back at you. âCan you⌠pin it on me?â
You blinked. âUh, sure.â
You moved closer, carefully attaching the brooch to his lapel while hyper-focusing on not stabbing your fingers. Meanwhile, Ruggie was not focused on the brooch.
No, his attention was entirely on youâon the way your brows furrowed in concentration, the way your lips pursed slightly as you worked. His chest felt tight, and he was starting to wonder if this was what it felt like to lose all sense of self-preservation.
You finally stepped back, admiring your handiwork. âThere. Looks good.â
Ruggie just nodded, his throat too dry to say anything coherent. He could still feel the ghost of your touch against his chest, and it was taking everything in him not to burst into flames on the spot.
You didnât notice his predicament, thankfully. âWell, back to work,â you said brightly, walking off.
As soon as you were out of sight, Ruggie let out a shaky breath and muttered to himself, âIâm so doomed.â
The villainess was already three glasses of wine in and laughing so hard at her own audacity, she could barely stand. âA rented lion!â she cackled, pointing dramatically at the majestic creature pacing near the garden fountains. âFor the aesthetic!â
You, on the other hand, were seriously contemplating your life choices. The massive banner that screamed INDEPENDENCE DAY was hanging crookedly over the ballroom, and the air was thick with the unmistakable aroma of petty vengeance.
âI canât believe you actually rented a lion,â you muttered, rubbing your temples.
âOh, please,â the villainess scoffed, swirling her wine like she was the protagonist of a soap opera. âThis is art. You think Iâm going to let those clowns think theyâve won?â
To her credit, the guests were loving it. The Emperor himself had already burst into laughter upon arrival and was gleefully elbowing the Empress, who seemed equally entertained. The Crown Prince looked ready to dig his own grave, while the Princess had stationed herself with a perfect view, sipping wine and munching on what you suspected was popcorn.
Things were going well. Too well.
The heroine and her brick wallâer, male leadâwere nowhere in sight, and for the first time in your newly isekaiâd existence, you allowed yourself to relax. You leaned against the wine table, sipping from your glass while watching Ruggie shamelessly stuff his pockets with sweets.
âYou know, I would save you some for later,â you began, raising a brow, âat this rate, youâre going to look like a human vending machine.â
Ruggie grinned, unapologetic. âHey, free foodâs free food. Youâre lucky I havenât swiped the centerpiece yet.â
You were about to retort when the sound of clicking heels sent a chill down your spine.
The heroine had arrived.
And, oh. Oh no.
She was wearing a dress so hideous, it was almost a work of artâa monstrous blend of every fashion crime known to mankind. Glitter? Check. Feathers? Double check. A color palette that looked like someone microwaved a rainbow? You bet.
Trailing behind her was the male lead, as stoic and emotionless as ever. You half-expected someone to prop a potted plant next to him just to see if anyone could tell the difference.
The heroine took one look at the massive INDEPENDENCE DAY banner and visibly trembled with rage. For a second, you thought she was going to scream, but instead, she plastered on a disturbingly sweet smile and marched straight over to you.
âGood evening,â she greeted, her voice dripping with false politeness.
You stared at her, torn between running for your life and bursting out laughing. Before you could respond, you caught sight of the Emperor out of the corner of your eye. He was openly pointing at you now, whispering something to the Empress, who was struggling to contain her laughter.
The villainess chose this exact moment to loudly announce, âThank you all for coming to celebrate the Duke's independence from the worst fate in history!â
The heroineâs smile twitched. You swore you heard her teeth crack under the pressure.
You were just starting to think you might survive the evening when it happened.
The male lead, previously silent, suddenly stomped forward, grabbed a glove from his pocket, and chucked it square at your face.
âAre you kidding me?â you blurted, rubbing your nose.
âI challenge you to a duel,â he growled, his first full sentence of the night.
The room went silent. Somewhere in the back, the Emperor let out a delighted laugh. The villainess looked ready to commit several felonies.
âOh my God,â you muttered, face-palming. âI guess I have to do it now.â
As the ballroom descended into chaos, Ruggie shot you a glare that couldâve melted steel.
âYou better not get hurt,â he hissed under his breath, clinging to your sleeve like a particularly annoyed cat. âI swear, if you let that walking brick wall land even one hit on youââ
âRelax, Ruggie,â you said, patting his hand. âNot only will I win, Iâll make him crawl back and return every penny I sent to his estate.â
Ruggie didnât look convinced, but he let go, muttering something about how this whole thing was âstupid as hell.â
What you didnât see was the way his eyes softened as he watched you step forward, or how his hands clenched into fists as the male lead unsheathed his sword.
All Ruggie knew was that he hated thisâhated the way the heroine acted like she still owned you, hated the way the male lead had the audacity to challenge you, and most of all, hated the knot of fear twisting in his chest.
He refused to think about why.
The moment the male lead flung his glove at you, the atmosphere in the ballroom turned tense with excitementâor in the Emperorâs case, barely restrained glee. But just as you were resigning yourself to this absurd duel, Leona sauntered over, looking as though this entire situation was a personal insult to his time.
âReal swords? For this?â Leona gestured lazily at the male lead, his lip curling in a smirk. âYouâre wasting everyoneâs energy. Letâs not pretend this is anything more than a glorified temper tantrum.â
The male lead bristled but didnât dare argue against the Grand Duke. âThen⌠wooden swords, if you insist,â he muttered, trying to maintain some shred of dignity.
You tried to stifle a laugh as Leona smirked and clapped you on the shoulder. âYouâre welcome, herbivore. Try not to embarrass yourself.â
By the time you all reached the garden, the tension had more or less deflated, and the Emperor had officially declared this the greatest event of the year. He was lounging on a cushioned seat with a glass of wine, while the Princess had claimed the spot next to him, now munching on a small pie sheâd somehow procured.
The male lead, as always, had the charisma of a doorstop, stomping forward with all the grace of a falling tree. You picked up your wooden sword, internally thanking the heavens that Leona had stepped in because you werenât in the mood to lose a limb for someone this dumb.
But just as the male lead was taking his place, he suddenly slipped.
There was a resounding thud as he fell face-first onto the ground.
â...No way,â you muttered, blinking in disbelief.
The heroine shrieked, rushing to his side. âMy love! Are you hurt? Speak to me!â
He didnât. Because the man fainted. From falling.
You froze, staring at the unmoving figure on the ground. The villainess was tryingâand failingânot to burst into hysterics, while Leona let out a bark of laughter so loud it startled the lion still lounging by the fountain.
âSeriously?â you said aloud, half to yourself, half to the universe. You werenât sure if you were horrified, embarrassed, or just... done.
You crouched down to help the heroine lift the unconscious man, despite every fiber of your being screaming not to. âFine,â you grumbled. âLetâs get him to the carriage.â
As you heaved him up, you happened to catch a glimpse of Ruggie, standing casually by the garden path with his arms crossed. He had an innocent expression on his faceâtoo innocent. And then, just as the heroine fussed over her fainted fiancĂŠ, you saw it: Ruggieâs foot subtly nudging a small marble out of sight, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
You froze mid-step.
â...Ruggie.â
He blinked at you, all wide-eyed innocence. âYeah, boss?â
âYou didnât.â
âDidnât what?â
You sighed, shaking your head as you loaded the male lead into the carriage with the heroine trailing after him. When you turned back, Ruggie was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
Once you were out of earshot of the heroine, you flicked him on the forehead.
âOi!â he yelped, rubbing the spot with a pout. âWhat was that for?â
âDonât play dumb,â you said, crossing your arms. âWhyâd you do it?â
Ruggie grinned again, completely unapologetic. âWell, I am your right-hand man, arenât I? Gotta look out for you.â
You groaned, rubbing your temples. âOne day, your schemes are going to get us both killed.â
âMaybe,â he said with a shrug. âBut itâs a small price to pay for seeing that guy face-plant into the dirt.â
You couldnât help itâyou laughed, shaking your head as you waved him off. âFine. Just⌠no more schemes, okay?â
âNo promises, boss.â
The morning was unnervingly quiet. No bustling sounds of Ruggie banging on your door, no sly remarks about how you were sleeping in like royaltyâjust silence. For a moment, you wondered if you were dreaming.
It wasnât until you asked the head butler about his whereabouts that the unsettling calm made sense.
âHe is unwell,â the butler said with a somber tone. âHe has a fever and requested the day off to rest.â
Ruggie⌠sick? Something about that didnât sit right with you.
You found yourself standing in front of his door with a tray of soup in hand. The thought of someone as vibrant and energetic as Ruggie being bedridden made your chest ache in a way you werenât ready to address. With a deep breath, you pushed the door open.
Ruggie looked wrecked. His usually sharp eyes were glazed over, and his hair was messier than usual, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His gaze met yours hazily, and the way his lips curled into the faintest semblance of a smile sent a pang through your chest.
âBoss?â he croaked out, voice scratchy.
You didnât answer right away, just moving to his bedside and placing the tray on the table. âYou look terrible,â you said softly, helping him sit up. âEat this.â
It took some coaxing, but eventually, he let you spoon-feed him. He was quiet for once, too tired to banter, but the way he leaned into your touch as you adjusted his blanket spoke volumes.
When the soup was finished, you fussed over himâchecking his temperature, brushing his hair out of his face, making sure he was comfortable.
And then, without warning, Ruggie slumped forward, his head resting on your shoulder. You stiffened in surprise, but before you could ask if he was okay, his hand gripped your sleeve weakly.
âDonât go,â he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. His words were slurred with exhaustion, but there was a vulnerability in them that made your heart clench.
You didnât have the heart to refuse. Carefully, you adjusted him so he was lying more comfortably, his head still resting against your shoulder as you held him close.
âIâm not going anywhere,â you whispered into his ear, voice softer than you thought yourself capable of. âNot until you want me to.â
When Ruggie woke up in the evening, the first thing he noticed was that he was warm and oddly comfortable. The second thing he noticed was you.
You were still holding him, sitting beside him with your back against the headboard. Your eyes were closed, head tilted slightly, but it was clear you hadnât left his side.
Ruggieâs face turned an impressive shade of red as he tried to process the fact that it wasnât a fever dream. He had clung to you, and you had stayed.
You stirred as he moved slightly, your eyes fluttering open. âYouâre awake,â you said, voice soft and laced with sleep. âFeeling better?â
Ruggie nodded, his cheeks still burning. âYeah⌠uh, thanks for⌠yâknow. All this.â
You smiled awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck. âItâs nothing. Just⌠donât get used to it, okay?â
He let out a weak chuckle, though his heart was racing. âRight. Wonât happen again.â
You stood up, suddenly eager to escape the room. âRest up,â you said, heading for the door. âDonât make me come back.â
As soon as the door shut behind you, Ruggie buried his face in his hands, groaning. He could still feel the warmth of your touch, still hear the soft way youâd whispered that youâd stay as long as he wanted. His heart wouldnât stop pounding, and he didnât know what to do with the newfound realization that he was in way too deep.
Meanwhile, you were in your own room, face buried in your pillow as you screamed silently. Your heart was fluttering uncontrollably, and you couldnât stop thinking about how warm he felt against you, or the way heâd looked at you so trustingly.
âWhat was that?â you mumbled into your pillow, kicking your legs in frustration. âWhat is this? Why does it feel like this?â
The questions swirled in your mind, unresolved, until you eventually passed out from sheer exhaustion, still clutching your pillow like it could answer the million questions in your heart.
The aftermath of The Incidentâas you had now dubbed it in the privacy of your screaming brainâwas unbearable. If you thought working with Ruggie before had its awkward moments (like the time you accidentally said, âGoodnight, love you,â at the end of a meeting), it was nothing compared to the soul-crushing embarrassment you now lived in.
The atmosphere between you and Ruggie had changed. It wasnât just awkwardâit was the kind of awkward that could suffocate an entire room. If awkwardness could be weaponized, you and Ruggie would have already leveled three kingdoms.
Every time his hand brushed yours when passing papers, your brain short-circuited like a faulty crystal ball. Every time he brought you coffee, your chest felt warm and fuzzy, and not in the âcozyâ way, but in the âI think Iâm having a heart attackâ way.
Just being in the same room as him turned your once-functional body into a mess of sweaty palms and wildly beating heartbeats. When did the genre of this book change from fantasy to survival horror?
And Ruggie? Oh, he wasnât doing any better. In fact, he might have been worse.
This man had survived the slums, terrifying loan sharks, and whatever unholy concoction the heroine called âbreakfast,â but this? This was a new level of torment. Every time you smiled at him, he wanted to kiss you so badly he thought his brain might explode.
Every time you thanked him for doing something as basic as his job, he had to clench his fists to stop himself from blurting out, âMarry me right now, Iâll sign a prenup, I donât care.â
The worst part? He knew this was a one-way ticket to Heartbreak City. You were a dukeâpractically royalty. He was⌠a secretary. A secretary with zero noble lineage and a past so humble it made the word âhumbleâ look luxurious.
His job description did not include being in love with his employer, and yet, here he was, a walking violation of the workplace etiquette handbook.
So, Ruggie pined. He pined so hard it was a miracle he hadnât sprouted roots. He burned quietly, like a cheap candle from a market stall that melted down into a pathetic puddle of wax.
And you? You werenât doing much better. Every night, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and whisper-yelling at yourself. âWhy am I like this? Why is he like this? What is happening to me? Am I dying?â
Ruggie, on the other hand, stayed awake at night dramatically sighing into his pillow. âStop looking at me like that,â he whispered to no one in particular, clutching the imaginary vision of your face. âYou donât even know what youâre doing to me.â
The tension was so thick that even the staff noticed. The head butler had started placing bets with the gardener and the knights about who would crack first. The maids whispered conspiratorially about how long it would take before the Duke accidentally proposed during a budget meeting. The chef had taken to leaving heart-shaped biscuits in the break room just to mess with you both.
You both thought you were suffering in silence.
You werenât.
Everyone knew. Everyone knew. And everyone was waiting for the day this slow-burn disaster finally combusted.
The garden party had started so peacefully. Youâd been standing off to the side, sipping on juice and chatting with Jack and Leona, trying to ignore the usual nonsense that came with these noble gatherings. For a blissful five minutes, everything was⌠fine.
And then chaos erupted.
One second, you were laughing at one of Leonaâs grumbled comments about the Emperor's ridiculous hat. The next, you spotted the male lead grabbing Ruggie by the collar, his expression an infuriating mixture of smugness and anger.
You didnât think youâd ever moved so fast in your life.
Leona and Jack followed closely as you stormed across the garden, your juice long forgotten, your mind set on one thing: getting Ruggie out of that pompous idiotâs grip.
Without hesitation, you grabbed the male leadâs hand and yanked it off Ruggie with more force than strictly necessary. Your other hand automatically went to Ruggieâs shoulder, checking on him. His cheeks were flushedâwhether from embarrassment, anger, or bothâand he looked like he was about to say something, probably telling you to let it go. But you werenât in the mood to let anything go.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â you demanded, your voice sharp enough to cut through the polite chatter of the party.
The male lead opened his mouth to answer, but before he could get a word out, the heroine appeared, her voice grating like nails on a chalkboard.
âHe needs to learn his place,â she said, crossing her arms with an air of entitlement so thick it made your teeth grind. âHeâs just a secretary. He refused to fetch drinks for us. He only works for you.â
The sheer audacity of her words made your blood boil. Your hands shook, and you barely noticed Jack placing a calming hand on one of themâor the fact that your other hand had already reached for the hilt of your sword.
âIâll show you knowing your place,â you muttered, and started to unsheathe your sword.
Jack, ever the voice of reason, gave your arm a small squeeze and shook his head, silently pleading with you to reconsider committing murder at a garden party. For now.
And thatâs when it hit you.
Your fury wasnât just about the insult. It wasnât just about the entitlement or the injustice of the situation. It was because theyâd grabbed him. Ruggie.
Youâd been in love with him all along, hadnât you? And it wasnât the quiet kind of love, eitherâit was the fiery, all-consuming kind that made you want to burn the world down for him.
You turned back to Ruggie, who was standing there looking flustered but defiant, his mouth set in a line of determination even as his ears betrayed his embarrassment by twitching slightly.
You did what any sane person would do in that moment.
You grabbed him by the arm, pulled him close, and kissed him.
Right there.
In front of everyone.
There was a stunned silence for a split second before the garden party exploded into chaos. The Emperor clapped like an overexcited seal, practically shouting his delight. The princess squealed, delightedly whispering to her ladies-in-waiting, who were fanning themselves with excitement. Leona looked entirely unsurprised, like heâd been waiting for this nonsense to resolve itself for months.
Ruggie, meanwhile, stood frozen in place, his face as red as the roses lining the garden, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air like he had no idea what to do with them.
Before he could recover enough to say anything, you turned to the heroine, your voice cold and commanding.
âHeâs my lover,â you declared, loud enough for everyone to hear. âAnd I will personally write an official complaint to your family for your insult.â
The heroineâs jaw dropped. The male lead looked like heâd swallowed a lemon. The villainess, who had somehow materialized out of thin air to watch the drama, cackled so hard she spilled wine all over her gown.
You didnât care. You wrapped an arm around Ruggieâs waist and turned on your heel, marching out of the garden with your still-dazed secretary in tow.
By the time you reached a quiet corner of the estate, Ruggie finally seemed to snap out of it. âWhat⌠What was that?â he asked, his voice half a squeak, his face still bright red.
âThat,â you said, your voice softening as you looked at him, âwas me making it clear to everyone that Iâm not letting you go. Ever.â
Ruggie stared at you, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to find the words, but none were coming. You couldnât help but grin.
âTake your time,â you teased. âBut just so you know, youâre stuck with me now. Hope youâre okay with that.â
He laughed weakly, shaking his head. âStuck with you? Boss, I think youâve got it backward. Iâm not going anywhere.â
Later that evening, you found yourself in the quiet glow of your study, seated across from Ruggie. He was fidgeting, avoiding your gaze, his usual sharp wit dulled by the tension hanging between you. You had dragged him here after the chaos of the garden party, determined to finally clear the air.
He finally looked at you, and it was like something cracked open in his expressionâraw, vulnerable, terrified. âBoss,â he started, his voice softer than youâd ever heard it, âyou donât⌠you donât get it.â
âDonât get what?â you asked, leaning forward, your heart pounding in your chest.
âThis.â He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his hand trembling slightly. âYouâre⌠you. Youâre a duke, youâre incredible, youâreââ He cut himself off with a shaky breath. âAnd Iâm me. Iâve spent my whole life scraping by, looking out for myself. Iâm not⌠someone people keep. Iâm not someone people love.â
âRuggieââ
âNo, listen.â He ran a hand through his hair, his words tumbling out in a rush. âYou think you love me now, but youâll wake up one day and realize Iâm not enough. That I canât give you what someone else could. And itâs gonnaââ His voice cracked. âItâs gonna shatter me if I let myself believe this could work, and then you leave.â
Your heart ached at the sight of him, the weight of his fears laid bare. This cunning, resilient hyena, who could outwit anyone and charm his way out of anything, was utterly lost when it came to your love.
âIâm not going to leave,â you said firmly, standing and walking over to him.
He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. âYou say that nowââ
You grabbed his hands, forcing him to look at you. âRuggie,â you said, your voice trembling with the intensity of your feelings, âdo you have any idea how much I ache for you?â
His breath hitched, his eyes wide as he stared at you like youâd just spoken a language he didnât understand.
âYouâre smart. Youâre funny. Youâre cunning as hell. And youâve been utterly blind to the fact that Iâve been completely in love with you this entire time,â you continued, your voice rising slightly. âYouâve got this idea in your head that youâre not enough, but you are. Youâve been my priority for a long time now, and thereâs no one who could ever match me like you do.â
He tried to pull away, but you didnât let him. Instead, you cupped his face in your hands and kissed him, desperate and full of all the love you hadnât been able to put into words.
For a moment, he froze. Then his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, and he kissed you back like you were the only thing keeping him alive. It wasnât gracefulâRuggie never did anything by halves. It was messy and raw and so full of affection it made your knees weak.
When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, and you could feel his breath on your skin.
âIâll do whatever it takes to prove it to you,â you whispered. âI donât care what anyone else thinks. Iâm yours, Ruggie. Completely.â
His laugh was watery, breaking slightly as he buried his face in your shoulder. âYouâre insane, you know that?â
âProbably,â you said, smiling through the tears that threatened to spill over.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. âYou mean it?â
âWith everything I am.â
His lips quirked into a shaky smile before he kissed you again, softer this time but no less consuming. When he pulled back, he let out a breathless laugh, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.
âIâm never gonna stop teasing you about this,â he said, his voice trembling but light.
âYouâd better not,â you replied, grinning at him.
And for the first time, you saw itâthe way he looked at you, like youâd hung the stars in the sky.
The Empress swept into your estate like a regal hurricane, her entourage trailing behind her like obedient leaves in the wind. You barely had time to register her arrival before she was striding up to you, her heels clicking with authority.
âDuke,â she greeted you, her smile warm but her eyes glinting with mischief. âWe need to talk.â
Oh no. Those were words that could make even the bravest soul break into a sweat.
She dragged you into a private corner of the drawing room, her grip iron despite the delicate lace gloves she wore. Once you were sufficiently isolated from prying ears, she fixed you with a conspiratorial grin.
âSo,â she began, leaning in like she was about to share the kingdomâs deepest secrets. âWhenâs the wedding?â
You blinked. â...Your Majesty?â
She pouted like a child denied dessert. âDonât play coy. The whole court saw your little garden party performance. The kiss? The declaration of love? The scandal! It was delightful.â She clasped her hands together dreamily. âI give it five stars. Now, when are you making it official?â
You stared at her, feeling like youâd just been hit by a runaway carriage. âWe just confessed to each other two days ago.â
âAnd?â
âAnd?!â You threw your hands up, exasperated. âYour Majesty, weâve barely had time to process our feelings, let alone plan a wedding!â
She sighed, clearly unimpressed with your lack of urgency. âFine, Iâll give you time. But donât take too long. The court thrives on drama, and youâre the main event right now.â
Before you could respond to that absurdity, she straightened, her expression shifting from playful to businesslike. âNow, on to more pressing matters. I came here to ask if youâd like to file a formal complaint against the heroine.â
âOh, you know,â she said airily, inspecting her nails. âFor the garden party incident, her persistent attempts to undermine your relationship, the time she cheated on you, and, oh yes, the money laundering."
If you were a better person, perhaps youâd have been moved to forgiveness. Maybe youâd have found it in your heart to let bygones be bygones. But alas, you were not that person.
âI want to sue her to the last penny,â you said, your voice flat but resolute.
The Empressâs smile was nothing short of gleeful. âExcellent. Trial will be held next week. My son, the Crown Prince, will preside over the case.â
âWait,â you said, frowning. âThe Crown Prince? Isnât that a bitââ
âMessy?â She finished for you, her grin widening. âOf course it is. But whatâs politics without a little chaos? Besides, he could use the practice.â
You pinched the bridge of your nose, wondering how your life had spiraled into such madness.
The Empress patted your shoulder reassuringly. âDonât worry, Duke. Iâm sure youâll win. And if not, well, at least the trial will be the most entertaining thing the court has seen in decades.â
And with that, she swept out of the room, leaving you standing there, wondering how suing your ex-fiancĂŠe had somehow become a royal spectacle.
The trial was absurd. It had all the seriousness of a court proceeding mixed with the dramatic flair of a poorly written soap opera.
Every time the prince asked the heroine a simple questionââDid you steal the money?ââshe would dissolve into a sobbing mess, dramatically wailing about how she ânever meant for this to happen.â And every time, the male lead would grunt sympathetically, rubbing her back like a mother comforting a toddler who scraped their knee.
It wouldâve been almost sweet if they werenât both complete imbeciles and if the male lead didnât still have a massive bump on his forehead from his earlier slip-and-faint incident. The man looked like heâd gotten into a fight with a marble and lost. Spectacularly.
You, sitting there in the gallery, were one sob away from walking out. The princess, who was co-presiding with her brother, looked two seconds away from leaning over and smashing her gavel just to make the crying stop.
Finally, the prince, clearly regretting every life choice that led him here, pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to you. âDo you want the money back?â he asked, his voice deadpan.
âYes, Your Highness,â you said, as if it wasnât the most obvious thing in the world. âAnd also the money I sent to the male lead⌠on the heroineâs insistence.â
The princess blinked. âYou gave him money? Why?â
âBecause Iâm an idiot with too much patience,â you muttered, throwing a pointed glare at the heroine. She sniffled, clearly offended that you didnât love being conned like a fool.
The prince let out a deep sigh, the kind that said he was done. âFine. You win. Everything will be returned to you. This trial is over.â
There was a brief moment of stunned silence, interrupted only by the heroineâs gasp. âThatâs it?! Youâre just taking their side?â she cried, clutching the male leadâs arm like a lifeline.
âI am taking the side of my own sanity,â the prince snapped, slamming his gavel down. âYou, will be assigned to community service for your insensitive comments.â
âCommunity⌠service?â she squeaked.
âYes. Community service. Volunteering, cleaning up public spaces, helping outâactual work for people who arenât you. Itâll be good for your character,â the princess said, smiling sweetly, which only made it worse.
âAnd as for you,â the prince continued, turning to the male lead, âyouâre being sent on probation. In the North. Until further notice.â
The male lead blinked, his hand frozen mid-rub on the heroineâs back. âI have to go back to the North?â
âYes. Itâs cold, itâs boring, and itâs far away. Enjoy.â
By the time the trial ended, you were practically skipping out of the courtroom, feeling vindicated and maybe a little petty. The heroine, meanwhile, was still sobbing, the male lead looked like he wanted to protest but didnât have the brain cells to formulate a counterargument, and the prince was rubbing his temples like heâd aged ten years in one afternoon.
Justice? Achieved. And it was glorious.
Ruggie had always been good at acting like nothing flustered him. It was practically a survival skill at this pointâquick with a joke, quicker with an excuse, and faster than anyone else when it came to running away from situations he didnât want to deal with.
But despite your confessions, despite the months that had passed, he still treated you more like a boss than a lover. You didnât mind, not reallyâhe made sure you were fed, handled your schedule with cutthroat efficiency, and somehow managed to keep both the court and your enemies at bay with nothing but charm and underhanded tactics.
The problem was, he still blushed like a maiden whenever you so much as held his hand.
It was hilarious.
The first time you kissed his cheek in front of some nobles, he nearly choked on air and then tried to play it off like youâd just hit him with an unexpected tactical strike.
The second time, you whispered something sweet in his ear, and he almost dropped the stack of documents he was carryingâalmost. His reflexes were too sharp for that, but he still shot you a look like youâd personally thrown him off a cliff.
So naturally, when you cornered him in your office one day and asked, "Ruggie, do you wanna marry me?"âyou were prepared for some kind of reaction.
You werenât prepared for absolute silence.
His ears twitched. His tail flicked. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked like a man staring directly into the sun and realizing, all too late, that he had nowhere to hide.
Your heart sank. You werenât sure what answer youâd expected, but hesitation wasnât it.
ââŚNever mind,â you said, pulling back, smoothing over the moment like it was just another conversation. âTake your time.â And because he still looked like youâd asked him to solve advanced calculus on the spot, you reached up, pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, and whispered, "I'll see you at dinner."
Then you left, because you werenât cruel enough to make him answer right away.
Dinner was⌠tense.
Not outwardly, noâRuggie still stole extra servings off your plate, still flicked a pea at you when he thought no one was looking, still made a sharp comment about how the nobles were painfully useless for people who wore so much gold.
But his ears kept twitching. His tail was restless. And when you finallyâgentlyâasked, "Alright, what's up?" he looked at you like youâd caught him stealing from your vault.
Then, slowly, he pulled out a ring.
Not just any ring. It was old, worn with time, but polished with care. A deep blue stone sat in the center, catching the light like the sky before a storm.
Ruggie took a breath, then said, "Itâs my grandmaâs. Been in the family forever." He hesitated, then pushed it towards you, still not quite meeting your eyes. "I want you to have it."
You stared. Your chest tightened. "Ruggieâ"
He shifted, ears flattening. "I only hesitated âcauseââcause I didnât know if youâd even want it. Yâknow. Since you got all thisâ" He gestured vaguely to your wealth, to the ridiculous palace you lived in, to everything he wasnât.
That was possibly the dumbest thing youâd ever heard.
You slid the ring on immediately.
Then, with zero warning, you grabbed him by the waist, spun him around like you were sweeping him off his feet (because you were), and kissed him.
The yelp he let out was glorious.
âOiâwhat the hellââ
âYou absolute idiot,â you whispered against his lips, grinning. âYou think Iâd ever say no to you?â
He was so red. Youâd never let him live this down.
But after a moment, he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Guess I'm stuck with ya now, huh?"
"You're the one who proposed, Ruggie," you pointed out, smirking.
"...Tch. You asked me first!"
"And you made me wait."
Ruggie groaned dramatically, but there was no real annoyance in itâjust affection.
Hand in hand, still bickering, still laughing, you walked back to your office.
This time, engaged.
Jack was the first to react.
The moment the words left your mouthâ"We're engaged."âhe nearly knocked over his drink in his rush to stand. "Congratulations!" he said, voice full of genuine warmth, his tail wagging just slightly despite his usual composed demeanor.
Ruggie, ever the smug little menace, leaned back in his chair, lazily draping an arm over yours like this wasnât the most important announcement of his life. ââCourse we are,â he said, grinning. âI mean, who else could put up with him, right?â
The casual act mightâve been more convincing if he hadnât kept sneaking little glances at you when he thought you werenât looking.
The Empress, meanwhile, was beyond pleased.
âOh, this is wonderful,â she declared, practically vibrating with excitement. âNaturally, I shall officiate.â
âExcuse me?â The Emperor raised a brow. âWhy do you get to officiate?â
âI called it first, obviously,â she said, as if this was an unquestionable truth of the universe.
âThatâs not how that works.â
âIt is if I win.â
The room watched in fascinated silence as the rulers of the entire empire prepared to settle this with the most sacred of duels: rock, paper, scissors.
The battle was tense. The atmosphere, electric. The stakes, higher than ever.
And in the endâ
âHa! Paper beats rock!â The Empress shot her husband a triumphant look, eyes gleaming. âLooks like I win, darling.â
The Emperor sighed, but he took the loss with grace, muttering something about âmarrying them off in spiritâ while the rest of the room moved on like this wasnât the most absurd thing to witness at a royal event.
The princess wasted no time.
She practically lunged across the table, grabbing your hands with wide, pleading eyes. âCan you invite me to the wedding party? Please? Please? Iâll be so good, I promise.â
ââŚYouâre literally a princess,â you said, raising a brow. âYou could just be in the wedding party.â
âYes, but itâs more fun if you invite me yourself.â
The prince, the only normal one here, merely gave you a polite smile and a firm pat on the backâa little too firm. Ruggie snickered when you nearly stumbled forward.
Leona, of course, was the least surprised out of everyone. He just gave you a lazy grin and said, ââBout time.â
Typical.
And as you sat there, hand in hand with Ruggie, surrounded by friends (and also an unreasonably competitive royal couple), you had a thought.
Reading that trash novel was the best thing you could've ever done.
Complete Masterlist ; Series Masterlist
It's been a while since I did one of these, who do y'all wanna see next in this series?
#reblog#twst#twst x reader#ruggie x reader#ruggie bucchi#trash novel chronicles#i fckin loved this one#this is awesome
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Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud || Ace Trappola
You get isekaiâd as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, youâre stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).
Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.
Series Masterlist
You should have known better than to leave your apartment. You should have listened to your instincts, that deep, primal voice that told you the outside world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. But no. You just had to touch grass.
It had all started with an innocent desire for fresh air. You had gone to the park, found a nice spot, and opened the novel that a colleague had given youâprobably as a form of psychological torture disguised as a gift. From the summary alone, you knew it was going to be a lot, but you had no idea just how much your soul would suffer.
The heroine was a noble who clearly did not want to be in this story. Every single page was filled with her staring off into the void, giving half-hearted responses to the five men vying for her attention, like she was a protagonist who hadnât realized she was in a romance novel yet.
And the love interests. Oh, the love interests.
The (Discount) Yandere Viscount (who had never heard of stealth)
His idea of "obsessively watching over the heroine" was lurking in the shadows like a particularly uncoordinated cryptid. Every single time he tried to âstalkâ her, he tripped over his own sword. At one point, he dramatically whispered, âI will protect you⌠wait, donât run!â before faceplanting into a bush.
2. The Childhood Acquaintance (who was delusional)
This man had spoken to the heroine exactly once when they were both six years old, but somehow convinced himself they were soulmates. He carried around the same handkerchief she had given him more than 15 years ago like it was a sacred relic and refused to take no for an answer.
3. The "Genius Strategist" Prince (who had the IQ of a raisin)
The man had already planned their wedding, their honeymoon, and the names of their three children within four minutes of meeting her. When she told him she wasnât interested, his brain blue-screened and he simply repeated, âAh, youâre just shy.â No, sir. She is not shy. She just isn't interested.
4. The Brooding Duke of the North (who was a caricature of a chaebol heir from a K-Drama)
He believed love could be bought. He once gifted her a solid gold chair because âonly the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.â He bought an entire carnival just so she wouldnât have to wait in line. At one point, he threw money at a random tree, and you werenât even sure why.
5. The Drama King Knight (who needed to calm down)
He was so powerful but refused to use his strength unless it was for dramatic effect. He got scratched by a cat once and collapsed into the heroineâs arms like he had been mortally wounded. His sword had the power to split mountains, but the only time he ever drew it was to dramatically point at the moon while monologuing about destiny.
And the villainess? She wasnât even that bad. Compared to these five disasters, she looked like a sensible person.
Somehow, despite all odds, the heroine chose Ace Trappola, her childhood friend, which you had to respect. That was the one good decision this novel made. But just when you thought there might be some semblance of satisfactionâan assassin appeared out of nowhere (sent by the villainess of course) and killed her.
That was it. That was the ending.
You felt your soul leave your body.
Tears pricked at your eyes, but you werenât sure if it was grief for the heroine, sheer frustration, or physical pain from how hard you had been laughing at this disaster of a novel. It was the most ridiculous, nonsensical, brain-cell-destroying thing you had ever read. You could feel your neurons committing arson inside your skull.
You snapped the book shut and decided that was enough stupidity for one day.
It was time to go home.
As you trudged back, your brain still processing the absolute war crime of a plot you had just read, you heard it.
A faint rumbling.
A presence.
And thenâ
âOUT OF THE WAY, SONNY!â
A blur of gray hair and unholy speed tore through the park, the sound of wheels screeching against pavement like a demonic bansheeâs cry. You turned your head just in time to see a grandma on rollerblades, moving at a velocity no elderly person should legally be able to achieve.
For a split second, you locked eyes.
And in that moment, you knew.
You were not surviving this.
Before you could even process what was happening, she collided into you full force, sending you into a full aerial somersault before you crashed into the bushes like a ragdoll. You barely registered the thundering roar of her departure as she continued skating into the sunset, leaving you for dead.
Now, as you lay crumpled in a bush, your body feeling like it had been hit by a sentient freight train in orthopedic shoes, you had to accept the consequences of your actions. The world had punished you for your hubris.
She. Didnât. Even. Stumble.
Your body ached, your limbs refused to move, and as darkness crept into your vision, your last conscious thought was, How is a senior citizen more sturdy than me�
And then, everything went black.
The first thing you noticed upon waking up was the suspiciously pleasant smell. It was fresh, like lavender and high society, with a hint of expensive tea and wealth youâd never personally known.
Your groggy brain latched onto the first thought it could process:
Damn. Hospitals really upgraded their budget.
Then, half a second later, a much more terrifying realization hit you.
Oh God. The ambulance bill.
Your eyes snapped open in unfiltered financial terror, hands clutching at the sheets as you prepared to calculate your medical debt down to the last miserable cent. You were already accepting your fate as a lifelong indentured servant to the healthcare system whenâ
The ceiling was too ornate. The bed was too soft.
And there was a man sitting beside you, holding your hand.
Your breath caught in your throat as your vision sharpened. Red hair. Heart earring. A cocky smirk, even in his sleep.
You knew that face.
You knew that godforsaken face.
This wasnât a hospital. This wasnât even your world.
Somewhere in the heavens, a cosmic entity was laughing as you stared at Ace Trappola, the very same Ace Trappola from the cover of the book you were reading before you got absolutely trucked by a grandma on rollerblades.
Your will to live immediately evaporated.
This couldnât be happening. This was not real. There was no way that the trashy dumpster fire of a novel you barely got halfway through had decided to swallow you whole and spit you out as its heroine. You were a victim of circumstance. You hadnât even wanted to read the book. Your colleague had shoved it into your hands with a laugh, saying, âItâs so bad, youâll love it.â
And now? Now you were going to die in it.
While you were still reeling from this existential horror, Ace stirred beside you, stretching like heâd just taken a refreshing nap instead of being complicit in your suffering.
âOh, youâre finally awake,â he said.
You almost threw up in real time.
NO. NO, HE DID NOT JUST SKYRIM YOU.
Before you could even begin to unpack that offensive introduction, Ace leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an amused grin.
âMan, you were out for so long,â he continued, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. âWe were starting to get worried.â
He paused, then snickered. âNot that I can blame you, though. You got knocked out real bad after Sir Drama decided to pick you up and carry you across a puddleâyâknow, because chivalryâand then you started struggling and he, uhâŚâ Ace coughed, failing to smother his laughter. âHe mightâve⌠dropped you on your head.â
Your soul left your body.
The sheer force of your disgust, fury, and resignation compressed into a singularity of unparalleled despair.
You had already suffered a head injury in this world and it hadnât even been five minutes.
Meanwhile, Aceâclearly unbothered by your silent mental breakdownâcasually reached out and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.
âTry not to scare everyone like that next time, yeah?â he said, standing up with a stretch. âAnyway, Iâll let you rest. See ya, drama queen.â
And just like that, he walked out.
The door clicked shut.
And you were left alone.
You sat there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, dead inside.
Then at the overly luxurious furniture.
Then at the mirror across the room.
You knew what you would see before you even looked.
White nightgown. Perfect noble lady bedhead. The very same reflection that haunted you from the novelâs terrible cover.
You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaled, and let out the most guttural, primal scream into your pillow.
This was real. This was happening.
And worst of allâ
You were about to be pursued by five of the worst men to ever disgrace the literary world.
Tears pricked at your eyes.
You needed a plan.
You needed a way out.
You needed to reject them.
You needed to survive.
With renewed determination, you wiped your tears, hardened your heart, and began plotting your escape.
The moment you accepted that you were, in fact, trapped in this flaming disaster of a novel, you immediately went into damage control mode.
Step One: Gather Allies.
Your first course of action was to round up every single sane person in your immediate social circleâwhich, in this case, meant the heroineâs original friend group. You werenât sure how well theyâd take this, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
So, within the hour, you managed to corral Ace, Deuce, Riddle, Cater, and Trey into a private room like some kind of organized intervention.
They were all staring at you expectantly.
You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the sheer stupidity of what you were about to say.
âListen,â you began, voice firm. âI need help. Serious help. I am being actively hunted by five of the worst men to ever exist, and I need to figure out how to reject them before I end up dead in an alley.â
There was a pause.
Riddle, bless his soul, was the first to react.
He patted you on the back, nodding solemnly. âFinally,â he said. âIâve been waiting for you to grow a spine. Itâs about time.â
You blinked. That was the most support you had ever received in your life.
Meanwhile, Trey and Cater exchanged amused glances, Ace looked way too smug for comfort, and Deuce was already looking at Ace like he was onto something.
âYou need to get rid of them?â Trey asked, as if he were merely discussing pastry ingredients.
âYes,â you stressed. âImmediately.â
Riddle hummed in approval. âGood. Then letâs strategize.â
You, Riddle, Trey, and Cater huddled together like you were planning a war campaign.
Ace and Deuce, on the other hand, were having a separate conversation entirely.
A conversation that consisted of Deuce elbowing Ace repeatedly while Ace sat there, looking like the cat that ate the canary.
Then, with the casual arrogance of someone who absolutely had an ulterior motive, Ace stretched his arms and leaned back.
âYâknow,â he drawled, cutting into your very serious rejection plan, âwe could make things way easier if you just tell âem youâre already taken.â
You stared at him. âExcuse me?â
Ace smirked. âYou'd just need a fake lover, right?â
ââŚYes?â
He shrugged. âI could do it.â
The room went silent.
Deuceâs face twisted into an undisguised scowl of "That's not what i meant." Riddle raised an eyebrow. Trey hid a knowing smile behind his hand. Cater was visibly entertained.
You, on the other hand, were experiencing about five different emotions at once.
On one hand, Ace clearly had a crush on the heroineâfor you. Which meant using him for this felt slightly scummy.
On the other hand, game was game, and survival was survival.
And you were not above exploiting every advantage you could get.
ââŚAlright,â you agreed, shoving your morals into a dark abyss.
Ace grinned like heâd just won a bet.
Deuce looked one second away from committing homicide.
And just like that, Operation âEscape Horrible Menâ was officially underway.
The first lunatic to cross your path was, tragically, the childhood acquaintanceâif you could even call him that. This was a man whose entire personality was built on a single act of kindness you had allegedly performed when you were six, like some kind of feral pigeon imprinting on the first human to throw it bread.
He had the look of a man who had been living exclusively off delusions and a diet of unattainable dreams, and you could already feel your soul attempting to evacuate your body at the sight of him.
It all started when you, Ace, and Deuce were having a perfectly nice day at the market. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and you were engaged in the kind of casual battery that only true friends participated inâswatting at each other, shoving, stealing food mid-bite, and slinging arms over shoulders like a group of rowdy idiots. It was peace. It was joy. And then he appeared.
Like a cockroach that had survived a nuclear apocalypse, he inserted himself into the conversation with an ease that defied all reason, his hand creeping onto your waist as if that was something people just did.
The audacity. The sheer gall. The unmitigated temerity.
On instinct, you physically rejected his existence. You shoved him off with enough force to make a statement, then slammed your heel down on his foot. You were not the original heroine. You did not believe in suffering in silence. You believed in equal opportunity violence.
But this manâthis absolute buffoonâhad the mental resilience of a particularly dense brick. He simply did not process rejection.
You walked away. He followed. Like a stray cat you accidentally fed once, he clung to your side, ignoring all signs that he was unwelcome.
You showed Deuce a cool charm for his sword; he inserted his completely unsolicited opinion.
You cracked a joke to Ace; he forced out a laugh like you had told it for his benefit.
At one point, you were fairly certain he was just mimicking your breathing patterns to convince himself you were soulmates.
Alright. You had tried being civil. Time to be petty.
You turned to Ace with the kind of dramatic flourish that only came with years of consuming terrible romance novels, throwing yourself into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ace, to his credit, took exactly one second to process before he immediately understood the assignment.
He leaned in close, breath brushing against your ear like he was whispering something scandalous, and you, in turn, made a show of gasping, clutching his shirt like he had just recited the most romantic poetry in existence.
Then he hand-fed you a pastry.
It was too much. Too intimate. Too stupidly effective. You let out a little dreamy sigh, delicately biting into the pastry like it was a love declaration and not just your breakfast. Ace, ever the performer, brushed a crumb off your lips with his thumb.
Deuce, at this point, was convulsing with laughter in the background, nearly choking on his own spit.
But the acquaintance? The parasite? The man who had lived the past decade of his life under the assumption that you were his? He was seething. His face was twisted like he had just swallowed a whole lemon rind and all.
Time to twist the knife.
You turned to Ace with the most lovestruck expression you could muster and, in a voice dripping with sugar and malice, cooed, âDarling, when are you going to propose? I simply cannot wait to be engaged to youâ
Ace visibly blue-screened for a moment. You could hear the Windows error noise in real-time. But he was nothing if not quick on his feet.
In a devastating move, he took your hand in both of his, looked into your eyes like you personally invented the concept of love, and murmured, âMy love, Iâve searched the entire kingdom for a ring that shines as brightly as your eyes, but nothing has been worthy of you yet.â
That was it. That was the final blow. The childhood acquaintance physically recoiled, his reality shattering like fragile glass, his world crumbling like an over-soaked sponge cake.
âYouâre⌠dating?â he whispered, trembling, as if he was the protagonist in a tragic opera.
You and Ace turned to him in perfect synchrony, all wide eyes and lovesick smiles, and in the most disgustingly sweet voices you could manage, declared, âWeâre soooo in love~â
He ran away crying.
It was magnificent. It was euphoric. You turned to watch him flee, skidding into the distance like a wounded deer, while Deuce collapsed against a stand, wheezing.
And then, just for a momentâbarely a secondâyou caught Ace watching you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder like nothing had happened.
One down. Four to go.
The invitation to the ball had arrived with the pomp and circumstance of an execution notice.
You had already survived assassination attempts (by fate and by your own refusal to engage with the five unhinged men vying for your hand), but now you were being asked to waltz? Like some graceful noble lady who had spent her entire life twirling through candlelit halls and not someone whose idea of âdancingâ was flailing in the kitchen at 2 AM while waiting for instant noodles to cook?
You tried to tell yourself, maybe the original heroineâs muscle memory will kick in.
It did not.
You attempted a single spin in your room and promptly tripped over the hem of your dress, landing face-first into the carpet with all the elegance of a sedated goose. The reality was undeniableâyou needed help.
Unfortunately, Deuce and Riddle, your two best hopes for structured, competent lessons, were drowning in their official duties. That left you with Trey(thankfully), Cater, and Ace.
Ace. The man who claimed he could âtotally waltzâ but then proceeded to move like he was dodging invisible potholes. He swore he was just "freestyling," which, sure, was a thing people didâjust not in 18th-century ballroom dancing.
Trey, ever the responsible elder brother figure, took pity on your plight and offered to teach you. You gratefully accepted, placing your hand in his, and the two of you began to move across the floor. Or, rather, Trey moved and you decimated his toes with every step.
Ace, watching from the sidelines, looked like he had been personally wronged by the universe.
His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on his drink? White-knuckled. If he had been any tenser, his soul might have ascended on the spot.
Cater, in contrast, was having the time of his life.
Sipping tea like a smug little gremlin, he watched the spectacle unfold with the kind of amusement normally reserved for reality TV drama. He did not care that Ace was clearly dying inside. In fact, it was making the tea taste better.
Meanwhile, Trey suffered.
He suffered so much.
You stepped on his foot. Again. You stepped on it without intent. Without malice. But with the weight of a hundred failed dance lessons.
âAh, youâre getting there,â Trey said with the patience of a saint, even as he subtly tried to guide you away from his crushed toes.
Ace twitched.
The evening ended with you being marginally better at dancing and Ace looking like he had been force-fed an entire lemon tree.
The next day, you arrived at Aceâs estate with the singular goal of dragging him into town for shenanigans.
Instead, you were met at the entrance by his butler, who, with a knowing wink that immediately put you on edge, informed you that Ace was âcurrently practicingâ and that you were "free to go in and see for yourself."
This, of course, set off all your mental alarms.
You pushed open the door just a crack, peeking inside, and what you saw nearly short-circuited your brain.
There, in the middle of the room, was Ace Trappola.
Dancing.
With a coat hanger.
He held it like a real partner, moving across the floor with surprising grace, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing into a frustrated pout whenever he missed a step.
You felt something unfamiliar rise in your chest. A warmth. A flutter. A sense of being deeply, irreversibly touched.
You immediately squashed the feeling. Crushed it under your heel like a bug. Incinerated it. You refused to let sentimentality win.
So, naturally, you cleared your throat and went straight for the teasing.
âWow, Ace. I didnât know you and the coat hanger were so close.â
Ace startled so hard he nearly dropped the poor inanimate object.
He turned to you, face flushing an almost adorable shade of pink, before scowling and attempting to play it cool.
âIâthisâI wasnât practicing for you or anything!â he scoffed, crossing his arms as if that would somehow erase the memory from your brain.
âOh, of course not,â you said, nodding sagely. âYou were obviously training to impress the coat hanger.â
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Refused to meet your eyes.
ââŚYou wanna practice together?â
And that was how you found yourself dancing with Ace in the dim glow of the evening light, his hands warm against yours, the two of you laughing every time you stumbled.
It was awkward. It was messy. It was weirdly fun.
And somewhere in the background, Aceâs butler was already reallocating the estateâs budget for your wedding.
You had successfully survived the dance.
This was, by all accounts, a miracle.
There had been no toe-crushing disasters, no tragic falls, no wardrobe malfunctions that would have made the noble ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about you for decades. Not even a single case of you flinging your arms out too enthusiastically and smacking a dukeâs son in the face.
You had defied fate.
And it definitely helped that your partner had been Aceâas much as that bruised your pride to admit. He was annoyingly decent at making sure you didnât trip over your own feet, even though he kept smirking the entire time like he was waiting for you to say something ridiculous like "Wow, Ace, you're so talented and charming and handsome, what would I ever do without you?"
You would rather perish.
So, once the dance ended, you immediately excused yourself and found a nice, solid chair to collapse into. Ace, good little fake boyfriend that he was, offered to get you both drinks, which was a very convenient excuse for you to not be near him for five minutes.
And that was when the Genius Strategist Prince swooped in.
You did not see him approach. You did not sense his presence. It was as if he had teleported into existence like some eldritch being fueled purely by narcissism and misplaced confidence.
One moment, you were sitting peacefully, and the nextâ
He was there.
The cursed arm wrapped around your shoulders. The infuriating smirk. The unbearable arrogance wafting off him like overpriced cologne.
Oh, this was bad.
"You looked quite beautiful on the dance floor tonight," he murmured, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Almost like a queen-to-be."
This man had the audacityâthe sheer, unholy nerveâto look at you like you were supposed to giggle and blush at that line instead of chewing through your own tongue in an effort not to commit a crime.
You had one option.
You fled.
You simply stood up and walked away, directly towards the only person in this cursed ballroom who could save you from this richly perfumed disaster of a man.
Ace.
Ace, who had perfectly timed his return with two glasses of something that was hopefully strong enough to erase the last ten seconds from your memory. Ace, who took one look at your expression, saw the absolute horror trailing behind you, and immediately understood the assignment.
Without missing a beat, he wrapped an arm around you.
Possessive. Protective. The very image of a devoted fake lover.
You had never been so grateful for his dramatic streak.
The prince, who had followed you like a particularly persistent case of food poisoning, bristled.
"Remove your arm," he commanded, his voice low and sharp.
Ace did not remove his arm.
In fact, he pulled you closer, tilting his head just slightly in a way that perfectly balanced smugness and challenge.
"Why should I take my hand off my partner?" he asked.
You, who had spent your entire life developing a survival instinct specifically for escaping situations like this, felt the distant whisper of a self-preservation alarm. That was still the crown prince, after all. Ace was many thingsâirritating, reckless, an absolute menaceâbut he was not immortal.
Fortunately, before you had to say anything, help arrived.
Across the ballroom, Riddle nodded.
To your left, Deuce gave a subtle thumbs-up.
The plan was in motion.
Phase One
From the far end of the ballroom, Trey, the royal chef, emerged, balancing an enormous cake on a silver tray. It was a towering, masterful creationâa true work of art, layers stacked high, delicately sculpted sugar decorations shimmering under the chandelier light.
A cake that, in mere moments, would be used as a weapon of mass destruction.
Trey took one fateful step.
Tripped (As planned)
And the entire cake, in all its elaborate, multi-tiered glory, toppled over.
Straight. Onto. The. Prince.
Ace immediately shielded you from the debris. His hand was firm on your back as he turned you slightly away from the chaos, and when you glanced up at him, he was grinning.
Smug. Smug. Smug.
Something in your stomach did something.
You ignored it.
The prince, meanwhile, stood there in horrified silence, cake and frosting dripping down his very expensive, very now-ruined clothes.
And then came Phase Two
Deuce, moving with the "concern" of a man who absolutely knew he was about to ruin someoneâs life, rushed forward.
"Your Highness," he said earnestly, holding out his own coat, "you should remove your clothes."
The entire ballroom went silent.
The prince, still picking fondant out of his hair, turned slowly.
"What?"
"Youâre covered in cake," Deuce explained, voice so painfully genuine that you nearly choked.
The prince, who absolutely would rather die than undress in public, refused.
Which was unfortunate. Because Deuce, bless his heart, did not take no for an answer.
He grabbed the princeâs jacket.
And pulled.
The ballroom collectively inhaled.
Because underneathâwhere there should have been the broad, powerful shoulders of a âwarrior prince,â where there should have been toned muscle sculpted by years of battle and strategyâ
Was nothing.
Not just nothingâan outright betrayal of physics and expectation.
The prince was built like a malnourished Victorian ghost.
His coatâonce the source of his so-called âstrong, masculine presenceââhad been heavily padded. Not just lightly stuffed, but outright engineered to create the illusion of bulging biceps and warrior-like stature.
Biceps, it was now evident, larger than his actual head.
The ballroom gasped.
The prince, red-faced and humiliated, did what any reasonable man would do when faced with public disgrace.
He ran.
You, Ace, Deuce, and your co-conspirators high-fived.
And the next morning, Cater, journalist extraordinaire, published an excruciatingly detailed article titled:
"From Brawn to Busted: The Princeâs Muscle Mirage!"
2 down. 3 to go.
It had been a regular morning. A peaceful morning. A morning where you had intended to do nothing more than descend the stairs like a normal, functioning member of society, have breakfast, and not make a complete spectacle of yourself before noon.
The universe had other plans.
One moment, you had been confidently stepping forward, and the nextâ
Betrayal.
Your foot had missed the step. Gravity, that treacherous, fickle force, had seized its chance. You had plummeted like a sack of potatoes launched off a moving carriage, limbs flailing, dignity abandoning ship before you even hit the floor.
And then you hit the floor.
Hard.
Ace, your beloved thorn in the side, had stood over you, blinking, until you groaned and weakly waved a hand to signal that you were probably not dead.
And that was when he had completely lost it.
He had laughed for ten minutes straight. A full, wheezing, tears-in-his-eyes, struggling-to-breathe kind of laugh, slapping his knee like an old man who just heard the funniest joke of his life. The servants had peered around corners in confusion. One poor maid had whispered, "Should we call a doctor?" Not for you. For Ace, because he was about to rupture a lung.
"You're fine," he gasped out eventually, still giggling like a goblin. "It's just a sprain, right? But your egoâ oh, your ego is never coming back from this one."
And that was how you had ended up here.
Ace had decidedâwithout your input, without even a semblance of human decencyâ that you were now a particularly large handbag.
He carried you everywhere.
There was no logical reason for this. You could still walk. You had one (1) slightly messed-up ankle, you were fine. But Ace, seeing the opportunity to be the worst person alive, had simply hoisted you up like a particularly unruly sack of flour and declared, "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?"
And he had not put you down since.
Which led to your current predicament.
You had planned to meet Riddle, Trey, and Cater for tea in the gardens, because you were a person of class and refinement, not some gremlin carried around like stolen treasure. But did that stop Ace? No. Of course not.
The three of them had been waiting peacefully in the garden, cups of tea in hand, enjoying their serene afternoonâ
And then Ace had strolled in, with you draped over his shoulder like a particularly expensive piece of luggage.
Silence.
The kind of silence that one might expect after watching a clown cartwheel directly into the kingâs court.
Trey looked concerned. Riddle looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. Cater, to absolutely no oneâs surprise, looked entertained.
And you? You had given up.
"You could just let me down, you know," you muttered, swatting at Aceâs shoulder in what you hoped was a dignified manner, though it probably looked more like a dying fish flopping around.
Ace grinned, because of course he did. "Nah. Too late. Youâre furniture now."
You scowled. "Then put me near the table so I can actually reach my tea, you absolute menaceâ"
Ace ignored you completely.
He dropped into a chair, still holding you.
This was your life now.
Trey, who had likely woken up hoping for a quiet afternoon, cleared his throat and asked, very diplomatically, "So⌠sprained ankle?"
"Tragic accident," Ace said, like he was recounting the tale of a fallen soldier. "There I was, just minding my own business, whenâboom. Disaster. Absolute catastrophe. They will sing songs about this one for years."
"You were laughing," you deadpanned.
"And now I'm grieving," Ace shot back.
Riddle, who had quite frankly had enough of both of you, massaged his temples.
Meanwhile, Cater, who had pulled out his camera at some point, was taking photos.
"This is gold," he muttered, already plotting his gossip column.
And then, just as you were mid-swat, trying to smack the smirk off Aceâs face while he cackled like a heathen, Riddle sighed under his breath, voice heavy with exhaustion and despair.
"They're so obvious," he muttered. "Sevens save us all."
Trey nodded solemnly. Cater just grinned.
It had been a perfectly normal day.
Which, of course, meant disaster was imminent.
You were standing in the grand hall, sipping a totally normal, non-poisoned cup of tea (probably), when you felt it. That eerie, spine-chilling sensation. The distinct, unsettling awareness that you were being watched.
Slowly, you turned your head.
A pair of glowing eyes peered at you from behind an indoor potted plant.
You sighed. Loudly. "Viscount, I can see you."
"Tch," the Viscount hissed, stepping out of his entirely inadequate hiding spot. "So perceptive⌠as expected of my fated beloved."
As if to ruin the illusion entirely, he tripped on his own cape and had to grab onto the plant for support. The entire thing tipped over with a thunderous CRASH.
Silence.
A servant slowly turned to look at him, unblinking.
The Viscount, sprawled across the floor, cleared his throat. "Pretend you did not see that."
You rubbed your temples. "What do you want?"
He rose to his feet dramaticallyâor at least, he tried. His foot got tangled in his cape again, and he had to do an awkward little hop to untangle himself before he could finally regain his dignity (what little he had left).
"I have come to confess," he intoned, "the depths of my undying love for you."
A dramatic wind blew through the hall. (Despite the fact that all the windows were closed.)
You braced yourself. This was going to be painful.
"From the moment I first laid eyes upon you," the Viscount continued, stepping forward (but nearly tripping over a rug). "I knew that you and I were bound by fate."
He gripped his chest. "Your beauty, your grace, your ability to evade me every time I attempt to watch over you from the shadows⌠truly, you are like a rare and precious bird, always just out of reach!"
"You mean because I run away every time you try to talk to me?" you deadpanned.
"Exactly!" he said, passionately. "Such a clever game of cat and mouse we play!"
You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.
Cater was, once again, taking pictures of this entire trainwreck. Deuce had just pulled out a chair, grabbed a snack, and was watching like it was a soap opera.
"But no more!" the Viscount declared. "Today, I shall break this cycle and claim my rightful place at your side!"
He took a bold step forwardâ
âand promptly slipped on the fallen leaves from the potted plant.
There was a moment of absolute silence.
ThenâTHUMP.
He faceplanted straight into the marble floor.
Cater wheezed. Deuce actually fell out of his chair. Riddle was muttering something about public executions. Trey looked like he was reconsidering his entire life.
But the Viscount?
He slowly pushed himself up, nose bleeding, expression unfazed.
"A minor setback," he rasped, wiping the blood off his face with his own cape like some kind of tragic war hero. "Love⌠is pain."
You exhaled deeply. "Alright, you know what?" You straightened your posture, voice heavy with overwhelming sorrow. "My dear Viscount⌠if only you had come to me sooner."
His breath hitched. "You meanâ?"
"If only fate were kinder," you continued, placing a hand on your chest. "If only my heart were not alreadyâŚtaken."
Fake gasps echoed through the hall.
The Viscount staggered. "No⌠it cannot be!"
"I am afraid so," you whispered. "For I⌠I have already pledged my love toâŚ"
You spun dramaticallyâand pointed straight at Ace.
Ace, who immediately choked on his drink.
Ace, who had agreed to fake date you but was now staring at you like you had just struck him with a bolt of divine judgment.
Caterâs camera zoomed in on his expression.
You turned dramatically, seizing Aceâs arm with a grip that could bend steel. "My darling fiancĂŠ, my heart, my sun and stars!" you declared, throwing yourself against him like a maiden in distress. "Forgive me for not introducing you soonerâthis is my betrothed, Ace Trappola!"
Ace made a sound like a cat getting drop-kicked across a room.
"WHAT."
The Viscount looked like someone had just run him through with a broadsword.
"I know," you said, voice trembling with unspeakable woe. "It seems impossible. Unthinkable. But love, my dear Viscount, is a force beyond comprehension. Who are we to fight against fate?"
Ace was still making distressed noises. Riddle looked like he was five seconds away from committing homicide.
"Noâno, this cannot be!" The Viscount staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. "You would choose him over me?"
You gripped Aceâs collar, pulling him until your foreheads nearly touched. "How could I not?" you whispered. "Look at him. Look at hisâhis, um. His face!"
Ace mouthed: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?
"His personality!" you continued, wildly grasping for reasons. "Hisâhis unparalleled ability to be so Ace-like at all times!"
"I hate every single word coming out of your mouth," Ace muttered.
"And most of all," you gasped, voice hushed. "The way he carries me when I sprain my ankle. A true gentleman. A man among men."
The grand hall erupted into chaos.
Ace visibly short-circuited. "Iâ WHAT??"
Cater's hands visibly shook as he tried to keep taking pictures. Deuce had fully dropped his snack. The Viscount let out a dramatic, heartbroken wail.
"Engaged?!" the Viscount gasped. "But how? When?!"
You clutched Aceâs hand tighter. "Last night."
"LAST NIGHT??" Ace screeched.
You shot him a look. Ace, whose entire face was on fire, gulped and quickly switched tactics.
"Aha⌠aha⌠yeah, totally!" He threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning through his existential crisis. "We got engaged last night! Super romantic and all that! Just me and my belovedâ" his voice cracked, "âwho I love so much!"
You patted his chest reassuringly. "See? True love."
The Viscount staggered back. His entire world was shattering. The intensity of his emotional turmoil was so strong that he tripped over his own cape again and went tumbling down the nearby staircase.
It took twenty entire seconds for him to hit the bottom.
More silence.
Then, from below: "Love⌠is painâŚ"
Ace, still holding you, whispered, "What did you just do to me?"
You turned, smiling sweetly. "I just made you my fiancĂŠ, Ace."
Ace felt faint. His heart had been going a normal amount of fast when he agreed to fake date you, but this? This was illegal.
Meanwhile, Cater was already writing the next article.
The night had started so normally. Just you, your expensive, holy-grail skincare routine, and the unwavering determination to emerge from this ritual looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. You had your headband on, your fluffy robe wrapped around you, and the greenish-white sludge of your face mask setting into a crusty layer of beauty and self-care.
Then Ace Trappola happened.
He kicked the door open like he was the protagonist of a spaghetti western, took one look at you, and lost his entire mind.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" he gasped, immediately doubling over in laughter. "Oh my god, you look like a haunted doll."
You did not hesitate. You lunged at him like an apex predator.
And despite all his athleticism and street-rat reflexes, Ace had not been prepared for an attack from a fully masked-up, vengeance-driven individual armed with a whole tub of premium skincare.
"WAITâNOâ"
It was too late.
You straddled his lap, pressed his shoulders down onto your bed, and slathered the mask onto his stupid, laughing face with all the delicacy of an artist painting their magnum opus.
"See?" you said sweetly, coating his nose with a dramatic flourish. "Now weâre both glowing."
Ace wanted to talk backâ wanted to make a joke, to tell you off, to do anything but sit here like a dumb, frozen idiot while you cupped his face, held his chin so gently, and smoothed the mask over his cheekbones like he was something precious and breakable.
And he was losing it.
Your legs were slung over his lap. His back was against your bed. Your hand was on his jaw, tilting his face however you wanted. And Ace, the very same Ace who laughed at every romantic in the kingdom for being cringe and stupid, was about two seconds away from throwing his dignity out the window and leaning into your touch.
Because all he could see, smell, and feel was you.
Your voice kept going, rambling about something stupid and inconsequentialâsome royal drama, a new gossip column, your thoughts on different brands of facial cleanserâbut Ace couldnât process a single word because his entire stupid, traitorous heart was screaming at him to justâjustâ
The revelation slammed into him like a meteor. A deadly, world-ending, history-changing impact that reduced his brain cells to rubble and left behind only the smoking wreckage of a man who was well and truly screwed.
This was not a platonic feeling.
This was the opposite of a platonic feeling.
And yet, instead of saying anything, instead of introspecting like a sane person, he just let you keep talking, let himself bask in the feeling of your fingers on his face, let himself sink into the sheer stupidity of his predicament.
By the time he could regain enough motor function to think about moving, it was too late.
You had both somehow, inexplicably, fallen asleep.
The morning arrived with the unmistakable sound of high-pitched giggles.
You cracked open a single bleary eye, your body heavy with sleep, andâoh.
Oh no.
Ace was snuggled up against your arm, his face relaxed in a way you had never seen before. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something painfully soft and vulnerable.
His hair was a mess, sticking up in ridiculous angles, but somehow, it made him look even cuter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder, his arms curled slightly around yours, one leg lazily slung over yours like he had every right to use you as a makeshift pillow.
And the worst part?
It wasnât even weird.
It felt⌠right.
And that was when it hit you.
Like a meteor. Like an act of god. Like the universe itself had conspired to wait until you were at your most defenseless before smacking you in the face with one singular, undeniable truth.
You were in love with Ace Trappola.
You. Loved. Ace.
How unfortunate.
You had half a mind to violently shake him awake, make him take responsibility for making you feel this wayâbut then he muttered something in his sleep, something unintelligible, and shifted closer, pressing his nose against your arm.
You stopped breathing.
The maids were still standing at the door, watching, waiting for you to react.
You slowly raised a hand.
And, with the elegance of a queen issuing a decree, you waved them away.
Five more minutes wouldnât hurt.
The Duke of the North was an annual disaster. Like a migrating bird that exclusively flew south to be annoying, he only visited the capital once a yearâand every single time, it was to do one thing: propose to you.
This would have been flattering, except for the fact that you had been rejecting him since the dawn of time. Yet, for some reason, he was deeply convinced that, one day, you would simply change your mind upon seeing him standing there, brooding dramatically in his tailored, imported-from-a-country-that-doesnât-even-exist coats.
He did not take rejection well.
Of course, you never answered his letters. Why would you? His correspondence was a tragic novel in real-time, each letter trying and failing to sound aloof, with absolutely zero success.
"I suppose you are busy, as I am also very busy, thinking about extremely important things, such as war and finance and not at all about why you have not replied to me in the last six months." "Should you choose to acknowledge my existence, I will, of course, consider taking time out of my incredibly packed schedule to respond (though I have already cleared next Tuesday for you, just in case)." "It is of no consequence to me whether you reply. However, I have sent my fastest courier, so you may want to respond before he breaks his legs trying to reach me before nightfall."
Pathetic.
And now, as expected, here he was again.
And as always, he came prepared.
This time, he had doubled down on his "love can be bought" philosophy.
A solid gold chairâbecause âonly the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.â
An entirely new breed of horse, bred specifically for you, because "standard horses are beneath you."
A fleet of ships. Why? No one knew. You were not a sailor. You had never even been on a boat.
Riddle, who had been an unfortunate witness to this entire spectacle, had been slowly turning redder and redder, not out of anger, but out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. He looked like he was debating whether to intervene or let natural selection take its course.
Meanwhile, the villainess, who had been throwing you dirty looks since the Dukeâs arrival, stood nearby. It didnât take long for you to realize whyâshe liked him. She wanted him.
You turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately.
Your expression said: âLady, I donât even want him.â
Her expression said: âYou lying harlot.â
And before you could even think of clarifying that you had no interest in this walking gold reserve, the situation somehow got worse.
Ace appeared out of nowhere, grabbed your hand, and, with the audacity of a man who had never once in his life considered the consequences of his actions, declared with full confidence:
"Oh, sorry, we already got married."
Riddle choked on air.
The Duke froze, mid-proposal, like a glitching NPC in a poorly coded game. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were about to say something but his brain was actively refusing to process the information.
"You," he said hoarsely, like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. "What?"
You nodded solemnly, forcing yourself to look as heartbreakingly sincere as possible. "We even have a dog," you said.
Ace, who had waited his entire life for a bit like this, effortlessly raised the stakes.
"Two dogs," he added, gripping your hand even tighter.
You smiled sweetly, as if recounting precious memories of a long and happy marriage. "Three, actually."
The Dukeâs breathing audibly shortened.
Riddle buried his face in his hands and muttered, âOh my god, make it stop.â
"WHAT?!"
Ace sighed, the weariness of a devoted husband weighing down on him. "We also have six kids."
The Duke, who had already been dangerously close to a stroke, seemed to visibly glitch.
"SIX?! BUT IT HASNâT EVEN BEEN A YEAR!"
Ace, seeing an opportunity and deciding to go all in, dramatically gestured at a group of stray cats on the street.
"There they are," he said, with the utmost conviction.
The Duke followed his gaze, slowly, hesitantly, as if he already knew he was about to regret it.
There, on the sidewalk, were six very dirty, very chaotic stray cats.
One of them, making full eye contact with him, immediately started hacking up a hairball. Another was biting its own tail, because it had seemingly forgotten that it was attached to its body. A third was somehow climbing a wall upside down, defying both gravity and logic.
The Duke completely lost his mind.
"YOUâYOU HAVEâYOUâVE BIRTHED FELINE OFFSPRING?!"
Riddle made a strangled noise. His entire body convulsed with the effort of holding back laughter.
Ace did not hesitate. "Yeah, we just love them so much," he said, as if this were a completely normal and factual statement. "Fatherhood changes a man, yâknow?"
"Don't forget our youngest," you added helpfully, pointing at a cat stuck in a flower pot.
Ace wiped an imaginary tear. "That's little Gregory. He's the smart one."
At this point, Riddle was not even trying to stop laughing anymore. He had completely given up, his usual decorum shattered beyond repair.
The Duke, however, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. His face twisted into pure devastation. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately closed it, shaking his head in silent agony.
And then, without another wordâhe left.
Ace, smug beyond words, turned to you, grinning. "That went well."
Riddle, who had just witnessed a full-scale psychological takedown using nothing but sheer absurdity, wiped a tear from his eye. "You two are insane," he muttered, shaking his head.
Ace didnât let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.
Ace doesnât know what the hell is going on.
Heâs always liked you. A little.
A manageable amount. A totally ignorable amount. The kind of dumb little crush that normal people have. The kind you lock in a box, throw into the ocean, and then blow up the ocean for good measure.
But then you woke up from your fainting accident and became his worst nightmare.
Because somehow, in that brief unconscious state, you became ten times more interesting. More chaotic. More fun.
You met his sarcasm with even faster comebacks. You encouraged his bad ideas. You had absolutely no self-preservation. You went from exasperatedly tolerating his nonsense to actively participating in it, and it was the worst thing you could have possibly done to him.
Because now?
Now heâs the one barely keeping up.
You match him perfectlyâstep for step, disaster for disaster. If heâs instigating, youâre escalating. If he cracks a joke, you one-up him. When he nudges you in the ribs, you shove him into a bush.
And when you grab his arm, lean in close, and whisper, "Hey, letâs cause some problems," his brain just shuts the hell down.
Heâs so ruined.
And the thing is?
Ace has done this to himself.
Because when he suggested pretending to be your lover, he genuinely thought it was a great idea. A genius plan, even.
Heâd fake it, get it out of his system, and then tragically move on once you found someone else.
Except now heâs holding your hand in public.
Now heâs whispering in your ear just to make you laugh.
Now heâs calling you âsweetheartâ and âdarlingâ and âmy loveââand you play along like itâs a game, and every time, his heart detonates like an unstable potion.
At this point, if you actually fell for someone else?
Ace thinks he might literally die.
No, really. He would simply perish. Collapse. Expire. He would crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been violently severed and haunt the castle as the worldâs most bitter, lovesick ghost.
Cupid was somewhere, rolling on the floor, wheezing.
The other day, you smiled at him for too long, and he forgot how to walk and almost tripped.
You called him âAceyâ once, and he almost bit through his own tongue.
One time, you said, "I feel safest when Iâm with you," and he blacked out for a full thirty seconds.
You took a sip from his drink the other day, and he had to go lie down.
And now youâre standing beside him at some stupid jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace with that gleam in your eyes, and Ace is staring at you like an absolute idiot.
He canât stop thinking about how pretty you look under the market lights.
How heâd buy you every single piece of jewelry in the damn kingdom if you asked.
How his entire soul is in shambles because heâs standing next to you thinking, "Oh no. I actually, genuinely, idiotically am in love."
Ace Trappola, Ace âFake-Dating-Was-A-Good-Ideaâ Trappola, is staring at you thinking:
"Oh, Trappola. You absolute dumbass. Youâre in love."
And then you turn to him, all bright-eyed and smiling, and ask, "Ace, do you think this would suit me?"
And he almost chokes on his own tongue.
Because yes.
Yes, it would suit you.
So would every other necklace in existence. So would a crown. So would the title of Supreme Ruler of the Universe, if he could somehow get that for you.
But instead of saying that, he just shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to look normal, and mutters, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you like it, just get it already."
And you laugh.
And Ace Trappola is never going to recover from this.
The worst of the lot finally appears.
You had dealt with the Brooding Duke who thought love could be purchased, endured the Prince who wept into his lace handkerchief at every rejection, and even managed to shake off the Yandere who believed true love was an elaborate chess game. But nothingânothingâcould have prepared you for the Drama King Knight.
He stood before you in the garden, his impractically long cape billowing in the completely windless afternoon, because he had, no doubt, hired a peasant to stand just off-camera fanning him.
His swordâwhich was capable of splitting mountains but had only ever been used to dramatically point at celestial bodiesâglinted in the sun. He looked at you with eyes that had definitely rehearsed this exact expression in the mirror for three hours.
"Fairest of all," he said, already halfway through a monologue you did not want to hear. "I have braved the perils ofâ"
You sighed dramatically, cutting him off. "A single brush of your hand might shatter my frail mortal bones."
The Knight visibly trembled. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air like he was about to faint. "Youâre right⌠I must protect you. From myself."
Riddle, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Do that. From very, very far away."
And for a moment, it seemed like that would be enough. The Knight turned away, his cape swishing dramatically. You could practically hear the imaginary background music swelling, the curtains closing, the credits rolling.
Then he whirled back around. God, why do they always whirl back around?
"But if I cannot be with you in body," he declared, voice shaking with raw emotion, "then I shall remain by your side in spirit. Our souls, forever entwined. Our hearts, eternally wed!"
You blinked. "What."
"Yes!" He threw an arm toward the heavens, pointing at the sun like he was about to challenge it to a duel. "We shall be together in spirit! No matter where you go, I shall always be watching! Always waiting! Like the moon follows the tide, I shallâ"
Alright. You had tried to reject him normally. You had been reasonable. But clearly, reason had no place here.
Riddle sighed. "Do whatever you're about to do. Just⌠make it quick."
You nodded grimly. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.
You squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and clutched your chest like a woman stricken with a terrible, unknowable curse.
"No," you whispered. "You donât understand."
The Knight faltered. "Understand⌠what?"
You threw an arm over your eyes. "I am cursed! Any man who loves me shall be turned into a⌠a⌠a goose."
Silence.
The Knight blinked at you. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His sword, which had been dramatically trembling in his grip, clattered to the ground.
"A⌠a goose?" he repeated.
You solemnly nodded.
And then, as prearranged, Deuce rushed off to fetch the goose.
The Knight looked between you and Deuceâs retreating figure, his expression one of dawning horror, like a man realizing he had proposed to a person who was actually an eldritch horror in disguise.
Deuce returned, struggling slightly because the goose had absolutely no interest in being part of this nonsense.
But this was not just any goose. This was the Emergency Goose.
Ace, hiding behind a tree like the gremlin he was, gave you a solemn nod.
Deuce carefully lifted the goose, revealing the final touchâthe little red heart painted onto its cheek.
Riddle rubbed his temples. "I hate that you were prepared for this."
"This," you declared gravely, "is Ace."
The Knight reeled. "No. That⌠That cannot be!"
The goose honked.
"Yes," you continued, "he loved me once. And this was his fate."
A perfect beat of silence.
And then, from behind the tree, Ace whimpered, "Save me."
The Knightâa man who had once stood before a charging wyvern and laughed in the face of deathâlet out a shriek so bloodcurdling it startled every bird within a five-mile radius.
And then, cape billowing, he turned and ran.
Not a noble retreat. Not a dignified exit. No. Full-speed sprint. He shoved a confused maid out of the way. He leapt over a market stall. A small child pointed and laughed as he fled, but the Knight did not slow down, because his heartâonce so full of love and poetryâwas now full of terror.
Terror of you.
Terror of your goose.
Terror of the idea that at any moment, he too might sprout feathers and begin honking at the moon.
You, Ace, Deuce, Riddle, and the goose watched him vanish into the horizon.
A long silence followed.
Deuce set the goose down. The goose, finally free from its obligations, pecked him on the shin and waddled off.
Ace emerged from behind the tree, cackling. "Did you see his face?! Bro really thought I turned into a goose!"
Riddle sighed the sigh of a man who was simply too tired for this nonsense. "You two are the worst people I have ever met."
"You love us," you said.
"I do not."
Ace slung an arm over your shoulder. "You totally do."
Riddle turned on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction.
But you saw it. You absolutely saw it.
A single, fleeting twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
Freedom. Sweet, unshackled, unburdened freedom.
No more men in capes dramatically reciting poetry at you. No more gold furniture being delivered to your doorstep. No more wild-eyed knights trying to prove their devotion by fighting literal bears in your honor. No more deranged suitors appearing at your window like particularly uncoordinated bats.
You were free.
And yetâ
As you stood in the gardens, bathed in the golden glow of your well-earned peace, you felt⌠unsettled. Uneasy. Almostâupset.
Which made no sense. You had spent months rejecting these lunatics. You had faked engagements, lied through your teeth, orchestrated elaborate hoaxes, and weaponized a goose. You had done everything in your power to be rid of them, and it worked.
So why, in the face of your glorious victory, did you feel like you'd lost something?
And then, like a lightning bolt to the brain, it hit you.
Ace.
This meant no more holding hands in public to âconvinceâ people. No more cheek kisses for the sake of believability. No more stupid, infuriating, wonderful Ace, grinning at you like you hung the damn moon.
It was over. Your fake dating/marriage/engagement (depending on the day and the level of your theatrics) had served its purpose.
And now it was gone.
The realization hit like a carriage crash.
You were an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.
Because somewhere between the first fake kiss in front of a suitor, the first time he laced his fingers through yours, the first time he winked at you like you were his favorite person in the entire world, you had fallen for him.
And now, standing in the wreckage of your successful campaign of repelling suitors, you realized that it was either confess right now⌠or take this to your grave.
Your horribly embarrassing, entirely unavoidable, painfully obvious feelings for Ace Trappola.
Ace is happy for you. He really, really is.
Youâre finally free. No more unhinged declarations of love from men who have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. No more dodging elaborate marriage proposals like a rogue in a dungeon raid. No more looking over your shoulder, expecting some cape-wearing lunatic to be reciting poetry in your honor.
Most of them think youâre taken. One thinks youâre cursed.
It worked. Youâre safe. Youâre free.
So why does Ace feel like heâs the one who lost?
He was kind of hoping it would take longer. Just a little bit. A few more weeks, maybe. Another month, if he was lucky. Because every day you had to pretend to be his meant another day you were in his arms. Another day he got to hold your hand in public and call it necessity. Another day he could press a kiss to your cheek without consequences. Another day of you being his.
And now? Now it was over.
And he doesnât know how to go back.
How is he supposed to just⌠be your best friend Ace again? How is he supposed to look at you and not wonder what it couldâve been? How is he supposed to stand beside you like nothing has changed when everything has changed for him?
Because now, every time he looks at you, he just wants to grab you and kiss you until youâre the only thing he can taste. He wants to pull you close, whisper all the things he never let himself say. He wants everything.
But most of all, he knowsâknows deep in his bonesâthat if you ever fall for someone else, it will destroy him.
He has to confess right now or take it to his grave.
Youâre running like a madman. Like some kind of deranged romantic heroine whoâs just realized sheâs been in love with her childhood friend all along. Your dress is catching on every stray branch, your hairâs a mess, and you probably look like youâve barely survived a war. But none of that matters.
Because Ace is running too.
You see him, just as wrecked as you, his coat unevenly buttoned, his hair windswept, his face flushed and frantic like heâs been sprinting for miles. And maybe he has. Maybe you both haveâmetaphorically and literally.
You skid to a stop, panting, staring at each other like two idiots who have finally realized the answer to a question they shouldâve known all along. Ace looks at you, his breath shuddering, his eyes wide and teary like he canât believe youâre actually here. And maybe itâs the exhaustion, maybe itâs the fact that youâre both half out of your minds with feelings, but you throw caution to the wind.
Youâve survived up till now on sheer audacity. Maybe it can take you further.
So you kiss him.
And for a second, thereâs nothing. Just the stunned stillness of the world as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.
And then heâs grabbing you, pulling you in like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go. His hands are tangled in your clothes, your hair, desperate, shaking, like heâs trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. He kisses you like heâs been waiting for this moment forever, like heâs terrified itâs all a dream and any second now, heâll wake up.
You pull away for airâand he chases after your lips, stealing another kiss before you can even take a full breath.
This one is deeper, slower, but just as desperate. Itâs like heâs pouring everything heâs ever felt into you, like heâs afraid to stop, like heâs trying to tell you everything he never could with words. And you get itâbecause you feel the same way.
When he finally pulls back, breathless and shaking with emotion, you press one more soft kiss against his lips, and then you say it.
âI love you.â
Ace lets out a watery laugh, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins like a fool. His eyes are shining, and he cups your face like he canât believe youâre real.
âWhat took you so long?â
And then he kisses you again.
The morning after your dramatic, borderline cinematic love confession, you and Ace walk into the usual meeting spot grinning like absolute fools.
Youâre both trying to act normal, like the world hasnât completely shifted on its axis, like Ace hadnât kissed you breathless under the stars, like you hadnât confessed to each other in a moment so romantic it couldâve been a grand finale scene in a novel. But normalcy is impossible because the second you walk in, hand-in-hand, everyone immediately knows.
Riddle, the most composed of the group, simply pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharply, and mutters, âGreat Sevens, finally.â His tone is not congratulatoryâit is the tone of a man who has suffered for far too long, who has borne witness to the sheer idiocy of your mutual pining and is just relieved that he no longer has to endure it.
Trey, ever the calm and collected one, gives you a small, knowing smile and nods. âCongrats,â he says simply, because Trey has probably seen this coming since the very beginning. He is the type of man who could predict the weather based on the way the wind blows and has likely bet money on this exact outcome.
Cater, on the other hand, reacts as expected.
âLETâS GO, MY MAN!â he hoots, high-fiving Ace so hard that Ace actually staggers backward. âFinally out of the friendzone, huh? This is a historic moment. A certified win.â Heâs already pulling out his camera, preparing to document this for the masses, and you barely manage to swat it away in time.
And then thereâs Deuce. Sweet, exhausted Deuce.
He doesnât cheer, or exclaim, or even try to congratulate you. No, Deuce just sits there, staring at the both of you like heâs just been freed from an unspeakable burden. Like heâs been carrying the weight of Aceâs obliviousness and denial on his shoulders for so long that he no longer knows what to do with himself now that itâs over.
âI donât have to hear him deny his feelings anymore,â Deuce whispers, voice thick with emotion. âIâm free.â
Ace shoves him.
And as your friends start heckling you, teasing you, yelling at you to get a room, you turn to Ace, grinning at him as he grins right back.
And in that moment, you canât help but think back to the mysterious, rollerblading grandma who is the reason you even ended up here. The woman who defied all logic and physics, who sent you hurtling into this world with nothing but sheer willpower and questionable urban transportation.
You close your eyes, sending a silent thanks to her.
She was a real one.
Series Masterlist ; Masterlist
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Lance and Allura besties makes my heart full đĽšđ Figure the team probably had a chill day and let loose. This exchange probably happened sometime after Allura sensed Lanceâs mark on Keith and before the identity reveal.
This AU is always so much fun for me. Sure and Indelible is my baby and I love it dearly okay đđ
[These are just stills from a Reel I made on insta. You can view it with the matching audio HERE.]
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another one, 'cause i'm a hypocrite

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????????

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they've never had sex
#reblog#fishfingersandscarves#arcane#jayvik#jayce talis#viktor arcane#mel medarda#this is so stupid sdhfjdsfgfg#comic#league of legends#jayce/viktor#long post#so sorry there is no good way to format this
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If your husband actually signs the divorce papers you gave him you might just need to start an apocalypse about itâŚ
Divorce Era Jayvik, my beloved, my dearestâŚ
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i'ved broken my glasses, I may aswell just die
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sup babes, wanna see my tears and blood?




so yeah, still plagged with the absolute war that's raging in my head as I fight my artblock with tooth and nail, but altleast the drawing got out of my imagination

(also, the text says:
Mabel: Hey, what was your brother's name again?
p&f reader: Damian.
Damian: the gnomes were stealing ur cleaning rag of a shirt.
Dipper: Ah! (Damn I need to put a bell on you!) And it's not a "cleaning rag"!
I did not want to write on the trees and neither put another post It, so here is the rest:
Damian 2: also, you smell. Please consider a shower when we arrive at the "shack." (âthe shack it's said in a derogatory tone) - (rich boy đ)
Dipper 2: And you stink! Have you looked at your hair? It's a mess!
*at the other side of the forest*
p&f reader 2: why? why do you ask?
Mabel, blushing 2: his nose it's cuteâĄ
p&f reader 3: đ¤ (is this a crush or is she just being nice?)
also, more of these two â

and another take on vamp!reader

this is all! I'll see you all again when @yanmuffins drops another bomb of her fics, bibye!
#!!!!!! omg THIS IS SO PRETTY!!!!#love seeing your drawings <3#the swirly pattern on the trees makes this drawing feel so whimsical#damian subtly bullying dipper and i bet he's not even trying to. that's just how he talks.#also vampire! reader my beloved#â#gosh you're definetly stroking my ego right now#had to fight tooth and nail to get this done#might draw some more#'cause work today looks kinda slow and i finally have some time do just draw#can u see me bouncing in your walls while i wait for the p&f reader fic?#also oblivious and kinda slow at relationships p&f reader for the win!#It'll be a shame when the batfam finds out about it and probably ruins all her fun#good thing she's pretty lucky and has a detective agent as a pet
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sup babes, wanna see my tears and blood?




so yeah, still plagged with the absolute war that's raging in my head as I fight my artblock with tooth and nail, but altleast the drawing got out of my imagination

(also, the text says:
Mabel: Hey, what was your brother's name again?
p&f reader: Damian.
Damian: the gnomes were stealing ur cleaning rag of a shirt.
Dipper: Ah! (Damn I need to put a bell on you!) And it's not a "cleaning rag"!
I did not want to write on the trees and neither put another post It, so here is the rest:
Damian 2: also, you smell. Please consider a shower when we arrive at the "shack." (âthe shack it's said in a derogatory tone) - (rich boy đ)
Dipper 2: And you stink! Have you looked at your hair? It's a mess!
*at the other side of the forest*
p&f reader 2: why? why do you ask?
Mabel, blushing 2: his nose it's cuteâĄ
p&f reader 3: đ¤ (is this a crush or is she just being nice?)
also, more of these two â

and another take on vamp!reader

this is all! I'll see you all again when @yanmuffins drops another bomb of her fics, bibye!
#my drawings#yandere batfam#platonic yandere batfam#yandere batfamily#gravity falls#i fckn loved this so much actually#my fingers are so stained right now-#it's not even funny#a shoutout to yanmuffins for putting up with me ramblingat her so I could procrastinate at random moments#we listen and we don't judge#apparently#also sorry for the english#it is not my first language#i'm brazilian
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taking my shield (my sketchbook) and my sword (my pen) and fighting the demons (the artblock) till I die (till I get bored again)
#my post#the artblock is really killing me#can u see me tweaking out of my mind at half of my unfinished drawings?#am i living or am i waiting for the fic yanmuffins it's cooking right now as we speak?#let's see
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hello!! small update: iâm feeling a lot better but iâve also been very busy with holiday preparations, gift hunting, work and all that. but iâll be back soon to reply to some asks and get back to writing. canât wait to get that first phineas and ferb! reader chapter out.
Ë ÝđĽ(Ëľ â˘Ě á´ - Ëľ ) Ë ÝđĽ ÝË
#they're back#literally my christmas present#I'm glad you're not sick anymore!#being sick really is the worst
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i wish tumblr had the " search from oldest to newest " function for the search feature, mainly for old/dead fandoms
like let us be able to read an old supernatural fanfic from 2012 please đ
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forgotten confession..
#gravity falls#fiddauthor#stanford pines#fiddleford hadron mcgucket#animation#animatic#this is awesome
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Please,đđ¨đđ¨đđ¨đđ¨đ
next Tuesday I need 1000 thousand euros so that my father can leave Gaza to Egypt for surgery after he was shot by an Israeli sniper.
https://gofund.me/68daab3e
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URGENT HELPđ¨đ¨đ¨đđľđ¸
Hello,
How do you do ? I hop to be in a good condition.
This is my special campaign
We hope to help us by donating or sharing to others.
Every donation makes a different even if it a small.
As you know, the war began on October 7 and lasted ten months. During this period, we were unable to obtain food, drink, or treatment because we did not have money.
There is no source of income for the family at the present time, so we are unable to buy food, clean water, and medicine, especially after we are afflicted with the ongoing infectious diseases spread in the north like Hepatitis C disease.
Our house has been damaged a lot since the beginning of the war. We are from the north of Gaza and we are still in the north and have not displaced to the south. We displaced 10 times from place to another seeking to safety .
We hope for your help and support, even if only a little.đđ
Vetted by Femme intifada on telegram.
Also, vetted by gazavetters on tumbler and my number is #60
My campaign was recently vetted by butterfly effect group on Instagram and my number is #964
This is the link if you would to read our story well đđ
https://gofund.me/4e896ac1
Thank you all
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lovely conspiracy mentioner young man âĽď¸
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