#bbdfanfic

The fact that Mad Dog Convince was somehow still standing and not bare and closed is beyond you. But you know this place won’t stand forever, not if no real change happens. You’re not worried though. You’ll return back to the farm you grew up at and resume your life there.

You’re only here because your grandmother wanted you to get out more. Out of the countryside and try to thrive in the wild city. City life didn’t really interest you, maybe it did for a brief time when you were a kid, but as you got older you lost the appeal in it, more content with the peace of your home. But it was your grandmother’s dying wish, and you’d do anything for her.

The city was overwhelming and noisy. You really didn’t like it, and part of it definitely was because you were terribly homesick and missing your trusty stead. You ended up living in the poorer side of the city in a decrepit little apartment that had roaches, and needless to say you opted out within a month. You weren’t interested in college, nor did you want to be in that much debt for it either. You got a taste of the city and knew you wouldn’t dwell in it for long.

Mad Dog was nestled just slightly outside the city and only a 30 minute walk to the motel you stayed at. Again, you’re not sure why you’re working in this decaying store, Ronnie Joe certainly didn’t deserve you, and you definitely don’t go outta your way to try and save it. It’s not your store to care about.

But perhaps it’s because you know once this store inevitably closes it’ll be the end of the “city chapter” in your life. You’ll take your truck and head right back on home, going about your life and duties, and being a content hermit. Your grandma’s last wish would be fulfilled.

You didn’t bother forming strong attachments either, because you’re conditioned to the solitude. Your one real friend was back at your place keeping an eye on everything for you. Malcolm was enough for you. But you managed to befriend your lousy coworker’s sister. You liked her spunk and she was definitely easy on the eyes, and she took a liking to your no nonsense attitude and your fire. Amelia is her name, very fitting.

“Yo, pretty girl, you got a charger?” Lane asks, his head poking out from the storage room, his ice blue eyes standing out first before his noir hair does.

You give him a dismissive look, returning to country the drawer. “And if I did, why would I give it to ya?”

Footsteps shuffle closer, the storage room door closing with a soft thump. Then comes Lane’s voice. “Aww, I thought we were friends. We’ve practically been hanging out for a month.”

“We have different meanin’s for friends, Lane. Cause you definitely ain’t my friend. Yer a lousy coworker I put up with,” you reply, your voice calm and straight to the point.

But of course Lane outwardly doesn’t express hurt, he’s only amused like a dog engaged in tug of war.

“Playing hard to get still I see,” he sighs, smirking gleefully. “But I’m not completely lousy. I clean sometimes and man the register.”

“After I nag you like a miserable wife,” you reply back, the ink pen singing as you write down the amount in the register.

“I’d love for you to be my wife. I’d be well taken care of for sure,” Lane agreed, leaning against the counter.

“So you admit I’d be miserable being married to you?” your smirk.

“You wouldn’t be miserable in bed with me~,” he winks.

“Dirty dog.”

“Only yours, Babe.”

Although he’s a bum of a coworker, at least he’s amusing sometimes. His nice face keeps him from getting beaten black and blue.

“Alright get outta my face, boy. Go scrub them toilets. It’s yer turn. And if ya don’t I’ll call yer sister up here to have her come embarrass ya.”

At that Lane groans like a whiny brat, dragging his feet to the bathrooms after getting the supplies, you smirking with triumphant.

With nothing else to do you man the front, idle until a customer comes. You only managed to find 4 words in your crossword puzzle when the sliding doors come to life, footsteps walking inside.

“Evenin’,” you greet, not looking up.

“Well aren’t you a pretty little lady~.”

His voice was like nails on a chalkboard and full of no good things. You let out a sigh, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt.

“Thank you. I know.”

The customer makes a sound and mumbles to himself, shuffling down an aisle. You continue on with your puzzle until he returns, setting down some canned goods.

He starts talking again. “Hey, pretty girl, have you heard about the disappearances around here? It’s pretty dangerous working at this time.”

“I heard about ‘em,” you responded nonchalantly.

“Aren’t you scared? Do you have anyone that’ll protect you?” he asks, leaning in slightly, looking a little to eager.

“And why do you need to know that?” you throw back, a pointed brown raised as you look at him with an unimpressed gaze.

“No need to act like that, sweetheart. I’m just a good guy that wants to protect girls like you. Hey, whataya say to giving me your number?”

“Hmm, no.” You put the last item into the plastic bag, muttering out his total and waiting expectantly.

The creep frowns, offended at your blatant rejection. “Listen here you bitch,” he spits. “I’m doing you a favor in trying to protect you! You wanna end up raped and dead in a ditch somewhere!?”

“I suggest you lower yer voice before you regret it,” your threaten, glaring at him with crossed arms, your heartbeat beginning to rise from the tension.

“I’ll teach you some manners you ungrateful—,” he grits, beginning to reach towards you until he feels cold metal kiss his Adam’s apple.

The tip of your revolver digs in just a little more as he swallows,. “W-What..? Y-You..!?”

“Now, either you pay for yer shit and get out, or I’ll put a bullet in ya,” you hiss lowly.

“Are you crazy?!”

“Naw, I just know how to deal with pest like you. Now, you gonna pay or not?”

“What the hell is going on out—?”

The creep is suddenly jerked backwards by the collar of his hood, in the grasp of a looming man in all black, faceless behind a helmet. The biker promptly shoves the creep toward the doors, the man tripping over his own pants and crashing to the floor with a harsh thud. The creep whips his head towards the biker and looks like a trembling chihuahua about seconds away from pissing itself.

“H-Hey man..! Didn’t mean to upset your girl..!”

The biker just stares like a predator, his fists clenched tightly at his sides as his chest rises and falls with barely contained rage.

You scoff at the creep’s change of tone now that a man twice his size has humiliated him. “Get the fuck outta here before I make due with my promise. Be lucky I’m bein’ real generous and haven’t put lead in yer knee.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t,” Lane mutters, drinking in the sight before him.

The creep runs out, his pants nearly falling off him in his haste. You huff and tuck your revolver into your jeans, putting your shirt over it. You gather the goods and prepare to put them back on the shelves.

“‘Preciate it, Biker Boy,” you say with a tip of your hat before passing him. Lane, like a puppy, follows at your heels, casting a suspicious, icy glare towards the biker.

“I leave for a few minutes and you nearly shot a guy?” he chuckles.

“The night breeds weirdos,” you shrug, getting a chuckle from Lane.

“Yeah, like that helmet boy.”

“Now why are you talkin’ shit when you can’t even scrub a toilet? Ya really ain’t worth a damn yerself, Lane,” you throw back with a barely there bite, but it was full of unrestrained truth. “Besides, you be sayin’ some questionable shit too.”

Lane rubs his neck, smirking as if saying “you aren’t wrong” with a slight blush on his fair skin.

Meanwhile the Biker stands there, his heart hammering away in his chest, his face hot behind the visor. But those softer feelings disappear when he heard Lane’s repulsive voice.

Lane continues yammering away and you just let him, haphazardly listening, but your gaze finally focuses on Biker Boy’s figure just…. Standing there, taking up space.

“Somethin’ we can help ya with or are you just gonna keep standin’ there like some serial killer?” you ask, your voice cutting through Lane’s ramble and shocking Biker Boy.

“I-I’m not a serial killer!” Biker Boy insists. “Sorry I… I just… T-The vending machine…”

“Oh,” you reply. “Yeah, my apologies for that. Works when it wants too…”

“You can’t be serious?” Lane scoffs at you, growing more fussy when you don’t answer him, so he barks loudly. “Hello?? Sunshine, are you being for real right now?”

One dog stands proud, drunk on the prospect of having won what he deems as his. While the other dog bristles with anxiety and anger as his prized possession was stolen from him.

This is the first cigarette you’ve had in a while - at least in what had felt like one, anyway. Ever since bills and grocery costs have been slowly snowballing, you’ve been desperately searching for ways to cut costs down at home. Taking out a notepad and jotting down your daily spending, the one pesky cash-grab you tried to get rid of was your smoking habit.

In the beginning, it felt like a real breather (literally) to not infuse your fragile lung tissue with tar and nicotine twice a day. The first few days flew by, just like a leaf caught in the breeze, and you were instilled with a hope that maybe the economic state of the world could finally put you off your persistent habit.

Until, the real and raw spiral took its course: withdrawal. Skull-splitting headaches every morning, frequent and recurring panic attacks and intense sugar cravings that made you salivate at the sight of chocolate, to name a few.

You thought you were strong enough. You thought you were capable. You naïve little girl, you really believed you could tough out the symptoms for so long, didn’t you? So silly of you to think that you could ever indulge in anything beyond your reliance on a stick of cancer and carbon monoxide.

And look where this has led you; smoking dejectedly outside your job, staring at the weakly-lit lampposts and the darkness beyond for whatever vehicle may drive past.

Still leaning against the locked staff door, you relish the first smoke after being starved of your addiction. The warm, comfortable haze of grey and black spewing from your mouth blurs reality as you see it and blocks the stream of thoughts in your brain, like a muzzle to a barking dog. Soon enough, though, the shame of returning to your weakness again unplugs your negative feedback loop and the pleasure dwindles to nothing.

There’s no spark or high when you smoke anymore. Now, you only do it to feel normal, escape the night terrors while you sleep, reward yourself for tolerating Lane’s antics, get you through the next shift at Mad Dog. Either way, you feel terrible once your mind drifts to smoking.

Light a cigarette? Ruminate and dwell constantly on past regrets you can never change. Chuck it in a trash can? Reality hits you like a truck and you’re stressing over your heating bills for the month.

You’re hopeless.

And so, you turn back to the same old, familiar habit you’ve always known: you, your pack of cigs and the blanket of calm that envelops you.

“Mind giving me a puff, pretty?”

That gives you a start. Snapped from escapism, your body involuntarily jolts and the precious cigarette almost slips between your fingers.

The last thing I needed was company.

“Go away, Lane. I’ll open up in just a sec.”, you mutter bitterly, watching the thin tendrils of smoke as they unfurl and dissolve in the cool, night air.

Thanks to your newly rekindled addiction, you’re always especially infuriated whenever someone interrupts your downtime. Lane is no exception, even if this is his first time seeing you like this.

“Didn’t take you for a smokin’ hot lady, hm? Well, I’ve been happily proven wrong.”, he smirks and leans against the wall opposite you and the staff door.

“That’s because I was trying to quit before I started working here. And then…”, guilty flashbacks to the first day of quitting flood your thoughts, before you can finish.

Lane notices your drooping posture and pieces the rest together.

“You came crawling back?”

You don’t admit it aloud; just your meek, timid reaction says it all. The man in front of you - yet out of your sight and mind - stands there awkwardly, watching as your eyes roam across the floor in remorse, unsure of how to respond or support you. It’s as if a secretly guilty office worker watches an injured cat limp across the street from a 10-storey building. It’s impossible for him to stoop down to your emotional dumpster from way up there on his jokester, don’t-give-a-shit cloud in the sky. After all, Lane’s entire bravado is built on a flimsy foundation with ‘JUST KIDDING’ plastered all over it. How on Earth will he go about comforting a girl who’s just recently relapsed?

“Well, smoking’s always been a man’s best friend. You’ll be fine, you’ll see. In a few cigs, you’ll be back to being my typical co-worker! Besides, we can both die coughing together. It’ll be just like in Romeo and Juliet. Two star-crossed lovers dying and staying in Hell for eternity. Together.”, for a brief second, his eyes smile fondly at the edges. His poker face slips. So does his fictitious indifference.

“You still remember Romeo and Juliet from middle school?”, you ask, laughing at yourself for asking such a question ‘on the job’.

“I studied it in high school, which may explain why I remember it better. Still got a shit grade. But, woe is me; I’ve always been a fan of the theatrics.”, another plume of smoke bubbles and broths from his lips, as he looks into the distance.

“Damn. Lane being fond of emotional depth? I thought that belonged in the old millennium.”, you scoff heartlessly and send a salty grin his way.

A gasp rips through the air. Lane makes a pathetic attempt at fainting like a frail, Victorian woman. Instead of gracefully gliding down the wall in a melodrama, tragically (for you it was downright hilarious), it only leads him to skid loudly all the way down, planting his bum on the damp ground with a low thud.

He awkwardly clears his throat. You, on the other hand, begin cackling louder than you’ve ever known, so much that you unconsciously clutch your stomach with both hands. The cigarette drops from your fingers but you don't bother to register it; your brain’s too distracted with the sound of laughter flooding your skull with that bubbly, warm, familiar feeling.

It must’ve been a pretty long laughing session because, once you finish wiping the tears from your eyes, you find Lane already standing up in front of you, grinning at you in partial surprise and partial disbelief.

He runs a hand through his locks, “Shit. Way to embarrass myself,” he chuckles lightly, “By the way, you dropped your cig.”

I did?

Looking at your feet, you see the discarded stick glued to the floor. However, somehow, you don’t feel like you lost something. If anything - now that the rush of joy’s fading away - you start feeling the tiniest inkling of empowerment in yourself. That outburst of giggles and laughter is worth so much more than the constant stream of nicotine just to maintain your daily functioning. To feel “normal”.

For the first time since you’ve started this job, you saw a brief flicker of colour, a fleeting smidge of something beyond black, white and grey; a speck of vibrant, moving, living colour, so alive that you could taste the rainbow on the tip of your tongue. That perfectly healthy dose of sugary laughter sweetened your day, at the cost of nothing.

This gets you thinking. Maybe you can feel “normal” without the morning cigarette for breakfast. Maybe you can return home without the guilt of your parents’ worries and hospital bills scalding your face and tearing your stomach. And then you realise -

Buzzt, buzzt.

A pulsating sound derails your train of optimistic thought, while Lane shoves a hand in his pocket.

“Sorry, set an alarm on my phone whenever our shift begins. That way I know how to arrive 20 minutes late every time.”

You roll your eyes and grind the butt under the sole of your shoe. The typical clown never strays too far for long.

“Classic. Now, come on and help me open up the store for tonight.”

You both walk out of the alleyway towards the entrance sticking out amongst the dark emptiness, the lifeless road and stern, senior lampposts like a sore thumb, with your co-worker in tow. Spinning on your heel in front of the opening automatic doors, you raise an inquisitive brow and ask :

“Who forgot to lock up after last Friday?”

He lifts both arms in the air.

“What?! It wasn’t me. My dog ate the key!”

2 HOURS LATER

It’s practically impossible to stifle a yawn when all of Monday’s Mad Dog checklist consists of stocking condom packets in aisle 2. A woman doing a man’s job - how ironic. No matter how useful Lane may be in the dopamine department, he completely lacks any capacity to merely lend a hand at the workplace.

As a result, the next-best pastime to occupy your mind with more marginally enthralling things besides your crippling debt becomes scrolling through various insults to call Lane. You’re certainly starting off strong.

Hm, what’s a list of things he’s like? Stupid? Or, does that make him more slow? What about… useless? No, then, he’d claim that he’s the only source of morale here at Mad Dog, which isn’t wrong (though his teasing only motivates me out of spite). Actually, I know a cuter word for it-

The whoosh of the automatic doors startles you, almost losing your grip on the condom package in the process. Then, large, deep, rapid footfalls pace manically towards the cash register.

From experience, you’ve become accustomed to just waiting idly for whatever, lethargic, sleep-deprived weirdo to zombie-walk their way around each aisle, dump the goods in front of the till and get on with their other midnight shenanigans. But, such rushed, pedantic steps from a man of a decent size are more than unusual.

They’re nerve-wracking.

That ruthless pacing comes sprinting past the fridges in aisle 3 and bends swiftly around the corner. Although you’re only on the next one over, the broad frame brushes past your peripheral vision and into the other shelf-maze behind yours.

It doesn’t matter, though.

The continuous thrum of heavy, rhythmic steps strikes some sort of primal fear in your heart. If it’s another creep, you think, there’ll still be a pretend-boyfriend sitting in the vicinity to pry him off.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Still, those same steps reverberate throughout the entire store, making the products on the shelves tremble in anticipation too. You’re at the mercy of how nicely the male population chooses to treat you tonight. Just like good cop, bad cop, except it’s with creeps and “nice guys”.

Your eyes flit between the keys in your pocket, your trembling hands and the corners of aisle 2. They reach closer, closer and closer and the gnawing fear of being preyed on swells uncontrollably in your chest, like a balloon.

I can’t just be paranoid. Right?

Your hands seize the keys. A lump in your throat forms. Mentally, you strap in for the seemingly difficult night ahead. Behind the candy shelf, a black boot materialises, followed by a familiar figure and a breath you completely forgot you were holding.

A well-built 6’2 ft hunk of a man gives you an awkward wave, conscious not to startle you. He’s not only well-clad in muscle, biceps and ink (judging from his gloveless hands), but in tight, black clothing that makes it too easy for your eyes to stray away from his face.

…Which doubles nicely as a distraction from how his presence instantly sucks the oxygen out of the air and makes everything a bajillion times hotter. Who knows? Maybe he’s the reason you stutter around him or why you’re so suddenly looking forward to your shifts nowadays.

The same, enigmatic man hardly wears any biker-gear, though, only settling for the helmet to cover his face. You’re not sure why; you haven’t had the heart to ask him yet.

Maybe you could change that tonight.

“BB!,” you clutch your racing heart so hard you almost tear your shirt off your torso, “You scared me!”

Immediately, he recoils his hand behind his back, as if his adorable greeting was as lethal as poison. Seconds later, his hand drifts back to his front where he keeps it occupied by meekly twisting the joints in his fingers. His helmet and shoulders visibly droop, apologising with shameful fervour.

“S-sorry. I thought you’d be… But, usually… Last time, you were-“ he stammers endearingly.

What a cutie.

You politely cut him off with the flick of your hand.

“Don’t break a sweat over it. The lack of social interaction and constant darkness gets to you. Besides, watching my bills pile up on my kitchen counter is way scarier than any old jumpscare.”, you add, chuckling dryly at the sad truth.

“Haha. Yeah, especially insurance.”

“What?”

The same unassuming frown etched into his mind and doe-like eyes crosses your features once more. A dreadful ache gnaws viciously in his stomach. He really can’t afford to reveal his… tendencies to you.

“I meant especially with, erm, the recession and… the collapsing house market.”, he prays it’ll suffice.

“Oh yeah, definitely.”, you resume stocking the condom packets on the shelves again, your pretty back facing him.

This again.

Again, your eyes are taken off him.

Again, he’ll lose more precious fractions of time with you, as he scrambles pathetically for ways to continue the conversation.

Again, that oh-so-poetic little shit who thinks he can win your heart with shits, gigs, drugs and soap operas has to stand in the way of you both.

Whenever the mere thought of him talking to you, complimenting you, touching you, laughing with you, texting you, calling you, handing you a mop, wasting your time, or breathing near you, the hairs on his neck stand erect.

How dare that little shit play with you like that? Like a toy?

Every second you spend near that goddamn dumb-fuck makes the urge to spray his blood across the Mad Dog’s restroom walls swell and fester; a violent virus tactically infecting the rest of his brain and psyche.

BB clenches his fists behind your back.

His new mission: getting his undeserving name out of your mouth and his face miles away from your priceless eyes. Even if it means punching Lane, catapulting him into New Year's, claiming those pure lips of yours or fucking him out of you, then so be it.

For you, he’d do anything.

For you, he’s your loyal hound.

Snapping him out of his macabre musings, he tries (and fails) to change the topic.

“So…” he begins, fiddling increasingly more with his fingers once you pause to gaze at him, awaiting his response.

Thing is, if it weren’t for the heavenly light you exude being so dazzling, it would be much easier for him to maintain eye contact. Thanks to you, the same hands that gripped firearms and broke skin with daggers quake even more than they used to when he was running off of sheer adrenaline on the battlefield.

What an angel you are. Perfect in every way

“… what job did your co-worker dump on you this time?”

With that, you let out a hearty laugh.

“Nothing special, just this usual. Stocking supplies, cleaning the restrooms, mopping the floor.”

Awkward silence. You keep shuffling products around, then, he continues the conversation.

“How long have you been smoking for?”

Yet again. The second time in a row you've been questioned about your smoking habits.

“Oh… that.”

After another incongruous pause, you finally gain the courage to speak up.

“I don’t usually talk about this much,” you pinch some of the cheap polyester bunched up on your sleeve and rub it between your fingers, “but, I’ll go ahead.”

BB looks at you thoughtfully, nodding his head like an eager child.

“To answer your question, my smoking habit started when I was 19. It wasn’t always as bad as it is now. Although it began as a random treat for myself every other weekend or just going off others’ puffs at parties, it quickly spiralled. It got so bad to a point where I couldn’t handle listening to my parents' arguments downstairs anymore. Money, jobs, moving house. I just couldn’t manage it. My only escape from it all was my bedroom window on the top floor and a pack of cigs. I was still living with my parents at the time,” you sigh, exasperated already at your depressing monologue, “Last year especially…”

As your voice trails off, you look up once more, expecting him to have found the detergents on the opposite shelf far more interesting than your god-awful soliloquy, but you’re proven wrong. His helmet’s still facing you, your pitiful expression spanning across his visor.

Then, you come to a realisation: unlike Lane, BB doesn’t zone out midway through. He doesn’t call the conversation “too serious for this clown”, then resume scrolling on his phone. He doesn’t call you emotional or assume you’re on your period. He doesn’t even offer surface-level sympathy.

He just listens.

And man, you can’t even begin to articulate how much you’ve been needing that for the past few weeks

So much so, that your hand suddenly lets a product fall from your fingers accompanied by a light, unassuming thud that startles the two of you. BB’s eyes trail in the direction of your vision and the sight in front of him makes his heart beat the tiniest bit quicker.

You. Picking up a condom packet off the floor, in the most awkward, yet adorable way. He drinks all of you in, watching the way your knees bend and buckle at awkward angles to lean over, how you tuck your hair behind your ear when strands of it get in the way of your face and how your innocuous giggles and guilty smiles echo endlessly in the walls of his skull.

You’re so heavenly, he could worship you all day. He could let you have it all nice and slow at the start by kissing the base of your neck, then moving on to -

“Another creep? Seriously? For the second time this week? MC, now I’m thinking I really should make the pretend-boyfriend a full-time thing. These fuckers just keep hoarding around you like flies.”

Says the same man who orbits around you like an invasive species of Asian wasp. Like it means nothing to you.

“If you weren’t busy being so useless by occupying yourself with that phone, then maybe they would’ve backed off already. Last time I checked, I was the one who protected MC from another creep a few nights ago. Not you.”

Bewildered by the unexpected entrance, you stop whatever you’re doing and turn around to witness one guy, to your right, brutally clenching his fists at his sides and another, to your left, with a redbull in hand and a cheap smirk for bravado.

Before, BB was a shy, muddled mess in front of you; a simple-minded kid, unsure of how to even form longer sentences aloud. Now, the childish stutters have completely dissipated, replaced by cold, coarse knives that hack through Lane’s bullshit, one morsel at a time.

Where on Earth did he get the confidence to rapid-fire comebacks at the enemy?

Lane shoves his phone into his pants and scoffs.

“Well, if you really want to get technical, I was here first before you, doing my own thing. You know, keeping morale high, cracking a joke, boosting our sales. Things were just fine over here before the Evil Queen came along to steal my Snow White.”

Upon calling you his “Snow White”, he swoops into your personal space and slithers a hand around your waist.

This again?

“Lane, hands off. It’s been a long day.”, you pry them away instantly, missing a tiny, yet relieved sigh from BB.

Behind your sharp eye, however, is Lane’s eyes briefly widening in surprise and rejection. In that same split second of vulnerability, BB’s bird’s-eye view catches his slip-up; a weak spot he can use and abuse. The extreme interrogation techniques he was taught as a soldier have proven to be exceptionally useful. This way, he’s able (and willing) to plot a swift, calculated way to expose Lane, a sad, ear-drooping little puppy, in front of all the security cameras

Without the torture devices he keeps in his basement anyway - he’ll have to save those for another time. After all, what better way to get him back for stealing all your time, than spending the rest of his days covered in his own blood?

You hear a slow drip.

“I don’t trust this faceless rando, MC.”, his hand coils tighter around your flesh again, his nail beds lightly digging into the skin, “Not when he follows you like a shadow around the store, waiting for some bullshit excuse to kidnap you on his motorcycle. I’ve checked the CCTV cameras and the only thing he does, before growing a pair, is practice his silent pick-up lines on the instant noodle packets. He comes in just because the setup means there's just the two of you. He targets you, the second you’re alone and defenceless without me. I know a creep, when I see one.” his voice drops an octave at his final words.

Then another.

Slowly but surely, you start to feel your pulse flutter harder, stronger, at a more worrying rate than before. You look in front of you and witness BB clenching both his fists by his side, quivering from his sheer force.

Beside you, Lane simply clicks his tongue, as if he’s only been mildly perturbed by a closed road on the way to work, unknowing of the fact that he just provoked a military machine with the strength of a Juggernaut.

“What now, rip-off Batman? Huh? You gonna get the fuck out of here and leave me and MC alone or-“

“Get her name out of your fucking mouth.”, he sputters. His teeth are mashed so hard together, you could feel him chew his words through the helmet.

“Or what?”, Lane finally releases you and saunters with long strides towards the black tank before him, puffing his chest, squaring his shoulders and proudly sizing him up

And another.

Your stomach dips at the thought of the night’s events that have yet to unfold. Despite his vice grip having left your waist, a new, tighter force constricts your rib cage and lungs. You’re unsure where all the oxygen in the air has gone. And it’s not because you’re flustered.

“You’re planning to beat me up in the restroom?”

Something cold and red is running down the walls of your memory

The air in the room violently fizzles and cracks with static electricity.

Now. At this point, this officially marks the calm before the storm, the deadly silence before opening fire, the ultimate stare-down between two men, beckoning the moment when they tear each other to shreds.

You can’t handle the constant back and forth anymore. You can’t beat witnessing the tension any further. Your lungs are constricted so tightly you think they’ll burst and your hands and legs start to feel strangely weak and shaky

The smell of blood, smoke and vodka.

“She doesn’t deserve you feeding off her precious time like a leech.” A deep voice echoes aimlessly in your brain.

“She doesn’t need you breathing down her neck when she’s not looking.”

One takes a step forward. The other does too, up until the two tall figures morph into shapeless, hazy blobs, blurring and melting into each other like a camera struggling to focus.

A woman weeping, a man yelling.

Sweat lubricates your clammy palms. In desperation to crawl out of this dreadful hole of panic, you try and flex your twitching hands, but to no avail. Standing here in front of two fighters, and the rope of your remaining sanity that’s bound to give in and snap, an impending sense of doom gnaws at your organs. Your gaze lands on the floor, but it’s not the white tiles’ simple purity that greets you.

It’s řęð. Crimson red stains smeared across the white. Black and blue blotches bruise the corners of your vision. A viscerally clear image takes form - the brutal kind where you witness every dimension in detail, like the shine of the overhead light beaming off the warm, wet, sticky aftermath of a loved one’s beating. The heavy thud of a pale hand that seals off all hope and cements your worst fears: the end of her life

“It’s for protection.”

“Yeah?! From what, dipshit?” the man barks in the distance

“From people like you who think they’re entitled to treat a woman like their slave.”

If only you could break away from the screaming and shouting. If only you could escape from the swelling heat that’s scalding your insides hotter than a furnace. Why can’t the world stop for just one second? Why? Why?

“I knew I should’ve pounded you into the sidewalk when I had the chance.”

“But you haven’t yet. That says a lot about how much balls you’ve got under that spandex.”

Air. I need air. God, let me breathe!

They’re so engrossed in their machismo one-up that they only notice you wheezing for help at the loudest squeak your twisted throat can muster.

“MC!”, the dogs howl in perfect synchronisation, devolving into a messy mass of thrashing limbs in front of you.

Despite their efforts, they’re far too slow to help your deteriorating state; your knees buckle feebly beneath you and your frail body crumples to the floor. Now, all that remains is the oxygen-deprived heap of limbs slumped on the floor.

Whatever’s left of Lane’s favourite co-worker and BB’s only riding partner.

LATER

After what feels like aeons later, you feel something caressing your hands. Focusing on it, you realise it’s a pair of calloused hands tracing slow, meticulous circles in the centre of your palms.

For once, your eyelids aren’t as heavy as boulders so, you finally find the strength in you to open them.

“Black helmet…?”

You hear the man you just described let out a strangled gasp. Upon blinking further, you see that he’s kneeling in front of you, face level with yours, eyes boring deep into your soul under the veil of his visor.

“What the fuck was that for? Pretty, you almost scared me!”, Lane’s voice arises from behind the biker. It’s the first time in all your days working at Mad Dog that you’ve heard him sound so deeply shaken.

Before you can even register his face, though, his black apron is thrust in front of your eyes. He swiftly wipes your hair back from your forehead and plants a long, tender kiss on the uncovered flesh.

“At least you’re not burning up anymore.”

Now that you’re not eating a mouthful of work uniform, the effect of your unexpected collapse is written abundantly clear on his face. While BB’s appearance hasn’t changed in the slightest, Lane certainly doesn’t seem to have left the altercation unscathed: a busted lip, weary blue eyes and a black right eye showing the beginnings of a yellow hue attempting to blend his skin and bruise together.

“How do you feel?” Lane asks, like a mother tending to her son following a slip-up on the playground.

You feel your face lit aflame again.

“…Fine.”

Realising what he’d just done, his cheeks also take on a subtle pink and he unconsciously scratches at his nape, an awkward smirk splaying across his features.

“Sorry. It’s how my mom used to check my temperature.”, he chuckles at himself, mindless of BB’s intense, almost tangible stare.m

You can’t let them fight again tonight. Not on your watch.

“BB?”

“Hm?”, immediately, his helmet swivels around to face you, awaiting orders from his master.

“Lane?”

“Huh?”, the hand scratching at his nape falls to his side and he looks at you patiently.

“Don’t get into another fight again.”

“Of course… mon amour,” BB purrs, cupping your right cheek with one hand and massaging your palm with the other, “I’ll make sure it never happens again.”

“Hey, hey! Stop getting all touchy-feely, you’ll get motor oil on her face!”

He goes to grab at BB’s hand, but your words stop him before he can try.

“Lane. What did I say just now?”

He furrows his brows furiously, giving the biker his ugliest side-eye, before retorting.

“Hmph. You’re lucky I’m following a woman’s orders. But, as we all know, if I hadn’t swooped in, you and Darth Vader would’ve already had a family together by now.”

You roll your eyes and turn to face your biker boy.

“BB, could you move so that I can get up, please?”

Without any further ado, he silently gets up, gently clasping your hand to lift you, like the impeccable gentleman he is. You look behind you; in the end, you were placed on a random plastic chair Lane somehow managed to find in the stockroom.

Tthough somehow, as you’re standing up, you still manage to trip over your feet again. But this time, you don’t crash land into a huge, black-clad chest. Another pair of hands roughly grips your waist - the same ones that latched onto you earlier that night.

Then, you look up and realise exactly what sort of position you’ve gotten yourself into: sandwiched between the two largest, strongest guys you know, who were both fighting over you just some time ago. If any one of them had taken one step closer by now, you’d all be sharing each other’s body heat through intimate skin-to-skin contact.

The silence that envelopes the three of you is unbearable. So thick, so tangible, yet you can’t find the words to describe it.

Therefore, you turn back to what you do best: making things as awkward as possible.

“Um…”, you begin, patting aimlessly at BB’s shoulder, “thanks for the assist, guys.”

Thank God they get the message and shuffle away from your personal space.

“…Can you get home safe by yourself?” the biker asks.

“Not with that ‘cAn I TaKE yOu HOmE wiTh My MoToRCycLe?’ bullshit! See, pretty, I told you -“

A fearful slap ripples through the room.

“Learn to shut your mouth for ONCE, Lane!”

With wide, bloodshot eyes and another mark saved to his face and memory, he cups the cheek you just annihilated and grins deviously from ear to ear, like he just won a one-way ticket straight to Hell.

Oh no.

Do you ever feel so alone?

Crisp and cold November air feels wonderful on the face of somebody who has spent the last few hours exercising their muscles in ways that probably weren’t ergonomic. Sure it helped with losing weight, but Mai didn’t exactly have anything else to lose, and her bones have not hurt like this since… Actually, ever. Or maybe she was just getting old.

Probably the latter. But it pained her to think about.

The smell of rain still lingered in the air, with the promise of more to come, however the downpour had stalled for now and allowed for this highly needed break of hers, and perhaps if she was lucky, it would wait until she got back inside to continue its concert.

Away from the overwhelming white surfaces, the migraine inducing smell of chlorine based  cleaner and the haunting buzzing of overhead lights that could never become just ambiance to her as any other sound would, she was just a woman without responsibility. Okay, one that stood alone in a creepy alleyway at night, just waiting for somebody to decide she was an easy target, but this was better. This was a way for her to finally catch a breath. 

And so the smell of chlorine was replaced with rain. And the rain replaced with cigarette smoke. It was like trading away your puppy for a tapeworm. 

Those fifteen minutes or so of her break were becoming Mai’s favorite time of her day. Cause the thing is, there’s always something. A shelf to clean, a stain to wipe, or at home, a bedsheet corner to fix or a pot of water to boil. Back here? Just her and the trash. The dream duo. It was starting to feel like home.

Nowadays, the brunette finds it difficult to make her brain calm down. It’s kind of funny actually. When something hurts, that wound’s all you focus on. When you’re surrounded by the miniscule sounds of every day life, you suddenly remember them all. It becomes impossible to stay in the ‘now’. But when those sensations disappear, and all that is left is menthol in her lungs, a chill on her skin and moisture in her torn shoes, that’s when everything goes away for her.

She has no idea how Lane finds it easy to relax in that prison of a stockroom. For her, it’d be like a date with her worst overthinking.

What’s with the stockroom and dates? Mai thought. Hey, maybe RJ should expand the business and turn it into a love hotel. She chuckled internally. Wait no, then on top of vomit I’d also have to wipe random people’s cum. It’s not worth the extra.

Truthfully, when Lane first texted her about a date, she immediately thought it was a gamble. Was he going to just forget? Bring her to some shitty place that she wouldn't enter herself if somebody paid her, or was he actually going to make an effort?

What he came up with, she suspected, was something between number one and two. And though she'd felt disappointed at first, when it came to it, it was convenient, better than being taken somewhere grandeour where she'd feel out of place, and worst of all? Kind of fun. But she wasn't going to let him know that, lest she inflate his ego even more.

Now the burning question that remained was, is he actually into her? Or is she just entertainment to him?

Mai didn't have a great track record of predicting what potential partners sought of her.

She'd leave it alone for now.

The girl exhaled and watched the white smoke disintegrate into the humid air. No thoughts. No sounds but the gentle drip of water falling from the awning to the pavement below. She could feel her muscles start to unclench.

That you could implode and no one would know?

The back door opening with a painful squeeee made them clench right back like someone just smacked her with a rubber band. 

So much for silence and ambiance. Mai groaned.

Lo and behold, out walked Lane himself. In all of his migraine inducing glory, a presence about as relaxing as a power drill, and as welcome as a brain tumor. 

His eyes found her figure first, not difficult to do when the person you’re staring at is actively avoiding giving you attention. Unfortunately, to men, a lack of verbal protest is usually a sign of consent, and the boy settled just inches away from her skin, and way too deep into her privacy bubble. But it’s okay. It’s just Lane. 

“Watch out,” He said smugly. The brunette beside him watched as he took out his own cigarette pack from within his pant pocket and took one stick out with practiced motion. ”That shit kills ya.”

It had been a month since her first meeting with Lane, and Mai was… completely dumbfounded when it came to him. He was so easy to hate. Everything about him screamed, “I’m insufferable! You will literally never have an enjoyable time talking with me! I hate women and I think you’re dumb!” (Mai imagined him as an annoying hand puppet stuck in her face when visualizing that thought), but there was… more. Something that he didn’t want her seeing, and something that she really, really wanted to see. 

And he was funny. Sometimes. Unfortunately. 

So overall… Mai could’ve gotten stuck with worse.

“God, I hope so.” She simply replied, not bothering with telling him off this time.

“Aw, you’d really leave me and have me do all your work?” The alleyway momentarily lit up with flame as Lane lit the cancer stick now placed firmly at the front of his mouth. “Don’t you wanna see this workplace slowburn through to the end? At this point, you’re gonna look like a grandma by the time you’re thirty. That’s why smoking’s for the men.” Nevermind. There wasn’t anyone worse. He winked and Mai had the primal urge to puke on his shoes.

The girl simply groaned, taking another drag of her own cigarette as the silence spoke for her, and hoped that it would make Lane get the message. ‘I don’t need that right now’.

She finally turned her gaze his way, to see if his mouth was opening right back again maybe, but no. Lane followed in her motions, taking a deep inhale of his own cigarette. “See, I actually quit smoking this morning.” Mai raised an eyebrow. He looked right back at her. “What? I didn't say it was going well.”

While Mai took a deep breath, he chuckled at his own joke, promptly pocketing the lighter back from where he took it. The brunette squinted her eyes at it.

“Is that one of the lighters from the display?” She deadpanned. Of course.

Lane only grinned right at her before exhaling the smoke. For once, he didn’t say anything. It was a blessing, but more of a curse.

Mai rolled her eyes. “Are you at least planning to pay for it?” Swear to God, one of them was gonna lose their job sooner than later. Or maybe the store would shut down entirely before that happened. 

Lane, of course, just grinned wider. “Hey, it’s basically ours right? So it’s free.”

“It’s literally not.” She hated how frustrated she was starting to sound. This was supposed to be her break, God damn it! “I’m surprised every day when I show up to work and I’m not welcomed by your head on a pike in front of the main entrance.”

Lane just snorted. “Oh please, RJ loves me too much to do anything.” His smile for her was starting to become like a red cloth in front of a bull. “I get him all the good reviews from hot babes who come to see me, remember?” 

“Lane, pay for the damn lighter.” Her words didn’t hold any resolution anymore. She only kept it up so she couldn’t say she didn’t argue if they got in trouble for this. 

That grin disappeared from her field of view, and he mumbled, “Eh, if I don’t forget.” Then more quietly, as if he thought she wouldn’t hear it: “Always gotta be bitching about something.”

Mai, thankfully, did not pop a vein at that, or care to give it a response. “Did you at least check that no one was in the store before you came out here?”

“Yes.” He was the one to roll his eyes this time. “Don’t frown at me so much, you’ll get wrinkles.”

With one last twitch of the brunette’s eyebrow, the conversation came to an end, and the irritation disappeared from the girl’s face in an instant. The sounds of both of their deep breaths, synchronising and desynchronising beside each other, was… relaxing. Credit where credit is due, Lane seemed to notice the same thing. There were times when he really was good company, scarce as they might be, when he actually tuned in to what she needed from him in those moments.

And when you look around and nobody’s home,

“You’ve been awfully share-y today.” She spoke too soon. “Usually you’d snap my neck if I even dared ask for your favorite color.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” Mai deadpanned. “And my favorite color is green.”

“Oh, huh, now that you mention it.” Lane’s eyes went wide, like he was amazed by the fact he hadn’t figured it out sooner. Or he had, and he was just playing her. Either of the two was highly possible. Then his figure suddenly straightened, and that blue gaze snapped right back at her. “See, this is what I’m talking about! I’m winning you over, you’ll be crawling into my lap with all your deepest secrets by the end of next month.” He grinned insufferably, and Mai wanted to smack him.

“Gross.” The brunette gagged. “But if you actually do your job for maybe three days, I might just consider giving you my last name.” 

Lane’s grin got impossibly wider, and Mai sensed incoming doom. “You wanna make it a reward system, Maithylee?"

“You-!” Lane was openly laughing now, probably at the way her voice went thrice as high in pitch as she smacked his shoulder with her free hand. “You ass! You looked through my files!?”

“Girl, this place has, maybe four people working here.” His chuckling broke off as he took another drag of his cigarette, then spoke with smoke still coming out his mouth. “We talk. Exchange intel if you will.” Lane brushed off stray lint off his apron. Then said, with sincerity: “Mai suits you better, anyway.”

“Hmm.” Mai simply assented, exhaling her own smoke, then throwing the remaining bud in her hand on the ground and snuffing it out with her heel. “And what’s your full name? Like… Highway or something.”

“That’s the best you could come up with.” It wasn’t a question, and Lane’s voice sounded almost disappointed. 

“I’m getting on your level.” The brunette shrugged. (She thought she heard him mumble: “Women.”) “So you know my last name. Whatever. I’m still expecting you to do your job.” 

“Oh please,” Lane grinned, playing with the cigarette between his fingers. “You’re already used to me at my worst. Me showing effort now might send your cute ass into shock.”

Mai remained silent. Lane was just about to open his mouth again, when she blurted: 

“I meant what I said earlier.” He looked at her confused, so she quickly explained. “You know, back in the stockroom. After our ‘date’.” She muttered quietly: “Impress me, Lane. ‘Cause I think you’re capable of more.”

Lane’s eyes widened momentarily, and the brunette thought she saw a smidge of red speckle his cheeks for a second, before his expression eventually fell, and was replaced with squinted eyes and frowning lips. “Then you’re gonna be really fucking disappointed.” She barely heard him say.

They stayed silent for a few seconds, accompanied only by the serenade of raindrops dripping quietly from a nearby gutter, and Lane taking another lazy puff of his cigarette. Then he promptly dropped the rest on the floor, just as she’d done minutes earlier.

“Do you ever think about it?” He suddenly muttered. 

“About what?” Mai murmured, though she feared she knew exactly what it was he was asking about. 

“About doing something else, like you asked.” There it was.

Don’t you wanna go back to wherever we’re from?

Because truthfully, Mai never thought about anything else anymore. But what could she do, apart from wait for something to happen?

It had to be some sort of involuntary mental self harm at this point, thinking of what she could do, or what she could’ve done differently. Who she could’ve been. Did every path, every choice, lead to where she was at now? Alone, with barely anyone to talk to, praying not to God, but to the lights in her apartment, that they would still turn on if she flicked the switch?

Her mom used to tell her: be kind, because kindness comes back. How long, Mai thought, until that moment really came? Or would she have to wait until she died, because the person saying those words to her turned out to be a hypocrite?

How do you even explain this to someone, without revealing more than is safe, without loading the gun yourself that would inevitably get pointed at your face later?

That Mai Chylinski was truly, utterly, and completely stuck in place, and that that’s exactly the only thing she’d been doing for years now: waiting for something to happen.

I shouldn’t even be smoking. Mai laughed internally. If I lose my voice, then there really will be nothing else left for me.

Mai thought about her answer. Then thought some more, all the while Lane remained silent alongside her, his gaze softer now as he gave her room to arrange what she wanted to say.

She almost said nothing at all. But as if to sabotage her, her lips parted by themselves, and she let a whisper come out.

“Constantly.” She confirmed. “But… I don’t know what I’d do.” She paused. Then, “There’s nowhere else left I could go where things wouldn’t be the same.”

She'd settled on that.

Lane, thankfully, just nodded, and didn’t pry any further, seemingly ignoring all of the facts she’d just unintentionally revealed. “That’s fair.” 

Mai thought that was the end. But to her surprise,

“Well, if you ever figure out what you want, I think you should go for it.” 

And her heart skipped a beat. 

Lane? Being compassionate?

She really did know nothing about him. But maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for her to learn more.

So maybe she’d have a reason to stay.

“...Thanks.” And Mai smiled, genuinely, for the first time since she came outside.

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” Lane waved his hand around, then stretched just a little. “Alright, cancer refilled successfully, time to get back to work.”

“You? Work?” Mai crossed her arms. “As in, actual work? That requires effort?”

Lane’s grin didn’t falter for even a second. “Uh, no.” He mirrored her, crossing his arms across his chest as if to mock her. “That’s your job, remember? Get back to your cleaning, woman.”

“Get back to the garage and change my tire, bitch.” Mai followed up without missing a beat. “Go get drafted and die in a war for me, male.”

That seemed to surprise the grinning bastard, and he choked out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh you know well I’d die for you, my misandrist, crepuscular queen.” Lane winked. “This workplace romance is just getting started, but I’m already committed.”

The brunette batted her eyelashes at him prettily. “Really? You would? Just like, whenever I wanted?” She said in a very exaggerated feminine drawl. “Then maybe I shouldn’t waste any time.” She smirked. 

Lane whistled. “Brutal.” He looked her straight in the eye. “You’re hot when you fucking hate me.”

“Yeah, why do you think I look so good all of the time?” Mai put her hands on her hips as if to emphasize. “Now get back on the register, you ruined my break and I need my five minutes back.”

The face of unbearability only salutted her. “Yes ma’am.” Then disappeared like he was told to. 

Maybe she was far from where she wanted to be.

Maybe something would finally happen soon. Maybe not.

But for now, this was okay too.

It had to be.

In the wake of your sunshine, 

I’ve never felt so glum.

-------

BONUS:

Me asking my friends for help with writing Lane.

Translated: @everyone quick come up with the dumbest most sexist thing to say that you can in 10 seconds.

At the palace’s gates, the servant waved off the meek messenger on horseback as he nodded, tugging on the reins and galloping off into the vast countryside.

The servant then humbly ascended the wide, grandiose staircase belonging to the royal family, walking past paintings worth more than her entire bloodline, statues hand-crafted and sculpted by household names in artistry and crimson red wallpaper laced with golden roses that she’d kill for. Her steps loudly booming through the hallways, she approached Princess MC’s sleeping chamber and gave a gentle knock on the mahogany door.

“Your Royal Highness, may I come in?”

A moment came and went. She heard nothing from the other side of the wooden barrier.

“Your Royal Highness? May I come in?”

Not a sound whatsoever.

“Your Royal Highness? Princess MC?”

Yet again, nothing. She knocked once more on the door, this time more feverishly.

“Your Royal Highness? You’ve received a letter from-“

“5 more minuuuuuutes.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose in disdain. How on Earth is it justified that she’s expected to be up and running the second her alarm strikes, leaving the palace spotless by 6, but a member of the aristocracy deemed superior to her can take her sweet time getting through her morning routine?

Hmph, rich people, she thought to herself. Putting on her best polite voice, she cooed:

“Princess, if you’ll just allow me a few minutes of your…”, she glanced at her wristwatch, the clock saying 11:35, “…precious time, I’ll only hand you His Royal Highness Prince Lane’s letter to you. Then, I shan’t pester you any longer.”

Finally, a muffled sigh reached the maid’s ears. At least she wouldn’t have to call the palace guards out of fear that someone had kidnapped her overnight, like that one time a few weeks ago…

She fumbled through each golden key in her hand and unlocked the door to the haven that was her master’s bedroom.

The room itself was surely fit for a princess, though it certainly had enough room to accommodate 3 more as well. In spite of the room’s immense size, every inch of wall the eye could see was smothered in even more pricey paintings, a vanity as large as the King and Queen’s egos combined and a plethora of exclusive, academic examination certificates the princess had amassed over the years. She may have been a deep sleeper, but she was also a deep intellectual. So, it was no wonder - especially having been taught privately by only the best professors - that the common folk had nicknamed her the brains of the land.

Where the studious princess slept could be found on the right wall, around 5 metres (16 feet) ahead of the maid, on a towering pile of puffy purple mattresses framed by a beautifully crafted gold-leaf bed, accompanied by a wooden, metre-long bench (also fitted with purple cushions) sitting proudly in front of it. Her Royal Highness’s beloved desk, used for schoolwork and story writing, was situated right opposite the bed, suffocating under a heap of loose sheets and textbooks. A sleek and elegant grand piano sat casually in the corner.

As the maid took her first step inside, different hues of green, blue and pink lights stunned her eyes. Only once she scuttled away from the blinding rays, did she realise they came from the stained-glass windows lining the walls opposite the door. She fought the urge to curse the perfectly polished floor for amplifying the squeak of her slip-up across the room.

Still, she continued, making another few awkward paces closer to the dishevelled aristocrat. Oh, and she forgot to mention that there was a pair of bedside tables on either side of the bed as well, so she left the sealed envelope on one of them, bowed respectfully and hurriedly made her way out, lest she’d get scolded for being louder than a mouse.

Being one of the newly recruited maids for the Protagonist household, a recollection of her servant training began running through her mind:

RJ, her manager's voice, boomed in her head, "One: you're only ever allowed to communicate with royalty if they initiate the conversation. However, don't expect it to be your typical back-and-forth convo. Believe you me, the only thing a servant would be useful for would be to dump their darkest secrets and frustrations on you with an endless monologue."

Whispers arose amongst the more excitable maids in the servants' training hall.

"And no. No one's allowed to gossip about it either.”

Awwwwwww.

“Two: Every time you enter their room, always walk as quietly as you can. You’ll never know if you’ll get scolded for breathing too loudly.

And three: unless they ask you to, never let them see your face. Keep your head down, bow as low as you can, make yourself as small as possible, and maybe then the people of the palace will tolerate your existence."

The servant got stupidly lucky, however; the princess she served wasn’t the type to scream her head off upon letting her leave the room.

Now that she was back out in the long, decorated hallways, she was left alone to entertain her thoughts.

Oh, how much I wish to lead the life of a princess. Then, my only worries would be what dress to wear for the masquerade ball.

Inside Her Royal Highness’s sleeping chamber

Another one I need to get ready for?

The royal groaned loudly in frustration. Good thing it wasn’t a last-minute invitation she had to prepare for the very same day, or else she’d really lose it. Detangling all the knots in her hair would be a colossal milestone in itself, never mind finding the right dress to wear.

Peeling the envelope open, she read its contents aloud:

“Unto Her Royal Highness,

You have been cordially invited to Her Majesty Queen Amelia's masquerade ball, which will take place exactly one month from today.

Please check your calendar for availability and reply to this letter as promptly as possible to confirm your attendance.

Yours faithfully,

Prince Lane of Lazy-ass Land, Queen Amelia's brother.

P.S.: Flip over the page?" she asked, noticing the tiny letters written discreetly in scribbled, skewed handwriting that blended each letter, making the words on the corner of the page barely legible. A clear contrast, as opposed to the rest of his writing, crafted in gorgeous cursive.

Did two people write this? Bewildered, she turned over the sheet of paper.

"I'd be impressed if you were able to endure that posh, bullshit stew my father made me write. Don't think I'll ever talk like that in real life. It ain't me and won't ever be.”

Well, that certainly answered her question.

“Anyway, I heard some things about you from a friend of a friend, let's say, and I think you're cute.

Don’t tell them I wrote you this, but my mom and dad literally rule over my life more than their country, and they check every letter received under my name. So, do me a favour, gorgeous, and write ‘lovely Prince Lane‘ as code for ‘I love you so much, Lane. I’ll gladly kiss your feet!’, yeah?

Just so you know, I don’t play around. You’re either in, or you’re out. There’s no in between, princess.

- L "

How… loaded.

She pondered before throwing the letter over the edge of her bed to seriously consider the proposal.

Hah, ‘consider the proposal’?: bullshit.

She would never go out with a scumbag as nihilistic and careless as Prince Lane of Lazy-Land. The same prince who doesn’t care to improve his handwriting in his letters, God forbid, learn how to spell. Just think how her ultra-strict parents would handle the scandal! Gossip that would spread like wildfire across all the land.

Neither her parents, nor her extended family, nor the common folk would tolerate him even setting foot inside the palace.

The princess was adamant. She would never go out with him. Never in a million years.

…Or would she?

Although she knew full well that everyone in every possible timeline of the Protagonist family (from her ancient ancestors to her future heirs) would never approve of the prince, there was this morbid curiosity pulling her closer to the prospect.

Imagine the idea of going out with a boy, the thrill of being late at curfew, and the freedom she could have to simply talk with whomever she pleased. The sheer novelty of getting away from her regal responsibilities.

An escape.

Of course, every royal family is plunged straight into the warm embrace of wealth and riches, but it’s also riddled with rules, lies, alter-egos and rigid, inflexible tradition.

Ever since she could first walk and talk, she was always told by everyone around her:

“That’s no way a princess should walk.”

“Smile and wave, Princess! Smile and wave!”

“Stop scowling, the whole world’s watching.”

“You should be grateful - not everyone has the same life as you.”

I’m fucking sick of it. Fucking sick of it all. Their constant critiques, their useless opinions. Everything.

I’m going regardless.

And so, with the same resignation bubbling in her veins that she held for the royal family, she bolted furiously to her desk, seized a pen and paper, wrote the letter and handed it to her servant.

Now all she had to do was wait.

In Prince Lane’s room, Lazy-ass Manor:

Oh my god.

Her letter. In my hands.

I couldn’t help but let out a pathetic scream into my pillow that morning. I was still in utter disbelief that submissive, goody two-shoes princess MC would flip over the page, let alone notice the stupid code word I wrote.

It didn’t matter, though. The only important thing was that she would come to me the night of the masquerade ball, and she would walk out of there a different woman.

A woman who would belong to me.

As if the precious letter would dissolve at any moment, my hands desperately clawed at its seal. I ended up tearing the expensive seal in two, out of the sheer excitement pulsing through my veins.

I began reading her reply:

“Unto Your Royal Highness,

I am writing back to you to confirm my presence at the masquerade ball held in honour of Queen Amelia, as proposed by the lovely Prince Lane.

I look forward to visiting the Lazy-ass household and meeting Her Majesty in person.

Yours faithfully,

Princess MC of the Protagonist land”

I went skipping to breakfast later that morning.

"Someone's certainly more ecstatic than usual.", my sister hummed, her back facing the grand breakfast table as she scrolled through her personal walk-in wardrobe. She was still looking for the perfect dress to wear for her upcoming masquerade ball, two weeks in advance.

Personally, I'd simply throw on the first tuxedo I see the day of the event, but I guess that's just how women work: slowly.

"Guess what?" I shout from across the room.

"What?!" Amelia screamed, face buried between ballgowns and cloth hangers.

"Just guess!"

"No, I'm using all my brainpower on picking out what to wear! Just tell me!"

Rolling my eyes and storming over to the soon-to-be queen, I pull her backwards from the collar of her pyjamas, making her stumble towards me with the funniest face that read 'What-the-fuck, Lane?!'.

"HEY, WHAT WAS THAT FO-"

"Princess MC's coming to your masquerade ball!" I exclaim.

She stopped, face returning to neutral.

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah! Look, I've got the letter." My fingers carefully unfurled the parchment, now damp from my sweaty palms.

Amelia cocked her head to the side to view it better, quickly skimmed through the message's contents, then looked back up at me, smirking.

"One thing's for sure is that you don't have bad taste..."

She proceeded to lovingly push me out of her girly haven with both hands on my shoulders.

"...But if you want to woo her, I suggest you fix the rats' nest that's sitting on top of your head.", she advised, ruffling my hair so hard that I feared she'd scratch my precious scalp, before shoving me near the breakfast table. It took me quite a few steps to wear out the momentum she'd induced.

Grinning, I tousle my hair to fix it.

"Don't worry sis, I've got the charisma to back me up. Until the time comes, I can brush the aesthetics to the side. You'll see."

One month later, outside the Protangist Family manor:

At last, the day of the masquerade ball had arrived.

The princess finally set her dazzling red, rhinestoned shoes out onto the grass. Inhaling the fresh breeze of a summer evening, she gazed at the gorgeous sunset ahead, admiring the scene in all its glory.

The Sun partially dipped below the curve of a small hill ahead, resembling one half of a fresh orange. Shadows were cast from the surrounding trees onto the immense array of fauna and shrubbery in front of the palace. Above, the sky slowly poured out different colours from the sweltering Sun, all the way to the sky’s edge. Yellow oozed from the sunny egg yolk, gradually spilling into shades of crimson, turquoise, ending in a profound, navy blue lining the corners of the sky. A gust of sweet lavender blasted at her nostrils and teasingly played with her locks.

It was there. She could almost taste her anticipation.

Then, a door clicked open.

“Your Royal Highness, you forgot your mask!” the servant’s voice called from behind her.

Turning around (and almost tripping in high heels and a red ball gown), she smiled and took the delicate decoration in her hands.

“Thank you. You really saved me from being frowned upon at the ball!” She grinned, giggling at her absent-mindedness.

But the servant, instead of accepting her gratitude, gasped loudly in shock.

“Your Highness… you look stunning.”, she said, mouth agape.

“Thanks,” the princess added, briefly looking down at her dress, “It was my mother’s.”

“It really suits you, Your Highness. Fits like a glove.”

Awkward silence.

“Anywho, I won’t delay you any longer. Your ride has already arrived after all!”

“Really?”

And there he was.

BB, the knight in shining armour. A man as broad, lean and strong as his fellow companion: a Black Beauty as dark as dusk itself.

The dreamy hunk panted wildly, rushing to jump off his horse and crash-landing with bent knees and a loud grunt.

Oh, the number of ladies who would swoon over this guy’s noises alone is diabolical.

He came skilfully marching towards her, throwing apologies left and right, as if he’d forgotten his muscular stature could swallow hers whole.

“Princess! No - Your Royal Highness! I give you my utmost apologies for causing you such a delay,” kneeling formally on the grass, his knight helmet fixed on the princess, “Please forgive me, Your Highness, and we shall be on our way.”

Briskly, he got up from his awkward (yet undeniably sexy) position and led her towards his black stallion with a gentle hand clasping hers.

“Easy, girl. Easy there.”, he patted the animal’s neck reassuringly. The Black Beauty herself still seemed rather riled up after the previous trip; an uneasy feeling settled in the princess’s gut at the thought of getting bucked off a moody horse.

“Are you sure this horse isn’t going to get annoyed with me and potentially…”

The knight hummed in approval.

“Positive. She’s taken far heavier cargo on longer trips than this one. This lady’s a strong one, no doubt. You can rest assured, Princess.”

The knight, then, skilfully mounted himself onto the horse, followed by a small wriggle of his hips to secure himself onto his stallion.

“Here. Need a hand?” he asks, offering his gloved hand again.

The royal meekly grasped it, like last time, and made a painfully awkward attempt at mounting herself. On her first attempt, the frilly skirt on her dress didn't leave enough room to swing her leg over the Black Beauty's rear. And so, with a sigh of frustration and a brief flick of her dress, she tried it again.

Only to fail once more.

This time, she'd bent her knee while trying to hoist herself up, kicking the poor steed in the process. After another aeon of painstaking, pathetic shots at getting on had dragged by, the knight finally had the guts to ask.

"Are you sure I shouldn't help you up, Your Royal Highness? That way, we can arrive sooner at the b-"

"Nope! I'm fine!", she shouted, small grunts interspersing her breathless voice. At this point, she was clawing desperately at the animal's back like a leech, trying to find something else she could grasp besides her only foot that dug into the left stirrup and into the horse's side. It responded in kind: more annoyed, exasperated whines.

Soon, she heard a small sigh escape the rider, followed by a thick thud on the ground. The royal was still midway through readjusting her clothing for the umpteenth time when a pair of rugged hands seized her waist, lifted her above the horse and successfully plopped her right on the curve of the filly's spine.

His touch was calloused. Rough. More like snatching his favourite, lovesome dolly to cuddle in the dark, warm confines of his bed, instead of cautiously escorting a member of the Protagonist royal family to a long-awaited masquerade ball.

Careful not to squeeze her organs out of the royal, his fingers' iron grip loosened slightly when positioning her over the horse; the tips of his fingers slid higher up her waist unintentionally, resulting in the dress's material bunching up at the torso and some accidental contact between his hands and the underside of her breasts. For the recipient of his subtle groping, this was... new. Not quite unwelcome, but not quite what she expected from a knight's company either.

"Thank you..."

The embarrassment was already making itself excruciatingly obvious on her face, so - to avoid being seen by the knight standing below her - she gazed up towards the sky, pretending to be more interested in her destination, instead of the journey that the man's hands just made across her body.

Either way, nightfall had already flung its veil over the sky, forming a vast dome of black and white fragments of stars. Time was pressing on, and they needed to be on their way.

Yet again, BB pulled himself up into the space between the princess and the stallion's neck and tugged at the reins of his mighty steed. Surprisingly (although she should've expected it), the up and down motion of the horse's trot inspired a new fear in MC: falling off horseback. Thus, she resorted to clutching at the knight's firm shoulders and protruding collarbones in order to stabilise herself, in spite of the pony's violent thrusts.

He chuckled.

"If you're scared, then feel free to...", as if the last couple of moments never happened, he gently peeled her hands off his shoulders and placed them around his toned stomach, "... hold on tighter."

Fuck needing to leave the house to feel rebellious. BB's touch right here makes me feel like I could fly to the moon.

And there came the moment where the crack of the reins pierces the air, and the beast underneath him exploded into a boisterous canter.

Immediately, the princess yelped and clawed her hands around his torso like a clingy cat, too terrified to even open her eyes. As she'd closed off one of her five senses, the only thing she could do was feel the jolting rise and fall of the stallion's footfall, let the click, clack sounds of hooves against palace grounds assault her ears and sense the cool wind flush her face. The royal was also secretly thankful for her rider's back being so warm, making it an excellent meat shield against the gnawing phobias and cold air.

As the visceral galloping became habitual and the princess got bored with closing her eyes, she finally opened them to witness a sight for sore eyes: BB's sexy silhouette splayed across black mane whipping in the wind and the stars winking at her from above.

Riding on a horse now felt exhilarating. With the knight's silver mesh clanging to the rhythm of the animal's jumps and the higher vantage point on horseback, the royal could easily extend her hand and brush it against the oak trees' branches lining the borders of the palace gardens. The entire world was zooming past her, and for the first time in her insular, guarded life, she felt liberated and free.

Next came the rolling hills that the couple glided past. Each and every one had its own colour palette of bright flowers dotting it. The first had an assortment of bluebells that washed the grass in a blissful shade of blue. After that, another field of lavender sprang up, greeting them warmly with its delectable aroma. However, the final mound covered in roses was sufficient to make the princess gawk in surprise. Rows upon rows of crimson flowers lined the landscape, painting the scene red with greedy possession and unspoken passions yet to unfold.

"This view never gets old."

As if the member of the aristocracy's manners had vanished, she eagerly tapped the knight's shoulder and asked:

"Please can I take a rose from the field for me? Please?"

The horse, then, ground to an abrupt halt.

“Of course. Whatever Your Royal Highness desires.”

The princess started shifting around in an attempt to dismount, but the knight put a hand on her thigh, stopping her.

“Wait… don’t get off. I will. You can’t afford to damage your dress.”

And with that, he set off into the field of flowers, leaving her to sit alone with her thoughts on the horse.

BB… I’ve heard a lot about him from the estate’s biggest gossip girls. Apparently, he’d gotten into an altercation with Prince Lane at a similar party exclusive to aristocrats. But, that doesn’t line up at all with the knight who’s escorting me. He acts innocent, gentle, as if he’s never even known the definition of the word “violence.”

Hm, maybe I mixed up the names of the members of the knight workforce…

After what felt like aeons of listening to crickets chirping in the darkness of the night, the sound of familiar footsteps rang out along with quiet curses.

“…Ow. Here, Your Royal Highness, your rose.”

He held it towards her delicately, yet with an air of awkwardness at the same time, as if he wasn’t sure whether his previous actions were out of character. But, the princess wasn’t looking at her handsome knight, or the gorgeous crimson hue of the petals, but the ruddy, copper hue on the stem.

“You’ve got blood on your fingers. You should be more careful when handling some species of Rosaceae. Every rose has its thorns.”

Instead of looking at his bloody thumb, he gazed unflinchingly at the princess and reached up to tuck the rose into her hair.

“It was worth bleeding for, though. In life, you always have to make sacrifices.”

“But, to what extent?”, she fired back with a defensive look in her eyes, then, suddenly tore a small piece of her dress, “Here. Take this fabric and wrap it around your thumb and make sure that it doesn’t come into contact with anything, especially dirty objects. I wouldn’t want you getting an infection.”

The man took the gift with grace, promptly following the royal’s orders.

“Thank you… You’re too kind.”

“It’s the least I could do.”

A comfortable silence ensued. From what it seemed, the knight was smiling at her briefly through his helmet and thus, hopped on horseback once more.

“Good thing we’re almost there. I can see Lazy-Land Manor from here.”

He was right. Right on the horizon, an immense white mansion bedazzled the skyline; a beacon of yellow light spewing light from a distance. The final destination.

The next one was a dumb blonde with fake lashes and a blue dress trailing behind her that was as excessive as her delusions. Instantly, several more cluster behind her.

“’Everyone’? What do you mean ‘everyone’? Back off, he’s all mine! The princess of Delulu-Land won’t have any sharing to do tonight! Right, Prince Lane?”

Of course, she has to give me that desperate  “Please care about me?” look on her face that every girl gives me. Try as she might, but it’s not going to convince me to give her a chance. Dancing with me twice in a row in another ball a few months ago doesn’t mean she owns me anyway.

Good thing I excel in excuses.

“Sorry, ladies but Lane’s got some princely duties to attend to. You know how it is: all work and no play. ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’...”

That should do it. A Shakespeare reference always leaves them waiting, begging, and pleading for my attention.

I turn to go down to the glamorous ground floor below the palace’s balcony. Leaning over the balcony’s golden-etched fencing, I scan the living, moving chaos underneath; I have to find Princess MC or else I’ll die of boredom and cruel betrayal. Luckily, I didn’t have to look further than the entrance.

“There she is...”

At the entrance

Lazy-ass Manor was so extravagant and exorbitant that the poor princess had to navigate around the palace’s six other entrances, only to find the one fitted with ginormous, carved double doors that were at least 5 times her height. BB could only help lead the way until that same entrance, as the doors were far too heavy for her to push open. The lowest socio-economic group the ball could tolerate was upper-class citizens, and the meagre salary of a knight didn’t even come close. Therefore, following another timid wave goodbye and the final whip of his reins, he and his black steed dissolved into the night’s mirage for the last time that day.

Now, the princess had other things to tend to: the masquerade ball. She couldn’t ponder how suspiciously familiar BB’s stature looked, even though it was her first time riding with him. She needed someone to dance with...

...and a score to settle with a particular prince.

Though the tiny slits in her mask narrowed her view, the party was clearly booming. Exclusive figures from the most idolised, lavish families greeted each other through demurely waving a fan in front of their faces or confidently extending their hand in the same practised manner. Around and above the crowd, there were decadent walls carefully carved, painted and crafted to tell stories through pictures, along with several paintings dotted here and there and a sculpture of a mighty Zeus hurling his thunderbolt just below the balcony. The place was defeaning too. The aristocrats’ avid chatter combined with the orchestra’s live music conceived a cacophony of ecstatic vigor. This was it: the ultimate hub for the life of the party.

Though I do wonder how the Lazy-asses could afford such a mansion, if they just sat around doing nothing all day...

But then, the princess lifted her gaze to a very amusing sight. A tall, dark prince in white and blue attire was being dragged up the stairs by another princess in blue, flailing around like an absolute hooligan. The lady grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, pulling him backwards and making him awkwardly collapse into the woman’s arms.

She giggled to herself.

“Guess he’ll need some help prying off an unwanted guest”

And with that, she squeezed her way through all the flirting gentlemen, blushing ladies and scurrying servants and glided up the graceful steps to meet him. Once she was within earshot, she could finally hear the frivolous bickering going on between them.

“Laaaane! You told me you were going to dance with me once you’ve finished your stupid princely duties. What happened? Why didn’t you come running back to me? Do you not love me anymore? Please say you do-”

“I didn’t say that! The masquerade ball is being held in my sister’s honour as queen and, sadly, I have to actually do some work and help around,” the prince reasoned, prying her arm off his shoulder.

However, the princess still remained relentless. Her hands returned to desperately squeeze his biceps as she stared wide-eyed into his soul for an answer.

“But, you said I was the only o-”

“I’ve got another princess to dance with.”

“And that princess is me.”

Now, the third aristocrat stepped into the mix,

and both parties before her showed very mixed reactions. To her right, the star-studded princess gave her the nastiest side-eye that her baby-like doe eyes could muster. If looks could kill, the heir to the throne of Protagonist Land would’ve been beheaded already. To her left, though, things only got better. The prince turned his head around slowly. Ever so slowly. As he did, both women could see the intense blush that swelled on his cheeks. Wide, blue orbs, with pupils the size of saucers greedily absorbed all of her in, and the way he panted with his lips slightly parted didn’t make him resemble a desperate dog in heat any less.

Suddenly, her hand snaked onto his shoulder.

“Well, it clearly looks to me that he enjoys my company a lot more than he does yours. Therefore, I believe you’ll do more service to your reputation as a royal if you’ll run along and find another partner to dance with, rather than clinging to him like a leech.”

The blue princess simply let out an atrocious gasp and loudly stomped off, squealing like the spoiled little girl she was. Multiple people from the surrounding crowd stared at her as she made a scene, but they soon went back to their own mindless conversations.

“So... how about it?”, the princess offered, now rubbing the back of his neck slowly, “Care to dance?”

At that, he immediately regained his composure and answered smirkingly.

“Of course, Princess MC.”, his insufferable grin returned to his face once more, adding, “So, you didn’t forget about me? I’m impressed...”

The prince, all haughty and pompous again, gently grabbed the princess’s open palm, leading her back down the stairs once more towards the centre of the party. This time, without the clumsy trip-ups, of course.

“Don’t worry, a spontaneous letter from ‘a lovely prince’ such as you would never slip past my mind.”

“I know. I tend to have that effect on people. It’s called charisma, sweetheart.”, he leaned in towards her ear, hot breath tingling the skin under her jaw.

“And I’d have half a mind to know all the things the other royals say about you.”, she admitted, excited to channel her suppressed feelings of rebelliousness through him, yet apprehensive about the rumours that might spread about someone as studious as her hanging out with a Lazy-Ass like him. There was absolutely no preventing gossip here. It permeated every aspect of a royal’s life, every comment looming in the air as a threat to a royal’s precious image.

Today - she decided - I won’t let it get to me. I can’t afford to get cold feet when this will be my last chance to rebel, to feel as if I own my life for once. Because I’ll morph my life into whatever I please...

... not the one they wanted me to have.

“Yeah? Like what? Lay it on me.”

Now, they’d both drifted into the heart of the ballroom, where the noise level was amplified further to form a cacophony of posh accents and high-pitched giggling. As the princess had experienced the cooler air of the balcony (which was less crowded than downstairs), she’d just realised how hot, sticky and humid the air felt upon entering prior. The couple had to resort to shouting in each other’s ears to maintain proper conversation.

Though the close proximity initially felt unnatural, she quite liked the intimacy of the moment. At least she got to experience a conversation that isn’t had in the deathly awkward silence of the halls or somehow overheard by her parents. If she’d dared to speak improperly in this dense, bustling room, no one would notice.

“That you...”

For some reason, she still felt rather bashful about bringing up such scandalous topics. So, hastefully darting her head left and right, she looked up to Prince Lane’s smirking face to continue.

“That I..? Come on, princess, you’re getting there,” he said, immense sarcasm overriding the encouragement.

Just to double-check no one would hear, she tried looking over his shoulder, but to no avail, thanks to her tall dance partner: how convenient.

“Awww! The most articulate royal of all the land - fluent in Latin, Greek and French - is reduced to a flustered, wordless little mess in front of oh-so charming Prince Lane. How cute.” he cooed.

“I- You didn’t even let me speak!” He shrugged.

“Didn’t have to. Your eyes said it all.” A hand glimmering with rings formed circles around his cerulean eyes, motioning towards them. They were infuriatingly pretty, she noted.

“But I -”

“I can’t hear you~”, he sing-songed. The bastard even had the audacity to act like he was trying to listen to her with a finger tapping against his earlobe.

“You’re BAD NEWS!” she finally projected, though her voice hardly rose above the din.

The prince looked relieved again. Satisfied even.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Suddenly, a trombone began playing through the noise, causing it and all the ecstatic back-and-forth chatter to gradually grind to a halt.

Despite this, the princess still felt compelled to beat him at his own game. The same thrilling rush of adrenaline when gambling hurled her better judgment out of the window. The same tiny string of resolve and civility completely snapped somewhere on that staircase. It didn’t make sense how such a laid-back, dishonourable prince could have the power to render her speechless, but she wasn’t going to question it now.

“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen!”, a woman’s voice echoed across the room, her effortless aura coating her tone in a layer of gentle authority, yet empathetic enough not to come off as threatening.

Whispers arose in the crowd for a second, only to be severed by her domineering presence. It was then that the princess could finally witness her from the balcony in all her glory. A gorgeous woman - clad in a silky, red robe - leaned on the gilded fence on the balcony, captivating everyone with her signature red hair, striking blue eyes and sultry voice. Beside her bejewelled form raising her status head and shoulders above the rest, the ornate crown that sat upon her head said it all: she was the queen.

Everyone gathered from all the surrounding lands to celebrate her coronation. Everyone came to see her. The main event of the entire night.

She bathed in the attention of all the lords and ladies for a solid minute, as if to silently communicate: ‘Yes, I’m real. And yes, I’m the woman of everyone’s dreams.’ Then, she continued.

“It’s immensely rejuvenating to watch you all congregate, dance, talk and laugh together. All in the name of my coronation as Queen Amelia of Lazy-ass Land.”

Loud cheers erupt from certain parts of the crowd. Clearly, the free booze has already worked its magic on some of the royals in the room.

“I know, I know, it’s a huge milestone. As well as an equally tumultuous journey to get to where I am today, but as queen, I will not let the glorious land of the Lazy-asses down!”

Another outburst of whoops ensues. Queen Amelia hastily grabs a glass of champagne from the expectant servant and lifts the glass towards the crowd, a large smile plastering over her features.

“But for now, a toast to everyone who came, to my family who shaped me to be who I am today and to an enduring, timeless reign.”

“Long live the queen!” jeered the horde of aristocrats.

Everyone seemed to go back to their idle conversations, yet there was a distinct shift in the atmosphere. Some sort of tension - no - anticipation hung loose above everybody’s heads. The whole mass of people began having a mind of its own and different couples started migrating to different places in the room. All the ladies suddenly began lining up on one side of the ballroom and all the gentlemen formed another line right opposite their partner, waiting expectantly for something. For what?

A ballroom dance.

Upon instinct (and also to avoid the putrid feeling of embarrassment), the princess held up the edges of her dress and awkwardly scurried over to find purchase in the first gap she could find on the females’ side. Thankfully, Lane found his place facing her before the dance commenced. Then, the melodic sound of a piano finally broke the silence.

The dance, in practice, was simple: walk towards your partner, hold hands as you walk around each other, walk to the other side of the room, walk back to your partner. Rinse and repeat.

So, why did the princess find the stupidly easy action of walking towards Prince Lane such a Herculean task? That boy’s bad news... “What’s wrong, princess? Can’t walk? Gee, I haven’t even broken your back and yet you’re limping around the place like you need me to carry you.”, teases the devil dressed in a blue suit.

Trying furiously to hide her blush, she can’t help but entertain this banter.

“Oh, please! I thought carrying that ego on your shoulders was heavy enough. I wouldn’t want to break your brack with the extra effort.”, she mused, intertwining her fingers with his as they pranced around each other.

“What on Earth are you talking about, princess MC of the Protagonists? Your name has long been synoymous with an excellent perceptiveness, but, alas, I guess my charisma has blinded you.”, and with that, a large hand seized the small of the princess’s back, bending her backwards in a dip. Something that was definitely not a part of the dance, “But, don’t worry. You can trust me to lead you on if you can’t see. After all, I’ve always wondered how you’d look blindfolded.”

That little shit!

“Lane!”

“What is it?”, he asked, still smug as ever.

“Let me go! This isn’t the dance routine we’re meant to follow!”, she whisper-shouted, lightly jabbing at the prince’s biceps.

“Only if you say my name like that again.”

“No.”

The tone of her voice sounded far more hesitant than the princess intended.

“Fine by me,” he grinned like a deranged lunatic and leaned closer to her face just to annoy her further, “We can stay like this for the rest of the night.”

Being held so closely by a man in the middle of a ballroom could easily on Princess MC’s Top 3 Most Embarrassing Moments Of All Time, but she never realised that it would feel so thrilling, empowering and exciting all the same. Lane’s ocean eyes consumed every part of her. First, maintaining eye contact for what felt like millennia, then trekked shamelessly down the curve of her neck and drank in each dip in her collarbones and the rest of her exposed flesh, only to shoot back up to eye-level, before he could get caught glancing at her clothed chest.

It only took his hot breath barely scraping her cheek to make her insides melt like iron forged in a scalding furnace. This astounding effect he had on her could hardly be put into words. If anything, the princess felt as if she was slowly stripped naked, exposed, spread and laid bare on a platter in front of him, ready to eat. Ready to be eaten. And her prefrontal cortex must’ve started shutting down because there wasn’t a single objection to be found in there. Maybe the horny, animalistic side of her had finally been awakened.

All thanks to Prince Lane of Lazy-Ass Land.

The next thing the princess knew, she began hearing their names being hurled around the ballroom. Lane’s arm also started trembling from the tension in his muscles arising after holding her for so long.

How long had it been exactly? Well, long enough for rumours to run rampant among the royals.

“Your hand’s exhausted. Let me go before you drop me on the floor.”, she commanded.

Raising an inquisitive brow and a sly smirk, the prince asked: “What’s the magic word?”

“...Lane.”

But, before she could huff in indignation and wounded pride, she was hurled back up and left to gather her footing in front of a whole audience. All around her, princesses were staring (perhaps envious, perhaps enthralled at the new gossip), couples exchanged whispers in each other’s ears, and even the musicians and the servants couldn’t help but get a slice of the action.

Okay, this wasn’t the type of ‘exposed’ I had in mind...

Then, she turned around, finally having the guts to look the devil in the eye again. And there he stood: all perfect, gelled-back, jet-black hair, with the same stupid smile to boot. All flawless and nonchalant, as if he remained completely unaffected, as if that moment had never happened.

Of course, I got carried away. I got lost in the feeling of it all. I should’ve known that he was a player. It must’ve just flown past me because he’s just too good at it-

A warm hand seized hers.

“Come on. Let’s ditch this place.”

“What?”, she asked, incredulous.

“People are talking about us. The longer we stay here, the more our reputations will be ruined.”, he tugged her close to his chest and whispered tenderly in her ear, “I know a place outside the castle that the guards don’t patrol at night. It’ll just be the two of us.”

Her heart leapt in her chest. A secret getaway with a guy she likes? This was all she ever dreamed of!

In response, she gave him a smile that said more than a million ‘yes’s ever could and almost skipped with him on the way out of the ballroom. She couldn’t care less about all the eyes trailing on her back.

Funny how falling in love hid her embarrassment better than any mask could.

On the Lazy-Ass castle grounds

The scene was so perfect that the princess almost felt blessed. A cool breeze fanned her neck and the sky was perfectly clear above them. Trees could be heard gently rustling in the distance.

“Come here.”

He immediately took a seat on the grass, patting the spot beside him.

“...You don’t care about ruining your suit?”

“You think I’m going to go back to the party?”, he retorted.

The princess clicked her tongue. Reluctantly, she sat next to her newest suitor.

“Touché.”

A terse silence followed. It wasn’t exactly the awkward kind; it was more charged, tense, like a dam that would threaten to explode if only one more drop of water fell behind its walls.

There was so much to say, but nowhere to start, and it would be only so much time before someone might discover them.

So, the prince decided to take the initiative:

“...So, what have you actually heard about me? What rumours were spread around the royal palace this time?”

“Wow. Amazing ice-breaker, Prince Lane. Always turning the conversation back to you again.”

He didn’t seem to notice the comment at all (with emphasis on the word ‘seem’), merely running a hand through his locks.

“Come on”, his elbow nudged her side, “You know you want to hear the juicy gossip.”

He proceeded to flip onto his stomach, feigning shock on his face and kicking his legs playfully in the air.

“yOu’rE BaD nEWs!!!”

The princess simply rolled her eyes skywards.

“Fuck off.”

At that, Lane let out a sinfully breathy gasp. With his eyes widened to the size of tennis balls and a sound that resembled a moan more than anything, you’d have half a mind to think that he was orgasming without context.

“A princess never talks like that!.”

“Don’t. Please don’t say that to me again. You’re already sounding like my parents...”, she wrapped her arms around her knees, looking bitterly into the darkness ahead, “... Some oppressive, obsessive people they are. ‘How are our daughter’s grades? Is she seeing anyone? Has she been misbehaving? Has she gained weight?’ They’re always watching over my life, always scrutinising me like I’m their experiment they’re inspecting under a magnifying glass. I’ve always had a real intolerance to their antics. But now, I’m fucking sick of it.”

Silence. A long pause stretched between them. For one of the royals, it was one filled with pure loathing and disdain for the rigid expectations thrust upon her. For the other, it was one of inner sympathy, masked with a cowardly exterior; a cheap trick and a cheesy one-liner.

“Meh,”

“What?,” The princess turned to face Lane’s neutral, don’t-give-a-fuck-but-I-can’t-let-it-show expression.

“What’s the point?,” He shrugged.

“What’s the point? I’m the heir to an entire kingdom. Once my father dies, I’ll have the responsibility of my people on my shoulders. I can’t just-”

Yawning, he interjected with: “Geez, you’re already sounding like my parents. My dad hasn’t been getting off my ass recently in preparation for Amelia’s coronation.”

“Of course, your dad’s pissed about that! If I were your father, I’d wake you up every morning with an hour-long lecture on princely duties and values,”

Lane chuckled. The princess continued.

“... But, then again: I guess that makes the two of us.”

She turned around again to meet a pair of gorgeous, yet cryptic blue eyes. Lane was staring back at her intensely, never once breaking eye contact, but she couldn’t read his underlying emotions. It was like riding a boat out to sea, on a calm, sunny day, hanging over the edge of the boat and trying to see, with a naked eye, what roamed in those bottomless depths.

It was simply infuriating that the last guy she should’ve hung out with was the one who intrigued her the most. This flexible, dynamic mask he wore that he could bend at will made it impossible to figure him out precisely through her analytical gaze. And all the more irresistible.

Then, as if to provoke her, he widened the gap between them again by reclining onto the grass like a lazy tomcat.

“Good to know the feeling’s mutual.”

The princess only hummed in response. And there they sat: almost side-by-side in the palace gardens, silently appreciating each other’s company, gearing up for another war with them against the world, their parents, their resposibilities.

In the here and now, nothing else mattered. They weren’t forced to plaster smiles on their faces during royal family reunions; they weren’t obliged to hang out with the creepy, handsy royals from thoss random, allied countries for a whole dinner night; they didn’t have to keep up with dog-piles of homework. It was just them. Sitting together and stewing through the thick bog of their personal thoughts.

After a few seconds, Lane decided to bring it up again:

“What’s stopping you, though? Why limit yourself to what your parents tell you to be? Why waste time hesitating before you even try something at all?”

The princess didn’t have to ponder for even a second.

“Shame. The fear of disappointing my people, my family, and especially myself.”

“What a shame.”, the prince teased, crippling the serious, built-up mood.

Huh? What does this clown mean now?

That’s when the tip of his pinky brushed against hers and a spark of electricity shocked her. She looked up at his half-smug, half-genuine face - now the closest it had been this whole night - and stared. Bewildered.

“ ‘Cause I always thought that a princess as confident and myth-busting as you wouldn’t know the feeling.”

The prince’s palm drifted slowly, tenderly onto the back of her hand.

“Lane.”

“Yes?”, he grinned like he was drunk in love.

“...Why do you care? A-as in, why do you tell me such encouraging words?”

“But, why do you question it?,” he leaned closer, his breath now tickling the hairs on her chin, “...Princess.”

Suddenly, a hand began threading through her locks. All the while, the princess’s frontal cortex was experiencing breakdown. And yet he continued:

“This is destiny. It’s something we can’t and shouldn’t question. Up there in the stars, some divine being intervened with reality and, like the miracle it was, pulled the strings of fate and wrapped us together. Like this.”

He demonstrated by intertwining two fingers next to his face. Lane’s voice had become deep and gravelly: a stark contrast to his smooth, superficial play-boy one. Their faces were so close now that Lane’s azure eyes began blurring into blue blobs.

Then, their noses brushed, another spark jolting the princess’s senses. The latter quickly gained her courage again, grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into her.

A cocktail of love, adoration and newfound bravery exploded somewhere inside her, after the first kiss. Soon, the pair grew desperate, feverishly touching each other, tasting each other in the grass, yet they still couldn’t get enough of each other.

And for the first time in Princess MC’s life, she felt...

...Wicked.

THE END

EPILOGUE (OUTRO)

BB was sitting on the dusty road, while his mighty steed was munching on the nearest apples she’d found. A bouquet of hauntingly beautiful roses lay abandoned at his feet. It was a bloody, three-hour flower project that he decidedly neglected on the ground.

This time, he’d chosen to scour the Lazy-ass’s outermost gardens to find a fortune-telling dandelion to pick at. He was almost done shaving off all of his hostage’s redeeming beauty.

“Love me,” pluck, “Love me not,” pluck.

“ Love me,” pluck, “Love me not,” pluck,”

“Love me..”

Pluck.

It took just the mere clenching of his fists to kill the flower’s last screams for mercy. Whatever remaining evidence left of its beheading was scattered as tiny white petals on the floor, resembling meagre crumbs of bread.

Hopeless, BB lifts his head to the horizon, to the shiny castle he’d visited, just to get a chance of escourting the princess to a silly, frivolous party.

Oh, the things he’d do for her.

Over the years, he tried so desperately to save it: their dying love. She can never discover this, however. The drastic lengths he went to to remind her of him would mortify her, if she knew.

Despite the heavenly image of the princess now dancing in front of his eyes, one bittersweet message stood out from it all: