Jake answers with a grin, the green of his eyes sparkling in the candle light. He doesn’t answer with words, but a silent, deafening gesture—come closer. His long, elegant finger curling toward himself while the other hand grips Bradley's helmet, held just slightly behind Jake's back.
(Or, alternatively, Kingsguard Bradley x Crown prince Jake soft smut)
Imagine a Princess Diaries au where Jake is actually a prince of some small european country (i suppose not a crown prince though, since both Tom and whichever parent is the royal one would get precedence) ((but also controller Tom suddenly having a not insignificant amount of power over an entire country would be an interesting problem to deal with))
This idea is hilarious, but I'm not nearly expert enough on Europe or royalty to write this one. Does anyone else have ideas?
So the story is that Yurina is a princess of a low class kingdom and she always wants to experience real true love but because of her low class status and her parents not being privileged she is afraid to. One day she gets a secret invite to the Royal enha ball the kingdom of 7 brothers that are privileged.
So she sneaks out and reaches the ball with her ordinary clothes and mask she made and encounter Prince sim . They both have a genuine connection. But both don't get happy ending
Like thier forbidden relationship
💌 heelvng note : ohhh this is gonna be good. your wish is my command 🙂↕️🙂↕️ (this story is really giving the lyrics “what we could’ve been. what we should’ve been” i hope you guys enjoyed the story. thank you veronica for coming up with this story idea! i had so much fun writing it :>)
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Secret Love Song — Jake
royalty au · forbidden romance · tragedy · fluff-angst
❝ i knew from the moment you looked at me... you’d be the one thing i could never have. ❞
SYNOPSIS
she’s a princess from a forgotten kingdom. he’s the crown prince of everything. a fleeting connection. a secret library. a love they can’t keep. because fairytales don’t always end with forever.
⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆
read now.
before the clock strikes midnight.
𖦹
wc : 2.8k
in stories, the girls who fall in love with princes wear silk and diamonds. you wore linen stitched by your own hands.
the hem of your dress was always a little uneven, no matter how carefully you measured. your shoes, scuffed and softened from years of wear, barely made a sound on stone floors. the castle you lived in wasn’t really a castle. just an aging manor with peeling paint and a name no one remembered.
still, you believed in things.
quietly. stubbornly. love. books. the possibility of being chosen, just once, not for power or politics — but for something real.
and one morning, between breakfast and the usual silence of your family's hall, it arrived. an envelope sealed in silver.
no sender. no explanation. just your name in elegant ink.
a single line inside:
you are invited to the royal ball at the palace of enha.
you read the letter three times. once quickly. once slowly. once while holding your breath.
no one’s ever invited you to anything before — not really. not like this.
the paper doesn’t say why you were chosen. it doesn’t mention your title, or your kingdom, or your family. maybe it was a mistake. maybe it was meant for someone else.
but still... you keep it. tucked under your pillow like a secret.
you don’t tell your parents. they would never let you go. not to that kind of ball. not to the palace of enha, where the seven royal brothers rule with grace and gold and everything you’ve only ever read about.
so you wait. and when the day comes, you get dressed in the quiet.
no jewels. no silk. just your best dress, simple and soft. you pin up your hair and tie the mask you made yourself — a ribbon here, a scrap of lace there.
not perfect. but yours.
you look in the mirror once before leaving.
and for the first time in a long while, you let yourself hope for something more.
—
as you’re arriving to the palace by foot. from a distance you can see it glow like it came out of a storybook.
tall towers nearly touching the clouds, the night starry and the skies sparkly. window lit gold, and the faint sound of music spills into the night like it’s trying to reach the stars.
going up the ramp that leads to the gates, you hesitated—your heart hammering at your chest begging for some sort of freedom. no one stops you. no one is going to stop you. walking further towards the golden bars, no one questions your dress or your plain shoes or the mask tied with trembling fingers.
you step inside.
everything is shining. the chandeliers, the squeaky clean marble floors, the endless fabric of gowns that sweep past you like waves. everyone looks like they belong.
the seven thrones immediately caught your eye, the men sitting at them holding power and leadership for their kingdom. staring for too long you didn’t seem to notice you were directly making eye contact with a prince.
his face so proportionate, lips full, luscious. his hair combed back to perfection as he’s staring directly at you out of the hundreds of other people in the room.
you take your focus off of him looking back in the space of where you don’t belong. the music changes everyone hopping in the center, spinning and dancing to the beat of the music.
you stood out the way, forming a circle with the rest those who weren’t participating. clapping and cheering for the individuals, you glance up at the thrown.
his eyes still on you.
you swallowed hard, your hands trembling again at the rising anxiety you were feeling. thoughts racing through your head. does he know where i’m from? am i more noticeable than i thought? is he going to kick me out?
it was too much. your body did the first thing that came to mind, which was getting out of the palace as soon as possible.
you don’t remember how many doors you’ve passed but the moment you see a door slightly cracked open. tall, carved, and dim.
you knew this is exactly where you needed to be.
you slipped through without thinking, fingers curling around the edge of the door just long enough to close it behind you.
its silent.
not the kind of quiet that reminds you that you’re alone but the kind that makes your shoulders soften, your skin sinks into peace. books tower from floor to ceiling, shelves stretching in every direction. the air smells like lavender, candle wax, and time. you let yourself breathe.
your fingers skim the books on the shelves, none of the titles catch your eye. leather bound, gilded edges, thick with stories your hometown couldn’t afford. there’s something magical about them like if you touch the right one it’ll pull you into a dream.
and then your hand pauses.
a book tucked near the bottom of one shelf — smaller, worn around the edges, like it’s been read again and again. the title etched in fading ink:
“the love that bloomed in silence”
you pull it out carefully, thumbing through the first few pages. it’s a story about a girl who has never been seen. ugly, hideous, poor—and the boy who saw her anyway.
you sit down on the floor.
for a moment, the palace fades. the ball is gone. your nerves are settling.
you’re just a girl with a book in her hands, reading about love you never thought you deserve.
“funny,” a voice says from the doorway. “that’s my favourite one.”
head snapping up immediately. he’s standing there—prince jake. not on a throne. not surrounded by guards. just him. his jacket unbuttoned at the collar. his mask in his hand. his expression unreadable.
your breath hitches in your throat.
“sorry,” you say heart lurching. “i didn’t mean to–“
“you’re not trespassing,” he says, stepping in the library. “not here.”
his eyes flicker between the book in your lap then you.
“most people never find that one,” he adds, quieter this time. “but you did.”
you hold the book tighter. you don’t know why — maybe because he’s looking at you like you’re apart of it. like you belong in the pages, too.
“it feels like this book was made for me,” you say.
he smiles.
“maybe it was,” his eyes linger on you a little while longer.
you don’t move when he comes closer.
his footsteps quiet against the marble floor, careful not to startle you. he stops a few feet away. gives you space, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel gentle.
“may i?” he asks, nodding towards the floor beside you.
you hesitate, then nod.
he sits.
not too close nor too far. the spaces between you felt delicate, like one wrong word could shatter it.
“i’m jake,” he says after a moment.
the corner of your lip slighty turns up. everyone knows about the seven princes of the enha kingdom. hes the third born—the one whispered about for sneaking into town without his crown, for being kind when no one’s looking.
but you only nod.
“i know,”
he smiles. not in a proud way that royals would do… but like he’s amused that you’re not rushing to amuse him.
“and you?” he asks, tilting his head. “who do i have the honor of sitting beside tonight?”
you want to tell him your name but you hesitate. a part of you tightens around it, as if saying it out loud would change anything. might make the walls remember you’re not meant to be here.
“just… a girl who loves books.”
his eyes don’t leave yours. there’s no judgement in them. no mocking curiosity. only something soft, searching.
“i think i like her already,” he says quietly.
your breath stumbles.
you look down at the open book in-front of you. the words suddenly becoming blurry.
“you don’t have to say that,” you murmur.
“i didn’t say it because i had to,” he says.
you glance up. hes watching you like you’re an unsolved riddle he actually wants to understand. trying to understand who you are and not where you’re from.
“you looked lonely out there,” he continues. “but not sad. just… like someone who wants more.”
you blink slowly.
“i’m not someone who gets more,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.
he’s quiet for a moment.
then he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, and he says it like a promise:
“maybe tonight, you do.”
you stare at him and he stares at you. you don’t know how long you sit like that, with the book between you and his words pressing gently against the walls you’ve built.
“its funny,” jake says, voice low. “everyone expects me to be perfect… polished. like my life is already written for me.”
he turned his gaze towards the books on the wall. like he’s finally admitted something he never says out loud.
“but sometimes,” he continues. “i wish someone would see past that. not the title. just me.”
you study his profile once again. the strong jaw, the clean lines. the prince everyone looks at but no one knows. and something in you aches.
“you must get tired,” you say quietly.
his gaze flickers back onto you. surprised, maybe. maybe even a little undone by how gently you said it.
“all the time,” he exhales, like he’s admitting it for the first time.
your fingers curl tighter around the pages.
“i know what that’s like,” you say softly. “except… no one sees me at all,”
“you want to be known,” he says.
you nod, barely.
his gaze softens. a part of him aching for you, who you are. the two of you sit like like that— like two kids from different worlds, both aching in their own corners of silence. and for the first time tonight the quietness doesn’t seem so lonely.
—
the music from the ballroom drifts in like a ghost — muffled, delicate, as if the palace itself is trying not to disturb you.
jake stands, then offers you a hand.
“may i?” he asks, a glimmer of something playful in his eyes. “just one dance. for us.”
the library isn’t a ballroom. the floor isn’t made for dancing. but his hand is gentle on your waist, and the way he holds your other feels like a promise not to drop you.
you sway in place, slow, barely moving. but it’s enough. enough to feel the closeness. enough to forget where you are.
“you never told me your name,” he says softly, his eyes not leaving yours.
you almost don’t want to tell him. because once you do, it becomes real. this moment… this impossible moment— will have a name to haunt it.
“yurina,” you whisper.
his lips part just slightly, like he’s trying it out in his head.
“beautiful,” he says, and it doesn’t sound rehearsed. “it suits you.”
you look away, hearting pounding.
“you’re prince jake,” you murmur. as if saying it out loud would ruin the moment.
“just jake,” he says quickly. “with you, i’d rather just be just jake.”
theres a pause. your eyes meet again, and the distance between you shrinks.
“i’m not supposed to be here,” you admit. “i got an invitation but i don’t belong in palaces. i’m not…”
“you are,” he says before you could finish. “you’re here. that’s enough.”
his hand pulls you a little closer. not in a way that startles – in a way that steadies.
“you know,” he says. “when you first walked in, i couldn’t stop staring at you. not because you didn’t belong but because you looked like the only real thing in the room.”
your throat tightens.
you rest your cheek against his shoulders for just a second. the dance slows, softer now. almost still.
“i’m tired of being perfect,” he whispers.
“i’m tired of being invisible,” you whisper.
you both go quiet.
outside, the music continues. loud and golden. but in here it’s fading. your time running out. and you both know it.
but neither of you stop dancing.
not yet.
—
your bodies barely moving now. it’s not really dancing anymore. just swaying, breathing the same air, daring to not look away.
his hand brushes your hair out the way, fingers lingering just a second too long. your lips part, unsure if it’s from the weight of the gaze or the words trembling on the edge of your tongue.
“yurina…” he says it like a confession. like your name alone is too much to hold in.
you don’t answer. you don’t have to. the space between you disappears. he leans in, so do you. like magnets pulled across forbidden boarders.
his forehead touches yours.
“i knew from the moment you looked at me,” you said voice hushed, almost afraid, “you’d be the one thing i could never have,”
his breath catches. his eyes flicker your lips and yours to his. the ache, the need, the want. it hangs there, suspended between you two like a thread that could snap at any second.
and then—
the clock strikes.
sharp. loud. merciless.
midnight. you flinch.
“don’t go,” he says, voice breaking like glass.
but you’re already backing away. your shoes stumble against the floor. your heart breaking into pieces.
“i have to,” you whisper, eyes wet. “you were never meant to find me,”
he moves to follow — but you’re faster. maybe for the first time in your life.
you run, slipping out of the library like a shadow.
he calls your name once.
and then it’s just the silence again. the clock still echoing. and a prince standing alone in a library, reaching for someone who was never supposed to be his.
you don’t make it far before you look back.
he’s still there— standing in the glow of the candles. his hand hasn’t dropped. his lips hasn’t moved, but his eyes…
his eyes says everything.
you memorize him like this. the way his hair falls just slightly out of place. the way he looks at you like you’re wearing a crown , even though you never have and you never will.
“i never wore a crown,” you think. “but he looks at me like i did and that is the cruellest part.”
he doesn’t chase you.
he just watches.
and that hurts more.
you run.
days pass. weeks pass.
no one in your quiet kingdom knows what happened —who you met, what you almost had. you tell no one. not even your mother.
you kept it like a secret pressed between the pages of a book he once showed you. the one that said love could defy time.
he never comes. no letter. no carriage. no second invitation.
you hear of his engagement in a whisper. a perfect match. a portrait in the paper. he’s smiling — the smile he wore before the music stopped.
alone in your room, you let yourself cry. not for him. not even for yourself. but for the version of the story that was too fragile for this world.
you take the mask you made and lock it up in the drawer.
you don’t regret it. any of it.
but sometimes, when the night is quiet and the moon is kind… you still dream of the library.
The dynamic between Ax and Jake is really something.
"Prince Jake"/"don't call me prince"/"yes, Prince Jake."
"I don't really understand how this human/American thing of having a leader with no authority works, so I'm going to project my expectations of military hierarchy onto you. We're going to have a relationship on my culture's terms."
"No, we're going to have a relationship on MY culture's terms, where I only have the power that my teammates decide to give me and they never actually have to do what I want and I can't do anything about it. You have to respect a request to call me the way I want to be called by the terms of my culture."
"Hmm, well you're my commanding officer by Andalite military standards so I have to do what you say, but also by those standards you can't absolve yourself of that role, so tough shit, prince. I will do (more or less) anything you tell me to, but I won't change my understanding of what our dynamic is because Andalite princes don't actually get to just turn over the entire military hierarchy so you don't get to do that either. And also, I want our relationship to exist on my culture's terms, and not yours."
And "prince" has such a romantic feel to it, very Chronicles of Narnia. I imagine some part of Jake LOVES being called "prince". It's such a status thing, and who doesn't like status? But at the same time, setting aside what "prince" actually means to Andalites, Americans don't have "princes". Not having princes (or kings or queens or hereditary titled nobility or any of that) is kind of the whole American deal, it's what America is, so Jake can't be a prince and also get a good grade in Being An American (something that is normal to want and possible to achieve.) And I think Jake cares a great deal about being a good American.
So he can't just not act like a prince (it's not enough that he calls for votes on big decisions and basically lets things go without consequences when the other kids go off and do their own thing or deliberately do things he told them not to do) he has to tell Ax to not call him a prince, over and over again.
At first I was mildly annoyed that Applegate went and did the very cliche thing of having a somewhat diverse team but making a white boy in charge, because there is ALWAYS a white boy in charge, and while that's still a relevant media critique in general, I do think Applegate at least did some interesting things with having a white boy in charge. Because...you can tell Jake was raised (is being raised, he's not done yet) with the expectation that he's likely to end up in some kind of leader/power role in society, and all the adventure stories with a white boy leader that talk about what it means to be a GOOD leader, he internalized all that, he knew it was aimed at him, he's got the American equivalent of noblesse oblige in spades, he's got a very strong internal sense of what abusing his power would look like and he wants, really badly, to NOT abuse his power. (And wow, this would be a different story if the Animorphs had coalesced around a leader who didn't have that ethic.)
And just like El in the Scholomance trilogy is wary of taking even the first step on the road to becoming an evil sorceress of great destruction, Jake is wary of taking even the first step to being a dictator, the road that ends with him going "I'm making all the decisions here and you all have to do what I say or else." (Which might well have caused the end of the Animorphs and therefor lost the war to the Yeerks, if he had done that.) So he has to say no to the title, over and over.
I don't know how, but I totally forgot about "Prince Jake," and nothing in a long time has made me smile more than rereading those words for the first time in like 25 years (maybe more?!) just did. (iykyk)
