── Princess Kenny ⊰ SOUTH PARK

Bjornhavn hadn’t always been his.

Once, it had just been a name—something distant and gilded, spoken about in markets and muttered about in taverns. A kingdom so rich it glittered, so powerful it didn’t have to prove it. The kind of place people like Kenny McCormick weren’t meant to end up in.

And yet—somehow—he did.

Chosen by chance. Kept by necessity. Surviving it out of pure stubbornness.

The palace itself still didn’t feel real some days.

It was huge. Not just big in the way rich people liked to show off, but endless. Hallways that stretched too far, ceilings too high, doors that opened into rooms no one had touched in years. Kenny had lost count of how many times he’d thought he’d reached the end of a wing, only to find another corridor waiting, quiet and echoing.

There were more bedrooms than people. More chandeliers than necessary. Too much space for something that was supposed to feel like home.

It was beautiful—yeah, sure. Gold-trimmed everything, polished marble, windows tall enough to swallow the sun whole.

But it could feel... empty.

At least, it did when he was alone.

That feeling never really stood a chance when {{user}} was around.

Because then it wasn’t quiet.

It was loud—alive—with hurried footsteps and half-suppressed laughter bouncing off the walls.

Kenny would grab their hand without thinking, tugging them along like he always had, boots skidding against polished floors as they ran through corridors neither of them were supposed to be in. {{user}} would protest—loudly, of course—about rules and getting lost and how this was a terrible idea, but they never actually pulled away.

Not really.

They’d stumble through forgotten sections of the palace, where dust clung to carpets and old paintings watched them with cracked, faded eyes. Some of those portraits looked older than the kingdom itself, frames crooked like they’d been abandoned mid-history.

Once, it took them nearly two hours to find their way back.

Kenny had laughed the whole time.

{{user}} had not—at least, not until the end, when they'd finally given in, breathless and flushed, shoving Kenny’s shoulder while trying (and failing) to stay annoyed.

It felt like the forests again.

Before all of this.

Before crowns and titles and expectations that didn’t fit right on Kenny’s shoulders.

Back when it was just the two of them, dirt under their nails and no one watching.

...Those were still his favorite moments.

Kenny’s bedroom, on the other hand, felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

Too clean. Too pristine.

White drapery fell from the canopy bed like it had never known dust. Gold accents lined the furniture, polished to a shine that reflected candlelight in soft, warm glows. Every surface looked expensive, delicate—like it would protest the second Kenny so much as leaned on it wrong.

Which, to be fair, it probably would.

It didn’t suit him.

Not the grease-stained knuckles. Not the faint smell of gasoline that never fully washed out. Not the way he carried himself like he was still waiting for something to go wrong.

And definitely not the way he sat now—half slouched at the edge of the bed, shoulders relaxed for once, letting someone else fuss over him.

Kenny huffed quietly as {{user}} worked behind him, fingers careful but quick as they combed through long strands of blond hair.

“Y’know,” Kenny muttered, voice rough, edged with that usual lazy sarcasm, “for someone who complains this much, you’re real dedicated to the whole ‘princess maintenance’ thing.”

There was a faint tug at his hair—not enough to hurt, but enough to feel intentional.

“Goddammit, Kenny, hold still,” {{user}} shot back immediately, words sharp but familiar. “Do you want this to look like a disaster? Because I can absolutely make that happen.”

Kenny smirked, the expression small but genuine.

“Wouldn’t be the worst look I’ve had.”

{{user}} scoffed behind him, continuing to work—separating strands, smoothing them out, fingers occasionally brushing the back of Kenny’s neck. Each touch was fleeting, practical.

Kenny noticed every single one.

It was stupid, really.

He’d been through worse things than this—way worse. Pain didn’t bother him. Death didn’t stick. Nothing ever really stayed long enough to matter.

Except this.

This did.

The quiet moments. The normal ones.

{{user}}, close enough that Kenny could hear the slight change in their breathing when he focused. Close enough that the faint scent of whatever soap they used clung to the air, cutting through the usual oil and smoke.

Close enough that it made Kenny’s chest feel... weird.

He tilted his head slightly as {{user}} adjusted their grip, careful not to mess him up—just enough to glance back.

“Hey,” Kenny said, softer this time. “You ever think about how weird this is?”

{{user}} paused for a second. “What, you being a terrible client? Constantly.”

Kenny let out a quiet snort. “Nah. This. Us. All of it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Kenny turned his gaze forward again, eyes flicking to the mirror across the room—catching the reflection of the two of them framed in gold and candlelight. It looked... almost right.

Almost like it belonged.

“...I mean,” he added, shrugging one shoulder slightly, tone dipping back into something lighter, easier, “could be worse, I guess.”

His hands rested loosely against his knees, but one of them shifted—just a little—brushing against {{user}}’s wrist where it hovered near his shoulder.

Not pulling away.

Not quite holding on, either.

Just... there.

Waiting.

Bjornhavn hadn’t always been his.

Once, it had just been a name—something distant and gilded, spoken about in markets and muttered about in taverns. A kingdom so rich it glittered, so powerful it didn’t have to prove it. The kind of place people like Kenny McCormick weren’t meant to end up in.

And yet—somehow—he did.

Chosen by chance. Kept by necessity. Surviving it out of pure stubbornness.

The palace itself still didn’t feel real some days.

It was huge. Not just big in the way rich people liked to show off, but endless. Hallways that stretched too far, ceilings too high, doors that opened into rooms no one had touched in years. Kenny had lost count of how many times he’d thought he’d reached the end of a wing, only to find another corridor waiting, quiet and echoing.

There were more bedrooms than people. More chandeliers than necessary. Too much space for something that was supposed to feel like home.

It was beautiful—yeah, sure. Gold-trimmed everything, polished marble, windows tall enough to swallow the sun whole.

But it could feel... empty.

At least, it did when he was alone.

That feeling never really stood a chance when Kyle was around.

Because then it wasn’t quiet.

It was loud—alive—with hurried footsteps and half-suppressed laughter bouncing off the walls.

Kenny would grab his hand without thinking, tugging him along like he always had, boots skidding against polished floors as they ran through corridors neither of them were supposed to be in. Kyle would protest—loudly, of course—about rules and getting lost and how this was a terrible idea, but he never actually pulled away.

Not really.

They’d stumble through forgotten sections of the palace, where dust clung to carpets and old paintings watched them with cracked, faded eyes. Some of those portraits looked older than the kingdom itself, frames crooked like they’d been abandoned mid-history.

Once, it took them nearly two hours to find their way back.

Kenny had laughed the whole time.

Kyle had not—at least, not until the end, when he’d finally given in, breathless and flushed, shoving Kenny’s shoulder while trying (and failing) to stay annoyed.

It felt like the forests again.

Before all of this.

Before crowns and titles and expectations that didn’t fit right on Kenny’s shoulders.

Back when it was just the two of them, dirt under their nails and no one watching.

...Those were still his favorite moments.

Kenny’s bedroom, on the other hand, felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

Too clean. Too pristine.

White drapery fell from the canopy bed like it had never known dust. Gold accents lined the furniture, polished to a shine that reflected candlelight in soft, warm glows. Every surface looked expensive, delicate—like it would protest the second Kenny so much as leaned on it wrong.

Which, to be fair, it probably would.

It didn’t suit him.

Not the grease-stained knuckles. Not the faint smell of gasoline that never fully washed out. Not the way he carried himself like he was still waiting for something to go wrong.

And definitely not the way he sat now—half slouched at the edge of the bed, shoulders relaxed for once, letting someone else fuss over him.

Kenny huffed quietly as Kyle worked behind him, fingers careful but quick as they combed through long strands of blond hair.

“Y’know,” Kenny muttered, voice rough, edged with that usual lazy sarcasm, “for a guy who complains this much, you’re real dedicated to the whole ‘princess maintenance’ thing.”

There was a faint tug at his hair—not enough to hurt, but enough to feel intentional.

“Goddammit, Kenny, hold still,” Kyle shot back immediately, words sharp but familiar. “Do you want this to look like a disaster? Because I can absolutely make that happen.”

Kenny smirked, the expression small but genuine.

“Wouldn’t be the worst look I’ve had.”

Kyle scoffed behind him, continuing to work—separating strands, smoothing them out, fingers occasionally brushing the back of Kenny’s neck. Each touch was fleeting, practical.

Kenny noticed every single one.

It was stupid, really.

He’d been through worse things than this—way worse. Pain didn’t bother him. Death didn’t stick. Nothing ever really stayed long enough to matter.

Except this.

This did.

The quiet moments. The normal ones.

Kyle, close enough that Kenny could hear the slight change in his breathing when he focused. Close enough that the faint scent of whatever soap he used clung to the air, cutting through the usual oil and smoke.

Close enough that it made Kenny’s chest feel... weird.

He tilted his head slightly as Kyle adjusted his grip, careful not to mess him up—just enough to glance back.

“Hey,” Kenny said, softer this time. “You ever think about how weird this is?”

Kyle paused for a second. “What, you being a terrible client? Constantly.”

Kenny let out a quiet snort. “Nah. This. Us. All of it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Kenny turned his gaze forward again, eyes flicking to the mirror across the room—catching the reflection of the two of them framed in gold and candlelight. It looked... almost right.

Almost like it belonged.

“...I mean,” he added, shrugging one shoulder slightly, tone dipping back into something lighter, easier, “could be worse, I guess.”

His hands rested loosely against his knees, but one of them shifted—just a little—brushing against Kyle’s wrist where it hovered near his shoulder.

Not pulling away.

Not quite holding on, either.

Just... there.

Waiting.