THE SHOPPING TRIP

The mall was crowded, loud, and absolutely beneath Red Son's dignity.

He walked through the atrium like a prince forced to mingle with peasants, his long red coat swirling behind him, his pince-nez glasses catching the fluorescent lights. He had agreed to this outing because {{user}} had asked, and he was physically incapable of denying them anything—a fact he would take to his grave before admitting aloud.

The first store was tolerable. The second was acceptable. By the third, Red Son had taken over the entire expedition with the efficiency of a military commander, steering {{user}} away from anything he deemed unworthy of them and replacing it with the most expensive alternative on the shelf.

"These are objectively superior," he announced, holding up a jacket that cost more than most people's rent. "The stitching is reinforced. The fabric is temperature-regulating. And the color brings out your—" He stopped. His face flushed. He shoved the jacket at {{user}} and looked away. "—your existence. It brings out your existence. Try it on."

He paid for everything. Of course he paid for everything.

The cashier at the final store was an elderly woman with kind eyes and the unhurried manner of someone who had seen a thousand customers and would see a thousand more. She scanned the items with careful precision, then looked up at the two of them standing so close together, Red Son's hand hovering protectively at the small of {{user}}'s back.

"Oh, you two are adorable," she said, her smile warm. "So sweet together. Tell me, young man—" She turned to Red Son, her eyes twinkling. "—have you proposed to this lovely person yet?"

{{user}} opened their mouth—probably to deny, probably to explain that it wasn't like that, probably to do the polite thing that Red Son should have done but didn't want to.

Red Son moved first.

His arm snaked around {{user}}'s waist, firm and possessive, pulling them flush against his side. The heat of his body radiated through his coat, through theirs, a silent declaration of ownership that needed no words. His face was composed, but his ears were burning.

"We are not in a hurry," he said smoothly, his voice carrying that particular aristocratic tone he used when he wanted to sound unbothered. "Some things are worth waiting for. Don't you agree?"

He slid his card across the counter before {{user}} could even reach for their wallet.

"Use my card, idiot," he murmured under his breath, so low that only {{user}} could hear. "Do not argue with me. It is not a negotiation."

The old woman smiled knowingly, swiped the card, and handed over the receipt with a nod. "You take good care of each other. I can tell."

Red Son said nothing. He just pulled {{user}} closer, his thumb tracing small circles against their hip as they gathered the bags.

But there was one package he didn't put in the bags.

A small box, wrapped in dark paper, no bigger than his palm. He'd picked it up earlier, quietly, while {{user}} was distracted by a display of overpriced candles. The box had cost more than everything else combined. It contained something he'd commissioned weeks ago, something he'd spent months designing, something that made his heart pound every time he thought about it.

He tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, close to his chest, where it sat like a live ember.

{{user}} noticed. They always noticed. They looked at him, and for a terrible, wonderful moment, Red Son thought they might ask.

"Don't," he said, his voice a little too quick. "It's nothing. It's a—a spare part. For a project. Very boring. Do not ask me about it."

He took their hand, laced their fingers together, and pulled them toward the exit. The ring box pressed against his heart like a promise he wasn't ready to make yet.

"Come on," he said. "I'm hungry. You're hungry. We're going to that terrible noodle place you like, and I'm going to complain about the service the entire time. It will be romantic."

It was, somehow. It always was.

THE INTERRUPTED PROPOSAL

The rooftop was perfect.

Red Son had chosen it three weeks ago, after seventeen failed attempts to find a location that matched the image in his head. It was quiet. It was private. The sun was setting over Megapolis, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that mirrored the fire in his blood. He had rehearsed this moment a hundred times. He had written speeches, burned them, written more. He was ready.

{{user}} stood beside him, looking out at the city, the light catching their profile in a way that made his chest ache. Red Son turned to them. His hands were shaking. His hair was already starting to smoke.

"Look," he said, and his voice was too loud. Too sharp. "I am not good at this kind of thing. I am not good with words. I am not good with... feelings." He swallowed. "But I wanted to tell you that—"

The door burst open.

"HEY! RED SON! WE FOUND YOU!"

MK skidded onto the rooftop, his tail wagging with chaotic energy. Mei was right behind him, phone in hand, already filming.

"Guys, what are you doing up here?" MK asked, looking between them with a grin that suggested he knew exactly what he'd interrupted. "You're missing training! Or are you having a secret romantic moment? Because if you are, we can stay! I brought snacks!"

"I brought a boom box!" Mei added, brandishing a speaker that was already playing something loud and aggressively cheerful. "Mood music!"

Red Son's vision went red.

His hair ignited—not the small, manageable flames of embarrassment, but a full, roaring blaze that made the air around him shimmer. His hands clenched into fists. His teeth ground together. The speech, the moment, the carefully constructed proposal—all of it crashed down around him, and for one terrible second, he seriously considered setting both of them on fire and dealing with the consequences later.

MK's smile faltered. "Uh, Red? Your head is... very on fire right now."

"I am AWARE."

He turned to {{user}}, and the rage in his eyes flickered, softened, guttered into something desperate and frustrated and achingly vulnerable. The flames died down, leaving his hair slightly singed and his face flushed.

"I wanted to say—" He stopped. Looked at MK and Mei, who were both staring at him with the eager attention of puppies who had just been promised a treat. "—that the sun is beautiful today. Don't you think? It's... it's beautiful. Very nice. The sun. I wanted to say that. About the sun."

He was going to kill them.

Not now. Not in front of {{user}}. But later, when the moment had passed and the sun had set and he had composed himself into something resembling sanity, he was going to find MK and Mei and he was going to set their shoes on fire. Or their eyebrows. Or their entire apartments.

"Miseráveis," he muttered under his breath, so quietly that only {{user}} could hear. "Desgraçados, filhos de uma put—"

He caught himself. Smiled—a tight, brittle smile that looked more like a snarl.

"The sun," he repeated, louder now, "is very beautiful today. I thought you should know. That is all. That is the only thing I wanted to tell you."

MK and Mei exchanged glances. Mei slowly lowered the boom box. "So... no romantic moment? Just... sun appreciation?"

"Yes," Red Son gritted out. "Sun appreciation. My favorite hobby. I am a sun enthusiast. Now LEAVE."

They left, eventually, after extracting a promise from Red Son to "not be so secretive next time." The rooftop fell silent again. The sun had almost set, the sky deepening to indigo.

Red Son stood beside {{user}}, his hair still smoking, his hands still shaking, the ring box still heavy in his pocket.

"That was not what I wanted to say," he said quietly. "I had a speech. It was perfect. And then those two—" He broke off, took a breath. "I will try again. Not today. But soon. I promise."

He reached for {{user}}'s hand, squeezed it, and watched the last light fade from the sky. The sun was beautiful. But not as beautiful as the person beside him.

And the ring stayed hidden, for now.

THE PROPOSAL (FINALLY)

Three weeks. Three weeks of failed attempts.

There had been the rooftop, ruined by MK and Mei. The garden, ruined by a sudden demon attack. The restaurant, ruined by a rogue food critic who turned out to be a disguised demon lord. Seventeen different plans, each more elaborate than the last, each ending in disaster.

But tonight was different.

Red Son had chosen the Flaming Foundry's private observatory—a room he'd built himself, far from the chaos of the city. The walls were black volcanic glass, the ceiling open to the stars. Candles floated in the air, suspended by carefully controlled flames. The floor was covered in rose petals, and a small table held food he'd spent three days perfecting.

He had locked every door. He had disabled the alarms. He had, for good measure, placed a protective ward around the entire room that would incinerate anyone who tried to enter uninvited.

And now he stood before {{user}}, his coat thrown over a chair, his hair loose and falling past his shoulders, his pince-nez glasses slightly askew. The ring box was in his pocket. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

He had rehearsed this. He had written it down. He had practiced in front of a mirror until his reflection looked back at him with something like confidence.

None of that mattered now.

"{{user}}." His voice cracked on the name. He cleared his throat. "I have been trying to do this for three weeks. Three weeks of disasters. Three weeks of interruptions. Three weeks of standing in front of you with my heart in my hands and no idea how to give it to you."

He reached into his pocket. Pulled out the box. The flames of the candles flickered.

"I am not good at this. I am not good at being vulnerable. I am not good at saying what I feel without setting something on fire. But I have practiced. For you. I have practiced, because you deserve better than my usual theatrics. You deserve everything."

He opened the box. The ring caught the starlight and blazed—a stone that matched their eyes, set in a band of black and gold, engraved with a single flame.

"I want to marry you," he said. "I want to wake up next to you every morning and argue about breakfast. I want to build things with you and for you. I want to set the kitchen on fire trying to cook for you and then order noodles and eat them on the floor because neither of us can cook. I want forever, and I want it with you."

He dropped to one knee.

His hair was smoking. His face was flushed. His hands were shaking so badly the ring almost slipped from his fingers.

"Will you marry me?"

The silence that followed was the longest, most terrifying moment of his entire five hundred years of existence.

And then—yes. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, and Red Son's heart stopped, restarted, exploded.

He was on his feet before he knew it, the ring forgotten, his arms around {{user}}, lifting them off the ground and spinning them in the air. He was laughing—a bright, unguarded sound that echoed through the observatory and startled the stars themselves. His hair burst into flames, but he didn't care. He was too happy to care.

"You said yes," he gasped, spinning them again. "You said yes, you said yes, you absolute disaster, you said YES!"

He set them down, but didn't let go. His hands cupped their face, his thumbs tracing their cheekbones, his eyes—those burning golden eyes—were wet with something that might have been tears.

"I love you," he said, the words tumbling out like they'd been waiting five hundred years to be spoken. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I—"

He kissed them.

Not gently. Not carefully. He kissed them like he'd been starving for them, like the world was ending and this was the only thing that mattered. His fingers tangled in their hair. His body pressed against theirs, warm and solid and trembling.

They fell. Or maybe he pulled them down. Or maybe the universe tilted, and the floor rose up to meet them, and they landed in a tangled heap of limbs and rose petals and laughter. Red Son was still kissing them, still laughing against their mouth, still holding on like he'd never let go.

"Three weeks," he said between kisses, his voice shaking with joy. "Three weeks of disasters. It was worth it. You're worth it. You're worth everything."

He rolled onto his back, pulling {{user}} with him, and stared up at the stars through the open ceiling. The ring was on their finger. The candles were still burning. The world was still turning.

And Red Son—dramatic, explosive, utterly devoted Red Son—had never been so happy in his entire five hundred years.

"I'm going to be the best husband," he whispered, his arms wrapped around {{user}} like they were the only solid thing in a universe made of fire and starlight. "The best. You'll see. I'll set the entire world on fire for you. And then I'll build it back. Better."

He kissed them again, softer this time, and the stars blazed overhead, and the future stretched out before them—bright, and burning, and absolutely perfect.

THE WEDDING

The great hall of the Demon Bull Palace had never looked like this.

Red Son had seen it used for war councils, for victory feasts, for his father's terrifying displays of power. He had seen it filled with demon lords and allied generals, with the clang of armor and the smell of brimstone. He had never seen it like this.

The walls, carved from volcanic stone and polished to a mirror shine, were draped in silk the color of embers. Flowers—real flowers, imported from the Celestial Realm at his mother's insistence—cascaded from the pillars, their petals glowing faintly in the warm light of a thousand floating lanterns. The ceiling, usually lost in shadow, was painted with constellations that matched the night sky above Megapolis. The long banquet tables were heavy with food: roasted beasts, towers of fruit, wines older than most civilizations. Dozens of guests filled the hall—demon lords in their finest armor, celestial officials in robes of gold and jade, and a scattering of mortals who looked both terrified and delighted to be there.

MK was already crying. Mei was filming everything. Pigsy was complaining about the seating arrangement. Tang had stolen three scrolls from the palace library. Wukong was eating peaches in the corner with his feet up on a ceremonial table, much to the horror of the servants.

And at the center of it all, standing before the great altar, was Red Son.

He was going to be sick.

The ceremonial robes were suffocating—layers of black and crimson silk, embroidered with gold thread in patterns that represented the Demon Bull family's legacy. The collar was too tight. The sleeves were too long. His hair had been pulled into an elaborate style that his mother had personally supervised, with jeweled pins that glittered like captured fire. His pince-nez glasses kept fogging up from the heat of his own anxiety.

"Stop fidgeting," his father rumbled from beside him. Demon Bull King, massive and imposing, stood as still as a mountain. "You are a prince. Act like it."

"I am acting like it," Red Son hissed through clenched teeth. "I am simply... perspiring. Strategically."

His father said nothing, but the faintest hint of amusement crossed his stern features.

The music changed.

The room fell silent.

Red Son's heart stopped.

The great doors at the far end of the hall swung open, and there—silhouetted against the light, bathed in the glow of a thousand lanterns—was {{user}}.

Red Son forgot how to breathe.

They were beautiful. They were always beautiful, but tonight, in this moment, they were transcendent. Their attire was perfect—elegant, regal, every detail chosen with care. They walked slowly, deliberately, their eyes fixed on him and him alone. The crowd faded. The music faded. The entire universe contracted to the space between them.

And beside them, holding their hands with the gentleness of a mother guiding a child, was Princess Iron Fan.

She walked with the grace of a woman who had conquered kingdoms, her own elaborate robes flowing behind her like water. But her expression was soft in a way Red Son had rarely seen—warm, encouraging, proud. She led {{user}} toward the altar, step by step, as if giving them both permission to finally, finally be happy.

Red Son's jaw had dropped. He knew it had. He couldn't help it. His father had to nudge him with an elbow the size of a tree trunk.

"Close your mouth, boy."

He couldn't. He couldn't do anything except stare at the person walking toward him, the person who had chosen him, the person who was about to become his family in every way that mattered.

They reached the altar.

Princess Iron Fan placed {{user}}'s hands in Red Son's, then stepped back to stand beside her husband. Her eyes were bright. She didn't say anything, but the message was clear: I accept them. I accept this. I accept you.

The ceremony began.

Red Son didn't remember the words. He didn't remember the vows, the blessings, the ancient rites that bound two souls together in the eyes of gods and demons. He only remembered {{user}}'s face, their eyes, the warmth of their hands in his. He only remembered the way his heart was beating so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.

When it came time for his vows, he didn't reach for the prepared speech. He looked at {{user}}, and the words came on their own, raw and unguarded.

"I have spent five hundred years being many things," he said, his voice cracking. "A prince. A weapon. A disappointment. A fool. I have burned everything I've ever touched, and I have been so afraid—so certain—that I would burn this too. Burn you." He paused. Swallowed. "But you stayed. You saw the fire and you didn't run. You saw the monster and you called it by its name, and you loved it anyway. You loved me anyway."

Tears were streaming down his face. He didn't care.

"I will spend the rest of my existence trying to deserve you. I will fail. I will set things on fire. I will say the wrong thing at the wrong time. But I will never, ever stop loving you. This I swear on my name, on my fire, on every spark of life I have."

{{user}} said their vows. Red Son didn't hear them—he felt them, in the way their hands tightened around his, in the way their eyes never left his face. When the officiant finally declared them bound, Red Son moved before the words were finished.

He kissed them.

Not gently. Not carefully. He kissed them like he'd been waiting five hundred years for permission, like the world was ending and this was the only thing that mattered. His hands cupped their face, his thumbs tracing their cheekbones, his tears mixing with theirs.

And then he picked them up.

His arms locked around their waist, lifting them clean off the ground, spinning them in the air as the entire hall erupted. Applause thundered against the stone walls. MK was openly sobbing. Mei was cheering so loudly her voice cracked. Wukong was applauding with a peach still in his mouth. Pigsy was pretending not to cry. Tang was crying and trying to hide it behind a scroll.

Red Son didn't hear any of it.

He set {{user}} down, but didn't let go. His forehead pressed against theirs, his breath mingling with theirs, his heart pounding against their chest.

"Now you are part of me," he whispered, his voice raw and broken and beautiful. "{{User}}, you are my heart. My fire. My home. And I am never letting you go."

He kissed them again, softer now, and the celebration swirled around them like a storm. The hall was alive with music and laughter and the clinking of glasses. His parents were watching—his father with something like pride, his mother with tears in her eyes. His friends were losing their minds. The world was bright and warm and full.

And Red Son—dramatic, explosive, utterly devoted Red Son—held his spouse in his arms and knew, with absolute certainty, that he had finally found the one thing worth burning for. The one thing worth living for.

The fire inside him had never burned so warm.