robbingprince

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I LOVE UR PRIZED FIC ON AO3 THE IRONY THE CRUELTY IT HURTS IN THE BEST WAY GOD PART 3 WHEN

LISTEN PAL this message actually made me go back and read Prized - oooh how lovely the cruelty - and it even made me POST PART THREE which has, honestly, been languishing in between infrequent bouts of editing.

What I'm trying to say is THANKS TO YOU, PART THREE IS OUT! In a COMPLETELY unexpected shock of events.

THANKS for this lovely message.

LOVE!

Robin

(okay fine and HERE'S THE LINK!)

[robbingprince]

For a little while

Laurent told his first lie at three years old, when Auguste asked where the bug had come from, and Laurent pointed at the window.

He was not supposed to leave the nursery, for some reason or other. But his minder had her attention caught elsewhere, and it was a brilliant day, and… well… Laurent was not, yet, the most obedient of children, for anyone but his mother. Or Auguste.

Auguste, who was staring at the window Laurent indicated. It was large and ornate, with a latch that would take two grown men to maneuver. It was also currently closed. Laurent’s boots had left a mud-trail of little prints from the garden door all the way to the sofa.

“I see,” Auguste said with a smile. If Laurent was three, he must have been fifteen; instead of berating him for the world’s-most-obvious-lie, he picked Laurent up in his arms and laughed.

“It’s a very interesting bug,” he said.

Laurent nodded. Wisely he added, “Blue.”

“Yes, quite blue, with funny little eyes. It doesn’t have wings, by the way.”

Not seeing how that was relevant for anything, Laurent said, “An antenna.”

“Hmm, you’re right. Do you suppose it used the antenna to fly in?”

Laurent squinted, bemused, having already forgotten what he said, but alert enough to know he had made a mistake. Perhaps… oh, right, the going-outside when he wasn’t-supposed-to.

He said, “Bugs have six legs.”

Auguste looked up in amusement. “Is that so?”

“Yes! Six.”

“Did you read that in your little book?”

His Little Book was the largest tome on the shelf and a running joke for Auguste, for it was, obviously, too big and too heavy for Laurent to even hold, let alone read. Not that he hasn’t tried. Several times.

“No. That one.” Jerking his chin in possibly the right direction of the bookcase. “Down, bug!”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Auguste laughed, and ruffled his hair as he put him back on the floor. “This humble brother-bug will forever obey the young prince.”

Laurent waved a dismissing hand, already attuned back to his miniature conquest. “Auguste is not a bug,” he said still, out of a sense he could not yet name.

“No? What am I, then?”

A pest, sitting there with his legs crossed, innocent and brilliant as though he didn’t have his tutor pulling hair out in clumps. Laurent huffed. “Horse,” he said with some confidence.

“Horse?” he was shouting, laughing so hard. “Your Royal Brother, a horse?”

“Mm,” Laurent said, satisfied. The bug was blue, and interesting, but he looked up to Auguste’s face with a grin. “Big horse.”

The grin was returned. “Which would make you the small horse?”

Laurent gave it some thought, then nodded heavily. “Pony,” he corrected.

“Of course. The horse and the pony.”

“Fast,” Laurent nodded, back to his bug. Perhaps Auguste will take him to the stables again, and he could meet his new foal, only recently born. Laurent was assured they will, in the future, become the best of friends.

Of course, he already had a best friend, and a bug, but a pony would be nice.

“The fastest,” said Auguste, about something. “Will we go a-galloping down the fields?”

“Yes.”

“And trot up the mountainsides?”

Laurent squinted, feeling somewhat toyed with, but he still said, “Yes.”

“And… canter… to the seaside?”

“Yes!” rising to his feet, excited, “Seaside!” he meant to convey something about whales, an animal new and mystical he met the previous night in his book, but fell short on the vocabulary.

Auguste didn’t seem to mind. “Very well,” he said, smiling, “to the seaside it is. We shall go soon. Perhaps once the Kemtpian ambassador finally leaves.”

“Yuck,” Laurent agreed, nose scrunched. The ambassador was a prince-cousin of theirs, much, much older than Auguste, meaning ancient, portly and overly-familiar, with the tendency of spitting as he spoke. He had constantly-sticky hands; Laurent looked back to the bug, forgetting already. His head was small at three years old.

“Is there anywhere else you would like to ride, brother?”

He considered the question, then said, quite reasonably, “Moon.”

The moon, he had been informed, was made entirely out of cheese, and Auguste loved cheese above all other foods. It would be a good trip there, faraway enough from sticky cousins. Perhaps they could take Mother too. She liked cheese, Laurent thought, frowning to himself. Didn’t she?

Auguste, on his side of the sofa, was expiring: red-faced and shaking, his lips tightly clenched, eyes shining. After a long moment of the seizure he said, “Moon?”

“Moon,” Laurent confirmed.

“We will—ride—to the moon?”

“With forks,” Laurent said, continuing the plan faintly-hatched in his mind without having to explain. Auguste will understand, of that he was certain. If he will survive whatever was currently killing him.

“Forks,” Auguste nodded, hand on his chest, for some reason panting for breath. “Yes, of course, all the forks in the kitchens.”

“And a basket,” Laurent added thoughtfully. If Mother was too unwell to come, they could bring back some cheese for her.

“Of course!”

He was—oh, laughing again. Auguste was too easy to laugh. Laurent would take offence if he wasn’t very used to this.

“Basket,” he said, conveying that this was a serious matter with his brows, “for Mother.”

The look on Auguste’s face now was not something Laurent could name. He said, “All right,” softly, still chuckling helplessly to himself, then slid down to sit next to Laurent, to run fingers through his hair. “A basket for Mother.”

Pleased to be understood, Laurent left preparations to him, and turned back to play with his new acquaintance. Only, when he looked down, the bug had already crawled halfway through the room, as if to run away.

“Oh,” Laurent said, immediately upset. “The—”

“It’s all right,” Auguste said. “Our friend the bug has someplace else to be.”

Reasonable. Hurtful still. Laurent asked, “It will come back?”

“Maybe.”

Something was thumping in his ear. Perhaps his heart, rattled and suddenly scared. Or perhaps Laurent was not three anymore, and he knew, all too well, that this memory had an end.

Child-him was in tears, unaware, probably, of why he was so agitated. Auguste said, somewhere distant and very nearby, “But wasn’t it good? To play with it for a little while.”

“Y-yes,” said Laurent, because he was an obedient-enough child when Auguste was involved, and because, at his core, he was not a liar. It was, good. To play for a little while. It did nothing to console him, though, and so he kept blinking away frustrated tears.

“Perhaps,” Auguste said, whispering conspiratorially in his ear, “another bug-friend will come through the window, if we opened it.”

Logical and very resourceful; even in his tantrum Laurent saw the merit in such a plan. That Auguste was referring to his first, pathetic lie, didn’t even occur to him, having all but forgotten it. He didn’t know, then, that this moment was crucial.

Auguste took his hand, and together they trotted to the window. The latch was too heavy for them alone, and so a servant had been summoned to assist, and with Auguste they managed to open it. The air outside was summer-bright, smelling faintly of lavender and orchids, of grass and of peaches, of Auguste’s leather jacket and the sweets in his pocket. They looked outside.

“How about that fly?” Auguste asked, trying for conciliatory, still probably giggling. Laurent wasn’t happy with the substitute, but the fresh air had its effect on him too, and the garden was endlessly interesting. He began pointing at things, asking Auguste every manner of question he could think; quickly enough they forgot to look for a bug.

It was an impossibly pleasant afternoon. Auguste should have been taking his lessons. Laurent was supposed to—do something, probably, but his minder had been dismissed by the Crown Prince and did not dare interrupt, and in his nursery wing they had their own, separate world.

They ended up back on the sofa, with Auguste reading out from the Little Book, something Laurent very seriously tried to follow. Failed spectacularly. It did not seem to matter. Neither brother noticed the little blue bug flying serenely out the window, but even if they did, it would not have changed a thing.

Crucial, but not for the lie. Even for a little while—it was so, so good.  

[robbingprince]

SPY X FAMILY CAPRI AU WHEN

[robbingprince]

Chapters: 1/1, 7798 words

Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Fandom: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat Relationship: Damen/Laurent Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Manhandling, Kidnapping, Politics, Secret Relationship, Romance, A beautiful two weeks in the woods

In the doorway stood a man, lithe and deadly, who looked like a character out of a storybook. He was dressed entirely in black, even his hair and face covered; only a small slit revealed his eyes, a deep extraordinary blue, and a strip of pale skin. In one hand he held a sword. The gleam of lamplight off his blade seemed to overwhelm the room. For a moment everyone stood in frozen shock, looking at this interloper.

My second Fandom Trumps Hate gift fic, this one for @folfar's generous donation to MECA!

[robbingprince]

here’s a wip bc this series has ruined my life;;

[robbingprince]

[robbingprince]

laurent in lingerie

[robbingprince]

I really need to make Captive Prince fanarts more often. Drawing Damen and Laurent together has something comforting for me even if it takes me way too much time 😅 Also, here is a little preview of what the Captive Prince standee might look like ✨

[robbingprince]

This moment was so beautiful

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risky sparring

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watercolor comm 🖌 Ravenel 😚

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watching the road

[robbingprince]

the Prince of Vere/the King of Akielos

[robbingprince]

Wait we are already on chapter 9!

First came the thudding. Then, muffled, “He bit me,” a voice from behind the door—was that Nikandros? Laurent thought, who in the world would ever try to bite Nikandros?

Then it was Boots, the soothing deep baritone: “Will you just, for a moment, please,” interspersed with whispers Laurent could not catch. Shuffling. He discovered he was not breathing; that he paused, apparently, a long moment ago. Someone was coming. Someone who could make Boots sound so helpless.

A loud crash—Laurent attempted, unwisely, to leave the bed, then crumpled back like a house of cards, clutching his head. It, oh, but it was almost as though—

The door opened and in came Boots, and Nikandros, and between them was, “Nicaise?”

He tried to laugh, but the sound that came out of him was different, alarming and breathless. Nicaise had grown taller, and awkward where he never had been before, standing between the two Akielon giants like he was worried they would eat him. Suddenly Laurent was not laughing anymore.

“What,” he asked, anyone who would answer, but mostly Boots, “is the meaning of this?”

“He asked to see you,” Boots shrugged expansively. “Your uncle—”

“You look like shit,” Nicaise said, his voice catching.

“Well,” Laurent, “thanks. What are you doing here?”

“Your uncle sent him,” said Boots, same time as Nicaise said, “Are you really dying,” and Nikandros, “Perhaps it is best if—”

Laurent rolled his eyes (to his head’s strict disapproval). “I am not dying. Why don’t you sit down, little gnat? You must be tired. It’s a long journey from Arles.”

Nicaise scowled his normal scowl, and the rabid thing in Laurent’s chest settled, ever so slightly, far yet from cured. He wished, as he so often did around Nicaise, for Auguste. The thought was overpowering: this boy could use an older brother. Alas, Auguste was unavailable, and so Laurent gestured towards the chair with his non-gasping arm, and Nicaise even, miracle of miracles, took it.

“You may leave us,” Laurent informed the men keeping him captive. Predictably they obeyed.  

When the room has cleared, and it was only the two of them, Laurent opened his mouth to discover he did not know what to say. The most important questions were direct ones, and Nicaise was more likely to sing Vaskian sailor operas than answer those.

Did you escape, Laurent could not ask. He asked, “Did you escape?”

Damn his potion-addled tongue. And this peculiar, confusing new pinching in his gut.

Nicaise gave an ugly snort. The way he sat was incredibly telling: but why was he so nervous, unless—he was not treated well. Swallowing became an ordeal.

Where was an Auguste when you needed one.

“I didn’t escape,” Nicaise said, practiced, and also a hundred years too late to be entirely believable. “I was invited to come.”

“Really.”

“Yes! The Regent actually likes me, you see. You wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

“No,” Laurent said, “I wouldn’t,” and waited with strained patience. ‘Taller’ in Nicaise’s case still put him under the dwarven scale of ‘tiny’, but he did gain at least another inch in the past—however long it’s been. He must have been aware as much as Laurent that his time was running out.

Nicaise was frowning at the curtains. “Why is it so dark in here? It’s pathetic. Like you want to be a story-book’s damsel in distress.”

A burst of laughter nearly overwhelmed him. “Yes,” Laurent said, “that’s it, you caught me,” rather than explain how his head was about to crackle open and spill all its gore across the dim room, and right over Nicaise’s road-filthy tunic.

Laurent asked, “Can you even ride a horse? It’s a long way to Patras.”

“I can ride,” sulked Nicaise.

“And you want me to believe you made the whole journey on your own?”

“No,” grumpily. “I wasn’t alone. I came with the Regent’s guards. Martin says hi.”

Martin was a hellish brute that Nicaise would not be paid to speak to. Laurent had to be mindful not to frown. “I see,” he said. “Is he staying with us at the fort?”

“Ha, fat chance of me telling you anything. Better figure it out yourself, if you’re so clever.”

Preening, “Clever? Did my uncle tell you I’m clever, or is that your personal assessment? Nicaise, you think I’m clever?”

“Ugh,” the expected retort, but Nicaise did not seem half as hunted anymore, and so Laurent counted it a win. “You’re disgusting.”

“Truly, aren’t I. You reek by the way. Did they not offer you a bath?”

He could not flat-out ask—anything. Nicaise would clam up or spit venom, do anything but be honest.

“You reek. What rotten kind of medicine are they feeding you? Is that why you haven’t escaped yet, because you so like to be drugged and helpless?”

Ah. Sweet. Laurent said, “Are you worried about me? You shouldn’t be. I’ll be fine and dandy in no time. Did my uncle hear about the attempt, then?”

Chapter 9 is on the AO3 nearest you!

Well-polished

Laurent was just deciding whether or not he should bother staying alive when the door opened.

“Oh,” said the man who entered, “You’re awake.”

Laurent said, “Yes, quite,” and turned as far as he could with the chains, which was not very far. There was nowhere to conceal the rock he had sharpened, and so he closed his fist around it. “Should I not be?”

“Pardon?” a step towards him, and another. He could not see a face, couldn’t raise his head high enough for it, but the torchlight still fell on polished boots. A large man, probably very tall.

“Did you need me asleep. I could pretend, if it helps. I can be very convincing.”

“Can you,” somewhat amused.

Laurent made himself frown. “Yes, I have the snoring down to the dot. Shall I give you an example?”

“Please do.”

Closing his eyes to a slit, Laurent said, “Snore.”

The man gave a bark of laughter so hard it startled them both. “Oh,” he said, afterwards, “oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to—yes, that was convincing indeed.”

“Are you speaking in jest? I can’t see your expression. The collar, you know, it rather impedes the motion of my neck.”

A breath travelled between the stone walls. It was a small cell, sound should not echo within it—and yet. “I cannot unchain you,” the man said. “I don’t have the key.”

“Right. Was there another reason you came, then? Now that you’ve been convinced of my snoring.”

“I… well. I wanted to see if you were all right.”

“All right,” Laurent said flatly.

“Yes. I’m aware the question is rather silly. But you were obviously beaten badly before you were brought here, and I wanted to check if you were treated.”

“Treated?” Laurent swallowed a whole host of unhelpful remarks. “No bones were broken, if that’s what you mean.”

“No. I mean, I knew. I wanted to see if you were treated for pain.”

That stalled him for a moment, as he was possibly shocked, or more likely disoriented, unable to find the point of deceit. It was difficult to divine true motivation out of boots, no matter how well-polished. If he wanted to get anywhere at all, Laurent would need a face.

“I am not,” he said, “in much pain.”

“You are aware you’re still bleeding.”

“Yes, thank you. I never said the stickiness was pleasant. If you had a spare cloth I would be most grateful.”

“I—” the boots came closer. “Will you tell me your name?”

Laurent rolled his eyes to the floor. “Do you normally take prisoners without verifying their identity.”

“No. No, I don’t. You are not my prisoner.”

“Ah. Of course, as you are not the one with the key. You’re not simply employed by my captor, either.” The quality of leather suggested high-born at least. “In that case, you are either a co-conspirator, or.”

“Or?”

Laurent allowed himself to straighten up marginally. It hurt like a bastard in his shoulder, possibly re-opening the knife wound, and did not allow him to see above well-defined, stocky shins; it was, still, something he could do. “Or you are here to decide if you’ll help me.”

“Help you,” Boots said. “I cannot help you.”

“Because you don’t have the key,” Laurent said. “Yet.”

A long silence stretched between them, somehow also echoing in the small chamber. Perhaps the cell had grown when Laurent was unconscious; perhaps it had blown and blown until it was humongous, a cavern or a palace, empty and gleaming. Waiting to be filled with sounds, most likely screaming. The imaginings were strangely soothing; Laurent had to recall his wits before he lost track of this very important, possibly course-altering conversation.

“I must leave,” said the horribly non-cooperative owner of the boots. “I will be back. I’ll bring water. And some food.”

“Very gracious,” Laurent said, genuine and inordinately annoyed. “I will be right here.”

A choked sound, some shuffling, then the creaking of the door. Before it had the chance to close, Laurent said, “It is Laurent, by the way.”

The man almost ran back to him. “Pardon? What was that?”

“My name. You asked. If you’re still interested, it is Laurent.”

“Yes. Yes. Laurent.” In the part of conversation where a proper gentleman would give his own name, the man said, “Thank you,” and left, shutting the door carefully behind him. He seemed to possess that key, in any case, which meant he could probably obtain the other.

He was not a small man, which might be problematic when it came to one-on-one fisticuffs. Feet that large, and shins that thick, and the voice that came deep and sure: the man was either a giant, or a very near thing, and he was probably well-versed in fighting on top of it, because that was just Laurent’s luck. He would need more than simple strength to outdo him.

It would be much easier to plan with a face.

Read the rest of chapter 1 on AO3!

[robbingprince]

A silly comic because I missed them so much and I'm rereading the series

[robbingprince]

Chapter 7 now up!

Halden was a sizeable town, but by no means large. The fortunate location near the river Glomma allowed it commerce with inland Patras, Vask and even Akielos: the houses and establishments represented that to a mild scale. Here, a columned tavern advertising long pipes and khalis; there, a tarp-covered shop dedicated to Vaskian coupling liquor. Apparently the local delicacy was something called fist crab, which inspired a wary sort of curiosity. Laurent catalogued all he came across, slipping between shadowed alcoves to avoid the milling drunks outside the taverns.

Slipping was a generous term. Laurent’s usually controlled movements were disastrously uneven. One could say he was wobbling between alleyways, and even that would be sugar-coating the matter. Putting one foot in front of the other was a battle of wills: Laurent versus his legs, seemingly desperate to burst into flames. Laurent won (of course), and charged on, merciless. It was possible he developed a slight fever.

The high street was busy even in this hour, ship-crews and those who made good coin out of them. Laurent took a small detour to the waterfront, marked the four boats that looked easiest to sneak onto. He hid behind a rotting plank and listened to a truly mind-spinning hotchpotch of languages, managed to assemble some sort of schedule with a wide margin of error. One boat would (possibly) be departing in a couple of hours. It did not leave him long. But it was doable.

The residential part of town was far quieter, and mostly Patran in style. Further away from the sounds of lute, the smell of ale and fried crab, the general wine-scented hollering, there was only the moonlit cobblestone, and Laurent, on his search. White nightgown and red scarf, the ghost of Halden.

He should have kept better grasp on his surroundings.

Blame the fever; as he marched himself through the streets, he was aware only of the damned presence around his neck. The collar, too horrible to bear in mind, too tight to forget. He could not tolerate it a second longer. He needed it off. He needed—

A sound from behind had him whip round, a grand gesture, needless and costly. A cat. It was a cat. Black and white and pointy-eared, and still very much a cat. Laurent slapped himself, once, a ringing plea to regain his focus. Distractions and inattention, fever and broken body would come after. First he had to do this.

The smithy, he learned, was half-hidden behind the shoemaker’s shop. Nonsense directions from Eilert, of course, who had been to town four times, making him much more important and well-learned than Laurent. Laurent, laughing, conceded his victory, and Eilert did mope less afterwards, and even gave him this snippet of information. And here, behind the—cat—a sign. With a bad drawing of a boot.

“Thanks,” Laurent said, taken aback, and hurried out of the torchlight.

The smithy was a crumbling longhouse built bizarrely of metal that gave halfway in to rust. It was impossible to locate a door, and there was no light behind the windows. Abandoned, or worse, Laurent thought, and looked for a place from which he could break in to try and do it himself. Sure, without seeing the collar—and true that he lacked some experience with a blacksmith’s tools. But then again, how difficult could it be?

What Eilert failed to mention was that on the other side of the smithy was Halden’s worst, and only, brothel.

Because Laurent was Laurent, he arrived at this conclusion at the worst possible time. No, to be entirely honest: first, because he was Laurent, he made an already complicated plan blindingly elaborate, and hid his horse in the outskirts of town for reasons he could barely care enough to trace back.  

And so without a horse for emergency evacuation, and too far from the water, he could only watch as the brothel’s door cracked open, expelling a man. He was a ginormous specimen, fairly foreign to the calm night. Laurent recognised him immediately, although the same could not be said for Govart. His face took a long moment to stretch from a scowl to an open O of shock, and then settle into a smirk.

“Well,” he said, “if it isn’t our little princess.” Already he was too close.

Read the rest of chapter 7 on AO3!

what if I promised it will all end well? As in, in the end. Will it make you feel better? 😔

Well-polished

Laurent was just deciding whether or not he should bother staying alive when the door opened.

“Oh,” said the man who entered, “You’re awake.”

Laurent said, “Yes, quite,” and turned as far as he could with the chains, which was not very far. There was nowhere to conceal the rock he had sharpened, and so he closed his fist around it. “Should I not be?”

“Pardon?” a step towards him, and another. He could not see a face, couldn’t raise his head high enough for it, but the torchlight still fell on polished boots. A large man, probably very tall.

“Did you need me asleep. I could pretend, if it helps. I can be very convincing.”

“Can you,” somewhat amused.

Laurent made himself frown. “Yes, I have the snoring down to the dot. Shall I give you an example?”

“Please do.”

Closing his eyes to a slit, Laurent said, “Snore.”

The man gave a bark of laughter so hard it startled them both. “Oh,” he said, afterwards, “oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to—yes, that was convincing indeed.”

“Are you speaking in jest? I can’t see your expression. The collar, you know, it rather impedes the motion of my neck.”

A breath travelled between the stone walls. It was a small cell, sound should not echo within it—and yet. “I cannot unchain you,” the man said. “I don’t have the key.”

“Right. Was there another reason you came, then? Now that you’ve been convinced of my snoring.”

“I… well. I wanted to see if you were all right.”

“All right,” Laurent said flatly.

“Yes. I’m aware the question is rather silly. But you were obviously beaten badly before you were brought here, and I wanted to check if you were treated.”

“Treated?” Laurent swallowed a whole host of unhelpful remarks. “No bones were broken, if that’s what you mean.”

“No. I mean, I knew. I wanted to see if you were treated for pain.”

That stalled him for a moment, as he was possibly shocked, or more likely disoriented, unable to find the point of deceit. It was difficult to divine true motivation out of boots, no matter how well-polished. If he wanted to get anywhere at all, Laurent would need a face.

“I am not,” he said, “in much pain.”

“You are aware you’re still bleeding.”

“Yes, thank you. I never said the stickiness was pleasant. If you had a spare cloth I would be most grateful.”

“I—” the boots came closer. “Will you tell me your name?”

Laurent rolled his eyes to the floor. “Do you normally take prisoners without verifying their identity.”

“No. No, I don’t. You are not my prisoner.”

“Ah. Of course, as you are not the one with the key. You’re not simply employed by my captor, either.” The quality of leather suggested high-born at least. “In that case, you are either a co-conspirator, or.”

“Or?”

Laurent allowed himself to straighten up marginally. It hurt like a bastard in his shoulder, possibly re-opening the knife wound, and did not allow him to see above well-defined, stocky shins; it was, still, something he could do. “Or you are here to decide if you’ll help me.”

“Help you,” Boots said. “I cannot help you.”

“Because you don’t have the key,” Laurent said. “Yet.”

A long silence stretched between them, somehow also echoing in the small chamber. Perhaps the cell had grown when Laurent was unconscious; perhaps it had blown and blown until it was humongous, a cavern or a palace, empty and gleaming. Waiting to be filled with sounds, most likely screaming. The imaginings were strangely soothing; Laurent had to recall his wits before he lost track of this very important, possibly course-altering conversation.

“I must leave,” said the horribly non-cooperative owner of the boots. “I will be back. I’ll bring water. And some food.”

“Very gracious,” Laurent said, genuine and inordinately annoyed. “I will be right here.”

A choked sound, some shuffling, then the creaking of the door. Before it had the chance to close, Laurent said, “It is Laurent, by the way.”

The man almost ran back to him. “Pardon? What was that?”

“My name. You asked. If you’re still interested, it is Laurent.”

“Yes. Yes. Laurent.” In the part of conversation where a proper gentleman would give his own name, the man said, “Thank you,” and left, shutting the door carefully behind him. He seemed to possess that key, in any case, which meant he could probably obtain the other.

He was not a small man, which might be problematic when it came to one-on-one fisticuffs. Feet that large, and shins that thick, and the voice that came deep and sure: the man was either a giant, or a very near thing, and he was probably well-versed in fighting on top of it, because that was just Laurent’s luck. He would need more than simple strength to outdo him.

It would be much easier to plan with a face.

Read the rest of chapter 1 on AO3!

[robbingprince]

ANOTHER VON TRAPPED CHAPTER?? Sickening.