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[robbingprince]

Star-dust

“Will you—”

Damen took his head in both hands and kissed his cheek, and kissed it, and kissed it, squishing Laurent’s face in his palms, so—so crushingly overwhelmed that it was difficult to stop, to, think, to breathe. Laurent smelled like sea-daffodils and like grass and like oranges, like warm evening air and rolling hills and twinkling lights, like everything Damen could want, and he inhaled him, deep, long, drawing a punched-out gasp out of him, a yelp of surprise.

“Stop it,” he was laughing, and, “brute, it’s—stop!” but he was making no efforts to free himself, his hands over Damen’s, pressing only closer. One snuck to the back of Damen’s neck, and his eyes opened wide, looking right at him, endlessly blue. “You,” he paused, flushing.

“Sweetheart,” Damen whispered, delighted. Pasted a big, sloppy kiss all over Laurent’s cheekbone; down his jaw, to his chin, and just under it, revelling at the tiny sigh, ravenous for it. Pulled Laurent even closer, determined to kiss him unravelled, until he was trembling in his arms and melted open, determined to give him everything, to have him closest and deepest and truest and free.

“Damen,” low, his voice when it roughens, dazzling, dizzying. “Damen.”

“Yes,” he said, hysterical, “yes, sweetheart,” kissing and kissing and,

“Yours,” Laurent breathed, warm on the tender skin of his throat, “Damen, yours,” and Damen’s mind splintered around it, drowned in the joy of it, heart soaring—

The yelp was more of a squeal this time but to be fair, Damen did hoist him up a little suddenly, and Laurent was—oh, not standing anymore, but closer, finally, and his legs twined around Damen’s as soon as they left the ground and there was no flailing, no time-wasting, just graceful re-tethering that tugged hard on something in Damen’s chest and kissing was more like pecking, grinning too hard to stop, teeth to teeth, and Damen loved him so fully and so hopelessly and so earnestly that it was a bit like being kicked, a bit like flying.

“You’re ridiculous,” Laurent said, but his voice was warmed honey and his smile was even worse and Damen tore the distance still between them with a cry, pleading, closer, closer.

“Yours,” he said, a confession tucked into the crook of Laurent’s neck, “yours, Laurent, yes, always,” silly and flayed open with this, breathless.

Laurent’s hand was gentle as it guided his chin up. His face was luminous, golden-pink in the last of the light. There was something reverent about this, rolling hills behind them and the glisten of the sea ahead; something soft and frightening. It quickened in his chest, rabbiting in every direction. A row of sparkles set aflame. Laurent, in his arms: Laurent, looking at him, looking like this.

“The sun is setting,” he said, forehead resting against Damen’s. His breathing was coming in fast, belying the even tone. “Night will fall soon.”

“Night,” Damen agreed, nonsensically. The smell of sea-daffodil was rich and heady; he was very nearly swooning. “Sweetheart,” he added, helplessly.

“Should we head back?”

“Not yet,” Damen said. His thoughts tried, and failed, to reach past the length of Laurent’s eyelashes; they would glow under starlight too, silver instead of gold. It was all so impossibly soft, impossibly precious.

Laurent blinked at him knowingly. His smile was too wide; it threatened to break something, battering at Damen’s ribs from the inside to the stutter of his heart. “Not yet,” he echoed. “What shall we do in the meantime?”

And when Damen just stared, stunned with this starburst of affection,

“Kiss me,” Laurent said, chuckles interrupting the pout, and Damen could roar with how much—he was still carrying him, crushing Laurent’s body into his, careful and disbelieving, still, shot through with the thrill of it.

Helpless—

Damen took his head in both hands and kissed his cheek, and kissed it, and kissed it. Realised, with this brilliant rush: he could never get enough. “Brute,” Laurent huffed, airy, light, and Damen thought, yes,

And he punctuated each kiss with it: “Yes,” and, “sweetheart,” and, “yes,” and, “yes.”

Star-dust glimmered in Laurent's hair, in his smile. “Fiancé,” he said, his voice sweetly shy, and Damen’s toes curled with the pleasure of it. He said, “Yes.”

“Husband,” Laurent tried, and Damen dropped them both to the grass.

[robbingprince]

i just really like how damen always has laurent pressed against something. it's very yes

[robbingprince]

ghosts

They only come at night, and only when he’s alone. Laurent knows the rules; had studied them carefully, collected his observations in the brown notebook he kept under the bed. He burned that after a while, for obvious reasons; remembered every single one of the conclusions he wrote in capital letters, underscored twice.

Nighttime, alone, and he has to be relatively clean, which means he now takes his bath before bed. Then he sits with his knees to his chest, and waits.

It normally takes a minute or two: a flicker of the candlelight, a gust of wind, and there they are. His ghosts.

Mother comes first, always, he doesn’t know why. She usually smiles at him, even if she’s disappointed, and she never tells him off even when he’s wrong. Father comes next, always stern, not quite like he was in real life but not-not like that either. He keeps quiet, although he does tsk sometimes when he’s upset. Then—Auguste.

Ghost-Auguste is exactly the same and nothing like living Auguste, and seeing him is always the best and the worst. He wants to hear about everything, apart from if it’s to do with Laurent’s classes or horses or sword-work or Uncle; he smiles, and even laughs, although usually at the wrong times. He nods a lot, and interrupts his own sentences, and loses track if Laurent blathers on. He winks at random portraits. He’s got a weird-looking moustache.  

He often asks about his old Prince’s Guard, so Laurent has to keep track of its former members. He rolls his eyes whenever Laurent says he doesn’t know something, so Laurent has to study a lot. He’s… nice, apart from when he’s not, and he gets impatient, and angry too, which the real Auguste never had. Once he tried to grab a candelabra and chuck it at the wall; his hand slipped right through it, and he gave a gigantic groan, and shimmered out of the window. He didn’t come back the next night, but Laurent thought he understood, anyway.

Uncle doesn’t see them. He never quite told him, because even at thirteen Laurent isn’t stupid, and he wouldn’t admit to something of this scale if he could help it. He knows seeing ghosts is—not ideal. But he wouldn’t turn Auguste away even if he did manage with that candelabra, and it’s worth it, having a secret. Even if Uncle presses too hard. Even if he prods.

(And he tries to get Laurent out of his bedroom; tries to ensure Laurent isn’t alone; and it’s nice, most of the time, the—physical way he has, that ghosts don’t, that they can’t touch him with. Laurent’s aware he’s a human being and not a fragment of soul drifting in space; he needs a hand on his shoulder sometimes, an embrace. He doesn’t like that he needs it, but he used to have Auguste, and now he doesn’t, so. Uncle was always kind to him anyway. It’s a kindness, what he does).

(But Laurent prefers his ghosts).

He sets out for some balance; a night with them, and a night with him. It’s true sometimes he’s not in a position to choose; the ghosts scatter if they see Uncle, and Laurent doesn’t always convince him to leave. He thinks Uncle might, if he told him, but something in Laurent shuts his mouth every time he tries to confess. Something prickly and strange that’s a bit like Auguste’s see-through hand reaching for a candelabra. Something possibly bad.

And he’s also concerned that… well, Uncle isn’t cruel most of the time. But he worries that if he tells him, Uncle might—on purpose. He does some things, sometimes. On purpose.

Laurent tries to convince the ghosts to come more often; during the day, when Uncle is busy with his meetings and his Council, and Laurent is left alone to study or ride or train. He thought he saw ghost-Auguste once, in the forest, when he rode his pony really fast; she was a little curt with him afterwards, offended, but he tried again every day since. The ache in his thighs is worth it, for a glimpse. Laurent is a boy of many secrets, but his ghosts are his favourite one.

Did he use to have so many secrets, before? When real-Auguste played with his hair and Father was stern the normal way. Laurent doesn’t… remember. It’s already getting too far away.

But there are rules; it comforts him, that there’s rules, and he must comply. He has to be alone, at night, and fairly clean. (Surprisingly, sometimes that’s what’s taking the longest). They come when Uncle slips out of the chamber, or when Laurent drags himself to the windowsill, to curl in his blanket and stare at the moon.

(Was he always such a dramatic child, Uncle asked once, laughing, fond hand under his chin. And Laurent looked at him and thought, I don’t know. Was he?)

(He asked ghost-Auguste later, but it just made him impatient).

They come to him some nights, reassuring and terrible. Already the details of their faces are beginning to fade; Laurent spends so much time just staring at portraits, staring and staring. When Uncle caught him at it he called him maudlin, which was a little bit funny; they both laughed, although Laurent wasn’t sure why. Ghosts are meant to be a serious business. He feels rather serious about them, after all.

He’s thirteen; Laurent knows very well he’s possibly a little bit foolish. Uncle always says it, always, to every single adult who would listen. And they speak about how sweet Laurent’s smile is and how lovely his features, and whisper about him being soft and sad. It’s one of his secrets: how soft he truly is. Not the sadness though. That he wears helplessly, boldly.

It’s simple: Laurent has ghosts. They are finicky and sometimes downright unpleasant and they make him cry nearly every night. But they’re his. And he’s not giving them back.

[robbingprince]

Golden-fine

(also on AO3, 1.5k)

The man who killed Laurent’s brother offered him a peach.

“Sweetheart?”

He blinked, and the image changed; nothing changed at all, but it was Damen, who was trying not to frown but frowned anyway, in his hand a round little peach. It was disconcerting, how normal it all was. Sometimes—Laurent still, sometimes. Reeled.

“Life is rarely ever what you expect it to be,” he told his horse once, on a summer stroll through the forest. The world glinted golden all around them and Laurent’s chest was ever-tight. No-one really listened to him, then, but for his horse; no-one… well. Can’t say he made much of an effort.

Her name was Eleanor, and she was a gift from Auguste. The horse. She was young then, a foal, and so was Laurent, and Auguste will always be. He’ll never change. Laurent told himself there was comfort hidden deep, deep within the thought.

“Sweetheart,” again, from his left, oh, from the present. Blinking, blinking:

“Yes?”

“You seem very far away.”

Was he? Far. How far could he run before being wrenched back, torn and dragged till he was right where he started. Laurent sometimes thought… no, no-one was this good at planning. The gods didn’t care enough to punish him, specifically, the matter of merit aside, and Uncle was dead.

Uncle? Something gleaming in the corner of his—

Laurent stood, brushed invisible crumbs from his sleeve, where none had the chance to fall: he never touched his food. Oops. “My head,” he said, to someone. Probably.

“Laurent.”

Would humming be enough for a response, or had he missed the chance to salvage this? Laurent’s mind wasn’t working in its neat straight lines. Everything was running around in circles: run, run, could he still, run? But he would return. He always returned.

“I,” he said, swallowed, “think I will go for a ride.”

Damen’s frown deepened. “What about your head?”

“I’ll be sure to take it with me.”

A pout. “You said it ached.”

Did he now. Laurent couldn’t remember saying anything, ever, in his life. He was not the wordy type, was he? Surely not. “It’ll pass.”

“You haven’t eaten a thing.”

Very observant, this husband of his, this brother-killer slave-freer beast-tamer king of a man. Laurent said, “Yes.” It was pointless to argue.

“Are you feeling unwell? Perhaps we should have a physician—”

“I’m fine.” He was, after all, one of the beasts the great Damianos had tamed. Admittedly, he didn’t feel very tamed right now, but the proof was in his actions, and he always returned. He might stick out his claws and sometimes even cause damage, but he was, over all, quite domesticated.

Suddenly, Laurent hated everything.

Everything: from the morning light falling gently through the curtains, to the brilliant day rolling hilly-green outside, to the tasteful and horribly bare décor of the dining chamber, to the peach, set carefully on a napkin, bright. He did not allow himself a single glimpse of Damen, wary, knowing himself. He couldn’t bear hating Damen right now, and he hated him, hated him, with viciousness that stole his breath away.

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t,” frantic, skidding three steps down the stone floor, panting already. “Don’t. I need to be—anywhere else. We have the day, still, before they arrive?”

This delegation from Patras, an ambassador Laurent couldn’t name for the life of him. He knew his name, all of their names. Simply not right now.

“We… yes. Not before tomorrow morning, the messenger said.”

“Good.” Had to force himself to take a deep breath, still his hands. Damen didn’t deserve this lashing out. He didn’t deserve anything Laurent inflicted upon him. Still, words would not come. A peach outlined in gold behind tightly-shut eyelids; a trickle starting in the crown of his head, pouring downwards, irreversible. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Laurent,” Damen said. Pleaded. It all clawed inside his throat, venomous, I’m sorry and you are not to blame and I wish I knew how to. Laurent couldn’t say any of that.

“Tonight,” he promised instead. And left.

As soon as he was out of the room, as always, the earth shifted course, the knife thrown, struck, right between his breastbones: rage finally aimed at the real culprit. Himself, of course. Himself-himself-himself. There was no-one and nothing Laurent hated more, who deserved to be hated more, who needed punished worse. To the never-ending list of his affronts against Damen in particular, now add this. Another instance of his trademark casual cruelty that would jab into Damen’s too-big heart. Another fault in Laurent.

He could not stand a moment longer under this skin. But to tear at it had proven non-helpful one time too many, and his head truly was splitting at the seams, because every lie had to come back to bite him tenfold. Just desserts, he was getting his—where on earth was the door out of this infernal place. Every corridor was too long. Every window taunted. He needed to be outside (out, gods, let him out of his head). He needed—

Click-click, jibed his shoes as he marched, fled, always the scared little boy running, like Uncle said—

Every occasion in which Uncle was right should give Laurent pause, and he paused, literal hand on his chest like a tittering maiden in a play. Not to be intimidated by a ghost, he stood his ground. Spite would always work fastest. Stood his ground, and thought, enough, and thought, please, and thought, out.

Read the rest of Golden-fine on AO3 or under the cut

Outside was a courtyard, privately kept, which Damen found pleasing and Laurent found strategic enough a place to ambush him in on occasion. Today he would rip through it without reservation had he the time, but he didn’t, the time, didn’t have any time. Already the sun was moving, and he promised Damen tonight. He needed to not-fall-apart by tonight. To have glued-himself-together with Paschal’s special scar paste and to be—whoever he normally was. Someone level-headed, presumably. Someone who remembered words and cared about… matters. Someone real. By tonight he had to be someone real.

And so he allowed his legs (wobbly?) to take him to the stables, and his face must have been frightening enough to secure him this silent reprieve, as no-one dared approach. Good. That they learned. It would be terrible, if he went back to his right mind and found out he’d made a stable-boy cry, or—scared a serving girl. He had enough entries on the list of his crimes, and no time, no time.

Find the reins: whoever organised this hellhole ought to be beheaded—

On his horse (the only one at which he couldn’t snipe), and oh, how the sunlight irritated his eyelids, how it burst and crashed through his cluttered thoughts, how it blocked his airways with seething, burning fury and… the air was cool. He closed his eyes. Eleanor knew where to go.

The air was cool: Laurent clung to it like the scared little child he never ceased to be, and rode on.

“It isn’t…” he found himself muttering as Eleanor trotted through the forest, slowed down by age and much more interested in following hares than in philosophical conversation. “Rarely,” Laurent said, stupid. “What you expect.”

She was a gift from Auguste, all those many, many years ago. He worried, sometimes. That the wound would close. Life had never really been what Laurent expected, but he could be certain there’d be some melancholy tonight, some resolve. A concession. He would beg, as always, and bear the humiliation of—Eleanor took a sharp turn, showering Laurent with leaves from a too-low branch.

He shuddered with sudden, unexpected peals of—bubbling up his throat—laughter, maybe, wet down his cheeks; stroked a marvelling hand down her mane, and remembered to breathe.

Before him was a fork in the road. The path to the right would lead deeper into the forest, where the lake he favoured hid, curled between the hills. To the left would be towards the township, golden fields and unfailing skies. Neither seemed like the right choice, a strangely soothing concept.

He was hungry: silly, not to eat anything, and his cheeks flushed high-pink, and his muscles finally consented to unclench, then re-clench to fit the current objective. It was maddening, how much prompting his body needed for every single action. Amusing, sometimes, his desperate exercises at control. He taught himself. Perhaps he could be taught again.

Back where he came from a conversation awaited, an explanation, and a peach. Laurent knew he didn’t have what was considered a ‘normal’ approach regarding punishments, and yet… well. Something was already forming. Damen would forgive him.

Damen always did, which was most of the problem, and not why he kept returning.

Perhaps Laurent just wasn’t good at running? He looked down at Eleanor’s fussy braids he did not remember tying. Golden under his fingers. Auguste would like this day tremendously.

The familiar ache finally provided some relief; there will be no closing this. With a nod, Laurent kept riding.

[robbingprince]

Damen's ass is so fine! Big boy with a bubble butt ;) Would you ever consider doing a companion Laurent's back (butt) study???

hellooo…ummmm

so laurent butt….

ʅ（´◔౪◔）ʃ

[robbingprince]

rough attempt of a teenage Laurent aka actual throwback from the eternal WIP archive that I stumbled upon while digging for something else but why not share it here, I definitely won’t get around to re-work this anyways

[robbingprince]

Surprise!

(via)

[robbingprince]

“I,” said Laurent. Stopped. “You’ve known,” he said finally, “what this is.”

“Yes.”

To his horror, Laurent found his eyes hot, found himself blinking hard. Before he knew that he wanted to speak, his mouth was saying — “Why don’t you want it?”

He hated the way his voice came out. He sounded weak; bewildered; imploring. Damen was looking at him with a new expression which was so close to pity that it felt like being stabbed. Laurent turned away blindly, vision blurring, mouth gasping open.

-

“I want to make it,” said Laurent. “For the first time, I wanted —” His voice was unsteady. He wanted suddenly for Damen to understand, an urge so vehement that it felt like fury. He said, “My uncle always said that if I loved him I’d hand it over, and I never could. Damen, he had to take it.”

He’d half-expected to regret the words as soon as he said them, but he didn’t. It felt instead like pouring iodine into a wound, that same harsh clean sting, almost liberating. Damen had gone ashen: apparently he did not feel the same way.

“Laurent,” he said. His voice was awful, grating. He had not put it all together, then.

“He was right,” said Laurent. “When I fell in love, I did hand it over.”

“He was wrong,” said Damen. “It’s not something you can give, not to anyone.”

Laurent shrugged with one shoulder. “It’s not something you would accept. That’s not the same.”

“No,” said Damen, a little helplessly.

“I want,” Laurent had to take a breath to swallow the bitter humiliation of being forced to say it, “to give this to you.”

“I’d never ask it of you,” said Damen. “Never.”

“That’s —” Another breath. The rising hot pressure behind his eyes.

-

(My fav heartbreakingly exquisite scenes from your ‘all this and heaven too’ fic for the dvd commentary prompt!)

thank you!!!! I'll just answer the first one since someone else has put most of the second snippet into my inbox 💕

(dvd commentary meme)

I think the main goal of this snippet was to convey Laurent's disjointedness -- it's a moment where he gets confirmation of something he didn't want to be true (that damen knows what the skin is and deliberately left it alone) because of what he has assumed it means (that damen doesn't want him to stay). It's a vulnerable moment, and I think Laurent is the kind to shy away from exposing himself like that. He would be the sort to hate being looked at pityingly.....

Not to get too into the nitty gritty of word choices here, but I think the slight separation between subject and action here is something I picked up from the CaPri series, though I couldn't point you to any examples off the top of my head. In the fic, 'Laurent found his eyes hot' and 'his mouth was saying' (rather than 'Laurent's eyes were hot' and 'he said') became a way to convey Laurent's disorientation, the way he sort of takes a step back from occupying a physical body to retreat into his own mind.

Also, I do like playing a little with narration to kind of imply things without stating them outright -- Laurent's eyes are hot, he's blinking hard, his vision is BLURRY? He's teary! He's ready to cry! But obviously he'd never admit that even to himself, and so the narration shies away from saying it outright, too.

(This also features in a lighter moment later -- when Laurent lets Damen pull him upright, but Damen then asks if he's all right, which is when the narration admits he'd staggered because his legs were wobbly. I have fun with my little jokes...)

[robbingprince]

I'm a normal amount of obsessed with laurent's hairends getting slightly wavy when exposed to salty ocean air...

[robbingprince]

No breastplate for the bitchboy

[robbingprince]

Okay a. This is the most amazing thing ive seen and b. I just fully flushed at 'well done sweetheart' like FULL ON GIGGLY FLUSHED

You can now play a Captive Prince version of Wordle here! The answers include character names, places, and words associated with the series. And I looked at the map and the character list in the books when I was making the answers list so there's some obscure Akielon provinces in there. I don't even remember if they ever went to Kesus

[robbingprince]

Adore

Adore - To worship or honour.

Laurent had never loved his own body—it was a weak point, a castle to be besieged, defended only by high battlements and offensive tactics—and he had made it a skill to ignore other people’s bodies. 

But Damen was a different breed. He inhabited his body deeply, fully, with abandon. And he—as far as Laurent could tell—adored Laurent’s body too. 

He appeared to derive as much pleasure from touching Laurent as he did when receiving touch. He groaned with satisfaction when he took Laurent into his mouth, exhaled shakily as he kissed Laurent’s wrist, his eyes blew wide as the sky as he stroked the racing pulse at Laurent’s throat. 

He…worshipped, like Laurent’s body was a temple and Damen its proudest and most devoted priest.

Read it here on Ao3 🖤

Written as part of @captiveprincekinktober for the prompt ‘body worship’

Part of the Such-Like I Love Series

[robbingprince]

Inktober Day 7 - Drip

[robbingprince]

Inktober Day 6 - Golden

[robbingprince]

Inktober Day 5 - Maps

[robbingprince]

Contour

Contour - To restrict.

“Tighter.”

“No, if—“

Laurent took a half-step forward—Damen’s fingers clenched, tangled in the laces—the sliver of pale skin still exposed by the blue brocade had gotten smaller. 

“I bet you could fit your hands around my waist now.”

Damen ached at the idea, had ached since Laurent had first produced the concoction of silk and steel now cinching his waist so neatly. He tied a knot. 

“May I?”

“I can feel my pulse…everywhere. Touch me.”

Silk didn’t compare with Laurent’s skin—not the arc of his hip, nor the throbbing hardness of his cock. 

“Tighter, Damen, please—” 

Damen firmed his grip.

Read it here on Ao3 🖤

Written as part of @captiveprincekinktober for the prompt ‘corset’

Part of the Such-Like I Love Series

[robbingprince]

Inktober Day 4 - Dodge