#reluctant royals

[readtilyoudie]

“This city is held together by hope and insomnia,” she said. “Who needs infrastructure?” 

“Americans,” he muttered, shaking his head.

-  A Princess in Theory (Reluctant Royals, #1) by Alyssa Cole

[cha-melodius]

firstprince hug prompt #30

(You sent two and I said I was gonna combine them, so I did. And because you said you were constantly adding "between spies" to the prompts in your head, that's what you get too. 😂 hug ficlet prompts)

30: The reluctant hug from someone who isn’t exactly a fan of physical affection; 13: The hug which tells you everything you need to know.

Alex is not ok.

He’s trying not to show it, of course, but they’ve been working together long enough for it to be obvious. They’ve been partners long enough, have seen each other at highs and lows, and this, Henry knows without a doubt, is a low. Maybe the lowest he’s ever seen Alex, and that’s saying something.

He doesn’t know what happened. Is too afraid to ask when Alex returns and doesn’t immediately start giving him a play-by-play. Whatever it is, it must be quite bad for Alex to have retreated into himself like this. He’s in pretty much the same place he collapsed on the sofa after he came back to the safehouse, answering Henry’s questions in single syllables, staring at a newspaper without reading it. He doesn’t even read the newspaper under normal circumstances. Henry’s the one that always picks it up, because he likes the idea of some things being true enough to print in indelible ink, even when he knows they’re not, and Alex makes fun of him for being an old man.

Henry doesn’t know what to do. He’s not equipped for this, not after so many years in the Service. He’s not built for providing comfort, not beyond making a pot of tea, which certainly won’t help Alex. But he wants, unaccountably, to make things better somehow. Needs to.

He won’t pretend not to know what’s behind it, even though he probably should. It’d be safer for both of them if he just let Alex be, let him handle whatever happened on his own.

Instead, he slowly lowers himself to the couch next to Alex and takes the newspaper out of his hands. Alex doesn’t fight him, just gives him a wary look like he’s afraid Henry’s going to ask more questions that he doesn’t want to—or can’t—answer.

But Henry slides a hand onto Alex’s shoulder and opens his other arm in the universal sign of offering a hug, and asks, “Can I?”

Perhaps predictably, Alex stares at him. “Are you sure? You don’t have to just for me. I’ll be fine.”

Just as Henry knows him, he knows Henry. Knows that Henry avoids most physical contact outside what’s necessary for his work, has pretty much since his father died and his mother withdrew and his sister disappeared, and no one hugged Henry for literal years. Knows that the demands of the job have only made it worse. Alex is careful with him, never asking too much, even though Alex is definitely the kind of person who thrives on casual physical affection.

Even with all of that, Henry wants to do this. He’s not sure it will help—not sure he even knows how to give good hugs anymore—but he’s sure he wants to try. “Yes,” he tells Alex. “I want to. If— If you do,” he adds, suddenly uncertain.

What if Alex doesn’t want a hug from him? What if he understands the magnitude of this, because there’s no way he doesn’t, and it’s too much? What if—

Alex very nearly launches himself into Henry’s arms, pressing in close as he curls his own arms around Henry’s waist, burrowing under skin and muscle and bone until he’s securely lodged in Henry’s ventricles. The hug almost hurts, and not because Alex is squeezing him so tightly, but because Henry’s chest is cracking open at the feeling of Alex shaking apart in his arms. Henry holds him just as tightly, murmuring soft words of comfort as he smooths a hand over Alex’s wild curls, and lets him stay as long as he wants.

(It’s all night—Alex stays in his arms all night, and Henry never once wants him to leave. Their partnership will never be the same. Henry will never be the same.

He doesn’t regret any of it.)

[twosidedcherrytrees]

I hate this man

Original image:

[paingoes]

Crash Out - CTRL

(Content: (ex) royal whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, guns, minor character death, rescue, reluctant caretaking, blood, past torture, wound care, panic attack, crying, guilt, comfort)

~~~~~

Antony looked again to the girl stood in front of him, one of her arms propped up against the ancient computer tower. Her other hand hooked two fingers on the collar of her broken heels. She’d come dressed like it was a new job interview. He supposed in some ways it was.

He carded through the folder she’d brought him, recognized Vi’s monogram at the corner of the page. The two of them spoke in a language no one else could. Even without the aid of the cipher-breaker, he could make out some of the fine script off memory alone. Amendments to the passion project. Top secret. Vi wouldn’t even send it over the wire, but she’d sent it with her.

“I’m an excellent shot,” Lorelai had said. And a smooth talker, apparently, if she had wormed her way out of the imperial arms. She’d been proud of that, he could tell as she recounted the story. She described the soldier who’d released her, asked for him to be spared if CTRL so happened across him. The infantry all looked the same to him, but he said he’d do his best.

She wasn’t bad, he thought. He could see why Vi had wanted her. But something about the gesture felt too showy for his tastes.

Look what I bagged, he could hear Vi’s voice in trills down his mind. She was beautiful, there was no question. But more than that, she was cute. Incorruptible and delivered right to their doorstep.

She could be such a roué when she wanted to be.

They were not onboarding, exactly, and she had picked a hell of a time to show up. The timing was no good for him — and it seemed it was no good for her either. 

“I can’t stay all night,” Lorelai had said, as if he’d invited her to.

He liked her, though. He didn’t mind walking the dark tunnels of the base with her, didn’t mind showing her around. 

“Long way from home, then,” Antony said casually. “All on a whim?”

She laughed lightly, the same trill in her voice.

“It might as well have been, the way it happened.” She brushed a hand through her hair. It caught on her broken nail. She unhooked it. 

In the range, he watched the target light up where it was shot. He watched the way she reached to reload — in the wrong place, on the wrong rifle. Muscle memory.

“Military school?” He asked. And she blushed, as if she had caught the same tell but was too late to stop it.

Then - “Are you always this giddy in a warzone?”

“No.” She put the gun down. “I don’t mean to be. You think I’m a tourist, don’t you?”

“No,” Antony answered. “Just that you’re strange.”

She couldn’t argue with that. As they started back towards the center, he held the door open for her. She did something like a curtsy as she passed through. And for the fifth time in twenty minutes, she glanced at her phone. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she saw the display.

“Something wrong?” he asked her.

Lorelai scrolled back up the message log. She bit at her nails, then stopped as her gaze returned to him.

“I told you, I didn’t know they were planetside when I first got here.” She refreshed the messages again. From the colors alone, Antony saw no change on her screen. “I left my friend — and my ship — out by the edge. Now he’s not answering my texts.”

“Oh,” he paused, “You think something might’ve happened.”

“I don’t know.” She bit her lip again. “I left the keys with him, I don’t know.”

Antony paused a minute. He was not in the business of charity. For a long while, their footsteps on the concrete floor were the only sound.

“What are the ship coordinates?” He offered, finally. It wouldn’t hurt just to send a scout. She’d done Vi a favor, so he could spare one for her. The fighting hadn’t even started yet.

Lorelai looked up in surprise. Maybe she wasn’t such a smooth talker, the way he’d taken her for. Maybe all those encounters had gone just like this. He felt a kind of chivalry for her, some deeply buried instinct. Maybe she brought that out of everyone.

She listed out the long string of numbers that revealed the ship’s location. She must have memorized it, even before she left.

~

The sky held the first gloom of twilight and so CTRL’s units felt no need to persevere. Even when they could see in the dark, it wasn’t a fun game to play. 

But Milo had liked it once, the way the woods turned evil at night. He’d lived in the center all his life — all his best memories had been in this stretch of land. Maybe that’s why he took it so personally when the soldiers arrived. Even when they were all flushed out, the woods still would not be safe to play in for the kids who lived there now. It wouldn’t be safe for years afterwards, when all the mines were finally dug out and the bodies all excavated.

They’d taken out two imperial units in one day and sustained minimal injuries in return — all stealth. The off-roader ran wild through the undergrowth. They didn’t need to take their chances.

But then another unit was right there — and their coxswain could not help herself.

“Floor it,” she said.

It was so easy when they were all congregated like that. Nobody was even standing watch. All close together, all it took was a single-

Milo covered his ears, covered his eyes. He didn’t enjoy it, not for anything. But he enjoyed it more than the alternative, easily.

Body parts were strewn out into the dirt. Those who survived the first explosion were shot dead right after, too dazed to even crawl away.  Cleo plucked them all off with her revolver in swift and unpretentious shots. Milo scanned around for any signs of life, anyone lying in wait to avenge themselves upon them. There was no movement.

The coxswain stood up through the sunroof, taking in the scenery just the same. The camp was shoddily arranged, probably only pitched a few days before. Maybe even a few hours.

She elbowed him. It was only then that his attention was drawn to the large hole right by the edge of the camp’s clearing. It cut a rough shape into the earth, but it was — unmistakably — a grave that had yet to be filled.

His heart sank. There was no one unaccounted for on their side. It wasn’t one of their own. If it was full, then…

She elbowed him again.

“What?” He threw his hands up. “It falls to me?”

But the others had already unloaded from the vehicle, taking what they could of the discarded imperial weaponry and food stuffs. Milo grumbled, taking unenthusiastic steps towards the grave.

His eyes widened as he caught movement inside.

He gasped in shock, loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. They were all there then, none of them eager to see a corpse but all too eager to see what else could possibly be there.

It was not a comforting sight. The figure there was bound and bleeding. Both their hands were tied behind their back. A thick rope was wrapped around their ankles — and another length connected the two restraints. Even with the limited movement, the figure had rearranged themselves into a half-upright position against the wall of earth. A blindfold — once white, now colored with dirt and blood — covered their eyes. Blood dripped in a thin line from their mouth.

“Holy shit,” Milo said.

The figure tensed at the sound, seemed to back further into the wall. Milo was pretty sure they were a boy the longer he looked, but couldn’t really tell. He looked to the coxswain for advice. Cleo stared at him like he was crazy. The others did, too. Why did this fall to him?

“Okay,” Milo said louder, “Hold on a sec. Stay right there.”

As if they had any choice. 

Milo carefully lowered himself down into the grave. It was a tight fit. He was glad the other had tried to rearrange himself. He wouldn’t have had the space to maneuver otherwise. Milo landed on the soft earth, crouching down beside the figure. He took them in.

That couldn’t be right.

When he looked back up at Cleo, he could tell she saw it too.

He untied the blindfold. The prince stared back at him with eyes so full of fear and hatred that he actually startled. 

“Holy shit,” he said again, “Your Highness?”

He visibly cringed at the title. Milo supposed he shouldn’t have used it. He wasn’t prince anymore, and CTRL wasn’t supposed to recognize that authority even if he had been. But it’s not like they were on a first name basis with each other. He didn’t know what else to say.

The prince said nothing. He seemed too occupied with trying to breathe properly inside of the tomb, though his eyes followed each of Milo’s movements with a laser precision. The air did feel thinner in here, stale. The earth was cold and seemed to wick away any life inside of it.

“Hey,” Milo’s hand moved to his knife. “If I untie you, you’ll behave? No hitting?”

He stared at him for so long that Milo began to wonder if he’d been deafened too. Or maybe just dazed, hit in the head too many times. He looked confused. 

Finally, he gave a small, slow nod. Milo removed the knife from his belt and cut away at the binds around his ankles. Without the pressure holding them there, his legs fell into a more natural position, but did not move any further. No kicking. A good sign. He placed one hand on the prince’s shoulder, gently tilting him forward to cut his wrists free from behind his back.

The prince pulled them forward slowly, just as cognizant of the threat as Milo was. Milo saw the absolute state that his hands were in. There were rope burns around the wrists, but that was far from the worst of it. The palms had been worked raw. One had a hole right through the center of it. The wound bled openly onto the soil.

Milo put the knife back into his belt, scooting backwards a bit.

“Can you stand?” He would’ve usually offered a hand, but he was very careful not to touch those right now. He stood up and took his forearms for support instead. The prince stood unsteadily. His limbs were all locked up, like he’d been tied there for a while. Milo caught him before he could stumble all the way. He leaned against the dirt wall to keep upright.

Cleo and one of the gunners helpfully extended their hands down.

“Boost,” Milo said, forming a cage with his fingers. The prince stared at him, untrusting, still unable to speak around his own gasps.

“Boost,” Milo insisted.

They nearly had to carry him out of that pit.

They pulled Milo up next, after joking for a few seconds about just leaving him there, which was not very funny. He clambered up along the dirt. He hadn’t liked those clothes anyway — and the soil was easier to wash away than gore.

He saw that the prince had collapsed onto the ground. He seemed unable to even sit up, leaning back on one elbow for support. It had to be the blood loss.

“He needs bandages,” Milo said, though Cleo had beat him to it. Her hands were cleaner anyway, better for the job.

She knelt down onto the grass beside him, taking the punctured hand in her own. The prince yanked it back abruptly, protectively. He got more blood on his shirt in the process.

“You’re bleeding,” she said impatiently, like it wasn’t obvious. She held up the water bottle. “I’m just gonna patch it up. I’ll be quick.”

She gestured to the torn up, makeshift bandage that now hung in tatters on the prince’s wrist. He did not offer his hand back, but when she reached for it again he did not resist. The torn strip of fabric fell away.

She poured the water over his injured hand, washing away the dirt and blood that had coated every inch of it. Milo watched carefully — it was a nasty cut. He thought he was seeing it wrong, but no. It went all the way through his hand. It had to hurt.

The prince made a small, choked noise as she pressed the gauze to it, confirming his suspicions. His hand was shaking slightly, barely steadied by her grasp. She wound the bandages tightly, stopping the bleeding for the first time in what was surely hours. Was he always that pale? Milo couldn’t remember, couldn’t tell from the pictures he’d seen.

Cleo handed the water bottle to Milo, which he took thankfully. He moved over a bit. Before he could pour it out, the gunner stopped him. She grinned mischievously.

“You’ve got royal blood on your hands.” She pressed her hand to his own, smearing some of it onto her fingertips. “That was one of my bucket list items.”

It’d been one of his, too. This was not how he had pictured it.

They loaded back into the off-roader. Cleo took the prince’s arm again, helping him to stand even though he fought against it. She shrugged, letting him walk the remaining few steps to the vehicle without help. Even though he was clearly about to keel over.

By then, the sky was fading from twilight and into the true dark. Milo was glad to get out of there. Something about that camp felt haunted. Probably something to do with all the dead bodies.

He slid into the backseat beside the prince, who immediately backed up into the furthest side of the vehicle, one leg drawn up protectively in front of his chest.

Milo said, “You’re quiet.”

He’d been told the opposite was true. But the prince just stared at him wide-eyed, his expression heavy with doubt and accusation. Milo noticed he hadn’t really closed his mouth once since he’d found him. His chest was heaving rapidly beneath the bloodied shirt. Panic attack, maybe. 

“Drink,” Milo said, removing his canteen from his bag and offering it to him. Dehydration was a consequence of blood loss — and even if it hadn’t been, who knew how long he was in that grave?

Somehow, the look grew even more accusatory.

Good instinct, honestly. Milo almost admired it. He took a swig from the bottle, just to prove it wasn’t poison, before offering it up again. 

This time, the prince took it. He held it carefully in his less-injured hand, fingertips only, shaking just a little.

“Better?” Milo asked once the bottle was empty. 

The prince handed it back, nodding with an expression that Milo could really only describe as abashed.

~

“My family was very protective, so no.” Lorelai shook her hands out a little bit. “No prior experience.”

“Bit of a big jump,” Antony had to point out. 

“To armed militias? Yes, I’ve been told.” She smiled. “I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t have to be armed, necessarily. I’m good at data input. I’m good with field work. All I’m saying is, if you wanted me to, I could.”

“And do you want to?” He had to ask. The secret question hung in the air. Do you enjoy it?

She seemed to sense the trap as soon as it was laid. Her smile grew crooked.

“Do you want me to?” She asked slyly. Her tone was almost playful.

He rolled his eyes. She was only a handful of years younger than him, but she seemed so much more like a kid. He guessed that was what money did. The scars along his arms ached right on cue.

She glanced at her phone again.

“Nothing?” He asked.

“No. You?”

“Nothing.”

She’d kept it under tight cover this entire time, but the worry slipped through whenever she saw the unchanging screen. It was more than worry now.

At that same instant, the doors to the compound opened.

He saw Cleo first, then a blur of motion to his left as Lorelai sprinted across the room. He caught sight of the prince standing upright for only a second before she tackled him. He just barely caught her as they fell onto the floor.

He murmured something to her in his native Latin. Lorelai, who was sobbing into his shoulder, responded in kind. Antony guessed she really had been holding it down. And it looked like she’d been right to be worried. The prince was pinned in place by her — and though half his face was buried in her hair, the bruise was still visible on his cheek. There were matching ones all along his arms, stark against the pallor. Blood stained his skin and clothes.

Antony looked to Cleo. Cleo looked to him. 

What do we do?

He almost didn’t want to interrupt the moment — he was sure if he said anything in that instant, neither of them would even hear him. 

“Watch them,” he gestured to one of the guards on-duty. He knew Lorelai was unarmed, was certain they wouldn’t have brought Paris inside if he had a weapon — though he would’ve appreciated some notice that he was being brought in at all. 

Milo crossed the threshold. He looked worse for wear.

“He’s gonna need a medic,” he explained, unhelpfully. Antony could tell that much. 

~

“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?” He didn’t keep the irritation out of his voice now, remembering the way she’d said my friend. Well, if that’s all-

“You didn’t ask,” Lorelai said, “I didn’t think it’d come up, honest.”

Antony facepalmed. 

The two of them hung just outside the medbay. Lorelai’s nice blue jacket had been turned purple from the contact. The gems on her face glistened just the same as her eyes.

“It’s a pretty fuckin’ huge conflict of interest,” he explained.

“It’s not like I’m married to him,” she said in that honeyed accent, almost apologetic. 

Antony sighed. She continued.

“And it’s not a conflict, not anymore. You heard what happened. Empire hates him.” 

The hatred was clear, but that didn’t mean there was no conflict. Antony could think of a long, long list of conflicts. They had names and families. 

“I hate this,” he said to no one in particular. Lorelai frowned. “I guess you’re in no rush to go anywhere now though, huh?” 

It was fully dark now. No stars were out tonight. Only the neon glow of the low-flying battleships. She nodded, a small blush rising to her face.

“You can’t stay long,” he told her. The needle was dipping dangerously close. The real conflict could pop off at any second. He needed them both out quickly. He didn’t need to bring that same wrath down on the base. He just got this job.

“But you can stay for tonight, I guess,” he conceded. “Don’t think you’ll make it far otherwise.”

~

CTRL had carved them out some corner downstairs — not a bedroom. Many of their own didn’t even have bedrooms. But it was passable for what it was, a collection of pillows and blankets against a soft mat, guarded by an armed sentinel. 

Antony would not have felt safe enough to sleep there, but then he never would have gotten himself into that situation in the first place.

From what he could tell, the girl had fallen asleep quickly, making herself right at home. The prince had not. Antony looked up over the comms to find him leaning in the doorway. He leaned more heavily against his left than his right. The fracture of his rib showed when he walked. He looked more alive after they’d given him plasma, less ready to pass out at any second. But not by much. 

He’d washed the blood off him. His hair now lacked the pinkish tint it’d taken at the base of his neck. The bruises were all the more visible along his bare arms than when he’d had blood and soil to hide them. He was wearing what Antony distinctly recognized as one of Milo’s shirts.

He’d regained his speech, apparently.

“What do you want?” He asked through gritted teeth. His voice sounded sore, cut up somehow. It was clear that it hurt him to speak.

“Excuse me?” Antony replied, still not appreciating the tone.

“What. do. you. want?” Paris glared back at him. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Antony said. He was out of patience for this kind of thing. What did he want? He wanted to live until the end of the week. In the long term, he wanted the destruction of Empire. Somewhere in between, he wanted to see the beaches of Sedonia again. He had no desire to share any of these dreams with the lapsed prince and was sure he’d have no interest either way.

“What do you want from me?” Paris clarified. Naturally. Antony didn’t expect for him to be thinking about anything other than himself.

“I want you to get the fuck out of my sight, frankly,” Antony admitted.

And a shadow of a recognition crossed Paris’s face. Contempt was a language he could understand. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“What? It doesn’t mean shit. I told her: you are leaving tomorrow morning and that is the end of it. Goodnight.” Anthony waved him away.

“Don’t fucking giving me that,” he hissed. “You didn’t have to lie to her. What do you want?”

“Are you stupid?” Antony asked. “I want you gone. That’s all.”

“Are you seriously just letting me walk out of here?” He said it like he was angry about it, a heavy note of accusation just beneath his words. 

He reminds Antony of a mouse he’d once saved from his cats. It had been curled up in the corner of the box he’d trapped it in. Nearly every part of its body stayed deathly still, but each rapid heaving of its chest as it tried to catch its breath showed enormously on its small frame. Its eyes had been enormous as it stared out the edge of them. He could tell how fast Paris’s heart was beating just by looking at him.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” Antony squinted at him with a disgust he didn’t bother hiding. “We don’t have a court system. We don’t even have a cell. I could kick it off to Galatea, if you want. Do you want that?”

Paris gave a small shake of his head, visibly alarmed at the suggestion. Thank god. It was an empty threat, anyway. Antony would hate to bring Galatea into this, the busybodies that they were.

“As far as I’m concerned, you were never here.”

Paris only looked angrier. He looked like he wanted to kill him.

“You’re lying,” Paris spat. His hands curled up his fists at his side. As if he’d get any use of them now.

Something clicked in Antony’s brain. He tilted his head, a soft and astonished smile appearing on his face.

“Oh wow,” he realized, “You can’t stand it, can you?”

The prince’s eyes widened. He knew he’d hit the mark. He dug in.

“You can’t accept that not everyone is like you. You think we have to take advantage of any weakness, because that’s what you would do, isn’t it?”

His voice picked up too quickly, too loudly. He was sure everyone could hear it out in the hallway. Paris recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

“That’s all you know how to do. You think the whole world is as cruel as you are. But it’s not. It wasn’t. It’s cruel because you made it this way! It didn’t have to be!”

Decades of rage and frustration bled into Antony’s words. He couldn’t help it. God, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He watched as the shock eclipsed Paris’s expression, as the fury seeped out of it. He’d got him.

“You spend your whole fucking life abusing and exploiting everyone you come across and you think it’s okay because it’s just the way things are! But it’s not! It’s not fucking okay! It doesn’t have to be like this! It never did!”

His own anger got away from him. He felt like he’d just run a marathon. Now he was the one struggling to catch his breath, the one about to pass out. It took everything to bring himself back.

He looked up at Paris — he’d been looking his direction the whole time, but he’d stopped seeing him somewhere in between. His head was somewhere else. Now he regained his focus. 

Paris looked like he was about to cry. For a minute, with his hair still wet and the oversized shirt, he appeared so young that Antony almost felt bad. Almost.

“You can’t stand it,” he repeated, “Oh god, this must ruin everything for you.”

He was even paler than he’d been when they found him. His eyes were wide, but the pupils were all dilated. He was shaking. Antony didn’t have the patience for it anymore.

“You leave tomorrow morning,” he said. “There’s a back door, you won’t have to deal with the Imperial checkpoints. You should sleep while you have the chance.”

Paris nodded, taking a few unsteady steps backwards to the exit. He didn’t answer. Antony felt his irritation flare up again.

“And would it have fucking killed you to say thank you?!” he snapped. 

To his amazement, Paris’s face reddened several shades, eventually settling on a soft pink.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. He couldn’t look at him.

~

Morning came. Cleo sat up on the fortress walls with Lorelai. Dew was settled onto every surface. It was colder that sunrise than it had been in months, but not unpleasantly so. 

“Um, I spy…something orange,” Lorelai said around bites of a red apple.

“It’s the surveyor mark,” Cleo said.

“Shit, how are you getting them all first try?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve played this game here?” Cleo responded.

Lorelai shrugged. “FMK?”

“It’s 4AM,” Cleo said.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

The trapdoor flipped open. One of the scouts popped through midway.

“Car’s ready,” he said to Lorelai. 

She nodded and pass the remaining half of the apple to Cleo. She left all clad in the other girl’s clothing, down to the tennis shoes.

“I’ll see you around, then?” she said hopefully, the same way she had to Vi, without quite the same implication.

Lorelai climbed down the ladder until she’d hit the ground level of the base. She found Paris where she’d left him. Conscious now, but just as silent and sullen as he’d been the night before. She did not particularly blame him for that.

His hands were still a bit too bloodied to hold, so she placed her own gently around his wrist, feeling the pulse that still beat there. He rose reluctantly from beneath the blankets. She knew moving hurt him. 

Antony was waiting by the exit. She was relieved to find she had not totally burned that bridge. Antony said none of this had ever happened. He meant it. She’d check in with them later, once she’d gotten Paris across the border. It wouldn’t be long now, anyway.

She watched Paris slip Antony a folded up note. She knew what it said. It was signed from him, but it was in her handwriting. He couldn’t have bend his fingers around the pencil.

Ships are moving in Gamma formation but half of them are unarmed carriers. It’s a feign. Late gen G-12 ships have a point of catastrophic failure at ball turret joint. IRW Palace is in orbit so there’s a 99% chance Lt.Furness is here. He will try to torch the whole forest if he feels like he’s losing. Keep an eye out for that. Invest in flame retardant.

Thank you.

                                                         ~Paris

Antony’s eyes scanned the paper. Paris walked away before he could see a reaction, but Lorelai saw him slip the folded note into his jacket pocket. She waved goodbye before she clambered up into the transport.

The ride back to the ship was fast and quiet. The woods went by so much quicker on wheels and they did not run into any trouble. She couldn’t believe she’d trekked through it, alone and on foot, just one day before. It felt like forever ago.

She was pleased to see her ship was right where she left it, free of crack marks and bullet holes. The driver opened up the door for them. They fell out onto the forest floor.

“Make sure you do those hand exercises. I’m serious,” the driver called after Paris. He nodded in response, not really paying attention. His eyes were all far out.

The transport disappeared back into the forest, leaving thick tread marks in its wake. 

She opened the door for Paris, because she wasn’t sure he could it himself. He climbed in silently. She slid into the driver’s seat. It was all icy inside. She adjusted the ship’s settings to break through orbit again. It gradually warmed as the engine kicked to life. She felt a sense of homecoming that surprised her.

She glanced over to him to find him still staring off into nothingness.

“…Are you okay?”

It wasn’t a very good question. She knew that. She already knew the answer.

He nodded mutely. Lorelai frowned. She waited a while, hoping he’d go on. But the distant look in his eyes remained and his lips did not move. She realized the rest of the drive would probably be in silence. He got like that sometimes, even on better days.

“…Okay. I love you.”

It was the worst thing she could’ve said. He gripped the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling it up to cover his face. As much as he tried to be quiet, he couldn’t help the way his body gasped for air in-between sobs. 

“Oh, honey,” Lorelai gasped. 

She’d seen him cry before. It happened enough out of frustration, bitter tears forming at the edges of his eyes, wiped away just as quickly as they came. Not like this.

She placed a hand in between his shoulder blades, trying to steady him. She might as well have not been there at all.

“I-I’m s-s-sorry,” his voice broke up. He curled away from the touch. “I-I-I-“

None of the words were making it out. Lorelai moved mechanically, so used to piloting by now that she could do it without thinking. She put one arm behind the passenger seat, checking behind her before she backed out.

“Okay. Okay, breathe,” she whispered, because he needed reminding sometimes.

He stopped trying to speak through it. The ship entered the open morning sky. The inside of it was filled up with the sound of his half-sobs, barely muffled from within the fabric of his shirt.

“Easy,” The ship was on autopilot now. The sky gradually darkened as it pulled out of the upper atmosphere. She ran her fingers in circles along his arm. “In for four, out for eight. You remember. You’re fine.”

She could feel him struggling to make up the ragged breaths through all the convulsions. Little half-formed words slipped to the surface, none of them coherent. 

“Breathe,” she insisted.

Slowly, it steadied. He was still crying, but it didn’t possess him the same way it had. He reluctantly removed the fabric. His face had turned red and blotchy underneath it. He turned away as if he was embarrassed by it, like it might’ve offended her. 

“…��m sorry,” he mumbled into the glass pane of the window. She looped her fingers into his own, careful of the blisters that had formed there. His skin was warmer than hers now. It was the only time she could remember that happening. 

“It’s okay.” She pressed her lips gingerly to the bruises on his knuckles, the same way he’d done for her when her arm was cut open. “That was a lot. I’d cry too. I’d cry way worse, you know me.”

“…’s not that,” he said. His voice still shook even on small sentences. He wiped desperately at his eyes.

“What is it?” She brought her other hand to hold his now. She traced her fingers gently over the raw skin, as if she might be able to read his fortune that way.

He shook his head and he did not answer.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @dietofwormsofficial @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @whump-queen

[sophie1973]

Bloodstream (tell me when it kicks in)

COMPLETE AND SAFE TO BINGE

Tagging a few people who were kind enough to read it as I posted (you brave souls) or showed interest by reblogging or commenting when I posted snippets :)

@onthewaytosomewhere @stellarmeadow @iboatedhere @saturntheday

@caterpills @tailsbeth-writes @whoevenknows-things @thesleepyskipper @thighzp @grace-in-the-wilderness

@idealuk @anti-homophobia-cheese @bitbybitwrites

[raisedbyanother]

Title and Synopsis for Emilie de Ravin's upcoming Hallmark Movie.

[icespur]

You know what I love that I don't see enough of?

AU fanart and fanfics where Shido raises Goro.

There's one that I love called Ruin or Glory, where Shido is a doting single Dad, which is precious, but might I suggest an alternate scenario?

Begrudging DadShido who got forced into the father role after Goro's mom dies in childbirth. The Doctors tracked him down and went "Hey, Prime Minister deadbeat, come get your fucking newborn." leaving Shido no choice but to drive to the hospital to take custody of his "consequences of his fucking actions, maybe this'll make you think twice before refusing a condom before calling over your favorite Health Maid" child.

At first, Shido considers this baby a nuisance, an obstacle. Because juggling a baby while working on a Political Career was not part of the damn plan! But, very slowly--he starts to warm up to his son. It takes a long while, it's practically a character arc because Shido is so damn stubborn and stoic, but it eventually happens.

Which is fine, because reluctant DadShido is the funny part.

If he isn't bald already, Goro is going to make him bald from the stress.

For the most part, Shido hires Nannies to watch and care for Goro so he doesn't have to deal with him. But what about when there's no Nanny available leaving Shido little choice but to interact and cater to Baby Goro?

I think it's safe to say this man has no experience with babies, so he's struggling.

The hospital staff did give him a quick crash course on the basics when he first claimed Goro, so he's not completely incompetent.

He didn't pick up on the secret cry language of infants, though. So he's often irritated, struggling on how to get his screeching infant to shut up, and tries everything until he gets it right after the fifth try that Goro was screaming his little lungs out just trying to communicate to Dad that he's fucking starving.

When he gets a little older, Goro's cry translations update from:

"Father, I require food"

"Father, I am in agony, my butt feels icky and I don't like it, change me! (I may or may not take the opportunity to piss on you)"

To:

"I have decided I hate my crib. I will not stand for sleeping in this thing. I require human warmth to slumber, specifically your warmth." Where Shido has to lie down and hold Goro against his chest to get the clingy brat to fall asleep while Shido, dead tired, just stares up at the ceiling questioning his life decisions that lead to this moment.

When Goro becomes old enough to become mobile, he gets into everything. Anything and everything he can reach or get his little pudgy hands on. Shido better start baby-proofing, and fast!

Even though Shido isn't the most affectionate father, Baby Goro adores him and Shido has no idea why. Goro's practically Shido's little shadow, where Papa goes, he must go, whether Papa wants him to or not! Shido soon learns that one of the prices of being a parent to a curious clingy infant is "privacy and personal space is dead." Because God forbid he closes the bathroom door to take a shower or take a piss, or leave Goro in another room while he locks himself in his office to do important business stuff.

Goro will sit outside the closed Bathroom, lightly shoving and hitting the door with his tiny hands, confused and frustrated as to why this darn wooden blockage won't let him pass when he can hear Papa doing things in there without him!

For working at home, Shido makes the stupid mistake of leaving Goro in a playpen, so he can go to his office to work.

Shido greatly underestimates his little troublemaker's intelligence though, because after witnessing Shido close and lock the playpen gate enough times, Goro figures out how to open it, leaving him with free unattended reign to the Apartment!

As you can imagine, he does what any infant would do, get into shit.

That keeps him occupied for a good while, but eventually, he gets bored, misses Papa, and waddles his way to Shido's closed Office door. He tries pounding and pushing on the door, but to no avail, and he's too small to reach the doorknob yet. He toddles off to fetch a stool and drags it to the Office door to help him reach the doorknob.

Shido is typing on his computer, enjoying the calm, when he hears the doorknob followed by a thud of the door being roughly pushed open.

"Papa!" A very happy Goro squeals from the now open doorway on top of his stool upon spotting Shido.

Shido lets out a resigned sigh as his toddler cheerfully waddles over to him, most likely to demand uppies.

On days Shido goes to the Official Office, what if he's put into a situation where once again there are no available sitters, so Shido has to take Goro to work with him?

Shido sitting at a conference table, talking about important matters, while at the same time, Goro is chilling in a baby carrier strapped to Shido's chest.

Unfortunately for Shido, Goro is in his babbling phase and seems to want to contribute to whatever he and his associates are currently discussing because between his monologue Goro chimes in with incomprehensible babbles and gurgles.

Give me cute Baby Goro and Dad Shido fanart and fanfics. I need more, gimme!

[hallmark-movie-fanatics]

The Reluctant Royal

Airdate to be determined. Will update when it becomes available, also with official poster.

Philly mechanic Johnny is surprised to learn that his long-lost father is a duke. But the duke isn’t quite what he expected, nor are his growing feelings for the duke’s advisor Prudence.

Starring Andrew Walker and Emilie de Ravin.

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Undoing

cw: illness, whump aftermath, death/war mentions

previous ///// masterlist ///// next

§•§•§

They were locked in the blacksmith's woodshed; a cold, cramped room made smaller by the logs stacked along the walls. Once securely inside, one of the men loosened the bindings on Tansy's wrists; enough to grant a scrap of comfort, if not freedom of movement. Another fastened what looked like a bridle around Cerus's head, forcing the metal bit into his mouth and pulling the leather tight.

For the hundredth time, Tansy tried to pull at the party's sympathies.

"Sirs, please. I only wanted to—"

And for the hundredth time, they were ignored, this time rewarded not with a blow, but with the slamming of the woodshed door. As the footsteps outside retreated, Tansy tested the door, ignoring the throbbing of their bruised abdomen as they threw their weight against it.

It didn't give, not even a little, and they fell away from it with a wince. Their various injuries were scattered in such a way that while moving wasn't agonizing, anything they did caused some kind of pain. In their face, in their torso, in their knuckles, a flicker or a flare.

With an immediate exit out of the question, Tansy turned their attention to Cerus. They felt a twinge of relief as they watched the shallow rise and fall of his ribcage, and found themselves wondering once again why they'd done it. 

Treating his wounds was one thing, but fighting for him? Hurting fellow villagers in the name of helping the damned Shadow King?

They pushed the prickly thought aside, scanning the cramped room until their eyes landed on a small woodaxe. In their hurry to lock the pair away, the search party hadn't bothered to clear the shed.

Tansy trudged over to where the axe lay, freeing their wrists, then carrying the blade over to where Cerus lay and cutting his bonds.

The man still seemed unconscious, though he was shivering uncontrollably, and after a brief moment's hesitation, Tansy sat against the wall and gently pulled Cerus into their arms, wrapping their cloak around his shuddering form and cradling him against their chest. It was likely they'd be in here for a while, and after all they'd already done, they weren't about to let him freeze to death.

Despite his fever-hot skin, Cerus leaned into them as if seeking warmth. His head lolled back onto their shoulder, eyelids fluttering as he uttered a soft groan. Shadow King or not, warmth was warmth, and Tansy made no effort to create a distance between them, instead setting half-numbed fingers to work on removing Cerus's makeshift muzzle.

They could break out of here. It would be fairly easy with the woodaxe handy, but what then? Would they spend the rest of their lives running? Would they even make it out of the village if they were dragging Cerus along? Abandoning him was no longer an option. They'd made their choice, however stupid, and they'd stick with it.

Still, there were better paths than further ruining their own life. They could wait for the Council to arrive, and explain the situation. They could claim it was a misunderstanding, and distance themselves from the Shadow King. Or maybe they could plead for mercy. For reason. Find a better fate for them both.

They'd managed to undo the first clasp on the bridle when there was a voice at the door, muffled and reedy and familiar.

"Tansy?"

They frowned. "Uncle?" Normally, Aldon would be out on the sea at this hour. Had the news already spread to him?

"So it's true."

They felt their heart sink at his tone, shock ringed with stark disbelief. Tansy wasn't particularly close with the old man, but he was the only family they had left.

"Why?" Aldon said, his voice quieting. "Why would you do such a thing?"

Tansy grimaced, fingers moving to the second clasp. All these whys. "If you'd seen him on the dock… if you could see him now, you wouldn't ask me that," they answered.

"Child—"

"He's suffered enough abuse, Uncle. I don't care who he is. I won't stand for it."

There was silence on the other side of the door, and for a moment they wondered if he'd left. Then,

"The men are saying you've allied yourself with him, Tansy," Aldon said, his tone sharpening. "Allied with the Shadow King. I'd thought them mistaken, but now—"

"Would you have me scorn a wounded man?" they cut him off, unable to keep the anger from their voice. "Leave him to die in the cold? I thought we were better than that. I thought we all were better than that."

Aldon sighed, and the door creaked, as if he were leaning on it. "Is there nothing I can say to sway you from this madness?"

Madness. There it was. Spoken insistence that Tansy really had lost all sense when they'd chosen to hold out their hand. "Nothing," they replied. For a moment, they were resolved to speak no more, to end the conversation there if it would only amount to more accusations, but thought better of it, remembering the healing herbs still tucked into their cloak.

"If you have any love for me… if blood means anything, will you bring me some hot water? And…" they swallowed, their head throbbing. "And some willow bark. For the pain."

"For him?"

"For us. Please, Uncle."

Another long silence, filled in with the slight creak of the woodshed walls and the short breaths of the Shadow King.

"I… I will. For your sake, not his."

And then the silence lingered. Tansy let out a sharp, frustrated sigh, and at last opened the final clasp, gently removing the leather from Cerus's tangled dark hair, and pulling the bit from his mouth. As they did, his body gave a little shudder. A reaction to the touch, they thought at first, but then it came again. And again, accompanied by a small gasp. Cerus was… was he crying?

Of all the things he'd done, from his insults to his wary questioning, this was the thing they'd expected the least. This was the thing they knew how to respond to the least. Even with friends in the battalion, most preferred to hide their tears. What were they to do with an enemy?

They opted for silence, shifting slightly beneath the man, hoping he couldn't sense their discomfort.

"I lost," Cerus said after what felt like forever.

"What?" they replied, wondering if the man was in the grip of a fevered dream.

"I l-lost the war," Cerus continued, his voice laced with a tremor. "The victor chooses the fate of the defeated, and the defeated accepts." The end of his sentence was choked out by a cough, but he pushed on. "I failed, and I'll reap the rewards of that failure. It's what is right."

"Is that what you think?" Tansy said.

"It's—" Another cough, punctuated by a whimper. "It's what I know."

Reaping the rewards. Was that why he seemed so numbed to the world? Had he accepted the Council's drawn-out death sentence, and consequently given up on life? They remembered how confused he'd been when they'd started cleaning his wounds, as if it was the last thing he'd expected to happen. Yet he'd gone with them without a fight, willing to bear whatever horrors a stranger decided to drown him in.

 They didn't expect him to continue, but somehow were still unsurprised when he did.

"Th-thought it was a dream," Cerus said. "When I heard the shout to stop. I thought the fever had my mind, I thought, who would say that? Who would do that? Yet here you are. And I still don't know why."

Tansy opened their mouth, the same explanation they'd given a hundred times—to their uncle, to Cerus, and more than anyone else, to themselves—on their tongue, but the Shadow King spoke again before they had a chance.

"I know, I know, you don't want to see more suffering. Then look away. Or close your damned eyes." He let out a bitter laugh. "I lost. A-and I–gnh—I earned my fate."

"You think you deserve it then? All of…" they gestured aimlessly, "...this?"

He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was even, devoid of the tearful quiver that had gripped it before, replaced with something hollow. 

"Such a funny word," Cerus murmured. "Deserve. Who is to say what anyone deserves? I suppose the decision falls to whoever is in power. Yet seeing as it was these new powers who chose my fate… perhaps I do deserve this."

Before they'd won the war, before they'd watched the guards drag the Shadow King's broken body into the city square, Tansy might've agreed. A man who ruled with fear should be made to feel that fear himself, shouldn't he? Terror, pain, loss. All the things they'd wished on Cerus when their home burned, when they counted their battalion's casualties, when they raised their sword against an undead soldier.

But now that he'd tasted them all, Tansy felt no closure. They only felt tired. Putting Cerus through misery didn't make anything better. Fighting fire with fire only made more fire.

"What if you hadn't lost?" they asked. "What do you think those of us who rose against you are deserving of?"

"Death," Cerus said plainly. Despite the implications, Tansy felt no fear, nor anger, nor even indignation.

"And what would you have done?" they said.

"I would have the rebel leaders and generals executed," Cerus answered with little hesitation. "Leave their corpses hanging as a warning. Foot soldiers and lower ranks would choose to swear an oath of fealty, or follow their leaders into death." Something almost joyful had crept into his voice, and a sick sense of unease crawled into Tansy's gut in response. Cerus had reason to hate his former subjects, especially after the treatment he'd received from them, but that didn't make it any easier to hear him gleefully speak of murdering them. For a moment, they could remember their determination to see Cerus fall.

"I would double the patrols," Cerus continued. "Enforce a curfew. Set up wards to alert me of any future plots. But that would be all." His voice had grown quiet, the hint of joy swiftly fading. "The deaths of the traitors would be swift. I wouldn't—" his voice broke. "I-I wouldn't have…"

The moment passed. Not knowing what else to do, Tansy wrapped their arms around him, letting him clutch feebly at their shirtsleeves as his body shuddered with suppressed sobs. Another surprise. Even now, after all he'd endured, Cerus seemed opposed to torturing his enemies.

A soft knock came at the door, and Tansy looked up to see an earthenware flagon being passed through a gap in the boards that made up the wall. They gingerly removed themselves from behind Cerus to retrieve it. The water within was not hot, but it was warmer than the surrounding air, and they fished out the pouch of herbs, pinching some between their fingers and dropping it into the water to steep.

A finger's length of willow bark followed the flagon, and they took it with a murmured thanks.

"How long are they to keep us locked in here?" Tansy asked, once they'd repositioned themselves.

"The Council will be notified, but you will not walk free before their arrival," their uncle answered.

Would they be kept here in that time? Freezing in this tiny shed? "And when will they arrive?" they asked.

"With luck, they'll garner transport with a mage's circle and be here within a few days," Aldon replied. "But child, the village will not wait."

Dread curled in their stomach at his words. "Will not wait for what?"

The old man took an audible breath before continuing. "You are both to be punished," he said. "Flogged in the square. I tried to reason with them, but people are afraid. They want to show that the Shadow King, and… and any collaborators, are subdued."

Flogged? Tansy forced themself to take a deep breath, a futile effort to ease the curdling in their gut. 

"Tansy?"

"I heard you, Uncle." They closed their eyes, resting the back of their head on the wall. "It's… it'll be alright."

"I will see if I can bring you a meal," Aldon said. "Please… I ask that you think on this in the meantime. How much are you willing to sacrifice for him?"

As the sound of their uncle's footsteps faded, Tansy placed the willow bark between their teeth, chewing anxiously. A public whipping would be both painful and humiliating for them, but for Cerus it may well be a death sentence. The bandages they'd wrapped around his torso the night before had already darkened with blood from the wounds that covered his back. The thought of layering more on top of those…

They couldn't let it happen. There was one thing they could do, one way to shield Cerus, but it wouldn't be pleasant for them.

A rueful smile crept across Tansy's face.

But what's one more sacrifice?

§•§•§

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump @chiswhumpcorner @whatwhumpcomments , @dont-look-me-in-the-eye , @turn-the-tables-on-them

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Ooh. On the subject of Cerus and a bad time...

I'd love to see him being found by Tansy in the rain.

"Oh gods, it was him. The Shadow King, the tyrant, trembling before them on the ground. The catalyst of the war, the thief who'd stolen Tansy's family— they wanted to run, forget they'd ever seen him here, but they couldn't bring themselves to turn away.

Because it was clear to them now that the Council had indeed sentenced Cerus to death. A slow, drawn-out death, to be carried out in silence, with no ceremony, no recognition. Tansy doubted the fallen ruler would live through the winter… unless he had help."

from Penumbra: Unless §•§•§•§•§ (rainless version under the cut)

penumbra tag list:

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump @chiswhumpcorner @whatwhumpcomments , @dont-look-me-in-the-eye , @turn-the-tables-on-them , @pigeonwhumps , @itsmyworld23 , @andromeda-liske , @starlit-hopes-and-dreams , @haro-whumps

whump art tag list:

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast , @whumpsday , @regrets-realization-acceptance , @kixngiggles ,

[readtilyoudie]

You let your defenses down. When you do that, the bad can get in with the good. There was nothing scientific about that line of thinking. 

There was no way that a few days with Jamal had led to her current situation, but it felt like it. Just like getting excited about the practicum hadn’t caused the government to shut down the Task Force, even though it felt like it. Feelings couldn’t be quantified like data in R, but that didn’t make their effects any less real.

-  A Princess in Theory (Reluctant Royals, #1) by Alyssa Cole

[whump-me]

Conquest, Chapter 28: Perfectly Defeated

Chapter 28 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, nonbinary whumpee, male whumper, broken whumpee, royal whumper, reluctant whumper, emotional whump, fantasy politics

---

Miranelis

When Kezul brought Miranelis back to the stable that night, Miranelis sank onto the straw with their legs folded messily under them. They sat slumped against the wall like a discarded toy. They didn’t bother wondering why Kezul had brought them back to the stable himself, instead of assigning the task to one of his Wolves. Or why he stood in silence and watched them for a long moment before leaving. Maybe, if they had looked into Kezul’s face, they might have been able to gather some kind of clue. But why would they bother? It didn’t matter. And they weren’t supposed to look Kezul in the eye anyway.

They knew these things now. There were a lot of things they understood now that they hadn’t before. Like how all their fear had been pointless in the end. Whether they lived or died, there was no real difference. Either way, their life had ended the day the Wolves had invaded. The day they had been defeated.

They sat in the straw, not thinking, not feeling. Finally, their control was perfect. They weren’t able to show any emotions—they wouldn’t have been able to if they had wanted to. Because they finally felt none.

They knew they should be angry at the thought of Kezul. Or maybe they should have been afraid. But they felt neither one. They certainly didn’t feel any hope.

They might have slept. They weren’t sure. There no longer seemed to be any difference between sleeping and waking. There was darkness, and then there was light. There were periods of more awareness, and periods of less. But there were no real thoughts in their mind, nothing that went beyond a vague consciousness of their surroundings. There were no feelings. Not even when heavy footsteps echoed outside the stall. Not even when the rusted stall door squealed open and Kezul stood on the other side.

Kezul was talking. Miranelis shook their head and tried to focus. They didn’t know how long Kezul had been speaking, or why he was addressing Miranelis in the first place.

“It will have to be all the noble houses at once,” Kezul was saying. “That will make as big a spectacle as possible, and that way, none of them will have any advance warning. I’ll have them all brought here, under some pretext or other. For the ones who are on my side, or think they are, it will be easier. I can get them here with the prospect of… oh, I don’t know, some kind of negotiations. That would work, wouldn’t it? Do you think they would believe it?”

When Miranelis didn’t answer, Kezul went on. “The ones who are already planning to rebel, I’ll have to arrest out right,” Kezul continued. “Of course, the problem there is that it could spark the rebellion all on its own. That’s not what I want.”

But killing them all will spark the rebellion anyway, Miranelis thought, and wondered why some corner of their mind was bothering to engage at all. Better to sit quietly and think of nothing.

“But killing them all will spark the rebellion anyway,” said Kezul, and Miranelis’s head jerked up with a start. Kezul looked at them sharply, a question in his eyes.

Miranelis’s head slumped back down again. They didn’t say anything.

After a moment, Kezul spoke again. “It’s not what I want,” he sighed. “But it’s necessary. The rebellion will come one way or another. This way, it will happen on my terms. I’ll strike the first blow. I’ll control when the war begins. I’ll be ready.”

It’s not what’s necessary. Miranelis’s mind echoed with the words some part of them wanted to speak aloud, even though they knew there was no point. What you mean is that it’s what your father wants.

They half-expected Kezul to echo their thoughts again. But this time he didn’t. “I’ll need another pretext to get them here,” he said instead. “Something more subtle.” He looked at Miranelis.

That distant part of Miranelis’s mind, the part that still cared about all this for some reason, wanted to laugh in Kezul’s face. Did Kezul really think Miranelis would help him with this? If so, he should have asked for that help before he had shoved Miranelis into that pit and burned all the fear out of them.

“You’re good at subtle,” Kezul pressed. “Better than I am, at least.”

There was no resentment in his voice at having to ask a prisoner for something, no shame at admitting a prisoner might be better than him at anything. He certainly had come a long way. Under other circumstances, Miranelis might have found it funny.

Under other circumstances, Miranelis might have been proud of him.

“Well?” Kezul prompted. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

Miranelis stared down at the straw. They didn’t answer. It should have been obvious that they didn’t have anything to say, so they didn’t know why Kezul was still here, demanding advice. Whatever they said, it would make no difference; Kezul had made that clear.

If they didn’t give Kezul what he wanted, maybe he would beat them. Maybe he would force them to fight him again, place a knife in their hand and make them stand there while he went through the motions, until he claimed his inevitable victory. Maybe he would kill them. What did it matter? Miranelis knew the truth now—there was nothing to be afraid of. They were already dead.

Kezul took a step closer. He leaned down into Miranelis’s face. “Aren’t you going to call me a coward for not standing up to him?” He crossed the rest of the distance between them and tilted Miranelis’s chin up to meet his eyes.

For an instant, Miranelis was reminded of the first time they had ever stared into those eyes. As had happened that day, he seemed to fall forward into their black depths as they stretched to fill the entirety of their vision. But this time, there was no fear. This time, they welcomed it. They wished those eyes would yawn wider and swallow them whole.

“Well?” Kezul’s voice rose, filling their hearing the way his eyes filled their vision. “Say something.” Maybe Kezul was shouting. Maybe he was whispering. Miranelis couldn’t tell the difference. The sound was all-consuming either way.

If they gave Kezul what he wanted, maybe he would leave them to their silence.

“As the ruler of Danelor, you know what is best,” Miranelis said, in a voice of perfect neutrality, perfect control.

Kezul made a furious noise deep in his throat. “Don’t give me that. Tell me what you think. You were honest with my father the other day—you can’t be honest with me?”

“I have no advice to offer you,” said Miranelis. It was true. Once, they might have tried to figure out how to dig Kezul out of this hole and salvage what the two of them had built together. But there was no chance of that anymore. Maybe they had never had a chance. Maybe, like Miranelis, all of Danelor had been dead from the time the Wolves had marched over the mountains.

“If you have no advice, then what about your opinions?” Kezul demanded. “You certainly had enough of them before. Don’t you have anything to say about me doing exactly what my father wants?”

“You will do what is best,” Miranelis said, and closed their eyes. What they meant was that Kezul would do what he wanted, and nothing else mattered. Not Miranelis’s advice. Not what would help Danelor. Not even what Vorhullin the Unmaker demanded.

For Danelor now, there was no best. There was only what Kezul wanted. His will had scoured Miranelis clean, and soon it would scour Danelor, leaving it a ruin of famine and fire. Miranelis knew, now, that there had never been any point in fighting for themselves. Maybe there had never been any point in fighting for Danelor, either.

Kezul stood. He paced restlessly back and forth across the filthy straw. “I have to do it,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Miranelis. Miranelis didn’t know if he was talking to them anymore. “I have to do it, because otherwise they’ll rebel.”

He paced back and forth, back and forth. “They’ll rebel no matter what I do.”

Back and forth. “But this way, it will be my choice. It’s the only thing I can control. I can’t put things back the way they were. I can’t go on ruling the way we started off—it would never have worked.” He stopped in front of Miranelis. “Do you understand? We never had a chance.”

Miranelis said nothing. They hoped Kezul wouldn’t insist on an answer this time.

He didn’t. He resumed his pacing. “They never really respected me. The noble houses, Danelor—it was never real. They were afraid of me, that was all. I saw it in the eyes of that man at the Poets’ Academy, before it burned.”

Who had he spoken to before the academy had burned, and what words have been exchanged? And what had become of that man afterward? Miranelis knew the answer to that last question—he had burned like all the rest. But what did it matter? Like the rest of Danelor, the man had been dead already—he just hadn’t known it.

Miranelis took a breath and tried to smother the faint spark that flared to life inside them. There was no point. Like the fire that had destroyed the academy, the fire in them was long dead. There was nothing left but cold ash.

“They feared me,” said Kezul. “They hated me. And why shouldn’t they?” Back and forth. Back and forth. “And that was when I was helping them! Why did we ever think they would trust me enough to help me rebuild their country? That idea of ours, that we could do all this peacefully… it was always an illusion.”

Kezul’s restless footsteps paused. Their feet stopped in front of Miranelis. Miranelis didn’t look up, but they felt Kezul’s eyes on them.

Miranelis didn’t react. They didn’t even know what Kezul wanted from them. Agreement? Argument? Absolution?

Miranelis had nothing to give. They had left it all behind in the pit of bodies.

“I have to do it,” Kezul repeated. “If I don’t, my father will. And when I fail his test, there will be no more second chances. I’ll be dead, and you’ll be worse than dead. Do you understand?”

Miranelis said nothing.

Kezul leaned down and grasped Miranelis’s chin between his fingers. “If you think I’m bad, you don’t know what he would do to you. You’re lucky you’re with me. You’re lucky I broke you before he could. You know that, right?” He shook Miranelis’s head back and forth once, sharply, as if in emphasis.

“I understand,” said Miranelis in the same perfectly controlled voice, before Kezul could decide to shake them again.

Kezul’s fingers dug in tighter. They growled. “Don’t fawn at my feet like them. You don’t fear me like they do—not anymore. Isn’t that right?”

“I don’t fear you,” Miranelis echoed. It was the truth. What did they have to fear now?

“You’re smart enough to understand why I have to do this.” The fingers dug in still tighter, Kezul’s nails pressing painfully into Miranelis’s skin. “Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” Miranelis repeated obediently.

Abruptly, Kezul let go. Miranelis didn’t look up, but out of the corner of their eye, they saw Kezul shake his head, his brows drawn furiously down. “You’re just telling me what I want to hear. You’re not afraid, so stop acting like you’re afraid. Stop acting like all the rest!”

What did Kezul want? Miranelis had no fear left in them because they had nothing much of anything left in them. What was Kezul looking for, then, if not the echo that was all they had to give?

Miranelis glanced up, just long enough to get a look into Kezul’s eyes. Kezul’s eyes shone with fury, but there was something else buried deeply there. Not the hidden fear Miranelis had grown used to seeing. This was shame.

It was easy enough for Miranelis to recognize. They had felt enough of it themselves in the days since the conquest. Every time they proved themselves once again to be a coward.

Forgiveness, Miranelis realized with a sharp shock that briefly brought a flicker of fire back to life inside them. It hit them like the first prickles of a limb coming back to life after having fallen asleep. Like hunger pangs after a long illness. Like the first painful rays of sunlight interrupting a long sleep.

It was anger, Miranelis realized.

Kezul wanted forgiveness from them? After all this?

They didn’t want to be angry. They wanted to stay numb and empty. It was easier that way. It was easier to be dead, to be cold ashes. Anger would bring their inner fire back to life, and fire meant pain. Fire meant dying all over again.

“Tell me you understand,” Kezul was saying. “Tell me you know why I have to do this. Don’t pretend. Don’t act afraid. Tell me the truth, the way you used to. Give me your advice. Tell me I have to do this.”

Miranelis couldn’t give him what he wanted. Not if he wanted it to be real. If they succeeded in killing the fire inside them, they would have nothing to give. If they didn’t succeed, all they would have was anger. Either way, it wasn’t what Kezul wanted.

So they said nothing.

Kezul crouched down and leaned in toward Miranelis. He grabbed the side of Miranelis’s head and forced Miranelis’s eyes to him. “Tell me I have to do this!”

At the touch of Kezul’s hot breath on their face, their anger flared again. It felt like fire on bare skin, burning and bubbling until the flesh was gone. They didn’t want it. They tried to push it away. But like that day with the torch held against their arm, they were helpless to pull away. The burning grew, and it grew, and it grew.

They didn’t even know if they were angrier at Kezul or at themselves.

They had trusted Kezul when they shouldn’t have. They had trusted him despite all evidence. They had helped the man who had stolen the murdered queen’s throne.

They were worse than a coward. They were a traitor.

And then, in the end, Kezul had done what Miranelis should have always known he would do. He had rolled over for his father. He had done what Kyollen Naskor always did—he had destroyed in the name of Vorhullin the Unmaker.

Unexpectedly, Kezul sat down heavily in the straw. He heaved a sigh and leaned sideways against the wall. Miranelis found enough life within themselves to shrink back—not in fear, not this time, but in revulsion. Why was Kezul sitting with them like they were friends? They would have preferred it if he had screamed in their face.

“I wish we could have made it work,” Kezul said with a sigh. His voice took on a sharper edge again; so did his eyes. “But it was never possible.”

Miranelis’s revulsion turned to anger. Their hands clenched around the spiky bits of straw, driving it painfully into their palms. It was the least of their pains. They wanted to shove Kezul away as hard as they could. For one dizzying second, they thought they actually might.

What was Kezul doing? Did he actually think Miranelis would offer him reassurance? The way he was looking at Miranelis, the weariness in the set of his shoulders that he never would have dared showed one of his Wolves… it was like he thought Miranelis was his friend. No, not even that—it was like Miranelis wasn’t real, wasn’t a person to him. Like they were a dog whose head he stroked when he felt sad, someone to lick his hand and curl up at his feet. Not one of the conquered people whose countrymen he was feeling bad about murdering.

Their time of conspiring together was officially gone. Now Miranelis wasn’t even human to him.

The feel of him so close, the heat of his body, the smell of his breath and his furs… it was sickening. The look on his face, even more so.

He was less than an arm’s length away. Close enough to kill. Just the thought made Miranelis’s face flush and their heart speed up. They were too much of a coward to do that, and they knew it. That had the chance before, and they…

They had taken it, in the end. And it hadn’t worked. But Kezul had been prepared for a fight then. Right now, he didn’t look prepared for anything. He had finally let his guard down, showing vulnerability he would never have shown to someone he considered human.

And what did Miranelis have to fear? They knew the secret now: they were already dead.

But they didn’t have a weapon. No matter how little fear they had left in them, they knew better than to think they could strangle the life from Kezul with their own spindly hands.

Kezul was wearing a knife, though. And it was close enough to grab. Miranelis knew where the knife was. In those early days, they had often watched the spot midway up Kezul’s side where the knife lay hidden, strapped to his side. He had been afraid to look away, afraid the knife would come out at any moment to rest at their throat again. Those days felt like so long ago.

Kezul wasn’t expecting a threat. And Miranelis’s hands weren’t bound. They could—

Kezul stood. Inwardly, Miranelis cursed. They had waited too long.

It was just as well. They would have been too slow again, no match for Kezul’s combat-honed instincts. They would have failed, and then Kezul would have…

Would have what? Killed them? They were already dead.

Even as Kezul resumed his pacing, the thought wouldn’t leave Miranelis. Every time they imagined the knife slicing across Kezul’s throat or sinking into his heart, their blood heated more. The fire within them was painful. Unwanted life surged back into their limbs, into their empty heart. They didn’t want it. They wanted to go back to being numb. They didn’t want to think about something they could never pull off.

They didn’t want to have hope.

Once, they would have found it unbearably sad that the only thing they could think to hope for anymore was the chance to kill Kezul and die in the attempt. Now they just longed for the return of despair.

But hadn’t they wished they could do something for Danelor? Hadn’t they tried to find an answer when Kezul had begged them, even after Kezul had burned the academy? They had wanted to help Danelor badly enough to put Kezul’s sins behind them.

Maybe this was the answer. Maybe this was the one thing they could still do for Danelor.

They eyed the place where they knew Kezul’s knife hid. They imagined surging to their feet, lunging for it, fumbling with their clumsy fingers. No—they couldn’t move fast enough, not with their injuries, and their muscles that ached from sitting in the same position for hours on end. Kezul would have to get closer.

Could they coax him closer?

They opened their mouth to speak, unsure of what they planned to say.

But Kezul was already turning away, reaching for the stall door. “My fears were right the first time I saw you,” he said. “You’re useless. Even for this.”

He stalked out of the stall, locking the door behind him with a heavy clang.

With that, Miranelis was alone—alone with the idea that wouldn’t leave them be.

They had tried to help Danelor. They had failed. But perhaps they could still do this one last thing.

And they had Kezul to thank for it. Kezul had shown them they had nothing left to fear. Because of Kezul, they were no longer a coward.

---

Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg @halloiambored @whump-in-the-closet @whump-cravings @sunshiline-writes @annablogsposts @whither-wander-whump @seaweed-is-cool @bloodinkandashes @sonder35 @cakeinthevoid @looptheloup

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[astarlightmonbebe]

rewatching parts of episode one and this scene still doesn’t make sense. taeoh’s expression, the distress on it as he looks at the fireworks, the slight confusion at seeing inha, and then again the distress, don’t make sense to me. he looks afraid, or at least deeply troubled. why? somehow i don’t think it has to do with the noise…

[paingoes]

Crash Out - Mea Culpa

hiii haha. man. this one is mostly dialogue tbh i originally wrote it in script format for some reason

(Content: ex-royal whumpee, collar, reference to past abuse, reluctant caretaking, addiction mention, discussion of death, war, suicide, angst, guilt, self-hatred)

The first moments were spent in a terse and awkward silence. Paris rested inside of it, afraid to break it, as if doing so would cause her to suddenly remember who he was and react appropriately. It took Vi to disrupt it first.

“Are you hurt?” she asked. 

As though there wasn’t a collar around his neck. As though there was not the visible imprint of a belt buckle against his cheek. He covered it now, as though this would make her un-see it.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, mostly into his hand. 

He understood the quiet Delta had kept to now. His face burned. 

“Are you still in withdrawal? Do you…need anything?” Her next question was more cautious. 

“No. I’m fine,” he repeated, “The worst of it’s over. I don’t want to feel like that again.”

He had been begging for it only days ago. Right now, he just felt dopesick and weary.

In the driver’s seat, she looked relieved.

Her ship was different than Lorelai’s — cleaner, definitely, better taken care of in a way that gave him an unexpected pang of guilt. Neither of them had been very considerate to the ship that had taken them halfway across the galaxy. He’d have to make it up to it.

Vi’s ship had thin neon strips outfitting the interior, lit up nicely in the perpetual night, but the Day-Glo had the same effect of making him just slightly nauseous with remembrance. 

“I promised her I’d keep an eye out, but I didn’t think we’d actually run into you. You’ve got the luck of the devil.”

“Do I?” he asked. It didn’t feel like it. Every time his life had been saved, it seemed like he only lived to see worse times. To the brink and then back, endlessly. 

She was only looking at him through the corners of her eyes.

~

A good distance away from the site of the accident, they stopped at the most remote gas station they could find. All their surroundings were a haze of autumn woods. He refused to get out of the ship.

“How did you get the cuffs off?” she asked, because she had seen them. Wordlessly, he held up the lock picks.

“C’mere.”

He had to turn his back to her for her to get at the collar lock, which he did not want to do. But he opened the door and sat down for her on the stone curb. He only shivered when her fingers brushed his neck, freeing the blood stained ends of his hair from the collar. 

She struggled with the lock, but not as much as he did. It snapped off. The metal fell away, leaving a soft ring of bruises in its place. His hand moved to it reflexively, massaging out the skin where it felt like it was suffocating.

“Thank you,” he murmured, half-choking on guilt. 

He followed her into the store. They got food and water, ice and cigarettes. He spent the last of his cash on a cotton hoodie: LIFE IS BETTER IN THE FALLS. It was warm, which he appreciated.

“Thank you,” he said again, because she had paid for everything else, and it was mostly for him. He didn’t understand why she bothered.

Ashamedly, he said little else to her, and the silence carried on thick and unbroken as they returned to the ship. He didn’t think he imagined the glares she was casting at him. He looked away.

~

Star cluster after star cluster. No radio. She kept her eyes on the projected trajectory. Paris continued to rub idly at his wounds, doing what he could to relieve the pain. Neither spoke until Vi broke the silence.

“You know, my parents died in an Imperial raid.”

Paris slowly pulled out of the daydream he’d been caught in and turned to face her instead.

“Which one?” he asked.

“During the Pulsar Campaign. One of the Nemean villages.” 

“Oh.”

They’d both been children then. He tried to imagine her as a child, her black hair marred by soot and with tinnitus from machine gun fire. He’d been at school learning his times tables.

He ran his hands through his hair, then down over his face. Deep breaths now that the metal didn’t restrict them. She wasn’t as calm as she was pretending to be. He saw her finger tapping up against the wheel.

“How does it get to that point? I really want to know — I’ve never seen one of you up close. How do you get to the point where you think all life is beneath you and that you can do whatever you want to it? How do you kill your own conscience like that? You’re so young.” 

Vi spoke like she was afraid he’d cut her off if she didn’t say it quickly enough. Her anger brimmed without quite spilling over.

He didn’t recoil, the way they both expected him to. It washed over him instead. He felt strangely calm.

“I didn’t think it was beneath me,” Paris said finally. “I just — I’m just speaking for myself here, but I never thought that conscience was beneath me. I just always thought it was inaccessible to me. Being a good person. I knew I could never actually be one.”

“Why?” 

That made her mad. He looked at her incredulously.

“Because of who I am? I’m not…ignorant about my position. I know what makes the grass grow. You can’t be a good person and still be crown prince. Don’t you think so?”

He looked to her for confirmation, as if she might challenge the inherent contradiction. She did not. In this matter, she agreed with him.

“…I thought it’d be worse to lie. If I tried to fake benevolence somehow. Pretended to be something that I’m not. I know what I am. I was born to it.”

“So you just stopped trying?”

“I don’t think I ever started,” he confessed.

“And you were okay with that? You could sleep at night?”

“I mean, I had still had ideals. I did…want things to be better, as best as I could make them. I guess I deluded myself into thinking that if I could just leave Empire a little better than I found it, there might be something redemptive in that. It wouldn’t cancel anything out, but at least everything I did wouldn’t have been for nothing.”

“It wasn’t worth it, though,” he decided. “Even if I’d won, it wouldn’t have been worth it. None of it was.”

The truth settled in. He’d wasted his life. He’d ruined countless others in the meantime. He leaned back into the chair.

“I’m sorry about your parents, is what I meant to say. My mom died when I was little too.”

His head hung down, from both shame and sheer exhaustion. 

Vi readjusted her grip on the wheel. She pressed back too, reclining as if some tension had been lifted from her. She looked at him then.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

For a second, he thought she was mocking him. It was absurd. Under no circumstances should she have said I’m sorry to him, for anything. And he’d heard it enough across two funerals, across as many decades, enough times to make him sick. 

But she meant it. So rarely had anyone meant it. That was almost worse.

“Thank you,” he said in a small voice. The way she was looking at him, it was like she knew what was there already. As if she was trying to coax it out. He let her.

“I think it would’ve been better if I died,” he admitted. “For everyone. Maybe at the podium. Maybe when I was even younger, before I’d done anything. It would’ve been easier, I think. I wish I’d- I wish I’d known.”

She nodded, then tilted her head in consideration. She was making up her mind.

“Just speaking for us — we wouldn’t have been any better off with you dead.” she told him. “Nezu would’ve still been there to fill the gap. You were never any worse than he was. I don’t see you being quite as maliciously evil.”

That was such a pathetically low bar — and he couldn’t even clear it. It wasn’t true.

“I was maliciously evil,” he corrected. “Or am, I guess? I don’t think it goes away.“

“Don’t know why I fucking bother,” she muttered.

“What?” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you want me to lie? I was evil.”

“What’s your excuse now?”

“What?” he repeated.

“You’re not prince anymore,” she said. 

The laugh he answered with was mostly nervous.

“Um. Yeah. Well, too little too late, I guess.”

“What?”

“I mean, it’s too late. I already ruined everything.”

“…Too late for what?”

His hands covered his face again, exasperated. “Don’t make me say it.”

“You’re trying to excuse yourself from it again, aren’t you? That’s really convenient for you.”

“You don’t actually think there is hope for me. I know you don’t. Seriously.” He studied her hard, trying to see if she was fucking with him. But if she was, nothing in her expression gave it away.

“You know that if you just keep insisting that you’re a terrible person and that you’re incapable of doing anything good, you’re just forcing yourself further down the same path that brought you here? If you believe that all you’re capable of is hurting people, then that’s all you’re going to do.”

She said: “Stop fucking doing that.”

He felt like he should apologize again. He was not trying to wallow in his misery. He meant to be honest. He said: “I don’t think I’ve ever done anything except hurt people.”

“Nothing?”

He thought about it, then shook his head slowly.

“No. The closest I ever got to was mercy. That’s not the same,” he said. “I’ve never treated anyone right, I think.”

“Not even her?”

Again, he shook his head. “Not even. Especially not her.”

“…She loves you a lot, you know.”

The softness made him feel sick enough to die. He nodded.

“I know.”

He’d never deserve her, nor what she had done for him. 

“It can’t go on like this,” he said. “It can’t. Not with Lorry. I can’t keep getting her hurt. If anything happened to her, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I can barely live with myself as it is. She doesn’t need that.”

It hurt like nothing else. The thought of losing her was too terrible to imagine. But he was going to, one way or the other. She could stay — and he could selfishly continue to endanger her life, until they pushed it too far again, until-

Or she could leave and he’d lose her that way instead.

He pawed nervously at his chest, at the spot where the arrow pierced through him, right by his heart. There was a rough tightness there. 

Empire would take everything from him, over and over and over again. The die was cast.

“We’ll work something out,” Vi said. “You know her, don’t you? She doesn’t want to be safe.”

“I want her to be.”

“It’s not always about what you want,” Vi said, which he guessed he couldn’t argue with.

~

There she was waiting. Lorelai stood with both sneakers in the sand and her copper hair pulled back into a ponytail. Another one of CTRL’s centers was built up tall behind her — this one was much nicer than the one Coda had offered. She was all patched up. She wasn’t smiling.

He did not even have time to fully exit the ship before she was wrapped around him. Soft squeaks escaped her; she’d been crying again. He fell into the sand, pulling her down with him, and he has to resist the urge not to beg her for forgiveness right then and there. For everything. He was on his knees, but her head was still pressed into his neck, still clinging to him. She was there at his level and wouldn’t let him sink further.

~~~~~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @whump-queen @sir-fenris

[sophie1973]

Seven (and more) sentence Sunday

I was tagged this week by @iboatedhere @thesleepyskipper

@taste-thewaste @theprinceandagcd @onthewaytosomewhere

@fullerthanskippy @caterpills (tagging you all back lovelies)

Here is a very fresh (as in written 30 minutes ago) snippet of chapter 5 of Bloodstream. Almost 6k written, a bit past hafway done, we are nearing the end.

Tags under the cut

Alex takes a deep breath, savoring the soft breeze that brings a refreshing touch to the warm June afternoon. The city's noise fades into the background as he meanders along the park's paths, allowing the tranquility to soothe his mind. After a long day of dull appointments and challenging clients, this stroll through Central Park feels like a much-needed escape. The late afternoon sun casts a golden glow through the green leaves, illuminating other walkers and guiding him toward Bethesda Terrace.

Alex's steps falter slightly as he spots a familiar figure near the fountain. Henry is standing there, engaged in conversation with an older couple. Alex hesitates, unsure whether to make his presence known or just walk around the fountain and continue his journey. It's not that he doesn't want to see Henry—quite the contrary—but he's never certain how comfortable Henry is being seen together in public. While logically, Alex knows that Mary Mountchristen-Windsor probably doesn’t have goons watching them all day, every day, he also understands the anxiety Henry feels about Alex’s safety, especially after the werewolf episode.  It’s Henry who makes the decision for him. Just as Alex considers slipping away unnoticed, Henry spots him. The moment Henry’s eyes lock onto his, a radiant smile spreads across his face, brightening his face. Alex's stomach does a joyful flip, and he feels a surge of giddy anticipation. It’s the first time he sees Henry being so openly happy to see him while they are in public. Alex closes the distance and approaches them, unable to keep a broad grin from spreading across his own face. “Lord Mountchristen-Windsor. Fancy meeting you here.” "Mr. Claremont-Diaz," Henry greets, his voice carrying the same genuine happiness reflected in his smile. He turns to the older couple and says, "Gertrude, Rupert, this is Alexander Claremont-Diaz." Alex does his best to suppress the shiver that always runs through him at the sound of Henry pronouncing his full name with that fucking accent of his. “Alexander, these are Gertrude and Rupert Giles. They are from London and moved here two years ago. Mr Claremont-Diaz is a lawyer. He works notably for the Astors and the Morgans.” Alex forces himself to look away from Henry’s face and greets the couple, engaging in some polite small talk. However, the conversation only lasts a couple of minutes before his eyes are irresistibly drawn back to Henry. He can't help but admire the subtle blush adorning Henry’s cheeks—he suspects his own presence might be the cause—and the way the light breeze tousles his blond hair. God, he is so fucking hopeless.

Tagging also @kj-bee @bitbybitwrites @blueeyedgrlwrites @wordsofhoneydew

@swoonoveryou3 @fckngyrs @whoevenknows-things @anincompletelist @tailsbeth-writes

@piratefalls @ash-morrison

[raisedbyanother]

Trailer coming soon Cast: Andrew Walker, Emilie de Ravin Synopsis: Philly mechanic Johnny is surprised to learn that his long-lost father is a duke. But the duke isn’t quite what he expected, nor are his growing feelings for the duke’s advisor Prudence. Genre: Romance, Romantic Comedy