#cloghb

when they first start seeing each other, it isn't like kurloz doesn't know How to cook, he's a grown man and all, but he doesn't really like, enjoy it or put a lot of energy in. if it keeps him from blacking out, good enough

The Emperor doesn’t say “pet” or “new toy” or anything that you’re called in newspapers, he just says “chief executioner under imperial order”, or “Clorad”. He has you tag along because you’ve been promoted (?) into being his bodyguard.

He’s asked you how you feel about him, and you’ve said “I would die for you.” Because you would, of course. That’s your job.

Beyond that, you can keep your feelings to yourself. You don’t let his eyes or the closeness of his hand and thigh when you sit with him in the royal buggy cloud your judgement, not until you’re alone, already thinking about the stately twists of his horns, the sharpness of his jaw and eyes. You’d fall for him if you weren’t careful. 

You like the way he says your name when he asks you to do something. You like when he puts his hand on your shoulder and directs you. You like when he laughs and leans on you to take up more of the seat when he’s enjoying himself.

He’s said he likes to watch you train and spar. He appreciates the way you give orders to the rest of the guard. He picked you, personally.

“What do you think of me?” He asks, leaning over you, his breath sweet with the party food. The coat closet is empty, and you’re clutching his coat to your chest. “Do you like me?”

Your ears twitch. “Y-yes, of course, Emperor. I would die for you.” He’s close. You could almost touch him. “I care for you.” Shut up. “I enjoy talking to you. I like you, my Emperor.” Shut up, Clorad.

He’s expressionless, silent, and you’re sure he’ll laugh at you. A guard falling for a royal? Is this some kind of comedy? “Kurloz.”

“What?” You ask, looking up sharply. Always look at the Emperor when he speaks. 

He clears his throat. “My name. Call me Kurloz when we’re alone.” His voice is softer than you usually hear it. “Would you have dinner with me?” His hand rests on your shoulder, and he leans closer, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “You can say no.”

His hand cups your cheek and you kiss him first. You can’t wait, you want to, and he just holds your chin up, wraps an arm around your waist. It’s not the frantic thing that you imagine sometimes, when you’re hive and lonely. He’s slow, gentle, taking queues from you and purring, though only just. You might pass out. Your arms settle over his shoulders, and you drop his coat, but someone knocks and the moment is gone.

Kurloz has never been quiet. He’s outspoken, talkative, and too thoughtful to stay quiet long. That’s part of what you love about him, that need he has to speak up when something is wrong, what drew you to him before, but it’s dangerous. 

His eyes were barely flushing red then, when he stood lanky and disproportionate on a crate and talked about inequality, and your pusher stopped. He looked at you and thought; he deserves better. He thinks that for everyone, but no one thought that for you. You had come and stood near him to watch him speak, your hands clutched together, and he had looked right at you as he spoke, and you loved him.

You loved him desperately, as soon as you knew him, as soon as you looked into the red of his eyes and he said your name, you loved him so desperately it ached in your chest like a hollow space, and you followed him. You walked with him, held his hand and hid him from prying eyes and convinced him to be quiet when he needed to be.

Kurloz is angry, almost livid, and you understand as much as you can. You fold your hands into his and he blinks out of the rant he’d fallen into, the fire burning low, and looks at you. “It’s okay, my love. I’m here. You’re here with me. Right now, we’re okay.” He leans forward as you speak, lets his head rest against yours.

“I want for us to be okay tomorrow. In the open.” He sighs, his eyes closed, and pulls you closer to him. “I want us to be okay.”

You kiss him, gently, and nod. “I know. We’ll be okay. Somehow, we’ll be okay.” You have no reason to believe that.

But you can hope. You can always hope. “We should get some sleep. We have to leave early.” You say, stroking his cheek.

ooo, I like that. clorad as the exhausted heir of a business litigation firm that does 99% bullshit and he just hates his job, and grand keeps having to tell his co-workers not to call him "the joker" just because they have a Kind Of clown theme (or even just a business named something with circus/carnival/festival etc in it) and he sometimes has a goofy laugh

assorted Bull Shit under the cut about clo in this au

He’s the Highblood. You have to like him. That’s what you told your coworkers over dinner, anyway, when they were three drinks in and curious about his playing favorites. You don’t have the option of disliking him; not openly. He’s your boss. You have to like him.

It isn’t that he’s friendly, though he is. Or pretty, which he is also. It isn’t that he has this fluttery laughter that makes you feel special when you hear it. It isn’t that he flirts with you, that you let him, that sometimes he kisses you behind the door of his chambers before a trial and you can barely focus on anything but his lips after it.

His claws drag over the back of your neck and you startle. Clorad giggles. “What’s wrong, lover? Distracted?” It’s more of this, that makes you like him. These soft moments where he’s open and gentler and you can just look at him.

“No.” You lie, leaning your face into his neck. He chuckles, because he can always tell when you’re lying, but doesn’t say anything about it.

It’s that, too. That and a thousand other things that lead to you accepting his offer for a date, and eventually moving to this. “Kurloz? Do you think we can tell people? That we’re together.” He twists your hair around his claws.

“No.” You say, too sharply, and pull back. “It would make you seem weak. And you’d be killed.”

He cups your cheek, the pattern of his paint distorting with his calm smile. “I’ll be killed eventually anyway. I want a few sweeps being able to tell people I love you before then.” He kisses you. “I can handle myself. And you can help, if you want.”

You know you can’t, but you nod anyway. You know he’ll have to die. You know the church, but you don’t want him to. You just want to have him, safe, as your own. It’s selfish. If your station required death, you might be the same as him, but you just want him.

It’s the fact that you love him, that makes you like him. You love him.