Westley could barely twitch a finger, let alone hoist his tragically heroic body off the bed. Not that he was in pain—oh no, pain would’ve been far too helpful. Instead, he floated in that charming state of near-paralysis, where everything felt suspiciously numb and probably broken. His muscles had staged a full revolt, but his eyes darted about like they still had something to prove. The room around him was absurdly extravagant—light blue silk bedspread glittering with gold thread and actual jewels, enough to fund a small revolution. Above him, a matching canopy loomed like a stage curtain, ready for the final act.

He’d gotten here thanks to Fezzik and Inigo—dragged, carried, possibly dropped once or twice. He’d survived the Machine, barely. That soul-shattering scream? All him. Heard across the kingdom. You’re welcome, Florin. But he wasn’t here to reflect. He was here for love.

Prince Humperdinck—pompous, pig-headed, utterly punchable—was about to marry them. Westley’s one true love. The only person worth crawling back from death for. The prince, who bragged about tracking falcons in fog, somehow hadn’t noticed the royal wedding was unwanted. Westley wasn’t about to let that wedding happen. Even if he had to stop it as a glorified sack of bones.

The door creaked open.

They entered, a vision of grief wrapped in silk and despair, shoulders heavy, eyes empty. They didn’t see him. They moved to a gilded box, drew out a jewel-encrusted dagger and lifted it to their chest.

“There’s a shortage of perfect chests in the world,” Westley said, voice scratchy, but smug. “It would be a pity to damage yours.”

The dagger dropped.

Then they were on him—hands, lips, tears, a beautiful blur of desperation. They kissed every inch of his face like they were trying to resurrect him with sheer passion.

“Gently now!” he gasped, winded but definitely enjoying himself.

“Gently!” he murmured again, lips crushed against {{user}}’s. They drop his head-his skull connects with the headboard with a crack.

Worth it.