#violettwrites
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A/N: I am so happy to be able to share my gift for the lovely @ikeromantic 💜 A deep dive into your blog told me you love AUs as much as I do so I was so happy to create one for our favorite Lelouchian.
Thank you to @ikemenlibrary and @sunnyikemen for hosting and for being supportive, accommodating and all-around superstars. 💜
Clavis x Emma
Magic AU, Soulmates AU, First Kiss, Enemies to Lovers
WC: ~2k
The sun is glowing a bright lemon-yellow as Emma closes the wooden door to her shop. It’s a beautiful door, made of dark walnut and decorated with silvery moons and stars. Across the top, the words “Belle Magie” are etched into the hard wood. At night, the lettering glows a soft gold. Humming to herself, she wraps her free hand around the ornate brass doorknob and a subtle, warm orange glow emanates from her fingertips. The moons and stars flash once and she hears a satisfying, soft whoosh of magic. The door to her shop is now locked via enchantment and no one except Emma will be able to enter and poke around at all the treasures that line her shelves and counters.
Smoothing down her ochre and black robes, she carefully makes her way across the cobblestone street to the shop that is literally across from hers. Her nose wrinkles at the sign that hangs above the wooden door: “Lelouchian Enchantments” written in swirling, silver lettering that she would say is barely legible. His note, written in the same dizzying writing, is clutched tightly in her hand as she pushes open the lavender-colored door with a celestial design nearly identical to her own. But that is where the similarity ends.
Whereas Emma’s shop is neat, organized by ingredients, everything with its own place and labeled in her own very careful handwriting, his is a gigantic explosion of almost anything one can imagine. Bottles filled with liquids of all colors and bottles with questionable things floating in them, dried herbs and seeds in pots and packets, a whole section of plants that bite anyone who comes near them, not to mention odd gemstones, vibrant powders, paints and feathers. She ducks underneath the silver vines that have wrapped themselves around the wooden ceiling beams, ignoring the way they contract and rustle their leaves at her, and approaches the counter where she finds Clavis himself, carefully sorting what looks like glittery kidney beans.
“I got your missive. I believe it broke in through my window in order to deliver itself.”
At the sound of her voice, he turns, golden eyes gleaming like copper in sunlight. He wipes his hands on the folds of his pale lavender robes, grinning slowly. She is forced to admit to herself for the millionth time that Clavis is hardly unpleasant to look at, per say. But oh, how he irks her, with his smooth words, flamboyant personality and flashy enchantments.
“Oh dearie me, when I said it was urgent, I suppose that gave it permission to cause destruction. I apologize.”
She bats away several tiny golden motes that have taken an interest in her chestnut hair and Clavis lifts his hand, wiggling his fingers in invitation. The golden pinpricks of light float towards him, circling his wrist and then solidify into a gold bracelet.
Refusing to be distracted by his tricks, she unscrolls his letter and lays it on the counter.
“Well? Where is it?”
“So impatient,” he tuts as he kneels down, lifting an ornate silver box from under the counter. It’s about the size of his hand and she can’t help but watch the way he trails his fingertips over the decorative embellishments. He has such elegant hands.
One brow arches slowly as she crosses her arms, shoving that thought away and burying it in annoyance.. “Well…..are you going to open it….?”
He sighs theatrically. “Some people have no sense of showmanship.”
Her lips quirk into a small, involuntary grin. “I’m not one of the poor suckers who come in here for your tricks and potions, Lelouch. Now open the box.”
He tilts his head, clearly enjoying how much she is trying to hide her curiosity. His hand rests on the lid of the box but doesn’t move.
“Don’t you want to know the story of how I acquired such a treasure? Why, it’s a tale of mighty heroics the likes of-”
“No. No, I do not.”
He pretends to be offended but the light in his eyes gives away the truth.
“But it involves a goblin merchant from Benitoite and a heartsick wizard from the Jade Forest and-”
“And a dragon and a sea witch and a bloody one-eyed pegasus. Clavis, just open the box!”
He laughs and it is the needle deflating the balloon of irritation that had overtaken her. She’s never met anyone with a laugh quite like his. It’s almost musical, but in the way of the inviting, simple melody of a children’s song. Something that stays with her, imprinting itself on her mind.
“Such an impatient pumpkin.”
“Don’t call me pumpkin.” The response is automatic, a reflex built over the long while she has known him. The first time Clavis had seen her do magic and seen the yellow-orange glow her magic emanates, he had bestowed her with that aggravating nickname.
Nimble fingers curl over the lid of the box and then he lifts it, revealing a round, milky-white stone nestled into a bed of black velvet. It reminds her immediately of the moon against a starless night sky.
She tilts her head quizzically. “This is the all-power Amor Lapis?” She had imagined something called the “Love Stone” being far more ostentatious, something pink or red and wild with sparkles. Something that would take her breath away. This stone, while pretty in its own way, looks rather ordinary.
“Such a skeptic.” He lifts the stone from its box, holding it in the palm of his hand. “It will only glow when two soulmates have found each other.” He lifts his gaze to her, his smile playful. “Know any perfect couples?”
She rolls her eyes, reaching out to touch the stone. “There’s no such thing as a perfect-” Her fingers brush Clavis’s palm and suddenly, the middle of the white stone begins to brighten, a soft glow radiating out from the center.
She jerks her hand away even as he nearly drops it. Her heart roars to life, knocking wildly around inside her chest.
Neither of them move and then, at the same time they both do, Clavis uncharacteristically fumbling to put the stone back in its box and she taking several steps back, one hand curling into the velvet folds of her cloak.
“It’s broken! It’s clearly defective!” Why does her voice sound just a bit shrill to her ears?
He clears his throat. She’s rarely seen him so rattled.
“It….oh dear…..maybe it is.” He frowns, staring down at the stone, at the dull, cream color of it, no glow to be seen. Then he draws in a breath, one that even she can hear shaking and looks at her. There is something unfamiliar in the depths of his sunrise eyes.
“We should try that again.”
“Try what again, exactly?”
“Touching.”
She should be balking at the very suggestion.
She should already be halfway out of his crazy shop.
She shouldn’t be stepping closer again, her gaze jumping from the stone back to him and then back again.
And she really really should not be saying-
“Alright. To-to prove its deficiency.”
The smooth, dark counter is a barrier between them, one that feels like armor, something that will protect her although what she needs protecting from is uncertain, some nebulous thing forming on the edges of her consciousness, some unknown dream rising from the shadows of slumber.
Clavis then holds out his hand, palm up, his gaze meeting hers. Her heartbeat drums wildly through her veins, a rhythm she has never known before. Slowly she lifts her hand and places it in his. His skin is cool and smooth, soft in a way she would not have expected. Emma can feel his magic just here, flowing through him. It feels shockingly calm, not the wild chaos she thought it might be but soothing, like the scent of lavender, the soft pastels of the sky at sundown. She can feel her own magic responding, warming as it flows through her.
Beneath their joined hands, the Amor Lapis begins glowing again, a soft white light like a tiny flame igniting inside the stone. Her heartbeat roaring in her ears, she slowly withdraws her hand from his and watches as the glow dims and then, when they are no longer touching, winks off like a tiny candle snuffed out by a breeze. When Emma has gathered enough courage, she raises her gaze from the milky-colored stone to Clavis and her heart trips over its own beat. His eyes rival the glow of the stone, something new burning in their golden depths. The light of revelation. The light of truth. The light of desire.
When he finally speaks, his voice sounds soft, breathy in a way that causes Emma to bite the inside of her lip at the sound.
“Dearie me,” he murmurs, his gaze locked with hers, bright with an intensity that feels almost physical. “If that happens when we touch hands, imagine what might happen if we actually kiss.”
The word lingers between them, shimmering in the air like desert heat over sand dunes. Emma unconsciously licks her lips and Clavis’s gaze drops there, fast as quicksilver. His own lips part slightly as he stares at the full curve of her lower lip, the sweet bow of the top. His own voice, his own words, echo like thunder between them.
….if we actually…..
….kiss….
Emma hasn't moved, hasn’t said a word, her soft eyes wide as a deer’s startled by a sudden, unexpected sound. And then he realizes what he said, what he has actually suggested and shame floods him, a tsunami of embarrassment that washes away the glimmer of hope, the clouds of desire that had overtaken him.
What the hell was he thinking, talking like that? As if someone like her, someone so intelligent and kind and talented, someone beautiful inside and out, would ever be soulmates with someone like him. Forget soulmates, she doesn’t even like him.
He hangs in head, soft twilight locks falling across his forehead, his knuckles white as he grips the counter with trembling hands. Stupid. Idiot. Never good enough. Never smart enough. Never ever would he be enough for someone else.
“Nevermind, I lost myself for a moment.” The words are acrid on his tongue and he feels the hot wash of color staining his cheeks and neck. “Obviously, there’s no way–”
Her hands are suddenly gripping those warm cheeks, pulling him towards her, forcing him to lean over the counter, above the stone, where she presses her lips to his. The Amor Lapis explodes with radiance, a tiny supernova encased by smooth stone. Even with closed eyes, Emma notices the brightening of the light but right now, she does not care. Because right now, she is holding Clavis’s face in her hands, and she is falling falling falling into kissing him.
At first he freezes, shock turning his blood to ice water in his veins. But then he realizes her mouth is really there, pressed against his, and then the burst of light automatically closes his eyes and the shock begins to thaw.
Now all he feels is the warmth of her kiss, the tentative movement of her lips and he gasps, reaching across the counter to touch her. Cradling each other’s face, they kiss, at first slowly, drinking in the fragile newness of the sensation, the unveiling of the truth that has been growing in both their hearts, quietly. Steadily. And then novelty slowly turns to pleasure, to desire. He grows bolder, sliding a hand down to the nape of her neck, holding her there so he can part her lips and sink into the sweet taste of her. If this is a dream, may he never wake up.
Emma sighs against him, a sound that echoes the twinkling of diamond-bright stars in a black velvet sky. All this time….all this time she’s been falling in love and never even realized it.
Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Neither of them can say when they finally pull away from one another. Breathless, light-headed, floating, they both glance down at the Amor Lapis. The stone is luminous, glowing like a tiny moon dropped from the heavens.
And it will continue to give off its beautiful light, for the rest of their days.
Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @ikesimpleton @mastering-procrastinating @namine-somebodies-nobody @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @bubblexly
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri clavis#clavis lelouch#ikemen clavis#ikemen prince exchange#magic au#soulmates au#first kiss#enemies to lovers#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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A/N: I know I am late but this is a very belated birthday present for a very special person: @lorei-writes 💜 I'm sorry this took so long but I hope you know what a wonderful friend you are and how grateful I am to have you in my life!
Chevalier x Reader, Only One Bed (the trope that won my poll!)
tw: injury
WC: ~2.5k
The trees whip past you, black blurs with long, spidery branches like fingers that reach for you, the wind carrying their whispers of how much they yearn to touch you, to pluck you from the back of the white horse you’re currently astride, tear you away from the man whose waist your arms are so tightly wrapped around.
Chevalier says nothing as he guides his horse expertly through the darkening forest, the evening light fading with each thundering heartbeat, each turn of the ground under the horse’s hooves. You hear the distant sound of yelling, of the soldiers who are pursuing you and squeeze your eyes closed, pressing your cheek harder against the softness of his white cloak. You don’t know how much time passes. Your arms begin to tremble with the effort of holding on. Your legs feel as if they are numb as they struggle to keep you atop the churning muscles of the animal beneath you. It’s only when you hear him say your name that you slowly come back to yourself, eyelids fluttering open as you feel his body slowly twisting away from you.
You’ve stopped.
Darkness has almost completely taken over. Only the palest shafts of dusk filter through the gaps in the trees. Strong hands reach up, pulling you down from the exhausted horse. Despite the heavy pace of the ride, Chevalier’s grip feels solid, a strength you lean into, wishing it would somehow seep from him into you and grant your shaking limbs calm, your burning lungs cool steadiness.
He waits a moment, still as the tree trunks, but you can see the way his eyes roam the gloom, searching.
A decision is reached.
“Can you stand?” His voice is low, quiet, hushed with alertness.
“Yes,” you manage, surprised at how raw your own throat is, how the words have to be forced out like sandpaper against rough wood.
He releases you and your back curls like a question mark, your hands sliding down to your knees where you hold yourself, focusing on breathing. Your shoulder burns, a lick of fire that feels oddly wet when you reach up to touch it.
You hear him murmuring to his horse, patting the loyal animal’s neck, speaking in a tone that is both gentle and soothing. Who would have thought the brutal beast capable of such softness? And then, having removed his bedroll and saddlebags from the animal, he reaches back and with a crack across the steed’s rear, sends it rushing away into the yawning darkness with a soft whinny.
What….? The horse is your only way back….how…. why…..
He may not be able to see your face clearly but somehow he can still read your thoughts. “It is familiar with these woods and will find its way back to the palace. We cannot risk having it close by.”
Suddenly his hand is grabbing yours and he’s moving, pulling you along with him over the uneven forest floor. “Come.”
You trust him to lead you, even if you cannot make out a path. He pushes his way through branches and brambles and bushes and you very quickly lose hope of ever figuring out what direction you are moving in. Just when your legs begin to cry for mercy, he pushes aside several low hanging branches to reveal the destination he has been heading for: The mouth of a small cave underneath an overhang of uneven rocks and scraggy bushes. It is here he takes you, into the maw of darkness.
You’re hit immediately with the strong, dank scent of rock and earth. Chevalier has to duck, the cave not high enough to accommodate his full height. How does he know where he is going? It’s nearly pitch black. You don’t have the energy to voice your concerns or questions. The aftermath of fear and flight has left you compliant, wordlessly trusting this man to lead you somewhere safe.
The mouth of the cave is almost out of sight when he stops, dropping to his knees in the darkness. You hear him lift the flap of the leather saddle bag, rummaging around until he finds what he is looking for. There’s a quiet snapping sound and suddenly the small area is illuminated with soft blue light, a sight so unexpected and beautiful that you gasp.
You’re at the back of the cave, surrounded on all sides by smooth stone. Chevalier is holding what looks like a vial of some kind, filled with glowing blue liquid. You’re so enchanted that you momentarily forget the terror of just an hour or so earlier, of the masked soldiers who ambushed you while on a sunset ride with the prince, the hiss of the arrows they fired at you, the cry of your horse as it stumbled to the ground and the way Chevalier swept you up in one fluid movement, anchoring you behind him even as he carried you away from the violent chaos, deep into the safety of the dark forest.
“What is this?” You touch the glowing tube even as Chevalier pulls out another, bending it until it emits a small cracking sound and more blue light, pale as the underside of the ocean, fills the cave.
“My brother may be a fool but he has his moments.” He sets the glowing vial down, turning to reach for the bedroll.
Clavis. Of course. He’s always working in his room, tinkering, inventing. That he was the one to come up with such a clever invention doesn’t surprise you. As Chevalier lays out the bedroll, you continue to look at the glowing tube. The gentle blue light almost feels like it’s wrapping itself around you, gentle waves guiding your lungs into a steady rhythm, your heart lowering its guard as you feel a sense of cautious safety begin to settle over you.
“Come here.” You look up to see Chevalier pointing to the bedroll. He’s kneeling beside it, pulling off his dark gloves one finger at a time, a small brown jar on the ground beside him. Before you can ask, annoyance flickers across his face. “You’re injured. This will help keep the wound from becoming infected.”
Injured? Where are you–
“Your shoulder. Now come here.” His words are crisp, edged with impatience.
You glance down, pushing aside your cloak and are stunned by the darkness that stains the sleeve of your white blouse.
When did that happen? In the blur of escape you didn’t even notice…..
Carefully you settle yourself in front of Chevalier. In the cool light, he leans close to you, shifting the torn fabric to try and examine the injury. He’s so close you notice just how long his lashes are, how the wild ride through the dusky woods tangled his pale hair. A slender red line mars the perfection of his face, a scratch that cuts a slanted line right beneath his cheekbone.
“It’s no good. I need more access.” He leans back as his eyes, so impossibly blue in the chemical light, flick up to yours. It takes a deep breath to keep you from free falling into those oceanic depths. Forcing a quick nod, you cast modesty aside, grateful for motion as it will keep you busy. Your cloak is tossed aside. One by one, you undo the buttons of your blouse until you can slide the material off your shoulder completely. The cool air of the cave brushes over your newly exposed skin and you shiver.
“It’s not deep. You should heal without issue.” He uncovers the jar and reaches inside with one finger, scooping up a generous portion of the milky salve. With a practiced hand, he begins applying it over the torn skin of your shoulder. Another shiver runs through you, something bright and restless that has nothing to do with the cold.
Hands that have rained down death and destruction are shockingly gentle as he touches you, spreading the salve evenly across your injury. You watch the passage of his finger across your skin, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Have you ever noticed how beautiful his hands actually are? He glances up and finds you staring at him. Whatever he sees in your eyes seems to unsettle him. He jerks his upper body back, hastily pulling his hand away and reaches back into the saddle bag for a strip of cloth which he ties around your upper arm. His fingers now expertly avoid touching your skin.
“That should suffice for the night.” He reaches for the jar, about to close it again.
“Wait!” You pull it from his grasp as surprise flashes across his face. Clearing your throat, you gesture with the small clay jar in your hand towards him. “You have a scratch yourself.”
His shoulder lifts in a gesture of indifference. “It’s nothing.”
You shift your body, turning to face him directly. Your blouse is still partially undone and he finds himself noticing the wash of pale blue light across the exposed skin of your shoulder, the way it highlights the line of your collarbone and the intimate divulgence of the skin beneath it.
“Please, let me.” Your voice carries a note of something tremulous in it, pulling his gaze back to your face, the parting of your lips, the soft supplication in your eyes. He finds himself acquiescing, his powerful upper body leaning ever so slightly towards you.
“If you must.”
The salve is cool to the touch and you apply a much smaller amount to the tip of your index finger, leaning towards him. Your other hand moves automatically, reaching up to catch his chin in order to hold him steady. He blinks, but otherwise does not move. You press your finger to the thin scratch on his face and slowly, carefully follow the red line. You’ve never been this close to him before. He carries the scent of roses and sweat, even after your hard ride. Your finger comes to the end of the scratch and it is with a surprising reluctance you let your hand drop from his face.
His chest rises with one breath, two. And then he tears his gaze away from the mesmerism of your face, leaning back to close the jar and return it carefully the saddle bag. He glances towards the cave’s entrance, shaking off the moment that still has your heart clenching with emotion.
“We cannot risk leaving now. We’ll stay the night and make our way back by the light of day tomorrow.” He gestures towards the bedroll. “It’s cold. Get in.”
“And what about you?” You don’t even realize you’ve crossed your arms, frowning.
He shakes his head once. “You’ll freeze before I do.”
“We can share it.” The words are out of your mouth without thinking. And they continue. “It’ll be snug but we can both fit. You need warmth just as much as I do. And you can’t protect me if you’re freezing to death.”
You’ve surprised him. He draws in a breath and then exhales. With every passing minute, as darkness becomes thicker outside the distant mouth of the cave, the temperature is indeed dropping.
Wordlessly, he leans forward, pulling off his dark, mud-splattered boots. The sight is somehow so intimate, so personal you find yourself watching, both fascinated and flustered. He removes his cape, folding it into a makeshift pillow and then pulls back the corner of the bedroll. It’s made of thick brown leather and lined with the softest looking white fur you’ve ever seen. He slides his long body inside and then jerks his head.
“Come then.”
You kick off your own riding boots close to where your cloak is lying, abandoned on the hard stone floor, and then with the roaring sound of your own heartbeat in your ears, you wiggle your way down into the bedroll beside him.
And immediately you realize you were wrong.
While the bedroll is large, it is not really made for two people. The only way you can remain covered by the top part is to press yourself as close to Chevalier as possible. He grunts as you hook your leg over him, nudging your hip against his. Your arm automatically reaches across his middle as you settle your head on his shoulder.
Now the bedroll flap closes, enveloping the both of you.
And Chevalier has not moved. He’s barely even breathing.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your face burning as you begin to slowly scoot away. This was too much, too fast. You literally just touched his cheek for the first time ever and now you’re laying across him as if he's a pillow. “Maybe I…I can wrap the cloaks around me and–”
Your words are cut off as he pulls you back to him, his arm holding your body firmly against his. It’s a rough gesture, a jerky movement so unlike his usual feline gracefulness.
“You’ll stay here.” His voice is low, a soft growling sound that you feel as much as hear with your ear pressed against his chest, the vibration of it slowly winding its way through you. Heat blossoms within your stomach and your veins pulse with the sudden awareness of just how it feels to be held by Chevalier Michel, how every hard plane of his body fits perfectly against your own softness.
You blink as if you have been shocked awake, as if someone has ripped the curtains away from a window full of glaring sunlight.
Have you always felt this….desire? Has it been hiding itself within the shadows of your heart only to be dramatically exposed by your closeness to him?
Chevalier shifts ever so slightly, pulling you even closer as he tilts his chin down to look at you. Your own face lifts to meet his gaze. Clavis’s soft blue light illuminates the planes of his face, the pale white of his hair.
He is so breathtakingly beautiful.
For the second time tonight, you reach up and touch his face with your hand, this time cupping the strong line of his jaw. His lips part as if to speak but nothing comes. Ignoring the spark of pain in your shoulder, you stretch yourself upwards and press a kiss, soft as silk, warm as dawn, to his injured cheek. Beneath you, his chest stills with a breath held.
“Thank you, Chevalier.”
And you sink back down, your eyes closing as you allow yourself the peace of falling asleep, cocooned in the safety of his arms, welcoming the strange, new tide of yearning for him that has astoundingly, readily rolled into your heart and mind.
As for Chevalier himself?
He holds you through the night, each passing minute you are in his embrace more and more startling because despite the enemies at the gate, despite the cold of the cavern, despite all that has transpired, it has him wishing that dawn will never come and take you from his side.
Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @ozalysss @starlitmanor-network
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#chevalier michel#ikepri chevalier#ikemen chevalier#only one bed#happy happy birthday lorei!!!#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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chevalier and ex-lovers for the angst promt? that seems like it would be really interesting considering his route. thank you for reading this ask
A/N: With some encouragement and brainstorming (thank you @lorei-writes 💜) I finished this!
An addition to my Broken Heartstrings series
Chevalier x Reader
WC: 1.3k
The crowds that have gathered in the streets are humming like a hive full of excited bees. Some small children are pushing their way beneath elbows and through knees, trying to get to the front. Others are being hoisted up onto the shoulders of grown ups who shift their weight from foot to foot, as eager as the children to get a glimpse.
You can see them all from your spot, perched on the wide windowsill of your bedroom. Precarious as it may be, you’ve pushed open the window, leaving nothing between you and the view of the street below. It’s a joyful scene, one of breathless anticipation as the townsfolk wait for their king to ride through on this, the anniversary of his coronation. The king that you chose a year ago. The man who had challenged your spirit and won your heart.
But instead of sitting by his side, proudly looking down at all the beaming faces, you’re alone at your window, stomach in knots at the thought of seeing Chevalier Michel again, even from a distance.
Just thinking his name sends your mind down well-trodden paths of anguish and heartbreak....
What had seemed so solid, so strong, had unraveled in a single moment. You didn’t even have the chance to anticipate something was wrong. He had gone to investigate suspicious activity at the border. He had returned, white clothing running red with blood that was not his. Still, you had run to him, concern an engine that spurred you forward at lightning speed….and he had turned away, turned his shoulder towards you. And then he had told you, in a voice as chilled as winter’s edge, to leave.
Leave, he repeated at the palace gates, his hand gesturing for you to move away.
Leave, he repeated as you stood in his bedroom, questions shooting from your mouth like wayward fireworks, bright and burning and frantic.
Leave was all he said, his voice a blade as dangerous and final as his sword.
His betrayal of your trust was a sudden cracking of ice, a fall into freezing water that left you speechless, breathless, and utterly broken. All the possibilities for the future, all the countless daydreams. All the nights spent talking, sharing, weaving a relationship from the threads of your heartstrings snapped in a blink by silver shears, cold as the blue of his eyes when all your wild thoughts boiled down to a single question, your voice trembling like a leaf in a cruel, sudden wind:
Why?
Leave was his only reply.
And so you fled the palace, the beautiful rose gardens, the confused and concerned questions in the eyes of his brothers. You fled the place that had become home to return to the life you had known before, except it didn’t fit as it once did. Something was missing, something that ached in the night, that chased sleep away from the spinning hurricane of your mind. A longing for someone that you shouldn’t want, someone who was willing to drive a stake into the beating heart of your love without hesitation. Or explanation.
A combined gasp and cheer rises up from the crowd as the royal caravan approaches and tugs you back to the present. The other princes ride upon their horses, smiling and waving. Well, Licht isn’t exactly smiling and something about his somber expression is so familiar, a constant in a world turned upside down, that it actually brings a smile to your lips, a sad, watery thing but a smile nonetheless. Jin and Nokto beam brightly, waving and nodding, especially to the women who meet their gazes with excited hands pressed to their hearts. Leon is every inch the prince, flawlessly dividing his attention between both sides of the street, his smile open and wide. He was always so kind. A wave of bittersweet emotion washes through you as you remember the time he would take to explain things to you, to help you find your way, to listen,
But he is not the one your heart chose.
And behind Leon and his black stallion rides the King on his destrier of purest snow white. The sight of him, tall and proud, one gloved hand on the reins, the other casually on the pommel of his sword freezes the breath in your lungs. Your fingers curl into your palm unbidden, nails biting deep into flesh gone numb. Beside him, Clavis is all flashy smiles and waves, golden eyes scanning the crowd to award a nod or tilt of the head to anyone he wants to feel special. His head tilts up as his gaze sweeps across the many open windows and people waving handkerchiefs, some embroidered roses, some embroidered with tigers in honor of the king’s crest.
You, still as a beam of moonlight, stand out amid the riotous cheering.
Of course Clavis notices you. In a heartbeat, your eyes lock with his and something inside you shifts as you are flooded with the memories of the many laughs, the teasing, but most of all, the way he supported you through loving his brother. He knows what a difficult path that is to walk. He has been walking it his whole life.
He offers you something no one else in the crowd gets. His face, always adept at schooling itself into whatever mask it need be, is filled with genuine emotion at the sight of you. He offers you a smile, soft and sad and real.
Somehow, even from a distance, he has still found a way to comfort you.
Your spirit is bolstered, just a little, and you manage a smile in return, raising a hand in greeting.
And then Chevalier notices his brother’s upturned face and his own head moves, his gaze rising to see what has Clavis’s attention.
There you are, up in the window, framed like a beautiful portrait, smiling, but even he can see it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, like a garden dappled in shadows. Your hand is raised, that hand he knows intimately. He knows the motion of your fingers as they delicately turn the page of a book. He knows the strength in them when you grip a horse’s reins. And he knows their softness, the tenderness with which they can touch, the feel of your fingertips as they trace the line of his jaw. The eagerness with which they press into the back of his neck when he kisses you-
Kissed you.
When he kissed you.
Because he will never know their touch again. Nor your kiss. Nor your smile. Even now, as your gaze meets his, that smile fades, your hand slowly lowers, curling against your heart like a wounded animal, seeking shelter.
And he knows he did that. He killed the warmth of you, the joy, the whispering sunshine of your love.
And he would do it again.
Because as pained as you look now, somehow he knows it would never compare to the pain of being in love with someone who could so deeply disappoint you. He learned that lesson the day he rode to the border, when he killed as mechanically as clockwork, without remorse, without regard. How easily his blade drank the blood of young and old. He saw only red, felt only the jolt of sword through flesh and turned to seek it again and again.
You claimed there was good in him, there was mercy and the capacity to love.
And for a brief moment in time, he had believed you. Until that day.
And rather than watch your love for him slowly wither as you learned you were wrong, that he was nothing more than a brutal beast, he made a clean cut. Sharp, painful but without a doubt in his mind the correct thing to do.
He could not watch the light in your eyes go out. Because he loved you.
Loves you.
Because he still loves you.
Chevalier’s pale head turns away from you and the procession continues.
Slowly, breathing against the burning ache in your chest, the broken pieces of your heart slicing into wounds that have never fully healed, you lean forward and pull the window closed.
There is nothing left to see.
Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @ozalysss
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#chevalier michel#ikepri chevalier#ikemen chevalier#chevalier x reader#broken heartstrings#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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A/N: This is my gift for the wonderful @claviscollections as part of the @flash-exchange💜
Clavis x Reader, my prompt was "Affection 101". Here are eight little ways I think Clavis would show his dearest one affection.
WC: exactly 700
You’re standing in front of the floor-length mirror, taking a moment to admire the amethyst necklace Clavis gave you for your first anniversary. It’s breathtaking. It’s delicate. It’s….a pain in the arse to get on. You fumble, brows knitting with ever-growing annoyance as you try to close the clasp at your neck. And then he’s there, gently admonishing you, dear one, for not calling him to help you with such a tricky task. His gaze holds yours in the mirror as he effortlessly closes it, his fingers trailing away from the thin chain to rest on your shoulders. A soft kiss at the base of your neck is his final touch before stepping away.
Yves has really outdone himself. The table is set with so many delicious confections, you hardly know where to look. Clavis is engaged in telling a story, entertaining the others, his words winding through the air like music notes. You carefully select a golden puff pastry filled with rich pink cream and……ahhh you sigh with pure delight as the taste of sweet strawberries hits your tongue. You’re contemplating taking another when Clavis, without missing a beat, reaches for one of the delightful cream puffs and places it on your plate.
You leave your meeting with the king, heading to your office while perusing the long list of books he has asked you to procure for the royal library. When you get to your desk, you stop. Waiting for you is a warm cup of rose tea and a decorative sprig of lavender. Setting down your notebook, you pick up the note that lays beside the tea cup, written in the loopy handwriting you’ve become fluent in: After a meeting with him, my dear wife deserves a treat from her devoted husband.
You’re heading down the staircase, pulling your cloak around your shoulders as you silently review your market shopping list. Clavis turns the corner, in conversation with Cyran. When your eyes meet, he breaks into a sunny smile, his eyes practically glowing at the unexpected encounter. “Just a moment, Cyran, I must greet my wife in the manner she deserves.” And instantly you’re in his arms and he’s kissing you in a way that leaves you utterly breathless. “And as this is also goodbye…” Another kiss as his arm supports your back, his hand tenderly cradles the back of your head. You’re released with a glowing smile before he continues up the stairs, motioning for a beleaguered Cyran to hurry up and follow him.
The meeting is running oh so long as the visiting nobles make sure to use their audience with the king to the fullest. Your hand aches from writing, trying to capture all the essentials of what is said. When it’s finally over, Clavis instantly reaches for you, taking your hand in his and gently but firmly begins massaging your palm, the sore spaces between your fingers, his expert touch trailing down to your wrist. The pain ebbs away under his care and he smiles at your sigh of relief.
You step out of the steaming rose-scented bath and into the oversized, fluffy towel Clavis is holding for you. He wraps it lovingly around your body and pulls you close, kissing the tip of your nose. “Mine,” he murmurs with a grin. “All mine.”
You stare down at the plate of food provided by your hosts. It’s fish. The kind you really, really can’t stomach eating. Politeness has you taking a small bite, forcing it down. A shudder rolls through you from your protesting stomach. And then in one fluid movement, your plate is now in front of Clavis and his plate, minus the fish but with all the salad, is now yours.
The sun takes a bow, leaving the stage to evening. A long day has your head falling into your soft pillow, heavy with exhaustion. A moment later, you’re being pulled back against Clavis as he curls himself around you. His arm protectively encircles you, his lips press a kiss to the back of your neck. “Good night, beautiful wife of mine. May you sleep well and dream of me.” You smile softly because you always do.
Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri clavis#clavis lelouch#ikemen clavis#ikemen flash exchange#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfiction#violettwrites
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A/N: This is my gift for @readerinsertfanfiction 💜 The moment I saw Cyran on your list, I was thrilled. I hope you enjoy!
A huge thank you to @ikemenlibrary for her support and friendship and for being a generous, caring host 💜
Prompt: A servant, someone who knew Cyran from before his time in Rhodolite
Cyran x AU Emma
WC: ~4k
Obsidian: the Past
She runs across the cracked, sunbaked cobblestone streets, her treasure wrapped in a cream-colored tea towel and held protectively against her chest. Her worn leather shoes make a pleasing thunking sound against the stones as she hurries past dusty shop windows and faded porches, carefully dodging people on the street.
“Langsam, Emma!” someone yells as she flies past but she doesn’t listen to their warning. She can’t slow down. She has somewhere to be.
Finally she reaches the edge of town and takes a sharp left, leaving the cobblestones behind for a ribbon of dirt road that winds its way along tired hills covered with sparse sage-green grass and dotted with scraggly yellow dandelions. Another turn onto an even smaller path, a faint thing that meanders through the knee-high growth and then, finally, the faded barn comes into view.
She smiles, pumping her young legs harder, willing them to swallow the distance faster and faster until she reaches the peeling, splintered wooden doors and haphazardly flings one open.
“Cyran? I’m here!!”
The boy, just shy of fourteen, turns away from the wooden beam he has been faux-sparring with, lowering the dull, well-worn practice sword he is so proud of. His hair gleams like fire in the hazy sunlight that shines through the pocked roof.
Emma hurries over, gulping down huge breaths of musty air as she grabs his thin forearm.
“C’mon. I’m dying to see how they taste.”
Cyran laughs, struggling to sheath his sword as she drags him over to the blanket thrown over the hay in a cozy corner of the barn. This is their favorite place to meet, an escape from the outside world they discovered several years ago while exploring. It is here that Emma sometimes reads to him from one of her treasured books. She’s even shared stories she’s written, romantic tales of princesses and dragons, knights and monsters. Cyran is always the hero, the knight who slays the monsters and rescues the damsel in distress. Emma will change her roles in the stories.
Sometimes she needs rescuing.
But sometimes, she is the dragon.
Often they sneak treats to each other, hard biscuits or smoked meat or, if they are really lucky, sweet berries brought across the border from the lush neighboring country of Rhodolite. Cyran’s neighbor is a servant for some of the merchants that make the risky trips over and when he’s lucky, she manages to tuck away a few treasures just for him.
He settles himself down on the frayed checkered blanket and pushes his bright hair away from his forehead, eagerly watching as Emma drops down next to him, laying the tea towel down. Her face is flushed from her run and from the thrill of what she’s managed to bring him.
“Ready?”
He nods, enthusiastically motioning for her to unwrap it already. He has hands that are too big for his young body, growing the way many boys do at this age, in odd fits and spurts.
Emma leans forward, pushing up the sleeve of her too-big dress and carefully pulls back the edges of the tea towel.
The smell hits them first, the warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of the cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger. It wafts up towards them, exotic and tempting. Cyran breathes in deeply and then sighs happily as he looks at her, eyes bright and admiring.
“It smells so good.”
Cyran had carefully been saving up the exotic store of spices, some of them gifts from his neighbors, others decadent purchases made at the market from his meager earnings made mucking stalls and chopping wood. He knew that Emma would be the one who would create something special with them. Young as she was, she was a talented cook and baker, able to make the most fantastic treats out of the simplest ingredients. And now that she had been given such a treasure trove to work with, she had spun pure magic.
The spiced biscuits are dappled dark brown and gold. When she hands him one, it is with a reverence that echos a priest giving communion or a child receiving a shiny new toy at Christmas.
Their gazes meet and she nods.
“Together.”
He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes.
“Together.”
They bite into the cookies at the same time. Emma breaks into a proud smile as Cyran closes his eyes, savoring the medley of flavor and even better, the knowledge that she made them just for him.
“It’s good, isn’t it?" she asks, grinning. She sees the look on his face, the way he is practically melting with enjoyment.
He lifts his shoulder in a casual shrug, feigning indifference.
“I guess……”
“What?!”
He takes another bite, leaning back on one hand. “I mean, they’re ok. But you know, Hilde’s biscuits are also really good–OOF.”
She’s tackled him, throwing herself at him with all the force of a frenzied feline, her nimble fingers scratching at his sides. Cyran breaks into laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to squirm away from her.
“Ok ok Brown Eyes, enough!”
Emma lets him go, sitting back on her heels with a glowing, triumphant smile.
“Never say that about Hilde’s cookies again.”
He pushes himself up, heart pounding furiously in his chest. Only some of it is from laughing. He tears his gaze away from the unsettling beauty of her eyes, traveling up to her hair.
“You’re a mess. You got straw in your hair and your braid is a disaster.”
Emma turns and scoots until she is sitting in front of him. “Since it’s your fault….you fix it.”
Cyran heaves a sigh he doesn’t mean and then settles himself into a comfortable position, reaching forward and with a tenderness and care far beyond most boys his age, begins slowly picking the straw from her messy plait.
Emma’s eyes drift closed as she revels in the attention he’s giving her, the gentle way he untangles her braid and then very slowly begins brushing his fingers through her soft, chestnut-colored hair.
It feels comforting and safe.
It feels thrilling.
It feels like the early evening has come to a standstill and they have all the time in the world.
But their time together is like a rose slowly losing its petals.
A petal falls as he tells her, wide-eyed and shaken, that his neighbor has been killed in her own home, throat opened in the dead of night and left smiling its ghastly red smile until she was discovered hours later. Emma rubs his back, not knowing what else to do. This is not the first death in their village as of late. And it will not be the last.
A petal falls as they lay, side by side, on the blanket in the hay, staring up at the patches of starry sky visible through the holes in the roof. “My parents are scared,” she whispers. He turns his head to stare at her profile and knows it isn’t just her parents who are frightened. “I’ll protect you,” he whispers, voice fierce with youth’s naïve promise. Her gaze remains on the silver stars but she reaches out, taking his hand and squeezes it.
A petal falls as she comes to their favorite spot, face pale as bone, to tell him that her family is leaving. Her father has contacted distant relatives that live far to the north, as far from Rhodolite and the dangers it poses as one can get. Cyran feels like his young heart may break right there in his chest and he will be forced to live the rest of his life with its pieces rattling around inside of him. Though filled with dismay, Emma’s eyes are as beautiful as ever. They shine with tears, rivaling any star they have ever spent time gazing at.
A petal falls as she rushes through the dark, on the night before her family is to leave, her throat burning with feelings she can’t quite name, waves too strong to try and understand for fear they will sweep her away. She bursts through the barn doors and finds him already there, his hair dark as garnet, damp with sweat. He has spent the entire day doing heavy labor, removing heavy wooden beams, hauling ancient and broken equipment, sweeping the dusty, straw-strewn floor. Several lanterns placed around the interior bathe the space in warm, yellow light. The barn is as clean and inviting as he can make it. He wanted to give her one more memory, something beautiful, that she can take with her on her journey away from here. Away from him.
Emma is frozen in place, soaking in all he has done, before finally stopping on the young man at the center of it. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Already his shoulders carry the hint of what manhood will bring him: strength and breadth. Arms that with training will turn hard and sculpted, legs that will lengthen until he is taller than most. He is the faint beginning of what he will become. Emma wonders wildly if she will ever get the chance to see the finished masterpiece.
“Emma,” he says, his voice raw and rough, deeper than she has ever heard it.
She sets down the bundle she is holding, the one she carried so close on the way here, leaving it on top of a weathered wooden barrel.
“Cyran,” she answers, her muscles tense, like a fawn when it hears a crunching in the underbrush.
He starts forward, one hesitant step and that is enough. She flies towards him, throwing her thin arms around his neck and buries her face in his worn linen shirt, clutching him to her. There is power in her small frame, something fierce and bright, a hurricane in crystal. Cyran holds her close, his eyes closing as he breathes in her familiar scent. He’s been teased his whole life because of his last name, but she is the one who reminds him of a rose, who always smells so sweet.
The anticipation of loss that has them clinging to each other slowly ebbs and something else, something that has been burning low and quiet in every laugh, every touch, every glance begins to emerge. She is suddenly aware of the press of her chest against his, of how much taller he is, the earthy smell of his skin. She leans back to look at him and sees the same awareness mirrored in his dark eyes.
Outside a rooster crows, loud and discordant.
Cyran turns his head toward the sound and Emma, sparked by the frantic knowledge that she must leave, grabs his chin, pulling him back to her and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips to his.
It is a sunbeam bursting through gray clouds. A spark breathing life into a pile of dried leaves. It is hope and promise and wonder.
And heartbreak.
With a stifled cry, she steps away, turns and flees the barn, not wanting to see the look on his face as she leaves, not wanting that to be her last memory of him.
Cyran watches with a thundering heart as the door swings shut. Flooded with helplessness and misery, he notices the bundle she left behind. Tenderly he lifts it, undoing the sky-colored ribbon. It’s her favorite handkerchief, white with pale blue forget-me-nots painstakingly embroidered along the edges, and nestled inside are several of her spiced biscuits. His favorites.
Rhodolite: The Present
Rhodolite is so much MORE than she expected. The streets are wider and cleaner and lined with greenery, more trees and flowering bushes and grass than in the entire garden of the palace in Obsidian. There are more people than she expected too, many standing under awnings and lampposts, peeking through windows and around doorways, watchful eyes in beautiful faces following the royal procession as it makes its way towards the palace.
When she had been told by the Head Chef that they would be accompanying Prince Gilbert and his entourage to Rhodolite, Emma had felt a familiar ringing through the cockles of her heart. Rhodolite is where Cyran was rumored to have ended up. Whispers from the south had traveled her way, over the many years since they parted. He had joined the army when he was of age. He had left Obsidian for the verdure of Rhodolite. He was employed by one of the Princes there. Crumbs of information she had managed to gather, hoarding them tightly like precious drops of mana.
He may not even be here, she reminds herself as her tired gray mare plods along down the street. She and the other servants are at the end of the procession and most of the people have turned away, not interested in anything but the dangerous Prince Gilbert with his sharp smile and blood-red gaze.
Still, Emma finds herself scanning the crowds as they pass, looking for any head of red hair. She spots a few but they are never him.
As the overwhelming elegant palace suddenly rises towards the heavens before her, she draws in a sharp breath.
We’re here…….
…….Is he?
The palace looms closer, a breathtaking monument of pale beauty.
And if so….how in the wide world will she ever find him?
Cyran runs a hand through his thick mass of russet hair as his long strides make quick work of the pathway towards the training hall. It’s late evening and the young, freshly-minted knights are at the end of their training and he needs to make sure everything went well without him there. He knows Lucian is more than capable of leading them through their drills but Cyran has a responsibility to make sure. They are all under his charge.
Entering the hall, he sees several of the knights laughing in a corner. Some are sitting and catching their breath, others are pushing the heavy sandbags they sometimes train with back into their storage room. What he sees reassures him. They look tired and sore, yet satisfied, faces bright with the feeling of accomplishment a tough training session will leave behind.
He’s about to go look for Lucian, expecting a full report when he notices several of the knights standing by the wooden table at the far end of the training circle, the one usually covered with straps for shields and rope and other odds and ends. They’re smiling, far too widely to be discussing anything so mundane as weaponry. Several are chewing. He approaches the table, greeted by his men with smiles and respectful nods. Immediately he notices the tin: it’s round and black, covered with decorative golden swirls.
“What’s this?” He glances towards the first knight at his left, a tall lad with sandy blond hair.
“They were brought here by an Obsidian servant. She said they were a present for us.”
Cyran frowns, a skeptical look on his face as he reaches inside the tin for one of the golden brown cookies.
“And you didn’t think to–” He was going to ask if they thought accepting gifts from strangers was a good idea when the scent hits him, cutting through the sweat and musk of tired men.
The warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger.
He goes still, the breath knocked from his lungs.
Could it be…..
Something in his face hushes the men around him. They watch, curious as Cyran lifts the cookie and takes a bite.
The man who sees everything, ever watchful, closes his eyes as he chews and the knights are transfixed by the absolute stillness that has overtaken their leader.
And then those eyes open and something in them has begun to burn, bright and alive.
The other half of the cookie falls to the dusty ground as he turns on his heel and, practically jogging, exits the training area, leaving behind the half-eaten biscuit and a slew of surprised faces.
The rose gardens are somehow even more beautiful in the twilight of evening. The red petals seem to have darkened, shedding their bright rose-red for a sultry scarlet. Shadows emerge from the trimmed hedges, stretching across the winding stone pathways, giving a visitor like Emma glimpses of hidden benches and secret dirt paths leading into clandestine corners of the gardens.
She has taken several of these more narrow, less-trodden paths, not at all afraid of getting lost. Her heart is a bird, flitting between dark branches, full of a nervous, tightly-wound energy she can’t quite explain.
As the sky darkens to a deep navy blue and the first stars open their eyes, Emma pauses in front of a gray stone fountain. Two swans, nuzzling their beaks together, bodies curved towards one another as a blossoming flower rises above them, water spraying outward in celebration. She tilts her head, the romantic in her sighing at the way the two swans perfectly mirror one another, two halves of a whole, two souls in perfect harmony. So enchanted is she by the fountain that she doesn’t hear the footfall on the path, doesn’t notice the man who has stopped several meters away from where she is standing, the sight of her freezing him in his tracks.
“Emma.”
She jumps at the deep voice, her eyes wide and dark as she turns towards the sound. The owner of said voice is standing, half in shadow, at the place where the small path to the fountain begins, beneath a shadowy arch of crimson roses. She is so startled, she doesn’t even register that he has said her name.
“Oh….s'il te plaît, excuse-moi,” she says quickly, doing her best to remember the phrases of the common language spoken in Rhodolite. “J'espère que ça va…” She trails off, trying to remember how to say she hopes she is allowed to be here but the man takes another step closer, leaving the blanket of shadows and stepping into the fading light.
Even the dusky hue of evening cannot hide the red of his hair.
A gasp as soft as the flutter of a bird’s wing escapes her. The young boy she knew juxtaposed against this tall, broad man before her sends her heart into a tailspin. Her hand flies to her mouth as she takes him in. She sees the same bright light of recognition and admiration and overwhelming emotion plain as day on his beautiful face.
“Cyran?” The word is a whisper, a breathless repetition of the name she has kept in her prayers for decades.
His eyes never leave her, almost as if he has the power to hold her there with his gaze, to keep her from vanishing into the realm of his dreams where she has lived for so long. Slowly, he reaches up and loosens the laces at the top of his tunic. His hand slides inside and when it emerges, he is holding a small square of cloth. As he slowly opens it, her heart falters.
It’s white, with pale blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the edges.
He holds it out to her, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes. That handkerchief has lived next to his heart, in an inner pocket, one he has sewn into every shirt he has ever owned since the day he watched her leave.
“I think…..this belongs to you, Brown Eyes.”
She chokes back a sob, unable to contain the thunderstorm of emotion coursing through her and runs to him, falling into his arms as naturally as a willow bends to the wind, tears falling freely down her cheeks. Cyran wraps his arms around her, sheltering her, holding her the way he has imagined a thousand times. His throat burns with all the words he has ached to say, all those sleepless nights spent remembering the lilt of her smile, the music of her laughter, the bittersweet taste of her kiss.
Emma squeezes her eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him, at once so familiar and yet so strange. Her arms wind around his waist as she presses herself against him, drinking in the sensation of his body on hers.
This is Cyran….her Cyran…..her….
A thought pierces her heart as she suddenly steps away from him, eyes wide, still so beautiful as they glimmer with the remnants of her tears.
“Oh…I…I didn’t mean…..you could be married. I shouldn’t have-”
His laughter is coarse, rough with emotion, a roll of rushing water as it careens over the lip of a cliff.
“As if I could ever love anyone else.”
Love…..
As if summoned by the very word, the moon itself parts the soft gray clouds, flooding the small section of the garden with silvery light. The tinkling of the fountain fills the momentary silence.
Cyran’s cheeks suddenly flush, a hot mixture of embarrassment and panic overriding the elation of the previous moment.
“I…..I don’t mean to presume of course that you feel the same. It has been a long time and…..” He trails off, wincing. Fluster is such an uncharacteristic state of being for Cyran. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I–”
His words are cut off as Emma launches herself back into his arms, hugging him fiercely.
“Please, don’t apologize.” She tilts her head up to look at him, still in awe of how she sees the young man he was and the handsome man he has become in his beautiful eyes, in his exquisite face. “It has always been you.”
Cyran drags air into his lungs, hardly able to believe he isn’t dreaming. His rough fingers capture her chin, his thumb running over the sensitive skin just under her lower lip.
Slowly, he leans down as she stretches upwards, eager and nearly trembling with emotion.
He kisses her, his hand still cupping her face. Gently his mouth moves over hers as he tells her a wordless story of longing, of a bruised heart that learned to somehow keep beating.
He kisses her, a strong arm pulling her closer, his lips and tongue weaving the tale of a young soldier who never forgot the girl with the tender heart and radiant spirit. The soldier who dreamed of her face during his darkest nights and longed for her laughter on days of sunshine.
She meets him, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke, sliding her palms along his broad shoulders, clutching him as she answers his tale, confessing without words how he has never left her heart. How his smile was her light in times of worry and despair. How seeing him again has been her northern star from the moment of parting.
Only the moon knows how long they stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s yearning.
When they finally part, Cyran rests his forehead against hers, still keeping her tightly in his embrace. He may never let go again.
“You’re….in the employ of Prince Gilbert. I am here.” He frowns ever so slightly as he brushes several loose strands of hair away from Emma’s charmingly flushed cheek. “This could get complicated.”
Their gazes meet and she nods.
“Yes…..but we’ll figure it out.”
And suddenly he is carried back in time to an evening when her eyes shone just as brightly, just as excitedly, a young girl with something to give a young boy, a homemade cookie, an offering of love.
“Together.”
Her voice echoes across the years, that word wrapping itself around his battered heart, a balm, a blessing.
He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes, tenderly stroking the silk of her hair, and answers her now as he did back then.
“Together.”
Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @wordycheeseblob
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri cyran#cyran rose#ikemen cyran#ikepri cyril#cyril rose#ikemen cyril#my ikemen valentine gift exchange#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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Hello Vi! I have a request for you, only if it inspires
Tutor AU! With one or more of your fave suitors tutoring you for your upcoming exams;
Leonardo, Comte, Gilbert, Leon, Silvio and Clavis!
I'd love to see what you come up with ❤️❤️❤️
A/N: I had a very immediate idea for Comte so I went with him for this request!
Comte x Reader, Tutor AU/ Modern AU
WC: ~1.9k
The library looms large as you hurry up the wide, slate-colored steps under a sky exhaling its last breath of evening color. The stars are slowly blinking into existence, determined to shine before they are hidden behind the slow-moving blanket of clouds heading their way. You would pause to enjoy the ephemeral moment when dusk ebbs into night.....
Except Comte is inside, waiting for you.
You’re still not sure how it’s come to this. Comte as your tutor. Your mind travels back several weeks….
Several weeks ago:
One minute you're balancing an armful of books along with your backpack and several bags of uneven groceries that are seriously testing your stubborn decision to do it all in ONE trip. The next, however, everything is falling onto the polished grey tile floor of your building’s lobby, the objects seeming to leap like lemmings out of your arms. As you stand there, staring defeatedly at the scattered mess, lost in the gravity of your poor decision, the elevator doors you were originally trying to reach slide open and like the pearly gates unveiling an angel, Comte de St Germain steps out, in the process of buttoning his elegant camel-colored coat with one hand.
Before you can say a word, he takes in your forlorn expression, the embarrassing pile of your things at your feet, and he is by your side, kneeling, helping you gather up your stray apples and the mini-boxes of cereal you are probably way too old for but love anyway. Your cheeks flush as you stammer a thank you.
You know him more by reputation than actual acquaintance. He lives in the sprawling penthouse at the apex of your building, the crowning glory of the gothic structure, and is usually spoken about in whispers and sighs by the other residents:
“Comte? He’s a museum director downtown.”
“I hear he is a world-famous antique dealer who has made millions.”
“He’s gotta be a tech-millionaire with all that dough.”
“Well I know someone who knows someone who swears he’s a member of the royal family of some tiny European country.”
“I don’t care what he does. He’s got to be loaded to live up there.”
“I hear he’s never been married.”
“My cousin’s best friend’s neighbor's babysitter says he’s divorced from someone super famous.”
“You know what he is? I'll tell ya. Drop dead gorgeous.”
This mysterious man with eyes the color of desert sands is on the ground in his expensive suit and coat, helping you gather your plebeian things and oh, do you want to melt into the floor and disappear.
Until……
He stops, holding one of the books you had been juggling, a surprised expression crossing his classically beautiful face.
“‘The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire’ by Edward Gibbon. Fourth edition.” He seems impressed, curiosity flaring to life in the mesmerizing gold of his eyes.
And you take that lifeline, words stumbling over themselves across the knot of your tied tongue as you explain you are a graduate student, majoring in history, mentally preparing yourself for the avalanche of final exams heading your way.
And how he smiles, his long fingers tracing the embossed lettering along the spine of your book, borrowed from the local library. Entranced by the movement, you can't look away from his hand, reverence hushing his voice as he explains how he works for a museum (Points to the woman in Apartment 15B for getting that one), how he also studied history.
And then one thing leads to another and your rambling about the stress of your exams and crunch for time has evolved into Comte St. Germain, the mysterious Bruce Wayne of your building, offering to tutor you.
The Present:
And now here you stand, the night of your final session, heart prowling, turning circles in your chest like an unruly feline.
Taking a steadying breath, you continue up the steps and head inside, enjoying the sound of your heeled boots across the polished wooden floor. Past towering shelves filled with books you go until you reach the narrow iron staircase in the back, the one that spirals upwards to the second floor. Your feet follow the path they have gotten used to over the last few weeks, through the racks, down a narrow gangway until you reach the small cluster of tables at the western corner of the library, the ones underneath the imposing arched window that allows you a clear view of the darkening sky and the pale orange glow of the streetlamp across the street.
Comte looks up from the book he has been reading and offers you a smile, at once familiar and exotic.
“Ah, there you are, chérie. Ready for our final session?”
Something inside you constricts at the thought that this is the last time you will be here with him like this, tucked away in the surprising intimacy of a large public library, listening to his honeyed voice as you discuss not only history, but also the mundane: what music he listens to when he goes on long drives, his favorite type of wine, the best tea for a rainy Sunday morning. And it isn't just his speaking….Comte listens. He really listens when you talk, when you ask questions, when you give an opinion. He rests his chin on his hand, head tilted ever so slightly, his entire attention focused on you, whether you are explaining the fine points of one of the many Treaties of Paris or doing your best to convince him that dipping your French fries in your milkshake really does make them taste better.
With the glow of remembrance in your smile, you slide into the seat next to him, running your fingers along the soft grain of the elegant wooden chair as you settle in.
“Ready as I'll ever be,” you say, returning his smile while looking at the array of books he has spread out across the table. “Let’s do this.”
“Oui,” he says as his smile curves into a grin. “Tonight we’re focusing on art for your art history final. You already sent me the list of pieces your professor wants you to know for your exam so we can work our way through those.”
You breathe in, trying not to get distracted by the warm, earthy scent of his cologne.
“Professor Leonardo is great but it’s such a long list….” Your shoulders slump at the thought of tackling everything on it. And then you feel Comte’s hand there, on your forearm, warm even through the soft material of your blouse.
“Then let us begin.”
He spends hours, guiding you through Girl with the Pearl Earring, The Birth of Venus, Las Meninas, and Water Lillies. You wander through the great masters like an enamored visitor in an enchanted garden, listening as Comte helps you to remember what you have learned about the paintings as well as unlocking secrets you have never heard before. He leads you through the design of the Colosseum, the Parthenon, Hagia Sofia, Notre Dame, his voice a golden thread that spins you across the architectural wonders. And now, in your final hour of study, he opens the book of sculptures. You visit Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David, the Venus de Milo. And finally, you come to the last sculpture on your list: Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss by Antonio Canova.
“Ah…” He pulls the book closer, the photograph of the sculpture filling the page. “This….is a masterpiece of….” He glances over at you, brow lifted as he waits for the answer.
“Neoclassicism…but with strong elements of the Romantic, given the subject matter.”
“Bien joué.” The praise falls from his lips softly, slides over you like melting wax, sends a jolt of heat across your skin. He doesn’t seem to notice as he flattens down the pages with both hands, his bright eyes roaming over the image.
“So you know the story of Cupid and Psyche?”
You try to remember what Professor Leonardo explained in class when he had introduced the sculpture. “She opened a forbidden jar and was put to sleep as punishment?”
Comte nods. “Venus forbid Psyche from opening the jar. It supposedly held Divine Beauty. Psyche could not resist temptation and instead of beauty, she was overcome by the Sleep of Innermost Darkness.” He grins slowly. “Very dramatic. Cupid sees his lover unconscious and pricks her with an arrow, awakening her. This sculpture captures that moment.”
Outside the library window, the streetlamp glows a soft orange. A light rain is now falling, making the light seem as if it is dancing, shimmering against the night.
“Just look at the lines,” he murmurs. He takes his index finger and slowly begins tracing the line of Psyche’s body. It follows the curve of her torso as she stretches up towards Cupid. “Her arms reach back for him.”
You lean in, closer to Comte, watching the path his finger makes along the glossy page. Your heart is suddenly hammering a woodpecker’s song against your breastbone.
“Her hands are in her lover’s hair, the gesture so familiar, so loving.” He traces down the line of Psyche's neck. “And here….she is bent back to him, so exposed and vulnerable, tilting to look up into his face. What do you see there?”
His voice winds itself around you, wrapping you in golden vines of warmth and want. You need a moment to find your own. When you do, it is only capable of expressing itself in a breathless whisper.
“Tenderness. Joy.”
He nods slowly, trailing his finger down Cupid’s strong arm. “And what do you see in him?”
Your thoughts are bright butterflies, sparks that fly up into the haze of your mind and explode in little pinpricks of light. Blinking, trying to control the overwhelming wave of attraction that threatens to pull you under, you reach out and touch the same page, your fingers scant centimeters from his.
“He’s…..adoring. The way he holds her head, his fingers touching her face. And he’s smiling at her, affectionately. Openly.” Your gaze drops down to where Comte’s finger points to Cupid’s left arm. You clear your throat and continue. “He covers her breasts with his arm, shielding her from the viewer, and yet that one hand holds her in a way that’s….it’s so intimate. It feels somehow more intimate than if we would see her bare.” Your voice is a whisper, soft and woven through with delicate wisps of yearning. “He touches her as if he’s done it a hundred times and still revels in it…..” You trail off, pressing your lips together, unable to go on.
Comte’s fingers brush against yours and you turn your head, startled to find that your faces are so very close. Outside the rain gently rolls down the massive glass window. The streetlamp flickers. Comte’s gaze is a steady golden sun.
“He adores her,” he murmurs, his voice rolling through you. You feel his fingers move, covering yours on the page.
“She marvels at him,” you answer quietly, your fingers curling around his in response.
He leans down ever so slightly, his mouth so close you can feel the warmth of his words on your lips. “He dreams of her……”
“.....and he is what makes her waking sublime…” The words are hardly more than the breaths between heartbeats.
His mouth brushes faintly against yours, the softest touch, a silken feather, a velvet caress.
“....He wants nothing more…..” His hand tightens around yours, his chest rising and falling with the contained power of his emotion. “...than to kiss her….”
“He should,” you say, soft as a nightingale welcoming a summer evening. "He should kiss her."
And he does, pressing his lips against yours as the wave that has been looming ever closer pours down upon you both. One hand rises, gripping the nape of your neck with tender ardor. You plunge your free hand into the soft wilderness of his tawny hair, opening your mouth to taste him.
Your other hand? It is still tightly holding onto his, a promise you won’t let go.
An echo of Cupid and his beloved Psyche.
Pysche Revived by Cupid's Kiss- Antonio Canova, 1793
Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @fang-and-feather @bubblexly @kiki-tties
#ikemen series#ikevamp#ikemen vampire#ikevamp comte#comte de saint germain#ikemen comte#comte x reader#tutor au#modern au#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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Hello hello!!
May I request Cyran // courage // Gangster AU? ^^
A/N: My entry for the Wish Upon an Aide CC hosted by the wonderful @lorei-writes and @wordycheeseblob
Cyran x Reader, Gangster AU; Prompt: Courage
I went a less obvious route with the prompt. It's not exactly nsft but it is suggestive. A kind of follow up to this Cyran Gangster fic.
WC: ~1k
In order for there to be courage, there must be fear. Darkness needs light to exist, light cannot shine without darkness. They are intertwined, interconnected, essential to one another like the moon and the tide, like oxygen and life.
In the shadows of your bedroom, the glow from the neon sign across the street slides its way through the blinds, bathes your skin in red.
Red means danger.
It means warning.
It means stop.
But Cyran couldn't stop now, not for all the money in the world. His hands travel down the smooth plane of your waist, slide across the round curves of your hips. It is a road he has only traveled once before but one he has never, ever forgotten. He feels the pressure of your arms around his neck, the way your fingers curl into the ends of his hair. More red.
His mouth follows the pulse in the side of your neck. He presses his tongue flat against it, then sucks hard. The sound you make should be illegal. It fogs his mind with desire, smothers the rational thought that thrives in the cold light of day.
Being the doctor they call, you are already in too deep with The Organization. No good can come of dragging you selfishly deeper, through the unpredictable danger of his job, under the waves of fear and anxiety that every assignment floods him with. He is certain that being with him will bring you nothing but heartache.
And yet……how can he stop an avalanche’s momentum? How can he push back the tide? How can he stop drinking in the taste of your lips? Stop drowning in your breathless whisper of his name?
He is a criminal, one who walks the opaque fog between right and wrong....but with you, everything becomes crystal-clear.
And he is not strong enough to deny what his body and soul so loudly cry for.
Cyran’s hands have divested you of all clothing. Only the golden rose necklace they gave you lays against your skin. He sweeps it aside, pressing a line of desperate kisses across your collarbone, first one, then the other.
He walks you backwards towards your bed, his clothing falling like flower petals along the way until he is as bare as you. When the back of your knees bumps into the mattress, you pause to drink in the sight of him, disheveled and alight with desire, his broad chest rising and falling with each labored breath.
God, is he beautiful. All sculpted muscle. Powerful lines. You unconsciously bite down on your lower lip as your fingertips trace the Rhodolitian rose tattooed on his shoulder. Unlike some of the other gang members, his rose is not blood red, but has been rendered in shades of gray. You follow the line of the petals, then glide down over the curved stem lined with sharp thorns. In reality, they would have torn your fingers to shreds. But right now, all you feel is warm skin. All you feel is him.
He can’t take the sight of your lip between your teeth. He wants it for himself. Surging forward, he kisses you and you fall back onto the bed, your body catching fire, your heart aflame.
The neon sign has blinked out, replaced by the pale yellow of early morning sunlight. Cyran is sound asleep, his red hair a bright spot among your white pillows. Propped up on one elbow, you watch him as he sleeps. You haven’t been able to tear your gaze away since you woke up, your body heavy with satisfaction, sore with the remnants of last night’s storm.
His face is softer now, carrying none of the hard, concentrated lines of responsibility, duty. He is at ease, for once, lost in the clouds of dreaming. He looks younger somehow. Almost innocent. You allow yourself the luxury of staring, of gazing at the line of his jaw, covered in stubble, the slope of his neck down to his broad shoulders. You notice the small crescent-moon marks there, the ones from your fingers as they clutched him, held him tightly against your body. A smile ghosts across your lips.
You follow the relaxed surface of his bare chest down to where your bed sheets are draped modestly over his hips. One long leg, bent at the knee, sticks out from the covers and you're struck by an overwhelming wave of emotion, something warm and bright that sends your heart into a gentle swoon.
Wanting him. Dare you even think….loving him…..is dangerous. You know it. There are a hundred reasons why falling for him is nothing but jagged peril, a treacherous road you should not walk.
But the way he rasped your name is still ringing in your ears.
Your fingers remember the grip of his own when they intertwine with yours.
You know the way his body feels against you. It is now written across your heart like a swathe of stars in the night sky, burned into your skin like a brand.
He sighs in his sleep, shifting to roll onto his side, and a lock of red hair falls across his forehead. You reach out instinctively to brush it away and something inside you is kindled, like a forge slowly coming to life.
Yes, it is risky to give yourself over to what you are feeling, to fight for a place in his heart and life.
But you are brave.
Your hand gently cups the side of his face and your heart sinks into the flame of the forge, becoming something strong, a sword to face the danger, a light to wield in the dark. Courage and determination flow through your veins as mightily as desire had just a few short hours ago.
Cyran is worth loving. He is worth every twist and turn if only for the feel of him under your palm, the light in his eyes as they flutter open and see you, his slow, sleepy, unburdened smile.
“Good morning,” you murmur, leaning down even as he reaches for you, a kiss already waiting on his lips.
This is worth all your courage. This will be your light.
Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @portrait-ninja @starlitmanor-network @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#cyran rose#ikepri cyran#ikemen prince cyran#gangster au#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfiction#wishuponanaidecc#violettwrites
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"doubt thou the stars are fire // doubt that the sun doth move // doubt truth to be a liar // but never doubt that i love (you)" x gilbert (or whoever you feel fits this best)
-revassierum
A/N: Gilbert won the poll so the first fic belongs to him.
This is the fic that comes before this one but I think that you can read this on its own.
Gilbert x Reader
WC: 2.3k
Full quote:
"Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt I love you. I love thee, I love but thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old. -William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act II, Scene II
His knuckles, hidden under his black leather gloves, are white as he grasps the cold gray parapet. His eye, red as a hellish comet streaking across a midnight sky, surveys the shapes he can make out below, the ones revealed by the twin luminance of moonlight and torches: the shadowy lines of the encampment tents in front of the castle; light winking weakly off the metal of soldiers’ helmets as they move around. Beyond them the ribbon of pale gray road that disappears into the imposing darkness of the treeline, so dark it drinks in all the light without leaving a single drop.
The road holds his gaze, has every ounce of his attention so thoroughly that he doesn’t react to the man who joins him, the one who is silent as he stares at Gilbert, his expression as stoic as the stone Gilbert’s gloves are so tightly clenching.
After a moment, he speaks.
“Yes, Doctor?”
Walter reaches up, adjusting his glasses.
“The night is chilled. You should be abed, resting for what is to come.”
Few people in the world can speak to Gilbert in such a way, telling him what he should be doing. But Walter is one of them. The man who carries the weight of Obsidian on his broad shoulders doesn’t answer his physician but the tightness of his jawline is enough of a sign that he has heard.
Walter finally turns his head, his pale gaze following Gilbert’s line of sight until he too is looking at the place where the road vanishes into black forest. He remembers a whispered conversation with Roderich, hushed and hurried, quick as a sparrow nervously jumping from branch to branch lest it be snapped up by the jaws of some far-quicker predator.
“If I may speak freely….”
Gilbert waves a hand. “As if that would be something new.” Though there is a faint glimmer of humor in his voice, his gaze is as intensely focused as ever and he does not glance at the doctor.
“You sent her away. Quite….forcefully, if I recall the story.”
That gets his attention. He turns away, a movement as quick and sleek as silvery clouds sliding across the face of the moon.
Walter knows him well enough to read his face. He sees the miniscule flash of surprise in the depths of his crimson eye, the slight drawing of his shoulders. Anyone else would think Gilbert had no reaction. The doctor knows that this particular subject has just set off a cascade of emotion within the Obsidian leader.
“I won’t ask how you know this or else I would be forced to deprive Obsidian of its best healer.” Annoyance lines his words as he turns back to the parapet, as if he cannot help himself, as if staring at the line between the encampment and the forest is necessary. Agitation dances across the tight line of his shoulders, the straight rod of his back.
Walter clears his throat, stifling the urge to place a hand on Gilbert’s arm.
“Rhodolite may be the enemy. But it is where she is safest.”
His statement is met with silence, as cool as the night breeze winding its way across the battlement, Gilbert’s black cloak dancing in its wake.
“I’ve taken my tonic. I believe your presence is no longer required tonight, Doctor.”
The dismissal doesn’t bother Walter. He knows Gilbert has heard him. His dark head bows in deference.
“Gute Nacht,” he murmurs, casting one last look at the man whose life he is charged with keeping safe. He may be responsible for Gilbert's body but there is no doubt that his heart is within someone else’s hands.
Gilbert waits until the doctor’s footsteps fade into the other sounds of nighttime, the ebbing murmur of his soldiers as they retire for the evening, the faint clanking of armor as guards patrol the grounds, the lone, mournful hoot of an owl. Only when he is certain he is alone does he allow his head to drop, eye closing for a brief moment.
There is little that escapes Gilbert von Obsidian. He is three steps ahead of everyone, always, the human mind a complicated puzzle he is adept at solving. And yet, when he sent you away from his tent, you with your starlight tears and petal-soft mouth, when he watched you flee, eyes as wild as a fearful rabbit, when he told you to return home to your roses and your pale-haired king…..he was not entirely certain you would listen.
The doctor is right. It was the more rational choice. But it was not the one that his heart wanted, the one it is still screaming for. You belong with him. You should be his.
He has tasted you, knows the sound of his name when it escapes your lips on a wavering sigh of want. His teeth have sunk into the soft skin of your shoulder, his tongue has traced the line of your neck. He has felt the waves of desire as they ripple through your veins, all because of him. All for him. It is all he has wanted for so very long, all that has consumed him….
And yet he had smiled, sharp as the edge of his sword, and told you to run. Sent you away even as your scent of lavender and roses lingered in his tent, settled across his black mantle like a ghost unable to find peace.
What is he even looking for, out here in the night, as the tents darken one by one like candles blown out by the wind. You are halfway back to your kingdom of roses. You chose home and you chose Chevalier.
So why can’t he tear his gaze away from the darkening road?
It becomes a phantom as the torchlight dims and the moon excuses herself, stepping behind a barricade of clouds. And still he lingers, even as the night air turns cold and unwelcoming, and he feels his muscles contracting in response, struggling to support the cry of his heart to stay….just in case.
Teeth clenched like a beast on the edge of growling, he is about to turn and head inside when he sees it. A shadowy shape bursting out of the black treeline, a spectral horse and rider charging down the ribbon of road.
And he knows.
The castle walls blur as he flies down the spiral stone steps, down down down and then out, past the startled guards. He is a tiger honed in on its prey, eyes flashing with resolve and hunger.
You’re already off your horse, speaking in that voice to a soldier with his sword raised in your direction. You are, after all, a stranger who has just flown into their camp like a banshee.
When he arrives at the scene, the soldier immediately lowers his sword and drops to one knee. Gilbert does not hear any of his stammered words. Instead he reaches out, his gloved fingers closing around your wrist as he pulls you towards the nearest tent.
“Raus,” he orders the soldier who was just getting ready to bed down for the night. The word is iron, undeniable and final. The man gathers his things quicker than he ever has before in his life and exits, the tent flap falling closed behind him with a soft whooshing sound.
It is a simple foot soldier’s dwelling with an oil lantern still burning next to the untouched bedroll. The wan light throws your shadows across the thick canvas walls, moving like images inside a zoetrope.
Gilbert is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling as he struggles to catch his breath, but there is nothing unsteady about the way his eye, the color of wine in moonlight, is fixed on you. With trembling hands you push back the hood of your cloak, white with small red roses embroidered along the hem like drops of blood. Your cheeks are flushed with the urgency and speed of your ride. Your skirts and boots are splattered with mud.
“I know….you warned me to go and I started to.” Your voice is airy but uncontrolled, a tornado forcing its way past your throat. “I got just past the border and stopped at a tavern to rest the horse. Rhodolite soldiers were there, several tankards in, and they were bragging…they’re coming, Gilbert. At first dawn they’ll be here.”
You step forward, your hands reaching to gather the soft folds of his black cloak, fingers curling into it as it could steady you, a bulwark against the storm of information you need to tell him.
“They have weapons. They intercepted an Obsidian transport and they have guns.” He hasn’t said a word yet, hasn’t had a chance in the face of all the words you’re hurling at him but now you pause, searching his face. “Gilbert, did you hear me? They have-”
He finally moves, twisting his leather glove off his hand and tossing it aside fecklessly. The next thing you feel is the cool touch of his palm against your cheek, his fingers curling to cup your face.
“You’re here.”
The words are husky, maybe because he is still catching his breath. Maybe because he can’t believe it. Or maybe because he can and he’s basking in the confirmation of his prediction.
“I…..” You need him to understand the urgency of what you are telling him and yet his hand feels so good. The last time he touched you that hand was at your throat. Now it is cradling your face with a gentleness just as dangerous.
Your words drop to a whisper. “Gilbert…..they’re coming and they–” And then, as he raises his other hand to his lips, biting into the tip of his glove and removing it with his teeth, the truth hits you like an avalanche careening down a mountain. The encampment here. Gilbert occupying a castle so close to the border and not heading home.
“You already knew.”
And now he’s holding your face in both hands, the coolness of his skin paradoxically sending waves of something unbearably hot through your limbs.
“But you didn’t. And you came back, risking everything to tell me.”
The world begins and ends in the red of his eye, the fall of dark hair across his pale forehead. Something inside you breaks, shatters like stained glass struck by stone. You reach up, curling your hands around his wrists.
“I….I couldn’t live with the thought that something could happen to you….I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to stop it, even if it meant-”
The rest is stopped by the savage press of his mouth against yours. He will not even allow you to finish that sentence. The grip of his hands tightens as he hungrily swallows any other words you wanted to say, as he drinks deeply from the gasps of your lungs and the moans of your throat. Over and over he devours you while still holding you between his hands, your own having gone slack at the very first kiss.
He kisses you until your lips ache from the crush of his mouth, the sting of his teeth. Your tongue is full of him, the rich, cool taste of him. It is the sweetest nectar, ambrosia as heady as the starlit sky. It leaves you spinning with satisfaction, dizzy with content. And yet, it leaves you parched, always seeking more and more and more of him as the hot winds of desire blow through your veins.
Gilbert is the one to break away, to gasp a lungful of air, feeling the absence of your lips as keenly as any ache. His eye burns like a singular star, swallowing up the darkness.
“Retreat to the castle.” His hands roam your body as he speaks the order, as if he can’t help but touch you even as he demands you to leave him. “The cellar is safeguarded. My men will go with you-”
You shake your head vehemently, capturing his hands in yours, holding them hostage in your own tight grip.
"I have turned against my country for you. I was ready to face whatever hell awaited me here if it meant keeping you safe.” Your voice is low, trembling as it skirts the bedrock of emotion in your chest. “I'm damn well not leaving your side now."
He recognizes a mind as sharp as his own, a will as iron. As much as he has craved your gentle heart, your kind spirit, those soft, beautiful parts of you, he is equally as drawn to the steel in your nerves, the forge of determination in your bright eyes.
He could have you sent away, dragged by his soldiers down to the underbelly of the castle where you would be safe. But as he reaches up, cradling the nape of your neck with one hand, he realizes you are right. After all, who could protect you as well as him? Who but him would trample the world for you? Would set the night ablaze before allowing anyone or anything to harm you?
One arm winds its way around your waist and pulls you close. He leans down, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear. His voice is hushed, but rough, gravelly with emotion.
"When all this is over, my brave Häschen, I will reward you.” He catches your earlobe between his white teeth, his heart fluttering at your gasp. “Over and over until your voice is hoarse with the sound of my name."
There is no time to catch the breath his words have robbed you off. The distant warning of cannon fire fills the night and the encampment is coming awake, following the carefully laid-out plan in preparation for what is coming.
“Come.” And with your fingers linked with his, you step out of the tent together, into the foreboding night.
Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @joiedecombat @ozalysss
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri gilbert#gilbert von obsidian#ikemen gilbert#ikemen fanfic#ikemen fanfiction#otome fanfiction#violettwrites
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Hello I hope not to bother for the Winter Flurries
The spin prompts wheel landed on sleep intimacy Can I have it with Keith? 🙏 One of thetwo is fine whoever you are most comfortable with 🤗
I am sending you guys and support for your job I never thought it was so hard 😳 You have my respect Remember to take breaks sometimes to and fuel yourself with your fav snack 😉😘
A/N: Here you are @queengiuliettafirstlady 💜
Keith x Reader
WC: ~680
The Jadean morning light slides eager fingers along the window panes of your bedroom but it is no match for the heavy forest green velvet of your drapery. Not even a sliver of light manages to sneak its way into the darkened haven of the room. If you knew it was so late in the morning, you would feel a deep flush of embarrassment that you were still abed. But the curtains keep you cocooned in darkness and the strong arm wrapped around your middle anchors you to a very warm, very naked body.
You snuggle even closer, burrowing deeper into Keith’s sleep-heavy embrace. His breathing shifts, air drawn in quickly for only a moment before he exhales, remaining in the sea of sleep, under the waves of dreaming.
There is nothing that makes you happier than this, a moment in time where you are both at complete and utter peace. Where there is no worry for the burdens of the day or the regrets of the past. There is only you and the man who is yours to love, your hearts beating in tranquil unison.
You’re almost asleep again when you feel him move, a languid, full-body motion like that of a panther slanting down to stretch its powerful muscles. Keith's long legs extend and he sighs, relishing the feel of the cool silk sheets not warmed by his body. A deep rumble rolls through his chest as he half-groans, half-yawns, pushing away the last lingering cobwebs of sleep.
“Mmm….breakfast,” he murmurs, his voice gravel bedecked in satin.
“What’re you–Oh!” He bites into the curve of your shoulder, a breathlessly unexpected action. His large hand is now splayed possessively against your stomach and you know exactly who has woken up.
Your heart slingshots against your breastbone as you turn within the tight circle of his arms. The room is still bathed in shadow, still holding the daybreak at bay. His eyes look like burnished gold in the dusk of the room.
You slide your hand up between your bodies, cradling his strong jaw in your palm where you can feel, more than see, his smile.
“I think we may have already missed breakfast.” You stroke the smooth skin of his cheek. He turns, with a smile both quick and wild, and bites the tip of your index finger, laughing when you gasp.
“Who says I can’t satisfy my hunger right here, right now?” He ducks his head and demonstrates exactly what he means as his tongue traces a heated path down your neck, following the rapidly increasing rhythm of your pulse.
Oh how easy it would be to stay in bed with him all day…..to allow this man to have his fill of you, to give yourself over to it completely.
Temptation winds itself around you, following the path of his covetous hands, his insatiable mouth.
So very easy……
The sun has given up trying to lure you out of bed, instead concentrating all of its efforts on illuminating the rolling green fields, the proud forests, the smooth gray stone of the castle.
It is already tiring, reading itself to embrace the promise of evening when Keith blinks, momentarily disoriented as he wakes up. How late is it? How long have you been asleep?
You’re curled up against him, one arm thrown across his strong chest, your head a warm, heavy weight on his shoulder. Your hair is tousled, your skin decorated with clusters of pink love bites. They remind him of cherry blossoms floating across still waters. Slowly, he moves his free arm and traces over several of them, his touch tender. He knows that he would never hurt you, that any mark left on your beautiful skin was welcomed.
His large hand moves to brush away several strands of hair that lay across your cheek and his heart feels warm and light, like it could rise up to the heavens and outshine any star pinned to the night sky.
You stir, sliding your leg over his and readjusting your cheek on his shoulder before sinking back down into the lulling ocean of dreams.
Forget time and it’s demanding minutes and hours. Today has been lost to the feel of you wrapped in his arms. The both of you rising in a shower of sparks and then falling together, swathed in peaceful darkness.
He sighs, deeply content and wholly in love, letting his golden eyes flutter closed once again.
Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @drewadoodle-dandy @keithsandwich
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri keith#keith howell#ikemen keith#keith x reader#ikemen fanfic#ikemen fanfiction#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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A/N: Because he didn't have one yet 💜
WC: ~600
He tastes like coffee and wonder, like fudge and fervor.
The minutes leading up to this moment, this embrace in the depth of night, began with you coming back through the mansion door just as the clock struck the midnight hour, one hand pushing back the rich hood of your cloak, revealing cheeks flushed from the cold and eyes bright as sunlight winking off a morning’s frost. Your smile was wide and warm and open as you stepped into the parlor, searching for him. Arthur took one look at you, threw down his hand of cards and with a light smile and breezy valediction, took your hand and took his leave, pulling you along with him, away from the knowing glances of the others.
Up the wide staircase you go, down the carpeted hallway with its arched windows letting in pale slants of moonlight. Your room is much too far away and his may as well be on the moon.
He needs you now.
And so he pulls you into a shadowy alcove, pulls you against his lean body. You’re laughing softly, breathless, murmuring something about still wearing your cloak and boots and-
“As if that matters, luv.”
And then his lips are on yours and you realize, no, no it doesn’t matter at all. Although eager, his kiss begins soft, one hand sliding up, across the plane of your cheek, thumb stroking smooth skin. His lips leave yours to roam the line of your jaw, to prowl the sensitive place below your ear. You tilt your head back and allow him access to the slope of your neck, expecting him to sink his sharp fangs in immediately, unable to resist the feeling of lawless pleasure.
He does not.
Instead, kiss after kiss decorates your skin, as if you are a blank page and he is the writer, jotting formless words of desire and devotion, of tenderness and aching affection along your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder.
No one before you has ever mattered. You are the beginning of his greatest story.
His name is a sigh whispered into the shadows, your fingers catching his chin and lifting his head back up so you can kiss his mouth, the romance of the moment draped around you like silken cords. His hands slide under your cloak, untuck your blouse from your skirt and slide underneath, palms pressing against the bare skin of your back. Up they slide, along your spine, then back down the lines of your torso. You are softer than vellum, his fingertips curling and tracing a filigree along your waist. They feel feather-light, like ink trails across your skin.
“I need you,” he breathes against your lips, sincere and honest, his heart a fragile thing you hold in your hands. And you smile, clutching the nape of his neck. “I need you too.”
He lifts you into his arms, kissing you once more, this time harder, a kiss edged with the promise of what is to come. You curl against him, soft and boneless as his long legs carry you down the hall, towards your room. You close your eyes, nuzzling into his neck, dropping kisses like tiny sparks against his skin.
His heart thunders in his chest at your touch and he knows, with every fiber of his being, that you love him, as he is. You, who pulled his gaze away from the regrets of his past and helped him close the chapters on the trauma that had haunted him for far too long. Your love cradles him and keeps him safe, a cover to his fragile pages and a promise for all that is still unwritten.
Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @fang-and-feather @bubblexly @ozalysss @kiki-tties
#ikemen series#ikemen vampire#ikevamp#ikevamp arthur#ikemen arthur#arthur conan doyle#kiss fic#arthur x reader#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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aaa Violet, massive congratulations on 1k followers, you deserve it so much!! your writing always inspires me to improve, especially as a future english teacher! 🫶🏻 i’d love to request prompt 12 with Keith from IkePri, preferably both Keiths if that’s possible 💚🦌
A/N: I am almost at another milestone so I should continue with some of these too!
I hope you like it @mrlovesimps 💜 I tried something a bit different: the same scene, but how it would play out with each Keith
First Kiss Prompt #12: Gentle, then deeper
WC: 1.5k
“Gentle Keith”
You are the one who crosses the line of uncertainty first. It’s impossible to not touch him, sitting so close the way you are, the soft, cool grass of the lake embankment beneath you, moonlight trailing its silvery fingers over the dark, still water. Above you, the trees reach for the starlit sky, their leaves whispering to each other in the soft breeze, almost as if they are watching the two of you, sighing at the blatant yearning that ties your heartstrings together.
He is shy, his gaze focused on the shimmering water, so very intently not looking at you, not willing to take the chance that his expression may give away the volcanic desire that threatens to erupt when he catches your scent, lavender and roses, when he sees your beautiful lips curve upwards in a smile meant only for him. It brings a wash of heat to his cheeks if he holds your gaze for too long, when he allows his thoughts to wander….what would it feel like to run his palms over the soft skin of your waist, to wind his fingers around a lock of your hair, to press his cheek against the swell of–
And then he catches himself and bites his lip, his head shaking ever so slightly.
This is what moves you, the sight of his lip between his teeth, the stiffness of his shoulders, the slope of them as they angle away from you. You’re tired of fighting this and now, in a setting that practically screams romance, you want to let him know that the longing in his golden eyes is reciprocated.
You reach out, gently but firmly cupping his chin and turn him towards you. Your hand stays there, thumb stroking the line of cheekbone as he looks almost startled, his brow furrowing in something like disbelief with a shade of confusion.
He starts to say your name and you lean in, stopping any other words that are queued for release by pressing your lips against his. Oh, kissing him is so much more than the way you imagined it would be. His mouth feels like it was made to fit against yours, his lips firm and cool and perfect. For a moment, just a few seconds, as the evening breeze serenades you both with the rustle of leaves and gentle lapping of the lake, neither of you moves. You simply revel in this feeling, this new way of connecting, of touching, of giving the feelings that have been growing in your hearts a chance to slowly open their petals and blossom.
And then he shifts, his large hand coming up to cup the back of your head as he breaks contact only to immediately kiss you again. Emotion flutters through you as he does this over and over. Short, gentle, achingly sweet kisses that feel better than a fire’s warmth on a cool night, better than rose liquor, better than melted chocolate. Your hands land on his broad shoulders, steadying yourself as you sigh his name, your voice wavering with eagerness, with satisfaction.
His breathing is becoming ragged. He wants….so much. It overwhelms him, how much he wants you, wants this moment to be the first of a thousand similar moments that stretch out into eternity. He pulls away, just a little, his chin dropping, eyes closed against the hurricane circling its way around his restraint. Your fingers press into him and you whisper his name again. That one syllable, that word in your voice, crossing the lips he has just been tasting, bright with unmistakable desire.
You can almost hear the thundering of his heart, the waterfall rush of emotion churning through him. You murmur his name again, afraid he may be closing himself off from this, from you. But then slowly, his eyes open and he raises his head. It’s still him. He is still with you.
His body shifts as he straightens his long torso to look down at you, golden eyes now alight with desire. And he is no longer afraid of the blaze.
“Keith,” you murmur, reaching out to run the back of your fingers down his cheek. He doesn’t respond with words but with action, his smile warm as he reaches for you and you yield, bending into the strength of his arms, the press of his body as he kisses you.
He begins as gently as before, his lips against yours even as he moves with you, laying you back onto the cool grass, stretching himself over you, like shelter. And then his lips part and you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer, your whole world shrunk down to this man, the taste of him, the feel of him. There is nothing but Keith and this perfect, luminous moment.
“Dark Keith”
He is the one who crosses the line of uncertainty first. It’s impossible to not touch you, sitting so close to you the way he is, the night-dark grass of the embankment beneath you, moonlight spilling across the dark, still water of the lake. Above you, the trees hold out their spindly branches toward a sky littered with cold, diamond-edged stars. They seem to shy away from the intense waves of want and hunger radiating from his powerful body.
He wants you, his gaze so very intently drinking you in, dragging across the exposed skin of your neck, the enticing drop of your neckline, not at all bothering to hide the volcanic desire that threatens to erupt every time he catches your scent, lavender and roses, when he sees your delicious lips curve upwards in a smile that he wants only for himself. It brings a wash of heat to your cheeks if he holds your gaze for too long, when what he wants is so plainly written across the devastatingly handsome planes of his face….he wants to hold you by gripping the soft curve of your hip, to trap a lock of hair around his fingers, to sink his teeth into the swell of your–
You catch your breath at the sight of his bright eyes burning into you and unconsciously, you bite your lip.
This is what moves him, the sight of your tempting lip between your white teeth, the drop of your shoulders, the slope of them as they angle towards him. He is tired of fighting this and now, in a setting that practically screams privacy, he wants to know for sure that his longing is reciprocated.
He reaches out, gently but firmly cupping your chin and turning you towards him. His hand stays there, thumb stroking over the softness of your cheek as you stare at him, lips parted, your rapid heartbeat causing your breathing to be shallow and airy.
You begin to say his name and he leans in, stopping any other words that are queued for release by pressing his lips against yours. Oh, kissing you is so much more than what he has been imagining. Your mouth feels like it was made just for him, your lips soft and sweet and perfect. For a moment, just a few seconds, as the evening breeze shakes the tree branches and the lake undulates in response, neither of you moves. You simply revel in this feeling, this new way of connecting, of touching, of giving the desire that has been warming your veins and consuming your dreams a chance to slowly burn its way through you..
And then he shifts, his large hand coming up to cup the back of your head as he breaks contact only to immediately kiss you again. Emotion courses through you as he does this over and over, hungry, greedy kisses that turn your blood to lava, that have your heartbeat boom like thunder as it rolls across a stormy sky, that have you dizzy with need. Your hands land on his broad shoulders, steadying yourself as you gasp his name, your voice breaking with eagerness, with want.
His breathing is becoming ragged. He wants….so much. It overwhelms him, how much he wants you, wants this moment to be the first spark preceding a roaring bonfire. He moves closer, his chin dropping as he buries his face into the curve of your neck, eyes closed as he revels in the powerful hurricane of his need for you. Your fingers press into him and you sigh his name again. That one syllable, that word in your voice, crossing the lips he has just been tasting, bright with unmistakable desire.
He can feel the roar of your heart under his tongue, the waterfall rush of emotion churning through you. Yet again you pant his name. And then slowly, his eyes open and he raises his head. He is going to devour you and you welcome it.
His body shifts as he straightens his long torso to look down at you, his hands already running down your sides possessively, impatiently.
You bend into the strength of his arms, the press of his body as he kisses you, laying you back onto the cool grass, stretching himself over you. And then his lips part and you groan, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer, your whole world shrunk down to this man, the taste of him, the feel of him. There is nothing but Keith and this perfect, unbridled moment.
Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @drewadoodle-dandy @keithsandwich
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri keith#keith howell#ikemen keith#1k first kiss celebration#keith x reader#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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A/N: This is an entry for my and @lorei-writes Shapes of Love creation challenge. It was originally a spicy holiday prompt that I retooled a bit.
This fic's type of love: Eros with a touch of Mania
Gilbert x Reader
WC: ~1k
It is your first ball in Obsidian, the first ball since you made the decision to leave Rhodolite behind and remain here, at Gilbert’s side. Your nerves are tangled, electric under your skin. You want to make a good impression on those you know he works closely with. Or those he has a close eye on. You’re no longer a foreign guest but have been declared his consort, a position of considerable power. You hope tonight, at the winter ball, you will be able to earn the respect of those who may still be skeptical of the union.....well, secretly skeptical since you know Gilbert would have the head of anyone who dared even breathe a word against you.
You take a deep drink from your glass of chilled wine, reminding yourself that this is a celebration. It is Obsidian's final embrace of winter in all its beauty in the face of an encroaching spring. And you have done your best to dress for the occasion. Turning, you face the full-length iron-wrought mirror that leans against the wall of your dressing room. Your gown is a confection of black lace overlaying soft, shimmering silver. Black gloves, so fine they are almost transparent, stop just beyond your elbows and the smooth skin of your shoulders is bare. Black roses hang from your ears and your hair is pinned up by the pearlescent hair combs shaped like crescent moons that Gilbert gifted you the evening you told him you were staying. A wide, black silk ribbon is tied around your neck, hiding the dark blossoms left by his insistent mouth this morning. If anyone could see underneath the voluminous skirt of your beautiful dress, they would notice matching love-bites in almost symmetrical rings around your thighs and hips.
You’re just smoothing down the bodice when the door to the room opens and Gilbert, a vision in black and gold, steps in, the crisp, chill scent of winter following him wherever he goes. And although many would think you insane, you find yourself smiling at his presence. “There you are.” You fuss a moment with one of your hair clips, adjusting it ever so slightly. “I hope you like the dress? I know the tailor made it according to your design and I think she did an excellent job. But I know you’re very particular….”
You glance at him through the mirror and your words wither and die, dropping like fallen petals. It takes you a moment to recover, your voice and breath robbed by what you see. He has not said a word. He has not moved a centimeter since entering. His leather-gloved hand is still wrapped around the golden handle of the closed door. But there is hunger clearly etched into every line of his tensed body. It flickers in the deep red of his eye, a flame born the moment he entered. Slowly, oh so slowly, he lets go of the door handle and crosses the brocade carpeting towards you.
……why is your heart fluttering so recklessly in your chest, a butterfly trapped under crystal glass, erratic and beautiful and wild….
He comes to a stop behind you, staring into the mirror at your reflection. His gloved hands slide up your bare arms, up until they rest on your shoulders. There is possession in his tight grip, something dancing the border of discomfort as he drinks in the sight of you, held in place by the press of his fingers.
“Oh Häschen….this won’t do.” One hand slides up higher still, his fingers curling around the sensitive nape of your neck. His head tilts to one side, regarding the reversed image of you both in the glass. “You can’t go out there, like this.” He lowers his head, catching the tip of your ear with his sharp, white teeth before whispering. “This sight is for me and me alone.” His voice drips with dominion, rasps with barely-reined in restraint. Your chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, pressing against the black lace of your gown's sweetheart neckline.
He watches you for a moment, drinking in the paradox of your body, so perfectly still in his grasp and yet beneath the surface, chaos. Your blood courses frantically through your veins, pumped by a heart gone wild, lungs gone turbulent. Leaning against your back, he reaches around, holding his hands in front of you and very slowly removes one soft black leather glove. You’re hypnotized by the revelation of each lithe finger.
“Maybe…..”, he murmurs, tossing the glove aside where it falls listlessly to the floor, “Yes…maybe like this….” And you feel the cool kiss of his fingers touch the ribbon at your neck. It comes undone, a snake unwinding. Gilbert wraps it around his wrist as he thoughtfully studies the marks he left upon your skin this morning, in the gray, predawn light of his bedroom. “Like this, you are marked as mine. Maybe it would not make a difference who lays eyes on you if this is the first thing they see.”
He truly sounds like a man puzzling out a problem. Your mouth goes dry at the thought of being so brazen in front of all of Obsidian’s nobility and important citizens. Heat blossoms in your body, rises to your cheeks as you realize the idea of showing the world how he claimed you…is not unpleasant.
He can see the way your skin flushes, the gleam in your eyes and his breath catches in his chest where something hard and hot is born. “No….”, he whispers savagely, his blazing eye holding your gaze as captive as his hands are your hips. “No one else gets this. You are not meant to be seen looking like this by anyone else.” He has solved his puzzle.
The world shifts as you are gathered into his arms, held by a strength fueled by desire, by infatuation, by greed. He carries you away from the door with its golden handle, deeper into the shadows of the dressing room, towards the black velvet chaise longue in the back corner where he lays you down, covers you with his long body, his mouth already hungrily claiming yours, swallowing any protests you may try to make about waiting guests and making appearances.
Soon you won't have enough breath to even attempt forming words. All that you will be able to do is give in to the furious storm of his desire, bending like a reed under his voracious touch, his endless onslaught of exquisite, stinging kisses.
The ball, the guests, your beautiful new gown soon to be pooled on the floor in a heap of black lace and silver….all willingly, wantonly, blissfully forgotten.
Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @joiedecombat @ozalysss
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri gilbert#gilbert von obsidian#ikemen gilbert#shapesoflovecc#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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A/N: It was going to be an Afterglow fic but it just got too long so it's just some Silvio fluff with a bit of spice
Silvio x Reader
WC: 1.2k
The rain is a never-ending sheet of falling gray outside your bedroom window. Your fingertips brush the cold glass lightly, as if afraid you might shatter it with the force of your desire to spot him. But no matter how long you stare, it doesn’t grow any clearer. You can make out nothing through the torrential downpour.
“Sudden rain like this is common during the summer season, Signora. His Highness knows how to handle a ship in such weather.”
You rip your gaze away from the gloom to look at Carlo. He offers you a tremulous smile, one you see is doing a poor job at masking the concern in his eyes.
“Silvio isn’t captaining the ship. What if the young captain runs into trouble or makes an error in judgment?” Worry seeps across your words, rising from the churning pool in your heart.
“Do you really believe his highness would allow anything to come between him and returning to you?”
He places a hand on your shoulder and despite the rolling waves of concern in your heart, you find yourself feeling somewhat comforted.
“Come, the hour is late. A warm cup of tea and sleep will bring him home faster.”
You allow Carlo to gently lead you away from the arched window and the insistent wall of rain just outside of it.
*
“Fuckin’ rain,” he mutters as he slowly pushes open the white wooden doors of the royal bedroom. A damp towel hangs around his bare shoulders, thanks to Carlo who had come rushing to meet him and the others at the docks with warm tea, towels and umbrellas to get them safely back to the palace in the heavy rain. The moment he got through the door Silvio had removed his drenched boots and socks as well as his sopping wet tunic and jacket before towel-drying his hair as he took the stairs two at a time to get to you.
He knows the ship was scheduled to return hours ago and he knows you, being the worrywart you are, were probably tossing and turning or maybe even stupid enough to wait up for him.
What he did not expect was to stumble backwards against the bedroom door with a loud clunk as you launched yourself at him from the bed, slamming against him with all the force of a hurricane.
“The fuck-” The words are cut off by your hands grabbing his face and pulling him down so your mouth can cover his. You kiss him with all the rioting emotions that are whipping through you: relief that he is back, the fear that nearly drowned you at the lateness of his arrival, the explosive desire to welcome him home.
And so locked in each other’s embrace, you stumble to the nearest piece of furniture, the camelback sofa, an incredibly beautiful, far too expensive engagement present made of the softest azure fabric.
And there you stay.
*
“Missed me so much ya couldn’t even lemme get through the damn door before jumpin’ me, huh.”
His words are right by your ear, soft and airy as his heart is still slowing from the frantic racing you caused the moment you threw your arms around him. Now you are the one wrapped in his embrace, still straddling him, your forehead resting against his bare shoulder as you catch your own wobbling breath. With a groan, he shifts you onto his lap so he can stretch out his long legs which were already aching before he arrived back in Benitoite.
“Maybe,” you murmur as you lay your head down on him. His slender fingers tug on the hem of your nightgown where it is bunched at your hips, pulling it down to cover your legs as best he can. He shakes his head at your coy answer, his hair still damp with rainwater. A few drops fall across your skin but it doesn’t matter. He’s still got his wet pants somewhat on, your nightgown is now flecked with large wet patches. In the match up between lascivious impatience and rational thinking, the latter had no chance at all.
“Maybe, my ass.”
You twist in his arms, snuggling closer and your cheek brushes against the cold gold chain of his necklaces. Frowning, you lean away from him even as he reaches to pull you back against his chest.
“Whaddya doin’, woman? It’s cold if you move away.”
You shoot him a Look but then lean forward, reaching around, carefully lifting the first, longer gold chain from his neck.
“You know I don’t like when you leave your jewelry on.”
He leans back, splaying his long arms along the back of the couch.
“You were the one who attacked me. I’m an innocent victim of you needin’ to get some.”
You snort in a decidedly unladylike way as you carefully undo the clasp of his second gold necklace.
“You? Innocent? Pffft.”
Your sass earns you a pinch on the nose and you jerk away with a laugh as you carefully lay his necklaces down on the side table next to the couch. Settling yourself more comfortably on his lap, you reach for one hand and pull it close to you, holding it as you carefully begin removing his rings.
He’s grown quiet, watching as you slip the gold from his fingers, one by one. Normally he would never let anyone touch him like this. But you aren’t just anyone. You’re the only person who has ever managed to see past the bluster of his blunt words and questionable actions, the one who pierced that glistening, golden armor of coins and snark and then stripped it away, laying his heart as bare as his fingers are right now.
His rings are carefully laid beside his necklaces and you raise his hand to your lips, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles. A flush creeps across the steep planes of his cheeks as he drops his gaze, still unable to witness such open tenderness without it sending waves of uncontrollable emotion through him. An ocean of affection and love he is still learning to navigate.
He reaches up and tousles your hair, enjoying the silky feel of it through his fingers, the way it falls messily over your head when he is done, and especially the way your bright eyes narrow and those lips of yours press together in a pout he’s come to treasure as much as any coin.
“Whaddya say we get off this damp couch, get rid of the rest of these soggy ass clothes and you get the pleasure of scrubbin' me clean?"
He says you'll wash him but you both know the truth: there's little that Silvio enjoys, truly deeply enjoys down to his core, more than pampering you in the bathtub.
You grin slowly, already warmed by the spark in his sea-blue eyes.
“For once, you have a good idea.”
"For once?!!"
But you're already moving. You leap off his lap, narrowly avoiding the smack he was aiming at your backside and take off for the bathroom, unable to hold in your jubilant laughter as Silvio struggles to follow in his incredibly uncooperative, still-wet, stiff pants, huffing something about sassy women and smart mouths……with the happiest grin on his stupidly handsome face.
Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @bellerose-arcana @ikemen-writer @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @mxrmaid-poet @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @bubblexly
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri silvio#silvio ricci#ikemen silvio#ikemen fanfic#ikemen fanfiction#violettwrites
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A/N: Vincent won the poll and with it, this kiss fic!
"This sadness will last forever" were supposedly Vincent Van Gogh's final words.
WC: 470
Trying to describe how it feels when Vincent kisses you makes you wish you were as talented with words as Dazai or Arthur. How can you possibly describe the feeling that floods you when he tenderly cups your face in his hands, eyes as blue as eternity, and leans down, softly pressing his lips against yours?
You are one of his beloved sunflowers, cacophonous and bright, baring your soul to the radiant blue sky, joy beaming from every corner of your heart. You are the strong branches of the almond tree in spring, riotous with pink and white blossoms, each petal a happy sigh that escapes you. You are the black spire stretching itself up up up into the expansive starry night, reaching with your whole soul for the stars.
Vincent parts your lips, delving deeper even as he tenderly pulls you closer, wanting to feel your solidness against him. Sometimes you wonder if he is afraid you are nothing but a phantom that will disappear if he opens his eyes, a creature of mist and dreams that will dissolve under the bright rays of sunlight. Your arms wind around his neck, your body presses closer, reassuring him that yes, you are real. You are solid. And you are unconditionally his. He is warmth and gentleness, golden as wheat fields in summer but he is also fiercely protective, a strength easily overseen and underestimated due to the tenderness of his nature, the boyishness of his mien. You know the truth. You know there is no shoulder you would rather lean on, no hands you would trust to hold your heart more than his.
Oh, those hands. Those beautiful, talented hands move over your skin like a paintbrush on canvas. With every caress he decorates you in his desire, his love, his dedication, his admiration and you? You feel beautiful. You are a work of art, a masterpiece, glowing with each stroke of blazing adoration along your body. There is nothing that lifts his heart more than the content sighs you whisper against his mouth, the ardent press of your fingers into his shoulder when your body lights up with yearning.
And if he pulls back for a moment, just a heartbeat in time, he can look into your eyes where he sees something unbelievable. He sees himself reflected there, in a way he never could imagine, despite the numerous self-portraits he has done. In the depths of your gaze, those windows to the naked essense of your heart, he sees himself as someone beautiful. Someone whole. Someone worthy of love.
Your name falls from his lips and just before he is utterly lost in the winding, sunlit path of your want, the hills and valleys of your body, he has a singular, sublime thought:
This love will last forever.
Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @fang-and-feather @bubblexly @kiki-tties @justpeachyteastea
#ikemen series#ikemen vampire#ikevamp#ikevamp vincent#ikemen vincent#kiss fic#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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Cyran gangster spice ^^
A/N: Here you go, anon! I hope you like it!
Cyran x Reader, Gangster AU/ Gangster x Doctor AU
TW: blood, injury, needles
WC:~2.2 k
The ringing cracks the silence of your darkened bedroom like a sledgehammer on ice. You push yourself up, still bleary with sleep, one hand fumbling through the gloom for your phone which should be sleeping too, well-behaved and quiet on your nightstand. It takes another second of angry ringing before you realize it’s not your personal phone. It’s the other phone. The one in the top drawer, rattling the items inside of it as it vibrates in time to the ringing, demanding attention. The phone you don’t want to hear going off, especially not in the heart of nighttime.
Sleep evaporates like frost on a sunny morning as you yank the drawer open and grab the small, nondescript black device. Caller unknown. But you know who it is. Only one person has this number.
“Hello?” Your voice is fuzzy with sleep.
“Good evening. Does your store sell copies of fairy tales? I’m looking for Little Red Riding Hood, the Rosenbrand edition. I hear there are only 10 copies left in circulation.”
Your heart sinks. Red Riding Hood means a serious injury, something bloody. Rosenbrand means the flower shop location. Ten copies means be there in 10 minutes.
“I’m afraid you have the wrong number.” The standard response. Your code for I’ll be there.
On the other end, the voice you know to be Nokto’s hangs up and you leap out of bed, changing into dark jeans and a black sweater, yanking open the closet to grab your medical kit and then you’re off, dashing out of your apartment and into the deceptively calm night.
You slip into the dark flower shop via the backdoor and immediately the velvet scent of roses overwhelms you. It is their specialty after all. And their symbol. Anywhere the Rhodolite Mafia goes, roses follow in their wake, their dark red petals scattered across crime scenes like little calling cards. Their members all bear the same rose tattoo on their bodies. You don’t have a tattoo. You’re not a member, officially but you are on their payroll and under their protection. So says the delicate golden rose and chain that hangs around your neck, resting against your heart.
You punch in the security code and a door at the back slides open, revealing a set of cement steps that lead down, down, down until you reach the bottom and step into the large room that the mafia uses for all medical emergencies. Your own private little examination room. And if necessary, OR.
For the second time that night, your heart stops. Laying back on the examination table is the one person whose name flashed through your mind like a neon sign the entire moonlit dash here, the one who you were silently hoping wouldn’t be your patient.
Cyran.
His shirt has been unbuttoned and he has bloodied gauze pressed against his arm, his dark eyes closed as he focuses on keeping pressure on his own wound. Clavis turns, golden eyes bright as an owl’s in the dim light.
“What happened?” Your tone is short, brisk. Every nerve in your body is on high alert as you pull on your latex gloves, moving towards Cyran.
“Blade, not a bullet.” Clavis steps back as you move in, the next steps of assessment as automatic to you as breathing. Cyran’s eyes open, only now aware you are there and you notice the flash of something across his features, some light in the depths of the fog of pain that he’s in. Your name passes his lips, a rough whisper.
“Altercation at the docks. Obsidian thugs thought they would be able to disrupt an important shipment.” Clavis’s phone chirps and he turns away from where you are working, removing Cyran’s shirt, cleaning up the bloody mess so you can get a better idea of what you’re dealing with.
You glance over your shoulder at him, the slight frown on his face as he reads whatever message he’s received.
“You ok, Lelouch?”
He fixes a bright smile on his face, but the light never reaches his eyes.
“I have to go.” No explanation. You are too low on the food chain for those. “Take good care of my right-hand man. I need him back in action soon and in one piece.”
You flick him a two-fingered salute and he nods, knowing Cyran is in good hands. As he jogs up the stairs, you hear him on his phone.
“....On my way, Chev….” The door at the top of the stairs closes with a heavy thunk and you are left alone with somewhat less bloody, very tense Cyran.
His shirt has been cast away, banished to a red and white heap on the floor which you casually kick to one side as you lean in to get a better look at his upper arm, where an ugly gash cuts across his deltoid. Reaching up to adjust the overhead lamp, you open your medical kit and begin the careful process of stitching the taunt skin back together. He hasn’t said a word since Clavis left, stoically staring straight ahead, intensely focused on the concrete wall opposite him.
Your head is bowed down, gaze following the rise and fall of your curved needle, the rational, medical part of your mind tightening its grip on the reins of your imagination. After all, there is an entire landscape of shirtless Cyran laid out in front of you. Curves of hard muscle that dip and bulge, secret places usually hidden by austere suits or leather jackets.
You’re close enough to hear the coarse sound of his inhale as you grip his arm. Clearing your throat you make an attempt to pierce the thick fog of tension that has settled over the room.
“Why is it always blades with you? Other members have the decency to just get shot.”
Your comment is so unexpected and honestly, so intentionally ludicrous that he turns his head involuntarily. Now his face is mere inches away from yours and you can feel his gaze on you as strongly as sunshine on a summer’s morning. And just like the sun, it brings a warmth to your cheeks that you hope he doesn’t notice.
He grunts as you finish suturing the injury, glancing down to take in your handiwork. You straighten up, adjusting your weight on the small padded stool you’ve been sitting on.
“And? Do I pass inspection, Mr. Rose?”
Something about the tone of your voice, an attempt at lightheartedness that skims over the jagged peaks of anxiety, has him finally meet your gaze and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile.
“You always do, doc.”
Those words settle across your mind like a silken sheet across a bed. You’re about to pull off your gloves, searching for something to say when you notice the blood staining the top of his gray slacks.
“What’s this…..?” You lean forward, glancing at him for permission to reach into the hem of his pants and take a look. An expression you don’t expect crosses his face: he looks almost sheepish.
“I….I was involved in a scuffle last week.”
You motion for him to lower his pants, trying to ignore what the sight of Cyran’s large, rough hands pulling down his zipper does to your body temperature. He slides his pants down slowly, just low enough for you to be given a tantalizing glimpse of that alluring line where the obliques meet the transversus abdominis muscle.
Medical professionalism trumps lust as you take in the shoddy stitching at his hip.
“What quack did this?” You’re already preparing another needle and thread, brow furrowed in annoyance.
“I did it myself.”
You glance up sharply, hands pausing for a moment.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
You return to the work of fixing his on-the-fly patch job. He’s silent a moment and you wait, knowing he heard you. It takes him until you’re nearly done to answer.
“You know I couldn’t.”
Your work is finished and yet somehow you can’t move you away, one hand resting on the hard plane of his lower stomach, the other pressed lightly under the wound you’ve just finished re-stitching. Slowly you tilt your head up to look at him. He’s backlit by the overhead lamplight, his red hair almost black because of it. Shadow falls across the angles of his face and all you can see clearly is the brightness of his eyes. As if pulled by a magnet, your upper body rises slowly, your face coming closer to his. Carefully, with every other part of you crystallized in place, you remove your gloves, then return your hands to where they were, touching the now warm skin of his body.
Your lips are scant inches apart and your heart slams into your breastbone as if urging you forward to close the gap.
Cyran’s beautiful eyes close and his head turns ever so slightly away from you.
“We can’t.”
The words are tight in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to say them, that he’s forcing them out between clenched teeth.
Still so close, you breathe outward and you know he feels the warmth on his cheek. Your nose brushes his, your lips ache at how close they are to the paradise of his kiss.
“We already have,” you whisper in return, forgetting everything: the phone calls in the dead of night. The hiding in secret rooms tricked out with medical equipment. The heart-stopping anxiety every time you think you hear gunshots. All that you know right now is that he’s here, warm to your touch, so close you can count every individual eyelash.
His eyes flutter open and he meets your gaze.
“And it can never happen again.”
It’s there, in the depths of his soulful eyes. The memory of….
….that night, the one where he escorted you home under a black sky, raging with thunder and pent up clouds. Your skirt was stained with blood that wasn’t yours, your fingers trembling with a fear that definitely was. Your car, several streets away, gasping with bullet holes. Cyran had been there, had whisked you away in an armored vehicle and insisted on seeing you to your apartment, on coming inside and making sure everything was secure.
When he turned to go, every nerve in your body screamed at once at the loss. You launched yourself towards him, a wild bird in flight, and he had welcomed you into the sky of his arms, pulling you against the safety of his hard body. He held you until the trembling stopped.
And then the world exploded as the clouds released their pent-up rain and you had lifted yourself up to press your mouth to his. Cyran pushed his fingers into your hair with a groan, allowing himself to fall, a raindrop from heaven, a soul giving in, into you and your sweetness, your want, your heated kisses.
The wild storm had nothing on the two of you, that night.
You see the way the memory is reaching for you both at once, has you both angling your heads so that only the slightest movement will have your mouths touch once again. Your lips actually hurt with need. Your body practically thrums with the desire to taste him again.
He shifts and suddenly the metal pan holding the needle and thread and gauze clatters to the ground, his thigh having bumped it off the table’s edge. The loud crash shatters the moment and you both jump apart, hearts racing. Cyran clears his throat, his head shaking as if waking himself from a dream. When he speaks, the same words you have heard too many times since that night fall from his lips.
His life is dangerous.
You are already way too involved.
The reality of being with him is nothing but heartache and worry.
You need to remain as innocent and ignorant as possible, for plausibility, deniability, for your own damn safety.
He could never live with himself if anything happened to you…..
The flow of words stops as you press your finger to his lips. A sigh like the storm-buffeted waves of the ocean escapes him, shaky and uninhibited. The touch turns into the kiss you’ve been hungering for, except it's not the crush of his mouth on yours, the stampede of desire come to call, but rather the softest press to your fingertip, the fleeting caress of a butterfly’s wing.
Your heart both sinks and lifts, a paradox of emotion flowing through you.
He turns his face into your hand, his usual stoicism bled out by the force of his feelings for you. Pain, longing, tenderness bow his shoulders, pull kiss after kiss from his lips to your palm. You slide your hand across the line of his cheekbone, thumb stroking the rough stubble there. And then you lean down, pressing a petal-soft kiss to his forehead.
Cyran is still as a winter’s night, frozen despite the thundering of his heart. He knows this is for the best….but how much longer can he continue to do the right thing?
You start to pull away, turning towards the stairs that lead up and away, back into the night and its bright, cold stars, when something clamps around your wrist, stopping you.
You turn to see him, eyes flashing with something hot and bright, his strong fingers wrapped around you, holding you. He whispers your name, an echo of the rough whisper from earlier, when he first realized you were there, and you capitulate, crumbling into the shelter of his embrace even as your mouths seek and find each other.
If not doing this, if not kissing you desperately, touching you, claiming you, if not doing these things is the right thing…..then Cyran is tired of it.
Forget the right thing. He lives a life that blossoms in the shadows of right and wrong anyway. Right and wrong are shades of gray in his world. And now as he drags his mouth down the smooth line of your neck, revels in the sting of your fingernails digging into his shoulder, he knows that he can deny this, and you, no longer.
He sinks into dark temptation, caring for nothing other than right here and now.
Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @mastering-procrastinating @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @bubblexly @wordycheesecake
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri cyran#cyran rose#ikemen cyran#gangster au#doctor au#ikepri costume challenge#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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A/N: It was SUCH a close poll but Clavis managed to beat out both Gilbert and Cyran to win so he is the Prince suitor for @aquagirl1978 and my Summer Days Sultry Nights CCC.
The prompt was "Sundress"
I wanted to experiment a little with form. I had written one Leonardo fic last year that was only dialogue and wanted to try it again.
modiste: a fashionable milliner or dressmaker
WC: ~500
“Clavis? Could you come here a moment, please?”
“Is my lovely wife missing me already? I haven’t even left the room yet!”
“Clavis.”
“Alright little lamb, I’m coming. Oh dear, am I allowed behind the changing screen? I may see something I shouldn’t and my, wouldn’t that be scandalous.”
“Clavis, we’re married.”
“Ah yes, and what a dream it’s been since the wedding. I have a particularly fond memory of sneaking off during the reception and–”
“Clavis!”
“I’m here, Mrs. Lelouch and…….ah…..oh dear. Oh dearie me. What have you done?”
“Please help me. When I tried it on at the modiste, she helped me with all the straps. She made it seem so easy to get into this damned dress but now…..I think I’ve made a mess of it.”
“Hmm. I am quite certain that you are exposing body parts that are exclusively for the blessed eyes of your beloved husband and no one else. Let me just tuck that back–”
“Clavis, you have to fix the whole dress. Not just squish me into some of it! Also that hurts. They’re attached, you know.”
“Are they? I should feel again just to be sure and- ouch! My little bunny turns violent. It’s quite charming how fiery you are.”
“I will swat your hands away if you try that again. I just need- oof– help untwisting these straps here. I believe some of them should go across that way.”
“My, who knew garments could be so complex. Where is the style of simplicity?"
“Says the man who wears seven belts.”
“Only on occasion. Now be a sweetheart and bend your arm like so. Just….further down, darling.”
“My arm doesn’t bend that way!”
“Wait…wait…ah, I believe this particular strap goes like this. Much better. I should consult with your modiste when constructing my next trap. She appears to be a natural.”
“She would never. She is a lady.”
“So were you and I still managed to capture your heart, charm you until you couldn’t bear to be without me, fill your nights with dreams of Lelouchian delight.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake.”
“Your tone notwithstanding, I know you are thrilled to be Mrs. Lelouch. And would Mrs. Lelouch care to duck underneath this strap, watch your head. Ah. My, my, would you look at that. It really IS a beautiful dress.”
“You did it!”
“Of course I did. I am a man of my word and also, I’m an incredibly talented– Mmmph.”
---------💋-------------------💋-------------------💋----------
---------💋-------------------💋-------------------💋----------
“You’re leaving me quite breathless, sweetheart. My eyes close and you kiss me, my eyes open and I see you in this positively marvelous dress with oh so much back exposed. I hardly know what to do with myself.”
“Husband.”
“Yes, my lovely wife.”
“You were able to wrangle me into this ordeal of a dress…..”
“Mmm hmm.”
“How about you now wrangle me out of it?”
“Oh?........Oh. OH. With the greatest of pleasure, my dear. The GREATEST of pleasure.”
Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly
#ikemen series#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri clavis#clavis lelouch#ikemen clavis#summer days sultry nights ccc#ikemen fanfiction#ikemen fanfic#otome fanfic#violettwrites
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