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Hi there I hope not to bother I wanted to request something like that, how Leon, Luke, Chevalier, Clavis, hope they are not too much, would react with a MC that know and use more than one language, easily sliding from one to the other, Please take your time and take care Have a wonderful day :D

A/N: Here you are lovely Julie 💜

Word Count: 1361

Leon

You’ve snuck into town to enjoy a day away from the scrutiny of the palace. Now you and Leon stroll through the town hand-in-hand under a cloudy sky, the hoods of your cloaks obscuring your faces. He’s talking, his voice bright with laughter as he recalls a story from one of his first times sneaking out. You adjust your grip on his hand, grinning back at him as you round a corner and then you both stop, surprised by the brightly colored poster plastered on the side of the flower shop. A traveling circus judging by the illustrations but the words on the poster are not the language of Rhodolite.

Leon pauses, his handsome face drawn in a frown as he rubs his chin with his free hand. “I wonder what-”

You begin reading the words out loud, the sentences flowing effortlessly from your lips. None of the odd vowels trip you up because you fell in love with the musical sound of this language when you were small and decided determinedly you would decipher its secrets. You devoured music and books until you could speak it as well as your own native tongue. 

And now Leon stares, his eyes the sunshine the sky is missing as he listens to you. You pause, then begin translating what you just read. When you’re finished, there is silence and you pull your gaze away from the bright poster to look at him and what you see makes your heart stumble: wonder and respect twined together in expression of absolute love. He laughs softly, a short huff of air and slight shake of the head, before leaning down.

“God, I love you,” he whispers roughly before winding an arm around your waist and kissing you with a tenderness born of his admiration for you.

Luke

You find him in the palace kitchen after hours, when the shadows of dusk are creeping into corners and the light through the windows has faded from warm yellow to pale lavender-blue. Luke is sitting at a wooden table in the corner by the still-warm stove, flipping through a recipe book with an expression of dismay.

Pilfering a vanilla cookie from the ceramic jar on the counter, you slide into the chair next to him. You snap the crunchy treat in half, offering him one and he sighs, taking it and biting despondently.

“What’s wrong?”

“Cook was gifted this recipe book from a merchant travelling from Iolite, but no one here can read it. And look.” He points with a long finger at the pictures on the pages he’s been mooning over: They are clearly from some kind of honey cake recipe but all the text is written in Iolitian. 

You glance at him, then back to the book and then begin reading. “Hmm….you need brown sugar, cold, unsalted butter, and….hmm…vanilla bean paste and–” 

“You can read this?!” He cuts you off, his moss green eyes wide with surprise. You nod, a slow smile spreading across your lips. “I taught myself Iolitian when the bookstore was having a slow day. I never thought it might come in handy but-”

You’re cut off again but this time it’s because you are being wrapped in the biggest, warmest bear hug you've ever experienced. Your smile softens as you hug him back. It takes so little to make him so happy….and you’re grateful you have the chance to see the bright light of joy illuminate those soft springtime eyes. 

“So what do you say? Up for a little evening baking?”

Chevalier

You scan the library shelves, your fingers walking their way lightly along the leather-embossed spines of the books, wandering over the soft ridges, hoping to find the one that just screams “Read me tonight!” So engrossed are you in all the titles that you miss when the door opens and Chevalier enters.

He already has a book in his hand which he returns to exactly the right spot on the shelf. You feel the way he is ignoring you, the force of his disregard for you rolling through the room like waves in an ocean. You grit your teeth and ignore him right back, dropping down to read the titles of the books further down the bookshelf. 

Blue eyes, annoyed by your sudden movement, narrow and he turns his head. He watches the way you are intently reading the titles and one royal brow lifts. “Those are all foreign language books. I doubt you have need of them.”

Oh, his tone does things to you. The words roll across your skin, catching like little burrs. You reach for the first book in front of you, an epic poem written in the native language of Benitoite. Pointedly you rise, march over to a nearby table and sit, opening the book. Perhaps a tad dramatically.

He turns and then addresses you in perfect Benitoitian. Clearly he believes you've just grabbed any book at random and are pretending to read it in order to prove him wrong. But he knows nothing of your education. And of your passion for language. You straighten your spine, turn, and answer him in the same language. Your accent flawless, your pronunciation perfect. 

And you are rewarded by something as rare as the moon eclipsing the sun: surprise flashes for a moment in the depths of Chevalier’s sky-colored eyes. And suddenly your heart begins beating harder. And you want to see it again. So you switch, asking him "Would you prefer to speak in this tongue?" this time in the native tongue of Obsidian. And you ask him the same question again in Iolitian. And Tanzanitian. And Tourmaline.

You could go on but he raises his hand, stopping you. His gaze holds yours and now your heart is practically thundering in your chest because what you see those blue depths now isn’t surprise….but interest.

Clavis

A hand settles on your shoulder and a handsome, curious face is suddenly next to yours. “What has captured your attention so thoroughly when I am in the room?” You laugh, reaching up with one hand to affectionately cup his cheek. “I’m reading about the linguistic history of this area.” You point at the page you are on which has a list of all the different languages historically spoken throughout the kingdom as well as its neighbors and examples of how to say “hello” in all of them. He begins reading them out loud and finds himself stumbling when he gets to the language spoken in many parts of Obsidian.

You helpfully correct him and he blinks, brows raised in surprise as he stares at you. “Wait….you speak Obsidian?”

Nodding, you see delight suddenly sparking within the depths of his golden eyes. “Can you say…..’Clavis is amazing’.” Now you laugh, and repeat it back to him in Obsidian. His grin grows as he reaches for both your hands, pulling you up and away from your desk.

“And now can you say…..’Clavis is the most wonderful man in the entire kingdom’?” Your fingers interlock with his as you look up into the face you love so much and repeat it back to him, slowly, speaking ever so slightly below your normal register. A faint pink colors his cheeks as he listens to your voice, the one he is so familiar with, the one he dreams about, suddenly producing new sounds, sounds that twist and turn in ways he doesn’t know, can’t expect. His heart begins a heavier, excited beat in his chest.

“Can you…..” He gently pulls your locked hands closer, escaping your grip in order to slide his arms around your waist and pressing you close to him. “Say…..’Clavis….’ His head dips, his forehead touching yours, eyes glowing like golden stars. “....’I love you….’?” 

Your heartbeat echoes his, drumming loudly in your ears. Your gazes lock and you feel a cascade of sparks tumble down your spine, igniting something warm and exciting inside. When you speak, it’s in a soft, almost breathless voice. “Ich liebe dich, Clavis Lelouch. Ich brauche dich. Ich will dich…..”

His kiss stops the flow of Obsidian and as he lifts you into his arms, striding towards your bed, you understand that while spoken language is important, there are some things that require no words at all.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart

First of Many - Chapter 1: First Prince

Chapter List

Word Count: ~3900

Chapter Content Warnings: None

A/N: It finally begins! This isn't quite a birthday fic, but having the deadline really pushed me to finishing this chapter. Introductions are not my strong suit, so I'm hoping the following chapters will be easier now that this hurdle has been cleared.

For more details and spoiler/content warnings, please refer to the chapter list (linked above). Glad to have you along for this journey!

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. After all, there are only so many ways an assassination attempt could end up. Either the target is dead or alive, and the assassin captured or home-free. Jin didn’t focus much on the middle details because only the ending really mattered. But as he stood in front of the still-living king, tears spilling down the throne instead of blood, he couldn’t help but wonder at what point it all went wrong.

Minutes dragged on in awkward glances and involuntary fidgeting, but Jin remained rooted to his spot. Perhaps he jumped too quickly to conclusions. Sunset spilled through the high windows like a fiery flood, blazing every surface in the room a deep red, from the scarlet walls to the ruby throne to the king’s crimson hair. It was entirely possible what he saw before was only a trick of the light. If he could get one more look into those eyes, he’d see it was all his imagination. Then he’d pick himself up and leave this place forever.

But the king’s face was still buried in his hands, and he was sobbing harder than ever. 

Why was he crying? If anyone should be crying it was Jin. Jin, who spent the past year scraping by on the scraps of tithers without a second glance. Who worked at the mercy of scum and cheats pulling the weight of men multiple times his age. Who lost his entire world in an instant, and scoured mountains and valleys on foot just to answer why. Why had this all happened to him?

“Your Majesty!” called a deep voice. The doors burst open with a clamor of metal and swishing of robes. Men barreled over the threshold, pushing past and knocking into each other in their advance on the throne. Stunned, Jin covered his head and ducked away from the stampede.

“We heard yelling!” 

“What has happened, Your Majesty?” 

“Where is the child?” 

The voices carried across the high ceilings as Jin crawled into a corner. He lost his chance. These men, they surely have come to dispose of him like the criminal he was.

But he had to know. He needed to know the truth before they took him away. Clutching his heaving chest, Jin craned his neck as high as he could manage, though he could barely see above the swords adorning the men’s hips as they besieged the throne. He slowly pushed his quivering knees to stand, heart rattling against his palm, and approached the congregation. He could just make out sunlight glinting off the crown when a voice screeched from his side.

“There he is!”

And many things happened in quick succession. All eyes turned on him, and aside from the king’s renewed tears and a ringing that sprouted in Jin’s ears, the room fell deathly silent. A man in dark plum robes barked orders. The company parted, creating a path between the throne and Jin. Through it, six armored men approached, extracting their swords from their sheaths.

The ringing intensified as the soldiers grew closer. Jin’s feet were glued to the blood-red carpet. He hugged his chest and crouched, burrowing his face in his knees. His eyes stung and he shut them tightly. He was not like the king. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry when they ended it. It would be quick and over with. Then they could forget about the orphan boy who ever dared point a blade at royalty.

But the blade never fell. Blinking through the blinding light, Jin slowly raised his head. The soldiers stood in a circle, backs towards him, pointing their swords at the now dispatched bystanders. 

“Can you stand?” a soldier to the right asked. He looked over his shoulder, armor flickering in the sun. Jin opened his mouth but no sound came out. Instead, he tightened his taut legs and stood. The soldier nodded to the others, and as a unit they began to march. Jin had little choice but to follow in their procession toward the door.

This made sense; why sully the illustrious throne room with the blood of a lowly crook? They were taking him to a second location, far away from the prying eyes of those highbred hoity toits. 

The hallways were steep and cavernous. They reminded Jin of the caves he slept in on his journey; cold, and stiff, and echoing. But unlike his dark, desolate caves, these halls were gleaming and littered with eyes.

Eyes peering from behind gloves and fans and books and hats and folded sheets and boxed goods and emblazoned shawls and fur coats and people… all pointed squarely at Jin. He could see faces behind those eyes, some were whispering to each other or gasping as he passed, but none looked human. They all towered above him, like beasts trying to catch a glimpse of the latest prey on the chopping block.

Even though he couldn’t hear what they were saying, their piercing gazes clambored in his head like bells. He turned away and stared out the colossal windows lining the opposite wall, desperate to refocus his thoughts. The sun dipped lower now, casting uniform shadows crawling across the floors. Window panels and valances and curtains stretched along the floors as homogeneously as the soldiers surrounding him, and Jin timed his breaths with each repeating pattern.

Curtain, valence, panel, curtain, breathe. Curtain, valence, panel, curtain, breathe.

It seemed to be working. The sounds of the soldiers’ stomping were clearing up.

Curtain, valence, panel, curtain, breathe.

He lowered his arms from his chest and rested them at his sides. His knife sat comfortably in his pocket. They hadn’t taken it from him.

Curtain, valence, panel, curtain, breathe.

There were six of them and one of him. Not a single one was facing him, they were too busy pushing the audience to the sides and keeping them at bay. They passed by various branching corridors, many of which were empty.

Curtain, valence, panel… bump?

Jin halted his steps and whipped his head to the last set they passed. Where the other curtains hung immobile and wrinkle-free, this one had a tiny fist clutching onto its edge. Directly below its tasseled holdback, a small head stuck out from behind the fabric, though against the early rays of twilight Jin could only make out the eyes. Two protuberant eyes, as golden and resplendent as the setting sun behind them.

They were most unlike the eyes of the other onlookers. While those were invasive and grim and glaring at him from high above, these were soft and curious and at his level. For a reason he couldn’t explain, Jin wanted to call out to them, but the soldier positioned in the rear knocked into him as he backed up.

“Keep moving,” the soldier commanded as they untangled from each other. Jin tossed a final glance at the curtain and watched it sway unoccupied before continuing to walk. He could not fall into the breathing pattern again.

As soon as the soldier returned to formation, Jin extracted the parchment sitting in his back pocket. Sighing in relief it wasn’t ruined, he unfolded the paper and read the words now permanently etched into his brain:

Jin, you must never go anywhere near Rhodolite Palace. If you go near that place, they might kill you.

He ran his fingers across the fading script, taking extra care not to crease it any more than it already was. Hundreds of times he’d folded and unfolded the paper to the point where he feared it would tear even if he so much as looked at it the wrong way. But he would never let that happen. It was the only proof of her existence. He could claim she raised him and hugged him and loved him, but recitals could only travel so far. Someone here had to know about her. And even if they took his life before he could meet them, at least her words would still be preserved. He slipped the parchment back into his pocket.

But what good would that do after he was gone? Would they know he was her son? That he braved across kingdoms in search of answers? Of the trials and tribulations he endured on his quest for the truth? The thought that he would be forgotten didn’t worry him as much as if she was. Of all the stories she told about Rhodolite, of its grandeur and nobility, he could not understand how there could be anything or anyone more deserving of such titles than she.

A soft click from behind broke him out of his thoughts. Panic stabbed Jin’s limbs anew as he turned and latched on to the door handle, jiggling it frantically, but to no avail. The door stood stubborn and unmoving, just as his mind had been. Why had he let himself get so caught up in his thoughts when he knew precisely the danger he was in? Now he was paying for his buffoonery; they’d gone and thrown him in a dungeon until they figured out how to get rid of him.

Would they get it done quickly? Those guards certainly didn’t seem shy about splaying their weapons. Or would they leave him to starve? The terrifying gazes of the people in the hallway resurfaced. Did nobles get a sick sense of satisfaction watching their prisoners descend into madness? They were certainly puzzling with their execution. Who puts a gilded door knob in a prison cell?

Jin pried his sweaty hands off the brass handle and turned. The room was dark, save for the final bursts of sunset fighting through thick window curtains. In their faint rays he could make out tiny specs of dust scattering through the air as he caught his breath, and he wiped his fraying sleeves across his forehead while his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Definite objects soon swam into view. Nearest to him stood a tall brown cabinet, easily three times his size, with handles that sparkled even more magnificently in the dim light than the one on the door. On the opposite wall near the window sat a short writing desk with nothing on it except a wide oval mirror, a half-melted candlestick, and a visible layer of dust. Taking up the majority of the center of the room was a bed, a large white cloth draped over its entirety. 

Though the furniture was all comfortably well distanced, Jin still cautiously wound his way across the room, taking care not to knock into anything, and ripped open the curtains. As he suspected, the ground lay what seemed like a mile below, and the sun cradled back against the horizon as though goading him to try and jump. 

What was the cause of the delay, he thought again. Stubbornness started to take over as his mind calmed down in the quiet. Were they postponing his end in favor of something else? Jin understood children were prone to impatience, but making him wait for his own death seemed excessively rude. 

He pressed his hand on his back, the familiar warmth of the oily parchment seeping into his back. This wasn’t the end. There had to be a way out. He refused to stay put waiting for them to make the first move.

Jin pulled on the curtains until they ripped free from their hangings. Coughing out the dust that fell, he tied the two ends together and triple-knotted one end of the extended curtain around his waist. He tossed the unused remains of the curtain away from the windowsill and pushed on the glass. The wooden frame creaked loudly with a crunchiness indicating it hadn’t been opened in years, but Jin managed to wrench it open with several well-timed shoves. He grabbed the other free end of the curtain, tossed it out into the cool night air, and watched it lazily fall about a quarter of the distance to the ground.

Chuffing angrily, Jin reeled the curtains back in and began searching around the room for more fabric. One touch of the cloth covering the bed was enough to tell him it wouldn’t work; the material was so flimsy he could rip it apart without much difficulty. And the bed itself was free of blankets and bedsheets. The desk proved little use as well. It was too wobbly to tie a base too, and he couldn’t manage to open its drawers no matter how much he shook it. 

This left the cabinet, which Jin partially hoped he wouldn’t have to search. He hadn’t feared monsters hiding in the closet for sometime now, but he’d never looked inside the closet of a rich person, much less a palace. Could this be where they hid the remains of those poor souls they imprisoned? Shuddering slightly, he grasped the cold metallic handle and pulled.

It wasn’t filled with monsters or bodies. It wasn’t even filled with severed limbs or bloodied weapons, which Jin considered briefly. No, the cabinet was overflowing with dresses. A veritable rainbow of the poofiest dressed Jin had ever seen. Gentle lilac and bold cobalt and striking olive assaulted his view as the compressed gowns expanded to full width in their newfound freedom, and Jin madly swung his arms to cut through their fluffy embrace. Once his hand whacked against wood, he climbed inside and continued his search, blindly groping the contents until he at last located a pile of folded sheets. 

Cheering internally (the plush skirts muffled his voice), Jin clambered out of the closet and extracted his knife. He sliced the sheets into shears, not caring how neat the cuts came out, and quickly began tying the ends together as he did before. Night fell rapidly around him, and Jin wished his captors would have had the decency to leave a candle in his cell. Not that he was afraid of the dark. He wasn’t that young. But he didn’t complain about the steady rise of the full moon either, even knowing it would make concealing his escape more challenging.

He stopped counting after fifty knots, adding extra ones in between slips for added reinforcement. A fabric snake wormed its way around the floor, growing until it reached each corner of the room. When he at last used up the final shear, Jin grabbed the free end of his cloth serpent and secured it to a bedpost with multiple knots. He did what he could. He only hoped it was long enough.

He pocketed his knife, double-checked his mother’s letter was still on him, and returned to the window. Putting his weight in his arms, he began hoisting himself over the windowsill, but knocked his knee against a corner and tripped. The windowsill splintered and broke clean off the wall, and Jin nervously wound his makeshift rope around his fingers as it crumbled to the floor. Would the knots be strong enough to support his weight the entire way down? 

Footsteps sounding from the hall froze him on the spot, but they soon passed the door without stopping. Scrambling back up, Jin grabbed the side of the writing desk and pushed it in front of the window. He tried to ignore the way the legs shrilled against the wooden floor.

It’ll only be a sec. I’ll jump out right away, he thought to himself, hoping whoever strolled outside was too far away to hear the commotion. The desk was the perfect height to perch by the window, and Jin occupied his mind with thoughts of weightless birds and floaty dresses as he climbed. 

He secured his hands on the window frame and peered down. The moon shone brightly against the cloudless sky, illuminating the pointed dewy grass below like a bed of spikes. Jin stepped back and wiped his palms on his shirt—when did they get so sweaty? It must have been from all the knotting, a natural reaction to a day’s hard work. That was probably why his vision was going all swirly too… from all those hooks and loops…. And his shaky legs… a perfectly reasonable response to—

Crash!

Jin instinctively curled into a ball the moment the desk snapped. His back collided with the ground first, and his legs wedged in place where a floorboard popped loose. The desk collapsed in front of him, its mirror exploding into hundreds of flying  sharp slices that scraped his knees, and the force of the landing knocked the previously locked drawer out, its contents cracking and rolling and scattering across the floor.

Jin sat still for a while and held his breath. He was listening for sounds of anyone approaching from the hall. When it seemed no one heard the crash, he pulled himself out from the hole and inspected the damage. Aside from some minor cuts and bruises, he was unharmed, but he still hissed scornfully at his blunder. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, never. But of all times to maybe pick up a fear of heights…

He moved to check the desk debris. It consisted mostly of papers, quills, and several ink bottles which all shattered in the fall. Black liquid flowed from the wreckage, staining the wood and parchment around it, and Jin began throwing them off to the side as he thought of a new plan. 

The bed was much too large for him to push, and there wasn’t anything solid in the cabinet. He could probably pile all the dresses and climb over them, the skirts seemed sturdy enough, but he might end up slipping in all those soft garments. As he pondered the possibility of death by fabric suffocation, something familiar caught his eye. He held one of the fallen papers and scanned the header; it was the same script that adorned the letter in his pocket. 

My prince,

Thank you for showing me the rose garden today. All my life I’ve lived in Rhodolite and never have I seen such beautiful flowers! I didn’t even know roses could be those colors, we truly live in a blessed kingdom. It seems a shame we cannot share it with everyone.

And speaking of which, thank you for listening to me today as well. I’m really sorry to have troubled you with my problems. We each have our assigned roles to play, and yet I’m already flubbing in the first week. I am sure Lord Magnum is second guessing my appointment as I write this, I’m supposed to be studying trade relations with Benitoite right now, but I am still overwhelmed at the thought that I’ll be choosing the next king. Me! It is like a fairytale that I am even in the palace. And to have met you and the others, nothing could be more

Numbness took over every part of Jin’s body except his hands, which clamped even harder on the paper as he read it a second time. The blotches of ink tarnished the rest of the paper, but he could still make out the important bits. His mother had been here, he knew it.

He shuffled through the rest of the pages, but most were in even worse conditions than the first. He finally plucked one with a date in the header reading seven years prior.

My king,

Perhaps it is a bit premature to call you that, but I suppose I wanted to be the first. Belle may have a pure heart, but even she falls to her whims if they present themselves strongly enough. I am only human, after all. As are you.

But once I sign the proclamation tomorrow, I will cease to be Belle, and you a prince. I feel an exciting change is upon us, both as individuals and as a kingdom, and you taught me that. This past month has opened my eyes to many things, both wonderful and saddening, and while I know now that it is unreasonable to expect all our troubles can be solved in a single reign, I believe wholeheartedly that you are our greatest chance of achieving peace and prosperity. I say that not as Belle, but as myself. The woman who has fallen in love with 

Jin struggled with the bigger words of this letter, but felt he got the gist of it. Not only was she here, but she knew the king. Supposedly our “greatest chance of achieving peace and prosperity.” She could not be talking about the same man he left crying on the throne, was she? And love? To his knowledge, Jin was the only person she ever said “I love you” to.

Jin desperately clawed through the remaining letters. His hands stained with splattered ink as he shuffled tarnished page after page, only managing broken fragments and half-words. He splayed the ones he could save on the floor away from the flowing blackness, picking up anything he could salvage.

My love…

…they don’t like me…

…fear I am a burden…

…send me away…

…for our baby…

…I will always lo…

“As sensible as she was benevolent,” said a deep voice.

Jin snatched all the pages he could reach, clutched them to his chest, and turned around. Standing in the doorway was the tall plum robed man from the throne room, his grainy wrinkles and graying hair illuminated by the candelabra in his hand. The man bent low and snatched one of the pages Jin could not reach in time. Holding the single stainless corner in his fingers, he brought it up to the candlelight and read. Jin watched, horrified every time the fire swayed close to the paper.

“She was a free spirit, your mother. I could see her in you the moment I laid my eyes on you,” said the man, releasing the paper. It gently floated to the floor as he stepped past it and bent in front of Jin. “Of course, we are delighted to have her son back in his rightful home. We have been waiting many long years for your return, my prince.”

The man lowered the candelabra to the floor and bowed his head. Jin scooted backwards until he hit the wall. It couldn’t be true. Yet, a part of him deep down knew it was true. He didn’t want it to be true. He wanted to get out of this place. He wanted the ringing ears to come back, to drown out everything this man was saying. He was Jin Grandet. Six years old, orphan boy. Not a prince. Not in a million years.

“A wise decision on her part, you are still so young.” The man placed a hand into his robes. Jin automatically reached for his knife and stuck it out in front of him, panting heavily as he watched the man pull out a tightly rolled document.

“But legacy is everything here. We are sworn to protect and nurture it, generation after generation. For the greater good of the kingdom and its longevity.” He unfolded the paper and Jin stared at the gilded border and fancy penmanship that adorned the sheet. Most of it was too scripted for him to understand from afar, but again the familiar handwriting marked the bottom of the page. Two names; one he shared, and one he’d been searching for.

“Welcome home, Jin Grandet. First prince of Rhodolite.”

You guys have no idea how exhilarating it is seeing this chapter that I've been cooking up since last March finally written out. Here's to hoping it doesn't take till next March for me to finish it all!

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If you would like to be added or removed from my tag list, please send me an ask or a message.

Miss 100% of the shots you don't take - so how about Sariel for an afterglow fic, please?

A/N: well @pathogenic anyone who quotes Wayne Gretzky is ok in my book. I hope you enjoy your fic 💜

Sariel x f! Reader

Word Count: 560

The cold water you splash on your face is bracing and at the same time soothing to your sunrise-pink cheeks. Your heart is slowing from its furious pace, a wild bird having chased the clouds, before finally settling back into the nest of your chest. Your lungs measure out your breaths evenly, ironing out the erratic gasps that only a short while ago fell from your lips. You smooth back your disheveled hair as best you can and then with a sigh, a sound of satisfaction twined with exhaustion, you leave the tiled bathroom, closing the door behind you.

He’s waiting for you, a twilight smile on his beautiful lips. Sariel Noir is many things but right now, the only word that comes to mind is beautiful. The pale expanse of his skin, a sharp contrast to the deep indigo pillows he’s leaning against. His hair in wild disarray, evidence of the pleasure your fingers found curling into those soft, onyx strands.

The sight of him has you pause, physically unable to take another step as you lean back against the bathroom door, your hand pressed against the sudden, rapid wingbeat of your heart, that part of you that he owns fully, that he can influence with a whispered word, a touch, a flash of his violet eyes. He is exquisite like this, out of his staid clothing, unwrapped by your own eager hands. His glasses abandoned on the nightstand, barely visible in the dance of shadows conducted by fingers of moonlight that have slipped through the arched window.

Not a word is necessary. All he does is lift his arms and you are drawn to him, happily, joyously. You push off from the door like a ship from the harbor, sailing across the room, swan-diving onto his plush bed, into his waiting embrace. His laughter sparks light within your soul, the sound twinkling across your bare skin. He pulls you against him, making sure to draw the satin sheets across both your unclothed bodies, always taking care of you. Always aware of what you need.

“And? Have you recovered from my appetite for you?”

That voice, deep as midnight, beguiling as starshine. If you could wrap yourself in it, you would be warm forever.

You open your mouth to answer and instead of words, a yawn slips out, both surprising you and answering his question.

He laughs again, the melody of it light with a tenderness no one would believe the palace devil capable of and you smile as you move closer, bringing an arm around his midriff, laying your cheek against his chest. 

“Rest then, my love,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here.”

His hand begins to gently stroke your hair and each caress feels like it's sinking into your body. A satisfied heaviness fills you as your eyes slowly shut, your mind drifting into the peaceful eventide of dreams.

“I love you, Sariel.” Your whisper is almost a dream itself, serenity coloring your words lavender and gray. Did he even hear them?

His hand stills on the back of your head, his body bends as he leans down to place a loving kiss to your forehead. He’s heard you. And he loves you too. More than he can say.

So he doesn’t even try. He simply holds you against him, his love, his soul, and watches through an amethyst gaze soft with emotion as you fall asleep.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly

Ugh. Darling. I literally typed these up immediately after your first post about angst/tension. My submissions for Broken Heartstrings:

One that would kill me is the build of MC working themselves sick. Only to find out it gave way for another, more serious illness. And if that was with Arthur or Sariel.

As for accidents, especially if it was MC protecting her love (and that if she hadn't, they would be in the same position as her), my brain dies a little at how Theo would react. Or Chev.

I'm so ready for the angst 😈

A/N: here you are, @yarnnerdally ! 💜

cw: sickness, injury, violence, blood

WC: 1421

Arthur

Why is getting out of bed so damn hard? Your bones feel like they are made of lead, your muscles barely able to lift them. You’ve been working so hard, but you always managed to push through. Until today. You’re tired, you admit to Arthur. Even those few words are difficult through a throat dry as the desert steppes. And they're thorny. This admission of weakness scrapes against your teeth, digs into your tongue. You don't want to worry him….

But his blue eyes are bright with worry, endless oceans of worry when he notices the lethargy of your movements, the hand pressed against your chest. His concern is chasms-deep because this is not the first time he's seen this, this deflated version of you. It's been happening over days, weeks. It's knocked at the window of his medical mind only to be shuttered and kept out by his apprehensive heart.

It’s nothing, you say. Your words are hollow. He hears the gray exhaustion that colors them, he sees the pallor in your cheeks, the dimming of your bright eyes. It’s nothing you repeat to his retreating form. He knows illness when he sees it and he can't deny it any longer. He wants a second opinion to quiet the riot of fear that flies through his mind.

It’s nothing, you say, shooting Arthur and Comte a weak look of annoyance even as the doctor they’ve brought around presses the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope against your back. He shushes you to silence and if you had the energy to glare, you would. He listens to your breathing, your heartbeat, his wrinkled fingers wrapping around your wrist, counting under his breath. He examines your body with astute eyes, his expression professionally inscrutable, chiseled in stone. And then he leaves the room, taking both vampires with him. 

You strain to hear what they are saying but the door is only open a few centimeters and their words float away from you like smoke.

When he re-enters the room, Arthur's face immediately tells you more than any of his words ever could: The lines of worry etched into the sides of his mouth, the press of his brows, the unnatural gleam in his eyes, a sky on fire. The way he sinks into the chair by your bedside like Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders. His two hands find yours, clasping that thin appendage, tenderly. Devoutly.

Words are delivered with a voice that does its best not to shake and often fails. Winding through affirmations of love you hear the soft, off-key clang of anxiety, you hear things like “blood sickness”, “Dr. Virchow”, “bruising”, “fatigue”, “rest”. He does not need to say it. There is an unmistakable undercurrent of sorrow, a whirlpool of abject uncertainty and misery in his voice. He brings your hand to his lips like a prayer. Anyone else could rise on a tide of false hope, could use their lack of medical knowledge, their ignorance, as a buoy to keep them hoping for a miracle. But not Arthur. He knows the truth, he sees its ugly maw in the distance, wide-open and waiting patiently while the disease runs its course and ultimately delivers you into its jaws, taking you from him forever.

Your eyes are closed. His voice, so beloved to you, has lulled you to sleep. The words you'll deal with another time. When you're not so tired. For now it's enough that he's with you, head bowed over you, a blade of grass yielding to the winds of an oncoming storm. Bending. But not breaking. As long as you draw breath, he will find the strength to stay whole, to hold the pieces of his soul together. For you. 

Theo

It starts like any other day. Another opulent mansion. Another patron looking to make it even more opulent by hanging an eye-catching painting. Theo in his smart business suit, strategically flashing his dazzling, white-toothed smile; you offering a gentler version of that smile whenever the patron you're persuading turns his curious gaze in your direction. 

In a wood-paneled office surrounded by rich furnishings and a massive mahogany desk, with sunset's warm colors washing over all of you through crown glass windows, you do not hear the sound of the heavy front door opening, the thud as the butler falls to the Italian marble floor, the dull footsteps heading straight towards the office.

The embellished wooden door to said office is ajar and opens with a wild swing, slamming into the thick walnut bookcase with a heartstopping bang. You jump and then your mind goes blank as the sight of an armed gunman strikes your brain like lightning. 

And then time slows. The world blurs like a hand swiping across a freshly painted canvas. The gunman demands money. However he's not staring at the patron but Theo. He's mistakenly assumed Theo, in his expensive suit, is the wealthy owner of this villa. The gun shakes in his hand, aimless, not focused on anyone but rather acting as a threat of what could be. His voice trembles when he demands money. Sweat drips down his temple, soaking into the frayed edges of the worn rag tied around his lower face.

Suddenly your patron makes a run for the door and chaos explodes. All you see is the gunman turning, the gun now steadily pointing at Theo, a target in his addled mind. 

And you fly, wings on your feet, body reacting automatically. The gun spits out its bullet from a mouth full of sound and fury, and what would have lodged itself in Theo's stomach strikes your back instead. A blossom of red. A spray of crimson droplets. And then your world narrows, darkness closing in until it has taken you completely.

……….Theodorus……..

He refuses to leave your bedside. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t changed out of his bloodstained clothing. Whose blood it is, he isn’t sure. Yours, when he cradled your limp body against his chest, heavy with the anvil of disbelief and shock. The gunman’s when he turned, a monster born of fury and pain, and exacted the toll for daring to hurt you. 

Never has he moved so quickly, never have his legs swallowed the earth as fast as when he brought you to the mansion, his deep voice ringing throughout the vast rooms, singed with panic, raspy with fear. Comte goes to remove you from his arms but he will not let go. His blue eyes are nebulous, bright with the force of every shaking breath, every shuddering heartbeat. Arthur motions for him to follow and he does, only letting you go when Vincent’s gentle voice, in the softly spoken language of their homeland, breaks through the fog: Het is oké, broer. Laat haar gaan. Laat Arthur werken.

Never has Theo been more grateful for his friend. Arthur has done his best, assessing the injury, cleaning it, sewing it closed with steady, razor-sharp precision. Now those hands clamp down on Theo’s shoulder. There is nothing more he can do. Theo reaches up, his hand covering one of Arthur’s for a moment, the gesture saying more than any words could. Arthur nods, subdued and then quietly leaves you both..

And now Theo is alone with you, you so pale and small in your bed. Even the warm light of the oil lanterns cannot bring color to your cheeks.

He falls forward in his chair, runs his hands through his hair, elbows resting on his knees. It is because of him. He should have been the one to take the bullet. He would heal just fine. Why didn’t you just let him? Why did you have to throw yourself in the way, you a mortal, whose life is the delicate dance of a spider’s web in the wind. There was no reason….no reason….his breath quakes within his broad chest. He would close his eyes, he would let the tears burning behind them fall but then……then he would miss looking at you. The tears would blur his vision of you and that, nee….that is not acceptable. 

He will sit here, keeping vigil, searching your face for any signs of life. All night if need be. And all day. He will not move. Because it isn’t just your life hanging there in balance…..it is his as well. 

Because, he thinks as he raises his gaze, presses his lips to your cold hand, without you…..Ik heb niets. I have nothing.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bubblexly

Hi! I hope it's not too late but may I request Chevalier/ 7/ Comfort/ 2nd POV pelase?

Characters: Chevalier Michel, F!Reader

POV: 2nd person Genre: Comfort

Prompt #7: “Don't worry about winning. Worry about coming home.”

Wordcount: 1295

A/N: Ripping off the bandage quick with this one. I had two VERY different ideas for this prompt, but today we're going with a young Chevalier and a young reader set in the story event when Chevalier was supposed to attend a tea party with his brothers and the children of the nobility... but it didn't go so well. Thank you for the request!

You tucked the ends of your tulle skirt into the cuffs of your socks after they slipped out for the sixth time. The dress you wore was pretty, polished, and poofy, none of which was particularly pragmatic for your spontaneous stealth mission. As you spread your puffy-sock-covered legs across the luxurious rug in what you assumed was a study, you wondered how long it would take before someone noticed you were missing, when the sound of the door opening stiffened your limbs.

The velvet armchair you’d chosen as your hiding place was excellent for concealing your uncooperative skirt, but impractical for reconnaissance. Keeping as still as possible, you counted the seconds in your mind until the door shut again, and nearly stood to check that the coast was clear until the sound of footsteps froze you in your spot again.

The game’s up, you thought, patting your dress free from the dust and lint that accumulated over the morning. You would have to answer for slipping away, yes, but the least you could do was look presentable in your confession.

You craned your neck toward the door to catch a glimpse of your discoverer, fully expecting whoever it was to be visible even from your limited view, but found no one. 

How strange. Those footsteps were definitely coming from inside the room, and there’s no way anyone could conceal themself so quickly upon entering. Why, you had squeezed yourself into all the nooks and crannies before deciding upon the chair as your best option. The poofy skirt severely limited your options, so what of an adult twice your size? No, the only logical explanation was that this someone had been in this room before.

You repositioned yourself so that you were crouching, the skirt slipping out from your socks again, and popped your head over the armrest. Sure enough, there was nobody standing in the doorway, or by the window, or in front of the bookshelf, or at the desk, or next to the fireplace. But there was someone sitting in the armchair. A young boy with striking light hair and furrowed brows, looking straight down at you with his shining blue eyes.

You wanted to scream, but the moment you opened your mouth a hand roughly covered it and pushed you back down to sit. Then there was a thud as the boy landed beside you and crouched behind the chair.

“Mmguhmma!” you said from behind his hand, which you hoped would be interpreted as “Who are you?” or “Let me go!” or even “Go find your own hiding place, you boorish cur!” but the boy only scowled and brought the pointer finger of his free hand to his lips. 

Something about the way he faced you ticked you off the wrong way. Maybe it was the way he so seamlessly entered the room and cornered you, or how he effortlessly took control even though you’d been here first, or his stare that seemed to freeze and pierce deeper through your skull with every passing second. Regardless of what it was you wanted out, and you raised your arms to push him away when voices from the hall stopped you.

“I think he went through here,” said one voice.

“Don’t pull a muscle, I’ll bet he’s gone to the library,” sighed a second. “Oh, why did we get stuck with finding him? I wanted to spend my afternoon eating teacakes, not chasing down beasts!”

“Remember, you’re on duty,” warned the first voice. “You’re not supposed to be eating.”

“I’m not supposed to be hunting down Prince Chevalier either. I think I deserve a reward,” huffed the second.

Your arms dropped limply to your sides as you stared back at the boy. Was this the Prince Chevalier? The peerless prodigy who memorized libraries, commanded armies, and dominated Rhodolite’s elite?

“He’s only a child,” said the first voice, sounding less assured with each word.

“He’s no normal child,” said the second. “You’re still new here, but when it comes to Prince Chevalier, you never want to get involved. You saw what happened in the garden, even his own flesh and blood can’t bear to be around him.”

“They’re only children, too! None of them even looked remotely interested in the tea party. Why did all those counts and dukes have to drag their children into their messed up politics?”

“It’s all a game to them, the world of the nobles. They’ll use their own kin as pawns to get even the tiniest bit ahead, because that’s how you play and that’s how you win. But when it comes to those noble beasts you don’t worry about winning. You worry about coming home.”

The room grew cold the longer Chevalier’s stared on you, and your jaw began to tremble. You wished you could at least turn away, but his grip never loosened as the conversation wore on, and his eyes never wavered from yours.

“It’s not right,” the first voice said after a long pause. “It’s just not right.”

“It doesn’t matter what we think’s right or wrong. We just do our job and pray we don’t cross the wrong path. The sooner you learn, the better,” said the second voice.

“Well, we still have to find him,” said the first.

“Don’t pull a muscle, the party’ll last all afternoon.”

It wasn’t until the footsteps completely died away that Chevalier finally released his hold on you, and as soon as he did, you quickly crawled backward, ripping the tulle in your haste, until you collided hard with the bookshelf, your chest galloping up and down like a sprinting horse. 

“If you’re going to cry, get it over with and go back outside,” Chevalier said sharply as he stood. The immense relief you felt when his eyes finally left yours was immeasurable, but as easily as the dread trickled away, sorrow was quick to take its place.

“What happened at the party?” you asked.

“If you weren’t hiding, you would know,” he said.

“I’m not h-hiding!” you stammered, getting to your feet. “I only got lost!”

“So lost that your first words when someone found you were ‘Go find your own hiding place, you boorish cur’?”

Your face grew hot. So hot that even Chevalier’s returned wintry stare couldn’t cool your flaming cheeks. “You startled me,” you said.

“You mean terrified. They all do,” he said.

“No— you don’t terrify me, Prince Chevalier!” you said quickly. 

“They always lie, too.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Then I will direct you back to the party and we can go our separate ways.”

Your lips trembled as he stood by the door and folded his arms. You wanted to crawl back behind the armchair and sink into the dark velvet, but you felt certain his eyes would pierce through the fabric undeterred no matter what. You stared at the ground, grabbing fistfulls of your skirt.

“I can’t go out there. My dress is ruined,” you said, not believing your own flimsy excuse. 

“Only teared. It can be easily mended,” he said. “A simple overhand or running stitch will suffice. There is a sewing kit in that desk.”

“But I don’t know how to sew,” you said.

“There are books in the library with pictures,” he said impatiently.

“Will you show me?”

“Haven’t I helped you enough?”

“Yes, so let me help you back.”

Chevalier’s brows furrowed, though unlike when he first found you, this time was out of confusion.

“Those people said they’ll be looking for you in the library, right? Tell me which shelf the books are, and I’ll bring them back here and we can fix my dress,” you said.

“And exactly how does that help me?” he asked.

“Because you don’t want to be alone as much as I don’t want to go out there," you said. "You came into this room knowing someone was here, right?”

When I attend social gatherings I didn't want to go to, I pass the time looking at the other guests and wondering who else didn't want to be there.

Tagging: @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus @thewitchofbooks @leonscape @rhodolitesrose @venti-tangents @dear-sciaphilia @ikesenwritings @myonlyjknight @ladyofcrowsx @otomefoxystar

If you would like to be added or removed from my tag list, please send me an ask or a message.

Yanno what. I think I wanna tease him a lil today. Gilbert. 18.

(Best wishes and congratulations, your grace~💜 pff okay that was cheesy. But i have more. You are a beacon of light in this fandom and an inspiration)

Love, V <3

A/N: here you go @vioisgoinginsane !! I💜 you to the moon and back.

Gilbert x reader; (obviously not canon)

Word Count: 1010

You’re waiting in his study. Surrounded by the dark wooden bookshelves filled to the brim with thick, leather-bound tomes on every subject under the sun, from romantic poetry to geographical histories to religious treatises, you sit comfortably in his heavy wooden chair, its soft, black leather padding reminding you of the gloves he always wears. You recall the feel of them on the slope of your cheek, the way he trailed the back of his fingers down it slowly, a whisper of a touch. His smile never faltered as he told you he had business to take care of and you were to stay put, stay safe within the thick walls of the castle until he returned. He’s come and gone before, leaving you several times since bringing you to Obsidian, but there was something in his eye, a flickering within its scarlet depths, a shadow dancing on the curve of his ever-present smile. Something about this parting was different….and when you asked him where he was going, he merely tapped the tip of your nose and said it wasn’t a concern for tender-hearted rabbits.

But you are no rabbit, content to sit in your hutch and tremble.

You have grown accustomed to Obsidian, and to Gilbert, to living in the castle, to the ways of its staff.

And you have made friends here.

You watched through the high arched window as he took his leave, sitting high atop his midnight-colored destrier, painted in the faded lavender beauty of twilight. You followed him with an unwavering gaze until he disappeared through the castle gates and could be seen no more. And then you turned, light-footed, and made your way to the one person who would know what was truly going on.

And now your gaze is on the study door when its golden handle finally dips and it is opened slowly by a leather-clad hand, now flecked with tiny red dots, imperceptible in the pallid wash of moonlight that falls through the study window. He moves, silent as a shadow, not expecting the soft yellow glow of your oil lamp or the sudden shadow that stretches across the lush carpeting to meet him as you rise to your feet. 

You’ve taken him by surprise, a rare feat. His face betrays him in the momentary parting of his sculpted lips, the rise of his dark brow. It is only temporary, the mask of genteel neutrality sliding back into place as he collects himself but you find a spark of courage in that split-second of the unexpected.

“It is a very late hour indeed for you to be hopping about, Häschen.” He leans his cane against the side of the nearest bookshelf, head tilted as he takes you in. You are in the same clothing as when he left. You have not gone to bed. Why did you wait all these hours? Were you….concerned for him? The very thought sends an unaccustomed warmth rippling through his veins. 

The lateness of the hour, the stillness in his body as he watches you, the uncertainty he is trying to hide. You feel it all, deep in your bones and are bolstered, your heart growing bolder with each passing second. Your steps are silent as you make your way towards him, the sound swallowed by the thick carpeting over the stone floor, by the shadows of the room. You stop in front of Gilbert, tilting your face up in order to look into his eye, now dark as claret. Your hand rises and the back of your fingers touch the cool skin of his cheek. 

He does not move. He barely breathes because this is the first time you are touching him like this, as if he is something precious, something delicate that must be handled with care. It is, in fact, the first time anyone has ever touched him like this at all.

Your fingers reach his neck and shift, turning, your warm palm pressed against his jugular, his heartbeat cupped in the palm of your hand, your fingers wrapping around the curve of his neck. His aide Walter’s words echo in your mind. 

The Prince has gone to exact justice on men who have wronged Obsidian. Rhodolite men who had stolen something invaluable. Not jewels or gold or weapons. No. They had stolen seeds that would grow in Obsidian’s dismal climate, that would feed its hungry people. Rare seeds from a far-away land that had taken Gilbert months of planning to accrue. Seeds that the men had simply destroyed without orders because they believed anything that benefitted Obsidian must be a threat.

And even you, with your gentle heart, could understand the Prince of Obsidian’s need for justice, his rage at the loss of something that could save his people, his fury at their pain. You felt it too, the injustice of it, the scorching anger that swept through you as Walter bowed his curly head and spoke, voice low, words heavy.

And your admiration for Gilbert burst into a flame that still burns as you stare up into a face so beautiful it feels like looking into the face of some celestial creature, a child of blood and moonlight, kissed by the stars. You rise onto the tips of your toes and press your lips to the corner of his mouth where you stay for the span of a heartbeat.

One.

Two. 

When you lower yourself back down to earth, something has changed. The world is not quite what it was mere seconds before. Gilbert is uncharacteristically silent, his eye a glittering gemstone as it searches your face. You feel a sudden heat sting your cheeks and your heart is hammering so loudly in your chest it’s a wonder he doesn’t hear it. Overwhelmed by your sudden boldness, you murmur good night and leave the study with the cool taste of his skin burned into your lips.

Now alone, Gilbert draws a tremulous breath, removing one blood-flecked leather glove and then slowly raises his bare fingers to the corner of his mouth, pressing them there, where the ghost of your kiss still lingers.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly @joiedecombat

Congrats once again Violet!! ❤️❤️ I hope you get lots of requests to your liking and have fun!! Thank you for all your hard work and the amazing fics you give us 🙇🏻‍♀️ Can I please have...Napoleon + laughing while kissing? 🥺💕 Gahh im excited!! Have a great day!!

A/N: Here you are @kissmetwicekissmedeadly 💜

Napoleon x reader

WC: 1174

You blame it on the fact that you still haven’t quite gotten the hang of operating an oven from the nineteenth century. You’ve watched Sebastian use it and Napoleon, of course. They make it seem effortless. And yet somehow….your efforts have resulted in your Hato Sabure, traditional Japanese dove-shaped butter cookies, looking less like doves and more like blackened crows. A frustrated sigh shuffles past your lips as you look over your personal baking disaster. All you wanted was to make Napoleon a treat, to thank him for the time he has spent with you. All the walks through town, where he points out little things around the city most people would not glance twice at, introducing you to his students, the ones who stare at him with starry-eyed admiration, and especially for coming to your aid the other night, when you were out too late in a town that is too dark for a lone woman hurrying home by dim streetlight. A shudder runs through you at the memory of that circle of men with their hungry eyes and yellow smiles. And Napoleon, appearing like an avenging angel out of the shadows, scattering them back into the dirty corners of the city from whence they came.

The kitchen clock chimes, shaking you out of your reverie, sending a jolt through you. Napoleon will be back soon! You barely have time to make a fresh batch. Your lips press together in a stark line of determination. You have to try.

And you really, really have to hurry.

The Hato Sabure are a beautiful gold, edged in crispy brown and still warm from the oven when you knock on the door of Napoleon’s room. Your heart surges forward when it swings open and he is there, his jacket hanging over the wooden chair by his desk, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the neck.

“Nunuche,” he says with a smile that reaches the beautiful jade of his eyes, warming them like the waters of the South Pacific. “What’s this?” 

You step inside, holding the plate of cookies, willing yourself to steady your breathing in the hopes that your heart will follow suit and settle down. 

“I wanted to thank you for the other night. Therefore…..cookies.”

His smile grows and your heart is beating so wildly at its beauty that your lungs are starting to follow your heart's lead, ignoring your brain's commands to breathe evenly. 

“Cookies are always welcome,” he says in that voice of his, that deep, sonorous voice that melts you like chocolate powder in warm milk. He takes the plate from your outstretched hands, his fingers lightly brushing yours. Your skin tingles at the point of contact, his touch sending tiny fireworks of excitement cartwheeling through you. He sets the plate on his nightstand and sits down on the edge of his bed, reaching for a cookie and eagerly takes a large, enthusiastic bite. 

You watch his expression carefully, your lower lip caught between your teeth. They may just be cookies but they are also a piece of you, your homeland, your history, as well as a token of your affection for him. 

Your admiration. 

Your yearning.

He blinks those beautiful nebulous eyes, his chewing suddenly slowing.

He stifles a polite cough behind one large hand, swallowing the mouthful down. This time his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“They are….unlike anything I have ever tried before.” He takes another bite but you notice the way he tenses while chewing.

Oh no….he doesn’t like them.

Despair floods you, too warm and too quick. It leaves you dizzy as you step forward, taking a cookie from the plate and quickly taking a bite. You have to know what's wrong……or they bad...or is it you?

And just as quickly as you bit it, you spit it out with a gasp.

It definitely isn't you.

“They….they’re so salty!” You stare down at the cookie, feeling betrayed and then despair gives way to horror. You were in such a rush to make a new batch….and the salt was in an identical crystal bowl as the sugar…..

“Napoleon, don’t eat anymore! I mixed up salt and sugar!”

“Dieu merci”, he mutters, setting down the half-eaten monstrosity and then at the look on your face, his eyes widen. “Nunuche?”

You can’t help it. You've started laughing. “You….were eating that horrible thing. My god. I am so sorry….I…” Your words are being swallowed by your relieved giggles. The cookies were truly awful. It really wasn’t you. 

Your laughter sparks his own and he reaches out, taking your hands in his and pulls you down onto the edge of the bed next to him. The sound is warm and welcoming and when mingled with yours, it's music to your ears. 

“Y-you were going to keep eating that…that…salt lick, weren’t you?” The idea of him choking down those terrible accidents fills you with equal parts amusement, affection and admiration of his kindness. 

He squeezes your hands, nodding even as he laughs, his gaze downcast as he takes in the sight of your hands in his, a perfect fit. When he looks up, you’re still laughing, softly, eyes bright as you meet his gaze. And then like magnets, you’re both leaning in at the same time, unable to resist each other’s pull, hands gripping each other tightly as the laughter trickles away at the press of his lips to yours. 

Your heart explodes with sunlight, warmth spilling forth from its chambers and filling you with a glow that only he can ignite. A small, final, breathless laugh escapes you and you feel the curve of his smile against your mouth before he begins moving his lips in earnest, his kiss blossoming from something small and contained into something bigger, something new and beautiful and utterly delicious.

When he pulls away, your lips parted in silent protest. He inhales, then gifts you a smile that would brighten even the darkest of midnights. He lifts your hands to his lips, placing a kiss on the top of one, then the other. You allow yourself to be so bold as to run a hand over his soft hair like you’ve been aching to do ever since you laid eyes on him.

“I believe," he murmurs, turning his face to where your raised arm is stroking his hair and placing a kiss on the inside of your forearm, “that this may be the key to removing the taste of your well-intentioned but dreadful treat.”

Again laughter bubbles up from within, from this new-found well of happiness that Napoleon has formed in your heart.

“Is that so?” Your voice is soft with tenderness, effervescent with joy, warm with desire.

He nods, reaching out and winding an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. “Oui. I am sure of it.” His gaze is bright. Playful. Sultry. 

He leans in, capturing your mouth again like the conqueror he is. 

Et tu te rends joyeusement.

And you surrender happily.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @bubblexly

Heyy can i please ask for clavis/8/comfort/2nd pov?💕

Characters: Clavis Lelouch x F!Reader

POV: 2nd person Genre: Comfort

Prompt #8: “Just once, I want to hear you say it.”

Wordcount: 3021

A/N: Heyy @aceuuuuu! 💜Thank you for the request. It was a journey to get it finished, got some angst sprinkled in to enhance the comfort, but I hope you'll enjoy the direction it takes. This is the second installment of my reverse-comfort mini series in this larger grab-bag event. Big shoutout to @venulus for the help talking through how Clavis might react in this situation 💜

**Note: Reader is bilingual.

Even with all three wicks lit, the candelabra still felt eerily cold in your hand as you pushed open the door. Night bathed the library in an ethereal, otherworldly view, as though this was a parallel Rhodolite filled with books and knowledge uncharted in your reality. Exotic, mystifying, and taboo.

You tiptoed across polished tile, taking extra care to mask your steps as you peered down the aisles. Rows and rows of lifeless bookshelves returned your curious stares, but you pressed forward with your investigation undeterred. Prince Chevalier was never wrong before.

As scrupulous as he is stubborn, he had said, with more contempt than you thought necessary at the time. But the more you listened to his detailed first-hand accounts, the more confused you grew that they existed at all. How could a person, a prince no less, possibly find the time and energy to think and do and be all the things Chevalier claimed of him without going mad? It spun your own head in circles simply trying to make sense of it. 

The bookshelves lining the wall all came up naught, but you had scarcely begun inspecting the rows by the windows when you heard it. Soft and faint yet determined to subsist, like the sizzling candles at your side. You moved slower, the sound growing more alluring the closer you approached, and poked your head just enough to see what was down each successive aisle until you found him.

Perhaps his head was spinning in circles. Or perhaps he was mad.

Perched at the far end of the row was Clavis Lelouch. But like with the library, the darkness altered his appearance into something utterly unrecognizable, and you struggled to keep your heart from beating out of your chest as you took in his mangled form. The space between the bookshelves was narrow, barely enough for two people to stand side by side, but Clavis managed to sit on the floor with his head resting on one of the lower shelves and his legs bent in odd positions to fit against the opposite bookcase. Beside him he had set a single candlestick in a jar, the flame so small the melted wax threatened to extinguish it at any moment. His long white coat draped over his stomach like a blanket, and his jacket and gloves lay neatly folded in the center of the aisle. In his hands he held a large book, though it was only one of many open tomes and papers chaotically piled around him. Ink-blotched sleeves rolled up to the elbows and wrinkled collar limply hanging open, Clavis looked as though he was knocked out cold in a brawl with the books, his normally coiffed hair sticking widely out in all directions and obscuring his typically brilliant shining eyes. But you knew he was awake, because the sounds you were hearing came out of his rapidly moving lips like a man possessed. 

Smoke and mirrors are his favorite toys, Chevalier once said. You pushed his voice away, tiptoeing deeper into the aisle to focus instead on what came out of Clavis’s mouth. Why did his words sound so familiar?

Before you could come up with an answer, your foot caught in the folded clothing and the candelabra slipped from your grasp and fell to the floor with a loud clank! Luckily the flames went out with the whoosh of the fall, but in the dead of night, the sound seemed enough to announce your existence to the entire palace. Clavis flinched in his seat, eyebrows climbing his forehead and hands zipping behind his back like a frightened child caught doing something naughty. But as soon as those brilliant shining eyes found yours, his shoulders relaxed and his face broke out in a brilliant shining smile.

“Dearie me,” he said, wiping the hair from his face and sitting up straight. “And what reason could a darling little one have in a scary library this late at night?” 

“I was about to ask you the same question,” you replied, regaining your footing and crossing your arms. “Minus the darling part.” You wouldn’t let him treat this as a joke. You came here on a mission. 

“Aha,” he mused, stretching his arms like a large cat. “What reason do any of us have to do anything, really, if not for our own enjoyment?” He locked eyes again with you, but you noticed him surreptitiously shutting books and flipping sheets over as he spoke. “Life would be so dull otherwise.”

Even a child has more patience. The only way to progress is to play his game.

“You find enjoyment practicing contortionism in the middle of the night?” you asked. Clavis let out a low, mirthful chuckle. The kind you’d expect from a villain who successfully fooled the hero.

“Would that impress you? To learn your beloved prince is so multi-talented?” he asked, moving in front of the books and spreading his arms. “These limbs will bend and flex at your command! Now, my sweet, why don’t you come and test out a warming embrace?”

The only way to progress is to play his game. 

Chevalier’s voice grimly echoed in your mind as you knelt before the prince and returned his hug. The dim firelight from the jar bounced off his tired face, giving him the waxy, droopy visage of an old candle, but despite his ghastly appearance he was nevertheless gentlemanly in the way he cradled you in his arms and drew small circles on your back.

“Even the bravest of us fear nightmares,” he whispered after some time. “But wandering around in the dark? That’s practically inviting anyone to spook you even more!”

Find his weak points, or he will exploit yours.

You shifted yourself so that your chin rested on his shoulder, giving you access to the mess behind him. Even in the low light you could tell Clavis covered his tracks well in his haste; books were snapped shut and loose sheets were either turned over or tucked away. But all you needed was one clue. You just had to stall until you could find it. 

“You wouldn’t spook a scared, darling little one wandering around in the dark, would you?” you asked innocently, scanning the book spines for any legible titles.

Clavis’s shoulders shook as he chuckled. “Well, I suppose that depends. It’s always impressive the more people you can manage to spook, so I might do it on a group. But if it’s only you—” he leaned his head against yours, his soft hair falling in front of your eyes and obscuring your vision “—I don’t know which side of me would win out. The gentleman or the beast.”

The urge to rip his arms off and shove him into the bookcase rose in your gut, but you suppressed it and instead brought your hand to his head and brushed his hair, moving it out of your view as you resumed your search. Of the book spines that faced you, none of the titles contained any letters or symbols you’d seen in the palace, but it was too dark to make out anything more. 

“Now, wasn’t that simply marvelous?” Clavis announced with a content sigh. “I always feel much more relaxed after a warm hug. Don’t you? And now that we’re both relaxed, let’s get you safely back to bed, hmm?” 

Find his weak points. Twist them to your advantage.

“Not yet!” you blurted without thinking, wrapping your arms more firmly around him. “I… uh… I’m still scared.” Though you couldn’t see his face, you could imagine the smug grin he grew.

“How about a lullaby?” he offered. “I recently learned one I just know will make you smile.”

“No, no. Just keep talking,” you said. The light in the jar was almost extinguished, and you frantically razed your eyes across the mess to catch even a sentence. “Tell me what your nightmares are like.”

He let out a breathy wheeze. “I don’t think you’re ready to hear about my nightmares.”

“Why? Afraid I’ll laugh?” you said.

“They wouldn’t be nightmarish then, would they?”

It was no use. Everything on the floor was hidden too well. He was enjoying this.

“Cry then?”

“Closer, but not quite.” 

Squinting in the dark hurt your head, and you shut your eyes to think. You missed your chance. Clavis could end the game whenever he wanted.

The only way to win is to break him when he thinks he’s got you.

Your eyes shot open and bore at the spot he previously sat in. And there it was. The book Clavis was holding when you caught him, hurriedly shoved to the back of the bottom shelf. It was much too far away to read, but the cover was visible enough for you to recognize it instantly; a book of nursery rhymes from your childhood.

You turned your head, your lips hovering inches from his ear. “Afraid I’ll find out what you’ve been studying?” you whispered in your native tongue. 

Clavis stiffened in your hold then rocketed backward. His eyes grew to the size of saucers and his mouth gaped open and closed as he fumbled over his words.

“Wha…. How…. Who—?” 

His expression morphed again and again with each question until finally settling on a bitter scowl. 

“I knew you two were talking about me,” he said darkly, in a voice you had never heard from him before. Not even the bliss of night sky from the windows behind him could soften the atmosphere, and your hands grew clammy as the room took on a macabre tone.

“Clavis.” You fought the worry building in your throat. “It’s not what you think.”

“Did you gather enough intel for your lingui-buddy?” he snarled, standing as he spoke. “Were you planning on heading to his room now or waiting until morning to reveal the latest juicy gossip about his failure of a brother?”

“It’s not like that!” you retorted. But Clavis had already turned away, the pile of books scooped into his arms.

“Isn’t it? Why else talk about a man in the same room as him in a language he can’t understand except to laugh at him?” he asked, slipping into the next aisle of shelves.

“Clavis!” you called, chasing after him. It wasn’t true. Even though you’d lived in Rhodolite most of your life, there always existed that veil of separation between you and the natives you could never remove as hard as you tried. And arriving at the palace as the first non-Rhodolitian Belle filled you with the renewed dread of jumping off the deep end from your first day in the kingdom. But despite his reticent introduction, Prince Chevalier quickly proved to be your most reliable companion in the palace. The conversations you held only served to build respect as he helped you navigate your new role, never to provoke others. Except, of course, when you asked about his eccentric younger brother whom you had grown exceedingly curious of.

So impotent he only shows his true self when he is backed into a corner.

You rounded the corner to the next row of shelves and found Clavis furiously shoving books into their slots, the scowl still present on his face. 

“Listen,” you began, “I talk with Chevalier about all of you because it’s my job.”

“Don’t lie,” he spat, ramming a particularly massive book into the shelf. “We already know who you’re choosing as king.” He turned again and disappeared down the next aisle.

“I still have a few weeks until I decide, and I’d like to get a comprehensive understanding of all the candidates before I choose,” you said. “But as some princes aren’t being fully honest with me, I am forced to consult others to fill in the blanks.” Though hot on his heels, you entered the next row to find it completely empty.

“From the day you arrived at this palace, I have been nothing but honest with you,” his voice called from another aisle, followed by the sounds of books getting shoved back into place.

“You just claimed you only came to the library to bend your limbs until I discovered you!” you argued back, dipping into the next aisle. Again, he was nowhere to be found.

“Correction.” His voice floated from someplace else. “You assumed what I was doing, and I only played along because it was enjoyable to me. I neither confirmed nor denied your theory. It’s your job as Belle to determine truth from fiction. And you have at your disposal the greatest fact-checker ever to set foot upon Rhodolite.”

And deflection is his preferred weapon when others are mentioned. Particularly I.

You huffed as you followed the sounds of his footsteps. Why were those two always at each other’s throats? Why was it so difficult to talk to one about the other? It was as if the castle itself was fueled by their rivalry. So why after all these years could they not settle things face-to-face? Why did you, a complete outsider, have to get roped up in their family feud?

“Why must you both be so pig-headed?” You couldn’t suppress yelling the insult in your language. You briefly pictured the two chasing each other in the library, slinging insults over bookshelves like children. But the image didn’t stick for long; it was far too improbable.

And then it hit you. Chevalier’s excessively detailed accounts of his brother weren’t given out of disdain. They were a plea.

“I may not know what all of those words mean,” Clavis called. “But Chevalier is ten times whatever it is you said. And he’s also a big, ugly, ungracious—Goodness!”

The loud thud instantly revealed his location, and you exited the row you were in and made a beeline for the library entrance. Fallen books lay scattered around Clavis’s collapsed body, and you ignored his protests as you knelt beside him and gently brushed your fingers over the fresh bruise growing on his forehead.

“Do you know what a closed door means?” you said. 

“I wasn’t trying to run away,” he groaned, pushing your hand back and sitting up. Darkness masked him, but you could still make out the distressed lines marking his face and the way his shoulders sagged with each breath.

“Clavis, when was the last time you slept?” you asked.

“This afternoon. I took a nap in the office,” he responded quickly.

“No, I mean really slept. Like a full-night’s worth.”

He didn’t answer, instead busying himself with rolling out his sleeves and fixing his crooked collar. It felt awkward watching him, like you were intruding on him getting dressed, and your eyes wandered to the books surrounding you. From nonfiction to folktales, Clavis had amassed a wonderful collection of works from your home. You picked up a children’s book and studied its cover, the familiar shapes and arrangements of letters bringing joy to the desolate library.

“Why?” you asked, flipping through the pages.

“I already told you,” he said. He clasped the final cuff and turned towards you. “I do things because I enjoy them. Nothing less and nothing more.”

“And I already told you I’m trying to learn more about you. And not just as Belle,” you said, your heart growing heavy. You stopped at a page with an illustration of two figures holding hands, a boy and a girl, and traced their smiles with your finger. “Please, just once, I want to hear you say it.”

Clavis inhaled deeply, then scooted next to you and copied your tracing, his calloused fingers occasionally rubbing against yours. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to learn more about you in turn?”

“Then why go through all this effort when you could just talk to me like a normal person?” you asked.

He tapped his finger on the boy’s head. “I could never talk to you the way Chevalier could. And Chevalier’s not a normal person.”

He was right. Chevalier wasn’t a normal person. He was a prince living arm's length from his people, but behind a veil. Neighbors, and yet a world apart. A world inhabited only by those who have seen the sun rise through his eyes, breathed the air that blew through his skies, and slept underneath the same set of stars. 

No, Chevalier and Clavis weren’t normal people. They were extraordinary. 

Pale light filtered in through the windows as dawn approached, and Clavis discreetly caught a yawn in the crook of his elbow as he stretched his back.

“I wouldn’t call that as relaxing as a warm hug, but now that we’re both sufficiently embarrassed, let’s get you safely back to bed and pretend this night never happened,” he said. But before he could stand, you grabbed his hand and pulled it back to the book. 

“Not yet,” you said. Ignoring his half-bleary-half-astonished expression, you dragged Clavis’s hand to the top of the page and placed his index finger on the first line of the text. “Your pronunciation needs work.” 

It might have been more prudent to take up Clavis’s offer of returning to bed. Your head swam with the discoveries you learned about the royal brothers, and you were sure they would better digested one at a time while lying in your comfy palace bed. Clavis’s weary head tettered concerningly as you guided his finger over each word in the book and sounded them out to him, and you were certain he would prefer to have this reading session at a time when he could keep both his eyes open. And you were positive that the best thing the both of you needed right now was a restful sleep. It was what Chevalier would say was the logical thing to do in the situation. But as night turned to day, the second prince’s name was never brought up again. And as the sun bathed the library in an angelic, auspicious glow, Clavis closed both his eyes and rested his cheek against your shoulder, and you closed the book and used your finger to trace the soft smile that bloomed from his lips.

I believe one of the greatest ways people connect is through language learning, and I have the deepest respect for those who learn the language of the place they live in when it isn't the same as their native tongue. Also, I realize this fic super overshot the wordcount limit, but to make up for it, Jin's comfort fic will be bite-sized, lighthearted, and maybe even a little comedic.

Tagging: @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus @thewitchofbooks @leonscape @rhodolitesrose @venti-tangents @dear-sciaphilia @ikesenwritings @myonlyjknight @ladyofcrowsx @otomefoxystar @my-day6

If you would like to be added or removed from my tag list, please send me an ask or a message.

A/N: A little fic inspired by @vioisgoinginsane and her delightful Cyran in Pyjamas art

Cyran x Reader

WC: 638

Head librarian of the royal palace is a job that suits you to a tee, but it comes with long hours, especially when arranging the procurement of foreign titles. By the time you are done with all your correspondences, first to the librarian in Jade and then the royal library of Tanzanite, the moon is hanging high in the inky black sky, a perfect crescent of silvery light. You hurry, feet whispering over the tiled floor of the palace, then crunching over the straw and grass along the path to the armory and then scuffling over the coarse gray stone of the armory steps. 

Above the collection of toothy weaponry is Cyran's bedroom: your destination on this warm, breezy night.

The oaken door, scarred and worn, opens on silent, well-oiled hinges. Cyran takes care of his things. One of the many admirable qualities about the Obsidian soldier that made you stumble and then fall for him. 

"Cyran?" 

You step into the room, lit only by the amber glow of the oil lamps. Your eyes need a moment to adjust before you spot him.

He's asleep at his desk, his check pillowed by strong forearms. Around him papers are neatly stacked. Quill and inkwell tidied away. Everything is ordered and structured, except…..

You smile softly. His hair falls messily across his forehead, a curtain of red, deeper than the blaze of the blacksmith's forge. It is the red of the sky on the tipping point of night. The dark crimson of the Scarlatta rose, whose petals have been singed by loving kisses of darkness.

You cross the creaky wooden floor as quietly as you can, soaking in the sight of the man who never shows exhaustion, who handles every challenge, from Clavis's wild whims to military training maneuvers, with a stoic sense of pride. Your touch is gentle, trailing the back of your fingers across his cheek, rough with several days worth of russet stubble. 

The caress reaches him beyond the place where sleep reigns, his mind breaking from the soft cocoon it has woven around him. He stirs, his dark eyes blinking away the last strands of dreaming that cling to his consciousness like cobwebs.

"You're back," he murmurs in a voice sandpaper-rough with sleep. 

"Mm hmm." His hair is one of the most luxurious textures you've ever touched. Soft and fine as spun silk. It flows through your fingers like water over stone. "Come on, Red. Bedtime."

He grumbles as you lean forward, taking his strong hands in yours and urging him up and away from his desk. It's only when he's standing you notice he's already changed for bed.

Running a hand down the soft linen of his sleep shirt, you raise your gaze, your smile curved with curiosity, soft with affection.

"If you already changed, why didn't you get in bed?" You know how long his day was, stretching from the early rosy-fingers of dawn brushing the sky until the first diamond-edged star cut its way through the dark sheet of night.

He yawns, his words slow and honey-thick with sleepiness.

"I didn't want to fall asleep without you so I went to my desk…." He yawns again and your heart feels like it might burst with the swell of affection that floods it. He went to his desk to stay awake, to wait for you.

Gently you lead him to bed where he falls back onto his pillow with a heavy thump. His eyes are already closing as you pull the thin woolen blanket up over his broad chest.

"You're coming?" His voice is foggy with another yawn.

You lean down, anointing his forehead with a petal-soft kiss.

"I'll be right there, my love." Your smile is lambent with affection as you drink in the sight of him, this wonderful man who shelters your heart so tenderly in his calloused hands. "I'll be right there."

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @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

Ikepri Walter X reader? Pretty please?

A/N: Ah anon....this was such a spark that set off a veritable forest fire of ideas. Thank you for the ask. I hope you enjoy the result!

I also want to thank everyone who voted in all my Walter polls. You guys decided Walter has black hair, gray eyes, is tall and slender and wears glasses 💜

I have not read translations of Gilbert's route so apologies if this diverges from canon.

Walter (the court physician of Obsidian) x Reader

"Der Anfang" is German for: the beginning

WC: ~2k

Everything feels strange here. The dark castle walls waver like shadows in the pale firelight of the sconces. The carpeting underfoot is thinner than in Rhodolite's elegant palace. You can feel the grooves between the stone flooring as you walk, chamberstick in hand. You realize now the meager light of your little flame won’t do much to combat the darkness that seems to linger in the corners of Obsidian but it feels better than being empty-handed.

All you are looking for is a place where you can step outside and breathe freely. Ever since your arrival here, ever since him, you’ve felt like your lungs are being held within an iron grasp, a fist that won’t let you get a breath deep enough to feel steady. And all that shallow breathing has you spinning as you tiptoe down a winding set of stairs, fingertips brushing the cold walls. At the bottom is a wooden door and relief floods you when you press down on the iron handle and it opens easily.

Freedom.

You’ve wandered outside from a smaller side tower that opens onto a narrow earthen path. If memory serves, this will take you to the herb garden. Thankfully, you no longer need your chamberstick. The full moon glows, gilding the world in soft, silver light. Kneeling, you set it down on a small bench at the beginning of the path and continue by moonlight. A glance over your shoulder shows you the castle, dark and imposing as it stretches its pointed towers towards the sky. Is he asleep? He’s said he doesn’t sleep much and the dark circle under his crimson eye attests to that. What would he do, if he knew you were wandering outside the castle alone? Your body contracts in a shudder. Nothing good.

He hasn’t harmed you…..and yet his smiles are sharp, so sharp it feels like they could slice you as easily as a bladed weapon. And his eye…..there is no light there. When you stare into the depth of all that red, it feels like you’re staring into an abyss.

Red like a warning.

Red like danger.

Red like blood.

You reach the iron gate of the herb garden and let yourself in. Maybe you’ll be able to find some chamomile or lavender. Something to help calm the mind, keep your nerves steady. It’s nightfall, yes, but that luminous moon is doing her best to guide you.

It’s when you take a turn down the dirt path that you notice another figure kneeling there. Hearing your approach, the man turns his head and his face is colored by surprise.

“What on earth are you doing out here, Fräulein?” 

Walter, the court physician, wipes the dirt from his hands as he regards you, head tilted to one side. He’s a tall man, taller than Gilbert, with soft black curls which are just the slightest bit too long, brushing the starched collar of his white shirt, and intelligent gray eyes the color of mist when it rolls across hills and fields on a brisk autumn morning. They’re framed by round glasses which he has a habit of adjusting, even if they haven’t slipped down the bridge of his aquiline nose.

“I–I wanted to catch a breath of fresh air.”

“At this hour?”

“I could ask you the same question, doctor.”

He glances past you towards the garden gate, as if looking for something. Or maybe someone. His brow creases slightly and those gray eyes are a fog that obscures his thoughts, storm clouds that block the blue sky. Several seconds pass before he lets out a breath, his shoulders relaxing as he turns back to his herb gathering.

“Well, then you can make yourself useful." He gestures towards the plant he is currently kneeling in front of. “I’m gathering Agranise.”

You sink down beside him, looking at the many stalks of leafy green plants dotted with small red-yellow blossoms. The scent hits you now that you are near, something sweet yet bitter, like an orange just going foul.

“If I remember correctly, Agranise is extremely acrid. And poisonous if taken in large doses.” You glance at him and he nods in confirmation. 

“Ja,” he murmurs as he reaches forward, carefully plucking the dark green leaves from their stems. “But in small doses, it is a considerable tool for pain management.” 

You watch him at first, noting how careful his long fingers are, how exact, as he breaks each leaf as far down the stem as possible before putting them into a glass jar you had not noticed at first. It's nestled safely against the small wicker basket he’s brought along. Carefully you mimic his action, reaching for the plant and plucking a leaf free. You work in silence for several minutes, the only sound is the occasional rustle of foliage when the night breeze sweeps through the garden as if checking on you both.

It’s you who breaks the quiet.

“How sick is he?”

Maybe you shouldn’t ask. He may not even answer but there is no denying who you are gathering these potent herbs for. Walter’s hand stills for a moment just as his fingers clasp a leaf stem and you can feel the internal debate he has with himself as he considers your question.

“The care is…..palliative,” he finally answers. “He must drink his tonics and it keeps the worst of it at bay.”

You pause, sitting back on your heels as Walter leans forward. His profile reminds you of ancient busts you’ve encountered in museums, the ones of emperors and distant kings who ruled the lands before they were what they are today. He carries a quiet nobility to him, even if he isn’t titled. In the museums, you would spend a long time studying those sculptures, those faces, wondering what kind of people they really were, off the pages of history and in the flesh. You find yourself wanting to study Walter the same way.

Your gaze, so steady and patient, unnerves him and he clears his throat, turning away from you and your bright, intelligent eyes.

“Can nothing be done?” Your words are hushed, like moonlight filtered through a haze of fog.

He grows still again, his head tilting downwards. Part of him longs to unburden his heart, to scream into the night yes, yes there is but he won’t do it, stubborn man, he will not undergo the surgery that would save his very life. But he also knows his role as a part of the Obsidian court. And he knows Gilbert, knows the ease in which he snaps his fingers and ends a life he deems dishonest. Unworthy. Traitorous.

The doctor rises, a single elegant motion, setting the jar inside the basket and motioning for you to follow him. You do, down the ribboned dirt path until he comes to a corner of the garden that takes your breath away. Hundreds of white flowers, almost pearlescent in the moonlight, stretch up towards the sky. A sigh of wonder escapes you as you walk over, kneeling down to get a better look at them. Their petals are white, veined with glimmering silver, and the round center a soft, glowing lavender. The scent is as haunting as the sight of them, something darkly floral with a hint of a honey-like sweetness.

You look up at Walter as he sinks down next to you.

“I’ve never seen these before. They’re stunning.”

He nods slowly and you notice how his gaze takes in the sight of them. His mouth is curved in a slight smile, his expression relaxed in appreciation.

“It’s called Night Ambrosia. They are incredibly rare. Although native to Obsidian, I believe this garden is the only place in the entire country where they still grow.”

Somehow his face is even more arresting than the flowers laid out before you. 

“What happened to them?”

He sighs. “They are beautiful but they require vigilant care. They have very exacting needs, from soil acidity to light exposure to their water source.” He turns his head to meet your gaze. “It is tiring work to keep them alive. And for flowers that only bloom at night…..it is too much effort for most.”

“But you do it.” Your voice is hushed, something about the night and the garden and Walter’s soft, almost sad expression doesn’t allow you to speak above a whisper. 

“Ja.” And he turns his head to glance at the castle, a dark outline against the quiet night.  “Someone must.”

Gilbert.

Emotion tightens your throat like silken cords. He’s not just talking about the flowers, but about the prince he is so desperately working to keep alive. The one so many fear and would love nothing more than to see crushed underfoot, a flower petal under someone’s unrelenting bootheel. An image of Chevalier’s heavy navy and gold boots appears suddenly in your mind, sending a shudder like ice water down your spine.

“Are they poisonous?”, you ask, wondering just how far the metaphor between flower and prince goes. 

In answer, Walter leans forward and gently plucks one with his bare hand. You notice a thin white scar that cuts across the top of it and wonder what happened. Maybe someday you’ll find the chance to ask.

And then he surprises you, turning and offering you the delicate blossom, the one that looks like moonlight’s kiss made real. For a moment, you are lost in the soft, almost unearthly silver of his eyes, suspended in a space where they are all you can see, a beauty so devastating it feels like it may break your heart.

You take the Night Ambrosia from him, your fingers brushing against his. His skin is warmer than you would have thought and for some reason that knowledge sends a pulse of something unexpected through you, a collision of awareness and sensation. He feels it too. He must. Because you look away at the same time, severing the thread of connection. He clears his throat, rising unsteadily to his feet as he wipes his trembling hands hurriedly on his black jacket. 

Der Wolf beisst das Schaf um Kleinigkeit. The Wolf will find any reason to bite the Sheep.

Tonight has been a risk he should not take again. Not just for him, but for you as well.

“The hour is late, Fräulein. I believe it is best for us both to return to the castle.”

Your heart is rocking like a boat on the water, upheaved by a violent wind, but you manage to mask your fluster with a quick smile.

“Of course.” You start down the path but turn when he isn’t following you. “Doctor? Are you coming?”

He has knelt back down, busying himself by pretending to look through the various glass jars in his basket. “Go on. I need a moment to confirm I have gathered everything necessary.”

“Ah....well...then....good night.” Why is it hard for you to leave?

He waves a hand, not looking up. “Gute Nacht.”

You turn again, heading back to the castle, unaware of how Walter looks up when he loses the sound of your steps, his eyes following your back as you grow more and more distant, a figure shrinking into the darkness of night.

When you finally disappear from sight, he exhales slowly, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes, willing the unsettling feeling of interest to disappear. And somewhere in the back of his rational mind, knowing it won’t.

As for you.....you fall asleep that night with the lunar blossom on your nightstand, its argent petals echoing the afterglow of emotion your meeting with Walter has left across your heart.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @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 @joiedecombat

A/N: Cyran and Gilbert tied for second place in my poll. I was originally going to put them together in one headcanon but the styles were too different and it felt very disjointed, so they each get their own little fic.

Suitor: Gilbert, prompt: strawberry

An entry for Aqua and my Summer Days Sultry Nights CCC

WC: 854

Oh how excited you are, running through the dark stone halls of Obsidian, your treasure cupped in your hands. An angel on a mission, flying on invisible wings. Up the winding staircase you go, heart hammering, breathless with anticipation at showing him your miracle.

You burst through the dark Mahogany doors of his study. He’s at his desk, black quill in hand. You can tell by his posture he’s been here for hours: the tired roundness of his shoulders, the lax lay of his left hand beside the parchment he's perusing. The sound of your entrance turns his head and the sight of you is like the warmth of a sunbeam through glass on a cold winter’s day. He sets his quill aside without a second glance, holding out his arms in invitation.

“My Häschen comes bearing gifts,” he murmurs as you slide onto his lap, hands still cupped protectively. He anchors you against his body with one arm, bowing his upper body to rest his forehead against your shoulder, breathing in your scent like it’s as essential to him as oxygen. 

“Look, Gil.” Although he stay curled against you for eternity, he raises his head to look down at what you have brought him. Slowly you open your hands to reveal the riches you’re holding: A single, large, perfect strawberry. It still glistens from the water you washed it with, its size and ruby red color speaking volumes about the abundance of flavor it carries. He also knows the other reason you are smiling so brightly.

“It…..is from here?” You nod eagerly. You have been experimenting with gardening, working hard to try and find a way to get crops to grow in the arid Obsidian climate. How many nights has he come to bed to find you asleep, surrounded by botanical treatises and guides and lexica. Determination drove you and now you have managed to unlock the soil’s secret to provision. At least for strawberries.

“For you.” You hold one up in offering but he tilts his head. “Have you tried any yet?” Your silence confirms his suspicion. He reaches for the precious fruit, plucking it from your palm with deft fingers. “Seeing as how this is the first one, I believe the one who devoted so much time to its care should be the first to taste, oder?” 

His eye is an even richer red than the strawberry and all you can do is smile in sweet defeat, knowing he won’t take no as an answer. Your gaze never leaves him, as if you were nothing but a speck of iron drawn by magnetic force. Not even when he raises the strawberry to your lips. “Open,” he commands, although his voice is practically a purr, soft and near the edge of rough. Your lips part and he holds the fruit to them. He watches, a man hypnotized by the white of your teeth as they sink into the flushed, succulent fruit, pale red juice immediately running from the broken flesh, over the curvature of your lips, across your tongue. 

“Mmmm,” you sigh as you’re hit with the full-bodied taste of the strawberry. It’s  the sweetness of summer, of sunshine, of long days and warm nights. It’s cool wind and cooler water. Shoeless feet tickled by green grass. It's fire-flies and full moons. It's bare skin and sweat. Your eyes close as you savor the sensation. Gilbert watches your face, the euphoria that has your body going lax in his arms, the way your eye-lids drop, stealing your gaze away from him. Your soft exhale of pleasure. Something hot and jagged suddenly bolts through him. He doesn’t want you looking like that, sounding like that, for any reason other than him.

He takes the half-eaten strawberry and sets it on his desk, rising suddenly, with you lifted into his arms. Startled, you cling to his neck as he carries you over to the large black velvet couch. “Gil?” Ever so slowly, he lays you down on your back, his expression alight with sharp intent as he leans over you. “I will have my taste now.” 

You’re about to tell him that he left the strawberry on his desk when his body drops to press you into the softness of the sofa, his hands sliding up to hold your face as he lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours with all the swift resolve of a triumphal conqueror. He licks the leftover juice from your lips languidly, leaving not even a millimeter of them untasted. You gasp as he guides you, tilting your head so he can plunder your mouth, devouring you until he has lapped up every single essence of strawberry that lingered there. He is merciless, chasing that ghost of summer flavor until you are left breathless beneath him. 

He breaks contact for a moment to look down into your face, now painted in shades of want and yearning and red-hot desire. And he smiles, satisfaction riding the blistering current of pleasure that rushes through his body. 

Much better, he thinks. And then your hungry hands are in his hair, pulling him back to you and all thought is abandoned, much like the poor, half-eaten strawberry.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @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 @joiedecombat

"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

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

I've got two requests for Only One Bed which is a trope I absolutely love (I've written it for Silvio and Clavis!) Both requestors named multiple possible suitors and so I thought why not leave the choice in your hands?

A/N: Last but not least: Cyran tied with Gilbert right behind Clavis and so he gets my final entry for Aqua and my Summer Days Sultry Nights CCC.

Suitor: Cyran, Prompt: Starry Night

WC: ~560

You think you are alone, here in the open heart of the forest, but you are wrong. Above, swimming in the inky darkness of a night sky, the stars themselves blink at the sight of you two, together. They watch, curious, as you fall, heavy with relief, into the fortress of Cyran’s arms and press yourself against the hard stonework of his body. Your eyes close as you hold him, as you breathe in the comforting, earthy scent of his skin. Here you are safe, far away from the palace with its many doors and many windows where even an idle gaze might happen upon something it shouldn’t. Something that is forbidden.

You hurried here, fighting through the grasping branches of the forest, the ones that plucked at your clothing and passed on the whispering wind’s warning. You were fleet-footed over winding paths littered with sharp twigs and leaves that hid dangerous inclines and threatening stones which punched the bottom of your leather boots as you ran. The forest watched closely as you cut your way through the darkness, no light but the pale slants of a crescent moon filtered through the trees to guide you. Finally you finally reached the clearing, the clandestine oasis in the middle of the forest, where the moon can shine unhindered and crickets sing a love song to the starry sky.

He is already there, having arrived earlier than planned. His usually bright hair is a burnished garnet in the darkness. He has his broad back turned to where you emerge from the trees, one hand at the pommel of sword, always at the ready, always dutiful. Always on guard.

Until he met you. You are the one that penetrated his rigid armor of order with your kindness, your intelligence, your warmth, your beauty. The one who reached through all those layers of loyalty, uncertainty, propriety, apprehension to take his heart in your hands, and remold it into a vessel capable of holding more than just those iron emotions. 

Now, as he holds you in his strong arms, your hands cradle his face and fill his heart with tenderness; your body presses against his, electric, filling his heart with desire. Your throat passes along sighs and whispered words of devotion, filling his heart with a sense of calm, of safety. Because of you, his heart is full, those once locked-up chambers unfolding like a lunar blossom in the starlight. 

He undoes his alabaster cape in one elegant movement and lays it down, a rectangle of light surrounded by dark green grass. He pulls you back in his arms, even a second apart too much, and locked together, you slowly sink to your knees. The world tilts and for a moment, only the star-crossed sky fills your vision, those glowing pinpoints of heavenly brilliance scattered across the velvet black of night. And then Cyran is above you and you close your eyes to the sky, sight unnecessary, as you run your hands through the silk of his hair, taste the hunger of his kiss.

The stars continue to shine, but you have found a source of something divine, right here on earth. Devotion in the caress of his rough fingers, benediction in the sound of your name on his lips, revelation in every heated kiss. You sink into the pure light of his affection, your heart alight with a love brighter than any nightborne star.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @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

A/N: This year, as I deal with a far more limited amount of free time, I want to focus on writing things that really spark something for me. These headcanons, which I started almost 6 months ago, recently came roaring back into my imagination and I decided to go for it.

This is imagining how these suitors would react to their small child entering their bedroom in the middle of the night.

Leon, Sariel, Jin, Keith and Gilbert

WC: 2.2 k

The child's white bedroom door, painted with a silvery moon and twinkling stars, opens slowly, a whisper in the still of the night. A small head pokes out, knuckling sleepily at eyes still heavy with the remnants of dreaming. A look left, then right.

The hall is empty.

Tiny bare feet tiptoe across plush carpeting.

One hand clutches a stuffed animal, the other reaches for the curved handle of your bedroom door and which, on a quiet exhale, opens.

Leon

He is awake the moment the door opens. A light sleeper, he never fails to hear when his daughter enters your bedroom, no matter how quietly she tries to. Even now, he pushes himself up, running a hand through his cacophony of dark hair, watching his offspring step as quietly as possible as she makes her way towards the bed. She’s so concentrated on not making noise that she doesn’t notice he’s already up and watching her until she arrives at the foot of the bed.

“Papa!” Her gasp is half surprise, half disappointment when she realizes he has, as always, heard her. Leon laughs softly, the sound still rough with sleep as he motions for her to come over to his side of the bed. 

“I was trying to be extra, extra quiet.” He offers her his hand and she takes it, climbing into the bed and then into the circle of his arms where he cuddles her close. “You were, peanut. You were very quiet but your father has very, very good ears. Especially at night.” 

Perhaps someday she’ll learn why. How good hearing and light sleeping could mean the difference between life and death in the slave pens. But not tonight. Tonight she snuggles into his embrace, clutching her brown bear with his black and red cape to her chest. 

“Shall I bring you back to your bed?” He brushes several dark locks of hair that have escaped her braid away from her plump cheek, his golden eyes warm with affection. His daughter stifles a yawn. “Can I stay here tonight, with you and Mama?” 

How can he say no? “Of course.” He shifts her, tucking her in close against his side where she curls up like a kitten, warm and content. Leon sighs, his heart fuller than he ever imagined it could be, before closing his eyes and drifting back to sleep.

Sariel

He looks up from the paperwork on his lap when the bedroom door slowly opens. One glance at the clock on his nightstand and he knows exactly who dares enter his room, unannounced, in the middle of the night.

His son, hair dark as onyx, eyes as bright as violets, peeks around the door to see his father sitting up in bed, reading by the soft light of an oil lamp. 

“I see you, little one.” The child gives up stealth and hurries into his parents’ room, climbing up the foot of the bed and crawling his way across the velvety covers up to Sariel, careful not to jostle you while you are sleeping. He settles in next to his father, peering at the sheaf of papers still in his hands. “Why are you still up, Papa? It’s so late.”

Sariel glances down at his son, his lips curved in a soft shadow of a smile. “You know what? You are correct. It is very late.” He carefully removes his glasses, placing them in a safe spot on his nightstand and then sets the missives and letters and parchments beside them. He extends his arms and his son happily accepts the silent invitation, burrowing into his father’s embrace, clutching his soft, stuffed snake with the onyx eyes close to his little chest. “We’ll go to sleep together, ok Papa?”

Sariel reaches out, extinguishing the warm light and then shifts, dipping his head to press a kiss to his son’s midnight hair. “A sound plan, son.” He closes his eyes, contentment flowing through him like the soft waves of the ocean. “A very sound plan.”

Jin

He freezes, lifting his head from your neck, his large hand going still on the sensitive skin of your hip. As involved as he may be with you, he has excellent hearing and the opening of the door is as loud in its whisper as a gust of howling wind. He feels the soft huff of air against his cheek as you reign in your galloping heart. Things were just getting good.... With a groan, a mixture of disappointment and the dying embers of desire, he sits up as you adjust your nightgown and tilts his head at the small outline in the doorway.

“Yes, Princess? What is it?”

“I heard a noise. In my wardrobe. I think there’s a monster in there.” Her voice is small, almost tentative as it floats through the darkened bedroom. Jin pushes back his covers, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. He reaches back, squeezing your hand, a gesture that says I’ve got this, before getting up and walking toward his daughter. "Alright little lady, let's go investigate." She slips her small hand in his, clutching her stuffed baby eagle close as they make their way back to her bedroom.

Stepping inside, she pulls her hand away from his and points to the white and lavender closet. “In there, Papa.” Her garnet-colored eyes are wide as Jin clears his throat, fixing a scowl on his face as he faces the wooden doors.

“Listen up. This is Prince Jin speaking and any and all monsters hiding in this wardrobe better leave RIGHT now or else you’ll have to answer to me!”

“Yeah!”, she adds helpfully, eyes narrowing as she glares at the wardrobe, a mirror image of her father.

Jin reaches forward and flings open one door, then the other. Inside are all her dresses and coats. Her shoes all lined up neatly along the bottom. A few stockings peek out of small drawers and her wooden training sword and shield with Jin's crest lean against the side, askew. Jin searches through the clothing, stands on his toes to check the top shelves. He makes a show of it, incredibly thorough and yet serious. Then he turns around to face his daughter. “Looks like any monsters are long gone. And they won’t be coming back.”

A smile like the dawn breaks over her face and she rushes towards him. He leans down and catches her in his arms, holding her tightly against his broad chest. “Thank you, Papa. No monster would ever be stupid enough to come back now!” 

Jin carries her back to her white four-poster bed, grinning as he lays her down amongst her fluffy pillows and pulls the soft covers up to her chest. “Nope, not when they know they have to deal with me.” He glances over his shoulder at the wardrobe. “But how about tomorrow, we go to the knights training grounds and you bring your sword and shield. We can work on your swordsmanship so any monster knows to be just as afraid of you too.”

She grins, nodding eagerly. “Good idea!”

Her enthusiasm has him returning her grin and he leans down, running a large hand over the soft chestnut of her hair. “Alright then. Get some sleep so you’re ready for tomorrow.” She snuggles down into the warmth of her blankets, stifling a yawn even as she rolls over. “I love you, Papa.” He swallows for a moment at the lump of emotion that suddenly swells his throat. “I love you too. Princess. So much.”

Keith

Little feet whisper across dark green carpeting, continuing their journey to his side of the bed. “Papa,” she whispers, tugging on his covers, her stuffed deer dangling from her grip on its antlers. Keith inhales, his handsome face frowning in his sleep as her voice cuts through the fog of dreaming. But he doesn’t wake up yet. However, his daughter is nothing but insistent. She pats his upper arm, clearing her throat and speaking again, this time louder. “Papa. Wake up.”

His golden eyes open slowly and he blinks as he returns to the here and now. The sight of her, with her ashen blond hair and your intelligent eyes, has him sitting up in bed, the last misty tendrils of dreaming vanishing like fog in the sunlight.

“Yes, darling? What’s wrong? Is everything ok?” 

She glances to your empty side of the bed. “I miss Mama.” Those words send his heart spinning, leaving a trail of ache inside his chest as he nods slowly. “I do too. But you remember how she had to go back to Rhodolite. I promise, she’ll be home again soon. Just a few more days.” He reaches for her hand, his thumb running soothingly over her knuckles, marveling at the tininess of her fingers, the softness of her skin. She speaks again, her voice compressed by sadness. “I still miss her.”

He sighs as she hangs her small head, curls covering her face. Then he has an idea. Slowly he gets out of bed and leads her by the hand across the room to the heavy glass doors of the balcony off of the bedroom, his favorite place in the palace to stargaze. Keeping a secure hold of her hand, he slides open one heavy glass door and then walks with her to the large brass telescope. “Take a look in there,” he murmurs, kneeling as he adjusts the eyepiece for her. He wraps one arm around her middle, holding her close. “Can you see it?”

She leans forward slightly. “It’s blurry.” Carefully he adjusts the focuser until he hears her breath catch. “Oh it’s so pretty!” She stares through the telescope in wonder at the bright star, brilliant in its silvery-blue light. 

“That,” he says softly, almost dreamlike, “is your mother’s favorite star.” Gently he pulls her away from the telescope and points upwards. “You can see it without the telescope just there, see the three stars just in a row?” She nods emphatically. “It’s the one all the way to the right.” He pauses, resting his chin tenderly on her small shoulder. “When you miss Mama at night, like you do now, you can look up at the sky and find her favorite star. It may make you feel better.”

She turns around and wraps her arms around Keith’s neck, hugging him with all her might. “Thank you, Papa.” He hugs her close, this walking embodiment of his heart, and smiles.

Gilbert

He is already sitting up when his daughter approaches the bed, her stuffed tiger tucked under her arm. He heard the opening of the door and knew who it was immediately. No one else would ever dare to enter his bedroom in the middle of the night without fearing for their life.

“It’s past midnight, Mäuschen. Why are you wandering through the shadows?” His voice is a gentle that only you and those very close to Gilbert have ever heard. A genuine softness like the blanket of dusk as it falls over the land, the protective moon whispering as it cradles a favorite star. His daughter sighs, pushing away a stray lock of dark hair. “I’m hungry.”

He laughs quietly, his chin tilting down as he regards her. He speaks quietly, not wanting to wake you. You need rest after all, so close to the birth of your second child. He gets up, slipping on his black silk robe and then holds out his hand. She takes hold of it, wrapping her cool little fingers tightly around him and then pauses. “Wait a moment, Papa.” Turning back to the bed, she carefully places her stuffed tiger next to you where you sleep. “Watch out for Mama,” she orders sternly and doesn’t notice the bright gleam in Gilbert’s eyes as he smiles at her protective gesture. She turns, grabbing his hand and nods. “Ok Papa, fertig.” Ready.

He leads her out of the bedroom and a short walk down the hall to his office. Once inside, he walks over to his massive wooden desk, made of the finest dark walnut, and leans forward, turning on the desk lamp. He settles into his chair, into the crimson velvet cushioned seat and motions for her to join him. The Obsidian princess climbs into his lap, eyes bright as she looks at him expectantly. “Shh…this is our secret,” he murmurs, tapping his finger on the end of her nose. She grins slowly and nods. “Versprochen, Papa.” I promise. One arm holds her close as he leans down and opens a bottom drawer. Inside is a small round tin which he takes out and sets on his desk, next to the missives and parchments waiting for him come morning light.

“Go ahead,” he says encouragingly and she leans forward, carefully working the lid off with chubby fingers and then he feels her straighten up in excitement when its contents are revealed. She reaches in and pulls out a hearty oatmeal and raisin biscuit. The cookie is nearly at her lips when she pauses, thoughtfully. Shifting in his lap, she turns to face him and then holds it up. “Do you want a bite, Papa?” Her generosity has him smiling, a warmth like no other brightening his heart as he pretends to consider. “You don’t mind sharing?” She shakes her head, several loose, dark curls framing a face that is the youthful echo of yours. He leans forward and bites off a tiny corner, then leans back with a satisfied sigh. “Mama makes the best biscuits.” 

She bites into the same cookie with much less restraint and then smiles, chewing happily. “Mm hm.” She leans back against his chest and he wraps his arms around her as she continues munching. “Just this one and then it's back to bed with you, little mouse.” She nods, mouth too full to answer and focus far too lost in the pleasure of her treat to respond verbally. Gilbert sighs, turning to rest his cheek against the top of her head. He is utterly and completely at peace.

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @mastering-procrastinating @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381

For Leon content: @leonscape

For Gilbert and Leon: @ozalysss

For Keith: @drewadoodle-dandy

May I Have This Dance? -Leonardo x GN!reader

Pairing: Leonardo x GN!Reader 

Rating: Fluff

WC: 326

An: Just a cute little drabble to get me back in the rhythm of writing. The idea of dancing with Leonardo has been floating in my drafts for forever. I hope you enjoy! 

Tagging: @toloveawarlord , @thewitchofbooks , @queen-dahlia , @kissmetwicekissmedeadly , @aquagirl1978, @ikesimp100 , @sarahann-1984 , @kpop-and-otome , @citizensofcradle , @littlewitty , @curious-skybunny , @lordsisterxotome , @queengiuliettafirstlady ,@namine-somebodies-nobody , @jihanel , @violettduchess , @leotoru , @vampiricpancake , @kkkramba

The sweet smell of hot chocolate fills the kitchen as the clock strikes midnight. Humming a tune as you clean up the kitchen, you can’t help but sway to the melody. Your heart is still light from the date earlier in the day. As you spin in the moonlight, arms wrap around you and you become face to face with your love. 

“There you are Cara Mia” His voice whispers in your ear and you shiver. Pressing a kiss to your cheek he releases you only to bow. 

“May I have this dance” He holds out his hand and a melody fills the kitchen from another room. Letting out a soft giggle you can’t help but take his hand, as he sweeps you into a dance. The whole kitchen becomes your ballroom as he twirls you, his golden gaze never leaving yours. 

When the melody dies out, his hands never release you, he only pulls you closer and continues his dance.

“Don’t forget your drink” He slows down as he brings you both to the counter where the cups lay. Taking a sip from one, he still keeps one hand wrapped around your waist. Drinking the warm drink only has your mind growing more tired. A armth from the drink mixes with the happiness of being with your love. Finishing your cup, you rest your head against his shoulder, letting out a startled gasp as he lifts you in his arms. He starts to carry you out of the room, interrupting any protests with a kiss. 

“Let’s get you back to bed,I’ll take care of the cups and maybe tomorrow we can finish that story.” He whispers, and your eyes close with a soft sigh.  

“I’ll finish the story, you’ll just use me as a pillow” you correct with a giggle, resting your head against his shoulder. You let the sound of his footsteps lull you to sleep, still cherishing the warmth of your dance.

Christopher Isherwood at the window of his Berlin apartment, 1933, by Humphrey Spender