#and finally yves accepts

[syneilesis]

☕

She has her hair tied up today, Yves thinks.

The woman grins brightly at him, phone clutched in hand. Emma—Yves had come to remember after she ordered the bitterest coffee with the sweetest smile—has graduated into becoming a regular, and a loyal one at that. At least four times a week and usually in the afternoons. She'd come with a book under her arm and a charming smile that never fails to trap Yves's gaze for seconds longer than he'd like to admit. The second time she came by, she complimented the pastries, which filled Yves with warmth and pride and something he couldn't identify. The only hint of it was the heat that pooled in his cheeks and the way he brushed off her praise with a stuttering denial.

"Good afternoon, Yves!" Emma greets, cheerful and sprightly, that has the barista look at her funny.

"You're too happy today," he says, already preparing Emma's drink despite her not even making her order yet. Every time Emma comes to the cafe she'd order the same coffee but with different pastries. After tasting Yves's brew Emma apparently fell in love, as she had gushed to him when she returned, two days later. That time, Yves dropped the paper cup he'd been holding, which caused Nokto—his co-worker during that shift—to guffaw, much to his embarrassment.

"Of course! I'm going to do something brave today."

Yves does a double-take. "Are you finally trying skydiving?"

"What? Oh, no! Not that kind of brave." She shakes her head before bringing up her phone. With a blush she says, "I'm actually going to text this guy I really like. Ask him out. I came here because I want to be in a place that gives me comfort and courage."

Midway through writing Emma's name on the cup, Yves falters. A guy she likes? Is there even one? Is it the blond guy who hangs onto Emma like a hyper golden retriever? That can't be—Yves has seen her repeatedly rebuff the boy, friendzoning him like one can't believe. If it wasn't the blond kid, then who...?

There's a twinge in Yves's chest that he refuses to examine any further, lest he comes away disappointed and broken. He swallows his unease and musters his own courage. "I-I see ..."

Emma goes on, oblivious to Yves's internal dissolution: "Yeah! Do you—would you help me text him?"

"W-What?" It's an effort to mask the distress in his voice. "Help you?"

"Yes. Do you want to see his picture?"

And what can he say to that? First and foremost, Emma is a customer, and Yves has to accommodate her wishes as a service employee. As they say: the customer is always right—in this case, seemingly right.

"Sure," Yves says, for a lack of anything to answer. At the very least he didn't sound like he ate Clavis's cooking. Small victories.

If anything, Emma's grin widens. She raises her phone a little more and turns it around.

Yves stares back at him through the camera screen.

His brows furrow in confusion. "Huh? Your camera's open, all I'm seeing is myse—oh."

Oh.

It clicks, then.

A hot rush of hope and possibility takes over Yves's body, and he feels like floating on air.

"So ..." For the first time, Emma displays uncertainty, her smile straining and shrinking. "What do you think? Should I ask him out...?"

Words of denial and rejection clamor to escape his mouth, but Yves doesn't really think, doesn't really feel that. More than anything, he wants to say yes. Very, very much.

He tries: "I—"

"No flirting on duty."

The anticipation shatters, and Jin grins toothily at them, wagging his eyebrows in a way that summons a furious blush on both Yves's and Emma's cheeks.

"I—" Yves scrambles. "I'm going to get more coffee beans!"

He practically flies to the back door, leaving an amused Jin and a confused Emma. Yves wants the ground to open up and drop him all the way to the earth's core. He's giddy, he's terrified, he wants to burst into a song. He just hopes Emma's still there when he calms down and gets back.

[montaigness]

yves chops seth's arm off and seth takes out one of wynn's eyes . none of them like each other.

[hoshifighting]

okay hear me out…..pick me seventeen like completely pathetic and yearning seventeen who act like picks me for their s/o attention

pick-me!seventeen, attention-seeker!seventeen pathetic!seventeen, yearning!seventeen

seungcheol is the ultimate pick-me. it’s like he’s got a radar for your needs and wants. you forget your hairbrush? no problem, he’s got a new one waiting on your desk. craving ramen? a steaming bowl appears out of nowhere. it’s a bit overwhelming, honestly, especially when the gifts keep getting more extravagant. you were about to stop him when you saw an yves saint laurent bag on your desk. you tried to explain it wasn't necessary, but he just grinned like he won the lottery. “i just want to make sure you have everything you need,” he says, looking way toopleased with himself as you see yet another luxury item appear.

jeonghan tries to play it cool, like he’s not affected by your presence at all, pretending he doesn’t care while he’s actually dying for your attention. he’s got this casual air about him, but you can tell he’s obsessed. the way he casually tosses a snack in your direction, or how he pretends to be deep in conversation with friends, but keeps glancing at you. when you finally acknowledge him, he’s way too nonchalant about it. “oh, hey,” he says, as if he wasn’t just counting down the seconds until you noticed him. “didn’t see you there.” his tone way too casual for someone who’s clearly been waiting for you.

joshua takes a more direct approach, pulling out his guitar or starting to sing whenever you're nearby. it’s like he’s trying to lure you in with his talent. sometimes, it’s a bit awkward, especially when he messes up a chord or stumbles over lyrics. but he keeps going, hoping you'll compliment him. “how’s that for a song?” he asks, trying to sound casual but clearly hoping you’ll swoon over his performance. it’s awkwardly charming, and you can’t help but smile. “not bad, right?”

junhui is always trying to be the cool guy, but he’s clearly not very good at it. he’s playing basketball outside, and every time you walk by, he tries to show off with some flashy moves. he dribbles a little harder, jumps a little higher, and always makes sure to throw you a grin that’s way too hopeful. “yo, you see that shot?” he calls out, clearly trying to impress you. “thought you might want to see my skills up close.”

soonyoung can’t help but embarrass himself trying to get your attention. he’ll leave a banana milk on your desk with a sheepish grin, saying, “for you, shawty.” he says trying to sound cool but clearly embarrassed by the gesture. his cheeks are a little red as he avoids eye contact, clearly hoping you’ll appreciate the small, quirky gift. you can’t help but laugh at his antics, and he looks so pleased when you accept the drink.

wonwoo is all about paying attention. he overhears your conversations about books or skincare and then subtly drops references to them in his own conversations. you catch him reading a book on dermatology right after you talked about skincare. “i heard you’re into this stuff,” he says, trying to sound casual. “thought i’d give it a read too.” he mumbles, clearly hoping to impress you with his attentiveness. it’s sweet how he goes out of his way to connect with you.

woozi is subtle with his attempts. he’ll spin a pen or crack his fingers, trying to look cool and nonchalant. when you ask him to teach you how to spin a pen, he’s caught off guard and turns beet red, clearly flustered by the close contact. “uh, sure, I can show you,” he stammers, trying to hide his embarrassment. it’s adorable how he struggles to maintain his cool.

minghao is protective in a subtle way. if he overhears the boys talking shit or swearing next to you—you know, boys. he’ll step in, saying, “hey, we’ve got a girl here, watch your language.” he’s got this protective vibe, and you can’t help but appreciate how he stands up for you, even in small ways. it’s clear he values you and wants to make sure you’re treated well.

mingyu like flaunting his strength and height. if you’re struggling with something, like lifting a chair, he’ll swoop in to help, lifting it effortlessly. when he’s next to you, he’ll flex his muscles or show off his veins, trying to get you to notice. “need a hand?” he asks, lifting your pile of books effortlessly for you. “just thought you might need some help with this.”

seokmin is the ultimate “pick me” guy when it comes to social media. he’ll post things related to your interests, like a song from the artist you mentioned or a dish you posted about. when you like or comment on his posts, he’s over the moon, celebrating like he’s just won the lottery. “I saw you liked my post,” he’ll say, grinning like a fool. he’s clearly obsessed with making sure you know he’s into the same things you are.

seungkwan loves making you laugh. he’ll crack jokes loudly, making sure you hear them, and give you a sidelong glance to see if you’re laughing. when you try to hold back a laugh, he’s beaming, he flashes a triumphant grin, clearly pleased that he managed to get a reaction from you.

vernon is always tuned in to your preferences. if you mention liking boys in pink hoodies, he’ll show up in one the next day. if you talk about sour patch kids, he’ll have a pack open right next to you, offering you some with a shy smile. “you like these, right? I don’t really like them, you can have it...” he says, clearly hoping you’ll appreciate the gesture.

chan is the quintessential attention-seeker in P.E. classes, for example. he’ll go all out to show off, from pretending to be hurt to make you worry to making sure you see him perform. “hey, partner up with me!” he’ll call out, positioning himself right next to you, clearly hoping to get closer. when he’s showing off, he needs to make sure you’re paying attention to him.

[hwaightme]

Impressionism

(masterlist) (taglist)

🩸 pairing: vampire!gallerist/collector!seonghwa x art historian!gn!reader 🩸 genre: fluff, noir, soulmates, supernatural, strangers(?) to lovers, art nerding 🩸 summary: a post-graduate student specialising in impressionism, you were a regular visitor to the many art galleries in the city. who knew that among the paintings you would encounter your favourite, timeless work of art? 🩸 wordcount: 12.3k 🩸 warnings/tags: questionable editing, mention of blood, fangs, wounds, suggestive, many pet names (love, darling etc), art theory/history ponderings, time skips, mention of rituals, philosophy, hwa is centuries-old, yearning hwa 🩸 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🩸 a/n: happy birthday to @starrysvn!! lheo, ilysm, and i hope you enjoy this little rambling <3 hugs to everyone, all reblogs, notes and comments appreciated! 🩸 playlist: nfwmb - hozier, who is she? - i monster, keep on loving you - cas, la vie en rose - edith piaf, a l'ombre de nous - pierre barouh, les feuilles mortes / sous le ciel de paris - yves montand, moon over bourbon street / until - sting

‘Love and Pain’ - an enigmatic masterpiece that was painted by Edvard Munch, the famous Norwegian artist, in 1895. In vibrant oil paints a dramatic scene interpreted by millions as something more sensual, darker, revealing was immortalised. Perhaps quite literally. You leaned back on one hand, feeling the coolness of the bench located in the middle of the gallery hall, careful to not let the notebook in your hands slip from your lap. ‘Vampire’ - first, it was a label for the woman with the alluring, long red locks that was leaning over her supposed lover, then it turned into a second name for the work. It was comical how Munch himself had initially stated the piece depicted nothing more than a woman kissing the neck of a man, and yet, the tale had told itself. What followed were six versions of this same subject, with a woodcut titled “Vampyr II”, followed by paintings titled ‘Vampire’ and ‘Vampire in the Forest’, and then through common acceptance that this indeed was the ‘submission of a man to the bite of a vampire’, if you were to paraphrase a critic who had been in an astoundingly similar position as you, except without the decades upon decades of other material to refer to. They had been the firstcomers, the initial perceivers to set the tone for society’s consumption of the artwork, the louder of the many voices in the artwork who often had the final say. In some senses, they were your long lost colleagues - they were there to create history, and you were there to study it.

While it was not exactly a part of the movement you had decided to specialise in, you nonetheless would never reject the opportunity to learn more about the stunning world of visual arts, trying to guess how the artist had felt in the moment, what did they see beyond what they presented to the world, how did they translate the heart into brushstrokes. You were taken by all forms of art since you were little - having grown up surrounded by items that were far removed from what you called your air, you were intrigued by anything that was external to your version of ordinary. In your case, it just so happened to be the little private gallery that you had spent almost all of your monthly allowance to visit when you were a school kid - you had been so dedicated, in fact, that the elderly guard who had often also acted as a guide to the visitors had become your first friend in the art world, something of a grandparent figure, and on multiple occasions - when the lack of eyes would allow, simply let you through with a grin and glance out of the entrance doors.

And so here you were, many years later, many hard decisions and conversations behind you, regarding artworks with an unprecedented soulful closeness that you had initially thought was unattainable. Had you believed all those who remained outside of the walls of your personal paradise, you would have been immersed in the same cycle that had been drilled into the majority of your family members, except maybe a handful who you had never met for the exact reason that they had chosen something for themselves. But you regarded your dream as the thorned path - undoubtedly more challenging, not immediately fruitful, but in the long run leading to the heaven of your design. What more could you ask for?

It was enjoyable to be alone with the paintings surrounding you, portals to new realms that any visitor could have the pleasure of exploring. And what was even more inspiring, was that in the eye of every beholder was a different universe, and no matter who one would speak to, their version of the painting would be different, even if just slightly. You huffed, amused. When was the last time you had visited a gallery with anyone else? You could not quite recall - it was likely that you had never seeked company from another because you were more than satisfied with the company of the legendary works that were regarding you from the many walls. It was possible to compose oneself, spend limitless time on every piece, study the details, and drift into one’s own musings when there was no one to ground them. This was when you dared to say you got your best work done. Even though you, of course, conducted research within university and ventured out to galleries, museums, collectors or auctions only within professional bounds, the bulk of the thinking process was carried out in times such as this. When it was just you, your notebook and pen, and a new point of focus. However, this time, you could not say you were fully attentive to the painting that you had decided to focus on, as a certain someone was appearing to share your level of interest in ‘Love and Pain’ too. 

A gentleman who could not be much older or younger than you, at most a couple of years, stood off to the right of the bench, unmoving, gaze fixated on the painting. Dressed in a pinstripe navy suit, light blue dress shirt, lacquered dress shoes and a matching navy tie, he was nothing short of being a moving work of art. Hints of a glimmer from his thin framed, elegant silver spectacles gave the man a scholarly aura, while the slicked back dark hair - evidently a lot longer than the styling would suggest, added notes of business, entrepreneurship, perhaps leadership. Nothing was out of place, not a crease, not an exposed thread in sight. Needless to say, your curiosity had been sparked.

Much like you found joy in exploring creations in the realm of the visual arts, you were fond of crafting stories about the people who were strangers in passing. You could not help it; perhaps this affinity for creative internal ramblings had come as a package with studying the degree you had selected, or perhaps this was a naturally occurring guilty pleasure that you simply had not had the chance to entertain before you cut yourself off from expectations and predetermined patterns of thought. But now, you had the full pleasure of wondering, letting your mind travel to lands far away as you took the real life masterpiece in, and pondered why the man could be here, what he could be thinking as he studied Munch’s work, and what resonated with him, and only him. 

There was a melancholia with the weight of centuries resting upon his shoulders, that much you could decipher in the stranger’s stance. Even then, there was a gentle burning flame within his heart judging by just how dedicated he was to inspecting the artwork. Like he was seeing an old friend for the first time in years, and was attempting to memorise them anew and recognise each change, bit by bit. You suppressed a chuckle, entertaining the possibility of this man finding a kinship with the painting, but chose to set the idea aside for the time being, instead focusing on sketching his emotional landscape. Was the stranger remorseful? Lonely? Perplexed? You could not quite pinpoint the answer, at least not before you noticed the man’s head starting to turn, and soon enough, his eyes were peering into your own.

They were two pools of deep chocolate, an all-consuming shade that, due to the ever so slightly dimmer lights than in the general halls of the gallery, appeared to be approaching a captivating onyx. The gaze that originated from behind the glasses, and glided across the room that was suddenly too small for two struck you, and you could feel heat starting to rise on your face, blush threatening to reveal the effect of the man’s spontaneous act of confidence. Lowering your head, you gave the stranger a sheepish grin, and pretended to make a random note, pen erratically scribbling over a filled page. He continued to regard you with that same unwavering expression, and only when you looked up again did he seem to catch himself and give you a closed-mouth smile, equally as bashful as yours, and crossed his arms. One step, another, and he was right by the painting, though careful to not obstruct your view - instead, he took his time to read the brief paragraph on the information plaque that had been stuck to the wall off to the side of ‘Love and Pain’. With the same familiarity that is common among those grieving, or in a state of existential sorrow. A bittersweetness prevailed in his aura, one that reminded you of autumn - the falling leaves in red and gold, twirling to join a magnificent carpet, but nonetheless, making a departure, albeit a nearly unnoticeable one. Had he seen many fallen leaves? Was he himself approaching the season? You gasped, but even though the sound was barely audible, you caught the stranger making a minuscule turn in response. 

His footsteps were louder than your thoughts, his departure an irrevocably impactful act that left you breathless. You did not know him, and yet you felt as though you had gotten a glimpse at multiple lifetimes, and were part of a moment that was greater than yourself. In the wordless exchange, question after question had found its root, and something told you that you should not dare attempt to craft him a backstory, and choosing to believe in anything but what would be declared by him would be a gross misinterpretation, much like one that was carried out by those who did not wish to reflect on art and look beyond a first impression. For the first time since you had made your initial discovery of the arts, you felt like you were not alone in the gallery, the other visitor’s presence remained so intense that he could be sat right next to you, scrutinising the same painting, entertaining the same thought. Was the woman with the bright tresses indeed what she had been declared to be over the many years she had been introduced to many venues, many variations of public, and finally finding a home on this wall? Did she settle with her lover, or perhaps a carefully selected victim? Would the man have an answer?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ . It was unlike you to retrace your steps a mere few days after a visit and return to the same gallery, amble down the same halls, and seek for a new source of investigative inspiration among the same selection. This obviously did not mean that you would never return, definitely not, that would be almost criminal of you to possess such intentions, but you tended to try to cleanse your palate with alternative movements, contemporary takes and avant garde interpretations between searches which were more directly related to your studies. And yet, for the first time in a while, nothing was stopping you from your return. It felt only natural, and so right. Moreover, you felt no unease when you headed straight towards the section that housed the impressionists. An individual with an unspoken, mysterious mission, you were on the hunt for the creative streak, something that would help you ponder the next section of your hefty dissertation, and you could sense that it had to be somewhere here. And, like always, you were right.

‘Bazille’s Studio’, one of the most famous works painted by the so-called ‘tragic artist’ of the impressionists, Frédéric Bazille in 1870. In fact, it had been a collaboration between him and Édouard Manet, another gifted artist, though more renowned as a figure leading modernism, and depicted a scene of discussion and creative collaboration in the studio that Bazille had shared for a certain period of time with other spectacular figures of the visual arts, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who could also be found in this painting. On the walls were works rejected by the Salon, which at the time had been the one of the most influential, famous art exhibitions in the Western World, administered by the Académie des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Interestingly, above the piano on the right hung a painting which Bazille had purchased from Monet, potentially hinting at the material ties between them, and the importance the young artist had because of his familial wealth. In a sense, Bazille expressed his support, as well as showed an intimate, platonic scene of the art world where there was a moment of calm, of mutual appreciation, despite the financial troubles and tensions due to character that had been experienced in those walls.

You stepped closer to the painting, trying to detect the transition from Bazille’s to Manet’s hand, the latter of whom painted in the former to take ‘centre stage’, palette in hand. Truly seamless work, though what else could it be? This painting had been a new addition to the permanent collection, and after strenuous, detailed restoration work to give the oil paints their original vibrancy and for impeccable strokes to forget the burden of time, you had the pleasure of seeing it in person. You were an arm’s length away from yet another work essential to history, culture and the arts as a societal colossus.

While it was easy enough to appreciate the technical detail, you found yourself halting to remember the names of all those depicted in the painting, failing to finalise the list in your head. Starting from Bazille, you had determined for yourself the presence of Monet and Manet in his vicinity quickly enough, however where Renoir was, or what were the names of the two other gentlemen in the scene, slipped your mind. You rocked to the side to lean closer to the plaque that was meant to provide you with the information, however you only found the name of the painting, the artist and the medium, much to your misfortune. Clicking your tongue, you returned to studying the faces of each individual, and furrowed your brows in agitated concentration. It was simple to take out your phone and search for the answer, though you knew that just as neutral that action would be, so would be your reaction unless you were to remember, or somebody were to-

A presence to your side caught you off-guard, and you felt a shiver run up your spine. One glance was enough to determine that it was the same man from yesterday, only the outfit revealing a change. Other than that, he had the same impeccable posture and stance, as well as a thoughtful look towards the painting in front of you both. His arms were crossed, though not in a defensive manner; instead they offered an interpretation of philosophy, as though this man was carrying centuries of wisdom with him, history having pummelled down on him and yet needing to support it like Atlas; the titan carrying the world.

Today, he was dressed in a mahogany coloured suit, with a white top underneath and some black boots with thick white rubber soles - quite the transition from last time, when he had been a manifestation of a sleek and pristine office gentleman. Hair, now let down and wavy, neatly framed his face, accentuating the regalness of his features. It was astounding how you were still sure that it would be more likely to find a man of this fashion in a painting, rather than standing beside you. You kept quiet, not wanting to interfere with his musings. Perhaps it was just a silly coincidence that the two of you were at the same place and at the same time again - how else? You did not know him, and you hoped that he did not know you. Though, you truly did not mind his company, and maybe it could serve as your motivation to figure out the rest of the characters in the painting. Once again, your attention returned to the task at hand, but before you could even begin to list off prominent figures of the art world during the era of Impressionism, a deep, honey-like whisper halted you and made you hold your breath. 

“Auguste Renoir is the one seated, Emile Zola, the writer, is on the stairs, Monet, Manet and Bazille are, as you likely know in the centre, and that,” he paused to raise his hand, gesturing in the general direction of the far right of the piece, “is Edmond Maitre. Pianist, art collector, and Bazille’s closest friend.”

“I- uh- thank you. How did you know I was trying to recall? Pardon me, I must look so clueless-” you trailed off, eyes finding the floor, an action which seemed to be your automatic response to being under inspection of the man, though this time, he captured your gaze quickly by stepping closer towards you. Looking up, you found concern and apology in his eyes.

“No! Not at all, I… sorry if I misunderstood and I am sorry for forcing you into such erroneous conclusions,” he gave you an ever so slightly crooked smile, charming, very disarming and so suiting this beautiful stranger, that you were instantly prompted by your instincts to return it, dismissing doubt. 

“You saved me,” you joked, though the phrase contained within itself an unlikely compassion. Two people, alone in the same gallery, sharing a precious dialogue was something to cherish, and with all your might you wanted to make it last.

“Just as you made me regard the painting in a new light, for which I thank you, greatly,” he bowed his head, the smile not leaving his face for a moment. There was a recognition in his gaze, as well as an inexplicable admiration. What did he discover?

“I guess it might be true that no matter how many times you see a painting, every viewing brings something new,”

“Well said. Are you an artist? A critic, perhaps?” He inquired, moving closer to stand level with you, head turned slightly in your direction to spare the occasional glance. You shook your head slowly, wondering if in a retelling of your destiny you could have pursued either of the careers he had mentioned.

“I am in the arts, though rather than looking at the present I remain in the past. Art historian, well, a postgraduate. Nothing too fancy.”

“Oh? But that is marvellous, and what are you focusing on?”

“I like to call it the painting in plenair during the turn of the century. I focus mainly on impressionism, though do sometimes stray into its interplay with post-impressionism, modernism and expressionism.”

“Ah, no wonder I have been seeing you here often. Enjoying the new collection?” he asked, eager to hear your opinion. There was excitement in his voice as though you were a renowned expert and were about to bestow upon him a priceless evaluation. And this was without considering the technicality of you having only half-met. Just crossing paths twice in one week.

"Yes, of course… The collection is unlike any other I have seen. I keep wanting to return and stay here for ages." You explained, glancing at the stranger while he nodded along.

"Incredibly happy to hear it. I swear I have seen you around quite often during the past month that the exhibition has been open? Am I correct?" evidently, your rapid blinking was interpreted rather quickly as perplexion, for the man gasped ever so lightly, as if to catch his own speeding thoughts.

“I- how do you know? I do believe this is our… second time meeting?” you uttered, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, which, to your disbelief, revealed something akin to fear in the beautiful stranger’s features. Nervously, he adjusted a strand of hair that was threatening to cover his right eye.

“Not quite… you were present at the opening event, right?” he quizzed.

“Indeed, my depar- wait. But how? Respectfully, I am starting to think you know me.” you enunciated with newfound caution, while the man pursed his lips. One second, another passed in near total silence, until a chuckle escaped him and he shook his head. It appeared as though he was mentally scolding himself - his eyes held no malice, instead glinting with hope, that melancholic wisdom, and something unidentifiable, ethereal, supernatural.

“I think it is high time I introduce myself before this gets out of hand. See, in some sense I work here, and most of my days are spent in the gallery or labouring for it-”

“Ah, I see-”

“Park Seonghwa, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” with one arm folded behind his back and the other on his chest, he bowed to you like how you imagined princes in the numerous portraits you had studied would bow. And the most enthralling part was how the gesture flowed, and was so befitting. Quickly, you bowed in return, but while raising your head, you froze. It hit you why he would know. And know a lot. And would remember you, and likely anyone and everyone who visited. In a low whisper, you asked:

“Am I… correct in assuming that you are ‘the’ Park Seonghwa?” quickly enough, you realised that it was a mistake to find his eyes again - clearly, you were not ready for the intensity, nor for the intrigue that was contained within them, nor for the fact that he moved another step closer to you, the rubber of his boots dampening any sound produced.

“I never knew that there was a ‘the’ attached to my name. I simply love art.”

“Well that love translated into the creation of what is possibly the greatest gallery in the nation, if not worldwide,”

“Oh you flatter me too much, ah, your name-”

“L/N Y/N, and I, too, love art.”

“Elated to hear it,” he gleamed, and you swore the room exploded with the illumination of a thousand stars.

Stunning, awe-inspiring, ever so elegant. He was a walking dream. In that smile was concealed a certain something that had been taboo, a well-kept secret until a couple of decades ago, when those like Seonghwa had started to be fully integrated into society, and no longer had to hide, changing identity from one century to another. With that came Seonghwa’s success - you had read in an article that advertised the permanent exhibition a short blurb of his story, and how for many turbulent decades, the man single-handedly collected masterpieces, crafted a meticulous network and introduced genius artists to the world, and the world to the artists. The gallery was a magnum opus for Seonghwa - a presentation of what he had achieved as a collector, as a patron of the arts, and a celebration of his personal culture. 

You could not help but hone in on the fangs, and recall the original reason why it was even possible for Seonghwa to obtain such legendary works and have as much influence as he presently did. It was not spontaneous; submerged in turmoil, he had personally approached artists who, previously abandoned by critics and other prospective buyers, had never considered a future beyond a mysterious tomorrow. Hiding his own true nature, he crafted the tale of a ‘Park’ dynasty, and rose again and again to continue his work. Perhaps, now, some might argue that once he had revealed himself as a vampire the velocity of Seonghwa’s developments had fallen, but you would passionately argue the opposite. It was challenging to believe that any move by this stunning artistic mastermind was not strategic - the announcement had given the gallery more partnerships, more donations, and in turn, an even greater prominence in the community both among professionals and enjoyers. 

“Thank you,” the phrase spilled from your lips inadvertently. It seemed to be the only thing that was reasonable to say in that given moment. You pondered the pains that must have been suffered to make the world that you were consumed by come together, and the painting in front of you, aside from what was contained within the frame,now shined in a new light externally too, possessing its own story, resembling a search for a kindred spirit, a true home. 

Seonghwa remained quiet, the words of gratitude echoing in his heart. It was endearing, encouraging to hear such warmth from you. So, you did know him, at least the parts he had shown to the public - as was expected from someone so deeply ingrained in visual arts and history, but he could not help but identify it as something much greater than mere awareness. The openness with which you had welcomed conversation with him, the kind charm that radiated from you as you engaged in the careful verbal waltz reminded the vampire of times long, long ago when all that existed for him was drive, enamourment and art. Oh, how your eyes glimmered. His heart clenched into near unbearable agony as he read your expressions, and wondered how much you have seen, what have you yet to see, who you were in this temporary life. If only he could ask fate to tell him how much you remembered of who you had been before. 

“No, thank you, for giving this,” he gestured to the gallery around him, graceful hand unfurling as though revealing a delicate flower, “meaning, and reason to exist.”

“I highly doubt I am of much significance, Mister Park,” you responded, a soft smile on your face.

“Would anything hold the same meaning if there was no one to behold it?” he responded. You chose not to answer, catching onto the rhetoricism, “and please, call me Seonghwa. I’d like to say we are to be good friends.”

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Sitting across from Seonghwa in the cafe that was located on the top floor, above the main halls of the gallery made you feel strangely serene. Today he had foregone the straighter hair styles that you had begun to get used to, surprising you with a head of tousled, almost curled locks that embodied the world’s softness, though remained to be quite the contrast to the more formal and highly fashionable attire that adorned his stature. A suit, tastefully oversized with a buttoned double breasted jacket that was simultaneously serving as a shirt, the plunging v-shaped neckline revealing perfectly smooth skin, and what you noted to be a solitary freckle right in the centre of his collarbone. The trousers, at least from the glimpse that you had allowed yourself when you had met at the entrance to the cafe were of a loose fit, defining his waist at the top and falling to form an almost skirt-like silhouette should he stand how he usually stood: the echoes of what would be called the ‘third position’ in ballet, more relaxed, but still retaining an elegance that only he could carry. The biggest shock to you, however, was Seonghwa’s choice of shoes - a refreshing point to the visual, he had selected to contrast the formalwear with a pair of limited edition, geometrically intriguing Converses. You could catch a glimpse of one of them from over the edge of the table whenever his slightly shaking leg, positioned over the other, would rock forwards just that tiny bit stronger. 

While the setting was meant to be casual, the circumstances in which you found yourself were nothing short of miraculous. Never in a million years would you have imagined for it to be possible to be sat across the table from, quite possibly, one of the most legendary contributors to art restoration, collection and exhibition. On top of that, Seonghwa was a figure who actively bridged the gap between disparate communities, finding a common language, and using the arts as a salvation. You were in awe, and could not hold back on regarding the handsome vampire as he quietly reported your and his orders to the waiter who had floated to your table.

“Are you sure you do not want anything else?”

“Yes, I am sure. I do not wish to exploit your kindness-”

“-Not at all. I hope you do not mind that I… must make a rather unconventional order,” he smiled sheepishly, clearing his throat so as to attempt to hide his doubts, though you were uncertain as to how much of such emotions could possibly be left after what had to have been centuries. 

“An unconventional order is pouring a sugary energy drink into a triple shot espresso and calling it dinner,” you answered, eyes travelling from Seonghwa’s face to the mural on the wall a few tables away that wrapped behind him and to your left, disrupted only by the occasional floor length window that provided city vistas - rather gloomy, compared to the optimistic illumination of the restaurant. Perhaps out of pity, or out of genuine entertainment, Seonghwa chuckled.

“That does sound like an acquired taste, indeed. Thank you,”

“No need. Thank you for inviting me,” you turned back, nodding a polite bow as he softly waved your gesture off.

A silence settled across the table as you waited for your respective drinks. Your hand, had you not consciously restrained yourself, would have probably reached for the phone that you stored in your purse, but now was fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, finding the buttons to stress test the threads that had them sewn tight to the fabric. You were not bored, in fact, far from it. You needed a barrier. The grandeur of this man’s presence was almost overwhelming. He was not a mere individual in a room, he consumed it. Had you just walked in, you were certain that your gaze would still settle on his form. Just like the concrete outside was grey, and the pause retained a divine ambiguity, Seonghwa was unforgettable. In an attempt to calm your clouded thoughts, you studied the mural once more.

“May I inquire into your thoughts on the decor?”

“The choice of ‘A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’ is wise. I am guessing you were the one to make the decision?” you heard an exhale, and once more your attention was captured.

“Alas, I cannot take full accolades for this. This stemmed from a discussion that a good friend of mine and I had one late night. Seurat just so happened to make an appearance amidst the chatter, and so… this was born,” he gestured at the surroundings. Clearly, the interior was picked carefully to fit the theme of the legendary painting. 

From the colours to the textures and the greenery that had been intricately set up across the restaurant, every detail had a meaning and a place, and did not take away from the spaciousness of the hall. It was breathable, while still giving the illusion that you were stepping into a whimsical impressionist paradise. Perhaps that was another reason why you could not quite contain your disbelief firstly in your encounter, secondly in its progression, and thirdly in your interlocutor’s warmth. 

“Spectacular, truly. I have heard you have an eye for detail, however this surpasses all expectations.”

“Oh? There is more you have heard?” he interjected, leaning closer to you and placing an elbow on the table, simply to rest his head on his hand. While this could potentially be seen as slightly unceremonious, it hinted at well-kept confidence, ownership, control. A healthy undercurrent of motivation that came with indirect praise.

“I-oh y-yeah of course,” you did not mean to stutter, but some part of you was grateful you did, for the smirk that had threatened to burst on Seonghwa’s lips was enough for you to feel ignited to elaborate, “if my memory is not failing me, you were the one to distinguish a reproduction of a piece some time ago, no?”

“Ah- yes. That was a Degas reproduction. I must say, the attempt was sincere, however when I saw the-, hm, you will not be startled, will you?”

“Please,” you urged him to continue, intrigued by the story. 

“When I saw the original, as it was being made and when it had been finalised, it would be shameful of me to not spot a fake,” he fell back into his chair, just in time for the drinks to be served. 

A coffee for you, and a non-descript beverage concealed by a semi-opaque, tall glass for him. Though, you did not need to be a detective to guess what it was that Seonghwa was bringing to his lips, and what he took a tentative sip of. The only mystery that was remaining for you was what ‘type’ he had picked - was it O+? B-? Whatever else? You joined him in the tasting, lifting the mug and indulging in the wonderful aroma of your americano. It did not strike you as necessary to opt for something fancier and lie to yourself - so you settled for your regular order, much to your joy. Familiar taste and the reliability of the caffeine hitting your system painted the scene in more comforting colours, and gradually, you found yourself easing into the dialogue more and more, until life stories, musings and a surprisingly large common ground came pouring. 

You discovered that Seonghwa possessed a unique sensitivity and attunement to those around him. Focused on the emotional experiences, he felt through time and could recount emotions like the memory was from a mere few days, rather than decades ago. He was well-spoken, eloquent, intelligent, polite in every right as he navigated through the linguistic landscape and guided you like a partner in a dance. You were spiralling oh so quickly, intrigue catching up to you and prompting you to sacrifice all of your senses to the man and the pleasantly intoxicating atmosphere he captured you in. He was enchanting, and it was far too easy to give in. 

“May I reveal something?” in a hushed tone, he inquired, a finger absent-mindedly tracing the rim of his glass. 

“Oh, a little secret?” you raised your eyebrows in jest, lightening the initial seriousness with which Seonghwa uttered the question.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Depends on how you take it. A confession might be more accurate,” he waited for you to take the final sip of your coffee before continuing, unphased by your unwavering focus, “if I were to be honest, I have been meaning to approach you.”

“Pardon?”

“As you know we have a… common awareness of each other thanks to what is housed under this roof, but ever since we first unknowingly crossed paths… I wanted to speak to you.”

Confused, you did not speak, though the words contained an unparalleled affection within them. What could he possibly mean? You chose to refrain from commenting, your hesitation prompting the vampire to continue.

“Do you remember the most recent opening night? Of the exhibition? I believe you were with someone…” he trailed off, hoping you would continue for him.

“Ah, yes, a friend of mine from university. So?”

“This might sound strange but, I distinctly remember you mentioning a name. An artist from the same era, dubbed as L/N Y/N?”

“Goodness, you overheard that? I am so sorry, it is just that said artist has intrigued me for some time, and I was half-hoping to encounter their work. Maybe it is because our names are the same but still….”

“Elusive, aren’t they?”

“To put it softly, yes. I only vaguely recall seeing… maybe one piece in my lifetime, when I was little, and then… nothing. And there is barely any information on the artist online, let alone libraries and archives.”

“Hm, indeed. I guess that makes two of us…”

“Two of us who are searching?”

“That’s right. It brought me happiness to know that I am not alone in this endeavour.”

“Then we can keep searching together.”

While you were positive that you could not conceal your interest, Seonghwa’s did not go unnoticed either. It was of course possible that he was simply well-versed in political correctness, but the burning depth of his pupils told you otherwise. Enthrallment, the discovery of a kindred spirit, recognition, the rekindling of a bond that had existed at some point long ago - all fantasies that played out in your mind as you returned that look with subtle fervour. You wondered how many people he graced with those charms. How many had succumbed to his influence, becoming a marker on his infinite life path, a fleeting second? How many had his lips known, how many had turned into a decadent treat for a genius man with natural peculiarities? While the researcher part of you was perplexed and aching for answers, the you that was caught in the moment simply let it go on, and the feeling of Seonghwa’s leg brushing against yours, and the pride blooming in your chest as he praised the few articles and papers you had published upon having claimed that he ‘knew some things about you too’ preoccupied you in the most magnificent way.

Naturally, you agreed to meet Seonghwa again. On your journey home, in the privacy of the anonymous metro, immersed in the cacophony of deafening rails and the millions travelling to anywhere, you pressed your phone to your racing heart as the vampire, the man, the beguiling Park Seonghwa sent you a message confirming so. Who knew a simple selection of words could be so captivating?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Under the comforting thrum of raindrops on the large umbrella, you walked down the streets of the grey-coloured city, your hand lightly holding onto Seonghwa’s arm while he ensured that both of you were protected from the elements. Despite the dull light and bitterness of the cooling season, Seonghwa appeared radiant, truly timeless with every gesture and stride. The elegant angles of his face that you could tirelessly study stood out against the monotone buildings and overcast skies. His voice drowned out the sound of droplets racing one another to the ground. A miraculous gentleman who appeared in your life much like a portrait, or a landscape - a masterpiece you wanted to explore in every spare moment, and better yet, this masterpiece was equally as open to you as you were to him. 

“...essentially, yes. It is like another nationality. A marker of species isn’t too far isn’t it? Just another line on a stack of documents. Nothing more,” Seonghwa concluded his explanation, pursing his lips for a moment before letting an exhale turned dragon’s breath escape into the afternoon.

“Makes sense. So would that mean there are separate medical papers and treatment too?”

“Well… when regeneration fails us or when a given case is severe enough… yes. Though it is handled by private clinics run by other vampires.”

“There are private clinics?”

“Of course. Often they are connected to donation points too, and that is how we remain on the right side of the law and stay alive,” he nodded to himself, giving you a bittersweet smile when he noticed confusion overtake your gaze. “Blood,” he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, “I mean blood.”

In a nervous stupor, you cleared your throat and focused on a droplet that was hanging onto the edge of the umbrella, right in front of you, all the way until the gentle motion of Seonghwa’s amble provoked its abrupt descent onto the stone under your feet. 

“Ah, yes, I see-”

“If you find this disturbing, we can forget the conversation ever-”

“-I want to know you better, Seonghwa, truly-”

“Careful-”

“Sorry wha-” 

With an extraordinary swiftness, you were tugged abruptly by the arm. Not registering your surroundings, you merely went with the inertia, caught off-guard by the proximity of your face to the vampire’s as he held you against him with the arm that you had previously been resting your own on. A hand that you raised on instinct went limp and landed on Seonghwa’s chest, feeling the thick felted wool of his coat. The ringing of a bell, going farther away from you by the second, incessant but at least waking you up from the blur, was enough for you to put two and two together - a cyclist who thought they owned every part of the street, like always. You sighed.

“Reckless… my apologies I did not mean to-” Seonghwa tried to detangle himself, refusing to remain in your personal space for longer than necessary no matter how much he did want to, but his efforts were reduced to nothing when your hand moved to a hold on his upper arm - reassuring, comfortable, accepting.

“Thank you,” you interrupted, “that bike would have definitely run into me…”

“It’s nothing,” a low chuckle echoed in your ears as Seonghwa peered into your pupils, confidence that had previously wavered out of habitual caution now restored, growing into a pride as you continued to hold onto him, “the man was slow enough for there to be no risk of harm. I hope you are not too startled though.”

“Oh? You have super powers too? Do elaborate,” you jested, resuming your walk.

“I would call it more like… being a finely tuned machine. Can’t say I have bad reaction speed. Though I must say, it was a little challenging pulling you out of the way,” there was an evident intent behind the words. However, you were too curious to pay it any mind, instead preferring to find out their meaning live.

“How so?”

“I think this,” dropping his arm, Seonghwa’s hand reached for yours, and without a moment of hesitation, his fingers were intertwining with yours, his palm pressed against yours, “would be better. You know, for safety.” As if you could ever reject him. This was a fact you had established for yourself with an unprecedented certainty. His gallant disposition, attentiveness all confirmed a care for you that was impossible to ignore. 

There was something picturesque about the present after meeting this wonderful, infinite pool of art and humanity. You found yourself leafing through articles, art books and biographies with a more wistful and sentimental perspective, imagining what it would be like if it were you who was immortalised in the thousands of brushstrokes, or if you were on the other side of the canvas, how would you go about depicting the scenes unfolding before your very eyes. Timelessness - a quality shared between the art you so adored, and the man you had encountered and over the weeks, let your intrigue be transformed into a shy flame of infatuation. Perhaps it was the underlying reason why you did not reject his advances, nor cower in fear of his true nature with which he was upfront. The other, of course, was the search for the mysterious artist, an adventure that fuelled many of your dialogues, and prompted you to spend more time in the library and the archives of your university than you had ever done before - to the point where Seonghwa himself had encouraged you to take a break from your intellectual expeditions and step into the world as a casual observer. So, you let yourself drift; it finally hit you, what scenes your once again tranquil stroll reminded you of, and you smiled to yourself as you recalled the intricacies of the not quite commonly discussed representation of the Impressionist movement. 

‘Rue de Paris, temps de pluie’, painted by Gustave Caillebotte; his most famous work. Not quite as widely discussed, despite still technically being created in the Impressionist era, perhaps due to the meandering through form, realism and reliance on stronger lines rather than broad brushstrokes and the study of light. You did find it fascinating how Caillebotte’s passion for photography had seeped into this piece, however. Much like how, in recent days, you could easily find a way to mention Seonghwa in conversation, be it related to the arts or not. From the subjects in the foreground being slightly out of focus while the middle ground was crystal clear, to how the shapes of some passersby were cropped were all characteristic of photos, rather than paintings, making this particular work all the more dear to you. It was a reflection of life, of behaviour and of what had been daily back in the late nineteenth century.

Was it any different from now, aside from those grand, global topics that historians dedicated their lives to studying? If one were to whittle down to the intricacies, the miniatures that ornamented the span of a human existence, was it so terribly far away from what you were born into, and Seonghwa saw develop and had adopted? How people shielded themselves from the rain with umbrellas, and then used them as a tool to isolate themselves from other urbanites who were in a rush to take a day-long route out of their homes… and back again. The latest silhouettes of dress and accessory; the same rush to be with the times as now.

You felt your companion’s arm move, prompting you to let go and leave your hand hovering as though you were awaiting some kind of change. You bit back an unprecedented sliver of disappointment, only to be caught by surprise once again as you felt the hand settle on the small of your back. Cautious, like you were going to melt from any more pressure than the brush of a feather. A quick glance was enough to determine that you were being studied intently for any sign of discomfort - Seonghwa was ready to pull away at any moment, any sigh, and most definitely at any word. A meek smile settled on your lips, and you shyly used an oncoming stranger as an opportunity to affirm the gesture, stepping towards the vampire, and sensing the confidence of his protective measure be solidified. With glee he followed your every tilt and turn, angling away from the passing form that neither of you could focus on. The touch was electric, somehow monumental despite being so common and barely present. Your mind was on fire, pondering what it would be like to put your head on the elegant man’s shoulder, and let yourself be carried away into a terrific fairy tale.

“This really is a rainy day,”

“Seems quite sunny to me,” you respond with sarcasm, realising only after the fact that your phrase still did retain an element of truth within it. 

Sunshine did not have to be literal. It was easy to see, you just needed to return Seonghwa’s gaze, and watch as another spring flower blossomed in the soul of one you had initially assumed to be so cold, so distant. In the darkest winter was a safe haven that you could not help but lean into, and regardless of what you had initially thought, with him, you felt more human, more safe and alive than ever. He listened without fail to your ramblings, and could easily pick up the ball and balance it with his own musings that you could listen to for many lifetimes.

Lifetimes; immortality, the one concept you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. Well, the latter was technically not true, as Seonghwa had elaborated some few days ago: vampires did age, albeit at such a slow pace that to the run of the mill human being, it was impossible to notice, and if they did, it would be someone very close, and only over a matter of decades. Maybe it was this exact inability that made you want to stay and learn all there could be about the gallerist - you thought that would make you feel like you have been living forever. His wisdom was beautiful. The kindness with which he treated you, akin to that of how a spouse treats their long-time sweetheart with a mellow and comfortable affection, was not something you asked for nor expected, but something which he introduced himself with through every action, progressively more amiable when you allowed him to advance.

“Mm, no wonder I can’t quite look at you,” he mused out loud, dramatically looking off into the distance. You raised an eyebrow, curious about what was going to come after his theatrical pause, “your brightness is unparalleled,” Seonghwa chuckled, satisfied with your sigh and the way in which you pretended to be annoyed, only to dissolve in a mute giggle. “So, I do suggest we get out of the rain for a moment and stop by that book shop over there, shall we?”

Following his hand, you spotted an antique bookshop a few doors down, marked by an iron sign and ornate shop window decorations that glistened with each hit of the dancing droplets. A warm golden light emanated from the inside, the hue comparable to a summer’s day. An odd feeling of deja vu washed over you, as though you had been in this store before, even though this was quite the distance away from your home, not on any of your usual commutes and in a part of town you barely visited aside from the occasional brisk walk. It had been established over a century ago, sporting a historical plaque and detailing original to the era the date on the sign suggested. Suppressing your internal monologue, you simply nodded, fond of Seonghwa’s excitement as he pushed lightly against your back and walked on ahead. If you were any more of a romantic, you would have assumed that the shop was a representation of his heart, but you couldn’t allow yourself to think that way, at least not when you felt heat rise to your cheeks as he whispered your name, openly planning what you could look for amidst the rare editions together. You and him turned into a ‘we’ so naturally, you barely had time to blink. A new brushstroke on a canvas, brave, bold and bright. Impressionist.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

The hypnotising improvisation on a semi-acoustic guitar, followed by a launch back into the theme of a well-known jazz song had you tapping on the counter, unknowingly following every drum beat. The bar turned cosy music venue that Seonghwa had invited you out to was proving to be every bit a wonder of the world, and paradise inside of the otherwise gloomy city which had been plagued with miserable weather and lack of daylight for atrociously long. The classy establishment was a well known favourite among the vampires residing in the city, especially those aligned with a more bohemian and art-focused lifestyle. Critics, painters, collectors, musicians, poets alike all gathered to share ideas and energy, and reminisce days long gone, while the band - one that had not changed since the bar’s establishment, revived legendary pieces one after another. 

With ease, Seonghwa had ordered your favourite drink, having memorised it after your many outings that had smoothly transitioned into dates and shared nights. He remembered every detail about you, holding each one tenderness. Your lover gazed at you as he ended a conversation with a fellow collector who had recently come to town for a few days, stretching out his hand until it just touched yours, guiding it to lie flat on the counter. Seonghwa’s palm, still retaining a pleasant coolness despite him having had a couple of drinks of his own, was another reassurance that in the buzz of the venue, you still had your person by your side. Feeling his digits tap and then proceed to brush the back of your hand, you hummed in contentment, and let your eyes travel over the beautiful vampire, who leaned back, tempting you just for fun, knowing full well that you were wholly his, and even when you turned to look elsewhere, it was his face you saw in the crowd, it was his voice that rang in your ears, it was his touch that ghosted over your skin. 

The bustier from Alexander McQueen, the gorgeous flowy shirt with ruffles and cuts so tastefully sewn and executed, the statement necklace that was worthy of being displayed at a gallery and must be the envy of many, the high heeled boots that were concealed by elegant trousers - Seonghwa was your favourite work of art, and you could never deny it. Each one of his gestures was worthy of marvel, and the care with which he approached everything - even the tending to the items which he painstakingly selected and matched for tonight made your heart skip a beat. It was boggling how each garment and accessory was either an original, or a one of a kind piece. But at the same time, you did not expect anything less of Seonghwa.

He must be impossible to depict in paintings, you concluded, shamelessly staring at your lover’s face, from the shape of his nose, to the plushness of his lips, to the waviness of his night-like inky locks. You bet many had tried, but judging by the lacking evidence in the art world, they must have failed, miserably, to create something more immortal and invincible than the model and muse. You understood them, and Seonghwa gave no signs of being perturbed. 

“So, was that the intent behind our spontaneous trip to this bar tonight?” you gestured at your surroundings, taking another sip from your ornate glass. A sharp exhale accompanied a contrasting soft answer:

“Not at all,I had the business sorted a couple of days ago, and tonight was a lucky crossing of paths to secure the deal,” cryptic as ever, Seonghwa only alluded to the matter at hand.

The matter, or how he had referred to it as ‘business’ was a particular artwork that he had been hunting, by the elusive artist you had been investigating, first in your lonesome, and then joining forces with Seonghwa. Apparently, one of the pieces, by some stroke of unimaginable luck, had been kept safe in the private collection of a ‘Mister Kim’, at least that was how he had been initially introduced to you. Until you put two and two together, and when the very well dressed and styled character had entered the bar and made a beeline towards your partner in artistic musings and romance, recognised the man as a world-famous designer and fashion icon, Kim Hongjoong. And of course, another vampire and kind soul in one. 

Their conversation had happened outside of your earshot; whether it was on purpose or just so happened to unfold that way was for your ruminations to determine, but you did overhear enough to figure out that this was a portrait, a never seen work, and was completed by the artist who as it had turned out had been closer with Seonghwa than you had initially thought. 

“Seems to be very important, and not just in a ‘collector’ sense…” you trailed off, watching as the ice in your drink cracked, “is this why you were interested, you know, back then?”

“If I were to be honest, darling, I was, and still am, a lot more interested in you. The artist was something of an excuse to get a conversation going. And I do hope,” Seonghwa turned and sauntered towards you, “this conversation does not end.” 

Even though you were sitting on one of the bar stools, the heels and stance still left him some room to look downwards, and his sultry expression, orbs glinting at you through dark lashes left you transfixed. In moments such as this, you hated to be mortal. There were so many things that you could not possibly know, and no matter how hard you would try to comprehend the vastness of the angelic man’s mind, you would always remain theoretical, and accept the grand majority of intricacies as axiom.

“I hope so too,” your voice barely rose above a whisper as his gloved hand landed on your neck, gliding upwards to caress your jawline.

“I’m so glad I found you,” his thoughts were elsewhere, you were sure of it, and yet, his gaze remained unwavering, “my eternal love”. Lips stained with bittersweet worship, the words stumbled from them to strike you repeatedly in the heart, forcing it to lose its rhythm. He was regarding you like he had stumbled upon a priceless treasure, a divinity, a paradise. Something far from you and from this planet, but by Seonghwa’s careful selection, etched in your features.

Were you the embodiment of something greater for him? You would not consider yourself to be a model example of a human being, neither were you a pretty statue to display in an exhibition. You were you, but Seonghwa kept on convincing you that it was exactly this that had captivated him and showed him a new beginning. Did you wish to believe that? Of course. But a vampire who was hundreds of years old could keep a grand variety of secrets beyond your understanding, even if he were to exclaim them right in front of you and sketch them out. His eternal love - your version of eternity, or his? A life the duration of a butterfly’s abstract dance to the heavens.

“Love?” he called out to you, eyebrows knitted in concern due to your prolonged silence. You had set your drink down, and were staring at the shine of the glossy chrome silver and pearl on Seonghwa’s necklace. “Talk to me, say anything.”

“I- hm. I think I am just tired. Yeah, that must be it. Tired so I am overthinking, no worries. I’ll just be right here and-”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you tilted your head, noting how Seonghwa immediately straightened out, and instead of attempting to tower over you stepped over to the side to set a protective hand over yours.

“This is a majority vampire bar, full of unfamiliar individuals, this whole deal with the artwork is up in the air and-”

“First of all, I don’t care. Second, you are here with me. And third, I want to trust in the fact that you would not do anything foolish nor harmful. Am I right in my evaluation?” you uttered, still not quite able to look into Seonghwa’s infinite pools of brilliant sienna and dark brown.

“I- I am honoured, but that still does not detract from the fact that we can go get some air and come back. Shall we?”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to. Hell, need to. Let us have a quick wander?”

“...I’d like that.”

In no time, the winter air hit your cheeks and you were wrapping yourself as tightly as you could in your oversized coat. In your ears the pleasant sound of the vampire’s heels rang out, echoed by the stunning road onto which you were spat out by the heavy black front door of the bar. Warm-toned streetlights liberally decorated the sidewalks and painted the night in honey, gold and copper accents. Reflections of an artificial summer in the puddles and winter chill. Downright magical. Seonghwa seeked out your hand, holding it tight and guiding it into the pocket of his own coat, smirking when you raised an eyebrow. 

“What?”

“Nothing at all.”

You were certain that you were walking through a landscape painting, every element captured by your vision falling into its rightful place, harmonising with the rest. The mumbling and music was long gone, only to be replaced by conversation of other late city explorers and the occasional rumbling of a car lazily rolling past. 

“Pissarro.”

“Hm?” Seonghwa kept looking ahead, but squeezed your hand to ask for you to continue.

“Boulevard Montmartre at Night. Painted in 1897, no?” you pointed at the surroundings with a tilt of the chin.

“Ah, indeed! Your perceptiveness never ceases to amaze me.”

“Well, thanks to you I got to see the original, so how could I not make the visual analogy?” you nudged his shoulder, earning a chuckle.

The painting was the only example of a landscape at night from the artist Camille Pissarro, making it all the more special despite it being part of a series of 14 views of the same location. Snow, rain, fog, morning, varying seasons, but only one glimmering night. It was one of the works that Seonghwa had managed to provide for your studies, resulting in a more than impressive academic outcome. Like Pissarro kept on painting the vista, your lover kept on giving, never asking for anything more than for you to share your hours with him, something you did not need to be prompted to do anyways.

“...I’m sorry I cannot reveal more than I do, at least not just yet,” he apologised, as though what he was committing was the greatest crime known to humanity and the supernatural.

As you looked up at the starry night sky, you swore you had heard these words before, uttered by the same voice, the same fingers interlocked with yours. A stabbing sensation in your cranium made you gasp, but you regained your composure quickly enough to not make it a priority for either of you. At the same time, Seonghwa’s expression altered to a semblance of… hope? Longing? You could not pinpoint it, but one of the many glowing dots above you clearly landed in his shining orbs, and he eagerly waited.

Waited for longer than you could realise in your present state.

On their own accord, your lips moved, forcing out a subconscious acknowledgement, previously suppressed. You swore the phrase belonged to another being, but it was as refreshing as the breeze tousling Seonghwa’s locks.

“I know. I can wait too.”

“Soon, my love.”

“I-I know.”

“I miss you.”

“I-” vision growing hazy, you reached to the vampire for support, which he readily provided, “I- too.”

One blink - oil paints decorated your hands, and those alluring eyes were staring back at you from a canvas. Another blink - Seonghwa was repeating your name, pressing his cheek against yours as he shielded you from falling into darkness with his strong arms.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Your office was inviting and offered a secure haven: a collection of neutral and wooden tones, with dashes of greenery to relax the eyes. From a potted ivy plant settled on the top of a large wall-length shelving unit to an indoor palm tree enjoying the rays in its designated corner, the room was a miniature paradise. You ran your hands over the thick birch desk, cautiously avoiding the stack of documents you had arranged for yourself to go through this day. Artwork restoration reports, contracts, exhibition plans for years to come… everything you thought you would never see, and yet it was right here in your palms.

Time moved slower, or at least that was how you began to perceive it now that it was in abundance. A fountain that did not cease to bestow gifts upon you - again, something you would have never imagined prior to the curious series of events that were your previous life unfolding the way they did. One fateful meeting, and you were a changed person, staring into the horizon and labelling it as a continuation rather than as a termination of all you could achieve. The world was your oyster, and loving dedication was the price. But when the price was so sweet, and so easy, who were you to say no? If you had to pick a concern, it would be the bandages and binding on your right arm; friction from the sleeve of the turtleneck and blazer you had worn today applying uncomfortable pressure to the delicate wound concealed within. 

You stood up from the leatherbound office chair, adjusting your clothes and stepping to the window behind you to look out at the garden belonging to the gallery - a recent expansion. Grand, regal, and as the papers had emphasised, now returned to its rightful owner. You wondered just how much of the city had belonged to vampires at least for a portion of time, and you had no doubt that you would be making more discoveries soon, but for the time being, you were happy with the re-acquisition, or as Seonghwa had called it: your ‘turning’ gift. A particularly strong shift of the arm made you wince, and your other hand shot to nurse your sore arm.

“I’m so sorry darling, does it still hurt?” Unbeknownst to you, Seonghwa had slipped into the office, and immediately rushed towards you, concern painting his beautiful face through furrowed brows and a tiny scowl.

“N-no, barely. The sweater is silly-”

“Let’s not disregard ailments, shall we?” your partner gingerly lifted your arm, and after gaining permission through a few lethargic nods, pushed the sleeve upwards to reveal the bandages, “I- really, we need to apply the ointment again, that must be it-”

“Seonghwa-”

“Work can wait, I just need to-”

“My love-” Seonghwa paused his ramblings to stare back at you, puzzled, “it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Literally just a bite, isn’t it?” you smiled, the action instantly being mirrored, albeit with a tinge of remaining worry.

“Mm, perhaps I am overreacting, I can’t help it,” your thoughts were numbed by the silken touch of his lips on the back of your hand, wool against cotton as he pulled you into an embrace, “it should heal well once you get used to your new form, I am sure of it,” his tresses tickled your nose, but you ignored it, instead letting your head fall against him.

You stood almost completely still aside from the rocking side to side that was habitual for you both. A lulling motion, one that either of you revealed only to each other. A secret reserved for intimate, loving moments such as this. You shook your head in amusement and buried your nose in Seonghwa’s sweater, inhaling the aroma of his sweet perfume, recalling ‘Love and Pain’ - the painting that had marked the tightening of the invisible string tying you together. Or was it? Coincidentally, on the wall behind your lover was the real inception of your union, one that you had forgotten from one lifetime to the next. A portrait. The one that Seonghwa had been chasing, and what had been his decades-long mission came to an end.

Signed with your own hand, were initials of your name and the year of completion of the painting. None other than the beloved collector and muse, Park Seonghwa, who had posed for you, or rather a version of you, and ever since then, you were the only one on his mind. You had been the master both of the arts and of his fate.

“Please, I am embarrassed…” your partner mumbled, settling for futile attempts to position you in such a way that you would be looking out at the garden, but to no avail. Poking him playfully at the side, you induce a halt, and question him:

“What is there to be embarrassed about? That’s you. Painted by me.”

“Exactly. And you have it in your office, of all places.”

“Well I can’t exactly have you, in the flesh, on display all the time and I would like a work of art around here-”

“Shh-”

“Don’t shush me, Park. Be grateful I don’t keep the sketches out too.”

In all honesty, He would not mind if you did. You could do anything, and the vampire would adore and honour it. Whether it was in your blood or in his nature, he had never regretted almost losing himself in your favour. In your last life, he had gone against all rules set up by vampires, playing against what he swore was the devil in order to have the sliver of a chance to start again and, this time not lose you. Had his plan not succeeded, it was highly probable that he would have been erased from this planet too. But he would rather call himself a masochist than be law-abiding when it came to you.

“Next, you’ll be threatening me with a showcase of just my face-”

“What if I do?” you quipped, pulling back to boop his nose with yours, “I think it would look very pretty. Besides, now that I remember my apparent mastery of the visual arts, can’t I be a tiny bit proud, hm?”

“I would be terribly disappointed if you weren’t. Now, may I put that ointment on you?”

As if you could refuse those sparkling eyes. Promptly following him to the loveseat, which unfortunately for Seonghwa was situated right under the portrait, you sat down and waited. Your partner rushed to the medical cupboard - another new addition installed exclusively to support you as you were getting used to the vampiric nuances in your day to day. With well-practised motions, the required kit was in his hands, and in a blink, set down on the plush cushioning of the miniature sofa. You held back a chuckle as you saw the pout you so loved appear as he focused on unwinding the bandage with utmost care. Before you could feel any hurt, Seonghwa would already let go, or alter the angle at which he was tugging on the material. As soon as the plaster was peeled, you were met with the reason for your eternity and reawakening.

Two deep punctures, still a little irritated, not quite healed, but nevertheless a marking of your future and something you regarded with fondness. Wounds did not hurt when they were merely physical, especially not when you had someone who had bound their immortality to yours to tend to them. Seonghwa bit his lower lip, discontented with the ache as though he could feel it too, and took numerous pauses while cleaning up the wound to glance at you. 

“I’ll be applying the ointment now, tell me if it stings, okay?”

“Okay,” you knew it wouldn’t. You had never heard a man be so adamant on checking ingredients at an apothecary before following Seonghwa after your first appointment as a vampire. But just to appease him, you followed this small spoken routine. 

“You know… I was scared,” his voice was barely audible, and he could not look at you.

“What were you scared of?”

“Losing you again.”

“Well, I am here, aren’t I?”

Even before you were aware of Seonghwa, let alone the truth behind the portrait, all the roads still led to the same resolution. The arts, art history. Virtually synonymous, for without creation, there would not be the past, and without the study of the past, there would not be the celebration and respect of creation. Finally, you understood the beauty of evolution that Seonghwa had undergone all while remaining the same vulnerable yet legendary figure, dedicated to his vision of the arts, having recollected your own. 

“So many things could have gone wrong,” Seonghwa’s mind was reeling from the sheer terror of possibility. He had taken advantage of his high social standing as an aristocrat and pulled rank to avoid waiting for any ritual guides to step in - it was not the first time, but still only the second. And both cases were related to you. 

The first time might have been a foolish decision in retrospect, but considering the dire circumstances the extreme solution was the only one. With one foot crossing to the afterlife he was combatting the reapers, and was not going to let go of you even if it meant being pulled in. This time, when you had approached him a number of nights ago with your final agreement to his tentative proposal and kissed his ruminations away, he was ready. Years of study were not going to waste, after all. And yet when he studied the same irises as those from a time long gone, when he held the same hands, his blood ran even colder. What a gambling man he had been back then. The procedure to regift life to you had been risky, and Seonghwa, having never practised those elements of the dark arts bestowed upon his kind, had been taking shot after shot in the dark. How dare he play with your being like that? How dare he hold your existence on a sinful scale?

“But they didn’t.”

No they did not. Your confidence in him had aided considerably, he had to admit. The positioning of his fangs was perfect, and he had memorised all incantations down to the inflections. Second time a charm, but much more anxiety-inducing. Turning was not the same as revival, either. He could not stop himself from imagining the many scenarios of where he would have gone wrong, and cemented your identity only as a name on manuscripts, dissertation, paintings and reports. 

“Even the ritual, what if you did not remember-”

“I would love you just the same. Whether I had all my memories or not. That much I can assure you of. That is why I trusted you in the first place, Seonghwa.”

You did not need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. All you could do was suggest a brighter palette, and be by his side no matter what colour scheme he were to decide on. It was an artist’s duty to know when to set the tools aside and consider a painting finished. The luxury of a collector was to live through many paintings, unify the souls contained in each and sustain a chronology of expression. The keepers, the scholars, made to observe change rather than induce it directly. This was why you were all the more grateful for Seonghwa daring to change your mortal fate not once but twice, risking himself and his image in your favour.

When your partner was satisfied with his medical care, he hummed to notify you and began to clear up, at least until you placed a weak hand on his leather-clad thigh to gain his full attention. He searched for a hint in your features, eyes darting across your face at lightning speed. Relief came when you grinned brightly, whispering sincere gratitude.

Impressionism - the movement and path made by legends. A rejection of traditional practice, a new vision and interpretation of the outside world in the hues of the soul. Light, reality, immediate action. A breath that reset the arts, magnificent and radical for the time, and now, much adored. From its conception to its establishment, you were there to witness and fall in love, and now could look back at the beauty that had bloomed. His irises, your favourite colour. The speckles of various shades, your favourite details. You stared into Seonghwa’s eyes and did not dare blink. Your favourite impression.

🩸 perma-taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @lightinyreads @ren-junwrld @pyeonghongrie-main @marsstarxhwa @pocketjoong-reads @alyszaen @yeooclock @yeonjunnie @asjkdk @lucky-cat-cafe @northerngalxy

[comfortless]

He definitely has a complex about being considered middle aged. Me personally, I see him as one of those guys that tell you they're a couple of years younger than they actually are, in the beginning, cause be feels too old for someone younger and (in his mind) 'cooler' than him.

I feel like joining the army at such a young age must've made him feel like an adult way too soon, and maybe back then he must've felt superior like 'All the people my age only care about love and having fun, I'm way too mature for those silly things'. (Could be a copping mechanism to deal with the fact that he wasn't getting love anyway, and wasn't included in all the fun his peers were having. Rejecting those things altogether are a way to take back control and make himself feel better, he's too busy becoming a real man anyway). But now that he's older he does feel like he missed out on things, and regrets not being a silly teenager when it was acceptable and expected at that age.

He makes me think of that one Yves Olade quote that goes like "I thought so many things & never said a single one aloud. I choked on such longing I couldn’t spit out. Yes, desire is so different when God bore you hungry. I could have devoured anything and still have been starving." When you get no love from your parents is one thing (still hurts) but when you get cast out in other social circles also, it makes you feel bitter like nothing else on this earth. It creates this feeling that you're the one that it's being inadequate for even daring to want connections to other people and you begin to resent people and yourself for wanting to be around them. There's this shame that settles on top of your chest when you want love but you feel like that's the cause of all your suffering in the first place, like you're doing it to yourself. This reminds me of another quote : "in front of my mother and my sisters, i pretend love is cheap and vulgar. i act like it's a sin- i pretend that love is for women on a dark path. but at night i dream of a love so heavy it makes my spine throb- i dream up a lover who makes love like he is separating salt from water." (Salma Deera, "salt"). I feel like this might apply to younger Konig, when convinced himself that love is for weak man to protect his poor heart. But now that he's older and has the money, the position and the body of a real man he needs to get a taste (just a small one, just once) of what he had missed out on in his youth. He finally feels deserving enough to attempt to have real intimacy with someone, not just quick hookups that leave him more hungry.

FEEL FREE TO NOT ANSWER THIS I'm just in a silly mood and had to psychoanalyse my babygirl real quick. Also, sorry for my English =))

how could i possibly just leave this in my inbox, anon?! this is all so correct…

thank god he wears that hood, because even on the field the sun isn’t hitting him too much - (he thinks) he can pass for early thirties. not that any lady who takes an interest in him is really considering his age much anyway, it’s always the shy “how tall did you say you were, again?”s or “what is your real name?”s that are telltale signs of interest. they ogle his build, the accomplishments he will prattle on about given the chance, the haunted look in his eyes and the strange lilt to his voice, the scars and lines only make him look cooler. if only that wasn’t such a rare treat.

he’s just in his head about things always. he missed out on the sweet, awkward dates: the mutual rush of adrenaline from holding someone’s hand for the first time, sneaky pecks in the schoolyard, passing notes and calling throughout the night. he never got to experience having his parents drop him off at the theater to take some girl from class out or… hell, even getting to go with a friend who wasn’t gossiping behind his back. König’s never gotten to live like any other, normal person, he’s been denied that since being birthed into a world that did not want him as much as he did not want it.

so, of course he’s bitter. he’s horribly bitter even now when things have finally started to fall into place for him. he’s got a stature even Adonis would be nervous around, a savings account so stocked he isn’t even sure what to do with the money, an impressive title, his own place, a car, and some of the soldiers even consider him a friend. he gets invited out every now and then, doesn’t mind downing jäger and listening to his men talk about their current affairs: what women they’re seeing, or how their children are, where they plan to go on leave. he takes to living vicariously through them. he even finds it fit to lie, pulls up a picture of some random woman every now and then to boast about how he made her come undone on his bed last leave with a stupid laugh. the truth is that no, last leave he bought a nice fleshlight, took a thirteen hour depression nap, maybe went on a long hike and had a film marathon on his own.

having a woman show him any interest immediately activates some self-destructive behavior: he’ll hound her (screw double texting, it’s moreso in the dozens. little “miss you”s and stupid accusations he immediately wishes he hadn’t sent), either withdraw into himself if he even feels slightly abandoned or become even more intense and clingy. no one’s ever loved him, not properly, so how is he supposed to know how? if his own parents hated him, then who is going to have the patience and understanding to teach him? his approaches are almost childish, the way he goes from boyish and giddy to closed off and pitiful. /: and the self-loathing only amplifies during these times, because my god he should be more disciplined than this by now. all that being said, i do think he would settle and be as well-behaved as a neglected bull could be if he feels his affection is being reciprocated. he just needs time (and a good therapist).

squealing at the poetry and how much thought you’ve put into this message. <3

Yves Olade is sooo good to quote from for him! i think that “You can have my heart if you have the stomach to take it. Kiss me hard enough to invert me.” suits him just as well, especially when it comes to the trepidation and fear amidst the sparks of him finally, truly having someone be selfless and loving with him.

König in love is a very special topic to me!! there are so many different ways this rabid dog could take to handling it and by and by he always seems to choose the most aggressive / uncanny approach, held back by a leash that no one’s ever thought to untie, constantly growling and leaping at anything that gets too close just to simmer down to whimpering and begging the second he’s pet just once!!

[haesunflower]

the soulmates unfortunately series (zb1) [preview]

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ABOUT. here's the thing about soulmates, once you meet the one that is meant for you, you start to age. the biological clock starts to tick, and you are no longer the fresh faced 20 year old. years go by, and next thing you know it, you've grown old and wrinkly – right next to the love of your life. but here's the thing about y/n, she hated that.

y/n has had many soulmates in her lifetime, 4 of which had made a significant impact on her life. namely, her first husband, kim jiwoong. the man that she had a daughter with, zhang hao. the husband that raised her daughter, sung hanbin. and finally, ricky shen. (un)fortunately for her, her soulmates keep dying.

genre: romance with adult themes warnings: mentions of death, blood, character death, killers, cursing, etc. contains adult themes. each chapter will have specified warnings. note: yujin is not in this series as he is not 18 yet.

CHAPTERS

chapter zero: the first few soulmates

chapter one: the man she first married, kim jiwoong

chapter two: the man she had a daughter with, zhang hao

chapter three: the man that raised her daughter, sung hanbin

chapter four: unfortunately, ricky shen

chapter five: the finale

PREVIEW OF CH ZERO. (below the cut)

“Got anything that’ll get me drunk in the next ten minutes?” 

You plopped down on the bar stool, haphazardly placing your purse next to you. The bartender is eyeing you strangely, as if in disbelief that you’re even inside their hole in the wall establishment. 

You sigh and pull out your identification card, a laminated piece of junk that tells you how old you really are. Scratch that, how old you are meant to be. He picks up the card and raises it up next to your face, comparing the woman in the picture to the you that sits in front of him. It reminds you that you need to get it renewed…again. After all, the last time you updated your photo was sometime in the 80s, reflecting a version of you with big hair and large colorful earrings. You don’t blame him for wanting to double check, contrasting the all-black ensemble you currently sport. 

“Listen pal, I just buried my daughter today. I would appreciate it if you could get on with it”. You might not blame him, but you are impatient. 

He slides your ID card back and pours you a whiskey on the rocks. “Sorry for your loss ma’am” he solemnly extends his condolences as he places your drink in front of you. You pick it up, raising it and nodding a “thank you” before taking a large gulp. It burns. 

You outlived your daughter. And you wonder if you’ve been going about life in all the wrong ways.

Atop the alcohol display at the bar is a small TV, flashing a report about a young woman named Somi who was murdered and found dead at her home – leaving her husband a widower. The news station flashed a photo of the blonde couple, sharing that they had just gotten married a week ago. She was beautiful. A shame. 

At that moment, a tall man enters the bar and decides to take a seat next to you. Other than the fact that he too, is dressed in all black – you feel a deeper sense of similarity. Like kindred spirits, you recognize broken souls like yours. You order two more rounds of the whiskey the bartender gave you. 

“I heard about your late wife in the news, I’m sorry for your loss.” You feign sympathy and slide the glass to the man next to you. 

He looks taken aback at first, but accepts your offer. Now facing you, he raises his drink to you. You do the same.

He’s strikingly handsome, with platinum hair and dark eyebrows. You also don’t miss that he’s dressed in Yves Saint Laurent from head to toe. He takes a peek at your ID card still laying on the table, making sure to catch your name. 

“Next one’s on me, Y/N” he says, taking another swig at his whiskey, finishing his glass. He calls on the bartender, and buys an entire bottle for the two of you. The bartender returns his credit card, with the name ‘Shen Quanrui’ engraved. 

“Thank you Quanrui, that’s very generous of you.” 

He puts on a small smile, almost no one calls him by his legal name. “You can call me Ricky” he says as he pours into your glass. 

“Alright Ricky. Here’s to life.” you raise up. It feels inappropriate to be clinking glasses on the day you buried your daughter, but you figured you could make an exemption. Ricky too, seemed to be going through the same thing with his late wife. 

“To life.” he responds, tapping his glass against yours. 

Just two broken souls who had lost someone important in their lives, drinking to fill the hollowness. You almost don’t feel the familiar bloom in your chest, tugging at your entire being like a magnet trying to find its other half. And if you do feel it, you pretend it’s the whiskey burning its place in your heart. 

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[dark-frosted-heart]

Signing a Contract - Chevalier Michel (Premium End)

The time’s come for Emma to decide whether she should continue to honor the contract or not.

Luke's wondering what Chevalier's talking about and Yves asks if that's why Emma can't speak. Luke calls Chevalier the worst, is he restricting Emma from talking to other men? Yves doesn’t think Chevalier would do something like that—no wait, scratch that. The Chevalier now would. Luke tells Emma not to worry about the contract, there’s nothing good about a man who holds a tight leash. Well now these two are just getting the wrong idea and Emma can’t have that. She tells the two that they’re misunderstanding things. Chevalier always treats her well, it’s just that she can't talk right now. She apologizes, takes Chevalier’s hand, and excuses herself. All she wanted to do was honor the contract and everyone’s making such a fuss. 

Emma hides in a nearby storage room. Chevalier’s less than impressed by how she ran away. He then takes out the contract and points at the first clause. In the end, even uttering a single word to another man meant breaking the contract. As Emma’s apologizing for the trouble Chevalier went through to help her with drafting a contract, he flicks her forehead and then kisses her deeply. When he pulls away, he sneers and asks if she remembers what happens if she broke the contract. She’ll accept whatever treatment from him.

That kiss just now and that seductive gaze…Where will they go from here? Emma’s heart races as if she’s waiting to be punished. Chevalier sits down on a nearby crate and has Emma lean against him. Oh wait, but there’s still work. Chevalier tells her not to worry, she’s had the day off since this morning. Wait…Did that mean he had planned to have Emma practice writing contracts? Emma thanks him as she was able to go through the whole process of writing up and entering into a contract with another party. However she regrets not being able to hold up her end to the very end. \

As she wonders what she could’ve done, Chevalier tells her to first think of what caused her to fail and Emma replies that she was inadequate. Chevalier says there was an issue before the contract was finalized. He reminds her of how she agreed to the reparations. He bites her ear before continuing. By accepting “any” treatment, she pretty much surrendered herself to the other party. That was careless. Chevalier continues to play with her ear. It’s because the other party was Chevalier, Emma thinks. She tries to speak, but Chevalier’s continuous teasing and touching leaves her at a loss for words.

Then, Emma hears footsteps near the door and warns him, but Chevalier’s lips just quirks up. His fingers just continue to steadily stroke her and Emma’s desperately trying to hold back any noises when he kisses her again. Even with the chance of someone coming into the room, she can’t resist the pleasure. When Chevalier pulls away, he whispers into her ear that she’s broken the contract so she’ll be punished accordingly.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Omg what if yves and reader are both in high school (their are seniors and both are 18) and had to take care of a fake baby as a final project for like 20% of their grade and it just so happens that reader and yves are partners (totally not because yves threatened or bribed the teacher nonono) so yves invited reader to stay at his place for the next two weeks (which of course reader’s parents where more then happy to agree because yves is the smartest, richest, and totally nicest student anyone has ever met) to “parent” the fake baby, like I can totally see yves not only acting like a father but a husband to and he will also act like reader just gave birth to the fake baby (it doesn’t matter if reader is a female or male), he will say things like “no reader you can’t do the dishes, why? Because you just gave birth and need to rest so why do you go play with Sammy (that was what yves named the fake baby) ok? (Sorry if I have bab English it’s not my first language)

💔 sorry anon but when I created Yves he is a child hater and at least late 20s. So having him as an 18 year old classmate is out of the question.

Though, him disliking children doesn't mean that he is going to outwardly and severely abuse his child if he ever has one with you. He will just be neglectful, only spending enough of his time and money to keep the child alive and disciplined. His research on the child is slightly more than the information gathered on your friends: enough to keep them predictable, but not enough to keep them happy.

Yves's priority is you and no one else. Offspring to him are replaceable, you are not.

However, if you were assigned such work, ironically take any chance he gets to make your assignment harder, of course discretely. This is to thoroughly discourage you from ever wanting to have babies on your own.

He would rig the doll so that it will cry often at dangerous volume levels. Yves would hide the keys needed to stop it from screaming, making you go insane with sleep deprivation. You could be doing everything right (i.e. feeding the doll on time, supporting it's neck when carrying it, gently handling its body), but you would soon find out nothing works.

It just keeps crying and the dratted device will only stop at random, seemingly no pattern to it's behavior. Mimicking the behavior of real babies.

It is highly unlikely Yves injected himself completely into your life at 18, 19 or even at 25. As he is a man who also believes that your youth shouldn't be spent on chasing relationships, romantic or otherwise. Instead, it should be focused on your education, honing your skills, grasping the world around you, forming your own identity, becoming wiser and mature.

So he mostly operates behind the scenes during your formative years, occasionally appearing here and there to either guide you through hardship or to subconsciously influence you into wholly accepting him later in your life.

He is in a twisted sense, your guardian angel. Or guardian devil, depending on what the situation calls. Regardless, you wouldn't know that he was behind nearly everything that went wrong or right in your life.

Yves only wants you to be happy and safe. But he is still his own person with desires. He can be selfish.

He knows you inside and out, you can handle a couple days of sleep deprivation. He quadruple checked your files and ran some computer generated simulations before making that decision to tamper with your doll.

A small price to pay for a lifetime of child free bliss.

[scummy-writes]

Autumn Daze

Pairing: Gilbert/Mc (Pre-relationship)

Word Count: 1890

Tags: Fluff, Pure straight fluff, Gilberts kinda a weirdo, desecration of Chev's poor book

Summary: It's finally time for you to have a full day to yourself- and Gilbert decides to join in. Written for the Ikepri Gift Exchange, hosted by @ikemenlibrary and @sunnyikemen ! I received @daegupaksu as my giftee- I hope you enjoy it!

Out of all the rooms in the palace, the space that you deemed your own was not just the guest bedroom they had provided you with, but a lovely secluded seating area. Despite the fact that it was a bit out of the way and clearly unused unlike the others, the fireplace was still maintained well enough to light, much to your delight.

It was there that you snuggled in on an early autumn afternoon. The temperature was low enough to justify all of your favorites: the lit fireplace, comfortable blankets, and a warm drink to sip at while watching the colorful leaves blow past the window. Warmth cascaded down your throat, and you smiled, forever grateful Yves begrudgingly taught you his hot chocolate recipe.

The star of the show that tipped your mood into excitement sat beside you, cover glinting in the autumn rays, was the coveted book you had been seeking for months now. Found in Chevalier's library, all you had to do was promise a new book in return for him to let you borrow it. Your luck had been running high lately, and you counted your blessings for it as you cracked open the book.

Of course, perhaps planning such a day proved your hubris. Deep in the pages of a torrid romance, you missed the gentle tapping of a cane coming closer to the couch you sat at. No- you didn't notice the outside world at all until a puff of air hit your ear, Gilbert's voice tickling.

"I found you, little rabbit."

As much as you wished you could say you calmly faced the visiting beast, that would be a bold lie. Because when Gilbert spoke in such a low, teasing voice, your body's first reaction was to yelp and clap your book shut- effectively losing your place.

And control over the now rapid beat of your heart.

"Prince Gilbert!"

Hand over your chest, you wearily looked at him, frowning as he laughed.

"Ahaha, you're so easy to scare. What are you doing in such a secluded room?" His eye scanned the area, landing on your plate of snacks.

"Enjoying my free day… alone."

"I'd like to join you."

"...."

With the games that Gilbert played, you knew the only options for this were to accept letting him linger, or deal with the consequences of being 'forced' to let him cozy up with you. And out of those options, you quickly relented, wanting no arguments.

It wasn't as if spending time with him was awful. Past his 'threats' when you ignored him, he seemed oddly interested in you, so there wasn't too much bickering between the two of you. The more you thought about it, the less you could recall having a genuine bad time with him. There were too many moments between the two of you where he patiently listened as you talked about the latest book you read that clouded your memories. When the two of you were alone, he seemed different than described.

Plus… if he was here with you, others were far less likely to interfere with your day off. You'd gladly sacrifice a book and some of your snacks to ensure more peace today 

So you relented, scooting to make more room on the couch, moving the pile of blankets you had gathered.

“I was expecting a little more bite from you.” 

Even with admitting that, he shamelessly sat beside you-  close enough to where the only space in between was excess from the blanket you had draped across your lap.

Resisting rolling your eyes, you settled in a bit further against the arm of the couch, trying to ignore how Gilbert toyed with the blanket.

“Sometimes, I don’t see the point in getting into an argument when the peaceful option would benefit me more.”

“Hehe, what an odd way to say you’re enjoying our time togeth-”

“There’s some snacks on the table, though I didn’t account for more than me, so there isn’t a wide selection.” You cleared your throat, searching through the pages of your book to locate where you had been interrupted.

“What’s this?” Gilbert lifted the kettle left on the table, inspecting.

“Yve’s hot chocolate-” The excitement in your voice dwindled as he wrinkled his nose, setting it back down immediately. He downed sweets at an alarming pace, a feat that made those witnessing it stop and stare, but he didn’t like hot chocolate? “...and also water, in the jug beside it.”

Without further prompting, he took the glass you had set aside for yourself and sipped at it. You tried to ignore how he deliberately drank from the spot your lips had touched, the faint coloring of your balm leftover on the surface gently coating his lips.

"And are these books from Chevalier's library?" He asked, reaching to pluck one from the stack resting on the table.

"Yes, he usually lets me borrow the ones he's already read."

A hum was your only reply. Gilbert promptly accrued a pile of snacks from your supplies, resting the stack on his thigh as he cracked open the book. Seeing how he finally occupied himself, you went back to your novel, seeing where you had left off.

.

Steady munching brought you out of your mesmerized state, echos of the fantasy you had been reading fading away as you focused on something much more important: being able to borrow books from Chevalier again.

You looked in horror as Gilbert ate while reading, uncaring that small bits were settling into the crevice of the book he read.

"Prince Gilbert… If you get crumbs in that…"

"What do you mean?" Another page flipped, crumbs surely caught between.

… Well, at least Chevalier never reread books. Maybe you could find a replacement if cleaning up was a disaster. 

Gilbert cocked his head as you continued to frown, an innocent smile playing on his lips. For a moment, you wondered why you fathomed he would care about Chevalier's books.

Giving up with a sigh, you set to find where you left off, trying your best to remember what was going on in the story before the conquering beast attempted to stop your heart.

But… curiosity always got the best of you. Rereading the same passage for the fifth time, thoughts preoccupied,  you realized with both of you 'distracted', you could potentially see a rare sight: Gilbert with his guard down.

Or, as close as you could get, anyway.

Pretending to be entranced by the text in front of you, you tucked your hair behind your ear, using the motion to peek at the man beside you.

And…surprisingly, he did seem relaxed. His one eye scanned the pages in front of him smoothly, a cookie poised at his lips as he contemplated the words he read. It was a bit difficult to discern if he was enjoying the novel, but with how he was reclined into a comfortable position, you were hoping that was the case. Suddenly, it felt important that he respected your reading tastes. A feeling you tried to muffle quietly.

And with that same 'glance' that had turned into a soft stare, you began to understand that the tight feeling in your chest wasn't one due to the conquering beast sitting beside you. 

It was due to Gilbert, idly thumbing the corner the page, his focus making your heart flutter.

Had…he always been so attractive?

"You've been on the same page for a while now, little rabbit."

That red eye of his flicked towards you suddenly, making your heart thump painfully. You tried to ignore his grin as you hurriedly focused on your book again, ears burning.

.

“What did you do that for?” The woman exclaimed, looking disdainfully at the man before her. His brows furrowed as she set her hands on her hips, frown set firmly as he sheathed his sword once more. “Figured you might be more grateful. The man was bothering you, was he not?” “Well…”

Ah, nothing ever seemed to go right between the two in this story. But you could feel the main character’s defenses slowly lowering, as the gruff man forced to accompany her on the daily showed his respect in newfound ways. Yet, just as they got closer, one of their emotions would get in the way, halting all romantic progress.

You were sure there was more explanation to be had, however you couldn’t help the fantasies of being in her position instead- working to understand such a man.

Breath held, you read onward, devouring how the male lead seemed to stumble over an apology for his assumptions, having to accept his brash actions were not always the answer. Each new tidbit of information regarding him made your heart beat sound louder in your ears, and just as you reached the telltale dramatic sigh before the true apology was spoken…

Gilbert’s hand came into your view, brisky stealing the book out of your hands.

“I-what? Huh?” You had to blink for a moment to register the absence of pages within your grasp, turning to him in confusion. 

“I’ve been talking to you, little rabbit. After you never responded to my declaration of war, I thought I would give another chance-”

“But it was getting good…”

In response to your pout, you thought you saw a flash of a strange emotion in Gilbert’s eye, one that wouldn’t make much sense given how the two of you weren’t close enough for it. 

“I’m bored, little rabbit. How do you intend to make up for ignoring me?”

.

This position was… 

Settled between his legs was one thing, but Gilbert had gone so far as to set a new book in your lap, resting his chin on your shoulder. It felt like you were just a stuffed toy of his, being held close to his chest as he read.

Your initial offer of letting him have the rest of your snacks didn’t go over well. Instead, he just smiled until you looked over at the table, seeing how every last crumb had been devoured. Of course… 

And in your annoyance, you muttered he could choose what he’d like for atonement. An idea you assumed you’d regret the moment it slipped past your lips, but now here you sat. Shared blankets over your laps, Gilbert’s steady breathing against your back, his soft sigh of contentment tickling the shell of your ear.

It was surprising, how your muscles eased so instinctively in such a position. 

"Have you finished the page?"

"We're reading together? But my other book-"

"You're done with that one, aren't you?"

… For today, it seemed. Overlooking the text, a memory slowly reformed as you picked up bits of the story. Combined with the striking black cover of the book peeking from behind the pages, you were sure of the answer before you spoke.

“Is this that book you recommended a while ago?”

You could feel the way his lips curled into a smile, his hold on you tighter for just a moment before he hummed an affirmation.

Well… It did seem interesting. Perhaps reading it like this wouldn’t be too awful?

Accepting ‘defeat’, you let yourself sink into his embrace, considering that while maybe that flash of jealousy in his eyes felt misplaced, what spawned from it was a rather comfortable end to your day off.

I hope you enjoyed this, Daegupaksu!! If there are any details or mannerisms you'd like me to change, please let me know 🙇‍♀️ For clarification sake, the little '.' randomly between paragraphs are supposed to be scene breaks - tumblr always gives me trouble and doesn't space them out for me properly if I don't put Something down.

Taglist (Please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!): @yarnnerdally @katriniac @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bakaneko-chan @skoetiepoetie @bestbryn @nightghoul381

Ikepri Masterlist || Ikevamp Masterlist || Ikevamp/Ikepri Server

[running-with-kn1ves]

Walla....kn1ves....genius big brain yandere writer....i just (re)found your Yves work (im sure you saw me freak out in the tags lmao) if you have the time/energy/inspo pls i beg you for a speck, a crumb, a droplette, ANYTHING of my baby Yves x fem!reader. I'm not sure how specific is too specific but I have a truckload of daydreams and prompts for this man dc im down BAD BAD for the way you write him. I'm not sure if this is too specific of a request but can it be yves holding himself back constantly because he wants to *romance* the reader but its so obvious he's itching for more until one day he finally snaps and takes her (specifically him giving her his virginity and whoops maybe going crazy when he finds out she isnt one)? I'm just obsessed with his characterization and want to see him in a ton of situations and feeling/reacting to different things. The stern dom undertones his whole vibe has disguised by a friendly foreign guide 🥵 The drabble of him was sooooo good and such a tease of his personality, it's so enticing hahaha. If that prompt is no good or doesn't inspire you then anything else is fine and ofc if you have no inspiration for Yves at all then that's a-okay too!!! Thank you sooooo much for thinking up that beautiful man and sharing him with us!!! Hope you enjoy your holidays💞💞💞

A/N: Ugh I'm so sorry I took so long in answering 😭😭 I was gonna write like a whole piece but my time has been cut dramatically, so please accept this poor little piece!! I was honestly so overjoyed at seeing your tags, it makes me so happy to see people's reactions to my stuff ┗( T﹏T )┛I wish I could have more time to write for this because I love the concept, I'm a huge fan of the "mysterious foreign guide who's just a little too friendly" kind of trope. Thank you so much for your support anon and I hope you enjoy this!! OG piece here for any of you nerds!

TW: Kidnapping, implied dubcon/noncon, manipulation

It wasn’t hard to notice Yve’s shift in behavior. Well, this shift out of many. When you first met him, he gave off a kind, well-meaning but nervous vibe. He did his best to show you around, to make you comfortable and converse with you in english to the best of his knowledge. That kind persona shifted into something more… desperate; obsessive, once he brought you back to his apartment. He was still kind, still well-meaning and observant to your needs. He apologized profusely when you got upset from how he kept you from leaving, promising that you weren’t missing anything important in class and that he could show you real culture instead! What could you learn from a textbook that would be better than seeing the country itself?

But time and time again, Yves made excuses to keep you inside, to make you stay by his side whether through photoshoots or studying, with him as your “teacher”. You had to learn the basics before taking such a “big” step out into his country, right? Unfortunately for you, Yve’s only taught information on the most trivial subjects. From words like “textbook” to “glass”, you were able to make meaningless sentences that wouldn’t serve you well in conversing with native speakers outside of Yve’s little apartment. Sure, it might help you occasionally, but it got you no where closer to understanding Yve’s rushed mumbling and incoherent rambling. 

With your sudden move to his apartment and his new change in conduct, Yves had slowly become less generous. He didn’t make as much of an effort to talk in english anymore, and made far less points to explain himself. You couldn’t tell what caused this new change-- a change that you were soon starting to accept as Yves showing his true colors. The man was still attentive to your needs, still caring and kind-- but the posessiveness that had slipped out almost entirely seemed to be taking hold. And while you’d think that a growing obsession would make it more beneficial to you-- it in fact, made your difficulty increase tenfold. Yves began to direct you on what you should wear, when you should eat, what you should do for the day.

 Not only that, but his attentiveness to…more intimate needs were far more prevalent as well. Whether it was bathing, or the need that pulsed between your legs, Yve’s was there to try and take care of it. You pushed him away multiple times, awkwardly trying to tell him that you were fine-- but it never seemed to stick. He always just looked at you with a tilted, confused expression, muttering in his native tongue as if he didn’t understand. So when the foreign guide began to sleep next to you instead of the cot on the floor, and began to press his morning erection agaist your backside sleepily, you knew your protests weren’t having any effect.

You would have walked right out of that teensy apartment the moment you felt he didn’t listen-- if you weren’t so afraid. If you weren’t afraid of the loaded handgun in his locked nightstand drawer, or how easily he could destroy your life at your new university-- which he mentioned offhand multiple times in a casual manner-- you would have walked out. The power he held against you, a foreign student with failing grades and no money, was too much for you to ignore. So, you decided to bide you time. It was only a matter of weeks until he got bored with you, you decided. But his new actions didn’t seem to prove that. 

In fact, the lustful, mischievous look he gave you that evening was the complete opposite. His scrawny frame jumped atop yours, hooking his hands behind your neck and leaning in to try and kiss you. He had planned an unusually fancy dinner, lighting candles you had never seen in his apartment before and bringing a bottle of wine with some italian takeout. You tried to question him about the mound of pillows and blankets on his balcony, the sudden romantic lighting, but the male only gave you a broad statement on how it was a “celebration” of sorts.

Yves’ sudden prowling mood after dinner wasn’t a complete shock-- considering you felt his eyes on you the entire evening-- but it still caught you a tad off guard. You tried to reject him, to push him away after each kiss, but it was done with such little effort and such great fear that you stayed silent once he muttered in an annoyed tone in his own language. Yves took your silence as a surrender, friskily lowering his hand under your shirt to caress your abdomen. He rambled against your flesh in half-english as he kissed you up and down, not afraid to let out vocal little noises of pleasure, or grunts of satisfaction ones he heard your breath hitch or a hum of desire come from your lips. 

But it wasn’t until he uttered a sentence with a familiar word, did you actually reply to him. You recognized the term from messing around with your friends, when you jokingly learned dirty words from your textbooks and the internet to use when you finally entered the country. You never expected to actually utilize them unless you went to a club or bar and happened to meet someone. One of those words, was ‘virgin.’ A more tame term compared to the bunch you had memorized, but one that you and your friends had idiotically decided to research. Though, it seemed your stupid endeavors had paid off. 

As Yves repeated himself, you began to understand the sentence a bit more. The man was seeming to imply… you were a virgin? Something about you both no longer virgin-ing? Maybe he was saying that he was going to ‘virgin’ you? You couldn’t figure out what he was trying to say, only mustering up the courage to poorly explain your sexual status to him, first in english and then in a broken version of his language. You tried to repeat yourself, thinking you might have said your statement wrong-- but Yve’s shocked expression and sudden lack of kisses seemed to prove you wrong. 

“You have…. Sex?” Yve put a hand to his mouth, eyes begging you to respond.

“Uh….yes?” You said with an awkward expression; you hoped he was asking what you thought.

Yve’s let out a choked gasp, looking as if you had crushed his heart in your palm. 

He looked down, voice cracking as he mumbled something incoherent, and likely not understandable to you in the first place. 

“I….I i’m sorry?” You tried to apologize, seeing how shaken Yves had become at finding out you weren’t as inexperienced as he. Despite his eagerness, you could tell he was new to trying to initiate something you had already grown long accustomed to, new to being so intimate. It was actually in part of his eagerness that you realized he wasn’t of the same sexual history. He was full of anticipation and desire, throwing caution and logic to the wind to fulfill what he had read in books and seen in films.

 Yves seemed to treasure the act of losing ones virginity far more than you had-- but you had only noticed it now. The candlelit dinner, the mood-fitting music-- your first experience was nowhere near as romantic. 

Yves seemed shaken, his low, almost sob-filled words growing heavier. He grew more aggressive, seeming to realize something now that he had processed this unexpected news. He had assumed you were just as much of an amateur as him-- that he’d be the one to “deflower” you in an act of passionate romance-- a bubble fantasy that had just been popped. But the male realized-- if he couldn’t have his desired outcome, he’d have to make due with what he had. Which was to make sure you’d fall to your knees, experiencing the best night of ‘passion’ that would make you never want to crawl to another man again. 

He was going to claim you-- to make it so those nights you spent with others never counted. 

You could only understand a fifth of what Yves breathily moaned into your mouth, once again jumping your bones though this time much more roughly. Before you could say anything further you had felt his quick hands unbutton your pants, his own thrown to the floor. He didn’t listen as you begged him to atleast let you move to the bed, where you would no longer be visible to prying eyes on the balcony. But he didn’t care-- Yves had already taken off his shirt, intent on ripping yours away too. He didn’t care anymore if this wasn’t going to be special for the reason he expected-- he was going to make sure you would be left with a night you wouldn’t forget.

[shatcey]

Leon's sequel

I finished reading it a while ago, but finally found the time to express my thoughts on it.

In short… I'm actually pretty happy with the sequel. It had some information about Leon's past and a very logical structure. All the characters haven't changed much, I have no problems accepting their thoughts and decisions. This is much better compared to the Chev's sequel.

More detailed information below will contain spoilers.

In fact, I was very surprised that 4th prince's mother was alive. No, not like that. I was sure she was in some kind of temple or something. As in ancient times, an unwanted wife was sent to a monastery. For some reason, I thought she was there. But no… In fact, she was considered dead, but she is quite alive.

The only thing about this woman was annoying… Why should anyone have to prove anything to her? She lost all right to demand anything the moment she left the Rhodolite court. She has nothing to do with Leon or the country. So Leon and Belle's desire to prove something to her seems rather strange. Polite treatment of an elderly person, which is completely normal for Japanese, seems rather strange here, considering that the action takes place in a completely different country.

I'm very glad to learn a little about the village where Leon was born. The village specialized in the production of remarkable and expensive stones. And Leon remembers it for some reason. People's memory is a real mystery. Forget about what happened an hour ago and remember what happened at a fairly young age… absolutely normal thing. I like that the developers used this in the game.

Another thing I like, as I mentioned earlier… Yves has a purpose in this diplomatic mission. Perhaps the same thing was in Chev's sequel, but it was never mentioned. So I guess he was just a beautiful decoration and an extra bodyguard for Belle. Which is pretty sad.

And the last thing is that Belle was herself. Again… I find it very strange… that a member of the royal family or almost a member of the royal family (she is still a fiancee) is just shopping in the city… They have servants for this. And she must be very busy with her studies and other work. But okay…. She hasn't changed much compared to the main route. She still cares about people and tries to help everyone. And that's a good thing. And her desire to sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of others is a very her thing (Chev's normal ending).

I've only read the dramatic ending, so my opinion is incomplete. But I don't think a romantic ending can arouse any protest in me, it's usually quite boring sweet.

And finally… A silly thought. At the beginning of the route, Chev was clearly annoyed by some of Leon's decisions. That's why I always take his annoyed expression as a question: "How did this idiot become king and not me?"

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🔝 Start page 🔝

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[annaliessse]

I can't believe I procrastinated for a week before finishing this. I wasn't able to begin writing Yves because, unlike other amazing writers, I can't really work on multiple WIPs at once. I'm way too dumb for that.

Anyway, enjoy some Chev smut.

warnings: nsfw, vaginal sex, semi-public sex

𝕬 𝕷𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖓 𝕽𝖊𝖘𝖕𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖇𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖞

word count: 850

Chevalier noticed your hesitation when entering the throne room. He found it confusing for during your time as Belle you had no problem with the said room. When he noticed you eyeing the empty spot beside his throne, it was then that he knew you were letting your mind get the better of you again.

So, one afternoon, when all petitions have been heard and all documents signed, he invited you into the quiet space. You were sat on his lap as he reads a report from Sariel. With nothing much to do, you direct your attention to your teacher’s familiar handwriting.

But Chevalier has already read the document. And his intention for inviting you today is not solely to seek your closeness.

“You’ve been avoiding the throne room.”

“… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He snickers. “You are worried about becoming Rhodolite’s future queen. And this throne room is a reminder of all the responsibilities you have accepted once you agreed to be my fiancé.”

His hand begins to slowly trail up your right thigh and he smirks at your hitched breath. Then, he begins to stroke your leg through the fabric of your skirt, his awkward touch enough to set your whole body aflame.

“I’m sorry, King Chevalier.”

“I don’t need your apology. All I need is for you to do something about it.”

He begins to stroke your clothed wetness, your skirt bunching around your hips. With each touch, he becomes rougher, and Chevalier feels you slightly shaking in his hold.

“But that is something I can help you with. After all, I can’t have my queen afraid of her own crown.”        

He plunges two fingers inside you and you moan, before hurriedly clamping your mouth with your hands, muffling the sultry whimpers that escape your lips.

“Chevalier, someone might see us."

You grip the armrests hard, knuckles white as you try to prevent yourself from humping his fingers. He sees you eyeing the closed door, aware that at any second anyone can enter. Chevalier doesn’t care; instead, he pulls your blouse and skirts off, leaving you naked and squirming in his lap.

“I am only teaching you to be comfortable with being in the throne room.”

“And how is this going to help, exactly?”

“With what I’m going to do to you, you would be too distracted to dwell too much on the politics happening in this room.” His hand moves faster, and you finally relent, thrusting up to meet his fingers. “Every time you sign a document, every time you meet a noble, and every time you listen to a citizen, all you’re going to think is the way I fucked you in this room.”

Without you noticing, Chevalier has already unzipped his pants, his cock nudging your wet entrance. You rub against him, his length slipping easily between your folds with how wet you are. He cups your breast and feels your heart beat faster, eyes constantly wandering towards the unlocked door.

Chevalier sighs, then stops. “But then again, I wouldn’t want you to forget your responsibilities and the importance of the decisions made in this room.”

In a fluid motion, he lifts you up and places you gently on the carpeted floor. Your thighs clamp together, and Chevalier’s lips lift slightly upon seeing the frustrated desperation in your eyes. Your hands were clenching and unclenching as if reaching for him, and when he stands up to zip his pants, you push him back down on the throne and straddle him.

“I thought you were worried about someone seeing us.”

Your eyes blazing, you look at him as you align his cock with your entrance. “Do I look like I care right now?”

And with that, he enters you, and you moan as you feel yourself widen to accommodate his wide girth. Chevalier leans forward, sucking your nipple and you lean your head backward, dizzy at the different sensations of pleasure. Chevalier doesn’t wait and begins thrusting into you hard. He gave it to you rough and fast, and your nails dig into his shoulders as he fucks you into incoherency.

“I’m going to have a throne made for you by the time we are wed. You will make decisions as a queen and I expect nothing less from the woman I have chosen.”

Chevalier feels you clench around him, your eyes rolling over a tell-tale sign that you’re about to cum. He thrusts faster until you were nothing more than a mindless doll on top of him. He doubts you even register what he is saying.

“But I do not want you to stress. So, every time you want to take a break from your responsibilities, you can always think about the way I defiled you in Rhodolite’s most sacred room.”

When you cum, your moans can be heard from outside the throne room. It stops Yves in his tracks, just as he was about to turn the knob to report to Chevalier. He hurriedly leaves, and when he turns the next corner, Licht worries at his brother’s alarmingly red face.

[tulipsaisle]

Character: Yves Kloss from Ikemen Prince

Special Mentions: @flimflam707 @lemeowade

AU: Royalty, fluff, slight angst and comfort

Tropes: Pretend Lovers

Notes: Hello!! I tried my best with this and I hope you enjoy it my SSEvent partner!! Merry Christmas and may your day go well!! And Laemonn, thank you for hosting this event bae!! I love youuu

AND IM SORRY IM LATE TO POST, THIS HAS BEEN IN MY DRAFTS FOR DAYSJSJDJ health chekups and personal stuff 😔

Yves stood in front of his vanity mirror anxiously. It was the sixth time his hands had found their way to fix the magenta bow tie hung elegantly around his neck.

He had ushered the maids and butlers out a while ago so he could have some space to collect his thoughts.

'Come now Yves, this is not the first time you've done this, so quit being nervous!' He mentally scolded himself before taking a deep breath in a quick resolve, the sudden determination flashed across his face as he squared his shoulders.

Giving himself one last check up, he finally turned away from the mirror and strode out of the comforts of his chamber towards the party. Only to halt in his steps and quickly put a palm on his head in annoyance,

"Ah, I forgot to go see her and pick her up."

Scolding himself, he turned around and fastened his pace in the opposite direction. It didn't take him long before he was face to face with a familiar door that he went way too many times for his liking. Squaring his shoulders for another time out of habit, he lifted his knuckles to knock elegantly on the polished wood.

The door opened slowly by one of the maids in charge of preparing his partner for tonight's party. She bowed then moved to let the prince walk in. Yves practiced the conversation in his head while he was on his way and it was really unlike him. He has never once held back his tongue when it comes to her so why tonight of all nights.

Probably cause of the fear of scrutiny from the other party-goers. Yves closed his eyes in order to collect his thoughts when he heard someone cleared their throat.

It was Y/N and he stared.

And she looked as dashing as ever in that beautiful off shoulder dress. She stood there looking back at him with a smile, but her eyes told another story.

That she was worried about him than she was about the party.

That's when Yves realized he was lucky - almost too lucky for his own good - to have someone like her as his pretend lover.

But he can't help but feel this intense surge of pain in the pit of his stomach once his thoughts came to the conclusion that they were only pretending to be in love.

He quickly brushed that thought away and smiled softly, forgetting the fact that he was semi gawking at her a few seconds ago. Yves slowly walked up to Y/N,

"You look beautiful." He felt the need to emphasize his point. "Well, more beautiful tonight - ah, but that doesn't mean you're not beautiful in your normal attire - it's just - ugh!"

Yves groaned in frustration while the sound of Y/N's bubbling giggles erupted in the background. The remaining maids had quietly left the two of them to their own little world; much to his relief.

"It's okay to be nervous Yves," A soft melodious voice spoke and he looked up to see Y/N smiled at him reassuringly. Even with or without makeup, he still imagined that face of her as something similar to an angel standing before him.

He sighed, "Yes, I just don't want to screw this up."

"It's alright, I know you won't. You got this and you got me by your side."

Yves finally smiled, a full smile this time before extending his arm out for her. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah, let's." Y/N hooked her arm happily in his and they both were walking side by side to the party. Y/N was smiling like usual, but she had missed the disdainful look on Yves's face as he desperately tried to hide from her.

He really hates using her in this situation. For a simple public acceptance. He could choose another solution to make the accusations about him mistreating a noblewoman die down. Y/N had defended him saying that it's not like him to do such things. However, knowing how people like to gossip, the belief of Prince Yves being unlucky does not help either. Then comes the part where she declared that she was his lover to prove that he would never lay a hand on any woman inappropriately.

Yves couldn't understand how such a person could willingly throw themselves to help someone like him. He felt he didn't deserve all of this. She doesn't deserve all of this. But she's the one who insisted.

And being a coward he was, he just blindly accepted that. Yves wished he could be more stern and tell her he could handle it himself. Like he'd used to, like he'd always done.

But one simple look from her had crumbled that wall he'd put up to defend that vulnerability. What's more surprising was her quick resolve to stand up and fight back when it was necessary. Unlike him, he would probably let the words hit him and fuss up about it.

The sound of faint music playing cut him out of his reverie and he looked ahead to see the guards standing on ceremony to welcome their prince and his partner inside. They opened the huge door, and one loudly announced their entrance. Yves immediately felt eyes darting at him from all directions. He could sense the slight shakiness in his palms, but the warm delicate hand that held him squeezed tighter in reassurance.

He looked down, and there were those eyes and that smile that seemed to put him at ease every time he met them. Now that she's even closer, it almost felt like there were just the two of them together in the room.

The orchestra began to start the new song, and dozens of couples were already in the middle of the ballroom. Y/N tugged his hand and said, "How about we dance to forget about all the worried for tonight."

Without even waiting for his response, she pulled him with her, ignoring the splutters of surprise from Yves. They both started to waltz and swayed across the room to the music. Y/N was desperate to vibe off the slight anxiousness that was shown on his beautiful features, so the moment she heard the strumming of the strings, her instant reaction was to pull him along with her leading their dance.

Yves felt the coolness of the air wash away his worries as he instantly went along the steps as she led them both. He smiled at her as gently as the rose petals swaying, "You're getting quite good at this." He complimented her, lips inching close to her ears only for her to hear those sweet words. Y/N giggled and teased, "I only learn from the best." She hinted towards the fact that it was Yves who had taught her the basics since her early days at the castle until she had mastered the steps to even lead her partner.

A tinge of pink dusted Yves's cheeks, but he was still smiling. They twirled until the music stopped and another one played all throughout the night. He could feel all those pressures from the stares, the weight of high expectations he put on himself, and the taunting voice in his head washed away into nothingness when he danced with her and heard her laughter.

His eyes split away from her for a second and he could see most of his brothers, especially from the Domestic Faction nodding proudly and grinning in encouragement. Nokto even gave him a thumbs up, of course with a pretty lady in his other arm to which Yves rolled his eyes but he couldn't contain his smile nonetheless.

He focused his attention back onto Y/N and he swore he could feel himself melting slowly just by staring into the lights in her eyes.

'One day,' He swore to himself silently, 'One day, when I dare to face everything, I'll be sure to make you my own.'

He twirled her around once more before catching her waist gently as they both continued to sway, 'I'll have to courage to call you my love, my partner, my companion for real. We won't have to pretend or hide, there'll be no more of that. So please,'

The music slowly comes to a stop once again, signaling the third dance of the party has just ended. Yves leaned down to pull Y/N's hand for a soft kiss, all while gazing at her lovingly.

'Please wait for me.'

There was a hint of rare confidence and determination in his eyes, this time he had ignored the whispers from the other guests, all were irrelevant to him except for one woman in the room that stood right in front of him.

The sound of her sigh and giggles were enough of the confirmation he needed to know that she also enjoyed the party as much as he did. Yves wished he could stop time and savor the moment. His mental promise echoed around his head like it was no tomorrow as if it wanted him to remember and etch in on his brain forever. But he won't mind that.

He hoped she didn't realize there was redness on his face while he was thinking such thoughts about her. However, he didn't realize what was going through Y/N's mind and that she too had been thinking the same thing about him, waiting for the day when she could confess her true feelings for him and be together as real lovers.

-Fin

[kaizoku-musume]

Lunar Phase

This was written for the Sunshine & Starlight challenge that @violettduchess and @lorei-writes created. I felt like it was finally time for Aurelia to feature in one of these.

Fandom: Ikepri

Prompt: Full Moon

Word count: 2k

Yves swiped at his eyes, but his tears were long gone. Aurelia had led him to the outdoor sitting area after she found him crying in the kitchen; she went to return to the castle for something, leaving him alone with the moon and his thoughts. He really should be getting to bed-his eyes must already look awful and it was only going to get worse the longer he stayed up. He’d have to apply a warm compress and a good bit of makeup in the morning. But there was something about turning Aurelia down that was terrifying, honestly. 

Oh, speak of the-no, that was mean, and besides, there were others more deserving of the title (despite how similar she was to Nokto). Aurelia was coming back, carrying a tray of tea with her. Yves should get up and help her, but the surreality of the situation kept him seated. Aurelia was wearing a surprisingly modest set of pajamas considering her usual attire (a very cute nightdress that covered her chest and legs and wasn’t sheer at all) and bringing him tea. The situation was weirdly domestic compared to how Aurelia was in the light of day.

So he sat in stunned silence until Aurelia joined him, setting the tray on the table and taking a seat next to him. “I finally have a chance to show off my tea making skills,” she said as she poured them both a cup.

“You made this?” Yves asked. He winced at his rudeness. Obviously, she must have, since none of the servants were awake at this time. It was just that Aurelia had this, well, aura about her. Like she was more fitted for royalty than most of Yves’ own brothers. The idea of her never having to lift a finger to get what she wanted suited her more than anyone else yves had ever met.

Aurelia graciously ignored his faux pas. “Of course, herbal tea is my specialty,” she even handed him his cup. What was going on? Was it just that she was feeling bad for him?

Despite being suspicious, Yves took a cautionary sip. He couldn’t help the surprised, delighted sound he made when the flavour burst across his tongue. It was sweet, with just the right undercurrent of citrus, the two complimenting each other well. The soft floral scent tickled his nose when he lifted the cup to his mouth.

“Chamomile and lemon,” Aurelia informed, the picture of perfect poise as she drank her own tea. “Useful for when you’re trying to get a good night’s rest.” So it was pity. It was the same when she’d manipulated the court into being more accepting of Yves in spite of his half-Obsidian bloodline. He should probably be more upset than he was, shouldn’t he? But he was mentally drained and physically exhausted, and it was so much easier to drink this delicious tea.

“I’d tell you the recipe, but I’m afraid it’s a trade secret,” Aurelia said with a somewhat conspiratorial air, “Though I may be convinced to make a trade. Say, one recipe for another? Of course, I don’t mind if you want to visit me whenever you want a cup. I heard it’s good for your health if you see a pretty face every day.” She winked and Yves sputtered, miraculously not making a mess.

Aurelia didn’t bat an eye and began chatting about inconsequential things, carrying on a largely one-sided conversation that Yves could freely listen to as he slowly came back to himself. It took him longer than he wanted to admit to notice that Aurelia wasn’t mentioning his breakdown from earlier at all. This was, in fact, the most normal discussion Aurelia had with him since they’d met. So of course Yves had to ruin it by blurting out, “Aren’t you going to talk about it?”

Ugh, why did he always put his foot in his mouth? Today was such a disaster, and he was the one who kept making it worse. He fidgeted under her cool gaze, Aurelia seemingly unfazed by the disaster in front of her. “What should I say?” she asked, voice gentler than the words themselves suggested, “Should I pretend I don’t know what caused you to be upset and ask about it? Offer you platitudes like ‘you shouldn’t hate yourself because you’re a good person’ and ‘one day you’ll feel better’?” She tilted her head, her smile knowing but not unkind. “Does any of that ever help?”

Well . . . no, no, not really. If Yves is being honest, while he appreciated the sentiment (and the people who tried to cheer him up), those words had always rang . . . hollow. It was easy to say he should like himself or that things will get better, but Yves had been trying to do that his whole life and hasn’t gotten very far. How much harder does he have to work at it? When did things get better?

Aurelia was watching him like she could read his mind. “I don’t like wasting my breath on pointless words,” she refilled her cup, “Well-meaning words that sound nice but have nothing to back them up are incapable of bringing about change. You can;t like yourself when someone tells you you’re good if you don’t think you’re good enough. People rarely hate themselves because it makes sense to do so.”

There was something there in what Aurelia was saying that Yves almost couldn’t believe, a self-assurance that he would only expect from people in the same situation as him. It was hard to put his finger on it, because Aurelia usually sounded self-assured, but it was different. Just ten minutes ago, Yves would have said that was impossible. But here she was, sitting next to him in regular pajamas, sharing tea she had made herself, and Yves wouldn’t have predicted that either. Maybe this was just him embarrassing himself again, but he felt a little confident in asking, “Do you hate yourself too?”

He worried he got it totally wrong in the few moments of silence before Aurelia confirmed, slow and thoughtful, “That used to be the case, yes. There was a long time where I hated-everything, really. Myself, other people, the world at large. Sometimes I didn’t know who I hated the most.” Yves stared gobsmacked at her confession. Sure, he thought that might be the case, but to hear the truth from her own mouth was unexpected. Aurelia laughed at his expression. “Why ask if you’re going to be so surprised? Is it that hard to believe?”

“Yes,” Yves admitted honestly. He was rewarded with the rare sight of Aurelia’s surprise, there for a second and then gone once she caught it. “You’re so good at standing up for yourself,” he continued, “and you're so . . . mature when you do it. You know exactly what to say to make people do what you want. And you don’t care what they say about you. You would never cry on the kitchen floor because someone was mean to you.” Yves hung his head in shame. So Aurelia used to struggle with hating herself too, but she already learned to overcome it while he was still at the starting line.

“Why do you think what I’m doing is any different from what you’re doing? I just have an unfair advantage,” Aurelia tipped his chin up with her knuckle, “Maybe I’m not the type of person who cries in secret, but do you think I’m completely unfeeling? My emotions happen to run counter to yours, that’s all.”

Yves swallowed, suddenly nervous at their proximity. Aurelia would usually be taking this opportunity to flirt with him, but she was being completely serious, and that was a dynamic Yves didn’t have a defense against. And up close like this, it was hard for Yves to ignore how beautiful Aurelia was, especially with her tan skin lit up by the moon, silver eyes shining like they belonged in the night sky. Someone had to say something before this moment stretched on too long and Yves started to think things he shouldn’t.

“How,” mouth dry, he licked his lips, faltering when Aurelia’s gaze darted to his mouth, “h-how did you start liking yourself?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I merely became ambivalent,” Aurelia grinned her same enigmatic grin she usually had, but if Yves squinted, he thought there might be something sad in it, “And I wouldn’t recommend following my example. Not caring may work for me, but it’s not meant for someone like you.”

Yves reflexively opened his mouth to reassure her, but he remembered their earlier discussion. Pretty words with empty meanings; why was it so easy to spout them at someone when they were feeling bad? What were the right words? Yves feared there weren’t any.

Aurelia giggled, amused instead of offended at Yves’ lack of eloquence. “See? Look at you, caring,” she cupped his jaw in her hand, thumb stroking his cheek. “Do you know what I would do in your place? I would get back at them. It wouldn’t be pretty, it wouldn’t be generous, and it wouldn’t be kind. But you? You’ll put your energy into making sure the people of your territory are happy and thriving. You’ll push forward policies that benefit the kingdom. The way you take revenge is by making sure the people who hate you have nothing to hate about Rhodolite. You’re pretty, and you’re generous, and you’re kind, despite everything that’s been thrown at you. What a marvel you are.”

This was bad. Aurelia should sound sarcastic like she usually did, not sincere. Yves didn’t know how to handle this new Aurelia, who was being more honest than she’d ever been with him. It made him want to say honest things back, like how she was all those things too. Something flashed in Aurelia’s eyes, her thumb stilling at the corner of his mouth. Oh no, he said that out loud, didn’t he?

“You’re incredibly tempting, do you know that?” Aurelia ran her thumb along his bottom lip. Something about her tone made it sound different from how she would normally mean it. Or maybe now that he knew she liked him for more than he thought she did, he could hear it better. Overwhelmed, Yves’ breath gusted out of him in a shaky exhale, and he could feel himself lean forward the tiniest bit. Aurelia’s grip tightened for a fraction of a second before she let go, heated expression clouding over to her normal one, a pointedly casual smile plastered on her face. “Be careful not to spill your tea,” she said, all traces of the mood from earlier gone.

The sudden distance left Yves feeling adrift. He panicked slightly when he noticed that his cup was completely tipped over, but luckily-for once-it was already empty. He wasn’t sure if Aurelia meant to be as revealing as she was, but he knew he wanted it back. “Thank you. For the tea and the-the talk,” he cast around for something to say, but he had a feeling Aurelia wouldn’t be vulnerable twice in one day.

As always, Aurelia clued in to what he really meant. “Well, it is the witching hour,” she glanced up at the bright, lonely moon, “Perhaps I was trying to cast a spell on you.”

“If you want that to work, you’re going to have to put more than one spell on me,” the words left Yves before he could think about them. He flushed bright red at how flirty that sounded.

“Will I?” Aurelia murmured, studying him closely, something considering in her gaze before she smirked, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

And despite the way they dissolved into their normal bickering after that, Yves found himself enjoying his time with Aurelia so much that he forgot about getting to bed and taking care of the puffiness around his eyes. In fact, he was looking forward to more moments where Aurelia let her guard down, even if she was more mercurial than the phases of the moon.

[ikeromantic]

Burdens of the Belle

A Chevalier Michel fanfiction. Approx. 2900 words. This scene takes place in Chapter 13-14 of the main route and is told from Chevalier’s POV. Part 13 of a series.

First: Bravery Becomes Her

Previous: Reading, Interrupted

Chevalier was up most of the night preparing a report for his brothers at the round table. Such work should be beneath him, but he wanted to make it clear to them where Rhodolite stood. The stakes were too high this time to allow doubt and misgivings to derail. 

When it was time to speak, he laid out the facts and his case the way a bricklayer built a home. Laying his foundation in shared understanding and fact, things he knew his brothers were aware of and in agreement with. And from that, he laid out his findings, suppositions, and finally, his solution. By the time he finished, his throat felt dry, but he gave no sign of discomfort. Any hint of weakness in such a setting was unacceptable. 

He kept his eyes from the Belle’s face, where her reactions might distract him. He was aware of her presence in a way he did not want to be. Like a bit of sand against the skin. Yet he was glad she was there, even if he could not acknowledge it. Chev wanted her to understand what was at stake as much as he wanted his brothers to agree.

“That concludes my report.” Chevalier frowned over the circle of tense faces. No one said anything into the silence as they all grappled with the information he’d given them. He wasn’t going to let them sit paralyzed with their thoughts though. “We need to hold an immediate joint council with Jade and Benitoite to form an expeditionary force.”

Black gave a reluctant nod. “Obviously this new weapon type is a problem we can’t turn a blind eye to. If we do, we’ll have an even bigger threat on our hands. But . . .” Leon took a breath, “Invading Obsidian prematurely brings its own set of problems. For one, the anti-war faction. Just the rumor of a war with Obsidian is enough to expand their influence. And if they go on the attack, we’ll be in a civil war.”

Chev raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t something we can sit on and twiddle our thumbs over. Right now, Obsidian is at war on their northwestern border. It is a perfect opportunity to attack, while they are too busy to notice troop movements on their border with us, Jade, and Benitoite.”

“Even if that’s accurate, Obsidian splitting their forces between their borders is no guarantee of victory. I don’t want to lose lives and have nothing to show for it.” Leon’s scowl deepened. “If we carry out your plan, we will have casualties from battle with Obsidian and death in our borders from civil war. I just can’t accept that cost.”

Chevalier met his glare calmly. “There is no peace without sacrifice. Don’t give me that nonsense now, when you know what will come for us if we do not act.”

“Nonsense? You can’t expect us to go to war knowing the mass casualties that will result!” Leon’s voice rose, impassioned and full of a barely contained fury. 

Despite himself, Chev could not help but glance at the Belle. She was doing well so far it seemed, watching them with intent and making little notes for herself. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was writing, what she saw when she looked at them. 

Jin broke the tension between the second and fourth prince with a sigh. “Well. I’m at a loss. At this rate, we’ll never come to a decision.”

This seemed to loosen shoulders - and tongues - around the table. 

“By all rights, it’s a matter the king should decide on.” Yves spoke up, his usual haughty demeanor fractured by worry. He turned to Sariel. “What does the regent think?”

Sariel’s thin smile was pale, his lips pressed too tight for blood flow. “I’m purely a proxy. The future of the kingdom is something all of you must determine.”

Luke sat back hard, rocking his chair. His arms were crossed defensively over his chest. “Fine! So what do we do?”

Clavis shrugged. “We could decide it with the roll of the dice. Or a coin toss!”

“I hope that was a joke,” Licht replied sternly.

Chev suppressed his annoyance. No one wanted to bear the weight of this choice, it seemed. And he was not yet king, so he could not take the burden alone.

Then the Clown spoke up. “I’ve got a great idea.” He sounded too cheerful for this discussion, as if solving the choice of desserts and not the fate of a nation in peril. 

Yves snorted. “When a frivolous man thinks he has a great idea, you can be sure it’s quite stupid.”

Nokto grinned across the table at him. “Awww, don’t be like that!” With every eye turned balefully toward him, the Clown went on. “I was just thinking, it’s like you said. “This is a decision the king should make. But the regent is just a regent, and he bowed out. That leaves just us bickering princes. Except . . .” His gaze fell on Emma. “We have the Belle here. I think she should decide. Afterall, she gets to pick the king, so why not?”

Emma nearly dropped her pen. “Wait. What?” She looked like a rabbit staring down a pack of rabid hounds, frozen with terror. 

“It makes sense, right? Because we’ll accept her choice for king.” Nokto nodded as if this was the most sage advice. “When you think about it like that, the question of who will be king is pretty much the same as whether we will focus on internal or external policy.”

“I see,” Luke nodded.

Emma shook her head, bursting from her state of frozen fear. “Well I don’t!”

Nokto gave her a patronizing smile. “Now now, don’t get upset. Just tell us, for reference, which side you support.”

Chevalier felt a flicker of annoyance at the way his brother was putting the Belle on the spot. She had not made her choice yet, but she really didn’t need to. He knew he would be king and his choice was already clear. And such a decision, with the cost so clearly high, should not rest on her gentle heart. “That’s enough Clown. The Belle is a commoner, not royalty. Why are you trying to force her opinion? There is no point to hearing it.”

Reprimanded, Nokto bowed his head. “I know. I was just . . . kidding.” His mischievous smile did not fade despite his words, and as usual, his meaning was opaque to most. He looked up again, garnet eyes bright. “King Highness, it seems that Leon’s group is going to be difficult. Do you still want to continue with this fruitless meeting?”

“No. I have no intention of continuing something I know is pointless.” Though the outcome was expected, it still tasted bitter in his mouth. Chev stood and swept his cloak behind him. 

Leon’s brows shot up. “Hey! Are you leaving? We’re not done here!”

“We’ll regroup some other time. You can take this as an opportunity to reflect on your choice.” 

“Back at you,” Leon snapped. His jaw was clenched tight, and the muscles in his shoulders tense. 

Chevalier’s lips curled up at the attempted clever comeback. Black would never have the wit and cruelty to manage a truly cutting remark. Not that it mattered. Regardless of the reply, the outcome was the same. War was coming to Rhodolite and with every passing day there were fewer options open. 

He left. There was nothing here for him to do. 

***

The next evening, the Belle found him ensconced on the couch in her room, the only spot in the palace he could steal a moment of peace. Another book lay open on his lap as he studied more accounts of prior battles with Obsidian. She came in carefully balancing a tray of tea and light snacks, as if she were a servant. 

Chev watched her, wondering why she put herself through this again and again. Reaching out to him the way she did, with her kind gestures and understanding gaze. He was rude to her, cold, cruel even. Nothing good could come of his presence. Yet she still sought his company. As if . . .

“Would you like some tea?” Her smile was genuine, as much in her eyes as the line of her lips. 

“No sugar or milk.”

The Belle nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She set the tray down and poured him a cup. “Here you are.” Her hands didn’t tremble at all as she held the delicate porcelain saucer and tea cup out to him, though she moved more slowly than usual.

He pretended to ignore her as she held it there a moment, waiting. She sighed and reached across him to set it on the table next to his seat. Emma was so close he could smell the light, sweet scent of her perfume. She was lovely as always, but there was something off today. A nervousness about her that he could sense more than see. 

Chevalier grabbed her hand as she drew back and pulled her closer. 

Emma gasped in surprise, but did not struggle. She watched him as he studied her, more curious than afraid of what he might do.

She was clearly tired, he thought, noticing the slight shadow under her eyes. A steady tension thrummed just under her skin, at odds with her pulse. Which sped up at his touch. Chevalier’s lips curled up just at the edges in a knowing smile. “You look terrible today.”

“Excuse me?” She drew up in an offended huff, her glare as hot as the summer sun.

“I would say you only got about an hour of sleep last night.” He knew he was right, no matter that she’d tried to hide it. 

Her brows lifted and her lips made an adorable ‘o’. 

Chev continued, certain now of his discernment. “You are feeling overwhelmed now that you realize what a heavy burden it is to choose a king.” He almost felt bad for her, having to act as Belle in these troubled times. But it was better to choose in the moment of crisis than to name a king in a time of peace, untested and unknown. 

He studied her a moment more, then let go and reached for his tea. She had that look on her face, the one that hovered between awe and anxiety. The one that meant she was trying to figure out how he’d guessed. Chevalier took a sip of tea and shrugged. “You’re just that easy to read.”

“Stop having conversations with my thoughts.” Emma rubbed her wrist, her expressive features shifting again to a cute pout.

Chev hoped that he hadn’t gripped her too hard. He meted out his strength where needed, and harming her would be a waste. That was surely the only reason for the twinge of concern. “I will stop when you stop showing every thought so plainly on your face.” He leaned back. “I didn’t need to read that in your expression though. I knew you were lying when you said you understood your position.”

The Belle took a nervous, shuffling step. “What are you talking about?”

“It was a few days ago now.” He waited for her to remember, continuing as comprehension lit her eyes. “The Belle has never been an important position. There is no point to worrying about the future of the kingdom. You must know your place.” He raised an eyebrow, wondering if she understood what he meant. She should not lose sleep over the inevitable change coming to Rhodolite. 

Emma seemed to deflate for a moment. Collapsing in on herself as her shoulders fell and her chin dropped low. Then, with a breath, she mustered herself and straightened her back again. “That may be, but the fact that I am choosing the next king has not changed.” 

Chev felt a flash of minor annoyance. She didn’t grasp what he meant. Why was it always so hard to speak in terms others could grasp? Facts were comforting. Emotional blather was a waste of breath. He wanted her to understand so badly, but all he could do was press on. “Such a trivial task is not worth worrying about. Once you choose a king, you are not responsible for his actions.” 

“What?”

He set his teacup back on the saucer before responding. “The responsibility for what happens after will not lie on you. It is the burden of the royals.” Chevalier waited for this to sink in, pleased when the Belle let out a breathy ‘oh!’. 

“Suppose you chose a king who then ran the kingdom into the ground with incompetence?” He reached out and took her hands in his. She felt so small and delicate to him, too fragile for whatever imagined burden she was trying to carry. “That would be purely the fault of the royals.” 

Emma nodded mutely. Her pulse raced under his fingertips as she stood there, listening. 

Chevalier ignored the way his own heart rebelled against his icy calm, thumping wildly and in all contradiction of sense. As if the warm pleasure of seeing her absorb the comfort he offered in the only way he knew how loosened all the bonds he’d placed around that traitor organ. “Responsibility for the future of this kingdom does not lie solely with the king. Rather it is shared across the whole royal family.” 

The tension beneath her skin ebbed away as his words took hold. Her shins brushed against his bent legs as she leaned forward.

“Neither I nor the other princes are such housebroken beasts that we would quietly follow a foolish king.” Chev’s voice was soft now, almost gentle. He did not notice the change. “It would be ridiculous to think such a burden would rest with a commoner.” Even one as uncommon as you. “Royalty must bear these heavy responsibilities alone.” 

She studied him for a moment as if unsure what to say. Then her smile returned, shyly, hiding at the soft edges of her lips. “Thank you.” 

Chevalier snorted. “You are such a soft-hearted one.” He could see the start of tears at the corner of her eyes. He let go of her hands and gave her forehead a gentle poke. 

“Ow!” She backed away and rubbed at her face. “Stop that!”

“Yes, that’s more like you. Brazenly barking at me.” He laughed as he saw her outrage erase the vestiges of her worry. Chev looked back at his book though he could still feel her eyes on him. There was a flicker of warmth in her gaze, a heat that had nothing to do with annoyance. She looked as if she might speak, but a loud knock interrupted whatever she might have said.

The Belle glanced at the door and back, then when Chevalier didn’t react, she went to open it. Rather than beckon the visitor in, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her. 

Chevalier could hear Clavis outside, his playful tone making its way past the heavy door.

“Belle, have you seen Chev?”

“Well . . . no. I - I haven’t seen him around. I’m sorry.” Emma’s reply made Chevalier smile. So she’d listened. 

Clavis sounded surprised, though whether he believed the Belle was anyone’s guess. “Really? Well if you do see him, please ask him to come by the office.”

Chevalier heard Emma lean back against the door. “Sure. Of course but . . . did something happen?”

“Oh yes.” There was laughter in the prince’s reply. “I heard something that Chev would find quite amusing.” 

“What would that be exactly?” Emma pressed her question, clearly worried about her decision to abide by Chev’s wishes. 

Clavis laughed. “Oh, I think I’ll just save that for his ears alone. Unless . . . do you think he is listening right now?”

“No.” Emma cleared her throat. “I’ll tell him to speak with you. If I see him.”

“If.” Clavis laughed again and then his footsteps receded. 

After a moment, the Belle returned. “Prince Chevalier -”

“Quiet.” Chev was sure Clavis had some juicy tidbit to share. He suspected he knew what it was, but there would be time to address it later. Right now he wanted to drink his tea and to relax. Emma’s presence made him feel . . . calm and tense at the same time. A pleasant sort of tightness that ran along his nerves and up his back. 

The Belle gave him a pouty look, but didn’t argue. She sat down next to him and pulled a slim book from a skirt pocket. Then she settled in to read. 

Chevalier pretended to be unaware of her, but the light pressure against his leg and the sound of her steady breath drew his interest away from the book in his lap. He’d read it before anyway. The laboriously detailed text layed out the supply lines, troop numbers, daily accounting, and other tedious specifics of running a war.

When he finally allowed himself to glance up, her breathing had steadied into the rhythm of slumber. Her chin rested on her chest, the book gripped in one hand, askew on her lap. Chev shifted a little closer and carefully draped his arm over her shoulders. 

She sighed and snuggled into his side, resting her head on his chest. 

The coldness in his eyes abated as he gazed at the Belle’s sleeping face. Chevalier couldn’t see his soft smile, nor how gently he brushed the hair back from her face. If he had, he might not have recognized himself in that moment, with his shield of ice lowered. 

He would put her to bed, he thought. She needed the rest. But first . . . he should wait. Because otherwise she would wake and protest. If he gave her a bit of time to fall more deeply asleep, Emma wouldn’t even notice being picked up. That was the reason he had to just sit here with her pressed tight to his side. Feeling her heart beat in time with his own. No other reason. None at all.

Next: Distance

[the-himawari-otome]

[Shuuen no Virche]  The radiance of wishes and vows on Christmas Eve. Filling every connection with meaning - Yves

<Original post here>

･ﾟ･:,｡★ translation under the cut ★,｡･:･ﾟ

I'm giving you a ring this year for Christmas Eve... I've had my mind set on it for a while now.

I heard that the meaning of a ring changes depending on the spot you wear it.

So, I've been thinking for a long, looong time... on which finger I should give it for.

One day, I'll give you one for the ring finger on your left hand—but before that, I wanted to make you happy with my feelings living in the present.

I tossed and turned over it... and finally decided.

—Dear lycoris princess.

Please accept this ring with an obsidian stone that I chose for the little finger on your right hand.

According to the jeweler, this stone has protective powers.

I'm not trying to be smug—but that's just like our relationship, isn't it?

I'll say it once again on Christmas Eve. —You are the only one I love in this world and in Hades.

Together with this stone whose colour looks just like the lycoris noirges', I vow that I will continue to protect you.

As long as we live.

Even after our lives are exhausted—let's celebrate Christmas Eve countless times together, alright? It's a promise.

---

[DO NOT USE OR REPOST MY WORK W/O PERMISSION, THANK YOU]